Disclaimer: Based on the eye fucking of the fictionalized characters and ASkars & SSands portrayal in the HBO miniseries. Not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: This fic is like my baby. *snuggles it close* Huge hugs and much thanks to lunasky who betaed this fic and held my hand through many iterations.

Nate's always been a runner.

When his family moves the summer before freshmen year of high school so his dad can become a partner at a big law firm in Baltimore, they encourage him to take up an extracurricular activity. With both parents out of the house all the time and Nate not knowing a soul he doesn't think it's such a bad idea. His mother highlights student government and the debate team, but Nate quickly thumbs to the athletics section of the brochure.

Football is an immediate no-go. Nate doesn't need to play homoerotic grab-ass or have a stacked cheerleading team shout his name to prove how big his dick is. He's also not out for glory, especially not the small town pigskin variety. Nate has bigger plans for his life than that. Golf and tennis are quickly scratched off the list only because it would make his father cream his Dockers and Nate won't give him the satisfaction of settling into this upper middle class lifestyle. Bowling is out because quite frankly Nate wants to get laid before the age of thirty-five. Nate decides to join the track team.

On Monday afternoon Nate strolls into the track coach's office and says he wants to join the team. At 6 feet, 150 lbs and growing, Nate thinks Coach O'Brien might drop to his knees right then and there. For four years Nate runs 3000 meters, 400 meter hurdles and high jumps. He qualifies for National's in two out of three. Nate's pretty sure Coach O'Brien, who doubles as his AP Euro teacher, considers failing Nate just to get one more year of running out of him.

###########

When Nate goes to Dartmouth he gains 2 inches in height, 10 lbs of muscle and a chip on his shoulder.

Nate runs every day across the Green, past Wheelock Street into Hanover and twice during midterms and finals. He's been approached by a couple of cross country runners to join the team, but Nate's not too keen on streaking through Baker library with a Spiderman mask over his head. There are more productive ways to get him naked.

Not one to overlook a challenge, Nate decides to run the Boston Marathon instead. In the spring he drives three hours to Boston. Nate not only finishes the race, he does it in two hours and twenty five minutes. Later that night while receiving victory head Nate feels relaxed. His impulsive itch has been momentarily scratched. Nate falls asleep before he's able to come.

Two semesters and three girlfriends later, Nate finds what he's looking for in a lecture on the Marine Corps. Nate's tired of breaking pencils in Organic Chemistry. This is his great adventure, this will shape his life. He goes to the recruitment office the following day and signs the paperwork.

###########

When Nate becomes Platoon Commander of Bravo Two, he gets twenty-two men, sleep deprivation and Sergeant Brad Colbert. It's the best day of his life.

His idealism fades over time, but his love for his men does not. Nate might not have been satisfied with what they accomplished in Iraq, but he's proud that he returned with every single one of his men. When they return, Nate is made Captain. Among the ranks of Schwetje and McGraw he's not sure if it's much of an honor. To the dismay of Captain Patterson, the only one to give credence to the rank, he decides to leave the Corps.

###########

When Nate leaves the Marine Corps, he gets a paddle party, way too many shots of tequila, and someone who's worth waiting for.

After an impetuous adolescence it is a clear change in his life's SOP.

Nate's always been in competition with himself. For as long as he can remember Nate's been chasing something: Cross Country records, Dartmouth College, the Marine Corps. Since high school Nate's been setting goals and he's met every single one.

Sometimes Nate can't sleep at night because he's so wound up with thoughts. Things he wants to do, things he's worried about, restless with the weight of not meeting his expectations. His feet slamming the pavement have always helped to silence the thoughts. Since he's met Brad, it's gotten worse.

Nate had goals before Brad.

Harvard Business School, Kennedy School of Government, CEO of a major corporation, maybe a political stint. He's got 40,000 words on his computer and notebooks full of memories. Nate wants to write a book, detail his time in Iraq, but he can't seem to put much effort into it when Brad's in Fallujah or Baghdad or wherever the fuck, and war and its idiocies are the last things he wants to think about.

Brad changed everything. For the first time in his life, Nate stopped chasing something. For the first time, Nate found what he was looking for. The problem is that Brad hasn't stopped with him. Brad's in constant motion, always in Nate's sights but just out of reach.

###########

Nate still runs as often as he can and always on weekends. He won't let civilian life make him soft.

He's running through the damp sand of Breakwater Way in his faded grey USMC tee and black mesh shorts. He's already passed three other guys in identical shirts, not surprising this close to Oceanside. He can feel his right toe straining against the worn nylon on the top of his New Balance and knows within a week this pair will be shot.

When he sees the beach curve to the right, he knows he's hit the home stretch. He veers past a familiar moony-eyed girl he sees far too often for it to be coincidence. He smiles politely, but doesn't break speed. He can hear Brad's disapproval in his head.

"I'm just being polite." He said defensively the first time they passed the girl together on a run.

"Well stop it, it's cruel."

"To you or the girl?" Nate prods. Brad responds by gunning it up the beach, using every bit of his extra two inches of height in each stride until Nate wheezes at the brutal pace. Nate loses sight of him at the turn down their street.

When Nate steps into the living room, toeing off his shoes, his heart is still hammering in his chest. Brad is standing in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, smirk apparent on his face. He's barely broken a sweat. Nate holds up a finger in a 'give me a minute' gesture.

"You're a…" He pants out. "Cocksucker."

Brad strides into his space, but he's smiling. "I didn't know they taught such words at Ivy League institutions."

Brad drops to his knees taking Nate's shorts and boxer-briefs with him. Brad swallows him down and Nate's legs give a bit, thighs shaking with effort. Brad supports him with long fingers splayed on Nate's lower back.

"I didn't know they taught deep-throating in BRC." Nate says weakly.

This time he doesn't fall asleep before he gets to come.

Nate can see the blue siding of the house; Brad's bike is parked next to his Volvo in the driveway. He heads inside, screen door shutting loudly behind him. Brad's not in his immediate line of sight, but his laptop is open on the kitchen table so he can't be far. Nate opens the fridge, grabs a Powerade and wiggles his finger across the touchpad.

The screen lights up, ice block avatar alerting him that the laptop has gone into hibernation on Brad's account. Nate just wants to check his email, see if his mom was able to get plane tickets for a long overdue visit this weekend.

When Brad's windows all load, Nate's staring at Brad's '' email account. He goes to take a sip of his drink, scrolling to minimize the window, eyes scanning the familiar looking email without really reading it. The Powerade never makes it more than half way to his lips.

These are deployment orders; Nate can feel his stomach drop. The letters blur in front of him until he can't make them out anymore. Brad ducks his head in the kitchen. Nate doesn't look up.

"When?" It comes out solid and defeated. Although he doesn't make eye contact, Nate knows Brad's face has run the gamut of emotions in a few seconds. Brad steps closer, one large hand on Nate's shoulder before he glances perfunctorily at the offending email.

"48 hours."

To Nate's credit, the wail he hears in his head never escapes his lips.

"My parents are flying in." Nate says uselessly, knowing it won't change anything. He looks into the living room. "We still have boxes."

Nate ambles into the living room, which is a hybrid of being makeshift furnished and strewn with cardboard boxes, Brad's messy Sharpie scrawl across them. He finally meets Brad's eyes, which look more helpless than in the aftermath of Trombley shooting two defenseless children outside Ar-Rifa.

"I just got you back." Nate says, fingertips around Brad's wrist.

"I know." Brad says.

Nate can feel the all too familiar numbness of fear, spreading through his body like a poison. It's an emotion Nate never experienced before Brad. It leaves him feeble and incensed. The numbness will seep into every part of him without Brad around as a distraction. Nate's been chasing his ambitions for so long he doesn't know how to stop and evaluate himself. He needs to tackle his fears and inadequacies; Nate decides to tackle Brad instead.

Before Brad can react, Nate is shoving him hard. Brad stumbles over a box, too long legs suddenly awkward as he slams into the wall. Nate steps into Brad's space punching the wall to the left of Brad's head twice, hard enough to tear the skin of his hand. When Nate pulls his hand back his knuckles are bleeding. Brad grips the wrist of Nate's injured hand hard to stifle any further injury. Nate reaches out quickly with his left hand and sucker punches Brad across his right cheekbone. Brad shoves him forward hard in retaliation, both hands on his shoulders.

"Okay, Nate," Brad says, taking off his shirt and tossing it on the floor. Nate follows suit, heather-gray up and over until it's a heap on the floor. "We're gonna work this out and then I'm gonna fuck you back into the docile pup you were before your run."

Nate smirks viciously. "Oh, I'd like to see you try."

Brad beckons Nate forward, bored expression across his features. Nate lunges toward him to land a punch, but Brad deftly avoids the face shots and spins Nate around with his own momentum, trapping him against his body. Brad's got him tight, one arm in front of his neck and the other across his chest. Nate elbows him hard in the ribs before stomping on his instep. Although Brad has the height advantage, Nate received the same intensive combat training as the rest of the Recon Marines. Nate is scrappy and fast where Brad's controlled and economical, which makes for a fair fight. The grasp across Nate's neck is lost when Brad moves to protect his ribs from further blows. Nate is still against his chest, Brad's arm draped to keep him there. Brad kicks out at the back of Nate's knee and he goes down.

Nate can feel Brad's hand on his shoulder holding him to the ground. "Feel free to stay there. You look pretty fucking hot on your knees."

Brad is holding him back. He's a barrier and Nate's spent his whole life knocking down barriers.

Nate has settled into the charmingly domestic existence of a fucking housewife, a life he never dreamed of living. A life he's not sure he's completely satisfied with.

Nate's always been able to run, to chase after whatever he wanted, but he can't theoretically go very far when Brad's deployed and he's anchored to Oceanside. He's stagnant and Brad's running circles around him.

Thinking about it makes Nate's fists clench. He wants to hit Brad, use all his force to break down his obstruction. Tear down the reason a large part of Nate is so willing to abandon his dreams.

Nate pops up from his knees to his feet. They trade blows back and forth neither solidly connecting until Brad misjudges one of Nate's feints and whacks Nate solidly on the jaw. Nate touches his jaw gingerly before punching Brad square in the mouth. Brad winces and spits a spray of blood onto the carpet.

Nate can feel the fight go out of him at the sight of Brad's blood. Brad is panting, cheeks flushed with effort and there's a trickle of red coming from the corner of his mouth. Nate moves closer, going up on his toes to lick at the blood on Brad's lip.

"You've got blood on your lip." Brad says reaching out to thumb it away. Nate's tongue is faster, sweeping across his bottom lip to swipe the blood away.

Nate's mouth is quickly claimed and he can feel strong hands on his ass, pulling him closer. Nate kisses back aggressively, clawing at Brad's back and sucking his tongue into his mouth until Brad lifts him up. Nate feels Brad shift them, his back connecting solidly with the wall, his ass cupped in Brad's hands. Nate's legs are locked around Brad's waist, momentarily stifling his attempts to climb Brad like a tree. Brad uses his leverage to suck down his neck and Nate knows he will have purple bruises there by morning. When Brad's lips graze the sensitive hollow of his throat, Nate grabs the back of Brad's hair, a bit longer than regulation, his fingertips dragging Brad's lips away from his neck.

"Fuck me." Nate growls out. Brad sets him on his feet and starts to lead him toward the couch.

"Yes, sir."

"No, chair." Nate tilts his head towards one of the hard-backed dining chairs.

"Wouldn't you prefer I fuck you right on our kitchen table?" Brad leans on the light wood testing its strength. "Our neighbors could watch me fuck the shit out of you right through the bay window. Maybe that'll stop them from asking you to help carry in their groceries." Brad has a lopsided smirk on his face.

Nate is hiding a grin. His eyes are mischievous. "Fuck the neighbors. I want to ride you."

With those five words Nate's effectively shot Brad's protest to hell. Brad grabs a chair and moves it out of the way so they won't crash into anything. He stalks up to Nate and plants a deep kiss on him. "You are the best fucking thing I've gotten from US Marine Corps."

Nate laughs. "I would hope I'm the only thing you're fucking in the Corps."

"These days the Corps is mostly fucking me." Nate feels Brad's fingers cradling his cheek, a light kiss pressed to a sore spot on his jaw where Nate can feel a bruise forming. Brad's words are probably the closest thing he's ever going to get to an "I'm sorry. I want to stay." Nate's never expected to replace the significance the Corps has in Brad's life, he tries to ignore how fucked up it is that he treasures the twinge of pain in his jaw as proof that Brad has a transient presence in his life.

Nate backs Brad up slowly until his calves rest against the legs of the chair. "Sit." He nudges Brad back until he is seated in the chair.

Nate makes quick work of Brad's track pants, kneeling before him. He slides his palms over the long expanse of Brad's thighs trying to memorize the way Brad's skin feels, warm and soft beneath his fingers. Nate gives Brad a final once over, dragging his eyes from the crown of Brad's light blonde head all the way down to his feet. He wants to store the mental image of him, naked and compliant, his legs spread invitingly. Nate knows the vision will be materializing frequently to get him through the coming nights without Brad.

He spits in his palm and gives Brad two long strokes before swiping his thumb across the wet tip. The low breathy gasp that escapes Brad's lips is hot enough to remind Nate that his cock is restricted painfully by the elastic of his shorts. Nate slides out of the mesh, spitting in his palm again before taking his own cock in his hand and giving it a few quick strokes. It feels good, sparks raked across his skin and Nate is cautious to take his time and not rush through this. He rests a palm on Brad's thighs before he swallows him down. Brad's head falls back and Nate continues to stroke himself slowly while he sucks Brad off. Nate can feel Brad's eyes on him, watching him work.

"You're so fucking hot." Brad breathes out. Nate pulls off and smiles up at him, his lips feel swollen.

"Come up here." Brad instructs. Nate gets to his feet and Brad reaches for his calf, placing Nate's right foot on the edge of the seat. Brad sucks two of his long fingers into his mouth and Nate braces his opposite hand on the chair back. Nate feels the wetness circle his entrance and arches his spine forward.

It isn't long before Brad has two fingers inside him, Nate's trying not to thrust back on Brad's fingers and completely fuck with his balance.

Nate loves Brad's fingers. Ever since he saw them stroking a path across the screen of his Blue Force Tracker he's had visions of them working him open, deep and wet. The first time they fooled around, Brad didn't disappoint. He stroked his fingers in, twisting them against that spot deep inside until he had Nate mewling and clawing at his MOPP suit. Nate's not exactly shy about his preference for Brad's fingers and Brad just acts nonchalant as he fingerfucks him harder.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nate sees Brad unearth a bottle of KY from underneath the couch. He drags it close with his foot, before reaching down and flicking open the cap. Nate moans at the loss of Brad's fingers. Nate is bent foreword, the forearm braced against the chair back taking all his weight. Brad quickly lubes up his fingertips before swiping generously at his cock. His fingers pump into Nate twice more, spreading the lube efficiently before Brad removes them.

Nate's ready to go, legs spread; straddling Brad and Brad places his hands on Nate's hips for support.

"Let's see how long you last. I know you fucking love it when I'm on top." Nate challenges.

When the head of Brad's dick grazes his hole, Nate's cock twitches. He would be embarrassed if he weren't so fucking turned on. Brad's hands are on Nate's hips pressing steadily down; Nate's mouth a perfect circle as he slides down on Brad's dick until they are thigh to thigh, Nate sitting astride Brad's lap. Nate watches as Brad tips his head back reveling in the blood rush to his head. He's so fucking deep at this angle. Nate moves with rhythm, using the chair for leverage, and even though Brad's dick is inside Nate's ass it's clear that Nate is the one doing the fucking.

"Oh, fuck." Brad grits out. It's almost an afterthought at this point.

Nate is pushing up on his hands, and slamming back down, using the balls of his feet to get as much leverage as he can for the downstroke. Brad watches him transfixed, uttering a litany of "fuck, fuck, fuck" before he grips Nate's hips harder and drags him down lifting his hips on the next downstroke. Nate practically yelps when his thighs smack Brad's and Brad smirks that he's fucked with Nate's rhythm for the moment. Brad angles Nate's body toward him on the upstroke so that the head of Nate's cock has some friction against his stomach. Nate's mouth is on his, sucking and searching out Brad's tongue, wholeheartedly letting him know that he appreciates the extra friction.

"Does it feel good?"

Nate's cock is leaving a trail of wetness against Brad's belly.

"So fucking good." Nate whimpers after a particularly vicious slide down.

The chair is moving beneath them, tipping back just slightly as Nate uses all the strength of his arms to fuck back down on Brad's cock. Brad grunts out, "Sweet fucking Christ," when Nate increases his pace.

Nate also knows that it gets Brad off that an average civilian couldn't do this. Nate uses all his muscles, every bit of strength and stamina, and Brad's clamping his fingers down on Nate's hips marking every fucking inch of Nate's body as his own.

It won't be long now for both of them. Nate's making a high keening sound that means Brad's cock is hitting his prostate at just the right angle. Nate knows that if Brad reaches down and strokes his cock twice he'll be done, coming all over Brad's chest. But he won't because this is Nate's show and Brad respects that.

Nate also knows Brad's done three seconds before it happens. He can see Brad biting his lip with his eyes shut tightly and uses his fingertips to search out Brad's balls. Nate nips at Brad's earlobe as Brad gasps out his release, before coming hard against Brad's chest, a strangled cry escaping his lips. Nate's fingertips slip off the edge of the chair, but Brad's hand catches him before he topples to the floor.

###########

When Brad's gone Nate runs until he can feel something. He gets up every morning at oh-dark-thirty, when the air is still cold and his chest burns as his lungs expand. He runs through the cramps in his side, the throb in his left knee, until his shin splints are screaming in protest. He won't ice them.

Nate never thought about how his life would change when he chose a life with Brad. He never entertained the possibility that the one thing he would abandon all his goals for would be the only thing he's never going to catch.

Nate relishes the ninety minutes of freedom from his thoughts each day, he likes the illusion that he's in motion.

Mostly he misses Brad.

###########

6 months later

Nate hates airports.

They're fucking crowded and convoluted and there's nowhere to run. He's seated in the arrivals section of American Airlines and he's glanced at the LHR to SNA 3:45 pm DELAYED screen twenty five times in the last half hour. His leg is drumming up and down anxiously and a Latino woman with 2 small children keeps eyeing him. He imagines she has an inkling of how he feels. With every minute of time so precious, a delayed plane home is practically a slap in the face.

A little boy with a "Welcome Home" sign in his lap is eating a pack of Charms. His lips are stained blood red and it reminds him of right before Brad left. Nate has to get out of here.

Nate walks the first floor of the airport once, ducking in to a bookstore, before queuing up at Starbucks for a coffee. When he picks up a coffee mug on display and sees the tremor in his hand, he sets the cup down and heads for a water fountain instead. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see people in the arrivals gate standing, so he walks back over briskly. Many of the guys coming through the doors are in uniform and the relief on their family's faces is palpable. He sees three young women turn their heads to look through the window of the arrival ramp and follows their gaze. He's met with 6 feet 4 inches of Brad Colbert, tanned and blonde, making his way forward.

When Brad steps through the doors and meets he gaze, Nate is treated to a brilliant smile. It takes every ounce of Nate's resolve not to pounce on him at the gate. Brad strides over quickly dropping his backpack at Nate's feet and pulling him into a tight hug, friendly to the casual observer.

"Hi."

"Hi." Nate returns, smiling into his shoulder.

"You want to get out of here?"

Nate nods and scoops up Brad's backpack. "Christ, you're home 30 seconds and you're already breaking hearts."

Brad quirks an eye at Nate before looking behind him at the three women whose gazes are trained on him. Brad gives them a big smile before nudging against Nate's shoulder.

"That's just cruel, you know."

Brad shrugs. "If it makes you feel better, I'm gonna suck you off in the car."

"Oh, no. I saw what you did to our dining room chair. I'm not letting you violate my Volvo."

"If I recall correctly, and I've had a lot of time to think about this, the chair was your idea."

"Well, I had to leave you with something worth coming back for." Nate pauses for a beat. "Not being able to seat six people at dinner is a small price to pay."

"It's just a little wobbly, Nate. It still functions perfectly well as a chair."

"Brad, I can't in good conscience let anyone ever sit in that chair again."

"Not even Ray?"

"Problem solved." Nate says with a wide smile. He leans forward to push open the glass doors to the parking lot.

"Nate?"Nate's hand pauses on the door, he turns to look back at Brad. "I knew you were worth coming back for long before the chair." Nate steps forward and leans up to breathe in Brad's ear.

"You can blow me in the car."

"Can I drive?"

"Let's not push it."

Nate holds the door open, as they both step into the setting sunlight of the deserted parking lot. Brad removes his cover and reaches out to take Nate's hand.

"Let's go home and unpack some boxes." Brad suggests.

"Okay." Nate smiles. They have time now while Brad's on leave. Although, Nate's pretty sure Brad is going to blow him before he gets anywhere near those boxes.

###########

The first thing Nate realizes when he wakes up is that there is drool on his polo. A second later he realizes that the phone is ringing. He dumps the figures he was looking over onto the floor and heads to grab the portable.

"Hello?" He's trying to make out the time on the microwave. It's late, or early, and Nate really needs to break down and get glasses.

"Hey." A familiar voice crackles over the line. Brad sounds tired, but happy.

"Brad?"

"Can't talk long, got a lineup of POGs behind me." Nate can barely make out the raucous of disapproval through the phone line. "I'm coming home."

Nate sighs relieved. "When?"

"Soon."

"How long?"

"For good." Brad says firmly.

"Brad…" Nate's heart is pounding in his chest. There's no way that means what he thinks it means.

"I've got to go. I just wanted you to know." Nate bites the smile threatening to cross his lips. He can picture Brad's annoyance with having to line up with a bunch of fucking new guys, homesick and desperate to call their girlfriends, wives, and children. He can practically hear Person taunting him about scurrying off to "call the wifey."

"Okay."

"You'll be there?"

Nate has to smile to himself. "Yeah, Brad. I'll be here."

"Good. I'll see you."

"Yeah. Be safe."

"Always." The line clicks dead, but Nate just holds the phone to his chest a little longer.

###########

Relationships are about compromise. One of the hardest lessons Nate has had to learn is how to integrate his goals with someone else's.

Past girlfriends have always said Nate has a problem with commitment, but Nate doesn't agree, he's loyal to a fault. It's the compromise part that's got him stuck.

Nate is chagrined that his lesson in compromise comes from the most unlikely source.

There are great business schools in California and there's no reason Nate can't run for Senate one day.

If Brad can take a glorified desk job so he can spend more time at home, Nate is perfectly happy accepting an MBA certificate that says Stanford instead of Harvard.

There's no reason Nate can't accomplish everything he's dreamed of just because he's doing it from a different coast.

###########

When Brad comes home two weeks later, he is true to his word. He's accepted an instructor position at Oceanside to train future Recon Marines. Nate learns later from Person that this move has been a year in the making. Nate's never loved Brad more.

It's late morning on a Tuesday and Nate's editing the last few chapters of his book. His editor has been overloading his Blackberry daily with threats and deadlines. Sometime last night Brad turned it off and threw it across their bedroom. Nate hasn't seen it since.

The screen door slaps loudly against the frame and Nate looks up to see Brad, patches of sand sporadically sticking to him.

"Hey." Nate feels a warm, wet kiss planted on his cheek.

"Hey, you." Nate stretches above his head, cracking his fingers. "How was surfing?"

Brad's already sauntered into the kitchen. "Waves were smoother than your baby soft ass."

"Fuck off." Nate says, but there's no malice behind it.

"How's the book? Do I need to threaten your editor again?"

Brad had considered it the last straw when Nate's editor, Dom, called half way through one of his coveted blow jobs. He answered on Nate's behalf and proceeded to pass on that if he was ever interrupted while receiving head again, he would castrate Dom and mail his balls to his parents. Other than that, Brad thinks Dom's an alright guy.

Nate smiles wryly at the memory. "I don't think that will be necessary."

Brad's hands are on his hair and his voice is soft in his ear.

"Take a break."

Nate arches an eyebrow and fights the urge to lean his head against Brad's.

"I'm beginning to think I'll never finish this book with you getting hot and bothered every time I sit down to write."

"It's the glasses." Brad says. "They practically beg me to do dirty things to you."

"If I promise to wear them for you later, will you let me get some work done?"

"You need a break."

Nate gives him a withering look.

"Not a sex break. Come for a run with me."

Nate reaches for Brad's hand, linking their fingers together before kissing Brad's lips.

"What was that for?"

Nate shrugs and turns to go get changed, but Brad doesn't let go of his hand and he's tugged back for another kiss.

"If you keep this up it's going to turn into a sex break." Nate says before he's met with one more peck on the lips and Brad lets him go free, but not completely. Nate feels a firm smack on his ass and yelps in surprise. Brad's face is the picture of innocence.

When Nate comes back down Brad is waiting for him, tinkering with his watch.

"Think you can keep up, civilian?"

"Yea, I think I'll be just fine."

They run out of their development, past the center of town towards the beach.

These days they run together and Nate matches Brad stride for stride.

Fin.

Author's Note: On my last visit to Dartmouth earlier this year I actually witnessed the entire cross country team streaking past me in Baker Library. They were actually wearing Spiderman masks. After seeing around 50 men (and women) running naked down stairs, nothing will ever shock me again. Trufax.

Title comes from "Waiting on the World to Change" by John Mayer