Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/103055.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Gossip_Girl
  Relationship:
      Dan_humphrey/nate_archibald
  Character:
      Dan_Humphrey, Nate_Archibald
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-07-24 Words: 1679
****** Make My Heart Beat Double-Time ******
by mardia
Summary
     Written for the One-Night-Stand ficathon. "Dan honestly has no plans
     for the evening besides showing up at Nate's place and trying to make
     the guy feel better."
Dan honestly has no plans for the evening besides showing up at Nate's place
and trying to make the guy feel better. The entire situation just sucked beyond
the telling of it—bad enough that Vanessa had kissed Chuck Bass while still
technically dating Nate, but add the fact that the photos were plastered all
over Gossip Girl, and that this was clearly the result of Chuck's continuing
downward spiral regarding his father's death, and that Nate and Vanessa had
been having problems before the pictures even came out, and you pretty much had
a gigantic mess on your hands.
And even though Vanessa was Dan's best friend, would always be Dan's best
friend, he couldn't help but feel horrible for Nate, who was, after all, his
friend too, and who was a pretty decent guy, and who definitely didn't deserve
to have his business plastered all over some blog yet again.
So here he is—knocking on Nate's front door, DVD cases in hand, trying to think
of an opening line that doesn't consist of, Hey, I'm sorry my best friend and
your best friend screwed you over.
When Nate opens the door, he looks tired, worn thin, but he smiles at Dan and
silently stands aside to let him in.
*
Nate's watching the movie, and Dan's mostly watching Nate, trying to figure out
a way to start the conversation they probably do need to have, even if they
don't actually want to.
It's not until halfway through the movie that Nate says, abruptly, "The funny
thing is that I feel a little bit guilty, for being so mad at them."
"Why? Nate—you have every right to be pissed off." And he does, Dan can't even
imagine how he would have reacted if that had been Serena with Chuck, back when
he and Serena were still together.
"Yeah," Nate agrees quietly. "That doesn't actually help as much as you think
it would." He sighs and pauses the movie, tossing the remote down on the couch.
He stands up and asks, "I'm going to get a drink—you want something?"
"I'll have what you're having," Dan says after a moment. He doesn't really feel
like drinking tonight, but it would feel weird to let Nate drink by himself.
Nate's mom isn't home, so it's not like they'll get in trouble—although for all
Dan knows, they wouldn't be in trouble even if she was home.
When Nate comes back, he hands Dan a glass of probably very expensive Scotch.
Dan nods and takes a sip, and Nate collapses onto the couch next to him,
carrying his own glass that he somehow manages not to spill.
*
They're about half an hour into the second movie, and Dan's already drunk. He
feels boneless, like he could just sink into the couch and never move again.
"I'm really glad you're here," Nate says softly, patting Dan's thigh. Dan looks
down at Nate's hand with interest, because he definitely doesn't remember it
being there earlier. But it's there now, and it doesn't appear to be going
anywhere. Huh.
That's okay though. "Hey, we're friends, right?" Dan offers. "Just because
Vanessa's my friend doesn't mean you aren't."
"Yeah," Nate whispers, staring at the screen. Without thinking, Dan rubs his
shoulder, wondering what he should say. Nate leans into his touch, and before
Dan can quite figure out what's happening, Nate's leaning against his side, a
warm weight against him, his hand curling around Dan's thigh.
This is strange. Or—this should feel stranger than it does, at least. Dan
wonders what they would look like to an outsider, him with his arm around
Nate's shoulders—it was more comfortable than having his arm squished between
Nate and the back of the couch—and Nate with his hand, well, where his hand is.
And oh, hey, Nate's looking at him now, mouth wet from the Scotch, looking at
Dan and saying, "You're a really nice guy, Dan."
Dan's about to say thank you, because that's what you do when someone gives you
a compliment, but then Nate's leaning in and Dan has only a split-second to
react before—
Before Nate's mouth is on his, initially clumsy but turning into something more
confident, smoother as he lifts a hand to Dan's face, as he licks his way into
Dan's mouth. And Dan should—he should be pulling away, he should be saying what
the fuck, but—but it feels—it feels—
It feels fantastic, and Dan's head isn't spinning badly enough that he can't
recognize that, that he can't moan into Nate's mouth and kiss him back. And
now, oh God, now Nate's hand is moving up from Dan's thigh to—to—
Dan finally pulls away from the kiss, but it's only to gasp and shiver as
Nate's hand finds the zipper to Dan's jeans, as he pulls it down and works his
hand inside. And God, God, he's drunk and on Nate Archibald's couch with Nate
Archibald's hand inside of his pants, with Nate Archibald's hand wrapped around
his cock, and how the hell did he get here?
"Nate," Dan begs, his voice cracking, and the hell of it is that he doesn't
even know what he's asking for, not really.
"Shh," Nate responds, and Dan almost feels gratified by the fact that Nate's
voice is hoarse, like he's not the only one who's going a little crazy here.
"It's all right, I've got you."
And because Dan is apparently really slow on the uptake tonight, he doesn't
fully get what Nate is promising until Nate pulls him out of his boxers and
then lowers his head.
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Dan groans, his hips moving up reflexively. Nate just hums
around his cock—and God, oh God, it's taking everything Dan has not to just
start thrusting into his mouth—Jesus Christ, what does he do with his hands,
would it be all right to touch him, what exactly is the right etiquette when
you're getting blown by your best friend's semi-boyfriend on his couch?
When his hands finally land, gently, on Nate's head, stroking the fine strands
of hair, Nate hums again—in approval—and just sucks harder. Dan bites his lip
and tries not to be too loud, but that's—well, that's pretty much impossible,
because as it turns out, Nate is very good at this, and also seems pretty
determined to have Dan making as much noise as humanly possible. At one point,
he actually pulls off and says, his eyes bright and his mouth wet—holy God—and
says, "Don't hold it in, I want to hear—" And then he's moving down again,
thank God, and now Dan's not even trying to hold anything back, not that he
ever could in the first place.
It's over far too soon, and ends with Dan gasping for breath and wondering just
what the fuck is going on, and with Nate wiping his mouth with the back of his
hand, and God, that shouldn't be as hot as it is.
He should say something. Although what he should say is a matter of
debate—should he say thank you? That this can never ever happen again? That
Vanessa—oh, God, Vanessa—is his best friend, and he's so sorry, and he has no
idea what either of them were thinking?
Nate's watching him warily now, his eyes dark and maybe a little sad. "Dan."
Dan swallows twice before he responds, and notes with fascination the way
Nate's gaze fixes on his mouth, just for a moment. "Yeah."
"Are you—I mean, is this—"
Dan hasn't had a clue as to what he should be doing for the entire night. And
the alcohol's still moving in his veins, still clouding his judgment. Or at
least, that's what he tells himself when he says, "We should probably move this
to your bedroom."
Nate's eyes flash with half a dozen emotions that Dan can't read, but he says,
a corner of his mouth—that mouth that Dan can't stop staring at now—quirking up
as he does, "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
And they do.
*
The next morning, Dan is sober, more than a little mortified, and looking for
his pants. And his shirt. He quietly moves around the room, searching for his
clothes and pretending like he doesn't feel Nate's eyes watching him,
pretending like he doesn't feel guilty as hell because holy crap, Vanessa—
"Dan," Nate says, almost pleading, like he's the one with the answers, like
he's got any answers at all to give.
Except maybe he does. Dan finally picks his jeans up from the corner of the
room in which they were flung and says, not turning around, "You need to talk
to Vanessa."
There's a sharp indrawn breath, and he can almost see Nate flinching. "Dan—"
"You need to call her, and you need to talk to her," Dan says firmly, still not
turning around as he pulls up his jeans and zips himself up. He still can't
look at Nate. "And then—" He doesn't have an answer for that, for what happens
after Nate calls Vanessa and tells her whatever he's going to tell her.
"Dan, I'm sorry."
As he pulls his shirt over his head—it was under his pants in the corner—Dan
finally turns to look at Nate, still tangled up in the sheets, his hair a wreck
and his chest bare. "Yeah," Dan says faintly, wondering how, even now that he's
sober, and clear-headed, and able to realize just what a horrible decision this
was—how it is that a part of him can only think of Nate's mouth, and the way
Nate's hips had fit into his hands.
But that's not the point. The point is that there's Vanessa, and that last
night was the product of too much Scotch and too little thinking.
"Yeah, I know," Dan says. "I'm sorry too."
He leaves the room, and doesn't look back, and tries not to think of what
happened, or what's coming next. He fails at both.
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