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Jon wakes up without knowing why. He's generally a deep sleeper, the type that it takes two alarms and possibly an elbow to the face to wake. But one glance at his clock assures him that it's nearing three, and Jon clearly remembers not falling asleep until slightly after one. He twists slightly, careful not to wake Pete, who is not a deep sleeper. The soft blur of light bouncing from the outside onto the room's ceiling isn't one he's seen in a while, but he knows it all the same. Gently, he extracts himself from the bed.

He's usually in Chicago this time of year. His mom gets a little subdued if he's not there at least for Christmas, and it's one of the few times he and Pete can be at home and not have a million functions that they have to attend. There's Christmas, but after that, they're free for each other. They can hit clubs if they want to, or a Starbucks, or just go back to Jon's place and fuck themselves into exhaustion.

It's usually the last option for them.

So he's in Chicago in December almost every year, but it's been a few years since there's been snowfall. Ice, sure, wind and rain and sleet and hail, absolutely. It's been a while since there's been a pure snowfall. It's coming down hard now, though, large, wet flakes that have already begun to stick, pile up. Jon can't see the street anymore, just the orange glow of the streetlights on a sheet of white. There's rustling behind him and Jon asks, "I wake you?"

"Cold," Pete whines, and drags the entire comforter with him to stand at Jon's back. He wraps himself and the comforter around Jon. "See something?"

Jon nods out the window. Pete says, "Oh. Wow."

"Yeah, if it keeps coming down--"

"I'll be stuck here in the morning." Pete grins and nips at the underside to Jon's jaw.

"I hope I have food," Jon says, absently. He's pretty sure he meant to shop when he got home, but one thing happened, then another, and well. He knows he has coffee. If nothing else, there's that.

"Fuck food. There are snow angels to be made, Jon Walker. Snow. Angels."

"Tell me you at least brought a coat." Jon knows Pete didn't show up in one, but a guy can always hope.

"You don't have extras?" Pete asks, knowingly.

Jon presses a hand to the cold glass. He'll end up giving Pete his snow pants, too, he knows he will. Pete takes the hand and presses his mouth to the cold palm, his tongue and teeth warming at the skin. He puts the hand back as it was and Jon shivers at the the return of the cold. Pete whispers, "Cold?"

Jon stays still. Pete doesn't require an answer. Pete puts Jon's other hand to the window before pressing himself, solid and warm and Pete-shaped, along the entirety of Jon's back. He asks again, "Cold?"

"Pete," Jon says, and he's already begging in every way that matters.

Pete laughs. "Here? Wanna watch the snow?"

"Every fucking flake," Jon says, remembering what his mom used to say about uniqueness, individuality.

Pete says, "Yeah," and Jon's pretty sure he's heard all the words that would simply have bounced off the glass had Jon actually said them.

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Skin by egelantier, photo by microbophile