Work Text:
i.
Brad gets in his first fight at the age of thirteen, when Peter—bigger, older, with hair chestnut brown and a gap between his teeth—thinks he catches Brad staring at his ass in the locker room. Brad wasn’t staring at Peter, but at Keith next to him; he thinks it’s probably a moot point to make when Peter corners him after school, breath rank in his face.
“I better not catch you around me again, fag,” he warns, pressing Brad back against the wall, an arm pressed against Brad’s collarbone to stop him from moving. Brad looks back at him, struggling to keep his face free of fear. Without warning, he jabs a fist into the soft flesh of Peter’s stomach, and knees him in the chin when he doubles over.
Brad gets out of that one with a nose that’s almost broken, a dark bruise just starting to form on his ribs, and a reputation that keeps anyone from messing with him much. He asks Elly out the next day, high on the feeling of victory, grinning when she says yes even though it hurts his split lip. He learns to keep his eyes to himself, and Elly—she’s gorgeous. There’s no reason for him to be looking around anyway.
He’s not gay or anything. He likes girls. He likes Elly so much that he gets engaged to her, and when she betrays him—well, it’s a good enough reason not to get involved with anyone else.
ii.
He’s introduced to Lieutenant Fick by Gunny Wynn, who pulls him aside later, saying, “Brad, I know you think that he’s a civilian, or that he’s soft—but he’s the best we’ve got right now.” Brad shrugs.
“I don’t know where you got the idea that I would show any sort of disrespect to my superior officers, sir,” he says smoothly, and Gunny Wynn snorts. If he were the type to roll his eyes, he’d be doing that too, but as it stands the expression on his face lets Brad know that he understands exactly what Brad means.
The thing is that Brad isn’t really thinking much about Lieutenant Fick at all—he’s pretty as fuck, sure, with pale green eyes and a soft mouth, but he’s just another—another all-American boy who thinks he can change things. Brad’s been in this long enough to know that he can’t. No one can. Besides, who’s got the time to be thinking about things like Nathaniel Fick’s mouth? Brad already knows that he’s got to keep his eyes to himself, though he doesn’t think that Fick would necessarily care—he’s a liberal, Ivy League boy, trying his hardest to be accepting and open.
Brad’s got a war to fight, and he’s got to do that in spite of whatever pretty-faced idealistic college boy has decided to come in and try to fix the world now. They come and go, don’t they; Brad’ll be here after that, and he’s got to do his job.
iii.
The thing about Lieutenant Fick is that it’s actually hard to not like him; he’s intelligent and well-meaning, with a sly sense of humor that only seems to manifest itself every time Encino Man is around. The men like him too; Ray thinks he’s “fucking awesome, homes, and he’s not a weak-witted fucknut like Casey Kasem or anything. Plus he’s got such a pretty fucking mouth. If you know what I mean.” He winks and leers at Brad, who rolls his eyes.
“Go back to your depraved goat-fucking, Lance Corporal Person,” he drawls. “Sergeant Fick is out of your league.” Ray falls to the ground, miming a dramatic death.
“Oh, Sergeant, but I was planning to ask him to prom! Do you think he’ll say no?” he says from the ground in a high-pitched voice. Behind Brad, there’s a movement, and Fick’s laughing helplessly. He manages to school his face into some semblance of order when Brad looks at him.
“Don’t encourage him, sir,” Brad says, and Fick smiles.
“Trust me, Sergeant, the last thing I would want to do is encourage Lance Corporal Person’s—“ here he stops to make air quotes around the word “—depraved activities.”
It’s instances like that where Brad finds himself inexplicably—god help him, he finds Fick endearing. And that’s dangerous. Brad knows that. He knows how to keep his eyes to himself, too, except that Lieutenant Nate Fick appears to be, in all senses of the word, a good and honorable man, and Brad’s only now discovering that that’s his greatest weakness.
It gets harder and harder to look at Fick in Iraq, because his face is so destroyed. With every mistake, his shoulders slump a little more but he tries so fucking hard—and Brad’s fucked, he’s fucked. But he knew that already. Knew it from the first touch of Fick’s hand against his, palms soft, fingers smooth.
It’s fucking ironic that in the end the only person he’s ever loved quite like this is someone so much unlike him—so idealistic, so fucking noble. But Brad couldn’t have loved him otherwise—the soft curve of his mouth, the firm set of his shoulders. He’s never been like this before—he loves helplessly but keeps himself as in control as he can. They can’t afford mistakes.
iv.
On the plane home, Fick—Nate—Brad can’t figure out what to call him, because in his head he’s “Nate,” but when they speak it’s always “Lieutenant Fick,” dry as he can be. He’s figured out that when he uses that tone, Nate will smile, just a little bit, just a quirk of his lips. If Ray were to ever find out about this—but Ray won’t, because Brad’s not an idiot, and because there’s nothing more foolish than risking your career over some idealistic Ivy League boy.
That’s not who Nate is anymore, though—even if he had been so at the beginning, he’s changed. All of them have, except maybe Trombley, but Nate’s the most obvious of them all. His eyes are haunted, sometimes, and his hands shake just a little bit.
On the plane, Nate turns to Brad and says, “What do you plan to do when you get home, Sergeant Colbert?” It’s an innocuous question, and Brad thinks nothing of it when he answers,
“Get a taxi, get home, take a fucking shower, and sleep until my bones feel more human and less like they’re made of sand.”
Nate looks thoughtful at this, and Brad feels compelled to add, “What do you plan on doing, Lieutenant?”
Nate looks up at him, mouth twisted in some kind of expression Brad can’t fully parse. “Actually, Sergeant,” he replies, a little slowly, “I was wondering if I could—come with you.”
Brad’s a Recon Marine, so his knees don’t buckle, and not a single iota of his surprise shows itself on his face. He and Nate gaze at each other for a moment, before Nate smiles, a little rueful and a little sheepish, and turns his face away. “I guess it was foolish to ask,” he says.
Brad finds his voice. “That sounds just fine, Lieutenant Fick,” he says, and if it’s a little softer than he usually speaks, then who can blame him? The smile Nate gives him for it is brilliant, eyes lit up in a way they haven’t been for a long time.
The entire way home, Brad can’t stop looking. It’s stupid, but—but. But Nate’s there, solid and grounded, even if the translucent green of his eyes is a little distant, and even if every time he smiles it’s tempered by a kind of heaviness that Brad knows all too well.
They trip through the doorway of Brad’s home in haste, trying to get to the shower, but once they’re in there, it seems like the rush is all lost. They’re gentle with each other, gentle in a way that neither of them can vocalize. They wash each other off in the shower, and Brad imagines all the sand, all the dirt, all the grit of the desert coming off and pooling on the floor, washing away through his drain. Like if he touches Nate enough, he can wipe away the memories of those months spent in the desert, long and hot, the sky so blue above them, yawning and endless—like if Nate touches him enough, he can forget.
Afterwards, they’re toweling off, and Nate touches Brad’s jaw with just his fingertips, very lightly. When Brad turns his head, Nate kisses him. It’s a dry touch of lips, soft and warm, and Brad kisses back, not pushing for more. When Nate pulls back, he laughs a little sadly. Brad traces the curve of his shoulder, tries not to think about how fucked he is, how fucked up he is.
v.
When Nate pulls him aside one sunny day and says, “I’m leaving the Corps,” Brad doesn’t say anything at all. What is there to say? He knew even from that first day with the boy that Nate used to be, the soft-mouthed Dartmouth grad, that Nate wouldn’t ever be a career Marine.
So he doesn’t say anything; doesn’t say anything all through it, through the paddle party, through Ray bursting into loud, fake, dramatic tears and holding Nate’s shoulders, through Stafford and Christenson and all the others who looked up to Nate coming up to him and shaking his hand and saying, “It was an honor, sir.” An honor to serve with Nate. Of course it was.
Brad doesn’t say anything until the day that Nate’s leaving for Harvard, ready to be washed clean and new by the east coast rains, ready to move to the big city and forget this part of his life.
Brad asks him that—if he wants to forget. And Nate looks at him, eyes fierce, and asks, “How could you ever have thought that I would want to forget? The Corps is a part of me. Brad, you’re—“ Here he cuts himself off and touches Brad’s arm very lightly, with just the tips of his fingers, as light as he had that first day when they’d first kissed. “Will you call?” he asks, and Brad, of course, can’t fucking say no. Fuck.
vi.
Nate, during his breaks, will come over to visit Brad, and things are weirdly not tense. They haven’t really talked about this—this thing they’re doing, whether it’s a relationship or not, because they’re having sex and talking all the time, but Nate’s not saying anything, and Brad’s not going to push it. Nate’s easy to be around, that’s what’s scary—Brad’s never met anyone this simple to talk to. Even when they disagree, it’s casual—a bet or a beer or a kiss or a quick touch. They go out together sometimes; not just at night, either, but during the daytime, because Nate wants to visit parks and museums. People don’t look scared of them, the way they occasionally do of Brad if he’s out by himself; instead, little kids come up to Nate, and he smiles at them.
He always looks so sad. That’s what gets Brad, every time. He always looks so goddamn sad, and it’s fucking awful to watch. The war is over for him. It shouldn’t be like this anymore – it should be finished, done, over with.
But they all have their nightmares, and if Brad has to go out on his porch to get a beer sometimes at midnight, then more often than not, Nate will join him. It’s that easy, really.
vii.
They talk all the time, Skype all the time—Brad thinks that he’s getting in too deep, and he doesn’t do anything to fix it. Ray comes over sometimes, eating Brad’s food and taking up his space. Ray doesn’t know—Rudy, of course, does. It’s Poke, surprisingly enough, who he ends up talking to the most about this, this thing that’s going on between him and Nate. Poke gets it, in a weird way—having to be away from the one you love is hard, though of course his situation isn’t really the same as Brad’s.
When he gets the news about his next tour, the first thing he does is Skype Nate. He says, “We’re going out again,” and Nate nods. Over the webcam, his face is blurry, but Brad knows that his eyebrows have drawn together; that the lines around his eyes have grown deeper, that he’s gripping his thighs so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. It’s hitting him, harder and harder now, that he’s done what he said he wouldn’t since Elly. He’s let someone so deep into his life that there’s never going to be a way out now. If Nate finds someone – but Nate sees it on his face.
“I’ll still be here when you’re back,” he says, softly. “Try not to get yourself killed, you six foot tall Viking.”
“You’ve been talking to Ray too much,” Brad says, scowling, and Nate laughs, and for that moment things are – not okay, but better.
viii.
Bob Dylan is more Ray’s scene than Brad’s, but when Brad gets back from his tour of duty, gets home, all he can think is, the times, they are a-changin’. Obama keeps talking about DADT and how he wants to repeal it—Nate’s predictably excited, but Brad isn’t so sure. There’s just a lack of goodwill in the political environment. When McCain says they ought not to be looking to overturn it—Nate’s crushed, but Brad’s not surprised. He can’t deny that it would make his life easier—after all, he wouldn’t constantly have to make up excuses about why he and Nate are always together, wouldn’t have to meet people’s curious and occasionally hostile glances with a stony stare. But he’s not sure that it would be the right choice, either. Not now.
Things between them aren’t as easy as they used to be, either. They’re having what weaker-willed men would call “relationship troubles,” but Nate still hasn’t said that they’re really in a relationship, and Brad is just unwilling to push it.
The thing is—Brad gets jealous, which surprises no one, and sometimes, when Nate’s talking about the girls or guys who he goes to class with, they do a little verbal sparring over whether or not Nate’s being hit on, and more importantly, whether or not his actions count as reciprocating. That’s normal enough for Brad, par for the course on his relationships—well, relationship, because he’s only been in one before Nate. What’s surprising is that Nate gets jealous, gets fiercely and ridiculously overprotective of Brad. Brad can’t deny that it’s hot as fuck when he’s being hit on at the grocery store and then Nate steps in, an arm curling around Brad’s waist, smiling challengingly—and then later at home, when Nate pins him down by the wrists and marks him, his chest and neck and arms, Brad’s definitely not saying no to that.
But it’s also—well, annoying. Brad’s used to being on his own; he’s independent, has been for years now, and having Nate on his tail about who he talks to and where he goes is irritating him. They have an argument about it finally, when Nate comes over for spring break and promptly thinks that Brad’s flirting with the woman he waves at every morning when he goes jogging.
“I’m my own person,” Brad grits out. He doesn’t even want to look at Nate right now. This is ridiculous.
“Yeah, but you can’t just—flirt back like that. We’re—“ Nate breaks off. Brad doesn’t know if he doesn’t want to say it, or if he thinks Brad won’t like it. He’s got to take the first step.
He takes a deep breath. “We’re dating. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t smile at other people, or talk to other people.” Nate doesn’t seem to hear him; his eyes are very wide, though his face is blank.
“Yeah,” Nate says. “We’re. . . dating.” He rubs his hands over his jeans nervously. “But you can’t expect me to not get jealous. You’re—you’re you, and we’re not always near each other. And I know you’re used to independence, but that doesn’t mean you can do this all the time.”
“Okay,” Brad says, and he feels raw and wrung out from all of this emotional conversation. He extends a hand to Nate, who takes it and then leans into him so that they’re not quite touching. They stand like this often, near but not touching, and it’s comforting. Brad can feel the heat of Nate’s body, can smell his clean scent. He puts a hand lightly on Nate’s shoulder, and they’re silent.
ix.
Ray shows up at Brad’s house one day, holding a six pack of his shitty hick beer and grinning like a maniac. Brad invites him in because he’s got nothing better to do (that’s what he says, but in reality he’s actually relieved to hear from Ray, who went kind of incognito after leaving the Corps).
They’re sitting on the couch and idly shooting the shit, Ray telling Brad about how stupid the kids at his college are and Brad telling Ray about the new conditions on the ground in Afghanistan. The TV is on, but just as background noise; Ray’s distracting enough that he’d forgotten to switch it off when they came into the living room. Brad’s not really paying attention to it, not until Katie Couric comes on the screen and starts talking about DADT. He freezes; it’s an involuntary reaction, and he thinks he’s gotten away with it until Ray’s eyes, sharp and dark, won’t leave his face.
“Relax,” Ray says, and Brad doesn’t need to relax, because he’s not tense in the first place, but he does breathe a little easier. “We all know you’re sucking the LT’s cock and none of us cares, either.” Brad doesn’t say anything. Ray’s face falls into his trademark ridiculous pout. “Did you think that we were all stupid or something, homes? No one Skypes and calls every night, the way you two homosexuals do, unless they’re actually banging. No one calls their extremely close man friend every night. I don’t call up Walt and ask him how he’s doing and wave hello to his wife or something. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes.”
Brad’s silent for a moment. Then he says, “And every single person was okay with this, were they?”
Ray grins at him, manic and ridiculous. “I made sure they were, homes,” he says, teeth white in the afternoon sun. Brad nods, takes a pull of his beer, and doesn’t say anything more.
x.
The day that DADT is officially repealed, Brad’s doorbell rings, but he’s not expecting anyone, and when he opens it, Nate’s standing there, brilliant and weary and real, and Brad’s so shocked that he can’t do anything but kiss him, because it’s – it’s Nate. It’s the kind of reaction that’s so rare that Nate grins up at him and says, laughing, “Miss me, cupcake?” Brad’s face closes off, and then Nate’s falls. Things are tense but then he pulls Nate into the house because—
They can’t stop touching each other. He can’t take his hands off Nate. He’s here, and they can be together—it’s—
(i.
Things will always be hard, but they’ll be together. That’s what he’s learned, through all of these years. If nothing else, he’ll have someone to lean on in the hard times.)