Work Text:
1.
it’s on the boring train ride to londonderry, drinking beer and playing footsies under the table, that it first sort of clicks. that ian first realises properly, first hears it, and the second time too.
(and later, ian wonders how many times nick’s said the word before. how many times he’s said it off-hand or cooed at ian. he thinks about it when he’s in his hotel room by himself, trying to concentrate on his book or phone or something that isn’t nick. the word repeats itself, over and over, sounds out in nick’s accent and ian can’t stop the blush rising high on his cheeks.)
they’re nibbling on pringles, making dumb comments about the tiny packs and how nick can barely fit his hand inside the tube. nick really can’t though, just gets his fingers in along the edge to slowly push the pringle up, and then more likely than not the pringle snaps into about half a million pringle shards. ian somewhat tipsily, finds it hilarious; nick’s intense look of concentration, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth, and then the pringle snaps once again, and nick looks crestfallen, every time. like he expects that he’ll get one out perfectly, even time after time they break.
ian stuffs another pringle into his mouth, crunching loudly and disturbs nick’s focus, fingers gripping too tightly onto the pringle and it snaps. nick huffs as ian cracks up, finding it far too funny for what it really is, and nick’s expression softens. his eyes crinkle up at the edges, and a smile stretches up the curve of his lip.
“photo time!” lmc announces from across the aisle, where she’s been suspiciously quiet for the last half an hour or so, but she’s got headphones hanging around her neck and that supplies the answer in ian’s mind.
“oh,” nick says as he leans across the table slightly, planting his elbow onto ian’s half of the table and cups his chin in his hand, pouting ridiculously, “look at me lovingly babe.”
“why,” ian doesn’t even pose it as a question really, says it like he needs to complain about something, as he leans over awkwardly from his aisle seat to stare at nick in the window seat. he reaches an arm across the table to rest against nick’s arm, a little self-consciously, and smiles. it’s straining his back a bit, and ian wonders why he doesn’t just hop over into the next seat so he can look into nick’s eyes without a problem, when lmc holds her phone up and shifts it around like she’s looking for the right angle.
“just perfect,” lmc decrees when she’s got the phone angled so ian’s slightly painful expression from the stretching of his back is predominant and the shutter from her phone camera sounds loudly, like it echoes.
the stupid pout drops off nick’s lips and he smiles back, closed mouthed and soft, and gets in a “you’re cute ian,” before lmc’s shoving her phone in their faces, demanding to know what they think of the picture. really, they don’t get much of a look, merely a flash of the screen before lmc’s bringing it back to herself and slapping a filter on, sending out so the entire internet can ogle it forever.
(in those moments, whilst nick’s distracted, ian teaches himself how to breathe again.)
and, once lmc’s dozed after a couple more beers, nick brings out his own phone. he swears as they go through tunnels, the signal cutting in and out, until he brings up the tweet and shows ian the photo properly. he stares at it for a long moment, feeling like it’s one of those gifs, and almost expects little photo-ian to reach over the rest of the way to kiss little photo-nick carefully.
“see, cute.” nick says before tapping something out on his phone, and pocketing it once more. and ian doesn’t know what or how to reply, so he just nods, frown creasing his eyebrows. nick looks like he’s going to repeat the word again, but settles for turning his attention back to his troublesome pringles, concentrating hard on rescuing one perfectly.
**
heading off to their hotel rooms, ian makes a beeline to stop fiona from making it to hers fully, standing in front of her door, arms crossed, bags by his side. fiona drops her own bags and looks at ian curiously, tilting her head a little. she kicks at ian’s foot, as if that in some way will make him move, and ian kicks gently back.
“how do you react to someone calling you cute?” ian asks like it’s a question of great urgency and fiona looks lost for a second.
“say thank you?” she suggests, but poses it like a question so ian knows she wants an explanation, wonders why he’s asking such a thing at such a time.
“but,” ian waves his hands around a little madly, like that in some way will explain exactly what he’s trying to say, “what about me? how do i react to someone calling me cute?”
“don’t people say that a lot?” fiona shrugs, and ian steps away as she goes to unlock her hotel door. he pushes his own things out the way too so she can drag her own luggage into her room, and with his mind on other things ian picks up his bags
he slowly carries them over to his hotel room, pops them down and searches his pocket for his room key. putting the wrong one of the two keys on the ring in first, ian sighs and finally wrestles the door open. not bothering to pick up his luggage properly he drags it in and dumps it on the floor by the bed. it takes him three trips and when he shuts his door darkness encases the room, aside from the rays of light peering weakly in from the street outside.
ian flops onto the bed, stares up at the ceiling, looking at the spider web thin cracks tracing along it, and realises the question he really wants to ask is actually “how exactly do i react to nick grimshaw calling me cute?”
2.
the third and fourth times come through on a text with half a million emojis and ian has to stare at the message for a very long time, thinking about how to respond to it. he feels as breathless and uncertain as the first time and his thumbs hover over his phone screen. he sits there for so long, peering down at the you so cute and various african animals and faces – and wait, is that a little person in a red jump suit running? - that nick sends another string of garbled messages.
what? ian sends back, he can’t really translate key smash and he contemplates forwarding the message on to lmc in the hope that she can, but his phone beeps once more.
soz phone fell on2 my face.
ian chuckles at the image in his head, thinks about nick braining himself with his phone or poking himself in the eye with the corner of it. he wonders for a brief second, lets his mind stray ridiculously, if nick will have a hello kitty imprinted onto his forehead when ian sees him next, but realises that’s a silly notion quickly. he sends off a quick, how did you even do that?
laying in bed, dropped it. nick sends back almost instantly, and there’s a pause before another string of short messages beeps through, one after the other; on my nose.
nose really hurts.
come quickly.
and bring bandages.
tea also.
ian laughs, and finds an emoji of someone applying a bandage to a hand, and although it’s probably traditionally used as a burn joke, he sends it anyway. and then adds a long string of various tea cups and a tea pot being poured. the next second, his phone is ringing, nick pulling a ridiculous face flashing up on ian’s screen, and when ian answers it, nick huffs out little, affectionate laughs for about four minutes into ian’s ear.
“oh ian,” nick says, like he’s truly impressed by ian’s laziness, like he thinks ian’s rather clever and ian just listens in, listens to the way nick’s breath slowly evens out from the chuckling, “you’re cute.” he says so quietly that ian almost misses it, almost skips over the words, but then they sink in and he’s swearing inside his mind.
“hmm,” ian says because he still doesn’t know what else to think.
3.
the next time nick calls ian a variation of cute, they’re working, and it’s actually on air. (or maybe it’s just the next time ian pays attention, the next time he’s listening in to the little words that seem to be just on the edge of nick’s tongue, getting lost in the inside of his mug or with songs he sings along to.)
“this is actually wasting time, talking to you,” nick says with a grin, like wasting time is his favourite thing ever and well, it probably is, “i find you adorable.”
“i love you too,” ian says out of reflex, grinning like an idiot back and finchy snorts. and despite the fact it’s probably out of annoyance more than anything and nick rounds on him. he makes a face, like he’s rightly annoyed too, but waits until the link is over before speaking.
“ian is.” nick huffs, and he crosses his arms in what has to be the most unthreatening arm-crossing gesture ever. he says it like he’s offended for ian, like the thought that finchy thinks differently matters, and ian doesn’t really know what to think of that himself.
“yeah, whatever,” finchy replies, rolling his eyes heavily like they weigh several tonnes and it takes him a lot of effort to do so, “get on the with the show.”
and, nick does, admittedly a lot more grumpily than before, frown etching its way between his brows as he puts his headphones back on properly, large hands covering them easily.
it stays there, the little frown creasing nick’s forehead, through the entire next link, even though his voice is jovial and happy, through to the next couple of songs until ian shoulder bumps him and smiles. nick looks up and to the side, and bites at the smile that is threatening to split his lips into a massive grin. he bumps ian’s shoulder back, and when he turns back to his work the frown is gone, humming happily along to the song that’s playing.
finchy is staring at ian when he goes back to his own spot, and ian ignores him in favour of actually working. it doesn’t last long because finchy’s eyes on ian feel like they’re heavy again, and ian wonders if perhaps finchy’s got something up with his eyes. he’s not entirely sure why they feel so heavy or look heavy all the time, maybe finchy needs glasses.
“what,” ian mouths, raising an eyebrow and makes a confused face, corners of his mouth curving up a little.
“so now, i can see why,” finchy mouths back, and ian has no idea what he’s talking about, not even sure if they’re on the same page, “nick thinks that.” and it takes a few minutes for what finchy’s saying, but when it does ian frowns.
nick calling him cute is one thing, but anyone else? no thank you.
“fuck off,” ian mouths so angrily they’re almost actual words and lmc peers at him for a second before he flaps a hand at her to go back to whatever it is that she’s doing. when he turns back, finchy’s attention is elsewhere, and so he doesn’t really notice ian giving him the finger.
(for a several, possibly never-ending moments ian wonders how much he misses because he’s not paying attention, wonders how much he doesn’t hear or know or feel because he’s focused on other things. thinks about how nick is much more than just the loud words and laughter, wonders if he misses the bits where nick is quiet and subdued, wonders if there’s things that are in plain sight but his eyes just skip over them. it makes his head a little dizzy, his stomach clench in an uncomfortable kind of way because he realises that he doesn’t want to miss those things.
not anymore.
and it would be an immensely burdensome thing to comprehend if nick was not glancing over at him, smirk curling up his lips.)
**
“it’s okay, right?” nick asks the second ian’s out the studio, practically pouncing upon ian and dragging him away, out of way of the rest of the team and their elephant ears. they are the sort of people who lap up secret conversations and the like. nick’s fingers dig into ian’s upper arm, but he doesn’t say anything. it’s a bit like an anchor or to ground him really.
“what’s okay?” ian asks because he’s unsure what exactly nick’s referring from within the to the show or did he say something before ian got there?
“saying you’re cute,” nick doesn’t look ian in the eye, kicks lightly at his own foot and stares at it when he scuffs at the carpet, “i can stop, if you know, don’t like it or whatever. i mean, it’s not really something a grown man wants to hear and - ”
“it’s okay,” ian interrupts, somewhat afraid that nick will never stop going on about why or what or something and doesn’t add the only because it’s you onto the end like he wants to. it gets stuck, somewhere along his throat, on the edge of his lips perhaps and nick’s smile is blinding.
“good,” nick grins and finally lets go of ian’s arm, and ian wonders if he always felt like he’d lost something when nick let go of him before, and then nick throws an arm ian’s shoulders and hurries them along toward the elevator, “i wasn’t really going to stop if you asked though.”
and of course he wasn’t.
ian probably wouldn’t want nick to be any other way.
4.
and of course, there’s not only one time that nick says it (cute, you’re too cute ian) in front of their meddling and somewhat troublesome co-workers. he can’t really keep his mouth shut; blabs it to the entire world, and although ian’s okay with nick saying it (feels the ferocious winged animals in his stomach go a little crazy, barely stops the blush appearing on his cheeks) he thought he made it clear anyone else saying it was a no.
(and, with a sigh he resigns to the fact that random fangirls on the internet don’t seem to really care if ian wants to be called cute or not. they’re going to do it anyway.)
at least, ian muses afterwards, nick doesn’t say it on air this time, and therefore doesn’t encourage the masses of people ian doesn’t know to call him cute. finchy makes another face though, and fiona raises her eyebrows, doing something of a meaningful glance and ian regrets asking her that time in londonderry about how to react to being called cute. only lmc doesn’t say anything, but that’s because she’s busily singing to whatever’s playing.
nick’s going on about personal training again when ian gets in. for a moment ian wonders if the only reason nick goes to personal training just so he can complain about it on air, and then decides that’s probably the case.
and, nick turns to him, smiles something about the guy there, what was his name again?, and the bloody lunges and ian rolls his eyes. it’s always those lunges. nick looks put out for a second, and pouts. tuning nick out, ian actually goes to work like he should be, making some dumb comment about not supporting nick and his personal training slash something to complain about.
“i always encourage him with his marathon running!” nick indignantly says loud enough that ian tunes back, eyes widening when he realises nick’s talking about him.
“he’s running a marathon?” finchy asks, and turns to look at ian, he looks vaguely impressed under that thinly veiled look of annoyance and ian shakes his head.
“yeah,” nick agrees, nodding in somewhat the same pace as ian is shaking his head and ian shoots him a glare.
“oh, he didn’t say.” finchy says in a nonchalant kind of way that makes him sound like exactly like nonchalant was just the way he wanted to sound.
“shut up!” ian snaps, cheeks suddenly flaming and they stay that way until nick’s finished the link and bending over the desk to tell ian he’s cute.
there’s equipment and computers and wires in the way. and, for a second it looks like nick’s going to brain himself on something, but he cranes over as far as he can and smiles as he practically giggles; “cute, you’re too cute ian.”
and, ian feels like he might spontaneously combust any second from the sheer amount of heat is radiating from his cheeks and ear tips. nick smiles once more, softly like ian amuses him, and leans back, humming to the song playing.
he ignores finchy and fiona, and tries to concentrate on his work, and every time he glances up nick’s looking at him, expression unreadable.
**
when ian’s finally home after a long day of meetings and producing stuff, out of london peak hour traffic, he curls up on his couch with some bad telly on and stares at his phone. aimee’s contact is up, her bright orange hair almost blinding him, and his thumb hovers over the call button. sighing loudly because it obviously helps in cheesy movies, ian gets up and grabs himself another beer.
aimee will know what to do, his mind says as he screws open the top off the beer, she knows nick and she knows you and she’ll work things out.
he finishes that beer and then another and another. the answers don’t get any clearer, and the coffee table where ian’s phone is sitting seems to get farther and farther away, the possibility of ringing aimee to sort everything out getting smaller and smaller. he watches animal rescue shows until he falls asleep on the couch, hugging a pillow tightly and snoring loudly.
5.
“you remember our radio football team right?” nick says conversationally and yes ian does, but he shakes his head anyway. because it was one of those things; the big ones where nick talks about how great an idea it is for two weeks until he promptly forgets and it everything goes back to normal. this is the part where things are normal now.
“yeah,” finchy says though and ian gives him a look, because this sounds oddly like a set-up, like the rest of them have decided something and knew ian wouldn’t agree so they’d spring it on him in a moment where he can’t say no. with the look on finchy’s face, ian think he might just be right.
“what are we doing with football?” ian sighs and well, it’s kind of worth it when nick’s face lights up like ian just gave him the keys to fairy land or something.
“we’re going to play it,” and nick says it with such conviction that ian doesn’t have the heart to remind him that nick hates football, never liked playing and when he did he was always picked last at school.
(and then ian’s reminded of that conversation, of talking of playing it at primary school, all those years ago. reminded of the flush high on nick’s cheeks as ian had supplied “stand there and look pretty,” to explain nick’s football experiences. nick had kept talking like it hadn’t bothered him, mind racing off without everyone else and telling britain and the world how ian had always been a hooker, but his cheeks flushed and ian had wondered just for a second how low that blush went.)
“okay,” ian agrees because it’s less painful if he agrees to now, he’ll only agree eventually after much pouting and sulking on nick’s part. and nick beams at him.
**
it’s cold and dreary and ian regrets agreeing to football. nick is blathering on about something but ian’s not listening because it’s cold and damn, the camera crew is already filming (and fuck, they’ve probably got him starting at nick’s arse in those tight jeans) and he just wants to go home to hot tea and blankets and cuddling with aimee and nick.
he pouts when nick looks at him, shivering overdramatically despite his three layers, one of which actually belongs to nick and nick looks sympathetic and wraps an arm around his shoulder. “it’s going be terrible,” nick noses at ian’s ear, breathe warm along the shell of it and ian shivers again, although he’s definitely not cold anymore.
“you’ll be great,” ian says in the least comforting voice he’s ever heard and feels only a little bad at how unhelpful he sounds, but mostly because nick huffs a laugh into his temple.
“thanks for the support chaloner,” nick murmurs jokingly, and ian’s not sure why it’s got to so gentle and caring, but it makes his stomach do funny things and he doesn’t know if he wants it to stop or not.
“don’t you ever complain again that i don’t support you in things,” ian sniffs in return and nick laughs all the rest of the way to the change rooms.
**
ian’s quiet in the change rooms. he just sits and wrinkles his nose at the lingering smell of sweaty football players in here day after day and watches the dip and curve of nick’s back as he shrugs on a jersey. he’s facing away from ian, and ian finds that a good thing as he toes off his shoes, because there’s something lovely about nick’s pale, freckly back in the weak light and it would be quite embarrassing to be caught staring.
(the air’s cold and nick’s jumping around and ian kind of feels like he’s in a college again, though he never had thoughts of locker room blowjobs back like this then.)
nick’s already changed into silly football gear and rearing to go by the time ian’s tried on his running shorts and shivered as the cold air hit him, and then opted for track pants. he waits for ian for about five seconds, helping to pull all of ian’s clothing out of his bag and dump it across the floor and then rolls his eyes to the tune of “you take so long,” and is off. shivers as he pulls his top three layers off to put something warm on.
out on the field nick’s already chatting up some football player and ian’s cold. so he stands back and pouts because he could be home with a hot cocoa and the television. nick looks silly in his football clothes, and ridiculous as the football player demonstrates something and ian scowls because it feels like a complete waste of time until fiona stands next to him and pokes him in the ribs.
“no need to be jealous,” she says in that voice she tells young women who fall in and out of love a drop of the hat they’re hot and don’t need anyone to be complete, like she’s giving him advice on his dating life or something.
“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” ian replies because he doesn’t, he’s just cold, honestly.
“okay.” she nods, and drops it just like that, and ian’s so startled he stops his pouting just for a second as she walks off to yell at nick for a group photo.
and, nick of course thinks that’s a glorious idea, talks about it like it’s his own and throws an arm around ian’s waist as he pulls him into it. fiona sends ian a look, and he pointedly ignores her because he’s still fucking cold and that’s his real problem. (not so cold with fidgety nick next to him though, radiating body heat like he’s somehow absorbed the sun.) and fiona’s really not fooled but she just leaves it again and listens patiently to the football player whatever-his-name tells them about a game plan. he winks at nick though, so ian doesn’t listen.
it’s about half way through the time allocated for this fruitless exercise (in ian’s opinion), and ian’s still scowling with fiona now standing next to him, when nick jogs over. his nose and cheeks are pink from the cold he looks so happy, grinning like an idiot, that ian’s frown sooths out a little.
“aw, ian looks so cute and comfy in his sweats,” he says, mostly to fiona and she nods seriously, giving ian a once over. ian tries to keep some semblance of a frown, pouting once more and nick wraps him up in a shivery, quick side hug.
ian feels like he’s getting good at ignoring things; fiona and the frostbitten butterflies loose in his stomach.
+1.
nick’s the loudest as ian goes past. he’s got a lapful of dog and a wine glass in his hands and he sounds like a bloody idiot in that dumb, self-named laddish voice he does. it’s only a glimpse that ian gets; nick’s loud whooping pinpointing a location, a flash of aimee’s bright orange hair, frantically waving hands. he ventures a wave back, doesn’t know if they see it, but it spurs him on, keeps him going.
he’s the loudest too when ian’s at the finish, sitting down on the still slightly damp grass, head between his knees. he’s kind of wobbly, kind of a little light-headed, but he finished and nick’s carrying on about how much effort it took to watch ian. there’s something about car parks and shit, and ian rolls his eyes as loudly as possible; he ran twenty six point two miles, right now he doesn’t care.
but, nick just smiles like he doesn’t really mean it when he sees the vicious eye roll, soft and careful, and helps ian to the car with a “i’m proud of you,” when they decide to go out to lunch.
lunch is merry and fun, and no one will stop congratulating ian, raising drunker and drunker toasts. it’s nice, being surrounded by these people, being surrounded by friends and laughter and ian feels himself slowly nodding off. it’s warm, and he’s fucking tired, and he’d quietly happily drift off all snuggled up onto nick’s shoulder expect for the fact that he needs to pee. like, really needs to pee.
“just heading to the bathroom,” he says aimlessly as he stands, like he’s trying to talk to all of the group of once and doesn’t know who to look at, there’s kind of a collective nod and he shuffles around his chair and his knees wobble. it’s not really anything, he tells himself, and goes for another step, but his knees are even worse and he sits down quickly, half on his chair.
“ian!” nick all but squawks, large hands reaching out like they want to stabilise ian, despite the fact ian’s already sitting down.
“i’m fine,” ian tries to weakly bat away nick’s hands, but that just seems to make nick, and the rest of the group, more worried.
“you’ve run along way love,” aimee says, petting at ian’s spikey hair, pushing it out of his eyes, “it’s alright, perhaps nick’ll help you to the bathroom?” despite it being phrased as a question, ian knows it’s not and secretly he’s never been more grateful for having her as a friend, nodding slowly as her eyes flick to behind him. she makes the tiniest movement with her head and nick gets up too quickly that he almost stumbles to help ian.
nick takes it too far to slow, like ian’s only got one leg or something, but with him all warm and pressed up against ian’s side, ian’s not sure he cares. his arm is hooked around nick’s waist, and he leans heavily on nick because he can, not really because he needs too. the bathroom’s empty when they get there, bright neon lights and white tiles.
“need me to stay?” nick asks and his voice catches on the last syllable and that makes ian turn around, to look at the expression creasing nick’s brow and curling up his lips.
“yeah,” ian says slowly and carefully, like he’s waiting for an explanation, leaning up against a hand basin.
nick steps forwards.
“you’re so…” he says, trailing off like he can’t seem to find the right word, and ian looks up at him, hands waving as he searches for it.
“cute,” ian suggests tiredly, leaning against the sink as he can barely stand up, because that’s just what nick says now. always cute; always some form of that word to describe ian.
but, nick looks put out.
“no,” he replies, frown between his brow and ian’s not sure, but it looks like he’s getting closer, “not cute. that’s not the word i’m looking for.”
“okay,” ian murmurs, and he doesn’t know what to think, finds himself lost a lot when nick’s talking or around, like the thoughts just drain out of his head.
there’s a pause, and ian can feel the way his heart is beating too fast, jumping about in his chest like his ribs are holding in a frightened bird and it’s not all just because he’s run a marathon. nick leans closer, right up in ian’s space and his long fingers fit against the basin neatly, tucks his mouth right next to ian’s ear.
“sweaty,” nick says with a chuckle and ian goes to push him away, gets his hands on nick’s chest and pushes as disappointment sparks painfully like little stabbing knives in his stomach, cutting up his insides.
“fuck off,” he snaps, “i’ve just run twenty six miles,” and his hands are still upon nick’s chest and he can feel the way nick’s heart beats underneath his fingertips, how it’s beating like nick ran next to ian in that marathon.
“i didn’t say that was a bad thing,” nick whines, his voice going up an octave right at the end and ian rolls his eyes, “you smell manly, all laddish.”
and just the way nick says the words makes ian stop and think, oh, so that’s what this is about. a dumb joke.
“yeah whatever,” ian rolls his eyes again, and goes to push nick away fully, digs his fingers in nick’s shirt and something flashes in nick’s eyes. it looks a lot like worry, like ian doesn’t want to hear the rest of nick’s argument before throwing him out on the street or something and it matters what ian thinks, and it makes ian hesitate.
hesitate just long enough so that nick can push back gently and slant his mouth against ian’s.
nick’s mouth is warm, and kind of dry and he’s gentle like ian might break, like it matters if ian does and, that thought steals ian’s breath away just as much as the kiss does. one of nick’s hands shifts from the basin to hover lightly over ian’s cheek, like he wants to touch but is unsure if he’s allowed to. and, although it feels like it could last forever if ian wanted, and well ian does want, nick pulls back. he’s pink lipped and a blush high on his cheeks, biting at the tips of his ears, and ian wonders what he looks like to nick.
“passionate,” nick says and his voice wobbles a little, ian stares at him blankly because he has no idea what nick’s talking about, “hardworking, loyal, sly, funny, tall, sexy, lanky, calm, mouth-watering, a little crazy; you’re so much more than just cute, ian.”
“oh,” ian replies because he doesn’t know what else to say; what or how to even say anything to that and nick takes a deep breath.
“and i don’t want you going around thinking that’s all i thought of you anymore,” nick whispers, and in the silence of the bathroom it almost echoes. ian feels some kind of hysterical laughter bubble up in his chest because this is not the place for this kind of confession, but he can’t stop it, doesn’t what it to really stop anyway, “because you’re more than that; more than that single word. and i know i’m supposed to be good with words, i’m a radio host, but fuck there’s not enough words in the entire world, even with all those languages, to describe you and i have trouble trying to articulate them appropriately anyway.”
nick’s babbling trails off to a stop, words muting down to nothing and he stares at ian, bottom lip being worried at by teeth and eyes wide; hectic almost. the blush is still high on his cheeks, strays bit of hair fall onto his furrowed forehead, casting soft shadows in the neon lighting. ian’s not sure he’s ever quite seen nick look more beautiful, his heart racing under ian’s fingertips.
“sometimes, you talk too much,” ian says and maybe they’re not quite the words he was trying to say, but they’ll do too, “just kiss me again so we can go home and cuddle, i’m really fucking tired.”
“okay,” nick smiles softly, and his hand finally rests upon ian’s cheek, feather light and dips his head back in for a longer, rougher kiss that has ian jolted up against the basin, knees kind of wobbly. and, ian can’t tell if that’s from pure exhaustion or from the feeling of nick pressed up against him, fingers curled in the little hairs at the back of his neck.
it lasts no longer the one before (but nick looks seriously mussed up; hair all out of place, eyes hectic) because ian needs to pee and then sit down, he can almost feel his legs giving way. nick bites at a smile as ian wobbles off to actually do what the point of coming to the bathroom was, and “no nick you can’t hold my dick whilst i pee. i am stable enough to do that on my own.”
ian washes his hands with a careful precision. he takes longer than normal so he can look up to the mirror and stare at his puffy, red lips and spiked with sweat hair. so he can stare at nick hovering in the background, waiting to help ian back to the lunch table.
he stares as the water pours over his hands, cold and soapy, and thinks he can see something new.
and later, once ian’s been hovered around enough to make sure he’s not going to break, and after the ride home, when he’s curled into nick’s arms up on nick’s couch, breath evening out as he drifts off to sleep he mumbles “you should try a thesaurus,” into nick’s shoulder. it takes a second for the thought to click in nick’s head, but when it does a grin lights up his lips, smug and kind of proud, and he rolls his eyes, planting a kiss atop ian’s head.
maybe though, to describe ian, he’s going to need all the help he can get.