When Nate's sister gets married, he makes it clear to her in a 2 AM phone call that he wavered over for hours, he's not coming to the wedding if Micke can't be there. She yells at him for thinking so little of her and then hangs up.
It leaves him feeling strangely worse than better about the whole thing, standing in his kitchen, phone clutched in hand, all alone because he made sure Micke was out before even contemplating the call. He wants to trust his family, but they have never given him a single degree of latitude, so he's not sure how he can feel simultaneously bad for the way they can never accept him the way he wants and then guilty for feeling that way about them. It's like how his sister would get him in trouble at big family dinners, just to watch his dad come down on him like a ton of bricks.
He feels like lying down flat on the floor with Elliott Smith on full blast the way he did when he was in high school. Instead he finds himself slinging on his sneakers and a sweatshirt and running straight out of the house at full tilt. It's misting out, the residue of earlier rains dampening the air and making it hard to breathe. He pushes himself as fast as he can go, flying over the glittering sidewalks, trying to run faster than the ugly feeling welling up in him.
It's aimless and when he finally stops, it takes him a moment to realize where he is--next to the little playground bounded by a wrought-iron fence and the 'no adults' sign tacked over the gate. It's locked and he thinks briefly about the person who's job it is to come every sundown and close the park up, and if they get someone else to haul themselves out of bed in the morning to open it. It's not even a very nice playground, just a swingset, monkey bars, and grubby sandpit.
Almost against his will he finds himself scaling the bars and hopping over to the other side. The clang the gate makes when he lands, makes him feel like he's woken up the entire neighborhood and any moment now the cops are going to come running to grab him for being the only adult in the park. He sighs and settles himself on a swing, listening to the wind rustling the leaves in the trees and the steady creak of the swings chains.
His cellphone buzzes against his thigh and he considers not even looking at it, in case it's sister calling back for another last word, but it's only Micke.
"Are you at the 24 hour grocery?" he asks, sounding horrifyingly chipper for someone who's been pulling all-nighters for the last week to finish his projects up in time for midterms. "Because I want to make an omelet."
"I'll pick some up on my way back home," Grant says, looking up at the reddened sky, imagining what it would look like if all the electricity in the city suddenly went out. Would it still be red? Or just black without any street lamps to light up the fog?
"Where are you?" Micke asks. His voice is unreadable, but Grant knows he is suddenly, instantly concerned. He wishes sometimes that he wasn't so perceptive. Grant is not good at sharing things.
"Just out," he says softly, as the swing gives a loud creak.
"You're at the 'no adults' playground," Micke says, voice sounding both dry and fond at the same time.
"You can tell from the sound of the swing?" Grant asks incredulously.
"No, idiot, I'm looking at you," Micke replies.
Grant looks up and sees Micke across the street, satchel slung over his shoulder and iphone pressed to his ear. He waves and starts walking over. Grant winces when he doesn't look both ways.
"I thought you were at home," Grant says, shutting off the call and sticking his phone into his pocket.
"That's where I thought you were," Micke answers. "It's 3 AM."
He grabs the bars of the fence and jumps over it, satchel and all.
"Show off," Grant says, leaning his head lazily against the chain of his swing.
When he gets close, Grant can see the circles under Micke's eyes, dark bruises that look painful. "You should be asleep," Grant tells him, swaying gently on the swing.
"So should you," Micke replies. "You've work in five hours."
Grant shrugs.
Micke comes around behind him and gives him a steady push. "Do not forget to pump your legs," he says jocularly.
"I am not doing this," Grant replies, even as he draws his legs in to keep the swinging motion going. He's heavy enough that the swingset protests with every swing back and forth, but the way his stomach drops out and the way he feels like he's flying when he soars upwards toward the tree branches drown everything else out. Micke laughs and gives him another firm push when he swings in close.
"I don't think I've been on a swingset in years," Grant says breathlessly.
Micke catches the swings chains, towing Grant back to him.
"What is it?" Grant asks, looking over his shoulder to meet Micke's eye.
Micke smiles and leans down to kiss him. Grant's expecting a playful peck, but the kiss that Micke sweeps him up into is filthy and leaves him clutching white knuckled at the chains in his grip. When he pulls away, Grant is breathless and his lips are swollen.
"What was that for?"
"You should not let them get to you," Micke replies, straitening up. "I do not want to meet your family if they cannot be good to you."
"I just..." Grant breaks off and leans his head back against Micke's hip. "Want them to love me."
Micke's hand comes up closes around his, thumb rubbing circles on the back. There is nothing to be said that makes this better, nothing to be done except swing on the swing or lie flat on his floor with Elliott Smith on. It sucks and it isn't fair, and it doesn't make sense to him why life has to be so fucking hard for no reason.
"Let's go back home," Grant says, a feeling of calm finally settling over him. He can't change it, he can only figure out a way to not let it hurt him.
"I have drunk so much Red Bull, I shall never sleep again," Micke replies very seriously.
Grant laughs. "We'll make you an omelet, I'll suck your dick, and you'll be out like a light."
Micke grins down at him. "I like this plan."
"You think you are such a master manipulator," Grant says, purposefully swinging himself into Micke.
"It worked!"
"Only because I saw that coming from a mile away."
I've recently re-read Grant/Micke's fic, and it's kind of ridiculous how much I love this universe, considering I have never watched any of the two movies.
Still! <3<3<3
This is awesome! And I love how you write Micke, the language you chose for him, because it's only natural he'd sound a little differently, while still correct. As a foreigner myself, it fills my heart with glee.
When Nate's sister gets married, he makes it clear to her in a 2 AM phone call that he wavered over for hours, he's not coming to the wedding if Micke can't be there. She yells at him for thinking so little of her and then hangs up.
It leaves him feeling strangely worse than better about the whole thing, standing in his kitchen, phone clutched in hand, all alone because he made sure Micke was out before even contemplating the call. He wants to trust his family, but they have never given him a single degree of latitude, so he's not sure how he can feel simultaneously bad for the way they can never accept him the way he wants and then guilty for feeling that way about them. It's like how his sister would get him in trouble at big family dinners, just to watch his dad come down on him like a ton of bricks.
He feels like lying down flat on the floor with Elliott Smith on full blast the way he did when he was in high school. Instead he finds himself slinging on his sneakers and a sweatshirt and running straight out of the house at full tilt. It's misting out, the residue of earlier rains dampening the air and making it hard to breathe. He pushes himself as fast as he can go, flying over the glittering sidewalks, trying to run faster than the ugly feeling welling up in him.
It's aimless and when he finally stops, it takes him a moment to realize where he is--next to the little playground bounded by a wrought-iron fence and the 'no adults' sign tacked over the gate. It's locked and he thinks briefly about the person who's job it is to come every sundown and close the park up, and if they get someone else to haul themselves out of bed in the morning to open it. It's not even a very nice playground, just a swingset, monkey bars, and grubby sandpit.
Almost against his will he finds himself scaling the bars and hopping over to the other side. The clang the gate makes when he lands, makes him feel like he's woken up the entire neighborhood and any moment now the cops are going to come running to grab him for being the only adult in the park. He sighs and settles himself on a swing, listening to the wind rustling the leaves in the trees and the steady creak of the swings chains.
His cellphone buzzes against his thigh and he considers not even looking at it, in case it's sister calling back for another last word, but it's only Micke.
"Are you at the 24 hour grocery?" he asks, sounding horrifyingly chipper for someone who's been pulling all-nighters for the last week to finish his projects up in time for midterms. "Because I want to make an omelet."
"I'll pick some up on my way back home," Grant says, looking up at the reddened sky, imagining what it would look like if all the electricity in the city suddenly went out. Would it still be red? Or just black without any street lamps to light up the fog?
"Where are you?" Micke asks. His voice is unreadable, but Grant knows he is suddenly, instantly concerned. He wishes sometimes that he wasn't so perceptive. Grant is not good at sharing things.
"Just out," he says softly, as the swing gives a loud creak.
"You're at the 'no adults' playground," Micke says, voice sounding both dry and fond at the same time.
"You can tell from the sound of the swing?" Grant asks incredulously.
"No, idiot, I'm looking at you," Micke replies.
Grant looks up and sees Micke across the street, satchel slung over his shoulder and iphone pressed to his ear. He waves and starts walking over. Grant winces when he doesn't look both ways.
"I thought you were at home," Grant says, shutting off the call and sticking his phone into his pocket.
"That's where I thought you were," Micke answers. "It's 3 AM."
He grabs the bars of the fence and jumps over it, satchel and all.
"Show off," Grant says, leaning his head lazily against the chain of his swing.
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When he gets close, Grant can see the circles under Micke's eyes, dark bruises that look painful. "You should be asleep," Grant tells him, swaying gently on the swing.
"So should you," Micke replies. "You've work in five hours."
Grant shrugs.
Micke comes around behind him and gives him a steady push. "Do not forget to pump your legs," he says jocularly.
"I am not doing this," Grant replies, even as he draws his legs in to keep the swinging motion going. He's heavy enough that the swingset protests with every swing back and forth, but the way his stomach drops out and the way he feels like he's flying when he soars upwards toward the tree branches drown everything else out. Micke laughs and gives him another firm push when he swings in close.
"I don't think I've been on a swingset in years," Grant says breathlessly.
Micke catches the swings chains, towing Grant back to him.
"What is it?" Grant asks, looking over his shoulder to meet Micke's eye.
Micke smiles and leans down to kiss him. Grant's expecting a playful peck, but the kiss that Micke sweeps him up into is filthy and leaves him clutching white knuckled at the chains in his grip. When he pulls away, Grant is breathless and his lips are swollen.
"What was that for?"
"You should not let them get to you," Micke replies, straitening up. "I do not want to meet your family if they cannot be good to you."
"I just..." Grant breaks off and leans his head back against Micke's hip. "Want them to love me."
Micke's hand comes up closes around his, thumb rubbing circles on the back. There is nothing to be said that makes this better, nothing to be done except swing on the swing or lie flat on his floor with Elliott Smith on. It sucks and it isn't fair, and it doesn't make sense to him why life has to be so fucking hard for no reason.
"Let's go back home," Grant says, a feeling of calm finally settling over him. He can't change it, he can only figure out a way to not let it hurt him.
"I have drunk so much Red Bull, I shall never sleep again," Micke replies very seriously.
Grant laughs. "We'll make you an omelet, I'll suck your dick, and you'll be out like a light."
Micke grins down at him. "I like this plan."
"You think you are such a master manipulator," Grant says, purposefully swinging himself into Micke.
"It worked!"
"Only because I saw that coming from a mile away."
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This was sweet and like Micke, a little dirty.
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I love that I can rely on this 'verse to provide sadness that is always cheered by a certain surprisingly perceptive Swede.
These two... I love them together. Which is 100% down to your talents.
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Still! <3<3<3
This is awesome! And I love how you write Micke, the language you chose for him, because it's only natural he'd sound a little differently, while still correct. As a foreigner myself, it fills my heart with glee.
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An easy mistake when getting mentally blinded by Stark hotness.
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