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It had been cold as shit that day, but for some reason only known to the almighty, he’d agreed to follow Bradley fuckin’ Bradshaw out onto the sand. He’d taken off his shoes, no need to mess them up or get sand in his socks, and he’d immediately felt his toes turning blue. There was nothing between him and Bradshaw but the sky and the sound of waves crashing against the shore, but there was something a little more when Bradshaw looked at him, raising an eyebrow at the same time the corners of his lips curved up - stupid fucking mustache in place even then.
“What’re you looking at, Hangman?” And for a second, he fought the urge to say you. He stopped fighting after another moment of consideration.
“You.”
Rooster’s face going red had been a sight to behold, a rise all he ever wanted to get, but this time it was something more. It was something more when Rooster stepped into his space, palm sliding along his forearm till it stopped at his wrist. This was uncharted territory – was sirens going off, was telling Hangman that Rooster had him targeted-locked and was ready to fire.
Rooster took his hand in his own, squeezed a little.
“Yeah?”
Firing blind. Direct hit.
Hangman swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing with the force it took to push down anything else he could say – anything other than a soft Yeah in response.
Bradshaw had finally gotten him to shut up, for once in his fucking life. He thinks that they both should’ve known it wouldn’t last, not them or the silence.
Bradshaw was sucking hickeys into his neck, the asshole. Even if there were a few days to spare where they didn’t have shit to do, those hickeys wouldn’t be gone in time. Then he’d have to deal with someone commenting about him being a player, breaking heart after heart, but that wasn’t the case and hadn’t been for a while now. But hell, he wasn’t about to tell his fellow pilots the good news that Hangman had finally settled down – in a manner of speaking – and finally met the one. That last part not being an exaggeration had him turning mid-air, flown through the jetwash, unrecoverable spin.
He couldn’t pull the fucking eject.
“I love you,” he told him, after, his head on top of Bradshaw’s chest.
Bradley grinned at him, lips against his scalp; he could feel it before he could see it. Turning his head upward, the smile was in place, Bradshaw all teeth and ‘stache and bedhead.
“Yeah?” Rooster said in response, like when he’d admitted to thinking of him and Bradshaw’s palm had been like a brand across his skin. This time he was burning all of him. This time, it hurt to hear a question, but he wouldn’t ever say that.
“Yeah, but don’t let it go to your head. You’re not special or anything,” he responded, leaning up to meet Bradshaw’s lips halfway.
I love you. You’re not special. Real fuckin’ smooth, Seresin.
Months later, Rooster’s chin had been perched atop his shoulder while he cracked eggs into a pan, long arms wrapped around his waist. He couldn’t help the smile, wouldn’t have wanted to, anyways.
“Smells good.”
“It’s just eggs, Bradshaw. I’m a little concerned for you if you think this is all that. Might wanna get that checked out – maybe find a nice guy to cook you some real breakfast.”
He would’ve continued, really, upped the ante – urging Rooster to leave him for someone else based on his distinct lack of culinary prowess. But he’s stopped, sucked in a breath when Bradley leaned into him more, nosing at his shoulder.
“I meant you.”
If the eggs were burnt later, neither of them complained.
The joke was that as much as he’d messed around about it, as much as he’d pick, jab at Bradshaw – he’d never expected Bradley to take his shit seriously, at least in the context of this. The leaving, that is.
“Maybe you’re right, Hangman. Maybe I am in my own fucking way.”
“I’m always right, Bradshaw, but this isn’t what I meant, and you know that.”
His voice was level when he responded, couldn’t risk raising it, couldn’t risk everything crashing down around him even more than it already was; he didn’t want to spend forever picking up debris. In the end, it hadn’t even mattered. It hadn’t mattered when Bradley swung the bag over his shoulder, grabbing his meager belongings that had accumulated in Hangman’s apartment when they were both stateside. It hadn’t mattered when he tried to stop him.
“How else could you mean it, Jake?”
He opened his mouth to respond, said something he can’t even remember, now. He knew even then it was mean, venom on his tongue, pushing the man he loved out of his apartment. Out the door.
It slammed soon afterward. Telling Rooster to see the bigger picture wasn’t supposed to end like that, with them arguing about Rooster always being second best, about how no matter how hard Bradshaw tried, he’d never fucking be enough for Hangman.
He’d thought it was clear Bradley had always been enough since that day on the beach – pushing for them to get better together, pushing Bradshaw to get better so he’d come back each and every time he went somewhere Hangman didn’t know. Maybe that’s why Rooster hadn’t loved him back.
He let himself cry for about an hour. That was all he could handle.
Because Bradshaw had started this, and he’d sure as shit ended it.
Seeing Rooster – not Bradley, not Bradshaw – at The Hard Deck was like someone had poured cold water over him, but he couldn’t show it. Look good, feel good.
The compliment froze him further, but he just told Bradshaw that he was good, wouldn’t mention that he’d missed him, wouldn’t describe exactly what he’d like to do to him, or what he’d like to say. Even after not seeing him for over a year, he loved him. Fucking ridiculous.
When everyone ditched him, gravitating toward Rooster at the piano, he was surprised to see Coyote looking at him, raising an eyebrow. Figured that he’d have known.
“You okay, Hangman?”
“Fine, Javy,” he snapped back, maybe a bit too harsh, and Coyote raised his hands in defeat.
“Whatever you say, man.”
Penny ringing the bell was a reprieve for just long enough. Grabbing another drink, he went back to the table after dumping the old-timer in the sand. He got another.
Now, he’s not sure what the fuck he’s doing. Bradshaw is still pissed at him from when he talked shit about Maverick and his old man, but he just needs him to know: you fly like Maverick, or you don’t come home; you do it perfect – or you don’t come home. They might not be together, but he feels his love for Rooster like an engine fire, consuming, needing to be put out promptly. There’s no cutting the engine though, not now, not as Rooster is looking at him and waiting for the reason Hangman has stopped in front of him.
“Give ‘em hell.”
It’s all he can manage. He hopes Rooster hears what he’s trying to say.
I love you.
He hadn’t waited for permission to cover Maverick and Rooster, not when he heard they were in a fucking F-14 with three bandits in the air. He isn’t waiting for permission now, either, not as Rooster leads him to the room he’s been sharing with Yale once they’re back on base.
“Rooster,” he tries to begin, but is cut off promptly. So much for permission – getting cut off with or without it.
“No, listen to me. I’m sorry I left you.”
The fire is back, but it’s just the pounding in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears as he fights back, just a little before giving in, Bradshaw pushing him to the bed. He accepts the apology, knows they won’t get anywhere if he doesn’t.
When Bradley whispers into his ear, after, three words – well, he’s willing to see past the time he hasn’t seen him in the name of falling asleep and talking all about it later.
It’s Six AM but no one has bothered them yet; thank God for small miracles, right? And when he opens his eyes, he catches Bradshaw looking at him.
“What’re you looking at, Rooster?”
An exhale.
“You.”