[ Ian has consistently managed to give off the impression that he largely has his shit together. There's a nonchalance to him that seems nigh-unflappable, impossible to ruffle, generally maintaining a solid baseline unless wildly upset and never without good reason.
That image is meekly obliterated in an instant.
What Nate gets very suddenly, as soon as his fingers tighten, is a sensation most akin to his youth, he thinks, at first. The sort of besotted delight at being around someone you really, really like, muddled with attraction, with desire, delight at Nate's humor in light of the circumstances. It feels like a warm wave breaking the shoreline, swirling around his feet and rippling up into his chest and the emotion he somewhat unintentionally returns is richly amused. Deeply charmed.
His smile spreads wider even with that expression of warning - don't - and he resists the urge to needle. Ian's been more understanding than is warranted, in all this. ]
I'm not that cruel.
[ He chuckles, turning his hand, pressing his thumb into the well of Ian's palm. God forbid he ever wear anything with glitter on it ever again; Nate's pretty sure it's given him PTSD. ]
So... [ There was an impetus for this conversation, far and away. HIs gaze ducks a little more shyly when he follows up with: ] ...what should I wear tomorrow?
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That image is meekly obliterated in an instant.
What Nate gets very suddenly, as soon as his fingers tighten, is a sensation most akin to his youth, he thinks, at first. The sort of besotted delight at being around someone you really, really like, muddled with attraction, with desire, delight at Nate's humor in light of the circumstances. It feels like a warm wave breaking the shoreline, swirling around his feet and rippling up into his chest and the emotion he somewhat unintentionally returns is richly amused. Deeply charmed.
His smile spreads wider even with that expression of warning - don't - and he resists the urge to needle. Ian's been more understanding than is warranted, in all this. ]
I'm not that cruel.
[ He chuckles, turning his hand, pressing his thumb into the well of Ian's palm. God forbid he ever wear anything with glitter on it ever again; Nate's pretty sure it's given him PTSD. ]
So... [ There was an impetus for this conversation, far and away. HIs gaze ducks a little more shyly when he follows up with: ] ...what should I wear tomorrow?