[Generation Kill] [Nate] The Sea Won't Bring You Home
Title: The Sea Won't Bring You Home
Subject: Generation Kill | Nate, vaguely implied Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: On his 103rd Monday, rain hammers down, turns the dusty streets to muddy streets and there's no chance of anyone coming back.
Notes: Inspired by this poem. Kind of a weird Space AU, I guess.
The main street sits quiet, doors boarded over, shutters down. It's like the entire town is on vacation, everyone up and gone for warmer climes. It's a sign of the times. It's like being king of the world. It's like being so impossibly lonely.
The wind sings, whistles it's way through the buildings and still he stands. He's waiting for something. He's been waiting for a while now. He's patient. He doesn't strain to hear the hum of engines any more. He's stopped dreaming about them.
On his 103rd Monday, rain hammers down, turns the dusty streets to muddy streets and there's no chance of anyone coming back.
He sits inside the house he'd claimed as his. He reads New World by Francis J. Aberjiany for the thirty-third time. He watches the rain and doesn't think about the way the sky lights up when it rains back home. He prunes the flowers growing out of control in the conservatory and not for the first time, wishes he knew what they were. He writes a poem and throws it away. He writes a page in his journal. He's come a long way from his first entries, come a long way from hoping for rescue. He thinks about writing a book; a man stranded on an evacuated planet. He thinks he'll write about a woman being evacuated instead. He thinks he'll write about the war he's not fighting.
One day, the sun shines and shadows flit across the atmosphere. Another evacuation, more soldiers rolling out, he can only guess. The radios don't work here. He hasn't heard music in too long. He doesn't know if the war is even over.
He's never slept alone before. Growing up, he'd shared a room with his brother. He'd gone to university and shared a room there. He joined the Galactic Corps and shared rooms with between two and thirty men. He became an officer and shared a room with one. He'd fallen in love and shared a room with another.
It's an education, sleeping alone.
He doesn't like it, not even a bit.
He doesn't think about who he left behind. He doesn't wonder if they're sharing a new bed with someone else.
They come for him on the 204th week of his unintentional exile. He spends most of his day watching shadows and not hoping.
At first, he thinks he's imagining the engines. He blames the wind. But the shadow gets darker and the engines get louder and then a ship is landing, tiny and fragile, slap bang between the grocery store and the pharmacy and he still doesn't let himself hope, he thinks scavengers and not friend but he stands there and watches anyway.
The hatch descends, shadows and darkness but then, then, then there's Brad, standing there, an eyebrow raised and arms crossed over his chest.
"You chose the worst vacation spot," he says.
"It was peaceful," Nate says and his heart stammers because he must be dreaming, he must be dreaming, but Brad looks so real but he smells different and he's more muscular and there's a flash of dark ink beneath his sleeve and-
Nate hugs him. He's not sure if he's ever going to let go.
Subject: Generation Kill | Nate, vaguely implied Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: On his 103rd Monday, rain hammers down, turns the dusty streets to muddy streets and there's no chance of anyone coming back.
Notes: Inspired by this poem. Kind of a weird Space AU, I guess.
The main street sits quiet, doors boarded over, shutters down. It's like the entire town is on vacation, everyone up and gone for warmer climes. It's a sign of the times. It's like being king of the world. It's like being so impossibly lonely.
The wind sings, whistles it's way through the buildings and still he stands. He's waiting for something. He's been waiting for a while now. He's patient. He doesn't strain to hear the hum of engines any more. He's stopped dreaming about them.
On his 103rd Monday, rain hammers down, turns the dusty streets to muddy streets and there's no chance of anyone coming back.
He sits inside the house he'd claimed as his. He reads New World by Francis J. Aberjiany for the thirty-third time. He watches the rain and doesn't think about the way the sky lights up when it rains back home. He prunes the flowers growing out of control in the conservatory and not for the first time, wishes he knew what they were. He writes a poem and throws it away. He writes a page in his journal. He's come a long way from his first entries, come a long way from hoping for rescue. He thinks about writing a book; a man stranded on an evacuated planet. He thinks he'll write about a woman being evacuated instead. He thinks he'll write about the war he's not fighting.
One day, the sun shines and shadows flit across the atmosphere. Another evacuation, more soldiers rolling out, he can only guess. The radios don't work here. He hasn't heard music in too long. He doesn't know if the war is even over.
He's never slept alone before. Growing up, he'd shared a room with his brother. He'd gone to university and shared a room there. He joined the Galactic Corps and shared rooms with between two and thirty men. He became an officer and shared a room with one. He'd fallen in love and shared a room with another.
It's an education, sleeping alone.
He doesn't like it, not even a bit.
He doesn't think about who he left behind. He doesn't wonder if they're sharing a new bed with someone else.
They come for him on the 204th week of his unintentional exile. He spends most of his day watching shadows and not hoping.
At first, he thinks he's imagining the engines. He blames the wind. But the shadow gets darker and the engines get louder and then a ship is landing, tiny and fragile, slap bang between the grocery store and the pharmacy and he still doesn't let himself hope, he thinks scavengers and not friend but he stands there and watches anyway.
The hatch descends, shadows and darkness but then, then, then there's Brad, standing there, an eyebrow raised and arms crossed over his chest.
"You chose the worst vacation spot," he says.
"It was peaceful," Nate says and his heart stammers because he must be dreaming, he must be dreaming, but Brad looks so real but he smells different and he's more muscular and there's a flash of dark ink beneath his sleeve and-
Nate hugs him. He's not sure if he's ever going to let go.