Title: The U.P. 200: My Race to You
Author: Shades of Hades
Date: February, 2008
Warnings: Eventual slash, meaning Male/Male romance and possible sexual situations. If it squicks you, please steer clear.
A/N: Hmmm. Trying to write this faster than my other stories, since I've gotten two positive reviews like, right away, which I thank you guys for. Reviews make my day, really they do, and I hope you guys keep reading and enjoying.

Chapter Two:

After a short stare at the cardboard menu in front of me, I settle on a dollar hot chocolate in a Styrofoam cup, letting the satisfying heat spread fire through my icy fingers as I hold it clenched firmly between my palms, fingers crossed together across the back of the white cup, thumbs toying with the thick foam lip as I walk down the sidewalk.

Conversation with the man trying to hook up his team of dogs proved to be fruitless after the kid had bumped into me. My mind seemed to have wandered off after that, and I took in little of what the man was saying. It was friendly chatter at most and little of it useful to me and my novel, currently still a blank page.

Just when I thought that I had finally grasped something usable that guy had nearly knocked me over. It just figures, it really does. I think somewhere, something doesn't want this novel to be written, and I'm almost excepting that, really I am. See? This is me excepting it and moving on. Hence me walking forward, back into the steadily pushing crowd.

I'm starting to lose interest in this race a little, to be perfectly honest. I mean, it was exciting at first to be around all these people, so pumped full of adrenaline at the prospect of a race, but now I'm not sure why I ever agreed to come here in the first place. I can barely see the race teams from here, pretty much only when the break in the people is a large enough gap for me to catch a sled sliding quickly past, then it's like the crowd swallows up the road again, and nothing. Only the distance yip of dogs waiting to run through the snow, and the steady hum of people.

It's pretty frustrating, but I know I'm stuck here regardless, waiting for my aunt and uncle to decide they want to leave, which in all likely hood is still hours away.

It would be nice if I was at least a little taller so I could see if maybe further down there was a less crowded space. Like maybe down that hill up there?

Squinting hard over the people, taking a small sip of my pipping hot drink, I notice the dwindling crowd further down the race track that leads out of town. I'd say it's definitely worth a try, and I let the people carry me down the slick pavement, until the people lessen and soon it's just me and three other people, struggling to find purchase against the slippery sidewalk, feet sliding every so often, and only once, coming out from under me completely, spilling most of my hot chocolate on the ground and melting a nice splatter mark in the white snow. For some reason, the scorch mark on the icy pavement makes me feel better, like I was getting it back for all the trouble and embarrassment it had given me, even if it did cost me a cup of watered down hot chocolate and warm palms. It my humble opinion, it was worth it.

I find some relief when, at the bottom of the hill, the ice turns into deep snow, barely trodden upon enough to be packed down yet. It's nearly up to my knees, but it's such a nice break from the slippery sidewalks at the top of the hill that I can't even bring myself to complain about the cold it brings to my ice-stiffened-jean-clad legs.

I settle into a nice spot in between two young girls, probably students at the local university, the track a picture perfect view from here, racers coming fast around the corner and down that slick hill at speeds faster than I ever thought possible with dogs. I notice, now that there aren't hundreds of people blocking my view, that the dogs I had seen up at the truck, are fairly common in this competition and I'm amazed at their strength as the teams seem to pull the sled with practiced ease, not even slightly strained by the weight behind them.

My amazement dies down quickly though as across from me, a little boy wanders out into the track, the parents no where to be seen, a team of dogs rushing forward around the sharp curve and down the hill towards him.

He's probably no more than five years old and it's making me nervous watching him, wondering morbidly if his parents will notice before the dogs are on him, sinking feeling in my stomach as I watch the dogs pull closer and closer to the little boy, completely oblivious to his danger. They're only a few hundred feet away now, and I fear for the safety of the dogs as well as the kid as rolls around in the snow, obviously too blissed-out by the white fluffy stuff to care about anything else, and my feet are moving forward, almost of their own accord until a man dashes across the street, feet from the dogs and scoops up the little boy and barreling straight into me, and knocking me flat on my ass.

There is a sharp cry from the kid, his face nearly buried in the snow next to me, and the man on top of me is staring at me with wide, blue eyes.

The kid scrambles to his feet, crying loudly as whom I presume is his mother, picks him up and cradles him close, trying to soothe the small boy.

I'm too shocked to care though, staring at those blue eyes that have yet to move from on top of me, elbow jamming into my ribs as he stares back at me, making no obvious effort to move.

Finally, there is a mumbled apology as he pushes himself off me, cheeks stained red as he lands on his ass, adrenaline probably pumping too hard to bring himself to his feet just yet. I'm a little quicker however, raising shakily to my feet, and thrusting my hand out for him to be helped up. He takes it, unsure and I pull him to his feet, nearly falling again when he leans into me a little too hard with the effort.

The mom and the kid are long gone by the time both of us are steady and on our feet, him clutching his chest a little with the effort he just exerted. I'm kind of surprised the lady didn't stick around to thank the kid, but I guess things are just different up here. Still, he doesn't seem to mind much, thrusting his hand out to me.

I just stare at it in puzzlement for a moments, unsure of what he wanted. “I'm Hunter,” he says after a few beats, and a slowly shake his hand, staring back up to his baby blues now that I have a name to go with the handsome face staring back at me.

“Vincent,” I tell him, “but pretty much everyone, but my mom, calls me Vince.”

He gives a soft laugh as he drops my hand and brushes the snow off the back of his pants. “I'm really sorry about knocking yous over, but, holy wa! Twice in one night.” He shakes his head in obvious disbelieve. “Let me buy ya a drink ta make up for it.”

I shake my head and tell him it's not necessary that his apology is enough, but he insists, “Come on, you're probably cold after fallin' in da snow, let me get ya a drink and we can get warmed up.”

With a sigh, I give in and I'm following him back through the crowd, instead of up the hill we make a right turn at a side street, towards a bar, busy and noisy as the races going on outside. People have probably gone in here to get warm, because the bar is filled with people in snow gear, nursing beer and hard liquor, mostly everyone still sober looking. Or maybe it's just because it's still rather early and happy hour hasn't started yet. I'm not quite sure, but Hunter seems very at home here, weaving in between the people to find a stool at the bar, motioning to the one next to him with a pat on the cracked, vinyl top.

I fall onto the bar stool next to him, not really sure what the hell I was doing here. I hadn't been in a bar in quite some time, probably since my college days, and here I am, with some kid nearly half my age, ordering a beer. The man doesn't even check our ids as he hands us both a beer, and I wonder if it's from negligence or if Hunter is really just that frequent of a customer. Probably both, I decide after a moment of sipping at the beer and staring at the boy next to me. I really find it hard to believe he's old enough to be in here, but I keep it to myself as he smiles at me.

“I'm twenty-two,” he tells me a matter-of-factly after taking a deep swig of beer and I try to pretend he wasn't just reading my mind.

“I didn't ask,” I answer back, just as a matter-of-factly, and he just laughs.

“No, but I could tell yous were thinkin' it,” he tells me with a grin and I don't say anything back, just sip at my beer. He just laughs like I've given myself away and in reality, I probably have.

“Don't worry, I'm not offended,” he says after a moment, as he slams his empty beer bottle down on the counter and calls to the bartender for another.

“Wow, slow it down a little there, speedy Gonzalez,” I tell him jokingly as the bartender sets a fresh bottle down in front of him, not even phased by the quick drinker on the other side of the bar. I suppose that says something about the locals here, but I keep my tongue as Hunter takes a sip of his second beer, blue eyes sparkling as he glances at me from his peripheral vision, blond bangs falling over his eyes, hair pressed down by his stylish black hat.

He grins as he sets his beer back down on the worn wooden bar, giving a soft laugh, the sound swallowed up by the sound of the crowded room. “Don't worry, I'm a professional.”

“Ah, so you're a student,” I counter with a soft laugh of my own. He just smiles even wider, and I feel my stomach flutter at his pearly whites, quickly killing off my first beer, and ordering another, trying to keep up with his drinking despite myself and what common sense is telling me, already feeling the alcohol warming up my cheeks, fervently wishing I wasn't such a lightweight as he orders yet another beer.

“Of course, eh. Where else does does one learn such professionalism?”

“Only in college,” I agree heartily as I hold my beer up, nodding to him. He raises his beer too, clinking the bottom of our green glass bottles together with a youthful laugh, and downing half his as I sip at mine.

I'm not saying I'm impressed, really, but this kid's already put away nearly three beers, and looking up for a fourth before I can even drive into my second one, and I get the feeling I'm going to be left behind yet again as he swallow thickly around the amber liquid, grinning slightly into the bottle's mouth as he looks at me as if reading my mind again. Honestly, if he wasn't so... adorable? I don't know if that's the word, but there really is something about him, something likable, and if it wasn't for that, the reading the mind thing? Would be totally creepy. But really, I find it hard to be creeped out by him when my cheeks are flushed and the warmth of this place is getting to me, only two beers later, my own college days so long behind me that his drinking just seems endearing to me.

I'm starting to think that maybe all those years of sobriety have really been fucking with my mind because right now his smile and laughter are lighting up the room and I'm grinning at him like an idiot as we chat loudly over the general roar of the crowded bar as everyone around us gets increasingly drunk and the night wears on into the wee hours of tomorrow.