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When Ray wakes up he’s lying directly in the middle of the California King that occupies most of the livable space in the bedroom. It doesn’t take him very long to figure out what woke him. It has everything to do with the cold draft he can feel because there’s six feet, four inches of empty space next to him. The sheets are cold when he slides his hand over them, so he knows they've been that way for some time. He's not really surprised.
Brad is always restless when he gets back from being in the shit, and this latest tour is certainly no exception.
Ray struggles to decipher the neon green numbers on the alarm clock sitting on the dresser across the room. When they finally make sense – to the tune of three o’clock in the morning – he groans and drops dramatically back into the pillows. “Jesus.” He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and crawls to the edge of the bed. He digs through the assorted clothes littering the floor and the first thing he comes up with are a pair of charcoal gray sweats.
There aren’t any lights on when he moves out of the bedroom so he knows that Brad’s insomnia must have taken him elsewhere. The sliding glass door has been left cracked open. Ray takes the hint and wanders outside.
He finds Brad standing thigh deep in the surf in a pair of cutoff shorts that he usually only wears to mow the grass. Ray stops where the dry sand meets wet and digs his toes in. His gaze travels over the back of Brad's neck, his shoulders, down his back and the wash of colors that make up his huge-ass tattoo, and he notes the way those old shorts are almost too big now. It strikes him then that Brad lost a lot of weight this time - more than usual. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asks eventually, crossing his arms over his bare chest. The wind is actually a little chilly and standing on the beach like this there aren’t any barriers to block it.
Brad twists around to look at him and grins, a crooked thing with too many teeth that Ray can see because there’s a clear sky and a full moon. Brad doesn’t actually answer him; he turns back toward the never-ending expanse of ocean and stretches his arms out to his sides, fingers wiggling a little.
Ray gets a nostalgic flash of seeing Brad running through the field like an airplane, and he smiles. He's no more surprised that Brad continues to ignore him than he was at waking up to find the bed empty. He huffs a short sigh and drops down onto the sand to wait it out. He wraps his arms around his knees and digs his feet down into the sand until they're buried almost to his ankles. It’s maybe another fifteen minutes or so of Brad just standing there before Ray starts to get impatient. “Brad,” he starts, bordering on exasperation, “It’s the fucking ocean. It’s still going to be here in the morning, you stupid motherfucker."
“Ray, come out here.” Brad sounds amused.
“No thanks, homes. I’m good.”
“Ray.”
“No.”
“Ray.”
“Fuck, fine.” Ray climbs to his feet and shuffles through the sand, never totally picking his feet up. When the incoming wave rolls over his toes he expects it to be a little cold but he’s pleasantly surprised to find that it’s not as bad as he thought it would be.
Brad spares him a glance when Ray draws even with him in the surf and the corner of his mouth twitches up. “You’re getting your sweats all wet.”
Ray smirks. “They’re yours.” He splutters indignantly when Brad’s response is to shove him – hard. He ends up flat on his ass with a wave slamming into his face a second later. Ray coughs up a mouthful saltwater and slaps the helping hand Brad extends away from him. “Fuckin’ asshole.” By the time he finds his feet again, Brad has drifted farther out. Ray ignores the leftover sting of salt in his throat and nose and grudgingly trudges forward.
Once he reaches the point where he's past the cresting of the waves, he kicks his feet out behind him and starts swimming. He ducks under one of the rolling waves and slicks his hair back when he surfaces. As he reaches Brad again it's easy to discern that his feet are still firmly planted on the ocean floor, though Ray's pretty sure he'd probably swallow a whole lot more saltwater if he tried, since Brad's a tall motherfucker. Ray slides his arms over Brad's shoulders and plasters himself to his tattooed back, winding his legs around Brad's waist. Ray presses his nose into the space behind Brad's left ear and inhales the unmistakable scent that is Brad mingled with the salt of the ocean. "I hope you fucking get eaten by sharks," he murmurs into wet skin.
Brad actually laughs and the sound sends a warm tingle across Ray's skin that's only heightened when Brad's hands find his calves in the water and he squeezes them. His hands tuck into the crook of Ray's knees, his thumbs rubbing gently. "I didn't mean to wake you up," Brad tells him after a long stretch of silence.
Ray adjusts his grip and crosses his arms over Brad's collarbone, curling his fingers around his own elbows to hold on. "You didn't. The lack of you did." He hears Brad huff another laugh. "In case you weren't aware, you huge Hebrew Viking, you take up a lot of fucking space. So your absence is sort of noticeable." Ray presses a kiss into the juncture of Brad's neck and shoulder. "I'm just sayin', homes."
"I couldn't sleep," Brad says by way of explanation.
"I can think of a few other ways to expend a little energy, Brad." Ray tweaks one of Brad's nipples and grins at the noise the action garners. "Fuck, man. I'd much rather wake up to you suckin' my cock than to an empty bed." He pulls his legs out of Brad's grip and shoves a foot into the small of Brad's back, pushing off. Ray snickers when Brad stumbles forward and he does a handful of backstrokes to put distance between them. It doesn't do him much good because Brad is on top of him in no time. Ray barely manages to get his mouth closed before Brad is dunking him under the water.
Brad's grin is all teeth when Ray comes back up to the surface, and Ray thinks he'd gladly swallow a whole fucking gallon of saltwater if it means making Brad smile like that. "Are you filing an official complaint?"
Ray swims backward a little, kicking lazily. "Would it do me any good?"
"Probably not," Brad concedes.
Ray uses his foot to push a wave into Brad's face and blows a raspberry at him. He gives an undignified squawk when Brad's hand wraps around his ankle, and the blond uses it to tug him closer. When he opens his mouth to make a feeble protest, he ends up swallowing another gulp of saltwater.
Brad makes this noise that's fond exasperation and palms the back of Ray's neck. "Jesus, Person. I realize that you're a big fan of swallowing, but if you don't knock it off you're going to make yourself sick."
"Solid copy, Dad." Ray grins when the hand not on his neck pinches his ass. He wriggles out of Brad's grasp and swims back toward the beach. He stops and lets his feet hit the ground again after he's gone in enough that he'll be able to stand without worrying about a potential drowning - the water is hitting him somewhere around his ribs. Ray knows without looking that Brad followed him. He can feel Brad's presence across his skin like he can feel the cool breeze that's still whipping across the water.
Brad has totally fucking failed in adhering to any sort of personal space bubble when Ray does decide to turn around. He is less than a foot away from him, and then Brad flashes this smug grin because he knows Ray isn't going to call him on it.
It isn't so much the kiss itself that surprises Ray. Rather, it's the fact that Brad is exceedingly gentle about it. Ray lifts his hands to cup Brad's face and opens his mouth when Brad sucks lightly on his bottom lip. He feels Brad's hands slide down his ribs to hold his hips, thumbs tucked into the waistband of the sweats he's wearing. He's expecting the kiss to turn heated but it never happens.
Brad maintains the slow exploration and rubs his thumbs against Ray's hipbones, tugging him as close as humanly possible.
When they pull apart, Brad ducks his head to press his face into Ray's neck, and not for the first time Ray feels an uncomfortable weight settle in his stomach. There are a lot of questions that he wants to ask about the latest stint in Iraq, but he knows the odds of Brad actually answering them any time soon are not very fucking good. He settles on asking the one that matters most. "Brad, are you okay?" he asks quietly, the fingers of his right hand massaging at the base of Brad's skull in what he hopes is a soothing manner.
There's a long stretch of silence before Brad answers him, so when he finally does, Ray knows he's being honest. "Yeah." Brad's breath ghosts lightly over Ray's neck. "I'll be fine."
"You wanna talk about it?"
"Not really." Brad pulls back enough that he can draw Ray into another slow kiss.
This time when they separate Ray just silently watches Brad for a moment, and Brad lets him. The corners of Ray's mouth tip up in a small smile and he lifts his hand to flick Brad right on the forehead. He ignores the indignant protest. His arms drape over Brad's shoulders, and then Ray raises his eyebrows expectantly. "So are we going to play Shark Bait all night, or can we go back to bed sometime this fucking century?"
Brad leans in to peck him on the lips but he can't quite hide the smile. "Sure. You clearly need your beauty sleep." He slides an arm around the small of Ray's back, his other hand firmly cupping Ray's ass when the RTO winds his legs around Brad's waist.
Ray's answering smirk is filthy. "I didn't say anything about sleeping, Colbert."
"Point." Brad's mouth opens under the onslaught of Ray's and he starts back toward the beach.