Title :: the nature of maps
Author :: kissingchaos9
Fandom :: CSI: Vegas
Rating :: R
Pairing :: Nick/Greg
A/N :: A CD fic of sorts, written while listening to "Nature of Maps" by matt pond pa. Beta by the amazing and wonderful beingothrwrldly, who I appreciate every day.

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i. the city has its cards / a fuel-less fire will always fade / keep your hands warm


so he has this idea, this crazy idea about a road trip, five hours north to elk flat where the weather is gorgeous and the days are warm and lazy and the nights are cold enough to build fires and press together in shared sleeping bags. he can hear greg whining now, about how he has a perfectly nice home and he doesn't understand why nick insists on pretending that they're homeless mountain people, but to his surprise greg agrees almost immediately and he doesn't even have to use the line about shared sleeping bags. the next thing he knows they both have the weekend off and they're heading north on a friday morning.



ii. haven't seen them in a while / they went missing with the light


they stop in caliente to visit cathedral gorge, and while nick is staring into the horizon and pointing out different rock formations, greg is staring at nick. he would've agreed to go anywhere, to do anything, to sleep on an infinite number of hard rock slabs and visit in infinite number of gorges and cliffs and lakes and parks just to spend forty-eight uninterrupted hours with nick. it's been different, since, harder to get a moment alone with everything hovering around him with concern and when greg looks out at spires like a mythological metropolis, he only sees freedom. he thinks maybe he understands what nick sees, too, what such an open space represents, and he takes nick's hand in his.



iii. it's time to quit from taking calls / and concentrate the evening falls / that's where it is and what is what


they get to their tent set up and a fire going just as the sun is setting. it gets cold quickly and soon they're sitting together wrapped in a sleeping bag watching the fire crackle, greg's finishing a package of ritz crackers and he's finishing his second beer and he's warm and sleepy and completely happy. greg wipes the crumbs from his fingers and nestles into nick's side, sighing happily and looking towards the sky. he's pointing out constellations, one hand peeking out from his sweater sleeve, and nick is mesmerized by the way the shadows dance across his cheeks. he leans in during Capricorn and kisses the side of greg's neck and when greg turns to face him his eyes are dancing with light and nick smiles and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.



iv. and time was held / well worth the holding / waste when you try to save / save it and it ends up wasted


there's definitely something to be said for sex in front of a roaring fire, but he's beginning to wish they'd gotten redressed because his feet are freezing. he presses them against nick's calves and nick doesn't even flinch and his breathing has evened out and greg knows he's asleep. he watches nick carefully, trying to commit every line and detail to memory. it's a ritual, now, watching nick sleep every night, allowing himself five minutes to think 'what if and 'almost' and 'could've lost him' before he clears his head and closes his eyes, recalling from memory every second of the day, filing every moment in his mind, something to hold onto when he feels like he's losing it. finally, a murmured thank you to whoever is listening, thank you for nick, thank you for this life.



v. with the consequences open / there is nothing more to hear


the next morning he wakes early, just as the sun is rising and the camp is wrapped in purplish red light. he dresses quickly in the dark tent, accidentally grabbing greg's fleece pullover. it's too tight across the shoulders, but it smells like greg and it makes him smile, so he pulls on his shoes and steps outside the tent. he can see his breath crystallized in the morning air as he inhales and exhales heavily, savoring the way the cold air burns as his lungs expand. it's beautiful, he thinks, cliché and beautiful, and he gathers more wood to start a fire for breakfast. he grabs the cast iron skillet and bread, eggs and cheese from the cooler, and he thinks that no matter how greg feels about nature and the great outdoors, there's something to be said for pretending you've nowhere else to go but out.



vi. make an offer to pretend / the words are less like lines


they're the picture of bliss, he thinks, leaning against an enormous tree trunk, nick reading aloud from the sound and the fury while he rests on his head on nick's thigh, tracing lazy circles around nick's knee. nick's soft accent and faulkner's prose are lulling him to sleep, and he rolls onto his back and gazes up at nick. they could be a painting, he thinks, or a sculpture from an ancient civilization, and he wants to offer forever to nick, wants to ask him if they can stay under this tree forever, until nothing exists except the sound of nick's voice and the beating of greg's heart in his ears, but it's impossible, he knows, so instead he sits up and takes the book from nick's hands, setting it to the side before kissing him deeply, promising forever in the silence of a kiss.



vii. i'll be happy right here to say that you win


it started out as an argument over something silly, like the last block of provolone or who had to make the sandwiches, but it became an all-out wrestling match when greg tackled him to the ground and sat on his hips. nick knew he could move if he wanted, knew that he could easily flip greg to his back and regain control of the situation, but greg wraps his hands around nick's wrists and pushes them into the soft ground above nick's head, and the warmth of their bodies sliding together is overwhelming. nick looks up at greg and bites his lower lip, gently lifting his hips off the ground, and he can feel the heat in greg's palms against his skin. greg stands quickly, pulling nick up by his wrists, and he barely has time to close the tent before greg is pulling at the shoulders of his shirt, one hand at the small of his back.



viii. constantly mumbling is making a comeback / the patterns keep proving that all things get better


he loves the way nick says his name over and over, hushed and breathy, reverently whispered, desperately growled. he loves the way nick peppers his back with hot open-mouthed kisses, licking and sucking a line along his spine. he loves the way nick's hand feels around his cock, twisting and squeezing in the way he knows will push greg over the edge, sending them both tumbling into the darkness together. he loves the way nick collapses beside him, panting, reaching for him, wrapping their bodies together so tightly that greg confuses his own arm for nick's, can't tell whose knee is whose. he loves the way nick whispers against the top of his head, loves the sleepy smile when he kisses him, loves nick's hands combing listlessly through his hair, loves falling asleep warm and safe, loves the consistency of love.



ix. don't you know that people / don't mind when you lose


that night he wakes up screaming, clutching wildly in the dark for something, anything to hold onto. he can't catch his breath for ten seconds, gasping desperately, until greg sits up and touches his cheek, whispering into his ear, shh, shh. he shudders violently, it's too dark and too close, and greg wraps his jacket around his shoulders and ushers him outside. it's open, open and safe and greg is there, and when he collapses onto the ground, gazing into the sky, greg sits down beside him and points out cassiopeia. he laughs through his tears and starts to apologize, but greg covers his mouth and shakes his head. he wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hands, angry at himself for ruining their last night, but he leans against greg's chest and greg whispers love you and he clings back. love you, too. love you, too.



x. we broke the windows so we could see everything / beyond the pines and passes we'll see what we mean


they leave early the next morning, just as daylight is settling over everything. he leans against the side of the truck, filing away the horizon and the way the sun beams into the lake, reflecting back in an infinite loop of light. nick stands in front of him, one arm on either side, and he kisses him like he'll never breathe again, and he wants to say so much, about the weekend and going back and what it all means, but he can't. he just pulls nick close and rests his head on nick's shoulder, looking out over the lake and inhaling deeply. he would stay forever, would give up everything if it meant holding on to nick, and he thinks that's all that really matters.



x. when you find out what has already been


he had this crazy idea, about a road trip and camping, but it was brilliant and perfect and everything all at once. greg is sleeping, snoring softly with his head against the window, and when he pulls over to get gas in caliente, he grabs a brochure for cathedral gorge. he sets it on the dash and when greg picks it up and realizes what it is, he opens his mouth to explain, but greg looks at him and smiles, and he knows that greg knows. he knows that greg knows about freedom, and space, and how much is enough and how much is too much. he knows that greg loves him, knows that greg went camping for him and everything that means, everything that symbolizes, and it was just a road trip, but it was perfect and brilliant and nick feels everything all at once, until he thinks his chest might burst. greg falls asleep before alamo, their hands clasped on top of the console and nick doesn't let go. he never lets go.

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