Author's Note: Crappy, cryptic, plotless Castiel/Nathaniel drabble-babble shit written for MsAsumness. Sorry it's all disjointed and drabbly and inconsistent, not like one solid thing. I dunno why it turned out like this. Probably because I suck, but ah well. You can like, ask me to write you something else if this is too blah and whatnot o.e'
Rating is for cursing and pervy things. Title is from Don't Hug Me I'm Scared 2. And on that note, my cat is attacking my hand as I type this and the blood is smearing all over my keyboard, but I've learned not to resist. That just makes it worse ._.
It's normally peaceful after school, when he's left to his own devices. There's always work to do, but Nathaniel likes work almost as much as he likes reading about gritty serial murders and chains of arson attacks, so work can equate to tranquility anyway.
Except today it's not peaceful, because he isn't left to his own devices and he can't do any work because all the work is in student council room. He's in the basement. He's locked in the basement because a certain heterochromic singer shut the door on his way out and lost the key. It would've been an unpleasant situation to be locked in the basement under any circumstances. Now it's particularly godawful because he's locked in with the last person on the planet he wants to be stuck with.
"Don't you have another key?" Castiel asks him, irritated glower trained on his own.
"In my desk," Nathaniel mutters. "What happened to your key?"
"The key Lysander lost was my key." He crosses his arms, eyes lowering in unwilling embarrassment.
"Then I blame you for this," the blonde hisses sharply. "He loses his own stuff every five minutes! What were you thinking giving him that key!?"
Castiel's snaps his head up and raises his chin, fiery glare pinning Nathaniel to the spot. "Shut up!"
"See, you can't even argue because you know it was a stupid thing to do!" Nathaniel returns the glare with a dagger-worthy one of his one.
"I don't have to explain myself to you!" With that, Castiel whirls around and stomps off to go sit on the other side of the room. Nathaniel steps backward until his back hits the cool cement and he slides down to a seat against it. They stay like that for a few hours, literally, silent and solitary on opposite sides of the room. It's so maddeningly boring that Nathaniel finds himself counting the cracks in the floor and idly naming the nonexistent ants that lived inside them, but the excruciating tedium is preferable to interacting with each other.
For a while, anyway.
It's Castiel who breaks the hushed stillness.
"Whoever built this basement should've put a bathroom down here," he grumbles, head tilting back and scarlet tresses fanning against the wall.
Nathaniel glances over, hostility sacrificed for resignation to the situation. "You have to go?"
"Yup. Think I might just piss in the corner, since it doesn't look like we're getting out of here anytime soon."
"Nobody's going to be here until tomorrow morning," Nathaniel replies flatly. "Even then, it'll probably be a couple hours before they find us."
"I wish we had food." Castiel lifts his head again and props his chin in his hands.
"I'm craving sushi," Nathaniel mumbles in earnest.
"Gross. I wasn't really the biggest sushi fan to begin with. Then I got food poisoning from some I bought at the gas station and it kinda killed the appeal."
"I've never had food poisoning."
"You don't want to."
"It certainly doesn't sound very appealing," agrees Nathaniel.
"Is it just me, or is it getting kinda cold down here?"
Nathaniel doesn't really react to the change in topic. It is indeed getting cooler, as expected when you're shut in a near-empty basement made of concrete. Really, Nathaniel felt the chill seep past his flesh and settle in his muscles about five minutes ago. He almost welcomed it just to have something else to stimulate his psyche.
"It's warmer over here." A lie.
Castiel wordlessly stands and shuffles over. They sit a couple meters apart at first. But after trading weary, begrudged looks, they end up back to back for the purpose of sharing body heat. For both of them, the contact is virtually akin to gently rubbing against a cactus dusted in itching powder. One man's shoulder is another man's pillow and it's just as loathsome a touch, as though the pillowcases are threaded with barbwire. But it's worth noting that neither pull away.
"This could be like that saying," Castiel offers drily, sarcastically. "'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.'"
"It could be a lot like that," Nathaniel agrees, probably just as sarcastic.
.
.
.
Most people don't think he has a sense of humor. They think he's an uptight workaholic, too driven or else just too distracted for such a thing. But Nathaniel had a sense of humor, even if it was on the sardonic side. He sidles to the courtyard with a plastic container in hand, lips quirking up in a little smile.
Castiel's lounging on a bench, listening to his mp3 player with a guitar catalog on his lap. Nathaniel approaches and simply sets the container on the pages. Castiel gives a curious grunt and raises a brow at him before picking it up. It's labeled "Good Sushi" in place of any brand name and priced at $1.25.
He snorts in amusement and looks at Nathaniel with an ill-humored half-smirk. "Got this from the gas station, didn't you?"
"Of course," Nathaniel answers brightly.
"So is this some kinda joke, or are you actually trying to give me food poisoning again?"
Nathaniel pauses and then offers a one-shouldered shrug. "Why not both?"
Castiel stands and Nathaniel isn't remotely surprised when in the next moment their mouths are crashing together and Castiel's teeth are scraping and snagging at his lower lip.
Most people would call this kissing. Passionate kissing, even.
Nathaniel doesn't think of it like that at all. He thinks of it as being bitten on the mouth.
He returns the gesture, fingers knitting through scarlet locks and tugging hard as their tongues eagerly combat each other.
Just as he was the one to initiate it, Castiel is the breaker of contact and pulls back, a strand of saliva glistening and then breaking off between them. He spits on the blacktop while Nathaniel wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
"That deadly sushi tasted better than you do," he mutters, grin smug and hands cramming in his pockets.
"I'm sure anything tastes better than you do," Nathaniel retorts and then he leaves.
.
.
.
"How do you not like dogs?" Castiel asks in a tone much more accusing than it is inquisitive. It's Saturday night, and they've found themselves together for whatever reason, idly strolling one street of many and a relatively far distance apart for two in the same company.
"I just don't," Nathaniel breathes irritably.
"Give me one thing not to like about dogs." Castiel says it like he thinks he can't, and Nathaniel almost laughs aloud. There are a million things not to like about dogs. He barely knows where to start.
"Well, do you know how they kill little animals and leave them at the door?"
"Well yeah, but you like cats, and cats do that way more than dogs do." Castiel brings a lighter to the cigarette between his lips and cups his hands to protect the tiny flame from the bitter wind as he ignites it. "My mom used to have this cat when I was like five, and it killed something every night. And it didn't even just leave them at the door. It would chew the head off whatever furry little thing it killed, and then put it right on my mom's pillow."
"Ah, but I don't dislike dogs because they kill small animals. I dislike dogs for the reason they kill small animals." Nathaniel can taste the phantom of ashes on his tongue, though he's barely breathing in the smoke. "Dogs kill small animals and bring them to the owner because dogs are social pack animals, and this prey is a present for the human, who effectively serves as the leader of the pack. With the exception of feral colonies only formed for protection, cats are not pack animals, so it wouldn't make sense for them to do that."
"Eh? Then why do they?" The redhead actually looks mildly interested.
"Because cats observe that humans don't hunt. Doing so, they come to the conclusion that humans are too incompetent to hunt. They bring humans their kills to make sure they get something to eat. Dogs offer their kills to please the master, while cats do it to feed their slaves."
Castiel takes a long drag and then exhales a stream of fluffy, opaque charcoal. "See, that's why you do like cats, but that's why I don't like 'em. They're fucking evil."
Nathaniel chuckles and then he's the one to initiate the mouth-to-mouth contact this time. He grazes Castiel's lip with his canines and suffocates on the flavor of cheap cigarette. Castiel indulges and contentedly gropes his behind.
"You're going to get cancer," Nathaniel murmurs blissfully against Castiel's mouth, the caustic taste of smoke still lingering in the back of his throat.
His response is to smirk, flick the ashes at Nathaniel's shoes, and take another hit.
.
.
.
Yet another Saturday. Yet another night together when they don't have to be. Except now it's 9:30 and they're on the back porch of the jewelry store of all places and there isn't any substantial reason why. Not that the 'why' particularly matters anymore. It probably didn't matter to begin with.
"If someone is allergic to bees, are they allergic to wasps too?"
"Why would you ask something like that?" Nathaniel lifts a brow.
Castiel shrugs one shoulder. He probably doesn't care, but supposes it's necessary to say something or another. It's been a little too quiet for a little too long.
He's always the one that breaks the silence.
"Are you allergic to bees?" Nothing like answering a pointless question with another pointless question.
"I might be, I might not be. None of your business." And getting a pointless response.
"If you are, you could test it," says Nathaniel. "You could put one hand in a beehive and the other in a wasps' nest at the same time and see what happens."
"Why do I get the feeling you'd like to see me do that?"
"Because I would."
"Remind me to get you a bouquet of flowers sometime," Castiel mumbles. "Or take you to a florist's for your birthday."
There's something to be said about the aptitude for slivers of familiarity to be passed between shared hatred.
"It's late, I'm going home." That's the closest to a proper, courteous goodbye that Nathaniel is going to offer. He stands and steps down from the porch stair, butt cold from being on the rough, stony pavement for so long.
"Late? It isn't even ten. But you're following curfew like a good boy, eh Nat?" Castiel stands and trails after him like he can be counted on to do, eyes gleaming with mockery. Nathaniel feels like gouging them out with his bare fingers and then flushing them down the filthiest public toilet he can find just to make a statement.
"Okay, so it isn't that late. I'm really going home because I'm sick of you, I was just trying to be civil."
"Sure you were." Castiel snickers and then the next thing he knows, he's being groped again. "How about you come over?"
"You don't want me at your house." It's a statement, not a question and Nathaniel merely simpers at the touch.
"I don't. But it's closer than your place is, so I figure I'll be civil." Cocky bastard.
"Fine."
It's actually the first night the mouth-to-mouth contact they still both refuse to call kissing isn't all they do.
.
.
.
Nathaniel isn't the biggest fan of fast food. It's too greasy, too salty, too fattening and too thick in the arteries. But occasionally he'll get a taste for it out of the blue and allow himself to enjoy it. It just so happens that he gets one of these cravings the morning after the night he's trying not to think about to no avail. He sighs and simply stops trying to fight the replays of last night that spin through his head.
But the replays are spliced with the hankering for fast food, so he gives in and creeps out of his house with his wallet tucked in his pocket, winding up at some local fast food joint that smells like fried diabetes and breaded cholesterol. He's in line and reading the big menu behind the counter, when something too coincidental for comfort occurs.
"Funny seeing you here."
Nathaniel goes rigid, because there's no way he just heard that voice. He just thinks he did because everything that happened last night is still fresh in his mind, and it won't go away, and—
"Does your ass still hurt?" The question echoes tauntingly as hot breath caresses his ear and his eyes narrow to golden slits.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you about personal space?" Nathaniel wheels and nudges Castiel back. His gaze irresistibly pinpoints the bite mark he inflicted before, right there on the side of the redhead's neck, and it's like the visual is a trigger, because then his taste buds tickle with the trace of the taste of Castiel's skin. Obviously not nearly as potent as it was while he was lapping at it and chewing on it, but he can recall its piquancy nonetheless.
"I'll take that as a yes," he remarks with an indisputable sense of pride to the words that pisses Nathaniel off.
"It seems you're stalking me now," he mutters in annoyance and turns back around, moving up in line.
"Or you're the one stalking me," Castiel grunts.
"I was here first." Back to him or not, Nathaniel rolls his eyes.
"But maybe you knew where I was going."
"There's no way I could've known that," Nathaniel replies flatly even though it's hardly even worth a response. Then he moves up another place in line, orders some fries, some grease ball of a sandwich, and a small orange soft drink. He migrates to a table far in the back and savors every moment he has to himself, because he knows he's going to be followed.
(Though of course, if he really, really wanted to, with that knowledge in mind, he could've just taken the food to go.)
Sure enough, Castiel saunters into view and slips into the booth across from him, black coffee in his grasp and nothing else.
Nathaniel quirks a brow at this, but his silent question gets answered when Castiel reaches over and shamelessly seals a fry.
"Food tastes so much better when you're not the one paying for it," he snickers and licks it in a highly unnecessary, languid way that makes Nathaniel remember him licking something else and sends heat flaring in his cheeks.
"You're a freeloading bum," Nathaniel scolds when Castiel reaches over to grab another fry. The blonde smacks his stupid mooching hand away.
"You're a stingy asshole," he counters and obnoxiously slurps some coffee. And Nathaniel just wants to reach over, grab him by the hair and start bashing his face into the table until his blood is spilling redder than his hair, because honestly, what self-respecting human being slurps fucking coffee!?
Distracted, Nathaniel rips open his packet of ketchup ungraciously and it squirts all over his crisp white sleeve. His frustrated sigh clashes with the snicker of amusement from across the table. Nathaniel glares as he scoots out of the seat, intent on cleaning this before it can stain.
"If you eat any of my food while I'm gone, I will kill you."
"Tch. Now that I think about it, I really don't want to eat anything you already touched." Castiel scowls indignantly.
Nathaniel supposes this holds some merit with faint encouragement and briskly strides to the men's bathroom. The sink is thankfully free. He rinses first and scrubs with soap, careful not to rub it in or make it spread. He doesn't really look up when he hears someone else come in, but he does look up when he hears the metallic click of the door locking.
He cranes his neck, head tilting to the side as his eyes meet vivacious, flashing charcoal ones. The inquiry on his lips is stolen when the other cracked, salty pair smashes it out. Castiel's hands seize his hips with that particular brand of intent and then Nathaniel jerks away, glowering defiantly.
"Not here! That's disgusting!" But even as he's protesting, he feels the resolve dying and the heat triumphing. Because he can still feel the ghost of Castiel's rough, urgent touch on his hips, and he can still see his own lone bite mark peeking out on Castiel's flesh and he just burns to add more.
"Excuses, excuses," scoffs Castiel, and then he's back gnawing on Nathaniel's mouth, greedy hands impatiently yanking at his belt and trying to get into his pants. Nathaniel clumsily helps him, the scorching heat in his gut reaching a boiling point and rational thinking relinquished for libido's sake.