Chapter Text
June 11, 2014
Still Wednesday, it's just evening now
Two hours ago, there was a cheap bottle of red wine nestled in the back corner of Brando's fridge. He had been saving it for some Special Occasion. Like getting engaged, or finally saving enough to move into a more stable house, or his father dying. But then today happened, and Wilson coming to his house, scratch that, Wilson speaking to him at all after all these months seems like an equally suitable moment to crack open the Mark West Pinot Noir.
So, now that same bottle of wine is sitting half empty on the floor next to Brando. Wilson is sprawled out on the bed, arm dangling over the edge. They both started out sitting on the bed, but after a few drinks Wilson started getting looser - not full-on wasted, just a bit buzzed, he had clarified to Brando - and Brando had moved to the floor, back leaning against the side of the bed, to give Wilson more space.
Brando guesses he's a bit buzzed, too. Things are a bit fuzzy, including his thoughts. Usually, they're so sharp, so cutting, but right now they just... exist in his mind. It's nice. From here, it's not hard for Brando to understand why so many fall into alcoholism when times get tough.
"Brando?" It comes out slightly slurred.
"Hmm?" Brando turns his head to the left to see Wilson already peering down at him.
"Why..." He hesitates. Brando urges him on with a slight nod of his head. "Why did you ghost me? Like, did I do something wrong?" The last sentence is said so quietly Brando almost misses it. Suddenly he feels stone cold sober. Suddenly his thoughts are back to being shards of glass behind his eyes again.
"No," Brando says immediately, hand wrapping around the neck of the wine bottle before he downs a swig. He swallows, as slow as possible, stalling. He can feel Wilson's eyes on him the whole time. Eventually, he clears his throat, setting the bottle back down. "No, it was me. Personal stuff." Brando hopes that's good enough. The look on Wilson's face is saying he wants more. But Brando can't, not like this.
"Brando," Wilson starts, sitting up a bit and reaching towards Brando. As he does so, his hand accidentally brushes the bottle, knocking it over and spilling the wine all over the floor. "Shit!" Wilson says, suddenly jumping up and off the bed towards the mess. "Shit, I'm sorry."
"It's alright," Brando says, trying to conceal how relieved he feels at this new distraction from the previous topic. "At least it's hardwood and not carpet. Haha."
"Still," Wilson says, tipping the bottle back upright and staring down at mess. "Some got on your pants. Shit, I'm so sor-"
"Wilson," Brando interrupts. Wilson's eyes snap up to meet Brando's. "It's fine. I think there are some paper towels in that bag over there." He gestures to the corner, where his old school backpack sits. Since he doesn't really need it for school anymore, it's been assigned the new function of cleaning-supplies-bag. Wilson gets up to grab the towels as Brando shifts a bit away from the spill, looking down at the damage on his pants.
It's not much, just a few crimson drops around his knee, already drying into the fabric. Brando does so much work in garages and outside, he's sure they'll blend right in to all the other shit he gets on his clothes during the day.
Suddenly, Wilson gasps, and Brando's eyes quickly turn upward. In one of Wilson's hands, the bag dangles loosely, and in the other, a small, blue box. Brando can't for the life of him think what the box could be. By Wilson's reaction, eyes wide as he looks over the front of the box, he assumes maybe it's a... different type of 'cleaning supply', maybe a small pack of lube Brando bought awhile ago and forgot about. "Hmm?"
"This," Wilson says, turning the box so Brando can see. The words scrawled across the front aren't legible in this lighting, from this far away, but the illustration across the front is clear as day. A wishbone, with a red ribbon. The one from the gas station he bought a year ago.
"Oh," Brando blinks. "I forgot about that thing."
Wilson drops the backpack now, leaving it sitting open on the floor. He pulls a roll of paper towels out with his free hand while the other stays clutching the wishbone box, bounding back over to Brando and kneeling down next to him.
"I'm gonna be honest," Wilson places the box on the floor next to him and begins using the towels on the wine spill. "I thought I had completely lost it. And I was too nervous to say anything because I had practically begged you to buy it."
"Well, technically," Brando reaches for the roll and pulls off a few squares himself, helping clean the floor. "You did lose it. And I found it."
Wilson whips one of the wine-soaked wad of towels around, nearly hitting Brando in the arm with it. "Hey," Wilson laughs as Brando scrambles out of reach. "You jerk. I'm surprised you kept it all this time."
"I'm gonna be honest," Brando mirrors Wilson's tone from earlier, throwing both hands up in front of him defensively. "I forgot it was even in there."
"We should break it," Wilson says as he gathers up a soaked mass of paper towels and throws them in the closest trash bin. "For, like, old time's sake."
"Yeah, sure, old time's sake."
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They’re sitting cross legged on the floor facing one another. The wishbone is held between the two, each man with one hand on either end. Brando is getting slightly impatient as Wilson takes the time to read through the entire manual out loud.
“Instructions: you and a friend each hold one end of the wishbone,” Wilson glances up at their hands currently holding up the wishbone. “Okay, check.”
“Wilson-"
“Shh, no! We gotta do this right.”
“It’s a toy,” Brando says.
“It’s a wish. Think of your wish - don’t say it out loud, if you do it won’t come true. Once you’ve thought of your wish-“ Wilson pauses and looks up at Brando “-do you got it? Your wish?”
Brando clears all other thoughts from his mind and thinks about what he’d wish for if he had one wish. This whole thing is bullshit, Brando is sure, but sometimes when you’re in love you do stupid, desperate things. Especially after finding out the person you love is in love with somebody else.
I wish Wilson James loved me more than anything else in the whole fucking world.
“Yep.”
“Good. Once you’ve thought of your wish, count down from three and pull.”
“Okay, three," Brando’s hand tenses a bit, getting ready to pull on the wishbone.
“Wait!” Wilson interrupts, squinting to read something at the bottom of the paper. “There’s, like, a disclaimer here at the bottom. Only once can you get the long end, but if you pull short, you may try again" Wilson reads the warning in a dramatic, haunting tone, which is only emphasized by the way only half his face is cast in the moonlight bleeding through the bedroom window. “Spooky. A riddle.”
Brando laughs at Wilson’s theatrics before taking the manual from Wilson’s hand and placing it on the ground. “Okay,” Brando says, “let’s just break the damn thing.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
“One.”
Brando nearly falls backwards as the wishbone snaps. It’s a little flimsy toy they bought at a gas station, Brando isn’t sure why he pulled like he expected it to take effort to break. In fact, Brando’s surprise it stayed intact for so long in the depths of that backpack.
“Aw, shit,” Wilson says, and Brando looks up to see Wilson holding up his half of the wishbone. “I got the short end.”
Brando looks down and opens his own palm. Sure enough, his end of the wishbone ends in a jagged curve. “Hah, I win” Brando teases.
“Yeah, so I guess…” Wilson starts off teasing before his voice trails off, smile slowly falling into a wince as a hand comes up to his temple.
“You okay?” Brando says after a beat of silence. Wilson doesn’t look up, just vaguely waving the hand still holding the wishbone dismissively.
“Yeah,” Wilson says. “My head just started like, pounding out of nowhere. God,“ he winces, letting go of his end of the wishbone and bringing the newly freed hand up to his head as well.
Brando drops his own wishbone half and shifts forward, one hand hovering over Wilson’s head now, wanting to touch but unsure if that would actually be of any comfort or help. “Wilson,” Brando’s getting more seriously concerned now.
Wilson used to get stress headaches all the time in school, especially around finals weeks. But those would always come on slowly, slow enough that Wilson would be able to tell an hour or two before any actual pain hit. They never came on so suddenly before.
Besides, the evening seems to have been going fine. They’re just hanging out, what could possibly be giving Wilson enough stress to form a headache right now?
Wilson lets out a low groan, head still in his hands, springing Brando out of his thoughts. “There’s ibuprofen in the kitchen,” Brando says. “I could go get it for-"
“No,” Wilson forces through gritted teeth, one hand leaving his head and reaching forward blindly before landing on Brando’s shoulder. “I got it, thanks.”
Wilson uses his hold on Brando’s shoulder to push himself into a standing position, one hand still firmly planted against his forehead, eyes completely closed now. He sways forward a bit as he fully stands, and Brando’s hands move to grab Wilson and steady him on instinct. Unfortunately, Brando is still kneeling on the floor, and so the closest part of Wilson to grab onto are his hips.
Brando tries not to let his face burn up as he thinks about the position they’re in (Brando, you douche, Wilson’s in pain right now and still you think about how you’re on your knees in front of him). Neither men move for almost a minute, before finally Wilson lets go of Brando’s shoulder, whispering what might have been a “thanks” under his breath as he disappears around the corner into the kitchen.
“It’s in the cabinet above the sink,” Brando instructs as his hands fall to his sides.
“Mhm, thanks!” He can hear Wilson call back.
Brando stays sitting, legs folded under him, and starts twisting at a loose threat on his jeans as he hears the muffled sounds of the cabinet door opening and Wilson rummaging around.
Just as Brando gets the thread fully wrapped around his finger, the fingertip turning purple, there’s a loud thud from the kitchen. Brando pauses, unwinding the thread.
“Wilson?” he calls, placing his palms flat against his thighs. When there’s no answer, he asks again, louder this time. “Wilson!”
No reply.
Brando stands, his heart suddenly beating so loudly he can hear it in his ears. He turns the corner to the kitchen.
Wilson is lying in a heap on the floor, just in front of the sink. Brando says something he can't remember, maybe Wilson's name or a curse, before rushing over and kneeling on the floor next to him. He's face down, so Brando gently turns him onto his back to check for any injuries. Wilson's passed out cold, a light trickle of blood coming from his nose. He probably smacked it on the floor, Brando thinks, turning his gaze upwards.
The cabinet door is still wide open. Brando can see the way its contents have been haphazardly scattered across the shelves, probably while Wilson was digging for the ibuprofen. It seems like he had found it too, Brando just able to see the bottle over the edge of the counter. Its lid is still on, so Wilson hadn't even been able to get to it before he passed out.
While his brain is running through panic mode, through questions of who to call or what to do, he movement in his periphery catches his attention. Brando's eyes snap towards it, only for him to jump slightly as he makes direct eye contact with Wilson.
A nauseating cocktail of shock from this whole situation, concern regarding the passing out, and relief from seeing Wilson awake keeps Brando frozen as Wilson slowly pushes himself into a sitting position. This isn't weird on its own, and it probably a good sign that there isn't something seriously wrong. But the way he does it is just so... It's kind of freaking Brando out.
He's moving very slow. Comically slow. His nose is still bleeding. And he isn't making a sound; no pained noises like the ones earlier, no huff of air from the exertion Brando imagines should come with pushing oneself up after passing out on the floor, nothing at all. The weirdest part, though is his expression. Brown eyes stay on Brando the entire time, not blinking once, and Wilson is fucking smiling. Not a little sheepish one that could easily be explained away as embarrassment or something. Like a real, cheek-to-cheek smile. Brando glances away to break the intense eye contact two or three times before Wilson is fully sitting up.
"Wilson...?" Brando implores after a minute passes and Wilson just keeps staring at him, not saying a word. "You okay?"
Wilson, who has been very still up until then, suddenly springs into movement, starting to laugh while teasingly swatting at Brando's arm. He then takes hold of that same arm and guides it around his own body, so Brando's hand now rests on the small of his back. "I'm perfect now that you're here, baby," Wilson's tone is light and almost flirtatious as his eyes not-so-subtly glance down to Brando's mouth before shooting back up to his eyes. He's acting like nothing's out of the ordinary at all, like these last few minutes haven't been batshit insane.
Brando freezes entirely. His heartbeat is impossibly louder, impossibly faster now, and his hand feels all clammy where it's still pressed against Wilson's back. Baby. Wilson has never called Brando "baby", not even back when they were together. Not to mention-
"How's your head?" Brando says as he grabs the edge of his shirt and begins wiping the blood off of Wilson's face. A new streak of blood takes its place almost instantly. Wilson barely moves, wide smile still painted on his face.
"What?"
"Your head? You had a headache?"
"Oh," Wilson's smile falters for just a second. "Right. I had a headache."
"Right..." Brando says, letting go of his shirt and instead lightly gripping Wilson's chin, tilting his face a bit closer. He's trying to look for any cuts or bruises that may have been sustained when Wilson fell, but it seems the nosebleed was the extent of any facial-injury.
As Brando peers into Wilson's eyes, trying to determine if that pupil size does or does not indicate a concussion, they suddenly close and Wilson leans in. Before Brando even has time to register what's going on, Wilson's kissing him, both hands trailing up to cup Brando's face.
What the fuck, what the fuck?
Brando doesn't close his eyes, doesn't really kiss back, but he doesn't exactly not kiss back either. His hand tightens a bit on Wilson's back before, as quick as the kiss came on, it's cut off by Brando being shoved backwards roughly. Wilson reaches behind him, using the kitchen countertop to push himself into a standing position.
He sways a bit once he's on his feet, but Brando resists the urge to reach out this time, the look on Wilson's face enough to keep him frozen in place. It's an ugly mix of anger and confusion and fear as looks down at Brando, breathing hard.
"What!" Wilson practically screams at Brando. He swipes a hand across his face and, upon seeing his hand come away with blood, starts running his other hand along the counter looking for a towel. He doesn't take his eyes off Brando once. "What? What the fuck?"
Brando's brain scrambles for a million different things to say, blurting out the beginnings of multiple sentences all at once. It comes out as one jumbled mass of sounds accompanied by a shrug of Brando's shoulders. Wilson stares down at him incredulously, eyes shifting around the room, hand still shuffling around the counter for a towel. There is no towel there, but Brando feels like him saying as much would not actually help this situation in the slightest.
Brando opens his mouth to say something before Wilson suddenly freezes. He just stands there, completely still, staring down at Brando. Then, slowly, his expression shifts to something softer, anger being replaced with a look of resignation and exhaustion. The hand that had been reaching behind him slowly retracts back to his side.
"I'm sorry," hearing this calm, even tone in the same voice that had just seconds ago been shouting gives Brando emotional whiplash. This conversation is moving much faster than he can keep up with, Wilson switching through emotions faster than Brando can identify them. It's probably just because he hit his head. "I don't know what's up with me tonight."
"No, it's..." Brando trails off, because saying it's okay would be an absolute lie. It might be the wine, but Brando had seen Wilson drunk before, had seen him absolutely black-out hammered, and he had never acted like this. "Should I- do you need to go to the hospital, or-"
"No!" a panicked look crosses Wilson's face as the word reverberates off the walls. Brando swears it's said so loud the trailer shakes a bit. Then, just like before, Wilson blinks and his face shifts again, back to the tired look from before. "I mean, no, thank you. I'm fine. I'm just tired. I should probably go home."
Wilson moves to step away from the counter while Brando pushes himself to his feet. He's halfway to the bedroom when Brando stops him, hand shooting out to grab his shoulder. At the contact, Wilson freezes immediately, looking up at Brando through half-lidded eyes. His nose has finally stopped bleeding, leaving behind a trail of dried blood from his nose to the corner of his mouth. He's gotten pale, really pale, causing the blood to stand out even more against his skin. He looks awful.
Brando wants to say something nice. He wants to /do/ something nice. To tell Wilson, please stay the night, you can even have the bed, or, Is there anything I can do to help, or I can drive you home. Even fuck what you said I'm taking you to the hospital would've been more helpful than the measly line that ended up crawling through his teeth:
"You're gonna drive home like this?" Brando cringes as soon as he says it. Both at the words and the tone, the way his voice sounds sort of whiny and cracks a bit on the word "home". Wilson barely seems to notice the tone, though, or if he does, he doesn't say anything. He just blinks up at Brando a few times before smiling softly.
"No," he starts, leaning in a bit towards Brando. He looks down at his mouth again, and for a second, Brando thinks he's going to kiss him again.
Then, Wilson suddenly snaps up, straightening his posture and leaning away from Brando. His smile drops, and he's back to looking panicked again. What the hell? Brando quickly glances behind him, surveying the rest of the trailer. Is he seeing something that's scaring him? "No," Wilson says again, voice louder this time, more lively. "I'm gonna call a Lyft. Mind if I leave my car here tonight? I'll come pick it up in the morning."
The energy change catches Brando off guard, and his grip loosens enough that Wilson is able to shake it off. As he moves around the bedroom, quickly gathering his stuff, it's Brando's turn to start panicking. Fuck, he's leaving. You're letting him leave, on this note?
Wilson quickly brushes past him on his way to the door, his hoodie and wallet in one hand and his phone in the other, Lyft app already open. Just as Wilson finally reaches the door, hand on the knob, Brando blurts out "I could take you home-"
"It's alright," Wilson says quickly. He quickly glances between Brando and the door as he talks, like he's almost frantic to get out of the trailer. "There's already someone on the way, and I wouldn't wanna inconvenience you, or- I'll come back for my car in the morning, promise. Goodnight."
Before Brando can even say anything back, Wilson is out the door and gone. Brando just stands where he is, staring at the door for a few minutes. Then, he's moving on muscle memory. Putting the pill bottle back in the cabinet and closing it. Walking into the bedroom to clean up anything in there. He sees the wine bottle on the floor again, only a few sip's worth of wine left, and picks it up and downs the rest.
He takes a step towards the bed to sit when he hears a small crunch and feels something under his foot. He lifts it to see the wishbone. His end, the long end, now in shards on the floor. The short end sits half a foot away, the box a foot away the other direction.
"Fuck," Brando says under his breath, staring at the wishbone. "More shit to clean up."
He unceremoniously tosses the box in the trash before vacuuming up the wishbone halves.
It takes Brando a whole hour to fall asleep.
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Across town, Wilson doesn't fall asleep at all.