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halfabreath · 6 years

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We all know there is only One True Prompt, the OTP, the Correct Answer: Ransom drooling over Holster's freckles. Maybe because they're drunk and Holster is also full body blushing in a tank top crop top and Ransom is LIVING

this………ended up being A Lot more than I anticipated. thank you so much for the One True Prompt!! this takes place in the Bittle Birkholtz Brousins AU, just after Part 4

Bittle-Birkholtz-Brousins: Tag, Ao3, Masterpost

It’s not fair. Nothing about this entire situation is fair. It’s just not. Ransom’s ready to write a strongly worded letter but he doesn’t know who to send it to. None of this is fair and Ransom seems to be the only one suffering because of it.

It’s the second to last kegster of the year, his last kegster before he has to kiss the ice (and that, frankly, carries just as much significance as graduation does), and Ransom went all out because he’s the only member of SMH who’s completely finished with exams. Holster has his last test tomorrow afternoon but Ransom’s already turned in his papers and he’s done, he’s free, and that’s a reason for celebration. This is his last kegster as a member of SMH because he’ll be an alum by the next one, and Ransom went over every single detail three times. He instituted a dress code (pastels and florals get in free, anyone in non-summery colors has to pay a cover), made the Facebook event aesthetically pleasing with graphics designed by Lardo, ensured the tub juice would be a soothing shade of green instead of it’s usual toxic waste hue, and spent weeks antagonizing over his outfit.

Here’s the thing: if you insist on a dress code, you have to rock that motherfucking dress code. It’s party hosting 101, and since Ransom is co-hosting with Holster he’s the one with the fashion burden on his shoulders because Holster can’t be expected to represent the dress code properly.

Or so Ransom thought. Holster, as it turns out, also takes dress codes very seriously, which Ransom should have known given how often Holster suggests matching best friend or brousin outfits for parties, but Ransom hadn’t taken that into consideration. So, when he’d walked into the party in his new salmon romper, thinking he was hot shit, Holster somehow, inexplicably, showed him up in his own Haus.

Ransom knows he looks good. The romper accentuates every asset hockey gave him and he chose the color specifically because it goes perfectly with his complexion. He looks good - better than good. Ransom knows he looks great.

But Holster looks incredible.

He’s wearing Ransom’s white snapback (no wonder he couldn’t find it before) and he must have raided Ransom’s drawer because he’s sporting a pair of Ransom’s joggers that show off the cut of his hips and hug his thick thighs perfectly, but Ransom can’t even concentrate on the fit because Holster’s also wearing a floral crop top and nothing could have prepared Ransom for that.

It’s not that Holster’s wearing a crop top, it’s that Holster’s wearing a crop top. Ransom’s always thought Holster is good looking - he’s had a hopeless crush on him for most of their friendship because of it and because of other dumb things like Holster’s smile and Holster’s hugs and how Holster always lets him sleep in his bed when the attic is being weird or how Holster will debate him for hours about things that don’t matter just because it’s fun and how Holster will massage the knots out of his limbs when he’s been curled up to long or how Holster always, always texts him right before he goes into a test - but Holster rarely puts thought into his outfits. He throws something on and hopes it works out and usually it’s fine and sometimes it’s really not and either Ransom or Bitty will fix it for him but today Holster just - he’s - he looks really good, okay?

Ransom plucks a beer from the cooler and downs it in four large gulps, hoping the cold can will cool off the wave of heat that’s just washed over him. It does not. Ransom tosses the can in the vague direction of the trash can and immediately grabs a red solo cup. It’s going to be a long kegster because all Holster’s doing at the moment is standing in front of the grill. His bare stomach is dotted with freckles from all the sunbathing he’s been doing in the Reading Room ever since it got warm enough to study outside and his cheeks are flushed from the heat (Ransom’s not sure exactly when he learned how to differentiate between Holster’s different shades of pink and red but he does know that if Holster was actually blushing from embarrassment or arousal or even excitement the flush wouldn’t be confined to just his cheeks. Holster’s blush stretches from his face down to his hips, sometimes even spreading down to the tops of his thighs and fuck, Ransom has to stop thinking about this.) and Bitty is standing beside him clad in a matching crop top (that explains it, then; Bitty’s the one to blame) but Bitty’s ends just a few centimeters above the waistband of his shorts while most of Holster’s torso is bare.

Then Holster turns around to talk to Bitty, and the next thing Ransom knows he’s crushed his empty cup in his hand because the waistband of Holster’s joggers is resting just above the swell of his ass and Ransom can see honest-to-God dimples resting on either side of his spine. Ransom knows if he reached out he could press his thumbs into the depressions and squeeze Holster’s hips and pull him close and -

Ransom throws the crumpled cup away and grabs another beer. He holds it to his forehead, trying to cool off, and when he lowers it Bitty and Holster are looking over at him. Bitty has his phone out, no doubt taking candids - Ransom’s Instagram thanks him - and Holster’s staring at him, blue eyes wide.

Ransom doesn’t know what that stare means but he’s not inclined towards hope. Holster’s probably just incensed by the fact that he’s wearing not only salmon shorts but salmon everything.

“Turn around! Show us your look!” Bitty calls out, holding out his phone like an overzealous parent. Ransom tears his eyes away from Holster’s face and grins, slipping one hand into his romper pocket before turning around slowly enough for Bitty to take enough pictures.

Everything’s changed when he turns around.

Holster’s face and stomach are lit up in a bright pink blush that spreads from his ears past the waistband of his joggers. His freckles are dappled over his flushed skin, shifting over his muscles and bone when he breathes. The blush tapers at the sharp cut of his hips but it’s still a bright beacon and Ransom can’t tear his eyes away, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Then Holster turns back towards the grill and Ransom’s sure he’d imagined it until he sees the red flush creeping along the back of Holster’s neck. Ransom grabs another beer and heads over, pausing to quickly scroll through the pictures Bitty’s just taken to pick out his favorites. Holster jumps when Ransom sets the unopened beer down on the grill tray.

“Hot out,” Ransom says mildly before taking a long sip of his beer. “You should put on more sunscreen; looks like you’re getting some sun.” All Ransom wants is to say and do whatever it takes to keep Holster that same shade of pink for the rest of the kegster, but Ransom knows Holster secretly hates his blush as much as Ransom secretly loves it, and the last thing Ransom wants is for this kegster to be ruined for his best friend.

Today is going to be perfect. Ransom’s going to make sure of it.

“Thanks, I will.” Holster says as he flips a burger with a smooth, practiced motion. He holds out his hand; Ransom pops the tab on his beer and hands it to him. See? They’re perfect.

Five drinks, four pong matches, three hours, two burgers, and one lost frisbee later Ransom is feeling good. He’s pleasantly drunk but not wasted, hovering in the sweet spot between tipsy and nauseous, and most of the party guests are clustered on the makeshift dance floor that’s technically just the part of the backyard with the most speakers. Ransom’s bouncing around, dancing with Nursey and Wicky and Chowder and Lardo and everyone. Everyone, that is, except the one person he actually wants to dance with.

Ransom’s just drunk enough to remedy that.

He pushes through the crowd, bumping into partygoers everywhere he turns until he finally makes his way through. He doesn’t see Holster in the backyard and it doesn’t take him long to search the rest of the Haus since the entire party is in the front and back yards. It’s surprisingly quiet; he can hear the floorboards creaking under his feet when he walks through the living room. He’s about to head up the steps when he hears voices from the kitchen.

“I’m gonna tell him.” Holster’s booming voice carries easily from the kitchen to the steps, his words strung together but not quite slurred. Ransom freezes, unsure if he’s been spotted. Holster hasn’t called out to him so he must not see him yet. Ransom slips back, leaning against the wall just beside the threshold of the kitchen. Some instinct is telling him not to walk in just yet and while Ransom doesn’t understand it, he’s damned well going to listen to it.

“Adam, you’re drunk.” Bitty says and Ransom can picture his disapproving expression from his tone of voice alone. “This isn’t the right time.” The sink turns on; Ransom can just make out the sound of water splashing into a cup.

“No, it’s the perfect time,” Holster counters. The sink turns off and a moment later Ransom hears audible gulping as Holster downs the water. He’s a loud drinker when he’s drunk, it’s hilarious because he sounds like an old-timey cartoon character. Ransom covers his mouth to keep from laughing - he wants to know what they’re talking about before he barges in. Getting all the information, and all that. He doesn’t want to walk in without any inkling of what’s going on. He has to form a hypothesis. That’s just science. He has a degree in it, or something.

Holster speaks again before Ransom can spiral too far. “I’m gonna tell him I love him, and he’ll be like, no, Holtzy, I love you but I also don’t, blah, blah, you made our friendship weird, blerg, blarg, you’ve ruined the second to last kegster, blergity, blargity, I never wanna see you again.” Bitty tries to cut in but Holster just keeps talking, undeterred. “And when he says all that I’ll wanna get drunk because I’ve ruined my whole life but I’m drunk right now so I’ll just get drunker and boom. Streamline the process. I’m halfway to blacking out so I might as well just keep on rollin’.”

Holster stops to take another drink as Ransom’s world tilts on its axis. Holster’s in love with someone. Holster’s in love with a him. Holster has never, not once, mentioned that he might be interested in hims. Ransom turns suddenly and presses his forehead against the wall in a desperate attempt to stop the world from spinning from the alcohol and the fact that the heterosexual best friend he’s not-so-heterosexually in love with just might not be so hetero after all. If Holster’s not straight and Ransom’s not straight then what the fuck is stopping them? For one perfect moment Ransom’s world feels shiny and bright and new because the things he thought were impossible just slipped into the realm of possibility.

For one perfect moment, Holster just might love him back.

And then, of course, the bright, shiny new world turns dull and tired again because Holster’s already in love with someone, and if he’s in love with someone then he’s not in love with Ransom and Ransom can’t imagine anything worse than that. He closes his eyes, leaning against the wall as the world spins around him. Holster doesn’t love him and he’s about to get his heart broken because some idiot doesn’t realize how incredible he is. Ransom might not be able to help with that, but he can make this the best kegster of Holster’s life so he’ll have something good to remember about this week. He pushes off the wall, resolved.

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard you say some pretty stupid fucking things, Holster.” Bitty says flatly. The sink turns on again as the cup refills. “You’re not allowed to black out tonight because you have a test tomorrow and you’re not going to tell him how you feel when you’re drunk because that’s a conversation that needs to happen sober.” Bitty turns the sink off and water splashes to the floor when he hands the cup back.

“You need to happen sober.” Holster spits back petulantly, but soon enough he’s gulping down the water again and suddenly all Ransom wants is water too because he was drunk and happy but now he’s drunk and sad and that’s a terrible combination when he’s trying to make sure the world’s best bro has the world’s best kegster. He opens and closes the front door, letting it slam shut to warn Holster and Bitty that he’s coming, and when he walks into the kitchen Holster’s mournfully watching Bitty toss a wad of paper towels down on the wet kitchen floor.

“Hey bud, hey Bitty,” He greets, plucking the cup from Holster’s hand to down the remaining water. Bitty’s gaze snaps up from the floor to his face, eyes wide, and Ransom’s not quite sure what to make of that so he just fills the cup up again and downs that, too. He doesn’t feel any less drunk but he feels marginally better. He tries to lean against the counter but ends up leaning against Holster instead. Something deep in his chest twists painfully but Ransom doesn’t give himself time to think about it.

(Tonight is going to be perfect. Ransom’s going to make sure of it.)

“Come on, Holtzy, let’s go dance.” He says, tugging on the hem of Holster’s crop top with a playfulness he doesn’t quite feel but that’s easy enough to fake. Ransom tilts to the side, just a little, and then Holster’s huge hands are wrapped around his hips as the taller man guides him back to an upright position.

“Are you sure you’ll survive it?” Holster chirps, making a show of removing his hands to see if Ransom can stand up straight without help. He doesn’t sound quite right, still stuck somewhere between sad and chirpy.

No, Ransom’s not sure, but he knows drunk Holster better than he knows himself and drunk Holster might not be good at dancing but he loves it anyway and damn it, Ransom’s going to make sure he gets to dance tonight.

Bitty’s watching them carefully, gaze bouncing between Ransom and his cousin. Holster’s staring back at him, having one of their silent conversations. Ransom’s witnessed a million of them over the years but there’s something different tonight, a thick tension coating every minuscule movement. Bitty tilts his head to the side; Holster blinks, raises one eyebrow.

“Yeah, okay.” Holster says, and Bitty frowns but he doesn’t stop them when Ransom takes Holster’s hand and tugs him out of the kitchen and through the Haus. They melt into the crowd of dancers and soon Holster is smiling as he sings along to the music and dances his white dad dance. God, he’s ridiculous.

Then Holster disappears for a brief moment, and just when Ransom’s worried enough to go look for him he reappears with two brimming cups of tub juice. It’s way too much, he’s already drunk and this just might send him over the edge, but when he looks back at Holster his friend is taking a long drink from his own cup. His crop top is riding up, the hem jumping up above Holster’s pecs and fuck, he’s gorgeous. Ransom raises his cup to his lips and takes a long sip. He’s going to need it.

The next few hours pass in a hazy blur. He dances with Holster, bodies pressed close together on the crowded dance floor (later he’ll remember leaning his head back so it rests on Holster’s shoulder as he grinds back against him, Holster’s hands on his hips. He’ll remember holding Holster’s hand whenever he leaves the dance floor to get water or make sure they have enough ice or search for another ping pong ball. He’ll remember leaning against Holster, trusting him to keep him upright as they impart priceless wisdom to Chowder, Dex, and Nursey). They go up to the Reading Room when the party thins out, as is their custom, and it takes them a few tries to get Bitty’s window open but eventually they figure it out and climb through onto the roof.

Ransom leans back against the Haus, staring out at their neighborhood. Holster sprawls out in a way only Holster can, and wiggles around until he’s resting his head on Ransom’s thigh. Ransom smooths back his hair, dragging his fingertips over Holster’s scalp until he relaxes with a long, drawn out sigh.

Ransom’s not sure how long they sit, content in each other’s company, because he’s not great at time management when he’s sober but he’s even worse at it when he’s drunk. Minutes or hours go by, Holster’s head in his lap, his hand in Holster’s hair.

“I think,” Holster says suddenly, low voice cutting through the quiet. He’s a little raspy from singing and shots. “I have uncovered a paradox.”

“Do tell,” Ransom says, giving Holster’s hair a little tug. “Go on, you can’t say that and then not tell me the paradox.”

“Prep culture is garbage.” Holster declares, waving his hand in a sweeping gesture that suggests finality. “The salmon shorts are the preppiest piece of clothing you own, therefore, they are garbage. Salmon, by extension, is garbage. And yet!” He exclaims, punctuating the cry with a pointed finger. “Your romper, the most egregious example of salmon mine eyes have ever encountered in my almost two and half decades of life, is not garbage. I don’t see how it’s possible, but here we are.”

Ransom looks down at him, letting the words hang in the air for a long moment. “Is that your way of saying you like my outfit?” He asks dryly, and Holster just lifts both shoulders in a little half-shrug.

“Maybe.” He says, settling back down in Ransom’s lap.

“You could just say that, you know.” Ransom tugs on Holster’s short hair, just because he can, and then smoothes his fingertips over his scalp in case he tugged too hard.

Holster tilts his head back, following the motion of Ransom’s hand. “But, drama,” He whines, and he’s somehow equal parts ridiculous and adorable.

“I know, I know.” Ransom sighs in mock resignation. He pats Holster’s head to get his attention. “You look really good tonight, too.” He says. Holster just rolls his eyes, and Ransom can’t have that. “I mean it! Bitty did you a solid with the crop top.”

Blood rushes to Holster’s cheeks. “I picked it out.” He says quietly, as if that information might make Ransom change his mind. It doesn’t.

“You did?” Ransom asks, trying not to sound too incredulous. He gives Holster a hard time about his fashion choices but the last thing he wants is to undermine his confidence if he’s capable of a look like this. “It looks really, really good.” He says warmly, smoothing back Holster’s hair with his palm.

Holster blushes, the red flush spreading to his ears and neck and before Ransom knows it it’s traveled down past the hem of his crop top to his stomach and all Ransom wants to do is kiss him. Tonight is supposed to be perfect and yeah, finally kissing Holster might be the most perfect thing Ransom can think of but it’s not worth the risk. It’s selfish, especially since he now knows Holster’s in love with someone else.

Then Holster smiles up at him, eyes half-lidded and grin lazy and Ransom thinks it might just be okay to be a little selfish. His fingers card through Holster’s hair as his hand slips down to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the band of delicate pink that’s blooming on Holster’s skin. He curls over, moving before he can change his mind, and presses their lips together in a soft kiss.

Holster gasps beneath him, a sharp inhale, and there’s a long moment of stillness before he suddenly melts, tension draining from his body as his lips move beneath Ransom’s. Holster opens up beneath him with a shaky gasp and it’s probably the most beautiful thing Ransom’s ever heard. He sucks on Holster’s bottom lip just to hear that same sound again but this time Holster surges up beneath him, fingers curling into the collar of Ransom’s romper.

Ransom’s not sure why Holster’s kissing him back, if it’s the alcohol or the party or just because it’s almost the end or the million and one other things that could explain it but it feels so good and so right that Ransom doesn’t even care that Holster’s probably thinking about someone else.

A sudden burst of noise breaks the kiss before either of them can. Ransom jerks up and cool evening air rushing over his bare legs when Holster follows. They both scan the street, searching for the source of the sound, and moments later there’s another loud burst, this time accompanied by small bursts of light.

The Lax Bros have discovered fireworks. Perfect.

Beside him, Holster carefully makes his way to his feet, stretching his arms above his head. Ransom watches as the crop top rides up over his pecs, still too drunk on tub juice and kisses to keep himself from blatantly staring.

“I think those assholes are the only thing I’m not going to miss about this place,” Holster’s standing up straight, hands on his hips, surveying the stretch of campus before him. The fireworks explode again, illuminating him in white light for a brief moment before fading.

“Scantrons,” Ransom says absently, distracted by a wayward freckle on Holster’s hip. A quick motion in the corner of his eye draws his attention; Holster’s holding out a hand to help him up. He reaches up and takes it immediately and lets Holster pull him to his feet.

“Those gross breakfast sausage patties at the dining hall,” Holster adds, hand firmly clasped around Ransom’s.

“The sticky carpet in the library,” Ransom says with a wince when he’s finally on his feet. He swears Holster gives his hand a squeeze before he lets go to clamber back through the window. “The awkward section of the lecture hall that doesn’t get wifi.”

“That one trash can on the quad that’s always full.” Holster half-kneels on Bitty’s bed, offering a hand for Ransom to take when he climbs through the window. Ransom’s successfully made it from Bitty’s room to the Reading Room a million times in every possible stage of intoxication but he takes it anyway, and this time he doesn’t let go.

“Professor Matthison, Dr. Graves, Dr. Mr. Ryton, Dr. Mrs. Ryton.” Ransom lists as Holster carefully rearranges Sr. Bun so he’s resting in the middle of Bitty’s pillow and not precariously close to the edge of the bed.

“Freshmen.” Holster says as they finally exit Bitty’s room. “Sophomores,” He adds after a brief moment. “Juniors,” He says when they reach the second flight of steps. “Most Seniors. The odd grad student who sticks around way longer than they should.”

“Parties at the soccer house that never stand up to the hype.” Ransom kicks their door closed behind him as Holster leads him up the stairs, their hands still joined.

“The people who come back from study abroad all enlightened an’ shit.” Holster says. “Like, we get it, you left America, good for you.” He stops by the desk to collect the water bottles they’d filled before the party and Ransom drops his hand reluctantly to take his. Ransom makes a b-line for the bottom bunk, just barely pulling ahead, and manages to flop down first before Holster can beat him to it. Holster, undeterred, climbs on top of him in retaliation and the next thing Ransom knows his best friend is straddling him, the back of his head resting against the bottom of the top bunk.

Suddenly, Ransom can’t think of a single thing he’s going to miss about Samwell, because Samwell will always be the place he met Holster, the place he played with Holster, the place he co-captained with Holster, the place he kissed Holster.

They’re quiet for a long moment. The Haus settles around them. Ransom can faintly hear more fireworks from the Lax house across the street but he pays it no mind, not when he’d rather be listening to Holster’s breathing, the rustling as he resets his knees on either side of Ransom’s hips, the soft bump when he hits his head against the top bunk.

Slowly, carefully, Ransom settles his hands on Holster’s thighs, just above his knees. Just as slowly and just as carefully, Holster places his hands on Ransom’s chest. Ransom’s gaze settles on Holster’s hands, travelling up his freckled forearms and rounded biceps and broad shoulders and strong jaw until he’s looking him straight in the eye. Holster’s gaze is lowered but his eyes flicker up and once he finds Ransom’s gaze he holds it.

“Hey, Rans?” Holster says, softer than Ransom has ever heard him. His fingertips press into Ransom’s chest.

“Yeah?” Ransom whispers as he presses his fingers into the firm muscles of Holster’s thighs.

Holster tears his gaze away, looking back down at his hands. He looks so unsure, almost frightened, and that’s not how he’s supposed to look after the best kegster. Ransom tries to sit up, hands slipping further up Holster’s legs, but Holster just pushes him back down, this time following him. Holster leans down, removing his hands to plant them on either side of Ransom’s head, and he’s so close Ransom can count each individual eyelash. His eyes are so, so blue, even in the dim light, and Ransom thinks he could lay like this forever.

Then Holster’s kissing him, soft and hesitant and so, so sweet that Ransom almost forgets to kiss him back. Almost.

Holster might love someone else but Ransom loves him and if this is the last kiss he ever gets with Holster he’s damned well going to make the most of it. He slides his hands up Holster’s thighs and when Holster shifts closer Ransom’s hands settle on his ass. Holster groans when Ransom pulls him close, just a quiet wisp of a sound that Ransom feels more than he hears.

When Holster pulls back his face is bright red and when Ransom skims his hands up his bare sides he can feel the warm blush over his stomach. He wants - God, there’s so much Ransom wants to do - but right now he wants to run his hands over every single inch of Holster that he’s been staring at all day, and the most incredible thing about it is that Holster lets him. Ransom’s fingertips trace down his back on either side of his spine until they find the dimples Ransom had stared at earlier and when he presses his fingers into them Holster just dips closer and kisses Ransom again.

It’s perfect. They’re perfect.

Holster pulls away with a soft sigh all too soon, tilting his head to the side to press his forehead against Ransom’s temple. “You’re drunk.” He breathes, and Ransom can feel the curve of his smile against his cheek.

“You’re drunk,” Ransom counters, turning his head to chase Holster’s lips. Their noses bump into each other and when Holster laughs Ransom brushes his smile against Holster’s in a soft press of curved lips. Holster deepens the kiss, curling in towards Ransom again. Ransom slips his fingertips beneath the hem of Holster’s crop top just to hear his sharp inhale. Holster pulls back again with a soft huff of laughter.

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” Holster says as he sits up. Ransom’s hands slip down his body, gliding over warm skin and shifting muscles.

“That doesn’t make sense.” Ransom mumbles, too drunk and too focused on the incredible sight of his hands wrapped around Holster’s waist to even attempt to make sense of the words. He traces his thumbs down the sharp cut of Holster’s hips, reverent.

“It does, you’re just drunk.” Holster tips to the side, just barely managing to avoid knocking their heads together when he lays down.

“Shut up.” Ransom huffs, annoyed that Holster’s new position means he can’t follow the cut of Holster’s hips all the way down past the waistband of his joggers. Holster shifts, hooking a leg over Ransom’s legs as he burrows his face against Ransom’s neck.

“Mmmkay. Night.” Holster sighs, wiggling just a bit closer before slinging his arm around Ransom’s waist. Now this, Ransom can work with. When he closes his eyes the darkness spins, swirling around like water going down a drain. Ransom focuses on the steady sound of Holster’s breathing, matching his inhales and exhales, until the swirling slows and he’s finally able to drift off.

Ransom wakes up with a dry mouth and a pounding headache. Sunlight is bursting through every window, invading the deep, dark crevasses of his brain with noise and light where there should be quiet and darkness. Ransom groans and rolls over, trying to find Holster to hide beneath the shadow of his giant head but when he reaches for him his hand just hits the wall. Confused, Ransom reaches again, and this time his hand falls directly onto the empty mattress.

Holster’s gone.

Ransom sits up straight, just barely managing to avoid hitting his head on the bottom bunk, and forces his burning eyes open to look for his best friend. There’s no one else in the attic and despite the warmth from the sun’s too-bright rays Ransom goes cold.

Holster is gone. Holster left. Holster left him.

Ransom stumbles out of bed and down the steps, just barely managing to make it to their bathroom before he throws up.

It takes a while for Ransom to make it back up to the attic and sprawl out on the floor with his water bottle. He feels marginally better from washing his face and changing out of his romper but mostly he feels wrung out, exhausted and achy and stupid. What was he thinking, kissing Holster like that, even after he knew Holster was in love with someone else? It was selfish and idiotic and yeah, Holster might have kissed him back but he also left this morning without waking Ransom up and Ransom knows exactly what that means.

It’s goodbye. It’s maybe I made a mistake. It’s I wanted you then but I don’t want you now. It’s everything Ransom can’t survive. Ransom buries his pounding head in his hands. Last night had been one horrible decision after another, fueled by alcohol and good intentions and his hopeless crush on his best friend.

Ransom leans back against Holster’s bed. When he straightens his legs he accidentally kicks Holster’s backpack and his calf is resting on a pile of Holster’s clothes. He tilts his head back and sees the banner he and Holster hung when they first moved into the Haus. He inhales; the entire room smells like Holster.

Ransom is fucked. He has to get out, now.

He pushes himself up and hurries out of the room, leaving every trace of Holster behind him. He’s across the river before he knows it and his body carries him through campus on autopilot. He’s not going anywhere, he’s just going, because the thought of standing still makes him want to crawl out of his skin. He wants to run, jump, sprint, put on all his gear and skate until his lungs burn and his legs won’t hold him up anymore. He just has to keep going because he’s an idiot who gets drunk and kisses his best friend and lets his best friend kiss him when he knows nothing will come of it.

“Ransom!” A familiar voice echoes across the quad just as Ransom reaches the Well. Ransom freezes, suddenly unable to take another step even though every single instinct is tell him to run when Holster jogs across the grass. He’s still wearing the joggers from last night but he’s wearing one of his striped tanks instead of the crop top and his glasses are perched on his nose.

It’s too much. Holster’s like the sunlights streaming through the attic windows, too bright and intense and gorgeous for Ransom’s alcohol-stained brain to process. Fuck, he’s way too hungover for this, for Holster’s bare, freckled shoulders and his broad, beautiful smile.

“I’m done!” Holster says joyously, raising his arms in a double fist pump. Icy fear closes around Ransom’s throat, closing his airway in a chilling fist. Holster’s done with what? With him? With them?

“What?” Ransom manages to say, taking a half step back when Holster enters his space. Holster’s bright smile falters.

“With college. I just finished my last exam.” Holster explains, thick eyebrows drawing together in concern. He says something else that Ransom doesn’t hear, too overwhelmed by the stream of icy relief that cascades down his throat when the anxiety melts away.

Holster left to take his test, not to leave Ransom behind. Holster had a reason to leave. But Holster also didn’t have a reason to stay, because he’s in love with someone and that someone is not Ransom.

Ransom aches from the emotional whiplash. There’s so much he has to say. The words crowd his mouth, pushing and fighting to get out, and Ransom’s not sure what’s going to come out when he opens his mouth so he keeps it firmly shut. Holster’s still speaking, looking increasingly panicked. He’s fidgeting, shifting his weight, hands flying with a nervous energy.

“And I know I fucked up, I shouldn’t have let it get as far as it did. I was so drunk, fuck, Rans, I know that’s not an excuse but I was and I thought it was okay and I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry that I ruined everything. That’s the last thing I wanted and I know you probably don’t want to see me but I’ll do anything, anything to fix us.” Holster’s voice is thick as the words fall from his mouth in a faster and faster stream. Ransom’s never seen him this upset before and he doesn’t know how to help because he’s still trying to piece together what Holster’s talking about because everything he’s saying is backwards.

“I ruined everything.” Ransom says, cutting off Holster’s monologue. “I’m the one who has to fix things because I’m the one who fucked up. I heard you and Bitty talking, I know you’re in love with someone and I kissed you anyway because you looked so good and I couldn’t help myself, I -” Ransom cuts himself off, scrubbing his hands over his face. Holster’s silent and still before him. “I just wanted last night to be perfect and instead I ruined it but Holster, Holtzy, listen to me.” He reaches out, placing both his hands on Holster’s broad shoulders. Holster’s looking down at him with wide, shocked eyes but Ransom presses onward, voice growing louder and more desperate with every word. “If this guy you love doesn’t love you back then he’s a fucking idiot and isn’t worth your time because you’re the best, you’re my favorite person, and I would give anything to get to be the one who -”

“You are the one! You’re the idiot!” Holster roars, twisting out of Ransom’s grasp. “I let you kiss me because I’m in love with you and I have been for years!”

“I’ve been in love with you. That’s why I kissed you first! I’ve loved you since junior year!” Ransom yells, reaching out to jab his finger against Holster’s chest. Holster bats his hand away, eyes narrowed.

“I’ve loved you since junior year!” Holster’s voice echoes around the empty quad, bouncing off the buildings and trees until his words reach Ransom a second time. Even then, it’s impossible for Ransom to process because he’s loved Holster since then, too, and it doesn’t make sense that they’re so in sync with everything in their lives except this.

“Since when?” Ransom demands, just as loud and angry as Holster is.

“Since fucking February 2015!” Holster’s words just send a fresh wave of something - anger, passion, sheer incredulity, whatever it is - coursing through Ransom’s veins because Holster might have loved him for years, but Ransom loved him first.

“I’ve loved you since December 2014 when you came home with me for winter break!” Ransom exclaims, and it feels like a victory when Holster falters for a brief moment. He’s studying Ransom’s face, blue eyes analyzing every detail, and for the first time in their friendship he’s rendered Holster speechless.

“Then why are we yelling?” Holster shouts, throwing his hands in the air in frustration.

“I don’t know!” Ransom cries, and silence falls over the quad. They’re both breathing heavily from the yelling, bursting with energy that doesn’t settle until Ransom reaches out for Holster, grabbing his shirt between his thumb and forefinger. He tugs, lightly, and Holster takes a step forward. They relax into each other, Ransom’s legs pressed against the Well with Holster crowding into his space. “I’m really the idiot?” Ransom asks softly, looking up at Holster through his lashes.

Holster’s lips curl up in a soft, gentle smile. “You’ve always been the idiot.” He says warmly, lifting his hands to cradle Ransom’s face in his big hands.

“In the idiot’s defense, I didn’t know you even liked guys so -” Ransom begins, the words falling from his lips in a quick stream as Holster leans in.

“Shut up,” Holster murmurs fondly before he closes the distance between them to firmly press his lips against Ransom’s. His glasses are cool against Ransom’s skin but his lips are warm.

This time, they’re not pressed together in the dark. They’re not drunk. They’re not holding anything back, not secretly aching with love.

The sun shines bright on the back of Ransom’s neck. He might be an idiot, but at least he’s an idiot who gets to have this, have him.

“Hey,” Ransom breaks the kiss by tilting his head back. Holster just presses his face into Ransom’s neck, lips brushing over his pulse point. “Holtzy, let’s go home.” He sinks his fingers into Holster’s thick hair, tugging him back. Holster goes willingly, glasses askew, and Ransom fixes them before rocking up to press another kiss to Holster’s lips, just because he can, because Holster wants him to, because Holster loves him.

“Okay,” Holster murmurs against his lips, and tangles their fingers together as they walk through campus.

It’s perfect. They’re perfect.

#noel writes #bbb #adam holster birkholtz #justin ransom oluransi #holsom #omgcp au #eric bitty bittle #welllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll here goes #omgcp fanfic

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