In the Distance
rating: PG
summary: Without Lee, Nate loses control
disclaimer: That's iffy.
a/n: because thehotgates is crazy and finished NaNoWriMo EARLY, I've rewarded her with a ficlet of her story. ♥
warnings: eating disorder.
The house is always eerily quiet when Lee’s gone. Nate does what he can to distract himself-sings annoying country songs, makes tea and all that army wife bullshit. The only thing about those annoying country songs is that they’re annoying so he stops. He burns his tongue on the hot water and swears with such a fervor, he thinks maybe the bushes are blushing.
Nate’s got a confession. It’s hard for him to live without Lee.
“You’re home,” he says flatly, because if he tries to say it any other way, he’ll tear up, and be the hot mess on this side of Lake Erie.
The fact that he even could consider himself a hot mess pretty much means he needs to be fucked six ways from Sunday to remind himself not to be a gay stereotype. Yeah, that’s it.
“Yeah,” Lee answers, voice equally flat as he drops his bag on the floor.
Fuck it all, Nate thinks when Lee’s on top of him, their mouths crashing together in a bruising kiss. He’d wear a fucking boa if it meant keeping Lee from deploying again.
“See you soon?”
It was lame. It always was. Years of getting shipped off around the world, and Lee still couldn’t string together an Oscar-worthy good-bye.
“Yeah,” Nate says, leaning against the doorway, arms folded.
The trunk of Lee’s Expedition slams shut. He lingers for a second before shutting his door. He nods at Nate, and Nate nods back.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
When the car turns at the corner of the street, Nate retreats into his house. He heads straight for the bathroom because, as usual, he’s got a headache. One of those headaches only half a bottle of Tylenol will numb.
“We’re not together,” he grumbles to his reflection. “We’re not.”
He hates that word together, like a goddamn high school couple or something. They’re not boyfriends, or lovers, or partners; they’re Lee and Nate, and Nate and Lee.
He hates being apart from Lee, because without him, Nate is just Nate, and sometimes, he doesn’t know who that is.
He can’t watch TV without watching the news, and he can’t watch the news without hearing something about the war. Car bombs, friendly fire, ambush, none of it matters if they don’t say who’s killed.
There should be guilt whenever he breathes a sigh of relief because whoever it was, wasn’t Lee. But there isn’t because it wasn’t Lee.
It’s worse because Lee doesn’t write. It’s worse because then Nate doesn’t know-doesn’t know where Lee is, doesn’t know how he is, doesn’t know if he’s alive.
He hates getting the mail because he’s terrified he’s going to get that letter.
But who is he kidding? Lee’s the Marines first and Nate’s somewhere behind that, and because of fucking DADT, there’s little chance Nate will ever know. He’s never going to get that letter.
Which makes everything inexplicably worse.
“You’re looking thin,” one of the mothers from the Church says when he passes her pew.
Nate looks around, but it’s just the two of them tonight.
“You’re looking thin,” she repeats.
He smiles awkwardly. “Stress.”
She sniffs quietly, dabbing her eyes with her wrists. “My daughter wants to join the Air Force,” she says, and Nate’s heart drops. “I don’t want to tell her ‘no.’ I just want her to live.”
“I’ll pray for you,” he says haltingly. Which he does, later that night in the privacy of his office and the comfort of several empty beer bottles. He prays a little longer for Lee, prays a little harder.
It’s nothing about being thin, and all about controlling the one thing he can-himself. He doesn’t obsessively check his weight, nor does he purge until he can taste his stomach acid in his mouth. He restricts and restricts and restricts because if he can’t even control food, then he isn’t controlled enough for Lee.
He hears the car pull up while he’s in the den, stretched out over the couch, barely focused on the game that’s playing much too loudly on the television.
The silence that follows the engine being turned off only lasts a second before car doors are opening and being slammed shut. Nate doesn’t get up, doesn’t move, just waits, heart pounding, expression schooled to be as blank as possible.
The front door opens.
Lee stands there in his uniform, duffel bag hoisted over his shoulder. He looks like he did when he left, like he’d just went for a drive around the block for 86 days.
Lee leaves the bag by the door.
“I’m back,” he says.
“Welcome back,” Nate says, gaze flickering back to the TV.
“Who’s playing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you eaten yet?”
“Ate before you got back.”
“Any leftovers?”
Nate represses a laugh. He hasn’t kept any food in nearly three weeks. “No,” he says, and Lee shrugs.
He knows it’s only a matter of time before he’s fucked.
He’s dizzy, and only vaguely hears Lee’s voice calling out to him as he blacks out on the bedroom floor.
“I’m fine,” he snaps when he comes to, Lee looking both upset and worried.
“Bullshit,” Lee says shortly. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“I’m fasting,” he grunts
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Lee growls, half pulling, half carrying Nate to the bathroom. “Get on,” he orders, pointing at the scale.
“No.”
“Nate,” Lee says, almost snarling in frustration. “Get the fuck on.”
Nate crosses his arms and steps on, willing every limb to become dead weight.
The marker hovers between 132 and 133.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Lee mutters, looking up at Nate. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Nate isn’t quite sure how taking care of Lee turned into Lee taking care of him.
“Because you’re ass-backwards,” Lee answers shortly when Nate asks. “Now, eat.”
As a gay, drinking, swearing, almost atheist preacher, Nate concedes that Lee may have a point.
“You’re an idiot,” he says to Nate when Nate mumbles a half-sincere apology.
“Yeah,” Nate concedes. “And it’s kind of all your fault.”
“You’re saying that if you didn’t eat, my chances of not getting shot would be higher,” Lee says dubiously.
“It’s an inverse relationship,” Nate answers.
“Like that makes fuck sense,” Lee snorts, all but shoving a spoonful of gumbo in Nate’s face.
“What do you mean?”
Lee shrugs. “I’d just always figured that if you wanted a relationship with food, you’d have to eat.”
summary: Without Lee, Nate loses control
disclaimer: That's iffy.
a/n: because thehotgates is crazy and finished NaNoWriMo EARLY, I've rewarded her with a ficlet of her story. ♥
warnings: eating disorder.
The house is always eerily quiet when Lee’s gone. Nate does what he can to distract himself-sings annoying country songs, makes tea and all that army wife bullshit. The only thing about those annoying country songs is that they’re annoying so he stops. He burns his tongue on the hot water and swears with such a fervor, he thinks maybe the bushes are blushing.
Nate’s got a confession. It’s hard for him to live without Lee.
“You’re home,” he says flatly, because if he tries to say it any other way, he’ll tear up, and be the hot mess on this side of Lake Erie.
The fact that he even could consider himself a hot mess pretty much means he needs to be fucked six ways from Sunday to remind himself not to be a gay stereotype. Yeah, that’s it.
“Yeah,” Lee answers, voice equally flat as he drops his bag on the floor.
Fuck it all, Nate thinks when Lee’s on top of him, their mouths crashing together in a bruising kiss. He’d wear a fucking boa if it meant keeping Lee from deploying again.
“See you soon?”
It was lame. It always was. Years of getting shipped off around the world, and Lee still couldn’t string together an Oscar-worthy good-bye.
“Yeah,” Nate says, leaning against the doorway, arms folded.
The trunk of Lee’s Expedition slams shut. He lingers for a second before shutting his door. He nods at Nate, and Nate nods back.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
When the car turns at the corner of the street, Nate retreats into his house. He heads straight for the bathroom because, as usual, he’s got a headache. One of those headaches only half a bottle of Tylenol will numb.
“We’re not together,” he grumbles to his reflection. “We’re not.”
He hates that word together, like a goddamn high school couple or something. They’re not boyfriends, or lovers, or partners; they’re Lee and Nate, and Nate and Lee.
He hates being apart from Lee, because without him, Nate is just Nate, and sometimes, he doesn’t know who that is.
He can’t watch TV without watching the news, and he can’t watch the news without hearing something about the war. Car bombs, friendly fire, ambush, none of it matters if they don’t say who’s killed.
There should be guilt whenever he breathes a sigh of relief because whoever it was, wasn’t Lee. But there isn’t because it wasn’t Lee.
It’s worse because Lee doesn’t write. It’s worse because then Nate doesn’t know-doesn’t know where Lee is, doesn’t know how he is, doesn’t know if he’s alive.
He hates getting the mail because he’s terrified he’s going to get that letter.
But who is he kidding? Lee’s the Marines first and Nate’s somewhere behind that, and because of fucking DADT, there’s little chance Nate will ever know. He’s never going to get that letter.
Which makes everything inexplicably worse.
“You’re looking thin,” one of the mothers from the Church says when he passes her pew.
Nate looks around, but it’s just the two of them tonight.
“You’re looking thin,” she repeats.
He smiles awkwardly. “Stress.”
She sniffs quietly, dabbing her eyes with her wrists. “My daughter wants to join the Air Force,” she says, and Nate’s heart drops. “I don’t want to tell her ‘no.’ I just want her to live.”
“I’ll pray for you,” he says haltingly. Which he does, later that night in the privacy of his office and the comfort of several empty beer bottles. He prays a little longer for Lee, prays a little harder.
It’s nothing about being thin, and all about controlling the one thing he can-himself. He doesn’t obsessively check his weight, nor does he purge until he can taste his stomach acid in his mouth. He restricts and restricts and restricts because if he can’t even control food, then he isn’t controlled enough for Lee.
He hears the car pull up while he’s in the den, stretched out over the couch, barely focused on the game that’s playing much too loudly on the television.
The silence that follows the engine being turned off only lasts a second before car doors are opening and being slammed shut. Nate doesn’t get up, doesn’t move, just waits, heart pounding, expression schooled to be as blank as possible.
The front door opens.
Lee stands there in his uniform, duffel bag hoisted over his shoulder. He looks like he did when he left, like he’d just went for a drive around the block for 86 days.
Lee leaves the bag by the door.
“I’m back,” he says.
“Welcome back,” Nate says, gaze flickering back to the TV.
“Who’s playing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you eaten yet?”
“Ate before you got back.”
“Any leftovers?”
Nate represses a laugh. He hasn’t kept any food in nearly three weeks. “No,” he says, and Lee shrugs.
He knows it’s only a matter of time before he’s fucked.
He’s dizzy, and only vaguely hears Lee’s voice calling out to him as he blacks out on the bedroom floor.
“I’m fine,” he snaps when he comes to, Lee looking both upset and worried.
“Bullshit,” Lee says shortly. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“I’m fasting,” he grunts
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Lee growls, half pulling, half carrying Nate to the bathroom. “Get on,” he orders, pointing at the scale.
“No.”
“Nate,” Lee says, almost snarling in frustration. “Get the fuck on.”
Nate crosses his arms and steps on, willing every limb to become dead weight.
The marker hovers between 132 and 133.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Lee mutters, looking up at Nate. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Nate isn’t quite sure how taking care of Lee turned into Lee taking care of him.
“Because you’re ass-backwards,” Lee answers shortly when Nate asks. “Now, eat.”
As a gay, drinking, swearing, almost atheist preacher, Nate concedes that Lee may have a point.
“You’re an idiot,” he says to Nate when Nate mumbles a half-sincere apology.
“Yeah,” Nate concedes. “And it’s kind of all your fault.”
“You’re saying that if you didn’t eat, my chances of not getting shot would be higher,” Lee says dubiously.
“It’s an inverse relationship,” Nate answers.
“Like that makes fuck sense,” Lee snorts, all but shoving a spoonful of gumbo in Nate’s face.
“What do you mean?”
Lee shrugs. “I’d just always figured that if you wanted a relationship with food, you’d have to eat.”