The Good Times Are Killing Me: pjvilar
Title: Carry on
Author: pjvilar
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brad/Walt
Word Count: 2,597
Summary: Brad and Walt and a whole lot of sex. Sound good?
Warnings: Aforementioned ton of sex.
Notes: Thank you justaotherwitch and gk_remix mods!
The Good Times Are Killing Me
They lost good men. Too many, over ego and error.
There’s always turnover; it’s the Corps. People get promoted and reassigned all the time. Others are just there for now. There’s always some degree of attrition, some instability to go along with all the routine.
This is different. Hitman 2 is wiped out. Fick left in disgust. Tony left under duress. Eric might stay on but it hardly feels like a victory after everything that happened.
It’s the perfect time for a change. And when you’re about to go abroad for two years and everything you’re leaving behind is moving on without you - well, that’s the perfect time to do something stupid.
Stupid and temporary.
That was the plan.
Don’t go.
Brad has never wanted to say that to anyone. So it flashes through his mind now, of course. Inopportune. Ridiculous.
He can hear the shower, how the sound changes. First a steady beat like rain. Then a soft hiss. Eventually the sound of water smacking down hard on tile before returning to the steady beat.
It’s all because of Walt, moving beneath the spray.
Brad stuffs his palms beneath his head and stares up at the ceiling. The invitation to join Walt in the shower to get clean - with the unspoken promise of let’s see if we feel like getting dirty again - probably stands.
Walt’s been in there for ten minutes already. He must be almost done.
Brad stays put.
Don’t go.
It’s been said to him before, once or twice. When it hasn’t, he’s usually been more than happy that the person in question was zipping up their pants or pocketing their cash. Then they’d leave with a nod or a kiss to the cheek, depending on the gender and the situation.
He’s never wanted to say it before. Doesn’t mean he’s going to start now.
This was supposed to be temporary and fun and very, very stupid. No repercussions, just hot sex and no strings and every one heads their separate ways. Maybe a couple of postcards. Brad hadn’t even allowed for the possibility of future sexting. Just done, finished, still friends.
That was the goddamn plan.
What is it about this year and plans? He might as well just plan for everything to go to shit. At least he’d be prepared.
There’s a single squeak from far away. Walt turning the water handle to off.
Brad thinks about getting dressed and thinks about feigning sleep but in the end just stays and keeps his eye right on the door when Walt comes back into his bedroom, where they’ve been since about one this afternoon.
It’s nine p.m. now and the air between them practically crackles when Walt meets his gaze. He’s got one of Brad’s towels around his waist, plain white. It doesn’t look like he even tried to dry his hair so it’s flat against his scalp and thin trickles of water are visible along his shoulders and chest.
He’s really well defined. They all though of him as the baby of the Hitman 2 family Winnebago from hell. Ray used to joke that Walt was more like the family Golden Retriever, but he didn’t want to give Trombley any ideas.
Fresh-faced and nineteen. Honest to the point of pain. And gorgeous. It made it easy to forget how strong he was. How tough.
Brad was sure not to forget that now, having grappled, pinned, been pinned by, lifted, been lifted by, fucked and been fucked by Walt in every room in this house.
Including the mudroom. There’s nothing sexy about a mudroom. At least there wasn’t, until Walt shut the door behind them, got his pants down and begged Brad to fuck him right there against the door, standing up, oblivious neighbors walking by right on the other side.
Walt’s meeting Ray for drinks in an hour. They’re parting ways pretty soon. Brad has made a bunch of mistakes here, including making it impossible to ever walk from his entryway to his living room without getting hard, ever again.
“Hey,” Walt says.
Bullshit Brad almost says, because there’s nothing as casual as “hey” anywhere near this. Not with Walt right there and wet and pulling off the towel to scrub at his hair. Like he’s not now totally fucking naked and clean and right there.
Brad rolls onto his side, the sheet still covering him somewhat. Walt’s gaze flicks down for a moment, then back up to Brad’s eyes. Brad tugs the sheet down another couple of inches and grins, predatory.
Walt tosses the damp towel right at him. Brad sits up to catch it as Walt hoots and says “Fuck you, Sergeant.”
“Fuck me what? I’m just lying here.”
Walt walks toward the bed. Brad leans back on his hands and lets Walt come to him, the shy downturn of his smiling face in total opposition to his muscular legs, broad chest. Fucking perfect dick.
“Fuck you,” Walt says, and kneels onto the bed. He shuffles forward on his knees until he straddles Brad’s pelvis, the sheet a total joke in between their warm bodies and hardening cocks.
“Showing off your fuck cuts,” Walt murmurs, leaning in to nose at Brad’s cheek. The nudge turns into a kiss by his ear, then that turns open-mouthed down the side of his neck. Fuck cuts. Walt had muttered that the first time, after Brad was totally naked and Walt’s mouth was a lot lower down on his body.
Brad leans back on the bed, making sure Walt goes down with him, now lying atop him, still placing soft, sucking kisses on his neck. Walt starts to move to the hollow of Brad’s throat. He hovers there and Brad - just as an experiment -winds his arms around Walt’s back and pushes his cock against Walt through the sheet.
Walt groans. “When you know I have to meet Ray in an hour.”
“You could stay here,” Brad says. He pushes his lips forward as he says it, almost a kiss.
Walt sits up and straddles him. Then, the fucker, he ups the game and places his palm right on Brad’s dick. The damn sheet is an annoyance now and Walt knows it. His eyes actually twinkle as he rubs Brad languorously, his own hips rocking behind the movement of his hand like an echo.
“You could come with,” he says. Snotty kid. Brad gives him a stern look and gets his hand around Walt’s wrist, drags his hand up off his dick. With the other hand he shoves at the sheet with irritation until it sits atop his thighs and his cock is finally free.
Walt stops teasing. In fact he stops moving for a second, but then, thank God, seems to make the right decision. He lifts up enough to get his skin on Brad’s and shoves his dick against Brad’s, cradled slightly in the crease of Brad’s thigh where his leg is crooked up on the bed.
Walt moans. Brad has very little left to hold on with, but damn it, he’s getting the last word here before he falls to pieces beneath Walt’s touch. Again.
“No. Let Ray have his girl time with you,” Brad says, moving his hands down Walt’s chest. “Get the good gossip. Have an appletini for me,” he says just a bit snidely, then moves so they’re really rubbing against each other and wraps his wide palm around both their cocks.
Walt falls forward and catches himself with his hands flattened on either side of Brad’s head, his lips right against Brad’s ear. The warmth of his breath is nearly as hot as the grind of his dick against Brad’s.
“Stop talking about Person and let me ride your big dick before I go.”
They’ve got about thirty minutes before Walt should leave. Heavy on the should. Brad doesn’t give a fuck if Walt shows up late to meet Person, doesn’t give a fuck if Person chokes on a twenty-five dollar pinot noir when Walt saunters in the door looking freshly fucked.
In fact, that idea is pretty appealing. And Walt would probably think it’s hilarious.
Brad smiles and reaches toward the bottle of lubricant on the nightstand but Walt stops him with a grab to the shoulder. He leans down and brushes his lips against Brad’s when he says it:
“That’s all taken care of.”
Brad is so tempted to just pull Walt onto his dick then and there. And he has clearly lost his mind in all this, but not his sense. He feels around on the bed for the strip of condoms and rips one free. Walt laughs because maybe Brad’s movements are not all that cool and precise at the moment.
“You’re kidding me. In the shower?” he says. The condom has lube inside, it’s fine. It’ll do. Brad pinches the tip and rolls it down while Walt rubs his at his thighs, almost soothing.
“I was hopeful,” he says lightly.
The talk between them becomes one huge spiraling moan as Walt positions himself at the tip of Brad’s cock, works the head inside with a little resistance, and then slides down with effort. The room is all sound and sensation and fuck this is the third time-no, fourth time, there were blowjobs-today.
“Ride my dick, cockslut,” Brad says clearly, some measure of control seemingly back inside of himself. His hands are in a death grip on Walt’s hips, though, pulling and pushing him frantically. It’s too good, it’s always too good.
“My little whore,” Brad says. It’s another experiment, to see what it does to Walt. What it does is fantastic: Walt tips his head back and moans helplessly. His hair is drier now, sticking up all over the place. His skin is tan and smooth and he pumps on Brad’s dick hard and precise, like he wants to do it perfectly. Like he wants Brad to see him do it perfectly.
It’s too much.
“Want to walk in that fucking wine lounge or whatever looking like a fucked-out little slut?” Brad does his best to keep his voice authoritative, like a sly commanding daddy, but Walt’s going hard now, his own dick wet at the tip with pre-come. Brad licks his palm quickly and gets his hand around the top half. He tries to do it well, he really does. It’s probably a half-assed hand job but they’re both so gone it hardly matters and Walt is almost yelling out his cries.
Brad’s hand flies on Walt’s cock. His own dick is gripped perfectly, Walt is so beautiful and everything is effortlessly hot. It happens so easily, every time.
“You want everyone to know you just had the ride of your life?
Brad expects backtalk. He almost wants it so he can give back as good as he gets. That’s been part of how they fuck since this started.
Instead, Walt groans softly and stops, fully seated on Brad’s cock. His eyes are closed and he looks relieved, maybe thankful, glowing.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” This is confusing. Walt looks like he’s never had a better fuck in his life but all the action has stopped. Brad pants and trembles as he holds still. Then Walt slowly contracts around his cock.
“Holy shit.”
Walt falls over him again, crouched, with Brad’s dick up his ass and nothing but a direct order in his voice.
“Say it.”
“Say what?” Brad asks with a smile. “You’re my cockslut?
“No, just-“. Walt buckles a bit, his head leaned down against Brad’s chest.
This has to stop. After this. After this it will stop.
Brad brings his arms around Walt’s slick back and hugs Walt to him, tender and fierce. They’re plastered together and the games are slipping away.
Brad whispers it. It seems like the right thing to do.
“That you’re mine?”
Another moan against Brad’s chest. It gets absorbed right through his skin.
“Fuck. Brad.
Walt starts to rock against him again, slower and so, so deep. The muscles in his inner thighs tremble against Brad’s hips, so he tries to reach between their wet bodies to stroke Walt off, to make the pleasure easier.
Walt comes up somewhat, onto his hands, and knocks Brad’s hand away.
“Fucking say it,” Walt says. It sounds so pained and full of need. Brad watches, just watches, blown away, as Walt starts to jerk himself off and rock on Brad’s dick at one. Walt’s hand is heavy on his chest, almost pushing down too hard. Brad feels his body straining and singing, his dick fills and then fills some more.
It flows from his mouth now. It becomes true.
“You’re mine,” he says and it sounds needy like Walt did before but so what. He is needy. He needs this. He needs Walt. He can say it, at least this way. “You’re mine. You’re all mine. God, you’re beautiful riding my dick. You’re all mine.
Walt places one hand against Brad’s cheek, looks him square in the eye and then gasps out broken, beautiful sounds as come shoots from the head of his dick, dribbling down the shaft and sputing onto Brad’s belly.
He doesn’t stop. Not even for a second. Instead, before Brad can even really take in the sight of Walt’s orgasm, he pins Brad’s wrists to the bed with a growl. He rides Brad hard and fast and bites at his neck, sure to elicit something that sounds helpless from him, until Brad comes deep inside, gasping with surprise.
They’re quiet after, lying shoulder to shoulder. Walt looks over at the clock once or twice as he cleans himself up with the edge of the sheet. But he doesn’t mention the time.
“You can come back tonight if you want,” Brad says. Who’s he kidding. It doesn’t sounds casual at all. But he tries.
Walt rolls to his side and props up on one shoulder, leans his head against his hand. He looks like a centerfold, except for the chest hair. “I might be trashed. No, let’s call it as it lays here: I’m gonna be shitfaced,” he says and Brad can only laugh. If Walt is shitfaced, Ray will need be three degrees worse than shitfaced. So Ray will be hospitalized. Brad makes a mental not to turn up the ringer on his cell phone.
“I figure my hangover’s gonna end around Tuesday,” Walt continues. He reaches out to Brad’s hip, hesitant, then rests his hand there, unmoving. “You don’t need to clean up after that.”
“Okay,” Brad says. He feels pleasantly cool, sweat drying off his body. He feels pleasantly exhausted, too. “I have to report in early on Monday.”
“Solid copy,” Walt replies. He lies back down and Brad turns to face him. They’re nearly nose to nose under the sheets, making plans, of all things. “You rock climbing with your cousin tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Then lunch at my mom’s.” Brad rakes a hand through Walt’s hair. It’s all askew. He should leave it like that, it would really freak Ray out.
He should just leave it like that, period. It looks good.
Damn.
“If you sober up by tomorrow afternoon,” Brad says, into Walt’s shoulder,” you could come here before dinner. Watch a dumb movie or something.”
They don’t look each other in the eye. The clock ticks away another minute.
“I could,” Walt agrees.
“You should go,” Brad says, then finds he can’t say anything else.
Walt doesn’t answer, and leans in close.
Author: pjvilar
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brad/Walt
Word Count: 2,597
Summary: Brad and Walt and a whole lot of sex. Sound good?
Warnings: Aforementioned ton of sex.
Notes: Thank you justaotherwitch and gk_remix mods!
The Good Times Are Killing Me
They lost good men. Too many, over ego and error.
There’s always turnover; it’s the Corps. People get promoted and reassigned all the time. Others are just there for now. There’s always some degree of attrition, some instability to go along with all the routine.
This is different. Hitman 2 is wiped out. Fick left in disgust. Tony left under duress. Eric might stay on but it hardly feels like a victory after everything that happened.
It’s the perfect time for a change. And when you’re about to go abroad for two years and everything you’re leaving behind is moving on without you - well, that’s the perfect time to do something stupid.
Stupid and temporary.
That was the plan.
Don’t go.
Brad has never wanted to say that to anyone. So it flashes through his mind now, of course. Inopportune. Ridiculous.
He can hear the shower, how the sound changes. First a steady beat like rain. Then a soft hiss. Eventually the sound of water smacking down hard on tile before returning to the steady beat.
It’s all because of Walt, moving beneath the spray.
Brad stuffs his palms beneath his head and stares up at the ceiling. The invitation to join Walt in the shower to get clean - with the unspoken promise of let’s see if we feel like getting dirty again - probably stands.
Walt’s been in there for ten minutes already. He must be almost done.
Brad stays put.
Don’t go.
It’s been said to him before, once or twice. When it hasn’t, he’s usually been more than happy that the person in question was zipping up their pants or pocketing their cash. Then they’d leave with a nod or a kiss to the cheek, depending on the gender and the situation.
He’s never wanted to say it before. Doesn’t mean he’s going to start now.
This was supposed to be temporary and fun and very, very stupid. No repercussions, just hot sex and no strings and every one heads their separate ways. Maybe a couple of postcards. Brad hadn’t even allowed for the possibility of future sexting. Just done, finished, still friends.
That was the goddamn plan.
What is it about this year and plans? He might as well just plan for everything to go to shit. At least he’d be prepared.
There’s a single squeak from far away. Walt turning the water handle to off.
Brad thinks about getting dressed and thinks about feigning sleep but in the end just stays and keeps his eye right on the door when Walt comes back into his bedroom, where they’ve been since about one this afternoon.
It’s nine p.m. now and the air between them practically crackles when Walt meets his gaze. He’s got one of Brad’s towels around his waist, plain white. It doesn’t look like he even tried to dry his hair so it’s flat against his scalp and thin trickles of water are visible along his shoulders and chest.
He’s really well defined. They all though of him as the baby of the Hitman 2 family Winnebago from hell. Ray used to joke that Walt was more like the family Golden Retriever, but he didn’t want to give Trombley any ideas.
Fresh-faced and nineteen. Honest to the point of pain. And gorgeous. It made it easy to forget how strong he was. How tough.
Brad was sure not to forget that now, having grappled, pinned, been pinned by, lifted, been lifted by, fucked and been fucked by Walt in every room in this house.
Including the mudroom. There’s nothing sexy about a mudroom. At least there wasn’t, until Walt shut the door behind them, got his pants down and begged Brad to fuck him right there against the door, standing up, oblivious neighbors walking by right on the other side.
Walt’s meeting Ray for drinks in an hour. They’re parting ways pretty soon. Brad has made a bunch of mistakes here, including making it impossible to ever walk from his entryway to his living room without getting hard, ever again.
“Hey,” Walt says.
Bullshit Brad almost says, because there’s nothing as casual as “hey” anywhere near this. Not with Walt right there and wet and pulling off the towel to scrub at his hair. Like he’s not now totally fucking naked and clean and right there.
Brad rolls onto his side, the sheet still covering him somewhat. Walt’s gaze flicks down for a moment, then back up to Brad’s eyes. Brad tugs the sheet down another couple of inches and grins, predatory.
Walt tosses the damp towel right at him. Brad sits up to catch it as Walt hoots and says “Fuck you, Sergeant.”
“Fuck me what? I’m just lying here.”
Walt walks toward the bed. Brad leans back on his hands and lets Walt come to him, the shy downturn of his smiling face in total opposition to his muscular legs, broad chest. Fucking perfect dick.
“Fuck you,” Walt says, and kneels onto the bed. He shuffles forward on his knees until he straddles Brad’s pelvis, the sheet a total joke in between their warm bodies and hardening cocks.
“Showing off your fuck cuts,” Walt murmurs, leaning in to nose at Brad’s cheek. The nudge turns into a kiss by his ear, then that turns open-mouthed down the side of his neck. Fuck cuts. Walt had muttered that the first time, after Brad was totally naked and Walt’s mouth was a lot lower down on his body.
Brad leans back on the bed, making sure Walt goes down with him, now lying atop him, still placing soft, sucking kisses on his neck. Walt starts to move to the hollow of Brad’s throat. He hovers there and Brad - just as an experiment -winds his arms around Walt’s back and pushes his cock against Walt through the sheet.
Walt groans. “When you know I have to meet Ray in an hour.”
“You could stay here,” Brad says. He pushes his lips forward as he says it, almost a kiss.
Walt sits up and straddles him. Then, the fucker, he ups the game and places his palm right on Brad’s dick. The damn sheet is an annoyance now and Walt knows it. His eyes actually twinkle as he rubs Brad languorously, his own hips rocking behind the movement of his hand like an echo.
“You could come with,” he says. Snotty kid. Brad gives him a stern look and gets his hand around Walt’s wrist, drags his hand up off his dick. With the other hand he shoves at the sheet with irritation until it sits atop his thighs and his cock is finally free.
Walt stops teasing. In fact he stops moving for a second, but then, thank God, seems to make the right decision. He lifts up enough to get his skin on Brad’s and shoves his dick against Brad’s, cradled slightly in the crease of Brad’s thigh where his leg is crooked up on the bed.
Walt moans. Brad has very little left to hold on with, but damn it, he’s getting the last word here before he falls to pieces beneath Walt’s touch. Again.
“No. Let Ray have his girl time with you,” Brad says, moving his hands down Walt’s chest. “Get the good gossip. Have an appletini for me,” he says just a bit snidely, then moves so they’re really rubbing against each other and wraps his wide palm around both their cocks.
Walt falls forward and catches himself with his hands flattened on either side of Brad’s head, his lips right against Brad’s ear. The warmth of his breath is nearly as hot as the grind of his dick against Brad’s.
“Stop talking about Person and let me ride your big dick before I go.”
They’ve got about thirty minutes before Walt should leave. Heavy on the should. Brad doesn’t give a fuck if Walt shows up late to meet Person, doesn’t give a fuck if Person chokes on a twenty-five dollar pinot noir when Walt saunters in the door looking freshly fucked.
In fact, that idea is pretty appealing. And Walt would probably think it’s hilarious.
Brad smiles and reaches toward the bottle of lubricant on the nightstand but Walt stops him with a grab to the shoulder. He leans down and brushes his lips against Brad’s when he says it:
“That’s all taken care of.”
Brad is so tempted to just pull Walt onto his dick then and there. And he has clearly lost his mind in all this, but not his sense. He feels around on the bed for the strip of condoms and rips one free. Walt laughs because maybe Brad’s movements are not all that cool and precise at the moment.
“You’re kidding me. In the shower?” he says. The condom has lube inside, it’s fine. It’ll do. Brad pinches the tip and rolls it down while Walt rubs his at his thighs, almost soothing.
“I was hopeful,” he says lightly.
The talk between them becomes one huge spiraling moan as Walt positions himself at the tip of Brad’s cock, works the head inside with a little resistance, and then slides down with effort. The room is all sound and sensation and fuck this is the third time-no, fourth time, there were blowjobs-today.
“Ride my dick, cockslut,” Brad says clearly, some measure of control seemingly back inside of himself. His hands are in a death grip on Walt’s hips, though, pulling and pushing him frantically. It’s too good, it’s always too good.
“My little whore,” Brad says. It’s another experiment, to see what it does to Walt. What it does is fantastic: Walt tips his head back and moans helplessly. His hair is drier now, sticking up all over the place. His skin is tan and smooth and he pumps on Brad’s dick hard and precise, like he wants to do it perfectly. Like he wants Brad to see him do it perfectly.
It’s too much.
“Want to walk in that fucking wine lounge or whatever looking like a fucked-out little slut?” Brad does his best to keep his voice authoritative, like a sly commanding daddy, but Walt’s going hard now, his own dick wet at the tip with pre-come. Brad licks his palm quickly and gets his hand around the top half. He tries to do it well, he really does. It’s probably a half-assed hand job but they’re both so gone it hardly matters and Walt is almost yelling out his cries.
Brad’s hand flies on Walt’s cock. His own dick is gripped perfectly, Walt is so beautiful and everything is effortlessly hot. It happens so easily, every time.
“You want everyone to know you just had the ride of your life?
Brad expects backtalk. He almost wants it so he can give back as good as he gets. That’s been part of how they fuck since this started.
Instead, Walt groans softly and stops, fully seated on Brad’s cock. His eyes are closed and he looks relieved, maybe thankful, glowing.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” This is confusing. Walt looks like he’s never had a better fuck in his life but all the action has stopped. Brad pants and trembles as he holds still. Then Walt slowly contracts around his cock.
“Holy shit.”
Walt falls over him again, crouched, with Brad’s dick up his ass and nothing but a direct order in his voice.
“Say it.”
“Say what?” Brad asks with a smile. “You’re my cockslut?
“No, just-“. Walt buckles a bit, his head leaned down against Brad’s chest.
This has to stop. After this. After this it will stop.
Brad brings his arms around Walt’s slick back and hugs Walt to him, tender and fierce. They’re plastered together and the games are slipping away.
Brad whispers it. It seems like the right thing to do.
“That you’re mine?”
Another moan against Brad’s chest. It gets absorbed right through his skin.
“Fuck. Brad.
Walt starts to rock against him again, slower and so, so deep. The muscles in his inner thighs tremble against Brad’s hips, so he tries to reach between their wet bodies to stroke Walt off, to make the pleasure easier.
Walt comes up somewhat, onto his hands, and knocks Brad’s hand away.
“Fucking say it,” Walt says. It sounds so pained and full of need. Brad watches, just watches, blown away, as Walt starts to jerk himself off and rock on Brad’s dick at one. Walt’s hand is heavy on his chest, almost pushing down too hard. Brad feels his body straining and singing, his dick fills and then fills some more.
It flows from his mouth now. It becomes true.
“You’re mine,” he says and it sounds needy like Walt did before but so what. He is needy. He needs this. He needs Walt. He can say it, at least this way. “You’re mine. You’re all mine. God, you’re beautiful riding my dick. You’re all mine.
Walt places one hand against Brad’s cheek, looks him square in the eye and then gasps out broken, beautiful sounds as come shoots from the head of his dick, dribbling down the shaft and sputing onto Brad’s belly.
He doesn’t stop. Not even for a second. Instead, before Brad can even really take in the sight of Walt’s orgasm, he pins Brad’s wrists to the bed with a growl. He rides Brad hard and fast and bites at his neck, sure to elicit something that sounds helpless from him, until Brad comes deep inside, gasping with surprise.
They’re quiet after, lying shoulder to shoulder. Walt looks over at the clock once or twice as he cleans himself up with the edge of the sheet. But he doesn’t mention the time.
“You can come back tonight if you want,” Brad says. Who’s he kidding. It doesn’t sounds casual at all. But he tries.
Walt rolls to his side and props up on one shoulder, leans his head against his hand. He looks like a centerfold, except for the chest hair. “I might be trashed. No, let’s call it as it lays here: I’m gonna be shitfaced,” he says and Brad can only laugh. If Walt is shitfaced, Ray will need be three degrees worse than shitfaced. So Ray will be hospitalized. Brad makes a mental not to turn up the ringer on his cell phone.
“I figure my hangover’s gonna end around Tuesday,” Walt continues. He reaches out to Brad’s hip, hesitant, then rests his hand there, unmoving. “You don’t need to clean up after that.”
“Okay,” Brad says. He feels pleasantly cool, sweat drying off his body. He feels pleasantly exhausted, too. “I have to report in early on Monday.”
“Solid copy,” Walt replies. He lies back down and Brad turns to face him. They’re nearly nose to nose under the sheets, making plans, of all things. “You rock climbing with your cousin tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Then lunch at my mom’s.” Brad rakes a hand through Walt’s hair. It’s all askew. He should leave it like that, it would really freak Ray out.
He should just leave it like that, period. It looks good.
Damn.
“If you sober up by tomorrow afternoon,” Brad says, into Walt’s shoulder,” you could come here before dinner. Watch a dumb movie or something.”
They don’t look each other in the eye. The clock ticks away another minute.
“I could,” Walt agrees.
“You should go,” Brad says, then finds he can’t say anything else.
Walt doesn’t answer, and leans in close.