He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen fireflies, but he could remember the last time he'd mentioned them. He thought of neither though; he couldn't see the embers, and thus couldn't be reminded of them. (It's always better that way, isn't it?) Fog was white like the snow had always been, but it didn't feel that way. Both had had other things to give it variation, to give it life, somehow -- trees in the distance and leaves under the layers of ice and slush. This was a most unnatural fog, except that that was a contradiction. He didn't want to think that it had always been that way, that it had always been there, but he wasn't really sure what he was getting at anymore, if anything. Halfway through the answer, he'd forgotten his question. (Or decided that it didn't matter, more likely.)
His lips twitched around the edges like he wanted to smile -- once, twice, three twitches to make it seem as if his face wanted to react on his own, or perhaps he really did want to smile and simultaneously didn't (well, which is it, darling?). You shouldn't have,
he agreed in the same voice as before, and the edges of his lips had settled on some half curve that might have looked sinister in the shadows. Why did you?
He was sure he'd asked before, but either he hadn't gotten an answer, or it hadn't been satisfactory, or he couldn't remember. Or a combination of. I didn't want to be saved.
It was a hopeless cause regardless. Somehow, he felt that he would have survived anyhow.