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“You look good.”
Fuck off, is what Jake wants to say. Fuck this. Really, truly. He, despite what others have to say, is a well adjusted human. And well adjusted adults don’t engage in blatant acts of hostility to coworkers. So when the door swings open with a cloud of pulverized parking lot gravel and a coworker enters, even out of uniform, Jake keeps his cool. Deep breaths and recentering his energy and all that shit Payback’s gone on about.
And when aforementioned uniform-resistant coworker heads towards Jake? Chill as fuck. He barely cracks when Bradley eyes him warily and says what he always says, what Jake will always volley back no matter how deeply he wants to throw an expletive and petty retort in.
“You look… good.” Bradley’s smile is the kind of sugar sweetness that would give lesser men cavities.
Rooster looks good, not that he’d offer up that info any time soon. It’s just that, in the dusty sun of the bar, the sweeping sunset about to tip over Coronado and the bay, there seems to be a halo around the crown of Bradley’s head, the one full of hair refusing to stay slicked back, bouncing lightly into wavy half curls.
Rooster’s demeanor seems different this time when his attention focuses on Hangman. He’s leaning against a pillar and letting the length of his body be displayed. Infuriating, as always. Hangman can play this game, the one in which they one-up each other to say No, I'm the One Better Off Without You.
As long as he doesn’t linger on the brush of chest hair poking out of the neckline of Rooster’s shirt, he can believe he’s winning this round. Cleaning up against Payback in pool is a good start.
On the periphery, Phoenix and Rooster are bickering with Fanboy about something, a TV show maybe. Bob joins in and protests all sides. The conversation washes over Jake as the game ends, but Hangman can’t find the heart to contribute to the back and forth about… Mission Impossible versus the Fast and Furious franchise? Jesus, he is not going to listen to discourse about action movies no matter how much Phoenix pressures. He does not have an opinion about Vin Diesel that he’s willing to share with the group. He’s perfectly content to pick up Bob’s usual spot of silent observation. Especially with Rooster’s eyes dancing past him ever so often.
As soon as Payback butts in with a “but what about Tokyo Drift, guys?” he decides pulling the plug is his only option. It doesn’t have to do with the taunt fabric stretched around Rooster’s biceps. Definitely not.
“As riveting as this is,” Hangman widens his grin to regain his footing and be cocky, calm, cool, not affected by Rooster’s whole… everything. God, it’s really bad this time. Phoenix raises an eyebrow when Hangman’s sentence trails off.
“Bar.” A nod to the right is what he has to offer. Monosyllabic, real slick, Jake. The coil of tension encasing his body starts to unwind as his friends’ — yes, friends; he’s not so emotionally stunted to resist the label — voices fade before flattening into the general din of a busy bar on a Thursday night.
The Modello is crisp and surely refreshing, but its taste is lost upon Hangman as he gulps it down. There’s a handsome guy beside Jake and yeah, sue him, he’s only human. He can do what he does best. It’s just above that level of subtlety when Jake leans into the guy’s personal space. Once their eyes meet, he dials up the charm and drags a toothpick across his bottom lip before popping it in his mouth.
A deep voice answers to the call. “Thirsty?”
“Definitely thirsty,” Jake says and lays it on thick. He’s all southern charm and perfectly coiffed hair. “I’m Jake.”
Nice-Handsome Stranger crunches on bar nuts and shifts his body towards Hangman in a move that suffocates the already little distance between them. This guy is built, boring, but kind; he comments on the obvious things. The Padres game last night (sleep-inducing), some trendy taco place (overpriced, if he had to guess), and finally Hangman’s uniform.
There’s a quip about men in uniforms but the guy’s next question is lost upon Jake because Rooster chooses that exact moment to laugh, head fully thrown back and neck exposed. Even from here, Hangman can see the faint scars. Some weren’t there last time he had his mouth against that skin and a sudden, deep urge flashes across his mind. He wants to know where the others came from and where they lead.
A not so subtle throat clearing snaps Hangman’s attention back to the stranger.
“Ex-boyfriend?” The guy guesses while cocking his head towards Rooster, beer swirling idly behind the sweaty clumps of the label he’d clearly been picking at while Jake’s attention wandered.
He almost laughs. For Rooster to be his ex-boyfriend, that would require him to have been Jake’s boyfriend in the first place. Which he definitely wasn’t. He was –
“Ex-something.” The dregs of beer are unpleasant going down his throat. Jake coughs and tries to clear the raspiness of his voice.
“Ah,” the guy says, the guise of surprise absent. He really is handsome, Hangman realizes again. It would be so easy to actually reel him in with soft looks and strategically light touches along his foreman, wrist, then hands. Hangman can picture it, what this guy would look like pressed against his body. Sweaty. Hot. It’d be nice. But nice isn’t really the word that should be associated with sex, not when Rooster is only a few yards away. Not when he could have —
Nope. That line of thinking needs to be shut down.
“First love is a hell of a thing to compete with.”
Hangman can’t remember this guy's name. He feels like an asshole for it, yet he can’t seem to draw his focus back to the guy.
“Wasn’t ever like that.” Love? With Bradley? Nah. Youthful desperation is different from capital letter Love. He’s spent enough angst filled nights going over this in his own head. A decade’s worth of tension isn’t indicative of love. It probably just means that the forced proximity of military base bubbles heightens their general horniness.
Hangman is tired of this conversation. “Let me buy you another drink, huh?” He leans back in and flashes his prettiest smile.
It works. Hangman lets the guy — Ben, he remembers suddenly — soak up the heat of his body while he flags down the bartender. Their shoulders push against one another. The way Ben’s eyes darken isn’t lost upon Hangman.
Even craning towards the bartender, Jake knows the shoe suddenly kicking his own is both annoyingly purposeful and surely not one of Ben’s.
He rolls his eyes. The familiar scent of sandalwood and mint wash over him, smells that definitely don’t go together, though these thoughts never register with his best friend. Fuckin’ Javy.
Phoenix looks downright devious as she watches them from the corner. Javy is frantic and tipsy enough to be awkwardly tactile.
“Hangman, I need you. Life or death, man.”
“Whatever it is, I promise you it’s not that urgent.”
Ben’s forehead crinkles. “Thought your name was Jake. How do you get Hangman from that?”
“You don’t.” Great. They have another visitor, though Rooster’s face is mysteriously blank when their eyes meet.
“Dude, focus.” Coyote snaps his fingers. “I’m down twenty bucks and need your freaky darts powers.”
“Oh no, twenty dollars. Javy, I thought I told you not to bet all your money,” Hangman deadpans and steadfastly ignores Rooster’s stare. Impassive but still hawk-like at the same time. Sometimes, Hangman used to think he was crammed full to the top with so many contradicting qualities, things that would be annoying on anyone else.
On his part, Ben seems only slightly phased by the intrusion. “I like darts,” he supplies, transparently setting himself up for an invitation from Hangman to join. Rooster snorts.
“Great. Hangman, take your handsome man and drag your ass to the dart board. My dignity and spare cash are at stake.” Coyotes snags one of the fresh beers from the bar and gestures sloppily to Ben. “Move it or I’ll lose it, man.”
Hangman plays the round and does a seemingly good job introducing Ben to everyone. It’s all polite nods and casual handshakes while shooting the shit. Hangman, for some reason, is suddenly shooting like shit, too.
Coyote is whimpering out an exaggerated, wounded moan. “Dude, you’re supposed to be my secret weapon, my savior, my wingman.”
“Bagman does as Bagman does,” Rooster shrugs and grins easily in the cocky, self-sure way that Hangman has always hated.
What the fuck ever. Bob and Phoenix pause briefly because, yeah, it’s annoying but tolerable when Phoenix faux-antagonizes him, but Rooster's comment feels pointed, loaded. As much of a pain in the ass Phoenix is to him — and the reverse — there’s almost always an undercurrent of care that reminds him of his sisters and how they always declare that it’s okay for them to complain about Jake, but the second someone else does, a death sentence is in order.
This feels like one of those situations. Rooster knows Jake better than anyone else in this stupid bar, and he knows perfectly how to push all of Jake’s buttons at exactly the right moments. The nickname ticks him off given the circumstances; Rooster’s tone, the setting, the timing, the presence of another guy who’s actually interested — no matter how fleeting it may be — in Jake.
The coil tightens again and Jake’s head feels like the seconds right before a tea kettle whistles and announces the threat of boiling over.
He's almost convinced the situation is unfixable until Payback emerges from the bathroom and bursts back into their corner of the bar.
“Which one of you has a 512 area code? ‘Cause someone, and I’m not naming names, wrote your number below ‘call for a good time’ in the third stall.”
___________
Javy finds him later.
“So that went well.”
Jake’s sprawled on the stretch of sand separating the bar’s deck from the sway of high tide. Sand kicks up and fans over Jake’s arms when Javy sinks down beside him. He gives a half-hearted murmur in reply.
“Loverboy go home? Or are you just that fast?” A shark-like grin flashes at Jake when he looks up. A smile tugs at the corner of Hangman’s mouth.
“Had to dispose of the body.”
“Ah,” Javy traces concentric patterns into the sand as Hangman settles into the conversation. “Another victim fallen in the Rooster-Hangman warpath of love.”
Hangman’s eyes snap to him. “What?”
“What?”
Hangman tries to clear his head which has mysteriously gone a bit fuzzy. “There’s no –” he waves his hand vaguely “warpath of love. What the fuck?”
Smoothing over the neat bullseye, Javy’s fingers still as he turns his body towards Hangman’s, attention fully focused on his face.
“You’re gonna start receiving invoices for all these therapy sessions. Just wait.” He levels Hangman with a look. “ You do this every time. He shows up and you get weird.”
“I’m not weird,” Hangman protests weakly.
“You are. Only around him, though.”
The sun has almost fully dipped below the horizon and everything is shaded in deep yellows, light pinks, and there’s a baby blue sneaking in from the east. It would be a pleasant, serene moment if not for Javy’s unwillingness to drop the current line of conversation.
Despite his active pursuit of being a menace, Javy’s smile is one of genuine care while he nudges his shoulder against Hangman’s.
“You just want to make him jealous. No crime in that.”
“I do not.”
It’s impressive how one quick snort can convey so much disbelief.
“I don’t,” Hangman insists.
“That’s your lying voice.”
“It’s not.”
Hangman can see all of Javy’s teeth when his smile reappears. “It totally is. I’m your best friend, there’s no point in pretending. Regardless, you sound like a petulant child.”
He has to bite back another I do not. Javy’s eyes light up knowingly.
“But, forreal, it’s okay.” Before Hangman can enjoy the sentiment, Javy opens his big mouth again. “And it’s working. He’s definitely jealous.” His throat clears and voice pitches down in a deep, exaggerated tone. “Hangman, you look… good.” A crude gesture accompanies the imitation.
Hangman kicks him. But, like, lovingly.
___________
The worst thing is that Javy’s right. He does want to make Rooster jealous. He wants Rooster to see him and realize what he’s missing out on, what he’s lost. It’s not even a sex thing – well, it’s not only a sex thing. He misses the prickle of that stupid mustache, the heat of his kisses, the push and pull of their bodies moving together. More though, he misses how beautiful and perfect it sounded when Bradley sighed his name. His real name, not his call sign. The little crinkles around his eyes. The way his heart and head settled whenever they were together.
Last time –
There’s no need to rehash it; Jake remembers everything.
___________
They’re roommates which is outrageously expected due to the current trajectory of Jake’s life. It's happened a few times before, more than the amount they haven't been assigned together. The mix of starched uniforms and testosterone is probably what led to them hooking up for the first time, smooshed into Jake's bunk with hands shoved down each other's pants. Bradley doesn't like fucking his own bed apparently. He's always favored crawling into Jake's and messing up his sheets before returning to his own bunk and sleeping on bedding that don't reek of sex, sweat, and desperation -- on Jake's end, always. Really, as he adds it all up, he’s considered petitioning for Murphy’s Law to be renamed. Seresin’s Law doesn’t sound so unbelievable, he thinks.
Jake, because he’s still Hangman, especially on base, has several taunts lined up before they even throw their bags down. The quarters are clean, simple, sterile, bland. Jake's been in a hundred of them before. Two bedrooms, one bath, tiny kitchen and living room. They move silently through the space before pausing in the living room and the weirdly beige fake wood floor.
“No bunk beds this time.” Jake whistles and targets Bradley in an attempt to get the upper-hand again. “Real shame. I know you were looking forward to the bottom bunk.”
“I seem to remember the last time being different.” Rooster’s bag thumps loudly against the the laminate floors. “What were the words you used?”
Jake gulps and prays his face isn’t betraying him. Florida, two summers back. No, less than a year ago. The Keys, Jake thinks. It was painfully humid and all he wanted to do was peel off his uniform and position himself directly in front of a fan. Bradley did the first part for him though and it unspooled there. In a blink, Jake was hovering over Bradley’s lap and nearly begging.
“‘I’m going to die if I don’t have it.’ Right?”
He excludes the part in which Bradley obliged and let out a steady stream of praise each time Jake sunk back down on his dick. It was particularly frantic that time. Jake was leaving the next day and Rooster wasn’t and history caught up with them in a way that physically hurt Jake. His heart, his chest, his head had pulsed with a steady ache that he thought might lessen by seeking out Bradley's familiar touch. That's usually how it goes. They show up where they're assigned, the song and dance from the Hard Deck is repeated, they bicker, they push insistently against one another until they fuck. Usually multiple times, up until one of them is sent to another city, another air station. It’s easy to fall into old habits, that’s what everyone always says. Sometimes those habits are stress biting fingernails, other times it’s intensely confusing but excellent sex with a former flame, if that’s even the right word.
Rooster’s eyes dance with mirth, as if he can read Jake’s mind.
He remembers, he just wasn’t sure Bradley did too. But the thought sticks in Jake's mind. Has it always been like this? This overwhelming urge to reach out and touch. Just because. Just to get Rooster to look at him. It’s ridiculous. Hangman isn’t twenty-two anymore, there’s no reason to swoon at the slightly sweaty cling of a simple tank top beneath a palm tree printed Hawaiian.
When he looks away, stray light exposed from their shitty blinds bounces off Rooster’s aviators as if to say turn around! Notice me!
It’s distracting, is what Hangman’s getting at.
“I’m taking the room on the left,” Jake says and rounds the corner safely away from Rooster.
___________
He wakes up to a shirt falling – strike, thrown – onto his face. The fabric is soft and slightly pilled, though the absurd Jerry Lee Lewis tour poster is still visible. It smells like shit and for reasons unknown, is slightly and disturbingly damp.
Rooster’s in the doorway of course, Jake sees him when he can finally pry his eyes semi open.
“Stop the press.” He has a face half full of pillow case, but throws his voice enough to reach Rooster’s ears. “Hell hath frozen over. Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw is awake before…” he cracks an eye to his phone on the nightstand. “6 am? Jesus, B.” They don't have to be ready for another hour, first day grace period and all.
Jake considers smothering himself in the next moment. Sky is blue, Earth is round, Bradley still sleeps in ratty gingham boxers with loose elastic waists, and it's infuriatingly endearing. They’re riding low on his hips even before he absentmindedly stretches and scratches his navel and that faint trail of hair stretching down, down, down –
“Cock-a-doodle-doo, Bradshaw.”
___________
It’s easy to fall into routine. The team heads to the Hard Deck some nights, then Jake and Bradley will pick up dinner and laze around their shared apartment. They had a similar schedule the first time they were at Top Gun, though the living quarters weren’t so great.
“I am actually going to kick your ass if you subject me to any more baseball.” Mexican tonight, and Bradley flicks a loose chip at Jake’s face.
“Phoenix and Fanboy are watching some movies. Wanna go?”
Jake does not want to watch more Fast and Furious, but he’s sure Bradley’s nearing his limit of Jake exposure. Bradley chews thoughtfully from the arm chair. There’s salsa staining his shirt and it’s gross. It’ll stain, Jake wants to say. He has spot cleaner in his room, though. He can help clean Bradley up and – No. No mother-henning for Rooster.
“Let’s stay in.”
Jake is quietly pleased.
___________
They go out the next night. Bradley drives them over to Fanboy and Payback’s after a treacherous beer run. He’s not buying fucking Miller’s with a straight face, fuck off Fanboy. PBR, too. If they want to drink piss water, they have to pick it up themselves. Personally, Jake’s sipping on a very respectable grapefruit High Noon, thank you very much. It’s called taste.
Payback and Phoenix are thumping Jake’s back and downright shouting directly into his ear drum, ouch, when Jake is wrangled into a hook and ring toss game.
He isn’t even playing against anyone, but the excitement is palpable while Payback and Phoenix are around. Phoenix spiked their drinks a bit ago even though Jake had insisted that they’re “already spiked, can’t you read?”
“No, I’m choosing not to.” She’s gleefully disgusted by the tequila fueled concoction when they both slosh their cans togethers to cheers.
Javy finds his way over at some point and, because he’s the fucking best, brings a pizza with him. The others – Rooster, Bob, Fanboy, and whoever else hasn’t thrown the towel in – are still in the living room. Jake begins to wish he was there once Phoenix brings up relationships.
“Freshly dumped,” she declares herself to be.
“Fuck them anyways.” Payback chews aggressively as if that is going to comfort her. “They unironically listened to the Dave Matthews Band.”
“Coyote?”
“In a committed relationship.” He pauses for effect. “With myself! I mean honestly, I’m too good for anyone else.”
He’s so stupid and Jake loves the idiot. Phoenix is laughing in a cross between a honk and a snort. “Sure. Sure, sure, sure. That’s why.”
Payback has a girlfriend and she is, apparently, perfect, given how he’s describing her. Don’t get him wrong, it’s disgustingly mushy the way Payback’s talking about her, but there’s a dull pang in his chest making itself known. He used to want to be able to brag about a hot somebody he had on his hook, but now he feels painfully boring and a tad pathetic because he wants. He wants so much. To have someone love him in such a shamelessly sappy, pure way. He wants to find a person who would talk about him like that, and someone he’d see the same way. It’s almost too much, the way he wants –
“Rooster?”
Jake shakes himself out of it and swigs his drink, now warmed by his sweating palms.
“I said, what about Rooster?” Phoenix has an unreadable look on her face when she finishes repeating herself.
“Oh, c’mon.” Javy’s new drink pops open with a loud, crisp crack! The way he slurps is obnoxious but nowhere near as bad as whatever he’s about to say will be. “Rooster’s always single when he comes to assignments like this.”
“Really? Can’t be from lack of trying.”
Jake needs something to do. He takes a new can and swipes it out of reach before Phoenix can slug the cursed petrol oil she calls tequila into it. His limbs are slightly creaky as he unfolds himself and snags the ring off the hook.
“Maybe he’s saving himself for marriage,” Jake suggests wryly. “Rooster, I mean.”
Even with his back turned to his friend, Jake knows Javy’s smirking.
“Huh,” Payback says. “I guess you’re right. He’s always freshly out of a relationship when I see him.”
“Never too heartbroken about it, though.” Phoenix’s head is cocked. Jake misses his next three throws.
“Go left, Seresin. You’re not curving it enough.” Payback nudges Jake’s leg.
“Yeah, Jake. Hook ‘em.”
Jake swings the string a bit too violently on the next go-around.
“We could set him up,” Phoenix suggests.
“It’ll never work.” Javy crunches on another slice of sausage pizza. “He’s too obsessed with Jake for that to ever work.”
Jake’s hand stills and his body feels stuck in place.
“Ever since they broke up, Rooster’s been flighty about love. Ha, get it? Because –” Phoenix cuts Javy off with a swift smack to the arm.
“What.” Jake’s not sure if the word comes out as a question for statement because his head is too busy spinning, throat busy closing up. “We didn’t break up. There wasn’t anything to,” he gestures wildly with his hands, “to break up.”
Phoenix and Payback are fully focused on Jake when he turns around.
“When did this happen?” Phoenix asks.
“First time at Top Gun, Mayport, Fallon,” Javy says, ticking each off with his fingers. He wipes his greasy hands on a loose napkin before balling it up and launching it at the now empty box. "Norfolk that one time. Florida again, the Keys and Pensacola. One of those honor ceremonies around here. Basically every time they cross paths."
Payback is gaping. “How did I not know this?”
“Because,” Jake cuts in. “We weren’t dating. It was –”
“Hangman, I swear to fucking god,” Javy jabs a finger his way. “If you say it was just sex, I’ll kick your ass.”
“But it was!” He’s exasperated. At least for Bradley it was, but gun to his head, Jake is not sharing that thought.
“You were together. You were in love.” Javy speaks slowly, as if he is explaining this to a small child.
There’s that word again. First the guy from the bar, now Javy?
“I think I would know if Bradley was in love with me.”
Everyone in the room snorts. Phoenix and Payback mouth ‘Bradley’ to each other.
“Why do you think he’s single every time you get an assignment together? Why are you?”
“Because–” Jake’s mouth snaps shut. He can’t think of any reasons that don’t end with Bradley.
___________
The walk home is short and unusually quiet. Bradley’s brow is furrowed and he makes no secret of scanning Jake’s face every few seconds.
Jake knows Bradley’s playbook. This is the waiting game, he lets Jake stew in silence until they’re back home. Well, the temporary apartment. Not home-home. Jake’s so tired of correcting himself all day to sidestep the jumble of longing pressed against his rib cage. So when he pulls the shower curtain back and Bradley’s figure crowds the open door frame of their shared bathroom, Jake barely bats an eye.
“This isn’t a free show, Bradshaw.” He shoots Bradley a tight look as his towel is snatched off the hook, secured around his waist. Bradley doesn’t move.
“What’s wrong?” There’s not an ounce of challenge or disdain in Bradley’s voice. The words fall so gently from Bradley’s lips, laden with concern. Jake’s heart stutters for a moment.
He moves to go around Bradley and back to his room, but a large hand wraps around his bicep and stops him. Bradley’s hand is so warm, so heavy where it meets Jake’s skin. Bradley’s still in his boots and seems impossibly taller than bare-foot Jake. Their eyes meet and Jake puts all his effort into not drowning in it, in Bradley.
Jake’s name falls like a prayer from Bradley’s lips. “What happened?”
“Just tired.” Bradley’s grip tightens briefly. “I promise, B. I’m fine.”
Sparks shoot down Jake’s spine when Bradley nods and steps aside.
He goes to bed alone and thinks of nothing but what Javy said, about Bradley being in –
With him?
Jake can’t wrap his head around it. Sleep is deep and dreamless when it comes.
___________
This isn’t to discount Coyote – because Jake fucking loves Javy more than most things in this world – but there’s a particular comfort bred from all the hours you spend with a certain person. And in the grand spiral of Jake Seresin’s life, Bradley is that person.
In college, in the academy, in Top Gun, he spent hours upon hours with his peers. Sleeping, eating, working within a small radius. Jake’s been through this with more people than he can recall. And yet–
And yet–
When Jake was younger, his grandma would rope him into ironing linens and watching a carousel of soap operas and mafia movies. “For balance, Jakey,” she’d always explain. Her favorite was Scarface, his was Days of Our Lives. They’d spend afternoons going back and forth and arguing for genres, couples, the believability of medical emergencies.
“I don’t understand what’s so special about her,” Jake would ask during a round of pillowcases.
“Everything,” she’d say. “See, that’s the magic in it, Jakey. She’s just a person to you and me. But to him,” steam puffs, next pillowcase turned over. “To him, my love, she is all the good things in the world. So much so that the bad things do not seem so bad.”
Jake would huff. “That’s gross. Nobody’s perfect.”
The iron clicked off. His grandma pinned Jake with a very serious look. “Jake, one day you’ll find someone like that. I promise, you will. And do not –” a wet kiss pressed to his cheek. “Do not settle for anything less.”
___________
Jake looks at Bradley the next morning and knows.
___________
A week passes before anything happens between them. By the end of everyday Jake’s body is tired, bone-deep tired, in a way he’s not used to. It reminds him of the first time ‘round at Top Gun. It’s not that his confidence is waning, it’s the slow uptick of pressure crawling up his spine that sets him on edge. It’s like an elastic band snapping when they go for drinks that night.
Bradley isn’t even doing anything; he’s just there, existing. Directly in Jake’s line of sight. In a rookie mistake, Jake takes his eyes off Bradley, effectively giving him the opportunity to invade his personal space. A switch has flipped suddenly. There's not that much time left and they both know it. Words aren't enough, they want, they need action.
“Howdy, Seresin.” He's greeting Jake like they haven't spent the entire day together, separated only to shower and get ready for tonight. All of Bradley’s teeth are exposed in his signature shit-eating grin. It’s riled him up a thousand times before and this is no different.
He presses when Jake doesn’t answer, and there’s a scraping, husky edge to his voice. “I thought Southerners were supposed to be charming?”
“And I’m not?” Jake’s right hand points inwards at his own chest. He can play this game and even though it’s far too soon to let Bradley see the cracks in his sanity, Jake concedes.
It’s shark feeding hour; Jake’s sure it’s the Jaws theme song crooning out the jukebox right now because Rooster’s looking at Jake like he wants to eat him alive.
He licks his lips. Rooster’s eyes flick downwards.
“When you wanna be.”
“We’re not doing this in the bathroom,” Jake warns. Well, not again.
“Do what, Jake?”
Everyone always teases Jake for being pretty, but he’s convinced it’s only because they haven’t seen Rooster. Truly seen him the way Jake has. He has his big puppy dog eyes dialed up to ten and all of that deep focus is burning through Jake’s body faster than he can handle. One of his dimples is popping and Jake forgets all the reasons, new and old, that this is a bad idea.
His index finger is hooked into Rooster’s belt loop, tugging him forward with the type of magnetism Jake’s never been able to find with someone else.
He doesn’t have to check to know that everyone’s noticed them cozying up in the corner. This is a cosmically bad idea. Black ice, car crash bad. Fireworks-in-a-drought, water-on-a-grease-fire bad.
“C’mon, Roo. Surely even you know the saying?” Hook. Line. “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”
Rooster’s pupils are blown out.
Sinker.
___________
All those reasons why this was a bad idea? They fade away as soon as his back hits the stiff couch in the cramped living room of their temporary quarters. Bradley’s mouth is roving over his neck and his jaw without the intention of playing real nice. Bradley’s giving him small nips before soothing over the marks with his tongue and sucking hardhardhard. It’s so hot that Jake wonders why they ever stopped doing this.
“Should we go to bed?” Jake’s losing the script a bit. Bradley’s got their shirts off and both their pants open, and Jake desperately wants more.
Without answering, Bradley pulls a small bottle of lube from the duffel he’d set down the first day and has since abandoned. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Jake’s not going to argue. Not now, and definitely not when Bradley finally sinks down onto him, letting their mouths press together in a kiss that’s surprisingly gentle in comparison to the harsh movements of Bradley’s hips. Jake still remembers what makes Bradley go crazy, doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget it. Every time they do this, Jake thinks: If this is the last time, then I might as well give him everything I can.
So he does. Again and again. He tugs on Bradley’s hair just enough to tease, and slides a palm down his back with enough pressure to get his breathing low and unsteady. Jake lets the calluses on his fingers drag against the knobs of Bradley’s spine before dipping lower, impossibly lower. Jake brings one hand to Bradley’s collarbone and at the same time moves the other to cradle his ass and find where they’re joined together. Jake swipes his finger across the delicate skin and bones near the hollow of Bradley’s throat.
Bradley melts.
The world seems to narrow in. All that outside noise, the jets and trucks and traffic, they fade into nothingness, and all that’s left is Bradley. Bradley on his lap, tight and scorchingly hot. The whimpers that grow in intensity and frequency when Jake presses into the base of his throat. The needy moan that accompanies Bradley’s eyes fluttering closed.
It’s him. It’s always him.
Jake doesn’t know what to do with the realization, so he does what he knows he can. He gathers Bradley in his arms and flips them so Bradley’s spread across the couch. An indiscernible look flashes across Bradley’s face before smoothing into something hesitantly sweet. It’s objectively filthy the way Jake has Bradley folded up with one ankle hooked around his shoulder so Jake can grind purposefully into him. He’s losing his composure a bit, he realizes. It’s a common occurrence whenever Bradley’s in his orbit.
And it’s filthy, it really is. Particularly how Bradley arches into him and whispers things Jake can hardly handle. Jake’s getting him just right and they both know it. But more than that – beyond that –
Jake’s head is hung over Bradley’s with one arm rooted to the sofa for balance. The other is snaked between them to touch the rest of Bradley and pull out breathy little moans. Bradley’s hands have wound themselves around the back of Jake’s neck and he’s cradling Jake’s head with one palm. His eyes are so bright and Jake’s body lights up like a christmas tree in response. There’s a beautiful boy under him and gasping his name, and Jake can hardly breathe.
There’s nothing Jake can do other than turn his head and offer an offcentered kiss to Bradley’s palm. Their foreheads are nearly pressed together as they move faster, impossibly faster.
The way Bradley says his name when he comes is a revelation.
___________
After, curled into Bradley’s bed together, Jake gets choked up. They’re getting on the carrier in a few hours. And tomorrow –
Jake shuts his eyes and buries his head into the crook of Bradley’s neck. All the words he wants to say seem so insufficient, so he settles for actions instead. The kiss is a fierce, all-consuming type. Bradley’s nails scrape against Jake’s scalp and purposefully ruffle his hair. It’s all fervor, greedy hands and urgent mouths. Jake wants him more than anything in the world and he’s so tired of running from that.
When they break apart, Jake breathes raggedly into the inches between their lips. “B, I–”
Bradley shuts him up with a kiss. “That’s the third time you’ve called me that.” The thousand watt smile gives Jake honest to god butterflies. “I like it. It’s what my mom used to call me.”
Jake is the most delusional person ever to think he wasn’t hopelessly in love with this boy in front of him, the one with infuriating smirks, unbelievable talent, and more heart than seems possible. There’s nothing left to do but kiss him again, press Bradley further into the mattress and take him apart in the best ways possible.
___________
They meet outside Brady’s jet once the teams are set. They’re not going to make speeches or make this into a big thing. Jake will see him again in no time. He’s willing to bet the house on it.
___________
There’s a lot that goes on after any mission, but this one? Jake never wants to do paper work again. It seems like the 24 hours immediately after landing last forever. He finds Bradley on the deck after landing but the moment is stolen and they’re whisked away far sooner than Jake wants. There's a primal instinct clawing its way through Jake's body, pounding and firing all his synapses with this urge to check every inch of Bradley's body to ensure he's made it back in one piece. They head for land and Jake's heart is in limbo.
He sees doctors. Gets yelled at by Cyclone, then Warlock, then Cyclone again. There are reports to make. Paperwork, Paperwork, more paperwork. He is so sick of the fucking ocean and the headache he’s been rocking since landing has him about two seconds away from ripping his hair out. And he takes great pride in his hair, so that means shit is serious.
They make it to land before Jake gets the chance to crawl back into his bunk – top one, thank you very much – and Phoenix and Javy are crowding him with invitations to go out and celebrate. Javy is hyping him up and Phoenix is laughing along to Jake’s stories and it would be the perfect moment, it really would be.
It should be.
Jake’s difficult, he knows that. He knows that he isn’t the easiest to make friends with because he’s stubborn and proud, he talks a bit too much and refuses to concede on most matters. He has a regimented hair routine and insists on fitted sheets being folded the right way, just like his grandma taught him. Jake’s complicated, but he’s never shied away from that fact.
Having friends like this, it’s something Jake has always wanted, but struggled to find. And he loves them more than he can say, but his focus is for shit right now because he still hasn’t seen Bradley.
“He’s not even listening. Earth to Hangman?” Phoenix fingers snap less than a foot from Jake’s face before he snaps to attention.
“Sorry,” he offers half heartedly, eyes still roaming the base. “Hey, have you seen…”
Phoenix and Coyote don’t even have the decency to hide their laughter.
“Go home,” Phoenix advises. “Find loverboy and meet us at the bar later.”
Jake’s already peeled off from them and headed towards home when the last bit is yelled out.
“And for the love of GOD, take a fucking shower, Jake.”
___________
The apartment’s empty when Jake throws the door open with more force than is strictly necessary, but there’s only so much adrenaline left in him and he’d really, really like to have some when he finds Bradley. By the time Jake finishes showering – which Phoenix was right, he desperately needed – Bradley still isn’t home.
___________
Jake wakes up an hour later water dripping onto his face. Without opening his eyes, Jake can feel the steam wafting in from the hallway and smell the coconut shampoo that’s taken residence in the far left corner of their shared shower. Bradley's hair falls around their faces like the canopy roads in the South and his hand moves to touch a strand before his mind catches up with his body.
He meant to prepare a whole speech and sweep Bradley off his feet, but all he can manage is a groggy “Hi.”
“Hi, sleepy head.” Bradley looks unfairly cute right now, even with a smudge of blood stuck to the side of his neck.
“You’re here.”
Bradley chuckles gently and flops onto the mattress with a soft thunk. They’re effectively pressed together from the hip down. “This is my bed, after all.”
“Oh.” Jake sits up and futilely tries to smooth his own hair down. “I came in here to wait. Must have fallen asleep.”
There’s a long list of things that Jake should say, starting with the fact he’s over the fucking moon that Bradley’s even alive after pulling off something so painfully stupid and kind to save someone he’s spent the past decade pissed off at. He should say that he’s proud, that he knew Bradley could do it. That he always knew, and that Bradley just needed to get out of his own head.
He should ask about injuries and if Bradley’s feeling okay after ejecting from his own fucking plane and scaling down a frozen mountainside, but the Bradley beside him in bed is shirtless and the tanned skin that’s exposed doesn’t show any sign of bandages or stitches.
Instead, Jake says the thing which feels greater than all of that.
“I love you. Just so we’re on the same page.”
Bradley’s floodlight eyes are sparkling when they meet.
“Jake.” Bradley’s hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck. His thumb smooths over a fly-away hair and heat spreads across Jake’s face. It’s possibly the most intimate moment of his life.
The first kiss is hesitant, as if it's the first kiss they’ve ever shared, and even though it’s fairly chaste, Jake finds himself out of breath after.
Bradley says his name and the world disappears again.
“Jake.” Bradley’s breathing is shallow too. His lips are wet and his body is a strong line of heat against Jake’s own. “For how long?”
“Too long, probably.”
Bradley surges forward and the next kiss is deeper, messier. “You’re infuriating.” a nip to Jake’s bottom lip. “You give me far too much shit.” A hand rakes down Jake’s chest.
“And?”
“And you’re still fucking perfect.” Jake’s on cloud 9 before Bradley pulls him closer and says the words that may permanently fry his brain. “I love you. I have for an embarrassingly long time.”
There’s a thousand ways Jake knows he could rile Bradley up right now but none of them seem anywhere near as great as dragging Bradley in closer and crawling into his lap.