"Oh, I don't know..." He turns his head away for a moment, gaze moving down the block, and for a second it seems like he might mean that he doesn't know if he wants to answer that. Nothing seems to change in his expression, though, when he continues a moment later. "We had maybe two weeks of spring, two weeks of summer. The planet has..." Had? But Picon is technically still standing; it's all the people that are gone. "...a warmer zone, but it's mostly uninhabitable." Well, no: that part does apply to the whole place now, after all those nukes. He fades off again, glancing down at the sidewalk concrete beneath.

And yet.

And yet it's warm here, and he can't help but think of summer, those short weeks when even he sometimes managed to get a real tan. He can't help but think of himself as a boy, reflected in the water: skinny back then, all arms and legs and hair he hadn't begun to learn how to tame yet, and usually huddled on the pier with a fishing rod tucked under one arm and a book in the other hand. And sometimes, rarely, his father with him, glasses misting, sleeves rolled up...

He clears his throat and glances back at Dean with a funny, bland little smile that's barely an expression at all, like an actual manifestation of repression. "You like the cold better, though," he notes conversationally, eyeballing the shade Dean has so carefully tucked himself into. "Or at least not the sun. And all those winter things? Winter sports, holidays... what was it? Christmas?"