[GK] The Perfect Picture of an (Extra)Ordinary Life, 1/3
Fandom: Generation Kill
Title: The Perfect Picture of an (Extra)Ordinary Life
Pairings/Characters: Brad/Nate, a bit of Ray/Walt in the background
Rating: R
Word count: 22,900
Summary: Nate is an art student stuck on his semester project, Brad poses for the students at his school.
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals as seen on the HBO miniseries.
Notes: First of all, huge, huge thanks to lickingbeads, who did an amazing job as a beta and she was so fast, especially considering that she was working on such a short notice. Thank you, bb, once again! ♥ Also, this fic wouldn't be what it is if it weren't for lunatics-word, who practically adopted it, eiirene, who was my go-to person whenever I had a question about some technical aspects as far as drawing/painting was concerned, and kubis, who was always there for me to make sure that I was writing instead of procrastinating.
Banner made by the awesome lunatics-word, drawing on the banner by eiirene
The Perfect Picture of an (Extra)Ordinary Life
Nate likes to wake up early, when the light outside is still gray and dim, and watch it turn orange and purple, with just a hint of amaranthine. His studio apartment on Brooklyn has a huge window overlooking the park and it’s the only good thing about this place. The light is fantastic. Everything else is crap, right down to the squeaky floors, drafty door and a heater that conked out some time ago.
Still half asleep, he navigates between the bed and the easel he left right there in the middle of the room last night, the canvas still depressingly blank, painted over for the third time. It’s just not coming together.
He doesn’t drink coffee at home, since it’s going to be pretty much shit, with Wendy’s ancient coffee machine the only thing he has at his disposal; he’s going to take care of his caffeine addiction once he gets to work. His shift starts in forty minutes. He’s going to survive till then and maybe he won’t even run anyone over with his bike on his way there.
“Nice of you to show up this early, darling,” the owner says with a smile, throwing him an apron when he arrives at quarter to seven. The whole café is filled with the scent of freshly ground coffee and Nate inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. Even after two years of working as a barista, he still loves the smell of coffee just like he always has.
Nate takes off his scarf, the one his sister made him last year for Christmas, and his coat, and fixes himself a double espresso. First things first.
The customers start to pour in a few minutes after seven, while Monica is still absent, so there’s just him for the time being, with Ruth out to get her granddaughter to school on time. It’s pretty much a morning from hell.
Vanessa is a regular here, a high school student who comes by the café every day on her way to the classes, and who, Nate suspects, has a bit of a crush on him. She always blushes a little when he hands her the non-fat venti latte, like she’s surprised that he remembers her beverage of choice, and she lingers by the counter just this side of too long, long enough that it finally gets Nate’s attention.
“Thanks,” she says once she gets her order, a little out of breath, fishing out a twenty from her wallet, and Nate hands her the change with a smile.
“Hey, Vanessa, have a nice day,” he adds as she grabs her latte and turns to leave. She’s still looking at him above her shoulder when she nearly crashes into Monica in the doorway.
“You wouldn’t believe what those motherfuckers did this time,” she snarls, putting her coat away and tossing her messenger bag in the back. “They flooded my apartment. Again. That’s the third time this month. This is getting fucking ridiculous. I had to call my landlord and you can imagine how well that one went…”
“The landlord that you were sleeping with?” Nate chimes in from his place by the espresso maker.
“One and only,” Monica says, shaking her head while she puts the apron on. “I’m going to fucking kill them if they do this one more time, and you’re going to help me hide the bodies.”
“Sure,” Nate deadpans without skipping a beat. He’s known Monica long enough to be used to that sort of thing. “But do you think you could make some coffee first? I kind of have my hands full at the moment.”
“What happened to your wicked multitasking skills, Fick?”
He throws a towel at her.
It goes smoothly after that and by the time Nate has to run to get to his classes on time, the constant string of customers has already died out. They’re going to start pouring in again once the lunch time comes, for a quick espresso if they’re in a hurry or a macchiato to go, or maybe even a grande latte they will drink, sitting in the café, sipping it slowly like they have all the time in the world. It’s fascinating, really, how much studying people’s coffee drinking habits can tell you if you know how to look. But by the time they come today, Nate’s going to be away, sitting in classes, drawing acts and taking notes on early Netherlandish painting.
At quarter to noon he grabs his backpack, his drawing portfolio and runs to the door, giving Monica a quick peck on the cheek on his way out. “See you later!”
“And you better be in one piece when I do, Nathaniel Fick! So just fucking slow down!” she yells after him.
“Can’t!” And then he’s out the door.
“Hey, Nate,” Madison whispers to him, leaning in, “how’s your semester project coming together?”
They’re sitting at the very end of the lecture hall, since Nate was late to class and didn’t want to attract more attention than necessary, and Madison always sits in the last row. Nate’s trying to focus on what the professor is saying about the influence of Bosch’s works on the paintings of Breughel, but he already knows all of this. Nate has always been fascinated by the Dutch and Flemish painters.
“It’s not coming together at all,” he whispers back. “I just… I don’t know. I think I’m stuck. I started over two times, but each time I’d just get to a point where I’d look at the painting and decide that it’s utterly abhorrent.”
“Give it time. It’s going to come eventually.”
Nate sighs. “I don’t have time. That’s the problem.”
Madison gives him a pitying look, but she doesn’t pester him further and Nate’s thankful for that.
An hour later he’s sitting in his drawing class (which is officially referred to as The Study of the Human Body, but no one actually uses this name), working on a sketch. Usually Nate’s perfectly professional, yet today he can’t help but stare a bit more than appropriate, since the model his group is working with is, well, the words Nordic god come to mind-the man is tall, lean, drop dead gorgeous and Nate can see the perfectly sculpted muscles shifting and rippling under the guy’s skin with his every move. Not that he moves very often, since he apparently can stay absolutely motionless for hours-Nate’s not sure if the guy knows that it’s not a contest, really. The model also doesn’t catch up on his reading nor is he texting people all the time, which is a vast improvement from Chris, who couldn’t say goodbye to his goddamn phone even for a moment and was a real pain to work with. Nate was really glad when he stopped showing up at some point. This guy is new, but he’s probably one of the students here, since he doesn’t look completely unfamiliar to Nate-he must’ve seen him around before.
During one of the breaks Nate almost goes over to him to introduce himself, but he gets sidetracked by Jim, who grovels to get his hands on Nate’s notes from the Cultural Anthropology class he takes as a part of his Humanities and Sciences course, and by the time Jim stops babbling about his projects and essays, the break is over and the guy returns to his place.
The students complain as usual that the models have changed their positions and they should rearrange their hands, legs, heads, eyelids and whatnot right this second, because they just can’t work like that, you need to understand, but Nate takes one look at his sketch, then at the guy sitting still on the chair, and he goes back to drawing in silence.
Nate can certainly appreciate the beauty of the human body-it was what drew him to painting in the first place, the way people’s bodies differed, the way they could tell so much about the actual person only by the way they looked and moved, and the urge to capture this essential difference, this glimpse of something fundamentally true was so overwhelming that Nate wanted to be able to do that more than anything else. He loves the perfect imperfections, the level of attention to the detail it requires, the feeling he gets whenever he knows that he’s working with something special-and right now he feels like Michelangelo creating David. It’s that easy, almost like the charcoal in his hand is moving of its own accord, with his mind registering the movement only after it happens. It’s moments like this he paints for.
The rest of the class passes in a haze and then Nate is the only student left in the atelier, staring at his work. Dark, angry lines stand in stark contrast with the cream paper, so intense, detailed and dynamic that even Nate, who is usually his own harshest critic, has to admit that it’s nothing short of brilliant.
He raises his eyes to look for the model, but he’s already gone as well.
Nate bumps into him accidentally later that day as he’s running down the stairs to get to the gallery on time. When he spots him, it’s already too late and he collides with him with a huge force, stumbling when the momentum pushes him back and he nearly falls. The guy stands his ground, taking just a step back to hold his balance.
“Sorry, really, I’m sorry,” Nate says breathily, bending to pick up his drawing portfolio and when he straightens up, he can see that the guy’s eyes are on him, watching him intently. It’s only then that he realizes that he was holding a cup of coffee in his hand and now it’s on his shirt and jeans. The lid that was covering the cup is God only knows where.
Then he notices that the coffee got on the guy, too. Fuck. He braces himself for the inevitable watch where the fuck you’re going, but it doesn’t come. What comes is, unexpectedly, “Since I managed to ruin your coffee, how about I buy you another one?”
Nate blinks. He has no idea what kind of logic stands behind this way of reasoning, but he’s not going to complain either and he’s about to say yes. Then he remembers the gallery. Mel would have his balls if he didn’t show up on time and Nate is rather fond of his balls the way they are now, thank you very much.
“I’d love to,” he says, “but I’m already running late. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to take a raincheck.”
“Sure,” the guy says, looking away and getting out of Nate’s way.
He’s opening the back door to the gallery when he realizes that he still doesn’t even know his name.
“Fick, I’m telling you, when you’re on a roll, you’re fucking scary,” Monica says, watching as Nate swiftly moves around the café, giving instructions to the new guy, who calls himself Q-Tip, in a level, confident voice.
He found out a long time ago that people generally tend to respond better to everything you say when you appear confident from the very beginning and you’re able to back it up with equally confident actions after that. Monica likes to joke that he’d make a good officer, since he enjoys ordering people around so much, but it’s not about that at all. He doesn’t like to think of it as ordering, he prefers to consider it to be guiding, if anything. He shares his knowledge and then trusts other people to interpret everything he says to the best of their ability.
Nate shoots her an amused look over his shoulder, smiling wryly. “Do you understand everything?” he asks as he turns to face Q-Tip. The guy nods vigorously. “Great. If you run into a problem somewhere along the way, just let Monica or me know, all right?”
“Yes, sir. Will do.” Q-Tip gives him a mock salute and smiles with the corner of his mouth.
It’s a Saturday and Nate doesn’t have to worry about making it to classes on time, so he revels in what little free time he has in between customers, trying to forget about the blank canvas waiting for him at home at least for a short while. He did a few sketches last evening and he’s pretty sure he knows in which direction he wants to go, but it still doesn’t feel quite right. The theme of his assignment is movement and simplicity, and his professor was insistent that they go back to the most basic notions and ideas while creating their semester project. Nate knows what he wants. He just doesn’t know how to actually get what he wants, and it’s so damn frustrating that he has to stop himself from gritting his teeth every time he thinks about it. He’s not used to feeling so much at a loss with his own artistic work-that was something that’s always been easy for him, almost effortless.
“Hey, Nate,” Monica nudges him in the thigh with her finger, “wake up. Wanna grab a beer after the shift’s over? We could take the new guy with us, use it as a bonding experience, team building and all that crap.”
Nate smiles apologetically. “Can’t. Work to do.”
“You’re still stuck?” she asks. It’s pretty peaceful and quiet at the moment, a few customers sipping their coffee, talking in hushed voices.
“Yeah. There’s one drawing, though, that I did recently and didn’t hate on the spot, so maybe I’m going somewhere, actually.”
“What was that?”
“An act. Actually, I have it on me right now, I can show you if you want.” He goes out back to bring the drawing portfolio-it usually stays at home on weekends, but today Nate had to run an errand early in the morning, deliver a commission and hopefully get enough money to pay his rent, so he guesses it goes in the plus column, even if the portfolio is heavy and uncomfortable to ride with.
“Holy shit,” Monica says once she sees the drawing. “Damn, Nate. If this guy looks even half as good in reality, I want his life. No, wait, I want his girlfriend’s life, ‘cause then I’d get to tap that on a daily basis.”
Nate shakes his head, laughing. “I thought that maybe you’d like to say something about the actual drawing, not the model, you know. Just a thought. Feel free to start anytime you want.”
“You know it’s not my area of expertise, not really, so I can’t say too much about your technique, but it looks great. I love how real and raw it feels.”
Nate smiles as he carefully takes the drawing from her hands and puts it back in the portfolio.
“Now all I have to do is figure out how to achieve the same effect in that damn project or I’m gonna be dead. I’m gonna be worse than dead. I’m gonna be out of SVA and with no means to support myself. Fuck,” he groans, running a hand down his face, “this is a nightmare.”
“See? You’re the poster boy for the tortured artist cliché, Fick,” Monica says, snorting. “Poor as fuck and unable to paint anymore. Tell me when you start going around hungry, I can feed you out of the goodness of my heart.”
Nate gives her the finger, but he smiles nonetheless. He knows she would do that without batting an eye. That’s one of the reasons he loves her.
On Sunday, Nate’s having what he could call a bad day. He’s still way behind on his semester project (as in, it doesn’t even exist yet), he has practically no inspiration, two commissions to finish, a test on Wednesday and bills to pay, which is why he needs two jobs in the first place, especially with his roommate gone. Wendy is currently living somewhere in Europe, drawing in Venice, Paris, Barcelona or one of those other wonderful cities Nate has always wanted to visit, where the light seems different, softer, warming the buildings with a faint glow at sunset. Maybe that’s why the works of the old masters always make Nate hold his breath when he looks at them in wonder and his fingers itch to feel the texture of the paint on the canvas. Maybe it’s the light.
He’s roused from his thoughts by a deep voice with just an edge of impatience hiding between the words. “Black coffee, large,” the voice says.
Nate looks up, professional as always, and, oh, it’s the Nordic god from the class. Nate grins at him widely, the smile that always makes the customers smile back. “Do you want some whipped cream to go with that? It’s today’s barista’s special,” he says automatically, before he has the chance to think.
The guy raises an eyebrow, looking like he’s trying not to laugh while he’s mocking him harshly, and Nate wants to slap himself on the forehead. Wow, Fick, that was… bad, he thinks. A horribly unfortunate choice of words, and really, just. Bad.
“Black it is,” he says breezily, turning to grab the right grind.
“How do you even come up with these things?” the guy asks, a mocking smile still playing on his lips, and somehow he manages to look utterly disgusted at the same time. “It’s a fucking offense to people’s taste buds.”
Nate shrugs. “Some people’s taste buds are not so easily offended,” he offers, smiling wryly. “I’m Nate, by the way. We’ve met.”
“Brad,” the guy says, nodding. He keeps his distance. “And I remember.”
“Sorry about your shirt,” Nate says, looking at him, taking in his tall, lean body and handsome face, and there’s an idea forming in his head. Actually, no, that’s not entirely true-he has entertained this idea since he saw the guy-Brad-for the first time, went as far as making a list in his head, with bullet points and everything, but the cons outweighed the pros and he forced himself to stop thinking about it. Now it’s all coming back to him, though, and he has to admit that there’s one huge pro he tried to ignore, one that’s maybe even more important than all the cons put together. If he does this and it works, he gets to stay at SVA. And that’s his main objective right now.
“Listen,” he starts as Brad turns to leave, “my shift ends in half an hour and I have a proposition for you. If you’re not in a hurry, maybe you could wait for me and then we could talk? And you promised me that coffee, you know, and I’d like to think that you’re a man of your word.”
Brad looks at him and there’s curiosity hidden behind his seemingly impassive expression. Then he grins. “Sure. I’ll be over there.” He points with his head to the table in the corner. “Any time you feel like joining me.”
Nate could swear that thirty minutes had never dragged like that before.
“You’re still here,” he says like he can’t actually believe it, taking a seat across from Brad after his shift is over, getting rid of the apron and leaving the business in Monica’s more than capable hands (she stares at Brad just a little bit when she spots him; Nate’s proud). He puts the cup of coffee he brought with him on the table and stirs the hot beverage just to have something to keep his hands occupied.
“So why did you decide to start working on the side as a model at an art school?” he asks, stalling. He’s not entirely sure how to go about this whole thing without sounding too weird.
“Maybe I just wanted to donate my body to academia while it was still breathing.”
Nate’s lips twitch only the tiniest bit. “Your dedication is truly appreciated,” he says solemnly, his expression once again perfectly composed.
“I can see that.” He curls his lips around the rim of the cup, taking a sip, and he doesn’t take his eyes off Nate’s face the whole time, like he’s studying him. “This is the best damned coffee I’ve had recently.”
Nate smiles and grips his own cup tighter.
“Don’t you… I don’t know, get self-conscious about that?” he asks. “Putting your body out there to be an object to be studied, holding nothing back? It’s not an accusation, don’t get me wrong, I’m just curious. I don’t think I could do that.”
Brad lifts the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I was Swedish in a past life. I hear they have no problems with nudity.”
“Yeah, about that. Working as a model, I mean. I’m trying to put together this project that’s not going anywhere at all at the moment and I had some ideas as to what I’d like it to be, but for that I need your help. I saw you in my drawing class the other day and thought I could ask you if you would consider posing for me. I’ll pay, of course, that goes without saying.”
“What did you have in mind?” Brad asks.
Nate takes a deep breath and starts talking. “The theme of my project is movement and simplicity, and since for me dance is one of the most basic forms of expression known to mankind since the dawn of civilization, I thought I’d go that way, try to convey its timelessness and universality, and combine that with the study of the human body. And well, you look like a dancer, body type-wise, so that certainly helps with what I have in mind.”
He can pinpoint the exact moment when Brad’s body goes stiff, his arms crossed on his chest in a defensive posture, his lips forming a thin line. “No,” he says in an angry voice, then he stands up, takes his leather jacket and leaves. Nate stays at the table for about ten whole seconds before he registers what just happened. Then he’s out of the door in a heartbeat, dressed only in a thin shirt, but Brad’s already gone, just the roar of the engine lingering in the chilly air.
He looks for Brad for a whole week before he finally gives up. There’s no one who’s heard of a guy matching his description attending Nate’s school and he’s running out of people to ask. His semester project is still just blank canvas resting on the easel.
In the end it’s Brad who actually finds him.
Nate’s leaving the university on Tuesday, this time not in a hurry, which is a nice change for sure, when he spots a tall figure standing on the sidewalk, propped against the lamppost.
“What, you finally decided that leaving without any explanation is fucking rude and maybe you should apologize?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. Now that they’re standing face to face, Nate is angry. He’s also relieved, but the anger for once seems stronger, burning in his chest.
“I came to tell you that I changed my mind,” Brad says, straightening up and taking a step towards Nate. “If you still want me.”
“The offer still stands, provided that you promise not to pull a stunt like that again when I’m in the middle of working on my project,” Nate says. “I need you to be sure, otherwise don’t bother.”
He knows it’s harsh, but he can’t afford to lose his scholarship, and he will lose it if he fails this class. And if he loses his scholarship, he will be forced to say goodbye to the New York School of Visual Arts, because there’s no way he can afford the tuition, and his parents have also Carol and Gillian to provide for, so it wouldn’t be fair on any of them to ask for such money all of a sudden.
“I’m sure,” Brad says, looking Nate straight in the eye.
“Good.”
“Also,” Brad continues, “seeing that I didn’t actually pay for your coffee the last time, what would you say to a beer and maybe something to eat? I know a place nearby, and we could discuss your project in greater detail.”
Nate considers it for a moment. He doesn’t have a shift at the café until the next morning and Mel called him earlier to tell him that they don’t need him today at the gallery, so he has the evening free.
“Sure,” he says. “Let’s go.”
Brad leads the way to a small bar nearby, one of those places you need to know about in order to notice them at all-the signboard is faded and there are narrow stairs leading to the entrance hidden beneath the street level.
They come in, accompanied by a quiet chime when the door hits the bell hung just above the frame, Brad takes a step inside and then Nate can hear him curse under his breath. He looks like he wants to turn around and leave, but then a dark-haired, wiry guy sitting in the corner waves in their direction, shouting, “Yo, Iceman, over here!” and Brad’s spine straightens up, his shoulders tense.
“Ray, didn’t expect to see you here this time of day,” he says, putting a smile on his face, then he turns to Nate and adds quietly, “I’m really sorry for what you’re about to witness.”
“We can’t just fuck all the time, you know, homes,” Ray says, pointing to a man sitting next to him, a young guy with blond hair, big, blue eyes, full of boyish charm. His cheeks are a little bit pink and he looks like he wants to stop Ray from talking before it’s too late, but he knows that any attempts will be futile anyway. “That’s bad for your health and your dick eventually gets sore, although you wouldn’t know, ‘cause being the Iceman and all, your dick is probably made of titanium or some shit. But we, lowly humans, need to eat and drink, too, so fuck yeah, we’re here.”
“Shut up, Ray,” Brad says in a tired voice. Nate tries to suppress a smile threatening to break out.
“Hey, Brad, who’s the boy toy?” Ray continues, unbothered. “Where did you get him, off the street?” He squints, looking suspicious. “Are you gonna pull some Brian Kinney shit on us? And what does that make me? Mikey? Fuck you, I’m not Mikey in this scenario. Or ever, for that matter, no fucking way.”
The blond guy shakes his head and whispers, “Jesus, Ray, stop talking.”
Nate just raises an eyebrow. “Well, I am an art student, so you wouldn’t be that far off, that is, if you weren’t completely off as to the nature of my relationship with Brad in the first place,” he says, amused. “I’m Nate, by the way, and I have a job proposition for Brad, that’s all.”
“Right,” Ray says, looking unconvinced.
He doesn’t get the chance to say anything more, because the other guy, his boyfriend, apparently, clasps his left hand on his mouth, extending his right one for Nate to shake and ignoring the muffled sounds made by Ray fighting in his grip. “Hi, I’m Walt.” He smiles.
“And this,” Brad starts, pointing to Ray, “is my retarded roommate. He’s a joy to be around.”
His expression says that it’s true only if you happen to enjoy the company of a pack of rabid hyenas, too.
“Obviously,” Nate says, not skipping a beat, as he takes a seat across from Ray and Walt, with Brad’s thigh pressed right next to his, warm even through the double layer of denim.
“So, what kinds of filthy things are you planning on doing to Brad under the pretence of this job proposition?” Ray asks, complete with the air-quotes and everything, when Brad goes to the bar to order a pitcher of beer.
Nate raises his eyebrows. “If I said that the only thing required of Brad would be to stay undressed at all times while we’re working together, would that satisfy your curiosity?” he asks. Ray gapes. “Relax, I just want Brad to pose for my semester project. I’m going to return him unharmed as soon as I’m done.”
“Right, like that’s gonna happen,” Ray mutters under his breath.
“So what’s this project about?” Walt chimes in hastily, before Ray has the chance to start talking again.
“It’s for my Study of the Human Body class, and the theme is simplicity and movement,” Nate starts to explain, excited, “so I decided to do something connected with dance, since it’s one of the most primal, basic forms of expression that uses the human body as a tool, and I couldn’t help but notice that Brad has the body of a dancer. He’s lean yet muscular at the same time, so I think this is going to work out just fine.”
By the time he’s finished, Ray is looking at him like he can’t believe Nate is not a collective hallucination, but actually a living, breathing human being. “And Brad knows about this?” Nate nods. “And he still said yes?” Nate nods once again. “Fuck me,” Ray finishes, shaking his head.
“What?” Nate asks, confused. “What’s so unusual about the fact that Brad would say yes?”
Ray and Walt look at each other before Ray says, “You’ll have to ask Brad. It’s really not my place to tell.”
Nate furrows his brow, but he doesn’t say anything, not when there’s Brad coming their way with a pitcher of beer and two glasses in his hands.
“You know what, guys, I think I’m gonna head back home,” Walt says after Brad settles in the booth and pours beer into the glasses. “I have an early start tomorrow and my back and feet hurt like fuck after today’s training, and I’m tired, so I thought I’d get some rest. Ray?” he asks pointedly. “You coming?”
Ray looks between Walt, Nate and Brad for a moment, and then he reaches for his jacket. “Yeah, baby, I’m coming. And I can give you a backrub if you want. I give fucking wicked backrubs, I’ll have you know, and then we can-”
“Ray.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, coming. And then you-”
“Ray.”
The door closes behind them with a quiet chime.
Nate can sense that it was just an excuse to leave them alone, that whatever Ray was hinting at was important, something he should get to know before they start anything. He’s intent on getting it out of Brad, even though he can already see that it won’t be easy, not if Brad chooses to shut down completely and leave like he did the last time.
“So what does Walt do?” he asks instead.
“He’s a student at Juilliard. A dancer. It’s tougher on your body than most people imagine,” he says a propos nothing in particular, and there’s something more behind those words, something Nate can’t quite put his finger on. Regret, maybe.
“And you?”
Brad shrugs. “I study computer science at Columbia, do some programming on the side. Not much to talk about.”
Nate waits for a moment, takes a gulp of his beer. “Why did you leave so abruptly the last time we were talking? I just- I tried to explain it in some rational way and I just don’t understand. What was it, Brad? Was it something I said?”
Brad’s fingers go white around his glass. “No, it wasn’t you. It was me.”
“Well, that’s something I’ve certainly heard before,” Nate tries, but the joke falls flat somewhere between them. Brad smiles nonetheless. Nate wants to trace the curve of his lips with his fingers, try to do justice to their shape and texture once he gets a piece of paper and a pencil in his hand.
“I just wasn’t sure if I could do that. But I thought about it. And I can.”
“Okay.” Nate decides that it’s better if he doesn’t pry any further, at least not right now.
“Look,” Brad says after they finish their third pitcher and Nate starts to feel a little bit tipsy, “my apartment is just upstairs if you want to come. You could show me what you have in mind as far as the project is concerned.”
They go up-the apartment is rather small, but it’s still bigger than what Nate can afford at the moment, and it’s completely dark and empty.
“Didn’t you say that Ray was your roommate?” he asks as Brad flicks the lights on.
“Yeah, but he hardly ever sleeps here anymore.” Brad tosses his leather jacket onto the armchair standing by the coffee table in the middle of the living room. “He’s always at Walt’s place, pestering the shit out of him. I don’t even know how it’s possible that Walt hasn’t killed him yet, but then again, he’s one of the few people, including Ray’s mother, who can get Ray to behave like an actual human being.”
Nate huffs out a laugh. “So how do you know them?”
Brad offers him a glass of water, but Nate shakes his head. “Something to eat, then?” Brad asks.
“No, really, I’m fine. So?”
“Ray and I go way back.” Brad sits in the armchair and tilts his head back, trying to work out a kink in his neck. “We went to the same high school and then he dragged his sorry ass after me to New York, got into the Psychology program at NYU and stayed to make my life miserable for a few more years, you know, the usual tale of woe.”
“And Walt?”
There’s a pause and Brad once again looks tense, gripping the glass tightly and avoiding Nate’s gaze. “I met him at Juilliard,” he says quietly.
“What? But you said that you study at Columbia.”
“I do now.” There’s something in Brad’s voice and his face that almost makes Nate cringe. He didn’t know it was possible to look that defeated while still keeping up appearances for other people’s sake. For Nate’s sake.
“Hey, you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to. You don’t owe me anything,” Nate says calmly.
“No, I think you need to hear it. I owe you that much if we’re to work together on this project.”
Nate nods. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“I used to be a dancer, I was good, I got a scholarship and an early admission to Juilliard. I wanted that since I was fifteen and finally confident enough to figure out what I wanted for myself and learn not to give a fuck what other people thought about it. I almost got through the freshman year. I was practicing, my knee gave out, I fell. I don’t even remember what move I was doing exactly, and that’s kind of pathetic, I mean, these things usually stick with you, right? Well, that one didn’t. I just remember it hurt like all fuck. I went through a surgery, then PT, and then they told me that I wouldn’t be able to dance anyway, not ever, ‘cause my knee was fucked up for good.” His voice is level, quiet and Nate’s not sure if Brad even registers that Nate’s in the room anymore-it’s like he’s talking to himself, like for him telling this story is a cathartic experience of sorts. “So I left Juilliard and decided to study the only thing I was really good at, besides dancing. Computers. I applied to Columbia and they wanted me, they were even generous enough to give me a scholarship. It could’ve ended worse,” he says, but Nate has a hard time believing it. He doesn’t think Brad believes in his own words either.
He wonders what it would feel like if he couldn’t paint anymore. He can’t even begin to imagine that, it’s far beyond his range of comprehension. Not painting is like not breathing and if it feels that way for Brad, too… There are some things Nate just can’t ask of him, now that he knows what he knows.
“Listen,” he starts, “I shouldn’t have asked. I wouldn’t have if I’d known. I should go.”
He stands up to leave when Brad says, “I told you I’d do that. So you can just as well stay.”
Nate looks at him for a moment, but Brad wears a mask and that in itself is a sign that he should back off when there’s still time, that there are scars which are better left alone to heal until there’s nothing but thin white lines somewhere on the inside that feel different to the touch but don’t hurt anymore.
“Okay,” Nate says against his better judgment. “Look, about other things. I don’t know how soon I’m going to be able to pay you, but I’ll make sure that it’s sooner rather than later. What is your rate?”
“Nate, I-“
“Brad.”
“Nate.” Brad stares at him, but Nate holds his gaze. “We can discuss payment after we’re done. I promise, I’m not going to ruin your budget.” There’s a hint of a smirk on his face, like he’s laughing at a very private joke.
So be it. Nate needs that credit and he needs his scholarship, and Brad offered, so he’s going to take whatever he is given.
On Wednesday afternoon, which fortunately both he and Brad happen to have free, Nate opens the door to his apartment after a short struggle with the lock. He should probably call his landlord, since it’s been getting worse and worse, and one beautiful day Nate will find himself outside his home with literally no way in.
He was given the permission to paint the apartment himself, so it’s full of vibrant color that makes up for its other shortcomings, and he can see that Brad looks around with hidden curiosity, though Nate can still see it right there in his face.
“It’s fucking freezing in here,” Brad says after a short while.
Nate smiles with the corner of his mouth. “But the light is nice.”
“Sure, your frozen corpse will look lovely when they find you in the middle of winter.”
Nate laughs. “Well, what can I say, I’m living the cliché. Now all I need is consumption.”
Brad looks at him pointedly, then crosses his arms across his chest and leans against the pillar separating the living room area from the tiny kitchenette.
“I can see that happening with your heating or rather lack thereof,” he says. “And I assume you already have a muse with whom you’re tragically in love and who dies at the end of the movie?”
“I’ve seen that one. Ewan McGregor was quite good in it.”
Nate hangs his coat and reaches for Brad’s leather jacket-their fingers brush briefly when Brad hands it to him and Nate discovers that his skin is warmer than he expected. Maybe he took Brad’s nickname, the Iceman, a bit too literally.
“Can I fix you some tea?” he asks, heading to the kitchenette to put the kettle on.
“Sure,” Brad says from his place right behind Nate’s back, just a couple of steps away, and when the fuck did he get there without the squeaky floor alerting him?
There’s something about Brad that fascinates Nate-the way he carries himself, his moves efficient and graceful, the way he conveys so much through his body and yet can remain unreadable when he wants to. Nate finds himself wishing to be able to reach past his raised walls regardless.
Later, Brad undresses in silence interrupted only by the quiet rustling of paper as Nate prepares the easel and looks for the ink. The tattoo covering Brad’s lower back is mesmerizing when he moves and Nate thinks about the pinch of a thousand needles piercing the skin for a split second, drawing blood and leaving color in their wake, covering inch after inch, and his fingers itch to touch it, he wants his palms to span the vast expanse of skin, trace the lines where one color seamlessly blends into another.
“Nate?” Brad raises an eyebrow and Nate flushes, like he’s been just caught staring, the tips of his ears burning a bit-the last thing he needs now is to act unprofessional.
“Sorry. Too many thoughts, got distracted,” he says, smiling.
“Of course,” Brad says with a hint of a smug smile playing on his face.
Nate draws for a while after that, looking up every now and then to gaze at Brad’s still form, stretched with his one arm high above his head, the other one outstretched comfortably, his fingers loose. His right foot is drawn up to the knee of the supporting leg, touching it lightly. “You can breathe, you know,” he says eventually with a laugh and watches Brad’s chest rise in a deep gasp and fall as he exhales.
“How old were you when you started dancing?” he asks. He doesn’t mean to, it just slips out, and he can see Brad tense up.
“Ten,” he says in the end. “My parents didn’t know what to think, at least not in the beginning, when they realized I was serious about it. They wanted to send me to a military school, but I managed to convince them to let me stay and apply to Juilliard. They always wanted the best for me, even if they weren’t particularly happy with my choices.”
“We-” Nate starts and pauses for a moment to put the brush away, “we don’t have to talk about it and I’m sorry I brought this up.”
“Nate.”
“No, Brad, I respect that, really. I get it.”
“It’s not a problem.” Brad’s jaw is set, his arms crossed on his chest.
“Oh, right, and that’s exactly why you freaked out and left without a word the first time I mentioned the theme of the project, because you don’t have any problem at all discussing that,” Nate says in a level tone, but there’s sarcasm dripping from every word. “Don’t try to bullshit me, okay, Brad? It doesn’t really work.” He takes a look at the drawing, then at Brad. “We’re finished for today.”
Brad nods and starts to dress.
“Thank you,” Nate adds, turning to face him.
“No problem.” Brad’s face is cold, closed-off.
“Brad. Don’t, okay?” He catches him by the wrist before he can leave. “Come on, I’ll make us dinner. I hope you are a fan of stir fry.”
The first snow this winter catches him unprepared-Nate wakes up one Saturday morning and everything is covered with a thin layer of white. Nate loves those moments when the snow is still fresh and unspoiled by the traffic and footprints, but these are rarely witnessed in a city like New York, one that never really goes to sleep.
The apartment is cold and Nate shivers when he disentangles himself from the sheets and goes to take a shower. Once he’s back, he calls his landlord to inform him that the heater has broken down again, but the man doesn’t pick up. Nate swears under his breath and dials Brad’s number. He answers after the third signal, a quiet, “Colbert,” uttered in a raspy voice, like he’s just woken up.
“Hi, it’s Nate. I hope I didn’t wake you. If I did, my apologies,” he says. “Listen, I’m terribly sorry, I know we were supposed to meet this afternoon, but my heater has stopped working, again, and it’s freezing in here. I don’t think that it’s such a good idea to go around my apartment undressed right now.”
He can hear Brad inhale deeply on the other side of the line. “Nate,” he says and there’s an amused undertone in his voice. “Although I have been informed that the light in your apartment is superior to the very same light in any other place in this whole city, you can come over to my place if you want to. I promise that my heater works just fine and neither of us will end up with any valuable body parts frostbitten. We certainly wouldn’t want you to freeze your fingers off, now would we?”
Nate smiles. “Thanks. I’ll be there as soon as my shift at the café is over.”
It’s a long day and by the time his shift ends, he’s already tired and dreams of nothing else but a few good hours of uninterrupted sleep in a room that has a functioning heating system. Unfortunately, he can’t afford such a luxury.
He’s about to head out, leaving Monica and Evan alone, when the door opens, letting in a cold gust of wind and Brad, who looks around until he spots Nate and then smiles at him. Nate doesn’t know what to think.
“I had an errand to run nearby and thought that maybe you needed a ride,” Brad says, placing his elbows on the counter and leaning forward. Nate can’t be sure if he’s telling the truth.
“Sure, let me just get my stuff, all right?”
Brad nods and takes a seat at a nearby table while Nate disappears in the back room to gather his things. He can still hear Monica sigh and whisper to Q-Tip, “I don’t know how he does that. Why aren’t there any hot guys lining up to me? It’s so fucking unfair. All the good ones are either gay, married or fictional characters on television. Or, you, know, all of the above.”
Nate shakes his head with a smile, biting on his lower lip as he makes sure he has everything he needs. The portfolio, the ink, the brushes, the drawing pens, his messenger bag, his coat, the scarf, the gloves-he picks up everything and quickly buttons up his coat, and then he’s out the door, one hand wrapping his scarf around his neck, the other one waving at Monica and Q-Tip.
“Children, play nice,” he says. Monica just rolls her eyes.
When Brad said a ride, this wasn’t exactly what Nate expected. A car, maybe, some vintage beauty-slick shapes, black body shining in the winter sun, but what he sees is a motorbike, and sure, the slick shapes, black body part is right, but…
“What, afraid?” Brad mocks, putting on his helmet. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna crash us, I’m not a fucking retard.”
“Not afraid.” Nate shakes his head. “Surprised. But then again, maybe I shouldn’t be. There are no confinements on a bike like that, right?”
Brad looks at him with an odd expression on his face and then hands him the spare helmet. “Hop on and hold on tight,” he says and then they’re speeding down the road. The only thing Nate can hear is the wind in his ears, drowning out even the steady roar of the engine.
When Brad parks the bike and turns the key in the ignition, everything goes quiet, so quiet that Nate can hear his own breathing.
“Everything all right there?” Brad asks, looking over his shoulder with a broad grin on his face. “Still got everything you came with?”
Nate nods and mentally blesses the solid clasp on his drawing portfolio.
Brad’s apartment is, indeed, a whole lot warmer and Nate revels in the feeling as the color starts to come back to his fingers.
“Tea? Coffee? Beer?” Brad offers from the kitchen. He seems completely at ease having Nate here.
Nate knows that nothing about the relationship between them is strictly professional anymore, or even casual, and he can feel the tension that builds up in the tips of his fingers every time his hand accidentally brushes over Brad’s skin, every time he adjusts Brad’s body, and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from touching more than he should. He likes Brad, maybe a bit too much to keep a level head, and right now the last thing he needs is a distraction. When all is done and over with-well, that’s a different matter altogether, but Nate is going to take it one thing at a time.
“Coffee’s fine,” Nate says, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Ray not home?”
“Please.” Brad snorts. “As if there’s something that could stop that inbred whiskey-tango trailer park sister-fucking moron from getting drunk or high, or drunk and high, and fucking Walt’s brains out till they both pass out, especially on a Saturday evening. And they’re already up to an early start.”
“It warms my heart to hear you speak so fondly of the people you love, Brad, you have no idea,” Nate says, deadpan. “Really, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Not really. I can think of a much better use for my mouth.” Brad grins.
Nate knows they’re walking on thin ice here, so he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead he tries to focus on the way the strong tendons in Brad’s neck flex with his every move so that he can try to capture the movement in his drawing later on, when Brad is perfectly still once again, like a statue of an ancient god gazing into the distance with unseeing eyes.
“There’s something…” he says at one point, looking up at Brad above the easel and furrowing his brow. He’s chewing on his lower lip again, to the point where he can taste the faint tang of copper on his tongue.
“Hmm?” Brad raises his eyebrows, turning his head to look at Nate, who steps out from behind his easel and comes over to where Brad’s standing to correct the position of his arm and shoulder, and this one time, throwing all caution to the wind, he lets his hands linger, his fingers ghost over the smooth skin. Brad turns to look at him, and there’s something in his eyes that resembles fear and uncertainty a bit too much for Nate’s comfort, so he takes a step back.
So maybe he’s read Brad wrong. Maybe Brad’s okay with harmless, casual flirting, but that’s all he’s up for. Nate can respect that. He does his best to make sure he doesn’t touch Brad again and goes back to drawing.
“Listen,” Brad says after they’ve finished for the day, “how about you stay here tonight? Your apartment is temporarily uninhabitable anyway and don’t even try to protest, I’ve seen the weather forecast, it’s going to be fucking freezing.”
He reaches out like he wants to touch Nate and then his hand freezes mid-way and he takes a step back.
Nate can deal with a lot of things, but he generally prefers it when people are open with him and, what’s even more important, capable of making up their own goddamn minds. This-this is a freaking emotional rollercoaster.
“I’m just paying you to pose for my project, you don’t need to do these things,” Nate says, turning to grab his bag and his coat.
“You think I do this for money?” Brad asks and sounds like he’s insulted. “I don’t want your money, Nate.”
“Then what the fuck do you want?”
Brad shakes his head and runs a hand up and down his face in an exasperated gesture.
“God, have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?” he asks.
Nate snorts in disbelief. “Have you? And how is that even relevant, anyway? What the fuck am I supposed to think here, Brad? And what the hell do you want?”
Brad kisses him then, cupping Nate’s cheek with his hand and Nate inhales deeply, his hands clutching his coat and the strap of his bag until he finally lets them fall to the floor and places his hands on Brad’s chest, tracing the contour of his collarbone and sternum, letting his fingers travel up to the strong line of Brad’s neck and jaw.
Nate licks Brad’s lower lip and teases it with his teeth, tugging lightly-Brad follows into the kiss, opening his mouth just a bit wider, angling his head just so, and they fit against each other, incredibly close, with Brad’s eyelashes fluttering against Nate’s cheek.
“What did you mean about the mirror?” he asks breathlessly when they part for air, nuzzling the hollow of Brad’s throat with his nose. He can feel the laughter in Brad’s chest.
“Are you joking?” Brad asks, lifting Nate’s chin so that he can look him in the eye. Nate raises his eyebrows and Brad just shakes his head, his eyes closed. “You have no idea, do you?” he adds once he’s looking at Nate again, his eyes impossibly blue and nothing like ice. “How you look, how you- Fuck. Christ, Nate…”
Brad traces the lines of his jaw and cheekbone, a desperate, surprisingly open look on his face (I did that, Nate thinks in a haze), and Nate leans into the touch, his lips slightly parted. He’s breathing hard, staring at Brad, and his chest is burning.
There’s something so familiar in what they’re doing, something so uncomplicated and intimate, and in that moment Nate feels like he knows Brad inside out. He reaches up to kiss him again while his hands trace the straight line of his spine, trail down to his lower back and stay there for a moment, exploring the uncharted territory covered with ink. Nate wants to map it with his mouth, his tongue. He wants to conquer it and claim it for himself.
Brad pulls back, just for a moment, just to take a gasp of air, and then he kisses Nate once more, but this time the kiss is gentle and almost tentative, just a light press of lips against lips that leaves Nate’s mouth tingling with the sensation nonetheless.
They still haven’t moved from their spot in the middle of the living room.
“Will you stay? Just for tonight?” Brad asks and he sounds breathless.
“Yeah, I’ll stay,” Nate says with his forehead leaning against Brad’s shoulder. Brad kisses his neck.
He wakes up in the middle of the night, when the clock on the nightstand announces that it’s already past three. Nate could definitely use a glass of water as well as the bathroom right about now, but in order to do so, he has to disentangle himself from Brad’s limbs first. For someone who has as much control over his body as Brad does, he’s very unguarded in his sleep.
He tries to move Brad’s hand and is just about to slip out of bed when Brad catches him by the wrist and whispers almost incomprehensibly, “What’s wrong?” It comes out hoarse and is muffled by the pillow.
“Nothing’s wrong, Brad, go back to sleep. I’m just going to get some water.” Nate rubs his eyes and traces the inside of Brad’s wrist with his thumb.
“Thought you were going to leave,” Brad says once Nate’s back and it startles him a bit-as far as Brad’s concerned, it’s a bold confession, leaving nothing up to interpretation, everything laid out in the open.
“You wish,” Nate says, nudging Brad’s calf with his big toe. “Your apartment is much nicer than mine, your bed is extremely comfortable and your heating actually works. I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s a hand that curls around the nape of his neck, thumb stroking the skin lightly, and it somehow feels more intimate than the best sex he’s ever had.
Nate hovers over Brad and leans in for a kiss. He’s completely awake now, his skin tingling with want and he brushes his hand over Brad’s abdomen, then trails up to trace the line of his collarbones and he bends his head to lick at the hollow between them, taste Brad, smell him, feel him all over. Brad’s hand sneaks around and rests on the small of his back, his fingertips dipping slightly under the fabric of Nate’s underwear, pressing into the soft flesh and Nate starts to get hard.
Nate relishes in the slow, almost lazy slide of Brad’s tongue against his, the way their lips align and move against each other, slick and hot, leaving him with a tingling sensation when they part for air. Brad brushes his hand against the swell of Nate’s ass and Nate bucks his hips in response, rubbing against Brad’s thigh-he knows he must look like some testosterone-driven teenager getting some for the first time, but he really doesn’t care, not as long as there’s the friction he needs. They don’t stop kissing even when the kisses start to get sloppy-Nate licks into Brad’s mouth deeper, opening his mouth wider, and he’s pretty sure he’s the one moaning, making soft, desperate noises in the back of his throat, but once again, he doesn’t care, not really.
“Fuck, Nate,” Brad whispers when Nate slips his hand into his pajama bottoms, grips him, firm, and then starts stroking, developing a steady rhythm he loses only for a moment when he comes with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open, and Brad leans in to swallow the moan that follows. Then he arches into Nate’s fist, groaning, and Nate picks up the pace, flicks his thumb over the head and presses lightly until Brad’s coming undone under him, flushed and disheveled and beautiful.
“Christ,” Nate breathes out with his face hidden in the crook of Brad’s neck, his lips against Brad’s skin.
He feels sweaty and sticky, and he should really ditch his underwear, because it’s a total mess right now, but he can’t bring himself to move. It’s Brad who eventually stands up and brings a wet towel from the bathroom as well as clean pajama bottoms for Nate.
“Thanks,” Nate mumbles, trying to get his eyes to stay open. He doesn’t fully succeed and Brad laughs.
“Just fucking go to sleep,” he says with a smile and shakes his head, dropping the towel to the floor.
Nate closes his eyes and tries, but he actually finds it impossible to fall asleep and it’s only after he can hear Brad’s breathing go steady that he finally succumbs to sleep.
He wakes up when the sun is already high to muffled sounds coming from the kitchen. Brad’s not in the bed, so Nate expects to find him there, but when he pads to the room, barefoot, not even bothering to throw a shirt on, he sees Ray standing by the counter, munching on a bowl of cereal. Brad’s nowhere to be seen.
“Hi,” Ray says around a mouthful of Cheerios, waving at Nate, like it’s completely normal that he’d be here, clad in Brad’s pajama bottoms and nothing else. He doesn’t so much as bat an eye-it looks like Ray’s one of those people who don’t get fazed by just about anything.
“Hi.” Nate smiles and then goes over to the fridge to pull out a carton of orange juice. It’s miserably empty inside, just a jug of milk and some leftover pizza. And mustard. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to see you so early in the morning. What happened, Walt threw you out?” he asks, leaning against the refrigerator, the corner of his mouth quirked.
“Nah, homes,” Ray waves his hand he holds the spoon in, sending a spray of milk all over the place and then slurps loudly, “he just told me to fuck off for today ‘cause he needed to study and I was apparently really fucking distracting.”
“So he threw you out,” he says with amusement in his voice, but he tries to keep a straight face, since it seems to be the best way of dealing with Ray’s own brand of bullshit.
“Well, that’s one way to look at it. I prefer to see it as a sign that we’re in a healthy relationship and therefore capable of giving each other the space we both need when we need it. Or, you know, even Walt’s tolerance has its limits. And he really needs to fucking study for that test.”
Nate looks around for a moment and listens out for any noises, apart from Ray’s terrible slurping as he finishes off his cereal, but there’s no sound of running water coming from behind the bathroom door.
“Have you seen Brad?” he asks finally.
Ray shakes his head. “Nope. Thought he was still asleep. But then again, he’s the Iceman, he wakes up at some ungodly hour and still can and will fuck you up if you cross him, with a smile on his face, and that’s before he has his morning coffee. Not that you’re likely to get on his bad side anyway, since Brad Colbert practically shits glitter and rainbows ever since he met you. Meaning, he’s less homicidal and more understanding of other people’s shortcomings, people meaning mostly yours truly, and sometimes even resembles a human being, not a motherfucking robot.”
Nate pauses with his glass halfway up to his mouth. “Thanks, I guess?”
“No problem, homes.”
There’s just one thing that’s been nagging Nate since day one and he needs to know, even though he suspects what the answer may be already. “Why the Iceman?”
Ray looks kind of hesitant, and with him, that’s a first. “The thing you need to know about Brad Colbert,” he starts eventually, “is that with him, you never know what’s happening on the inside, not really, ‘cause he’s like this fucking giant iceberg that sunk Titanic. He keeps a lot to himself and doesn’t let it out, ever, just keeps piling everything on this huge heap of shit inside of him, and guess what, one beautiful day he’s gonna drown in all that crap. That’s one fucking unhealthy attitude to have if I may say so myself, but that’s Brad for you. And I keep telling him, Brad, you gotta pull that stick out of your ass and talk it all out, and it’s gonna be all good, but who the fuck listens to Ray-Ray anyway? Not Brad Colbert, I can tell you that much.”
Nate thinks that maybe Ray would be surprised. For all Brad’s complaining about Person’s retardation and other irredeemable qualities he likes to rant on, he sure as hell pays attention to a lot of what Ray says to him.
They hear the sound of a key turning in the lock and a moment later the door opens and Brad comes in, carrying two bags stuffed with groceries.
“I’m gonna kill that little fucker,” he says, looking at Nate, and tosses his keys onto the table. “He emptied the fridge and went on his merry fucking way, so I had to do a grocery run first thing in the morning or we’d have to go out for breakfast.” That’s when he notices Ray’s presence in the kitchen. Person waves at him with a stupid grin. “And what the fuck are you doing here?”
“Walt threw him out. With all the love and affection possible, of course. I’m assured of this, Ray,” Nate answers with a small smile.
“He had to study,” Ray adds matter-of-factly.
“Of course he did. So, Ray, how do you take your eggs?” Nate asks, turning to the counter and rummaging around the cupboards in search of a pan. He hopes that’s okay, that he’s not imposing or whatever the hell-it’s been a while since Nate experienced the morning after in all of its aspects. Brad doesn’t look like he minds that much.
“Hey, Brad, I like this one,” Ray says, pointing at Nate. “He looks like a keeper, he can stay.”
“Thank you, Ray, your input into the matter is, as always, deeply appreciated. Now fuck off.”
There’s silence in the kitchen until they can hear the door leading to Ray’s room close with a loud thud.
“So, where were we?” Brad asks, taking a step closer. His skin is still cold and smells like winter and snow and icy wind when he leans in to nuzzle Nate’s throat.
“Breakfast,” Nate says, trying to ignore the way his stomach grumbles at the very thought of food. “As in, I really could use one right about now.”
Brad smiles and steps away to get eggs from the fridge.
Part 2
Title: The Perfect Picture of an (Extra)Ordinary Life
Pairings/Characters: Brad/Nate, a bit of Ray/Walt in the background
Rating: R
Word count: 22,900
Summary: Nate is an art student stuck on his semester project, Brad poses for the students at his school.
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals as seen on the HBO miniseries.
Notes: First of all, huge, huge thanks to lickingbeads, who did an amazing job as a beta and she was so fast, especially considering that she was working on such a short notice. Thank you, bb, once again! ♥ Also, this fic wouldn't be what it is if it weren't for lunatics-word, who practically adopted it, eiirene, who was my go-to person whenever I had a question about some technical aspects as far as drawing/painting was concerned, and kubis, who was always there for me to make sure that I was writing instead of procrastinating.
Banner made by the awesome lunatics-word, drawing on the banner by eiirene
The Perfect Picture of an (Extra)Ordinary Life
Nate likes to wake up early, when the light outside is still gray and dim, and watch it turn orange and purple, with just a hint of amaranthine. His studio apartment on Brooklyn has a huge window overlooking the park and it’s the only good thing about this place. The light is fantastic. Everything else is crap, right down to the squeaky floors, drafty door and a heater that conked out some time ago.
Still half asleep, he navigates between the bed and the easel he left right there in the middle of the room last night, the canvas still depressingly blank, painted over for the third time. It’s just not coming together.
He doesn’t drink coffee at home, since it’s going to be pretty much shit, with Wendy’s ancient coffee machine the only thing he has at his disposal; he’s going to take care of his caffeine addiction once he gets to work. His shift starts in forty minutes. He’s going to survive till then and maybe he won’t even run anyone over with his bike on his way there.
“Nice of you to show up this early, darling,” the owner says with a smile, throwing him an apron when he arrives at quarter to seven. The whole café is filled with the scent of freshly ground coffee and Nate inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. Even after two years of working as a barista, he still loves the smell of coffee just like he always has.
Nate takes off his scarf, the one his sister made him last year for Christmas, and his coat, and fixes himself a double espresso. First things first.
The customers start to pour in a few minutes after seven, while Monica is still absent, so there’s just him for the time being, with Ruth out to get her granddaughter to school on time. It’s pretty much a morning from hell.
Vanessa is a regular here, a high school student who comes by the café every day on her way to the classes, and who, Nate suspects, has a bit of a crush on him. She always blushes a little when he hands her the non-fat venti latte, like she’s surprised that he remembers her beverage of choice, and she lingers by the counter just this side of too long, long enough that it finally gets Nate’s attention.
“Thanks,” she says once she gets her order, a little out of breath, fishing out a twenty from her wallet, and Nate hands her the change with a smile.
“Hey, Vanessa, have a nice day,” he adds as she grabs her latte and turns to leave. She’s still looking at him above her shoulder when she nearly crashes into Monica in the doorway.
“You wouldn’t believe what those motherfuckers did this time,” she snarls, putting her coat away and tossing her messenger bag in the back. “They flooded my apartment. Again. That’s the third time this month. This is getting fucking ridiculous. I had to call my landlord and you can imagine how well that one went…”
“The landlord that you were sleeping with?” Nate chimes in from his place by the espresso maker.
“One and only,” Monica says, shaking her head while she puts the apron on. “I’m going to fucking kill them if they do this one more time, and you’re going to help me hide the bodies.”
“Sure,” Nate deadpans without skipping a beat. He’s known Monica long enough to be used to that sort of thing. “But do you think you could make some coffee first? I kind of have my hands full at the moment.”
“What happened to your wicked multitasking skills, Fick?”
He throws a towel at her.
It goes smoothly after that and by the time Nate has to run to get to his classes on time, the constant string of customers has already died out. They’re going to start pouring in again once the lunch time comes, for a quick espresso if they’re in a hurry or a macchiato to go, or maybe even a grande latte they will drink, sitting in the café, sipping it slowly like they have all the time in the world. It’s fascinating, really, how much studying people’s coffee drinking habits can tell you if you know how to look. But by the time they come today, Nate’s going to be away, sitting in classes, drawing acts and taking notes on early Netherlandish painting.
At quarter to noon he grabs his backpack, his drawing portfolio and runs to the door, giving Monica a quick peck on the cheek on his way out. “See you later!”
“And you better be in one piece when I do, Nathaniel Fick! So just fucking slow down!” she yells after him.
“Can’t!” And then he’s out the door.
“Hey, Nate,” Madison whispers to him, leaning in, “how’s your semester project coming together?”
They’re sitting at the very end of the lecture hall, since Nate was late to class and didn’t want to attract more attention than necessary, and Madison always sits in the last row. Nate’s trying to focus on what the professor is saying about the influence of Bosch’s works on the paintings of Breughel, but he already knows all of this. Nate has always been fascinated by the Dutch and Flemish painters.
“It’s not coming together at all,” he whispers back. “I just… I don’t know. I think I’m stuck. I started over two times, but each time I’d just get to a point where I’d look at the painting and decide that it’s utterly abhorrent.”
“Give it time. It’s going to come eventually.”
Nate sighs. “I don’t have time. That’s the problem.”
Madison gives him a pitying look, but she doesn’t pester him further and Nate’s thankful for that.
An hour later he’s sitting in his drawing class (which is officially referred to as The Study of the Human Body, but no one actually uses this name), working on a sketch. Usually Nate’s perfectly professional, yet today he can’t help but stare a bit more than appropriate, since the model his group is working with is, well, the words Nordic god come to mind-the man is tall, lean, drop dead gorgeous and Nate can see the perfectly sculpted muscles shifting and rippling under the guy’s skin with his every move. Not that he moves very often, since he apparently can stay absolutely motionless for hours-Nate’s not sure if the guy knows that it’s not a contest, really. The model also doesn’t catch up on his reading nor is he texting people all the time, which is a vast improvement from Chris, who couldn’t say goodbye to his goddamn phone even for a moment and was a real pain to work with. Nate was really glad when he stopped showing up at some point. This guy is new, but he’s probably one of the students here, since he doesn’t look completely unfamiliar to Nate-he must’ve seen him around before.
During one of the breaks Nate almost goes over to him to introduce himself, but he gets sidetracked by Jim, who grovels to get his hands on Nate’s notes from the Cultural Anthropology class he takes as a part of his Humanities and Sciences course, and by the time Jim stops babbling about his projects and essays, the break is over and the guy returns to his place.
The students complain as usual that the models have changed their positions and they should rearrange their hands, legs, heads, eyelids and whatnot right this second, because they just can’t work like that, you need to understand, but Nate takes one look at his sketch, then at the guy sitting still on the chair, and he goes back to drawing in silence.
Nate can certainly appreciate the beauty of the human body-it was what drew him to painting in the first place, the way people’s bodies differed, the way they could tell so much about the actual person only by the way they looked and moved, and the urge to capture this essential difference, this glimpse of something fundamentally true was so overwhelming that Nate wanted to be able to do that more than anything else. He loves the perfect imperfections, the level of attention to the detail it requires, the feeling he gets whenever he knows that he’s working with something special-and right now he feels like Michelangelo creating David. It’s that easy, almost like the charcoal in his hand is moving of its own accord, with his mind registering the movement only after it happens. It’s moments like this he paints for.
The rest of the class passes in a haze and then Nate is the only student left in the atelier, staring at his work. Dark, angry lines stand in stark contrast with the cream paper, so intense, detailed and dynamic that even Nate, who is usually his own harshest critic, has to admit that it’s nothing short of brilliant.
He raises his eyes to look for the model, but he’s already gone as well.
Nate bumps into him accidentally later that day as he’s running down the stairs to get to the gallery on time. When he spots him, it’s already too late and he collides with him with a huge force, stumbling when the momentum pushes him back and he nearly falls. The guy stands his ground, taking just a step back to hold his balance.
“Sorry, really, I’m sorry,” Nate says breathily, bending to pick up his drawing portfolio and when he straightens up, he can see that the guy’s eyes are on him, watching him intently. It’s only then that he realizes that he was holding a cup of coffee in his hand and now it’s on his shirt and jeans. The lid that was covering the cup is God only knows where.
Then he notices that the coffee got on the guy, too. Fuck. He braces himself for the inevitable watch where the fuck you’re going, but it doesn’t come. What comes is, unexpectedly, “Since I managed to ruin your coffee, how about I buy you another one?”
Nate blinks. He has no idea what kind of logic stands behind this way of reasoning, but he’s not going to complain either and he’s about to say yes. Then he remembers the gallery. Mel would have his balls if he didn’t show up on time and Nate is rather fond of his balls the way they are now, thank you very much.
“I’d love to,” he says, “but I’m already running late. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to take a raincheck.”
“Sure,” the guy says, looking away and getting out of Nate’s way.
He’s opening the back door to the gallery when he realizes that he still doesn’t even know his name.
“Fick, I’m telling you, when you’re on a roll, you’re fucking scary,” Monica says, watching as Nate swiftly moves around the café, giving instructions to the new guy, who calls himself Q-Tip, in a level, confident voice.
He found out a long time ago that people generally tend to respond better to everything you say when you appear confident from the very beginning and you’re able to back it up with equally confident actions after that. Monica likes to joke that he’d make a good officer, since he enjoys ordering people around so much, but it’s not about that at all. He doesn’t like to think of it as ordering, he prefers to consider it to be guiding, if anything. He shares his knowledge and then trusts other people to interpret everything he says to the best of their ability.
Nate shoots her an amused look over his shoulder, smiling wryly. “Do you understand everything?” he asks as he turns to face Q-Tip. The guy nods vigorously. “Great. If you run into a problem somewhere along the way, just let Monica or me know, all right?”
“Yes, sir. Will do.” Q-Tip gives him a mock salute and smiles with the corner of his mouth.
It’s a Saturday and Nate doesn’t have to worry about making it to classes on time, so he revels in what little free time he has in between customers, trying to forget about the blank canvas waiting for him at home at least for a short while. He did a few sketches last evening and he’s pretty sure he knows in which direction he wants to go, but it still doesn’t feel quite right. The theme of his assignment is movement and simplicity, and his professor was insistent that they go back to the most basic notions and ideas while creating their semester project. Nate knows what he wants. He just doesn’t know how to actually get what he wants, and it’s so damn frustrating that he has to stop himself from gritting his teeth every time he thinks about it. He’s not used to feeling so much at a loss with his own artistic work-that was something that’s always been easy for him, almost effortless.
“Hey, Nate,” Monica nudges him in the thigh with her finger, “wake up. Wanna grab a beer after the shift’s over? We could take the new guy with us, use it as a bonding experience, team building and all that crap.”
Nate smiles apologetically. “Can’t. Work to do.”
“You’re still stuck?” she asks. It’s pretty peaceful and quiet at the moment, a few customers sipping their coffee, talking in hushed voices.
“Yeah. There’s one drawing, though, that I did recently and didn’t hate on the spot, so maybe I’m going somewhere, actually.”
“What was that?”
“An act. Actually, I have it on me right now, I can show you if you want.” He goes out back to bring the drawing portfolio-it usually stays at home on weekends, but today Nate had to run an errand early in the morning, deliver a commission and hopefully get enough money to pay his rent, so he guesses it goes in the plus column, even if the portfolio is heavy and uncomfortable to ride with.
“Holy shit,” Monica says once she sees the drawing. “Damn, Nate. If this guy looks even half as good in reality, I want his life. No, wait, I want his girlfriend’s life, ‘cause then I’d get to tap that on a daily basis.”
Nate shakes his head, laughing. “I thought that maybe you’d like to say something about the actual drawing, not the model, you know. Just a thought. Feel free to start anytime you want.”
“You know it’s not my area of expertise, not really, so I can’t say too much about your technique, but it looks great. I love how real and raw it feels.”
Nate smiles as he carefully takes the drawing from her hands and puts it back in the portfolio.
“Now all I have to do is figure out how to achieve the same effect in that damn project or I’m gonna be dead. I’m gonna be worse than dead. I’m gonna be out of SVA and with no means to support myself. Fuck,” he groans, running a hand down his face, “this is a nightmare.”
“See? You’re the poster boy for the tortured artist cliché, Fick,” Monica says, snorting. “Poor as fuck and unable to paint anymore. Tell me when you start going around hungry, I can feed you out of the goodness of my heart.”
Nate gives her the finger, but he smiles nonetheless. He knows she would do that without batting an eye. That’s one of the reasons he loves her.
On Sunday, Nate’s having what he could call a bad day. He’s still way behind on his semester project (as in, it doesn’t even exist yet), he has practically no inspiration, two commissions to finish, a test on Wednesday and bills to pay, which is why he needs two jobs in the first place, especially with his roommate gone. Wendy is currently living somewhere in Europe, drawing in Venice, Paris, Barcelona or one of those other wonderful cities Nate has always wanted to visit, where the light seems different, softer, warming the buildings with a faint glow at sunset. Maybe that’s why the works of the old masters always make Nate hold his breath when he looks at them in wonder and his fingers itch to feel the texture of the paint on the canvas. Maybe it’s the light.
He’s roused from his thoughts by a deep voice with just an edge of impatience hiding between the words. “Black coffee, large,” the voice says.
Nate looks up, professional as always, and, oh, it’s the Nordic god from the class. Nate grins at him widely, the smile that always makes the customers smile back. “Do you want some whipped cream to go with that? It’s today’s barista’s special,” he says automatically, before he has the chance to think.
The guy raises an eyebrow, looking like he’s trying not to laugh while he’s mocking him harshly, and Nate wants to slap himself on the forehead. Wow, Fick, that was… bad, he thinks. A horribly unfortunate choice of words, and really, just. Bad.
“Black it is,” he says breezily, turning to grab the right grind.
“How do you even come up with these things?” the guy asks, a mocking smile still playing on his lips, and somehow he manages to look utterly disgusted at the same time. “It’s a fucking offense to people’s taste buds.”
Nate shrugs. “Some people’s taste buds are not so easily offended,” he offers, smiling wryly. “I’m Nate, by the way. We’ve met.”
“Brad,” the guy says, nodding. He keeps his distance. “And I remember.”
“Sorry about your shirt,” Nate says, looking at him, taking in his tall, lean body and handsome face, and there’s an idea forming in his head. Actually, no, that’s not entirely true-he has entertained this idea since he saw the guy-Brad-for the first time, went as far as making a list in his head, with bullet points and everything, but the cons outweighed the pros and he forced himself to stop thinking about it. Now it’s all coming back to him, though, and he has to admit that there’s one huge pro he tried to ignore, one that’s maybe even more important than all the cons put together. If he does this and it works, he gets to stay at SVA. And that’s his main objective right now.
“Listen,” he starts as Brad turns to leave, “my shift ends in half an hour and I have a proposition for you. If you’re not in a hurry, maybe you could wait for me and then we could talk? And you promised me that coffee, you know, and I’d like to think that you’re a man of your word.”
Brad looks at him and there’s curiosity hidden behind his seemingly impassive expression. Then he grins. “Sure. I’ll be over there.” He points with his head to the table in the corner. “Any time you feel like joining me.”
Nate could swear that thirty minutes had never dragged like that before.
“You’re still here,” he says like he can’t actually believe it, taking a seat across from Brad after his shift is over, getting rid of the apron and leaving the business in Monica’s more than capable hands (she stares at Brad just a little bit when she spots him; Nate’s proud). He puts the cup of coffee he brought with him on the table and stirs the hot beverage just to have something to keep his hands occupied.
“So why did you decide to start working on the side as a model at an art school?” he asks, stalling. He’s not entirely sure how to go about this whole thing without sounding too weird.
“Maybe I just wanted to donate my body to academia while it was still breathing.”
Nate’s lips twitch only the tiniest bit. “Your dedication is truly appreciated,” he says solemnly, his expression once again perfectly composed.
“I can see that.” He curls his lips around the rim of the cup, taking a sip, and he doesn’t take his eyes off Nate’s face the whole time, like he’s studying him. “This is the best damned coffee I’ve had recently.”
Nate smiles and grips his own cup tighter.
“Don’t you… I don’t know, get self-conscious about that?” he asks. “Putting your body out there to be an object to be studied, holding nothing back? It’s not an accusation, don’t get me wrong, I’m just curious. I don’t think I could do that.”
Brad lifts the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I was Swedish in a past life. I hear they have no problems with nudity.”
“Yeah, about that. Working as a model, I mean. I’m trying to put together this project that’s not going anywhere at all at the moment and I had some ideas as to what I’d like it to be, but for that I need your help. I saw you in my drawing class the other day and thought I could ask you if you would consider posing for me. I’ll pay, of course, that goes without saying.”
“What did you have in mind?” Brad asks.
Nate takes a deep breath and starts talking. “The theme of my project is movement and simplicity, and since for me dance is one of the most basic forms of expression known to mankind since the dawn of civilization, I thought I’d go that way, try to convey its timelessness and universality, and combine that with the study of the human body. And well, you look like a dancer, body type-wise, so that certainly helps with what I have in mind.”
He can pinpoint the exact moment when Brad’s body goes stiff, his arms crossed on his chest in a defensive posture, his lips forming a thin line. “No,” he says in an angry voice, then he stands up, takes his leather jacket and leaves. Nate stays at the table for about ten whole seconds before he registers what just happened. Then he’s out of the door in a heartbeat, dressed only in a thin shirt, but Brad’s already gone, just the roar of the engine lingering in the chilly air.
He looks for Brad for a whole week before he finally gives up. There’s no one who’s heard of a guy matching his description attending Nate’s school and he’s running out of people to ask. His semester project is still just blank canvas resting on the easel.
In the end it’s Brad who actually finds him.
Nate’s leaving the university on Tuesday, this time not in a hurry, which is a nice change for sure, when he spots a tall figure standing on the sidewalk, propped against the lamppost.
“What, you finally decided that leaving without any explanation is fucking rude and maybe you should apologize?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. Now that they’re standing face to face, Nate is angry. He’s also relieved, but the anger for once seems stronger, burning in his chest.
“I came to tell you that I changed my mind,” Brad says, straightening up and taking a step towards Nate. “If you still want me.”
“The offer still stands, provided that you promise not to pull a stunt like that again when I’m in the middle of working on my project,” Nate says. “I need you to be sure, otherwise don’t bother.”
He knows it’s harsh, but he can’t afford to lose his scholarship, and he will lose it if he fails this class. And if he loses his scholarship, he will be forced to say goodbye to the New York School of Visual Arts, because there’s no way he can afford the tuition, and his parents have also Carol and Gillian to provide for, so it wouldn’t be fair on any of them to ask for such money all of a sudden.
“I’m sure,” Brad says, looking Nate straight in the eye.
“Good.”
“Also,” Brad continues, “seeing that I didn’t actually pay for your coffee the last time, what would you say to a beer and maybe something to eat? I know a place nearby, and we could discuss your project in greater detail.”
Nate considers it for a moment. He doesn’t have a shift at the café until the next morning and Mel called him earlier to tell him that they don’t need him today at the gallery, so he has the evening free.
“Sure,” he says. “Let’s go.”
Brad leads the way to a small bar nearby, one of those places you need to know about in order to notice them at all-the signboard is faded and there are narrow stairs leading to the entrance hidden beneath the street level.
They come in, accompanied by a quiet chime when the door hits the bell hung just above the frame, Brad takes a step inside and then Nate can hear him curse under his breath. He looks like he wants to turn around and leave, but then a dark-haired, wiry guy sitting in the corner waves in their direction, shouting, “Yo, Iceman, over here!” and Brad’s spine straightens up, his shoulders tense.
“Ray, didn’t expect to see you here this time of day,” he says, putting a smile on his face, then he turns to Nate and adds quietly, “I’m really sorry for what you’re about to witness.”
“We can’t just fuck all the time, you know, homes,” Ray says, pointing to a man sitting next to him, a young guy with blond hair, big, blue eyes, full of boyish charm. His cheeks are a little bit pink and he looks like he wants to stop Ray from talking before it’s too late, but he knows that any attempts will be futile anyway. “That’s bad for your health and your dick eventually gets sore, although you wouldn’t know, ‘cause being the Iceman and all, your dick is probably made of titanium or some shit. But we, lowly humans, need to eat and drink, too, so fuck yeah, we’re here.”
“Shut up, Ray,” Brad says in a tired voice. Nate tries to suppress a smile threatening to break out.
“Hey, Brad, who’s the boy toy?” Ray continues, unbothered. “Where did you get him, off the street?” He squints, looking suspicious. “Are you gonna pull some Brian Kinney shit on us? And what does that make me? Mikey? Fuck you, I’m not Mikey in this scenario. Or ever, for that matter, no fucking way.”
The blond guy shakes his head and whispers, “Jesus, Ray, stop talking.”
Nate just raises an eyebrow. “Well, I am an art student, so you wouldn’t be that far off, that is, if you weren’t completely off as to the nature of my relationship with Brad in the first place,” he says, amused. “I’m Nate, by the way, and I have a job proposition for Brad, that’s all.”
“Right,” Ray says, looking unconvinced.
He doesn’t get the chance to say anything more, because the other guy, his boyfriend, apparently, clasps his left hand on his mouth, extending his right one for Nate to shake and ignoring the muffled sounds made by Ray fighting in his grip. “Hi, I’m Walt.” He smiles.
“And this,” Brad starts, pointing to Ray, “is my retarded roommate. He’s a joy to be around.”
His expression says that it’s true only if you happen to enjoy the company of a pack of rabid hyenas, too.
“Obviously,” Nate says, not skipping a beat, as he takes a seat across from Ray and Walt, with Brad’s thigh pressed right next to his, warm even through the double layer of denim.
“So, what kinds of filthy things are you planning on doing to Brad under the pretence of this job proposition?” Ray asks, complete with the air-quotes and everything, when Brad goes to the bar to order a pitcher of beer.
Nate raises his eyebrows. “If I said that the only thing required of Brad would be to stay undressed at all times while we’re working together, would that satisfy your curiosity?” he asks. Ray gapes. “Relax, I just want Brad to pose for my semester project. I’m going to return him unharmed as soon as I’m done.”
“Right, like that’s gonna happen,” Ray mutters under his breath.
“So what’s this project about?” Walt chimes in hastily, before Ray has the chance to start talking again.
“It’s for my Study of the Human Body class, and the theme is simplicity and movement,” Nate starts to explain, excited, “so I decided to do something connected with dance, since it’s one of the most primal, basic forms of expression that uses the human body as a tool, and I couldn’t help but notice that Brad has the body of a dancer. He’s lean yet muscular at the same time, so I think this is going to work out just fine.”
By the time he’s finished, Ray is looking at him like he can’t believe Nate is not a collective hallucination, but actually a living, breathing human being. “And Brad knows about this?” Nate nods. “And he still said yes?” Nate nods once again. “Fuck me,” Ray finishes, shaking his head.
“What?” Nate asks, confused. “What’s so unusual about the fact that Brad would say yes?”
Ray and Walt look at each other before Ray says, “You’ll have to ask Brad. It’s really not my place to tell.”
Nate furrows his brow, but he doesn’t say anything, not when there’s Brad coming their way with a pitcher of beer and two glasses in his hands.
“You know what, guys, I think I’m gonna head back home,” Walt says after Brad settles in the booth and pours beer into the glasses. “I have an early start tomorrow and my back and feet hurt like fuck after today’s training, and I’m tired, so I thought I’d get some rest. Ray?” he asks pointedly. “You coming?”
Ray looks between Walt, Nate and Brad for a moment, and then he reaches for his jacket. “Yeah, baby, I’m coming. And I can give you a backrub if you want. I give fucking wicked backrubs, I’ll have you know, and then we can-”
“Ray.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, coming. And then you-”
“Ray.”
The door closes behind them with a quiet chime.
Nate can sense that it was just an excuse to leave them alone, that whatever Ray was hinting at was important, something he should get to know before they start anything. He’s intent on getting it out of Brad, even though he can already see that it won’t be easy, not if Brad chooses to shut down completely and leave like he did the last time.
“So what does Walt do?” he asks instead.
“He’s a student at Juilliard. A dancer. It’s tougher on your body than most people imagine,” he says a propos nothing in particular, and there’s something more behind those words, something Nate can’t quite put his finger on. Regret, maybe.
“And you?”
Brad shrugs. “I study computer science at Columbia, do some programming on the side. Not much to talk about.”
Nate waits for a moment, takes a gulp of his beer. “Why did you leave so abruptly the last time we were talking? I just- I tried to explain it in some rational way and I just don’t understand. What was it, Brad? Was it something I said?”
Brad’s fingers go white around his glass. “No, it wasn’t you. It was me.”
“Well, that’s something I’ve certainly heard before,” Nate tries, but the joke falls flat somewhere between them. Brad smiles nonetheless. Nate wants to trace the curve of his lips with his fingers, try to do justice to their shape and texture once he gets a piece of paper and a pencil in his hand.
“I just wasn’t sure if I could do that. But I thought about it. And I can.”
“Okay.” Nate decides that it’s better if he doesn’t pry any further, at least not right now.
“Look,” Brad says after they finish their third pitcher and Nate starts to feel a little bit tipsy, “my apartment is just upstairs if you want to come. You could show me what you have in mind as far as the project is concerned.”
They go up-the apartment is rather small, but it’s still bigger than what Nate can afford at the moment, and it’s completely dark and empty.
“Didn’t you say that Ray was your roommate?” he asks as Brad flicks the lights on.
“Yeah, but he hardly ever sleeps here anymore.” Brad tosses his leather jacket onto the armchair standing by the coffee table in the middle of the living room. “He’s always at Walt’s place, pestering the shit out of him. I don’t even know how it’s possible that Walt hasn’t killed him yet, but then again, he’s one of the few people, including Ray’s mother, who can get Ray to behave like an actual human being.”
Nate huffs out a laugh. “So how do you know them?”
Brad offers him a glass of water, but Nate shakes his head. “Something to eat, then?” Brad asks.
“No, really, I’m fine. So?”
“Ray and I go way back.” Brad sits in the armchair and tilts his head back, trying to work out a kink in his neck. “We went to the same high school and then he dragged his sorry ass after me to New York, got into the Psychology program at NYU and stayed to make my life miserable for a few more years, you know, the usual tale of woe.”
“And Walt?”
There’s a pause and Brad once again looks tense, gripping the glass tightly and avoiding Nate’s gaze. “I met him at Juilliard,” he says quietly.
“What? But you said that you study at Columbia.”
“I do now.” There’s something in Brad’s voice and his face that almost makes Nate cringe. He didn’t know it was possible to look that defeated while still keeping up appearances for other people’s sake. For Nate’s sake.
“Hey, you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to. You don’t owe me anything,” Nate says calmly.
“No, I think you need to hear it. I owe you that much if we’re to work together on this project.”
Nate nods. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“I used to be a dancer, I was good, I got a scholarship and an early admission to Juilliard. I wanted that since I was fifteen and finally confident enough to figure out what I wanted for myself and learn not to give a fuck what other people thought about it. I almost got through the freshman year. I was practicing, my knee gave out, I fell. I don’t even remember what move I was doing exactly, and that’s kind of pathetic, I mean, these things usually stick with you, right? Well, that one didn’t. I just remember it hurt like all fuck. I went through a surgery, then PT, and then they told me that I wouldn’t be able to dance anyway, not ever, ‘cause my knee was fucked up for good.” His voice is level, quiet and Nate’s not sure if Brad even registers that Nate’s in the room anymore-it’s like he’s talking to himself, like for him telling this story is a cathartic experience of sorts. “So I left Juilliard and decided to study the only thing I was really good at, besides dancing. Computers. I applied to Columbia and they wanted me, they were even generous enough to give me a scholarship. It could’ve ended worse,” he says, but Nate has a hard time believing it. He doesn’t think Brad believes in his own words either.
He wonders what it would feel like if he couldn’t paint anymore. He can’t even begin to imagine that, it’s far beyond his range of comprehension. Not painting is like not breathing and if it feels that way for Brad, too… There are some things Nate just can’t ask of him, now that he knows what he knows.
“Listen,” he starts, “I shouldn’t have asked. I wouldn’t have if I’d known. I should go.”
He stands up to leave when Brad says, “I told you I’d do that. So you can just as well stay.”
Nate looks at him for a moment, but Brad wears a mask and that in itself is a sign that he should back off when there’s still time, that there are scars which are better left alone to heal until there’s nothing but thin white lines somewhere on the inside that feel different to the touch but don’t hurt anymore.
“Okay,” Nate says against his better judgment. “Look, about other things. I don’t know how soon I’m going to be able to pay you, but I’ll make sure that it’s sooner rather than later. What is your rate?”
“Nate, I-“
“Brad.”
“Nate.” Brad stares at him, but Nate holds his gaze. “We can discuss payment after we’re done. I promise, I’m not going to ruin your budget.” There’s a hint of a smirk on his face, like he’s laughing at a very private joke.
So be it. Nate needs that credit and he needs his scholarship, and Brad offered, so he’s going to take whatever he is given.
On Wednesday afternoon, which fortunately both he and Brad happen to have free, Nate opens the door to his apartment after a short struggle with the lock. He should probably call his landlord, since it’s been getting worse and worse, and one beautiful day Nate will find himself outside his home with literally no way in.
He was given the permission to paint the apartment himself, so it’s full of vibrant color that makes up for its other shortcomings, and he can see that Brad looks around with hidden curiosity, though Nate can still see it right there in his face.
“It’s fucking freezing in here,” Brad says after a short while.
Nate smiles with the corner of his mouth. “But the light is nice.”
“Sure, your frozen corpse will look lovely when they find you in the middle of winter.”
Nate laughs. “Well, what can I say, I’m living the cliché. Now all I need is consumption.”
Brad looks at him pointedly, then crosses his arms across his chest and leans against the pillar separating the living room area from the tiny kitchenette.
“I can see that happening with your heating or rather lack thereof,” he says. “And I assume you already have a muse with whom you’re tragically in love and who dies at the end of the movie?”
“I’ve seen that one. Ewan McGregor was quite good in it.”
Nate hangs his coat and reaches for Brad’s leather jacket-their fingers brush briefly when Brad hands it to him and Nate discovers that his skin is warmer than he expected. Maybe he took Brad’s nickname, the Iceman, a bit too literally.
“Can I fix you some tea?” he asks, heading to the kitchenette to put the kettle on.
“Sure,” Brad says from his place right behind Nate’s back, just a couple of steps away, and when the fuck did he get there without the squeaky floor alerting him?
There’s something about Brad that fascinates Nate-the way he carries himself, his moves efficient and graceful, the way he conveys so much through his body and yet can remain unreadable when he wants to. Nate finds himself wishing to be able to reach past his raised walls regardless.
Later, Brad undresses in silence interrupted only by the quiet rustling of paper as Nate prepares the easel and looks for the ink. The tattoo covering Brad’s lower back is mesmerizing when he moves and Nate thinks about the pinch of a thousand needles piercing the skin for a split second, drawing blood and leaving color in their wake, covering inch after inch, and his fingers itch to touch it, he wants his palms to span the vast expanse of skin, trace the lines where one color seamlessly blends into another.
“Nate?” Brad raises an eyebrow and Nate flushes, like he’s been just caught staring, the tips of his ears burning a bit-the last thing he needs now is to act unprofessional.
“Sorry. Too many thoughts, got distracted,” he says, smiling.
“Of course,” Brad says with a hint of a smug smile playing on his face.
Nate draws for a while after that, looking up every now and then to gaze at Brad’s still form, stretched with his one arm high above his head, the other one outstretched comfortably, his fingers loose. His right foot is drawn up to the knee of the supporting leg, touching it lightly. “You can breathe, you know,” he says eventually with a laugh and watches Brad’s chest rise in a deep gasp and fall as he exhales.
“How old were you when you started dancing?” he asks. He doesn’t mean to, it just slips out, and he can see Brad tense up.
“Ten,” he says in the end. “My parents didn’t know what to think, at least not in the beginning, when they realized I was serious about it. They wanted to send me to a military school, but I managed to convince them to let me stay and apply to Juilliard. They always wanted the best for me, even if they weren’t particularly happy with my choices.”
“We-” Nate starts and pauses for a moment to put the brush away, “we don’t have to talk about it and I’m sorry I brought this up.”
“Nate.”
“No, Brad, I respect that, really. I get it.”
“It’s not a problem.” Brad’s jaw is set, his arms crossed on his chest.
“Oh, right, and that’s exactly why you freaked out and left without a word the first time I mentioned the theme of the project, because you don’t have any problem at all discussing that,” Nate says in a level tone, but there’s sarcasm dripping from every word. “Don’t try to bullshit me, okay, Brad? It doesn’t really work.” He takes a look at the drawing, then at Brad. “We’re finished for today.”
Brad nods and starts to dress.
“Thank you,” Nate adds, turning to face him.
“No problem.” Brad’s face is cold, closed-off.
“Brad. Don’t, okay?” He catches him by the wrist before he can leave. “Come on, I’ll make us dinner. I hope you are a fan of stir fry.”
The first snow this winter catches him unprepared-Nate wakes up one Saturday morning and everything is covered with a thin layer of white. Nate loves those moments when the snow is still fresh and unspoiled by the traffic and footprints, but these are rarely witnessed in a city like New York, one that never really goes to sleep.
The apartment is cold and Nate shivers when he disentangles himself from the sheets and goes to take a shower. Once he’s back, he calls his landlord to inform him that the heater has broken down again, but the man doesn’t pick up. Nate swears under his breath and dials Brad’s number. He answers after the third signal, a quiet, “Colbert,” uttered in a raspy voice, like he’s just woken up.
“Hi, it’s Nate. I hope I didn’t wake you. If I did, my apologies,” he says. “Listen, I’m terribly sorry, I know we were supposed to meet this afternoon, but my heater has stopped working, again, and it’s freezing in here. I don’t think that it’s such a good idea to go around my apartment undressed right now.”
He can hear Brad inhale deeply on the other side of the line. “Nate,” he says and there’s an amused undertone in his voice. “Although I have been informed that the light in your apartment is superior to the very same light in any other place in this whole city, you can come over to my place if you want to. I promise that my heater works just fine and neither of us will end up with any valuable body parts frostbitten. We certainly wouldn’t want you to freeze your fingers off, now would we?”
Nate smiles. “Thanks. I’ll be there as soon as my shift at the café is over.”
It’s a long day and by the time his shift ends, he’s already tired and dreams of nothing else but a few good hours of uninterrupted sleep in a room that has a functioning heating system. Unfortunately, he can’t afford such a luxury.
He’s about to head out, leaving Monica and Evan alone, when the door opens, letting in a cold gust of wind and Brad, who looks around until he spots Nate and then smiles at him. Nate doesn’t know what to think.
“I had an errand to run nearby and thought that maybe you needed a ride,” Brad says, placing his elbows on the counter and leaning forward. Nate can’t be sure if he’s telling the truth.
“Sure, let me just get my stuff, all right?”
Brad nods and takes a seat at a nearby table while Nate disappears in the back room to gather his things. He can still hear Monica sigh and whisper to Q-Tip, “I don’t know how he does that. Why aren’t there any hot guys lining up to me? It’s so fucking unfair. All the good ones are either gay, married or fictional characters on television. Or, you, know, all of the above.”
Nate shakes his head with a smile, biting on his lower lip as he makes sure he has everything he needs. The portfolio, the ink, the brushes, the drawing pens, his messenger bag, his coat, the scarf, the gloves-he picks up everything and quickly buttons up his coat, and then he’s out the door, one hand wrapping his scarf around his neck, the other one waving at Monica and Q-Tip.
“Children, play nice,” he says. Monica just rolls her eyes.
When Brad said a ride, this wasn’t exactly what Nate expected. A car, maybe, some vintage beauty-slick shapes, black body shining in the winter sun, but what he sees is a motorbike, and sure, the slick shapes, black body part is right, but…
“What, afraid?” Brad mocks, putting on his helmet. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna crash us, I’m not a fucking retard.”
“Not afraid.” Nate shakes his head. “Surprised. But then again, maybe I shouldn’t be. There are no confinements on a bike like that, right?”
Brad looks at him with an odd expression on his face and then hands him the spare helmet. “Hop on and hold on tight,” he says and then they’re speeding down the road. The only thing Nate can hear is the wind in his ears, drowning out even the steady roar of the engine.
When Brad parks the bike and turns the key in the ignition, everything goes quiet, so quiet that Nate can hear his own breathing.
“Everything all right there?” Brad asks, looking over his shoulder with a broad grin on his face. “Still got everything you came with?”
Nate nods and mentally blesses the solid clasp on his drawing portfolio.
Brad’s apartment is, indeed, a whole lot warmer and Nate revels in the feeling as the color starts to come back to his fingers.
“Tea? Coffee? Beer?” Brad offers from the kitchen. He seems completely at ease having Nate here.
Nate knows that nothing about the relationship between them is strictly professional anymore, or even casual, and he can feel the tension that builds up in the tips of his fingers every time his hand accidentally brushes over Brad’s skin, every time he adjusts Brad’s body, and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from touching more than he should. He likes Brad, maybe a bit too much to keep a level head, and right now the last thing he needs is a distraction. When all is done and over with-well, that’s a different matter altogether, but Nate is going to take it one thing at a time.
“Coffee’s fine,” Nate says, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Ray not home?”
“Please.” Brad snorts. “As if there’s something that could stop that inbred whiskey-tango trailer park sister-fucking moron from getting drunk or high, or drunk and high, and fucking Walt’s brains out till they both pass out, especially on a Saturday evening. And they’re already up to an early start.”
“It warms my heart to hear you speak so fondly of the people you love, Brad, you have no idea,” Nate says, deadpan. “Really, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Not really. I can think of a much better use for my mouth.” Brad grins.
Nate knows they’re walking on thin ice here, so he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead he tries to focus on the way the strong tendons in Brad’s neck flex with his every move so that he can try to capture the movement in his drawing later on, when Brad is perfectly still once again, like a statue of an ancient god gazing into the distance with unseeing eyes.
“There’s something…” he says at one point, looking up at Brad above the easel and furrowing his brow. He’s chewing on his lower lip again, to the point where he can taste the faint tang of copper on his tongue.
“Hmm?” Brad raises his eyebrows, turning his head to look at Nate, who steps out from behind his easel and comes over to where Brad’s standing to correct the position of his arm and shoulder, and this one time, throwing all caution to the wind, he lets his hands linger, his fingers ghost over the smooth skin. Brad turns to look at him, and there’s something in his eyes that resembles fear and uncertainty a bit too much for Nate’s comfort, so he takes a step back.
So maybe he’s read Brad wrong. Maybe Brad’s okay with harmless, casual flirting, but that’s all he’s up for. Nate can respect that. He does his best to make sure he doesn’t touch Brad again and goes back to drawing.
“Listen,” Brad says after they’ve finished for the day, “how about you stay here tonight? Your apartment is temporarily uninhabitable anyway and don’t even try to protest, I’ve seen the weather forecast, it’s going to be fucking freezing.”
He reaches out like he wants to touch Nate and then his hand freezes mid-way and he takes a step back.
Nate can deal with a lot of things, but he generally prefers it when people are open with him and, what’s even more important, capable of making up their own goddamn minds. This-this is a freaking emotional rollercoaster.
“I’m just paying you to pose for my project, you don’t need to do these things,” Nate says, turning to grab his bag and his coat.
“You think I do this for money?” Brad asks and sounds like he’s insulted. “I don’t want your money, Nate.”
“Then what the fuck do you want?”
Brad shakes his head and runs a hand up and down his face in an exasperated gesture.
“God, have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?” he asks.
Nate snorts in disbelief. “Have you? And how is that even relevant, anyway? What the fuck am I supposed to think here, Brad? And what the hell do you want?”
Brad kisses him then, cupping Nate’s cheek with his hand and Nate inhales deeply, his hands clutching his coat and the strap of his bag until he finally lets them fall to the floor and places his hands on Brad’s chest, tracing the contour of his collarbone and sternum, letting his fingers travel up to the strong line of Brad’s neck and jaw.
Nate licks Brad’s lower lip and teases it with his teeth, tugging lightly-Brad follows into the kiss, opening his mouth just a bit wider, angling his head just so, and they fit against each other, incredibly close, with Brad’s eyelashes fluttering against Nate’s cheek.
“What did you mean about the mirror?” he asks breathlessly when they part for air, nuzzling the hollow of Brad’s throat with his nose. He can feel the laughter in Brad’s chest.
“Are you joking?” Brad asks, lifting Nate’s chin so that he can look him in the eye. Nate raises his eyebrows and Brad just shakes his head, his eyes closed. “You have no idea, do you?” he adds once he’s looking at Nate again, his eyes impossibly blue and nothing like ice. “How you look, how you- Fuck. Christ, Nate…”
Brad traces the lines of his jaw and cheekbone, a desperate, surprisingly open look on his face (I did that, Nate thinks in a haze), and Nate leans into the touch, his lips slightly parted. He’s breathing hard, staring at Brad, and his chest is burning.
There’s something so familiar in what they’re doing, something so uncomplicated and intimate, and in that moment Nate feels like he knows Brad inside out. He reaches up to kiss him again while his hands trace the straight line of his spine, trail down to his lower back and stay there for a moment, exploring the uncharted territory covered with ink. Nate wants to map it with his mouth, his tongue. He wants to conquer it and claim it for himself.
Brad pulls back, just for a moment, just to take a gasp of air, and then he kisses Nate once more, but this time the kiss is gentle and almost tentative, just a light press of lips against lips that leaves Nate’s mouth tingling with the sensation nonetheless.
They still haven’t moved from their spot in the middle of the living room.
“Will you stay? Just for tonight?” Brad asks and he sounds breathless.
“Yeah, I’ll stay,” Nate says with his forehead leaning against Brad’s shoulder. Brad kisses his neck.
He wakes up in the middle of the night, when the clock on the nightstand announces that it’s already past three. Nate could definitely use a glass of water as well as the bathroom right about now, but in order to do so, he has to disentangle himself from Brad’s limbs first. For someone who has as much control over his body as Brad does, he’s very unguarded in his sleep.
He tries to move Brad’s hand and is just about to slip out of bed when Brad catches him by the wrist and whispers almost incomprehensibly, “What’s wrong?” It comes out hoarse and is muffled by the pillow.
“Nothing’s wrong, Brad, go back to sleep. I’m just going to get some water.” Nate rubs his eyes and traces the inside of Brad’s wrist with his thumb.
“Thought you were going to leave,” Brad says once Nate’s back and it startles him a bit-as far as Brad’s concerned, it’s a bold confession, leaving nothing up to interpretation, everything laid out in the open.
“You wish,” Nate says, nudging Brad’s calf with his big toe. “Your apartment is much nicer than mine, your bed is extremely comfortable and your heating actually works. I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s a hand that curls around the nape of his neck, thumb stroking the skin lightly, and it somehow feels more intimate than the best sex he’s ever had.
Nate hovers over Brad and leans in for a kiss. He’s completely awake now, his skin tingling with want and he brushes his hand over Brad’s abdomen, then trails up to trace the line of his collarbones and he bends his head to lick at the hollow between them, taste Brad, smell him, feel him all over. Brad’s hand sneaks around and rests on the small of his back, his fingertips dipping slightly under the fabric of Nate’s underwear, pressing into the soft flesh and Nate starts to get hard.
Nate relishes in the slow, almost lazy slide of Brad’s tongue against his, the way their lips align and move against each other, slick and hot, leaving him with a tingling sensation when they part for air. Brad brushes his hand against the swell of Nate’s ass and Nate bucks his hips in response, rubbing against Brad’s thigh-he knows he must look like some testosterone-driven teenager getting some for the first time, but he really doesn’t care, not as long as there’s the friction he needs. They don’t stop kissing even when the kisses start to get sloppy-Nate licks into Brad’s mouth deeper, opening his mouth wider, and he’s pretty sure he’s the one moaning, making soft, desperate noises in the back of his throat, but once again, he doesn’t care, not really.
“Fuck, Nate,” Brad whispers when Nate slips his hand into his pajama bottoms, grips him, firm, and then starts stroking, developing a steady rhythm he loses only for a moment when he comes with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open, and Brad leans in to swallow the moan that follows. Then he arches into Nate’s fist, groaning, and Nate picks up the pace, flicks his thumb over the head and presses lightly until Brad’s coming undone under him, flushed and disheveled and beautiful.
“Christ,” Nate breathes out with his face hidden in the crook of Brad’s neck, his lips against Brad’s skin.
He feels sweaty and sticky, and he should really ditch his underwear, because it’s a total mess right now, but he can’t bring himself to move. It’s Brad who eventually stands up and brings a wet towel from the bathroom as well as clean pajama bottoms for Nate.
“Thanks,” Nate mumbles, trying to get his eyes to stay open. He doesn’t fully succeed and Brad laughs.
“Just fucking go to sleep,” he says with a smile and shakes his head, dropping the towel to the floor.
Nate closes his eyes and tries, but he actually finds it impossible to fall asleep and it’s only after he can hear Brad’s breathing go steady that he finally succumbs to sleep.
He wakes up when the sun is already high to muffled sounds coming from the kitchen. Brad’s not in the bed, so Nate expects to find him there, but when he pads to the room, barefoot, not even bothering to throw a shirt on, he sees Ray standing by the counter, munching on a bowl of cereal. Brad’s nowhere to be seen.
“Hi,” Ray says around a mouthful of Cheerios, waving at Nate, like it’s completely normal that he’d be here, clad in Brad’s pajama bottoms and nothing else. He doesn’t so much as bat an eye-it looks like Ray’s one of those people who don’t get fazed by just about anything.
“Hi.” Nate smiles and then goes over to the fridge to pull out a carton of orange juice. It’s miserably empty inside, just a jug of milk and some leftover pizza. And mustard. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to see you so early in the morning. What happened, Walt threw you out?” he asks, leaning against the refrigerator, the corner of his mouth quirked.
“Nah, homes,” Ray waves his hand he holds the spoon in, sending a spray of milk all over the place and then slurps loudly, “he just told me to fuck off for today ‘cause he needed to study and I was apparently really fucking distracting.”
“So he threw you out,” he says with amusement in his voice, but he tries to keep a straight face, since it seems to be the best way of dealing with Ray’s own brand of bullshit.
“Well, that’s one way to look at it. I prefer to see it as a sign that we’re in a healthy relationship and therefore capable of giving each other the space we both need when we need it. Or, you know, even Walt’s tolerance has its limits. And he really needs to fucking study for that test.”
Nate looks around for a moment and listens out for any noises, apart from Ray’s terrible slurping as he finishes off his cereal, but there’s no sound of running water coming from behind the bathroom door.
“Have you seen Brad?” he asks finally.
Ray shakes his head. “Nope. Thought he was still asleep. But then again, he’s the Iceman, he wakes up at some ungodly hour and still can and will fuck you up if you cross him, with a smile on his face, and that’s before he has his morning coffee. Not that you’re likely to get on his bad side anyway, since Brad Colbert practically shits glitter and rainbows ever since he met you. Meaning, he’s less homicidal and more understanding of other people’s shortcomings, people meaning mostly yours truly, and sometimes even resembles a human being, not a motherfucking robot.”
Nate pauses with his glass halfway up to his mouth. “Thanks, I guess?”
“No problem, homes.”
There’s just one thing that’s been nagging Nate since day one and he needs to know, even though he suspects what the answer may be already. “Why the Iceman?”
Ray looks kind of hesitant, and with him, that’s a first. “The thing you need to know about Brad Colbert,” he starts eventually, “is that with him, you never know what’s happening on the inside, not really, ‘cause he’s like this fucking giant iceberg that sunk Titanic. He keeps a lot to himself and doesn’t let it out, ever, just keeps piling everything on this huge heap of shit inside of him, and guess what, one beautiful day he’s gonna drown in all that crap. That’s one fucking unhealthy attitude to have if I may say so myself, but that’s Brad for you. And I keep telling him, Brad, you gotta pull that stick out of your ass and talk it all out, and it’s gonna be all good, but who the fuck listens to Ray-Ray anyway? Not Brad Colbert, I can tell you that much.”
Nate thinks that maybe Ray would be surprised. For all Brad’s complaining about Person’s retardation and other irredeemable qualities he likes to rant on, he sure as hell pays attention to a lot of what Ray says to him.
They hear the sound of a key turning in the lock and a moment later the door opens and Brad comes in, carrying two bags stuffed with groceries.
“I’m gonna kill that little fucker,” he says, looking at Nate, and tosses his keys onto the table. “He emptied the fridge and went on his merry fucking way, so I had to do a grocery run first thing in the morning or we’d have to go out for breakfast.” That’s when he notices Ray’s presence in the kitchen. Person waves at him with a stupid grin. “And what the fuck are you doing here?”
“Walt threw him out. With all the love and affection possible, of course. I’m assured of this, Ray,” Nate answers with a small smile.
“He had to study,” Ray adds matter-of-factly.
“Of course he did. So, Ray, how do you take your eggs?” Nate asks, turning to the counter and rummaging around the cupboards in search of a pan. He hopes that’s okay, that he’s not imposing or whatever the hell-it’s been a while since Nate experienced the morning after in all of its aspects. Brad doesn’t look like he minds that much.
“Hey, Brad, I like this one,” Ray says, pointing at Nate. “He looks like a keeper, he can stay.”
“Thank you, Ray, your input into the matter is, as always, deeply appreciated. Now fuck off.”
There’s silence in the kitchen until they can hear the door leading to Ray’s room close with a loud thud.
“So, where were we?” Brad asks, taking a step closer. His skin is still cold and smells like winter and snow and icy wind when he leans in to nuzzle Nate’s throat.
“Breakfast,” Nate says, trying to ignore the way his stomach grumbles at the very thought of food. “As in, I really could use one right about now.”
Brad smiles and steps away to get eggs from the fridge.
Part 2