“Hey Dave?” A gloved hand reaches up, playfully catching the side of a black leather jacket. A broad smile plays upon slightly spread lips, framed by an endearingly naïve overbite. It's a bitter December morning, the landscape around encased in shatteringly crystalline ice. The air, the ground, the trees... none are untouched by this literally breathtaking weather. Clouds are rampant in the sky; grey, white, and desolate, they leave bits of themselves behind, becoming thinner and weaker through the relentless advancement of time. It is reminiscent of the careless. The cold air is almost refreshingly crisp, the sun nowhere to be found even in the depths of this majestic winter. It's as if light has left and only the day remains, a shell of its former self. An impish boy puffs his cheeks out, watching his breath condense to a pearly mist in the chill of the season. Bits of snow cling to his messy, bed-esque hair like little white jewels on a crown of black. His friend looks on sardonically, scarcely amused by the prankster's childish antics. It's early, some would say too early for shenanigans, but really, they don't seem to care. A nonchalant stroll through the park seems oddly fitting for this pair. The harsh cold only sets a light tone for their decidedly frolicsome actions. Unrestrained by time or weather, they continue their steady pace, crunching leaves beneath their feet every step of the way. The setting snow drifts down like powdered sugar to rest gently on their waiting shoulders.
	“What do you want, Egbert,” His voice is still, strong but quiet, with a subtle burning passion that one might find ironic in his otherwise cold demeanor. He phrases it as a question but there's no upward lift to his words, only that calm intent. He is an enigma, with no decisive way to understand the gears of his mind. What song plays there, for no ears but his? What thoughts run through his head like the beats to the music he rewinds and plays again? His cool facade smooths over all cracks, leaving one guessing as to what really lies behind those curious black shades. Those unseen eyes, what do they stare at? Into what depths does he observe? Even his best friend sometimes wonders, when the going gets tough and he continues to stride forward, red Converse padding through the snow with an ease befitting of his last name. Never looking back, never hesitating. In contrast, his partner stumbles along, barely managing not to trip over his own feet. Yet there's something about his farcical gait that can easily bring a hidden smile to a face. Catching himself with a legitimate expression, the second boy quickly reverts back to his neutral self, glancing back at his friend to see if he's noticed. But no, there's no reaction from the Christmas-sweater-clad individual, who opens his mouth to speak eagerly, teeth raised just above his lower lip, eyes lit up with his usual childish excitement. “I'm hungry! Can we get some ice cream?”
	“John. Why don't you just scrape some ice off the ground, it's like the fucking inside of a freezer out here. Chiller than Antarctica. We're like two orange creamsicles resting in their natural habitat, the land of ice and cold. As comfortably as a mug of coffee in the side cupholder of a suave businessman's car who's driving just below the speed limit, the prick.” His hand, shuffling in his pocket for an iPhone to locate the position of the nearest Baskin Robbins, betrays his true intent. Glancing at it, a thick but pale eyebrow twitches. It's uncharged, the battery dead. Luckily, the other boy doesn't have the perception to notice the slight movement. It's not as if it's abnormal; he usually keeps his hands in his pockets anyways, especially in chilly, wet, Washington, so different from the sizzling Texas he’s so heavily acquainted with. Though he labels himself as 'cool', he's not familiar with the feeling of actually being cold. “Achoo!” A rather violent sneeze erupts from the first boy, causing him to unintentionally stumble over a tree branch and bump into the other adolescent.
	After a few similar close calls, the thoughtfully composed individual steps forward and lays a hand on the other's shoulder, smirking in a suddenly sardonic fashion. He leans in close to whisper something, taking hold of a blue scarf haphazardly draped around a pale neck; his lips mere inches away from touching skin. “Careful, princess, don't wanna trip and ruin your dress.” A slight blush at the close contact spreads across the raven-haired boy's face. The overbite grows deeper, his brow furrows for just a moment. Then it passes and a childish grin quickly rematerializes. His tongue sticks out from under his teeth as he replies mischievously. “I'm not that bad, Dave! I just slipped; it’s really cold and slippery out here you know. I'm not going to fall or anyth-- Ahhh!” In his eagerness to prove his balance, he does in fact slip, footing giving way under a particularly slick piece of ice. In less than a second, he begins his involuntary (and painful) descent down the slippery slope in a sickeningly comical fashion. He looks so limp, so frail as he tumbles over and over himself. The snow spills over the edge along with him and soon the indistinct outline of John Egbert is gone.
	Limpid blue eyes blink, disoriented for a second. It's cold, so very, very cold. The world slowly comes into focus, but for some reason it's still not clear enough. For one, all he can see is white. Everything surrounding him: white. He can't move an inch. He hears footsteps behind him, veering right. Who is it? What is it? He's dizzy, can't quite recall what's happened. He hears muffled sounds akin to words. He tries to say something, ask what happened, where is he, why can't he remember? All that results when he opens his mouth, however, is a mouthful of frozen water, powdered into a fluffy, melting mix of liquid and coagulate. He sputters, and chokes on even more of the white substance. It's snow, he's deduced by now, snow all around him. It's freezing and his clothes are soaked through with ice reduced to useless slush by his body heat. He shivers, even though he can't feel a thing. He listens, but no sounds reach him. He breathes, yet air does not fill his lungs. There's nothing left to do except hold on, hopeful. With every moment he grows more tired, less expectant. With every moment his eyelids threaten to surrender to the fatigue gnawing at him like a rat on a broken bone, until eventually he is defeated and simply sleeps there, waiting.
	At the same time, a pale blond adolescent is very much awake. He sprints, sliding down snow banks as if he's riding a skateboard and they're the metal pipes he tears across, wood and metal gnashing against rusty, flaking iron. There's no time to lose. It's freezing cold, a rare occasion in the usually moist west. It must be a spectacular sight, scenery racing past him in a beautiful blur. He's in a rush though; he doesn't even glance at the photo-worthy landscape. Moving too fast, he stumbles for the first time, crashing into a tree with about as much grace as his dark-haired counterpart. “Agh,” he mumbles, blood dripping from his face onto his new jacket. “And I just bought this thing too. Waterproof, my ass.” He shakily rises, slowly but surely. A glove is caught in a branch; he leaves it behind, ditching the other one as well because, shit, why not. It had holes in it anyways. A wince appears on his face for a brief moment but he shrugs it off. No use fussing over little scratches when you've just lost sight of your best friend. Somewhere in the process his shades were left behind. Normally, he would go out of his way to retrieve them. Normally. Instead, he sets off at an even faster pace, scanning the ground for a particular buck-toothed teenage boy. There's no indication of where he could possibly be, suspicious mounds of snow or otherwise. Without sunglasses to hide behind, the desperation in his face shows, and clearly. As a last hope he cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, powerful voice cracking. “John! Come on, Egbert, you don't expect me to play hide-and-seek, do you? That shit's not even ironic, just come out with your hands above your head like the idiot you are.” A rustle off to the left; red Converse shoes fly towards it, and soon he's digging, scooping up fistfuls of frozen precipitation with his bare hands. “Egbert! You in there?” No answer. He speeds up. Now he's excavating doggy-style, using both hands at once to push snow out in a shovel-like motion. The palm of his hand touches something that is neither snow nor ice. Quickly, he seizes hold of it and yanks on it, pulling until a curled leg is visible. The faded blue jeans are unmistakable, and his friend goes into overdrive, tearing and pummeling the white covering until finally a nest of black hair, along with the rest of his body, is visible.
	No heartbeat. Wait-- there's something. Dave lays his head on John's chest and listens. Barely and slower than he could have imagined, but it's there. He can’t technically classify what's wrong with him; he's heard of hypothermia but it all seems so distant, vague in comparison to his reality. Who could describe what it feels, to be holding your best friend in your arms, his flesh as cold as a corpse? His movements are of utmost delicacy as he half drags, half carries his friend to the base of a nearby tree, stopping to lean against it and simply wonder what the hell to do next. He feels a swirl of panic beginning to bubble up inside of him and fights it. Easy, Strider, no time to lose. No time. First step: warm him up. Simple enough, right? John's clothes are wet, so he takes out a pocket knife from his back pocket (if there's anything he's learned from his Bro, always carry some sort of blade around, shitty or not.) and begins to cut it off, peeling the shirt off. It clings to his damp, limp body and he has a hard time but finally Dave manages to remove it completely. The skin underneath is not as blisteringly icy as his hands which he takes as a good sign. He shrugs off his jacket and lays it on the inanimate figure, zipping it up around him. It's leather with faux lining, ridiculously warm and insulated save for the occasional drip or two. Gently, gently, he brushes the remaining snow off of his face and lifts it up, cradling him. His arms enclosed around him, Dave removes his scarf as well and wraps it snugly around John's head, for all the good it will do. No lighter, he hasn't had one around since Bro quit smoking for good. He considers checking his iPhone, even whips it out to see if there's anyone nearby, but no. It's still out of battery, no shit, and his friend forgot to bring his own cell. Angrily he tosses it out into the ruined snow bank. It’s completely useless, when he needs it most. It's definitely not a good idea to move him right now, and can't possibly leave him here by himself. “John. John, wake up. Come on, Egbert, I can't carry your ass around all day.” No answer, nothing but silence. Anxiously he checks the pulse again. Still there, but he's not breathing. The good thing about being an emotionless wall is that in desperate situations that call for desperate measures, he somehow maintains a thin level of composure. Delving into his brains, he tries to recall shitty lessons from health class, things that he never even paid attention to in the first place. He thinks about ice, and water, and air, and then he remembers something that he swears he had a test on last Tuesday. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation: CPR.
	Pump the chest, pinch the nose, tilt the chest back... Without hesitation Dave presses his lips to Egbert's, propelling his breath in to fill the fallen youth with new air. Warm air, not cold; he's had enough of that. One, two breaths; the rhythmic pumping, thirty was it? Or was it twenty-five? No, thirty. It was scribbled in pick-up line form on the desk he sat at for lunch detention on Monday (to whoever owns that baby blue glitter gel pen, he'll kiss their ass. Ironically, of course. First time he ever gleaned anything useful from detention). He cycles through it once more for good measure and sets John down with finesse, waiting for results. There's not much else he can do, really. Dave knows he has to get him in a hospital before nightfall, when the temperatures drop as much as twenty degrees. He spins through his mind again, wracking his brain for ideas. He can't come up with anything that doesn't involve either him or both of them leaving, and he refuses to leave his friend behind. “Sorry Egbert, but I'm going to have to move you. Sit tight, your knight in shining armor's gonna carry you off into the sunset.” John can't hear him but it helps to say the words. Irony was always a comfort, his only reliable companion other than the goddamn puppets for a long while. He stops for a moment to brush a few strands of jet-black hair back, blowing softly and warmly across the ice-cold face. Then he hooks his arms under, letting the chin rest on his shoulder, giving him a stable grasp on the boy. It drags a bit, but he can’t help that unless he were to up and carry him princess-style, which, if he could he would do it just for the sheer irony, but honestly isn’t practical for a boy only a few inches shorter than him. Besides, John is wearing thick waterproof rain boots since he doesn’t own a proper pair of snow boots. In this case, it works. Dave takes a few steps, staggering a bit under the dead weight, then several more, until he is following a set pace. He whistles a beat as he trudges along, timing his steps to the beat. One-two-three, one-two-three; Fuck common time, six-eight is where it’s at. It’s simple, mundane thoughts like this that keep him from losing his carefully repositioned calm while the constant weight on his collarbone reminds him to push forward no matter how tired and cold he might be.
	Seconds, minutes, an hour marches by on cold limbs as Dave leaves the forest behind, painfully aware that time is not on his side. John might lie, even now, dead on his back, cold body wasting away as he unknowingly tows the already deceased around to the nearest hospital. He shivers, and immediately regrets it, jostling the neck he’s supporting. A quick check reveals that his charge is no better than he was earlier but he has no way to tell if this is a good thing or a bad thing. His unshielded eyes peer out at the edge of the woods. They’re close, so very close. He readjusts John’s prone body and makes a decision. If he goes back to transporting him the way he did before, it’s a guarantee that they’ll make it but it will take much longer than if he attempts the bridal, princess-style method which makes it more likely that Dave will lose his grip. He glances at John, then back at the lights, and takes the plunge. Scooping up Egbert in his arms, he starts running faster. Not so fast as to disturb his passenger, however. Dave is adamant. He will not hurt John any more than he is already injured. Inevitably, fatigue is setting in, slowing down his movements and blurring his vision; he ignores it, pressing even harder.  He can do this, he’s sure of himself. It can’t possibly be as bad as all those spars with Bro at four o’ clock on Christmas Eve after a distinct lack of sleep the night before due to his longtime enemy, insomnia. This? This he can handle. He’s running; keeps your body generating heat, right? Apparently not, since he’s still shivering. “Fuck you, winter,” he spits through gritted, chattering teeth. “It’s not that cold out.” Lies, again. What else is he supposed to say?
	There. A gas station, only a about a hundred meters away. He can make it. Dave sprints towards it, John clutched to his chest. His vision is still fucked up, going in and out of focus sporadically. An inconvenience, he tells himself. Only a minor problem, he’s fine, he can make it, Egderp’s gonna be fine, it’s all good and then they can go to his place and watch shitty Nic Cage rom coms. Even Con Air. Especially Con Air. His hands are numb and he can’t feel his feet at all anymore, making it hard for him to even walk. He is shaking all over, barely moving. But he refuses to stop. “Come on, this shouldn’t even be hard,” he mutters, “why the fuck am I shaking so hard…” He stumbles across the sidewalk and trips, his reflexes are shot by now but he still somehow manages to maneuver himself so that John lands on top of him instead of on the cold hard cement. For some odd reason, not a single car is passing by. The snow is pouring down like powdered rain, feeling like sharp pinpricks of cold on his dirtied face. He reaches over and presses John against him, trying to split what little body they have left (or rather, that he has left) equally between them. Dave realizes he should get up, but something in him makes him feel so tired, why even try? No point, no one’s out here. A little voice in the back of his mind tells him it’s a good time to nap; after all, he doesn’t usually feel like sleeping, so why should he pass up this chance? He lays there for a while, eyes slowly closing purposefully.
	He hears his Bro’s voice, telling him to get the fuck up, he didn’t raise a weakling. He has to get up sometime; it’s not over yet. Dave rises, snatching up John in his arms like a newborn kitten. Sure, it’s cold, sure he’s not used to it, sure there’s this thing called hypothermia, but fuck it. He’ll get to that fucking gas station if it kills him… which he figures probably will. He walks again, no, not walking, striding. He’s himself, his eyes are not hidden by shades anymore but they might as well be, for all the emotion hidden in them. If he were to talk, that fierce passion would be back, only not as subtle as before. It would be overpowering, noticeable, and a tad impatient. Princess-hold again, he rushes toward the nearest building—the gas station. With both his arms busy with something more important than the trivial task of opening door, he, without slowing down for a second, launches one red Converse foot at it and kicks it open. “Hey. You.” The clerk openly gapes at him for a few seconds before making an attempt to speak. “Excuse me, but, uh, you have something on your fac—““Do I look like I give a shit? Let me give you a hint: no. No shits, fucks, or damns are given. Get me a fucking ambulance. My best friend is dying over here while you complain about a little blood. I’ll pay, just do it.” The clerk obliges, whirling around to punch some numbers into a built-in wall phone that looks positively historic. He then proceeds to answer a few questions from emergency. “Yeah, we have two kids, one of them is a bit bloody and the other—““Give me the goddamn phone.” Dave rips the receiver out of the attendant’s hands and shouts into the phone. “Emergency? My best friend feels a little dead right now, so if you can get the fuck over here as soon as possible, I would appreciate it. He’s stone-cold and unconscious, and he was buried under a pile of snow for god-knows-how-long.” With that, Dave reaches over and slams the phone back into the slot.
	The ambulance arrives not long after, medics streaming out to place John on a stretcher and into their automobile. Six-eight time signatures drown out the wailing of the sirens, pulsating beneath his skin. Every note, every single beat of every single mix he’s ever heard and even a few he improvises on the spot is on playback in his brain. In each song there is a piano solo, no matter how out of place. The dubstep is prominent but somehow a string part crawls its way into each song, intended or not. A great antique piano thrums gently in the corner of his mental club, waiting for its’ turn. One-two-three, one-two-three… Dave follows up the ramp as they cart his best friend on a stretcher into the vehicle, climbing up and into the back. They try to tell Dave to leave, that only family members are allowed, but he refuses to leave. Where would he go, he asks. It’s not like he can drive. Someone offers to take him home. He declines, saying he doesn’t take rides from strangers offering candy. They can offer no rebuttal other than ‘it’s the rules’. He promptly responds with an ‘I don’t care’, in much more colorful terms. He remains firmly rooted in the vehicle until eventually the driver shrugs and takes off, extra careful with the slick roads. “I have more right to be here than anyone else,” he says, more to himself than to the personnel. “I’m staying until the end.” And true to his word, he doesn’t leave John’s side even in the operation room. Security attempts to escort him out several times. He fights them and sneaks back in every instance. Later, Dave falls asleep at Johns’ bedside, head resting on the unconscious boy’s chest all night.
	“…Dave?” The voice is so low, so quiet that it’s almost imperceptible, barely recognizable. He doesn’t hear it at first. “Is… is that you? Where are we?” His words are so badly slurred that even if the other boy heard them, he would not be able to understand. Still no response. “Are you there?” This time, pale eyelids flutter open like a pair of delicate butterflies at the familiar voice, revealing slightly translucent red eyes. They’re filled with something… different. Emotion instead of apathy, which, for some absurd reason, makes him even harder to read. John simply stares for a long while, taking in the surroundings. He’d woken up to an unfamiliar bed and a pounding in his head. A hospital gown. White walls. Drawn curtains. When he sees Dave, it’s as if he’s found a solid anchor to the real world in a strange, surreal dream. “Finally up, huh.” Dave starts to sit up, arranging his right arm to support his neck. “Hey Sleeping Beauty, I promised your knight in shining armor would come to save you in time.” John keeps sneaking glances, trying to pinpoint exactly what is different about him. He wants to ask, but is afraid. Fortunately, the other boy takes the decision out of his hands. He reaches up to prod John in between the eyes, then an uncharacteristic grin steals his face and he shifts his hand so that when he pushes John their foreheads meet.
	“You still haven’t answered my question. Uh, Dave? Dave? What are you do…”
	He trails off as suddenly his lips meet another pair, abruptly silencing him. His face is filled with a warm and tingly sensation; looking down, he sees those cherry-red eyes peering up into his roguishly. It’s wonderful and warm and so utterly –close- and… Dave breaks the kiss suddenly to murmur something: “Don’t you ever leave me.” It’s a completely imperative statement and yet as sincere as can be, filled to the brim with swag and genuine concern. The bizarre mix raises even stranger emotions in John, the statement making him wonder exactly what happened. He doesn’t recall much. White, mostly. And the cold, oh, the cold! It makes him want to shiver just thinking about it. Everything else is a blur, out of focus and misremembered. “Sure I won’t, Dave. Why would I ever want to stop being friends with you?” And then he smiles, that clueless, hopeful grin that isn’t becoming on anyone but can somehow melts Dave’s heart of supposed stone. His buck teeth are sticking out and his cheeks have dimples and Dave doesn’t ever want anything to ever happen to him again. Never again.
	His gaze veers off to the right, eyes locate his iPhone on a nearby windowsill, fully charged. His face begins to revert back to an unreadable mask. He asks one thing as he reaches for it. “Can you walk?” John blinks, apparently surprised by the neutral tone and unexpected shift in topic. “Er, I think so, yeah.” Dave turns back around to study him for a few seconds and runs his phone through his fingers, apparently deciding on something. “Dave, I just really want to ask you something.” No answer, no sign that Dave has even heard him. “Dave—“ He’s cut off again, a thin finger pressed to his mouth. He motions for John to get out of bed and turns around, hands tucked into his pant pockets. “You do know I’m not supposed to leave the hospital with gowns on!” he calls out, knowing it’s futile arguing when a Strider makes up his mind. “I don’t want to get in trouble!” His footsteps have no intention of breaking cadence. Instead, the same finger that silenced John points behind a curtain. Sighing, John scrambles out from beneath the gratifyingly toasty bedsheets and peeks behind the curtain. He finds a jacket sans zipper and a pair of slightly rumpled jeans. Both are big on him but he manages to create a makeshift belt of sorts by removing a shoelace from his tattered sneakers. As he hurries to catch up to his friend, he notices his reflection in the mirror. His hair is rumpled beyond reason, his glasses smeared and blurry. He’s practically tripping on the hem of the jeans, the shoelace isn’t doing all that good in hiding his ghost busters boxers, and since the jacket can’t be zipped up, he’s walking around in public with no shirt on. He wonders exactly what is Dave thinking and blushes because, well, mouth-to-mouth. It’s more and more like a crazy dream every passing moment; as to whether good or bad, he has no idea.
	He finally catches up to Dave, and proceeds to bombard him with questions. Why did I wake up in the hospital? Where are you taking me? What happened? Where’s my dad? Where’s your brother? (He can’t quite summon up the nerve to inquire about the kiss.) Dave simply shrugs, leading the way to what could be anywhere. Finally, the boy gets tired of asking questions. He recognizes he’s not getting any answers until Strider’s ready. His headache has lessened to a dull throb that is only a slight annoyance. He can almost forget it if he concentrates on Dave. They stroll through several white hallways, the harsh electric lights casting an odd glow on the surroundings that, normally, shouldn’t have bothered John. Dave rounds a corner, going past the sign-out counter. “Dave,” John whispers, unable to control himself, “aren’t we going to sign out?” His answer? A slight tilt of the head. Negative. Knowing that John will definitely object, Dave grabs his hand and propels him towards the exit, ignoring his protests. “But Dave—“ “Enough, you’ll be back before they even notice you’re gone.” Hesitantly, they start up again, maneuvering through the streets. Every once in a while John will pause to gaze at something or another, like the falling snowflakes or the passerby, while Dave discretely examines his phone. At one point, John tried to throw a snowball at Dave but completely missed. Dave didn’t even care.
	About twenty minutes of walking in the cold later, they stop. John’s eyes widen and he pushes his glasses up on his nose to see clearer, because of all the more relevant things he could have recalled, he remembers this section of their conversation vividly. “So John,” Dave says with a thinly veiled smile, “still up for some ice cream?” “Actually,” comes the reply with an equally devilish grin, “I’m in kind of a frozen yogurt mood today.” The mask breaks, the walls shatter, and the emotions show. Dave grins. “Well, then, let’s go find some.” John laughs, and follows Dave inside, where he gets a double-scooping of blueberry frozen yogurt and strawberry icecream. As he exits, prize in hand and cream on tongue, he remarks, “So much better than cake. Thanks, hehe!” His words end in ticklish laughter as Dave pokes him in the side and tells him it’s time to hurry up and get back. He complies, and doubles his pace accordingly; mute for a while. He licks his frozen delight and muses while Dave leads the way back. The landscape is still as beautiful as it was earlier, with mini icicles dangling from cars and rooftops, distorting the tiny amount of sunlight that shone upon them through the occasional gap in the clouds. The sky is beginning to clear up; a new weather system is moving in while the old one finds a new home. John thinks about this, and many other things. When he finally does talk, however, the next topics he brings up are of the events of the night(s? He has no idea how long he was out. For all John knows, it’s 2015.) before. Dave is also quiet at first, but he reluctantly answers, “You were being a clumsy asshole and fell down a hill. You were fucking frozen. Hypothermia. You could’ve died, moron.” More awkward silence. John tries to process the information but he can’t grasp the prospect of having a life-or-death experience and having an almost complete blank on the subject for some reason. He assures himself he has to have remembered something, anything other than artless frost. He chooses to ask one more thing. “And Dave?” “What.” “Why did you… um, kiss me, back in the hotel room?”
	Dave stops dead in his tracks and John worries he might have said the wrong thing. His heels begin to shuffle backward and his sneakers get caught in an unraveling cuff, sabotaging his movement. He falls to the ground again, and this time Dave is ready to catch him, racing forward in the nick of time. He meets eyes with John and says, with an entirely honest face, no irony here, “Because, John. Isn’t it obvious, even to an incredible derp like you who has absolute zero perception? Connect the dots, Egbert. I’m in fucking love with you.” John goes pale and sputters, only managing to choke out a tiny, “Oh.” After a few breaths, he adds, “Well, I don’t really know what love is, so I’m not sure here but… I guess, if that’s what this tightness in my chest means, that I love you… too.” And then his lips curl up into that clueless, hopeful grin; that adorable, heart-melting smile, overbite and all.