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Cameron has spent the past fourteen years imagining what it’d be like to meet Sullivan again.
He can admit that. They were fanciful, elaborate fantasies. Meeting out of nowhere in a run-down diner. Picking Sullivan up on the US 21 because his fancy black Chevelle SS broke down. Sullivan coming back to Parris Island as if nothing had ever happened, uniform as neat and face as severe as ever, ready to break down the next round of recruits.
Mostly, however, Cam imagined finding Sullivan’s face splashed across the papers, MARINE DISHONORABLY DISCHARGED FOR FELONY ASSAULT stamped across the picture, to hear whispers in the barracks about that one soldier, but it was as if he never existed.
No mention in the papers, no mentions by any of the people who had known him. He was a ghost, same as back when Cameron had known him. When he finally plucked up the courage to ask Captain Fajardo a few years back, she dismissed him with a curt "DI Sergeant got what he asked for," whatever the hell that means.
Well, he supposes, it was something.
(He imagined Sullivan dead, too. The thought woke him up some nights, cold, clammy sweat sticky on his skin.)
In all of his fantasies, he hadn’t ever considered this: crossing paths with Sullivan in a random gay bar in Savannah, during Pride, of all things. Surely, surely, Sullivan wouldn’t be caught dead in a gay bar.
Except, there he is.
No longer the man Cameron remembers and yet, in so many ways, he still is. The hair is longer, falling in soft, ungelled waves over his forehead, but the confidence and danger radiating from his body is familiar. He’s wearing actual cameo inspired cargo pants, which is the last thing Cameron expected to see on him but the eyes—
The ice blue eyes are still the same.
And are now locked in on his with razor sharp focus.
Cameron reels back. Something indescribable, hot and exhilarating, rushes through him. His hands constrict around his half empty glass of G&T.
He wants to run but his feet won’t move.
Then someone bumps into him, cussing him out, and the moment is broken. He shakes himself out of his stupor and, without leaving himself time to second-guess his choice, fights through the crowd, glitter and flashing lights and naked, sweaty bodies fading into the peripheries of his vision.
Sullivan looks like he wants to run, and that’s hilarious, all things considered.
Cameron has no idea what he’ll say when he reaches him. In the end, he blurts out, "Cameo? For Pride? How very camp of you." Hardly original or nice but he suspects nothing he could say would erase the suspicion on Sullivan’s face.
"Cope," Sullivan replies after a moment, the word sounding like it’s being dragged out of him against his will. "Still alive, I see."
"You too," Cam says, and watches with glee when Sullivan’s jaw twitches.
Sullivan doesn’t reply, so Cam takes it upon himself as the social butterfly he is to say: "Want a drink?"
"I don’t drink."
"They have apple juice. And, like, water."
Sullivan opens his mouth, probably to tell him he’s not a fucking kid who drinks apple juice because he’s predictable as fuck, but Cameron is good at getting his way and he can tell Sullivan is intrigued despite himself, even if he still pretends to be a hardass, so Cameron just drags him to the bar with a hand on his arm, then flags down the bartender.
There’s a line, but he orders their drinks—a water for Sullivan and another G&T for himself—in no time, then they move to a quieter area by the entrance. He’s surprised that Sullivan follows without complaint. Maybe he’s wondered about Cameron too, over the years.
Probably not, though.
He takes a fortifying sip of his drink, and watches Sullivan over the rim of his glass. "So what are you doing here?" Why not cut straight to the point, after all.
"I live here," Sullivan replies. When Cameron doesn’t reply, he says, "Found work at the cemetery downtown."
"In Savannah?"
That’s awfully close to Parris Island. Cameron doesn’t say it, but his face must project the thought because Sullivan nods and, taking a drink of his own, says, "I moved around a lot. Somehow ended up back here."
Cam hums, taking him in. Somehow, his hair being soft and unstyled makes his jawline look even more severe. His red stubble glints in the low light of the bar.
"I went to prison for a few years," Sullivan says out of nowhere. Cameron’s eyes flick back to his. "That’s what you want to know, don’t you?"
"I thought you were dead." Cameron’s stomach drops. He hadn’t—meant to say that out loud. He takes a hasty sip of his drink, then coughs when the sugar burns down his throat. There’s no point lying about it, if he’s honest. Sullivan molded him into what he is and then he disappeared, and life was great, mostly, and still—
And still he wondered.
Sullivan scoffs. Or maybe snorts. It’s hard to tell. "I thought about it."
"Well, who hasn’t, right?" Cameron replies, raising his glass to clink them together. Sullivan almost looks like he’s smiling. Cameron trails a finger along the rim of his glass, suddenly self-conscious. The bravado he felt earlier feels very far away now.
"You’re still with the Corps?" Sullivan asks after a moment.
Cameron nods. "Yes. Did four tours, then decided I would be better suited at wrangling new recruits."
One side of Sullivan’s mouth curls up.
"What?" Cameron asks, realizing as he’s moving to take a sip that he’s drained his drink. Sullivan’s mouth is very distracting.
"I can see it," Sullivan replies. He pauses, eyes tacking over Cameron’s body. "You were good at that, even back then. Being a leader. Even though you had to be beat down into it."
"Oh, I don’t know—"
"It’s not a compliment," Sullivan cuts in, one eyebrow arched. "It’s a fact."
Cameron shrugs, warmed despite himself, even though the implication is not lost on him. Beat down into it. Yeah, Sullivan sure fucking did. Some days he liked it. He can admit that, too. He feels a little lightheaded. He probably downed his drink too quickly. "You here with someone?" Well. There. He said it.
Sullivan shakes his head, smiles a little rueful, if Cameron were to guess. "Don’t know why I even went out. I have work in..." He looks down at his watch. "…Six hours." Cameron watches him finish his water, then pat himself down. Readying himself to leave.
"Will I see you again?"
The question is out before he can think twice about it. Fuck. He’s good at keeping himself in check at work, in real life, but something about Sullivan makes his brain short-circuit. He swears he was better at it as a 17-year-old.
Sullivan eyes him for a long moment, then sighs, one long, drawn out sound. "Still asking questions you know the answer to."
Cameron nods, biting his lower lip. "Too bad." Then, because he’s a grown up, but he still makes dumb fucking decisions, he blurts out: "My hotel is not far from here. Like, two minutes. You wanna?"
Sullivan actually, honest to God, flinches. It would be almost funny, if Cameron’s heart wasn’t about to beat out of his throat. "What, still in the closet?" The question slips out, even as alarm bells start blaring in his head—
In a second, Sullivan is before him, crowding him against the wall. To anyone else, the scene might look ordinary, two guys about to kiss in a shadowy corner of a bar, but Cameron knows. Knows the anger in Sullivan’s eyes. The fear. Unfortunately for Sullivan, he’s no longer the weak little boy he was a decade ago.
He’s a fucking Marine now.
"Guess you are," he murmurs, and sees Sullivan’s eyes dilate.
A second later, there are two hands fisted in the lapels of his shirt, dragging down the collar. He can sense it when Sullivan notices the coarse dark hair on his chest, the proximity of their bodies. Cameron can’t help himself. It’s been so long since he got laid and Sullivan’s touch lights something up in him he can’t explain. He sways closer, lets their bodies touch.
"I told you to be careful. Have you learned nothing?" Sullivan grinds out, body pressing harder against Cameron’s, even as his hands look like they want to push Cameron away. There’s a bright white scar on the left side of his upper lip. Cameron wonders how he got it. Wonders what it’d be like to tongue along the scarred skin.
"I am careful," Cameron replies. "But things are easier now. Things are—"
Sullivan scoffs.
"I am not afraid," Cameron says, and it’s mean. It’s mean, and it’s the wrong thing to say, he knows that, but it doesn’t make it any less true. Sullivan’s hands loosen on him, hurt flashing across his suddenly very expressive face. Cameron reaches for him before he can get too far. "Come home with me. Even just for…a drink."
Sullivan snorts. "Does this usually work for you?"
"You don’t think this is fate?" Cameron replies, maybe drunk. Maybe not.
"There is no such thing as fate, Cope."
"What about you meeting that recruiter? Was that not fate?"
Sullivan’s jaw twitches. Cameron smirks, triumphant.
"I’ll accompany you back to the hotel," Sullivan finally says, then raises a hand to stave off any further comment by Cameron. "Only so that you don’t trip over your feet and crack your head open. Can’t have you disrespecting the Marines like that."
"Mhm, you’re right. Can’t have anyone disrespecting the Marines with their off-duty actions."
Sullivan’s jaw twitches, hard, but it’s funny. He has to admit that. It’s kinda really fucking funny. He went to prison for it. At some point, he’s got to start finding the humor in it.
They peel themselves off the wall and make their way outside. It’s nearing 1 am but the oppressive July heat hasn’t let off. Cameron draws a hand along his sweaty nape, suddenly a lot more sober than he likes to be. He was kidding, mostly, when he propositioned Sullivan earlier and he’s not sure that this is what this is about, isn’t sure if he’s about to get his head bashed in after all—
Well, only one way of finding out.
The girl at the reception doesn’t bat an eyelash when they enter and head toward the elevator with a quick greeting. One thing Cameron found out about being gay over the past decade is that most regular people he encounters don’t care. He knows, of course, that he’s lucky, that he filled out, big broad shoulders and hands, that people take one look at him and swallow their words, that he demands respect, but also—times are changing.
It’s different, he thinks, for Sullivan who grew up in a time that found new horrid ways of hating queer men.
He leans against the elevator wall and looks Sullivan over. In the harsh, fluorescent neon light, he sees Sullivan’s age. He has white streaks in his hair, his stubble. Wrinkles around the eyes. His body is softer now that he’s no longer in the presence of others. Somehow, he’s even more beautiful now at 42 than he was back when they first met..
(Cameron never told anyone, but he combed through Sullivan’s file one night.
Not that it told him much.)
"You look good for 42," he says, just because. "Anyone ever told you?"
If Sullivan is bothered by Cameron knowing his age, he doesn’t show it. He rolls his eyes and the move is so human and so unlike anything Cameron has ever come to know about Sullivan, Cameron has to hide a disbelieving laugh behind his hand.
It’s a short trek to his room. Room 117. He keys the door open, then turns toward Sullivan, one eyebrow cocked. "You coming in?"
"You’re drunk."
"Is that the only reservation you have?" He doesn’t wait for a response, just enters, knowing, hoping Sullivan will follow.
He does.
Cameron feels his presence at his back like a heavy weight, an itch under his skin. He doesn’t recall ever being this anxious about a hookup. Though he drank two cocktails and a lukewarm beer on his way to the bar, the boozy haziness from earlier is entirely absent. He feels stone-cold sober.
Well, it’s not every day you get to sleep with the man who quite literally broke you down and then reshaped you into who you are now. He heads toward the room’s minibar and gets out a water for himself, then offers one to Sullivan, but he refuses. Whatever. He uncaps his bottle and chugs the water down, holding Sullivan’s gaze.
Sullivan is quiet, just watching him with the same unnerving assessing gaze Cameron remembers from back in the day.
That won’t do.
Cameron throws his emptied bottle in a trashcan and takes the two steps until he’s back in front of Sullivan, an arm’s width distance between them. In all of his fantasies, he’s never thought about kissing or fucking Sullivan because there’s men and then there’s Sullivan.
He can’t help but want it now. He brushes a hand along his stubbled jaw, the motion not even intentional, and smiles when he sees Sullivan track it. Clearing his throat, he inches closer. "You ever thought about it?"
"No," Sullivan says, like he’s an idiot. "You were a kid."
Cameron purses his lips. He’s honest about it, too, of course. "I never thought about it either."
"Okay," Sullivan replies, even though they both know Cameron is lying out of his ass. He remembers vividly the first time he kissed a man, a civilian on leave in a dark club, remembers his first thought afterwards was What would Sullivan say now if he saw me.
Not the most healthy reaction, admittedly, but it is what it is.
He’s done talking. He steps up to Sullivan, closing the distance. Part of him still thinks he’ll get his ass kicked but another, bigger, part of him simply doesn’t care. He could, probably, even win this win if it came to it. He’ll never be broad and heavy but he’s taken down men twice his size when he had to. And Sullivan’s softer around the middle. He probably doesn’t work out regularly, except whatever it is he’s doing at the cemetery.
Cameron reaches out and trails his fingertips over Sullivan’s stomach. Sullivan’s hand snatches out and grips his wrist, but it’s half-hearted at best. Cameron tugs him closer until they are nose to nose. Sullivan smells faintly of something Cameron can only categorize as the ocean, fresh and tangy and salty.
It’s weird to realize that he’s human, no longer the perfect, impenetrable Sergeant. The realization makes him a little dizzy.
In the end, it’s Sullivan who leans in first. Their first kiss is oddly soft, close-mouthed. Cameron hadn’t kissed anyone this sweetly in years. He pushes down the oddity of it all and slides his hands around Sullivan’s neck, in his hair, messing up the perfect strands.
He feels Sullivan’s wrap around his waist, tentative. A thousand questions whir around Cameron’s mind (when’s the last time you’ve been with a man, when’s the first time you realized you wanted this, have you ever been in love) but he pushes them down and presses closer, mouth and body needing to be closer.
He’s breathing heavily when the part, more winded than he ought to be after a kiss. Sullivan, for his part, looks as unflappable as ever. Except for his hair. When he notices Cameron looking, he pats it down hastily. Cameron snorts.
Sullivan gives him another of his patented looks, although this one looks softer around the edges. Cameron kisses him again, on the side of his mouth, then leans away, steering them back toward the bed, hoping that Sullivan won’t bolt.
"Last chance to back out," he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
"Or what?"
Cameron shrugs.
"You’re gonna lock me up in your basement if I try to leave?"
"Nothing quite as drastic but I have my ways to convince you."
The sides of Sullivan’s mouth curl up. "No doubt."
He follows Cameron down to the bed, thank fuck, body sliding up Cameron’s in one slow move until he’s propped over Cameron on his elbows, their noses almost but not quite touching. His eyelashes are almost translucent.
This is too romantic, Cameron realizes with a panicked burst in his chest.This is the kind of sex you have with a boyfriend. Not that he’d know anything about that, but he imagines it is a lot like what he’s experiencing right now: a kind of unbearable, terrible, fascinating intimacy.
He surges up and rolls them over when it becomes too much. Sullivan’s hands land on his thighs where they’re spread across his waist, trailing slowly up and down. It makes Cameron shiver, even through the rough cloth of his faded jeans.
"I want to ride you," he says, deciding this on the spot.
"Okay," Sullivan replies.
Cameron inches away and stands up, ridding himself of his clothes, and watches Sullivan do the same, long, lean, beautiful body revealed inch by inch. A faded tattoo on Sullivan’s left pectoral catches his eye. Semper Fi. Sullivan turns off the overhead light with a quick slap of his hand, leaving them bathed in the soft, yellow light of the bedside table.
Fine by Cameron. He shakes off his curiosity and reaches for his duffel bag where he stashed condoms and some lube. He came here with the intention to fuck or be fucked, after all. It’s been ages since he’s done more than make out and rut against another hard body, and he wants it bad now, the feeling of being filled a shallow, distant memory.
Sullivan’s hands migrate back to his thighs, kneading the tight muscle, once Cameron’s back on top of his waist, like he can’t help himself. Cameron bites down on the smirk threatening to appear on his face and uncaps the lube.
"Can I?" Sullivan says.
Cameron stills. "Sure, go wild," he says after a moment.
It’s not his favorite thing, to be fingered while being stared at and it’s undeniably more intimate with Sullivan, but he allows it. He hangs his head, face averted, and tries to breathe through the feeling of Sullivan’s hand moving closer and closer. His stomach is turning in on itself, both good and bad.
"You okay?" Sullivan says after a moment, one hand distractedly moving up and down the sensitive skin of Cameron’s inner thigh.
"Yes," Cameron replies, "Get to it."
Sullivan snorts but obeys. Soon, there’s a finger around his hole, calmly and methodologically exploring him, then a mouth on the side of his throat. He shivers, feeling himself opening up. The finger inches in, unbearably slow. Sullivan knows what he’s doing. A full-body shiver wracks Cameron’s body when he hits his prostate. Fuck.
"Another," Cameron urges, grinding down against Sullivan’s hard stomach. This is all too slow. He can’t wait another goddamn second. Sullivan obeys, another finger sliding in to join the first, scissoring and thrusting, this time more urgent.
"Okay, that’s enough," Cameron says after a while. He shimmies back once Sullivan has dropped his hand and reaches for the condom with shaking fingers.
Sullivan’s cock is long and slender like himself. Cameron slides the condom down, copping a feel while he’s at it. A shame he was so laser-focused on getting it in him immediately earlier. He would’ve liked to suck it, edge Sullivan until his perfect facade of control breaks away, until his chest is as red as his hair.
Too late now. This is his one chance. He stills after positioning Sullivan’s cock at his hole, holding Sullivan’s gaze.
"Are you alright?" Sullivan says, voice steady. Again, with the concern. Cameron sets his jaw and slides down on his cock in one long slide. They gasp in unison when Sullivan bottoms out. It’s—a lot at once but his body knows what it can take. He repositions, planting one hand on Sullivan’s chest and the other on the headboard over his head, and starts moving, slow at first until his body is used to it, and then harder, the way he likes it.
Sullivan’s hands move from his thighs to his waist. It isn’t until Cameron feels him lean down that he realizes he’s been coaxed into another sweet kiss. He bites down, a little mean, on Sullivan’s lower lip, and smirks when Sullivan bucks up into him. Then Sullivan’s hands move to the cheeks of his ass, gripping hard on both sides, pressing them impossibly tighter together, bodies slick with sweat and pre-cum. "Yeah, come on. Give it to me," he murmurs into Sullivan’s mouth.
He feels Sullivan plant his feet into the mattress and then—and then Cameron gets exactly what he needs. He hangs his head, mouth open, and lets himself be fucked, hard and deep and fast. Then their mouths meet again and Sullivan gets a hand down in between their bodies, somehow coordinating the thrusts of his hand and body what the fuck, and Cameron can feel himself losing it fast.
He comes with his face pressed against Sullivan’s throat, taking in lungfuls of the sweet scent of his skin. Sullivan kisses him high up on his cheek, hands gentling and body falling limp.
Cameron takes a deep breath and then drags himself up until he’s crouched on Sullivan’s lap again, hands falling to his chest. Then he begins moving again, slow grinds this time.
"You don’t have to—" Sullivan begins.
"I know that. I want to."
Sullivan falls quiet. Cameron grinds down harder, watching Sullivan’s reactions. He likes it slow, that much is obvious. Slow and tender. Cameron leans forward, one hand sliding up from Sullivan’s chest until they’re loosely framing his throat, then up to his mouth. Sullivan’s mouth opens around one digit with no hesitation.
Cameron’s stomach contracts. "Are you going to come for me?" he says, heart pounding.
Sullivan nods haltingly, as if he’s not quite sure.
"Let me hear you," Cameron says. He has to laugh when Sullivan’s eyebrows twitch. Stubborn. He grinds down harder, puts another finger in Sullivan’s mouth. Sullivan might try to tamp it down but Cameron can see him unraveling, body twitching, eyes going hazy and dark.
His hand moves from Sullivan’s mouth to the top of his head, grabbing his hair. The move exposes the shiny, vulnerable skin of his throat. Fuck. Cameron feels himself harden again. He leans back slightly, taking Sullivan in deeper, determined to get a reaction.
Sullivan comes with only a low quiet moan but the way his eyes roll back, hair completely messed up, is enough to satisfy some deep burning desire in Cameron. He stills, chest heaving, and waits for Sullivan to come to himself.
"Alright?" Cameron asks, hands moving slowly along Sullivan’s broad shoulders.
Sullivan hums. "You?"
"Yes, it was exactly what I needed."
"Glad I could be of service."
Cameron bites down on his tongue before he says something that’ll make Sullivan mad and shifts away. He’s afraid Sullivan will be gone if he disappears into the bathroom but he really needs to clean up.
In the hotel room’s dingy bathroom, he disposes of the condom and quickly washes down by the sink, then hurries back into the room, hopefully not projecting the air of urgency he’s feeling.
Sullivan is still there, seated at the edge of the bed. His pants are on but unbuttoned. He turns when Cameron halts just outside the bathroom door.
"Leaving already?"
Sullivan nods and gets up. "I’ve got to be up in less than four hours."
"Right." He pauses, deliberating. "I won’t lie, I’d like to see you again sometime. I mean, this was fun and—"
"I am not sure that’s a good idea."
"Probably not but we’re grown men." He bites his tongue. Maybe reminding Sullivan of their age difference isn’t the best course of action but it’s out there. Almost as an afterthought, though really it’s something he needs desperately, he says, "I need to fuck you too."
Sullivan gives him a look he can’t decipher. "Very presumptuous of you."
Cameron shrugs.
"Maybe," Sullivan concedes after a long moment.
"I have leave next Thursday. We could meet in the Deluxe Inn in Hardeeville. It’s along the 46 about halfway between us."
"You’re doing this a lot, huh?" Sullivan says at length, though he looks amused.
Cameron shrugs.
"We’ll see," Sullivan says again and starts getting dressed.
Cameron crosses the room and makes himself comfortable on his bed. He’s pretty sure he’ll see Sullivan again but he won’t start gloating lest he jinxes himself. He can’t hide the smirk though when Sullivan tries in vain to pat down his hair by the strip of mirrored tape attached to the closet.
"Not funny," Sullivan says, though God only knows how he knew Cameron was laughing to himself.
"I like it when you’re less than perfect." His own honesty surprises Cameron. He bites down on his lower lip. He never learns.
"I never was," comes Sullivan’s reply. He turns back around, looking as unflappable as ever.
Cameron doesn’t know how to reply to that, so he only shrugs. Sullivan smiles and then proceeds to quietly turn Cameron’s world upside by doing something really strange: he comes closer and leans down for another soft kiss. It’s quick, but sweetly gentle. It leaves Cameron a little stupid.
Then Sullivan’s gone, just as fast, out the door with a quiet murmur of good night. Cameron stares at the shut door dumbly for a few moments, then slides down the bed and draws a hand through his short cropped hair.
Sullivan’s right. This isn’t a good idea, possibly the worst fucking idea he’s ever had aside from enlisting, but it’s first thing that feels right in a long time. Kind of like how he felt when he enlisted, too. He laughs, once, loud, in the silence of the room, then pats around for the scratchy hotel sheet and slides under it, mind and body suddenly utterly drained.
He falls asleep to the memory of the slight curve of Sullivan’s mouth after their last kiss.