Generation Kill AU - The Road Not Taken (Nate/Brad, NC-17, 2/3)
Part I
The Road Not Taken
"So, you served how many tours in Iraq?" Nate asks, offering Walt Hasser some Oreos from the Ziploc baggie resting on top of the mound of papers, yellowing books and potential March Madness schedules strewn across his desk.
"Three, sir," Walt says, taking one of the Oreos and screwing off the top. "Me and pretty much everyone in the class. Poke and Rudy got out a few years back, Gabe, too. Poke wanted to be with his family. And the rest of us just kind of -- I guess we got tired. And then when Brad said he was leaving, I dunno, I just didn't want to do it without him and Ray."
Walt eats his cookie by scraping off the icing with his teeth first.
Nate smiles to himself, he used to do that with his Oreos too. "Sometimes, you don't even realize how tired you are until somebody else says they're tired too," he says.
Walt nods. "Me, Brad and Ray -- you know, we were real tight. Trombley too, in his own way. He's a bit scary and fucked up, but he's like a sniper when you put a SAW in his hand. Plus, Brad took good care of us, got us through a lot of rough shit. Without them, it was like, what's the point? I wasn't about to trust my six to some fucking Delta reject."
One of the first things Nate learned during his time in D.C. was that you had to talk to people on their terms, whether it was adopting their phrasing or pretending to be interested in their child's fifth birthday party or their wife's charity dinner. Even when you don't understand half of what they're saying or the lingo they're using, people respond when you act interested.
Sometimes, it's not even an act.
"Walt, if you don't mind my saying, you look awful young to have served three tours."
Walt grins. He's got Oreo on his perfectly white teeth, and they look stained and incongruous with the clean sheen of Walt's bright blond hair, blue eyes and green tee shirt. "It's just looks, sir. I can drink in every state, I promise."
Nate laughs. "I'm sure it's just my civilian sensibility, but I can't imagine serving with Ray and not being able to drink."
"Ray's just Ray," Walt says, reaching for another Oreo automatically and then freezing.
That Marine training never ceases to impress Nate, no matter how long he's around it.
Nate pushes the bag towards Walt. "Please, eat them. God knows I've had enough."
Walt helps himself to three more cookies.
"Ray's certainly unique," Nate agrees after some thought.
"He's the President of the Debate Club," Walt says with something very close to pride. "He likes to talk about stuff, he can't help it. I know he's kind of, well, Ray, but he's really a good guy."
"He certainly has a unique perspective on things."
"Ray calls it like he sees it -- sometimes the way he sees it is just… special."
Nate chuckles. "You and Ray seem to get along very well."
If Nate were being observant he might say that Walt's cheeks flush a little, but it's probably just the heat. Nate's office doesn't exactly come with Central Air. He turns in his chair and props the window open with a can of aerosol deodorant. The sash is broken, so Nate tends to use whatever's handy when he wants some air.
When he turns back around Walt's smiling placidly. "Brad says that Ray got verbal diarrhea as a child and he's been talking shit ever since."
A little voice in Nate's head points out that this would be an excellent time for Nate to do some, well, recon, on Brad. Walt's an open book waiting to be read, but Nate's above that. He's a teacher; he has to be above this. He and Walt were talking about Greek gods… Jewish, Viking-like gods are a completely different subject.
Nate rubs his eyebrow. "So, have you always been interested in the Greek gods, because there are some fantastic Mythology courses in the Religious Studies department. Greek and Roman. The Egyptian gods. The Nordic traditions."
Fuck. Whoops.
"Brad always said that organized religions were cults for people who were too weak to think for themselves."
Nate remembers the first time he heard that particular bit of Brad ideology with startling clarity. He really was trying to change the subject. "Aside from what Brad thinks," he tries again, "what do you think, Walt? I'm not interested in what Brad thinks."
Which is a huge lie.
It's bad form to lie to your students, but it's probably worse form to have had sex with them, so in the grand scheme of things, this isn't that bad.
"There was this thing one time," Walt says. "In OIF -- Operation Iraqi Freedom," he clarifies before Nate can ask. "We'd been having problems with the Iraqi civilians not paying attention to our roadblocks, so we'd started firing off these smoke rounds. Only, there was this one roadblock… I shot this round off and it hit this guy in the head, killed him, blood everywhere, and the car just stopped…"
Walt's voice wavers. "And you know Brad, he was -- when things go bad, Brad's always there. He doesn't really need other people, but we need him. When Ray had that thing with the Ripped Fuel..." Walt's voice dies off, and then he speaks again. "Okay, maybe Brad doesn't believe in god, but we -- I -- believe in Brad."
Nate rubs his mouth. He can't even imagine a fraction of what Walt's been through if he's been on three tours. "Okay, you believe in Brad, what else?"
Walt brushes his hands together, probably getting rid of the cookie crumbs, and then he sits up in his chair a little straighter. "I believe in the men that I served with," he says, his face lacking its usual boyishness. "I believe that mistakes happen to good people, and that as great as this country is, sometimes we do things the wrong way. I don't know if I believe in God, but I think there's something greater than us. And I think that people should be allowed to love who they want regardless of what the people in my parents' church think."
Nate wasn't expecting this manifesto, but he's glad he got it.
He nods his head at Walt. "Good. Everyone should have something they --"
A dark blur behind Walt's head distracts Nate from what he was saying, and he looks up and directly into the inexorable gaze of Brad Colbert.
Fucking A.
Brad cocks his head to the side. He's holding his books against his hip, which draws Nate's attention directly to the dark brown belt holding up Brad's jeans and the dark grey shirt with the fraying hem. "Hello, Professor Fick."
Walt turns around so fast at Brad's voice that Nate can feel his own neck wincing.
"Hello, Brad," Nate says at the same time that Walt greets Brad.
Brad shoots a brief smile at Walt, but his eyes are very firmly fixed on Nate. "I was hoping I could speak with you, sir," Brad says.
The bottom falls out of Nate's stomach. "I'm sorry," he finds himself saying apologetically, "but after Walt and I finish talking, I'm leaving for the day. You can make an appointment for next week if you want."
"No, you don't have to do that," Walt interrupts. "I can come back."
Nate shakes his head, looking directly over Walt. "No, Walt, you'll stay. Brad, later."
There's a brief flicker of irritation on Brad's face, which gives Nate a little thrill inside. "I would really like to speak with you now, sir," Brad says.
And in that moment, Nate can hear the tables turning in his favor. "I wanted to join the Marines when I was in college," he says giving Brad a very real, very wry smile. "That didn't happen. We don't always get what we want."
The look on Brad's face is perfect, perfectly priceless. As though he thought Nate had forgotten how to play this verbal game. On some level, maybe even Nate had thought he didn't know how to play this game anymore. They were both wrong.
Nate looks down at Walt, summarily dismissing Brad. "Walt, we were talking about the gods?"
Walt tosses another looks over his shoulder at Brad, but he just nods. "Yeah, we were, sir. I was curious what was the story with Zeus and Hera? I mean why she'd stay with him when he's such an asshole? I know they were gods, but doesn't that mean they could've had anybody?"
Another brief glance over Walt's head shows Brad hasn't gone anywhere. He's still standing there, watching Nate, his jaw set. Nate ignores him. Mostly. "I have no idea why people are assholes," he says to Walt. "Some people just don’t know a good thing when they have it; some people just don't know how to commit and some people really are just assholes."
The next time he looks up, Brad's gone.
Nate gives Walt the last of the Oreos after they're done talking, and once Walt's gone, he checks his e-mail, grabs some work and then locks up his office. He puts his iPod earbuds in when he sees Craig Schwetje on the stairs, because the last thing he need to do is get caught in an inane conversation about whether or not Nate's students have signed up for Ratemyprofessors.com.
Once he's out of Mattis, he heads across campus to the grocery store. Cooking for one tends to make him lazy, but once a week he tries to make something halfway decent if only so his mom doesn't give him too much shit about how skinny he is when he goes home to Baltimore to visit.
When he walks into the Albertsons', he turns up the song playing on his iPod in an effort to drown out the 80s Musak that makes him feel old and wistful. He picks up a basket, gladly shifting the strap of his briefcase across his chest. He has a stack of essays from his introductory English classes to read over this weekend, which he's expecting to be pretty amusingly dire.
The shift from high school to college is always apparent in introductory classes. The same bullshit that got you A's in AP English will barely get you a C in Nate's classes. Nate passes by the in-store Starbucks and heads for the produce. He picks up some apples and bananas, looks at the zucchini but decides against it. He eyeballs the asparagus and grabs a plastic bag to pick up a bunch.
"Hello, sir."
Julian Casablanca singing about 'Last Nite' couldn’t drown out that voice if Nate cranked up the volume until his eardrums burst, and Nate freezes with his hand touching the asparagus.
He retracts the hand and pulls out his earbuds before turning around.
He couldn't avoid this forever, and now forever is standing in front of him in that grey tee shirt, brown belt and faded jeans. Despite the fact that Brad's wearing this belt, his jeans and the hem of the shirt seem to be about two inches shy of meeting up.
Not that Nate notices. "Hello, Brad."
Brad's mouth quirks at one corner. "Imagine us running into each other at the grocery store of all places."
Nate shakes his head. "Yes, imagine that we both have to eat to survive. It's shocking."
Even under the fluorescent lighting, Brad is golden. "I really did want to talk to you to this afternoon. I thought professors always made time for their students."
"a) Stalking is a crime and b) Walt was there before you," Nate says, going back to the asparagus.
As he picks through the vegetables, Brad steps up beside him. "Walt was there before me?" he mocks. "I find that hard to believe. In 1998 he was 16."
Nate smirks at the asparagus, shaking his head as Brad offers him a bunch that's too thin. "I like them thick in the stem," he says.
A beat. "So noted, sir," Brad says, offering another bunch, which Nate dismisses for the asparagus he picks out himself.
Nate turns to walk away, but Brad's right there at his side. "Was there something you wanted, Brad?" Nate asks. "Something related to class that you wanted to ask me?"
Brad keeps perfect pace with Nate as Nate pauses by the meat and seafood counter. Maybe fish. "I think tilapia is a little bland," Brad says as though he's reading Nate's mind. "Maybe the swordfish."
Nate looks at Brad out the corner of his eye. "It's a good thing I'm not cooking for you then, isn't it?" he says dismissively.
"Not a swordfish fan," Brad says. "I'll remember that for when I cook for you." Nate's brain whirrs in panic, and when Brad grins at him, Nate grips his basket a little tighter.
"You presume a lot," Nate says.
"I'm just trying to be optimistic," Brad teases.
"An optimistic Marine, isn't that an oxymoron?"
"Everyone's got to have something," Brad says. "Even Marines."
All of Brad's attention is focused on Nate; it's too much. "Brad, we're not doing this."
Brad's only an inch or two taller than Nate, but Nate had forgotten about that particular Colbert effect, where Brad blocks out everything around him. He has a few more scars on his face than he did when they met. A few more lines across his forehead. He still looks amazing though. Long eyelashes, bright eyes, and a pink mouth that sucked Nate off so brilliantly that Nate was ruined for his next three boyfriends, a girlfriend, and the last two random hook-ups he had with off-duty Marines.
"We're not standing in the middle of the grocery store having a conversation? Really? That's very existentialist of you, sir. Maybe we should discuss your ideas on philosophy over beer tonight."
Nate's eyes go wide. "I'm your professor," he hisses, looking around them wildly.
No one's paying attention, not even the butcher/fishmonger, who clearly missed out on selling them some fish. Or beef. Or god, a fucking pig, Nate doesn't know at this point.
"And I kept you out of the military," Brad says, "what's your point?"
"My point is that ten years is a long time ago."
"Ten years, eight weeks and four days," Brad corrects, and Nate can feel his face falling a little bit, because Brad's not supposed to know how long it's been, even though it feels like it was last week.
"It's not that long," Brad insists. A pause. "Are you seeing someone?"
"That's not the point," Nate says. "And it's long enough."
Nate turns around and walks away, but Brad's right there, following Nate into canned foods aisle. Nate doesn't even know why he's there; he doesn't need any canned foods.
"I like Beefaroni," Brad says conversationally.
Nate stares at the fifteen kinds of Chef Boyardee before him. "No, Brad."
"What about coffee?" Brad blocks Nate when he tries to turn away, putting his hand down on a shelf at shoulder height, two inches away from Nate's chest.
Nate sighs. "I'm trying to shop here."
"I thought we could catch up. According to Google, you spent some time in D.C. working for Congressman Dowdy. He had some bribery issues."
Nate stares. "You Googled me?"
"There's this thing called the internet; you should try it out," Brad mocks. "It's amazing what sort of information is available. According to ratemyprofessors.com, you get 4.0 stars because you're hot, but too idealistic."
"Why do you even care?" Nate isn't sure if he's more confused, annoyed or flattered. It's probably all three.
"Because," Brad says, as though that's a real explanation.
Nate rubs his forehead. "Because what?"
"Because I want to see who you've become," Brad says simply, and Nate's chest goes tight.
"Why?" he manages to get out.
"Because I think you've probably become someone I want to know. Someone I think I'd like."
Nate has no idea what to say to that. Brad doesn't like anyone; anyone who's spent more than thirty seconds with him knows that.
Brad leans in entirely too close, and if Nate thought it was bad by the seafood, this close he can count Brad's eyelashes. They're so long, they cast shadows. When Brad speaks Nate can feel the warm breath on his cheeks, and his cock stirs in interest. "I could switch classes," Brad says in a low tone.
"The add/drop period ended last week."
"I must've missed that memo," Brad says, watching Nate intently. The urge Nate feels to kiss him is utterly overwhelming; he white-knuckles his basket instead. "I guess you're stuck with me now."
Nate looks away. "Brad, go."
Brad's mouth is right by Nate's ear when he says, "What if I don't want to?"
If Nate's being honest, he doesn't want to Brad to go either, but this isn't about being honest. This is about keeping some perspective. Somewhere. Not that Nate would know perspective if it ran up right now and drove a wedge between them.
It's sheer desperation that makes him say, "Brad, please."
On anybody else, Nate would think the look on Brad's face is disappointment, but all Brad does is nod and say, "Okay."
And then he's walking away, and Nate's thinking that instead of dinner what he really needs to do is go home, pick up Ripley and run a few miles this evening. Maybe more than a few.
Nate's legs don't work very well when he gets back from his run. He left his groceries sitting on the kitchen table too, apparently. A glance at the clock shows he's been gone more than two hours, but all he wants now is a hot shower.
He strips in the time it takes him to walk from the living room to the bathroom, and he turns on the shower without actually turning on the bathroom light, since there's a little moonlight coming in the frosted glass window over the toilet. It's enough to see.
His feet are throbbing, his knees are wobbly, and when he pushes back the shower curtain and steps in, the water is just on this side of far too hot.
The heat encircles him, dragging away his aches by forcing him to think about breathing amidst all the steam. The water spatters on his cheeks, over his ears, down his chest, along his spine and the crease of his ass. It's like fingers, like exploring hands and a warm mouth. It's that thought that has Nate jerking off in the shower, using one hand to prop himself up against the wall while the other strokes his cock ruthlessly. He pulls too hard, his grip is firmer than he normally likes and he pants to the sound of water beating down on the tiles and his shoulder blades.
What should be a perfunctory action seems to go on forever, and Nate finds himself getting close and then pulling back, prolonging what should only take a matter of minutes. This is what Brad did to him all those years ago.
He kept bringing Nate to the edge and then denying him resolution. What Brad did was kiss him, leave marks all over his chest, sharp sucking bites that made Nate hard when he touched them in the shower long after Brad was gone. Years later, Nate can remember the fingerprint sized bruises, the feel of Brad's mouth against the shell of his ear; telling him that he was beautiful, that Brad couldn't have him in his Corps if Brad wasn't at his side; making Nate promise not to do what he wanted to do and not giving him a viable alternative for his future.
He never expected Brad to come back.
Ten years is a long time to tell yourself you're not waiting. Eventually you just stop waiting altogether.
Nate turns around so that his back is to the shower spray. The water is still hot, the steam still oppressive, and when Nate presses his forehead against the tiles and spreads his legs, he knows exactly what -- who -- he's thinking of.
Shower sex always ends with bruises, but Nate's got one hand around his cock, and one foot perched on the edge of the shower. It's enough for him to touch himself with his fingers, to rub against that little furl of skin and think about the way Brad's tongue broached him, and then he's coming, barely managing to catch himself before he ends up with a concussion in the shower.
Everything after that is just by rote. He washes himself with soap, dries off, puts on a pair of briefs and goes to watch TV until he falls asleep.
Nate has office hours on Tuesday and Thursday and by appointment on Saturday afternoon, but what that really means is that on Saturday afternoons, Nate hangs out in his office in his running clothes, listening to Jay-Z and Radiohead while flipping through whatever book he's assigned for the next week and jotting down some discussion points. It says on his door and the class website that Saturday hours are by appointment, but if somebody just happens to show up, Nate's fine with it.
No one ever really takes him up on this offer, but Mike tends to be around too, and sometimes they'll talk shit about that happy hour Craig always encourages the staff to attend. Sometimes Mike's out doing stuff with his wife, and Nate'll while away his time thinking about where he's going to run once he's done.
Today is actually a beautiful day, far too nice to waste in the office. Nate's even managed to prop open his window with a copy of Paradise Lost; he hates Milton.
"They don't let you out of prison on the weekends?"
Nate sighs; he would know that voice anywhere. This is what he gets for not believing in God: damnation.
"They only let us out for good behavior," Nate glances up from his A Tale of Two Cities notes. "Having been blessed with your class this semester, apparently, I'm all out of indulgences."
Nate can feel the smile on his face falter slightly as he takes in Brad Colbert before him.
Brad's grin is all teeth, all predator. Predator that is wearing a faded blue USMC tee shirt, threadbare jeans, black, plastic-framed nerd glasses, and the sort of lean against Nate's door that screams gay porn!
It's entirely possible that Nate's in hell already. That would explain a lot.
"Hello, sir," Brad says, pushing himself upright and looming in the doorway. Although perhaps 'looming' isn't the right word since Brad is holding onto the doorframe to stretch his arms, and he's exposed, well, about two inches of his stomach is exposed.
Nate must've done something very bad in his last life. "Brad, did we have an appointment today?"
Brad cocks his head to the side as Jay-Z raps about brushing the dirt off his shoulder. "Rap, sir, really?"
Brad says 'sir' like most people say 'suck my cock.' It's just indecent.
Nate sits up a little straighter. "Brad, if you don't have an appointment, you can come back on Tuesday."
"But sir, our minds are so amorphous that if we don't get what we want immediately we might forget all about it," Brad mocks, taking three impossibly long strides into Nate's office.
Nate doesn't snort. Not even a little bit. "Don't use Ray's ADD to your advantage."
"You know he doesn't have ADD, what he has in a tiny body full of shit, and if at any point you removed his head or he bled profusely, you'd see he was full of shit."
Nate shakes his head, chuckling, and Brad's smile becomes even more predatory. If that's possible. Then again, Nate's 6'2 and Brad's even taller than he is. Nate supposes at that height, you can't help but see everything as prey.
"You know, no one else says my name the way you do," Brad says, perching himself on the edge of Nate's desk.
Nate pushes back from his desk just that little bit, watching as Brad's eyes trail over him conspicuously.
Brad's eyes are framed perfectly by his glasses, bright blue with lashes that are probably brushing against the lenses. Nate can feel it on his skin when Brad's eyes land on his bare knees. "Shorts at work, sir?"
"I'm going running later," Nate says. Brad's crowding him on purpose and it's working.
"Brad, there's a chair on the other side of the desk, why don't you sit in it?"
If Nate thought Brad pouted, he's pretty sure Brad would be pouting right now, but instead he's grinning as though he's immeasurably pleased with himself. As though he has Nate right where he wants him. Fuck.
"Was there something you needed, Brad, or did you just come here to harass me?"
"Sir, I'm shocked you would suggest such a thing," Brad mocks. "Sexual harassment is strictly against all university guidelines. Whether it's student to student, professor to professor or professor to student."
Nate's doesn't even realize he's licking his lips until Brad leans in a little, resting his elbows on the desk. It's the glasses. Nate's running shorts are starting to feel restrictive. "However," Brad's voice lowers, "they don't mention anything about student to professor harassment in the guidelines, so I would assume that it either doesn't exist or that it's welcome, what do you think about this?"
Brad's smiling, but it's not reaching his eyes. It's as though this is a real question, as though he wants to know what Nate thinks. As though he thinks that he and Nate -- Nate needs to end this now.
"Anything that could be constituted as sexual harassment is illegal and punishable by the university," Nate says with some finality.
Brad seems to think this over for a minute. "So that makes it okay if it's a mutual attraction then," he concludes with a nod before standing up. "Good to know."
Something big just transpired, Nate almost wishes he didn't know what it was.
"Brad, did you have any questions about class?" he asks a little desperately.
Brad pauses in the doorway and turns to look back at Nate. "No, Nate. No questions. I just wanted to see you."
Nate covers his eyes with his hand. Fuck.
When he uncovers his eyes, Brad's still standing there, still watching him. Nate just shakes his head.
"You cut your hair," Brad says. "I liked it better long," and then he turns sharply on his heel and walks off. Nate most certainly doesn't look at his ass as he's leaving. And then he realizes what's happened: Brad called him Nate.
Oh, shit.
From Nate's computer speakers, Jay-Z is rapping about his 99 problems and all Nate can think is that he doesn't have 99, but he certainly has one.
The rest of the weekend passes too quickly. His fingers get stained green with ink while he's correcting papers, and he has a few drinks with Pappy and Mike that turn into more than a few. On Tuesday morning, he goes into his office early to check his e-mail and make sure he's ready for his seminar and his 20th Century Lit kids.
His desk is relatively clear except for the huge manila file folder on his desk labeled ALEXANDER.
Jesus fuck, they're starting the Alexander the Great unit in Fraternity of Men.
Well, this should be interesting if nothing else.
Brad's five minutes early to class, but Nate's already there and ready to go. He glances up from his notes, and his stomach jumps even as his face remains passive. Brad's wearing those fucking glasses again, and if anything, today's shirt seems even more threadbare than the one he wore on Saturday, but it's bright white and it sets off Brad's skin perfectly. Not that Nate notices these things.
He glances up when Brad approaches his space, but he's totally unprepared for it when Brad places a bright red apple on his desk.
Nate stares at the apple and then back at Brad. "Are you trying to bribe me?" he asks, biting off his grin.
"I like people who are capable," Brad says. "I think it should be rewarded."
"And this is your way of rewarding me?"
Brad licks his lower lip; Nate can feel the heat in his face. "Well, my warrior spirit said it was either this or kill something for you, but I didn't think you'd appreciate an animal carcass."
Nate's can feel his eyes go wide. "Good instincts," he says. "Go with them."
Brad gives him a nod and then takes his seat. Nate goes back to his notes, waiting for the rest of the class to trickle in. Walt and Ray arrive with Rudy, poking at each other and laughing, falling silent only when they see Brad sitting at his desk, bent over his notebook as though he's already taking notes.
Poke is the last one to arrive, and that's at 10:30 on the dot. "Sorry, sir," he apologizes, taking his seat behind Brad. "My daughter gave my wife her cold, and you do not want a sick Latina woman in your house, telling you how everything is your fucking fault, because the white man ruined our land with their diseases. Shit, I'll stay well just to keep out of her way."
Nate doesn't respond. Instead he stands up silently, pushing his chair in and taking in the attention that comes with keeping people waiting. With a quick motion, he slides the clean chalkboard up to reveal the massive hierarchical map he's drawn of Alexander the Great, his conquests, his wives, his commanding officers, his entire world.
When he turns back around, twelve pairs of eyes are focused on him. In the back of the class, Ray shifts in his seat, leaning forward a little bit.
"Alexander the Great. Son of Philip of Macedon and a queen some called a witch. Abandoned in the wilderness to fend for himself to become a man. Taught by the greatest philosopher ever. Perhaps the greatest conquering hero ever. A uniter of nations. A brilliant general. An inspirational leader," a pause. "Gay. Straight. Definitely not as portrayed by Colin Farrell, so don't think you can skip the books and get by watching the movie. In love with his best friend, but married at least twice to women and apparently the keeper of a eunuch. What else do you have for me?"
Five hands go up, including Brad's. Nate picks Teren, because he doesn't talk much and should be encouraged
"Alexander was a bad motherfucker," Teren says succinctly.
Nate smiles encouragingly. "How so?"
"Everything you just said," Chaffin answers. "This dude was fucking everything in sight, and twice on Sundays. And then, when his dad gave him shit, he went out and conquered the entire world."
"We tried to go to Babylon at the end of our last tour," Walt says, "but our CO fucked it up."
"Which is why that motherfucker got shot in the foot," Q-Tip interjects.
"You know 75% of all household accidents happen in the bathroom," Ray lectures, "unless you're a fucking retard and shoot yourself in the foot in Iraq three days before you're supposed to go home."
They carry on this way for several minutes, and Nate lets them. They're excited and there's nothing more exhilarating for a teacher than having a class that's actually engaged in what they're talking about. So, he leans against his desk, with his arms crossed, listening to them carry on and not even remotely thinking about fucking the hell out of Brad in front of the entire room.
Eventually he has to rein them in. "All right," he says, raising his voice to be heard. "These are all good points, but let's start at the beginning. Alexander is the son of Philip of Macedon, and Philip is what?"
"A hardcore cholo," Poke offers. "We had some dudes like him around my way. One stabbed this kid with a screwdriver cause he stole from the corner store."
"Okay," Nate says. "But what else?"
Silence.
"He's an outsider," Nate prompts. "He has money, land, power and a queen, but he doesn't have prestige. He's not connected; even back then it was about who you know. Remember that in Philip's day Greece is the center of everything, and Macedonia -- well, it's the ancient equivalent of living in the middle of nowhere."
"It's prejudice," Walt says. "Classism. People judging you because you have an accent or dress differently or don't have as much money."
Nate nods. "Good, Walt. It's prejudice. It's racism. You look at Greek people and think dark hair and dark eyes and everybody eating feta cheese, am I right? Everybody looks the same?" Ten heads nod. Brad and Ray are impassive, Nate carries on.
"No, they don't," he says lowering his voice, so they're all forced to lean in just that little bit to hear him.
"Things like racism and classism are older than you. Older than America. They've been around since the dawn of man. For Philip, Alexander is going to do all the things that Philip can't. He is going to show that Macedonian men are as great as Greek men. That they're better. Sound familiar?"
Ray opens his mouth and Nate holds up his hand. "'The ideals instilled in him were heroism, resistance to pain, honor and respect for one's word, sacrifice to the point of offering one's life.' That's from page 39 of Book 1. What does it remind you of?"
Nate motions for Ray to speak now. "It's that job satisfaction shit that my mom keeps spouting about working overtime at Sears," Ray says with a grin.
Walt smacks Ray on the back of the head, and Ray sulks for a brief second, before continuing onward. "It's the Corps, sir. This is the same moto bullshit that was in The Iliad, that'll be in all the other books and that's all over those Band of Brothers DVDs, which by the way, are crazy like a motherfucker, cause you wouldn't catch my ass jumping out some plane."
"Thank you, Ray," Nate says.
"I'm just saying, if these books say anything it's that 'peace sucks a hairy asshole -- war is the motherfucking answer'."
Nate has to laugh.
Nate's got heartburn from eating his lunch too fast, and he's misplaced the birthday card he bought for his sister. This is what he gets for cleaning up his office twice in the same month. He standing at his desk trying to retrace his steps when there's a sharp rap on his open door.
Nate glances up, and raises an eyebrow. "Ray."
"Whassup, Professor Fick?" Ray says, stepping into Nate's office and dropping his backpack in Nate's guest chair.
A voice in his head warns Nate to proceed with caution. He wonders where that voice was at the grocery store.
Nate crosses his arms. "Not much, Ray, what can I do for you?"
"Nothing," Ray says rocking back and forth on his heels. "But everybody else was coming to office hours, so I figured I better bring my mouth up here so I can kiss your ass like the rest of the retards. You want to bend over now?"
Nate's so startled he has to cough to cover up his laugh.
"I don't know about everybody else," Nate wagers, and then he thinks about how many of the guys from Ray's class have been to visit him. It's certainly more than his other three classes. Combined.
Ray shrugs. "Walt likes you -- but Walt likes everyone."
"Well, he likes you," Nate agrees, and Ray stops rocking and eyes Nate shrewdly.
For a moment they stand there, Ray watching Nate and Nate rather bemusedly watching back. And then Ray looks Nate up and down very obviously, and Nate has a moment of total disconnect before he starts laughing hysterically, because there's just no way Ray Person is interested in him.
That would just be a whole new level of insanity.
And then Ray smiles broadly. "Yeah, you're okay," he says. "I can see why he's gone all pissy lately."
Nate stops laughing. "He who?"
Ray looks at him like he might be stupid. "Professor Fick -- Nate -- sir," he amends eventually. "I don’t know how many Marines you know, but let me explain something to your civilian coddled bubble ass. We wore fucking adult diapers in the desert for weeks because we couldn't stop to take a piss on the side of the road. We've lived on nasty fucking MREs, used skin mags, three hours of sleep every two days and motherfuckin' Ripped Fuel that would make you fuck your mom if you weren't paying attention. In civilian life we don't need a lot, except for a decent shit and to get our cocks sucked every now and then. And maybe some Thai pussy."
Nate wishes he didn't know exactly where this was going, but he does.
"All I'm sayin'," Ray picks up his backpack, "is that we're cool with it. You should be too."
And then Ray's gone and Nate has to lean back against the wall, because in some weird way, he thinks he just got permission to date Brad. Not that he needs or wants it, but still.
He wonders if this is what it's like to date somebody with kids.
"If ever there was some shit that was motivated by ass, this would be it," Ray says in Thursday's class.
"That's what you said about The Iliad," Poke mocks.
"Yeah, but this one is too," Ray insists. "Dude gets married not once, but twice, has got wassisface, Hephaestion, as his right hand -- probably jacking him with his left -- and then he's got a eunuch too. I dunno how he rode into all them battles, but I'm guessing his dick had its own horse."
Lilley and Chaffin make dismissive noises, but Nate will go with it.
"Ray makes a point," he says. He's sitting on his desk with one of the books in his hand and directing the conversation. "Maybe not as eloquently as it could be, but Alexander married several times, because the king has to have an heir. This is something that will come up time and again, that empires will fall when there's no one to take over the throne. There's Alexander, and when we get to The Once and Future King, you'll see that this happened to Arthur too. If there is no heir, what happens?"
"Oppression," Walt supplies.
"How so?" Nate counters.
"If women were given the same ascension rights or the person the king really trusts could take the throne, then a lot of this shit could've been avoided."
"But Hephaestion died before Alexander," Nate says. "People do that; he could never have replaced Alexander, even if the laws had allowed it."
"And Alexander grieved," Brad says. "For months. Possibly years."
Nate has absolutely no reason to be startled when Brad speaks up, but it happens anyway.
"Why do you say 'years', Brad?" Nate did not mean to ask that question.
Brad's forehead furrows. "Just because someone leaves doesn't mean you stop wanting them."
This is very uncomfortable territory for Nate.
"That must've been some serious dick," Poke says, mildly impressed. "I know some people like to roll like that, but I ain't never seen no dude that could put it on me like my Gina."
"Why are we always talking about faggots?" Trombley declares. "This gay shit is fucked up. In Michigan they beat those fuckers up."
Nate can see Brad moving in his periphery, opening his mouth, but a sharp kick to Brad's shin ends that. This is Nate's class.
Instead, Nate closes the book and sets it down beside him to stand up.
"Trombley, your ignorance is second only to your fucking stupidity," Ray snaps before Nate can speak. "Just because no gay guy would want your pimpled pasty ass doesn't make it wrong. Hell, I wouldn't fuck your ass even if you had a pussy and it was the last one on earth."
"What?" Trombley says, apparently unaware he's said something wrong. "That shit isn't natural."
"Neither are you," Poke retorts, "but you don't see us keeping your psycho ass from marrying my Mexican sisters and fucking up our race, cause let me tell you if anybody needs to be kept from procreating it's your ass."
"Fuck you, Poke," Trombley retorts angrily. "That shit's illegal for a reason."
"Your ass needs to be illegal," Poke says.
"Trombley, your obsession with dick leads me to believe you either don't have one, or it's so small you don't know what a real one looks like," Ray says.
Walt's hand is on Ray's shoulder, tugging on him, but Ray doesn't seem very inclined to calm down. And to be honest, Nate wouldn't mind letting Ray go after Trombley for a bit, but personal feelings and sexual orientations aside, Nate's still their teacher.
"That's enough," Nate says sharply, pointedly not looking at Walt whispering in Ray's ear or Ray gesturing furiously. "If these were ancient times I could put you all in arena and let you wrestle it out, but I'm sure you don't want to hear how gay wrestling is."
"I like wrestling," Rudy says stubbornly.
"That's because you're the gayest straight man ever," Brad says.
"Rudy, you are welcome to write about wrestling as much as you want," Nate says. "About how homoerotic it is or isn't. In fact, you're all going to write me papers around Ray's theory that war is really about sex. How you do it is up to you, but I want fifteen pages, due one week from today."
The entire room goes silent, except for Trombley who sputters. "Fifteen pages?!"
"Be glad it's not fifty," Nate snaps, and this time even Trombley is silent.
On Saturday night, Mike and Tara Wynn have their monthly barbecue, which is really just an excuse for everyone to get together and bitch and drink. Not necessarily in that order.
Nate shows up a little after seven o'clock, a case of beer and a bottle of wine in hand. The sun has almost set, and Nate can smell the hamburgers and hot dogs from the street.
The Wynn's backyard is already populated by most of the colleagues that Nate actually likes. Mike and Eric are bickering at the grill, while Tara talks with Pappy, Bryan Patterson, Tim 'Doc' Bryan and Eric's girlfriend, Deb. Both Doc and Bryan have tenure, which seems to mean they have cart blanche to talk shit about anyone and everything.
Nate yearns for tenure.
He swaps his beer and wine for a bottle of Heineken from Tara's outstretched hand and drops down on the lawn furniture next to Doc, who is apparently excited about something. "The question isn't ‘have you?’, the question is 'who hasn't'?" Doc says, waving his bottle around.
"Who hasn't what?" Nate asks.
"Slept with one of their students," Bryan says. "Personally, I think it's a reprehensible action, and completely distorts the student/teacher dynamic."
"He's still upset about that senior who dumped him after he gave her an A on her thesis," Tara translates.
"And it wasn't even a good thesis," Bryan moans before taking a sip of his beer.
"Yeah, but was it good head?" Eric Kocher's voice is right over Nate's shoulder, and when he looks behind him Eric's eating a hamburger and listening in. Nate ducks as Eric's girlfriend Deb tosses a balled up napkin over his head at Eric.
Bryan sighs, "Why do you think I gave her an 'A'?"
"This is all behavior unbecoming a Marine," Mike says, setting down a plateful of food.
"Why do you think I left?" Doc retorts. "Couldn't fuck anybody in the Corps. Can't fuck anybody in your classes. That's just bullshit. How the hell am I supposed to get laid otherwise? The only people I ever see are you retards -- no offense, ladies -- and my students, and I'm sure as hell not fucking your ugly assess."
"I don't know," Eric says, pulling down his shorts enough to show a vast expanse of his ass. "My ass is pretty nice, you sure you don't want some?"
"That ass belongs to me," Deb says. "And don't you forget it."
"You heard the lady," Eric says, letting go of the elastic of his shorts with a 'snap.' "Your loss, Doc."
Nate's been listening to this exchange with something akin to shock, followed by a small sense of relief. Now that he's almost done with his first beer, he can participate in the conversation. It's the only rule at the barbeque, no talking until you've had alcohol to alleviate the bullshit. It's sort of like the conch in Lord of the Flies, but in reverse.
"Okay," he says, waving his practically empty bottle to show he can talk now. "The real question then becomes raise your hand if you haven't had sex with a student."
No one raises their hands. Even Tara and Deb, neither of whom are teachers at UCO.
"Okay, what's that about?" Mike demands.
Tara snorts. "I screwed the professor, same thing."
"Can't argue with that," Doc agrees. "Deb?"
"I did tutoring in high school," she says with a grin. "It's amazing how much tutoring some athletes need."
When Tara and Deb high five each other, Nate can't help laughing.
Nate wakes up early on Sunday, not because he wants too, but because all the beer in his gut needs to be dealt with.
There's something suspiciously like a hangover occurring in the back of his head, and he finds himself going for a run to clear out the fog. On Sundays Mrs. Gonzales attends church and takes Ripley to some sort of doggie daycare, so Nate's on his own.
The sun is high overhead, even though it's barely past eight, and Nate doesn't even realize he's heading for the beach until he's close enough to smell the salty air. In all the time Nate's been in Oceanside, he's only been to the beach a handful of times, but every time he goes, he wonders why he doesn’t go more. It's not like he has to get in the water. He's always had this fear of drowning, though, which his mom says dates back to when he fell in his aunt's pool when he was five.
By the time he hits the sand his shirt is sticking to him in all the wrong places, so he pulls it off and tucks it in the waistband of his shorts. This is probably a bad idea since he's prone to sunburn, but he's hot, and the mist and breeze running along the surf makes the heat on his shoulders worth it.
The beach is mostly deserted except for a few surfers, and Nate's in his own world, which is obviously why he runs into someone. When a moving object meets an object at rest, the moving object takes the brunt of the force and Nate feels the impact everywhere.
He nearly falls on his ass, and is saved only by a hand on his wrist holding him up. "Sorry," he apologizes automatically, looking from the wrist, along a long wetsuit-clad arm. Up a broad chest and bare neck, up, and - oh, dear, god.
Brad's grin is enormous. "You know, most people just say 'hi.' If you wanted my attention, you could've just said so, you didn't have to run me over."
Nate's brain sputters around, babbling to itself, not bothering to provide an answer in the slightest while Nate looks at the surfboard under Brad's other arm. Brad surfs. Of course Brad surfs. "I think, to run you over, you would've had to move," he manages eventually.
"So, you weren't running me over, you were just running into me?" Brad raises an inquisitive eyebrow.
"I wasn't looking where I was going," Nate says peevishly.
"You'll understand if I doubt the veracity of your statement, Nate."
"That doesn't make it any less true."
"I guess not," Brad says thoughtfully. A shiver goes from Nate's wrist all the way down to his cock, and he's shocked to realize Brad's still holding his wrist, his thumb rubbing along Nate's palm.
Brad's hold tightens as though he's anticipating Nate's attempt to pull away. Nate makes the attempt anyway. It's fruitless.
"I haven't seen you on the beach before," Brad says conversationally.
"I normally run closer to school," Nate says. "Ripley couldn't run this far and make it back."
"Ripley?"
"My neighbor's dog. I take her running."
Brad ducks his head, smiling. "Of course you do. Do you pull kittens out of trees and feed starving children in your spare time too?"
"And what if I do?" Nate says belligerently. It's better than saying he reads crappy essays and jerks off thinking about ancient one-night stands.
"Still as altruistic as ever," Brad says. "I like that."
"I'd like my wrist back," is Nate's reply.
Brad automatically lets go, and Nate's wrist goes cold, which makes no sense, because he can feel the sweat running down his spine and pasting his hair to his forehead.
Brad jams his surfboard in the sand before reaching back and unzipping his wetsuit. Nate's eyes go wide as Brad strips the suit down to a very dangerous level around his hips.
"I, uh, need to get going," Nate says, because things are going to be embarrassing soon. Besides, running with an erection is a nightmare.
Brad licks his lips. "You're turning red, you need sunblock."
Nate rolls his eyes. "I must've left mine in my other running clothes."
Brad chuckles. "You can use mine, c'mon."
"I don’t think that's a--"
"Nate, it's just sunblock," Brad says, pulling his surfboard up and walking up the beach. "I'll even let you put it on yourself."
Nate stares at Brad's back as he walks away. Brad's got a tattoo on his back now, an absolute monstrosity that spreads across the broad expanse in a swath of colors. Nate's never been a fan of tattoos, but this one he wants to touch. To explore. He wants to know why Brad did it.
Nate's feet are following Brad long before his brain has caught up with the situation. "What ever happened to calling me 'sir'?" he says when they reach Brad's spot on the beach.
"I think we're past that," Brad says, digging in his backpack. "Don't you?"
"I have no idea what we are," Nate says.
Brad looks at him sharply. "You don’t?"
Nate swallows down what he knows Brad implying. "You got a tattoo," he says conversationally. "It's big."
Brad grins. "Yes, it is."
Nate shakes his head and laughs, taking the sunblock from Brad, who makes no pretense of watching Nate apply the lotion to his arms, chest and face.
"Thanks," Nate says once he's done. "I should get going."
"You forgot your back," Brad says.
"I'll live," Nate says, "It's just sunburn."
"I insist," Brad says, and Nate means to protest but then Brad's turning him around and there are warm hands and warm lotion rubbing along his back, down his spine, just at the waistband of his shorts and all of Nate's thoughts of impropriety fall away in favor of some very inappropriate thoughts about what else sunblock would be good for.
"You could've just let me burn," he says.
Brad's hands are just as callused as Nate remembers them. His fingers just as sure, and Nate may sigh a little bit. In fact, if there was any furniture around, Nate might possibly crawl on it and demand Brad fuck him now.
"If I let you burn, you'd be miserable and pissy in class," Brad says, "and as cute as you are when you're pissy, I tried to leave most of the sadism in the Corps."
Nate opens and closes his mouth. "I am not cute," he says irritably.
Brad laughs right in his ear. "Yes, you are, Nate. It's just your cross to bear."
"Well, we can't all be Greek gods," Nate huffs.
Brad's quiet for a minute. "I'm Greek now? Didn't you say in class that the Greeks were elitist assholes? You used to say I was a Viking."
"No, the asshole thing is much more appropriate," Nate decides, before protesting loudly when Brad snaps the waistband of Nate's shorts.
"Okay," Brad says when he turns around. "You can go."
Brad's even closer than Nate thought, but the sun is in his face and he can't make out Brad's expression without shading his eyes. He offers Brad a half smile. "I can go? Does that mean I'm being dismissed?"
Brad's answering smile is all teeth. "For now."
Part III
The Road Not Taken
"So, you served how many tours in Iraq?" Nate asks, offering Walt Hasser some Oreos from the Ziploc baggie resting on top of the mound of papers, yellowing books and potential March Madness schedules strewn across his desk.
"Three, sir," Walt says, taking one of the Oreos and screwing off the top. "Me and pretty much everyone in the class. Poke and Rudy got out a few years back, Gabe, too. Poke wanted to be with his family. And the rest of us just kind of -- I guess we got tired. And then when Brad said he was leaving, I dunno, I just didn't want to do it without him and Ray."
Walt eats his cookie by scraping off the icing with his teeth first.
Nate smiles to himself, he used to do that with his Oreos too. "Sometimes, you don't even realize how tired you are until somebody else says they're tired too," he says.
Walt nods. "Me, Brad and Ray -- you know, we were real tight. Trombley too, in his own way. He's a bit scary and fucked up, but he's like a sniper when you put a SAW in his hand. Plus, Brad took good care of us, got us through a lot of rough shit. Without them, it was like, what's the point? I wasn't about to trust my six to some fucking Delta reject."
One of the first things Nate learned during his time in D.C. was that you had to talk to people on their terms, whether it was adopting their phrasing or pretending to be interested in their child's fifth birthday party or their wife's charity dinner. Even when you don't understand half of what they're saying or the lingo they're using, people respond when you act interested.
Sometimes, it's not even an act.
"Walt, if you don't mind my saying, you look awful young to have served three tours."
Walt grins. He's got Oreo on his perfectly white teeth, and they look stained and incongruous with the clean sheen of Walt's bright blond hair, blue eyes and green tee shirt. "It's just looks, sir. I can drink in every state, I promise."
Nate laughs. "I'm sure it's just my civilian sensibility, but I can't imagine serving with Ray and not being able to drink."
"Ray's just Ray," Walt says, reaching for another Oreo automatically and then freezing.
That Marine training never ceases to impress Nate, no matter how long he's around it.
Nate pushes the bag towards Walt. "Please, eat them. God knows I've had enough."
Walt helps himself to three more cookies.
"Ray's certainly unique," Nate agrees after some thought.
"He's the President of the Debate Club," Walt says with something very close to pride. "He likes to talk about stuff, he can't help it. I know he's kind of, well, Ray, but he's really a good guy."
"He certainly has a unique perspective on things."
"Ray calls it like he sees it -- sometimes the way he sees it is just… special."
Nate chuckles. "You and Ray seem to get along very well."
If Nate were being observant he might say that Walt's cheeks flush a little, but it's probably just the heat. Nate's office doesn't exactly come with Central Air. He turns in his chair and props the window open with a can of aerosol deodorant. The sash is broken, so Nate tends to use whatever's handy when he wants some air.
When he turns back around Walt's smiling placidly. "Brad says that Ray got verbal diarrhea as a child and he's been talking shit ever since."
A little voice in Nate's head points out that this would be an excellent time for Nate to do some, well, recon, on Brad. Walt's an open book waiting to be read, but Nate's above that. He's a teacher; he has to be above this. He and Walt were talking about Greek gods… Jewish, Viking-like gods are a completely different subject.
Nate rubs his eyebrow. "So, have you always been interested in the Greek gods, because there are some fantastic Mythology courses in the Religious Studies department. Greek and Roman. The Egyptian gods. The Nordic traditions."
Fuck. Whoops.
"Brad always said that organized religions were cults for people who were too weak to think for themselves."
Nate remembers the first time he heard that particular bit of Brad ideology with startling clarity. He really was trying to change the subject. "Aside from what Brad thinks," he tries again, "what do you think, Walt? I'm not interested in what Brad thinks."
Which is a huge lie.
It's bad form to lie to your students, but it's probably worse form to have had sex with them, so in the grand scheme of things, this isn't that bad.
"There was this thing one time," Walt says. "In OIF -- Operation Iraqi Freedom," he clarifies before Nate can ask. "We'd been having problems with the Iraqi civilians not paying attention to our roadblocks, so we'd started firing off these smoke rounds. Only, there was this one roadblock… I shot this round off and it hit this guy in the head, killed him, blood everywhere, and the car just stopped…"
Walt's voice wavers. "And you know Brad, he was -- when things go bad, Brad's always there. He doesn't really need other people, but we need him. When Ray had that thing with the Ripped Fuel..." Walt's voice dies off, and then he speaks again. "Okay, maybe Brad doesn't believe in god, but we -- I -- believe in Brad."
Nate rubs his mouth. He can't even imagine a fraction of what Walt's been through if he's been on three tours. "Okay, you believe in Brad, what else?"
Walt brushes his hands together, probably getting rid of the cookie crumbs, and then he sits up in his chair a little straighter. "I believe in the men that I served with," he says, his face lacking its usual boyishness. "I believe that mistakes happen to good people, and that as great as this country is, sometimes we do things the wrong way. I don't know if I believe in God, but I think there's something greater than us. And I think that people should be allowed to love who they want regardless of what the people in my parents' church think."
Nate wasn't expecting this manifesto, but he's glad he got it.
He nods his head at Walt. "Good. Everyone should have something they --"
A dark blur behind Walt's head distracts Nate from what he was saying, and he looks up and directly into the inexorable gaze of Brad Colbert.
Fucking A.
Brad cocks his head to the side. He's holding his books against his hip, which draws Nate's attention directly to the dark brown belt holding up Brad's jeans and the dark grey shirt with the fraying hem. "Hello, Professor Fick."
Walt turns around so fast at Brad's voice that Nate can feel his own neck wincing.
"Hello, Brad," Nate says at the same time that Walt greets Brad.
Brad shoots a brief smile at Walt, but his eyes are very firmly fixed on Nate. "I was hoping I could speak with you, sir," Brad says.
The bottom falls out of Nate's stomach. "I'm sorry," he finds himself saying apologetically, "but after Walt and I finish talking, I'm leaving for the day. You can make an appointment for next week if you want."
"No, you don't have to do that," Walt interrupts. "I can come back."
Nate shakes his head, looking directly over Walt. "No, Walt, you'll stay. Brad, later."
There's a brief flicker of irritation on Brad's face, which gives Nate a little thrill inside. "I would really like to speak with you now, sir," Brad says.
And in that moment, Nate can hear the tables turning in his favor. "I wanted to join the Marines when I was in college," he says giving Brad a very real, very wry smile. "That didn't happen. We don't always get what we want."
The look on Brad's face is perfect, perfectly priceless. As though he thought Nate had forgotten how to play this verbal game. On some level, maybe even Nate had thought he didn't know how to play this game anymore. They were both wrong.
Nate looks down at Walt, summarily dismissing Brad. "Walt, we were talking about the gods?"
Walt tosses another looks over his shoulder at Brad, but he just nods. "Yeah, we were, sir. I was curious what was the story with Zeus and Hera? I mean why she'd stay with him when he's such an asshole? I know they were gods, but doesn't that mean they could've had anybody?"
Another brief glance over Walt's head shows Brad hasn't gone anywhere. He's still standing there, watching Nate, his jaw set. Nate ignores him. Mostly. "I have no idea why people are assholes," he says to Walt. "Some people just don’t know a good thing when they have it; some people just don't know how to commit and some people really are just assholes."
The next time he looks up, Brad's gone.
Nate gives Walt the last of the Oreos after they're done talking, and once Walt's gone, he checks his e-mail, grabs some work and then locks up his office. He puts his iPod earbuds in when he sees Craig Schwetje on the stairs, because the last thing he need to do is get caught in an inane conversation about whether or not Nate's students have signed up for Ratemyprofessors.com.
Once he's out of Mattis, he heads across campus to the grocery store. Cooking for one tends to make him lazy, but once a week he tries to make something halfway decent if only so his mom doesn't give him too much shit about how skinny he is when he goes home to Baltimore to visit.
When he walks into the Albertsons', he turns up the song playing on his iPod in an effort to drown out the 80s Musak that makes him feel old and wistful. He picks up a basket, gladly shifting the strap of his briefcase across his chest. He has a stack of essays from his introductory English classes to read over this weekend, which he's expecting to be pretty amusingly dire.
The shift from high school to college is always apparent in introductory classes. The same bullshit that got you A's in AP English will barely get you a C in Nate's classes. Nate passes by the in-store Starbucks and heads for the produce. He picks up some apples and bananas, looks at the zucchini but decides against it. He eyeballs the asparagus and grabs a plastic bag to pick up a bunch.
"Hello, sir."
Julian Casablanca singing about 'Last Nite' couldn’t drown out that voice if Nate cranked up the volume until his eardrums burst, and Nate freezes with his hand touching the asparagus.
He retracts the hand and pulls out his earbuds before turning around.
He couldn't avoid this forever, and now forever is standing in front of him in that grey tee shirt, brown belt and faded jeans. Despite the fact that Brad's wearing this belt, his jeans and the hem of the shirt seem to be about two inches shy of meeting up.
Not that Nate notices. "Hello, Brad."
Brad's mouth quirks at one corner. "Imagine us running into each other at the grocery store of all places."
Nate shakes his head. "Yes, imagine that we both have to eat to survive. It's shocking."
Even under the fluorescent lighting, Brad is golden. "I really did want to talk to you to this afternoon. I thought professors always made time for their students."
"a) Stalking is a crime and b) Walt was there before you," Nate says, going back to the asparagus.
As he picks through the vegetables, Brad steps up beside him. "Walt was there before me?" he mocks. "I find that hard to believe. In 1998 he was 16."
Nate smirks at the asparagus, shaking his head as Brad offers him a bunch that's too thin. "I like them thick in the stem," he says.
A beat. "So noted, sir," Brad says, offering another bunch, which Nate dismisses for the asparagus he picks out himself.
Nate turns to walk away, but Brad's right there at his side. "Was there something you wanted, Brad?" Nate asks. "Something related to class that you wanted to ask me?"
Brad keeps perfect pace with Nate as Nate pauses by the meat and seafood counter. Maybe fish. "I think tilapia is a little bland," Brad says as though he's reading Nate's mind. "Maybe the swordfish."
Nate looks at Brad out the corner of his eye. "It's a good thing I'm not cooking for you then, isn't it?" he says dismissively.
"Not a swordfish fan," Brad says. "I'll remember that for when I cook for you." Nate's brain whirrs in panic, and when Brad grins at him, Nate grips his basket a little tighter.
"You presume a lot," Nate says.
"I'm just trying to be optimistic," Brad teases.
"An optimistic Marine, isn't that an oxymoron?"
"Everyone's got to have something," Brad says. "Even Marines."
All of Brad's attention is focused on Nate; it's too much. "Brad, we're not doing this."
Brad's only an inch or two taller than Nate, but Nate had forgotten about that particular Colbert effect, where Brad blocks out everything around him. He has a few more scars on his face than he did when they met. A few more lines across his forehead. He still looks amazing though. Long eyelashes, bright eyes, and a pink mouth that sucked Nate off so brilliantly that Nate was ruined for his next three boyfriends, a girlfriend, and the last two random hook-ups he had with off-duty Marines.
"We're not standing in the middle of the grocery store having a conversation? Really? That's very existentialist of you, sir. Maybe we should discuss your ideas on philosophy over beer tonight."
Nate's eyes go wide. "I'm your professor," he hisses, looking around them wildly.
No one's paying attention, not even the butcher/fishmonger, who clearly missed out on selling them some fish. Or beef. Or god, a fucking pig, Nate doesn't know at this point.
"And I kept you out of the military," Brad says, "what's your point?"
"My point is that ten years is a long time ago."
"Ten years, eight weeks and four days," Brad corrects, and Nate can feel his face falling a little bit, because Brad's not supposed to know how long it's been, even though it feels like it was last week.
"It's not that long," Brad insists. A pause. "Are you seeing someone?"
"That's not the point," Nate says. "And it's long enough."
Nate turns around and walks away, but Brad's right there, following Nate into canned foods aisle. Nate doesn't even know why he's there; he doesn't need any canned foods.
"I like Beefaroni," Brad says conversationally.
Nate stares at the fifteen kinds of Chef Boyardee before him. "No, Brad."
"What about coffee?" Brad blocks Nate when he tries to turn away, putting his hand down on a shelf at shoulder height, two inches away from Nate's chest.
Nate sighs. "I'm trying to shop here."
"I thought we could catch up. According to Google, you spent some time in D.C. working for Congressman Dowdy. He had some bribery issues."
Nate stares. "You Googled me?"
"There's this thing called the internet; you should try it out," Brad mocks. "It's amazing what sort of information is available. According to ratemyprofessors.com, you get 4.0 stars because you're hot, but too idealistic."
"Why do you even care?" Nate isn't sure if he's more confused, annoyed or flattered. It's probably all three.
"Because," Brad says, as though that's a real explanation.
Nate rubs his forehead. "Because what?"
"Because I want to see who you've become," Brad says simply, and Nate's chest goes tight.
"Why?" he manages to get out.
"Because I think you've probably become someone I want to know. Someone I think I'd like."
Nate has no idea what to say to that. Brad doesn't like anyone; anyone who's spent more than thirty seconds with him knows that.
Brad leans in entirely too close, and if Nate thought it was bad by the seafood, this close he can count Brad's eyelashes. They're so long, they cast shadows. When Brad speaks Nate can feel the warm breath on his cheeks, and his cock stirs in interest. "I could switch classes," Brad says in a low tone.
"The add/drop period ended last week."
"I must've missed that memo," Brad says, watching Nate intently. The urge Nate feels to kiss him is utterly overwhelming; he white-knuckles his basket instead. "I guess you're stuck with me now."
Nate looks away. "Brad, go."
Brad's mouth is right by Nate's ear when he says, "What if I don't want to?"
If Nate's being honest, he doesn't want to Brad to go either, but this isn't about being honest. This is about keeping some perspective. Somewhere. Not that Nate would know perspective if it ran up right now and drove a wedge between them.
It's sheer desperation that makes him say, "Brad, please."
On anybody else, Nate would think the look on Brad's face is disappointment, but all Brad does is nod and say, "Okay."
And then he's walking away, and Nate's thinking that instead of dinner what he really needs to do is go home, pick up Ripley and run a few miles this evening. Maybe more than a few.
Nate's legs don't work very well when he gets back from his run. He left his groceries sitting on the kitchen table too, apparently. A glance at the clock shows he's been gone more than two hours, but all he wants now is a hot shower.
He strips in the time it takes him to walk from the living room to the bathroom, and he turns on the shower without actually turning on the bathroom light, since there's a little moonlight coming in the frosted glass window over the toilet. It's enough to see.
His feet are throbbing, his knees are wobbly, and when he pushes back the shower curtain and steps in, the water is just on this side of far too hot.
The heat encircles him, dragging away his aches by forcing him to think about breathing amidst all the steam. The water spatters on his cheeks, over his ears, down his chest, along his spine and the crease of his ass. It's like fingers, like exploring hands and a warm mouth. It's that thought that has Nate jerking off in the shower, using one hand to prop himself up against the wall while the other strokes his cock ruthlessly. He pulls too hard, his grip is firmer than he normally likes and he pants to the sound of water beating down on the tiles and his shoulder blades.
What should be a perfunctory action seems to go on forever, and Nate finds himself getting close and then pulling back, prolonging what should only take a matter of minutes. This is what Brad did to him all those years ago.
He kept bringing Nate to the edge and then denying him resolution. What Brad did was kiss him, leave marks all over his chest, sharp sucking bites that made Nate hard when he touched them in the shower long after Brad was gone. Years later, Nate can remember the fingerprint sized bruises, the feel of Brad's mouth against the shell of his ear; telling him that he was beautiful, that Brad couldn't have him in his Corps if Brad wasn't at his side; making Nate promise not to do what he wanted to do and not giving him a viable alternative for his future.
He never expected Brad to come back.
Ten years is a long time to tell yourself you're not waiting. Eventually you just stop waiting altogether.
Nate turns around so that his back is to the shower spray. The water is still hot, the steam still oppressive, and when Nate presses his forehead against the tiles and spreads his legs, he knows exactly what -- who -- he's thinking of.
Shower sex always ends with bruises, but Nate's got one hand around his cock, and one foot perched on the edge of the shower. It's enough for him to touch himself with his fingers, to rub against that little furl of skin and think about the way Brad's tongue broached him, and then he's coming, barely managing to catch himself before he ends up with a concussion in the shower.
Everything after that is just by rote. He washes himself with soap, dries off, puts on a pair of briefs and goes to watch TV until he falls asleep.
Nate has office hours on Tuesday and Thursday and by appointment on Saturday afternoon, but what that really means is that on Saturday afternoons, Nate hangs out in his office in his running clothes, listening to Jay-Z and Radiohead while flipping through whatever book he's assigned for the next week and jotting down some discussion points. It says on his door and the class website that Saturday hours are by appointment, but if somebody just happens to show up, Nate's fine with it.
No one ever really takes him up on this offer, but Mike tends to be around too, and sometimes they'll talk shit about that happy hour Craig always encourages the staff to attend. Sometimes Mike's out doing stuff with his wife, and Nate'll while away his time thinking about where he's going to run once he's done.
Today is actually a beautiful day, far too nice to waste in the office. Nate's even managed to prop open his window with a copy of Paradise Lost; he hates Milton.
"They don't let you out of prison on the weekends?"
Nate sighs; he would know that voice anywhere. This is what he gets for not believing in God: damnation.
"They only let us out for good behavior," Nate glances up from his A Tale of Two Cities notes. "Having been blessed with your class this semester, apparently, I'm all out of indulgences."
Nate can feel the smile on his face falter slightly as he takes in Brad Colbert before him.
Brad's grin is all teeth, all predator. Predator that is wearing a faded blue USMC tee shirt, threadbare jeans, black, plastic-framed nerd glasses, and the sort of lean against Nate's door that screams gay porn!
It's entirely possible that Nate's in hell already. That would explain a lot.
"Hello, sir," Brad says, pushing himself upright and looming in the doorway. Although perhaps 'looming' isn't the right word since Brad is holding onto the doorframe to stretch his arms, and he's exposed, well, about two inches of his stomach is exposed.
Nate must've done something very bad in his last life. "Brad, did we have an appointment today?"
Brad cocks his head to the side as Jay-Z raps about brushing the dirt off his shoulder. "Rap, sir, really?"
Brad says 'sir' like most people say 'suck my cock.' It's just indecent.
Nate sits up a little straighter. "Brad, if you don't have an appointment, you can come back on Tuesday."
"But sir, our minds are so amorphous that if we don't get what we want immediately we might forget all about it," Brad mocks, taking three impossibly long strides into Nate's office.
Nate doesn't snort. Not even a little bit. "Don't use Ray's ADD to your advantage."
"You know he doesn't have ADD, what he has in a tiny body full of shit, and if at any point you removed his head or he bled profusely, you'd see he was full of shit."
Nate shakes his head, chuckling, and Brad's smile becomes even more predatory. If that's possible. Then again, Nate's 6'2 and Brad's even taller than he is. Nate supposes at that height, you can't help but see everything as prey.
"You know, no one else says my name the way you do," Brad says, perching himself on the edge of Nate's desk.
Nate pushes back from his desk just that little bit, watching as Brad's eyes trail over him conspicuously.
Brad's eyes are framed perfectly by his glasses, bright blue with lashes that are probably brushing against the lenses. Nate can feel it on his skin when Brad's eyes land on his bare knees. "Shorts at work, sir?"
"I'm going running later," Nate says. Brad's crowding him on purpose and it's working.
"Brad, there's a chair on the other side of the desk, why don't you sit in it?"
If Nate thought Brad pouted, he's pretty sure Brad would be pouting right now, but instead he's grinning as though he's immeasurably pleased with himself. As though he has Nate right where he wants him. Fuck.
"Was there something you needed, Brad, or did you just come here to harass me?"
"Sir, I'm shocked you would suggest such a thing," Brad mocks. "Sexual harassment is strictly against all university guidelines. Whether it's student to student, professor to professor or professor to student."
Nate's doesn't even realize he's licking his lips until Brad leans in a little, resting his elbows on the desk. It's the glasses. Nate's running shorts are starting to feel restrictive. "However," Brad's voice lowers, "they don't mention anything about student to professor harassment in the guidelines, so I would assume that it either doesn't exist or that it's welcome, what do you think about this?"
Brad's smiling, but it's not reaching his eyes. It's as though this is a real question, as though he wants to know what Nate thinks. As though he thinks that he and Nate -- Nate needs to end this now.
"Anything that could be constituted as sexual harassment is illegal and punishable by the university," Nate says with some finality.
Brad seems to think this over for a minute. "So that makes it okay if it's a mutual attraction then," he concludes with a nod before standing up. "Good to know."
Something big just transpired, Nate almost wishes he didn't know what it was.
"Brad, did you have any questions about class?" he asks a little desperately.
Brad pauses in the doorway and turns to look back at Nate. "No, Nate. No questions. I just wanted to see you."
Nate covers his eyes with his hand. Fuck.
When he uncovers his eyes, Brad's still standing there, still watching him. Nate just shakes his head.
"You cut your hair," Brad says. "I liked it better long," and then he turns sharply on his heel and walks off. Nate most certainly doesn't look at his ass as he's leaving. And then he realizes what's happened: Brad called him Nate.
Oh, shit.
From Nate's computer speakers, Jay-Z is rapping about his 99 problems and all Nate can think is that he doesn't have 99, but he certainly has one.
The rest of the weekend passes too quickly. His fingers get stained green with ink while he's correcting papers, and he has a few drinks with Pappy and Mike that turn into more than a few. On Tuesday morning, he goes into his office early to check his e-mail and make sure he's ready for his seminar and his 20th Century Lit kids.
His desk is relatively clear except for the huge manila file folder on his desk labeled ALEXANDER.
Jesus fuck, they're starting the Alexander the Great unit in Fraternity of Men.
Well, this should be interesting if nothing else.
Brad's five minutes early to class, but Nate's already there and ready to go. He glances up from his notes, and his stomach jumps even as his face remains passive. Brad's wearing those fucking glasses again, and if anything, today's shirt seems even more threadbare than the one he wore on Saturday, but it's bright white and it sets off Brad's skin perfectly. Not that Nate notices these things.
He glances up when Brad approaches his space, but he's totally unprepared for it when Brad places a bright red apple on his desk.
Nate stares at the apple and then back at Brad. "Are you trying to bribe me?" he asks, biting off his grin.
"I like people who are capable," Brad says. "I think it should be rewarded."
"And this is your way of rewarding me?"
Brad licks his lower lip; Nate can feel the heat in his face. "Well, my warrior spirit said it was either this or kill something for you, but I didn't think you'd appreciate an animal carcass."
Nate's can feel his eyes go wide. "Good instincts," he says. "Go with them."
Brad gives him a nod and then takes his seat. Nate goes back to his notes, waiting for the rest of the class to trickle in. Walt and Ray arrive with Rudy, poking at each other and laughing, falling silent only when they see Brad sitting at his desk, bent over his notebook as though he's already taking notes.
Poke is the last one to arrive, and that's at 10:30 on the dot. "Sorry, sir," he apologizes, taking his seat behind Brad. "My daughter gave my wife her cold, and you do not want a sick Latina woman in your house, telling you how everything is your fucking fault, because the white man ruined our land with their diseases. Shit, I'll stay well just to keep out of her way."
Nate doesn't respond. Instead he stands up silently, pushing his chair in and taking in the attention that comes with keeping people waiting. With a quick motion, he slides the clean chalkboard up to reveal the massive hierarchical map he's drawn of Alexander the Great, his conquests, his wives, his commanding officers, his entire world.
When he turns back around, twelve pairs of eyes are focused on him. In the back of the class, Ray shifts in his seat, leaning forward a little bit.
"Alexander the Great. Son of Philip of Macedon and a queen some called a witch. Abandoned in the wilderness to fend for himself to become a man. Taught by the greatest philosopher ever. Perhaps the greatest conquering hero ever. A uniter of nations. A brilliant general. An inspirational leader," a pause. "Gay. Straight. Definitely not as portrayed by Colin Farrell, so don't think you can skip the books and get by watching the movie. In love with his best friend, but married at least twice to women and apparently the keeper of a eunuch. What else do you have for me?"
Five hands go up, including Brad's. Nate picks Teren, because he doesn't talk much and should be encouraged
"Alexander was a bad motherfucker," Teren says succinctly.
Nate smiles encouragingly. "How so?"
"Everything you just said," Chaffin answers. "This dude was fucking everything in sight, and twice on Sundays. And then, when his dad gave him shit, he went out and conquered the entire world."
"We tried to go to Babylon at the end of our last tour," Walt says, "but our CO fucked it up."
"Which is why that motherfucker got shot in the foot," Q-Tip interjects.
"You know 75% of all household accidents happen in the bathroom," Ray lectures, "unless you're a fucking retard and shoot yourself in the foot in Iraq three days before you're supposed to go home."
They carry on this way for several minutes, and Nate lets them. They're excited and there's nothing more exhilarating for a teacher than having a class that's actually engaged in what they're talking about. So, he leans against his desk, with his arms crossed, listening to them carry on and not even remotely thinking about fucking the hell out of Brad in front of the entire room.
Eventually he has to rein them in. "All right," he says, raising his voice to be heard. "These are all good points, but let's start at the beginning. Alexander is the son of Philip of Macedon, and Philip is what?"
"A hardcore cholo," Poke offers. "We had some dudes like him around my way. One stabbed this kid with a screwdriver cause he stole from the corner store."
"Okay," Nate says. "But what else?"
Silence.
"He's an outsider," Nate prompts. "He has money, land, power and a queen, but he doesn't have prestige. He's not connected; even back then it was about who you know. Remember that in Philip's day Greece is the center of everything, and Macedonia -- well, it's the ancient equivalent of living in the middle of nowhere."
"It's prejudice," Walt says. "Classism. People judging you because you have an accent or dress differently or don't have as much money."
Nate nods. "Good, Walt. It's prejudice. It's racism. You look at Greek people and think dark hair and dark eyes and everybody eating feta cheese, am I right? Everybody looks the same?" Ten heads nod. Brad and Ray are impassive, Nate carries on.
"No, they don't," he says lowering his voice, so they're all forced to lean in just that little bit to hear him.
"Things like racism and classism are older than you. Older than America. They've been around since the dawn of man. For Philip, Alexander is going to do all the things that Philip can't. He is going to show that Macedonian men are as great as Greek men. That they're better. Sound familiar?"
Ray opens his mouth and Nate holds up his hand. "'The ideals instilled in him were heroism, resistance to pain, honor and respect for one's word, sacrifice to the point of offering one's life.' That's from page 39 of Book 1. What does it remind you of?"
Nate motions for Ray to speak now. "It's that job satisfaction shit that my mom keeps spouting about working overtime at Sears," Ray says with a grin.
Walt smacks Ray on the back of the head, and Ray sulks for a brief second, before continuing onward. "It's the Corps, sir. This is the same moto bullshit that was in The Iliad, that'll be in all the other books and that's all over those Band of Brothers DVDs, which by the way, are crazy like a motherfucker, cause you wouldn't catch my ass jumping out some plane."
"Thank you, Ray," Nate says.
"I'm just saying, if these books say anything it's that 'peace sucks a hairy asshole -- war is the motherfucking answer'."
Nate has to laugh.
Nate's got heartburn from eating his lunch too fast, and he's misplaced the birthday card he bought for his sister. This is what he gets for cleaning up his office twice in the same month. He standing at his desk trying to retrace his steps when there's a sharp rap on his open door.
Nate glances up, and raises an eyebrow. "Ray."
"Whassup, Professor Fick?" Ray says, stepping into Nate's office and dropping his backpack in Nate's guest chair.
A voice in his head warns Nate to proceed with caution. He wonders where that voice was at the grocery store.
Nate crosses his arms. "Not much, Ray, what can I do for you?"
"Nothing," Ray says rocking back and forth on his heels. "But everybody else was coming to office hours, so I figured I better bring my mouth up here so I can kiss your ass like the rest of the retards. You want to bend over now?"
Nate's so startled he has to cough to cover up his laugh.
"I don't know about everybody else," Nate wagers, and then he thinks about how many of the guys from Ray's class have been to visit him. It's certainly more than his other three classes. Combined.
Ray shrugs. "Walt likes you -- but Walt likes everyone."
"Well, he likes you," Nate agrees, and Ray stops rocking and eyes Nate shrewdly.
For a moment they stand there, Ray watching Nate and Nate rather bemusedly watching back. And then Ray looks Nate up and down very obviously, and Nate has a moment of total disconnect before he starts laughing hysterically, because there's just no way Ray Person is interested in him.
That would just be a whole new level of insanity.
And then Ray smiles broadly. "Yeah, you're okay," he says. "I can see why he's gone all pissy lately."
Nate stops laughing. "He who?"
Ray looks at him like he might be stupid. "Professor Fick -- Nate -- sir," he amends eventually. "I don’t know how many Marines you know, but let me explain something to your civilian coddled bubble ass. We wore fucking adult diapers in the desert for weeks because we couldn't stop to take a piss on the side of the road. We've lived on nasty fucking MREs, used skin mags, three hours of sleep every two days and motherfuckin' Ripped Fuel that would make you fuck your mom if you weren't paying attention. In civilian life we don't need a lot, except for a decent shit and to get our cocks sucked every now and then. And maybe some Thai pussy."
Nate wishes he didn't know exactly where this was going, but he does.
"All I'm sayin'," Ray picks up his backpack, "is that we're cool with it. You should be too."
And then Ray's gone and Nate has to lean back against the wall, because in some weird way, he thinks he just got permission to date Brad. Not that he needs or wants it, but still.
He wonders if this is what it's like to date somebody with kids.
"If ever there was some shit that was motivated by ass, this would be it," Ray says in Thursday's class.
"That's what you said about The Iliad," Poke mocks.
"Yeah, but this one is too," Ray insists. "Dude gets married not once, but twice, has got wassisface, Hephaestion, as his right hand -- probably jacking him with his left -- and then he's got a eunuch too. I dunno how he rode into all them battles, but I'm guessing his dick had its own horse."
Lilley and Chaffin make dismissive noises, but Nate will go with it.
"Ray makes a point," he says. He's sitting on his desk with one of the books in his hand and directing the conversation. "Maybe not as eloquently as it could be, but Alexander married several times, because the king has to have an heir. This is something that will come up time and again, that empires will fall when there's no one to take over the throne. There's Alexander, and when we get to The Once and Future King, you'll see that this happened to Arthur too. If there is no heir, what happens?"
"Oppression," Walt supplies.
"How so?" Nate counters.
"If women were given the same ascension rights or the person the king really trusts could take the throne, then a lot of this shit could've been avoided."
"But Hephaestion died before Alexander," Nate says. "People do that; he could never have replaced Alexander, even if the laws had allowed it."
"And Alexander grieved," Brad says. "For months. Possibly years."
Nate has absolutely no reason to be startled when Brad speaks up, but it happens anyway.
"Why do you say 'years', Brad?" Nate did not mean to ask that question.
Brad's forehead furrows. "Just because someone leaves doesn't mean you stop wanting them."
This is very uncomfortable territory for Nate.
"That must've been some serious dick," Poke says, mildly impressed. "I know some people like to roll like that, but I ain't never seen no dude that could put it on me like my Gina."
"Why are we always talking about faggots?" Trombley declares. "This gay shit is fucked up. In Michigan they beat those fuckers up."
Nate can see Brad moving in his periphery, opening his mouth, but a sharp kick to Brad's shin ends that. This is Nate's class.
Instead, Nate closes the book and sets it down beside him to stand up.
"Trombley, your ignorance is second only to your fucking stupidity," Ray snaps before Nate can speak. "Just because no gay guy would want your pimpled pasty ass doesn't make it wrong. Hell, I wouldn't fuck your ass even if you had a pussy and it was the last one on earth."
"What?" Trombley says, apparently unaware he's said something wrong. "That shit isn't natural."
"Neither are you," Poke retorts, "but you don't see us keeping your psycho ass from marrying my Mexican sisters and fucking up our race, cause let me tell you if anybody needs to be kept from procreating it's your ass."
"Fuck you, Poke," Trombley retorts angrily. "That shit's illegal for a reason."
"Your ass needs to be illegal," Poke says.
"Trombley, your obsession with dick leads me to believe you either don't have one, or it's so small you don't know what a real one looks like," Ray says.
Walt's hand is on Ray's shoulder, tugging on him, but Ray doesn't seem very inclined to calm down. And to be honest, Nate wouldn't mind letting Ray go after Trombley for a bit, but personal feelings and sexual orientations aside, Nate's still their teacher.
"That's enough," Nate says sharply, pointedly not looking at Walt whispering in Ray's ear or Ray gesturing furiously. "If these were ancient times I could put you all in arena and let you wrestle it out, but I'm sure you don't want to hear how gay wrestling is."
"I like wrestling," Rudy says stubbornly.
"That's because you're the gayest straight man ever," Brad says.
"Rudy, you are welcome to write about wrestling as much as you want," Nate says. "About how homoerotic it is or isn't. In fact, you're all going to write me papers around Ray's theory that war is really about sex. How you do it is up to you, but I want fifteen pages, due one week from today."
The entire room goes silent, except for Trombley who sputters. "Fifteen pages?!"
"Be glad it's not fifty," Nate snaps, and this time even Trombley is silent.
On Saturday night, Mike and Tara Wynn have their monthly barbecue, which is really just an excuse for everyone to get together and bitch and drink. Not necessarily in that order.
Nate shows up a little after seven o'clock, a case of beer and a bottle of wine in hand. The sun has almost set, and Nate can smell the hamburgers and hot dogs from the street.
The Wynn's backyard is already populated by most of the colleagues that Nate actually likes. Mike and Eric are bickering at the grill, while Tara talks with Pappy, Bryan Patterson, Tim 'Doc' Bryan and Eric's girlfriend, Deb. Both Doc and Bryan have tenure, which seems to mean they have cart blanche to talk shit about anyone and everything.
Nate yearns for tenure.
He swaps his beer and wine for a bottle of Heineken from Tara's outstretched hand and drops down on the lawn furniture next to Doc, who is apparently excited about something. "The question isn't ‘have you?’, the question is 'who hasn't'?" Doc says, waving his bottle around.
"Who hasn't what?" Nate asks.
"Slept with one of their students," Bryan says. "Personally, I think it's a reprehensible action, and completely distorts the student/teacher dynamic."
"He's still upset about that senior who dumped him after he gave her an A on her thesis," Tara translates.
"And it wasn't even a good thesis," Bryan moans before taking a sip of his beer.
"Yeah, but was it good head?" Eric Kocher's voice is right over Nate's shoulder, and when he looks behind him Eric's eating a hamburger and listening in. Nate ducks as Eric's girlfriend Deb tosses a balled up napkin over his head at Eric.
Bryan sighs, "Why do you think I gave her an 'A'?"
"This is all behavior unbecoming a Marine," Mike says, setting down a plateful of food.
"Why do you think I left?" Doc retorts. "Couldn't fuck anybody in the Corps. Can't fuck anybody in your classes. That's just bullshit. How the hell am I supposed to get laid otherwise? The only people I ever see are you retards -- no offense, ladies -- and my students, and I'm sure as hell not fucking your ugly assess."
"I don't know," Eric says, pulling down his shorts enough to show a vast expanse of his ass. "My ass is pretty nice, you sure you don't want some?"
"That ass belongs to me," Deb says. "And don't you forget it."
"You heard the lady," Eric says, letting go of the elastic of his shorts with a 'snap.' "Your loss, Doc."
Nate's been listening to this exchange with something akin to shock, followed by a small sense of relief. Now that he's almost done with his first beer, he can participate in the conversation. It's the only rule at the barbeque, no talking until you've had alcohol to alleviate the bullshit. It's sort of like the conch in Lord of the Flies, but in reverse.
"Okay," he says, waving his practically empty bottle to show he can talk now. "The real question then becomes raise your hand if you haven't had sex with a student."
No one raises their hands. Even Tara and Deb, neither of whom are teachers at UCO.
"Okay, what's that about?" Mike demands.
Tara snorts. "I screwed the professor, same thing."
"Can't argue with that," Doc agrees. "Deb?"
"I did tutoring in high school," she says with a grin. "It's amazing how much tutoring some athletes need."
When Tara and Deb high five each other, Nate can't help laughing.
Nate wakes up early on Sunday, not because he wants too, but because all the beer in his gut needs to be dealt with.
There's something suspiciously like a hangover occurring in the back of his head, and he finds himself going for a run to clear out the fog. On Sundays Mrs. Gonzales attends church and takes Ripley to some sort of doggie daycare, so Nate's on his own.
The sun is high overhead, even though it's barely past eight, and Nate doesn't even realize he's heading for the beach until he's close enough to smell the salty air. In all the time Nate's been in Oceanside, he's only been to the beach a handful of times, but every time he goes, he wonders why he doesn’t go more. It's not like he has to get in the water. He's always had this fear of drowning, though, which his mom says dates back to when he fell in his aunt's pool when he was five.
By the time he hits the sand his shirt is sticking to him in all the wrong places, so he pulls it off and tucks it in the waistband of his shorts. This is probably a bad idea since he's prone to sunburn, but he's hot, and the mist and breeze running along the surf makes the heat on his shoulders worth it.
The beach is mostly deserted except for a few surfers, and Nate's in his own world, which is obviously why he runs into someone. When a moving object meets an object at rest, the moving object takes the brunt of the force and Nate feels the impact everywhere.
He nearly falls on his ass, and is saved only by a hand on his wrist holding him up. "Sorry," he apologizes automatically, looking from the wrist, along a long wetsuit-clad arm. Up a broad chest and bare neck, up, and - oh, dear, god.
Brad's grin is enormous. "You know, most people just say 'hi.' If you wanted my attention, you could've just said so, you didn't have to run me over."
Nate's brain sputters around, babbling to itself, not bothering to provide an answer in the slightest while Nate looks at the surfboard under Brad's other arm. Brad surfs. Of course Brad surfs. "I think, to run you over, you would've had to move," he manages eventually.
"So, you weren't running me over, you were just running into me?" Brad raises an inquisitive eyebrow.
"I wasn't looking where I was going," Nate says peevishly.
"You'll understand if I doubt the veracity of your statement, Nate."
"That doesn't make it any less true."
"I guess not," Brad says thoughtfully. A shiver goes from Nate's wrist all the way down to his cock, and he's shocked to realize Brad's still holding his wrist, his thumb rubbing along Nate's palm.
Brad's hold tightens as though he's anticipating Nate's attempt to pull away. Nate makes the attempt anyway. It's fruitless.
"I haven't seen you on the beach before," Brad says conversationally.
"I normally run closer to school," Nate says. "Ripley couldn't run this far and make it back."
"Ripley?"
"My neighbor's dog. I take her running."
Brad ducks his head, smiling. "Of course you do. Do you pull kittens out of trees and feed starving children in your spare time too?"
"And what if I do?" Nate says belligerently. It's better than saying he reads crappy essays and jerks off thinking about ancient one-night stands.
"Still as altruistic as ever," Brad says. "I like that."
"I'd like my wrist back," is Nate's reply.
Brad automatically lets go, and Nate's wrist goes cold, which makes no sense, because he can feel the sweat running down his spine and pasting his hair to his forehead.
Brad jams his surfboard in the sand before reaching back and unzipping his wetsuit. Nate's eyes go wide as Brad strips the suit down to a very dangerous level around his hips.
"I, uh, need to get going," Nate says, because things are going to be embarrassing soon. Besides, running with an erection is a nightmare.
Brad licks his lips. "You're turning red, you need sunblock."
Nate rolls his eyes. "I must've left mine in my other running clothes."
Brad chuckles. "You can use mine, c'mon."
"I don’t think that's a--"
"Nate, it's just sunblock," Brad says, pulling his surfboard up and walking up the beach. "I'll even let you put it on yourself."
Nate stares at Brad's back as he walks away. Brad's got a tattoo on his back now, an absolute monstrosity that spreads across the broad expanse in a swath of colors. Nate's never been a fan of tattoos, but this one he wants to touch. To explore. He wants to know why Brad did it.
Nate's feet are following Brad long before his brain has caught up with the situation. "What ever happened to calling me 'sir'?" he says when they reach Brad's spot on the beach.
"I think we're past that," Brad says, digging in his backpack. "Don't you?"
"I have no idea what we are," Nate says.
Brad looks at him sharply. "You don’t?"
Nate swallows down what he knows Brad implying. "You got a tattoo," he says conversationally. "It's big."
Brad grins. "Yes, it is."
Nate shakes his head and laughs, taking the sunblock from Brad, who makes no pretense of watching Nate apply the lotion to his arms, chest and face.
"Thanks," Nate says once he's done. "I should get going."
"You forgot your back," Brad says.
"I'll live," Nate says, "It's just sunburn."
"I insist," Brad says, and Nate means to protest but then Brad's turning him around and there are warm hands and warm lotion rubbing along his back, down his spine, just at the waistband of his shorts and all of Nate's thoughts of impropriety fall away in favor of some very inappropriate thoughts about what else sunblock would be good for.
"You could've just let me burn," he says.
Brad's hands are just as callused as Nate remembers them. His fingers just as sure, and Nate may sigh a little bit. In fact, if there was any furniture around, Nate might possibly crawl on it and demand Brad fuck him now.
"If I let you burn, you'd be miserable and pissy in class," Brad says, "and as cute as you are when you're pissy, I tried to leave most of the sadism in the Corps."
Nate opens and closes his mouth. "I am not cute," he says irritably.
Brad laughs right in his ear. "Yes, you are, Nate. It's just your cross to bear."
"Well, we can't all be Greek gods," Nate huffs.
Brad's quiet for a minute. "I'm Greek now? Didn't you say in class that the Greeks were elitist assholes? You used to say I was a Viking."
"No, the asshole thing is much more appropriate," Nate decides, before protesting loudly when Brad snaps the waistband of Nate's shorts.
"Okay," Brad says when he turns around. "You can go."
Brad's even closer than Nate thought, but the sun is in his face and he can't make out Brad's expression without shading his eyes. He offers Brad a half smile. "I can go? Does that mean I'm being dismissed?"
Brad's answering smile is all teeth. "For now."
Part III