A Beautiful Mind
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Archive: Persuaders, anyone else, just ask
Fandom: A Beautiful Mind (the film) Nash/Charles
Warnings: m/m discipline. No slash. Rated R for language and spanking.
Disclaimer: A Beautiful Mind is the property of Dreamworks, Imagine Entertainment, Ron Howard, and all those other folks. This is purely for entertainment purposes and is not meant to step on any toes or infringe anything.
Please Note: Although "A Beautiful Mind" is based on the biography of John Forbes Nash, Jr. the movie is highly fictionalized. This story re-envisions a scene from the film that has nothing whatsoever to do with the book or the real Nash.
The game was fixed. Hansen was a second-rate mathematician. He'd wasn't worth the dung on Nash's shoe and yet he'd won the game. Of course he had. He'd designed it, hadn't he? Created it so he would never lose. Nash's playing had been perfect. Every move grafted carefully in his head. He could plot out a course on a board ten times the size and win. On a perfect board. But Hansen couldn't have that. Nash could either assume that Hansen had done it purposely or that he was an overrated mathematician and made a horrible miscalculation. In Nash's mind the latter was the greater sin, so he revelled in it. But that didn't stop him from stumbling away from the game, tripping on Princeton's path of white stones, and running awkwardly as he yelled of injustice and wiped tears from his eyes.
He shut himself in his room and Charles was there. Good, loyal, English major Charles who would never challenge his intelligence or publish in the Annals ahead of him. Fun, vibrant Charles who always had a beer in his hand and one for Nash in the other. He could get used to Charles. Forget the others. They didn't like him anyway. The feeling was entirely mutual. There is no place for fools in the life of a genius.
The midterm reviews were coming up. Two months at Princeton and he had nothing to show for it. Hansen and Bender and Sol were publishing proofs and theorems like they shot out of their butts. They were guaranteed spots at the nation's top research facilities. He, on the other hand, was chasing birds around the quad to see if he could form a proof based on the trajectory of their movement. He wished they'd all just leave him alone and let him go on with his research. He would be greater than they'd ever imagine. It was just a matter of time.
Time was something he didn't have. He scrawled with his white stick on the window, wedged between his desk and wall. He ignored Charles, had been for a week, waving off his invitations to go to the bar and get laid. Last time he'd gotten slapped. He didn't care about girls. If it couldn't be solved with an equation, he didn't want a part of it. What was wrong with replacing sappiness with logic? It should have gotten him to the score faster, not a palm upside his cheek. Math. Why couldn't everything consist of greek symbols and equal signs? That was sense to him, not women.
"John, what are you doing?" Charles asked lightly. "Let's go out."
Nash tapped the window with his stick. He focused on a pattern of arrows and lines. "This is the football team." He moved to another pane, more arrows, equations scribbled over it. "These are the pidgeons on the quad. I've traced their trajectory." Another pane. "This is a purse snatcher chasing a woman. He catches her here." He tapped the window.
"Only you would quietly watch a mugging, John," Charles said in amused disbelief.
If Nash heard him, he didn't acknowledge the comment. He scoured the window again. His hand fluttered over his forehead and shook before him like a fly spinning before it lands. He muttered "almost almost almost" until his hand was twitching so rapidly he clenched it into a fist. His lips pursed but still moved as he tried to expell the magical proof, to find the theorem that would prove his genius. It was within reach. He could feel it. And yet...so frustrating. It was like the Tree of Knowledge was across a river and Nash couldn't swim. There had to be another way across. Had to be. Had to...He was bleeding. He touched his forehead. How had that happened? He was almost there. Almost. Once more. He flung himself forward.
"John!" Charles grabbed him and hauled him backwards with inhuman strength. They crashed to the floor away from the shards of the window.
Nash leapt up. "It's the desk, Charles. I have to be like them. I'll be like them. Can't be facing the universe. I'll turn it to the wall." He grabbed the desk and shoved it towards Charles. His friend blocked it. He was thinner but inexplicably stronger than Nash. Charles spun the desk back to the window.
"Don't, John."
John was trapped between the desk and the window. He tried to throw his bloodied head towards the glass again.
"No! What are you doing?" Charles shrieked at him. He grabbed Nash's collar and pulled him backwards over the desk and onto the floor. Nash had scarcely landed before he turned on him like an unleashed tiger. Charles held his hands before his face and tried to wrap his legs around Nash. Nash struggled and growled. Finally, Charles flipped him. He scrambled up and got his arm around Nash's back.
"John, stop!"
Nash snarled. His blood was getting on Charles and he showed no sign of calming. His arms flailed, hitting Charles, himself, and anything else within reach. Charles kept his legs wrapped around him so he couldn't move them. The reaction was no better than caging a rabid dog. Charles scrunched up his eyes.
"I'm sorry, John," he whispered.
Then he raised his hand and brought it down as hard as he could on Nash's ass. He had to repeat the motion three times before Nash noticed.
Then the struggling began again. "What the fuck are you doing, Charles?" he yelled, and his West Virginian drawl sounded ragged and broken saying the harsh words.
"I'm sorry, John," Charles said. "But you need this." With that, he spanked him again. Nash struggled, but he knew it was to no avail. He let his head fall to the floor. Math. Make it about math. Logic. Be quiet and take it and the crazy fool will let you up. Counting. One. Two. Three. Four. Factoring time between each strike to calculate the speed of the hand... A new sensation. His hips were lifted and his pants were jerked off. He sucked in his breath and realized for the first time that he had been mumbling.
But what?
Charles' hand fell again. It hurt now. Nash sputtered and coughed. It slowly occurred to him that Charles was speaking. "You can't hurt yourself. Putting your head through the window won't give you an equation."
And he was mumbling again. "Almost got it. So close, just nearly." He groaned.
"No, John! Listen to me! You can't do this anymore!" His hand fell faster. Nash laid placidly, only a twitching betraying his discomfort. Charles continued until tears fell down his face onto his friend's reddened bottom. They seared as they hit the skin.
The blood from Nash's forehead left a stain where he rested his head on the linoleum floor. "Sorry, sorry. Please, I'm sorry," his words changed almost without his realization. His eyes grew watery. Tears dropped from his eyes and swam in the blood. Still, the spanking continued. Charles wept quietly and Nash's sobs were purged from him with shaking gasps.
"Charles?" he cried.
Charles looked at him, hand in midair. He sniffled. Nash stared back brokenly. "I'm sorry, Charles. I'm sorry."
He sighed when Charles smiled. Charles pulled him into a hug. He winced as his butt touched the floor, but buried his head in Charles' shoulder as his pants were eased up.
"I'm sorry, too, John," Charles whispered. "But you can't do that. Foolish shite."
Nash sobbed again. "I just want to be recognized."
Charles rubbed his head. "You will be, John. I promise. Someday you will be."
Nash nodded. "Okay," he sniffed.
Charles knotted his fingers into Nash's hair and pulled his head back. He looked at him sternly. "John, I'm telling you now, if you ever do something stupid like that again. Anything. I don't care if it's putting your head through a window or driving a car into a tree--if you purposely hurt yourself again, I'll take a belt to your ass without a second thought. Got that?"
Nash stared at him until his eyes cleared. Then he nodded. "Got it."
Charles hugged him again. He pushed Nash off his lap and painfully stood up. "God, John, you've made my legs fall asleep."
Nash stood, wincing, and supported Charles. "Well, Charles, I won't be using my rear for a few days because of you so I can't say I'm feeling too guilty."
Charles smiled. He leaned against the desk. "Let's go out, John."
"Now? I've got work to do."
Charles shook his head. "It can wait. But first, there's one more thing. Help me."
Nash watched, stunned, as Charles heaved himself against the desk and tipped it up. "John!" he grunted. Shrugging, Nash grabbed the desk and helped Charles tip it out the window. They watched gleefully as the papers scattered and the desk shattered into a thousand tiny wood shards.
"I can't believe you did that," Nash chuckled, leaning out the window with Charles by his side.
Charles laughed. "C'mon, John. It's time for a beer." Turning from the window and the sight of gathering students, Nash followed Charles out of the room.
The End