( A quickly rolling promise his hands coming up into a lovely and earnest surrender. The laughter still lingers around his eyes, but he manages to school down the rest of it. Yeah, maybe he feels a little bad for it. Just a tiny touch guilty.
He catches up, falling into step and nudging Nate gently with one shoulder. It's okay, man. If it's any consolation, he looked good as hell walking into that wall. )
C'mon, I got one more thing I wanna show you. After this it's a mystery.
( They breeze past a T intersection, ignoring the faint sound of a train whistle — god only knows what the hell's in there — and he hangs a left. The room opens up to a courtyard. )
It's real. Just in case you wanted to see something... not fake.
( A lame finish, but at least he's not the one that walked into a door.
[ Not for the first time in Ian's company, Nate glances skyward in a silent plea that whatever gods exist here either strike him dead on the spot or make this a little easier for him, though the performance piece is interrupted by a companionable nudge to his arm. Nate, ever the easily-handled, softens immediately and keeps his wry comments behind his teeth as he follows step for step.
The narrow tunnels open up into something that looks like the courtyard of a cloister, narrow colonnades with buttresses he'd swear were at least Gothic, and a very old, very intact tree. A few hundreds years at least, he thinks, gravitating toward it immediately, his previous shame largely forgotten. Maybe it wasn't around during their time, but it's closer than anything else in this world.
His implant picks up the signage signal and gives him approximations about its history, but it's a tree, for Chrissakes. Hard to date without cutting it down and killing it in the process.
Too tactile for his own good Nate reaches out and rests his palm on the bark, knobby and gnarled. That same bright spark of interest swells in him again. ]
Okay. [ He says breathlessly, lightly. ] I forgive you for mocking my inability to walk through doors.
( He bites his lip, partly out of another resurgence of being far too pleased with himself, partly to suppress the urge to point out he was trying to walk through a wall. But, you know, maybe lighten up on him for a little bit. Gotta find that right balance. It's not like he won't have this for material later.
It's a good thing they're not touching, or else roles here would probably swap. Ian's buzzing with that specific brand of joy that comes with showing something to somebody you're keen on and receiving genuine approval afterward. At sixteen he did it with CDs, at twenty-two he did it with recreational drugs, at thirty he did it with his work. It mattered less at thirty, increasingly so over time. Now, at almost thirty-five, he's doing it with a tree. Go figure. )
Thank you, your benevolence.
( It would sound genuine if they both didn't fully know it's not even remotely genuine. )
[ He says immediately, with zero malice in his voice. The venue was chosen expressly for the purpose of impressing him, he's sure, and it's done exactly that: Nate can't say he's ever seen anything like this, and he's seen more than his fair share of the weird, the unusual, and the forgotten.
The pad of his thumb rubs against one of the sharper juts of bark, scratchy and unidentifiable, a tree he doesn't actually know or recognize. It's more real and more genuine than the vines and foliage crawling all over the city outside, shattering windows and tearing through foundations, because it's here and it's been here since before the city was probably built up like this. Is it an anchor for something else, the way the great tree in Shambhala was? How deep do the roots go beneath them?
Ian seems to be waiting on pins and needles for some kind of assessment and honestly, Nate lets him stew in it for a little while. Payback for the wall.
When he turns again he's sincere, which is better than flustered over making an ass of himself. ]
This is- can you imagine how much this tree has seen? Civilizations rise and fall in the span of a couple centuries, and this thing watched...progress, and war, and the projections of the world it used to belong to built up around it. This is amazing. Thank you.
( The truth is, Ian spends a lot of time awake at night wondering about fucking things up. Not even specifically with Nate, and not that they had... well they had plenty to fuck up, but it wasn't of the dating variety. The truth of the matter is he's always got to prove his value, like relationships are math. Like if he brings enough positive to a relationship logically speaking it won't end, it will outweigh the negative.
It's not just about smugness, doing this. It soothes some anxious little piece of him temporarily. Another tally mark on the scoreboard in the positive. He's provided something.
In a completely contradictory way, he feels a little bit awkward at the sincere praise. Not in a bad way, so much as that way one feels after being singled out at a birthday party. )
You're kind of poetic sometimes, you know?
( Just the way Nate phrases things. It's beautiful.
It also might slightly be a cop-out to acknowledging that thanks. )
[ Thank fucking God Ian isn't sharing his mathematical theories with his date, who would most assuredly be a little horrified by the transactional approach to intimacy with someone you like. Did he used to subscribe to similar means? Absolutely. Does he lean on them now? No freaking way.
How does one respond to a compliment like that, if it is a compliment at all? Could just be an observation, but now he's overthinking this stuff too and Nate honestly doesn't have it in him to agonize on this level 24/7. ]
That's- it's not intentional.
[ He half explains, before deciding that another anecdote about his nerdy childhood will just earn looks. ]
I just like to wonder about what it would be. If I were there, I mean. For all that.
( They have slightly different definitions of transactional — or at the very least, they see slightly different connotations. He doesn't think of it as robotically as Nate might; math is like half of what he does for a living. It's comforting, it evokes its own set of feelings in him.
...But yeah it's still definitely transactional and super unhealthy, and he's wise enough to keep that to himself. Nobody needs to know the numeric value Ian gives himself in other people's lives. )
I get it. And I'm not knocking it, I think it's cool.
( Cool isn't actually the best word to describe it; it would be something more like appealing as hell and kind of romantic, but in that other way people use romantic. It's all a lot to say, so he'll settle for the short version. )
[ Cool is not the word Nate would have used to describe himself in the sixth grade, daydreaming about what it would be like to physically visit Rome's forum, but it's genuinely charming that Ian actually seems to like it when he gets all...himself. Nate knows it has strained the patience of various people before. ]
You know, I thought you were making fun of me when you said that as a kid you would've listened to me talk about Pliny the Elder, but I guess I'm just relieved you have terrible taste.
[ Christ knows it's the first mistake of many.
Nate gestures at the hall they came from, expression one of unadulterated incredulity. It's easier to mock himself than admit he has no idea why Ian-who-was-once-afraid-to-crash-on-his-couch is now Ian-who-asks-people-on-dates. ]
( Nate, man, if you don't know why he asked you out you gotta take a few minutes to reflect. Everything that happened afterward, all the bullshit Nate put up with — or maybe more importantly, all the bullshit he didn't put up with. It feels like it's been a long but steady road, and if it were possible to test a proof of concept with relationships the Aerie's as close as anyone will ever get. The beta version was pretty fucking convincing. )
Oh yeah, no, no, I saw that.
( Agreed easily, tossing a lazy glance over his shoulder toward the general direction they came from. )
That was, like, the haiku of walking. Five steps and then just this sudden stop...
( Backpedal seven. He's amusing himself if nothing else. )
[ The truth of the matter is that Nate is an unmitigated rube when it comes to emotional vulnerability, and while he's made great strides he's still learning. Still catching on. Slowly, but surely. ]
Right, yeah-
[ Could have been worse. Could have walked directly into a booby trap, or something. Walked off a small cliff. Walked into a pit of crocodiles. At least here he made Ian laugh. ]
Nathan Drake walking. [ He muses idly, counting out syllables on his fingers. ] Embarrassing, or charming? Porque no los dos?
[ Yeah, Nate knows exactly how Ian feels about him from a physical perspective at this point, so it's not altogether shocking. People can forgive a lot if you look like you model underwear for Calvin Klein, and while Nate is aware of it, he tries not to use it as a crutch. Forgets, more often than not. ]
I didn't tell you? It's all plastic surgery.
[ It shouldn't feel this easy to be like this with him, he knows, going back and forth like a game of ping pong. Even with their background, their decade, it shouldn't feel this easy. He shouldn't feel so known.
Well, you could never tell. That's a really heart-warming transformation story. They did a great job.
( It really shouldn't feel this easy. Considering his tendency to run for the fucking hills before Kyna tempered it, standing under a "please be magical and impressive" tree on an actual date with someone he actually cares about is practically the twilight zone. It should have him itching at the gums, it should have him searching for the first immediate out to escape a slowly building tension.
It doesn't feel like that. It feels comfortable. He may not be as steady and open as Nate yet, but the fact that he's trying is comparatively huge, for him. )
I can't relate, I've always been really, really good looking.
[ Nate mumbles, rolling his eyes. It's about as much humility as Victor Sullivan might show on a daily basis, which is to say, none whatsoever. The amount of ego that man could carry on his sixty-plus year old shoulders is the stuff some people can only dream of.
Nate thinks he'd like Ian. ]
I was a pretty goofy-looking kid, so. [ His mouth twitches in a little smirk. ] I can't relate.
[ Craning his head back to follow the growth of the tree Nate catches sight of a skylight far, far away. Not sure how all the requisite solar energy reaches down here to achieve anything remotely resembling photosynthetic to keep this tree alive, but it's the future, after all. The silence settles but doesn't drag, and after a long moment Nate looks across the way at him. ]
[ At this point, Nate has resigned himself to the fact that he's not escaping this evening unscathed. It's humiliation or nothing, apparently, and he prefers the former to the latter where Ian is concerned. He picks a doorway behind the tree and follows it through a small arcade, simple concrete columns where the projection flickers on belatedly and coats his hand in red as he drags it over the rough surface.
They become a series of torii, vivid and tall overhead. He kind of wishes they felt more sacred - like they're supposed to - than this. ]
Oh good, something else you can give me shit about.
Workin' on it. I'm a lot closer than I was on that crane.
( Answered lightly, chin tipped up as they pass underneath each structure. A covered hallway descends into darkness toward the end, and then into a comforting, attractive pinkhue.
Which is an interesting and slightly more serious question, so he returns it with one of his own. )
That bother you?
( It's postulated casually, his pace an amble, his hands in his pockets. It's not a set-up; he does his best to convey through body language that there's really no wrong answer. )
[ It's an honest answer, one he doesn't have to contemplate overlong as they step out of the wooden web and into something that resembles one of those Himalayan salt caves. They managed to pump the smell into the room, too, some kind of damn and humid saltiness that reminds him of deep caves, of oceans, of old, old places. Nice immersion.
Nate pauses by the "opening" to the little salt structure, hands resting on his hips as he stares at nothing in particular. His own fault, maybe, for shifting the tone for the less friendly and amicable. ]
...I'm sorry. I'm not used to being known, and- I mean, you don't- [ He laughs weakly. ] You don't even know the half of it. It's a lot. I'm- a lot.
( I don't know is a pretty valid answer. Relationships are complicated, platonic or otherwise. People are complicated, and it's not a mystery to either of them by now that he can relate to the sentiment.
He stops when Nate does, apparently his trend for the night. Falling into step, letting him dictate the pace. Partly because as far as Ian's concerned, he's already put himself plenty out there by asking. By planning it. The last thing he plans to do is push the momentum here. )
It's okay, no, I get it.
( Earnestly, no offense taken. )
I think it freaks most people out in general, let alone... I mean, you've been through a lot of shit. But--
( His hands come up placatingly. )
I'm not saying now, but just so you know, whenever you wanna... talk about any of it, I'm not gonna judge you. I like who you are right now.
[ I like who you are right now hits him square in the solar plexus and Nate turns his head to look at him, on the edge of baffled. He needs to stop pushing this man away.
How many times now has Ian reached out with a genuinely compelling reason beyond wanting to know for the sake of knowing? A few, at least. There's an effort being made on one end and Nate sure as Hell isn't playing fair, burying things the way he always does, avoiding them altogether because it's easier if someone gets the neutered, edited version of his life. The fun version. The cool, exciting adventure. He used to side-eye his own brother for this tact - still does - but Nate isn't exempt from it's temptation either. ]
I like who you are right now, too.
[ He says sincerely, and without reluctance holds out his hand. ]
( Ian, on the other hand, does demonstrate a little reluctance. His lips tuck into his cheek and his expression turns self-aware, a little self-mockery somehow written in the edges. Yeah, he knows it's stupid. He knows Nate knows he knows it's stupid. He reaches back, because he was never not going to, he's just bracing himself for the inevitable embarrassment.
Talk about being afraid of being known. To Nate that means his personal history, to Ian that means giving up what's actually going on under the surface he tries to project. Namely, the stupid flush of gentle pleasure he's got buzzing in him over I like who you are right now, too.
Just two idiots glowing blue in a salt mine — a not entirely fabricated salt mine, at least.
Anyway, it's worth it — as Nate can surely feel radiating off him — to slightly embarrass himself for the opportunity to thread their fingers together.
To gently lighten the tone, he offers: )
Would it help if I showed you a really embarrassing memory of my tween years to make it even?
It's nice, that contact. The pulse of bashfulness and the quiet reveling in something he means without a trace of irony. It's also strange, a touch invasive to have asked by holding out his hand whether he could be exposed to it, or not. Whether he deserved to be exposed to it. Nate flashes a little smile and gives a little squeeze and cracks under an offer Ian doesn't have to make. ]
Only if you want to.
[ Respecting those kinds of personal boundaries is something Nate understands as a second nature, as easy as breathing in and out again. Things don't have to be "even."
Still, it's fun to tease. ]
Not to put any pressure on you, or anything, but you've seen my preteen haircut and that's pretty traumatic.
( He doesn't do it because he thinks they need to be even, not really. He does it because it feels like it might be nice to do, a good gesture, a good way to gentle the mood without dismissing it completely. He doesn't mind.
His eyes close as he concentrates, summoning up something with fumbling inexperience. It eventually catches, and he pushes a memory through.
A curly-haired kid with a haircut arguably worse than Nate's stands next to a similarly aged eleven or twelve year old with glasses. They're both bent over what looks like a toad, unmoving and completely still, almost blending into a wide, slate-gray rock beside a lake. Dusty has a stick in his hand, hovering a couple inches over the thing.
"It's dead," Ian declares matter-of-factly. "Don't be such a pussy."
"It's not dead, I can see it breathing," Dusty fires back defensively, "If you're such a badass YOU do it."
"I'll fucking do it, I'm not scar-"
Dusty pokes it. It was not, in fact, dead — asleep if anything, and the touch has it lurching suddenly awake, launching itself forward with a deep ribbut! Forward happens to be directly at Ian, who was not even remotely prepared for the assault.
"Aaah!!" Filled with the sheer terror only a twelve year old is capable of, Ian goes stumbling backward on instinct. His foot clips the raised lip of the rock behind him, and he falls fully-dressed ass first into the lake.
There you go, man. Hopefully it helps offset some of that walking into a wall embarrassment. )
[ It's a sweet memory, one that reminds Nate of all the times he tripped and fell into a pothole-turned-pond when it rained hard on the coast of Cartagena, the inelegance of being a kid with a growing, changing body and not know what the Hell to do with it. Awkward, but warm. Clearly remembered with fondness.
It's also a glimpse into the pastimes of kids without money, having to find their own entertainment, validating some of the thoughts Nate once had about Ian's childhood in Weaverville. A little lonely, but for different reasons than Nate was. ]
Cute.
[ He means that, even if his smile is a hair mischievous. ]
( Happy enough to roll with it, not particularly bothered by the implication that he was a round-faced little nerd kid back in the day. He hit good-looking in his teen years, in his opinion, which is when it actually starts to matter. He has his insecurities, but none of them are physical, thank god.
He shifts into something mock-scrutinizing, playful and wry. )
If I didn't know any better I'd say you're hitting on me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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( A quickly rolling promise his hands coming up into a lovely and earnest surrender. The laughter still lingers around his eyes, but he manages to school down the rest of it. Yeah, maybe he feels a little bad for it. Just a tiny touch guilty.
He catches up, falling into step and nudging Nate gently with one shoulder. It's okay, man. If it's any consolation, he looked good as hell walking into that wall. )
C'mon, I got one more thing I wanna show you. After this it's a mystery.
( They breeze past a T intersection, ignoring the faint sound of a train whistle — god only knows what the hell's in there — and he hangs a left. The room opens up to a courtyard. )
It's real. Just in case you wanted to see something... not fake.
( A lame finish, but at least he's not the one that walked into a door.
Home to the oldest tree in New Amsterdam. )
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The narrow tunnels open up into something that looks like the courtyard of a cloister, narrow colonnades with buttresses he'd swear were at least Gothic, and a very old, very intact tree. A few hundreds years at least, he thinks, gravitating toward it immediately, his previous shame largely forgotten. Maybe it wasn't around during their time, but it's closer than anything else in this world.
His implant picks up the signage signal and gives him approximations about its history, but it's a tree, for Chrissakes. Hard to date without cutting it down and killing it in the process.
Too tactile for his own good Nate reaches out and rests his palm on the bark, knobby and gnarled. That same bright spark of interest swells in him again. ]
Okay. [ He says breathlessly, lightly. ] I forgive you for mocking my inability to walk through doors.
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It's a good thing they're not touching, or else roles here would probably swap. Ian's buzzing with that specific brand of joy that comes with showing something to somebody you're keen on and receiving genuine approval afterward. At sixteen he did it with CDs, at twenty-two he did it with recreational drugs, at thirty he did it with his work. It mattered less at thirty, increasingly so over time. Now, at almost thirty-five, he's doing it with a tree. Go figure. )
Thank you, your benevolence.
( It would sound genuine if they both didn't fully know it's not even remotely genuine. )
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[ He says immediately, with zero malice in his voice. The venue was chosen expressly for the purpose of impressing him, he's sure, and it's done exactly that: Nate can't say he's ever seen anything like this, and he's seen more than his fair share of the weird, the unusual, and the forgotten.
The pad of his thumb rubs against one of the sharper juts of bark, scratchy and unidentifiable, a tree he doesn't actually know or recognize. It's more real and more genuine than the vines and foliage crawling all over the city outside, shattering windows and tearing through foundations, because it's here and it's been here since before the city was probably built up like this. Is it an anchor for something else, the way the great tree in Shambhala was? How deep do the roots go beneath them?
Ian seems to be waiting on pins and needles for some kind of assessment and honestly, Nate lets him stew in it for a little while. Payback for the wall.
When he turns again he's sincere, which is better than flustered over making an ass of himself. ]
This is- can you imagine how much this tree has seen? Civilizations rise and fall in the span of a couple centuries, and this thing watched...progress, and war, and the projections of the world it used to belong to built up around it. This is amazing. Thank you.
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It's not just about smugness, doing this. It soothes some anxious little piece of him temporarily. Another tally mark on the scoreboard in the positive. He's provided something.
In a completely contradictory way, he feels a little bit awkward at the sincere praise. Not in a bad way, so much as that way one feels after being singled out at a birthday party. )
You're kind of poetic sometimes, you know?
( Just the way Nate phrases things. It's beautiful.
It also might slightly be a cop-out to acknowledging that thanks. )
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How does one respond to a compliment like that, if it is a compliment at all? Could just be an observation, but now he's overthinking this stuff too and Nate honestly doesn't have it in him to agonize on this level 24/7. ]
That's- it's not intentional.
[ He half explains, before deciding that another anecdote about his nerdy childhood will just earn looks. ]
I just like to wonder about what it would be. If I were there, I mean. For all that.
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...But yeah it's still definitely transactional and super unhealthy, and he's wise enough to keep that to himself. Nobody needs to know the numeric value Ian gives himself in other people's lives. )
I get it. And I'm not knocking it, I think it's cool.
( Cool isn't actually the best word to describe it; it would be something more like appealing as hell and kind of romantic, but in that other way people use romantic. It's all a lot to say, so he'll settle for the short version. )
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You know, I thought you were making fun of me when you said that as a kid you would've listened to me talk about Pliny the Elder, but I guess I'm just relieved you have terrible taste.
[ Christ knows it's the first mistake of many.
Nate gestures at the hall they came from, expression one of unadulterated incredulity. It's easier to mock himself than admit he has no idea why Ian-who-was-once-afraid-to-crash-on-his-couch is now Ian-who-asks-people-on-dates. ]
You saw I walked into a wall, right?
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Oh yeah, no, no, I saw that.
( Agreed easily, tossing a lazy glance over his shoulder toward the general direction they came from. )
That was, like, the haiku of walking. Five steps and then just this sudden stop...
( Backpedal seven. He's amusing himself if nothing else. )
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Right, yeah-
[ Could have been worse. Could have walked directly into a booby trap, or something. Walked off a small cliff. Walked into a pit of crocodiles. At least here he made Ian laugh. ]
Nathan Drake walking. [ He muses idly, counting out syllables on his fingers. ] Embarrassing, or charming? Porque no los dos?
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Mostly charming.
( It's meant to be reassuring, but it's hard to fully eliminate some of the teasing from running through the undercurrent. )
I mean, maybe like five percent embarrassing for you, five percent hilarious for me, but... mostly charming.
( Hard to say it's entirely 'new relationship' bias, considering how long they've known each other in either iteration at this point. )
To be fair, it's probably because you're hot. If you had like a hunch back and a lazy eye, might be a different story.
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I didn't tell you? It's all plastic surgery.
[ It shouldn't feel this easy to be like this with him, he knows, going back and forth like a game of ping pong. Even with their background, their decade, it shouldn't feel this easy. He shouldn't feel so known.
But he does.
Maybe more concerning: he likes it. ]
One hunch-removal later, here I am.
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Well, you could never tell. That's a really heart-warming transformation story. They did a great job.
( It really shouldn't feel this easy. Considering his tendency to run for the fucking hills before Kyna tempered it, standing under a "please be magical and impressive" tree on an actual date with someone he actually cares about is practically the twilight zone. It should have him itching at the gums, it should have him searching for the first immediate out to escape a slowly building tension.
It doesn't feel like that. It feels comfortable. He may not be as steady and open as Nate yet, but the fact that he's trying is comparatively huge, for him. )
I can't relate, I've always been really, really good looking.
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[ Nate mumbles, rolling his eyes. It's about as much humility as Victor Sullivan might show on a daily basis, which is to say, none whatsoever. The amount of ego that man could carry on his sixty-plus year old shoulders is the stuff some people can only dream of.
Nate thinks he'd like Ian. ]
I was a pretty goofy-looking kid, so. [ His mouth twitches in a little smirk. ] I can't relate.
[ Craning his head back to follow the growth of the tree Nate catches sight of a skylight far, far away. Not sure how all the requisite solar energy reaches down here to achieve anything remotely resembling photosynthetic to keep this tree alive, but it's the future, after all. The silence settles but doesn't drag, and after a long moment Nate looks across the way at him. ]
Wanna find trouble in another room?
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Goofy looking kid. He perks up like a labradoodle excited by a passing car. )
Yeah, go 'head.
( A nice sweeping gesture; lead the way. Where they go next matters less to him than throwing out this fun tidbit: )
You know... Sam showed me your bowl cut years.
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They become a series of torii, vivid and tall overhead. He kind of wishes they felt more sacred - like they're supposed to - than this. ]
Oh good, something else you can give me shit about.
[ His enthusiasm, he assumes, is catching. ]
Filled out your timeline yet?
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( Answered lightly, chin tipped up as they pass underneath each structure. A covered hallway descends into darkness toward the end, and then into a comforting, attractive pink hue.
Which is an interesting and slightly more serious question, so he returns it with one of his own. )
That bother you?
( It's postulated casually, his pace an amble, his hands in his pockets. It's not a set-up; he does his best to convey through body language that there's really no wrong answer. )
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[ It's an honest answer, one he doesn't have to contemplate overlong as they step out of the wooden web and into something that resembles one of those Himalayan salt caves. They managed to pump the smell into the room, too, some kind of damn and humid saltiness that reminds him of deep caves, of oceans, of old, old places. Nice immersion.
Nate pauses by the "opening" to the little salt structure, hands resting on his hips as he stares at nothing in particular. His own fault, maybe, for shifting the tone for the less friendly and amicable. ]
...I'm sorry. I'm not used to being known, and- I mean, you don't- [ He laughs weakly. ] You don't even know the half of it. It's a lot. I'm- a lot.
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He stops when Nate does, apparently his trend for the night. Falling into step, letting him dictate the pace. Partly because as far as Ian's concerned, he's already put himself plenty out there by asking. By planning it. The last thing he plans to do is push the momentum here. )
It's okay, no, I get it.
( Earnestly, no offense taken. )
I think it freaks most people out in general, let alone... I mean, you've been through a lot of shit. But--
( His hands come up placatingly. )
I'm not saying now, but just so you know, whenever you wanna... talk about any of it, I'm not gonna judge you. I like who you are right now.
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How many times now has Ian reached out with a genuinely compelling reason beyond wanting to know for the sake of knowing? A few, at least. There's an effort being made on one end and Nate sure as Hell isn't playing fair, burying things the way he always does, avoiding them altogether because it's easier if someone gets the neutered, edited version of his life. The fun version. The cool, exciting adventure. He used to side-eye his own brother for this tact - still does - but Nate isn't exempt from it's temptation either. ]
I like who you are right now, too.
[ He says sincerely, and without reluctance holds out his hand. ]
And I'm working on it. I promise.
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Talk about being afraid of being known. To Nate that means his personal history, to Ian that means giving up what's actually going on under the surface he tries to project. Namely, the stupid flush of gentle pleasure he's got buzzing in him over I like who you are right now, too.
Just two idiots glowing blue in a salt mine — a not entirely fabricated salt mine, at least.
Anyway, it's worth it — as Nate can surely feel radiating off him — to slightly embarrass himself for the opportunity to thread their fingers together.
To gently lighten the tone, he offers: )
Would it help if I showed you a really embarrassing memory of my tween years to make it even?
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Only if you want to.
[ Respecting those kinds of personal boundaries is something Nate understands as a second nature, as easy as breathing in and out again. Things don't have to be "even."
Still, it's fun to tease. ]
Not to put any pressure on you, or anything, but you've seen my preteen haircut and that's pretty traumatic.
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His eyes close as he concentrates, summoning up something with fumbling inexperience. It eventually catches, and he pushes a memory through.
A curly-haired kid with a haircut arguably worse than Nate's stands next to a similarly aged eleven or twelve year old with glasses. They're both bent over what looks like a toad, unmoving and completely still, almost blending into a wide, slate-gray rock beside a lake. Dusty has a stick in his hand, hovering a couple inches over the thing.
"It's dead," Ian declares matter-of-factly. "Don't be such a pussy."
"It's not dead, I can see it breathing," Dusty fires back defensively, "If you're such a badass YOU do it."
"I'll fucking do it, I'm not scar-"
Dusty pokes it. It was not, in fact, dead — asleep if anything, and the touch has it lurching suddenly awake, launching itself forward with a deep ribbut! Forward happens to be directly at Ian, who was not even remotely prepared for the assault.
"Aaah!!" Filled with the sheer terror only a twelve year old is capable of, Ian goes stumbling backward on instinct. His foot clips the raised lip of the rock behind him, and he falls fully-dressed ass first into the lake.
There you go, man. Hopefully it helps offset some of that walking into a wall embarrassment. )
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It's also a glimpse into the pastimes of kids without money, having to find their own entertainment, validating some of the thoughts Nate once had about Ian's childhood in Weaverville. A little lonely, but for different reasons than Nate was. ]
Cute.
[ He means that, even if his smile is a hair mischievous. ]
Who knew you'd turn out so handsome?
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( Happy enough to roll with it, not particularly bothered by the implication that he was a round-faced little nerd kid back in the day. He hit good-looking in his teen years, in his opinion, which is when it actually starts to matter. He has his insecurities, but none of them are physical, thank god.
He shifts into something mock-scrutinizing, playful and wry. )
If I didn't know any better I'd say you're hitting on me.
( He says to the man whose hand he's holding... )
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