[ Just a little morbid inside joke that no one but Nate finds funny.
When he gets to the right floor he stops at the giant hole, not so much stymied as amused. There's a little lip at the edge of the apartment door and he could easily make the jump if there was something to hold onto, but these futuristic apartments have sliding, seamless things only slightly recessed into the walls and with some minor monkeying he makes it across.
Wedged in the niche he knocks thrice with his knuckles. ]
[ Only takes a couple seconds for the door to swing open, and for Ian to greet him brightly. ]
Hey, man!
[ A little nod gesture. Come on in. Nary a single word about the enormous fuckoff hole out front. Nothing to see here.
On the coffee table in front of his couch, some obvious V1 bong designs out of what what seems to have once been tequila bottles. Reduce, re-use, recycle. ]
[ When was the last time Nate got high? Harry Flynn, he thinks, over a decade ago. Nate was never really a fan of the stuff, doesn't like lacking control despite being an arbiter of chaos, but he can acknowledge that releasing the vise-grip he has on certain things might behoove him.
He casts a quizzical eye at the "bongs" and has a violent flashback to the accusation he leveled at Ian when they were sixty stories in the air. ]
You've been busy.
Edited (will my phone ever stop making shit word choices: news at 11) 2020-10-05 03:05 (UTC)
[ He beams at welcome mat. Takes a second to stick his head out the door, there's some scrapey thumpy scratching noise, and then he pops back in to close it behind him.
He's got that enthusiastic kind of energy he usually only gets about new projects or, once, a monster bat. Has him flopping down too enthusiastically on his couch, jostling the the little pleasant pot paraphernalia tray he'd had on the middle cushion. Ladies and gentlemen, the professional is back. ]
Dude, you have no idea. I tried to take up glass blowing once back home. One time, and never again. At least woodworking won't burn your fucking hand off.
[ Nate shuffles in, invited for the first official time without climbing through the window to be a huge pain in the ass. He gets a better look at the scenery now: the work space, the desk, a notebook he remembers very well. The table in front of the sofa appears to be an experimental zone. ]
So...I guess this is a better alternative?
[ He hazards, because he honestly doesn’t have the context for what qualifies as “better.” Manipulating existing containers with Ian’s power is at least a twofold endeavor, permitting for good practice and a potential, tangible result.
Nate settles on the other side of the couch, hopelessly out of his depth and looking the part.]
I’ll be honest, I don’t know a lot about this stuff? I’ve tried all kinds of weird crap abroad, but I don’t...like- you know. Do anything regularly.
[ And that catches Ian's attention enough to have him pause mid-way through twisting the top of an herb grinder. It's like he's checking for a second to make sure he's not getting screwed with — never heard of the Beatles — but no, this one actually seems legit. ]
Wait, so...
[ On comes the creeping absolute delight that only a stoner experiences when getting someone who doesn't smoke weed to smoke weed, particularly for the first time. ]
You, like. Arm wrestle sharks and blow up, I don't know, banks, and raid tombs and summon the Mummy on accident, but smoking weed is like...
[ A little gesture to his head, fingers out, explosion sound. Mind blown. ]
[ Nate's mouth thins in an obvious lack of amusement as Ian starts to look at him as though he's some kind of virgin. Peyote in Mexico, sure. Ayahuasca in Peru, yeah, why not. There are certain things Nate has indulged in under very specific circumstances, mostly out of a need to be polite to hosts. He liked it well enough, but not in a long-term sense.
The only addiction Nate suffers from is adrenaline high. ]
Seeing as my job involved inhaling compressed nitrogen in high-pressure environments, and before that, avoiding getting shot at by mercenaries, I kinda like to keep my wits about me.
[ Nate's lack of amusement only seems to encourage his, and the smile never fades as his chin dips back down to focus on his well-practiced smoke prep ritual. ]
Yeah, okay, you got me there. Usually way less shooting in my line of work. As in, like, none.
[ Much less compressed nitrogen, but that one's a nonzero amount. ]
It's also horrifying that you got fucking shot at, by the way, in case I haven't mentioned that. Just so it's on record.
[ A pointed glance up through whatever hair's fallen in his face.
And then he kindly offers over the product of his handiwork, because it is Customary to let the underexperienced go first. ]
[ Ian clearly did this often enough back home to be incredibly deft at the process and Nate experiences the strong urge to make another California comment. He refrains for both their sakes, because he agreed to come over but it wasn't exclusively for the temptation of engaging in recreational drugs. It wasn't even, like, 50% of the reason. More like 10%.
The company's nice. ]
Ha. You have no idea.
[ Nate has lost count of how many gunfights he's been in, which is perhaps a fact that should probably concern him as he takes the lead and the lighter. He remembers a bong in Harry's place a long, long time ago, some ridiculously over-the-top glass thing that got pulled out when Harry wasn't feeling his nicotine itch. This one is a little more similar to the waterpipes Nate has seen in Laos. ]
Can't believe you didn't wanna serve tea with your thuốc lào.
[ He says amusedly, flicking the igniter. Mouth, mouthpiece. Lighter, weed. Nate doesn't fill the chamber completely with smoke because it's been a while and he doesn't exactly trust himself or his memory of similar experiences yet, tugging the bowl out and inhaling.
He doesn't cough - the hit isn't hard enough - but the sensation of smoke in his lungs reminds him too potently of explosions and he grimaces when he exhales. ]
[ The truth of it is his smoking died off tremendously sometime in his mid twenties, from a purely comparative standpoint. It became more of a once or twice a month with his TA kind of habit, right up until the end of the world. Luke may be one of the smartest humans Ian's ever met, it's a crying fucking shame he didn't believe in his ability to succeed as much as Ian did. Not that it wound up mattering, of course, but his brain found other fantastic applications in the form of a - setting up amazing (often too severe in Ian's opinion) perimeter defenses and b - cross-breeding marijuana in a greenhouse made primarily of plastic sheeting. God bless him. The hours between 9 p.m. and 7 a.m. were the fuck it hours, and there's surprisingly little to do sans electricity or metal.
Also, Ian's coping mechanisms were shit. Largely still are. ]
Gesundheit.
[ He says lightly, because he's never heard of thuốc lào and it's a classic, timeless joke.
Impossible to miss that expression considering how raptly Ian's studying him for a reaction; interesting that he seems to find more displeasure in that than Ian's ever seen him have knocking back any kind of hard liquor. ]
Is it a taste thing or a throat thing?
[ That expression; asked while holding a hand out to relieve Nate of his burden. ]
[ He feels a little bad not immediately enjoying something that a clear and significant amount of labor went into, but it's probably better to be honest than force himself to like the flavor. If they do this again Nate is going to request something with a stronger profile, no matter how artificial, like the weenie he is. ]
Taste. Hit's not bad but it's strong.
[ He hands the bong and lighter over after replacing the bowl, apologetic. ]
One time I almost, uh, died in a burning building, so. Really smoky flavors remind me of that.
[ It's not like he's gonna take personal offense to it, he didn't create the taste or feeling of smoking pot. Nobody really likes it, except those exceptionally too-extra stoners you meet from time to time who get all braggy about it for some reason.
Ian does cough toward the end of his, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the hit and everything to do with the offhanded mention about almost dying. ]
Jesus, are you serious? Man, if I knew that I would've made you a fucking... scone or something. I'm sorry.
[ And thus Ian enters quick problem solving mode, short term and long term solutions. Step numero uno is to set the bong down and head to the kitchen to harvest a couple of ice cubes to drop in. It's not gonna solve it, but it could help. They won't make tobacco flavoring anymore but he can probably swap out SunnyD for a few weeks and mess around with flavoring drops. Really, though, it's gonna have to be a baked goods situation. That's the best answer here.
But anyway, back in his seat and with the bong nudged gently in Nate's direction on the table — for whenever, no pressure — he's gonna work on fishing out his MP3 player and flipping through it absently while he focuses on the more important part of this conversation. ]
[ Nate waves off the gesture, touched, but there's no way Ian could know. Even hearty fireplaces during winter tend to smell a little too much like burning floor ties and ceiling joists for Nate to find them excessively cozy. There's always a distant attachment to the scent of the air after a grenade goes off.
Nate watches him mitigate the issue and dig out that brick of an MP3 player, taking a minute to let the inside of his chest settle. ]
Remember that crazy lady with the cult I told you about? From my first big job?
[ He probably does, Ian's apparently got a mind like a steel fucking trap when it comes to personal details. ]
They set fire to the place after they thought they'd trapped us inside. It was this huge old chateau in France, kind of turns into a maze when everything is lighting up like tinder.
[ He ultimately settles on one that has him way too amused with himself, a tiny playful smirk quirking up at the corner of his mouth as it plays out of the headphones-turned-quiet-speakers. It's a little tinny, but he's of the strong belief that you can't really substitute listening to music with somebody out loud no matter how much fancier brain implants are.
His amusement doesn't last long when faced with the story Nate's telling, and that smirk fades out quickly into a deeply knitted brow. ]
Dude, what... the fuck is your life? Seriously, like, every anecdote you've got is the most horrifying shit ever. You're legitimately making my apocalypse look like a McDonald's ball pit.
[ By the time Ian has selected something Nate has decided to venture into another hit, wrinkling his nose this time but finding the sensation a little more muted than before with the addition of ice. At least one of them knows what they're doing. He's just setting the bong back on the table when he recognizes the tune, half a second away from remarking on it when he is swiftly waylaid.
Nate has the good grace to look a little embarrassed, scrubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. At the time everything is just a new problem to deal with: something to mitigate in the moment, an occurrence to survive. He never stops to think about it even after the fact.
It's easy to look at them through the lens of an adventure. ]
I dunno, it's just...my life? It's not always shoot-outs and falling out of planes, it's-
[ He sits up a little, trying to explain it with earnest sincerity, probably over-using his hands. ]
I've gotten to see places no one has even heard of. Places people thought were mythical, touched history that nobody's ever written down in a book. People talk about Shangri-La like it's a fictional city - it's not. I've been there. I've- I've seen the sun rise over jungle ruins that humanity's forgotten about for centuries, I've found artifacts from civilizations that we've lost. It's not just me getting into catastrophic firefights, it's...being in another place, and seeing another time.
[ Nate sits up and Ian pivots a little, twisting from forward to side facing with his knee folded perpendicular to the floor and spilling over onto the center cushion. It makes for a stable temporary base for the bong, momentarily forgotten and resting still.
It's completely, totally charming. It's the sincerity and the hand movements, but it's also just... the explanation itself. It's kind of magical sounding, actually, the whole picture Nate paints. Shangri-La and jungle sunrises, and Ian's also picturing a probably wildly inaccurate image of old ruins and sunbeams and dust.
And you know what, about being inaccurate-- ]
You should show me sometime.
[ Just floating the idea. In case it isn't clear, he nods vaguely at Nate's hands where they hover. ]
With the... thing. The memory thing.
[ Outside of nonconsensual dreams, he's only shared a memory once or twice. Experimental, for the most part. He knows how it works, it might be cool for stuff like that.
It also makes people super fucking uncomfortable, so he's deliberately casual about the request rather than demanding. ]
[ Nate gets caught up in it; he always has. Distractable and an easy target for getting too immersed in his work, Nate's evenings in bars as a younger man were usually spent nursing a single beer while trying to puzzle out something by himself, barely engaging the people next to him even when someone tried to finagle their way into his darting attentions.
He's gotten better with time, with age, but the candor and interest persists, naive only in his excitement and the possibilities of what he might find. ]
Yeah. Yeah, why didn't I think of that?
[ Stupid, slightly stubborn, already dragged elsewhere by his own imagination being reminded of the beyul near Everest. This is different, but close enough. Nate holds out his hand, palm and expression open.
When Ian takes it there's a gut-wrenching jerk, the kind of lurch in your stomach when going up the stairs at night and missing a step. The sudden pull of falling from a great height and then the realizing the floor was there beneath you the whole time. Exhilaration and freedom, the pulse of adrenaline a steady beat under the view of a long-forgotten place.
Borneo, dripping humidity and massive tree trunks blanketed with vines. The climate is sweltering and oppressive but the occasional breeze from the ocean pushes through, salty and sharp, a dark pit in the rich, black earth supported by carved columns. It breathes, washing dank air back that reeks of death and curiosity. A temple - a forbidden place - set high into the mountain in Tibet, yawning chasms chipped and draped in ice. Monstrous bells and prayer wheels creak along with the shifting of ancient gears, dread edging in on wonder.
Nate drags out before it delves too deep beyond the surface and pushes a memory of Shambhala as the trees spread and the city emerges from a blanket of mist, greenery bursting over every building, the remains of a civilization that never truly left. The air is dense and rich, heavy floral and damp stone and an undercurrent of gun smoke, a winnowing thread of fear and anticipation. The structures are intact and the foliage is thick, enormous roots spreading from the base of the central temple and burying themselves in the surrounding foundations without thought or mercy, reclaimed by nature.
Then he releases his grip, returns his hand to his lap, and the memories are gone. ]
[ It doesn't take an empathy bond for Nate to pick up on his startlement; not but a second after he takes that hand a swiftly tugged falling feeling pulls a stuttered gasp through him that hitches quietly in his chest. A little bit of momentary mental vertigo as his mind tries to reconcile the feeling and what it's seeing with the realization that he's actually still sitting on a couch. A few swimming but determined seconds pass and then he orients himself, discomfort dismissed easily in favor of curiosity.
He was definitely wrong about those mental images; blurry and indistinct yes, but aside from that even if they'd been crystal clear they wouldn't stack up to the actual sight Nate pushes into him. Courtesy of the skin to skin contact Nate gets a very up close front row seat to Ian's reaction — namely, the transference of a suitable amount of awe and wonderment. An appreciation that maybe can't ever stack up to the kind Nate has for it, but a not insignificant one all the same. They're equal parts beautiful and magical, and they're both heightened by the color Nate's emotion gives them. Some of his excitement bleeds through the memories, bleeds into Ian's skin, becomes Ian's excitement by proxy.
Then all at once they're gone, and it takes Ian a second or two to blink back to reality. His reaction, while small, is completely genuine. ]
Wow.
[ Seriously, what else can you say about that? They're once in a lifetime sights, except-- well, more than once for Nate, and now they've been duplicated against all laws of nature. ]
That's crazy. Sucks about the shooting still, but wow.
Showing people the things he's seen, giving them experiences they wouldn't otherwise have. Travel is never just for him, it's the enjoyment of the person he's with and the expression on their face when a vista stretches out before them and into the horizon. The thrill of discovery and the unknown, and Nate can't contain the bright grin on his face after the fact. He tips his head to one side in acknowledgement, reveling in Ian's reaction. ]
Occupational hazard. But yeah. Amazing, right?
[ He misses it - the adventure, and the people with whom he shared it - and it's evident in the crooked bent to his smile, the way his eyes scrunch at the edges. ]
I could show you Tibet without a memory, too. [ He adds, leaning back into the sofa again. ] The major cities have changed but the villages are the same. Kinda nice to know something's how I remembered it.
[ He's pleased by the expression on Nate's face, the size and shape of his smile is appealing as hell. He hasn't had much exposure to Nate being excited; a few brief bits here and there at the bar or — weirdly — sixty stories off the fucking ground on a crane. This is a little bit more than what he's seen so far, and damn if it doesn't catch his attention. He kind of wants to press somehow, find out what ratchets it up to an even higher level — though Nate may have just answered that question himself. ]
You wanna go, like, hang out in tibet?
[ Just to be clear, because it sounds like a spontaneous offer. Granted it's not the kind of trip that people balk at so much anymore, particularly not the displaced with their gates positioned all over the world. They could do it, actually, and they could do it pretty easily.
He's not hating the idea at all. ]
Important deciding question: can I preemptively opt out of bullets?
[ He's teasing just a little, wry, before dipping in for a second hit finally. ]
[ Someone's got jokes. Nate smacks Ian's bicep with the back of his hand, carefully not to upset the treasured bong before he inhales, and it's possible he may have made the offer without thinking, but that doesn't make it any less sincere. He's been itching to get out of New Amsterdam for weeks, needs a little breathing space, wants to diversify his socialization before he lovingly strangles his brother.
It is a big thing, he realizes, for some people. Traveling with another person. He doesn't know if Ian has been there before, or even has a remote interest, but it's worth asking. Might be nice to share something he misses with somebody who could appreciate it. ]
No bullets. And yes, Tibet. Not like- not today, but- I dunno, soon? See some old monasteries? I think your whole- [ Nate gestures at Ian vaguely. ] -everything would dig it. I think you'd like it.
[ He echoes, something gently challenging in his tone. It shifts quickly into his rendition of typical Californian stoner meets Tommy Chong, which is... terrible, actually. He's god awful at accents and impressions of anyone other than Matthew McConaughey. ]
Like, listen, man. I invited you into my casa to partake, I refuse to be type-casted. That's, like, a real negative energy or whatever.
[ Punctuated by gently plunking a bong down onto his coffee table.
But anyway-- ]
I'll forgive you this transgression in a Tibetan monastery only, and nowhere else.
[ Ian feels like the kind of person with whom a Buddhist monastery would resonate, not for his generally chill demeanor, but for his approach to so many things - engineering included. Faith-based pilgrimages aren't something that Nate can personally get behind, but there's a spirituality in art and architecture.
Elbow pressed into the back cushion of the sofa, chin pressed into the palm of his hand, his smile widens delightedly behind his fingers. The act is horrific and probably an affront to many God-fearing Californians and Nate would maybe nominate the performance for a Razzie, at best. The effects of the weed are starting to creep in at the edges and it may contribute to his poorly-hidden glee. ]
I love how flexible you are in absolving me of my stereotyping crimes.
That's one of the many ways I'm flexible, but unfortunately the rest of them probably won't absolve the other things on your rap sheet.
[ Matter-of-factly, and just a touch apologetic. Sorry, mister black market acquisition pick pocketing troubled youth.
The song changes, he pauses, then shoots an accusatory look at his MP3 player for a second. Okay, listen- ]
Shut up, shh, don't even say anything, that doesn't count.
[ He is a victim of fate and circumstance here, okay. Fingers crossed this is one of those random pop culture black holes in Nate's resume. Lots of places like that band. ]
[ Nate hums sagaciously, as though the statement were fraught with all sorts of wisdom and not the slightly suggestive implications he is almost certain Ian is implying. Fortunately Nate doesn’t have to linger for very long, because the music changes and Ian’s sudden mild panic becomes an utterly encompassing preoccupation.
Eyebrows climbing toward his hairline Nate’s teeth dig into his lower lip, a poor excuse for masking the satisfaction at Ian’s expense. He shouldn’t look pleased, but- ]
Wow. Red Hot Chili Peppers, deep cut. Should I ask what “counts?”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Just a little morbid inside joke that no one but Nate finds funny.
When he gets to the right floor he stops at the giant hole, not so much stymied as amused. There's a little lip at the edge of the apartment door and he could easily make the jump if there was something to hold onto, but these futuristic apartments have sliding, seamless things only slightly recessed into the walls and with some minor monkeying he makes it across.
Wedged in the niche he knocks thrice with his knuckles. ]
no subject
Hey, man!
[ A little nod gesture. Come on in. Nary a single word about the enormous fuckoff hole out front. Nothing to see here.
On the coffee table in front of his couch, some obvious V1 bong designs out of what what seems to have once been tequila bottles. Reduce, re-use, recycle. ]
no subject
[ When was the last time Nate got high? Harry Flynn, he thinks, over a decade ago. Nate was never really a fan of the stuff, doesn't like lacking control despite being an arbiter of chaos, but he can acknowledge that releasing the vise-grip he has on certain things might behoove him.
He casts a quizzical eye at the "bongs" and has a violent flashback to the accusation he leveled at Ian when they were sixty stories in the air. ]
You've been busy.
no subject
He's got that enthusiastic kind of energy he usually only gets about new projects or, once, a monster bat. Has him flopping down too enthusiastically on his couch, jostling the the little pleasant pot paraphernalia tray he'd had on the middle cushion. Ladies and gentlemen, the professional is back. ]
Dude, you have no idea. I tried to take up glass blowing once back home. One time, and never again. At least woodworking won't burn your fucking hand off.
no subject
So...I guess this is a better alternative?
[ He hazards, because he honestly doesn’t have the context for what qualifies as “better.” Manipulating existing containers with Ian’s power is at least a twofold endeavor, permitting for good practice and a potential, tangible result.
Nate settles on the other side of the couch, hopelessly out of his depth and looking the part.]
I’ll be honest, I don’t know a lot about this stuff? I’ve tried all kinds of weird crap abroad, but I don’t...like- you know. Do anything regularly.
no subject
Wait, so...
[ On comes the creeping absolute delight that only a stoner experiences when getting someone who doesn't smoke weed to smoke weed, particularly for the first time. ]
You, like. Arm wrestle sharks and blow up, I don't know, banks, and raid tombs and summon the Mummy on accident, but smoking weed is like...
[ A little gesture to his head, fingers out, explosion sound. Mind blown. ]
no subject
[ Nate's mouth thins in an obvious lack of amusement as Ian starts to look at him as though he's some kind of virgin. Peyote in Mexico, sure. Ayahuasca in Peru, yeah, why not. There are certain things Nate has indulged in under very specific circumstances, mostly out of a need to be polite to hosts. He liked it well enough, but not in a long-term sense.
The only addiction Nate suffers from is adrenaline high. ]
Seeing as my job involved inhaling compressed nitrogen in high-pressure environments, and before that, avoiding getting shot at by mercenaries, I kinda like to keep my wits about me.
no subject
Yeah, okay, you got me there. Usually way less shooting in my line of work. As in, like, none.
[ Much less compressed nitrogen, but that one's a nonzero amount. ]
It's also horrifying that you got fucking shot at, by the way, in case I haven't mentioned that. Just so it's on record.
[ A pointed glance up through whatever hair's fallen in his face.
And then he kindly offers over the product of his handiwork, because it is Customary to let the underexperienced go first. ]
no subject
The company's nice. ]
Ha. You have no idea.
[ Nate has lost count of how many gunfights he's been in, which is perhaps a fact that should probably concern him as he takes the lead and the lighter. He remembers a bong in Harry's place a long, long time ago, some ridiculously over-the-top glass thing that got pulled out when Harry wasn't feeling his nicotine itch. This one is a little more similar to the waterpipes Nate has seen in Laos. ]
Can't believe you didn't wanna serve tea with your thuốc lào.
[ He says amusedly, flicking the igniter. Mouth, mouthpiece. Lighter, weed. Nate doesn't fill the chamber completely with smoke because it's been a while and he doesn't exactly trust himself or his memory of similar experiences yet, tugging the bowl out and inhaling.
He doesn't cough - the hit isn't hard enough - but the sensation of smoke in his lungs reminds him too potently of explosions and he grimaces when he exhales. ]
no subject
Also, Ian's coping mechanisms were shit. Largely still are. ]
Gesundheit.
[ He says lightly, because he's never heard of thuốc lào and it's a classic, timeless joke.
Impossible to miss that expression considering how raptly Ian's studying him for a reaction; interesting that he seems to find more displeasure in that than Ian's ever seen him have knocking back any kind of hard liquor. ]
Is it a taste thing or a throat thing?
[ That expression; asked while holding a hand out to relieve Nate of his burden. ]
no subject
Taste. Hit's not bad but it's strong.
[ He hands the bong and lighter over after replacing the bowl, apologetic. ]
One time I almost, uh, died in a burning building, so. Really smoky flavors remind me of that.
no subject
Ian does cough toward the end of his, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the hit and everything to do with the offhanded mention about almost dying. ]
Jesus, are you serious? Man, if I knew that I would've made you a fucking... scone or something. I'm sorry.
[ And thus Ian enters quick problem solving mode, short term and long term solutions. Step numero uno is to set the bong down and head to the kitchen to harvest a couple of ice cubes to drop in. It's not gonna solve it, but it could help. They won't make tobacco flavoring anymore but he can probably swap out SunnyD for a few weeks and mess around with flavoring drops. Really, though, it's gonna have to be a baked goods situation. That's the best answer here.
But anyway, back in his seat and with the bong nudged gently in Nate's direction on the table — for whenever, no pressure — he's gonna work on fishing out his MP3 player and flipping through it absently while he focuses on the more important part of this conversation. ]
What the fuck happened?
no subject
[ Nate waves off the gesture, touched, but there's no way Ian could know. Even hearty fireplaces during winter tend to smell a little too much like burning floor ties and ceiling joists for Nate to find them excessively cozy. There's always a distant attachment to the scent of the air after a grenade goes off.
Nate watches him mitigate the issue and dig out that brick of an MP3 player, taking a minute to let the inside of his chest settle. ]
Remember that crazy lady with the cult I told you about? From my first big job?
[ He probably does, Ian's apparently got a mind like a steel fucking trap when it comes to personal details. ]
They set fire to the place after they thought they'd trapped us inside. It was this huge old chateau in France, kind of turns into a maze when everything is lighting up like tinder.
no subject
His amusement doesn't last long when faced with the story Nate's telling, and that smirk fades out quickly into a deeply knitted brow. ]
Dude, what... the fuck is your life? Seriously, like, every anecdote you've got is the most horrifying shit ever. You're legitimately making my apocalypse look like a McDonald's ball pit.
no subject
Nate has the good grace to look a little embarrassed, scrubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. At the time everything is just a new problem to deal with: something to mitigate in the moment, an occurrence to survive. He never stops to think about it even after the fact.
It's easy to look at them through the lens of an adventure. ]
I dunno, it's just...my life? It's not always shoot-outs and falling out of planes, it's-
[ He sits up a little, trying to explain it with earnest sincerity, probably over-using his hands. ]
I've gotten to see places no one has even heard of. Places people thought were mythical, touched history that nobody's ever written down in a book. People talk about Shangri-La like it's a fictional city - it's not. I've been there. I've- I've seen the sun rise over jungle ruins that humanity's forgotten about for centuries, I've found artifacts from civilizations that we've lost. It's not just me getting into catastrophic firefights, it's...being in another place, and seeing another time.
no subject
It's completely, totally charming. It's the sincerity and the hand movements, but it's also just... the explanation itself. It's kind of magical sounding, actually, the whole picture Nate paints. Shangri-La and jungle sunrises, and Ian's also picturing a probably wildly inaccurate image of old ruins and sunbeams and dust.
And you know what, about being inaccurate-- ]
You should show me sometime.
[ Just floating the idea. In case it isn't clear, he nods vaguely at Nate's hands where they hover. ]
With the... thing. The memory thing.
[ Outside of nonconsensual dreams, he's only shared a memory once or twice. Experimental, for the most part. He knows how it works, it might be cool for stuff like that.
It also makes people super fucking uncomfortable, so he's deliberately casual about the request rather than demanding. ]
no subject
He's gotten better with time, with age, but the candor and interest persists, naive only in his excitement and the possibilities of what he might find. ]
Yeah. Yeah, why didn't I think of that?
[ Stupid, slightly stubborn, already dragged elsewhere by his own imagination being reminded of the beyul near Everest. This is different, but close enough. Nate holds out his hand, palm and expression open.
When Ian takes it there's a gut-wrenching jerk, the kind of lurch in your stomach when going up the stairs at night and missing a step. The sudden pull of falling from a great height and then the realizing the floor was there beneath you the whole time. Exhilaration and freedom, the pulse of adrenaline a steady beat under the view of a long-forgotten place.
Borneo, dripping humidity and massive tree trunks blanketed with vines. The climate is sweltering and oppressive but the occasional breeze from the ocean pushes through, salty and sharp, a dark pit in the rich, black earth supported by carved columns. It breathes, washing dank air back that reeks of death and curiosity. A temple - a forbidden place - set high into the mountain in Tibet, yawning chasms chipped and draped in ice. Monstrous bells and prayer wheels creak along with the shifting of ancient gears, dread edging in on wonder.
Nate drags out before it delves too deep beyond the surface and pushes a memory of Shambhala as the trees spread and the city emerges from a blanket of mist, greenery bursting over every building, the remains of a civilization that never truly left. The air is dense and rich, heavy floral and damp stone and an undercurrent of gun smoke, a winnowing thread of fear and anticipation. The structures are intact and the foliage is thick, enormous roots spreading from the base of the central temple and burying themselves in the surrounding foundations without thought or mercy, reclaimed by nature.
Then he releases his grip, returns his hand to his lap, and the memories are gone. ]
no subject
He was definitely wrong about those mental images; blurry and indistinct yes, but aside from that even if they'd been crystal clear they wouldn't stack up to the actual sight Nate pushes into him. Courtesy of the skin to skin contact Nate gets a very up close front row seat to Ian's reaction — namely, the transference of a suitable amount of awe and wonderment. An appreciation that maybe can't ever stack up to the kind Nate has for it, but a not insignificant one all the same. They're equal parts beautiful and magical, and they're both heightened by the color Nate's emotion gives them. Some of his excitement bleeds through the memories, bleeds into Ian's skin, becomes Ian's excitement by proxy.
Then all at once they're gone, and it takes Ian a second or two to blink back to reality. His reaction, while small, is completely genuine. ]
Wow.
[ Seriously, what else can you say about that? They're once in a lifetime sights, except-- well, more than once for Nate, and now they've been duplicated against all laws of nature. ]
That's crazy. Sucks about the shooting still, but wow.
no subject
Showing people the things he's seen, giving them experiences they wouldn't otherwise have. Travel is never just for him, it's the enjoyment of the person he's with and the expression on their face when a vista stretches out before them and into the horizon. The thrill of discovery and the unknown, and Nate can't contain the bright grin on his face after the fact. He tips his head to one side in acknowledgement, reveling in Ian's reaction. ]
Occupational hazard. But yeah. Amazing, right?
[ He misses it - the adventure, and the people with whom he shared it - and it's evident in the crooked bent to his smile, the way his eyes scrunch at the edges. ]
I could show you Tibet without a memory, too. [ He adds, leaning back into the sofa again. ] The major cities have changed but the villages are the same. Kinda nice to know something's how I remembered it.
no subject
You wanna go, like, hang out in tibet?
[ Just to be clear, because it sounds like a spontaneous offer. Granted it's not the kind of trip that people balk at so much anymore, particularly not the displaced with their gates positioned all over the world. They could do it, actually, and they could do it pretty easily.
He's not hating the idea at all. ]
Important deciding question: can I preemptively opt out of bullets?
[ He's teasing just a little, wry, before dipping in for a second hit finally. ]
no subject
[ Someone's got jokes. Nate smacks Ian's bicep with the back of his hand, carefully not to upset the treasured bong before he inhales, and it's possible he may have made the offer without thinking, but that doesn't make it any less sincere. He's been itching to get out of New Amsterdam for weeks, needs a little breathing space, wants to diversify his socialization before he lovingly strangles his brother.
It is a big thing, he realizes, for some people. Traveling with another person. He doesn't know if Ian has been there before, or even has a remote interest, but it's worth asking. Might be nice to share something he misses with somebody who could appreciate it. ]
No bullets. And yes, Tibet. Not like- not today, but- I dunno, soon? See some old monasteries? I think your whole- [ Nate gestures at Ian vaguely. ] -everything would dig it. I think you'd like it.
no subject
[ He echoes, something gently challenging in his tone. It shifts quickly into his rendition of typical Californian stoner meets Tommy Chong, which is... terrible, actually. He's god awful at accents and impressions of anyone other than Matthew McConaughey. ]
Like, listen, man. I invited you into my casa to partake, I refuse to be type-casted. That's, like, a real negative energy or whatever.
[ Punctuated by gently plunking a bong down onto his coffee table.
But anyway-- ]
I'll forgive you this transgression in a Tibetan monastery only, and nowhere else.
no subject
Elbow pressed into the back cushion of the sofa, chin pressed into the palm of his hand, his smile widens delightedly behind his fingers. The act is horrific and probably an affront to many God-fearing Californians and Nate would maybe nominate the performance for a Razzie, at best. The effects of the weed are starting to creep in at the edges and it may contribute to his poorly-hidden glee. ]
I love how flexible you are in absolving me of my stereotyping crimes.
no subject
[ Matter-of-factly, and just a touch apologetic. Sorry, mister black market acquisition pick pocketing troubled youth.
The song changes, he pauses, then shoots an accusatory look at his MP3 player for a second. Okay, listen- ]
Shut up, shh, don't even say anything, that doesn't count.
[ He is a victim of fate and circumstance here, okay. Fingers crossed this is one of those random pop culture black holes in Nate's resume. Lots of places like that band. ]
no subject
Eyebrows climbing toward his hairline Nate’s teeth dig into his lower lip, a poor excuse for masking the satisfaction at Ian’s expense. He shouldn’t look pleased, but- ]
Wow. Red Hot Chili Peppers, deep cut. Should I ask what “counts?”
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)