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It was a great nap. The sun was peeking into the room at just the right angle to be warm, but not too bright or hot. Jake was comfortably tucked into Tom's side, drooling a little. The only problem was they overslept, and Jake never checked his phone after they got back. They really overslept.
Earlier than planned, because nobody was answering the phone, Coyote arrived at Jake's assignment; he didn't think twice about the Jeep in the driveway. The door was unlocked. Not that it would have mattered, he had a key.
The pilot looked around. Jake's place was an unusual mess. There was a duffel bag on the couch, clothes all over, Jake's keys were abandoned on the coffee table (they belonged on a hook by the front door). Coyote set the bags he brought on a counter. The bathroom door was open; Jake wasn't in the second bedroom near the front of the house either. Coyote wasn't sure why he would be anyway. The room was a sad excuse of a guest room. It had an old twin mattress on the floor and a lopsided IKEA desk.
Regrettably, he checked Jake's bedroom.
“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST JAKE!” Coyote yelped. “PANTS!”
He slammed the door shut. The two men in the bedroom were startled awake. Jake yelled and failed wildly, pushing Tom off the bed.
“Shit! Fuck, baby, I'm sorry,” Jake winced and scuttled over the bed to help him up.
“What the fuck was that?” Tom's eyes were wide; he had a hand over his chest.
“Uh… Javy's here,” Jake explained, “We must have overslept.”
He searched for his phone. It was only 3pm, but he had more than a few missed texts and calls from his friend. There were a few birthday texts from other friends and one vaguely threatening one from Yates.
Tom was looking through his own phone with a frown.
“What’s wrong?” Jake asked.
Tom glanced at Jake. He locked his phone and smiled warmly.
“Admiral shit. It can wait,” he said.
“Admiral shit on the personal phone?” Jake teased.
Tom joined Jake on the bed again. Jake slid into the older man’s lap. He ran his hands through Tom’s bed head. Tom sighed and buried his face in Jake’s neck.
“We should get up,” Jake finally decided.
Tom pushed them apart slightly. He pointed at the door and spelled B-A-G. Jake nodded. He threw some shorts on and ventured out. Coyote was sitting on the couch with his eyes closed.
“Javy? You okay?” Jake asked. He wasn't sure if he sounded concerned or amused.
“No, Jake. I need to bleach my eyes,” Javy huffed.
“Oh, fuck you. Don’t barge into my room,” Jake rolled his eyes.
“Wear pants!”
“It’s my house! My bedroom! I’m not putting pants back on after I-”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Javy warned.
Jake gasped, dramatically, “Are you homophobic now?”
“I don’t wanna hear about you-”
“Getting absolutely railed-”
Javy covered his ears, “LA LA LA LA!”
“Okay, okay,” Jake laughed, “I’m done.”
He grabbed Tom’s bag and took it to his room. Javy started making himself busy in the kitchen until Jake rejoined him.
“Tomas?” Jake asked as he rifled through the bags.
“Fresh a few days ago from Mom,” Javy nodded.
“Fuck yes.”
He started dehusking and rinsing the little green tomatoes.
“Good talk?” Javy asked quietly.
“Mhmm,” Jake hummed.
“Okay, good.”
“So good.”
“No.”
“What’s good?” Tom entered the room.
His voice was still softer and quieter than normal, hair still messed up, but he was dressed (joggers and an old USNA t-shirt). Jake wondered if Javy had ever seen Tom in anything casual. He looked between the two men. Javy’s face looked impassive, but his eyes were a little confused and concerned.
“You’re good, but the crop top was better,” Jake smiled.
Javy wrinkled his nose but didn’t say anything. Tom raised an eyebrow at him; he kissed the side of Jake’s head.
“Stop teasing your friend,” Tom chided. “This is probably weird.”
“I would even go so far as to say ‘jarring,’” Javy confirmed. “Not every day you get to see your boss in your friend’s kitchen with sweats on.”
“He’s just Tom here,” Jake sniffed.
“Or Ice if you prefer callsigns,” Tom shrugged. “What are you doing?”
“Making salsa. We’re gonna bake these to puree and while they’re going, assemble tamales,” Jake explained.
“We need to make masa. Mom sent husks too,” Javy pointed to one of the bags on the counter, “Are they in there?”
Tom poked around until he found dried corn husks. Jake continued with his salsa, Javy started the dough, and they put Tom in charge of shredding the pork. The two younger men ping-ponged the tamale night explanation. While in flight school, they had taken a trip over the holidays to visit Javy’s family in New Mexico. There, Mama Machado (Lupe), had shown Jake how to make tamales.
“She says mine are better than Javy’s,” Jake added.
“She did not,” Javy kicked him.
After they received their squadron assignments at the same air station, Javy started insisting they do tamales for Jake’s birthday. It was during Lupe’s tomatillo season, so she could send those for salsa. She usually included extra corn husks and various peppers too.
“Why always on your birthday?” Tom asked.
Jake shrugged, “Javy’s idea.”
“They’re your favorite, and it gives us something to do for the whole day,” Javy rolled his eyes. “Unless you wanna go out and get drunk.”
“We can go out and get drunk any day. The tamales make it special. How dare you imply I don't deserve a special birthday.”
“You’re a menace,” Javy groaned.
Tom chuckled. They drank, assembled tamales, and chatted. Javy was slowly getting comfortable with Kazansky being just Tom. That was actually Jake's only rule for the relationship. No ranks.
“Here,” Jake insisted.
His salsa was finished; he held the spoon up for Tom to taste. It was good. A little tart and a little spicy. Maybe too spicy. Tom scrambled for a drink. Jake frowned and tried it himself.
“It’s less spicy than last year,” Jake tried to point out.
“How many serranos did you put in there,” Javy asked.
“Four.”
“Four? No wonder he’s dying,” Javy snorted a laugh.
Jake frowned, “Is that a lot?”
“They’re five times hotter than a jalapeno,” Javy stated.
“Five times?!” Tom whined. He was trying so hard not to sound like he was dying, but it didn’t work.
“Oh I put jalapenos in there too,” Jake grinned.
The younger two men howled with laughter. Tom finally had his mouth temperature under control. Javy assured him the tomato salsa would be considerably less spicy than Jake’s death salsa.
After tamales, Tecate, and more than a few swigs from the tequila bottle, the three men found themselves on the couch watching The Lake House. Tom and Javy sat on either end with Jake sprawled across them.
“I’m confused,” Tom interrupted. “The mailbox is time traveling?”
“No, no, no, no… No,” Jake slurred, “The letters travel from her in 2006 to him in 2004 through the mailbox.”
“It doesn’t make any more or less sense after you’ve seen it more than three times,” Javy promised.
“Why doesn’t she just write her number on a letter?” Tom huffed.
“It’s romantic,” Jake whined.
“Don’t… Just don’t engage him on the logic behind Sandra Bullock movies,” Javy warned.
“I love her. So much. She’s so cute.”
“You’re cute,” Tom leaned down and kissed Jake’s nose.
“You’re cute,” Jake repeated, giggling.
By the end of the movie, Jake was sniffling and Javy and Tom were more sober. He half stumbled to his room to find his phone. Tom offered to help, but Jake dismissed him. Javy checked his watch with a frown.
“Lisa’s gonna call soon,” he said flatly, “His mom. Every year like clockwork and it ruins his birthday as soon as she puts Matthew on.”
“Ah,” was all Tom could say.
“Last year, I had my mom FaceTime us and that was a pretty good distraction,” Javy shrugged. “I would have taken his phone, but you were texting him.”
“Why does he keep answering the phone then?”
“Preaching to the choir, man,” Javy sighed.
He got up and started cleaning; Tom helped with dishes. Javy packed up the leftovers.
“It’s still early. I’m gonna run out and get more beer,” Javy said.
“Should I check on him?” Tom peeked down the hallway toward Jake’s bedroom. The door was shut.
“That is the benefit to having you actually around,” Javy raised an eyebrow, “Are you staying around?”
Tom clicked his tongue, “Until he gets sick of me.”
“Unlikely once he gets used to you. He hasn’t gotten sick of me.”
“Like a cat.”
Javy paused to consider that.
“He does get upset if you mess up his fur,” he chuckled. “I’ll be right back.”
Tom made his way to the end of the hall and knocked on Jake’s bedroom door. No answer. Not that there wasn’t noise, but Jake didn’t directly answer him. Tom could hear sniffs, muffled sobs, and an occasional “yes sir” or “sorry sir.” He exhaled slowly and carefully opened the door. Jake was curled up in his bed, cradling the phone to his ear. Tom slid into bed and pulled Jake into his arms. He dislodged the phone and put it to his ear. Jake went easily and buried his face in the soft muscle of Tom’s chest.
The man on the other line sounded drunk, angry, and in the middle of a guilt trip.
“- bad enough you’re a fucking failure. Your mother won’t shut the fuck up about you never visiting,” the drunk droned. “The navy and fucking California ruined you. Useless fucking fa-”
“Matthew Seresin?” Tom asked.
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Tom.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Am I speaking to Matthew Seresin?”
Jake let out a whine and tried to bury his face more. Tom shushed him and lightly squeezed the back of Jake’s neck.
“Yeah,” Matthew confirmed with a grunt.
“Great. Fuck off,” Tom hung up.
He muted the ringer and tossed Jake’s phone on the nightstand. Tom rubbed soothing circles on Jake’s back until the sobs ceased.
“Where’s Javy?” he asked quietly.
“Getting more beer,” Tom whispered.
“Sorry. I kinda ruined the day.”
“You didn’t do anything, baby,” Tom kissed the top of Jake’s head.
“I don’t know why I let him… Let him get to me,” Jake sniffed.
“He’s your dad. His opinion matters to you. It shouldn’t, since he has shit opinions, but that’s okay.”
Javy returned. At Jake’s request, he moved the TV into the bedroom. That way they could watch Miss Congeniality in bed. Jake was fast asleep, tucked between his best friend and boyfriend, before Gracie even learned to walk in heels. All in all, Jake’s 27th birthday wasn’t too bad.