Chapter Text
Cahersiveen, Co. Kerry
March 25th, 1994
Maybe it was his grandfather's lingering words or maybe just the freezing late-March breeze hitting Wil’s face with no remorse, but the farm felt life-threateningly eerie.
His grandfather had always been hard on him to say the least. He would make frequent remarks about Wil’s underwhelming love life and lack of friends.Wil never took too much notice of this. Until recently. Cillian's words would loop in his head like there was a constant whisper in his ear. A constant reminder he was lonely. It was driving him crazy.
For practically his whole life, Wil struggled to make friends. He hated that. It hurt him more than he could even admit. It made him feel unloveable. But, over time, he learned to find peace and freedom in alone time. Being the only American and the only Asian in a small town wasn’t easy. And having poor Irish skills while attending a gaelscoil was certainly a massive hindrance to developing any friendships. But at least he had Brando. That sweet boy across the world.
The heavy bucket of carrots that he held wobbled uncontrollably under his coarse, cold, hands. His tired eyes could barely focus on the road ahead of him.
When he finally reached the donkey's field, he placed the bucket down on the damp grass and opened the metal gate that was in desperate need of some WD-40.
The two donkeys immediately trotted across the field and over to Wil. And, yes, these donkeys had names. Eoin was the jack, he only liked Wil when he brought carrots. Orla was a jenny, she was Wil’s favourite animal on the whole farm.
After the donkeys, Wil went to the goat, the cows, and lastly the chickens.
Carrots were an occasional treat for the animals but, god, they really did love them.
Wil loved having a schedule for each day. He needed everything to slot perfectly into place, he needed the reassurance and comfort in knowing how exactly the day would roll out. And since moving to Ireland, that part of his brain was satisfied. The farm gave him a sense of routine. He loved it. But today, something in the back of his mind was fracturing this routine ever so slightly. He tried to ignore it. He had to ignore it.
As Wil was cycling home, it started to rain. Not heavy enough to be annoying but it still frustrated Wil just the tiniest bit.
He pushed the front door open with unnecessary force, his curls now marginally flattened from the rain.
The soft voice of his grandmother drifted from the kitchen. “Wilson, honey, is that you?”
“Yep. I was feeding the animals,” Wil replied quickly.
He stumbled into the small kitchen and onto a wooden chair placed at the breakfast bar.
The rain tapped gently against the window, the smell of something cinnamon-y filled the air, a warm light covered the room with a soft glow. It should have felt like home. But something wasn’t quite right. It never was.
“Your grandfather's gone to Superquinn for sausages.”
“Ah.” Wil nodded, “It’s so much quieter without him.”
Catherine turned and gave him a disapproving look.
“What? He always-” Wil started but immediately regretted speaking, “Nevermind, sorry.”
Cathrine just nodded and turned back to the stovetop.
After a few minutes of silence, Catherine spoke. “Elizabeth wrote.”
Wil perked up immediately, “Elizabeth? As in my mom?”
“Yes, your mother sent a letter.” Catherine answered with a slight smile.
Wilson’s mother hadn’t written to him since he moved, and he didn’t blame her. She was going through a tough time with all the paperwork and post-divorce stress. Wil missed her. A lot. And deep down, it hurt that it was her who stopped communicating. His uncle and a few of his cousins wrote. Not frequently, but still wrote nonetheless.
“Here.” Catherine placed a postcard down on the table. It looked worn. As if she hesitated to send it for at least a few years.
Dear Wilson,
I’ve missed you. And I’m sorry for not writing. I’m sure you understand why.
I hope Ireland is nice.
I moved to this cute suburban city called Round Rock. The neighbours are nice, they have a sweet girl who’s about your age.
Many good wishes,
Libby.
Wilson's eyes widened. Round Rock. That was Brando's hometown. And his mother now lived there!
The letter was disappointingly short. Well, of course, that was inevitable, it was only a postcard. But, for some strange reason, it made Wil upset. Or surprised. He hadn’t really understood what he felt. But that didn’t matter right now. His mom moved to Round Rock. That’s what really mattered.
Before he could process everything properly, the front door slammed closed. His grandfather was home.
“Oh thank you, Cillian,” Catherine said, taking the packet of sausages from her husband's hand.
He made a gruffly noise instead of an actual reply.
Cillian gestured to the postcard in Wil’s hand. “Brando, again, I assume.” His voice was harsh, as if he intended to start an argument.
Wil hadn’t got enough sleep last night to deal with this. “No, it’s from my mother.”
“You need to stop writing to him,” Cillian blurted out.
“What? To Bran? Why?” Wil’s expression looked like a mixture of anger and pure confusion.
“Wilson, that boy is giving you bad ideas,” he yelled, “Stop this nonsense. Don't even try to lie to me. You're letting down the Lannon family name all because you’re infatuated with some lad in America. You are nearly nineteen now! You can’t pretend this is right. Don’t act like I can’t see it. I can, and I’m disgusted. This isn’t a ‘friend’, it’s an obsession. You need to man up, Wilson.”
Wil didn’t trust his voice. He stared at his grandfather in complete horror.
“I’m protecting you. You’re too young, kid. You’re confused,” Cillian added, “Find a girl and stick with that. That’s how God intended. There’s plenty of pretty girls in your art club.”
That made Wil’s blood boil. He felt like the room around him was closing in. The only thing keeping him grounded was the feel of his cool tears against his scorching face.
“I am not confused,” he muttered, the words struggling to come out of his mouth. “And don’t put this on Brando!”
“That is not an appropriate way to talk to your grandfather!” Cillian snapped back, raising an arm.
Wilson flinched.
He didn’t think that his grandfather would hit him. Surely not. This was only another petty argument. Right?
His grandmother belatedly intervened.“Cillian, come on. Eat breakfast. Leave poor Wilson alone,” she said far too sweetly. Too forgiving.
Wilson darted to his bedroom.
He lay sprawled on his bed, letting the mattress swallow him.
Calm down, you’re okay, Wil. He told himself, wishing if he repeated the mantra enough it would be true.
He turned up his discman's volume to max, hoping that the music would drown out his thoughts. It didn't, of course.
This was the breaking point. Wil couldn’t keep hiding. He couldn’t bear the loneliness anymore.
All he knew at that moment was that he needed to leave. Something in him was indisputably pleading with him to go.
His addled brain searched for ideas.
Texas. Round Rock. His mother.
Brando.
Perfect!
Wil hesitantly lifted himself out of his bed, his limbs still shaking.
The plan was relatively simple: Write to Brando for advice, somehow get money for the flight, and lie to his grandparents about his mother asking him to come home.
He was most likely going back after summer for college anyway. But he couldn’t wait that long. Not when it harmed him this much to stay.
He picked up his pen, hand trembling as if it weighed a tonne.
Dearest Brando,
I’m so scared right now.
My grandfather is getting on my nerves. More than usual.
This isn’t an instant reaction. My thoughts have been haunting me for weeks. Months even. And I’m just so fucking lonely.
It’s hard to explain but I need to leave. Like as soon as possible. I can’t stay here, everything will only get worse.
My mother moved to Round Rock. Which is, firstly, a funny coincidence but it’s also a place for me to stay.
I’ve got two issues though. I don’t have enough money for the flights and I don’t know my mom’s exact address.
I still have belief. Somehow.
Brando, get me out of here. Please!
Sending much love and luck.
Yours forever,
Wilson.
His writing wasn’t neat today, it was rushed and desperate. However, It got the job done. And Wil had bigger problems to worry about.
His Polaroid camera didn’t even cross his mind this time. Not that he would’ve wanted to take a picture of himself with tear-stained cheeks anyway.
Now, he needed to post the letter.
Easy! There were so many possible lies to tell as an excuse to leave the house. And it wasn’t uncommon for Wil to go on spontaneous cycles throughout the day. So his grandfather wouldn’t question a thing.
Maybe Wil was finally free. Or perhaps it was slightly too optimistic trusting a guy across the world, who he never met, with such a problem. But his mother was there. And he genuinely trusted Brando with his whole life. He would figure it out.
Everything would end up being alright.
Austin, Texas
March 30th, 1994
Brando walked back upstairs after collecting the mail, the fluorescent stairwell lights stinging his bleary eyes.
The dormitory corridors were bleak as ever. Lights flickering above his head as his shoes brushed against the matted carpet. He thanked god, or whoever was up there, that his room had wooden floors.
He opened the door to see Aled already getting ready to go out. He chuckled under his breath.
“Aled, why do you get so much mail all the time?”
“Guess I’m just popular, Evans,” Aled answered with a shrug, dancing around the actual question.
He took the letters Brando was handing him.
Brando walked over to his bed and ripped open the envelope, as he always did, not knowing this letter would change his life.
He read the first line.
Wilson was scared?
He finished reading and set the letter down beside him.
Holy shit.
Ideas came in fast. Too fast. All his thoughts blurred before he could make any sense of them.
Fuck. Okay. Think properly, Brando.
You need to help. Now.
He snapped back into reality when Aled spoke.
“I’m just going to the cafe with Vita. I’ll be home in a few hours. Don’t set the place on fire!”
“Have fun, mate.” Brando looked over to him and forced a smile.
The door banged shut.
Brando was now alone, only accompanied by the unpleasant thought of Wil being afraid and the sound of wind whistling through the window.
He eventually gathered a slight idea on what to do about Wil’s situation. He just needed help.
He picked up the landline and rang Myles’ room.
His dorm wasn’t far away but Brando wasn’t feeling well enough to walk up more stairs. He hadn’t decided whether that was because of the aching bruise he had on his knee from a basketball injury or because of the distress he had felt after reading Wil’s letter. He knew deep down the latter was more accurate but he didn’t want to unpack that right now.
The phone made a faint buzzing noise.
“Hello, Myles Milner speaking.”
“Myles! Hi. It’s me.”
“Oh hey Brando! Why are you calling?”
“Big, big issue. Wil-he-I-his-Wil-” Brando tried to form a sentence but it came out in useless stutters.
“Okay slow down, mate. What happened to Wil?” Myles asked, voice slightly confused but more concerned.
“He’s just really overwhelmed. He said he needs to leave!”
“Leave?”
“Leave Ireland, dumbass!”
“Right. Yes. So …?”
“I have to help. His mom lives in Round Rock now, which is cool, but he doesn’t have money for a flight.”
“Alright. Brando, take a deep breath. I’ll be over to you in a few minutes,” Myles continued, “He means a lot to you, eh?”
“Thank you so much Myles!” Brando sighed with relief, “Yeah, I mean, we are really close. I don’t want him to be hurt, of course. Wil’s a good guy.”
“I’m sure,” Myles answered, giggling like he had just proven a point.
“Well, see you soon. Be quick, this is serious!”
“God. You’re ridiculous, Brando.”