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[senior year of med school]
“So tell me,” Justin’s mother says, all business, “is your boy going to propose?”
“What, Jack?” Justin says, and doesn’t really think much of it, because his mother eats up the details of Jack and Bitty and JackandBitty like Holster eats up rom-coms. “Yeah, probably. Unless Bits does it -- but we’ll all hear about it if Bits is planning something so -- probably Jack.”
His mother sighs, and he can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “No, baby, I meant Adam.”
“Adam?” Justin says, and takes a half second to connect Adam to Holster to Holster proposing to -- someone. But Holster doesn’t have a girlfriend or a boyfriend right now so --
“You two have been dating for six years,” his mother says, and Justin feels his brain hitting overdrive, feels the distant panic of unqualifiable information, and suddenly wants to make a spreadsheet to deal with these fucking -- revelations , or whatever. “I damn well think he should ask you at some point. Unless you’re asking him?” The last part is phrased like a question, but Justin can’t get his shit together enough to answer it. Dating dating dating, his brain chants, like a busted computer. Dating dating dating dating dating dating --
“Baby?” his mother says, sounding concerned. “You all right over there?”
“Fine,” he says. Dating dating dating dating. “Only Hol -- Adam just walked in and I wanna talk to him about something so -- I gotta call you back. Rain check.”
“What do you need to talk with him about?”
“Tax stuff,” Justin says; it’s not a lie. He does need to talk to Holster at some point about tax stuff. Holster just isn’t here right now.
“Ah,” his mother says, knowledgeably. “Don’t get too frustrated. One of the worst fights your dad and I ever had was during tax season.”
“Thanks,” he says. Dating for six years. Six years six years six years --
“Talk soon, baby,” his mother says, and hangs up. Justin is halfway through dialing Holster’s number before he drops his fucking phone on the floor and drops onto the couch, leaving the number undialed, hating the intensity of how wrong it feels to not talk to Holster after something like -- this. Especially with his stomach twisting the way it does when he’s working himself into an anxiety attack.
“Always call me, bro. I will literally pick up whenever you call me, no matter what I’m doing. That’s what a ride or die bro is for ,” Holster had said, years ago, back when they lived in the Haus. Back when a call could interrupt a class or maybe sex. Back when it wasn’t such a big promise to make. Back before Holster worked an actual fucking job and had responsibilities or what the fuck ever --
Breathe, Justin tells himself, tells himself it’s stupid to get anxious over something like this, he and Holster are bros, Holster is his best fucking friend, his three am call, his ride or die, so what does it really matter in the long run if people think they’re dating except this isn’t people this is his mother and why does she think he and Holster have been dating? For six years?
And he wants to talk to Holster but this is like, the single thing he can’t talk to Holster about because they’ve been bros for like eight years now and that’s a long fucking time and how can he ruin something so good and something that works like he and Holster work and what the fuck, eight years, that means his mom thinks they’ve been dating since junior year --
His hands are shaking really bad, and the door bangs open.
“Bro,” Holster is saying, “okay, before you say anything, look at him,” and suddenly Justin has a lapful of a very soft, very wiggly puppy. He blinks, reaching out automatically, wrapping his arms around the puppy, holding it close. The puppy snuffles, and licks his chin.
“Holtzy,” Justin says, weakly, and Holster casually lifts Justin’s legs off the couch and settles himself under them. The puppy licks his chin, again.
“I didn’t know whether to name him Falcon or Shark,” Holster says, reaching out to pick up the puppy. “I figure we should name him after one of the teams. But I can’t tell who would be insulted if I didn’t use their team as his name, you know?”
“We could get another dog,” Justin says, not really meaning it.
“Nah,” Holster says. “We can take care of one because one of us will always be around and we can take it for runs with us in the morning and stuff, but two would be too much. I don’t wanna stress you out even more before your med school finals and junk. Plus,” and he kisses the dog on the top of its head, fondly, “I already don’t think any dog could compare to him.”
“Maybe we should name him something else, then,” Justin says, and ignores the warm feeling in his stomach at the sight of Holster cuddling the dog. “Like Bear.”
“Ooh, I like it,” Holster says, and beams at the dog. “He does kinda look like a little black bear, right, buddy?”
The puppy chews contentedly on the collar of Holster’s shirt, which Holster appears to take as a yes.
“You have the best ideas, Rans,” Holster adds, detaching the puppy from his collar and handing him back to Justin. “I gotta change into some sweats. Wearing suits for work is fucking brutal.”
He’s already half out of his suit -- tie hanging loose, shirt untucked, jacket tossed somewhere -- but he still looks buttoned up, a tiny bit uncomfortable. Justin nods, and pulls the puppy closer.
“You look good in them, though,” he says, because he always says what he thinks with Holster, and Holster does look good in suits. Holster grins, pleased.
“Still uncomfortable as fuck, though,” he says, and then, still grinning, “thanks, Rans.”
“Just the truth, bro,” Justin says, and smiles back.
His panic from earlier has receded. It was gone the second Holster walked into the room. But Justin still feels wrung out and confused, he always does after panicking like that. Bear nibbles on his fingers, and Justin lets him. He hears a thud from the next room, and then Holster swearing to himself.
He doesn’t call out Holtzy, you okay? like he usually would. And he doesn’t chirp Holster for it either, which is what he does the rest of the time.
He looks at Bear, who is chewing away.
“If it was anyone else,” he says, “and they brought a puppy into the house and expected me to keep it, I’d be pissed.”
Bear doesn’t seem to mind that he came so close to homelessness.
“But it was Holster. Everything’s okay with him.”
Bear stops chewing and looks up at him, making another snuffly ‘woof’ noise, and Justin sighs and scratches Bear under the chin.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
[freshman year of college]
“I’m Justin,” Justin says. “Oluransi.”
“Cool, bro,” the blonde guy says. “I’m Adam Birkholtz. I’m a d-man. I guess you are too?”
“Yeah,” Justin says, and thinks, and quickly dismisses, this guy is crazy hot.
“Oluransi,” Adam says, sounds it out. “O-lu-ran-si. Ran-si. Ransom.” He glances back over at Justin, grinning. “I’mma call you Ransom, is that cool?”
“Sure,” Justin says. “Whatever you say, Holster.”
“Holster!” Adam -- Holster -- says, his eyes lighting up. “I fucking love that! The guys on my old time used to call me Birks. But Holster is way better.”
“I didn’t have an old team,” Justin says. “I mean, I sorta did, people in my neighborhood used to play, but it wasn’t formal. So no hockey nicknames.”
“Bro,” Holster says. “That means I gave you your first hockey nickname. ‘Swawesome.”
His grin is infectious.
The next thing Justin knows, it’s seven at night and they’ve been sitting in the Haus talking for hours, and a guy named Shitty is sitting on the couch next to them.
“Looks like our new d-men are getting along!” he says, and grins, and he’s not wearing a shirt, so that’s happening.
“Bro,” Holster says, and he sounds really happy, and Justin grins hard at him, because he can already tell it’s gonna be coded in his DNA pretty damn soon to make Holster happy, any way he can. “This is my new best friend, right here.” He pulls Justin into a sudden, tight hug, and Justin laughs against his shoulder, and the guy named Shitty is laughing too, smacking them both on the back.
“Brah,” he says, “I bet you guys are gonna be sick as a team,” and Justin thinks that Jesus fuck, I’ve been talking with him for hours and I want to talk to him for approximately 1000 more hours and this is probably the closest thing there is to a soul mate on this earth and , earth-shatteringly, I don’t feel anxious at all right now.
“Yeah,” he says, muffled against Holster’s shoulder. “I bet we’re gonna be ‘swawesome.”
“Bro,” Holster says, absolutely delighted, “that’s my word.”
[senior year of med school]
Holster drags him to a farmer’s market that Saturday, and Justin goes, even though he should probably be studying for his quiz on Tuesday. Holster bargains with him, though, telling him Bear can sleep in his room tonight, and that he’ll take Bear to the park for a couple hours on Monday night so Justin can study, and he can’t do anything after that except agree.
“What do you want for dinner tonight?” Justin asks, absentmindedly, and Holster scowls at him.
“Bro, we’ve been over this, you don’t have to cook for me.”
“I don’t pay shit for rent, it’s the least I can do,” Justin argues, because they have had this fight a million times already, so he knows how it goes.
“You’re not a fucking tenant,” Holster says, and angrily pays for a box of peaches, because Bitty is visiting on Wednesday and he’ll want something to bake with. “You’re my best friend. You don’t have to pay me rent because it’s not a fucking trial for us to live together.”
“I live in the apartment!” Justin says. “If I live here I have to pay rent! That’s how it fucking works! And if I can’t pay rent I should at least do something else!”
“That’s not how it works,” Holster says, his voice tight. “I’m the one that works, and that’s just how it’s happening right now. You’re still in school. When you graduate with ten thousand honors and get a sick job as a doctor and make a million a year you can help with rent, and we can probably move to, like, a penthouse or something and get another dog. But for now you don’t have to do shit. You’re doing school. That’s your job.”
Justin tries not to think about the new turn this argument has taken, the one where Holster seems to find it common knowledge that they are going to share an apartment, forever. His heart is, suddenly, in his throat, and what his mother said earlier is pushing on his brain. I’m not your boyfriend, he wants to say, but it would feel too mean, too much of a jab. You don’t need to be the fucking breadwinner. I can help.
The thing is, though, he doesn’t know if telling Holster he’s not his boyfriend would hurt Holster and win the fight, or if it would just hurt Justin, because he kind of -- doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He feels like it would hurt them both. It’s too mean. He can’t say it.
Holster would be a great boyfriend. Not controlling or selfish or whatever the fuck Justin is thinking about implying.
“I just mean --”
“I know what you mean,” Holster says, and looks away. “I just -- it’s not a burden. You’re my best friend. You’re like, it. I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.”
Then he walks two booths over the look at something green and leafy, as if he doesn’t realize that Justin’s heart is pounding in his ears.
“You can’t just say that and walk away,” he says. “There’s nothing I can do in return for something like that.”
Holster looks at him like he’s really and truly pissed. “Don’t you get it?” he says, and before Justin can answer, he shakes his head. “You don’t have to do shit in return. I don’t do this because I expect something from you, you asshole. I do it because you’re my best fucking friend.”
“Maybe that’s why I want to make dinner, too,” Justin argues.
“It’s not, though,” Holster says. “I know it’s not. You want to cook because you think you owe me something. Because you hate charity. But this isn’t charity, Rans. This is just ‘cause you deserve it. It’s ‘cause I want to do it. It’s ‘cause I want -- I dunno, everything. For you.”
And he walks away again, carrying the peaches and what looks like kale, leaving Justin alone to deal with that.
[junior year of college]
Holster is giggling, pink cheeked, leaning against Justin as the two of them climb the stairs to the attic. They can hear Bitty singing along to whatever song is playing, back downstairs, Chowder laughing and Shitty attempting to harmonize, but Justin has a quiz in two days so he needs to study tomorrow so he needs some sleep, and Holster came with him, because “it’s not as fun without you, bro.”
“Brooo,” Holster is saying, his arm draped over Justin’s shoulder. Holster is a cuddler by nature, so this isn’t new. The way he’s pressing his whole face into Justin’s neck is pretty new, though.
“Yeah, bro,” Justin says, hiding his grin. He’s probably just as wasted as Holster is, but Holster is so fucking funny when he’s drunk -- he just gets cuddly and endlessly happy, even more so than when he’s sober. (It’s sweet more than it is funny, but there are lines you don’t exactly cross with the bro-code, and staring into your bro’s eyes and thinking he’s sweet is one of them.)
Justin has a vague feeling that Shitty would have something to say about that, but Shitty is still downstairs singing badly along with Britney.
“I love this song,” Holster giggles as they steer each other into their room. “Bro, I wanna dance.”
“I wanna sleep,” Justin says. “Quiz on Monday.”
“Bro,” Holster says, “you’re right, ” and then he looks really pleased, as if he’s had an excellent idea. “Let’s sleep.”
Justin laughs. “That’s what I just said, bro.”
Holster lays down heavily in his bunk, and then reaches up and pulls Justin down with him. In the resulting fumbling, Justin ends up with his head in the curve of Holster’s neck, which is fine with him, because they cuddle a lot when they’re watching sad movies, and Holster is warm and comfy, and Drunk Holster sleeps better when he’s cuddling someone anyway, so --
Holster kisses the side of his neck, sleepily.
“G’night, Rans,” he says, and slides an arm around Justin’s middle. Justin stays still, feeling the kiss like there’s a mark left behind, a lip-print the shape of Holster’s mouth.
“Holtzy,” he says, “you kissed me.”
“Yeah,” Holster mumbles, and kisses him again, in the same spot, and laughs -- giggly and drunk. “I did. Now I did it twice!”
“Why’d you kiss me?”
“‘Cause I love you, Rans,” he says, and Justin can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Duuuhhh.”
“Oh,” Justin says. To Drunk Justin, it seems to make sense.
He rolls over, and aims to kiss Holster on the neck, too -- because he loves Holster, that’s his best fucking friend, right there -- but Holster moves, a little, and Drunk Justin is pretty clumsy as it is, so he ends up kissing Holster on the jaw, instead.
It’s nice. Holster is warm, and his stubble is scratchy. Justin kinda wants to kiss him again, so he does, on the neck this time, and his stomach feels all warm and soft like Bitty’s cookies, and it could be the tub juice but he’s pretty sure it’s Holster.
“Love you too, bro,” he says, and drops his head back onto Holster’s shoulder. Holster makes a soft, happy noise, and cuddles him closer.
The last thing Justin hears is Holster humming along to the Britney song coming from downstairs, his fingers tracing circles on Justin’s side, and it’s warm and nice, and he wants to stay this way forever, kinda.
That, he thinks drowsily, is definitely the tub juice talking.
(In the morning, Holster says, Bro, we were schwasted, right? and he’s laughing, and grinning, and he hugs Justin hard before getting out of the bottom bunk to go shower, and Justin remembers stubble and feeling warm and not much else, and he laughs too, because it figures they’d end up drunk cuddling all night.
Bro, he says, you got drool on my shirt, and Holster says I’ll wash it or whatever, bro, but you gotta study for that quiz or you’re gonna freak the fuck out tomorrow, and Justin just feels glad all over again that Holster has his back.)
[senior year of med school]
“Hey,” Justin says, once they’re back in the car, after the farmer’s market. “I’m sorry, dude.”
“It’s not --” Holster says, and looks away. “Look, it doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” Justin says, and carefully puts a hand on his shoulder.
“I just thought you got it,” Holster says. “Finally. But you -- you don’t, and that’s cool.”
“Got what?” Justin says, and tries to banish his frustration. This is about Holster, right now, not him. “What do I have to get? Explain it to me, bro.”
Holster’s mouth gets tight. “We’ve gone like four years without talking about it, Ransom. If you don’t know now, you’re not gonna know.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Unbelievable,” Holster mumbles, and starts the car. “Just -- not now, dude. Conversation tabled. You have a quiz to worry about, I have work. Shitty’s been on my ass about it anyway. Just -- not now.”
“Holster,” Justin says, then, when Holster doesn’t look at him, “ Adam. ”
“Not now,” Holster says, his voice still tight. “I swear to God, Rans, I’m gonna get super pissed, and I don’t wanna do that.”
“You have to talk to me about this,” Justin says.
“I don’t have to talk to you about jack shit,” Holster snaps, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “And I don’t wanna have this fight with you now.”
“I don’t want to have the fight at all!” Justin says, too loudly. “That’s why I want you to fucking talk to me about it --”
“Jesus fuck, Rans,” Holster says. “ Leave it. ”
And he’s never -- he’s literally never heard Holster sound that pissed before, not at him.
“Okay,” he says, and Holster’s shoulders relax. “Okay. Conversation tabled.”
“ Thank you,” Holster says. “Jesus.”
The rest of the ride home is silent, and Justin is just about to say something he’ll probably regret just to break the silence when Holster reaches over and lays a hand on his arm.
“Thanks, Rans,” he says. “I promise we’ll -- talk about this. Soon.”
“Okay,” Justin says, and it makes Holster smile, for real, and something hard and cold relaxes in Justin’s chest. “Okay.”
[senior year of college]
“Bro,” Justin says, “help me with this,” and Holster gets up immediately, leaning over his shoulder to stare at the computer screen.
“What’s that for?” he says, indicating the spreadsheet Justin’s been working on for the better part of three hours.
“Med schools,” he says, and Holster looks at the chart consideringly. Justin realizes as he does that he’s nervous about what Holster will say, more than he was when he Skyped with Shitty about it or when he talked to Bitty or Lardo or Chowder, whose mother is apparently a surgeon.
Holster is just sitting there, staring, so Justin starts to talk.
“I think my two favorites are Columbia and Harvard just because like -- Harvard is super good but it’s also close to Shitty and I know Lards is going over there too so I’d know some people, you know? But Columbia is like -- super super good so I probably won’t even get in so like -- I dunno. I need to apply lots of places, obviously. But like --”
“Dude,” Holster says. “You’d get accepted anywhere. You’re like a super genius. You have a 4.0. And you’re getting a paper published this year.”
“I might not, though.”
“Dude, you totally will,” Holster says. “I believe in you. You’re gonna get a ton of sick scholarships.” He rubs his hands comfortingly over Justin’s shoulders, and, like, all the stress rushes out of him at once. Holster has magic hands or something.
“Where are you going?” he asks, and Holster’s hands stop moving. He smiles, and something about it seems fake to Justin; falsely casual.
“I dunno, bro,” he says. “Shitty wants to start a law firm -- when he gets out, I mean. He says he’s gonna try to focus on cases that deal with inequality and shit, like equal pay for women and discrimination, and all that, and he said I could, like, come and start it with him, if I wanted. Since I’ll have, like, a business degree.”
Justin socks him in the arm. “Adam Fucking Birkholtz, CEO.”
Holster laughs. “Whatever, bro.”
“Wait, though,” Justin says. “Shitty doesn’t finish school for two more years. Even if he opens the firm straight out of school --”
“Yeah,” Holster says. “I mean, I want to do it. Shitty’s a good guy. And it’d be a good job.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Just means I have to pick up work somewhere else for a couple years. So I’m a free agent, Rans. I’ll go where you go.”
“Really?” Justin says. It’s like there’s something light and golden-colored in his stomach, a sun, rising up. It’s like -- this huge weight is lifted, knowing he won’t have to survive the next couple years, and med school, without Holster.
Holster shrugs. “I’ll get a job,” he says. “How hard can it be?” He’s grinning, and Justin is reminded suddenly of freshman year, meeting Holster, and thinking he’d do anything to see him grin like that.
“And we’ll stick together?” he says, again, like he can’t believe it, and maybe he can’t.
Holster shrugs, again, but he’s smiling. “I got your back, bro,” he says. “For however long you wanna keep putting up with me.”
“Bro,” Justin says, a little overwhelmed. “I -- fucking -- thank you, Holtzy.” He stumbles up from the chair, and hugs Holster hard. “I don’t wanna do this shit without you.”
“I got you, bro,” Holster says, muffled against Justin’s shoulder. “I got you. We’re gonna get a cheap-ass apartment and live like kings.”
Justin laughs, and Holster grins that beautiful fucking grin of his, and Justin thinks -- Harvard, then, because that’s gotta be his number one school, if that’s where Holster is gonna end up -- in Boston, in a law firm with Shitty, someday.
He still applies to Columbia, though. Just to see if they take him.
[senior year of med school]
He and Holster end up making dinner together, the air still a little tense after the fight they’d had. Holster is peeling carrots and looking deep in thought, a weirdly empty look on his face, like he was purposefully not letting Justin see what he was thinking. It was super frustrating, but Justin reluctantly accepted that he probably deserved it, and went on making tomato sauce and pasta, chewing on his lip.
“Hey,” Holster says, finally. “So what’s on your schedule this week? Besides the quiz.”
It’s usually something they text about, schedules, but Justin grabs on to the topic gratefully. He can’t take the silence much longer.
“I have the quiz, yeah,” he says. “I have work Friday through Sunday, and --” He rubs his eyes, thinking. “Bitty’s coming Wednesday, and we’re gonna see Jack play with him. I have to get some shit done for my thesis, too.” He stirs the sauce and throws in some more oregano. “Jamal and Helena wanted us to come over for dinner, too. I said I’d see.”
He doesn’t look at Holster when he says this.
“Shits wants me to come in and get all our books in order for the month,” Holster says, then, tentatively, “I think Lards is gonna be back in town soon too, maybe we could all find a time to get together again.”
“Bust out the old tub juice recipe,” Justin jokes, and Holster laughs, and he’s -- relieved. That things aren’t gonna stay weird. They’re talking, joking, like they always do.
His mother’s words float back to him -- worst fight we ever had was during tax season -- and he feels his neck and ears go hot, at the accuracy and at the comparison of him and Holster to a married couple.
“Rans?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, what?”
“You’re, like, a mile away,” Holster says, then frowns. “Are you getting anxious about something? Is it our fight? ‘Cause I promise, I’m good. I’m not mad at you or anything.”
“It’s not that,” Justin says, then wants to fucking punch himself, because he just admitted he was anxious about something and now Holster is gonna want to try to figure it out. And since when does he try to hide being anxious from Holster? Holster is like the one person who he can actually talk about his anxiety with. Why the fuck does he want to hide it?
(Because he’s anxious about their -- friendship, or what the fuck ever. Because he can’t stop thinking about what his mom said and he doesn’t know what the fuck that means.)
Holster looks like he’s going to question him, for a second, but then he looks back to the carrots.
“Okay,” he says. “If you need to talk, I got you.”
“Thanks, man,” Justin says, and feels like a shitty best friend and a shittier human being. “C’mon, hurry up with the carrots. The sauce is ready.”
“Bossy,” Holster says, but speeds up anyway.
[sophomore year of med school]
Justin loses his phone at the end of a shitty Friday at the end of a really shitty week, and that’s bad enough before he realizes he was supposed to call Holster for a ride home at the end of the day, and he doesn’t have any way to get a cab or take the subway or anything, because he never carries cash and uses his phone to pay for everything.
This, Justin thinks wildly, is the danger of technology.
He realizes he’s closer to an anxiety attack than he’s been in the better part of five years when Helena from class puts her hand on his elbow and asks if he’s okay, and a shudder rips through him that’s very close to revulsion. His body tends to go don’t fucking touch me when he’s panicking, even with someone he knows, even with Holster.
Speaking of.
“I need a --” he grits out, through his teeth, making a gesture with one hand that Helena can interpret however she wants. “Phone. Please.”
She seems to get the idea after a few more seconds of hand-waving and hands him her phone, unlocking it and swiping to the keypad.
He dials Holster’s cell; hears an old echo of that promise, ride or die.
“Hello?” Holster says. “This is Adam Birkholtz.” He sounds professional, composed. He almost doesn’t sound like Holster.
“Holtzy,” Justin says, and sucks in a breath. “Lost my phone -- I’m kinda --”
“Woah, hey,” Holster says, and his voice gentles, turns back into Holster instead of Adam Birkholtz. “Bro, it’s okay, I’m really close. You didn’t text so I was just gonna come see if you needed a ride anyway. Are you breathing okay? You need to sit down?”
“I just lost my phone,” Justin says, through a lot of weird catches in his breathing, which makes it come out sounding stupid, choppy, like a staticky radio. “I don’t even know why I got so --”
“Hey, anxiety doesn’t follow rules, bro,” Holster says, “just gimme five minutes, we can go home and watch a movie. You can pick. I bet you had a shitty week if losing your phone fucked you up so bad.” His tone is conversational. It really, really helps.
Justin takes a deep breath and nods his head, then remembers Holster can’t see him. “Okay. I’m next to the main building.”
“Five minutes,” Holster promises. “Want me to stay on the phone?”
Justin thinks about it, and slowly shakes his head. He’s still anxious, but not shaky; not in danger of a panic attack. Holster helped, because Holster always helps.
“No,” he says. “I’m okay. Thanks, Holtzy.”
“Hey,” Holster says, still in that gentle way. “I got your back, bro.”
He gets there five minutes later, as promised, and wraps his arms around Justin for a good, long minute as Justin feels his heart settle back where it’s supposed to be in his body. They’re just about to leave when a guy runs up to Helena, panting and holding out a phone.
“Hey,” he says, “is this yours?”
Justin leans over and grabs it. “You found my phone!”
“Yesss!” Holster says, punching the air. “Bro, I would have hated having to re-take all our best selfies.”
“Dude, you’re so right,” Justin says. “Thanks, man.”
“Hey, no problem,” the guy says, but he’s smiling at Helena. “I’m Jamal.”
“Hi,” she squeaks, and that’s Helena and Jamal’s meet-cute. (Justin is always pretty pleased to have a place in the story.)
“Rans,” Holster says, when it becomes clear that Jamal and Helena are a lot more interested in each other than in the thanks of the guy who they rescued from certain panic, “let’s go home and watch a movie, huh?”
“Sure, Holtzy,” Justin says, and Holster wraps an arm around his shoulders, and his heart is beating slow and even, and Holster’s arm is warm. “Sure.”
[senior year of med school]
Justin learned a long time ago that he doesn’t like not knowing things.
He thinks it’s probably part of the reason he wanted to be a doctor -- doctors have all the answers. They look at the details and the symptoms and make it into a bigger picture. And Justin likes that -- he likes being the guy who has the answer, the guy who can help in the situation instead of sitting around and panicking or making it worse.
It extends to other stuff, too. He liked being the only other person in the Haus who spoke Quebecois, because it meant he understood what Jack was saying when he was on the phone with his parents. And he never thought of that in a snooping or nosy way -- he could just understand. That was enough.
(His anxiety went crazy when Nursey moved onto the team and Skyped his family using the Haus’s internet, talking in rapid Spanish for half an hour at a time in the living room. Justin signed up for Spanish I a month after, and downloaded Duolingo onto his phone, and spent the next couple of months teaching himself the basics of conversational Spanish.)
He used to read books of trivia when he was younger -- his third-grade teacher had stacks of them, and during reading hour he’d memorize a page a day, each fact making him feel more safe, less exposed. He knew that the Nile was one of the only rivers that flowed generally northward instead of southward, and after a quick trip to Google he knew the other rivers that did that, too. He knew that a child usually had 20 baby teeth before the adult ones grew in. He knew that it took 22 years to build the Taj Mahal. And every new bit of information made him feel, for a moment, incredibly safe. He knew this now. No one could take it away from him. The fact of it, the solidity, was his, forever.
Anyway, the point is that he doesn’t like to not understand things. It makes him nervous, anxious, twitchy. He knows it’s an irrational fear, but he worries that the information will disappear if he doesn’t understand it, and that he’ll never get the chance to learn it again.
And the anxiousness and the panic are at high levels over this Thing with Holster.
Despite how smart Justin is -- and he doesn’t have a problem with saying that he’s smart -- he has always had to work to understand things. He busted his ass learning Spanish, or he read the same page of the trivia book over and over until he’d memorized all the facts. But despite how hard it can be, it’s never been hard with Holster. Somehow, Justin understands him without needing to think about it, or worry about it, or wonder that he doesn’t know enough, that some tiny detail of what makes Holster Holster is going to escape his notice. He’s never not understood Holster -- until today, when he learned that he’s missed something that is apparently very big in possibly the most important person in his life’s life. Something that Holster has not talked to him about for four years.
All of this is making Justin, understandably, very close to a panic attack.
Bear, sitting on Justin’s bed, is helping by virtue of being adorable, and also because Justin knows a lot of facts about Bear and he’s attempting to write them all down to remind him that he does know things and he’s not a failure. He runs out of Bear Facts after two pages on his notepad, though, and so, thinking that it will a) reduce his anxiety and b) maybe help him figure out what’s wrong, he gets a new notepad and starts writing down Holster Facts.
He starts with the basics: works with Shitty, middle name is David, likes rom-coms, LOVES 30 Rock, hates chocolate ice cream, cuts his own hair, hums made up songs when he’s happy, likes to harmonize instead of singing the actual tunes to songs, does a super good Patrick Star impression, has three sisters. He fills up a page with basics. But then he starts putting some less-basic things, things that are less impersonal fact and more fact-to-Justin, but it doesn’t matter: they’re still true.
-always makes me feel way better when I’m anxious
-really good at making pizza
-I want to make him happy as much as possible
-brought a dog home
-doesn’t like wearing suits
-likes to cuddle with people
-really likes to cuddle with me
-always has my back
-hates cucumbers
-doesn’t want to talk about this thing that’s bothering him with me
-talks about everything else with me even stuff that bothers him
-must have a good reason why he doesn’t want to talk about this
-only doesn’t talk to me about shit when he thinks it’ll piss me off
-he thinks mystery thing will piss me off?
-I feel safe around him
-he’s my best bro
-gave me my first hockey nickname
-believes in ghosts
-I’m his best bro
-my mom thinks we’re boyfriends
-to be fair we do a lot of things boyfriends do minus kissing
-and holtzy cares about me like he loves me
-so it’s not a weird assumption really
-really loves harry potter
Justin freezes and looks over the list.
“Oh, shit,” he mumbles, looking at the second to last one. “Oh, shit. Holster loves me.”
It makes sense, really. It’s all clicking into place. Holster loves him, and Holster wants him to pass med school and not have to worry about rent, he wants the two of them to keep living together forever, and he doesn’t want to talk about it because he thinks it’ll piss Justin off, and Justin doesn’t know if he’s excited from having figured it out or if the swooping feeling in his stomach is excitement from something else --
He looks at the list again.
I want to make him happy as much as possible, the list says. I feel safe around him. Makes me feel way better when I’m anxious. He’s my best bro. Mom thinks we’re boyfriends.
“Oh, shit,” Justin says, and stands up and runs across the hall.
Holster looks up when he bangs open the door, and stands there in the doorway with his heart in his throat.
“You love me,” he says, and he knows his face doesn’t leave it up for interpretation. It doesn’t leave room for Holster to say yeah, of course I do, you’re my best friend.
Holster swallows hard, and looks away.
Justin can think of a million things that, like, made sense in the context of being best bros, but make way more sense now. Holster with his head on Justin’s lap as they watch movies. Holster helping him up the stairs after a wild party, talking him down during exam season, the weird rush of happiness he always gets when Holster wears his clothes or gives him a hug or smiles at him in that gorgeous, bright way he has.
“You love me,” he repeats. Holster looks back, and he looks really fucking scared, and Justin smiles, as wide and happy as he can, which is pretty wide, and pretty happy. “Holster. That’s ‘swawesome.”
“What?” Holster is shocked. He’s opening and closing his mouth, but finally he stops, and looks confused. “Why?”
“Because I love you too,” Justin says. “I like, super love you, Holtzy.”
It finally makes sense, he thinks. He loves Holster.
“Rans,” Holster says, weakly, and he smiles.
Justin stumbles across the room and fits his hands on the sides of Holster’s face, and kisses him like there’s no fucking tomorrow. Holster stands, the chair he was sitting in clattering on the floor, and his hands hold on tight the Justin’s waist and the angle changes and fuck, yes, Holster’s stubble scratches against his mouth and Justin slides one of his hands into Holster’s hair and the other around his neck, holding their bodies as close together as he can --
“Back up,” Holster says, pulling away, “back up. You love me?”
“Yeah,” Justin says happily. “I mean, I’ve been a fucking idiot about it, but -- I dunno, it’s like I always have.”
“You gotta explain that, man,” Holster says. “Because ever since fucking senior year, I wanted -- I wanted this, I just didn’t say shit about it.”
Justin wants to kiss him again, but he doesn’t. Holster deserves an explanation.
“I liked you from, like, the start,” Justin says. “From the first time I met you I was like -- woah, he’s crazy hot. But then we started, like, talking to each other, and hanging out, and I was like, this is my best fucking friend. And I was -- shit, Holtzy, I was eighteen and stupid but I already knew I would rather have you in my life for, like, forever as my best bro instead of sucking your dick at a Haus party and having it be awkward forever. So I just -- ignored it. And after a while I figured it went away, because I could cuddle you and shit without getting all -- nervous.”
“But it didn’t go away,” Holster says, and Justin laughs, and shakes his head.
“No, it just -- I don’t know how to explain it. Like -- the nervousness, and the butterflies and shit all went away, but that’s just because, like, I know you, you know? I know you better than I know anyone. I didn’t stop loving you. I love the fuck out of you. It just -- changed. It wasn’t a crush anymore. It was just -- love.” He laughs, again. “And my dumb ass didn’t even realize it. I thought I got over it, isn’t that hilarious? And then my mom asked me when you were fucking proposing to me and I lost my shit. It was like bi panic, volume 2.”
Holster is laughing now, too, his hands curling around Justin’s waist to hold him close, and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to Justin, ever.
“Rans,” he says, affectionately, “you are the smartest person I know, but that was hardcore stupid.” He leans over, and kisses Justin, gently. “I love the fuck out of you, you big dummy.”
“Ha,” Justin says. “Then I love the fuck out of you too, you asshole.”
Holster kisses him again, a good, long kiss, his hands slipping from Justin’s waist to his hips, and pulling the two of them closer together. Justin has to break the kiss to gasp, his hands finding Holster’s hair and pulling. Holster changes tactics, and kisses his neck, biting just a little, and Justin can feel Holster’s dick in his jeans, and fuck, fuck, fuck.
“The bed’s right there,” he says, half a gasp, and Holster laughs against his neck.
“What if I want you to buy me dinner first?”
“Then I’d say you’re a motherfucking tease,” Justin says, and tugs Holster’s mouth back up to his. He bites Holster’s lip, rocks their bodies together. Holster moans, and pulls him back into a kiss, and Justin can feel Holster’s stubble again, and he probably (definitely) really, really likes that. He spares a moment to think about how good stubble would feel on his thighs -- okay, yes, he really, really fucking likes that -- and slides his hands under Holster’s shirt, tugging at the hem.
They have to pull apart to get their shirts off -- Holster makes this desperate noise in the back of his throat, and his hands are back on Justin as soon as he can get them there, walking him towards the bed. Justin starts laughing again, muffling it against Holster’s shoulder, just because he’s so fucking happy, and this is so fucking surreal, and it’s Holster, pulling him down onto the bed and looking at him so fondly -- so lovingly -- that he could burst.
“Rans,” Holster says, and he’s laughing, too, “are we gonna have sex, or what?”
“Just gimme a second,” Justin says, grinning so hard his face hurts. “Gimme a second, Holtzy. I gotta take it all in.”
“You’re such a fucking weirdo,” Holster says, but he’s beaming, too. “Kiss me.”
And Justin has never been able to say no to Holster when he’s smiling like that, so he does.