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There's a loud bang in the kitchen, followed by a sharp crash of splintering glass. Brad squints at the commotion, listening for sounds of distress and half expecting a shout heralding calamity, but it remains pointedly silent.
"You okay there, Ray?" he ventures.
"Screwby" comes the reply in the scratchy tone of voice Brad has come to identify as fatigue.
"Yeah?" He puts his book down and gets up from his chair. “Screwby” can mean a lot of things, and it's his kitchen after all, so some healthy suspicion seems justified.
He finds Ray sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, sans socks and wearing one of Brad's old school sweaters. If he stood, the garment would hang almost down to his knees. Which is kind of endearing, especially since Ray chooses not to comment on that kind of thing, ever.
Still, theft.
"What are you doing?"
Ray looks up at him, motioning his head so his dark fringe flops out of his face. "Nuthing, dude. You said your oven is giving you grieve so I thought I should take a look."
"And the noise?"
"Broke a glass. Sorry ‘bout that, I'll buy you a new one."
"Yeah don't sweat it" Brad replies. He's not worried about the glass, not emotionally attached to it. Breaking stuff is kind of what Ray does when he's around, so Brad is mentally prepared. Inconsequential stuff, that is. Besides, Ray is just as good at repairing things as he is breaking them.
"Need some help?"
Ray just nods and motions towards the screwdriver on the cabinet, raising his eyebrows in thanks when Brad hands it to him.
"Did you find out what's wrong with it?"
Ray raises one shoulder while making to loosen the screws on the oven door.
"Might just be the heating coil, but could be the regulators, as well. Gotta remove the door first though, can't get to the good stuff, otherwise."
Brad walks over and holds the door up while Ray proceeds to remove the last couple of screws.
"There ya go." Brad puts the heavy door to the side and hunches down next to Ray, trying to get a better look at their patient. Ray runs a finger down the rubber seal, tut-tutting at Brad when his skin is stained from traces of soot.
Brad just smiles at him in mock exasperation. He knows he keeps his kitchenware clean and shipshape – at least everywhere he can physically reach –, just like everything else in his home. It's Ray who keeps making messes wherever he goes.
"D'you mind getting out of my hair, Sarge? It's getting kind of crowded in here."
Brad nods, propping himself up on Ray's shoulder as he gets up, putting more pressure than necessary to mess with his housemate elect. Ray just huffs, already focusing on the task of removing the heating coil, upper body almost vanishing completely into the oven mouth.
Brad eyes the splinters on the floor, right next to Ray’s expose toes, and sighs, getting a broom and shovel and disposing of the mess.
"You know you could have put that shit away yourself, yes?" he asks once Ray re-emerges from the oven. "That's dangerous, leaving the shards on the floor like that."
Ray just gives him a quick look that manages to project tiredness and annoyance.
Brad smiles mockingly in return. Not his job to be overly nice at this hour of the day. He walks up to the sink, filling himself a glass of water, watching Ray who in turn gives the coil a careful once-over.
“Still thirsty?” he asks, holding his glass up to catch Ray’s attention. Ray just shoots him an unintelligible one-syllable answer before vanishing into the oven, again.
Brad leans on the counter, making a note of the worn-out knees on Ray’s pants. At least those are his own, thank fuck. He considers telling Ray to buy himself a new pair, observe military standard again... But maybe not tonight.
Maybe next week.
Ray grunts, re-emerging to wipe his hands on a dish towel and vanishes into the void again. Brad eyes the soot-stained cloth and represses a moan.
A month and a half earlier his RTO had knocked on his door, bags in hands and looking haggard, like someone who's been living rough for a while. Seeing him like that was quite a shock, especially after not having seen or heard of him for at least half a year.
Ray had told him his fiancée had kicked him out and that he had nowhere else to go and honestly, Brad had kind of been expecting for something like that to happen. Often happens to vets, after all, especially after returning from repeat deployment. But the look of shocked surprise on Ray's face was... Well, it was heartbreaking.
So, Brad had pulled out his couch, gotten the spare pillows and hidden the liquor. He needn't have feared, though. Ray had found himself some work in a garage, easily, and now often gets home long after Brad returns from the office. Plus, despite being a slob, he usually keeps his messes to his side of the bathroom and a small portion of the living room, an arrangement Brad’s stuffy ass can live with.
Soon, Brad became re-accustomed to the constant chatter escaping Ray's mouth as well as the pile of clothes on the floor. Even the occasional theft of clothing items, quod erat demonstrandum.
Today's one of those other days, though, apparently. One of the rare days Ray actually keeps quiet and … it’s odd.
It’s kind of icky, actually.
“Interrogative. You think you can fix this oven, Corporal?”
“Affirmative, Sarge.” Ray’s voice sounds tinny and subdued, since he elected not to come out from the oven to reply. “I’ve ruled out the heating coil, moving on to the controls. If I don’t come up with anything there, we might have to dismantle that thing.”
“If that’s the case, can we postpone the dismantling to tomorrow? It’s already half past nine.”
Ray only grunts in lieu of a reply and Brad silently resigns himself to a long Friday night. Ray seems happy enough with that prospect, though. Proper mechanic, that guy.
Always had been a proper mechanic, Ray. It kind of tugs at Brad’s heartstrings to remember how the both used to tinker away at their vehicle together, “pimping it up good” as Ray would call it. That glorious time before shipping off to Kuwait. Installing their own filters, antennas, painting the car. Fuck, it was a beauty, that car. And sure enough, their Humvee had stood the tests of unruly soil and other abuse on Iraq’s roads. Or not-quite-roads. Ray not being a shit driver like some other assholes out there helped, too. The man just knows how to navigate through unfamiliar terrain, keeping in control of the steering while allowing the tires enough room not to block and get them beaten to pulp. Even while sleep deprived and strung out on ripped fuel.
Lucky car, that particular Humvee.
“Treat your ride like you would treat your lady, boys” Ray used to say back in Afghanistan. He was getting a lot of laughs for that, too, but it didn’t take long for people to give him some real credit for his skills. Those who attributed Ray’s status in the ranks to Brad’s reputation soon got the picture, as well. People just didn’t get to steer the leading vehicle at age 21 for nothing. Ray had the eyes, and the brains, for the work. And he followed instruction. Always keeping close to the vehicle. Always obeying orders (even while griping the whole time, as long as Brad allowed it). Never bullshitting Brad, no matter how tempting it might seem.
Iraq was different, though, in a lot of ways.
There was nothing to do, except for the sorry hassle those in charge had christened missions, and that stuff was few and far in between. His RTO, for all his shenanigans, became a constant target for their fellow Marines, even if he managed to stay off the radar of the higher ups (at least most of the time. Sgt. Maj. Sixta was different, but that guy was also an asshole). People weren’t mean per se, but Ray wasn’t taken seriously, either. Most of the time, he didn’t seem to care either way, even encouraging their ridicule by making himself the butt of his own jokes as well as theirs. Always being high off his ass on ripped fuel to stay awake for their long rides didn’t help matters, either. While it didn’t impede his driving skills, it made him chatty and annoying. All work and no play really did make Ray a bit of a wreck, to be honest.
Consequentially, people tended to underestimate Cpl. Josh Ray Person. And only very few knew Ray to be smart. As a whip. Few took the time to realize that there's a reason he was the one steering the leading Humvee. Even those who called him a wack relied on him leading the way.
Sure, Ray eating like a slob, singing constantly and out of tune, making inappropriate jokes and generally getting on people's last nerve was … kind of wild. But he never did anything rash or stupid. Not like some of the other Marines did. In fact, Brad partly and in private credits Ray for getting them all back alive and in one piece. And he knows First Lieutenant Fick to do the same. Bless the guy’s heart, still being a Marine after all that shit in Iraq.
Not that Ray knows any of that.
“Interrogative. You helping me with that shit or what, Sergeant?”
Brad shakes himself awake and jumps to his feet, holding the oven door in place while Ray screws it back to the frame.
“You done?”
“Done and done, Sarge. Want me to turn it on, see if it still blows your power?”
Brad goes and pulls the plugs on the rest of his appliances to minimize any damage before nodding to Ray.
Ray flips the switch and the oven purrs silently, albeit staying dark.
“What’s up with that, Ray?” Brad asks, nodding towards the dark screen door.
“You need a new bulb in there, but the rest seems to work just fine. But I do suggest planning for a new unit rather sooner than later, Sarge. Those controls look like they’re not really made to last that much longer.”
Brad sighs. That’s a nice bite out of a paycheck. But it’s fine. He’s not that hard pressed.
“Thanks anyway, Ray. Think that thing’ll survive a round of emergency frozen pizza?”
Ray flips the switch again and turns to Brad. “Like you own frozen pizza, Colbert.”
“Actually do. For emergencies” Brad replies, ignoring Ray’s incredulous stare and filling himself another glass of water while counting down from ten.
“…is it an emergency?” Ray asks when Brad reaches the three-mark. Dammit. Trust Ray to jump at the possibility to eat junk food, though. Always.
“Let’s test your work, shall we?”
Ray actually does a 180 at the prospect of pizza and a can of beer and they both end up in the living room, laughing their asses off at Ray’s failed attempts to emulate the hoarse voice of Lt. Col. Ferrando, giving a motivational speech to an imaginary crowd of battle-hungry soldiers.
“Godfather himself, they used to call me” Ray whispers presently, staring at his emptying beer can with a mock-wistful expression. “I was a respected man, Sergeant.”
“Still is, Ray” Brad replies, handing over a new one.
“Yeah, he sure is.” Ray lifts his shoulders in an abbreviated shrug. “But he’s kind of a glory-seeking fuckwit, too.”
“Ray.”
“Sarge.”
Brad shakes his head at him, warningly, and downs the rest of his own beer, kind of liking how the alcohol warms up his chest. He doesn’t indulge much, old habits dying hard and all, so moving on to can number three was kind of a risqué move already. Judging by his mood it seems to be worth it, though.
Ray doesn’t have that kind of problem, apparently. He’s halfway through the fourth can and showing no signs of slowing down.
“Hey, remember how they introduced Rolling Stone to us? Back in Kuwait? Told the lot of us to be exemplary Marines, be gentle to the guy. First evac exercise comes around, and the poor sod can’t even get his gear on without strangling his balls with it.”
Brad laughs at the memory of their rear-seat reporter stumbling pathetically until someone had the grace to sever the thread threatening to cut off the blood flow in his groin.
Ray chuckles triumphantly, but chokes on his own laughter and ends up sputtering and coughing. Well, maybe he’s not that sober anymore, either. That’s nice to know.
Brad gets up from his seat and feels the gravity take hold, slightly swaying in place. “One last round, Corporal?”
“Affirmative, Sergeant.”
On his way Brad gets a glimpse of Ray smirking back at him. That’s a nice change from exhausted and taciturn. Also, that mop of hair on his head looks really soft and touchable.
Brad shakes his head clear and banishes the thought, wanting to sit in the freezer for a few minutes to cool down. That’s not something he’s ready to contemplate just now. Even though Ray does, in fact, look very touchable as a whole.
Kinda always has.
Brad resists the urge to bang his head on the counter and instead holds his can of beer to his throat. Wrong move. Now his skin is moist and that sensation does stuff to his body, too. That’s not great, although it really feels great.
He really shouldn’t keep drinking like that. Makes him … agitated.
“You coming or what?”
Ugh, Ray. Wording.
“There you go.” Brad re-emerges from the kitchen, chucking the beer can towards Ray who plucks it from the air like Brad hadn’t misjudged the direction and aimed too far to the right.
He’s graceful like that. Fuck.
Not graceful enough not to mention the poor throw, though. Asshole.
“What’s up with your aim, Sarge? Sixta see that, he’d hand you your ass.”
Hm. Ass.
Ray leans back into the couch cushions, laughing as Brad seems too flustered to reply at once.
“Aw man, remember Sixta always riding our asses about the military grooming standard?” Ray chuckles, opening his can and taking a big swig before adopting the Sergeant Major’s awkward manner of speech: “Your mustache hair ish in violashion, growing beyond the corner o’ your moush. Unfuck Yerselves, gentlemen!”
Brad manages a genuine laugh and drops down on the couch next to Ray, who doesn’t seem to notice the narrowing space between them.
“Fucking Sixta.”
“Fucking Sixta” Ray agrees, smiling up at Brad, his eyes almost vanishing from smirking too much.
It’s kind of cute.
“Still debating which one was worse, though, Sixta or Encino Man.”
Brad groans at the memory. Cpt. Craig 'Encino Man' Schwetje still counts as exemplary for everything wrong with the US Marine Corps. More brawns than brains. And proud of it.
“Remember when we were waiting for orders and all the dude could give us was that bullshit about grooming standards, again? Fucking Encino Man.”
Brad nods at that statement, nothing more accurate to add.
Ray looks up at him, then at his quickly emptying beer can. “Like, put Godfather, Sixta, and Encino Man in a tent together and watch them go in circles, one always trying to fondle the other one’s balls.”
Brad feels his face stretch into a smirk. “That’s kinda rash, Ray” he replies before taking another big swig from his can.
“A rash being the least of their problems at the end of the day, Sarge” Ray retorts, and Brad feels the beer almost come through his nose as he snorts, hiccupping helplessly and wiping at his face.
Ray is still leaning back, laughing with his eyes closed, when Brad regains his composure, tears leaking onto his cheeks. Brad hasn’t seen Ray laugh like that for ages, not this full-body, eye-watering laughter. The sight makes his head swim a little, and he's debating for the second time whether the beers had been a good idea.
But now he's basically pressed to the warm body next to him, and he almost feels the vibration of Ray's laugh in his own lungs, and now his hands itch, too. Needing to touch the stubble on Ray’s cheeks, running his palms through the floppy hair on his head.
Before he has a chance to reconsider, he reaches up to Ray's face, tracing his thumb over his lower lip. Ray starts back and stares, open mouthed, the laughter slowly dying on his face. Giving way to something different.
Brad’s fingers run over the hard angles of Ray's jaw, the sharp ridge of his nose and sloping lines down his cheeks, and finally Ray relaxes enough to lean into the touch, catching Brad’s thumb with his lip as he rubs against the sensitive skin there. Brad resists the urge to close his eyes at the touch of Ray’s breath on his hand, because he wants to watch him, he wants to see.
He’s known Ray for so long, had basically inhabited the same skin as him for all the time they spent in close quarters, but right in this moment it seems he's never seen him at all. There's a new color in his cheeks, his eyes look darker than he'd known them to be before and there's a new feeling, a shine, in them, too.
It makes Brad want to crawl into the other man's skin.
He leans in, closer, reaching up with his other hand to play in Ray’s hair. He’d only seen it military short before, and it’s softer than he would have anticipated, and warmer. He feels Ray’s palms on his arms, running up towards his shoulders. They’re hot to the touch, raw from manual labor, but also gentle.
Ray’s breath tickles his nose and he opens his eyes, not having realized he’d closed them at all, before. Their faces are close enough for their foreheads almost to touch. He looks up, hesitating, not daring to close the distance, when Ray leans forward, catching his lips in a quick kiss, a hint of soft lips and wetness. It’s not enough when Ray retreats, and Brad reaches up, cupping his head and pushing their lips together once more.
Ray moans silently into his mouth as Brad forces his lips open, pushing an exploratory tongue between them. Brad feels Ray’s fingers dig into the skin on his arms where his shirt ends and his vision explodes as his tongue meets Ray’s, a shy first contact, elongated by their mutual desire for exploration. Ray’s mouth is hot, like a furnace, and Brad feels the man’s lips shiver nervously.
Their kiss breaks for a second, long enough for Brad to let go of Ray’s face and push his hand down his chest, looking for the hem of his shirt. He more feels than hears Ray’s soft chuckle as he struggles to find skin under the unending folds of cloth, but is rewarded by a low moan once his fingers find contact, slightly above the waistband of his jeans. He traces a finger along the line where his boxers protrude and catches Ray’s open mouth in another kiss. Ray bucks involuntarily into his hand at the touch, then sighs into Brad’s mouth. It’s something he likes, instantly, this sensation, the vibration of Ray’s lips against his own. This readiness to let Brad know, without a doubt, how Ray feels about his touch.
Ray lets go of Brad’s arms and cups his face in his palms. Brad uses the short moment of leverage to push the man down onto his back, gently, noting the missing resistance, his lips never leaving Ray’s mouth. Ray pulls him down with him, angling his legs to let Brad rest between them.
Brad reaches up his shirt again, circling his belly button, the lean muscle of his stomach. When he reaches up to his chest, Ray lets out a guttural groan that makes Brad’s cock jump in response. He takes the chance to lick into Ray’s mouth, once again gratified by Ray’s tongue meeting his own so readily, intertwining and caressing.
Their kiss gets deeper, more urgent as Brad strokes Ray’s chest, letting his fingers circle his nipples idly, drawing a low sigh from Ray’s lips. Once they break contact again, Brad tugs at the fabric. Ray, understanding his intent, lifts his body enough to let Brad slide the shirt over his head and arms, letting it fall to the floor wherever.
Ray’s pale chest is spotted with red, radiating heat. Brad leans back farther to revel in the sight, catching Ray’s gaze. His face is flushed, too, and his eyes swim with desire, fixated on Brad’s every move. Without giving a thought, Brad grinds down, meeting the beginning bulge in Ray’s pants with his own, a gentle, arousing pressure. It’s enough to make Ray moan again, eyes closed and exposing his throat as his head falls back onto the couch pillows.
Brad bends down to lick the tender skin below Ray’s ear, drawing another sweet sigh from deep down his chest and enjoying the control he has over his RTO.
Former RTO. Whatever. He licks his way upward, towards his mouth again, catching his lips in a quick kiss before moving down again, sucking the sweet spot just below Ray’s jawline.
Ray’s hand digs into his hair, fingernails grazing over sensitive skin. Brad grinds down again just as Ray bucks upwards, the touch making sparks explode behind his eyes. Ray uses the momentary halt to rub up onto Brad’s groin, a probing half-circle that makes Brad ache with want. He opens his eyes again to the half-smirk on Ray’s mouth, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to him, the bastard.
There’s fingers tugging at the hem of his own shirt, and Brad reaches down, yanking it off over his head. He feels more than hears the breath leaving Ray’s mouth as he gazes up at him in awe, both hands reaching for his chest, fingers splayed. Brad’s eyes flutter shut at the gentle caress. He feels Ray’s fingers trace his upper body, palms curving down his sides until he can’t take it anymore.
He bends down again, capturing Ray’s mouth in a ravaging kiss, grinding their bodies together. There’s a new heat now his own shirt is off, a new friction. He grabs Ray’s face with one hand as he rocks their bodies together, forcing it to the side to give him access to his neck. His other hand grasps onto Ray’s, weaving their fingers together.
Ray holds onto him almost helplessly, trying to match Brad’s rhythm with his own, panting silently. Brad feels his erection hard against his own, both of them trapped by their pesky clothes as he mouthes at Ray’s neck, tugging at the skin with lips and teeth.
Ray bucks up as Brad bites down harder, moaning desperately.
“You like that?” Brad teases, unable to keep his voice from revealing his own pleasure.
“I… uh.”
Brad grinds down again, harder this time, and whatever Ray tried to say dissolves into a loud groan.
“Yeah, you like that.”
Before Ray can answer, Brad seizes his lips again, licking into his mouth as if to devour him whole. A helpless sound escapes Ray’s mouth as Brad comes up for air.
“Pants-” Ray mumbles before Brad seals his mouth shut again. He kisses him back, readily, but frees his lips for just long enough.
“Pants … pants need to go or this’ll end bloody.”
Brad huffs out a laugh and reaches down between them. Ray actually manages to beat him to it, already working to opening Brad’s fly and tugging at his waistband. Brad moans as his own erection springs free, and into Ray’s waiting palm. His fingers close around it and press down gently.
Now it’s Brad’s turn to whimper helplessly as Ray caresses his cock with his free hand, slower than he’d prefer but leaving him unable to voice a command. He hisses out as Ray grazes at his length with a hint of fingernails before enveloping it again, pressing down harder, increasing pressure and tempo.
“Like that?”
Brad lets his forehead rest onto Ray’s, hoping that the moans escaping his mouth are enough of an answer. He feels his body adjusting to the rhythm of Ray’s movements, pushing down with every stroke into Ray’s waiting hand. Ray takes control, like he’s a natural, reaching up with his free hand to cup the back of Brad’s head, pulling him down into a flurry of open-mouthed kisses.
He doesn’t realize until it’s almost too late, the heat and pressure and imminent climax almost upon him. He reaches down, Ray squirming underneath him as he opens his breech, pulling at the fabric until he feels Ray’s cock in his hand, feverishly hot and firm.
Ray gasps at the sudden touch, a sound that lengthens into a low, pining moan as Brad matches his rhythm, stroking their erections together as he does so. Ray lets go of Brad’s cock, palming at Brad’s arm, unable to help himself as he holds onto him, moaning and panting at the friction Brad administers to both of their dicks, first hints of wetness appearing at the tip of his dick.
“I … I won’t last much longer” he gasps, bucking into Brad’s hand, the sensation enough to make sparks appear in front of Brad’s eyes.
Brad only increases the tempo, willing them both towards sweet release, breath coming in harsh waves, sweat forming on his temples, above his upper lip.
Ray arches underneath him, holding onto his arms again, eyes closed shut, his mouth forming words but no sound escaping.
It’s that helpless look on Ray’s face, lust and want and almost-pain, that pushes Brad over the edge, vision whitening out like embers, sweet release shaking his body. He feels wetness on his hand and arm, a last, almost violent rearing up underneath him, a sharp cry. Then whiteness, and complete exhaustion, and nothing.
- - -
Coming down is harder than usual. Brad blinks a few times only to realize that his eyes won’t hardly open at all. He waits a few beats and tries again, more light coming through his eyelids this time. He tries to move and lets out a groan as his knee hits the floor, hard.
An arm wraps around him, keeping the rest of his body from sliding off the couch as well. Brad hoists himself up and adjusts his position as to not completely crush the body beneath him. Ray looks disheveled, like he just woke up from a rough night.
Well, maybe he has. There’s no judging from the light whether it’s still night or already morning. The curtains are drawn, and the ceiling lamps are still on, same in the hallway and probably the kitchen as well.
“You okay?” Brad asks him, removing a strand of hair from his forehead.
“Sure am” Ray drawls, moving his head along with Brad’s hand. Brad, recognizing the gesture for what it is, gives some scritches and, judging from the satisfied look on his face, it almost makes Ray purr. As if to reciprocate, Ray touches Brad’s back, fingernails drawing gentle circles on his skin.
“How about you?”
Brad thinks about it. He’s relaxed, even after sleeping for an indefinite amount of time in an unnatural position. Might be the military training, or the living, breathing body underneath him, radiating heat and contentment.
“I’m good.”
The next time he wakes up, he’s engulfed in Ray’s arms, both of them somehow managing to lay side by side on the narrow couch. Ray’s still awake, or maybe he’s just woken up as well, and still idly tracing the muscles on Brad’s naked back.
“Still okay?”
Ray shoots him a look, difficult because of their close proximity. There’s this expression on his face again, like when he sat on the floor after breaking one of Brad’s glasses. It makes the hair on Brad’s neck stand on end, gooseflesh breaking out on his arms.
“Is it ludicrous of me to be kinda glad we had a bunch of blighters for CO’s the last time we were deployed?” Ray’s voice sounds rough, like he’s been chewing on sandpaper.
Brad swallows. “How do you mean?”
“Like, if we’d had more competent Officers, if Godfather had more sense in that dense brain o’ his, we might have ended up in Bagdad sooner? Or raided an airfield full of Iraqi soldiers instead of an empty swat of concrete?”
Brad wipes his mouth on his shoulder and stays silent.
“I mean, I know you were always bitching about not getting a real mission, but honestly I was glad. I just wanted to get out of that mess alive. I ran on the pill eighty percent of the time, not sleeping a full night for weeks on end. I felt like a liability-“
Brad hugs Ray to himself, harder. “You weren’t.”
“But what if I was?” Ray protests. “I mean, I was on your team, what if I fucked up, like Trombley? Or even Hasser. Or lost my shit like McGraw? I didn’t want to be just another chip in your reputation. And-“
Brad feels a slight tremor going through Ray’s body, like the warmth he tried to give wasn’t quite enough.
But he had to ask. “And?”
“And I kind of planned to get the lot of you back in one piece. Couldn’t chauffeur your asses around and get you shot, know, could I? Wouldn’t’ve been right.
And then those assholes opened fire on you on the field and I thought I’d lost you…”
Brad flashes back on that day, the sudden friendly fire from behind, Ray steering his car off the road and into the field, trying to get in front of the shooters before they hit their targets, almost physically attacking his COs before Cpt. Patterson could stop him.
“But you didn’t get us shot, did you? Not any of us.”
Ray just makes a sound and buries his face at Brad’s shoulder.
It all makes sense now, after all. Ray slowly coming down from liberal bottles of ripped fuel, becoming silent and distant. Losing his shit on Rudy after a harmless block and push manoeuver, storming off their makeshift football field with tears in his eyes.
His thoughts are interrupted by the feel of lips and teeth on his shoulder, Ray nibbling at his skin.
“Much better like that, anyway” he mumbles, a propos of nothing.
Brad rubs his face on the top of Ray’s head, breathing in his smell like it’s another thing he’s never known before. He pulls Ray closer still, fingers moving over his back, his shoulders and neck, marking all the things he’s known so intimately before and still not known at all. There’s a little scar next to his armpit, where a chip of shrapnel had hit and left a mark, and Brad circles it with his index finger, drawing a long, content sigh from his RTO.
His RTO, still. Or, maybe, for the first time, ever.
“Yeah” he agrees, after a long pause. “Much better like that.”