blue flamingos

First Kiss: Nate/Brad

Fandom: Generation Kill

Category/Rated: Slash, PG

Year/Length: 2009/ ~652 words

Pairing: Nate/Brad

Disclaimer: No, I don't own them, for which I should think they're profoundly grateful.

Prompt: Nate/Brad, first kiss

Author's Notes: Give me any two characters I write and I'll tell you about their first kiss

Feedback: Yes please. Even if it's bad. Especially if it's bad.


Nate is drunk. Drunk in a bar with a large group of equally drunk marines, which seems like a recipe for disaster. He probably shouldn't have taken it as a challenge when Mike told him to relax, because God knows what this band of reprobates will get up to without someone to keep an eye on them.

Except that's not Nate's job any more, is it, because this is Nate's goodbye, good luck party, the unofficial one, the one he wants to be at. The one that marks the start of his life as a civilian, and the end of having to stay sober so no-one gets arrested, or being responsible for twenty-one men not getting killed.

Even sober, that's going to take some getting used to. Yeah, he's definitely had too much to drink if he's hitting maudlin. He puts his glass down, not even sure what's in it, and goes in search of... something. Coffee, maybe, though this doesn't seem like the kind of bar that serves coffee.

What he finds is Brad, or rather Brad finds him, comes up behind him and touches his elbow. When Nate turns, Brad's looking down at him, frowning slightly, and Nate can't look away, because this is probably the last time he'll ever see Brad. The last time he'll ever see any of them.

"If you start crying, sir," Brad says, "I will personally ensure everyone at Camp Pendleton knows about it."

Brad is probably not drunk. It's hard to tell with Brad, but Nate's pretty sure. He doesn't say anything, because what he wants to say is, you'd cry too, if you felt the way I feel.

"How about we find you some privacy?" Brad says, hand still on Nate's arm. "Or fresh air, if you'd rather think about it that way."

Nate nods. The rest of them are probably too drunk to notice if he's there or not anyway.


They walk down to the water line in silence, and when Brad sits, Nate sits next to him. He's not drunk enough for the world to start spinning, but he still feels better with the damp sand firmly underneath him, Brad's warmth on his right. Nate wants to close his eyes, soak in the way this feels, too late – too early – for the sun to be coming up, absolute quiet behind the waves breaking gently a couple of yards from their feet. He wants to see more than he wants to feel, though, Brad looking out to sea, shirt collar open, like some Viking lord brought into the twenty-first century. Nate's not so far gone to think he's going to miss Brad most of all, or maybe it's that he can't pick out one thing out of all the things he's going to miss, but he wants this moment to go on forever, however soppy that makes him sound.

"You're staring at me again," Brad says, not looking away from the water.

"Yeah," Nate says, because, seriously, what has he possibly got to lose now? The corps can't touch him any more, and he's stepping out of Brad's life as it is.

"So ask me," Brad says, turning to look at Nate. Even in the moonlight, Nate can see his own feelings reflected in Brad's dark eyes and Nate wants this, more than anything else. And, like everything else he wants, he shouldn't, because it can't end well, but he doesn't care, not with Brad's sandy hand on his cheek, Brad's mouth on his, tasting lime sharp. Nate gives in, slides one hand up Brad's arm to rest against the warm skin of his neck, and kisses back, feeling out Brad's lips, Brad's tongue, softer than he ever imagined it would be.

Brad shifts, pushes Nate gently back into the sand, half-straddling him so they can keep kissing, and neither of them mentions that Nate's kisses taste like tears.

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