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It starts like this. The day after Nate's paddle party Brad meets him for drinks in a bar down the street from Nate's apartment. Brad has one beer, a Red Stripe that's so cold the bottle is sweating before their waitress gets it on the table. Nate has two shots of Patron-- no lime, no salt.
Brad says, "You wanna get out of here?"
Nate licks his bottom lip and stands up.
Good sex is always an auspicious start in Brad's book.
Nate fucks like he does everything, carefully, as if he's planning the itinerary for a road trip or a full-scale military invasion. Brad likes detours. He likes to get on his bike and drive without a destination, find some unexpected roadblocks that take him down winding, twisting roads he never expected.
He tackles Nate on a small patch of carpet about ten feet inside Nate's front door. There's a stack of three boxes next to Nate's left elbow all of them marked Books. Nate's skin is pale, even against the off-white carpet, and when Brad scrapes his teeth over Nate's shoulder he sees his skin change color to pink.
Brad feels full. He feels like his skin doesn't fit quite right anymore or maybe like something is trapped inside him, trying to fight its way out, clawing at his chest and throat. He wants to be inside Nate, but he doesn't have any lube. Asking Nate to find some would require Nate to move from underneath Brad and that's not even an option at this point. Brad settles for getting them both all the way naked and rutting mindlessly against Nate's hip.
Nate is still wholly Nate, even naked and desperate and digging his nails into Brad's shoulders. He's quiet for the most part, big green eyes staring straight at Brad's face and his teeth biting hard into his bottom lip. Brad wants to hear him. Brad wants to see him lose it. He wants to see Nate's control snap the way it supposedly did on rare occasions back in Iraq. Brad learned second-hand from Rudy about Nate's dressing down of Casey Kasem, but he's never been witness to any loss of self-control. Brad wants to hear Nate scream.
Nate bucks his hips. Brad gives it right back, sliding them across the carpet until Nate hisses, arching his whole body off the floor like he's trying to push Brad back.
Brad says, "No." He grabs the back of Nate's neck, brings their mouths together for a kiss that's so hard it's more like a bite.
"I'm gonna-" Nate rasps. "Carpet burn fucking hurts." Brad laughs unexpectedly. His whole body shakes with it making them both moan when their cocks rub together just right.
"Up," Brad says, but it's mostly unnecessary since he's pulling Nate with him as he sits back on his knees, ass wresting on his heels. Nate is smart. He gets with the program almost immediately, straddling Brad's thighs and wrapping his arms around the back of Brad's neck.
Brad kisses him again, gentler this time, coaxing, but Nate takes control of it, using his hands at the back of Brad's head to angle Brad where he wants him. Brad lets Nate have his mouth, settling instead for control of their cocks. He wraps his hand around both of them, and Nate moans against his lips, lifting his hips to fuck up into Brad's loose fist.
Brad keeps his hand like that, soft on their cocks so that the friction is never quite enough. He watches Nate's face between kisses, watches Nate slowly fall apart, both of them covered in sweat. Brad doesn't want to have to ask Nate for it. He doesn't want to be the one to beg here, but he's not sure how much longer he can stand the self-inflicted torture. He wants to come almost as badly as he wants to hear Nate lose his mind.
Nate finally snarls and scratches his fingernails hard down the back of Brad's neck. "Fucking do it," he says. "Just fucking-"
Nate is full body trembling against him, and the part of Brad that has always instinctively wanted to protect Nate has him running a soothing hand down Nate's sweaty back.
"Shhh," he says against Nate's ear. "C'mon."
He tightens his grip on their dicks, and Nate finally cries out, a small keening sound that is maybe the most gorgeous thing Brad has ever heard. Brad leans back to look at Nate's face, both of them breathing hard and so close that Brad knows his orgasm is a breath away, like a bullet in the chamber of a gun a moment before someone pulls the trigger.
"Brad," Nate sobs. His eyes look huge and feral and if Brad didn't know better maybe a little scared, but it's Nate saying his name that sends Brad over the edge. He comes hot across his fist and stomach and doesn't stop the momentum of his hand as he works himself through it. When his cock becomes too sensitive to keep that up, he lets it slide out of the circle of his fist and changes his grip, focusing all his attention on Nate.
He jacks Nate off fast and hard. His legs are starting to hurt from kneeling on the floor for too long, but he ignores it, putting his discomfort easily to the back of his mind and squeezing Nate's dick a little too hard.
"Fuck," Nate says, and Brad thinks that is probably the understatement of a lifetime. Brad basically just gave himself what amounts to a combat jack, something he's done a countless number of times before and it still managed to be what is easily the best orgasm of his life.
"Come on," Brad says again. He pulls Nate closer with his other arm even though it gives the hand currently touching Nate's dick less room to work with. Brad feels like they're still not close enough. He still really wants to fuck Nate, but before that can happen he wants to see what Nate looks like when he comes. "You just fucking do it already."
And that seems to do the trick, challenge given and accepted, because Nate gets that determined and surly look Brad saw a thousand times in Iraq and says, "Fuck you," as his spine bows back and he comes all over the both of them.
Nate trembles as he comes down, slumping against Brad and resting his head on Brad's shoulder. Small tremors rock his body now and then and Brad feels a wealth of tenderness he thought had left him about the same time his fiancée did. He wraps his arms around Nate and holds them together, chest to chest, even though they're sticky with sweat and come and Brad's thighs are burning with the effort of holding them both upright.
Once Nate catches his breath he slides to the floor and says, "I need a shower."
Brad doesn't know what the hell they’re doing. He knows he wants to do it again as soon as his cock catches up with his brain, but he doesn't know what Nate wants. This feels like a continuation of something they started in Iraq, only now when Nate stands up and stretches his arms over his head Brad looks at him the way he never dared to in theater. He looks at the long curve of his body as Nate groans and shakes out his sore muscles.
Nate pads quietly toward the hallway, looking back over his shoulder only long enough to say, "Coming?"
Brad breathes out and picks himself up off the floor to follow.
Brad has faith in the Corps the way most people have faith in God. In the cluster fuck that was OIF that faith was badly shaken. Brad felt like a man on a ledge in high winds, desperately looking for something to hold on to, to keep him from falling apart.
He found Nate.
Nate, whose own faith in the Corps had obviously been blind, because Brad knows the fall a man can’t see coming is always worse than one he can prepare for. Nate, who must have figured out the moment his boots touched the ground in Kuwait that the Corps wasn’t worth fighting for anymore. Who decided to fight for him instead, for all of them, his men. Brad literally put his life in Nate’s hands in Iraq, they all did. He still doesn’t know if it was Nate’s determination or a whole lot of sheer fucking luck, but either way Brad gives Nate most of the credit for getting them out alive.
Brad isn’t surprised exactly that things got muddled. When he realized his feelings for his LT weren’t something he could write off as simple admiration and respect he just added it to the long list of fucked up shit that he figured would cease to exist once he was back on American soil. It didn’t, and when Brad got Nate’s phone call to meet him for drinks all he could think was fucking finally. They could fuck, work whatever this was out of their system and be done with it. Brad needed to be done with it, because putting his life in Nate’s hands in the middle of a war zone was an acceptable weakness in Brad’s mind, but continuing to do that now, with a man who no longer owed his allegiance to anyone but himself was just plain foolhardy.
Brad is surprised when it doesn’t cease to exist. If anything he only wants Nate more after that first night. Nate doesn’t seem to be ready to stop either. It’s almost as if they can’t, like they lit a fire they thought they could control and now it’s burning wild.
They keep fucking even as Nate is boxing up his life and getting ready to move on. Brad’s not stupid. He can already see how this is going to go. He makes his own plans with the Royal Marines and neither one of them talk about anything that might be misinterpreted as a future. Brad doesn’t mind taking risks, but he doesn’t have a death wish. He knows when to accept the reality of his situation.
Nate leaves on a Sunday morning. Saturday night Brad takes Nate back to his apartment and fucks him as hard as he dares, hard enough that he hopes Nate will feel it after they’re done. He fucks him missionary and pins Nate's hands to the mattress above his head. Nate looks him in the eye like they're having the world's most intense staring contest and neither one of them looks away, not even when Nate's orgasm wracks his body.
Brad thinks fuck, and Nate, and stay, but bites down hard on his tongue when he comes and doesn't say anything at all. He wakes up to an empty bed in the morning and tells himself that's that. He's not a man accustomed to wanting. Either he takes what he wants, satisfying the need, or he puts it out of his mind. Having Nate Fick hasn't done shit to satisfy his need for Nate, so he focuses on the second option. He focuses on forgetting. He sets his mind right, mentally making a list of all the things he needs to do before he leaves for England. The list is endlessly long, and Brad has a limited amount of time to get it done.
Brad doesn't have to try not to think about Nate. There are a lot of things he's had to do in his life that are better left alone once they're done. Brad puts Nate in that same mental box with all the other shit and seals it up tight.
He does his job. He fucks a couple of women and lets a guy who reminds him of Rudy give him a blowjob in the bathroom stall of a bar he frequents. The guy has slick dark hair and thick hands, and he looks so foreign on his knees that Brad's mind is blissfully empty while the guy sucks him off.
He finds out he's going to get three weeks leave in November. His mother tells him to come home, but there are parts of Europe he'd like to see while he's here and he's not sure when he's going to get another chance.
He ends up texting Nate instead.
How's the weather in New England in November?
Nate's reply is almost instantaneous. Cold.
Brad takes a deep breath and types, Any chance there might be a thaw?
Nate, ever the fucking pragmatist replies, Send me your itinerary.
Brad books a flight and emails Nate the information.
Nate has classes all day during the week. November is apparently full of deadlines as both students and professors race toward December and the end of another semester. Brad takes a cab to Nate's apartment and pulls a spare key out from underneath a ceramic duck sitting by the front door. Its bill is slightly upturned at the corners, like it's about to crack a smile. It's more whimsy than Brad expects from Nate, but he reminds himself that he doesn't really know Nate, not in this context anyway.
Nate has a tiny spare bedroom that has a futon, two bookshelves and a desk that's so large it takes up half the room. Brad drops his duffle bag on the futon and wanders back out to nose around. He opens the hall closet and smiles at the neatly folded sheets and towels all color coordinated, whites, beiges, and navy blues. In the bathroom there's a prescription for Lunesta, a bottle of Aleve, a box of condoms and two bottles of lube.
He tries not to wonder if they're for him, if Nate went out and got supplies or if these things are staples in Nate's apartment, something he keeps on hand for other people. It’s none of his business anyway, but that doesn’t stop the small spike of jealousy he feels toward some nameless, faceless person that Nate may or may not be fucking. Brad doesn’t have any rights here, but he’s starting to figure out that he wants them. He wants all sorts of impossible things from Nate.
He picks up the Lunesta bottle, opens it and counts out the pills. There are 24 in the bottle with a refill scheduled for the end of the month. Brad's never had trouble sleeping, not in Iraq and not at home. He doesn't remember how Nate slept in Iraq, if he did at all. There was always that divide between them there, soldier and officer, a divide they very carefully observed, both of them trying desperately to stave off whatever this thing between them is.
Brad puts the bottle back on the shelf and goes to snoop through Nate's bedroom. The bed is made, hospital corners and sheets so tight Brad could bounce a quarter off of them. This is something Brad understands, a habit that is so ingrained that not making the bed is more of a conscious decision than making it. Nate's shoes are on the floor of his closet in a neat row, boots, loafers, sandals that won't see the light of day until spring. His clothes are hung by article-- sweaters, shirts, slacks, and all color-coded. It makes Brad smile again, something soft and warm unfurling in his chest.
Brad gives the kitchen the same treatment, opening cabinet doors and drawers before he settles on the couch. Nate only has basic cable, so Brad turns Oprah on and tries to relax, closing his eyes against the sunlight slanting in through the living room windows. When he opens them again the six o'clock news is on and Nate's still not home. He gets up, stretches, and goes to take a shower.
Nate's leaning against the wall in the hallway when Brad opens the bathroom door, enveloping them both in steam. Brad stops abruptly and then tries to mirror Nate's relaxed lean, resting his shoulder casually against the bathroom doorframe.
"Hi," Brad says.
"You went through my things," Nate says.
Brad shrugs his shoulders and tries for a facial expression that resembles contrite. From the look Nate gives him, Brad thinks he's not succeeding very well.
"Fucking Recon Marines," Nate says, rolling his eyes. "I'm making dinner and I moved your bags into my room."
Brad doesn't know what to say. Nate's looking at him like it's a challenge, like this is some kind of test and he's waiting to see how Brad is going to perform.
"I didn't want to assume," Brad finally says.
Nate smiles, but it's not one of his real ones. It doesn't reach his eyes. "You mean this isn't a 3,000 mile booty call?" Brad forgets how Nate in the flesh is nothing like the Nate that lives inside his head. This Nate is harder, a little bit mean, and beautiful in an almost painful way.
"No," Brad says. "I have no trouble getting laid on either side of the pond."
Nate nods once tersely and pushes away from the wall, turning down the hall toward his bedroom. Brad follows a few steps behind and watches Nate pick Brad's duffle bag up off the end of the bed and turn back with it.
Nate's hair is longer now, not long, but not military short either. Brad wants to put his hands in it and pull. He wants to yank it hard enough to make Nate's eyes tear up. Brad blocks the doorway and wraps one hand around Nate's wrist, squeezing until Nate lets Brad's bag fall to the floor.
"I missed you," Brad says. He watches Nate's eyes widen in surprise and then Brad kisses him, can't possibly do anything else.
Nate kisses back with a fierceness that would be intimidating if Brad didn't want it just as bad. Their tongues battle for dominance in a fight that neither side will win. Neither of them is willing to give up any ground. Brad can't stand it and he can't stop, so he does what he's wanted to do since he first saw Nate leaning against the wall. He grabs Nate by the hair and yanks his head back, hard. Nate doesn't cry out even though Brad knows it must hurt. He's being anything but gentle, but Nate just groans and cants his body against Brad's, trying to get closer.
Brad slams him against the frame of the door and scrapes his teeth down Nate's neck. Nate digs his fingers into Brad's bare shoulders and arches into it, rubbing their cocks together through Nate's jeans and Brad's towel. They both moan, and Brad reaches for the hem of Nate's shirt. He has it half off when a loud wailing pierces the apartment.
They jump apart, both of them briefly startled.
"What the fuck," Brad snaps.
Nate's shirt is still a tangle around his neck, so he pulls it the rest of the way off before he looks back toward the kitchen, his eyes widening.
"Fuck. The rice," he says, jogging quickly down the hallway toward the kitchen.
There is a small fire on the stovetop, but Nate seems to have that under control, so Brad grabs a chair from the small kitchen table and gets up on it to take care of the smoke alarm that is still blaring noisily. He ends up having to take the batteries out to shut the goddamn thing up and by the time he has everything disassembled, Nate has thrown the flaming pot of rice into the sink and turned the faucet on.
Nate turns away from the sink and says, "That wasn't the adrenaline rush I was hoping for this evening."
Brad laughs and tosses the smoke alarm onto the table. He crowds Nate, pushes him against the sink where smoke is still billowing out of the charred pot and kisses him. It's less intense than the kiss in Nate's bedroom, but it's still good. Brad still feels a punch of lust that's better than anything he's felt since the last time they were together in Brad's bed back in California.
Brad can’t pinpoint the exact moment when wanting Nate, missing him became a constant buzz in the back of his mind, but he feels settled now for the first time in a long time. He feels like he’s finally found something he stupidly misplaced.
Nate runs his hand over the top of Brad's head, settling his palm against the back of Brad's neck and allows himself to be kissed. Brad doesn't know how long they stay like that, letting the counter top support their weight, trading slow, lazy kisses until eventually Nate's stomach makes a low rumbling noise that has them both laughing against each other's mouths.
"We're probably going to have to do something about that," Brad says. Nate squeezes the back of his neck once, and Brad steps away, giving both of them space to move.
Standing in Nate’s kitchen in nothing but a towel feels strangely domestic. When they were both in the Corps they had rules, protocol that dictated how they interacted with one another. In California, most of the time they spent together they spent fucking. Being here, staying in Nate’s home, and making out in Nate’s kitchen next to a ruined dinner that Nate was fixing for the two of them has Brad reeling a little bit. It feels like the beginning of something.
Nate goes to the fridge and grabs a couple of menus from where they're being held on by shitty poetry magnets. "Pizza, Chinese, or sandwiches?"
Brad feels like he's getting into dangerous territory, but he's a Marine. Dangerous territory is nothing new. "Is the pizza here as good as all you East Coasters say it is?" Brad asks.
Nate snorts and says, "You've never even had real pizza. Prepare for your mind to be blown."
Brad's dick is apparently unaware that they are talking about pizza, and from the look in Nate's eye he is pretty sure Nate is trying to kill him, slowly and with nothing but innuendo.
"You better make it good," Brad says, playing along.
Nate picks up the phone, a smile playing across his lips. "Oh, I will," he says as he dials the number.
Brad's mind is completely blown.
Brad's never had what he would call a bad sexual experience, but he's also never had one that's anything close to a religion either. But this Nate is nothing like the Nate who left California. That Nate looked at Brad like he was a minefield, like Brad was something to be handled with extreme caution. He treated Brad like they were still in Iraq taking enemy fire, like he was still trying to keep Brad safe from enemies on both sides of the line. This Nate abandons caution in a way Lt. Nathaniel Fick never could have. This is Nate as a civilian, as a person who doesn’t have to worry about life and death decisions.
Brad's never been particularly kinky and if he's being completely honest with himself he can admit that he likes to look at Nate's face. He likes to look at Nate. He likes Nate on his back or above him, Nate riding his cock in that slow measured way that is completely Nate.
Brad's never had any desire to get fucked. He's never felt a need like this one. He's never wanted someone so much that thinking about them makes it hard to focus on anything else. Brad doesn't get scared, veins like ice, and Nate is just another fuck in a long list of nothing but fucks since his fiancée and his best friend rode off into the sunset together.
Brad is usually a better liar.
Nate says, "Let me." He ghosts a hand down Brad's back and squeezes Brad's ass once hard. "I'll make it good."
Brad doesn't doubt him. Nate is the kind of person who approaches every task with a single-minded determination that leaves absolutely no room for failure. Plus, Brad is certain at this point that it's physically impossible for them to have bad sex with each other.
Brad doesn't say yes, but he doesn't say no either. Nate gives him a long look and then crawls across the bed, reaching long arms out to grab the lube and a condom. Brad watches his muscles move under his skin. Nate's body is endlessly fascinating, white skin and freckles, red-gold lashes, lips, eyes, and a nose that should be too big for a face that is sometimes so heartbreaking that Brad can't breathe from looking at him.
Nate takes his time prepping him. The long, slow slide of Nate's fingers into his ass are a small kind of annoyance, but it's Nate's eyes on him that make him truly uncomfortable. Brad tries to focus on the way Nate is stretching his ass, three fingers deep and the pad of Nate's thumb smearing lube around his rim, making the slide easier.
"Stop," Brad says, and then groans when Nate stops fucking him with his fingers.
Nate starts to pull his fingers out, gets to the first knuckle before Brad wraps his hand around Nate's wrist to stop him. They stare at each other again and Brad moves his hips down toward Nate's hand, seeking out Nate's fingers again.
"I could make you come like this," Nate says conversationally. "I don't have to fuck you."
Brad feels desperate, shaky, like he's a rag doll with faulty stitches. Everything is turned upside down and backwards. Nate's the one with shattered ideals. Nate's the one who runs away and falls apart. Nate's the one who gets fucked and peeled open and has no idea who he is.
"No, I want-" Brad doesn't know what he wants. "Don't look at me like that," he finally says.
Nate's look changes into something dark and dangerous. Brad keeps forgetting this is the same man who directed traffic under sniper fire, who told his superiors to go fuck themselves more often than not. Brad keeps romanticizing him in his head, like the things Nate did in Iraq were something more than just doing his job competently. The reality of Nate is so much better, more complicated, and more real.
Nate pulls his fingers out of Brad's ass, leaving him feeling empty. Brad wants to protest, but then Nate is reaching for a condom, rolling it down his cock in one swift move. Nate fucks him slowly. The son of a bitch looks him right in the eye the entire time, challenging him to look away with every thrust. Brad never backs down from a challenge, even the ones he knows he can't win.
Brad thinks he could come like this, just from Nate's cock in his ass and the soft hair on Nate's belly brushing across the head of his cock trapped between their stomachs. Nate keeps fucking with him, dipping his head down to nip at Brad's mouth before he goes back to staring at him like he's the best thing Nate's ever seen.
"Fuck you," Brad finally manages to say.
Nate shakes his head and fucking smiles. He works a hand between them and touches Brad's cock until Brad comes messily between them like a pre-teen with his first hard on. Brad's ass clenches down around Nate's cock and they both cry out. Nate buries his head in the crook of Brad's shoulder and shakes through his orgasm. He grinds his hips against Brad's. Brad puts a hand on his ass and pulls him closer as if they already weren't as close as two people can be. Nate's muscles stretch and contract under Brad's palm and then everything goes slack like the sail of a ship caught in irons.
Brad doesn't give a shit about Boston. He didn't come here to wander through museums or soak up the quaint New England fall. The trees are a pretty red-gold-brown-green that just make him think of Nate's coloring and the last thing he needs to do is think more about Nate than he already does. Nate goes to class and Brad gets up and runs. He watches TV and reads some of Nate's less pretentious-looking books. Sometimes he makes dinner, but more often than not he lets Nate order in. They have a lot of sex and Brad still can't get enough. It should worry him more, how even when he's got his dick balls deep inside Nate he still wants more.
"We could go sailing or golfing," Nate suggests over spaghetti. Brad cooked if browning some beef and dumping a bottle of Ragu Thick and Hearty over some noodles constitutes cooking.
Brad wrinkles up his nose and takes another bite.
Nate drinks red wine like the pussy, liberal college student he is. "You leave in a few days and you've barely been outside this apartment."
"If only you could earn credits for stating the obvious." Brad feels moody. In the field he'd go bang on his truck or pick a fight with Ray. Here there's only Nate and pushing him feels too dangerous, too real, like Brad might actually lose something.
"Fine," Nate snaps. "But when you get back across the pond and the only stories you have to tell your buddies in the Royal Marines involve my ass you have only yourself to blame."
"It's a really nice ass," Brad says seriously.
Nate snorts and rolls his eyes. It shouldn't be cute, but it is. "How about football? You're a beer-drinking, flag-waving grunt. You have to like football." Nate doesn't look like he's going to let this go anytime soon, and Brad really doesn't want to spend his last three days arguing with Nate about his lack of desire to do anything but fuck. That being said, Brad doesn't give an actual fuck about football.
"What did you have in mind?" he asks because Brad can compromise. Brad is not as stubborn as people like to think.
"The Patriots play Friday. We could go. You can drink some beer, eat disgusting fried food and watch grown men slap each other on the ass."
"Nate, that may be the gayest thing I will ever be a part of, and I say this with the full knowledge of someone who is going to be touching your dick later tonight."
Nate isn't nearly as serious as people imagine him to be, as Brad imagined him to be. Sometimes Brad wishes they'd met some other way, in college over drinks or on one of those totally ridiculous dating web sites where they try to match you based on your shared love of the outdoors, like someone who loves ice fishing would surely have enough in common with someone who likes rock climbing to make a lasting go of things. Of course, Brad supposes it's no more ridiculous than two guys using three weeks spent in a cluster fuck in the middle of Iraq as the foundation for their relationship.
If that's even what they're doing here. Brad isn't sure he wants to know the answer so he doesn't ask.
Nate is smiling at him, laughing because he's gained some ground at Brad's expense. "So, I'll buy us tickets for Friday."
Brad's not sorry to lose it. "Sure," he says. "If it makes you happy."
The crowd at the game is hellacious, but seeing Nate dressed in his red, white and blue football gear is worth mixing with the masses. Nate buys a giant foam hand and passes it off to Brad once they've taken their seat.
"I'm not holding this," Brad says.
Nate gives him a pointed look, because yeah, Brad is holding it.
"Fine, but I'm not waving it around."
Brad ends up cheering for the Colts just to piss Nate off. He doesn't really care who wins anyway, and once he figures out that making Nate cranky is kind of a turn on that becomes a much more interesting game.
"I hope you know you're cheering for a punch of pussies," Nate says. "Plus a couple of the guys around us look like they want to kick your ass."
"You look like you want to kick my ass, Lieutenant."
Brad's been playing by himself up to this point, but he sees the moment when Nate catches on, huffing out a laugh that Brad can actually see in the crisp night air. "You're fucking with me," he says.
"Not at all. I'm cheering a team full of tight-wearing, twinkle-toed sissies who are named after a horse whose balls haven't dropped yet because I believe in their winning spirit."
"I hate you," Nate says.
"No you don't," Brad says. "And you're hot when you're mad."
Brad wants to lean in and kiss Nate. He's never been the type of person who likes PDA. It was one thing on a very long list of things that his ex liked to complain about. But now, when it actually matters how he conducts himself in public, he doesn't give a fuck. He wants to throw caution to the wind and do it anyway.
His intention must be written all over his face, because Nate stiffens and leans back in his seat putting more distance between them. "I think it's your turn to make a beer run," he says.
Brad doesn't think he has any right to be angry. He doesn't want to be anyway. He has two nights left here with Nate. He doesn't want to waste them being mad about something even he admits is a stupid idea.
"We have beer at your house." Brad stands up and looks down at the top of Nate's head.
"We do," Nate whispers, tipping his face up to meet Brad's eyes. Brad thinks Nate's eyes shouldn't look so green against the blue of his jersey, but they do. Nate stands up too, making up his mind in one fluid movement of his body. They're standing too close now, nestled between cramped rows and hundreds of people. Brad can feel Nate's breath against his neck.
"Let's go," Brad practically growls. He leads the way down the aisle over boots and past jutting knees until they're on the stairs leading up to one of the exits. Brad takes a step up the stairs just as Nate slides his hand over the small of Brad's back, fingers settling against Brad's belt. Nate holds on the entire walk up the stairs, fingers curling softly into the waistband of Brad's jeans, sweeter than any apology.
Brad's flight leaves ridiculously early on Sunday morning. It's one of the few days Nate gets to sleep in, so Brad calls for a cab and kisses Nate's shoulder as softly as he can in goodbye. Nate looks younger when he's asleep, like he's still closer to twenty than thirty. Brad wants to touch him, to wake him up and make him promises, demand some in return.
Instead, he leaves the spare key on the coffee table and flips the lock on the doorknob on his way out. His plane leaves right on time and when the wheels pick up off the ground the sigh that escapes through Brad's lips sounds a lot like relief.
As part of the Royal Marines "bond of friendship" with the Corps, the lieutenant-colonel in charge of Brad's unit offers to let Brad take the Commando Course.
"You're not scared?" the lieutenant-colonel asks, and fuck it. Brad's not scared, but he's also not eighteen anymore and the idea of navigating a ten mile obstacle course over hills and through woods is not Brad's idea of a good time, even if he knows he could do the marksmanship test at the end with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back.
"Fuck you," Brad answer good-naturedly.
Brad does the fucking thing in 69 minutes and hits 9 out of 10 targets.
He tries not to be smug over pints later that night, but it's hard when he knows he did better than some of the officers sitting at the table with him. His body hurts, but the beer feels good and warm in his belly and he's just starting to relax when the guy next to him, Brad thinks his name is Clarke, asks, "So, you planning on doing the nine mile speed march tomorrow?"
Brad has no intention of doing any such thing. "The SOP clearly states that I get a day of rest and I fully intend to take it."
Clarke laughs and slaps his back companionably. "You did alright for an old man," he says.
Brad says, "Damn right I did."
Brad's exhausted by the time he leaves the Pub. He thinks about showing up the next morning and doing the speed march just to see if he can. He think about that night on the bridge, how tired he was, how tired they all were, and the look on Nate's face when he told them they had to keep going. There was always another mission and never enough time for sleep.
Brad crawls into bed that night and falls asleep without setting his alarm.
Brad tells himself, sometimes multiple times a day, that he is not in a relationship. They talk sometimes, phone calls that Brad almost always initiates, but that Nate dominates, filling up the silence with antidotes about the life of a college student. He never asks Nate to put a definition on what they're doing. He doesn't even know if they're still doing it because there's an ocean between them. They're busy. They have separate, complicated lives.
He misses Nate, and it’s strange how someone who probably should have faded away like a fond memory has become someone who Brad thinks about every day. It makes him wonder if Nate is feeling the same way, if Brad could ever be as important to Nate as Nate is starting to be to him. It makes him resent the fact that Nate never calls, that Brad always has to be the one to make the first move, and he resolves himself to stop, like Nate is some kind of bad habit he can quit cold turkey.
He makes it two weeks before the resentment turns to anger. He has no idea what he’s going to say. He wants something from Nate. He can admit that to himself now. He wants Nate, and he wants Nate to want him back. He comes very close to throwing his phone against the wall when he gets Nate’s voice mail.
Twenty-two minutes later Brad's phone rings, display lit up with Nate's name. Brad's finger hovers over the green talk button for a few seconds before he answers the phone.
"Hey," he says.
"I left my phone in the kitchen and I was in the office. You called?" Nate says by way of explanation.
Brad feels torn up. He feels like he did when he got back from Iraq, dirty and tired and used. On the other end of the line Nate sounds relaxed. He sounds like someone who doesn’t have a care in the world.
"Because you didn't," Brad says.
Brad makes it sound like an accusation. He throws it out there like a sneak attack and waits to see how Nate will respond.
Nate sighs on the other end of the line. "I'm calling you back." Nate's voice has that irritated edge to it, the kind some people use when they're talking to a particularly annoying child.
"You're always so generous," Brad says.
Nate's silent on the other end. The low sound of Nate's TV as background noise is the only indication Brad has that Nate hasn't hung up. "Did you just call to be mean to me?" Nate finally asks.
The wary tone in Nate’s voice deflates Brad’s anger faster than any actual words could have. "I called to talk to you," Brad says honestly. "I wanted to hear your voice."
Nate sighs again, but this one is lighter, airy and a little breathless. Brad wishes he could see the look on Nate's face. They're both good with words, but there was so often things they couldn't say to one another because of rank and regulation that they got better at communicating without them. Brad would give anything to be able to see all of the things Nate won't tell him.
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that," Nate whispers. "It makes everything so much harder."
"I don't mean for it to be," Brad says honestly. It's not entirely true. He doesn't want to make things hard for Nate, but he's also glad to hear that he’s not the only one having a hard time here.
"Tell me what you've been doing," Nate says. "Tell me about your day."
Brad talks for an hour. He exhausts every story he can remember, trying to delay the inevitable end when Nate hangs up and they don’t talk again until Brad makes another consession.
"What are you doing this summer?" Brad asks.
"Going to Baltimore to see my parents probably. Maybe a summer a job."
"Come here," Brad says before he can stop himself. "I have some time in July. We could bum around Europe."
"I can't," Nate says almost before Brad's done making the offer.
Brad feels stupid, embarrassed like he hasn't been since he was a teenager still desperately seeking other people's approval. It pisses him off, anger spiking through him and he lashes out. "You're such a fucking coward, Nate. You can't. What kind of bullshit reas-"
"Brad," Nate interrupts softly. "It's not-- I don't want to, okay? I just--"
Brad flips his phone closed, all the fight leaving him like the air in a popped balloon. His phone starts ringing almost as soon as he's hung up, so Brad turns the fucking thing off and throws it across the room. Brad's a fighter by nature, a fucking warrior who doesn't back down, but he learned a long time ago that fighting for something you want is only worthwhile if your opponent wants it as badly as you do. Nate Fick can go fuck himself.
Brad spends a lot of his time with the Royal Marines in a state of pure adrenaline or total boredom. It's either amphibious night ops or stacks of paperwork so sterile that Brad could use the paper to bandage a bullet wound. Brad is utterly thrilled when one of the girls who answers the phones at the front desk pops her head in and says, "Sergeant, you have a visitor up front."
Brad's happy to have a reason to get away from filling out forms. He almost finds it comforting to know that even with all the differences between the Corps and the RM, mindless paperwork is universal to every country. Bureaucracy will not be denied.
Brad scans the lobby twice before his eyes connect with and recognize Nate. He's wearing a white button down shirt and pressed grey slacks. He looks like some asshole stockbroker fresh from Wall Street. He looks good enough to eat, and Brad tries to ignore the way his heart starts to hammer in his chest.
"This is surprising," Brad says. He takes Nate by the arm and steers them out of the crowded lobby and onto the street.
"You didn't answer my phone calls," Nate says.
Nate called incessantly for a few weeks after their fight. Brad childishly sent them all to voicemail and deleted the messages without listening to them. But that had been months ago. Nate hasn't attempted contact since then.
"So, you figured you just swing by? Or were you going to mention an impromptu visit during one of your phone calls?"
Nate shakes his head and says, "I guess you'll never know."
Brad's fucking furious. Nate doesn't get to do this. He doesn't get to fuck Brad up right when Brad has managed to unfuck himself. He doesn't get to draw lines in the sand and then keep moving them further and further back until Brad has no idea where the boundaries are. Brad thinks about Iraq, about Nate in that beautiful, horrible place, and how for the first time in his life Brad stopped to wonder why he was doing something instead of just doing it. Nate is always blurring the fucking lines.
Brad thinks fuck it and mans up, asks the million-dollar question with one hand wrapped tight around Nate's bicep. "What the fuck do you want from me, Nate?"
"I-- don't know," Nate says. His eyes have always been too fucking honest. "I just know I didn't want to leave it like that."
Brad's been disappointed in Nate before. He's never looked at what they did in Iraq through rose-colored glasses. They all made mistakes, even Nate, but somehow Brad's always been able to apply more weight to Nate's intentions rather than his actions. He didn’t think he had it in him to hate Nate.
He thinks he might hate him now. He says, "You shouldn't have come here."
Nate's eyes flash momentarily with something akin to genuine hurt. His voice sounds small and far away when he says, "You invited me."
Brad can deal with Nate angry. He can deal with Nate disillusioned or doubtful or indifferent, but he doesn't know how to deal with Nate hurt. "Go home," Brad says, finally letting go of Nate's arm.
Nate can be a stubborn bastard when he wants to be. The street is full of noise, people going about their lives like this is any other day, like this isn't the beginning or the end. Nate's mouth is a thin line, his eyes flinty with resolve. This is the Nate who stood up to Encino Man, who put his men before the mission and only stopped to wonder if it was the right thing to do after the fact. This is Nate ready for war.
"What is it you think is going to happen here?" Nate asks. "You're going to spend another year here and then you go back to Pendleton. Maybe you go back to Iraq or Afghanistan or both. When your enlistment contract ends you're going to sign another one."
Nate's not saying anything Brad hasn't said to himself a million times, but unlike the voice in his own head he doesn't have to stand here and listen to Nate. Brad turns and starts up the street.
"Then what?" Nate shouts.
People have turned to stare in their direction now. Brad usually wouldn't give a flying fuck. He's 6'4'' and attractive. He carries himself like a man who knows where he's going. He's not unused to drawing attention to himself. But this feels too private for strangers to witness. This is for him and Nate.
He strides back toward Nate and hisses, "I don't know," when they're standing in front of each other again.
"I'll still be in school." Nate continues on as if Brad didn't just try to walk away. He lowers his voice though, speaking softly and reasonably. It pisses Brad off more than the yelling ever could. "We'll be on opposite sides of the country. And after I graduate I want to go to Washington. I want to try and make the kinds of changes I thought I could make in the Corps."
Nate's being logical and it makes Brad want to scream. There is nothing logical about any of this. Brad just wants to take and tell the rest of the world to go to hell.
"It won't work," Nate says.
Brad says, "I know."
"This," Nate says, pointing between them. "Is going to ruin us."
Brad feels the truth and the pain of Nate's words like a sucking chest wound. He doesn't know if it's possible to hurt more than he does right now. "You flew 3,000 miles to tell me this?" he asks.
Nate shakes his head and steps closer. “It’s impossible. It’s—“ Nate looks terrified. His fingers curl into the sleeve of Brad’s uniform, and for a moment Brad thinks Nate might try to kiss him, but he just stands there, a few short inches separating their bodies. "What do you want from me? Nate asks. His face is wide-open when Brad looks again. He's asking Brad for the truth even though Brad can tell he's not entirely sure he wants it.
"Nothing," Brad says. He puts one hand on Nate's hip and the other on the back of Nate's neck and pulls him close. Nate falls into the hug, his body leaning heavily against Brad's. Brad squeezes tighter. His fingers curl into the hair at the base of Nate's neck. He whispers, "Everything," against Nate's ear.
Nate trembles in his arms. He says, "Fuck," on a shaky exhale. Brad can feel Nate's breath, warm and moist against his neck. He steps back and cups Nate's face. He thinks about kissing him here on the street in front of Queen, God, and foreign country, but Nate looks two seconds away from running scared so he steps back and holds out his hand instead.
"Come with me?" It feels like Brad's asking for so much more. He's terrified he's not going to get it.
Nate takes a deep breath and clasps Brad's hand. His palm is warm and dry as Brad leads them up the street.
Nate spends what feels like an eternity exploring the dip on the inside of Brad's ankle right below where his tibia connects with his talus. He runs a soft finger up the arch of Brad's foot and laughs when Brad squirms away. He looks mildly disappointed when he tries the same tactic on the back of Brad's knee and doesn't get the same results.
"You're not ticklish here?" he asks, twisting Brad's leg slightly so he can kiss the spot he just touched.
Brad's used to living through small discomforts. The foot caught him off guard, but he has no intention of letting it happen again. "Not at all," he says.
Nate licks the spot. He blows over it with cool breath and smiles. "You're lying," he says, but he continues exploring, rubbing his hand across the hair on Brad's thigh. He takes a bite in the fleshy part right below the jut of Brad's hipbones, licks across the bones and then kisses the spot above Brad's belly button open-mouthed and wet.
Brad's cock has been steadily dripping precome onto his belly. Nate licks that up too, one long, wet, swipe of his tongue after another. Nate's hot breath ghosting across Brad's cock is the sweetest torture Brad has ever known.
When Nate's done he licks his bottom lip and looks from Brad's face to his cock and back again. "We'll come back to that," he says, kissing his way up Brad's stomach slowly.
Brad laughs and groans at the same time, arching off the bed and twisting his fingers through the sheets. Nate's being playful, taking his time and obviously enjoying himself while he does it. Brad just feels impatient. He tries to keep his breaths even and deep. He tries to keep calm, but he's so desperate he's practically begging for it.
Nate licks over Brad's right nipple with the flat of his tongue and Brad does beg. "Please," he says.
Nate crawls over him, straddling him and settling his weight over Brad's hips. He leans down and kisses Brad slowly, his tongue teasing and coaxing. Brad's dick slides against Nate's ass and it's all too much. He doesn't want Nate to tease him anymore.
"What do you want?" Nate asks.
"To get off."
Nate laughs against Brad's mouth and grinds his ass against Brad's cock. Nate kisses him. He kisses Brad's chin and his throat and his chest. He travels all over Brad's body with his lips, and when he finally takes Brad's dick into his mouth it's like coming home, familiar and sweet.
Nate whispers at night, like he can't bear to break the soft silence that cocoons them.
Brad lets the sound of Nate's voice lull him in and out of sleep, half-dreams that he tries to both hold on to and hold off, never sure if the dream is better or worse than the reality of Nate here in his bed.
Nate talks about school, about foreign policy, and government, and military protocol. It all sounds dirty in Nate's quiet voice. It sounds like foreplay, like secret things instead of any old conversation they could be having over eggs and coffee.
"I want to stay here," Brad says.
Nate sighs, stretching his body over Brad's. He settles his weight against Brad and wraps him up, kisses a spot on his neck. "We can," Nate says.
It's a lie. Brad hears the implied for now left off the end of Nate's words, like one of those coded expiration dates on canned food that no one can fucking read. Brad's not sure he wants to know when this is going to end anyway, so he lets Nate keep talking until he drifts off into sleep.
The day Nate leaves they go for breakfast. Nate’s quiet as he puts his bags by the door, somber as they walk the few blocks to a café Brad likes. He’s making Brad fucking nervous. Still, Nate came to him, and that has to mean something. Brad’s not the kind of man who doesn’t ask questions just because he might not like the answers. He’s also not sure the answers have ever been this important to him before.
“Are we going to try this?” Brad asks after the waiter has taken their order and left them alone.
Nate’s quiet for a long time, long enough that Brad thinks he has his answer.
“I don’t know,” Nate finally says. “I-“
Brad feels a headache coming on. He’s not hungry anymore. He says, “Nate.” He doesn’t really have anything more than that, a simple plea for Nate to do something, anything.
“I’m not trying to jerk you around,” Nate says. “I honestly— This isn’t what I was expecting. I have no idea what I’m doing here.”
Brad says, “I’m in love with you.” He figures if they’re laying all their cards on the table he might as well use the best one he has, win or lose. Nate’s face would be comical under different circumstances. Brad might laugh if everything didn’t hinge on Nate’s reaction.
“I can’t,” Nate says. Brad can practically see the waves of panic rolling off of him.
Brad wasn’t under the illusion that being with Nate was going to be easy. They live on separate sides of the country and that’s when Brad’s actually in the country. If anyone finds out about them it would ruin Brad’s career. If Nate goes into politics he can’t imagine that line of work would be any more forgiving. Brad gets that there are challenges, but he doesn’t think he can fight all of that and Nate too.
“Nate,” Brad says again. It’s hard to talk around the hole in his chest. “Let’s just forget it. It’s—It’s okay.”
Brad is possibly the least okay he has ever been in his life.
Nate touches the tips of his fingers to Brad’s. “Maybe when you’re home. Right now it’s too hard. I just—“
“Sure,” Brad says. It’s robotic. He just wants to stop talking now. “Maybe when I get back.”
Brad really does quit cold turkey after that. Nate leaves him messages, a lot of messages and a lot of emails, friendly at first, then worried, then angry. He keeps it up a lot longer than Brad expects until finally he leaves a message that just says, “Brad, please,” and doesn’t call back again.
It’s the only one Brad saves.
When Brad gets back to the states the first thing he does is visit his mother. He’d given up his apartment when he’d taken the position with the Royal Marines, and anything he couldn’t take with him he’d stored in her garage.
She makes him coffee and they manage to make it half an hour before Brad can’t stand it anymore.
“How’s my bike?” he asks.
His mother rolls her eyes, but she smiles at him in that way that always makes Brad remember how fucking lucky he is to have her.
“It’s fine,” she says. “Why don’t you go and tell it how much you missed it.”
Brad gets up and kisses the top of her head as he passes. “I missed you too,” he says.
“You missed the bike more.”
He spends two days with his mom, sleeping in his old bedroom before he packs a small bag and gets on his bike. He doesn’t have a house here which is something he should start remedying, but he doesn’t have any desire to do anything about it right now. He doesn’t want to think about anything more complicated than a left turn or a right.
He drives until he gets past the Nevada state line before he stops for gas. There’s a kid behind the counter who blinks at Brad from behind thick glasses. Brad asks him if there’s anywhere to get something to eat that doesn’t come in presealed bags, and the kid gives him directions to a diner that is supposedly up the road a few miles.
He follows the kid’s directions and ends in a dead end in front of a wheat field. It’s like being back in Iraq in front of another impassable field. He half expects to turn and find Nate standing next to him.
“Fuck,” he whispers. The rustling wheat and a few birds in the distance are the only thing he hears in reply.
He remembers being furious that day for having to take the blame for Encino Man’s incompetence. He’d wanted Nate to back him up, to let him stand up for himself. Now, he thinks about the greasy kid behind the counter at the convenience store down the street. This dead end isn’t Brad’s fault anymore than the one in Iraq, but either way, Brad’s not where he’s supposed to be. He puts on his helmet and heads back the way he came.
It takes Brad less than three days to get to Boston. He shows up at Nate's door unannounced, as if he has a right to be there and then wonders what the fuck he was thinking when a woman answers the door. She's pretty, dark hair and dark eyes against ivory skin. She looks like the kind of girl who fits perfectly into Nate's life.
"I'm sorry," Brad says in answer to her inquisitive look. "I was looking for Nate Fick?"
Her eyes sweep over him quickly, taking note of his worn jeans before her eyes focus on the USMC logo on the breast of Brad's t-shirt. "You served with him?" she asks.
"Yes, ma'am," Brad says. "In Iraq."
She holds out her hand and introduces herself. "I'm Anne. Nate's girlfriend," she says smiling at him like he's not the guy who's fucked her boyfriend in every possible way.
"Brad."
Anne waves him in and raises her voice when she calls out to Nate. "Baby, you have a visitor!"
Nate's in jeans and a grey t-shirt. His feet are bare and he's opening a bottle of wine. His hair is shorter than the last time Brad saw him, but not buzzed. He looks good, relaxed, but all that changes when he turns and faces Brad. Brad sees the panic in his eyes for just a moment before he gets himself back under control.
"Brad," Nate says. "This is a surprise."
Brad's been trained to see things other people don't. Nate is quietly freaking the fuck out. Brad thinks about letting him twist in the wind, but he's not that much of an asshole.
"I'm on leave," he says. "Road tripping on my bike. I figured I'd look you up, but I should have called first."
"Not at all," Anne says. "Nate hardly talks about his time in the Corps. I've met Mike, but he's equally closed lipped."
Brad hates the amount of pretending that's required to have relationships with civilians. A large part of the appeal of the Corps is surrounding himself with other people who prefer to tell it like it really is. Civilians can be so incredibly fake, but Brad thinks under different circumstances he could actually like this girl. Under different circumstance he could appreciate her, be glad his friend found a pretty woman who also seems genuinely smart and nice. The irony that she is the only person standing in this room who isn't completely full of shit is not lost on Brad.
"The Corps is a little like Vegas, ma'am." Brad says, pasting on a smile and settling into his role as long lost war buddy. "We never tell tales... unless we're plied with a lot of alcohol."
"Well, lucky for us Nate just opened a bottle of wine." Brad looks at Anne's hands when she gestures toward Nate in the kitchen. She has long, slim, unadorned fingers, and Brad makes a mental note to kick his own ass later for being so utterly pathetic.
He stays for dinner at Nate's insistence, and he keeps his stories about Nate clean and professional. Nate starts to relax by degrees until Anne finally stands up and stretches her arms over her head.
"I'm going to go home," she says. "I'm sure you two want to catch up, talk about all the stuff you won't say in front of the civilian."
The table was set with candles and the bottle of wine was a good year. Brad can't imagine this was the kind of date that was supposed to end with Anne going home. This is where Brad is supposed to protest, say something about getting a hotel room and be on his way, but he stretches out in his chair instead. He says, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Anne."
Nate walks her to the door and kisses her lightly on the lips. If their positions were reversed Brad would have kissed her dirty, made a show of it and rubbed salt in Nate's wounds. Nate is still trying to be a fucking martyr.
"That was fun," Brad says. "I like her. She's pretty."
"Brad." Nate says his name like a warning.
Brad feels mean. He feels like being mean. "Are we not allowed to talk about her? And here I thought I was the dirty little secret."
Nate bristles like an attack dog a moment before it goes for the throat, but it's Brad who gets up and starts pacing and circling. He studies Nate for a weak spot, a place he can strike a killing blow.
"I'd ask if she's better in bed than I am, but you let her go home and I'm still here, so I guess that answers that."
Nate makes an angry, horrible sound and launches himself across the room. They slam into the wall at Brad's back when their bodies collide and Nate snarls, "You shut the fuck up," right before he kisses Brad hard enough to hurt.
They end up on the floor, and Brad fucks Nate hard with nothing more than precome and spit and a lubed condom he keeps tucked inside his wallet. It's rough and dirty. The main thought in Brad's head is that he hopes it hurts, but Nate just arches into it, using his hands on Brad's ass to pull him closer.
When Nate comes he sobs Brad's name. His nails scratch up Brad's back, and Brad slams into him one more time before his own orgasm rocks through him. Nate pets him through it, soft fingers in his hair, down the back of his neck, and over his sweaty shoulder.
Brad pulls out slowly and flops onto the floor to sprawl out next to Nate. He ties off and tosses the condom away, not really caring where it lands. Their arms touch at the elbow. Brad moves his hand to run his fingers over the back of Nate's hand.
“I don’t know why it’s like this,” Nate says. “But I can’t seem to stop.”
"I don't want to stop," Brad says. He doesn't want this to be goodbye.
"I was going to ask her to move in with me," Nate confesses.
Brad feels a chill that has nothing to do with his lack of clothes. He feels cold on the inside. "Don't do that," he says.
It sounds a lot like begging.
Nate doesn't say anything. He stares at the ceiling and twists his fingers through Brad's. He looks lost. Brad wants to help him, but he's pretty sure there's no map for this. He knows Nate has to find his own way even if it means they don't end up in the same place.
Brad's a realist. He knows things don't always turn out the way you want them to. He knows sometimes that they just can't. He thinks about his mother's kitchen, about being small and trying not to cry as his sisters licked brownie batter off the whisks of the electric beater. His mother had pushed his hair off his forehead and handed him a wooden spoon covered in batter. She'd said, "If you want something you have to ask for it, Bradley."
"We could make it work," Brad says. "It could work if you would let it."
Nate sits up. He sighs. He says, "Take a shower with me."
Brad wants to shake him. He says, "Nate, please.”
Nate says something Brad's thought a million times. It doesn't make it hurt any less. Nate says, "Sometimes I wish we had never met."
Brad sits up and cups Nate's face. He sees fear there, but that's just the body’s natural reaction to the possibility of pain. Brad doesn't want to hurt Nate anymore. "But we did," Brad says softly.
Nate rests his forehead on Brad's shoulder and nods his head. He talks against Brad's skin. He tells Brad all his secrets, and Brad would gladly carry them for Nate if the same ones didn't already live inside of him.
Brad says, "I love you. You know that, right?"
Nate says, "I know. It fucking scares me."
Brad knows. This is the scariest thing he's ever done, letting this man see all the things he keeps so carefully hidden from everyone else. He stands up and holds his hands out to Nate like an offering, a gift. He says, "We're warriors. Let's be brave."
He waits for Nate to take his hand.