fic: "the end of fear is where we begin"
recipient: witchling
author: schlicky
title: the end of fear is where we begin
pairing: Brad/Ray
rating: R
word count: 4,290 words
summary/warnings: Everyone always jokes that they’re gay for each other, but Brad isn’t really sure what to call it.
author notes: Many thanks to timeofnoreply and shoshannagold for some serious hand-holding, and to pjvilar for giving this a read and setting me in the right direction when I was in desperate need of a compass. You’re my hero. ♥
A small cheer goes up when he and Ray step through the door of the bar. Bravo Two has overrun the area where the pool tables are. Brad bumps his fist against Poke’s after he’s made the initial rounds.
"I thought you weren't coming out, man,” Poke says to him.
"I wasn't going to," Brad replies with a shrug.
"You won't come out when I ask you to, but you will when he does?" Poke gestures at Ray and then shoots a look at Brad, grabbing at his chest like he's wounded. He looks more amused than anything. "That fucking hurts, dawg."
Ray flashes a huge grin. "He's a lot more agreeable if you get on your knees and offer to suck his cock first, homes," he says and waggles his eyebrows.
"You guys are so fucking gay," Walt puts in, shaking his head.
"Someone has to make sure he doesn't suffocate to death in a pile of his own vomit," Brad reasons and watches Ray pucker his lips up, making kissing noises.
"Thanks, babe."
Brad rolls his eyes and tries not to grin at least until he’s turned his back to Ray. He heads for the bar to order a beer and forks over his credit card to start a tab. He slants a glance at Ray when he’s joined at the bar. “What’re you drinking?” he asks.
“Whatever,” Ray says, shrugging his shoulders.
Brad makes a gesture for the bartender to get a second beer and he slides it over to Ray when she sets it on the bar top.
“What do I owe you?” Ray asks, already digging for his wallet.
“Don’t worry about it,” Brad says. “I started a tab, so put whatever you want on it.”
There’s a flash of surprise but then Ray’s grinning, clearly not going to kick up a fuss about getting to drink for free. “You’re so good to me,” he croons.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” Brad answers.
“You mean aside from the syphilis?” Ray cackles when Brad punches him hard in the shoulder and slinks off to join in the next game of pool.
Brad’s more than content to set up camp at one of the high top tables along the wall to watch everyone else carry on. He nurses a couple of beers and eats the majority of a basket of jalapeño poppers - Ray comes by and snags one before Brad can stop him.
The occupants of the other chairs at the table rotate throughout the night. Some spend more time with him than others.
“Will you please tell your boy to stop playing that fucking country shit?” Poke asks as he approaches the table again. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the jukebox where Ray and Walt are flipping through the albums, no doubt on the hunt for more songs to play.
“He’s not ‘mine,’” Brad says, “And anyway, when has he ever listened to me?”
“Brad, you’re the only one he’ll listen to,” Poke answers. He’s got this look on his face that clearly says he thinks Brad’s playing a few cards short of a full deck.
Brad just shrugs his shoulders for lack of a better response and drinks more of his beer.
A minute later, Johnny Cash’s low baritone is spilling out of the speakers. Poke shakes his head and walks away again, muttering about bleeding from the ears.
Ray sidles up to the table and takes the seat next to Brad. His cheeks are flushed pink. Brad isn’t sure if it’s because it’s hot in the bar with so many of them crammed near the pool tables or because of the alcohol. Probably a little bit of both.
“Hey Brad.” Ray draws out the vowel in his name and leans his arms against the edge of the table, close enough that their knees bump together. “Having fun?”
“Yeah,” Brad admits. “I am.”
Ray flashes a grin wide enough that his dimples make an appearance. “See? You should listen to your Ray-Ray more often. He’s got good ideas.”
Brad makes a noncommittal noise and hides his smile behind the rim of his beer glass.
It isn’t until the bar staff turns on all of the lights and makes it very clear that they want everyone to get the fuck out that the men of Bravo Two start moving toward the door.
He and Ray got to the bar well after everyone else, so the car is parked in the back corner of the parking lot. Ray drove because Brad didn't trust him not to slide right off the back of the bike after a few too many beers.
“And wouldn’t it be nice to live together in the kind of world where we belong. You know it’s gonna make it that much better when we can say goodnight and stay together--”
“You sound like a dying cat,” Brad tells Ray and plucks the car keys out of Ray's fingers when they emerge from his pocket.
“That wasn’t very nice, Bradley. I’m serenading you under the moonlight and that’s how you thank me? I’m fucking hurt, man.” Ray nearly hits his head on the doorframe as he crawls into the font seat.
Brad simply shakes his head and makes sure all of Ray’s limbs are safely in the car before he shuts the door and circles around the front hood to the driver’s side. He slides the seat back before he even attempts to get into the car otherwise his knees are going to be up near his chin.
“Wish I had my guitar,” Ray mumbles. “Then you’d be really impressed.”
Brad glances at Ray then, but Ray’s got his head resting against the window and his eyes are closed. He’s beginning to doubt that Ray said anything at all; that maybe he’s just hearing things. But then Ray reaches out and attempts to slap Brad’s shoulder, muttering, “Impressed, damn it.”
Ray is quiet for the rest of the drive - asleep, Brad assumes. He watches, amused, when Ray more or less falls out of the car once they’re parked in Brad’s driveway. Brad leads Ray into the house and to the living room, pushing him toward the couch. He kneels down to pull Ray’s shoes off his feet.
Ray leers at him. Or tries to. "You gonn' take my pants off, too?" he asks.
Brad rolls his eyes and shoves at Ray's shoulder until Ray flops backwards into the cushions. "Go to sleep, Ray," he says. He goes to get a proper pillow and a blanket from his room, and when he comes back, Ray is attempting to kick his jeans off.
"They're stuck."
Brad tries not to laugh at how fucking pathetic that sounds. He puts the pillow and blanket down on the coffee table and grabs the cuffs of Ray's jeans. One quick tug and Ray's legs are freed. Brad dumps the jeans on the ground with Ray's shoes and tosses the pillow at him.
"I don't want to hear any complaints that it's not soft enough," he tells Ray.
Ray turns it around long-ways so he can put his head on it and cuddle it at the same time. "No, 's good," he mumbles.
"Okay." Brad spreads the blanket out over Ray, making sure it's tucked under his feet so they stay covered. He’s heard Ray bitch about hating having cold feet on more than one occasion.
"I wan' pancakes."
"We'll get pancakes in the morning," Brad promises. "Go to sleep." He's most of the way to the hallway when Ray's voice stops him.
"Hey, Brad?"
"What?"
"You're awesome. I think I’ll keep you."
Brad smiles. He doesn’t want to think about why those words make his stomach turn pleasantly. “Good night, Ray,” he says and reaches over to turn off the light.
It’s one of those mornings where it’s warm enough in the sun to be wearing only a t-shirt and jeans, but a little cool in the shade. There are a few cars in the parking lot outside the independent coffee shop, and Brad easily spots Ray’s car on the end. He pulls his bike into the empty space next to it.
The front doors are propped open, probably to enjoy the cool breeze. It’s not hard to find Ray because it’s a small place, and Ray is seated at one of the tables just inside the door. He looks up when Brad joins him at the table and says, “Hey, man.”
“Hey,” Brad greets him back. He knows something isn't right the minute Ray lets him steal the rest of his croissant without so much as a noise of complaint. Ray just sits there and watches him.
"What's going on?" Brad asks when it's clear that Ray isn't going to dive right into it.
Ray screws his mouth up and looks away. Then he heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair, which is just long enough to be considered outside of the grooming standard. "I wanted you to hear it from me and not through the knitting circle grapevine telephone bullshit,” he says with a hand-wave.
"Hear what?" Brad asks. The last quarter of the stolen croissant isn't as appetizing with the conversation starting the way it is. There's a long moment where Ray stares at him and Brad stares back, both of them silent.
"I'm not re-upping," Ray says eventually.
"Oh." Brad puts down the bread and wipes his hands together, brushing off crumbs.
Silence descends again, heavy. Ray's hands are fidgeting and Brad knows he's probably dying for a cigarette from the pack sitting out on the table even though he can’t smoke in here. In the end Ray pushes to his feet and digs his wallet out of his pocket. "I'm gonna get another cup of coffee. You want anything?"
It seems like his mouth doesn't want to form the words, but Brad manages a short nod. "Yeah. No--"
"No cream or sugar, I know," Ray replies, nodding. "You freak."
Brad accepts the mug from Ray with a quiet thank you when he brings it back to the table. He's conscious of Ray watching him but he takes a sip of the still too-hot coffee before he asks, "When did you decide?"
Ray scratches at his stubble-covered jaw and sighs through his nose. "I don't know, man," he says at length. "I've been thinking about it for a while and I kept going back and forth, but the idea of having to go back to that shithole -- I can't fucking do it. I don't think even the promise of getting to shoot Saddam in the motherfucking face would get me on board again."
A woman a couple of tables over shoots Ray a dirty look that Ray ignores, which surprises Brad not at all. He sighs.
"It's just - shit. Poke. Fick. Now you?" Brad scoffs. "Next thing you know, it'll be Hasser telling me he'd rather join the Girl Scouts."
"I don't know. Their cookies are fucking baller, dude." Ray grins. "And I think that blue sash would look mighty pretty on Hasser."
Brad can't help the laugh. They fall into another silence, though this time it doesn't seem as oppressive. He runs his finger around the rim of his coffee mug and says at length, "I guess I get it."
Ray shakes his head, smiling at him, his coffee halted halfway to his mouth. "No, you don't, you lifer."
"No," Brad agrees, the corner of his mouth twitching. "What are you going to do instead?"
"I don't know yet. I'll manage to figure something out. Semper Gumby, right?"
Brad makes a thoughtful noise and lifts up his coffee. "If nothing else shakes out, there's always drag shows." He grins when Ray flicks him off.
"Fucking asshole."
"What do I owe you for the coffee?" Brad asks, but Ray waves him off.
"Don't worry about it," Ray replies.
Brad stares back at Ray and gets that tight feeling in his stomach, his heart starting to pound a fraction faster, especially when Ray smiles at him and he sees those fucking dimples. "You doing anything for the game later?" he asks.
Ray shakes his head. "Nah. You offerin'?"
"If you want to. We can pick up some beer on the way home and order a pizza for dinner," Brad tells him. His heart leaps into his throat when Ray flashes another grin.
"Hell yeah, man."
Neither one of them mentions it when they settle a shade too close to each other on the couch.
Somehow Brad isn’t entirely surprised when he steps out his front door one morning, three weeks later, and finds Ray sitting on his steps, waiting. Brad takes a seat next to him and starts to pull on his running shoes.
“You know,” he says instead of greeting Ray, “You’re a pussy civilian now. You don’t have to keep up with the PT.”
Ray flashes him a grin, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand. “Yeah, but being a pussy civilian means I don’t have anything better to do.”
“Point.” They take off down the beach. Ray does a good job of keeping up with Brad, despite the fact that Brad’s got longer legs.
It’s familiar and Brad can almost pretend that not a thing has changed, that Ray is still going to be in the seat beside him the next time the orders come down the line. Eating Skittles. Drinking too much Ripped Fuel. Singing country music purely because he knows it drives Brad crazy.
But Ray’s not going to be there, and Brad has to get himself used to the idea even if he doesn’t fucking like it.
They gradually come to a stop a few miles up the beach from Brad’s house. It’s pretty warm and Brad takes a couple of long, deep breaths. He and Ray glance at each other and it’s like they have a silent conversation because almost at the same instant, they’re pulling off their shoes and socks, and yanking off t-shirts, heading for the water.
Ray splashes him in the face, which quickly turns into them pushing water back and forth until Brad manages to get his hands on Ray and dunks him under the water. Ray comes up spluttering and laughing and he shoves at Brad’s shoulder with a muttered, “You fuckin’ asshole.”
Ray’s hand is warm despite the cool water and the heat of it sends a shiver down Brad’s spine.
After a while in the waves and at least one more water fight, they head back for the shore and their haphazard pile of clothes where the wet sand meets dry.
Brad bends down and tucks his socks into his shoes and grabs his shirt. He straightens back up and looks up and down the beach, surprised that it’s not more crowded.
Ray bitches about the sand stuck between his toes as he grabs his own shoes. He starts in on a diatribe about how much he hates sand, but Brad only half hears him.
Brad watches the way the drops of water slide down Ray's torso until they're absorbed into the waistband of his PT shorts, which brings his attention to the fact that Ray's PT shorts are soaked and clinging to him.
It's kind of a nice look.
"Um, hello. Earth to Brad," Ray's voice cuts in. "I know my tits are nice and shit but I'm up here, man."
Brad blinks and looks up at Ray. The last thing he heard was something about the sand and ass-cracks. Ray looks equal parts amused and concerned.
"Everything okay?" Ray asks.
"I - yeah." Brad shakes his head, like that's going to dislodge the thoughts. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure? You don't normally zone out of conversations like that, dude." When Brad just reaffirms that he's okay, Ray shrugs his shoulders and tucks the end of his shirt into his shorts. "Whatever you say, homes."
Brad falls into step with Ray when he starts back down the beach, back toward Brad’s house.
“You hungry?” Ray asks then. “We’ll have to go back to your place first because my wallet’s in my car, but I’ll buy if you’re interested in grabbing a bite.”
“Yeah, I could eat,” Brad agrees. The conversation turns to their options of places to go, what they feel like eating, and Brad’s pleased with the change of subject.
It’s safe.
When he takes the time to actually think about it, it’s almost like they’re dating. Everyone always jokes that they’re gay for each other, but Brad isn’t really sure what to call it. There’s been no conversation even close to hinting at it. But they go out together; dinner, drinks, even movies from time to time. Sometimes Brad buys, sometimes Ray does.
It occurs to Brad that Ray spends more time sleeping at Brad’s house on Brad’s couch than he does in his own apartment, in his own bed.
They don’t avoid contact. Brad thinks if anything they touch each other way too often for it to be considered entirely platonic. More than once he’s had the fleeting thought that Ray might kiss him, but nothing ever comes of those moments. More than once he thinks about being the one to push them into that new arena, but he never does.
Brad sighs and moves over to the couch with his coffee mug. He reaches down and runs a finger along the bottom of Ray’s bare foot, heel to toe. When Ray inhales sharply and jerks his feet up, Brad takes a seat in the vacated spot.
“What the fuck?” Ray rubs at his face and squints at Brad. He has pillow creases on his cheek. “If you’re gonna wake me up so goddamn early, the least you could do is bring me a cup of fucking coffee, man.”
“Do I look like your coffee bitch?” Brad asks.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” Ray shoots back. He pushes the blanket out of the way and rolls off the couch. He stretches when he climbs to his feet.
Brad tries not to stare at the two inches of skin bared by Ray’s shirt riding up.
“You have anything to put in it or do I have to choke it down black?” Ray drops his arms back to his side and looks at Brad.
“There’s some creamer in the fridge.”
Ray flashes a huge, toothy grin. “Aw, you bought me some half ‘n’ half, Bradley?” he asks and then disappears into the kitchen briefly. Ray comes back out sipping from a mug, the corners of his mouth curled up in a happy smile, and then he says, “You totally love your Ray-Ray.”
Brad’s head comes up when Ray walks back into the room and he isn’t prepared for that statement. He knows it’s written all over his face. He huffs a soft, sad laugh and looks down at his coffee.
When he looks up again, Ray is still standing there staring at him, his hands wrapped around the mug of coffee he’s holding. They stare at each other for a long moment until Brad says quietly, “Will you fucking say something?”
Ray starts. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, his voice equally quiet.
“Tell me how you really feel,” Brad says. “Instead of spewing all of this vague bullshit.”
That seems to snap Ray out of it because he frowns a little and puts his mug down on the end table. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asks.
“Does ‘I think I’ll keep you’ sound familiar? Or any of the millions of other jokes about us fucking? And all of those times you’ve touched me when you didn’t need to?” Brad sets his coffee on the table and climbs to his feet. He closes the distance between them. “What does that mean, Ray? Do you actually fucking mean it, or are you just talking shit?”
At least Ray doesn’t look away from him. He meets Brad’s gaze squarely. “So, what? I’m supposed to put myself out there and hope you don’t fucking leave me standing there by myself?”
"What do you want, Ray? I know what I want and I'm really tired of dicking around."
"Brad, I don't know what I would call what's been going on between us, but I'm pretty sure it hasn't involved dicks. I think I would remember that," Ray says, voice dry. He has to tip his chin up a little to look at Brad since they’re standing so close together now. “So what do you want, Brad?”
“You,” Brad answers with little hesitation, his voice firm. His heart is starting to pound faster in his chest. “Do you want this?”
Ray sighs. “It’s not that easy, Brad--”
“Yes or no,” Brad says and reaches over, his fingers grazing the curve of Ray’s jaw. “You either do or you don’t.”
“Yes. Fuck, yes.”
"Then shut the fuck up, Ray." Brad shoves Ray against the doorway, his hands firmly pressing against Ray's ribs. The tight feeling in his chest loosens and is replaced by warmth. "Just shut up."
Ray's hands cup Brad's hips, his thumbs hooked through the belt loops of Brad's jeans. He tips his head back and feels Brad's breath against his mouth. "Yeah, okay," he breathes out.
Brad ducks his head down to kiss Ray. It starts slow and soft and quickly turns to something rough and desperate, want and need finally crashing through carefully constructed boundaries.
“The doorframe is digging into my shoulder blade,” Ray informs him during a break in the kisses, and Brad makes a noise of acknowledgement before he’s kissing Ray again. Ray starts to push Brad backwards with his hands pressing against Brad’s hips, eagerly returning the kisses until he hooks his foot around one of Brad's legs, tripping him.
Brad manages to twist as they go down, landing with most of his weight on Ray rather than the other way around.
Ray lets out a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a gasp of pain. "I think you just broke my ribs, you asshole."
"Sorry." Brad bends his head down to lick his way into Ray's mouth, and Ray's ribs must not be hurting too badly because he opens his mouth under Brad’s and gives back as good as he’s getting. Brad cups Ray’s jaw and angles Ray’s chin up a little more to deepen the kiss.
Ray makes a needy noise into Brad’s mouth and bucks his hips up against Brad’s.
Brad presses his down in response and they both gasp at the friction. He feels Ray’s hands slide down his back and then they’re grabbing at his ass through his jeans, tugging him down for a tighter fit.
“Let’s take this somewhere more comfortable,” Ray murmurs, tipping his head back when Brad’s mouth trails down his throat.
Brad bites playfully at Ray’s Adam’s apple, but he rolls off Ray and climbs to his feet. He reaches down and tugs Ray up.
Ray’s hands slide under the hem of Brad’s t-shirt and he pushes to his toes to kiss Brad again. He moans into the kiss and, with a little shove, starts them toward the door to Brad’s bedroom.
The fact that Ray has taken control doesn’t occur to Brad until Ray pins him against the dresser and the corner digs into his back, to the right of his spine. “That fucking hurts, you dickhead.”
“Karma, bitch.” Ray laughs into the kiss and squeezes Brad’s ribs.
And maybe that's part of what draws him to Ray. Ray never goes quietly. He never goes down without a fight. He may be smaller, but he'll battle Brad every second, verbally and physically. He's a feisty little fucker.
Brad pushes back against Ray, and Ray goes willingly until the back of his knees hit the edge of Brad’s bed. The arm Brad has wrapped around his waist keeps Ray from tipping onto the mattress.
Their clothes come off first, thrown carelessly onto the floor, and then they spread out across the bed. It’s not as if they’ve never seen each other naked, but this is different. This time Brad gets to touch and kiss and lick and bite his way across pale skin and dark ink, relishing the noises that are drawn out of Ray.
“Fuck, Brad,” Ray gasps and arches his back when Brad’s fingers curl around him, stroking slowly.
“You know, you’re right,” Brad murmurs. “You do have some good ideas.”
It isn’t perfect. Brad takes a shot in the kidney when he gets too impatient and tries to push in before Ray’s ready for him. It takes some experimenting and repositioning before they find a rhythm they’re both happy with. There’s as much laughing as there is kissing.
Brad forces his eyes back open even though all he wants to do right now is go to sleep. He runs his fingers along Ray's ribs and smiles when Ray mumbles sleepily and tries to swat at his hand.
"How are your ribs?" Brad asks.
"Fine," Ray replies, but the wince when he rolls over says otherwise.
"You should put some ice on it," Brad tells him. He turns onto his back willingly when Ray pushes at his shoulder and then smiles when Ray climbs on top of him.
Ray shakes his head and presses a kiss to Brad's mouth. "Nah. I'll be fine. They're just a little sore. You okay?”
Brad nods and returns the kiss. “Yeah,” he says and runs his hand down Ray's spine, over the curve of his ass and back up again. “I’m pretty fucking perfect.”
author: schlicky
title: the end of fear is where we begin
pairing: Brad/Ray
rating: R
word count: 4,290 words
summary/warnings: Everyone always jokes that they’re gay for each other, but Brad isn’t really sure what to call it.
author notes: Many thanks to timeofnoreply and shoshannagold for some serious hand-holding, and to pjvilar for giving this a read and setting me in the right direction when I was in desperate need of a compass. You’re my hero. ♥
A small cheer goes up when he and Ray step through the door of the bar. Bravo Two has overrun the area where the pool tables are. Brad bumps his fist against Poke’s after he’s made the initial rounds.
"I thought you weren't coming out, man,” Poke says to him.
"I wasn't going to," Brad replies with a shrug.
"You won't come out when I ask you to, but you will when he does?" Poke gestures at Ray and then shoots a look at Brad, grabbing at his chest like he's wounded. He looks more amused than anything. "That fucking hurts, dawg."
Ray flashes a huge grin. "He's a lot more agreeable if you get on your knees and offer to suck his cock first, homes," he says and waggles his eyebrows.
"You guys are so fucking gay," Walt puts in, shaking his head.
"Someone has to make sure he doesn't suffocate to death in a pile of his own vomit," Brad reasons and watches Ray pucker his lips up, making kissing noises.
"Thanks, babe."
Brad rolls his eyes and tries not to grin at least until he’s turned his back to Ray. He heads for the bar to order a beer and forks over his credit card to start a tab. He slants a glance at Ray when he’s joined at the bar. “What’re you drinking?” he asks.
“Whatever,” Ray says, shrugging his shoulders.
Brad makes a gesture for the bartender to get a second beer and he slides it over to Ray when she sets it on the bar top.
“What do I owe you?” Ray asks, already digging for his wallet.
“Don’t worry about it,” Brad says. “I started a tab, so put whatever you want on it.”
There’s a flash of surprise but then Ray’s grinning, clearly not going to kick up a fuss about getting to drink for free. “You’re so good to me,” he croons.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” Brad answers.
“You mean aside from the syphilis?” Ray cackles when Brad punches him hard in the shoulder and slinks off to join in the next game of pool.
Brad’s more than content to set up camp at one of the high top tables along the wall to watch everyone else carry on. He nurses a couple of beers and eats the majority of a basket of jalapeño poppers - Ray comes by and snags one before Brad can stop him.
The occupants of the other chairs at the table rotate throughout the night. Some spend more time with him than others.
“Will you please tell your boy to stop playing that fucking country shit?” Poke asks as he approaches the table again. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the jukebox where Ray and Walt are flipping through the albums, no doubt on the hunt for more songs to play.
“He’s not ‘mine,’” Brad says, “And anyway, when has he ever listened to me?”
“Brad, you’re the only one he’ll listen to,” Poke answers. He’s got this look on his face that clearly says he thinks Brad’s playing a few cards short of a full deck.
Brad just shrugs his shoulders for lack of a better response and drinks more of his beer.
A minute later, Johnny Cash’s low baritone is spilling out of the speakers. Poke shakes his head and walks away again, muttering about bleeding from the ears.
Ray sidles up to the table and takes the seat next to Brad. His cheeks are flushed pink. Brad isn’t sure if it’s because it’s hot in the bar with so many of them crammed near the pool tables or because of the alcohol. Probably a little bit of both.
“Hey Brad.” Ray draws out the vowel in his name and leans his arms against the edge of the table, close enough that their knees bump together. “Having fun?”
“Yeah,” Brad admits. “I am.”
Ray flashes a grin wide enough that his dimples make an appearance. “See? You should listen to your Ray-Ray more often. He’s got good ideas.”
Brad makes a noncommittal noise and hides his smile behind the rim of his beer glass.
It isn’t until the bar staff turns on all of the lights and makes it very clear that they want everyone to get the fuck out that the men of Bravo Two start moving toward the door.
He and Ray got to the bar well after everyone else, so the car is parked in the back corner of the parking lot. Ray drove because Brad didn't trust him not to slide right off the back of the bike after a few too many beers.
“And wouldn’t it be nice to live together in the kind of world where we belong. You know it’s gonna make it that much better when we can say goodnight and stay together--”
“You sound like a dying cat,” Brad tells Ray and plucks the car keys out of Ray's fingers when they emerge from his pocket.
“That wasn’t very nice, Bradley. I’m serenading you under the moonlight and that’s how you thank me? I’m fucking hurt, man.” Ray nearly hits his head on the doorframe as he crawls into the font seat.
Brad simply shakes his head and makes sure all of Ray’s limbs are safely in the car before he shuts the door and circles around the front hood to the driver’s side. He slides the seat back before he even attempts to get into the car otherwise his knees are going to be up near his chin.
“Wish I had my guitar,” Ray mumbles. “Then you’d be really impressed.”
Brad glances at Ray then, but Ray’s got his head resting against the window and his eyes are closed. He’s beginning to doubt that Ray said anything at all; that maybe he’s just hearing things. But then Ray reaches out and attempts to slap Brad’s shoulder, muttering, “Impressed, damn it.”
Ray is quiet for the rest of the drive - asleep, Brad assumes. He watches, amused, when Ray more or less falls out of the car once they’re parked in Brad’s driveway. Brad leads Ray into the house and to the living room, pushing him toward the couch. He kneels down to pull Ray’s shoes off his feet.
Ray leers at him. Or tries to. "You gonn' take my pants off, too?" he asks.
Brad rolls his eyes and shoves at Ray's shoulder until Ray flops backwards into the cushions. "Go to sleep, Ray," he says. He goes to get a proper pillow and a blanket from his room, and when he comes back, Ray is attempting to kick his jeans off.
"They're stuck."
Brad tries not to laugh at how fucking pathetic that sounds. He puts the pillow and blanket down on the coffee table and grabs the cuffs of Ray's jeans. One quick tug and Ray's legs are freed. Brad dumps the jeans on the ground with Ray's shoes and tosses the pillow at him.
"I don't want to hear any complaints that it's not soft enough," he tells Ray.
Ray turns it around long-ways so he can put his head on it and cuddle it at the same time. "No, 's good," he mumbles.
"Okay." Brad spreads the blanket out over Ray, making sure it's tucked under his feet so they stay covered. He’s heard Ray bitch about hating having cold feet on more than one occasion.
"I wan' pancakes."
"We'll get pancakes in the morning," Brad promises. "Go to sleep." He's most of the way to the hallway when Ray's voice stops him.
"Hey, Brad?"
"What?"
"You're awesome. I think I’ll keep you."
Brad smiles. He doesn’t want to think about why those words make his stomach turn pleasantly. “Good night, Ray,” he says and reaches over to turn off the light.
It’s one of those mornings where it’s warm enough in the sun to be wearing only a t-shirt and jeans, but a little cool in the shade. There are a few cars in the parking lot outside the independent coffee shop, and Brad easily spots Ray’s car on the end. He pulls his bike into the empty space next to it.
The front doors are propped open, probably to enjoy the cool breeze. It’s not hard to find Ray because it’s a small place, and Ray is seated at one of the tables just inside the door. He looks up when Brad joins him at the table and says, “Hey, man.”
“Hey,” Brad greets him back. He knows something isn't right the minute Ray lets him steal the rest of his croissant without so much as a noise of complaint. Ray just sits there and watches him.
"What's going on?" Brad asks when it's clear that Ray isn't going to dive right into it.
Ray screws his mouth up and looks away. Then he heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his hair, which is just long enough to be considered outside of the grooming standard. "I wanted you to hear it from me and not through the knitting circle grapevine telephone bullshit,” he says with a hand-wave.
"Hear what?" Brad asks. The last quarter of the stolen croissant isn't as appetizing with the conversation starting the way it is. There's a long moment where Ray stares at him and Brad stares back, both of them silent.
"I'm not re-upping," Ray says eventually.
"Oh." Brad puts down the bread and wipes his hands together, brushing off crumbs.
Silence descends again, heavy. Ray's hands are fidgeting and Brad knows he's probably dying for a cigarette from the pack sitting out on the table even though he can’t smoke in here. In the end Ray pushes to his feet and digs his wallet out of his pocket. "I'm gonna get another cup of coffee. You want anything?"
It seems like his mouth doesn't want to form the words, but Brad manages a short nod. "Yeah. No--"
"No cream or sugar, I know," Ray replies, nodding. "You freak."
Brad accepts the mug from Ray with a quiet thank you when he brings it back to the table. He's conscious of Ray watching him but he takes a sip of the still too-hot coffee before he asks, "When did you decide?"
Ray scratches at his stubble-covered jaw and sighs through his nose. "I don't know, man," he says at length. "I've been thinking about it for a while and I kept going back and forth, but the idea of having to go back to that shithole -- I can't fucking do it. I don't think even the promise of getting to shoot Saddam in the motherfucking face would get me on board again."
A woman a couple of tables over shoots Ray a dirty look that Ray ignores, which surprises Brad not at all. He sighs.
"It's just - shit. Poke. Fick. Now you?" Brad scoffs. "Next thing you know, it'll be Hasser telling me he'd rather join the Girl Scouts."
"I don't know. Their cookies are fucking baller, dude." Ray grins. "And I think that blue sash would look mighty pretty on Hasser."
Brad can't help the laugh. They fall into another silence, though this time it doesn't seem as oppressive. He runs his finger around the rim of his coffee mug and says at length, "I guess I get it."
Ray shakes his head, smiling at him, his coffee halted halfway to his mouth. "No, you don't, you lifer."
"No," Brad agrees, the corner of his mouth twitching. "What are you going to do instead?"
"I don't know yet. I'll manage to figure something out. Semper Gumby, right?"
Brad makes a thoughtful noise and lifts up his coffee. "If nothing else shakes out, there's always drag shows." He grins when Ray flicks him off.
"Fucking asshole."
"What do I owe you for the coffee?" Brad asks, but Ray waves him off.
"Don't worry about it," Ray replies.
Brad stares back at Ray and gets that tight feeling in his stomach, his heart starting to pound a fraction faster, especially when Ray smiles at him and he sees those fucking dimples. "You doing anything for the game later?" he asks.
Ray shakes his head. "Nah. You offerin'?"
"If you want to. We can pick up some beer on the way home and order a pizza for dinner," Brad tells him. His heart leaps into his throat when Ray flashes another grin.
"Hell yeah, man."
Neither one of them mentions it when they settle a shade too close to each other on the couch.
Somehow Brad isn’t entirely surprised when he steps out his front door one morning, three weeks later, and finds Ray sitting on his steps, waiting. Brad takes a seat next to him and starts to pull on his running shoes.
“You know,” he says instead of greeting Ray, “You’re a pussy civilian now. You don’t have to keep up with the PT.”
Ray flashes him a grin, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand. “Yeah, but being a pussy civilian means I don’t have anything better to do.”
“Point.” They take off down the beach. Ray does a good job of keeping up with Brad, despite the fact that Brad’s got longer legs.
It’s familiar and Brad can almost pretend that not a thing has changed, that Ray is still going to be in the seat beside him the next time the orders come down the line. Eating Skittles. Drinking too much Ripped Fuel. Singing country music purely because he knows it drives Brad crazy.
But Ray’s not going to be there, and Brad has to get himself used to the idea even if he doesn’t fucking like it.
They gradually come to a stop a few miles up the beach from Brad’s house. It’s pretty warm and Brad takes a couple of long, deep breaths. He and Ray glance at each other and it’s like they have a silent conversation because almost at the same instant, they’re pulling off their shoes and socks, and yanking off t-shirts, heading for the water.
Ray splashes him in the face, which quickly turns into them pushing water back and forth until Brad manages to get his hands on Ray and dunks him under the water. Ray comes up spluttering and laughing and he shoves at Brad’s shoulder with a muttered, “You fuckin’ asshole.”
Ray’s hand is warm despite the cool water and the heat of it sends a shiver down Brad’s spine.
After a while in the waves and at least one more water fight, they head back for the shore and their haphazard pile of clothes where the wet sand meets dry.
Brad bends down and tucks his socks into his shoes and grabs his shirt. He straightens back up and looks up and down the beach, surprised that it’s not more crowded.
Ray bitches about the sand stuck between his toes as he grabs his own shoes. He starts in on a diatribe about how much he hates sand, but Brad only half hears him.
Brad watches the way the drops of water slide down Ray's torso until they're absorbed into the waistband of his PT shorts, which brings his attention to the fact that Ray's PT shorts are soaked and clinging to him.
It's kind of a nice look.
"Um, hello. Earth to Brad," Ray's voice cuts in. "I know my tits are nice and shit but I'm up here, man."
Brad blinks and looks up at Ray. The last thing he heard was something about the sand and ass-cracks. Ray looks equal parts amused and concerned.
"Everything okay?" Ray asks.
"I - yeah." Brad shakes his head, like that's going to dislodge the thoughts. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure? You don't normally zone out of conversations like that, dude." When Brad just reaffirms that he's okay, Ray shrugs his shoulders and tucks the end of his shirt into his shorts. "Whatever you say, homes."
Brad falls into step with Ray when he starts back down the beach, back toward Brad’s house.
“You hungry?” Ray asks then. “We’ll have to go back to your place first because my wallet’s in my car, but I’ll buy if you’re interested in grabbing a bite.”
“Yeah, I could eat,” Brad agrees. The conversation turns to their options of places to go, what they feel like eating, and Brad’s pleased with the change of subject.
It’s safe.
When he takes the time to actually think about it, it’s almost like they’re dating. Everyone always jokes that they’re gay for each other, but Brad isn’t really sure what to call it. There’s been no conversation even close to hinting at it. But they go out together; dinner, drinks, even movies from time to time. Sometimes Brad buys, sometimes Ray does.
It occurs to Brad that Ray spends more time sleeping at Brad’s house on Brad’s couch than he does in his own apartment, in his own bed.
They don’t avoid contact. Brad thinks if anything they touch each other way too often for it to be considered entirely platonic. More than once he’s had the fleeting thought that Ray might kiss him, but nothing ever comes of those moments. More than once he thinks about being the one to push them into that new arena, but he never does.
Brad sighs and moves over to the couch with his coffee mug. He reaches down and runs a finger along the bottom of Ray’s bare foot, heel to toe. When Ray inhales sharply and jerks his feet up, Brad takes a seat in the vacated spot.
“What the fuck?” Ray rubs at his face and squints at Brad. He has pillow creases on his cheek. “If you’re gonna wake me up so goddamn early, the least you could do is bring me a cup of fucking coffee, man.”
“Do I look like your coffee bitch?” Brad asks.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” Ray shoots back. He pushes the blanket out of the way and rolls off the couch. He stretches when he climbs to his feet.
Brad tries not to stare at the two inches of skin bared by Ray’s shirt riding up.
“You have anything to put in it or do I have to choke it down black?” Ray drops his arms back to his side and looks at Brad.
“There’s some creamer in the fridge.”
Ray flashes a huge, toothy grin. “Aw, you bought me some half ‘n’ half, Bradley?” he asks and then disappears into the kitchen briefly. Ray comes back out sipping from a mug, the corners of his mouth curled up in a happy smile, and then he says, “You totally love your Ray-Ray.”
Brad’s head comes up when Ray walks back into the room and he isn’t prepared for that statement. He knows it’s written all over his face. He huffs a soft, sad laugh and looks down at his coffee.
When he looks up again, Ray is still standing there staring at him, his hands wrapped around the mug of coffee he’s holding. They stare at each other for a long moment until Brad says quietly, “Will you fucking say something?”
Ray starts. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, his voice equally quiet.
“Tell me how you really feel,” Brad says. “Instead of spewing all of this vague bullshit.”
That seems to snap Ray out of it because he frowns a little and puts his mug down on the end table. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he asks.
“Does ‘I think I’ll keep you’ sound familiar? Or any of the millions of other jokes about us fucking? And all of those times you’ve touched me when you didn’t need to?” Brad sets his coffee on the table and climbs to his feet. He closes the distance between them. “What does that mean, Ray? Do you actually fucking mean it, or are you just talking shit?”
At least Ray doesn’t look away from him. He meets Brad’s gaze squarely. “So, what? I’m supposed to put myself out there and hope you don’t fucking leave me standing there by myself?”
"What do you want, Ray? I know what I want and I'm really tired of dicking around."
"Brad, I don't know what I would call what's been going on between us, but I'm pretty sure it hasn't involved dicks. I think I would remember that," Ray says, voice dry. He has to tip his chin up a little to look at Brad since they’re standing so close together now. “So what do you want, Brad?”
“You,” Brad answers with little hesitation, his voice firm. His heart is starting to pound faster in his chest. “Do you want this?”
Ray sighs. “It’s not that easy, Brad--”
“Yes or no,” Brad says and reaches over, his fingers grazing the curve of Ray’s jaw. “You either do or you don’t.”
“Yes. Fuck, yes.”
"Then shut the fuck up, Ray." Brad shoves Ray against the doorway, his hands firmly pressing against Ray's ribs. The tight feeling in his chest loosens and is replaced by warmth. "Just shut up."
Ray's hands cup Brad's hips, his thumbs hooked through the belt loops of Brad's jeans. He tips his head back and feels Brad's breath against his mouth. "Yeah, okay," he breathes out.
Brad ducks his head down to kiss Ray. It starts slow and soft and quickly turns to something rough and desperate, want and need finally crashing through carefully constructed boundaries.
“The doorframe is digging into my shoulder blade,” Ray informs him during a break in the kisses, and Brad makes a noise of acknowledgement before he’s kissing Ray again. Ray starts to push Brad backwards with his hands pressing against Brad’s hips, eagerly returning the kisses until he hooks his foot around one of Brad's legs, tripping him.
Brad manages to twist as they go down, landing with most of his weight on Ray rather than the other way around.
Ray lets out a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a gasp of pain. "I think you just broke my ribs, you asshole."
"Sorry." Brad bends his head down to lick his way into Ray's mouth, and Ray's ribs must not be hurting too badly because he opens his mouth under Brad’s and gives back as good as he’s getting. Brad cups Ray’s jaw and angles Ray’s chin up a little more to deepen the kiss.
Ray makes a needy noise into Brad’s mouth and bucks his hips up against Brad’s.
Brad presses his down in response and they both gasp at the friction. He feels Ray’s hands slide down his back and then they’re grabbing at his ass through his jeans, tugging him down for a tighter fit.
“Let’s take this somewhere more comfortable,” Ray murmurs, tipping his head back when Brad’s mouth trails down his throat.
Brad bites playfully at Ray’s Adam’s apple, but he rolls off Ray and climbs to his feet. He reaches down and tugs Ray up.
Ray’s hands slide under the hem of Brad’s t-shirt and he pushes to his toes to kiss Brad again. He moans into the kiss and, with a little shove, starts them toward the door to Brad’s bedroom.
The fact that Ray has taken control doesn’t occur to Brad until Ray pins him against the dresser and the corner digs into his back, to the right of his spine. “That fucking hurts, you dickhead.”
“Karma, bitch.” Ray laughs into the kiss and squeezes Brad’s ribs.
And maybe that's part of what draws him to Ray. Ray never goes quietly. He never goes down without a fight. He may be smaller, but he'll battle Brad every second, verbally and physically. He's a feisty little fucker.
Brad pushes back against Ray, and Ray goes willingly until the back of his knees hit the edge of Brad’s bed. The arm Brad has wrapped around his waist keeps Ray from tipping onto the mattress.
Their clothes come off first, thrown carelessly onto the floor, and then they spread out across the bed. It’s not as if they’ve never seen each other naked, but this is different. This time Brad gets to touch and kiss and lick and bite his way across pale skin and dark ink, relishing the noises that are drawn out of Ray.
“Fuck, Brad,” Ray gasps and arches his back when Brad’s fingers curl around him, stroking slowly.
“You know, you’re right,” Brad murmurs. “You do have some good ideas.”
It isn’t perfect. Brad takes a shot in the kidney when he gets too impatient and tries to push in before Ray’s ready for him. It takes some experimenting and repositioning before they find a rhythm they’re both happy with. There’s as much laughing as there is kissing.
Brad forces his eyes back open even though all he wants to do right now is go to sleep. He runs his fingers along Ray's ribs and smiles when Ray mumbles sleepily and tries to swat at his hand.
"How are your ribs?" Brad asks.
"Fine," Ray replies, but the wince when he rolls over says otherwise.
"You should put some ice on it," Brad tells him. He turns onto his back willingly when Ray pushes at his shoulder and then smiles when Ray climbs on top of him.
Ray shakes his head and presses a kiss to Brad's mouth. "Nah. I'll be fine. They're just a little sore. You okay?”
Brad nods and returns the kiss. “Yeah,” he says and runs his hand down Ray's spine, over the curve of his ass and back up again. “I’m pretty fucking perfect.”