"Remind me again why I agreed to this," Chad grumbles, and burrows deeper into his great coat. He debates blowing on his hands to keep them warm, but decides against it. It probably wouldn't help, anyway. To his left, a crazily cheerful vendor, wrapped in the world's loudest scarf and matching hat, is selling coffee and hot chocolate. Chad wonders if he can get one liberally dosed with whiskey. "Because I asked," Chris replies distractedly. He leans forward on the bench, wood creaking precariously as he moves. Chad has a brief mental image of the entire scaffold cracking and the two of them, along with the rest of the sparse crowd, plummeting to a horrific death on the snow-packed ground. He can almost picture the headlines now – 'B-List Stars Die Watching World's Most Retarded Sport' – and wonders what the hell it was he'd been thinking to voluntarily venture outside on a grey, miserable day to watch grown men skate in circles and push around a black piece of plastic. "Were we having sex at the time?" Chad asks, because it's not exactly news that Chris has gotten him to agree to some crazy shit while they were fucking. "Nope." "In the afterglow?" Chris gives him a long look, then sighs. "We were doing the dishes." "Sometimes we have sex in the kitchen," Chad points out. With every breath, he can see thick white puffs of air. He wishes he'd brought ear muffs, no matter how gay they'd have looked. "Well, we weren't that night. So quitcher squawkin' and man up." Chad scoots closer to Chris' warmth. Man radiates more heat than a furnace most days. "There's a reason I moved from New York, you know." "Are you seriously going to be this whiny the entire game?" "Maybe," Chad drawls, just to push Chris a little bit, just to see how he reacts. By now, Chad does it out of habit. Chris pulls his knit cap more firmly over his ears. The bright blue of it only makes his eyes seem bigger. "Guess I'll have to revise my plans for later, then, since you don't seem inclined to indulge me." Chad immediately perks up. "Plans?" "Yep," Chris nods. He turns his attention back to the action on the rink. Chad studies his profile, trying to decide if he's being snowed or if there really were plans. With Chris, he can never tell, even after all this time. "What sort of plans?" "The kind that might've involved you forgettin' you were ever cold," Chris replies, still (deliberately, Chad thinks) staring straight ahead. Chad's eyes narrow. Even though he knows he's being played, it's like a Pavlovian response by now. Chad pushes, Chris pushes back, Chad gives in. "You saying you think I can't behave until the end of this retarded game?" Finally, Chris glances over. All of the blood in Chad's body instantly starts racing for his crotch. He's so warm he can feel his face flush. He doesn't even care that it's starting to snow again. "I'm saying you don't know the meaning of the word behave," Chris says, and the emphasis on the last word tells Chad everything he needs to know. "If that's a dare, you're on." Chris just smirks and gives Chad a small wink. "That's my boy."
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