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There was no snow on Betazed. At least, not in the inhabited parts. No one sane would live where the flowers didn’t grow and it hurt your lungs to take a deep breath of air. But Deanna had learned of snow when she was six years old, and she’d been fascinated ever since. Lwaxana told her stories of it, mostly experienced from other people’s memories: the biting cold, the way it froze the inside of your nose and made your lungs seize up, your fingers numb and reddened.
She had a snowglobe by then, her prize possession. The crystals inside sparkled just like the real thing. In the light, those white banks were blinding. In the darkness, they were soft and gentle. Always, they glittered.
“I want to have snow,” Deanna decided when she was seven, turning the glass ball in her hands.
“You wouldn’t like it,” said Lwaxana firmly. “It’s dreadfully uncomfortable, dear. Nothing grows where there is snow. And it hurts to touch.”
“But it’s so pretty!” Deanna said.
Lwaxana touched her cheek with a single finger, brushed her knuckles over Deanna’s smooth skin. She tucked a curl of errant hair behind Deanna’s ear.
“Pretty things can hurt,” Lwaxana said.
But years later, Deanna met Will Riker at a Betazoid wedding, the only human guest who seemed comfortable in his own skin. His pale eyes caught hers from across the room: a flash of interest, a boyish smile. Later she found out his skin was always hot to the touch, like a living furnace, and beneath the surface, his emotions burned bright — everything more real, more full, then she was used to, with the changes coming in like rolling waves. But especially pleasure. Especially love. She imagined he’d grown up somewhere just like Betazed, but wilder, more lush, jungles spilling over steamy rivers, warm rains falling at midday. The birds there would be bright and their songs would be pure. The flowers would stretch higher than the tallest man, their petals velvet-soft. And everything, everywhere, was hot.
He chuckled when she said so.
“I grew up in Alaska,” he said, almost apologetically. “It’s the opposite of steamy.”
“Really?” Deanna rarely guessed so wrong. She studied him from the corner of her eye, his tan bare skin dripping with water, the muscles shifting underneath. They were in the river, water lapping at their bodies, clothes discarded on the bank, and Will swam up to her and wrapped a strong arm around her waist to pull her close. “What was it like?” she asked, leaning into his touch.
He affected a shiver and rubbed her upper arms briskly until she swatted him away. “Cold,” he said. “Snowy. Lots of wilderness. There were human settlements here and there, but even when I was growing up, you could walk out of town and see nothing but mountains and lakes as far as the eye could see. And you’d freeze to death if you ever tried to explore it.”
“ Did you try to explore it?”
A chuckle vibrated in his chest. “Oh, yes. Every day. I’d sneak out of the house early in the morning and go climbing up the mountains or down to the lake to fish. I got a terrible case of frostbite one year, but it was worth it.”
“How could it possibly be worth it?” Deanna said.
“Well, you should have seen the cod I brought home.”
Frostbite. He said that so light-heartedly. Deanna twisted around to look him in the eye. His emotions pushed back at her: the unique bittersweet swell of nostalgia.
“You miss it,” Deanna said softly. “Even though it hurt you.”
Will smiled down at her. It wasn’t a large smile; his lips barely moved. But the way his eyes sparkled, he might as well have been laughing. He ducked his head and kissed her, soft and slow.
“Well, it was beautiful,” he said.