"... I should take a shower." Nate has never been so grateful for Yves stating out loud that which he'd otherwise keep to himself, giving him a chance to disclose his own plans for the rest of the eventide.
"While you do that, I should unpack my belongings." He lets himself sigh, glancing over at a couple of fully packed suitcases, stacked on top of one another, lingering right next to the door. "I know there's probably no readily available space for me but I'll make it work."
"What do you mean?" The confusion written all over Yves's façade confounds Nate to no end and he lets himself laugh, even if he does it in a quite nervous fashion.
"When would you have time to clean up and make space for me, considering that we didn't know we'd be living together again?"
"... Your side of the wardrobe is still empty, Nate." There was something about Yves's expression which he once again wasn't able to read, yet his own was suddenly an open book.
He...
He kept his side of the wardrobe empty?
That was somewhat unbelievable to Nate. It's been almost a year since he moved out of Yves's apartment and after everything that happened between them during that dreadful wintertime, Nate was convinced that Yves filled those emptied shelves back with his own belongings or... That he'd let someone else make use of them.
Kinda thinking about writing a small fic that revolves around a misunderstanding. (This may or may not involve a jealous Adam that doesn't realize he's feeling jealous... 👀)
Like... Imagine, during the events of book 2.
I was thinking of the awkward/tense atmosphere present in the car when they first drive to the fair, and it got the gears spinning in my brain...
At that moment, Ethan has managed to get on very good terms with Nate. Strictly platonic of course, but they enjoy quite an array of similar things; lecture, antiques, they both care greatly for people's emotions, and somehow Adam can't seem to understand why it bothers him so much to feel Ethan's body relaxed and comfortable each time Nate gets close. (Do you see the vision?)
Which brings me back to the drive, where there'd be a possibility of Ethan prying about Adam's mood, which annoys Adam and this makes him reluctantly spill some of his observations, only for Ethan to try and justify himself.
And THEN, they need to do their whole undercover thing....
I'm thinking this could somehow be perfectly cheesy~
Rating: Mature (18+)
Relationship: Yves/Nate (with Yves/Adam implied through dialogue)
Warnings: Strong language, manipulative and borderline abusive behaviour, dubious consent, description of explicit acts and bodily fluids, mentions of weight loss and mental health struggles, mentions of infidelity committed in the past
Tagging as requested: @l-llavellans, @agentnatesewell, @carriehobbs, @hanna-writess, @nevira-names, @turtleybeachin and @xx-toto-xx
Yves looks into the mirror, his reflection a mockery of a man he once was.
His eyes are bloodshot, dark circles lining the delicate skin underneath them, from the lack of sleep, from the lack of solace, from endless tears and hysterical outbursts. His hair sticks to the back of his neck, greasy and unkept, a result of his, albeit at the time necessary, poorly managed attempts at soaking it in a hefty amount of conditioner.
Yves looks into the mirror, his reflection an unsightly vision to his own eyes.
His body is skinnier than before and even though the mere concept of losing so much weight terrified him only a few months prior, he can see it now, so clearly, how sickly it appears, how frail, lacking nutrients to sustain itself any longer than necessary. The scars lining his flesh are still there, faint but ever-present, a reminder of Unit Bravo's failure to safeguard his well-being.
Yves looks into the mirror, his reflection gazing back at him and for a moment, for a brief moment, he feels as if the man in the mirror was his true self, regarding him with contempt, mocking him, sneering at his very presence.
What did he ever see in you?
He looks away.
Trying to decide what to wear, he can't help but let his fingers tremble, as they wander between fabrics, settling on a beige turtleneck and a pair of dark jeans. Dressing up, he doesn't take his usual time, feeling something akin to apprehension tug at the corners of his already fragile mind.
In the corner of his eyes, he can see the door to his bedroom, left slightly ajar, after Nate brewed him a cup of his afternoon tea, before returning to his research.
Nate…
Something happened between them, something which Yves had no name for. It left him in a state of unease, in a state of constant fright and hypervigilance. He was afraid of him, that much he knew, that much he could comprehend, as he tucked the ends of his turtleneck into his jeans, as he wrapped the belt around his waist.
They didn't speak of that which transpired but the atmosphere in Yves's apartment shifted drastically, putting him on edge whenever he thought about it. He tried keeping his mind busy, occupying it with mindless tasks: reorganizing his wardrobe, taking a shower, cleaning out cupboards in the kitchen, taking a shower, taking out the trash, taking a shower, taking a shower, taking a—
Now that he thought about it, he showered more in the past week, than he did in the last two months.
But it was surely just a trick of his mind, nothing more.
Putting his hair in a braid, he lets it hang over his shoulder as he leans down, grasping a pair of skates, pulling them from under the pile of freshly washed clothes he's yet to sort through. Why did he wash them, he had no idea. It was a waste of water, a waste of his time and yet, and yet he did it.
Funny, how his mind worked, when he needed to escape that which troubled him.
Looking to the side, right by the radiator, his eyes find a small backpack, already filled with everything he needed for the day: a change of clothes, his old music player, a wallet Captain Sung gifted him for his twentieth birthday, which by some miracle survived the last nine years, the keys to his car and now, he also had his skates.
All that was left for him to do, was to walk past Nate, put on a coat and leave for the rest of the day.
All that was left for him to do, was to walk past Nate…
Something akin to revulsion washed over him, as he grasped by his backpack, throwing it over his shoulder.
It was an easy enough task and he couldn't understand why his mind was so opposed to it. He'll walk past Nate, he'll put on a coat, he'll leave for the rest of the day, he'll do it, he has to, even if Nate's averse to the idea, even if Nate tries to stop him, even if Nate puts his hands on—
He was clearly overthinking it, nothing more.
Yves walks through the mess of his bedroom floor, pushing the door wide open, taking in the view of the small kitchen area, his hazel eyes catching sight of a few messy bowls and a mixer, still plugged into the electrical outlet. He couldn't understand why Nate insisted on making him food, it wasn't good by any means, most of the time it made him sick and yet, Nate insisted.
Now that he thought about it, Nate insisted on a lot of things.
Shaking his head, as if to ground himself in the moment, Yves pushes forward, walking past the small dining table and the source of his trepidation.
Nate sits there, with his legs crossed, amidst volumes of books on human psychology, his eyes focused upon the screen of a small laptop right in front of him. He doesn't seem to notice him, which puts Yves at ease, as he walks up to the door, dropping his belongings onto the tiny entryway mat before crouching and putting on his boots. Standing up, he reaches out for his scarf and—
"Where are you going?"
Yves turns on his heel, a yelp slipping through his lips, as Nate all but manifests right in front of him, without so much as a whisper.
"Fuck! Nate! I told you not to do that, I don't like when you—"
"I asked, where are you going?"
None of your business.
"Ice-skating."
"Ice-skating? You're in no condition to—"
"I'm well aware of my so called, condition, Nate." The tone of his voice, although biting, is still shaky, filled with dismay. "But I'm tired of sitting around, I need to get out of here, if only for a few hours, for my own—"
"Now?"
"Yes, now!" Putting on his coat, Yves can sense that this fearful uneasiness, which has been holding him hostage for a better part of the day, is slowly giving in to annoyance. "What's not to understand? I want to go out, so I'm going out—"
"No."
"No? Oh what are you, my fucking mother?"
"You're still weak, you haven't eaten today and—"
"Then I'll eat later!"
"We both know you won't eat at all, unless I make you—"
"I said, I'LL EAT LATER!"
Nate's nostrils flare up but he remains silent, standing there, watching as Yves buttons up his coat, as he picks up his backpack and skates, as he turns toward the door.
"I'll be back, probably before the sun sets." Yves grasps by the door handle, looking back at Nate, feeling his own blood boil with rage, although he can't quite explain why. "If you're so worried about me, you can call me, whenever you want to. That is, of course, if you can figure out how to do it." Venom coats each word as they seep through his teeth, drowned in clamor as Yves slams the door behind him.
Rushing toward the staircase, he runs down to his car, feeling the adrenaline slowly overwhelm his senses.
Why did I say it, why did I—
It doesn't matter, he's in his car, he's safe and sound, he can enjoy the rest of his day, he can turn his keys and—
Nothing.
"Are you serious?! No, no, you decrepit piece of shit, come on!" He turns the keys once more, waiting for the engine to kick in but no such thing happens, his car resting quietly in the parking lot as Yves turns the keys over and over again, until, finally, he gives up.
While still in his seat, he lets out a scream, muffled by the scarf obscuring his façade, his hands shaking the steering wheel. Of course this would happen, of course he couldn't catch a break, in fact, when was the last time anything went according to his plan, cursed be this damn town and its—
Hold on.
He could just walk there.
It's only an hour away. Well, an hour and a half, if he takes his time. It's an option, to tread through these frigid terrains and get what he wants. Funny, isn't it? That for some unknown to him reason, this always happens to him. He can't just get what he wants, he has to work for it, he has to always fucking work for it and even then, it's—
Getting out of his car, he slams the door behind him, letting out a groan.
Fuck it.
If he was known for one thing, it would be his stubbornness, which manifested itself so clearly in this very moment, as Yves forced his limbs into an early cooperation, pushing himself forward, through the freshly fallen heaps of snow, which settled on his town and its surrounding areas not even a day prior. On any other occasion, he'd be happy to see it but now? As he walked onward, into the wilderness, he was cursing these freezing temperatures, wondering why he still lived here, why he clung to that which caused him so much anguish.
Perhaps this too, was outside of his control.
The nearby lake was always a welcome sight to his sore eyes and when it finally came into view, Yves let out a sigh of relief, urging himself into a fast-paced motion, until finally, at last, he stood on its shore.
Putting his backpack on the ground, he sits down on a familiar tree stump, looking over the lake, taking in the view and letting its serenity wash over him, calming his senses. He rests his eyes for but a moment, letting the cold air reach his lungs as he breathes in deeply. He feels his muscles relax, letting go of this endless tension, he feels his joints faintly cracking as his limbs shift, he feels his heart slow down to its usual rhythm. Perhaps this is all he truly needed: to be alone, to be surrounded by utter stillness, to have something that could lull him back to sleep, something that could hopefully wake him from this nightmare.
If only he could stay here, for the rest of his days.
Before standing up, Yves reaches into his pocket and while casting his gaze downwards, his eyes wander to the tiny screen of his phone, while his fingers brush against the buttons. Nothing new from Nate, no missed calls or messages, nothing new from—
A part of him chastises himself for hoping that he'd see his name amongst the others.
There's only a few of them, long forgotten, martyrs of time and its ruthlessness.
Tina asking if he'd have time to go out for dinner and drinks.
Verda expressing discomfort, the lab back at the station solemn, tranquil, his words drenched with audibly readable fatigue, wishing for Yves to be there.
Bobby asking how he's been, his inquiry followed by a blurred photo of their cherished spot in Downtown Montréal.
His old roommate informing him of the sudden promotion he received at work, now blessed with extra free time, excitingly bringing up the idea of hiking together again.
Guys from his old hockey team, wishing him a Happy New Year, wondering if they could potentially meet up again before Winter ends.
He's valued, cherished, wanted.
Why then, did it all feel so meaningless?
He looks at all of messages he sent to Adam, each one more lamentable than the last. They pile upon the screen, seeping through the tiny cracks in the surface, these desperate, pitiful attempts at reaching out.
How many times did he plead with this man? How many times did he practically beg for him to respond, to hear him out?
Too many.
Putting his phone away, Yves reaches for his skates, slipping into them with practiced ease, his fingers pulling by the timeworn laces, tying them around his ankles, fast and skintight. Standing up, he feels his body momentarily tense up, as if steadying him upon these long forgotten grounds, before finally, at long last, he throws himself onto the frozen waters.
As he moved, the ice was singing beneath him, a familiar rumble, the melodic thrum of the surface bending, seeping into his muscles. The cold wind bit at his cheeks, howling all around him, yet it bothered him little.
Faster!
For what was the harshness of nature, when faced with this ecstasy, this bliss and utter elation, which he felt so clearly in this very moment, as he turned once more, as he let the rush of exhilaration overwhelm him. It was intoxicating, it was enough to soothe his fragile mind, to make him forget about his troubles, it was enough, it was always enough and now—
Faster, move faster!
He felt the world shift, the ground underneath his skates vanish as he jumped, as he spun in the air before landing back, letting the muscle memory spare him from the pain, letting it keep him from harm.
"He lands it!" Yves throws his arms open wide, as if an invisible audience cheered at his theatrics. "Triple axel! Even after his break, even after all this time!" A hushed laughter slips through his lips, adrenaline rushing through his veins, as he glides forward, marveling at his own skill, a skill he has honed for years, since he was but a boy.
As he turns once more, he stops, in a rather abrupt manner, seeing snow flow from underneath his skates. He had to breathe, to take but a moment to rest but as he stood there, in the middle of this frozen paradise, a thought slithered into his mind, a thought most cruel.
Adam wasn't coming back.
Yves turns, his eyes wandering to the horizon, where the sun slowly sets behind the snow-covered hills, giving into night once more, giving into glistening stars in the sky, the crimson and maroon, this hollow emptiness, this everlasting quiet.
He stands there, upon ice, his muscles refusing to give in. He stands there, looking at the sun, feeling its fading warmth wash over him.
Adam wasn't coming back.
Adam wasn't going to respond to him. Adam wasn't going to call him back. Adam, the stubborn fool that he was, wasn't going to risk his own safety and comfort to be with him, to confront this wretched truth that there was something tying them together, pushing them towards one another, making them feel sick when the other was away.
Adam wasn't coming back.
Yves had to accept that.
And yet, when he thought about it, for but a mere moment, his body contorted with anguish, his heart felt too big for his chest, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't—
He couldn't let go.
And yet, he had no other choice.
Adam wasn't coming back.
But Nate—
Nate was still here.
Nate…
A hollow sense of guilt tugged at his stomach, making him sick, making him feel such shame and remorse. What happened between them last week was surely the result of Yves's own actions, of his insistance to wallow in sorrow and melancholy. If only he let go of these foolish desires, of this sliver of hope which held him together for the past few months, like a hastily made sewing pattern, threatening to burst under the slightest bit of pressure.
He was a fool, holding such belief in a heart of a man who showed him time and time again, that he wasn't to be trusted, that he would pull away at the slightest of inconveniences, that he would use his past as an excuse, that he would abandon him, push him away, even as his touch burned upon Yves's skin still.
But as he stood there, upon ice, alone with his thoughts, alone with the ghosts of the past, he realised, for as much as it pained him to do so, that he had to finally, at last, let go.
And now—
And now he stands before his apartment building, feeling all too small.
Pushing himself up the stairs, he lets out a shaking breath, trepidation and unease once more tugging at the corner of his mind. On his way back, he decided that he'd express regret over his actions, that he'd apologise to Nate, hoping that the other man's usual nature and his tendency to avoid further conflict is still there underneath the frigid exterior, that it would let him say what he needs to say, that Nate would adore him still.
He wipes at the corners of his eyes, his chest filled with familiar ache and discomfort. Why is he so scared of him, why does he feel so much distress, there's nothing to worry about, this is his boyfriend, this is his fiancé, this is his future husband, this is his—
Trying to steady himself upon his own feet, he pushes forward, until he's standing before a familiar-looking door. Letting one last trembling breath slip through his lips, he presses on the chilled surface, before walking into the apartment proper.
Nate's right where he left him, sitting at the small dining table, surrounded by books, a wine glass filled with blood lingering around his fingers, the small laptop now closed and laid on the couch, plugged into the charging cord.
"Nate?"
Upon hearing his name, the other man turns to face him.
There's a mix of emotions written all over his face, a mix which Yves isn't able to read. How he wished that he could. Perhaps then, their relationship would've been easier to manage, easier to stomach.
"I wanted to—"
Why does he feel so much fear?
"I wanted to apologise. For my behaviour and for—"
Why does he feel so much doubt?
"What happened between us, last week, it was—"
Why does he feel so much dread?
"I didn't think about you, about your needs, I—" Yves feels bile at the back of his throat, as he walks towards Nate, feeling his muscles tense up, his heart beating out of rhythm. "I was so preoccupied with my own thoughts, my own sorrow that I—"
He falls to his knees, tears threatening to spill, his fingers tugging at the ends of Nate's sweater, as if it could help him stay grounded and composed.
"I didn't think about you. But I should've. You've been so considerate, so thoughtful—"
Isn't that how you're supposed to behave?
"You've taken care of me—"
Isn't that what you're supposed to do?
"You were here for me, when no one else was—"
Isn't that how relationships work?
"How can I make it up to you?"
I know how.
"How can I make you feel appreciated?"
I know how.
"Nate?"
Just say it.
Nate doesn't say a word.
But in this grand, devouring void of his dark-brown eyes, Yves can see it, clear as the night's sky: desire mixed with restlessness, infatuation mixed with fury, this need to devour, to consume, to make their flesh become one.
Ah, of course.
A familiar feeling of uneasiness washes over Yves's mind. He felt it back then as well, back at the Warehouse, when Nate turned their game of pool into something more, when his nails left faint scratch marks upon the surface of the table, when pleasure mixed with guilt, as he wished for Adam to be in Nate's place.
He hoped for, what, exactly?
Nate pulls him up from the floor, yanking the heavy coat from his shoulders, his fingers tugging at the soft fabric of Yves's turtleneck.
He hoped that, perhaps, this time he wouldn't ask for it.
A murmur slips from Nate's lips, Yves unable to hear it, stuck in his own head, in his own troubled mind, howling at him to pull away, to put an end to this torment.
Why wouldn't he?
Yves's fingers reach out towards Nate's trousers, unbuttoning them with such ease, as if they were a music sheet, effortless to pull apart.
It's all he ever asked for.
His fingertips brush against the other man's desire, against his growing hardness and then, and then—
Yves couldn't remember much of what happened afterwards.
Through this murky memory, now locked away, obscured in gloom and shadow, as if to spare him from his own conscience, he could recount the countless volumes on human psychology as they toppled onto the floorboards, he could recount his own flesh pressed against the frigid surface of the wooden table, his arousal left untouched, saliva running down his chin, Nate's hips brushing against his own, Nate's fingers in his hair, Nate's hand gripping the back of his head, Nate's shuddering breaths as he came, Nate's praises, Nate's confessions of ardor and adoration, he could recount Nate, Nate, Nate—
Where was he in this relationship?
Where was he in this union of flesh?
Yves couldn't tell.
Perhaps it was better this way.
As he opened his eyes, sun still hidden behind the snow-covered hills, he pondered on the passage of time, wondering how much of such a precious commodity slipped through his grasp, since he came back to his apartment.
With what little energy he had left, he shifted his gaze to the side, realising that Nate's bare form was right next to him, still, unmoving, his hair falling like curtains around his face. Yves felt a pang of sadness writhe behind his ribs, as he watched the other man, a part of him wishing to wake him from his slumber, wishing to speak of what happened between them but another part of him knew that doing so would be of no use, not now, maybe not ever.
Softly pressing his lips upon Nate's cheek, he let the other man rest for a little longer, before sitting up from the mattress and letting his feet dangle above the carpet. He had to take a shower, he had to cleanse himself, he had to—
He had to think, for but a moment, of himself, of his future, of what he had to do next.
And so, he did.
As he stood there, soaked in water, his mind conjured a plan, a plan that, hopefully, could get him through the rest of this dreaded season: he would better himself, he would stop wallowing in this sadness, in this grief and anguish, no matter how difficult it would be. He would request for the Agency to place him in another Unit but should they refuse, he'd resign from his position, letting someone else take his place. He'd focus on his relationship with Nate and hopefully, with a little bit of work, they could finally mend their bond. As for Adam—
Adam…
A week later, through the haze of tears and shaken breaths, Yves sent him one last message.
I love you.
It was painful, excruciatingly so.
He could only wonder if Adam ever felt the same way.
i wanted to actually write this all out proper but i have overthought it for too long. have this fashionably late Halloween thought of Unit Bravo and one of my detectives, (No)elle.
(has anyone done this yet tho because it feels like The Team Costume. they’re going as Sexy Brooding Vampire. no potted plant is safe.)
———
There’s a meeting at the Agency for the team, October 30th. Adam there first ofc, but without Nate at his side for once. Nate was with Elle that morning and promised they’d both be there on time, early even!
Rebecca there already too, accidentally getting front row seats to the show.
Nate and Elle come in next, early as promised, and— matching. Each other. Adam. Both in a plain t-shirt and cargo pants, sunglasses folded into their collar. Nate flashes his best friend a grin, one part unrepentant, one part pleading for forgiveness. Elle is stone-faced, marches to a window and scans the perimeter. Adam frowns. Pretty sure he does not look like that actually.
And Mason prowls in also matching and Adam shoots him a look of pure Et Tu betrayal, getting a wide smirk in return. Then Adam’s just sighing and bracing for it because if Mason is in on this then—
then Felix absolutely skidding into the room and nearly tripping himself in his excitement to then put on his Most Serious face (trying too hard) and push his sunglasses up his nose and march in to cross his arms across the table from Adam.
Rebecca, adding insult to his injury, is quite obviously fighting back a smile. “Shall we get started?”
And every SINGLE vampire breaks the chair they go to pull out. (Elle had asked in advance if they could tell when a Furniture Casualty was approaching, like were there Super Sensing Vampire Tells, and everyone had just nodded. So she told them that they had to do it in sync, like if they manage to get him rattled enough to break something they ALL have to break something please it’s for The Bit and the facility can take it out of her pay it’ll so be worth it PLEASE.)
Elle probably breaks something in her ribs as she doubles over shaking with silent, breathless, sobbing laughter.
Yet another snippet from Three of Wands! I may have shared a little bit of this in the past (can’t remember) but it hits a little different with the context of Reina’s backstory.
Tagging @butchdumortain @grapecaseschoices @agentnatesewell @agentark @wayhavenots @carriehobbs and anyone else who wants to share!!
hello everyone, the spirits of creative writing finally possessed me last night and i was finally able to complete a fic i had kinda left abandoned three whole years ago <333
Zabaan-e-Yaar [The Beloved's Tongue]
pairing: Nate Sewell x f!detective (Mona Batra)
word count: ~1000 words
rating: G
summary: language nerds being language nerds, what can I say?
tagging: @agentnatesewell @serenpedac @farahswife @zeesqueere @lalizah because they had been cheering me on from the sidelines and so i am handing them this fic like a child hand's their parents their art. i hope it's worth putting up on ur refrigerators. 🫶
Summer in Wayhaven has not been particularly sweltering yet, but it seems to have announced its arrival.
A quiet, rare summery afternoon finds Nate and Mona seated leisurely in the Warehouse library. Rare, indeed.
The sofa has long been abandoned to prevent the simmering heat from causing the fabric to stick to their skin. Mona sprawls across a luxurious rug on the floor, balancing her weight on her forearms as she pores over a tome. Nate leans back against the foot of the sofa in front of Mona, flicking through the pages of a book he has been reading this week.
This is nice. Peaceful. The silence is punctuated only by the faint trill of the birds nearby.
Sunlight peeks through the window curtains, carefully -- as though afraid to disrupt the apparent stillness. Try as it might, however, it has. A stray ray of sunshine momentarily trapped in the confines of Mona’s locket finds its escape, reflecting against the walls and capturing Nate's attention in the process.
Looking up from his book, Nate cannot help but feel arrested by Mona's presence. A sight to behold: the light casts a gentle glow over her relaxed features and, along with her open tresses, paints an almost ethereal picture.
He forces his gaze back to the pages of the book, an effort admittedly half-hearted, and he finds his attention invariably slipping – his gaze travelling irresistibly back to Mona each time, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Each time he looks up, he gives in to the temptation to linger a moment longer, until—
“The book you’re reading is about an inch or two lower than where your gaze is set right now, Agent Sewell,” Mona breaks the silence, without lifting her gaze from the tome before her. Her voice would sound stern if not for the smile tugging at her lips.
I was tagged by @mornynge and @serenpedac, so thank you for tagging me!
Last thing I wrote was for chapter 2 of my twc fic, so here we go:
"What?" Felix asks with a shrug, "It's true. In fact," he pauses and braces his elbows on his knees to prop his head up with two hands, "you've been particularly broody tonight. You and Red haven't even made our little Natey blush once yet-"
Tagging: @turtleybeachin, @l-llavellans, and @hanna-writess
