#thissying

Brad doesn’t respond, so Ray thinks that’s the end of that. It's alright if it is, too, because Ray’s always known that the Corps matters to Brad in a way it never did to him. Just because Ray’s ready to come out to the world as a raging homosexual doesn't mean Brad is, and that's alright. They can stay an X-rated secret so long as everything else between them stays the same, too.

He reaches his fork over to steal the only cut bite of Brad’s chicken parm, and when he looks up, Brad is staring back at him with the dumbest, most constipated expression on his face. Ray smiles around his fork, but Brad doesn't seem to give a shit about Ray taking his food, which can only mean that he’s worried Ray’s gonna want to run off and elope in California.

“Don't hurt yourself, homes,” Ray tells him. “I'm not expecting anything.”

Brad lets out a breath and puts down his fork. Ray rolls his eyes.

“It’s not that this isn't permanent,” he says. “I just… I don't want to. Ever.”

“Fucking duh, homes,” Ray responds. The DADT repeal just means that Brad won't get slammed if Ray accidentally slips up; it doesn't mean Brad’s suddenly a different person who believes in the holy sanctity of marriage or what the fuck ever. Ray doesn't want that version of Brad, the pussy-bitch romantic Brad who wants rings and shit. That’s next-level gay. Ray likes fucking out of wedlock.

“I’m moving,” Brad says, and he flattens his hands out on the table for a second before letting them relax again. “They’re transferring me.”

“Cool,” Ray says, and he doesn't understand why Brad’s being so weird about it. They’ve been together since Kuwait, just before OIF, and stayed together through Brad’s station in England, two more deployments to Iraq, another to Afghanistan. Ain't no place Brad could move that’ll give Ray heartburn. So, just to be annoying, he adds, “Where are we going?”

“Georgia,” Brad says, and Ray’s surprised he’s not making some sarcastic comment about how Ray’s only allowed over if he learns not to put his feet up on the table. “Fort Benning. They want me teaching a bunch of dogface delinquents how to jump.”

“For real?” Ray asks. It better not be a fucking joke, because Georgia’s, like, right there. And if Brad’s teaching and not getting deployed, Ray can swing over and visit whenever the fuck he wants. Georgia’s easy street. The fuck is Brad all nervous about? “Then I’m definitely coming over Labor Day weekend for NASCAR, homes. You'll be fucking right by the Atlanta Motor Speedway.”

“Ray,” Brad says slowly. “I'm asking you to move in with me.”

Ray laughs.

And then Ray just—

Brad sounds like he’s being serious. Brad even looks like he’s being serious, and Ray just—

It's like his brain has short-circuited. He can’t think properly, because he’d get to see Brad every single fucking day if they lived together. Ray can't even imagine that, because he literally just thought they were going to keep doing what they're doing now until the end of time: splitting their lives between two houses, constantly taking time from work to “visit a friend,” careful to never spill the beans, careful to always have a guest room ready. He just never thought they’d actually live together until they were in the same assisted living facility, or shoved into the same urn or whatever.

Still not with the program, Ray says, “You're asking me to leave paradise.”

“Your hometown is a shithole, Ray,” Brad points out.

“We’ve got good barbecue.”

“Ray,” Brad says. “Move in with me.”

And then slowly, as if he’s not sure that he wants to, or maybe as if he’s not sure how Ray will react, Brad reaches out and take Ray's hand from across the table.

Ray stares. At his hand, and at his hand in Brad’s hand, and then he glances quickly around the restaurant. Their waiter is taking orders at another table. No one’s paying any attention to them, but Ray’s heart rate is through the roof. They've held hands before, sure, but when they were watching tv in Brad’s house in Oceanside, or walking down the hallway to go fuck in Ray’s bedroom. Never in public, never in dark movie theaters or even in the car. If someone sees—or if the repeal doesn't stick—

“Ray,” Brad says again, and Ray looks at him. He doesn't even look nervous, because God forbid the Iceman have nerves. Mostly he just looks sure.

He looks like he’s sure about Ray.

“Only if I get to tell your mom we’re living in sin,” Ray says, skipping right past the yes. Brad’s still holding Ray’s hand; he has to know its a yes.

“It's been eight years,” Brad breaks it to him. “If you haven't shocked her now, you're not going to.”

“Hope is a precious thing, Brad,” Ray says.

Brad doesn't roll his eyes, but it's probably a close call. Instead, he pulls his hand back, and Ray would miss it except for how now Ray gets to hold Brad’s hand whenever Brad lets him, which is probably just birthdays and federal holidays, but still. Ray’s pretty fucking pumped about this turn of events.

“I regret this already,” Brad deadpans, and Ray beams.