FIC: Clearly, I Remember When (Nate/Brad - NC17)
TITLE: Clearly, I Remember When
PAIRING: Nate/Brad
RATING: NC17
WORDS: 3208
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Generation Kill, and I'm making no money from this.
A/N: This is my first second Generation Kill fic (I lost my virginity, as it were, for Yuletide). I've got ideas for others, so, hopefully, this'll be the first of many. Also, my first post to generation_kill so...hi!
clearly I remember when
I used to scratch my poems
on the backs of other lovers in
the darkness of my mind
back before I made my home
in the marrow of your bones
now I know your figure like my own
even from behind
- from OLD FASHIONED HAT by ANAIS MITCHELL
He shifts and he can feel the sand moving under his back. It gets everywhere, coats his skin and clings, coats, changes the colour of things until its easy to forget what you looked like before, at home. Marines make do. When he can, he stands under a shower with his face turned up into the full flow and he holds his breath for as long as he can. A ranger grave is a narrow pit in the ground barely long enough to lie down in and nowhere near six foot deep. Maybe there are guys who get caught up in fear of death when they lie down there, but he's been tired for long enough that he can sleep anywhere he rests his head and, when he sleeps, he always dreams. Mostly, he dreams that he's in Iraq, walking down a street or riding in a Humvee, his weapon in hand, and Ray almost always babbling at his side. It's almost comforting. He leans back in the seat that's become a second home, with Ray beside him, Walt on his gun, Rolling Stone at his six...Trombley in the back, muttering to his fucking gun. It's comforting. Nothing wrong with a little routine in the face of roaring chaos.
In his rack, in the dirt, Brad dreams that he's in Iraq.
He walks between the Humvees, boots sending up clouds of dust from the dry grass. His gun on its strap around his shoulder has a not unpleasant weight. It's something he's grown used to, like the weight of his head when leaned into his hands. A human head is heavier than you'd think. Brad whistles to himself as he walks; Avril Lavigne or some shit that Ray was singing while taking a piss. Without his helmet, the sun shines down on the top of his head. It's the most relaxed he's been in days. His clean t-shirt might be the best thing in the world, right at that moment. Simple things amuse the pure of heart, his mother would say. What Brad Colbert knows is this: Marines make do.
In the way of dreams, it happens completely by accident. Given. He turns a corner and there Nate is, just then stripping off a a sweaty khaki t-shirt. The dust gets everywhere. It clings. Brad leans one hip against the side of the Humvee and watches as Nate scrubs one hand back over his short shaved hair. Any closer, and Brad knows that he'd smell it; the dust, and the sweat. Nate's skin is paler than Brad's own. He doesn't wander around shirtless like the other guys when it's safe to. Everything about Nate is neat, which isn't the same thing as careful. Everything about Nate is controlled, which isn't the same thing as repressed. Brad knows these things because he pays attention...because, when other guys are talking, Brad's just watching them run their mouths. He spends a lot of time watching Nate, and, if asked, he couldn't exactly put his finger on when Nate realised that. He's not entirely sure when the smiles changed, when Nate's mouth started to tighten in a different, more particular way. Nate's eyes always smile more than his mouth does. Brad knows that much.
Brad knows he ought to speak, ought to give himself away but he's a Reconn marine, shrunk in the desert sun to his most useful size, and he can't quite resist the urge to stay quiet when Nate lifts a plastic bottle and pours a little water over his head, trying to slough off some of the dust. Brad's done similar things himself. Unlike some of his buddies, Brad isn't loud by nature. Brad watches water trickle between Nate's shoulderblades, down his spine and under the sagging waistband of his pants. Brad probably ought to feel ashamed of himself, the way he's watching, but he doesn't. He moves closer, one hand on his gun to steady it. Closer, and he can see the tracks left by the water in the dust on Nate's skin. Brad feels want like a physical sensation, like a twitch in a limb, the tremour of a finger on a trigger. He wants to put his mouth against Nate's skin and lick, trail the tip of his tongue and taste salt and sweat and sand and, over all of it, the clean cool taste of the water. It wouldn't be the first time he's gotten hard just thinking about it.
Brad's hands never shake.
He reaches out and touches Nate's shoulder. It's a gesture that, if it was Ray he was touching, or Poke or Rudy, it'd be nothing, just a friendly touch, but then there's the way that Brad's fingers brush against the side of Nate's neck, the way his thumb strokes against the damp skin of Nate's shoulder. Brad applies a little pressure, and Nate's head rolls forward, just hanging loosely for a moment. It's the first time since Mathilda that Brad's seen Nate look anything approaching relaxed.
"I knew you were there, you know," he says, and Brad imagines him smiling.
"Wasn't trying to sneak up on you, Sir."
"Jesus, Brad," says Nate, leaning back against Brad, hips first. It's risky, but, in the shadow of the Humvee, it feels safe enough. Brad's heard Nate's lecture on the relativity of safety before. He curls one arm around Nate, tugging him back more firmly against him. They fit together like the pieces of something delicate. The couple of extra inches make all the difference. Brad's come to think of it as something like a bomb or an engine. One piece out of place and everything stops working.
Nate lifts the bottle at the same time as Brad dips his head so Brad's lips are against his throat when he swallows. He traces the warm point of Nate's pulse with thet tip of his tongue. Nate's free hand wraps around Brad's wrist and drags his hand around, threading their fingers and pushing Brad's palm against his dick, pressed against stiff khaki.
"We don't have time, Brad," he murmurs, and that's something Brad's used to hearing. There's never enough time in the desert. They're always oscar mike. Brad's got his mouth open against Nate's neck, and he's ready to say something smartass. When he was a kid, sixteen or something, he had this way of talking that made his father shout and his mother shout louder. He wasn't always made of ice. He had to learn that. He had to learn that for his own good, and...
And he can fucking hear Ray talking. He can always hear Person but, just then, with his hand on Nate's dick and his mouth on Nate's skin, tasting desert, it had been like the whole world had fallen silent. No birds. Ray, he can hear but it's somebody else saying his name. Walt. Something about one hundred forty T72s. God knows the last time Brad slept. It's barely been any time at all since he lay down in his grave and pulled the bag up over his head. His closes his eyes for a minute, trying to think past the sick pulse in his temples, sleep-deprivation in action; sometimes it's worse to have slept for an hour than to have not slept at all. He reaches for his gun, extension of his body, but the palm of his hand meets skin instead. Warm, smooth skin.
Brad opens his eyes.
Nate's lying with his face turned away, bare-baked in the rumpled sheets, his grandmother's quilt spilling low around his hips. Nate's hair is longer than it ever was in the desert and, in the slanted light from the half-assed closed curtains, it has an almost copper tinge. Brad draws in a breath and his tags make a musical sound as they slip to one side of his chest. His hand is resting on Nate's bicep. No gun. Brad wonders how long he's going to go on dreaming that he's in Iraq?
He rolls towards Nate, pressing in along one side of him, hooking one leg against Nate's thigh and leaning his mouth close to Nate's ear.
"Pinch me," he whispers. Nate groans softly and gropes for Brad's hand, drawing it around him and leaning back against Brad's chest.
"You've got to be kidding me," he murmurs, pressing the tip of his nose into the pillow. "It's the one day...the one day that I don't have a class to get to and you're waking me up to pinch you?"
Pressed against Nate from shoulders to knees, Brad leans forward, sucking lightly at the freckled skin of Nate's shoulder.
"I want to make sure that I'm awake this time," he murmurs. His hand presses lower, taking Nate's with it, their fingers still twined together. Nate wears sweats to bed whereas Brad revels in bare skin, but underneath, Nate's not wearing underwear. Brad knows that because he lay in bed and watched Nate get ready for bed after his shower, lay still and quiet and watched during the few minutes during which Nate had been naked and perfect and beautiful. His fingers curl around Nate's dick, stroking slowly. Nate's head falls back against Brad's shoulder.
"I can't believe you couldn't wait an hour for this, Brad."
What Brad doesn't quite know how to tell Nate is this: the only thing he's afraid of is never having enough time. He gets a day here, a day there, and the rest of the time it's don't ask, don't tell, because Brad doesn't want to imagine anybody else, male or fmale, getting to do this. He doesn't want to imagine anybody else touching Nate like this. A wave of possessiveness rolls through him like gunfire and he nips at the smooth skin under his mouth, bites Nate's shoulder hard enough to leave a faint mark. Nate doesn't make a sound when he turns, rolling them until he's facing Brad, with Brad's hand still down his pants, Brad's fingers still curled around his dick. Those eyes, incredibly clear, so blue are wide, both eyebrows raised and there's a smile tugging at the corer of Nate's mouth.
"Did you just bite me, Gunnery Sergent Colbert?"
Brad swallows, rolls his wrist and strokes Nate quicker, swiping his thumb over the head of Nate's dick, their fingers still twisted together. Knowing that Nate's got his hand on his own dick because Brad took it there? There's a rush there.
Brad nods.
"Yessir, Lieutenant, I believe I did."
Yes, Nate made Captain, but that wouldn't feel right. He was Brad's Lieutenant in the desert, and that's what he'll stay. Nate's grip around Brad's wrist is strong.
"Stop what you're doing, Brad and get up on your fucking knees. I'm going to do more than pinch you."
That tone, that particular tone that Nate has...It's the one that Brad wouldn't ever consider disobeying, even now he's the only one wearing his tags. He drags his hand out of Nate's pants, pausing to suck on one finger before he rolls onto his belly, rumpled sheets catching on his dick. He sighs a breath and pushes up onto all fours, kneeling there with his head ducked down, waiting. He felt Nate's weight shifting on the bed, one hand coming to rest on Brad's back as he leaned across him, reaching for the rubber and the lube that were sitting on the beside cabinet. Just for a moment, listening to the rustle of foil, the particular sound of the rubber being rolled down over Nate's dick, Brad's lonely for Nate's mouth on his. There'll be time for kisses later. Nate doesn't have class today. They've got time. Not enough of it, yeah, but some.
Without warning, there's a finger pushed inside him. Brad first did this when he was sixteen, seventeen, around the time he first went to the military academy and there was still a little bit of wildness in him, before he learned how to be still. He still has his moments; still loves his bike, scaring the commuters up on the highway. Another one of Nate's fingers pushes that thought clear away. This is what Brad needs, what he needs most utterly, right in that moment: there's nothing here that reminds him of Iraq. Nate's hand, Nate's thigh pressed against the back of Brad's, every inch of his skin is dry and smooth and fever-warm from sleeping deeply.
Brad groans encouragement and pushes back onto Nate's fingers. He likes pussy as much as the next man (even if the next guy happens to be Ray fuckin' Person)...He particularly likes tits of almost any description. This is something else. Brad Colbert doesn't fall in love easily. There's a limited number of places and people that he'd give his whole heart to. The 101 wide open and empty and ahead of him...His mother and father and sister...The guys in his unit. Nathaniel Fick, from almost the first time he set eyes on him. Just like that.
"Feeling more awake?" says Nate from behind him, and there's another finger there, has to be, because Brad can feel the stretch.
He swallows hard and nods.
"Seriously, Brad. That's what you're giving me?"
Brad clears his throat and cranes his neck to look back at Nate who's kneeling there, dick in hand and his hair ruffled across his forehead and if there's anything more fucking beautiful, Brad hasn't fucking seen it.
"I'm not sure I've ever been more awake in my life, Nate."
And there's that smile, and Brad wants to kiss him more than ever. He keeps his eyes on Nate as he pushes inside him. Brad starts moving against him, fucking himself smoothly, and he's back to thinking about the pieces of bombs and how everything has its time and how some things that you do matter less than the ways in which you survive them. Nate thrusts into him hard enough that he rocks forwards on hands and knees. He moans loudly and he doesn't give a shit who can hear him, safe in the knowldege that there's no way that Ray or Walt or Rolling fucking Stone can happen in on this. Propped up on one elbow, Brad reaches back, fingers skimming over Nate's thigh, skimming and then curling, holding on tight, pulling Nate tighter into him, urging him on.
Nate never needs much urging.
"Hand on your dick, Brad."
He almost calls Nate Sir again, but, instead, he lowers his head, props himself up on his shoulder so he can reach under himself with one hand and keep his other hand on Nate. He curls his fingers around his dick, starts to jerk in time with the rhythm of Nate's dick inside of him. He squeezes Nate's thigh, two fingers overlapping onto the curve of Nate's ass, and part of Brad, some wicked part, wants to lift his hand and slap Nate, but it never happens. It never comes. It doesn't quite fit with what's happening here and, before he quite knows what's happening, the fluttering, tight muscles of Nate's belly are pressing against him, his hips still working, and Nate's fingers are wrapping around his, threading with his, stroking his dick right along with him. Nate groans softly and sucks at the skin stretched taunt over Brad's spine. Brad imagines the colours of his tattoo bleeding, running and smudging against Nate's fair skin.
"Come on," he mumbles, finger stroking against Nate's skin. "Come on."
"What if I want you to come first?" murmurs Nate, with that blessed talent of his to say absolutely dirty things, unexpected things, in that clipped, neat voice of his. "What if I want to make you come hard all over our hands before I come? Come on, Brad. Maybe later I'll let you come in my mouth."
Back in Iraq, Brad never would've even dreamed of shit like that coming fully formed out of Nate Fick's mouth.
That about does it, right there. Wham, bam, thankyou very fucking much. Nate's hand keeps Brad's moving too, stroking him until it almost hurts, until he's spasming and shaking. Nate's mouth makes a silent 'o' against Brad's spine when he comes.
Afterwards, they lie together, breathless. It took Brad a long time to work out if he was allowed to put his arms around Nate afterwards. They were fucking Reconn marines, which didn't mean that Brad didn't want to do that, didn't want to lie there with Nate, when he could, bare skin against bare skin. They lie there like that, Brad's arm around Nate's shoulders and Nate leans up with one arm on Brad's chest and kisses him, gentle now, sleepy again. They can sleep until noon. Neither of them have anywhere to be until tomorrow.
"What were you dreaming about?"
Brad doesn't answer for a moment, too busy kissing Nate's lips, his forehead, one high cheekbone, the tip of his graceful nose.
"The desert. Just the desert again."
His free hand skims down Nate's side like he's skimming sand away. Nate smiles and leans his head against Brad's chest, one hand flat against his belly, thumb idly rubbing against his skin.
"I was dreaming about a river," he says, quietly. "A river in India."
Brad smiles. He loves it when Nate's in the mood to talk. He's not a chatterer like Ray; doesn't talk unless he's got something to say, usually, but, sometimes, when he's with Brad, he'll just talk. Then, Brad likes to listen. He lifts his head and brushes Nate's tousled hair back from his forehead, grazing his lips between Nate's eyebrows.
"And what's the name of this river?"
"The Yamuna. The Yamuna river. It's a tributary of the Ganges. The largest, in fact."
"Fascinating."
He can't see his face, but Brad knows that Nate's giving him a look, right then. It's a get out of the hole sort of look. He smirks and kisses Nate's forehead again.
"Tell me," he says.
"Tell me," he says.
"They say that if you bathe in the river, let it close over your head, then you emerge without fear of death."
Brad doesn't know how he feels about that; he's a Reconn Marine, possessed of a proud warrior spirit and just because he isn't afraid of death doesn't mean that he's ready to find out how it ends, yet. Where Nate can't see him, Brad smiles and shifts until he can lie more comfortably with Nate's head pillowed on his chest. His eyes drift closed.
"What about other people's deaths?" he murmurs, but Nate's breathing has already gone shallow. They've got nowhere to go, and the wide bed is cool except for them, feverish from each other. Brad drifts off to sleep, into a dream of sitting on the banks of a river winding through the jungle, of watching Nate strip off sweaty cotton and wade into clear green water, the sunlight dappling on his shoulders through the leaves.
In the dream, Brad licks his lips, and tastes nothing but Nate; no fear, no sweat, no dust.
PAIRING: Nate/Brad
RATING: NC17
WORDS: 3208
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Generation Kill, and I'm making no money from this.
A/N: This is my first second Generation Kill fic (I lost my virginity, as it were, for Yuletide). I've got ideas for others, so, hopefully, this'll be the first of many. Also, my first post to generation_kill so...hi!
clearly I remember when
I used to scratch my poems
on the backs of other lovers in
the darkness of my mind
back before I made my home
in the marrow of your bones
now I know your figure like my own
even from behind
- from OLD FASHIONED HAT by ANAIS MITCHELL
He shifts and he can feel the sand moving under his back. It gets everywhere, coats his skin and clings, coats, changes the colour of things until its easy to forget what you looked like before, at home. Marines make do. When he can, he stands under a shower with his face turned up into the full flow and he holds his breath for as long as he can. A ranger grave is a narrow pit in the ground barely long enough to lie down in and nowhere near six foot deep. Maybe there are guys who get caught up in fear of death when they lie down there, but he's been tired for long enough that he can sleep anywhere he rests his head and, when he sleeps, he always dreams. Mostly, he dreams that he's in Iraq, walking down a street or riding in a Humvee, his weapon in hand, and Ray almost always babbling at his side. It's almost comforting. He leans back in the seat that's become a second home, with Ray beside him, Walt on his gun, Rolling Stone at his six...Trombley in the back, muttering to his fucking gun. It's comforting. Nothing wrong with a little routine in the face of roaring chaos.
In his rack, in the dirt, Brad dreams that he's in Iraq.
He walks between the Humvees, boots sending up clouds of dust from the dry grass. His gun on its strap around his shoulder has a not unpleasant weight. It's something he's grown used to, like the weight of his head when leaned into his hands. A human head is heavier than you'd think. Brad whistles to himself as he walks; Avril Lavigne or some shit that Ray was singing while taking a piss. Without his helmet, the sun shines down on the top of his head. It's the most relaxed he's been in days. His clean t-shirt might be the best thing in the world, right at that moment. Simple things amuse the pure of heart, his mother would say. What Brad Colbert knows is this: Marines make do.
In the way of dreams, it happens completely by accident. Given. He turns a corner and there Nate is, just then stripping off a a sweaty khaki t-shirt. The dust gets everywhere. It clings. Brad leans one hip against the side of the Humvee and watches as Nate scrubs one hand back over his short shaved hair. Any closer, and Brad knows that he'd smell it; the dust, and the sweat. Nate's skin is paler than Brad's own. He doesn't wander around shirtless like the other guys when it's safe to. Everything about Nate is neat, which isn't the same thing as careful. Everything about Nate is controlled, which isn't the same thing as repressed. Brad knows these things because he pays attention...because, when other guys are talking, Brad's just watching them run their mouths. He spends a lot of time watching Nate, and, if asked, he couldn't exactly put his finger on when Nate realised that. He's not entirely sure when the smiles changed, when Nate's mouth started to tighten in a different, more particular way. Nate's eyes always smile more than his mouth does. Brad knows that much.
Brad knows he ought to speak, ought to give himself away but he's a Reconn marine, shrunk in the desert sun to his most useful size, and he can't quite resist the urge to stay quiet when Nate lifts a plastic bottle and pours a little water over his head, trying to slough off some of the dust. Brad's done similar things himself. Unlike some of his buddies, Brad isn't loud by nature. Brad watches water trickle between Nate's shoulderblades, down his spine and under the sagging waistband of his pants. Brad probably ought to feel ashamed of himself, the way he's watching, but he doesn't. He moves closer, one hand on his gun to steady it. Closer, and he can see the tracks left by the water in the dust on Nate's skin. Brad feels want like a physical sensation, like a twitch in a limb, the tremour of a finger on a trigger. He wants to put his mouth against Nate's skin and lick, trail the tip of his tongue and taste salt and sweat and sand and, over all of it, the clean cool taste of the water. It wouldn't be the first time he's gotten hard just thinking about it.
Brad's hands never shake.
He reaches out and touches Nate's shoulder. It's a gesture that, if it was Ray he was touching, or Poke or Rudy, it'd be nothing, just a friendly touch, but then there's the way that Brad's fingers brush against the side of Nate's neck, the way his thumb strokes against the damp skin of Nate's shoulder. Brad applies a little pressure, and Nate's head rolls forward, just hanging loosely for a moment. It's the first time since Mathilda that Brad's seen Nate look anything approaching relaxed.
"I knew you were there, you know," he says, and Brad imagines him smiling.
"Wasn't trying to sneak up on you, Sir."
"Jesus, Brad," says Nate, leaning back against Brad, hips first. It's risky, but, in the shadow of the Humvee, it feels safe enough. Brad's heard Nate's lecture on the relativity of safety before. He curls one arm around Nate, tugging him back more firmly against him. They fit together like the pieces of something delicate. The couple of extra inches make all the difference. Brad's come to think of it as something like a bomb or an engine. One piece out of place and everything stops working.
Nate lifts the bottle at the same time as Brad dips his head so Brad's lips are against his throat when he swallows. He traces the warm point of Nate's pulse with thet tip of his tongue. Nate's free hand wraps around Brad's wrist and drags his hand around, threading their fingers and pushing Brad's palm against his dick, pressed against stiff khaki.
"We don't have time, Brad," he murmurs, and that's something Brad's used to hearing. There's never enough time in the desert. They're always oscar mike. Brad's got his mouth open against Nate's neck, and he's ready to say something smartass. When he was a kid, sixteen or something, he had this way of talking that made his father shout and his mother shout louder. He wasn't always made of ice. He had to learn that. He had to learn that for his own good, and...
And he can fucking hear Ray talking. He can always hear Person but, just then, with his hand on Nate's dick and his mouth on Nate's skin, tasting desert, it had been like the whole world had fallen silent. No birds. Ray, he can hear but it's somebody else saying his name. Walt. Something about one hundred forty T72s. God knows the last time Brad slept. It's barely been any time at all since he lay down in his grave and pulled the bag up over his head. His closes his eyes for a minute, trying to think past the sick pulse in his temples, sleep-deprivation in action; sometimes it's worse to have slept for an hour than to have not slept at all. He reaches for his gun, extension of his body, but the palm of his hand meets skin instead. Warm, smooth skin.
Brad opens his eyes.
Nate's lying with his face turned away, bare-baked in the rumpled sheets, his grandmother's quilt spilling low around his hips. Nate's hair is longer than it ever was in the desert and, in the slanted light from the half-assed closed curtains, it has an almost copper tinge. Brad draws in a breath and his tags make a musical sound as they slip to one side of his chest. His hand is resting on Nate's bicep. No gun. Brad wonders how long he's going to go on dreaming that he's in Iraq?
He rolls towards Nate, pressing in along one side of him, hooking one leg against Nate's thigh and leaning his mouth close to Nate's ear.
"Pinch me," he whispers. Nate groans softly and gropes for Brad's hand, drawing it around him and leaning back against Brad's chest.
"You've got to be kidding me," he murmurs, pressing the tip of his nose into the pillow. "It's the one day...the one day that I don't have a class to get to and you're waking me up to pinch you?"
Pressed against Nate from shoulders to knees, Brad leans forward, sucking lightly at the freckled skin of Nate's shoulder.
"I want to make sure that I'm awake this time," he murmurs. His hand presses lower, taking Nate's with it, their fingers still twined together. Nate wears sweats to bed whereas Brad revels in bare skin, but underneath, Nate's not wearing underwear. Brad knows that because he lay in bed and watched Nate get ready for bed after his shower, lay still and quiet and watched during the few minutes during which Nate had been naked and perfect and beautiful. His fingers curl around Nate's dick, stroking slowly. Nate's head falls back against Brad's shoulder.
"I can't believe you couldn't wait an hour for this, Brad."
What Brad doesn't quite know how to tell Nate is this: the only thing he's afraid of is never having enough time. He gets a day here, a day there, and the rest of the time it's don't ask, don't tell, because Brad doesn't want to imagine anybody else, male or fmale, getting to do this. He doesn't want to imagine anybody else touching Nate like this. A wave of possessiveness rolls through him like gunfire and he nips at the smooth skin under his mouth, bites Nate's shoulder hard enough to leave a faint mark. Nate doesn't make a sound when he turns, rolling them until he's facing Brad, with Brad's hand still down his pants, Brad's fingers still curled around his dick. Those eyes, incredibly clear, so blue are wide, both eyebrows raised and there's a smile tugging at the corer of Nate's mouth.
"Did you just bite me, Gunnery Sergent Colbert?"
Brad swallows, rolls his wrist and strokes Nate quicker, swiping his thumb over the head of Nate's dick, their fingers still twisted together. Knowing that Nate's got his hand on his own dick because Brad took it there? There's a rush there.
Brad nods.
"Yessir, Lieutenant, I believe I did."
Yes, Nate made Captain, but that wouldn't feel right. He was Brad's Lieutenant in the desert, and that's what he'll stay. Nate's grip around Brad's wrist is strong.
"Stop what you're doing, Brad and get up on your fucking knees. I'm going to do more than pinch you."
That tone, that particular tone that Nate has...It's the one that Brad wouldn't ever consider disobeying, even now he's the only one wearing his tags. He drags his hand out of Nate's pants, pausing to suck on one finger before he rolls onto his belly, rumpled sheets catching on his dick. He sighs a breath and pushes up onto all fours, kneeling there with his head ducked down, waiting. He felt Nate's weight shifting on the bed, one hand coming to rest on Brad's back as he leaned across him, reaching for the rubber and the lube that were sitting on the beside cabinet. Just for a moment, listening to the rustle of foil, the particular sound of the rubber being rolled down over Nate's dick, Brad's lonely for Nate's mouth on his. There'll be time for kisses later. Nate doesn't have class today. They've got time. Not enough of it, yeah, but some.
Without warning, there's a finger pushed inside him. Brad first did this when he was sixteen, seventeen, around the time he first went to the military academy and there was still a little bit of wildness in him, before he learned how to be still. He still has his moments; still loves his bike, scaring the commuters up on the highway. Another one of Nate's fingers pushes that thought clear away. This is what Brad needs, what he needs most utterly, right in that moment: there's nothing here that reminds him of Iraq. Nate's hand, Nate's thigh pressed against the back of Brad's, every inch of his skin is dry and smooth and fever-warm from sleeping deeply.
Brad groans encouragement and pushes back onto Nate's fingers. He likes pussy as much as the next man (even if the next guy happens to be Ray fuckin' Person)...He particularly likes tits of almost any description. This is something else. Brad Colbert doesn't fall in love easily. There's a limited number of places and people that he'd give his whole heart to. The 101 wide open and empty and ahead of him...His mother and father and sister...The guys in his unit. Nathaniel Fick, from almost the first time he set eyes on him. Just like that.
"Feeling more awake?" says Nate from behind him, and there's another finger there, has to be, because Brad can feel the stretch.
He swallows hard and nods.
"Seriously, Brad. That's what you're giving me?"
Brad clears his throat and cranes his neck to look back at Nate who's kneeling there, dick in hand and his hair ruffled across his forehead and if there's anything more fucking beautiful, Brad hasn't fucking seen it.
"I'm not sure I've ever been more awake in my life, Nate."
And there's that smile, and Brad wants to kiss him more than ever. He keeps his eyes on Nate as he pushes inside him. Brad starts moving against him, fucking himself smoothly, and he's back to thinking about the pieces of bombs and how everything has its time and how some things that you do matter less than the ways in which you survive them. Nate thrusts into him hard enough that he rocks forwards on hands and knees. He moans loudly and he doesn't give a shit who can hear him, safe in the knowldege that there's no way that Ray or Walt or Rolling fucking Stone can happen in on this. Propped up on one elbow, Brad reaches back, fingers skimming over Nate's thigh, skimming and then curling, holding on tight, pulling Nate tighter into him, urging him on.
Nate never needs much urging.
"Hand on your dick, Brad."
He almost calls Nate Sir again, but, instead, he lowers his head, props himself up on his shoulder so he can reach under himself with one hand and keep his other hand on Nate. He curls his fingers around his dick, starts to jerk in time with the rhythm of Nate's dick inside of him. He squeezes Nate's thigh, two fingers overlapping onto the curve of Nate's ass, and part of Brad, some wicked part, wants to lift his hand and slap Nate, but it never happens. It never comes. It doesn't quite fit with what's happening here and, before he quite knows what's happening, the fluttering, tight muscles of Nate's belly are pressing against him, his hips still working, and Nate's fingers are wrapping around his, threading with his, stroking his dick right along with him. Nate groans softly and sucks at the skin stretched taunt over Brad's spine. Brad imagines the colours of his tattoo bleeding, running and smudging against Nate's fair skin.
"Come on," he mumbles, finger stroking against Nate's skin. "Come on."
"What if I want you to come first?" murmurs Nate, with that blessed talent of his to say absolutely dirty things, unexpected things, in that clipped, neat voice of his. "What if I want to make you come hard all over our hands before I come? Come on, Brad. Maybe later I'll let you come in my mouth."
Back in Iraq, Brad never would've even dreamed of shit like that coming fully formed out of Nate Fick's mouth.
That about does it, right there. Wham, bam, thankyou very fucking much. Nate's hand keeps Brad's moving too, stroking him until it almost hurts, until he's spasming and shaking. Nate's mouth makes a silent 'o' against Brad's spine when he comes.
Afterwards, they lie together, breathless. It took Brad a long time to work out if he was allowed to put his arms around Nate afterwards. They were fucking Reconn marines, which didn't mean that Brad didn't want to do that, didn't want to lie there with Nate, when he could, bare skin against bare skin. They lie there like that, Brad's arm around Nate's shoulders and Nate leans up with one arm on Brad's chest and kisses him, gentle now, sleepy again. They can sleep until noon. Neither of them have anywhere to be until tomorrow.
"What were you dreaming about?"
Brad doesn't answer for a moment, too busy kissing Nate's lips, his forehead, one high cheekbone, the tip of his graceful nose.
"The desert. Just the desert again."
His free hand skims down Nate's side like he's skimming sand away. Nate smiles and leans his head against Brad's chest, one hand flat against his belly, thumb idly rubbing against his skin.
"I was dreaming about a river," he says, quietly. "A river in India."
Brad smiles. He loves it when Nate's in the mood to talk. He's not a chatterer like Ray; doesn't talk unless he's got something to say, usually, but, sometimes, when he's with Brad, he'll just talk. Then, Brad likes to listen. He lifts his head and brushes Nate's tousled hair back from his forehead, grazing his lips between Nate's eyebrows.
"And what's the name of this river?"
"The Yamuna. The Yamuna river. It's a tributary of the Ganges. The largest, in fact."
"Fascinating."
He can't see his face, but Brad knows that Nate's giving him a look, right then. It's a get out of the hole sort of look. He smirks and kisses Nate's forehead again.
"Tell me," he says.
"Tell me," he says.
"They say that if you bathe in the river, let it close over your head, then you emerge without fear of death."
Brad doesn't know how he feels about that; he's a Reconn Marine, possessed of a proud warrior spirit and just because he isn't afraid of death doesn't mean that he's ready to find out how it ends, yet. Where Nate can't see him, Brad smiles and shifts until he can lie more comfortably with Nate's head pillowed on his chest. His eyes drift closed.
"What about other people's deaths?" he murmurs, but Nate's breathing has already gone shallow. They've got nowhere to go, and the wide bed is cool except for them, feverish from each other. Brad drifts off to sleep, into a dream of sitting on the banks of a river winding through the jungle, of watching Nate strip off sweaty cotton and wade into clear green water, the sunlight dappling on his shoulders through the leaves.
In the dream, Brad licks his lips, and tastes nothing but Nate; no fear, no sweat, no dust.