"ufos could take me home." additional solos: @junebye @oneszeroes
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@planetsorbit
"ufos could take me home." additional solos: @junebye @oneszeroes

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nate can feel the weight of oliver's gaze still and he has to fight off the urge to wipe off his mouth with the back of his hand. not a personal affront to oliver, of course, but because nate was a bit of a clean freak. he can't expect oliver to know that the gesture was him trying to reciprocate oliver's undivided attention, so he swallows down the disgust alongside phlegm. nate hums, his gaze flitting away to the source of the raucous noise before returning safe and unwavering on oliver's features, quietly assessing. the gears in his brain are whirring, weighing the options and whether or not this could come back to bite him in the ass later. counting his transgressions on an internal abacus. oliver doesn't strike him as the gossipy type, so nate figures there wouldn't be much harm in inviting him in even further β that whatever incriminating or dubious thing he'd witness, he would keep to himself. "headed back to mine," he replies simply, lips quirking up with amusement. nate wants a cigarette. something else to occupy his mouth and attention with. nate simply wants. his hands pat the front of his pants before finding their way to the pockets of his jeans, muscle memory and reaching for something absent. "there is. you can come along too. provided you don't have any cop blood in your family," nate teases, a coy and mirthful look in his eyes. it's not necessarily all to nathaniel's tastes, because his friends had vices of their own and he knows once they arrive, there'll be weed and white powder on most of the clean surfaces of his home. enough bass booming from the stereo system to drown out rational thought, plenty of substances to let them indulge their baser instincts. there's something darker and heated in nate's gaze now, unguarded but prompting as he cocks his head to the side. the tension builds, frays at the edges. "are you? going to come." the word choice as well as the implication is deliberate.
he's been wrong before, but oliver thinks the teasing in the lilt of nathaniel's voice isn't wholly insincere. it's flirtatious too. seductive, even a little yearning in between the drawl of his voice. it makes oliver's skin itch, his toes stiff and in need of curling. and though hunger eggs him on, half-begging to let his interest show, he forgoes a knee-jerk response for a calculated pivot. "need a cig?" (he'd seen photos of nathaniel with a smoke in hand, then others in which his friends are clutching a pack of marlboro golds. naturally, oliver had tried one himself, coughing until the dry heat felt familiar enough to swallow.) he wrestles the cigs in question from a back pocket β then slipping it like a gift into nathaniel's palm. there'd been several points of contact since, hell β they're practically side-to-side, shoulder-to-shoulder, but the skim of fingertips and the near threading of their extremities has oliver a little eager. the practiced hesitation that was offering a smoke, comes up shallow when he interjects: "i'll come, if that's β if you're cool with that." he's looking and then he isn't, muscle taut across the side of his neck. he's out of his depth again, a bland thing trying desperately to blend into an existing pattern. but until nathaniel squeezes him into nothing, oliver wants to believe in the spark of his gaze, the twinkle in his eyes. "...i won't go snooping," he adds, attempting comedy.
nathaniel's play seems to be effective. he barely knows oliver, sure, but nate doesn't truly know anyone and he likes it that way. but there's something in the near transparent shade of blue in oliver's eyes and unassuming demeanor, clear enough to make nate think him honest. and even if that turned out to not be the case, it'd only be more of an asset. nate comes to him like a well-intentioned thief in the night, shrouded and bare in nothing but the intimacy of darkness with the promise of a remedy for a cure to all ills. whatever void or absence of something that exists within the both of them, nate will try to fill it β give just enough crumbs of his real self away while leaving oliver wanting more. to ensure he stays, so that oliver sees this cause as worthy. all while preparing for the next album rollout, the next transformation, another vulnerable self-mutilation in the medium of his choice. music. everyone more or less grasps that concept that life is a bunch of interwoven stories, narratives weaved together from parents and cultural word of mouth. there's a reason the bible, the word of god has survived the grueling test of time. it's oratory. nathaniel isn't sacrilegious enough to be on john lennon's level, but fuck, he wanted to get there eventually. false idols would more than suffice when their real Father was avoidant and neglectful. nate would never forsake anyone devoted to him that hasn't forsaken him first. he offers a soft and unguarded smile to oliver before lowering his gaze to the other man's phone, skimming through the calendar and picking out a date that works best for his schedule. oliver's already prioritizing him, offering to move his shifts around selflessly. "done," nathaniel replies, and because oliver has passed every test of faith provided for him thus far, nate brings kiss lips to the phone screen before passing it back. later, when oliver picks up his call β nate predicts his cheek to brush against the same spot nate's mouth had been. "you know what? i think this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership."
oliver stares unabashed when nathaniel kisses his phone, pursed lips and a grand profile to the flat of his screen. the pressure is invisible, no lingering wetness to serve as holy proof, only memory and some scant, assumed traces of bacteria. an exhale or some miniscule touch of spit, oliver's body and home sinking to the back of nathaniel's throat. his stomach feels a little hollow, head half-cloudy with feeling. (desire? disgust? despair?) he takes the device, thankful in speech, though he hesitates then, drifts in the quiet of their breathing until nathaniel's posse hollers loud enough to interrupt. they bring him back stubbornly to the world of the living, and oliver, as if powered to life, pushesβ prodding a tad eager: "...yeah. so. what're you guys gonna do now? is there an after party for the after party type scenario?" he can't bring himself to ask if he's invited, but greed sits in the bead of his eyes.
jiwoo has always had to keep her cards close to her chest, too much of a reaction or visible vulnerability can make a person like her feel burning hot with barely suppressed rage that needed to be consistently tempered, an ant under a magnifying glass trying to survive the heatwave. it may have been one day out of a year to people who didn't know the innerworkings of their family, jiwoo obstinate and unwilling to console herself with naively false reassurances when she felt like such a failure, too sensitive and private of a person to forget yewon's kind lack of pretense so quickly on a day as hard as that. sometimes, you can hear the ambulance sirens miles away, years before it ever actually arrives and it's still a shock to the nervous system. if her family doctors ordered an mri scan for jiwoo's brain after seeing yewon again, she'd be curious to see the findings. all of this to say, yewon was a difficult person to forget even amongst a sea of people dressed in their figurative sunday finest. jiwoo wants to laugh, because the sight of hyewon's face contorting when the shot doesn't go down smooth is beyond endearing, but she just shakes her head and bites her bottom lip instead. "you're silly. but you wouldn't be the first to think that. silverspooned frigid bitch, remember?" she says it with a tone that's steeped in as much pride as bitterness. something softer and a little more vulnerable breaks through, meeting yewon's gaze again. "you're the only one whose ever talked to me like a normal person, as far as i remember. same here, anyway, i was going to tease you about putting on a few more pounds β of muscle than when i saw you last." now she understands the complaints of being made the drink courier though, when it seemed like yewon wasn't the best at drinking. she looks like she could carry a few bottles without breaking much of a sweat, so it figures that it was something else. "don't feel pressured to drink if it's not your thing. i promise i don't bite," jiwoo reassures, the corners of her lips subtly quirking up as if that might not be the full truth.
she's half tempted to apologize, clarify the assumption that yewon thinks jiwoo is anything but brimming with feeling. she doesn't, but her lips pinch in response, thin and flat with an argument on the tip of her tongue. she's grateful when it melts away, and when the conversation stretches onward, more familiar and rimmed with something prickly, yewon huffs, still flattered by the recognition. she means to up her numbers anyway, each tick another step towards another weight class, another challenge, another circle of competitors. "i better look different. i've been training for it." a thank you would've sufficed, but nothing about this reunion feels natural, nor predictable. (she's skimming deep water, flailing like it'll keep her afloat.) yewon's honest at least, when she waves the air in partial agreement: "yeah, i'm not drinking anymore. i just. β it felt like the right thing to do then, following your lead." then, because both shots feel slippery at the back of her throat, she adds, "but now i know. now β be careful of the unpredictable and teething jiwoo-nim." she means it like a half-compliment. she likes how little jiwoo resembles the stereotype, save for the sharp wit and sharper sense of humour. it isn't even at yewon's expense however (not wholly so), there are worse things to be, worse traits to cling onto, if the jealous-mean-girls are worth the comparison. the assurance of this has yewon slouching in her seat. "...do you want another? β we can ring down the waiter."
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@planetsorbit: i said one drink, and now i'm holding four. ( yewon & jiwoo / in which they're sat at the shared table of the 10th yr high school reunion and perhaps . the other 3 people at their table went to mingle w other tables so . yewon's breaking the ice with a joke abt the 4 drinks at the table (including hers)... )
it's not really much of a surprise that jiwoo had zoned out on her phone as soon as the more cunning and insecure girls she'd attended with had left, the herd thinning and socially circling the room. jiwoo hadn't been too ecstatic at the idea of attending with the risk of seeing the girls that'd made her already turbulent adolescence even more inconvenient. not that she saw them as a threat, really, but they say even poor company is better than no company. and god, she wishes she meant that in a classist way β but at least a quarter of the girls at school had been catty bitches regardless of their financial circumstances. at the recognition of a faintly familiar voice, jiwoo raises her gaze from her phone to meet yewon's, taking a moment to process the somewhat comical sight of yewon holding four shots of soju and a smile begins to bloom on her face. "oh, that's quite the conundrum. suppose we'll have to have an extra, then?" they barely knew each other aside from a few encounters, always within proximity but never best friends. yewon had always seemed different than the other girls, uncompromising on her principles and more confident in her skin. "let me help you out with those. but in my opinion, this is the opposite of a problem now that they're preoccupied. you've always been much more pleasant to talk to," jiwoo teases, tone a bit sultry as she reaches out to help yewon free up her hands as she sets them down on the table, then sitting back down to toss back hers. it looks like this reunion had the opportunity of becoming something more fun than a mere social obligation.
it's been 3 years since they last spoke. the circumstances were stranger then, the funereal invite sudden and out of left field. jiwoo herself had been every shade of blue, stormy-eyed and hollowed in speech. but where her voice was trim and thin, she appeared stifled with feeling, overwhelmed with it, and yewon was misguided enough to think her interjections kind, if not helpful. ('if anyone says the cliche thing of: everything happens for a reason and she is happier now β i think you're legally allowed to gun them down with an m85.') morbid, considering the procession before them, and though yewon regrets her attempt at sympathy, jiwoo had still graced her with a smile. it's that exact look she remembers best, the gesture of it as selfless as she'd long believed jiwoo to be. it's simultaneously why yewon finds the red lipstick and borderline flirtatious teasing, flustering on reception. things are arguably different here, not formal nor casual, and yewon smiles a little wide-eyed when jiwoo tips back a shot, easy. she doesn't drink much herself (she's a bit of a lightweight, thankfully) but she follows suit, competitive and empathetic all the same. it's bitter and it burns, the less than preferable sting of it showing in the scrunch of her face. grimacing, she responds, "i didn't know that. i thought i've only ever stuck my foot in my mouth around you." then, because she's desperate to empty the glasses like medicine, yewon hands jiwoo a 2nd shot, before taking a 2nd of her own. she makes another face. "...hm. these are bad."
HAN SO HEE AS YOON JI WOO
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the apple is rotten right to the core.
@planetsorbit // for nate & charlie.

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nate's familiar with how far the power and influence of money can get you. it's the reason why being cal jacobs' son felt like a blessing as well as a curse. how he was able to triangulate his way out of the shit nate had gotten himself into when he was in highschool with a slap on the wrist. it's why after nate turned in all of his father's tapes, because he didn't have any priors and could pay the fines exceeding 25k, he walked away more or less unscathed without going to a state prison. and state prison was different than a year in a county jail, because being a renowned kid fiddler in a place like that? basically asking to get shivved. nate tried to kill his father in the most lawful manner possible, and it hadn't worked. which is yet another reason going back and admitting he was entrenched in generational debt, crying to his father to bail himself out was unconscionable. meanwhile β charlie was a criminal defense attorney, and a successful one at that. it felt like he could look right through nate, see him for who he was and not what he appeared to be without him having to confess much at all. that seemed to transfer over to multiple aspects of their arrangement, with how fear funneled almost entirely into his desire and self-loathing into submissiveness. his breath hitches when a palm traverses his abdomen, the touch possessive and gentle in a way that felt comforting. charlie doesn't seek to shock him with all the lurid details or specifics, keeping it vague and enticing. he rounds on nate, and he finds himself looking up at charlie through his lashes β accommodating the intrusion as the pad of his finger pets nate's tongue. nate's pupils dilate, so far gone already that his gaze flits over charlie's face. "i want you to take him apart," nate suggests, the double entendre entirely intentional. "fast, messy, maybe even a bit brutal. like you're taking him for all he's worth." he surges forward to kiss him properly then, cradling charlie's jaw in turn and humming against the seam of his lips, eyes fluttering shut. this wasn't love. not yet. but it very well could be. they would be a team, partners in crime and wed with bloodshed. nate allows charlie to control the tempo of the kiss, then pulling away to press a chaste peck to his browbone. "you'd do that? not bullshitting me?" nate can't help but ask, bewildered and infatuated. his hands smooth over charlie's thighs, high enough to touch the hems of his briefs. "what could i," he licks his lips, flushed and playful as he speaks with a sultry low baritone, "ever do to repay you?"
@planetsorbit: β the world wasnβt built for guys like us. thatβs why we gotta take whatever we decide is ours. β ( charlie & nate / in that specific sugar baby verse where perhaps nate ends up needing more and more money to pay back the interest rate of his loans and lets it slip or confesses to charlie what's been happening - perhaps even bruised - and charlie takes the matters into criminal hands ... i.e. uses his OWN money to hire hitmen on nate's behalf maybe ... )
the unfortunate thing about trauma was that unless you'd gone on several tours in iraq, served your country and were willing to die for it β walked away more or less in tact sans a few mangled limbs and a silver star or government benefits to show for it, that trauma didn't amount to much. ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country, or whatever that gasbag jfk said. was it any wonder that assasin had a bullet put through his head on that grassy knoll? the concept of dying for honor, with dignity and the knowledge that you were serving a greater purpose seemed redundant to nate. you can't add cocoa butter to dogshit and try to pass it off as chocolate.
meeting charlie and something actually coming of it beyond a one-off had been unexpected and unprecedented for nate, in a multitude of ways. he had merely alluded to the fact that he was on the verge of becoming destitute financially and subsequently, of hope β but maybe there was something about being held down and fucked with more tenderness than nate could've anticipated that made him honest about how small he felt. from what nate could tell, charlie had been small in stature and made to feel that way for most of his life. the contrast of their circumstances as well as what made them kindred was kind of hard to ignore.
nate had come clean β as clean as he could ever be, and now charlie was looking at him with something almost real and the promise of salvation on his tongue. nate gazes up at him dubious and wary, then lets out an amused huff of breath before reaching out to card his fingers through the babyhairs at charlie's nape, reluctant but fond all the same. "you sayin' that i'm yours now? you'll take responsibility for me?" nate wants to laugh, but he doesn't. he wouldn't risk charlie thinking it was at his expense. nate's reminded of the wedding vows he'd exchanged with his wife, kept traditional the way their families wanted so nate could compromise on everything else in regards to his wifes' wishes for her dream wedding, and how hollow the words rang now.
nate moves to sit up on his haunches, at eye-level with charlie now and he still can't discern whether charlie was a fool or a liar, or maybe a good combination of both. he gnaws on his bottom lip, weighing the risk and reward of charlie's vague offer in his head. "i know you're some big hotshot lawyer, but i couldn't ask you to do that. you're not legally bound to me. the guy i'm indebted to β naz, is sadistic and unreasonable. he won't settle for just 20% of what i owe him without expecting the rest on a shorter deadline." time is money, but cliches were cliches for a reason. it's a finite resource and nate is running out. if charlie's proposing an unlawful way to walk away from this unscathed, because nothing about this was just or fair in the first place, nate's willing to wager it's because he knows how to get away with it. he leans in to press a conspiring kiss to charlie's jaw, soft lips brushing against unmarred skin. "what are you suggesting?"
there is a legal, sanitary way to do this. he's seen it before, witnessed it over hors d'oeuvres, mahogany tables stretched long enough to echo, limo rides with the windows blacked out, text messages, expensive contracts. the wealthy don't stay wealthy without scandals of their own, exchanges dubious or plainly immoral in nature, and yet β the system is built to support just that. long as the crime lingers unspoken or reworded, practically anything can be argued with enough cash. that being said, charlie holds within him enough long-lived anger to tear a generation down, rage in a tightly stitched person suit β and nate's situation plays out to him like an opportunity. it's impulsive perhaps, to toy with these consequences, to risk losing everything for the sake of relief. (because it can be done by the book, he's just less interested in doing so.) but it's a matter of emotion. it's protecting his own, curating the world to suit him better, it's entertainment, attraction, stubborn rebellion, and a whiff of vaguely defined 'power'. he's restricted in many ways, walled up on several sides where 'family' is involved β but nate is a separate thing. nate is charlie's. he's untouched and unobserved by the songs, born or bred or wedded in. an attachment new but necessary, and one charlie balances with an uncomfortable amount of generosity. he runs a splayed palm down the spread of nate's chest, smooth skin underneath soft dark hairs, and a thumb, teasing and intrusive against nate's belly button. charlie's eyes flicker, attention stretching from the dip of his waist then up again. "depends. how vengeful do you feel?" maybe it's cruel to ask this, to implicate nate himself, bind them together lest one falls. neither of them will dirty themselves in the act, but their hands could stain red either way. (and if charlie's honest, he thinks it romantic.) he only lessens the pressure with vagaries, proposes two pathways that list between platonic and sexual, a potential correlation but not a cause. "i can do it slow and steady and painless," his hand lifts to the crook of nate's jaw, stroking the flushed skin there, "or quick and messy and dangerous." charlie crowds him then, pressing the blunt end of his thumb into nate's mouth, punctuating the tension with a dragging pad. it wets with saliva, warms over a pink tongue, before charlie pulls it out, smearing it messy against nate's bottom lip. "which one do you want?"
nate gaze rakes over oliver's face, noticing the baited breath and momentary shock β he chalks it up to imposter syndrome. nobody just hands you hands you opportunities like this, not without crying and bleeding out for them first. if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. so he doesn't mind waiting, resting his chin in the palm of his hand as nate watches the gears in oliver's brain whirr back to life. "and you'll help me achieve that goal, right? you don't have to sell your soul to get your foot in the door in this business. just sell it to me instead. i'll handle it carefully, like fine china," nate suggests, a flirtatious smile tugging at his lips. he's not above and beyond altruistic, but nate's parents never believed in his dream or what he could achieve on his own merit. so maybe it feeds into his impulsive offer here, holding a once-barred shut door open so someone other than himself can walk through after. nate rolls his eyes, tongue prodding at the inside of his cheek in a vain attempt to hide his amusement. he clicks his tongue. "what, you don't like tortured? fine, you can pick a different synonym. troubled. othered. whatever you prefer," nate offers, shrugging his shoulders. just when his attention is beginning to dwindle, oliver gets him right back on the hook when he says he's always had a passion for this β with a repertoire of skills that would definitely make him an asset to the team. his lips part in surprise, starry-eyed and hopeful. nate wraps an arm around oliver's shoulder, grinning so hard his dimples make their appearance. "well, shit. you seem like the real deal too. you should swing by my place sometime then, since not everybody is here tonight. you can check out the digs, meet who you'll be working with and we'll get you settled in," he offers, buzzing internally with excitement. then, a pause, nate's expression stiffening a bit. "oh. will it interrupt your work schedule at the coffee shop?" an afterthought. as if nate hadn't just offered oliver the world at the expense of leaving his own behind. the arm around oliver's shoulder retracts then, reluctant to get too attached and overly familiar if nothing is set in stone. their careers as musicians, as creatives, were finite β as were the attachments. friendships, working relationships, romantic entanglements too.
nathaniel's body is solid, warm against his own. "no. or β it should be fine. i can negotiate the hours up until β uh, things get more steady. whenever that is." the pressure is slight and tender, not bruising in its expectation but weighty enough to be felt. (make space for me, long lasting and vast, and i will fill it to every corner, make it worth your while.) their faces linger in the moment, excitement and anticipation clinging to the corner of their lips, until the heat disperses, until nathaniel pulls away β seamless and easy, as he does everything else; sauntering offstage like his adoring audience won't cry themselves to sleep about it. the push and pull is literal, and oliver's stomach near lurches at the distance, a frightful lonely thing newly separated from a pouch. (and if he thinks about it long enough, he thinks whatever he feels about nathaniel is vast enough to be both kid-like and adult. he wants the best for him, and needs him in tandem.) not one to let opportunities sit in open air, oliver digs his phone out; one vigorously cleaned of incriminating content, and hands the calendar screen over. save for the concert date, it's riddled with work dates, the occasional medical appointment, and some invented get-togethers of various importance (house parties and bar nights and old dates from months prior). "here, you can pick a date from here. and if none work, i'll call to move things around."
nate stares unabashed, because people had tells when they were being insincere β but when he meets the endless seafoam blue of oliver's gaze, it's like clear, still water of a lake reflecting his own image back at him. honest. almost eerily all seeing, that shade of blue. nate clears his throat, not typically one to fluster easily but heat settles in his body all the same, warmed by the praise and alcohol with a flush sitting high on his cheekbones. "it sounds crazy since i've known you for about a day and a half, but i feel like you understand the stories i'm trying to tell here," nate admits, the unspoken 'you see me' dying a small quiet death in the back of his throat, because nate doesn't think he can ever truly be seen or understood. not through any other medium, certainly not in his personal life β nate doesn't know who the fuck he is when he's not performing. which is why oliver's words strike a chord here. he flashes oliver a shy smile, head dipping low as he huffs a laugh. "i've got what, that 'it' factor? but uh, seriously, thanks. that means a lot, and i think i needed to hear it." it's not that he doubts himself or oliver's words, but nate's barely begun and he's already starting to feel burnt out. he knows how temporary all of it is, how fast the average career of a star begins to fizzle out. nate had to learn to enjoy the ride while it lasted, but he's fucking terrible at it. nate's gaze flits over oliver from head to toe, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. "what about you, then? what are you good at? i know you like cars and music, but that's not enough to make up the whole of a person. we should figure out a way to rope the illustrious oliver into this. get you a seat at the table, yeah?" it sounds like another half-baked offer, as impulsive and whimsical as it did when he first invited oliver. but nate knows the value of having good collaborators and a support system around, not to mention he's been floating his friends from his hometown for much less. nate didn't really give two shits either way, because while being surrounded by meaningless noise might being stunting his growth, it's better than being alone with his thoughts. symbiotic relationships seemed to be a dime a dozen in the industry anyhow. it's an offer that oliver can either take or leave, because who knows? maybe he likes working at that coffee shop chain, and nate's not going to make an ass of himself for assuming. being a self-centered asshole was inevitable in this line of work, it seemed, but he's not going to force anyone's hand. nate wasn't kidding about thinking oliver must've been grown in a lab, though. not because he seemed overtly fake, but possibly a little too real. "you've kinda got this β tortured creative or academic look about you."
nathaniel throws the suggestion like it isn't made of glass, like it isn't expensive and a luxury thousands chase, and oliver's breathing cuts for a moment, a second of necessary doubt. surely he doesn't mean it. surely a few short words aren't enough to pin oliver to the top of some impulsive list. it's an impossibility until it isn't β until nathaniel looks at him thoughtful and read, mouth slightly ajar in arguable awe. he looks impressed, maybe fond, and oliver tries to reel in desperation with a shrug, lips lifted into a relaxed grin. "hardly illustrious, but i appreciate the gesture. and if you're sure, i'd be honoured to help out. i meant what i said after all, you're on the road to potentially becoming the biggest of them all." (he lets himself sink into the fantasy for the briefest of moments: nathaniel kissing the shiny end of an award, and thanking oliver by name when the lights begin their telltale sweep. their eyes will meet, perhaps a gesture private and shared by two like a wink, or a mocking kiss to the air. and whatever claim the world may have on nathaniel, they'll understand then that there is a version of him none other will know.) he's smiling a little wider now, sheepish when he takes in the reality of their situation. laughter and muffled conversation mill around them, the eye of a hurricane shared by two. "tortured? β because i just happen to like the niche artists you do?" oliver risks himself with teasing, nails picking the back of his ear in nervous habit. "i mean... i've always been interested in the music industry," (in regards to nathaniel), "so I've picked up music production, video editing here and there, remixing work where i can." he's mediocre at best, but he'd followed a few youtube classes from the confines of his apartment, bleary-eyed but determined to make an impression. he hadn't expected to arrive up close this early. but now that nathaniel's in his orbit, pretty and aloof and unaware, oliver doesn't mean to let him go.

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the tension is thick, enough to be cut like a hot knife through butter, numerous pairs of eyes focused on oliver including nate's own. it's how nate feels most of the time, dressed down and vulnerable in the public eye β so while it feels like a stupid hazing ritual frat boys partake in, it was also necessary to see if oliver could withstand the scrutiny. especially if he wants to be in nate's orbit. he's not the one in the hot seat, but nate feels a twinge of sympathy and anxiety for oliver. a few beats, and then nate's met with the sight of oliver's briefs and pale thighs. he laughs, a proud smile dimpling his cheeks as nate steps forward to ruffle oliver's hair, the gesture almost fond. he's polite enough to use his clean, non-chip stained hand. "good boy, good boy. knew you wouldn't pussy out on me. c'mon, pull your pants back up, let's get away from the peanut gallery," nate tells him, followed by a chorus of playful boos because the spectacle is over. he shakes his head dismissively, rolling his eyes as he leads oliver across the room where it's less densely populated with idiots. they were fucking idiots, but their hearts were in the right place. for the most part. he pours himself a shot of vodka, a vice low on the totem pole of the things on offer β but nate's not looking to get shitfaced or do anything crazier than this tonight. fatigue was beginning to settle in his bones, but nate turns back to cast a glance at oliver, gesturing to the bottles of liquor on the table. "you alright? you did good. i'd like to say they're not always like this, but they are. i want to hear from you, though." he tosses the shot back quickly, the pleasant sting burning as it goes smooth down his throat, setting the shotglass aside and leaning against the wall with his arms crossed against his chest. work hard, play hard, all of that mattered β but nate's already shifted his mindset. he's looking at oliver expectantly, anchored in place within their quiet bubble amongst the commotion. oliver wasn't a fan, and nate knows his friends are incredibly biased. oliver seemed like a softspoken person, thoughtful, and if there was ever a time to speak up it would be now, before nate has to start either chugging red bulls or call it an early night.
he feels unsteady, but nathaniel touches him, beaming big and handsome again. something lifts from the hunch of his shoulders, and as soon as he buttons himself back together, oliver takes to his side, fingering a small bottle of ciroc. he doesn't drink much (he doesn't care for the taste) but nathaniel does, so he follows suit. he's righting himself again, swigging a cheek of it with furrowed brow. "mm. that's a ritual then?" (he wonders, a little sore, how many others have tread this path he's on. are any of them currently present? did any make their lingering mark?) nathaniel looks at him thoughtful, expectant. a blush climbs the back of oliver's neck then, heat and rearing anticipation itching to the surface. his recollections of the performance come up blinding, astronomical and half-way religious, 'cherry wine' crooned out steady enough to record. the tracks aren't new, and though they ought to be at this point β oliver's starry-eyed from the side. what's true is this: "that last song was... incredible. it sounds like it hurts to sing, which makes it all the more special. all the more memorable." he dares to look, eyes pointed and blue. "you'll take off, i can see it. bigger venues for bigger songs, bigger messages for a bigger audience. you have that β" oliver lifts his free hand, index jabbing light into the air, "thing. not just talent and a story to tell, but like you were made for this." he'd felt it even through the screen, feels it doubly so in person.
closed lurk3r inspired thread for @planetsorbit. / nate & oliver.
nate feels like he's flying through all of it, the set list, the heavy stage lights making him sweat out all the toxins from the night before as he works the crowd. the brief time he has full control and attention of every soul in the venue singing along to the chorus, resonating with it is more powerful and electrifying feeling than any drug he's ever tried. nathaniel's stage outfit is understated, an homage to freddie mercury's performance at live aid β adorned in a white tanktop and jeans with a studded belt. his countenance and performance does all the heavy lifting without the need for all the bells and whistles, but nate can feel his wax wings melting as soon as he steps off stage. the sudden drop in dopamine in his brain, because the goal has been achieved and the party is over, but the performance never is. sometimes he feels like he's so close to reaching the level of perfection he wants, like his idols and the greatest of greats before him but then when nate goes off-key during rehearsals β it feels like the end of the world. he has to stay ahead of the curve. nate's wiping away drying sweat from his forehead with some merch printed with his name on it, feeling like an apple that's been cored. once he lowers it from his face, he spots oliver looking lost and sitting in a folding chair adjacent to the refreshment table, offering him an easy grin because nate hadn't been sure he would show. oliver taking orders well is something to note. nate tosses the towel over his shoulder so he can grab oliver's hand, pulling him out of his seat and into a hug. "hey, man. you made it. did you get to watch?" his breath ghosts the shell of oliver's ear, casually intimate as nate pats his shoulder before pulling away β watching oliver's face carefully as his hypemen seated around them begin to chime in with their input. nate drowns them out. he's receptive to it most of the time, but it's not what nate cares to hear right now. "so what did you think? also, sorry, forgot to tell you in the text, but you've gotta lose your pants," nate sighs, putting his hands on his hips, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from laughing. there's some jeering in response to this request, encouragement because nate has them all under his thrall, a silly inside joke that they've beaten into the ground between tours. thing one and thing two interject with more context, that it's a ritual done to honor their deceased friend gay james β who was a fucking legend. nate grabs a bag of chips from the refreshment table, popping one into his mouth before glancing back over at oliver, waiting patiently to see how this lands as he licks the seasoning off the pads of his fingers. "don't tell me you're goin' all shy on me now, olls." the implication is clear, do it, and he's accepted into the fold.
he's enthralled. when nathaniel sings, limbs extended like he's seconds from levitating β from doing the impossible β oliver sees himself in the cry of his voice, the taut vein extending jaw to collarbone, words disseminating into energy. he's special, a talent like no other, and under sliding lights, well tuned speakers, clothes skin tight like a glove, nathaniel presents himself a god. human-like and stagnant at times, vain with a sliver of sadism tucked into his chest, but godly all the same. and if oliver hadn't been so wary of his worn shoes, of his plain shirt, his plain jeans, he would've gotten teary-eyed and half-nauseous. (it would've been a welcome pain, a dizziness and stinging worthy.) instead he disappears with the closing commentary, shouldering past an affected crowd and bleary-eyed security to meet nathaniel as promised. he's hopeful in an embarrassing way, eager enough to falter when the crowd circles him, vulture-like. he only likes the attention somewhat, pressed in by the squeeze of nathaniel's hands. they're grounding until they aren't. what comes instead is a sharp rebound, joy and exaltation then sinking into a well of anxiety, a shaky anticipation of gory ends now clinging to his feet. he needs to know the right answer! he wants to know what to say! he looks at nathaniel, looks again at falsely solemn stares from so-called friends he's advertised time and time again. they're all bigger than him in ways, unnervingly quiet when their eyes meet. they're cunts about it. but oliver hesitates lamb-like, before wrestling the zipper down and shoving his jeans to the slim of his ankles. (gratefully, he isn't hard anymore.)