[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] The Wild & The Tame
Title: The Wild & The Tame
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: R
Summary: He's not supposed to care.
Notes: For this prompt
WC: 1202
The alarm wakes Nate up, the insistent impersonal beeping that greets him six out of seven days. He takes a moment, stares up at the ceiling and acknowledges that he's alone in bed and that the sheets are too cold for Brad to just be up already.
He shuts off the alarm as he gets out of bed, toes curling into the thick rug before they meet the unforgiving coolness of the hardwood floors. There's no lights on and Brad's sneakers are still by the backdoor. His coffee mug is by the sink. There's no coffee in the pot. There's a note on the fridge, Brad's quick scrawl and Gone to see Ray. Gone to see Ray, Brad's very own code for going to drink too much, fight too much, fuck hookers, don't expect me back too soon.
The note crumples in his hand and Nate reminds himself not to care.
"You signed up for this," he says, the vague reflection of himself in the window shaping the words back at him. "You agreed to it." The coffee machine whirs, spits out a tepid espresso into a mug that's too big. He knocks it back and scrubs a hand over his face. He's not supposed to care.
It's not going to be a relationship if we do this, Brad had said. We're not going to be boyfriends like it was the worst thing he could think of, said like the very word tasted of poison. It's just going to be us.
Okay, Nate had said because what else do you do? What else can you do when you're given something you wanted and thought you might never have? You say okay and you think we'll see how it goes and you think about change without ever quite calling it change.
Two years and a house they don't officially share and they're still not boyfriends and Nate's still reminding himself he doesn't care.
Nate comes home a week and a half after Brad had left to lights turned on and the smell of spaghetti sauce on the stove.
"Hey," Brad says, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans. Hey, like he's been gone for a day. Hey, like they've both just gotten back from work. Hey, like there isn't a hickey on his neck, thick and bright and new. "You want some spaghetti? I'm starved."
"Sure," Nate says. He hangs his jacket up and stands. He's awkward in his own home. He's seen war and he's been to Harvard and he is a grown man and he's awkward in his own living room. "Me too." He wants to sigh. He wants to not have to pretend he's okay with this. His eyes keep straying to the bite on Brad's neck and he doesn't care who the girl was, doesn't care how much Brad paid, he just cares. "How's Ray?"
"Fine, y'know, he's Ray--" Brad pours the spaghetti into bowls, ladles sauce on top. There's a pot of grated parmesan beside them. "He got fired again." Nate hasn't seen Ray in a while, months, probably gone a year now. He's Brad's friend, not Nate's. Brad's always kept that separate, thick black line down the middle of them, Brad's, Nate's. Most of the guys from Iraq are firmly in Brad's space. There's a couple in Nate's and a little overlap, just a touch, but Ray and Walt and Poke are Brad's. Nate couldn't take them if he tried. "His bitch of a girl cheated on him, that's why I went up there."
Nate ignores that comment. He takes the bowl from Brad, leans into the gentle touch against his hand and presses his calves against Brad's when they sit down, Brad's bare feet on top of his shoes.
"How was work?" Nate hums. Brad curls his toes against the dart of Nate's ankle, tucks the soles of his feet under Nate's trousers. "My mom keeps telling me to get a job here." Brad's staring down at his food. "Fuck knows what I'd do. Maybe I'll become a hippy journalist like you."
"There's nothing hippy about economic reports," Nate says. It's not the first time. "You could--" He stops. He doesn't know. Brad had his career. Brad wasn't supposed to ever not be a Marine.
"Exactly." Brad says. He looks up at Nate, a crooked smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "This sauce ain't too bad." Nate smiles back, keeps his eyes away from the hickey and hopes it doesn't look as fake.
Nate rides Brad, fists clenched in the sheets, Brad's hands tight on his thighs. It's not his favourite, not enough friction, not particularly comfortable, but he'd seen the stiffness in Brad's leg, the way he rubbed at the skin when he thought Nate wasn't looking, a desperate touch like a massage might fix damage surgery couldn't.
Brad's always been the silent during sex, never talking, just huffs of breath and touches conveying want and need and desire. A bruising touch for faster, a gentle caress for slower. Always, from that very first desperate fuck, a silent presence as Nate struggled to catch his breath, form words and moans.
Tonight though, tonight there's a near constant murmur of noise, Nate, Nate, yes and Nate's not quite sure what it means. It's putting him off guard, it makes him want to ask, he tenses when Brad wraps an arm around his hips and shapes words against the expanse of his neck-- They've been doing this for years, it had started after Iraq, pressed against Nate's desk, it had evolved and changed and it had been and it had not been but this is new and strange and it feels like it should be wrong. It doesn't sit right with Nate. It makes him feel like he should be preparing for something.
For the first time, he wants to call Ray and ask exactly what Brad's visit entailed.
After, Brad wraps his arm around Nate's hips, huffs little breaths against his hair. He could be asleep. Nate knows he's not.
"Are you--" Nate says, catches his voice on his own breath. "Do you mind it here? Because--" Because what? You could leave? Brad knows that. Because we could change? They couldn't. Brad's silent, but his fingers tap out a rhythm against Nate's skin. He shuffles a bit, moves to try to find a more comfortable position. Once upon a time, they could sleep in MOPP suits, in holes scored in the desert landscape. Once upon a time.
"Nope." It's almost like a sigh. Brad doesn't stop tapping out his rhythm. He doesn't offer anything else.
Maybe it's enough. Brad rolls in closer, hand to Nate's stomach, now he's tapping out a guitar solo Nate can't pinpoint.
"Okay," Nate says. "Okay."
The alarm wakes Nate up, the insistent impersonal beeping that greets him six out of seven days. He takes a moment, stares up at the ceiling and resists the urge to curl further in the warmth of Brad beside him.
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: R
Summary: He's not supposed to care.
Notes: For this prompt
WC: 1202
The alarm wakes Nate up, the insistent impersonal beeping that greets him six out of seven days. He takes a moment, stares up at the ceiling and acknowledges that he's alone in bed and that the sheets are too cold for Brad to just be up already.
He shuts off the alarm as he gets out of bed, toes curling into the thick rug before they meet the unforgiving coolness of the hardwood floors. There's no lights on and Brad's sneakers are still by the backdoor. His coffee mug is by the sink. There's no coffee in the pot. There's a note on the fridge, Brad's quick scrawl and Gone to see Ray. Gone to see Ray, Brad's very own code for going to drink too much, fight too much, fuck hookers, don't expect me back too soon.
The note crumples in his hand and Nate reminds himself not to care.
"You signed up for this," he says, the vague reflection of himself in the window shaping the words back at him. "You agreed to it." The coffee machine whirs, spits out a tepid espresso into a mug that's too big. He knocks it back and scrubs a hand over his face. He's not supposed to care.
It's not going to be a relationship if we do this, Brad had said. We're not going to be boyfriends like it was the worst thing he could think of, said like the very word tasted of poison. It's just going to be us.
Okay, Nate had said because what else do you do? What else can you do when you're given something you wanted and thought you might never have? You say okay and you think we'll see how it goes and you think about change without ever quite calling it change.
Two years and a house they don't officially share and they're still not boyfriends and Nate's still reminding himself he doesn't care.
Nate comes home a week and a half after Brad had left to lights turned on and the smell of spaghetti sauce on the stove.
"Hey," Brad says, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans. Hey, like he's been gone for a day. Hey, like they've both just gotten back from work. Hey, like there isn't a hickey on his neck, thick and bright and new. "You want some spaghetti? I'm starved."
"Sure," Nate says. He hangs his jacket up and stands. He's awkward in his own home. He's seen war and he's been to Harvard and he is a grown man and he's awkward in his own living room. "Me too." He wants to sigh. He wants to not have to pretend he's okay with this. His eyes keep straying to the bite on Brad's neck and he doesn't care who the girl was, doesn't care how much Brad paid, he just cares. "How's Ray?"
"Fine, y'know, he's Ray--" Brad pours the spaghetti into bowls, ladles sauce on top. There's a pot of grated parmesan beside them. "He got fired again." Nate hasn't seen Ray in a while, months, probably gone a year now. He's Brad's friend, not Nate's. Brad's always kept that separate, thick black line down the middle of them, Brad's, Nate's. Most of the guys from Iraq are firmly in Brad's space. There's a couple in Nate's and a little overlap, just a touch, but Ray and Walt and Poke are Brad's. Nate couldn't take them if he tried. "His bitch of a girl cheated on him, that's why I went up there."
Nate ignores that comment. He takes the bowl from Brad, leans into the gentle touch against his hand and presses his calves against Brad's when they sit down, Brad's bare feet on top of his shoes.
"How was work?" Nate hums. Brad curls his toes against the dart of Nate's ankle, tucks the soles of his feet under Nate's trousers. "My mom keeps telling me to get a job here." Brad's staring down at his food. "Fuck knows what I'd do. Maybe I'll become a hippy journalist like you."
"There's nothing hippy about economic reports," Nate says. It's not the first time. "You could--" He stops. He doesn't know. Brad had his career. Brad wasn't supposed to ever not be a Marine.
"Exactly." Brad says. He looks up at Nate, a crooked smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "This sauce ain't too bad." Nate smiles back, keeps his eyes away from the hickey and hopes it doesn't look as fake.
Nate rides Brad, fists clenched in the sheets, Brad's hands tight on his thighs. It's not his favourite, not enough friction, not particularly comfortable, but he'd seen the stiffness in Brad's leg, the way he rubbed at the skin when he thought Nate wasn't looking, a desperate touch like a massage might fix damage surgery couldn't.
Brad's always been the silent during sex, never talking, just huffs of breath and touches conveying want and need and desire. A bruising touch for faster, a gentle caress for slower. Always, from that very first desperate fuck, a silent presence as Nate struggled to catch his breath, form words and moans.
Tonight though, tonight there's a near constant murmur of noise, Nate, Nate, yes and Nate's not quite sure what it means. It's putting him off guard, it makes him want to ask, he tenses when Brad wraps an arm around his hips and shapes words against the expanse of his neck-- They've been doing this for years, it had started after Iraq, pressed against Nate's desk, it had evolved and changed and it had been and it had not been but this is new and strange and it feels like it should be wrong. It doesn't sit right with Nate. It makes him feel like he should be preparing for something.
For the first time, he wants to call Ray and ask exactly what Brad's visit entailed.
After, Brad wraps his arm around Nate's hips, huffs little breaths against his hair. He could be asleep. Nate knows he's not.
"Are you--" Nate says, catches his voice on his own breath. "Do you mind it here? Because--" Because what? You could leave? Brad knows that. Because we could change? They couldn't. Brad's silent, but his fingers tap out a rhythm against Nate's skin. He shuffles a bit, moves to try to find a more comfortable position. Once upon a time, they could sleep in MOPP suits, in holes scored in the desert landscape. Once upon a time.
"Nope." It's almost like a sigh. Brad doesn't stop tapping out his rhythm. He doesn't offer anything else.
Maybe it's enough. Brad rolls in closer, hand to Nate's stomach, now he's tapping out a guitar solo Nate can't pinpoint.
"Okay," Nate says. "Okay."
The alarm wakes Nate up, the insistent impersonal beeping that greets him six out of seven days. He takes a moment, stares up at the ceiling and resists the urge to curl further in the warmth of Brad beside him.