A/N: There are characterization problems present. I know.
"Who let you in?" Chuck asked, mid-sip of a smoothie, as he walked past the pool and spotted Nate, floating aimlessly, body hung over the blue vinyl flotation device.
"No one," Nate said, frowning. "Do I look sunburned to you? I've been out here since about nine this morning." Chuck checked his watch and sighed, kicking off his leather thong sandals and splashing his feet over the edge. He faced Nate, who continued to stare up at the cloudless blue sky.
"Other then the mention of our apparently lackluster security team—you've been in my pool for seven hours, Nathaniel." Nate sat up, shielding his eyes against the glowing sun.
"That's exactly my point," he said, wiping his wet hair sideways in order to see Chuck, "Did I get sunburned?" Chuck removed his feet from the pool and stood up, dragging a cushioned lawn chair towards the tile.
"No," he sighed. "Golden as always." Nate flopped back down onto the raft apathetically.
"Good," he said. "Because I don't think I'm going to move my muscles ever again." Chuck crossed his legs on the patio and stirred his fruity drink, watching the ice and juice mix and mingle until they seemed practically indistinguishable from one another.
"Did anything in particular prompt this notion, Nathaniel?" Nate continued to lay motionless above the water, reminding Chuck of one of those still-life snapshots where all the people looked like they'd be better off dead. Or possibly a statue, which was generally a terrible metaphor for Nate because Nate was generally so vibrant, so full of life. Chuck had to squint in order to assure himself that Nate was still breathing. He was.
"I ran about twelve miles this morning," Nate informed him, several minutes later. Chuck felt his stomach drop. Nate only ran like that when for some reason or another he couldn't control his emotions. Which could mean only one thing.
"I am so sorry, man," he said, wishing he could say something more.
"'Bout what?" Nate asked, kicking his feet in the water, making the float travel sideways across the pool. Chuck shrugged.
"Serena's a whore, Nate," he said, and meant it. Nate, floating aimlessly on a pool for seven hours? She must have directly rubbed in the salt to the wound of her Dan-betrayal herself. Nate sat up, tipping off the raft with a splashless plop into the shallow end of the pool.
"What does this have to do with Serena?" he asked, genuine curiosity creeping into his voice. "And you never call me Nate. Why did you call me Nate?" Chuck took a long drink from his smoothie before responding.
"She didn't dump you?" Nate dunked his head underneath the water, shaking his in-need-of-a-haircut 'do out of his eyes for the umpteenth time.
"No." He paused, watching Chuck with a surprisingly omniscient eye, considering the fact that it was Nate who was speaking. "Did she tell you she was going to?" Chuck closed his eyes, kicking himself for speaking too soon. He would be 'picking up the pieces of Nate', his ass. Breaking them further, more like.
"No," he said, carefully and slowly, as one might act around a three-year-old with a temper problem. "Not in those words." Nate cursed violently.
"I'm never leaving the pool," he said, jumping back onto the large vinyl float, sending waves of energy across the otherwise empty vacuum of water. "Never."
"That's okay, Nate," Chuck told him, putting down the empty smoothie glass and walking towards the sliding screen door. "Hold on a second, I'll go get my swimsuit."