"You're the one who argued that we're like, practically the same age." He wrinkles his nose, sighing after a long swig. He puts the cap back on his bottle and sets it on his other side so he doesn't have to move. Though one particular extremity is flagging, he doesn't see the benefit in moving away now. This is warm and nice. He doesn't dare say anything else even as he leans back against the pillows so they're eye to eye once more, afraid he'll say something totally stupid again. ("Wanna make out?" Who even says that outside of shitty John Hughes movies.)