Nate used to roll his eyes when his mother trotted out the old "the more things change, the more they stay the same" line. It's a contradiction.
But. Yeah, now?
Many aspects of his life are completely different since he resigned his commission. There are things he worries about, things he focuses on, and things he lets go, rules he follows still, rules he breaks.
One habit it didn't take long to fall out of was sleeping lightly, waiting for the crackle of the radio and the next set of orders to arrive while he was gritty-eyed and half-rested.
Nate is not naturally a morning person. He's disciplined enough to wake in time to run before work, but on weekends he sleeps until he wakes without an alarm. On weekends that Brad is home, he doesn't need one.
He surfaces first to the feel of chilly air on his bare skin; he flails one hand until he finds warm flesh, and tugs until it covers him like the best blanket known to man. Sleep pulls him back under.
When he wakes a second time, Nate becomes aware of skin against his, Brad's weight heavy against his torso, an arm slung over his waist and a hand cupping the arch of his hip. Through his closed eyelids the room is bright enough that Nate knows it must be mid-morning. The pillow shifts as Brad levers himself up, and butterfly-light brushes of lips land on Nate's collarbone, his neck, his cheek, before settling on his lips briefly.
Brad pulls back, setting his chin on Nate's chest, a compromise between his desire for contact and Nate's firm, continued insistence on toothpaste before morning kisses.
He opens his eyes. Brad's expression is as fragile, as defenseless and soft as Nate has ever seen it.
Nate thinks about the roundabout path their lives have taken, all the steps forward and backward and sideways that have brought them to this point, and he smiles.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2010-12-03 05:27 am (UTC)But. Yeah, now?
Many aspects of his life are completely different since he resigned his commission. There are things he worries about, things he focuses on, and things he lets go, rules he follows still, rules he breaks.
One habit it didn't take long to fall out of was sleeping lightly, waiting for the crackle of the radio and the next set of orders to arrive while he was gritty-eyed and half-rested.
Nate is not naturally a morning person. He's disciplined enough to wake in time to run before work, but on weekends he sleeps until he wakes without an alarm. On weekends that Brad is home, he doesn't need one.
He surfaces first to the feel of chilly air on his bare skin; he flails one hand until he finds warm flesh, and tugs until it covers him like the best blanket known to man. Sleep pulls him back under.
When he wakes a second time, Nate becomes aware of skin against his, Brad's weight heavy against his torso, an arm slung over his waist and a hand cupping the arch of his hip. Through his closed eyelids the room is bright enough that Nate knows it must be mid-morning. The pillow shifts as Brad levers himself up, and butterfly-light brushes of lips land on Nate's collarbone, his neck, his cheek, before settling on his lips briefly.
Brad pulls back, setting his chin on Nate's chest, a compromise between his desire for contact and Nate's firm, continued insistence on toothpaste before morning kisses.
He opens his eyes. Brad's expression is as fragile, as defenseless and soft as Nate has ever seen it.
Nate thinks about the roundabout path their lives have taken, all the steps forward and backward and sideways that have brought them to this point, and he smiles.
"Good morning."
"The best yet."