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Roughly two weeks into their mandatory month of leave, Bradley wakes up alone. There’s a subtle ache to his ribs – no longer sharp, which he counts as a win – and a bit of a crick in his neck. He spends the first few moments taking stock of his body, clenching his fingers in the sheets, pointing his feet and stretching his ankles, lazily lifting his hips off the bed with the force of his yawn until he settles back down.
(All good, he can hear his mom saying. Fingers and toes accounted for, no doctor needed. She’d tug him out of bed with a smile before she started breakfast, and Bradley would sigh and decide to wait another day to try to convince her to let him stay home from the horrible woes of third grade.)
Bradley wakes up alone, but there’s the distinct sound of sizzling bacon and the scent of omelets wafting through the house, and he finds himself smiling when he looks at the empty space next to him. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, rotating his shoulders and rolling his neck before he finally stands. There’s a certain ache in his knees – thirty-eight had come with another reminder that getting older had its consequences – but he stretches past it, wandering into the bathroom with a wide yawn.
He doesn’t have an extensive morning routine; his pales in comparison to Jake’s several-step process to keep his skin young, Rooster, some of us don’t want sunspots by age forty, but Bradley just laughs. Jake’s gotten him to use moisturizer and sunscreen, that’s as far as he intends to go. He’ll wear his age the way his dad should’ve been able to.
By the time he shuffles his way out of the bathroom, the smell of coffee has mixed with breakfast, and he can’t keep the smile off his face as he makes his way past the living room. The soft sound of the radio reaches his ears– a sports channel that Jake always listens to on Sunday mornings to keep up with the games he can’t watch– just barely louder than the pop and sizzle of bacon.
When Bradley finally pads into the kitchen, he feels his chest tighten abruptly, breath sticking heavy in his throat.
Jake has his back turned away from the entryway— his hips are propped against the counter while he prods at the pan with a spatula, leg bent at the knee in a lazy slouch. His hair sticks up in the back from the imprint of the pillow, the result of always ending up sleeping on his back every night, and there’s the barest brush of hair curled over his ears from the growth of it on their extended leave– his shadowed stubble is nearly visible from the way his body is tilted.
That’s not what nearly brings Bradley to his knees, though. Not entirely, at least.
Right there in his kitchen is Jake– in his shirt. The mint base of it brings out the golden tint of his skin, melting with the warmth of the light spilling in from the windows. There’s a frankly obnoxious pattern of lilies smattered all over the body of it and he knows that it’s one Jake’s made fun of before, remembers when he told Bradley that he looked like a walking Hallmark ad– and yet. He’s wearing it like it’s a second skin, swathed in the bright colors in a way that makes Bradley’s chest ache– the oversized seams of it slip off Jake’s shoulders and the hem of it stops just past the tops of his thighs. He’s wearing threadbare gray boxers and no shirt beneath it, of course, just the golden gleam of his adonis belt and the magnetizing aura that surrounds him.
(He thinks he remembers a story about the shirt from his mother. She’d told him it was something his dad had picked up from a kitschy tourist shop in Pensacola, no doubt meant for real newcomers to the area. He’d brought it all the way home to her just to watch the way her eyes rolled at another addition to their overflowing closet; the way she couldn’t keep her eyes off of it for weeks to come when she leaned over the piano to kiss him.)
(Bradley thinks he understands the wistful smile she’d worn, now. He spares a thought for Nick and Carole somewhere up above, no doubt laughing to themselves at how predictable Bradley turned out to be. Only Heaven and Ice could’ve known that he’d fall in love the way his parents had.)
Jake’s chin tilts to the side just slightly, clearly aware that Bradley’s walked into the kitchen by now. There’s a grin visible on his face when he catches Bradley staring, but Bradley couldn’t tear his eyes away if he wanted to– Jake’s in his shirt. There’s a beautiful boy in his kitchen and his clothes, poring over their breakfast with coffee already in the pot. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve something like this, but he’ll spend the rest of his life making good on it.
“Some people might tell you to take a picture,” Jake says, the smirk evident in his voice. “It’ll last longer, all that.”
“Forgot to grab my phone,” Bradley replies, staying put where he leans against the doorframe. The soft admiration remains on his face, eyes trailing over the soft slope of Jake’s shoulders and the shimmering strands of his hair– a halo crowning him, making Bradley’s eyes twinkle. Jake just hums, turning towards the stovetop again and pushing the spatula back and forth through what Bradley thinks might be scrambled eggs. He’s not paying too much attention, truthfully– he’s only got eyes for Jake.
It’s a few more moments before Jake deems them cooked enough, lifting the pan over to the cooler burner and turning off the stovetop. Bradley watches him methodically portion out the eggs and arrange them on both their plates - piled high with bacon and grits already - until he’s finally out of ways to keep Bradley waiting. When he turns, there’s a lovely flush rising in his cheeks– he crosses his arms against his bare chest, and Bradley feels his own heart rate kick up desperately. His shirt shifts a little further, the vee of his adonis belt visible, and Bradley nearly falls to his knees.
(Jake seems like he’s still getting used to the way Bradley wants him. Not out of a lack of comfort, no– Bradley thinks he doesn’t expect it. He suspects Jake’s never been the center of anyone’s attention like that, and what a fucking shame. Jake deserves to be worshiped by the altar.)
“You gonna stand there all day?” Jake asks, his voice a fraction quieter. The smile on his face is more open– vulnerable.
“Thinking about it,” Bradley replies, eyes roving over Jake’s body slow and lazy. He intends to drink his fill. “Can you blame me?”
“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” Jake says, and Bradley finally pushes off the doorframe just to step into Jake’s space.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just syrupy moments between them suspended in time. One hand drifts beneath the shirt, sliding across the warm skin of Jake’s hip to rest at the small of his back, pushing with just enough pressure to bring Jake into the circle of his arms. He feels the slight shiver that runs through Jake, watches his eyes flick down between them before he tilts his chin up to meet Bradley’s eyes. Bradley’s other hand reaches up to cup Jake’s jaw, thumbing over the divot of his chin– delighting in how Jake’s eyes flutter shut.
“Never gonna get tired of the view, baby,” Bradley murmurs, the hand on Jake’s hip traveling up the line of his spine and back down, tugging him impossibly closer. “You’re a fucking vision.”
He watches with a heated satisfaction as Jake’s lips part in a pretty pink ‘O’, feeling the puff of his breath on his cheek. Jake leans heavier into Bradley’s hand on his jaw, noses closer until their lips could brush with ease. “Says you,” Jake mumbles, eyes bright, a little glassy. “Should be illegal for you to keep your boxers that low. Indecent and all that.”
Bradley laughs, soft and sweet as he traces over the dimples at the base of Jake’s spine. “Indecent, huh? Like you aren’t standing here in my shirt, my boxers, nothing else– you’re every man’s wet dream,” he says, voice shot in a desperate kind of way. “Can’t believe I have you, can’t believe you let me–”
Jake surges up to kiss Bradley before the sentence finishes with a quiet little gasp, something Bradley swallows up as he feels the brush of Jake’s tongue. It should be filthy, the way Jake leans into him– the way their hips press together and the way they pant together, but Bradley just feels content. Like there’s a piece settling in his chest; like there’s white noise that finally ceases, dies down. Everything’s replaced by the overwhelming presence of Jake.
“Not just letting you,” he breathes into Bradley’s mouth, pressing gentler kisses to the corners of his lips and the scars at his chin. Bradley shudders when Jake’s hands come up to cup his cheeks, a grounding touch against the tidal wave of a three-letter-word he hasn’t yet said. “Want you too, Bradley, fucking need you– ” he continues, the words shaky but the sentiment firm. “Yours. From the start, forever.”
It’s Bradley’s turn now to kiss Jake breathless, fingers shifting from the grip on Jake’s jaw to skate over the fine hair at the nape of his neck. Time stretches out like taffy between them until Bradley’s dizzy with the need for air, but he waits until Jake’s the one to shift just enough to breathe. Their lips still touch, their foreheads stay pressed together, and Bradley feels an abrupt sting of tears behind his eyes, but they don’t fall just yet. “I’d give you anything,” Bradley whispers, fingers clenching desperately against Jake’s hips. “Yours too, baby– you have to know that.”
“I do,” Jake says, fingertips brushing over Bradley’s temples. “Mine, yours– I get it now.”
They sway together in the kitchen as they catch their breath, Bradley pressing gentle kisses to every inch of Jake’s face he can reach without separating them. Jake’s eyes flutter shut from the weight of his exhales, and Bradley feels an ache deep down in his chest from how badly he wants– Jake’s right here, but he’s always wanting. Jake’s a craving built and carved in his bones.
(Bradley remembers the first time he saw Jake– really saw him, right when he’d put his boots back down on the ground after he’d climbed out of his plane. He remembers the way Jake’s hair had looked, windswept and pulled free of the gel; his glare had been fucking incandescent. Bradley’s eyes couldn’t leave his lips no matter how much Jake had snapped at him for slowing down their team.)
(Bradley remembers the way Jake’s breath had caught when he realized Bradley was staring. The curve of his vicious smirk contrasting with the odd softness in his eyes.)
“Breakfast is ready,” Jake eventually says, the sweet smile returning to his lips as he opens his eyes. Bradley can’t help but laugh as he sneaks in one more kiss before he pulls away, reaching around Jake’s waist for one of the plates. It’s only a matter of pushing each other over to the table after that.
Bradley never thought he’d get a love like the one Nick and Carole Bradshaw had; theirs remains etched into every memory they left behind. Love like that doesn’t come around much— Bradley had been sure it couldn’t strike twice in the same family tree, really.
But then Jake settles himself in Bradley’s lap at the kitchen table despite the loud squawk of disapproval, the weight dropping heavily on Bradley’s knee. His laugh rings out when Bradley swats at his thigh, then he twists and wiggles around till he’s comfortable, paying no mind to Bradley’s token protests. By the time they’re done wrestling against each other, they’re squeezed together between the wooden chair and the edge of the table– two grown Navy men, when the chair was already struggling against one.
Jake leans back into Bradley’s chest as he eats, talking around mouthfuls of bacon and in between sips of his coffee– two sugars, enough cream to kill. Bradley’s got one hand looped around Jake’s waist to rest on his thigh and the other tenuously balancing bites of egg for himself that he eats around the press of Jake’s elbow into his sternum, and he thinks yeah. Love like that doesn’t come around much.
But it’s here, now, in the press of the hands that brought him home and the beat of a heavy heart, warm skin once touched by a sun that might’ve been Bradley’s last. It lives in the foundations of the home he built– it grew from the arms of his father and the kisses his mother had pressed to his forehead. It remained in the hands that had pulled him from his mother’s bedside and kept him afloat; the hands that had taken a hit meant for him.
He’s encompassed by it, has been for a while.
“I love you,” Bradley says, the words new on his tongue but old in his heart. He presses them to the seam of the fabric slipping off Jake’s shoulders, and he feels Jake still against him, but Bradley can see the soft smile that brings out the dimples in his cheeks.
“I know,” Jake murmurs back, tilting his head back to lean against Bradley’s.
(The words don’t come easy to Jake, not yet. Growing up hearing them as an apology rather than an affirmation had stained them, and he’d learned to trust the action of love instead– Bradley knows that.)
(He knows, too, that Jake’s made just as much an effort to believe Bradley’s words as Bradley has to show them.)
Jake shifts just enough to press his lips to Bradley’s temple and they breathe in tandem for a moment, warmth spreading honey-slow through Bradley’s body. He feels Jake’s grin against his skin before he turns back to the table, reaching for a piece of bacon off Bradley’s plate as he resumes his train of thought, and Bradley’s heart aches with something so utterly, completely secure that it floors him. He’s never been more sure of something in his life.
Love like that doesn’t come around much– a miracle doesn’t often strike twice. But Bradley Bradshaw went into the jaws of a certain death and came out of the sky seconds later. Loving Jake is easy, after that.