something about open roads
Dan/Nate. 655 words.
Summary: It's only that Dan is saying the wrong things, Dan is saying everything except what Nate wants to hear.
Note: Originally posted here. DN makes me sappy, idk.
Dan is rambling, saying something about metaphors and open roads and Kerouac – or maybe he's talking about Proust, Nate can't really keep track. They're parked for the night because they're too tired to drive and because the middle of nowhere can be kind of picturesque, if vast and encompassing. Dan's hand is on Nate's arm but as he talks it slides up over Nate's shoulder to his neck. Dan's skin is hot where Nate's is cool, warming slowly. Dan is just kind of stroking over Nate's skin, up and down, over and over, and Nate swallows, swallows again. Is Dan still talking?
"Dan," Nate interrupts. Sometimes that's all Dan needs, a break in his flow; he stops and looks at Nate, contrite. His hand doesn't move, but his thumb slides forward to press into the dip between Nate's collarbones.
"Sorry," Dan says, sounding truly apologetic. "Am I talking too much?"
"Yes," Nate says, a teasing twist to his words, but it's not that. It's only that Dan is saying the wrong things, Dan is saying everything except what Nate wants to hear.
"You want to -?" Dan raises his eyebrows slightly.
Nate does want to, or at least doesn't not want to, but he's beginning to resent that that's all they do. Driving and driving and then pulling over and fooling around and driving again – Nate loves it, but sometimes he'd like something else. He'd like to have something to say in answer to Dan's rambling, or even just to look at Dan for a little bit, the line of Dan's profile against the fields rolling out in all directions around them. He'd like to learn Dan's mouth with his fingertips.
Nate's actually having a hard time pinpointing what his problem is, because the fooling around isn't it. He likes Dan's mouth and the way Dan kisses, how Dan's palm presses to his cheek when they kiss, fingers curling just slightly around his ear. He likes the serious little crease Dan gets between his brows. He doesn't like that he only gets it for fifteen minutes before Dan's hand is reaching for his belt buckle, before Dan is lowering his head.
Except Nate says, "Dan?"
And Dan looks up again, frowning, worried. "Did I – is something…wrong?"
Everything, Nate thinks. Nothing. The only light is coming from the car itself and Dan is all cheekbones and the weird bumps in the bridge of his nose and his eyes are so dark there's no pupil, just black. Nate feels like his own eyes dilate when he looks at Dan, which is really stupid because there's no way he could tell.
"I just –" Nate says. "I want to. Let me."
Dan seems a little confused but he sits back and doesn't say anything as Nate gets all the buttons of his shirt open, pushes Dan's seat back so the steering wheel doesn't get in the way, kisses Dan's stomach and the warm worn button of his jeans. Dan's chest rises and falls with sharp little breaths that Nate can hear. He strokes the back of Nate's head, the nape of his neck, his shoulders; his fingertips dig into Nate's shoulder blade with sudden force when he comes.
"Nate," he says, soft and low in his throat. He presses his lips to the hum of Nate's pulse, moves his teeth along Nate's collarbone, murmurs just as low, "I think you're beautiful."
Nate touches Dan's mouth and the stubble shadowing his cheeks. He quiets Dan with kissing. Words will never make sense to Nate. They're either not enough or too much, especially in this car just between the two of them; anyway, Nate doesn't have to make sense of words, because that's why there's Dan.
But he can't let it hang there, so he presses I know and me too into each kiss, figures it's safe to say as long as no one else can hear it.
Dan/Nate. 655 words.
Summary: It's only that Dan is saying the wrong things, Dan is saying everything except what Nate wants to hear.
Note: Originally posted here. DN makes me sappy, idk.
Dan is rambling, saying something about metaphors and open roads and Kerouac – or maybe he's talking about Proust, Nate can't really keep track. They're parked for the night because they're too tired to drive and because the middle of nowhere can be kind of picturesque, if vast and encompassing. Dan's hand is on Nate's arm but as he talks it slides up over Nate's shoulder to his neck. Dan's skin is hot where Nate's is cool, warming slowly. Dan is just kind of stroking over Nate's skin, up and down, over and over, and Nate swallows, swallows again. Is Dan still talking?
"Dan," Nate interrupts. Sometimes that's all Dan needs, a break in his flow; he stops and looks at Nate, contrite. His hand doesn't move, but his thumb slides forward to press into the dip between Nate's collarbones.
"Sorry," Dan says, sounding truly apologetic. "Am I talking too much?"
"Yes," Nate says, a teasing twist to his words, but it's not that. It's only that Dan is saying the wrong things, Dan is saying everything except what Nate wants to hear.
"You want to -?" Dan raises his eyebrows slightly.
Nate does want to, or at least doesn't not want to, but he's beginning to resent that that's all they do. Driving and driving and then pulling over and fooling around and driving again – Nate loves it, but sometimes he'd like something else. He'd like to have something to say in answer to Dan's rambling, or even just to look at Dan for a little bit, the line of Dan's profile against the fields rolling out in all directions around them. He'd like to learn Dan's mouth with his fingertips.
Nate's actually having a hard time pinpointing what his problem is, because the fooling around isn't it. He likes Dan's mouth and the way Dan kisses, how Dan's palm presses to his cheek when they kiss, fingers curling just slightly around his ear. He likes the serious little crease Dan gets between his brows. He doesn't like that he only gets it for fifteen minutes before Dan's hand is reaching for his belt buckle, before Dan is lowering his head.
Except Nate says, "Dan?"
And Dan looks up again, frowning, worried. "Did I – is something…wrong?"
Everything, Nate thinks. Nothing. The only light is coming from the car itself and Dan is all cheekbones and the weird bumps in the bridge of his nose and his eyes are so dark there's no pupil, just black. Nate feels like his own eyes dilate when he looks at Dan, which is really stupid because there's no way he could tell.
"I just –" Nate says. "I want to. Let me."
Dan seems a little confused but he sits back and doesn't say anything as Nate gets all the buttons of his shirt open, pushes Dan's seat back so the steering wheel doesn't get in the way, kisses Dan's stomach and the warm worn button of his jeans. Dan's chest rises and falls with sharp little breaths that Nate can hear. He strokes the back of Nate's head, the nape of his neck, his shoulders; his fingertips dig into Nate's shoulder blade with sudden force when he comes.
"Nate," he says, soft and low in his throat. He presses his lips to the hum of Nate's pulse, moves his teeth along Nate's collarbone, murmurs just as low, "I think you're beautiful."
Nate touches Dan's mouth and the stubble shadowing his cheeks. He quiets Dan with kissing. Words will never make sense to Nate. They're either not enough or too much, especially in this car just between the two of them; anyway, Nate doesn't have to make sense of words, because that's why there's Dan.
But he can't let it hang there, so he presses I know and me too into each kiss, figures it's safe to say as long as no one else can hear it.