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Aaron's head resting on his shoulder, eyes closed and his face contentedly relaxed, Derek would think he is asleep if not for his hand. His arm is around Derek's shoulder and he rolls the soft fabric of his shirt between his fingers and thumb, back and forth in a steady rhythm. It's not distracting, per se, only where his shirt is bunched up anyway so Derek can hardly feel the slight pull. Just… there.
"You all right?" he asks, interrupting their stretch of silence. The TV murmurs in the background, illuminating them in its glow.
Aaron hums an assent and continues whatever he's doing, fluid and repetitive. The same kind of motion Derek associates with worry, how he paces and fidgets with his hands and pens, despite how relaxed he seems otherwise.
"What're you doing?" Derek says.
"Sorry," Aaron says, laying his hand over Derek's shoulder, open and still. He turns his head and stares at the television with more interest than he has all night; he's shifting and tense where he was relaxed and steady, curled against Derek's side.
"I don't mind," Derek says, rubbing Aaron's other arm lightly, pulling him back towards him. "Curious, that's all. You look like you're worrying."
"I'm not," Aaron says. "It's nothing."
"Uh-huh," Derek says, "because that's reassuring."
"It is," Aaron insists. "It's just nice. Feels nice. The material, or the texture."
He says texture like it's supposed to mean something and for the life of him, Derek can't figure out what.
"Could get yourself one like it if you like it so much,” he says.
Aaron just stares at him, his eyebrows drawn together. “No,” he says, the obviously silent but certainly there, and tilts his head against Derek's chest again.
“Okay?” Derek says, puzzled. “Did I just offend you or something? I wasn't kidding, you'd look nice."
“No?" Aaron says, about as confused as Derek feels.
“So what’s the problem?” Derek says. If Aaron’s mad at him then nothing else is showing it; he’s still pressed firmly to his side, fingers smoothing down the same patch of fabric.
“There’s not. I said it was nice,” Aaron says. “Just not to wear. It’d be…” He gestures broadly at his own chest, trying to find the words.
“A lot,” Derek says. Thinks he’s got the right idea about what he’s trying to tell him. The feeling of it, nice in small doses, overwhelming if it was constant. The texture . Ah, that makes more sense. "Sensory thing, right?"
“Yeah,” Aaron agrees. A pause. His thumb flicks over his fingernails as he thinks, and his neck is flushed a faint red. It's still new, having words to put to everything, but the shame is years old. They're working on it. “Too much.”
“Ah, I get it,” Derek says, nudging him in the side. “You’re calling me too much, huh?”
“I’m not calling you anything,” Aaron says. “If you’re saying it, though…”
"Rude."
"You said it, not me," Aaron says. His fingers slip down to Derek's buttons and he begins to work them open.
"I thought you liked it," Derek says, amused. "You changing your mind already?"
As Aaron unbuttons his shirt with one hand, his other presses along Derek's thigh; he tilts his head back to trail light kisses up the firm line of his jaw. "No," he murmurs. "Not at all."