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Bradley haunts the karaoke and open mic nights of San Diego like some kind of local cryptid.
It's not even about having a chance to perform—he does, from time-to-time, but only if it's a quiet night and it feels like everyone's just waiting for the energy to pick up before they feel brave enough to step up themselves. He's happy to be the guy to break the ice before he settles back against the bar or at a sticky little table at the back of the room.
He just likes to watch people having fun with music. The brave souls who perform their original songs with acoustic guitars, the girls who've been jazzed up by their friends into thinking they're the next Adele, the guys who are laughing more than singing, too much booze in their veins to take it seriously.
In his opinion, it's better than a live professional performance. It's a reminder that, in the end, music is about bringing people together. Having a good time with it.
Lately, he hasn't had much opportunity to indulge. He and Hangman have suddenly become hot commodities: the only two active duty pilots to go up against fifth-gen fighters. For months now, they've been shipped off around the country—sometimes together, sometimes separately—to give briefings, seminars, training. Bradley's sick of flying commercial.
Tonight though, in Fort Worth, TX, he's got a rare evening to himself. They wrapped up their obligations in the afternoon, and their flight back to San Diego isn't until tomorrow evening. In a rare, unspoken agreement, they'd slipped away before they could be plied with invitations to an evening spent in awkward formality with the brass, or joining the rowdier pastimes of their peers.
So here he is, strolling into a dive bar that google had recommended him. The night's already underway, and there's an older woman perched on a stool giving a pretty impressive rendition of Dolly's Sure Thing while the crowd hollers.
He gets himself a beer and settles against the bar, scanning the crowd idly, watching the way they're drawn into the music, feet tapping and heads nodding even when they're paying more attention to their conversations than the performance.
He's startled when he catches sight of a familiar face.
Jake is at a table that's crowded with other people—all around his age, by the looks of things, girls perching on guys' laps where there's not enough chairs for them all. The table is littered with pitchers and bottles. Jake's out of uniform, and it's still a strange sight for Bradley, who rarely gets to witness it.
He's in blue jeans and a dark button up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and top buttons loose to reveal his collar bones and the glint of his tags. Bradley wants to eat him whole.
But it's an old feeling, familiar, and he's well-practiced at pushing it down.
As if he can feel Bradley's eyes on him, Jake turns his head like he's searching for something. When he catches sight of Bradley, his face does something complicated—embarrassmentreliefdetermination.
Jake gives him a look—the kind that can carry a whole, silent conversation with the right person. Unfortunately, whoever that person is, it's not Bradley. He frowns. Jake raises his eyebrows meaningfully in a way Bradley simply can't parse. He shrugs to show he doesn't know what Jake wants from him, and Jake rolls eyes.
That one, Bradley gets.
He flips Jake off, then raises his bottle in a silent toast with a little smirk on his face. Jake responds by beckoning him over.
That's unexpected. They work well enough together, now, though they'll never be free of the kind of antagonistic back-and-forth that makes others doubt it, but they're not exactly friends. They don't hang out.
They probably could, but Bradley's big on self-preservation.
Still, he doesn't see much of a way out of this, so he pushes himself off the bar and heads towards Jake, hoping he's just expected to say hi, confirm that yes, Jake is as good as a pilot as he claims to be and a total pain in the ass, and then he'll be released back to his evening.
Faces turn towards him curiously as he makes it to the table, and he fixes a friendly smile onto his face.
"This here's Bradley," Jake says, and Bradley practically double-takes. When Jake's not calling him Rooster, he's calling him Bradshaw. First names are pretty unprecedented between them, at least out loud. Jake hooks a finger into Bradley's belt loop, familiar and easy. Bradley stares at it and wonders if he's entered the Twilight Zone. "So if you could all kindly lay off my dating life."
"Bradley," a red-haired girl with a wide and friendly smile says. "So nice to meet you!"
"Bullshit," says a stocky guy across the table. "How come we never heard about Bradley 'til right now?"
"Navy's a bit stricter on coworker romances than your bougie tech startup, Tanner," Jake says dryly. Bradley thinks he's maybe having an aneurysm, or perhaps a stroke. "They can do a good sight worse than just send you to HR."
Bradley looks over his shoulder, like he might find answers standing just behind him. Jake tugs on his belt loop.
"Don't worry, sweetheart," he says. "This ain't a Navy bar."
And then, he winks.
"Well siddown, Bradley," someone says.
"Uh," Bradley says, eloquently. Jake rolls his eyes and stands, shoves Bradley down into his chair. Bradley goes, too shell-shocked and confused to do much else. And then, like it's not going to end Bradley's entire world, Jake settles onto Bradley's lap.
They're both big guys. Jake doesn't perch delicately on his knee like some of the girls around the table. He puts himself right across Bradley's thighs, dropping one arm easily around over his shoulder. Bradley's hand fits at Jake's waist automatically, keeping him steady, tucking at the narrow slope of it.
"Gosh, it must be so nice to be able to act like a couple if you usually have to hide it," the redheaded girl says sincerely. "How long have y'all been together?"
"A while," Jake says vaguely, dismissing the question with a flick of his hand. "Bradley, these are my friends from high school. They heard I was back in Texas and they went insane."
"A road trip to come see you isn't insane," someone says. "God, we do something nice and this is the thanks we get?"
The conversation carries on, swirling around him—Jake masterfully deflecting attention from himself and Bradley, giving vague half-answers when the questions can't be avoided. They're a friendly enough bunch, and Bradley manages to keep up, more or less—but if he's not as sharp as usual, he can't exactly be blamed.
He's got Jake Seresin in his lap, all pressed up against him.
During a lull in conversation, everyone's attention drawn by a singer who's hitting high notes Bradley didn't realize were really an option for human vocal cords, he gives Jake a look that quite clearly reads what the fuck?. Jake rolls his eyes, and hops off Bradley's lap, grabbing his hand and pulling him up, too.
Smokers are gathered outside the doors of the bar, but the alley beside it is empty. Jake drops his hand once they're tucked out of sight of everyone else.
"What the fuck," Bradley says, because he may have already said it with a look, but some things bear repeating.
"Listen, Bradshaw," Jake says. "There's only so much pity about my non-existent love life I can take. These guys act like a successful career as a decorated Naval aviator is nothing if you don't have someone hanging off your arm."
"I don't see what that's got do with me," Bradley says. He's trying hard not to sound hysterical, he really is, but his hand is twitching with the need to slide right back against the neat tuck of Jake's waist.
Bradley's wanted Jake forever, for years. But first Jake hated him and then Jake was on his squad, and anyway, Jake's never shown any real interest in men, and Bradley had been content to quietly yearn about it. And now what?
He can shut the stable door, but the horse has already bolted. No putting it back.
"Don't let it go to your head," Jake advises. "You were convenient."
"Gee, thanks."
"Relax. You're doing a fine job." Jake pats him on he shoulder, condescendingly. "Just keep it up for the rest of the evening, and your drinks are on me for the next month."
Bradley drags a hand down his face. He should walk away, he knows he should. It's not going to do him any good, pretending to have for one evening what he really wants for a lifetime. But he's already had a taste, and his traitorous, romantic heart tells him that he should take what he can get, while he can get it.
"Jesus," he says. "Fine."
"That's the spirit," Jake says. Bradley expects him to lead them back in, but instead he settles himself comfortably against the wall, like he's content to wait.
"Shouldn't we—?" Bradley asks, gesturing back towards the mouth of the alley.
"Well, everyone at that table thinks we're making out furiously out here right now," Jake says. "Might as well give it a few minutes."
Bradley's eyes dip towards Jake's mouth, because how could they not.
"Right," he says, tightly.
They wait in silence for a minute longer. Bradley practically flinches when Jake reaches out to run his hands through Bradley's hair.
"Relax," Jake laughs. "We just got to mess you up a little."
Bradley lets him card his fingers through his hair—wishes he'd tug on it, just a bit—and then, in retaliation, gets his hands in Jake's hair. He pushes his fingers through it, right down to the base of Jake's skull. Doesn't mean to let them linger there, but they do.
"I'd tell you to pop a couple buttons," Bradley says, and finally remembers to drop his hands from Jake's head. He slips a finger into Jake's open shirt and tugs. "But this is already kind of obscene."
Jake only laughs, and rucks Bradley's shirt upwards, tugging his tank up so it looks like he's had his hands underneath it. Bradley's skin burns where Jake's fingers brush against it.
"Hm," Jake says, surveying him. "I guess you'll do."
Bradley knows he's imagining the heat in Jake's gaze, but it still drives him to do something really, really stupid. He steps in, crowding Jake up against the wall, hands fitting back against his narrow waist.
"Want to really sell it?" he asks, voice a little rougher than he'd like for someone who's pretending this is nothing.
"What did you have in mind, Bradshaw?" Jake asks, watching him through narrowed eyes.
Bradley drops his gaze and examines the bare skin of Jake's neck and chest. If this is his only chance, he's going to take his time about the decision. Eventually, he ducks his head, presses his mouth against Jake's exposed collarbone—a place that'll be neatly tucked away under his uniform, but is on full display tonight.
Jake inhales sharply and lets his head fall back against the bricks, giving Bradley full and ready access. Bradley pulls back a fraction, looks up at Jake, eyebrow quirked in a question. Jake nods, and that's all the permission that Bradley requires.
There's no need for this. Not for doing it in the first place, but definitely not for the way his fingers flex at Jake's side as he drags his teeth over his chosen spot, sucks in a mark that'll still be there tomorrow. Not for the way he pushes a thigh between Jake's.
There's no need, either, for the way that Jake's fingers slide into Bradley's hair, blunt fingernails scratching at his scalp.
Bradley's a little breathless when he pulls back to examine his handiwork—heart thumping, chest heaving. He forgets himself for a moment, reaches up and runs a thumb over the darkening mark on Jake's golden skin.
Then he swallows, forces himself to step back.
"Pretty sure that'll do it," he says. Jake looks debauched—hair messy, mark blooming on his collarbone, his lower lip shiny and a little pink like he'd maybe been biting at it.
"No kidding," Jake says.
They earn themselves a few wolf-whistles and knowing grins when they return to Jake's friends. So, mission success, or whatever—Bradley finds he doesn't really care. He's busy trying to sear this into his memory: Jake's torso pressed up against his, Jake's fingers playing with the short hair at the nape of his neck, Jake's breath against his ear when he leans in close to murmur something inconsequential like it's a dirty secret.
The emcee calls up the next performer. "And on deck after that is Bradley!" he says, as a hipster-looking guy settles himself on stage. Jake looks down at Bradley, who shakes his head.
"Must be a different Bradley," he says.
A couple of Jake's friends laugh, grinning and mischievous.
"Nope," Tanner says. "It's all you, big guy."
"I tried to stop them," Tanner's girlfriend sighs. "Sorry."
"Hey, it's just a little harmless fun," Tanner says. "Gotta make sure Bradley's good enough for our Jacob, huh? Least he can do is embarrass himself a little."
"Joke's on you," Jake snorts.
"You don't want me to serenade you, baby?" Bradley asks, all innocence. Jake shifts against him.
"It's not like I can stop you," Jake mutters.
And so Bradley ends up on stage, dragging the microphone over to the upright piano and dropping it down with practiced ease. Bradley can see Jake's friends ribbing him, can see the utter confidence in Jake's answering smirk.
Jake's probably expecting something big and flashy and fun, because he's spent enough time in the same bars as Bradley. But Bradley figures that he's owed a little something—a chance to embarrass Jake in front of his friends the way they'd been hoping to embarrass him.
So over-the-top heartfelt romance, it is.
He doesn't even bother introducing himself, or the song. Just lets his fingers find the keys, easy and familiar.
The crowd quiets a little as people recognize the music. There's a loud wolf-whistle, a heckle from someone who obviously thinks that Bradley doesn't have the chops for the song. And maybe so; Bradley's never claimed to be an Elvis, but he's not aiming for impersonation. He doesn't bother trying for anything other than himself.
"Wise men say, only fools rush in…"
The melody goes soft and sweet under his hands, deliberately indulgent. If he's going to commit to this, then he's all in. He lets his eyes fall closed, lets his fingers embellish.
And then, he looks up, eyes locking with Jake's. He winks, and one of Jake's friends reaches over to shove him. Jake doesn't look away.
"Take my hand. Take my whole life too. I can't help—"
Jake's smile shifts, just barely. The cocky smirk softens at the the edges, drops just a fraction. Bradley doesn't look away, and that's his mistake.
Somewhere between one note and the next, it quits being funny altogether. He forgets to ham it up, the next words from his mouth rounding into something dangerously honest.
"—falling in love with you."
He can feel it happening, and he doesn't know how to stop it, how to take it back. Abruptly, he's laid out bare, every part of him exposed on stage for Jake to see. His fingers falter for half a second before he recovers, but it's enough.
Enough for Jake to notice. Enough for him to notice, to feel the way that he's cut himself down to the bone.
This was supposed to be a joke. Instead, Bradley's sitting under cheap bar lights, singing a love song like he means it, looking straight into the eyes of the one person he shouldn't be.
And Jake—Jake's not laughing.
He gets a boisterous round of applause when the piano falls silent, loudest of all from Jake's table. Jake's friends are cat-calling and whistling, chanting Bradley's name—impressed by his talent but moreso by his dedication—but Jake's still just looking at him. Quiet.
Bradley ducks off stage, and gives into his cowardice by lifting a hand in the direction of the table before he pushes to the bar, in search of something stronger than the barely-cold beer at the table.
He orders whiskey, knocks it back. An attractive woman in the world's shortest denim skirt and cowboy boots is standing a little too close to him when he turns back towards his table.
"That was some real pretty singing," she tells him.
"Thanks," he says, awkwardly, and wonders what the best way to tell her no is.
But she sees his face and her smile turns indulgent as she steps back. "Hope she knows how lucky she is," she says, and moves on. Bradley wonders if anybody would notice if he just left right now, stepped out of the door and went and threw up in a back alley, somewhere.
They would, so he steels himself and returns to the table.
He gets a hero's welcome. A couple of the others have disappeared off to the bar, so there's empty chairs, now. Bradley takes one next to Jake, and curls his fingers into fists against the want he's cradling in them. Doesn't meet his eye.
"I'm a big enough man to admit when I've been beat," Tanner says. "That was something, man."
"Thanks," Bradley says. "Next time try me at darts. I'll embarrass myself just fine."
Tanner laughs. "Good to know."
Fingers brush gently at his arm, and Bradley tenses up. It takes him a moment to rally his courage and look at Jake. Jake stares back at him, searching his face like he's looking for something.
"Well, we're out of here," he says, after a moment, eyes still on Bradley.
There's a chorus of scandalized ooohs. Bradley swallows hard. His eyes fall, like they're magnetized, down to the mark he'd sucked into Jake's skin earlier. Evidence of his idiocy.
"Good to see y'all," Jake says. "Next time, warn me before you drag your asses out to ambush me."
Bradley shakes hands and waves and gives out mechanical good to meet yous until eventually Jake ushers him away from the table and back towards the door. It feels like there's something climbing up his throat, and he's worried about what happens when it reaches his mouth.
They walk a block in silence before Jake slides out his phone.
"Well, Bradshaw, this has been—"
"—don't," Bradley says, pleading. Jake looks up at him.
"Don't what?"
"Pretend," Bradley says. "I think we've done enough of that."
Jake looks at him, expression unreadable. Bradley takes a step closer; he doesn't back away. Slowly, he lifts his hand, brushes his fingers again against the purpling blemish his mouth had left.
"Hell of a commitment to the bit," Jake says.
"Wasn't a bit," Bradley says, firmly.
Something shifts in Jake's face at that. Small but unmistakable, and Bradley's wondering if Jake's this hard to read for everyone, or whether Bradley's got a big, Jake Seresin-shaped blind spot.
"No?"
"Not for me," Bradley says. "And I'm really hoping not for you, either."
Jake looks at Bradley's mouth, then back up to his eyes—waiting, like he's half-expecting Bradley to change his mind. And then the tension bleeds from his shoulders, and he gets a handful of Bradley's shirt right as Bradley slides an arm behind his waist.
Their mouths meet soft and oddly sweet, despite Bradley's bruising grip on Jake, the way his shirt is cutting into the back of his neck where Jake is dragging him closer, clinging desperately. Not at all the way Bradley had indulged in imagining an impossible first kiss—always heat and teeth and fight.
Instead, Jake's mouth is pliant beneath his, moving slow and deliberate, like he's savoring it.
"You've been thinking about this," Jake murmurs against his mouth when they finally part, like he can feel every moment of Bradley's longing through the years in his touch.
"For way too long," Bradley agrees, nosing along Jake's cheek, tucking a kiss at the hinge of his jaw, taking his chance to simply breathe Jake in like this. For real—for himself. Forever, he hopes, though he knows better than to say something that cheesy out loud, right now.
"Well," Jake says, warm and amused. "Aren't you just full of surprises?"