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They spend a week in Rome and then make their way to Naples. They observe and admire. When they get to Pompeii, the weather is perfect. Warm, but not hot. Clouds float above Vesuvius like smoke.
There are people everywhere. They thrust cameras at Brad like beggars wanting alms. He takes photos of plebeians at the bakery pretending to bake, at the thermopolium pretending to eat, at a temple - with a statue of Apollo snuggled between them like their new drinking buddy. They smile and throw up peace signs and Brad thanks fucking Christ he's only around civilians for a couple of months a year.
When he looks over at Nate, Nate is carefully not smiling. "Want a photo with the Roman shitters, Brad?" he says.
Brad passes the camera back to Apollo's fake-baking peacenik buddies. He doesn't say 'I want to get the fuck out of here'. Which mean, he guesses, that he has a thing for Nate. A thing where he's Nate's bitch. Jesus, he thinks.
Nate's composed expression breaks into a grin. "Want to get the fuck out of here?"
That night, Brad spends half an hour just getting Nate ready. He jerks him off slowly and opens him up with his tongue, then his fingers, until Nate's writhing for it, making choked-off noises that don't even come close to words.
At home, Brad is careful not to look at Nate too much - not to get caught watching. Now, he looks and looks. Nate's eyes are squeezed shut. He shoves his cock up into Brad's fist, and then works himself back, panting, onto Brad's fingers.
He opens his eyes when Brad draws his fingers out. He seems a little out of it. Brad helps him raise his legs.
His eyes focus as Brad pushes in. "We could- uh- uh-" He breathes out in a rush. He breathes in. Brad kisses his shoulder. Nate seems to be struggling to think. "We could rent a bike," he manages finally.
Brad rocks in and out. Nate's non-regulation hair is rumpled. His face is flushed. He's spread out like centrefold jerk-off material around Brad's cock. Brad has to mentally rewind a few times before the words make sense. He wets his lips. "Yeah," he says. He rocks in and watches Nate gasp. "We could do that."
In the morning, Nate checks out of the hotel and Brad checks out the rental place around the corner.
The mercenary behind the counter says he wants eight hundred fucking euros for a BMW R1200RT.
"Just to clarify," Brad says, "I'm not buying the patent. I'm not setting up RT production lines. I just want it for five days, and then I'll bring it back."
The guy shrugs and flips the catalogue back a couple of pages. Brad watches the bikes get smaller and lighter and heartbreakingly fuel-efficient. "Let's see," the guy says. He runs his thumb down the page like he's charting the devolution of power.
There are scooters at the bottom of the page. Brad slaps his credit card onto the counter. He can appreciate a superior strategic move when he sees one.
When he gets back, Nate is at the cafe downstairs from the hotel with a map spread over his table. Brad can see the hill of a coffee cup underneath Florence. As he gets closer, Nate dips his head and circles something on the map. It's a familiar gesture, and for a moment the superimposed image is clearer than reality - Nate, MOP-suited and grim-mouthed, leaning over the hood of his humvee to mark out the route.
It's shocking to Brad sometimes that they're actually doing this. He'd never thought Nate would want it. Brad can't believe he wants it. Brad's been in love with the Marine Corps since he was 12 years old and killing imaginary dragons in his imaginary dress blues. He'd never thought he'd risk that love for anything.
Nate glances up from the map and sees him. He smiles. He looks so unguarded that Brad has to force himself not to check if they're being observed, if they're raising suspicions. No one knows them here, he tells himself.
Nate sees the hesitation. His smile dims very slightly until it's the kind of smile you might give a friend. "Hi," he says. His tone is perfect. Casual.
Brad swallows and looks down at Nate's flip-flops. "You know you'll have to wear real shoes on my bike," he says.
"You're letting me onto your bike?" Nate raises his eyebrows.
Brad snorts. He thinks about Nate last night, the sounds he'd made as he'd come all over own chest and Brad's. He steps closer to Nate's table and nods at the map. "Why don't you tell me about the AO."
~~~
They ride south down the coast. After months in England, Brad can't get enough of the sun. In Rome, his favourite time of day had been the couple of hours after lunch when everyone else had gone into hiding. A few times, he'd persuaded Nate to come with him. Mostly, he'd wandered by himself until the sun began to dip.
Nate had laughed at him when he'd come back. "Unbowed and unburned after battling Helios," he'd said once.
~~~
The further south they go, the more Brad falls in love with the RT. It's a beast. It takes the weight of them and their luggage without a tremor. He's sure it could take more. He overtakes buses filled with tourists, other bikes, one time a Ferrari. Nate is a solid presence behind him.
In Agropoli they have lunch at a cafe overlooking the ocean. The air smells like San Diego beaches. The view looks like a painted backdrop - steep mossy cliffs and still water.
Brad points out the places he'd position his forces. "Good tree cover around the inlet," he says. When he looks up, Nate isn't quite smiling, but Brad can tell he wants to. "What?" Brad says.
Nate shakes his head. "I like the weather here," he says. He twirls pasta around his fork. He points at a strip of sand far below them. "There," he says. "I'd infiltrate the beachhead from there."
That night, they stay in Amantea. The bed is lumpy and squeaks loudly when they move. "Well, we'll have to be really still, won't we," Nate says.
He fucks Brad as slowly and silently as if he's on a stealth mission. Brad stares at his own hands where they're framing the pillow. When he ducks down, he can see the head of his cock slipping in and out of Nate's fist. "Jesus," he whispers hoarsely. "Jesus Christ." The bed hardly moves at all.
His ass aches the next morning as they ride down to Messina. Nate's AO encompasses Sicily. They take the ferry.
In Palermo, the alleys are narrow and cobbled and have a tendency to hook-turn into abrupt dead ends that don't show up on the map ('quaint' says the guidebook).
The layout reminds Brad of Baghdad. He finds himself clocking the positions of the doors and windows. When he glances to his left, he can see Nate counting them too. Nate looks at him wryly.
"What's next on that map?" Brad says.
It's better when they hit the open road again. Brad likes the drab wildness of the Sicilian countryside - all windswept grass and rocks and gnarled olive trees. He likes how relaxed Nate feels against his back.
Brad flings the RT down the road, letting it give everything it has. The road turns and turns. The traffic thins out.
When they get to Selinunte, it's late afternoon.
"Good day to come," the lady at the ticket booth says. "Very quiet."
As they ride into the park, it's more than quiet. It's eerie. When Brad cuts the engine, there are no sounds, not even birds. There's no one around.
He climbs off the bike and turns to Nate. He stops. Nate looks shaken. Brad remembers him looking like that in Babylon. He has to drag his eyes from Nate's face to follow his line of sight. And at first he can't make sense of what he's seeing. There's a structure standing almost intact, but Nate isn't looking at it. He's looking at a jumble of rocks.
Brad blinks. The jumble becomes shapes. There are giant stone columns lying on the ground like pick-up sticks. A little beyond, there's another pile. There's another beyond that. The trail continues along the cliff-line like breadcrumbs, and Brad realises slowly that what he'd thought was rocky terrain is a line of destruction.
"Jesus." He breathes out. "What happened here?"
"This was a temple." Nate's mouth quirks like it does when he thinks he's about to bore his audience. "The Carthaginian army," he says. "They destroyed the city and killed half the population. The other half was enslaved." He scans the horizon as though he's searching for invading armies. "Brad, if you- if you feel compromised by us. This. I would understand."
Brad closes his eyes. He remembers the phone call he got from Jenna six months after he joined the Corps. She was crying so hard that at first he thought he'd heard her wrong. "We didn't want to write you a letter," she'd said. "Pete and me. I wish I could have told you in person."
He swallows. "This- Nate, this is worth it to me." His own voice sounds hoarse.
Nate looks at him. "You love the Corps, Brad," he says gently. "We can be careful, but the risk is genuine."
Brad swallows again. He doesn't know what to say. Maybe Nate doesn't either. They stand there and look at the two-and-a-half-thousand-year-old mess Carthage left behind.
There's a familiarity to the shapes and the colours of the stone. Brad didn't do this, but he's done this. He loves the institution that does this with a fierceness that he doesn't always understand.
After a while a motor rumbles in the distance. It gets louder. Brad watches a long tourist bus appear around the bend. It trundles to a stop and disgorges its contents - old people, more old people, some young people.
Brad looks at Nate - the straight upright line of him. "Nate," he says. He brushes his hand against Nate's as the first civilian scrambles into speaking distance.
"Hi," the guy says.
"Hi," Nate says. It sounds automatic. He's looking down at their hands, where they're just touching. Brad takes a deep breath, and turns his palm, takes Nate's hand.
More people make their way towards them, picking around the pieces of the temple. Brad watches some of them register that two men are holding hands.
"Nate, I love the Corps," he says. He can still hear the hoarseness in his voice. He's never done anything this demonstrative in his life. He can feel his hand starting to sweat. "I love- I love it. Very much."
He turns to look at Nate. Nate's eyes are a little wide. He's starting to smile. He squeezes Brad's hand. "Understood," he says.
They're still standing there when the tourists leave.
The end