[It's the wind that really fucks with him, whisking away his studiously heated bubble faster than he can harass the universe into making it. And even though there's always some overlap at the edges, weather belongs to Michael; it's a hard system for Dillon to get traction on. He shivers, breathing steaming, splits his attention and continues to keep himself warm, makes up for the finickiness of it and his inability to consciously process millions of molecules with more raw power. Once he starts letting loose, it always comes easier.]
spam
What would you do if I did?