Fever [Nathan]

[♔ Jericho ♔]

The wolf is baying; its blood is boiling. Anger twists into hunger until the emotion becomes indefinable but ferociously encapsulating. Beneath layers of expensive clothing and warm skin, the animal lurks and strains against its chains. It will not settle. It cannot settle. There is a taste, a scent, and like a bloodhound, the beast refuses to let go and give up the hunt. Fragmented images of gnashing teeth and bloodied, broken pretty things roll as a horror flick against the silver screen of his mind. He should find the grisly suggestions repulsive but instead, he is captivated, he is compelled. And this is when Jericho realizes his wolf is winning.

From the vantage point of his loft’s windows, Boston glows in its nightlife. On the streets below the people wander in search of entertainment – in search of company. Within the buildings there are old lovers and new, there are the careful and there are the reckless. He could be among them. He should be among them—and yet Jericho has chosen to sequester himself within his home. He is locked away by his own volition in a bid to cage his wolf. An effort, he knows, that is futile at best. Still, he tries, because Boston is not Vegas, and Boston is home. His father sits on his metaphoric throne not but a block away, and Jericho cannot give the patriarch reason to doubt his son.

Respect for his kin is a pretty excuse to disguise the true nature of his wolf, but Jericho has his eyes set on the family business, on securing his position as the able heir. Micah is clever but he is undeserving – he is nothing more than a mistake, the product of Nikolai’s weakness and infidelity. Jericho swallows, he braces his arm against the window and rests his forehead against his hand. Ugly thoughts – he loves his brother—but his wolf’s presence continues to grow, and the animal half dredges up those dark secrets Jericho keeps hidden behind a charming smile and his quick wit. He is not smiling now; the reflection caught in the window paints a ghostly, feral picture. He catches his own eyes and he sees his wolf staring back at him.

Bringing Nathan to Boston should have been easy. The action should have demonstrated Jericho’s ability to perform at his father’s behest, to ensure that the business continued to run smoothly. He could not predict how his interest in Nathan would flare to the magnitude of wildfire upon the werewolf’s arrival. Jericho understands Nathan’s appeal; he is handsome, he is confident. But what escapes the esquire, and what worries him, is his inability to understand his wolf’s interest. Jericho cannot distinguish between the animal’s violence and its lust when it comes to Nathan. Images of a bloody hunt are often accented with surges of arousal. It is twisted, it is wrong—and Jericho has the distinct impression that his beast wants to devour Nathan whole. The connotations behind that, he cannot decipher. It is a riddle layered in human emotion and feral intent.

A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. The lights of Boston begin to blur. He is losing his ability to focus.

It is three in the morning when the loft grows still – and not because its owner is asleep, but because it is empty.

Boston’s cool air does nothing to relieve the fever burning hot within his skin. His is a condition that cannot be dispelled until the wolf is fulfilled. Burying the animal in liquor has proven useless; there is only one way to quiet its howling. He stops before a building and peers upwards towards its many floors. Green eyes carry flecks of gold and a sharp, if entranced appeal. The wolf rattles against his bones; he shivers – and he steps inside. There comes a knock on Nathan’s door and then nothing. Jericho leans against the wall and waits while wrestling with the knowledge that he has lost and his beast has won.

Should the door open, a decidedly frayed looking Jericho will look up and say only this --

”Where’s the leech?” The query is accusatory and thick with something he has to swallow around.

The set of his shoulders is weary but his eyes burn hot. Somehow Jericho manages to look simultaneously dangerous and defeated-- the wolf’s victory and the man’s resignation, in one.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

There is a balance between man and animal that has existed within Nathan for nearly as long as he can remember. Save for those twisted and confused days of his youth – of his wolf’s metaphorical birth – control of the animal has never been an issue. It is willful, but it is kept fed simply, and Nathan is a steady and guiding hand at the wheel; where it may influence his behavior and his decisions, the man cannot recall the last time he succumbed to it unwillingly. Boston has tested that command in every conceivable fashion, and while the werewolf may have handled the change of territory, pack, and home with difficulty and with tension, he would have handled it – if not for the intervention of Jericho Malik.

Jericho has shred the last vestiges of Nathan’s flaunted control into irreparable fragments. The incident at the club offers the man a sobering amount of insight into the wolf’s feral lust, into its undeniable interest and desire – and his abandon regarding their encounters in Vegas should only have served as warning. It is one Nathan had steadfastly, foolishly ignored. The combination of Boston’s stressors – the unfamiliarity which strikes him so profoundly, the pressure of his workplace, the lack of animalistic release – with Jericho’s grating and influential presence had set his center spinning; had displaced it entirely.

Nathan’s pride had dug his own grave, and it is his pride that falters in the weight of Boston’s gathering night. His actions have left him abandoned; he knows his blame is misplaced, but he cannot lay it upon himself with the wolf so hot beneath his skin. Where discretion dictates he let the animal feed, there is no satisfaction to be found in the thought of another amorous attempt, and he is wary over the beast’s intent should Nate let it roam free. On edge and wound taut with unreleased tension – with the effort it takes to restrain the wolf – Nathan hails a cab back to his apartment, and presses his forehead to the window’s cold glass as the foreign city skates by.

Nathan is an independent man. He takes what he likes with little remorse or compromise, and he has never needed anyone. There is a wolf that shares occupancy of his head, a driving and perpetual presence that surges him to new heights and gives him the confidence to ride out every low. Nathaniel Hart is successful, proud, and autonomous – and Nathaniel Hart feels alone.

He cannot fathom that sentiment; it bleeds into frustration, into anger.

The night slips by in a haze of alcohol, a stupor fueled by bourbon and driven by a need to quell the animal and his emotions both. The fog between his mind and the world is not a suitable outlet – come morning, the wolf will be as prevalent as ever – but it serves to distract him through the small hours of the morning, from the confusion and depression that threatens to haunt him. He hates Boston, but he cannot admit to wanting to go home; he is failing, falling, and entertaining a concept like self-doubt.

A knock distracts him from his dismal reverie, and Nathan is slow to respond. That the clock reads after three in the morning does not come as a surprise, but his visitor does – Nathan peers out at Jericho from behind the false safety of his door’s chain, thankful for the liquor in his blood that dulls the resulting onslaught of emotion. He breaks eye contact with a sidelong glance, shuts the door to unlatch the lock, and reopens it while yielding the entryway to Jericho. It is the only invitation the man will receive.

”Elsewhere.” The biting tone Nate affects is implication enough; the fact that the werewolf is still wearing the same clothes – now crumpled, his collar pockmarked with a rusted cigarette burn – only emphasizes his obvious failure. ”You look like shit.” That he is hardly any better does not cross his mind. Nathan retreats to the living room, to what is meant to be his territory, and finds no solace in it. Should Jericho follow, he will be afforded a glance into the man’s pieced-together life; to a sparse collection of modern furniture and neatly labeled boxes, organized for its relative disarray.

The other wolf’s presence does not go unnoticed; there is a pulse on the air, an undercurrent that can be read more than sensed by any conventional means, and the beast rises to meet it – hungry. Nathan’s own animal serves as a foil to his otherwise unjustified bitterness; it wants, craves the man before it, and he knows with a growing awareness that the notion is not one the wolf harbors alone.

”Couldn’t seal the deal.” His words have a mocking edge to them, a sarcastic hostility that laces his admission. ”Apparently,” he adds, with the slow pull of a scornful smile, ”my wolf had other ideas.” Easing against the wall, Nathan slides his gaze towards Jericho’s own – and though he engages the man in a heated and boldly held stare, his thoughts center around the last time he saw those gilded eyes. He wets his lips; the animal is an incessant itch beneath his skin.

”—It only wants you.”

[♔ Jericho ♔]

His eyes do not leave Nathan’s face as he glides past the man and into his apartment. The air is displaced; he scents it out of instinct and finds the smell of sex distinctly lacking. A twist of relief that reads more like petty victory seeps into his chest, but Jericho cannot find solace. ”You’ll have to forgive me—” he drawls uncivilly as shrugs off his suit jacket. Jericho casts the article aside where it lands on a nearby chair. ”—If I’m a bit feverish.” The look he shoots Nathan borders on baleful; he is brazenly placing all of the blame for their shared state of starvation squarely onto the other werewolf’s shoulders.

”Hn.” It is a small sound, but one filled with enough smugness to render the air between them taut. A moment hangs in which Jericho simply observes Nathan through his predator’s stare, and he considers what has been given. That the proud werewolf could admit his desire should come as a boon, but it only serves to stoke the fire of Jericho’s beast. ”You can hardly blame it.” Velvet words from a viper’s mouth. He smirks and moves closer; there is a sway to his step and though he reeks sweetly of alcohol, he is drunk on something entirely else. ”I am, after all,” the last syllable draws on as he stalls before Nathan. They are toe to toe – close enough for their body heat to mingle but Jericho grants no physical touch. ”…a cut above the rest.” Coming from him, it is not a claim but a statement of fact.

The smile that follows is brittle and wrong around the edges. His head tilts to the side and he draws in a short breath between his parted lips. ”Oh, Nathaniel.” A hand raises to breech past the invisible wall and his features break into an off-color, affectionate grin. The esquire’s palm is an impossibly hot weight against Nathan’s neck and he runs his thumb thoughtfully along the man’s strong jaw line. Jericho’s nose bumps against the werewolf’s cheek, he breathes humid against his skin and inhales deep. Nathan’s scent is thick with masculinity and it sends a trace of heat propelling straight through Jericho’s nervous system. ”I don’t know if I want to fuck you,” his lips murmur the words against Nathan’s throat. Their chests press together and through the layers of clothing, Jericho’s heart beats wildly. ”Or rip you apart,” the man rumbles roughly and he tucks his face against the nape of Nathan’s neck.

The warring state of his beast has the esquire pinned and frozen by his own inability to understand. ”You,” he accuses thickly but no elaboration follows, as if that single syllable could communicate the extent and gravity of his ailment. An audible swallow and Jericho is pulling away, but his fingers twist within the fabric of Nathan’s shirt – a makeshift leash. He steps back and his grip is enough to strain the seams. Their foreheads remain pressed together and Jericho makes several attempts at a kiss but stops short each time. The thrum of his pulse beats incessantly within his ears; his breathing is shallow and there is sweat cooling at his temples. He cannot recall a time when he was so far gone – not since the inception of his wolf.

In a sudden blur of motion, Jericho swivels and throws Nathan into an armchair. He is quick to straddle the man’s lap. ”You said I owed you.” Jericho recalls a fragment from the conversation that began this torrid night. Fingers run against Nathan’s scalp, thread through that black head of hair and pull until the werewolf inclines his face upwards. Feral green eyes lock onto blue. ”Consider this my repaying old debts.” A white lie, the last excuse needed before the final chain breaks and his wolf runs free.

His lips settle against Nathan’s and he licks his way into the man’s mouth.

Control is abandoned, forgotten. The wolf will have its way.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Pinned beneath that stare, movement is the farthest thing from the werewolf’s mind. Jericho approaches, and Nathan averts his eyes; he leans into that misleading caress with a muffled sigh. In one simple word – in the sound of his own name – both man and beast are enthralled, ensnared; he can understand the danger in this, the wolf can feel the lurking threat, and yet he makes no effort to resist. When the other man leans close, Nathan simply inclines his head to expose his jaw, his throat, before Jericho’s deceivingly gentle advances. The breath running hot along his neck radiates through him, a coaxing fire in his blood, and his hands find Jericho’s hips and settle with an unusual softness.

The voiced warning only has him clutching tighter; Nathan’s lips part and his eyes roll upwards, swallowing roughly. ”Please,” though what for is a mystery – the supplication in itself is a rare utterance, a desperate plea. There is a lurking power to Jericho that is irresistible even in its risk; at the first sign of contact, as their body heat mingles between clothing and skin, it is a sensation that is nearly undeniable. The wolf wants; Nathan wants. He cannot handle further games and further resistance without becoming entirely unhinged. Nathan follows at the commanding tug like a hypnotized and slavering hound, his eyes locked and transfixed on Jericho’s teasing lips; further words cannot be found, because that coherence has been taken from him. Only the sound of his staggered breathing escapes him, accented by low and animalistic whispers of need.

Nathan gasps at Jericho’s sudden motion, and he meets the man with seeking hands and hungry eyes as the esquire crawls atop him. Those words have him mesmerized, his breath hitching in his chest, when Jericho cranes his head back; though he holds their matched stare, it is a fixation maintained only at the other man’s behest. Anger and frustration are rerouted into lust; are forged into a force that only spurs him onwards – and it is a passion directed into their kiss, into a carnal display of teeth and tongue. Nathan’s response is ravenous and unrelenting. His hands slide beneath Jericho’s shirt, exploratory, and then commit to a fumbling effort to divest the man of his clothing. He fails; pops a button for his recklessness and haste, but fabric is no barrier before his tenacity. With Jericho’s chest exposed to him, Nathan draws the other man in close, craving bodily contact and a desire to touch.

He whines when he finally pulls away, his head tilting back in a sudden gasp for air, for relief from the other man’s onslaught – and then he leans forward to settle his mouth at Jericho’s throat, all finesse abandoned for wanton biting and sucking. Nathan’s hips grind upwards in thoughtless reaction, and his hands clutch the man close, jealous and covetous in his single-minded focus.

Where their first meeting was a wildfire stoked by competing dominance, in this there is only a twisted submission; Nathan’s wolf buckles beneath the pressure of the man before it, desperate and needy but nothing like cowed. It is a creature won over by strength and power, and it is a vain, proud thing – and so it proves itself worthy by ceaselessly testing, by having bite. Nathan meets Jericho measure for measure, fire for fury, and though his hands are insistent and his lips are demanding, he lets the esquire take what he will. Their act is little more than a meeting of feral instincts, of hungry animals thinly veiled beneath a pair of handsome masks; and Nathan has never felt so correct in such wild abandon.

”I need this,” comes the breathless whisper, the admission heated against Jericho's neck. For the first time since his arrival in Boston, the wolf finds solace – and it is an understanding brought about by Jericho’s unconditional authority, a dominance that the animal revels in because it is reliable, absolute. It offers stability even in its madness. Nathan gives himself up to it and heeds the overwhelming siren song of his partner’s beast. Awash in a sea of sensation and drowning beneath the esquire’s commanding presence, the animal rises to power – and for the first time in recent memory, Nathan lets himself go.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

--

The sun rises, met with the hustle and bustle of city life, but it is a call to wake that is ignored within the confines of Nathan’s small apartment. Inside, wrapped in sheets and sweat and a tangled knot of limbs, two men are entrenched in the sleep of the dead; the morning slips by unnoticed, and the sun has reached its apex and is sinking again by the time any sign of life stirs. The dense cloud of slumber that hangs about him is not something Nathan wants to fight – the warmth of his bed, of the man beside him, are luxuries he could indulge in endlessly. Consciousness returns slowly, fitfully, and ultimately uncomfortably, and Nate curls into Jericho in a final effort to avoid it.

Everything hurts. There is a prevailing ache that sinks through muscle and into bone, and a ceaseless pounding in his skull; the combination of a rough night and a hangover are not sitting well in his fatigued body. Nathan groans his complaint aloud as the first blaze of late afternoon sun slices into his eyes, and tosses an arm over his face. It is a long moment before he can will himself to move; the werewolf peels himself from the man at his side, sliding out from beneath an outstretched arm, and shifts back. Exhaustion runs thick in his limbs and rising is an endeavor. Sitting up is unpleasant, and he does so gingerly, easing back against the headboard.

Nathan’s mind is a fog, his thoughts running sluggish through a haze of half-remembered pleasure and an encompassing tenderness – but his head is also silent. There is no impatient scratching beneath his skin; there is no lurking set of invisible eyes hiding behind his own. What remains in the dark part of his thoughts the wolf haunts is only a radiating satisfaction, a drip feed of contentment – and when Nate’s tired eyes fall upon Jericho’s face, relaxed in sleep, the animal’s emotion blooms into proud affection.

It is a worrying response. The night is a collection of flickering images drawn in crimson: wanton scents and sounds; tactile sensation now imprinted on muscle memory; a pair of green eyes flecked with gold. Their act lingers in his thoughts and in the bone-deep weariness that turns the very marrow of him to rubber – but Nathan is a man used to one-night stands, to forgetting. Attachment is a separate thing entirely from frenzied obsession and unbridled addiction, from passion, and that he should feel so unbearably possessive over Jericho – over a man, in truth, he hardly knows – is dangerous. Nathan understands the risk because he understands himself. One does not fall for a man like Jericho Malik. Nathan does not fall to begin with.

The wolf thinks it knows what it wants, but everything is more complicated in the light of day. Nathan huffs a sigh and takes to staring at the ceiling, but his hand settles on Jericho’s shoulder, and his thumb sweeps back and forth over the smooth skin beneath it; over a possessive red mark left there. His expression grows contemplative. There is a fine line between satisfying fling and pathetic crush – and Nathan soundly commits himself to engaging this as the former, to exploring it slow and without expectation. Jericho feels good; Jericho has so far proven to be the sole option in Boston to restrain his wolf. That is more than enough reason – and obvious excuse – to keep him around.

There is nothing to be gained in continuing to play at reluctance. Sliding back down, the werewolf tucks himself up against the other man, lingering in shared warmth and contact for a moment longer, then rolls over to face him. He crawls atop Jericho, straddling him – his knees and back protest, but their complaints go unheard – and proceeds to kiss the esquire awake. It is a lazy, indulgent gesture, and when Nathan at last meets those clever green eyes, he responds with only a sultry smirk and teasing words.

”Consider your debt repaid.” He leans in close to Jericho’s neck, brushing his lips softly against skin. ”You were amazing.” Honest compliments come freely, and in a heated whisper. Nathan sits up slowly, drawing his palm down Jericho’s chest, and his smile is smug. ”You might be the best way to break in an apartment.” The scent of sex, of Jericho, is still hanging in the air – and in truth, the place feels more like home, a space made his, than it has since Nate moved in. That it is an ownership shared with Jericho is of no matter.

”I need a shower,” –desperately, ”—and some coffee.” And probably some aspirin. With a pop of stiff joints, Nathan pulls himself off the other man, and his weak knees stay steady as he steps to the floor. ”You’re welcome to join me for both.” It’s a casual invitation, but his words land firmly. Diving into a repeat of last night’s decadence is not his plan – Nathan thinks another round just might kill him – but any opportunity to extend Jericho’s stay is one to be taken.

And he is afraid of what his wolf might do should his rabid fixation be denied.

[♔ Jericho ♔]

There are obligations. There are tasks to attend to. His schedule is tight with back-to-back meetings and errands. Typically these necessities would weigh at Jericho’s mind, and worry and claw until they rip the esquire from the comfort of slumber. This day is different. This day is met with a bleak, fantastic darkness that the man feels no driving urge to depart from. His world is peace wrapped in warmth; here there are no worries, no frenetic beast whispering dark suggestions into his ear. He is reluctant to leave, but a presence settles over him, a taste glides over his lips – and the waking world offers a reason to greet the day.

His lips move on their own accord; a lazy, instinctual gesture from an innately sensual man. A sigh, and then, at last, green eyes slide open. His first reaction upon seeing Nathan is to smile, and it is a hopelessly sleep-drunk expression. For long moments, Jericho simply allows his eyes to wander over the black-haired werewolf’s features. He needs the break, the stretch of silence, for his muddled mind to make sense of words. ”Of course I was,” he returns with an impish grin. There is mirth within the line of his smirk and the light in his eyes. Jericho’s smugness is only half-rooted in actual ego; he understands the often ridiculous extent of his pride now that the wolf is vacant from his mind.

He extends a hand, presses his palm flat against Nathan’s cheek and runs a thumb over his mouth. ”What time is it,” he asks blearily as he draws his eyes away from the werewolf’s lips. Better yet, he thinks, what day is it. The loss of time should come as alarming but Jericho experiences only a blissful sense of achievement. Nathan pulls away and Jericho moves to sit up; his muscles immediately give protest and he slumps against the pillows and headboard. ”Tempting.” The esquire runs his gaze over Nathan’s form. He meets those blue eyes and raises a brow. ”But we’d only end up with our skulls cracked open on the tile.” His body seems to think it just completed a marathon, and that is not so far from the truth. ”Leave some hot water for me.” Nathan departs to rid himself of the night’s filth, and Jericho takes the opportunity to catch a few more minutes of sleep.

The esquire moves to the shower when the room is unoccupied. The hot spray is a balm to tense and sore muscles, and Jericho lingers until the water turns lukewarm. His time in the restroom offers a window to think, and to process the events of the previous night. The discomfort of his beast was to a level that Jericho thought his blood was boiling and his flesh was ready to catch fire. Now, in the wake of his and Nathan’s affair, the wolf is quiet – silent, even. The esquire is left feeling incredibly, vulnerably human. It is as if he has suddenly been struck deaf; so encompassing is the silence.

Clean and perhaps a little less aching, Jericho wanders out dressed in some of Nathan’s more casual clothing. He did not bother asking permission; a sense of dominion that cannot be completely blamed on any enduring traces of his beast. He locates Nathan in the kitchen and glances at him, before finding the coffee cup on the counter a little too interesting. He is stalling and takes his time in filling the mug. Nathan has seen the true nature of his wolf, the ugliest and most animalistic side of his personality. Jericho rarely allows his mask to slip so completely and now, with his beast suddenly mute, he finds himself something so ridiculous as abashed. The tempered ceramic beneath his fingers runs scalding and he sets the cup aside.

Jericho turns to face Nathan and he steps closer. There is a coyness to his posture, like he is unsure how to proceed under the light of day when his wolf is absent. Curiosity settles over his features. He is close now. Green meets blue and Jericho leans forward for a chaste and oddly shy kiss. He pulls away and clears his throat. ”People still know you as that guy from the wedding,” he chances as he grabs for his mug. Jericho takes to leaning against the counter and sips from the dark brew.

”Some seem convinced… that you secured your new job through illicit means.” Speaking brings confidence; it is one of his greatest gifts. The coyness is still there, but understated. Jericho continues. ”I suppose you’ll just have to prove them wrong.” He meets Nathan’s gaze and there is something meaningful there – an indication that he may be interested in making whatever this is work.

For his own sanity, and to ensure he never again falls to such a desperate state of starvation. For more reasons, too, but those will remain locked away and jealously hidden— for now.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Nathan cannot disguise the smirk that forms on his lips when Jericho emerges dressed in his clothes. ”You look good.” The possessive pride that warms his chest is not born from his slumbering wolf; it is a notion that belongs to the man alone. His lurking fears that Jericho would snub him following their animal-fueled rendezvous – would discard him – are slowly assuaged with each passing moment, and the werewolf finds that dropping the game comes easily. They have shared more than secrets. Where Nathan is not inclined to trust, his hand has been forced; and he does not find himself resenting the power he has yielded to Jericho.

The aroma of fresh coffee has replaced the heavy scent of their tryst; the living room is straightened, and Nathan seems newly comfortable in a kitchen that somehow feels more familiar. Jericho’s behavior is a curiosity – Nate’s eyes track him with a hint of suspicion – but when that soft kiss comes, the werewolf succumbs to it. It is a state of peace that is momentarily shaken by the esquire’s unexpected explanation.

Nathan breaks eye contact, staring down at his drink; his frown is restrained, but telling. ”I didn’t exactly expect to see any of them again.” As though that in any way justifies his actions. The man shrugs, rolling his head to one side, and then seems to reclaim an inkling of confidence. Nathan runs his thumb along his cracked lip thoughtfully. ”—Though it’d help if you didn’t leave me looking like I fucked a bear.” Nathan’s eyes flick upwards, and his smirk is roguish. ”That’s probably inappropriate.” There is no judgment in his teasing words; their night of hunger was a state shared, an encounter enjoyed. Where Nathan would expect to be frustrated at the flagrant loss of control, the silence of his wolf is too pervasive, his satisfaction too persistent.

Placing his mug down on the counter, the werewolf fixes Jericho with a pensive look, pausing for careful interpretation. ”I told you once.” Nathan leans in to place a gentle, reassuring kiss to Jericho’s temple. ”—I’m very good at what I do.” His lips linger, and his while his confidence is not false, it is emboldened by a hot rush of frustration that is entirely human. Nathan has worked incredibly hard for his success; Jericho or not, Boston represents the pinnacle of that achievement. He had earned this. The werewolf glances away with a deliberate exhalation, extending a hand to brush softly at Jericho’s hip.

When Nathan meets those green eyes again, the fire is gone, and his self-assured smile has made a brave return. ”I’d be more than happy to.” A loaded response to a loaded statement. Nathan peels away and reclaims his drink, leaning his hip up against the counter. ”That’s a challenge I like the sound of.” Nathan takes a slow sip to draw out his assertion. ”—and I can prove it to you, too.” His smirk his lopsided and mocking; the statement is only a play at their usual games of boasting and shameless audacity, but honest realities lurk just beneath the bandied words.

Layers of bravado and feigned ego peel away as Nathan relaxes; as he finds his footing in Boston, with Jericho. Though he is a naturally confident man, Jericho drives him to new heights in a frenzied effort to prove himself, and the idea of simple and casual conversation is enough to let the mask drop. Nate’s shoulders slump lazily; the subtle posturing he affects so naturally falls by the wayside. Where there were only wolves to be found in the darkness, the lazy afternoon has risen upon nothing but men, nothing but humans – and Nathan enjoys the reprieve. It is enough to make him take leaps, to sacrifice some of his carefully constructed pride to cautiously chase what he wants.

”I know you’re a busy man.” Where Jericho had been coy, now it is Nathan’s turn to play the timid lover; his brow furrows slightly as he places his emptied cup in the sink. The uncertainty about him is both rare and revealing. ”If you have time, you should show me around the city.” He lifts his head to peer at the other man – and there is a hint of daring in his eyes, a preparatory courage should Jericho say no. It is a slip that disappears beneath the weight of a burgeoning, lazy smile. ”I’ve hardly been out of the office,” Nate admits almost sheepishly, ”and I hear Boston’s not that bad.”

It is an opinion that he slowly learning the truth of.