GK Fic: Now's The Only Time We Know
Title: Now’s The Only Time We Know
Author: chemfishee
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairings/Characters: Brad/Nate
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3000
Summary: They’ve been playing house like this for the better part of a decade between grad school and England and promotions and deployments. Maybe one day they’ll do this for real.
Notes: Based on fictionalized portrayals in the HBO miniseries. This was supposed to be comment fic for idrilfinial. It may have taken on a life of its own (and be only tangentially related to the original prompt of 'thunderstorms'). Title a play on (and courtesy of) Fever Ray’s “Now’s The Only Time I Know”.
Beta’d by the magnificent pjvilar, who absolutely refused to let me get away with any authorial laziness. Any remaining mistakes are due to my tinkering.
March 1 (day zero).
Yesterday, a policy recommendation report on Yemen was compiled and revised.
Three hours ago, it was couriered to the White House.
Now there is an already-packed bag sitting on the kitchen counter by a note. BWI. 0600. No phones. No laptops. I’ll know. Your office has already been informed. The handwriting belongs to Jessica, his assistant. The message does not.
-
March 6 (day five).
Nate sneaks into the bathroom at 6am to check his BlackBerry. He types “La Jolla” into the Weather Channel app and waits for it to load. He doesn’t turn the overhead light on, just sets the phone on the counter to quietly run enough water to brush his teeth. He taps the brush against the sink’s rim and then watches the Doppler on the fingerprint-smudged screen. There’s another angry wall of green heading towards them, with a warning for severe thunderstorms starting at 7am.
There’s enough time for him to get at least a few miles in, enough time to make it to the beach and back.
Nate waits for the keypad and screen to darken before opening the door and sneaking into the bedroom. Brad is still snuffling through a dream.
He grabs his earbuds out of a side pocket from his bag and a pair of clean socks. If Brad had Jessica pack just enough for their first proper vacation in too long, they have the cottage for another four days. He snags his shorts from yesterday’s run off the floor and a long-sleeved tee from the chair in the corner. Nate tucks the phone into a pocket and pulls the shirt over his head at the top of the stairs, only then realizing that it’s loose in the chest and sagging in the shoulders.
Their shoes are lined up by the back door. Nate slides easily into his sneakers and slips out the door. He uses the porch railing as leverage for his stretches. He cues the Talib Kweli station into Pandora, letting the electronic beats of “Flash Gordon” softly set his pace.
The sky is bruised, fighting a losing battle against the encroaching dawn.
Nate heads towards crashing waves.
-
March 4 (day three).
Brad digs into the cabinet of games left for families fighting to tolerate each other for the one week a year they are unmoored from their usual safety nets. He waggles his eyebrows at Twister but Nate vetoes it with an eye roll.
The chessboard is only missing three pieces. Brad sets it up while Nate putters in the kitchen. When he comes around the door carrying two plates of grilled cheeses surrounding bowls of what smells like canned clam chowder, Brad sweeps his arm towards the board. “Up for it?” he asks, a smirk curling one corner of his mouth.
Nate squints and tries to assess the situation. “Stakes?”
Brad’s smirk opens into a smile all-teeth. “Clothes.” Nate’s mouth puckers. His eyes narrow further. “And you’re white.”
Nate hands over one of the plates before situating himself on the floor. Only then does he realize he’s missing a bishop and a pawn. Brad is down a rook. “Down two-one before we even start? I’m sure that’s not fair.”
Brad tugs the threadbare USMC shirt over his head. “Better now?”
“Getting there.” Nate dips a corner of his sandwich in the soup and takes a bite. “You’re going down, Colbert.”
“I fully intend to, Fick.”
Nate pushes a pawn toward the center of the board. “Your move.”
-
Talib bleeds into Nas as Nate runs past houses that were selling for $4 million the last time they stayed in the cottage. Today, the sleeping showroom windows open on darkened living rooms worth less than half that. Everything in California is wide open.
-
Nate loses his shirt, his belt and a sock. He is on his way to losing his shorts. Brad’s still only missing his shirt.
Brad checks him with a fucking pawn.
Huh.
Nate blocks him with his queen. Brad smiles razor-sharp.
Nate fucking knows he fell into the trap. He just has no idea what Brad’s next move is going to be.
He should lay down his king now and peel off the khaki cargo shorts.
Nate Fick does not surrender.
-
The tide is coming in angry and stormy gray. The Pacific froths as it washes up onto the beach in a way the Atlantic simply can’t.
Common’s slow groove ode to the history of hip-hop flows out of the earbuds.
Nate stands at the bottom of the staircase leading onto the sand. He watches the water slowly reclaim the ancient silt and considers shucking his sneakers and running barefoot along the licking surf.
Putting socks on wet, gritty feet is a bitch. The pavement would still be cool on his run back to the cottage if he stayed barefoot, but the pebbles would dig into the balls of his feet.
Nate takes three steps onto the sand, letting some of it sink into his shoes. “I Used To Love H.E.R.” continues to soak into him from the ears down, and he thinks, “Yeah, Common, me too.”
-
March 2 (day one).
Brad doesn’t meet him at the airport.
Nate takes a cab to the yellow cottage. He watches tiny streams coalesce into rivulets along the window. Nate leans his head against the glass and breathes out. His breath fogs in a circular pattern.
Nate’s skin itches. He lifts a finger to write Nate Fick is here. The fog dissipates before he draws the ‘h’.
He notes the bike isn’t yet inside the cottage’s drive as he tips the cabbie and slings his bag off the backseat.
-
Nate’s got a knight digging into his hip and come drying on his belly. His lip is bitten red and scraped raw. He has stubble burn on the back of his thighs and rug burns on his palms. He rolls onto his side, digging the chess piece further into flesh and bone.
Brad slides a hand along his ribs. He drops a kiss on the corner of Nate’s mouth. He nuzzles along Nate’s cheekbone and mumbles “Rematch?” into Nate’s jaw.
Nate huffs a laugh between them. “Only if you’re up for it.”
“Cute.” Brad peels himself away, sits up and smacks Nate’s ass. “C’mon. You can be the oppressed masses this time.”
-
Common slides into Jay-Z. Nate can feel his lips quirking. He hasn’t listened to this song since he spent 72 straight hours hunched over his laptop while he finished his Kennedy School thesis.
When he submitted his finalized version to Jorgenson, he ran across the Longfellow Bridge, along the Charles River in Beacon Hill and into Boston Common. He got lost leaving the park and wound up in Chinatown.
Sometimes Nate misses Cambridge.
-
March 3 (day two).
The landlord has the Union-Tribune delivered daily when there are tenants in the cottage.
Brad sits in the breakfast nook with the paper spread along the counter. A fresh mug of coffee is pillowed underneath. Plastic framed reading glasses are his one concession to aging.
Brad reads a column tucked between local sports and classifieds: “Today in History with Russell Ellis.”
Today, in 1845, Congress overrides the Presidential veto for the first time. 100 years later, Finland declares war on Germany. Twenty years after that, the U.S. bombs the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Silas Deane embarks on a secret mission to France in 1776, and the Supreme Court rules on Communist teachers in 1952.
Nearly a century after the Declaration of Independence, in 1873, Congress bans sending obscene material through the mail. Ray Person willfully overlooks that law.
Today is March 3. These events have been recorded in history for posterity.
But Russell Ellis does not record the small events. He doesn’t note that on this date in 2003, Nate Fick listened to Brad Colbert’s suggestion about a change to their bridge mission outside of Camp Mathilda.
On March 3, 2010, Nate unlocks a door to a yellow cottage during a small drizzle, drops a paper bag of fresh bagels onto the dining room table and kicks off his sneakers. No one writes that down.
-
They’ve been playing house like this for the better part of a decade between grad school and England and promotions and deployments. Maybe one day they’ll do this for real.
Until then, their shared history is a smattering of weeks and a handful of days here, there, anywhere.
-
At home, in D.C., Nate runs to the drone of NPR. It’s an efficient way to learn the day’s headlines and talking points before he gets to the office.
In La Jolla, the world narrows to Arenas Street.
In La Jolla, the rules don’t apply anymore.
-
March 7 (day six).
The shower is barely big enough for one. The roof slopes inside. The showerhead is positioned for someone who is 5’9”, maybe 5’10”. They both have to duck to wash the shampoo out.
Nate hunches in the bottom of the shower, his fingers gripping Brad’s hips until Brad’s tanned skin bleaches white. One of Brad’s hands wraps around the shower curtain rod. His other skids along the white tile, itching to card through Nate’s hair. It hasn’t seen regulation length in years. Brad likes it, likes having something to hold onto. Nate’s hair brushes the ceiling.
Nate pulls off Brad’s dick, two teeth catching behind the crown. Brad hisses, and Nate looks an apology through his lashes. Nate curls a fist in stickily drying saliva and tugs.
Brad rolls onto his toes, seeking the warm wetness of Nate’s mouth. He’s close, so close.
The smoke detector pings. Brad’s hand slips. He catches himself on Nate’s shoulders. The momentum shoves Nate further into the corner of the shower. Nate knocks his head into the ceiling hard. The curtain rips away from two hooks.
“Ow, fuck!”
“Sorry. Sorry.” Brad tries to pull himself up without hitting his head. “You okay?”
Nate rubs the back of his head. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He pushes Brad further away. He can feel his scalp swelling into a bump already. “Probably shouldn’t try this again.”
Brad steps out - well, falls out is more like it - and wraps a towel around his waist. “You’re not cooking anything, are you?”
“Fuck you.” Nate pulls himself to standing. His knees are killing him.
-
A mist starts to fall when Nate is two blocks from the cottage. The shirt sticks under his arms and along his shoulder blades. His hair is plastered to his head and drips burning sweat into his eyes.
Nate walks the final blocks to cool down as The Fugees transition into Mos Def.
He is by no means exhausted, but Nate will be damned if he gives himself a stupid, non-sex-related injury while he’s here.
-
March 5 (day four).
This is not rain. This is a torrential downpour.
It’s disgusting weather for a run, but Nate’s endured far worse. He toes his shoes off on the porch and peels his shirt inside the door. His socks leave wet footprints on the hardwood floor.
Brad sits in the breakfast nook. He is bent over the paper again. A mug of fresh coffee sits to his right.
Nate bypasses the coffee pot for the fridge. He opens it and snags the bottle of grapefruit juice off the door and downs a third of it in long swallows. He slides the back of his hand along his mouth and replaces the bottle.
Brad smirks audibly. “Your mother must be so proud of your manners.” There is ink smudged along Brad’s cheekbone, fingerprint-shaped.
Nate presses himself to Brad’s back to read over his shoulder. He swipes his thumb along the ink on Brad’s face, trying to erase it or make it permanent, he’s not entirely sure. “Who do you think taught me everything I know?”
Brad grips his wrist and pulls Nate down for a kiss. “Morning.”
He tastes like the earthy dark roast he prefers with an underbite of citrus and mint. Nate hmmms.
-
Nate’s thought about asking Brad to make this more than it might be. But he knows that’s not fair to either of them. Brad goes where his government needs him, and fuck it if that’s not where Nate wants him.
As for Nate, he’s worked too fucking long and hard to get to a position where he might actually be able to influence policy He can’t stop yet when he’s still not the change he wants to believe in, the change he wants to see in the world.
Until then, there’s Skype and Gmail and sat phones on deployments.
Until then, there are seclusions in La Jolla and surprise visits to Georgetown.
Until then, they’ll just make fucking do, like always.
-
When Brad lets go of his wrist, there’s a perfect thumbprint beating in time with his pulse.
-
Nate slides his bishop into the back row. “Let’s make this interesting.”
Brad quirks an eyebrow. He’s finally lost one of his socks.
“No pawns.”
-
A drop of water smears the Pisces horoscope. Nate nuzzles the line of Brad’s neck. Brad reaches a hand back to tangle it in his hair, holding him there. Nate drops a line of kisses from collarbone to hairline, stopping to lick and nip along the tendon. Brad groans.
He twists around on the bar stool, slotting Nate between his knees.
Brad runs the back of his fingers along Nate’s jaw. He sees the earbuds hanging on Nate’s collar and the cord leading from the bottom of the shirt into the pocket. He smirks and pulls the BlackBerry out. “I know I said this wasn’t allowed here. Just like an officer to selectively follow orders.”
“You forget the ‘former’ part.”
Brad tugs the headphones out from under the shirt and sets them and the phone on the counter behind him. “Am I going to have to strip search you for contraband now?”
Nate bends his mouth to Brad’s ear. “Gotta catch me first.” And he takes off through the dining room, Brad right behind him.
-
Nate’s thigh muscles jump as Brad shifts his weight. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows, but Brad’s hand on his chest stops him.
Brad rips the condom open with his teeth and spits the wrapper in the direction of the floor. He rolls the condom onto Nate.
Nate squirms. He doesn’t have enough leverage to move Brad where he wants him.
Brad reaches toward the nightstand for the lube. He detours to devour Nate’s mouth, nipping Nate’s bottom lip until he’s keening from the back of his throat.
There’s a wet click as Brad pops the lid. Nate’s cock twitches at the first cool touch. Brad slicks him with one hand but doesn’t let up his assault on Nate’s mouth. He crawls up the bed until his knees bracket Nate’s ribs.
Nate’s hands settle on Brad’s thighs. His nails sink into muscle.
Brad shifts again, pinning Nate with a hand on his chest and one on his dick.
The sky flashes bright, followed immediately by the first crack of thunder, as Brad sinks oh so slowly. He keeps his hand braced on Nate’s sternum, the other tugging Nate’s leg up until his foot is flat on the mattress.
-
It’s rained - in one way or another - every day of this vacation.
-
March 8 (day seven).
Nate cants his hip along the counter. Brad holds out a hand, and Nate gives him the bowl of snow peas and edamame.
The rice cooker puffs steam beside the stove.
Brad shuffles the vegetables around the wok. The shrimp and chicken blend in.
Brad turns to the fridge to grab the hoisin and soy sauces. He drags his palm along the hem of the shirt that is too big for Nate. His fingers brush into the patch of hair below Nate’s navel.
Brad adds the sauces and a pinch of sugar, stirring until everything is coated evenly.
The rain beats a soft thwump thwump thwump-thwump.
-
On March 9, 2010, Brad tells Nate that he’s accepted a temporary transfer to Quantico, effective in two months. He does not tell Russell Ellis.
Instead, Russell Ellis notes that on March 9, 1959, the first eleven inch tall doll with a waterfall of blonde hair debuted at the American Toy Fair. Little girls - and, let’s be honest, some little boys, too - have played with 800 million Barbies for fifty-one years. Brad’s sister Stephanie made him play Midge to her Barbie for two years, until he shaved Midge’s plasticy red hair to make a parachute for his G.I. Joes. This anecdote is lost to memory, yet thousands like it define childhoods.
In 1997, the Notorious B.I.G. was gunned down in L.A. Russell Ellis remarks that it remains one of the most notorious (pun his own) unsolved murders in the music industry. He doesn’t know that Nate was coming out of his Philosophy of Ancient Warfare class when he heard the news that Life After Death, due to be released in two weeks, would be the last album of new material from his favorite rapper. He played Ready To Die for seventy-two hours straight until his roommate threatened to snap the disc the next time he heard “Juicy”.
Tokyo is firebombed in 1945. Bobby Fischer was born two years before that.
Pancho Villa attacks three miles inside the United States in 1916. Poke would appreciate the irony of that town being Columbus, New Mexico. Recorded history is full of these quirks, if you know where to look.
Brad folds the newspaper over to read Ellis’ commentary on the Supreme Court’s 1841 ruling on the Amistad mutiny. Seventeen years ago, Brad mutinied when he enlisted over his mother’s protestations. She didn’t take him to court for breaking out of his imagined bonds.
-
Brad tries to deepen the kiss, but Nate pulls away, laughing. “You’re about to ruin dinner.”
Brad squeezes one side of Nate’s ass and then reaches behind himself to turn off the burner. The rice cooker clicks from cook to warm with another puff of steam.
-
Additional notes: The Little Yellow Cottage is real. As someone who spent a week straight trying to not concuss herself, I can tell you that the roof really does slope inside the shower. And it does hurt when you forget this. While Russell Ellis is, to my knowledge, a fictional character, the facts presented in his column came from The History Channel's "This Day In History".
Author: chemfishee
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairings/Characters: Brad/Nate
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3000
Summary: They’ve been playing house like this for the better part of a decade between grad school and England and promotions and deployments. Maybe one day they’ll do this for real.
Notes: Based on fictionalized portrayals in the HBO miniseries. This was supposed to be comment fic for idrilfinial. It may have taken on a life of its own (and be only tangentially related to the original prompt of 'thunderstorms'). Title a play on (and courtesy of) Fever Ray’s “Now’s The Only Time I Know”.
Beta’d by the magnificent pjvilar, who absolutely refused to let me get away with any authorial laziness. Any remaining mistakes are due to my tinkering.
March 1 (day zero).
Yesterday, a policy recommendation report on Yemen was compiled and revised.
Three hours ago, it was couriered to the White House.
Now there is an already-packed bag sitting on the kitchen counter by a note. BWI. 0600. No phones. No laptops. I’ll know. Your office has already been informed. The handwriting belongs to Jessica, his assistant. The message does not.
-
March 6 (day five).
Nate sneaks into the bathroom at 6am to check his BlackBerry. He types “La Jolla” into the Weather Channel app and waits for it to load. He doesn’t turn the overhead light on, just sets the phone on the counter to quietly run enough water to brush his teeth. He taps the brush against the sink’s rim and then watches the Doppler on the fingerprint-smudged screen. There’s another angry wall of green heading towards them, with a warning for severe thunderstorms starting at 7am.
There’s enough time for him to get at least a few miles in, enough time to make it to the beach and back.
Nate waits for the keypad and screen to darken before opening the door and sneaking into the bedroom. Brad is still snuffling through a dream.
He grabs his earbuds out of a side pocket from his bag and a pair of clean socks. If Brad had Jessica pack just enough for their first proper vacation in too long, they have the cottage for another four days. He snags his shorts from yesterday’s run off the floor and a long-sleeved tee from the chair in the corner. Nate tucks the phone into a pocket and pulls the shirt over his head at the top of the stairs, only then realizing that it’s loose in the chest and sagging in the shoulders.
Their shoes are lined up by the back door. Nate slides easily into his sneakers and slips out the door. He uses the porch railing as leverage for his stretches. He cues the Talib Kweli station into Pandora, letting the electronic beats of “Flash Gordon” softly set his pace.
The sky is bruised, fighting a losing battle against the encroaching dawn.
Nate heads towards crashing waves.
-
March 4 (day three).
Brad digs into the cabinet of games left for families fighting to tolerate each other for the one week a year they are unmoored from their usual safety nets. He waggles his eyebrows at Twister but Nate vetoes it with an eye roll.
The chessboard is only missing three pieces. Brad sets it up while Nate putters in the kitchen. When he comes around the door carrying two plates of grilled cheeses surrounding bowls of what smells like canned clam chowder, Brad sweeps his arm towards the board. “Up for it?” he asks, a smirk curling one corner of his mouth.
Nate squints and tries to assess the situation. “Stakes?”
Brad’s smirk opens into a smile all-teeth. “Clothes.” Nate’s mouth puckers. His eyes narrow further. “And you’re white.”
Nate hands over one of the plates before situating himself on the floor. Only then does he realize he’s missing a bishop and a pawn. Brad is down a rook. “Down two-one before we even start? I’m sure that’s not fair.”
Brad tugs the threadbare USMC shirt over his head. “Better now?”
“Getting there.” Nate dips a corner of his sandwich in the soup and takes a bite. “You’re going down, Colbert.”
“I fully intend to, Fick.”
Nate pushes a pawn toward the center of the board. “Your move.”
-
Talib bleeds into Nas as Nate runs past houses that were selling for $4 million the last time they stayed in the cottage. Today, the sleeping showroom windows open on darkened living rooms worth less than half that. Everything in California is wide open.
-
Nate loses his shirt, his belt and a sock. He is on his way to losing his shorts. Brad’s still only missing his shirt.
Brad checks him with a fucking pawn.
Huh.
Nate blocks him with his queen. Brad smiles razor-sharp.
Nate fucking knows he fell into the trap. He just has no idea what Brad’s next move is going to be.
He should lay down his king now and peel off the khaki cargo shorts.
Nate Fick does not surrender.
-
The tide is coming in angry and stormy gray. The Pacific froths as it washes up onto the beach in a way the Atlantic simply can’t.
Common’s slow groove ode to the history of hip-hop flows out of the earbuds.
Nate stands at the bottom of the staircase leading onto the sand. He watches the water slowly reclaim the ancient silt and considers shucking his sneakers and running barefoot along the licking surf.
Putting socks on wet, gritty feet is a bitch. The pavement would still be cool on his run back to the cottage if he stayed barefoot, but the pebbles would dig into the balls of his feet.
Nate takes three steps onto the sand, letting some of it sink into his shoes. “I Used To Love H.E.R.” continues to soak into him from the ears down, and he thinks, “Yeah, Common, me too.”
-
March 2 (day one).
Brad doesn’t meet him at the airport.
Nate takes a cab to the yellow cottage. He watches tiny streams coalesce into rivulets along the window. Nate leans his head against the glass and breathes out. His breath fogs in a circular pattern.
Nate’s skin itches. He lifts a finger to write Nate Fick is here. The fog dissipates before he draws the ‘h’.
He notes the bike isn’t yet inside the cottage’s drive as he tips the cabbie and slings his bag off the backseat.
-
Nate’s got a knight digging into his hip and come drying on his belly. His lip is bitten red and scraped raw. He has stubble burn on the back of his thighs and rug burns on his palms. He rolls onto his side, digging the chess piece further into flesh and bone.
Brad slides a hand along his ribs. He drops a kiss on the corner of Nate’s mouth. He nuzzles along Nate’s cheekbone and mumbles “Rematch?” into Nate’s jaw.
Nate huffs a laugh between them. “Only if you’re up for it.”
“Cute.” Brad peels himself away, sits up and smacks Nate’s ass. “C’mon. You can be the oppressed masses this time.”
-
Common slides into Jay-Z. Nate can feel his lips quirking. He hasn’t listened to this song since he spent 72 straight hours hunched over his laptop while he finished his Kennedy School thesis.
When he submitted his finalized version to Jorgenson, he ran across the Longfellow Bridge, along the Charles River in Beacon Hill and into Boston Common. He got lost leaving the park and wound up in Chinatown.
Sometimes Nate misses Cambridge.
-
March 3 (day two).
The landlord has the Union-Tribune delivered daily when there are tenants in the cottage.
Brad sits in the breakfast nook with the paper spread along the counter. A fresh mug of coffee is pillowed underneath. Plastic framed reading glasses are his one concession to aging.
Brad reads a column tucked between local sports and classifieds: “Today in History with Russell Ellis.”
Today, in 1845, Congress overrides the Presidential veto for the first time. 100 years later, Finland declares war on Germany. Twenty years after that, the U.S. bombs the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Silas Deane embarks on a secret mission to France in 1776, and the Supreme Court rules on Communist teachers in 1952.
Nearly a century after the Declaration of Independence, in 1873, Congress bans sending obscene material through the mail. Ray Person willfully overlooks that law.
Today is March 3. These events have been recorded in history for posterity.
But Russell Ellis does not record the small events. He doesn’t note that on this date in 2003, Nate Fick listened to Brad Colbert’s suggestion about a change to their bridge mission outside of Camp Mathilda.
On March 3, 2010, Nate unlocks a door to a yellow cottage during a small drizzle, drops a paper bag of fresh bagels onto the dining room table and kicks off his sneakers. No one writes that down.
-
They’ve been playing house like this for the better part of a decade between grad school and England and promotions and deployments. Maybe one day they’ll do this for real.
Until then, their shared history is a smattering of weeks and a handful of days here, there, anywhere.
-
At home, in D.C., Nate runs to the drone of NPR. It’s an efficient way to learn the day’s headlines and talking points before he gets to the office.
In La Jolla, the world narrows to Arenas Street.
In La Jolla, the rules don’t apply anymore.
-
March 7 (day six).
The shower is barely big enough for one. The roof slopes inside. The showerhead is positioned for someone who is 5’9”, maybe 5’10”. They both have to duck to wash the shampoo out.
Nate hunches in the bottom of the shower, his fingers gripping Brad’s hips until Brad’s tanned skin bleaches white. One of Brad’s hands wraps around the shower curtain rod. His other skids along the white tile, itching to card through Nate’s hair. It hasn’t seen regulation length in years. Brad likes it, likes having something to hold onto. Nate’s hair brushes the ceiling.
Nate pulls off Brad’s dick, two teeth catching behind the crown. Brad hisses, and Nate looks an apology through his lashes. Nate curls a fist in stickily drying saliva and tugs.
Brad rolls onto his toes, seeking the warm wetness of Nate’s mouth. He’s close, so close.
The smoke detector pings. Brad’s hand slips. He catches himself on Nate’s shoulders. The momentum shoves Nate further into the corner of the shower. Nate knocks his head into the ceiling hard. The curtain rips away from two hooks.
“Ow, fuck!”
“Sorry. Sorry.” Brad tries to pull himself up without hitting his head. “You okay?”
Nate rubs the back of his head. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He pushes Brad further away. He can feel his scalp swelling into a bump already. “Probably shouldn’t try this again.”
Brad steps out - well, falls out is more like it - and wraps a towel around his waist. “You’re not cooking anything, are you?”
“Fuck you.” Nate pulls himself to standing. His knees are killing him.
-
A mist starts to fall when Nate is two blocks from the cottage. The shirt sticks under his arms and along his shoulder blades. His hair is plastered to his head and drips burning sweat into his eyes.
Nate walks the final blocks to cool down as The Fugees transition into Mos Def.
He is by no means exhausted, but Nate will be damned if he gives himself a stupid, non-sex-related injury while he’s here.
-
March 5 (day four).
This is not rain. This is a torrential downpour.
It’s disgusting weather for a run, but Nate’s endured far worse. He toes his shoes off on the porch and peels his shirt inside the door. His socks leave wet footprints on the hardwood floor.
Brad sits in the breakfast nook. He is bent over the paper again. A mug of fresh coffee sits to his right.
Nate bypasses the coffee pot for the fridge. He opens it and snags the bottle of grapefruit juice off the door and downs a third of it in long swallows. He slides the back of his hand along his mouth and replaces the bottle.
Brad smirks audibly. “Your mother must be so proud of your manners.” There is ink smudged along Brad’s cheekbone, fingerprint-shaped.
Nate presses himself to Brad’s back to read over his shoulder. He swipes his thumb along the ink on Brad’s face, trying to erase it or make it permanent, he’s not entirely sure. “Who do you think taught me everything I know?”
Brad grips his wrist and pulls Nate down for a kiss. “Morning.”
He tastes like the earthy dark roast he prefers with an underbite of citrus and mint. Nate hmmms.
-
Nate’s thought about asking Brad to make this more than it might be. But he knows that’s not fair to either of them. Brad goes where his government needs him, and fuck it if that’s not where Nate wants him.
As for Nate, he’s worked too fucking long and hard to get to a position where he might actually be able to influence policy He can’t stop yet when he’s still not the change he wants to believe in, the change he wants to see in the world.
Until then, there’s Skype and Gmail and sat phones on deployments.
Until then, there are seclusions in La Jolla and surprise visits to Georgetown.
Until then, they’ll just make fucking do, like always.
-
When Brad lets go of his wrist, there’s a perfect thumbprint beating in time with his pulse.
-
Nate slides his bishop into the back row. “Let’s make this interesting.”
Brad quirks an eyebrow. He’s finally lost one of his socks.
“No pawns.”
-
A drop of water smears the Pisces horoscope. Nate nuzzles the line of Brad’s neck. Brad reaches a hand back to tangle it in his hair, holding him there. Nate drops a line of kisses from collarbone to hairline, stopping to lick and nip along the tendon. Brad groans.
He twists around on the bar stool, slotting Nate between his knees.
Brad runs the back of his fingers along Nate’s jaw. He sees the earbuds hanging on Nate’s collar and the cord leading from the bottom of the shirt into the pocket. He smirks and pulls the BlackBerry out. “I know I said this wasn’t allowed here. Just like an officer to selectively follow orders.”
“You forget the ‘former’ part.”
Brad tugs the headphones out from under the shirt and sets them and the phone on the counter behind him. “Am I going to have to strip search you for contraband now?”
Nate bends his mouth to Brad’s ear. “Gotta catch me first.” And he takes off through the dining room, Brad right behind him.
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Nate’s thigh muscles jump as Brad shifts his weight. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows, but Brad’s hand on his chest stops him.
Brad rips the condom open with his teeth and spits the wrapper in the direction of the floor. He rolls the condom onto Nate.
Nate squirms. He doesn’t have enough leverage to move Brad where he wants him.
Brad reaches toward the nightstand for the lube. He detours to devour Nate’s mouth, nipping Nate’s bottom lip until he’s keening from the back of his throat.
There’s a wet click as Brad pops the lid. Nate’s cock twitches at the first cool touch. Brad slicks him with one hand but doesn’t let up his assault on Nate’s mouth. He crawls up the bed until his knees bracket Nate’s ribs.
Nate’s hands settle on Brad’s thighs. His nails sink into muscle.
Brad shifts again, pinning Nate with a hand on his chest and one on his dick.
The sky flashes bright, followed immediately by the first crack of thunder, as Brad sinks oh so slowly. He keeps his hand braced on Nate’s sternum, the other tugging Nate’s leg up until his foot is flat on the mattress.
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It’s rained - in one way or another - every day of this vacation.
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March 8 (day seven).
Nate cants his hip along the counter. Brad holds out a hand, and Nate gives him the bowl of snow peas and edamame.
The rice cooker puffs steam beside the stove.
Brad shuffles the vegetables around the wok. The shrimp and chicken blend in.
Brad turns to the fridge to grab the hoisin and soy sauces. He drags his palm along the hem of the shirt that is too big for Nate. His fingers brush into the patch of hair below Nate’s navel.
Brad adds the sauces and a pinch of sugar, stirring until everything is coated evenly.
The rain beats a soft thwump thwump thwump-thwump.
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On March 9, 2010, Brad tells Nate that he’s accepted a temporary transfer to Quantico, effective in two months. He does not tell Russell Ellis.
Instead, Russell Ellis notes that on March 9, 1959, the first eleven inch tall doll with a waterfall of blonde hair debuted at the American Toy Fair. Little girls - and, let’s be honest, some little boys, too - have played with 800 million Barbies for fifty-one years. Brad’s sister Stephanie made him play Midge to her Barbie for two years, until he shaved Midge’s plasticy red hair to make a parachute for his G.I. Joes. This anecdote is lost to memory, yet thousands like it define childhoods.
In 1997, the Notorious B.I.G. was gunned down in L.A. Russell Ellis remarks that it remains one of the most notorious (pun his own) unsolved murders in the music industry. He doesn’t know that Nate was coming out of his Philosophy of Ancient Warfare class when he heard the news that Life After Death, due to be released in two weeks, would be the last album of new material from his favorite rapper. He played Ready To Die for seventy-two hours straight until his roommate threatened to snap the disc the next time he heard “Juicy”.
Tokyo is firebombed in 1945. Bobby Fischer was born two years before that.
Pancho Villa attacks three miles inside the United States in 1916. Poke would appreciate the irony of that town being Columbus, New Mexico. Recorded history is full of these quirks, if you know where to look.
Brad folds the newspaper over to read Ellis’ commentary on the Supreme Court’s 1841 ruling on the Amistad mutiny. Seventeen years ago, Brad mutinied when he enlisted over his mother’s protestations. She didn’t take him to court for breaking out of his imagined bonds.
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Brad tries to deepen the kiss, but Nate pulls away, laughing. “You’re about to ruin dinner.”
Brad squeezes one side of Nate’s ass and then reaches behind himself to turn off the burner. The rice cooker clicks from cook to warm with another puff of steam.
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Additional notes: The Little Yellow Cottage is real. As someone who spent a week straight trying to not concuss herself, I can tell you that the roof really does slope inside the shower. And it does hurt when you forget this. While Russell Ellis is, to my knowledge, a fictional character, the facts presented in his column came from The History Channel's "This Day In History".