Advent Calendar Day One - Generation Kill ficbit: Avalanche
Avalanche [Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, R, 400 words, for pjvilar, prompt: this picture, beta thanks to shoshannagold.]
It was Brad's older sister's couch. He remembers the rub of child-worn brocade on his knees, the familiar scent of the spiced apple candles that she thought made the place homey. It was Thanksgiving, he thinks, or maybe Christmas. One family visit blurred into another that first year: introducing Nate to his family, meeting Nate's family, steeling himself up for each new introduction, breathing out slowly every time he was met with a smile or a hug.
Everyone was out - buying last-minute presents or choosing a turkey or a family trip to the goddamn zoo, it doesn't matter. They were gone with a shouted be good and a wink that Brad took as a challenge. What matters was that there was him and Nate and an empty house, and Brad meant to do the right thing, take it upstairs, but then Nate lifted his head back and started laughing. Probably something on the TV, cartoons maybe, left on from when the kids went out. Or a book - Nate always had a weird-ass sense of humor.
He laughed like he couldn't stop. Like he never wanted to stop. Like everything was right with the world and he was so full of joy it had to come out in this avalanche of laughter, catching Brad up and tumbling him down with it. An unstoppable force of nature.
They were caught up together, getting naked an easy, familiar routine, and for a moment Nate had stopped laughing, had turned serious and looked down at Brad's head resting on his bare stomach, and it was a look that Brad would die for, intense and almost too much. But this one time Brad wanted nothing more than the laughter, so he'd told some dirty joke or said something crazy to get Nate laughing again, and it had worked. Nate's belly shook under Brad, and he was laughing too much to fuck Brad's mouth properly, and Brad was smiling too much to be anything but sloppy.
They made a mess on the couch which wasn't going to dry in the time they had left, and Nate said fuck your sister's going to kill me, and Brad said we'll blame the dog for the wet patch and Nate laughed some more.
It's their thing now - blame the dog. They have a golden retriever, and it's guilty of multiple crimes, or so they claim, Nate laughing, Brad smiling.
//
It was Brad's older sister's couch. He remembers the rub of child-worn brocade on his knees, the familiar scent of the spiced apple candles that she thought made the place homey. It was Thanksgiving, he thinks, or maybe Christmas. One family visit blurred into another that first year: introducing Nate to his family, meeting Nate's family, steeling himself up for each new introduction, breathing out slowly every time he was met with a smile or a hug.
Everyone was out - buying last-minute presents or choosing a turkey or a family trip to the goddamn zoo, it doesn't matter. They were gone with a shouted be good and a wink that Brad took as a challenge. What matters was that there was him and Nate and an empty house, and Brad meant to do the right thing, take it upstairs, but then Nate lifted his head back and started laughing. Probably something on the TV, cartoons maybe, left on from when the kids went out. Or a book - Nate always had a weird-ass sense of humor.
He laughed like he couldn't stop. Like he never wanted to stop. Like everything was right with the world and he was so full of joy it had to come out in this avalanche of laughter, catching Brad up and tumbling him down with it. An unstoppable force of nature.
They were caught up together, getting naked an easy, familiar routine, and for a moment Nate had stopped laughing, had turned serious and looked down at Brad's head resting on his bare stomach, and it was a look that Brad would die for, intense and almost too much. But this one time Brad wanted nothing more than the laughter, so he'd told some dirty joke or said something crazy to get Nate laughing again, and it had worked. Nate's belly shook under Brad, and he was laughing too much to fuck Brad's mouth properly, and Brad was smiling too much to be anything but sloppy.
They made a mess on the couch which wasn't going to dry in the time they had left, and Nate said fuck your sister's going to kill me, and Brad said we'll blame the dog for the wet patch and Nate laughed some more.
It's their thing now - blame the dog. They have a golden retriever, and it's guilty of multiple crimes, or so they claim, Nate laughing, Brad smiling.
//