Fic | GK | fractures
Generation Kill | PG15
When his cell starts flashing just after one in the morning with Ray's name on the screen, he's not expecting it to be anything other than one of Person's usual bouts of inebriated blathering. Six times out of ten Ray manages to be at least marginally entertaining, so Brad only toys with the idea of not picking up for a few seconds.
Seeing that he has years of empirical evidence as proof of Ray's tendency for hyperboles and subjective truth, when the first words Brad hears are the slightly slurred, "What the fucking fuck, Brad, I'm in love," to say he doesn't take it seriously is very much an understatement.
"That's great, Person. And how much did that cost you?"
Ray pauses. "Brad, dude, I hate to break it to you, but not everyone considers whores the only acceptable form of social interaction."
"Since when?" Brad leans further back in his chair, stretching for the first time in what feels like hours. His back is aching after half a night spent hunched over the system he's optimizing. "Besides, I interact with you retards, don't I?"
"Totally missing my point, homes," Ray says. Then, "I'm serious."
Brad feels his eyebrows lifting. Ray is never serious, he thinks it's a dirty word. "What you are, Person, is wasted."
"Not that wasted," comes the reply, and, christ, despite the slurring Ray does sound serious.
"Okay," he says, "good for you. Still, here's a thought: why don't you sleep on it, and not molest anyone tonight."
"It's not called molesting if it's consensual," Ray shrewdly points out before ending the call.
Brad shakes his head. Can't fault the man's logic.
::
The next day is Sunday. Brad rises before six, too accustomed to the weekday rhythm, and goes for a run. It wouldn't be one-hundred per cent accurate to say Iraq fucked up his REM patterns for good, but it sure as fuck didn't help. Nights numbering less than six hours of actual sleep are considerably more common than those above it.
When he gets back it's still obnoxiously early. He calls Ray. It takes eight rings before Ray answers, spewing a string of sluggish insults and direct threats to his life and physical well-being.
Brad interrupts him. "Still wildly in love, Corporal Montague?"
The line goes silent. "Jesus Christ," Ray whimpers, followed by something that sounds like running and, then, the unmistakable sound of retching.
Mission accomplished. There are mornings after, and then there's Life as Ray Person.
::
When Ray calls back thirty minutes later, Brad is ready with a list of points to consult regarding Ray's utter failure as a Marine, a man, and a human being, although the last two labels are definitely debatable.
"The beer goggles come off, then?" He asks.
Ray doesn't answer for so long Brad is starting to wonder if the amount he must have imbibed actually resulted in brain damage.
"No, man," he says finally, faintly.
Brad blinks. "Care to repeat?"
"Fuck," Ray says. "Fucking fuck. Fuck, Brad."
Huh. "Solid copy," Brad says. "Ray Person, still in love."
Ray hangs up on him.
::
The next he hears from Person is when he knocks on his door a couple of days later.
Brad leans against the doorframe, one side of his mouth twisted up in a smirk. "If it isn't young Romeo." It still hasn't gotten old. There's a possibility it never will. Brad can't wait for the knitting circle to get wind of this. Ray will get back all the shit he's dished out over the years tenfold. "And how are things with the romance of the century?"
It's twenty past eleven on a Tuesday morning. The time and date flick through Brad's brain and then burn right into his memory, because it's obviously the fucking Apocalypse. One should probably take note of these things.
Ray Person blushes.
"Fuck off, homes, and get out of my way," he says, face still flaming. "I need pancakes."
"Weren't you provided breakfast at whatever lovenest you left behind this morning?"
"Dude, I never said I got anywhere with that last weekend. Shit, emotions fucking suck. I've spent the last 48 hours trying to convince myself it was all a fucking hallucination or a bad trip, and pondering whether I should paint my fingernails black and start listening to pussy emo bands."
The way Ray is rubbing his hands over his face seems to suggest he hasn't got very far with that.
"Person, you're pathetic," Brad declares, before turning on his heel. Ray follows him, and even his footsteps sound dejected.
Ray makes himself at home in Brad's kitchen and it's a while before he starts talking again, the silence a notable achievement in and of itself. It must be magic pussy Ray has got in his sights, it's the only explanation.
"So I was thinking. This isn't exactly my usual game, homes. And, uh-shit, I can't believe I'm using this stupid fucking phrase," Ray still looks uncomfortable and flushed, but he laughs, not the fucking sardonic laugh that filled the Humvee daily during their road trip in Iraq, but a rarer, honest laugh-"I'm actually going to have to take it slow. Reel the fish in."
"Right," Brad keeps staring. "Are you one of those pod people? Is that what is happening? The earthly vessel of Ray Person's moderately drug-addicted body being used to try and take over the earth? Because that's your first tactical mistake right there, Visitor."
"Very fucking funny, Brad."
"Well, jesus, listen to yourself. You're not capable of eating a fucking MRE in anything less than a starving-to-death setting, and now your dick is teaching you patience? What the fuck is she, a supermodel?"
"He."
Brad pauses. "Christ, Ray…"
"Yeah, yeah, homes, you didn't ask but I'm telling. It's not like I'll be in for much longer."
"What the fuck do they put in the drinks in that bar?"
"Oh, you can find that out for yourself," Ray grins suddenly. "I overheard him making plans for this Tuesday. So yeah, homes, you're coming with me tonight."
"No," Brad says, "I'm really not."
::
On the way to the pub Brad finds out that the guy is a pussy civilian East Coast college boy. He despairs of Ray.
"I know what you're thinking," Ray grins. He's driving, because Brad let it be known on no uncertain terms that he wouldn't suffer through this without noteworthy amounts of alcohol. "I was fucking thinking the same thing. Shit, the whole group, with their preppy clothes and hippie faggotty haircuts, man, I was breaking out in a rash just sitting in the same room."
"Interrogative," Brad cuts in. "Isn't you calling people faggotty somewhat ironic at this point?"
"Nah, no way. You know me, Brad, I'm still the reigning champion of pussy revolution everywhere. I'm just not passing the opportunity for quality dick when it presents itself."
"Reigning champion of talking out of your ass."
"You love it, Brad, you know you do. Where the fuck was I? Right, sitting at a table with my boys like a good little Marine and completely refraining from telling these ass-fondling useless Communist fucks that they were wasting perfectly good oxygen and should relocate somewhere else to drone on about the latest BMW model and its potential to get them laid," Ray smirks, "and then one of them spilled his beer on me."
Brad stares. "Ray, please tell me that the manic grin is indicative of the satisfaction gleaned from breaking some fingers, and not a sign of the traumatizing and unlikely fact that you've got a permanent hard-on for some kid who can't hold his drink. Literally."
"Fuck you, homes, have some faith in your Ray-Ray," and Ray actually has the gall to look injured, as if he hasn't been acting like someone who's gone totally and completely around the bend for the last 72 hours. "No, homes, as I said, one of the aforementioned pacifist liberal college pansies spilled a beer on me, and I was very politely about to introduce the cartilage of his nose to the architecture of the floor-" and Ray smiles again, wide and fucking disturbing, "when Nate stepped in."
So the guy does have a name. Brad quirks an eyebrow. "Stepped in? You mean, in the way of a drunk and disorderly Marine clearly hell-bent on inflicting violence? You didn't tell me he was touched in the head, Person."
Ray gives him the finger. "Alright, so. I'm not gay, homes. Okay? You know my type? Pussy. My type is fucking pussy, Brad, that's it. I would've done Rudy, but so would the whole platoon. Except Trombley I guess, but, fuck, it's not like dear James is the prime example on what's normal anyway, right?"
Brad stares outside. He doesn't think he would have done Rudy. Rudy was like the gay brother you had, the one you ribbed about liking Patrick Swayze when they claimed they only watched the movie every single weekend because it was a classic.
A gay brother, and now Brad has two. It's enough to make a man wonder whether the Corps is actually capable of making you gay.
Ray is still recreating The Night That Changed My Fucking Life, That Was, Like, The Fucking Jizz-Spurting Climax Of My Existence-Opening Up for Limp Bizkit Is On Par With Opening A Fucking Carton Of Milk After This, Homes.
Ray likes capitalizing things. And digressing.
"-yeah, so, I'm not gay but the first look I got-seriously, man, something just went zing! in this Marine's brain, because, fucking hell, that mouth-"
"Doesn't sound conducive to taking things slow, Ray," Brad mutters.
"I know, right? But then he starts talking." Ray is grinning again. "He fucking told off that limp-wristed shit-for-brains, a thing of fucking beauty-I mean I was in the debate team but I was in awe of the verbal beating he delivered. In awe, man."
Brad shifts in his seat. "I know how much you like sharing, Ray, but if the next part includes your tongue down his throat, I could really do without the visuals."
"Get your mind out of the gutter, homes, I said it's not like that. Yet," and the gleeful expression on Ray's face is possibly more alarming than any X-rated stuff he might have delivered could have been. "He offered to buy me a beer to make up for his asshole friend, and we got to talking-
Brad slaps his palms dramatically down against his knees. "Josh Ray Person, you should've told me we were on the way to a viewing of P. S. I Love You, I would've brought chocolate and tissues."
Ray purses his mouth shut. For a moment Brad wonders whether Falling In Love has actually made Ray grow a pussy of his own, and if they're about to be subjected to another round of Person's unique sulk mode, stop-and-start driving-which probably wouldn't be such a good idea on a busy highway in sunny CA-but all Ray says is, "Dial down the cynical jackass a notch, Colbert," and then goes on, breezily, like they didn't just do a ten-second Marine themes & variations of a girly you've hurt my fucking feelings fight. "We got to talking about Iraq and, homes, you won't believe how fucking smart he is. Turns out he actually considered OCS at some point and, fuck, man, I never thought I'd say shit like this but we really could've used officers like him during OIF."
"Sure, because it wasn't clusterfuck enough, we really needed to get you court-martialed for soliciting a junior officer. No, Ray, it is infinitely better you only now found your true self as a gay homosexual," he drawls out. It's as close as he'll come to an apology.
Judging by the way Ray is making kissy-faces at him, he probably gets it.
::
It's not a Marine bar exactly, there are cheaper and roomier establishments closer to the base that a lot of them tend to frequent. It's the sort of a place Brad can see attracting both the students in the area and the crowd including people like Ray's old non-military buddies, all of them wannabe rockers and full-time potheads.
He sends Ray for the drinks because Person owes him a round or ten for dragging him here.
"So, what the fuck am I supposed to do here," he demands when Ray returns. "Surely it's too early for the whole bullshit of threatening him with injury if he breaks your little heart?"
"Iceman, you're here as my cover," Ray announces. "Obviously, I don't want him to think I'm stalking him. You're the miserable lifer fuck I need to reintroduce to the wonders of people every now and then, to keep you from losing all grasp on reality, homes."
Brad blinks once. There must be something evil he did in a past life, possibly up to and including single-handed genocide. It's the only explanation for being punished with Ray Person in this one.
::
Brad is on his third beer while Ray is still nursing his first when there's a small explosion of sound at the door. Ray's head snaps up.
"You okay, Person?" Brad asks demurely. "Your eyes have gone sort of glassy."
"He's wearing a green shirt," Ray wheezes.
Before Brad can ask what the fuck he is talking about, and also whether he needs help in finding his displaced balls, he hears near-noiseless steps closing in on their position.
"Ray Person," a clear low voice says right behind him, a grin transparent in the tone, "don't tell me. You decided the offense was too grievous after all, and brought reinforcements to teach a lesson to the bastard who had the nerve to trip in your immediate presence."
"Homes, you insult me by implying I'd need any fucking help to take care of one pathetic frat boy," Ray says, beaming like a fucking headlight. "Besides, you're making me sound like one of those psycho Marines, carrying a grudge for every other civilian who looks at me the wrong way."
The guy the voice belongs to stops next to their table. Brad looks up. It's dim in the pub, and the lamp hanging down directly above the table shines in his eye. He can't make out much besides the height, unexpectedly tall topped with the evenness of a buzzcut.
"To be fair, your left eye was twitching. Steve said later he feared for his life."
"Pfft," Ray waves it off. "Hey, Nate, this is my team leader, Brad Colbert."
Despite the lack of light, Brad detects the faint gleam of a grin directed down at them.
"You know, here in the real world the customary term to use is a friend, but of course you jarheads can't indulge in pussy words like that," Nate says, offering a hand for Brad to shake. Brad takes it. Nate's grip is firm in the good way, strong but comfortable.
"Are you kidding me? Brad would gut me if I were to claim membership to such an exclusive club," Ray cackles. "Nah, homes, don't let the icy exterior fool you. Deep down Brad loves kittens and rainbows."
Brad could run with that and make the obvious crack about rainbows, but he's not actually heartless. Instead he asks, "You want to sit down?"
"Sure," Nate nods, twisting around for a moment to signal at his friends that he'll be along later.
Brad uses the time to watch Ray, cataloguing all his tells. They aren't probably hugely noticeable to anyone who didn't go to Iraq with him, who don't know that his default mode varies between slit-eyed sarcasm and provocative diatribes.
Nate drags a chair over from the next table and flops down in it. Brad catches his first proper look at him, at his profile, before green eyes lift to meet his. Nate's mouth curves upwards, easy and warm, like the handshake.
Brad looks away after only a second or two. He stands up, the chair legs scraping the floor. "I'm going to get another," he says. "Um, anything I can get you?" He doesn't look down as he asks the question.
"Whatever you're having will be fine," Nate says, polite like you'd expect from an Ivy Leaguer.
"That's right, me too, since you're finally buying," Ray quips.
"Get your own fucking swill, Person," Brad grates out. Ray gives him the finger, grinning, and Nate chuckles.
Brad makes a detour via the toilets, washes his hands because he's not sure what else to do. He feels unsettled.
At the counter he asks for three more beers, changes his mind at the last moment and orders a shot of Jack to go with them. The whiskey goes down smoothly but doesn't chase away the feeling of being just slightly out-of-balance.
::
It's not supposed to be so easy to talk with Nate. A civilian. When he consented to come along tonight Brad didn't know what to expect exactly, couldn't really think of anything that would have explained Ray's sexual epiphany, apart from psychotropic drugs.
Brad asks Nate how he's ended up on the wrong coast, the question coming out ruder than he perhaps meant to.
"I'm doing my internship here," Nate tells them, unruffled by his tone. His face takes on a completely different expression when he talks about the job, serious and fierce at the same time, like he's already in charge of not only policies, but people, their lives.
Brad thinks back to what Ray said, how they could have used someone like Nate in the officer corps back in Iraq. He was extremely skeptical of the comment at the time-but, yeah, okay, he sees it now. Can easily imagine dedication like that turned to solid leadership.
Ray is hanging onto Nate's every word, and the hick doesn't even try to be stealthy about it. Brad has never seen him act as civil and nonconfrontational, he's actually doing a fair approximation of a normal human being.
When Nate gets up to get their next round, Brad looks at Ray with pity.
"Are you planning to prostrate yourself at his feet before the night is over, or is there still hope you'll grow a fucking pair?"
Ray merely grins at him like a loon, sprawling back in his seat, not ashamed of himself in the least.
Brad's throat feels tight. "Do you even know if he goes for dick, for christ's sake?"
Ray shrugs. "Not totally sure, no," he admits, "but dude, who wouldn't when they've got this on offer?" He gestures to himself with a mock complacent leer, only the gold-framed pimp shades missing from the show.
Brad lets him turn it into a joke. The line of Ray's jaw is tense. It's the only thing that ever betrays his nerves.
::
Nate never actually gets back to his friends that night. From the topic of Nate's studies the conversation slides naturally to what they do, and Brad doesn't do this, he doesn't talk to civilians about over there because it makes him angry without fail, but Nate owes up his ideals straight away, and Ray calls him a few choice words and Nate lets him, smiling through the jibes. Nate could probably give lectures about the Classics, the history and theory of warfare, but he's more interested in hearing their boots-on-the-ground perspective and listens attentively to everything they say.
That can frustrate Brad too, they all hate the mindless, automatic deference by people who fly the patriotic flag high and never actually do anything-but Nate is so fucking different, green eyes open and intent, attention genuine on their words.
"Homes, seriously, it's too fucking bad you passed up," Ray announces, gesturing ambiguously with the hand currently not wrapped around his beer. "Yet another way the Corps fucks us over. We get fucking cretins like Encino Man when there are people in possession of actual brains within reach." At some point Ray has obviously abandoned the thought of sobriety. Be safe to say they'll be leaving Ray's car to avoid getting him picked up for DUI.
"Would have been a bad idea," Brad says absently. "They don't like junior officers with brains. You would've ended up suffocating on the frustration all the times you wanted to tell your CO's they were being fucking morons."
He's not sure he's even spoken aloud before Nate chuckles. "You might be right." His eyes light up with amusement. "At the same time, I would have had the opportunity to order around guys like you two. Gotta admit, it sounds tempting."
"Already exhibiting the exploitative mindset of an officer!" Ray crows. "Aren't you proud, Brad?"
"Sorry if I don't call you sir just yet," Brad mutters. It's getting late. He should leave.
"That's okay," Nate promises generously. "I have time." He flashes another bright grin.
Brad's head feels fuzzy. He makes a show of stretching in his seat, looking for a clock. It's hanging right there on the wall above the bar counter, the same place it's been all night. "Hey," Brad says, shooting a look at Ray, "I'll be heading off. Don't be a stupid fucknut and get behind the wheel, alright?"
He's a fucking first-class idiot. He should have got lost hours ago, right after Nate sat down and stayed, it just didn't occur to him-first with the surprise of realizing Nate was a decent guy, and then getting into the discussion they were having. Fuck, he'll owe Ray a couple of times of letting him win a sparring match, for being an asshole cock-blocker.
"That's okay, my friends can drop him off, I'm sharing a ride with them," Nate reassures him before Ray can say a word. "You ok getting home?"
"Absolutely," Brad says, not even bothering with the disdain the question calls for. He inclines his chin at Nate. "Was nice to meet you." Nate smiles, responds in kind.
Ray is gazing at the side of Nate's head, delighted like he's just been promised a vat of Ripped Fuel and a free subscription to Juggs. Maybe this is it for Ray's embarrassing pining, maybe Nate's just not transparent, maybe dropping someone off is the civilized code they're using in colleges these days.
Brad nods at them and leaves, jogs home. It's not that long and he doesn't feel like getting into a cab and spending the time deflecting small-talk. What he really wants is to take his bike and get on the road but, obviously, not happening with his head feeling the way it does. His shoulders are tense. His skin feels charged.
He gets home, takes a shower, turns it to cold half-way through. His body is asking for it but his mind is running too fast.
::
drpped off
as promsed.
asked N in
4nigthcap
N laughed&
said it was
late&should
save my
booze4the
trim.my
words not
his.have a
feeling am
doing sth
wrong
sent: 03:26:22
sender: person
He's still awake when the text comes. He almost doesn't register the relief at first because it doesn't make any sense, there's no reason for him to be feeling it. Person's career isn't his fucking responsibility, even if there was a way in hell Ray would listen to reason about this.
He nods off almost immediately afterwards, gets a full five hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep, and doesn't remember any dreams he might have had.
::
Somehow it turns into a fucking routine. At the end of his last week of leave it has become just as common to spend hours with Nate and Ray playing pool at the student haunt or watching a game somewhere as it is to stick to his solitary bike rides and early mornings of surfing or running.
Ray programs Nate's number into Brad's phone, says Brad would never make new friends if it wasn't for Ray helping him along.
Some evenings they're joined by the guys who tend to trail Nate around. Brad hasn't detected any redeeming features in the bunch, and judging by the sharkish grin Ray favors in their company, he still hasn't forgotten about nor forgiven the beer incident. The frat boys don't tend to stick around for long periods of time, and the incredulous looks they are often sending Nate's way seem to be asking how he stomachs the crudeness of the poor dumb grunts. Nate retaliates by smirking and loudly wanting to know Ray's thoughts on the psycho-social development of American youth in the era of social media and reality television, or asking Brad what he thinks about the origins of COIN and the legacy of Vietnam on the public opinion in the 21st century.
Some days it almost seems like Nate doesn't much like his college buddies. Go figure.
Of course, it's inevitable that the scuttlebutt about their new acquaintance get around sooner or later. Stafford and Christeson are the first to ambush them, descending on their table at the pub without either invitation or advance warning. They come armed with a tray filled with a dozen blackish shots that are actually smoking a bit. It's obviously pick-on-the-civilian time.
Nate has them eating out of his hand in ten minutes flat, first downing the bio-hazard with a straight face while Q-Tip gags and only just keeps the shot down, and then bonding with them over the five greatest dead rap artists, or something equally ridiculous.
Poke is next, gluing himself to Brad's side when they're leaving the base one day and Brad's promised to swing by for the usual post-workday bullshit-and-beer session. Poke takes one look at Nate and is clearly preparing to launch into a rant on white upper-middle-class privilege, but it gets lost somewhere between Nate blasting his subhuman dicksuck boss at the firm he's interning for, or the earnest expression on his face when he says, "I just wish they'd care less about what the rulebook says, take into account the recommendations of the personnel who actually know what the fuck they're talking about…"
Poke stares, wide-eyed, and at the end of the night he tells Nate, "You're alright, dawg." Nate smiles and ducks his head like he knows it's high praise, coming from Poke.
Before long, Nate's met most of the platoon, with predictable results. Brad would worry they're all getting soft or something, but there's no denying Nate is sort of special.
Ray hasn't said two words about his little crush since the last drunken text. Sometimes Brad catches him watching Nate, close-lipped and solemn, while Nate's engaged in a debate with one of the others, or lining up his pool cue, or joking with the bartender. The rest of the time Ray is pretty much himself though, ribbing Nate like he's any one of them.
Brad wonders about it a little but ends up not asking. In the end it's none of his goddamn business.
::
Someone calls his name. Nate bounds up to him just as Brad turns, continuing to jog backwards. Nate snorts like he wants to call him out on being a show-off.
Brad nods at him good morning, concealing the surprise he's feeling. "First time I run into you in these parts," he remarks. "Don't you have that nice little park near your place all the college boys like to go to to pretend they're in shape?"
He's talking shit, of course. He knows Nate runs six miles most mornings, and it shows. Nate is healthily flushed with the exercise but hardly short of breath, falling in easily with the rhythm of Brad's own footfalls.
"One of those mornings, you know?" Nate says, shrugging one shoulder. "Felt like I needed a few extra miles."
Brad turns back around to continue running side by side with Nate. "Might have picked a bad time for that," he tilts his head at the dark clouds moving in quickly towards the beach.
Nate looks up. There's just a hint of sweat shining on his throat an in the dip between his collarbones. "Shit," he curses. "Oh well, maybe I'll outrun it. If you feel like picking up the pace a bit, despite getting on in years?" He grins wide.
"Bring it on, dipshit," Brad responds, one side of his mouth lifting in a challenging smirk, and jesus, since when does he let civilians goad him?
Alright, so that isn't right, the civilian bit. It's Nate, and Nate defies their usual categories. Brad's lost count of the times similar sort of sentiments have passed his through his head in the last few months.
Nate laughs and with a burst of speed sprints ahead, Brad following close by.
They don't outrun the downpour. They're half a mile from Brad's house when it starts, drenching them instantly. Nate still has three more miles to go.
"Come on," Brad says, not even thinking twice, "you can use my shower and borrow some dry clothes. Would hate for you to have to call in sick tomorrow just because you were a retard and didn't check the weather forecast."
Nate agrees readily enough. It's Sunday, nothing crucial to attend to, though Brad can guess Nate was planning to spend most of the day reviewing all the materials for next week, even the things extremely unlikely to be brought up. Calling Nate somewhat workaholic is one of those lacking equivalents like the Atlantic, a bit damp.
He digs up a fresh towel for Nate and propels him in the direction of the bathroom, citing manners and Nate's guest status when Nate tries to argue and insists Brad should get the first shower in his own goddamn home.
Digs up the towel, but forgets about the dry clothes until Nate's standing in the kitchen doorway, stray droplets making their way down his flat stomach to be stopped by the terrycloth wrapped around Nate's hips.
"I believe I was promised articles of actual clothing to keep me warm and flu-free to fight another day under the unparalleled guidance of my superiors?" He's grinning cheekily, but there's something about the expression Brad can't place, something edgy. "Give me a damn shirt, Colbert."
"Right," Brad puts down the bottle of water, clearing his throat and moving past Nate.
It's only when he's alone in his bedroom, fisting a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie to give Nate, that he becomes uncomfortably aware of the beginnings of an erection, the tension coiling low in his stomach.
Fuck. It's-fuck, it must be something about the weather.
::
He doesn't remember the last time he's felt this good.
The body underneath his is warm, and there's something about the smell of skin and sweat that grips him deep in his stomach. It's familiar, important, but he can't pinpoint how, where he knows it from.
Brad presses down closer, nipples brushing torturously against the slick skin of a strong back, and noses the curved neck before him, the shell of an ear. There's so much pale skin, only a smattering of freckles on the muscled shoulders. When Brad's tongue slips out to trace them the foreign-familiar body spasms, tightening around his cock.
Brad groans, and the sound is echoed.
They're fucking slowly, just rocking together, and he could do this all day, all week, he doesn't want to move because here they're warm and safe and together and it feels so fucking good-
Nate cranes his head back, teeth brutal on his swollen lower lip, looking punch-drunk with pleasure and out of his mind with needing it, and begs, harder, come on, Brad, fuck me, fuck me, please, harder-
Brad comes awake abruptly, gasping like surfacing from underwater, hips pressed hard against the mattress and seconds away from coming.
::
No.
Fuck, no, no, no.
::
Brad swears he didn't ask for this.
Jesus fucking hell, looking back, he didn't even know it, chose to carefully not-see it.
It's easy to dig up that first look at Nate, the first full look at his face when he sat down at their table, and Brad glanced at him and his stomach twisted-but it didn't mean anything, didn't have to be anything more than surprise, because Nate was beautiful.
If he hadn't slammed the lid on those thoughts from the start, he could have admitted right then being taken aback by a display of such taste by Ray Person.
But he did, he swears his subconsious put a stop to that shit the second it raised its head.
Brad is not that guy. He fucking refuses to be.
He remembers Iraq, remembers a barrage of bullets that was never supposed to be hitting ground mere inches from where he and Garza and Trombley were standing, remembers Ray peeling it like crazy right up to Alpha's Humvees, screaming in rage all the while.
You realize you're shooting at Marines?!
Blue on blue. Friendly fire.
Shit happens.
But not like this, it's not fucking supposed to happen like this.
::
He avoids Ray on the base that day.
Not going down to the pub is a foregone conclusion.
It's Monday. Tuesday follows the same path. So does the rest of the week.
::
On Friday he gets home, dodges Ray's calls, Poke's calls, and the one text from Nate.
He gets shit-faced and passes out before midnight, wakes up at ass o'clock, barely in time to make it to the bathroom before he throws up.
The last time this happened he was a teenager. He would feel mortified, but mostly he fucking wishes he were still unconscious.
He drags himself back to bed.
On Saturday, he wakes up dreaming about fucking Nate outside, deep and deliberate, in full sunshine, Nate's trembling fingers sunk to the grass and toes curling as Brad doesn't let him come, and it goes on, and on, and on.
::
The next week starts inauspiciously when Brad finds Ray leaning on the hood of his car as he's leaving for the base. He draws in a slow invisible breath, puts on the Iceman mask.
Ray doesn't budge despite Brad's glower, just glares back. "Fucking learn to answer your calls, Brad, or at least let people know you're hiding like a little bitch and not dead or some shit like that."
Brad throws his things in the backseat, doesn't spare a glance at Ray. "I know you miss Daddy, a codependent fatherless hick that you are, but some of us need some personal fucking time every now and then," Brad shoots back, the forced derision making him feel nauseous. The guilt probably doesn't help.
"Whatever, homes. You over with whatever pissy fit you were having?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. I was merely enjoying a reprieve from all you fucktards."
"You certainly sound like the Brad Colbert we all know and love, so I'll magnanimously let it go just this once," Ray says. "Give me a ride to base. I'll play some country and we'll call it even."
Ray doesn't even know the extent of it, but letting him man the radio is the fucking least of what Brad can do right now.
It's pretty fucking simple. He doesn't have to fuck up, so he's not going to. He's not going to do a thing. He can't control his dreams, but he can sure as hell control his actions.
For the first time ever he's grateful for the whole thing with Kathy and Mark.
He wanted to prove he can act civil, be better than them.
He got his fucking wish.
::
Ray drags him for a beer in the middle of the week, says he's been MIA long enough, people are starting to say things about him. It's patently untrue, of course, but Brad might as well get it over with. There's only one person who might have remarked on his absence. As proof of that, he has four unanswered texts from Nate spanning the last week and a half to explain.
"I was busy," he offers succinctly after Ray drops him off at the table, like he's switching custody with Nate, before heading off to the bar.
Nate's brows shoot up. "So busy you couldn't send off a single message to any of us? Ray was climbing the walls all last weekend, fucking worrying about you."
Something painful twists in Brad's chest. Of course Nate and Ray kept to the routine, pool or basketball or movies. Maybe something else. That's good. No, it's fucking great.
"Ray is a big boy," he says through his teeth. "One day we might even let him stop using his bib for dinner."
Nate doesn't laugh, not that it's particularly funny. "Is everything alright?" He also doesn't even bother trying to hide his concern. Jesusfuck, how come Brad never noticed how fucking green his eyes are?
"Fine," he keeps his voice level, "all squared away."
Nate looks profoundly disbelieving. Fortunately Ray returns with their drinks, drops to the seat next to Nate, talking nonstop, probably continuing a discussion he started with Joe at the counter or someone he met on the way back. Ray is indiscriminate like that.
Brad can't keep from tracing the space between Ray's arm and Nate's, cataloguing it in inches and centimeters and painful inhales catching in his throat.
::
It's probably amusing, in an ironic sort of way, that returning from overseas didn't once cause him to dread sleep. He's had nightmares, he's woken up rigid and covered in cold sweat-but the dreams were never worse than the reality of combat. He had learned to deal with the bodies, the blood. He knew neither could hurt him.
Lately he can't count the times he's snapped awake, body aching, a fist wrapped desperately around himself, punishing even in sleep. These dreams leave him exhausted, the want in them, the knowledge that, this time, reality offers no relief.
::
Poke once told him about challenging the power of worse.
Of course, Poke's opinion was formulated into a long tirade about no matter how thoroughly the white man had fucked a brown guy up, there was never something he couldn't do to make matters even worse for him.
The next time Brad feels like smirking at Tony's theories, he'll keep this in mind.
Brad might even have to start believing in some sort of higher power, because no coincidence could cause this kind of a shitter of a situation.
::
His epiphany comes a few weeks later when they're more or less back to infrequently frequent nights at the pub, after a night when they've got rather more of their platoon present than usual. Poke's team is drowning their sorrows after losing the platoon's unofficial obstacle course race. Q-Tip and Christeson have parked themselves on either side of Nate and are jealously guarding his attention like baby jackals imprinted on a lone zebra.
Fuck it, who is he trying to bullshit. Despite the deceiving appearances, Nate is no prey.
He realizes he's fucked beyond description when he catches himself trying to decide whether Nate is more like a leopard or a cheetah.
Pappy elbows him. "Fucking hell, Colbert, what's on your mind?"
Brad blinks, takes a long draught from his beer. "The fuck you're talking about?"
"You were smiling," Rudy elucidates brightly, sitting next to his fucking husband and completing his sentences as usual.
Shit. "I doubt that," he says, looking around, hoping for another topic to suddenly present itself. It's a vain hope, because Ray has obviously been keeping track of his corner of the booth.
"Iceman! Is that it? That why you've been so distracted lately, homes? You got a piece of tail hidden away somewhere?"
The table falls silent, expectant stares all around.
Brad grits his teeth. "Mind your own fucking business, Person. And that goes for the rest of you retards as well."
There's a predictable number of suggestive smirks and significant looks, before the guys get back to their conversations and the noise level picks up again. The damage has been done, though.
Brad isn't sure how the fuck it happens, but once closing time rolls around, he finds himself remaining alone on the parking lot with Nate after the others have bundled into cars with apparently sober drivers in various combinations and taken off.
His palms are suddenly damp. "I'll just-" he starts, tipping his head in the general direction of his house.
"Don't be a dick, Brad," Nate says. "Get in the car."
He hasn't often tried rebelling against Nate's commanding tone of voice. It remains an exercise in fucking futility.
They drive in silence for a time before Nate's low voice breaks into the stillness. "Is it true?"
Brad swallows. He didn't think Nate would ask, and he doesn't want to have this conversation, not about his nonexistent girlfriend. "It's obnoxiously vague questions like that, Fick, that assure me you'll make a great politician one day."
Nate lets out a noisy breath, a mixture between annoyance and amusement. "Okay. Were the guys right, in thinking you've been preoccupied because you're seeing someone?" He articulates the question exaggeratedly, the cheerful fuck you Colbert, if that's how you like it coming through loud and clear.
Brad just had to go there. Now he has to answer. "No." There. It's an answer, and not even a lie.
"Huh," Nate says, and then he's slowing the car down. Brad panics, before he realizes they've arrived at his place.
"Yeah," he says, "thanks for the ride-"
"Brad." Nate turns off the ignition, turns to face Brad. He's not wearing a seatbelt. Brad's eyes lock somewhere in the vicinity of Nate's chest. He wasn't wearing a seatbelt, but Nate always wears a seatbelt-
"I have to admit," Nate's voice is quiet, almost rough, "I wasn't very… pleased at the idea that you might have someone and just hadn't said a word about it."
Brad is still staring at Nate's chest. He doesn't know what to say. Why the fuck are they having this conversation?
"No, that's right, plain speaking for you," and Nate's chuckle sounds choked, nervous. Nate is never nervous, never unsure. "What I mean to say, Brad, is that I fucking hated the thought that you might have someone and I'd missed my chance."
Brad freezes. All the air disappears from his lungs, like he's taken a baseball bat to the stomach. He looks up.
Nate is blushing, looking painfully young. Gorgeous. He extends a cautious hand, lays just the tips of his fingers on Brad's wrist.
It's the first time Nate has ever touched his bare skin. It sends shockwaves up his arm, priming his whole body for something, for tugging Nate closer, hauling him to straddle Brad in the fucking too-small car seat, close enough to feel and strip and taste, fitting fantasy to reality-
He blinks. Real world rushes in.
Brad snatches his arm away. "No," he says, "no, I'm sorry-" His hand is shaking but he finds the door handle on his third try, "Sorry, I-"
"Oh." Nate's face-Brad can't look away fast enough, can't take knowing he's the cause of that, fuck, fuck-
"Right," Nate continues, voice almost steady, "no, I'm sorry, I didn't-"
"Yeah, no problem, goodnight," Brad talks over him, clambers out of the car. He's already at his front door, attempting to fit the key into the lock with uncooperative fingers, when he hears the car start behind him, hears Nate drive off. Sedately, just under the speed limit.
Brad gets in, walks blindly toward the living-room and stops in the hallway. He can't see the wall in front of him.
His fist finds it without problem.
::
03:00
03:01
03:02
03:03
03:04
He doesn't sleep that night.
::
The next morning Brad gets up, goes running, right hand throbbing in time with his heartbeat. When he gets back his legs are hurting as well, feet swollen and burning. The pain is welcome, it grounds him, but doesn't work miracles-doesn't erase the lingering sensation of three circular points of heat on his wrist.
He stands in front of the glass cabinet in his bedroom in soaked-through PT gear, and stares at the bottles of good whiskey, the ones he's saved for a special occasion. He tries to decide whether this fits.
Instead, he ends up standing in the shower, jerking himself off roughly with his left hand, pink trails running down the forearm bracing him against the tile after his knuckles start bleeding again.
After drying up he neighbor-straps the fingers of his aching hand. He doesn't do a very good job. He'll have to ask Tim to take a look at them when he goes in on Monday.
Brad doesn't sleep that night either. He tries very hard not to. He ends up dozing sitting up on the living-room couch, jolting awake from dreams that alternate between Ray firing a nine-millimeter point-blank at his chest, or Nate standing inches from him, wearing no shirt, eyes dark green and disappointed.
Doesn't take a fucking genius to figure those out.
::
"Christ, Colbert," Tim is angry as hell, but Brad knew to expect that, "what the fuck did you do? Are you missing action this badly? I could believe that from any one of these retards, but not you."
"It was an accident."
Tim looks at him. "Yeah," he says, "must have been some accident. Two of your knuckles are broken."
Brad grunts. "Figured as much," he offers when Tim narrows his eyes at him.
"All par for the course for the Iceman, huh?"
Brad shrugs. His hand throbs dully, it's almost comforting. "There are worse things."
Still. It's time for some fucking resolutions.
He's had his pity party. The Marines don't teach you to expend energy railing against things you can't change; the Marines teach you to fucking make do with what you’ve got.
::
First things first. Nate deserves a hell of a lot better than thinking he was the cause of a homophobic freak-out.
Brad seeks him out early one evening, when he knows Nate has probably just got back from work. Keeping his voice carefully composed, face half hidden by his utility cover, he apologizes for reacting poorly.
"It was a surprise," he says. "You're a great guy, Nate. I hope we can still be friends."
Nate stares at him, mouth tightening as he listens. "You know, since you bothered to come all the way here to make sure I got the message, you could have at least told me the fucking truth. Platitudes, Brad? I don't know what the fuck your problem is, but don't insult my intelligence by lying to me." He shakes his head disgustedly and slams the door shut in Brad's face.
Brad has to lean on the doorframe, wait for the sick feeling to pass.
He extends the pity party for one more night, but at least he's smarter about it, he wears gloves and uses an actual punching bag instead of the wall.
Nate will get over it. Maybe Brad will get over it, as well. Some day.
Probably not.
But Nate will, and he'll forgive Brad, and things will get back to how they were. He has to. Brad wasn't lying when he said he hoped they could remain friends. Since friendship is all he can get from Nate, Brad will hold on to it.
::
"Make sure you clear your busy schedule for Friday, homes." Ray is ostensibly spotting for him. Mostly it's an excuse to talk his ear off while he can't escape.
He grunts. "Why?"
"Why? Why? Brad, man, where the fuck has your head been lately? It's Nate's going away party."
Brad very nearly fumbles the weights. Ray jumps in, but Brad manages to rack them without help. He sits up. The head-spinning could probably be explained by the exercise.
"And where is Nate going?" He swallows, not daring to glance back at Ray. The motherfucker can be too perceptive for his own good.
"The interning gig is over. You knew that, homes. Nate was just talking about it a couple of weeks ago."
"I remember. I also remember him saying he might extend the lease on his place, stay here to write his final thesis."
Ray shrugs helplessly. "Beer talk, homes. The practicalities would probably suck hairy balls."
"Nate doesn't fucking say anything he doesn't mean," Brad glares at Ray. "Besides, how the fuck are you so blasé about this? What about your gay destiny?" His heart is pounding.
For the second time in his life Brad sees Ray blush. Jesus Christ. Safe to say he's about to hear something he doesn't like.
"Yeah," Ray says. "Not happening, homes. At least not with Nate." He's sort of grinning, which doesn't make any fucking sense.
Brad can't even. "What the fuck?"
"See," Ray says, "it went like this…"
::
In the end it goes like this.
Ray wakes up with a motherfucker of a headache on Nate's couch. The law of probability helps him parse together anything he doesn't remember. It helps that one of his last faint recollections is of Chaffin picking up the drinks, and instructing the bartender in shit to mix with other shit.
Ray hopes the fucknut is in a world of hurt this morning.
He takes stock of the situation. There's a quilt covering him. He's wearing all his clothes. All signs point to having passed out at Nate's under relatively respectable circumstances.
He is mildly disappointed.
Then again, he would have been even more disappointed if Nate had indeed had his way with him, and then made him sleep alone on the couch. That would have fucking sucked.
Ray pounds the back of his skull against the couch. "Fuuuck." He's getting fucking nowhere with this shit.
Solitary cursing apparently works as an attention-grabber. Ray barely hears the sound of bare feet, but he sees it when Nate stops behind the sofa. Nate looks rested and is grinning, like the hangover-proof little shit that he is.
"There's coffee in the kitchen," he tells Ray. "Breakfast in bed is only served to people who've sucked my dick first."
Ray's mind undergoes a minor implosion. "I could do that," he says calmly. As far as openings go, homes-
Nate blinks. Blinks again. "Pardon me?"
Ray snorts. "Not the most encouraging reaction, dude." He sits up, fixes Nate with a look. "Yeah. You and me. Knocking combat boots. Or, you know, dress shoes, or whatever the hell you Ivy Leaguers stuff your feet in to appear all mature and sophisticated-"
"Ray." Nate's poker face is getting scarily good, the longer he hangs out with them. It's something to be proud of.
"Fick. How about it?"
"Ray," Nate repeats.
He bends down to kiss Ray.
It's an extremely enjoyable minute. Maybe two. Then Nate breaks the kiss, settles back leaning his elbows on the back of the couch.
Ray stares.
"Well," he says finally. "You're a great fucking kisser, Fick."
"I know," Nate says. Waiting for something else.
"And… we have no goddamn gay fireworks."
"I know," Nate says again. This time he grins. "Come on," he nudges Ray's shoulder. "Coffee. Better than sex."
"Better than any sex we might have had, you mean."
"Think of it as dodging a bullet, Person. I probably would have wanted us to get matching tattoos for our first anniversary."
"A line of poetry?"
"Something cheesy with finding the other half of your soul."
"Christ. Thanks, man."
"Anytime."
"You're still one hell of a kisser, though."
::
"And that's the story. Nate remains my favorite civilian, and if he doesn't regularly make it back to visit us I'll start sending him small dead things in the mail."
Brad is reeling. "When the fuck did this happen?"
"The most platonic gay kiss in the history of the homosexual everything? I don't know, homes, like almost a month ago?"
A month ago. Weeks before-before-
"Brad?" Ray's voice is alarmed. "What the fuck is up with you lately, Colbert?"
"Ray," he starts, "I-I-fuck, there's no way to explain this."
Ray looks at him for the longest time. Jesus, if there ever was a time and place for Person to utilize his telepathic abilities-
Ray doesn't disappoint.
"Motherfucking Brad," he says slowly. Brad isn't sure whether he sounds awed or plain shocked.
"If you want to punch me, I won't try to stop you," Brad says.
Ray is shaking his head from side to side, stunned. "Where would the fun in that be?"
Then he seems to come out of it, and socks Brad in the arm. Painfully.
"What the hell, Colbert," Ray groans. "You were about to roll over like a bitch and spend the rest of your life suffering like a fucking martyr? Because I saw him first? Jesus Christ, Brad, that is one lame Iceman move."
Brad's face feels tight. "Brothers," he offers, like it explains everything. It does. More than friends. More than the family you're born into (taken into). The only family you choose. Tied through blood.
Semper fi.
"Get the fuck out of here," Ray says.
Brad doesn't need to be told twice.
"I expect to be the fucking maid of honor at your commitment ceremony! On both sides!" Ray yells after him. Then the volume drops, Brad can barely hear him, something like,
"Christ, I can already see the bashert inked on both of the fuckers…"
::
Nate isn't at his apartment. His car is, so Brad follows a hunch, heads down to the beach.
He sees Nate walking in the sand in his direction before Nate lifts his head and sees him. Nate doesn't stop or try to get away. They meet in the middle.
"Brad," Nate greets neutrally.
Brad could have already lost this. Nate could have changed his mind.
"I heard something about a going away party," he says.
Nate nods. "I have to get back."
"Do you?"
"My thesis-"
"You were planning to stay."
Brad watches Nate's jaw tighten. It's unfair how attractive the irritation looks on him. "I hoped I'd have a reason to."
"What about now?"
"What?"
"Do you still hope it?"
Nate explodes. "What the fuck are you playing at, Brad? Wasn't it enough-"
Brad reaches out and jerks Nate against his body, swallows the rest of the anger he completely deserves by fitting his lips to Nate's. Nate bites him, drawing blood, but then his fingers are gripping Brad's shirt, and he is craning his head up to get even closer, thrusting his tongue aggressively in Brad's mouth like he's testing, teaching a lesson.
Brad crushes Nate closer and takes everything he gives.
Nate wrenches away, panting. His mouth is slick and red and Brad can't let him get away, dives back in, transforming tension into calm, licking at Nate's lips.
Nate moans. The sound vibrates between their mouths, grows between their bodies until Brad realizes he's shuddering.
"You-" Nate's voice is much quieter, husky.
Brad talks against his lips. Everything about Nate is strong and fascinating and terrifying, but his lips are soft. "Don't leave."
"You didn't want this-"
"I wanted it," Brad interrupts. "I wanted you. I always wanted you."
Nate frowns. "You owe me an explanation, Colbert."
Brad smiles, lifts his thumb to rub against Nate's lower lip. Nate's mouth opens a little, a puff of breath sweeping over Brad's fingertip. It's gratifyingly reassuring, considering the event he has to bring up. "Alright, Fick." He smirks humorlessly. "You remember that one time you made out with Ray Person?"
He watches the thoughts flickering through Nate's eyes. So fucking green. It feels strange to have leave to scan every inch of Nate's face.
"Ray?" Nate chuckles. "But that was-"
"A month ago?" Brad concludes. "I didn't know. Until today."
Nate exhales. "Fucking jarheads, with your codes of honor." He's smiling.
Brad kisses him again. "My car's waiting by the street," he says.
Nate hums against his mouth. "Let's go."
When his cell starts flashing just after one in the morning with Ray's name on the screen, he's not expecting it to be anything other than one of Person's usual bouts of inebriated blathering. Six times out of ten Ray manages to be at least marginally entertaining, so Brad only toys with the idea of not picking up for a few seconds.
Seeing that he has years of empirical evidence as proof of Ray's tendency for hyperboles and subjective truth, when the first words Brad hears are the slightly slurred, "What the fucking fuck, Brad, I'm in love," to say he doesn't take it seriously is very much an understatement.
"That's great, Person. And how much did that cost you?"
Ray pauses. "Brad, dude, I hate to break it to you, but not everyone considers whores the only acceptable form of social interaction."
"Since when?" Brad leans further back in his chair, stretching for the first time in what feels like hours. His back is aching after half a night spent hunched over the system he's optimizing. "Besides, I interact with you retards, don't I?"
"Totally missing my point, homes," Ray says. Then, "I'm serious."
Brad feels his eyebrows lifting. Ray is never serious, he thinks it's a dirty word. "What you are, Person, is wasted."
"Not that wasted," comes the reply, and, christ, despite the slurring Ray does sound serious.
"Okay," he says, "good for you. Still, here's a thought: why don't you sleep on it, and not molest anyone tonight."
"It's not called molesting if it's consensual," Ray shrewdly points out before ending the call.
Brad shakes his head. Can't fault the man's logic.
::
The next day is Sunday. Brad rises before six, too accustomed to the weekday rhythm, and goes for a run. It wouldn't be one-hundred per cent accurate to say Iraq fucked up his REM patterns for good, but it sure as fuck didn't help. Nights numbering less than six hours of actual sleep are considerably more common than those above it.
When he gets back it's still obnoxiously early. He calls Ray. It takes eight rings before Ray answers, spewing a string of sluggish insults and direct threats to his life and physical well-being.
Brad interrupts him. "Still wildly in love, Corporal Montague?"
The line goes silent. "Jesus Christ," Ray whimpers, followed by something that sounds like running and, then, the unmistakable sound of retching.
Mission accomplished. There are mornings after, and then there's Life as Ray Person.
::
When Ray calls back thirty minutes later, Brad is ready with a list of points to consult regarding Ray's utter failure as a Marine, a man, and a human being, although the last two labels are definitely debatable.
"The beer goggles come off, then?" He asks.
Ray doesn't answer for so long Brad is starting to wonder if the amount he must have imbibed actually resulted in brain damage.
"No, man," he says finally, faintly.
Brad blinks. "Care to repeat?"
"Fuck," Ray says. "Fucking fuck. Fuck, Brad."
Huh. "Solid copy," Brad says. "Ray Person, still in love."
Ray hangs up on him.
::
The next he hears from Person is when he knocks on his door a couple of days later.
Brad leans against the doorframe, one side of his mouth twisted up in a smirk. "If it isn't young Romeo." It still hasn't gotten old. There's a possibility it never will. Brad can't wait for the knitting circle to get wind of this. Ray will get back all the shit he's dished out over the years tenfold. "And how are things with the romance of the century?"
It's twenty past eleven on a Tuesday morning. The time and date flick through Brad's brain and then burn right into his memory, because it's obviously the fucking Apocalypse. One should probably take note of these things.
Ray Person blushes.
"Fuck off, homes, and get out of my way," he says, face still flaming. "I need pancakes."
"Weren't you provided breakfast at whatever lovenest you left behind this morning?"
"Dude, I never said I got anywhere with that last weekend. Shit, emotions fucking suck. I've spent the last 48 hours trying to convince myself it was all a fucking hallucination or a bad trip, and pondering whether I should paint my fingernails black and start listening to pussy emo bands."
The way Ray is rubbing his hands over his face seems to suggest he hasn't got very far with that.
"Person, you're pathetic," Brad declares, before turning on his heel. Ray follows him, and even his footsteps sound dejected.
Ray makes himself at home in Brad's kitchen and it's a while before he starts talking again, the silence a notable achievement in and of itself. It must be magic pussy Ray has got in his sights, it's the only explanation.
"So I was thinking. This isn't exactly my usual game, homes. And, uh-shit, I can't believe I'm using this stupid fucking phrase," Ray still looks uncomfortable and flushed, but he laughs, not the fucking sardonic laugh that filled the Humvee daily during their road trip in Iraq, but a rarer, honest laugh-"I'm actually going to have to take it slow. Reel the fish in."
"Right," Brad keeps staring. "Are you one of those pod people? Is that what is happening? The earthly vessel of Ray Person's moderately drug-addicted body being used to try and take over the earth? Because that's your first tactical mistake right there, Visitor."
"Very fucking funny, Brad."
"Well, jesus, listen to yourself. You're not capable of eating a fucking MRE in anything less than a starving-to-death setting, and now your dick is teaching you patience? What the fuck is she, a supermodel?"
"He."
Brad pauses. "Christ, Ray…"
"Yeah, yeah, homes, you didn't ask but I'm telling. It's not like I'll be in for much longer."
"What the fuck do they put in the drinks in that bar?"
"Oh, you can find that out for yourself," Ray grins suddenly. "I overheard him making plans for this Tuesday. So yeah, homes, you're coming with me tonight."
"No," Brad says, "I'm really not."
::
On the way to the pub Brad finds out that the guy is a pussy civilian East Coast college boy. He despairs of Ray.
"I know what you're thinking," Ray grins. He's driving, because Brad let it be known on no uncertain terms that he wouldn't suffer through this without noteworthy amounts of alcohol. "I was fucking thinking the same thing. Shit, the whole group, with their preppy clothes and hippie faggotty haircuts, man, I was breaking out in a rash just sitting in the same room."
"Interrogative," Brad cuts in. "Isn't you calling people faggotty somewhat ironic at this point?"
"Nah, no way. You know me, Brad, I'm still the reigning champion of pussy revolution everywhere. I'm just not passing the opportunity for quality dick when it presents itself."
"Reigning champion of talking out of your ass."
"You love it, Brad, you know you do. Where the fuck was I? Right, sitting at a table with my boys like a good little Marine and completely refraining from telling these ass-fondling useless Communist fucks that they were wasting perfectly good oxygen and should relocate somewhere else to drone on about the latest BMW model and its potential to get them laid," Ray smirks, "and then one of them spilled his beer on me."
Brad stares. "Ray, please tell me that the manic grin is indicative of the satisfaction gleaned from breaking some fingers, and not a sign of the traumatizing and unlikely fact that you've got a permanent hard-on for some kid who can't hold his drink. Literally."
"Fuck you, homes, have some faith in your Ray-Ray," and Ray actually has the gall to look injured, as if he hasn't been acting like someone who's gone totally and completely around the bend for the last 72 hours. "No, homes, as I said, one of the aforementioned pacifist liberal college pansies spilled a beer on me, and I was very politely about to introduce the cartilage of his nose to the architecture of the floor-" and Ray smiles again, wide and fucking disturbing, "when Nate stepped in."
So the guy does have a name. Brad quirks an eyebrow. "Stepped in? You mean, in the way of a drunk and disorderly Marine clearly hell-bent on inflicting violence? You didn't tell me he was touched in the head, Person."
Ray gives him the finger. "Alright, so. I'm not gay, homes. Okay? You know my type? Pussy. My type is fucking pussy, Brad, that's it. I would've done Rudy, but so would the whole platoon. Except Trombley I guess, but, fuck, it's not like dear James is the prime example on what's normal anyway, right?"
Brad stares outside. He doesn't think he would have done Rudy. Rudy was like the gay brother you had, the one you ribbed about liking Patrick Swayze when they claimed they only watched the movie every single weekend because it was a classic.
A gay brother, and now Brad has two. It's enough to make a man wonder whether the Corps is actually capable of making you gay.
Ray is still recreating The Night That Changed My Fucking Life, That Was, Like, The Fucking Jizz-Spurting Climax Of My Existence-Opening Up for Limp Bizkit Is On Par With Opening A Fucking Carton Of Milk After This, Homes.
Ray likes capitalizing things. And digressing.
"-yeah, so, I'm not gay but the first look I got-seriously, man, something just went zing! in this Marine's brain, because, fucking hell, that mouth-"
"Doesn't sound conducive to taking things slow, Ray," Brad mutters.
"I know, right? But then he starts talking." Ray is grinning again. "He fucking told off that limp-wristed shit-for-brains, a thing of fucking beauty-I mean I was in the debate team but I was in awe of the verbal beating he delivered. In awe, man."
Brad shifts in his seat. "I know how much you like sharing, Ray, but if the next part includes your tongue down his throat, I could really do without the visuals."
"Get your mind out of the gutter, homes, I said it's not like that. Yet," and the gleeful expression on Ray's face is possibly more alarming than any X-rated stuff he might have delivered could have been. "He offered to buy me a beer to make up for his asshole friend, and we got to talking-
Brad slaps his palms dramatically down against his knees. "Josh Ray Person, you should've told me we were on the way to a viewing of P. S. I Love You, I would've brought chocolate and tissues."
Ray purses his mouth shut. For a moment Brad wonders whether Falling In Love has actually made Ray grow a pussy of his own, and if they're about to be subjected to another round of Person's unique sulk mode, stop-and-start driving-which probably wouldn't be such a good idea on a busy highway in sunny CA-but all Ray says is, "Dial down the cynical jackass a notch, Colbert," and then goes on, breezily, like they didn't just do a ten-second Marine themes & variations of a girly you've hurt my fucking feelings fight. "We got to talking about Iraq and, homes, you won't believe how fucking smart he is. Turns out he actually considered OCS at some point and, fuck, man, I never thought I'd say shit like this but we really could've used officers like him during OIF."
"Sure, because it wasn't clusterfuck enough, we really needed to get you court-martialed for soliciting a junior officer. No, Ray, it is infinitely better you only now found your true self as a gay homosexual," he drawls out. It's as close as he'll come to an apology.
Judging by the way Ray is making kissy-faces at him, he probably gets it.
::
It's not a Marine bar exactly, there are cheaper and roomier establishments closer to the base that a lot of them tend to frequent. It's the sort of a place Brad can see attracting both the students in the area and the crowd including people like Ray's old non-military buddies, all of them wannabe rockers and full-time potheads.
He sends Ray for the drinks because Person owes him a round or ten for dragging him here.
"So, what the fuck am I supposed to do here," he demands when Ray returns. "Surely it's too early for the whole bullshit of threatening him with injury if he breaks your little heart?"
"Iceman, you're here as my cover," Ray announces. "Obviously, I don't want him to think I'm stalking him. You're the miserable lifer fuck I need to reintroduce to the wonders of people every now and then, to keep you from losing all grasp on reality, homes."
Brad blinks once. There must be something evil he did in a past life, possibly up to and including single-handed genocide. It's the only explanation for being punished with Ray Person in this one.
::
Brad is on his third beer while Ray is still nursing his first when there's a small explosion of sound at the door. Ray's head snaps up.
"You okay, Person?" Brad asks demurely. "Your eyes have gone sort of glassy."
"He's wearing a green shirt," Ray wheezes.
Before Brad can ask what the fuck he is talking about, and also whether he needs help in finding his displaced balls, he hears near-noiseless steps closing in on their position.
"Ray Person," a clear low voice says right behind him, a grin transparent in the tone, "don't tell me. You decided the offense was too grievous after all, and brought reinforcements to teach a lesson to the bastard who had the nerve to trip in your immediate presence."
"Homes, you insult me by implying I'd need any fucking help to take care of one pathetic frat boy," Ray says, beaming like a fucking headlight. "Besides, you're making me sound like one of those psycho Marines, carrying a grudge for every other civilian who looks at me the wrong way."
The guy the voice belongs to stops next to their table. Brad looks up. It's dim in the pub, and the lamp hanging down directly above the table shines in his eye. He can't make out much besides the height, unexpectedly tall topped with the evenness of a buzzcut.
"To be fair, your left eye was twitching. Steve said later he feared for his life."
"Pfft," Ray waves it off. "Hey, Nate, this is my team leader, Brad Colbert."
Despite the lack of light, Brad detects the faint gleam of a grin directed down at them.
"You know, here in the real world the customary term to use is a friend, but of course you jarheads can't indulge in pussy words like that," Nate says, offering a hand for Brad to shake. Brad takes it. Nate's grip is firm in the good way, strong but comfortable.
"Are you kidding me? Brad would gut me if I were to claim membership to such an exclusive club," Ray cackles. "Nah, homes, don't let the icy exterior fool you. Deep down Brad loves kittens and rainbows."
Brad could run with that and make the obvious crack about rainbows, but he's not actually heartless. Instead he asks, "You want to sit down?"
"Sure," Nate nods, twisting around for a moment to signal at his friends that he'll be along later.
Brad uses the time to watch Ray, cataloguing all his tells. They aren't probably hugely noticeable to anyone who didn't go to Iraq with him, who don't know that his default mode varies between slit-eyed sarcasm and provocative diatribes.
Nate drags a chair over from the next table and flops down in it. Brad catches his first proper look at him, at his profile, before green eyes lift to meet his. Nate's mouth curves upwards, easy and warm, like the handshake.
Brad looks away after only a second or two. He stands up, the chair legs scraping the floor. "I'm going to get another," he says. "Um, anything I can get you?" He doesn't look down as he asks the question.
"Whatever you're having will be fine," Nate says, polite like you'd expect from an Ivy Leaguer.
"That's right, me too, since you're finally buying," Ray quips.
"Get your own fucking swill, Person," Brad grates out. Ray gives him the finger, grinning, and Nate chuckles.
Brad makes a detour via the toilets, washes his hands because he's not sure what else to do. He feels unsettled.
At the counter he asks for three more beers, changes his mind at the last moment and orders a shot of Jack to go with them. The whiskey goes down smoothly but doesn't chase away the feeling of being just slightly out-of-balance.
::
It's not supposed to be so easy to talk with Nate. A civilian. When he consented to come along tonight Brad didn't know what to expect exactly, couldn't really think of anything that would have explained Ray's sexual epiphany, apart from psychotropic drugs.
Brad asks Nate how he's ended up on the wrong coast, the question coming out ruder than he perhaps meant to.
"I'm doing my internship here," Nate tells them, unruffled by his tone. His face takes on a completely different expression when he talks about the job, serious and fierce at the same time, like he's already in charge of not only policies, but people, their lives.
Brad thinks back to what Ray said, how they could have used someone like Nate in the officer corps back in Iraq. He was extremely skeptical of the comment at the time-but, yeah, okay, he sees it now. Can easily imagine dedication like that turned to solid leadership.
Ray is hanging onto Nate's every word, and the hick doesn't even try to be stealthy about it. Brad has never seen him act as civil and nonconfrontational, he's actually doing a fair approximation of a normal human being.
When Nate gets up to get their next round, Brad looks at Ray with pity.
"Are you planning to prostrate yourself at his feet before the night is over, or is there still hope you'll grow a fucking pair?"
Ray merely grins at him like a loon, sprawling back in his seat, not ashamed of himself in the least.
Brad's throat feels tight. "Do you even know if he goes for dick, for christ's sake?"
Ray shrugs. "Not totally sure, no," he admits, "but dude, who wouldn't when they've got this on offer?" He gestures to himself with a mock complacent leer, only the gold-framed pimp shades missing from the show.
Brad lets him turn it into a joke. The line of Ray's jaw is tense. It's the only thing that ever betrays his nerves.
::
Nate never actually gets back to his friends that night. From the topic of Nate's studies the conversation slides naturally to what they do, and Brad doesn't do this, he doesn't talk to civilians about over there because it makes him angry without fail, but Nate owes up his ideals straight away, and Ray calls him a few choice words and Nate lets him, smiling through the jibes. Nate could probably give lectures about the Classics, the history and theory of warfare, but he's more interested in hearing their boots-on-the-ground perspective and listens attentively to everything they say.
That can frustrate Brad too, they all hate the mindless, automatic deference by people who fly the patriotic flag high and never actually do anything-but Nate is so fucking different, green eyes open and intent, attention genuine on their words.
"Homes, seriously, it's too fucking bad you passed up," Ray announces, gesturing ambiguously with the hand currently not wrapped around his beer. "Yet another way the Corps fucks us over. We get fucking cretins like Encino Man when there are people in possession of actual brains within reach." At some point Ray has obviously abandoned the thought of sobriety. Be safe to say they'll be leaving Ray's car to avoid getting him picked up for DUI.
"Would have been a bad idea," Brad says absently. "They don't like junior officers with brains. You would've ended up suffocating on the frustration all the times you wanted to tell your CO's they were being fucking morons."
He's not sure he's even spoken aloud before Nate chuckles. "You might be right." His eyes light up with amusement. "At the same time, I would have had the opportunity to order around guys like you two. Gotta admit, it sounds tempting."
"Already exhibiting the exploitative mindset of an officer!" Ray crows. "Aren't you proud, Brad?"
"Sorry if I don't call you sir just yet," Brad mutters. It's getting late. He should leave.
"That's okay," Nate promises generously. "I have time." He flashes another bright grin.
Brad's head feels fuzzy. He makes a show of stretching in his seat, looking for a clock. It's hanging right there on the wall above the bar counter, the same place it's been all night. "Hey," Brad says, shooting a look at Ray, "I'll be heading off. Don't be a stupid fucknut and get behind the wheel, alright?"
He's a fucking first-class idiot. He should have got lost hours ago, right after Nate sat down and stayed, it just didn't occur to him-first with the surprise of realizing Nate was a decent guy, and then getting into the discussion they were having. Fuck, he'll owe Ray a couple of times of letting him win a sparring match, for being an asshole cock-blocker.
"That's okay, my friends can drop him off, I'm sharing a ride with them," Nate reassures him before Ray can say a word. "You ok getting home?"
"Absolutely," Brad says, not even bothering with the disdain the question calls for. He inclines his chin at Nate. "Was nice to meet you." Nate smiles, responds in kind.
Ray is gazing at the side of Nate's head, delighted like he's just been promised a vat of Ripped Fuel and a free subscription to Juggs. Maybe this is it for Ray's embarrassing pining, maybe Nate's just not transparent, maybe dropping someone off is the civilized code they're using in colleges these days.
Brad nods at them and leaves, jogs home. It's not that long and he doesn't feel like getting into a cab and spending the time deflecting small-talk. What he really wants is to take his bike and get on the road but, obviously, not happening with his head feeling the way it does. His shoulders are tense. His skin feels charged.
He gets home, takes a shower, turns it to cold half-way through. His body is asking for it but his mind is running too fast.
::
drpped off
as promsed.
asked N in
4nigthcap
N laughed&
said it was
late&should
save my
booze4the
trim.my
words not
his.have a
feeling am
doing sth
wrong
sent: 03:26:22
sender: person
He's still awake when the text comes. He almost doesn't register the relief at first because it doesn't make any sense, there's no reason for him to be feeling it. Person's career isn't his fucking responsibility, even if there was a way in hell Ray would listen to reason about this.
He nods off almost immediately afterwards, gets a full five hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep, and doesn't remember any dreams he might have had.
::
Somehow it turns into a fucking routine. At the end of his last week of leave it has become just as common to spend hours with Nate and Ray playing pool at the student haunt or watching a game somewhere as it is to stick to his solitary bike rides and early mornings of surfing or running.
Ray programs Nate's number into Brad's phone, says Brad would never make new friends if it wasn't for Ray helping him along.
Some evenings they're joined by the guys who tend to trail Nate around. Brad hasn't detected any redeeming features in the bunch, and judging by the sharkish grin Ray favors in their company, he still hasn't forgotten about nor forgiven the beer incident. The frat boys don't tend to stick around for long periods of time, and the incredulous looks they are often sending Nate's way seem to be asking how he stomachs the crudeness of the poor dumb grunts. Nate retaliates by smirking and loudly wanting to know Ray's thoughts on the psycho-social development of American youth in the era of social media and reality television, or asking Brad what he thinks about the origins of COIN and the legacy of Vietnam on the public opinion in the 21st century.
Some days it almost seems like Nate doesn't much like his college buddies. Go figure.
Of course, it's inevitable that the scuttlebutt about their new acquaintance get around sooner or later. Stafford and Christeson are the first to ambush them, descending on their table at the pub without either invitation or advance warning. They come armed with a tray filled with a dozen blackish shots that are actually smoking a bit. It's obviously pick-on-the-civilian time.
Nate has them eating out of his hand in ten minutes flat, first downing the bio-hazard with a straight face while Q-Tip gags and only just keeps the shot down, and then bonding with them over the five greatest dead rap artists, or something equally ridiculous.
Poke is next, gluing himself to Brad's side when they're leaving the base one day and Brad's promised to swing by for the usual post-workday bullshit-and-beer session. Poke takes one look at Nate and is clearly preparing to launch into a rant on white upper-middle-class privilege, but it gets lost somewhere between Nate blasting his subhuman dicksuck boss at the firm he's interning for, or the earnest expression on his face when he says, "I just wish they'd care less about what the rulebook says, take into account the recommendations of the personnel who actually know what the fuck they're talking about…"
Poke stares, wide-eyed, and at the end of the night he tells Nate, "You're alright, dawg." Nate smiles and ducks his head like he knows it's high praise, coming from Poke.
Before long, Nate's met most of the platoon, with predictable results. Brad would worry they're all getting soft or something, but there's no denying Nate is sort of special.
Ray hasn't said two words about his little crush since the last drunken text. Sometimes Brad catches him watching Nate, close-lipped and solemn, while Nate's engaged in a debate with one of the others, or lining up his pool cue, or joking with the bartender. The rest of the time Ray is pretty much himself though, ribbing Nate like he's any one of them.
Brad wonders about it a little but ends up not asking. In the end it's none of his goddamn business.
::
Someone calls his name. Nate bounds up to him just as Brad turns, continuing to jog backwards. Nate snorts like he wants to call him out on being a show-off.
Brad nods at him good morning, concealing the surprise he's feeling. "First time I run into you in these parts," he remarks. "Don't you have that nice little park near your place all the college boys like to go to to pretend they're in shape?"
He's talking shit, of course. He knows Nate runs six miles most mornings, and it shows. Nate is healthily flushed with the exercise but hardly short of breath, falling in easily with the rhythm of Brad's own footfalls.
"One of those mornings, you know?" Nate says, shrugging one shoulder. "Felt like I needed a few extra miles."
Brad turns back around to continue running side by side with Nate. "Might have picked a bad time for that," he tilts his head at the dark clouds moving in quickly towards the beach.
Nate looks up. There's just a hint of sweat shining on his throat an in the dip between his collarbones. "Shit," he curses. "Oh well, maybe I'll outrun it. If you feel like picking up the pace a bit, despite getting on in years?" He grins wide.
"Bring it on, dipshit," Brad responds, one side of his mouth lifting in a challenging smirk, and jesus, since when does he let civilians goad him?
Alright, so that isn't right, the civilian bit. It's Nate, and Nate defies their usual categories. Brad's lost count of the times similar sort of sentiments have passed his through his head in the last few months.
Nate laughs and with a burst of speed sprints ahead, Brad following close by.
They don't outrun the downpour. They're half a mile from Brad's house when it starts, drenching them instantly. Nate still has three more miles to go.
"Come on," Brad says, not even thinking twice, "you can use my shower and borrow some dry clothes. Would hate for you to have to call in sick tomorrow just because you were a retard and didn't check the weather forecast."
Nate agrees readily enough. It's Sunday, nothing crucial to attend to, though Brad can guess Nate was planning to spend most of the day reviewing all the materials for next week, even the things extremely unlikely to be brought up. Calling Nate somewhat workaholic is one of those lacking equivalents like the Atlantic, a bit damp.
He digs up a fresh towel for Nate and propels him in the direction of the bathroom, citing manners and Nate's guest status when Nate tries to argue and insists Brad should get the first shower in his own goddamn home.
Digs up the towel, but forgets about the dry clothes until Nate's standing in the kitchen doorway, stray droplets making their way down his flat stomach to be stopped by the terrycloth wrapped around Nate's hips.
"I believe I was promised articles of actual clothing to keep me warm and flu-free to fight another day under the unparalleled guidance of my superiors?" He's grinning cheekily, but there's something about the expression Brad can't place, something edgy. "Give me a damn shirt, Colbert."
"Right," Brad puts down the bottle of water, clearing his throat and moving past Nate.
It's only when he's alone in his bedroom, fisting a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie to give Nate, that he becomes uncomfortably aware of the beginnings of an erection, the tension coiling low in his stomach.
Fuck. It's-fuck, it must be something about the weather.
::
He doesn't remember the last time he's felt this good.
The body underneath his is warm, and there's something about the smell of skin and sweat that grips him deep in his stomach. It's familiar, important, but he can't pinpoint how, where he knows it from.
Brad presses down closer, nipples brushing torturously against the slick skin of a strong back, and noses the curved neck before him, the shell of an ear. There's so much pale skin, only a smattering of freckles on the muscled shoulders. When Brad's tongue slips out to trace them the foreign-familiar body spasms, tightening around his cock.
Brad groans, and the sound is echoed.
They're fucking slowly, just rocking together, and he could do this all day, all week, he doesn't want to move because here they're warm and safe and together and it feels so fucking good-
Nate cranes his head back, teeth brutal on his swollen lower lip, looking punch-drunk with pleasure and out of his mind with needing it, and begs, harder, come on, Brad, fuck me, fuck me, please, harder-
Brad comes awake abruptly, gasping like surfacing from underwater, hips pressed hard against the mattress and seconds away from coming.
::
No.
Fuck, no, no, no.
::
Brad swears he didn't ask for this.
Jesus fucking hell, looking back, he didn't even know it, chose to carefully not-see it.
It's easy to dig up that first look at Nate, the first full look at his face when he sat down at their table, and Brad glanced at him and his stomach twisted-but it didn't mean anything, didn't have to be anything more than surprise, because Nate was beautiful.
If he hadn't slammed the lid on those thoughts from the start, he could have admitted right then being taken aback by a display of such taste by Ray Person.
But he did, he swears his subconsious put a stop to that shit the second it raised its head.
Brad is not that guy. He fucking refuses to be.
He remembers Iraq, remembers a barrage of bullets that was never supposed to be hitting ground mere inches from where he and Garza and Trombley were standing, remembers Ray peeling it like crazy right up to Alpha's Humvees, screaming in rage all the while.
You realize you're shooting at Marines?!
Blue on blue. Friendly fire.
Shit happens.
But not like this, it's not fucking supposed to happen like this.
::
He avoids Ray on the base that day.
Not going down to the pub is a foregone conclusion.
It's Monday. Tuesday follows the same path. So does the rest of the week.
::
On Friday he gets home, dodges Ray's calls, Poke's calls, and the one text from Nate.
He gets shit-faced and passes out before midnight, wakes up at ass o'clock, barely in time to make it to the bathroom before he throws up.
The last time this happened he was a teenager. He would feel mortified, but mostly he fucking wishes he were still unconscious.
He drags himself back to bed.
On Saturday, he wakes up dreaming about fucking Nate outside, deep and deliberate, in full sunshine, Nate's trembling fingers sunk to the grass and toes curling as Brad doesn't let him come, and it goes on, and on, and on.
::
The next week starts inauspiciously when Brad finds Ray leaning on the hood of his car as he's leaving for the base. He draws in a slow invisible breath, puts on the Iceman mask.
Ray doesn't budge despite Brad's glower, just glares back. "Fucking learn to answer your calls, Brad, or at least let people know you're hiding like a little bitch and not dead or some shit like that."
Brad throws his things in the backseat, doesn't spare a glance at Ray. "I know you miss Daddy, a codependent fatherless hick that you are, but some of us need some personal fucking time every now and then," Brad shoots back, the forced derision making him feel nauseous. The guilt probably doesn't help.
"Whatever, homes. You over with whatever pissy fit you were having?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. I was merely enjoying a reprieve from all you fucktards."
"You certainly sound like the Brad Colbert we all know and love, so I'll magnanimously let it go just this once," Ray says. "Give me a ride to base. I'll play some country and we'll call it even."
Ray doesn't even know the extent of it, but letting him man the radio is the fucking least of what Brad can do right now.
It's pretty fucking simple. He doesn't have to fuck up, so he's not going to. He's not going to do a thing. He can't control his dreams, but he can sure as hell control his actions.
For the first time ever he's grateful for the whole thing with Kathy and Mark.
He wanted to prove he can act civil, be better than them.
He got his fucking wish.
::
Ray drags him for a beer in the middle of the week, says he's been MIA long enough, people are starting to say things about him. It's patently untrue, of course, but Brad might as well get it over with. There's only one person who might have remarked on his absence. As proof of that, he has four unanswered texts from Nate spanning the last week and a half to explain.
"I was busy," he offers succinctly after Ray drops him off at the table, like he's switching custody with Nate, before heading off to the bar.
Nate's brows shoot up. "So busy you couldn't send off a single message to any of us? Ray was climbing the walls all last weekend, fucking worrying about you."
Something painful twists in Brad's chest. Of course Nate and Ray kept to the routine, pool or basketball or movies. Maybe something else. That's good. No, it's fucking great.
"Ray is a big boy," he says through his teeth. "One day we might even let him stop using his bib for dinner."
Nate doesn't laugh, not that it's particularly funny. "Is everything alright?" He also doesn't even bother trying to hide his concern. Jesusfuck, how come Brad never noticed how fucking green his eyes are?
"Fine," he keeps his voice level, "all squared away."
Nate looks profoundly disbelieving. Fortunately Ray returns with their drinks, drops to the seat next to Nate, talking nonstop, probably continuing a discussion he started with Joe at the counter or someone he met on the way back. Ray is indiscriminate like that.
Brad can't keep from tracing the space between Ray's arm and Nate's, cataloguing it in inches and centimeters and painful inhales catching in his throat.
::
It's probably amusing, in an ironic sort of way, that returning from overseas didn't once cause him to dread sleep. He's had nightmares, he's woken up rigid and covered in cold sweat-but the dreams were never worse than the reality of combat. He had learned to deal with the bodies, the blood. He knew neither could hurt him.
Lately he can't count the times he's snapped awake, body aching, a fist wrapped desperately around himself, punishing even in sleep. These dreams leave him exhausted, the want in them, the knowledge that, this time, reality offers no relief.
::
Poke once told him about challenging the power of worse.
Of course, Poke's opinion was formulated into a long tirade about no matter how thoroughly the white man had fucked a brown guy up, there was never something he couldn't do to make matters even worse for him.
The next time Brad feels like smirking at Tony's theories, he'll keep this in mind.
Brad might even have to start believing in some sort of higher power, because no coincidence could cause this kind of a shitter of a situation.
::
His epiphany comes a few weeks later when they're more or less back to infrequently frequent nights at the pub, after a night when they've got rather more of their platoon present than usual. Poke's team is drowning their sorrows after losing the platoon's unofficial obstacle course race. Q-Tip and Christeson have parked themselves on either side of Nate and are jealously guarding his attention like baby jackals imprinted on a lone zebra.
Fuck it, who is he trying to bullshit. Despite the deceiving appearances, Nate is no prey.
He realizes he's fucked beyond description when he catches himself trying to decide whether Nate is more like a leopard or a cheetah.
Pappy elbows him. "Fucking hell, Colbert, what's on your mind?"
Brad blinks, takes a long draught from his beer. "The fuck you're talking about?"
"You were smiling," Rudy elucidates brightly, sitting next to his fucking husband and completing his sentences as usual.
Shit. "I doubt that," he says, looking around, hoping for another topic to suddenly present itself. It's a vain hope, because Ray has obviously been keeping track of his corner of the booth.
"Iceman! Is that it? That why you've been so distracted lately, homes? You got a piece of tail hidden away somewhere?"
The table falls silent, expectant stares all around.
Brad grits his teeth. "Mind your own fucking business, Person. And that goes for the rest of you retards as well."
There's a predictable number of suggestive smirks and significant looks, before the guys get back to their conversations and the noise level picks up again. The damage has been done, though.
Brad isn't sure how the fuck it happens, but once closing time rolls around, he finds himself remaining alone on the parking lot with Nate after the others have bundled into cars with apparently sober drivers in various combinations and taken off.
His palms are suddenly damp. "I'll just-" he starts, tipping his head in the general direction of his house.
"Don't be a dick, Brad," Nate says. "Get in the car."
He hasn't often tried rebelling against Nate's commanding tone of voice. It remains an exercise in fucking futility.
They drive in silence for a time before Nate's low voice breaks into the stillness. "Is it true?"
Brad swallows. He didn't think Nate would ask, and he doesn't want to have this conversation, not about his nonexistent girlfriend. "It's obnoxiously vague questions like that, Fick, that assure me you'll make a great politician one day."
Nate lets out a noisy breath, a mixture between annoyance and amusement. "Okay. Were the guys right, in thinking you've been preoccupied because you're seeing someone?" He articulates the question exaggeratedly, the cheerful fuck you Colbert, if that's how you like it coming through loud and clear.
Brad just had to go there. Now he has to answer. "No." There. It's an answer, and not even a lie.
"Huh," Nate says, and then he's slowing the car down. Brad panics, before he realizes they've arrived at his place.
"Yeah," he says, "thanks for the ride-"
"Brad." Nate turns off the ignition, turns to face Brad. He's not wearing a seatbelt. Brad's eyes lock somewhere in the vicinity of Nate's chest. He wasn't wearing a seatbelt, but Nate always wears a seatbelt-
"I have to admit," Nate's voice is quiet, almost rough, "I wasn't very… pleased at the idea that you might have someone and just hadn't said a word about it."
Brad is still staring at Nate's chest. He doesn't know what to say. Why the fuck are they having this conversation?
"No, that's right, plain speaking for you," and Nate's chuckle sounds choked, nervous. Nate is never nervous, never unsure. "What I mean to say, Brad, is that I fucking hated the thought that you might have someone and I'd missed my chance."
Brad freezes. All the air disappears from his lungs, like he's taken a baseball bat to the stomach. He looks up.
Nate is blushing, looking painfully young. Gorgeous. He extends a cautious hand, lays just the tips of his fingers on Brad's wrist.
It's the first time Nate has ever touched his bare skin. It sends shockwaves up his arm, priming his whole body for something, for tugging Nate closer, hauling him to straddle Brad in the fucking too-small car seat, close enough to feel and strip and taste, fitting fantasy to reality-
He blinks. Real world rushes in.
Brad snatches his arm away. "No," he says, "no, I'm sorry-" His hand is shaking but he finds the door handle on his third try, "Sorry, I-"
"Oh." Nate's face-Brad can't look away fast enough, can't take knowing he's the cause of that, fuck, fuck-
"Right," Nate continues, voice almost steady, "no, I'm sorry, I didn't-"
"Yeah, no problem, goodnight," Brad talks over him, clambers out of the car. He's already at his front door, attempting to fit the key into the lock with uncooperative fingers, when he hears the car start behind him, hears Nate drive off. Sedately, just under the speed limit.
Brad gets in, walks blindly toward the living-room and stops in the hallway. He can't see the wall in front of him.
His fist finds it without problem.
::
03:00
03:01
03:02
03:03
03:04
He doesn't sleep that night.
::
The next morning Brad gets up, goes running, right hand throbbing in time with his heartbeat. When he gets back his legs are hurting as well, feet swollen and burning. The pain is welcome, it grounds him, but doesn't work miracles-doesn't erase the lingering sensation of three circular points of heat on his wrist.
He stands in front of the glass cabinet in his bedroom in soaked-through PT gear, and stares at the bottles of good whiskey, the ones he's saved for a special occasion. He tries to decide whether this fits.
Instead, he ends up standing in the shower, jerking himself off roughly with his left hand, pink trails running down the forearm bracing him against the tile after his knuckles start bleeding again.
After drying up he neighbor-straps the fingers of his aching hand. He doesn't do a very good job. He'll have to ask Tim to take a look at them when he goes in on Monday.
Brad doesn't sleep that night either. He tries very hard not to. He ends up dozing sitting up on the living-room couch, jolting awake from dreams that alternate between Ray firing a nine-millimeter point-blank at his chest, or Nate standing inches from him, wearing no shirt, eyes dark green and disappointed.
Doesn't take a fucking genius to figure those out.
::
"Christ, Colbert," Tim is angry as hell, but Brad knew to expect that, "what the fuck did you do? Are you missing action this badly? I could believe that from any one of these retards, but not you."
"It was an accident."
Tim looks at him. "Yeah," he says, "must have been some accident. Two of your knuckles are broken."
Brad grunts. "Figured as much," he offers when Tim narrows his eyes at him.
"All par for the course for the Iceman, huh?"
Brad shrugs. His hand throbs dully, it's almost comforting. "There are worse things."
Still. It's time for some fucking resolutions.
He's had his pity party. The Marines don't teach you to expend energy railing against things you can't change; the Marines teach you to fucking make do with what you’ve got.
::
First things first. Nate deserves a hell of a lot better than thinking he was the cause of a homophobic freak-out.
Brad seeks him out early one evening, when he knows Nate has probably just got back from work. Keeping his voice carefully composed, face half hidden by his utility cover, he apologizes for reacting poorly.
"It was a surprise," he says. "You're a great guy, Nate. I hope we can still be friends."
Nate stares at him, mouth tightening as he listens. "You know, since you bothered to come all the way here to make sure I got the message, you could have at least told me the fucking truth. Platitudes, Brad? I don't know what the fuck your problem is, but don't insult my intelligence by lying to me." He shakes his head disgustedly and slams the door shut in Brad's face.
Brad has to lean on the doorframe, wait for the sick feeling to pass.
He extends the pity party for one more night, but at least he's smarter about it, he wears gloves and uses an actual punching bag instead of the wall.
Nate will get over it. Maybe Brad will get over it, as well. Some day.
Probably not.
But Nate will, and he'll forgive Brad, and things will get back to how they were. He has to. Brad wasn't lying when he said he hoped they could remain friends. Since friendship is all he can get from Nate, Brad will hold on to it.
::
"Make sure you clear your busy schedule for Friday, homes." Ray is ostensibly spotting for him. Mostly it's an excuse to talk his ear off while he can't escape.
He grunts. "Why?"
"Why? Why? Brad, man, where the fuck has your head been lately? It's Nate's going away party."
Brad very nearly fumbles the weights. Ray jumps in, but Brad manages to rack them without help. He sits up. The head-spinning could probably be explained by the exercise.
"And where is Nate going?" He swallows, not daring to glance back at Ray. The motherfucker can be too perceptive for his own good.
"The interning gig is over. You knew that, homes. Nate was just talking about it a couple of weeks ago."
"I remember. I also remember him saying he might extend the lease on his place, stay here to write his final thesis."
Ray shrugs helplessly. "Beer talk, homes. The practicalities would probably suck hairy balls."
"Nate doesn't fucking say anything he doesn't mean," Brad glares at Ray. "Besides, how the fuck are you so blasé about this? What about your gay destiny?" His heart is pounding.
For the second time in his life Brad sees Ray blush. Jesus Christ. Safe to say he's about to hear something he doesn't like.
"Yeah," Ray says. "Not happening, homes. At least not with Nate." He's sort of grinning, which doesn't make any fucking sense.
Brad can't even. "What the fuck?"
"See," Ray says, "it went like this…"
::
In the end it goes like this.
Ray wakes up with a motherfucker of a headache on Nate's couch. The law of probability helps him parse together anything he doesn't remember. It helps that one of his last faint recollections is of Chaffin picking up the drinks, and instructing the bartender in shit to mix with other shit.
Ray hopes the fucknut is in a world of hurt this morning.
He takes stock of the situation. There's a quilt covering him. He's wearing all his clothes. All signs point to having passed out at Nate's under relatively respectable circumstances.
He is mildly disappointed.
Then again, he would have been even more disappointed if Nate had indeed had his way with him, and then made him sleep alone on the couch. That would have fucking sucked.
Ray pounds the back of his skull against the couch. "Fuuuck." He's getting fucking nowhere with this shit.
Solitary cursing apparently works as an attention-grabber. Ray barely hears the sound of bare feet, but he sees it when Nate stops behind the sofa. Nate looks rested and is grinning, like the hangover-proof little shit that he is.
"There's coffee in the kitchen," he tells Ray. "Breakfast in bed is only served to people who've sucked my dick first."
Ray's mind undergoes a minor implosion. "I could do that," he says calmly. As far as openings go, homes-
Nate blinks. Blinks again. "Pardon me?"
Ray snorts. "Not the most encouraging reaction, dude." He sits up, fixes Nate with a look. "Yeah. You and me. Knocking combat boots. Or, you know, dress shoes, or whatever the hell you Ivy Leaguers stuff your feet in to appear all mature and sophisticated-"
"Ray." Nate's poker face is getting scarily good, the longer he hangs out with them. It's something to be proud of.
"Fick. How about it?"
"Ray," Nate repeats.
He bends down to kiss Ray.
It's an extremely enjoyable minute. Maybe two. Then Nate breaks the kiss, settles back leaning his elbows on the back of the couch.
Ray stares.
"Well," he says finally. "You're a great fucking kisser, Fick."
"I know," Nate says. Waiting for something else.
"And… we have no goddamn gay fireworks."
"I know," Nate says again. This time he grins. "Come on," he nudges Ray's shoulder. "Coffee. Better than sex."
"Better than any sex we might have had, you mean."
"Think of it as dodging a bullet, Person. I probably would have wanted us to get matching tattoos for our first anniversary."
"A line of poetry?"
"Something cheesy with finding the other half of your soul."
"Christ. Thanks, man."
"Anytime."
"You're still one hell of a kisser, though."
::
"And that's the story. Nate remains my favorite civilian, and if he doesn't regularly make it back to visit us I'll start sending him small dead things in the mail."
Brad is reeling. "When the fuck did this happen?"
"The most platonic gay kiss in the history of the homosexual everything? I don't know, homes, like almost a month ago?"
A month ago. Weeks before-before-
"Brad?" Ray's voice is alarmed. "What the fuck is up with you lately, Colbert?"
"Ray," he starts, "I-I-fuck, there's no way to explain this."
Ray looks at him for the longest time. Jesus, if there ever was a time and place for Person to utilize his telepathic abilities-
Ray doesn't disappoint.
"Motherfucking Brad," he says slowly. Brad isn't sure whether he sounds awed or plain shocked.
"If you want to punch me, I won't try to stop you," Brad says.
Ray is shaking his head from side to side, stunned. "Where would the fun in that be?"
Then he seems to come out of it, and socks Brad in the arm. Painfully.
"What the hell, Colbert," Ray groans. "You were about to roll over like a bitch and spend the rest of your life suffering like a fucking martyr? Because I saw him first? Jesus Christ, Brad, that is one lame Iceman move."
Brad's face feels tight. "Brothers," he offers, like it explains everything. It does. More than friends. More than the family you're born into (taken into). The only family you choose. Tied through blood.
Semper fi.
"Get the fuck out of here," Ray says.
Brad doesn't need to be told twice.
"I expect to be the fucking maid of honor at your commitment ceremony! On both sides!" Ray yells after him. Then the volume drops, Brad can barely hear him, something like,
"Christ, I can already see the bashert inked on both of the fuckers…"
::
Nate isn't at his apartment. His car is, so Brad follows a hunch, heads down to the beach.
He sees Nate walking in the sand in his direction before Nate lifts his head and sees him. Nate doesn't stop or try to get away. They meet in the middle.
"Brad," Nate greets neutrally.
Brad could have already lost this. Nate could have changed his mind.
"I heard something about a going away party," he says.
Nate nods. "I have to get back."
"Do you?"
"My thesis-"
"You were planning to stay."
Brad watches Nate's jaw tighten. It's unfair how attractive the irritation looks on him. "I hoped I'd have a reason to."
"What about now?"
"What?"
"Do you still hope it?"
Nate explodes. "What the fuck are you playing at, Brad? Wasn't it enough-"
Brad reaches out and jerks Nate against his body, swallows the rest of the anger he completely deserves by fitting his lips to Nate's. Nate bites him, drawing blood, but then his fingers are gripping Brad's shirt, and he is craning his head up to get even closer, thrusting his tongue aggressively in Brad's mouth like he's testing, teaching a lesson.
Brad crushes Nate closer and takes everything he gives.
Nate wrenches away, panting. His mouth is slick and red and Brad can't let him get away, dives back in, transforming tension into calm, licking at Nate's lips.
Nate moans. The sound vibrates between their mouths, grows between their bodies until Brad realizes he's shuddering.
"You-" Nate's voice is much quieter, husky.
Brad talks against his lips. Everything about Nate is strong and fascinating and terrifying, but his lips are soft. "Don't leave."
"You didn't want this-"
"I wanted it," Brad interrupts. "I wanted you. I always wanted you."
Nate frowns. "You owe me an explanation, Colbert."
Brad smiles, lifts his thumb to rub against Nate's lower lip. Nate's mouth opens a little, a puff of breath sweeping over Brad's fingertip. It's gratifyingly reassuring, considering the event he has to bring up. "Alright, Fick." He smirks humorlessly. "You remember that one time you made out with Ray Person?"
He watches the thoughts flickering through Nate's eyes. So fucking green. It feels strange to have leave to scan every inch of Nate's face.
"Ray?" Nate chuckles. "But that was-"
"A month ago?" Brad concludes. "I didn't know. Until today."
Nate exhales. "Fucking jarheads, with your codes of honor." He's smiling.
Brad kisses him again. "My car's waiting by the street," he says.
Nate hums against his mouth. "Let's go."