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The Littlest Way holds his hand out to Frank, raising his eyebrows in already-sarcastic expectation. His feet are sketching delicate little movements over the ice, somehow standing almost still and dancing in place at the same time.

Frank grins back and makes sure his skates are laced tight. No reason to tempt fate more than he absolutely has to.

"Come on, Johnny," Gerard says from the other side of the rink. "You really think this is a good idea? You know he's going to try a quad or something and split his head open."

He doesn't look that worried about it, Frank notes. He'd think maybe Gerard's way of registering concern is to slouch against the barrier with his arms crossed and frown at his Coke, but he knows better; Gerard is probably writing something in his head, both his brother and Frank only there in the background.

Not that Frank can blame him, really. A good part of his life is based on the knowledge that sooner or later, people get sick of wondering if he's going to break himself in a minute. It makes things a lot easier.

"I don't even know what a quad is," Frank says. That's a lie. Anybody who knows Gee knows what a quad is, as well as seven hundred other skating terms and the drawings to go with them.

The Littlest Way smirks at him. "I'm sure you can think up some other way to split your head open, then." The eyebrow comes up again, and he pushes back a determined foot and lets himself slide all the way to where Frank's still standing on safe ground, his hand still out and a shade of challenge on his face like he thinks it's needed. "You coming? I won't let you die unless you really try, promise."

Frank flicks a glance at Gee, who's sipping meditatively from his Coke like he's forgotten it isn't coffee and ignoring them, completely checked out now. In the cool air of the rink, Gerard and his black all-enveloping clothes look sane for the first time in months of New Jersey summer.

Frank's never entirely trusted The Littlest Way, whose sense of humor is a little too close to his own for comfort (and completely inappropriate for someone with his genes and family background), but Gerard will probably snap out of it if his little brother tries to spin Frank at the railing too hard or something. Probably.

Besides, seriously, what's a few broken bones between friends.

Frank matches smirk for smirk and steps off onto the ice, taking a firm hold on the offered hand and trying not to wobble. "There," he says. "Maybe Gee's right about the quad. How about we start with a triple?"

Johnny grins at him like he's just said the most ridiculous thing in the world, which, Frank will admit, he probably has; learning to fly probably takes a bit more practice.

"Sure," he says, and Frank spends a split second wondering if he'll go with it if the kid's sense of humor turns out to go as far as loosing innocent civilians on pro jumps, before coming down firmly on Yes. "But how about we do a few circles around the rink first."

"Fine," Frank grumbles mildly, somewhere between relief and disappointment, and Johnny laughs and turns smoothly around, tugging his hand so that Frank finds himself going a little way before he even has to start moving his own feet, Johnny looking back over his shoulder to add, "Try not to fall on your ass."