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It's not going to be a big deal.
"It's not going to be a big deal," Brad says, meaning it.
From the passenger seat, Ray cuts him a sly look he probably thinks makes him look sneaky and mysterious. Mostly, it just makes him look constipated. Curbing his tongue, Brad repeats himself.
"I'm only here three full days," he reasons.
Ray rolls his eyes under his giant aviators. Brad's paying attention to the road, but it's a motion that's so familiar, he'd have to be blind to miss it.
"You're all tense, homes. That's your problem. You're freaking out, meanwhile I'm up here a week already and I'm so relaxed my eyes are popping out." Brad focuses on the road again, ignoring the smirk Ray throws his way. "You should've let me drive."
"I am not sulking," Brad grits out before he realizes that Ray is just fucking with him. Again. Still. It's the lack of prolonged exposure, he thinks. He's getting soft.
"Who said you were? Aw, you're just pissed because the LT didn't come meet you at the airport," Ray laughs as he speaks. He's been talking this whole time. "It's okay. He just had some meetings. He still wanted to see you. Obviously." He stretches out in his seat, rolling his shoulders and changes the subject with, "You know, me and Mikey have a pool going."
"A pool?" Brad asks against his better judgement, and then curses himself for doing it, because Ray is always looking for an audience to annoy.
He smirks. "Yeah. A ‘how-long-the-LT can function without sleeping or eating' pool. Dude gets, like, laser-focused when you're not around." Ray does something ridiculous and suggestive with his eyebrows. Brad can't even really see him, but he can tell. "And when you are around, but you know, then he's usually focused on you."
Brad considers his options. They're on a stretch of highway with miles ‘til the next rest stop. Still, he tries it. "If you don't shut up," he starts. "I will wring your whiskey-tango neck." He speaks slowly. Precisely.
It doesn't work.
"There's not a rest stop for miles," Ray says conversationally. "Where would you hide my sweet ass?" His head is cocked to the side slightly, like this is actually something he has to consider.
Brad doesn't kill him, but it's a pretty close thing.
The cabin the four of them are staying in is nice. Spacious, but sparse. There are no photographs in the entrance hall, but an original Feininger print by the mantel in the den. The color scheme is warm but not particularly inviting, and if Brad didn't recognize the knit Afghan on the couch as one shared from his mother's considerable collection, the room could stump for a spread in Architecture Today or maybe Great Living Rooms Weekly.
Nate himself is nowhere to be seen, although that doesn't stop Ray from dropping Brad's duffel on the spotless hardwood and flopping down on the cream-colored leather couch by the bay windows. He kicks his feet up on the coffee table and stretches out like this is an everyday occurrence.
It might be.
"This isn't my house," he starts, but Ray cuts him off.
He's still wearing his sunglasses. He still looks like an idiot. "Yet," he enunciates, and the heaviness of that ‘t' resonates. "‘sides, Mikey, me and the LT have been crashing here way longer than you, Mr. I-relocated-to-Africa-just-for-kicks."
Brad rolls his eyes. "Get your fucking feet off the glass," he mutters, ignoring Ray in favor of shoving his legs off, satisfied by the thump his boots make against the floor.
"What the fuck," Ray says, but there's no heat in it. He's already distracted by something else, flicking on the mounted flat-screen with practiced ease and getting comfortable. He doesn't even try to prop his feet up again. "Hey, you wanna watch the fight? Nate's been springing for Pay Per View all week, even though he never watches TV."
Brad considers his options. He's been traveling for two days. What he'd really like is a hot shower, a pizza and Nate's company. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask, but he can see Ray's brows raise above the rims of his ridiculous glasses and decides against it.
"Why the fuck not," he says, and sits on the other end of the couch.
Brad wakes to darkness and the Afghan tucked up around his shoulders. He squints down at his watch, but it's still set to Somali time, which renders it pretty useless, even if he can do the math in his head. He starts to sit up, surprised by the warm weight against his toes and smiles when he sees Nate slumped over his feet, looking much younger than his years in a fitted sweater and gray slacks.
He's asleep, which is the most endearing part, although Brad's not going to be the one to say so. He glances across the room to the digital clock beneath the TV and winces at the bright red numbers blinking back at him. 3:07am is way too early for anybody to be awake, let alone a recon Marine on his first day of a shortened leave.
"Hi," Nate mumbles, waking next to him. He rubs the sleep from his eyes using the heel of his palm and smiles even though half his face is obstructed.
"Hey," Brad returns, voice hushed as though they still have something to hide.
"I had lunch with my parents and then meetings that ran late," Nate says, yawning. "The mayor would like me to write his biography." He makes a face that Brad can only just make out in the low light. "He doesn't like to take no for an answer."
"Me either," Brad says with a smile.
"I would've been there, otherwise."
Brad shrugs. He hadn't been worried. He says as much, and Nate laughs, lovely and sleep-warm.
"When do you ever worry?" Nate asks, but it doesn't come off as playful as it should. They both remember the type of blood-curdling fear they faced in Iraq. Anything Brad could ever fret over now almost always pales in comparison.
Instead of responding, he leans forward. Nate's nails dig into his shoulders as they kiss, and they fumble awkwardly to get closer together. It's been the better part of a year since they've been this close.
When they pull apart to breathe, Brad stares at the flush on Nate's cheeks. It mingles with the freckles there.
"It's okay," Brad says, eventually, responding to a comment that seems centuries old now. "If that's the kind of ‘hello' I get, who am I to complain?"
"Someone who likes complaining," Nate says, and that's not entirely accurate either. He winces like he can hear Brad's thoughts, and adds, "I'm fucking this up. Everything I say to you is wrong."
"That's my line," Brad says, circling his arms like a vice around Nate's waist to stop him from squirming away. Nate flashes a smile, relieved, and Brad responds in kind. Resisting Nate is what got them here in the first place.
"Would it be inappropriate to say I missed you?" Nate asks, voice low and brows quirked. There's a hint of a smile at his mouth, and Brad wants to kiss it off him. He doesn't. Patience is his strongest virtue.
"Yes," Brad says. "But say it anyway."
In the morning—the actual morning, where the sun is a heavy, shining ball of light in the sky—Brad makes coffee and contemplates calling his parents. He hasn't mentioned it to anyone, the concept of having them come to this thing, but he thinks that maybe it would be nice.
They're just the type of Commie, ex-hippies that might get a kick out of their only son laying waste to the family name by marrying a man.
Nate stumbles into the kitchen already immaculately pressed. His hair is a little longer than it was when they served together, but he's as neat and well kept as ever. The way his gaze rakes over Brad's skin makes him want to stand straighter, broader, but he forces himself to retain his casual slouch, waiting for the coffee to brew.
"Morning," Nate says, breaking the silence and startling Brad out of their inadvertent staring match. He's definitely losing his edge. Spending prolonged amounts of time with Nate always makes him stupid, but he's not usually this obvious about it.
Brad kisses him instead of returning the greeting, and he can feel Nate smile against his mouth. He takes like spearmint from his mouthwash, and Brad's tongue chases the taste.
The toaster chimes, the coffee finishes dripping, Brad's watch beeps a timely reminder of imminent proceedings. They break the kiss because the morning has officially started, and they need to start with it.
"Tomorrow will be fine," Nate says when they've separated, seated on either side of the kitchen table as Brad stares down at his phone and contemplates e-invitations and Nate sips from the chipped I ♥ CHINA mug Brad got him years ago. Nate reaches out and squeezes Brad's fingers reassuringly. Beneath the table, their feet wind together. "I'm assured of this."
Brad's control hasn't been this shot since he was eleven and jerking off to leftover porn rags. He says, "I know it's not really supposed to be a big deal, but I was thinking of inviting my parents."
*
Brad has to go back to Africa. They'd gotten special dispensation for him to come back at all, and this was the one weekend in a year their schedules could sync up. When he says it's not going to be a big deal, he means it. It's him and Nate, Mike and Ray and Nate's parents, but not his sisters. There'll be a small dinner, but they're not wearing coats and tails. The decision hadn't been all that difficult to come to, really. Brad's not a fan of dealing with shame. When he'd asked, Nate's answer had been simple and effective.
Brad's a big fan of the word yes.
*
"How long have you been thinking about it?"
Brad's pretty good with words. He's deferential. He can string a sentence together and have it count, but the only descriptor he can think for Nate's eyes is ‘piercing', and somehow that doesn't seem right, not with how warm they are.
He shrugs but doesn't look away. His father used to say there was nothing so terrifying as a direct gaze, and even though Brad knows better now, he's found he still likes it.
"Since we decided, I guess," he says. "I haven't really spoken to them."
Somali communication has come a long way in the last ten years, but the Internet connection is never as strong as it could be, and calls are monitored, even for consultants.
Nate nods, sipping the last dregs of coffee from his mug and groaning appreciatively. Brad stares. It's something he's getting really good at.
"I'd love to see them again," Nate says. He's always been far too kind for his own good. "The one time we met was far too brief." The one time they met, it was at the medical hospital at Pendleton, and Brad's leg was in danger of being amputated.
He tries not to think about it.
"I'm glad you have fond memories of it," he mumbles, and then laughs again as Nate leans out to cuff him against the stomach, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive muscles there.
"Fond," Nate snorts, sitting up straighter. "I'm amazed they didn't have me committed for ‘crazed stalking of a military facility'. It was touch-and-go there for a while."
"Ray almost killed you," Brad says, remembering suddenly and laughing at the memory. "Shit, he almost killed me, coming back and forth with messages from the front." He clears his throat, doing a passable imitation. "‘Homes, the LT's, like, pacing a hole through the floor. Can you pace a hole through tile? Whatever, fuck it, he can. You need to fix yourself up.' Like I could control it."
Nate's smile dims, but doesn't disappear entirely, and he hasn't moved away yet, either. Brad's still calling the morning a success. "You're Brad Colbert," Nate says, squeezing his hand absently. "Of course you could."
Nate has an appointment at 0930 that'll likely go through the morning, but still they're meeting back at the cabin before going out to their fittings in the early afternoon. They discuss it for the second time standing in the mouth of the kitchen, and Nate's fidgeting in a way that shows all his tells.
"I think it would be best," he says, and then straightens his tie again, even though it wasn't askew.
"I'm not disagreeing," Brad says, leaning on the fridge for leverage. Nate isn't short, but he's still smaller than Brad is, and most of the time it's a difference worth exploiting. "I don't know how prudent it is to drive all the way back out here to the boonies if I'm already going to be in town anyway, but—"
Nate leans back on his heels, and Brad tries not to smile again, but it's difficult. "I drive an economy car, Brad." He says it like that's the final word he'll hear about it. "It'll be fine."
"I'm sure your gas tank can handle it if you can," Brad says, innocuous enough, but for some reason, the mirth just bubbles right out of him. He can't control the laugh, and it gets Nate too, the absurdity of their situation, the domesticity of the conversation they've started.
"I know you're mocking me," Nate murmurs as he leans forward again, tugging Brad forward by the collar of his shirt and pressing a quick kiss to the tender skin at his neck. "But for some reason, I don't care."
"It's cabin fever," Brad responds, but most of his words are lost in the press of their lips and the surprising way Nate's teeth nip against his mouth like punctuation.
Ray's been out of the service for a year and some change, and the difference in him is immense, if not immediately detectable. He still sings along to terrible songs on the radio, he still smokes like a sailor and talks with his mouth full, but his shoulders don't droop as much. His hands don't shake on the steering wheel either, and while he doesn't wait at red lights like a normal person, he slows now, waiting before the attempted murder of some slow-footed pedestrians.
"Assholes," he says, not even bothering to whisper the insult under his breath. "Some people have places to be, grandma!" The old woman in the crosswalk flips him off, and for some reason that makes Ray laugh. He honks appreciatively.
"Stop flirting with the elderly, Ray," Brad says, and the look Ray shoots him through his sunglasses drags him back to Iraq faster than anything else has managed to. "You can get her number later."
They've kept in touch—quick texts when Brad's in the country, emails when a laptop is accessible, the rare phone call—but it's been a while since they've spent an abundance of time together. It would be a stretch to say that Brad's missed it, but he still hasn't found a better RTO. He's looked.
Ray snorts. "You think I don't have her number?" he asks, and then speaks over himself to add, "You think I need her fucking number? Milly and me park it at the Steak ‘n Shake every night."
There are hand-gestures that accompany the words, of course, and Brad finds himself laughing again, unable to really resist. "At least it's a step above goat fucking," he muses, watching as Ray laughs again.
"You think they have goats up here in New Hampshire?"
They go to a diner that Ray's become a regular at already. He calls them liberal dick sucks to their faces, but the locals seem to find it charming rather than offensive.
Over breakfast, Ray explains it to him. "They're so open-minded that their brains are falling out, homes," he says, nearly spitting coffee on their menus. "This would be zombie heaven if the undead could learn to deal with the snow."
"I'm surprised you know how to deal with the snow," Brad says, leaning back against the cracked red leather booth and spreading his arms out. He kicks Ray under the table.
Ray kicks back before responding. The little fucker has always had weirdly precise aim. "I can leave whenever I want," he says with a casual shrug. He drinks more coffee, and probably sees it as an accomplishment that only half of it dribbles out of his mouth.
"I don't know why I'm being seen with you in public." Brad kicks him again, and Ray shoots him back a smile that's way too fond for the insult to have stuck its landing. Brad really is getting soft.
"You love your Ray-Ray," Ray responds dutifully and with another smile. This one shows all his teeth. "You asked me to be your best man!"
Brad groans, and Ray takes the opportunity to steal a piece of his toast. "It was a moment of weakness."
Ray snorts. "Poke turned you down, huh?"
Brad considers this. "And Doc, and all my buddies from school, and Rudy."
"You did not ask Fruity Rudy before you asked me," Ray says, his speech confident. "‘sides. You don't have any buddies from school."
He's right, but Brad's not going to tell him so. He raises his brows, starting to smile in earnest when Ray's smile drops.
"Don't be needy, Ray."
Ray kicks him again, the heel of his pointy-toed boot clipping against Brad's bad knee. Brad hisses a breath in through his teeth and Ray grins again, bright and cheery. He still looks like an idiot.
"Don't be an asshole Brad," he says, and then he laughs like a fucking hyena. "Oh, wait."
"I could just uninvite you," Brad says, even though he's not sure if he really can. He doesn't rub the bruise forming on his knee, no matter how hard it's starting to throb. It's a matter of principal.
Ray rolls his eyes. He's wearing the aviators again, but they're pushed up onto the crown of his head, holding back the mass of unruly hair that seemed to spring out of nowhere when he left the service.
"You could try," Ray reasons. "Pretty sure the LT would have something to say about it, though."
"Nate only puts up with you because I do," Brad says. Ray snorts again and steals another piece of toast.
"Oh yeah? That's why he invited me up here for the last week, homes." Ray says. He rolls his eyes.
"Nate is very polite," Brad mutters, and Ray laughs again, using Brad's toast to shovel down the last bites of his breakfast burrito.
"You can try to hide it," he croons, mouth still full. Brad's efforts not to laugh are noble, but he just can't hold it in. He drops his head, focusing on his mug of lukewarm coffee and the sting of his teeth against his bottom lip. "But I know you love me."
"What I know is that you were dropped on your head a lot as a child," Brad says. "That's about it."
"What are you saying, homes?" Ray asks. "Are you saying my parents were unfit? The shame, Bradley. The shame."
Brad signals to the waitress for their check. "I'm just repeating what we've assumed all along, Ray. You don't have parents. You were raised by wolves."
Ray drops him off at the cabin a full hour before he's supposed to meet Nate, and Brad spends the time appreciating the sunshine, even though it's barely 40 degrees in New Hampshire. It's in the 90s in Somalia nearly every day, but 90 degrees in Africa feels like 120 degrees anywhere else. Brad appreciates the heat, but he likes the sting of the cold too. He's missed it.
He calls his parents on a whim, dragging out the cell phone he has for civilian visits and punching in the code for speed dial three. His father answers on the second ring, out of breath and raspy when he says hello. Brad can hear the worry in his voice before he takes in anything else.
"Hi, Dad," he says, and his father's sigh of relief is nearly palpable in its weight.
"You don't want to hear this," his father says in a tone that clearly states he's going to hear it anyway. "But every time the phone rings with this number, my heart tries to escape my chest."
It's not exactly news, but Brad doesn't comment on it. "I'm fine," he says. "Arms and legs still attached."
"Are you stateside?"
Brad swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "Last night. Here ‘til Monday, 1200."
His father makes an inquisitive noise. "Is everything—" he stops himself, and Brad regrets the sudden silence. "I know you can't answer that question," he says. "Are we being invaded? Are there aliens on the loose?"
Brad's father has always been a geek, his opposite in most things aside from family, and the joke catches him off guard, but it shouldn't. It takes him a while to stop laughing.
"Do not tell anyone about the little green men," he says. "It's a matter of national security."
"You can trust me," his dad says. "It's not like I have the Enquirer on speed dial or anything." There's a rustling noise on the other end of the line, and Brad laughs again, the nerves in his stomach loosening.
"I, uh," Brad coughs. The rustling stops immediately. "I'm here for a reason."
"Presumably it's not to get some much-needed leisure time."
"Presumably," Brad parrots, and then, "I'm getting married. Tomorrow." He exhales quickly, sharply, and the air only stings a little as he pushes it past his throat. "I'd like it if you and Mom could attend, but I understand that it's incredibly short notice."
His father is quiet for much longer than Brad thinks is really necessary. He starts to count in his head, a trick a babysitter taught him years ago as a way to combat with stress. It's amazing, the information children retain.
He's at thirty-six when his father shouts, "Gloria," loud enough for the neighbors to hear. "Gloria, Bradley's getting married."
Brad's not surprised at all when his mother picks up the downstairs extension, and even less so when she says, "You're only telling us now?"
"The details only got hammered down a few days ago, Ma." he says, nearly blushing despite his age. "This is the first time I got a real chance to call."
"I suppose it's Lieutenant Fick," she says, and despite her posturing, everything in her tone is fond. "A non-denominational service?"
"Yes." Brad considers saying more, but decides against it.
She hums under her breath, and then adds, "Was this an invitation, or are you just informing us of the upcoming nuptials?" It shouldn't surprise him, how direct she is, but it does every time, even though he got his manners from her.
Brad clears his throat once, and when he finds that it's not sufficient enough, does it again. "Um," he says, stalling to compile his words. "I'd love for you to be here."
"And where is ‘here'?" she asks.
"New Hampshire," he responds quickly. "We're in a cabin outside of Hanover." He pauses, mentally flicking through Nate's e-mails. "Nate knows the owners, I'm not sure how. Probably through—"
"He went to Dartmouth, Bradley," his mother says. "Of course he knows someone with a cabin in Hanover." Brad laughs, even though he didn't think he would, not during a conversation about something like this.
"Will you come?" he asks, eventually, when his parents have started to talk to each other instead of him. He checks his watch, but it's still set to Somali time. Nate should be here soon, regardless.
"Are you kidding?" his mother asks. "My only son is getting married. We'll be on the next flight out."
Brad grins even as his stomach drops. "I'll buy your tickets now," he says. "I'll forward you the flight information."
It's not much later when Nate says, "Hey," quietly. Brad hadn't heard him approach, but Nate has always been quiet and surefooted.
Brad pats the space next to him. The wood is warm against his palms, and he's been sitting in the sun so long he barely still feels the chill in the air.
Nate smiles. Brad can tell, even though his eyes are closed. "You make quite the striking picture, but I can't. Fittings, remember? Sorry I'm late."
Brad shrugs, rolling up to his feet. "I remember," he says, jumping the two steps down to the dirt path and dropping his arm around Nate's shoulders. "It would be tough to forget a stranger measuring my ...inseam."
Nate laughs, the sound loud and bright. Brad squeezes his shoulders, dropping a kiss to the top of his hair. Through a process of elimination, he's discovered that these are the worst moments; getting Nate in the quiet afternoons, drinking in his scent and the way his hair feels against Brad's mouth—these are the memories that are the last to leave and the first he has to learn again when he comes home.
"Gregor's been doing mine for years now," Nate says pleasantly. "I'm sure there will be no untoward action."
At the car, a rusty little Ford that's years old and barely fits them both, Brad says, "You had your pants tailored in college?"
Nate shrugs, and in the sunlight, the tension he'd been holding in his shoulders seems to melt away. He grins. "Of course," he says. "I went to Dartmouth."
They finish with their fittings in the early evening. The shop is as bright and picturesque as everything else in town, and they take a walk through the square after Gregor locks up with the promise their clothes will be delivered to the cabin early the next morning.
They hold hands as they walk, the path lit only from the street lamps blinking merrily every few feet. Brad laughs at the absurdity of it.
"What?" Nate asks eventually, squeezing Brad's palm.
They've wandered a little further from the center of town, and the lights are dimmer by the trees, but Brad can still make out the general store, the town meeting hall and the one grocery they have for miles.
"I'm half expecting some cartoon doves to fly down and land on your shoulder," he says. It starts out as a joke, maybe, but Nate's face is tipped up, the moon lighting up his hair. It's not beauty, they're too battle-scarred for that, he thinks, but it's something.
"It's a nice town," Nate responds. It's gotten chillier as the sun has fallen, but they don't move for a while, appreciating the smell of pine and falling snow. "The cabin belonged to one of my professors from school." He shrugs, blinking at Brad as he comes back to himself. "I can't remember if I told you."
Brad thinks back. "You might've," he says. "There's just—"
"You get hit with a lot on a daily basis."
"Less than you'd think." This isn't the time to have this conversation, but no time is the right time to discuss war. "It's not as bad as Iraq, Nate." He shrugs, and doesn't let go of Nate's hand, even when he tries to pull away. "I'm in the tents, mostly, working with the computers." Nate makes a face, but doesn't push. It's probably more than Brad should be saying anyway.
"I still don't like it," he says, pushing the words slowly through his teeth. He's starting to shiver, but he hasn't noticed it yet.
Brad raises a brow. "You turning into a liberal dick suck now too, Fick?"
Nate laughs. "More and more every day," he says.
"I told my parents," Brad blurts. Nate blinks his surprise, but when he smiles, it's genuine. "They're, um. I bought their tickets. They're taking the red eye into Logan. They'll be there in the morning."
Nate squeezes his fingers again. "Good," he says with a smile. "That's really good." In the car, before he flicks on the heater, he says, "Wait, Logan? Why not at least have them fly to somewhere in the state? Manchester's not even a two-hour drive from here."
The drive to Boston is almost three hours, but with Ray behind the wheel, it only takes two. Brad attributes it to the earliness of the morning and the fact that Ray drives like a lunatic.
Brad doesn't clutch at the door handle, but he's immune. In short-term parking, he says, "I'm driving on the way up."
Ray rolls his eyes. "You drove two days ago, homes. Not fair."
"In case it escaped your notice, I'd like my parents to arrive at their hotel in one piece."
"Whatever," Ray mumbles under his breath, but he tosses over the keys anyway.
They don't have to wait long before the flight from Phoenix is announced as arrived, and Brad's aware of how they mirror each other in posture; fists stuffed in their pockets and legs apart, but posture straight. He can see Ray tapping out a beat out against his hip, matching the cheery Christmas Muzak hanging overhead.
It's about thirty-seconds before Ray starts singing about Santa being his baby when he hears his mother's voice, her, "Bradley!" piercing through the crowd. When he turns, they're there, dragging a duffel between them and wrapped in festive scarves and gloves, even though they're rarely a necessity in the southeast.
"Is it possible he's grown?" She's asking his father.
When they're close enough, she drops her end of the bag and launches herself at Brad, arms wrapping tightly around his waist because she's not tall enough to hug his neck.
"I told your father I wasn't going to make a scene," she whispers, pulling back after a moment and discreetly wiping at the corners of her eyes. "I promised, actually." She takes a deep breath, but that doesn't stop the tears, and she hides her face for a moment, palms wiping at the mess on her cheeks.
Brad leans close, hugging her again. "It's okay," he says, as she clings to the material of his sweatshirt.
"Josh," she says, when she's disentangled herself from Brad and wiped her face again. "You're looking well." She stops short of actually hauling Ray in for a hug, but she touches his face softly, like he's delicate instead of a war vet.
"Mrs. C," Ray says. "When are you going to leave these lugs and run away with me?" He does the hugging, pulling both of Brad's parents close and charming them with language surprisingly unadorned by his normal whiskey-tango bullshit.
Eventually he and Brad's mother walk ahead, leaving Brad and his father a few paces behind. Brad reaches over and hoists up the duffel, despite the protests. His dad pushes up his glasses and quietly says, "You're fighting wars every day, son. Let me do this."
It's a hell of a lot of sentiment to pour on within the first five minutes of their visit, but Brad hands the bag back over, pretending to miss the sly smirk that crosses his father's face.
Both Nate and Mike are at the cabin when they get there, a full breakfast spread out in the kitchen, even though they don't really have time for it.
"You shouldn't have done this, Nate," Brad's mother says, but that doesn't actually stop her from buttering a croissant and taking advantage of the French Roast. She pats Mike's shoulder softly with a, "Hello, Michael." He stands as she comes around, and makes space for her at the table.
In the hall, Brad curls his fingers over Nate's arm and says, "You really shouldn't have. They already like you. No need to try and impress them."
Nate smirks. "What if I was trying to impress you?"
"With breakfast treats?"
Nate shrugs, one shoulder lifting with ease. "It was a start."
Brad leans forward, crowding into Nate's space and going for a kiss. There's a creak on the hardwood, and Brad doesn't even have to turn around to know it's Ray.
"What," he says, not bothering to look.
The mirth in Nate's eyes fills him in on all the details. "You do whatever you want," Ray projects, practically shouting to ensure Brad's parents will hear. "But there are good, God-fearing people here, homes. People with eyes. Lock that shit up."
"Shut up, Ray," Brad says, and he still can't see his face, but he can hear the smile anyway.
Nate pulls away, pressing a firm hand to Brad's chest. "He's right, though," he says quietly, once Ray has padded back into the kitchen.
"He's an idiot."
"We do have to start getting ready soon."
Brad hums, thinking through his answer before he goes with, "It's sport coats over ties, Nate, not suits of armor."
"Or fatigues," Nate offers. He tilts his head back just so, just enough that the light flickers against his face and Brad can see the crows feet starting to form in the corners of his eyes. They're getting too old for this.
Brad clears his throat unnecessarily. It brings Nate's attention, of course, which makes this more like a declaration than he'd intended. He takes a breath.
"You know that I love you," he says. It's not what he intended to say, and Nate's eyes widen with the kind of amused surprise that comes when rotund children fall off their bikes or Ray starts to sing.
Nate smiles. "Do you?"
Brad groans. "Obviously. You think I would make us go through all this if I didn't?"
Nate considers this and grins again. "I suggested a beach in Tahiti. You turned me down." He laughs again, that same surprised one that has a way of lighting up his face like nothing else.
"We wouldn't have had any time together," Brad says, even though it's a place he's always wanted to go. The surfing is supposed to be insane. "I'd've picked the water every time, babe. Sorry."
Nate kisses him quickly, and then steps back with another smile. "I know. Eat a bagel and then go get ready, okay?"
From behind them, Ray says, "Let's get this show on the road."
The service itself is over in twelve minutes.
Brad doesn't remember much of it, to be honest. He'd nodded along with the minister's words, voice controlled as he promised to protect Nate for the rest of his life. It wasn't a hard promise to make.
At lunch, they get bombarded with calls from their friends. Poke and Gina are first, then Mike has Rudy on speaker, and they all crowd around, listening to him laugh good-naturedly about not being invited.
Nate speaks quietly, crouching down to where Mike's holding the phone, probably getting dust on his tailored slacks. He doesn't seem to notice or care.
"We thought the less attention we brought to ourselves the better." He sounds resigned, if not sad, and Brad squeezes his fingers, offering the only comfort he can with so many people around. "I'm sorry."
"I understand, brother," Rudy says, wishing them well. The rest of the calls are like that too, although Walt's voice almost cracks over the line as he tells Brad to take care of the LT.
"I like to think we'll be taking care of each other," Nate says quietly and Brad's face heats. He feels his mother's hand settling on his shoulder. She doesn't say anything, just squeezes once, lightly, and steps away again. Brad is always grateful for his parents, but never more so than in this moment.
On his other side, Ray digs his elbow so deep against Brad's ribs that he knows for certain he'll have a bruise.
"You hear that, Brad?" he asks, voice so low it's barely a whisper. "The LT wants to take care of you, too. What a nice boy."
Brad rolls his eyes. "Shut up, Ray."
They move back to their seats. Brad slots next to Nate and squeezes his knee under the table. Nate smiles at him and his eyes look glassy.
Under his breath, Brad whispers, "This is a pretty good group of people." It makes Nate smile, so Brad counts it as a success.
"I like them."
They're not very demonstrative, or at least they haven't been, but that doesn't stop Nate from lolling his head against Brad's shoulder and squeezing their hands together.
Ray offers to drive the parents to their hotel, even though Nate tells them repeatedly to stay at the cabin with them. Nate's folks have gone ahead, but Brad's mother just hugs them both and whispers a goodbye against their cheeks. They both have to bend for her to reach.
"I suppose we won't see you tomorrow," she says, and Brad has to give her credit, she keeps her voice steady. She's not even crying, although her nose is red enough that he knows she will be soon.
"Mrs. Colbert," Nate says and steps forward to comfort her, his hands on her arms. "You are more than welcome to come with us to the airport."
She laughs, wetly, and then starts to cry in earnest, even though she ducks her head to hide it, wiping at her eyes with the skin of her wrist. In the dusky light from the setting sun, she looks older than she should. Brad tries to apologize, but the words lodge sticky in his throat, uncooperative.
"Mom," he starts, but she stops him, holding onto his hands.
"It's always easier when I don't actually have to see him leave," she says, ignoring Brad's pleas in favor of looking Nate right in the eye. "I always try to stop him if I do."
"That was one time," his dad chimes in, coming to rest on the stair above theirs, still half a head shorter than Brad. "TSA didn't let you climb over the barrier."
His mother sniffs, but there's a smile lurking beneath her frown. "They wanted to, though," she says. "One of them was a mother. They understand." She hugs Brad again, and then Nate just as strongly, kissing both their cheeks. "I love you," she says.
"Let us know when you've arrived," his dad says, holding his hand out to shake. Nate takes it, thanks them for coming, and then steps back, giving Brad space to say goodbye.
"He's a good man, Bradley," his father says, once Nate is out of earshot. His voice is very low.
Brad nods, but words don't come easily. "I know," he says eventually.
"I love you," his father says quietly, squeezing Brad's arm once, and then taking off down the stairs. He doesn't look back, spine straight as he walks to Ray's rental. Brad doesn't blame him.
They hang out with Ray and Mike until the evening tips into the later hours. Brad's not entirely buzzed, but he's on the way there, and he doesn't stop himself from nuzzling against Nate's neck or leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses there.
The guys booked a room in town for the night, so Brad and Nate will have the cabin to themselves. When Ray says goodbye, that's all he mentions. "Are you kidding me with this shit, homes? You want me to have to listen to your kinky married people sex? I've already seen enough. No way. The earbuds Mikey and I got aren't strong enough."
Mike just rolls his eyes and says, "Don't call me ‘Mikey', Person," and drags him out of the room. They don't exchange formal goodbyes. Ray, to his credit, doesn't make much noise about it.
Over his shoulder, though, he calls, "You better send me a smoke signal the second your ass touches down on Somali soil, motherfucker!"
When it's just the two of them, Nate wraps his arm around Brad's waist, leaning his head against his shoulder. A strange sense of contentment warms his belly, and Brad feels right here, good here, so of course that's when he remembers that he's leaving again in the morning, and it might be a whole year before he gets this again.
He stiffens against Nate's side.
Nate notices, of course, and says, "Don't think about it," quietly, plaintively.
Brad thinks about deflecting, but doesn't. They're married, now. "Can't," he mutters. His eyes feel gritty, skin raw even though he's showered today. He doesn't feel clean. "What else is there to think about?"
Their eyes meet, Nate's a cool green and soothing. "I don't know," he says honestly, dropping his arm from around Brad's waist only to tug him toward the couch by the hand. "We could think about the fact that the next twelve hours are ours."
The warm feeling in his stomach has settled into nerves. Brad rubs his palms against his eyes and asks, "And after that?"
Nate laughs, but even now that they're alone, the sound is still quiet. Brad can feel it settle into his bones. It's not something he'll easily forget. "Are you asking me if we can fuck other people while you're away?"
Brad blinks at him. After so much time in the service, Nate's poker face is excellent, but they've been together long enough. Brad knows all of his tells, can't miss the smile in Nate's eyes.
"Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of getting married, sir?"
Nate laughs again, as quiet and warm as ever. He shrugs, palms up, and he should look ridiculous, still half dressed in their fancy wedding clothes, but somehow he doesn't.
"I love you," Brad says clearly. His fingernails cut grooves into his palms, but there it is. He did it twice.
Nate smiles at him. "And I you."
When they kiss now, Brad can taste salt on his lips, but he ignores it in favor of riding his palms low on Nate's hips. Their clothes come off easily, and Brad thinks vaguely that they should probably take more care with their tailored garments, but he doesn't care as much as he should.
They don't fuck right there on the couch, because Brad's knees aren't what they used to be, but the bed is just as exciting; the down mattress and matching pillows somehow the softest thing Brad's felt in months.
"I don't want to leave," he mumbles against the skin of Nate's belly, face pressed against the soft and rounded skin there. "I never want to leave you."
Nate tightens his arms and says, "I know," but he doesn't return the sentiment. There are some things that don't need to be said aloud to be true.