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Your name is Dave Strider, and holy hell-fuck is Washington cold.
Never in your life have you actually been so cold. And now here you are, outside trudging through the snow and, how cold did John say it was today? Oh right. 25 degrees.
You have decided this is not natural.
In fact, you've decided you much prefer the heat down in Texas. Yup, the feeling of melting is far more pleasurable than freezing.
"John, I can't feel my cheeks." Well actually you can. And they sting.
"You're such a baby," he replies, nudging you with his elbow. His cheeks and nose are rosy as fuck, but he looks a lot more comfortable in the cold than you feel. There's no possible way he could be warmer than you; your coat is at least 5x puffier, not to mention the fact that you're sporting two scarves and the thickest pair of mittens in the entire Egbert household. You send a silent prayer of thanks to Daddy Egbert for digging them out for you.
"No, I'm pretty certain we're going to freeze to death out here. I'm hoping you go down first; then at least I can steal your coat and use your carcass for what little heat you have left in you."
He makes a face but brushes off the comment. "I think you'll survive these last few minutes of walking," he says with an eyeroll.
"How many is a few?"
"Five, maybe. Give or take two."
You feel like you could almost do a tribal dance in celebration. Almost. That would require joints that respond quickly, and an astonishing lack of clothing. And as filled to the brim with glee as you are, you refuse to think that stripping in the middle of a Washington winter will accurately portray your enthusiasm for getting out of the cold.
Only that five minutes later, you discover you're not actually getting out of the cold.
No, instead, John has dragged you down to the biggest ice block you've seen in your life. And is now trying to talk you into getting on said ice block.
"Dave, ice skating is fun!"
"Egbert, do I look like a bear in a pink tutu? You're not getting skates on my feet and you're not getting me to skate around like a little fucking fairy princess."
But he does. He promised to get you a hot chocolate after, and that was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Unfortunately for you, though, as soon as you step out on the ice, your feet betray you and start moving a hell of a lot faster than the rest of your body can and you find yourself laying on your back.
The world spins for a moment and woah why the fuck are there four Johns looking down on you? Is this John Heaven?
No, you're still cold. Definitely not Heaven.
Your name is Dave Strider and you are not very good at ice skating.
That's actually a huge understatement, but it makes you feel a little better about your pathetic lack of abilities.
It takes you a good five minutes of assulting John's left side to figure out how to balance on the stupid frozen hell without your feet flying from under you again, and another ten or so to learn how to shuffle forward without falling on your ass again.
Meanwhile, there's John who's just as happy as a kid and is literally skating circles around you. He can jump and twirl like the fucking dancing queen, and there you stand, arms stretched out to your sides like a tool who can't skate.
Oh wait. That's exactly what you are.
Suddenly, John skates up from behind and grabs one of your hands, trying to pull you along with him in a way that he seems to think is playful and adorable as hell.
Instead it ends in another grand introduction of Dave, meet ground. Ground, meet Dave's ass. Oh you've already met? How lovely!
John winces slightly, still holding onto your hand. "Sorry!" he says hastily, helping you up. Actually, it's more like you groping his arm and him pulling your full weight up off the ground. It's a slow process, but it's not the first time he's had to get you up in the past twenty minutes. Actually, you're pretty sure there's a wet spot on the butt of your jeans from landing on the ice so many times. Not that you'd be able to feel it in this eskimo weather.
"I'm going to have a bruise on my ass, and you're going to be the one to kiss it better," you say bitterly.
He snorts, not exactly the reaction you were hoping for. "Come on," he says, that big goofy smile still plastered to his face, "I have an idea."
And then he takes your other hand as well, holding one in each. You can just barely feel some of his warmth through his thin gloves. But before you can even think about how it's even possible his hands still have any heat, he's starting to skate backwards.
Mentally, your face still cool as a cucumber- you hope, you're flipping the fuck out.
Why is he moving. He shouldn't be doing that. John, stop. John, you're going to kill me. That was your plan all along, wasn't it? I'm going to die a skating bear. Where the fuck is my tutu? If I'm going down, I'm going to do it right.
But somewhere amidst your idiotic thoughts, you realize just how slowly he's skating.
Well maybe it's not so horrible, then.
He decides to take a chance and try moving a little faster.
ERROR. ERROR.
You stumble slightly and practically land on him, secretly happy his reflexes are quick enough to catch you. Even if he is laughing about it.
After a few more of your dainty damsal falls, you finally manage to figure out just what to do. You keep your feet planted firmly in your skates and hold onto John's hands for dear life. It's a lot easier to just let him pull you along as opposed to trying to keep your feet moving in time with his.
Neither of you really speak as he pulls you along, his feet moving elegantly and smoothly. Even his turns are perfect and he's going backwards. As much as it pains you to admit it, he's gained a level of your respect. Not that you'll ever say that out loud. Ever. But it's the thought that counts. Even though you know that's not how that expression is supposed to work.
An hour later, John is tried from lugging you and your 300 lbs coat around the rink and you're back on solid, non-slippery ground. With some difficulty, you wiggle your toes in your sneakers, pleased they're back where they're supposed to be. You stand and stretch, feeling a bit odd now that you've lost a good three inches. Your balance is a bit off now, too, but the pavement is a welcomed feeling beneath your feet. Hell, you even missed the snow that covered it.
John returned the skates and bought you a hot chocolate as promised. You hold it tightly in your hands, thankful that styrafoam cups aren't that great at keeping in all the heat.
Another ten minute walk and you're back at the Egbert house. It's there that you discover the wonders of electric blankets. John has an extra huge one and you both cuddle under it on the floor, holding your half-empty cups of hot cocoa and watching a Ghostbusters movie.
You swear off ice skating forever and make a point of telling John so.
He just laughs.
About half-way through the movie, he's asleep on your lap, snoring away. You take off his glasses and set them nearby on the floor in a spot hopefully no one would step on them. You do the same with your shades and watch as much of the movie as you can stand before turning it off. It definitely isn't the same when John isn't into it; the movie is about 10x as awful without his dorky commentary and useless trivia about the actors.
Carefully, you move him off your lap and onto one of the many pillows the two of you have piled next to you. You lay down next to him and start to fall asleep. Of course, because John can't let you just fall asleep, he grabs you in his sleep and hugs close you like a teddy bear, mumbling something about marshmallows. You roll your eyes, but let him stay there, kissing the top of his head sleepily before finally drifting off yourself.