Ansel shut the book closed with more force than he had anticipated, staring at it in silence for a moment as he had finished another chapter. But there was no warning signs. It was just sprung on us all of a sudden. How did that even...? He gave his head a soft shake, getting to his feet, the slushy snow crunching under his size five shoes. (He did have little feet and was often teased about it in a playful way by Coen who wore size eleven's in men's.) The little blonde stretched his sore and tense muscles and limbs, letting out a soft yawn.

It was nearing noon, the air cool and crisp, causing Ansel to tug his jacket tighter around him, pulling his scarf up over his nose and mouth as he held his book tightly to his chest, his arms wrapped around the hardback cover. He gripped onto the binding, watching Coen straighten up from where he had been lying on the frost-bitten ground a moment before, catching the sun shining through the blades of grass.

Ansel exhaled deeply through his mouth, watching his breath of fog escape from the tightly entangled knit cotton of his scarf, seemingly mesmerized as he kept his gaze on the air that spiraled upwards before it completely vanished.

Coen walked up to Ansel, still brushing the bit of snow off his leather jacket, dusting his pants off and stopped before Ansel, his gaze traveling up to watch him for a moment. A smile broke out over his face as he inhaled deeply, copying the blonde's actions, staying quiet as he watched their breath mix together in a mass of fog between them before floating higher into the air and disappearing. Coen pulled his hands out of his jacket pockets, grabbing hold of his camera that hung loosely around his neck as he snapped a picture or two of Ansel repeating it a few more times.

"You done yet, fire breather?" Coen asked after a moment, lowering the lens from his eye to smile at the bundled boy. Ansel let out a final breath and glanced over to him, the sheepish smile on his face revealing the dimples on his cheeks that seemed to make his eyes radiate happiness. The blonde gave a little nod and wriggled his hand into the photographer's, his eyes widening a bit.

"I'm a bit cold," Coen admitted at Ansel's little observation. "Sorry." He shrugged a bit, moving his eyes that had dropped down to their intertwined fingers back up to Ansel's face. "But that's what I get for lying in the snow, I suppose. Plus, your hands are so warm; I can't help it." Ansel felt the blood rushing up to his face, his cheeks glowing a soft shade of pink as he seemed to find a deeper meaning in the brunette's simple words. "C'mon, let's start heading back," Coen offered with a grin, chuckling a little as he headed back onto the path to walk along it with the shy boy beside him, pretending not to have noticed his blush.

A few pale grey clouds scattered across the sunny sky, the small breeze rustling a few late-falling leaves across the little park's oasis where everything seemed to stand still and stay perfect; nothing changing (not that anyone would want it changed). The only noises that caught Ansel's attention were his and Coen's soft footfalls on the winding, cement path that led them back to town and the faint hum of birdsong. Nobody else was at the scenic park today, leaving the two boys to enjoy their time together without the sounds of screaming children, gossiping senior women, or the ringing of the generation's consistent cell phone calls to interrupt their thoughts.

Coen let out a light sigh, the airiness of it making him sound happy and carefree which caused the little blonde to peek up at him, trying hard to read his thoughts. Although he was never successful, Ansel always gave it a shot, but when he really wanted to, Coen was pretty much a pro at concealing any emotion from accidentally slipping onto his features to tip anyone off about how he felt. Ansel glanced back down, watching the concrete pass under their feet, taking into account the occasional tree root jutting through the hardened, manmade substance.

Ansel pushed the button for the crosswalk signal once he and Coen got onto the sidewalk again, waiting for the few cars to stop racing by. The blonde gave a little sniffle, the tip of his nose a soft shade of red from the cold. Coen glanced down to him, reaching up with his other hand and adjusted his scarf so it wrapped around his face tighter to preserve the heat, keeping his other hand gripped onto Ansel's, seeking its warmth and comfort.

As the red hand on the traffic pole turned to a white, walking person, Coen pulled Ansel along in tow across the crosswalk. The brunette knew well that no matter where they went together (or anywhere in general), the blonde was either too absorbed in his thoughts, or the scenery around him to pay any attention to what he generally should be focusing on. Unless he was reading a book; then he'd shut out everything around him. Ansel's mind had a strange way of working.

Ansel stopped on the curb when they got to the other side of the street, dropping Coen's hand for a moment to clip the top two buttons of his coat together, adjusting his scarf over top of his jacket collar. Coen whistled softly to himself as he waited, his gaze trailing after the few other people walking around the town during lunchtime.

When Ansel had gotten comfortable again, Coen began walking back to their apartment condo, leaving the blonde to follow after him at a slower pace, his blue eyes on the sky and flitting over to the storefronts occasionally.

Coen's whistling turned to humming as he reached into his jacket and pulled out the protective bag, grabbing onto the polaroids to sift through them and choose which would end up on his wall. He paused his humming after a couple minutes, holding small handfuls of pictures in his hands as he turned around on the sidewalk, realizing Ansel had stopped walking after him.

He observed the little blonde who was stepping up to a store's window, his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw clenched tightly. Coen kept a hold of his photography, doubling back to him see what seemed to be causing Ansel his eternal distress. Ansel may not be good at reading Coen's expressions, but Coen was pretty much the master of figuring out just how Ansel felt.

To the brunette, of course, it was easy. He just had to put himself in Ansel's tiny shoes and imagine what it would be like if you could never speak and only show any emotion through expressions. He'd gotten great at it, if he did say so himself. So, when he stopped beside Ansel and took in his facial features once more, he was already asking, "Hey, what's up?"

Ansel turned his head to stare at him, his eyes naturally large and round and pointed back up to the bookstore (Ansel's absolute favorite shop in the town without a doubt, as one time, Coen caught him skimming through books and falling asleep a few hours afterward, curled up with a few novels in a comfy chair a few hours later. Plus, the older ladies who worked there were always so nice to the blonde boy) window where a neat little poster hung on the inside of the glass. Coen followed his finger, his gaze landing on the larger paper with the shiny material and he read the few words printed neatly on them.

"'Pain is temporary. It may last for a minute, or an hour, or even a year. But, eventually, it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it will last forever' -Eric Thomas"

The two boys stared at the quote for at least five more minutes before Coen mumbled under his breath, his tone hard and icy, "Well, that's bull." Ansel pulled his gaze from the poster to fall questioningly on Coen, his head tilted curiously to the side, like a confused puppy. 

Coen glanced over to him once he felt his eyes on him and he gave a shrug. "What?" He snapped back. "It is." Ansel shrunk back a bit at Coen's steely tone which made the brunette sigh and take a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Well, think about it. What if you were sick with some incurable disease? Wouldn't you rather die?" He asked rhetorically, staring at the little green poster once more. "So you don't have to live with the heartache and numbness any longer?"

Ansel let his words sink in and circulate around his mind for a few minutes before giving a small shrug back in response. It made sense, he supposed. The way Coen put it definitely made him think it all over, though.

"See, if you, with your incurable disease, were lying on the hospital bed, getting numerous liquids that wouldn't even make a difference pumped into your body, wouldn't you want to just die and end your own suffering?"

Ansel swallowed hard, giving a little head movement that was a mixture of a nod and a head shake. Coen sighed softly, running a hand through his hair.

"Forget it," he murmured, turning to head back down the street. "Let's just go get some lunch."

Ansel was, after all, an amazing cook.