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Brad thinks there might've been some asinine reason to justify this meeting at the local bar, but he can’t remember it. He’s perfectly content to watch with amusement as Poke and Redman strong-armed Kocher into drinking his pain away. That might've been the reason, Bravo 3 had been introduced to their new LT, McGraw. Apparently, it’s enough of a FUBAR situation to warrant bourbon.
“I don’t know which is more gay homes, craft beer or wine.” Ray says, sliding into Brad’s booth. He takes one look at the Budweiser in Ray’s hand and replies,
“Anyone who consumes Budweiser is unentitled to an opinion on the homosexual nature of alcohols.”
Ray sips his piss water pointedly, “That’s a lot of big words Bradley, do you know what they all mean?”
“I have more chance of understanding them than you, since I wasn’t stunted by the bathtub moonshine my mother drank during pregnancy.”
“How would you know, you’re adopted?”
Brad stares Ray down until he cracks, laughing so hard he hits his head on the back of the booth. Brad grins and sips his beer. Walt strolls up to their booth and looks between the two of them with furrowed brows. Ray gulps in a few breaths, looks to Brad and starts laughing all over again. Even Brad raises his eyebrows.
“You alright Ray? How much you had to drink?” Walt asks, putting his bottle of Cali Common on their table - at least someone has good taste in beer - and sliding in next to Ray. Ray throws his arm over Walt’s shoulder and starts a conversation about the lovely southern belle Walt’s managed to woo in his time back home. Brad tunes out of it as Walt’s eyes brighten to the point of nausea and observes the layout his fellow marines around the bar.
Q-tip is breaking in one of the new marines, Christeson, with an array of brightly coloured shots. Garza, Chaffin and Jacks are crowded around a pool table, but there’s more laughter going on than playing. Conversely, the table next to them is engaged in a fierce game between their Corpsman, Doc Bryan and Lovell, Stinetorf and Holsey watching avidly from the sidelines.
Brad feels something bump against his ankle and looks back at Ray. He’s smirking even as he asks Walt about what he’s going to get this girl for her birthday. He figures its Ray’s foot when it bumps against him again, clad in those stupid, beaten up sneakers that he’s told Ray to bin at least five times. His warrior spirit twinges at playing footsie under a bar table, but it’s overridden by the fact they’ve had no time alone recently.
“Hey, Brad.” Poke says, dragging a chair over to their booth. Redman deposits Kocher in it, who looks a little worse for wear. Brad smirks as Eric blinks several times and says, “You’re not going to throw up and pass out like a pussy this time?”
Eric huffs, “Fuck you, that was one time.”
“Yes, but I remember having to clean up your vomit from my porch,” Ray kicks Brad’s shin and he retaliates. He’d made Ray clean the porch, but it was his fault for mixing drinks when he knew it made him sick. At least he’d had the sense and the aim to throw up exactly where Kocher did, “so I’m allow to bring it up.”
Eric sways a little more in his seat but nods. Ray chuckles into his bottle and turns back to Walt, his foot still rubbing against Brad’s.
Brad finishes his beer but doesn’t get another. He’s the one responsible for making sure Ray doesn’t end up in a ditch which he can’t do effectively if he’s drunk. Garza challenges Walt to a game of darts and Poke goes to watch. Redman bows out, taking Kocher with him, because the Mrs had put him in charge of returning Eric in one piece. That leaves Brad and Ray alone.
He feels Ray’s eyes on him, so he looks back. Ray’s pupils are large, and his cheeks are a little rosier than usual. Ray licks his lips before picking up his bottle and chugging the rest of it in one go. Brad raises an eyebrow as Ray wipes his mouth,
“Is that some sort of whiskey tango mating call?”
Ray smirks, but there’s something in his eyes that off sets it, “Why, was it hot?”
Brad doesn’t think about the line of Ray’s neck, slightly tanned from surfing in the sun, or the bob of his Adam’s apple, not unlike when he swallows around Brad’s cock, when he answers, “No. It isn’t surprising you were still a virgin at twenty.” And Brad doesn’t think about fucking Ray that first time, in a humid, Australian hotel on libo.
Ray snorts and slaps his thighs, sliding out of the booth, “I’m going for a piss, though if I don’t come back in five minutes, make sure I haven’t died. Think of the damage it’d do to my poor ma’s reputation if her son was found dead half naked in a bar restroom.”
Brad nods and Ray disappears across the bar. He waits five minutes before leaving the booth as well.
The restroom is as seedy as you’d expect from a military bar, with graffiti covering the walls and stall doors, the tiles on the floor covered in grime and the one mirror cracked. Only one stall door is closed so Brad raps his knuckles against it, leaning on the frame. The door opens and Ray grabs Brad’s shoulder, dragging him into the stall. He kicks the door closed and locks it, pushing Brad up against the door in the process.
Brad curls a hand on the back of Ray’s neck and closes the distance as Ray goes up on his toes. He would laugh, but the difference does do something for him, even though he knows Ray could give a fair fight. Ray’s focus seems to be on licking every part of his mouth, so Brad puts his other hand under the curve of Ray’s ass, in those loose, threadbare jeans, and lifts him up a little more to make it easier.
“Fuck,” Ray breathes, biting at Brad’s lips and throwing his arms over his shoulders, “why do you always look so fucking good?”
Brad huffs, moving his hand to Ray’s jaw to angle him a little better. He might have worn one of his smaller shirts, that pulls a little across his shoulders, but Ray hadn’t played fair either: he knows that Brad can see what boxers he’s wearing in these jeans.
Ray’s arms drop to Brad’s waist and pull him further into the stall. Brad moves to mouth down Ray’s jaw, making Ray pant. It’s easy to slip his hand down the back of Ray’s jeans and his boxers to grip the soft skin of his ass. Ray gasps into Brad’s mouth and ruts against him.
“What exactly were you planning Ray?” Brad asks into Ray’s ear.
“To be honest I was making it up as I went, but I have a general idea.” Ray pulls away and drops to his knees, hands rushing to unzip Brad’s jeans. By the time Ray mouths at Brad’s cock over his underwear, Brad’s fully hard, straining against the cloth. Ray pulls the elastic under his ball and mouths at the head of his cock enthusiastically.
It’s so reckless: any of their teammates could come in at any time, but a cold thrill goes down his spine and he can feel himself hardening just a little more as Ray laps at his cock. Brad cups the back of his head and urges Ray to take it in properly. He would say something, but he has at least a little common sense, even as all his blood goes south.
Ray gags a little he’s so eager – Brad would put more time between sex for that if it didn’t mean blue balls more often than not – but he gets into a rhythm quickly. Brad rocks just a little, enough that Ray moans with it, but not enough to choke him.
The noise from outside increases – the door must have opened – and Brad wants to freeze but instead he just gets closer. Ray’s blissfully silent, he isn’t an idiot, but Brad has to concentrate on keeping his breathing steady, even though all they have to do is look under the stall to see what’s going on. Whoever it is pisses and leaves, not washing their hands, and Brad waits an extra second before he rocks into Ray’s mouth again. Ray hums and bobs his head, tongue swirling around the head every time he bobs up, teasing over his slit.
Brad grunts, knocking his head against the door as Ray swallows around his cock, throat fluttering around the head. It doesn’t take Brad much longer after that, not when he’s on a knife’s edge anyway. He grunts when Ray hollows his cheeks and sucks - resisting the urge to moan something stupid, like Ray's name - and comes.
Ray swallows several times and pulls off, licking at the little drop of come on his lip. Brad shivers both from the image and the cold air hitting his cock. He offers his hand out after he tucks himself back into his pants and pulls Ray up to stand. He tastes like cum and shitty beer, but it isn’t awful, especially when Ray keens as Brad presses the heel of his hand against the bulge in Ray’s jeans.
“My boxers really?” he says, pressing his nose to Ray’s temple. Ray huffs a laugh, rocking into Brad’s hand,
“Made you hot huh, fuck, I need-”
Brad knows and get his hand down the front of the jeans to jerk Ray over the edge. It takes all of three twists for Ray to bite Brad’s shirt to keep quiet - though Brad still hears the slight whine he makes - and spill into his hand like a good boy,
“You go first, you’ve been gone longer.” Brad says, using some of the toilet paper to clean his hand. Ray hums, looking even more drunk than before, his cheek resting on Brad's shoulder. He smiles softly and Brad chuckles, kissing his temple, “Go beat Hasser at darts Ray.”
“Sure thing Bradley.” Ray says, slipping around Brad to unlock the door, “I’ll buy you some better beer with my winnings.”
“Budweiser isn’t beer Ray.”