"Are you sure it's even out here?" I chatter my teeth together, speaking in a bratty tone. "When you said hike I thought you meant something less..."
"Less what? Less like a hike? Come on Twila, it's not even that cold out here." Alberto squeezes my gloved hand before continuing down the snowy trail, a spring in his step.
I let out a playful whine, bluffing some discontent.
You'd think he'd be more affected by the weather after spending his formative years in Brazil, but the chill only seemed to energize him... annoyingly so. When he first told me where his home was, I had dreams of laying on a beach in a bikini, searing a perfect g-string triangle on my ass while Alberto brings me brigadeiros. Over the last few months, I've learned that his childhood was a lot like how I grew up in Appalachia.
We both started life poor, strong, and wild, but Alberto somehow managed to keep his sense of wonder while I turned out a little more skeptical.
I need to work on that.
I watch as a trail of glitter kicks up behind my lover. Each break he makes in the soft surface sends a cloud of weightless ice crystals into the air that fall back down to earth as softly as they had the first time.
I'm so distracted by the mesmerizing swirl of snow that I completely lose sight of him.
"Alberto! Where did you go? Not a good time to disappear on me!" I expected him to get a little carried away, but he usually stays within shouting distance. I strain my voice to its maximum volume and then wait for a response.
Nothing.
With an almost heavy pressure, silence falls across the tundra. There's no breeze to shake the branches, no scuff of motion. Everything is still. The air feels too thin to satisfy me, drawing a frigid line down my throat. Concerns begin to bubble in my chest, reddening my face and prickling the hairs on the back of my neck.
"Guhhh!" I whine, hopping to the next hole that Alberto's boots left in the snow.
Bounding between his footprints, I try to keep my leggings dry; keep my mind from panicking. Childhood memories of hiking through the snow to check snares populate in my brain. My dad would always scoot off to the next line before my little legs could catch up, meaning I spent most of my time tracking instead of leaning how to snare.
The training kicks in. Alberto's prints lead past a stand of white-bark aspens, taking a sharp turn deeper into the woods.
"Alberto!" I call for him again.
No response.
He can't be far off, so I pick up my pace and keep my eye on the next track ahead of me. I'm led down a hill, across a shallow gully and between a set of huge slate boulders. I have to sidestep through the opening, looking down at my feet to avoid tripping.
As I emerge into a clearing, I'm frozen in shock.
A gigantic billowing plume obscures my entire view of the hillside - as if the earth is sighing violently against the blue sky. The unmistakable flow of steam churns into the clear winter air, dissipating above the treetops and thinning into clarity. Low-lying clouds expand through the forest, wrapping around the underbrush and snaking between the boulders.
What is this place?
I search for Alberto between the dark grey rocks jutting out at sharp angles. He has to be here somewhere! But, each boulder offers less of a clue than the last, culminating at the base of the plume. Patches of pure white snow cover the tops of every surface, but any point or side that faces the steam glistens, water condensing against it.
I follow one of the drips as it slides down the rocky face, it slips lower and lower, following the path of least resistance, finally blipping through a glassy surface tension.
Is that... water?
Overcome with concern and curiosity, I take a few hurried steps closer, only able to remember a documentary I once watched about Yellowstone that listed a dozen ways these kinds of naturally hot waters were deadly.
"Wipe that fear off your face, Xuxu," Alberto's voice reaches through the fog, but I still can't see him.
"Alberto, this isn't funny!"
He sighs, and I glare towards the sound, trying to see though the steam as it shifts back and forth, swirling in pinwheels and somersaults. Water sloshes at the far end of the pool and my eyes finally settle on the sight of his brown hair cutting through the density.
Like some sort of mythical creature, Alberto rises from the water and crosses the pool.
My eyes widen as his naked body cuts through the fog, warm brown skin dripping; steaming... His wide shoulders sway gently, his gait balanced and calm. I can't see his expression, still muddled by the fog, but I can see his cock - it's impossible to miss.
Swinging heavily with each step, faint tendrils of steam caresses him, cupping his balls and slipping up either side of his shaft before feathering over his hips.
