Archive of Our Own

It takes Rooster two crashed planes and a third on his tail, knocked out of the air by Jake, for them to finally and consistently act civil towards each other.

It’s not the proudest hill that Jake’s ever tried to die on, their turbulent relations. But finding himself demanding that Control let him loose to chase Rooster back from rogue airspace really forced him to reconsider his hills in the first place.

So he let go of the undefined grudge between them. Let it drop to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean before he requested permission to take off again.

Ultimately, he came out of the ordeal on the winning team with an air-to-air kill under his callsign—so what has he really lost?

He’s at peace with it. Furthermore, he’s at peace with the mandatory three-month leave that the NAVY quickly handed out (lining up beautifully with the peak of SoCal’s summer), and also the warmth sitting in his chest from the beer he’s been nursing at the Hard Deck.

Of course, being sailors on break, the bar is where they’ve all gravitated.

Even Rooster, after Phoenix loudly announces his discharge from hospital observation, finds his way to the most-shoreline establishment in his tropically-patterned button-up with sunglasses perched on the top of his head.

He walks in with a smile, and a small swarm of pilots forms around him. 

One by one, aviators socially swirl him, and Rooster stands in the center, laughing and smiling, eyes crinkling at whatever Fanboy’s telling him. Jake just sips his drink and keeps his seat at the bar, an empty space to his left, and some pilot’s girlfriend to his right.

(Javy has also gravitated to a bar. The bar just happens to be in Hawaii. He booked next-day tickets for him and his fiancée as soon as leave was assigned. Jake had felt only partly betrayed.)

Penny checks on him for a refill, which he kindly declines, and she nods and moves on to tend to other uniforms. 

And when he drags his gaze back over to Rooster’s commotion, he freezes for a second because Rooster’s already looking at him.

It’s not animated. It’s not charmed. His expression barely expresses anything at all. His eyes glint with the most neutral type of light. 

But it’s not nasty and not spiteful—which means improvement has already descended upon them, Jake thinks. It’s almost amusing.

He gives Rooster a nod of acknowledgement.

For being there, for seeing him. For being alive at all, maybe (and, if anyone, Jake should get to be the one to bring that up, seeing as he was the one who saved his ass). 

Rooster nods back.

It’s possibly the most diplomatic thing Jake’s ever done. Grudge at the bottom of the ocean under these foreign relations.

So, whatever, it takes a suicide mission for them to act civil. 

It takes three drinks for them to act like a lot more.

Jake slightly furrows his brows in reaction to the loud slam of the door, but any and all noise of the building quickly becomes very difficult to focus on.

One, because the locked door of the single-occupancy bathroom muffles all sounds of background music, clinking glasses, and happy drinkers.

And two, because Rooster’s suddenly crowding into his space, and Jake finds it considerably harder to think coherently with Rooster’s hands pushing into his shoulders as his lips skim over his. His feet slowly shuffle backward.

It could also be the alcohol, contributing to his growing loss of rationality.

But Jake also kind of likes the way that Rooster tastes like beer. 

Rooster kisses slow at first, something surely familiar for him. But it quickly evolves into something faster and messier and shameless—and Jake’s not sure fault it is. He, himself, certainly has the energy—the way Rooster’s hands graze at the hem of his shirt, pushing at his waist until the back of his head hits the tile wall, sends jolts up Jake’s spine.

But Rooster’s in no way innocent, either. His stupid unreadable gaze, and the way it had consistently fallen onto Jake from across the bar, prickling at his skin over and over, wasn’t just nothing.

Jake lets out a huffed breath when his back hits the wall, and opens his eyes to Rooster wearing a small grin and the most sultry fucking eyes Jake’s ever seen. No longer just neutral, his brown eyes glint in this curious way, like he’s a fascinated driver pushing pedal to the metal just to see how fast his car could go.

“For someone who’s been layin’ around the hospital for the last few days, you seem pretty energetic,” Jake comments.

Rooster smiles and shrugs. And then he just smiles harder as Jake snakes his fingers into the belt loops on Rooster’s jeans to slowly reel him in.

Rooster’s got himself braced against the wall, palms flush against the cool tile, but his elbows bend as he lets himself shift closer.

“I guess,” is all he says, biting back his smile. Trying not to grin with those same dark and glittering eyes that he wore around the bar, static like a deer. 

But really he was hunting.

“Drinking alone’s classy,” Rooster had commented, having seemingly decided that the best place in the Hard Deck for him to be was to the left of Jake. He leaned against the bar, and the overhead lighting shone off the lenses of his sunglasses, clipped to his collar.

Jake snorted. “Wearing that shirt’s classy,” he said.

It was one of those dim blue, Floridian button-ups, worn over one of their basic NAVY tank tops. Familiar, but not uninsultable, according to Jake. Rooster defended it with a simple eye roll.

Jake took a sip of drink two-and-a-half, and set the glass down loud enough to make a clink . “So, what, suddenly not feelin’ the limelight?” he asked. “Roosters are supposed to walk around with a posse of chickens, you know.”

“Ouch, Hangman. Those are our friends,” Rooster lamented, sucking in through his teeth. “I’ve heard a negative attitude shortens your lifespan.”

“Really?” Jake mused, despite skeptical eyes and a feeling that he was humoring Rooster in anticipation for something more being kept.

But Rooster just hummed and nodded, like it was common fact.

“Well, think I’m set to die young,” Jake played along. Rooster cracked a smile. “What’s supposed to lengthen your lifespan, then?”

And then, silent, Rooster had picked up Jake’s beer glass, lifted it to his lips, and took a healthy sip of whatever on-tap alcohol Penny had served. He licked his lips and gazed up to the ceiling for a moment, as if deep in thought, busy searching for some habit that would keep Jake on their mortal plane for a little while longer.

And then he turned to Jake and said: “I’ve heard sex.”

So, hunting. Despite doe eyes and a track record of sitting on that perch— hunting. For Jake.

Or maybe just hunting for a good time.

Personal or not, Jake’s fine with giving it to him. It’s the diplomatic thing to do, he reasons.

But then Rooster quickly leans in to kiss Jake again, and Jake promptly forgets about his ability to think, flirt, or converse entirely (because, namely, there are much better things to do with his mouth right now). 

Where they meet is instantly messy once again. Rooster’s weight has Jake fully backed against the tile wall, head craning slightly upward in reaction to Rooster’s pushing, lips rarely parting. And when they do, the muffled silence of the bathroom is filled with both of them panting for air before reconnecting in seconds.

Out of sheer force of vivacity, Jake instinctually bites at Rooster’s lips, but before he can even consider taking it back, Rooster mirrors his actions right back in a way that makes Jake’s stomach swirl.

And then Rooster shifts his leg in a place where it presses in between Jake’s, and Jake makes a sound against Rooster’s lips that is so terribly and terrifyingly sensual that Jake immediately wishes he had been served at least two more drinks earlier to increase his chances of possibly forgetting the one-off the next morning.

Rooster pulls back, eyes slightly wide, chest somewhat heaving—and Jake doesn’t move. And they’re quiet except for their heavy breaths out of rhythm. 

And then Rooster lets out a small laugh. 

“Jesus, Bradshaw,” Jake mutters, and it only makes Rooster’s smile grow more smug.

Eyes still glittering, he shifts his leg again, glancing up and down at Jake, and seems very satisfied when Jake sharply breathes out through his nose in reaction.

“I want to—uh,” Rooster starts, as his hands fall to Jake’s waist, tapping melodically at the metal clasp of his belt.

“Yeah, sure,” Jake breathes out.

It takes less than a second for Rooster to get his belt unbuckled as Jake exhales with pursed lips. He runs his hand down the leg of Jake’s jeans, from just under his belt to just over his knee, before he looks up at Jake and says, “One thing.”

“Yeah?” Jake asks.

“You just can’t ditch me after this,” Rooster says. And Jake must make some kind of face because Rooster clarifies with a small smile, “You gotta let me know if I’m scaring you off.”

To which Jake just says, softly, “Yeah, fine.” Because he’s not sure exactly what Rooster’s telling him.

But it must be good enough because Rooster starts to sink to his knees, and Jake feels his body temperature rising in the moment.

“Just don’t leave me hang ing, Jake,” Rooster says.

And before Jake can respond, his body is suddenly very hot, very still, and with a violent shiver running down his spine.

And he would quite like to respond, matter of fact—whether that’s a quippy comeback or even him just defending himself from his callsign (because he would like to think that that’s not a habit of his anymore, waking up everyday as slightly less of an asshole than the day before). But he quickly finds that his brain and his mouth refuse to form any words other than 1): fuck, 2): Jesus, and 3): Jesus, fuck, Bradshaw. 

Leaves him with little options.

He gives up eventually, letting his right hand fall into Rooster’s loose curls, and his head tips back into the tile, while he’s sure he’s talking some nonsense of the words he has available.

It gets to a point where Jake’s got his canines chewing on his bottom lip, breaths coming out shaky, and his eyebrows furrowed enough to cement lines in his skin. And still, it’s not enough to stop whatever noises he’s involuntarily making.

To an extent where he designates his other hand—the one without a fistful of Rooster’s hair—to cover his mouth and muffle whatever godless sounds are coming out of it.

A ”Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Bradshaw” gets stifled in the motion.

And in response, Rooster—somehow a ruthless son of a bitch under all that hesitation—takes his mouth off Jake, catches his eyes from all the way down there, and asks, calmly, “Since when is Jake Seresin a self-conscious person?”

Which just makes everything both worse and better for Jake when he finally gets Rooster’s mouth back on him.

It doesn’t last for much longer after that. It can’t—not when Jake feels like he’s about to break the tile behind his head while all Rooster cares to do about it is taunt. And so it doesn’t.

Rooster lets him ride the last waves out, patient as Jake pants and blinks at him through half-open eyes. 

He stands up with a content expression as Jake lets his fingers slip out of his curls. 

Jake thinks about offering to return the favor in some way. Hell, he thinks Rooster’s going to ask, which, upon request, Jake’s fine with providing. But Rooster doesn’t mention it; doesn’t say anything at all. He simply rebuckles Jake’s belt and pushes disheveled, gelled hair out of his face while Jake keeps his hands to himself.

“Thanks, by the way,” Rooster finally says. He brushes back a strand of light hair from Jake’s forehead as if Jake had asked him how he looks.

Jake still hasn’t found the energy to move quite yet. He just hums inquisitively, “Yeah?”

“For saving my life,” Rooster adds. And then he seems to pause. Eyes on Jake, waiting.

“Oh. Well. Yeah,” Jake gets out. Words of the century. He feels a smile tug at his lips. “Why leave a perfectly untargeted bogie in the air? Someone had to take the lead,” he comments.

“There it is,” Rooster says with a little click. “I was waiting for you to brag about that. I’m surprised you held out this long.”

“If you didn’t notice, I was a little busy for a moment there,” Jake states—his breathing only now finally back to even.

“I more than noticed, smartass,” Rooster tells him. And then he unclips his aviators from his collar, slips them on over his eyes, and gives Jake a very civil smile, like the diplomats they’ve both become.

“See you, Hangman,” he says. And then Jake’s left in the single-occupancy bathroom to splash cold water on his face and go out to pay his damn tab.

And that’s how it fucking starts.

Rooster—apprehensive and still, careful yet over the time limit, back from a blizzardous nowhere, and the NAVY’s hero—flirts Jake Seresin into the Hard Deck bathroom, and asks to blow him like it’s the easiest decision he’s ever made. And Jake lets it happen.

And then continues to let it happen. Multiple times more.

Like two days later, when they’re pressed up against the side of Rooster’s pristine blue Bronco parked by the beach. With one of Rooster’s hands completely under Jake’s shirt, fingers brushing just under the side of his chest, grip still cold from when he was holding his beer. And Jake’s focusing on skimming the edge of Rooster’s stupid cargo shorts with his fingertips, instead of the shivers.

Or the next day, when Rooster unprecedentedly dominates the Daggers’ dart competition at the Hard Deck, and looks to Jake—who had offered a versatile and confident “anything” into the winner’s jackpot—to request professional car detailing for his one true love.

When, Jake catches on later that night, it really just seems to mean Jake laid down on the back seat of that cherished four-wheeler while Rooster trails his lips down him. 

“Still a car service,” Rooster justifies.

Jake just snorts. Un-fucking-believable. 

Rooster’s dog tags shine from his chain as he sits over Jake’s legs, both hands clutched on Jake’s hips where the skin is exposed from his t-shirt ridden up, and all he does is shrug when Jake laughs at him.

“Be serious,” Jake says, eyes narrowing—as if anything about them is serious at all. 

(Jake’s laying in the back of Rooster’s stupid Bronco, sweating from the SoCal sun with completely ruined hair, while Rooster just sits on top of him, leaving little marks with his lips wherever his sparkling, wandering eyes deem fit. In Jake’s whole career, it’s the most unserious, most unprofessional, and most fucking-around-and-finding-out he’s ever been.)

“I’m always serious,” Rooster simply responds. And then he swiftly bites at where Jake’s skin dips into his v-line, and Jake has to concentrate on holding on for dear life. Because what the fuck.

It’s not always purely sex-driven.

Like, when one night, the lights in the bar are dimmed for the live music of some three-piece band; the rumble of their guitars mixing with the lively bar’s chit chat and the quiet commentary of the Texas Astros game playing on the TVs. And then, during the song’s last chorus, Rooster shoves Jake into a corner and kisses him sweetly, like it’s his last day on earth. 

When he pulls back, hand clutched at the fabric of Jake’s shirt, he announces, sing-song and tipsy and playful, “The Dodgers are beating Texaaas…”

“Get out of here,” Jake scoffs, which just makes Rooster break into a smile.

And then Rooster (the uncultured and undivine LA fan) retreats to watch Phoenix and Fanboy’s game of pool, Jake orders another beer, and the band starts their next song like it’s nothing.

However, other times, it’s just straight-up provocative.

Jake’s pretty fucking sure that Rooster’s not totally oblivious to his own set up: lounging out in one of the half-reclined beach chairs from across the campfire, one side of a pair of wired headphones in his ear, with a strawberry popsicle that he’s swirling around his mouth. His t-shirt lays crumpled in the sand next to him. Yeah, no chance.

His aviators rest over his eyes, but Jake can still feel his glances that linger for a little too long.

And then a figure blocks part of Jake’s firelight because Phoenix is suddenly standing right there.

Jake raises his eyebrow at her as she sighs, quickly tucking a wayward strand of brunette hair behind her ear, and takes the seat to his right.

There’s a beat of silence, where all Jake can hear is the crackle of the flames and a soft, distant hum of music leaking out of Rooster’s earbuds.

And then she breathes in and says, “Okay, I’m just going to ask. Are you hooking up with Bradley?”

Her bluntness catches him off guard—”Jesus, Trace,” Jake says, slightly jolted. He huffs and relaxes back into his seat. “Lower your voice, huh?” he warns. 

Not because he’s the type of person to care if anyone knows. But he also knows that Rooster’s not quite the type to shout the fact that he’s been blowing Hangman from the rooftop for all to hear. So Jake’s not exactly aiming to start that.

(See? He’s a little less of an asshole everyday.)

Phoenix seems unaffected by his gut-punched reaction.

“It’s fine,” she says. “Team’s playing volleyball. And everybody knows you can’t hear shit once Yale and Harvard start arguing points with Halo and Omaha.” 

The heavy commotion of yells, brags, and challenges, with a definite lack of actually playing volleyball, coming from the sand court backs up her claims. Jake glances at the clamoring pilots, rowdy and loud, before dragging his attention back to Phoenix.

“Plus,” she continues, “Rooster’s busy trying to be…” She purses her lips, glancing over at him, seemingly unimpressed. “…Seductive, I guess. But whatever, I know he has The Cranberries blasting through his headphones.”

She turns back to Jake with an impossibly blank expression. “So?” she asks.

Jake narrows his gaze, and then huffs out an unamused, “Sure, yeah,” with a tone that just makes Phoenix roll her eyes. “If you’re that interested,” he adds.

“Ugh, don’t say that,” she groans, tipping her over the back of her chair. “You guys are not some reality TV show that I’m keeping up with.”

Jake just raises his eyebrow again. Phoenix is a bird of prey. He’s unsure where she’s going with this.

And then Halo yells for her from the volleyball court—something about points, and digs, and crushing Fanboy’s team into a pulp. And so Phoenix stands, and drops her sunglasses over her eyes, and turns to Jake.

“Just don’t be a player, Hangman,” she says, appearing to have somewhat given up on whatever she was fully building to, compressing it all into a tagline. And then she runs off to seemingly assist Halo and Bob’s team to victory.

It’s probably the lamest piece of advice that Jake’s ever gotten. If you could even call it that.

He thinks about the dullness of it as he watches Phoenix retreat to the court, catching the volleyball when Bob tosses it to her. Thinks about it as his gaze falls back to Rooster, who’s halfway through his popsicle, and has his head slightly tilted to the side as if he was trying to read their lips. And then he even briefly considers the implications again later, when he’s got Rooster up against a cement shed on the late deserted beach, the sounds of their rapid, uneven breathing blending into the soft crashing waves.

“What—did Nat say—to you?” Rooster asks, slow and breathless, in between kisses.

So that’s when Jake momentarily contemplates it again, and still to no significant avail.

It’s useless advice.

Jake isn’t an idiot. He’s a top fighter pilot, an improved wingman, and probably no more than three quarters of an asshole these days. But he’s not a player. Not in any matters other than those shitty bar games that Javy keeps nightmarishly creating.

It’s obvious: Playing someone requires their heart to be on the line while yours is not. Here, with his hands on Rooster’s bare chest while Rooster’s hands weave through his hair, neither of their hearts are anywhere close.

Their mouths might act differently, but—it’s nonsensical.

“Nothin’ important,” Jake says vaguely. He can almost feel Rooster’s face contort slightly. Probably kissing Jake back with a curious expression laced into his brows, but he’s hard betting that Rooster won’t inquire further. Not once Jake grabs at the waistband of his shorts and asks, “Can I?”

“Oh—yeah, okay,” Rooster quickly responds, breathless and flustered. It tells Jake that he’s gambled right.

It’s kind of exhilarating, moving down Rooster’s body.

Jake hasn’t gotten to do this yet. 

Not that he’s refused to, and not that he hasn’t thought about it—because he definitely has, as a non-selfish diplomat trying to get his score even with Rooster’s. But then time and time again, Jake had finished and Rooster had just smiled, satisfied, at Jake, exhausted.

But now it’s his turn.

Rooster’s skin is warm in the gentle breeze, salty like the ocean, and sensitive in the way that he causes him to breathe heavily and curse softly as soon as Jake gets his mouth on him.

And it’s kind of immediately all consuming—how Rooster’s breaths heave and hitch, how his fingers in Jake’s hair squeeze and let go, how his voice trembles at the edges when he mutters, “ Fuck, Jake.” Absolutely stomach-flipping stuff.

Jake finds himself carefully executing every trick he’s ever had in the book, just to coax out curse words and groans and shaky breaths. When he glances up at him, Rooster’s eyes are shut tight as his sounds become more rapid and strained and desperate.

For a moment, he considers their volume. 

But then he drops the concern. The only thing worse than someone hearing them would be Rooster quiet and muffled, he thinks. Jake decides he wants every decibel he can get. The risk is worth the song.

To him, Rooster seems to think the same, glancing down at Jake every so often with those glittering eyes scrunched with pleasure. If he can think, that is. If his head isn’t completely scattered and blank the way Jake kind of hopes it is.

And then it’s over. With a final shudder from Rooster and a crash from the waves, Jake swallows.

They sit in a pause for a second, where the waves sound a little softer and Rooster’s breaths stop catching and start to calm instead. His hands slip out of Jake’s hair (completely and utterly disheveled now, by the way), and he shifts to press his palms over his closed eyes. 

“You good?” Jake asks, finally rising from where he’s been kneeling. He watches as Rooster breathes one slow sigh out, and tries to be careful as he fixes Rooster’s shorts.

“Yeah,” Rooster says. “I’m good.”

He runs his hands through his hair, half tousled from the beach air, half messy from Jake. But then he breaks into a small smile and gazes at Jake with languid eyes. “Too good to be true, actually,” he adds with a teasing smile. His fingers start to slowly trail up Jake’s arms.

Jake snorts. Whatever. 

“Hey,” Jake says, and watches as Rooster focuses, hands stilling. And then, in a slightly lower volume, he asks, “Is it true you were listenin’ to The Cranberries earlier?”

To which Rooster purses his lips and narrows his eyes, like this is something he’s unsure about admitting. But then he bites his tongue and fights a smile. “I like Zombie. And Linger, ” he simply states with a shrug. 

And then Jake must look into his eyes for a little too long because Rooster suddenly says, “Okay, I’m going to kiss you now.” And his hands come back to life, one moving to sit at the nape of Jake’s neck and the other tugging him closer by the hem of his shirt.

“As compensation for the blowjob,” Rooster clarifies. “And also just to shut you up.”

“No, they’re good songs,” Jake tries, laughing as Rooster pulls him in. But Rooster’s already got his lips on his.

So, that cements it for Jake.

Phoenix’s warning is baseless. That’s how simple it is. That’s how simple they are.

They’re accessible. Both with no need for complexity, and willing to work with it. There’s no need for being players when they’re not even a game. 

They’re a deal. They’re definitely diplomats. They’re maybe friends. And they’re in a simple and enjoying give-and-get-back.

And the gears run smooth. 

This carefully crafted attitude that Jake has decided on only lasts for so long before it shatters into a million pieces. More specifically, it lasts for three full days. 

First, Jake gets busy for a bit. 

One afternoon, he drives down into the heart of San Diego for a day when old wingmen and WSO’s from his Top Gun class pass through the city. He spends one day begrudgingly summer-cleaning his small military housing because his mom video calls him and then complains about all the dust and unfolded laundry she spots. He talks to Javy, living the engaged life at one of those bougie, all-inclusive resorts.

Rooster isn’t nowhere. The night after the beach, Rooster texts him the link to Reason by The Cranberries with nothing else but a thumbs up emoji. 

Jake does opt to play the song while he cooks dinner.

And then a few nights later, deep into the evening, Jake’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

He’s sprawled on the couch in his dark (and now very clean) living room, using the TV as his only light source, his phone deep in his sweatpants pockets and lodged under him. Playing is one of those shitty match-making reality shows that Jake had told himself he’d stop watching twenty minutes ago. But he hasn’t found the grit to turn it off yet.

He contorts his body in order to retrieve his phone, which takes way more energy than it respectfully should. But he’s curious. It’s too late for Javy to be awake, not when he’s been sprawled out in the Hawaiian sun all day.

Instead of Javy’s name, sitting at the bottom of his lock screen in a little notification box is Rooster’s contact.

And a little message reading: Hey, wyd?

Jake snorts. It’s probably the closest to ‘u up?’ that Rooster can muster.

He types out to Rooster: very busy. jennifer from new york is about to give tyler from delaware a rose.

Are you watching The Bachelor right now? Rooster asks.

Jake glances back up to the program. bachelorette actually, he responds.

He watches Jennifer from New York rethink her decision for the second time as Rooster types. He considers that poor Jennifer might be too indecisive to pick a boyfriend this way.

You could watch that at my place, Rooster texts. And Jake breaks into a small smile. Because it’s so simple. And it’s so not subtle.

very smooth. send me another song first and then i’ll think about it, Jake teases. But he’s eyeing his car keys on the counter, and his hoodie folded over his chair, and he’s making a vague route in his mind towards the general direction of Rooster’s house.

And he assumes it’s going to take longer. Which is fine. An extra minute or two watching Jennifer confess that Tyler’s frosted tips might actually be a deal breaker is nothing if Rooster’s digging through his music.

But Rooster replies almost instantly, as if he's just been waiting for Jake to ask.

He sends Closer by Nine Inch Nails. And then Jake is fully sitting upward on his couch. And he’s quickly found the grit to leave Jennifer to sort her floral problems by herself. 

jfc, Jake types. send address. 

Five minutes in the car, five miles over the speed limit has never felt longer. He plugs his car’s aux into his phone and lets the song play. It somehow slows time down while speeding up Jake’s heart bpm.

Rooster opens the door in a white t-shirt and pajama pants. 

“Hey,” he says as Jake stands under his porch light, hands in his hoodie’s pocket.

“Hi,” Jake says back.

In layout, Rooster’s house is just a flipped floor plan of Jake’s. It’s clean and quiet, if maybe a little scarce. He’s got an organized kitchen upon entrance, a living room with cards laying on the coffee table, and a hallway stretching back into where Jake knows a bedroom is, because his hallway stretches just the same.

Jake could probably walk it all blind. The military housing architects are quite a creative bunch.

“Want a drink?” Rooster asks, breaking the silence of them standing in the middle of the living room. 

“Sure,” Jake says, letting Rooster crack open and pass him a can of whatever beer he’s keeping in his fridge. He’s not really thirsty—doing Rooster sober isn’t really a problem to him—but he’s trying to give Rooster something to do. Rooster, who, it seems, has no idea how to invite Jake down the hallway.

Jake takes one sip of his olive-branch beer, and then sets it on Rooster’s counter along with his keys and his green hoodie once he pulls it over his head.

“You wanna…” Rooster starts.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Jake finishes. 

Rooster’s room is simple, with a king’s size bed in the middle, sheets slightly scattered from restlessness. There’s a desk in the corner with a few papers and pens, and a TV on the wall playing low soft rock.

And that’s about as much as Jake is able to observe before he meets Rooster’s eyes, and reaches for Rooster’s collar, and kisses him hungry.

Rooster smells like sandalwood and a fresh shower, and his hair is slightly cold between Jake’s fingers. Rooster’s touch, on the other hand, finds its way to Jake’s waist, and his fingers run up and down Jake’s sides and around his sweatpant’s waistband, tracing circles and swirls over his skin.

Slow and gentle but with instinctive precision, Rooster kisses between the thin line of all the time in the world and not enough tonight. He kisses easy, like he’s convinced the sun will never rise, right before he licks into Jake’s mouth and quickly bites down, like he’s suddenly starving.

And it makes Jake’s head swirl, to a point where he almost can’t concentrate enough to keep up. But, then, he’s never been one to back down from a challenge, so, obviously, he doesn’t let Rooster completely steer them for too long.

Jake grabs and tugs at the bottom hem of Rooster’s soft t-shirt as he manages to demand, breathless and between kisses and right against Rooster’s lips, “Off.”

Rooster listens, pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor by his bed. He throws his dog tags too, and they land cushioned on top with a little clink of metal.

The whole movement separates them for a devastating moment, but Jake quickly gets over it because then he’s got Rooster, shirtless and tanned and eyes aglint, standing in front of him, trying to fight a small smile. And what else is Jake supposed to do except for kiss it right off his face?

Rooster’s fingers thread into Jake’s hair when they reconnect, and Jake takes his opportunity.

The opportunity being to get his hands all over Rooster, fully fucking unabashedly. 

And there’s some type of humor in it, Jake thinks for a moment. He’s a top fucking pilot—two kills under his belt, trained to stay strong under the weight of concentrated gravity, disciplined and calm at thirty thousand feet up in the air to fly, and observe, and react accordingly. He threads needles, for god’s sake.

But then Rooster takes his shirt off, and he’s disarmed completely.

Because, Jesus. It’s hard to not react to Rooster.

It’s something about what he does, what he is, how he sounds when Jake’s got him on the edge—magnetic. Sometimes, Jake tries to keep his demeanor when they’re like this (pressed against each other, breathing the same air), but it’s like asking a candle not to melt when lit. Jake just can’t keep his eyes sharp and his mind calculating when Rooster’s brushing a hand through his hair and kissing him like he’s trying to hit a quota.

A quota for how many times can Jake try to form a thought before Rooster licks at his lips and all words suddenly dissolve as if they were never there in the first place. All words except maybe fuck. 

Rooster’s got words, though.

Against Jake’s teeth, in patches of breath in between kisses, he asks, quiet, “Do you want me to turn something on?”

“Hm?” Jake hums, brows scrunched while all his focus is more concerned with kissing Rooster’s mouth instead of letting it talk.

“Like on TV,” Rooster clarifies, ever so muffled under Jake’s lips.

And Jake freezes, blinking slowly, face centimeters away from Rooster’s, as he watches Rooster’s gaze shift back and forth from his mouth to his eyes. “Are you talking about The Bachelorette right now?” he asks.

And Rooster’s pulled back now, breathing slightly labored and lips slightly pink, but his hands are still on Jake as he shifts the fabric of Jake’s shirt between his fingers, eager to get it off. But first, he just shrugs. “It’s like white noise,” he just says. “Some people like that.”

“Rooster,” Jake says. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious,” Rooster says, easy, like it’s nothing. He brushes the sleeve of Jake’s t-shirt up over his shoulder to draw circles on his skin. He shrugs and tilts his head, watching Jake’s skin prickles under his fingers. “It’s not, like, a weird thing. I mean, I don’t care, so it’s whatever you wa—”

“Bradley.” 

“What?” Rooster says, gaze quickly flicking up to meet Jake’s. His eyes are still and sparkling and stupidly sultry as he just waits for Jake to talk, small smile sitting on his face. His hands still rustle at Jake’s shirt. 

“Shut up,” Jake huffs. 

And then he puts a firm hand in the middle of Rooster’s chest and shoves like he means it, landing Rooster flat on the bed with wide eyes and a sharp breath out.

The chain of Jake’s dog tags jangle when he pulls his shirt over his head and lets it drop to the floor, the same as Rooster’s. Which seems to easily get Rooster over the betrayal of Jake’s push, as Jake wastes no time to crawl up and over Rooster, dog tags softly swinging between them. 

“I didn’t come here for that,” Jake says, hushed like a confession, as he leans over Rooster. Calloused hands snake onto his torso and gentle fingertips slip under his sweatpant’s waistband. That’s what he came for, Jake wants to say.

But then Rooster licks his lips, grabs his chain with two fingers, and pulls him down hard enough to crash. And Jake lets him.

Jennifer from New York is on her own completely now. RIP.

But Jake has better things to do.

It doesn’t take much to escalate them once Jake has Rooster down and under him. But then Jake makes a decision—a decision that he gets to make because, now, they’re not shoved in the corner of a bar’s bathroom, or cramped in the back of a car, and Jake’s on top of Rooster, face five inches away. And Rooster lays there under him, eyes glowing and curious, letting Jake steer them along.

So, Jake’s decision— slow. He takes it slow.

He starts at Rooster’s collarbone. 

Easy kisses that become hot and open, licks that taste like skin, the gentlest bites that Jake hopes will color; he leaves them all. He takes his time. He moves from collar down to chest, trailing his mouth over tanned skin.

And he doesn’t get a lot of feedback from Rooster, who sometimes shifts under Jake, sighing, sheets under his head rustling as he moves. But taking from the way Rooster’s breath audibly picks up when he bites, or the way Rooster’s fingers tighten and then loosen around his waist—well, Jake would assume any feedback would be quite positive. He’s giving Rooster that type of unsatisfied satisfaction. 

Maybe it’s a little bit of revenge for the car service.

Thinking of revenge, Jake takes a chance while he’s there. He purses his lips in concentration, running his idea around and around in his head. And then he executes, licking from under one of Rooster’s pectorals straight up and over the nipple. And he finds himself very satisfied with the tensing of Rooster’s body, the tightening of his grip, and the sound that escapes from the back of Rooster’s throat. 

“Fuck, Seresin,” Rooster says, voice slightly strained from how he has to hold his head up to catch Jake’s eyes, down at his torso. It’s half sultry and half a fuck-you. Jake just smiles.

He keeps moving. There’s a lot more ground to cover. Very slowly. He can’t have Rooster getting too riled up too early.

However, when he gets further down Rooster’s torso, he pauses for a second. Pauses because he notices marks on Rooster’s sides. Ones that he didn’t leave, specifically. 

Light lines of bruises that follow the pull of the straps of a parachute, or the fabric of a distressed flight suit, sit painted on Rooster’s abdomen, the skin around slightly rougher. Lines of bruises that he had overlooked in the beach’s evening sun, and missed in the bedroom lighting. 

He runs a finger over the small injury, touch following the ridges of Rooster’s ribs. Rooster seems to recognize the area.

“Oh, those are—Parachute got me,” he explains, breath still hitched from Jake’s work.

“They hurt?” Jake asks.

“No, they’re—Not anymore,” Rooster says. “They’re fine now.”

“Okay,” Jake says. He lifts himself further up on Rooster to meet his eyes, his dog tags dragging across his chest as he moves. “I’ll be gentle,” he says with sharp eyes and a slight grin.

“Don’t you dare,” Rooster huffs, expression focusing.

Jake just laughs and continues.

By the time he gets to Rooster’s v-line, chin hitting the waistband of Rooster’s pants, Rooster is (how should he put this?) a fucking mess. He shifts, he huffs out sighs, and he tenses to watch Jake before throwing his head back into the mattress, doing everything shy of whining. His restlessness just makes Jake want to string it out longer. Quite a terrible cycle. 

Eventually, Jake lifts himself up, sitting over Rooster in a straddle, wipes his lips and observes his work. His work being the vague but indiscreet path of markings and nicks that runs in a swirl down Rooster’s body. An art piece, Jake considers. He’d be willing to frame it.

Rooster’s chest rises and falls as he lays with dark eyes and disheveled hair from his own hands constantly running through it. He doesn’t check to see what Jake’s left behind on him. He only stares at Jake himself, gaze deep and sultry.

Jake decides he’s fulfilled.

He leans back down to kiss Rooster, who happily and eagerly meets his mouth, hungry for something to move them along. And Jake gives it to him, kissing him sweet, and finally dragging his hand over Rooster’s chest and down to his crotch. 

He gives—except for when he firmly holds Rooster’s hips down into the bed when Rooster tries to buck them up.

Rooster fully whines against his mouth. 

“ Fuck. Will you stop being an asshole?” Rooster complains, eyes swirly and glossy when Jake catches them. Apparently the open-mouthed kisses that Jake is letting Rooster very messily have aren’t generous enough.

“‘ Asshole ?’” Jake asks, a smile growing on his lips. “C’mon, Bradshaw,” he teases, playing with the way Rooster’s physical impatience grows. “I’m about to let you fuck me,” Jake then says with a lowered tone. And Rooster’s body slows to a halt. “I’m thinkin’ that’s real kind of me, don’t you?”

And then he watches as Rooster inhales deep, and then exhales a slow, regulated breath back out, seemingly fighting for a few more degrees of composure. He meets Jake’s eyes with a gaze slightly clearer, and simply but determinedly says, “Okay.”

And then he lifts himself up from the bed, meets Jake in the middle, who’s still straddled over his lap, and kisses him sweet. Jake lets his shit-eating grin dissolve into something more concentrated.

Once Rooster’s back upright, things move a lot faster.

He has to go reach for condoms at a point, in which Jake takes the opportunity to finally shuffle his cursedly thick sweatpants off, and target Rooster’s pajama pants next. 

Rooster works on opening Jake up slowly but surely, with an endless slew of witty remarks to comment with, while all Jake can do is lay there and breathe. It’s definitely payback. And good payback, at that. 

It’s not enough to make Jake regret his stunt, he determines. The small but visible marks peppered down Rooster’s torso are a constant reward.

Jake lets out an impatient breath when they’re finally comfortable at three. 

“Okay,” he says, pushing himself up a bit from where he’s propped up against Rooster’s headboard. “I’m good,” he decides.

Rooster steals a kiss while Jake shifts. “Yeah? ‘Cause I could just do this all night,” Rooster proposes, pupils dilating at whatever scrunch face Jake makes when he slightly curls his fingers.

“You save that promise,” Jake huffs out. He’s sure he’ll cash it in later. But for now, he’s already decided what he wants, and he’s sure that Rooster won’t complain once he catches the drift.

Rooster just cracks a smile and gently pulls out, letting Jake shudder a little before regaining composure. He breathes out and sits up, reaching for Rooster to kiss while trying to rearrange them. 

“Let me?” Jake asks against Rooster’s mouth, pushing at his hips. Meaning, really, lay down.

Rooster understands nonetheless. 

With both of them on the same page, Jake gets Rooster resting back on the mattress, head nicely on the pillow. Meanwhile, Jake’s saddled over Rooster, the position growing ever so familiar. 

And once Jake gets Rooster lined up, and once he’s in—well, they’re closer than just familiar at that point. And Jake finds it considerably harder to string this part out than the part before.

Jake still starts them carefully, at least, one hand steadying himself on the bed and the other settled on Rooster’s torso. He shifts himself forward and back, moving slowly but rhythmically, trying to set a pace as the comfort seeps in.

It’s really all it takes. They breathe in their handmade silence, with a low tune of music playing out of focus. Rooster’s hands find his hips as he alternates from guiding Jake down to drawing swirls on his skin as Jake exhales shaky breaths.

And it’s good. It’s really good.

Jake’s got his head craned upward, studying the ceiling, as his lungs force out breathy huffs that come out heavier and heavier. He can feel Rooster’s fingers trace down his abs, and he can feel other parts of Rooster—and he can feel how it’s all gradually taking over his senses.

And Jake had thought that night at the beach was all consuming. Whatever’s happening now, Rooster under him, is something more. All encompassing, all distracting. Jake doesn’t have the words.

The only word he has is good.

And then something terrible happens.

Jake finally looks down at Rooster, meets his eyes—which are dark and glittering, as they carefully blink back up at Jake, slow with pleasure—and he realizes that he looks beautiful.

Not beautiful in the sexy; eyes-across-the-bar; drunken decision you keep coming back to type of way. Because Jake already knows that. Very well.

But beautiful in a shattering; want to be here forever; wake up next to this; about to put a ring on it way. Beautiful in a breathless; every day for the rest of his life way. 

And it almost makes Jake freeze, when he notices the terribly complex twinge that has jabbed its way into his chest.

Because it’s clear in the moment. 

So terrifying clear, that whenever Jake had been confident he was not wearing his heart on his sleeve, he had instead been wearing it directly on his fucking mouth for Rooster to come kiss away. Placing it right on the line. 

What he had sworn neither of them were doing three full days ago.

Phoenix’s claim—admittingly, not so baseless. Just warned to the wrong fucking half of them. 

But then Rooster’s hands clutch at his hips, and Jake falls back to reality, where Rooster (looking devastatingly better every moment because it’s not going away) is looking at him with a glassy expression that he’s attempting to clear.

His voice breaks through the descending fog as he says, words layered with heavy breath and a caring twinge, “Jake?” 

And Jake exhales at the sound of Rooster’s voice, unconsciously relaxing so much to the point where Rooster slips deeper in and brushes over the spot. And suddenly Jake’s body folds him at the stomach, as Rooster’s hands on his waist guide to pull him down further.

“Fuck, Bradley,” Jake bites out, feeling gut-punched and alive. And then both their breathing picks up, hard and heavy, and Jake decides that this is where he’s going to will his focus to be. He opts to ignore everything else.

Because obviously the solution to Jake’s earth-shattering realization is to let Rooster fuck it out of him. 

Which shouldn’t be too difficult at this point. 

Whatever carefulness they started with has evolved into calamity. Jake’s probably a shred of force away from completely slamming into Rooster, not at all softened by Rooster’s hands clawing into his waist. Each time hits harder than the last, and the all consuming sounds of breath on breath and skin on skin takes up enough of Jake's brain—that, maybe, he wouldn’t be that surprised if another, specific, horrifyingly relationship-altering thought was rattled away altogether.

It’s like a fucking earthquake.

And then they hit that point of no return, curses slipping out of Jake’s mouth while Rooster lets out large shuddering breaths, hands holding tightly and hips hitting hard. And then, suddenly, one of Rooster’s hands slips off his waist and, instead, wraps around Jake’s dick and strokes —and that’s the fucking peak.

And Jake squeezes his eyes shut, and lets out probably the most sensual “Oh, fuck” possible, but, honestly, he can barely hear it because the rest of his world is pure chaos.And then it’s all still again.

Jake clutches a hand on Rooster’s chest just to keep himself upright, breaths coming out hitched and shaky, and head feeling like it’s deprived of air. Rooster lays there, motionless, except for a hand that he pulls from Jake’s waist, which he lifts to wipe over his face and into his hair, exhausted.

They’re still and silent, both of their lungs fighting for a more normal amount of breaths per minute, eyes meeting in the middle. Rooster’s languid eyes look like they’re about to drift off to sleep, and Jake thoroughly ignores the twang somewhere deep in his chest when he catches a pretty glint in Rooster’s gaze.

And then, breaking through their hushed eye contact, comes the low music from the TV, no longer overshadowed by louder sounds and larger focuses.

And Linger by The fucking Cranberries starts playing. And Jake just hides a smile, covering his face with his hands while Rooster laughs.

Jake doesn’t sleep over. In some type of effort to not rub salt into whatever wound he has going on. He leaves sometime around three. The damage is already done.

Unsurprisingly, finishing on top of Rooster with Rooster’s hands all over him has not solved his problem.

More unsurprisingly, that twinge of unfelt, bottomless desire does not go away once Jake wakes up in the late morning after crashing back into his own home. In fact, it does not go away at all.

And Jake tries many solutions.

Not seeing Rooster does not make it go away. Jake spends a full day re-cleaning his whole house. He leaves his phone untouched in his bedroom, and only lets his speaker play music unclaimed by Rooster’s recommendations. However, by the time he’s dusted and reorganized each shelf in his living room, he finds that not much has changed.

Running eight miles at a suicide pace the next day does not make it go away. Bingeing the rest of Jennifer from New York’s Bachelorette season and then some does not make it go away.

And then, of course, seeing Rooster again probably makes it worse.

It’s not Jake’s fault that Rooster texts two days after their late night and invites him out for wine tasting with Fanboy and Bob.

“I thought you were supposed to go to, like, Napa for wine country,” Jake comments, picking a cracker from the charcuterie board before glancing over at Rooster.

They’re sitting outside somewhere in San Diego’s downtown, at a busy winery that Fanboy picked (who, Jake learns, is just as much a fan of red as he is of movies). The sun is hot, but the outdoor fans are working overtime, and Rooster’s eyes glint in the sunshine as Jake sips his drink.

“You’re in California,” Rooster shrugs, grabbing a cherry from the same board as a small smile cracks through his words. “It’s all wine country,” he says, gazing at Jake with those stupidly alluring eyes.

“Best fucking base, man,” Fanboy announces, slapping his hand down onto the wooden table. “Hollywood two hours to the north, and wine in every other direction. Heaven.”

“Have you driven up yet?” Bob asks, eyes slightly wide in case Fanboy chooses to hit the table and shake their glasses again. “I’ve heard LA is nice in the summer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Fanboy nods, admittingly. “Multiple times.”

And Jake—earnestly, as a decent and maybe even good person— does try to listen to Fanboy’s stories of the stars of the sidewalk and the big letters on the hill.

But it’s not Jake’s fault that Rooster’s sitting across from him, eyes trailing down and back up the way they tend to do, very much demanding Jake’s attention despite what’s polite. With Fanboy’s rambling on half volume, Jake watches as Rooster grabs another cherry, pops it into his mouth, and then spends a few seconds seemingly swishing his tongue around closed lips. And then he meets Jake’s eyes, sticks his tongue out, and showcases a little cherry stem tied into a knot sitting on top.

And Jake realizes he can’t hear Fanboy’s words at all. It’s radio silence.

So, it’s really not Jake’s fault that he ends up back at Rooster’s house that night. Even if he knows he’s not going to get out of it unscathed.

They’re all over each other the moment the front door closes behind them. In a minute, they’ve knocked all of the two throw pillows off Rooster’s couch and onto the floor. Rooster doesn’t seem to care. He simply pushes Jake onto the sofa and climbs over him, lips tasting like saltine crackers and sweet fruit.

“By the way,” Jake starts, when Rooster breaks their kiss and, instead, moves his lips down Jake’s jaw to his neck. “How the hell did you do that?”

“Do what?” Rooster asks, not bothering to shift from his position. Jake feels the vibration of his words in his throat. 

“The fuckin’—” Jake’s voice hitches as Rooster licks a stripe up the side of his neck. “Jesus,” he continues. “The cherry stem.”

Rooster lets out a little laugh, finally pulling up from his fixation. Straddled over Jake with a grin, he says, “You noticed that.”

And before Jake can even start to explain to Rooster just how much he fucking noticed—Rooster shifts his weight and leans off of the couch and off of Jake. He grabs one of the square pillows strewn onto the floor, dark blue and linen, and places it on Jake's chest, unfazed when Jake just raises his eyebrow at him.

“For your head,” Rooster clarifies. 

Jake snorts. “Are you serious?” he asks. But he doesn’t fight as Rooster pushes his arms up and back, tucking the pillow behind his back, propped against the couch.

“I’m always serious,” Rooster tells him. His hands start to run down Jake’s torso as he states, with a lower voice, “I’m serious about showing you what I can do with my mouth, beyond cherries.” 

And he leans down quickly, catching Jake in a deep kiss, hands circling around his waist and tugging at his belt loops. And then he slowly pulls back and states, inches from Jake’s face, “I’m also serious about not breaking your neck.”

“Someone’s confident,” Jake flirts, arms still held up, biceps on display.

Rooster shrugs, that glint in his eye, looking radiant as ever. His fingers tap on the metal of Jake’s belt’s clasp.

“Maybe I’m just trying to impress you,” he explains, low and sultry and beautiful. “Can I?” he then asks, eyes shifting down Jake’s body and back up.

And—honestly, taking everything into account—it’s really not Jake's fault at all that he obviously fucking says yes.

Not being at fault does not stop whatever yearn blooms in Jake’s chest after. So that’s a fourth solution voided.

But maybe solutions are overrated, Jake eventually decides.

Two more times it happens—meaning, two more times they’re together and Jake feels that strange heartfelt tug clawing its way through his being. In the nights after, it runs loops around his head that bore him until he falls asleep, but he finds that it all seems to settle when Rooster’s mouth is actively on him, and so that’s all Jake needs. 

It’s a glitch, is what it is. It’s a little typo in their drawn-up, diplomatic exchange deal. But it’s all still readable and comprehensible, which means that it’s completely bearable. Easily, at that.

Or—Jake’s convinced it is. Convinced it will be. 

He’s laying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling with his phone pressed against his ear. The Astros are playing the Dodgers again at a very low volume on the TV. It’s not going too great. Jake’s been there for moral support. He’s also been there to diligently listen to Javy talk about snorkeling with Cassie, and the absolute amount of coconut he thinks they’ve both ingested over the last two and a half weeks. 

On a whim, he asks Javy, “Hey, what do you think the signs are that, like, you love someone?”

In his defense, it’s late at night.

In his prosecution, he should learn to stop staying up.

Javy lets out some kind of laugh over the line. “Do you mean the signs that someone loves you?” he asks back. “Who have you met?”

Jake ignores the latter question. “No, I meant it the first way,” he says.

Javy’s quiet for a second, a wolf hungry for context. “Okay, man,” he finally says. “How to know if you’re in love with someone…” he trails.

“In love” is strong phrasing—Jake wants to say. But he keeps his mouth shut.

“Well, I think first sign would just be that you want to spend time with them, you know?” Javy says.

Jake squints and shifts to face the baseball game. He wouldn’t quite say that describes him. Not completely, at least.

The Astros are a couple runs down, halfway through the final inning. 

“Second sign… You think about them when they’re not around, I think. Maybe even when they are around. I mean, Cass is six feet away from me and I am definitely thinking about her,” Javy says, very much not directed at Jake. But then he hears a little bit of shuffling over the line, and Javy announces, defeated, “She threw a napkin at me.”

Jake snorts.

He can’t quite remember if he always kept his phone’s ringer on, waiting for the ding of a text that might be Rooster. He’s pretty sure that the habit predates their diplomacy. Mission callings make dings, too. So that’s a second negative.

“Third would be… you hold onto things, maybe,” Javy says. “Like, okay, this is embarrassing. I took Cass to the zoo once, and we did, like, that stupid penny press thing. And then I let her believe I really liked those, just so she would keep making me weird, elongated pennies. I still have them all,” Javy admits, surely running a hand over his face.

Jake purses his lips slightly as his eyes brush over a crumpled white t-shirt thrown over the back of one of his kitchen chairs. He stills for a moment.

It’s not something that he’s been keeping, he’d say. Just something that he hasn’t gotten around to returning yet.

“Mine says the Dodgers are gonna win the World Series,” Rooster reported. He was lounged on the other side of the couch, wearing whatever wrinkled pajama pants he had grabbed from the floor after originally discarding. He was sitting there, in a graphic tee that Jake had pulled off him earlier—and he was utterly misrepresenting what his complementary fortune cookie was foretelling.

“Fuckin’ liar,” Jake said, reaching for the fortune as Rooster contorted away from him, his outstretched arm keeping the slip of paper out of reach.

“You’re the whole fuckin’ package, Bradshaw,” Jake muttered, slight accent slipping through his teeth. “A liar and a selfish.”

It had just made Rooster laugh.

Jake shook his head. If there’s one thing about Rooster that riles Jake (other than his eyes, his smile, his talk, his sex—which was the whole reason Jake was in his living room, with a worked-up appetite, eating Chinese well past midnight in the first place)—it would be his unforgivable baseball slander.

It just gets under his skin. It’s maybe one of the only things that does. Rooster’s been aware since flight school.

He just shrugged, not backing down. “Open yours.”

Jake huffed and settled back into Rooster’s couch. He snapped his fortune cookie in two—but only after he kicked a foot into Rooster’s ankle. Rooster just rolled his eyes. Cathartic enough.

In simple aerial text, the rectangle slip of paper read: There is turbulence ahead, but then a sweet reward. Your lucky numbers are 6 and 27. 

Jake pursed his lips and dragged his gaze back to Rooster, who just raised a curious eyebrow.

“Mine says the Astros are gonna win. Dodgers thrown out before semifinals,” Jake announced with a shrug. He kept his gaze sharp as Rooster just shook his head.

“Completely contradictory…” Rooster had trailed with a tsk. Then he stated, “I guess one of these fortunes is lying.”—and the disapproval in his tone was almost convincing, but Jake had already caught a sparkling glint in his eyes.

And so it was no surprise when Rooster pushed himself up from the couch, climbed over Jake, and kissed him deep enough to tilt his head all the way back into the cushion. Jake hooked his free hand into Rooster’s hair, and the kiss tasted ever so slightly like soy sauce.

And then, voice rumbling, muttered against Jake’s mouth, Rooster instead proposed, “Or one of us is lying.”

Jake couldn’t even respond, didn’t even have a comeback—his brain too busy, still clawed onto the casual mention of an “us.” He let out an inadvertent sigh against Rooster’s lips.

Rooster bit back a smile, and then his eyes trailed down Jake’s body as his fingers clutched onto the worn fabric of whatever t-shirt Jake had grabbed off his floor.

And then, even and professionally, with a smile on his lips and a shimmer in his eyes, Rooster had stated, “You’re wearing my shirt.”

Jake drags his eyes back to the TV. The Astros are on a comeback spree, the sports commentator announces. Jake mentally marks N/A for Javy’s third point.

“It’s kind of like having a best friend,” Javy finally says.

“I thought I was your best friend,” Jake comments, ignoring the slight strain in the back of his throat. A lingering tightness that he’s hoping to snuff out. If discarding everything Javy just told him is immoral, well, then, there’s a reason Jake’s calling isn’t Angel .

“Jake, I hate to break it to you, but you and I are not currently engaged,” Javy says, ever so sincere.

“This is upsetting,” Jake states, letting himself smile because maybe it will distract his senses enough.

Javy laughs, and it eases Jake a little. But then he immediately complains, “It’s crazy that you won’t tell me who you’re seeing.”

Jake runs a hand over his face.

He’s not even sure if he believes in Javy’s stupid three signs. They’re vague, which is unconvincing. They’re dreamy, which is unrealistic. They’re romantic, which Jake and Rooster are not. And honestly—they sound avoidable. 

One thing Jake does believe in, however, is the Texas Astros, who have finally figured out exactly where to aim in order to send the Dodgers’ fielders into chaos. They’re one run away from taking the game to a hail-mary overtime.

And now that Jake knows exactly what he’s looking out for, whatever strange swirl of desire that threatens and blooms in his chest will be weeded out, Jake decides.

So, it seems that things are going fine just the way they are.

“Yeah, say hi to Cassie for me,” Jake says. He doesn’t feel bad about leaving the rest of Javy’s curiosity unfulfilled. It’s practically a handled matter now. Fifth solution’s a charm.

He swears he can hear Javy roll his eyes. 

“Whatever. Night, man,” Javy tells him. 

When Jake finally pulls his attention back to the game, the Astros are up in OT and the Dodgers are scrambling. It’s a very good sign. 

Yeah, things are going fine just the way they are.

Maybe Jake just doesn’t learn. His newfound peace, his sureness—this time, it lasts for two full days. Maybe this time, it’s his fault, though. 

He invites Rooster over to his place. Or, it’s where they end up, at least.

The Daggers are set up off the shore, cheap wooden lounge chairs sitting around a campfire, with packs of beer snug in the sand under the speckled night sky. It’s a familiar sight this summer. They’re sailors on break—hanging out and drinking is all they’re good for.

At least that’s what Fritz had yelled in a cheer when Jake had parked his car and pulled another box of beer out of the backseat, sunglasses sitting on his face along with a shiny smile.

“Hangman’s here!” Halo shouted next, and Jake pretended to not notice whatever swirled in his chest as he watched Rooster whip around from his conversation with Phoenix just to catch his eye. He had his aviators resting over his vision, but Jake still caught that casual glint.

“Huh, turns out the invites just go out to anyone,” Phoenix teased, eyes sharp and on Jake as she bumped her shoulder into Rooster. But then she spotted the drinks Jake dropped by the chairs, and seemed to give in. “Okay, Seresin brought booze. You’re on court, Hangman!” she shouted.

“Well, that’s real kind of you, Trace,” Jake responded, flashing the sweetest smile he could as if he wasn’t sarcastic. But he took her up on the volleyball offer anyway, shooting Rooster a look as he joined the other side of the sand court, high-fiving Fritz on the way. Rooster had just smiled back.

It turns out, if you want your rowdy NAVY sailors to sit quiet and sleepily around a fire under the stars, you have them play their hearts out in competitive volleyball for a few hours first. They’re all wiped by sundown.

Jake is lounged back on one of the chairs, half-listening to Yale and Harvard ramble back and forth. There’s a warm buzz in his chest, and exhaust lingering when he sighs as the pilots’ flow of words never stops. But, really, it’s only background noise to his real focus. That is, watching Rooster from across the campfire.

Phoenix mumbles something to him and he laughs, smile shining in the light and voice only slightly reaching Jake. And it’s really, crazy beautiful.

Jake shifts his eyes. It’s just an observation.

And then Rooster’s suddenly walking up to him, somehow fast and quiet when he’s not so hesitant. 

“Did you see Texas got lucky the other night?” he asks. He’s standing in front of the fire in a second, with a little smile. One hand in his pocket, the other holding onto an almost-empty 12 oz. 

There’s a warm glow of flame settled around his figure as his eyes glitter the way they always do—ethreally. Jake just scoffs. “‘Lucky?’”

Rooster shrugs, all innocent, and takes the empty seat on whichever side of Jake lacks Harvard and Yale’s jabbering. He fits his beer snug into the sand, and sighs out a breath that Jake just wants to steal from him. Jake refocuses.

“Not luck,” Jake continues, eyeing Rooster as he mellowly melts into the chair. “That was strategy, Bradshaw. The Astros are playin’ the long game,” Jake huffs, sharp on every word, yet Rooster doesn’t seem to take it anywhere close to heart. He just stares, chewing on a smile, and flicks his eyes up and down Jake’s layout. 

Jake goes ahead and takes a large sip of his drink. Half because defending his home team from uncultured baseball enthusiasts takes energy, and half because he’s also been letting his eyes trail up and down and back up Rooster like a man who greatly lacks anything else to look at. As if the rest of the world is blank.

“The very long game,” Jake mutters, the end of the sentence trailing off a little.

“Yeah, yeah,” Rooster says, smile tugging at his lips. And then he turns away, reaching down to the sand for his beer, and he mutters something hushed that Jake doesn’t fully catch. Something about doing something one in the same.

“What was that?” Jake asks. Flames still outline Rooster as he takes the last sip of his drink.

And then his eyes finally meet Jake’s, and they’re swirling with something deep and starlike and pretty—and convincing. His voice drops to something soft, almost a whisper against the sounds of the waves and the fire and the chitchat. “I said, Jake, you wanna get out of here?” 

Jake doesn’t have to glance at Phoenix, to see her slumped against Halo, both dead to the world asleep. He doesn’t have to check on Fritz, to make sure he’s still hogging whoever’s blanket is now covered in sand. Hell, he doesn’t even have to listen that hard to hear Harvard and Yale forever talking away.

He’s meeting Rooster’s eyes, which seem to have a language of their own. Jake already knows his answer.

“You’re finally asking practical questions, Bradley.” 

They stop at Jake’s car on the way off the beach. Neither of them can drive at this point, which isn’t really a problem because Jake’s house is just a fifteen minute walk, but the descending breeze is starting to bite. 

“Hold this,” Jake says, passing his still half-full drink to Rooster as he opens his car door. 

Rooster takes a sip as Jake reaches into the backseat of his Chevy. He grabs his green sweatshirt and slips it over his head before passing a blue and orange Houston hoodie back to Rooster. He’s felt Rooster’s t-shirts before—he’s worn them—the thin fabric isn’t going to cut it.

“Here you go, Dodger,” Jake says as sweetly as he can, taking back his drink.

Rooster just bites back his laugh and pulls the hoodie on. It ruffles his hair on the way over his head, and Jake just takes a sip of his beer as he pushes the car door shut.

“Was that a cowboy hat I saw in there?” Rooster mentions, a growing smile sitting on his face. The doors mechanically click locked.

“You can only take the boy out of Texas,” Jake shrugs with a sure smile. His glance at Rooster is sharp as he shoves his keys into his pocket, and brings his glass back to his lips.

Rooster shrugs back. “Well, save a horse, right?”

It almost makes Jake choke. On cheap, convenience store beer, in the middle of the beach parking lot, in the dead of night, with Rooster fucking Bradshaw trying to stifle his laugh, and only getting away with it because he might be the most beautiful person humanity has ever gifted Jake with the presence of.

What a devastating way to go it'd be.

Jake’s house is just a slightly more crammed reflection of Rooster’s. It’s clean, obviously, with the amount of obscure stress cleaning Jake’s been dabbling in, it’s just packed with more stuff. Photos on the shelves, DVDs that his mom keeps sending, Rooster’s t-shirt still sitting over by the counter.

Jake wouldn’t call it too interesting. But Rooster seems to be enjoying the way he slinks around the living room as Jake tosses his now-empty beer bottle in the recycling.

“Who’s this?” Rooster asks, hand hovering over a picture frame sitting on the TV stand, hesitant to touch. Jake takes a few steps closer to the living room, leaning in to see what Rooster’s focused on.

“That’s my sister’s kid,” Jake says. The picture’s from a few years back. In which, Jake’s hair is shorter and his niece is smaller, and she’s wearing an oversized youth leather jacket with Hangman stitches and TOPGUN patches sewed around. 

“Wow,” Rooster says, studying the picture like Jake’s about to quiz him. “Does everyone in your family just have those eyes, then?”

Jake’s pulling his sweatshirt over his head as he asks, muffled, “What eyes?” He drops the hoodie over the back of one of the kitchen's chairs, folding it lazily as Rooster continues.

“You know,” Rooster huffs. “Your eyes.”

Jake just raises his eyebrow.

“Your eyes—” Rooster just repeats. “Sheer green and blinding? They spark like fireworks in the sunlight. You’re a nightmare to make eye contact with,” he complains, but Jake just bites on a smug smile. He’s caught Rooster’s shameless gaze far too many times this summer for him to claim suffering now.

Jake just shrugs.

“You’re lying if you say you’ve never noticed,” Rooster says.

“You’re lying if you say you’ve never noticed,” Jake shoots back.

Rooster just shakes his head and doesn’t hesitate. “Okay, enough banter,” he decides. Jake just snorts.

But then Rooster pulls the Houston hoodie over his head, and Jake purses his lips as the thick fabric drags Rooster’s t-shirt up with it. He stills with the jacket in his hand, unsure where to put it as he stands halfway between the living room and the kitchen. Hair tousled, eyes analytical, before he spots Jake’s hoodie sitting on the chair, and walks over to lay his neatly on top—it just riles Jake up.

And then, of course, the small smile he wears when he’s there, standing in front of Jake, doesn’t help at all.

And Jake feels that uncalled for twinge, unserious and impractical.

But firstly, he’s never not been stubborn. 

And secondly, the only thing Jake feels, that’s stronger than that terrifying swirl of desire, is his growing urge to shove his hands into Rooster’s already disheveled hair, and kiss him the way that they’re both just standing there, thinking about.

So, naturally, Jake listens to his senses. His jet-flying, TOPGUN-graduating, life-saving senses that tell him that one more night is no big deal. And, god, he loves those senses when they tell him what he wants to hear.

So, sensically, Jake grabs Rooster by the hem of his thin t-shirt (not unlike the one Jake already has laying around his house), and drags him in until their lips crash together in a kiss.

And, of course, Rooster kisses back, ever a diplomat.

And once they’re together, Rooster’s lips slightly parting under Jake’s, kissing in a way that’s careful but starts to creep into something more, they don’t really stop.

Even once they’ve stumbled down the hall to Jake’s bedroom, and Jake’s up against the headboard, breathing slow as Rooster carefully pushes into him—he’s still got Rooster’s lips on his.

It’s kind of addicting, though.

The back of Jake’s head is digging into his bed’s wooden frame, and maybe it should be giving him a headache at this point, but the adrenaline is drowning it all out. Even if Jake did complain, though, it’d just be swallowed down by Rooster, who kisses through his rhythm like a thief of every sound and word Jake could try to make.

He breathes shaky, skin on skin, and Jake is fully fucking eclipsed. 

And then he pulls his hand from Jake’s hair, and wraps it around Jake’s dick, lightly stroking a pattern that falls in line with the tempo of his hips. And then not even Rooster’s messy, focus-consuming kisses can hold down the shameless blabbering that falls out of Jake’s mouth.

Muffled under Rooster’s lips and overshadowed by the increasing sound of Rooster’s thrusts picking up pace, Jake doesn’t even know half of what he’s saying. 

Strained curses, muttered callsigns, desperate names. Anything that Jake’s brain doesn’t have to reach too far for, he gasps against Rooster’s lips.

“Fuck, Bradley, fuck,” Jake breathes out, hands running into Rooster’s hair and tightening around chosen strands of curls. 

Rooster doesn’t say much back, focused on keeping a rhythm and keeping Jake’s lips messily on his, but Jake can feel a smile peeking through his kisses. And alongside that, his occasional groans that vibrate into Jake’s throat speak for themself.

It just riles Jake up further, moaning Rooster’s real name in a way that should be embarrassing.

“Jake, this is really fucking good,” Rooster suddenly whispers, voice strained and dripping in pleasure. It shuts Jake up.

Because he’s right. It’s really fucking good. It’s hot and it’s addictive and it’s overwhelming—maybe even more so than the last time, because now, Jake’s not even doing any work. He’s got Rooster on top of him, and all he has to do is lay there and kiss him like it’s the only thing he knows how to do at all.

For a second, Jake hits his head back into the headboard, just to get a good look at Rooster. 

Rooster freezes for a second, hips slowing and eyes slightly wide in reaction to Jake’s jolt.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft and breathy. His hair is out of place, his lips are wet and pink, and his gaze is pretty, waiting for Jake’s response. And it’s kind of the most perfect he’s ever looked, Jake decides.

“I’m really fucking good, apparently,” Jake answers in one quick exhale, only sorry that Rooster’s hips have slowed their rock. How considerate of him. But Jake can’t have that any longer.

Rooster just cracks a smile as Jake’s hands pull him back in close, and that jumpstarts their cycle again. And Jake is no longer in full control of what else he says.

Labored curses, whined callsigns, lustful names.

And then, arguably the worst of the selection, something just as terrifying as everything else Jake has put out of his mind, but this time, exceedingly too real, too close, too truthful—half a confession.

Bitten out in between kisses, scratchy and raw, Hangman’s nightmare fuel.

“Jesus, Bradley. Fuck . I love yo—”

That’s as far as Jake gets.

The mortifying, shattering end of the sentence gets swallowed down by Rooster, whose kisses slip into mess and desperation as his hips and his hands pick up in pace. Which is to Jake, just as good as a divine intervention, because he’s suddenly got a sharp stab in his side, and a terrifyingly sober feeling in his stomach.

Jake wants to slam his head into the headboard.

If Rooster’s aware (because maybe he isn’t, Jake grasps. Maybe it’s gone completely unheard, lost in scrambled words and withered moans, and maybe it’s unimportant in all its entirety)—but if Rooster’s aware, his only response is the increase in pace in his hips, and the tightening of his grip on Jake’s dick.

“I—” Jake starts, breaths overwhelming and heavy. “Fuck.”

(He’s never felt the need to explain himself. Hangman is an entity, and Jake is the sure person underneath that, as confident as his callsign warns. But here he is, this insatiable need to fight a fucking climax clawing through him, just for his words to hitch and crack and be utterly useless.)

But then Rooster’s moving faster, harder, and focused. Animalistic, it would be, if his lips weren’t still on Jake’s, kissing sweetly through the tension and the tugs.

And it’s a real eclipse now.

“Okay, Bradley —oh, fuck” is all Jake bites out before it’s dark.

No wonder Jake’s seeing stars.

He can hear Rooster’s breaths, and he can feel the heat of his skin, and Jake considers all his options. A solution where he hasn’t completely ruined their casual civility and their foreign relations is preferable. 

He’s not sure where it even came from—his sorry, muffled, hopefully buried confession. In fact, under control is what he thought it was. He fights the recurring urge to slam his head back into the headboard, post-sex, this time.

When he opens his eyes, he watches Rooster breathe out a heavy sigh as he pushes himself up and off of Jake, falling to his side. 

When his eyes finally meet Jake’s, there’s an unfamiliar glint in them. Shining in a way open to interpretation—Unexpectedness? Nervousness? Complete and utter judgement? Rooster’s decision to retreat back onto his perch because Jake, Hangman, whoever the fuck, has finally pushed him too hard and too far—communicated through light?

There are lots of options. And Jake, as analytical and deterministic as he is, can’t quite pin it down.

But the one thing it does tell him, is Rooster heard.

He heard, and he can’t unhear, and then Jake names the glint—neutral.

He purses his lips as Rooster turns to look up at the ceiling, as his bare chest rises and falls with his breaths. As pretty as ever, as quiet as ever.

He doesn’t know how to feel except aware, sober, and awake.

In the morning, Jake finds his phone on his kitchen counter, with a message notification. He’s hungover and exhausted and daunted by the fact that Rooster is still laying in his bedroom asleep.

Rays of light cracked in from the blinds spilled across his shoulders, muscles highlighted against the plain white of the sheets. He had shifted and sighed when Jake had pulled himself out of bed, searching for a grain of sanity, intelligence, and the ability to think things through.

His phone’s at fourteen percent. Jake feels the same way.

Through text, Javy’s written: Btw, I think there’s a fourth sign that I forgot. Loving someone makes u stupid. Sign number four is stupidity. Lol.

Fuck, Jake thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

***

It takes Jake trying every drink the Hard Deck will serve, from the on-tap beer to the unsettlingly colorful cocktails, for Penny to finally cut him off.

He hasn’t been a wreck all week.

In fact, in the week since that mortifying night where Jake’s mouth attempted to lay his soul bare to Rooster without his brain’s approval, Jake has not been a wreck at all.

He’s been the opposite, actually, he could argue.

In the week since that night where Rooster had woken up a bit after Jake and had not said anything about the fact of the matter, which kind of told Jake everything he needed to know but also not enough at all, Jake has been quite productive.

He ran, again, coasting down the beach trails and neighborhood sidewalks, not turning his route around until he felt like he was going to die. And then he got to turn and run it all the way back.

He lifted, went to the gym with Payback. Benched the most he’s ever done, and turned the music up in his headphones loud enough to drown out the baseball game playing on the TV in the corner.

He watched a lot more of The Bachelorette. 

And then, with a lack of nothing better to do, he also turned up to their Naval Air Station, unannounced and uninvited, just to see if they’d give him a job that would keep his hands busy and his head focused.

So maybe he’s a little stir-crazy.

It’s just—he’s convinced—if they’d let him.

Convinced that just a few spins through the air, headset in and painted helmet over top, surrounded by familiar buttons and screen, would reset him. Reset enough so when his leave inevitably ends, he can stand tall and sharp with the Dagger Unit, his HANGMAN nametag shining on his uniform, and not be completely consumed by the fact that he knows what Rooster sounds like when his breaths are shallow and his hair is disheveled and he’s on the edge, and then the following fact that he blew it the fuck up—okay.

It would make him professional again, he thinks.

However, the NAVY doesn’t quite see it the same way, since Jake was only able to slink around base for twenty minutes before Warlock found him, called him “Lieutenant Seresin” in his always-commanding tone, and told him to go enjoy his damn leave.

And so Jake had turned his ass around, and walked off base like he wanted to—because, yes, actually, he will go and enjoy his damn leave. Except Penny has now cut him off, so.

On being a wreck, he’s held out until tonight.

He huffs out a sigh, running his hand over his face as he sets down his drink, number unknown. It’s probably a good thing, being cut off. It’s probably a good idea, to stop. Let the fast drinks settle, and avoid alcohol poisoning.

Instead, the only real consequence will be the blurred memories of a lackluster tonight, and the pounding hangover Jake will have to deal with tomorrow. But that’s not his problem right now.

Actually, his problem right now—other than, obviously, the fact that he’s ghosted Rooster because he refuses to be crushed under the weight of a what? Ruined fling? Fucked hookup? God forbid, a situationship? 

Jake presses his finger into his temple. He’s letting himself be steam-rolled by something entirely noncommittal.

Maybe that’s their issue, though, he thinks—Rooster sits on a perch, whereas Hangman’s never been smart enough to land one, meaning Rooster’s forever undefined on the ledge while Jake tries not to fall from the sun like a regular Icarus. Neither are great positions.

He’s getting off track.

His real, far more tangible problem right now is that some unknowingly evil soul has just slotted a coin into Penny’s jukebox, and has pressed the combination of numbers that link directly to a loud and clear CD rip of Linger. By The Cranberries.

He groans and slumps onto the bar counter as the soft vocals and the light guitar waft in. Life is a fucking joke.

“How’s it going, Hangman?” Penny suddenly chimes, leaned over the other side of the bar. “Feeling okay after, uh, drink fifty?” she asks, joking but with something motherly concerned in her tone. She practically confiscates Jake’s unfinished, half-full glass.

“I feel great,” Jake says, only half slumped now. He tries to not look visibly bothered as the background song begins to hit the chorus. Penny just raises an eyebrow.

“How you getting home tonight?” she asks, lips pursed into a caring smile.

“I can walk,” Jake tells her, trying to instill his Hangman confidence deep into his voice.

“Can you?” Penny asks, slowly and unconvinced. “Or would I be feeding you to the cars, like a cat to coyotes?” 

Jake narrows his eyes.

“I could always call Pete,” she offers, head slightly tilting under the dim light, with a smiling sheen in her eyes. “I’m sure he’d love to herd you home.”

Jake can’t tell if she’s joking or not. But the threat of Maverick chaperoning him back from the bar would be considerably worse than walking alongside traffic, the latter of which Penny seems to have decided he will not be doing.

“I’ll text someone,” Jake huffs, grabbing for his phone out of his pocket.

“Oh, good!” Penny smiles.

Home sounds good, now that he thinks about it. He’ll eat a banana, and he’ll turn the TV on, and he’ll crash into his bed while hopefully still being drunk enough to forget how the sheets still smell a little like Rooster. He’ll wash them tomorrow.

“Hey, Penny?” he asks. “Can I get a water?”

“Sure, hon. Complimentary.”

His head hurts a bit, now that he thinks about that, too. Though he’s still inclined to blame it on the music.

hey, Jake types out. will you pick me up from hard deck pls 

Sure, says the incoming message, fast as lightning. Let me just fly back from Hawaii for u and only u. Dude. No???

Jake groans. He texts back: javyyyy :(

It doesn’t seem to make Javy any sweeter on him. Does the opposite, even, maybe.

Oh this is serious, Javy responds. U only use emojis when u’re wasted. How many drinks have u had?

not even that much, Jake lies. He adds a little crying sad face for good measure. He watches Javy’s typing bubbles appear, and then disappear just as quickly. 

In the background, The Cranberries hit their second chorus, not quite drowned out by the bar’s busy chatter and clinking glasses. If it was up to Jake, the people of the Hard Deck would put some effort into speaking a little louder.

i fell out with that guy i was seeing, Jake confesses, with a drunken mind and lack of anything better to admit. and now his song is playing because the world is evil… i need a ride home asap!

Javy’s typing bubbles reappear, and Jake sits there waiting, sipping some of the ice water that Penny has slid across the counter for him. It’s, at least, a simple oasis in this taunting desert of Rooster’s music.

Oh ouch. That sucks dude, Javy says simply, and Jake knows he means it. Let me call someone for u. Maybe Rooster? I’ll tell him he owes u for the whole saving his life thing lol.

javy, Jake texts. i fell out with rooster.

Wdym? Why would u be falling out with Rooster? Javy texts. And Jake doesn’t type him out a response.

Maybe because it’s hard to type out, maybe because it’s easier for Javy to find the answer himself. He’s smart. Jake has faith.

Oh shit, Javy finally sends. Ohhh shit.

And then there’s a silence, a pause of messages. Because Javy understands enough, and Jake really has nothing else to tell him.

After a moment of processing, however, Javy follows up: Wait so who’s going to drive u home?

Well, that’s the golden question all around, Jake thinks.

He groans and lays his head back down onto the bar. Maybe he’ll just make a break for it—walk out of the Hard Deck for the sidewalk before Penny can hit him with a disapproving motherly expression, and pray that he won’t become roadkill.

It’s the most solid plan he’s had all summer. It would probably work the best, too. He would only have to hope he’s not too exhausted to execute it.

When he raises his head again, somehow blinking by minutes upon minutes, he’s suddenly wide awake.

Because standing at the other end of the bar, talking to Penny in hushed tones, is Rooster fucking Bradshaw.

His hair is brushed back, with only one or two uncooperative curls falling over his forehead. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, as if he pulled himself out of bed just moments prior, but his eyes are awake and attentive as he listens to Penny talk.

He glances over to Jake as Penny smiles, and Jake can’t find the sobriety to not look right back into his gaze.

When Jake checks his phone, his unread messages from Javy read: I’ve made some executive decisions for u. And an executive phone call. Rooster has a car. Sorry not sorry, see u next week!

Jake shoves his phone back in his pocket. This time, he feels fully betrayed.

“Hey, Hangman,” Rooster says, voice quiet but firm as he rounds the bar. He lands a gentle hand on Jake’s shoulder—and it genuinely feels like eight g’s pulling down on his body.

It takes everything Jake has left to not fold into Rooster right then and there.

It can’t be what either of them wants.

“Let’s get you outta here, yeah?” Rooster asks, slipping his arm under Jake like they’re the closest of friends, and getting each other home from the bar is just something they do.

Or—well, Jake guesses it kind of was.

Jake lets him do it nonetheless.

Lets him walk him sweet and friendly out of the bar, as he nods to Penny on the way out. Lets him drive him in that familiar blue Bronco, windows cracked and no sounds except for the wind and the radio. Lets him all the way into his house (like he’s trying to recreate the disaster that happened here last time)—though, that part is purely the fault of circumstances.

Rooster had stood there in the hallway, door still open behind him, hesitant on how far he was taking this carpool job. 

Jake, on the other hand, had made his way into the kitchen to grab his hoodie and slip it over his head. And then turned to look at Rooster to consider kicking him out. It would probably be better for both of them.

Except, right as he’s about to make that decision, his head begins to spin in a dizzyingly traitorous way. His uncalculated consequences have come early.

“Goddamn it,” Jake mumbles out, scrunching his eyes tight at the way an ache twists its way into his head. And somewhere distant in the background, he hears his front door close, and he knows for a fact that Rooster’s not on the other side of it.

Jake’s bathroom is small.

With a sink over a cabinet; one of those half-shower, half-baths; and a toilet in between them, it does not well accommodate two tall and fully grown NAVY men. Well, it’s too bad, seems to be Rooster’s consensus.

Jake’s sitting in front of the toilet, fingers pressing at his temples, waiting to see if he’s about to lose everything he gained during his happy hour that was much longer than an hour and not even that happy.

Rooster’s sitting up against the alcove tub, arms crossed over his chest, legs dangerously close to just fully pressing into Jake, as he watches quietly. His eyes are probably shiny, the way they always are, but Jake tries not to check. He’s trying to soften his headache, not drill it in harder.

He breathes out a deep and shaky exhale, and tries to not desperately follow Rooster with his eyes when he picks himself up off the bathroom floor and walks out.

Jake listens for the front door, which would serve him right, honestly. Instead he hears the ice trays and the water dispenser.

Rooster comes back with a cup of ice water, hands it to Jake, and then sits back down in his cramped corner spot like he’s paid for the seat.

“So,” Rooster starts. “You drinking yourself to death or something?”

Jake runs a hand over his face. “Seemed like a good idea at the time,” he mutters.

Rooster hums. “Yeah, alcohol does that,” he says. 

Jake breathes out a huffy laugh.

He pushes himself back until he hits the other wall of the bathroom to lean against, his legs outstretched by Rooster’s. He exhales, head finally feeling clear.

Or, mostly clear. Why Rooster is here, choosing to sit on Jake’s bathroom floor as the clocks creep to midnight, as if Jake deserves it at all, is still beyond Jake completely.

His eyes finally drag up Rooster’s body, meeting his golden gaze, soft and observant under the dim lights. And Jake thinks that’d it just be so easy—a second nature, at this point, to let his hands find Rooster’s collar, dog tag chain sitting under it, and pull him into himself. And Rooster’s eyes glint as he drags his lip between his teeth in a fidget, like he knows.

Jake forces himself to not read into it. It’s unsustainable. And he’s already decided that he’s not going to ask Rooster for anything more than anything like that. It’s unprofessional. Even for a diplomat.

Instead, Jake just says, “Thanks.” He places his glass of water next to him on the floor, leaning his head into the wall. He’s unsure where they’re going from here. 

Maybe Rooster will finally cuss him out for his abrupt ghostings and irresponsible confessions. Maybe he’ll call him Bagman, and they’ll finally prove to the NAVY that they just can’t be wingmen, and it will put them back on track the way they had been going. It seems like the easiest turn to take.

“Did you mean it?” Rooster suddenly asks.

His eyes are sharp and shining, and his tone is even and ready. And Jake forgets to breathe for a second because Rooster has just swerved off the road that Jake has just mentally paved. Fuck.

“Mean what?” Jake asks back. Like an idiot, probably. But he’s keeping his cards folded, face-down, because he hates losing.

“Jake, don’t—” Rooster starts, cutting himself off early. 

Jake purses his lips at the sound of his name coming out of Rooster’s mouth in anything different than a meaningless whimper. It pinches at his chest in a way it shouldn’t.

“I don’t think it matters,” Jake says pointedly.

He says it in a way. A Hangman way.

He fills the words with sharp edges and quick execution. Vapid delivery except for a shred of hubris and confidence that he’s always supposed to be carrying.

And by the way Rooster blinks, Jake knows it’s worked. It’s the first step in direction Jake’s trying to push him.

The direction being: total shutdown.

It’s an easy dance, Jake thinks. It’s why Jake’s won most of their altercations. People like Rooster, who aggressively drop subjects upon getting hotheaded, get played like fiddles by people like Hangman, who run cold and shallow and stubborn.

If anyone is going to make Rooster hit the ground running, it’s Jake. And, in his mind, that’s the easiest solution they have.

Except it doesn’t come.

Instead, Rooster throws his second curveball of the night.

“I think it matters,” he says evenly.

Jake watches Rooster’s eyes swirl as he shifts against the bathtub. He watches his chest rise and fall in a slow breath. “I mean, the way I see it, it matters,” he says. “You said—” he starts again, before cutting himself off. “You said that, and then you dropped yourself off the face of the earth. Which I think means that you either meant it not at all, or that you meant it completely.”

Jake bites on his tongue. Typical of Rooster to be thinking in black and white right now. However, there’s something gray about how Rooster’s eyes trail up his body—their light intense in the middle, but soft at the edges.

“I think it matters that I know which one it is,” Rooster says.

“And why is that?” Jake asks, slow and careful. His gaze is still narrow, his guard is still up, but he’s watching.

He’s watching Rooster push forward. Watching Rooster walk so closely to the edge of his perch, that it almost makes him nervous? (Hangman’s never nervous.)

“So that I can figure out if it’s stupid to say it back or not,” he then says. 

Jake stiffens and stares at him, calm and civil, going through the motions the way he’s been trained. “Rooster, be serious,” he manages to say.

“I’m always serious, Jake,” Rooster says softly. And a light shifts behind his eyes—the smallest crack in his brave face.

And, Jesus.

Jake thanks god that he’s never faced a force in the air as strong as the grasp Rooster’s swirling eyes have on him.

His wavy brown hair, ruffled from whatever he had been doing before his, and the way he bites at the inside of his cheek, something reminiscent of a Rooster a few years younger—those do not help either.

In an F-18, Jake would be run into the ground by now.

“Would you—“ Jake croaks out. 

There’s such a clear path. There’s such an easy solution—and Rooster finally being gone, out of his way, flying slow but then heroic somewhere across the world, instead of in the same unit as Jake, would solve enough solutions. 

But then Jake realizes that he’s never done anything in his life the easy way.

Why the hell would he start now?

“Fuck, Bradley, would you just c’mere?” Jake asks, ignoring the trace of whine in his voice because pride is the last thing on his mind at this point. Cards face-up on the table.

He just wants Bradley.

Who, glowing under the bathroom lights, just smiles small as his hands grab for Jake. He pulls him into him as fast as he can. Like he’s running out of oxygen, like he’s racing a clock, like Jake’s told him he flies too slow.

His lips crash into Jake’s, and it’s like they never left his skin in the first place.

Sweet and messy and hot, and unhinged for the both of them, and so unprofessional—but then kind of terribly perfect, all at the same time.

It’s not smooth at all. It’s cramped and clunky, and it’s barely the correct kind of romantic. But then, what part about them has ever been?

Serves them right, Jake thinks, as they squish together on the bathroom floor, half annoyed at each other, but too consumed with the other to care much about it.

What Jake would give to let Bradley consume him. He’d let those familiar lips do whatever they wanted, as long as they kissed him like they meant it beforehand. Or, well—they do mean it, Jake knows now. It just drives him crazier.

“You know, not the most charming look on you,” Bradley mumbles out against Jake’s lips, a smile forming under his mouth. “Ghosting me and then getting shit-faced.”

Jake huffs out, “Liar.” But he says with so much accidental sweetness that he wouldn’t even believe it himself. “I’m always charming,” he adds.

“You know what’s going to be real charming?” Bradley asks, fingers running up into Jake’s hair, sending a shiver down his spine. Bradley moves his lips down and around, planting kisses over Jake’s jaw. “Tomorrow,” he says with a laugh, pressing his lips over the angle of his mandible. “When you’re hungover.”

Jake likes the sound of that, actually, mainly because it means that Bradley’s sticking around.

“Know any good cures for a hangover?” Jake asks, hands falling down to Bradley’s sides, fingers coursing over the light fabric. “Because, I’ve heard sex,” he shrugs.

“I don’t know,” Bradley says with a little click. “The first time, you said you weren’t gonna leave me hanging.”

“In my defense,” Jake tells him, voice honey-sweet, fingers slipping under his shirt. “I wasn’t utterly in love with you like this the first time.” He hopes it doesn't come out too stilted. He's in love with him. Yeah.

“I was,” Bradley says.

“Fuckin’ hell, Bradshaw,” Jake bites out on reflex.

That’s curveball number three. Batter’s out.

Maybe he never stood a chance.

It takes eight late nights and handfuls of days in between for Jake to understand that when he fucks Bradley, he means it.

“Still am, you know,” Bradley adds on with a low voice.

It takes too many drinks and the conversation he’s been running from for Jake to understand that Bradley means it back.

Bradley’s eyes are the staple of allure, and his fingers trail down Jake’s arm with so much love that even Hangman would shiver. Jake can’t believe he missed it at all.

So, whatever. It only takes one more blink from Bradley and the slightest hint of a smile on his lips for Jake to succumb, hands clutching tighter at Bradley, all of their limbs in nothing but the way, before he pulls Bradley into him with a prayer that, maybe, he’ll never pull away.

***

“I’m gonna kill him,” Jake mutters with an eye roll, kicking the six-pack cardboard carton of Miller Lite out of the way. Or, it used to have Miller Lite. It’s empty now. Hence the kicking.

“Really?” Javy asks. “C’mon, man.”

Jake purses his lips as Javy watches him, sporting a glow from his time in the Hawaiian sun, and a raise in his eyebrow, wondering if he’s serious. Then Javy watches as Jake turns to glance at Bradley, standing over and next to where Phoenix is throwing rocks and shells as far into the waves as she can.

Bradley’s hair is shiny under the peak sunlight, his shoulders are broad and tanned, and Jake revels in the fact that he knows exactly what each of those things feels like under his hands. The slight breeze ruffles at the fabric of his plain swim trunks, and when he glances to the side, Jake sees that glow in his eyes that he wants looking at him.

He’s beautiful. So beautiful, that Jake’s about to pounce.

“Oh, yeah,” Jake just says. “He knows I like those. I’m gonna kill him.”

With a few steps in his general but ethereal direction, Jake shouts out, with arms outstretched, “Hey! Slowpoke! What’s up with drinking the last of the good beer?”

Bradley turns with a bitter expression on his face, and a newly-opened, shiny bottle in his hand. “Who the fuck are you calling slowpoke, Hangman?” he shouts back with a bite. But there’s a light behind his eyes. The kind that Jake loves.

He moves in as Javy follows at his heels.

“Wow, Bradley,” Jake says loudly. “Who you kissin’ with a mouth like that?”

Bradley’s voice drops a few decibels when Jake finally stops just a few feet in front of him. “Well, you, I hope,” he answers at a normal volume, a small smile already traced onto his lips.

And, god, well. What’s Jake gonna say to that? Instead, he just throws his arms over those pretty shoulders and shoves his mouth onto his, promising that no words will come out of either of them. Warm, and sweet, and tasting like the beer Jake wishes he had.

“You’re still dead to me,” Jake says against Bradley’s lips. He ever so slightly opens his eyes into a narrow gaze as Bradley just smiles against his mouth in the way that makes Jake want more.

“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” Bradley promises. “‘Kay, baby?”

“Whatever,” Jake says, pecking his lips into Bradley’s one more time.

“Okay, enough,” Phoenix cuts in. She’s got a small rock in her hand, and by the way she stands there, gaze pointed and stance ready, Jake wonders if she’s about to chuck it at them. “This is almost worse than when you guys were just trying to deck each other every other day of training,” she complains. “At least that was fun to watch.”

“Well, maybe not everythin' is for you, Trace,” Jake suggests with a sharp smile, cheek still pressed against Bradley’s. He can feel Bradley grinning bright.

“Yeah, this is definitely not. You should keep this to yourself, honestly,” Phoenix bites back, but then the end of her sentence cracks into a laugh, and Jake just rolls his eyes. She shrugs. “Maybe you should spend a little time checking on Coyote, though,” she says. “He looks like he just saw a ghost.”

Jake loosens his grip on Bradley, turning back to glance at Javy, who, true to statement, has his brows furrowed and his eyes wide.

“Javy? You good?” Jake asks, waving a hand in front of his eyes as his pupils seem to redilate. Like a rebooting computer.

“Yeah,” Javy says, blinking slow. “It’s just. You didn’t tell me you got back together with, uh, Rooster,” he says. 

Bradley huffs out the smallest laugh. Jake can feel Phoenix grinning, the drama lover.

“I just really thought that you were going to punch him right then,” Javy tells Jake, a growing smile on his face indicating that his gears are back to running smooth. “Holy shit.”

“Nah, not anymore,” Jake shrugs as his hand finds a rest on Bradley’s back, toned muscles and warm skin under his touch. “Only when he asks.”

“Shut up,” Bradley says, dramatically pushing away from Jake who just laughs (except his fingers miss the warmth they just had underneath them). “C’mon, Coyote,” he pivots, his arm falling over Javy’s shoulder as he walks them down the beach. “Tell me about Hawaii, man.”

Jake just rolls his eyes as he turns back to Phoenix. “Can I get one of your rocks?” he asks. “Five bucks I can throw it farther than you,” he shrugs, smug smile already forming.

“Sure,” she says with a grin. She hands him a little white seashell. Jake purses his lips at the clear disadvantage he has compared to the well-built rock she’s spinning in her palm. What a problematic woman. She’s still smiling.

“By the way,” she starts, strands of hair fluttering in the breeze. “I’m happy for you,” she says with a shrug, easy like it’s nothing. “You guys were my reality TV show.”

Jake snorts. “Thanks.”

And then he catches Bradley’s gaze from the corner of his eye, and when he glances over, Bradley’s smiling toward his direction with the sun on his skin in a way that makes Jake jealous.

And when he realizes Jake is looking back at him, he winks.