Taking a break from the thing I'm working on and I'm in a mood this afternoon, so
Nigel yearns in proximity. It's the finally being allowed in, but also the constant reminder of knowing they *could* be closer. He sits next to Alex, but the space between their thighs and their shoulders suddenly feels unfairly distant. He opens up, lets him into his own world, in return, and still—it doesn't feel enough. It's tentative, at first; Nigel guards his space like a fearful, wounded dog, always observant of those who tread too close. He flinches at the outstretched hand, only to be shocked, when he finally finds comfort in it. Then, it's greedy; he watches, and leans, and tests the boundaries, hoping to be let in closer.
He can let himself forget while alone, all too accustomed to the cold. But the moment that warmth is near—he wants more, more, and more.
Alex yearns in absence. He often takes things for granted. All too accustomed to distance; he gets overwhelmed by that proximity. He tenses up and clenches his jaw. He hopes that his reluctance will be enough, and if not, that his words will do the job—but once he loses, he notices what he had once gained and now, the void it left in its absence. While Nigel's gone, he thinks of him constantly, almost using his thoughts to fill in for him. Subconsciously, he seeks out his memory in his surroundings—the blue and gray tinged atmosphere, the whiteness of the snow, the dripping red from the papercut he accidentally got while collecting his papers off his desk, the animals that'd pass by that he'd wonder if Nigel had preserved one like them before.
He cannot forget while alone, suddenly too cold. But when that proximity returns—he struggles to bear that warmth again.
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