Chapter Text
Bradley Bradshaw documented his life in a series of headstones; names engraved on a cool slate, dates he could never–would never–forget etched into unforgiving stone.
The final headstone hurt the least, the date engraved below the name a taunting melody that Bradley knew well. The funeral was cold, the air bitter and tinged with the acidic taste of grief left unsaid and tears that could not be shed. The guns fired, the men and women in uniform saluted. It was a somber affair, but a familiar one. Bradley was well versed in the way the dirt mourned as it bore the weight of memories that would never come to be.
The casket was closed, and for that Bradley was thankful. He couldn’t look in the casket when it was open. He didn’t need to. Not when he could feel a phantom weight where his dog tags had once resided on his chest. The ghost of their cool, metallic kiss told him all he needed to know.
A quiet, choked sob shattered the silence that invaded the summer air. Bradley saw rather than felt Natasha’s arm move beside him, landing on the shaking shoulder with a heaviness only those who had loved and lost could truly understand. The rest of the soldiers looked away out of respect or grief or both, familiar, stoic faces from his days in Top Gun and his years of service. Most he hadn’t seen in months, many in years. More than a few were missing, but not because they didn’t wish to come. It was because they couldn’t. They resided in the caskets that documented the life of Bradley Bradshaw, permanent reminders of all he had become and all he had failed to be.
The final gunshot sounded. The casket began its slow descent. Bradley could only watch.
It was all he could ever do.
july 29, 1986
Nick “Goose” Bradshaw was a good man.
At least, that was what people told Bradley. That was what they always told him. Bradley believed them, echoes of Nick’s lively voice singing in his ear as he lay in bed late at night, waiting for his father to come home.
But Bradley knew he wouldn’t.
Bradley knew a lot of things he wasn’t supposed to. He knew that his mom didn’t come home until late, knew that it was usually one of her friends that dragged her back and dropped her on the couch. Dad had never liked Mom’s friends–they rarely fought, but the few times Bradley had managed to hear it, it was about the girls mom went out to drink with. That, or flying.
Mom didn’t like that dad flew. But Dad loved it. Dad had always loved it.
But now Dad was dead. Dad was dead and gone and he wasn’t coming back. Mom still came back, usually. But she had bleary eyes and blurry smiles, a nasty smell that Bradley couldn’t stand clinging to her clothes when she dropped him off at school every morning, usually late, and pretended nothing had changed.
He didn’t see Uncle Pete much in the months following the funeral. He hadn’t even seen Uncle Pete cry as they lowered Dad into the ground, guns echoing, soldiers saluting. Bradley had cried. He’d cried until his head throbbed, nose leaking and eyes burning as his chest begged for air he could not give it. Mom held him. She’d been composed, but her eyes were red with more than tears. No one else had noticed.
At least, Bradley thought no one else did.
But there was the scary man that flew with Dad. The one with icy eyes and a square jaw that made his stern face seem all the harsher. He’d watched Mom a lot at the funeral. He’d watched Bradley, too, but looked away whenever Bradley tried to meet his piercing gaze.
The scary man showed up a month after they buried Dad, knocking on the door with a gentleness that seemed unnatural for a man of his size. Mom was asleep on the couch. It was a Saturday, so Bradley didn’t have school. That meant Mom wouldn’t wake up until nighttime when she left with her friends again.
Bradley was a smart boy. He knew not to open the door for strangers. But he’d pulled over a kitchen chair, stood on his tiptoes to peer through the peephole, and he’d recognized the scary man from dad’s funeral.
Nick Bradshaw was a good man, at least that was what Bradley was told. If he was a good man, then his friends had to be good, too.
So Bradley unlatched the door and let the man with icy eyes in.
He’d stared around the room for a moment, jaw tightening at whatever he saw. Bradley followed his gaze and winced. It was messy. Mom was usually good at cleaning, and Bradley liked to help her, but he couldn’t reach the cabinet where the plates and cups were supposed to go without standing on the counter. Dad didn’t like it when he stood on the counter. He’d always been afraid Bradley would fall.
Dad wasn’t here to see it happen. But Bradley still listened, because if he stopped listening then that meant Dad was really gone.
He was. Bradley knew he was. But he liked to pretend he didn’t.
“Hello, sir,” Bradley squeaked, throwing his hand up in a tiny salute. The man wasn’t in uniform, but he had been at the funeral. Bradley figured it was only polite to try and follow what little protocol he knew.
The man’s lips twitched into a shallow imitation of a smile, and he squatted down so he was eye level with Bradley. Bradley wondered, idly, if he should be frightened. But Bradley was always frightened now, lying awake each night wondering if Mom would come home, knowing that Dad wouldn’t. The feeling was familiar now, and with familiarity, it lost its effectiveness.
“Hello, Bradley,” the man said, saluting Bradley in return.
Bradley grinned, any unease fading from his chest. “Did you fly with my dad?”
The man’s smile wilted, eyes growing sad. He looked to the couch where Mom slumbered. His shoulders slumped as his hands clenched into tight, trembling fists, and he swallowed thickly.
“I did, Bradley. He was a good man.”
“I know,” Bradley said simply. It was all anyone ever told him. “What’s your name?”
That small smile returned. “Tom Kazansky.”
“Do they call you that when you fly?”
“No. They call me Iceman.”
Bradley tilted his head. “Can I call you that, sir?”
“Sure,” Iceman said. “But my friends call me Ice.”
Bradley beamed and stretched his small hand into the space between them. Iceman wrapped his large hand around Bradley’s, engulfing his hand entirely.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ice.”
“Just Ice is fine.”
“Okay, Mr. Ice.”
Mr. Ice laughed, and then Bradley’s stomach rumbled loud enough to startle him. He smiled sheepishly at Mr. Ice, and Mr. Ice smiled back, even if it didn’t reach his eyes.
He rose to his feet, extending a hand towards Bradley. Bradley took it eagerly and followed Mr. Ice to the kitchen. There wasn’t much in the fridge, and Mr. Ice didn’t seem very happy about that. But he seemed even unhappier when Bradley tried to apologize, so Bradley just sat quietly as Mr. Ice lifted him onto the counter, swinging his legs idly as he watched Mr. Ice cook with what few ingredients he could find.
It was a fun dinner. He hadn’t eaten dinner with anyone in a while. Sometimes Mom watched him eat, but she rarely ate at home anymore. Only with her friends when she went out. But Bradley didn’t know how much she was eating–she was getting smaller, and she couldn’t pick Bradley up and hold him for long now.
Mr. Ice was very sweet, even if he was scary again when Mom’s friends came pounding on the door. He sent them away in a way Mom never had, and they scampered back to their cars with tails between their legs and sheepish giggles ringing in their wake. Mom didn’t wake up at all, and Mr. Ice put a blanket over her. He took Bradley upstairs when he yawned and tucked him into bed.
Bradley had missed getting tucked into bed. It was nice.
But Bradley still couldn’t sleep, even after Mr. Ice turned off the lights and closed the door. He heard shuffling in the kitchen, and then the phone ringing. Curious, Bradley pulled himself out of bed and tiptoed down the hall, peering down the stairs to where Mr. Ice leaned against the wall, phone pressed to his ear and a stoic expression on his face.
“Fucking pick up, Mav,” Mr. Ice muttered. That was a word Mom told him not to use. But Bradley heard her use it with her friends a lot, now. Maybe the rule had changed?
The phone stopped ringing and Mr. Ice said another bad word. He dialed the number again. Bradley looked around from his perch on the stairs as Mr. Ice tapped his foot against the floor. The house was cleaner than it had been since the funeral. There was a pillow under Mom’s head on the couch, more blankets piled on top of her.
Mr. Ice was nice. Bradley hoped he came back to visit again.
The phone stopped ringing, but Bradley heard a mumbled answer on the other end of the line. Mr. Ice straightened immediately, his stern expression melting into one of relief as he ran a hand through his short, blond hair.
“About fucking time, Maverick.”
Bradley couldn’t hear the reply, but Mr. Ice rolled his eyes and smiled so softly Bradley thought he’d imagined it. Mr. Ice looked around the room again, eyes landing on where Mom slept on the couch, and his smile melted.
“When was the last time you saw Carole?”
There was silence as Mr. Ice listened to the reply, face stoic and unreadable once more. Whatever answer he got made his frown deepen, a crease forming between his brows.
“It’s bad, Mav. Really bad.”
Silence. Garbled words in the phone formed a reply not meant for Bradley’s ears, and Mr. Ice sighed again.
“I wouldn’t be calling you if I had another option.”
The words on the other end of the phone are louder now, angrier. Bradley flinched in unison with Mr. Ice. It was odd, seeing the man flinch. Even in the short time Bradley had known him, he knew Mr. Ice was not a man who broke easily. Flinching was a vulnerability few had witnessed on Mr. Ice. Bradley was too young to understand the true significance of that brief moment of weakness, but even he knew it was important. It was why he still remembered it so vividly.
“The milk went bad.”
Bradley frowned at the odd words that fell from Mr. Ice’s lips, but the shouting on the phone stopped as abruptly as it started. The quiet spurred Mr. Ice on.
“It went bad three weeks ago. It was still in the fridge. There’s no produce left that’s edible, no bread without mold on it. There are a few frozen meals, but–” Mr. Ice swallowed, and his voice dropped lower as his hands tightened on the phone cord– “I don’t know how the hell the kid’s been eating, Mav.”
Neither Mr. Ice nor the angry man on the phone spoke for a long, tense minute. A beat passed, and Mr. Ice said, “She’s been asleep on the couch the whole time I’ve been here.”
Bradley blinked. Was Mr. Ice talking about Mom? He probably was. Bradley didn’t know the food in the fridge had been that bad. He got lunches at preschool, so he only really noticed the absence of meals on the weekend.
It wasn’t normal. Bradley had lived with normal long enough to know that. But Dad was gone, and Mom was doing her best. Bradley was too young to know how to ask for more than that.
“I don’t know what to do here,” Mr. Ice said. The lost look in his eyes looked wrong on his face. He ran his hand through his hair again. “I don’t know Carole like you do. I barely know the kid. I don’t–”
The man on the phone snapped, shouting loud enough to startle Bradley. Mom stirred on the couch, but pulled the blanket closer to her chest and fell back to sleep.
Mr. Ice blinked. He paused, jaw clenching and unclenching as he glanced to where Mom slumbered. There was a sadness Bradley couldn’t yet comprehend in his eyes as he watched her.
“I was in the air with him when he died,” Mr. Ice admitted, so quiet that Bradley could barely hear him. “I owe him this much.”
Something was different about the silence that followed now. The air was tense, and Mr. Ice looked sad. Bradley didn’t like when Mr. Ice looked sad. Mr. Ice had given Bradley a good day, a better day than Bradley had had since he’d seen that first headstone. It wasn’t fair that Mr. Ice was sad after he’d made Bradley so happy.
Mr. Ice cleared his throat, the sadness gone in the span of a few breaths as he regained his composure. “Get your shit together, Pete,” Mr. Ice said. “I’m not doing this without my wingman.”
He hung up the phone, and Bradley hurried back to his room, footsteps quiet as a watchful mouse.
Mr. Ice wasn’t there when Bradley woke up. But there was the smell of something cooking, eggs and bacon and maybe even pancakes. When Bradley pattered down the stairs, he saw Uncle Pete standing in the kitchen, spatula in hand and Mom’s bunny rabbit apron over his plain white shirt and blue jeans. Bradley squealed, and Uncle Pete barely had time to brace himself before Bradley threw himself into his arms.
He hadn’t seen Uncle Pete since the funeral. In the wake of Dad’s absence and Mom’s uncertainty, he’d forgotten how much he’d missed him.
“Hey, Bradley,” Uncle Pete said softly, scooping Bradley off the ground and setting him on the counter. Bradley giggled, taking in the array of breakfast foods that Uncle Pete had made while he slept.
Bradley pointed at one of the plates, still giggling. “You burnt the pancakes.”
Uncle Pete just laughed, ruffling Bradley’s hair. “I did. Sorry, baby Bradshaw.”
“That’s okay. Dad always burnt the pancakes.”
Uncle Pete’s face crumbled, but he recovered so quickly that Bradley almost missed it. But Bradley saw. He always saw, even when the adults thought he didn’t. He was very good at watching.
Bradley glanced around the room as Uncle Pete turned back to the stove, hand trembling ever so slightly. Bradley didn’t ask. He didn’t need to, not when he already knew the answer.
“Where’s Mom?” he asked.
Uncle Pete got that look that adults often wore when they lied to children. “She’s out with Ice. You had dinner with him yesterday.”
Bradley lit up at the mention of the other man. “Will Mr. Ice be back today?”
Uncle Pete barked out a startled laugh at that, mouthing the words ‘Mr. Ice’ to himself and shaking his head. “He’ll be back with Carole soon.”
“Okay!” Bradley said brightly. “Did Mr. Ice take Mom to the doctor?”
The spatula slipped from Uncle Pete’s hand and he swore under his breath, wincing when he remembered who was in the room with him. Uncle Pete had never been great at not using bad words around Bradley. Dad used to tease him for it all the time. Dad wasn’t here to tease him anymore, though.
“What?”
“Mom’s sick,” Bradley said, tilting his head to the side as he met Uncle Pete’s startled eyes. “She has been since Dad died. Is Mr. Ice taking her to the doctor?”
Uncle Pete’s mouth opened and shut several times, eyes growing watery. He cleared his throat and looked away, picking up the spatula and tossing it into the sink in one fluid motion. Bradley watched and waited for an answer.
“Yeah. Ice took her to a doctor, Bradley.” Bradley didn’t know why Uncle Pete couldn’t look at him when he said it. He didn’t know why Uncle Pete sounded so sad.
He wanted Mom to get better. He wanted the old Mom back. He missed her, almost as much as he missed Dad.
The doctors couldn’t fix Dad. Nothing could. But they could still fix Mom.
“That’s good!” Bradley said. “Can I have strawberry syrup for my waffles?”
Uncle Pete grimaced at the request, but poured the syrup on the pancakes anyways. Bradley beamed. He noticed the new groceries in the fridge, but he didn’t say anything as he and Uncle Pete ate breakfast together for the first time in a long while.
If Bradley pretended hard enough, he could hear almost Dad’s laughter in Uncle Pete’s smile.
Mr. Ice and Uncle Pete were around more after that. Sometimes, when they had a day off, Mr. Ice would drive Bradley to school while Uncle Pete grumbled in the passenger seat about not being able to ride his bike.
“You’re not driving the kid to school on a motorcycle, Mav.”
“Why not? I’d be careful.”
“I wanna ride on a motorcycle, Mr. Ice!”
Uncle Pete grinned, an arrogant smile gracing his face as Mr. Ice rolled his eyes. He reached back to give Bradley a high-five.
“See? Even Bradley wants to.”
“No motorcycles. For either of you.”
“Boo!” Uncle Pete jeered, and Bradley joined him enthusiastically. Mr. Ice didn’t smile, but Bradley saw the way his lips twitched upwards as he stopped the car so Bradley could get out.
Mom was still around. She slept in her bed, waking up early to pack Bradley his lunches. Her smiles grew less blurry and forced as the months went by, her eyes red with tears on the hard days but nothing more. Even when she could drive Bradley to school alone, getting him there on the time for the first time since Dad died, Uncle Pete and Mr. Ice still stuck around.
Bradley knew why they did, even though he wasn’t supposed to.
The stairs, it seemed, were a perfect spot for eavesdropping. Bradley was a quiet kid, a watchful kid, so he knew how to move without being seen, how to listen without being heard. It wasn’t hard to slip out of his room and settle on his perch while the adults talked downstairs, to listen to conversations not meant for his ears.
He didn’t use to do this, not when Dad was alive. When Dad was alive, Bradley was able to sleep. It was hard to do that now.
So instead, Bradley watched. He listened.
Mom wasn’t as sick as she used to be, but she still wasn’t all better. She cried a lot. Usually in her room, where she thought Bradley couldn’t hear, but Bradley did. She was crying now, curled on the couch with Uncle Pete’s arm thrown around her shoulder. Mr. Ice sat at the kitchen table, watching them with a stoic face.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Mom hiccuped between sobs, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. “I don’t know how to do this without Nick. I can’t do it without Nick. I can’t–” Uncle Pete just pulled Mom closer to him, rubbing soothing circles on her back.
“I can’t bring him back,” Uncle Pete said softly, his words choked even as his face remained blank, his eyes dry. Uncle Pete didn’t cry, at least not where Bradley could see him. Mom cried harder and Uncle Pete rested his head on hers. “I can’t, Carole. But you’re not gonna do this alone. You’re not doing it without me.”
Uncle Pete’s eyes met Mr. Ice’s, and something in Mr. Ice’s hard gaze softened. Uncle Pete almost smiled. “You’re not doing it without us.”
Mom gave Uncle Pete a watery smile, shaking hands bunched around tissues. Bradley wanted to go hug her, but he knew Mom hated it when he saw her cry. It was why he made sure she didn’t know all he knew, anymore.
Uncle Pete didn’t see him, and neither did Mom, but he felt pinpricks on the side of his face and knew he was being watched. He turned to see Mr. Ice staring at him from the kitchen table, face unreadable. Bradley froze as Mr. Ice stood.
“I’m going to go check on Bradley,” Mr. Ice said gruffly. Bradley scampered to his room, diving under the blankets and throwing them over his head as he pretended to sleep.
The door creaked open seconds later. Bradley forced deep breaths, waiting until the door shut again to sit back up. He broke free of his blankets only to see Mr. Ice leaning against his closed door with an unimpressed look on his face.
Bradley wilted. “Sorry, Mr. Ice.”
Mr. Ice just sighed and sat on the foot of Bradley’s bed. “I’m not mad, kid.”
“I’m sorry,” Bradley said again, squeezing his blankets tight between his hands, eyes welling with tears.
“Bradley,” Mr. Ice said softly, but he said nothing else. The silence stretched, and curiosity won its war as Bradley looked up, studying the stoic man curiously.
Mr. Ice studied him right back. They said nothing for a long while, some of Mom’s louder sobs reaching beyond the door and filling the quiet between them. They still bothered Bradley, but he’d learned not to show it.
“You see more than we think you do, don’t you?”
Bradley blinked at Mr. Ice and shrugged. He didn’t think it was strange–after all, Mr. Ice did the exact same thing. “I just pay attention.”
Mr. Ice hummed, leaning back on his hands and looking at the planes that hung from Bradley’s ceiling. They matched the sheets on his bed perfectly, similar planes plastered on posters across his walls.
“Dad hung them up,” Bradley said quietly as Mr. Ice watched, waited.
“He did a good job.”
Something burned in Bradley’s chest, an ache that had been there for a long while now bubbling to the surface anew. He couldn’t stop the tears that burned in his eyes, the snot that bled from his nose. Mr. Ice heard him sniffle. His eyes widened, alarmed.
“I miss him,” Bradley admitted. Mr. Ice stared at him for a moment, lost, but when Bradley broke into sobs he wrapped him in his arms and held him close.
Mr. Ice didn’t feel like Dad. He was too broad for that, too hard. There were no warm smiles to be plastered on Mr. Ice’s face, no loud songs to sing or pianos to play. He didn’t have Uncle Pete’s bravado or jokes, didn’t have Mom’s laugh or her sunshine eyes.
But Mr. Ice was good. He was a nice man, a kind man. He held Bradley like he’d wanted to be held for so long, and Bradley didn’t want him to go. They said nothing until Bradley cried himself to sleep. He woke up tucked into his blankets, a pillow under his head, a soft smile on his face. Bradley liked Mr. Ice. He liked Mr. Ice a lot.
Uncle Pete moved into the guest room the next day. Bradley didn’t need to ask why. Because Mom was still a little sick, and Bradley was starting to think that maybe he was sick, too.
Mr. Ice didn’t live with them, but sometimes it felt like it. He and Uncle Pete worked together. They’d been working together since a mission they flew, where Uncle Pete saved Mr. Ice. It didn’t seem like Uncle Pete would let his wingman forget it any time soon.
Mom didn’t like the story when Uncle Pete told it. But Bradley loved it, and so she said nothing of it. They continued on like this, a little makeshift family full of sick people trying to help each other get better.
“Shouldn’t you guys be flying planes somewhere?” Bradley asked during a family dinner as Carole set the table. He saw how her shoulders tensed at the question. Mr. Ice did, too. But Uncle Pete just laughed.
“We’re teachers now, Bradley. Means we get to spend more time with you guys.”
“That’s cool!” Bradley cheered, food stuffed in his cheeks.
“Bradley, baby, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Carole chided.
Bradley ignored her, looking between Mr. Ice and Uncle Pete. “Who is the better teacher?”
“Me,” they both said in unison. They glared at each other in unison, too; identical twinkles donned their eyes, small smiles played on their lips. Carole laughed, and so did Bradley. He liked Uncle Pete and Mr. Ice. He loved them.
He knew they loved each other, too.
It wasn’t hard to see. He didn’t know how no one else had noticed, yet, but Bradley was sure he would have heard something by now if they did. Adults liked to talk around Bradley. They didn’t know how much he watched, how much he listened.
If anyone knew that Mr. Ice looked at Uncle Pete the way Dad looked at Mom, then Bradley would have heard about it.
Whatever it was didn’t stop there–Uncle Pete liked to throw his arm around Mr. Ice’s shoulders more than he needed to. Mr. Ice’s eyes always searched for Uncle Pete first whenever he stepped into a room. Uncle Pete liked to make Mr. Ice laugh. Mr. Ice liked to pretend he was annoyed, but Bradley knew he secretly thought Uncle Pete was funny. Uncle Pete always sat next to Mr. Ice on movie nights, pressed close together even when there was plenty of room on the couch. Mr. Ice never pushed him away.
Bradley sometimes wondered why Mr. Ice didn’t live with them. Uncle Pete just laughed when he asked.
“There’s no more room in the house, baby Bradshaw.”
“Then Mr. Ice can share a room with you!” Bradley exclaimed. “Then he can be Uncle Ice.”
Uncle Pete’s face burned bright red at that, and he changed the subject. Bradley let him, even though it made him sad. Mr. Ice didn’t move in. Bradley wished he would.
Bradley watched. He watched as Uncle Pete started reaching for Mr. Ice when he thought no one was looking. He watched as Mr. Ice smiled softly for Uncle Pete, and only for Uncle Pete. He watched them laugh. He watched them live. He watched them fall in love.
Uncle Pete and Mr. Ice were at work when he could no longer just watch. Mom was cooking dinner, the table already set with five places. They always left one for Dad, even though they all knew he wouldn’t be there.
“Mom,” Bradley asked, perched on the counter, legs kicking idly as Mom hummed. “Can I ask a question?”
“That is a question, baby,” Mom laughed. “But yes, you may.”
“Why aren’t Uncle Pete and Mr. Ice married?”
Mom dropped the spoon she was holding. The utensil clattered to the floor and she stared at it in shock, as if it had jumped out of her hand.
She laughed again, but it was a strangled sound. “Who should get married, baby?”
“Mr. Ice and Uncle Pete,” Bradley repeated, confused as Mom’s face grew pale as a ghost.
“That’s not–” Mom swallowed, reaching to turn off the stove and give Bradley her full attention. “Bradley, baby, that’s not an appropriate question to ask.”
“Why not? We talked about the Penny girl getting married last week. It’s the same thing!”
“It’s not,” Mom said hurriedly, eyes darting around as if there was someone who could be listening, even here in their own home. “It’s not, baby. You can’t– that’s not something we talk about.”
“What?” Bradley asked, blinking in confusion. “It’s marriage! You and Dad were married.”
“That’s different, Bradley,” Mom insisted, bending down to pick up the spoon. She rinsed it more aggressively than she needed to, chewing her bottom lip worriedly.
Bradley’s small hands clenched into fists as he watched her. He didn’t know what the problem was. Uncle Pete loved Mr. Ice. Mr. Ice loved Uncle Pete. It was as simple as that. People who loved each other got married.
So why did Mom seem so afraid?
“Can Mr. Ice and Uncle Pete not get married?”
“No, baby,” Mom said quietly. She sounded sad, resigned in a way that made Bradley’s little heart twist. “No, they can’t.”
“Why?” Bradley wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, anymore.
“Bradley, baby,” Mom said. Her voice was shaky and she held Bradley’s hands in her own, met his eyes even as hers grew wet. “Boys marry girls, and girls marry boys. Ice and Mav are both boys.”
Bradley frowned. “But they love each other.”
“Bradley Bradshaw, you cannot say things like that!”
Bradley shrunk in on himself. “But–”
Mom chewed her lip, cupping his face in her hands. “No, it’s–. Baby, it’s not that there’s anything wrong with that. People can love who they want to, but–” She stopped, closed her eyes, and thought about how to say what she needed to say.
“It’s different for Ice and Mav, baby. They can’t– They will never be together like that. Not in that way.”
“Why?”
“The Navy doesn’t take people like that.” Mom looked at the floor, as if ashamed of the world and ashamed of herself for being a part of it. “I don’t know if the Navy ever will.”
“Oh,” Bradley said quietly, following Mom’s gaze to stare at the floor. The answer made him sick. He didn’t know why.
More than the sickness, it made him sad. Sad for Mr. Ice, sad for Uncle Pete, and sad for himself–even if he couldn’t understand why.
“But they love each other,” Bradley whispered, quiet and careful with the words in a way he never used to be. Love wasn’t something that was meant to be wrong. It wasn’t meant to be whispered. And yet it felt dangerous even here, even in the safety of their kitchen, to say words he didn’t want to be ashamed of. But he was–and Mom was too. Even if they both hated it.
Uncle Pete and Mr. Ice loved each other. It was as true as it had always been, but the hope had fled the words. In its place, misery reigned.
“I know, baby,” Mom whispered. She wrapped Bradley in a hug, brushed her hands through his hair. Bradley was crying, even if he didn’t know why. “I know.”
Bradley never said those words aloud again. He never would.
Because Uncle Pete loved Mr. Ice, but Uncle Pete loved to fly. He needed the freedom like the air he breathed.
Because Mr. Ice loved Uncle Pete, but Mr. Ice loved to lead. He needed the control like the heart that pounded in his chest.
Because Uncle Pete loved Mr. Ice, and Mr. Ice loved Uncle Pete, but they were boys. And boys married girls, and girls married boys. They didn’t marry each other. They couldn’t marry each other.
And so Bradley watched. He watched, and he waited for the end that he knew was coming but could never be ready for.
It started with a rumor.
“So, Sarah Kilmer?” Uncle Pete teased at dinner weeks later. His tone was light, but there was a heaviness to his words Bradley couldn’t ignore. He felt Mom looking at him, but he didn’t look back.
Mr. Ice rolled his eyes. “Good Lord, not you too, Mav.”
Uncle Pete threw his hands in the air and laughed. “Everyone’s talking about it, Ice. I’m only asking.”
There was more to those words than that.
Mr. Ice paused, watched, waited. Bradley glanced at him. There was something sad in his icy eyes, something Bradley hated. He looked away.
“The old man wants me to marry her,” Mr. Ice grumbled. Uncle Pete laughed at that, and Mom joined in. Bradley didn’t.
“Finally gonna get a wife, Ice?”
“Don’t need a wife, Mav,” Mr. Ice said. Bradley could hear the softness in the words, the love that was there but shouldn’t be. “I have my wingman.”
The subject was dropped for the rest of dinner. But the rumor had placed cracks on the thin ice they all danced on, and Bradley could only watch as it shattered.
The ring came next.
It was in a little black box, a simple silver band with a modest diamond in the center. Bradley found it in Mr. Ice’s jacket pocket one night when Mr. Ice and Uncle Pete babysat for Mom while she went out to dinner with some new friends. Better friends, now, than she’d ever had before.
He thought the ring was pretty.
“Mr. Ice,” he called out. Mr. Ice and Uncle Pete were in the living room pressed thigh to thigh mindlessly watching whatever show was on TV as they spoke in hushed whispers. Mr. Ice had been laughing at something Uncle Pete said when Bradley interrupted them. Mr. Ice looked up, and Bradley held up the black box. “What’s this for?”
All the blood drained from Mr. Ice’s face, and Uncle Pete’s face turned to stone.
“Huh,” was all Uncle Pete said, and then he stood and walked to his room without another word.
Mr. Ice swore, scrambling off the couch with none of his usual control and hurrying after Uncle Pete. Bradley could only watch as Mr. Ice yanked open Uncle Pete’s door.
Bradley shouldn’t follow. He didn’t want to follow. But he knew if he didn’t watch the end, he would always be haunted by the why.
The why would haunt him, anyways. Why love was something to be ashamed of, why Mr. Ice had a ring that wasn’t for Uncle Pete. Why they wouldn’t be together in the way they were meant to be. Why it bothered Bradley so much. Why it frightened him in a way boys his age should not be frightened.
But he would know why it ended. That question, at least, he could find an answer for.
He didn’t have to press his ear to the door to hear what they said. They were shouting loud enough that he could hear it through the painted oak wood, staring at the door as fear raced through his little heart.
“-you’re fucking engaged !” Uncle Pete shouted.
“I’m not.” Mr. Ice shouted right back.
“You have a goddamn ring in your jacket–”
“Mav, listen to me–”
“No, no. You fucking listen to me, Tom. Who is the ring for?”
No one said anything. Bradley watched the silence.
Uncle Pete shouted again, voice hoarse. “Who is the fucking ring for, Tom?”
Mr. Ice didn’t say anything. Bradley didn’t think he could have, even though he wanted to.
“Pete,” Mr. Ice said.
Uncle Pete just laughed. It was a bitter sound, an angry sound. Bradley hated it.
“It’s fucking Sarah, isn’t it?”
More silence.
“Sarah fucking Kilmer!” Uncle Pete yelled, and then something shattered. Bradley winced from behind the door. He thought it was the lamp. Uncle Pete loved that lamp.
Uncle Pete loved Mr. Ice. Mr. Ice loved Uncle Pete. But that wasn’t enough.
“I don’t have a choice,” Mr. Ice said. His voice is broken, his words choked. Bradley realized, with a sinking heart, that Mr. Ice is crying.
“Bullshit,” Uncle Pete said with a viciousness that made Bradley’s eyes burn. “There’s always a fucking choice.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Shut up,” Uncle Pete hissed. “Shut the fuck up, Tom. You– What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Pete, please,” Mr. Ice begged again.
“No. No. Was this your plan? Just hide your entire fucking engagement and keep fucking around with me? Were we going to keep fucking around when you got married? Was that the plan, Tom?”
Mr. Ice didn’t speak.
“Was that your fucking plan?” Uncle Pete laughed. “Fucking hell, it was, wasn’t it?”
Uncle Pete let out a strangled noise. Bradley thought he might be crying, too. They all were.
“I don’t love her, Mav,” Mr. Ice said. “I don’t want to marry her.”
“Then don’t.” The words were a plea and a promise all in one.
“I have to.”
“You don’t.”
“You know how my dad is, Pete. I don’t have a choice.” Mr. Ice had never sounded so miserable.
Bradley hated the silence more than the shouting. He could watch the shouting, could brace for the hurt it caused, but it was harder to watch the silence. The silence watched him back.
“I’m not going to be your secret.”
“Pete,” Mr. Ice said his name like a prayer and a plea.
“Don’t, Tom. I’m not– I won’t do that to Sarah. I won’t do that to myself,” Uncle Pete sucked in a ragged, shaky breath. “I won’t do that to you.”
“Pete.”
“Don’t say it, Tom. Don’t–”
“I love you.”
The sob Uncle Pete let out squeezed Bradley’s heart, dragged angry claws of hurt down his back. Bradley curled in on himself as Uncle Pete cried in earnest.
“Get out,” Uncle Pete said through tears. “Get the fuck out, Tom.”
Bradley didn’t have time to move before the door yanked open and Mr. Ice came staggering out. Any remnants of composure he had left crumbled as he met Bradley’s teary eyes.
“Christ,” Mr. Ice hissed, wiping his eyes furiously with the back of his hand and sidestepping Bradley to head to the front door. Bradley watched, but his heart could not let him stand still as Mr. Ice wrapped his trembling hand around the handle.
His feet pattered across the floor as he raced towards Mr. Ice. Bradley wrapped his thin arms around Mr. Ice’s legs, looking up at him as tears blurred his vision.
“Don’t go,” Bradley sobbed. If he left, Bradley knew he wouldn’t come back.
Mr. Ice was not a man who wore his emotions on his sleeve. Bradley knew this–he learned long ago to read the microexpressions that danced across Mr. Ice’s stoic features, to find the smile in his quirked lips, to know that he only laughed for Uncle Pete, but his eyes twinkled for Bradley.
But Mr. Ice didn’t look stoic. Not anymore. His emotions were painted across his face, nose scrunched, lips grimaced, eyes dripping with tears that would not stop. He met Bradley’s eyes, and a choked sob fell from his lips.
Mr. Ice squatted down so he was level with Bradley. He wrapped Bradley’s shaky form into his arms, pressed a kiss to Bradley’s temple.
“I gotta go, kid.” Mr. Ice’s words were broken, hoarse–shattered in the same way his heart was.
“Don’t go,” Bradley repeated, squeezing tight, even though he knew Mr. Ice had to. He knew this was the end he’d been too afraid to stop and too cowardly to look away from.
“I’m sorry, Bradley.”
Mr. Ice pried himself free of Bradley’s grip, wiping his eyes and closing the door gently behind him. Bradley peeked through the blinds of the window and watched him stagger to his car, ripping the door open and slamming it shut behind him. In the safety of his car, Mr. Ice screamed.
He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, noise muffled by the doors and distance that separated him from Bradley. His knuckles gripped white as he rested his forehead against the steering wheel and shattered.
Uncle Pete still sobbed in his room–Bradley could hear him even through the door. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Uncle Pete cry. He didn’t think he ever had.
Bradley watched, and waited, and realized that the world is cruel to those who love in a way they shouldn’t. And he remembered.