[Frankly, Harry's surprised Nate's stayed around as long as he has. When he first showed up on the doorstep of his tiny flat, he figured he would maybe mope around for a week, drink, and then blow through to some other couch in some other part of the world. But then...things happened, and they kept happening. Nate got drunk and Harry learned that it wasn't just a bad job and Sam's death that drove him here. Some rich prat got in on their Avery thing, thought he could play big badass and got Samuel Drake killed. Harry hates the bastard on that alone. He liked Sam, enough that he would consider not fucking him over if there was money on the line. He was a good man, better than most in their line of work, and now his body was mouldering away in some Panamanian hellhole because His Highness thought he could be an adventurer.
Then Nate gets even drunker and tells him more about Adler, and Harry mentally carves his name into a bullet.
He doesn't mind their unconventional setup here- Harry figures that as long as they're both using each other, there's no harm done. It's just a roommate with perks, is all. Harry has the flat, Nate roots out the jobs, and they bring in good enough money. They go to the pub down the road and drink, and sometimes they help Cutter on whatever he's working on at the time. And then after all of that, sometimes they fuck. Harry doesn't think about the fact that he hasn't slept with anyone else since Nate showed up, or that he can't remember the last time he'd gone to sleep alone. He doesn't think about the uncomfortable twinge he gets in his chest when he watches the remaining Drake brother.
Just a partnership.
Recently, Nate's been savvy enough to dig up a job so big, they decide to pull someone else into it. Harry trusts Charlie Cutter more than anyone, has since he backed him in a fight with a gang of older boys when they were 10, so it's a no-brainer to pull him into the mess. He's smart, more savvy than anyone gives him credit for, and best of all he doesn't ask Harry about Nate. That's the real key, here. All three spend far too much time in Harry’s tiny council flat, stumbling over each other and consuming far too much beer for men trying to plot an effective break in on one of the world's premier museums. Today is no different. It's one of those rare summer days where the heat is oppressive enough that they're suffering even with all the windows in the place open. They run out of cold beer not even halfway into the planning, and of course it's Cutter that picks the short straw to run and get more from the shop. It's just as well, it's even hotter in here with his massive arse taking up half the space.
Harry groans, stretching and unfolding himself from the small table they've set up in the middle of the room. He's stiff, hot, and woefully sober for a Saturday afternoon. The heat won't stop him from lighting a cigarette, though, and he fumbles through his pocket for a moment before he finds his lighter and flicks it to life.
Nate is on the couch, busy scribbling something in that notebook he keeps like a security blanket. It's almost endearing, as is the way a stray lock of hair has plastered itself to his forehead. Harry has to shove down the peculiar impulse to rip the book from his hands and shove him down into the pillows, ruin the perfection somehow. Maybe that would extinguish the little burn in his chest?
Christ. He needs more beer.]
D’you think we have time to take a shower before he lumbers back here?
[It's an idle question, only half serious.It's almost too hot to stand next to someone, much less touch anyone. More than anything, he just wants to get rid of this nervous energy. He takes a long drag on his cigarette, willing the nicotine to calm the buzzing in his limbs. This job just needs to be over.]
[Nate hums noncommittally, barely hearing the suggestion, too engrossed in the notes he took last week during a formal visit to the museum in the guise of a foreign exchange student. (No one thinks twice if you wear wear glasses and carry a shitty backpack - they just assume you're another broke graduate student, and Nate can pull off the aesthetic with his eyes closed.) With his tongue just sticking out of the corner of his mouth and his brow furrowed he paints the portrait of a befuddled artist, shading the edges of an atrium space from memory and pointedly ignoring the bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck.
With Cutter gone the room is less dense by a single degree, not enough to make a difference when every breath feels like you're swallowing water, when his hair is sticking to his forehead and his shirt is sticking to his chest. Harry can take the piss out of him all he likes about never buttoning the top three buttons on the damn thing, but on days like this even the faintest of breezes makes things more tolerable. It all feels like South America, anyway.
And speaking of Harry,]
...sorry, what did you say?
[An honest apology in his tone - supplemented by a cross between a smile and a grimace - as Nate glances up to see Harry taking a slow drag and looking at him like- well, it's a look he's seen before, on multiple occasions. Jittery. Hungry. Nate rubs at his temple with the back of his wrist and closes his sketchbook around a pencil, wrapping it shut.]
[Nate makes an upsettingly appealing picture like this, he can't lie. The way his henley sticks to his chest- tits out, as per usual- sparks a vague memory, of the first time he met Nathan eight years ago. It isn't as hot now as it was then in Columbia, but it has a similar effect. Heat looks good on him.
Harry licks his lips and takes another drag.]
I said, do you want to go take a shower before he gets back?
[This is one thing that drives him absolutely fucking mad- he’s like a distracted child when he’s in his work. And when he’s bored. And drunk. Harry's face curls up in annoyance, and he pulls the journal from his hands and tosses it onto the table. He almost looks like an inconvenienced dragon, smoke curling out the side of his mouth slowly and looming over Nate like he is.]
Not sure about you, love, but I need a fucking break.
[It should be noted that eight years ago in Colombia, Nate was barely legal, not that he remembers much from that day outside of being plied with beer and offered a joint (or three), in which in partook and was left a coughing mess while Harry and Sam doubled over with laughter.
Simpler times.]
Uh. [Shaking off his thoughts takes a little time, and Nate blinks at the suggestion. Belatedly he recognizes the tacky sensation of cotton clinging to his skin, tastes the salt on his upper lip and privately agrees that a cold shower might take the edge off. If Harry could keep his hands to himself (not likely).] Sure? But- Hey!
[His sketchbook is unscathed but it's the principle of the thing, left giving Harry a mildly amused look for the trouble. He's still human, and very much enjoys being backed into corners.]
...is your use of "fucking" an adjective, or a verb?
[Nate was barely legal, yeah, but Harry was young too. At least, that's how he thinks of it. At the time he easily had shoved down any feelings of guilt awaywith weed and alcohol. He hadn't done anything, really. And hey, he's here now, isn't he? Things work out.]
¿Porque no los dos?
[Of course, his Spanish is heavily accented and in the style of Spain, but it works.]
Have you ever taken a shower with someone and not stuck anything anywhere? Good lord, man. [Harry grins, big and genuine, cigarette clamped between his teeth. He moves in on Nate on the couch and nudges his legs apart with one knee.] C'mon.
[God, Harry's accent is...genuinely awful in a lot of ways, but it's not the sort of thing you point out to a guy who's letting you shack up in his place for an indeterminate amount of time. (It's a bit like Antonio Banderas pretending to be English, actually.)
Shifting a little, leaning back with his arms slung over the couch and the speculative look of a connoisseur on his face, Nate purses his lips. On rare occasions does he enjoy stretching out the scene, just because it makes Flynn antsy as fuck.]
Tienes que hacerlo mejor que eso. [He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug even as his legs part to make room for Harry's thigh.] Estoy muy cómodo.
Cómodo my arse, your legs are sticking to the couch a we speak.
[Nate's play is painfully on the nose, though. Harry has too much nervous energy zipping through him to let a simple brush off go easy. Planning jobs always makes him a little high strung, and even a few years ago he would be alleviateing it with drugs and bodies. But he's past 30 now, and the most he can handle is the bodies.
Well. One body, but it sure is an exception to the rule.
Harry makes a noise somewhere between a displeased hrmph and a frustrated groan. He moves in between the younger man's legs, leans down close so they're level, for once. He grins, all teeth and bad intentions, and one hand snakes up Nate's thight to cup his cock. Well, not comfortable as he said, hm?]
[ There are several moments where Rafe almost turns back. Stepping off the plane at Heathrow, queuing up a flight plan for London, putting out the feelers to track Nathan down wherever the hell he'd gotten off to. So many moments where he practically snarls to himself and feeling justified in it because why the hell should he go on some wild goose chase? Nate wanted to leave? Fine. Rafe hopes the door hit him on the way out and he spends the rest of his days stewing in the knowledge that he'd bailed on the greatest treasure in history, imagines the gall that'll rise to choke him when he reads Rafe has finally found it and earned his spot in the history books.
(The first moment was months ago: a brisk night before spring had the chance to settle in and he stared down canvas walls rather, listened to Nate gasping for air now that Rafe didn't have a hand crushing his trachea. Fix it. He couldn't— Fix it. How the hell was he supposed to fix this? It was slipping through his fingers in spite of every best effort, spiraling out of control and he was trying, goddammit, he tried to keep at least one piece in place and now all of it was a fucking mess and he can't do this and almost turns back—— No. No, no no, he needed to get out of this tent and regroup, figure something out, Adler, get your head in the game before he did anything worse.
Turned out he already had.)
But for every bitter moment where he's all too viciously happy to let Nate fade into obscurity as a two-bit thief... There's the simple fact that nobody walks out on Rafe Adler. Running out like a thief in the night (and talk about your tired clichés, Jesus) and leaving him in the lurch? That was too much bullshit to swallow. Rafe had earned more than that from his ex-partner and he's certainly earned a chance to ream Drake out for thinking otherwise.
Even that idea of righteous comeuppance isn't enough to stop another moment of doubt then he watches the cab drive off after leaving him on the curb because good Christ. Whole wide world for the taking and this is what Nate was willing to settle on? The neighborhood is practically a slum, and his mouth curls with distaste the longer he takes in the scene, eventually shaking his head and heading inside.
The elevator is predictably out of order when he enters the building and the season offers no favors as he climbs a couple flights of stairs, walks (don't stalk, just a business meeting, that's all it boils down to, keep your head screwed on tight) down the hall. His aviators catch the light as he studies the door, the number stenciled sloppily over the original peeled paint, and once again debates the merits of simply turning around. Was it really worth it when he could call another cab, have the jet warmed up and ready to fly him north again — or anywhere, really, so long as it isn't here. This is a shit plan, he knows, because any amateur can tell you a meet hinges on control and this? Is out of his the second the door opens. If it opens. If Nate's here at all. If Nate figures Rafe is worth the time. If, if, if, uncertainty grating like nails on a chalkboard and that cab is looking better all the time.
No. Rolling his shoulders, Rafe shakes off the doubt because he's here, isn't he. Already come this far. And even though he's going into this without the upper hand that doesn't mean he won't be able to fix that.
[Nate has a desperate need to get off of this couch - some kind of thick, worn leather that he's fairly certain he's glued to - but opportunities to mess with Flynn are few and far between when their usual day consists of work, work, beer, more work, and maybe a hasty screw wedged somewhere in the middle space. Harry doesn't take his time, isn't the leisurely sort of guy, too preoccupied with quick deadlines, with a need to get in and out as soon as humanly possible.
He'll enjoy it, and Nate knows he does, but sometimes he thinks that Flynn treats every fuck with the same managed meticulousness of their jobs: keeping tabs on the seconds, a glance at his watch every now and again the way he does when they're cutting it close while clambering over a wall and through ductwork.
There's nothing wrong with it, it's just different.
Harry shoves his knees apart and Nate accommodates, pressed back against the sofa and grinning like the smug little shit he knows he is, teeth for teeth. The smile hovering near his is more predatory, clenched around a cigarette, and Nate is poised to say something clever when a lean hand tracks fire up his thigh and squeezes the bulge in his jeans. A little involuntary sound escapes instead, a small gasp caught in the back of his throat while his eyelids flutter.
Flynn sure as shit has his number and Nate's tongue darts out to wet his lips, thinking, thinking. God, he wants to use that half-hour, and it wouldn't be a waste. Opening his mouth to agree Nate finds the words cut off by an abrupt knock at the door, startling through the thick air of a lazy moment and he almost hopes it was a hallucination until the knock persists, a second time. Demonstrative.
Head dropping to the back of the couch, Nate rolls his gaze over to the offending door before shooting Flynn a look.]
[Oh, alright, this exactly what he needs right now. He zeroes in on Nate's mouth, eager to see what smart comment he's going to let fly next that will give Harry reason to press his face into the tile wall of the shower and make him whimper. He plucks the cigarette from his teeth, holding it between two fingers that rest against Nate's other thigh. God, he hops the ash stings.
And then some idiot decides to knock. ]
Fucking hell.
[This isn't happening. Now now. Why? What did he do in a past life to deserve this? Couldn't be the life, he's a perfect saint.]
If that's not Kate asking to join us, I'm going to be very disappointed.
[Just because Harry hasn't shagged anyone else while Nate has been here (it's a matter of opportunity, he tells himself, nothing else) doesn't mean he keeps his eyes to himself. He's been working on the shop girl three doors down since before Drake even showed up, it would have been a shame to reverse any progress he'd made.
He knows it won't be her, of course. She's told him to fuck off at least three times in the last few months, but a man can dream.
Reluctantly Harry straightens up, running a hand through his hair in frustration. It can't be Charlie, and they haven't ordered any food. His mum, maybe, but she always rings him before she decides to drop in and nag him a little. He quickly shoves the little card table out of the door's line of sight, muttering under his breath about timing and luck and arseholes who can't mind their own buisness.
He doesn't open the door all the way when he answers, just enough that his overtall body blocks the view of the flat. He's surprised to see a complete stranger there, an even more surprised at his dress. He looks absolutely out of place here- posh, expensive sunglasses, slicked back hair, jeans he assumes cost more than his entire wardrobe. He's young too, young enough to be a university student.
Ohhh, alright, that makes sense then.]
Sorry, mate, Jim's one floor up.
[And as a helpful illustration in case the kid's already blazed, he points up with the fingers still holding his cigarette.
It's actually not the first time a student has mixed up his flat and the dealer's who lives above him. At least he gives Harry a discount for his trouble.]
[ Rafe doesn't share the surprise but then again he did his research before dropping onto the doorstep. Harry Flynn: longtime associate of the Drake brothers, a petty thief with a somewhat decent off-the-books resume, but nothing Rafe would think of as noteworthy. Seeing the guy in person doesn't do much to improve that assessment, either.
The shades only just conceal the once-over he gives Harry and do shit all to hide the judgment that follows because this guy practically has "douchebag" tattooed on his forehead. Flynn's older than he expected. Crummy clothes. Reeks of cigarettes (and he hadn't missed that from working with Samuel). And never mind the fact that he lives in a dump like this. Frosted tips? Seriously? And here he thought the boy band look was finally dying out and good fucking riddance.
Well. Whoever the hell Jim is, Rafe could care less and doesn't bother to ask. Instead he acts as if Harry hasn't spoken at all. Probably for the best for everybody involved to maintain that illusion as long as possible. Rafe finds himself short of patience these days. ]
Looking for Nathan Drake. He in?
[ Short, dry, and to the point. He isn't looking to spend more time here than absolutely necessary — is he up to date on his tetanus shots? — and he sure as hell doesn't feel like making conversation with this guy. What he has to say to Nate is his own business and none of this guy's. ]
[Just as disappointed by the interruption, Nate sags back on the couch, watching Flynn peel himself away to deal with the intruder. Cutter couldn't have made it back already and if he did he wouldn't have knocked - it's anyone's guess and Nate doesn't feel up to playing Twenty Questions with anyone from Harry's neck of the woods. The walls here are paper-thin, the neighbors are friendly to a point, and the likelihood of getting burgled or robbed at gunpoint here is pretty high. People don't visit just to visit. You hit up a bodega three blocks away if you have any fragment of your dignity left.
Shifting uncomfortably and willing his dick to stop anticipating what isn't coming (if you know what I mean), he glances first at his abandoned sketchbook and then at the door. Harry's lean shoulders take up the space between it and the jamb, muffled voices in the hall floating vaguely back into the flat. Not a friend. Not an enemy, either, apparently.]
Harryyyyyyyyy.
[Nate reaches for an empty cigarette pack, crumpling the paper up into a ball and chucking it at the back of Flynn's head.]
If you're gonna fuck me in the shower we're running out of time before Cutter gets back.
[Well, that's not the accent he was expecting. Instead of pedigreed breeding and high society it's...well.
New York. American. Young. Expensive clothes and even more expensive grooming. It's not terribly difficult to to figure out who this man is.
A few easy lies cross his mind at first.
Sorry, who?
You've got the wrong flat, love, sorry.
Oh, I think he's on the second floor.
Except denying knowing him isn't going to work at all, he knows. This guy somehow tracked Nathan down with little to know evidence, found Harry too, and then came round himself to find the man. He probably knows all about Harry, and with his money he's not surprised.
So, no, not denial. He can work with that.]
Sorry, haven't seen him in a few weeks. I think he left for Mex-
[Something hits him in the back of the head, amd before he can turn to give Nate A Look he's yelling something about fucking him before Charlie gets back and Ruins everything. To be entirely fair, it would be funny if Probably Rafe Adler wasn't standing there at the door looking short and inconvenienced.
Harry shuts his eyes tight for a few solid second, willing the promise of a headache away from behind his eyes. He takes one last deep drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the corridor floor, gridning it out under his boot. The awkward moment stretches on a little longer while Harry savours the burn in his lungs, and then blows the smoke into Rafe's face.]
[ A bemused eyebrow lifts above Rafe's sunglasses at the obvious lie because please. There are only so many ways of leaving London by air, legal or otherwise, and enough money keeps an eye on all of them — which speaks nothing of the fact that Harry is a shitty liar, or maybe Rafe is just expecting it and sees it more readily.
And then Nate just goes and makes the whole thing moot. Typical. The acrid stench of tobacco only causes the smallest scrumple as his lips purse against the assault, but Harry won't get much more satisfaction than that. ]
Really. [ Canting his head an inch, the second eyebrow lifts to reach the first. ] Doesn't sound like he is.
[ He makes it a point to ignore the churn in his stomach at the realization that knocking a few moments later? It would've been the truth and—
And so what. Nate left. Hardly matters who he's fucking now. That's not what he's come here for. He doesn't care. Not a goddamn bit. ]
I'd like a word.
[ Rafe hardly has to say that he's not leaving here without it. Even Harry can't be dense enough not to pick that up on his own. ]
Edited (not a single spelling error but i miss a goddamn bracket w2g self) 2016-10-21 06:05 (UTC)
[Sprawled on the couch with a fading libido, Nate finds himself inconvenienced in every conceivable way. Not only is the guy who would otherwise be fucking him against the cool tile of the shower wall occupied, but whoever is at the door appears to be taking their sweet time to interrupt.
With a groan he can feel all the way into his marrow, Nate peels himself off of the sofa and lumbers over to Flynn, rubbing at the sweat on his nape.]
Jesus, what is taking so long? Tell them to fuck of-
[The words die in his mouth as he peers over Harry's elbow at a face he thought he'd left behind, five hundred miles away. The instinct to retreat hits him in the chest like buckshot and he reels back, bumping into a beaten hat rack and upsetting it. The thing clatters to the floor and Nate, half-pressed to a wall and staring at the middle space near Harry's forearm - just over the edge he can see manicured hair, eyebrows, nothing else, nothing else, another time with an expression contorted in rage, a hand squeezing the life from his throat as he clutched at Rafe's wrist - reaches for his collar.
His fingertips touch the neck of his Henley and stop, retreat, a fist at his side. Nate swallows. An overreaction. He's overreacting.]
For a moment there, he had things in hand. He was just going to tell Mr Moneybags to fuck off and go on his merry way, and close the door in his manicured little face and everything was going to be fine. So maybe he wouldn't get any shots in at the bastard that killed his friend, but Nate can't afford to get distracted so close to a job. But no, he can't just sit there and wait, of course. He's a Drake. Inaction makes them break out into hives.
Oh, this is going to be so much worse for this short little gremlin than he realizes.]
Not sure, but don't worry about it. [He turns around for just a moment, giving Nate a tight smile and a little pat on the shoulder.] Go on, get started without me, this won't take long.
[Harry doesn't see the little twitch Nate makes for his neck, but he can see in his eyes that this isn't effecting him in any kind of way that's good for him. Him and Harry, because he's going to be left sweeping up the emotional mess that this posh wanker left behind and he resents it a little. Its inconvenient, yeah, but even though Harry's trying to push down any kind of emotions having to do with this poor bastard, he cares. Nate's his friend, and Sam was his friend, and Adler is just leaving debris in his wake without a care in the fucking world.
On instinct Harry lights another cigarette as he turns back to Adler still standing there in front of the door. It's something to do with his hands so he doesn't punch something or worse, wave them around ineffectually. ]
Why don't you piss off, princess, yeah? He doesn't want to talk to you, and frankly I don't want your $500 Armani stench rubbing off on my shit.
Edited (jfc i can basic grammar i swear???) 2016-10-24 04:47 (UTC)
[ Any ideas Rafe had had about this conversation fall by the wayside the second he sees Nate. Sees the way Nate looks right back at him. He could take half a step to the side, put him back in his line of sight but doesn't. Stays stock-still. He hadn't expected the punch to the gut from just a glimpse — and from Nate reacting about as well as he would if faced with a rabid dog at the door.
He's earned that, hasn't he.
The frustration, the anger, every how fucking dare you and who the hell do you think you are bleeds away and leaves him hollow and his face poker-blank thanks to years of practice. Never show your hand, after all. Anybody after anything can sniff out weakness like that. A slow swallow is the only tell, sunglasses hiding the way his eyes flicker between where Nate was then back to Flynn, still trying to brush him off.
Part of him, the part that has his fists quietly clenched at his sides before letting them relax and dangle loose at his sides, is dying for Flynn to throw a punch. Anything that would get him doing instead of this goddamned waiting as he's strung out tighter and tighter at the mercy of someone else's tune. ]
If he doesn't want to talk, he can say so himself without some second-rate mouthpiece doing it for him.
[ His voice remains level, professional. Controlled. As if Nate being in arm's reach for half a second isn't enough to unmoor him. (He's learned his lesson since, grip tighter than ever and Nate already knows how he'd held on with tooth and nail before.) And much as he's tempted, he doesn't correct Flynn even though it's Dolce and Gabbana, not Armani. Times like this, he hates that he knows the difference. ]
And frankly, [ Okay, so the temptation proved a little too much. ] No amount of taste could help your little shit-hole in the wall so. Don't worry. You'll still be able to wallow in filth long after I leave.
[ A taut smile stretches Rafe's lips that's less small talk and more let's do lunch and I'll rip your fucking throat out. ]
[Nate doesn't know exactly what he wants, but he knows he doesn't want this: worlds colliding in the worst of ways, Harry's smoke rolling into Rafe's designer t-shirt and a less-than-reassuring suggestion that he- what, get started without him? Sex is the last thing on Nathan's mind, the mere idea might as well be on another planet in another solar system. Fighting every instinct in him to take a flying leap out one of the nearest windows just to escape this conflict Nate flinches when Harry pats his shoulder, unable to tear his eyes away from the jamb.
Even if he wanted to look Rafe straight in the eyes he couldn't, he can't, mirrored sunglasses reflecting his own horrified face, Harry's apathy.
The trouble is that Nate wants answers, would rather know than not, but would have happily gone on to ignore all of this had it not been so bluntly forced back into his life. Rafe dangles a lure that he isn't sure he can live without, even despite precedence.]
I need to- [Hoarse, he clears his throat.] I shou- no, no, what the fuck- who do you think you are?
[Pushing away from the wall - and Flynn's inevitable dismay - Nate chases the bait.]
Coming here after that. After that night. Fuck. What do you want?
[No, no, this is the exact opposite of what they need right now. It had taken weeks to get Drake out of the depressed, grey-tinged haze this wanker had put him in. He was doing better in their jobs, was quicker on the uptake and dodging security. He wasn't a fucking buzzkill after the act, too. It was like the old Nathan was coming back in fits and starts, and though it meant he had more fight in him, it was easier to stomach than...well, this.]
Shit, no-
[Reluctantly, Harry turns his back to The Little Prince to block Nate from the hall. He takes him by the shoulders firmly, trying to keep him in place. It's remarkably like trying to keep a small bull stationary, but he's trying, okay?]
Go cool off, would you? You don't owe this little bitch your time. Me and Charlie can handle him.
[And then over his shoulder, like someone would address dog shit they'd just stepped in:]
Seriously, mate, you'll leave if you know what's good for you. We're friends of Sam Drake 'round here.
[ He's not the biggest fan of having to repeat himself but it's worth it to get a different reaction out of Nate than... Than what he had a minute ago and hell, if he wanted Flynn to take a swing he's downright eager for Nate to try. Rafe can't imagine the shiner being any worse than sitting around the past few months and doubly so if that's what it takes to get in the door.
Not literally, mind. There isn't enough treasure and glory on the planet that could get Rafe to set one foot in Harry's flat. Not without a quadruple layered hazmat suit.
The jab about Samuel though-- By and large ignored but it nestles in another small chink in the armor. It was an unspoken rule in Scotland to leave that name buried back in Panama save in quiet, shaking moments in the middle of the night when Nate woke up clammy and fresh with grief. Even then it was fleeting, a stammered word before trying to ease Nate back to sleep, face buried against Rafe's neck. Hearing it bandied as easily as Flynn does is almost enough to make Rafe flinch.
No matter. If he has dues to pay then he will. Always has, money or no. If the bill is payable to a half dozen Guy Ritchie rejects then he can cover his tab when it comes.
Maybe that's why Harry grabbing at Nate affects him the way he does, vision turning red for a split second and unable to stop himself as he snarls back at Flynn. ]
I will leave when I'm good and ready and not a moment before so get your fucking hands off of him.
[ The hypocrisy is thick enough to choke on, he knows, he knows, he's the last person to talk about an ungentle hand after his had driven Nate here in the first place but Rafe doesn't give a damn. He's come here for Nate and if Nate wants to slug him then so be it. Who the hell's this prick to get in the way? To think that he's anyone to hold Nathan Drake back? This is between them and Harry can fuck right off.
(All right, so it's not terribly logical. Rafe has discovered it's difficult at best to remain so when it comes to what he wants. Another lesson he's trying to learn better from but with less than stellar results. ...Obviously.) ]
[Even Nate flinches at Sam's name, knows it's a dig to drag Rafe's role in his death back out into the open kicking and screaming. Nate himself hasn't mentioned his brother since the week after his arrival in Harry's flat, a tentative conversation while he cradled a chipped mug of too-strong tea and Harry watched him with flinty eyes. He never had nervous tics before then, jiggling a leg ceaselessly to contain the anxiety he could feel choking him like stomach acid, wringing his hands with tight, white knuckles.
Alcohol only calmed him down enough to be apathetic, dulling his reflexive, constant overthinking. It tied a string to the closest thing and when Nate tipsily settled in Harry's lap to go in for a kiss Harry did not refuse him. It was enough.
They're different creatures and it's never been more apparent to Nate than it is now, with the comparison standing in front of him. Harry, all idle threats and sharp smiles and Rafe, a barely-controlled volcano. Hands tighten in his shoulder while his vision tunnels, something disorienting in the fire that sputters to life at the fucking nerve. As if Rafe deserved to criticize after pinning Nate's throat to the floor in animal rage.
Don't interrupt me, Nate.
Pushing Harry off none-too-gently Nate stands free for a long moment, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He should run. He wants to run, Nathan, we gotta go, we need to leave, they're coming, they're-]
I got this, Harry, [he hisses through grit teeth, something flayed open and vulnerable in him despite the tone.] I wanna talk.
[Fucking....how dare this entitled, rich, apparently sadistic little prick tell him to take his own bloody hands off Nathan. The man who he's fairly positive tried to BDSM the younger Drake into an early grave is telling him that he needs to keep his hands to himself. And he's acting like his posh arse has any right to be in this fucking building? The absolute testicular fortitude it must've taken to actually vocalize that stuns Harry enough that Nate's able to shake him off with ease.
No, Drake, you do not got this.
So, of course, Harry does what any reasonable man of his ilk would do and punches this cunt right in his nose. His only regret is that he's wearing black and not some other clothes that bloodstains would totally ruin. Shame.]
[ Rafe knew the second the words passed his lips that it was an absurd statement, had bitten his tongue against any further slip. It's easier to loose it again once he has a solid response from Nate. Hardly matters how that response sounds, how it's another uncomfortable lurch of his gut to hear it, he's got it and part of the tension knotting his shoulders sloughs off for it.
Which is not that much of a state to be expecting a punch in the face.
Pain explodes from his nose outward, and the sick sound of bone crunching under Flynn's fist drowns out the softer tinkle of his aviators shattering as the shards slice at his skin, thin lines of red welling under his eye, the inside of an eyelid. It's a solid hit, that's for damned sure, enough that Rafe staggers back a couple of steps until he regains his senses — and with them a murderous wave of rage that demands retaliation, that wants nothing more than to fucking tackle this son of a bitch and shove a knee into his gut, see about his fucking smart mouth then.
Control. Stay in control. Keep your head on and keep some goddamn control. One punch is nothing. He's better than folding to this.
Stubborn pride keeps him from holding his nose, from mopping up the mess in spite of feeling blood streaming down his face. Pushes him to stand up straight, reach for the demolished frames and tug them off his ears, toss them to the floor. Any other time he'd find a trashcan but this place? The whole place is a fucking dump. One more bit of litter won't damn it any more than it already is. Nails bite into the meat of his palm from how tightly he balls his fists at his side but they stay there. ]
All right. [ To his credit, he manages to sound mostly normal. As if he's not bleeding from several points on his face and feeling it trickle down his throat. In fact, Rafe is doing his level best to ignore Harry's existence in its entirety right now. He isn't sure what he'd do otherwise. Something he'd... Well. Not regret but something that would definitely undo what he's come here for. ] I'm guessing not here.
[Nate has to step back just because he sees the quick wind-up, the inevitable crunch, knows the sort of violence that Harry Flynn can get up to because they've worked jobs on and off together for years. This relationship, whatever it is, is a recent development, but Flynn has always had the same sort of pre-fight, wry humor as Sam.
Give 'em a smile, sharp and cold, and let one fly out of fucking nowhere.]
Harry, holy sh-
[Blood pours out of Rafe's nose, a real gusher and the red dripping from Flynn's knuckles from the broken glass stains the already questionable floor. Nate, who engages in brawls regularly, doesn't even know if this one is worth it and he's ultimately surprised when Rafe tosses the cracked glasses away only to wait. For what? For him? Christ.]
Stop, just- [Pressing a hand to Harry's chest just to get him to back up - partly concerned Rafe might actually fly off the handle, partly concerned Harry will get cocky and go back for another haymaker - Nate stands between both parties, hands outstretched.] Fucking stop. Okay?
[If Harry said that he didn't get a near erotic thrill out of that crunch of glass and cartilage he'd be a fucking liar. He didn't expect the glasses to shatter like that, cut up the little princess's million dollar face like that. It's just a bonus, and he doesn't even have it in him to be pissed at the way he tosses them to the ground like the whole place is garbage.
Mmm, costing rich fucks money is always worth it.
He hadn't planned on anything like this happening. He's not a stickler for prep like others he's worked with before, but in the days before a job he likes to at least have a clear head and focus on the goal at hand. He gets jittery enough as it is, and this... This is...fuck. Drake's going to be off for days, at the very least, and the window of opportunity they've got is rapidly narrowing. It's got to be soon.
Nate pushes him away then, and Harry just lets him. His hands are trembling with the adrenaline rush that comes with trying to take a man down with one hig, and he takes a deep drag on his cigarette to try and calm himself, center his his thoughts on something productive. God save nicotine.]
I'm calling for some assistance. He's got eight minutes. [And then, as an afterthought, he wipes his bloody knuckles against the back of his jeans, nonchalant.] You've got a little red on you, mate.
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uncalendula) wrote2016-10-19 11:19 am
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Then Nate gets even drunker and tells him more about Adler, and Harry mentally carves his name into a bullet.
He doesn't mind their unconventional setup here- Harry figures that as long as they're both using each other, there's no harm done. It's just a roommate with perks, is all. Harry has the flat, Nate roots out the jobs, and they bring in good enough money. They go to the pub down the road and drink, and sometimes they help Cutter on whatever he's working on at the time. And then after all of that, sometimes they fuck. Harry doesn't think about the fact that he hasn't slept with anyone else since Nate showed up, or that he can't remember the last time he'd gone to sleep alone. He doesn't think about the uncomfortable twinge he gets in his chest when he watches the remaining Drake brother.
Just a partnership.
Recently, Nate's been savvy enough to dig up a job so big, they decide to pull someone else into it. Harry trusts Charlie Cutter more than anyone, has since he backed him in a fight with a gang of older boys when they were 10, so it's a no-brainer to pull him into the mess. He's smart, more savvy than anyone gives him credit for, and best of all he doesn't ask Harry about Nate. That's the real key, here. All three spend far too much time in Harry’s tiny council flat, stumbling over each other and consuming far too much beer for men trying to plot an effective break in on one of the world's premier museums. Today is no different. It's one of those rare summer days where the heat is oppressive enough that they're suffering even with all the windows in the place open. They run out of cold beer not even halfway into the planning, and of course it's Cutter that picks the short straw to run and get more from the shop. It's just as well, it's even hotter in here with his massive arse taking up half the space.
Harry groans, stretching and unfolding himself from the small table they've set up in the middle of the room. He's stiff, hot, and woefully sober for a Saturday afternoon. The heat won't stop him from lighting a cigarette, though, and he fumbles through his pocket for a moment before he finds his lighter and flicks it to life.
Nate is on the couch, busy scribbling something in that notebook he keeps like a security blanket. It's almost endearing, as is the way a stray lock of hair has plastered itself to his forehead. Harry has to shove down the peculiar impulse to rip the book from his hands and shove him down into the pillows, ruin the perfection somehow. Maybe that would extinguish the little burn in his chest?
Christ. He needs more beer.]
D’you think we have time to take a shower before he lumbers back here?
[It's an idle question, only half serious.It's almost too hot to stand next to someone, much less touch anyone. More than anything, he just wants to get rid of this nervous energy. He takes a long drag on his cigarette, willing the nicotine to calm the buzzing in his limbs. This job just needs to be over.]
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[Nate hums noncommittally, barely hearing the suggestion, too engrossed in the notes he took last week during a formal visit to the museum in the guise of a foreign exchange student. (No one thinks twice if you wear wear glasses and carry a shitty backpack - they just assume you're another broke graduate student, and Nate can pull off the aesthetic with his eyes closed.) With his tongue just sticking out of the corner of his mouth and his brow furrowed he paints the portrait of a befuddled artist, shading the edges of an atrium space from memory and pointedly ignoring the bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck.
With Cutter gone the room is less dense by a single degree, not enough to make a difference when every breath feels like you're swallowing water, when his hair is sticking to his forehead and his shirt is sticking to his chest. Harry can take the piss out of him all he likes about never buttoning the top three buttons on the damn thing, but on days like this even the faintest of breezes makes things more tolerable. It all feels like South America, anyway.
And speaking of Harry,]
...sorry, what did you say?
[An honest apology in his tone - supplemented by a cross between a smile and a grimace - as Nate glances up to see Harry taking a slow drag and looking at him like- well, it's a look he's seen before, on multiple occasions. Jittery. Hungry. Nate rubs at his temple with the back of his wrist and closes his sketchbook around a pencil, wrapping it shut.]
Didn't catch that.
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Harry licks his lips and takes another drag.]
I said, do you want to go take a shower before he gets back?
[This is one thing that drives him absolutely fucking mad- he’s like a distracted child when he’s in his work. And when he’s bored. And drunk. Harry's face curls up in annoyance, and he pulls the journal from his hands and tosses it onto the table. He almost looks like an inconvenienced dragon, smoke curling out the side of his mouth slowly and looming over Nate like he is.]
Not sure about you, love, but I need a fucking break.
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Simpler times.]
Uh. [Shaking off his thoughts takes a little time, and Nate blinks at the suggestion. Belatedly he recognizes the tacky sensation of cotton clinging to his skin, tastes the salt on his upper lip and privately agrees that a cold shower might take the edge off. If Harry could keep his hands to himself (not likely).] Sure? But- Hey!
[His sketchbook is unscathed but it's the principle of the thing, left giving Harry a mildly amused look for the trouble. He's still human, and very much enjoys being backed into corners.]
...is your use of "fucking" an adjective, or a verb?
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¿Porque no los dos?
[Of course, his Spanish is heavily accented and in the style of Spain, but it works.]
Have you ever taken a shower with someone and not stuck anything anywhere? Good lord, man. [Harry grins, big and genuine, cigarette clamped between his teeth. He moves in on Nate on the couch and nudges his legs apart with one knee.] C'mon.
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[God, Harry's accent is...genuinely awful in a lot of ways, but it's not the sort of thing you point out to a guy who's letting you shack up in his place for an indeterminate amount of time. (It's a bit like Antonio Banderas pretending to be English, actually.)
Shifting a little, leaning back with his arms slung over the couch and the speculative look of a connoisseur on his face, Nate purses his lips. On rare occasions does he enjoy stretching out the scene, just because it makes Flynn antsy as fuck.]
Tienes que hacerlo mejor que eso. [He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug even as his legs part to make room for Harry's thigh.] Estoy muy cómodo.
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[Nate's play is painfully on the nose, though. Harry has too much nervous energy zipping through him to let a simple brush off go easy. Planning jobs always makes him a little high strung, and even a few years ago he would be alleviateing it with drugs and bodies. But he's past 30 now, and the most he can handle is the bodies.
Well. One body, but it sure is an exception to the rule.
Harry makes a noise somewhere between a displeased hrmph and a frustrated groan. He moves in between the younger man's legs, leans down close so they're level, for once. He grins, all teeth and bad intentions, and one hand snakes up Nate's thight to cup his cock. Well, not comfortable as he said, hm?]
We've got half an hour. You want to waste it?
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(The first moment was months ago: a brisk night before spring had the chance to settle in and he stared down canvas walls rather, listened to Nate gasping for air now that Rafe didn't have a hand crushing his trachea. Fix it. He couldn't— Fix it. How the hell was he supposed to fix this? It was slipping through his fingers in spite of every best effort, spiraling out of control and he was trying, goddammit, he tried to keep at least one piece in place and now all of it was a fucking mess and he can't do this and almost turns back—— No. No, no no, he needed to get out of this tent and regroup, figure something out, Adler, get your head in the game before he did anything worse.
Turned out he already had.)
But for every bitter moment where he's all too viciously happy to let Nate fade into obscurity as a two-bit thief... There's the simple fact that nobody walks out on Rafe Adler. Running out like a thief in the night (and talk about your tired clichés, Jesus) and leaving him in the lurch? That was too much bullshit to swallow. Rafe had earned more than that from his ex-partner and he's certainly earned a chance to ream Drake out for thinking otherwise.
Even that idea of righteous comeuppance isn't enough to stop another moment of doubt then he watches the cab drive off after leaving him on the curb because good Christ. Whole wide world for the taking and this is what Nate was willing to settle on? The neighborhood is practically a slum, and his mouth curls with distaste the longer he takes in the scene, eventually shaking his head and heading inside.
The elevator is predictably out of order when he enters the building and the season offers no favors as he climbs a couple flights of stairs, walks (don't stalk, just a business meeting, that's all it boils down to, keep your head screwed on tight) down the hall. His aviators catch the light as he studies the door, the number stenciled sloppily over the original peeled paint, and once again debates the merits of simply turning around. Was it really worth it when he could call another cab, have the jet warmed up and ready to fly him north again — or anywhere, really, so long as it isn't here. This is a shit plan, he knows, because any amateur can tell you a meet hinges on control and this? Is out of his the second the door opens. If it opens. If Nate's here at all. If Nate figures Rafe is worth the time. If, if, if, uncertainty grating like nails on a chalkboard and that cab is looking better all the time.
No. Rolling his shoulders, Rafe shakes off the doubt because he's here, isn't he. Already come this far. And even though he's going into this without the upper hand that doesn't mean he won't be able to fix that.
Knock knock, Drake. ]
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He'll enjoy it, and Nate knows he does, but sometimes he thinks that Flynn treats every fuck with the same managed meticulousness of their jobs: keeping tabs on the seconds, a glance at his watch every now and again the way he does when they're cutting it close while clambering over a wall and through ductwork.
There's nothing wrong with it, it's just different.
Harry shoves his knees apart and Nate accommodates, pressed back against the sofa and grinning like the smug little shit he knows he is, teeth for teeth. The smile hovering near his is more predatory, clenched around a cigarette, and Nate is poised to say something clever when a lean hand tracks fire up his thigh and squeezes the bulge in his jeans. A little involuntary sound escapes instead, a small gasp caught in the back of his throat while his eyelids flutter.
Flynn sure as shit has his number and Nate's tongue darts out to wet his lips, thinking, thinking. God, he wants to use that half-hour, and it wouldn't be a waste. Opening his mouth to agree Nate finds the words cut off by an abrupt knock at the door, startling through the thick air of a lazy moment and he almost hopes it was a hallucination until the knock persists, a second time. Demonstrative.
Head dropping to the back of the couch, Nate rolls his gaze over to the offending door before shooting Flynn a look.]
...you gonna get that?
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And then some idiot decides to knock. ]
Fucking hell.
[This isn't happening. Now now. Why? What did he do in a past life to deserve this? Couldn't be the life, he's a perfect saint.]
If that's not Kate asking to join us, I'm going to be very disappointed.
[Just because Harry hasn't shagged anyone else while Nate has been here (it's a matter of opportunity, he tells himself, nothing else) doesn't mean he keeps his eyes to himself. He's been working on the shop girl three doors down since before Drake even showed up, it would have been a shame to reverse any progress he'd made.
He knows it won't be her, of course. She's told him to fuck off at least three times in the last few months, but a man can dream.
Reluctantly Harry straightens up, running a hand through his hair in frustration. It can't be Charlie, and they haven't ordered any food. His mum, maybe, but she always rings him before she decides to drop in and nag him a little. He quickly shoves the little card table out of the door's line of sight, muttering under his breath about timing and luck and arseholes who can't mind their own buisness.
He doesn't open the door all the way when he answers, just enough that his overtall body blocks the view of the flat. He's surprised to see a complete stranger there, an even more surprised at his dress. He looks absolutely out of place here- posh, expensive sunglasses, slicked back hair, jeans he assumes cost more than his entire wardrobe. He's young too, young enough to be a university student.
Ohhh, alright, that makes sense then.]
Sorry, mate, Jim's one floor up.
[And as a helpful illustration in case the kid's already blazed, he points up with the fingers still holding his cigarette.
It's actually not the first time a student has mixed up his flat and the dealer's who lives above him. At least he gives Harry a discount for his trouble.]
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The shades only just conceal the once-over he gives Harry and do shit all to hide the judgment that follows because this guy practically has "douchebag" tattooed on his forehead. Flynn's older than he expected. Crummy clothes. Reeks of cigarettes (and he hadn't missed that from working with Samuel). And never mind the fact that he lives in a dump like this. Frosted tips? Seriously? And here he thought the boy band look was finally dying out and good fucking riddance.
Well. Whoever the hell Jim is, Rafe could care less and doesn't bother to ask. Instead he acts as if Harry hasn't spoken at all. Probably for the best for everybody involved to maintain that illusion as long as possible. Rafe finds himself short of patience these days. ]
Looking for Nathan Drake. He in?
[ Short, dry, and to the point. He isn't looking to spend more time here than absolutely necessary — is he up to date on his tetanus shots? — and he sure as hell doesn't feel like making conversation with this guy. What he has to say to Nate is his own business and none of this guy's. ]
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Shifting uncomfortably and willing his dick to stop anticipating what isn't coming (if you know what I mean), he glances first at his abandoned sketchbook and then at the door. Harry's lean shoulders take up the space between it and the jamb, muffled voices in the hall floating vaguely back into the flat. Not a friend. Not an enemy, either, apparently.]
Harryyyyyyyyy.
[Nate reaches for an empty cigarette pack, crumpling the paper up into a ball and chucking it at the back of Flynn's head.]
If you're gonna fuck me in the shower we're running out of time before Cutter gets back.
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New York. American. Young. Expensive clothes and even more expensive grooming. It's not terribly difficult to to figure out who this man is.
A few easy lies cross his mind at first.
Sorry, who?
You've got the wrong flat, love, sorry.
Oh, I think he's on the second floor.
Except denying knowing him isn't going to work at all, he knows. This guy somehow tracked Nathan down with little to know evidence, found Harry too, and then came round himself to find the man. He probably knows all about Harry, and with his money he's not surprised.
So, no, not denial. He can work with that.]
Sorry, haven't seen him in a few weeks. I think he left for Mex-
[Something hits him in the back of the head, amd before he can turn to give Nate A Look he's yelling something about fucking him before Charlie gets back and Ruins everything. To be entirely fair, it would be funny if Probably Rafe Adler wasn't standing there at the door looking short and inconvenienced.
Harry shuts his eyes tight for a few solid second, willing the promise of a headache away from behind his eyes. He takes one last deep drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the corridor floor, gridning it out under his boot. The awkward moment stretches on a little longer while Harry savours the burn in his lungs, and then blows the smoke into Rafe's face.]
He's busy.
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And then Nate just goes and makes the whole thing moot. Typical. The acrid stench of tobacco only causes the smallest scrumple as his lips purse against the assault, but Harry won't get much more satisfaction than that. ]
Really. [ Canting his head an inch, the second eyebrow lifts to reach the first. ] Doesn't sound like he is.
[ He makes it a point to ignore the churn in his stomach at the realization that knocking a few moments later? It would've been the truth and—
And so what. Nate left. Hardly matters who he's fucking now. That's not what he's come here for. He doesn't care. Not a goddamn bit. ]
I'd like a word.
[ Rafe hardly has to say that he's not leaving here without it. Even Harry can't be dense enough not to pick that up on his own. ]
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With a groan he can feel all the way into his marrow, Nate peels himself off of the sofa and lumbers over to Flynn, rubbing at the sweat on his nape.]
Jesus, what is taking so long? Tell them to fuck of-
[The words die in his mouth as he peers over Harry's elbow at a face he thought he'd left behind, five hundred miles away. The instinct to retreat hits him in the chest like buckshot and he reels back, bumping into a beaten hat rack and upsetting it. The thing clatters to the floor and Nate, half-pressed to a wall and staring at the middle space near Harry's forearm - just over the edge he can see manicured hair, eyebrows, nothing else, nothing else, another time with an expression contorted in rage, a hand squeezing the life from his throat as he clutched at Rafe's wrist - reaches for his collar.
His fingertips touch the neck of his Henley and stop, retreat, a fist at his side. Nate swallows. An overreaction. He's overreacting.]
What. Is he doing here.
BYE FELICIA
For a moment there, he had things in hand. He was just going to tell Mr Moneybags to fuck off and go on his merry way, and close the door in his manicured little face and everything was going to be fine. So maybe he wouldn't get any shots in at the bastard that killed his friend, but Nate can't afford to get distracted so close to a job. But no, he can't just sit there and wait, of course. He's a Drake. Inaction makes them break out into hives.
Oh, this is going to be so much worse for this short little gremlin than he realizes.]
Not sure, but don't worry about it. [He turns around for just a moment, giving Nate a tight smile and a little pat on the shoulder.] Go on, get started without me, this won't take long.
[Harry doesn't see the little twitch Nate makes for his neck, but he can see in his eyes that this isn't effecting him in any kind of way that's good for him. Him and Harry, because he's going to be left sweeping up the emotional mess that this posh wanker left behind and he resents it a little. Its inconvenient, yeah, but even though Harry's trying to push down any kind of emotions having to do with this poor bastard, he cares. Nate's his friend, and Sam was his friend, and Adler is just leaving debris in his wake without a care in the fucking world.
On instinct Harry lights another cigarette as he turns back to Adler still standing there in front of the door. It's something to do with his hands so he doesn't punch something or worse, wave them around ineffectually. ]
Why don't you piss off, princess, yeah? He doesn't want to talk to you, and frankly I don't want your $500 Armani stench rubbing off on my shit.
NOBODY ASKED YOU PATRICE
He's earned that, hasn't he.
The frustration, the anger, every how fucking dare you and who the hell do you think you are bleeds away and leaves him hollow and his face poker-blank thanks to years of practice. Never show your hand, after all. Anybody after anything can sniff out weakness like that. A slow swallow is the only tell, sunglasses hiding the way his eyes flicker between where Nate was then back to Flynn, still trying to brush him off.
Part of him, the part that has his fists quietly clenched at his sides before letting them relax and dangle loose at his sides, is dying for Flynn to throw a punch. Anything that would get him doing instead of this goddamned waiting as he's strung out tighter and tighter at the mercy of someone else's tune. ]
If he doesn't want to talk, he can say so himself without some second-rate mouthpiece doing it for him.
[ His voice remains level, professional. Controlled. As if Nate being in arm's reach for half a second isn't enough to unmoor him. (He's learned his lesson since, grip tighter than ever and Nate already knows how he'd held on with tooth and nail before.) And much as he's tempted, he doesn't correct Flynn even though it's Dolce and Gabbana, not Armani. Times like this, he hates that he knows the difference. ]
And frankly, [ Okay, so the temptation proved a little too much. ] No amount of taste could help your little shit-hole in the wall so. Don't worry. You'll still be able to wallow in filth long after I leave.
[ A taut smile stretches Rafe's lips that's less small talk and more let's do lunch and I'll rip your fucking throat out. ]
stop yelling wah
Even if he wanted to look Rafe straight in the eyes he couldn't, he can't, mirrored sunglasses reflecting his own horrified face, Harry's apathy.
The trouble is that Nate wants answers, would rather know than not, but would have happily gone on to ignore all of this had it not been so bluntly forced back into his life. Rafe dangles a lure that he isn't sure he can live without, even despite precedence.]
I need to- [Hoarse, he clears his throat.] I shou- no, no, what the fuck- who do you think you are?
[Pushing away from the wall - and Flynn's inevitable dismay - Nate chases the bait.]
Coming here after that. After that night. Fuck. What do you want?
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Shit, no-
[Reluctantly, Harry turns his back to The Little Prince to block Nate from the hall. He takes him by the shoulders firmly, trying to keep him in place. It's remarkably like trying to keep a small bull stationary, but he's trying, okay?]
Go cool off, would you? You don't owe this little bitch your time. Me and Charlie can handle him.
[And then over his shoulder, like someone would address dog shit they'd just stepped in:]
Seriously, mate, you'll leave if you know what's good for you. We're friends of Sam Drake 'round here.
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[ He's not the biggest fan of having to repeat himself but it's worth it to get a different reaction out of Nate than... Than what he had a minute ago and hell, if he wanted Flynn to take a swing he's downright eager for Nate to try. Rafe can't imagine the shiner being any worse than sitting around the past few months and doubly so if that's what it takes to get in the door.
Not literally, mind. There isn't enough treasure and glory on the planet that could get Rafe to set one foot in Harry's flat. Not without a quadruple layered hazmat suit.
The jab about Samuel though-- By and large ignored but it nestles in another small chink in the armor. It was an unspoken rule in Scotland to leave that name buried back in Panama save in quiet, shaking moments in the middle of the night when Nate woke up clammy and fresh with grief. Even then it was fleeting, a stammered word before trying to ease Nate back to sleep, face buried against Rafe's neck. Hearing it bandied as easily as Flynn does is almost enough to make Rafe flinch.
No matter. If he has dues to pay then he will. Always has, money or no. If the bill is payable to a half dozen Guy Ritchie rejects then he can cover his tab when it comes.
Maybe that's why Harry grabbing at Nate affects him the way he does, vision turning red for a split second and unable to stop himself as he snarls back at Flynn. ]
I will leave when I'm good and ready and not a moment before so get your fucking hands off of him.
[ The hypocrisy is thick enough to choke on, he knows, he knows, he's the last person to talk about an ungentle hand after his had driven Nate here in the first place but Rafe doesn't give a damn. He's come here for Nate and if Nate wants to slug him then so be it. Who the hell's this prick to get in the way? To think that he's anyone to hold Nathan Drake back? This is between them and Harry can fuck right off.
(All right, so it's not terribly logical. Rafe has discovered it's difficult at best to remain so when it comes to what he wants. Another lesson he's trying to learn better from but with less than stellar results. ...Obviously.) ]
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Alcohol only calmed him down enough to be apathetic, dulling his reflexive, constant overthinking. It tied a string to the closest thing and when Nate tipsily settled in Harry's lap to go in for a kiss Harry did not refuse him. It was enough.
They're different creatures and it's never been more apparent to Nate than it is now, with the comparison standing in front of him. Harry, all idle threats and sharp smiles and Rafe, a barely-controlled volcano. Hands tighten in his shoulder while his vision tunnels, something disorienting in the fire that sputters to life at the fucking nerve. As if Rafe deserved to criticize after pinning Nate's throat to the floor in animal rage.
Pushing Harry off none-too-gently Nate stands free for a long moment, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He should run. He wants to run, Nathan, we gotta go, we need to leave, they're coming, they're-]
I got this, Harry, [he hisses through grit teeth, something flayed open and vulnerable in him despite the tone.] I wanna talk.
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No, Drake, you do not got this.
So, of course, Harry does what any reasonable man of his ilk would do and punches this cunt right in his nose. His only regret is that he's wearing black and not some other clothes that bloodstains would totally ruin. Shame.]
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Which is not that much of a state to be expecting a punch in the face.
Pain explodes from his nose outward, and the sick sound of bone crunching under Flynn's fist drowns out the softer tinkle of his aviators shattering as the shards slice at his skin, thin lines of red welling under his eye, the inside of an eyelid. It's a solid hit, that's for damned sure, enough that Rafe staggers back a couple of steps until he regains his senses — and with them a murderous wave of rage that demands retaliation, that wants nothing more than to fucking tackle this son of a bitch and shove a knee into his gut, see about his fucking smart mouth then.
Control. Stay in control. Keep your head on and keep some goddamn control. One punch is nothing. He's better than folding to this.
Stubborn pride keeps him from holding his nose, from mopping up the mess in spite of feeling blood streaming down his face. Pushes him to stand up straight, reach for the demolished frames and tug them off his ears, toss them to the floor. Any other time he'd find a trashcan but this place? The whole place is a fucking dump. One more bit of litter won't damn it any more than it already is. Nails bite into the meat of his palm from how tightly he balls his fists at his side but they stay there. ]
All right. [ To his credit, he manages to sound mostly normal. As if he's not bleeding from several points on his face and feeling it trickle down his throat. In fact, Rafe is doing his level best to ignore Harry's existence in its entirety right now. He isn't sure what he'd do otherwise. Something he'd... Well. Not regret but something that would definitely undo what he's come here for. ] I'm guessing not here.
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[Nate has to step back just because he sees the quick wind-up, the inevitable crunch, knows the sort of violence that Harry Flynn can get up to because they've worked jobs on and off together for years. This relationship, whatever it is, is a recent development, but Flynn has always had the same sort of pre-fight, wry humor as Sam.
Give 'em a smile, sharp and cold, and let one fly out of fucking nowhere.]
Harry, holy sh-
[Blood pours out of Rafe's nose, a real gusher and the red dripping from Flynn's knuckles from the broken glass stains the already questionable floor. Nate, who engages in brawls regularly, doesn't even know if this one is worth it and he's ultimately surprised when Rafe tosses the cracked glasses away only to wait. For what? For him? Christ.]
Stop, just- [Pressing a hand to Harry's chest just to get him to back up - partly concerned Rafe might actually fly off the handle, partly concerned Harry will get cocky and go back for another haymaker - Nate stands between both parties, hands outstretched.] Fucking stop. Okay?
[A pleading look at Harry.]
C'mon. Don't do this.
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Mmm, costing rich fucks money is always worth it.
He hadn't planned on anything like this happening. He's not a stickler for prep like others he's worked with before, but in the days before a job he likes to at least have a clear head and focus on the goal at hand. He gets jittery enough as it is, and this... This is...fuck. Drake's going to be off for days, at the very least, and the window of opportunity they've got is rapidly narrowing. It's got to be soon.
Nate pushes him away then, and Harry just lets him. His hands are trembling with the adrenaline rush that comes with trying to take a man down with one hig, and he takes a deep drag on his cigarette to try and calm himself, center his his thoughts on something productive. God save nicotine.]
I'm calling for some assistance. He's got eight minutes. [And then, as an afterthought, he wipes his bloody knuckles against the back of his jeans, nonchalant.] You've got a little red on you, mate.
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