For imogennegomi: JC/Chris. "No money in our jackets and our jeans are torn / Your hands are cold but your lips are warm."

His skin was so dry that the water just sheeted right off his shoulders, and the towels were so thin and crappy that the water beaded up and dripped on the floor rather than being absorbed, and the fucking heat was indifferent at best and he thought that if he was lucky, really lucky, his balls wouldn't freeze and break off before morning. He'd gotten soft, in the years he'd spent in Orlando, where the temperature only crept below freezing once a decade and snow was something you saw on television.

"Germany," JC said in disgust, when Chris came out of the bathroom shivering and still damp and dove for his bed. "Fucking Germany."

"You'd think that we'd rate hotels where the heat actually went above sixty-two," Chris said.

"You'd think that we'd be able to afford non-ventilated jeans and decent winter clothing," JC said.

Chris scissored his legs under the covers to try and warm them up with his body heat and friction. "You'd think that next time we're in a place with decent towels, one of us would remember to steal them and bring them with us."

"I remember being thrilled when it snowed because it meant no school." JC tucked his fingers underneath his thighs.

"Once upon a time," Chris said, "I used to look at five below and be able to say that it was good hockey weather."

"Hey," JC said. Chris looked over at him. "C'mere. Body heat."

"That's, like, the oldest line in the book," Chris said, but he grinned and threw back the covers anyway.

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