(no subject)
TITLE: to the south, to the south
PAIRINGS: implied Brad/Nate
WORDCOUNT: 1640
SUMMARY: Brad and Nate begin a journey designed to clear the air between them after years apart.
A/N: This was intended to be the beginning of a much, much longer piece which never really came to fruition. Still, I didn't want to put it away forever, so here it is. The Title is from The Road by Frank Turner.
To the heart, to the heart there's no time for you to waste
You wont find your precious answers now by staying in one place
Yeah by giving up the chase
He sips water to wash away the taste of dust and ozone burnt dry. In the seat beside him, an RTO who is not Ray Person does not run his mouth about absent pussy, shitty rock music, personal infirmity, NASCAR or this war right here as a massive pain in the ass both perpetual and permanent. Brad sets down his water and picks up the tin of Copenhagen on the dash. He actually misses that Whisky Tango Motherfucker.
It's a moment of calm before the world turns itself inside out.
He breathes ash and smoke. He is pinned down and unable to move.
The Humvee rolls and cannot right itself.
The tin drops away from his hand.
*
He catches the tin before it hits the floor. Through the window, Southern California speeds past. The sky is a much brighter shade of blue than it had seemed moments before. In the driver's seat, one hand resting lazily on the gear-stick and the other hand on the wheel, Nate looks across, eyes hidden behind his Oakleys.
“What?” he asks, and his hand shifts from the gear-stick to Brad's knee. He squeezes, not gently. Hard enough for Brad to know he's there.
“What?” he asks again, as Brad covers his hand with his own, squeezing back, leaning forward to drop the dip onto the dash.
“Same old shit,” he says and means don't ask me about things I don't want to talk about.
“Okay,” says Nate, and nods, which doesn't mean that he won't.
He takes his hand back to shift down in traffic.
Brad relaxes back in his seat and watches Nate drive. In the rear-view, he catches a glimpse of the trailer, his beloved bike bound in a tarp for the road. He can't remember who brought it up first, him or Nate, but he remembers being relieved when he realised that he wasn't leaving his bike behind.
“You could try pills,” offers Nate, touching the brakes as the traffic snarls up ahead of them. Brad shakes his head and lifts one hand, tipping his own Oakleys into place on the bridge of his nose. They both know that that is not the answer here. He'll take unstable dreams. He'll stay in his own head. He watches a muscle in Nate's jaw tighten and, a moment later, relax. He takes off his shades and turns them over in his hands. They're pretty jacked, scraped by the contents of pockets, scoured by sand and shamal winds. A fact that has not escaped his notice: Nate's are brand new.
“No pills,” says Brad and Nate nods, once. The traffic ahead of them clears. Nate climbs smoothly through the gears. Brad leans back in his seat and feels fifth bite.
“Are we crossing tonight?” asks Nate, meaning the border, and Brad thinks about it for a moment, thinks about crossing other borders, sitting in the Humvee with Ray at his side and Rolling Stone at his six. He thinks about how weary he is and how fucking weird he's felt since he swung down into this car and found himself sitting beside this man right here.
It's been five years since the last time he saw Nate Fick. Some things are different, but just as many have stayed the same. Some things never change.
Some things never could.
“Not tonight,” he says. He aches in unforeseen ways. In Iraq, there had been days-long periods of wakefulness. He remembers lying in his grave too weary to sleep, his eyes closed, listening to his watch tick and the radio hum against Ray's shoulder. He rests one knee against the door and his temple against his elbow and watches Nate drive. He's wearing a black t-shirt but his arms are bare. The wind moves his hair across his forehead and Brad notes that he's never seen it that long and that it suits Nate and that he wishes that he hadn't noticed. This time, it's him that reaches out, his fingers grazing the bones of Nate's wrist.
Nate looks at him and smiles, just a quick flash of that familiar grin, barely there but it plugs in right behind Brad's balls.
“Get off at the next exit,” he says.
The motel isn't much of anything; a row of rooms, a flickering neon sign. They stand side by side with backpacks resting on the floor between them and they check in. Nate's still thumbing through his wallet when Brad's already sliding his Am-Ex across the desk.
“Two rooms?” asks the kid behind the desk, pushing his gum against his front teeth with the tip of his tongue. Brad looks up and Nate's already looking at him.
“Sure,” he hears himself saying. “Why not.”
Five years, and everything's different.
The room is not much to look at; there isn't one good corner on any of the furniture and the sheets have been washed so often that they're almost worn through (though, at least they're clean). He drops his backpack by the door and walks into the bathroom, pisses with his back to the open door. Gingerly, he pulls his t-shirt up over his head. Muscles feel tight and bruised. His fingertips skim the long, puckered scar along his ribs. The shower shudders and sputters before it actually gets going.
The door to the room opens and closes. Brad doesn't move and he doesn't call out. He stands there with his hands at his belt. Nate moves so quietly that he might as well not be there at all.
He takes his time in the shower. The water never really gets to hot, warm and tasting rusty. He rubs one hand across his short hair. His head swims and, for a moment, he's in one of the tent-walled temp showers at Matilda, can hear Poke running his mouth in the next stall.
He stays under the water for a count of three hundred. He reaches out and taps cracked tile with his knuckles.
He fumbles the first towel that he reaches for. His head spins, swims, and he leans his forehead against a forearm against the wall. Unaccustomed to weakness, it's a long moment before he reaches for another.
When he turns back to the door, he sees Nate sitting quietly at the foot of the bed.
“If we're actually going to do this, we need to talk about it,” he says, finally. “We need to...” He looks up and, in the light thrown by one lamp, his eyes are dark and unreadable. Brad remembers them looking that way in Iraq, Nate leaning his weight back against a humvee. Brad looks at him for a long time, one hand holding onto the towel around his waist. He knows that Nate's looking at the scar.
He turns his back. It takes him longer than he'd like to find a clean t-shirt.
He drops the towel. He knows that Nate hasn't looked away. He dresses with his back still turned. He pulls his t-shirt over his damp hair. He tugs on jeans with no underwear. He turns around and Nate's still sitting there, head bent, hands hanging loosely between his thighs. He remembers the anticipation of invasion. He wants to imagine that if he walked to the window and looked out, he'd see the border, burning like something hot and near, but he knows that this is an anticipation of an entirely different kind.
“What do you want from me, Nate?” he asks.
What do either of them want, here? No more or less than he wanted five years ago, standing in a bar in Boston when he leaned in and kissed and was stopped, firmly, with a hand against his chest. It wasn't much, not even a harsh word, but it was still with him, years later, when the world flipped and twisted and that tin fell from his hand.
A line of a poem comes back to him. No fate, for you are my fate, my sweet.
He's never been good with poetry. Somehow, he can blame that on Nate too.
And there's a knowledge, there. A debt owed. For five years, he wanted Nate and then the world changed but the want remained.
And somehow he woke up and Nate was already standing there.
Where do you want to go, he asked.
Brad hadn't known the words for anywhere that there's you. So here they are, driving south. Nate's got a route planned that will take them through Mexico and Columbia, down into Chile. There'll be mountains and deserts. Nate will let him ride his bike in short bursts and, at night, there'll be narrow beds and lips pressed against pulses. There'll be hands on hips and Nate will be too good to mention the scars. Brad will wish that he would; it would somehow lend legitimacy to surviving.
There must be poetry written about scars.
For now, in that narrow bedroom, he forces himself to walk closer.
He flexes his hand to loosen his fingers. Too easily, these days, he finds them a fist.
And, in the morning, the road South.
He'll ride his bike and he'll lift his head a little to feel the wind.
Not knowing what either of them want, they lie down together on the narrow bed.
In the morning, they leave in the same clothes they lay down in.
Painfully (perhaps to both of them), by morning Nate still has not mentioned the scars.
PAIRINGS: implied Brad/Nate
WORDCOUNT: 1640
SUMMARY: Brad and Nate begin a journey designed to clear the air between them after years apart.
A/N: This was intended to be the beginning of a much, much longer piece which never really came to fruition. Still, I didn't want to put it away forever, so here it is. The Title is from The Road by Frank Turner.
To the heart, to the heart there's no time for you to waste
You wont find your precious answers now by staying in one place
Yeah by giving up the chase
He sips water to wash away the taste of dust and ozone burnt dry. In the seat beside him, an RTO who is not Ray Person does not run his mouth about absent pussy, shitty rock music, personal infirmity, NASCAR or this war right here as a massive pain in the ass both perpetual and permanent. Brad sets down his water and picks up the tin of Copenhagen on the dash. He actually misses that Whisky Tango Motherfucker.
It's a moment of calm before the world turns itself inside out.
He breathes ash and smoke. He is pinned down and unable to move.
The Humvee rolls and cannot right itself.
The tin drops away from his hand.
*
He catches the tin before it hits the floor. Through the window, Southern California speeds past. The sky is a much brighter shade of blue than it had seemed moments before. In the driver's seat, one hand resting lazily on the gear-stick and the other hand on the wheel, Nate looks across, eyes hidden behind his Oakleys.
“What?” he asks, and his hand shifts from the gear-stick to Brad's knee. He squeezes, not gently. Hard enough for Brad to know he's there.
“What?” he asks again, as Brad covers his hand with his own, squeezing back, leaning forward to drop the dip onto the dash.
“Same old shit,” he says and means don't ask me about things I don't want to talk about.
“Okay,” says Nate, and nods, which doesn't mean that he won't.
He takes his hand back to shift down in traffic.
Brad relaxes back in his seat and watches Nate drive. In the rear-view, he catches a glimpse of the trailer, his beloved bike bound in a tarp for the road. He can't remember who brought it up first, him or Nate, but he remembers being relieved when he realised that he wasn't leaving his bike behind.
“You could try pills,” offers Nate, touching the brakes as the traffic snarls up ahead of them. Brad shakes his head and lifts one hand, tipping his own Oakleys into place on the bridge of his nose. They both know that that is not the answer here. He'll take unstable dreams. He'll stay in his own head. He watches a muscle in Nate's jaw tighten and, a moment later, relax. He takes off his shades and turns them over in his hands. They're pretty jacked, scraped by the contents of pockets, scoured by sand and shamal winds. A fact that has not escaped his notice: Nate's are brand new.
“No pills,” says Brad and Nate nods, once. The traffic ahead of them clears. Nate climbs smoothly through the gears. Brad leans back in his seat and feels fifth bite.
“Are we crossing tonight?” asks Nate, meaning the border, and Brad thinks about it for a moment, thinks about crossing other borders, sitting in the Humvee with Ray at his side and Rolling Stone at his six. He thinks about how weary he is and how fucking weird he's felt since he swung down into this car and found himself sitting beside this man right here.
It's been five years since the last time he saw Nate Fick. Some things are different, but just as many have stayed the same. Some things never change.
Some things never could.
“Not tonight,” he says. He aches in unforeseen ways. In Iraq, there had been days-long periods of wakefulness. He remembers lying in his grave too weary to sleep, his eyes closed, listening to his watch tick and the radio hum against Ray's shoulder. He rests one knee against the door and his temple against his elbow and watches Nate drive. He's wearing a black t-shirt but his arms are bare. The wind moves his hair across his forehead and Brad notes that he's never seen it that long and that it suits Nate and that he wishes that he hadn't noticed. This time, it's him that reaches out, his fingers grazing the bones of Nate's wrist.
Nate looks at him and smiles, just a quick flash of that familiar grin, barely there but it plugs in right behind Brad's balls.
“Get off at the next exit,” he says.
The motel isn't much of anything; a row of rooms, a flickering neon sign. They stand side by side with backpacks resting on the floor between them and they check in. Nate's still thumbing through his wallet when Brad's already sliding his Am-Ex across the desk.
“Two rooms?” asks the kid behind the desk, pushing his gum against his front teeth with the tip of his tongue. Brad looks up and Nate's already looking at him.
“Sure,” he hears himself saying. “Why not.”
Five years, and everything's different.
The room is not much to look at; there isn't one good corner on any of the furniture and the sheets have been washed so often that they're almost worn through (though, at least they're clean). He drops his backpack by the door and walks into the bathroom, pisses with his back to the open door. Gingerly, he pulls his t-shirt up over his head. Muscles feel tight and bruised. His fingertips skim the long, puckered scar along his ribs. The shower shudders and sputters before it actually gets going.
The door to the room opens and closes. Brad doesn't move and he doesn't call out. He stands there with his hands at his belt. Nate moves so quietly that he might as well not be there at all.
He takes his time in the shower. The water never really gets to hot, warm and tasting rusty. He rubs one hand across his short hair. His head swims and, for a moment, he's in one of the tent-walled temp showers at Matilda, can hear Poke running his mouth in the next stall.
He stays under the water for a count of three hundred. He reaches out and taps cracked tile with his knuckles.
He fumbles the first towel that he reaches for. His head spins, swims, and he leans his forehead against a forearm against the wall. Unaccustomed to weakness, it's a long moment before he reaches for another.
When he turns back to the door, he sees Nate sitting quietly at the foot of the bed.
“If we're actually going to do this, we need to talk about it,” he says, finally. “We need to...” He looks up and, in the light thrown by one lamp, his eyes are dark and unreadable. Brad remembers them looking that way in Iraq, Nate leaning his weight back against a humvee. Brad looks at him for a long time, one hand holding onto the towel around his waist. He knows that Nate's looking at the scar.
He turns his back. It takes him longer than he'd like to find a clean t-shirt.
He drops the towel. He knows that Nate hasn't looked away. He dresses with his back still turned. He pulls his t-shirt over his damp hair. He tugs on jeans with no underwear. He turns around and Nate's still sitting there, head bent, hands hanging loosely between his thighs. He remembers the anticipation of invasion. He wants to imagine that if he walked to the window and looked out, he'd see the border, burning like something hot and near, but he knows that this is an anticipation of an entirely different kind.
“What do you want from me, Nate?” he asks.
What do either of them want, here? No more or less than he wanted five years ago, standing in a bar in Boston when he leaned in and kissed and was stopped, firmly, with a hand against his chest. It wasn't much, not even a harsh word, but it was still with him, years later, when the world flipped and twisted and that tin fell from his hand.
A line of a poem comes back to him. No fate, for you are my fate, my sweet.
He's never been good with poetry. Somehow, he can blame that on Nate too.
And there's a knowledge, there. A debt owed. For five years, he wanted Nate and then the world changed but the want remained.
And somehow he woke up and Nate was already standing there.
Where do you want to go, he asked.
Brad hadn't known the words for anywhere that there's you. So here they are, driving south. Nate's got a route planned that will take them through Mexico and Columbia, down into Chile. There'll be mountains and deserts. Nate will let him ride his bike in short bursts and, at night, there'll be narrow beds and lips pressed against pulses. There'll be hands on hips and Nate will be too good to mention the scars. Brad will wish that he would; it would somehow lend legitimacy to surviving.
There must be poetry written about scars.
For now, in that narrow bedroom, he forces himself to walk closer.
He flexes his hand to loosen his fingers. Too easily, these days, he finds them a fist.
And, in the morning, the road South.
He'll ride his bike and he'll lift his head a little to feel the wind.
Not knowing what either of them want, they lie down together on the narrow bed.
In the morning, they leave in the same clothes they lay down in.
Painfully (perhaps to both of them), by morning Nate still has not mentioned the scars.