hangster 45. running hands through hair pls pls pls pls
oh yes. ohhh yes.
It's late when Jake gets home. A meeting went long, and then he had to spend 45 minutes convincing one of the better young pilots to not give in her wings just because she had to eject earlier in the week. The Bronco is in the driveway, but based on the lack of texts he's received, Jake's pretty sure Bradley's passed out after a long day of flight training.
So he's quiet coming inside, placing his bag on the floor of the foyer instead of tossing it, bending down to take his boots off with his hands rather than toeing them off and making a whole bunch of noise. Sure enough, he hears Bradley snoring like a jet engine when he creeps into the living room. The Padres game is on the TV, volume low, and they're losing to the Phillies by 2. Jake holds in a laugh; normally, Bradley would be pacing and hollering at the players on the screen. Instead he's dead to the world, draped across the couch, head on a pillow and one leg hanging off the whole thing altogether. His curls are messy, falling over his forehead in locks of chestnut. With his mouth wide open and his head tilted back, he looks less like he's asleep and more like a corpse. But the snoring assures Jake that he's still kicking. Jake heads for the kitchen, unbuttoning his khaki shirt as he goes. There's a beer and a pint glass both waiting for him in the fridge, and he smiles at it; Bradley always chills his glasses for him. When he's shed his shirt, Jake pads into the living room and settles on the floor by Bradley's head, sipping on the cold beer. Bradley snores right in his ear, snuffling in his sleep. Jake turns to him, reaching around with his free hand to brush the hair from his forehead. It doesn't wake Bradley, but he does settle a little, so he keeps on doing it. He has to crane his neck to watch the game, but he doesn't mind. The hair running through his fingers is soft and clean, free of the gel they both use to tame their hair to regulation standards. Jake loves when Bradley leaves his hair natural, bouncy and wavy. In the sun, it shows the same dark caramel as his eyes. He's quietly yesss-ing a home run when Bradley wakes, so he doesn't notice it at first. "You're home," comes Bradley's sleep soft-voice. Jake looks over at him, smiling right away. Bradley's eyes are bleary with sleep, cheeks flushed Jake's favorite shade of pink. He's blinking at him sleepily, half-smiling. There are freckles on his nose, and he chilled Jake's beer glass, and he's wearing Jake's t-shirt, and Jake is in love with him. He nods. "Yeah, B. I'm home."
