Chapter Text
Wilson POV
Wilson’s eyes fluttered open, he was laying on his side, staring at the wall to his right-hand side. He blinked. The room was uncomfortably silent despite the thin hum of the ceiling fan. He sat up, pushing the muted blue duvet covers off his body.
Looking to his left, Wilson saw the empty space beside him. The covers were wrinkled and felt cold on his palm when he placed his hand in the space on the mattress where Brando once lay. He kicked his feet free and sat up further.
“Bran?” Wilson called out, hoping maybe he’d respond. He could’ve been in the bathroom, or maybe making breakfast in the kitchen.
Wilson slid his legs off the right side of the bed and placed his bare feet down on the carpet, standing up. He walked to the front door and pulled it open, a chill gust of air hitting his skin. It was overcast, the sky a light-grey, creating a layer of greyscale around him like an old time movie. Wilson walked out to the street, his feet cold against the gravelly pavement.
“Bran?” he tried again, his eyes watering. He swallowed. “Bran?” He said it louder this time, still hanging onto hope he might be here. His head whipped around, back towards the house as the wind blew his dark hair over his face.
Jogging back inside, he shut the door behind him and crawled onto the bed. He let his phone charger fall to the floor, grabbing his phone. 11:11am exactly. He didn’t have time to be childish, to make a wish or anything of the sort. He swiped up and typed in his password, opening the call app. His thumb only hovered for half a second before he called him.
Wilson clung to the phone as it buzzed, calling Brando. It rang once. Where did he go? It rang twice. It’ll hurt less even knowing he left on purpose, as long as I know he’s okay. It rang three times. I can’t check his location, he never would’ve shared it with me. Asking for it would’ve been clingy and weird anyways. Four times. He should tell me when he leaves, shouldn’t he? But I know he told me he’s not my… Five times. Brando’s voice came through the phone and Wilson nearly had a heart attack.
“Hey. It’s Brando. Can’t answer the phone right now, but leave a message.”
Just an automated voicemail. Do I leave one? Wilson opened his mouth to speak but swallowed his words and hit the decline button. He called him again. The phone buzzed as it rang Brando once more. Please… pick up. After the fifth ring, the voicemail played again and Wilson hung up, his face sitting in his hand with his elbow on his knee. Tears began to roll down his face as he began to realize he wasn’t going to answer.
Wilson tried not to think. He buried his face into both hands, letting himself cry harder. He couldn’t help thinking that he left because of him. Did I pressure him too hard? Did I push too hard to label us? Things had been shitty after that stupid fight in the alley after the bar. He couldn’t stop thinking of it. When Wilson raised his voice, defending himself. Was I in the wrong? Maybe I overreacted, but isn’t it his fault? He was flirting with the bartender right in front of me. I mean I was right there.
But there’s one thing that stuck with him the most. When he got louder, he expected Brando to yell back. That’s what he usually did. A frightening thing to be truthful. It was a familiar feeling, so yelling numbed him by now. But this time he didn’t yell. He shushed him. He shushed him. Brando didn’t care about him at all, did he? All he cared about was being seen. He couldn’t let anyone know. No one could know he was dating Wilson. Because that would just be awful, wouldn’t it?
He was more scared of being seen than losing me.