[ A careful, deliberately easy tone as soon as he's in range for it. He doesn't quite mirror Nate, but it's close. He settles in just a couple of inches away from being shoulder to shoulder, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes going from Nate's face to the water before them.
How in the hell did he even find this place? Seems like it's tucked into a pocket in the middle of a crowded nowhere. ]
You were right. About Kyna. I don't know if you saw her yet, but she's home.
[ Which feels like the easy way to start steering into the conversation he wants to have. ]
[ For the people here, not necessarily for her. After two years in another world Nate knows it isn't always the case: sometimes they have unfinished business, sometimes it's loved ones and personal battles they were in the midst of fighting. After a while he realized it was selfish of him to want friends to stay and share in the solidarity, particularly if he knew they were better off back home.
The understanding doesn't mean he's gotten the hang of it, but he's aware it's there. Nate laces his fingers together, thumbs tapping, before he turns his head to really look at him. Circles under his eyes, still, and hair a little rumpled, but okay.
[ Said with a little nod, chin ducking. Honest, and it's audible in his voice. Quiet but true, the clouds have cleared up and the relief set in. He's in kind of a post-catharsis peace, like resting after hard work.
He'd say how are you but that's honestly just procrastinating. He doesn't intend to jump tracks to small talk.
Instead, his chin tips a little Nate's direction. Body language shifts slightly to better face him without really moving his feet. ]
I just wanted to say thank you. For, you know... being the most annoying person alive at five in the morning for a couple days. Nobody's ever done anything like that for me before, so. Thanks.
[ Which only sounds a little scripted, he'd mulled it over on the way here. How he wanted to say it, or at least parts of it. Part of it's a scarily open admission, but packaged in with the rest of it makes it feel less... too much. Kind of fucked up that talk in the bar a couple weeks ago, so he's trying to tip those scales back a little.
That doesn't make them balance yet, he still knows a big piece of Nate's puzzle without explaining his own, but... maybe. He's been thinking about it. He told Kyna about her while he was living on her couch, so the door's at least cracked a little, if not outright open. ]
[ He doesn't say I told you so. It would be easy but it feels like the kind of potshot you take when you have less moral fortitude, particularly when the person who sought you out after everything you did is doing so hat in hand, contrite. Nate is surprised at worst, baffled at best, when Ian shifts in his direction and thanks him, like what he did was a favor. He just didn't want to see the guy fall into the same patterns Nate has fallen into God knows how many times already.
Nate searches his face for some evidence that this isn't as serious as it feels, for any indication of insincerity or a clever workaround built in to avoid confrontation. But this is confrontation. The very act of Ian being here and talking to him without prompting is leagues better than being ignored for being a huge pain in the ass. What sticks in the craw is that no one else has done that for him before.
They should have. ]
Any time.
[ It's a relief to learn he hasn't completely scuttled the boat, something made more obvious by the way he smiles, expression small and crooked. ]
I was in a- a really shitty place, when I thought my brother died. Not like suicidal, just...suicidally reckless, maybe. I needed someone to be the most annoying person at five in the morning. [ Nate looks down at his hands, palms opening, fingers still laced. ] I get it.
[ They have a lot in common, he's learning. Aside from having wildly different day jobs or feelings about heights, a lot of the colors are the same shade. He didn't expect it when they first met, or the first night he posted up at Nate's bar being a menace, only barely started piecing it together sixty stories in the air. It's kind of becoming clearer now.
Nate's right, it's absolutely a pattern for Ian too and it's exactly where he'd been headed. Granted, it had a time limit apparently given Kyna's return, but that wasn't set in stone at the time. It would've gotten worse. Never apocalypse cabin bad, but definitely retreating back into social reclusion until enough time had passed that he didn't feel anything about it anymore. That's how he handled his mom, how he excelled so hard in grad school, and why he came out the other side without a single real friend.
Either way, self-destructive habits effectively curbed — not just because nobody's ever done it for him, but because he never let them even if they wanted to.
He's not expecting to get anything back out of this, so dipping into that sensitive topic he'd been gently smacked away from is a surprise. Suicidally reckless — he wouldn't have guessed it, but looking now at Nate and the skills he's demonstrated already over the duration of their short... friendship, he guesses, officially— he could see it.
And yeah, this leads almost directly toward the other train of thought he'd been considering, almost perfectly timed. There's really no excuse not to, he feels the pressing notion that he should because it's what's right and fair, and... Fuck, if you're gonna pull out one splinter you might as well get the other while you're at it.
So.
An awkward hand at the back of his neck, not quite scratching so much as just... touching. Eyes flit to the water. ]
Um, it was my mom.
[ In that dream, in that memory after Nate's loss. ]
She died when I was... twenty-three? I didn't have any other family.
[ Don't have any other family, but it's harder to phrase it that way.
So there you go. They're even-ish. Sort of. Maybe the circumstances should come out, but it's close. ]
[ It felt right, to explain why he did what he did. Still feels right now, because Nate is never going to apologize for keeping someone honest even when it's increasingly difficult to hold himself to the same standard. He's trying. Every day, another stupid step, another thing he tells himself when he actually looks in the mirror instead of walking past because even the act of self-observation is an act of introspection.
Nate compartmentalized for too long - still does - and knows the tells, the tricks, the angles. The lies you tell yourself.
He's not anticipating another exchange, another call and response like the ones they've had, but Ian does it anyway and that's when he gets it: the avoidance, the runaround. Deflections that mirror his own because he's used the same ones. Single mother, dirt poor, probably did her best but left her kid to his own devices more often than not.
Watching Ian's profile he's conscious of the fact that this doesn't come easy, and people who know this are probably in rarified company. Just barely, at the edges, the boy who clung to him in the rain. ]
[ There are casual, conversational overtones that make his voice seem light enough if you don't look too hard. Beneath it, something a little more serious. Something decidedly lacking.
An expensive habit considering their means, but he thinks she justified it by tacking on an extra hour to her already overloaded day. God knows she'd never had a problem doing a little extra work. That pretty much became how she defined herself, he thinks.
Years of that, he imagines it must've been easy to let herself finally be tired. ]
Found out she had lung cancer, and she just... kept on doin' it.
[ A little light, melodic roll to that last part.
He mentions it because he'd like to believe she might not have needed to go when she did — the older he gets the more unrealistic he knows it is. She must've known it too, she just didn't trouble him with mentioning it: how the fuck were they gonna afford doing anything about it? She may have had health insurance through her job, but it wasn't exactly anything to write home about. Cost started racking up. Stretching it out over a year, two years...
Once you define yourself by how much you work to take care of your son, becoming the thing that puts him in insurmountable debt wasn't even an option.
Of course, she never said any of that. She just said, honey if it's already got me, why stop now?
All kinds of things he could've unpacked years sooner in hindsight, except he never let himself think about it long enough. ]
[ Nate knows what it is within the first sentence. It's something he's warned Sully of, something that still bothers him about his brother's (admittedly understandable) addiction. Nate has known a lot of smokers, grown up with them, been raised by them. Hell, Sister Catherine used to sneak cigarettes when she thought Father Duffy wasn't looking. A woman of God indulging a vice. Everyone has their poison, but sometimes the poison chooses the date and time of death.
Kept on doin' it...all the way past diagnosis, a foregone conclusion, nothing to be done about it. The financial burden that comes with it, the potential of treatment not sticking and risking a relapse, the discouraging lack of desire to do better and just accept the hand fate has dealt. Probably just didn't want to saddle her son with debt.
As a kid, for a while, he'd thought his own parents were selfish. That his father could just drop his children off at an orphanage and surrender them to the state was unforgivable. That his mother didn't want to stay, didn't even try. Uncharitable, bitter thoughts compounded by having to reconcile the few memories he has of Cassandra Morgan before she took her life.
Nate knows now it was far from easy, that depression ate away at her even as she taught him his Latin numbers at the dinner table. He can't hold it against her and never really has.
It's just difficult, to be alone. To feel abandoned by people who are supposed to love you. ]
[ It's maybe not as bad as he'd been making it out to be in his head, talking about her. Telling someone about it. Kyna had been sort of a spur of the moment thing, this one was more of a deliberate and considered decision. He thought it might grip at his chest as tightly as it used to, but instead there's just one old and hollow pang that resonates gently through him. Less like a toothache, more like a bruise. It's alright.
What's still a little scary is the part about how this means a door is open and he's letting someone walk through it. That's the thing about doors, people can go just as easily as they come.
Still, it would be a dick thing to do, leaving things as they were. Knowing what he knows about Nate and stonewalling him in turn, an unfair kind of power imbalance almost. He's not good at doing interpersonal relationships, but he's trying to get better. Trying to stop being the asshole that ghosted Kyna and refused to acknowledge that it was happening. It's progress, even if he's not planning on delving any deeper into any of it. This is as far as he's going today, any more would start to make him anxious. Overly self-analytical.
So at the question phrased like a statement, he only offers up a small noncommittal smile. ]
I got through it.
[ By himself at 23, responsible for everything after her death. The funeral, the paperwork, the house. Turns out cremation is a hell of a lot cheaper than a casket, and only a dozen people showed up for her anyway. Coworkers, mostly. Just a small cluster of people he barely knew who all wanted to wrap a hand around his shoulder like that did anything but make it worse.
He scattered her ashes at West Weaver Creek, and all that was left was paperwork. The remainder of her life insurance policy paid for his first semester, and he thinks she'd have liked that.
But anyway-- ]
It was a long time ago, so.
[ He'd like to imply it doesn't matter, except they shared a fucking dream that sort of tips his hand. ]
[ It was a long time ago. He said the same thing, didn't he? To Midge Maisel, on a beach, in a dream. The surf beating relentlessly on the damp sand and Nate's hands fidgeting at his sides, restless. It's the kind of reactive thing you say as a defense mechanism, something to preemptively curtail any sympathies, a reassurance that time really does heal all wounds when it doesn't.
Time dulls wounds, builds scar tissue, mutes nerves. Time is a faulty freezer and a pressure cooker all at once, bits and pieces thawing out raw and tender, the temperature rising while the gauges crack and the valves scream. Old injuries become normalized, constant background noise like the hum of electricity in an office.
That pain and fear was writ large in the hands that grasped him on the edge of a cliff, the upturned face, the open heart. ]
Doesn't make it hurt less.
[ He leaves it at that; no more digging today. Nate has the feeling that Ian didn't intend to share more than his grudging, if grateful, thanks. There's a prolonged moment of silence, something that hovers as the lights on the water flicker to blue, then green. ]
Guess I'm just glad you're not planning to excommunicate me for the wake-up call service.
[ To that observation he says nothing. Nate's right; just because it was a long time ago doesn't mean he's not still living with it. Doesn't mean it's not still coloring some of the biggest aspects of his life — obviously, or he wouldn't be where he is right now having this conversation. It still hurts enough to dream about, but only when he thinks about it for too long. That's the truth about grieving: you just learn how not to think about it.
His head ducks instead, elbows more backward than akimbo and hair falling into a mess of curls around his cheeks. The quiet lingers for as long as Nate lets it, until that follow-up comment. A breath escapes him like a laugh or a scoff, quiet but audible.
He thinks it's a joke. Maybe it is, but after a beat of consideration a little bit of doubt filters in. He looks over, trying to discern through Nate's expression or his body language how sincere the statement is. How real the concern had been.
He can't tell right off, but either way-- ]
Dude, you saved my life.
[ As though that should be obvious. A note of amusement creeps in despite himself. ]
And besides that, you were-- I don't know.
[ A beat wherein he phrases and rephrases things, tries to decide how best to say what he wants to say. Yeah, talking about his past is hard. Talking about his feelings about that past is hard. Letting people in is hard, but once they're kind of already there...
Some topics are easier to be blunt about. Some of them make it easier for him to feel like he can be straightforward and open. They feel less raw, a little less scary — especially when they're actually kind of a step backward from the level you're already on. It also helps that this isn't directly about himself, but rather commentary on Nate. ]
It's easy to talk about giving a shit. People do that all the time, it's like that whole... thoughts and prayers thing that doesn't actually do anything except make people feel better about themselves. It's hard to actually do something. It takes, like, effort. It takes, like, actually giving a shit. Anybody who doesn't appreciate that probably doesn't need it.
[ Nate was justifiably worried, having thought he might as well cut his losses and go all out on the asshole effect. Sacrificing a nascent friendship to save Ian from his own damn self would have been a valid cost. People have disowned him for less.
His mouth twitches into a small smile at the sentiment. It still isn't something he thinks about often, which is why it takes him a long moment to remember that he did do that. It's just right, to do those things.
As a kid, he'd always wondered whether he could have helped that old woman in the house. Whether with medical attention she might have survived the heart attack, and it ate at him for months while Sam pushed the same thoughts away. Attempts can be futile, but at least he'd have tried. Ian saying roughly the same thing serves as a reminder of that. ]
It's not easy. [ He chuckles quietly, tapping his thumbs together. ] But for what it's worth - and at the risk of straining your gratitude - I'd do it again.
How dare you show you care. Frankly, man, I won't stand for it.
[ The absolute worst, most effortless impression of offense anyone has ever done. It isn't just humor that has him failing to commit, it's...
Well it's kind of flirting around a more serious sentiment. Makes it hard for him to decide exactly how he wants to handle this, to determine where the line falls between being too awkwardly sincere or too irreverently dismissive. Trying to pick and choose because too much of one might mean driving someone away, and he's fucking terrified of that. Alternatively, it might also mean opening himself up too much so that when something else drives them away it sucks harder than it already would have. It's probably easy for other people, he thinks, to react to this kind of thing. To just... have a normal goddamn conversation and be themselves authentically during moments of emotional intimacy without overthinking it.
He spends a couple of seconds cursing himself, frustrated, negotiating some kind of balance before he ultimately decides to just be blunt. ]
Seriously, I'm not... good at this. Any of it. Just-- so you know, no amount of gratitude-straining or... anything else is gonna make me excommunicate you. I'm-- I genuinely don't know how to react to it, it's baffling as fuck that you give enough of a shit to do it, so if it seems like I'm being... weird about it, it's just that. Not that I don't... like it. Hell, even saying all of this has me freaking myself out, so don't expect anything out of me aside from knock-knock jokes and catchy commercial jingles for like a week.
[ Holy shit, not the reaction he intended to garner at all. Maybe he overdid the sincerity, or the honesty, or something that tripped whatever warning bells Ian is currently hearing, and the only reason Nate can hear them too is because he's been in this exact position: pushed too far by someone's candor and apparent generosity in a way that made him feel like he couldn't possibly have done anything to deserve it. It always forced him into the awkward split between too serious and not serious enough, with no middle ground.
Jesus, did he become that person? Since when? ]
Hey, hey-
[ Quick to interject as soon as Ian starts losing a little steam Nate lifts his hands, placating, understanding. He should have given him an easier out. ]
I get it. Don't worry, I get it. Been there before. Consider me your repository for crappy jokes for the next week.
[ It's really, genuinely not a reflection on what kind of person Nate's become. It's just the kind of stupid Ian is when afforded even the mildest kind of evidence that he might be getting attached to someone, that it's like. Mutual. Before he got here he'd have long since erected some walls at the least, probably ghosted entirely at the worst.
But now he's on a bridge probably oversharing, or undersharing, honestly he's bouncing back and forth trying to determine which of the two it is. There's got to be an exact right numerical value, but for the damn life of him he can't estimate it.
The only thing really for it is to glide smoothly toward literally any other topic, thanks for the assist with that Nate. His reply is a dry: ]
Knock knock.
[ And only a single beat before he follows up. ]
Don't actually ask, I don't have anything to follow that up.
[ See an out, take it without question. Simpler still when someone shows you the way, hands you a piece of paper with a giant red X drawn over the spot. Nate used to follow the same roadmap, until it was worn and crinkled at the edges and he started to question whether or not the damn thing was out of date, because the routes started to change and he couldn't keep up anymore.
At some point, you just have to break down and ask for directions.
He sucks a sharp, disappointed breath in between his teeth at the non-starter, shaking his head and amicably leaning over to briefly bump shoulders. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ A careful, deliberately easy tone as soon as he's in range for it. He doesn't quite mirror Nate, but it's close. He settles in just a couple of inches away from being shoulder to shoulder, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes going from Nate's face to the water before them.
How in the hell did he even find this place? Seems like it's tucked into a pocket in the middle of a crowded nowhere. ]
You were right. About Kyna. I don't know if you saw her yet, but she's home.
[ Which feels like the easy way to start steering into the conversation he wants to have. ]
no subject
[ For the people here, not necessarily for her. After two years in another world Nate knows it isn't always the case: sometimes they have unfinished business, sometimes it's loved ones and personal battles they were in the midst of fighting. After a while he realized it was selfish of him to want friends to stay and share in the solidarity, particularly if he knew they were better off back home.
The understanding doesn't mean he's gotten the hang of it, but he's aware it's there. Nate laces his fingers together, thumbs tapping, before he turns his head to really look at him. Circles under his eyes, still, and hair a little rumpled, but okay.
Okay. ]
How are you?
no subject
[ Said with a little nod, chin ducking. Honest, and it's audible in his voice. Quiet but true, the clouds have cleared up and the relief set in. He's in kind of a post-catharsis peace, like resting after hard work.
He'd say how are you but that's honestly just procrastinating. He doesn't intend to jump tracks to small talk.
Instead, his chin tips a little Nate's direction. Body language shifts slightly to better face him without really moving his feet. ]
I just wanted to say thank you. For, you know... being the most annoying person alive at five in the morning for a couple days. Nobody's ever done anything like that for me before, so. Thanks.
[ Which only sounds a little scripted, he'd mulled it over on the way here. How he wanted to say it, or at least parts of it. Part of it's a scarily open admission, but packaged in with the rest of it makes it feel less... too much. Kind of fucked up that talk in the bar a couple weeks ago, so he's trying to tip those scales back a little.
That doesn't make them balance yet, he still knows a big piece of Nate's puzzle without explaining his own, but... maybe. He's been thinking about it. He told Kyna about her while he was living on her couch, so the door's at least cracked a little, if not outright open. ]
no subject
Nate searches his face for some evidence that this isn't as serious as it feels, for any indication of insincerity or a clever workaround built in to avoid confrontation. But this is confrontation. The very act of Ian being here and talking to him without prompting is leagues better than being ignored for being a huge pain in the ass. What sticks in the craw is that no one else has done that for him before.
They should have. ]
Any time.
[ It's a relief to learn he hasn't completely scuttled the boat, something made more obvious by the way he smiles, expression small and crooked. ]
I was in a- a really shitty place, when I thought my brother died. Not like suicidal, just...suicidally reckless, maybe. I needed someone to be the most annoying person at five in the morning. [ Nate looks down at his hands, palms opening, fingers still laced. ] I get it.
no subject
Nate's right, it's absolutely a pattern for Ian too and it's exactly where he'd been headed. Granted, it had a time limit apparently given Kyna's return, but that wasn't set in stone at the time. It would've gotten worse. Never apocalypse cabin bad, but definitely retreating back into social reclusion until enough time had passed that he didn't feel anything about it anymore. That's how he handled his mom, how he excelled so hard in grad school, and why he came out the other side without a single real friend.
Either way, self-destructive habits effectively curbed — not just because nobody's ever done it for him, but because he never let them even if they wanted to.
He's not expecting to get anything back out of this, so dipping into that sensitive topic he'd been gently smacked away from is a surprise. Suicidally reckless — he wouldn't have guessed it, but looking now at Nate and the skills he's demonstrated already over the duration of their short... friendship, he guesses, officially— he could see it.
And yeah, this leads almost directly toward the other train of thought he'd been considering, almost perfectly timed. There's really no excuse not to, he feels the pressing notion that he should because it's what's right and fair, and... Fuck, if you're gonna pull out one splinter you might as well get the other while you're at it.
So.
An awkward hand at the back of his neck, not quite scratching so much as just... touching. Eyes flit to the water. ]
Um, it was my mom.
[ In that dream, in that memory after Nate's loss. ]
She died when I was... twenty-three? I didn't have any other family.
[ Don't have any other family, but it's harder to phrase it that way.
So there you go. They're even-ish. Sort of. Maybe the circumstances should come out, but it's close. ]
no subject
Nate compartmentalized for too long - still does - and knows the tells, the tricks, the angles. The lies you tell yourself.
He's not anticipating another exchange, another call and response like the ones they've had, but Ian does it anyway and that's when he gets it: the avoidance, the runaround. Deflections that mirror his own because he's used the same ones. Single mother, dirt poor, probably did her best but left her kid to his own devices more often than not.
Watching Ian's profile he's conscious of the fact that this doesn't come easy, and people who know this are probably in rarified company. Just barely, at the edges, the boy who clung to him in the rain. ]
What happened?
no subject
[ There are casual, conversational overtones that make his voice seem light enough if you don't look too hard. Beneath it, something a little more serious. Something decidedly lacking.
An expensive habit considering their means, but he thinks she justified it by tacking on an extra hour to her already overloaded day. God knows she'd never had a problem doing a little extra work. That pretty much became how she defined herself, he thinks.
Years of that, he imagines it must've been easy to let herself finally be tired. ]
Found out she had lung cancer, and she just... kept on doin' it.
[ A little light, melodic roll to that last part.
He mentions it because he'd like to believe she might not have needed to go when she did — the older he gets the more unrealistic he knows it is. She must've known it too, she just didn't trouble him with mentioning it: how the fuck were they gonna afford doing anything about it? She may have had health insurance through her job, but it wasn't exactly anything to write home about. Cost started racking up. Stretching it out over a year, two years...
Once you define yourself by how much you work to take care of your son, becoming the thing that puts him in insurmountable debt wasn't even an option.
Of course, she never said any of that. She just said, honey if it's already got me, why stop now?
All kinds of things he could've unpacked years sooner in hindsight, except he never let himself think about it long enough. ]
no subject
Kept on doin' it...all the way past diagnosis, a foregone conclusion, nothing to be done about it. The financial burden that comes with it, the potential of treatment not sticking and risking a relapse, the discouraging lack of desire to do better and just accept the hand fate has dealt. Probably just didn't want to saddle her son with debt.
As a kid, for a while, he'd thought his own parents were selfish. That his father could just drop his children off at an orphanage and surrender them to the state was unforgivable. That his mother didn't want to stay, didn't even try. Uncharitable, bitter thoughts compounded by having to reconcile the few memories he has of Cassandra Morgan before she took her life.
Nate knows now it was far from easy, that depression ate away at her even as she taught him his Latin numbers at the dinner table. He can't hold it against her and never really has.
It's just difficult, to be alone. To feel abandoned by people who are supposed to love you. ]
Jesus. That had to be hard.
no subject
What's still a little scary is the part about how this means a door is open and he's letting someone walk through it. That's the thing about doors, people can go just as easily as they come.
Still, it would be a dick thing to do, leaving things as they were. Knowing what he knows about Nate and stonewalling him in turn, an unfair kind of power imbalance almost. He's not good at doing interpersonal relationships, but he's trying to get better. Trying to stop being the asshole that ghosted Kyna and refused to acknowledge that it was happening. It's progress, even if he's not planning on delving any deeper into any of it. This is as far as he's going today, any more would start to make him anxious. Overly self-analytical.
So at the question phrased like a statement, he only offers up a small noncommittal smile. ]
I got through it.
[ By himself at 23, responsible for everything after her death. The funeral, the paperwork, the house. Turns out cremation is a hell of a lot cheaper than a casket, and only a dozen people showed up for her anyway. Coworkers, mostly. Just a small cluster of people he barely knew who all wanted to wrap a hand around his shoulder like that did anything but make it worse.
He scattered her ashes at West Weaver Creek, and all that was left was paperwork. The remainder of her life insurance policy paid for his first semester, and he thinks she'd have liked that.
But anyway-- ]
It was a long time ago, so.
[ He'd like to imply it doesn't matter, except they shared a fucking dream that sort of tips his hand. ]
no subject
Time dulls wounds, builds scar tissue, mutes nerves. Time is a faulty freezer and a pressure cooker all at once, bits and pieces thawing out raw and tender, the temperature rising while the gauges crack and the valves scream. Old injuries become normalized, constant background noise like the hum of electricity in an office.
That pain and fear was writ large in the hands that grasped him on the edge of a cliff, the upturned face, the open heart. ]
Doesn't make it hurt less.
[ He leaves it at that; no more digging today. Nate has the feeling that Ian didn't intend to share more than his grudging, if grateful, thanks. There's a prolonged moment of silence, something that hovers as the lights on the water flicker to blue, then green. ]
Guess I'm just glad you're not planning to excommunicate me for the wake-up call service.
no subject
His head ducks instead, elbows more backward than akimbo and hair falling into a mess of curls around his cheeks. The quiet lingers for as long as Nate lets it, until that follow-up comment. A breath escapes him like a laugh or a scoff, quiet but audible.
He thinks it's a joke. Maybe it is, but after a beat of consideration a little bit of doubt filters in. He looks over, trying to discern through Nate's expression or his body language how sincere the statement is. How real the concern had been.
He can't tell right off, but either way-- ]
Dude, you saved my life.
[ As though that should be obvious. A note of amusement creeps in despite himself. ]
And besides that, you were-- I don't know.
[ A beat wherein he phrases and rephrases things, tries to decide how best to say what he wants to say. Yeah, talking about his past is hard. Talking about his feelings about that past is hard. Letting people in is hard, but once they're kind of already there...
Some topics are easier to be blunt about. Some of them make it easier for him to feel like he can be straightforward and open. They feel less raw, a little less scary — especially when they're actually kind of a step backward from the level you're already on. It also helps that this isn't directly about himself, but rather commentary on Nate. ]
It's easy to talk about giving a shit. People do that all the time, it's like that whole... thoughts and prayers thing that doesn't actually do anything except make people feel better about themselves. It's hard to actually do something. It takes, like, effort. It takes, like, actually giving a shit. Anybody who doesn't appreciate that probably doesn't need it.
no subject
His mouth twitches into a small smile at the sentiment. It still isn't something he thinks about often, which is why it takes him a long moment to remember that he did do that. It's just right, to do those things.
As a kid, he'd always wondered whether he could have helped that old woman in the house. Whether with medical attention she might have survived the heart attack, and it ate at him for months while Sam pushed the same thoughts away. Attempts can be futile, but at least he'd have tried. Ian saying roughly the same thing serves as a reminder of that. ]
It's not easy. [ He chuckles quietly, tapping his thumbs together. ] But for what it's worth - and at the risk of straining your gratitude - I'd do it again.
no subject
[ The absolute worst, most effortless impression of offense anyone has ever done. It isn't just humor that has him failing to commit, it's...
Well it's kind of flirting around a more serious sentiment. Makes it hard for him to decide exactly how he wants to handle this, to determine where the line falls between being too awkwardly sincere or too irreverently dismissive. Trying to pick and choose because too much of one might mean driving someone away, and he's fucking terrified of that. Alternatively, it might also mean opening himself up too much so that when something else drives them away it sucks harder than it already would have. It's probably easy for other people, he thinks, to react to this kind of thing. To just... have a normal goddamn conversation and be themselves authentically during moments of emotional intimacy without overthinking it.
He spends a couple of seconds cursing himself, frustrated, negotiating some kind of balance before he ultimately decides to just be blunt. ]
Seriously, I'm not... good at this. Any of it. Just-- so you know, no amount of gratitude-straining or... anything else is gonna make me excommunicate you. I'm-- I genuinely don't know how to react to it, it's baffling as fuck that you give enough of a shit to do it, so if it seems like I'm being... weird about it, it's just that. Not that I don't... like it. Hell, even saying all of this has me freaking myself out, so don't expect anything out of me aside from knock-knock jokes and catchy commercial jingles for like a week.
no subject
Jesus, did he become that person? Since when? ]
Hey, hey-
[ Quick to interject as soon as Ian starts losing a little steam Nate lifts his hands, placating, understanding. He should have given him an easier out. ]
I get it. Don't worry, I get it. Been there before. Consider me your repository for crappy jokes for the next week.
no subject
But now he's on a bridge probably oversharing, or undersharing, honestly he's bouncing back and forth trying to determine which of the two it is. There's got to be an exact right numerical value, but for the damn life of him he can't estimate it.
The only thing really for it is to glide smoothly toward literally any other topic, thanks for the assist with that Nate. His reply is a dry: ]
Knock knock.
[ And only a single beat before he follows up. ]
Don't actually ask, I don't have anything to follow that up.
[ Which is to say... thanks. ]
no subject
At some point, you just have to break down and ask for directions.
He sucks a sharp, disappointed breath in between his teeth at the non-starter, shaking his head and amicably leaning over to briefly bump shoulders. ]
We'll work on your stand-up.
[ You're welcome. ]