Chapter Twenty-three

So, as the sky darkens, they stumble with increasing sloppiness in and out of every bar on Duval Street. The air is warm and breezy and the laughing tourists spilling out of bars and into the streets make the whole town feel like one big party. Reid's fallen so deeply into the island spirit that he's even indulging in embarrassingly fruity (but delicious) mojitos.

And his giddiness seems to finally be rubbing off on Nate, or maybe he's just a happy drunk. Either way, he keeps flirting with strangers at the bar, smiling and buying them drinks, typing increasingly incoherent pick-up lines into his phone app. It's all a little stilted and awkward, like most of Nate's conversations are, but he's so goddamned gorgeous that no one really seems to mind the electronic voice.

Reid thinks about telling him to be more careful, both with his words and their cash, but he's too grateful that Nate seems to have finally come out of his emotional coma. He doesn't want to ruin it.

Besides, Ben was right when he said that the worst was over. And Reid's so certain that they haven't been followed that he lets it go to his head, forgetting to be careful and drinking at least three mojitos too many.

Which is why the world is visibly spinning by the time they finally settle in at some partially-outdoor dive. It's got rickety little tables crammed together too closely and dollar bills stapled to practically every surface for some stupid fucking reason, but Reid likes the music and Nate has made fast friends with the frat-guy wannabe at the bar beside him.

Reid throws his head back, singing along with the cheesy Jimmy Buffett cover band about the joys of day drinking.

"Five o'clock sooooommewheeeere-" he croons, off-key and too loud, the stick of sugar cane from his drink hanging out the side of his mouth. He's got just enough self-consciousness left to realize that he looks like an idiot so he glances, embarrassed, at the bar stool beside him. He would swear Nate was sitting there not more than five seconds ago, and the sugar cane falls to the floor as he tries to process what he sees.

An empty chair. Just bare wood, a crumpled napkin and drained glass on the bar before it.

And it's like a triple shot of espresso directly into his bloodstream, because Reid is suddenly more sober than he's been in his life.

"Nate? Where the fuck are you, Nate?"

No answer. Nothing but the applause of the crowd as the song ends and the thundering of his own heart.

"Damn it," he swears viciously at himself. A thousand horrible scenarios run through his head - Nate dead, Nate kidnapped and tortured and then dead, Nate deciding that Reid's plan was crap and taking off to fend for himself...which ends with Nate, dead.

Why the FUCK did I bring us to an island with only one road out? Even if I find him and he's okay, if they've tracked us here we will never get out in one piece. Jesus, Reid, it's like you've never done this before.

He flags down the bartender, leaning so far over the bar that he's practically lying on it. He shouts, desperate and trying to be heard over the bar noise.

"The guy, the one I was with - did you see where he went?"

The bartender shifts his feet, looking away uncomfortably for a second before replying. "Yeah, dude. I'm sorry, but he took off to the bathroom with some other guy a few minutes ago. Haven't seen either of them come back."

Reid can't decide if he's relieved or even more terrified. Because it's good that Nate left voluntarily, but that other guy could be anyone - could be a hitman or, worse, a member of Nate's family that either tracked them here somehow or had the cosmically bad luck to vacation in the same spot at the same time.

But Reid's been trained to read expressions, and there's something at the edges of the bartender's face, something that looks like... pity.

Because he thinks Nate went to hook up behind my back.

And Reid is out of the seat and running flat out to the bathroom without another thought, because he's not sure which reality would be more painful to face - Nate broken and bloody on the dingy bathroom floor, or Nate moaning under some stranger's mouth.

He doesn't have to wait long for his answer. He bangs into the men's room loud enough to startle the poor bastard swaying with his dick in the breeze in front of the urinal and bends in half to look under the closed stall doors.

And there, in the far corner, he sees one very familiar set of sandals... and a supremely douchebaggy pair of brand new Nikes, worn with white ankle socks.

For fuck's sake, Nate - you picked a guy who wears goddamned ANKLE SOCKS?

Reid bangs on the door with all the strength in his professionally toned right arm.

"Everything okay in there?"

Filthy, disgusting wet sounds, zippers and cloth shifting. And then the bolt slides open far enough for Nate to peek around the door crack, the one visible blue eye darkened to almost black - with lust, ugh - and he just nods, once, quick and sharp.

"Na-" Reid stops himself before he uses Nathaniel's real name and sighs, his jaw tight enough for a tendon to pop out as he turns away, unable to look at that messed-up hair for a second longer.

"Whatever."

Reid stomps away, furious and nauseous, fighting against all the liquor he's consumed that's trying to force its way back up his throat.

And then he sags against the wall right outside the bathroom door, rubbing at his temples and trying to ignore the stupid prickling sensation in his eyes that tells him they're watering more than he'd like.

So what that Nate is hooking up at a bar with someone? It's within his rights to have a good time.

Reid bites at his lip and blinks back tears that he refuses to let fall.

I just wish he'd decided to have his good time with me.

Nate walks out - alone - after just a minute. He looks contrite and confused, like a puppy that's just been kicked and has no idea why.

But his mouth is pink and swollen and Reid can feel the jealous rage stab deeper and sharper than before, slicing and shredding his heart until it leaves the shriveled pieces cold and dark as obsidian, hard and fragile at the same moment.

So he curls his hand around Nate's bicep and practically drags him from the bar, forgetting to pay the tab, forgetting everything except the way Nate had looked when he'd opened that stall door, ragged and needy from some stranger.

But Nate doesn't let him get farther than the sidewalk before pulling back, using every bit of that coiled Angelev strength, and forcing Reid to face him.

"I apologize for not telling you before I took off, but I thought you would complain about it damaging our cover that I was leaving one man for another. And I thought I'd be back before you thought something was wrong-"

"It's my motherfucking job to notice when something is wrong, Nate! Do you know how terrified I was? The things I was thinking, what could have happened if that guy had somehow been connected to the wrong people?"

Reid turns away storms up a dark and narrow side street. He's trying to put some distance between himself and what has just happened, as if moving away from Nate and the bar can make it all just disappear.

But Nate strides right behind him, tenaciously refusing to let it go. He's been hurt and pissed off since they left New York and he's tired of it. Reid's avoidance tendencies be damned; Nate is ready to have this out now.

His hands move like knives, sharp and flashing in the gray glow of moonlight.

"I've practically been a monk for months now, Reid! And I'm sorry that you liked that version of me better, and I'm sorry that I let you believe I was fine with it. But for a while it actually was okay, because I thought that-" Nate stops, shakes his head. No point in embarrassing himself further. "Nevermind, it doesn't matter what I thought. All that matters is that I knew my life would never be the same when I sat down at your desk and confessed that day. But I thought that choice would either earn me freedom from my family or get me killed outright. I never dreamed it would just leave me merely existing in this weird half-life, always frustrated and lost and confused. I'm scared, Reid, all the time, and I'm sad and I'm lost and I'm so lonely...I just wanted to feel something other than that for one night. Something pleasurable, even if-"

Reid steps closer, his voice burning like hot embers.

"Yeah, let's talk about that for a second, okay? I've put my entire life on hold, gone on the run with you and given up EVERYTHING, just to keep you safe. And you-" Reid rubs at his chin and looks away, feels the anger and disappointment tearing through his gut, "-Nate, you didn't even try to talk to me about this. You could have mentioned, 'Hey, Reid, I feel like I'm slowly dying over here, could you maybe do something about it so I don't go running off with some total prick? And oh, by the way, I'm into dudes.'"

Nate's lips press together so tightly that they're a stark white line in his flushed face. "That's what this is about? You couldn't tell that I was gay before you volunteered to be stuck with me, and now it's going to make you uncomfortable to be alone in the same hotel room together? Well I'm so sorry, Reid, that I didn't make sure your heteronormative beliefs weren't going to be questioned by my existence."

Disgusted, Nate turns to walk away, but Reid grabs his arm and spins him back. He steps even closer, licking his lips and slowly sliding his hand down Nate's arm until their fingers tangle together.

"Seriously, Nate? You think my problem is that I'm too straight to be around you?" Reid's voice is rasping, fraying; Nate is standing frozen before him despite the humidity, the only movement a tiny breeze that ruffles the messy twists of his black hair.

They're on the verge of changing everything and neither one is backing down.

Reid moves first, stepping so dangerously close that Nate can see the sparks of bright green in his hazel eyes, crowding him back against the dirty concrete wall in the dark alley. He reaches down and wraps his hands around Nate's hips, feels the sharp bones and hard muscle, the heat of his skin more intense than the muggy night air. The dim light filtering in from the street throws their faces into half-shadows and Reid can't tear his eyes away from what he can see of Nate's lips, remembering what they look like when they're freshly kissed, feeling the searing burn of jealousy that someone else got there first.

Nate is watching desire light up Reid's eyes, can feel it in his trembling grasp. He doesn't understand it, not after what he heard at the deposition, but his lips part and he gasps a shivering, wanting breath.

And then Reid can't hold himself back any longer, crushing his mouth to Nate's. He's angry and desperate and hard, forgetting about the ankle-socked douchebag that tasted Nate just minutes ago, forgetting about his professional responsibilities, forgetting about how dangerous it is to fall for someone whose very existence is as threatened as Nathaniel's.

But the thing he can't forget, not for the rest of his life, is the enthusiastic way Nate responds, his hands balling the fabric of Reid's t-shirt as he tries to pull his body even closer, his mouth hungry and sucking at Reid's lips, his tongue sweeping behind Reid's teeth as it tangles with his own. Nate tastes like sugar and rum and something Reid's never had before, some unique flavor that has him moaning into Nate's mouth.

Nate pulls back for a second and Reid can feel him shaking as he looks away, his eyes suddenly somber, colder. Their faces are still only inches apart, close enough that Reid can read the slow, carefully shaped words on Nate's lips, his soundless breath brushing across Reid's cheek.

"But you said I was just a job."

Reid squeezes his eyes shut and drops his forehead onto Nate's.

"Fuck," he murmurs as it all slots into place - Nate's anger and distance, his random bar hookup. He'd overheard Reid's lie to Ben back in New York, and he'd believed it. Reid curls his fingers even tighter into Nate's hips and curses himself. He should have never said something so stupid, but especially not somewhere that Nate could possibly overhear it.

Reid takes a deep breath and slides one hand up Nate's body, skimming it up the flat planes of his stomach and chest, tracing it along the sharp line of Nate's jaw and waiting until those dark blue eyes are locked on his before he speaks. He wants to make sure that they both remember this after the liquor haze fades.

"It was a goddamned lie, Nate. You've never been just a job."

And he can't say more than that because Nate's mouth is back on his, kissing like he's starving for it, his hands sliding into the back pockets of Reid's jeans.