Ray gives him the finger. "Alright, so. I'm not gay, homes. Okay? You know my type? Pussy. My type is fucking pussy, Brad, that's it. I would've done Rudy, but so would the whole platoon. Except Trombley I guess, but, fuck, it's not like dear James is the prime example on what's normal anyway, right?"
Brad stares outside. He doesn't think he would have done Rudy. Rudy was like the gay brother you had, the one you ribbed about liking Patrick Swayze when they claimed they only watched the movie every single weekend because it was a classic.
A gay brother, and now Brad has two. It's enough to make a man wonder whether the Corps is actually capable of making you gay.

*
Poke stares, wide-eyed, and at the end of the night he tells Nate, "You're alright, dawg." Nate smiles and ducks his head like he knows it's high praise, coming from Poke.
Before long, Nate's met most of the platoon, with predictable results. Brad would worry they're all getting soft or something, but there's no denying Nate is sort of special.

*
The next week starts inauspiciously when Brad finds Ray leaning on the hood of his car as he's leaving for the base. He draws in a slow invisible breath, puts on the Iceman mask.
Ray doesn't budge despite Brad's glower, just glares back. "Fucking learn to answer your calls, Brad, or at least let people know you're hiding like a little bitch and not dead or some shit like that."