painting the silence blue; genkill
As if there isn’t enough stupidity going around the platoon, what with the mind-boggling and mind-fucking orders that seem like they’re all delivered straight via asshole with a detour through the unicorn-and-daisy-filled land Craig appears to dwell in, now Nate has to with his own idiocy, too.
Fucking Colbert.
If only he were.
No, Nate’s not bitter. He’s just really, really pissed.
It isn't as though Nate hasn’t tried to keep Sergeant Colbert out of his mind - he has. But Brad has this awesomely irritating habit of showing up precisely when Nate has finally succeeded in pushing him to the outskirts of his mind, dry as the desert around them (he doesn’t even want to contemplate what would serve as the metaphorical water). At these moments, Nate’s fingers are usually sticky, his face flushed, his MOPP-suit only just pulled up completely, and his lips bitten, vaguely resembling those licorice sticks Christeson is always going on about (with Stafford telling him to, “shut the fuck up, bro, lifesavers are the only way to go. Feel the irony, dog,” and Mike’s face resembling a pre-school teacher after a particularly trying day), all chewed-up and wet with saliva from the numerous times Nate licks his lips, wishing it were someone else doing it. Not Brad, though. Not Sergeant Colbert. Someone… an abstract someone. Really. And the name he bites his lip to keep from calling out most certainly isn’t Brad. These moments are few and far between, so it’s a testament to Brad’s sheer will to completely fuck Nate up that he almost always finds him right afterwards.
Nate’s just had one of those moments, at the end of an absolute goat-fuck of a day. Fucking Craig tried to kill the whole platoon; that idiot Casey Kasem (Nate has to make sure the other Marines don’t hear him calling Gunnery Sergeant Griego that - it’ll only encourage them) just egged him on. Nate was left to un-fuck the situation, as usual. When he hears someone coming up from behind, judging by the fact that said person isn’t trying to be stealthy, nor is he making more noise than necessary, there’s really only one possibility as to who it can be. Or is it that there’s only one person on his mind at the moment? Sometimes Nate isn’t sure.
Nate sighs. Really, this is getting tedious. But he is getting better at looking Brad in the eyes after jacking off to the thought of him. “Brad. What can I do for you?” It’s proof of Nate’s grasp on sanity (or lack thereof) that he doesn’t say, “What can I do you for?” Appealing option though it may seem, it would most definitely be… it would be inappropriate.
Brad’s eyes glint in the darkness, and Nate sees a flicker of white - not a full-out grin just yet, but Nate’s certain he’ll see one before their conversation’s over.
“Well, LT, seeing as we’re alone…” Nate almost rolls his eyes. Of course they’re alone. He’s not about to jack off where he can be easily found; he’s conveniently hidden. Not that he ever has much time, really. Soon enough either he or Brad will have to head back. The kids really can’t be trusted to play alone. And by ‘kids’, Nate means ‘superior officers’. The men may be kids, but at least they won’t try to kill each other off or blow something up. Thankfully, he has relatively sane Marines under his command.
Brad continues, “I was going to use this fortuitous opportunity to bitch and whine about the fact that we’re going to war in tin-plated fucking open boxes with wheels, that command’s utterly incompetent and the majority of our officers are incapable of finding their own assholes even with a torch and a map, that the weather has a fairly fucking good chance of killing the lot of us, too; possibly only Sergeant Reyes is okay with this, as he’s already in spa-mode, what with the suitcase of fucking beauty products he’s carrying around - a sauna can only be good for him. I was about to go off on a tangent about the fact that even whiskey tango in-breeds like Corporal Person and wetbacks like Sergeant Espera are more competent than the men leading us around this barren wasteland of a country - present company excluded, sir. But really, Encino Man’s far too complimentary a nickname for the failure of a Neanderthal that is Captain -”
“Brad, are you going to get to the point sometime today?” Nate peers through the darkness at him, tracing the secretive smile with his eyes.
“I was contemplating getting around to it sometime tomorrow, sir. You, yourself, know how imperative it is that we never get the information we need on time.” Smart-ass.
“You know, Brad, I imagine that, if you were to turn around, I would be able to see the words coming out of your ass.” This time Nate actually rolls his eyes and tries not to think about what would happen, should Brad actually turn around. Nate probably wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away.
“You really shouldn’t spend so much time thinking about my ass, sir.” Thank God for dirt and dust and sand - Nate’s actually blushing. And there it is - Brad’s crooked grin. Sometimes Nate thinks Brad has x-ray vision.
“You’re quite right, Sergeant. It impedes my combat effectiveness.”
“Is that what you call charging straight into the line of fire, sir? Impediment of combat effectiveness? Because it most assuredly would have been, had you been hit.” Were Brad not such a master of facial expressions, those piercing eyes would be glaring out from underneath a furrowed brow. Nate glares back.
“I could say the same for you, Sergeant.” Nate pushes back the memory of the fear. He didn’t see Brad falling, lifeless, down the berm he had climbed up after Trombley - there’s no point in dwelling on the thought of something that didn’t happen. It could have, though.
Brad lowers his head in acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything else. Point made and taken on both sides.
They stand there, in companionable silence. Nate watches the flashes and spurts of light in the distance, and finds it interesting how he treats the violent audio accompaniment as he would the pan-pipes Greatest Hits cover-music usually played in his favorite café back home. Just background music, really. A soundtrack. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to sit in real silence again.
Nate sighs inaudibly and turns to Brad. “What stopped you from bitching and whining?”
Brad looks over at him and smiles, softly. “Apart from the fact that you would have no cheese to offer for my whine, sir? All that bull-shit can wait, LT. It won’t go anywhere.” Then, returning his gaze to the night-time sky: “Wanted to see if you’d like to jerk off with me, rather than to me.”
Nate most certainly did not just hear that. That… that’s preposterous. Did the tone and mood change just like that? Did Brad actually just say that? The sparkling eyes tell Nate that yes, Brad did just say that; yes, Brad knows.
Maybe it’s not entirely futile, but Nate simply doesn’t have the strength or will to tell Brad that he’s wrong. After all, he really isn’t. Nate’s strength reappears in the moment it takes for him to lunge at Brad, bring his head down and their faces together. Nate wants to feel that smile against his lips; he wants to make it his.
Brad responds immediately, thrusting his tongue past Nate’s lips, into his mouth. Nate makes a noise that may or may not be a whimper. It all depends on how desperate he’s been for this.
Pretty fucking desperate. Brad swallows the sound and Nate’s tongue chases it down like it’s good liquor. The way Brad’s hands fist in Nate’s MOPP-suit and he bites at Nate’s lips makes it even better. Their dirty hands clutch at each other, their faces press as close as possible; the kiss is wet, sloppy, frantic and perfect.
When Brad pulls away, his hands remain on Nate, but Nate still follows, unwilling to separate, and he’s certain the yearning is clear in his eyes. Brad chuckles - a warm, throaty sound - and brings a hand up to Nate’s head, stroking his neck. He leans his head forward, and their foreheads rest together. This time Nate pulls away. He needs to be closer. Fuck the grooming standard. He reaches for the strap of his Kevlar, and Brad stops him. Nate looks up, eyes inquisitive. Brad shakes his head, smiles, and undoes the strap himself. He drops the helmet on the ground next to them, then takes off his own. His hand returns to Nate’s head and resumes its soothing movements, this time rubbing against and along Nate’s bristly, short hair in relaxing strokes. Nate wonders if he’s purring. He probably is. Brad does this to him.
Nate suddenly feels he isn’t doing enough. Brad has, without words, managed to kick out any and all other thoughts. He leans in, closes the space between their faces, and kisses Brad softly, licking into his mouth. Brad makes a low noise, and Nate can almost read the smile on his tongue. His hands drift downwards and busy themselves with unfastening Brad’s MOPP-suit. Brad keeps the kiss gentle, but Nate’s hungry for more. He goads Brad, flickering his tongue here, there, tangling it with Brad’s, and then bites at Brad’s lips, sucking on the bottom one while his right hand slips into Brad’s regulation briefs. Not free-balling, then.
At the first touch of Nate’s hand, Brad comes alive. He completely takes over Nate’s mouth, becomes utterly frenzied. Nate more than keeps up, and increases the pace along with the movements of his hand; a twist here, a harsh stroke there. Brad returns the gesture, and Nate feels an immense rush of pleasure, clouding his mind. His eyes suddenly adjust to their tunnel vision - all he sees is Brad, all he feels is what Brad’s doing to him. Nate jerks up, palms the head of Brad’s cock, and Brad pants into Nate’s mouth. The low noises are coming more frequently now, and just as Nate thinks Brad’s about to come, he feels a hand on his own dick. Fucking Colbert. Nate doesn’t know why he ever wanted Brad out of his head.
Brad’s strokes are almost lazy, and he changes the kiss to suit them, fucking Nate’s mouth slowly. Nate opens his eyes and is met with Brad’s blue stare; he can’t close his eyes again, he’s completely caught. Nate's a hapless insect caught in Brad’s spider-web. Brad speeds up his movements, adds a slow swivel of his wrist and a little scrape of his thumb-nail at the end, and Nate resists the urge to throw his head back and moan. Instead, his hips gyrate, and he rotates his own wrist at the end of his pulls on Brad’s dick. Brad makes a noise into Nate’s mouth, and Nate watches the blue of his eyes darken, the pupils reducing it to a thin strip of color around the black. It’s filthy-gorgeous, and Nate’s steadily losing his mind. He’d rather be here, in a hot, sandy hell on earth, lost completely in Brad, than anywhere else in the world.
Something clicks in his head, and Nate rebels against the rhythm Brad's set; he tears his lips away and sinks his teeth into Brad’s neck. Nate can hear Brad bite back a moan. He releases Brad’s neck far too soon - it wouldn’t do to leave visible marks - and then sets to soothing the skin with his tongue, nibbling his way up the column of Brad’s neck, licking at skin, sandy, sweaty and dirty, until he reaches Brad’s earlobe. He bites down, harsh. His actions are rewarded - Brad inhales sharply and, with the next rotation of Nate’s wrist, starts fucking into Nate’s hand. His movements are almost frantic, he’s close to coming, and Nate feels it in the movements of Brad’s hand on his dick. He sucks once more at Brad’s earlobe, then nips at the tender skin behind it, once, twice, the third time sharply, and then returns to Brad’s mouth in time to capture and swallow his loud, low moan as he comes.
Brad breathes heavily into Nate’s mouth, sucking at his tongue, and says, softly, “Nate.”
The sound of his name coming from Brad’s lips, and the liquid, relaxed blue of Brad’s eyes boring into his own and smiling at him, combined with Brad’s final, lazy stroke, is more than enough to push Nate over the edge. He spills into Brad’s hand; Brad returns the earlier favor, swallowing and stifling Nate’s cry.
They stand there what seems like an eternity, still wrapped in the cocoon of their intimacy in the middle of such a travesty. Nate can’t tell who pulls away first, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s not a withdrawal, not a retreat. Brad pulls baby-wipes from a pocket, and they clean themselves up without a word, re-fastening their MOPP-suits, but leaving the Kevlars on the ground for the time being. Nate isn’t sure what to do, but Brad appears not to have any such problem, and steps into Nate, reaching an arm over and around him.
“I bet you wondered how I knew,” Brad says, after a moment. Nate has to think to recall what Brad’s talking about. Oh. He chooses not to answer, simply shakes his head and nuzzles it into Brad’s shoulder, tilting his face up and laying a soft kiss on Brad’s neck. It doesn’t matter, not really.
Nate realizes that he can feel the silence. Brad has blocked out everything else.
“Sometimes I wonder what pure silence is like.”
Nate once read that, when someone offers up something of themselves, you should reply in kind. It makes you closer, sharing parts of yourself. He wonders if he and Brad have anything left to share, if they’re not already one whole.
“There’s this café I know…”
Fin