He waits, weak with hope, and breathes out heavy worry, Nabe's thumb grounding him. The start-stop-start again rattles him a little, but it shouldn't be a surprise he's not alone on new ground. He shifts his weight, a corner of his mouth twitching.
"I'm... glad," he says, because he is. It's awkward with a certain uncertainty, and he shakes off the admission, itching with that constant urge to move forward, leave anything less than ironclad and untouchable behind. Because it's Nabe, though, he tries to do it slowly. "C'mon, then, before we freeze standing up." He moves carefully toward the dugout's entrance, his hand slipping slowly - regretfully - from Nabe's. It feels colder than it had before: he tucks his fingers into his pockets to stave it off.
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"I'm... glad," he says, because he is. It's awkward with a certain uncertainty, and he shakes off the admission, itching with that constant urge to move forward, leave anything less than ironclad and untouchable behind. Because it's Nabe, though, he tries to do it slowly. "C'mon, then, before we freeze standing up." He moves carefully toward the dugout's entrance, his hand slipping slowly - regretfully - from Nabe's. It feels colder than it had before: he tucks his fingers into his pockets to stave it off.