Chapter Text
July 12, 2013
Saturday
The radio doesn’t work in Brando’s truck.
It’s an old truck, a beater passed through multiple generations now. But it has a working engine, and it carries him wherever he wants, so he can’t complain much.
Especially with his view right now. Dirt road stretching out in front of him, meeting the rapidly setting sun on the horizon. Rolling fields set on either side, the grass, dried from the summer heat, looking more orange than brown in the light. The view that really takes his breath away, though, is just to his right.
They’re the only ones on this back road at this hour, and Brando takes advantage of this fact by taking more than just a sparing glance away from the road. He full on stares at Wilson, who’s dangling halfway out of the window right now, the seatbelt just a suggestion to him.
The way his curls move in the wind. The way his shirt rides up a bit as he stretches further out the window, putting his arms up like he’s on a rollercoaster. The truck definitely jolts down the road like an old coaster.
He looks so happy. He looks so free. It makes Brando feel sick.
Summer is almost over. They only have a few more weeks left. A few more weeks of lake days. A few more weeks of late night car rides. A few more weeks to be together, together-together, safely tucked away from society and their parents’ judgements in their very secret relationship.
Wilson got out. Of course he did. He’s always been so bright, had so much potential. He’s always been better than Brando ever could be. In August, Wilson’s heading to college in California. States away from here.
In August, Brando is staying right where he is. Enrolled in a two year program at the local community college, because his parents want him to have some kind of degree to live off of. He doesn’t really see the point. Everyone knows he’s going to end up as a repairman, or a mechanic, or a plumber. Just like his brother, and his father, and his uncle, and his grandfather on both sides.
Wilson is going to go to college in California. He’s going for music. Brando has always sworn that music is Wilson’s first love. Ever since they were little Wilson would be making some sort of music. Little jingles based on cereal boxes or street signs. Tapping pencils against his desk like it was a drum set. Humming to himself.
Brando remembers when they were 13, and Wilson got a guitar for his birthday. He fucking sucked at it, for that first year. The guitar was almost always out of tune. But still, Brando would sit there and listen to him play, entirely enraptured. He would watch the way Wilson’s fingers moved along the strings, the way his whole body seemed to relax, almost merging into the guitar like they were one. And once Wilson started singing too, holy shit, Brando was done for.
“You’re staring,” Wilson says. Brando blinks out of his thoughts to suddenly become aware that he’s making full eye contact with Wilson right now. He notices the sky behind Wilson is darker now, the pinks and oranges faded into purples and blues. Jesus, how long has he been spaced out for?
“Just admiring the view,” Brando says back. Slipping into his charismatic self to stave off any negative emotions is second nature at this point. Sometimes Wilson sees right through him. Luckily, this isn’t one of those times.
“Yeah, okay,” Wilson scoffs. “How about you admire the road instead, lover boy.” He shifts down to sit fully in the passengers seat now, still completely ignoring the seat belt. Brando laughs as he turns back to stare ahead at the road.
The sun is gone now, completely set, and the dark is starting to close in on them. The sun setting should be pretty. It has always been pretty to Brando. Instead, it only reminds him that time is passing, slipping through his fingers in a way he can’t stop. Another day gone. Another day closer to the end of summer. He can’t help the pained look that comes across his face at the thought.
Wilson notices this time, Brando can tell just by the way the energy shifts.
“…you okay?” Wilson says, concern lacing the words. Brando glances sideways to see Wilson staring, browns furrowed and mouth set in a frown. Brando quickly looks away, clearing his throat.
“Yeah, of course,” he says, eyes darting around anywhere but Wilson. They briefly land on the fuel gauge, where the little red arm is touching the E. Brando internally celebrates at the easy out. “Tank’s just empty. You mind a quick stop before we head back into town?”
Wilson is silent, and Brando can feel his eyes burning holes into the side of his head. It’s clear Wilson is not convinced. Brando can practically hear him going back and forth in his brain, deciding if he should pry or not. After a beat, it’s apparent the latter option wins out. Wilson sighs once, loudly, a sigh that says I know that wasn’t it and we will talk about this later but I’m letting it go for now, before speaking. “Not at all. As long as we can go in for slushies.”
“Deal,” Brando says, a genuine smile finally finding its way back onto his face.
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“Wilson.”
“Hmm?”
“This was supposed to be a quick stop. Just pick a flavor and let’s go,” Brando says around the straw of his own slushie, filled to the top with blue raspberry. His tongue is probably stained blue by now. His whole esophagus is going to be stained blue before Wilson actually fills up his own cup, it seems.
“There’s just. So many options. Don’t rush me.”
“There’s literally only four options.”
“Don’t rush me!” Wilson swats his arm once before turning back to the machine. After another minute of careful deliberation, he goes with half coke and half cherry.
“Finally a decision is made!” Brando declares dramatically before they turn and start making their way towards the register. Wilson swats his arm again as he takes the first sip of his own slushie.
“Your tongue is all blue,” Wilson laughs. Then he leans in, and says under his breath so only Brando could hear. “We can make it purple later tonight.”
Brando sputters a bit on the slushie he had just started drinking, feeling his face heat up. Wilson laughs smugly at the reaction and skips ahead of Brando a bit.
Wilson’s such a sugar light-weight, if that's even a thing that exists. He’s already bouncing around, head turning wildly as he looks along all the shelves. Brando follows behind at a slower pace, shaking his head fondly as he digs around in his pocket for his wallet.
His hand keeps missing it, and so he looks down briefly to see what he’s doing. Just as Brando finally manages to slip the corner of the wallet out of his pocket, he runs straight in to Wilson’s back.
“Sorry,” Brando says, immediately reaching out to put a steadying hand on Wilson’s arm.
“No worries,” Wilson says dismissively, waving a hand while staring at something on the shelf in front of him. “Look here.”
Brando looks over Wilson’s shoulder and follows his gaze. It’s a shelf full of cheap trinkets and gag gifts. There, filling up the entirety of the bottom shelf are-
“Wishbones?” Brando says. Wilson crouches down to pick one of the little blue boxes up.
“Noooo,” he drawls out. “Miracle Wishbones,” he says sarcastically, pointing to each word of the label.
Brando also leans down to look closer, and sure enough, there it is.
MIRACLE WISHBONE,
written under an illustration of a wishbone. A red ribbon weaves around it.
Wilson turns the box over. There’s a second illustrated wishbone, this time snapped in half. “A wishbone never breaks even,” Brando says quietly, reading the words scrawled along the back of the box.
Wilson hums thoughtfully, as if that was some deep message and not just a simple fact. “It’s like the one in your truck,” Wilson says. “Or the one on your necklace.” He looks up at Brando, a huge, teasing grin on his face. “We have to get it.”
Brando smiles back (because he can’t help but smile whenever Wilson does), and shifts his gaze back to the box. As he looks closer, his smile drops a bit. Brando can’t describe it out loud in any way that made sense, but something about the box made him really uneasy.
Maybe it was the way the title was written, in all-capitalized, imposing letters. MIRACLE WISHBONE. Maybe it’s the red ribbon, that flows around the front of the box but is markedly nowhere to be seen on the back. Maybe it’s the way that, as Wilson turns the box over in his hands, Brando notices there is no other discernible features to the box. No description. No brand names or copyrights that usually come on products. Just a blank, blue box.
It’s a 89-cent toy in a gas station Brando, pull yourself together.
Brando’s sure the dread he’s feeling is just because he’s tired. Or maybe it’s tied to the thoughts before, tied to the anxiety of August coming around. He swallows back that feeling and pats his legs once, definitively, before standing back up. “Alright, let’s bring it to the register then,” he says. Wilson hops up and they continue their trek to the register.
“Two slushies and this,” Brando tells the cashier as Wilson slides the wishbone across the counter. The cashier certainly looks like she’s working a night shift at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Bags under her eyes, hair looking like it was brushed through with fingers rather than a comb, moving with a general sense of disinterest in everything going on around her.
As she types in the items, she raises one eyebrow at the box. “Oh, you found our newest merchandise.” Her tone suggests that she’s trying to be friendly, but also couldn’t give enough fucks to cover up the fact that she’s bored out of her mind right now.
“Yep!” Wilson says excitedly, fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the counter. The lady hums noncommittally before giving Brando the total and sliding the box back over to Wilson.
They turn to leave, and just as they reach the door Brando hears it.
“Just be careful what you wish for,” the cashier’s voice rings loud and clear across the gas station. Brando turns quickly to look back at her, his heart dropping a bit.
She’s not even looking at them, leaning against the counter and scrolling at something on her phone, earbuds in. But Brando swears she just-
“What?” Wilson says to his right, and Brando turns to face him now. Wilson is looking at him, confusion painting his features as he takes another sip of his slushie.
“You didn’t hear that?” Brando asks. Wilson’s brows only furrow deeper, and Brando can feel his heartbeat pick up a bit. He’s sure the cashier just spoke, swears he just heard her. God, he’s really going insane.
“Nevermind,” Brando says, walking through the doors and making his way towards the truck. He unlocks it, hand slipping off the handle a few times before he’s able to grip it and get in. When did his hand get so sweaty?
Wilson slides into the passengers seat, looking at Brando with a mix of suspicion and concern. As Brando sticks the key in the ignition and turns it, the truck sputtering to life, Wilson says “…are you good? Should I drive?…”
“No,” Brando says, too quickly. The gas station seems more sinister now, and Brando just really want to get away from it. Get him and Wilson home, get them safe. “Just tired. But I’m sure the billions of grams of sugar in this slushie are gonna wake me right up.”
Brando’s attempt at humor hits, thank god, and Wilson laughs a bit and takes another drink of his own slushie. “Okay, just lemme know if you wanna switch at all,” he says, mouth still full of slushie.
Brando laughs back as they pull onto the road again, trying to push the unease to the back of his mind.
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Wilson’s parents are out of town for the next few days, so the two have the house to themselves for the weekend, and intend to take full advantage of the alone time.
Brando’s truck pulls into the driveway, and before he can even put the gear into park Wilson is throwing open the passengers seat and dashing to the front door, moving to get his key and unlock it.
As Brando parks the truck and turns it off, he notices the little blue box, resting in the place where Wilson had just been sitting. He hopes Wilson forgot about it. That terrible feeling it gave Brando wouldn’t go away.
He stares at the box for a few more seconds, until something glints in the corner of his eye. He turns towards it, gaze focusing in on the zipper of his backpack, which has been sitting on the floor of his truck since the last day of school.
The idea take shape in Brando’s head quickly, a jigsaw puzzle made up of the backpack and the box and all of the weird feelings he’s been having tonight.
He glances up towards the house to see Wilson still standing by the front door, his back to the truck.
Brando sees this as his opportunity, and quickly grabs the box and stuffs it into the backpack, zipping it back up and kicking it further under the seat before opening the truck door and stepping out himself.
If Wilson were to ask about it later, Brando would just say he lost it. As it turns out, though, Wilson is much more interested in following up on his earlier promise of "making Brando’s tongue purple", and the box becomes entirely forgotten in the mix of hands and lips and eyes and tangled bedsheets.