Schneegestöber

Kuno agonizes over doing what they're about to do for about fifteen minutes. They've come to a conclusion at least ten minutes ago, and chickened out at every attempt since.

They're now on their way back home with Denver; it was a rather brisk walk through the early December scenery of St Agatha's suburbs. Kuno had to basically drag Denver out into the cold, who bitched about it the whole time getting ready, and then started on a pace that indicated he wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. He'd slowed down since then, though, and now they're actually kind of enjoying themselves; not that he would ever admit that. Their breath clouds in front of them, and both are huddled in coats and scarves. Freshly fallen snow covers rooftops and lawns, but it likely won't take more than a few hours before it's all gone.

It's peaceful, and quiet, and Kuno is still gathering the courage to hold Denver's hand. They want to be casual about it, which would be easy if it was literally any other person they'd be trying this with. But Denver is Denver, and this means Kuno has to mentally prepare themselves to do the equivalent of gently talking down a horse from kicking them to death.

Finally, they decide that they have to do it sooner or later, and there will never be a "right moment" unless they consider hitting Denver over the head with a brick so he's too concussed to have a fit over the initiation of physical intimacy.

They reach their hand out, slowly but deliberately, and slide it into Denver's. Their bare fingers have barely touched the soft wool when Denver rips his hand away and folds it close to his chest, staring at Kuno with an angry, guarded expression. Not angry, they correct themselves. Frightened.

They carefully school their own expression into something calm and unperturbed, even as everything inside them tries to draw in on itself, forming a cold lump of shame. They squash that lump decisively and meet Denver's frowning gaze.

"What?" he squawks. It's hard to tell if his cheeks are so red from the cold, or from something else, but Kuno can hazard a guess. "What do you want?"

"I want to hold your hand," they answer truthfully.

"Why?!" As if he expects some secret ploy behind it. Or maybe he's trying to buy himself some time until he figures out the best way to dive into the bushes and make a run for it.

"Because I like you, and I like touching you." They hope their voice isn't shaking. Maybe that last part was too far. Or the first. Or the whole sentence. Maybe they should've said: "Because. Duh. Baka." But two stubborn assholes aren't gonna get  them anywhere, if one's already making this a torturous process.

Denver sort of just... freezes on the spot. Suddenly he's looking everywhere but at them. His mouth opens a few times, but the only sound that comes out is an indignant grunt.

"This isnt't... like, a prank, or some weird convoluted form of self harm. I'm not trying to trick you, or make fun of you," Kuno adds quietly. Now that they're not walking anymore, the cold's quickly catching up to them. "I really mean that." They lay every desperate ounce of sincerity into their words because they want him, need him to understand.

He's still not looking at them, and his face is now bright red with embarrassment, but he's also not yelling or running away. Yet. Kuno counts this as a success.

Then, to their surprise and delight, he lowers his hand and practically thrusts it at them. "Okay," he clips. "Fine."