[ 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.
[ As if on cue, the instant Ian's mouth touches him, Nate seems to soften. A small sound of undeniable pleasure, a hum, and an accompanying sigh through his nose when time-honored tactics at physically and emotionally manipulating him take their toll. His grip tightens ever-so-slightly as he tips his chin up to accommodate for the attention.
Ian's got his goddamn number.
Funny, perhaps, coming from a grown man, but there's the slightest hint of petulance in his voice when he reiterates: ]
[ Pointed out with the unapologetic audacity of a smug man pleased with his handiwork. It's nothing all that pornographic really, just gentle and slightly open-mouthed kisses beneath his ear, down his neck.
But hey, far be it from him to ignore that protest.
He breaks away after a few seconds, arms dropping down, probably looking annoyingly amused. ]
Be free, majestic unicorn from the cereal commercials. Go get a plate.
[ Semantics, because Ian isn't actually wrong, and that's somehow more annoying even if that irritation is assuaged by the soft mouth and slightly scratchy beard tracking down his pulse. Nate could easily stay here, melt into this and return the favor while his skin prickles deliciously and want twinges in his gut but just as Ian giveth, Ian taketh away.
Nate groans his displeasure even though he asked for it, having to shake off the pleasant reverie as he sways back unsteadily. It's the expression on Ian's face that catches him like nothing else, all sly and knowing. The cat that got the cream. ]
You do a cereal commercial one time-
[ He gripes quietly, fingers trailing Ian's wrist before parting to retrieve two plates, because he's not an animal. ]
He knows which of the two of them has it worse. Contrary to whatever he'd been trying to say that first night they met, Nate's got the shit end of the stick. Ian goes to work every day in a quiet place doing what he studied to do — granted, he has to reconcile the people he gets fucking killed with his work, but this is life. This is what it is. You don't spit in the face of the gifts you're given from on-high, because turning that down is disrespect. Disrespect is tantamount to death. But at least he has his privacy, and more freedom than Nate ever really will.
Nate's trapped under a microscope, and as if that weren't enough he gets the joy of getting thrust back into the quarry whenever his popularity wanes too much. He gets to periodically relive it all, risk his life, refresh the blood on his hands.
So yeah, Ian will make him fucking breakfast for dinner, and he'll make pancakes instead of waffles, and if he could find any other way to make the world a little softer he'd do that, too.
Like eating side by side in the living room floor, plates on the coffee table, shoulders touching while he subjects Nate to running commentary on something neither of them are really watching. ]
[ In interviews, press conferences, and at parties, people always ask Nathan Drake what he looks forward to at the end of another long day of slogging through the undoubtedly sweet life of an Aerie celebrity. Is it the shower, the food, the prospect of an evening out or a one night stand? He always defers, always lets them guess, because none of the options will ever come close to the satisfaction of eating pancakes while sitting on the floor, pressed up against the man they'll never know about if he can help it.
The television theorist, rambling about something Nate surely does not fully understand but delights in regardless, his voice soft and bright with enthusiasm, hands moving around his plate. Nate watches his profile more than he watches Weeks of Our Lives because the former is a thousand times more interesting.
He props his elbow on the seat of the couch behind them, fingertips brushing the nape of Ian's neck. Amusedly: ]
[ Those fingertips at the back of his neck are one of the little triggers that sends an instant wave of comfort-calm through him. He melts a little in turn, a little heavier against Nate's side, head tipped a little more in his direction. There are a few things he associates to Nate, a few soft and gentle touches that are inherently his that something in his chest just clicks into place. It started on night one with fingers in his hair, and now here they are, what, ten fucking years later? ]
Both of them.
[ He drawls out, rasp pronounced from lazy speech. ]
And ironically each brother looks like the other guy.
[ He's making that part up because he's ninety percent sure Nate doesn't know any better. ]
[ A little like a cat, Ian cants into the contact with a predictable sort of sweetness, the same tells he's had since they first met in the common space of a suite of hotel rooms. Ian's first Quarry, and Ian's first Quarry party. Friendly, easy physicality until it turned less platonic. ]
Really.
[ Ian's deadpan delivery is exceptionally convincing. It doesn't sound right, but he doesn't know enough about this show to tell otherwise. Program long-abandoned by his attention span Nate focuses on the considerably more appealing person warming his side: the loose curls around his face, the scratch in his voice.
Nate's thumb and forefinger idly massage the back of his neck, under his hairline, incapable of keeping his hands to himself when he finally has privacy to exploit. ]
⧼ Not terribly unlike several years ago, his eyes close after a few seconds of touch. Maybe a housecat isn't a terrible comparison, particularly with the way he tilts his head down a little to offer up more room. ⧽
Mhmm.
⧼ A hummed out agreement. ⧽
You're terrible at them. You're gonna fail the quiz.
⧼ Never mind the fact that he's actively tuning out right now. ⧽
[ It's an idle thing to say, nothing that really matters when his palm slips closer, thumb pressing into the little notch at the base of Ian's skull where it meets his spine. A warm pressure point for warm sentiments, watching the way Ian's eyes slip shut, and a tiny smile edges in as he tries on the best part of the day like soft, weathered jacket. ]
I get the feeling like you're not taking this seriously.
( It's a wry, slow drawl. A few seconds after, he undergoes the arduous task of lifting his head and slitting his eyes open to cut a look over at Nate.
Honestly, he's forgotten what they're even watching right now. He's comfortable, a little tired, a lot happy Nate's home. It's with that contentedness written in him that he leans over to press their foreheads together, nose nudging nose, eyes closing right back up again. )
I'm leaving you for Alejandro's twin brother.
( A conspiratorial whisper, like he's letting Nate in on a secret. )
He's got a hot air balloon on the other side of the dome.
[ There's a comfort in the proximity that he can't fully articulate, but then, Nate has never been especially talented at saying as much when it isn't thrice-rehearsed for a crowd. For as long as they've known each other, he still manages to get tongue-tied around Ian. Breathing the same air, skin to skin, it's difficult not to be.
He hums instead, mulling it over, greedily inhaling the scent of that stupid shampoo and the oils from Ian's work. ]
You sound pretty committed to this guy.
[ Bumping noses briefly he ducks his head, smile grazing Ian's mouth before he presses a light kiss to the underside of his jaw. ]
Do you call him "Alejandro's twin brother" to his face?
( He loves when they have time. When Nate doesn't have fifteen things to do and places to be overnight, when there's an entire evening for the slow, unhurried parts like this. )
Of course not.
( Obviously. What kind of monster is he?
He tips his chin to make room, and... you know, since he's got the opportunity, stealths his fingertips underneath the hemline of Nate's shirt like he somehow won't notice them passing over his stomach. )
I call him "Alejandro's".
( Brother is his last name.
If you wanted funny you shouldn't have picked this one. Sorry, man. )
[ It's the small, intimate gestures that they know all too well, now. The barest lift of a chin, a furtive glance, a knuckle brushing the back of a hand. Gestures intended to communicate a measure of trust, of mutual respect.
Gestures intended to make his blood pressure briefly spike, as Nate's stomach tenses under that inquisitive contact. ]
Wow, that's bad. Even for you.
[ Says the reigning champion of Crappiest Jokes Told In The Presence of One's Significant Other. Nate's toothy smile grazes Ian's throat. ]
( Except that he's grinning too hard beside Nate's ear to really pull it off, and he's a little preoccupied with the way he's snaking fingertips up Nate's stomach. It's light, it's barely anything, just ghosting over the ridges of muscle and the curve of his ribs.
It's half one of those soft, intimate feel-good gestures, half probing to see if he can't catch a nerve the right way and get him to jolt. Whether it gets his blood pressure up or earns a spasm, either way's a win. )
[ It would probably be easier if Nate wasn't such a goddamn bleeding heart for him, an easy mark to no man except the one at his side, whose exploration is both titillating and clearly trying to earn a rise.
It works, to an extent. The heat swells in his skin like a flush and Nate is pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Ian's pulse when those fingers curl into a ticklish spot and the sound he makes is undignified at best, startling in callused hands with a little jerk. ]
Hey- [ His palm settles at the back of Ian's neck, squeezing gently. ] Watch it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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? ]
no subject
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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Ian's got his goddamn number.
Funny, perhaps, coming from a grown man, but there's the slightest hint of petulance in his voice when he reiterates: ]
You said you'd finesse me afterward.
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[ Pointed out with the unapologetic audacity of a smug man pleased with his handiwork. It's nothing all that pornographic really, just gentle and slightly open-mouthed kisses beneath his ear, down his neck.
But hey, far be it from him to ignore that protest.
He breaks away after a few seconds, arms dropping down, probably looking annoyingly amused. ]
Be free, majestic unicorn from the cereal commercials. Go get a plate.
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Nate groans his displeasure even though he asked for it, having to shake off the pleasant reverie as he sways back unsteadily. It's the expression on Ian's face that catches him like nothing else, all sly and knowing. The cat that got the cream. ]
You do a cereal commercial one time-
[ He gripes quietly, fingers trailing Ian's wrist before parting to retrieve two plates, because he's not an animal. ]
Thank you. For this.
no subject
[ Less smug, more sincere.
He knows which of the two of them has it worse. Contrary to whatever he'd been trying to say that first night they met, Nate's got the shit end of the stick. Ian goes to work every day in a quiet place doing what he studied to do — granted, he has to reconcile the people he gets fucking killed with his work, but this is life. This is what it is. You don't spit in the face of the gifts you're given from on-high, because turning that down is disrespect. Disrespect is tantamount to death. But at least he has his privacy, and more freedom than Nate ever really will.
Nate's trapped under a microscope, and as if that weren't enough he gets the joy of getting thrust back into the quarry whenever his popularity wanes too much. He gets to periodically relive it all, risk his life, refresh the blood on his hands.
So yeah, Ian will make him fucking breakfast for dinner, and he'll make pancakes instead of waffles, and if he could find any other way to make the world a little softer he'd do that, too.
Like eating side by side in the living room floor, plates on the coffee table, shoulders touching while he subjects Nate to running commentary on something neither of them are really watching. ]
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The television theorist, rambling about something Nate surely does not fully understand but delights in regardless, his voice soft and bright with enthusiasm, hands moving around his plate. Nate watches his profile more than he watches Weeks of Our Lives because the former is a thousand times more interesting.
He props his elbow on the seat of the couch behind them, fingertips brushing the nape of Ian's neck. Amusedly: ]
Tell me again which one has an evil twin brother?
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Both of them.
[ He drawls out, rasp pronounced from lazy speech. ]
And ironically each brother looks like the other guy.
[ He's making that part up because he's ninety percent sure Nate doesn't know any better. ]
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Really.
[ Ian's deadpan delivery is exceptionally convincing. It doesn't sound right, but he doesn't know enough about this show to tell otherwise. Program long-abandoned by his attention span Nate focuses on the considerably more appealing person warming his side: the loose curls around his face, the scratch in his voice.
Nate's thumb and forefinger idly massage the back of his neck, under his hairline, incapable of keeping his hands to himself when he finally has privacy to exploit. ]
Guess I should be glad I didn't get into soaps.
[ Professionally or recreationally. ]
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Mhmm.
⧼ A hummed out agreement. ⧽
You're terrible at them. You're gonna fail the quiz.
⧼ Never mind the fact that he's actively tuning out right now. ⧽
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[ It's an idle thing to say, nothing that really matters when his palm slips closer, thumb pressing into the little notch at the base of Ian's skull where it meets his spine. A warm pressure point for warm sentiments, watching the way Ian's eyes slip shut, and a tiny smile edges in as he tries on the best part of the day like soft, weathered jacket. ]
Oh, no.
[ Flat, dry, toneless. ]
Anything but that.
no subject
( It's a wry, slow drawl. A few seconds after, he undergoes the arduous task of lifting his head and slitting his eyes open to cut a look over at Nate.
Honestly, he's forgotten what they're even watching right now. He's comfortable, a little tired, a lot happy Nate's home. It's with that contentedness written in him that he leans over to press their foreheads together, nose nudging nose, eyes closing right back up again. )
I'm leaving you for Alejandro's twin brother.
( A conspiratorial whisper, like he's letting Nate in on a secret. )
He's got a hot air balloon on the other side of the dome.
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He hums instead, mulling it over, greedily inhaling the scent of that stupid shampoo and the oils from Ian's work. ]
You sound pretty committed to this guy.
[ Bumping noses briefly he ducks his head, smile grazing Ian's mouth before he presses a light kiss to the underside of his jaw. ]
Do you call him "Alejandro's twin brother" to his face?
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Of course not.
( Obviously. What kind of monster is he?
He tips his chin to make room, and... you know, since he's got the opportunity, stealths his fingertips underneath the hemline of Nate's shirt like he somehow won't notice them passing over his stomach. )
I call him "Alejandro's".
( Brother is his last name.
If you wanted funny you shouldn't have picked this one. Sorry, man. )
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Gestures intended to make his blood pressure briefly spike, as Nate's stomach tenses under that inquisitive contact. ]
Wow, that's bad. Even for you.
[ Says the reigning champion of Crappiest Jokes Told In The Presence of One's Significant Other. Nate's toothy smile grazes Ian's throat. ]
You're lucky I like you so much.
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( A mock-condescending coo. )
That's embarrassing.
( Except that he's grinning too hard beside Nate's ear to really pull it off, and he's a little preoccupied with the way he's snaking fingertips up Nate's stomach. It's light, it's barely anything, just ghosting over the ridges of muscle and the curve of his ribs.
It's half one of those soft, intimate feel-good gestures, half probing to see if he can't catch a nerve the right way and get him to jolt. Whether it gets his blood pressure up or earns a spasm, either way's a win. )
no subject
[ It would probably be easier if Nate wasn't such a goddamn bleeding heart for him, an easy mark to no man except the one at his side, whose exploration is both titillating and clearly trying to earn a rise.
It works, to an extent. The heat swells in his skin like a flush and Nate is pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Ian's pulse when those fingers curl into a ticklish spot and the sound he makes is undignified at best, startling in callused hands with a little jerk. ]
Hey- [ His palm settles at the back of Ian's neck, squeezing gently. ] Watch it.
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