#Bradnate fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

accol-fics · 9 months

Text

Happy holidays to @momecat ! Here's your gift for HBOWarSanta23!

Up 1200 and Up

Summary: This wasn’t just a stress response. There had been seeds of this in Nate’s psyche long before things had gone to shit here in the desert. Since that first meeting, Nate always kept Brad in his line of sight. His situational awareness always included Brad’s position.

12 stories about finding meaning in a meaningless war.

Brad/Nate. Rated E. 7800 words.

100.

Day 1, Oceanside. Nate was stiff from the flight. Deep purple bruises earned at jump school ached on his hip and shoulder.

He checked in with Command, dropped his duffel at his temporary bunk, and was out the door in his PTs. Under the 5 and down to the beach, he ran until his body was loose and hot.

Later, in the showers, a tall, blond man nodded approvingly toward the fresh, raw marks along Nate’s left clavicle, tapping his own faded scars. Nate’s jump school pinning hadn’t yet healed. A thin trickle of red washed away under the spray.

200.

“That's a low priority to pass on?”

The muscles of Nate's forehead and brows bunched into a scowl. His frustrated words about his CO’s ineptitude were out of line. He knew it, but saying them aloud was a pressure-relief valve that kept his sanity intact.

“Personal feelings, sir,” Brad said, echoing Nate's chastisement of him only minutes earlier. His smirk was audacious.

The commiseration and, indeed, Brad's sass were appreciated. Peak comedy, Nate thought, was an inside joke revisited at just the right moment. Brad grinned broadly at the eyeroll Nate failed to fully suppress.

Speaking of safety valves. Turns out Brad is an effective one.

Still, it took a while for Nate to realize how tense his fingers were on the butt of his M16. Bravo Two was tight, competent. They could handle the lack of armor crossing the breach point. They'd be alert. They were trained to adapt to the unexpected.

He flexed his hand, loosening his grip. Nothing good comes from perseverating.

“Hitman Two Actual, this is Two One Alpha. Interrogative.”

Brad's voice came over the radio. Nate blinked away the unproductive tension in his gut and picked up the handset.

“This is Two Actual. Send it.”

300.

It was not surprising in the least.

From behind Two-Three’s vehicle, Nate saw it clearly: Brad apologized to Baptista for overreacting on comms.

It was an olive branch extended to repair a relationship. It was for the morale of the platoon. It was to put things right between himself and a colleague. And it was obviously what Brad Colbert would do in this situation. Of course he would apologize.

He continued to both surprise and not surprise Nate. Absent in him was the typical Marine hypermasculinity that dictated the posturing of other men. Brad had elevated himself above all of that. Nate wondered if it was a conscious decision. Probably not. Calm efficiency fit him too well. The intensity of the emotions in his eyes, however, showed the respect he had for their men and the Corps.

Nate watched him walk away and he wondered what Brad’s internal voice sounded like. Was it a stream of excerpts from the Art of War? Maybe it was Kierkegaard stripped of the religious aspects. Or was it simply staccato bursts of necessary info on the ROE? It was fascinating to imagine the way Brad’s mind worked.

Nate would never truly know, of course. Just like Nate’s own inner voice was unknowable to anyone else. They held their thoughts too close to their flak vests here. An icy veneer was mission critical (as evidenced by Dave’s cracking front and crumbling command of his team). It was impossible to imagine either Nate or Brad releasing their tight hold on their thoughts and verbalizing them, even under the blanket of night, even in the safety of Oceanside.

Nate blinked. He realized with a jolt where his thoughts were taking him. He drank from his canteen and shook it off.

He was glad Brad was his TL.

400.

“We're 30 klicks west-northwest of Basra, and 30 klicks south of Al-Kurna.” Nate gazed north over the marshy lowlands.

Brad was at his shoulder on the low berm. Nate had no doubt Brad had their map coordinates committed to memory. He had a natural eye for that kind of thing. An admirable skill.

Nate continued with his voice hardly over a whisper. The history of this place deserved that gesture of respect.

“Al-Kurna sits at the confluence of the Tigris and the Euphrates. It's the cradle of civilization. Sumer, Assyria, Babylonia. All of them right here.”

The reeds moved in the low breeze. Christeson was tapping out a beat on a fuel can while Stafford and Garza took turns sing-rapping verses of hip-hop songs Nate didn't know the names of.

“How many wars has this place seen over the millennia?” Nate mused.

“And now we perpetrate one more,” Brad observed.

Nate felt Brad's eyes on him momentarily. Or perhaps he imagined it. He didn't look to verify.

“Has Poke been proselytizing within your earshot?” Brad asked. He sounded amused. “He was saying something similar back at Matilda.”

Nate grinned. He hadn’t heard anything from Espera on this topic, but it didn’t surprise him that he would have opinions on the matter.

“Did you know the wheel was likely invented in this area?” Nate asked.

“Humvee tires leaving tread marks in the wake of donkey carts. A noble legacy.”

“Noble.” Nate tried the word in his own mouth. A week ago it would have tasted better.

A few moments spent in the dusk’s dwindling light. The history here weighed heavily on him. They owed this place a debt of gratitude.

“Brad, we just waved them off,” Nate breathed. “Trucks of armed men and we waved them off because they weren't uniformed. The whole of our observations… the trucks, the weapons, their posture. They were irregulars, but they were combatants.”

Now Brad’s gaze was definitely on him. Nate hazarded a look and found Brad studying him.

“Clearly Command hasn't heard your history lesson, sir,” Brad said with a smirk in his voice. “Or they did and were distracted by the Whore of Babylon analysis I assume you included.”

Nate looked down at his feet to obscure his grin. “Al-Kurna has an old jujube tree that is purported to be the Tree of Knowledge from the Garden of Eden.”

“Like I said: whores.”

500 .

“Hey, LT,” Gunny said, rousing Nate from his sleep.

Nate had no idea how long he’d been asleep for. He was lucky to grab an hour of shut eye per day. It wasn’t sustainable, but it was what he got.

It was still dark. The moon was up. That was Nate’s only gauge of the current time. He’d sat down in his victor after the 2100 Zulu briefing with Trombley and the rest of Two One Alpha.

“Sorry to wake ya,” Gunny said softly.

Nate rubbed his hand across his face. “It’s fine.”

“That’s the thing. Not sure everything is fine.”

Nate jolted upright and started opening the door. Adrenaline took its accustomed place in Nate’s veins. “Did the boy not make it to shock-trauma?” Shit.

“Whoa, whoa,” Gunny soothed. “It’s not like that. We don’t have that word.” His face was soft, concerned.

Nate sat back in his seat. The tension hadn’t fully left his body. “What is it?”

Gunny clearly was parsing his words before speaking. He took a few moments to respond. “This is weighing on Brad. I haven’t seen him like this before.”

“Like what?”

“Less than mission ready.”

Nate’s eyebrows went high. “Thanks, Mike.” And he meant it.

Brad was on watch while the rest of his team slept under the cami net nearby. On the perimeter of the airfield tarmac, Nate walked over and stood next to him.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Brad eventually said.

“Your fairy godmother woke me up.”

“Hm.”

He left it at that for a long time. In the far distance, soundless flares of smoky explosions were a constant reminder of where they were. Above them, the night sky was cloudless. The platoon had gone to red lights at sunset for security, but it had the added benefit of making the stars vibrantly visible. The Milky Way angled from horizon to horizon. It was a momentary escape to take it in.

“Mars is up,” Nate said eventually, looking toward the faintly red planet twinkling up there.

“Hm?” Brad said. He appeared to try to follow Nate’s line of sight in the dark without success.

“Here,” Nate said. He moved to stand behind Brad, and he pointed over Brad’s right shoulder so he could sight off of Nate’s arm. “Do you see it?”

Brad’s body radiated warmth in the night air, a fraction of an inch from Nate’s. His cheek was close to Nate’s exposed wrist.

“I’ve got it now. Apt.”

“I thought so too,” Nate said, moving away to stand alongside Brad again.

“If we were living inside your history lecture, would Mars be a harbinger or a boon?” Brad asked.

Nate smiled. “I suppose that’s in the eye of the beholder.”

“Then I say it’s neither. Too superstitious. Can’t deny the poetry of it though.”

Silence surrounded them again. Nate thought it was less heavy than when he’d first joined Brad here.

“These are the moments I hope I remember from here,” Nate said quietly.

“Mm,” Brad concurred.

600.

“Sir,” Pappy asked, “has any thought been given to destroying the weapons and ordnance that are sitting over there?”

Nate nodded. “Actually, that did come up, but it seems the battalion's supply of C-4 is now unaccounted for. The battalion supply truck we left last night? It is a smoldering heap of twisted metal and failed hopes in the trustworthiness of the Iraqis we are striving so hard to liberate.”

Patrick’s left eyebrow rose, and then he shook his head in exasperation.

As Nate and Gunny walked away, he thought he heard Pappy say something to Lovell like, “The LT is starting to talk like Brad.”

“Espera,” Nate called. “Have Two One Bravo start resupplying the platoon from that cache.”

“On it, sir,” was the response.

“Mike, would you enlist Two Three to help on that? I need to make a pit stop.”

On his way to the designated latrine area behind the dilapidated hangar, Nate replayed his words in his mind. A smoldering heap of twisted metal and failed hopes. He had zero trouble imagining them coming out of Brad’s mouth. Maybe Pappy was right and Nate was taking on Brad’s cadence. Or maybe they’d always had this in common.

Nate came to a stop in the shade of the building, his thoughts sapping the momentum of his body.

He wondered suddenly what it would have been like to meet Brad at Dartmouth. It’s strange to imagine Brad anywhere without the sun beating down on him, let alone in the misty north end of the Appalachian Trail. But the idea of him in a rugby shirt or coming in from the cold of the ski slope wasn’t too hard to conjure up. Maybe Nate would’ve passed freshman chemistry if Brad had been in it with him, challenging him and mocking him with puns that included both Arrhenius and Aeschylus.

Or perhaps Nate would have met Brad in California instead. Nate in his early ‘90s Saab and Brad on his motorcycle, both parked at the climbing gym.

It’s fortunate you’re about to ascend this wall, Brad would have said, because the only option your liberal ass has when showing up in that piece of shit, socialist welfare state, pile of scrap, so-called car is to go up and out of the miserable existence you’ve clearly fallen pitifully into. And then he would have complimented Nate’s climbing form and how the harness framed his glutes just right.

“Deep thoughts, sir?” Brad appeared next to him in the Iraqi shade.

Nate had been so deep in his fantasy he hadn’t seen or heard him approach. His cheeks burned like he’d been caught saying all of those things aloud. It was like he’d been interrupted in the middle of a combat jack, the thought of which made him cough awkwardly.

Brad handed him his canteen, and then leaned his shoulder against the wall. He waited until Nate had taken a drink and handed the water back.

“Thank you, sir,” Brad said.

“For what,” Nate asked, a rasp of embarrassment still in his throat.

“Joining me and Mars on watch last night.”

Brad’s blue eyes were intense when Nate met them. Pale brows and lashes. Sun-reddened skin along his nose and cheekbones. The five o’clock shadow that Sixta would ream him out about if it didn’t get taken care of. A flicker of a thought of how it would scratch against Nate’s palm was shoved away before it fully formed in Nate’s mind.

“Did it help?”

Brad held their gaze intently. Nate’s heart thundered in his ears.

Finally, Brad gave a nod. “Very much.”

700.

“Where’s the line between insubordination and trying to manage upward?”

Nate asked the question rhetorically. He knew how the regulations defined insubordination: Willful disregard of a superior officer’s lawful order . Every Marine knew that definition. It was taken out of their hides from day one of boot camp and reminders of it happened every single day. Particularly in theater like they were now, the pecking order was clear.

When Captain Schwetje had invited the enlisted men to share their opinions with him, the only one with the fortitude to say what he was thinking was Doc. He got away with it on the technicality of the Captain asking for candid feedback, and on the fact that every Marine protects and respects their Corpsman, especially one as competent as Tim Bryan. No one else was going to feel safe from being NJP’d for disrespect of a commanding officer. Especially not when Schwetje asked for feedback in front of Griego’s opportunistic eyes.

But no one had asked Nate’s opinion on anything. Nonetheless, he was exerting his will in contradiction to his Captain’s orders again and again. In his core, Nate felt like he was making the best and safest choices for their platoon in their constantly non-ideal situations. But the Corps’ system wasn’t set up for Lieutenants to defy their Commanders. Not even in Recon, with its need to be nimble, where decisions were made on the fly, was flagrant insubordination ignored. Not even when one’s superior was arguably incompetent and the lawfulness of their orders could be questioned. Not even then.

Brad leaned against the front bumper of Nate’s humvee, contemplating Nate’s question. He bumped his shoulder against Nate’s and left it there.

“Fretting is unproductive,” he said reasonably. His directness was what Nate needed. “You can’t unfuck Encino Man, and you’re doing what this company needs you to do.”

“Tell that to Godfather.”

“I will if I have to.”

“No,” Nate said sharply. “This is my situation. I’m not getting the rest of you… I’m not getting you, Brad, mixed up in this. Let me take care of it.” Even broaching this topic with an E-5 was inappropriate, but this was Brad.

Brad exhaled, annoyed. After a thoughtful pause, he told a story.

“When I was a teenager, I took a job with the grounds crew for the county. Mowing lawns, planting flowerbeds, painting municipal buildings. It was mindless, but it paid well in a seventeen year old’s opinion. There was a team of us that worked together. Me and a couple of guys who went to the other high school in town. Our manager was this blustering, self-important guy in his thirties, constantly on a weird power trip. Spent a lot of time reminiscing about being a star football player.”

Brad gave Nate a meaningful look that was readily interpretable as Schwetje.

“At one point, both of the mowers we usually used were down for maintenance at the shop across town. Some guy on the county board had a shitfit about the baseball field’s grass being too long, ruining his runny-nosed brat’s T-ball game. Instead of getting between us and that board member, our manager let all of that stupidity roll down on us. All of us got fired the next day.”

Brad’s body was a long line of support next to him. Nate could hear the moral of the story coming.

“You, sir, are not that guy. You are shielding us from the worst of Command’s inanity. Hitman Three doesn’t have an LT like you, and they’re the worse for it. Every one of us will have your back because we know you have ours.” Brad’s voice crescendoed to the end of his parable.

Nate turned to look at Brad. They were too close, and Nate’s eyes flicked down to Brad’s mouth. It was only for a fraction of a second, but Brad caught the motion. Of course he did. Nate leaned back, turning to look forward again. Safe. Appropriate.

Brad didn’t chase him. How could he here? It was impossible. Nate wouldn’t compound his issues with Command by engaging in conduct unbecoming with his Team Leader.

Brad pressed his knee against Nate’s and left it there.

800.

“New map sheets,” Gunny called out to the team leaders.

Nate was already waiting for them at the hood of his victor. His flashlight was trained on the paper spread across the flat surface, tracing out the route they’d take at dawn.

The men arrayed themselves at Nate’s sides for the briefing. Brad stood furthest from Nate’s position and met his eyes with an intense look. The tiny hairs at the back of Nate’s neck prickled. It was fear, yes, but not fear of Brad. Rather, it was fear of what the look meant for them here.

Nate looked to the map for respite.

“Later today we’re pushing forward to here.” Nate put his index finger on the location on the map. “Goal in the 24 hours after that is to assault through to here.” He extended his middle finger to the second location.

Brad shifted. Nate glanced up. Brad’s focus was entirely on Nate’s hand and the map. His expression was unreadable in the low light.

“Take your copy back to your teams. Make sure your drivers know the route inside and out.”

Pappy, Lovell, and Espera grabbed their copies and headed back to their teams. Gunny went with them, quietly discussing tactics with Pappy as they walked.

Brad, however, lingered.

“Sir, a few questions about the AO,” he said.

His words were cover. Nate knew it. Nate responded in kind.

“Yes, Brad? Your team will be on point, so now’s the time to get any concerns addressed.”

Brad moved around to the front of the humvee, standing close to Nate’s right side.

“Here,” Brad said, pointing at a position near the MSR. “Am I to understand we’re pushing past this town without stopping? There is a school marked on this map, and Fedayeen has been holing up in schools. Should we recon it, sir?”

Nate slowly moved his own hand back to the map, placing his finger a hair’s breadth from Brad’s.

He cleared his throat. “I like your idea, Brad. I’ll run it past Godfather.”

“I have other thoughts I’d like to ask you about.” Brad’s voice was barely above a whisper.

He closed the distance between Nate’s finger and his own. Nate knew the touch was coming. Brad had telegraphed his intent. Still, the electric jolt of it cascaded unexpectedly through Nate’s entire body. He exhaled sharply.

“I’m open to that line of questioning, sure.”

Nate gently squeezed Brad’s index finger between his first and second fingers, scissoring around the length of it. Brad pressed his hips firmly against the front grill of the humvee, body taut.

“Is it our wisest option, sir?”

“Reconning first is always the wisest option.”

Brad’s thumb and forefinger felt the perimeter of Nate’s fingertip. The side of his thumb ran over the smooth flat of Nate’s nail. Nate clicked his red light off, throwing them into full darkness.

“As you say, sir, it’s good to be thorough.”

They stopped short of entwining their hands fully. Even here in the dark, there were constraints. Nate didn’t want constraints. He wanted his hands on more than Brad’s fingers.

Then Brad’s mouth was near Nate’s ear. His breath tickled Nate’s cheek when he said, “I remember when we first met. The showers at Pendleton. That bruise on your hip.”

Nate inhaled. Brad smelled like shaving cream, like he’d just done his daily ablutions. Nate imagined the feel of Brad’s smooth skin against his own, how it would feel against his neck. He was so close to that target as it was.

“It’s gotten me through many a dark night,” Brad rasped.

“Fuck,” Nate breathed. “Brad. I don’t know how to do things by halves.”

Brad chuckled. “I’m counting on that particular trait.”

Frustration lanced through Nate. He couldn’t touch Brad how he wanted. He couldn’t run his platoon how he wanted. He couldn’t trust his commanders like he wanted.

Was this a combat stress response? Shit.

No.

No, it wasn’t just a stress response. There had been seeds of this in Nate’s psyche long before things had gone to shit here in the desert. Brad was right. Since that first meeting, Nate always kept Brad in his line of sight. His situational awareness always included Brad’s position.

“Fuck,” Nate breathed again. He yanked his Sharpie from his vest and uncapped it with his teeth. Shoving up the cuff of Brad’s blouse, he scrawled an N on Brad’s right forearm in the dim light. It was barely recognizable as a letter.

They both knew it was a mark to stake a claim.

“Now you have my marked skin in your mind’s eye, and I have yours,” Nate hissed. “My initial will be there every time you touch your cock from here until the end of this fubar-ed op.”

Brad swallowed thickly. “Aye aye, sir.”

900.

Time expanded to infinity.

Nate could see every tracer like it was taking a Sunday stroll. A bullet ricocheted off Two One Alpha’s victor a mere foot from Nate’s shoulder, and it felt like it crawled past him. Every rivet in the tan armor was visible to him. Every round from Hasser’s Mark-19 put out a tongue of fire that lingered in front of the muzzle, each like a miniature dragon dancing in the moonlight. Strangest of all, the long, slow moments were silent, like Nate was living in a space beyond the speed of sound.

Time compressed into a second.

Faster than Nate could comprehend, an RPG exploded into the berm at his 6, and then another up ahead almost at the humvee wheels. A blinding cloud of dust came up and Nate had no idea if microseconds or minutes had elapsed.

“Back up and over the berm, then hard right. Clear a path,” he had yelled to Two Three.

He had dodged around shrapnel in the road to Two Two and had yelled the same. He knew he must have done it, but the slinky of time expanding and contracting had wiped it from his short-term memory.

It was seconds ago, minutes ago, years ago that Brad’s voice had calmly come over comms: “There are men in the trees.” It had been followed by the snap of his M4 firing, and by the sharp drop of Nate’s stomach. Brad’s vehicle was on point in an ambush.

The comms had awoken with yelled commands. All of them overlapped and became garbled in the firefight. Nate’s rifle was in his hands, against his shoulder, looking down the sight, finger pulling the trigger. The cacophony was profound. Training took over for every single one of Bravo’s men.

Two Two had a man go down. Nate couldn’t wait longer. They had to retreat. He ran into fire and lost time to the adrenaline.

Breathing took too long. Running took too long. He had to get to the vehicles in front and get them turned.

Finally, pressed against the side of Brad’s victor, time normalized. He had no idea how long it would stay this way, so he called out.

“Brad!”

“LT?”

Brad’s M4 paused. Through Reporter’s window, their eyes met. The look was anything but silent, but no words were exchanged. It was beyond language. Simply a feeling that said “ I had to…” or perhaps “Not before we...” or perhaps simply “This is my duty.”

A bullet pinged off the doorframe. The casing spun into Reporter’s lap and he yelped.

Nate awoke from the momentary hypnosis of Brad’s gaze. It had only lasted a millisecond.

“Go! Go! Ray, back and hard right. Go now!”

Nate sprinted after them, chasing the pop pop of Brad’s M4.

Gunny’s face was ashen when Nate returned to his vehicle. “Sir, that was fucking stupid. Thanks for doing it, but don’t do it again.”

Mike was right. It was stupid to run out into live fire. Stupid, but fully and completely necessary. Nate regretted nothing. He knew, though, that he’d crash from this flood of adrenaline eventually. Perhaps an hour from now, maybe two, Nate would feel nauseated or like his muscles were all jelly. He hoped they were through with this push when it happened. He couldn’t afford to be less than 100%. There was no way he was letting these guys down.

With Bravo Three between them and the bridge, Two regrouped.

Brad stepped out of his humvee, back rigid and fingers still tight on his rifle. The muscle in Nate's jaw twitched involuntarily. Overuse. Too much clenching of his teeth. They'd just survived an ambush. Muscle spasms were a victory.

“Why are you bleeding?”

Nate shone his red light at Brad. He clicked it again to make the light white. It was too bright, like a muzzle flash at midnight. He tugged Brad next to the canvas side of the supply truck.

“I’m not–” Brad looked down at his arms and legs, trying to spot evidence of an injury.

Nate pushed him upright and swiped a dusty thumb over Brad’s cheekbone. It came away red.

Brad’s fingers shot up, touching the place and looking at his own reddened fingers in the flashlight beam.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Your eye is an inch from there, and I’m not planning on cas-evacing you today,” Nate said, annoyed.

“Doc,” Nate called, snagging the medic as he hurried by. “Hand me some gauze.”

“I’ll handle it, sir,” Doc replied, starting to divert to Brad’s aid.

Nate held out a hand to stop Doc’s change of direction. “Give me the gauze, Tim.”

Doc looked hard at Nate, and then at Brad. Brad’s eyebrows rose as Doc handed over the medical supplies.

“Clean it good, sir. It would be a shame if we had to amputate Colbert’s pretty face.”

“Copy that,” Nate said, setting to work cleaning the blood away from the scratch. He was making a mountain out of a molehill, yes, but this was his best TL.

For the second time tonight, time stood still. Brad let Nate tend to his wound. Nate used the time to forget about how fucked up the last seconds, minutes, hours had been. The feel of Brad’s cheekbone beneath his fingers was calming.

“Game face?” Brad asked when Nate smoothed an unnecessary butterfly bandage over Brad’s cut. “You ready?”

“Let’s go.”

1000.

“From an armchair in Iowa, assaulting that bridge would've seemed foolish. From where we stand on this roadside in Iraq, the lunacy of it will eat away at our confidence until we’re ineffective,” Nate said in a low voice.

Frustration oozed out of him. Saying these things aloud was necessary. He wished there were other lieutenants to vent with. His men shouldn’t have to bear the burden of Nate’s frustrations.

Gunny, Brad, and (surprisingly) Kocher stood in a tight cluster with him.

In his Texan twang, Gunny said simply, “It’s a goat fuck.”

Kocher spoke up. “You’re saying what we all think, sir. You’re just doing it in a measured way. Expressing legit concerns is a helluva lot different than…”

Clearly Kocher was reluctant to invoke Dave’s name in front of Nate. But Nate felt Dave’s unhinged panic hiding in himself too. The deeply buried urge to yell and break things to make it clear to someone, anyone how fucked up things have gotten.

“Look, I’m not here for you guys to blow smoke up my ass,” Nate said. “I’m not fishing for compliments.”

“In that case,” Brad grinned, “are you open to insults?”

Gunny pointed over his shoulder back toward their humvee. “I’ve got a whole list I’ve been making,” he said with a lopsided grin. “First on it is: Knows too goddamn many Dave Matthews songs.”

“Fuck all of you,” Nate chuckled. “And thanks. Have you guys eaten recently?”

“Have you?” Brad retorted. Brad’s righthand fingers tightened and released. Nate imagined his sharpied initial stretching and relaxing as Brad’s forearm muscles flexed.

“Good. Just what I need,” Nate replied with an eyeroll and a grin. “First Mike nags me about everything under the sun. Now you?”

“It’s because we both disrespect and despise you, sir,” Brad said with a wink.

The group broke, going to find their rations. Brad strolled back a few minutes later eating a makeshift peanut butter sandwich.

“What do you suppose Alexander the Great ate while he was conquering vast swaths of this fair country?”

“Figs. Flatbread. Fish,” Nate responded while he rummaged through his MRE. He pulled a bean and rice burrito out of nondescript brown packaging and ate it cold.

“Ah, yes, the Three F’s.”

“I’d be happy for anything fresh with a capital F,” Nate said. His MRE contained a fruit cup that reminded him of elementary school lunches. He hadn’t liked the texture of them then either. Still, the Vitamin C beckoned.

Brad chewed contemplatively. “Tabling the discussion of our presence here as a reflection of America’s imperialistic undertones, it’s interesting to think about how much territory Alexander the Great conquered in a matter of a few years.”

Nate wondered if Brad would be open to a discussion of American imperialism at another time, because Nate had thoughts on the matter.

“I read that priests told him not to enter Babylon that last time. Bad omens. He died there shortly thereafter,” Nate said.

“So, like ol’ Alex, we should’ve listened to our prognosticators? I prefer to think he disregarded their advice because it was superstitious bullshit.”

Nate nodded. “Agreed. Having Aristotle as one’s teacher effectively guarantees becoming a lover of logical thinking.”

Brad tipped some trial mix into Nate’s palm.

“I’ve always been more of a Plato fan,” Brad said. He popped a cashew into his mouth, followed by a raisin.

“What appealed about Plato?”

“ Logos , thymos , eros . Logic, spirit, desire.”

Nate raised his eyebrows in question.

Brad shrugged and ate another nut. “Feels like an Occam’s Razor explanation for the way humans work. Shit gets messy when the three get imbalanced.” He gestured around them to the barely armored humvees. “Case in point. This place is 99% thymos, and 0% logos.”

“And the other 1%?”

Brad looked intensely at Nate and didn’t answer. He tossed the remaining nuts in his mouth, smirked a little, and walked back to his team.

That was the most fulfilling meal Nate had eaten since California.

Later, after dark, Nate called Bravo Two together for a briefing. Schwetje’s message from Godfather had been received by Nate loud and clear: Both of them better get in line before they both got court-martialed. Nate cared more about his men's safety than his own, but he did have some level of self-preservation. And he still believed in the principles of the United States Marine Corps. He'd joined up because he wanted something transformative, something that might kill him, or leave him better and more capable. Nate was getting the message that this included humility.

Nate swallowed his misgivings and toed the line.

“What we did, running and gunning through those towns, was all part of the plan. Of all the Marines in the First Division, the General selected us to be the instrument of long range strategy. We led the feint to Al Kut. We tied down two Iraqi divisions, saved untold numbers of US soldiers. You should be proud.”

As the men parsed Nate's words, several skeptical looks were directed at him.

“Why didn't we go into Al Kut?” Garza asked. He wasn't the only one with the question. He was just the first to ask it

“The General's plan wasn't about taking the city. It was about making the Iraqis think we were going to take it. To be clear, the focus has always been Baghdad.”

“We did all this shit because we took a wrong turn?”

Grumbling was starting up

“Gabe, that's not what I'm saying.”

When he dismissed the meeting, he felt like he'd betrayed them. It was one thing telling Godfather a white lie about exploding espresso makers. It was another thing entirely feeding his platoon a bunch of psy ops.

Brad left with a scowl.

Later still, thymos won over logos when Griego usurped Nate's command and fucked with Two’s men. Nate had never thrown a punch out of anger, and here he was, on the precipice.

Brad's wolfish, hungry smile at Nate as he walked away was much more validating.

1100.

Baghdad was as much of a clusterfuck as anywhere else they’d been.

Entering the city, civilian life looked strangely normal. Produce sellers, tea drinkers, and cigarette smokers just watched as the company drove through their streets, like circus wagons had just rolled into town and Recon was the strange sideshow. A day earlier, Nate would've been apoplectic with so many people so close to their vehicles. Muwaffaqiyah was too fresh in his memory.

They were billetted at a cigarette factory formerly owned by Saddam’s sons. The concrete structure gave a sense of safety, like they’d entered the walls of a fort. Castle towers reached to the sky around them. But Navy sniper rifles cracked every few minutes, a car bomb sent smoke billowing up by the front gate, and One Five was shooting helicopter-deployed missiles into nearby highrises.

The city looked normal at first blush, but SNAFU was a better description. Situation Normal: All Fucked Up.

When night soon fell, Brad circled around to Nate’s vehicle.

“Sir,” he said quietly, tapping Nate’s shoulder to rouse him from the early stages of sleep.

“Am I dreaming?” Nate asked groggily.

Brad huffed. “Of me? Not this time, sir. May I have a word?”

“Sure,” Nate said, opening the door and stepping out. He rolled his shoulders to stretch. “What is it?”

“In private, sir?”

Nate was immediately alert. He searched Brad’s face in the low light. All he could make out were the downturned corners of his mouth. This wasn’t a flirtatious housecall. Brad needed something serious.

“Of course,” Nate replied.

They walked inside the factory, away from where the humvees were parked and away from the sleeping Marines, away from the perimeter surveillance. Nate led Brad into the room he’d briefed the platoon in, up some stairs to what appeared to be a manager’s office. Blinds on the windows and a lock on the door were useful. Nate engaged both and then clicked his flashlight to red mode and put it on the desk.

Harsh shadows turned Brad’s furrowed eyebrows into deep black lines on his forehead.

“I am requesting mast on behalf of Eric Kocher and Daniel Redman,” Brad said formally. His shoulders drew back until his back was perfectly rigid.

“Fuck,” Nate breathed. “OK. Yes.” The ramifications started spooling through his mind.

“I’m sorry for bringing you into this, but I can’t let this go. What’s happening to them is not right.”

Nate rubbed his forehead, squeezing his temples. “It’s fine. We’ll figure it out. We’ll read Gunny in, then take it up to Schwetje as a unified front. It’ll work.”

Nate looked back at him. Brad’s face bore too many expressions to fully interpret. Gratitude, anger, regret.

“Goddamn it,” Brad said, clearly frustrated. Not at Nate, but at the situation they found themselves in. “I did not sign up for the Marines to get wrapped up in politics. How did we get here? Two fucking incompetent COs and an Ops Chief who spends every waking minute stirring the pot. This is Recon. We’re 0321s. Nate,” he exhaled hard, getting himself under control. “Sir, if this will endanger your position, I’ll go directly to Schwetje for mast.”

The thought had indeed crossed Nate’s mind. Putting himself into the middle of this even as a nominally neutral party was a sticky situation. Schwetje would throw all of them under the bus at Griego’s urging just to keep his own head above water. Loyalty among officers felt… like it should be real, even though Nate felt more loyalty to the enlisted men he commanded than he did to the command structure.

“I honestly have no idea how this will play out. Every time I think I know which way the wind is blowing, it switches. It’s like pounding in tent stakes during a shamal.”

They locked eyes then, remembering the dust storm that ripped through Matilda. Their shared memory of Schwetje digging his rucksack and bedroll out of a foot of yellow sand was too amusing to ignore. Both of them snorted, and then laughed, and then were doubled over with guffaws. These were the laughs one has when there is nothing left to do but laugh.

Brad clapped Nate on his shoulder as they gasped for breath.

“I needed that,” Nate said.

Brad nodded. “Me too.” His hand remained on Nate’s shoulder.

Nate wished he could see Brad’s face this close without hiding in the dark. He put his hand on Brad’s arm.

“I don’t know if I can solve Kocher and Redman’s problem, but I’ll try.”

“I know,” Brad said quietly. “You’re the only thing here that I have complete faith in.”

Nate stepped closer. “That’s a tall order, Brad.”

“Not for you it isn’t.” Brad’s breath whispered along his skin.

Fractions of an inch separated their lips. Nate’s fingers curled into Brad’s sleeve. His other hand gripped at the webbing of Brad’s belt at his hip. One of Brad’s fingers had found the skin at Nate’s collar. The feel of his skin on Nate’s made him gasp and push into the touch.

This position was compromising, but it gave plausible deniability. They weren’t so entangled that discovery would mean credible evidence for a DADT discharge. Nate hated that regulations were front of mind now of all times. But he couldn’t deny that the added tension made this feel so much more intense.

Brad panted hot and damp across Nate’s lips. Nate pushed his thumb inside the waistband of Brad’s pants and rubbed circles into the firm flesh he found there.

Their noses bumped together, but never their mouths. The air gap between them heated from their proximity, but they didn’t let themselves advance. It was their Rubicon.

Nate slid his hands around Brad’s body, pressing against Brad’s lower back, feeling the curve descending to his ass. He imagined the flex and push of those muscles if they fucked. He imagined the long expanse of Brad’s pinked, sweat-glistening skin.

Their cheeks slid together. The faintest hint of stubble grabbed on stubble. In the crook of Brad’s neck, he smelled of baby wipes and dust and musk.

Below, in the warehouse, voices rose up. A patrol.

Still they didn’t push apart. They held onto each other more firmly for another heartbeat, and another, and another.

Finally, Brad stepped back. Even in the red light, his cheeks were clearly burning as intensely as his eyes were. He slowly and conspicuously adjusted himself in his pants and hungrily watched Nate do the same.

Nate didn’t know if he could have this – have Brad – but he was sure as hell going to try.

1200.

The human mind’s quest for equilibrium will smooth the edges off threats and thrills alike.

Nate wasn’t an adrenaline junkie. He knew people who skied backcountry trails, free climbed, dove with sharks. He simply joined the Marines, a wholly different type of thrill-seeking. By the time they had Baghdad in their rear views, Nate’s body and mind were strung out on too much adrenaline for far too long. The edges had been smoothed off everything. He felt thin and papery and beyond ready to be done with the frustrations of this place.

He was glad to have his feet back on Californian soil. The safety of home meant some of the excitement of living could outcompete OIF’s ever-present thrill of death via ambush.

He gave himself a week before he knocked on Brad’s apartment door.

Brad was barefoot and in board shorts. His left hand curled over the top of the door and he grinned broadly in welcome.

“I was wondering when you’d come to finish the job.”

Nate smiled. “Finish it? I’m here to get it properly underway.”

“Don’t let me interfere with a well-conceived plan.” He stood aside and gestured Nate inside.

Nate could feel Brad’s eyes on his ass as he toed off his sandals and walked into the kitchen, depositing a grocery bag on the counter.

“You did a supply run? Let me guess: no adult diapers or baby wipes this time.”

“Very astute assumption.” Nate began pulling every vet’s luxury – fresh fruit – out of the bag. “I brought the F’s.”

“Nutrition is of utmost importance for stamina.” Brad pulled two beers from the refrigerator and handed Nate one.

Talking would be required at some point. Nate wasn’t going to re-up (which he hadn’t revealed to anyone yet), but Brad was a career Marine and Don’t Ask Don’t Tell would be a part of his professional life for the foreseeable future. Nate didn’t know if Brad wanted a one-night stand or a quiet relationship. Either way, the conversation would happen later.

Nate took a long drink of beer. Brad watched him, and Nate watched him right back.

“Shower?” Nate asked, by way of starting the proceedings.

Brad reached out slowly for Nate’s hand. This was something they’d skirted. A touch like this would bind them to each other. Clearly he was giving Nate time to divert if it was still off the table. The opportunity for an out was appreciated, but Nate was here for a reason. No flinching at this point. Brad’s fingers hooked around Nate’s and tugged.

“This way,” Brad said.

In the last week, Nate had spent hours in his own bath. The dirt of war needed time to fully wash away. Perhaps that’s why he suggested this as their first encounter. It would feel like a luxury, and it might feel like a clean start, free of all the shit that made their time in Iraq hard.

Brad pulled his shirt over his head in a smooth motion, abandoning it on the bathroom counter. He reached into the shower to turn on the water, letting it warm. The glass of their beer bottles clinked when Brad took both and placed them on the high windowsill inside the shower.

As he did, Nate began unbuttoning his shirt. Some day, Nate hoped, he’d undress for Brad and it would be an intentionally slow tease. Now Nate’s pace was slow simply because it felt good to be unhurried.

Brad’s keen eyes drank in the motion of Nate’s fingers. As the collar spread wide and Nate’s clavicles were visible, Brad’s eyes traced their lines and the healed jump pin scar there. As the placket fell open, Brad’s pupils widened as he took in Nate’s chest and the hair that descended below his beltline. Nate continued downward to the button of his shorts, and to the zipper.

Brad cleared his throat when Nate thumbed his fly wide. “Commando. Very efficient and somewhat presumptuous.”

Nate pushed his clothes to the floor and stood before Brad in the steam. Both of them had dropped weight in Iraq. Their cheekbones stood out more sharply. The hint of ribs framed their chests.

He stepped closer to Brad. Like in Baghdad, their lips were a breath apart. Now, however, Nate could read every expression in Brad’s eyes in the daylight. The blue of his irises was a thin ring. His lashes fluttered when Nate slowly laid his hands on Brad’s hips. Without the bulk of Brad’s uniform in the way, Nate felt greedy. He took his time, moving his hands at an achingly slow pace just to feel Brad’s exhale stutter. When Nate found the drawstring of Brad’s shorts, they both had begun to harden.

The instant his shorts hit the tiles, Brad surged forward. He crossed their point of no return with enthusiasm and purpose. The kiss was crushing and desperate. Brad looped a strong arm around Nate’s waist and walked them backward into the shower spray. Heat and moisture surrounded them, drenched them in a way that couldn’t hold a candle to the way they kissed. Physical. Claiming. Seeking and finding.

Brad’s palms flattened against the wall beside Nate’s head, caging him in. Forehead to forehead they panted.

“I want…” Brad began and then paused. He changed his inflection and repeated himself with finality. “I want.”

Skin was slick beneath the running water. Nate used it to his advantage. He explored the curve of Brad’s biceps and the gentle roll of his abdominal muscles. The N he’d heatedly scrawled on Brad’s forearm was only a memory now. Nate nipped at the skin there, and followed it with his tongue. In return, Brad sucked the lobe of Nate’s ear between his teeth. He slid his thumb across Nate’s erect nipple. He found the round of Nate’s ass and groaned as he squeezed.

The sound of Brad undone was something Nate was sure he’d never tire of. He wanted to learn every iteration of it starting now.

He took handfuls of Brad’s hips and pushed their pelvises together. Their cocks slid and bumped and caught on each other as they thrust. Nate inhaled every one of Brad’s gasps. He bit and took and gave and gave and gave everything to this man in his hold.

Brad tensed in his arms and came with Nate’s name a whisper against his lips. Nate gasped and followed Brad into that ecstasy.

Later, in the bright daylight of the California evening, they lay together in the clean sheets of Brad’s overly soft bed and shared a very fresh, very juicy, very crisp apple. Nate studied the curl of pale hair on Brad’s chest. He made note of how the ink of Brad’s tattoo crept around the left side of his waist. He scratched his fingers through Brad’s short hair and watched Brad’s eyes drift closed at the sensation.

Eventually, Brad joked, “This is some Tree of Knowledge shit.”

Nate laughed, “Which of us is the Whore of Babylon in this relationship?”

“Hard to say, but you do have those very fuckable lips.”

“Well, Brad, you do have a point there,” replied Nate, licking those very lips and sliding down the bed to respond to Brad’s challenge.

#hbowarsanta23 #momecat #generation kill #brad x nate #bradnate #my fic #click through to ao3 #hbowardaily

26 notes · View notes

military-bluebells · 3 months

Text

oh captain, my captain

Fandom: Generation Kill

Pairings: Brad Colbert/Nate Fick, Q-tip/Christeson

Word Count: 8920

Summary: an eventful day in the life of Nate Fick, captain of the California Golden Bears Men's Swim Team

Author’s notes: Hi @screwby it is I, your Summer Exchange Gifter! I hope you enjoy this College Swim Team AU, I had a lot of fun with it!

AO3

4:45 AM

Nate would love to say that he woke up to the soft bleeping of his alarm, well-rested and ready for the day, but that would be a lie. In reality, he couldn’t be sure if he’d even slept last night, the boundary between awake and asleep blurred beyond recognition.

Staring up at the ceiling, he considered what would happen if he just... stayed in bed. It would be so easy to text Mike and say he’d picked something up from the weekend and give away his responsibility to someone far more experienced and skilled. Mike would know what to do with the chaos that was surely waiting to unfold this morning.

Nate took a deep breath and steeled himself: he’d chosen to take up the captaincy as a part of his transfer and he refused to be the kind of team captain that shirked his duties at the first sign of trouble.

He heaved himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, scrubbing at his eyes as he took a moment to gather the will to start the day. In an effort to motivate himself, he planned his next steps.

First, he’d go to the bathroom and shower, then he’d get dressed into his cycling gear, have breakfast, brush his teeth, check that his bag was packed properly, take out his dinner for this evening to defrost and then lock up and cycle to campus.

When the chill in the room finally started to make him shiver, he stood and made his way to the bathroom. He squinted under the bright lights, turning the shower up to the highest heat he'd be able to stand before making the fatal mistake of looking at his reflection in the cabinet mirror.

His bed hair was impressive given that he’d barely moved all night and his eyes were suitably bloodshot; with dark bruises under them, it would be obvious to even the most unobservant of the team that he hadn’t slept.

He sighed out a long breath before stepping out of his sleeping clothes and into the scolding shower. He was tempted to put his head under the warm spray and let the water soothe the aching muscles in his back, but he knew if he did, he couldn't guarantee he would ever leave. So, he washed and dried himself briskly before venturing back into his bedroom.

He wouldn’t have dreamed about cycling in a t-shirt and cycling shorts in February at Dartmouth, but California winters were much milder.

Breakfast consisted of oatmeal with milk, half a banana and one spoonful of peanut butter, along with as much water as he could stomach so soon after waking up.

He’d left his next pile of required reading on the table last night, so he carried on from where he’d left off, making notes between spoonfuls: the winter quarter’s finals were scheduled just before the final and most important event in the season, the NCAA Championships, and ever since that fact had become known, everyone on the team had been voicing their displeasure in increasing amounts as time dragged on.

Nate understood the frustration far too well, trying to balance senior-year grades and maintain good, consistent performances at meet after meet.

He’d tried his best to set up support networks, but he’d been acutely aware that he was stepping into an already established team hierarchy, and try as he might, he would inevitably step on toes.

He swallowed the last spoonful of his oatmeal and put the bowl in the empty sink to soak; he was suddenly glad he’d managed to catch up on all the washing up yesterday since it was unlikely he’d have the energy anytime soon.

He checked his backpack and grabbed his lunch from the fridge before manoeuvring his bike out from its spot behind the sofa and stepping out into the bracing chill of the morning.

5:45 AM

Usually, he would be third to arrive with Rudy already going through his changing room warm-up, Pappy sat on the bench opposite, nursing a coffee. Given the current circumstances, however, it wasn’t surprising that he was alone.

He got to work unlocking everything and propping the door to the pool open since it had a tenancy to stick at random times, before heading into the changing rooms. At least their practice kits had been washed on time this week, a small blessing.

He was rinsing off when Mike arrived; he glanced across, ready to take whatever Mike had to say, but there must have been something on his face because Mike just clapped him on the shoulder before rinsing off himself.

The silence extended until they were moving the whiteboard from the storeroom to the poolside.

“Well?” Nate said when it became clear that Mike wouldn’t start the inevitable conversation.

Mike raised an eyebrow, “Well what?” His eyes roamed over Nate’s face before he chuckled lowly, “Nate, no one is gonna get on your back for not predicting that a clumsy Stanford kid would drop a keg on Pappy’s foot and break it.”

“I gave them permission to go to the party,” Nate argued.

“Yes, you did,” Mike said evenly, “and with hindsight, maybe we shouldn’t have, but it’s been a good year for us, and the kids needed to let off a bit of steam before we refocused for the Pac-12 and NCAAs. I would have made the same decision.”

Nate hummed, conceding to the point with a rush of relief. There came a time when considering past decisions moved from being about reflection but self-flagellation, he told himself sternly.

While Mike copied the Monday morning practice timetable from the binder onto the whiteboard, Nate flipped through the afternoon practice binder.

“Our main priority is the relay,” Nate said, thinking out loud, “with Pappy out, we’ve lost our backstroke and our starter. It’ll be too much for Brunmeier to do the 4x50 medley relay as well as the 4x100.”

“Budweiser’s also our only competitor in the 100 and 200 now, and most people wouldn’t want to be filling Pappy’s shoes in the best of times,” Mike added.

“Do you think I should remove him from the 4x50?” Nate asked before thinking better of it, “No, that just adds more problems to our plate. I’ll talk to Lovell, Brad and Rudy.”

“Lovell I understand, but Brad and Rudy?”

Nate jerked his head up to find Coach Patterson peering over his shoulder at his notepad. Nate slid a glance to Mike, raising an eyebrow, but Mike just gave him an amused smile.

He wet his lips and then replied, “To take pressure off Brunmeier at the start, we need Trombley and Chaffin to put in solid times in the middle; Rudy looks after the breaststrokers and Brad’s been mentoring Trombley throughout the season so I thought it would be best if they took the lead there.”

Patterson tilted his head to the side before nodding his approval, “Good delegation Nate, and I agree. Now we just need a solution for the missing backstroker in the 4x100 medley relay.”

Nate tapped the end of his pen against his lip, “I could slot in for backstroke and we pull one of the freestylers with relay experience, Kocher or Poke, in to replace me.”

“That’s a possibility.” Patterson replied, “Your backstroke isn’t your strongest but not your weakest either, and Eric and Poke have been competing in the 4x100 freestyle so their skills should be up to date.”

“Except both Poke and Kocher have injuries that are in danger of flaring, and we’d lose Nate’s anchoring speed, not to mention our changeover, which has consistently been the fastest out of all of them.”

“I’m not sure what other options we have,” Nate said directly to Brad, who’d appeared at Mike’s elbow. He was still dripping from his rinse, water droplets trailing down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat before slipping down the middle divert of his chest, still shaved smooth like Nate’s own.

“What about one of the younger freestylers or one of your medley boys, Q-tip or Christenson?” Patterson asked.

Nate shook his head, “Stafford doesn’t have any relay experience, even at JV, and while I know Christeson would step up if asked to and would perform well, I’d rather we didn’t potentially undermine what has been an amazing freshman season for him.”

“The younger freestylers aren’t an option,” Brad pitched in, “we know they’ve been struggling with relay changeovers; they’ve had two disqualifications already and only Lilley and Gabe are trained on a 400. Poke’s mentioned that they’re still struggling with the jump to being senior in their division, they wouldn’t handle the added pressure.”

He paused to take a long drink from his bottle, Adam’s apple bobbing, but it was clear to Nate that he hadn’t finished.

“And I hate to say anything remotely complimentary about Encino Man, but he has faster splits than them at 400,” Brad added, putting the final nail in the coffin.

“You’ve been quiet Mike, any thoughts?” Patterson asked.

Nate glanced over at Mike, and he tracked Brad doing the same in his peripheral.

Mike’s mouth was twisted with faint resignation but also amusement, “I’ve been training the full program since Christmas, been signed off for meets.”

“And ready to come to stage a grand return in our hour of need?” Brad teased, though Nate could see the joy in his face and his voice.

“If you’ll have me.” Mike joked, raising an eyebrow towards him.

Nate didn’t think twice, the heavy weight that had been sitting on his chest lifting, “Of course.”

“That’s settled then,” Patterson said with a smile, “and just in time.”

6:15 AM

“Alright, gentleman,” Patterson called once Nate and Mike had finally corralled the boys out of the changing room, “you’ll all be glad to know we’re on taper until the Pac-12.”

It was a late start to the training briefing, but Rudy had arrived at six on the dot with Pappy in a university-sourced wheelchair, no doubt secured by Doc; not one of them would begrudge the boys time to tease and reassure themselves of Pappy’s health. He’d brought along the x-rays which had been gleefully passed around with many a following wince and grimace.

“Into your stroke teams for this morning; distances, pace and rest times are on the board, team leaders you’re responsible for monitoring.”

“Let’s get to it!” Nate called with a crisp clap.

The boys began to break away: the biggest group was of course the freestylers which had been subdivided into three groups with Kocher and Poke taking two underclassmen and Lovell taking three as a graduate. Rudy split off with Chaffin and Jacks to the breaststroke lane, and Nate watched on as Trombley followed Brad like a duckling up the whiteboard.

“I’m gonna head out with Budweiser,” Mike said, having positioned himself at his side.

“Good idea,” Nate replied, “I’m thinking I’ll keep Stafford, Christeson and I separate, that way we can train our sequence and go over our weakness from Stanford.”

“Good idea.” Mike echoed with a quirked lip.

Nate resisted the urge to roll his eyes because he could see Q-tip and Christeson making their way over, Q-tip gesturing wilding with one hand while the other arm stayed stagnant, draped over Christeson’s shoulder.

Nate knew that everyone on the team had breathed a sigh of relief when the two of them immediately became joined at the hip: it was easy to become rivals when you swam for the same team, in the same discipline and at the same level, but the two of them had been quick to build a solid if sometimes puzzling friendship. It had made his duties as their mentor far easier than he’d anticipated.

“Have you reflected on your performances from Stanford?” Nate asked once they were close enough.

“Yes sir, Captain sir!” Q-tip said with a wide grin.

“And?”

“And we think our dives were good, but I’m still struggling with turn from backstroke to breaststroke and Q-tip’s struggling with his butterfly pace,” Christeson said.

“Well, we’ll start with some warm-up lengths, look at the turning and the butterfly pace in the first hour, then I want us to practice in sequence.”

“What are you gonna work on?” Christeson asked as they walked over to their lane at the pool's far end.

The walk took them past Brad’s lane where he was standing on the starting block, obviously monitoring Trombley’s technique as he swam down the pool away from them. Just as he approached the opposite wall, Brad got into the ready position on the blocks, without a single readjustment; it was always a pleasure to witness one of the many reasons he was known as the Iceman.

Nate continued to watch as Brad’s calves and thigh muscles tensed in anticipation; the tanned skin of his legs were still smooth-looking and incredibly defined, the curve of his spine just enough for his fingers to hook around the base of the block, his jammers pulling slightly up the back of his thighs.

His timing was impeccable: as soon as Trombley’s hand touched the wall, Brad pushed off the block like the release of a spring, sailing smoothly into the pool at just the right angle. A textbook dive.

It was only then that Nate remembered Christeson had asked him a question but in the absence of a response, Christeson’s attention had been quickly reclaimed by Q-tip, who seemed to be explaining the history of a ‘beef’ between two rap artists Nate had never heard of.

God, that made him feel old.

7:45 AM

Considering he’d been dreading the morning; he was pleased with how it had gone.

By the end of the hour and a half, they’d cracked the problem with Christeson’s turn and drilled Q-tip’s butterfly kicks to perfection. The pair were obviously happy with their progress, grinning at each other when Nate dismissed them. They gravitated together on their way to the changing rooms, getting closer and closer until Q-tip was hanging off Christeson’s shoulder, cackling about something or other.

Personally, Nate’s splints were probably as good as they were going to get at the end of the college season, but he was happy with the consistency of his times; from his debrief with Mike, it was clear they were going to take a hit without Pappy, but Mike’s times weren’t far off the pace. With a clean start, turns, and changeovers, they might still be able to secure the win.

As he made his way to the changing rooms, he encountered a small gathering on the divide between the main pool and the diving pool, their heads tipped up towards the ceiling. Coming to stand at Brad’s side, he joined them, looking up to the 10m board where a diver was balancing on their toes on the very edge, their back to them. Nate couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was Walt by the blond hair.

He brought his arms up above his head and seemed to take a fortifying breath before he jumped up and away from the board, his head passing uncomfortably close to the board as he somersaulted. In what felt like less than a second, he was straightening and entering the water almost completely vertical.

Nate wondered sometimes, when he watched the divers, if this was how they felt while watching one of their races; knowing little about what was happening but being in awe anyway.

The group whistled and clapped as Walt swam to the edge of the pool, pushing himself up onto dry land; all the attention seemed to dawn on him, and he ducked his head, though there was a proud smile on his lips.

With no more action on the horizon, people dispersed, leaving only himself, Brad and Walt.

“I won’t pretend to know exactly what makes a perfect dive, but it looked good to me,” Nate said.

Walt smiled at him warmly, “Thanks, Captain.”

Brad seemed distracted, his head on swivel as he searched the area around them, “Where’s Ray?”

Walt’s face became pensive, “He said to Coach Barrett that he was gonna stick with dry training today, something about feeling stiff.”

“Right.” Brad had a unique ability to make a single word feel like a sentence.

Walt shrugged, his lips pressed together but he couldn’t stay, Coach Barrett calling him over to review his dive.

“Anything I should know about?” Nate asked nonchalantly as he and Brad walked to the changing rooms.

“Not yet sir, I believe I can square it away, but I’ll keep you appraised of the situation.”

Nate couldn’t help his amused smile: it hadn’t come as much of a surprise to find out that Brad had attended a military boarding school before coming to Cal, it was clear in the way he spoke, the way he led, in his discipline and tenacity. He was more than a little curious about the circumstances around his attendance, however, given the various comments about teenage delinquency that often passed between Brad’s closest friends.

“I know you will Brad, I’m assured of this,” Nate replied evenly though Brad obviously caught the teasing undertone if his grin was anything to go by.

When they crossed the threshold into the changing rooms, they were hit with a wall of sound; several different conversations all happening at once, the noise of running showers and bags being moved around. It had taken some getting used to the noise after the carefully segregated cliques that made up the team at Dartmouth, but Nate couldn’t ask for a better team atmosphere.

Brad broke away to join the huddle of senior swimmers around Pappy, so Nate grabbed his towel and went to shower.

When he entered, Q-tip seemed to be giving an impromptu rap performance to the group of younger swimmers, with Christeson in the stall next to him doing the adlibs.

Nate shook his head, grinning to himself as he rinsed off briskly: he had to cycle to the other side of the campus for his 9 am and he’d rather have time to talk to Evan about their presentation beforehand since the journalism major’s Mondays were always packed.

When he exited the showers, the main changing room had quietened down considerably. He dried and dressed, before approaching where Pappy had been set up while he waited for Rudy.

“Good to see you Pappy,” Nate said when he got close enough, “I know the boys felt more settled after seeing you.”

“Would’a been up anyhow, better to be at the pool than stuck at home,” Pappy replied with a resigned half-smile. He looked tired around the eyes but clean shaved apart from growing stubble along his upper lip. Nate assumed he was growing his moustache back now that there was no need to be completely shaved for streamlining. “I’d be on bed rest all the damn time if Rudy had his way.”

“Well, if you want an excuse to come here, Mike’s filling in for the relay and I’m sure he’d appreciate your expertise.”

Pappy raised an eyebrow, “That right?”

Nate nodded as he straightened out the straps on his cycling helmet, “He’s been cleared by Doc to compete and after you, he’s the best man for the job.”

"Ain't that the truth."

11:45 AM

His lecture and following lab went smoothly, and in a welcome twist, Evan’s study group had been cancelled due to a flat-wide food poisoning incident taking out four of the six members. This meant he had company in the study room he’d booked but they’d agreed that they’d spend at least the first hour focusing on their own work.

He finished up his notes for the last of his required reading and then set about drafting his essay outline. He was glad he and his academic advisor had scheduled his three required 3000-level courses with one in each semester because doing even two at the same time might have driven him to the brink. He’d made that mistake in the final semester of his junior year at Dartmouth, and it was probably at least 30% of the reason he’d transferred.

The rest of his courses this semester were amongst the easiest he’d ever had: his academic advisor here was extremely helpful, taking onboard his concerns with juggling his captaincy, meets, and the requirements for the Classics Major at Cal.

It’d been a nice surprise to find that he shared a course with Reporter, one of the college media reporters who also happened to be the swim team’s photographer: he’d become so isolated at Dartmouth, consumed by the swim team until he had no one but them. It was good to have a friend who couldn’t care less about swimming beyond getting good shots and good stories for the newspaper.

“Hey, Nate, I’ve got the photos from Stanford if you want to have a look. I think this one for the cover picture.” Evan spun his laptop around to show Nate the photo in question.

It was a picture of the whole team taken after the meet finished; they were all huddled under the official meet banner in their team wear, joyous in victory, medals hanging from necks and beaming smiles. He’d been ushered into the middle and given the task of holding the trophy. It struck the right balance between pride and professionalism.

“Good choice. I’m assuming there’s a less presentable version?” Nate said with a half-smile.

Evan chuckled, “Yeah,” He flicked across the screen and a different version appeared on the screen.

Immediately, Nate knew it would never be posted anywhere official since he could count at least three middle fingers, but it was a much better representation of the team’s close bonds.

At the foot of the picture, Trombley’s face was twisted in disgust as Q-tip and Christeson seemed to be trying to kiss his cheeks; the second row had obviously prepared in advance because they’d all had shades on, arranged in what he thought were imitations of the Men in Black poster; on his row, Mike was smiling down at the younger swimmers while Pappy’s head was tipped up to look at Rudy who was leaning over him and above his own head were a pair of bunny ears, Brad’s smirking face hovering above his left shoulder, his eyes on him.

“It’s pretty good quality so I was going to add it to the album for the end of the year.”

“Good idea.”

Evan smiled, but when Nate went to go back to his work, he said, “Just a couple of others to review,”

There was a picture of Rudy, roaring in the water after his win in the 100m breaststroke; a picture of Q-tip and Christeson, heads folded on top of one another as they napped; a shot of the freestylers on the blocks, both Poke and Lilley in the frame; a shot of him talking to Lovell, Mike and Pappy, gesturing with his left hand, his face focused. He couldn’t remember what he’d been talking about.

When his eyes dropped to the last picture, he almost had to clear his throat.

It was a picture of Brad standing behind the starting blocks, getting ready for his race. It had a beautiful composition, the other competitors blurred in the background, crouched down or sitting, headphones over their ears while Brad was in perfect resolution, standing tall with one hip cocked, no headphones. He hadn’t taken his team jacket off but it was unzipped to show the whole of his torso, the dip between his pecs and his lightly toned abs.

He hadn’t put on his cap yet; it was always the last thing he did. Nate had once heard him explain to Trombley that he preferred to take in the noise of the crowd before a race because then his concentration wouldn’t be broken as easily as if he’d been trying to block it out.

What made the picture piercing, however, was Brad’s stare: he was looking directly into the camera and his eyes seemed to challenge the person behind it, staring them down with focused icy blues.

A predator’s gaze.

"Good selection." Nate offered because taking a large gulp from his water bottle.

1:55 PM

After he’d finished a large chunk of his work, Evan had asked him to proofread his article for the college social media accounts about the victory over Stanford. There was nothing in the article about Pappy, but Evan did ask after him, first off the record because while he wasn’t a swimmer, he was a part of their team just like Walt and Ray, and then on the record. He agreed to hold off on any statement, and that he’d sent his draft article to him, Mike and Pappy to review before he posted it.

“Maybe we could release it tactically,” He’d mused with a mischievous glint in his eye, “catch the other teams out. Mike returning to meets is sure to put some fear into people, even if he’s only doing the medley.”

Nate had laughed but he noted the suggestion down to discuss with Patterson. At Dartmouth, that kind of thing would have been a given, victory by any means necessary but Nate didn’t want to replicate the things he’d been unknowingly complicit in.

Lunch consisted of a deli sandwich from the place opposite the science building that sponsored some of the swimmers. He added some yoghurt and a protein bar to complete the meal, making sure to fill up what would be his fifth bottle of water so far, and picked up an extra since next on the schedule was weight training with Coach Sixta.

He arrived on time and changed into his college workout gear, heading into the gym with the cooler full of water and several packets of gel.

When he first arrived at Cal, he’d heard rumours about Coach Sixta, the way he talked, his suicide drills, and his pride in making students vomit and pass out. He would love to say there was nothing in the rumours, but that wouldn’t be the truth: in reality, there were bits and pieces that carried over.

It had taken Nate three months to be able to understand the Coach’s unique accent, cadence and intonation, his suicide drills and training programs were the stuff of nightmares, and he did take pride in pushing them all to their limits.

There had been a time around the November midterms when he’d worried about something kicking off between the boys and Sixta: he’d overheard quite a few disgruntled conversations and picked up that Sixta’s singling out of Pappy was not going down well within the team.

He wavered on what to do, unsure of the right path but knowing he had to do something to keep the team together. In the end, he’d spoken to Patterson who’d heard out his concerns and reassured him before directing him to speak to Sixta directly.

He hadn’t had time to do so before the chaos of the Minnesota Invitationals. Multiple disqualifications, sickness and the lingering shadow of Ray’s accident at the Trojan Diving Invitational had created a tense and volatile atmosphere that lingered even as they returned to In Season training.

After a very rough training session with Sixta that had pushed even Brad and Rudy to their limits, Nate had stayed behind to ask what the fuck the Coach was thinking, though he worldly slightly more politely. Slightly.

“Sometimes, what’s those boys needs is a common enemy,” He’d said with a knowing smile, “with a meet like that, they could’s be tearing each other to pieces. So, I work ‘em, hard enough that they brains stuff off and all they can think about is ‘fuck I wanna goddamn kill this motherfucker’. Stops ‘em from taking it out on each other.” He’d winked then, “I can take some youngins hatin’ me, I got’s skin made of leather, don’t you worry.”

It had opened his eyes and the next day he could see it, could see through the bullshit all the way to the care and precision that was weaved into every infuriating comment, every punishing exercise.

Did he agree with the tactic? No, because that level of deception felt like a disaster waiting to happen, but he couldn’t deny the effects, and he couldn’t prove that it wasn’t worth it. Dartmouth’s team had been ripping itself apart for decades, so long that it was baked into the very fabric of the team. At least here, they were united in their hatred. However, he had taken steps to prevent a complete mutiny, talking with the newly appointed team leaders – a role he’d created because he knew from experience that without networks, people easily fell through the cracks – about what Sixta’s angle was and advising Sixta to back off Pappy if he didn’t want to end up at the bottom of the pool before New Year.

Divisions now bridged, he almost looked forward to the gym session, wondering what crazy drill Sixta had invented just to make them wish for death.

“Hey, Captain,” Brad said as the boys started filling in, “can I speak with you?”

“Of course, Brad. What’s up?”

Brad’s lip twitched before smoothing out, “I think we should start drilling the relay sequence today, we need as much time as we can get to refine it.”

Nate nodded, “Good suggestion, I agree. I assume you’ve talked with Rudy and Mike?” He got a firm nod, “Right, after weights?”

“After weights,” Brad grinned, “If we survive of course.”

Nate laughed in spite of himself.

4:40 PM

They did survive. Just about.

While the rest of the team headed out for late afternoon classes and downtime, he, Mike, Brad, Rudy and Pappy made their way back to the pool.

Pappy was set up on a chair at the poolside with a timer and a clipboard. He took Rudy’s fussing with the air of someone who experienced it often, letting Rudy position his cast on a stool Mike had found in the storeroom and wrap a jacket around his shoulders.

“Good idea getting Pappy to come,” Mike said to Nate as he came to stand with him behind the starting block, “it’s rough going from being a competitor to sitting on the sidelines.”

Nate sent him a sympathetic look.

In the times he’d been at his lowest, when Schwetje and Griego had dropped all pretence and started actively making his life a living hell, he dreamed about having a teammate like Mike. He’d always been on Nate’s radar as a fellow medley swimmer, his most direct competition, a year older and with an all-roundedness that was the envy of everyone he competed against, including Nate.

In the NCAA last year, he’d been gracious in his solo victory, smiling genially as his team cheered with such an obvious love that Nate had felt almost sick: his own team had been silent, half of them uninterested and the other half glaring daggers at him.

So, when Nate had transferred, full of true excitement to swim for the first time in too long, he’d been devastated to learn that Mike had missed out on the Olympic trails due to a rotator cuff tendinopathy. However, a part of him had been perversely happy because without the Olympic ticket, Mike had stayed for a graduate course at Cal and since he hadn’t competed in his freshman year, he could still be part of the team, even though he’d technically been on medical leave.

Brad came to join them, and instead of his usual Cal jammers, he was wearing a black pair that had bright red and orange flames on them.

“They were a Hanukkah present from Ray,” Brad explained dryly when he and Mike raised their eyebrows, “he would feel incredibly insulted if I didn’t show due appreciation of his cultural awareness.”

Nate huffed a laugh and Brad smirked at him.

When Rudy finally joined them, happy that Pappy was as conformable as he could be, Mike hopped into the pool, and they lined up in order, Rudy then Brad then himself.

They did several sequences at half pace to warm up, focusing their attention on changeover timings and the technique of their dives. Interspersed between sets, Pappy gave them his observations as well as some tips for Mike’s start and general technique, but it was obvious from the outset that they weren’t going to have many problems. Mike slipped back into the pool like he’d been born for it, and while his changeovers with Rudy weren't to the level of Pappy and Rudy’s brand of borderline supernatural synchronicity, they’d be hard-pressed to find anyone better.

“My pace is slower than before,” Mike warned when they took a breather, rehydrating.

“We knew that going into this, everyone who does backstroke is slower than Pappy,” Brad replied succinctly.

Rudy put his arm around Mike's shoulder, “We can only do our best brother, it’s up to the universe to decide if that’s enough.”

“Well, I think we press some more out of the universe first,” Pappy replied, though his dry tone was peppered with fondness.

“Pappy, my man, you are always so wise.”

Nate shared a look with Brad and then they hid their smiles by taking sips of water.

That had been another adjustment from Dartmouth because while he knew there were a variety of colourful opinions on specific subjects throughout the boys, it seemed like they had an unspoken pact not to leave them out of the team, demonstrating a level of compartmentalisation beyond their years. It was nice to not have to worry about any consequences with the team if he was outed or chose to come out to them. Comfortable in a way he hadn’t been for all the years before.

“Well, if everyone’s ready, I say we try some full runs, see what times we’re putting in.”

“Oorah Captain,” Brad replied with a smirk.

7:20 PM

They put in several good times before deciding to call it quits, aware that they were on taper and shouldn’t be pushing too much.

Nate cycled home to have dinner and he’d planned to have some downtime, maybe call Mo to see how she was doing however, he got a text from Evan, asking him if he was free to work on their presentation as he’d would need to cancel their planned meet up due to work. So, instead of sitting down to catch up on one of the reality TV shows Steph had guilt-tripped him into watching with her, he grabbed his bag that he hadn’t even unpacked yet and cycled back to the campus library.

“Thanks, Nate,” Evan said when Nate eventually found him on the third floor of the library.

“No problem, have you read the material?”

For the midterm in their International Relations course, they were tasked with a joint presentation on an area chosen from the course material. Evan was easy to work with and their thoughts and opinions often aligned so they made quick work of drafting what exactly they wanted to cover.

“I know a good book about that,” Nate said when they started to discuss the specifics, “I used it in my junior year for another course, I’ll see if I can find it.”

He’d gotten to know the library at Cal quite well even in the few months he’d been there, so he made his way up to the top floor where the right section should be. There weren’t many people up this high because the majority of desks were on the first and third floors, so it was pretty quiet.

Except for the sound of whispering, followed by a solid thud and some other noises that Nate would charitably describe as suggestive. It seemed the top floor of the library was considered a good rendezvous point.

The noises quietened so Nate decided they must have heard his footsteps; he’d find the book he was looking at and leave them to it. Or, that had been the plan until he accidentally came across the stack where the people were, two people in fact, two very recognisable people.

“Really?” Nate couldn't help but say incredulously.

The pair jumped apart, but that did little to help disguise what they'd been doing. Q-tip’s signature bandana was on the floor, his hair was all over the place, and his baggy cargos were about an inch away from falling down, while Christeson’s plaid shirt was half unbuttoned exposing most of his chest, his jeans were definitely undone, and he was pressing himself against the stack like he was hoping he’d melt into it.

“Oh hey Cap,” Q-tip said with a wide grin.

Nate raised an eyebrow.

“Q-tip,” Christeson said through gritted teeth, glancing between him and Nate skittishly.

Q-tip blinked, “Chill Johnny, it’s cool. Right, Cap?”

He just sighed, rubbing between his eyes, “Please do not take this as a judgement on your… relationship?” he flicked his eyes between the pair who both flushed but looked at each other with that new relationship happiness, the giddiness that came from confessing and finding mutual feelings.

“The team including me will be very happy for you, but as your captain, I am asking you not to risk getting suspended from meets, the last thing we need right now is two more swimmers out before the fucking NCAA. Am I understood?”

“Yes sir.” Q-tip’s grin was wide and Christeson only had eyes for him, a soft fond smile.

Nate nodded once and turned sharply on his heels. Maybe he’d be able to find a copy of that book online.

8:15 PM

They managed to get a large chunk of the presentation done before they hit a roadblock that would take some more in-depth research to crack which at just after eight o’clock wasn’t a road to start down.

It was a nice enough night and the restlessness that had kept him up last night seemed to be building under his skin again, so he decided to go for a walk, leaving his bike locked outside the library. The campus was quiet at this time after the end of evening lectures but before students started to head to house parties and clubs.

He found himself walking towards the pool and to his surprise, he could see that the lights were still on through the frosted windows. He was sure he’d turned them off when they’d left their impromptu training session, but apparently not.

He made his way into the building and through the changing rooms, slipping his shoes and socks off before wandering out the propped-open door.

Not every light was on, only the ones over the diving pool, which was odd considering they’d had every light on earlier; however, Nate quickly spotted a familiar figure sitting on the edge of the diving pool, their legs dangling in the water.

Brad still had his flaming jammers on and from the back he had a clear view of the large piece on Brad’s back; he didn’t quite know what it was of – he didn’t think anyone did except maybe Ray – but the colours were vivid against Brad’s tanned skin, the base of the tattoo placed perfectly along the small of his back, spanning the whole way across, with the head of the highest face drawn the eye to the edge of Brad’s scapula.

Nate shook his head and went to sit next to him; his cycling shorts were short enough that he could dip his legs in. Brad didn’t seem to want to breach the silence, so Nate sat quietly, mulling over what he wanted to ask.

Brad wasn’t here to practice: he wasn’t damp like he’d been in the pool, he wouldn’t compromise his taper for fun, and he wouldn’t practice alone, knowing the risks. So, that begged the question, why was Brad here?

It was then that he saw Brad look up and so he followed.

On the edge of the 10m platform, a diver leaned down and began to bring themselves up into an armstand on the very edge. It was a little jerky, but the diver remained committed, extending until their legs were straight up, their toes pointed. Nate knew he was in a starting position for a specific type of dive, though he didn’t know which one exactly.

He was sure they couldn't wait that long to dive, “Don’t they have a time limit?”

“They do, but that’s not what Ray’s doing,” Brad explained softly.

Nate glanced across, “What is he doing?”

“Combatting the fear.”

Nate glanced back up. He’d visited the top of a 10m platform before, and he remembered looking over the edge and feeling the usual vertigo; the height hadn’t seemed real, more like some CGI from a movie. Ray remained perfectly still in his armstand.

“I thought divers trained out of it.”

“You can never kill natural survival instincts; you can only learn to control them. Walt still hates heights, but he can control it when he needs to.”

“And Ray?”

“I’d doubted that Ray had ever been born with survival instincts.” Brad sighed softly then, “but the accident seemed to knock something loose in that near-empty dome of his.”

Nate hummed. The Trojan Diving Invitational had been scheduled between their usual meets and the Minnesota Invitationals so almost the entire team had decided to turn out in support of the divers. The accident had happened so quickly that it blindsided everyone, and it was only when reviewing it on video that Nate was able to piece what happened together.

Ray had been on the 10m platform for the qualification round. He’d been in an armstand, getting ready to dive when one of his hands had gone out from under him. His face had hit the platform but because he’d been facing out towards the pool, he’d ended up falling off the edge. Nate still remembered the gasps of the crowd and the way Brad had flinched next to him, but Ray was a gold medallist for a reason. He’d somehow been able to complete a dive in his freefall and enter the water well.

Brad had been on the move almost from the second Ray hit the pool and Nate had followed as team captain. He’d never forget the way Brad’s face went deathly pale as Ray was helped out of the pool and came walking over to Doc: one side of his face had been a mess of blood, dipping down his neck and onto the floor.

Doc said it had looked worse than it was, he’d broken his nose and cut both his cheek and eyebrow, but he didn’t have any signs of concussion and while he’d been treated for shock, he’d been eager to get back to the qualifying, though he hadn’t been allowed to as a precaution. Nate remembered Ray joking about the wound to his pride being a bigger issue and how if he got scars, he’d looked cooler for the chicks.

“I didn’t realise it had affected him like that,” Nate said honestly. Maybe he should have kept a close eye, why did he think something like that wouldn’t have long-reaching effects?

Brad gave him a humourless smile, “It’s not your fault Nate. Ray will only let things slip when he’s ready.”

“And he’s ready now?”

“Yes. It’s being squared away Captain, no need to involve anyone else.”

Nate nodded, “I’ll take your word for it.” They both glanced up to the platform where Ray seemed to be taking a break, standing on the very edge of the platform sipping his water, his body relaxed.

A thought occurred to him, “You seemed to be speaking from experience earlier, about controlling survival instincts.”

Brad nodded a head, “I was afraid of the ocean as a child, the empty expanse of it."

Nate did a double take, “But, you scuba dive and surf.”

Brad smirked, raising one eyebrow, “I enjoy it now, I think, the feeling of overcoming fear itself.”

Nate snorted but found he couldn’t disagree, “I think if you’d told my parents I'd be a D1 swimmer when I was a kid, they would've gone into shock.” Brad gave him an intrigued look, “I was afraid of drowning as a kid. I wouldn’t even get into the bath without floaties.”

Brad laughed, belly deep, a grin splitting his face in half. Nate felt himself grin back and pressed on, “Really! I had to go to the swimming pool every day for months just to get me into the shallows.”

“And now look at you,” Brad said when he settled. A flash of something went across his eyes but Nate couldn't find it in himself to be surprised.

“And now look at me.” He repeated, softer.

“Hey, lovebirds!”

They both jolted, looking up. Ray had his hands on his hips, and he was far enough away that Nate couldn’t see his expression, though he knew deep down it was a shit-eating grin.

“What do you want Ray?” Brad shouted back.

“For you to watch this motherfucker!”

With that, Ray resumed his armstand on the very edge. He seemed to take a deep breath, going completely still before he let himself drop off the edge, kicking out, twisting several times, one arm across his body and one behind his head, before opening out and entering the water with a medium splash.

As soon as he breached the surface, he let out a whoop so loud it echoed around the room. Brad laughed joyously and Nate couldn't help but stare at the pride in his eyes.

9:00 PM

Nate stayed with Brad on the poolside as Ray completed several dives. When he was satisfied, he swam over to them and pulled himself out.

“Made up for the practice I missed.” He’d explained before shooting Brad a smirk and heading back to the changing rooms.

“I better change as well,” Brad said, though he didn’t immediately move.

“I’ll wait for you, I have to lock up.”

“I borrowed Mike’s keys- ” Brad went to explain but Nate cut him off, "Still my responsibility to double check.”

“Suit yourself.”

Nate followed Brad into the changing room, switching off all the main lights before shutting the access door to the pool. He waited outside the changing rooms, checking his phone, and catching up on whatever had been had been going on in the team group chat.

Oddly, he found a photo in the most recent texts. It was from Ray, obviously taken from the 10m platform, zoomed in on where he and Brad had been sitting. He hadn’t thought the space between them had been that small or that when he’d gestured, he breached Brad’s personal space that much but the cold hard evidence was right in front of him.

Even more confusingly, it was captioned, suck it losers!!!! (party face emoji)(money mouth emoji)

Immediately below was a message from Walt, Wrong group chat Ray

Nate decided it was better not to ask.

When they finally got out of the building, Ray darted off with a wave and an exaggerated wink, his phone already held up to his mouth as he almost shouted into to Walt that he’d finished practice and he'd better not have eaten his fucking pizza.

“Where did you chain your bicycle?” Brad asked when it was just the two of them.

“By the library,” then at the unspoken question, “I was working on a project with Evan,” then at Brad’s raised eyebrow, Nate huffed a laugh, “Reporter.”

“Ah, I see. Well, my bike’s parked not far there, I’ll walk with you.”

Nate had noticed that Brad was in his leathers instead of his usual board shorts and flip-flops, ever the Californian. They were mostly black but with sections of reflective white material and electric blue, close fitting and making Brad look even broader and taller. Given that he’d seen the man shirtless almost every day for the better part of seven months, he didn’t know why the leathers specifically were making his mouth drier.

Their conversation ebbed and webbed, moving naturally from topic to topic, eating the time away so subtly that before Nate knew it, they were at his bike.

“You were good, with Ray,” Nate said.

In the few times where Ray had clearly been hesitating or getting too much into his head, Brad had been ready with either a goading comment or a piece of constructive criticism, both options wheeled expertly. It wasn’t something people would assume about Brad: that he was good at comforting. His reputation preceded him, and almost everyone knew about the Iceman, the swimmer who held almost every record for butterfly both in his home state and at the interstate level.

They’d only ever been competitors in the medley relay, on different legs, but that had just meant that instead of watching McGraw’s choppy technique, his eyes had naturally drifted to the lane next door, to Brad’s perfect form, his perfect turns, his perfect changeovers.

They’d never spoken, until the disaster at the NCAA’s last year. His team had fallen apart as they were always going to, their medley relay a mess so catastrophic that by the time it had reached Nate’s leg, there’d been little he could do to salvage it, that is if he’d even tried.

He wasn’t proud of what he’d done, but he’d been so exhausted, so fed up, pushed past the brink of caring, of giving a fuck about his future in the sport.

They’d barely stepped into the changing rooms before Griego started to lay into him, Schwetje adding to it as he umm’d and ahh’d and not taken any fucking responsibility like a decent team captain would. Nate had been seething at that point and about to do something very stupid when Brad stepped in, his own team looming behind him.

Brad had said something polite sounding until the backhand finally registered. And oh, it had been glorious to watch the realisation place across Schwetje’s, McGraw’s and Griego’s faces. Griego had tried to square up but with Rudy on one side, his usual happy smile nowhere to be seen, and Mike on the other, he’d quickly squirrelled away, Schwetje still baffled, and McGraw shooting glances over at Nate, spineless as ever.

“Thank you,” he’d said when the Cal team had started to move away, “I think I was about to do something stupid.”

“Quite frankly, I’m impressed you haven’t already,” Brad had replied, “if I’d had those incompetent, shrivel-dicked, wet towels as teammates, I think I would have drowned them months ago.”

Nate had huffed a humourless laugh and dragged a hand down his face.

“It’s not your fault, Nate. You’ve got the skill and speed to be a top competitor. Mike’s always singing your praises; you're just unlucky that you're up against him,” Brad had looked him straight in the eyes and it had been the first time he’d had time to note their clear ice blue colour, “Your team’s holding you back, and I think you’re letting them, for what reason, well I can’t imagine.”

“You know you're part of the reason I transferred,” Nate found himself saying.

Brad cocked his head, “That so?”

Nate hummed as he unlocked the chain around his bike, “What you said to me after the medley relay last year, it just solidified what I’d already been thinking. Reassured me that I wasn’t just losing my mind.” He paused, “I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for that. This year has been the best of my life so far.”

There was that look in Brad’s eyes again, the intensity like the sun; it had happened so many times throughout the year, this tension that almost seemed to vibrate through the air when they looked at each other like they could truly see each other.

“I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do anything before the NCAAs,” Brad murmured, coming to stand close enough that Nate had to look up to meet his eyes, “but after that, I don’t want to be outdone.”

Nate laughed and then he was being kissed by Brad Colbert, wholly and unreservedly.

Their lips were chapped despite their best attempts at hydration, Brad’s hair was dry under his hand from chlorine just like Nate’s, but Brad’s hand on his face was warm against the cold night air and his heart thumped against his rib cage.

He couldn’t imagine anything better.

9:45 PM

They’d parted ways reluctantly but scheduled some time the next day to discuss where to go from here; as Nate got into bed, he just felt almost giddy, a small smile on his face as he lay down.

He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Meanwhile

just guys being dudes

(a low-quality picture from an iPhone, green shrubbery at the edges, the lighting from the streetlamp glaring, but in the dead centre, a couple kissing, standing so close together, they made one shadow. The height difference, hair colours, bike leathers and cycling shorts unmistakeable)

pay up suckersssss!!!! (tongue-out emoji)

Poke: you cheating motherfucker!

Kocher: Finally, thought this shit would never end

Rudy: happy for them brother!

Walt: I’ll deduct it from what you owe me

you’re such a sweetheart Walter! (kissy face emoji)

Walt: (rolling eyes emoji)

california’s no.1 tall freak

Don’t think I didn’t see you, Ray

Send me a copy of the photo and I’ll consider sparing you from a watery grave.

#hbowarsummer24 #generation kill #bradnate #nate fick #brad colbert #q tip stafford #john christeson #q-tip x christeson #my fics

15 notes · View notes