Noelia (noelia_g) wrote,
Noelia
noelia_g

Fic: Looking for a rhythm like you

Title: Looking for a rhythm like you
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters/Pairings: Nate/Brad
Wordcount: 5531
Summary: Yet another college AU.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals as seen on the HBO miniseries.
A/N: I now have too many Air Supply songs stuck in my head on loop. With thanks to lunatics_word, who inspired the idea, and to kubis, as always.


Brad can feel his brain dribbling out through his ears.

It's the same thing every day, or well, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday at least. The program starts decently, with music that doesn't make Brad want to fucking kill himself with the nearest available motherboard, and then it slowly descends into the motherfucking orgy of cacophony and bad taste. And fucking country music.

He regrets the agreement he made with Ray and Jenna, about the democratic approach to the music in the shop. But that was back when Jenna was going through her moaning-chicks-that-seriously-aren't-music phase and Brad and Ray could salvage their sanity by outvoting her.

Ray never votes against country. And Brad would normally tell him to shut the fuck up and suck it up, but with Jenna on his side... Brad is fucking screwed. Through his ears.

"Ray, turn the volume up, would you?" Jenna yells from between the shelves, where she's trying to make some sense of the shelving of the games some kids messed up. "I love this song."

The songs is either about a guy's love of the road, or of his really worrying love for his fucking horse.

"Seriously, I'll fucking pay you if you change the station," he pleads.

"And miss your caged tiger impersonation?" Jenna smiles. "Never."

After two weeks of this shit, he does the sensible thing and takes the fight to the fucking source.

It's his first mistake.

"And our next caller, Brad," the guy says. "Brad, you're on the air, any requests?"

"Anything that's not an ode to the joys of bestiality would be nice. And while you're at it, no fucking country music, it's a disgrace."

"You're clearly a man of strong opinions," the guy says, and he sounds a little like he's laughing. Brad didn't quite expect that. "And some strong words, in addition to that. Fine, how about you call the next song and I try my best not to follow it with anything expressing someone's personal feelings towards their mighty steed."

"Air Supply. Whatever you've got."

"And a man of fine taste to boot," the guy says lightly, and this time Brad can hear him fucking smirking. And yet, somehow, he feels a smile tugging at his lips. "Making Love Out Of Nothing At All, just for Brad. Well, and for anyone else out there who knows just how to whisper. Enjoy," the music comes on, double sound from the speaker of the phone and the speakers out in the shop, but the call doesn't disconnect. "You still there?" the guy asks, his voice a bit different once he's not on the air, but still warm and pleasant.

"I'm riveted. Can't put the phone down, now that such sweet music is coming out of it. It's a nice change in that it doesn't make me want to kill myself with the first rusty tool I could lay my hands on."

"They're only rusty when you don't take proper care of them, you know," comes the reply, matter-of-fact and dry, and Brad has to say, he doesn't hate this guy, even though he clearly has an atrocious taste in music and needs to be locked up somewhere where it can't be inflicted on people. "Anyway, I just wanted to say, thanks for calling."

"Anytime. No, really, anytime you feel like unleashing that fucking shit on the world and your audience, I will be calling."

"You could just turn it off," the fucker advises him pleasantly, right before Brad disconnects.

Next program, it's like he's in the fucking Nashville. Brad recognises a challenge when it's making his skin crawl and his insides turn when they try to escape through his ears and his colon, and he's not one to ever step down from a challenge.

He realises this is probably his second mistake, but it's more like a flaw of character. Well, not really a flaw, in most cases. But, he digresses.

"And Brad, welcome to the program again, what is your issue today?" the little shit says and Brad doesn't enjoy the warm tones at all.

"I have been itching to ask the same question of you. Have you been dropped on your head as a child and now have a sad affliction that prevents you from having a modicum of actual fucking taste?"

"I take it my recent choices in records didn't meet with your approval. You wound me, Brad."

"I'm sure it hurts less than an ulcer I've been developing due to your program."

"How can I make this up to you?" the guy asks and Brad realises he's smiling, has been smiling for the last minute or so. He's enjoying himself, there's no doubt about that, the quick back-and-fro with this guy managed to wash away the irritation and fill him with something much more pleasant, like a blood tranfusion, warmth circling in his veins, excitement under his skin.

"You have three guesses and the first two don't count," he says quickly.

"Air Supply it is, then. Just for you, Brad, All Out Of Love. Anyone out there with your head on the phone, call in, we still have time for your song," he says and this time Brad waits for the song with intent, waits until the quiet click in his phone that means he's off the air but the call is still connected. "I was wondering if you'd call again."

Brad doesn't startle at that, not at all. "Well, you insisted on continuing with that madness, someone had to stop you."

"I appreciate that, Brad," the guy says, and Brad kind of likes the way his voice drops low when he forms Brad's name. "By the way, I'm Nate."

"It was easier when I didn't know that."

"Why's that?"

"I wasn't tempted to find you out on the campus and set you straight on what constitutes good music and what is just a material fit for torture sessions."

"Why don't just turn it off?" Nate asks and Brad snorts.

"My mentally disturbed co-workers seem to enjoy your show. But I assume that's your target demographic."

Nate chuckles, quiet and somehow satisfying. "I am deeply sorry for your grave pain."

"I accept your apology. Does it mean you're going to stop tormenting me with the usual crap?"

"Not in the least. The usual crap makes you call in," he says and disconnects, because the song is ending and it's his time to introduce the last caller and take his stupid request, along with his stupid lovesick confessions to his girlfriend. Brad doesn't know why he bothers.

Except he calls next day, after Nate puts on some inane song about phonecalls, voicemail messages, selling cars, and, of course, fucking Austin. It only makes sense in the fucked up world of the country songs.

"You have a sadistic streak a mile wide, don't you?"

"Maybe I just like it when you call," Nate says flippantly, over the sounds of Every Woman In The World.

"A sadistic streak that covers latent masochism? You're really fucked up, I weep for you. That explains all the country music, though."

"Air Supply, Brad. I start to think this is a textbook case of pot and kettle."

"A textbook case? Don't tell me, you're a psychology major. All the freaks end up there, I've been told."

"Can't be. Haven't seen you in any of the classes."

"How would you even know if you saw me?" Brad realises he's holding his breath, the heady feeling he gets when he's running, or surfing, or swimming. When he lets go and just enjoys himself. "Don't you have a show to get back to and some earworms to unleash on the unsuspecting populace?"

"The show's ended. It was the last song," Nate says pleasantly. "You're safe for the night."

"That's what people always say, and then I am plagued by the nightmares of Willie Nelson and Patsy Cline. I'll send you my therapy bill."

"We can exchange those. Do you realise I now know the entire Air Supply discography, along with the lyrics to the majority of their songs?"

Something turns in Brad's stomach at that, hot and cold spreading through his chest, the feeling resonating against his ribcage. "All that for me? I'm touched."

"You better be. I can't get it out of my head now, it's worse than last summer and my sister's Lady Gaga obsession."

"Do you know all the lyrics, too?"

"Worse, I know all the dance routines," Nate says, clearly disgusted and Brad laughs, hard enough to have Jenna poke her head inside the back office and look at him strangely.

"Brad, it brings joy to my heart to know you're expanding your social circle, but when you're done with your new friend, you have that laptop to fix. Pick-up is in two hours."

Brad rolls his eyes at her but nods in acknowledgment. "Nate, gotta go. My devious shrew of a coworker has her panties in a bunch."

"If you think you have any effect on my panties, Colbert, you're sadly mistaken," Jenna calls out from the main area, her voice slightly drowned out by Nate's warm chuckle.

"I thought I'll mix it up on Friday and treat you to Rick Springfield if you happen to call."

"Make it Jessie's Girl and you've got a deal," Brad says and goes out to the shop, glaring at Jenna for a good measure. She just smiles at him brilliantly from over a cellphone she's taking apart, an array of brightly colored screwdrivers spread in front of her.

On Friday, he actually listens to the show, not only to the music, lets Nate's warm tones wash over him as he's trying to restore the files on some kid's hard drive.

"Fuck, you really got it bad," Ray mutters, propping himself up on the counter. "For the record, homes, I'm offended that you're choosing some pretty boy you don't even know over your dear pal Ray-Ray for your first faggoty fling, but I'll live. Sides, with that mouth of his, you're pretty much set for blowjobs and I respect that."

"I have an old iPod shuffle no one claimed that I can wedge up your ass," Brad threatens dryly, not looking up. At least not until Ray's words finally connect. "So, you know him?"

It's not that surprising; Ray does his own radio show every Saturday evening. It started as a sort of an informal chat show and spiralled into Ray's Rants Hour. Apparently, it didn't hurt his numbers; half of the campus turns in to listen. "Met him a few times," Ray shrugs. "He came in last month to take over from Dill."

"What's..." Brad starts and thinks better of it. The less he knows, the better.

"Oh, man," Ray shakes his head and claps his hand on Brad's shoulder, attempting a mournful gaze that just makes him look constipated.

He doesn't plan on calling that evening, but Nate puts on Patsy Cline's Crazy and that's just low.

"You're doing it on purpose, aren't you?" he asks, his fingers drumming the beat to Jessie's Girl on the table.

"Of course," Nate says simply. "And you know what?" he says, his voice that of a magician presenting his next trick. "Result!"

It startles a laugh out of Brad. "I don't know if I'm flattered or insulted."

"Probably a bit of both," Nate admits and goes on to ask about Brad's major and laugh when Brad challenges him to guess.

When Brad finally hangs up, it's ten minutes over closing time and Ray and Jenna had already left, leaving him a mocking note on the counter. His cellphone informs him that the last call lasted forty five minutes and seventeen seconds. It's warm in his hand, and the side of his face is flushed from where he pressed it against his ear.

It's all getting slightly ridiculous.

On Monday, they get into a long argument about the relative merits of iPods. Nate continues to maintain there are some, which is just a load of bullshit.

"You're just buying into the hype," Brad accuses him and Nate laughs.

"But they are so pretty," he drawls and Brad knows when he's been had.

"You're such an asshole."

"Yep. But you continue to call me, so I think I win," he says, fondly, and Brad has to give him that one.

On Wednesday, they talk about a book Nate reccommended, which didn't make Brad want to throw it across the room, as is the case with most of the popular fiction of the decade. "There's something wrong with the guy's approach to free market, but I have to admit the road trip part was compelling."

"You just like that he's done his research when it comes to the cars and bikes."

"It doesn't hurt," Brad admits. He mentioned his bike once or twice, but it's still surprising that Nate can pick up on that so easily, get him so well so soon. "Is his second novel worth anything?"

"There's no bikes, if that's what you're asking. One significant car, but it doesn't get anyone very far."

"So you're saying I shouldn't bother."

"I think his writing improved, and his attempt at retelling the myth of Persephone is surprisingly well done."

"Fuck, I was wrong, wasn't I?" Brad mutters, shaking his head. "You're a fucking pussy English lit major."

"Classics," Nate corrects him dryly. "And there's very little fucking pussy in the sources we're studying this semester. Of course, Zeus gets some, but mostly it's the insight into the homoerotic and homosocial warrior culture. Compelling stuff, I think you'd enjoy it."

"You know, it's probably the most eloquent way anyone ever called me a cocksucker."

Nate makes a small noise, something between a laugh and an inhale, and Brad's suddenly not sure what he wants the response to be.

"Many people go into trouble of finding creative ways of calling you a cocksucker?" Nate asks finally, and the way the last word sounds when he says it... it clears up a lot of confusion for Brad, what with the almost electric current going straight to his dick.

"Not that many," he shrugs. "People rarely bother with any attempts at creativity, in any part of their lives, including insults."

"That's assuming you take 'cocksucker' as an insult," Nate says, his voice deceptively light, and Brad shifts in his chair, runs his free hand down the front of his jeans, adjusting the material over his cock.

"Nate," he says, and he means it as a warning, but somehow it comes out closer to a plea. "I can't," he starts, and can't find good enough reason to give as to why exactly he can't. Hell, he's not even sure what it is he's protesting.

"You know, at this hour I'm alone in the studio. Mike has already left, the music that's on is the previously prepared mix," Nate muses, seemingly a non sequitur except there's a pointed edge to his voice.

"I don't know what you're implying," Brad lies quickly.

"Really? It's a pity," Nate says, his tone light again, like he's giving up on the subject.

Except that Brad feels a sudden surge of disappointment at that, like he's been waiting for Nate to push the issue, like he's been ready to give in. Jenna and Ray are already gone, they have taken to leaving Brad alone once he calls Nate, the conspiring idiots, and the shop is closed for the day, the blinds shut, the doors locked.

He's talking himself into this, isn't he?

"Is your studio soundproofed?" he asks finally and this time there's no mistaking the quick intake of breath Nate does, and Brad throws the caution to the wind and pops the button on his jeans, eases down the zipper and slides his hand inside.

"Why, you worried someone would come running when I screamed your name?"

"Fuck, Nate," he groans breathlessly, and he's both laughing and stroking himself slowly, listening to the low sound Nate makes.

"Would you like to?" he asks, voice slightly strained, and Brad wonders if he's doing just the same thing, drapped over his chair, jerking himself off to the sound of Brad's voice. He doesn't even know what Nate looks like, can't imagine him clearly, but the thought is still one of the hottest things ever.

"Yeah. I think I'd like that," he says slowly and hears Nate's breathing speed up, grow louder and harsher. "But first, I think someone mentioned cocksucking earlier in the conversation."

"Yes, it was you," Nate points out, entirely too reasonably for someone in his situation. "But I probably could be persuaded," he continues thoughtfully, "if you asked nicely enough."

"You'd get on your knees for me, Nate?"

"I thought about it, yes."

Jesus fuck. "When?"

"Somewhere around the second or third time you called. I've started to wonder if you'd mind the country music if I fucked your brains out first."

Brad moans. He's not proud of it, but he is quite beyond the point of caring right now, to be honest. "So, you started to think of sucking my dick around the time I accused you of latent masochism? That's interesting, Nate."

"Also accused me of sadism, don't forget that."

"How could I," he mutters and strokes faster, twists his wrist with intent. "So what, you get off on people calling and insulting you?"

Nate makes a noise deep in his throat, hoarse and low, and his voice is a bit muffled when he answers. "Not so much. I think I just get off on you, Brad."

"You're a very strange person," Brad tells him, or tries to, the words coming out slurred and liquid on his tongue. His hips buckle, he knows he won't last much longer, the way he's pumping into his own fist, thinking how it would be to thrust into Nate's welcoming mouth, his lips slick and wet around Brad.

"True. And yet, you like it," Nate mutters. "Come on, come for me," he adds, like he can tell that Brad's right on the edge, the words pushing him right over it. He's pretty sure he's repeating Nate's name more times than necessary, strung together with an occasional 'fuck' and 'yes', but Nate's guilty of the very same thing, his voice in Brad's ear, filling Brad's head with a similar litany.

The air is cold on his skin when he comes down from the high, when Nate's breathing is slowing down, matching up with his. "You didn't scream," Brad points out, and he doesn't bother to hide his disappointment.

Nate huffs a laugh, sounding tired out. Brad's a bit proud of that. "Saving that up for the real thing," he says quietly, and then makes another noise, something akin to surprise.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Bit my lip a bit too hard, I drew some blood," he admits. "I don't mind, so I might have to ponder on that masochism accusation of yours after all."

"Let me know when you figure it out," Brad tells him before he can think better of it. He's not sure he's ready to make plans, not sure where this is heading or where he wants it to go.

"You'll be the first to know," Nate promises and waits for a beat. "How about we skip the awkwardness and you just call the show the day after tomorrow? I have just the song."

Brad can't help a smile that's pressing its way onto his lips. "Anything but country," he reminds Nate and gets a laugh in return.

"I have the rules internalised by now, believe me. Talk to you tomorrow, then."

"Yeah," Brad breathes out and disconnects, places the phone haphazardly on the table. He's a right mess, he knows, but in this very moment, he can't bring himself to care. He just lets his head fall back for a moment as he breathes in and out.

Next time, Nate goes back to Air Supply for him and treats him to Two Less Lonely People In The World.

"I'm touched," Brad tells him.

"It's a very special song," Nate agrees dryly. Brad is pretty sure he's being made fun of again, but Nate's voice is low and fond and he asks Brad to stay on the line while he finishes the show, and then he proceeds to tell Brad about the ridiculous paper he's writing, and at some point it turns into an argument about the Troy movie.

Brad maintains there's not enough explosions, just to hear Nate rant at him for a full seven minutes seemingly without as much as a pause for breath.

Brad thinks about invoking Xena and Hercules the Legendary Journey, but he knows better. And also, he's saving the material for the next time.

In the few following weeks they repeat the jerking off session twice, talk for hours about books and music and the football team's latest failure, and Nate reads out a passage from the Odyssey he's writing a paper on.

Ray takes to referring to Nate as Brad Colbert's Little Woman and Brad doesn't even bother to delete all of Ray's porn in retaliation.

"It would be less retarded if you actually fucked him," Ray tells him, shaking his head in mock-dismay. "Fuck, it would be less retarded if you actually knew what the guy looks like, but only fractionally."

On a Monday, Nate tells him about a Saturday party his roommate dragged him to and Brad realises with a sudden start that it was the party on his floor, the same one he contemplated going into but abandoned in favour of taking apart his new laptop. The realisation brings acute relief and sharp disappointment, a sudden weightless feeling of a rug pulled out from underneath him, of a missed chance.

"You maybe would have made it actually bearable," Nate offers, a little too earnestly, and Brad can feel the contours of the blossoming thought, taste the words forming on Nate's tongue. "Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?" Nate asks, cheerful and bright, like he hasn't thought about it for days.

"I have a big test on Wednesday," he lies seamlessly. "So it'll be just me and the textbooks. Best party in town."

For a second, he thinks Nate will ask about his plans for Thursday, for Saturday, ask him when he's free. For that second Brad desperately wants him too, even though he is already thinking up excuses.

Nate's smarter than that.

"Good luck on the test, then," he offers lightly and moves on, launches into a discussion on the movie Brad insisted he must watch.

Brad doesn't call the program on Wednesday.

Jenna has her day off, so there's only Ray to throw pointed looks his way, but Ray Person is fucking too much anyway. "Did you kids have a fight? Don't worry, homes, buy him flowers and suck his dick or something, you'll be all good in no time."

That really doesn't merit a reply other than Brad flipping him off.

He's not quite sure, but he thinks Nate's voice sounds uncertain when he introduces the last song of the night. "And as has become a tradition, I'm leaving you with the timeless genius of the Air Supply," he says and puts on Here I Am.

Brad contemplates calling him up just to tell him what a fucker he is, but instead he just grits his teeth and places his cellphone in the drawer. It was mocking him from the countertop.

"I don't even," Ray tells him and shuts up unprompted, shaking his head like one of those toy dogs people keep in their cars.

He doesn't call on Friday either, but that's because Nate's program is not on, the airwaves taken up by the commentators of the football game. After they close the shop up, Ray drags him to the party celebrating the team's first victory in the season. It's a good party, by the time they get there Q-tip is already painted green from waist up. No one really can explain why.

"Haven't seen you around lately," Lea tells him, perching up on the barstool next to Brad, the column of her throat working when she downs her drink in one go, licking her lips almost pointedly. Brad doesn't really know what to tell her.

"You can see me now," he says, and it sounds more rude than he intended.

"Can't put my finger on it, but I don't really have to. Can tell it's bullshit from miles away," someone says and Brad feels every word like a punch in the gut. Because no, not someone, just Nate, standing a few metres away, his back to Brad, but Brad knows his voice better than he knows his own now.

He cranes his neck to look, to take in the green shirt and sandy hair, the tips of Nate's ears, the way his jeans show off his ass. Nate's voice carries on above the crowd, not because it's loud but because Brad can now hear only him.

Until Lea's voice penetrates the haze, her hand at his elbow. "Yeah, I can see," she says teasingly, and it takes Brad a moment to realise she's referring to his now hard dick straining his pants.

"Excuse me," he says, standing up, heading straight for the exit. Ray calls after him but gives up, shaking his head. Brad feels a sudden heat creeping up his neck and wonders if it's because Nate turned at the sound of his name, if maybe his eyes are fixed on Brad's retreating form. He wants... He wants and that in itself is too much.

He's not opposed to having a good time, to going home with someone and fucking their brains out, but he's made a deal with himself a while ago, not to get involved in anything complicated ever again. Feelings are complicated, wanting to see someone every morning and fall asleep next to them every night is complicated, and the thing with Nate is fucking complicated beyond the telling of it.

The night air is too cold against his skin but he welcomes it, runs his hand down his face, head bowed. Someone stumbles out of the pub behind him, the open doors letting out the music and sounds of conversations and Brad starts walking, just in case someone else walks out, someone going after him.

His cellphone vibrates in his pocket and he answers it thoughtlessly, the unfamiliar number registering on the edges of his mind. "Brad Colbert."

"Colbert, is it?" Nate asks and Brad freezes on the spot, his legs refusing to carry him farther. "You didn't have to leave on my account," he adds, and it sounds more like a question, unsure and hesitant, every word enunciated a bit too carefully.

"I didn't," he says and Nate does him a favor of not calling him out on the blatant lie. "I didn't think you had this number."

"You called the show, what, more than a dozen times?" Nate says, sounding like he's shrugging. "Of course I have your number."

"I can't do this, Nate." For some reason, it sounds just like the previous lie, all too quick and sharp on his tongue.

"Can't or don't want to? It's an important distinction."

"I'm not sure yet," Brad thinks, and realises he said it out loud. Nate's quiet for a longer moment, long enough that Brad checks the phone, not sure if the connection hasn't ended.

"Alright," Nate says finally, soft and quiet. "Okay. Give me this evening. I am assured you're not actually busy."

"Okay." He's pretty sure he didn't intend to say that, but it falls from his lips unbidden. One evening. Doesn't sound like that bad of a deal. "You're still at the party?"

"I've just left. Still outside the pub."

"I'll come find you," Brad offers, giving in completely, willing his whole body to relax. He's made the decision, no use second guessing it now.

Nate's sitting on the curb, his fingers still closed around the cellphone, his head tilted back a little, like he's watching the stars despite the cloudy dark sky. He looks... fuck, Brad had a few wet dreams about him already, but apparently his imagination wasn't thinking big enough.

"Hey," he breathes out, standing in front of Nate, his ankle touching the side of Nate's calf, just brushing against it. Nate looks up and reaches out and Brad offers his hand instinctively, pulls him up. The movement places Nate inches away from him, not enough space between them to breathe freely, not enough space for Brad to breathe on his own, something else than the borrowed air.

Nate's eyes are wide open and bottle green and Brad isn't sure if he's drowning or getting drunk.

"Didn't expect that," Nate says, laughing a little breathlessly as he fails to let go of Brad's hand, their fingers still clasping each other's wrists.

"What?"

"I expected you to be less... everything," he admits and finally steps back a little. Brad can relate, but the tone of wonder in Nate's voice still takes him by surprise. "On the risk of sounding too forward, your place or mine?"

"Not wasting any time, are you?" Brad asks, but the mocking smile he aims at turns too soft for comfort.

Nate reaches out, places his hand on Brad's neck, his fingers brushing the hair on the nape of it. "If I have one evening I intend to make the most of it."

It sounds like an admission and a plea rolled into one and Brad is helpless against it, against the look in Nate's eyes. "Mine's a bit far," he offers.

Nate nods, slowly. "And just in case, it's easier to leave in the morning if we're not at your place?" he asks and Brad doesn't really bother to disagree. The corner of Nate's mouth rises in a wry smile. "I've got your number, Colbert," he points out and tilts his head up, licks at the corner of Brad's mouth and Brad can't help it, he has to part his lips, let Nate in.

By the time they stumble into Nate's apartment Brad has half of his shirt undone and he's beginning to question whether one evening will be enough for him. Nate's taste is highly addictive, his touch strangely familiar and yet completely new, and Brad isn't sure if one lifetime would be enough.

And then Nate's dropping to his knees and Brad isn't even sure of his own name, much less anything else.

The first time he wakes up, later, the clock by the side of the bed informs him, in bright green numbers, that it's a few minutes after midnight. Nate's next to Brad, but he's not trying to move into Brad's space, it is Brad's arm thrown over Nate's stomach, Brad's fingers holding on to him.

"Hey," he says and Nate shifts, ducks his head and lays a kiss on the nearest available patch of Brad's skin.

"My evening's over?" he asks and Brad doesn't answer, just lets his fingers curl tight on Nate's hip. Nate nods. "Give me this night, then," he says lightly and Brad thinks he can do that.

He slides down, slowly. It's difficult to give up mouthing Nate's skin once you start.

When he wakes up again the sun is coming in through the window and Nate is making coffee in the kitchen. He has on blue pajama pants and his skin is still sleep warm, his hair a right mess, he must have just woken up. "Apparently my roommate cleaned out the fridge yesterday, I don't have much food left. Could scramble up enough for omelets, though," he offers and Brad can't be blamed for giving in to that smile and wanting to taste it off Nate's lips.

"It's Saturday," Nate says when they finally pull away.

"I am aware of that. It usually follows Friday."

Nate nods, ducks his head in a way that makes his lips brush against Brad's shoulder. It's probably not an accident but Brad doesn't call him on it. "You have any plans today? Or could I have it?"

Brad closes his eyes, breathes in. Nate's hair still smells of smoke from the pub, a note of a more pleasant scent underneath. They probably both need a shower and Brad wouldn't be entirely opposed to the idea of sharing it. "Are you just going to keep on pushing the deadline?"

"Probably," Nate admits unapologetically. His eyes are even brighter in the light of day, his thumb is stroking Brad's wrist, slow and lazy circles, like he doesn't even realise he's doing it. "Unless you have a better idea."

He's quiet for a longer moment, the coffee maker working in the background. "How long do you want?"

"Indefinitely."

It's the quiet conviction that gets to Brad, the matter-of-fact tone that says that Nate believes it's possible. "Okay," he says into Nate's hair.

They don't leave the apartment much for the rest of Saturday and the entire Sunday. On Monday, Nate puts Making Love Out Of Nothing At All as the last song on the show and Brad doesn't complain about the three country songs that precede it.
Tags: au, brad/nate, fanfic, generation kill
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