[ Nate seats himself and gestures that Ian to the same at his side, both of them a little comically cramped from the close quarters and the nature of the stall. Part of the experience is slamming your knee against the partition whenever you try to move.
It's nice to see Ian is willing to try something new.
It smells good, like fresh bread and dense, rich broth, well-spiced dishes and actual meat cooking somewhere behind the woman on a small grill. It's not beef but Nate absolutely does not care and he flashes her a wave and a polite Du'ī kr̥payā.
She answers quickly and Nate points to several baskets and a pair of bowls before propping his elbow on the counter and looking at Ian. ]
Two questions: how do you feel about goat, and what's your spice limit?
[ Ah yes, good, nothing quite like squeezing two thick guys over six feet tall into a cramped space. The consolation here is he doesn't actually mind the places they wind up touching, so he's giving the experience three and a half stars minimum from the onset.
Watching Nate slip into this place like a well-worn sweater adds to the appeal. ]
I'm good with spice, I say from the perspective of somebody from rural Northern California.
[ Not the awesome parts that throw down with some chile Seco del Norte. He's a happy, comfortable sriracha. More importantly, he continues on after only a beat to circle back to that first question. With utmost solemnity: ]
[ Kicking his duffel under the stool he doesn't so much mind the proximity in the context of such revered customs as "eating something prepared by a tiny old lady on the side of the road." Being pressed up against somebody is kind of the nature of traveling in many countries in this part of the world, though Tibet is considerably more crowded than he remembers. ]
Kinda sounds like we should eat one in his honor, then.
[ Nate says gravely, as two bowls of soup-with-some-kind-of-noodle are set in front of them. A flower-shaped bread is set between them. ]
...there's no tripe in here, if that's got you worried. This is- Thukpa? [ He looks to the woman across from them for affirmation, and she smiles, pleased, making a long gesture with her hands. Nate smiles back. ] She pulled the noodles herself.
[ It would be insulting, so the fact that Ian is keen to play along to the best of his abilities in this endeavor to have a little adventure is really the cherry on the sundae. Nate props an elbow on the little counter, careful not to upset his bowl, and rests his chin in his hand with the appraising air of a man waiting for a result to manifest itself in his presence.
He won't pointedly observe every single one of Ian's interactions with the culture in this place. Probably. ]
[ Nate doesn't need the response for himself - it's more courteous to extend as much to the woman in front of them, and while he knows Ian is doing it to dig at his expectant look it's more charming that he's engaging with the locals. Mostly it's just nice to see him outside New Amsterdam.
The old woman nods politely and turns back to her griddle, rearranging some grilled meat while Nate gets back to his soup. ]
Weather's supposed to be nice. Got a few ideas about where we should camp out.
[ It's nice to be away from the same setting, he can admit that. The same oppressive buildings, the same overcrowding every day. The same three or four spots he frequents — work, home, Red Wings, Kyna's. It's funny how a shift in environment can make something feel... different. It's just different, seeing someone in a new backdrop.
They eat.
They walk.
There is an even split between bullshit and interesting history — mostly. It's the latter that gets them in trouble, because the temptation to go into places they're definitely not allowed to be grows with each successive temple. It's so hard to be able to bend walls and not use that to walk through them.
So of course they do, and of course they get caught, and of course there's a shitload of security and scandalized historians or whoever jump immediately on their asses as they book it down some halls, which means he can't just go moving the damn walls around.
And then there's Nate's power, which doesn't get them a nice exit but it does somehow find them an incredibly fucking convenient closet that they can duck into about 1.5 seconds before a herd of boots pass by. So that part's great. What's not great is the fact that two thirds of the space is taken up by shelves of a few dozen cleaning supplies, and the remaining third was definitely not intended for two tall, grown ass men to stand inside with the door closed.
There's a shelf gently pressing against his left hip. A wall at his back. Maybe an inch of space between his right shoulder and the damn doorframe and. Obviously, the guy he's decided to blame this on smashed into his front.
There's chattering outside. Continued footsteps. He's shooting Nate a little sideways look in the almost-dark, but he can't give it the impact it deserves because turning his face any more means probably bumping his jaw into a chin or something.
[ Getting to talk and eat and wax on about cultural differences in another country was reassuring in its normality on its own, something familiar and warm, but what really cinched it was Ian's innocent could we get up there?, like he knew exactly who he was talking to and what to expect from that kind of question.
When it comes to a mild amount of breaking and entering for the purposes of a little peek around, Nate is always the last person to ask if one is looking for dissuasion.
They get in, they look around, they get caught. Just their luck. It's a turn of events Nate could have anticipated, but it was more fun to let things play out even as they sprinted down one hall and into another before he reached out for assistance. What he didn't reach out for was an escape route. ]
You know, [ he whispers back tersely. ] I thought hiding place. I wasn't thinking "preferably a ten foot by ten foot space, with lots of legroom, and a drink service."
[ Nate is crammed between a shelving unit with really pointy edges and Ian, the door at his left, a slim line of light on the floor - presumably, because he can't look down - and hot, mildly-annoyed huffs of air at his ear.
He shifts, thinking it might alleviate some of the pressure between them as his hand settles on the shelf next to Ian. ]
[ It's actually impressive it took this long for his brain to go, oh. uh oh. this could be a problem. It didn't happen when they first slipped in, it didn't happen at first press of chest against chest, didn't happen for several seconds at the start.
It's the damn red flags that pop up swiftly right after. The whispering, which wouldn't be so bad if it weren't like four inches away from his ear so he can feel it. And that wouldn't be a huge thing either if it wasn't for the shifting, which actually does absolutely nothing to alleviate any space, thank you very much. It's only served to make him way too aware of where everything is in proximity to everything else.
It's fine. This is only gonna take like two minutes. They shouldn't be in here long enough for it to actually be a problem. ]
What the fuck is a pocket spa?
[ Quietly hissed back, like pocket spa is the source of all their problems.
You know what, maybe he can try to like...
His chest glows, gently illuminating the space like a cell phone while he tries to bend one of the shelves--
--which precariously shakes the cleaning supplies on top of it. The glow stops immediately. Nope, nope nope. A harsh, frustrated whisper: ]
I never learned how to do the fucking... thing with the table cloth and the place settings where you like... snap it.
[ Nate freezes when something rattles above them in the dim blue light, shoulders sagging again only when the noise stops and Ian's attempts at the dinner table trick cease. ]
The inertia thing that magicians do.
[ He agrees quietly, because Nate's understanding of physics came explicitly from ways to entertain and ways to avoid imminent death when falling from a great height.
Crammed closer to the door than Ian he listens at the jamb as another set of sprinting footsteps run down the hall outside. They're still looking, and Nate won't complain about how innocuous their hideout is if it saves their bacon.
When the ruckus passes he goes back to explaining away the first question - less stressed, more informative. ]
A pocket spa is like- look, I had a friend in Hadriel who was a wizard. It was basically like a...an extra-dimensional space that could fit in your pocket, but it had, y'know, a sauna and a bunch of patio chairs and a shower and sandwiches in it.
[ There's nothing quite like a calm informative explanation in your ear from a male model pressed against your chest in the three cubic feet of space you're using to avoid getting arrested.
What if we kissed... in the cleaning supply utility closet 😳🙈😘
It's annoying to have to stop himself from turning his head after an inch when he realizes he can't actually look without something touching. ]
Wouldn't the sauna and the shower make the sandwiches kind of gross?
[ Because the logistics of steam around bread in a magical pocket dimension is what he should be thinking about. ]
I don't know if your friend thought that one through...
[ Nate insists as though that should be obvious, like the mere suggestion that the magic spa within the magic pocket dimension would ever let its sandwiches get soggy from the condensation and steam. ]
I don't really- know the logistics, or anything, he just said he bought it at the Fantasy Costco. And yeah, I know how that sounds, I can feel the expression on your face.
[ Disappointment? Disbelief? Something between the two? Nate doesn't think about the proximity or its potential for bumping and does turn his head, meeting jaw to jaw before huffing a laugh and apologizing. ]
[ The edge of their jaws and a bit of their cheeks touch, and there's a gentle flash of soft blue between them as the empathy bond sparks like flint. It's gone before he gets any real sense of anything, which is absolutely for the damn best considering the hyperawareness he suddenly gets. ]
I'll save you the trouble.
[ Murmured a little lower, a little more quietly. ]
I'm about two inches away and my face looks like me.
[ He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Clothing drags an inch or two on either of them, torso against... very torso, holy shit he's firm. Keep your mouth shut, Fowler. ]
Anyone ever told you that you're, like, 90% chest?
[ There are certain things about being in very close proximity with someone that you forget about, if substantial time has passed. Nate considers himself a physically affectionate person, but the dearth of the same for the last six-plus months has thrown into sharp relief how much he's missed, and how much he seems to be lacking. Having a personal feature pointed out by somebody who can make a judgment call by feel alone is sobering.
Someone breathing near him, the way it feels to be pressed up against another body in a platonic embrace or something more intimate, that pinprick shiver that rolls down his spine. Animal things. Human things.
Acutely aware of the warmth and tension and the completely involuntary desire to wade into it, he immediately attempts to stifle the sensation with a swift punch of guilt to the gut that doesn't so much solve the problem as amplify it. It's been a while, he's not supposed to feel like that, and other lies he tells himself. ]
Uh.
[ The sound he makes is torn between a cough and a laugh, and Nate is suddenly grateful that it's too dark for anyone to see how hot his face must look. ]
No, I- I don't think so? Could say the same thing to you, are the sweaters meant to be misleading camouflage?
[ They're having two very different yet simultaneously similar experiences over here. Compromised by the press of a warm body flush from chest to thigh, compromised by a voice in his ear, the occasional feeling of breath it brings.
It's been a while for him since he cut off sex — not six months, closer to three, and never with somebody he cared about (at the time; him and Kyna grew after that stopped). As a matter of fact, he hasn't been up close and personal with somebody that mattered in a not-strictly-platonic way since... what, undergrad?
Hilariously, and maybe it's a total contradiction, but the fact that he cares amps up the determination not to feel anything about this. No weird intimacy, no prickling at the back of his neck, none of that heartbeat stutter shit, definitely not thinking about kissing on a cliff once. None of that's happening, thank you very much. He is an adult and he is in complete control of his feelings and reactions.
Could say the same thing to you- god damn it Nathan. You are not helping. ]
Don't let me mislead you, I actually weigh about eighty pounds, I just really layer on the sweaters. It's like a foot of padding.
[ It's a murmur, drawled out and hushed and slow. Maybe just like two percent distracted by his internal guided meditation to not be attracted to extremely hot men who saved your life and got stoned on your couch and helped pull you out of a circling downward despair spiral. ]
[ It occurs to him that all this deep breathing in close quarters is making their space too warmed and even more crowded than it already goddamn is. Dive breaths, slow and steady, intent on not thinking about how nice it is to be close. You deprive yourself of stuff like that for so long and the instant you get anything remotely close you fall apart, that's just great, good job, Nate, is what he thinks to himself, because he sure as Hell can't say it with Ian right there.
Not being able to talk through the issue out loud is almost as bad as the issue itself. ]
Uh...huh.
[ Nate says distractedly, tipping his head toward the door in an attempt to get a better idea of what's going on outside their crowded bubble. Footsteps approach and recede, another pair stop nearby, and Nate tenses up before they follow and echo down the corridor. Their pursuers are starting to get tired of hunting them down.
After the long pause he jumps back to the subject as though he'd never left and taken a brief stroll elsewhere. ]
Must be all that physical construction you do. [ Wryly: ] Vinyl and wood siding.
[ When Nate goes quiet, the closet goes quiet with him. It becomes a muted, muffled affair that reflects sound in that way that only very insulated, very occupied spaces do. Quiet in that way that makes things ironically loud. Breathing. The shifting of clothes. Footsteps come, footsteps go, and the closet itself seems to let out a collective exhale.
You know what's great for not thinking about how really really appealing this would be in any other circumstance? Talking about their bodies. He brought this upon himself, he knows, but what else is new? Ian NoMiddleName Fowler, shooting himself in the foot over interpersonal relationships since 2004.
Just. Take the humor, and keep your shit together.
He hums in agreement, nodding sagely. It lets loose some of his hair in a tiny avalanche where it'd been structurally unsound pushed back out of his face. It falls somewhere between their cheeks, and he knows it's probably gotta be hitting Nate directly in the face. Next comes the careful effort of snaking a hand up their sides, trying not to shuffle them too much, tipping toward it so he doesn't go elbowing the guy somewhere so he can comb the curls back again.
It's bound to repeat in five fucking minutes because his hair be like that, but it's probably a temporary reprieve for getting someone else's hair in his eyes. ]
I also do tile. Duct work. Plumbing. Stop me when you get impressed.
[ Having walked into enormous spider webs before, being wacked in the face with something soft and ticklish isn't outright shocking on its own, except that it comes with a waft of pleasant shampoo scent and he realizes it's Ian's hair. The shifting that follows - once again, the pressing sensation of a body against his own - is accompanied by a little quiet rustling. It takes Nate a few long seconds to realize he's just pushing that ridiculous mass of curls out of the way and he huffs through his nose. ]
A Renaissance man. What can't you do?
[ In fairness, the handyman thing is actually kind of cool. What little Nate knows comes from trial and error rather than a deep understanding of the mechanisms at play, because he doesn't need to fully comprehend plumbing to know that if the level is rising an easier solution is dumping hot water straight in to encourage the damn thing to drain.
One day he'll learn how it works beyond basis identification, but that day is not today, so until then he can continue to ramble aimlessly in an attempt to distract himself. ]
Because seriously, you feel like you bench engine blocks or something.
[ The truth is, a lot of it's pretty simple, it's just intimidating. It's mostly the same design just adapted different ways, it's a few rounds of following the instructions until you get it right. If it's got a user manual or a youtube video, you'd be surprised what you can do for yourself.
Which is what he'd surely love to talk about, except that he's apparently blowing Nate's mind right now. It is so, so difficult to keep a relaxed posture when you're suddenly hyper-aware somebody's feeling up your front with their front. It's a serious mental exercise not to instinctively flex or something. ]
Equal parts flattering and amusing, thank you.
[ Light and pleasantly informative. Quiet and low as he has to keep his voice it's dragging out a little bit more of the semi-permanent rasp he's got going on. He's got the wrong vocal chords for this, apparently. ]
This must be what it's like for you when you get an entire fan club of people talking about your pecs. Please don't tell me you were thinking dad bod, because I really don't wanna be putting off that energy.
[ Okay, so, the low and pleasant voice speaking in his ear is a lot more distracting than Nate anticipated it being, for reasons he doesn't presently want to go into. They're warm and wedged and tensions are already a little high, and maybe blood is a little higher than that. Very suddenly, getting out of the supply closet in the Tibetan temple is a more pressing engagement than he thought.
He can't even appreciate the dig at his pecs again, the apparent go-to target in Ian's repertoire of backhanded compliments, because he's trying not to sound overly defensive when crammed into a small space with someone he likes enough to not want to embarrass himself. ]
I wasn't thinking dad bod, I just also wasn't thinking washboard abs that a Cajun band could play riffs on during Mardi Gras.
[ A wry and somewhat surprised compliment for the metaphor, but unfortunately not vivid enough to keep him distracted for long.
There's a kind of hyper-awareness that comes during situations like this, at least for him. It keeps him stuck in the present, thinking too much about his posture and his body language, the places they touch and the places they don't. Scanning for signals whether he wants to or not.
They really gotta get the fuck out of here — not the least because he's dressed for cold ass Tibet and they're in a hot ass closet with breath and body heat slowly bumping up the thermostat. It would be an absolutely terrible idea to try and shrug off a sweater right now. Damn it.
And, you know what, this is stupid--]
Listen, man, do me a favor— if you're gonna compliment my body do it in like... an old scottish granny accent, or like, redneck farmer. Something really unappealing.
[ Because since when has he ever pretended like Nate isn't super attractive? Who the hell is he trying to fool here? ]
[ Shifting again, Nate manages to eke a little closer to the door until he's well and truly crammed against it, temple resting on wood that's somehow lasted a fourth world war. The hall outside has been silent for a good few minutes now, and presumably the people chasing them have decided they left through a window.
He's only half-paying attention when the request meets him, and the face Nate pulls in the dark should be audible. ]
What? Why?
[ Fingers on the handle he turns it slowly as the tumbler rolls, and cracks the door open. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Nate seats himself and gestures that Ian to the same at his side, both of them a little comically cramped from the close quarters and the nature of the stall. Part of the experience is slamming your knee against the partition whenever you try to move.
It's nice to see Ian is willing to try something new.
It smells good, like fresh bread and dense, rich broth, well-spiced dishes and actual meat cooking somewhere behind the woman on a small grill. It's not beef but Nate absolutely does not care and he flashes her a wave and a polite Du'ī kr̥payā.
She answers quickly and Nate points to several baskets and a pair of bowls before propping his elbow on the counter and looking at Ian. ]
Two questions: how do you feel about goat, and what's your spice limit?
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Watching Nate slip into this place like a well-worn sweater adds to the appeal. ]
I'm good with spice, I say from the perspective of somebody from rural Northern California.
[ Not the awesome parts that throw down with some chile Seco del Norte. He's a happy, comfortable sriracha. More importantly, he continues on after only a beat to circle back to that first question. With utmost solemnity: ]
A goat murdered my father.
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Kinda sounds like we should eat one in his honor, then.
[ Nate says gravely, as two bowls of soup-with-some-kind-of-noodle are set in front of them. A flower-shaped bread is set between them. ]
...there's no tripe in here, if that's got you worried. This is- Thukpa? [ He looks to the woman across from them for affirmation, and she smiles, pleased, making a long gesture with her hands. Nate smiles back. ] She pulled the noodles herself.
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I wasn't worried about tripe, but now that I know she pulled her own noodles I'd have to eat it anyway.
[ Because you can't turn that down, that's just plain insulting.
He's got very little hesitance when it comes to trying new experiences, and this is no exception. Nary a falter in tasting it. ]
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He won't pointedly observe every single one of Ian's interactions with the culture in this place. Probably. ]
Well?
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Except he can't be an asshole to the little old lady who hand-pulled her noodles, so he's gonna give his reaction to her instead of Nate. ]
This is really good, thank you.
[ Another thing they have in common: charming grannies. ]
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The old woman nods politely and turns back to her griddle, rearranging some grilled meat while Nate gets back to his soup. ]
Weather's supposed to be nice. Got a few ideas about where we should camp out.
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They eat.
They walk.
There is an even split between bullshit and interesting history — mostly. It's the latter that gets them in trouble, because the temptation to go into places they're definitely not allowed to be grows with each successive temple. It's so hard to be able to bend walls and not use that to walk through them.
So of course they do, and of course they get caught, and of course there's a shitload of security and scandalized historians or whoever jump immediately on their asses as they book it down some halls, which means he can't just go moving the damn walls around.
And then there's Nate's power, which doesn't get them a nice exit but it does somehow find them an incredibly fucking convenient closet that they can duck into about 1.5 seconds before a herd of boots pass by. So that part's great. What's not great is the fact that two thirds of the space is taken up by shelves of a few dozen cleaning supplies, and the remaining third was definitely not intended for two tall, grown ass men to stand inside with the door closed.
There's a shelf gently pressing against his left hip. A wall at his back. Maybe an inch of space between his right shoulder and the damn doorframe and. Obviously, the guy he's decided to blame this on smashed into his front.
There's chattering outside. Continued footsteps. He's shooting Nate a little sideways look in the almost-dark, but he can't give it the impact it deserves because turning his face any more means probably bumping his jaw into a chin or something.
A low, accusatory whisper: ]
You couldn't magic a bigger closet?
no subject
When it comes to a mild amount of breaking and entering for the purposes of a little peek around, Nate is always the last person to ask if one is looking for dissuasion.
They get in, they look around, they get caught. Just their luck. It's a turn of events Nate could have anticipated, but it was more fun to let things play out even as they sprinted down one hall and into another before he reached out for assistance. What he didn't reach out for was an escape route. ]
You know, [ he whispers back tersely. ] I thought hiding place. I wasn't thinking "preferably a ten foot by ten foot space, with lots of legroom, and a drink service."
[ Nate is crammed between a shelving unit with really pointy edges and Ian, the door at his left, a slim line of light on the floor - presumably, because he can't look down - and hot, mildly-annoyed huffs of air at his ear.
He shifts, thinking it might alleviate some of the pressure between them as his hand settles on the shelf next to Ian. ]
Next time I'll manifest a pocket spa.
no subject
It's the damn red flags that pop up swiftly right after. The whispering, which wouldn't be so bad if it weren't like four inches away from his ear so he can feel it. And that wouldn't be a huge thing either if it wasn't for the shifting, which actually does absolutely nothing to alleviate any space, thank you very much. It's only served to make him way too aware of where everything is in proximity to everything else.
It's fine. This is only gonna take like two minutes. They shouldn't be in here long enough for it to actually be a problem. ]
What the fuck is a pocket spa?
[ Quietly hissed back, like pocket spa is the source of all their problems.
You know what, maybe he can try to like...
His chest glows, gently illuminating the space like a cell phone while he tries to bend one of the shelves--
--which precariously shakes the cleaning supplies on top of it. The glow stops immediately. Nope, nope nope. A harsh, frustrated whisper: ]
I never learned how to do the fucking... thing with the table cloth and the place settings where you like... snap it.
[ God damn it. ]
no subject
The inertia thing that magicians do.
[ He agrees quietly, because Nate's understanding of physics came explicitly from ways to entertain and ways to avoid imminent death when falling from a great height.
Crammed closer to the door than Ian he listens at the jamb as another set of sprinting footsteps run down the hall outside. They're still looking, and Nate won't complain about how innocuous their hideout is if it saves their bacon.
When the ruckus passes he goes back to explaining away the first question - less stressed, more informative. ]
A pocket spa is like- look, I had a friend in Hadriel who was a wizard. It was basically like a...an extra-dimensional space that could fit in your pocket, but it had, y'know, a sauna and a bunch of patio chairs and a shower and sandwiches in it.
no subject
What if we kissed... in the cleaning supply utility closet 😳🙈😘It's annoying to have to stop himself from turning his head after an inch when he realizes he can't actually look without something touching. ]
Wouldn't the sauna and the shower make the sandwiches kind of gross?
[ Because the logistics of steam around bread in a magical pocket dimension is what he should be thinking about. ]
I don't know if your friend thought that one through...
no subject
[ Nate insists as though that should be obvious, like the mere suggestion that the magic spa within the magic pocket dimension would ever let its sandwiches get soggy from the condensation and steam. ]
I don't really- know the logistics, or anything, he just said he bought it at the Fantasy Costco. And yeah, I know how that sounds, I can feel the expression on your face.
[ Disappointment? Disbelief? Something between the two? Nate doesn't think about the proximity or its potential for bumping and does turn his head, meeting jaw to jaw before huffing a laugh and apologizing. ]
Sorry. Can't see for shit.
no subject
I'll save you the trouble.
[ Murmured a little lower, a little more quietly. ]
I'm about two inches away and my face looks like me.
[ He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Clothing drags an inch or two on either of them, torso against... very torso, holy shit he's firm. Keep your mouth shut, Fowler. ]
Anyone ever told you that you're, like, 90% chest?
[ Or not. ]
no subject
Someone breathing near him, the way it feels to be pressed up against another body in a platonic embrace or something more intimate, that pinprick shiver that rolls down his spine. Animal things. Human things.
Acutely aware of the warmth and tension and the completely involuntary desire to wade into it, he immediately attempts to stifle the sensation with a swift punch of guilt to the gut that doesn't so much solve the problem as amplify it. It's been a while, he's not supposed to feel like that, and other lies he tells himself. ]
Uh.
[ The sound he makes is torn between a cough and a laugh, and Nate is suddenly grateful that it's too dark for anyone to see how hot his face must look. ]
No, I- I don't think so? Could say the same thing to you, are the sweaters meant to be misleading camouflage?
no subject
It's been a while for him since he cut off sex — not six months, closer to three, and never with somebody he cared about (at the time; him and Kyna grew after that stopped). As a matter of fact, he hasn't been up close and personal with somebody that mattered in a not-strictly-platonic way since... what, undergrad?
Hilariously, and maybe it's a total contradiction, but the fact that he cares amps up the determination not to feel anything about this. No weird intimacy, no prickling at the back of his neck, none of that heartbeat stutter shit, definitely not thinking about kissing on a cliff once. None of that's happening, thank you very much. He is an adult and he is in complete control of his feelings and reactions.
Could say the same thing to you- god damn it Nathan. You are not helping. ]
Don't let me mislead you, I actually weigh about eighty pounds, I just really layer on the sweaters. It's like a foot of padding.
[ It's a murmur, drawled out and hushed and slow. Maybe just like two percent distracted by his internal guided meditation to not be attracted to extremely hot men who saved your life and got stoned on your couch and helped pull you out of a circling downward despair spiral. ]
no subject
Not being able to talk through the issue out loud is almost as bad as the issue itself. ]
Uh...huh.
[ Nate says distractedly, tipping his head toward the door in an attempt to get a better idea of what's going on outside their crowded bubble. Footsteps approach and recede, another pair stop nearby, and Nate tenses up before they follow and echo down the corridor. Their pursuers are starting to get tired of hunting them down.
After the long pause he jumps back to the subject as though he'd never left and taken a brief stroll elsewhere. ]
Must be all that physical construction you do. [ Wryly: ] Vinyl and wood siding.
no subject
You know what's great for not thinking about how really really appealing this would be in any other circumstance? Talking about their bodies. He brought this upon himself, he knows, but what else is new? Ian NoMiddleName Fowler, shooting himself in the foot over interpersonal relationships since 2004.
Just. Take the humor, and keep your shit together.
He hums in agreement, nodding sagely. It lets loose some of his hair in a tiny avalanche where it'd been structurally unsound pushed back out of his face. It falls somewhere between their cheeks, and he knows it's probably gotta be hitting Nate directly in the face. Next comes the careful effort of snaking a hand up their sides, trying not to shuffle them too much, tipping toward it so he doesn't go elbowing the guy somewhere so he can comb the curls back again.
It's bound to repeat in five fucking minutes because his hair be like that, but it's probably a temporary reprieve for getting someone else's hair in his eyes. ]
I also do tile. Duct work. Plumbing. Stop me when you get impressed.
no subject
A Renaissance man. What can't you do?
[ In fairness, the handyman thing is actually kind of cool. What little Nate knows comes from trial and error rather than a deep understanding of the mechanisms at play, because he doesn't need to fully comprehend plumbing to know that if the level is rising an easier solution is dumping hot water straight in to encourage the damn thing to drain.
One day he'll learn how it works beyond basis identification, but that day is not today, so until then he can continue to ramble aimlessly in an attempt to distract himself. ]
Because seriously, you feel like you bench engine blocks or something.
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Which is what he'd surely love to talk about, except that he's apparently blowing Nate's mind right now. It is so, so difficult to keep a relaxed posture when you're suddenly hyper-aware somebody's feeling up your front with their front. It's a serious mental exercise not to instinctively flex or something. ]
Equal parts flattering and amusing, thank you.
[ Light and pleasantly informative. Quiet and low as he has to keep his voice it's dragging out a little bit more of the semi-permanent rasp he's got going on. He's got the wrong vocal chords for this, apparently. ]
This must be what it's like for you when you get an entire fan club of people talking about your pecs. Please don't tell me you were thinking dad bod, because I really don't wanna be putting off that energy.
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He can't even appreciate the dig at his pecs again, the apparent go-to target in Ian's repertoire of backhanded compliments, because he's trying not to sound overly defensive when crammed into a small space with someone he likes enough to not want to embarrass himself. ]
I wasn't thinking dad bod, I just also wasn't thinking washboard abs that a Cajun band could play riffs on during Mardi Gras.
[ So much for truth in advertisement. ]
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[ A wry and somewhat surprised compliment for the metaphor, but unfortunately not vivid enough to keep him distracted for long.
There's a kind of hyper-awareness that comes during situations like this, at least for him. It keeps him stuck in the present, thinking too much about his posture and his body language, the places they touch and the places they don't. Scanning for signals whether he wants to or not.
They really gotta get the fuck out of here — not the least because he's dressed for cold ass Tibet and they're in a hot ass closet with breath and body heat slowly bumping up the thermostat. It would be an absolutely terrible idea to try and shrug off a sweater right now. Damn it.
And, you know what, this is stupid--]
Listen, man, do me a favor— if you're gonna compliment my body do it in like... an old scottish granny accent, or like, redneck farmer. Something really unappealing.
[ Because since when has he ever pretended like Nate isn't super attractive? Who the hell is he trying to fool here? ]
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He's only half-paying attention when the request meets him, and the face Nate pulls in the dark should be audible. ]
What? Why?
[ Fingers on the handle he turns it slowly as the tumbler rolls, and cracks the door open. ]
...coast is clear.
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He nods his head quickly, not toward the left or right but the wall straight ahead of them. )
Okay, come on, let's go--
( So he can matter-bend a nice big gaping hole for them to slip through, and they can make a break for it through the courtyard. )