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Charles had fun in the snow... with Whit. Augh, that was hard to admit, even if only to himself.
Charles was dressed in proper wear. Gloves, a snow jacket, boots. Whit was not. His mittens were made of yarn and had the option to become fingerless gloves. At some point during his time in the snow, the button had unclipped and Whit hadn’t put them back. It didn’t seem to bug him— and Charles wouldn’t have cared— if it wasn’t for the rest of Whit’s outfit.
He wore jeans, a pink, puffy jacket that wasn’t zipped up at the front, ankle boots, and a pink wool hat on his head.
Charles had let Whit drag him through the snow, doing all sorts of childish activities, including: building a snowman, sledding, and a snowball fight (Charles didn’t let that last long). Whit gave the snowman his hat before standing back with Charles, resting a hand on his shoulder, “I’m naming him Charlie.”
Charles side-eyed him, “What made you choose that name?”
Whit humored him, pretending to think about it, “Oh, you know... Charlie Chaplin, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory...”
“Concerning choice of influences,” Charles snorted to cover up a smile. Whit shrugs and nudges his shoulder. In response, Charles grabs his hand and turns Whit around to focus his attention back on the building, “Come on, we’re going inside now.”
“But why?” Whit whines, dragging himself behind. “We haven’t finished all our snow day activities...”
Charles opened his mouth, paused, and then thought better of it. Instead of his original thought, he said, “I can think of one we haven’t done yet.”
“Oh?” Whit asks curiously, dropping the whiney child act. “What are you planning, Char Ch—“
“Don’t call me that.”
“Right, sorry. Are you going to surprise me?”
Charles shook his head, “No. I'm making simple hot chocolate. It'll warm you up from the inside so you won't get a cold. I suggest you change your clothes.”
Whit smiled to himself. It wasn't surprising that Charles was being nice to him anymore. Whit had gotten used to the treatment. Although, it hadn't gotten used to how it made him feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. “Alright, I will, unless you need help boiling the water…?”
The chemist pressed the heel of his palm against his head in a mock facepalm, “I know how to boil water, Whit. We have an electric water heater.”
He barks a laugh. Charles specifically mentioning the kettle was funny because it made Whit believe that he didn't know how to boil water on a stove. White shakes his head and heads towards his room, leaving Charles frustrated and confused.
As the water boiled, Charles set out two mugs. Typically, they would have Veronika’s homemade Cocoa– which they much preferred– but since it was the hot chocolate season, they were fresh out. He made a note to himself to ask her to make more later.
Instead, he used their backup hot chocolate packets. Two for Whit, and one for him. Pouring both packets into Whit’s mug made him scoff. It would be much too sweet for him– in fact, the packets themselves were too sweet for Charles– but every time they used them, Whit would complain about it being too bland.
Charles used eggnog as a replacement for milk. Whit preferred it. Charles didn't have an opinion, but if he had to have it, he would rather have it warm.
What came down as he was pouring the water?
He wore a different pair of jeans. This time they were ripped, and Charles gave him a stern look. Whit wore a different jacket, which he thankfully zipped up at the front, paired with some fuzzy socks. Charles hands him his mug. As soon as Whit’s hands touch it, he lets go, hissing.
Charles recovers from almost dropping the mug, but just barely, “What was that, Whit?”
“I think my hands are still too cold,” Whit explains with a small whine. “It felt like you were trying to burn me.”
“Don't be overdramatic,” Charles sighed. He sets their mugs aside and peels off his gloves, briefly wondering why he didn't do that sooner.
He takes Whit’s hands in his and grimaces. They weren't just cold, it felt like Whit took a trip to frozen-over Hell. Subconsciously, Charles tightens his grip.
“Wow. Your hands are warm,” Whit comments with polite curiosity as if he doesn't know why Charles would do that.
“No, they're not. Yours are bitterly cold.”
Whit pushes his palms a little further, fingertips brushing against Charles’s wrists. He shivers involuntarily and shuts his eyes briefly. After a moment, he opens them to find Whit staring at him. Suddenly, the temperature of Whit’s hands wasn't the only thing he was thinking about.
“Th- the warmest parts of your body are your armpits, waistband, and neck,” he starts babbling, looking away. “Your hands are usually the first to lose heat because your blood circulation directs to keep your core warm as a safety–”
“Charlie,” Whit says softly. “Just hold my hands.”
“Okay,” he subsides, shifting awkwardly.
The longer they stood there, the more numb Charles started to feel. He wished this was happening under different circumstances. He had little doubt that it could happen, although it probably wouldn't be any time soon. Charles was too stubborn, and Whit was too afraid to accidentally push Charles away.
Their moment was ruined, though they never expected it to last long. Someone was bound to enter the kitchen at some point.
Veronika wandered in, dragging Teruko along without touching her. Charles wondered what she bribed her with this time.
“Oh!” Veronika gasped as they quickly separated. (Well, Whit was the one to let go.) “I thought you two were still out in the snow. Teruko and I were going to make hot chocolate. Do you want to help?”
Ah, so that was why Teruko was here.
“Uh– Charles just made some, actually,” Whit informs, hooking his thumb at the forgotten mugs.
Veronika purses her lips, “How disappointing. Do you want us to come back later?”
“No, we’ll move. Let's go, Whit,” taking Whit’s hand, Charles led him out of the room.
…To no one's surprise, really (except Whit).
“...They forgot their–"
"I think they know, dear."