Good Cookies: Prompt and Fill Post, Round Two

[yagkyas_mod]

Good Cookie, definition: 1. Marine Corps Good Conduct Medal; 2. Generation Kill fanworks created for YAGKYAS. Can include short (under 1000 words) ficlets, drabbles, drawables, mixtapes, fanart, whatever!

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FILL: Yielding Center 1/3

[templemarker]

In the mirror they look startlingly similar, despite age and time. The uniform is designed to bring all soldiers to act together as one, and in this instance it works all too well. Nate is just a hair shorter than Brad, their white-top hats nearly even in the reflected light. Nate got a haircut for this, making him look impossibly younger even to Brad's knowing eyes.

This isn't the first time they've gone to the same Ball. It's not even the first time they've gone to a Ball together. But it is definitely the first time they've gone with matching silver bands on their fingers, even hidden beneath gloves.

"You ready?" Brad asks, a quite rumble in the silence. They've been quiet tonight, the solemnity of their decision weighing on them both.

"Yeah," Nate says on an exhale, the bright shine of his bars catching in the light when his chest expands and contracts. "Yeah, let's do this." He smiles, and Brad catches a breath of his own.

Brad makes it to the door first, carefully turns the knob and looks stoic in the face of the knowing grin Nate gives him for his chivalry. They're going to the party by themselves, not picking anyone up on the way, and the low hum of the AM country music station rattles from the rear speakers of the truck. The road is shiny from afternoon rain, and Nate's hands are resting firm and unshaking on his knees.

Brad puts his gloved hand over Nate's, clasping tight enough to feel the metal band beneath the glove.

It's tough finding parking, but they expected that. They're a little late, still in time for the speech but after so many of their fellow Marines have arrived. They walk to the door of the building together, close but not touching, silent even as the bass from the party's sound system penetrates into the night. Brad waves at a couple of drunk-ass Marines whooping out their joy into the crisp November night.

Just before they go inside, Brad looks at Nate sidelong. Nate looks resolute, unafraid, but Brad knows that look. He made his home in that look. Darting his gaze from side to side, he takes a firm hold of Nate's elbow and prays the broom closet won't be locked.

It isn't.

"Brad, what--" Nate huffs out, not-quite-irritated, but he can't finish his sentence because Brad leans down those pesky few inches and kisses the breath from him.