(no subject)
Second night running that Brad is stumbling drunk, and it feels pretty good. He ought to be on his way back to Abby's. Abby's is safe and secure, and nobody's out of their fucking mind there, but he finds his feet taking him in a different direction. Of all the corps, Recon Marines have a talent for find their way home even when smashed out of their tiny minds, and Brad's no exception. He's making a beeline. His boots are taking him there. He knows it's a stupid idea, knows it through the spirits haze, but, for days now, he's been unable to get the touch of Nate's lips against his. It's not like he hasn't thought about it, but he's always been able to put it in a box before, and keep it there. He's had it in that box since the day he met Nate, give or take.
He ought to be able to forget about it.
He's never had to deal with the reality of it before.
Nate's place looks out of the shadow and Brad leans against the wall for a moment, feeling the island spinning.
"Nate?"
He ought to be able to forget about it.
He's never had to deal with the reality of it before.
Nate's place looks out of the shadow and Brad leans against the wall for a moment, feeling the island spinning.
"Nate?"