templemarker: (one of these things)
[personal profile] templemarker
A Moment in Unison
by templemarker

Notes: For the Generation Kill Porn Skirmish. Originally posted in three parts, combined together here for continuity. [livejournal.com profile] marcolette was involved. I'm sure everyone is shocked. *g* Thanks to the folks over at the Skirmish for running the challenge and being so enthusiastic about the responses. Ya'll are great. I didn't fix the tense bullshit between sections. But I did fix the grammatical errors otherwise! Consider this a clean version. Apart from the swearin'.


***

if it kills me

"Goddamnit, Gunny," Brad said, prowling outside the Lieutenant's canvas door. Wynn wouldn't let him in, said something about the Sir finally dropping off after some stupid conversation with Encino Man.

"I need to talk to him, Gunny," Brad tried again, staring at the tent like he could burn a hole in it with his eyes and get to the LT.

"Fuck off, Brad," Gunny said, exhaustion making him less formal than usual. "You weren't fucking there and you didn't--bullshit rolls downhill, you and I both know this, and Nate got a wheelbarrow full of it this afternoon. Just go and dig a grave or something, you can talk to him tomorrow."

"But--" Brad said, just as Nate's head poked out of the tent.

"It's alright, Mike," Nate said, not-quite-sleep marking every plane of his face. "I couldn't bunk down anyway, the body's willing but the mind won't fuck off. Come in, Brad," he said, turning his attention past Wynn.

Gunny let out a noise that clearly indicated what he thought of Nate making decisions by himself, but he trudged off towards the bank of HMVs furthest afield. Brad ducked in, squinting against the halogen lights that shadowed the tires of the truck the whole setup was attached to.

"Our NVGs are for shit, sir," Brad said, too frustrated to mince words, too tired attempt humor. "Ray's the company's point RTO, and he can't fucking manage depth perception on the MSR, so we're relying on verification from Walt when he's struggling to keep the goddamned M19 from jamming on the intake, which is the only thing covering our asses. We can fucking make do, sir, but if we don't get fucking supplies a damn Radio Shack could provide we're going to end up dead."

He finished his run and cocked up his chin, daring Nate to disagree with him. But Nate was half-slumped against the wall of the truck, fingers curled on his M16 more out of habit than intention. He looked like he was about to fall asleep in the space of one breath.

"I know, Brad," Nate said, and he didn't even try to pass off some moto bullshit. He just let the words hang in the air, recognition and inability couched in every line of his body.

"Sir," Brad said, stepping forward, pushing his M14 to his side.

"I know, Brad," Nate said again, looking at Brad through half-lidded eyes. Brad swallowed; the LT never let anyone see him like this. Brad had never seen him like this.

"I--" Brad said, for once at a loss for words, and the pall of the evening hung in the space between their bodies. Brad was suddenly more aware of the difference between MOPP suit and desert camo than he'd been before: the difference was in seeing Nate's arms, the slump of his shoulders, the fine skin of his temples. He took a step forward.

Nate didn't move, just kept staring at him, and Brad wondered what he could get away with here, in the fifteen mikes before Gunny came back with some mother-hen bullshit on Nate, before Ray started wanting his security blanket of six-foot Marine, before something broke whatever had made itself here. Nate watched as Brad came closer, and didn't blink when Brad put his lips on Nate's own in the chastest kiss Brad had ever given.

The light smack when they parted echoed in the pause between artillery blasts, and Brad watched Nate's face for some twitch of protest. There was none. He bent down again, opening Nate's mouth with his own, running his tongue along the surface of Nate's mouth, tasting instant coffee granules and fatigue.

When he pulled away for the second time, Nate's eyes were closed and his hands were resting placid at his sides. Brad ignored the burn in his chest; he could figure out his shit later. For now, he maneuvered Nate's dead weight onto his sleeping bag, pushing a makeshift pillow beneath his head and trying not to notice how different Nate looked when he wasn't being the Sir. He spared one last glance into the makeshift tent before slipping out, passing Gunny Wynn on the way back to his victor and not saying a goddamned word.

*

say it's my instinct

Most of the time Nate's got too much shit to do to be sitting on a barstool in Oceanside bitching about college football with Brad, but he's been head-deep in reports for the month in a half since they've been back from tour and even Mike thought it would be a good idea for him "to get out a little, LT. Even Ray's complaining you're too white." Mike's not his Gunny anymore, but that doesn't seem to to deter him much in making suggestions about Nate's life.

Nate had thought that, when he'd asked Brad if he wanted to go get a beer, some of his company would go out with them. He wasn't disappointed, exactly, to find only Brad, hair slightly longer and wearing worn motorcycle boots, waiting outside his door. But he had thought he'd left his teams on better terms.

They sat in some underlit sports bar drinking Coronas for a couple hours, watching a soccer game on the big screens. Nate was trying hard not to think about the 1840D forms he'd need to pick up tomorrow, and all the inventory reviews he'd be going over in the afternoon, but the work ethic was a little hard to shake.

"--and do you remember that, when Ray said he was going to trade the last can of Chef Boyardee for a muzzle for Griego?" Brad said, that small smile twisting his mouth in the rare, familiar way.

"Wait, what?" Nate said, trying to catch up with the conversation. "I thought he was talking about his dog back home."

Brad's look of amusement was dashed with a vague air of disapproval. "And here I thought you always listened to what I told you. What else have you forgotten about me?"

"Nothing," Nate said, not quite defensively. "I pay attention when you talk."

Brad shifted, eyes flicking to the television and back to Nate. The stare was uncomfortable, but Nate didn't let it show. "What else did you forget?" Brad asked, like he already knew the answer. He reached over and drained Nate's beer, using it as an excuse to leverage his way into Nate's space; Nate tensed slightly, enough for Brad to see. "Did you forget that I kissed you?" Brad questioned, genuine, eyes locked on Nate. Nate couldn't look away.

"What?" he asked hoarsely. "I think I'd remember that."

Brad's knee was pressed up against Nate's side, and it felt like it was digging into something vital there but Nate didn't care. It was like that contact lit him up from the inside. He'd remember Brad kissing him. He'd dreamed it enough times.

"Really?" Brad said, as if he was picking his words carefully. "I did kiss you, one day. You acted like it never happened, and frankly sir, you're not that good of a liar."

"I--" Nate said, reaching for words and finding none. He'd thought about Brad kissing him a dozen, a dozen squared times, and he would know, goddamnit, if it had happened for real.

"You had this look on your face," Brad remembered for him, "like I could have done anything to you and you would have wanted it. You would have wanted me. But--" he broke off, unusual for him, something strange flashing across his face before he continued. "I thought you didn't want me, sir, but I find I'm not satisfied with that answer."

Suddenly something sharp pushed its way through Nate's memory, unfolding like a child's toy. Brad's presence next to him, his hot breath on Nate's face, and Nate remembered, remembered the kiss, unwittingly sweet and tasting of sour frustration, and the second kiss, tasting of want and more. He remembered, and his hands clenched at his sides, suddenly angry that his mind had locked this away from him for so long.

"I thought it was a dream," he spat out, looking out at the soccer game. Honduras was winning. "I--so many things happened, and I was so tired, and I thought it was a dream. I didn't think I could have something that real."

Brad shifted away at the omission, and Nate spared a look at him. Brad dropped a twenty on the counter in front of them, and his hand was warm, present pleasure on his wrist. "Not this time," Brad said. "You'll remember this time, when I kiss you."

"I will," Nate responded, promise in every line of his body.

*

lipstick my name across your mirror

Later that night, Brad is sitting on the small patio of the apartment Nate's subletting for six months, until his new orders come in and he can finally leave Pendleton for something else. He's watching the vague smudge of the horizon and Nate settles next to him, their legs poking through the railing and dangling below.

An hour ago they were fucking, and the sweat has only just dried on Nate's skin. His fingers itch where they're not resting on Brad, on his skin, shirtless in the evening air. Though every second of the last seventy-two minutes is permanently etched in Nate's mind, flashing foremost the moment he closes his eyes, it still feels like something is left unfinished.

"I did want you," Nate says into the quiet thing built between their bodies. "All those times you were unsure--I can't take it back, but I think you should know that I had always wanted you."

He feels Brad shift next to him, the scratchy touch of Brad's thigh against his. Nate refrains from shivering out the sensation; Brad still doesn't say anything, like his words were all spent in Nate's ear at the bar. Silence is strange on him.

"I thought about what it would be like with your mouth around my cock," Nate clarifies after another beat. "I wondered if you'd be aggressive, wrapping your hand around the part you couldn't swallow, whether you'd be messy, spit hitting my stomach where you couldn't hold it in. Or if you'd be more passive, let me fuck your mouth, rest my dick on your tongue, try for the back of your throat, let me see you gag."

Brad's fingers have tightened where they were loosely clenching the railing before, knuckles white against the tan of his libo spent surfing. Nate wants to lick between them, see if he can taste himself there, when he came all over Brad's fist earlier.

Nate shifts, feels his dick filling again, and smiles a little bit. He leans close, whispering the words into Brad's ear. "That's what I'd think about when I had my combat jack. But when I was stuck in a grave, staring at netting and trying to catch sleep, then I'd think about you splayed open for me, on my fingers or maybe my tongue, something of mine put there, in you. I think the thought of getting you off turned me on more than thinking about you sucking my cock. I wanted to see what your face would look like with three of my fingers in you, widening your asshole, making a place for me to fit. I played every variation of that scenario out in my head whenever I couldn't get to sleep. It didn't even get me hard. It was just the one thing that satisfied me to think about, watching you come on yourself because part of me was in you."

Brad is panting lightly, mouth open and slick where he's been wetting it with his tongue. He's still staring out at the night sky, which has gotten darker as Nate's been talking. Nate rests one finger against the small of Brad's back, right where the blue fade of his tattoo turns into a dusky red. His mouth was there, earlier. He wants it to be there again.

"That night you kissed me, the night I forgot, I was lying in my grave wishing I was staring at any other ceiling than that one. I didn't even take my cover off, because I knew I wouldn't get to sleep long enough to get to the really good dreams, the dreams where I'm fucking you over a dresser or you're jerking me off against a wall. I just took out the fantasy I have where you're lying boneless on the bed, face down, spread out and moaning because I just ate your ass like it's all I was made to do in the world, watching you twitch against the bed because you're so hard that touching the comforter would bring you off. But I pull you back, pull your cock away from the bed, and you say my name like it's a curse, until I start to fuck you, and then you say it like it's a prayer."

Brad's attention was never so riveted during team meetings. Nate watches in satisfaction as Brad's cock sticks out against the front of his black boxers. Brad isn't going to fucking think that Nate doesn't want him. Nate made a promise, after all.

"I think it's time for an object lesson," Nate says, tapping his finger against Brad's back and using his other hand to turn Brad's head so Brad is facing him. Brad looks stunned, and aroused, and like he's seeing everything Nate just said and everything they just did in bright, vibrant Technicolor. When Nate kisses him, it's like a switch is flicked, and Brad comes alive against his mouth.

"I want all of that," Brad says between the bites he places on Nate's mouth, on his jaw.

"It was already yours," Nate replies, resting his head against Brad's.

Profile

templemarker: (Default)
templemarker

October 2016

S M T W T F S
      1
2345678
9101112131415
16171819202122
23242526272829
3031     

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags