She won't be like this anymore, now that she knows.

She won't try so hard anymore, now that she knows.

She won't smile at him anymore, now that she knows—and she won't be so nice to him anymore, and she won't invite him to all her parties with personalized cards anymore, and she won't keep trying anymore, and she won't hug him anymore—not now that she knows—she definitely won't hug him anymore now that she knows—won't ever lock her arms around him no matter how much he protests, won't press her cheek against his and put her chin on his shoulder and giggle when he starts shouting at her, purple bracelet blooming on her wrist, chiming obnoxiously, her voice so bright and loud and excited in his ear as she yells at him to hug her back—no, she won't be like that anymore now that she knows, she won't be so nice and friendly and good to him anymore now that she knows, she'll never want to be near him again now that she knows, she'll keep her distance when they get back to the village, if they survive that long—she won't do any of that stuff anymore, now that she knows—something hot and sour bubbles up in Branch's stomach, rising to the back of his throat, and he feels almost sick.

It's—it's a good thing, when he stops to think about it—it's good that she won't come around anymore—it's good, that she won't ask him to come to her parties—it's good, that she knows the truth—now she can hate him, and she doesn't have to feel guilty for giving up on him because now she knows what he did—it's a good thing, because now she'll leave him alone—and that's the way he wants to be, and if he repeats that often enough to himself, over and over until he's out of breath, maybe one day, it'll finally be true—he's alone, and he's always going to be alone, and it's fine—he doesn't need anyone—he's fine—

And then Poppy—

Poppy rushes forward, and flings her arms around his neck—and she presses her cheek against his and puts her chin on his shoulder, and he thinks maybe he's forgotten how to breathe and he can't—he doesn't—he can't—

"Whoa, whoa." The words, when he finally manages to push them off his tongue, sound at least semi-steady. "What are you doing? It's not Hug-Time." But he doesn't—he doesn't tell her to stop—he doesn't remind her of what he did—doesn't remind her that unless she's careful, unless she steers clear of him, he could hurt her, too—he doesn't push her away—doesn't yell at her until she's too upset to even think of hugging anyone—he lets her—he lets her—and he knows he shouldn't, but God—she knows, and she's still—

"I just thought you could use one." Poppy presses herself even closer to him—like she wants to be near him—like she feels like she can't get near enough and—

—and it feels good.

That horrible, hot, sour feeling—he doesn't feel it anymore—that awful voice in the back of his mind that never shuts up—it's gone quiet—he can't hear it anymore—he waits—he listens for it—he listens for it because any second now, it's going to start up again, going to tell him he should push her away and yell at her and do whatever it takes to make her hate him because after what he's done he doesn't deserve anyone being so nice to him, especially not someone as good as Poppy—and he knows he doesn't, but she's—she's still here anyway—she's not—she doesn't—she doesn't hate him—she knows what he did—and she doesn't hate him—God, she's even hugging him, and it—it doesn't feel wrong—doesn't feel like he should push her away—doesn't feel like if she knew, she wouldn't be doing it—because she does know—and she's doing it anyway, and it—it feels good, and Branch—

—wonders if it'll always feel this good, and hopes to hell and back it will, and wonders if maybe she'll never stop being nice to him and inviting him to her parties and smiling at him and wonders if maybe she'll never leave him alone and if maybe they can be something like friends when this is over—

—Branch doesn't feel bad.

A/N: Based on the overwhelmingly popular headcanon that the reason Branch acted the way he did for so much of the film was just that he didn't feel like he deserved anyone's friendship, or believed that, if they knew what he'd done to become this way, they wouldn't even try to be so nice to him. also can we just give it up for what a BIG ptsd mood this is like holy shit. me? projecting onto my fave? yes absolutely.