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BOSTON
Nate had every intention of getting an apartment that had enough space for a bed that could fit both him and Brad in it, but life had other plans.
Nate's studio apartment in Boston was small even for studio standards, so he succumbed to sisterly pressure and asked for decorating advice to provide him with some sort of sanity. He liked clean lines, function over form, and basic colors that didn't require a dictionary, but this apartment was dire and needed the touch of someone who knew what to do. He'd only ever seen Murphy beds in movies, and was sort of stunned that he found himself a renter of an apartment with one, but he needed money more than he needed a cool apartment.
His sister recommended decorating tips that he really wouldn't have known without hours of Googling. Nate had been a step away from living with the mess when his sister let him know that he could do this through a colorful e-mail: paint the entire studio white so that it seems bigger; buy ottomans, not coffee tables, and buy trays for the ottomans if you need a stable surface; and finally, the Murphy bed is an advantage (there was an 'idiot' implied there somewhere). The bed can be tucked away and light furniture can be moved in the vacant space.
Within a month of moving in, the apartment looked decent. It looked like an igloo, but it did look bigger and he had nice curtains which helped break up the monotony. He bought a chalkboard for the notes that he sometimes needed to write out, and a corkboard for the index cards that he sometimes liked to plot his arguments on. Over time though, they became dedicated to the postcards that his men sent to him.
Person sent him a postcard of a morbidly obese woman wearing a small bikini, pointing between her breasts and saying "Wish you were here!" Gunny sent a couple with pictures of American diners along Route 66. Stafford sent him plain postcards thanking him –- most of those he hid, but the ones that weren't effusive he tacked on. Reyes sent him beautiful art postcards he got from museums. Hasser sent him postcards that formed a travelogue of the cross country trip he had taken.
Nate was looking at his corkboard, nostalgic for his men, hoping they were all OK wherever they were when he heard a thump outside his door. An internal clock started ticking in Nate's head, one that marked the beginning of a three-day reprieve. He went to open the door when he saw a postcard with Queen Elizabeth on it slip underneath.
"Prince William?" Nate called out.
A low chuckle. "Try again."
"David Beckham."
"For fuck's sake, LT. Don't insult me like that. A goddamned soccer player." Nate closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment, one he couldn't have with Brad looking at him, not without filling Brad's repository of mocking material.
"You know, and this is shameful, I can't think of any badass British people right now," Nate admitted.
"What kind of university student are you?"
Nate heard a door open on the hallway outside and heard one of his neighbors shout, "Will you two fucking talk inside the apartment like two fucking grown-ups?" In the interest of avoiding bloodshed, Nate opened his door and pulled Brad inside quickly. He shut it and turned to look at Brad, who looked stronger, but tired. Paler, but so arresting in the way that only Brad could be.
"I wouldn't have ripped his arms off, LT. I probably would have just said something."
Nate smiled. "Something that would have destroyed all of his self worth, no doubt."
Brad dropped his duffel on the floor. "Come here," he said softly.
Nate obeyed. Their mouths met and it was like the first time, like it was the hundredth time, it was like they had been saying hello for twenty years and saying goodbye for more. Brad smelled like ozone and cheap soap, he tasted like whiskey, and Nate didn't know if he could ever really have enough of Brad. Maybe this was better because they hadn't seen each other in a while, but Nate was willing to bet that it could be just as good if it happened more, that it would be just as good without the desperate thread that this could be the last.
***
"You're helping me patch up that wall tomorrow," Nate said.
"It makes me fear the state of American craftsmanship when something as soft as your head can dent drywall," Brad said.
They were lying on one of the rugs where the Murphy bed would have rested had either of them had the patience to even let it down in the first place. Nate had laid his head down on Brad's chest; he looked up when Brad spoke and saw that Brad was already looking down, a contented smirk on his lips. They had knocked at least five holes in the plaster with their feet, and in one memorable moment, Nate's head. Brad stopped fucking him to laugh, wheezing against Nate's shoulder while Nate tried not to be too irritated that he had stopped. It didn't even hurt that much.
"Clearly they used only the best materials," Nate said, yawning.
Brad snorted and said, "Get an apartment for grown-ups." His hands trailed gently down Nate's back, his blunt fingernails a pleasant scratch against his skin. "Can the patching wait?" Brad asked.
Even with an internal clock, Nate sometimes forgot how quickly time went by, especially on three-day intervals like this. "I'll magnanimously let this infraction slide, Sergeant."
"You have my undying gratitude, Lieutenant."
"Captain."
"A thousand pardons."
"Shut the fuck up." He heard Brad's low chuckle.
Nate listened to the honk of traffic outside, the bustle of Boston life continuing unabated. They should probably get off the floor, but Nate had gotten lucky when he bought the rug at a steeply discounted price, because it was thick, soft and surprisingly comfortable. He fell asleep to the rhythm of Brad's breathing, content that there were still two nights ahead of him that would end just like this.
DEVON
The Raymont House in Devon boasted this on their website:
"Every room has a hairdryer, a mirror, a dressing gown, ironing facilities, an alarm clock, digital TV and Wi-Fi broadband internet connection."
All this with pictures of rooms that looked like spas, with wicker and soaps in bottles with fucking twine wrapped around the top with ingredients like ylang-ylang. Brad hated it, but he knew Nate had already booked it, mainly because of the Wi-Fi and its relative proximity to the Royal Marines base. He knew that Nate had dipped into his savings just to fly out here, that Nate made some arcane deal so that he could submit some course work over e-mail. He couldn't really say much about the choice of accommodations since he was just meeting Nate here anyway, and especially since they both had so little time.
When he checked in during the afternoon, it was even worse in reality than it was in the pictures. It was English cottage as spa, which he'd had more than enough of. Carefully distressed furniture, white and gray fabrics, and glass vases with one flower stem in it. Jesus, why do they call bathrobes dressing gowns here in the first place? And it had to be red with a white belt, like something Santa Claus left behind in a drunken stupor.
And wicker. Brad hated wicker.
He flopped face down on the huge bed, grateful at least that he could fit in it without his feet hanging out, and that it was insanely comfortable. He must have been more tired than he thought, because his next memory is of a hand absently massaging his scalp and the sound of a keyboard being tapped.
"I brought some packages with me. Some stuff from Ray, which I'm afraid of opening to be honest, plus some from the other guys." Nate said, his voice low. There was a hushed feeling in the room. "You can imagine the fun I had at the airport. Why did I volunteer to be a delivery boy for my men again? You have to remind me, because that ninth circle of hell at customs was not worth it."
Brad grunted a response, not fully awake yet. Stupid and dangerous –- he usually woke up much quicker than this, but he felt a pleasant weight in his body, a gentle pressure that let him sink into the bed without fear.
"The Wi-Fi is worth the wicker," Nate continued. "Besides, the way you're lying down, I think it would take me naked on the floor on all fours for you to get out of this bed."
"Take less than that, LT," Brad said, his eyes still closed. Even then, he could tell that it was on the darker side of dusk, that the night chill was beginning to settle. He could hear faint noises from downstairs of people walking slowly, the clatter of silverware on trays.
He sensed Nate getting off the bed, heard the snick of the laptop being closed, then felt Nate lie down on top of him, his head between Brad's shoulder blades. Brad moaned, feeling his cock get hard but even that felt slower somehow, like the blood in his veins was trickling like magma. Nate's hands were leisurely stroking his sides.
"How are things going here?" Nate asked.
"Decent," Brad mumbled. Nate eased some of his weight by sliding over to one side. Brad turned his head to his left and opened his eyes. Nate's pupils were dilated, but Brad could still see the ring of green around them. He saw Nate smile, and Brad thought it had been a while since he had seen anything that he liked so much. Somehow, Nate looked smarter, but tired. Even paler than he usually was, but so striking in the way that only Nate could be.
"I'm tempted to ask you about their health care to see if that will wake you up. Or the monarchy. Or maybe I should tell you that I'm looking at bigger apartments, but I won't move in until you help me patch the walls in the old one."
"Asshole."
Nate laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"You know what would wake me up?" Brad said. "Blowjobs. Lots of them."
"I'm not convinced of that method's efficacy."
"You'd be surprised at how quickly it would work."
"Probably not," Nate said. They were whispering at this point, tranquility settling around them like a comfortable blanket. Nate brushed his fingers across Brad's mouth.
Brad turned on his side and caught Nate's right hand. "I missed you," Brad said.
Nate's smile got wider. His hands were deft on the buttons on Brad's shirt, on Brad's zipper, while unbuckling Brad's belt. Nate's tongue was slick and smooth as it licked Brad's nipples, as it coiled around Brad's cock, as it traveled the curve of Brad's back. In the hush of the room, the stillness of night, Brad lost all semblance of control as Nate kissed and licked and fucked him into the mattress.
In the morning, even in the daze of great athletic sex, Brad had to admit that the breakfast made up for the goddamn wicker too. He didn't really mind, not if it meant two more mornings like this.
***
Brad went to the airport with Nate, who kept on insisting that Brad didn't have to come. He regretted it the minute they came up to the airport –- they were still as hellish as he remembered, and he didn't know how Nate could stand it, the crush of people all around, the threat of idle conversation from boring strangers.
"I'm going on a training mission for about four weeks,' Brad said."Don't know if I'll be able to e-mail or anything."
"OK," Nate said, looking at his shoes. Nate hated goodbyes.
"Still worth it?" Brad couldn't help the dread that settled in his gut.
Nate looked up quickly, a fierce expression in his eyes. "Always," he said. "I just wish we had more time."
Brad smiled at that, the dread dissipating so fast he felt unsteady for a second. "We'll make more," he said.
"Wanna aim for a week for the next go-around?"
"Yeah," Brad replied. He stepped closer to Nate and tightened the strap on the messenger bag strung along Nate's shoulder. "See ya around, LT." He punched Nate on the shoulder for effect.
Nate rolled his eyes and shoved Brad away. "You asshole."
Brad went closer again and wrapped his arms around Nate –- England was enough of an excuse that he could let this go in his head as a moment he doesn't have to be afraid of. Nate still smelled like lavender from the bath soap he had used out of desperation at the bed and breakfast. He was softer in certain parts, but still in shape. His hair was longer and redder and Brad loved that, that he could grab handfuls of it when they kissed.
The hug didn't get awkward. Brad was willing to let the moment linger.
THE END