Chapter Text
Fred lay awake, back pressed against his soft silk pillow that was propped on his headboard.
Moving was absolutely not an option, so he stayed as still as possible, trying to stay true to the position he had put himself in hours ago.
Bronson's head was resting on his chest. Fred tried to ignore how it was right above his heart.
His right hand was slung over Bronson's shoulders, and his left was at his own side, slightly hanging off the bed.
Now and then, it would twitch. Itching to be somewhere else, but Fred ignored it. He had to.
The fear of Bronson waking up, of what comes after he did, overcame his desire to move it.
Instead, he focused on the rain falling outside. It was muffled from inside their dorm room, and the repetitiveness of it hitting their window helped him relax a bit.
Fred needed to breathe.
He'd spent the last two minutes and 16 seconds holding his breath after Bronson shifted slightly in his sleep the last time he took one.
He had to count along with the raindrops in an attempt to ease the panic he had felt rising in his chest.
It's been three minutes now, and Fred was coming up on his record of four minutes and 44 seconds.
He tried to trick his brain.
It wasn't a big deal. He just had to breathe and that'd be it. There was absolutely nothing for him to lose.
But that didn't work. It never did.
Because there was something to lose. Something very dear to him.
If he breathed and Bronson woke up, the moment would be ruined.
The peace, the story that he created, would crack and dissolve, forcing him to face the truth that he wanted to ignore as long as he could.
The truth that hurt him so much. That haunted his dreams and was his reality.
That truth was simple.
Fred loved Bronson, but Bronson did not love him. At least not the way Fred did.
Fred craved something beyond friendship.
He wanted to cuddle Bronson whenever. To hug him without an excuse.
To kiss Bronson around their friends.
Not just rushed make outs when they were both drunk, but slow, intimate kisses that conveyed without words how much they loved the other. Ones that led to cuddling and falling asleep together.
He wanted to call him his boyfriend.
Bronson, however, definitely didn't want any of that.
So Fred doesn't think about it. He doesn't think about how humans need to breathe to survive. That if he didn't breathe, it could possibly kill him. He just thinks about how he doesn't want this to end. Doesn't want to wake up tomorrow and pretend this never happened. Pretend that he and Bronson are best friends and nothing more.
Their dynamic remained the same. They went to classes, hung out with each other, and hung out with friends.
They went to college parties. Drank. Danced, and drank some more.
Sometimes (all the time) Fred's eyes would find Bronson's in the crowded room, and they wouldn't move.
It couldn't be helped. Bronson was beautiful and always hard to look away from.
Bronson would catch him. Sometimes he came up and danced with Fred. Most times he looked away and danced with someone else.
The night would always end with them in their dorm, pushed against their door, making out, breathless, and grasping wherever they could at each other's bodies.
They would move to Fred's bed and make out more, but that was at.
Either Bronson would push him away, going back to his bed, or they would both fall asleep, bodies tangled together.
And tonight, like all nights, Fred would wake up first.
He'd bask in the moment before he fell asleep again, and when he woke up, the spot next to him would always be empty, and Bronsom would pretend like nothing happened.
The worst part for Fred was watching Bronson blush, a deep red that ran from his cheeks down to his neck as he rubbed his head with a throaty nervous laugh as he said no to their friends, or anyone, when they asked if the two of them were dating.
It always sent a pang through his chest.
It hurt even more whenever he had to force himself to smile when the question was turned to him with the raise of a brow.
They would always look at him with so much doubt when he said no, and it made Fred wonder if Bronson was the only one who couldn't see the way Fred looked at him. That Fred was always looking at him.
Fred was beginning to think that Bronson just didn't care.
Four minutes and 46 seconds. He had beaten his record.
He tried to hold on longer, but his vision was starting to blur, and as much as he considered letting himself black out due to lack of oxygen, that too would end the moment, and Fred wasn't ready to let go.
He controlled it as much as he could.
He listened to the thud thud thud of the rain as he parted his lips and breathed in. He held it for a second, riddled with nerves before he breathed out slowly, praying to a God he didn't believe in to keep Bronson asleep.
As soon as the breath escaped him, his eyes flickered to Bronson's, anticipating movement.
Nothing happened, and Bronson remained asleep.
Bronson never actually woke up.
If Fred thought about all the nights that ended with both of them in his bed, Bronson had never once woken up.
Never.
And Fred knows how deeply Bronson sleeps. Hardly anything ever woke him up. A fact that made Fred laugh sometimes.
Now all he could do was take multiple breaths, each never feeling like enough, as his diaphragm contracted in a desperate attempt to get air.
Tears were streaming down his face, burning his cheeks. This urge to vomit was building in his abdomen.
It hurt like it did every time.
It hurt so much, but Fred didn't know how to stop.
For the fourth time in two minutes, Fred yawned. He was getting sleepy.
His eyelids felt like they weighed a million, and he was in a losing battle of trying to keep them open.
Trying to stay awake.
It was a waste. He was so exhausted, and a small part of him wanted the rest.
He usually ignored that part, but he couldn't today. He was still crying like an idiot, and his chest would not stop hurting.
That all usually stops by now, but it hadn't, and Fred knew it meant that he pushed himself too far.
He sighed before glancing at Bronson.
His mouth was parted slightly. He was breathing.
Fred looked to the corner of his mouth. He was dribbling too.
His chocolate brown hair that was left messy from Fred's hands was covering his eyes.
All of their friends were telling Bronson to cut it, but Fred thought it looked nice.
Without thinking about it, Fred lifted his left hand. The itch was unbearable now. He needed to touch Bronson before he fell asleep and Bronson went back to pretending that they were nothing but friends.
As slowly and carefully as possible, Fred brought his hand to Bronson's face.
It hovered over it for some time before he brought it down and brushed Bronson's hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear.
He let his hand rest there for a while as he admired Bronson.
He looked peaceful. He looked beautiful.
Fred woke up to the blaring sound of his alarm.
His right hand was stretched across nothing, and the weight on his chest was gone.
He glanced over to Bronson’s side of the dorm, and his bed was empty. No signs of having been slept in.
A quick lookover of their room confirmed he was truly alone.
It hurt, but Fred didn't expect anything else