[ Wow. Truly a Herculean effort, watching the master at work. With one leg crooked, knee pulled up on the couch, Nate observes the struggle with the air of a rich person watching a particularly interesting game of doubles tennis. ]
Amazing.
[ Nate says almost reverently, leaning in and lowering his voice in a decidedly conspiratorial manner. Sucks to be the bearer of bad news. ]
[ And he's just gonna... take that... bong now oh look so distracted by all these drugs.
Except that it's so fucking stupid, it's so stupid that it's funny. There's a laugh struggling to quake out of his stomach, it's bubbling up the back of his throat, and he has to pull his mouth away from the glass before he starts laughing into it.
Hides his smile by rubbing his hand over his lips for a second while the muscles fight against themselves. ]
[ Nate isn't even annoyed because it's so overwhelmingly absurd. It's the future by about five-hundred years, he has a part-time job working for the mob, everyone has powers, and he's sitting in the apartment of someone whose world is overrun with aliens smoking weed like he's a teenager. The instant Ian's shoulders start shaking Nate knows, is already chuckling himself, is having to take sharp breaths to try and stifle the sound before one of them breaks. ]
Okay, that's- that's-
[ The giddiness hits him hard and Nate starts giggling, hunched over his lap and quaking, lightheadedness rippling through like the pleasant sway of tipsiness without the crushing aftershock of hangover.
He fumbles loosely for one of Ian's shoulders and squeezes. ]
[ And that's what breaks him, that grip to his shoulder. All the internalized muscle-spasm twitching starts snaking out of his throat in hisses through his teeth. If it wasn't already visible, the little seismic jerks that happen underneath Nate's hand give it away regardless.
When he manages to find his voice, or he thinks he does enough that he won't let out a proper laugh, he shakes loose a belligerent: ]
No. This is-
[ A sound escapes anyway, he clears his throat to chase it out. ]
[ It shakes through his entire body like a set of maracas, rocking forward and back in place as though the shifting will force some kind of mental recovery from the suddenness of everything being unbearably funny.
Nate takes a couple of sharp, deep breaths, exhaling quickly while his thumb presses against flannel like it's going to provide any sort of acceptable stability. ]
[ Annnnnnnd it's gone, all composure lost, just stupid laughter that peels out so hard he sort of collapses against the back cushion of the couch — probably trapping Nate's hand between his shoulder and the fabric in the process, but he doesn't really notice. ]
You- you got it.
[ He agrees emphatically, except he's definitely giving Nate shit for it. It's somehow still audible despite the fact that he's barely even really making words through the laughter. ]
[ Being the butt of somebody's joke is a sensation with which Nate is one-hundred percent familiar, which is why he doesn't take it personally. It's been weeks since he felt this light and there's no sense in getting all wrapped up in the negative, stomach-churning shit he's been swilling nonstop when there's a much more appealing option: accepting that laughing until he feels sick is the better alternative. ]
Shut- shut up.
[ He wheezes, helplessly shoving at Ian where his hand is bear-trapped against the sofa. With absolutely zero conviction, he forces out: ]
[ He shake shakes his head, a rhythmic and insistent back and forth, but he can't school his mouth down enough to say no you don't. It's implied, it's heavily implied even if he can't get it out.
A second or two later affords him some composure, and he rights himself enough to dip forward and thumb at one of his eyes. He's not quite been reduced to tears, but there's a definite wetness at the corners that he rubs away. ]
Oh, god.
[ He manages absently, a little strained. Between the smoke and the sucking down air, his throat's dry as hell. He pushes to his feet, still rubbing at his eyelashes, pitching out an offer. ]
Hey man, you want some SunnyD? Or like... B or C, or G, fuck. Or water, but I'm tryin' to get rid of my failures.
[ Christ, okay. He can recover from this with minimal incident. He does not, in fact, hate Ian, but he will never be able to peel Winnesota out of his head for the rest of his miserable life here. Stuck too tight.
Nate chokes out something between a laugh and a breath, rubbing at his face with both hands. He falls back on his side of couch, arm dangling over the edge when he glances up at the only man with a plan here. ]
[ The way Nate delivers that pulls a residual, amused laugh from him. He shakes his head on the way to the kitchen, and he returns with the fruit(juice)s of his labor in two glasses.
When he plops down onto the couch it's irreverently, and unintentionally a few inches closer. ]
Dude... how... why do you know how to do fucking... magic? When did you learn that?
[ The song changes to something thankfully less incriminating, and he props one foot at a time up onto the coffee table, crossed at the ankles. ]
[ He only eases himself back up again with Ian's return, murmuring a quiet thanks as he relives him of one of the glasses. It's definitely orange, and looks considerably improved from several of the batches he saw in the fridge not that long ago, so Nate is cautiously optimistic. He takes an experimental sip while pulling his knee further onto the couch.
Not bad. ]
Jesus, no. I used to really like stage magic when I was kid. Read about illusionists and escape artists like...Alexander Herrmann, and Harry Houdini, and Howard Thurston.
[ There are probably some pulls a little too deep, there, but Nate always found a strange kind of delight in the work of turn-of-the-century magicians. With less-advanced technology at their fingertips they had to do more to make the act convincing. ]
Found an old VHS in a Saint Vincent de Paul that somebody had copied a bunch of Buster Keaton movies on and I loved that stuff, the kinda- physical comedy, "now you see me" thing. I started teaching myself, turns out sleight-of-hand works really well for thieves, too.
[ Ian knows exactly one name out of any of the ones Nate just mentioned, and there's a kind of amused expression on his face that suggests as much. He can't make fun, though, he honestly can't. Nate's too sweetly enthusiastic about it for Ian to tease just yet. ]
So... you're a scuba-diving gun-toting bartending archeologist pirate magician.
[ It's a statement and a question at once, correct him if he's wrong. Otherwise, with completely good humor and some kind of creeping fondness in his tone: ]
[ It's a laundry list of professions and activities, all of which are valid but all of which are nothing but parts. There's more to the whole picture, but if it helps - like fitting out the edges of a jigsaw puzzle - then Nate lets him have it. Some people prefer labels, catalogues, and highly-organized filing cabinets for their context. Some people like the clarity of definitions, and it probably doesn't help that Nate makes himself as difficult to define as humanly possible.
Having heard so much worse than you're the weirdest person I've ever met it genuinely tickles him and it shows. Nate feels that bashful grin crawling up again, over his chest and onto his face like a flush as he presses his smile into his fist, elbow propped on the back of the sofa.
Sincerely, he extends his gratitude and lifts his glass of the poor man's SunnyD. ]
[ For what it's worth, Ian's evolved past thinking of Nate in the simplest terms and clearest definitions (thank you, Breakfast Club). It's just amusing as hell to try and voice the array of adjectives and nouns that are applicable and bask in how ridiculously non-cohesive it all sounds when you say it out loud.
Plus, it earns that bashful look that's-- frankly, it's fucking adorable. He bites his lip to keep his own expression mostly under control, and whether or not Nate intended it to be a cheers situation, he raises his glass to gently clink it anyway. Just because. ]
You're welcome.
[ And hey, speaking of glasses-- He tips his head at Nate's. ]
[ Cheers. He's mid-sip when the next question hits him and Nate gives it the consideration it deserves, with a pleasant bob of his head while he contemplates the contents of his glass. ]
Yeah, SunnyD. The "not really orange juice" juice.
[ Most of what he'd been drinking were South American equivalents, however many different flavors of jugo with way too much sugar in them for a growing boy. This doesn't taste quite the way he remembers it tasting, but he's sure that's because this is batch forty-something in Ian's quest, and perfection takes time.
He purses his lips and mulls over the tart and sweet wrestling for dominance. ]
[ He laments emphatically, staring at the glass of betrayal. It's good, sure. The thing about juice is it's really, really hard to go wrong no matter how many different citrus flavors you blend together.
After a beat, his head falls back hopelessly against the cushion behind him. ]
I've tried fucking everything. Had to swap out the high fructose corn syrup for agave nectar, but that shouldn't really affect the taste all that much. Like, the orange juice part is obvious, lemon, lime, sure. I'm thinking apple juice, maybe that's what's throwing it off. I keep... fucking with the ratios but no matter how I cut it, it's just...
[ Frustrated gesture at the air. ]
Mango, pineapple, cherry, I've even tried fucking prune juice.
[ Okay, so this is in fact a much bigger deal than he thought, and he wasn't all that off-base about finding an obsessive project to act as a convenient distraction from other emotional ailments. Reassuring to understand how thorough Ian has gotten, slightly concerning nonetheless. How long has he been experimenting? Nate never rifled through the contents of his fridge to check all the dates on the different batches.
Furrowing his brow while Ian waxes on about failed juice additives Nate purses his lips against his knuckles, mentally checking off the options. It would be sort of nice, he thinks, to help him out, even if it's just offering a new avenue of tests.
Which is right about the time that Nate's chest starts to glow, blue peeking over the rolled hem of his shirt, and he asks: ]
[ In his defense, he started Operation SunnyD almost immediately after his safehouse home was demolished. It's not just a post-Kyna coping mechanism, this is a long time in the making.
A long, frustrating time of working his ass off.
A long time of wracking his brain.
All of that contributes to the weary resignation in his posture when he puts his glass down.
The blue catches his attention before Nate's suggestion does, and he freezes like a deer in the fucking headlights.
A long, silent second. ]
Grapefruit?
[ Echoed blankly. Another silent second, and then the earth-shattering revelation: ]
Grapefruit.
[ Followed by grabbing Nate's face and smashing a kiss onto his cheek quickly, and with too much enthusiasm.
Annnd then he's up off the couch and headed to his workspace to swiftly scribble down a note. ]
[ Ian stares at him. It's startled, not pointed, like he's shocked instead of planning to open his mouth to say what a stupid idea that is, Nate, grapefruit, I mean, come on.
But all he does is snap like a dry breadstick before abandoning his own predecessor to SunnyD, grabbing Nate by the sides of his head before dragging him in and laying one on him as though Nate had just uncovered the cure for the common cold. He's left dumbstruck in his own right, watching stupidly as Ian sweeps away to his little desk to write something down in the notebook that Nate had given him weeks ago. ]
Uh.
[ How does he respond to that, besides smiling unsurely and quizzically, rubbing at his cheek. ]
[ By his desk, he plants one hand down flat on the surface and bends a little at the waist to scrawl out a few ideas on ratios. They're just top-of-mind concepts so he doesn't forget later, ultimately what really matters is just the ingredient itself. He can figure it out from there.
Once he's got a few laid out he looks over, flicking his head to send his hair out of his face absently. ]
I seriously can't believe I've been doing this for fucking weeks and you probably just cracked it with a lucky guess.
[ Some people might sound annoyed, maybe he feigns it a little, but really his tone is clearly half amused and half impressed. He underscores it by flopping his notebook closed audibly, but he carries it with him back to the couch on the off chance Nate has any other revolutionary ideas. ]
[ Nate knows the habit of getting absorbed in writing something down, communicating your idea and putting it to paper, so he spends the following seconds examining his glass' contents and wondering if it would taste better with that slightly bitter, slightly sweet hint of grapefruit.
What the fuck does he know? He's not a scientist, just a citrus enthusiast. ]
Yeah, lucky guess.
[ He echoes in agreement, brow still wrinkled in thought, when he suddenly freezes. For God's sake, Nathan, panicked grasping, Blackjack. The casino, his open shirt. It slots together like the teeth of well-oiled gears. ]
[ He noticed it, he remembers, it's just that it came right before the answer to all of life's problems, and... well, he's stoned. It was out of his brain just as quickly as it was in it. ]
So is it-- wait...
[ He starts and stops, befuddled, trying to figure out what in the hell a power like that even is. Not psychic, because that would imply Ian was thinking of it himself.
He definitely doesn't believe this suggestion when he throws it out, it's as wry as it is confused. ]
[ They're both stoned, and therefore the impairment is slowing Nate's tendency to rapid-fire theorize his way through something. The thoughts come slower and heavier, a little less rational and considerably more absurd.
Nate has the context that Ian doesn't and he's already trying to parse out the occurrences that he knows of: a nice drink one night at a nice bar when they should have been out, a twenty-one in Blackjack when he'd been counting cards and the Ace shouldn't have come up, and now this.
His free hand feels over his chest, tapping there with his pointer finger while he mulls it over and ultimately says something so ridiculous it can't possibly be true.
Because it would be the deepest irony thus far. ]
This is gonna sound...really, really stupid, but...I think it's luck?
[ He grouses quietly, pondering over the implications in this world, and how easy it would have been for him to mistake a normal occurrence for whatever this is. It feels the same as home. He might never notice if it weren't for the light show that comes with it.
Which is why Nate gives Ian a long-suffering look when he hides his hands behind the small of his back. He rubs at the corner of one of his eyes. The answer comes without thinking. ]
Four. [ Another flicker in his chest, and Nate looks down at himself for a moment. ] ...Huh.
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Amazing.
[ Nate says almost reverently, leaning in and lowering his voice in a decidedly conspiratorial manner. Sucks to be the bearer of bad news. ]
That's Wisconsin.
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[ And he's just gonna... take that... bong now oh look so distracted by all these drugs.
Except that it's so fucking stupid, it's so stupid that it's funny. There's a laugh struggling to quake out of his stomach, it's bubbling up the back of his throat, and he has to pull his mouth away from the glass before he starts laughing into it.
Hides his smile by rubbing his hand over his lips for a second while the muscles fight against themselves. ]
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Okay, that's- that's-
[ The giddiness hits him hard and Nate starts giggling, hunched over his lap and quaking, lightheadedness rippling through like the pleasant sway of tipsiness without the crushing aftershock of hangover.
He fumbles loosely for one of Ian's shoulders and squeezes. ]
Stop laughing.
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When he manages to find his voice, or he thinks he does enough that he won't let out a proper laugh, he shakes loose a belligerent: ]
No. This is-
[ A sound escapes anyway, he clears his throat to chase it out. ]
This is classic comedy for Minnesota.
[ Wait, fuck-- ]
Wisconsin.
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[ It shakes through his entire body like a set of maracas, rocking forward and back in place as though the shifting will force some kind of mental recovery from the suddenness of everything being unbearably funny.
Nate takes a couple of sharp, deep breaths, exhaling quickly while his thumb presses against flannel like it's going to provide any sort of acceptable stability. ]
Misconsin. Wait, no- Winnesota. Fuck.
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You- you got it.
[ He agrees emphatically, except he's definitely giving Nate shit for it. It's somehow still audible despite the fact that he's barely even really making words through the laughter. ]
That's it, that's the one—
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Shut- shut up.
[ He wheezes, helplessly shoving at Ian where his hand is bear-trapped against the sofa. With absolutely zero conviction, he forces out: ]
Misconsin, oh, I hate you-
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A second or two later affords him some composure, and he rights himself enough to dip forward and thumb at one of his eyes. He's not quite been reduced to tears, but there's a definite wetness at the corners that he rubs away. ]
Oh, god.
[ He manages absently, a little strained. Between the smoke and the sucking down air, his throat's dry as hell. He pushes to his feet, still rubbing at his eyelashes, pitching out an offer. ]
Hey man, you want some SunnyD? Or like... B or C, or G, fuck. Or water, but I'm tryin' to get rid of my failures.
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Nate chokes out something between a laugh and a breath, rubbing at his face with both hands. He falls back on his side of couch, arm dangling over the edge when he glances up at the only man with a plan here. ]
Surprise me.
[ He bestows upon him, as if sharing a secret. ]
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When he plops down onto the couch it's irreverently, and unintentionally a few inches closer. ]
Dude... how... why do you know how to do fucking... magic? When did you learn that?
[ The song changes to something thankfully less incriminating, and he props one foot at a time up onto the coffee table, crossed at the ankles. ]
Or- wait, is that your actual power?
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Not bad. ]
Jesus, no. I used to really like stage magic when I was kid. Read about illusionists and escape artists like...Alexander Herrmann, and Harry Houdini, and Howard Thurston.
[ There are probably some pulls a little too deep, there, but Nate always found a strange kind of delight in the work of turn-of-the-century magicians. With less-advanced technology at their fingertips they had to do more to make the act convincing. ]
Found an old VHS in a Saint Vincent de Paul that somebody had copied a bunch of Buster Keaton movies on and I loved that stuff, the kinda- physical comedy, "now you see me" thing. I started teaching myself, turns out sleight-of-hand works really well for thieves, too.
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So... you're a scuba-diving gun-toting bartending archeologist pirate magician.
[ It's a statement and a question at once, correct him if he's wrong. Otherwise, with completely good humor and some kind of creeping fondness in his tone: ]
Dude, you're the weirdest person I've ever met.
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Having heard so much worse than you're the weirdest person I've ever met it genuinely tickles him and it shows. Nate feels that bashful grin crawling up again, over his chest and onto his face like a flush as he presses his smile into his fist, elbow propped on the back of the sofa.
Sincerely, he extends his gratitude and lifts his glass of the poor man's SunnyD. ]
Thank you.
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Plus, it earns that bashful look that's-- frankly, it's fucking adorable. He bites his lip to keep his own expression mostly under control, and whether or not Nate intended it to be a cheers situation, he raises his glass to gently clink it anyway. Just because. ]
You're welcome.
[ And hey, speaking of glasses-- He tips his head at Nate's. ]
Hey, did you have that where you're from?
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Yeah, SunnyD. The "not really orange juice" juice.
[ Most of what he'd been drinking were South American equivalents, however many different flavors of jugo with way too much sugar in them for a growing boy. This doesn't taste quite the way he remembers it tasting, but he's sure that's because this is batch forty-something in Ian's quest, and perfection takes time.
He purses his lips and mulls over the tart and sweet wrestling for dominance. ]
...It needs something else.
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[ He laments emphatically, staring at the glass of betrayal. It's good, sure. The thing about juice is it's really, really hard to go wrong no matter how many different citrus flavors you blend together.
After a beat, his head falls back hopelessly against the cushion behind him. ]
I've tried fucking everything. Had to swap out the high fructose corn syrup for agave nectar, but that shouldn't really affect the taste all that much. Like, the orange juice part is obvious, lemon, lime, sure. I'm thinking apple juice, maybe that's what's throwing it off. I keep... fucking with the ratios but no matter how I cut it, it's just...
[ Frustrated gesture at the air. ]
Mango, pineapple, cherry, I've even tried fucking prune juice.
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Furrowing his brow while Ian waxes on about failed juice additives Nate purses his lips against his knuckles, mentally checking off the options. It would be sort of nice, he thinks, to help him out, even if it's just offering a new avenue of tests.
Which is right about the time that Nate's chest starts to glow, blue peeking over the rolled hem of his shirt, and he asks: ]
What about grapefruit juice?
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A long, frustrating time of working his ass off.
A long time of wracking his brain.
All of that contributes to the weary resignation in his posture when he puts his glass down.
The blue catches his attention before Nate's suggestion does, and he freezes like a deer in the fucking headlights.
A long, silent second. ]
Grapefruit?
[ Echoed blankly. Another silent second, and then the earth-shattering revelation: ]
Grapefruit.
[ Followed by grabbing Nate's face and smashing a kiss onto his cheek quickly, and with too much enthusiasm.
Annnd then he's up off the couch and headed to his workspace to swiftly scribble down a note. ]
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But all he does is snap like a dry breadstick before abandoning his own predecessor to SunnyD, grabbing Nate by the sides of his head before dragging him in and laying one on him as though Nate had just uncovered the cure for the common cold. He's left dumbstruck in his own right, watching stupidly as Ian sweeps away to his little desk to write something down in the notebook that Nate had given him weeks ago. ]
Uh.
[ How does he respond to that, besides smiling unsurely and quizzically, rubbing at his cheek. ]
You're welcome?
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Once he's got a few laid out he looks over, flicking his head to send his hair out of his face absently. ]
I seriously can't believe I've been doing this for fucking weeks and you probably just cracked it with a lucky guess.
[ Some people might sound annoyed, maybe he feigns it a little, but really his tone is clearly half amused and half impressed. He underscores it by flopping his notebook closed audibly, but he carries it with him back to the couch on the off chance Nate has any other revolutionary ideas. ]
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What the fuck does he know? He's not a scientist, just a citrus enthusiast. ]
Yeah, lucky guess.
[ He echoes in agreement, brow still wrinkled in thought, when he suddenly freezes. For God's sake, Nathan, panicked grasping, Blackjack. The casino, his open shirt. It slots together like the teeth of well-oiled gears. ]
Did my chest just glow?
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Yeah, shit, yeah, it did.
[ He noticed it, he remembers, it's just that it came right before the answer to all of life's problems, and... well, he's stoned. It was out of his brain just as quickly as it was in it. ]
So is it-- wait...
[ He starts and stops, befuddled, trying to figure out what in the hell a power like that even is. Not psychic, because that would imply Ian was thinking of it himself.
He definitely doesn't believe this suggestion when he throws it out, it's as wry as it is confused. ]
Is your power actually bartending?
[ Since apparently you can perfect drinks. ]
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Nate has the context that Ian doesn't and he's already trying to parse out the occurrences that he knows of: a nice drink one night at a nice bar when they should have been out, a twenty-one in Blackjack when he'd been counting cards and the Ace shouldn't have come up, and now this.
His free hand feels over his chest, tapping there with his pointer finger while he mulls it over and ultimately says something so ridiculous it can't possibly be true.
Because it would be the deepest irony thus far. ]
This is gonna sound...really, really stupid, but...I think it's luck?
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[ Slow, and boundlessly amused. ]
Sure, that tracks.
[ It's light, he's joking, but like-- actually, he's considering it beneath the humor. How do you even test something like that?
Well, maybe just... games of chance or something?
He sticks his hands behind his back, index and middle fingers sticking up. ]
How many fingers am I holding up?
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[ He grouses quietly, pondering over the implications in this world, and how easy it would have been for him to mistake a normal occurrence for whatever this is. It feels the same as home. He might never notice if it weren't for the light show that comes with it.
Which is why Nate gives Ian a long-suffering look when he hides his hands behind the small of his back. He rubs at the corner of one of his eyes. The answer comes without thinking. ]
Four. [ Another flicker in his chest, and Nate looks down at himself for a moment. ] ...Huh.
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