Fire in the gates of hell [Nate/Silas]

[Matthias Walker]

He’s kind of missed the organized chaos of big cities.

Maybe it’s because Boston reminds him, just a little, of New York City, what with the plethora of college kids roaming around like snobby lost ducklings and hipster coffeehouses, but it’s probably mostly because Iowa is cornfields and cornfields and cornfields, and after driving through the state for days looking for a stupid vampire Matthias is sort of ready to stab himself in the face if he sees another cornfield. Possibly ever. So yeah, being in a city’s nice, even if it’s business, not pleasure, that brings him there: Big cities are magnets for the kind of people who like to slide under the radar and Iowa’s vampire was the exception, not the rule.

Point being, he’s probably going to get sick of Boston long before he can actually leave it.

Especially since he already feels kind of like a low-class hooker barking up the wrong tree.

It’s not a good feeling, but as feelings go, it’s sadly accurate.

This is the thing: It’s really way too late for any decent human being to be out on a weekday, and Matthias isn’t sure when looking for a stranger to go home with became easier than looking for a motel that doesn’t come with a guarantee of chlamydia just from prolonged contact with the floor, but it is. So yeah, he’s in a bar because he wants a bed for the night, if not the next few nights because hey, he can be charming, right? Pretending to be relationship material for three nights before he moves on cannot possibly be that difficult, provided the girl’s suitably gullible.

Or the guy.

He’s not terribly big on that kind of thing, but his options are looking really limited with the girls in the bar—it’s classier on the inside than the outside, and everyone’s dressed up all neat and sleek. Comparatively, Matthias probably looks a lot like he wandered in off the street hoping that if he bats his eyelashes pretty enough someone’s going to take pity on him and give him a couple bucks. It’s not just the clothes, either, although he suspects that helps a lot; he’s actually lost his comb somewhere in the pile of shit in the backseat of his car and forgotten to shave, and there’s the start of a pretty spectacular bruise peeking over the neck of his shirt because vampires are some predictable sons of bitches.

The bartender gives him the kind of squinty look that is simultaneously very unattractive and very pointedly snotty. “Can I help you?”

“Actually,” Matthias says, flashing him a smile a shade too bright to be real and straightening, “I,” want to buy a drink with the money I don’t have, “am waiting for somebody.”

It’s the kind of brazen lie that could either go off spectacularly or not at all, since Matthias can’t exactly sit there for an hour pretending to wait on his nonexistent companion, so for the sake of proactivity, he swings himself around on the chair and settles in to wait for the next unfortunate and at least slightly attractive person to walk through the door. (Low-class hookers can be shallow, too, okay—the area immediately around the bar is a no-judgment zone.)

The next unfortunate and slightly attractive person to walk through the door is actually people. This matters exactly not at all to Matthias, who swings himself casually off of the chair and steps up to intercept them by arching an eyebrow pointedly at the two men, “You’re late.” The reproving note in his voice catches on the crooked curve of his grin as he slings an arm around one of them and pulls towards the bar, “Gonna make it up to me in drinks or what.”

[Zephyr]

Silas was predictably grumpy on the way to the bar. Nate, the bastard, dragged him out his apartment after a fucking twenty four hour shift at the hospital. All he wanted to do was sleep. Of course, if he couldn't be sleeping, or having sex (and honestly, at this point, he'd probably pick sleep over sex), drinking was a pretty damn good way to spend his time. He wasn't really looking forward to the hangover though, okay? He always seemed to have a hangover. That's what happened when you got smashed after seven drinks. At least having Nate around meant that he probable wouldn't be allowed to drink himself into oblivion, even if he really was tired enough to do just that.

He'd pretty much decided that he probably shouldn't be a completely buzzkill, after all, even if Nate was dragging him out for the express purpose of getting him drunk so he'll have more of a chance of Silas putting out for him, he was also ensuring that the doctor didn't spend another night alone in a haze of sleep and his own fucking alcohol.

This was a good thing, he supposed.

At the moment though, between the sleep deprivation and the bitchiness that he always seemed to be in a state of, he couldn't find it in him to feel too charitable about Nate's motives. They were selfish. Always. The fact that Nate didn't ever do anything for anyone but himself was something Silas long ago accepted. Why should he care if he benefited from the idiot's happiness? Didn't mean he couldn't bitch about it.

And bitching was just what he was about to do when they walked through the door. Silas was dressed down, slightly. Just slacks and a dress shirt. He hadn't even had the time to grab his jacket, and the fucking shirt was slightly unbuttoned at the top and he had no tie and he really felt ridiculously exposed at the moment. Silas was suffering at the moment and was about to let Nate know when someone suddenly appeared in front of them.

Silas had to skid to a stop so he didn't run over the man, which would have been humorous since they were pretty much the same height. Maybe Silas' shoulders were a little broader, but what the fuck. This guy was fucking hot as hell. Still. Silas glared at him as per customary for this sort of thing and was about to bitch the stranger out when he spoke...and smiled, and Silas lost what he was about to say in a helpless swallow that turned into a look of pure bewilderment when the kid grabbed Nate and pulled him towards the bar. Silas stood there stupidly for a second, eyebrows dragging together in his confusion.

"What?" He started out, voice low. Eyes found Nate, and for a second, Silas felt this irrational sting of jealousy...but he wasn't sure who it was for. Did he know this damn kid? He blinked a couple times wondering if he'd be missed if he just left now. He could probably get back before he'd missed too much sleep, but...and he looked back at the kid again. There was something about him that Silas couldn't turn away from. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad for him to stay a little longer. Not like he had to get wasted or anything, and he could always look better.

Snorting reproachfully, Silas followed them to the bar, giving the brat a wide berth. He did not need to get kicked out of this bar for punching some stranger. That wasn't something he felt like going through...again. "Only if you drink bourbon, kid." Silas drawled out, falling onto a bar-stool in a slouch, catching the bartender's eyes like a goddamn pro. Silas licked his lips and looked curiously back at the pair of them again. "Awful friendly fucker, aren't ya?" Silas didn't bother controlling his accent when he was dead tired, thanks. "Who are ya?"

[♥ Nathan ♥]

It is a sin to not spend a night out, and though Nathan has grown comfortable enough with Boston’s nightlife to idle away the evening in some local bar or high-class club, there are times when some company in order. Silas has long since ascended the ranks of the man’s go-to options for companionship (not in small part thanks to his capabilities in bed), and when Nate shows up at his doorstep with offers of liquor and a good time, he is nearly aghast at being refused. It is no particular surprise that he grows increasingly persistent despite Silas’ complaints and groaned rejections; Nate, after all, is not a man prone to being denied, and “no” is not an answer he takes at face value. If anything, the idea that the doctor thinks he can so easily refuse him only makes him more determined.

Doubleshifts are not foreign to him, and Nate is frequently run ragged with his job’s own attempts to overwork him half to death, but he cannot wrap his head around this idea that sleeping it off would be the better option. After a rough shift and trying day, the last thing he wants is to go back to his apartment (and least of all alone) – and he figures Silas could do with a little cheering up. Twenty-four hours awake be damned.

In the end, patience pays, and Nate’s behavior is only rewarded – Silas agrees, and when the man bothers to open the door and actually let him in, Nate is quick to heckle him into simply leaving as-is. He understands the value in looking good, but in the werewolf’s mind there is little reason for Silas to be dressed to the nines – barring one of their occasional frustrating arguments, the doctor already has an assured mark to head home with. He looks good all disheveled, that smattering of stubble overgrown on his chin, and for a brief moment Nate even hesitates over the thought of simply staying in.

--But then Silas opens his damn mouth, and suddenly filling the other man with liquor first seems like a far better idea. He’d gotten all dressed up anyway, slacks and polished shoes and a vest over his button-down, and it seems a waste to take it all of so soon.

The bar Nate selects is one of his usual haunts, an upscale place known for its decent drinks and (slightly worse) company; the availability of the patrons, though, is of no matter to him tonight. It is the nightlife he craves, being surrounded by music and bodies and the hilarious masks men and women wear to disguise their own wants and needs – and with a proper application of bourbon and innuendo, he will sate his desire for human contact and still manage to coax Silas home with him. It is a set of plans that the surgeon seems set on defying when Nathan notices the man open his mouth – and he has that look on his face, the one that speaks of impending complaint, and Nate figures he really should have expected this. Grown used to it, at least, but blowing off Silas’ poor attitude has become something of a mastered art.

Their impending argument (and Nate’s smug rebuttal) is cut off in a sudden instant, abruptly interrupted by the intrusion of another figure – a younger man, speaking with an uncomfortable air of familiarity, who is quick to throw an arm around Nate’s shoulders. Though the werewolf is usually keen to roll with the punches thrown at him this catches him decidedly off-guard; he stiffens visibly, briefly resisting the stranger’s pull, and casts a confused glance over his shoulder at Silas (who seems as distraught as he, if not more). The brief moment of bewilderment is masked over as Nathan steps to the bar, mind still processing. Whatever game the kid is playing at, Nate certainly isn’t privy to it, but his own curiosity mixed with Matthias’ good looks certainly set the gears in his head turning.

”I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” he murmurs softly, too close to the stranger to be strictly friendly and too low to be easily picked up by unwanted ears – but whether it is meant to be threatening or simply salacious is unclear. ”But another drink won’t break the bank, if you’ll tell me what the hell you’re up to.” Nate’s words are accented with a dark smirk, and he leans away to shrug out from under Matthias’ arm and usher the bartender to them with a flick of his fingers. If the boy has a preference other than bourbon, neat, Nathan does not give him the chance to express it.

”—And your name,” he chimes in after Silas’ query, settling beside the doctor with a smug smirk and a damnably charming quirk of his brow. Now settled to their roles, their act becomes a game; and all evidence of Nate’s short-lived uncertainty is erased in a rush of ego.

[Matthias Walker]

So, okay, it’s maybe not the warmest reception Matthias could ever hope for; the taller guy looks sort of like he can’t decide whether or not he wants to preemptively disappear (which is totally uncalled for, thanks, Matthias is nothing if not awesome company) or punch him, and he can feel the stiffness in the shoulders of his companion even if he’s not looking at him. On the other hand, no actual punches are thrown, nobody flees for the door, and the guy Matthias is more or less clinging to gets with the program and moves further into the bar. And don’t they both look classy, too. For random guys that walked into the bar, Matthias is pretty sure he could do so much worse.

The murmured words are not acknowledged immediately; Matthias slants a brief glance at the man but doesn’t bother hanging on longer. He’s pretty sure the point’s been made and if the bartender’s sulky about it then so much the better. It leaves him free, anyway, with the promise of alcohol—bourbon, the first guy had said, which, okay, it’s not Matthias’s favorite thing ever but he’s not paying so he’s hardly going to be picky about it—to examine the two men he’s sort of flung himself at, considering how much of the truth is for him to know and them to guess at, and how much is manners to share.

“Bourbon sounds fine,” he says easily, like it even matters when the bartender’s already moving to fix the drinks. Settling on the nearest barstool, Matthias tilts his head at them, lips turning up into the start of a smirk as he arches an eyebrow at Silas, “Been called worse, I’d answer to that,” which is true, he’s learned a lot of curses in weird languages over the years, most of which sounds better in the native tongue than in translations, unfortunately; fucker is neither the most offensive nor the most creative, but in that accent, it sounds just fine. “Matthias, though. And,” his gaze flickering to Nate again, “I’m pretty sure I didn’t get the wrong guy; there wasn’t a right guy to start with.”

It’s kind of a half-truth, since wrong is basically be anyone that looks like they go about life sans a decently sized bed, but they hardly look like that with the whole classy ensemble thing going on, so it’s not worth mentioning.

He doesn’t need to sound like a low-class hooker along with looking like one.

“But I mean, no, I don’t know you, so names would be nice. And.” Mock-businesslike, Matthias straightens, purses his lips in faux thought, head still tilted. “Are you guys together or something? Like, I’m not crashing a date, am I?” He’s not really sure if the better answer’s yes or no; generally he tries to avoid bothering with people that are already attached at the hip because the chances that they’ll be worth his time are regrettably low, but these two seem pretty casual about the whole thing.

[Zephyr]

It occurs to Silas when he falls into his seat and the kid doesn’t take the hint and leave that this is exactly how he wanted to spend his evening, babysitting some kid while Nate gets his rocks off. That fucking smile, Silas decides when he takes a sidelong glance at the brat. He wants to punch it off of his face…or find some other more creative and slightly more pleasurable way of wiping it off. And what the fuck? He just doesn’t have thoughts like that about complete strangers anymore. At least thoughts that he can’t just ignore and stuff away all nice and neat.

Fuck.

He really needs a goddamn drink right about now, but the bartender is still working on the brat’s drink and he wonders how much faster he’ll get done if Silas threatens to break his face.

Silas snorts when the kid speaks again. Not like he had any intention of going around calling him fucker or anything….that just wasn’t classy. The doctor can claim to be classy all he wants. And it’s nice to know that the kid’s given him permission or whatever, but he doesn’t really need it. If Silas wants to call him fucker or any other awesome nickname he can think of, a little thing like permission isn’t going to matter to him one bit. But yeah, he’d like some semblance of class in his life.

Even if it’s an illusion…or delusion is probably a better term.

Matthias? Hm. The name’s a goddamn mouthful, that much Silas has already decided, but he doesn’t make it a point to call people by nicknames. Unless you happen to be Nate because the fucker won’t let him call him anything else…except for bitch…occasionally, again, not that Silas needs the permission or anything. But still, he honestly doesn’t try and make people uncomfortable. So if the kid wants to be called Matthias, Silas can sure as hell oblige unless another more favorable nickname comes to him in the interim.

Silas rolls his eyes when the kid asks their names, but he doesn’t exactly feel the need to give him his. What he does feel the need for is a goddamn drink, and he’ll buy out the whole fucking bar if it’ll give them more attention from the damn bartender. Finally, Matthias’ drink comes, and Silas fixes his face into an appropriate glare as he orders bourbon too. Because really, he doesn’t think his drink will come any faster if he hauls off and wails on the bartender, even if that would make him feel better and he visibly looks like he’s twitching, trying to keep himself from hitting someone. Yeah. Silas is pretty uncomfortable at the moment, and he can feel the tension building in his arms and torso like a rubber band being stretched taught before it snaps. Or explodes in this case. Nate could probably tell if he bothers to look at Silas, and hell, maybe the damn kid could tell too.

Supremely more pleased about getting his way…or getting his way very damn soon, Silas is a little more amenable about spending time with this kid…who really is almost painfully good looking. Silas finds it a little hard to look at him and those goddamn eyes. Why the hell does he have to have a thing for blue eyes? Goddamn these fucking hot guys and their fucking blue eyes. Silas is not amused by his own weaknesses, okay? He’d not even about to admit these weaknesses to anyone, especially not Matthias and Nate. He’d never hear the goddamn end of it. “I’m Silas.” He growls in Matthias’ direction…not that he expects the kid to care what his name is…not with Nate around.

His eyebrows shoot to his hairline at the kid’s assumption. Then his eyes start to do something amusing and strange looking at the same time as they widen and then narrow and several expressions all shoot over his face in rapid succession. He decides to settle on an expression that is appropriately disgruntled for the situation and gives a shrug. “We’re not together” Not that he’d have a problem being with Nate. He really wouldn’t. It’s rare that Silas finds someone that he actually gets along with enough to admit that, and it isn’t something he particularly wants to lose, but Nate isn’t the kind of guy you hold. Not like that. He’d like water, like smoke…like some wild animal, fascinating and deadly, but really unable to be caged. So Silas takes what he can get, and if that’s a quick fuck now and then or a place in his bed, Silas isn’t complaining.

Something tells him that’s this kid’s role in life as well. Sleep with as many different people as possible and don’t form attachments. Fucking fantastic. Maybe they’d just go not form attachments together. He honestly doesn’t know why that thought bothers him so goddamn much. He’s never been bothered by Nate’s sleeping around before. When he gets his drink, he growls and almost downs the entire glass in one gulp. The burn keeps him from thinking about his own insecurities and softens the edges of his jagged attitude. “Well…not all the time.” Silas growls with a low chuckle before facing Matthias again. “And you?” He growls, eyes narrowing…but there’s some amusement there. “You just go around dragging drinks out of random people? What other talents ya got, kid?” and the rumbling note in his voice is nothing if not inviting.

What the hell is happening to him?

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Matthias’ glib response to Silas’ commentary sets Nate grinning. He is easily won over by confidence and a quick wit, particularly when it so easily brushes off Silas’ uncouth behavior; Nate has never used his fellow wolf as a wingman, and suspects it would be a largely unsuccessful endeavor, but there is promise to be had in this exchange. Dropping Silas for options is likely not in the cards; Nathan may have his issues, but he knows what lines he can and cannot toe, and discarding his friend at the drop of a hat is beyond even his capabilities. A date is a date, and Nate is at least enough of a gentleman to respect that – but there is no denying that Matthias has caught his interest.

”Then you picked the right guy after all,” he intones smoothly, turning his head away with a small smirk as the bartender leaves with their order. How many other men – and there is something to be said for the fact that Matthias had picked him, and not the first glamorous woman to sidle in the door – would not have simply shrugged him off at the start for a drunken sycophant? Even Silas would have been a less lucrative choice, a sentiment echoed by the other man’s increasingly dour demeanor.

…Perhaps he would succeed as a wingman only by driving prospects away, and straight into Nathan’s arms. It is not all together a terrible idea.

Despite Nate’s air of casual comfort, there is a tension rising between the men that is very nearly palpable – he brushes the feeling off as his wolf’s penchant for picking up on emotions, ones radiating visibly off Silas’ taut form. He shoots the doctor a curious sidelong glance, brief in duration before flickering back to Matthias, one that belies little of his uncertainty. That Silas would be in a pissy mood is no surprise, and that he is unhappy about being out with Nate is not a unique occurrence, but it usually takes more than dragging the other man to a bar for drinks to set him so coiled, wound tight. It is the body language of a man who has taken a swing at him on more than one occasion, and Nate has no plans on being on the receiving end of that fist.

”Chill out,” he mutters quietly, managing to shoot the guy a pitying look. There is not enough between them for Nathan to put too much into the idea that Silas is jealous, but it is a thought that manages to stroke his fickle ego. That he would react similarly if the tables were turned is of no matter; all the werewolf feels is the gaze on him, the thrill of the hunt that rises hot in his veins and is spurred on by Matthias’ easy smiles and bright eyes. Feeding the fires of jealousy is a dangerous game, one that has the chance of ending far too poorly for his liking, but Nate has always been fond of taking risks. The opportunity of heading home with a frustrated and angry Silas is too good to waste, so long as he doesn’t press the issue too far.

”Nate,” the man replies offhandedly, eyes following the bartender as he at last finishes fixing their drinks. He is more comfortable with something in his hands, be it a drink or a cigarette, and Nate can’t remember this particular location’s opinions on smoking; there are no ashtrays readily available, and that has him erring on abstinence. Uncomfortable with waiting, he settles for running his fingertips along the smooth bartop, and when Matthias moves ahead with his prying question, the motion ceases as he picks up his head. He fixes the stranger with a curious, lopsided smile, the devil in his eyes and suspicion in the subtle cant of his head. The bartender returns with their liquor in the pause before Silas’ answer, and Nate runs his thumb around the rim of his tumbler, apparently distracted at its arrival.

”No, we’re not together,” he laughs, reiterating his companion’s point – and simultaneously refuting it by dropping his free hand to Silas’ thigh. The gesture is quick, the touch brief, but far too intimate to ever read as a simple shared moment between friends. ”You’re not crashing anything.” Silas is as close as he has come to a real relationship in a long time, and though their future may be stymied by Nate’s hidden fears of commitment and heartbreak, the fact that he has kept the other werewolf around is telling enough. He doesn’t go on dates with just anyone, much less make the effort to drag them out to keep him company (or, rarer still, have made them breakfast), and Silas has soldiered on past all his barricades to be retained as something special. It is an affection Nate can hardly admit to, much less act on, but it still exists – dangerous and smoldering.

He sips from his drink slowly, listening with interest to Silas’ clarifications. Not all the time. Just when they felt more exclusive than not – or maybe he simply means to keep Matthias guessing at the exact nature off their on-again, off-again, not-quite-a-relationship. Nate even manages a twinge of envy at the surgeon’s sudden curiosity (and that sudden resurgence of his drawl that he so often represses), but he settles for blaming the liquor, and downs the remainder of his in retaliation. ”He didn’t drag it out of me. I don’t do anything I don’t want to.” The statement is nearly bitter, as though the man has to make a point of that fact – that he hadn’t been lured into this, and clearly could have walked away at any time.

”—but you got a nickname?” Blue eyes seek out the younger man’s face, his stare pointed, before he breaks his gaze to wave the bartender back over for a refill. Nate has always had a preference for names that roll off the tongue, and Matthias just doesn't cut it. ”And while you're at it, I’d love to know why you're trying to bum free drinks off strangers – and just how many more it would take for you to tell me what you’re playing at.”

Skip the smalltalk and get down to details. Nate has his endgame for the night, and Matthias is just a novelty, one that has to prove itself worth the cost of a drink and his time – and the smirk that possesses his lips is nothing short of impish.

[Matthias Walker]

Jesus, he’s so close to calling this guy Eyebrows that the quip’s already in the back of his throat, but he’s not angling for a bar fight—not tonight and not with them—and the guy’s so tense that Matthias figures pushing might just be begging for it. He settles for a questioning arch of his own eyebrows, the gaze brief before he turns to accept the drink the bartender slides to him with a sarcastic tip of the glass towards the man—and then towards Nate with an amused flash of a grin at his words. Right guy indeed—for the drink and for calming Eyebrows down, too. He nods a casual acknowledgment of names, drinks to them without looking away from the pair of them, considering.

And then promptly chokes a little bit on the bourbon because of Silas’s face.

Matthias doesn’t bother trying to smother the laugh that rises from his chest in spite of the burn of alcohol, watching the guy’s mouth and eyebrows scrunch up and finally settle into an expression of patent disapproval. “No?” he echoes in a murmur, eyes catching on the touch of Nate’s hand, and the smile still caught on the corners of his mouth is a little absent in his consideration; maybe they aren’t together but they’re certainly something, and he isn’t sure if worming himself in is appropriate or even possible.

But for all the bitching Silas is the one that gives him an in, and the bourbon’s got to be top shelf and come on, nobody buys top shelf bourbon for people without a chance. So Matthias slants him a smile arch with promise, silently tips the glass at him, and answers Nate instead; his talents may not end at getting attention when he wants it but it’s immodest to share so early. “Haven’t got a nickname, you can make one up for me if you want,” the offer supremely casual, but he can only avoid Nate’s half-question so long and since Silas is asking he supposes there’s no harm in it…

“Singular,” he corrects. “A singular drink, because after this one, I’m leaving. And if you’re so curious,” about his talents, about his game, goes unsaid as he tilts his head to one side a little, the flash of his grin still coming easy, “You can come with.” The offer’s for both of them; Matthias suspects anything but would get him nowhere, and frankly he’s not interested in striking out tonight. It’s too late to find another bar and someone else, and he likes them for the scarce few minutes he’s known them: Silas for the increasingly abstract expressions and eyebrows and Nate for playing along and buying the drink to start with. It’s not a first, but it is, certainly, motivation to play the cards right.

“Pretty simple, though,” which is true; wanting sex and a place to sleep is hardly complicated even if his methods are a little unconventional, “I mean, it’s getting late, and I like company. Three’s a party, right?”

[Zephyr]

The alcohol is certainly doing what it’s intended to do, and Silas feels himself loosening up, feels all the coiled tension easing from his limbs as he finishes and considers asking for another. But, and he knows it should take more than this, but he’s already wound as tight as a spring, and Nate’s hand on his leg, no matter how brief, sets a slow fire loose across his skin.

The shudder that goes through his body is subtle, but visible, if you actually bothered to pay too much attention to him, but he doubts either man is doing so.

Silas is just…he’s so goddamn ready to go home, and he doesn’t think another drink will improve his chances of enjoying the night. His terrible tolerance for alcohol has ruined evenings in the past for him, and this isn’t an evening he’s eager to be ruined. Not that he knows where it’s going. He’s always assumed he’d be going home with Nate tonight. It was expected, actually. Silas doesn’t remember many nights where a trip to the nearest bar didn’t result in a night spent in bed with Nate.

But the kid’s laugh catches his attention, and Silas’ gaze flickers to him, alcohol still burning bright in his throat. He doesn’t understand what’s so goddamn funny, but he can’t deny that the sound of Matthias’ laugh doesn’t send the hairs on the back of his neck on end…and he knows he hasn’t had much to drink, but he already feels the alcohol taking the edge off of any semblance of propriety he has…and the thought that the kid just gave them permission for them to call him anything they want shouldn’t be that funny, but Silas is just silently contemplating how he can take advantage of this.

Matthias isn’t finished talking though, and Silas’ attention is taken back to him, nerves quivering at this new piece of information. So. He had been angling for something this entire time. Nate might have been the one who voiced it, but Silas never had any doubts that Matthias had a hidden agenda. After all, who intercepts a pair of strangers in a bar if they weren’t actively looking for something? Silas would have been able to guess what that was before, but now the fact is clear and stuck in the back of his mind.

Intense gaze is still plastered to Matthias as he works over the specifics of his words. That’s a goddamn invitation if he’d ever heard one, but he has to stop and think about who the invitation is for. Silas is sure he hasn’t made a good enough impression of himself to warrant the kid wanting Silas to go home with him, especially not with Nate next to him. Because if anyone has to choose between them, the choice is just appallingly easy.

Nate is gorgeous and funny and charming and suave as hell, some things Silas has never managed to master. He just got lucky enough to matter, even a little. Silently, he shifts his gaze to Nate, quietly contemplative, wondering how he’s going to react to this. There isn’t much expectation in his gaze. Nate hasn’t left him for others to spend the night with often, usually only after they’d argued, but now, Silas realizes he almost expects it this time.

The thought is a surprisingly gutting one, and Silas licks his lips, trying to chase the thoughts away with the slow burn and taste of bourbon on his lips, and ignore it.

Maybe another drink isn’t such a bad idea after all…especially if he’s going to get left behind for Nate can spend the night with an amazing man with eyes that make Silas’ breath hitch in his throat. It will be okay though, if Nate decides to take Matthias up on his offer. Because who in their right mind would say no to that?

In fact, he’s about to whirl around and order another drink when Matthias speaks up again, and cue Silas’ surprise at this revelation. He wants…both of them?

A threesome isn’t a thought Silas’ ever entertained…at least not any time after college…because they were complicated and messy and far too likely to end in jealousy or bitterness. Still, between the alcohol, Nate’s touch, and Matthias’ smile and eyes, he just can’t think of any real reason to say no to this. For all Silas’ bitching, he’s never felt the need to sleep with anyone but Nate…not that he ever actually expected the same thing back, but this is new and unusual territory, and Silas’ gaze, when it lands on Matthias is hooded and filled with contemplation.

It didn’t matter if Matthias was using the opportunity to get close to Nate without being a douche to Silas…because Silas is just so far from caring. This kid is hot, and Nate is gorgeous as hell, and he isn’t going to miss an opportunity like this when he didn’t know if something like this would ever come up again.

So Silas plunks his glass on the bar, waves off the bartender when he asks if Silas wants another and just take the opportunity to look at Nate, study his expression, gauge his reaction to this twist in the story.

“I like parties.” Silas says simply, still looking at Nate. Because he knows that if he doesn’t voice his interest in the proposal, Nate will have no way of knowing that Silas has an interest in it at all…because this is Silas, and he isn’t the type to go around agreeing to threesomes or anything.

He mostly blames the alcohol though.

Still. This is Nate’s game. He’s the one that came to his door and dragged him out of bed to go out drinking, and he’s the one that bought Matthias the drink. So this is up to him. If he isn’t comfortable with it, there’s just no way Silas is going to be on board with it.

But the alcohol did a good job of loosening him up and Silas just really, really needs sex, like yesterday.

[♥ Nathan ♥]

Matthias questions him, and does it with a handsome smile and that terribly attractive laugh of his, and Nathan can only respond with a shrug and a proud sort of grin, his eyes alight with the implication behind their confusing exchange. Were they closer, Nate would feel obligated to slip his arm about Silas’ waist in elaboration – and with no small sense of possession – but he settles for swirling his empty glass between his fingertips, chuckling under his breath. That Matthias seems willing enough to play along with their display, to join in with the give and take and not simply down his drink and leave them used, is encouraging. It makes the evening complicated, because he is not about to leave Silas hanging, but a quick exchange of numbers may not be out of the question.

”I can think of a few things to call you,” he murmurs with a salacious smirk, and Nathan leans forward to rest an elbow on the bar and crowd subtly into Matthias’ space. It is an action the wolf supports, but that humans can be so dumbly unaware of, though his body language is both clear and inviting. The stranger, to his credit, is either attentive or simply brazen, and his following assertion – and the proposition that comes with it – has the werewolf leaning back with a flick of his tongue across his lower lip. You can come with. He would think he were being mocked, that the boy was simply toying with him, if he did not seem so damnably honest about it.

Nathan has been pursued, and he is used to winning this game of flirtation and ego, but the idea that Matthias may be throwing himself at him so soon is still a surprising one. The wolf that lurks in the back of his mind, proud thing that it is, sees it only as its just reward, and Nate allows that sentiment to bleed into his consciousness. Questions regarding the other man’s motives may be saved for later, because he has a supremely difficult time denying himself anything. Silas is a suitable tether, a method of grounding him that prevents him from leaping immediately upon the opportunity – that even sees him hesitating – and Nate has to swallow roughly to find the courage to say no.

He will slip the kid his card, they will exchange numbers, and he can revisit this opportunity on another night—

And then Matthias speaks up again, his tone so casual, and Nate has to tear his eyes from a side-long glance at Silas to fix his gaze on the younger man. He hangs on the offer, peering at Matthias incredulously, his tumbler dangling in the air between knuckled fingers. The other shoe will drop eventually; the punchline will come, the obvious follow-up that will consist of a price for the evening or an hourly fee – and Nate will laugh and blow the boy off with some condescending comment and excuse himself to take Silas home. His expectations, however, are not met, and instead Matthias only smirks right back. There is a sudden twisting in his chest and he can swear he feels his heart skip a beat, and as the imagined moment holds strong and solidifies into sweet reality, that crooked smirk returns to the werewolf’s lips, all slow and roguish.

Where Silas has some thought of discretion – no matter how it is masked by liquor – Nathan only has a mind for the best of both worlds. He can explore this path with Matthias without leaving Silas behind; he does not worry about the mess normally involved in such rendezvous because he does not worry about relationships. This newcomer will join them for the remainder of the evening, Nate will not think too hard about the jealous pang that tugs at his chest at the thought of Silas touching someone else, and then Matthias will move on and he and Silas will be fine. Presuming the surly doctor will go along with this. Presuming Nate won’t have to turn down the opportunity of a lifetime because the man has decided to be prudish, and somewhere along the line Nate decided he cared—

Silas speaks, meeting his eyes, and Nate matches his stare with a surprised raise of his brows and a flash of white teeth. The grin lingers as he discards his glass to the bar, fishing around in his vest for his wallet before tossing a collection of neat bills down. ”I like company,” he agrees, and manages to keep his voice level as he rises from his stool. A brush of his hand wipes the wrinkles from the fabric of his shirt, and he glances up at Matthias expectantly. ”I’m not sure what you had in mind, but my apartment is a few blocks away.” Nate’s voice is conversational, if slightly amused, as though this were nothing more than a business arrangement. ”—if you’d let me take you there?” Matthias may have made the offer, but Nate shies away from locations he doesn’t know – and not having to worry about getting a tired Silas home come morning is a bonus.

He holds one hand out, palm up, for Silas to take (or not, as is often the case), and when the arrangements are confirmed as suitable, leads their party from the bar. Nate would prefer a little more liquor in him, a little more time idled at the bar to understand what might be driving Matthias beside lust, but he can solve the former at home and the latter in time. With Silas at his side, he doubts the stranger will be so bold – or idiotic – as to try and jump them in an alleyway, but waking up to half his apartment missing is not out of the question. Matthias’ eagerness makes him suspicious, but not enough to say no.

One-night stands come with their own set of troubles, but worry and what-ifs have never stopped him. Flanked on both sides, Nate will call a cab and usher them both home – and though the evening is ending, the rest of the night is ahead of them.