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A blonde who looked vaguely like Nate opened the door, half-yelling behind her that she got it. When she turned to fully look at him, she blinked familiar green eyes. And kind of...paused.
Brad looked calmly on, curious to see what she'd do.
"He-llo," she muttered, almost to herself. Her inflection made Brad's lips twitch.
"Good evening, ma'am. Is Nate home?"
Instead of answering, she turned back to the house and shouted, "Nate! There's a really hot soldier here for you!"
Brad ground his teeth at the 'soldier' part—he was not a fucking soldier, thank you very much—but then Nate appeared at the end of the hall and it suddenly didn't seem as important as the smile spreading across his face.
"That's not a soldier, Vicky, that's a goddamn United States Marine," he chastised her as he skirted past.
Then Nate roughly pulled him into a hug and it was—
Brad balled his fists and thumped Nate on the back. Neither one of them let go until it really started edging past respectable. Brad's throat hurt.
It'd been a long flight.
Nate pulled back, but kept hold of Brad's shoulders, only pulled far enough away to look at him. "You're...here," he said, mystified. Brad could feel the heat of his hands even through his jacket.
"Bright as ever, sir. Ivy League's still doing you well." Brad let some of the double entendre seep into his smirk.
The woman at the door watched them far too intently, looking more like Nate as she did. Brad flicked his eyes her way, then back to Nate.
Who snapped back to attention. "I'm glad," he said warmly, squeezing Brad's shoulders for emphasis. Then he dropped his hands. "Vicky, this is Brad Colbert. Brad, my sister, Victoria."
Brad nodded politely. "Pleasure."
"You're Brad?" He got the impression that Vicky didn't keep her own counsel very often. "Guess that explains all the fuss."
***
Staying on base over the holidays had been unacceptable, the weeks leading up to it filled with even more bullshit bureaucracy wherein he got to do his job not at all and instead had to babysit his teammate fuck-ups.
Nate had invited him in his last reply to their meandering, profane email exchange. Brad never answered, not knowing what to say or not say. He shouldn't want this.
Instead he just showed up. Because that was so much better.
"Mrs. Fick, apologies for my unexpected visit. A seat opened up last-minute and —"
"Now, now, dear, it's perfectly all right. Nate mentioned he'd invited a friend—" Brad zeroed in on the term, but she continued on, unaware, "and I always make enough food for twice the number of guests."
"That's very kind of you, but—"
"No. I'll hear no more of it. You'll stay in the upstairs guest room and we already found you a plate. You're stuck with us, I'm afraid."
Brad inclined his head with a rueful smile. "I see from where your son gets his determination."
"Since the only other interpretation is you mean to call me stubborn, I choose to take that as a compliment."
"As intended."
She smiled and patted him on the cheek. "I'll leave you boys to it."
Nate had watched their whole exchange with an unreadable expression. Brad met his gaze steadily.
Nate shook his head and smiled. "C'mon, I'll show you your rack. You'll have just enough time to shower and change before dinner. Unless you'd prefer to spend all night in a well-traveled uniform."
"Lead on, sir. I'm yours to command."
***
When Brad opened the bathroom door, Nate stood waiting, leaning back against the wall, foot propped behind him, seemingly contemplating the carpet. Brad's skin chilled. From the cooler air displacing the steam of his shower, of course.
In Iraq, Brad had learned to read Nate like tea leaves. His life had depended on it and all. Right now, Nate's expression said they were about to take the scenic route through a hostile town with no ass and no air and Nate couldn't do a damned thing about it.
Brad stopped short at that, stood there in the bathroom door like some mental subdefective, struck by the incongruity of that look. Here. In his home.
After a long moment Nate looked up and met Brad's eyes. "I'm having a hard time believing you flew all the way from England for a holiday you don't celebrate," Nate murmured.
"You invited me," Brad pointed out.
Nate eyed him, measuring, before sharply looking down toward the staircase and the tinkling laughter that filtered through. His foreboding expression flattened into his mission-oriented one: get in and get the job done. "Mom's calling you my friend, so try not to startle too badly at the term. And watch out for Vicky. She has designs on your virtue."
"I should not fuck your little sister in your childhood home? Good tip."
Nate snorted, but tossed him a genuine half-smile at that. "Pays to be specific with you grunts."
"Must not pay very well," Brad said automatically, then wished he hadn't. Nate's smiled tightened and Brad faltered for a beat. He hadn't thought—
Nate should've tossed that right back at him, joked about all the pussy he could buy, that no amount of money could compensate for Ray Person, the relative worthlessness of their lives, something.
Instead he nodded toward the voices downstairs and took off in his loping gait, expecting Brad to follow.
Huh.
***
Nate led him through the house toward the kitchen, the nexus of activity. The scent of a home-cooked meal made his stomach protest and right, he hadn't eaten since—
At the kitchen doorway—mistletoe above the door, Jesus Christ, they were something out of an illustrated guide to Americana—Nate nearly bumped into another blonde, darker than her sister and closer to Mrs. Fick's coloring, who also vaguely resembled him. Even had the freckles. Nate turned it into a brief hug and looked back for introductions. "Brad, this is my other sister, Corinne and her daughter, Madison." Nate hauled the little girl close and tugged on a blond pigtail, making Brad smile.
"Ma'am," Brad greeted with a nod.
"Mommy, look!" Madison said, pointing up at the mistletoe with what appeared to be vicious delight.
These Ficks. They had well-concealed sadistic streaks.
Corinne rolled her eyes, seemingly at herself, then tilted her head so Nate could give her a peck on the cheek.
"You have no one to blame but yourself," Nate said, tone fond. Then he hefted Madison and kissed her cheek, too, amidst more squeals of laughter.
"Believe me, I do. Blame myself." She laughed and turned her attention to Brad. "It's nice to meet you, Brad. Welcome to the madness. And watch out for the mistletoe."
"I plan to seduce Victoria by the end of the evening, so I'm much obliged."
Corinne stilled and looked at him a moment. Then she broke out laughing. "I can see why brother dearest likes you. Just don't let Vicky hear you. She'll hold you to it."
***
Nate led him into the kitchen proper. It was hotter, more people clustered around and food cooking. Mrs. Fick manned the stove with Vicky helping. Brad's stomach rumbled again.
Nate shoved a beer in his hands—Kronenbourg, nice—then counted off more introductions. "Corinne's husband, Robert, my cousin, Lynne, her husband James and this is James Jr. Everyone, this is Brad."
The kid—maybe six?—looked up at Brad, all wide blue eyes and carefully combed hair. "Is it true you're a soldier?"
Nate closed his eyes at the insult, the air of the never-ending explanation almost palpable.
"Do I look like a soldier?" Brad replied gamely.
The kid shrugged his shoulders. "Aren't soldiers s'posed to have guns?"
"Jamie, remember what we said about asking Nate questions?" Lynne said, ever patient.
"Don't ask how many people he's killed," he answered dutifully. "But he's not Nate!" the kid protested.
Lynne looked downright appalled. "I'm so sorry. He's, um—" she broke off, unsure what to say.
Nate's smile had gone brittle at the edges, tightness Brad wanted to smooth away with careful fingers, like it could be that simple. The moment stretched, awkward.
Brad stepped in closer to Nate, enough to feel his warmth, then shrugged and tipped his beer casually. "Kids," he said, like that explained all ills. It seemed to be a parental get out of jail free card, from his experiences with Jen's rugrats and his nephews anyway.
Nate snapped out of whatever that was and flicked his eyes to Brad, grateful. Then he focused back on his family. "Never boring," he agreed. "C'mon, Brad, I want you to meet Dad." And off he went.
***
"And even my not-completely-worthless teammates somehow de-evolved in a few short weeks, making Trombley look like a paragon of competence by comparison. I was never happier than to see them off to their sister-wives, declining all invitations to come 'stay for the hols'—"
"Raised a dismissive eyebrow at them, did you?" Nate asked.
"Which only proves that tone-deafness accompanies inbreeding because, what? Did they think my invective was some clever disguise for affection? I am not that clever."
"Dumb as a box of rocks," Nate agreed easily.
Mr. Fick laughed at the two of them, something like relief behind the amusement. He was softer than Nate, not just due to age, though there was that; time in the Army listening to other people's phone calls notwithstanding, he was a civilian through and through, in a way Nate could never be. "Sounds like you boys are living the 'special' part of our special relationship."
"Special Ed, maybe," Brad dismissed. Mr. Fick laughed again and either he was really easy or he was trying too hard. Which didn't even—
Shattering glass made Brad tense, senses snapped to attention like that. Rational thought quickly reasserted itself. He was in suburban Baltimore; broken glass was a dropped dish, not an attack.
Brad turned and caught sight of Nate, a picture of coiled tension—eyes unfocused, caught in the throes of that 'where's my fucking rifle?' gut-dropping panicked moment, one you had to be military to appreciate.
He reached out, squeezed Nate's arm, murmuring, "All clear, sir," so low that only Nate could hear, Mr. Fick's attention focused on his wailing grandchild.
Nate sucked in a sharp breath, jolting out of it, quickly meeting Brad's eyes.
The anguish there had Brad moving closer, but Nate instantly shuttered it, pulled his arm from Brad's grasp and cleared his throat. He observed the half-empty beer in his hand. "I've either had too many or too few," he quipped, the joke landing hollowly. Then he slipped toward the crowd, presumably for more—or less—beer.
Somehow Brad didn't think either of those options would help.
***
Brad wasn't used to real food. Not like this, anyway, handmade and too...much. Too many dishes going around, not enough plate real estate. These kinds of choices were beyond him.
Nate sat next to him and though quiet—and in some kind of fucked up headspace, apparently—he didn't miss things.
"Stuffing is not optional," Nate murmured. Brad dutifully scooped some onto his plate, passing the dish along. When Nate didn't say the same for the beets, he abstained. It made things more...manageable.
"No, pass the potatoes back to Nate," Mrs. Fick said to Vicky. "You're still too skinny," she directed at him, her tone all light humor but concern lurking underneath.
"Your solution is to stuff me full of carbs and fat? I see how it is."
"Wonderful. Then I trust you'll surrender accordingly."
"Churchill never met my mother," Nate quipped, taking the potatoes.
"Been back from the Marines six months and I still can't get him to eat properly," Mrs. Fick said, miffed. From the lackluster sympathetic murmurs, it seemed like a familiar complaint.
"I'm intrigued by this definition of 'proper,'" Nate parried.
"And now here's Brad. Brad doesn't look like he'd fall over from a strong gust."
Nate turned to Brad, eyes sliding down his body and then back up.
Brad fought to remain impassive.
"Brad's down almost ten pounds from a year ago," Nate dismissed. Brad stiffened slightly. "They haven't kicked him out of recon yet," Nate continued, gaze directed at his mother, but his tone saying it wasn't a dig.
"Nate, pass the potatoes to Brad," Mrs. Fick said promptly.
Nate turned and presented Brad with the potatoes, his smile all shiny and bright. "By the end of the weekend, we'll have you fixed right up."
"The Royal Marines will be so grateful," Brad said, accepting the proffered dish.
Nate choked out a laugh, like he was surprised Brad would respond.
Mrs. Fick eyed Brad, considering. "It might take a long weekend," she admitted.
"I'll manage my expectations."
***
"Tell us about Nate in the Marines," Vicky demanded, spearing a green bean and looking at Brad expectantly.
Brad regarded Nate, not even bothering to hide his glee. Nate's resigned headtilt gave permission, as if Brad needed it.
"Your brother tried to buy my love with gun lube and stop signs," Brad said languidly, basking in Nate's small smile before he dropped it and turned all business again.
"It worked, didn't it?"
"And now he's calling me easy. Selling himself for black market goods, turning a blind eye to questionable alcohol use, physically stopping our commanding officer from blowing us to bits, is there no end to your degeneracy?"
"Even gave you a sterling fitrep. My honor will never recover," Nate said mournfully.
And this—this felt right, deep in his gut, this easy back-and-forth between the two of them. The rapport they'd established with no effort at all and could always count on.
Brad saw Mrs. Fick's shoulders relax slightly, fond smile directed at her son, momentarily wiping away the ever-present concern.
"It's good you made some friends, dear."
The effect was immediate; Nate's humor blinked out like a dead Christmas bulb. "Oh, yeah, the Iraqi people are my bffs," Nate said, bitterness bleeding all through that statement.
And well. What did you say to that?
"Mrs. Fick, I would love some more of those delicious green beans," Brad offered into the silence.
Beside him, Nate huffed out a laugh. Which was something, at least.
***
Dessert was an affair of slowly clawing back from the brink of awkwardness. Nate stayed very quiet. Everyone else stuck to safe topics like how to make a pie crust.
"I'm confident I could make a pie crust—blindfolded, one-handed and underwater. Betty Crocker should personify, materialize, and give me a fucking gold star," he said to Nate who was propped against the wall, keeping himself separate and apart from his family.
"Aren't you glad you flew across a whole ocean to be here? Just think of what you'd miss," Nate said. It could have been biting, but he was smiling softly at his mother and Corinne arguing over how big a slice was too big.
Vicky swooped in between them, lights picking up the strawberry in her blond hair, and grabbed the whole pie plate for herself. "I always say there's no such thing as too big. Size matters and all," she said, absconding with the pie.
Brad snorted. He'd lay money down that she was a hellcat in the sack. Fucking shame, that.
"Please stop thinking about sleeping with my sister," Nate muttered.
"Your sister's hot. Both of 'em are. Fick family resemblance and all."
"Something you want to tell me, Brad?" Nate asked, low and dry enough to make Brad sweat.
So he went with it.
"We absolutely did not call you 'Prettyboy' back in the sandbox."
Nate's eyes widened minutely. "Please tell me you're joking."
"You said you didn't want to know any nicknames for officers," Brad said, all dutiful Marine, just following Nate's orders.
Brad held his candid expression until worry flickered in Nate's eyes. Then he smirked.
Relief shot across Nate's face, quickly followed by irritation. "You motherfucker."
"Actually we were talking about your sister," Brad corrected helpfully. "And you said I couldn't do it. There was no mention of not thinking about it."
"Pays to be specific, indeed," Nate said.
"Maybe it was better you quit while you were ahead." Brad drained the last of his beer, considered the bottle, and headed off for more. Definitely more.
Brad stopped when he heard the sound of mischievous giggling. Madison and James Jr. promptly scrambled out from behind the pantry door, chanting, "Got you, got you," and making kissy noises at him.
Brad looked up.
Then he lowered his eyes to Nate, who had followed him, who now stood with him. Under the mistletoe. Nate hadn't quite cottoned on, was still looking up at it like it did not compute.
Brad smiled at them. "You did, indeed. I think we may have a future Recon Marine on our hands here."
"Or the disgrace of ones current and past," Nate offered, mouth turning down in actual dismay.
"Uncle Nate, you have to kiss!" Madison said, hands on hips. Apparently the bossy thing ran in the Fick genetic code.
Good thing he was used to being ordered around.
"Maddy—"
Brad stepped into Nate's space. Nate stopped delivering his invariably well-reasoned argument and blinked at Brad.
"Now, Nate, can't mess with tradition," Brad mocked lightly. He leaned in, following even as Nate instinctively shifted back—and that was kind of fucking insulting—until he pressed a kiss to Nate's cheek with a loud smack.
Stepping back, he clocked Nate staring at his mouth, something hungry in his expression. He licked his lips and Brad caught a hint of shine on the inside, enough to make him want to drop to his knees on the spot.
That was a look he'd never seen on Nate's face. That was a look Brad didn't know what to do with.
So he just smirked, turned to wink at the giggling kids, and continued on to the garage as he'd originally intended.
***
Nate followed him into the garage, all focused intent. "Really, Brad?"
If Brad didn't know Nate far too well, he'd think he was legitimately angry.
Brad shook his head and sucked in a breath of the cooler air. "I don't know what you're going on about. I'm just here to get more beer." He headed for the refrigerator; he really had been going to get beer. They'd made their way through what was in the kitchen.
Nate scoffed. "My mother would never let you. You're a guest."
"I'm practicing my manners." Brad flicked a sideways glance at him, then went back to studying the contents of the fridge. "Figured it was the polite thing to do given all the ways I'd imagined defiling her only son's mouth." He turned slightly to observe Nate at that, wanted to see.
A series of lightning-fast emotions flickered across Nate's face—confusion, disbelief, want. He settled on a sharp, narrow-eyed glare that meant pissed, something he only ever used on Casey Kasem, and marched up to Brad.
Nate's hand on the fridge door slammed it shut, rocking the whole unit back and crowding Brad into it. "What the fuck?" Nate even sounded pissed, enough to make Brad snap to attention, cold metal at his back. That...wasn't the response he'd expected.
"Nate?"
"You got an answer for me, Sergeant? I'm waiting," he demanded, clipped.
Brad cleared his expression and gave Nate nothing.
Nate pulled back a little, then paced in distracted, jerky movements. He ran a hand through his hair, the move betraying something—nervousness, anger? Brad couldn't get a read on Nate right now and it was throwing him. They could always read each other.
"A better question is why are you so angry right now?" Brad asked, honestly curious.
Nate made an inarticulate disgruntled noise and pushed back into Brad's personal space. It was a favored tactic of drill instructors and Master Sergeants alike, so Brad startled when Nate grabbed his shirt and pulled him into a bruising kiss.
Oh. Oh.
Brad gripped Nate's shoulders and opened his mouth. He licked in, exploring, only to get a sharp bite for the effort. Nate shoved his back against the fridge, grabbing his forearms and pinning them there, metal heating under his skin. He breathed harshly into Brad's mouth—one breath, two—and kissed him again, tasting like apple pie and beer.
Brad let him. He sucked on his tongue, pushed Nate for more—Nate's hold not giving at all—and generally acted like a bitch in heat, happy to roll over and spread 'em.
Nate ground his cock against Brad's hip and the sound ripped from his throat was pure sex. Fuck, he'd roll over, spread 'em, and lube himself up at this point. Happily.
Nate pushed himself off of Brad, holding his body away with the hands he still used to pin Brad's arms against the fridge, cool air a sudden wall between them. Brad tried to arch into him, get some kind of contact, but Nate held off, looked away, that determined set to his jaw.
Brad had never hated Nate's determination so much in his life.
"Fucking what?!" Brad hissed, suddenly aware of his harsh breathing.
"You have no idea how much I want to drop to my knees right now," Nate said, swallowing thickly.
The image slammed home and Brad choked out a moan as his cock pulsed. "And you're not sucking my dick, why?"
Nate shook his head and looked up. Brad could actually see the worry overtaking the lust. Fuck.
"Believe me, you have no idea how many ways I've imagined it but we—fuck, Brad, we can't do this. You know we can't." His voice broke a little on the last, like he hated saying it. That and only that gave Brad pause. He had ready arguments for protestations of rank, career, whatever. But Nate sounding that defeated, that made him hesitate.
Enough to let Nate slip away, back toward the house with its bright lights and laughing family and play-acting at normalcy.
And then Nate was gone.
***
Nate went back to dessert. The earlier awkwardness had been comfortably glossed over by everyone else. Now the special hell was for Brad alone. They had more pie. And more damn good beer. And Nate not looking at him at all.
To his credit, he covered well enough, smiled in all the right places. Still, Brad could tell he'd retreated into his head somewhere and if her subtle looks were any judge, Mrs. Fick had picked up on it.
Three guesses who'd get blamed for that. Sadly, he probably deserved any blame she could dish out and then some.
Mrs. Fick simply smiled at him and offered another plate. "Have some more pie, dear."
"Brad likes pie," Nate offered, finally looking at him for a beat, something calculating there. Then he turned to his father. "He also likes cigars."
Mr. Fick visibly brightened. "Ahh, finally, someone of civilized taste. The occasion calls for an Opus X, but I can't bear to waste them on the unenlightened. Join me."
"Absolutely, sir. It'd be my pleasure." Brad side-eyed Nate, fully aware he was being set up. But Nate didn't acknowledge him, just focused on his food again.
Well, wouldn't this be fun.
***
"My wife hates the smell," Mr. Fick confided, observing the lit cigar he held. "I thought Nate might've picked up some bad habits in the Corps, but he still does, too. Hell of a thing—comes back from war even more insistent on clean living." Mr. Fick's smile was fond.
"We spent enough time getting dirty inside and out. Some days I can still taste the Iraqi cigarette smoke." Brad shrugged and drew another puff that chased the memory away, the cigar's complexity and subtle sweetness catching his attention.
"Nate likes you," Mr. Fick said idly, idly blowing a smoke ring, still studying the cigar like it was the fount of all knowledge.
"We share the mutual admiration of those forced to endure breathtaking incompetence."
Mr. Fick looked up at him, considering. It was an expression so reminiscent of Nate it hit Brad in the chest. "I'm sure that's true, but that's not the whole truth. Tonight was the first time I've seen Nate smile like that in...too long. For that I'm grateful."
It figured Mrs. Fick wasn't the only observant member of the family. Brad dipped his head in acknowledgment and took another puff of the truly exquisite cigar.
***
Brad slid into Nate's room, silently closing the door behind him.
"Really, Brad?" Nate asked, voice pitched low, now just sounding drained.
Brad smiled in the dark, little thrill of victory at that. Which was bizarre—he'd gotten caught. Obviously, he was getting rusty.
"I see civilian life hasn't made you totally soft," he murmured, approving. He made his way to the bed, kneeling down beside it.
"I can hear someone breaking into my bedroom; I'm a credit to my recon brothers," Nate said, some kind of bitter tinge to his voice.
"Your mother's very worried about you."
Nate's silence managed to convey incredulity. "You broke into my bedroom to talk about my mother?"
Brad grinned at his tone. "Why? What'd you think I wanted to do?"
"Nothing half so innocent," Nate grumbled as he shoved himself to sitting. The moonlight cast blue light across his bare chest. He was too skinny.
Nate switched on the bedside lamp, an oasis of low amber light that cast long shadows over the walls. Obviously it was for reading late into the night. Brad could imagine a teenaged Nate doing just that.
Nate blinked and peered at him. Brad idly wondered what he saw.
Nate seemed to deflate a bit. "Brad..." he admonished.
Brad straightened under the disappointment in that look. "My intentions are nothing less than honorable. I'm insulted by your implication."
"I would have preferred the seduction," Nate muttered. He made a 'go ahead' gesture.
"What the fuck, Nate? Your calls and emails have been...fine. I need a sitrep here because this does not square with the intel I received."
Nate simply looked at him, another of those looks Brad couldn't classify, his inscrutability belying their whole history. So Brad looked back, trying to puzzle it out. He certainly wasn't about to back down.
Nate's irritated noise broke the silence; he leaned down and brought their mouths together again.
Brad breathed out into Nate's mouth, kissing him back automatically, even as his brain scrambled to fit all the erratic puzzle pieces into some kind of coherent picture.
Nate brought his hand around the back of Brad's neck, tilted his chin with his other thumb, kissing him long and deep, like he meant to linger awhile.
Brad melted forward, made some soft sound in the process, and then Nate's hands were gone and he was being hauled up against Nate, the both of them tumbling back onto the bed.
Nate twisted and the world spun. Brad found himself on bottom, pinned by Nate's rough hands as Nate shifted on top of him, holding him immobile as if Brad were trying to get away.
Yeah, like that would fucking happen.
"You taste like tobacco," Nate murmured against his mouth, kissing him again before he could respond.
Brad grabbed at Nate's shoulders, tried to spread his legs and arch up at the same time. His shamelessness appalled even him.
Nate merely grunted a negative and wouldn't let him move even that far, kissing him with the kind of single-minded devotion that came with ill-gotten gains.
Brad broke off, avoiding Nate's searching mouth for long enough to get out, "Nate, c'mon," in a tone of voice that sounded strange to his own ears.
Whatever that was must've gotten to Nate because he eased up a little, enough to let Brad hook a leg around and roll them both. He pressed Nate back into the bed even as Nate bucked, not about to lie back like some meek little housewife.
Brad chuckled into his mouth, at which Nate bit his chin, fingers digging in to Brad's hips and shoulder. "Think it's gonna be that easy?" Nate growled, grinding up into Brad like that was some act of defiance.
"Yes," Brad said simply, using one hand to pin Nate's chest and sliding the other between their bodies, palming Nate's cock through the worn cotton of his pajama pants.
Then he tugged the pants out of the way and pushed himself quickly down Nate's body, bowing his head to swallow Nate's cock.
The gasping moan, abruptly cut off, was a thing to hear.
Brad didn't dally. He forcefully bobbed and sucked and stroked with spit-slick fingers—around the base of Nate's cock, behind his balls, over his asshole.
Nate ripped the seam of his pajamas getting his legs open. Easy, indeed.
Brad pulled his mouth off Nate's cock and looked up at him. "Lube?"
"Travel kit," Nate said shortly, breath coming quickly as he looked down at Brad like he'd never seen him before.
Brad went to retrieve it. Nate shucked his pajamas entirely in the meantime. As a reward, Brad didn't delay things, just sucked Nate right back down, even as he searched through the kit to find little individual packets of lube.
He slicked one finger quickly and pressed it into Nate, who thrust against Brad's hand encouragingly, but two fingers made him hiss.
"S-sorry," Nate muttered, clearly trying to push himself past it.
Brad grunted a negative and slowed way down. He used more of the lube packets and sucked him loosely as he fingered him, figuring out what made him squirm and pant and beg for more.
Brad rolled on a condom and lifted Nate's legs to his shoulders, the head of his cock nudging that tight heat.
Nate's desperate hand on his thigh stopped him. "The bed squeaks," he gasped.
Brad stilled. "Save the fucking for another time, then?"
Nate growled something uncomplimentary, pulled his leg back and dug a heel into Brad's chest. "Not if you value your life." He shoved Brad off the bed and onto the floor.
Brad barely caught himself from crashing down noisily, instead softening his landing with a roll and ending on his back.
It probably said something that that hadn't fucked with his hard-on at all.
"What the fuck? You're kicking me out of bed?" Brad hissed, not believing it.
Nate didn't bother to respond, simply climbed down after Brad and sat astride him. He shifted up, took Brad's cock, and positioned himself before sinking down, face a picture of concentration.
Brad sucked in a breath at the tight heat, the way Nate's lashes fluttered as he worked himself slowly down. He paused enough along the way that Brad's hands were clenching involuntarily and sweat pooling at the small of his back by the time Nate finally bottomed out with a look of triumphant bliss.
Brad simply stared.
Nate fucking smirked at him, the fucker. Then he pinned Brad's chest and proceeded to ride him like it was all he wanted for Christmas.
Christ. Brad touched him—thighs, the indentations of his hipbones, completely ignoring his bouncing cock because he didn't fucking deserve that—and Nate made noise, little hungry half-moans that should've been girly and mockable and instead ended up really fucking hot.
Brad gripped Nate's wrist hard enough to get Nate's attention. "I thought the point was to be quiet," he hissed.
Nate, pupils blown, thin sheen of sweat making him radiant in the lamplight, simply looked at him.
"Lemme up," Brad said, squeezing Nate's wrist again.
Nate shifted his weight to his knees and loosened his hold. Brad sat up, changing the angle and making both of them breathe out.
And hey, look at that, it even gave him access to Nate's mouth again. He nuzzled at Nate's chin, feeling Nate's hands curl around his arms as he raised and lowered himself experimentally.
It got another soft sound of pleasure from Nate and Brad laughed against him. Christ, if this was Nate going for quiet, how loud did he get when he wasn't policing himself?
That thought set Brad on edge. He brought a hand up and covered Nate's mouth, shushing him even as Nate started riding him in earnest again. They slid against each other, sweat making things a little unpredictable, and then Brad had his palm in Nate's mouth with Nate's body gripping him every time he sank down. Brad muffed Nate's noises as he fell apart around him, murmuring, "Quiet, quiet, fuck, you look—I can't—"
Nate groaned and bit Brad's hand, body arching and squeezing tight as he fisted his cock and shot between them.
Brad fucked him through it, controlled breaths focusing him. Only after Nate had wrung out the last spasm did he let himself lose it—short, tight thrusts accompanied by the sight of Nate's open, panting mouth pushing him over the edge, his own sounds muffled by Nate's kisses.
***
"We'll have to wash your pants," Brad said sometime later, inane.
"Considerate."
"Mindful of your modesty. Your parents are rather observant. And I did use them to clean up."
Nate snorted and roused himself from the floor, pulling a face at the feeling. He climbed up into bed, Brad unabashedly watching his world-class ass as he did, then looked back at Brad with an imperious raised eyebrow.
Brad hauled himself up after, collapsing beside Nate and making the bed squeak.
They both snorted with laughter.
Then it was quiet breathing and shifting to work out how to arrange two men in the fairly modest bed. Brad ended up somewhat curled around Nate, which was fine with him, only Nate kept shifting forward, minute. He'd end up back on the floor any moment.
Brad would say it served him well and think nothing of it, but Nate wasn't moving toward anything. No, it was more like he was moving away from Brad...and what the fuck?
Brad tested the theory, pressing forward into Nate's heat.
Nate waited a few heartbeats, then subtly slid them apart again.
The move deposited enough cold dread in Brad's gut to ruin whatever afterglow he had left. Something had gotten fucked up in the last few minutes and he couldn't figure out what. Nate curled on his side, shifted every time Brad touched him. So Brad kept a bare amount of space between them, wondering.
Nate had gone closed-off and edgy where he'd been nothing but open and self-assured before. They'd switched perspectives—fucked each other into the opposite viewpoints.
Finally Brad just climbed off the bed and knelt at Nate's feet, trying to catch his eye. Nate stubbornly resisted, but Brad edged closer, got a hand under his chin and made him look up.
Nate met his eyes squarely. His mouth was bruised and gorgeous, skin still flushed, but something in his eyes wasn't quite...right.
"Nate..." Brad tried, no idea what to say to any of this.
"It's not...it's fine," Nate said. Brad stiffened; that wasn't a promising start.
Nate laughed, nothing amused there at all. "My mom—"
"So you want to talk about your mother after all," Brad murmured, calling up at least a wisp of amusement in Nate's smile. At the moment, that seemed like a victory of a kind.
"She is worried about me. She's not wrong," he admitted, shaking his head at himself. "Which is why I shouldn't—"
"You shouldn't have left so soon," Brad interrupted. "Oceanside. The rest of us."
"I don't—"
"We're the ones who get it, Nate. Your mother trying to feed you, sisters asking what you were like at war, come on. It's always the same story. You up and bailed on the only guys who understand."
Nate frowned. "No one protested my move." Translation: you never protested, motherfucker.
"You didn't ask; you just announced the news one day, mind made up, full of bright shiny plans. What should we have said? 'No, Nate, don't go off to your fancy future?' Besides, I hardly have any claim on your life." That came out a little more bitter than he intended. Dammit.
Nate's eyes widened. "You left, too," he reminded.
"Later. But the others are still there. You could patrol Kocher's apartment parking lot with him. Safest overnight parking in three counties."
Nate laughed darkly and scrubbed a hand over his face. "This is so fucked up."
"That's our specialty."
"And I am not okay."
Brad swallowed, throat tight. "No," he acknowledged simply.
"I'm making really unfortunate choices."
Brad made sure not to let the sting of that show. It wasn't about him. "Indeed."
"I'm so tired of being so tired," Nate said, eyes closing.
"I know." God, did Brad know. He slid his hand around to the back of Nate's neck, scratched there, then rubbed the tense muscles. Nate's head tipped forward. "C'mon." Brad urged Nate back, climbing in after him. "Sleep. I'll keep watch."
***
Fin. Feedback is adored.
