NATE
You're right. I know you're right. A soft noise rumbles out of Nate, tension beginning to drain from his body as he tries to centre himself here in this moment, and not in memories and regrets. It seems so unreal sometimes. Like a second chance I don't deserve.
It is a balm to have the focus shift, from Nate to them to Sunjata, though already the beginning does not leave Nate confident about the tone of this memory, the information left unsaid in the previous retelling. In an instant, enough of Nate is cobbled together into something whole enough to send the same support, the same warm, mental embrace that had been extended to him. It's so much easier in this role, so much easier to be the mirror, reflecting all the things he sees of Sunjata back, not a monster, no matter what other horrors he might have gone through.
From the very beginning, a twist of worry quirks in Nate's stomach, the direction they were headed in clear, knowing everything he knows of the other man's history, but he needs to hear it. It's the least he can do, when he's being trusted with the memory. Still, the humour that so easily defends him rises up, trying to shield Sunjata from his own memories the same way it does Nate. Witchcraftish? It comes out like a gentle tease, trying to soothe away the oiliness. It's the only thing that leave shim though, any other thoughts kept silence, except for the sympathy, the quiet horror and sadness that rise in Nate hearing about what his fiance has had to live through, has had to do, in the name of survival.
Nate isn't sure what to say exactly, how to respond to the confession except with a wave of sympathy, a mental wince that comes from seeing yet deeper scars. Something about Sunjata's last sentence sparks something in Nate's memory though, words he hasn't thought about in years. When I was young, He knows it's not a related beginning to anything, but Nate knows his words will be listened to, regardless of how they start, where he ends up meandering, I spent summers with my grandparents. My mum insisted on it. I spent more time with my nonnina, but every so often me and Bart traded, and I spent the day with my nonno instead. He's the one who taught me how to fish, and he always had talks about... how to be a good man. The words pause for a moment, the memories more melancholy than he expected, too much of Nate scraped raw to be able to really skim past it the way he usually would. One of the things he always told me was 'the suffering is the reward', and... I think I just figured out what he meant. Nate rises, as much as he can, and presses his forehead against Sunjata's. We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for what we went through. I wouldn't have you. It seems poetic to let the conversation drift quiet there, to let disturbed things rest again, and enjoy the rest of the afternoon as they'd initially planned: quietly napping together, warm and close and deeply in love.
Moments like these are what Nate lives for, the scraps of good, made so much better by the work that has gone into earning them. These are what are going to live on in his mind, instead of the sadness.
~Done
It is a balm to have the focus shift, from Nate to them to Sunjata, though already the beginning does not leave Nate confident about the tone of this memory, the information left unsaid in the previous retelling. In an instant, enough of Nate is cobbled together into something whole enough to send the same support, the same warm, mental embrace that had been extended to him. It's so much easier in this role, so much easier to be the mirror, reflecting all the things he sees of Sunjata back, not a monster, no matter what other horrors he might have gone through.
From the very beginning, a twist of worry quirks in Nate's stomach, the direction they were headed in clear, knowing everything he knows of the other man's history, but he needs to hear it. It's the least he can do, when he's being trusted with the memory. Still, the humour that so easily defends him rises up, trying to shield Sunjata from his own memories the same way it does Nate. Witchcraftish? It comes out like a gentle tease, trying to soothe away the oiliness. It's the only thing that leave shim though, any other thoughts kept silence, except for the sympathy, the quiet horror and sadness that rise in Nate hearing about what his fiance has had to live through, has had to do, in the name of survival.
Nate isn't sure what to say exactly, how to respond to the confession except with a wave of sympathy, a mental wince that comes from seeing yet deeper scars. Something about Sunjata's last sentence sparks something in Nate's memory though, words he hasn't thought about in years. When I was young, He knows it's not a related beginning to anything, but Nate knows his words will be listened to, regardless of how they start, where he ends up meandering, I spent summers with my grandparents. My mum insisted on it. I spent more time with my nonnina, but every so often me and Bart traded, and I spent the day with my nonno instead. He's the one who taught me how to fish, and he always had talks about... how to be a good man. The words pause for a moment, the memories more melancholy than he expected, too much of Nate scraped raw to be able to really skim past it the way he usually would. One of the things he always told me was 'the suffering is the reward', and... I think I just figured out what he meant. Nate rises, as much as he can, and presses his forehead against Sunjata's. We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for what we went through. I wouldn't have you. It seems poetic to let the conversation drift quiet there, to let disturbed things rest again, and enjoy the rest of the afternoon as they'd initially planned: quietly napping together, warm and close and deeply in love.
Moments like these are what Nate lives for, the scraps of good, made so much better by the work that has gone into earning them. These are what are going to live on in his mind, instead of the sadness.
~Done
Let’s admit, without apology,
what we do to each other
what we do to each other
