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It was cold inside the ratty little shack Nate had been able to find. It shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did, with the sky darkening into deep blackness, the wind blowing in with a rush fast enough to chill him even underneath all his jackets.
Nate hated the cold. If he so much as popped a goosebump he needed to stuff himself into a blanket, and he hated that too, hated that his weakness followed him around in an apocalyptic wasteland where he had to face chills every day.
It had started in Anchorage. Before his service, snow and wind was good, he remembered making those snow angels, he remembered sledding and skiing, remembered being so fucking cold but not wanting to go inside because he knew it wouldn't last, but now, he was afraid of it ever coming back.
Boston has its fair share of snow, of below freezing temperatures, but Anchorage was a different breed entirely. He couldn't remember ever being more cold in his entire life— until he could —stuck, frozen behind the glass, left with nothing to do but shake and watch — so at least he feels rightly justified in his discomfort.
As of right now, Hancock was pulling the other mattress out of the spare bedroom, smacking the master right next to it with little more than a grunt.
He couldn't have known, not really, how badly Nate’s aversion was, because Nate had never said a thing, but it was cold. Hancock must have made the next reasonable decision too.
True to everything, Nate didn't speak as he dropped his pack. He flopped down onto the closest mattress, hands grasping at his bag and ripping the blanket out, hearing the snap of the zipper as it got snagged but not caring and throwing it over him. He didn't take anything off. He stuffed the sides of the blanket underneath him and fluffed up his pillow, the perfect picture of a ball.
“You nestin’ or something?” Hancock asked. Nate knew he was good-hearted about it, but he didn't know how to respond without his teeth chattering, so instead he shook his head mutely into the pillow.
He watched as Hancock pulled his boots off, set his hat down, removed his red jacket, took the time to fold it, and then finally laid back on the bed. Nate closed his eyes, willing some of the chill away, and waited for Hancock to move closer.
Except he didn't.
And that just...didn't make sense. He wondered if maybe Hancock was adjusting the covers, trying to get himself more comfortable, but he didn't hear a single shuffle of fabric.
Hancock had to be cold. Nate was fucking really freezing even with his own personal biases, so Hancock, little, tiny, enough meat on his entire body to only be one of Nate’s thighs, small Hancock had to be suffering. He waited. Hancock didn't budge an inch.
“Why are you way over there?” Nate asked, slightly annoyed, trying not to shiver when he pulled the blanket down far enough so that he could look at Hancock over it.
Hancock seemed just as surprised by the question as Nate was surprised they weren't tangled together trying to share body heat by now. He was on his side facing Nate’s direction, stuffed under the covers but a lot looser than Nate is, his back illuminated by a stray beam of moonlight from a broken window.
Nate fought against the thought that he looked almost ethereal like this. The question made Hancock tense under the covers.
“What’daya mean,” Hancock groused lightly, “I'm sleeping, what's it look like I'm doing?”
“Honestly? I'm wondering why we aren't fused.” Nate shuffled closer, abridging the distance just a little, and the dam burst, whining almost pathetically, “Hancock it's cold. We should be together. God, you're gonna make me say it— spooning. We should be spooning. I don't care which one you wanna be, but if I don't get some contact here, I'm gonna die.”
As soon as it came tumbling out of his mouth, Nate felt a pit grow in his stomach. Does he really sound like that? Is he really that fucking desperate — not because he's willing to sleep with Hancock. Because that's not the issue.
That is so not the issue. Because if Nate was going to be honest with himself Hancock is exactly the person he wants to spoon with and sleep with and God, isn't that just a fucking revelation, he's got a huge thing for Hancock, and he's pleading for cuddles and he feels so embarrassed.
It's not because it's Hancock he's practically begging, it's because he is, because he’s so in his head that he needs physical affirmation that he's not back there, that he's safe and warm and not freezing in the open or in a box, and here he's gone and went a damn fool of himself because Hancock didn't take the initiative—
“...Because you never said,” Hancock finally whispers into the air, breath catching in the cold and fogging between them, “I don't wanna make you uncomfortable. I didn't think you wanted to—” and that was enough of that.
“Yeah, yeah I want to. How could you even think that I don't want—” Nate had to stop himself, because even in his own ears he sounded so fucking needy.
Nate wanted to. Nate wanted so bad — he almost frantically scooted himself over, arms coming out from underneath the covers just so he could pull at Hancock’s shoulders and tuck him against Nate’s chest, one leg going between Hancock’s own, his arm underneath his head, the other resting cold against Hancock’s jutting hip, and Nate nearly cried. Hancock was so warm, almost feverishly hot, and the sudden shock and relief of that hit him right in the chest.
He almost felt bad for manhandling Hancock like that, ready to apologize profusely but hold on tighter if he even tried to move away, but Hancock made every noise in his throat die down.
Hancock moved in, pressed close to Nate that there wasn't an inch of their bodies that weren't touching, one arm winding around Nate’s body and pressing into the planes of his back, sighing as if Nate was the one who handed him this huge favor.
“All you ever had to do was ask,” Hancock said into the skin of Nate’s neck, so accepting, so willing to just let Nate take what he wanted from him, “let's get you warmed up.”
He dragged his hand down Nate’s back, soft and slow and warm, friction building, rough fingers pressing lightly into sore and tense muscles. Nate nearly whimpered. He shifted closer, curling in and soaking up the heat.
Hancock took a deep breath in, like he had been running, sounding surprised for just a moment and Nate just wanted to hold him and tell him everything he felt, all of his stupid little feelings, but instead, he buried his head into the pillow they shared and closed his eyes.
Hancock had to be so much hotter than him. Nate could feel him through his layers of clothing, burning underneath that frilly shirt of his, and he was brought back to the fact that Hancock was small. He fit right into the cradle of Nate’s body, pushed up so right and so good that it was easy for Nate to just drape over him, cover him up, keep him all for himself.
“You're so warm,” Nate says almost brokenly, “So fucking warm. You feel so— god...you feel—” He buries his face into the pillow, skin feeling deliciously hot against Hancock’s, flushing from the embarrassment of it all.
He half expects Hancock to laugh at him, Nate knows he certainly would, but Hancock doesn't. What surprises him more is that Hancock groans. Nate’s blood stops in his veins.
“Oh fuck me. Nate you...you're fucking killin’ me here.” Hancock presses his forehead against Nate's chest, hand still drawing up and down his back but instead in a slow drag that burns its way down his skin.
And at first Nate thinks this is it. He's finally done it. His mouth has finally opened up and he's said something stupid and irretrievable that they won't ever be able to come back from and he's ruined things, that is, until, he felt something jutting into his thigh, pressing hard into the denim of his pants and feeling as hot as Hancock’s hands.
“John—is that— are you seriously —” Nate goes to rear up, but Hancock stops him by pressing his hand flat between his shoulder blades, pushing him back down and sliding him up into Hancock’s body with a small jolt, dragging against his cock on accident, and it sends Hancock into a small cursing fit.
“Yeah, look, just—just stay still. It's an accident. Just...don’t go. Stay. Stay, okay?” Hancock says, lessening his force, letting the space between them grow by a centimeter, not looking up at Nate at all.
Nate can hardly believe his own ears. It's like his worst nightmare and greatest fantasy had combined into one, very real, very nerve wracking situation, and he doesn't know what to do or where to put his hands, and he feels like he's sixteen all over again. Hancock was in his arms and he was fucking hard.
It was surreal. Was it an accident? That would have been fine, easy, in safe territory. But a traitorous part of Nate’s mind was screaming that it wasn't.
Hancock was still hard against Nate’s leg, still breathing roughly into his chest, still close enough that there was barely any space between them, so he hadn’t moved, hadn’t removed Nate’s chance.
Nate had one hand resting tense on Hancock’s hip, and he took his risk, started rubbing soothing circles into the skin there. Hancock’s entire body shuddered briefly before tensing again.
“That's nice. Nice thought. But, seriously, if you don't stop—” Hancock said, a little breathlessly, but Nate took the opportunity to pull him forward by the hips in one quick tug. No mistaking that, right?
“Do you want me to stop?” Nate asks, lifting his other arm so that he can pull his body up and settling on his elbow, head resting on his hand, and Hancock just stills, and for a second Nate thinks he’s judged the situation all wrong again.
Hancock is staring up at him, his eyes impossibly black, blue light striking against his silhouette, casting a glow around him, and Nate just wants to kiss him.
“Well?” Nate says, moving his body, jotting their hips together a little better, feeling the press of Hancock’s dick brush against his own, and there seriously is no mistaking that. He's gotta know by now.
Hancock certainly does, because he’s suddenly sucking in a hiss of air between his teeth, his hands going up to grasp onto Nate’s shoulders.
“Yeah, yeah, okay, fuck.” Hancock moans, hands scrambling when Nate rocks his hips in a slow roll, makes sure their cocks brush together through their jeans, the burn of it soaking into his blood.
Nate can't help the low groan that builds in his throat, can't help it when Hancock meets each push of his hips with a drag of his own, one of his hands reaching up to cup at the flesh at Nate’s throat.
In the back of his mind, Nate knows that's it's cold. He knows that he's gonna shiver, but the thought of staying in his pants for even a second longer is worse. Hancock must come to the same decision, because his hands immediately go to the button of Nate’s jeans, trying to open them up and slide them down at the same time, all while he's rocking against one of Nate’s legs, his cock dragging on every roll. Nate’s never seen anything so fucking hot in his entire life.
“Off, off, come on, don't tease me.” Hancock says and Nate lifts his hips up enough for him to slid the jeans and his underwear down enough so that his cock is exposed, the clothes bunching around his thighs.
Hancock goes to grip Nate’s cock, goes to give him all the attention, and Nate wants that, shit does he want that, but he wants to do Hancock good. He needs Hancock to come first. Make it last.
Nate grabs Hancock’s hands before they can make contact. He kisses the skin of his wrists, tangles their fingers together. Hancock fights it, momentarily, before something seems to settle in his eyes and his body goes all soft, his mouth curling up in an almost sheepish smile and Nate wants to feel that against his lips.
So he does.
And when Nate leans forward Hancock goes to meet him halfway, their lips brushing together in a slow, easy way that that the start of this was nothing like. And Nate loves it. Loves the intimacy, loves the way that Hancock gives off little moans every time they break for air, loves how Hancock just presses into him, is covered by him, nestled into the curve of his body and he stays there.
Nate brushes his tongue along the seam of his chapped lips, asking, wishing, and Hancock lets him. He tilts his head, opens up, sucks on Nate’s tongue, and he's good at this, Nate doesn't ever want to stop.
And for a while that's all there is, just this gentle kissing in the moonlight, just Hancock pressing them together and sometimes dragging his teeth on Nate’s bottom lip, just Nate licking into his mouth and running a thumb over John’s cheekbone.
He feels like he got too caught up in it, forgot that he’s got Hancock almost in his lap hard and aching for him, but if anything, Hancock seems just as enthralled, just as fucking needy as he is and it sets off something underneath his skin and in his heart.
With Hancock distracted, Nate pulls one hand away, gets his zipper down almost in record time, sucks on Hancock’s thin bottom lip just in case he started to notice something, and closes his hand finally around his cock.
Hancock jolts in his arms, their lips breaking apart as he gasps in for air, and then that gasp turns into a drawn out moan when Nate gives him a solid pump. Nate catches his lips again, breathing in the tiny ah ah ah noise Hancock makes and drags his hand up.
Nate didn't like to talk. Mostly because he almost always managed to say something stupid, piss somebody off, but for this, for this he knew the right words.
Hancock makes another go for Nate again, so he grabs his wrists harder this time and pins them together with one hand against his chest. Hancock could get out of it if he wanted to, Nate’s grip turning light, but he doesn't. He stays there, dwarfed by Nate’s body, caught and pinned and arching up into him, mouth hanging open as he tries to rock his hips forward, tries to increase the pace and is shaking because Nate won't let him, but he gives Nate that power over him, and Nate feels hot and disarmed of all his sense at the revelation.
“This what you wanted, baby?” Nate says, drops his voice so that its low and dark, his hand stilling over the head of John’s cock, feeling pre-cum seep slowly from the tip, drawing one thumb over the slit so that he can gather it up.
Hancock shudders, eyes wide and staring up at him like he can't believe Nate is even speaking, and his hips make an aborted thrust up into Nate’s hand.
“Is it? You like when I get my hands on you?” Nate punctuates this with a quick and vicious pump halfway down his cock. Hancock closes his eyes, moans, his wrists twitch in Nate’s grip, but remains rebelliously silent.
“Come on, baby, use your words for me. Tell me what you're feeling.” Nate leans down, puts his lips on Hancock’s throat, bites down softly at his pulse. Hancock keeps rocking up, little half turns into the fist of Nate’s hand, and when it seems like he's not going to answer Nate moves his hand away to push back on his hips, forces his arms forward in his grasp so that its just a little painful, holds him steady.
“Fuck, Nate, please—,” Hancock says, eyes popping open and trying to scoot closer. Nate keeps him in place.
“Please what?” Nate bites down where Hancock’s shoulder meets his neck, licks at the rough skin before he starts sucking a bruise onto him. “Please what, baby boy?” Hancock whines.
“You know what. Nate, I can't—” Hancock shuts himself off.
Nate huffs against his neck, and then he raises himself up so he can nip at John’s lips, pressing hard into the bone of his hips.
“I want you to ask,” Nate says against his lips, “I want you to ask, just like you made me ask.”
Hancock is shaking in his grasp now, eyes screwed shut, his cock hard and smearing all over his stomach, and Nate waits like the bastard he knows he is. Hancock's eyes flash open, and Nate knows he's got him.
“Please, please fuck me. I want you to. I want your hands on me. Or your mouth or your fingers or your dick, I don't care —however you want me, just please.” Hancock begged, and Nate was committing that to memory. He wanted those words tattooed on his skin.
Nate smiles at him, happy and giddy and warm, fingers twitching in the circle around Hancock's wrists.
“You did good, baby boy. So so good. Let me make it up to you.” Nate says and as soon as the words are out of his mouth Hancock whimpers, hips wanting to grind, so Nate lets him go. He takes his hands back, off his hips and lets his wrists free, settling back onto the bed and Hancock goes to push their cocks together before Nate decides for some new leverage.
He pulls him by the shoulders, lifts his legs up and balances Hancock on his lap. It sends Hancock falling forward, his dick pressed up against their stomachs, and fits Nate’s cock right up into the cease of Hancock’s ass and the drag is so good that Nate has to bite down on Hancock’s shoulder to keep from crying out. Hancock doesn't waste and time in the new position, he's lurching forward, catching Nate’s mouth and rocking back onto his cock while he fists himself.
Nate has completely forgotten about the cold, the blanket pooling around their feet during all the moving, and instead his main focus was thrusting up against Hancock, his other hand reaching between them, smacking against Hancock’s hand and wrapping his fingers around his cock.
Hancock high pitched moan is caught by his mouth, lips moving messily together as they rock, and Nate swallows each gasp of breath down when he drags his hand in a tight grip, almost too rough, but Hancock just moans and pleads and babbles as Nate picks his rhythm.
“Nate, fuck, fuck —” Hancock gets cut off in a choked gasp when Nate twirls his hand around the head of his cock and thrust up at the same time, hits all the right spaces, and Nate has to stop himself from coming. He keeps repeating it in his head: him first, him first.
“You look so good like this. Sweet n’ perfect and all for me, huh?” Nate manages to get out through his own haze, and the words make Hancock shudder, thighs twitching around him, hips rocking forward so fast into Nate’s hand it's nothing if not desperate.
“Could do this all day. Watch you fuck yourself on me. Maybe my leg next time? Or my face? Would you like that? Huh, baby boy?” Nate thrusts up, and it makes Hancock cry out, his cock wet and the glide against his cheeks is quick and messy and Nate feels so hot underneath him.
“Yes, yes, shit,” Hancock cries softly against Nate’s lips, brushing them together, getting caught in the motion of the thrust and missing half the time, but it's like he can't pull away, can't stop kissing Nate, can't stop rocking back onto his cock, can't stop from building, from wanting, from the electric jolt he must get every time Nate’s hand pumps him down, and Hancock tenses in his grasp, knows that he's going to come, and he doesn't stop.
Hancock keeps fucking himself down the entire time through it, and Nate doesn't let up on his cock. Hancock is full body shaking, tears falling out of his eyes and onto Nate’s chest with his mouth wide open in a silent scream, but he doesn't let his hips stop once from pushing back onto Nate and catching another drag.
And Nate can hardly stop the sudden rush of affection he feels. He wants to do everything with Hancock, wants to cuddle, and kiss him, and laugh over dinner, and take out mutants, and give Hancock anything and everything he has to offer because he wants to, because when he's with him it's just so easy to fall back and let himself relax because Nate trusts him, because Nate has feelings about Hancock, because for him this was never going to be just a fling, because— because—
Hancock reaches, his hand cupping the back of Nate’s neck, pulling him forward, kisses him sweetly, softly, like he hadn’t been crying through his orgasm moments before, and he murmurs: “Sunshine, you can let go, give it to me.”
And it's exactly what Nate needs to hear. The pet name catches in his chest, flung deep down into the farthest reaches of his heart and sticks, molten and snagged and lighting Nate up, warming him over from head to toe, and
Nate doesn't even hear himself went he lets out that soft, needy moan into the space between them, his hands clutching on to Hancock’s hips hard enough to leave bruises of his fingerprints, and Nate sags into the blankets.
His orgasm is everything Hancock’s wasn't. While Hancock was rutting, feverish, quick, intense and shuddering and never quiet still, Nate went soft, pliant and relaxed and so so out it that he can't do anything else but lay there and bask in it.
Hancock lets out a happy sigh against Nate’s mouth, like he can't believe his luck, like watching Nate come was everything he's ever wanted, and his arms go to wrap around Nate’s shoulders, keeping them close, keeping him warm.
Nate wants to cry. For a moment, he thinks he might. Since he's been out, he's never felt so safe. So comforted and snug and so happy to be here, and that's just ridiculous because Hancock is small next to him. He’s easily twice his size and its Hancock who's making him feel like he's being tucked in, likes he's being taken care of, and it's now that Nate shudders, now that Nate feels himself want that with such fervor and being able to have it.
He looks at Hancock, his breathing leveling out, the way the dark seems to be everywhere in the room but him, visible and nearly shinning by the starlight, and Nate knows that it's over for him. He knows that he's gone in too deep, too far, cares about him more than he should, and instead of that thought terrifying him it sets his pulse hammering, butterflies building in his stomach.
“I gotta say, this ain't exactly what I expected when you said we gotta huddle for warmth,” Hancock grins, one of the hands that's wrapped around Nate’s neck moves up to thread into the mess that's his hair, “Not that you're gonna catch me complaining.”
And Nate, despite everything, finds himself laughing. He bends his head, shakes with some kind of giddiness, and presses his lips against Hancock’s collar bone. He moves up, with light, small open mouthed kisses, from his clavicle to his neck, to a spot right underneath his jaw, and when he nips there with just a hint of teeth, Hancock bends his head back with a low hum.
“Never was one to miss an opportunity.” Nate finally says, voice playful, but his hands rub small circles into the bruises rising at Hancock's hips, an apology. Hancock smiles, runs his fingers through Nate's hair, presses closer so that he slots further up onto Nate’s lap.
“And don't everyone just love you for it.” Hancock says, almost like an afterthought, almost like it's slipped out past his lips before he catch it.
Nate shifts, wanting to say something back, wanting to just finally fucking be honest, because here Hancock was, sitting in his lap and practically tearing his chest open and letting Nate plunge his hand in, giving Nate the opening, letting him decide if he wants to be casual with this or if he wants more, giving him the chance, the out. And Nate expects the cold to come rushing back in, expects the heat that's built between them to dissipate and leave him shivering, leave his heart feeling frigid, but it doesn't. His body is stuck in a steady stream of warmth, skin hot and heart thumping and feeling tender.
And Hancock waits. He's still, and every second Nate doesn't speak he gets worse, his muscles going tense and his face starts to build up some kind of careful neutrality, and before he can decide to call it quits, Nate finally, finally, breaths in.
Nate goes forward, slots their lips together in a gentle kiss, and when he does that he feels Hancock go relaxed in his grip.
“That might be true,” Nate murmurs, his voice almost impossibly fond, “but they love you more.” The next kiss they share is sweeter, almost delicate, and Nate has never felt so warm.