Pride and Joy ✓

nine

SATURDAY. 20. NOVEMBER. (unedited)

WHEN Denver sat up in bed, the pounding of his head was so intense that his hands flew to his temples instantly and he groaned. Even with the curtains closed, late morning light was streaming through, white beams falling over his bedroom.

The throbbing of his head was so extreme that he wondered if he was about to throw up. Then he looked to the right side of his bed and nearly jumped out of his skin, momentarily distracted from his aches and nausea.

Nate was beside him, sound asleep, chest falling and rising steadily but dramatically. He was lying on his side with his hands tucked underneath the pillow, long, dark eyelashes fluttering over his sharp cheekbones.

Grabbing Nate by the shoulder and shaking him awake proved to be more difficult when he looked so peaceful, so quiet and at rest. Denver figured that this was probably the only time he ever managed to look like that and decided it was an image he probably shouldn't get too used to seeing, no matter how endearing it was.

After a few seconds, he began to stir, groaning and blindly swatting Denver away from him as he rubbed his eyes and stretched his arms out.

"Dick," he muttered, his voice so rough with sleep that Denver almost blushed.

"Shut up," he said, pausing a moment before slowly swinging his legs over the side of the bed and getting to his feet. God, his head probably weighed five hundred pounds.

"Why am I in your bed?" Nate grumbled, turning to lie flat on his back and staring up at the white ceiling.

Denver held onto the wall to steady himself in a desperate attempt to stop the room from spinning. "Because I didn't want you to sleep on the floor," he mumbled, gently massaging his temples with his forefinger and thumb.

Last night, he'd wanted to go to bed comfortably and had to put on a pair of thick sweatpants and an old, oversized sweater that made his frame appear even more slender than it really was. Now, his skin was prickling with an unpleasant heat and he was dying for a toothbrush and a shower.

His throat felt thick and groggy, even though he always brushed his teeth before bed whenever he was drunk, and he felt like he needed to use a whole bottle of body wash and shampoo. Nate probably felt even worse.

Last night, after Nate had almost drifted off on the lawn, Denver had sobered up just enough to pull him up and force him up towards the house. When they'd climbed up the steps of the porch, he'd fumbled with his keys, trying to get them inside the lock and Nate had been blabbering (mostly to himself) about how he hoped one of his friends had his keys to his Nana's because he had no idea where he'd put them.

Of course, stripping all of his clothes off and drinking all night hadn't done him any favours in keeping track of where his keys were. It didn't matter at that point. The only way he would've been able to get back into Edith's would be to wake her up at an ungodly hour to let him back inside or by breaking in.

Neither of those solutions sounded especially smart.

So, Denver had invited to stay over at his place until it became a suitable time for him to start knocking at Edith's.

But it's not like he could keep Nate on the couch for the night. What happened when his parents came down in the morning and saw some random teenage boy asleep in their living room? He considered that maybe his parents had met Nate since they weren't exactly strangers to Edith either and were pretty friendly with most of the neighbours but he'd decided that he'd feel better if Nate was somewhere where he could keep an eye on him.