[Generation Kill] [Ensemble] On The Road
Title: On The Road
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad, Ray, Nate, Walt, Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "There's where we came from, but home is the bus." | Sequel to Lisztomania.
Notes: For the prompt "Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?"
WC: 531
They become familiar with cities through their gas stations and their arenas. Nate couldn't tell you what there is to do in Texas, but he could give you a rundown of the best and worst rest stops. Walt keeps a tally, for their next tour, he says, so they know where not to go so Brad doesn't spend hours bitching about the state of the bathrooms again.
Home seems like a faraway concept when you're drinking coffee at three AM in the twenty third gas station parking lot in three weeks. There is not home, not really, because they all gave up their apartments for the tour.
"There's where we came from," Brad says, hunched over into himself against the chill. "But home is the bus."
"That's depressing," Nate says. The coffee isn't even tolerable, it's awful, thick and bitter and closer to mud than any recognizable drink, but it's not the worst they've drunk recently.
"It could be worse." There's a bark of laughter from the other side of the bus, where Walt and Ray are tossing a football back and forth. "We could live in our parent's garage."
Walt's always the first up in the morning, wakes up with the sun just breaking on the horizon. He sets up breakfast - cooks bacon and eggs when he can, leaves a box of cereal on the table more often.
Ray's the last to wake, stumbling his way from his bunk closer to lunch time. Brad and Nate get up somewhere in between, Nate so he can watch the morning news and Brad just because.
"We should get a hotel room one night," Brad says, his legs twisted around Nate's, his body contorted, bent at the shoulders. "I just want to fuck you without thinking that Ray's probably on the other side of the curtain jerking off like the deranged hick he is."
There's a clatter of noise, a scuffle and then:
"I would never intrude on anyone's privacy like that, Bradley."
Ray is loud. He snores, he sings constantly, he farts, he burps, he whistles to himself - Ray is very rarely silent. Even when he's bone dead tired, so tired he can barely move, he still mumbles to himself, working out his thoughts in a quiet monotone. It doesn't take long for them to figure out that when Ray is silent, something is wrong.
"Brad is totally our mom," Ray says, slurping down his coffee. He smacks his lips, clatters the cup against the table. "Which I guess makes Nate our dad."
"Ray-"
"No, Brad, shut up, you're totally our mom." Nate's hiding a smile behind the lip of his mug, Walt is out right nodding.
"It's true," he says. "You're totally the mom." Brad is silent. He scowls at his cornflakes, ignores the brush of Nate's foot against his ankle. Ray slurps his coffee some more.
"You're both totally fucking grounded though," Brad finally says. "For talking smack to your mother."
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad, Ray, Nate, Walt, Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "There's where we came from, but home is the bus." | Sequel to Lisztomania.
Notes: For the prompt "Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?"
WC: 531
They become familiar with cities through their gas stations and their arenas. Nate couldn't tell you what there is to do in Texas, but he could give you a rundown of the best and worst rest stops. Walt keeps a tally, for their next tour, he says, so they know where not to go so Brad doesn't spend hours bitching about the state of the bathrooms again.
Home seems like a faraway concept when you're drinking coffee at three AM in the twenty third gas station parking lot in three weeks. There is not home, not really, because they all gave up their apartments for the tour.
"There's where we came from," Brad says, hunched over into himself against the chill. "But home is the bus."
"That's depressing," Nate says. The coffee isn't even tolerable, it's awful, thick and bitter and closer to mud than any recognizable drink, but it's not the worst they've drunk recently.
"It could be worse." There's a bark of laughter from the other side of the bus, where Walt and Ray are tossing a football back and forth. "We could live in our parent's garage."
Walt's always the first up in the morning, wakes up with the sun just breaking on the horizon. He sets up breakfast - cooks bacon and eggs when he can, leaves a box of cereal on the table more often.
Ray's the last to wake, stumbling his way from his bunk closer to lunch time. Brad and Nate get up somewhere in between, Nate so he can watch the morning news and Brad just because.
"We should get a hotel room one night," Brad says, his legs twisted around Nate's, his body contorted, bent at the shoulders. "I just want to fuck you without thinking that Ray's probably on the other side of the curtain jerking off like the deranged hick he is."
There's a clatter of noise, a scuffle and then:
"I would never intrude on anyone's privacy like that, Bradley."
Ray is loud. He snores, he sings constantly, he farts, he burps, he whistles to himself - Ray is very rarely silent. Even when he's bone dead tired, so tired he can barely move, he still mumbles to himself, working out his thoughts in a quiet monotone. It doesn't take long for them to figure out that when Ray is silent, something is wrong.
"Brad is totally our mom," Ray says, slurping down his coffee. He smacks his lips, clatters the cup against the table. "Which I guess makes Nate our dad."
"Ray-"
"No, Brad, shut up, you're totally our mom." Nate's hiding a smile behind the lip of his mug, Walt is out right nodding.
"It's true," he says. "You're totally the mom." Brad is silent. He scowls at his cornflakes, ignores the brush of Nate's foot against his ankle. Ray slurps his coffee some more.
"You're both totally fucking grounded though," Brad finally says. "For talking smack to your mother."