It is nearly eight, and just like the time Nate wandered this way to tell someone the difficult truth surrounding his status as a dead man walking, it's hard to cross the threshold. It's supposed to get easier, isn't it? With repetition? Taking the first step is the worst part, and usually Nate is the kind of person who enjoys the freefall.
His implant is already coded so he doesn't bother knocking or ringing before entering, the quiet shhhunk of the door behind him solidifying the intention he's supposed to be carrying with conscientious intent. Ian isn't in immediate view, so he steps into the living room and pushes the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows now that he's in less public company. ]
( He's at his desk, as it so happens. Tucked into a corner with circuitry exposed, the guts of some new gadget spilling out onto the wooden surface. He abandons it immediately — it had been a time passer, something to keep him from spiraling out. Something to concentrate on, something that isn't consequential compared to the man who just walked in.
He spins around on his spinny-stool steady and easy, a leg stretching out long to bring himself to a stop. There's a black smudge on his forehead and a screwdriver in his hand, because of who he is as a person. Sorry. )
Hey, man.
( Calm, with only a little detectable amount of reservation in there somewhere. )
[ Nate almost says "hey" again, like an idiot, partly because his brain is running on maximum overdrive right now and reaching the point of shorting out like a fuse in a Bogotá electrical box, and partly because Ian looks really, really charming with a smear of machinery oil between his eyes. He smiles in spite of himself, though the expression is shuttered, muted, careful to meet the thinly-veiled anxiety from the other half of the apartment.
Nate half-sits, half-leans against the back of the couch, gaze trailing over the abandoned project on Ian's desk. ]
So...sorry I'm always- uh, bringing heavy stuff to your door.
( Yeah, it's okay, he completely gets it. He's taken to gently tapping one palm with the thick handle end of the screwdriver, a kind of bouncing rhythm — slow, quiet, contemplative. No vibrating anxious energy here, it's all neatly tucked down deep. )
I mean, to be fair you're really... good at carrying... stuff.
( Lamely, and with an almost apologetic look on his face just as soon as he finishes getting it out.
He tried, and therefor no one can criticize him. )
It's the...
( Vague gesture to his own bicep, two fingers curled around the screwdriver to keep from dropping it. )
[ Every day is leg day when you run from your problems, or something like that. Even without the joke it's not an inaccurate statement: Nate carried Sam with him for fifteen years, never brought him up to anyone - even those who had known him - and is still getting used to referring to his brother in the present tense. It was practically a decade of knowing Elena before they worked through their issues by the warm side of that prismatic spring in Hadriel, admitting where he came from, why he lied, what his name is.
Was.
Nate fiddles with the knuckles of his left hand, pinching at the web at the base of his fingers, worrying the skin. ]
I don't really know where to- I'm sorry, I'm not good at this.
[ He can do better. He knows he can do better, she made him better. It isn't just the honesty that feels as though it's hamstringing him, it's the ache of something he's only mentioned in passing to Stephen, when they talked about what mortality forced Nathan Drake to leave behind. ]
...I had a wife, back home. Before I died. [ Nate takes a sharp, shuddering breath, like the sentence that follows is something to brace for, a knife between the ribs. His gaze hovers somewhere in the convenient middle distance, between Ian's stool and the concrete wall. ] Her name is Elena. I- I miss her every day, I love her more than I can really express.
[ He's never been eloquent about anything but historical esoterica but there's no way to verbally capture the emotion that rushes in like a flash flood when she would laugh because he insisted on turning her freckles into ridiculous constellations, to articulate the delight of being decimated by her prowess in tv game things, to express the solidity of sentiment in unwavering support. How is anyone supposed to describe the indescribable? ]
But I also feel a lot of really...really strong, intense emotions about you, too. And it's- confusing, I don't know if I'm allowed or supposed to feel both, and I don't know if that's fair to you, so...I wanted to tell you. Before you made a mistake.
( It's a tick he never really noticed before, Nate fiddling with his hands like that. Absently registered it in passing, never thought anything of it until I had a wife. The realization sets in like a cold gust of wind; a fucking wedding ring that isn't there. )
Shit.
( It's breathed out in an absent, thoughtful kind of awe. A throw-away sound more than a word, automatic and made to fill the space while he processes. How he feels about it. What it means for them.
He's a rational guy, usually. Internally anxious though he may be, that's mostly a product of overthinking. Over-analyzing too much. Aside from that, he does a great job stepping outside of himself and observing both his emotions and the scope of the issue from a more detached perspective. That's what he does now, with a hand passing absently back and forth across his lips.
There's a version of himself in there that's jealous. It's probably expected, it makes sense; you live a life where you spend ten years with somebody, jealousy is a natural human instinct when thinking about your partner loving somebody else. That's just one small part of himself in a greater whole, a whole that knows he doesn't actually have any claim here. There's another version that would very, very adamantly insist on minimizing their relationship — one dream kiss, a couple long conversations, flirting. Doesn't mean anything, totally fine if this ends right here, definitely 100% totally fine if they start slowly ghosting and he starts hiding and things just sort of slowly drift apart. Fizzle out, a slow death.
That part's full of shit, though. He knows it. He's grown just a little too much since he got here to pretend like he doesn't.
When in doubt, his default thought is that the best course of action may be to put his feelings aside and deal with them later when he's alone, when nobody's there to see him display it all. And yeah, maybe deal with might turn out to be ignore, but that's for future-him to worry about. Right now it's just. Way easier to stubbornly swallow it and focus on the obviously distressed feelings of the guy standing in front of him. )
I'm sorry, Nate. That you got separated from her, I mean. On top of everything else you're figuring out, that probably makes it feel, like, ten times heavier.
( He didn't miss that before you made a mistake, it's just that he's not completely confident in how he's interpreting it, or the right way (is there a right way in situations like this?) to respond to it.
He licks his lips. Chews the bottom one for a stalling second. )
And I— completely get it. If it's too much, if it doesn't... feel right. To do. It really doesn't have to be a thing, I'm not gonna like... you know, guilt you or tank our whole... friendship over it if you need to... step back, or something.
[ There's a certain relief in not receiving some kind of accusation about lying by omission. It wouldn't be unwarranted, but neither was this something that Nate felt himself capable of sharing when there was never a need. Like with Sam - like with his death - there are subjects easier not to touch, to leave them be while trying to solve the more pressing issues, like not dying in a monster attack or helping out on an expedition intended to make things easier on all of them.
Nate has an unfortunate tendency to bury the things he fears and it's only more recently that he's found himself capable of accepting the fact that this place really might be all he has left - something made all the more pressing and distressing knowing his new status as a known entity, no real chance for a tabula rasa when something else has already determined public perception of the person he isn't.
It's too much. He can ask for help, but hesitates for the same reasons he knows his friends do. More than that it's felt like shifting back to another time before the years where he had someone he could stand next to, who would share the load, who would hold his hand.
The dearth of it is what drags at him endlessly, the guilt comes from being human, and he's already learned more than once that he can't keep running on fumes.
Nate's eyes list to the line of Ian's shoulders and it sounds like the words he's saying are muffled through several layers of fabric. No decrying the fact he kept quiet, no ultimatums, just the soft reassurance that he can have distance if he wants it.
He doesn't, though. ]
Look...I like you. [ It feels razor sharp in his palms, on his tongue, when he finally seeks eye contact. ] And maybe this sounds- selfish, I don't know, but- I'm tired of being lonely and pretending I'm okay with it.
( It's not that he's insecure by nature, or that he has a tendency to default to options that garner reassurance. It just seemed like the safest bet, assuming the previously (currently? until death, etc?) married guy might not be ready. Seemed like the best way to brace himself, banking on a no rather than hoping for a yes and getting disappointed.
Which is to say, there's nowhere to go but up from there. Smart move, Fowler, outstanding maneuver.
He's careful and easy with his movements: setting the screwdriver onto his desk, standing up, crossing the short gap between them until he's a tentative foot or so away. Close enough to wrap his fingers loosely around Nate's wrist — gentle enough to pull away from with basically no effort. For obvious reasons. )
Cool.
( Which is definitely not representative of what he's got going on internally — not entirely. There's an undercurrent there of a little uncertainty, a little contemplation, a maybe indecipherable mix of jealousy and guilt and sympathy and prickling nervousness. Those are all taking a back seat, playing bit parts in a larger show. Mainly, he's relieved as fuck, buzzing with a kind of tightly reined in optimism he's conscientiously tamping down.
...Maybe one brief flickering spike of guilt for a second there, because-- )
I mean, obviously like 87% of that is not cool, you have a lot of really complex shit to work through and you're a little dead, but...
( You know what he means. The 13% that selfishly works out in his favor is cool. He's trying, cut him a little slack, it's hard to perfectly word something when you're vaguely too aware of your heartrate. )
You don't have to do it alone, if you don't want to.
[ Ian's hand is warm and dry around his wrist, an anchor in increasingly jarring swells that serves to quiet his own anxieties by pushing several of Ian's own. It's a little funny how so many of the same sentiments crop up, nudging their way into his mind like inquisitive tendrils, heavy with a relief that washes over him. A much friendlier tide.
Nate exhales through his nose, watching the pad of Ian's thumb rub his skin and letting the stutter-stop prickle of being seen ebb and flow with his own insecurities, his own fears. He huffs a laugh at the observation, somewhat self-deprecating, because complex shit feels like it's being generous. Understatement of the century.
He had so much, until he didn't. Until he had to start over from scratch and didn't think he had it in him to do so. Being in the Aerie was a tacit reminder that he can't live without connections anymore and he doesn't know why he was trying so hard to do exactly that. Under no expectations that this will even remotely resemble any dynamic from that alternate world Nate somehow finds the uncertainty easier to cope with, to accept. His adaptability building the perfect beast for the occasion.
The point being, he's just a man. And it's just a date. ]
If you're okay with that. [ His arm turns slightly in Ian's grasp, fingertips to the inside of his wrist. ] I really don't want to do it alone.
That he doesn't pull away, that he shifts a little to accommodate the touch is bolstering enough for him to tighten his grip. Noncommittal to firm, fingers curling and pressing more intently the first few inches of Nate's palm; more of a hold and less of a careful touch.
They're different people here than they were in the Aerie, he knows that, but... some things are the same about himself. Some things may be the same for Nate, too -- the need for comfort via touch might be one of them, he thinks. Granted, that could also have been a product of all of the unwanted touching forced upon him on a daily basis in that life.
Guess he'll find out all over again. Feels a little like he got short-changed the head-start of meeting at twenty-something, but he's making an effort not to compare the trajectory. )
Feels weird having a serious conversation without you covered in glitter.
( Feels weird having a serious conversation at all, frankly. This version of them, the original, have had like... a grand total of three, or something. )
[ The tension in that loose hold, the sudden tightening, feels like being hooked and anchored. Despite the buoy of something solid against his hip he knows better than to think he can't still drift, curling his fingers to more properly hold Ian's hand.
Okay.
It's a gasp of real air after a long dive and Nate can't help the crooked smile that immediately overtakes his face, the quiet huff of laughter in response to Ian's best efforts at levity. It's still a defense mechanism - Nate knows, he has the same damn one - but it's not worth calling out when the memory is so bright and solid. ]
( And this is about when Ian realizes what a fucking snitch this empathy bond is going to be, and the gently mortifying fact that he can't actually do anything about it. It tips his whole hand without a scrap of sympathy about his carefully crafted externalized aloof chill, and it takes approximately .25 seconds.
What he's not ashamed of: the quiet care and relief that settles in when he feels Nate just let go a little and lighten somewhere inside himself. He'd say that out loud, no problem; hey man, I'm really glad you feel a little better.
It's the damn reaction to Nate's fingers tightening properly, and as if that weren't enough there's a kind off doubling down that peaks at the sound of laughter, the expression it's paired with. It's that feeling, that stupid curl of immature infatuation which faintly constricts around his heart for a second. That feeling of a flush of quiet pleasure and satisfaction at having accomplished something. The automatic pang that comes with being attracted to a particularly appealing face. He mastered artfully downplaying this shit back when he was like a teenager, when coming on too strong was like the worst possible faux-pas on the planet — and it never really stopped being that, to him. He is so, so god damn good at it, but it just strolls right the fuck on through because the door's wide open and he couldn't catch it in time if he tried.
So that's cool.
He hates it, thanks, and it's followed quickly by the yet unnamed self-aware emotion that goes along with a flat look and yeah, I know, don't even start, shut up. Real tempted to let go, abort mission, evacuate, but he's making a solid effort to power through and not be... you know, who he is as a person usually. Or was, before. Is, but wasn't in the Aerie. He's still reconciling the whole thing, check back on a concrete definition in like a year. )
I'm not sure you walking in fully disco ball would really cut it. I'm tempted to say you should give it a try, but I'm like 60% sure you'd actually do it and I'd be spending the rest of my life cleaning glitter out of my apartment.
[ Ian has consistently managed to give off the impression that he largely has his shit together. There's a nonchalance to him that seems nigh-unflappable, impossible to ruffle, generally maintaining a solid baseline unless wildly upset and never without good reason.
That image is meekly obliterated in an instant.
What Nate gets very suddenly, as soon as his fingers tighten, is a sensation most akin to his youth, he thinks, at first. The sort of besotted delight at being around someone you really, really like, muddled with attraction, with desire, delight at Nate's humor in light of the circumstances. It feels like a warm wave breaking the shoreline, swirling around his feet and rippling up into his chest and the emotion he somewhat unintentionally returns is richly amused. Deeply charmed.
His smile spreads wider even with that expression of warning - don't - and he resists the urge to needle. Ian's been more understanding than is warranted, in all this. ]
I'm not that cruel.
[ He chuckles, turning his hand, pressing his thumb into the well of Ian's palm. God forbid he ever wear anything with glitter on it ever again; Nate's pretty sure it's given him PTSD. ]
So... [ There was an impetus for this conversation, far and away. HIs gaze ducks a little more shyly when he follows up with: ] ...what should I wear tomorrow?
( There are worse reactions to garner, he knows, than amused and charmed. The latter's one of the better possibilities, the former's a little embarrassing, but all things considered he doesn't feel like he's put his hand out just to have it slapped. Nothing that he'd have expected Nate to do intentionally, but Ian's insecurities are entirely self-driven and have almost nothing to do with Nate himself.
At the feeling of the gentle press of thumb in his palm, a quiet pleasure hums through. Accompanying it, a foreshadowing glimpse of the stupid excitement he's going to have practically the whole fucking time tomorrow, probably. )
Three piece suit.
( Declared with a steady solemnity that defies the light, carbonated humor he's carrying internally. )
Because I'm worth it.
( As if Ian's owned a suit in fucking years.
But no, he can only fuck about for so long before the excitement over his plans steers him back to something more honest. )
Something you can walk in. Nothing crazy, we're not... scaling fucking buildings or anything, but there's gonna be... a shit load of stairs.
( Oh yes, that's right. Nate was probing for a general dress code, now he gets to discover there's an actual plan at play here. It involves places, not just tequila and tapas. )
There's a lot to the building Ian gave him the coordinates for, like he knew Nate would prefer to puzzle it out the conventional way, without using the built-in GPS that jumps into his internal HUD like spam mail every time he so much as thinks about a specific location with any real intent. It's like a coppery wave stuffed inside the London gherkin, if the latter were lying on its side in the middle of the city. All sprawling glass geometric shapes and metal casing, floating staircases, architectural ripples illuminated with the sulfurous gleam of yellow and orange lights.
Trying to draw on date nights he remembers Nate picked out a nice pair of jeans, comfortable boots, and a shirt explicitly chosen to avoid any of that pesky glowing, if contact slipped in that direction. Lurking by the edge of the entrance he might almost look inconspicuous, if not for the recognizable face.
Thankfully it seems as though there's a distinct lack of foot traffic in this area, which he'll attribute to thoughtfulness regardless of whether Ian aimed for that on purpose. ]
( Lack of foot traffic makes total sense considering the building's actually closed up tight; given the chaos in the world, a museum is hardly a high priority in terms of business. It's a deliberate choice — rather, it's something that occurred to him during his brainstorming session.
He's also not the only one to dress glow-consciously. Two layers would be absolute murder if they spent more than a few minutes outside, but he knows from experience how cold this place is about to be. They set the thermostat for way more body heat than they'll actually have.
Don't comment on the haircut, okay, he's still deciding whether or not he misses looking like Ian Christ. It was a Kyna recommendation. He doesn't leave much room for criticism anyway; for once, he's moving at less of an amble and more of an energetic buzz. )
Hey, man.
( Such a romantic greeting on a first date. Pure poetry. Are you woo'd yet? Maybe this'll help: )
Nice shirt. I'd hit on you but I'm actually, like, super excited to show you this right now so I'll circle back to that.
( One kind head-jerk in the general entranceway direction. )
Come on.
( For all his impatience, things start out... super underwhelming, actually. The lights are off in the lobby, and it takes some discreet matter bending to temporarily melt the lock so he can let them in. Inside is the absolutely least interesting front desk, bland in its tile and administrative paperwork, the whole place silent. He's wholly unbothered, and makes a b-line for what looks like a maintenance closet.
This is not actually a repeat of Tibet, just trust him man. )
Gone are the lengthy curls and in their place is a fairly-tidily shorn haircut by comparison, which doesn't detract from the vibe Ian usually cultivates so much as makes it look slightly more refined. It's cute. He's cute. Nate is about two seconds from saying so when Ian interjects with greetings and an explanation about their purpose for being there.
He manages a crooked, slightly confused smile but indulges the enthusiasm, keeping pace with him as he manipulates the easiest route into the building, and Nate is struck with the notion of how very convenient that is for the purposes of breaking and entering. Appreciative on a professional level, dubious about Ian's intentions.
Even more so when they bypass the main lobby and veer toward what looks like a maintenance room, either for storage or some kind of HVAC system. ]
You know.
[ He says quietly, conscious of the way their footsteps echo, reminded of the ghosts of buildings he's found in countries far more distant than this. ]
If you wanted privacy, I think there are more convenient places.
( Please don't call him cute, Nathan. He'll die a little on the inside. He's going for something along the lines of, like, sexy. Strikingly handsome. "Probably won't show up stoned on a first date". You know, that kind of vibe.
The last time he went on an actual serious first date was probably in his undergrad years. Everything else, he thinks, was done casually or coincidentally. Totally doesn't count. )
You're hilarious.
( Returned brightly, enthusiasm not even remotely snuffed. Breaking and entering round two: locked maintenance closets mean absolutely nothing to Master Thief Ian Fowler, take notes Drake.
As it so happens, what he's going for in the maintenance closet is actually the breaker box. He pops it open, skims the switches, and then starts shoving them over one at a time with a satisfying snap. Outside the closet, the entire lobby changes. From dull and unremarkable to brightly lit and colorful, complete with the electric hum of descending stairs and opening future-doors.
When they step out, the far wall has New Amsterdam Museum of Architecture proudly declared upon it. )
Ta-daaaa.
( Behold his triumph. If he seems smug, it's only because he is. )
They use projections for, like, seventy-five percent of everything in here so... maybe don't go trying to walk through any doors. They're probably totally walls.
[ Should have called the breaker box situation, but he's already slightly off-kilter by virtue of the fact that this is a date, he's on a date, and he should be acting some kind of way, he thinks, but it's been so long that Nate doesn't know how to act and so he takes each subsequently illuminating second in stride. Lights hit the perimeter first, spilling in through the glass panes, followed by flickers of LEDs in vibrant, gradient patterns. Each section switches on with the visible slam of a carnival lighting up for the evening and the projectors rotate, shifting, painting places from another time on the interior walls.
Softly, bordering on reverent: ]
...whoa.
[ Almost immediately Nate pulls away in distraction, a moth to the flame, sucking down virtual tourism as a means of staunching the bleed he's felt since he first arrived in this concrete jungle. A digital archive of a thousand styles and conventions, spread out over a blank canvas.
The sudden urge to explore is overwhelming, and like a kid shown into the candy store he turns sharply for confirmation, looking to Ian with surprise and delight. ]
( That is the ideal reaction, right there. That rapt interest is exactly what he was hoping for, and they're still in the fucking lobby. It doesn't hold a candle to some of the historical and cultural exhibits along the path ahead, and... yeah, granted odds are good Nate might know a hell of a lot more about them than Ian does, but abysmally mansplaining history isn't the route he plans on taking. It's about the displays. He's kind of banking on that being enough to nail it.
And yeah, he's gonna look self-satisfied the entire time.
He gestures easily toward the stairs, the universal gesture for go ahead, knock yourself out. )
Yep. It's closed down because of the...
( Vague shrug. You know, the everything going on right now. Shouldn't be a soul in the place. If he's wrong and there's an unsuspecting janitor, well, they'll cross that bridge when they come to it.
Possibly literally. There are bridges.
Fake bridges. Holographic bridges. They look and feel real as hell, though, provided you don't try and jump off of one. You'll just land on solid floor and get a weird sense of vertigo over the fact that you're not falling.
Circular stairs transition as they pass under the floor, and the place it leads isn't nearly as big as it looks. It does have a few branching doorways at perfect intervals along the walls, though, so Nate can get his labyrinthian rocks off picking a direction. )
[ It doesn't escape him that Ian chose this place for a reason. Indulging Nate's love for the places he can't visit anymore, maybe, or just thinking that a more artsy venue would be right up his alley. Normal museums built as temples to the modern are places he veers away from out of sheer disinterest, but there's something hollowly fascinating about the projected worlds on the walls, the way the crisscrossing stairs dip down into the earth like an old stepwell, the time and effort someone put into making whatever this place was intended to be.
A "museum of architecture," he knows. But it's not, really. It's a catalogue, interpretations made by people from another time with no real concept of the eras before their own that they lost. History isn't revered in this world so much as it is reviled and without intending to, they constructed a database of visual memories bereft of context.
Which is just fine for him, with all the context he needs. ]
Jesus, who the Hell built this place, M.C. Escher?
[ He picks his way down a row of doors and in true Drake fashion, chooses one at random. A short, narrow hall of smooth metallic siding opens up into another projection, colored light streaming in from windows that aren't really there, dappling rugs that aren't there either. It still bends around his skin, would feel almost warm if not for the complete lack of active central heating in this place. ]
...This is Nasir al-Mulk, in Shiraz.
[ Nate says before his HUD even has the chance to register the signature from the room's projectors. ]
They believed God was a source of light, physical representations were like welcoming Him. [ He chatters amiably, half to Ian, half to no one in particular, feeling along a smooth wall with one hand and watching the projection splay over his knuckles. ] I never got to- I haven't been here.
( If it weren't for the (hologram) plaques on the walls, Ian wouldn't know anything about most of the exhibits in this place. A few of the 21st century displays, sure. Maybe a few that are more relevant to his field. Anything farther back than 1950 is hit or miss.
This is actually another perk. He was banking on Nate knowing about at least a few, and after that trip to Tibet he'd be lying if he said he wasn't excited for another opportunity to hear Nate ramble through a history lesson or two.
He's appropriately reverent as he settles into place just a little ways off from Nate's side, hands tucked in his pockets, attention split evenly between the environment and Nate's expression.
He's not sure if he ought to feel sad Nate never got the chance to visit it, or glad that he gets to see a version of it now. )
I guess they might be pretty happy about this, then.
( Ventured almost like a question despite the lack of upward inflection. )
I mean, if they had to fall at all... getting recreated as a source of light...
( Kind of seems fitting, right? A little bit like inadvertently honoring them. )
[ He says distantly, and he can very nearly feel the cool stone under his hand, conjuring an image of a place he's never been, smells and sounds he can only infer through what little he knows. The call to prayer, the soft pad of feet on the rug-covered floors, the way tiny motes of dust float lazily through beams of bright, unfettered light.
They might think it a holy thing, to have the hall built of projected colors. They might think it's blasphemous. Hard to tell when his own childhood was as Catholic as the Vatican on Christmas Eve.
Nate's gaze drifts over to Ian, whose divided attention is more than a little apparent. ]
...it's sort of weird, isn't it? [ The images around them seem to shudder, and the walls are suddenly shades of white and ivory and yellowish gray, tinged pink with a warm sun. The Erechtheion in Athens. ] How little this world seems to have any kind of relationship with religion that isn't a cult. I'm not- like, religious myself, it's just culturally weird. Like collective amnesia. You'd think there would be New Protestants, or Jehovah's Other Witnesses, or Mormons 2.
( He volunteers, the natural follow up to Mormons 2 of course. If he doesn't get that reference Ian's going to look like a fucking moron, so he's just gonna... glide on past that and not let it linger. )
It's pretty odd. You'd think as long as what happens after death is arguably a mystery there'd be a religion meant to comfort people over it.
( He's far from religious himself; of all the reasons for it, that would be the primary draw for Ian. He's an unabashed coward, though, and his fear of death is a prime motivator. The reason for life or destiny or whatever isn't so much on his radar. He doesn't have any burning need to believe all things happen for a reason, or that there's a higher power looking out for mankind.
It would be nice to think his mom is somewhere out there still. Shame he's too logical to buy into it. )
I don't know, maybe these... whatever they are that we're calling gods are the jealous type.
( An offhand theory tossed out with a shrug. )
Maybe they actively snuffed it out with... divine intervention or something.
[ He doesn't sound convinced. Nate doesn't believe in God so much as in some higher power, but even his time in Hadriel challenged that. The "gods" there were flawed, powerful reality-shaping entities that allowed the term applied to them because it seemed to make sense, and because their relationship with the previous inhabitants worked within the constraints of that dynamic. ]
I think I prefer it when they're flawed, you know. Like with the Greeks.
[ One hand rises and falls in a gesture toward the caryatids of the southern porch, images no doubt taken and recreated from a time closer to his own. With World War III in the mix Nate doubts a lot of cultural heritage survived the conflict. ]
Bunch of assholes with the same problems as the rest of us. Omniscience and omnipotence is so cheap. Who does it reassure if it's not actually acted on?
[ Also, who wouldn't want to party with Dionysus? ]
...sorry, I know this isn't what we- can you tell I grew up in a Catholic orphanage?
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It is nearly eight, and just like the time Nate wandered this way to tell someone the difficult truth surrounding his status as a dead man walking, it's hard to cross the threshold. It's supposed to get easier, isn't it? With repetition? Taking the first step is the worst part, and usually Nate is the kind of person who enjoys the freefall.
His implant is already coded so he doesn't bother knocking or ringing before entering, the quiet shhhunk of the door behind him solidifying the intention he's supposed to be carrying with conscientious intent. Ian isn't in immediate view, so he steps into the living room and pushes the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows now that he's in less public company. ]
Hey.
no subject
He spins around on his spinny-stool steady and easy, a leg stretching out long to bring himself to a stop. There's a black smudge on his forehead and a screwdriver in his hand, because of who he is as a person. Sorry. )
Hey, man.
( Calm, with only a little detectable amount of reservation in there somewhere. )
no subject
Nate half-sits, half-leans against the back of the couch, gaze trailing over the abandoned project on Ian's desk. ]
So...sorry I'm always- uh, bringing heavy stuff to your door.
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I mean, to be fair you're really... good at carrying... stuff.
( Lamely, and with an almost apologetic look on his face just as soon as he finishes getting it out.
He tried, and therefor no one can criticize him. )
It's the...
( Vague gesture to his own bicep, two fingers curled around the screwdriver to keep from dropping it. )
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[ Every day is leg day when you run from your problems, or something like that. Even without the joke it's not an inaccurate statement: Nate carried Sam with him for fifteen years, never brought him up to anyone - even those who had known him - and is still getting used to referring to his brother in the present tense. It was practically a decade of knowing Elena before they worked through their issues by the warm side of that prismatic spring in Hadriel, admitting where he came from, why he lied, what his name is.
Was.
Nate fiddles with the knuckles of his left hand, pinching at the web at the base of his fingers, worrying the skin. ]
I don't really know where to- I'm sorry, I'm not good at this.
[ He can do better. He knows he can do better, she made him better. It isn't just the honesty that feels as though it's hamstringing him, it's the ache of something he's only mentioned in passing to Stephen, when they talked about what mortality forced Nathan Drake to leave behind. ]
...I had a wife, back home. Before I died. [ Nate takes a sharp, shuddering breath, like the sentence that follows is something to brace for, a knife between the ribs. His gaze hovers somewhere in the convenient middle distance, between Ian's stool and the concrete wall. ] Her name is Elena. I- I miss her every day, I love her more than I can really express.
[ He's never been eloquent about anything but historical esoterica but there's no way to verbally capture the emotion that rushes in like a flash flood when she would laugh because he insisted on turning her freckles into ridiculous constellations, to articulate the delight of being decimated by her prowess in tv game things, to express the solidity of sentiment in unwavering support. How is anyone supposed to describe the indescribable? ]
But I also feel a lot of really...really strong, intense emotions about you, too. And it's- confusing, I don't know if I'm allowed or supposed to feel both, and I don't know if that's fair to you, so...I wanted to tell you. Before you made a mistake.
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Shit.
( It's breathed out in an absent, thoughtful kind of awe. A throw-away sound more than a word, automatic and made to fill the space while he processes. How he feels about it. What it means for them.
He's a rational guy, usually. Internally anxious though he may be, that's mostly a product of overthinking. Over-analyzing too much. Aside from that, he does a great job stepping outside of himself and observing both his emotions and the scope of the issue from a more detached perspective. That's what he does now, with a hand passing absently back and forth across his lips.
There's a version of himself in there that's jealous. It's probably expected, it makes sense; you live a life where you spend ten years with somebody, jealousy is a natural human instinct when thinking about your partner loving somebody else. That's just one small part of himself in a greater whole, a whole that knows he doesn't actually have any claim here. There's another version that would very, very adamantly insist on minimizing their relationship — one dream kiss, a couple long conversations, flirting. Doesn't mean anything, totally fine if this ends right here, definitely 100% totally fine if they start slowly ghosting and he starts hiding and things just sort of slowly drift apart. Fizzle out, a slow death.
That part's full of shit, though. He knows it. He's grown just a little too much since he got here to pretend like he doesn't.
When in doubt, his default thought is that the best course of action may be to put his feelings aside and deal with them later when he's alone, when nobody's there to see him display it all. And yeah, maybe deal with might turn out to be ignore, but that's for future-him to worry about. Right now it's just. Way easier to stubbornly swallow it and focus on the obviously distressed feelings of the guy standing in front of him. )
I'm sorry, Nate. That you got separated from her, I mean. On top of everything else you're figuring out, that probably makes it feel, like, ten times heavier.
( He didn't miss that before you made a mistake, it's just that he's not completely confident in how he's interpreting it, or the right way (is there a right way in situations like this?) to respond to it.
He licks his lips. Chews the bottom one for a stalling second. )
And I— completely get it. If it's too much, if it doesn't... feel right. To do. It really doesn't have to be a thing, I'm not gonna like... you know, guilt you or tank our whole... friendship over it if you need to... step back, or something.
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Nate has an unfortunate tendency to bury the things he fears and it's only more recently that he's found himself capable of accepting the fact that this place really might be all he has left - something made all the more pressing and distressing knowing his new status as a known entity, no real chance for a tabula rasa when something else has already determined public perception of the person he isn't.
It's too much. He can ask for help, but hesitates for the same reasons he knows his friends do. More than that it's felt like shifting back to another time before the years where he had someone he could stand next to, who would share the load, who would hold his hand.
The dearth of it is what drags at him endlessly, the guilt comes from being human, and he's already learned more than once that he can't keep running on fumes.
Nate's eyes list to the line of Ian's shoulders and it sounds like the words he's saying are muffled through several layers of fabric. No decrying the fact he kept quiet, no ultimatums, just the soft reassurance that he can have distance if he wants it.
He doesn't, though. ]
Look...I like you. [ It feels razor sharp in his palms, on his tongue, when he finally seeks eye contact. ] And maybe this sounds- selfish, I don't know, but- I'm tired of being lonely and pretending I'm okay with it.
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Which is to say, there's nowhere to go but up from there. Smart move, Fowler, outstanding maneuver.
He's careful and easy with his movements: setting the screwdriver onto his desk, standing up, crossing the short gap between them until he's a tentative foot or so away. Close enough to wrap his fingers loosely around Nate's wrist — gentle enough to pull away from with basically no effort. For obvious reasons. )
Cool.
( Which is definitely not representative of what he's got going on internally — not entirely. There's an undercurrent there of a little uncertainty, a little contemplation, a maybe indecipherable mix of jealousy and guilt and sympathy and prickling nervousness. Those are all taking a back seat, playing bit parts in a larger show. Mainly, he's relieved as fuck, buzzing with a kind of tightly reined in optimism he's conscientiously tamping down.
...Maybe one brief flickering spike of guilt for a second there, because-- )
I mean, obviously like 87% of that is not cool, you have a lot of really complex shit to work through and you're a little dead, but...
( You know what he means. The 13% that selfishly works out in his favor is cool. He's trying, cut him a little slack, it's hard to perfectly word something when you're vaguely too aware of your heartrate. )
You don't have to do it alone, if you don't want to.
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Nate exhales through his nose, watching the pad of Ian's thumb rub his skin and letting the stutter-stop prickle of being seen ebb and flow with his own insecurities, his own fears. He huffs a laugh at the observation, somewhat self-deprecating, because complex shit feels like it's being generous. Understatement of the century.
He had so much, until he didn't. Until he had to start over from scratch and didn't think he had it in him to do so. Being in the Aerie was a tacit reminder that he can't live without connections anymore and he doesn't know why he was trying so hard to do exactly that. Under no expectations that this will even remotely resemble any dynamic from that alternate world Nate somehow finds the uncertainty easier to cope with, to accept. His adaptability building the perfect beast for the occasion.
The point being, he's just a man. And it's just a date. ]
If you're okay with that. [ His arm turns slightly in Ian's grasp, fingertips to the inside of his wrist. ] I really don't want to do it alone.
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( You got him, then.
That he doesn't pull away, that he shifts a little to accommodate the touch is bolstering enough for him to tighten his grip. Noncommittal to firm, fingers curling and pressing more intently the first few inches of Nate's palm; more of a hold and less of a careful touch.
They're different people here than they were in the Aerie, he knows that, but... some things are the same about himself. Some things may be the same for Nate, too -- the need for comfort via touch might be one of them, he thinks. Granted, that could also have been a product of all of the unwanted touching forced upon him on a daily basis in that life.
Guess he'll find out all over again. Feels a little like he got short-changed the head-start of meeting at twenty-something, but he's making an effort not to compare the trajectory. )
Feels weird having a serious conversation without you covered in glitter.
( Feels weird having a serious conversation at all, frankly. This version of them, the original, have had like... a grand total of three, or something. )
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It's a gasp of real air after a long dive and Nate can't help the crooked smile that immediately overtakes his face, the quiet huff of laughter in response to Ian's best efforts at levity. It's still a defense mechanism - Nate knows, he has the same damn one - but it's not worth calling out when the memory is so bright and solid. ]
I could find some, if you think it'll help.
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What he's not ashamed of: the quiet care and relief that settles in when he feels Nate just let go a little and lighten somewhere inside himself. He'd say that out loud, no problem; hey man, I'm really glad you feel a little better.
It's the damn reaction to Nate's fingers tightening properly, and as if that weren't enough there's a kind off doubling down that peaks at the sound of laughter, the expression it's paired with. It's that feeling, that stupid curl of immature infatuation which faintly constricts around his heart for a second. That feeling of a flush of quiet pleasure and satisfaction at having accomplished something. The automatic pang that comes with being attracted to a particularly appealing face. He mastered artfully downplaying this shit back when he was like a teenager, when coming on too strong was like the worst possible faux-pas on the planet — and it never really stopped being that, to him. He is so, so god damn good at it, but it just strolls right the fuck on through because the door's wide open and he couldn't catch it in time if he tried.
So that's cool.
He hates it, thanks, and it's followed quickly by the yet unnamed self-aware emotion that goes along with a flat look and yeah, I know, don't even start, shut up. Real tempted to let go, abort mission, evacuate, but he's making a solid effort to power through and not be... you know, who he is as a person usually. Or was, before. Is, but wasn't in the Aerie. He's still reconciling the whole thing, check back on a concrete definition in like a year. )
I'm not sure you walking in fully disco ball would really cut it. I'm tempted to say you should give it a try, but I'm like 60% sure you'd actually do it and I'd be spending the rest of my life cleaning glitter out of my apartment.
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That image is meekly obliterated in an instant.
What Nate gets very suddenly, as soon as his fingers tighten, is a sensation most akin to his youth, he thinks, at first. The sort of besotted delight at being around someone you really, really like, muddled with attraction, with desire, delight at Nate's humor in light of the circumstances. It feels like a warm wave breaking the shoreline, swirling around his feet and rippling up into his chest and the emotion he somewhat unintentionally returns is richly amused. Deeply charmed.
His smile spreads wider even with that expression of warning - don't - and he resists the urge to needle. Ian's been more understanding than is warranted, in all this. ]
I'm not that cruel.
[ He chuckles, turning his hand, pressing his thumb into the well of Ian's palm. God forbid he ever wear anything with glitter on it ever again; Nate's pretty sure it's given him PTSD. ]
So... [ There was an impetus for this conversation, far and away. HIs gaze ducks a little more shyly when he follows up with: ] ...what should I wear tomorrow?
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At the feeling of the gentle press of thumb in his palm, a quiet pleasure hums through. Accompanying it, a foreshadowing glimpse of the stupid excitement he's going to have practically the whole fucking time tomorrow, probably. )
Three piece suit.
( Declared with a steady solemnity that defies the light, carbonated humor he's carrying internally. )
Because I'm worth it.
( As if Ian's owned a suit in fucking years.
But no, he can only fuck about for so long before the excitement over his plans steers him back to something more honest. )
Something you can walk in. Nothing crazy, we're not... scaling fucking buildings or anything, but there's gonna be... a shit load of stairs.
( Oh yes, that's right. Nate was probing for a general dress code, now he gets to discover there's an actual plan at play here. It involves places, not just tequila and tapas. )
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There's a lot to the building Ian gave him the coordinates for, like he knew Nate would prefer to puzzle it out the conventional way, without using the built-in GPS that jumps into his internal HUD like spam mail every time he so much as thinks about a specific location with any real intent. It's like a coppery wave stuffed inside the London gherkin, if the latter were lying on its side in the middle of the city. All sprawling glass geometric shapes and metal casing, floating staircases, architectural ripples illuminated with the sulfurous gleam of yellow and orange lights.
Trying to draw on date nights he remembers Nate picked out a nice pair of jeans, comfortable boots, and a shirt explicitly chosen to avoid any of that pesky glowing, if contact slipped in that direction. Lurking by the edge of the entrance he might almost look inconspicuous, if not for the recognizable face.
Thankfully it seems as though there's a distinct lack of foot traffic in this area, which he'll attribute to thoughtfulness regardless of whether Ian aimed for that on purpose. ]
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He's also not the only one to dress glow-consciously. Two layers would be absolute murder if they spent more than a few minutes outside, but he knows from experience how cold this place is about to be. They set the thermostat for way more body heat than they'll actually have.
Don't comment on the haircut, okay, he's still deciding whether or not he misses looking like Ian Christ. It was a Kyna recommendation. He doesn't leave much room for criticism anyway; for once, he's moving at less of an amble and more of an energetic buzz. )
Hey, man.
( Such a romantic greeting on a first date. Pure poetry. Are you woo'd yet? Maybe this'll help: )
Nice shirt. I'd hit on you but I'm actually, like, super excited to show you this right now so I'll circle back to that.
( One kind head-jerk in the general entranceway direction. )
Come on.
( For all his impatience, things start out... super underwhelming, actually. The lights are off in the lobby, and it takes some discreet matter bending to temporarily melt the lock so he can let them in. Inside is the absolutely least interesting front desk, bland in its tile and administrative paperwork, the whole place silent. He's wholly unbothered, and makes a b-line for what looks like a maintenance closet.
This is not actually a repeat of Tibet, just trust him man. )
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Gone are the lengthy curls and in their place is a fairly-tidily shorn haircut by comparison, which doesn't detract from the vibe Ian usually cultivates so much as makes it look slightly more refined. It's cute. He's cute. Nate is about two seconds from saying so when Ian interjects with greetings and an explanation about their purpose for being there.
He manages a crooked, slightly confused smile but indulges the enthusiasm, keeping pace with him as he manipulates the easiest route into the building, and Nate is struck with the notion of how very convenient that is for the purposes of breaking and entering. Appreciative on a professional level, dubious about Ian's intentions.
Even more so when they bypass the main lobby and veer toward what looks like a maintenance room, either for storage or some kind of HVAC system. ]
You know.
[ He says quietly, conscious of the way their footsteps echo, reminded of the ghosts of buildings he's found in countries far more distant than this. ]
If you wanted privacy, I think there are more convenient places.
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The last time he went on an actual serious first date was probably in his undergrad years. Everything else, he thinks, was done casually or coincidentally. Totally doesn't count. )
You're hilarious.
( Returned brightly, enthusiasm not even remotely snuffed. Breaking and entering round two: locked maintenance closets mean absolutely nothing to Master Thief Ian Fowler, take notes Drake.
As it so happens, what he's going for in the maintenance closet is actually the breaker box. He pops it open, skims the switches, and then starts shoving them over one at a time with a satisfying snap. Outside the closet, the entire lobby changes. From dull and unremarkable to brightly lit and colorful, complete with the electric hum of descending stairs and opening future-doors.
When they step out, the far wall has New Amsterdam Museum of Architecture proudly declared upon it. )
Ta-daaaa.
( Behold his triumph. If he seems smug, it's only because he is. )
They use projections for, like, seventy-five percent of everything in here so... maybe don't go trying to walk through any doors. They're probably totally walls.
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Softly, bordering on reverent: ]
...whoa.
[ Almost immediately Nate pulls away in distraction, a moth to the flame, sucking down virtual tourism as a means of staunching the bleed he's felt since he first arrived in this concrete jungle. A digital archive of a thousand styles and conventions, spread out over a blank canvas.
The sudden urge to explore is overwhelming, and like a kid shown into the candy store he turns sharply for confirmation, looking to Ian with surprise and delight. ]
Do we have free rein?
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And yeah, he's gonna look self-satisfied the entire time.
He gestures easily toward the stairs, the universal gesture for go ahead, knock yourself out. )
Yep. It's closed down because of the...
( Vague shrug. You know, the everything going on right now. Shouldn't be a soul in the place. If he's wrong and there's an unsuspecting janitor, well, they'll cross that bridge when they come to it.
Possibly literally. There are bridges.
Fake bridges. Holographic bridges. They look and feel real as hell, though, provided you don't try and jump off of one. You'll just land on solid floor and get a weird sense of vertigo over the fact that you're not falling.
Circular stairs transition as they pass under the floor, and the place it leads isn't nearly as big as it looks. It does have a few branching doorways at perfect intervals along the walls, though, so Nate can get his labyrinthian rocks off picking a direction. )
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A "museum of architecture," he knows. But it's not, really. It's a catalogue, interpretations made by people from another time with no real concept of the eras before their own that they lost. History isn't revered in this world so much as it is reviled and without intending to, they constructed a database of visual memories bereft of context.
Which is just fine for him, with all the context he needs. ]
Jesus, who the Hell built this place, M.C. Escher?
[ He picks his way down a row of doors and in true Drake fashion, chooses one at random. A short, narrow hall of smooth metallic siding opens up into another projection, colored light streaming in from windows that aren't really there, dappling rugs that aren't there either. It still bends around his skin, would feel almost warm if not for the complete lack of active central heating in this place. ]
...This is Nasir al-Mulk, in Shiraz.
[ Nate says before his HUD even has the chance to register the signature from the room's projectors. ]
They believed God was a source of light, physical representations were like welcoming Him. [ He chatters amiably, half to Ian, half to no one in particular, feeling along a smooth wall with one hand and watching the projection splay over his knuckles. ] I never got to- I haven't been here.
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This is actually another perk. He was banking on Nate knowing about at least a few, and after that trip to Tibet he'd be lying if he said he wasn't excited for another opportunity to hear Nate ramble through a history lesson or two.
He's appropriately reverent as he settles into place just a little ways off from Nate's side, hands tucked in his pockets, attention split evenly between the environment and Nate's expression.
He's not sure if he ought to feel sad Nate never got the chance to visit it, or glad that he gets to see a version of it now. )
I guess they might be pretty happy about this, then.
( Ventured almost like a question despite the lack of upward inflection. )
I mean, if they had to fall at all... getting recreated as a source of light...
( Kind of seems fitting, right? A little bit like inadvertently honoring them. )
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[ He says distantly, and he can very nearly feel the cool stone under his hand, conjuring an image of a place he's never been, smells and sounds he can only infer through what little he knows. The call to prayer, the soft pad of feet on the rug-covered floors, the way tiny motes of dust float lazily through beams of bright, unfettered light.
They might think it a holy thing, to have the hall built of projected colors. They might think it's blasphemous. Hard to tell when his own childhood was as Catholic as the Vatican on Christmas Eve.
Nate's gaze drifts over to Ian, whose divided attention is more than a little apparent. ]
...it's sort of weird, isn't it? [ The images around them seem to shudder, and the walls are suddenly shades of white and ivory and yellowish gray, tinged pink with a warm sun. The Erechtheion in Athens. ] How little this world seems to have any kind of relationship with religion that isn't a cult. I'm not- like, religious myself, it's just culturally weird. Like collective amnesia. You'd think there would be New Protestants, or Jehovah's Other Witnesses, or Mormons 2.
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( He volunteers, the natural follow up to Mormons 2 of course. If he doesn't get that reference Ian's going to look like a fucking moron, so he's just gonna... glide on past that and not let it linger. )
It's pretty odd. You'd think as long as what happens after death is arguably a mystery there'd be a religion meant to comfort people over it.
( He's far from religious himself; of all the reasons for it, that would be the primary draw for Ian. He's an unabashed coward, though, and his fear of death is a prime motivator. The reason for life or destiny or whatever isn't so much on his radar. He doesn't have any burning need to believe all things happen for a reason, or that there's a higher power looking out for mankind.
It would be nice to think his mom is somewhere out there still. Shame he's too logical to buy into it. )
I don't know, maybe these... whatever they are that we're calling gods are the jealous type.
( An offhand theory tossed out with a shrug. )
Maybe they actively snuffed it out with... divine intervention or something.
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[ He doesn't sound convinced. Nate doesn't believe in God so much as in some higher power, but even his time in Hadriel challenged that. The "gods" there were flawed, powerful reality-shaping entities that allowed the term applied to them because it seemed to make sense, and because their relationship with the previous inhabitants worked within the constraints of that dynamic. ]
I think I prefer it when they're flawed, you know. Like with the Greeks.
[ One hand rises and falls in a gesture toward the caryatids of the southern porch, images no doubt taken and recreated from a time closer to his own. With World War III in the mix Nate doubts a lot of cultural heritage survived the conflict. ]
Bunch of assholes with the same problems as the rest of us. Omniscience and omnipotence is so cheap. Who does it reassure if it's not actually acted on?
[ Also, who wouldn't want to party with Dionysus? ]
...sorry, I know this isn't what we- can you tell I grew up in a Catholic orphanage?
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