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It takes all of five seconds for Shark to regret coming here.
Actually, it's more like three, since that's how long it takes for Chris to pick him out of the thin crowd. He waves and walks over to where Shark stands with his back to the wall, hands tucked in his pockets and one foot propped up against the wall, looking like a true delinquent. "Ryouga." He greets, and to the untrained eye he looks just as calm and collected as usual, but Shark knows better. His face might actually look normal if he smiles any wider.
Shark sighs exaggeratedly, not one to betray his cool persona, and rubs the back of his neck, not meeting Chris's eyes. He knows if he does he'll drown quicker than a boat in a whirlpool. "Hey." He says, and curses himself for the slight boyish wobble at the end. Chris just watches him with a just barely amused gaze as his face colors cotton candy pink, and Shark finally accepts his fate, allowing his gaze to meet Chris's. It happens as quick as a snap of the eldest Arclight's fingers, then-- Shark dives into that pool of an iris like his life depends on it, and his nickname must have some substance to it, because he doesn't fight the current, just swims along with the tide and somersaults through the water like a prized gymnast, were he in the air. He darts through the blues and greys like a frantic painter's brush, making a splash here and there like the tail of an orca, slapping down against the surface like the belly of an overzealous eleven year old boy in the summer, and the darkness keeps inching closer like a quiet assassin of a predator, waiting for just the right moment to sink its jaws into the back of Shark's neck, unguarded amidst his aquatic dance.
Which seems to be now, as a matter of fact. Shark only snaps back to reality when Chris's voice echoes through the water, a dolphin's sonar to its fishy relative. "Ryouga?" He inquires, unknowingly emptying the saltwater from Shark's lungs and letting him breathe once more. Shark blinks, realizes he's been staring for at least seven solid seconds, and goes beet red. Chris just smiles and muffles a giggle into his palm. "Come on." He holds out his hand for Shark to grab hold of, his liferaft in the unforgiving ocean Chris surely didn't realized swirled behind the backs of his eyelids, and squeezes gently when Shark takes it, returning his eyes to his shoes, scuffed unlike the other's. An Arclight would never be seen less than well-dressed in the public eye.
He ends up dragging the dumbstruck fish to a nondescript coffee shop, a hole in the wall down the stairs of a surprisingly well-kept alleyway between two competing department stores, as if hiding from the war being waged over its head. The Helen of Troy of coffee shops. Chris sits Shark down at a small table in the corner of the shop after grabbing two menus from a shelf near the door on their way in, one with two worn yet cushioned chairs on either side. Shark numbly looks over the various espresso and in turn milk options, face still shaded slight crimson from earlier, and decides on a small cappuccino with skim milk. Hot chocolate is also an option, with whipped cream, too-- but Shark's pride manages to hold him back, so well that it tosses him ass-first into his head.
Shark shivers as he pulls his jacket tighter around him-- he could practically hear Rio now, chastising him for leaving his winter coat at home and laughing in his face when he runs inside and slams their apartment door behind him to keep any more cold from making its way in. He curses quietly as the faintest hint of snow begins to tiptoe down from the clouds above, landing in his hair like an icy crown. Fitting, he figures.
"Ryouga?" The voice he hears behind him is all to familiar, the intimate lilt of concern clear on the dry breeze that whistles by his ears, purposely slipping its frigid fingers down his neck and racking his body with a violent shiver. Shark spins around to look up at the tower that is the eldest Arclight brother, and someone he supposes has heard the gossip by now. Gay sharks were going to be the next big thing-- just they wait, Shark thinks, vaguely miffed at the recollection. "V." He says, a weak attempt at a greeting.
Chris opens his mouth to say one thing, but from the tiniest change in his expression Shark thinks it changes to another in the split second before he speaks. "What are you doing out here?" He asks, and wow, the brotherly paternal instinct must really be in full swing, if Shark's to judge from his tone alone. "Aren't you cold?"
Shark doesn't get a chance to answer before he ends up at a loss for words, his thoughts of speech trailing off as Chris digs through the pockets of his thick, shearling coat, that just looks incredibly warm and comfortable, and wow he's really going to get pneumonia if he stays out here any longer without the proper clothing. Maybe hypothermia if he's lucky.
Chris pulls out a pair of knit mittens, and holds them out. When Shark opens his mouth to protest his help, a strong gust blows by, eliciting his teeth to chatter and his body to shake all the way down to his toes in his scuffed, worn platform shoes that were definitely not built for extreme weather, especially given how slippery the soles are. After he regains his composure he doesn't bother rejecting the garment-- he's not that dense, or that stupid, either.
Thirty minutes later finds him cozied up on the couch of the parlor in the Arclight mansion, a warm mug of hot cocoa cradled in his hands. He doesn't say thank you, but he leans into Chris's side just barely when he sits down, and his renewed body heat is thanks enough.
Another snap in his face. A waiter has come to take their order. "A hot chocolate." Shark blurts out without thinking, but before he can take it back, the guy has written it down and walked away. Chris looks at him with a foxlike grin, and Shark sinks into the threadbare cushions of his seat, a tomato amongst the blue.
It takes a solid moment for Chris to pry Shark out of his flustered yet forgiving shell once more, and once he does they end up chatting quietly, mostly about Thomas. It's one thing they have in common, and anyway, what better way to steal a man's heart than through trashing his sworn enemy?
At least, formally sworn enemy. Chris doesn't think Shark could manage to date him if he didn't like Thomas to a small degree.
They talk for what feels like hours, and it's barely four pm by the time Chris realizes he had a motive today. He pulls a plastic egg out of his jacket pocket, alleviating the suspicions Shark had of it being an obscenely large buttplug. "For you." He says, smiling warmly in the way he does at Shark, which is to say, barely to anyone else, yet larger than life to him.
Inside is a marshmallow chick. It's blue, and when Shark rips its head off for kicks, it tastes like sugar and food dye and nothing remotely healthy.
Chris notes that he can taste it when Shark tugs him in for a kiss soon after. "Can't be sweeter than you." Shark says gruffly, his ears burning as he walks away. Chris follows with the tiniest, puniest, most miniscule skip in his step.