no, i know. i know you're trying. i'm sorry this crap is your intro to it. i'm sorry i didn't say anything sooner. self-fulfilling prophecy, you know? wanted to wait until it had been at least 7 days before giving kyna something concrete.
it's okay Kyna didn't say anything either, I think internalizing it is a pretty common strategy in terms of processing listen man personally, for me, the long wait before the end can be almost as bad as the end itself you don't have to be totally logical and reasonable about it, it's not a logical and reasonable thing
( His experience with that has nothing to do with the Kyna thing. It's something he went through well before it, except it was for months instead of a week. )
I'm wide open, what are we doing?
( now that he is promptly cancelling his plans, and he knows way better than to mention that )
Hates that he's always carrying some heavy baggage to Ian's door, when Ian deserves so much better than that. He's not a receptacle for emotional weight and he keeps making it hard to not lean on him. Keeps inviting it. ]
i've got a thing at 6 so i thought we could do a late dinner if you're not busy
[ 6 PM comes and goes and so does Nate's appointment. It's the first time since the Aerie that he's decided to dip his toe back into the ring, test the waters, because for a while the fighting itself felt too similar to what they'd left behind, the violence that seeped into every aspect of his curated life.
But the money is easy, the catharsis is easier, and his opponent only gets one good clock in when Nate isn't looking, splitting his lip. Stupid shit. Rookie mistake. Never let them touch your face. The guy went down like a sack of bricks seconds later but the damage was already done, supplemented by the taste of iron.
He cleans up - showers, changes - but it doesn't remove the cut and he doesn't have time to swing by a med center, so he swallows the explanation he knows he'll be forced to make and slides into Ian's place a few minutes before eight.
He's in the kitchen. Something smells like sauce, or broth. ]
( He doesn't notice at first, his eyes are occupied on opening up cartons and prepping plates. A second or two later when he finally does, yeah, he clocks that cut pretty much immediately. It brings forth an almost comical echo, but a tone shifted down into surprise and concern. )
Hey, man.
( The noodles are carelessly abandoned, orphaned on the counter so that he can calmly but promptly head over for a closer look. )
What happened?
( Busted lip on the day Ian talks to him about his missing brother, seems like the two things might be interconnected.
[ The soft and concerned hey, man is about what he was expecting, because the optics of this aren't great. Nate wasn't counting on someone getting a good hit in, but that only proves his internal point with himself about how he can't get rusty or he'll be jumped at a really inopportune time. ]
It's okay, it's okay-
[ There's very little insistence or defiance in his tone when Ian closes the distance and Nate rests one hand on Ian's elbow, letting him conduct his examination. ]
I went back to the rings today, thought it might help me with- I've got a lot going on, so. Guy got a lucky punch in. Dropped him like a rock afterward, but- I'm fine, it's a busted lip. It'll heal.
( It's like the hand on his elbow is the first step to a coordinated move, the initiation to a dance that Ian follows through with fluidly. The hand of the elbow he's holding glides forward, settling gently around where his ribs curve into is side. )
The rings like fight club?
( Yeah obviously, Fowler. What the hell other kind of ring could it be?
It's instinctual, the concern that flares up. Not a testament to what he thinks Nate is capable of, just... )
I feel like there's a guidebook somewhere that says I should support your hobbies, but I'm not sure they considered getting punched in the face when they wrote it.
[ They seem to be picking up on complementary motions more often these days, shifting to accommodate each other with a regularity and ease he doesn't want to look at too hard. It feels simple, and right, and there's nothing more to it. ]
But yeah, it's- there are a few of them. I haven't been to one since before the Aerie.
[ He tongues the cut on his lip without thinking about it, eyes skipping off to the side. ]
( Yeah, real tempting to get distracted by the sight of Nate's tongue working at his lip. Fortunately he's more concerned than he is salacious at the moment (maybe in general), so he manages to pointedly drag his eyes back up again.
The subtle knit in his brow isn't judgmental, there's no anger, just a concern-based skepticism that lingers loud enough to gently break through that constant state of calm. )
And this is like... a totally normal, nothing to do with pent-up emotions you're pretending you don't have, completely safe... thing?
( Uncertain, just kind of uncertain about all that man. It's gonna take a little more convincing to believe it's not some self-destructive coping mechanism or reckless impulsivity liable to get him seriously hurt. )
It's no-holds-barred MMA, I wouldn't say it's "danger free."
[ Admitting that much isn't difficult, seeing as it's unvarnished truth. His ribs ache but they're not busted, and the muted sensation ripples through his skin where his hand cups Ian's elbow. Honesty doesn't hurt but neither does it come easy, particularly when the person asking the questions genuinely cares. ]
I used to go more often just to get all the pent-up- y'know. Energy. Out. I went today 'cause... [ Nate sucks in a deep breath, exhaling a sigh. ] Because I've been a little frustrated, yeah.
( There's an earnest appreciation like a cool wave that passes through him when Nate's up front about it all. It's easier, it's reassuring to know that he doesn't have to find the correct dialogue tree path to unlock answers without risking fucking up. Honestly, he gets genuine relief out of just knowing regardless of subject matter, situation, or context.
But it doesn't entirely sweep away the concern, nor the new faintly uncertain conflict that arises about how he should handle it. Whether he should press harder about the danger or let it go without at least trying. Whether he's making a bigger deal about it in his head than it actually is. Once upon a time he'd have killed for the opportunity to read Nate's mind. That's not the case anymore after the Aerie, but... the feeling that caused the desire still exists.
It's alright, he can identify a route that feels logical and follow it. Settle on a compromise that feels appropriate and safe. )
Do you wanna eat a shitload of noodles and tell me about it?
( Maybe start with the frustration, work backward toward a conversation about the whole fight club thing. Prioritize, because Sam's the bigger issue right now. Ian doesn't need to let himself get hung up on something that makes him personally uncomfortable when Nate's conflict should really be the focus here. )
[ As much as Nate despises laying his problems at Ian's feet and hoping the pile of them doesn't get too big, the memory of having tacit, obvious, given support bubbles up in his throat. It was like this back home with Elena, in the Aerie with Ian, a low-pressure environment explicitly designed to make Nate feel comfortable enough to share, and they shouldn't have to make allowances but do it anyway. For him. The least he can do is not be ungrateful. ]
Not really.
[ He says with an expression torn between "apologetic grimace" and "weak smile." Nate squeezes Ian's elbow with his fingers in a gesture of acquiescence. ]
But I know better now than to pretend I'm on top of my shit, and I really like noodles. [ His free hand shifts, cupping the side of Ian's neck. ] Plus, you put a lot of effort into this.
( He doesn't seem too upset about not really, if anything there's a split mix of amusement and understanding. Yeah, he feels about the same most of the time when Nate's trying to drag a little emotional vulnerability out of him, too. Turnaround's fair play.
Plus, it's nigh impossible to stay too upset when Nate's palm settles against his neck like that. The soft breeze of warmth and fondness blows away a little of the worry despite himself. Still takes concentrated effort not to get itchy when something like that's just on full display to Nate, but it's slow progress. He doesn't pull away. The impulse to retreat is mild and gradually more fleeting every time. )
You're right.
( He muses, the hand on Nate's side going a little firmer, pulling them gently closer together. )
I hand-pulled those noodles. It took three days, blood, sweat, and tears...
( He picked them up from a take-away place around the corner. It doesn't take an empathy bond to figure out he's bullshitting. )
[ He says flatly, but the bright grin on his face communicates a different sentiment. Judging by the way Ian has treated similar circumstances - and his familiarity with loss - Nate knows better than to think he didn't drop whatever plans he had tonight just to buy some noodles from around the corner. Neither is he so myopic as to think that Ian doesn't also feel this loss: he and Sam had become close, and it's worth appreciating.
Nate thumbs the line of his pulse, holding eye contact for a moment before gingerly pulling away. ]
All right, show me what you've got so I can stuff my face and tell you my sob story.
( Nate thumbs his pulse and looks him in the eyes, and Ian feels something a few too many layers down away from conscious thought: I'm fucking smitten. Hard not to be when you're on the receiving end of something like that from someone like Nate. Probably a good thing it happens right on the cusp of Nate pulling away, or else Ian might've done just on instinct. )
Behold!
( Announced with a muted grandiosity and a wry sweeping gesture of his hand. Ironically overenthusiastic as he leads the way to his kitchen counters. )
Bountiful carbs to soak up your sadness and go straight to your abs because somehow your hips are just, like, immune to the ravages of time.
( It transitions into something jokingly resentful, scathing like he doesn't wholly appreciate everything Nate's got going on. Snake tattoo and all.
They could eat at his island table-thing like normal adult humans, but that's not where Ian leads them. Instead, it's to the coffee table where he's pulled a few couch pillows down to sit on. It's a deliberate decision -- he thinks, hopes, that settling in side by side on the floor with its easy association will make it less intimidating for Nate. A little less subconsciously daunting than it might be propped up with a table separating them and the feeling like Ian's got eyes on his face the whole time. )
[ He says sagely, as though that explains away his ability to keep from putting on any more weight than muscle mass. It wasn't until his twenties that he actually started to "make gains," though he wasn't exactly trying to do so. As it turns out, running from the cops and scaling buildings on a daily basis are an efficient exercise routine for a growing lad.
Nate follows Ian to the considerably more comfortable set-up on the floor at his coffee table, which serves as an unanticipated gesture of kindness and consideration that he's come to learn are just a part of Ian's character. It's warmer like this, more intimate, and it means he gets to kick his shoes off and stay a while. Nothing formal, just this.
Just them.
He settles on a cushion after leaving his boots by the wall, finagling his knees under the low table with minimal bumping. ]
I could tell you my secrets but then I would lose all my mystique.
( Thank god Nate recognizes the care he slips into his actions, because god knows he struggles putting it into words. Hell, they have a direct empathy bond available to them that could communicate it and that freaks him out every time. It's stupid, it's completely illogical, completely contradictory that he wants to hide how he feels but simultaneously display it in ways that are way harder to see hoping like hell Nate sees them.
Can't explain it, he's just a moron that gets twisted up in his own head.
He grunts a little on his way down beside Nate, like he's hitting his fifties instead of halfway through his thirties. His legs settle in, the two of them really challenging this under the table space, but they always somehow make it work. )
Your mystique.
( He echoes, chest glowing as he absently matter-bends the top off two bottles of beer. Work smarter not harder. )
I watched you walk face first into a wall one time.
[ If they talk about his faults, his flaws, his foibles, they don't have to talk about his cowardice in avoiding the conversations he so desperately wanted to have with his brother. They don't have to talk about the regrets, the lack of a more intimate and meaningful forgiveness, and the way Nate is going to beat himself up about it - possible literally if he keeps taking punches in the ring - for the foreseeable future.
He's not alone, thank God. Ian radiates a heat that Nate soaks up greedily, loose curls falling around his face as he situates himself. ]
I know. You coulda called the date off right then and there, but you didn't.
[ Nate graciously accepts his bottle of beer before using it to point at Ian, emphasizing his argument. ]
( Don't think he hasn't noticed, don't think he didn't expect it a little. They've got way too much in common even if he wasn't particularly keen on when someone's veering him off-course.
He's just been taking it slow. Letting him get comfortable. )
You're not wrong.
( Conceded with placid amusement. )
Something about a guy with a flat face just really... it gets me going. It's a weakness.
( And while it isn't the smoothest transition, it's enough of a window for him to slip through, he thinks.
Still light. Still surface level. Conversational, and with lingering wryness. )
You know your brother gave me the shotgun talk after that?
[ Nate squirms into a slightly more comfortable position, leaning his back against the sofa and looking past the noodles. It's possible he's just tired from the fight and the gutting emotional turmoil, the latter of which he'd really rather not address, but despite both possibilities being front of mind he doesn't think of either.
His gaze drifts and his beer hovers, braced on his thigh, Ian's voice fades out to something muffled and distant, like listening to a conversation through drywall, and suddenly all Nate wants to do is finish what Sam started. It's stupid, to want to find an island he knows is probably gone. As if by going home Sam effectively went back in time, and maybe, maybe he'll be there.
Or what's left of him will be. ]
Huh?
[ Nate catches the tail end and wrenches himself into engagement again, as though he wasn't just staring into nothing. ]
( He's aware of it, a little. Not just how spaced Nate had been exactly, but the distant look. The slight detachment often accompanied by emotional fatigue. It's warranted, completely understandable considering the circumstances, so he doesn't mention it. He does lean a little more into Nate's shoulder, and slip a hand under the table to settle on his thigh. Nothing suggestive about it, it's just a gesture. An offering. )
Yup.
( Quietly amused as hell. )
Asked me what my intentions were with you and everything.
[ The anchor hooks into the meat of him and drags him back gently, slowly, with little pressure. Nate pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tightly until he can see stars in the blackness and they dissipate again while he huffs. A muted laugh that catches before it can become anything that revels in too much humor for the circumstance. ]
Yeah, that...sounds like Sam.
[ Sam never got hinky or up in arms about it when it was a girl, from what Nate can remember of their youth. He'd ask probing questions, dip into territory that was (frankly) at times a little invasive, but Nate knew he was just happy to see Nathan "gettin' some."
Clearly it wasn't the same case here, but then, Sam never did get exceptionally involved if Nate was fooling around with a guy. Whether it was general discomfort or not knowing what to say outside of mildly encouraging platitudes, they were never in a position where Sam wanted to discuss it beyond ensuring his baby brother was being safe. ]
He was always pretty protective. [ Nate thumbs at his bottle, looking at Ian's hand. ] ...Did I tell you why we were in the orphanage?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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i'm sorry i didn't say anything sooner. self-fulfilling prophecy, you know?
wanted to wait until it had been at least 7 days before giving kyna something concrete.
are you free tonight?
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Kyna didn't say anything either, I think internalizing it is a pretty common strategy in terms of processing
listen man
personally, for me, the long wait before the end can be almost as bad as the end itself
you don't have to be totally logical and reasonable about it, it's not a logical and reasonable thing
( His experience with that has nothing to do with the Kyna thing. It's something he went through well before it, except it was for months instead of a week. )
I'm wide open, what are we doing?
( now that he is promptly cancelling his plans, and he knows way better than to mention that )
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Hates that he's always carrying some heavy baggage to Ian's door, when Ian deserves so much better than that. He's not a receptacle for emotional weight and he keeps making it hard to not lean on him. Keeps inviting it. ]
i've got a thing at 6 so i thought we could do a late dinner if you're not busy
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I unequivocally require a late dinner with you
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see you at 8, then? your place?
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( With an abundance of noodles because it feels like maybe it might qualify as a comfort food for Nate. A ridiculous variety of noodle. )
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But the money is easy, the catharsis is easier, and his opponent only gets one good clock in when Nate isn't looking, splitting his lip. Stupid shit. Rookie mistake. Never let them touch your face. The guy went down like a sack of bricks seconds later but the damage was already done, supplemented by the taste of iron.
He cleans up - showers, changes - but it doesn't remove the cut and he doesn't have time to swing by a med center, so he swallows the explanation he knows he'll be forced to make and slides into Ian's place a few minutes before eight.
He's in the kitchen. Something smells like sauce, or broth. ]
Hey.
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( He doesn't notice at first, his eyes are occupied on opening up cartons and prepping plates. A second or two later when he finally does, yeah, he clocks that cut pretty much immediately. It brings forth an almost comical echo, but a tone shifted down into surprise and concern. )
Hey, man.
( The noodles are carelessly abandoned, orphaned on the counter so that he can calmly but promptly head over for a closer look. )
What happened?
( Busted lip on the day Ian talks to him about his missing brother, seems like the two things might be interconnected.
That or Ian's an over-worrier. Probably both. )
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It's okay, it's okay-
[ There's very little insistence or defiance in his tone when Ian closes the distance and Nate rests one hand on Ian's elbow, letting him conduct his examination. ]
I went back to the rings today, thought it might help me with- I've got a lot going on, so. Guy got a lucky punch in. Dropped him like a rock afterward, but- I'm fine, it's a busted lip. It'll heal.
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The rings like fight club?
( Yeah obviously, Fowler. What the hell other kind of ring could it be?
It's instinctual, the concern that flares up. Not a testament to what he thinks Nate is capable of, just... )
I feel like there's a guidebook somewhere that says I should support your hobbies, but I'm not sure they considered getting punched in the face when they wrote it.
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[ They seem to be picking up on complementary motions more often these days, shifting to accommodate each other with a regularity and ease he doesn't want to look at too hard. It feels simple, and right, and there's nothing more to it. ]
But yeah, it's- there are a few of them. I haven't been to one since before the Aerie.
[ He tongues the cut on his lip without thinking about it, eyes skipping off to the side. ]
I don't wanna get rusty.
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The subtle knit in his brow isn't judgmental, there's no anger, just a concern-based skepticism that lingers loud enough to gently break through that constant state of calm. )
And this is like... a totally normal, nothing to do with pent-up emotions you're pretending you don't have, completely safe... thing?
( Uncertain, just kind of uncertain about all that man. It's gonna take a little more convincing to believe it's not some self-destructive coping mechanism or reckless impulsivity liable to get him seriously hurt. )
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[ Admitting that much isn't difficult, seeing as it's unvarnished truth. His ribs ache but they're not busted, and the muted sensation ripples through his skin where his hand cups Ian's elbow. Honesty doesn't hurt but neither does it come easy, particularly when the person asking the questions genuinely cares. ]
I used to go more often just to get all the pent-up- y'know. Energy. Out. I went today 'cause... [ Nate sucks in a deep breath, exhaling a sigh. ] Because I've been a little frustrated, yeah.
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But it doesn't entirely sweep away the concern, nor the new faintly uncertain conflict that arises about how he should handle it. Whether he should press harder about the danger or let it go without at least trying. Whether he's making a bigger deal about it in his head than it actually is. Once upon a time he'd have killed for the opportunity to read Nate's mind. That's not the case anymore after the Aerie, but... the feeling that caused the desire still exists.
It's alright, he can identify a route that feels logical and follow it. Settle on a compromise that feels appropriate and safe. )
Do you wanna eat a shitload of noodles and tell me about it?
( Maybe start with the frustration, work backward toward a conversation about the whole fight club thing. Prioritize, because Sam's the bigger issue right now. Ian doesn't need to let himself get hung up on something that makes him personally uncomfortable when Nate's conflict should really be the focus here. )
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Not really.
[ He says with an expression torn between "apologetic grimace" and "weak smile." Nate squeezes Ian's elbow with his fingers in a gesture of acquiescence. ]
But I know better now than to pretend I'm on top of my shit, and I really like noodles. [ His free hand shifts, cupping the side of Ian's neck. ] Plus, you put a lot of effort into this.
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Plus, it's nigh impossible to stay too upset when Nate's palm settles against his neck like that. The soft breeze of warmth and fondness blows away a little of the worry despite himself. Still takes concentrated effort not to get itchy when something like that's just on full display to Nate, but it's slow progress. He doesn't pull away. The impulse to retreat is mild and gradually more fleeting every time. )
You're right.
( He muses, the hand on Nate's side going a little firmer, pulling them gently closer together. )
I hand-pulled those noodles. It took three days, blood, sweat, and tears...
( He picked them up from a take-away place around the corner. It doesn't take an empathy bond to figure out he's bullshitting. )
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[ He says flatly, but the bright grin on his face communicates a different sentiment. Judging by the way Ian has treated similar circumstances - and his familiarity with loss - Nate knows better than to think he didn't drop whatever plans he had tonight just to buy some noodles from around the corner. Neither is he so myopic as to think that Ian doesn't also feel this loss: he and Sam had become close, and it's worth appreciating.
Nate thumbs the line of his pulse, holding eye contact for a moment before gingerly pulling away. ]
All right, show me what you've got so I can stuff my face and tell you my sob story.
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Behold!
( Announced with a muted grandiosity and a wry sweeping gesture of his hand. Ironically overenthusiastic as he leads the way to his kitchen counters. )
Bountiful carbs to soak up your sadness and go straight to your abs because somehow your hips are just, like, immune to the ravages of time.
( It transitions into something jokingly resentful, scathing like he doesn't wholly appreciate everything Nate's got going on. Snake tattoo and all.
They could eat at his island table-thing like normal adult humans, but that's not where Ian leads them. Instead, it's to the coffee table where he's pulled a few couch pillows down to sit on. It's a deliberate decision -- he thinks, hopes, that settling in side by side on the floor with its easy association will make it less intimidating for Nate. A little less subconsciously daunting than it might be propped up with a table separating them and the feeling like Ian's got eyes on his face the whole time. )
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[ He says sagely, as though that explains away his ability to keep from putting on any more weight than muscle mass. It wasn't until his twenties that he actually started to "make gains," though he wasn't exactly trying to do so. As it turns out, running from the cops and scaling buildings on a daily basis are an efficient exercise routine for a growing lad.
Nate follows Ian to the considerably more comfortable set-up on the floor at his coffee table, which serves as an unanticipated gesture of kindness and consideration that he's come to learn are just a part of Ian's character. It's warmer like this, more intimate, and it means he gets to kick his shoes off and stay a while. Nothing formal, just this.
Just them.
He settles on a cushion after leaving his boots by the wall, finagling his knees under the low table with minimal bumping. ]
I could tell you my secrets but then I would lose all my mystique.
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Can't explain it, he's just a moron that gets twisted up in his own head.
He grunts a little on his way down beside Nate, like he's hitting his fifties instead of halfway through his thirties. His legs settle in, the two of them really challenging this under the table space, but they always somehow make it work. )
Your mystique.
( He echoes, chest glowing as he absently matter-bends the top off two bottles of beer. Work smarter not harder. )
I watched you walk face first into a wall one time.
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He's not alone, thank God. Ian radiates a heat that Nate soaks up greedily, loose curls falling around his face as he situates himself. ]
I know. You coulda called the date off right then and there, but you didn't.
[ Nate graciously accepts his bottle of beer before using it to point at Ian, emphasizing his argument. ]
Clearly you were into it.
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He's just been taking it slow. Letting him get comfortable. )
You're not wrong.
( Conceded with placid amusement. )
Something about a guy with a flat face just really... it gets me going. It's a weakness.
( And while it isn't the smoothest transition, it's enough of a window for him to slip through, he thinks.
Still light. Still surface level. Conversational, and with lingering wryness. )
You know your brother gave me the shotgun talk after that?
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His gaze drifts and his beer hovers, braced on his thigh, Ian's voice fades out to something muffled and distant, like listening to a conversation through drywall, and suddenly all Nate wants to do is finish what Sam started. It's stupid, to want to find an island he knows is probably gone. As if by going home Sam effectively went back in time, and maybe, maybe he'll be there.
Or what's left of him will be. ]
Huh?
[ Nate catches the tail end and wrenches himself into engagement again, as though he wasn't just staring into nothing. ]
He did?
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Yup.
( Quietly amused as hell. )
Asked me what my intentions were with you and everything.
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Yeah, that...sounds like Sam.
[ Sam never got hinky or up in arms about it when it was a girl, from what Nate can remember of their youth. He'd ask probing questions, dip into territory that was (frankly) at times a little invasive, but Nate knew he was just happy to see Nathan "gettin' some."
Clearly it wasn't the same case here, but then, Sam never did get exceptionally involved if Nate was fooling around with a guy. Whether it was general discomfort or not knowing what to say outside of mildly encouraging platitudes, they were never in a position where Sam wanted to discuss it beyond ensuring his baby brother was being safe. ]
He was always pretty protective. [ Nate thumbs at his bottle, looking at Ian's hand. ] ...Did I tell you why we were in the orphanage?
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tw: suicide mention
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