hackthis_archive | Generation Kill – Boys Are Dying Tonight From This Kind of Thing (Colbert/Fick, NC17)

I was visiting a very good friend of mine recently, and found myself, in the wee hours of the morning, drunkenly lecturing about the awesome of Generation Kill. Yeah, I know.

Generation Kill
Colbert/Fick, Rudy/Pappy
Rated NC17
Spoilers specific for 1.05 'A Burning Dog'

Boys Are Dying Tonight From This Kind of Thing

Brad's not wearing his boots. It's kind of shocking for him to see his own feet, actually. They're incredibly pale hanging over the side of his grave, his blue veins standing out in stark relief to his untanned skin. He's never really noticed how bony his toes are before. His second toe is longer than his big toe; that's supposed to signify something, but he doesn't remember what.

Brad's gone whole weeks without being able to take off his shoes. He's had athlete's foot and trench foot and frostbite and pretty much everything in between; his feet are not in good shape. But right now he's in his grave, and he's barefoot and the sand feels good between his toes.

When he climbs out of his hole and stumbles into daylight, he's not in Iraq anymore, he's back in Afghanistan, which is okay, because Brad liked Afghanistan. Afghanistan had rules and rhyme and reason. Things made sense there. Iraq doesn't make sense. None of it.

And Brad knows he has to be dreaming -- he would never take off his shoes to sleep -- it's not just because Rudy and Pappy are having tea on a giant Georgia Tech blanket.

It's a full tea service, complete with silverware and a huge stand with cookies on it. Rudy grins up at Brad as he approaches and offers him a sandwich. "You need to eat, sir," he says. "You don't look so good."

Pappy nods his head. "You need to sleep, Brad, you don’t look so good."

"Marines aren't supposed to be pretty, Rudy," Brad bristles, but accepts the proffered sandwich anyway. It's cucumber and tuna; he hates tuna. Where the hell did Rudy get tuna?

Pappy laughs. "Don’t hate on my man just because he was in Playgirl last month."

Brad blinks, because he thinks that might actually be true, but he can't figure out which part he thinks is true: the Playgirl bit or the bit where Rudy is Pappy's man. Except it's just slang; Brad knows it's slang, so why does he think they mean something else?

This is the Marine Corps; they don't offer that sort of information.

"Are you going to eat that?" Pappy asks, "because I thought you liked roast beef, but you know, I will totally eat that shit, if you don’t want it."

"This is tuna," Brad says irritably, waving the sandwich in Pappy's direction. "See, tuna." Except that when Brad looks again, it's roast beef. On rye. Brad loves roast beef.

"You okay there, Brad?" Rudy asks, his concern apparent. "That's meat, man, where the hell would I get tuna?"

Where the hell would Rudy get tuna? Where the hell did Rudy get roast beef in the desert?

"Yeah, dog," Pappy agrees, "you okay? You need to see the LT?"

If this is Afghanistan then that means the lieutenant is Joe Torres, and Brad doesn't need to see Torres, but he finds himself nodding anyway.

"He's in the supply tent," Rudy says, pointing over Brad's shoulder.

"You want some tea or something, you let me know," Rudy calls as Brad walks away. "And stay out of the sun, I think you're getting heatstroke!"

Brad waves them off, taking a bite of his roast beef sandwich as he wanders over to the tent. The sandwich tastes like sand, but of course it tastes like sand, they're in the Middle East.

He drops the sandwich outside the tent before pushing through the flap, but when he steps inside, the sand under his toes becomes carpeting, and he's not in the supply tent, he's in the hallway of his parents' summer home in Newport Beach.

Brad loved this house. It had massive sloping ceilings and the whole west side of the house was made of glass. There was a giant stone fireplace and shag carpeting and yellow linoleum that was all the rage when houses came of age in the 60s and 70s.

But none of that is as note-worth as Nate is. And Brad knows it's Nate, even with his back to Brad. He can tell by the set of Nate's shoulders and the curve of his spine and the fact that he's walking away from Brad wearing nothing but some low-slung jeans.

Brad is pretty damn sure the jeans are what he gets for flipping through Ray's old copies of Maxim in his downtime.

When Brad reaches forward, his fingers catch on Nate's belt-loops and Nate stumbles slightly. "The bed is ten feet away," Nate protests as Brad pulls him backward. "I'd just like to point that out, Brad."

Brad doesn't have to pull hard though, Nate turns around of his own accord. He's got sunburn on his nose and the hem of his jeans are wet like he's been running on the beach. He eyes are bright, and he looks... happy. Relaxed. Like this is where he wants to be. Like they got some.

Brad blinks under the intensity of Nate's gaze. "You okay?" Nate asks, cocking his head to one side.

And the thing is, Brad's pretty sure he's not okay. Even inside his dream, Brad's pretty sure that things are fucked up (thanks, Command) and that he's not supposed to be here (his parents sold the beach house in 2000, when he joined he Marines) and they're not supposed to be together (don't ask, don't tell, just do whatever it takes to keep yourself alive).

Brad blinks again, and Nate steps that much closer. Brad can feel Nate's breath on his clavicle, but that can't be right, because he's dreaming, right?

"Do we kiss, sir?" he asks suddenly. He knows they don’t. At least he doesn't with his Nate, because this is fucking war and that – that's personal. Right here and now they're just trying to survive.

Nate blinks, his smile is toothy and crooked. "Sometimes," he says. "Why, do you need a reminder of what it's like?"

"Yes," Brad says, not even really thinking about the words until Nate grabs his jaw and pulls him down a few inches to a better angle.

"When you want me, you don't have to ask," Nate breathes against Brad's mouth, and then he's kissing Brad, and it's hard and hot, and Brad can't breathe at all.

Nate's not a small man, and he handles Brad easily, griping Brad's hair and pulling his head to the side. His tongue teases Brad's own, flickering along his teeth and wiping away the taste of sand and peanut butter MREs.

Brad moans loudly when Nate palms his cock through his pants, and Nate doesn't even bother with extraneous actions like taking Brad's pants off, instead he just jams his hand under the waistband of whatever Brad's wearing and grips Brad's cock in his hand.

Brad would never be free-balling in reality, but right now, Nate's got him, his grip sure and his fingers mercilessly stroking Brad's cock. Brad could collapse against Nate right now, and Nate wouldn't falter. Brad trusts Nate.

He's pretty much inhaling every breath that Nate makes, and it's probably this lack of fresh oxygen that keeps his brain from realizing he needs to get Nate naked. He wants the full experience, and Nate's grip hits that perfect side of too hard when Brad pops the button on Nate's jeans and shoves them down his hips.

"If I fall on my ass and get rug burn," Nate begins, trying to dislodge his jeans, contend with Brad groping him and not stop what he's doing at the same time.

"You're going to get rug burn on your knees, not your ass," Brad says, palming Nate's ass. There are some serious benefits to being able to run 12 miles with 150 lbs. on your back, Nate's ass is proof of that.

Nate makes a noncommittal noise; he's concentrating very hard, which is just fine by Brad, except for one thing.

"Sir, you're going to have to stop jerking me off now," Brad commands, using one hand to spread the cheeks of Nate's ass. Nate blinks at Brad several times, his hand slowing but ever never entirely stopping its motion.

"Why would I want to do that?" Nate asks, shuddering when Brad's fingers brush down the crease of his ass.

"Well, because I need to get fucked here, and that can't happen in this current position."

Nate gives him that toothy crooked smile again, and for that, Brad could stay in this reality forever. "It's kind of hard to argue with that sort of reasoning," Nate says.

"I only give you shit to get things unfucked," Brad agrees.

Nate laughs, but it's Ray's voice that says, "Brad, you have to get up."

And just like that Nate is gone, and Brad's back in his grave. Back in Iraq, back in this fucked up war, with this fucked up command and no tuna roast beef sandwiches and no crooked smiling Nate.

Brad's a realist, and the reality is that this situation sucks, but it's the only one he's got. He looks at his watch -- 56 minutes out of this shithole isn't enough time for anyone.

When Ray asks him how he slept, he just shrugs.

"I dreamt I wasn't in Iraq," he says.

-end-

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