Pride and Joy ✓

seventeen

SATURDAY. 04. DECEMBER. 21.

THEY were watching Fight Club and Denver wasn't hating it.

Sure, the movie wasn't exactly his thing, but Nate was having too much fun for him to dare complain.

They were on the sofa together and had been there for well over an hour by now. As it turned out, too much was happening on screen for Denver to ever look away— he didn't like missing details— and so watching the film, not only for entertainment, but for a distraction was proving to be a pretty solid idea.

Besides, Denver was practically curled right against Nate by now. The weight, the added pressure, of Nate's arm felt safe and secure around his shoulders, his elbow bent so that he could stroke through Denver's tousled, light brown hair, his touch tender and assuring. Every so often, he would tilt his head over Denver's or mumble something soothing into his hair. His other elbow was propped on the arm of the sofa, occasionally dropping down to his hips so the back of his fingers could smooth over Denver's arm.

Denver's head was tucked towards him, his head resting easily on Nate's shoulder as his breathing steadied, his heart rate slowing until the thunder outside boomed especially loud or the lighting flashed inside the house, fracturing the black sky into shards. Occasionally, he placed his hand on Nate's chest to shuffle his position and tried to ignore how fast his heart was beating.

If he hadn't been so terrified, he probably couldn't have stayed like this for more than five minutes. He wasn't a cuddler and Nate had said that he usually wasn't either (Denver had said that was hard to believe until Nate explained he usually fidgeted too much to stay in the same position for too long).

The last time Denver had cuddled with someone was probably with his mom when he was five or six. When he was fifteen, he'd had very briefly dated a girl who had been offended when he'd said he didn't want to cuddle with her and, admittedly, he hadn't dated anyone since.

So he wasn't big on cuddling. It wasn't purely that he disliked it, rather that too much touching usually made him uncomfortable and he hadn't yet managed to find someone who, under normal circumstances, would've been able to touch him this much without making him feel weird.

Nate was good at it, though. His presence was unnaturally calm, even when his hands began fiddling or became distracted with something else, even when he started to get unsettled and began shuffling around just enough for it to be distracting.

Every time that happened, Denver immediately backed off to make sure he wasn't intruding on Nate's comfort and, every time, Nate responded by immediately pulling him closer with only the faintest cautionary uncertainty lingering in his touch.

During certain parts of the movie, he would laugh loudly and something about the dramatic rising and falling of his chest made Denver relax. Sometimes, when something unexpected or unpredictable  happened on screen, he sat with widened eyes and his lips fell into an excited grin, despite the fact that other times he mouthed along flawlessly to entire scenes. It was as endearing as it was amusing.

Sometimes Denver would clutch the fabric of Nate's sweater in a closed fist and squeeze his eyes shut, curling closer towards him when the storm was too much. Anytime that happened, Nate's arms would wrap around him and squeeze him close, burying Denver's head in the crook of his shoulder and neck, until he felt the grip on his sweater relax.

"You okay, Den?" He murmured, still stroking through Denver's hair.

Afraid of how rough his voice would be, he only nodded in response.