fic: mapless and hopeless, alone together
mapless and hopeless, alone together
Generation Kill; Brad/Nate; R; 2,819 words
Falling into a real relationship is also kind of terrifying.
eudaimon was wonderful enough to let me play in her South, South 'verse, and this is posted with her permission and my gratitude. Thanks to pjvilar for the beta.
~*~
The sounds of the car wake Brad up-the engine, Nate shifting gears, whatever shitty radio station they managed to get here. But it's the pain that makes him alert, and not just his usual. Without moving, without even opening his eyes, Brad catalogues his injuries.
There's a smallish cut at his temple. Thin, precise, shallow enough. Probably from a broken glass or bottle. He has a black eye on the opposite side, swollen and hot. Luckily, he doesn't think there's any structural damage.
Worst of all is the jagged gash on his stomach. Gut wounds are terrible in combat and not great otherwise. It's somewhere between deep and shallow, and when Brad lifts up his shirt to cautiously touch it, there are a few stitches. Plain old thread. Nate's work.
Shit.
Brad opens his eyes, testing both his injury and Nate's mood. Tender but okay; unreadable.
"Hi," Brad says, trying to get some moisture back into his desert-dry mouth. There's a bottle of water, probably warm, by his feet, but trying to reach it pulls at his belly. He notices that all of Nate's muscles tense up a bit.
"Oh, you're up," Nate says, his tone bright in a way that's not entirely sincere. "We had to leave in kind of a hurry last night. You've probably figured that out already, though."
"Yeah." A wave of nausea rolls through Brad's stomach. He should probably get some food, or at least coffee, but doesn't want to have to ask Nate to stop. "Bar fight?" he guesses. "The knife wound's unexpected. What the fuck did I do?"
There's no response, and then Nate shrugs. "I wish I knew," he says. "Really. You'd convinced me to get more drinks, and you especially were already pretty gone. I shouldn't have, but-I went to the counter and when I came back…"
"Great," Brad sighs. "Where to next?" Instead of answering right away, Nate pulls the car over to the shoulder of the road, parking it. It seems like an impossibility, because they decided to leave the car, but then Brad realizes it's not Nate's.
"You could've died," he says, turning Brad's shoulder so he's forced to look Nate in the eye. "Again. Do you not understand the severity of the situation? You lost a lot of blood last night."
It's not a big deal, Brad tries to say, but halfway through his sentence, Nate cuts him off.
"It is a big deal!" His fist comes down hard on the steering wheel, and Brad unbuckles his seatbelt, carefully steps out of the car. After a minute or so, Nate follows, his voice forced calm. "You didn't ask me to do any of this for you, to rearrange my life while you recover," he starts, putting his hand lightly on Brad's shoulder. Like after all this time, he thinks Brad's a scared dog who'll run away at physical contact. "I'm here because I want to be. But if you're not in this with me, I'll buy you a plane ticket and drive back to D.C."
"Don't over-think one stupid fight," Brad tells him, trying to ignore how his stitches pull when he breathes. "I'm in, okay? I want the house in Valparaiso and waking up to you and good wine and healing. We can have money wired down here, just...I can't go back yet." Maybe not ever, he wants to say, swallowing the words as they rise in his throat.
Brad's sure his mouth is stale and alcohol-sour instead of fresh, but he kisses Nate anyway, one arm locked around the small of Nate's back. It's not gentle or sweet-Brad gets five rough nails pressed into the nape of his neck in return-but fuck, he's trying. He's trying to communicate the way he knows how.
Abruptly, Nate pulls back, pressing his tongue to the back of Brad's teeth before he's gone. His pupils are huge, and his voice is raw when he says, "I want to check your stitches. Both sides."
"Here?" Brad asks. It's hardly sterile, or even clean, but then again, neither are most of the motel rooms they've crashed in.
"Against the car," Nate replies. "Come on. The fresh one makes me nervous. People who use knives in bar fights probably aren't sticklers for cleanliness."
Gingerly, he puts his weight on the door, feeling the car buckle a little underneath it. Where the fuck did it come from, anyway? Brad turns his head and sees his bike strapped to the trunk, some of it on top of the roof. It's a shitty position, but it looks bound tight enough, at least.
Nate goes to his knees, disregarding the dirt and litter around them, and pushes Brad's shirt up into his hands. His fingertips brush over Brad's ribs, then lower, only somewhat clinical.
"Your ribs are okay," he says, touching the few remaining sutures there. "And the scar isn't too bad. The new one...probably needs a dressing, and it's a little too warm. We'll have to keep an eye on it."
Brad sighs. It's not like he has a choice in the matter, and Nate always takes good care of him. He pulls his t-shirt down, careful not to catch it on the stitches.
"Can you move your eye up, down-"
"Left and right," Brad finishes for Nate, going through the motions, resisting the urge to add an eyeroll. Then he notices the start of a purplish-blue bruise on Nate's upper arm, previously covered by his own shirt. All it takes is the glance before Nate's expression changes and he rises to his feet.
"Someone had to pull you out of the shit. If you really think I'd leave you stranded in Brazil, you've got more issues than I thought." Nate's tone is lighthearted, mostly masking the more serious statement. "You probably don't remember the other guy, but you put up a good fight. Let's just say you should've seen him."
Carefully, Brad pulls Nate in, resting his head on the curve of Nate's shoulder. He's only just realized how tired and headachy he is, and he really didn't set out to make Nate angry or concerned.
Overhead, a rare cloud drifts by, momentarily blocking out the sun, casting shadows across their feet. He's not sure how long they stay like that, Nate's palm warm in the space between Brad's shoulderblades, but it's long enough for any remaining tension between them to dissipate.
*
At some point by the Amazon, gas stations stopped looking vaguely chainlike and switched to little struggling businesses (if they can even be called that), funded by backpackers and traveling med students. They stop at one and buy a whole batch of postcards, scribbling quick messages on them and mailing them across jungle and water. Doc Bryan will appreciate knowing Brad and Nate are both okay, maybe even more than their parents will. Brad tacks on a thanks to his, hoping it won't read as just that. The cards might take weeks to arrive, but even late contact is better than going AWOL.
Not in the military sense, obviously. That, at least, will never be an issue.
They don't have a return date set, and though Nate doesn't bring it up, Brad knows his leave of absence is most likely not indefinite. There's rarely any traffic, but they don't exactly rush-Brad doesn't want to push his bike, and the sights are great. And he has nothing in the States keeping him there; his family's just a couple airplane trips away.
He could start a new life here, with Nate. Neither of them have talked about it, whether they'll actually turn back after they reach Chile, or what they'll end up doing if they don't leave.
So for now, Brad's content with the way things are. Their schedule is a mix of covering klicks on the bike, fucking, and sleeping. If there's a landmark or something worth stopping for, they take a detour and sit, soaking in their surroundings. At night, Nate checks Brad's injuries and they drift off to sleep without the rush of traffic or the low hum of air conditioning.
*
Being in the military's kept Brad up-to-date with all his vaccinations, and Nate's just conscious about that stuff. It's useful when Nate suggests a "short walk in the rainforest."
The bugs are still vicious.
For the past few days, Brad's woken up thanks to the need to itch one of his scabbed-over mosquito bites, the ones that still haven't healed completely from their time in the jungle. Today is no exception, and he absentmindedly picks at it until red drops bloom on his skin.
Beside him, Nate is still fast asleep, the early-morning sunlight making his hair look blonder. His face is more relaxed in sleep, younger. Like he hasn't had to take care of Brad in one way or another since they left.
The little house they're renting for a week in Chaves is perfectly fine: spacious enough with a decent kitchen, but Brad needs some time out in the open. No walls, no doors. Switching back and forth between the car and a room is getting kind of unbearable.
Nate worries-Brad's accepted this as a fact of life, like the sky being blue and most officers being useless, so he bothers to scribble down a note on a crumpled-up piece of paper that's laying by the bed.
Need some air. Going out for a bit. Be back soon, so don't worry about me. I won't do anything else stupid.
B
He leaves the bike and sets out on foot, carrying nothing but a few reais in his pocket. The exercise will be good for his body, provided he keeps the pace slow enough, doesn't push himself too hard. It's quiet, save for a few food vendors preparing for the day and the stray person working an early shift.
Closer to the beach, the smell of saltwater and sand seep into town, permeating laundry that's hanging out to dry. Some of the street corners have open-air fish markets, and the housing units are more cramped, full of people using nature to make a living. It's survival, pure and simple, and he's the last person to fault anyone for trying to make it.
Brad buys a cheap board at a shop that probably stays open because of the few tourists who make it this far south. But he and Nate aren't exactly tourists, and Brad feels obligated to pay more than the flimsy piece of wood is worth. The paint is peeling and chipping like it's been aged by the ocean, though the wood isn't stained. While it hardly compares to the ones he has back in Oceanside, the board is a familiar weight under his arm.
The beach, a small cove with large rocks studding the shoreline, is nearly empty. His usual burst of energy doesn't come; instead, Brad just feels at peace. It's not permanent-he'll feel uncomfortable for months, if not longer-but it's a welcome change in the moment.
He ventures out into the surf, small waves growing bigger and then still as they lap at his body. Here, Brad's injury doesn't matter so much. The ache in his thigh is more bearable.
In BRC, they were all taught that the ocean is relentless, that even the best could be swept out to open ocean and lost there. He's told candidates that. But it's not entirely true.
Water also erases, forgives. He feels lighter, not just because he's floating. He's barely so much as gotten his feet wet since he deployed; he never imagined he'd have to give up surfing. Regardless, the ocean won't turn him away.
He doesn't try to stand up on the board; for all that Doc Bryan calls him an idiot, Brad's smart enough to know that trying it would make his thigh a lot worse. The board keeping his back flat, he looks up at the sky, squinting.
It's sunnier and brighter and clearer down here. No smog from cars or cordite from rifles, just the pure colors of nature and the overwhelming smell of salt. Sand and surf aren't exactly new, though the sand is fine here, the water less cloudy. If he raises his head, he can see the tops of his pale feet, the waves about to break.
By the time Brad gets back to their house, it's midmorning, almost late enough for brunch. Nate's up, brewing the very last of the coffee they picked up in Cúcuta and have been rationing since then. He raises an eyebrow, but keeps silent as he folds Brad into his arms.
"I couldn't help myself," Brad says, reaching over to turn the stove on. He knows they have food in the fridge for this and maybe something small in the afternoon. "But I didn't even stand on the board." He steps back so Nate can see his torso, and he can feel the sigh of relief Nate's shitty at hiding.
They eat local eggs and day-old biscuits with guava jelly, two buñuelos each. The plan is to stay the rest of the day and set out again tomorrow morning, but it's flexible. They can always pay for a few more nights, and Brad didn't realize how much he'd missed the ocean. Having klicks and klicks of open road is great, his and Nate's bodies aligned on the bike without having to keep up a conversation.
Water scares him more, now that he's like this, and he's always loved the water, and he's always loved things that scare him.
Falling into a real relationship is also kind of terrifying.
But fear is a great motivator, something Brad's used to working with. And if he didn't want to experience anything new, he wouldn't have rented out his place and done this.
*
When they leave, it's with a place in mind, a detour just because they can make one. Juruena is beautiful. Maybe more so than other place's Brad's been. Sunset at the Coronado Bay Bridge; Mesopotamia; Hampstead Heath-none of them match up to the raw, natural view of over nineteen thousand klicks of vegetation and rock and water.
Brad's not up to hiking yet, tries to mask his disappointment about not being able to explore something so unlike his usual terrain. Nate tells him they don't have to stay, but looks so eager to explore that Brad couldn't possibly drag him away without feeling like a complete asshole. He has food and water and pain meds in the backpack, one of Nate's books if he wants it, and a camera.
Brad picks a spot with a view and sits, watching as Nate's form gets smaller and smaller, then eventually disappears. They'll meet back here at 0300. It's a huge park. One step in the wrong direction and you could be lost forever. That's not something Brad's worried about; his Spanish isn't great and Nate only knows Greek and Latin, but even here, they know how not to get lost.
He doesn't go far, too cautious about how the uneven ground would treat his body, but he shoots the waterfall, the trees and sky, an older couple having a little picnic.
In this weird, artificial mix of civilization and wilderness, Brad feels at home. It's the possibilities, he thinks. Anything could happen here.
But nothing too extraordinary does. He has a sandwich for lunch and walks around some, conscious of his body like he has to be now. The sun's intense, and he's careful to hydrate, especially at this altitude. Hopefully it'll cool down some this afternoon, since he wants to make some headway before it gets too dark. Even injured, he'd go until late. Nate isn't having any of that, and always makes them stop by eight or nine.
It's odd, riding with someone at his back, arms wrapped tightly around Brad's waist-Jessica always refused to go with him-but he likes it. Over the roar of the wind, anything they say is lost, but he can feel Nate's heart beating again and again in a rhythm that matches Brad's.
*
Nate implemented a no-secrets policy after San Luis, mostly so he could let Brad talk about his feelings without the guilt.
What Nate doesn't know won't hurt him. Not in this case.
It's not like Brad's gone home with someone else one night. He hasn't strayed. And the nightmares have stopped, thank fuck, so he doesn't see the reason to tell Nate about the dreams. They're dreams that'll never become reality. In their bed, in sleep, Brad runs miles along the water's edge, his body doing what it's been trained to. He leads training missions in the mountains and deserts.
They fuck without worrying about anything.
And he'll tell Nate about the dreams when they get to where they're going.
Generation Kill; Brad/Nate; R; 2,819 words
Falling into a real relationship is also kind of terrifying.
eudaimon was wonderful enough to let me play in her South, South 'verse, and this is posted with her permission and my gratitude. Thanks to pjvilar for the beta.
~*~
The sounds of the car wake Brad up-the engine, Nate shifting gears, whatever shitty radio station they managed to get here. But it's the pain that makes him alert, and not just his usual. Without moving, without even opening his eyes, Brad catalogues his injuries.
There's a smallish cut at his temple. Thin, precise, shallow enough. Probably from a broken glass or bottle. He has a black eye on the opposite side, swollen and hot. Luckily, he doesn't think there's any structural damage.
Worst of all is the jagged gash on his stomach. Gut wounds are terrible in combat and not great otherwise. It's somewhere between deep and shallow, and when Brad lifts up his shirt to cautiously touch it, there are a few stitches. Plain old thread. Nate's work.
Shit.
Brad opens his eyes, testing both his injury and Nate's mood. Tender but okay; unreadable.
"Hi," Brad says, trying to get some moisture back into his desert-dry mouth. There's a bottle of water, probably warm, by his feet, but trying to reach it pulls at his belly. He notices that all of Nate's muscles tense up a bit.
"Oh, you're up," Nate says, his tone bright in a way that's not entirely sincere. "We had to leave in kind of a hurry last night. You've probably figured that out already, though."
"Yeah." A wave of nausea rolls through Brad's stomach. He should probably get some food, or at least coffee, but doesn't want to have to ask Nate to stop. "Bar fight?" he guesses. "The knife wound's unexpected. What the fuck did I do?"
There's no response, and then Nate shrugs. "I wish I knew," he says. "Really. You'd convinced me to get more drinks, and you especially were already pretty gone. I shouldn't have, but-I went to the counter and when I came back…"
"Great," Brad sighs. "Where to next?" Instead of answering right away, Nate pulls the car over to the shoulder of the road, parking it. It seems like an impossibility, because they decided to leave the car, but then Brad realizes it's not Nate's.
"You could've died," he says, turning Brad's shoulder so he's forced to look Nate in the eye. "Again. Do you not understand the severity of the situation? You lost a lot of blood last night."
It's not a big deal, Brad tries to say, but halfway through his sentence, Nate cuts him off.
"It is a big deal!" His fist comes down hard on the steering wheel, and Brad unbuckles his seatbelt, carefully steps out of the car. After a minute or so, Nate follows, his voice forced calm. "You didn't ask me to do any of this for you, to rearrange my life while you recover," he starts, putting his hand lightly on Brad's shoulder. Like after all this time, he thinks Brad's a scared dog who'll run away at physical contact. "I'm here because I want to be. But if you're not in this with me, I'll buy you a plane ticket and drive back to D.C."
"Don't over-think one stupid fight," Brad tells him, trying to ignore how his stitches pull when he breathes. "I'm in, okay? I want the house in Valparaiso and waking up to you and good wine and healing. We can have money wired down here, just...I can't go back yet." Maybe not ever, he wants to say, swallowing the words as they rise in his throat.
Brad's sure his mouth is stale and alcohol-sour instead of fresh, but he kisses Nate anyway, one arm locked around the small of Nate's back. It's not gentle or sweet-Brad gets five rough nails pressed into the nape of his neck in return-but fuck, he's trying. He's trying to communicate the way he knows how.
Abruptly, Nate pulls back, pressing his tongue to the back of Brad's teeth before he's gone. His pupils are huge, and his voice is raw when he says, "I want to check your stitches. Both sides."
"Here?" Brad asks. It's hardly sterile, or even clean, but then again, neither are most of the motel rooms they've crashed in.
"Against the car," Nate replies. "Come on. The fresh one makes me nervous. People who use knives in bar fights probably aren't sticklers for cleanliness."
Gingerly, he puts his weight on the door, feeling the car buckle a little underneath it. Where the fuck did it come from, anyway? Brad turns his head and sees his bike strapped to the trunk, some of it on top of the roof. It's a shitty position, but it looks bound tight enough, at least.
Nate goes to his knees, disregarding the dirt and litter around them, and pushes Brad's shirt up into his hands. His fingertips brush over Brad's ribs, then lower, only somewhat clinical.
"Your ribs are okay," he says, touching the few remaining sutures there. "And the scar isn't too bad. The new one...probably needs a dressing, and it's a little too warm. We'll have to keep an eye on it."
Brad sighs. It's not like he has a choice in the matter, and Nate always takes good care of him. He pulls his t-shirt down, careful not to catch it on the stitches.
"Can you move your eye up, down-"
"Left and right," Brad finishes for Nate, going through the motions, resisting the urge to add an eyeroll. Then he notices the start of a purplish-blue bruise on Nate's upper arm, previously covered by his own shirt. All it takes is the glance before Nate's expression changes and he rises to his feet.
"Someone had to pull you out of the shit. If you really think I'd leave you stranded in Brazil, you've got more issues than I thought." Nate's tone is lighthearted, mostly masking the more serious statement. "You probably don't remember the other guy, but you put up a good fight. Let's just say you should've seen him."
Carefully, Brad pulls Nate in, resting his head on the curve of Nate's shoulder. He's only just realized how tired and headachy he is, and he really didn't set out to make Nate angry or concerned.
Overhead, a rare cloud drifts by, momentarily blocking out the sun, casting shadows across their feet. He's not sure how long they stay like that, Nate's palm warm in the space between Brad's shoulderblades, but it's long enough for any remaining tension between them to dissipate.
*
At some point by the Amazon, gas stations stopped looking vaguely chainlike and switched to little struggling businesses (if they can even be called that), funded by backpackers and traveling med students. They stop at one and buy a whole batch of postcards, scribbling quick messages on them and mailing them across jungle and water. Doc Bryan will appreciate knowing Brad and Nate are both okay, maybe even more than their parents will. Brad tacks on a thanks to his, hoping it won't read as just that. The cards might take weeks to arrive, but even late contact is better than going AWOL.
Not in the military sense, obviously. That, at least, will never be an issue.
They don't have a return date set, and though Nate doesn't bring it up, Brad knows his leave of absence is most likely not indefinite. There's rarely any traffic, but they don't exactly rush-Brad doesn't want to push his bike, and the sights are great. And he has nothing in the States keeping him there; his family's just a couple airplane trips away.
He could start a new life here, with Nate. Neither of them have talked about it, whether they'll actually turn back after they reach Chile, or what they'll end up doing if they don't leave.
So for now, Brad's content with the way things are. Their schedule is a mix of covering klicks on the bike, fucking, and sleeping. If there's a landmark or something worth stopping for, they take a detour and sit, soaking in their surroundings. At night, Nate checks Brad's injuries and they drift off to sleep without the rush of traffic or the low hum of air conditioning.
*
Being in the military's kept Brad up-to-date with all his vaccinations, and Nate's just conscious about that stuff. It's useful when Nate suggests a "short walk in the rainforest."
The bugs are still vicious.
For the past few days, Brad's woken up thanks to the need to itch one of his scabbed-over mosquito bites, the ones that still haven't healed completely from their time in the jungle. Today is no exception, and he absentmindedly picks at it until red drops bloom on his skin.
Beside him, Nate is still fast asleep, the early-morning sunlight making his hair look blonder. His face is more relaxed in sleep, younger. Like he hasn't had to take care of Brad in one way or another since they left.
The little house they're renting for a week in Chaves is perfectly fine: spacious enough with a decent kitchen, but Brad needs some time out in the open. No walls, no doors. Switching back and forth between the car and a room is getting kind of unbearable.
Nate worries-Brad's accepted this as a fact of life, like the sky being blue and most officers being useless, so he bothers to scribble down a note on a crumpled-up piece of paper that's laying by the bed.
Need some air. Going out for a bit. Be back soon, so don't worry about me. I won't do anything else stupid.
B
He leaves the bike and sets out on foot, carrying nothing but a few reais in his pocket. The exercise will be good for his body, provided he keeps the pace slow enough, doesn't push himself too hard. It's quiet, save for a few food vendors preparing for the day and the stray person working an early shift.
Closer to the beach, the smell of saltwater and sand seep into town, permeating laundry that's hanging out to dry. Some of the street corners have open-air fish markets, and the housing units are more cramped, full of people using nature to make a living. It's survival, pure and simple, and he's the last person to fault anyone for trying to make it.
Brad buys a cheap board at a shop that probably stays open because of the few tourists who make it this far south. But he and Nate aren't exactly tourists, and Brad feels obligated to pay more than the flimsy piece of wood is worth. The paint is peeling and chipping like it's been aged by the ocean, though the wood isn't stained. While it hardly compares to the ones he has back in Oceanside, the board is a familiar weight under his arm.
The beach, a small cove with large rocks studding the shoreline, is nearly empty. His usual burst of energy doesn't come; instead, Brad just feels at peace. It's not permanent-he'll feel uncomfortable for months, if not longer-but it's a welcome change in the moment.
He ventures out into the surf, small waves growing bigger and then still as they lap at his body. Here, Brad's injury doesn't matter so much. The ache in his thigh is more bearable.
In BRC, they were all taught that the ocean is relentless, that even the best could be swept out to open ocean and lost there. He's told candidates that. But it's not entirely true.
Water also erases, forgives. He feels lighter, not just because he's floating. He's barely so much as gotten his feet wet since he deployed; he never imagined he'd have to give up surfing. Regardless, the ocean won't turn him away.
He doesn't try to stand up on the board; for all that Doc Bryan calls him an idiot, Brad's smart enough to know that trying it would make his thigh a lot worse. The board keeping his back flat, he looks up at the sky, squinting.
It's sunnier and brighter and clearer down here. No smog from cars or cordite from rifles, just the pure colors of nature and the overwhelming smell of salt. Sand and surf aren't exactly new, though the sand is fine here, the water less cloudy. If he raises his head, he can see the tops of his pale feet, the waves about to break.
By the time Brad gets back to their house, it's midmorning, almost late enough for brunch. Nate's up, brewing the very last of the coffee they picked up in Cúcuta and have been rationing since then. He raises an eyebrow, but keeps silent as he folds Brad into his arms.
"I couldn't help myself," Brad says, reaching over to turn the stove on. He knows they have food in the fridge for this and maybe something small in the afternoon. "But I didn't even stand on the board." He steps back so Nate can see his torso, and he can feel the sigh of relief Nate's shitty at hiding.
They eat local eggs and day-old biscuits with guava jelly, two buñuelos each. The plan is to stay the rest of the day and set out again tomorrow morning, but it's flexible. They can always pay for a few more nights, and Brad didn't realize how much he'd missed the ocean. Having klicks and klicks of open road is great, his and Nate's bodies aligned on the bike without having to keep up a conversation.
Water scares him more, now that he's like this, and he's always loved the water, and he's always loved things that scare him.
Falling into a real relationship is also kind of terrifying.
But fear is a great motivator, something Brad's used to working with. And if he didn't want to experience anything new, he wouldn't have rented out his place and done this.
*
When they leave, it's with a place in mind, a detour just because they can make one. Juruena is beautiful. Maybe more so than other place's Brad's been. Sunset at the Coronado Bay Bridge; Mesopotamia; Hampstead Heath-none of them match up to the raw, natural view of over nineteen thousand klicks of vegetation and rock and water.
Brad's not up to hiking yet, tries to mask his disappointment about not being able to explore something so unlike his usual terrain. Nate tells him they don't have to stay, but looks so eager to explore that Brad couldn't possibly drag him away without feeling like a complete asshole. He has food and water and pain meds in the backpack, one of Nate's books if he wants it, and a camera.
Brad picks a spot with a view and sits, watching as Nate's form gets smaller and smaller, then eventually disappears. They'll meet back here at 0300. It's a huge park. One step in the wrong direction and you could be lost forever. That's not something Brad's worried about; his Spanish isn't great and Nate only knows Greek and Latin, but even here, they know how not to get lost.
He doesn't go far, too cautious about how the uneven ground would treat his body, but he shoots the waterfall, the trees and sky, an older couple having a little picnic.
In this weird, artificial mix of civilization and wilderness, Brad feels at home. It's the possibilities, he thinks. Anything could happen here.
But nothing too extraordinary does. He has a sandwich for lunch and walks around some, conscious of his body like he has to be now. The sun's intense, and he's careful to hydrate, especially at this altitude. Hopefully it'll cool down some this afternoon, since he wants to make some headway before it gets too dark. Even injured, he'd go until late. Nate isn't having any of that, and always makes them stop by eight or nine.
It's odd, riding with someone at his back, arms wrapped tightly around Brad's waist-Jessica always refused to go with him-but he likes it. Over the roar of the wind, anything they say is lost, but he can feel Nate's heart beating again and again in a rhythm that matches Brad's.
*
Nate implemented a no-secrets policy after San Luis, mostly so he could let Brad talk about his feelings without the guilt.
What Nate doesn't know won't hurt him. Not in this case.
It's not like Brad's gone home with someone else one night. He hasn't strayed. And the nightmares have stopped, thank fuck, so he doesn't see the reason to tell Nate about the dreams. They're dreams that'll never become reality. In their bed, in sleep, Brad runs miles along the water's edge, his body doing what it's been trained to. He leads training missions in the mountains and deserts.
They fuck without worrying about anything.
And he'll tell Nate about the dreams when they get to where they're going.