Sasuke's discomfort forms a strange counterbalance to Warsman's ambivalence. There's always been something about winter that's called to him, a peaceful sort of calm that hums through every fall of snow in silent solitude. Feeling cold is, after all, feeling- and feeling is a sweet reminder of humanity. But it's a loaded time of year, and seeing a city freeze over has always stirred darker memories for him, too. Sitting alone on the front step and shivering, listening to coughs wrack his mother's body; an old friend buckled over and bleeding onto the white blanket; Mr. Barracuda in profile while he stands with extended claws, receptive and supple and wholly empty.

He thinks all of these things and none of them at all as he sits by the window, one foot jammed against the frame. Strumming his balalaika had seemed like a reasonable way to pass time until Sasuke arrived, but now he's listless, unable to string notes together in any pleasing fashion. He had a melody in mind, but it's gone now.

The sudden knock at the door comes as an immense relief, and Warsman is up on his feet in seconds, at the door in only a couple more. Mostly, he's relieved that he's even turned up at all; part of him was convinced that pride alone would force a change of heart and he'd stay huddle up in the mall, but no, he's here.

A few clicks and rattles later and Warsman opens the door- and it is Sasuke. He gives a soft sigh. "There you are. I was starting to worry." As much as he aims for 'light and conversational', he's concerned that he's already given his relief away; quickly, he steps aside. "Come in quickly, before you catch your death."