( 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.
[ In an effort to not get so goddamned caught up in his own head Nate tends to overthink or underthink, and in this express case it feels more appropriate to speak without reservation, which means that yeah, he is hitting on Ian a bit. Nate has been known to throw out well-meaning, if careless compliments to people, has been accused of flirting when he's not, but here he actually means it.
He turns into Ian's space, still clutching his hand, searching his face with genuine interest. ]
( He points a thumb over his shoulder toward the door. )
Nah, actually, I think I'm gonna go...
( If it weren't obvious enough that he's joking by his playful tone or expression, he's completely betrayed by the skin to skin contact. Through their linked hands come that feeling of a skipped heartbeat, entirely prompted by the sudden turn into his space. It's a comma in between the buzzing feeling of pleasure and interest -- and the constant baseline beneath it all, hopefully easy to ignore, that is made up of his general discomfort at putting everything he's feeling on display like this. Mainly the whole tipping his hand about how deep this stupid crush runs. It's embarrassing, sue him, he likes to play it cool. )
It sits at the top, like a rubber duck floating over a sea of swirling conflict: attraction, intrigue, a little wariness, the same sort of cocktail Nate has roiling in his own stupid brain. Holding back maybe because it feels right to...or because it feels wrong to reach out when he asked Nate here in the first place, and Nate tries not to speculate or dig, which is a Herculean effort with a hand wrapped around his.
Respecting the connection is important; he knows Ian wouldn't drag something out of him without ensuring it was necessary or freely given. It's easier to distract from the internal struggle by swallowing the desire to pry and shifting in, not so much tentative as respectful, watching him carefully. He can feel Ian's pulse. Or maybe it's his own. ]
You're a terrible liar.
[ Nate says softly, and finally closes the distance to - carefully, hesitantly - brush his mouth against Ian's. ]
( Yeah, it works. It works, like, really well. The closer Nate shifts in, the less room there is for anything else. By the time the distance is narrowed down to an inch, almost every concern has gone... quiet. It's all occupied by that heartbeat feeling, by pre-kiss anticipation, the want-curiosity mixture he feels with every first kiss because there's a whole entire new science to discover there.
It goes quiet, Nate's lips touch, and Ian's fingers tighten around his without even a thought. He presses back with smaller restraint, chaste but buzzing no less for it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. )
no subject
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?
no subject
( 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... )
no subject
He turns into Ian's space, still clutching his hand, searching his face with genuine interest. ]
Is it working?
no subject
Nah, actually, I think I'm gonna go...
( If it weren't obvious enough that he's joking by his playful tone or expression, he's completely betrayed by the skin to skin contact. Through their linked hands come that feeling of a skipped heartbeat, entirely prompted by the sudden turn into his space. It's a comma in between the buzzing feeling of pleasure and interest -- and the constant baseline beneath it all, hopefully easy to ignore, that is made up of his general discomfort at putting everything he's feeling on display like this. Mainly the whole tipping his hand about how deep this stupid crush runs. It's embarrassing, sue him, he likes to play it cool. )
no subject
It sits at the top, like a rubber duck floating over a sea of swirling conflict: attraction, intrigue, a little wariness, the same sort of cocktail Nate has roiling in his own stupid brain. Holding back maybe because it feels right to...or because it feels wrong to reach out when he asked Nate here in the first place, and Nate tries not to speculate or dig, which is a Herculean effort with a hand wrapped around his.
Respecting the connection is important; he knows Ian wouldn't drag something out of him without ensuring it was necessary or freely given. It's easier to distract from the internal struggle by swallowing the desire to pry and shifting in, not so much tentative as respectful, watching him carefully. He can feel Ian's pulse. Or maybe it's his own. ]
You're a terrible liar.
[ Nate says softly, and finally closes the distance to - carefully, hesitantly - brush his mouth against Ian's. ]
no subject
It goes quiet, Nate's lips touch, and Ian's fingers tighten around his without even a thought. He presses back with smaller restraint, chaste but buzzing no less for it.
Alright, maybe their score is tied at Date. )