[ 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.
( An excellent deduction, detective — he is, in fact, trying to earn a rise. When he gets one, the only thing hiding his smug, self-satisfied beaming is the fact that Nate's tucked up against his neck. )
Oh, I'm sorry, was that-
( Is he skirting right back to that little patch of success? You bet your ass. )
Was it- there, that I shouldn't, or- I just wanna make sure. So I know. For the future.
[ All it takes is that arrogant edge in his voice, that knowing satisfaction and Nate is immediately, absurdly aware of the hands up his shirt in a way he wasn't aware of before. Ian doesn't always try to feel him up in the most obnoxious way possible, but when he does-
Nate jerks again, more violently, flinching away from the contact with another sound of discontent that actually pulls his face back from the tantalizing canvas that is Ian's throat. Interrupted mid-masterpiece his free hand grasps for one of Ian's wrists, holding it in place while he levels a look which would probably be more threatening if they weren't less than an inch apart.
Any closer and he could feel that smirk against his own mouth. ]
Ian. [ An unmistakable warning, though not without humor. ] You really wanna go there?
( It would be an outright lie to say Ian's not ridiculously into that warning tone, that clear threat written in his expression. Sometimes he does it just to get that. Most of the time it's for pure selfish delight, but sometimes he's angling to provoke exactly this.
His teeth sink into his lower lip in a manner most incorrigible, eyebrows hiked up, and — yeah, he clearly wants to go there. )
I'm not scared. I know something you don't know.
( Conspiratorially, the sound of a man with a Great Secret. )
[ His hands have stopped moving, at least, and for that Nate is eternally grateful, but the expression on Ian's face gives him cause for concern. He's delighted, pinched with his teeth in his lip in anticipation, that look of sheer and unbridled glee that Nate loves fiercely for all the devastation it tends to wreak. Up to something, and not of a mind to hide it. ]
Oh?
[ The palm around Ian's wrist shifts, thumb rubbing against his pulse as if trying to determine his tell, his motives. A fruitless effort when he's as predictably unpredictable as they come. ]
( It's a classic, and really, shame on him for not seeing that coming. Has he made Nate sit through the Princess Bride yet? There's no way he's left that off of the old movies he shoves down Nate's throat sometimes.
Nate's got his left wrist, but his right flits in with the grace and dexterity of a hummingbird — if a hummingbird was ridiculously swol and worked with its hands all day.
[ It's the last thing that leaves him before Ian's other hand darts into a ticklish, sensitive spot and Nate arches away from the contact as though his skin were burning.
Thank goodness they've already finished eating, because Nate's elbow slams into the coffee table and he hisses, grabbing for Ian's other wrist. He's never had an outright problem subduing Ian if necessary, though he's still a significant opponent, but another part of him wants to see how things play out of he lets him have this. ]
( Oooh, damn, that one sounded like it hurt. Nate earns exactly one second of faltering before it's abundantly clear he's fine, and then comes the onslaught. Catching wrist number two means he's yanking wrist number one away, twisting up onto a knee, trying to take the high ground. )
You don't got the moves.
( He declares confidently, despite knowing full well Nate definitely has the moves. He's got so many moves it was kind of stupid for him to think a coffee table was gonna incapacitate him when he makes a living surviving an area of two dozen people that want to murder him.
[ He absolutely has the requisite moves, it's just a matter of deciding whether or not he wants to employ them for something as low stakes as Ian wanting to demolish him with tickling. There are worse fates, and it's been a long day, and therefore Nate doesn't altogether mind the new pressure from above, making a show of fading strength in the onslaught. ]
You'll never...take me...alive...
[ He informs him dramatically, sagging weakly and doing an extremely poor job of hiding the afflicted sounds of agony. With a last, exaggerated groan Nate falls over, back on the floor, face contorted in a mask of pain.
( Nate hits the floor with such exaggerated ham it's a genuine struggle not to laugh. It's become a point of pride to not devolve into cackling whenever they do something like this -- and as well as he's managed to swallow it down in his throat and in his chest, he can't quite stifle the expression on his face.
Nate goes down, Ian goes partway down with him. His back hits the floor, and Ian hovers over him just above his chest, legs gone out long and slipped comfortably between Nate's during the dramatic descent. )
I accept your surrender.
( Announced gravely, before he lowers himself down a little farther on his forearms. Nate's shirt slipped up an inch or two at some point, and he dips in to press his lips against the skin there. )
When historians talk about this day, they'll say you fought bravely 'til the end.
[ Nate shifts more comfortably beneath him, legs spreading to accommodate, unable to maintain the façade long enough before unmistakable fondness slips through. It's a stupid game but it serves to lighten the load and as Ian ducks his head to press his mouth to the space over Nate's sternum, he sighs. It's the little things he can come back to again and again that make the rest of what he does tolerable, because someone is waiting for him.
And tickling him, unfortunately.
Both hands immediately push into Ian's hair, without prompting or thinking, and Nate gets a waft of that cucumber melon scent they came out with last month. A slow grin stretches across his face. ]
( He says grimly into Nate's shirt, inching down to rest a little more weight on him. When his hands slip back under Nate's shirt, it's back to something peaceful and nice rather than an act of treason. He lifts his chin enough that it might dig in a little, just for a second. )
I know a teenager who got a grand piano dropped on them from a second story window.
( And then it's back to absently nudging along the seams and folds of Nate's shirt with the tip of his nose. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
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[ 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.
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( 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. )
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[ 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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Oh, I'm sorry, was that-
( Is he skirting right back to that little patch of success? You bet your ass. )
Was it- there, that I shouldn't, or- I just wanna make sure. So I know. For the future.
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Nate jerks again, more violently, flinching away from the contact with another sound of discontent that actually pulls his face back from the tantalizing canvas that is Ian's throat. Interrupted mid-masterpiece his free hand grasps for one of Ian's wrists, holding it in place while he levels a look which would probably be more threatening if they weren't less than an inch apart.
Any closer and he could feel that smirk against his own mouth. ]
Ian. [ An unmistakable warning, though not without humor. ] You really wanna go there?
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His teeth sink into his lower lip in a manner most incorrigible, eyebrows hiked up, and — yeah, he clearly wants to go there. )
I'm not scared. I know something you don't know.
( Conspiratorially, the sound of a man with a Great Secret. )
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Oh?
[ The palm around Ian's wrist shifts, thumb rubbing against his pulse as if trying to determine his tell, his motives. A fruitless effort when he's as predictably unpredictable as they come. ]
What's that?
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I am not left handed.
( It's a classic, and really, shame on him for not seeing that coming. Has he made Nate sit through the Princess Bride yet? There's no way he's left that off of the old movies he shoves down Nate's throat sometimes.
Nate's got his left wrist, but his right flits in with the grace and dexterity of a hummingbird — if a hummingbird was ridiculously swol and worked with its hands all day.
Gentlemen, it's war. )
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[ It's the last thing that leaves him before Ian's other hand darts into a ticklish, sensitive spot and Nate arches away from the contact as though his skin were burning.
Thank goodness they've already finished eating, because Nate's elbow slams into the coffee table and he hisses, grabbing for Ian's other wrist. He's never had an outright problem subduing Ian if necessary, though he's still a significant opponent, but another part of him wants to see how things play out of he lets him have this. ]
Don't make me- pin you to the damn floor-
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You don't got the moves.
( He declares confidently, despite knowing full well Nate definitely has the moves. He's got so many moves it was kind of stupid for him to think a coffee table was gonna incapacitate him when he makes a living surviving an area of two dozen people that want to murder him.
But.
Right now that part doesn't exist. )
Throw the white flag, man, I'll go easy on you.
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You'll never...take me...alive...
[ He informs him dramatically, sagging weakly and doing an extremely poor job of hiding the afflicted sounds of agony. With a last, exaggerated groan Nate falls over, back on the floor, face contorted in a mask of pain.
Wearily, hoarsely: ]
I yield.
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Nate goes down, Ian goes partway down with him. His back hits the floor, and Ian hovers over him just above his chest, legs gone out long and slipped comfortably between Nate's during the dramatic descent. )
I accept your surrender.
( Announced gravely, before he lowers himself down a little farther on his forearms. Nate's shirt slipped up an inch or two at some point, and he dips in to press his lips against the skin there. )
When historians talk about this day, they'll say you fought bravely 'til the end.
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And tickling him, unfortunately.
Both hands immediately push into Ian's hair, without prompting or thinking, and Nate gets a waft of that cucumber melon scent they came out with last month. A slow grin stretches across his face. ]
There are worse ways to go.
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( He says grimly into Nate's shirt, inching down to rest a little more weight on him. When his hands slip back under Nate's shirt, it's back to something peaceful and nice rather than an act of treason. He lifts his chin enough that it might dig in a little, just for a second. )
I know a teenager who got a grand piano dropped on them from a second story window.
( And then it's back to absently nudging along the seams and folds of Nate's shirt with the tip of his nose. )
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