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They move onto a few acres somewhere between Cusseta and Columbus Georgia no more than 30 minutes from Fort Benning. It's a different type of humidity in Georgia, something sticky and muggy filling your lungs in the summer and the winters drag, chilly and damp, no sun for days.
The price was a good steal and their realtor was the first person outside of friends and family they didn't actively participate in DADT with. It was gone. It was a liberating feeling, at first. Brad thought he was happy about it. Ray definitely was, could tell coworkers about his partner and actually mention more than two sentences of detail. Ray liked it, Brad did too, something just wasn't clicking the reward receiver in his brain the same way as Ray’s.
Poke called him the day after, said “Look what my democrats did that you fucking republican traitors couldn't. Hah.” Brad hung up on him and called him back half drunk that weekend and said “thanks for the support, Antonio.” Which was way too emotional for either to acknowledge so Poke made a signature and ten years too stale ‘white man joke’ and hung up. It was a satisfactory monthly interaction.
In many ways Brad felt like he was hiding underneath his humvee hammering away at gunk on its belly. Or running away to beaches and highways after his first, second, third tour. Ray had this therapist he liked,and started seeing her half way through Brad’s fourth tour. His first tour with recon after his two years with the Royal Marines. Ray wasn't able to convince Brad to go to any sessions but his mind tricks worked to implement better coping mechanisms into Brad’s palette.
Things like expressing his insecurities without tucking his tail between his legs and running off like - as Ray put - “A whiny pussy bitch who is honestly an affront to my warrior spirit at this point.” To which Brad had to set aside the drone he was working on and stare at Ray for a moment before the initial fight than subsequent compromise of “sharing our feelings more, big gay brad.”
As much as Brad loathed to admit to Joshua Ray Person being right. He was right. They both felt a lot less likely to bolt at any confrontation or too domestic moment that raised Brad Colbert’s opposition to all things good for him, apparently. Yet recently with each mile they drove to Georgia and each day they spent with news of an openly ‘liberal hippie gay accepting military’ Brad was driven closer to that primal need of moving faster than the walls of structure built around him.
He comes home at exactly four-thirty two, four days into his first week of Airborne instruction. Ray’s heard before he’s seen. Brad deposits his boots by the doorway, a 16-pack tucked under his arm. Another loud thud is heard and Brad hesitates to enter into the chaos of an unpacking Ray.
“Bradley~” He sings, walking towards the entryway. “I heard you come in, don't tell me you dont wanna give your opinions on my newest layout option.”
“Oh yes, Ray,” Brad starts, his smirk growing at seeing Ray’s stupid smile and ratty work clothes. “I spent all day with recruits from every branch of our good God fearing military, with Army privates full of bullshit dreams and buds wash outs, i didnt want to come home and sit with my couch at the same angle it was yesterday to watch the game but to see a deviant’s latest torture of moving my new flat screen where a window glare will hit it.”
Ray smiles widely and fakes wiping his brow of sweat. “Good. I was really worried we were not on the same page here, homes.” He walks backwards for a moment, watching Brad with anticipation, his body buzzing.
Brad scoffs, following into the living room where the couch is indeed in a new spot but another box is unpacked. Evident from the books on the shelf and a few knick knacks on the coffee table. Ray will count that as a win,and Brad will agree to maintain balance.
“The feng shui definitely feels better right?”
“What the fuck do you know about interior design to say shit like feng shui to me?”
“Rudy sent me a blog post about it! We should skype him for his opinion.” Ray rambles on, falling back onto the couch, feet kicking up onto the coffee table. He was wearing old slippers that he definitely found box sorting. “God, Brad you're so smart, good idea.”
“Yeah well, one of us has to be.” Brad smiles and Ray laughs dry and condescending. Brad walks into the kitchen as Ray flips through the channels, seemingly enjoying the selection from their new cable network installed earlier that day.
He unloads the beers into the shelf of the fridge, breaking down the box for recyclables, a habit he can't seem to get Ray used to who throws the boxes as is in the bin.
“Oh what did you want to do for din-din because cooking was not on Ray-Ray’s plans.” He calls from the other room, the TV blaring the sportscaster's voice. Brad doesn't answer right away looking through the fridge at what they had.
“Babe,” Ray smiles from the kitchen's entryway where he's snuck up, still stealthy as ever. “take out right? There's nothing in that fucking fridge worth consuming for dinner.”
Brad watches him slink under his arm that's holding the fridge door open to grab a beer and hop up on the counter as the can makes a satisfying crack.
Brad shuts the doors a little forcefully. “Takeout is fine.”
“Hey,” Ray cocks his head and Brad leans against the fridge to turn around and look at him. “You okay buddy?”
They stay silent for a moment. Another. Ray blinks and taps his beer can. Brad crosses his arms against his chest and tucks his chin to look at his feet instead of Ray’s deep and dark worried gaze.
They VA didn't outright say he had PTSD or anxiety or whatever shit labels they throw out that guys chase for higher ratings. Brad didn't care about that, he never considered himself a guy to be anxious. Never wanted to. Yet when he came home the last time, his doctor suggested (pushed) for some meds and his mother confronted him on his first holiday home about his ‘anxious habits.’
“We're gay.” Brad says flatly in response after what felt like hours of silence.
Ray blinks and sucks in a breath slowly, his lips twitching upward. “Hey man, thanks for letting me know, these last ten years I definitely thought we were just bros the way your were shoving your -”
“Ray.” Brad looks up at him.
Ray throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Ok, ok, but for real homie we had your big coming out of repression a few years ago, what's this big revelation about?”
“Poke called about it.”
“It,” Ray echoed confused before his eyes blew a little wider with recognition. “Oh. It - this is about DADT being repealed?”
Brad shrugged, then eventually shook his head yes. Ray nodded sympathetically, like he somewhat understood whatever twisted conclusions Brad’s hardwired mind came to about all this.
“Is it guys on base?” Ray asks slowly like he knows he is way off base but is at least attempting to pull the bandage off. “Is it the loser emo kid who works at the PX? I swear to god he's always looking at me so weird when I go in for beer on sundays.”
“No Ray, it’s not the whiny alternative child who you definitely were trying to be in highschool.” Brad cuts him off before he can get going and Brad ends up yelling out something he didn't want to share. Or at least share in that way.
“My deduction skills are deteriorating with age, Brad, tragically.” Ray finishes with dry sarcasm. “Help me recon this, you manly man.”
“Recon this, Jesus, you get more civilian every day.” Brad sighed, opening the fridge to grab his own beer. He walks over to lean on the counter by Ray, who immediately ducks his head and kisses his shoulder over his uniform.
The moment sinks and Brad’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth, weighing down each word he even thinks of formulating. “I'm not used to it. Being so - flippant and open, it's not what I'm used to.”
“You don't have to be.”
Brad is shocked, something Ray can't do as easily anymore after so much time together. “Don't you want to be?”
Ray scoffs and laughs, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. “Do you?” Brad just turns his neck and stares at him. “Look, my point is you don't have to have this big coming out look at me I'm Brad Colbert, and Im gay - party.”
Brad’s chin is nudged by Ray’s head as it drops to his shoulder, hunching forward awkwardly. It's grounding to have Ray’s pointy face rest atop his shoulder, his arm slung around his waist carelessly. It’s grounding to have Ray know him so well he can spell out his inner qualms with colorful flavor.
“If it matters to you to say it, then tell people, but the people who already need to know, know.” Ray hums like it's easy, things like being military and a friend of Dorothy weren't instrinctly and historically intertwined with FUBAR situations. “Plus, I'm pretty sure we are way passed our gay crisis phase. Even though you're perpetually in one.”
“I'm not.” Brad sounds more defensive than he attended.
“You are. I know it. Poke knows it. Brad, your mom knows it.” Ray taps his hip with his hand. “It’s okay though, Mrs.Colbert loves to complain with me about you so keep being you.”
“Stop calling my mother to complain about my very normal and reasonable behavior, you uncivilized cretin.”
“Sorry Brad, it's why I send the good wine during the Holidays.” Ray lifts his head, planting a big wet kiss somewhere between Brad’s cheek and ear. The noise loud in his ear as Ray over exaggerates it. “Now come on,” He hops off the counter. “I got another box I want to unpack that is full of my highschool memories.”
“Why would I ever want to see that?” Brad asks as he follows Ray out of the kitchen.
“Because your shit is next and seeing mine first will make you look better babe.” Ray smiles, like he means it in some twisted self-deprecating way.
Brad smiles back, moving through their half unpacked house with ease, the same way he's been half packed up his whole life. Ready to move with his unit, dont settle in too close, don’t lay too deep of roots. One day you'll move again, people will move on again.
Not Ray though, he's been there since Afghanistan and hasn’t moved since. He’s stuck himself into Brad’s life and hasn't let go, despite three tours and the Royal marines, despite Brad’s proclivity to turntail and run, Ray has made camp for the foreseeable forever.
Brad’s been okay with that for the last decade, he’s just starting to realize it now that he’s walking through half tapped cardboard boxes and storage tubs sealed shut. He’s okay with slowly letting Ray unpack him and leave him out, rearranging him when the mood strikes.