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take it on faith

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Nate Humphrey hates book tours.

Not that he isn’t proud of Dan, of course he’s proud of Dan, and that all the work his husband puts in is recognized and appreciated. It’s the time apart that he hates.

He usually tries to tag along, or meet up with Dan for a few days when he’s on the road this long. Dan will try to protest the extravagance, but Nate will insist: “You married rich, babe, why not enjoy it?” And in times like this, when Dan’s been away for three weeks with two more to go, that’s usually when Nate books a flight to the next stop on the itinerary. But Nate has his own job, and the powers that be at Madison Square Garden need him in the city. So he’s here, while his husband is in...fucking Texas of all places…

He gets home at the usual time, drops his keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. (A handmade one by Jenny, a gift after she’d witnessed the two of them turn the house inside out and upside down trying to find their keys one night). Their cat comes to greet him at the door, purring and rubbing around Nate’s legs and meowing indignant accusations at him, as if to say, how dare you go out all day and still not bring Dan back? Not that Nate blames Marx. He misses Dan, too.

He heads straight back to the bedroom, dropping his jacket and bag on the armchair in the corner before flopping down on his back, groaning as his spine stretches after a day of hunching over a desk. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars, then drops them to his sides.

Three down. Two to go.

Despite the long day, Nate feels keyed up, a familiar itch prickling low in his abdomen, sparking at the base of his spine. He runs a hand over his clothed thigh, going down, then stroking up, up.

On a normal day, Dan works from home. He’ll venture out and set up camp elsewhere sometimes, when his home office gets too quiet, but he’ll always try to meet Nate when he gets in. Nate shifts up the bed, until his head falls onto Dan’s pillow, and lets his mind drift, imagining if his husband were here.

Sometimes it takes a little work, coaxing Dan out of his own world and back into the present, which is a fun endeavor in and of itself. But some days, some days it’s like Dan feels the way Nate does now: tense, needy, waiting for his husband to come home so he can do something about it.

On those days, Dan would kiss him hello, deep and wanting, not letting up until he had Nate laid out on his back like this.

Nate palms himself through his trousers, half hard already.

Dan still wouldn’t let up though, kissing and kissing and kissing him. Making Nate hotter and hotter. He pushes himself up to yank his shirt over his head, too warm to wear it any more. He loves the way Dan looks at him—all the time, but especially when they start undressing each other. It’s been years since they first got together, and Nate’s lost the definition he had from lacrosse training then, softer around the edges now, but Dan still looks at him with the same hungry awe, like he can’t believe Nate is real, but Nate never feels more real than he does when Dan is gazing at him, eyes full of love.

He unbuckles his belt, yanks it free, sends it flying, imagining Dan’s mouth on his neck, his chest. He undoes his pants, tugging himself free, completely hard now.

Nate reaches back clumsily, feeling around the nightstand drawer until he finds what he’s looking for, pouring a little bit of lube into his palm, then finally touching himself.

He lets out a deep breath, pressing his head into the pillow beneath him. Fuck, that feels good. He’s been needing this all day, to let go. Well, what he really needs is Dan, speaking of, what was he thinking about? Right, Dan’s mouth. That perfect fucking mouth.

Nate strokes himself in a slow rhythm, thinking about having Dan’s lips on him, kissing his dick. Those light, teasing, adoring little kisses Dan does, between playful laps of his tongue, before finally taking Nate into his mouth.

Nate shifts restlessly on the bed, hand moving a bit faster now. He loves it when Dan goes down on him, his tongue swirling around, those pink plush lips wrapped around him—god, it feels so fucking good.

Nate loves watching Dan do it, too, that focused, determined and devoted look he’ll get in his eye when he bobs his head, how he’ll take Nate all the way in, until Nate’s hitting the back of his throat and has lost the ability of speech, and then will blink up at him, dark eyelashes fluttering around even darker eyes, solemn and innocent all once.

Nate’s breath hitches in his chest. His hand moves faster, faster than the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. He's getting close now. Close and closer.

Dan doesn't really like him coming in his mouth, which is fine by Nate. And sometimes...sometimes after Nate gives him warning, Dan will pull away, pert pretty mouth releasing him, jerking him off with his hand, all to ask Nate where, love? To let him choose.

Nate's breath catches in his throat again, exhale letting out on a moan. A flash of a thought runs through his mind: coming on Dan's face, so beautiful, so willing to be messed up by him, for him. That sweet, possessive string of his heart that's only existed for Dan tugs in his chest, and then he's coming, fantasy carrying him through his release.

The world around Nate finally slows, his movements go languid with it. He rolls to his side to grab the tissues on the nightstand, setting himself mostly to rights. There's things he needs to do: feed the cat, feed himself, unload the dishwasher, do a load of laundry to pretend like he doesn't totally fall to pieces when his husband is away (as Vanessa and Serena will accuse him when they come over for dinner tomorrow). For now though, he reaches for his phone, on his side of the bed where he'd tossed it before lying down.

He opens his messages, the most recent being his conversation with Dan of course. He’s made it a game of sorts, changing Dan’s contact name in his phone. The most recent title, “Hot Plates,” never fails to make him smile when he spots it in his contacts.

He starts to type out a text, with the warm buzzing feeling that his someone is thinking of him right now, too.