Pink and purple dance on a stage of blue; it's honest to God beautiful from the rooftops, and despite the chilly wind, he's thankful for taking the time to come up. He leans against the brick that serves as a thick railing, running his fingers (hypersensitive form the cold, and every brush or bump feels like a hot knife scraping across his skin) against the rise and fall of the concrete, wincing slightly. He'd been up here before, in August, skipping class in the middle of the day and regretting the sun that ticked until noon and left the rooftop shadowless.
That was alone. He had company now; warm company pressing against his side, writing furiously in a weathered book, turning pages as soon as they fill to the brim with cute, curvy lettering. Belca spares a glance beside him, into the book, but his company just pulls it against his chest and shakes his head.
"You can't read it!"
"It isn't done!"
If there was one thing of many that puzzled him about Eco, it was that he never showed anyone what he was doing until it was finished. This apparently had been the buzz back in his high school days; the 'weird poet kid who kept getting in trouble with the Creative Writing teacher because he wouldn't participate in class critiques' had been the first example of rule one: don't go against your teacher. Still, the novelist keeps quiet about it, and Belca doesn't ask to see it when the pen's been put down and the book's been closed with a happy sigh. They watch the rays fade slowly, covering the town in night, and get down the same way they got up: climbing. It's rougher going down than getting up, with his hands too aware of the temperature, and he's sticking them in his pockets the second his feet hit the ground and Eco's beside him.
"We should do this again sometime."
A writhing look. Eco pointedly ignores it.
"When it's not so cold! Eco doesn't really do well with the chill..."
"Then why do you come down here for winter?"
Belca colors at the smile Eco gives him - mysterious, not answering, and tinged with sweetness.