Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Present Day

“Stupid grocery store,” muttered WIlson, the heels of his dusty boots clicking on the tile floor. He ran a hand through his dark curls. “On my first day back in Texas, they don’t even have caramel. Useless.” Strolling through the aisles, he threw bags of food with labels he didn’t bother to read and turned toward the dimly lit checkout. 

In an instant, his annoyed expression faded from his face.

His heart stalled in his chest.

It was Brando.

One Year Ago

The bar smelled like cheap whiskey and old tobacco. It was very late at night - the people there were staying after closing time. The owner of the bar had tried to shoo them out, but everyone was too drunk to fight. Wilson had been dragged along by Brando, and his head pounded with alcohol he rarely drank. He tended to create distance from himself and substances. After all, he didn’t want to turn into his worst fear. His father.

Brando, however, was only falling deeper into disrepair. 

Wilson already regretted coming. He was extremely awkward, glancing around and bouncing his leg. He never dared make eye contact with anyone but Brando, but Brando was leaning subtly into the bartender, and every flirtatious word was a knife that drove deeper into his heart. Wilson tried to reach for Brando, but he was in his own little world - without Wilson. He could hardly react. He just kept waiting for the night to end. He watched as Brando grinned and spoke with spit, imagining that his heart was only Wilson’s. To keep. But he knew it wasn’t. How could anyone hold onto his wild spirit? Wilson could feel tears threatening to fall, so he looked up and stared at the blank ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Brando leaning across the pool table talking to some blondie. The way he laughed with her was nothing compared to what they have, though. It was deeper, more genuine, right? 

They left through the back door without saying a word, hands dug down into their jean pockets. Wilson looked down and watched his feet take each step as Brando’s stare bored into the side of his head. They didn’t want to speak. They knew it’d end in a fight. But they did anyway.

The fight was like the others, but different. Most fights between them were small banters that ended in sorries, but this one seemed like nothing would glue it back together. Brando’s face was flushed with anger, and his jaw was clenched tight - however, there was a hint of sorrow in his voice. Wilson was pale and defensive, his eyes wide and begging like a slowly dying deer in a forest.

“Look, I’ve got a messed up head, and I need some space, ok?” Brando slurred.

“Yeah, that's pretty darn clear. Go get some help!” Wilson rebutted.

With nowhere else to go, they arrived back at the Tower Hotel without another word. Wilson settled into the bed, not bothering to change or throw blankets on, while Brando took the couch. Wilson seemed to fall asleep easily - he guessed the alcohol beat out the sorrow - but Brando stayed awake, mind racing with thoughts. He looked over at Wilson’s sleeping frame, and a tear rolled down his cheek and flooded around his eyes. He took a deep breath, choked back a sob, and quietly got up from the couch. He couldn’t bear seeing Wilson’s reaction when he left. He grabbed his truck keys and opened the door. He stood in its frame, looking back one last time.

“I’m sorry.”

He shut the door as quietly as possible and was gone.

Daylight streamed through the dirty window, and Wilson rolled over with a groan. He dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets and squinted. Brando was nowhere to be seen. Wilson shot up out of bed and threw his polo on. He noticed the missing truck keys, and that’s when he knew it was over. He sprinted out of the hotel and onto the road set beside the plains.

“Bran? Bran? BRAN?” 

He stood in the center of the road, eyes welling with tears.

Wilson decided to walk to the lake where they had first kissed, refusing to feel anything at the moment. It was masochistic, Wilson thought, to come back to the place with so many bittersweet memories.

Wilson traced the rough, raised outline of the heart, his thumb catching on the jagged edges of the 'W' and the 'B' etched deeply into the oak. He remembered the feeling of the knife digging in, the satisfying “thunk” with each thrust as Brando had carved their initials. Back then, it felt like forever, a agreement with the universe. Now, it was just proof of a mistake.

Wilson sank down slowly onto the coarse sand at the base of the tree, the breeze flowing through his ripped jeans, grounding him in the present.

They hadn’t called it a "date", though it very much was one. Brando had arrived on his doorstep, not with messy hair and breathless excitement that immediately drew WIlson in. He was wearing an old, faded band t-shirt and ripped jeans.

"Where are you taking me?" Wilson had asked, letting himself be dragged along by the hand, the sun already boring down on them. He was laughing, a pure, easy sound he hadn't made much since.

"Wait and see!", Brando said, hands interlaced.

They sprinted through the large, green field, the tall grass brushing against their legs. Brando was faster, pulling Wilson along, their laughter scattering into the wind. Wilson felt a wonderful, terrifying freedom. He didn't care where they were going or what they looked like. In that moment, Brando's hand was Wilson's entire compass, his gravity.

What could be more important than them at that moment? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The sprint ended abruptly behind a set of willows and bsuhes. Wilson stumbled after him, arriving into a sudden lake. An old tire swing, its rope fraying and tied to a low-hanging branch of a oak tree Wilson now sat under.

He watched as Brando, without hesitation, kicked off his worn sneakers, peeled off his t-shirt, and sprinted into the water with a yell.

"C’mon, Wilson! It's perfect!" Brando called out, his hair immediately clinging to his forehead. 

"I didn't bring you all the way here just to watch me," he said with a flirty smirk.

Wilson shook his head. "The water looks cold!”

Brando’s eyes narrowed playfully. He waded out, the water only up to his chest, and stalked toward the bank, spraying water at Wilson. Before he could scramble back, Brando was there, his hand wrapping around Wilson’s wrist, the wet chill of his skin a sudden shock.

"Sorry, not sorry," Brando murmured, his voice low and teasing, right before he gave a  hard tug.

Wilson tumbled forward with a surprised yelp, hitting the surprisingly cold water with a splash that soaked him completely.

They threw water and pushed each other, their playful fighting turning into a tangle of limbs underwater, a shared gasp for air that was less of a fight and more of an embrace. The water calmed, the surface settling back into a mirror. They sat together on a large rock, dripping and breathless, in a deep, comfortable silence.

Eventually, they waded out, their clothes heavy and clinging to their skin. They found the old, sturdy oak tree, its bark thick and deeply furrowed. Brando leaned against it, reaching into the pocket of his damp jeans.

He pulled out his pocket knife—a small, silver thing with a mother-of-pearl handle.

Wilson watched, mesmerized, as Brando dug into the bark, the white, inner wood exposed as the tough, grey outer layer was peeled back.

First, the clumsy, slightly lopsided heart. Then, the 'B'. And finally, the 'W'.

When he was done, Brando turned to Wilson, his eyes soft but intense, and he took Wilson’s soaking wet hand, bringing it up to the carving. He pressed Wilson’s thumb against the rough, newly etched wood.

“We’re forever, ok? Promise me we’ll let nothing get between us.”

Wilson opened his eyes. The chill was intense now. He looked at the carving, then at the lake, which reflected the dull, flat grey of the sky. The tire swing hung still and lifeless. The memory brought no comfort, only a question.

Do you think the memory of a place like this ever really loses its power over a person?

Wilson sat on the quiet bank, watching the ghosts of his past play in the water. He could recall every movement, every pitch of every laugh, and every twinkle in the eye. Listening to the soft breeze rustle the leaves, he wondered what Brando was doing right now. Knowing him, he was probably drowning his sorrows in a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of beer, however the questions loomed in the back of his mind. What would he do? Who was he now without Brando? It felt like a rock weighing down his heart as his lips quivered and his breathing became scattered. He walked back to the hotel, barely holding back tears. As soon as he opened the door, he fell to his knees and sobbed for what felt like hours. The tears wet his face and fell like rain. The relationship had its ups and downs, yes, but all Wilson could remember in that moment was Brando’s soft kiss and the grin he always wore. Once the stream of tears dissipated, he felt dizzy and almost fell, but managed to support himself with the cheap motel room nightstand. His hand brushed against an old Polaroid of him and Brando, which he immediately picked up and hurled at the wall.

“Is this going to haunt me forever?” Wilson whispered into the empty room.

The room felt like it had lost all its warmth without Brando. The small parking lot downstairs was missing its truck, too. He could see Brando without even closing his eyes - like a ghost, he followed him everywhere he tried to recover. He could see him on the park bench where they used to watch the stars, in the rushing river that they once swam in, and even outside of the grocery store where Brando used to smoke. Some days Wilson was angry, some days he wanted him back. Every time he felt the guilt, Wilson knew Brando wasn’t all that kind. Brando had issues. Any time something went wrong, he did something worse, slowly killing himself with all the fixes he tried to use. Wilson tried to deny Brando’s toxicity, but it stayed like a dark cloud the whole time. Brando was always so stoned that Wilson spent his summer days in the unwashed motel sheets. 

Wilson knew that Brando and him were made to fall apart.They had both grown up in small Texas towns, mirror images of each other's childhoods, and the signs had been there all along. He remembered the time Brando had joked - a joke that now felt like a shard of broken glass - that his mother would get mad whenever an Elton John song came on the radio. Brando had been raised to believe they’d never work. The memory of their first kiss stabbed Wilson’s gut: Brando had been frozen with fear, pushing him away, saying it was all a mistake. Wilson should have seen that red flag then, but he’d been blinded by adoration.

All the dreaming that Wilson had wasted on the possibility of Brando’s love.

All the waiting.

Wilson decided, in that cheap motel room, without Brando, that he was done.

It was time to move on.

Chapter Text

Wilson stood staring at Brando, who was scanning items at a self-checkout machine. He hadn't changed much, and in a way, it hurt like hell. The same white shirt that hung loosely on his frame, the same brown racer jacket with rips and stains, the same worn-out jeans. Wilson studied his features. His dirty blonde hair was longer, maybe, and his skin was kissed with the Texas sun. Brando pulled out his phone and smiled at it. Wilson spiraled: Who was he texting? Had he moved on? Wilson’s carefully crafted year of healing disappeared in an instant. His knuckles turned white, gripping the plastic handle of the grocery store basket. Everything they’d gone through—the rage, pleading, and sleepless nights in the run-down motel—came rushing back.

I am done. I am over him. I have moved on. He was toxic. The mantras he built his recovery on felt like barely audible whispers against his beating heart, just as Brando looked up. Their eyes met across the grocery aisles. Wilson felt his stomach lurch.
Brando did not react. He was unreadable, showing no smile, no guilt, and no surprise. Wilson knew that face too well.

“Wilson,” Brando said in a flat tone. No greeting. No question mark.

Wilson fought against the urge to spurt out all his unspoken thoughts. Was it love? Why did you leave? Do you know you broke me? Instead, what he said was:

“They’re out of caramel,” Wilson finished, the sound weak and pathetic.

Stupid Wilson, he thought. That’s all I had to say? Brando dismissed it. “Welcome to Texas, I guess.” Brando took a small step toward Wilson, who inhaled the dry Texas heat even from inside the store. Wilson had hoped he would never see Brando again, but here he was, the ghost of his past. Brando was the trash Wilson had thrown away, but here was that trash walking, talking, and breathing the same air that still smelled like Brando's old cologne.
Wilson remembered all their sweet moments, like watching the stars and the carved names in the tree by the lake. But then he remembered the terrified, pleading boy on his knees. He was no longer that petty boy. He had to prove it.

He reminded himself that he was Wilson, the man who recovered and knew he deserved better.

“Well, yeah, who cares about caramel. I learned to live without it,” Wilson said.

He wasn't talking about caramel.

Wilson took a deep breath and firmly walked around Brando before he could say anything else. His shoulder lightly brushed Brando’s, and the contact felt like an electric shock that lit a fire in Wilson. Wilson walked away, never changing his pace or stature, while Brando turned and watched him disappear. As soon as Wilson exited the doors, he sprinted. Brando ran after him, grabbed his wrist, and called, “Wait!”

Wilson froze and slowly turned back.

“W-what?” Wilson said with a stutter.

“Want to talk? In my trailer?”
Wilson knew this was a terrible idea. The facade of recovery he had put on for a whole year screamed no. There were thousands of excuses he could use.

“Sure. Why not?”

Chapter Text

As Wilson walked with Brando in silence, he tried to think of something to say. But what could he say? Here was the guy who broke his heart. If he let Brando in again, the same thing would happen, over and over again. Inside himself, Wilson knew that Brando wouldn’t change. Wilson tried to deny it.
But where was the Brando he used to know? Wilson thought all the way back to when they first met.

It was a cold night—rare for Texas. Wilson was 16. A fight broke out between his parents, and all he could hear was screaming and the shattering of dishes. Wilson sprinted out of the house in his pajamas and ran to the old birch tree in the center of the neighborhood. It was Wilson’s safe spot, in a way, but to his surprise, another boy was already there.

His name was Brando. Brando Smith.

Brando was wearing long sleeves, an obvious mask to Wilson—he knew what Brando was hiding: bruises. Like most in this part of Texas. He had done the same before.

They talked for hours, spilling secrets to the universe and finding peace in each other. Their voices were the only sounds that truly mattered on those late-night roofs and creek banks.

Before they knew it, they were blasting all of Brando’s favorite songs—a mix of 80s rock and country—on a rickety, sticker-covered radio duct-taped to the basket of his bike. They rode their rusty bikes down the street every morning against the backdrop of their sleepy Texas town. Brando, with his sun-kissed hair perpetually messy and the easy, golden-boy grin that always seemed to be fighting back a secret worry, would pedal furiously. Wilson, his dark, thoughtful eyes scanning the world, would glide beside him, a quiet, steady presence, his laughter a soft, rare sound that Brando lived to hear.

They were inseparable, and there was always an understanding that always felt like there was more between them—a silent pull that defied the label of 'friend.'

Brando truly was your average Texas guy. He was the pitcher on the high school baseball team, the one whose cheers were the loudest in the dugout, whose truck was always full of his grinning teammates. He was popular, the kind of guy who could charm his way into or out of anything. He went to the same random parties—the ones with cheap beer and loud, popular people—but he was always just a little bit of a ghost there, smiling and laughing while his thoughts went to the quiet comfort of Wilson’s company. He carried a big, open heart and a restless, loyal spirit, but only with Wilson did he let the mask down, showing the nervous energy and the big, secret dreams he usually kept hidden.

Wilson was his polar opposite, the shadow to Brando’s blinding sun. He was quiet and reserved, preferring a sketch pad to the cheers of a crowd. But on his own and with Brando, he was an incredible artist. His hands, usually covered with charcoal or ink, could paint anything onto a canvas. His best art, though, was music. Every time Wilson was to write a song, painstakingly pouring his soul into lyrics about love and yearning and the strange beauty of wishbones and clovers, Brando was the first listener. He would sit on Wilson's stained carpet, silent and utterly still, listening not just with his ears, but with his whole heart. And in those moments, as Wilson played his melodies, the air between them would grow thick with an unspoken love, a future they wouldn’t speak of.

Little things started happening that made Wilson fall for Brando more than he had wanted to.
One night, Wilson had gone to bed early. Brando, troubled and restless, needed an escape. As he always did, he went straight to Wilson. Brando scaled the roof and slipped through the window, settling close to Wilson's sleeping silhouette in bed. When Wilson woke up, there was virtually no space between them. Brando was still asleep, and Wilson's heart hammered in his chest. There was absolutely nothing to suggest Brando returned his feelings; in fact, the kind of guy Brando seemed to scream the opposite. But Wilson still clung to the desperate hope that someday, he might.

That morning, they sat on the roof, legs dangling over the edge, the small town slowly waking up beneath them. It had become their place—a quiet spot where words came a little easier, even if not all of them were said out loud.

Brando was talking about something—some movie he saw, something funny someone said—but Wilson wasn’t fully listening. Not out of disinterest, but because the weight of what he wanted to do was starting to press down on him. His guitar lay beside him, untouched.

Eventually, Brando fell quiet. They sat for a while in silence, watching the sky shift.

“You’ve been writing a lot lately,” Brando said, nodding toward the guitar.

“Yeah,” Wilson said. He hesitated, then added,

“There’s one I think... I think it’s finished.”
Brando raised an eyebrow, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “You gonna make me beg to hear it?”
Wilson laughed, nervous. “Just... don’t ask who it’s about, okay?”

Brando didn’t answer. Just leaned back on his hands, waiting.

Wilson picked up the guitar and let his fingers find the first chord. He cleared his throat.

“You know that I love you…”

As he played, Brando didn’t say a word. Just kept his eyes on the sunrise, face unreadable. Wilson’s voice nearly cracked halfway through. He was already regretting it. Why had he done this?

The last note hung in the air for a moment before fading.

Brando turned toward him. Their eyes met—and then, without a word, Brando leaned in.

The kiss was quiet, like the moment itself—careful, certain. Wilson barely breathed. It wasn’t fireworks. It was something steadier, deeper. Something he hadn’t let himself hope for.

And he knew, even then, he wouldn’t forget it.
Brando broke from the kiss. “I have to go. This was a mistake. I'm sorry.”

Wilson furrowed his eyebrows. “Wha…” But by the time he finished his sentence, Brando was gone. Wilson paced around the room, his mind spiraling.

What the heck just happened? he thought.
After that, it was a bit of a blur for Wilson. He must have hidden it in the back of his mind.

“Wilson. Are you okay?”

Wilson came back to reality. Apparently, they had already arrived at Brando's place.

“You spaced out for a solid 15 minutes,” said Brando.
He waved his hand in front of Wilson’s face.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.” Wilson sighed. Brando opened the door to the trailer for him, which surprised Wilson. Maybe he had changed. Wilson stepped inside. It looked like a typical trailer you’d find in a park - a bit rundown, an aroma of cigarettes, and stains. Very fit for Brando, Wilson thought.

“Um… you want… um… breakfast?” said Brando.

“Sure?” said Wilson.

It was 3 p.m.

So Brando grabbed bacon and eggs, and it was evident he could not cook. Wilson could barely hold back a laugh, though Wilson wondered how he could even possibly be in the mood to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“No, no nothing,” said Wilson.

Brando gave him a plate of badly cooked breakfast.

“Thanks. I guess,” whispered Wilson.

“So how are you, Wilson?” Brando sat next to Wilson on his leather couch.

“Terrible. Absolutely horrible. I hate you. I hope you die. Go away. Why am I here?” thought Wilson.

“Great. I’m doing wonderful.” Wilson barely managed to utter the words.

“Good. Me too,” said Brando.
They sat in silence as Wilson picked at the crappy food. Brando suddenly stood up.

“You know what? I’m not okay. I’m not great. I have spent the last year thinking of you and only you. I couldn’t move on. I couldn’t date anyone else. It was only you, and it only ever will be. It was a mistake to leave you at the Tower Hotel. You don’t deserve anything I did to you, and I hope you’ll never see me again. I’ll only break your heart again. You should leave before anything else happens.”

A tear rolled down Brando’s face. Wilson sat in shock. He couldn’t even look at Brando.

“You hurt me. You hurt me so much. You broke me. Ever since our first kiss on the roof. You were the first person to ever show me that love wasn’t a lie, but then we threw it all away. No, you threw it all away for temporary fixes that did nothing. So go find another beer bottle to empty or another blunt to smoke. Because I’m done.” Wilson didn’t mean any of this. In fact, all he wanted was to kiss Brando again.

Brando stared into Wilson’s eyes.

“Go, then.”

Wilson walked out of the trailer park, tears streaming down.

It was deja vu, this moment.

It felt exactly like when Brando left the first time, except that it was Wilson walking away.