Michael
It's *Cold*, and *Miserable*. At least, that's what Gabe thinks to himself as he walks outside in the courtyard, burying his face into his collarbone and chattering his teeth. His New-Orleans accustomed body was not faring well in Sweden, and Gabe had to wonder if this whole school wasn't just one big front to torture him specifically.

*Only a maniac would be out in this weather*, Gabriel concludes. Not *Him*, of course— he was only taking a shortcut through the courtyard to get to the gym. He wouldn't be in this icy weather for long, unless something unexpected was going to happen.
Le
*Steady, now, easy does it...*

*Shit.*

Owen doesn't even bother wondering how this keeps happening anymore— one minute, he's crouched on a branch, a wonderful chill cooling the sweat on his neck as he surveys his path downward. The next, he's crashing through every single tree limb he has ever seen in his entire life, shouting curses he only seemed to remember twenty feet above the forest floor, singeing pine needles and scaring every squirrel in earshot halfway to Denmark. 

Easy does *Not* Do it, apparently.

With a mighty *Thump* And a fresh crack in the concrete of the courtyard, Owen sticks the landing: flat on his back, half-encased in a shell coloured a shade of red only describable as disgruntled, all the wind solidly knocked out of his lungs. Through his aggravation and mild lingering panic, the boy in the ratty black T-shirt and battered sweatpants managed to be a little bit impressed with himself— his failures as a bird were nothing short of spectacular!

A moment more, and two things come into his line of sight: a person approaching quickly, and a pinecone approaching quicker. Towards his face. 

With a wheeze and a yelp, Owen lunges to catch it, just in time for whoever this was to *Definitely have heard him oh gods oh fuck. Act natural toss the pinecone ACT NATURAL—*

He sits there instead, hunched over and gasping for breath. Still gripping the pinecone.

"This isn't.. Mine."
Michael
Gabe blinks once. Twice. He's so surprised he forgets to suppress his accent.

"The fuck are you doing out here, man?" The sheer *Incredulousness* Of it all shines through in his thick New Orleans accent, and he can't help but stick his hands in his pockets as a shiver runs through his spine. "It's cold as all *Hell* And you're climbing trees? God, you're gonna get a fuckin' cold." 

A kid on the ground in the cold. It was obvious what had to be done; Gabriel did fancy himself someone who was adept at cleaning up after people's messes. He'd been taking care of Blanche for far, far too long to object to saving people from their own stupidity with any real venom.

With no hesitation, Gabriel leans down to meet the startled, redhaired boy— Owen, if he recalls, the one he thought was a chick way-back-when— and *Hoists* Him over Gabe's shoulder as if he was a sack of flour.

"Hold *Still*, you're gonna freeze to death." He grumbles, and begins to head straight for his original destination— the gym. Sure, it was quicker to go back the way he came, but... For the stupid-ass way Owen dressed in the *Middle of the winter*, Owen could bear the consequences of a little more cold.
Le
Owen barely has the wherewithal to blink sheepishly when an unfamiliar voice bounces between the trees and... Mothers him? Was he being fussed over? Did Gabe even like him enough to be doing that? Shit, should Owen have said hi to him more in the halls?

"Well-"

He coughs, more startled than anything, as a muscular shoulder digs into his stomach and the ground is swept out from under his back. A wave of queasiness pushes at his stomach, his throat; embarrassed and slightly irritated red like a lick of flame snapping at a gust of wind spread under his face. Faint, humming heat pulsed where unsettled muscles hung onto Gabe for dear life, as if to prove a point.

"Wha-I'm-nn-not going to freeze, *You're* Going to- *Where are we going?*"

Owen did his best to sound aggravated and sharp but honestly, he was just bewildered. And he sounded like it. Of course, he didn't appreciate being manhandled like a child, but for his own strange reasons kicking and screaming didn't occur to him— he was, alas, too busy racking his brain for past interactions and missed clues. 

*Is this guy my friend?! Is it possible to not know that?? What is his threshold for 'would pick this lad up and just keep walking.' Am I being abducted? Maybe I'll wait for him to answer. I think I could take him in a fight if he was trying to kidnap me. He's tall though. His arms are strong. That's off-topic. I hope he's forgotten about the pamphlet. Ach, now I can never look him in the eye. Have I though???*

Colour him properly stunned.
Michael
"We're going *Inside,* Where it's *Warm*. No hell you're not gonna freeze— do you know how goddamn cold it is?" Gabe looks mildly irritated as he attempts to trudge through the snow with Owen in tow. It almost feels like he's back dragging Blanche back in the house during a thunderstorm; save for the fact his face displays more mild annoyance than he would if he was around his sweet, extremely snarky sister.

*Honestly.* What is wrong with these people?!?

Oh, shit. *A door*. He can't exactly open the door inside with his hands full of Welsh, he realizes all too late. Gabriel plops Owen back on his feet, rolling his shoulders back with a groan. Man was *Surprisingly* Dense, actually. Gabe would never say it, but he didn't remember him being this heavy when he first saw the kid.

"Come on, man, just get inside already." Gabe leaned down, dusting snow from his hair. "I do *Not* Wanna spend my evening running around and saving your ass." The words were spoken with equal 'pseudo brother-like worry' and 'mean-girl irritation.'

It was a confusing mix. Gabriel was a confusing person.
Le
Lingering scraps of bewilderment, flattery, and idle and ill-timed gay panic sloughed off of Owen's expression after he was dumped back onto the earth and implied to be dumb as a sack of hammers and twice as inconvenient to lug through a forest. As if Gabe were *Asked*. The redhead's jaw clenched as his gold-flecked eyes picked a spot on the taller of the two's forehead close enough to his eyes to seem serious.

"Go ann-and *Scratch*, how 'b-bout it," He retorted, tightening his loosened ponytail for no reason really other than to have something to do with his hands. His bangs had grown long, but were still too short to stay put; the snow made the thick, wavy strands of copper floating by his downright *Peeved* Expression darker by comparison.

"Caught the f-forecast this morning-already-thanks," He spat. "My ass just needed a s-second on-account-of-the-concrete."

Owen's attempts to sound properly pissed were jumbled as though he were unsure of a rhythm to settle into, and settled instead for spitting the second halves of his sentences into the frost-bitten air as quickly as possible, huffing dense clouds of curling vapour for extra emphasis.

"Can handle the cold better than you, besides, mate."

If anything, he was cold *Now* Because he had stopped moving, his chattered stutter and lost-puppy demeanour being merely Gabe (inadvertently) creating an issue to blame him for, but the rattled climber had allowed himself to be carried too far by then for that to still be a valid grievance.

Heat from the middle of him spread to his extremities, muddled scarlet glowing through the red skin of his knuckles and the worn-in black fabric stretched over his back. The familiar humming, low like a hibernating beast disturbed, unfurled from somewhere in his ribs, casting layers of fat and muscle into clearer focus for a moment before curling out against the underside of his skin; a single shiver, still, betrayed him.

*Grrrr.*

*Bastard.*
_ _

The door to wherever-they-were was pushed aside with a muttered curse and a grunt, held open begrudgingly for his knight in shining armour.

Sometimes, he felt, he could really stand to be a *Little* Less British.
Michael
"Welcome," Gabe beckons around the area they've found themselves at. It was his original destination— *The gym.* 

"If you want to get in a good workout, it's far better to do it here then out in the cold." Now that Gabe was out of the dreaded Swedish weather and back in his home turf, he was *Far* Less pissy than he was prior. Instead, his cadence seemed to mimic one of a mother, or an older sibling. 

"Besides, the cold isn't good for your skin. Even if you can resist it, dry skin is *Not* Something you want to deal with, especially close to Valentine's." He tuts lightly, eyes sweeping over the breakouts on the other's skin. 

"*And* I didn't see you with a water bottle. Your lips are going to crack if you're out in the cold without any hydration. *Honestly*, you're lucky I came along. If you're going to workout, you have to treat the rest of ya with equal care." 

How did *No one* Else think of these things? Gabe really was the lone bastion for normal people behavior here at the Cradle. *He probably doesn't even do weekly face masks,* The voice in Gabriel's head scoffed internally, and he couldn't help but gag a little. 

"Come on. Get yourself some water. The cold probably turned your lips to sandpaper, my guy."
Le
A queasy look overtook Owen's flushed features; he supposed, in this newly-defrosted state he found himself in, that he should have noticed sooner. 

"Is that right..."

He wasn't sure exactly *Why* He didn't want Gabe to think of him after this as a frightened squirrel-thing skittering off into the woods at the first notion of exercising like a normal person with normal circulation. But he didn't (even though he would very much like to), and so an attempt at confidence, he decided, must be made...

...Which didn't last all that long. Owen often forgot that his insecurity was visible to others, strangely enough. A sap-smudged hand rose instinctively to take note of his angry-looking skin, internally cursing at the return of the *Very bad awful unsightly texture that he should really get rid of* Before shaking said hand out with a vengeance and jamming it into his pocket.

Jamming it into his pocket, and somehow pulling out his metal water bottle, *Mary Poppins* Style.

"Oh, wouldn't *You* Like to know how soft my lips are," He taunted smugly before catching up to himself and visibly recoiling at what he had just said. "I-I'm, um, glad I did-didn't land on this."

It was mostly empty, and in actuality his throat was killing him, but it was one tiny victory. If there was one thing the disgruntled redhead couldn't stand, it was to be misconstrued—both as someone dumb enough not to bring water outside, and as someone who didn't wear sensible tree-climbing pants with absurdly deep pockets.
Michael
*Oh, sweet summer child.* 

This poor boy. This poor boy was *So* In over his head. It was obvious that the kid was nothing short of a pushover (poorly) attempting to stand his ground and cling on to whatever pride he had. 

Ah, kids. They were so funny. 

Gabe wasn't a *Bad guy*. In fact, he reasoned, the teasing he was about to do was a twisted sort of charity. Really, he was just teaching the poor kid a lesson, that he shouldn't mess around and start a posturing contest with someone severely cooler than himself. 

"*Do I* Want to know how soft your lips are?" Gabriel mused, leaning down towards Owen with a small smile and a glint in his eyes spelling trouble. "They look pretty soft." Brown eyes examined the other's... Like, *Painfully average* Face, trailing down to Owen's lips and lingering. 

*I love making nerds flustered.* Gabriel's internal voice monologued to himself, surprisingly nonchalant given his current actions. *Poor kid. He'll learn. Really, I'm doing him a favor. You gotta be able to put your money where your mouth is, or you'll just make a fool of yourself.*

One. Two. His eyes flitted back to Owen's, and this time Gabriel's smugness shined through his stare.

"Anyway," He says, backing away from the other as quickly as he had moved in. "What if you had been injured? You could be hurt, and you'd probably freeze to death before anyone thought to check outside. Especially during this storm— it only takes one accident to fuck up your life." The chiding, slightly motherly tone was back; Gabe enjoyed inflicting whiplash on people, spinning from one mood to the next in a dance that people could only catch up to, never keep on pace with. 

He danced with every step he took and every word he spoke. Life was all about dancing; you could either walk with your back hunched and eyes nervously scanning the room, or you could strut and make the floor your own. 

Poor kid. Even the most adept dancers couldn't keep up with Gabriel on a good day.
Le
Every bit of Owen that knew even a scrap of common sense, every white knuckle wrapped around a rule or a secret in-joke or innuendo or *Anything* That he had stitched together in the dark to keep himself afloat, was screaming at him. A painful grin dug at the corners of his (*Very* Red) face, a reflex, an inability to say nothing in the face of his catastrophic failure.

Oh, how he wished he could.

A familiar warmth tickled under his skin, threatening to claw itself out and tear up his shirt and his personal space and the whole damnable street they were on. If Gabe had looked away from his stubbornly angled face, he might have noticed something shift and crackle quietly around the smaller boy's stomach.

He was not proud of the spike in his heart rate, rattling against his chest like there was nothing built up there at all, no lessons learned since he was *Twelve* Or something. Uriel could have knocked this guy out, easy. Or knocked Owen out, as a mercy. He was half expecting them to come strolling through the door, laughing softly and asking why his nightmares involved ~~unfairly~~ tall, handsome men and gyms, but no silvery smiles interrupted his growing discomfort.

The uncanny valley crept into the shadows of Gabe's expression, turning said handsome face eerie and unnerving. Something felt insincere about his concern, but the glee in his eyes glittered with honesty; those perfect teeth dug into his spine.

"I-I wasn't even in a tree the first time. And it was ss-summer, luck-lucky me," He tried, staring red-hot daggers into the space between Gabe's eyes. This sparkling, brown-eyed jester was right, though he had no idea what he was talking about. The trees, out of everything, were far less likely to aid in another life-fucking event.

"I-*I'm* Not afraid of a little wind in my hair, I'm not."
Michael
Damn. Sounded like a lot of emotional baggage Gabe did not particularly care about. 

"I mean, I don't care either way. Your life, not mine. But don't I say I didn't do my best to warn you when you get a breakout on your cheek from all the cold air." A small, annoyed sigh rose from Gabriel, as if he was explaining to a toddler why eating raw cocoa powder was a bad idea. 

Interestingly enough, while Owen's demeanor certainly screamed that of adolescence, he luckily avoided the awkward teenage body of limbs that didn't fill out well that many poor, unfortunate souls were cursed with. Brown eyes swoop over the other, giving him another once over— now, it was impossible to mistake Owen for a woman like Gabe had done so long ago. 


"Do you lift." Gabriel blurts out, his mind catching up with his mouth far too late. 

"I mean, you know... It seems like something a guy should know., is all. Might impress any potential special someones in your life, right?" Gabe winks, trying to make the statement as innocuous as possible. 

No, he *Totally* Hasn't heard the stomach-churning details of Owen's love life from the gossip spreading from person to person like an infection. What would give you *That* Idea?
Le
*Why did you say that. Why! Now you've made it weird.*

Owen shifted his weight from foot to foot as the pinching feeling in the back of his brain told him he was being looked at. Gabe's purpose was beyond him, but the lingering chill of standing by the door cooled his head just a little. Being all defensive now felt a little silly—this guy wasn't out to get him, he just seemed to think himself hilarious. And an expert on other people's stubborn (perhaps slightly neglected) skin. And marvellously attractive. *Esgob annwyl, was he. Shush. Stop that.*

"Huh."

A short, flat tone of utter confusion sounded, to contrast the painfully nervous boy's previous pattern of angry stuttering. His ears turned pink, but he didn't look averse...

"Y-you have a point, um," He started, too baffled to attempt anything else. Owen did not dance many complicated steps when he spoke—if there was a game being played with him, he walked straight through it, unaware. Gabriel didn't work like that. Carrying on this conversation through a topic the taller and more familiar-with-this-place of the two could presumably talk about for ages while Owen scraped his brains back together seemed a safe bet, at least.

"I usually steered clear, avoiding people and all..." *Too personal. Back it up.* "I, I can lift *Myself*. Up. Trees?" *Fourthreetwoonetwothree.* "And I can lift, um, them, mostly." His ears turn pinker still. "Why do you ask?"

His eyes still stare far past Gabriel's, but his tone is light, genuine. The copper-haired fool thought briefly of someone special indeed (it was still strange to call them that), folded up in his arms and giggling in that sweet, breathy way that they did as he swept them off their feet, stumbling a little still. They would hold onto the back of his neck for dear life and he would feel strong—Owen liked that.

He leaned forward, wondering if he liked that enough to ask more about this place.
Michael
*Yeah, this guy is pussy-whipped.* 

It was slang he'd often reserve for hapless teenager boys trailing behind the one girl they'd manage to snag for a week a so— after that, the girl would usually move on to greener pastures and said boy would be heartbroken for months. Even if Owen wasn't yet at that stage of down-bad, Gabe could see the smile blossom on his face, and he held back an invisible grimace. 

*Yeah, yeah, you're in a happy relationship. We get it. Not to rub it in our faces or anything.*

What? No, Gabe wasn't bitter. *Now why would you think that?*

"I ask because people would probably flock to impress you if you gained just a little bit of muscle." He points out, eyes half-lidded with boredom. "Or, well, flock to you more. Whatever." 

He cracked his neck, tousling his hair in the mirror running along a wall while not looking at Owen. "So, like, you *Kind* Of have pressure to look best as you can, right?" Gabe speaks nonchalantly, and yet he shoots Owen a look from the corner of his eye.
Le
Owen got the distinct idea, then, that he was being a drag. It wasn't that he particularly *Craved* The feeling of those laughing, nightmarishly alert eyes on him, but he did feel it when they slid away from him in disinterest. A rapidly-heating palm slid over the roughened back of his arm as he looked away, if only to give himself a little grace.

*Okay. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and attempt to process whatever the hell he actually just said to you, in a timely manner.* Gabe's assumptions were strange to him—that he wanted a flock, that his body would earn him one. Such things rarely occurred to him naturally, and so the thought resonated in a sour way; it ached a little, even. He and this body of his, they asked too much of each other sometimes.

"That seems like a lot of pressure," He blurted, unthinking enough to be honest, honest enough to sound dry. "I-I mean. I usually try to make too good a racket for people to care too much. I hope." He cracked his shoulder. "B-besides. Metal's a grimy business—if I don't look like Satan himself has kicked my arse, I'm not doing it right. Except the hair, though. Uh. Finn-fi-f-finnic-f-*Delicate* Balance."

The pressure of being his band's frontman was certainly present, though. When people sang, shrieked, growled, and roared from that stage, the blazing centre of the universe, it was nature to look up at them, to watch the sweat roll down their neck as they commanded their awesome power. It was his *Job* To be infectious, a virus of fire *(future song title?)* Spreading through blood, spit, tears, sheer magnetism. It was Owen's chosen calling in this life to fill people's chests with that vibrant affliction; enough of it to need to thrash and howl like wild animals, enough of it to feel at home.

So, yeah, he supposed, it did help to be reasonably gorgeous. The way Gabe phrased it still rang as a little weird, but Owen curiously squeezed his bicep anyhow. He certainly wasn't as scrawny as he once was...
Michael
Hey pond, can we clear this? 
We can just end it here I think, it's been a while and I kinda wanna refresh my plate :3

Same w sig one, probably? Just because yeah
Le
Yes pleas writer's block hit me like a truck n I'm all antsy now 😭