He squawks his indignation as he turns to glare halfheartedly back at him while fumbling to button his coat, which he’d carelessly left open to The Elements. His fingers were already getting stiff from the cold, and with the feat accomplished, he stuffs them into his pockets like one would hot-dog in a bun. They were where they belonged. It was a hot-dog to cold hands ratio. 

His gaze flits back to the frozen pond, and he bunches up his scarf, almost grimacing at the cold. There was barely snow to cover the ice, and as he strayed further from the path to scope out the scene, the more inviting it looked. He stops just as he reaches its edge, kicking at the mounds of snow bunched there as he shoulders his skepticism — he wouldn’t make the same proposal, but he would keep pressing;

“Come on. It looks like the ice is thick enough. We’ll go one at a time.”