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Chapter Text

To give some truth to advertising, we'll start with:

How to survive accurate mortar fire:

Don't panic.

Again: Don't panic.

Panicking leads to a loss of rational judgment, inability to control fine motor skills - which you will need to shoot your gun, and hyperventilation.

(Everyone underestimates the importance of breathing. Don't.)

Upon being on the receiving end of accurate mortar fire, calmly, but quickly, stop what you're doing, secure your firearm, and find cover. The best kind of cover is one that protects the large portions of your body where your vital organs reside. It also helps if it can’t be easily blown up into smaller pieces that will penetrate said organs. Keep as low to the ground as possible.

In a pinch though, any berm will do.

As the situation permits, look for both active enemy combatants and spotters directing these combatants. Don't worry if they’re not armed; they're helping to shoot at you too.

Return fire.

Breathe.

Breathe.

*

Most people talk about getting shot at like it's one of the worst things about war.

Of course, it's not.

Getting shot at is easy.

Chapter Text

This is one of the worst things about war:

Chapter Text

*

In June, Nate's girlfriend of two years breaks up with him, not because he's shipping off in two weeks but because he's been talking about voting for George Bush.

It's surreal. For two well-informed, interested, social people, they've talked very little about politics. Now, it's hard to remember what they did talk about outside the clamor of classrooms and evening mealtime chatter.

She had long, bright blonde hair, the kind you couldn't buy out of a bottle. Waking up against her, it would smell like strawberries.

It's his strongest memory of her, the crisp sweetness of her shampoo, the concentrated red of it on his bathtub corner.

He's surprisingly not devastated.

*

Nate's mom saves her tears for the night before he's about to leave.

After dinner, Nate's excused from the washing up to finish the last of his packing. There's not much left, a few books, his toothbrush.

Ten minutes later, his mom's knocking against the frame of his open doorway. "Didn't want you to forget your favorite shirt," she says. It's a gray one he's had from high school, the silkscreen lettering long faded and cracked. He hasn't thought about it in years. 

When he reaches for it, she doesn't let go.

Against the low lamplight of his childhood bedroom, she looks unspeakably fragile. It's his first cognitive recognition of this, of her mortality.

He smiles. He tells her, "It's okay, Mom." It's the best he can do.

"Oh, Nate," she says, her eyes sparkling. "You're all grown up now."

He lets her reach for him. He remembers looking up at her as a child for her dry forehead kisses. Now, she barely reaches his chin.

Against his chest, her sobs feel like laughter.

*

Quantico, Virginia is only 75 miles south of Baltimore, but it feels almost like a different planet.

It’s not what he’s used to. It’s not easier than he expected.

Nate gets his hair cut, dons a uniform, straps on a gun. He starts jogging in rain and mud and doesn’t worry about sprained ankles, only the steadiness of his pace. He memorizes machine gun parts, phonetic alphabets, radio communications etiquette. He learns to follow orders in a way he hasn’t since middle school when he first took out a biology book and learned his parents didn’t know everything.

He comes out a different person. He comes out almost exactly the same.

*

Most days, the Pacific is nothing like the ocean waves Nate's grown up with. It's louder and maybe saltier, but then, everything here is a bit more saturated, a bit more sharp than he imagined.

California is Nate’s first posting after Quantico. Since basic training, everything military related has been dulled in his mind to the earth tones of woodland camouflage. He didn’t expect California to be any different.

Instead, he finds loud pinks and oranges, splashes of magenta lipstick, manicured lawns of perfect green. He lands to an endless blue sky. It’s more surprising than it should be.

It’s very beautiful. He adapts faster than he did in Virginia.

From Pendleton, it's an easy ten minute drive to the nearest public beach. Every Sunday, he sneaks out for a morning run along the shifting border of sand and sea.

Back at the base, it's a running joke amongst his friends: Nate Fick's sunrise yoga meditations. He laughs. They have a point. Now that they're out of Officer Candidates School, the physical aspect of their training has stepped up by a factor of about a million. Most guys think the best way to spend a free morning is in bed.

Nate gets that.

He's not crazy. It's just: the relentless white noise of the water, the wet, rhythmic staccato of his steps, the immediacy of his breathing after the first couple miles.

It's just, five years ago, he thought he was going to be a doctor. Now, he's taking notes on acceptable combat losses.

He's been here five weeks now. He's made friends. He likes it here in a way that he hadn't anticipated. The thrill of the recoil of his gun, the easy camaraderie with his bunkmates, the lessons in warfare, it’s starting to feel like home.

He thinks: reality is quietly blowing his mind.

*

Chapter Text

*

In December, against the crystal clear sky of forgotten rural wilderness, Brad fights in real, live, wartime combat for the first time.

He's 26, a lot older than he expected to be to be in this situation, but that's a good thing, he supposes. He's been on a lot of humanitarian missions, fought in some skirmishes with armed locals, but nothing like a real firefight.

When he first joined the Marines, he was half sure he'd never see any actual action even though he was in it for life and peace never lasted that long. But he was so young then, so desperately young, living out a dream of heroism and adventure.

He was going to help people. He was going to prove himself.

It makes him smile to think of it now.

On the comms, the platoon leader calls all teams to a halt. There are reports of the RCT team taking some fire up ahead. They're going to confirm this and assess the proximity to their current route before moving on.

Brad's platoon is on its way to scope out a missile battery two klicks north. Behind him, his Corporal takes advantage of the break to rest, not watching his sector.

The thing that Brad later remembers most is the crispness of the night, the way the full moon reflected light so perfectly you didn't need your goggles. On the comms, the battalion leader is telling their platoon leader to standby. He breathes: inhale, exhale.

In his scope, across the glade, a man raises his AK.

For all the talk of combat adrenaline and losing control of your bladder, your nerves, Brad feels mostly calm. He feels his world contract to the grip of his hands on his M-4, the press of the eyepiece against the soft flesh of his right eyelid, the movement of the man that only he sees, the involuntary twitches of his muscles. His strongest understanding is that the night chill has set in, and his fingers are clumsier than he's used to. It'll have to do.

He says, "This is an ambush," and pulls the trigger.

The first time Brad ever killed someone was in Somalia. The guy was maybe fifty meters away, armed with a machete and threatening, with intent, the driver of the humanitarian convoy that Brad was escorting. Brad watched his chest explode, watched him stagger and fall, watched him open his mouth for a curse that was swallowed up by blood instead. Watched the man’s friends leave his body in the dirt.

Afterwards, Brad thought, Now I'm a man that kills people. It didn't bother him as much as he worried it might. It didn't make him happy.

This is nothing like Somalia.

Against the stillness of anticipation, the field lights up with muzzle flashes. Brad sees his man fall, re-aims, gets out another burst.

“3-2, 3-2, can you give an updated sit-rep? What are you firing at? Over.” The comms are awake now. So's the Corporal behind him. So are the other teams, the white glow of their return fire almost jubilant.

He reports, adjust his aim, shoots. Gives corrections. Shoots.

Brad's learned early on that the most exciting part of firing a gun is the recoil. The jerk of life and death in his hands, like riding the perfect wave or racing down I-5, a careful mimicry of the wild helplessness of free fall and yet, Brad knows he's in control. That he can do anything.

Aim, breathe, shoot.

Slowly, the firing in the field dies out. Though he knows they're out there, he can't see the bodies. The grass is too tall. Around him, his team is cheering.

Get some, he thinks.

In Somalia, the woman whom Brad saved from being beheaded responded to his inquiry of her welfare by sobbing. "Oh god, oh god," she cried. She had blood on her face that ran with the wetness of her tears.

At their next camp, their division commander passes a note to congratulate him personally. "You did good, son," he says. Half a world away, his voice sounds small and familiar in Brad’s earpiece.

"Thank you, sir," Brad says back. Two tents away, his RTO is singing a country song. And while they were dancing', my friend stole my sweetheart from me.

With its soft vegetation and its yawning openness, Afghanistan almost reminds him of the training fields of Pendleton. He catches himself straining to hear ocean waves.

*

Chapter Text

Time out.

Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base, Vandegrift Blvd, Oceanside, CA is located about a mile away from this:

Nice, huh?

But that's not the view they're trying to sell. This is:

*

Afghanistan, 7,500 miles away, looks like this:

As some realtors would say, "Charming". But realtors are greedy, slimy, scum of the earth middlemen. What you're looking at is a hovel.

The truth is, Afghanistan actually is charming. Most places are if you're willing to get to know them well enough.

Chapter Text

*

Nate's first assignment is in East Timor.

For three weeks after his high school graduation, he backpacked across the coast of Brazil, learning Portuguese and making do with AP Spanish. He spent a semester in Rome once.

He's probably traveled abroad more than most Americans, but not most military officers.

The night before he left, he touched his childhood globe with a geographer's caress and saw the world open up for him, wide and tantalizingly reachable. After idealism and challenge, this is why he joined the Marines: for the foreign constellations.

When they dock, the first thing he notices is the humidity. Cutting through the Pacific, the ocean breeze seemed to carry away most of the lingering moisture of sea spray. In Dili though, the stifling air has nowhere to escape. He feels his regulation shirt began to stick almost immediately. It, and the strands of broken Portuguese around him, is achingly familiar. It makes him feel eighteen again, at the start of a forgotten summer.

It makes him feel alive.

In the end, he's there for two months. In the mornings, he organizes convoy routes and crowd control as the Timorese line up outside the UN base for their distribution of humrats and thigh masters. Watching their gaunt faces, their skeletal fingers reaching for their portion, it seems like they should be doing more.

But he's not here to feel guilty; he's here to do what he can.

Here, the chatter amongst the crowd is usually low and congenial, exchanging life stories and jokes with handshakes.

Occasionally though, there are still the telltale signs of a country in mourning. "They shot my son," a woman cries in the local Teturn that Nate’s finally starting to pick up. "My baby boy, they took him and shot him in the head.”

When Nate walks over, she bows her head and smiles. "Thank you, thank you" she says in accented English. Nate accepts it and moves on. In his flak vest and kevlar, he's probably not a very good projection of sympathy.

For the most part, he's happy here. Despite the absurdities of the military, they're doing good work. Everyday, Nate gets up with eagerness, with purpose. His Portuguese comes back to him in chunks, and it becomes easier to enjoy the local culture. He develops a taste for gado-gado.

Although the earlier violence that characterized East Timor's independence has fizzled down to a minimum, the peace is fragile. The air tingles with the memory of blood. On patrol, Nate is never without his sidearm. He only shoots it once though, carefully over the heads of some would-be bandits. He doesn’t hit anyone. A Sergeant in his team does. It’s a boy who looks like he should still be in school, not waving pistols at armed Marines.

On the ride back to base, the Sergeant still looks shocked. "Sir," he says, "that kid, it was a chest wound right? I mean, people can survive chest wounds."

It was a chest wound to the heart. In these conditions, there's no way he'll live. Nate offers the Sergeant a smile.

"He was an armed target, John," he replies. "You acted in your best judgment."

Their first priority is always their safety and the safety of their comrades. Still, Nate's glad it wasn't his bullet.

*

On September 11, four months back from Asia, Nate returns from his morning jog to see the collapse of the south tower of the World Trade Center. On CNN, Carol Lin tells him this may have been a terrorist attack.

The phone rings. It's his mother; she's been trying to reach him for an hour.

He can hear her tears rising in the breaks of her voice. "It's ok, Mom," he tells her.

Signing up for the military meant there was always the chance that you would have to go to war, but for Nate, it had seemed like a distant possibility. Most ads talked about paying for college and being a part of something larger than yourself. Now, he thinks, It'll have to be Afghanistan. Al-Qaeda's the only one with the organization.

He calls the base and tells his CO that he'll be in early.

*

In Afghanistan, Nate's in command in a way that makes East Timor look like a joke. Here, instead of driving directions and patrol routes, guys ask him who to shoot, where, what's shooting at them and how best to stop it. His training serves him well. He is able to reply with confidence. In the dimness of the humvee, the whites of his men's eyes and teeth flash brilliantly.

Mostly, there is no room for questions, either from him or those below him. They're warriors now. They do their job.

In the States, there's a portion of New York that's still burning. Nate remembers this at night in his frozen ranger grave and dreams to the beat of artillery fire.

*

The fluidity of the concept of home catches Nate off guard. At Dartmouth, his parent's house was always home. Now, catching his first breath of Pacific air, California is.

His driver's already waiting for him when he lands. Nate met her at the popular Oceanside restaurant that most of the Marines frequent. She's a waitress there when she's not a student at UC San Diego. They've slept together twice without complications, once while sober. She's one of his few friends here that's not military employed.

His first week back, he stays camped out on the cold linoleum floor of his kitchen, pressed between the dishwasher and the center island. The softness of his mattress made him feel exposed, vulnerable. After that week though, he laughs at his own ridiculousness and determinedly makes his way back to the bedroom. He spends the night mostly sleepless, but it cures him of his self-imposed exile.

He gets recommended for recon training. The info session promises impossible feats like running twelve miles with a hundred pound pack on your back and holding your breath for four minutes. Nate tries and gets up to two and a half. He signs up anyway.

The course does it's best to kick his ass. Mostly, it succeeds. He comes home feeling the burn of lactic acid buildupeverywhere. Even his ears feel tired.

When he's not sprinting through obstacle courses, he's being thrown in oceans and tortured in underground bunkers. It feels weird to think that this is something he volunteered for, that it's a privilege.

But he can also feel himself getting stronger, becoming a better Marine, and it pushes him to run harder, dive deeper, think faster.

In a few years time, his contract will be up. He doesn't know yet if this is a viable career choice or if it's still his post-college adventure. Either way, he'll always have this with him, this knowledge of what his body is capable of and his control over it.

By late winter, the chatter at the local hangouts has turned from Afghanistan to Iraq. Most of it has been expectant; some guys were talking about an official declaration within the month.

"If Saddam has WMDs, we have an obligation to protect ourselves," Nate says.

"What if there aren't any?" The question is from the new guy, a Lieutenant from third infantry who they invited to come out of politeness. He just transferred over last month. The only thing Nate remembers about him is his laugh, the way it bursts out of him like the first fireworks on the Fourth of July.

It’s the first thing he says that night.

The idea startles Nate, not with its novelty but that it shows up at this table of combat veterans.

It's Nate's old CO from Afghanistan who answers. "We don't have the luxury to indulge in this pansy ass ‘what-if’ second guessing bullshit. Plus, the CIA's got good intel on it; he does."

"Then I guess we're going to war," the Lieutenant says. He doesn’t sound unhappy.

Nate nods. Across the restaurant, his waitress friend waves at him before heading off for the day.

"Hoorah," he says and clinks his glass with his Captain in a toast.

*

After he gets his deployment papers, Nate spends a week visiting his parents in Baltimore.

On the plane ride over, he keeps his military-issue duffle bag, still dusty with Afghan sand, as his carry on. He gets more “thank you”s than stares. He tries to smile back, be gracious. In this dignified world away from gunfire, he's more thoughtful with his responses. He feels the weight of what he represents, not heavy but conspicuous.

His parents are happy to have him home, however short. Their praise is genuine.

One of his sisters has recently marched in a peace protest. They still talk civilly about politics. She teases him about his hair.

He meets his ex-girlfriend for coffee. Since her, he hasn't sat down to seriously consider dating anyone. She's become engaged to one of the cross-country racers from his old cycling team. Nate always thought the guy was kind of a macho prick, but they got along well enough.

His ex tells him she’s surprised he called. She had hoped they'd stay in touch but she's realistic about these things. She misses him. Yeah, she's very happy.

This time, when he leaves, his mother doesn't cry. Somehow, Nate thinks, this is infinitely sadder.

*

Chapter Text

An aside:

Guys, war isn't about liberation or WMDs or oil. Or even pussy. Not even good, fresh STD-free pussy.

When you get down to it, war is about power. The power of man over man, man over men, man over machines, man over nature, man over life.

Actually, screw it.

War isn't about power; war's really about guys trying to prove that their dicks are in fact as large as their egos promise. (Ten inches standard in case you're wondering.)

But of course, this doesn't help any of us.

Let's move on.

Chapter Text

*

Brad doesn't believe in homecomings when the travel is the real objective of the job. Still, watching the last of the Middle East circle down the drain with the residual suds of his shampoo, he thinks: it's good to be back.

He makes the requisite appearance at his parents' home. After so long in cramped quarters with a platoon of other men, he mostly just wants to be alone, maybe take his bike out and ride for a while. But they've missed him, and he them in his own way.

His dad the architect has added a new deck to the house, extending into the woods that engulf the property. Under a perfect forest camouflage canopy, he tells them about Afghanistan.

He tries to stick to stories he knows they’ll understand. Simple stories about individuals like Eric Kocher trying to find heavy enough MRE crates to bench press or Pappy getting chewed out for the perpetual shaving cream stuck beneath his ear. He throws in a little history: Alexander the Great left the last of the known world behind when he crossed the mountains of the Hindu Kush. A little romance: at sunset, the sun against the horizon would burn the entire country the richest shade of gold.

They listen intently, nod in the right places. His cousin, who's never left the United States, asks the most questions, mostly about geography.

When his mother announces dinner, they let him off the stage. They share local news, ostensibly to catch him up but it's filled with names he no longer recognize.

It's nice; he’d rather listen to them talk.

Next to him, his niece alternates between open staring and fidgeting in her seat. He smiles down at her, and she stills. Finally, she asks, "Did you shoot anyone?" His sister shushes her quickly, but everyone at the table has already heard. They fall silent.

Here, Brad sometimes shares their civilian discomfort with the realities of what he does. Surrounded by warmth and family and ready access to indoor plumbing, it's easy to forget that he's ever picked up a gun. But it never lasts.

"Only the bad guys," he says.

"Well, there are no bad guys here," his mom adds brightly, and, "Oh Brad, you've gotten so skinny. Let me get you another piece of pie."

He lets her change the subject. "Sure mom, that would be lovely,” he says.

They were at his commendation ceremony. They cheered. They love him.

It's enough, more than. He's grateful for them.

*

Before Afghanistan, Brad was only starting to acquire his reputation. A few heroic rescues, some daring conquests, mostly true rumors. Now, he's solidified it.

He's gained a nickname: The Iceman. It's close to moto bullshit but whatever. He supposes he should be proud.

The thing is, morale is important enough, but nothing makes up for clean, straightforward competency.

At the end of their first week home, some of his buddies lure him out for beers. He thinks about upgrading the transmission on his bike as they reminisce over all the Hajjis they killed in Afghanistan. If their numbers were correct, the country would be depleted of its citizens by now.

Afterwards, he follows the waitress out back, and they fuck in the backseat of her car. She's small and cheerful. She keeps her eyes closed throughout and moans like a porn star. It's good enough sex, but it leaves him feeling vaguely guilty, leaving her alone in the darkened parking lot still buttoning up her blouse. He doesn’t know if this is what she was looking for.

It’s a small town. He sees her again from time to time but there's no repeat performance.

He knows how to handle a gun, how to handle the gears of his bike, the delicate silicon of his computer. But people, he finds, are fragile, tricky things. 

*

Three blocks in from the beach, Oceanside settles down into quiet family playgrounds and busy working homes. It’s nothing like the glamor of oasis vacation retreats and sprayed-on bikini tans that people see on TV. Behind the boardwalk, Oceanside is real and unassuming.

Brad’s thinking about buying a house here.

Overseas tours are great for savings accounts. Brad’s got eight months of accumulated combat pay burning a hole in his. It gives him options.

There’s a bungalow for sale on Ditmar. It’s small, but it has an honest-to-god attached two-car garage. It would mean no more of the “assigned space” bullshit that his apartment complex fosters on him. This close to the base, it would be easy to find a subletter for when he’s gone. He could sell it if he’s reassigned.

It’s not, say, a surplus tank, but at least Brad wouldn’t have to worry about breaking any zoning laws.

When he tells her, Brad’s mother is surprised. “No new bike?” she teases. “Some super, space-age gadget?”

“We all have to grow up some time,” Brad says back.

It’s close to the truth. It’s probably the most adult impulse buy he’s ever made.

His whole family comes down for the move. His dad helps him tear down walls and redesigns the kitchen. Brad hadn’t meant to put this much effort into it, but his dad insists.

His sister buys scented candles, cinnamon apple and candy ginger, that they light at dinner instead of using the overhead lamp. Brad thinks about complaining, but she laughs and tells him, “Shut up, you know you like it.”

When they leave, the house is quiet for the first time. Coming back from work, Brad catches the scent of fruity sweetness tinged with sea salt. It’s the familiar smell of home.

*

Brad spends a lot of his time training, surfing, messing around with his bike or his computer. His days are remarkably unremarkable.

*

The road north out of Yuma, Arizona stretches to the distant mountains of Phoenix in one long, unbroken line of asphalt. If you leave early enough, before the desert heat has a chance to set in, you can catch hours of good, police-free riding without a soul in sight.

Brad loves this road.

Two miles out of town, there's a Marine Air Station that Brad gets to know. Yuma is an easy three hours drive from Oceanside, a quiet oasis at the edge of the Sonoran Desert whose claim to fame is that it's the sunniest place on Earth. The Marines here consist primarily of Air Force rejects whose prides fool them into insisting on the maintenance of their warrior spirit despite their POG-like sensibilities with a real gun.

It doesn't take a warrior to jostle a joystick 10,000 meters above the action.

They're friendly enough though and generous with their barracks when Brad visits on the weekends. It works out well for him.

Surprisingly, he likes the desert. In the hours before dawn, the openness of sky and sand swallow you up like the depths of the ocean.

He wouldn't mind dying in a place like this, he thinks.

The one downside is that he needs to make it back by midday before the temperature becomes too overwhelming – not enough time to really lose yourself. Despite the heat, some guys on the base are playing a pick-up game of Horse. He declines to join in but lets a First Lieutenant tell him about the perfection of liftoff.

On his way out the next morning, a Marine he doesn't recognize tells him to "Come back next week, Brad."

"Wouldn't miss it," he says.

Half the ride back across California is uphill, the same desert beige and khaki mapped across rocky outcroppings. The twists and turns of the climb would make for a more interesting drive, but he has heavy freight traffic to contend with here. He finds himself missing the emptiness of Arizona.

When he crosses to the San Diego side of the mountains, the sudden eruption of miles and miles of grass temporarily disorients him. It's like stepping into Oz in all its Technicolor glory.

He inhales, reacquaints his skin with moisture rich air.

He thinks: swells should be perfect for surfing today.

*

Chapter Text

What a beautiful day to start a fucking war.

Chapter Text

*

During officer training, the first rule they teach you is always: never get so close to your men that they become unexpendable. In the abstract, it was achievable.

Nate’s not a bad guy, but he knows enough about leadership to understand that using people is normally a big part of it.

In Afghanistan, embedded in the infantry, the "yessir"s were always sharp, ready. It created distance, not far but unforced. He liked his men, cared for them, respected them, but in a firefight, the tag of their individuality blurred into this man's fear, that man's readiness.

But Recon is another entity.

When he first meets his team, they're training for a possible rappelling mission. 500 meters away, he watches through his binoculars the bobbing of their Kevlars as they descend along the almost sheer cliff face. He wishes he was there with them. The simulation is supposed to mimic as closely as possible actual field conditions though, and Nate's job is to coordinate the teams and relay with command.

It's almost, as Colbert would say, an affront to his warrior spirit.

Over the comms, Espera is telling them about the time he repoed a 300 lb. telescope from some plastic surgeon's rooftop observatory. It was just like a recon mission, he says. To himself, Nate laughs. Like most of Espera's stories, this one is a mixture of economic stratification and straightforward absurdity. Person tells him to keep the surgeon's number; he should go for the Michael Jackson treatment.

It surprises Nate, the almost instant distillation of their personalities in his consciousness, each as sharp and as clear as grid lines. He thinks: it would be easy to get attached.

For their part, the men aren't unwilling to respect him. He looks young, he knows, especially against the veteran Sergeants of his platoon, but they accept his corrections without reservation. Their experience and skill humble him, teach him.

It works.

*

At Mathilda, Nate's SOP does another 180. He'll be back in the field again, fourth vehicle.

Their mission is to take a bridge on the Euphrates. He spends weeks tracing and retracing satellite maps, cycling through what-if situations until he has his own Choose Your Own Adventure story written in the back of his mind.

With each passing day, he feels the knots of anticipation loosen. Though his commander's technical capabilities seem to be deteriorating instead of improving, his platoon is coalescing into the band of warriors they’ve always promised to be. During the live-fire training mission, they clear every target.

At Pendleton, Nate was the competent but largely irrelevant voice at the other end of the comms. Here, they are his, and he is theirs.

*

Nate's always been the kind of people person that invites strangers to open up to him at airports and in coffee-bar lines. At Pendleton, he would have said he knew his men well, but Mathilda shows him what he's been missing.

Like:

Rudy Reyes brings three different kinds of moisturizers with him, but only one survives the hundred degree desert heat. He bemoans this only as long as it takes to ascertain that Amazon delivers to Kuwait.

When asked, Gunny Wynn will always say he's from a small, rural town just south of El Paso even though he's lived in California for as long as he's been in Recon. It's not politics, he says, but he grew up a Texas boy and that ain't ever gonna change. On the long drives out of Mathilda, he teaches Nate old country songs about cowboys and the towns they save.

Once asleep, Lilley only wakes up for food, pissing, and training. He looks obscenely young, curled into himself against the packed sand of the tent floor.

Ray Person is the most unique individual Nate's ever met. But he knows this from Pendleton.

Despite his loner reputation, Colbert is always ready to talk logistics. Nate finds him in tent corners, laptop nearby, intent. He'll allow himself to be interrupted though, without irritation, and offers remarks and questions in answer to Nate's concerns. When they talk, it's against the background of wrestling and laughter.

Colbert's personal items are almost all electronic. He does bring one photograph though, a sunset portrait of his Yamaha R1 racing bike.

*

The last full battalion meeting before entering Iraq is a flurry of impressively staged moto and coordinated military dramatics. They spend most of the rest of the day, however, in traffic.

Despite the wait, Nate feels the actuality of action sink in with each breath of stagnant desert air.

He thinks: Let slip the dogs of war.

*

Chapter Text

*

Despite all the time he spends willingly on open highways, Brad's never understood the allure of road trips.

At the right speed on his bike, the landscape will blur and the wind will provide a perfect tunnel for him to lean in to. At that moment, he will be filled with the conscious acknowledgement that he is moving at a pace faster than human capability, that no one could touch him unless he stopped. It's nothing like being in a car.

That hours spent in a small, enclosed space with the same individuals, breathing recycled air and traveling at just over speed limit is considered enjoyable by some is not lost on him, but the idea seems closer to torturous than pleasurable.

Still, the Marine Corps has never shown any indication of giving a shit about Brad Colbert’s preferences, so, jammed in a humvee that tops out at 45 mile per hour, with three Marines and a reporter, Brad prepares for an invasion. 

*

Twenty klicks inside the border of Iraq, the LT calls a team meeting.

There's simultaneously everything and nothing to report. They're headed to a place called Burrayyat An Rataw. No one knows why they're going there. The bridge mission is scraped.

It's a low-grade annoyance, these changes and the ambiguity of their expectations. Brad's grown up with blueprints and plans that were followed. He likes to be forewarned.

For one perfect moment, he recalls the grainy ridges of the bridge against the satellite blue of the Euphrates. He notes the most likely enemy ambush points, the viable options for cover, the best route through. The perfect recon mission. It's a rush, these images he knows now to his bone.

He lets them go.

*

The road to Nasiriyah is paved with dead bodies.

The blown up torso of a little girl, the scorched remnants of friendly soldier, the would-be corpses of the un-surrendered Iraqis that they turn back to their death camps.

In the back seat, Trombley says, "When do I get to kill someone?"

If he's honest, Brad knows this is the question they're all asking themselves, in one form or another. Instead, he says, "What is wrong with today's youth that they have so little patience?"

He glasses a concentration of light sparkling against a distant berm, but it's only an old soda bottle. He says, "Stay frosty, gents."

*

Despite the idiocy of command, most of the time, it's not one of Brad's priorities. In Afghanistan, he reported to a pencil pusher, an analyst, who was very good at giving speeches and even better at following instructions. During field missions, with the exception of a few sit-rep requests, he stayed off the net and out of Brad's way. Brad liked the guy okay.

In Iraq, officers roam amongst the men like they're all one big killer family. Fick lives up to his reputation by being handy with a gun. He’s competent, more than, smart, personable without being obvious about it. He doesn't try to make friends, but he's willing enough to listen to their stories and their complaints. He fits in.

But as the days pass, Fick becomes something more, a mascot of sanity and rationality. Suddenly, Brad understands the fond, reverential undertone other Marines had when they talked about “the LT”.

The paternalistic structure of the military dictates that Fick acts as his immediate male authority figure, but it doesn't feel like tyranny, not when Fick’s team meetings are never one-way conversations, when Brad can trace the logic of Fick’s decisions. He feels no inclination to rebel.

In firefights, against the cacophony of Captain America's panic, Fick's voice is clear, firm, and precise. Brad finds himself listening for it as he lines up for his next shot.

They move up Route 7. Along the way, he watches RCT-1 schwack a hamlet of kids and women. His company commander is amongst the ones shooting, but in his haste, he misses.

Under the sniper fire of Ar Rifa, their LT tries to the stop the same commander from calling in an artillery strike on top of their heads. It’s Poke who brings him the news. “Word is, Encino Man's not happy about the LT undermining his authority, and he's going to take it all the way to the top."

Brad’s cleaning his gun, but he stops. He says, “Lieutenant Fick is a better commander than any of those pompous, incompetent, self-important assholes, right up to Godfather."

He surprises himself with the vehemence of his conviction, his confidence that Fick’s reputation is theirs to protect. That this officer, this Marine, this man has become as wholly his as the weight of his M-4.

*

Unlike Afghanistan, most nights in Iraq aren’t very clear at all. Too much dust in the air.

But sometimes, when the wind’s calmed down and the sand settles, the stars come out.

It’s a beautiful night. They’re invading an airfield. There might be tanks on that airfield. They might die.

There might be nothing at all. They might walk away the conquering heroes.

*

The high of a successful mission lasts through dig in. It’s strange; their victory is another bizarre intersection of circumstance and luck, but it feels good. Brad spends most of the afternoon smiling.

Two hours before sunset, two Bedouin women enter the camp dragging a litter behind them. Against the long, flat tarmac of Qalat Sukhar, it’s easy to spot their approach. When Brad walks over, he feels almost lethargic after the rush of the night before.

He is afraid to look down.

Most civilian causalities are accidents. This one is too, he knows, but it's obscenely easy to trace back the hierarchy of consequence to the root: this boy is dying because he told Trombley to shoot because he came to Iraq because he joined the Marines because he was born.

He doesn't believe in fate, but he can believe that somehow, everyday of his life has been solidifying up to this point, to this mother and child, to see her face, to see her beauty and the beauty of childhood, and know that he has brought them here to him in blood.

*

Chapter Text

*

In March, on an abandoned Iraqi airfield that they took, not by force, but with sheer, ironic luck, Nate learns that Sergeant Brad “Iceman” Colbert is human.

It's one of the hardest lessons of the war.

He watches Brad kneel by a grieving mother and cry. He looks five years younger. Suddenly, Nate is reminded of his sister at six, her face tightening and flooding with tears when she learned that their pet Labrador retriever had died. Nate was seven. It was his first clear understanding that some breaks are irreparable.

On the ground, Brad's body shakes with the same deep, quiet sobs. Nate's been told once that Brad once held his breath for a record five and a half minutes, but now, he sounds like he can't get enough oxygen. "What can I do?" Nate hears him say.

Of course, the answer is nothing. I’m losing him, Nate thinks.

Nate's a good officer. He knows this. In his mind, the blood and the child abstract to another problem. There's no life and death, no human sympathies, only the fragility of his top team leader's conscience against an invasion that's only just begun.

He orders the boy moved. When Godfather okays the medevac, Nate is glad Brad won't have to see the child die.

Maybe tomorrow, maybe five months from now, Nate will remember the aching smallness of the boy's body, the distance in his eyes. Maybe it'll be Brad's slumped, unhappy silhouette against a roaring sunset that he will remember most.

Maybe, he'll never think of it again.

*

Chapter Text

Here's another crappy thing about war:

MOPP suits.

MOPP suits are foul, itchy, charcoal-lined, rubbery death ovens disguised as protective gear. Except at night when they become foul, itchy, charcoal-lined, rubbery death freezers.

Avoid them if possible. Or keep reminding yourself that they're suppose to save your life.

Chapter Text

Oh, and you know what else sucks? Civilians.

Here's how you deal with the non-combatant citizens of the country you're invading:

Firstly, if they are armed, they are not civilians. They're a fucking enemy fighter that wants to blow your head off. Don't forget that.

Secondly, civilians are people too (except when they're not - see above). Upon completion of their danger level assessment, use your military phrase book to ascertain their requirements to the best of your ability. For high priority cases, a translator will be provided for you. Distribute your humanitarian rations judiciously.

For the most part, civilian contact should be limited to: disarmament, extraction of intelligence, and withdrawal. Don't get attached.

When in doubt, consult the SOP. The SOP will set you free. From being court-martialed that is.

In cases of extreme medical emergencies, seek a medical professional.

*

Let's be clear though: this is war. You're either in it or you need to get out of the motherfucking way.

*

Another thing about civilians, they're messy when they die.

But you're on your own on that one.

Chapter Text

*

Outside a bridge to Al Muwaffaqiyah, Brad learns that their LT, the LT whose command he has come to rest his understanding of the invasion on, is just as capable of betraying them as everyone else.

They’ve driven through a few more ambushes, watched a few more people die, made a couple more mistakes. It’s the first night in days that Brad gets to sleep. Fifty-six minutes later, Ray is waking him up for a team leader meeting. He thinks he remembers dreaming, but if he was, the dream was about Iraq. Maybe, he hasn’t slept at all.

In the darkness, Fick’s eyes are too alert. He tells them they will be heading across the bridge that’s sent LAVs back with causalities. He says, “Frankly, gentlemen, I’m not hearing the aggressiveness I would like.”

When Brad watches him, Fick’s mouth is hard. His eyes have no problem meeting their own.

In his mind, Brad thinks he must still be asleep because only in dreams could his LT sound this much like command.

And while he knows that it’s not the LTs decision, it’s not Fick’s decision, that maybe he’s being unfair to Fick, but Fick is being unfair to him. Because with each unrelenting syllable, Nate Fick is quietly stealing Brad’s last unblemished illusion of their leadership.

It’s too sudden, this knowledge that their LT is not above the dirtiness and imprecision of this war. Brad wants to go back to his ranger grave and wake up to find that their next mission has nothing to do with being bait for sniper shots. He wants to wake up and see their LT’s boyish grin and smile back.

Instead, he goes to brief his team.

*

They don’t tell you this in basic training, but a firefight’s the easiest part of a Marine’s job. If a Marine is going to panic, freak out, lose control, he will do so regardless of the scale and harshness of his indoctrination.

Brad doesn’t panic, doesn’t freak out, doesn’t lose control.

They drive into a kill zone. They get stuck. They are about to be shot at.

War is a messy, ambiguous beast, but combat, actual face-to-face combat, is simple. In this moment, Brad’s understanding is as clear as the sky above them. There is only the enemy and the necessity of action.

He fires. The world explodes. The trees are no longer dark.

They need to get out of here, but their exit route is fucked. Next to him, Ray is trying to get the other vehicles to back up, but the artillery is too loud for him to be heard. Brad adjusts his aim, concentrates on the rhythm of his breathing.

Along the road, Fick has left the relative protection of his vehicle to direct their retreat in the open. He’s shot at but isn’t shot. It’s necessary; it works.

Brad sees him and thinks, Nate.

He pauses, grips his gun tighter. Now’s not the time, he knows. He keeps firing.

*

The next day is clear and beautiful.

There are dead enemy soldiers lining the side of the road. Pappy’s absence is a conscious gap at their morning meeting.

Nate tells them, “Last night, we pet a burning dog.” It’s close to an apology. He sounds tired. Brad thinks he almost prefers the optimistic, bloodthirsty command line to this impenetrable resignation.

He could have died on that bridge, Brad thinks. They all could have, but it’s Nate’s prone form that he thinks of. He doesn’t remember why he was angry with Nate at all. He wishes he could take it back.

In the pause between breaths, Brad is keenly aware that there is no line between Nate Fick the LT and Nate Fick the guy who laughs with his whole body, whose worst habit is chewing pen tops, who's two years younger than Brad is but looks more like five, who came out of the ivy tower to carry the weight of their lives and their souls upon his shoulders. Nate who fights for them and who breathes for them.

Brad knows that even as he asked himself to be the extraordinary, he has asked Nate to be the impossible: to be exactly as Brad wanted him to be. That even as the solidity of Nate’s determination is flaking away in the bitter, bombed out air, he is quietly surpassing all of Brad’s expectations.

That even if he wanted to, he can’t fit Nate into a carefully labeled box; that it’s insulting to try when Nate has never promised to be anything but completely, wonderfully human.

That he can’t remember the last time he truly admired someone, but he respects and admires Nate. That above all, Nate is a good and decent man.

That even though Brad can’t call Nate “friend”, he’s long ago come to call Nate his.

Against the cloudless Iraqi ski, the bulk of Nate’s gear engulfs his face in shadow. He looks sad.

If Brad were a better person, a kinder one, he’d say, “Sir, what you did for us last night, what you do for us everyday, it’s the only thing keeping us alive.” He would mean it. He owes Nate Fick a thank you letter a mile long. He owes him more than that.

Maybe it would help, maybe not.

But Brad is Brad. He says, “I think we can take it from here, sir.”

*

Brad doesn't tell Nate this, but back at Pendleton, he heard about him before Nate was ever introduced as their new platoon leader.

In the military, reputation accumulates. The stories about Nate were mostly positive, general. He went to Dartmouth but wanted to prove himself when he graduated. He was a good officer, a nice guy. He had a good stint in Afghanistan, brought all his men home. His CO recommended him for Recon. He’s one of the top guys in his class.

It was the kind of bland praise that made Brad think of those guys that got their bodies co-captaining the crew team and, after surviving recon’s fitness test, thought of themselves as true, hotshot warriors. Fick probably had a dash of moral righteousness that allowed him to insist he was here to change the world and a big enough ego to believe it. Most likely, he’d wipe out, get himself a cushy desk job, and go back to his six-figure civilian world with just enough street cred to pull some pussy.

But when Brad meets him, he knows Nate is none of the above.

It’s the morning after Nate is assigned to their platoon. There was a barbecue on the beach to meet the new LT, but Brad hadn’t gone.

They’re at the mess hall, Brad half-listening to Poke tell an old story about growing up in L.A. Nate gets in the line behind them. The utensils on his tray are arranged in perfect parallel lines.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he says. “Hope your training’s going well.”

They nod a “yessir”. Nate smiles brightly but doesn’t try to sit with them.

It was the smile that said it, that somewhere behind the fresh face and wide eyes was solid sincerity. That Nate wasn’t here for the rep, probably didn’t even want it. That he was going to try.

It would have been almost admirable, Brad thinks, except cheerful optimism has never been a quality he’s found particularly useful.

Next to him, Poke says, “Man, I do not want to be there when that dog crashes and motherfucking burns."

"Probably in combat too," Brad agrees. It’s a valid assessment. The idealists didn't last long in the military. Give them a few failed missions here, a couple of dead civilians there, and they'd be crying themselves to sleep.

Four months later, they were shipping out.

*

The Nate Fick that Brad remembers from Pendleton is not the Nate that Brad finds in Iraq. Here, he wouldn't trade Nate for the world.

*

Chapter Text

*

The problem with war is that despite the relentlessness of their pace, there will consistently be sporadic breaks. Most of the time, Nate’s not looking to make trouble for his own conscience, but in the pause between missions, his thoughts creep in.

He doesn’t want to be another disillusioned war casualty, but it’s hard to articulate now the justification that seemed so valid across the ocean.

First, there was self-defense, but the policy of the invasion has been brute aggression and reckless endangerment of the lives of his men. Then, there was liberation, but it’s hard to cheer for American freedom with the bodies of civilians and the shells of homes littering behind their convoy in a train that stretches all the way back to Kuwait. There’s always the challenge, but it was in recon training that he proved himself. Here, he’s just another idiot with a gun.

But his doubts are mostly contained to the idyllic calm after the rolling clashes of another hostile town. It helps that there’s not much free time. There are always comms to monitor, maps to check, grunts to yell at. He worries about the health of his men, their lack of food and sleep and proper hygiene.

It helps that Nate has Brad here. Nate likes Mike a lot, but there are some things a Gunny shouldn’t say.

There are some things a Team Leader shouldn’t say either, but it doesn’t stop Brad.

Away from the rigid hierarchies of Mathilda’s tents, Brad’s personal boundaries loosen. He stops talking to Nate like a subordinate, more like a confidant. It’s a good feeling.

Most of their conversations start with “Sir” and ends with Nate walking away. In between, Brad says a lot of the things that Nate can’t. It’s an indulgence. Afterwards, it’s a little bit easier to breathe.

When they have time, Nate naps without dreaming.

He’s all right; they’ll be okay.

*

Chapter Text

*

The thing is, Brad’s good at a lot of things, but he’s never quite managed selective spontaneous amnesia.

When he talks to Nate, he can’t forget that’s his mind has stripped away the formalities between them, that he’s appealing now to the man before the officer, that it’s personal. Brad lets his “sir”s get a little lazier, offers up a few more smiles with his tactical advice.

Nate the Person turns out to be unsurprisingly easy to warm up to. As much as Nate never invites himself into the casual chatter of the platoon, he takes to their teasing without discomfort. He holds himself back, Brad knows, but he doesn’t retreat when Brad steps forward.

*

Nate’s got the sort of prettiness that’s precise rather than feminine. In the civilian world, it’s the kind of looks that girls would sigh over and call “sensitive”. Here, it leaves Nate looking exposed.

Over AO maps, Brad finds himself studying the delicate ridge of a nose, the gentle slopes of a mouth. Underneath the dirt, Nate looks shower-clean, unblemished. It’s not the sort of face you expect to find in the middle of a war zone.

Sometimes, he catches himself looking.

Brad’s probably fucked more guys than girls by now. He spent most of his formative teenage years in military school; it was an experience. He’s long learned that sex is sex and good sex even better, but neither requires greater knowledge of the other person involved beyond consent. It’s something you do. Mostly, he doesn’t think about it.

It’s not the looking that worries him. Brad’s appreciation of Nate Fick has never been exactly contained to the crispness of Nate’s commands. It’s another fact that he was comfortable ignoring. Now, it’s nice to surface through the grittiness of reality and find a pleasant face. Nate’s prettiness, like a fresh, untouched copy of Juggs, is a luxury here.

It’s logical to move from appreciation to lust to fantasy. Brad gets as far as the shiny wetness of Nate’s lips before his mind jumps.

Nate’s mouth is working a beer instead of Brad’s cock. It would be after the war, back at Oceanside or maybe La Jolla where the bars are little bit cleaner, a little bit quieter.

Nate would have rolled up the sleeves of his black, pinstriped shirt, left the top buttons undone. Brad’s shared close, communal quarters with Nate for months, but it’d still be more skin than he’s used to.

It would be the lull before the food arrived. Nate would be quoting Thucydides. “‘Right, as the world goes, is only in question between equals in power, while the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must.’”

“Did they teach you that at your fancy Ivy League institution?” Brad would tease.

Nate would have looked down, his thumb worrying an edge of his beer bottle label. “Just something I heard in Iraq.”

It’s an opening, but neither of them would want to talk about it. Instead, Brad would offer, “The Chargers are doing well this season.”

Nate would sound surprised. “You follow football?”

“No,” Brad would admit, “not really.”

Maybe Nate would laugh and tell him a story about childhood Ravens games with his dad, season tickets once before he grew into basketball instead. Maybe, Nate would return with a joke: “Is this Brad Colbert making small talk? I’m not sure I can handle the honor.”

Maybe, he’d kick Brad lightly underneath the table and bring up the article he’d read on Intel’s new Nehalem chip. He’d let Brad do most of the talking, but he’d ask enough questions to show he’s genuinely interested, informed. It’d be something Nate’s good at.

After dinner, Brad would walk Nate back to his practical Toyota Camry Hybrid. Brad’s bike would be parked three empty slots down. Probably, they’d have settled into a comfortable silence.

Underneath a dim streetlight, Brad would lean down and Nate would tilt back, ready. The corner of Nate’s mouth would quirk up. It’s the clearest image Brad can see, Nate’s familiar closed-mouth smile right before Brad kisses him.

Probably, it would have been nice.

But it’s not the sort of companionship Brad’s used to wanting. Here, with Ray’s commentary and Reporter’s questions, the thing he would’ve said he missed most was solitude.

But it wouldn’t be true.

When he dreams of home, he’s never alone. When he dreams of Nate, they’re never having sex.

It unsettles him. He tries not to think about it.

*

In Muwaffaqiyah, they set up another roadblock.

It’s not where Brad wants to be. He makes do.

When Nate asks about the smoke grenade, it’s obvious that he’s not happy. As humane of a guy as Nate is, he has other priorities. When Nate says “suicide bombers”, it’s an Iraqi airfield that Brad thinks of.

Brad gets it, he does. As much as they all try to look out for each other, Nate’s particular brand of worry extends beyond the immediacy of individual concerns to the probable consequences of acquiescence. Fact: there are reports of suicide bombers. Fact: they are killing too many civilians.

Fact: morale’s not looking great.

And maybe Brad’s being selfish, but it’s not the averted dangers that’s he’s going to carry home. He wants to tell Nate exactly what he wants, to say, “That is a good idea.” To say, “We can do better.”

He does. He tells Nate, “It’s your decision, sir, but I’m asking.”

He wants Nate to understand. He’s almost sure Nate does.

It’s almost anti-climatic when the driver of the second car dies anyway. Through the telescope lens of Brad’s M-4 night sight, he looks at peace despite the blood.

Sometimes, Brad can’t quite figure out why exactly they’re here, what good could possibly outweigh all this death.

Behind him, Nate’s the only one that moves. He doesn’t know what Nate’s thinking.

Over the comms, Nate says, “Battalion wants us Oscar Mike.”

*

Chapter Text

Another intrusion:

Let's talk about love.

The two prevailing theories state that love is either:

a) the greatest thing in the world to which we dedicate our lives in search of, or,

b) the socially generated reaction to prolong the continued unity of two individuals for the purpose of child rearing after the chemical response of lust have faded.

Great theories, huh?

But let's be pragmatic for a second: love is love. No one needs to define the sky. (And the guys who do are either scientists or idiots or both. See above.)

Chapter Text

*

In college, on a dare, Nate kissed a man for the first time.

There was a girl in Nate's Public Opinion class who used to say, "Oops, bumped into another one of your right angles, Nate. Try not to be such a square." He used to think she hated him, until they started dating.

She was the one who made the dare. Later, they went back to her apartment and fucked with Nate's arms handcuffed around her bedpost. It was some of the best sex he’d ever had.

Watching the soft rise and fall of her naked shoulder, Nate thought about it. It seemed like a cheap trick to get a girl. He hadn’t thought he was that kind of guy.

Motivation aside, it wasn't a bad kiss. He was sharply conscious of how it wasn’t like kissing a girl at all; the guy's finals week stubble and lean, hard body made that illusion impossible. He liked it anyway, but he didn't know what that meant. He was aware that there was no panic, only the calm realization of enjoying something new. Perhaps, it was the alcohol talking.

His mind didn't jump from kissing to sex, but it did jump from kissing to maybe a shared coffee later. Brian, the guy, was the sort of uncalculated nice that made everyone around him want to be better person. He was a half-formed friend. Nate liked him a lot better than he liked the girl. He doesn't know why he went home with her instead.

Two years later, with Nate's Quantico bound duffel bag between them, she broke up with him.

*

Despite being an incredibly good-looking guy, most days, Brad’s attractiveness gets lost in the Iceman demeanor.

Around the camp, Rudy flashes quick smiles and impromptu sponge baths that invite you to appreciate. Everyone thinks Rudy’s hot. Nate gets this, accepts it, and moves on.

But Brad’s so unselfconsciously indifferent to the state of his appearance beyond compliance to the grooming standard that it’s almost embarrassing to notice. During team leader meetings, Nate catches the sharp relief of a cheekbone, the careful tilt of Brad’s lips in a smirk, and he feels the nascent burn of want in the pit of his stomach.

At Pendleton, Nate looked up into cool blue eyes and thought of the uncomplicated attractiveness of TV actors. Later, Brad strapped on a climbing harness and his sidearm, and Nate could only think Marine.

In Iraq though, with only the company of a battalion of unshowered men and come-stained porn rags that he can’t quite bring himself to read, Nate remembers the impression.

On lazy afternoons, Brad lets himself relax. Without his kevlar and layers of chemical insulation, Brad’s one long stretch of tight muscles and casual grace. Underneath the sunlight, his skin shines.

Nate watches him and feels the slide of acknowledgement into appreciation, into desire.

He hadn’t expected to find this here. After the one kiss with Brian, Nate had let the possibilities of his sexuality fade with the increased activity in his heterosexual sex life. Once in a while, he thought about it again with curiosity. Mostly, he was busy.

In Iraq, between the rush of hostile towns, Nate has a lot of time.

*

Reporter likes to ask him a lot of questions about Dartmouth. Nate supposes it’s the novelty of finding Ivy League legacy in a place like this.

The truth is, everybody’s got their own baggage. Nate doesn’t think the seal on his alma mater makes him particularly special, but it probably makes for a good story.

When Nate thinks back to New Hampshire, it’s with fond alienness. When he imagines himself on Dartmouth’s fresh, green lawns, he’s in his MOPP suit still, dripping sand. He wouldn’t fit in anymore.

He’d like to take Brad back and listen to Brad make fun of his friends. Brad would probably take one look at Dartmouth and call it a “hippie, special education, dick sucking, homosexual commune.” Brad would make going back a little less foreign, Nate thinks, a lot more fun.

If Brad hadn’t joined the Marines, he probably would have gone to a state school, somewhere big where you can lose yourself. Berkley, maybe. U. C. San Diego. Nate never applied, too far away, but it could have been interesting.

They could have met in a Classics class. Despite how liberal arts it is, Nate can see Brad reading Homer.

Brad would have been the kind of cool engineering kid all the other engineer kids admired, some kind of computer prodigy who spoke sarcasm instead of nerd. He probably would have had his own cult.

Nate would have heard of him even though their circle of friends didn’t overlap. He’d have been intrigued.

In the class, they probably wouldn’t have gotten together willingly, but maybe, they could have been paired up for a project. It would have given them a chance to get to know each other. Nate would’ve enjoyed Brad’s running mockery of the ignorance of their prof. He would have admired Brad’s pinpoint insightfulness.

Afterwards, they would have found that they’ve become friends. It would have been easy to keep hanging out.

Maybe Brad could have taught him how to surf. Maybe against the crash of ocean waves, Nate could have whispered careful Latin to Brad’s open profile.

Maybe Nate could have fallen for the slant of Brad’s smile.

Maybe they could have been happy.

*

But the reality is, they’re in Iraq in the middle of a war that they’re slowly fucking up with each un-calculated step. The reality is Nate barely remembers Latin anymore. He wishes he took Arabic instead.

The reality is, this is no place for fantasies. Sometimes, Nate thinks Brad’s the only one he’s got that actually understands, that the acknowledgement he sees in Brad’s eyes is the only comfort he has left. But that doesn’t mean he has any right to take it further.

The reality is, Brad’s just his TL. A damn good one, yeah, but their relationship is military precise. The reality is, Nate likes Brad, admires him as much as any childhood hero, but they’re not here to make friends.

The reality is, he doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore.

The reality is, there’s no happy ending.

*

Chapter Text

*

The thing is, most of the time, Brad’s job consists primarily of pointing a gun out the window and analyzing random bits of roadside refuse.

Stray thoughts are discouraged. Brad saves his musings over Nate for the calm minutes after they finish setting up camp. It usually doesn’t last very long.

Outside Baghdad though, they dig in with an entire regiment between them and the parameter. They’re pushing zero percent watch. Brad has plenty of time.

In the stillness of the camp, Nate’s familiar gait is eye-catching. It’s brisk but unhurried. Against the still-warm hood of the humvee, Brad waits for him.

It’s a warm night for a change. The stars are out in full glory. Most of the battalion is taking the opportunity to catch up on some much needed shut-eye. Brad should be doing the same, but his skin is buzzing, not with adrenaline, but the habit of anticipation.

Nate’s stretched out in a long, loose lean next to him, his breathing steady enough for Brad to count. When Nate speaks, his voice is soft and lazy.

Even with a humvee full of kids asleep behind them, it’s achingly close to what Brad wants.

This relaxed, he can believe the war’s over for them. He wishes there was a bit more time, one clean mission he can take home. He tells Nate this.

Against the crisp night sky, Brad can see Nate’s eyelashes flutter in a blink. When Nate responds, it’s not meant to be reassuring. It’s honest. He says, “I’m glad it’s over.”

*

Afterwards, Brad’s first recon target is not the luxury of the slit-trench latrine but a piece of palm grove where he knows he can be alone.

It’s not his first combat jack of the invasion, but it’s his first one with purpose.

The process of getting to his dick is perfunctory enough, but it’s nice to have time for a change. He lets himself enjoy it. The first touch, a slow slide against the head, a longer one from base to tip to get it going.

He doesn’t try to imagine that it’s Nate hand instead of his own, but he does think of Nate. Nate’s mouth is obvious enough, the way his lips curve as he gives them another unrepentant order, as he smiles.

Brad’s hard already, leaking for it a little. The pleasure from his hand is disjointed from the pleasure of his memories, but they are both good.

There are probably miles of regs against this, but then, Brad thinks, there are regs against killing civilians too. Here, social regulations, like the ROE, are as solid as the shifting shamal sands.

For a moment, he tries to remember what Nate looked liked the last time he took off his kevlar, but it’s incongruent with the Nate he knows. Without the bulk, Nate looks young, like the stranger that greeted him with a smile at Pendleton.

He thinks about Nate’s hands instead, moving across a map of the AO. The way Nate’s fingers traced a line of the MSR, the scrap of dry skin alongside a thumbnail.

He thinks about the sweep of Nate’s eyelashes, the timbre of Nate’s laugh, the fierceness of Nate’s devotion.

When he comes, his vision goes white behind his eyelids. It’s almost like the slow sink of the first hundred feet of a dive.

*

Chapter Text

Combat jacks are actually one of the worst ideas ever, but most guys have dicks and like to use them so:

The quickest way out of a MOPP suite is actually exactly what you think. That's why they invented zippers.

Before you start jacking, spit at least twice in the palms of both hands, and try to rub off as much of the sand and grit as possible. Some idiots forget this step, and they're still feeling it.

Gun lube, while having the word lube in its title, is actually impossible to get off your dick afterwards and will make your come smell like gasoline. And not in the good, fun way.

The best option, assuming you didn't sneak in a supply of KY, is a fresh baby wipe warmed up to body temperature. Perfect for stimulating pussy. Or an anal canal if you prefer.

Keep the wipe around your dick and pull. The next part should be self-explanatory.

Failing that, just use good ol' saliva. Marines make do.

Chapter Text

*

After the addendum of crossing the invisible line, Baghdad feels like another pit stop. Brad should be used to the stop and go of the military by now, but the changes in the objective still leave him restless.

When Brad first saw Baghdad’s spires peaking against the distant horizon, he had assumed it would feel like any of the dozen cities they’ve passed. Inside though, it’s urban in ways he’s forgotten to anticipate. He finds himself looking for the quickest way through, but city blocks stretch for miles around him.

He grips his gun a little tighter. 

*

Chapter Text

Baghdad is a really beautiful city.

This is a really beautiful country.

Chapter Text

*

The first night in Baghdad, Nate lets himself breathe. All of his men are alive. They’re not exactly safe, but after the relative protection of open-top humvees, concrete walls feel like immortality.

They’ve arrived.

The fighting, the bullshit missions, the relentless push, they’re easier to accept as a means with the promise of an end before them. There’s a lot to do, but it’s the good kind of necessity. Maybe it’s beyond him to offer the kind of big picture infrastructure rebuilding and political stability that the Iraqis need, but around him, the crowd is in the process of survival.

He knows about that.

He knows that human wants start from the ground up, that their help does too: fresh water, patrols to stop the looting, maybe see if the engineers can rig up some kind of pump for the sewage.

When their convoy pulls away, the children’s cheers resonate after them, sounding like gratitude.

After the long road to Baghdad, Nate’s not asking for redemption, just a way to sleep at night.

*

The thing is, when he joined the Marines, Nate knew he was going to be a part of something larger than himself, that he was surrendering the ownership of his autonomy to trust in the hierarchy above him. That even if that trust is imperfect, even if it gets lost in all the ways they’re failing, it will always be there to fall back on.

He knows this, but he also knows that they’re doing this wrong.

On their second night in Baghdad, his commander tells him he can’t send out patrols to stop the infighting that’s taken over. It’s the first time they’re told to shy away from danger.

Instead, they’re rebilleting to another part of Baghdad. They haven’t done anything in the neighborhood they’re in now except, apparently, lie to its citizens that their needs will be addressed.

Nate understands that the principles he struggles with, his closeness to his men, his inability to trust in the command of his CO, his acknowledgement of the cruelties that he’s seen, are the symptoms of his own personality crashing against the realities of war. It’s not that the Marines Corps is wrong; it’s personal, he knows.

But this, this indifference to actualizing the justification of their aggression when they’re right here, when they finally havetime, is beyond his comprehension.

*

In their new neighborhood, Nate makes another list. Water, security, jobs, statues of George Bush. It doesn’t matter, they’re moving again tonight.

He writes it all down anyway.

On their seventh night here, he’s ordered to be more aggressive.

They’re camped in an amusement park on the north side of Baghdad. Earlier, Brad had cheered that they were finally getting a night recon. For a moment, Nate had let Brad’s excitement flood him with a bit of borrowed warmth.

It doesn’t last.

From their vantage point, Nate can see the activity of city life flowing still beneath a canopy of weapons fire.

Into the mic, he says, “I’m going to keep my men in a defensive position until dawn. How copy?”

The radio buzzes with static. Schwetje says, “Hitman Two, I say again-”

Nate turns the radio off.

He’s probably burning the last irreparable bridge between himself and the portrait of the perfect officer, but that’s beyond his control. Though the ROEs and the SOP and Godfather can tell him how to sleep, how to breathe, how to shoot, each decision is still personal. It’s his orders that’ll get passed down tonight. In the wiggle room of immediacy, he makes do.

In the silence, Brad’s eyes turn compassionate. He says, “I trust your judgment, sir.” In Nate’s head, Brad’s words truncate to “I trust you.”

It scares him, this trust. Sometimes, he wishes he had it himself. He knows that hesitation is not necessarily bad, that belief in your own infallible decisions is what gets men killed, but it would be nice to be absolutely certain for a change.

He’s tired, so very tired.

After an hour, Reporter heads back to catch some sleep. Brad stays the night though, optics on the neighborhoods below. He offers field observations in a low, soft tone without a hint of his usual cynicism.

Nate’s aware that this is Brad being considerate, reassuring. It’s beyond Brad’s job, Nate knows, to give Nate something he shouldn’t need. But in the coldness of Iraq’s desert night, it’s all Nate has. He lets himself bask in the comfort of Brad’s empathy, lets it carry him through till dawn.

Later, he’ll worry about the burden he’s let Brad carry, about better concealing his own uncertainty from the men he’s supposed to lead. For now, he’s grateful.

*

In their fifth neighborhood, Brad starts in on ordinance removal.

Nate finds him in a hole, half a foot away from an unexploded bomb.

It’s not that Nate doesn’t understand the impulse. In another lifetime, it could have been him down there.

Maybe this will make Brad feel better. Maybe this’ll end up getting Brad killed.

There are a lot of bombs in Baghdad. He can’t take the chance.

When he orders Brad out, Brad’s eyes follow him like an accusation.

*

It’s just, it doesn’t get any easier.

Nate’s learned a long time ago that Brad’s Iceman façade is as stable as old plaster: the right pressure and it crumbles into the dust of failed hopes. He knows that to protect the Marine, he has to protect the man as well, but the Marine comes first.

In Kuwait, Nate says, “Only if you don’t let emotions take over, Brad.”

At Qalat Sukhar airfield, he watches Brad fall apart.

Outside Al Muwaffaqiyah, he orders Brad into an ambush. They survive.

In Muwaffaqiyah, Nate sees Brad’s smoke grenade and hesitates.

In Baghdad, he says, “We’re going to put this country back together.”

In Baghdad, he says, “The situational awareness of a platoon commander doesn’t extend very far.”

In Baghdad, he says, “I’m not having you blow yourself up, Brad, to protect property values in greater Baghdad.”

It’s just that even when he’s trying to do the right thing, he’s just failing them in another way.

It’s just, no matter how hard he tries, the simple incongruity never changes: he likes them; they're dispensable.

*

Chapter Text

It’s hard to be the guy ordering other men into combat.

It’s hard to be the guy watching someone else fuck up your life.

It’s hard.

But no one ever promised you it was going to be easy.

Chapter Text

*

On their last night in Baghdad, they’re billeted in one of Saddam’s soccer fields. Brad finds Nate beneath the southern bleachers. He didn’t even know he was looking.

The light’s fading now. Through the gaps between rows, the sunlight stripes Nate in oranges and gold.

It’s very beautiful.

Nate’s picked one of the further bleachers. The constant cacophony of the camp fades to a distant chatter. Someone’s cheering, but Brad can’t make out the words.

Nate’s casually letting a support post take his weight, legs crossed, hands resting lightly on his rifle-butt. His posture is relaxed, his face tired.

When Brad enters his field of vision, Nate doesn’t look surprised.

They let the silence stretch. Nate’s eyes are wide and very green. Brad’s not sure what he’s doing here, what he’s waiting to find.

Finally, Nate says, “What do you miss most about home?” 

It’s not the question Brad was expecting. He doesn’t hesitate. “My bike,” he says.

Nate smiles a little at that, a quick quirk of his lips that makes him look slightly looser. “Tell me about it,” he replies softly.

Brad thinks about open highways, early morning stillness, 40 mile per hour winds that sting when it hits the peek of skin where his jacket sleeves didn’t quite meet his gloves. He doesn’t know where to begin. He wants to tell Nate everything.

Nate lets him talk, watches him with slow blinks that lets him know Nate is paying attention. When he finishes, Nate’s smiling. “It sounds nice.”

He sounds wistful. Brad wishes he could read Nate better. “There’s this great stretch of road in Arizona,” Brad starts. “I could take you.”

For a moment, Nate looks startled. Brad wonders if he’s been too caught up in the mood of their companionship that he’s forgotten who they are. When Nate speaks though, his voice is steady. “Yeah? I’ll hold you to that.”

It hits him, the image of them in Arizona, Nate solid and warm against his back.

Brad doesn’t know where this conversation is going. He doesn’t think Nate does either.

They keep settling into these loaded silences, staring at each other like they have no idea how to fill it up, like everything that’s not bound up in the logic of tactical assessment has long been bleached out by the desert sun.

Nate’s the first to look away. His eyes are distant, sad. “Brad, what are we doing here?” he says.

It’s not fair for Nate to ask him this, Brad thinks. He thinks, I don’t know.

He tells Nate the truth. “I’m not the right person to ask.”

Of course, it’s the wrong thing to say. He can feel Nate pulling away, drawing back into himself. He’s not sure what Nate’s looking for.

He offers the first thing he can think of: “Making the world a better place.”

Nate laughs at this, bitter for an idealist. “Yeah, better.”

It’s just, Brad knows, knows, there’s nothing to be done. They’ve all done things they have to take home with them. It’s not really something Brad wants to talk about. He’s not sure he can.

When Nate continues, his voice is fierce. “We’re supposed to be helping them, but all I see is a lot of rubble. We can’t even give them fresh water. For what? What are we doing here?”

“Sir, you can’t think like that,” Brad says back.

“Sir,” he says.

It’s just, Nate’s not even here anymore. Maybe Nate’s in Dartmouth where he first tasted inspiration. Maybe he’s in Quantico where he entered a new life, in Afghanistan where he learned to lead, at Mathilda when he still believed.

Maybe Nate’s in a cigarette factory, losing the last of his faith. Maybe Nate’s in Washington, a different man but trying to change the world still.

Brad doesn’t know how to get him back.

Brad finds himself reaching out, his hand falling on Nate’s elbow. He lets his grip tighten, applies pressure until Nate turns, until he’s looking into sea foam eyes that Brad once thought of as clear as ocean waves, as desert nights.

“Nate,” he says.

And then Nate’s moving. Maybe he is too. When Nate’s lips touch his, it’s easy and unexpected. It’s one of those kisses that’s more pressure than finesse, dry and unashamed. It’s good anyway.

When they separate, Brad’s not sure what to do with his hands. A second ago, he had them on Nate’s shoulders, gripping Nate closer. Now, they feel large and clumsy against his sides.

The sun’s finally set. The residual light is more purple than gold.

Nate blinks and says, "Person told me."

"Sir?"

Nate’s looking away again. He says, “That you fucked guys."

It’s almost a question. Brad’s not sure how to answer.

"With respect, sir, I'm pretty sure Ray has said this about 90% of the battalion, present company not excluded."

"It's just- the way he said it. Declarative, to the point.” Nate’s voice sounds almost raw, hesitant. “And, uh, no details about the size of your penis."

"Sir…" Brad starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish. Everything is changing so fast without changing at all. It makes him dizzy. He thinks, This should be easier.

He makes do. He leans down to kiss Nate again, softer this time, with intent. He lets his mouth learn the contours of Nate’s perfect lips, lets himself enjoy it.

For a moment, Nate allows it. Then, Nate pulls back and shakes his head.

When Nate speaks, he sounds resigned, tired. “I’m command, Brad,” he says. It’s the same voice he uses every time he’s told Brad they’re rebilleting to another part of the city. “A good officer needs to be able to lead his men into impossible situations and not allow personal attachments to-"

Brad’s always followed when Nate led, but this time, the shifts are too fast. He wants Nate to tell him exactly what’s going on for a change, to give him time to plan. It’s knowable terrain; they’re the only variables.

He says, “Look, if you're worried about some pussy ass, Officer Training indoctrination bullshit-"

"It's not bullshit. It's not.” Nate’s voice is harsh, determined, angry. Probably more at himself than Brad. “It’s my fault,” he adds. “I shouldn’t have- I shouldn’t have lost control like that.”

Nate’s always looked young and more recently, lost, but Brad’s never known him to look broken before, un-unfuckable.

Suddenly, Brad understands that this is Nate afraid, that further to the fear of bullets is the yearning cavern of the fear of failing. That while Nate’s always been good with people, he’s not very good with himself. That in this, too, Iraq’s not the place for answers. 

“Do we need to talk about this?” Nate says.

"No sir,” Brad says back.

*

Chapter Text

*

Surprisingly, they are not awkward with each other afterwards. Nate lets himself get lost in the technicalities of moving the staging area. Later, he knows, this will be another worry, but right now, he feels numb.

In the morning, at the platoon meeting, Brad offers the same surprising smile, slow and warm. Almost, he seems happier, calmer, a little bit more like the Iceman Nate found in the fog of a foreign desert.

Later, Nate thinks.

*

They leave Baghdad on a Saturday. After so many days of sunshine, the weather colors their goodbye by being overcast. Thunderclouds roll and break overhead.

It looks almost like a different country.

Nate wonders if this is how he’ll remember Iraq, not sandy yellows and palm-tree greens, but unforgiving grey.

In the open fields, no one shoots at them. It’s the first ride in Iraq that Nate’s not looking for mortar fire.

It’s a strange kind of ending. They’ve only been here for twenty-one days, not even long enough for midterms to begin back at school. Too short a timeline to invade a country, but they did it.

(Except, nothing’s fixed. Except, there’s still so much to do.)

As much as the Corps was about finding himself, Nate’s not even sure what he’s looking for anymore. That he can order men to their deaths? That he can’t?

Maybe, like the dragon in the Marine Corps commercial, what he’s looking for is imaginary. Maybe there’s nothing there.

Except, he found courage here, loyalty, camaraderie closer than family.

He found Brad here.

Nate likes Brad, loves him, probably is more than a little bit in love with him. Nate doesn’t know how else to define the complete confidence he has in Brad’s understanding of himself, the sense of belonging he feels in Brad’s company, the pleasure of Brad’s laughs.

And mixed in with that, he knows, is desire. Simple lust that hits him in spikes he can’t ignore.

He didn’t know that this want could condense into movement. Most days, he understood it as another surreality of war. Maybe it still is.

Suddenly, the sharp ache of home hits before he has a chance to breathe. Nate chokes with the memory of stateside: his family, his friends, his apartment. He misses them like air.

He wants to be clean. He wants to sleep in his warm bed with his cotton sheets and only the ticking of his alarm clock at night. He wants to have cold pizza for breakfast and listen to his mom rattle on the answering machine.

He wants to find his old favorite beach and run and run.

He wants to kiss Brad in the mid-day brightness of his living room and have it be as simple as happiness itself.

He wants to know what mistakes he can afford to make, which ones he has to bury.

He wants everything to make sense again.

*

Chapter Text

The truth is most advice is bullshit.

Everyone understands things a little differently. Think about that game “Telephone”: if a small group of people standing in a line can’t pass down a simple message from one end to another, how are you suppose to teach someone to assess artillery fire, to distinguish between targets, to follow orders in the face extinction, to handle extreme hardships, to survive?

How do you teach people to do the right thing?

The osmosis of information is imperfect. Nothing lives up to the real thing.

Chapter Text

*

In June, they’re told they’ll be going home.

They’ve been in Ad Diwaniyah for six weeks now, the longest they’ve ever stayed in one spot in Iraq.

In the mornings, Brad takes leisurely jogs around the perimeter. After lunch, he works on the paperwork. At night, he sleeps uninterrupted for hours and hours. If he ignores the living conditions, it’s almost like being back at Pendleton already.

It’s nothing like war.

He feels like he’s detoxing, acclimating to a world where each startling sound is not the warning of sniper fire. The weariness of vigilance fades with each day of routine. He’s glad he has this time before they leave.

He’s not going to be able to go back happy, but he wants to go back free.

He wants to hug his mother close, see his niece again. He wants to do it smiling. He wants to drown in the sound of ocean waves and think of nothing at all.

He wants to know that he can move on from this. He thinks he can.

In the end, this is the life he’s chosen. He’s known that he wanted to be a Marine since he was ten, lured with the promise of extraordinariness. Despite the mistakes, the doubts, the cruelty, he still loves this job.

He knows he’s going back changed, marked, but the Corps will still be there, as strongly a part of him as the memories of Iraq.

Maybe he’ll try out windsurfing. Maybe he’ll see about getting a new engine for his bike. Maybe he’ll find Nate and take him out to that highway.

Maybe he’ll be okay, he thinks.

*

Chapter Text

Here's a non-comprehensive list of the possible ways one might meet an untimely end:

• shooting
• stabbing
• car accident
• drowning
• drug-overdose
• bomb
• blunt trauma
• second-hand smoke
• being stepped on by a camel
• poison
• choking
• critical parachute failure
• suicide

During wartime, about 99% of these are viable options.

Chapter Text

*

By now, Nate’s been in more firefights than he can remember, but only one stands out. Surprisingly, it’s not his Matrix dance outside of Muwaffaqiyah. In the light of day, Muwaffaqiyah feels like a dream or maybe a Hollywood movie; the memories are hazy as though they’re not his own.

When Nate thinks of artillery fire, he thinks of Al Gharaf. The morning was cold to go along with the lonely silence of the half-abandoned town. It was perfectly still before the shooting began.

He remembers the sour bite of fear mixed with the relief of calmness. He hadn’t panicked; he relaxed into the familiar muscle memory of hefting his gun and returned fire.

In the back of his mind, a voice was telling him: The bullets can't hit you, you're already dead. It's crap advice, but he went with it. He thought at least it should be in Schwetje’s voice or maybe Godfather's. Instead, it was his mother's, soft and confident like a lullaby.

*

After all the hostile towns, it’s Alpha’s shots outside of Baqubah that scares Brad the most.

In the laziness of departure, he thinks about it. He remembers the scent of the field they were scooting, the way the stillness seemed to deepen before the shots, the rustle of humvees that said Marines before the cackle of M16 fire.

Most Iraqi solders weren’t well trained. Few of them bothered to aim their gun before firing. Some weren’t even Iraqi.

But Alpha was Recon. They all knew their way around a gun. Their fire came in precise, planned out bursts.

Brad could have died in that glade. Generally, anywhere in Iraq is an easy place to die at, but there, the cognition of danger was immediate, paramount. Against the sound of his panting, he felt the crushing weight of his own mortality.

It’s a memory he holds close. He’s glad he has it, this unavoidable human fear of dying.

*

Chapter Text

Here's one good thing about war:

Moto bullshit aside, these men will be the best friends you'll ever have. No really, trust me on this one.

Chapter Text

*

Nate spends an uncomfortable first week back in Baltimore in his parents’ house.

Everything’s a bit too loud, a bit too sharp, too focused, like the rush of sensory input after surfacing from the muffled darkness of a dive. Except he feels like that all the time now.

In Iraq, he pulled thirty-six hours without sleeping and still felt fresh enough to direct artillery fire. Here, he barely makes it through half a day without napping. He finds himself waking up a lot on the couch, the TV cycling through late night infomercials. Someone would have usually covered him with a blanket and left a glass of water on the side table.

His parents are worried, he knows, but they don’t push him. Their questions are all of the “What would you like for lunch?” and “Do you need anything from the store?” variety. He tries to smile more, but he doesn’t think it helps.

Five days in, he catches his mother on the phone with his sister. She’s crying. “He doesn’t go out, he doesn’t sleep properly, he doesn’t even look sad,” she says. “He’s just- empty.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she says.

The next morning, Nate takes a long shower, shaves for the first time since he’s been back, and goes to the aquarium.

His dad brought him here once as a kid. He remembers closing his eyes in front the large salt water tank, frightened by the overwhelming vastness of all that water.

Now, it’s the first place he goes. There aren’t many people here so early on a weekday, a few tourists, some stray students. The quiet is nice. He lets his breathing align with the beat of the artificial currents.

It’s the first time he feels like he’s back in his own body.

He thinks about calling Brad, telling him about the otherworldliness of this place, the way the density of marine life here is so artificially that it’s nothing like the ocean at all. He gets as far as pulling out his contact list before he realizes he doesn’t have Brad’s number.

In theater, Brad was never more than a short walk away. Now, he feels the Earth stretch out away from him, distance taking on tangible meaning.

It starts to rain as he drives back to his parents’ place, one of those sudden torrential downpours that they get sometimes between summer and fall. He hasn’t been in a storm for a while now. The water hits his windshield in fat splats that obscures the outside world.

It’s very beautiful.

*

In San Diego, it’s his waitress friend who’s waiting for him at the airport.

She’s graduated now, last June. She’s got a job consulting in San Francisco for a year, maybe business school after that. Nate asks questions in all the right places and tries not to be bored.

She hesitates in his driveway, fumbling with her keys, but Nate sends her away with a hug. He doesn’t know why. He hasn’t gotten laid in months now, but the thought of all the preparation and energy and small talk involved just leaves him feeling tired.

His roommate’s out of town for the weekend. The apartment’s emptiness seems to take on a ringing quality. Nate does a load of laundry and drives up to Pendleton.

The base is mostly deserted. A lot of the guys are still on leave. Technically, Nate is too. He daydreams while working through three months of paperwork.

*

Nate doesn’t see Brad again until his promotion ceremony. Despite being half a head taller than the rest of the crowd, Brad doesn’t stand out. When Nate meets his eyes, Brad gives him a smile.

Afterwards, Brad doesn’t stick around long enough to be found.

*

The next morning, the battalion XO calls him in to discuss his contract.

“You were great in Iraq,” the XO says. “We need more officers like you.”

Nate’s come through college with Classics majors who read Homer for the presentation of Greek society, analyzing the political ramifications of city-state kings and mass mobilization. They didn’t dream about the glory of Achilles’ sword. Most of them were in it for the philosophy.

When Nate told them he was joining the Marines, they thought he was joking. Then, they thought it was a phase, a last rebellious grasp at adventure before settling down to adulthood. Their perception of the military was born from peace and the media. Their stereotyping was not thought to be untrue.

But Nate’s always understood the importance of action before rhetoric. In theory, anything was achievable, but actualization requires people. When he joined the Marines, he knew what he was doing. The possibility of something more beckoned not with dim promises but real transformation.

Nate hasn’t changed his mind about the Corps. He’s lived in this world for six years now. Despite everything, he does love it here; it’s home.

But he can’t do this anymore.

*

In August, Harvard calls. They got his application. They’re very interested, but they’d like some clarifications.

“You were quoted as saying, ‘The good news is, we get to kill people,’” the admissions counselor tells him. “Would you like to explain your statement?”

Nate picked Harvard because their Public Policy program is damn good. He wants to do this right. But it doesn’t mean he exactly belongs.

He tells her, “No,” and hangs up the phone.

Two weeks later, his acceptance letter arrives in the mail.

*

Nate’s paddle party is on a Saturday. It’s the second to last night that he’s still a Marine, seven days before his flight out. Half of his stuff has been sent over to Boston already.

Most of the speeches are funny, a few thoughtful. Nate doesn’t feel the urge to do anything particularly civilian-like like start crying, but he is grateful. He’s more grateful than he can express.

Later, when everyone’s more than half drunk, Nate finds Brad in the backyard. He’s leaning against Mike’s picnic table, talking with Person.

When Nate comes closer, Person pulls him into a hug and says, “Man, I’m really going to miss you LT,” before heading back inside. It’s the sincerest thing Nate’s ever heard him say. It fits with the mood of the evening.

Brad’s got half a bottle of Corona left. He doesn’t look up when Nate says “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says back, soft and distant.

They’re far away enough from the house that the lights don’t quite reach. In the darkness, Brad’s profile almost blends in with the shadows of the trees behind them.

When Nate sits down, their elbows brush. Brad’s body heat feels obscenely warm against the night chill.

“Where’ve you been?” Nate asks finally. “I haven’t seen you around Oceanside.”

Brad’s looking down still. “I was visiting my parents in LA.”

It’s weird to think of Brad with his family. In Iraq, Brad rarely mentioned them. He talked about his bike more. Nate wonders if it was hard for Brad to see them again or if Brad’s mastered the transition by now.

He doesn’t ask. He offers instead, “When I was in Baltimore, I thought about calling you.”

In the relative quiet of their corner, Brad’s thumbnail makes a loud clinking sound as it fidgets with the label of his beer bottle. Nate finds himself fixating on it, on the shape of Brad’s fingers moving against the glass.

Brad sighs before he answers. Maybe Nate imagines it. “Yeah? You could have.”

“I didn’t have your number,” Nate says back.

Mostly, when Nate drinks, he gets calmer instead of maudlin. He used to hate people who started sobbing out tragedies after two beers. He’d rather they didn’t drink at all. It usually made everyone else’s night miserable.

He says anyway, “Brad, I’m sorry-“

“For what?” Brad sounds genuinely curious, confused.

Nate hadn’t come here to make confessions. They all had jobs to do. Nate wants to believe he did the best he could, but he can’t be sure. Sometimes, in the middle of requisition forms, he’ll feel overwhelmed with doubt, with guilt. It’s one of the reasons why he’s leaving the Corps.

Most of Nate’s memories of Iraq have nothing to do with Brad. The ones that do usually weren’t bad.

And then sometimes, he remembers with perfect clarity Brad’s bent form over a dying child, Brad firing a smoke grenade, the accusation in Brad’s eyes when Nate ordered him away from an unexploded bomb.

“For- everything,” Nate says. It doesn’t seem like enough. He’s not even sure what he means. He adds, “I wish I had been better.”

Sitting here with Brad, it’s hard not to think about Iraq. He wishes he could put it behind him better. He wanted to leave happy. He wanted to have memories of Brad that had nothing to do with being the best Team Leader Nate could ever hope for. He wishes he could start the conversation over again.

Brad seems to think about his response for a long time. “Nate, you’re the best thing I remember about this war.”

It’s close to a confession.

It’s not what Nate’s expecting to hear. On Nate’s first night back in Oceanside, he drove up to Brad’s house and circled the block three times before he got up the nerve to knock. It didn’t matter though. Brad wasn’t home anyway.

He should say something, he knows, but Brad’s always been braver than he is. Nate wouldn’t know the proper response anyway.

“Come back to my place,” Brad says.

He probably shouldn’t. It’s his party. He should stay and help Mike clean up.

He thinks about missing Brad in Baltimore, looking for him everyday at Pendleton, finding him in the darkness of the backyard away from everyone else. He thinks about a dusty Iraqi soccer field.

“Let me go say goodbye,” Nate says.

*

Brad’s house is surprisingly suburban: white, two-stories, shingled siding. Nate’s never been inside before, but he imagines it’s neat, minimalist, bold, like Brad himself.

On the drive over, Nate stays at a steady 20 miles per hour for the whole five blocks, sure that he’s going to run into a telephone pole. Brad’s waiting for him on the curb when he pulls up. Underneath the warming light of the streetlamp, Brad looks more relaxed and carefree than Nate had thought possible.

Inside, after Nate toes of his shoes, Brad takes his hand without preamble and pulls him up the stairs. Nate catches a glimpse of an open living room: glass coffee table, square, white couches, a very large TV.

Driving over, Nate’s had some time to think about what Brad was asking. He thought they’d sit and talk. He didn’t think to expect anything beyond that.

In the bedroom, Brad begins to strip: overshirt, jeans, socks. He’s wearing non-regulation plaid boxers for a change. When he’s done, he crawls underneath the covers and looks back at Nate and waits.

In Iraq, Nate used to think Brad could communicate with just his eyes. He’s used to finding soundless words in Brad’s lingering glances. Now, he wonders if he still speaks the language.

Nate collects himself from his slouch against the doorframe and takes out his wallet and keys and sets them on the dresser. Brad had thrown his clothes carelessly in the open doorway of the closet, but Nate takes his time with his own. When Nate’s in only his boxers, Brad pulls back the comforters and lets Nate get in before folding it back over him.

“Comfortable?” Brad says.

“Yeah, thanks,” Nate answers.

When Brad kisses him, Nate’s eyes are still open. He closes them and leans in to the kiss. When they part, Nate whispers “I want this” against Brad’s lips.

“Okay,” Brad says.

They’re kissing again. It’s wetter, hotter, with more intent than before. Nate settles himself over Brad, tries to get a better angle, tries to get more. Brad’s hand brushes against his cock, almost incidentally, before it rests along the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Every trace of skin Brad touched on the way tingles. Nate’s half hard already. He wonders if Brad felt it.

He gets a hand underneath Brad’s t-shirt, just to feel. He thinks about pulling it off, getting Brad all the way naked, licking down the ridges of Brad’s ribs.

The last time Nate saw that much of Brad’s skin, they were in an Iraqi field. Nate tries to blink away the image but it stays. Brad, naked without his kevlar, arms outspread. Brad yelling after another dead civilian. Brad aiming his gun.

The room’s too warm. Nate can feel himself beginning to sweat. His hand on Brad’s hips is shaking a little. He tries to tense his muscles, push back harder, control his response, but it doesn’t work.

He feels it spread, chocking him with a rising sense of hysteria until Brad eases him back. “Hey, hey,” Brad says, soothingly.

Nate’s hair’s gotten a bit longer now so that his bangs stick to his forehead with sweat. He never had this problem in Iraq. He pushes them away. “I’m kind of fucked up right now,” he says.

Brad laughs, a soft puff of breath against his neck that Nate feels more than hears.

“You’re a Marine Corps officer, of course you’re fucked up.” He doesn’t sound unkind.

In the intimacy of a shared bed, it’s harder to hold back. Nate doesn’t want to. “I don’t- I have no idea what I’m doing.” He meant about everything. He doesn’t try to explain.

Brad’s got one hand splayed across Nate’s stomach, his thumb stroking the skin above Nate’s belly-button. “That’s okay, neither do I,” he says. Underneath the sheets, his hand is warm and comforting.

They lie there for a long time in silence. The buzz from the alcohol and the lust is starting to fade now, leaving Nate satiated and drowsy. When he looks, Brad’s eyes are closed, his breathing even.

He looks peaceful, young.

Nate brushes a soft kiss across Brad’s forehead before he reaches over to turn off the bedside lamp. “Good night,” he whispers in the darkness.

In the morning, when Nate wakes up, the sun’s just breaking over the horizon. This close, Nate can see the individual lashes of Brad’s eyes flutter in sleep. It’s one of the most beautiful things Nate’s ever seen.

*

Chapter Text

*

Without his stripes, Nate is as funny as Brad expected. Brad uses Nate’s last week in California to learn his laugh over fries and good beer.

He tries to take Nate surfing. Nate’s all graceful lean lines but he doesn’t make it up on the board until the second day, wobbly and wiping after half a wave. Brad affectionately tells him he has the balance of a POG, and Nate doesn’t try to deny it.

When Nate’s arm brushes his, Brad feels it through two layers of wetsuits.

They spend a lot of time kissing, quick brushes that linger into full on make out sessions on Brad’s living room couch. Afterwards, Nate leaves looking disheveled and dazed. It’s a good image to jerk off to.

Brad hasn’t been this turned on since high school when his ex-girlfriend first put his hand on her breast and told him to “go slow”. The starts and stops leave a tingle of desire that burn beneath his skin whenever Nate’s nearby.

But it’s good. Somehow, it’s better than sex. It doesn’t feel like waiting, more like their brains are getting used to being in each other’s space. Brad likes to sit and just watch Nate sometimes, appreciating, and realizing that he gets to have this.

On Nate’s last night, they get all the way to naked. Despite his choirboy history, Nate’s not hesitant. He looks at Brad all over, lingering and wanton. Brad gets their cocks lined up perfectly and it doesn’t last long.

Afterwards, Nate looks more shell-shocked then he ever did in the field. But when Brad asks if he’s okay, he laughs and says, “When can we do that again?”

*

Chapter Text

It’s closer than it looks.

Chapter Text

*

In December, Boston traffic is, if imaginable, even worse than normal.

Nate's been crawling along the same stretch of tunnel for an hour now. Un-ironically, the speed limit warns a dim 45. It's daytime and only half the lights are on though this deep in, the tunnel receives no natural light.

Half an hour ago, he cracked open the windows. Even though the air outside is stale and bitingly chilly, it's still a step up from the stifling heat that the car decides is appropriate for 75 degrees.

On the phone yesterday, Brad told him his plane was getting in at 12. Nate’s had a year now to get used to trans-Atlantic static, but he still thought he heard it wrong at first.

Two days ago, Nate thought his weekend plans involved a date with the library and some shitty takeout. Now, he’s on his way to Logon.

In California, when Nate was leaving for Boston and Brad was packing for England, they hadn’t made any promises. At the airport, Brad had kissed him hot on the mouth and whispered, “Be seeing you.” It was something people said. Nate hadn’t taken the meaning further than that.

On the radio, they’re playing some power ballad that Nate vaguely remembers from the 90s. You talk about the world like it’s someplace that you’ve been. Nate taps out the drumbeat on the steering wheel. The cold’s numbed his fingers so that they feel stiff when he moves.

A year’s a long time. People could change a lot in a year, become unrecognizable, become strangers even with the connections of email and midnight phone calls.

Nate spent his being busy and missing Brad in between.

The traffic inches forward another meter. One more and Nate can make the turn-off lane.

The radio tells him: And nobody’s gonna listen to the one small point.

The truth is Nate’s had a lot of time to think, and he knows exactly what he wants.

He wants Brad.

*

When he sees him, Brad looks simultaneously better and worse than Nate remembers. Worse because Brad’s paler now without his California tan. He looks tired from the flight, his eyes hooded and his t-shirt slightly rumpled.

Better because he’s Brad. Because memories and grainy photographs could never live up to the reality of Brad’s presence. Because Brad’s always been one of the most beautiful things Nate’s ever seen.

For one unending second, Nate’s sure Brad will somehow have forgotten what he looks like, that he’ll look past Nate with the uncomprehending gaze of distant memory. It’s a silly thought.

When their eyes meet, Brad grins and strides over, pulls Nate close. Nate buries his face in the perfect juncture of Brad’s collarbone and breathes in. Brad never wears cologne, but his clothes still carry a scent: Tide Clean Breeze. Nate remembers the smell from Brad’s sheets in California.

Nate brushes a quick kiss against Brad’s cheek when they part. It makes Brad smile wider. He keeps his hand on the small of Nate’s back all the way to the baggage claim.

“I thought we could maybe go down to the harbor for lunch,” Nate says while they wait. “There’s a navy shipyard in Charlestown you might want to check out.”

Brad blinks down at him. “Sir, are you shitting me?”

Nate smiles. He’s thought about saying this for a long time now. “Or we could go back to my place and fuck.”

“Or that.” Brad’s duffle comes. It’s a recognizable military green. When Brad bends down to pick it up, he shows off an aching peek of touchable skin. “Good to know that civilian life hasn’t completely destroyed your ability to prioritize.”

*

The traffic back is just as bad. Cambridge is good for a lot of things, but it means they have a whole city to get through in the meanwhile.

With Brad in the car, it’s harder to focus. Everything feels like foreplay. Nate’s hyperaware of the sound of his breathing, the way it seems to come in short heavy gasps instead of anything approaching regular. Brad’s fingers on Brad’s thigh look obscene. Sometimes, Nate swears Brad’s touching himself through his jeans, but when Nate looks again, Brad’s hands have moved on to something else.

By the time they get back, the sun’s already on its way to setting. It’s just the time distortion of winter, though; it’s only mid-afternoon, barely three o’clock, but the hazy orange light reminds Nate of how much time he’s lost already.

The elevator takes longer. Nate feels his leg start to jostle and wills himself to stop.

Inside his apartment, it’s easier. Nate doesn’t have to stop and think. He’s barely got the door closed before he starts stripping, getting tangled up in buttons and his belt buckle. Brad’s mouth finds his along the way. They don’t stop kissing all the way to bedroom.

Over the phone, Nate’s spent a lot of time jerking off to Brad’s descriptions of combat maneuvers. He’s pretty sure Brad knew what he was doing judging by the way Brad dragged his voice over words like “neutralization” and “intent”. He used to fantasize about Brad naked in his bed just talking to him in that voice.

He doesn’t have to imagine anymore. Nate remembers Brad’s body from California, but his memories didn’t account for details like the indentation on Brad’s wrist where the clasp of his watch bit into his skin or the cut on his chin where he must have nicked himself shaving. The vividness of Brad in reality is more breathtaking than anything Nate could have pictured.

When Nate first moved to Boston, he bought a set of the whitest sheets he could find. At the time, he was thinking about sleeping on something clean, pristine, but he wonders if he subconsciously knew how good Brad would look against them, skin flushed, eyes bright.

Nate leans down and lets himself feel. Another memory from California: Brad’s cock rubbing a wet line against his, the way the friction was different than anything he’d every experienced, the way it was really, really good.

Nate could come from this.

Against his ear, Brad says, “I really want you to fuck me.”

It brings Nate back for a second. He looks down at the way their cocks are lined up against each other, hard and red against Brad’s stomach, feels the open invitation of Brad’s legs against his thighs. He thinks about how hot Brad looks right now, how tight he’d be. He feels his cock twitch in anticipation.

Yesterday, at the grocery store, Nate finally brought condoms and lube for the first time since he’s moved here. The few times he’s had sex in Boston, he always went back to the girl’s place. There were no guys even though he thought about it sometimes. It didn’t feel right without Brad.

He’s never exactly done this before. He wonders if he should be nervous.

Nate lost his virginity in high school on the couch in his parents’ den. He remembers the way his girlfriend’s face scrunched up in pain even as she told him to keep going. He had to close his eyes to get through it.

But Nate’s not sixteen anymore. He’s had a lot of sex in the meanwhile. His girlfriend in college used to love anal. She used to talk about how fucking sexy it was to see his dick up her ass and feel his fingers work her pussy.

She liked to talk a lot during sex. Sprawled out underneath him, Brad doesn’t say much, but his face says everything: the way it tightens for a second when Nate gets the first finger in, the way his eyes close in pleasure when Nate finds the right angle.

He knows Brad’s expressions better than anyone, a map he learned to read in Iraq and has never forgotten.

It makes it better. Nate knows from the pace of Brad’s breathing the second he’s ready for more. Nate tries not to fumble too much with the condom as he gets it on.

He’s close already.

Brad lets him in easily, like his ass was made for Nate’s cock. Nate takes a moment to savor it. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s had sex with someone whose face wasn’t a hazy memory in the morning, someone he loved.

“Come on,” Brad says, and Nate laughs.

It’s good. After the initial overwhelming desire fades to a more manageable burn, Nate slows the pace down a bit, makes sure to put his whole length into each thrust. His palm finds Brad’s dick trapped between them. The hardness of it makes the pleasure that much better.

Brad keeps tilting his hips up to hurry him along, a silent urging, but Nate ignores it. He doesn’t want to come until Brad does. He wants to feel Brad’s orgasm around his cock.

When Brad does, he whispers, “Nate,” in one long exhale. Nate gets lost in the slick redness of Brad’s lips.

Except for a few residual muscle twinges, Brad melts into a boneless heap beneath him afterwards. Nate rides through it, feels the pull of Brad’s heat around him. When he comes, he finds himself focusing on Brad’s eyes, the way the crystal blue isn’t perfect after all; there are hints of hazel around the pupils.

It’s the first time Nate notices. He grins. It’s another memory he has now.

Later, Nate orders them pizza from the restaurant around the corner. They eat it in bed without getting dressed. Nate tells Brad a dirty Econ joke that has Brad laughing despite himself.

Outside, it’s snowing again, soft and wonderfully New England.

*

They finally make it outside the next day.

It’s a good day for Massachusetts, which means the wind chill’s not bringing the temperature down by another 20 degrees, the sky only overcast versus stormy.

The Charlestown Navy Yard is one of Nate’s favorite places in the city. He’s never actually been there technically, but driving along the river, he liked to trace the outlines of hundred meter naval ships with nostalgia.

On the Cassin Young, Brad walks the deck with familiarity and points out the changes the Navy’s made since World War II. A stray tourist, the only one, ducks her head when Nate catches her watching. Nate grins back and tells a story, loud enough for her to hear, about the used condom he once found dangling from his bunkmate’s rack his first tour out.

There’s a restaurant nearby that has good sandwiches. They eat outside despite the cold. The view of the river is worth it.

After lunch, they catch the T down to the Commons and start on the Freedom Trail. Nate doesn’t know if Brad actually cares this much about history, but it’s Brad first time in Boston; Nate shouldn’t spend it keeping him in bed.

His first week here, Nate walked the first half mile of the Trail before he got distracted by Boston’s wandering side streets. With Brad here, he wants to make it further.

They stop to rest on the Charlestown Bridge and watch the harbor traffic. In Baltimore, where it’s milder, Nate’s used to seeing schooners along the coast at all times of the year. Here, there are only the few persistent commercial ferries wandering by. Even the Ducks have retired for the winter.

Along the riverbank, Boston stretches out wide and welcoming before them. Nate points out a gleaming white steeple, the Old North Church. It’s one of the oldest buildings in America, Nate tells Brad, first built in 1723.

“I thought it’d be older,” Brad says. He sounds genuinely petulant, like their country’s letting him down with the breadth of her history. “I thought all of it would feel older.”

Considering Brad’s grown up in California where anything before the turn of the century is considered ancient, Nate finds his statement more than a little ironic. He points this out. “Wow, who would have expected Brad Colbert to become a dirty, jaded European.”

Brad narrows his eyes as if he’s daring Nate to take it back. Nate doesn’t.

He’s bracing himself when Brad strikes. Nate’s not exactly out of shape but Brad has height and recent training on his side. He gets Nate around the waist and balances Nate against the railing, impossibly close to the edge. “Take it back,” he says calmly.

Nate gives a perfunctory struggle, but Brad’s grip is tight. He’s not even a little bit scared, but he bows his head in defeat anyway.

A woman walking her dog smiles and jogs around them on the street. Brad lets Nate down and nods back a “ma’am” at her.

Nate likes this town. He likes the pride of its history, the charm of its architecture, the depth of its independence. He likes that the pedestrians are crazy and fearless and never yield to drivers. He likes that no one looks twice at happiness.

Brad’s hand is still on his hip. Through the layers of gloves, overcoat, and sweater, Nate should be able to feel Brad’s body heat about as well as if they were touching in full MOPP-4. He thinks it’s there anyway.

“Nate,” Brad says, sounding almost exactly like he did when he was coming.

Against the water’s reflective glare, Nate blinks. He doesn’t know why they bothered coming out at all when they could be having sex right now. When they only have a week. “Let’s go home,” he says.

Brad pulls him a fraction closer. “Roger that, LT.”

Nate’s been a Captain for a year now. Technically, he’s nothing at all.

He doesn’t bother correcting Brad.

*

The last night of Brad’s visit, Nate gets fucked for the first time.

In college, his old girlfriend once had a finger in his ass, but it felt too weird and Nate made her stop.

With Brad, it’s unqualifiably amazing. Nate wishes they’d tried this earlier.

He wishes they had another week to do everything again.

At the airport gate, after goodbyes, Brad hesitates. Nate knows what Brad’s thinking, knows that Brad knows he knows, knows that Brad wants to say it anyway. “You know I love you, right?”

He looks earnest, sad, and so wide open that Nate can’t believe anyone’s ever thought “Iceman” was an appropriate nickname.

“I know,” Nate says. He smiles. “Me too.”

*

Chapter Text

*

It’s late spring two years later when Nate graduates. Brad can’t go because he’s in the middle of a boat ops training mission, but he wants to anyway.

He pictures Nate in a full cap and gown, somehow looking distinguished instead of silly. The longing for Nate is a familiar ache.

When he gets back, Brad spends the day doing laundry. He hasn’t been gone that long, but the clothes he doesn’t normally wear have grown musty with disuse. It makes him think of mold. He washes everything.

His mother calls at noon. Brad’s spent the last three weeks out on the Pacific, learning the weight of amphibious rafts. He’s still brushing off the salt of sea spray when the phone rings.

“You probably don’t have anything in your fridge,” she says. “I could come down, make you my salmon that you like.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom,” he tells her. It’s a long drive, and she hates cars. It’s not fair of him to expect this from her.

She comes anyway, bringing a mountain of groceries and her own cookware. As she cooks, she tells Brad about the antics of his sister’s son. She calls him “the baby” even though he’s two now. Brad “hmm”s when she pauses and steals cucumber slices from her cutting board.

Brad’s mother’s salmon was always one of his favorites growing up. Something about the perfect tenderness of the fish. It’s the first truly hot meal Brad’s had in a while. On the ship, everything was always on just the wrong side of tepid. For lunch, he had a bowl of stale cereal and water.

“We should do this more often,” she says afterwards. She sounds like she means it.

Brad hasn’t seen her in months. He probably doesn’t call enough.

It’s easy to reach down, pull her into a hug. “I’ve missed you, Mom,” he says to groove of her shoulder.

“Oh Bradley, you know all you have to do is ask.” Her cheeks are wet against his own. It still surprises Brad that he can do this to her.

For dessert, she had baked a cake from scratch. When she leaves, the house keeps the smell of cocoa and vanilla.

*

Nate calls the next day. He sounds good.

Last time they talked, he was worrying over his thesis, voice heavy with fatigue. Now, there’s a simple carelessness to the way he keeps breaking down in giggles. Brad wishes he were there, wishes he could see Nate this relaxed.

In the background, a woman’s asking where Nate wants his books. It sounds like Nate’s mother.

“Still packing?” Brad asks.

Nate makes an oomph as if he’s moving something heavy. “This is the last of it.”

Brad thinks about telling Nate about his latest mission, the dark storms at night, the churning water beneath them, but it doesn’t seem to fit with the looseness of Nate’s mood. Instead, he asks, “Figured out what you’re doing with your life yet?”

“No, not yet.” Another groan. “I’m spending a few weeks at my parents’. We’ll see from there.”

The stories they told each other were always in past tense. They never talked about their plans beyond the month. Brad wonders if he’s missed something by reigning in his expectations.

“I’m sure there are plenty of opportunities for a fine, internationally experienced, Harvard educated, best-selling author such as yourself,” he says.

Nate laughs. “I’m looking at options.” Columbia’s willing to give him a fellowship. The Washington Post wants to talk about a regular column. DC has a think tank that’s just starting up. He hasn’t decided yet.

There’s a consulting job in San Diego, he adds almost as an afterthought.

He sounds casual, but Brad thinks he hears hesitation there as well. He wonders if Nate meant it that way, if this is the moment when everything changes.

Over the phone, Nate’s grown quiet. Brad’s no longer hearing the crackle of Nate’s movements against the mouthpiece, only the soft inhale-exhale of breathing.

“I should just hurry up and pick one, I guess,” Nate says finally.

Time didn’t work properly with them. Their relationship’s always existed in weeklong intervals. Sometimes, they went months without seeing each other. During his second tour in Iraq, Brad spent ninety-seven days without hearing the sound of Nate’s voice at all.

Every time Brad’s been in Boston, he’s known the exact date on his return ticket. It wasn’t something they talked about. It was easier not to make promises that could be lies.

But the thing is, when Brad’s old high school sweetheart dumped him, it wasn’t the sting of her rejection that hurt the most but the hanging what-if of his own participation. He was gone a lot. What if he’d stayed? What if he had tried harder, been better?

What if he had asked her to understand?

The thing is, if there’s a question here, if there’s a chance at all that Nate is asking, then Brad knows what he wants.

"Take the one in California."

Nate sounds startled. “What?”

"I want you to take the offer in California,” Brad says again.

Nate’s breathing is louder now. His voice is barely a whisper. “Are you sure?”

In Iraq, Brad once dreamt about Nate cooking bare-chested in his kitchen. In his dream, the clinging of pots and pans sounded like artillery strikes, but Nate’s laugh was his own. 

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’m sure.” He waits for a second. “Aren’t you?”

“Brad,” Nate says. He says, "Okay."

*

Chapter Text

*

In summertime, California’s bright in a way the East Coast can never be. Nate’s forgotten that.

He hasn’t been back in three years, not since he thought he was leaving for good. Brad’s always visited him in Boston and once, in Baltimore for Thanksgiving. He never asked Nate to come here. Nate never suggested it.

The glare from the airport’s floor-to-ceiling windows hurts his eyes a little. There are people wearing sunglasses even though they’re indoors.

It’s a little surreal. It feels like coming home.

Brad’s waiting for him on his bike by the departure gate curb. Yesterday, on the phone, Brad forbad him from bringing anything larger than a duffle bag. Nate doesn’t have much anyway; his parents are bringing most of his stuff on their next visit.

The way Brad drives, they make it back in 20 minutes instead of 40. Brad dodges onto the Interstate shoulder to pass sedans and minivans. Nate’s glad there are no cops around.

Brad’s hurry carries through even after they get off the bike. He starts pulling at Nate’s shirt before the door’s clicked shut.

By the time Brad’s mouth gets to his cock, Nate’s already trembling. The shock of wet heat almost makes him fall. This intent, Brad’s focus isn’t even close to anticipatable. Nate doesn’t try.

“Brad, Brad, Brad,” he says, over and over again.

It’s a beautiful day outside. In the morning, Nate’s going to go for a barefooted run along the beach. He hasn’t gone in years.

*

Chapter Text

*

In August, Brad takes Nate across the border into Arizona and down his favorite highway. The desert here, unlike in Iraq, is flat and coarse, the un-uniform sand polka-dotted with the earthy green of cacti. It's unmistakably American.

They still remember Brad at the Yuma air station even though he’s not been down nearly as often. He introduces Nate as his ex-CO. The Marines there call Nate “Devil Dog” and slap him on the back. It fits.

In Phoenix, they stop for lunch at an old Mexican diner. The place looks rundown but they make some of the best chicken fajitas Brad’s ever tasted.

On the bike, the wind speed makes it impossible to carry on conversations. Nate seems content to let the quiet carry over to lunch.

There’s a smudge of dirt across Nate’s checks where the visor joints didn’t quite keep out all the sand. For a moment, Brad can almost imagine him back in Iraq, carrying the traces of a different desert.

But when Nate looks up, he’s smiling. It’s a smile that Brad found in Boston, in California, in the dim morning light of their bedroom. It’s a smile that Brad knows is for him alone.

They make it Tusayan a few hours before sunset. When Brad gets back from checking in, Nate’s leaning on the bike, his helmet off. He looks peaceful.

Brad rubs a finger across the plastic of the room cards. “You want to go inside?” he asks. “Wash up?”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting soft, Colbert,” Nate says back, tossing him the bike keys.

*

Brad’s been all over the world, but some places never fail to take his breath away.

The Grand Canyon’s one of those oddities that looks even better in real life than on postcards. The yawning immensity of it is staggering. Brad’s only ever felt this way under three hundred feet of water.

Beside him, Nate is silent, contemplating, like he doesn’t need words to express his awe. This is why Brad’s brought him: it’s a place Nate would understand.

“Thank you for taking me here,” Nate says. He threads his fingers through Brad’s, solid and comforting.

When Nate grins, it’s as warm and as bright as the midday desert sun. It soaks through Brad’s skin and flesh to bone.

“Thanks for coming,” Brad says.

*

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

How to live happily ever after:

Don't panic.

Again: Don't panic.

Breathe.

Live, love, laugh.

Be happy.