Archive of Our Own ^beta

His dad says he needs to do well from the start. It’s a new school, he reminds him gently, and the year has already started, and that’s a big change, but it’s also going to be time for college applications before he knows it. You don’t have time for your grades to falter if you want to get into Columbia like I did, is what he’s not quite saying. “There’s not a lot of room for an adjustment period,” his mom says, “and we just want to make sure you get where you want to be.”

Brandon knows that, knows all of that, and he also knows his English grades will slip if he gives them any room to, and then on the first day of class it turns out they they’re right in the middle of The Scarlet Letter, and Brandon takes it home and tries to start it, but he only gets five pages into it before he throws it across the room and decides he would rather fail English and never go to college than keep reading it.

So. He can see his parents’ point, and he agrees to find someone to help him catch up and stay up.

He did not count on that someone being Patrick Sharp.

-

When he asks his English teacher to suggest a student to approach about some tutoring—“Just to help me catch up,” he says, “and make sure I don’t get behind.”—she suggests Patrick Sharp. Brandon has no idea who that is, but she sort of sounds like he should.

“He was my best student last year,” she explains. “And he’s very charismatic, very helpful. I can ask him if he’s interested for you, if you like?”

Brandon nods, and thanks her, and the next day she tells him Patrick can meet him in the library after school, if that works for him. It does, and he thanks her again.

-

When he mentions it at lunch, he learns that Patrick Sharp is a senior, a shoo-in for early admission to Yale, personally responsible for reviving a failing speech and debate team, an alternate captain for the hockey team, the editor in chief of the school paper, and probably going to be the valedictorian.

“Also, he’s beautiful,” Andrew call-me-Shawsy Shaw tells him. “Like, not in a gay way. Just in a really, genuinely beautiful way.”

“A little in a gay way,” Ben Smith chimes in from down the table. “At least, like, a quarter in a gay way.”

“Maybe a third,” Shawsy admits. “He’s very beautiful.”

-

Brandon gets lost after his last class, takes the wrong staircase or goes down the wrong hallway or something, and he gets to the library a few minutes late. He looks around—Patrick is beautiful, apparently, but that’s all he knows about his appearance, and there are still some people here, on the computers or at the shelves. There’s only one guy sitting at a table, though, some books and papers out in front of him.

He’s beautiful. So Brandon goes over.

“Are you Brandon?” he asks without looking up. “’Cause you’re kind of late.”

“Sorry,” he says immediately, takes a seat. “I went the wrong way. This is kind of a big school, and I ended up at the computer lab on the first floor by the art rooms, and—”

“Look, I honestly don’t care,” Patrick says, and raises his head to look at him. He’s beautiful. “I want Mrs. Hitchcock to write me a good letter of rec, and you want an A, and both of us can get that as long as you don’t whine this much all the time, okay? How far into Scarlet Letter have you gotten?”

Brandon’s a little caught off guard. He’s beautiful. He’s also, apparently, an asshole.

-

He’s also an incredibly smart asshole, and Brandon leaves with a much better grasp on the themes of the novel. He’s not pleased about it.

-

He gets an A on the quiz that Friday, though. That, he is a little pleased about.

-

He meets with Patrick a few more times for the sake of fully catching up with the class. He doesn’t really get any less rude, but he also doesn’t get less helpful, and Brandon doesn’t care enough about him to invest any energy in wondering why he’s such a dick. Really. He doesn’t.

“I mean, did I do something?” Brandon asks, plopping down on the couch in Andy’s basement. “Why does he hate me?”

Andy shrugs and hands him a controller to the Xbox. “I don’t know, man,” he says. “He’s always pretty alright with the team. He’s closer to the other seniors, I guess, but it’s not like he’s ever really been a dick to me specifically.”

Brandon sighs. “I don’t know what I did,” he laments.

He shrugs again. “Probably nothing,” he says, and starts the game up. “He’s crazy focused on school stuff, I think. I don’t know when he sleeps.”

Brandon frowns and settles into the couch a bit, and hits the buttons a little more violently than is probably necessary. “That doesn’t give him the right to be an asshole,” he says a little bitterly. “And he is.”

Andy elbows him in the side a little bit. “Maybe if you join the team, he’ll like you better.”

“I don’t care if he likes me,” he snaps, and then pauses. “I can’t join the team, it’s the middle of the year.”

He grins. “Steeger’s mom got a new job in Toronto,” he says. “Which, like, sucks, but, Coach was gonna bring somebody up from JV, except everybody on JV is kind of bad, and I mentioned I knew somebody who used to play at his old school, and he said you could try out.”

Andrew looks incredibly pleased with himself, and Brandon has to admit he’s pretty happy himself. He’d been counting on maybe finding a youth rec league at the absolute most, but playing with his school team is so much better.

Andy pauses the game and looks at him. “Is that alright, man? You don’t have to try out.”

Brandon breaks into a huge grin and shakes his head. “No, no, it’s seriously—that’s great. That was—it was really cool of you to ask.”

Andrew grins. “Well, it helps that apparently you’ve already impressed him in class with him. What kind of nerd aces their first AP physics quiz?”

Brandon grins and shrugs sheepishly. “I’m gonna be an engineer.”

Andy laughs and elbows him in the side. “You’re gonna be a Lakeview High School hockey player first, bud.”

Brandon smiles shyly and ducks his head a little bit, looks down at the controller. “We’ll see.”

-

In Room 231, he’s called Mr. Quenneville, and he takes no shit and refuses to curve exams. In the ice rink a few blocks away from the high school, he’s Coach Q, and he still doesn’t take that much shit, but he smiles more than he does when he’s talking about electricity and magnetism.

Brandon’s out of practice. He hasn’t had many chances to skate since the move, and even before, when they were packing up and leaving Pittsburgh, so he had to dig through some boxes in the basement to even find his skates.

He’s missed it, honestly, isn’t even paying any attention to the coach or the other players when he steps onto the ice, just lets his feet carry him around the rink. He was two the first time he took wobbly baby steps in tiny baby skates—this isn’t something his body has forgotten.

After Brandon makes a loop or two, gets used to the ice, and returns to where Mr. Quenneville is standing by the bench, any nervousness about this unconventional tryout is fading.

“Good,” he says, and grins. “Well. Now that you’re acquainted with the rink.”

Brandon blushes, a little sheepish. He’s guessing about half the team is here. It doesn’t seem to be an official practice, really. There’s not much organization going on, mostly just dudes dicking around and shoving each other. The goalie is on top of the net.

“Not everybody’s here yet,” Mr. Quenneville says. “So feel free to keep warming up, get comfortable. I’ve got some of our guys here to help me run this, and then you and some of the boys in JV are gonna run some drills, alright?”

Brandon nods, shifting on his skates. The ice is familiar and perfect. It’s been too long.

“Go introduce yourself to the guys, alright?” he says. “We’re a little ahead of schedule.”

Brandon nods and skates over to where everyone’s clustered around the net. “Hey,” he says, never quite sure how to meet a bunch of new people at once. “Uh, I’m Brandon. I’m—one of the guys trying out today?”

Patrick’s the only face he really recognizes; Andy isn’t there and neither are Ben or Nick. “Glad you didn’t just wander in off the street,” he says dryly. The line gets a few laughs, but Brandon shifts a little bit, not quite sure how to respond.

“I’m Patrick,” announces one of the guys, short and blonde and kind of broad. He’s small, but Brandon saw him moving, and he’s quick. Brandon glances between this Patrick and the other, the one he’s already met, and the kid catches it easily. He breaks into a grin and says, “I’m Kaner, he’s Sharpy. I’m handsome, he’s—Sharpy.”

Patrick—Sharpy?—grins at that, something Brandon honestly hadn’t seen him do yet. “Yeah, yeah, Peekaboo,” he says. “Did anybody ask you?”

“I’m Jonathan,” cuts in a tall brunette, offers a hand to shake like they aren’t both wearing gloves. Brandon reaches his hand out in return on instinct, and they just sort of tap gloves and then share a grin.

There’s a few more—Duncs, Brent, Bryan, Corey—and they’re all vaguely familiar, names Brandon’s heard but not people he’s met. “It’s good to put faces to names,” he says. “Andy, uh, Andrew Shaw, he talks about you guys a lot.”

Duncs grins. “Mutt! Yeah, we like him pretty alright,” he says, sounding much more good-natured than Brandon honestly was expecting from his… general demeanor. “You’re the kid he’s brought in, then. New kid.”

“Yeah,” Brandon says with a little grin. “New kid.”

Patrick scoffs, but Brandon doesn’t have the time to react before Mr. Quenneville blows a whistle. He’s glad for the sound—hockey practice, he knows exactly what to do with. Patrick Sharp, however, is a mystery.

-

“Hey, what was with Corey sitting on top of the net in practice?” Brandon asks Andy in a whisper in homeroom.

Andy shrugs. “It’s how he gets his head in the game.” He pauses. “Also, I think he just likes to be high up.”

In fourth period Calc, Corey is perched on top of his desk with his feet in the chair. Ostensibly, he could be getting his head in the game for the quiz on derivatives, but Brandon suspects he just… likes to be high up.

-

Brandon wanted to ask Mr. Quenneville a question about last night’s homework at lunch, but when he gets to the classroom, Patrick’s in there, standing in front of the teacher’s desk, and Brandon decides to hang back in the hallway.

“You shouldn’t pick Brandon,” Patrick is saying, and he’s so definitive that it takes Brandon aback. “I don’t think it’s fair.”

Mr. Quenneville makes a considering noise. “In what way?”

“All those guys on JV? They’ve been playing for our school and working for us. Bring one of them up, have Saad take their spot. We don’t know if he’s good or not. I just don’t think the team will like it.”

“We do know he’s good,” he corrects him. “Because we skated with him. And I emailed his old coach.”

“I just think—” Patrick starts, but Quenneville shakes his head.

“I like him,” he says. “And I haven’t decided yet, but your input won’t be part of it.” Patrick stares at Mr. Quenneville, and Brandon tries not to feel too satisfied at the dumbstruck look on his stupid, handsome asshole face. “Shouldn’t you get your lunch, Patrick? I’m not going to write you a note if you’re late to your next class.”

Patrick is a very pleasing shade of red when he grabs his backpack and leaves the room. Brandon makes eye contact when he passes by, and doesn’t even try not to look smug.

-

Brandon makes the team. Andy is thrilled. And, for all that Patrick apparently thought the team wasn’t going to like him, they do. They call him Saader, and he feels like he could really be part of it.

-

He gets a goal and an assist in his very first game, and he and Andy and Ben and Nick and the other Brandon get drunk on cheap beer in Andy’s basement afterwards. He’s starting to like Chicago.

-

His mother is the one to suggest he join the school paper. “You loved it back in Pittsburgh,” she reminds him. “And I know you have hockey again, and that’s good for you, but I think you ought to try and stay well-rounded.”

Brandon, personally, thinks he is perfectly adequately round as is. “It isn’t really something you can join in the middle of the year,” he tells her.

Writing articles about pep rallies and the adjusted faculty parking is one thing. But more time with Patrick Sharp is not really something he intends to seek out.

“Promise me you’ll ask the teacher,” she says. Brandon sighs, and promises.

-

Apparently, the school paper is understaffed, and Mr. Lazerus takes Brandon’s reasonable and entirely hypothetical “How do I join the newspaper staff next year?” to mean an immediate and apparently very exciting “I would like to join the newspaper staff right now, this moment, today,” and signs him up for an article about the marching band’s new sousaphones.

On Tuesday, Brandon shows up at Mr. Laz’s classroom as scheduled to meet with the rest of the newspaper staff. He’s introduced to Tracy, Chris, Tim, Scott, Eddie, and Joey (“the junior reporter,” Tracy explains, because he’s the only freshman on the staff).

And then Patrick Sharp, who walks in, sets his backpack down, and then says, “Are you serious? What are you doing here?”

Brandon frowns. “I’m—I did newspaper at my old school,” he says uncertainly. He hates this, hates the way Patrick makes him feel like he’s intruding on public spaces. “I asked Mr. Lazerus and he said—”

“Fine,” Patrick says. “You’re here.”

Brandon crosses his arms. “I’m here,” he says.

-

They get to a careful peace.

Actually, really, it’s more like Patrick just… stops caring about Brandon, stops even interacting with him. He’s distant, and kind of rude, but Brandon learns quickly, and stops making an effort.

He’s comfortable enough with his English class he doesn’t need to see him for help catching up anymore, and in newspaper, Patrick usually delegates any editing of Brandon’s work to Chris.

They don’t play on the same line, so they never really have to interact for hockey. Brandon mostly stays with Andy, Nick, and the other Brandon, while Patrick is—well, Patrick is, by all means, wonderful to everyone else, but he glares when Brandon gets too close to him or to his friends.

Brandon talks to Jonny, Kaner, Brent, or Duncs when he’s not around, and mostly leaves him be.

-

It’s the Oxford comma that ruins it.

Because, see, Chris edited it out of Brandon’s last article, right, but then it looked wrong, and they use the Associated Press Stylebook, and it says they can’t use it, but Brandon firmly believes that, without the Oxford comma, shit gets really unclear really quickly, so he put it back in the final document, and Patrick put it in the paper and apparently didn’t catch it before he sent it to print, and the paper went out to the students on the third Friday of the month like it always does, and then Patrick found it, and then he got pissed.

Like, honestly, crazy pissed. Glares at him in the lunchroom pissed. Bumps into him with a shove as he passes by in the hallway pissed. Corners him in the locker room after their fucking terrible game pissed, apparently.

“You fucked up my paper,” Patrick says.

Everyone else is dressing and heading out to the bus, just wanting to get back to the school and then get home. It was a rough game, and Brandon is tired, and he has no fucking interest in Patrick fucking Sharp and his never-ending trek up Bullshit Mountain.

“You fucked up the game,” Brandon says back, and there’s not even any bite in it, he can hear in his own voice that he just sounds tired. “Should have made that shot in the second. Nasty turnover in the third.”

Patrick bristles, and Brandon isn’t sorry. “Speak for yourself,” he snaps. “Passing to Jonny won’t do shit if he’s not open. Just because you’re scared of the puck and the Associated Press Stylebook—”

“Is this honestly about the fucking comma?” Brandon asks, and stands up. “What is your deal?”

“You don’t work!” Patrick bursts. “You just fucking show up, and get things, and don’t put the fucking effort in!”

Brandon has to clench his fists at his sides. “You don’t know shit about my effort,” he says, and he doesn’t feel quite so tired anymore. He goes to step away, but Patrick grabs him, gets a solid grip around his wrist and holds on tight enough Brandon half-expects bruises.

“You lucked into my shit,” Patrick says slowly. “I have worked my ass off to be where I am, and you just fucking take it.”

Brandon yanks his wrist away. “Whatever your problem is,” he says, “it’s fucking yours. I’m going to go to the bus now.”

He’s seated and settled next to Marcus when Patrick boards, passes by him in the aisle without a word, sits in the back. He doesn’t say anything the whole way home.

-

When something annoys Brandon, he fixates on it. Unfortunately, Patrick Sharp is not an exception.

Like, the team gets burgers together after a game, and Patrick picks the lettuce off his sandwich and leaves it on the side of his plate. And he spends all his time fucking with his hair to make it look exactly the right amount of disheveled and touchable. And he always skates up to Kaner during practice, leans against the boards and angles his hips like he thinks he’s James Dean.

And worst of all, worse than any of his obnoxious quirks or cocky attitude, are his hands, and his eyes, and how Brandon can’t stop thinking about that night in the locker room with his tight grip and harsh intensity and how even when he’s angry and wrong and an asshole, he is so, so beautiful.

-

Chris gets mono and it means the newspaper staff is floundering to get the issue out on time. There are articles missing and nobody is as good at the publishing program as Chris is, but Brandon makes a valiant effort, writes up a review of the school’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a piece on Mr. Hull’s announced retirement from the history department, and a (scathing, if he does say so himself) critique of the school’s highly controversial decision to stop selling the big cookies in the cafeteria.

He gets them all to Patrick with time to spare, and the paper goes out as normal.

Patrick doesn’t thank him, but Brandon doesn’t really expect him to.

-

Andy has decided to have a party.

“It’s my birthday!” he exclaims when asked why at lunch a few days beforehand. “It’s a birthday party!”

“Your birthday is in July,” Nick says.

Andy pauses. “It’s Halloween!”

“Halloween was a week ago and the text specifically says costumes are encouraged but not required,” Ben points out. “If it was Halloween, you’d require them.”

“My parents are out of town,” Andy says, exasperated, and everyone nods.

-

So Andy has a party. It’s really fun, right up until the end, when Brandon gets drunker than he means to and ends up alone in the kitchen with Patrick entirely on accident.

“What are you doing here,” he moans. “Are you following me?”

“I’m looking for paper towels,” Patrick says, because he knows the worst thing he could be right now is reasonable. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

“Of course not,” Brandon snaps, “’cause if you did you wouldn’t have come in here. Or are you the only person allowed in a kitchen?”

“Alright, drunky,” Patrick says. “I’m just gonna get in behind you for those towels.”

Brandon snatches them from the counter and holds them to his chest. “Not until you ask nicely.”

Patrick sighs. “Are you doing this right now?”

“Everybody says you’re a good guy,” Brandon says plaintively, and looks down at the paper towels. “You can ask nicely for one thing.”

“Can I please have the paper towels?” Patrick asks, and Brandon feels like he’s been cheated somehow, because that wasn’t nice enough, it wasn’t what he wanted, but he hands them over anyway. A deal is a deal.

“Drink some water,” Patrick says, and Brandon is too drunk for the way he’s looking at him, all gentle and fond and very, very sorry.

-

Brandon wakes up on the floor of Andy’s bedroom using Nick as a pillow. He’s got a headache and the vague feeling he’s done something stupid.

-

“The only problem with Sharpy,” Brandon says glumly, “is his problem with me.” He’s lying on his bed, and it’s been about a week since Andy’s party, and Patrick has not so much as glanced his way since.

Andy shrugs from his seat on the floor, surrounded by papers. They’re ostensibly studying for their history quiz. Perhaps not shockingly, Brandon has gotten distracted.. “You can’t let it bother you, buddy, he’ll come around.”

“Why does he have to be so handsome,” he says, and presses his face into his pillow.

Andy pauses. “No homo?”

Brandon raises his head to look at him. “So homo, that’s why this is terrible.”

“Oh,” Andy says. “Really?”

Brandon moans uselessly and drops his face back into the pillow.

-

Patrick kisses him first.

It’s out of the blue, honestly. They’re rooming together on this trip because Bur is visiting his mom in San Jose and Andy has the flu, and when Brandon sets his duffel bag and then stands up and turns around, Patrick is right there, crowding into his space and looking at him really intently and then he’s kissing him, just going for it, and Brandon stands there shell shocked for a second before he shoves him off.

“What the hell, ” he says, and he’s vaguely aware that he doesn’t even sound angry, just startled.

Patrick shrugs, apparently unrepentant. “You wanna?”

“Wanna what!” Brandon says, and there it is, his voice gets a little higher pitched. He tries to back away, put some more distance between them, but the backs of his knees hit the bed and he very nearly falls backwards. Patrick reaches out for him, grabs him by the waist to steady him, and Brandon very resolutely does not thank him.

“Wanna, you know,” Patrick says, and punctuates it with a slow, dirty roll of his hips against Brandon’s. “Don’t you? You’re into me, yeah?”

He tries to get a coherent thought coming, but can’t come up with one. “I thought you didn’t like me,” he finally says, a little weakly.

Patrick shrugs, presses a kiss to Brandon’s jaw. “I like you plenty,” he says, and Brandon doesn’t totally believe him, but he’s warm and big and so fucking handsome.

“Well,” he says, finding his voice. “I don’t like you at all.”

Patrick looks—almost disappointed, but Brandon only gets a glimpse of his face before he makes what is objectively a terrible decision and yanks him back into a kiss.

-

They only kiss. Brandon comes to his senses when Patrick goes for his shirt, and he says, “I think—that’s, um, that’s enough.” Patrick just nods, and lets Brandon kiss his cheek, and gets back in his own bed.

Brandon doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.

-

In the morning, Patrick nudges him awake. “We’ve got to get going, it’s a long drive back,” he says, and Brandon sits up, rubs his eyes.

“Hmm?” he manages. He’s upright. That should be enough.

“You slept through your alarm and we have to leave soon,” Patrick says, and he’s grinning. “You’re really cute, you know.”

“Oh,” Brandon says a bit stupidly. “Um.”

Patrick reaches for him, runs a hand over his hair. “You’ve got some crazy bedhead going, though. Brush your teeth and your hair and get dressed. We just have to get to the bus before Duncs, I believe in us.”

“You could go,” Brandon suggests, standing up a bit unsteadily. “I could sleep. I’ll walk home.”

“We’re in Detroit,” Patrick says, laughing. “Come on, sleepyhead, let’s go.”

-

Brandon’s sitting on the bench in full gear reading The Grapes of Wrath. Q appears to understand that AP Lang is a struggle at best, and is letting him be while he talks to Corey and their gangly sophomore goalie Antti. He really ought to be running drills with the rest of the team, but he’s got a test tomorrow and he is going to fail, and he honestly should have just skipped practice because he is being incredibly unproductive both in hockey and in English and he can’t stop looking at his team and he can’t really focus on the chapters because the Joad fambly is falling apart because of the Depression but then there are all these random abstract chapters and what the fuck is with the fucking turtle and he is going to fail fail fail and then Patrick skates up and leans over the bench.

“I love Steinbeck,” he says.

“What?” Brandon says.

“I love Steinbeck,” he repeats. “Put the book down, come skate with us. After practice, I’ll drive you home and we can talk about it, okay?”

“Oh,” Brandon says, and he puts the book down. “Okay.”

-

They have an away game, and it’s Andy’s turn to pack sandwiches for the bus trip.

He brings thirty peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Or, more accurately, he brings twenty peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, five jelly sandwiches, four peanut butter sandwiches, and two pieces of bread.

Brandon’s in the back of the bus, with Seabs and Duncs and Patrick. Everybody likes the back two seats the best, but Brandon was the very last person the sandwiches made it to, so he’s the one who gets stuck with the bread.

Duncs got one that looks like it’s only jelly, but it doesn’t seem like he’s noticed. Brent is standing up and leaning over his seat to try and pester Jonny’s sandwich away from him, because he got only peanut butter. When Jonny doesn’t trade willingly, Brent attempts to take his by force.

Unshockingly, Patrick appears to have a sandwich with a perfectly even distribution of peanut butter and jelly. Of course he does. Brandon eyes it with envy from across the aisle.

Patrick catches him looking. “What, you get crunchy when you wanted creamy?” he teases, lighthearted in a way Brandon is still just getting used to.

“No,” Brandon answers, and holds a piece of bread in each hand. “He, uh, forgot the middle part, I guess.”

Patrick laughs, so open and immediate that it startles Brandon a little. “Andrew Shaw, human disaster,” he says fondly. “Do you want mine?”

Brandon pauses, caught off guard. “What?”

He shrugs and stretches his arm out over the aisle between them offers his sandwich to him. “I ate earlier.”

“Oh,” Brandon says, and takes the sandwich. “Do you want my, um, bread?”

Patrick grins at him. Shiny white teeth and big green eyes. “I think I’m alright, kid,” he says, and Brandon smiles back.

-

“Do you want to come over?” Patrick asks at the end of a newspaper meeting the next week. “I have a little more work to do for the paper, and it looks like you do too, but Laz is gonna kick us out soon. We could order pizza?”

It’s doesn’t quite hit nonchalant on Patrick’s part, so Brandon doesn’t fully know what he’s in for, but he surprises himself by saying yes anyway. “That sounds good,” he says, because he does have more work to do for the paper, and he’s not going to focus on it well by himself, and they could probably work on Calc together after, and, also, pizza. He pulls his phone out to text his mom, because, well, moms like to know if their kids will be home for dinner, and then packs his shit up to head out to Patrick’s truck with him.

The drive to his house is quiet. Brandon doesn’t really know what to say, and so he looks out the window while Patrick drums his hands on the wheel in time with the radio.

Patrick’s house is big and beautiful, and when they get inside, it’s empty and silent except for a basset hound going grey at the ears. The dog makes his way toward the door to greet them, slow and steady, and Patrick beams.

“Hiya, puppy,” he says to a dog who is most definitely not a puppy. "Hiya, Shooter." He kneels to greet him, rubs behind his floppy ears. Shooter licks his jaw, and Brandon tries very hard not to feel too fond. When Patrick gets up and heads towards the kitchen, the dog follows, padding behind him like he’s been doing it his whole life. It occurs to Brandon he probably has.

It takes a moment for Brandon to settle. He hasn’t really been alone alone with Patrick since he kissed him, and then they never spoke of it again, and, like, he’s been trying really, really hard not to dwell on it, chalked it up to some kind of weird road-roomie kiss, and like, he’s never made out with Shawsy but he guesses its ostensibly possible that it could come up and it seems like it could be kind of fun, and Smith and Bolly are totally dancing around who's going to ask who to prom, and Duncs and Seabs certainly have a weird relationship that potentially involves kissing, and he can’t even get started on Kaner and Jonny, so—so he and Patrick kissed and it was nothing, is the point, except now he’s at Patrick’s kitchen table while Patrick gets him a glass of water and hums a little bit to himself while an elderly dog totters around the room to stay at his feet no matter where he is.

It just feels a lot like something, is all.

So they do their work for newspaper and Patrick orders the pizza and Brandon suggests they look at Calc and it’s fine, it’s fine, and then Brandon blurts, “How come you never kissed me again?”

Patrick looks surprised but recovers pretty quickly, and says, a little teasing, “I thought you said you didn’t like me.” It sounds smug but a little bit of his typical confidence is missing, like he just can’t manage it. Brandon’s never seen him look unsure before.

“You were kind of a dick to me for a long time,” Brandon says, and he’s uncomfortable saying it but it’s true, and yet he still feels kind of guilty when Patrick’s face falls.

“I’m—yeah,” he says, which—Brandon didn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s not that. “I didn’t know you.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Brandon says, because it’s not.

“No,” Patrick agrees. “I’m. I’m sorry, really. I just—I don’t know, you just showed up, and you do the things I do, and I thought…” He shrugs a little helplessly. “I don’t know. I was wrong about you, and I treated you badly, and I—”

“Did you just figure all of this out right now?” Brandon asks incredulously.

“No,” Patrick says. “I’ve kind of, um, been meaning to apologize for a while now. I’ve been trying to be better.” He pauses, smiles sheepishly. “I gave you my sandwich.”

Brandon laughs despite himself and covers his face with his hands. “You did,” he says, and peeks through his fingers at him. “Are you doing being an asshole?”

Patrick’s face does something a little odd and then he smiles, reaches out and curls his fingers around Brandon’s wrist. It’s no less insistent but much more gentle than the last time he touched him this way, and says, “Promise.”

Brandon drops his hands from his face and pulls his wrist away, only so he can lace their fingers together. “Good,” he says, a little shyly.

“So,” Patrick says, and he scoots his chair closer to Brandon’s. “Do you want me to kiss you again?”

Brandon starts laughing, then kisses him himself.

-

It’s Brandon’s turn to bring the bus sandwiches. It’s tradition, and it’s his turn, and he is going to do it well. He’s standing in his kitchen, with an array of meats and veggies and cheeses spread out in front of him, and he is going to make the best variety of sandwiches the world has ever seen.

Nobody’s really that picky on the team, so for most of them he just piles on ingredients and figures it’ll be good, and all of them have lettuce or spinach on them so far, because a sandwich should have some leafies, but then he’s looking at his bread and remembers all at once that Patrick does not like lettuce or spinach.

He stands there a while, staring at his sandwich fixings, trying to decide if it’s weird that he knows that, and if it would be weirder if he made one without just for him, and then he decides, fuck it, he’s not going to watch Patrick pick lettuce off any one of his veritable sandwich masterpieces, and so he makes one without any lettuce and sets it aside.

-

On the bus, Brent decides, for the sake of practicality, to distribute them before they starts moving. Brandon, before that process begins, nabs the one he made for himself (spinach, avocado, gouda, turkey, ham, and potato chips on wheat, thanks for asking) and the one he made for Patrick (ham, pepperoni, provolone, onions, tomatoes, and absolutely no lettuce on sourdough).

“Hey,” Brandon says, settled by the window in his seat, and reaches out to catch Patrick by the sleeve as he passes. Patrick slides into the seat beside him, and Brandon hands him the sandwich bag. “This one doesn’t have any lettuce on it.”

Patrick pauses. “Why doesn’t it have any lettuce on it?” he asks cautiously. Brandon’s heart sinks. He knew it was weird.

“Because you hate lettuce,” Brandon says, and tries not to seem embarrassed. “Who hates lettuce, honestly?”

“I do,” Patrick answers with the automatic resignation of someone who has had this conversation too many times. “Why did you make me a sandwich without lettuce?”

“Because you hate lettuce,” Brandon repeats. “What aren’t you getting about this?”

“You made me a special sandwich,” Patrick says.

“You’re a special sandwich,” Brandon tells him, aiming for grumpy and missing by a long shot, and gets his book out to read on the drive to their neighboring high school’s rink. When he sneaks a glance at Patrick, he’s smiling, and Brandon has to hide a smile himself.

Good weird, then.

-

“You and Sharpy seem to be getting along better,” Andy says at lunch one day, and kicks Brandon under the table. It’s how he shows affection. “That finally get worked out?”

“He’s—not being a dick anymore,” Brandon says, and steals one of Leddy’s fries. He can tell Andy all about it later.

-

That weekend, they put glow in the dark stars on Patrick’s ceiling. Or, more specifically, Brandon puts glow in the dark stars on Patrick's ceiling, and Patrick lies down and watches and makes disparaging comments about how this probably means Brandon was really nerdy growing up, because he honestly didn't know these existed until Brandon was talking about them, and what do you need stars on the ceiling for when you have windows anyway?

“Did you not have a childhood?” Brandon asks, standing on Patrick’s bed, feet on either side of his hips, to artfully arrange them into constellations.

“I did,” Patrick says, grinning up at him. “I just also had, you know, friends. And a window.”

Brandon sticks his tongue out at him. “This is gonna be awesome,” he promises. “That’s the worst thing about moving here, I don’t have my bedroom with my awesome constellations anymore. I had like, most of the room done. And it was all totally accurate, too, or like, as accurate as it can be. It was fucking incredible, seriously, me and my brother worked really hard on it.” He pauses, frowns, presses a sticker very carefully to the ceiling. “I miss that room.”

Patrick brings a hand up to curve around his leg. “Do you wish you hadn’t come here?” he asks.

He smiles and looks down at him, clocks it right away, and answers the question Patrick’s not asking. “I’m not sorry I met you,” he says, and Patrick breaks into a helpless smile.

He runs his thumb along Brandon’s ankle and they just smile at each other for a moment. “Is that the Big Dipper?” Patrick asks, looking back up at the ceiling.

“What?” Brandon says, nonplussed. “Not at all. This is Cassiopeia. The Big Dipper is going to be over there, it’s like, way on the other end of the sky, they’re on opposite sides of the North Star, which I put right here.” He presses his finger to it. “Is the Big Dipper the only constellation you know?”

“Maybe a little bit,” Patrick admits, and Brandon has to get back down on his level to give him a kiss. They lose a few of the stickers to the floor in the process, but Brandon has to admit it’s worth it.

-

“Hey, Brandon?” Patrick says one afternoon, alone in Mr. Laz’s computer lab to finish up the paper. “How did you notice the lettuce thing?”

Brandon pauses for a long moment and then says, “I kind of—couldn’t really stop noticing you,” he says, and watches Patrick break into a big grin. He rolls his wheely chair over to Brandon’s, gives him a kiss, and then rolls right back.

“Good answer,” he says, and gets back to work.

-

Patrick misses two days of school right before winter break and he won’t text Brandon back. He chalks it up to a wintertime bug and end-of-semester-exam-blues, but he still spends the entire weekend in Andy’s basement checking his phone.

“Is everything okay?” Andy finally asks, looking concerned. “You’ve been watching your phone all day.”

“Oh,” Brandon says, and bites his lip. “I’m, um. Worried about Patrick, honestly.”

Andy raises his eyebrows. “Is he okay? Did something happen with Jonny again?”

“What? No, um—Sharpy, not Kaner,” Brandon tries to clarify, but Andy just looks more surprised.

“Explain,” he says. “Are you guys, like, actually friends now?”

“Well,” Brandon says, stretching the word out and breaking into a smile despite himself. “Boyfriends? Maybe? I think?”

“Explain,” Andy repeats, and so Brandon does..

He takes it from the top, starts with the kissing and runs through the sandwiches, Steinbeck, apology, sandwiches again, and then the kissing again, but he keeps delving into fond musings on Patrick’s hair, or hands, or how much he loves his dog, and eventually Andy (probably rightfully) swats him with a pillow.

“I get it,” he says, sounding appropriately disgusted. “You’re in love.”

-

When Patrick picks Brandon up to drive him to school on Monday, everything seems pretty okay. Patrick doesn’t volunteer anything, and Brandon doesn’t ask.

-

“Everybody is so stressed about college,” Brandon moans as he flops down on Patrick’s couch beside him. “I guess early admissions are coming through? I have no idea how I’m going to deal with this next year.”

Patrick makes a noncommittal sound and changes the channel on the TV.

“You’re so lucky you’re all set,” Brandon sighs, and puts his feet up on the coffee table, leans his head on Patrick’s shoulder.

“What does that mean?” Patrick asks, his voice a little tight. He’s sitting up straight, looking stiff and uncomfortable.

Brandon frowns a little. “It means you’re all set,” he says. “With Yale.”

Patrick frowns right back. “Right.”

He sits up a little bit to look at him better. “Aren’t you? ‘Cause early decision letters went out already, it’s January.”

“They went out,” Patrick confirms, and won’t meet his gaze.

“So you don’t have to stress about college,” Brandon says slowly, carefully. “Because you’re going to Yale.”

Patrick is silent, staring at the TV. When Brandon reaches for the remote to turn it off, Patrick still doesn’t look away.

“Patrick?” Brandon presses.

“I didn’t get into Yale,” Patrick snaps, grabbing the remote back and whipping his head around to glare at him. “I didn’t get in, alright? Would you just fucking drop it—”

Brandon straightens up a bit, puts his hands up. “Hey, hey,” he says. “It’s gonna be alright, okay?”

“It’s not! I didn’t—I’ve been counting on this my entire life, I can’t just—not get in—” He’s getting worked up, and Shooter whimpers, and Brandon reaches out, wraps his hand around his wrist.

“Hey,” he says again, quiet but insistent. “Tell me the worst case. What’s the worst thing that could happen here?”

Patrick stares at him like he’s grown another head. “The worst thing is that I don’t go to Yale.”

Brandon shrugs. “You don’t go to Yale. Okay. Now what? What does that mean for you?”

“I—my dad—” Patrick starts, and Brandon squeezes his wrist and them, on something between instinct and a whim, slides his hand down to squeeze his fingers instead. Patrick grips back immediately.

“Not your dad,” Brandon says. “You.”

Patrick pauses, looks down at their hands. “Cornell wants me to play hockey for them.”

Brandon can’t bite back a grin. “Your worst case scenario is playing hockey for Cornell?”

Patrick pulls his hand back and frowns. “Don’t laugh at me,” he says, and Brandon reaches out again, laces their fingers together in an apology.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “I just mean—I think you’re going to be fine, you know?” He pauses, rubs his thumb over Patrick’s knuckle. “You’re going to be incredible wherever you go, you know you are.”

“I just—always thought I was gonna go to Yale,” he says quietly. “I worked… I worked so hard for it.”

Brandon sighs a little bit, scoots over closer to him again. “I know you did,” he says. “And you—honestly, I don’t know what they were thinking. But it’s not the end of the world.”

Patrick takes a deep breath, leans into Brandon just a little. “Yeah,” he says softly, and he’s still not looking at Brandon’s face, just at their hands.

“And,” Brandon adds, elbows him just a little bit. “If your backup plan is still an Ivy, you’re probably okay.”

Patrick smiles a little bit at that. Brandon thinks he’ll be just fine.

-

They’re lying on their backs on Patrick’s bed, looking at the glow in the dark constellations on the ceiling and holding hands between their bodies. Patrick’s breathing has gotten so even and quiet that Brandon thinks he’s fallen asleep.

“I sent my acceptance into Cornell today,” Patrick says suddenly, and Brandon blinks, turns his head to look at him. “It’s done. I’m—that’s what I’m doing.”

Brandon just runs his thumb over his knuckles. “How long is it from Ithaca to New York City?” he asks after a moment.

Patrick pauses, turns his head to look back at Brandon. The lights are off but the sun hasn’t quite set yet, and Brandon is struck, like always, by the green of his eyes. He’s starting to smile in that way of his, like he’s won something and can’t wait to show it off to everyone else. “Four hours to get to Columbia,” he says. “I already checked.”

Brandon can’t hold back a helpless grin. “That’s not too far,” he says. “I mean—if someone were to attend Columbia you’d like to come visit.”

Patrick grins and squeezes his hand. “You know, I’ve got a good feeling.”

-

When Brandon gets his acceptance letter from Columbia a year later, Patrick is the first person he tells.