hackthis_archive | Generation Kill – A Kiss Deferred (Nate/Brad, NC-17)

My writing does not feel like working. We made a compromise. ~~1000~~ ~~1500~~ 2000 words. Compromise, people!

Generation Kill
Nate/Brad, NC-17
Improv: glare, white, angle, arch

A Kiss Deferred

The red eye from Logan drops Nate at John Wayne Airport in Orange County at six thirteen in the morning. He's got lines on the side of his face from sleeping when he should've been studying and red eyes from studying when he should've been sleeping. He's missing his Friday classes to spend the weekend in California; you have to make sacrifices to get what you want. Nate knows that now.

His duffle bag bounces against his lower back as he jogs down the stairs from the arrivals to the baggage claim area. Waiting for checked luggage is a waste of the time he could spend doing something else. Something -- someone better.

Brad's standing on the curb beside his motorcycle of death, one helmet in his hand and the other pushed high up his forearm. He's tan from the California sun, the white tee shirt he's wearing only making him look more like Apollo down from Olympus for a raucous weekend.

Nate marks him the moment he steps through the automatic doors, but Brad's grin says he saw Nate before Nate even got off of the plane. Nate's mouth twists into a smile of its own accord.

"Aw, did someone not sleep well, boxed in between the breeders and the fat guy who should buy two seats?" Brad teases as Nate strides over.

"I never thought I would miss those sardine-like orgies in the Hummer with Mike, Stafford and Christeson," is Nate's wry reply.

Brad arches an eyebrow and hands over a helmet. "Provoking me before I take you somewhere on the back of a piece of metal at accelerated speeds might not be the best approach," he says, before pulling on his own helmet.

"I eat college food," Nate says sagely. "I already live dangerously."

Nate can't see Brad's smile, but his eyes crinkle at the corners before he slides down his visor.

Brad dislodges the kickstand, and Nate climbs on the bike behind him. Brad's shirt is thin enough that Nate can feel the heat from Brad's skin and the shift of Brad's muscles under his fingers as the motorcycle kicks on and they're off.

Nate has 48 hours of leave from Harvard; they can make small talk later.

Brad's apartment is perfect for Brad in its Spartan nature. Every piece of furniture has its place, every dish in the kitchen its niche. There is no muss, no fuss, everything has its place right down to the Car and Driver and Wired magazines on the coffee table. Nate can see the way the magazines are perfectly spaced out from the front door, and he counts to himself from the moment he walks through the doorway.

One, walk through the door.

Two, look around at how nothing has changed.

Three, deposit duffle bag by the door.

Four, get slammed against the wall next to said duffle bag.

One of Brad's hands cups the back of Nate's head and the other curls around his hip. When Nate licks his lips, he knows Brad's watching. He knows he's doing this for Brad's benefit, for the way that Brad's watching him, eyes ghosting along his jaw and his mouth. For the way that Brad's thumb is stroking the side of his neck.

Nate tilts his head back slightly, angling his mouth, his eyes narrowing as Brad leans in and his mouth brushes Nate's cheekbone. Nate exhales sharply in exasperation. His glare is lost on Brad's ear, but there's no mistaking his hands fisting Brad's shirt and yanking Brad forward.

Brad's laugh is swallowed whole by Nate, by the tenuousness of a six-hour flight and a two-hour layover in Dallas, by 3000 miles and the word 'gay' which has nothing to do with this.

When Nate gets to kiss Brad, gets to lick away Thai delivery and Pendleton dirt, nothing else matters. At least for a little while.

Brad has some predilection for white sheets that Nate hasn't figured out yet, or maybe he just uses the same sheets every time Nate visits. It's pretty irrelevant with Brad's tongue laving at Nate's right nipple, at the inside juncture of his left elbow, but Nate notices this because they spend a lot of time here. In Brad's bed. Sometimes they go slowly, like now, with Brad's cock dragging wet patterns along Nate's thighs.

And sometimes they don't make it out of the living room.

Sometimes, they fuck right on the carpet in the front hall, and Nate ends up with rug burn on his knees and his elbows. Sometimes, Brad fucks Nate over the back of his de rigueur black leather sofa, and Nate leaves these huge scratches in the leather. There are gouge marks and teeth marks and come stains on Brad's furniture that Nate doesn't think about cleaning, because why should he?

Brad's turned over three of the four cushions on the sofa already because of Nate.

What they want ebbs and flows like the tide, but it always comes back in the morning. It's never gone.

The second time Nate came back to California, Brad made him a bet: if Nate could figure out how to surf in four hours, he could fuck Brad. Brad's entire warning was, "You can screw up everything else, just make sure you don't irreparably ruin your ass. It's a nice ass, and I plan to fuck it extensively."

And then he'd turned around and gone to read his latest issue of PC World.

Nate had blinked twice and then dragged the surfboard out into the water. After the first hour of nearly drowning and breaking his nose, Nate got smart about his task. The military was about teaching you to work in teams, or in Nate's case, knowing enough to ask the Amazon in the wetsuit to show him how to surf.

In three hours and change, Nate was standing on his board.

Brad groused all through dinner at the taco stand on the corner. Nate had cheated; Nate had been picking up chicks, but Nate pointed out that Brad had made the rules, and at no time did they preclude asking for help. Brad begged to differ. In fact, Brad's grumbling didn't stop until the exact moment, fifty-seven minutes later, that Nate put his tongue up Brad's ass. It was the most effective form of silencing Brad Nate has ever encountered, and Nate thinks about this when Brad's out picking up dinner from that same taco stand.

Nate's supposed to be going over notes for Governmental Policy: From the New Deal to Vietnam, but when Brad walks through the door, Nate changes his mind. He can study later; they should have sex now.

He closes his book with some finality when Brad sets down a six-pack of Modelo and a brown paper bag that has grease-stains.

"I got enough food to feed a platoon," Brad begins, his words dying off at whatever he sees on Nate's face. "You want to fuck, don't you?" he says with a chuckle.

Nate helpfully puts the food on the floor along with his notes, his laptop and several highlighters.

"We can eat later," he offers.

"God bless the microwave," Brad says, pulling his shirt over his head.

Nate wakes up alone and hard. He rubs his erection against the mattress for several moments, waiting for Brad to come back to bed before he realizes that doesn't seem to be the S.O.P.

The sun is just coming up, and his knees ache. His ass is sore, but not intolerably so, and when Nate reaches out, Brad's side of the bed is cold. A lot more body parts begin to complain when Nate gets up, but Brad's apartment isn't the Taj Mahal. Nate's on a mission to get his morning wood taken care of, and Brad can't be far.

Nate pads softly down the hall and pauses when he sees Brad sitting on the floor in his briefs. Brad's surrounded by tiny screwdrivers, wires and two laptops. One of which belongs to Nate. "What the hell are you doing?" Nate asks with more exasperation than real concern.

When Brad glances up, Nate takes a step back. Brad's wearing glasses. Dorky, black, plastic-framed glasses. Nate's never seen Brad in glasses, because Brad has the vision of a hawk. Apparently, however, Brad in John Q. Nerd frames is insanely hot.

"You have a lot of pornography on your computer, sir," Brad says conversationally. "You never know who might be able to find that on your hard drive, even when you think it's gone."

Nate opens his mouth and then thinks better of a denial. "You're hacking my computer?"

When Brad looks up this time, he's got a huge grin on his face. "I'm just streamlining it. More memory, more space for porn, a free iTunes account. You should be thanking me."

Nate strokes his cock absently, watching Brad for several moments until Brad looks up again. "All that for a free iTunes account?" Brad jokes, setting Nate's laptop to the side just as Nate crosses the room and climbs on top of him.

Nate presses himself against every inch of Brad as he slides down and kneels over Brad's lap. Nate's breathing stutters when Brad wraps warm, damp fingers around his cock, and Brad makes a hissing noise when Nate nips at his earlobe.

"You think I'm grateful for free downloads," Nate confesses, "you should see what happens when I get free porn."

They spend the day surfing, drinking beer and occasionally dashing up to Brad's apartment for quickies that aren't really quick at all. Nate gets sunburned all along his back, which doesn't really matter to him later when Brad's got three of his fingers up Nate's ass and is mouthing his sunburned shoulder, promising that he's going to make Nate feel better than he's felt in a long fucking time. But that's what Brad does for Nate; it's why Nate's in California in the first place, because Brad makes him feel better. Brad helps Nate unwind, he doesn't make Nate explain. They've been to the same places, done the same things. There's a lot to be said for not having to tell someone why you are the way you are.

The full moon is peering through the slats of Brad's shutters, but Nate doesn't bother going to sleep; at least he doesn't think he does. He has to catch an early flight to get back to Cambridge to make up for all that work that he didn't do this weekend. It was worth it of course, any time he gets with his friends, that he gets with Brad, is worth it. This isn't quite the way he saw things after Iraq, but Marines make due better than anyone else he knows.

And yet, Nate's startled when he wakes up next to Brad, tangled in white cotton sheets and Brad's legs, with Brad's arm thrown across his waist. It's hard to wake up when he didn't even realize he was asleep, and then Brad's hand rubs the skin along his ribs.

"Stop staring, it's gay," Brad orders.

Nate's laugh is almost hysterical. "So it was straight when we were fucking?"

Brad cracks open one eye. "Yes, straight fucking."

Nate snorts. "As opposed to queer fucking?"

Brad's nose wrinkles. "As opposed to that flowers and stuffed animals bullshit."

"I'm actually offended that you don't bring me flowers," Nate mocks. "What kind of girl do you think I am?"

"You're not a girl," Brad says simply. "Isn't that why you're here?" Nate blinks in the semi-darkness when Brad opens his other eye. "Well?" he prods.

"Yeah," Nate agrees after a minute. "It is."

And then Brad kisses him, and Nate knows that this -- this is why he's here.

-end-

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