Fandom: Generation Kill
Word Count: 457
Summary: There's no room for them here.
Notes: A Christmas present for goshemily. I never expected to write this even though it's only 457 words. Thanks to ericaplease for audiencing.
“I’m going to get out of here, one day,” Brad says, leaning over Nate’s porch railing and staring out over the dusty fields. The clouds are curling, heavy and full of rain, and the factory’s a dark smudge on the horizon.
“Mmmhm,” Nate replies, not looking up from the Penthouse Ray had stolen from his brother and then passed off to Brad, who passed it on to Nate. They only sell these in one place in town, in Bell’s Video and Convenience, and nobody, NOBODY, under the age of 18 has ever gotten to go back behind the dusty black curtain where the dirty tapes and glossies are. He flicks the magazine to a page where a girl is spreading the lips of her reddened pussy wide with with long french nails, like the kind his sister wears. He winces and tosses the magazine aside.
“Cindy MacKenzie let you do that?” Brad asks, turning around, long limbs held loose. He’s become painfully skinny ever since he shot up during the Christmas holidays.
Nate leans back in his chair. “Why do you care?” He picks up his can of almost flat RC Cola and takes a big gulp. Brad’s eyes follow his movements. He shrugs and turns back to the horizon.
Nate sighs, rubs his thumb over the skin peeling on his lower lip. “It was just a handjob. Wasn’t very good.”
“Coulda done it better myself.” He pops the tab off the soda can with a sigh.
Brad stares at him over his shoulder, his eyelashes look so blond in the weird light from the oncoming storm they're almost translucent. Nate takes another long swallow of soda, wiping his mouth with his hand.
“Your lip’s bleeding,” Brad says.
Nate pokes at it with his tongue experimentally. He keeps shoving at it even though it stings. Brad’s eyes have narrowed and Nate cocks his head. “What?”
Brad straightens up against the porch rail and walks over, when he gets to Nate’s wicker chair, he sinks to his knees and Nate has no idea what he’s doing. He thinks for one fraught moment Brad is going to blow him right there on his porch, because he knows this choreography even if he’s never been back behind the dusty curtain. What the fuck is Brad thinking. What the fuck is Nate thinking. But what Brad does is infinitely worse.
He kisses Nate, uses all those tricks Nate’s seen him use on good girls at parties ever since he scored the winning basket against Jefferson. He runs his tongue over the split in Nate’s lower lip over and over again, cupping his jaw, until Nate is shivering horribly, fingers clenched on the armrests of his chair.
“Somebody will see,” Brad says as he pulls back, a thread of saliva snapping between them.
Nate blinks, stares at the not-so-alien look of Brad turned on. “Why’d you do it then?”
“I wanted to.”