maybe I am, and no you're not :) look man it's a matter of practicality and efficiency all of the waffle toppings are contained within the confines of the waffle waffles are good engineering pancakes are chaos you just slap shit on them and pray
Maybe I LIKE the chaos. Every bite is different. What's that over there? Could be more syrup. Could be butter. Could be preserves. It's always a surprise.
Waffle toppings are only contained so long as you maintain the structural integrity of each unit. As soon as the dam breaks you lose your syrup reservoir. Boom, a flood that you can't mop up with a waffle because they're not as spongy and absorbent as pancakes.
The walls between units are too thin, bisecting one perfectly requires the dexterity of a heart surgeon. The risk of breaking your own syrup levees is too high when the alternative is having a lake of syrup you can dip your pancake in. Clearly the superior option.
[ Says the man whose career was built out of reckless self-endangerment.
Ian has a point, though: Nate has been attacked before, veritable strangers in the street who knew his image and either didn't like it, or liked it too much. Stalkers have come with the territory and it's why Sam despises his baby brother's forays back into the Congregation, why Ian has every right to be concerned, and there's an entire mailbox he never looks at the contents of because early on he learned that some letters are better left unread.
The flat is private and of much higher living standards than a large majority of the Aerie, but he knows better than to take it for granted and getting to pass through the threshold of public eye to intimate eye always takes the tension out of his shoulders.
Nate drops his keys in the bowl, two-tone whistling his arrival down the hall. ]
[ He says it like it's a joke, but it's really not. He's been around for some of the horror stories -- at least, the ones Nate's told him. Obviously he can handle himself, that's part of what he does for a living, but that doesn't make Ian any less worried.
He's in the kitchen, standing at the stove with a spatula in hand and flour on his shirt, the remains of measuring cups and spoons adorning the counter beside him because the man's precise as hell about his cooking. Music is playing because it always is, because Ian is predictable. ]
We don't want any.
[ Called out wryly, without abandoning the eggs. Classic dad joke, and why he has that trait when he isn't nor has he ever had a dad is beyond anyone's comprehension. ]
[ It's a stupid joke but he smiles nonetheless, shrugging his jacket off and tossing it onto the coat hook. The air is warm and filled with the very, very old music that Ian is particularly fond of, and the smell of batter sizzling in a greased pan. The opposite of what his organized team would suggest for dinner - something something protein, fiber, balanced diet - and for that reason he likes it all the more.
Ian is hovering over the humble little stove eyeing the hot surface with the meticulous air of a man dedicated to making perfectly circular pancakes.
With little preamble Nate slides a hand around the small of Ian's back to his waist, dropping a kiss to his be-sweatered shoulder. ]
[ You better believe his damn pancakes are perfectly circular. If he's going to engineer chaos, it's going to be the most controlled chaos you've ever seen.
Fortunately spatula duty only takes one hand, so the other's free to drop down and settle over Nate's arm at his waist. With it, the gentle settling back into the body behind him and the almost-turn of his head to catch a glance at him out of the corner of his eye. ]
Hi. Listen. Before you say anything... That was not my fault.
[ Followed by a pointed look over at a plate beside the stove.
Atrocities like that don't happen in waffle irons. ]
[ It's a little bit like a miracle, honestly. All at once the tension from the rest of the day bleeds from him at the sight of that absolutely hideous, malformed pancake, and Ian's attempts at doing this are that much more appreciated for the effort. Nate laughs with a choked sound, not wanting to mock the handiwork but utterly delighted by how horrific it looks. ]
That's terrifying, I love it.
[ He hooks his chin on Ian's shoulder and grins, reaching out with his free hand to messily pluck a blueberry eye from the disaster before popping it into his mouth. ]
I feel like I'm gonna step out of the shower at midnight sometime and see that thing looking at me through the mirror.
[ Dryly, but it's hard to be anything but warm and amused during moments like this. It's easy for other people to take shit like this for granted, probably. Easy not to appreciate it while it's happening. Funny how watching your partner voluntarily engage in a battle to the fucking death every so often helps keep things in perspective.
He nudges Nate's temple a little with his own. ]
How was work? What was work?
[ There's probably a schedule somewhere around there that marks down what dates are parties and what dates are photoshoots and what dates are filming and whatever the fuck else they have him doing, but with Sam at the wheel it feels less urgent to keep track of it day to day. ]
[ Every other part of his life, the externality, is rigid angles and structures, highly manicured, and carefully maintained. The soft and messy roundness of their time behind closed doors always makes him feel that much more himself, contact he can have because it's his, it's theirs. He can linger in the affectionate bump, leaning back for comfort, to connect.
He thumbs Ian's hip and makes a small, disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. Not the same put-upon expression when a gala or a private party are concerned, but annoyed nonetheless. ]
Photo shoot. Some kind of- [ Nate sighs heavily. ] -modeling gig Sam dug up.
[ There are worse things, but he hates standing there like a mannequin for what feels like hours while they ask him to channel some emotion he's decidedly not feeling. Ultimately Nate tends to think about where he'd rather be. ]
[ He guesses innocently, though there's no completely eradicating the humor. You have to laugh about these things or you go fucking insane. There's a nice long list of former victors turned celebs that have committed suicide. They always paint it as caused by something else — a broken heart, an addiction. Anything but the glamorous lifestyle everyone should be working themselves to the bone to attain. Celebrity status is one of the few things that makes the system tolerable enough to slog forever onward.
Absently, murmured before Nate can answer— ]
Check it out.
[ Spatula goes down in favor of gently gripping the handle of his pancake pan and.
Neck-deep in drugs and physical contact, slogging through the parties in the upper echelons of society without feeling a single fucking thing. There isn't a day that goes by he doesn't think about his good fortune - in being what he is and surviving, in making a name for himself that isn't (usually) accompanied by someone spitting in the street, in having what he has - and Nate doesn't take it for granted. The space between them makes it possible to stay above the flood.
He tucks his face into the side of Ian's neck, into the mess of hair, and watches him flip a perfectly symmetrical pancake. The loose grin he wears must be wide enough to feel, approval and amusement clear as day. ]
Some new line with one of the big name designers. Basically stood there for a few hours and looked pretty, nothing fancy.
[ Something his overactive mind loathes, but what can you do? ]
[ It's not like there's an imbalance in that need. It's a fucking joke to think Ian would have ever recovered after his quarry if it weren't for Nate. Not that they were immediately attached at the hip, but that first night they met could have set him down an entirely different path. The next six months of press coverage, tours, fuck the next year of working for the company and trying to reconcile that within himself...
It could've been worse. It would have been worse. ]
Sounds like a blast. Real riveting stuff.
[ Mused knowingly; boring the shit out of him is one of the lasting tortures the company has left at their disposal.
The pan goes back down, the burner goes off, and at some point in between he's started swaying without even realizing it. ]
I wonder if they're gonna include that when they get around to ghost-writing your autobiography.
[ Getting paid to stand around and do nothing is leagues better than getting felt up by a handsy Cardinal at one of the big shindigs, so he shouldn't complain too much, but Ian knows by now that Nate fears becoming so complacent he stops wanting to learn. There are worse fates than being underutilized, but he still wishes his branding didn't revolve explicitly around his jawline.
Catching the tempo and oh-so gently swaying in time with Ian, complementary, Nate's voice grows mischievous at the edges and he gives his hip a little squeeze. ]
If they do they're going to have to include the parts about my "pensive mien" and how they assume I'm thinking about something pretentious when I'm really just thinking about the sound you make when I give you hickeys.
[ Nate's afraid about that kind of complacency, but that's one of the few things Ian's not worried about. He can't ever imagine Nate falling into that hole, so big a piece of his personality as it is. Besides that, intellectual stimulation might be one of the only things he's good for.
The other is pancakes.
He hums, then detaches just lightly enough that he can turn in Nate's arms to face him. He winds his own arms around Nate's shoulders, that absent sway never really faltering. ]
[ It's cute when he plays dumb. A thinly-veiled request for a little necking and Nate's smile is toothy, sharp, the ache of the day's events subsiding with warm arms around his shoulders and the smell of something fresh and beneath that, detergent and salt and oil. Ian worked with his hands today, built something, or took it apart. ]
You do.
[ Nate informs him sagely, memorizing the soft line of Ian's brow for the umpteenth time this week. His hands settle on Ian's hips, pressing gently into the hollow of them and enjoying the opportunity to crowd him against the counter. ]
I could give you a practical demonstration but dinner might get cold.
[ How dare you accurately accuse him of angling for something? He would never compromise his integrity.
Another soft and absent hum from the back of his throat, and he dips in to press a small kiss to Nate's jaw. And then another, and then another slightly higher. ]
It would be a crying shame.
[ He agrees conversationally into Nate's neck. ]
After all that work I put into making it terrifying.
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look man
it's a matter of practicality and efficiency
all of the waffle toppings are contained within the confines of the waffle
waffles are good engineering
pancakes are chaos
you just slap shit on them and pray
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Waffle toppings are only contained so long as you maintain the structural integrity of each unit. As soon as the dam breaks you lose your syrup reservoir. Boom, a flood that you can't mop up with a waffle because they're not as spongy and absorbent as pancakes.
Check and mate.
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there are literally gridlines to go by
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Some of the rest of us have finesse
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imprecise non-dexterous regular fists
besides, there's a tactic
it's an easy artform to master
I'll teach you
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You can finesse me over dinner.
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See you soon?
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no mark david chapmans
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[ Says the man whose career was built out of reckless self-endangerment.
Ian has a point, though: Nate has been attacked before, veritable strangers in the street who knew his image and either didn't like it, or liked it too much. Stalkers have come with the territory and it's why Sam despises his baby brother's forays back into the Congregation, why Ian has every right to be concerned, and there's an entire mailbox he never looks at the contents of because early on he learned that some letters are better left unread.
The flat is private and of much higher living standards than a large majority of the Aerie, but he knows better than to take it for granted and getting to pass through the threshold of public eye to intimate eye always takes the tension out of his shoulders.
Nate drops his keys in the bowl, two-tone whistling his arrival down the hall. ]
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He's in the kitchen, standing at the stove with a spatula in hand and flour on his shirt, the remains of measuring cups and spoons adorning the counter beside him because the man's precise as hell about his cooking. Music is playing because it always is, because Ian is predictable. ]
We don't want any.
[ Called out wryly, without abandoning the eggs. Classic dad joke, and why he has that trait when he isn't nor has he ever had a dad is beyond anyone's comprehension. ]
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[ It's a stupid joke but he smiles nonetheless, shrugging his jacket off and tossing it onto the coat hook. The air is warm and filled with the very, very old music that Ian is particularly fond of, and the smell of batter sizzling in a greased pan. The opposite of what his organized team would suggest for dinner - something something protein, fiber, balanced diet - and for that reason he likes it all the more.
Ian is hovering over the humble little stove eyeing the hot surface with the meticulous air of a man dedicated to making perfectly circular pancakes.
With little preamble Nate slides a hand around the small of Ian's back to his waist, dropping a kiss to his be-sweatered shoulder. ]
Hi.
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Fortunately spatula duty only takes one hand, so the other's free to drop down and settle over Nate's arm at his waist. With it, the gentle settling back into the body behind him and the almost-turn of his head to catch a glance at him out of the corner of his eye. ]
Hi. Listen. Before you say anything... That was not my fault.
[ Followed by a pointed look over at a plate beside the stove.
Atrocities like that don't happen in waffle irons. ]
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That's terrifying, I love it.
[ He hooks his chin on Ian's shoulder and grins, reaching out with his free hand to messily pluck a blueberry eye from the disaster before popping it into his mouth. ]
Not bad.
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[ Dryly, but it's hard to be anything but warm and amused during moments like this. It's easy for other people to take shit like this for granted, probably. Easy not to appreciate it while it's happening. Funny how watching your partner voluntarily engage in a battle to the fucking death every so often helps keep things in perspective.
He nudges Nate's temple a little with his own. ]
How was work? What was work?
[ There's probably a schedule somewhere around there that marks down what dates are parties and what dates are photoshoots and what dates are filming and whatever the fuck else they have him doing, but with Sam at the wheel it feels less urgent to keep track of it day to day. ]
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He thumbs Ian's hip and makes a small, disgruntled sound in the back of his throat. Not the same put-upon expression when a gala or a private party are concerned, but annoyed nonetheless. ]
Photo shoot. Some kind of- [ Nate sighs heavily. ] -modeling gig Sam dug up.
[ There are worse things, but he hates standing there like a mannequin for what feels like hours while they ask him to channel some emotion he's decidedly not feeling. Ultimately Nate tends to think about where he'd rather be. ]
Before you ask, I did have clothes on.
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[ He guesses innocently, though there's no completely eradicating the humor. You have to laugh about these things or you go fucking insane. There's a nice long list of former victors turned celebs that have committed suicide. They always paint it as caused by something else — a broken heart, an addiction. Anything but the glamorous lifestyle everyone should be working themselves to the bone to attain. Celebrity status is one of the few things that makes the system tolerable enough to slog forever onward.
Absently, murmured before Nate can answer— ]
Check it out.
[ Spatula goes down in favor of gently gripping the handle of his pancake pan and.
Little wiggle, tiny shake.
Flip. ]
Ehh??
[ Good right?? Sorry, go on about your speedos. ]
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Neck-deep in drugs and physical contact, slogging through the parties in the upper echelons of society without feeling a single fucking thing. There isn't a day that goes by he doesn't think about his good fortune - in being what he is and surviving, in making a name for himself that isn't (usually) accompanied by someone spitting in the street, in having what he has - and Nate doesn't take it for granted. The space between them makes it possible to stay above the flood.
He tucks his face into the side of Ian's neck, into the mess of hair, and watches him flip a perfectly symmetrical pancake. The loose grin he wears must be wide enough to feel, approval and amusement clear as day. ]
Some new line with one of the big name designers. Basically stood there for a few hours and looked pretty, nothing fancy.
[ Something his overactive mind loathes, but what can you do? ]
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It could've been worse. It would have been worse. ]
Sounds like a blast. Real riveting stuff.
[ Mused knowingly; boring the shit out of him is one of the lasting tortures the company has left at their disposal.
The pan goes back down, the burner goes off, and at some point in between he's started swaying without even realizing it. ]
I wonder if they're gonna include that when they get around to ghost-writing your autobiography.
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Catching the tempo and oh-so gently swaying in time with Ian, complementary, Nate's voice grows mischievous at the edges and he gives his hip a little squeeze. ]
If they do they're going to have to include the parts about my "pensive mien" and how they assume I'm thinking about something pretentious when I'm really just thinking about the sound you make when I give you hickeys.
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The other is pancakes.
He hums, then detaches just lightly enough that he can turn in Nate's arms to face him. He winds his own arms around Nate's shoulders, that absent sway never really faltering. ]
What sound? I don't make a sound.
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You do.
[ Nate informs him sagely, memorizing the soft line of Ian's brow for the umpteenth time this week. His hands settle on Ian's hips, pressing gently into the hollow of them and enjoying the opportunity to crowd him against the counter. ]
I could give you a practical demonstration but dinner might get cold.
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Another soft and absent hum from the back of his throat, and he dips in to press a small kiss to Nate's jaw. And then another, and then another slightly higher. ]
It would be a crying shame.
[ He agrees conversationally into Nate's neck. ]
After all that work I put into making it terrifying.
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