fic: "From Sea To Shining Sea"
recipient: jmc-bks
author: witchling
title: From Sea To Shining Sea
pairing: Brad/Ray
rating: PG-13 for the potty mouth.
word count: 4931
summary/warnings: If Hollywood has taught Ray anything it's that the best way to cure a friend's broken heart is with a road trip.
author notes:It was a pleasure and an honour to write for you. I just hope that you enjoy it.
Brad gets a kiss on the corner of his mouth when he hands over the neat fold of bills. He's tall, athletic, and handsome. Girls never notice that he has the mother of all overbites. Usually they're busy being impressed by his bone structure and California native tan. This one is no exception. She's just as pretty as Brad is. They could be a matched set, Brad athletic and blonde and her willowy with a mane of dark hair. While she pockets Brad's money, Ray makes a mess of a piece of toast.
It's late for Brad to be rolling out of bed. The sun rose hours ago and back home all the good little surfers are already out of the water to make room for pussies and sorority girls. Brad's hair is sticking up at funny angles and his sweat pants are sliding down off his hips. Ray sniffs and looks down at the table. He is gouging a mark out of the surface with his thumb nail.
"This shit with the hookers has to fucking stop," Ray says, spraying damp crumbs everywhere. Brad puts a protective hand over the top of his coffee. A coffee Ray was good enough to pour for him when he heard the shower start. "I don't know what you just mumbled at me, Billy-Bob, but swallow before you try again," Brad tells him, trying his damnedest not to look too fond.
He's not fooling anyone. Ray is fucking awesome and Brad wouldn't have moved into an off campus apartment with him if he was somehow unaware of that fact. Brad's a bright boy, he's capable of at least recognizing Ray's genius. Ray makes a pantomime of chewing deliberately and swallowing. He licks crumbs off his lip and rubs the rest away with the back of his hand. Like the good roommate and slash or best friend that he is, Brad waits patiently.
“I said road trip, deaf ass motherfucker,” Ray crows, wiping a hand through the crumbs in front of him on the table. He flicks a particularly large crumb of crust at Brad's head but the freakish Viking bats it out of the air. Which is, honestly, really unsatisfying for Ray.
Brad's mouth has gone all tight and puckered. Ray wants to call him out on his cat butt mouth but he's trying to get his way here. One must bolster Brad's delicate ego to get him to do things he's sceptical of. This shit has to happen though. Fuck Nate, Ray's fucking assured of this shit. It's been six weeks since Amy confessed long distance that she was fucking Brad's biffle on the side. Which is fucking cold. She was the one who told Brad that going to school on the East Coast was what was best for him.
Six weeks and six consecutive Saturday mornings Ray has been greeted by some hot-to-trot rent girl swanning out of Brad's room.
Not that they don't all look outrageously satisfied. Ray would never be such a cad as to imply that Brad doesn't fuck like a champ. He may not have the IMAX experience but the stereo surround sound has confirmed any suspicions. (Ray's thinking about charging admission) But it speaks to some serious trust issues on Brad's part. Ray's a caring and considerate sort of guy, though. If young Bradley Colbert is having a cheating bitch related nervous break down then he's going to just have to step in and fix it.
And nothing says fixing your college roommate's love life problems like
“A road trip, homie!” Ray says again, punching the air for emphasis, “you and me and the open road! There's just more than two weeks before classes start. We can totally rock star to California, get you back into your dirty hippie surfer waves before the first day of classes.”
“It's a forty six hour drive from here to California,” Brad raises an eyebrow like he's caught Ray out in some great lie.
Ray is totally fucking aware of this. He started looking into it last Saturday when Brad was entertaining his company for a morning round. This shit has to be getting expensive and Ray knows that Brad's student loan can't be that good. He wipes crumbs off the table and onto the floor with a wide sweep of his palm.
“If we drive like ten hours a day we can be there and back in eleven days with one day to actually spend in California and we're back in plenty of time for you to do your overachieving TA bullshit,” Ray says. People always assume that his brilliant ideas are half cocked and ill-conceived. They are wrong like 98% of the time.
He will admit that experimenting with Rudy's espresso maker was half cocked and ill-conceived. He still bears faint scars from the experience. He chalks it up to being educational and tries not to mention it when he's convincing someone to go through with one of his schemes. Plans. Whatever.
Brad's face goes all soft around the edges of his eyes and he squints down at Ray. Which means that Ray is going to get his way. Ray knows how this works. He leans back in his chair until it's balancing precariously on the back two legs and watches Brad try to figure out how to make it sound like he's just conceding and not at all into it. Finally Brad huffs out a long suffering sigh to prove to Ray that he is just being tolerated. And then he pushes Ray. He plants one impossibly large hand on Ray's shoulder and presses down to throw off the delicate negotiation with gravity that Ray is engaged in.
Which is rude as fuck.
Ray lands hard, the breath knocked out of his lungs and sprawled all inelegantly on his upended chair. It's hard to laugh with the wind knocked out of you. Instead Ray just lays there and tries to relearn how to breathe.
“You're not fucking driving,” Brad calls over his shoulder. Winding Ray's usually a pretty good way to win an argument.
-
As it turns out, Ray does end up driving. It's not a lack of conviction on Brad's part. It's just that Ray is a sly weasel and he steals the keys long before Brad was even awake to protest. All the while Brad was telling Ray that he wouldn't be driving, the keys to the Fairlane were safely squared away in his pocket. Ray's like a boy scout, always prepared. And part of that means that there is a cooler full of energy drinks in the backseat and an assortment of sour candies in the glove box.
“I'm hurt that you don't trust me to drive, Bradley,” Ray says, turning around in the seat to watch oncoming traffic as he merges. Despite the way that he waves his middle finger wildly out the window at a douche bag in a Jeep, Ray's a really good driver. You don't drive classic muscle and then treat it like garbage. He wouldn't do that to his princess.
“I don't trust your ADHD, drug addled ass with any heavy machinery,” Brad shakes his head, bent over so that he can fiddle with the radio. Apparently the college radio station isn't going to be acceptable for him. The promise that the Downliner's Crypt hour of surf rock is coming up isn't even enough to sway Brad's mind.
Because musically speaking he's a complete troglodyte.
Brad finds a classic rock station on Ray's presets that they can both agree on. Ray doesn't have the heart to tell him it's going to be out of range a cunt hair out of the city. Instead he cranks the radio, thrusts one arm out the window and belts along with Concrete Blonde. He doesn't have to look at Brad to know he's grinning one of his doofy, Captain Overbite smiles. Ray has super awesome ideas about fucking everything.
-
In Altoona Ray has to piss like Seabiscuit because maybe all of those Red Bulls weren't an awesome idea. Brad laughs at him and goes in to get snacks while Ray avails himself of the sketchy as fuck bathroom. He steps exaggeratedly over an odd dark spot near the drain in the floor and tries to convince himself that if an axe wielding, inbred psycho tries to kill him Brad'll show up. Brad and mjolnir or something.
Instead Brad comes back to the car with a handful of chocolate bars and two cups of coffee balanced in the other hand. Ray tries to look discretely for a freakish sixth finger because there is no way his hands are just that big. He opens the door for Brad who haphazardly deposits the chocolate on the back seat and tosses two empty cans of Red Bull under his seat to make room for the coffee. He does it bent over his seat, knee on the cushion.
“Think we can make it to Lima by tonight? We could go punch that Sam kid in his trouty mouth,” Ray asks. His fingers curl around the top of the door and he looks away from Brad, squinting into the sun. Brad is tall, blonde, and athletic. He has the mother of all overbites though and if Ray is being reminded of just how slim Brad's hips are, the way that muscle cuts a v into his abdomen than he should just focus on the stupid over bite.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Brad jerks the door out of his hand and slams it shut.
Uncultured mother fucker, Ray thinks fondly. He keeps one hand on the hood of the Fairlane all the way around the hood. The black pain is attracting heat and the metal is almost too hot to touch. It's good though, something that pulls him away from the heat pooling in the base of his spine. This is Operation Fix Princess Brad not the Big Gay BJ Project.
“These are for you,” Brad says and fishes a pair of sunglasses out of his shirt pocket.
Ray has been bitching like a sorority girl PMSing about leaving his Club Masters at the apartment. So it's nice that Brad's at least paying attention. His whole shut the fuck up Ray thing is all show. Ray knows better than to be insulted by it. Now that all pays off.
They are gaudy gold framed Elvis glasses and when Ray takes them he could swear that Brad touches his fingers for longer than is strictly necessary. Behind the protection of the sunglasses Ray closes his eyes for a second.
“Thanks, homes. You're the best,” he says and means it.
-
They do make it to Lima that night. Brad won't let him go punch any fictional teenagers though. Instead they set up at a Motel 6 with take out Chinese and Ray bounces on the bed until Brad agrees to watch Armageddon with him.
Brad totally starts singing along with Ben Affleck first.
-
“This came in the mail a couple days after the call from Amy,” Brad says, fishing a battered but unopened envelope out of his jacket pocket. They are parked at a McDonalds in Carbondale and Ray is decimating his fries. They found some local station which a crazy conspiracy theorist is running. He's ranting at them about the Reptilians in charge of the country.
Ray has until just then been explaining to Brad why conspiracy theory is a cancer on human reasoning. He has a thing about confirmation bias, alright?
Instead he takes the envelope from Brad, smearing ketchup on the otherwise spotless white. The postmark is from before Amy ever called Brad. Ray knows because the date is burned into his brain like a brand. Ray is always going to remember that morning. He's never seen Brad lash out in anger like he did that day. He's also never seen an iPhone explode bits of screen all over a linoleum floor outside of that experience. If it wasn't so fucking scary to see Brad lose all of his unshakeable cool Ray would have said it was cool to watch the cult of Apple take a hit like that.
Ray's taken psych 101. He knows enough to make connections between Brad calling Amy a whore and then proceeding to fuck a lot of women that he's paying.
“She mailed it before she called,” Ray says. Brad clearly knows this already. Ray isn't friends with idiots but it feels like something that needs saying.
Whatever is in the envelope is thin, a single sheet of paper and then a small, hard lump of something tellingly round. Ray already knows what's in the envelope. The bitch didn't even have the ovarian fortitude to put on her big girl panties and face Brad one last time. Ray's fingers flex on the envelope, crinkle it noisily. He's not one for violence if he doesn't have to be. He's small and fast but he bruises easy. Still, he really wants to sock this bitch in the mouth.
And Brad's so called best friend. What kind of a thankless fucking cunt starts blowing his best mate's girl the second he moves across the country for school? Ray has all sorts of fucked up ideas about what's acceptable but Brad is one of the good ones. He's all noble and well intentioned and shit. Even Ray knows that you don't cross the one's like Brad. He's got a big delicate princess heart that gets all cut up and damaged.
“Whycome you never opened it? Are you illiterate, Bradley? All of this time and you couldn't work up the courage to get me to read it? That's pathetic, man, it's insulting. You know I'm here for you,” Ray mumbles the words around the edge of the envelope, forces them out while he grits his teeth and tears the side open.
The ring slides out first, landing heavy and cold in Ray's hand. It's a plain band, yellow gold with a diamond as big as Brad could afford in it and a sapphire on either side. Once Brad had drunkenly told Ray that Amy has the prettiest blue eyes he's ever seen which is why he picked diamonds. It's tasteful and it's beautiful. The gems are set flush to the band so that they don't get in the way of anything she wants to do. Like Brad, Amy's one of those active types.
Ray sniffs again, wants to punch her in her probably perfect teeth.
Beside him Brad feels stiff and unhappy. Instead of forcing Brad to admit that he's hurting here Ray opens the single sheet of paper. Her hand writing is loopy and fat. The sort of writing that Ray always associates with girls who take the sort of notes that you want to borrow before finals. There's only two words on the page. Three if she hadn't used a contraction but who uses formal English in a Dear John Brad?
“What'd she say?” Brad asks tightly. Ray looks at him then, fingers curling around the ring she sent back. Brad's whole body is stiff and he is scowling fiercely at the dumpster in front of them.
“I don't think this is the dumpster's fault, homes,” Ray tells him. He has to arch his hips up, swivel a little in his seat to dig his hand into his pocket and leave the ring there. Brad doesn't say anything about it so Ray figures they're all good.
He turns the key in the ignition until the Fairlane growls to life and switches them into reverse. For a minute Brad's hand is hot on the back of Ray's. He goes vibratingly still, his heart hammering so hard in his chest that he thinks it might escape. Brad waits until he turns to look at him. Eyes that blue should come with some sort of warning about drowning.
“Ray,” he says, voice all tight and tortured like he belongs on the CW.
“You know, the whole Reptilian theory would explain a thing or two,” Ray says, rescuing Brad from whatever big, terrifying emotion he was having to deal with.
For an extremely smart sort of guy Brad is spectacularly retarded when it comes to shit like feelings. Which Ray gets, his masculinity being so delicate and all. They manage to drive all the way to Joplin and Ray finds a Janice CD in the big box of them in the trunk. It's only fitting after all. Half way there Brad stretches his arm across the back of Ray's seat and every now and again his fingers brush against the hair at the base of his skull. His hand stays there until they find a motel for the night.
-
Ray let's Brad drive for a few hours just so they can make it to Roswell. It's legitimately important to him and he explains this to Brad. Maybe it would have taken less pleading if he hadn't talked quite so much about the old soap opera but Micheal Geurin was his first crush and this matters. It means they do a drive through for lunch and don't arrive until almost nine o'clock at night. Ray's cool with it though. The only place open and still serving food is a UFO themed diner. Brad orders the Area 51 burger and Ray get's a Flying Saucer burger.
“Basically by creating a contraction of space-time geometry in front of the Fairlane, and a simultaneous expansion behind the Fairlane we could totally beat the speed of light with out fucking up physics,” Ray says around a mouthful of burger. He is gesturing with the spear of pickle that was tooth picked to the top of his burger.
There is a lot to be said for diner food.
Brad watches the pickle bob and weave. Ray's a little concerned that he's not paying any attention. Until recent years the idea of faster than light speed travel was considered totally impossible. This changes whether or not Ray will ever get to bang a Vulcan. That whole train of thought hurls itself out the window when Brad drops his head forward and takes the entirety of Ray's pickle. His lips brush the tip of Ray's fingers.
When Brad looks up at him with those fuck off blue eyes through all his tawny lashes Ray feels it right in his dick.
-
They leave Roswell with the sun rising over the desert. Ray doesn't say anything but the sun cresting over jagged rocks, spilling gold sun across Brad's face is one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen. Even if that's also the gayest thing he's ever thought. Brad doses off in the car and Ray lets him. He switches over to a mellower CD and drives through the dawn. It's fifteen hours to Brad's home in Oceanside and Ray promised to get him there by tonight.
He chain smokes while Brad sleeps, ashing out his window. It's when he's trying to simultaneously find his lighter after it's fallen near Brad's feet and keep his eyes on the road that Brad wakes up. Ray's cheek is pressed into his side, neck craning to see the road. The very tips of his fingers scrape uselessly at the dirty carpet near Brad's Vans. A warm hand comes to cover his shoulder and Brad's whole body tenses, stretches down.
“Here,” he says, voice thick and sleepy as he hands over the lighter, “you should have woken me up.”
“It's cool, you needed the sleep,” Ray shrugs one shoulder and fights with the lighter to get it to light and stay lit. He puffs impatiently on his cigarette until it catches the way he wants it too. He tosses the lighter back down at Brad's feet.
Brad stretches down again for it and this time he pockets it. It makes Ray think about the ring burning a whole in his pocket. If he shifts he imagines he can feel the diamond cutting at his skin through his jeans. Brad is smiling at the sunset, sitting easy with the knowledge that he's headed home and Ray can't imagine ever not wanting him.
Amy needs the sort of help that comes with a prescription if she threw Brad away.
“He told me he'd take care of her while I was gone,” Brad says, apropos of nothing. He is wearing his sensible black Ray Bans and drumming his fingers against the outside of the door. Ray keeps risking these glances at him. About an hour ago he pressed his arm around the back of Ray's chair and it's a steady heat that Ray doesn't trust enough to lean into.
“That little douche canoe is looking for a punch in the urethra, Brad,” Ray says, voice soft and low with sympathy that doesn't match the words.
“The hookers just show up when I want them to, fuck me, and leave when I want them to,” Brad is frowning under his sun glasses. Ray can tell by the way his forehead is crinkling. Brad's all delicate and shit, “I don't want anything from them that a few hours can't give me.”
“I get it,” Ray turns his head to look at Brad and finds Brad watching him already.
There is colour in Brad's cheeks and his eyes are obscured under his sunglasses. It's probably for the best. Ray's not totally certain that he can take that stone cold stare just now. He tightens his hands on the steering wheel and glares at the road like it's to blame. It's one thing to harbour feelings for your engaged roommate slash best friend. They just sort of linger and you date other people and keep on having feelings that never go anywhere. It's another entirely when he's no longer engaged.
-
They hit the beach after dark. Brad takes over the driving portion of their little adventure as they approach Oceanside and that's just fine with Ray. The beach is abandoned and in the dark it's hard to see where the sand ends and the water begins. He can hear the waves crashing, though, and see the moon reflecting off the chop farther out. Brad is hesitating in the sand, shoes held in one hand. As he waits for Brad to make a move here Ray digs his toes into the sad. The very edges of the surf start to fill in the hole he's making with every contraction of his toes.
The water is cold as tits and Ray is seven sorts of disappointed. California is supposed to have warm water all day every day. This cold water bullshit is not what he signed up for. He turns and tosses his shoes back up the beach, sends his shirt after.
“What are you doing?” Brad asks and Ray nails him in the chest with his pants. The belt buckle makes a satisfying thud against his ribcage and Brad grunts.
“I'm in fucking California on some stank ass little beach,” Ray spreads his arms,“I'm going swimming.”
He uses the elastic at the waist of his briefs to snap them at Brad who uses his freakish Viking superpowers to catch them before they hit him in the face. The dark hides the way his dick twitches, half hard at the idea of Brad touching his underwear. He plants his hands on his hips and juts his chin up in a challenge.
“You're not too much of a pussy to go swimming, are you?” Ray asks.
Brad just snorts and starts to pull his shirt over his head. For a second Ray lets himself watch the half concealed strip tease. He can't take it for very long and instead plunges himself into the chilly water with a great deal of whooping and splashing. Brad is decidedly more dignified in the water. Ray treads water and watches Brad duck himself under the surface. He doesn't spit water when he resurfaces the way Ray does. He just scoops water up and smooths his hair back from his face.
Ray paddles back to where he can stand without the risk of a rogue wave drowning his skinny white ass and then walks back until he's only hip deep in the water. It's nice being out there with no one around them. Watching Brad walk back towards him is a particular sort of torture for Ray, light catches on the lines of his skin so much better when he's wet. There is a bead of water hanging on his lip and Brad dashes it away with the back of his hand. For a long second they just stand together in the water.
“Here,” Ray says, offering the engagement ring up between them.
Brad frowns, weighs it in his hand. He twists it around, slides it down so it sits part way down on his little finger. Amy must have small hands. He curls his hand into a fist around the ring and he looks up at Ray. In the dark it's easier to hold his gaze. If Ray licks his lips, if he's hard under the water then the dark hides it for him.
“I keep trying to figure out what I did wrong,” Brad says and for the first time in their long acquaintance he sounds like a little boy.
“You didn't do anything wrong, Brad,” Ray tells him, taking a sloshing, loud step towards him in the water. Brad scrapes his empty hand across his face and Ray let's the dark hide that too.
“Fucking bitch,” he shouts into the dark and hurls the ring as far as he can make it. The splash of it's landing is faint. There is no way that they'd find it now, even if they wanted to.
Ray wades deeper until they're standing side by side and water is lapping at the tattoos on his chest. Ray lets his arms float loosely around him. Beside him he can feel Brad thinking all sorts of unfavourable, uncharitable, dark thoughts. So he lets his arms float out until he's touching Brad's arm with the side of his elbow. It's a decidedly safe, nonsexual bit of anatomy.
“I don't understand why she ended it,” Brad says finally, splashing one hand across the top of the water in irritation.
“I am fucking genius, homie. I can tell you a million fucking things but I cannot answer that one for you. If I- Fuck, son, I'd never let you go,” it's one of the most terrifyingly honest things that Ray has ever said to Brad. As soon as he says it he wishes that he could take it back. His mouth gets him into the most fucking trouble.
“I know,” is all that Brad says before he tugs on Ray's arm, pulls him around so that Brad can slant their mouth's together.
The kiss is short, something chaste and warm that Brad ends too quickly. Watching him wade back to the shore Ray feels like the whole world has gone out from under his feet. He doesn't know if he should be happy or horrified. The ghost of Brad's mouth is still burning his lips and all he knows is that Brad isn't kissing him anymore. Instead he's fishing around in the back of the Fairlane for a couple of towels. He knots one at his hip while Ray drags himself out of the water. He almost stumbles, feels like he's drunk on the confusion.
“I can't do this, Ray,” he says, handing over a towel when Ray reaches out with numb fingers for it.
Brad gestures vaguely between them like it can encapsulate any of the confused, confusing feelings that Ray is having. He wants to remind Brad that it wasn't him that did the kissing just then. He also wants to be the one to initiate this kiss. He wants to strain up Brad's body for his mouth and have him return the kiss like he means it.
Instead he starts packing away the parts of him that are in love with Brad back into their safe, careful boxes.
“Alright,” he says, wrapping the towel around his waist.
“Hey,” Brad says, massive hand coming up to cup the back of his neck. He holds Ray still until they're both goose bumpy and Ray can't help but look up at him. Even partially obscured in the dark Brad's way too fucking intense.
“Hey,” Ray says, licking dry lips.
“I can't do this,” Brad says again and barrels on when Ray tries to interrupt him, “but as soon as I can, you're going to be the first one to know.”
He seals that promise with another kiss, longer this time. Brad's hands curl around his biceps and he presses his fingers against Ray's tattoos, pulls him up towards his mouth. The kiss is searing, like maybe Brad is trying to climb into Ray's skin at the mouth. Brad is not going to fit in a Ray suit because the mother fucker is a giant. Wrapping his arms around Brad's shoulders Ray feels like he's scaling a mountain.
So yeah. Brad's not ready for another serious relationship right now. That's okay, Ray's at the top of his To Do list when he is and that's all a Person can ask for.
author: witchling
title: From Sea To Shining Sea
pairing: Brad/Ray
rating: PG-13 for the potty mouth.
word count: 4931
summary/warnings: If Hollywood has taught Ray anything it's that the best way to cure a friend's broken heart is with a road trip.
author notes:It was a pleasure and an honour to write for you. I just hope that you enjoy it.
Brad gets a kiss on the corner of his mouth when he hands over the neat fold of bills. He's tall, athletic, and handsome. Girls never notice that he has the mother of all overbites. Usually they're busy being impressed by his bone structure and California native tan. This one is no exception. She's just as pretty as Brad is. They could be a matched set, Brad athletic and blonde and her willowy with a mane of dark hair. While she pockets Brad's money, Ray makes a mess of a piece of toast.
It's late for Brad to be rolling out of bed. The sun rose hours ago and back home all the good little surfers are already out of the water to make room for pussies and sorority girls. Brad's hair is sticking up at funny angles and his sweat pants are sliding down off his hips. Ray sniffs and looks down at the table. He is gouging a mark out of the surface with his thumb nail.
"This shit with the hookers has to fucking stop," Ray says, spraying damp crumbs everywhere. Brad puts a protective hand over the top of his coffee. A coffee Ray was good enough to pour for him when he heard the shower start. "I don't know what you just mumbled at me, Billy-Bob, but swallow before you try again," Brad tells him, trying his damnedest not to look too fond.
He's not fooling anyone. Ray is fucking awesome and Brad wouldn't have moved into an off campus apartment with him if he was somehow unaware of that fact. Brad's a bright boy, he's capable of at least recognizing Ray's genius. Ray makes a pantomime of chewing deliberately and swallowing. He licks crumbs off his lip and rubs the rest away with the back of his hand. Like the good roommate and slash or best friend that he is, Brad waits patiently.
“I said road trip, deaf ass motherfucker,” Ray crows, wiping a hand through the crumbs in front of him on the table. He flicks a particularly large crumb of crust at Brad's head but the freakish Viking bats it out of the air. Which is, honestly, really unsatisfying for Ray.
Brad's mouth has gone all tight and puckered. Ray wants to call him out on his cat butt mouth but he's trying to get his way here. One must bolster Brad's delicate ego to get him to do things he's sceptical of. This shit has to happen though. Fuck Nate, Ray's fucking assured of this shit. It's been six weeks since Amy confessed long distance that she was fucking Brad's biffle on the side. Which is fucking cold. She was the one who told Brad that going to school on the East Coast was what was best for him.
Six weeks and six consecutive Saturday mornings Ray has been greeted by some hot-to-trot rent girl swanning out of Brad's room.
Not that they don't all look outrageously satisfied. Ray would never be such a cad as to imply that Brad doesn't fuck like a champ. He may not have the IMAX experience but the stereo surround sound has confirmed any suspicions. (Ray's thinking about charging admission) But it speaks to some serious trust issues on Brad's part. Ray's a caring and considerate sort of guy, though. If young Bradley Colbert is having a cheating bitch related nervous break down then he's going to just have to step in and fix it.
And nothing says fixing your college roommate's love life problems like
“A road trip, homie!” Ray says again, punching the air for emphasis, “you and me and the open road! There's just more than two weeks before classes start. We can totally rock star to California, get you back into your dirty hippie surfer waves before the first day of classes.”
“It's a forty six hour drive from here to California,” Brad raises an eyebrow like he's caught Ray out in some great lie.
Ray is totally fucking aware of this. He started looking into it last Saturday when Brad was entertaining his company for a morning round. This shit has to be getting expensive and Ray knows that Brad's student loan can't be that good. He wipes crumbs off the table and onto the floor with a wide sweep of his palm.
“If we drive like ten hours a day we can be there and back in eleven days with one day to actually spend in California and we're back in plenty of time for you to do your overachieving TA bullshit,” Ray says. People always assume that his brilliant ideas are half cocked and ill-conceived. They are wrong like 98% of the time.
He will admit that experimenting with Rudy's espresso maker was half cocked and ill-conceived. He still bears faint scars from the experience. He chalks it up to being educational and tries not to mention it when he's convincing someone to go through with one of his schemes. Plans. Whatever.
Brad's face goes all soft around the edges of his eyes and he squints down at Ray. Which means that Ray is going to get his way. Ray knows how this works. He leans back in his chair until it's balancing precariously on the back two legs and watches Brad try to figure out how to make it sound like he's just conceding and not at all into it. Finally Brad huffs out a long suffering sigh to prove to Ray that he is just being tolerated. And then he pushes Ray. He plants one impossibly large hand on Ray's shoulder and presses down to throw off the delicate negotiation with gravity that Ray is engaged in.
Which is rude as fuck.
Ray lands hard, the breath knocked out of his lungs and sprawled all inelegantly on his upended chair. It's hard to laugh with the wind knocked out of you. Instead Ray just lays there and tries to relearn how to breathe.
“You're not fucking driving,” Brad calls over his shoulder. Winding Ray's usually a pretty good way to win an argument.
-
As it turns out, Ray does end up driving. It's not a lack of conviction on Brad's part. It's just that Ray is a sly weasel and he steals the keys long before Brad was even awake to protest. All the while Brad was telling Ray that he wouldn't be driving, the keys to the Fairlane were safely squared away in his pocket. Ray's like a boy scout, always prepared. And part of that means that there is a cooler full of energy drinks in the backseat and an assortment of sour candies in the glove box.
“I'm hurt that you don't trust me to drive, Bradley,” Ray says, turning around in the seat to watch oncoming traffic as he merges. Despite the way that he waves his middle finger wildly out the window at a douche bag in a Jeep, Ray's a really good driver. You don't drive classic muscle and then treat it like garbage. He wouldn't do that to his princess.
“I don't trust your ADHD, drug addled ass with any heavy machinery,” Brad shakes his head, bent over so that he can fiddle with the radio. Apparently the college radio station isn't going to be acceptable for him. The promise that the Downliner's Crypt hour of surf rock is coming up isn't even enough to sway Brad's mind.
Because musically speaking he's a complete troglodyte.
Brad finds a classic rock station on Ray's presets that they can both agree on. Ray doesn't have the heart to tell him it's going to be out of range a cunt hair out of the city. Instead he cranks the radio, thrusts one arm out the window and belts along with Concrete Blonde. He doesn't have to look at Brad to know he's grinning one of his doofy, Captain Overbite smiles. Ray has super awesome ideas about fucking everything.
-
In Altoona Ray has to piss like Seabiscuit because maybe all of those Red Bulls weren't an awesome idea. Brad laughs at him and goes in to get snacks while Ray avails himself of the sketchy as fuck bathroom. He steps exaggeratedly over an odd dark spot near the drain in the floor and tries to convince himself that if an axe wielding, inbred psycho tries to kill him Brad'll show up. Brad and mjolnir or something.
Instead Brad comes back to the car with a handful of chocolate bars and two cups of coffee balanced in the other hand. Ray tries to look discretely for a freakish sixth finger because there is no way his hands are just that big. He opens the door for Brad who haphazardly deposits the chocolate on the back seat and tosses two empty cans of Red Bull under his seat to make room for the coffee. He does it bent over his seat, knee on the cushion.
“Think we can make it to Lima by tonight? We could go punch that Sam kid in his trouty mouth,” Ray asks. His fingers curl around the top of the door and he looks away from Brad, squinting into the sun. Brad is tall, blonde, and athletic. He has the mother of all overbites though and if Ray is being reminded of just how slim Brad's hips are, the way that muscle cuts a v into his abdomen than he should just focus on the stupid over bite.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Brad jerks the door out of his hand and slams it shut.
Uncultured mother fucker, Ray thinks fondly. He keeps one hand on the hood of the Fairlane all the way around the hood. The black pain is attracting heat and the metal is almost too hot to touch. It's good though, something that pulls him away from the heat pooling in the base of his spine. This is Operation Fix Princess Brad not the Big Gay BJ Project.
“These are for you,” Brad says and fishes a pair of sunglasses out of his shirt pocket.
Ray has been bitching like a sorority girl PMSing about leaving his Club Masters at the apartment. So it's nice that Brad's at least paying attention. His whole shut the fuck up Ray thing is all show. Ray knows better than to be insulted by it. Now that all pays off.
They are gaudy gold framed Elvis glasses and when Ray takes them he could swear that Brad touches his fingers for longer than is strictly necessary. Behind the protection of the sunglasses Ray closes his eyes for a second.
“Thanks, homes. You're the best,” he says and means it.
-
They do make it to Lima that night. Brad won't let him go punch any fictional teenagers though. Instead they set up at a Motel 6 with take out Chinese and Ray bounces on the bed until Brad agrees to watch Armageddon with him.
Brad totally starts singing along with Ben Affleck first.
-
“This came in the mail a couple days after the call from Amy,” Brad says, fishing a battered but unopened envelope out of his jacket pocket. They are parked at a McDonalds in Carbondale and Ray is decimating his fries. They found some local station which a crazy conspiracy theorist is running. He's ranting at them about the Reptilians in charge of the country.
Ray has until just then been explaining to Brad why conspiracy theory is a cancer on human reasoning. He has a thing about confirmation bias, alright?
Instead he takes the envelope from Brad, smearing ketchup on the otherwise spotless white. The postmark is from before Amy ever called Brad. Ray knows because the date is burned into his brain like a brand. Ray is always going to remember that morning. He's never seen Brad lash out in anger like he did that day. He's also never seen an iPhone explode bits of screen all over a linoleum floor outside of that experience. If it wasn't so fucking scary to see Brad lose all of his unshakeable cool Ray would have said it was cool to watch the cult of Apple take a hit like that.
Ray's taken psych 101. He knows enough to make connections between Brad calling Amy a whore and then proceeding to fuck a lot of women that he's paying.
“She mailed it before she called,” Ray says. Brad clearly knows this already. Ray isn't friends with idiots but it feels like something that needs saying.
Whatever is in the envelope is thin, a single sheet of paper and then a small, hard lump of something tellingly round. Ray already knows what's in the envelope. The bitch didn't even have the ovarian fortitude to put on her big girl panties and face Brad one last time. Ray's fingers flex on the envelope, crinkle it noisily. He's not one for violence if he doesn't have to be. He's small and fast but he bruises easy. Still, he really wants to sock this bitch in the mouth.
And Brad's so called best friend. What kind of a thankless fucking cunt starts blowing his best mate's girl the second he moves across the country for school? Ray has all sorts of fucked up ideas about what's acceptable but Brad is one of the good ones. He's all noble and well intentioned and shit. Even Ray knows that you don't cross the one's like Brad. He's got a big delicate princess heart that gets all cut up and damaged.
“Whycome you never opened it? Are you illiterate, Bradley? All of this time and you couldn't work up the courage to get me to read it? That's pathetic, man, it's insulting. You know I'm here for you,” Ray mumbles the words around the edge of the envelope, forces them out while he grits his teeth and tears the side open.
The ring slides out first, landing heavy and cold in Ray's hand. It's a plain band, yellow gold with a diamond as big as Brad could afford in it and a sapphire on either side. Once Brad had drunkenly told Ray that Amy has the prettiest blue eyes he's ever seen which is why he picked diamonds. It's tasteful and it's beautiful. The gems are set flush to the band so that they don't get in the way of anything she wants to do. Like Brad, Amy's one of those active types.
Ray sniffs again, wants to punch her in her probably perfect teeth.
Beside him Brad feels stiff and unhappy. Instead of forcing Brad to admit that he's hurting here Ray opens the single sheet of paper. Her hand writing is loopy and fat. The sort of writing that Ray always associates with girls who take the sort of notes that you want to borrow before finals. There's only two words on the page. Three if she hadn't used a contraction but who uses formal English in a Dear John Brad?
“What'd she say?” Brad asks tightly. Ray looks at him then, fingers curling around the ring she sent back. Brad's whole body is stiff and he is scowling fiercely at the dumpster in front of them.
“I don't think this is the dumpster's fault, homes,” Ray tells him. He has to arch his hips up, swivel a little in his seat to dig his hand into his pocket and leave the ring there. Brad doesn't say anything about it so Ray figures they're all good.
He turns the key in the ignition until the Fairlane growls to life and switches them into reverse. For a minute Brad's hand is hot on the back of Ray's. He goes vibratingly still, his heart hammering so hard in his chest that he thinks it might escape. Brad waits until he turns to look at him. Eyes that blue should come with some sort of warning about drowning.
“Ray,” he says, voice all tight and tortured like he belongs on the CW.
“You know, the whole Reptilian theory would explain a thing or two,” Ray says, rescuing Brad from whatever big, terrifying emotion he was having to deal with.
For an extremely smart sort of guy Brad is spectacularly retarded when it comes to shit like feelings. Which Ray gets, his masculinity being so delicate and all. They manage to drive all the way to Joplin and Ray finds a Janice CD in the big box of them in the trunk. It's only fitting after all. Half way there Brad stretches his arm across the back of Ray's seat and every now and again his fingers brush against the hair at the base of his skull. His hand stays there until they find a motel for the night.
-
Ray let's Brad drive for a few hours just so they can make it to Roswell. It's legitimately important to him and he explains this to Brad. Maybe it would have taken less pleading if he hadn't talked quite so much about the old soap opera but Micheal Geurin was his first crush and this matters. It means they do a drive through for lunch and don't arrive until almost nine o'clock at night. Ray's cool with it though. The only place open and still serving food is a UFO themed diner. Brad orders the Area 51 burger and Ray get's a Flying Saucer burger.
“Basically by creating a contraction of space-time geometry in front of the Fairlane, and a simultaneous expansion behind the Fairlane we could totally beat the speed of light with out fucking up physics,” Ray says around a mouthful of burger. He is gesturing with the spear of pickle that was tooth picked to the top of his burger.
There is a lot to be said for diner food.
Brad watches the pickle bob and weave. Ray's a little concerned that he's not paying any attention. Until recent years the idea of faster than light speed travel was considered totally impossible. This changes whether or not Ray will ever get to bang a Vulcan. That whole train of thought hurls itself out the window when Brad drops his head forward and takes the entirety of Ray's pickle. His lips brush the tip of Ray's fingers.
When Brad looks up at him with those fuck off blue eyes through all his tawny lashes Ray feels it right in his dick.
-
They leave Roswell with the sun rising over the desert. Ray doesn't say anything but the sun cresting over jagged rocks, spilling gold sun across Brad's face is one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen. Even if that's also the gayest thing he's ever thought. Brad doses off in the car and Ray lets him. He switches over to a mellower CD and drives through the dawn. It's fifteen hours to Brad's home in Oceanside and Ray promised to get him there by tonight.
He chain smokes while Brad sleeps, ashing out his window. It's when he's trying to simultaneously find his lighter after it's fallen near Brad's feet and keep his eyes on the road that Brad wakes up. Ray's cheek is pressed into his side, neck craning to see the road. The very tips of his fingers scrape uselessly at the dirty carpet near Brad's Vans. A warm hand comes to cover his shoulder and Brad's whole body tenses, stretches down.
“Here,” he says, voice thick and sleepy as he hands over the lighter, “you should have woken me up.”
“It's cool, you needed the sleep,” Ray shrugs one shoulder and fights with the lighter to get it to light and stay lit. He puffs impatiently on his cigarette until it catches the way he wants it too. He tosses the lighter back down at Brad's feet.
Brad stretches down again for it and this time he pockets it. It makes Ray think about the ring burning a whole in his pocket. If he shifts he imagines he can feel the diamond cutting at his skin through his jeans. Brad is smiling at the sunset, sitting easy with the knowledge that he's headed home and Ray can't imagine ever not wanting him.
Amy needs the sort of help that comes with a prescription if she threw Brad away.
“He told me he'd take care of her while I was gone,” Brad says, apropos of nothing. He is wearing his sensible black Ray Bans and drumming his fingers against the outside of the door. Ray keeps risking these glances at him. About an hour ago he pressed his arm around the back of Ray's chair and it's a steady heat that Ray doesn't trust enough to lean into.
“That little douche canoe is looking for a punch in the urethra, Brad,” Ray says, voice soft and low with sympathy that doesn't match the words.
“The hookers just show up when I want them to, fuck me, and leave when I want them to,” Brad is frowning under his sun glasses. Ray can tell by the way his forehead is crinkling. Brad's all delicate and shit, “I don't want anything from them that a few hours can't give me.”
“I get it,” Ray turns his head to look at Brad and finds Brad watching him already.
There is colour in Brad's cheeks and his eyes are obscured under his sunglasses. It's probably for the best. Ray's not totally certain that he can take that stone cold stare just now. He tightens his hands on the steering wheel and glares at the road like it's to blame. It's one thing to harbour feelings for your engaged roommate slash best friend. They just sort of linger and you date other people and keep on having feelings that never go anywhere. It's another entirely when he's no longer engaged.
-
They hit the beach after dark. Brad takes over the driving portion of their little adventure as they approach Oceanside and that's just fine with Ray. The beach is abandoned and in the dark it's hard to see where the sand ends and the water begins. He can hear the waves crashing, though, and see the moon reflecting off the chop farther out. Brad is hesitating in the sand, shoes held in one hand. As he waits for Brad to make a move here Ray digs his toes into the sad. The very edges of the surf start to fill in the hole he's making with every contraction of his toes.
The water is cold as tits and Ray is seven sorts of disappointed. California is supposed to have warm water all day every day. This cold water bullshit is not what he signed up for. He turns and tosses his shoes back up the beach, sends his shirt after.
“What are you doing?” Brad asks and Ray nails him in the chest with his pants. The belt buckle makes a satisfying thud against his ribcage and Brad grunts.
“I'm in fucking California on some stank ass little beach,” Ray spreads his arms,“I'm going swimming.”
He uses the elastic at the waist of his briefs to snap them at Brad who uses his freakish Viking superpowers to catch them before they hit him in the face. The dark hides the way his dick twitches, half hard at the idea of Brad touching his underwear. He plants his hands on his hips and juts his chin up in a challenge.
“You're not too much of a pussy to go swimming, are you?” Ray asks.
Brad just snorts and starts to pull his shirt over his head. For a second Ray lets himself watch the half concealed strip tease. He can't take it for very long and instead plunges himself into the chilly water with a great deal of whooping and splashing. Brad is decidedly more dignified in the water. Ray treads water and watches Brad duck himself under the surface. He doesn't spit water when he resurfaces the way Ray does. He just scoops water up and smooths his hair back from his face.
Ray paddles back to where he can stand without the risk of a rogue wave drowning his skinny white ass and then walks back until he's only hip deep in the water. It's nice being out there with no one around them. Watching Brad walk back towards him is a particular sort of torture for Ray, light catches on the lines of his skin so much better when he's wet. There is a bead of water hanging on his lip and Brad dashes it away with the back of his hand. For a long second they just stand together in the water.
“Here,” Ray says, offering the engagement ring up between them.
Brad frowns, weighs it in his hand. He twists it around, slides it down so it sits part way down on his little finger. Amy must have small hands. He curls his hand into a fist around the ring and he looks up at Ray. In the dark it's easier to hold his gaze. If Ray licks his lips, if he's hard under the water then the dark hides it for him.
“I keep trying to figure out what I did wrong,” Brad says and for the first time in their long acquaintance he sounds like a little boy.
“You didn't do anything wrong, Brad,” Ray tells him, taking a sloshing, loud step towards him in the water. Brad scrapes his empty hand across his face and Ray let's the dark hide that too.
“Fucking bitch,” he shouts into the dark and hurls the ring as far as he can make it. The splash of it's landing is faint. There is no way that they'd find it now, even if they wanted to.
Ray wades deeper until they're standing side by side and water is lapping at the tattoos on his chest. Ray lets his arms float loosely around him. Beside him he can feel Brad thinking all sorts of unfavourable, uncharitable, dark thoughts. So he lets his arms float out until he's touching Brad's arm with the side of his elbow. It's a decidedly safe, nonsexual bit of anatomy.
“I don't understand why she ended it,” Brad says finally, splashing one hand across the top of the water in irritation.
“I am fucking genius, homie. I can tell you a million fucking things but I cannot answer that one for you. If I- Fuck, son, I'd never let you go,” it's one of the most terrifyingly honest things that Ray has ever said to Brad. As soon as he says it he wishes that he could take it back. His mouth gets him into the most fucking trouble.
“I know,” is all that Brad says before he tugs on Ray's arm, pulls him around so that Brad can slant their mouth's together.
The kiss is short, something chaste and warm that Brad ends too quickly. Watching him wade back to the shore Ray feels like the whole world has gone out from under his feet. He doesn't know if he should be happy or horrified. The ghost of Brad's mouth is still burning his lips and all he knows is that Brad isn't kissing him anymore. Instead he's fishing around in the back of the Fairlane for a couple of towels. He knots one at his hip while Ray drags himself out of the water. He almost stumbles, feels like he's drunk on the confusion.
“I can't do this, Ray,” he says, handing over a towel when Ray reaches out with numb fingers for it.
Brad gestures vaguely between them like it can encapsulate any of the confused, confusing feelings that Ray is having. He wants to remind Brad that it wasn't him that did the kissing just then. He also wants to be the one to initiate this kiss. He wants to strain up Brad's body for his mouth and have him return the kiss like he means it.
Instead he starts packing away the parts of him that are in love with Brad back into their safe, careful boxes.
“Alright,” he says, wrapping the towel around his waist.
“Hey,” Brad says, massive hand coming up to cup the back of his neck. He holds Ray still until they're both goose bumpy and Ray can't help but look up at him. Even partially obscured in the dark Brad's way too fucking intense.
“Hey,” Ray says, licking dry lips.
“I can't do this,” Brad says again and barrels on when Ray tries to interrupt him, “but as soon as I can, you're going to be the first one to know.”
He seals that promise with another kiss, longer this time. Brad's hands curl around his biceps and he presses his fingers against Ray's tattoos, pulls him up towards his mouth. The kiss is searing, like maybe Brad is trying to climb into Ray's skin at the mouth. Brad is not going to fit in a Ray suit because the mother fucker is a giant. Wrapping his arms around Brad's shoulders Ray feels like he's scaling a mountain.
So yeah. Brad's not ready for another serious relationship right now. That's okay, Ray's at the top of his To Do list when he is and that's all a Person can ask for.