a little hangster soulmate ficlet because it popped into my head today
It takes Jake longer than he'd like to admit to notice the burst of ocean blue on his right bicep. In his defense, the first day actually getting in the the air during advance flight training had been intense.
In his defense, it must have happened in the fucking locker room and he wasn't exactly checking himself out in there—he tends to keep his eyes to himself in the locker room, not looking at anything except what's in front of him.
In his defense, he wasn't expecting to meet his fucking soulmate today.
But he did. He must have brushed against him—and it has to be a him because the only time Jake's bicep wasn't covered by his shirt or flight suit was in the lock room after he'd shower.
He studies the mark in the bathroom mirror, it almost looks like the waves rolling off the ocean as he moves his arm. He wonders what color he left on his soulmate. He wonders if his soulmate is standing in his own cramped bathroom somewhere in this same building studying his own mark. He wonders if his soulmate's heart is racing thinking about the implications of his soulmate being a man in a world where the ink on the DADT repeal is still drying.
He wonders who it is.
Honey brown curls and doe eyes, strong shoulders and biting comments, flash through his head before he shakes himself out of it. It's not worth imagining who it could be—who he'd kind of like it to be. That can only lead to disappointment. Instead of thinking about it, he brushes his teeth and walks out of the bathroom.
He lucked out with a decent roommate, Machado's a chill guy, funny and smart, and he doesn't seem to mind Jake's prickly exterior. He's sitting on the uncomfortable couch, a football game on, when Jake leaves the bathroom. Jake declines his offer to join him, suddenly exhausted, and falls asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow.
Bradshaw is already sitting in the classroom when Jake walks in the next morning. Jake stops in the doorway, eyes trained on the swell of Bradshaw's biceps under his tight uniform khaki shirt. Almost like he can feel Jake's eye on him, Bradshaw turns to the door, raising an eyebrow at him as if to ask what the fuck Jake is doing just standing there looking at him.
"Mornin'," Jake says, flashing half a smile. He's usually the first one in the room, Bradshaw being here is unexpected.
"Morning," Bradshaw's eyes are on Jake's shoulder, his arm. The mark is covered, Jake had triple checked that his shirt covered it before leaving, but it feels like Bradshaw can see it anyway.
"You're here early," Jake says, walking into the room. "You're must have been with the roosters today."
Bradshaw snorts, but doesn't say anything. His eyes haven't left Jake since he spotted him in the doorway.
Jake makes his way to his usual seat in the front, stealing himself to pass Bradshaw in the second row. He can feel Bradshaw's eyes on him as he approaches. It's stupid and impulsive, but as Jake walks by he shifts, flexing his arm so his sleeve rides up, causing the ocean blue mark to poke out just enough for Bradshaw to see it if he's looking.
There's a sharp intake of breath from Bradshaw and then there are fingers circling Jake's wrist stopping him.
"Seresin," Bradshaw's voice cracks halfway through his name. He sounds so raw.
"Bradshaw," Jake looks down at him and sees it, a sea foam green splotch of color on Bradshaw's left bicep. They must have brushed by each other in the lock room. Jake thinks he might remember it, Bradshaw coming in later than the rest of them, head down, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
"Is that—is that new?"
"Pretty sure you know the answer to that already, man," Jake's voice isn't loud, but it still feels like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Bradley," Bradshaw—Bradley says. "You should probably call me Bradley."
"Jake," Jake tells him. "Sit up front me with today?"
There's a moment of hesitation. Jake wonders if Bradley is running through all the reasons that a terrible idea. Whatever he's thinking, he must decide the pros outweigh the cons, because he gets up and joins Jake at the front.
"We gonna talk about it?" Bradley asks, fingers tracing along the mark on Jake's arm. If they leaned any closer, their marks would match up.
"Later," Jake says, reaching out to touch Bradley's mark, dropping his hand when he hears voices in the hall. He takes a breath. If he doesn't ask now, he'll lose his nerve. "Dinner, tonight?"
"Dinner," Bradley agrees, knocking their shoulders together. "It's a date."
Jake bites back a grin at Bradley's easy agreement. He's saved from responding by the classroom door opening. He was half expecting Bradshaw to turn him down. Jake knows he's been a bit—well he's been a bit intense during training. Knows he's rubbed some people the wrong way with his persistence and need to be the best. He's well aware that half the class thinks he's an asshole, but he also knows that everyone in this classroom knows he's the best, that no one doubts his abilities in a cockpit. Especially not after taking to the skies for the first time yesterday and seeing him in action.
But here Bradley is, agreeing to dinner with Jake. Looking almost pleased that Jake's his soulmate. Like maybe last night when he was studying his mark maybe he'd thought about Jake's dimples and his eyes, just like Jake had thought about him.
Now isn't the time to think about this though. Now he needs to focus on training. And that's just what he does. When he and Bradley are paired up to practice taking off and landing, Jake feels giddy with it.
He gets to fly a fighter jet. He gets to fly a fighter jet with his fucking soulmate. They can figure the rest out later.
