Chapter Fourteen June
They slept after, limbs tangled and the sheets rumpled. When they woke up, it was still raining. The room was darker, but it wasn’t as oppressive as earlier. It was dark because of the late hour, not the storm, and that had to be an improvement.
They shared a shower before they bothered checking out.
Whether it was the warmth of the water or the company, Nick felt more relaxed than he had since he’d woken up that morning to the plane debacle.
This was good, really good, and Nick dragged the moment out.
They were in a cocoon of safety right now, one where they could enjoy things without having to deal with the consequences yet.
And then Brady had to ruin it by checking his phone.
“It’s almost nine,” he said, voice quiet like he was afraid of shattering the peace… but also afraid of making Nick miss work.
“Shit,” Nick mumbled. “Check out?”
Brady nodded grimly. “Lemme get my stuff.”
They didn’t talk as they packed the few things they’d taken the trouble to unpack.
They didn’t talk as they checked out and grabbed a few snacks for the road.
They didn’t talk the first twenty miles or so, the light drizzle not loud enough to wash away the silence.
“Sooo…” Nick said. “Awkward car ride all the way back to MoCo?”
Instantly the tension dissolved. Brady laughed, and his hand relaxed on the wheel, and they were no longer trapped in the weirdness of a one-night stand that wouldn’t end. They were two friends who’d hooked up and had a good time and were magically still friends.
“We could play ‘License Plate Bingo’ or ‘I Spy’ if you think that would help,” Brady teased. Like the road wasn’t dead around them.
“Hard pass.” He held his breath until the count of ten, daring himself to just touch.
Fuck it, he said with a mental shrug.
Nick reached across the shifter, put a hand on Brady’s leg, and carefully watched for a reaction.
Brady’s eyes went wide, though he didn’t take his eyes off the road, and there was a hint of a smile there.
“This doesn’t have to change anything,” Nick said.
Brady looked down pointedly at where Nick’s hand was not quite groping his thigh.
“Or…” Nick continued, “it could. I’m fine with either, but the ball’s in your court.
Or, uh, I guess the puck’s in your rink?
I don’t know, I don’t think that one converts to hockey very well. ”
“You know, I would actually kiss you right now if I weren’t driving.”
“Because you want this to keep going?” Nick asked hopefully, motioning a finger between the two of them.
“Mostly to shut you up.” A pause and a bashful smile, one that Nick really wished he had a picture of because it was friggin’ adorable, before he mumbled, “And yeah, maybe we could do that again.”
“Good.” Nick rewarded him by reaching forward and rubbing a hand over Brady’s beard like he’d wanted to for months. Brady melted into the contact like he was starving for it. “Hopefully not just in other states, though. Not sure my boss will let me out of the DMV for a while after this.”
Brady took an extra second to pause, no doubt mentally spelling out DC/Maryland/Virginia, before he answered. “I think…” He started slowly before rushing through the rest. “We could make the DC area work. I think I could, uh… I could handle that.”
“Really?” Nick wished he sounded maybe a third less excited.
Excited was fine, but he didn’t want to convey any of the supernova exploding in his chest because that would be too much, right?
Maybe one day he’d be able to keep his chill around Brady Derek Jensen, but today was evidently not that day.
Who was he kidding? He’d probably never get there. Wasn’t sure if he wanted to, either.
“Yeah,” Brady said, oblivious to Nick internally melting into a puddle of gooey happiness. “Maybe even spice it up with a tourney all the way in PA every now and then just for fun.”
For once the memory of that last tournament didn’t have a bitter sting, and Nick beamed. Not quite him reeling it in, but hey, if Brady was focused on driving he might not notice. “Music?” Nick asked. “We might actually be able to hear it now. Or a podcast.”
“Load something up,” Brady said dismissively. Nick’s cousins would never let him have free rein over the radio, and he was pleased and honored with Brady’s trust.
And did his best to resist the temptation to blast “All Star” as loudly as possible.
The ride was pleasant except for the sky being pitch black and the weather still being crappy (fog instead of rain, which was oddly an improvement). Traffic was sparse, the music was a pleasant backdrop to conversation, and the company was good.
“Sure you got that work thing?” Brady said as they passed a sign for the Turnpike. “I could show you a good time in Pittsburgh…”
Nick flashed him a grin, one Brady couldn’t see because he was driving, so he put a hand on Brady’s shoulder and squeezed. “Rain check?”
Brady snorted. “You did not just make a pun, did you? Because I have a strict ‘no puns’ rule in my car. If anyone’s making a pun, it’s me.”
“You should’ve told me all the rules before I got in the car. I can be very pun-ny and I don’t know that I can resist the— Hey, eyes on the road! No hitting the passenger!”
Brady stopped punching his bicep, but his hand lingered a moment before he pulled it away. He snuck a glance at Nick and licked his lips, then dutifully went back to watching the road.
Nick could get used to road trips with Brady, and he really hoped he got the chance to.
*
Nick typed out another message to Brady—his third attempt in so many days—then his mind wandered, he dozed off, and his head slammed against the Metro window.
“Shit,” he grumbled. He rubbed his forehead, realized he was drifting off again, shook his head violently and pinched himself hard. The last thing he needed was to pass out and get stranded at the end of the line.
Again. That’d happened to him twice his first year working, and he hadn’t much cared for scrambling to find a taxi at midnight in those pre-Uber days.
He didn’t want to break his five-year streak now.
All thoughts of Brady were pushed to the background as his entire consciousness focused on the mantra stay awake until you get home stay awake until you get home…
Work was predictably as draining as it was every six months, his duties blurring the lines between “salaried” and “overtime.” He was back in the rut of “I need a new job” but was too tired to do anything about it.
By the time his workflow ebbed, his supervisors would have him on projects that didn’t make him hate life, and he’d forget about his woes until the next semi-annual review.
Decembers, they at least took it easy on him.
He used his seniority, his accumulated sick days, and a bit of guilt tripping about his birthday to get out of most of the work he’d usually have to do beyond his normal workload.
His winter reprieve meant he took the brunt of it every June, so here he was, trapped in accounting hell.
He trudged off the train at his stop in a haze.
His feet dragged all the way through the parking lot to his car, too heavy when he tried to make them push the pedals.
He was thankfully more alert once he got moving, but the second he’d pulled into his spot and killed the ignition, his eyes fluttered shut, and he debated the merits of taking a nap here versus forcing himself to his bed.
The couch, he finally decided on. That was doable.
He imagined himself a zombie, covered in blood and sweat and grime, as he made the forced march from his car to his townhouse.
It was the only thing he could think of that looked human and moved as sluggishly and uncoordinated as he did, and it brought an almost-smile to his face.
He’d been a zombie once for Halloween way back when, and tonight he’d finally perfected the walk.
“You look like shit.”
Nick’s body stopped, but his feet kept going, no doubt intensifying the zombie vibe.
Nick squinted, not understanding how Brady could be talking to him.
This was either a hallucination, or he’d accidentally driven to Brady’s apartment.
He was already confused before he took in Brady’s appearance: hair slicked back, a navy-blue polo tucked into khakis, and boat shoes.
Boat shoes! Not flip flops or sandals or the rare sneakers, but boat shoes!
“What are you wearing?” he blurted out.
Brady frowned and looked down at himself. He was on Nick’s front steps, which was leading Nick heavily toward the hallucinating conclusion. Why his mind would choose to conjure Brady in that outfit, though, was still a mystery.
“My work clothes…?” He fidgeted awkwardly, his usual ease replaced with what a still-functioning part of Nick’s brain attributed to “post-hookup jitters.” “Why, you don’t like them?”
“Work… clothes…” he repeated. Intellectually, he knew Brady had a job.
People had jobs, so of course Brady had one.
Right now, though, the concept refused to compute.
The only Brady he’d ever known was the hockey one, and any glimpses of other iterations of him had been too obscure for him to build a mental image.
Part of him had assumed Brady worked somewhere that allowed joggers, flip flops, and backward caps.
“They look… good?” It wasn’t a lie, but he still couldn’t make it come out without it sounding like a question.
Brady laughed. “All right, let’s not have you thinking too hard. Why don’t you let me in, and we can have dinner?”