IN HIND SIGHT, Bram should've paid heed to Caleb's advice and not picked a comedy to watch on his IKEA futon at 11 o'clock. But he had been so caught up in Tom Holland's whirlwind of a smile and suggestion that here he was— shallow breathing and gnawing the inside of his lip raw as his fingers pulled loose threads out of his pillows.

Granted the couch wasn't very big, barely enough room for the two boys, and in the instance when Bram's leg accidentally grazed Tom's knee he pulled it away as if he had burned himself on the latter's skin. A metaphorical hiss of heat exhaled from the contact and the Fletcher boy prayed the Brit didn't notice as he tucked his knees to his chest in a tangle of ankle socks and American Eagle joggers.

Bram didn't know the title of the movie they were watching for the life of him, and to be frank he didn't really care about the title because all that was important was that Tom found it hysterical and it kept from awkward small talk. Any ounce of confidence that stowed away in the pads of his fingertips when he texted the boy across from him was lost the moment he walked into the rental's door. Scratch that— the moment he arrived by set with a cheeky grin plastered on his face for Bram to take him back to his place.

A quick apology for getting in so late due to voiceover work and a half hour later, the two's eyes were fixated on the over saturated pixels of the tv screen, letting actors say words to fill the audacious space they couldn't themselves. A vaguely familiar, middle aged man muttered something under his breath, Bram couldn't quite pick his brain to remember since he was so focused on the threads of his pillow, and Tom laughed which sent another thread of hiccups in the former's chest.

Because for Christ's sake it was Tom Holland an arm reach away from him and he could hardly inch closer without wincing a shade of crimson.

His eyes traced a pattern from the coffee table with day old soda cans (damn, he should've cleaned up) to Tom's profile, taking in the curls of hair that tucked behind his ear in wispy tendrils and thrived at the nape of his neck. He could tell when he was about to laugh because his nose would twitch a little, wrinkles building up on the bridge and then his dimple would carve a crescent into his cheek before he even made a sound.

And if his heart really could fall out of his ass whenever the Holland boy exhaled a giggle, he would've had to go to the ER on twenty six separate occasions just tonight. Not that he had been counting.

Way to be a fucking creep. Bram thought to himself and yanked his gaze back towards the movie— which wasn't actually half bad in the parts that he did catch.

Tom's fingers fiddled with the silver chain around his neck as the commercial break cut Paul Rudd mid thought, his peripheral vision faltering at the edges but still picking up Bram's glances. He twisted his torso and extended his leg to nudge the other boy's thigh, a thoughtful smile playing on his lips.

"Hey, you good? For someone who talks so much over the phone you've been pretty quiet."

Bram's mind tried to register the words he spoke, but the sudden presence of Tom's leg draped near his own and the fact his Spiderman socks were tucked under the crook of his own leg drowned out any other function his brain could process. Including his stupid mouth.

He opened it as if to say something, but quickly snapped it shut as he ran a flustered and clumsy hand through his hair.

"Oh, yeah. M'sorry I had a long day filming today." Bram huffed out slowly, clutching the slightly tacky pillow that matched the drapes to his chest and forcibly willing his eyes not to look at Tom's leg because that would be fucking weird.

"Right, because spending hours relaxing in a pool is sounds so tiring." His tone was dry and sarcastic, but a smug grin pulled at the corners of his mouth and the crinkles by his eyes carved valleys in his skin. Bram could genuinely throw up, he was that cheeky and unapologetic.

"Okay, not everyone can be a fit as you, Thomas."

The Fletcher boy could feel whatever thread that held his skeleton together start to unravel, his joints letting himself loosen up and his ribs finally caving to let air through his lungs again. He sucked in a breath and nestled his head against the back of the sofa.

"You think I'm fit?" Tom asked with a slight wriggle in his brow which sent a rush of heat flooding to Bram's cheeks.

So much for loosening up.

"You're sleeping on the couch for that." He deflected as he stood himself up and chucked the pillow at the overly sculpted body on the other end of the couch.

The actor chuckled to himself before giving a slight shrug and resting the side of his jaw against the pillow, hugging the fabric tight.

Do not look at his arms Jesus Christ. Bram cursed as he massaged the back of his neck out of habit, taking in the side of his cheek with his teeth and shuffling his feet against the floorboards.

"I mean, I'm fine with that. Z wants to meet up early so the sleep won't be that long." Tom insisted with the wave of his hand, stretching out his long, fair limbs and cradling his hands behind his head.

"Are you serious? Trust me, that thing is just felt wrapped around cardboard. There's a king size down the hall."

"Isn't that your bed?"

"Well yeah," Bram breathed out, his eyes darting from the former's unreadable expression to the dimly lit hallway on his left.

"You don't have to sleep there of course. Ijustthoughtitmightbemorecompfortable." He finished hastily, the words falling off his tongue with an irregular panic.

Tom stretched his arms in the air, letting out a stifled yawn and the gray fabric of his shirt riding up against his stomach, exposing bare skin Bram chose to ignore for his own sake. He threw his legs over the couch and shuffled over to the boy across the room, gently nudging his shoulder with his.

"If you're fine with it, I'm fine with it."

THE MOMENT TOM slipped into Bram's 500 count thread sheets, his breath hitched from the other side of the cold bed. His pillow enveloped his ears but he could still count Tom's heartbeats as they pulsated rhythmically beside him, lulling him into a sleepless state.

The room was dark, Atlanta still wide awake and bustling outside of the glass pane, streetlights and cars whirring by dancing patterns of luminescence on the eggshell walls. They stretched across the room decor and Bram was sure they lit up Tom's face as he breathed silently but he was too scared to roll over and check.

A blaring red streak of 12:07 emitted a crimson haze on his cheeks as he watched the last number click to the next, his kind plagued with restless thoughts.

Tom Holland is right beside you and the amount of times you've thought about this, at least 1/3 of them you guys were banging. And now you can't even look at his stupid, pretty face without blushing you fucking idiot.

"Hey, Bram?" Tom asked croakily into the bedroom's air, his voice filling all the corners and every empty space in the condo. His warble was low and quiet and Bram didn't know if he was dreaming with his eyes open or if he really did say it.

He felt the Brit turn on his side, the shuffle of his hair against the pillow case drawing his gaze away from the alarm clock.

"Yeah?" He answered in what was caught between a choke and a breath, flipping on the side of his torso and leaning against his elbow for support. It dug into the mattress and the sudden shift of weight drew Tom closer to his line of sight.

He could make out the boy's features, a faintly grainy and gray image of his face staring back at him— blinking and flickering back and forth from his lips to his eyes.

Bram felt Tom's heartbeat speed up against the covers, rapid and underlying everything around them in a gentle hum. The sound of their quiet breathing was suddenly deafening as Tom's lips parted ever so slightly, the glint of chapstick illuminated by the city lights and red analog clock.

Their lips connected in a sudden flush of red cheeks and rhythmic pulses, Tom's hand coming up to hold Bram's cheek steady. He felt his fingers grasp at his hair, as their noses bumped slightly, the former leaning in against the other's chest. The kiss tasted like Carmex and home and it felt like finally. Bram could hardly compose a thought in the tangled, ruffled mess that was his brain in this moment.

Because, by god, it was Tom Holland kissing his lips sweetly until they were swollen and how was he supposed to process that?

Tom pulled away slightly, letting out a series of little huffs before hoarsely cutting the silence,

"Sorry. I didn't know if you wanted to—"

"Why are you apologizing?" Bram questioned, their faces close enough that their foreheads were touching in the dim lighting and Tom's hand was still cupping his face.

"I wasn't sure."

"Of course I wanted to, Tommy."

"It's just— I've never kissed a guy before. And yeah, I've definitely thought about it but—" He trailed off, pulling his fingertips away and sitting himself up straight.

"Definitely thought about it, huh?" Bram teased, his mouth still tingling from the contact and his heart a constant percussion rattling against his rib cage.

"Shut up."

But the pair didn't say anymore, instead they let themselves fall into a brief slumber, hearts still beating and lips still warm. Wait until Finn got a load of this.

authors note.
sorry i usually write better
when i have my laptop but
i wrote this all on my phone
in a car ride so yeet my sons
are on their way to being canon