[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.
What, can't finish the job yourself? [ Again, Rafe's best doesn't prove enough but he can't help taking the shot in spite of Nate between them. Fits with the track record he'd read on the flight down here and his lip curls in a sneer. Flynn seems to have a career in surrounding himself with his betters and he wonders how long it took him to start cashing in on having Nate at his beck and call. ] Typical.
[ Screw however Nate might react. There's no sane mind on earth that would fault him beating hell out of Harry if he has to take a second punch. But for now his hands stay down at his sides, even without Nate's attempt at playing human shield. A layman might actually think him relaxed and never mind the blood but any of a handful that knows Rafe would be able to see the razor-thin veneer of control that keeps him in check.
He clears his throat, nose and mouth filled with the metallic tang of his own blood as he blinks slow and reptilian. He can feel his skin getting tacky as the flow slows, starts to dry. Shit. If he'd rented a car there'd likely be tissues to take advantage of. Not like he trusts anything in here, or would request a rag out of Flynn's flat to mop up.
Minor annoyance. He'll live. ]
Nathan. [ And sure, he's addressing his ex-partner but he doesn't for a second take his eyes off Harry. ] Whenever you're ready.
[ He's gotten his assurance that Nate will talk. It's going to take a hell of a lot more than Harry sucker punching him to make Rafe let go of it now. ]
Eight minu- he's got however long I fucking wanna take, Harry.
[Nate almost spits the words out like something distasteful, already too nervous for anything resembling "friendly" conversation and wearing flecks of Rafe's blood on his shirt. Harry's assumption isn't incorrect, either: regardless of how this ends Nate won't be sleeping well for the next handful of nights, won't be able to find it in himself breathe deeply without wanting to choke on nothing but air.
He straightens and notices Flynn's shaky fingers, Rafe's clenched fists. Both wanting another swing and both needing the separation before Nate decides that none of this is worth the effort of suffering another second in the presence of people who want so desperately to fight over him.
He's tired.]
Just- gimme a second.
[With a suspicious look he backs into the kitchenette, retrieving one of the clean shirts he'd left drying over the back of a chair and a handful of ice from the freezer. From here the tension is less thick, and it would be so easy to shove the sash up on the window, slide onto the fire escape. Shimmy down the drainpipe. Run away. It sounds more and more tempting the longer he lingers over the cold air wafting from the icebox, prickling his sweaty skin. More than anything he just wants the nightmares to go away, but it's difficult when every other party present keeps trying to dig them back up.
Stuffing uneven cubes into the Henley before returning, shoving the thing in one of Rafe's hands, Nate maintains his practiced street youth glibness enough to shoot Harry a look.]
Go over the route with Charlie. I'll get back when I get back. I've got my phone.
[Nate, who are you talking to? Because Harry's sure you can't be talking to him. He doesn't answer, and instead slinks into the kitchen for- what? Is he getting ice? Harry goes after him, short a walk as it is.]
You're taking the piss. You-
[Oh. Oh, he's not.]
Nate. Nathan.
[But he's not listening, he's actually helping Alder, because of course he is. It ignites something small and nasty in his chest, and he almost wants to let it grow and consume him until he snaps and says something cruel enough to ruin Nate. But to even acknowledge that feeling would be to admit that there's anything he feels about Nathan Drake besides a mild friendship and camaraderie.
But, of course, he's still feeling extremely petty, and Nate is pissing him off. Harry yanks him back from the doorway and the cunt, pressing him into the wall separating the entrance way and the kitchenette. Before he can protest, Harry kisses him hard in full view of their visitor. Honestly, he doesn't care if Nate's into it, he just wants to remind him why he's in this city in the first place.
After a moment, Harry pushes away, replacing his cigarette once more.]
Fine. I lock the door at midnight, so. You know, try to be back by then, mate.
[ Rafe spends the interim moments very much on the same page as Nate — and silently calculating whether it would be worth the exertion to run wherever the window of this place let out (should've checked the layout first, stupid mistake, should've known better) or should he wait, regroup, start the search over again. Each minute that ticks on, the more he's sure Nate's bailed again and the readier he is to beat the living hell out of Flynn for exacerbating an already shaky situation.
But then Nate comes back. He comes back and sheer surprise leaves him wide-eyed and Rafe almost drops the bundle Nate pushes on him. What it is sinks in and he adjusts the cloth in his hand for a better grip — not that he'll apply it now, not in front of this prick. Eyes flickering toward the impromptu pack, he almost offers his thanks before...
Before he's forced to witness that.
His mouth is half-open toward the words he was about to say when Flynn shoves Nate against the wall and practically mauls him. The audible click of Rafe's jaw snapping shut likely goes unheard with how enthusiastically Harry marks his territory. Once more red claws at the edges of his visions, and once more Rafe feels his bones creak to contain it. His knuckles ache at his side but they stay there. ]
Classy. [ Hell freezes over at the tone of his voice, disdain dripping alongside the blood from his face before he steps aside to make room for Nate to pass. He's not leaving first (he's made that mistake before) and the sooner he can put himself between Nate and this asshole, all the fucking better. ] After you.
[Trapped in his own small bubble of concern Nate genuinely does not hear Harry's protests, doesn't see the jagged edge of his flatmate until he feels a hand snatching a fistful of his shirt. Dragged closer suddenly, too sudden to react, Nate feels himself swinging into the wall. He barely manages to brace a shoulder for impact before another assault comes from the front, a knee shoved between his legs and a mouth on his.
Harry Flynn isn't one for kissing and because of that Nate knows this is less "fond farewell for the afternoon" and more of a statement, like licking the last doughnut in front of everyone else at the table. There's nothing suave or sexy about it, either, just a forceful press and a snarl. He waits it out, sharp teeth and a tongue dipping into his mouth and all Nate can think about is how much he really doesn't want to be a saliva-claimed baked good.]
Yeah.
[Acknowledging the curfew is as much response as Harry can expect to receive, a small nod while Nate rubs at his lip with the back of his hand and then gestures fruitlessly into the hallway. Right, right. Nate first. Rafe probably wants himself between the offending subject and the impressionable kid brother of the former Samuel Drake.]
[ Please. As if it's for as petty and bullshit a reason as that.
...Okay, it's not the only reason. Rafe also has no idea what's in this area or how to get there, and knows better than to think he can choose the where when he's forced the when. Nate's agreed to this — it's his call where to continue it. Concessions that he wasn't sure he'd be willing to make for all he'd imagined this conversation but come easily now when reality leaves him silent.
All the rants Rafe had all but rehearsed the past few months fall to pieces now that he's got Nate in sight again. Nate had that effect— And Rafe prickles to find it still true.
Between that and the throbbing pain from his nose settles in and makes itself at home, the relief in getting away from the Bitch in Apartment 23 is short-lived. He doesn't bother with the pack itself, not really since the ice is half-melted already, but he does start dabbing carefully at the bloody mess on his face. There's a grimace when he jars his nose (that bastard can throw a punch, Christ) but Rafe's pride is still high bidder and keeps him from wincing aloud. ]
I assume you've got somewhere in mind for this.
[ The assumption also follows that the somewhere won't toss him out for a very obviously broken nose. And a couple cuts, he adds to the tally as he thumbs a sharp red line above his cheek.
He keeps his tone neutrally expectant as he trails after Nate down the stairs. Another time, a few months ago, he'd have teased. Now it's just a few loose ends to tie up. A business deal gone sour. That's another thing Rafe can be proud of. He's never let himself suffer delusions that this... Whatever the hell it was was ever anything more than that. He knows better. ]
Nate could have left Rafe in the hallway, could have shut the door, could have vaulted out the nearest window, could have, could have, could have. He knows Rafe and he thinks he knows what they are, or what they were, and how wrong his assumptions turned out to be when his disappointingly short life flashed before his eyes on the platform floor of that tent. He agreed because he wants closure of his own, even when it's bleeding and holding its frayed edges together.
Grunting the affirmative Nate can hear a careful curiosity in Rafe's tone, inquiring minds want to know where they're going and Hell, Nate would like the same, because the only thing he can think of right now is putting some distance between them and Harry. He can already imagine the guy pacing the area of his flat like a caged animal.
A couple more flights of stairs pass in relative silence until they're outside in the marginally less oppressive heat - here there's a breeze - and Nate leads Rafe down a block, around a corner, and into a small park. This time of day in this weather it's abandoned, with a decent proximity to a coffee shop if getting into a bathroom to clean his face is more Rafe's speed.
Nate sits on a park bench unprompted, something oily twisting in the pit of his stomach when he finally makes eye contact again. Pale, watery blue eyes under hooded lids, the swollen tell of a busted nose and the beginnings of tomorrow's shiners, a tightly-set jaw. Reaching for the reddened, wet shirt in Rafe's hands, Nate is quiet when he says,]
[ Those frayed edges unravel faster and faster no matter how tightly Rafe tries to wrap them back around himself. It's not supposed to still feel like this, goddamn it, it's been months since last seeing Nate and he was supposed to be done with it, supposed to be putting the last nail in the crate today before packing it away for good. That was the plan.
Christ. At the very least, and this he swears to himself, is that he's not going to lose control today. Not again and fingernails digging into the meat of his palm at his side add to the promise.
But each step more shadowing Nate shakes his resolve that much more. It's only luck that it's all open space now, no convenient wall to shove Nate up against and demand an answer. ...Of course, all the questions Rafe could pose, all the pithy phrases devolve instead into some pathetic, desperate thing in his head even as he imagines it and god. What is wrong with him. Little wonder Nate bailed when he did. Rafe certainly would, faced with himself.
The park around them barely earns a cursory glance before he takes the spot next to Nate — though with a more than fair space between them. When he finds Rafe's eyes, it isn't for long— Not when Rafe lets his gaze slide somewhere down and to the left. He can't seem to look at Nate, not head-on, not when they're this close again. Quiet in kind, he answers, ]
You don't have to do that.
[ But that's all the fight he offers, letting the fabric slip away in spite of an irrational thought to keep it, take it back with him, let him have something left from all this. Stupid, pointless, and what's worse is how Rafe knows it is and can't stop himself from wanting it anyway. It's better to focus on staying perfectly still under Nate's tentative touches, as if the smallest motion will set him off and running again. Rafe knows too well it might. Knows too well that he can't blame Nate for it either. ]
[Rafe doesn't look at him - can't, maybe - and half-heartedly protests the offer even as he relinquishes the wet shirt back to its original owner. Nate wrestles it out of a ball and his own words seep into him slowly, the same way one of those stray ice cubes steadily melts on the concrete. Like some misplaced but apropos metaphor. He doesn't know. It sounds a little Byronic, and he watches Rafe's gaze concentrating heavily on something in the middle distance.]
It's broken.
[Nate is patient, which is perhaps uncharacteristic of him but happens all the same and can in part be attributed to his private concerns about what may or may not happen when he returns to Harry's flat. The silent treatment and the sofa, no doubt, slinking back in like a dog with its tail between its legs. With a delicacy he doesn't often utilize he mops up the crusting blood on Rafe's chin, tidies the small, slim cuts under his eyes, dabs carefully around the mess that is his nose.
Almost distantly Nate registers that he so rarely sees Rafe bleed - and that was part of the problem, wasn't it? He had so determinedly placed someone on a pedestal with expectations of control that it was strange to see the pillar crumble, remember that he has the same goddamn insecurities as everyone else. It wasn't fair, but it doesn't change the fact that Rafe gripped him too tightly. All that pressure was bound to snap.]
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uncalendula) wrote2016-10-19 11:19 am
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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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[ Screw however Nate might react. There's no sane mind on earth that would fault him beating hell out of Harry if he has to take a second punch. But for now his hands stay down at his sides, even without Nate's attempt at playing human shield. A layman might actually think him relaxed and never mind the blood but any of a handful that knows Rafe would be able to see the razor-thin veneer of control that keeps him in check.
He clears his throat, nose and mouth filled with the metallic tang of his own blood as he blinks slow and reptilian. He can feel his skin getting tacky as the flow slows, starts to dry. Shit. If he'd rented a car there'd likely be tissues to take advantage of. Not like he trusts anything in here, or would request a rag out of Flynn's flat to mop up.
Minor annoyance. He'll live. ]
Nathan. [ And sure, he's addressing his ex-partner but he doesn't for a second take his eyes off Harry. ] Whenever you're ready.
[ He's gotten his assurance that Nate will talk. It's going to take a hell of a lot more than Harry sucker punching him to make Rafe let go of it now. ]
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[Nate almost spits the words out like something distasteful, already too nervous for anything resembling "friendly" conversation and wearing flecks of Rafe's blood on his shirt. Harry's assumption isn't incorrect, either: regardless of how this ends Nate won't be sleeping well for the next handful of nights, won't be able to find it in himself breathe deeply without wanting to choke on nothing but air.
He straightens and notices Flynn's shaky fingers, Rafe's clenched fists. Both wanting another swing and both needing the separation before Nate decides that none of this is worth the effort of suffering another second in the presence of people who want so desperately to fight over him.
He's tired.]
Just- gimme a second.
[With a suspicious look he backs into the kitchenette, retrieving one of the clean shirts he'd left drying over the back of a chair and a handful of ice from the freezer. From here the tension is less thick, and it would be so easy to shove the sash up on the window, slide onto the fire escape. Shimmy down the drainpipe. Run away. It sounds more and more tempting the longer he lingers over the cold air wafting from the icebox, prickling his sweaty skin. More than anything he just wants the nightmares to go away, but it's difficult when every other party present keeps trying to dig them back up.
Stuffing uneven cubes into the Henley before returning, shoving the thing in one of Rafe's hands, Nate maintains his practiced street youth glibness enough to shoot Harry a look.]
Go over the route with Charlie. I'll get back when I get back. I've got my phone.
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[Nate, who are you talking to? Because Harry's sure you can't be talking to him. He doesn't answer, and instead slinks into the kitchen for- what? Is he getting ice? Harry goes after him, short a walk as it is.]
You're taking the piss. You-
[Oh. Oh, he's not.]
Nate. Nathan.
[But he's not listening, he's actually helping Alder, because of course he is. It ignites something small and nasty in his chest, and he almost wants to let it grow and consume him until he snaps and says something cruel enough to ruin Nate. But to even acknowledge that feeling would be to admit that there's anything he feels about Nathan Drake besides a mild friendship and camaraderie.
But, of course, he's still feeling extremely petty, and Nate is pissing him off. Harry yanks him back from the doorway and the cunt, pressing him into the wall separating the entrance way and the kitchenette. Before he can protest, Harry kisses him hard in full view of their visitor. Honestly, he doesn't care if Nate's into it, he just wants to remind him why he's in this city in the first place.
After a moment, Harry pushes away, replacing his cigarette once more.]
Fine. I lock the door at midnight, so. You know, try to be back by then, mate.
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But then Nate comes back. He comes back and sheer surprise leaves him wide-eyed and Rafe almost drops the bundle Nate pushes on him. What it is sinks in and he adjusts the cloth in his hand for a better grip — not that he'll apply it now, not in front of this prick. Eyes flickering toward the impromptu pack, he almost offers his thanks before...
Before he's forced to witness that.
His mouth is half-open toward the words he was about to say when Flynn shoves Nate against the wall and practically mauls him. The audible click of Rafe's jaw snapping shut likely goes unheard with how enthusiastically Harry marks his territory. Once more red claws at the edges of his visions, and once more Rafe feels his bones creak to contain it. His knuckles ache at his side but they stay there. ]
Classy. [ Hell freezes over at the tone of his voice, disdain dripping alongside the blood from his face before he steps aside to make room for Nate to pass. He's not leaving first (he's made that mistake before) and the sooner he can put himself between Nate and this asshole, all the fucking better. ] After you.
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Harry Flynn isn't one for kissing and because of that Nate knows this is less "fond farewell for the afternoon" and more of a statement, like licking the last doughnut in front of everyone else at the table. There's nothing suave or sexy about it, either, just a forceful press and a snarl. He waits it out, sharp teeth and a tongue dipping into his mouth and all Nate can think about is how much he really doesn't want to be a saliva-claimed baked good.]
Yeah.
[Acknowledging the curfew is as much response as Harry can expect to receive, a small nod while Nate rubs at his lip with the back of his hand and then gestures fruitlessly into the hallway. Right, right. Nate first. Rafe probably wants himself between the offending subject and the impressionable kid brother of the former Samuel Drake.]
Let's go.
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...Okay, it's not the only reason. Rafe also has no idea what's in this area or how to get there, and knows better than to think he can choose the where when he's forced the when. Nate's agreed to this — it's his call where to continue it. Concessions that he wasn't sure he'd be willing to make for all he'd imagined this conversation but come easily now when reality leaves him silent.
All the rants Rafe had all but rehearsed the past few months fall to pieces now that he's got Nate in sight again. Nate had that effect— And Rafe prickles to find it still true.
Between that and the throbbing pain from his nose settles in and makes itself at home, the relief in getting away from the Bitch in Apartment 23 is short-lived. He doesn't bother with the pack itself, not really since the ice is half-melted already, but he does start dabbing carefully at the bloody mess on his face. There's a grimace when he jars his nose (that bastard can throw a punch, Christ) but Rafe's pride is still high bidder and keeps him from wincing aloud. ]
I assume you've got somewhere in mind for this.
[ The assumption also follows that the somewhere won't toss him out for a very obviously broken nose. And a couple cuts, he adds to the tally as he thumbs a sharp red line above his cheek.
He keeps his tone neutrally expectant as he trails after Nate down the stairs. Another time, a few months ago, he'd have teased. Now it's just a few loose ends to tie up. A business deal gone sour. That's another thing Rafe can be proud of. He's never let himself suffer delusions that this... Whatever the hell it was was ever anything more than that. He knows better. ]
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Nate could have left Rafe in the hallway, could have shut the door, could have vaulted out the nearest window, could have, could have, could have. He knows Rafe and he thinks he knows what they are, or what they were, and how wrong his assumptions turned out to be when his disappointingly short life flashed before his eyes on the platform floor of that tent. He agreed because he wants closure of his own, even when it's bleeding and holding its frayed edges together.
Grunting the affirmative Nate can hear a careful curiosity in Rafe's tone, inquiring minds want to know where they're going and Hell, Nate would like the same, because the only thing he can think of right now is putting some distance between them and Harry. He can already imagine the guy pacing the area of his flat like a caged animal.
A couple more flights of stairs pass in relative silence until they're outside in the marginally less oppressive heat - here there's a breeze - and Nate leads Rafe down a block, around a corner, and into a small park. This time of day in this weather it's abandoned, with a decent proximity to a coffee shop if getting into a bathroom to clean his face is more Rafe's speed.
Nate sits on a park bench unprompted, something oily twisting in the pit of his stomach when he finally makes eye contact again. Pale, watery blue eyes under hooded lids, the swollen tell of a busted nose and the beginnings of tomorrow's shiners, a tightly-set jaw. Reaching for the reddened, wet shirt in Rafe's hands, Nate is quiet when he says,]
Let me.
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Christ. At the very least, and this he swears to himself, is that he's not going to lose control today. Not again and fingernails digging into the meat of his palm at his side add to the promise.
But each step more shadowing Nate shakes his resolve that much more. It's only luck that it's all open space now, no convenient wall to shove Nate up against and demand an answer. ...Of course, all the questions Rafe could pose, all the pithy phrases devolve instead into some pathetic, desperate thing in his head even as he imagines it and god. What is wrong with him. Little wonder Nate bailed when he did. Rafe certainly would, faced with himself.
The park around them barely earns a cursory glance before he takes the spot next to Nate — though with a more than fair space between them. When he finds Rafe's eyes, it isn't for long— Not when Rafe lets his gaze slide somewhere down and to the left. He can't seem to look at Nate, not head-on, not when they're this close again. Quiet in kind, he answers, ]
You don't have to do that.
[ But that's all the fight he offers, letting the fabric slip away in spite of an irrational thought to keep it, take it back with him, let him have something left from all this. Stupid, pointless, and what's worse is how Rafe knows it is and can't stop himself from wanting it anyway. It's better to focus on staying perfectly still under Nate's tentative touches, as if the smallest motion will set him off and running again. Rafe knows too well it might. Knows too well that he can't blame Nate for it either. ]
It's not that bad.
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[Rafe doesn't look at him - can't, maybe - and half-heartedly protests the offer even as he relinquishes the wet shirt back to its original owner. Nate wrestles it out of a ball and his own words seep into him slowly, the same way one of those stray ice cubes steadily melts on the concrete. Like some misplaced but apropos metaphor. He doesn't know. It sounds a little Byronic, and he watches Rafe's gaze concentrating heavily on something in the middle distance.]
It's broken.
[Nate is patient, which is perhaps uncharacteristic of him but happens all the same and can in part be attributed to his private concerns about what may or may not happen when he returns to Harry's flat. The silent treatment and the sofa, no doubt, slinking back in like a dog with its tail between its legs. With a delicacy he doesn't often utilize he mops up the crusting blood on Rafe's chin, tidies the small, slim cuts under his eyes, dabs carefully around the mess that is his nose.
Almost distantly Nate registers that he so rarely sees Rafe bleed - and that was part of the problem, wasn't it? He had so determinedly placed someone on a pedestal with expectations of control that it was strange to see the pillar crumble, remember that he has the same goddamn insecurities as everyone else. It wasn't fair, but it doesn't change the fact that Rafe gripped him too tightly. All that pressure was bound to snap.]
Why are you really here?
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