It was not a meeting of lovers.
It was not warm, not gentle, not considerate in any way. He did not smile in genuine happiness to see her; she did not duck her head in a meek manner, always the shy young lady with a romantic heart.
Her heart had turned to stone the day she saw an infant die, and he had never had the capacity to show any kind of true happiness outside of selfish, self-inspired contentment.
It was not even a meeting of friends, or acquaintances, or anything with any warmth, depth or meaning. It was a light affair, full of benign smiles that neither of them meant and polite words that held a tone of ice if one knew how to decipher language. It consisted of shaking hands, flesh against leather glove; of quiet words with hidden meanings; of a vague attraction that neither of them were willing to admit, as attraction would do little for them and their goals.
It was a meeting of sterility, of partnership, of alike minds with alike ideals and alike desires. She wished to destroy he who ruined her; he wished to destroy he who everyone said was better. She would watch as he bled; he would watch as he fell.
It was only luck that the two they both wished to destroy were together in some mimicry of romance. She, who believed his heart to be as gentle as an earthquake; he, who believed that love and romance were nothing more than nuisances that prevented people from reaching their truest potential.
And so it was a meeting of agreement, cooperation in the vaguest sense of the word. Hazel-brown eyes flickered with hidden mental instability, and thinned lips pressed together in a mockery of pleasantries.
And they shook hands.
And they smiled.
And it was ice.