Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1
i’ll be cleaning up bottles with you on new years day
The black pickup truck idled in the driveway of Blake's house, exhaust curling into the cold December air like cigarette smoke.
Through the windshield, Wilson could see the warm glow of party lights, shadows moving behind curtains, the occasional silhouette passing by windows. Bass thumped from inside, muffled but insistent, rattling through the night like a second heartbeat, vibrating across the streets until Wilson could feel it under feet, despite still being in the car.
"I don't want to go in," Wilson stated. Again.
Brando's hands rested on the steering wheel, fingers drumming an absent rhythm against the worn leather. He'd been doing that for the past five minutes- drumming, waiting, not pushing.
That was Bran's way. Patient. Steady. Like he had all the time in the world, even when they both knew Blake's New Year's Eve party had started an hour ago and people were probably already asking where they were.
"You said that already," Bran replied, his voice carrying that particular blend of amusement and affection that made Wilson's stomach do complicated things. "About four times, actually."
"Well I'm saying it again."
"I'm hearing you."
"But you're not listening."
Bran turned to look at him then, and Wilson felt the full weight of that gaze.
Even in the dim light from the dashboard, Brando's eyes were impossibly blue, framed by long lashes that Wilson had spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about. His friend- his best friend, because that's what they were, that's all they were- wore a simple gray long sleeved shirt that clung to his shoulders in a way that should be illegal, sleeves pushed up to his elbows despite the winter chill.
"I'm listening," Bran murmured quietly. "I always listen to you, Wil."
And that was the problem, wasn't it?
Brando listened. He paid attention. He noticed things- like how Wilson picked at his cuticles when he was nervous, or how he couldn't stand the texture of velvet, or how he preferred his coffee with too much cream and not enough actual coffee.
Bran noticed everything, remembered everything, and Wilson didn't know what to do with that kind of attention.
"It's just..." Wilson gestured vaguely toward the house, where someone had just opened the front door, spilling laughter and music into the night before slamming it shut again. "You know I hate these things. Too many people. Too loud. Everyone's going to be drunk and stupid, and I'm going to end up standing in a corner somewhere counting down the minutes until I can leave without being rude."
"Chloe will be there," Bran said, and something in his tone made Wilson look up sharply.
"So?"
"So, you like Chloe."
"Everyone likes Chloe."
"Yeah, but you like like Chloe." Bran's mouth quirked up at the corner, that almost-smile that he wore when he was teasing. "Don't think I haven't noticed you two texting, like, literally all the time."
Wilson felt heat creep up his neck. "We're friends."
"Uh-huh."
"We are!"
"I believe you." Bran didn't sound like he believed him, holding his hands up in mock defense.
"But she'll be there, and you'll have someone to talk to besides me. Someone who might actually appreciate your weird obsession with obscure indie bands nobody's ever heard of."
"They're not obscure, they're just-"
"Obscure," Bran finished, grinning now. "Come on, Wil. It's New Year's Eve. Last one before we graduate. Last one before everything changes." His expression shifted, something more serious sliding beneath the teasing. "Let's just... let's just go in. Have a drink. Say hi to people. If you hate it after an hour, we'll leave. I promise."
Wilson studied his friend's face, looking for the catch, the angle, the reason Brando was so insistent they attend Blake's party when they could just as easily be at Bran's house, watching movies and eating pizza like they did most Wednesday nights. But Bran's expression was open, honest, maybe a little hopeful.
"You promise?" Wilson asked. "One hour?"
"Scout's honor."
"You were never a scout."
"Semantics." Bran killed the engine, and the sudden silence felt enormous, like a giant hole had been opened where the comfortable sound used to be. "Come on. Before I lose my nerve."
That was strange. Brando never lost his nerve. He was the quarterback, the guy everyone liked, the golden boy, the one who walked through the halls of Georgetown High like he owned them- not in an arrogant way, but in a way that suggested he was comfortable in his own skin in a way Wilson had never quite managed. Bran didn't get nervous about parties.
But Wilson didn't have time to analyze it because Bran was already out of the truck, coming around to Wilson's side, opening the door before Wilson could do it himself. The cold air hit him immediately, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of winter grass and someone's bonfire from down the street.
"Your chariot awaits," Bran said, gesturing toward the house with an exaggerated bow.
"You're an idiot."
"Your idiot."
Wilson's heart did that thing again- that stupid, complicated thing- and he climbed out of the truck before he could think too hard about what Bran meant by that. Probably nothing. Probably just Bran being Bran, easy with affection, comfortable with closeness in a way that Wilson both envied and craved.
They walked up the driveway together, their breath fogging in the air.
Blake's house was one of those sprawling ranch-style homes that seemed to go on forever, all warm brick and wide windows. His parents were in LA for the holidays with his sister, which meant Blake had free rein to throw the kind of party that would be talked about for weeks after winter break ended.
At the front door, Wilson hesitated again. He could hear the party clearly now- voices layered over voices, music pounding, someone shrieking with laughter. His palms were sweating despite the cold.
Bran's hand found the small of his back, warm and steady through Wilson's thin jacket.
"I've got you," Bran said quietly, and pushed open the door.
The party hit them like a wave.
Heat first- the house was packed with bodies, easily fifty or sixty people crammed into spaces meant for half of half that many. Then sound- music blasting from speakers Wilson couldn't see, conversations happening at shouting volume, someone singing off-key in another room. Then smell- beer and cologne and perfume and sweat, all mixing together into something that wasn't quite unpleasant but definitely overwhelming.
Bran's hand stayed on Wilson's back, guiding him through the crowd. People called out to Bran as they passed—- Yo, Brando!" "About time, man!" "Heather’s been looking for you!"- but Bran just waved, kept moving, kept that steady pressure on Wilson's back that felt like an anchor.
They navigated through the living room, where someone had pushed all the furniture against the walls to create a makeshift dance floor. Past the stairs, where a couple was making out with an enthusiasm that seemed excessive even for New Year's Eve. Down a hallway lined with family photos that seemed weirdly wholesome given the debauchery happening in their vicinity.
The kitchen was marginally quieter, though still crowded. Someone had set up a drink station on the island- bottles of liquor, mixers, red Solo cups, a cooler full of beer. There were some crystal liquor cups behind a cabinet, and right now, three boys that Wilson just about recognized from his history class were trying to pry it open.
The counters were covered with chips and dip and cookies that looked homemade, probably courtesy of Blake's mom before she left for California.
And there, leaning against the refrigerator with a red cup in her hand and a smile on her face, was Chloe Martinez.
She saw them immediately, her face lighting up in a way that made Wilson's stomach flip because he wasn’t used to someone being excited to see him. "Finally! I was starting to think you guys weren't coming."
Chloe was small- barely five-two- with dark hair flowing loosely over her shoulders that framed her face perfectly and eyes that always seemed to be laughing at some private joke. She wore a silver dress that caught the light when she moved, and it genuinely looked really pretty.
"Wil didn't want to come," Bran chuckled, finally removing his hand from Wilson's back. Wilson felt the absence immediately, like a cold spot. "I had to practically drag him out of the truck."
"That's not-" Wilson started, but Chloe was already laughing.
"I don't blame you," she said, gesturing around the kitchen. "This is kind of a lot. Blake went all out this year."
"His parents know about this?" Wilson asked.
"God, no. They think he's having a few friends over for board games." Chloe took a sip of her drink, grimaced. "Fair warning: whoever made the punch did not understand the concept of ratios. It's basically straight vodka with a splash of cranberry juice for color."
"Noted," Bran said, already moving toward the drink station. "Wil, you want something?"
"Just a coke."
"Boring."
"Sober."
Bran grinned at him over his shoulder. "Fair enough."
While Bran fixed their drinks, Chloe moved closer to Wilson, lowering her voice. "You okay? You look kind of pale."
"I'm fine. Just not really a party person."
"Yeah, I kinda gathered that." She bumped his shoulder with hers, gentle. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you came. I was worried I'd be stuck making small talk with Blake's football friends all night, and they only want to talk about the playoffs and how great they all seem to think they are."
"Bran's on the football team," Wilson pointed out.
"Bran's different." Chloe's eyes flicked to where Brando stood, his back to them as he poured coke into a cup with careful precision. "He actually has a personality beyond sports stats and protein shakes."
Wilson couldn't argue with that. Bran was different- had always been different, even back in kindergarten when they'd first become friends.
He was the kind of guy who could quote Shakespeare and throw a perfect spiral, who listened to both Green Day and that new country singer, Taylor Swift, who cried during sad movies and wasn't ashamed to admit it.
"Here," Bran said, returning with their drinks. He handed Wilson a cup of Coke and kept a beer for himself. "Chloe, you need a refill?"
"I'm good with my paint thinner, thanks."
Bran laughed, and the sound did things to Wilson's chest that he refused to examine. "So what are we-"
"Brando! There you are, man!"
Wilson turned to see Blake pushing through the crowd, followed by half the football team. Blake was tall and broad, with the kind of all-American good looks that made him popular with basically everyone. He clapped Bran on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.
"We've been waiting for you," Blake said, his words slightly slurred. He'd clearly been taking advantage of his parents' absence. "We're doing shots in the den. You gotta come, man. It's tradition."
"I just got here," Bran protested, but he was already being pulled away, surrounded by guys in letter jackets and backwards caps and the smell of cheap beer and straight vodka.
"Bran-" Wilson started, but he was already disappearing into the crowd, looking back over his shoulder with an apologetic expression.
And then it was just Wilson and Chloe in the kitchen, the noise of the party pressing in around them.
"Well," Chloe said after a moment. "That was fast."
Wilson sighed, taking a long drink of his coke. "Yeah."
They stood there for a moment, the awkwardness settling between them like a third person.
Wilson scrambled for something to say, something clever or interesting, but his mind was blank. This was why he hated parties. He was fine one-on-one, fine in small groups, but put him in a crowd and his brain just... stopped working.
"So," Chloe began, saving him from having to come up with a topic of conversation. "I've been meaning to ask- did you finish that playlist you were telling me about? The one with all those sad British guys?"
And just like that, the awkwardness dissolved. They talked about music- Chloe's taste ran more toward pop and R&B, but she was genuinely curious about the indie bands Wilson loved. They talked about winter break, about the classes they were taking next semester, about college applications and the terrifying reality that in six months they'd be graduating, leaving Georgetown, starting their actual lives.
Chloe was easy to talk to.
She laughed at his jokes, asked follow-up questions, seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say.
Wilson could see why Bran thought he liked her.
He did like her.
She was smart and funny and pretty, and if his heart didn't race when she smiled at him the way it did when Bran looked at him, well, that was probably just because he'd known Bran longer.
They migrated from the kitchen to the living room, finding a relatively quiet corner near the windows. Someone had dimmed the lights, and the Christmas tree in the corner cast everything in a soft, colorful glow. The music had shifted to something slower, and a few couples were swaying together in the middle of the room.
"Do you have any resolutions?" Chloe asked, leaning against the wall. "For the new year?"
Wilson considered. "Not really. I always feel like resolutions are just setting yourself up for failure."
"That's dark."
"That's realistic."
"Okay, Mr. Realistic. If you did have a resolution, what would it be?"
Wilson thought about it, watching the couples dance. "I don't know. Maybe... be braver?"
"Braver how?"
"Just... in general. Stop overthinking everything. Take more risks." He laughed, self-deprecating. "Actually go to parties instead of trying to hide in the truck."
Chloe smiled. "I think you're braver than you give yourself credit for."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. It takes guts to be yourself, you know? To not just go along with what everyone else is doing." She paused, then added quietly, "To be honest about what you want."
There was something in her tone that made Wilson look at her more closely. She was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read, something knowing and gentle and maybe a little sad.
"Chloe-"
"You should go find him," she said.
"What?"
"Bran. You should go find him." She pushed off the wall, straightening. "Those guys are going to get him completely wasted, and someone should probably make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."
"I'm sure he's fine-"
"Wilson." Chloe put her hand on his arm, squeezed gently. "Go find him."
There was something in the way she said it, some weight to the words that Wilson didn't understand but felt nonetheless. He wanted to ask what she meant, wanted to understand the look in her eyes, but she was already moving away, disappearing into the crowd with a small wave.
Wilson stood there for a moment, confused and slightly off-balance. Then he set down his cup and went to find Brando.
The house was even more crowded than before, people packed into every available space. Wilson pushed through the living room, past the makeshift dance floor, down another hallway. He checked the den- empty except for a couple making out on the couch. The dining room- full of people playing some kind of drinking game. The back porch- smokers huddled against the cold.
He was starting to worry when he heard the shouting.
It was coming from what looked like a game room- pool table, dartboard, big-screen TV mounted on the wall. And there, surrounded by the football team, was Brando.
They were doing shots.
Blake was pouring, sloshing tequila into a line of shot glasses with the careful concentration of someone who was already drunk. The other guys were chanting-"Chug! Chug! Chug!"-and Bran was laughing, his face flushed, his eyes bright.
Wilson's stomach dropped.
He'd seen Bran drink before-they'd split a six-pack once, sitting on the roof of Wil house and talking about nothing and everything. But this was different. This was excessive. This was the kind of drinking that led to bad decisions and worse mornings.
Wilson pushed into the room. "Bran."
Brando looked up, and his face split into a huge grin. "Wil! There you are! Come do shots with us!"
"I think you've had enough."
"I've had like... three. Four? Blake, how many have I had?"
"Not enough!" Blake shouted, and the other guys laughed.
Wilson moved closer, lowering his voice. "Bran, come on. Let's go get some water."
"I'm fine, Wil. I'm just having fun." Bran reached for another shot glass, but his coordination was off, his fingers clumsy. "You should have fun too. You're always so serious."
"I'm serious because someone has to be." Wilson caught Bran's wrist, gentle but firm. "Come on. Let's go upstairs for a bit."
"Upstairs?" Bran's eyebrows rose, and there was something in his expression that made Wilson's face heat. "Wilson, are you trying to seduce me?"
The football team erupted in laughter and wolf whistles. Wilson wanted to die.
"I'm trying to keep you from giving yourself alcohol poisoning," Wilson said through gritted teeth. "Now come on."
For a moment, he thought Bran might refuse. But then his friend's expression softened, and he let Wilson pull him to his feet. He stumbled a little, catching himself on Wilson's shoulder.
"You're so good to me," Bran said, his voice carrying that particular earnestness that drunk people always had. "So good, Wil. The best."
"Yeah, yeah. Come on."
Getting Bran out of the game room and up the stairs was an adventure. He kept stopping to say hi to people, to comment on the decorations, to ask Wilson if he was having fun. By the time they reached the second floor, Wilson was sweating despite the cold.
The upstairs hallway was quieter, most of the party contained to the first floor. Wilson tried a few doors- locked, locked, bathroom (occupied)- before finding one that opened into what looked like a guest room. It was simple- queen bed, dresser, window overlooking the backyard. Most importantly, it was empty.
Wilson guided Bran inside and closed the door, muffling the party noise to a dull thump. Bran immediately flopped onto the bed, sprawling across the comforter like a starfish.
"This is nice," he said to the ceiling, voice chirpy and happy. "Quiet."
"Stay there. I'm going to get you some water."
"Don't leave." Bran's hand shot out, catching Wilson's wrist. His grip was loose, easy to break, but Wilson found himself frozen anyway. "Stay. Please?"
Wilson sighed. "Fine. But I'm getting you water."
He found a bathroom across the hall- thankfully empty- and filled a plastic cup with water from the sink.
When he returned, Bran had migrated from the bed to the floor, sitting with his back against the wall and his long legs stretched out in front of him.
"Here," Wilson said, sitting down beside him and handing over the water. "Drink."
Bran drank obediently, draining half the cup in one go. "Happy?"
"Thrilled. Drink the rest."
"Bossy."
"Drunk."
Bran laughed, and the sound was warm and unguarded in a way that made Wilson's chest ache. "Maybe a little."
They sat in silence for a moment, the party continuing below them like a distant storm. Wilson could hear music, laughter, the occasional shout. Through the window, he could see the backyard- someone had strung up lights, and they twinkled against the dark sky like earthbound stars.
"I'm sorry," Bran said quietly.
Wilson looked at him. "For what?"
"For ditching you. With Chloe. I know you hate parties, and I promised I'd stick with you, and then I just... left."
"It's fine. Chloe and I had a good time."
"Yeah?" Something flickered across Bran's face, too quick for Wilson to identify. "That's good. She's great."
"She is."
"You should ask her out."
Wilson blinked. "What?"
"Chloe. You should ask her out. Like, on a date." Bran was staring at his water cup, not meeting Wilson's eyes. "She likes you. I can tell."
"I don't- I mean, we're just friends."
"You could be more than friends." Bran's voice was carefully neutral. "If you wanted."
Wilson didn't know what to say to that. The truth was complicated, tangled up in feelings he didn't know how to name and didn't want to examine too closely. So instead he simply said, "You're going to miss the countdown if you don't sober up."
Bran looked up at that, his eyes focusing on Wilson with sudden intensity. "The countdown?"
"It's New Year's Eve, remember? The whole point of this party?"
"Right. Yeah." Bran set down his water cup, running a hand through his hair. It was getting long, curling slightly at the ends, and Wilson had to resist the urge to reach out and touch it. "Can't miss the countdown."
"Exactly. So drink your water and try to pull yourself together."
"I'm together. I'm very together." Bran gestured at himself, nearly knocking over the water cup in the process. "See? Together."
"You're a mess."
"Your mess."
There it was again- that phrase, those words that probably meant nothing but felt like everything. Wilson's heart was doing gymnastics in his chest, and he needed to change the subject before he did something stupid.
"So," he said, aiming for casualness. "Big plans for 2009?"
Bran considered, his head tilting back against the wall. "Graduate. Get out of here."
"Out of Georgetown?"
"Out of Texas. Out of... everything." Bran's voice had gone quiet, almost wistful. "Don't you ever want to just leave? Go somewhere nobody knows you, where you can be whoever you want?"
Wilson thought about it. Georgetown was small- barely a thousand people, the kind of town where everyone knew everyone and secrets were impossible to keep.
He'd lived here his whole life, knew every street and store and shortcut. It was comfortable. Safe.
But sometimes, late at night when he couldn't sleep, Wilson did think about leaving. About going somewhere bigger, somewhere he could disappear into the crowd. Somewhere he could figure out who he was without the weight of everyone's expectations.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Sometimes."
"We could go together." Bran turned to look at him, and there was something raw in his expression, something vulnerable. "After graduation. We could just... go. Get in the truck and drive until we hit the ocean or run out of gas or find somewhere that feels right."
"Bran-"
"I'm serious, Wil. We could do it. We could go anywhere. California. New York. Hell, we could go to Alaska if we wanted. Just you and me and the open road."
It was a nice fantasy. A beautiful one, even. But Wilson was practical, realistic, the one who thought about things like college applications and student loans and the fact that running away didn't actually solve anything.
"What about college?" he asked gently.
"What about it?"
"You got that scholarship. Full ride to UT. You can't just throw that away."
Bran's expression shuttered, and he looked away. "Right. Yeah. The scholarship."
Wilson felt like he'd said something wrong, but he didn't know what. "Bran-"
"Forget it. I'm drunk. I'm talking nonsense." Bran reached for his water, drained the rest of it. "You're right. College. Football. The plan."
"It's a good plan."
"It's a safe plan."
"What's wrong with safe?"
Bran didn't answer. He just sat there, staring at nothing, and Wilson wished he knew what was going on in his head. Wished he could reach in and untangle whatever was making Bran look so sad.
They sat in silence, and gradually- so gradually Wilson almost didn't notice- they shifted closer. Their shoulders touched. Then their arms. Then Bran's head was tilting, resting against Wilson's shoulder, and Wilson was holding his breath because if he moved, if he breathed too hard, this moment might shatter.
"You're my best friend," Bran whispered quietly. "You know that, right?"
"Yeah. I know."
"No, I mean... you're it for me, Wil. You're the person I want to tell everything to. The person I think about when something good happens, or something bad, or something just... happens. You're the first person I want to talk to in the morning and the last person I want to talk to at night."
Wilson's heart was pounding so hard he was sure Bran could hear it. "Bran, you're drunk."
"I'm drunk," Bran agreed. "But I'm not lying."
Wilson didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to respond to the weight of those words, the sincerity in Bran's voice.
So he just sat there, Bran's head on his shoulder, and tried to memorize this moment- the warmth of Bran's body against his, the sound of his breathing, the way the party noise seemed to fade until it was just the two of them in this quiet room.
The way it just felt so… right.
"Wil?" Bran's voice was soft, almost hesitant.
"Yeah?"
"If I asked you something, would you tell me the truth?"
Wilson's stomach clenched. "Depends on the question."
Brando paused for a second, brow furrowing like he didn’t quite understand the answer, and then persisted with talking. "Do you really like Chloe? Like, romantically?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implications Wilson was afraid to examine.
He could lie. Should lie, probably. Say yes, change the subject, keep everything safe and simple and uncomplicated.
But Bran had asked for the truth.
"I don't know," Wilson said finally. "She's great. I like spending time with her. But I don't... I don't think about her the way I should. The way you're supposed to think about someone you like."
"How are you supposed to think about them then?"
"I don't know. Like you can't stop thinking about them? Like everything reminds you of them? Like you'd do anything just to make them smile?"
Bran was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Yeah. Like that."
Something in his tone made Wilson's breath catch. He wanted to ask what Bran meant, wanted to push, wanted to know if the hope blooming in his chest was justified or just another way to get hurt. But before he could find the words, a sound drifted up from downstairs.
Shouting. Chanting. Counting.
"Ten! Nine! Eight!"
"Oh shit," Bran said, lifting his head. "The countdown."
"Seven! Six! Five!"
They looked at each other, and Wilson saw his own uncertainty reflected in Bran's eyes. Saw something else too- something that looked like want, like hope, like fear.
"Four! Three! Two!"
The moment stretched, elastic and infinite. Wilson could hear his heartbeat in his ears, could feel the heat of Bran's body next to his, could see the way Bran's eyes dropped to his lips and then back up.
"One! Happy New Year!"
The house erupted in cheers and noise, but Wilson barely heard it. Because Bran was leaning in, closing the distance between them, and then-
They were kissing.
It was nothing like Wilson had imagined. And he had imagined it, late at night when he couldn't sleep, in the shower when his mind wandered, in the quiet moments when Bran smiled at him and Wilson's heart forgot how to beat properly.
But this was different. This was real.
Bran's lips were soft, tentative, tasting like tequila and something sweeter. The kiss was barely more than a brush of mouths, gentle and questioning, like Bran was asking permission for something they'd already started.
Wilson's hand came up, cupping Bran's face, and for a moment- one perfect, crystalline moment- he let himself have this. Let himself kiss back, let himself feel the warmth of Bran's skin under his palm, let himself believe that this could be real.
But then Bran swayed slightly, his balance off, and Wilson remembered.
Drunk.
Bran was drunk.
Wilson pulled back, his hand dropping. "Bran-"
"Don't." Bran's eyes were wide, dark, pleading. "Don't say it was a mistake."
"You're drunk."
"I'm not that drunk."
"You can barely sit up straight." Wilson stood, needing distance, needing space to think. "Come on. I'm taking you home."
"Wil, please-"
"We're not doing this now. Not like this." Wilson held out his hand, and after a moment, Bran took it, letting Wilson pull him to his feet.
Getting Bran down the stairs and through the party was easier than Wilson expected. Most people were too busy celebrating to notice them leaving, too caught up in their own New Year's kisses and resolutions to care about two guys slipping out the front door.
The cold air hit them like a slap, sharp and clarifying. Bran stumbled, and Wilson caught him, steadying him with an arm around his waist.
"I can walk," Bran protested, but he didn't pull away.
"Sure you can."
They made it to the truck, and Wilson opened the passenger door, helping Bran climb in. Bran fumbled with the seatbelt, his coordination still shot, and Wilson had to lean across him to buckle it properly. He tried not to think about how close they were, about the way Bran was looking at him.
"You're so perfect," Bran mumbled, his head lolling against the headrest. "So perfect, Wil. So beautiful."
Wilson's chest ached. "You're drunk."
"Doesn't make it less true."
"Bran-"
"You don't believe me. I can see it. You think I'm just... just saying things because I'm drunk. But I'm not." Bran's hand found Wilson's, clumsy but determined. "I mean it. Every word. You're perfect and beautiful and I-"
"Keys," Wilson interrupted, because he couldn't hear the rest of that sentence. Couldn't hear whatever Bran was about to say, not now, not like this. "I need your keys."
Bran blinked at him, confused. "My keys?"
"To drive. I need to drive you home."
"Oh." Bran fumbled in his pocket, eventually producing his key ring. He held it out, but when Wilson reached for it, Bran's fingers closed around the keys, holding them back. "Promise you won't leave."
"What?"
"When we get to my house. Promise you won't just drop me off and leave. Promise you'll stay."
Wilson should say no. Should take Bran home, make sure he got to bed safely, and then go to his own house where he could think clearly, where he could process what had just happened without Bran's dark eyes watching him.
But he'd never been good at denying Bran anything.
"I'll stay," he confirmed quietly.
Bran smiled- crooked and relieved and still a little drunk- and handed over the keys.
The drive to Bran's house took fifteen minutes, and Bran talked the entire time.
Rambling, stream-of-consciousness talking about everything and nothing. About the party, about Blake's terrible taste in music, about how the stars looked different in winter. About how Wilson's profile looked in the dashboard light, about how he'd wanted to kiss him for months, about how scared he was of everything changing.
Wilson let him talk, didn't interrupt, didn't comment. Just drove through the quiet streets of Georgetown, past houses dark and houses lit up with celebration, past the town square with its historic courthouse, past the gas station where they'd bought slushies every summer since middle school.
Bran's house was dark when they pulled up- his dad would be passed out on the couch like he was most days, smelling more or less how Brando smelled now but he wouldn’t be half as nice.
Wilson parked in the driveway and came around to help Bran out of the truck. He was steadier now, the fresh air and time helping to sober him up, but he still leaned on Wilson as they walked to the front door.
Bran fumbled with his house key, and Wilson had to take it from him, unlocking the door and guiding them both inside.
The house was quiet, warm, familiar. Wilson had spent so much time here over the years that it felt like a second home- he knew which floorboards creaked, knew where the light switches were even in the dark, knew that the third step on the stairs squeaked if you stepped on the left side. Because when Wilson had turned ten, Brando’s dad had forbidden him from coming over, said he made a bad impression on Brando, and so any time Wilson did come over, it was in secret. Brando’s dad probably didn’t even care enough to notice that his son was always cooking two breakfasts most mornings, probably didn’t even question why Brando was wearing hoodies that he knew didn’t belong to him.
They made their way upstairs to Bran's room. It was exactly as Wilson remembered- a single bed with navy sheets, a desk covered in textbooks and football playbooks, walls decorated with posters of bands and athletes.
It smelled like Bran- cologne and laundry detergent and something else, something indefinably him.
Bran collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to take off his shoes. Wilson sighed and knelt down, unlacing Bran's boots and pulling them off, setting them neatly by the door.
"You take such good care of me," Bran said, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes.
"Someone has to."
"Wil?"
"Yeah?"
"Come here."
Wilson approached the bed cautiously. Bran reached out, catching his hand, pulling him down to sit on the edge of the mattress.
"I meant what I said," Bran said, his voice clearer now, more sober. "About leaving. About us going somewhere together."
"Bran-"
"I know you think it's just drunk talk, but it's not. I've been thinking about it for months. About getting out of here, about starting over somewhere new. Somewhere we could just... be."
Wilson's throat was tight. "Be what?"
Bran looked at him, and there was something in his eyes- something raw and honest and terrifying. "Whatever we want."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Wilson wanted to ask what Bran meant, wanted to push, wanted to know if they were talking about the same thing. But he was tired, and Bran was drunk, and this conversation felt too important to have now.
"We can talk about it tomorrow," Wilson said gently. "When you're sober."
"You won't believe me tomorrow either."
"Bran-"
"It's okay." Bran's eyes were drifting closed, exhaustion and alcohol finally catching up with him. "I get it. I'm just... I'm tired of pretending, Wil. Tired of acting like I don't feel what I feel. Tired of being scared."
Wilson's heart was pounding. "Scared of what?"
But Bran didn't answer. His breathing had evened out, his grip on Wilson's hand loosening. He was asleep.
Wilson sat there for a long moment, watching his best friend sleep. Bran looked younger like this, peaceful, the worry lines that had been creasing his forehead smoothed away.
Wilson wanted to reach out, wanted to brush the hair back from Bran's face, wanted to lean down and kiss him again- properly this time, sober and intentional.
But he didn't. Instead, he carefully extracted his hand from Bran's, pulled a blanket over him, and turned off the light.
He should leave. Should go home, should give them both space to process whatever had just happened. But he'd promised to stay, and Wilson kept his promises.
So he kicked off his own shoes, grabbed a spare blanket from Bran's closet, and settled into the armchair in the corner of the room. It wasn't comfortable, but it would do.
Normally, he would sleep in Brando’s bed, but he wasn’t sure he was allowed to anymore.
Through the window, he could see fireworks going off somewhere in the distance- late celebrations, people welcoming the new year. 2009. A new year, a new beginning, everything changing.
Wilson closed his eyes and tried not to think about the kiss, about Bran's words, about the way his heart had felt like it might burst out of his chest. Tried not to think about what tomorrow would bring, about whether Bran would remember, about whether anything would be different or if they'd just go back to pretending.
From the bed, Bran stirred, mumbling something in his sleep.
"Happy New Year, Wil."
Wilson's eyes burned. "Happy New Year, Bran."