Chapter Text
The first sound in the new house was Brando’s breathing.
Slow, even, warm against the back of Wilson’s neck.
Wilson blinked awake to soft sunlight pressing through the bare curtains — they still hadn’t put up the real ones — and the quiet creak of the heating turning on. The room smelled like laundry detergent and Brando’s shampoo, faint and familiar.
A heavy arm was draped over his waist. Brando’s arm. Always heavier than it looked but warm and safe in a way that nothing else could achieve.
“You awake?” came Brando’s voice, muffled and sleep-raspy against his shoulder.
Wilson smiled into the pillow, eyes closing again. “Mm. Trying to be.”
Brando hummed, snuggling closer until his chest pressed fully against Wilson’s back. His legs tangled around Wilson’s like he was trying to fuse them into one person.
“You’re warm,” Brando sighed into his hair, satisfied.
“You’re heavy,” Wilson countered, shifting slightly.
Brando tightened his hold. “Deal with it. I’m comfortable.”
Wilson let out a small, quiet laugh. “You’re always comfortable when you’re crushing me.”
“That’s love, baby,” Brando muttered, lips brushing Wilson’s skin in a lazy half-kiss.
They stayed like that for a while — the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, just lived in. Just their slow breathing, rustling of blanktes. A dog barked somewhere outside. The sunlight painting the room in pale yellow light.
Brando’s fingers traced absent circles over Wilson’s stomach, sleep-soft and thoughtless. Wilson stirred, pressing himself closer to Brando's chest, enjoying the feeling of warm skin on his, the soft touch of his lover leaving goosebumps rising on his skin.
Wilson chuckled, burying his head in the pillow beneath him.
Brando leaned down, movements sluggish and slow, like he wasn't even awake yet as he pressed another kiss to his skin, right behind his ear, hot breath ghosting over the sensitive skin. It made Wilson shiver for a moment, pulling the blanket closer but staying alert.
Another kiss landed at the back of his neck, slower, lingering. Wilson hummed, not moving despite the tingly feeling he got from Brando's lips on his neck. He heard Brando shift behind him, his hand now sprawled across his stomach as he kissed lower, between shoulder and neck, teeth grazing the skin lightly, almost like an accident.
But Wilson knew it wasn't one. Not with the obvious reason for all that touching poking him in the back, warm and heavy and insistent. Brando being way more awake now than just a few seconds ago and his hand already traveling down, fingers skimming the waistband of his shorts.
"Bran..." Wilson mumbled, voice still rough from sleep.
Brando hummed against his skin, kissing his way back up.
"Yeah, Baby?"
"Slow down, it's eight a.m."
Brando laughed low against his ear, "I'm going slow."
Wilson rolled his eyes but didn't complain when Brando's hand dipped lower, reaching inside his shorts, fingers curling around him to give him a few lazy strokes.
Wilson sighed, reaching back to tangle his hand in light brown hair, head leaning against Brando's shoulder. Brando kissed his temple, feeling Wilson stirr to life in his hand, "Good, Baby?" He whispered low into his ear, hearing Wilson's breath hitch at the next upstroke.
"Faster," Wilson moaned, moving his hips slightly in time with Brando's hand "Yeah, like that—" he whined, hips stuttering in their rythm as Brando picked up the pace, the heat in the room suddenly too much to bear.
"God, look at you," Brando rasped, biting just below his ear, earning a low gasp from the man before him, "So eager." Then, lower, "You think you're still ready for me?"
He slowed his movements until he could pull his hand back completely, making Wilson whine in protest.
"Patience, Angel." Brando murmured, kissing his shoulder as he reached around to press a finger against Wilson's hole, still soft and tender from yesterday as he pushed the first digit in with little resistance.
There was a sharp intake of breath as Wilson's hand tangled into the soft fabric of his pillow "Bran!"
Brando groaned, pushing in deeper, twisting slightly to test how well he was still stretched. "You pull me in, feel that? Feel how you want it?"
Wilson moaned low into the pillow, pushing back on his finger. "More," he breathed, embarrassment thrown out the window by now.
Brando complied, pushing another finger in, pumping them in and out slowly. "You love that, don't you?" He curled his fingers, rubbing against that spot that made Wilson see stars, "Didn't get enough yesterday?"
Wilson's body arched slightly, a soft whimper escaping his lips as Brando's fingers pressed firmly against that sensitive bundle of nerves inside him. The stretch was familiar, welcoming, his muscles clenching around the intrusion with a greedy pull that made Brando's cock twitch against Wilson's lower back. He kept his chest flush to Wilson's spine, their legs tangled under the rumpled sheets, the morning light filtering through the curtains casting a warm glow over their skin.
"Not enough," Wilson admitted breathlessly, his voice muffled against the pillow as he rocked back, chasing the pressure. His hand gripped the fabric tighter, knuckles whitening, while his free arm reached behind to clutch at Brando's thigh, urging him closer. The air between them grew thicker, heavy with the scent of sleep and arousal, their breaths syncing in lazy rhythm.
Brando chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against Wilson's neck as he withdrew his fingers just enough to add a third, slick with the remnants of last night's lube. He slid them in deep, deliberate, scissoring gently to open him further. "Greedy little thing," he murmured, nipping at the curve of Wilson's shoulder. His other hand trailed up Wilson's side, thumb brushing over a hardened nipple, rolling it slowly until Wilson squirmed, a low moan spilling out.
The pace stayed unhurried, Brando's fingers thrusting in measured strokes, curling on every pull back to drag against Wilson's prostate. Each hit sent sparks up his spine, making his cock leak steadily onto the sheets below, untouched now but throbbing with need. Wilson panted, hips circling in small, instinctive movements, pressing back into Brando's hand while his ass nudged against the thick length trapped between them.
"Bran, please," Wilson gasped, turning his head just enough to catch Brando's lips in a sloppy, sideways kiss. Their mouths met lazily, tongues sliding together as Brando's fingers pumped a fraction faster, the wet sounds filling the quiet room. He broke the kiss to trail his lips along Wilson's jaw, sucking lightly at the skin there.
Pulling his fingers free with a slick pop, Brando shifted his hips, guiding his cock to Wilson's entrance. The head pressed in slowly, breaching the tight ring with ease. Wilson hissed at the burn, but it melted into pleasure as Brando sank deeper, inch by inch, until his hips flush against Wilson's ass. They both groaned, the fullness overwhelming in the best way—Brando's cock buried to the hilt, pulsing inside the hot, velvety grip.
"Fuck, you're so tight," Brando breathed, wrapping his arm around Wilson's waist to hold him steady. He didn't thrust yet, just rocked gently, letting Wilson adjust to the stretch. His hand found Wilson's cock again, stroking in tandem with the subtle grind, base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to spread the pre-cum.
Wilson melted into it, body lax and pliant, pushing back to meet each shallow movement. The intimacy of the position wrapped around them like the blanket, Brando's free hand roaming—caressing Wilson's hip, dipping to squeeze his thigh, then up to lace fingers through his hair, tugging lightly to expose more neck for kisses. "Move," Wilson urged, voice husky, his own hand coming up to twist in Brando's hair.
Brando obliged, pulling out halfway before sliding back in, the drag slow and teasing. He built the rhythm gradually, each thrust deeper, hips snapping with controlled force that made Wilson's breath catch. The bed creaked softly under them, sheets twisting as Wilson arched, his moans growing louder, unrestrained. Brando's strokes on his cock matched the pace, firm and insistent, twisting at the head to draw out whines.
Sweat beaded on their skin, the lazy morning haze sharpening into focused heat. Brando buried his face in Wilson's hair, inhaling the scent as he fucked into him steadily, the slap of skin on skin echoing faintly. "That's it, Baby, take it," he groaned low, teeth grazing Wilson's earlobe. His thrusts picked up, harder now, angling to hit that spot relentlessly, making Wilson's legs tremble.
Wilson cried out, body tensing as pleasure coiled tight in his gut. He bucked back, meeting Brando's hips, the friction building unbearably. "Close—Bran, harder," he begged, free hand clawing at the sheets. Brando's arm tightened around him, pounding with purpose, his own release nearing as Wilson's walls fluttered around his cock.
With a final, deep thrust, Wilson came undone, spilling over Brando's hand in hot spurts, his hole clenching rhythmically. Brando followed seconds later, groaning as he filled Wilson with pulse after pulse, grinding through the aftershocks. They stayed locked together, breaths ragged, Brando pressing soft kisses to Wilson's damp shoulder as they drifted in the lazy afterglow, bodies still entwined.
Wilson tried to catch his breath, rolling onto his back, pushing his curls out of his face, sticky with sweat.
Brando shifted closer, pulling him back into his arms to press kisses to his face, his cheek, his nose, his lips.
Wilson giggled, scrunching his nose. "Bran, let me breathe!"
Brando laughed, "I'm just— I'm just so lucky to have you."
That made Wilson pause. It wasn't the first time Brando got sappy, far from it. Still, it always caught him off guard. He was pretty sure he'd never get used to it, maybe he didn't even want to. The way his heartbeat fluttered in his chest every time.
"Damn right you are." Wilson shot back, grinning.
Brando laughed, quiet but real as he laid his head down on Wilson's chest.
“Do you think,” Brando murmured, “that every morning could be like this?”
Wilson turned just enough to see his face — hair a mess, eyelids heavy, the faintest smile pushing at his mouth.
“Yeah,” Wilson whispered. “I really do.”
Brando’s smile grew, small but blinding. “Even when we’re old and grumpy?"
“You are grumpy already,” Wilson teased.
Brando snorted. “And you love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Brando opened one eye, nudging Wilson’s cheek with his nose. “Fiancé,” he announced proudly, as if the word itself made him taller. “You’re stuck with me now.”
Wilson’s chest tightened in the good way. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I am.”
Brando kissed him — soft, slow, morning-warm — and Wilson kissed him back, fingers curling in his hair.
No rush.
No fear.
No cameras, no deadlines, no airports, no missing planes.
Just a bed, a house still half-unpacked, and Brando’s breath against his mouth.
When they pulled back, Brando smiled into the quiet.
“So… breakfast? Or ten more minutes like this?”
Wilson pretended to think. “Hm. Ten minutes.”
Brando kissed him again before he finished the sentence. “Good choice.”
And the morning stretched on, soft and sweet and theirs.
After a quick shower and a few more kisses— that Wilson stopped every time Brando got too touchy— they found themselves in the kitchen.
Coffee was brewing fresh and hot on the counter, the sound of water gurgling as the coffee filled two mugs. The radio played the same five songs it played every day but that didn't stop Brando from humming along and still getting the melody wrong as he prepared Wilson's coffee with the kind of care and dedication only someone who truly knew you could manage.
Meanwhile Wilson was hunched over the dining room table, head perched on the heel of his hand, glasses askew on his nose. On the table were numerous sheets laid out, color samples, pictures of different kinds of cakes and bakery brochures. The guestlist laid on the far end of the table, untouched, right next to the makeshift invitation Wilson had sketched on christmas eve when he couldn't sleep.
Brando came up next to him, putting his mug down careful as not to startle his already stressed out fiancé. "Thanks." Wilson muttered, muffled against the pencil he was chewing on.
"You don't have to figure this out today, you know that?" Brando asked, tucking a loose curl behind Wilson's ear. Wilson leaned back, sighing heavy and tossing the pencil back into his notebook. It bounced twice, rolling towards the badly sketched tuxedo Brando had tried to imagine.
"I know..." he mumbled, pulling the glasses off his face and rubbing a hand over it. "It's just— if we don't start now, it's only gonna be stressful later."
Brando pulled a chair close, sitting next to him. "You're already stressing yourself." Brando said, covering Wilson's hand with his. "We don't even have the date yet."
Wilson groaned, "Don't remind me."
Brando chuckled, pushing the coffee mug closer towards Wilson's hands. He took it absently, thumb grazing the rim.
"It's gonna work out. Hell, if it doesn't I'll drive you to the damn lake where we went swimming all the time and marry you right there in the grass at dawn."
Wilson looked up at him warily, fighting the smile threatening to tug at the corner of his mouth.
"Who's gonna officiate? The willow tree?"
"You're damn right." Brando grinned, in that sure, boyish way that always undid him.
"You're ridiculous."
"And you're a bundle of nerves."
Wilson took a sip of his coffee, the ring on his hand softly clinking against ceramic. It proved to be one of his favorite sounds.
The warmth in his hands grounded him enough to finally take a deep breath.
He looked around the dining room, boxes still stacked in the corner, a few pictures hung up on the cream colored walls, milky white lampshade reflecting the light in funny shaped shadows onto the brochures.
"The house is pretty big, huh." He mumbled, taking another sip.
"It only looks like this because we haven't unpacked yet." Brando assured him, pretending to read an artical but really just looking at the cake.
Wilson hummed, nodding slightly. It would take some time to get used to this much space.
Especially when Brando was off filming somewhere else for a month. Maybe he could organize his tour around the same time. Then again, he'd love to have Brando by his side for that.
But everything was better than spending his days alone in that way-too-big of a house alone, without laughter, without Brando's presence filling up half the space.
"When are you gonna leave again?" The question came out quiet, almost swallowed by the mug in front of his face but Brando had heard it, the way his eyes snapped up. Something like guilt flickering across his face.
"Next week. It's in scotland somewhere. A few scenes in a lighthouse. Gonna be trapped there for most of it."
Wilson nodded pretending he didn't miss him already.
He wished he could follow but he was working on his album right now and there was no way Ashton would let him off for a straight week to fly to Scotland. Not with their deadline breathing down his neck.
"Hey," Brando's voice came soft and gently, leaning on the squeaky table to catch Wilson's eyes.
"I won't be gone for long, okay? And I'll call you day and night and in between, and text you thousands of time. I'll send fucking smoke signals—"
"Bran—" Wilson started but Brando cut in, eyes shining now, leaning back in his chair to gesture around wildly, "No, let me—," he stood up now, climbing on top of the chair, one foot on the table, almost knocking against the lampshade, "I'll wish upon the stars that I appear in your dreams, I'll send bottles with letters in them down the ocean— Oh! I'll Morse-code my way into your subconscious!"
Wilson laughed now, honest and loud, almost spilling his coffee, "Brando!"
"What?" He grinned, chest swelling with pride at his distraction.
Wilson shook his head, a fond smile tugging at his mouth.
"Alright, get off my color charts or at least fix the lightbulb while you're up there." Wilson grinned, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Oh, you like it when I fix things, huh?" Brando smirked, checking the lamp.
"Oh yeah, turns me on when things actually work in this house." Wilson said dryly, watching Brando fiddle with the lightbulb like he invented electricity.
And still, there was a certain something about Brando being fixated on a task, the way his arms flexed while he worked, the hair falling into his face. His mouth slightly parted, quiet breaths escaping.
"You're starring." Brando mumbled, not looking down.
Wilson blushed, looking away. "You make it easy to stare."
Brando looked down now, catching his eyes, warmth flickering in his face. "Good answer."
And damn it, that made missing him hurt even more.
The short comfortable quiet that had settled was quickly disturbed when Wilson's phone buzzed on the table, somewhere between fabric samples and a list of local florists.
Wilson forced his eyes away from Brando, checking his incoming text messages.
His face lit up with a smile. "Luca asks if we want to go to brunch with them."
"Uh, brunch, how fancy." Brando said, climbing down finally. Then, he grinned, wide and excited "Is Chrissy coming?"
Wilson snorted, rolling his eyes "Yes, Bran, you're girlfriend is gonna be there."
It was adorable really, how much Brando was attached to her. Like they'd known each other all their life.
He knew Brando would go through fire for her and, in a way, it warmed Wilson's heart more than he had thought.
"Hey, don't pretend like you don't love Luca more than me!" Brando said in mock offence, pointing an accusing finger at him.
"Jealous." Wilson grinned, standing up now.
Brando scoffed at that, rolling his eyes muttering something under his breath.
“Come on,” Wilson said, nudging him lightly. “Let’s get ready.”
Brando grinned and hooked a finger through Wilson’s belt loop, pulling him close for one more quick kiss — the kind that made Wilson’s breath stutter.
“One hour,” Brando murmured. “Then you can stare all you want again.”
Wilson rolled his eyes, but his heart pulled tight in his chest.
“Yeah,” he said, grinning. "Then you can pretend you know how to fix a faucet."
They headed down the hall to get dressed, Brando humming one of Wilson’s unfinished songs under his breath — off-key, but determined. Wilson pulled on a sweater, ran a hand through his hair, then watched Brando fight with a stubborn sleeve like it personally offended him.
When Brando finally got it on, he turned, eyes flicking over Wilson in that soft, familiar way.
“You look good,” he said simply.
Wilson felt the tug in his chest again — that warm, stupid ache he’d been pretending wasn’t there since Brando mentioned Scotland.
“You too,” he said, grabbing Brando’s jacket off the hook and tossing it to him.
Brando caught it, smirking. “You just like seeing me in this one.”
“And you like the ego boost,” Wilson shot back, slipping into his coat.
Brando only grinned, stepping close enough that their shoulders brushed as they headed for the door. He bumped Wilson gently.
“After brunch,” he murmured, “we can actually unpack. Make this place feel like ours.”
Wilson’s fingers paused on the keys for half a second.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”
Brando squeezed his hand once — quick, grounding, just enough.
“I love you.”
Wilson smiled, finally opening the door, "I love you too. Now go, before your girlfriend files a complaint.”
Brando groaned dramatically, but followed him out, their arms brushing as they stepped into the sunlight — easy, warm, leaving behind the soft melancholy that still hung in the air whenever they had too much time to think.