“So, uh, I think our room’s haunted,” Ransom says, settling down next to Holster on the floor of the attic, and Holster blinks back into awareness again.
“Yeah bro,” Rans continues, and Holster turns his head a bit, where he can see Rans flailing his arms around from his position on the floor. “When I was downstairs to get more beer, the music was, you know, normal, eh? But I come up here, and it’s like … old.”
“Like – okay, are we talking cool old? Or weird old?”
“Definitely weird old,” Rans says, “Like, 90’s old. Old.”
Holster considers this. After a few seconds of listening to the music, which he’s a bit too drunk to determine whether or not it’s old, he then decides that it’s not worth considering, and shuffles closer to Rans. After a second of rooting around, he finds one of the cups of beer, and manages to sit up enough to down it. After sputtering a little, because ugh, fucking shitty beer, why the fuck does Shitty do this to them, he settles back onto his back, close enough that his knuckles brush Rans’.
It might be weird that every time he touches Rans, something lights up in his stomach. Maybe he shouldn’t mention that.
“Do you feel that?” Rans says, and Holster may or may not have a minor panic attack that he said his last thought out loud. Whatever.
“Uh, feel what?” he gets out, managing to keep his voice relatively normal.
“Like, I think the room got colder, or something. Or you’re just really warm.”
“Maybe it’s the ghosts,” Holster gets out, trying to make his heartbeat slow down a bit and failing. Stupid drunken heart, not listening to him.
“Yeah man, I mean, didn’t those like sorority girls die up here or something?” Rans says, one arm reaching up to gesture at the ceiling before falling back to the floor. It lands mostly on Holster’s arm, and it makes it so that their fingers are touching. Holster should probably move his hand. He doesn’t.
“I think so,” he says, but he’s not even really listening any more, just paying attention to the way Ransom’s hands feel. They’re big, calloused. It’s nice. Rans is nice.
“Thanks man,” Rans tells him, and Holster realizes he just said that out loud. He can feel his cheeks burning up, and now his entire body feels warmer, even with the tiny sparks from where Rans is touching him.
“You’re welcome,” he gets out, and when he turns his head, Rans is already looking at him.
His head feels warm and cottony, and his fingers are sparking, and Rans’ face is right fucking there, all face-like and shit, and his stupid drunken brain throws all fucking caution to the wind and makes him tighten his fingers, has him lift up just enough to press his mouth against Rans’.
It’s a pretty shitty kiss, and he’s about to pull away when Ransom’s fingers tighten around his, mouth opening just enough, and suddenly it’s not shitty. Everything’s a slide, slick and wet and Holster can taste beer and a little bit of the shots of JD that they did before coming back up to their attic. The weird 90’s music is worming its way into his brain and one of Rans’ hands pushing into his hair and when Holster gets his other hand onto Ransom’s hip, Ransom follows until suddenly he’s halfway to on top of Holster, pressing him down into the dumb carpet they got from a Goodwill.
Holster’s brain maybe shorts out a bit when he feels Rans’ dick against his hip, because shit, that’s his best bro’s dick and this is really, really not a bro thing to be doing, but then Rans bites down a little on Holster’s lip and shifts his thigh and Holster can’t give a fuck any more. Booze makes everything slower and stupider and better all at once, and when Rans moves to suck a bruise under Holster’s jaw and tightens their fingers together, Holster can’t help the moan that comes out of his mouth. Rans seems to like it, too, because his hips push down and he bites a little harder and Holster’s a hockey player, okay, he knows the difference between good bruises and bad ones and this is definitely, totally a good one.
He tries not to keep making noises, because that’s kind of really fucking embarrassing, but at one point Rans shifts his thigh so Holster has something to grind on and scrapes his teeth down Holster’s neck, which, fuck it feels really good. Besides, the moment he moans Rans’ hand tightens in his hair and his hips snap down, which Holster takes to mean that Rans is into Holster’s stupid noises. He doesn’t really stop himself after that.
They keep making out on the floor, though after a while everything slows down, the beer catching up to Holster’s head and making him feel slow. Rans seems to get that though, because eventually he goes back to just kissing Holster, switching between tangling their tongues together and tugging on Holster’s lip with his teeth. It’s nice, still all gold tinged and hazy and warm from the feeling of Rans on top of him.
He runs his fingers up and down Rans’ back, and Rans stops pulling on his hair, starts petting it instead. Their other fingers are still tangled together up by Holster’s head, and when Holster tightens his grip, Ransom squeezes back.
Eventually they aren’t even making out anymore, just breathing into each other’s mouths, Rans still running his fingers through Holster’s hair.
“Do you think,” Holster says, after a moment, “the ghosts saw that?”
Rans laughs, little huffs of sound that make Holster’s lips tingle. “The fuck, Holster,” he breathes out, and Holster laughs back, feeling warm and drunk and totally stupid even as he closes his eyes.
He opens them to the sunlight of a northeastern morning, his stomach grumbling enough to wake up a dead person. Somehow Rans is still draped on top of him, snoring slightly, and Holster shoves at him with his free hand.
“Rans. Rans, bro. Wake up.”
“Fuck off,” Rans mumbles.
“I want diner food,” Holster says back, shoving until Ransom rolls off of him, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Fuck, we drank so fucking much,” Rans says, and Holster nods. They both sit up, Holster trying to get his hair to lie down unsuccessfully while Rans shoves their empties to the side. Everything in Holster’s body kind of aches, and he wonders why the fuck they weren’t smart enough to at least get on a bed.
As Holster tries to fix his hair and fails, Rans’ eyes focus on something on Holster’s neck, and Holster remembers the hickey. That Rans gave him. Last night. Fuck.
“So,” he gets out, voice rough, “We’re, uh –“
“Nothing happened, man,” Rans says, and Holster grabs onto that statement like a lifesaver.
“Yeah, for sure,” he says, pushing down the teeny tiny pang of disappointment in favor of hoisting himself to his feet. “So, diner food?”
“I could kill for some French toast,” Rans agrees, and after grabbing some sweatshirts, they stumble down the stairs together.
Everything’s going to be cool – it’s not like Holster has a thing for his best friend, because that would be stupid. Best bros can drunkenly make out sometimes. It’s no big deal.
Rans cuts him a look as they stumble out the door, and Holster gives him a thumbs up. Which, then Rans smiles, and Holster’s stomach kind of flips, and not just from the hangover, and –
Okay, so maybe it’s a bit of a big deal, but it’s cool. It’s probably just some weird best bros thing, and Holster just has to figure out the rules.
“So,” he says, “ghosts in the attic,” and Rans grins at him.
“We should like, leave something for them. Like scrunchies, or Backstreet Boys CDs,” he says, and Holster smiles back, bumping his shoulder in a companionable, bro sort of way. Ransom keeps coming up with more weird 90’s things, and Holster chirps him, and if he fakes it enough, he can pretend the only reason his cheeks are pink is because it’s probably like 40 degrees outside.
Whatever. Holster’s got this.