Pride and Joy ✓

sixteen

SATURDAY. 04. DECEMBER. 21.

ANY shred of dignity was long gone by the time he was ringing Edith's doorbell and any shred that might've been recovered was destroyed as quickly when Nate answered the door in a towel, his hair still dripping wet and droplets still sliding down his bare chest.

"A towel, Nate?" Denver frowned, staring at the floor to hide his faint blush. Normally, seeing someone in a towel wouldn't fluster him but it was different with Nate. He didn't know why; it just was. "Really?"

"Just got out of the shower," he shrugged. "Don't blame me. My brother wouldn't get off of his ass to open the door and my Nana's at Valerie's. What's up?"

"Can I come in?" Denver asked, stretching his neck out and glancing nervously towards the sky.

"Yeah, sure," Nate said, stepping aside and leaving room for Denver to walk inside, swiftly shutting the door behind him. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," he swallowed, fists now tight at his sides and shoulders tense as he tried to avoid looking directly at Nate. "Do you know when Edith is coming home?"

"Few hours from now probably," he shrugged, lips twisting downwards thoughtfully, his gaze heavy on Denver. "Why? I can call her if you—"

"That's alright, I have her number," Denver interrupted briskly, squeezing his hands into fists and taking a seat on the sofa. "Are you gonna go and get dressed?"

"Yeah, I—" Nate squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, like there was something he couldn't quite get over, one hand holding his towel around his waist. "Den, are you alright?"

"Fine," he nodded, gazing around the house in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact.

Actually, he wasn't fine at all.

Usually, Denver was more than adequate—even skilled— at pretending that he was okay when he wasn't. He could give a performance that could put Pitt or DiCaprio to shame, but this was different. This was entirely different.

This wasn't an argument with a family member, this wasn't an unexpectedly low grade on a test, this wasn't one of those days where he'd had to pretend that he'd eaten enough or gotten enough sleep. He'd learned to handle all of those without any problems and had managed, over time, to convince people that he was never actually sad or nervous or angry— he was just 'like that'.

Fear was different.

His fear was almost inconsolable; it consumed him; it left him to lie helplessly in the stomach of a beast, its teeth digging deep into his flesh and tearing, ripping, pulling, biting. If anyone would've met him while he was in a state of fear, they probably would've had a hard time believing that he struggled to express any emotions at all.

There was something off about him— even by Denver's standards. The blues of his eyes were too pale and too wide, his usually milky skin was whiter still, his fist clenched at his sides to stop the fiddling and trembling, his body was all wound up and jittery. His mouth tasted like metal, his heart beat thumped in his ears, his breathing quickened and jumped, irregular and uncontrollable, his teeth gnawed down on his lip and his throat felt scratchy and dry.

Every part of him had been praying that Nate wouldn't be home and that Edith would be. Usually, he came over to her when a storm was about to hit because she never ridiculed him for the intensity of his fear, the extent of his terror.