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?
( He's patient, unhurried. Willing to wait quietly while Nate presses his fingers into his eyes and processes his thoughts. When he finally speaks, a small smile plays about Ian's lips. As ridiculously silly as it seemed at the time, he can think back to the Aerie and see the consistent theme. Sam's underlying motivation seems to generally always be based around Nate's wellbeing, even if it manifested in counterintuitive ways.
He's not expecting the conversational turn, and that subtle surprise can be found in his eyebrows if you look close enough. )
No, I don't think we've talked about it.
( Not much, aside from that exchange sixty stories up. Ian drew his own conclusions, but he's flagged it in his mind as an area he shouldn't dig. It's the kind of subject Nate has to bring up and talk about on his own. )
[ Nate normally wouldn't touch this subject with a forty-foot pole, knows it would be a simple matter to just hold hands and pass some sad sentiments over through the empathy hotline and call it a day, but he needs Ian to understand the extent of that protection. The lengths Sam Drake would go to, to ensure his little brother was all right. The man had his fucking selfish moments but the decisions he made always rested under the same umbrella. ]
I lost my mom really young. She, um. She was smart, a historian. Taught us Latin. [ Nate was so small he barely remembers more than a few faint recollections burnished by Sam's stronger memories. ] She killed herself when I was four.
[ There was a funeral, small and sedate. His older brother's hand gripping his tightly, avoiding the questions he asked because Nate didn't understand. He scratches at the label on his beer, brow furrowed slightly at nothing in particular. ]
Our dad kind of held onto us for a year, and then he just sort of...dropped us off. [ Pat, matter of fact. ] We stayed with the nuns after that. I was pretty young and I'd get scared so I'd- sometimes, early on, I actually snuck into the older boys' dormitory to beg Sam to let me sleep in his bed.
[ Nate rolls his head back, leaning it on the seat cushion of the couch and staring up at the set concrete of the ceiling, concentrating on the warmth at his side, on his thigh, knowing this is A Lot bordering on Too Much. ]
We snuck out often. Broke into a house together when I was twelve, it was this...old lady who'd worked with our mom and we wanted her stuff back, and she had a heart attack- right there. Right after telling us she'd call the cops off.
I couldn't go back after they spotted us, and Sam had gotten kicked out for stealing and smoking the same year. So we left. [ His head lolls to one side, looking at Ian. ] It was just us.
( Jesus. The hand at Nate's thigh tightens a little, fingers flexing out of the mindless instinct to hang on. Like it'll do anything, like it can retroactively comfort him. It eases up again gradually, turns into a thumb passing back and forth in quiet, concerned support.
The disbelief and unfairness running through him isn't his to feel, and the sense of abandonment burning underneath it isn't entirely based in empathy alone. It calls forth an echo of an old feeling of his own, one he's never truly worked through enough to let go of. Just makes the pang in his chest a little harder for it.
He looks back, a knit in his brow but otherwise he's... doing his best to keep control over his expression. People usually hate pity, and while sympathy isn't the same thing the look that accompanies it can often be similar. He doesn't want to punish Nate for the limb he's going out on, wind up accidentally making him immediately regret it.
He could say I'm sorry, he could say you deserve better than that, he could say I know it's not the same, but my mom chose to go too, so I get it a little bit. None of that feels right, and he knows the story was meant to be context for the actual subject of the night: Sam.
What he ultimately settles on is careful, gentle. )
He really cares about you down to the bone. Even before knowing why, it was impossible to miss that.
[ Nate can feel Ian trying to school his expressions, trying to figure out what he's supposed to say and how. They both understand what it is to be abandoned, to feel left behind, to feel unwanted, and to this day it's a difficult emotion to kick when something hits that soft spot again, and again. It dulls with time. Like a scar tissue sacrificing nerve endings, a space that becomes numb through repeated exposure.
Another thing to carry around.
He watches the soft knit of Ian's brow and the slight downturn of his mouth, the hesitation catching his throat looking for words to avoid cutting Nate any deeper. Unnecessary effort, but appreciated. It was a long time ago. ]
He does. Even when he was being a selfish bastard, I- I know that. It's just-
[ Nate gestures with both hands before they fall back into his lap. ]
It's complicated. I love him, he tried to protect me, I still died. But the only reason I was out there on that cliff in the first place is because he lied to me. He appeared out of nowhere after I thought I'd lost him, resurrected an old job, gave me some bullshit story about how he was in trouble and he needed me- [ Jaw tense and actively working himself up, Nate immediately shuts the faucet off. ] ...I'm sorry. I'm not saying it's his fault, that's not fair, but when he showed up here I begged him to never lie to me again. He couldn't make that promise.
( The furrow in his brow deepens, a mild incredulity slipping in among the concern.
His tongue passes across his lips, and he drags his eyes down to the coffee table for a second while he tries to think -- tries to decide what he should and shouldn't say.
Honestly, the full context might help. May as well just ramble about it a little, because just fully saying things - when possible, when not something particularly personal or painful - has been his go-to. )
I think I have this really... unrealistic view of what relationships are supposed to be like. I mean... not necessarily romantic, but friends, siblings, you know, all of them. I was, um, practically raised by books and TV, and before Kyna the closest friend I had was gone like my first year of college, so. It took me a little while for her to chill me out on it, and I'm still not sure if what I think half the time is realistic or if I got it from Stand By Me. My point is, as a blanket statement, probably take my opinions here with a dozen grains of salt, but...
( A slow, rhythmic shake of his head. )
I can understand lying to you. People make mistakes. People fuck up all the time. What matters is that they try not to fuck up again later, so... not being able to promise you that is kind of...
( He looks back up, lips pursing, shrugging one shoulder apologetically. )
I don't think that's something I could... handle. Easily. Personally. I don't know how you managed to just keep on... keeping on, with that hanging over you guys. I'm sorry if that's judgmental.
[ It marches neatly in line with what Ian has told Nate about himself before, it gives more definition to the hesitation he has with regards to intimacy and fills in the blank spaces. Nate wouldn't call himself an expert by any stretch of the imagination, but he knows he's further along and remembers what it took for him to get there. ]
It's not. And you're not wrong for thinking it's shitty, either. I, um. Had a pretty rough time even talking to him, after he got here.
[ As though the wound Nate had finally started stitching up was rent open all over again, spilling him everywhere, until he snapped on a dark night in the dimly-lit bar of Red Wings. Everything fell out while Stephen helplessly listened and knew there was nothing he could offer in return to staunch the flow. Just mild platitudes and a sympathetic squeeze to his shoulder, imploring him to crack now so he wouldn't implode later.
It wasn't half-bad advice. ]
...It's hard to explain how you can love someone and not want to forgive them. Or can't. Or how you forgive them, but may not necessarily trust them. It opens you up to a lot of hurt. And I'm not excusing it, I know that kinda "letting it slide" mentality can breed resentment, but...he spent thirteen years in prison while I was seeing the world. And I- I got to grow, you know? I got to meet people, and know them, and become...someone without him. And he was...stuck.
[ Nate has thought about this for a while, the development Sam was deprived of in a cell, all the lost time, all the years he needed to catch up on. A guy gets out of prison and looks up the kid brother who used to depend on him for everything, and he's doing just fine.
He shifts to set his beer on the table, looping the arm between them up onto the sofa cushions with his fingertips braced on Ian's nape. Nate's tone slows, a little more thoughtful, trying to work out the sentiments left twisted up for too long. ]
I wasn't holding out for him to change so much as I- I had so many opportunities that I fucked up. People I hurt, or left. Relationships I just trashed because they scared the crap out of me. But I had people giving me second, and third, and fourth chances. And I wouldn't be who I am without them. Maybe he would have eventually made that promise, maybe not. But I wasn't gonna not him the chance.
( His mouth twists gently into a sad, understanding smile. )
I definitely know what it's like to love someone and not forgive them. Not quite the same situation, obviously, but that part I know.
( But the expectations, the right and wrong of it, that he's less confident about.
He settles back into the touch just a little, a barely visible recline and pressure on Nate's fingertips. His hand goes from a stationary base and sweeping thumb to a gentle back and forth rub, calloused palm sliding along denim just a few inches and back again. )
And I know prison complicates it all. I mean, your entire... dynamic was complicated, I just...
( Still can't wrap his head around it -- not even necessarily Nate's tolerance of it, but he can't put himself in Sam's mentality. He can't imagine fucking up that bad and expecting a relationship without even pretending to treat something as important as trust and honesty with the appropriate reverence.
But hey, what the fuck does he know? He's not exactly the model of healthy interpersonal relationships.
Plus, it's not his opinion that matters, and not the point. )
I hear a lot of you taking up for him, which is... great, it really is, I love that you're so loyal to him. I just wanna make sure, like... you know you're allowed to feel upset, right? You can know all of this stuff logically and still be allowed to feel hurt. You can definitely be upset that you got this extra time together and he left with you still feeling hurt.
It would be a valid critique of his character, that he has in the past been walked over for it, that it ties into his gullibility. He never thought twice about Googling Hector Alcazar because he knew the name, he knew Sam, and given the trajectory of their lives it sounded plausible.
Ian says his piece and it's valid and Nate knows it, glancing down at the hand on his thigh. Just because Ian has less experience doesn't mean his thoughts have no merit, and maybe Nate would think of this differently without the foundation of all the time he was screwed over in the past, the times he screwed people over in return. ]
I know. I know, I'm not trying to pretend I'm not still angry and...and hurt. I am. [ God, is he ever. He took a ridiculously long walk with Ellie just to get out of his head about it. Softer: ] I just can't hold onto that forever. It'll only hurt more.
( There's another twitch of a smile - or maybe it's just his lips pulling into his cheeks. A beat of silence because he'd be a hypocrite here if he said anything. He's been carrying his anger and hurt for so long, and the likelihood of him actually dealing with it long enough to get past it is slim to none.
He can only gently nod, because the concept seems healthy and right.
He does kind of what to know -- )
So... not holding onto it involves getting into really intense fights?
( Sorry for probing, man, he's just concerned. He can't help but circle back to it. )
Do I need to worry about you winding up with a broken neck or a sudden vendetta against a bald guy named Butch?
[ Another fair point, but without the necessary context of Nate's proclivity toward getting into increasingly dangerous and absurdist situations, it's no wonder Ian thinks trading a few blows qualifies as an extreme hobby. ]
...I think we're going to have to make some adjustments to your impression of what constitutes an "intense" fight, but no, it's- it's more like stress relief that I will try to refrain from more often. Or-
[ He follows up, palm smoothing over the juncture between Ian's neck and shoulder. ]
You come scope it out, feel better about the situation.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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He's not expecting the conversational turn, and that subtle surprise can be found in his eyebrows if you look close enough. )
No, I don't think we've talked about it.
( Not much, aside from that exchange sixty stories up. Ian drew his own conclusions, but he's flagged it in his mind as an area he shouldn't dig. It's the kind of subject Nate has to bring up and talk about on his own. )
tw: suicide mention
I lost my mom really young. She, um. She was smart, a historian. Taught us Latin. [ Nate was so small he barely remembers more than a few faint recollections burnished by Sam's stronger memories. ] She killed herself when I was four.
[ There was a funeral, small and sedate. His older brother's hand gripping his tightly, avoiding the questions he asked because Nate didn't understand. He scratches at the label on his beer, brow furrowed slightly at nothing in particular. ]
Our dad kind of held onto us for a year, and then he just sort of...dropped us off. [ Pat, matter of fact. ] We stayed with the nuns after that. I was pretty young and I'd get scared so I'd- sometimes, early on, I actually snuck into the older boys' dormitory to beg Sam to let me sleep in his bed.
[ Nate rolls his head back, leaning it on the seat cushion of the couch and staring up at the set concrete of the ceiling, concentrating on the warmth at his side, on his thigh, knowing this is A Lot bordering on Too Much. ]
We snuck out often. Broke into a house together when I was twelve, it was this...old lady who'd worked with our mom and we wanted her stuff back, and she had a heart attack- right there. Right after telling us she'd call the cops off.
I couldn't go back after they spotted us, and Sam had gotten kicked out for stealing and smoking the same year. So we left. [ His head lolls to one side, looking at Ian. ] It was just us.
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The disbelief and unfairness running through him isn't his to feel, and the sense of abandonment burning underneath it isn't entirely based in empathy alone. It calls forth an echo of an old feeling of his own, one he's never truly worked through enough to let go of. Just makes the pang in his chest a little harder for it.
He looks back, a knit in his brow but otherwise he's... doing his best to keep control over his expression. People usually hate pity, and while sympathy isn't the same thing the look that accompanies it can often be similar. He doesn't want to punish Nate for the limb he's going out on, wind up accidentally making him immediately regret it.
He could say I'm sorry, he could say you deserve better than that, he could say I know it's not the same, but my mom chose to go too, so I get it a little bit. None of that feels right, and he knows the story was meant to be context for the actual subject of the night: Sam.
What he ultimately settles on is careful, gentle. )
He really cares about you down to the bone. Even before knowing why, it was impossible to miss that.
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Another thing to carry around.
He watches the soft knit of Ian's brow and the slight downturn of his mouth, the hesitation catching his throat looking for words to avoid cutting Nate any deeper. Unnecessary effort, but appreciated. It was a long time ago. ]
He does. Even when he was being a selfish bastard, I- I know that. It's just-
[ Nate gestures with both hands before they fall back into his lap. ]
It's complicated. I love him, he tried to protect me, I still died. But the only reason I was out there on that cliff in the first place is because he lied to me. He appeared out of nowhere after I thought I'd lost him, resurrected an old job, gave me some bullshit story about how he was in trouble and he needed me- [ Jaw tense and actively working himself up, Nate immediately shuts the faucet off. ] ...I'm sorry. I'm not saying it's his fault, that's not fair, but when he showed up here I begged him to never lie to me again. He couldn't make that promise.
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His tongue passes across his lips, and he drags his eyes down to the coffee table for a second while he tries to think -- tries to decide what he should and shouldn't say.
Honestly, the full context might help. May as well just ramble about it a little, because just fully saying things - when possible, when not something particularly personal or painful - has been his go-to. )
I think I have this really... unrealistic view of what relationships are supposed to be like. I mean... not necessarily romantic, but friends, siblings, you know, all of them. I was, um, practically raised by books and TV, and before Kyna the closest friend I had was gone like my first year of college, so. It took me a little while for her to chill me out on it, and I'm still not sure if what I think half the time is realistic or if I got it from Stand By Me. My point is, as a blanket statement, probably take my opinions here with a dozen grains of salt, but...
( A slow, rhythmic shake of his head. )
I can understand lying to you. People make mistakes. People fuck up all the time. What matters is that they try not to fuck up again later, so... not being able to promise you that is kind of...
( He looks back up, lips pursing, shrugging one shoulder apologetically. )
I don't think that's something I could... handle. Easily. Personally. I don't know how you managed to just keep on... keeping on, with that hanging over you guys. I'm sorry if that's judgmental.
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It's not. And you're not wrong for thinking it's shitty, either. I, um. Had a pretty rough time even talking to him, after he got here.
[ As though the wound Nate had finally started stitching up was rent open all over again, spilling him everywhere, until he snapped on a dark night in the dimly-lit bar of Red Wings. Everything fell out while Stephen helplessly listened and knew there was nothing he could offer in return to staunch the flow. Just mild platitudes and a sympathetic squeeze to his shoulder, imploring him to crack now so he wouldn't implode later.
It wasn't half-bad advice. ]
...It's hard to explain how you can love someone and not want to forgive them. Or can't. Or how you forgive them, but may not necessarily trust them. It opens you up to a lot of hurt. And I'm not excusing it, I know that kinda "letting it slide" mentality can breed resentment, but...he spent thirteen years in prison while I was seeing the world. And I- I got to grow, you know? I got to meet people, and know them, and become...someone without him. And he was...stuck.
[ Nate has thought about this for a while, the development Sam was deprived of in a cell, all the lost time, all the years he needed to catch up on. A guy gets out of prison and looks up the kid brother who used to depend on him for everything, and he's doing just fine.
He shifts to set his beer on the table, looping the arm between them up onto the sofa cushions with his fingertips braced on Ian's nape. Nate's tone slows, a little more thoughtful, trying to work out the sentiments left twisted up for too long. ]
I wasn't holding out for him to change so much as I- I had so many opportunities that I fucked up. People I hurt, or left. Relationships I just trashed because they scared the crap out of me. But I had people giving me second, and third, and fourth chances. And I wouldn't be who I am without them. Maybe he would have eventually made that promise, maybe not. But I wasn't gonna not him the chance.
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I definitely know what it's like to love someone and not forgive them. Not quite the same situation, obviously, but that part I know.
( But the expectations, the right and wrong of it, that he's less confident about.
He settles back into the touch just a little, a barely visible recline and pressure on Nate's fingertips. His hand goes from a stationary base and sweeping thumb to a gentle back and forth rub, calloused palm sliding along denim just a few inches and back again. )
And I know prison complicates it all. I mean, your entire... dynamic was complicated, I just...
( Still can't wrap his head around it -- not even necessarily Nate's tolerance of it, but he can't put himself in Sam's mentality. He can't imagine fucking up that bad and expecting a relationship without even pretending to treat something as important as trust and honesty with the appropriate reverence.
But hey, what the fuck does he know? He's not exactly the model of healthy interpersonal relationships.
Plus, it's not his opinion that matters, and not the point. )
I hear a lot of you taking up for him, which is... great, it really is, I love that you're so loyal to him. I just wanna make sure, like... you know you're allowed to feel upset, right? You can know all of this stuff logically and still be allowed to feel hurt. You can definitely be upset that you got this extra time together and he left with you still feeling hurt.
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It would be a valid critique of his character, that he has in the past been walked over for it, that it ties into his gullibility. He never thought twice about Googling Hector Alcazar because he knew the name, he knew Sam, and given the trajectory of their lives it sounded plausible.
Ian says his piece and it's valid and Nate knows it, glancing down at the hand on his thigh. Just because Ian has less experience doesn't mean his thoughts have no merit, and maybe Nate would think of this differently without the foundation of all the time he was screwed over in the past, the times he screwed people over in return. ]
I know. I know, I'm not trying to pretend I'm not still angry and...and hurt. I am. [ God, is he ever. He took a ridiculously long walk with Ellie just to get out of his head about it. Softer: ] I just can't hold onto that forever. It'll only hurt more.
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He can only gently nod, because the concept seems healthy and right.
He does kind of what to know -- )
So... not holding onto it involves getting into really intense fights?
( Sorry for probing, man, he's just concerned. He can't help but circle back to it. )
Do I need to worry about you winding up with a broken neck or a sudden vendetta against a bald guy named Butch?
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...I think we're going to have to make some adjustments to your impression of what constitutes an "intense" fight, but no, it's- it's more like stress relief that I will try to refrain from more often. Or-
[ He follows up, palm smoothing over the juncture between Ian's neck and shoulder. ]
You come scope it out, feel better about the situation.
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Little does he know.
A little concern muddles with amusement as it flits through the bond beneath Nate's hand. )
You think watching you get punched in the face first-hand is gonna make me feel better?
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[ Nate insists, as though this is helpful information and not at all mildly concerning in any way, shape or form. ]
I know how it sounds. But I'm pretty good at it, and I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think you wouldn't get something out of it.
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