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Title: Forgot the Fucking Curtains
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Ray/Brad
Rating: R
Summary: Ray. Brad. Portland, Oregon. Ikea. (aka, Curtain!fic)

Author's Notes: For [profile] shoshannagold for the sheer fun of it. Also, this is self-betaed (shosh is usually my beta), so there's a 99% 100% chance something in here is wrong. If you find it, I will give you a pony. (Pony not guaranteed.)

Disclaimer: None of this is true. At all. All persons in this story are based on fictionalized portrayals of real persons, whom the author will never, ever claim to no. Same for all colberts.



Forgot the Fucking Curtains
By Perpetual Motion

"What?" Brad asked, tempted to pull the phone away from his ear to make sure he was actually talking to Ray. "Speak up. I can't hear you over the completely retarded shit you just said in my ear."

"I said I'm moving to Oregon, you fuck. Portland." Ray replied. “For college.”

"Ray," Brad said slowly, "Portland is a bunch of granola fucking liberal dicksucks. They'll burn you at the fucking stake."

"They'd have to eat me so I wouldn't overfill a landfill, but they're a bunch of vegan pig fuckers, so I'm safe."

Which is how Brad ended up in Portland, Oregon, in Ikea, and in the midst of plotting the death of at least a hundred other people because they will not get the fuck out of his way in the aisles.

"There's a thing called the Internet, Ray," Brad said as they cut around a family of four who had stopped short to remark over a television stand. "Why the fuck can't you just order a goddamned bed and have them deliver the piece of shit?"

"Because I spent six years getting my spine fucking ruined to save this great country," Ray's gesticulation at "country" nearly knocked over a shelving unit, "and I'm not gonna buy a bed untried." He grinned at Brad. "Because then I'll have to listen to your fucking whining about how it's too short or too narrow or too hard or too soft."

Brad counted at least four jokes he could make about "too hard or too soft" and discarded them all when yet another group of fucking assholes stopped right in front of them. "Etiquette!" Brad snapped, and he glared them out of the way.

"Easy, boy." Ray grabbed Brad's arm as they walked into the bedroom section of the showroom. He turned Brad to face him and shoved him in the chest.

Brad let himself fall back onto the bed behind him. He stared at the hanging lamp over the bed for a moment. "That thing is fucking ugly."

"I'm not buying the fucking lamp."

"Good." Brad pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at Ray. The way Ray had pushed him onto the bed, Brad's feet were touching the ground. Ray was standing just outside the vee of his legs. "It's not bad," he said. "It's not bouncy."

"Foam mattress with a slatted bed base," Ray explained. "It's European." He shrugged when Brad raised his eyebrows. “I did some research on that there Internet you mentioned.”

Brad smirked. “European?” He waited for Ray’s nod. "Meaning it’s communist."

"Or socialist."

"Shame on you."

Ray smirked in return and gave Brad a lingering look from his boots to his legs to his groin to his chest to his face. "You look pretty good on it."

Brad spread his legs a little farther, tapped his heel against Ray's calf. "It's not bad."

Ray took the half-step required to put himself in the space between Brad's legs. "Need a different frame, though. That shit is ugly."

Brad craned his neck back to look at the frame. It was a solid block of wood in a birch finish. "And not a damned thing to hold onto," Brad said as he looked at Ray again. Ray was staring at his neck. When he noticed Brad looking, he leered.

"Wanna try it out?" Ray asked, leaning forward a little.

"Not a fucking chance." Brad levered himself into a sitting position, his head even with Ray's stomach. "Five goddamned days humping it through five ugly ass states, and you proposition me in a fucking Ikea?"

"In the showroom," Ray argued. "On the bed." He paused and tilted his head at Brad. "And quit bitching like you didn't get freaky hotel room sex every fucking night, thank you very much."

Brad grinned and pushed at Ray's hips to back him up so he could stand. "Fucking Montana," he muttered. "You made me drive through fucking Montana."

"You hate everybody. I figured you'd jizz yourself not having to see a goddamned person for five hundred miles."

"I think you just wanted to get one last chance to fuck cows without getting arrested."

Ray laughed, stepping back into the aisle and nearly colliding with people who looked like college students. All of them wide-eyed, probably having heard every word they'd exchanged. "I'm in the biggest liberal circle jerk outside of fucking Boston, man. It's probably a graduation requirement for me to fuck some sort of farm animal."

Brad smirked as Ray scrawled the item number on the showroom brochure, using the two-inch width of the footboard as an impromptu desk. “What’s next?” he asked when Ray looked up at him.

“Bed’s gotta have a frame. Let’s find one that isn’t a fucking embarrassment.”

*

“That is a chick bed frame,” Brad said fifteen minutes later. They’d circled the bedroom section of the showroom once before Ray had fallen on the bed with the frame in question and raised his eyebrows at Brad.

Ray stretched around to look at it. He was flat on his back, arms stretched over his head. He grabbed the headboard—a mixture of straight rails and metal scrollwork—and stretched against it. Lifting his chest and shoulders off the bed and keeping his hips and legs pressed against it, he raised his eyebrows again.

Brad watched him arch. “That is a chick bed frame,” he repeated, “and you’d better make good on that move when we buy it.”

“I’m always good for it,” Ray said, letting go of the headboard and pushing himself off the bed. He pulled the Ikea list brochure from his back pocket while Brad flipped the tag.

“Queen?” Brad asked.

“Not if your giant ass is gonna fit when you visit,” Ray replied.

“Why would I visit you in this liberal douche hole?” Brad asked, twitching when Ray settled the Ikea brochure against his back. “And I am not a fucking desk.”

“You want me to write this down so we can read it, or do you want to lose twenty minutes calling me a dumbfuck when we’re pulling all this shit off the shelves?”

“King number,” Brad replied, “ait-niner-ait-dot.”

“Got it.”

“fow-er-niner-niner-dot-six-six.”

“Got it.” Ray repeated. He read it back and tucked the brochure into his pocket when Brad nodded in affirmation. “And you’ll visit for the beer. They’ve got microbrew out the ass up here.”

Brad snorted. “Probably all tastes like patchouli oil.”

*

Ray’s apartment was on the fourth floor of a historic building. The elevator creaked when they stepped into it, setting the rolled mattress against the back wall. The doors shut halfway, opened again due to—as far as Brad could tell—not a goddamned thing, and then closed with a clang. Brad raised an eyebrow as the elevator shuddered before jerking upward hard enough that the mattress slid along the wall.

“Dragged me to fucking Ikea because you won’t buy a goddamned mattress online because of your dumb fuck back, and you live in a building with an arthritic elevator.” Brad glared at Ray. Ray laughed. “I fucking hate you.”

“Yeah. yeah.” Ray made a ‘you’re talking too much’ gesture with his hand and nearly fell over when the elevator came to a slamming halt. The mattress fell against him, bouncing off his head. Brad burst out laughing. Ray flipped him off.

*

Ray slit the plastic covering the mattress, closed his knife, stuck it back into his pocket, and tossed the unopened end of the mattress towards Brad. “Pull,” he said, and Brad grabbed the plastic and yanked while Ray tugged the mattress from the other end. The plastic slipped off, and Ray dropped the mattress to the floor, kicking it so it unrolled. It laid mostly flat, the top end curling a couple of inches.

“When’s the rest of your shit get delivered?”

“Tomorrow,” Ray said, “between oh-nine hundred and noon.” He pulled a face. “Like waiting for the fucking cable assholes.”

“When are they getting here?”

“Fuck all no time—Shit!” Ray yelped when Brad knocked his legs out from under him. He landed flat on his back on the mattress. Before he could fight back, Brad had him pinned, mouth pressed against Ray’s throat.

“Fuckin’ Ikea.” Brad grumbled. “Fuckin’ Montana. Fuckin’ Walla Walla with no goddamned place to eat near the hotel.”

“There was a bistro.” Ray squirmed when Brad bit down hard on his shoulder. “Fuckin’ bistro,” he said because Brad was nosing his shirt up and sucking his way down Ray’s stomach. “Fuck…” Ray hissed and grabbed at Brad’s head. “You need to grow some goddamned hair, you Aryan motherfucker.”

Brad didn’t respond. He popped the button on Ray’s jeans and yanked at the waistband. “Shitty rapehole hotel rooms,” he said against Ray’s hip.

“Fuckin’ awesome gas mileage,” Ray replied and giggled when Brad ran his teeth along the inside of his thigh. “Ridiculously kinky hotel sex.” He nudged at Brad’s head with his knee when Brad rasped his stubble along the outside of his thigh. “Screamed so fucking loud in South Dakota the desk called up.”

“That place probably had hidden cameras,” Brad replied. He licked up Ray’s dick, then paused over it, arms on either side of Ray’s hips, mouth hovering just out of reach. When Ray tilted his hips, Brad pulled away. “Cocksuckers were probably jacking it in the lobby until you go loud enough someone called down.”

“What kind of frigid motherfucker interrupts kinky hotel sex?”

“A frigid motherfucker,” Brad said. He grabbed Ray’s left leg before Ray could club him in the side of the head. He squeezed Ray’s knee, then pinned the leg down, leaning down to suck Ray’s cock into his mouth.

“That—fuck yeah—that is what I am fuckin’ talking about.”

Brad pulled off Ray’s dick again, his free hand pressing against Ray’s right hipbone. “When aren’t you fucking talking about something?”

Ray pushed himself onto his elbows and glared at Brad. “Do I stop sucking your dick to talk about what a closed-mouth douchefucker you are?”

Brad grinned and leaned back down. “Fuckin’ Ikea,” he muttered.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ray groused. “Fuckin’—shit—Harder, motherfucker. Yeah. Fuck yeah.”

*

“Fuck yeah,” Ray muttered later, wiping the edge of his mouth as he crawled up the bed and collapsed next to Brad. He turned his head to look at Brad. “Admit it, I suck dick like no one else.”

“I’ve never denied you’re a cocksucker.” Brad twitched when Ray dug his fingers against his ribs.

“Douchefag,” Ray mumbled. He rubbed his hands over his eyes and rolled towards Brad, throwing an arm over his midsection.

“You’re gonna make me help you put together all the shit furniture you just bought, aren’t you?”” Brad asked after a few minutes, his words slurred.

“Goddamn right I am. That shit is fucking impossible.”

“You fucking bastard,” Brad mumbled. He was asleep before Ray responded.

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October 2013

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