27 for holsom please? (also i love your writing!!!)
cuddling prompts | first cuddle | read it on ao3!
it only took me a literal goddamn year but here it is!! this takes place in the same verse as Novis Intiis, the trans!Ransom fic I wrote for Ransom Week.
tw: bullying, homophobia (no slurs), canon-typical hockey violence (no blood)
Ransom’s not sure exactly how a heterosexual, cisgender white American man with an encyclopedic knowledge of Golden Girls who sings show tunes in the communal shower after practice became his friend, but by November it’s become abundantly clear that Holster is the best friend he’s ever had. They spend more time together than apart, clean up pucks after every practice, sign up for the same core curriculum classes for the spring semester (they’re going to take a geology class called Hot Rocks, how the fuck is is this Ransom’s life?), and have a one hundred and twenty three day long streak on Snapchat.
They’re RansomandHolster. It’s become second nature to automatically look for two open seats on the bus or volunteer Holster for the same frog chore before a kegster. Holster’s his best friend.
(Ransom’s never had a best friend. He’s had close friends, he’s been a part of friend groups, had teammates, but he’s never had something like this. He’s also never been someone’s best friend and sometimes he can’t believe that Holster chose him, with his superstitions and syringes and episodes that are Definitely Not Panic Attacks because Ransom really cannot fucking deal with anxiety on top of everything else.)
But Holster did choose him, and Holster is his best friend and his defense partner, so when they’re warming up before a game and Holster sends him a sloppy pass that misses Ransom by a good meter and a half Ransom immediately knows something is wrong. His stomach sinks as he banks and tracks Holster down, weaving between his teammates with ease. Jack levels him with a glare - he has routines and his expects others to adhere to them - but Ransom shakes it off as he makes his way to the bench, where Holster is staring down at the water bottles. His hand is curled so tightly around his stick that Ransom can see his glove trembling.
“Holster,” Ransom says, letting his momentum carry him to Holster’s side. His friend jerks, knocking a water bottle off the boards and onto the ice, and by the time Ransom’s bent down to pick it up Holster has his helmet tucked under his arm and his scrubbing his hand over his face. He shakes his head once, twice, and then his gaze settles on his skates.
“Hey,” Ransom says softly, flicking the tip of his stick against Holster’s shin pad. Holster’s gaze jerks up and the moment their eyes meet Ransom’s stomach twists with worry. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, but he can see it clear as day in the tightness of Holster’s brow and the set of his jaw. “I’ve got your back, Holtzy,” he murmurs.
Holster holds his gaze for a long moment, searching his face before he nods, mouth set in a grim line. He puts his helmet back on, securing the chin strap and shield, and Ransom shifts his weight so he glides close enough to press their shoulders together. Holster takes a deep breath, holds it, and when he releases it Ransom can see some of the tension drain away.
“Yeah,” Holster breathes. He leans towards Ransom, pressing more weight against him. Ransom doesn’t have to ask what caused Holster’s reaction; he’ll let him know when he’s ready. “Yeah, I know you do.” Ransom smiles, gets a crooked half-grimace in return, and he figures that’s good enough for now. They have a long night ahead of them.
Oddly enough, the game is, for the most part, unremarkable. Sure, it’s fast paced and physical, especially the right winger, #37, who slams into Holster just a few seconds after they take the ice and again during their second shift, and now that Ransom’s thinking about it #37 (who has WILLIAMS written across his shoulders in bright white letters) always charges straight towards Holster but two hits isn’t enough to prove a hypothesis so Ransom hangs back and watches. Waits. Hits back when he can, because someone has to. Sooner or later Williams will land a hit just as hard on someone else, right?
Wrong.
Ransom spends the full sixty minutes by Holster’s side. They’re on the fourth line - Ransom suspects they’ll move up to third by next semester (they might be freshmen, but they’re good) so he has a front row seat. He sees it all: every glare, every cross check that the refs seem to miss, every slash and comment murmured in Holster’s ear.
He sees Holster take it without retaliation, and that’s the most surprising part of all. Holster’s a physical player, an emotional player, a player who happens to have the size to inflict the havoc he likes to wreak. But now, he’s taking checks and slashes and isn’t doing anything about it.
Worst of all, no one but Ransom seems to notice.
Ransom doesn’t get a chance to talk to him about it in the first intermission. The game is tied 1-1 and the entire locker room is buzzing as they talk through plays and strategies. He doesn’t even try to broach the topic on the bench but the next time he’s on the ice he does managed to pin Williams behind the net while Holster digs the puck out from beneath their skates and to pass it to Shitty who tips it up to Jack who, of course, scoops it up and sends it flying past the goalie’s glove.
That makes Holster smile, for real this time, and it lingers around the corner of his mouth through the second intermission. The knotted tension in Ransom’s chest goes lax; he must have over analyzed the whole thing. Hockey’s a physical sport and Holster’s just playing the game.
The third period proves that hypothesis to be horribly false.
It’s twenty minutes of gridlock, of falling back into their own zone to defend shot after shot after shot. Johnson is brilliant, flinging pucks away right and left, but they’re making him do far more work than he should. Through sheer luck their shifts don’t overlap with Williams’ for the bulk of the period, but after Ransom blocks a shot with his left thigh he’s stuck on the bench while Holster finishes out his shift. There’s under a minute left in the game, Holster’s got maybe twenty seconds left in him, and Ransom’s just beginning to think they’ll make it out of this with just a bruised thigh and false hypothesis when Williams jumps over the boards and heads straight for Holster, who’s dangling the puck up to the blue line for a final push. Holster snaps the pass forward to someone - Mossy or Smithy, Ransom doesn’t even notice - but Williams slams into him nevertheless, momentum or malice forcing his entire body weight against Holster, who collides against the boards with a sickening thud. The sound echoes through the rink as Holster crumples and Williams skates off, unscathed, and just when Ransom thinks the ref is finally going to make a fucking call Holster straightens up and limp-skates his way towards the bench the second he has an opening.
It feels like it takes hours for Holster to make it back to the bench. Ransom can feel his heartbeat thundering through his chest, a dull roar in his ears that drowns out the clacking and scraping on the ice and the cheers of the crowd, echos reverberating through the pain in his thigh. Holster is breathing hard, face twisted in pain, as he all but collapses on the bench next to Ransom. Ransom turns, about to call over one of the coaches, when Holster grabs his arm. He shakes his head, just once, and Ransom settles for wrapping an arm around him to support more of his weight as he winces through catching his breath.
Ransom swears he can feel an ache in his side to mirror the pain he knows Holster is feeling. It feels right to ache with him. Holster might be in pain, but he doesn’t ever have to be alone.
The clock ticks down; they win. Watching Holster limp back to the dressing room, head bowed and shoulders drooping, it doesn’t feel like a victory.
Coach Hall, at least, saw the hit and has Holster’s ribs checked before he showers. The bruise is already starting to form, Ransom sees it through the steam and mess of celebrating bodies, but Holster doesn’t say anything even as the team debriefs and piles onto the bus for the short ride to the hotel Lardo booked for them. Lardo hands them their key as they step off the bus. She raises an eyebrow, Holster ducks his head. She catches Ransom’s eye, he nods to show her he’s on top of it. She tilts her head, considering.
“I’ll leave ice outside your door,” is all she says, and Ransom has never loved her more.
Ransom’s first in the room and he tosses his stuff on the bed closest to the door, leaving the bed by the window open (he always chooses this bed because on the morning after their first roadie he’d watched Holster wake to a ray of sun instead of the alarm on his phone and Holster had smiled, actually smiled, into his pillow before rolling over with a soft grumble. It’s better than the alarm, you know? More soothing, or some shit. Holster said later on the bus, and he does so much to make Ransom feel comfortable every day that Ransom’s happy to give him some small thing in return) Holster shuffles in behind him, exhaustion radiating from every slowed movement, and sets his bag at the foot of his bed. He looks down at the remote but doesn’t reach for it. Ransom picks it up and quickly finds a football game. Not the Bills, because they’ll just lose and that will make Holster sad, and not the Patriots, because they might win and that’ll make Holster angry, but replays of the Bengals/Ravens game seem like a safe choice.
Now it’s time to wait. Ransom’s not going to force Holster to say anything he doesn’t want to say. He unpacks slowly, lingering in the room in case Holster wants to talk. He leaves the bathroom door open as he gets ready for bed in so he’ll hear Holster if he speaks. He plugs his phone in by the small desk in the corner, just so he won’t look through it and accidentally make Holster think he doesn’t have time for him.
When he finishes his routine Holster shuffles into the bathroom to brush his teeth and when he exits he’s just wearing the soft flannel pajama pants he brings on every roadie. Ransom’s sitting on his bed, back pressed against the headboard as he massages lotion over the twin scars that stretch over his chest. He doesn’t like doing it in the dressing room - showering and changing with the guys is oddly more comfortable for him than this, he’s not exactly sure why - but doing it around Holster has never made him anxious. Holster pays him no mind as he weaves around the tightly clustered furniture.
That’s weird, too. Usually he makes some comment (Lookin’ symmetrical as fuck, bro!) or asks a question (Wait, so are those your original nips or is there like a nipple donor somewhere out there - stop laughing, Grey’s Anatomy hasn’t covered this yet!) but today he heads straight for his bag and digs through it, clearly searching for something. Ransom can see his frustration building in his back muscles, in his annoyed huffs, in the way he tosses the contents of his bag over his bed instead of stacking them in his usual haphazard organization system.
“What are you looking for?” Ransom asks, keeping his voice light. Holster sighs, settles his hands on his hips, and stares down at the mess he’s made.
“My sweatshirt,” he says, and sounds so defeated over an article of clothing that it would be funny if it wasn’t so heartbreaking. The bruise on his side is already several shades darker than it was in the locker room.
Ransom quickly rubs the excess lotion on his hands over his chest and plucks his own sweatshirt out of his bag. “Here,” he says, holding it out. “You can wear mine. Yours is probably in Faber.” Or his room. Or Ransom’s room. Or the library, or the dining hall, or literally anywhere on campus because Holster might be the best friend Ransom’s ever had but he’s also kind of a mess.
“Thanks,” Holster says, voice soft as he takes the sweatshirt from Ransom’s hand and wrestles it over his head. It’s a little tighter than he usually wears but when Holster turns and Ransom sees OLURANSI stretching across his broad shoulders something warm and soft uncurls deep in Ransom’s chest. He’s not exactly sure what it means, but it feels nice and Ransom doesn’t have time to dwell on it when Holster’s still just standing between their beds, looking at the sprawl of his possessions over the blankets.
“Uh,” Holster clears his throat as a shrill whistle sounds on the tv. He glances at the screen, at his bed, at Ransom, gaze bouncing around the room, until it finally settles somewhere just over Ransom’s right ear. “Rans, can I.” He takes a halting step towards Ransom but stops suddenly and cuts himself off, shoulders bunching up with tension. “Would it be okay if, um, and you can say no, obviously, but I. Fuck. Never mind.” Holster’s stumbling over his words, face red and shoulders so tense they’re creeping up higher and higher with every stunted syllable.
“No, I will mind.” Ransom says definitively, and he can tell from the defeated expression on Holster’s face that they’re not on the same page. It’s a foreign, sickening feeling. Ransom hates it. “I mean,” He hastily corrects, pushing himself up to reach out for Holster’s hand. “I don’t mind. Whatever you - it’s okay, just. Come here.” He says as he gives Holster a gentle tug.
Holster swallows, once, and color floods his cheeks as he takes a halting step towards the bed. He’s moving slowly, tentatively, and it takes all of Ransom’s patience not to just yank him into place but he keeps his touch light, letting Holster set the pace. He settles down, careful to avoid Ransom’s bruised thigh and keep pressure off his own injury. They’ve done a lot together in the almost four months they’ve known each other, but they haven’t done this. Holster’s never tucked his face against Ransom’s neck as he lowers his body over Ransom’s legs. Ransom’s never pulled Holster close, never smoothed a hand down his back once he settled in. They’ve never sat in silence, bodies pressed together and breathing synced.
It would be nice, if Holster wasn’t so miserable.
Ransom dips his hand under the collar of the sweatshirt to press his fingers against the knots of tension gathered between Holster’s shoulder blades. He digs his fingertips into the largest one, relentless, until the knot dissipates and he can smooth his palm over the sore muscle.
“Sorry,” he murmurs into Holster’s hair, but his partner just sighs and goes limp, body weight settling over Ransom’s torso and legs. Ransom traces his fingers over his spine, travelling up until his fingertips are carding through his partner’s short hair. It’s not something best friends do, but it doesn’t feel like the wrong thing to do, either. Holster’s quiet.
(Holster is never quiet.)
Just when Holster’s even breathing and unnatural stillness has convinced Ransom that he’s fallen asleep, Holster tilts his head. His nose brushes against Ransom’s neck, just a small, light, brush, but it sends something zipping down Ransom’s spine. Ransom swallows, readjusts his grip on Holster, unable to process exactly what that was, when Holster suddenly speaks up.
“I used to play with him. Williams. In Juniors.” Holster says, words muffled against Ransom’s neck. The vibrations travel under Ransom’s skin, radiating through his body to his fingertips and toes. Holster huffs out a hollow laugh, breath fanning over Ransom’s neck. “He doesn’t like me.”
“He doesn’t?” Ransom says dryly. “I hadn’t noticed.” He tugs on Holster’s hair, lightly, just to try to make him laugh. It doesn’t work, but he can feel the curve of Holster’s lips when he smiles.
“That’s why you’re the smart one.” Holster shoots back, and it’s not funny because that makes Holster the dumb one when he’s not, but Ransom knows it’s not the time to dive into that particular insecurity so he keeps quiet. “We were friends, actually, for my first coupla’ months on the team.” His words are stringing together, accent growing thicker as he unwinds. “Then I did something really fucking stupid and he’s hated me ever since. He used to check me like that in practice, fuck with my equipment, write shit in my cubby. Stuff like that.”
The warm, fond feeling in Ransom’s chest goes icy cold.
“He used to - but you were teammates.” Even as the words leave Ransom’s mouth he knows they don’t actually mean anything. Holster’s lips brush against his neck when he opens his mouth, and Ransom just knows he’s going to say oh my god they were teammates before he even gets the first syllable out. The huff of laughter that bursts from his lips won’t ease the bottomless ache in Holster’s chest, he knows, but it’s something. He knows that ache all too well from living in Toronto, when he was the only boy on every team he ever played for. Being on a team with someone doesn’t guarantee that they’ll respect you. It doesn’t even mean they’ll like you. All it means is that you wear the same colors, and that doesn’t matter much to some people. Ransom knows that better than anyone. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier, and it doesn’t make it okay.
Holster nods against his chest, fingers curling into Ransom’s bare skin. “It was my fault. I was stupid, and he -“
“No.” Ransom says firmly. “Shit like that, it’s not your fault. They make you think it is, but it’s not, no matter what you did. Not if you fucked up during a game, or missed a practice, or even if you kissed his girlfriend or some shit.” That, for some reason, makes Holster laugh, a hollow, wounded sound Ransom never, ever wants to hear again but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget.
“I kissed him,” Holster says bitterly. Ransom stares at the hotel’s popcorn ceiling and estimates the pops per square meter to keep from saying something stupid. “We were close, and I thought - I thought wrong, I’m so fucking stupid, and I told myself I wasn’t going to - I didn’t want anyone at Samwell to know.” His voice breaks and Ransom tightens his grip, holding him as he shakes through a long, trembling gasp for air. There are a million things he wants to say, all of them tripping and shoving past each other on the tip of his tongue but instead of letting them out Ransom just cards his fingers through Holster’s hair.
Across the room the air conditioner rumbles to life, groaning out a sudden burst of cool air. Holster inhales deeply, holds his breath for several seconds, and lets it out in a smooth, long exhale.
Ransom breaks the silence with a smile and quickly tugs Holster’s hair again. “So do we put the G and T in LGBT, or the B and the T? Or even the L, it’s up to you, buddy.” Ransom says, and he feels Holster’s laughter as much as he hears it. Holster weakly punches his ribs but presses his big, warm hand over the same spot directly after, and it’s so distracting Ransom almost doesn’t hear his reply.
“The B,” Holster whispers into Ransom’s collarbone. He clears his throat and opens his mouth again, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head, just a small, little thing. “I don’t think I’m cool enough to be a lesbian.”
“Oh, you’re definitely not. You have zero game. Zero.” Ransom shoots back, and that makes Holster laugh so hard he winces, body twisting to try to leech the pain from his side. They tip over and then Ransom’s looking into Holster’s red-rimmed eyes. They’ve only been friends for four months but they’re best friends, and Holster needs to know Ransom’s choosing him, too.
Ransom takes a deep breath, holds it. Holster smells like Ransom’s detergent and the shitty two-in-one shampoo conditioner he brings on roadies (Ransom will never, ever admit he’s starting to like the scent but when the artificial musk and spice hits his nose he doesn’t think ugh, two-in-one, he thinks Holster, Holster, Holster, Holster).
He’s still thinking Holster, Holster, Holster when the words finally slip through his lips, a gentle waterfall instead of the catastrophic wave he’d feared. “You’re not stupid. Loving someone is never stupid,“ Ransom says, because he believes it, and because he needs it to be true as much as Holster does. Holster’s face twists, just for a moment, just long enough for Ransom to see how much he aches before his features shift to a dramatic eye roll and a crooked half-smile.
“Is when I do it.” Holster says, the rapid-fire cadence of the syllables perfectly matching Liz Lemon’s, even if his voice is still too sad for a flawless impersonation. Holster’s trying so hard to hide how he feels that Ransom almost wishes he believed him. He knows Holster too well, and they both know it, but they’re both pretending they don’t.
“Don’t quote 30 Rock at me,“ Ransom replies, because it’s easier than saying please let me help you, just this once. It’s profoundly strange to not say exactly what he’s thinking around Holster. He half expects Holster to read his mind like he usually does and respond to what Ransom’s thinking instead of what he says, but Holster just barrels on.
“It’s more of a reference than a direct quote-” He begins, and Ransom barely has enough time to cut in.
“Holtzy, let me just.” Ransom pipes up, forcing his way into Holster’s pauses instead of waiting to be let in. Holster doesn’t have the patience to wait for most people, but he always makes space for Ransom (he saves a spot for him on the bus, claims two chairs at team breakfast, makes sure Ransom gets the corner shower with the most privacy after practice, saves the last piece of tape in the rolls they steal from Jack, wraps him up in crushing hugs after an assist or goal).
Holster raises his hand, twisting it around until the back of his wrist bumps against Ransom’s. “It’s from the scene when Liz does that thing with her hands and it’s - “ He explains, tapping the backs of their hands together. Under any other circumstances Ransom would roll his eyes and pretend not to understand the reference just to wind Holster up a little bit, but today he catches Holster’s hand and drags it back down to hold it against his chest. He doesn’t think about how well Holster’s fingers slot between his or how broad his palm is or how his knuckles are so, so warm against his bare skin. Ransom takes a deep breath; Holster mirrors it.
“We don’t ever have to talk about this again if you don’t want to but I just - I can’t - I’m not going to let you go on thinking that you’re the one who did something wrong. He hurt you today and that’s not okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Ransom holds his best friend’s gaze as he speaks, shifting up and down and to the side to stay in his wavering line of sight. Just when he catches a patch of bright blue sky the clouds roll in when Holster closes his eyes.
“I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have kissed him, I was wrong to feel that way, I-” Holster says, voice thin. The words are as practiced as they are cruel; Ransom knows Holster has said them to himself a million times by now. Ransom’s going to change his mind, even if it takes the rest of their lives. He’ll put in the 10,000 hours, he’ll soothe every ache, he’ll stitch Holster up as many times as he needs until the wound is healed.
But he has to begin somewhere, so he shakes his head and cuts in, deftly slipping in when Holster pauses to take a breath. “No, Holster, no. You didn’t do anything wrong, he shouldn’t have treated you that way. He shouldn’t have hurt you, then or now, and, fuck, Holster, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Ransom doesn’t mean to squeeze Holster’s hand harder and harder as he speaks, but by the time he finishes he’s digging his fingers into the back of his best friend’s hand. Holster twists his wrist and his hand slips away, severing the connection. Something in him shifts, skipping from first gear into fourth in a moment’s time.
“Jesus, Ransom, let it go. I’m the one who fucked up.” Holster’s voice is flat, annoyance seeping through. His eyes flick up, down, around in a quick roll, and Ransom knows he’s in trouble because that’s Holster’s I’m legitimately annoyed eye roll instead of his you’re ridiculous but I love it eyeroll or his Holy hell, Justin eyeroll but Ransom charges on.
“Not until you -” He begins, but Holster slips away before he can finish his thought. He turns away to sit on the edge of the bed, OLURANSI still written across his shoulders. The letters almost look like static electricity, trembling and pulsing as Holster shakes.
“Until I what? What the hell could I possibly do to un-fuck everything that happened? It’s done, it’s over. We were friends, I was stupid enough to fall in love with him, and then I ruined it all and now he hates me but it’s done. I’m done with it, so just fuck off.” Holster stands, tension from his clenched jaw radiating down to his shoulders, his arms, his hands, his legs. He grabs the key card and stalks out of the room, leaving Ransom in a twin bed that’s growing colder and colder by the minute.
Ransom doesn’t follow him. He knows he doesn’t need to.
The next morning he wakes to a Holster-sized lump in the other bed, bathed in a pool of warm sunlight. Ransom limps to the bathroom and begins his routine. Holster’s up when he steps back in the room, the morning light illuminating the grimace painted across his face. He has the hem of the sweatshirt in both hands, clearly in the middle of taking it off, but his bruise must be complicating things.
Ransom’s across the room in a flash, hands batting Holster’s white-knuckled grip away. “What are you doing?” Holster asks, taking a half step back. Ransom chases him, pushing back into his space.
“I’m helping,” he explains succinctly. He tugs the sweatshirt up, revealing just a glimpse of the mottled bruise and the sharp v of Holster’s hips. Holster pushes the thick material back down, hands curling around Ransom’s wrists.
“No - we’re fucking - we’re fighting right now, don’t try to help me.“ Holster protests, trying and failing to twist away. He bats weakly at Ransom’s hands. “Stop!”
And finally, Ransom’s had enough. He’s only human, there’s only so much he can take. He can’t watch Holster hurt himself by muddling through a simple task Ransom can help with.
“Listen up, asshole,” The words burst out from behind Ransom’s teeth, and he’s charging onward before he can process what he’s said. “I know better than anyone what it feels like to have teammates turn on you because of something you can’t control, especially shit like this. I know how you feel, and I’m not bullshitting you to make you feel better. I actually know, and we might be in a fight but you’re still my best friend so I’m going to help you until you’re healed enough to fight again. Got it?” Silence stretches over them, a thin, fluttering sheet falling still after twisting and billowing in the wind. Holster’s eyes are so, so wide and so, so blue. He nods; his hands fall to his sides. “Good, now lift your arms so I can take my goddamn sweatshirt off you.” Ransom’s voice is softer now, almost as gentle as his hands when he guides the thick material over Holster’s head. Ransom doesn’t think about his fingers brushing against Holster’s warm skin, pressing just close enough to feel the firm muscles beneath.
Holster is quiet for the rest of the day.
(Holster is never quiet).
He’s silent when Ransom sits next to him on the bus. It’s the only seat left, because everyone knows they always sit together. Holster doesn’t watch anything on his phone or pull out a textbook. He wraps his arms around himself and leans his forehead against the window, still and small and contained and everything he isn’t. Ransom hates it. He watches Holster wince as he loads his bag onto his shoulder, waits until he’s limped away before following him to their dorm. They’re on different floors, but he’s afraid Holster thinks that’s still too close.
Ransom stares at his phone for the rest of the day, jumping at every beep and vibration, convinced that this time it must be Holster. It isn’t. Hours pass, and Ransom knows he can’t take much more of this. Holster’s woven himself into every detail of Ransom’s life. They eat together, study together, do laundry together, drink together, take shots together with their arms entwined like ridiculous viking princes. There’s barely enough space for Ransom in his tiny dorm room, much less his roommate, but without Holster the space feels quiet and dark, even with the fluorescent lights and music blaring.
He’s turned up Midnight Marauders so loud he almost doesn’t hear the staccato of a timid knock on his door. Ransom taps on his laptop, lowering the volume just a bit, convinced his RA wants him to turn the music off even though quiet hours haven’t started yet.
There’s another knock, a little louder this time. Ransom turns the volume down even further. The third knock is the strongest by far, ringing through the tiny dorm room to be swallowed by the painted cinder blocks that make up the walls.
Annoyed, Ransom rolls off his bed and jerks the door open. It rattles it on its hinges, and then, suddenly, there’s Holster. His eyes are wide and his cheeks are flushed and his hand is raised, poised to knock again until he awkwardly drops it. “Um,” he begins, hand drifting to wrap around his chest, hand curled protectively over his bruise. “So, I’m an asshole, and a dumbass, and a terrible person who gets mad when his best friend is just trying to help, and I prepared something to say if you’re willing to listen. I worked really hard on it.” The words are even, practiced. Ransom tips his head to the side, considering, pretending like there’s even the slightest chance he won’t let Holster in.
(Ransom will always let Holster in).
He takes a step back; Holster takes a step forward. The door closes behind him. The room feels brighter. Holster leans against the closed door, chest expanding as he takes a deep breath, and lets it out in a single controlled burst, just like he had when Ransom had curled around him in their shitty motel room. They’re not pressed together anymore but Ransom swears he can feel Holster’s ribs expanding against his chest despite the space between them.
Holster straightens up and finally meets Ransom’s eyes. “I’m sorry,“ he says, sincerity shining through the syllables, sunshine streaming through stained glass. “I’m sorry,” He repeats. “And I didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice hitches, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows his emotions once, twice, three times. Ransom takes a step forward.
“Say it again.” Ransom instructs, desperate for Holster to understand what he’s saying. Ransom wants him to feel it in his bones, wants the light to burst from the tips of his fingers, from his eyes, his hair, his chest. He wants Holster to stitch the words into his skin the way Ransom did, because it’s the only way for them to thrive. Holster inhales, exhales shakily. He’s trembling, just a little, but Ransom stands his ground.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled when you were helping me.“ The words are true and sincere but Ransom just shakes his head and takes another step forward.
“Not that part, Adam.” Ransom says, his friend’s name soft as velvet on his tongue. Adam. He didn’t know red clay could taste so sweet.
Holster finally looks away, gaze rising to the ceiling, tears gathering in his eyes. He tries to speak and his voice gives out, throat too thick for the words to trickle through. He swallows, forces out a laugh, swipes the back of his hand over his eyes. “I didn’t,“ he begins, the words painfully slow, and Ransom never, ever wants to hurt him but Holster needs to let himself bleed before he can heal. "I didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, raw and real and split apart in every single way. Ransom gathers the pieces of him and pulls them together, holding him as he shakes. Holster presses his wet face against Ransom’s shoulder, hands curled into the thin fabric of his shirt.
Ransom isn’t sure how long they stand there. It doesn’t matter. Ransom would hold Holster until the end of time if he needed it. He waits until Holster’s breathing has evened out before speaking.
“Which season?” He asks, voice draping over the sniffles muffled by his shoulder. Holster looks up, brow knit in confusion instead of pain and fear and Ransom counts it as a victory. “Which season of Cheers are we on? Please tell me it’s the last one.” Holster laughs, thick and wet but real as he scrubs his hands over his eyes to clear the last of his tears away.
“It’s the second to last one, but there’s a spin-off series about your favorite character we’re watching after,“ Holster’s smiling now, eyes red-rimmed but sparkling, cheeks damp but flushed with excitement. Ransom groans and buries his face in his hands.
"Fucking Frasier? Out of everyone they gave Frasier his own show?” Ransom knows he’s being melodramatic, but Holster’s eating it up so he flops down on his bed. Holster follows, moving at his own pace, settling down next to Ransom. He tucks his face against Ransom’s neck. Ransom pulls him close and smooths a hand down his back. They’re quiet, bodies pressed together until their breathing syncs.
It’s nice. Even after three episodes of Cheers, it’s nice.
(Ransom knows it will always be nice).