#akaywrites

-

“Repeat after me.”

Bradley groaned. “Nat—”

“Nope! Say it,” she snapped, shaking him slightly. “I, Bradley Pete Bradshaw, am not gonna have sex with my ex husband.”

Bradley rolled his eyes but pressed his palms over hers dramatically. “I, Bradley Pete Bradshaw, am not gonna have sex with my ex husband.”

“Excellent!” Natasha said, giving his cheeks one last squeeze. “Five years of radio silence, Bradley. Five. This is Javy’s wedding, you cannot under any circumstances bang the best man.”

“I’m not gonna bang him,” Bradley said, reaching for his whiskey. One gulp later, he looked up—

—and froze.

Jake Seresin.

Black tux. Golden smile. Five years and not a single ounce less gorgeous.

“Oh no,” Natasha muttered, following his gaze. “You’re gonna bang him.”

Bradley’s mouth twitched into a helpless smile as Jake turned, eyes catching his.

this man grew up drenched in legacy. from day one it was Goose’s son, not Bradley. his world was flight suits and aviators and sunday barbecues with Ice and Mav and the ‘86 legends like it was completely normal. of course flying was the only path. what else was there?

he grew the mustache when carole got sick not because he liked it, but because she’d smile and say “you look just like your dad”

and then suddenly everyone was saying it. you really are Goose’s boy

so he stared in the mirror and tried to see himself, but all he saw was what he was supposed to be

that’s why when maverick pulled his papers, it HURT

because without the navy, without flying, without that version of himself… who even was he?

so yeah, he makes it to Top Gun. he survives. he says “yeah okay, I did it” like it means something and it SHOULD

until one day Jake—stupid perfect Jake with his dumb green eyes—asks him what his favorite color is

or maybe it’s his favorite movie. or sport. something ridiculous.

and Bradley just blanks full 404 error

because is his favorite sport really golf, or was that just what Ice would drag him to?

is his favorite beer actually that brand, or was it just the one Maverick handed him at fifteen with a wink?

and Jake sees it

he sees him

and from that moment on, he makes it his personal mission to take Bradley to every weird restaurant, every random hobby class, every indie concert and baseball game and cooking course just to show him there’s more

more than legacy. more than ghosts.

that he gets to choose

and one day Bradley tries a raspberry sour beer and lights up

and Jake’s like “that’s it. that’s your beer. we found it”

and for the first time, he’s not being Goose’s son

he’s just Bradley

-

“How’d you get your callsign?” Fanboy asks, grin wide, curiosity lighting up his face as he nurses a bottle of beer.

The question is casual. One they’ve all answered a dozen times before. Some story about a childhood nickname, a screw-up in flight school, a drunken dare that somehow made it onto official paperwork.

Jake doesn’t answer right away.

He just smiles. Not his usual cocky grin, but something smaller, like he’s remembering something no one else in the room could possibly understand.

“Rooster gave it to me,” Jake says finally, voice softer than the bar noise around them.

And that’s all he says.

But it’s enough to kill Bradley just a little.

Their eyes lock across the table like magnets, like bad decisions, like history waiting to be rewritten. Just for a second, the chatter around them fades into static. The jukebox might as well be playing a funeral march.

Because when Jake says Rooster gave it to me, he’s not just telling a story. He’s cracking open a memory.

Bradley is twenty-four again.

Standing under a sky that should have been his wedding canopy. Hands shaking. Waiting at the altar in a goddamn khaki uniform because he thought it would make Jake laugh. Because Jake had once said, “You better show up looking like Top Gun propaganda if you want me to cry.”

He had waited.

And waited.

Until the sun dipped low enough to cast the chapel in gold, and the empty seat in the front row felt like a second coffin.

Until someone said they saw him on his way to the airport this morning, hours ago.

Until all the calls went unanswered.

Until Bradley Bradshaw went home with a ring in his pocket and a name he never wanted to say again stuck in his throat like blood.

Jake looks away first.

He always does.

Fanboy blinks, missing the weight of it all. “Wait like actually gave it to you?”

Jake shrugs. “Yup. Called me Hangman after I left him hanging in Texas.”

And everyone will assume he is talking about a mission, something Jake has done to outfly Bradley maybe. No one will know what it really was.

Bradley snorts.

It’s not a laugh. Not really.

He’s laughing.

And it’s a sound Bradley knows by heart but it echoes wrong now, polished to something public, something performative.

There’s a stranger in the bar.

And he’s got Jake’s hair, though it’s cut shorter, cleaner.

He’s got Jake’s shoulders, proud and broad, still carrying the weight of ego and excellence.

He’s got Jake’s hands, the ones that used to tremble when they held Bradley like he was something holy.

There’s a stranger in the bar, looking at Bradley like he’s no one.

And it doesn’t make sense.

Because this stranger looks like Jake.

Stands like Jake.

Furrows his brow like Jake used to when he couldn’t say I love you out loud.

But he’s not Jake.

He can’t be.

There’s a stranger in front of Bradley.

And it’s strange, because that mouth used to say forever.

Used to whisper his name like a secret, like a prayer.

Used to part with a sigh against Bradley’s throat at 2:04 a.m.

There’s a stranger in front of Bradley.

A stranger that used to be his home.

He wonders if Jake sees a stranger too, when their eyes meet.

don’t think about how he carried goose’s death like it was stitched into his skin

how carole never blamed him—not once—but he still buried himself under that guilt till he drowned in it

don’t think about how he dialed himself down, dimmed the maverickness, because god forbid bradley ever became him

don’t think about how he finally got to be with Ice—years later, so much time wasted—and still flinched waiting for it to fall apart

(bc why would Ice stay when everyone else left)

don’t think about how it broke him to pull bradley’s papers

how he paced holes into his floors and rewrote a hundred apologies he never sent

how he made a promise to carole with a trembling voice because he had already taken goose, and not keeping that promise? yeah. no. not an option

don’t think about the way he stood outside bradley’s empty room after he left, just stood there. like the silence would say something back

don’t think about how he probably sold the house because everything in it whispered bradley

don’t think about how many times he typed bradley’s number, just to delete it

don’t think about how he reached out anyway, sometimes, just to be met with silence

DO NOT think about the nights at the hospital when Ice was sick and dying and he wanted to call, wanted to say, "kid, your pop’s sick. come home."

but he didn’t. because what if bradley didn’t pick up?

whatever you do DONT picture him sitting at the back of bradley’s graduation, sunglasses on, teeth clenched, hands gripping his own knees because he couldn’t tap him out

don’t you dare think about how much maverick loved his son

-

“I’m actually gonna kill those little shits,” Jake mutters, kicking the door open with pure rage in his veins. “I swear to God if one more—”

And then he sees it.

Bradley.

On the couch, shirtless. Book in hand. Shorts hanging dangerously low on his hips. Reading glasses perched on his nose.

Jake’s brain short circuits. System error. 404. Thoughts not found.

Bradley looks up with the softest smile like he’s not currently destroying Jake’s ability to function. “Hey baby. Who pissed off my favorite pilot today?”

Jake opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Not even a squeak.

Bradley is still talking. “I had a doctor’s appointment today, finally figured out those headaches I kept getting. Apparently I need reading glasses.” He taps the frames. “What do you think?”

What does Jake think?

Jake thinks he’s about to commit several unspeakable acts and also maybe cry.

“They’re…” he tries. He clears his throat. “They’re illegal is what they are. What the fuck, Bradley.”

Bradley raises a brow, pretending innocence. “Illegal?”

“You—” Jake gestures wildly at all of him. “You can’t just look like that.”

Bradley tilts his head, pretending to be confused, the glasses slipping a little lower on his nose and oh God, that should be a war crime. “Like what?”

“You look like a sexy librarian who bench presses tanks,” Jake blurts.

Bradley snorts. “That’s oddly specific.”

Jake’s eyes are locked on the glasses. “Say something nerdy.”

“I was rereading Dune.”

Jake whimpers. Whimpers.

Bradley sets his book down calmly and opens his arms. “C’mere, husband.”

Jake stumbles forward like he’s been summoned by divine force. He drops into Bradley’s lap, manhandled effortlessly, and lets out a shaky breath.

Bradley presses a kiss to his temple. “Made you dinner.”

Jake, breathless, says, “I want dessert first.”

Bradley chuckles against his skin. “Is that a threat or a request?”

“Yes.”

Jake reaches up to tug the glasses off, but Bradley catches his wrist. “Ah ah. You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?” Jake says, practically vibrating. If he doesn’t get his mouth on his husband now, he may die.

“Do you like them?”

Jake just points at the ridiculous tent in his pants. “What do you think?”

Bradley grins. “I think you’re obsessed.”

“Keep them on,” Jake whispers. “Forever. I’m serious.”

Bradley chuckles and leans in, glasses still on, beard scratching against Jake’s neck.

And just like that, Jake forgets every student, every email, every bad day.

All he knows is glasses and Bradley Bradshaw-Seresin.

And the fact that he’s not having dinner tonight.

-

“I’m just so angry,” Bradley says, and his voice breaks in the middle of the sentence. “I have all this anger.” His hand presses flat against his sternum, fingers curling slightly, like he might be able to dig in and pull the feeling out by the roots. “It’s just… here. All the time. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

The room is silent, Bradley knows by heart, but he still can’t face the gentle look on Ali’s face.

“Bradley,” Ali says sofly, “can we try something?”

Bradley nods. Talking feels hard. His throat feels tight, full.

“I want you to imagine you’re watching yourself,” Ali says. “Like you’re a character in a movie. What would you think about him?”

Bradley swallows. His eyes sting.

“I think… I’d be mad at him,” he admits quietly. “I’d think… why are you so sad? You finally have everything you wanted. So why isn’t it enough?”

Ali’s expression is warm, and kind. He is not what Bradley had expected, he had imagined someone older, from the army maybe. What he got was just a skinny guy with glasses and calm.

“Weren’t you saying,” he asks softly, “that all you felt was anger?”

Bradley’s breath catches.

Oh.

Yeah.

-

“Hi, baby.”

Jake’s voice is warm sunlight, casual and bright, the way it always is when Bradley walks through the door. He’s on the couch with a book, domestic in a way that still feels surreal sometimes like Bradley accidentally wandered into the life he used to daydream about at twenty.

Jake looks up.

The smile doesn’t disappear. It just… changes.

He knows. Of course he knows.

Bradley nods once in greeting, but he feels like he’s floating three feet behind his own body. He sits at the far end of the couch, shoulders hunched, hands locked together between his knees.

Jake stays where he is.

He’s learned. Bradley hates being touched when the feelings first hit when everything inside him is too loud and too sharp. Jake, who used to barrel into everything at full speed, has somehow become the most patient man alive.

Love did that, apparently.

“This is stupid,” Bradley mutters. His voice sounds wrecked. “It’s so stupid. I’m thirty seven years old. I can’t believe I’m crying over—”

He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

“I’m just so—” His breathing stutters. His palm slams against his chest again, like he’s trying to hold himself together. “Jake,” he whispers.

Jake moves then, slow enough to be permission instead of pressure. “Can I touch you?”

A small nod.

Jake gently pulls Bradley’s hand away from his chest and wraps his fingers around his wrist, checking his pulse. Fast. But not the worst they’ve seen.

He guides Bradley’s hand to his own neck. “Match me,” he murmurs.

It’s something they figured out together, Jake’s steady heartbeat acting like a model to Bradley’s nervous system.

“Do you want to talk?” Jake asks.

Bradley tries. A frustrated sound comes out instead, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “I don’t know how to word it.”

“Okay,” Jake says immediately, like that’s the easiest thing in the world. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Bradley’s forehead. “Do you want a bath?”

Bradley nods.

“Okay. We can do that.”

They walk to the bathroom holding hands, Bradley trailing slightly behind. He sinks down onto the floor while Jake turns on the water, testing the temperature.

The tub isn’t designed for two grown men, especially two broad shouldered pilots but that has never stopped them before.

“Do you want help undressing?” Jake asks.

Bradley hesitates.

Jake sees it, the flicker of shame, the moment Bradley feels like a burden instead of a partner.

So Jake flops dramatically onto the floor beside him and groans. “My back is killing me today,” he complains, making an exaggerated face. “You think you could help me? Please? I’m a fragile old man.”

Bradley’s head snaps up, his own pain forgotten. “Of course.”

Jake would commit actual war crimes for this man.

Bradley helps him out of his shirt, careful and focused, hands steady now that he has a task. Then Jake returns the favor, movements gentle without making a big deal of it.

They climb into the tub together, knees tangled awkwardly, Bradley settling with his back against Jake’s chest.

Jake’s fingers slide into Bradley’s hair, massaging his scalp.

“I love you,” Bradley whispers.

Jake presses his cheek against Bradley’s temple. “I love you too, baby.”

It isn’t a fix. They both know that. The conversation will have to happen eventually.

But for now, there is warm water. Steady hands. A heartbeat he can follow.

For now, there is love.

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-

“Holy shit,” Bradley says with awe, “you really can see the stars so clearly.”

“Told ya,” Jake says with a small smile, eyes drifting to Bradley’s face instead of the sky. He’ll never admit it out loud, but that smile right there? He’d do just about anything to keep it.

They’re lying on top of Jake’s old truck, stargazing, which sounds extremely teenage, sure. But they’re in love.

So if they’re in their thirties, stretched out on warm metal like high schoolers, then… whatever.

“This one’s called Sirius,” Jake says, pointing. “Brightest star out here.” He glances back at Bradley, still smiling. “I always try to find it when I’m not home.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jake leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Bradley’s shoulder, letting his head rest there. “Reminds me of home.”

Bradley’s smile turns gentle. He kisses Jake’s hair, slow and fond.

—

Bradley pulls his shirt off the moment he gets home.

“Well, hello to you too, darling,” Jake says, amused, already tugging his own shirt over his head. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“What are you doing?” Bradley asks.

“…Are we not about to have sex?”

Bradley laughs. “No.”

“You are giving extremely mixed signals, baby,” Jake says, but he lets Bradley climb into his lap anyway, hands settling automatically on his waist.

“Look,” Bradley says.

“Oh, I am looking,” Jake murmurs, eyes dipping over Bradley’s chest and abs.

Bradley rolls his eyes, takes Jake’s face in his hands, and turns his head slightly. “Look.”

Jake stills.

There’s a small star on Bradley’s shoulder. Covered with clear filma and underneath it, coordinates.

Jake swallows. “Is that…?”

“Yeah,” Bradley breathes. “It’s your home in Texas, the coordinates. And the star… you said it made you think of home, so I thought—”

Jake kisses him.

Soft at first. Then deeper. Like his chest can’t hold everything he’s feeling.

And somewhere in that moment, Jake realizes—

home isn’t a place.