examples,
paturagevert,
It was Thursday evening and, because Phyllis had been unable to give him a ride home, Leslie was actually chancing a walk home, by himself, in the dark. Usually, a task like this would have bothered him to no end but the past couple of days had been different, he had felt different, and he hadn't looked over his shoulder nearly as much for the usual blank-faced gunmen or deranged psychotic killers.

Instead, he'd taken a detour downtown to drop into the only restaurant in town that served Chinese food. He only had enough cash for a chow mein bowl with sweet-and-sour chicken but, with that in it's baggie and his hand tight on it to keep the styrofoam from being jostled all over the place, he made his way towards his street again, humming softly under his breath now. He was in a good mood up until he reached the front door.

There was a hedge that sat squat underneath the front window and, while usually it was kept neat and tidy, something (someONE, a panicky voice yelped inside of his head) had managed to get a good mess of leaves and stubby branches onto the front step. The humming died in his throat, his tongue went dry, and a short time later he was jiggling his key into the lock, twisting the knob on the door after hearing a solid snick, and rushing into the quiet front room of his home.

Leslie rested with his forehead against the door for a long while, trying to calm down, trying to convince himself that he was in no danger here, that everything was fine. He locked the door with shaking fingers, took off his shoes and soon padded down the short hall to turn into his bedroom. Once his backpack was set near the foot of the bed, he retreated back into the front room to first grab up the single wireless phone from it's charger, setting the container of Chinese food down on the counter, and then sink into the couch.

His front room wasn't much to speak off. The living room was more of a den and though it was small, he'd tried to make it his own by shopping for furniture in one of the cheaper furniture stores in town. He'd decided on a brown and burgundy color-scheme and, upon making that decision, had furnished the living room with a couch and matching armchair, a nightstand and coffee table, a television complete with VCR, and two matching lamps. The sofa, which was plush and comfortable despite the bargaining he'd done for it, was a warm place to roost as he punched in Perrin's number and waited for him to pick up.

It was probably silly to be afraid in his own house, which was a little too small for a burglar to properly hide in without being noticed (plus, there wasn't much to steal) but, nevertheless, he dragged one of the large pillows that rested on the sofa into his lap and hugged it to his chest. He heard the sounds of crickets chirping outside and the occasional howl of a coyote and

Perrin's machine picked up.

He felt like an idiot, immediately, but he spoke before he could lose his nerve.

"Um, hi, Perrin. It's...Leslie. From the library? I just...this'll sound kind of dumb but I was wondering if you were busy right now. If you are, I understand, really, but if you're not...could you maybe call me back? Or...come over? I--thanks."

. . .

oo1
ME (11:35:58 PM): Social wasn't usually the first word to come to one's mind in thinking about Emil Gramont. Some thought of him as sour, moody, disinterested, but never social. Social was a word better reserved for the sorts of people who bar-hopped, danced on tables and hit on strangers. Emil wasn't exactly one of those types but if there was something he could do, then it was dropping into a local bakery for a dozen glazed doughnuts. He had an idea that they wouldn't be finishing off the whole lot of him but, to be completely honest, he had no idea just how many his newfound acquaintance would be interested in eating.

Emil lifted a hand to scratch the back of his head and, dark hair tousled, eyes locked thoughtfully onto a grouping of Bear Claws under scratched plexiglass, he nodded his head at the inquiry soon voiced to him (Is that all?) and removed his wallet from the back-pocket of well-worn, faded blue jeans.

"Yes, that's it," he said, handing over slightly crumpled bills and exchanging them for a rather sweet smelling bag. That in hand, he returned to his car outside. The vehicle was dark blue, nothing fancy thanks to a paycheck that didn't allow him too much in way of luxuries, but it ran well enough for being old on top of used. Well enough, in fact, to deposit jean-clad Emil in his loose band t-shirt in front of Stellan's place. He thought it was the right place, at least, and hoped he would be correct when he knocked at the front door. If not, he'd look like an idiot. Emil hated looking ridiculous.

THEM (11:47:03 PM): The truth was that Stellan Marek didn't particularly care for sweet things. He liked coffee. He liked tea. Bitter things, brewed and steeped to their final, watery component. Still, it was an effort that he made to try new things and sample a bit of everything. It was what let him take up the invitation for company in the middle of the night from a stranger. His apartment was barren still, little more than a few boxes and the scatter of his daily path. One could trace a pattern from the living space to the bathroom to the bedroom. It was a simple waltz of strewn books and tea cups, a shirt flung over a chair and socks balled up near the sink. He was cluttered, but clean. Books stacked up around the living space like trees. Bolts of canvas sagged in a corner. He had just moved in and the place still had the anonymous, transitory feeling to show for it. He didn't bother clean up or attempt to prove otherwise. Instead, while Emil navigated through the city, he peeled himself from his spot by the air conditioning unit and redressed. Trousers were hoisted up over the long line of his legs and a shirt was tucked back into its waist. He let suspenders snap against the back of his thighs as he padded barefoot from room to room. By the time the door knocked, a metal kettle had been set down atop the blue flame of his gas stove and he had two cups sitting by the sink. He peered through the viewfinder in the door and saw Marlon Brando in his fishbowl. Only then did he let latches and locks turn over. The door was pushed open with a suspicious eye. "Did you bring the goods?"

ME (11:59:05 PM): Emil found the door opened a crack, enough for him to see a thin glimpse of boxes and Stellan's eye directly in front of him, and he couldn't help the slow perking of his brows following Stellan's inquiry. Emil was no drug-dealer but violent, cocaine filled movies in which Italian looking men fought over city territory had taught him that that particular line was usually put into use for exchanges that had more to do with the selling of illicit substances, not exactly for the distribution of doughnuts.

"If by goods you mean something that isn't baggie of coke…?"

The man trailed off, took half a step back, and examined Stellan's front door with false surprise and even falser confusion.

"You are Stellan, right? I won't know exactly what I'll do with this bag of doughnuts and this insufferable hankering for tea if you aren't."

Emil didn't consider himself a comedian by any means but sometimes he did put in the effort.

THEM (12:11:55 AM): Nouvelle vague met the classic gangster flick. He was an ill-suited, starcrossed Lazlo Kovacs at best. Still the show had to go on and door creaked open at the sight of the greasy bag of doughnuts. He eyed the prop for a long moment, fingers twitching the man in. "Baggie?" He laughed. There was something about the word that was quaint. Scratching behind an ear, eyes followed the man in. He was not used to company. As soon as it was too late and the plans had come to pass, he felt himself close up. He was elusive; a flickering thing. Drifting into the small kitchen, he lifted the howling tea kettle and brought it over to the cups. "I might be Stellan, but one thing is for certain: I do have tea. What do you like? I have an assorted box. Earl Grey, English Breakfast, Prince of Wales. Basically, English Parliament. Hope you aren't terribly offended." He laughed again, easily and at his own joke. It was a defining characteristic about the man.

ME (12:25:35 AM): "Baggie," Emil repeated, refusing to acknowledge the faint twitching of his own mouth as he repeated the two simple syllables. It was funny but drug dealers weren't funny and, as Emil was a doughnut dealer, akin to a drug dealer in his peddling of sugar, he refused to find this funny himself. It was merely a fact, there were coke baggies and doughnut baggies, both terms were to be taken completely seriously!

Twitch of a near smile or none, Emil stepped into Stellan's place with his face falling as impassive as usual and then looked around for a proper place to set the gift he came bearing. The countertop in the kitchen area was the most logical but, after placing the bag there, he didn't exactly know what to do with his hands. They found the front pockets of his jeans, nestled in with car-keys and cell phone, and Emil slipped passed him to move back into the main room. He rested a shoulder against the wall, nonchalant and thinking about tea.

"Earl Grey sounds the best to me. No worries, I am far from offended and promise not to storm off with my crack. Or, doughnuts, if you prefer."

THEM (1:02:45 AM): He had the hands of a pianist, but no musical talent to his name. Instead, these were hands that were covered in ink and paint. Hands that worked, despite their genetic disposition for something softer. Long fingers flicked through the box of tea bags before finding two Earl Grey amongst the rest. He tore open the tops and left them inside the cups. Satchets floated to the top as hot water rushed up and steam began to swirl. "How do you take your tea, Monsieur?" He said gravely as the kettle was returned to the stove top. Hands dusted themselves off and settled palmwise on narrow hips. He was cut from the gloss pages of a magazine and pasted to the domestic scene in his built-to-fit clothes and skinny bones. Jaw jutted out and mouth pursed into a grin at the idea of a dramatic exit. "The doughnuts stay, I'm afraid. So it is good that you are not easily offended. Please -- Sit anywhere. The couch? I am not used to entertaining," he admitted before turning back to his duties. The doughnuts were dropped carelessly onto a plate for the serving. He picked at the sticky glazed tops to adjust them into some safe order.

ME (1:14:48 AM): Given the freedom to settle on the couch, Emil did so without reservations. His shoes weren't kicked off and he didn't immediately slouch into the cushions but he relaxed in his own way. Not quite sitting straight up or hunched forward, he eventually trailed his fingers along the couch's fabric.

Emil would have had appreciation for hands usually covered in ink and paint, as his own were very much accustomed to being splattered and speckled, often to the point of being smeared across forehead and into hair, but he had yet to ask about Stellan's earlier mention of supplies. He was still quietly observing some of the rules of his rule against nosiness but he couldn't help a glance to the canvas all the same. Maybe they were…infinitely connected in the arts or something.

"My tea?"

It was an echo, the sort of inquiry that meant stalling as the brain worked over and identified the last thing said to it's owner, and followed up by a shrug.

"Milk and sugar, standard, I think. And, don't worry, you're doing fine with entertaining."

oo2
THEM (8:52:13 PM): PK's conscience had been eating away at him since day one of the bad news. It had been something burdening him for a while and often thought about telling his siblings before his parents...which is exactly what he was going to do. It was now or never and they would all eventually find out. It was inevitable. Putting up an away message, PK walked down the hallway to Hersch's room then his knuckles knocked lightly on the door. "Hey, bro," he gave her the best smile he could possibly muster up. He didn't want his siblings to worry too much before something was said.

ME (8:59:53 PM): Hersch hadn't had the best of days in terms of people coming to him feeling angry, depressed or just generally upset, and so, unused to feeling so moody, he'd gone out for ice cream almost twenty minutes ago and had made himself a somewhat sloppy but awfully delicious ice cream sundae.

Currently sitting in his room, Hersch had put his television on mute, quieting an Alanis Morrissette video that'd been previously blaring, and now he sat forward to set his ice cream on the desk in front of him.

"Hey," he said, in response, offering PK a smile in return, "'sup?"

Hersch wasn't really the most receptive or sensitive of men but PK, who he was used to giving wet willies and noogies too, didn't usually seriously ask for a talk and though Herschel had a low uncomfortable feeling in his gut he hoped that PK would just wind up telling him something silly and irrelevant to everything currently happening around Bayview.

THEM (9:07:41 PM): It killed him inside to let him know that he was going to drop a heavy bomb on the family. Well, his brother and sister at the moment because the parents were a whole other issue to be handled. "Not much, just wanted to talk about something..." It was like a subtle warning of something to come. Whether it was good or bad was left very vague sort of on purpose. "Promise me that you won't get mad, upset, sad, or any other emotion?" It was a silly request, but it was something to buy him time so he could form the right sentences in his mind.

ME (9:13:37 PM): Something was a vague descriptor and Hersch allowed himself, for a moment, to hope that a 'Gotcha!' or 'Just kidding!' would surface and PK would simply sock him in the arm, good-naturedly.

"Okay..." Hersch said, slowly, half a smile lifting one corner of his mouth as he thought about it a little more deeply. Or tried to.

"I guess I promise."

Then--

"You're not like. Moving out or something, are you?"

THEM (9:17:52 PM): PK could only wish that were the case. "No, I'm not moving out anytime soon, Hersch," he laughed softly. His brother, a little slow but knew how to make him laugh whenever he needed it. "You know how I was like, into that brief drug use back when I was clubbing and all and being all promiscuous, right?" Without anytime to give him to answer because Hersch obviously knew. It wasn't a family secret. "Well when I moved home...I moved home for a reason. I went to the doctor's officee because I was feeling sick and I got a blood test done for, you know, like STD safety. And come to find out," he bit his bottom lip, "I have AIDS, Hersch."

ME (9:29:09 PM): Hersch knew about the clubbing and the like, definitely, because his mother had been so upset throughout and so he didn't seem to mind that there was no pause for him. The news after that, however, hit right into that low, uncomfortable place in his gut and for a moment he felt as though he'd been punched there. The smile on his face was slow in coming but, of all the pranks that he and PK had pulled on one another, he didn't think PK would do something like this. No one would be as cruel as to tell someone they had something that serious, right?

He tried to force a smile and, though it twitched onto his lips for a bare second, he couldn't quite manage. His eyes were watering.

"That's...really, really fucked, PK. You shouldn't--"

Joke about was what he meant to say, but the expression on PK's face wasn't yielding any smiles. He wasn't laughing or struggling not to crack up. There was no just kidding.

"Oh, jesus, PK," he managed, swallowing thickly. His hand went to his face, palm pressed near his chin, index finger against left cheek, he looked away from him, staring at the ground between them.

"I can't...PK, I don't want you to...I don't want you to have AIDs."

That was probably childish thinking, thinking that would have no impact on the outcome of this whether he wanted it to or not but it was out before he could help himself.

THEM (9:33:55 PM): "I'm so sorry, Hersch," he bit down on his bottom lip rather hard to prevent himself from breaking in front of his brother when he felt like he needed to be the one to be strong. He made the decisions and the choices which led to horrible consequences, some less severe than others. "I'm...I don't know what to say except that I don't want to have it either...but I do." It was so hard to hold back an outburst of tears so he was settling for a couple running down his cheeks as he looked dead ahead at Hersch.

ME (9:43:00 PM): It was unfair, he thought, to feel like crying when it was PK that had to deal with the illness, when it was PK who had dealt with this, alone, for God only knew how long but he did. He felt like crying because imagining life without PK was overwhelming in it's magnitude. And that's what AIDs meant, that PK wasn't going to be around for as long as he should and --

yeah, there were the tears whether he wanted them or not, rolling freely down his cheeks in ill-formed patterns. He could hardly keep up when it came to wiping them away with the hem of his shirt. When he dropped the fabric away, bit into his lower lip, he could even taste them. Not bitter, as they should have been given the news unloaded upon him but salty.

"There are...there are treatments, right?"

His voice shook when he asked, caught, but he looked up to him anyway, sniffling quietly, and no longer worried about looking like a sissy or an idiot.

"I mean-- you can take those and we can all...help a lot with...whatever. Right?"

He didn't sound nearly as calm as he wanted to sound, but that didn't matter either.

THEM (9:49:20 PM): His hands wiped at his eyes like Hersch did with his shirt then followed by a sniffle. "Treatment really wasn't doing much. It worked a little bit...but nothing was really working for me. Things looked good then they started back up a million times worse. I would leave the hospital everyday happy to know I was with HIV because I knew I still had sometime to live...but a few weeks ago when I found out I had AIDS and time was now...I mean, I just couldn't fathom it. I couldn't even come straight home. I am just at a loss right now...for everything." PK licked over his dry lips as he looked at Hersch with a reddened nose and eyes as they began to swell again.

ME (9:58:03 PM): Hersch had no idea what to say or how to say it. Things didn't always work out in the movies, no, but this sort of stuff wasn't supposed to happen to PK, not to anyone so close to him. He couldn't even tell his brother that things would be okay because that was completely false. Nothing would be okay, AIDs did not equal okay, and he didn't think that even he would be okay.

Hersch had stood before he knew what he was doing, ignoring the slowly melting mess that had been his ice cream sundae, and now he wrapped his arms around his brother, burying his face into his shoulder and neck. He didn't care that his tears were coming again, quick and hot, he just wanted to feel PK against him -- shoulders under arms and upper back against his own hands.

Hersch hadn't thought too much about how fleeting life could be but it was on his mind now, namely in how many times he'd be able to do this before--

well.

His breath came out in a shudder but, "I love you, PK, o-okay, even if I've d-done st-stupid shit in the p-past, I l-love you."

THEM (10:07:10 PM): When Hersch stood, it caused PK to do the same. It was an automatic reaction as if he knew a hug was coming. It was almost customary to have a hug over a time of sadness to lend your support and care to someone else. But there was something about the way that Hersch went about it. Fast and unwilling to let go which squeezed, twisted, yanked, and punched PK's heart. It killed him to know he was causing people pain from what he had. It wasn't fair. Arms instantly wrapped around his baby brother tightly as he held him close, "I love you, too, Hersch. So much, okay? I know you do stupid shit but that's okay. Everyone does." His eyes were closed as if they were holding back tears when infact they weren't. He was two seconds away from letting out a cry.

ME (10:17:35 PM): Hersch lifted from his brother's shoulder, wiping at his own face again and then did his best to smile.

"Not quite as much as me though, huh?"

It was a weak joke, made even weaker by how fresh the news was to him, but he was trying. Being serious was difficult for him. So knowing about something so final, so suddenly was a pain for him to deal with. All the same, he rubbed the back of PK's head, then very gently pressed his forehead against PK's temple. He remained that way for only an instant before lifting up, completely.

"Can we...you know...watch a movie or something?"

It was silly, maybe, but he wanted to spend more time with him. Soon, if not now.

oo3

ME: Miami was the location of a now familiar party scene, clubs and beaches, definitely, but it was also the home of an ice-skating rink that Archie'd visited off and on for years. Last night, as he watched TV with his grandparents, Archie had decided that this was a good place for himself and Adam to hang out. The idea had taken some thinking, as he didn't want to stick too close to home or do anything too boring, but it'd been something close to a gem. Well, as far as Archie was concerned it was. Adam had never been ice-skating, therefore this was an awesome idea.

Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, with a sweatshirt in place to add another layer of warmth, Archie picked Adam up around the time he promised. From there, they headed to Miami. The drive was roughly three hours, a long stretch for a trip anywhere, but for a day alone with Adam the time was well-spent. They had music to pick through on the way, in addition to simply conversing with one another, and the end-goal shone bright in Archie's head. Hotel room, ice skating, spending a night with Adam. It all summed up to perfect.

A call ahead had secured their hotel room, luckily, and so there wasn't much they had to do other than pick up their card keys upon arriving. For that reason, Archie'd taken them both straight to the ice-skating rink.

The place was busy, bustling with teenagers like themselves, families, even some groups of younger children, and it was also cold past the entrance. Archie stuffed his hands into his pockets almost as soon as they paid for their tickets, pointing more with his chin than anything towards the skate rental shack.

"We can get your skates over there," Archie said, his own slung over a shoulder, "and then I can teach you some of my smooth moves?"

THEM: Adam wasn’t in the best of moods upon the other teenager’s arrival. An emotional onslaught caused the teenager to get into fights, arguments, to hear the same words from different people: ADAM, I CAN’T BREATHE. He felt like a part of that, a part of the suffocation. So the idea of a retreat sounded amazing. He’d turn his phone off later. He went across the hall and told his dad he was going away for a night with his friend. (To which his father asked – WHAT FRIEND, RUPERT?) Once the okay was granted, his father made a note of how surprised he was that his son asked for permission. He replied that he didn’t want his father to associate ARCHIE with anything negative, that he wanted to do things right. With that, he packed a set of clothing for the next day and all the essentials. Archie arrived and Adam was estatic. Ice skating! It was a juvenile thing to be excited about but he was born in Florida, he’d never experienced that, not even during his tenure in Miami!

So the distant concept was nice.

Slipping into the car, he gave Archie a smile. And it became a launch. Into the driver’s seat where he sat, into that small space to place a kiss over his lips. Heated, with a built up fervor of emotions, of longing, of excitement, he seized his lips and pulled away moments later.

They drove. They had conversations. Adam finally remembered to turn off his phone and he threw it somewhere in the backseat. It had been a while. Since they had spent time together. And his mind processed these things in fragments; as if they were passing gestures. But they were beyond temporal, and Adam tried his best to remember the details of the night – even the car ride. For example, the color of Archie’s sweatshirt, the way the song playing on the radio made their time together feel, the expression on Archie’s face when he said something in particular, something otherwise trivial.

Once they arrived, when they had finally done the preemptive and arrived at the rink, Adam didn’t expect to slip into a slight bout of anxiety. What the fuck; really – did he really agree to this?! He thought as he saw an old man and a small child hold hands together. Did he really just agree to ice skate, to do some uncool date thing, some real time hallmark card experience?! He widened his eyes and arched a brow when Archie spoke.

“Alright. Uh – was it a bad idea that I wore my glasses? If I fall on my face and crack my glasses, will you still walk around with me in public if I duct tape the middle?” Stalling, he reached out and grabbed the hem of Archie’s sweatshirt. “Moves? Shit, you’re going to make me look like I’m trying to walk against a current.” Stalling still, he tugged Archie’s sweatshirt again. Was it obvious? “I mean. Seriously. Do they have them with training wheels. I don’t even know how to rollar skate, I can barely even drive! Really, I can't even walk in a straight line.” Stalling still, he rolled up the sleeves of his black cardigan sweater a quarter of the way up before looking away. Where was Frankie, now would be the time to see Frankie!

ME: With all of the time they spent together, having casual conversation and simply relaxing, Archie often forgot about the social anxieties his almost-boyfriend had. He wasn't thinking about it now, starting on his way towards the skate shake, but he did fall still and pause when he felt Adam's hands at his sweatshirt.

Archie turned, so that they could face each other again, found the other's hand with his own. Maybe they were too close to home and maybe it was shaky ground to walk on here and now but Archie pressed his lips lightly to Adam's mouth. His smile, he hoped, was reassuring but his only thought was that Adam feared falling on the ice.

"I won't have you looking like that," he promised. His hands went to Adam's shoulders, squeezed once before finding and rubbing along the sides of his neck. The circling of his thumbs when the hands themselves came to a pause was almost tentative.

"We'll skate really slow and I'll hold onto your hands the whole time," he promised, "if we fall on our butts then we'll just pretend we're doing a routine and that's part of it."

Anyway, Archie didn't think people'd be paying them that much attention anyhow. He never looked to closely at the people trucking along near the rink's sturdy half-walls. But he really did doubt that Adam'd do much falling. Personally, he'd fallen into ice-skating easy.

THEM: Adam looked around.

“Good.” He replied shortly. And he eased into his touch. Truthfully, the idea of falling on ice seemed double painful. Ice on face, ice burning, ice cold, blood, cheap black glasses broken in half, maybe a contorted limb that slipped out of place sometime during his fall. But the game plan sounded safe, and maybe, anxieties aside, this iceskating thing wouldn’t be so bad. Just go slow and watch. Fine, that was possible. Not to mention the rub and his kiss – two things that had made situtuation better, that had put Adam at ease.

“A routine!” he asked at last, he only caught it once they were about to rent the skates, and it was a delayed reaction, sometimes Adam’s brain took long to process things. Okay ... most times.

They rented the skates. Adam made a face at the selection and wondered if he was going to get some weird foot fungus. Of course, it was a weird anxiety to have but he forgot that ice skates were worn a million times over, and he forgot they were usually in a worn down condition. When he reached out for them, a weird thought came into passing. Who has worn these skates before? Did he know them? Would he ever cross paths with them? Foremost – there weren’t animals living in these things right?

When they were slipped on, it seemed easy enough to stand erect. Proud. Adam even scoffed at his pwnage of this task. Then another question came to him, another thought, and he remained in place. On the surface of the carpet. He was stalling again. Someone briskly walked out with a sniveling child who had fallen on their face, and whomever walked out with them – an older sibling he assumed, laughed slightly as they comforted the child gently. So he needed to stall again. He was sure that baby thought they were pwning the second before they hit the ice.

“Wait. Routine?” he repeated. “Are you ... you’re fucking amazing at this too, aren’t you? Archie Karrigan. You’re going to glissade and make figures eight. I hate you.” Adam reached out and grabbed Archie's hand again. The last thing on his mind was how close they were to The Keys. Instead, it was almost instinct to grab his hand. And he attempted this in a sly manner. A casual manner. Despite the crying snivling kid which seemed like a sign from the Kerrigan gods.

ME: "A routine," Archie repeated, with that characteristic waggling of the brows. But, really, Archie was only joking. He wasn't going to do anything complicated enough to make Adam fall and break his glasses. In fact, he didn't know most of the complicated things. Archie knew how to skate backwards and forwards but there weren't many tricks in his bag.

When Adam had his skates in hand, Archie headed with him towards a nearby bench. Sitting down was done with his hands on his cheeks, rubbing briskly, but moments later came the change of shoes to skates. He'd always felt wary of the rental skates, not believing that the spray they used on them did anything really, but he tried not to look too much like a skeptic as they laced up. He hadn't brought his spare pair of skates, after all, so they were sort of stuck if Adam had a sudden change of heart.

Archie lifted himself up and off of his bench a short time after Adam, accepting the hand that found his, gladly entangling their fingers together. His eyes followed the child with tear-stained cheeks as far as the concession stand and then he heard Adam's question.

"No, not a real routine," Archie said, turning back to him, "I was just joking, you know? Don't hate me, you can't! But--"

He started to take Adam towards the ice, paused when a loose knot of tweens happened past, chattering. He picked up again when they had passed.

"Who's Karrigan?"

THEM: “Like Nancy Kerrigan – Karrigan - Kerrigreen? Pop culture Archie Gainsworth!” Adam smiled, and he watched the other teenager intensely, his gaze unwavering. The tweens passed, like locust, and Adam again kept his eyes locked on Archie’s response. His eyes, mismatched hues, narrowed. His hold tightened a little more. Wouldn’t it be something if they saw someone they knew – well that Archie knew. In a crowd, amongst themselves, someone would see the popular teen and scream out, catch him off guard, and foremost, knock Adam to the surface of the thick ice beneath them! But woaw – anxieties. He took a deep breath and said it again.

“A routine. I’m seriously ok with a routine.”

He couldn’t shuffle on the floor with the ice skates, though he did sort of try. Adam almost lost his balance and staggered hand in hand with Archie. Once they reached the ice, Archie leading the venture, Adam considered it fine –okay, a piece of cake again. Over the surface of ice, Adam grabbed Archie’s other hand. He remained perfectly still and he held his breath.

He wasn’t moving for shit.

ME: Archie puzzled, quietly, over who this Nancy was. He guessed she was an ice skater of some sort, professional, but he knew he'd rely on Google to figure it out for sure. That is, if he remembered. With Adam, he found himself using the Google search function much more than usual. This wasn't a bad thing though, knowledge being power and all that.

"Okay, pop culture."

A smile later and he was leading the way out and to the ice rink. The surface wasn't as slick as it was when they gave it a fresh sweep but he took his time settling, turning to face him when he realized Adam wasn't budging further than their initial steps.

His hand slid forward, so that he was holding near Adam's elbow, and his other hand mirrored the action on Adam's other arm.

"You're okay," he promised. His eyebrows lifted.


archie.