Chapter Text
Wilson
First day of summer break, barely the first few minutes of being awake for this new freedom, but my heart is already falling deeper, as it has everyday for the past three years.
Really, you’d think it’d finally stop since I’ve reached the limit of falling in love, but it hasn't. Somehow this person has managed to find a way around the laws of love. Of life.
His breathing sounds like music to me on the bed beside me. I glance carefully at him, not disturbing him, definitely not shifting the bed, barely daring to move an inch so he doesn’t wake up. Creepy, watching him sleep, but I can’t help it. Even the birds are silent, staying quiet just for him to rest undisturbed in the peace of my bedroom.
Brando’s mouth is slightly parted, lips soft and pink, his head tilted towards me, brown eyelashes fanning out on his cheeks like a work of art. His golden brown hair is messy, tousled in a way that looks like he did it on purpose.
I want to reach out and brush his cheek, to feel if his skin really is that smooth. I almost touch his face, my fingers trembling, but I manage to stop myself.
The breeze comes in through the empty window, stirring up the few strands of his hair. The window he snuck in through last night to be with me. We talked for hours before we were so exhausted we both fell asleep mid-sentence. I wonder if I fell asleep first or if he did. I can’t remember.
Brando stirs slightly. My heart almost stops as he opens his eyes, a hazel that never seems to stop shifting colours.
“‘Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, low in a way that sends shivers down my spine.
I stop breathing. “Hi,” I whisper, smiling in that stupid way that only Bran can make me smile.
Brando yawns, blinking at the light. “I didn’t plan to stay overnight,” he says, sitting up. My cheeks heat. Shit. He’s not wearing a shirt.
“Well, I guess you did,” I breathe. Does he regret it?
His lips twitch into a small smirk. “Yeah, I guess I did. And I’ll probably be doing so for the rest of the summer. No parents, no rules.”
My mom is always gone, doing work, and Brando’s parents are practically out of his life, busy with their booming company. Now that he’s eighteen, he’s now an adult, which means no more nannies, no more caretakers to look after him.
“No rules,” I agree, getting out of bed, my brain definitely not stuck on the fact that he’s going to be staying over the rest of the summer. “What’s the plan for today?”
Brando shrugs, still sitting cross-legged, blanket pushed down to cover his legs, exposing his perfect muscular chest. “There’s a park nearby,” he says finally. “Could be better than being cooped up inside all day.”
“I like being inside though.”
“You’re boring.” I pout mockingly at his words and shove him, his skin warm, my hands tingling where I touched his arm.
“We can draw or sing or do whatever you like to do later,” Brando tells me. “Please? For me?”
I know I could never reject any of his ideas when he looks at me like that.
“Fine,” I finally mumble, and Brando perks up, grinning in that way that warms my heart as much as standing near a fire on a winter day does.
I’d do anything to see that smile.
“Thanks, Will,” he says, using that silly nickname that no one else calls me.
“We’re drawing later,” I say, building up the courage to throw a casual arm around his shoulder.
Brando leans slightly into it. He’s all warm and soft in my arms. “Sure,” he murmurs without an argument, staying there, not shifting away from me, not even one bit.
Now it’s feeling awkward, his head resting just barely on my shoulder, my arm still around him. This would be sweet if we were together, but we aren’t, so this moment is filled with tension, crackling between us like a bolt of lightning.
I clear my throat and back away slightly. Brando looks up at me, eyes soft. I don’t know if he was okay with that. And I don’t want to make things weird by asking.
So we both just ignore it.
Brando stands up, not on the bed anymore, and walks to my closet. He picks up a random t-shirt, just plain white, and holds it up to me. “Is this clean?” he asks.
I glance at it. “Yeah.”
He swoops it on. It’s tight on him, since he’s taller than me. It makes sense, but every time it moves, his shirt lifts up slightly to reveal a bit of skin, which surprises me every time.
How am I going to survive this entire day?
“Thanks.” He smiles at me.
“No problem.” I look away from him because I’m going to combust. I take a deep breath. Usually it isn’t that bad. Whatever I have, it isn’t that bad. My love usually isn't this bad, this affecting. The heat must be making me delirious.
“It’s hot today,” I say absentmindedly.
“Not just the day that’s hot.” There’s amusement in his voice. I jump up, flushing instantly.
I can’t tell if he’s joking.
He’s definitely joking.
Why am I reacting like this over a joke?
“Are we going or not?” I ask, ignoring his comment. Trying to ignore it, at least.
“Yeah.” He stretches his arms lazily. “Let’s go. Get you to socialize, maybe.”
“That’ll never happen,” I mumble, gazing longingly at the safety of my room, at my sketchbook that I never allow anyone to see, probably because it’s filled drawing after drawing of Brando.
“You’re talking to me,” Brando points out, smiling like he knows that he won. I roll my eyes and bump him with my shoulder, which does not affect him at all. Ugh. He’s so strong.
“Well–” I sputter, trying to come up with a dignified response. “You– you don’t count. You’re annoying.”
Brando grins. “Thank you.” He laughs and starts running down the stairs and outside, leaving me to chase after him.
***
“Wait,” I call, turning around and heading back inside. I grab an apple (I love apples), a banana, a container of yogurt from the fridge, a granola bar, and another apple (Did I mention that I love apples?) and a knitted blanket my mom made for me. We only use it for special occasions like my birthday or Christmas, but this time I think my mom will understand.
Brando is waiting for me, arms crossed over his chest, eyes amused, twinkling like stars– the brightest stars.
“Picnic, huh?” Brando says. I can’t tell if he approves or not. His voice is neutral.
I wonder if he thinks of me as childish.
“Yeah,” I say, trying not to sound sheepish. “We don’t have breakfast. So… hopefully this is good.”
Brando nods. “It’s good,” he tells me, almost reassuringly. “I used to have picnics with my mom.” He stops. “When she had time at least.” He shakes his head as if dismissing the memory. “Anyway, I haven’t had a picnic in a few years. You’re going to have to walk me through the steps.”
I laugh softly, allowing him to take the blanket from me. He folds it up nicely and holds it in his arms like it’s something precious. As if he knows how much it means to me.
We walk in comfortable silence the rest of the way.