noelia_g: ([gk] nate/brad :: i could kiss you)
[personal profile] noelia_g
Title: of the one love that gets me so high
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters/Pairings: Nate/Brad
Wordcount: 4168
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals as seen on the HBO miniseries.
A/N: Actors!AU, same verse as Light up the trenches where my heart lies (until I can breath again), my GK Big Bang fic that was buckets and buckets of angst. This is my apology fic, which is mostly fluff and wish fulfillment and silliness and too much awards season coverage. It's all [livejournal.com profile] kubis's fault anyway.


“There simply aren’t words scathing enough in the English language to properly express the strength of my hatred for you,” Brad tells him and Nate nods agreeably right before he pointedly stretches out his legs, feet propped up on the coffee table. “Eternal hatred,” Brad adds.

“Your bow-tie is askew,” Nate points out pleasantly.

Brad gives him a look before straightening the fucking thing. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“No, I’m good. Well, I’ll need more popcorn, but that’s for later.”

The two previous years, Nate has been the one to attend the nominees luncheon and Brad had made a point of sending him comments via text throughout the evening. He should have known it would come and bite him in the ass, but honestly, who’d think he’d ever get nominated.

“I think I need to charge my cellphone,” Nate says, like he just remembered that. He’s scarily good at calling up that innocent look. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he adds.

Fine, maybe Nate thought Brad could get nominated, but he was definitely biased. What was the Academy’s excuse, Brad couldn’t possibly fathom.

“How about this, if you manage to go through your speech and not look like you’d rather be eating rocks and broken glass, I’ll blow you when you get home.”

“You’re going to do that anyway,” Brad points out.

“Possibly. In fact, if you’re still wearing the tux, most probably,” he admits, leaning back on the couch to look at Brad, his head tilted and his neck exposed invitingly. There’s so many things Brad would rather be doing than attending yet another black tie event. After a while they sort of blur together in a haze of tuxes, evening gowns, and really moronic questions from the entertainment journalists. Brad hates the awards season. He hates this season in particular in a new and special way.

“Okay,” Nate says, his voice dropping into an almost-whisper, taking on that rough quality that Brad usually loves but which is torturous right now.

“Nate.”

That’s about how much he gets out, Nate’s name like a plea, before Nate moves to his feet swiftly, reaching out to tug on Brad’s sleeve. “Come here.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Brad protests. And fine, weakly. He protests weakly because Nate is efficient in getting his hand down Brad’s pants, and then even more efficient in sinking to his knees and wrapping his lips around Brad’s dick. Which would be the moment when Brad’s brain short-circuits and shuts down for good.

Nate’s careful this time, the touch of his hand light on Brad’s hip, like he doesn’t want to wrinkle his clothes. “You’ll be there on time,” he says, pulling away for a moment, taking a few seconds to lick along the side of Brad’s cock. Brad has to reach out and hold on to Nate’s shoulder for balance, before he moves his hand to thread Nate’s hair. He doesn’t have to worry about messing it up. “Sides, you should have thought about that before you looked at me like that.”

Brad wants to ask how it was, exactly, except he already knows. A little bit like the way Nate looks at him now, his head tilted up. Like he doesn’t think he could get enough of Brad, like he wants to ignore the whole luncheon thing and just drag Brad to their bedroom right now. Like he...

Nate leans forward, pretty much swallowing Brad’s whole cock, and Jesus fuck, Brad’s legs almost give in from under him. It doesn’t take him a long time to come, and Nate seems pretty pleased with himself for that as he licks Brad’s cock clean.

Which is great for many reasons, not least the fact that Brad doesn’t really have time to change and he’d rather not go to the Oscar nominees luncheon with come stains on his pants. Chances are that Joseph Gordon fucking Levitt would laugh at him and make a bad job of hiding it, and Brad would have to kill him later and deal with a greatly annoyed Nate afterwards.

“Nate,” he starts, but Nate shakes his head at him.

“I’ll fix that for you,” he offers and tugs at Brad’s bow-tie. It must be askew again, but at least he has a really good excuse now. He does up his pants and looks down at Nate.

“I could,” he offers, like he shouldn’t already be downstairs where the car is probably waiting by now.

“You could,” Nate agrees. “But you should be gone already. It’s okay, I actually know how to jerk off.”

“You expect me to go through the luncheon while knowing you might be watching it and getting off? Honestly, Nathaniel.”

Nate shrugs. “To be perfectly honest, I’ll probably be done before it even starts. Otherwise I might get unlucky and be right in the middle of a perfectly fine jack when Donald Sutherland appears on screen, and you know that beard of his is reaching some fucking scary epic proportions.”

Brad feels his mouth twitching in a smile he barely holds back. “Don’t,” he says, willing himself to sound serious.

“Don’t what?” Nate asks pleasantly, like he hadn’t caught on the moment Brad said it. “Don’t get myself off? Want me to wait for you? I could do that,” he offers, like the thought of Nate hard and ready and waiting for him at home was going to help Brad get through the luncheon and not make it even more uncomfortable.

He wants to point it out, but instead he nods and breathes out a quiet “yes” and Nate leans up to kiss him softly. “Alright. Get going,” he says and Brad nods, takes a moment to rest his forehead on Nate’s before stepping away.

He turns around in the doorway when a suspicious thought occurs to him. “You’re still going to text me throughout, aren’t you,” he says. He doesn’t bother to make it a question.

Nate smiles cheerfully. “Of course.”

Brad knows he could, and should, ignore the texts, but he’s going to be checking them surreptitiously anyway. Brilliant.

“Isn’t it?” Nate agrees, as if Brad said that last part out loud. To be honest, it might be.

*

Brad was in Vienna when the nominations were announced, during the last week of on-location shooting. He was also in his hotel room, sound asleep after what was a really long day. He only answered the phone because it was Nate calling, and Nate probably only called in the middle of the night because he wanted to beat Ray to the punch.

“If you want to stay in Europe till February, I could probably take a few weeks off and join you there,” he told Brad without preamble and it took Brad a moment to orient himself (bed, hotel, Vienna), check the time (really fucking early), and try to figure out what the fuck Nate meant by that (no fucking clue).

“Did you burn the house down and want to keep me away until they rebuild?” he asked. It seemed like a reasonable guess at the time, because he just got woken up from a dream in which that would make excellent sense. He probably won’t ever live it down.

“Are you.. you know what, I don’t want to know,” Nate muttered. “You got the nomination, congratulations.”

“To what, leave the Big Brother’s house?”

“No one’s been doing Big Brother for years, are you still watching the clips on youtube?”

“Fuck you,” Brad sat up on the bed and rubbed at his eyes. “You sound really fucking cheerful, what time is it where you are?”

“It’s five minutes after the Academy Awards nominees announcement.”

It didn’t connect for a few seconds, enough time for Nate to clear his throat expectantly. “Did you keel over?”

“You sure it’s not a typo?”

Nate sighed, in the certain way of his that indicated that he despaired of Brad. “Pretty sure. But I could definitely call Ray, he’d be happy to check it for you.”

“No, thank you.” He ran his hand through his hair and shifted, switching the phone to his other ear. “Fuck, Nate...”

“Brad,” Nate said quietly, matching his tone to Brad’s. “I’m pretty sure that you’re going to start getting calls the moment I disconnect.”

“Don’t disconnect,” Brad told him, only half-joking.

He could hear Nate smiling. “You know I love you?”

“Yes,” Brad said easily, because he’s learned to be sure of that, even when woken up in the middle of the night.

“And I only want what’s good for you?”

“I’m not entirely convinced, but prepared to accept your premise.”

“Take the first five calls. Don’t swear at the journalists and tell them politely that you’re honoured but it’s really late and you have an early start tomorrow.”

“How would you even know I have an early start?”

“I’ve asked your assistant to keep me posted. She’s a lovely girl, you should listen to her when she’s telling you to take it easy,” Nate told him, sounding like he was joking, but he probably wasn’t. Brad knew him too well to buy it, and besides, it sounded exactly like Stephanie. “So, first five calls. Then get some sleep, Ray will undoubtedly schedule some interviews for you for tomorrow. I’ll call Walt and ask him to keep it easy, okay?”

“You know, I’ve managed to fend for myself before I met you”

“Yes, and after that too,” Nate agreed, his tone deceptively light. It wasn’t something either of them mentioned often, the time between Alternate and Screwby, when... well. “So have I. I kind of like it better now, though.”

“That would be an understatement,” Brad agreed. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. Okay. Be civil to the journalists. I’ll call you tomorrow... well, today for you, I suppose. And Brad,” he said, the smile in his voice carrying through pretty well this time. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

Brad shook his head. “I love you. Go the fuck away. Hopefully no one will call and I could go back to sleep.”

“Good luck with that,” Nate told him and disconnected, the phone ringing a nanosecond later. Brad closed his eyes for a moment before sighing and answering as he looked around for the remote control. He wasn’t quite sure he was buying the whole thing, and they probably had CNN International on the cable here.

*

Nate finds the rings two days after the luncheon. Quite possibly it’s because Brad didn’t have enough things to stress about before that.

He bought the rings months ago, before the whole circus started, then stuck them at the bottom of his toolbox. It was supposed to be the last place Nate would ever look, but then for some reason Nate went looking for a screwdriver.

He should have pro... broached the subject over Christmas, like he planned to, but then Sarah went into labor and they’ve spent the Christmas Day in the hospital, and after that it would either be stealing little Natalie’s thunder or completely spoiling Nate’s good mood.

Nate turns the box in his hand, quirking his eyebrows quizzically, but he doesn’t say anything. This is just a bit worrying.

“It’s not...”

Nate gives him a look that’s half amused and half... something Brad can’t quite pin down. “Brad, honestly, if you say it’s not what it looks like, I’m going to kick you.”

“It’s not the best moment,” Brad says, like that’s what he was going to say all along. “Give me that,” he reaches out for the box but Nate takes a step back, his finger tightening around the thing.

“So you can hide it better and talk yourself out of the whole thing? Nice try,” he tells Brad wryly and opens the box, fishing out one of the rings. Only then does he toss Brad the box.

“And the other one?”

“Mine,” Nate says simply and slips it onto his finger.

“That’s not how that works,” Brad points out. The words are difficult to form, his throat tightens along with his stomach. His fingers clench around the box. This is what he wants, this is what he always wanted, and he has no idea why he’s arguing over it.

Nate shrugs. “Do you want to marry me? Or did you change your mind between buying the rings and now?”

“I didn’t... Yeah, I want that. I want...that.”

Nate pulls him close, his head bowed as he slowly pries Brad’s fingers from the tight grasp he has on the box. “This is definitely the worst proposal I have ever heard.”

“Heard many?”

“I watch movies,” Nate shrugs and takes out the other ring from the box. “We’ll probably have to wait until after the awards season. I want a proper honeymoon and can’t exactly steal you away right now.”

“A proper honeymoon? What does that even mean? And fuck, you probably want a white dress, too.”

“Only if it’s really pretty,” Nate nods dryly before looking up. He pockets the box and places the ring in Brad’s palm. His smile is slow, warm and bright, starting in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’ve beaten me to this,” he says quietly and Brad’s heart misses a good few beats.

“You wanted...”

“Yeah, and I would have been much better at the whole thing,” he says and stops Brad from answering by covering Brad’s lips with his. He closes Brad’s hand around the ring, and Brad can feel the slowly warming metal of Nate’s ring against his skin. “You can wear this now, or wait until after the ceremony. I’m not taking mine off, though.”

Brad honestly can’t argue with that.

*

Up until very recently, Brad was quite happy with the fact Nate was taking something of a sabbatical from the movies (save for the documentary short he was producing, but that didn’t get him pestered on the red carpets), because it meant their schedules clashed a lot less than usual.

Now, however, Brad wants to pretty much hide inside their house and wait it through, and Nate acts as if the Christmas had come early. And lasted for months.

He even makes Brad go to the BAFTAs. Brad has nothing against BAFTAs as such, in fact they occasionally tend to restore his faith in the intelligence of the members of his profession, but it’s one more red carpet and Brad’s developing an allergy to red fibers.

“You owe me,” Nate offers cheerfully.

Brad takes a moment to run through his mental tally. It’s possible he does, though unlikely. “What for?”

“For convincing your mother we could plan our own wedding.”

“You haven’t...”

“But I will,” Nate promises. “Well, unless you deprive me of the BAFTAs. But you won’t, because one, why would you, and two, even if your movie loses on all fronts, Carey will win. Don’t you want to be there for Carey?”

“You just want to go to London again,” Brad accuses him and Nate shrugs. He loves London, and it’s more than mutual. Brad doesn’t get it, apparently it’s enough to play a supporting role in an Austen adap and not suck at the accent and then the entire country adopts you.

“You’re still going,” Nate tells him.

“I’m doing it for Carey,” Brad offers sulkily. Nate gives him a look that plainly calls bullshit but at least he doesn’t say anything.

And then they go to England and everyone wants to know what Nate’s been doing lately. It’s Brad’s favorite red carpet experience of the whole season, or it would be, if every other journalist wasn’t flirting with Nate. Oh, they’re all polite about it, but Brad can see through them.

Carey wins, which was predictable but more than deserved, but then Brad wins and has to make a speech. They’re getting shorter. He’s starting to think that if by some freak chance he gets the Oscar, he’ll just walk up there, say thank you, and then change professions. He could open a bike repair shop.

“I’m calling Ray to cancel whatever you have set up for tomorrow,” Nate tells him when Brad settles back into his seat. Maybe they won’t get the best movie and he won’t have to get back up there again.

“Call me paranoid, I’m sensing a set-up,” he mutters. Nate’s lips twitch in a held-back smile. “Okay, why?”

“You looked almost attractive up there, surprisingly” Nate offers. It’s not his best deadpan but it’s in the top ten. “I can’t promise I’ll let you out of the bedroom anytime soon. In fact, I’m pretty sure you won’t be going anywhere for at least a few good hours.”

Brad’s slightly flushed face gets caught on camera, as they’re doing cuts to the audience. To his left, Carey snorts lightly and covers her mouth with her hand. When Brad sends her a look, she calls up an expression of absolute innocence. It’s almost like Nate taught her that.

So, alright, maybe not changing professions just yet.

*

Brad’s Academy Awards speech is recycled in news for weeks. It’s recycled for months on the internet. Ray sends him gifs, which is definitely not what Brad’s paying him for, to be honest.

But, he digresses. And he should start from the beginning.

And from it all being Nate’s fault.

Nate refuses to take off the ring. He maintains that it’s because Brad could change his mind, which, frankly, is actually insulting, because Brad isn’t an idiot. If he hadn’t, somehow, already clued in to the fact that this is the thing he wants most in his life, the fact that he isn’t in the least annoyed by Nate’s antics would be a pretty big hint.

Yeah, okay, he loves the fact that Nate refuses to give up the ring. Even if it’s partly for show, even if it’s a pointed confirmation of what Nate sometimes feels like he needs to restate. He’s in it for the long haul, they both are.

But it’s only partly for show. That’s driven home by the way Nate laces their fingers together, the metal touching Brad’s ring finger. By the way he tends to smile when he looks down. And even by the way he turned all the wedding planning to Brad’s mother after all, because it would make her happy.

“It’s going to be pastels scheme, I can see it now,” Brad mutters when he finds out.

Nate shrugs. “Frankly, I don’t care, as long as there are vows and rings exchanged somewhere there.”

“You do know you’re gonna have to surrender this thing for a few minutes at least?” Brad asks, tip of his finger on the gold band.

“I could be okay with that. But only then,” Nate says magnanimously.

And as it is ‘only then’, it means Nate wears the ring to the Oscars. So, you can see how it’s all Nate’s fault.

The first three interviewers ask polite and inane questions and it seems to be going off without a hitch, until the new girl from E!. Brad doesn’t quite know what was she doing watching Nate’s hands like that.

“Is that...” she starts and breaks off, her eyes shining like this is even better than some kind of a wardrobe malfunction. “Nate, is that a wedding ring?” she glances at the camera and the damn thing zooms and Brad wants to stick his own hands into his pockets defensively, because he knows what’s coming.

“Technically not yet,” Nate shrugs. His tone is flat, like nothing out of the ordinary is going on, like he can’t feel every journalist on their path snapping to attention. There are about a hundred left, if Brad’s any judge, and the little voices in their earpieces must be screaming. “The wedding is not for a little while.”

You can guess what kind of questions they get from then on. Even Carey and David get asked about the wedding, which is going a little too far, if you ask Brad.

“Best red carpet I’ve ever done,” David tells him stoically during the first commercial break.

Tina Fey’s opening monologue is rewritten, lightning-fast, to include a joke about the whole thing. It’s only the first one this evening. Joseph Gordon fucking Levitt keeps kicking Brad’s chair every few minutes, grinning every time Brad looks at him. They’re going to have words soon.

“Don’t tell me you’ve planned the whole thing,” he mutters to Nate during the second nominated song. The camera keeps cutting to them every time there’s anything even remotely romantic or love-related; a song, a scene between lovers, a kiss on screen, whatever stupid shit they come up with. Nate seems surprisingly relaxed.

“Not really,” he shrugs. “I didn’t think about that, to be honest. No one noticed before.”

It’s fair point. And it’s not like Brad wants to hide it, quite the opposite to be honest, but still, the timing is a little annoying.

“Why couldn’t they keep on asking what you’re wearing?” he mutters and laces his fingers with Nate’s. He doesn’t even care if the fucking camera gets a shot of that. There’s the relaxation around them that signals another commercial break, and Brad leans towards Nate. “I wouldn’t...” he starts. Nate squeezes his hand.

“I know that. And we’ve established that I should have gone after you,” he adds with a rueful smile. There’s no question as to what they’re talking about. “Brad, I just really like wearing this ring.”

The shiver through Brad’s body might be because fucking Joseph kicks his chair again. “I think it’s your category next,” he tells Brad cheerfully.

“Is it strange that I don’t care all that much?” he asks when they’re showing the clip from the movie and Carey elbows him excitedly.

“You’ll be able to write ‘Academy Award Winner’ on our wedding invitation,” Nate whispers and it startles a laugh out of Brad, and he almost misses his name being read out.

“From what we hear, it’s a really great night for Brad,” Archie Panjabi adds after she opens the envelope.

It takes Brad a moment, and a kick from Joseph, to stand up. Nate moves to his feet as well, leaning in for a too brief hug. Brad’s actually grateful it’s not a kiss, it would be too much and he’s not sure he could stop anytime soon.

“I’ll pay you twenty bucks if you work in a mention about Thor’s hammer,” Nate mutters against his neck.

Brad’s speeches weren’t particularly imaginative. He likes to stick to the basics. Honored to be nominated, especially along all the other guys. Thank the cast and crew, especially Carey and David. Finish by thanking his family and, above all, Nate. Minimalist approach, no unnecessary blabbering, no expressing of complete and utter shock, no fuss. Finish before the first note of the damn music starts playing.

He starts according to the script, doesn’t forget any of the names. Carey’s beaming at him from the first row, nodding along. It takes him a long moment to take a breath and dare to look at Nate, because he knows what he’ll see and he thinks his hands are already shaking as it is.

He liked the BAFTAs so much better.

“I probably wouldn’t be here if not for Nate,” he says after a brief pause. Nate shakes his head, like he wants to tell Brad he doesn’t have to do that. Truth is, this one time Brad has to do that. “Mostly because otherwise that tv show would have flopped and I wouldn’t get decent work again. But that’s not even the start of it all. Thank you. I love you.”

He’ll blame the spirit of the moment and temporary insanity after being blinded by all the lights. He means it, of course, but to proclaim it on national, no, international television, easy as you please, that’s not something he quite expected to do.

As it is, he looks straight at Nate anyway and shrugs. “And I’m saying this knowing your mother is TiVoing the entire thing.”

*

He gets a text from Ray ten minutes after three am. Oprah likes me again. So, yeah, you are doing her show tomorrow. Fuck Jon Stewart.

Brad rolls his eyes and fires off a quick response. I know Walt would want to.

Fuck you, too.

Brad wants to respond but Nate plucks the phone from his hand and throws it into the top drawer before closing it shut. The vibration is muted but still audible as Ray probably bombards it with profanities.

“Apparently Oprah wants me and I should fuck Jon Stewart.”

Nate nods seriously. “Better hurry up with that, because it’s just boring marital sex starting next month or so.”

“I’m strangely fine with that. Believe it or not, especially with the boring part,” he mutters against Nate’s shoulder.

Boring parts don’t involve red carpets, or so he has heard.

Not that it didn’t go quite well this time.
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