[ Nate likes wandering around people's homes and seeing the kinds of knick-knacks they keep, what amuses them, what intrigues them. What they read and write about, personal projects and pet interests. In a way it's not all that dissimilar from meandering through a ruin and picking his way piece by piece, relic by relic, sherd by sherd. Fragments of a person's story and life, no full picture but the borders of an unfinished jigsaw puzzle. The boundaries are there.
Anthropologically it's something he's incapable of shutting off, so he logs it all and judges the fridge the most intently for its heinous orange crimes. For all that Ian's expression reads don't say a fucking word Nate smiles thinly and leans his palms on the kitchen island while sleepyhead angles for a drink.
At least he's hydrating. ]
We're going for a run.
[ Nate says with the bright chirp of someone who loves cardio with every fiber of their being, despite the contrary being far more accurate. It's a solidarity thing, he tells himself. Ian needs to sober up, it's nice and cool out, and he can always hate Nate for it later. ]
He chokes on his water a little. Has to pull it back to clear it from his airways before he drowns in his own kitchen. ]
Excuse me, a what?
[ Like he's never heard of the term before. What is this r....uhn of which you speak? Surely to god that word doesn't exist at— 5:05 a.m. according to his HUD.
His mind starts to determine the best route to extract himself from this situation, and then kindly reminds him that Nate scaled his fucking window at five in the morning. Statistical likelihood of getting out of this... dishearteningly low.
Maybe one possible out that is at least half based in truth: ]
If you make me run I'm absolutely gonna puke on everything you're wearing. All of it. I really don't think you're gonna be all that amped about fun breakfast bonding time after that.
[ As a warning.
Also an unappealing thing to consider: mimosas will probably be off the table. ]
[ There is no escape, unless Ian wants to try doing the very thing that seems to be giving him so much grief at the moment: running. ]
A light jog, then. Around the neighborhood.
[ Nate specifies neither which neighborhood, nor how large the neighborhood in question is. Instead he basks in the incredulity that Ian is having a hard time containing, doing his best to keep from enjoying the small pleasure of tormenting somebody when they made their own bed and refuse to sleep in it.
[ Please, you'll love it, shut up. After a certain point there's a bell curve on the distance to discomfort ratio. It stops mattering because peak terrible inevitably hits, and it's only downhill from there. Considering how extremely short that ratio is, any neighborhood will pretty much get him there.
So that's fun.
His stomach either wants one of two things, and it can't seem to decide: nothing with a side of evicting all contents, or sixteen pounds of bacon — courtesy of the galanin still flooding him, despite how terrible an idea that is in actual practice. Still, it makes that breakfast promise the sole consolation he's choosing to fixate on.
There's an absolute shroud of resignation hanging off him as he begrudgingly heads toward the dresser, glass of water still in hand, to seek out clothes that aren't just boxers. ]
This is a rapidly descending Dante's Inferno of torment and suffering, I want you to know. It's cruel and unusual. This is one of those commercials you haven't seen where Sarah McLachlan sings Arms of an Angel while they show three legged dogs and starving children.
[ Prepare for this for the entirety of today's festivities. ]
[ He asks airily, blatant amusement in his voice as he leans his forearms on the counter and watches Ian disappear behind one of those weird partitions to dig out some clothes.
He caved much easier than anticipated, which is a huge benefit to Nate, who wouldn't have pushed if Ian told him to just fuck off. He might be an ass, but at least he respects boundaries. ]
As your resident Virgil I would say...third, maybe? Over-indulgence.
[ There's some barely audible scoffing from behind his partition, and a mutter he neither intends for Nate nor particularly cares to hide from him. ]
Pff, you wish you were Virgil. Fucking Mephistopheles.
[ It's five a.m. and it's his apartment, he can mix his tragedies if he wants to.
A touch louder: ]
Get thee behind me, Satan.
[ And then the telltale swishing sounds of fabric moving around, a door opening and closing — the bathroom, if he's curious — and he emerges eventually looking like...
Well, still kind of looking like shit, but at least his breath smells nice and his hair has a general direction it intends to aim for in life. Plus, there are shoes. This is as good as Nate's getting. ]
[ Nate quips from the other room, because he's hard-pressed not to hear everything that comes out of Ian's understandably disgruntled mouth. He'll take Mephistopheles, though. That whole thing with Faust was wild, what with its similarities to the shit he found in John Dee's secret basement.
For all the griping Nate is undeniably pleased when Ian returns, looking about as together as he anticipated. ]
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no subject
Anthropologically it's something he's incapable of shutting off, so he logs it all and judges the fridge the most intently for its heinous orange crimes. For all that Ian's expression reads don't say a fucking word Nate smiles thinly and leans his palms on the kitchen island while sleepyhead angles for a drink.
At least he's hydrating. ]
We're going for a run.
[ Nate says with the bright chirp of someone who loves cardio with every fiber of their being, despite the contrary being far more accurate. It's a solidarity thing, he tells himself. Ian needs to sober up, it's nice and cool out, and he can always hate Nate for it later. ]
And then we're grabbing breakfast.
no subject
He chokes on his water a little. Has to pull it back to clear it from his airways before he drowns in his own kitchen. ]
Excuse me, a what?
[ Like he's never heard of the term before. What is this r....uhn of which you speak? Surely to god that word doesn't exist at— 5:05 a.m. according to his HUD.
His mind starts to determine the best route to extract himself from this situation, and then kindly reminds him that Nate scaled his fucking window at five in the morning. Statistical likelihood of getting out of this... dishearteningly low.
Maybe one possible out that is at least half based in truth: ]
If you make me run I'm absolutely gonna puke on everything you're wearing. All of it. I really don't think you're gonna be all that amped about fun breakfast bonding time after that.
[ As a warning.
Also an unappealing thing to consider: mimosas will probably be off the table. ]
no subject
A light jog, then. Around the neighborhood.
[ Nate specifies neither which neighborhood, nor how large the neighborhood in question is. Instead he basks in the incredulity that Ian is having a hard time containing, doing his best to keep from enjoying the small pleasure of tormenting somebody when they made their own bed and refuse to sleep in it.
The smile he flashes is all teeth. ]
You'll love it.
no subject
[ Please, you'll love it, shut up. After a certain point there's a bell curve on the distance to discomfort ratio. It stops mattering because peak terrible inevitably hits, and it's only downhill from there. Considering how extremely short that ratio is, any neighborhood will pretty much get him there.
So that's fun.
His stomach either wants one of two things, and it can't seem to decide: nothing with a side of evicting all contents, or sixteen pounds of bacon — courtesy of the galanin still flooding him, despite how terrible an idea that is in actual practice. Still, it makes that breakfast promise the sole consolation he's choosing to fixate on.
There's an absolute shroud of resignation hanging off him as he begrudgingly heads toward the dresser, glass of water still in hand, to seek out clothes that aren't just boxers. ]
This is a rapidly descending Dante's Inferno of torment and suffering, I want you to know. It's cruel and unusual. This is one of those commercials you haven't seen where Sarah McLachlan sings Arms of an Angel while they show three legged dogs and starving children.
[ Prepare for this for the entirety of today's festivities. ]
no subject
[ He asks airily, blatant amusement in his voice as he leans his forearms on the counter and watches Ian disappear behind one of those weird partitions to dig out some clothes.
He caved much easier than anticipated, which is a huge benefit to Nate, who wouldn't have pushed if Ian told him to just fuck off. He might be an ass, but at least he respects boundaries. ]
As your resident Virgil I would say...third, maybe? Over-indulgence.
no subject
Pff, you wish you were Virgil. Fucking Mephistopheles.
[ It's five a.m. and it's his apartment, he can mix his tragedies if he wants to.
A touch louder: ]
Get thee behind me, Satan.
[ And then the telltale swishing sounds of fabric moving around, a door opening and closing — the bathroom, if he's curious — and he emerges eventually looking like...
Well, still kind of looking like shit, but at least his breath smells nice and his hair has a general direction it intends to aim for in life. Plus, there are shoes. This is as good as Nate's getting. ]
no subject
[ Nate quips from the other room, because he's hard-pressed not to hear everything that comes out of Ian's understandably disgruntled mouth. He'll take Mephistopheles, though. That whole thing with Faust was wild, what with its similarities to the shit he found in John Dee's secret basement.
For all the griping Nate is undeniably pleased when Ian returns, looking about as together as he anticipated. ]
Let's go.