[ He remarks, because it is fairly ballsy to compare oneself to one of the finest artists of the age, if not one of the most well-regarded in history, next to his elder contemporary. Nate always kind of liked da Vinci a little more, because he was eccentric and excitable based on his marginalia. The kind of weird passion you like to see in an inventor. Not altogether unlike Ian when he gets that look in his eye, actually.
Nate settles and rolls slightly inward, shoulder and bicep pressing into Ian's, and tips his temple into the fabric of the hammock, watching him. With his curls falling all around his forehead and cheeks, the softness in his expression, he doesn't look all that dissimilar from any other Renaissance man. The sort of countenance expected in a painting at the Uffizi.
Without thinking about it, without asking, Nate reaches out and pushes a curl behind one of Ian's ears. ]
( If they had the empathy bond right now, Nate would pick up on the deep pang that runs through his chest. Stronger, maybe, than it'd been before. Although his face stays mostly aloof, a little wry, there's maybe a slightly more telling softness around his eyes. )
Hey.
( It's fucking weird how anxiety can sometimes flip like a switch — almost like it's hard to connect and communicate properly through text, go figure. Settling in, pressed together, making eye contact, it just feels...
Easier.
He lifts a little at the neck, leaning in with only a half-second's pause to press their lips together. )
[ There's a lot that's still simmering uncomfortably under the surface, things he should say or offhandedly mention just so he can feel like the air is cleared, but maybe it was never really muddied and fraught to begin with, and he's just shit at reading this man more than he thought he was. Needs more time to learn, or absorb, and what better place to do that than right in front of him?
Nate's fingers curl into the hair at the base of Ian's neck and he meets him there, soft pressure and a sigh of relief into the space between them. A pressure valve twisting, releasing.
He's been thinking about this. Hard not to with the way things are set up here, no goddamn privacy for miles and individual shelters only for couples who are well-established within the community, everybody else hot racking out bunks like they're the fresh fish on the submarine. They barely get more than the allotted three minutes in the shower together, let alone opportunities for intimacy, and Nate isn't so prudish as to not take advantage of a shadowy corner when he finds it.
So he presses in a little more intently, parts his lips, asks for more. Wonders how pathetically needy he'd sound if he said he missed him today. ]
( It started out as a greeting, just something soft and chaste driven by the relief pouring out of him. It doesn't stay that way for very long; the pressure at the back of his neck, the sigh, the parting lips — Jesus fucking Christ, they need to get a room. Never before has that saying been more serious.
Not the slightest bit of hesitation taking the offer, from chaste to open-mouthed and warmer. It's hard to say he rolls onto his side necessarily, thank you hammock, but he shifts as best he can to be a little more chest to chest. His palm presses wide and flat along Nate's lower back, passing a few inches up and down the fabric.
They could address that weird miscommunication issue, or... )
[ ...or they could do this, which is infinitely more enjoyable and induces much less stress.
It's hard to exist in the same space with Ian right now without thinking about every extremely diverting inch of him, the hand pressing firmly to the small of his back, smoothing down the absent wrinkles of his tee. He gets up, goes to work with the engineering team, pores over his little projects and doesn't even realize the charming picture he paints with his brow all knotted up over a problem, as infuriating as that same brow can be when it knits pleasantly in the apathetic, I don't really care, man nonchalance he wears so well. ]
I thought about this today.
[ Nate says in a mumbled rush, because every second he spends speaking is one less second spent tasting some kind of leftover alcohol burn in Ian's mouth, crawling down his throat and hooking in deep. Is it embarrassing? God, yeah. But he's long past the point of shame in pretending he's not attracted to this man. ]
( They spent a really good weekend — or part of a weekend — in Hawaii. That was days and days ago. Granted, yeah, he went weeks or months without anyone but himself before they started doing this, but it's different. These last few days feel a million years longer.
Probably good there's no empathy bond. I thought about this today is one of those stupid little things that runs through him like a junior on prom night. It earns him a nip to his lower lip, a probably-definitely-inappropriate-for-the-setting southward drift of the hand down Nate's back.
It's fine. Nobody's around. Probably. Hopefully. It's over the clothes groping, if it's that big of a deal somebody needs to be building some privacy rooms.
Well, someone other than just himself.
The next parting to take a breath he mutters a deadpan, faintly frustrated: )
Think about this like six times a day and how much I hate these stupid fucking hammocks.
( You know, as frustrated as Ian ever sounds, really — barely, skewing amused even if there is very little amusement in him about thee whole affair. Seriously, fuck hammocks. )
[ The physical response to his statement startles a delighted, quiet laugh out of him, savoring the pinch and the less-than-subtle game of grabass. If there's one thing upon which Nate can rely, it's that Ian knows what he wants and tends to just go for it in cases like this. There could be innocent bystanders in proximity and Nate couldn't find it in himself to give a damn.
Well, maybe a little bit of a damn. If only because he's not wholly exhibitionistic. ]
You're a problem-solver. [ Nate says emphatically, softly, adaptable at his very core and confident in the statement he makes judging by the grin on his face. ] Work the problem.
[ He fists a handful of Ian's hair at the base of his neck, twisting, pulling back to gain access to the column of his throat. Pressing hot, sticky kisses to the underside of his jaw he contemplates the mysterious method by which people in this dragon-ship seem to get privacy when they need it.
( He returns, with as much sass as he can manage considering he's getting his hair pulled and there are lips on his neck. It's not exactly up to his usual bar for witty retorts, but who on the planet can blame him?
He feels like a fucking teenager, casting the occasional glance around for onlookers when he has the presence of mind to remember they aren't exactly private right now. If they get caught, it's gonna be real embarrassing having a less than subtle hard-on. Apparently all it takes is a little mouthing at his throat and Nate's stupid voice like six inches from his ear. )
I'm gonna work the fuck out of your problem.
( And it's not really... that bad if he nudges the back of Nate's shirt up a few inches so he can press his fingertips against skin. It's like four inches of lower back, how graphic could it really be? )
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nonscriptum) wrote2021-05-14 10:11 am
no subject
[ He remarks, because it is fairly ballsy to compare oneself to one of the finest artists of the age, if not one of the most well-regarded in history, next to his elder contemporary. Nate always kind of liked da Vinci a little more, because he was eccentric and excitable based on his marginalia. The kind of weird passion you like to see in an inventor. Not altogether unlike Ian when he gets that look in his eye, actually.
Nate settles and rolls slightly inward, shoulder and bicep pressing into Ian's, and tips his temple into the fabric of the hammock, watching him. With his curls falling all around his forehead and cheeks, the softness in his expression, he doesn't look all that dissimilar from any other Renaissance man. The sort of countenance expected in a painting at the Uffizi.
Without thinking about it, without asking, Nate reaches out and pushes a curl behind one of Ian's ears. ]
Hey.
no subject
Hey.
( It's fucking weird how anxiety can sometimes flip like a switch — almost like it's hard to connect and communicate properly through text, go figure. Settling in, pressed together, making eye contact, it just feels...
Easier.
He lifts a little at the neck, leaning in with only a half-second's pause to press their lips together. )
no subject
Nate's fingers curl into the hair at the base of Ian's neck and he meets him there, soft pressure and a sigh of relief into the space between them. A pressure valve twisting, releasing.
He's been thinking about this. Hard not to with the way things are set up here, no goddamn privacy for miles and individual shelters only for couples who are well-established within the community, everybody else hot racking out bunks like they're the fresh fish on the submarine. They barely get more than the allotted three minutes in the shower together, let alone opportunities for intimacy, and Nate isn't so prudish as to not take advantage of a shadowy corner when he finds it.
So he presses in a little more intently, parts his lips, asks for more. Wonders how pathetically needy he'd sound if he said he missed him today. ]
no subject
Not the slightest bit of hesitation taking the offer, from chaste to open-mouthed and warmer. It's hard to say he rolls onto his side necessarily, thank you hammock, but he shifts as best he can to be a little more chest to chest. His palm presses wide and flat along Nate's lower back, passing a few inches up and down the fabric.
They could address that weird miscommunication issue, or... )
no subject
It's hard to exist in the same space with Ian right now without thinking about every extremely diverting inch of him, the hand pressing firmly to the small of his back, smoothing down the absent wrinkles of his tee. He gets up, goes to work with the engineering team, pores over his little projects and doesn't even realize the charming picture he paints with his brow all knotted up over a problem, as infuriating as that same brow can be when it knits pleasantly in the apathetic, I don't really care, man nonchalance he wears so well. ]
I thought about this today.
[ Nate says in a mumbled rush, because every second he spends speaking is one less second spent tasting some kind of leftover alcohol burn in Ian's mouth, crawling down his throat and hooking in deep. Is it embarrassing? God, yeah. But he's long past the point of shame in pretending he's not attracted to this man. ]
no subject
Probably good there's no empathy bond. I thought about this today is one of those stupid little things that runs through him like a junior on prom night. It earns him a nip to his lower lip, a probably-definitely-inappropriate-for-the-setting southward drift of the hand down Nate's back.
It's fine. Nobody's around. Probably. Hopefully. It's over the clothes groping, if it's that big of a deal somebody needs to be building some privacy rooms.
Well, someone other than just himself.
The next parting to take a breath he mutters a deadpan, faintly frustrated: )
Think about this like six times a day and how much I hate these stupid fucking hammocks.
( You know, as frustrated as Ian ever sounds, really — barely, skewing amused even if there is very little amusement in him about thee whole affair. Seriously, fuck hammocks. )
no subject
Well, maybe a little bit of a damn. If only because he's not wholly exhibitionistic. ]
You're a problem-solver. [ Nate says emphatically, softly, adaptable at his very core and confident in the statement he makes judging by the grin on his face. ] Work the problem.
[ He fists a handful of Ian's hair at the base of his neck, twisting, pulling back to gain access to the column of his throat. Pressing hot, sticky kisses to the underside of his jaw he contemplates the mysterious method by which people in this dragon-ship seem to get privacy when they need it.
And then, because he honestly can't help it- ]
...Six times a day, really?
no subject
( He returns, with as much sass as he can manage considering he's getting his hair pulled and there are lips on his neck. It's not exactly up to his usual bar for witty retorts, but who on the planet can blame him?
He feels like a fucking teenager, casting the occasional glance around for onlookers when he has the presence of mind to remember they aren't exactly private right now. If they get caught, it's gonna be real embarrassing having a less than subtle hard-on. Apparently all it takes is a little mouthing at his throat and Nate's stupid voice like six inches from his ear. )
I'm gonna work the fuck out of your problem.
( And it's not really... that bad if he nudges the back of Nate's shirt up a few inches so he can press his fingertips against skin. It's like four inches of lower back, how graphic could it really be? )