hauntedjpegcollection

[hauntedjpegcollection]

@unknownangels character lethe uwu (plus my character yasiel staking claim on them)

[hauntedjpegcollection]

always just beyond my touch

wc: 9728 au: college au ch: maran, xavier, matilda, benny

“I feel kind of weird about this.”

Xavier, fistfuls of clothes in his hands, unfolds from his crouch inside the closet. He looks to Maran as he leans against a desk, messy with regular use. A textbook is literally cracked open, a laptop as well but not yet turned on, piles of index cards brimming full of text and ready to be used. A student clearly invested in learning owns this desk. The tin trash can beside it is full of foil wrapping of gas station sandwiches; so not a very rich or healthy one. And on the chair, cocked sideways against the desk, a pile of shirts that Xavier has already gone through and decided against.

“Don’t be a homophobe,” Matilda quips, looking up from her phone, but only briefly. Her hazel eyes flick to either boy in front of her and then right back to text messages with her own boy. She sits on the edge of Benny’s equally distressed bed, where blankets pool around her. Which feels bold, considering Xavier doesn’t know how often Benny actually does his laundry—but he is certain Benny does more than just sleep in those sheets. The room doesn’t smell, oddly enough, considering Benny’s overall appearance. It has a musky, cologne scent to it—a lingering undertone of the cigarettes Benny uses. Not unpleasant.

Benny, himself—owner of the room—lays on his bed, ignoring all three of them. His gaze goes steadily stormier by the minute, but he says nothing. Continues reading the NatGeo magazine he’d scooped off the ground when the trio (Xavier, Matilda, Maran) had burst into his room, uninvited. He turns a page noisily enough to get his point across. A penguin on the cover stares at Xavier.

“What?” Maran squeaks at the accusation, his arms unfolding, hands held aloft. “It’s—it’s like worse to be straight and go to a gay club, yeah? I feel like I’m taking up space, or—dunno. That’s a thing, right?” He glances to Benny, who merely raises pale eyebrows in reply. Xavier has a feeling they’ve talked about this before—which hurts his feelings only slightly, knowing that Maran goes to Benny primarily for nearly everything.

“Only if you’re on Twitter too often,” Matilda replies, her fingers still tapping furiously on her phone screen.

“What does that mean?” Maran asks helplessly, staring down at Benny, as though he has all the answers.

“Mar,” Xavier laughs, pulling another shirt from the catastrophically unorganized closet. “Straight people go to gay clubs all the time.” He and Matilda share a look at the word straight; a knowing and almost pitying look. Benny shoots Xavier a poisonous glare at that silent exchange. And Maran doesn’t seem to notice any of it as he looks to the shirt in Xavier’s hand. It’s a meshy fishnet material with more than a few holes. Probably a little excessive. Xavier holds it up in silent question.

“What?” Benny finally asks, eyes back on his magazine. He has his ankles crossed, but his entire body is rigid with annoyance. The penguin, slightly folded now, continues to stare.

“I need a shirt that’s less slutty than this, but still slutty.”

“Xavier,” Benny purrs, tilting his head to look at him, fluttering blond lashes. “Are you calling m-me a slut?”

“He’s not saying that,” Maran interjects, laughing in a high pitched way, voice thin and awkward. He clears his throat, palms his short bleached buzz cut and turns to face Xavier. Benny’s pale eyes follow him intently before they drop back to his magazine. “What’s wrong with this shirt?”

Maran opens his arms, spinning to inspect himself, smiling widely in that very boyish way that dimples his cheeks. There’s nothing wrong with Maran’s shirt actually; it’s pretty cute, all things considered. It’s on theme for everything else Maran wears, which seems to be a mixture of ‘I got this when I was fourteen’ and ‘I definitely lifted this without paying at a thrift store’. Bright colors, video game characters, funny slogans. They’re all a little worn in and soft. His current shirt—a baby blue long sleeve with the white imprint of a video game brand on it—is perfectly fine.

“Its your first club experience,” Xavier says, holding out the fishnet shirt. “I want you to get free drinks. And you’ll look really hot in this—”

It’s snatched free from his hands faster than Xavier had even seen Benny get up from the bed. His fist pale, tattoos standing out starkly as he holds it and glares daggers at Xavier. The effect would be scary—Benny’s eyes are always vaguely a little scary—but he’s a few inches shorter and his ears are pink with blush. It makes Xavier have to tuck his lips into his teeth to stop a laugh.

The shirt gets shoved back into the chaos of the overflowing closet. Benny rummages for what feels like a solid minute before pulling out a different top.

It’s one of his button ups. Those nice, sleek ones he’s fond of. Not even an ugly pattern this time; something with color blocking in dark blues, slightly shimmery with the material. Without looking, Benny shoves it into Maran’s chest and then throws himself back down onto the bed, not facing any of them. Xavier pinches the shoulders of the shirt and holds it up to Maran, who has an equally pinkened look to his cheeks.

“Perfect,” he declares with a wide, wolfy grin.

—

Matilda’s okay with letting people think they’re arguing. In a way she isn’t even letting them do anything; they’re busy with their ignorant opinions, and she isn’t dissuading them of anything. Waste of time, energy, etc. Instead, she sits, slim legs crossed at the bar, her fingers tapping excitedly across the phone screen. She’d pulled together her outfit in less than fifteen minutes; and a five minute portion of that was Nomi begging to let her do her hair in some intricate manic pixie dream girl inspiration. Matilda looked good underneath all those neon lights with the mismatched colors and the mismatched styles from mismatched eras.

Sometimes it’s a treat—letting people think shes a vapid girl attached to her cell phone, bored and insipid. Fun to twist the perception on it’s head with a cruel word that would probably make it into someones therapy session. Matilda—who never wanted to fit in and always wanted to fit in at the same time—likes when someone gets something wrong.

“Boyfriend’s mad, huh, pretty?” the bartender—a stud named Rory—leans with elbows on the plexiglass bar counter. Underneath that faux glass barrier are swirls of smoke and lights, in every single RGB color imaginable. She liked Cubics. The atmosphere was queer club at midnight, but it did it with style. It did it with lights. And she liked that. Maybe that was too cliche, considering her art. But it always complimented her pale skin, whatever color she dyed her hair, blended well with music. And drugs, eventually, when Xavier got those out.

“Hm?” she toys a piece of hair between her fingers, glancing at Rory (who has other patrons that are needily grabbing for her attention and drinks and probably also drugs). “Who said I have a boyfriend?” Who says he’s mad? Do I look like the kind of idiot that dates a guy whose mad I go to clubs? Perception, perceived, incorrect, etc.

Her eyes fall back to the text messages, though.

[12:02 AM] drink water have fun love u

And a flick of her thumb upward across the screen; a selfie of Lark shirtless, ridiculously fit with that long toned torso, a stuffed animal tucked under his arm. Toothbrush hanging out his mouth, sweatpants dangerously low, her girlish bed behind him. Goodnight! Fucking heart emoji. He looks so good like that, being there in the club feels…wrong. She taps her thumbnail against his face, imagines the press of their lips together and the roughness with which he grabs her jaw to steal that kiss.

“Maran got to see his first club bathroom!” Xavier, loud and excited at her side. His Boston accent cuts through any music, and is inarguably rougher when he starts drinking.

Matilda slips her phone into his pocket, because she has no room in anything she’s wearing. He dutifully pats it. Their routine. Xavier’s smile is so white in the club lighting that it looks shiny and reflective. She thinks of Benji, her sweet, clueless fucking Benji, and how those giant, white teeth probably make him weak kneed. Good thing he so politely (“fuck no, couldn’t fuckin’ pay me, Til”) declines these invitations, because Xavier’s also in some flimsy black shirt that’s too tight and will just get sweaty, translucent and gross as the night goes on.

“I’ve seen a club bathroom,” Maran says, popping up on her other side. He’s in Ben’s shirt; boxy, billowy cut silk with a prettier pattern than usual. Keeps sliding down on one of his shoulders, exposing collarbone. The dark blues contrast well with his brown skin. “Well—right, so Benji would bring me to venue’s and all—for music. Not like, clubs. But—grosser than that actually. Really. Solid work in those stalls.”

“Is he rambling because you let him hit your pen?” Matilda asks, grinning at Maran. His face goes innocent; big eyes, raised brows, ‘oops, who me?’ expression. So cute sometimes it makes her feel teary eyed over it. Xavier and Maran huddle in closer, the throng of people trying to squeeze their way to the dance floor pushing the trio toward the flashy bar. It digs into her lower back, but isn’t entirely uncomfortable. Her element. The sweat and musk of so many bodies is the perfume of a good night out.

Rory slides two drinks around either side of Matilda. One for Xavier and one for Maran.

“You let me know when that boyfriend finally pisses you off.” Is purred close to her ear and then the bartenders presence is swiftly gone. Off to attend and flirt with others. Matilda watches Xavier drink half of his cocktail in one, swift go while Maran tries to fight the little black straw into his mouth. She feels a fondness for both of them that is so visceral, so dangerous, that she snaps fingers at Xavier.

“You have our friend Molly?”

“Whose Molly?” Maran asks, still sucking down his cocktail. The ice rattles—he’s cleared it just as fast as the other two he’s already had. There’s a glassy prettiness to his eyes now.

“Oh, right.” Xavier’s big hands go searching through his pockets before finding a small plastic bag. While he looks, Matilda takes the rest of his drink—he doesn’t even notice and that’s probably because it’s his fourth or maybe fifth. Xavier never went light when it came to a night out.

“Tada!” There goes that brilliant white smile. Stamp it on Benji’s death certificate.

“Sweet!” Maran fits his way against Matilda’s hip, one arm slung around her happily. He has the slight tang of Benny’s cigarette’s, a bone deep scent that the blond will never get rid of. Funny to think of it soaking into Maran. “I’m getting one of those right?”

“Are you fucking with me?” Xavier’s laugh is howling loud over the music, which has been ebbing and flowing between different cycles of too fast and too slow, just the way clubs are meant to be. At some point, it’ll be DJ remixes of Cher or Brittany Spears and she wants them all to be very intoxicated for that. A few people look over, because Xavier’s too big not to take notice of. Too big, too handsome, too loud.

“Rough,” Matilda pouts to Maran over her shoulder. “He’s so mean.”

“You’re fucking right, he is!”

“No way I’m giving you ecstasy, Maran.” Xavier does however pop a little pill into Matilda’s outstretched hand. “Benny would fucking kill me.”

“Benji’s not gonna care?” Maran’s laugh is loud against Matilda’s shoulder, his breath warm on her neck as he leans his chin there. She can feel the energy and excitement coming off of him; like a sun you could pocket and fuel yourself for days off of. She quirks a perfectly plucked brow at Xavier. The lanky, similarly too-cute-to-be-real redhead narrows his eyes playfully. He smiles, like he’s trying to find the joke. Matilda doesn’t say anything, because the confusion between both of them is amusing—and she’s tipsy.

“Dude, I said Benny.”

“What?” Maran’s ‘a’ becomes an ‘o’ there as he rears back, one of his arms still wrapped around her.

“Benny. Benson. Ben. The creepy scientist down the hall, probably making uh—what’s the big green guy?”

Maran says, “The Hulk?” at the same time Matilda snorts, “Frakenstein.”

And then Maran fully slinks off her to stand closer to Xavier, who has popped his own pill right into his mouth with not a single second thought. Matilda crunches hers between her molars, still content to observe and drink the murky water at the bottom of Xavier’s cocktail glass. Her gloss leaves a smudged imprint of her lips in the curve of a grin.

“Why would Ben be angry at you for giving me drugs? Which,” Maran points a finger over his shoulder, to the shadowy corner of the club where a large vaguely ‘restroom’ shaped sign is lit up and flickering. “You did give me drugs in the bathroom.”

“Bathroom drugs,” Matila adds. “Classic.”

“Well, that was weed,” Xavier explains with a guilty, humored expression. “Dude, everyone smokes weed. My grandma had a card for the medical stuff before—well, rest in peace, Grams.” Xavier squares up, taking Maran by his shoulders. The shirt, oversized as it is, still hangs just a little too loose on one shoulder. Xavier, with his undiagnosed OCD, immediately corrects it. “Yunno, Benny just cares about you, so I guess he figured someone—” Matilda and Xavier share a devious grin, “should watch out for you.”

Cubics ethereal club light show makes Maran’s already over sized brown eyes beautiful; but the way his pupils dilate looks like he’s already two tabs ahead of Xavier and Matilda. She thinks if she laid her hand against his cheek, it would be worse than a sunburn. The dark bloody stain of a blush across the bridge of his nose, all the way to his ears only sweetens him. She fixes the awkward way a button has snagged on his—Benny’s—shirt.

“Oh,” he pops the sound loud over the music. Then his smile shifts, changing into something familiar. The twist of it slanted cocky and a little bashful at the same time. “It would make him pretty mad, huh?”

“So mad,” Xavier agrees. He pulls a pill from the bag.

“I had no part in this when he goes postal,” Matilda announces, tossing her hands into the air. She does not miss the satisfied expression Maran has at the idea of having so much sway over Benny’s emotions. If she needed any more confirmation of where that friendship was going, it wasn’t even the borrowed shirt. It was that smile alone.

Xavier uses his canine tooth (the one not nub broken) to snap a piece off the ecstasy. Maran looks like he’s going to argue, but stops at the rather severe glance from Xavier, who is a bad influence, but also an older brother. The small piece of the tablet gets put into Maran’s hand. It’ll be far duller than their own high, but in combination with the weed and the drinks, Maran will likely be more over the line than he’s been since landing in America. Maybe since ever.

He raises his hand, slowly at first, as though contemplating it—then chucks the pill piece into his mouth and swallows, dry. Maran shakes all over, laughing and Xavier and Matilda descend onto him. Arms wrapped around the younger boy, Matilda’s lip gloss staining his cheek as she gives him an affectionate kiss. His short, bleached hair already static ruffled from Xavier’s overlarge palm. His laughter gets louder, his arms wrapping around them both. The dance floor is right there, and Xavier doesn’t let them forget it.

—

Maran knows they think he’s sheltered. Sometimes, embarrassingly, he agrees. Tries to convince himself there’s no shame in not knowing, not experiencing, not being part of it all. On the outside, looking in; unable to laugh at the joke everyone else gets, but laughing along anyway. Secretly, it’s like a thorn he can’t worm out from under his thumbnail. Not always painful until he touches something. Doesn’t always bleed until he’s tried getting it out.

He’s been dancing before. He thinks of the feel of pressed together bodies. The overly moist air of a house party and a girl he’d found pretty, or a girl who had found him pretty. A sort of one night thing that happens too frequently. Not recognizing most of the music and not knowing if it was just because England and America really are that different. This isn’t even the first time he’s been high, though he’s never been high like this. Not with the way all the colors keep popping around him and the whole world keeps spinning and his entire body feels like an exposed, overjoyed nerve.

Still, the experience feels new, even if he’s been here before. He thinks it’s not because he’s far drunker than he’s ever been, or because he’s finally tried some upper he’s always been vaguely nervous about. He thinks its them. He thinks that it should feel sexual—the way Xavier is pressed behind him and the way Matilda has her slender arms around his neck. He thinks to anyone else, this probably would be arousing and instead, it’s like he’s in a warm bath thats filled right to the edge. Content and watery and too warm, boiling inside, but so, so fucking happy.

Xavier’s bear paw sized hands hold him around the middle, gentle—at odds with the fast moving way they’re jumping to music. His chin tucked onto Maran’s shoulder, his laughter a gust of warm, alcohol tinged air. Matilda, head back, her slender neck long and pretty. A silver chain with a letter charm at the end like a little metallic cut across her throat. At some point, whatever pins had been holding her hair together had fallen out—and she looks like an artists rendition of messy. Even her slightly smudged mascara, giving her shadows under blown out hazel eyes turned black, is beautiful.

Some part of him (maybe the vulnerable ten year old that lives somewhere, still) thinks the only thing better would have been Benji, somehow sandwiched between them all. His surly face under the lights, his awkward dislike of such close contact, as Xavier and Matilda enshroud him too—it all makes Maran burst into laughter, arms above his head, music dancing up and down him in little vibrations. Xavier, close behind him, yells into his ear; what’s so funny? And Matilda, in front of him—her long, messy hair in her face, like the image of some ethereal nymph dragged up from the pond into night club. Funny? The drug and drink spin wildly inside his skull, making the laughter tumble out harder, hiccuping, unstoppable.

“Ah,” Xavier’s saying, right against his temple. One of his big hands pats gently against Maran’s side. “Someone needs a break.”

They move as a unit, but Maran is barely aware of that—feels like his legs are guided by a different part of his brain, while the active part is still thinking of music and nymphs and his best friends face. And for some reason, that also makes him tear up a little.

—

The bathroom is stark white in comparison to the rest of the club. Not in cleanliness, which is sorely lacking, by the molded corners and also the spills across the ground, sticky underneath his converses. No, it’s just bright, and with the music muffled, it feels clinical and strange. Xavier stands with one hand pressed against the wall, mumble singing to himself as he pisses mostly straight. Maran leans against the row of sinks, palms wedged into his eyes, wondering why they don’t keep the neon red, yellow, blues in the bathroom as well. He feels hospitalized by this bathroom.

When he tries to capture a memory of anything that’s happened even minutes before, it slips between his fingers, little fish darting away. Maran turns to the mirrors, hands cupping his cheeks, blinking bleary eyed at the blurry vision of himself. There’s notes written over the cracked glass; someone’s phone number, a lewd drawing of a woman, advertisement for a different club. And despite all that, Maran stares at himself.

The midnight hues of the shirt do look nice, he thinks. Dark against his warm skin, not as deeply shaded as Benji’s. The cut is square—off a little bit, hanging across the line of his shoulders. He’s never actually seen Benny in this shirt before, and some drunk, high part of himself finds that a shame. It would look different, wouldn’t it? Benny—broader, heftier—would fill it out a bit. It would be a different shade altogether on his pale, tattooed skin. Maran’s thoughts slip from that to those tattoos, a strange mental inventory of all the ones he’s seen; dagger on a bicep, scorpion on the throat, barb wire across a wrist. Spider underneath a belly button. Dirty blond hair peeking above the waistband of boxers.

Every soft and vulnerable part of him feels deeply exposed by that thought, that sudden image and he remembers the exact minute, hour, day he’d seen Benny stretching, shirt lifting and exposing skin and tattoos and body hair and why had Maran stared and remembered and thought of it later like that? Why was he standing there, hands fisted into the silky fabric of his friends shirt, face buried into it like he could hide the shameful cinema in his head? The smoky smell of clovers and nicotine, that Benny scent combo. His hip hurts where he’s tucked himself too close to the sink, at an awkward angle and something about that pain feels…sweet.

“Okay!” Xavier claps hands on Maran’s shoulders, making him screech. The lanky red head peers over Maran’s shoulder into the mirror, staring at his reflection. He’s warped funny and elongated even further by it. “Ready for round…uh, what is this, six?”

Maran turns to the side and throws up into a suspicious looking puddle on the ground, a hand braced on the sink. That giant hand that’s been keeping him close the entire night, bubble wrapped in protective, loving friendship, pats his back softly.

“Oookay, I’ll call Benny to pick us up.”

—

He had bought the mustang on a whim. Saw it in a parking lot with with a red FOR SALE sign, had enough money for once in his life after discharge from the Air Force. He’d never needed a car in New York; subway memorized like the back of his hand since he was eight years old (two years later and he’d be riding it alone, anyway). Didn’t much like the idea of registering anything either—which after the first year, he’d never done again anyway. But, Bennny loves his car. Probably one of the few things he takes care of, when he’s running on empty himself.

There were perks, of course, to being the only friend with a vehicle that could seat more than one passenger. Xavier’s truck—terrible on gas and loud, frankly fucking ugly too—was mostly a Benji mobile these days. And Lark refused almost everyone on his bike after officially sealing some sort of deal with Matilda (sealed in blood, spit, or cum). Benny was often the one in control of where they went. He was the one who got to decide when they stopped at the gas stations on road trips. People had to ask him for things.

He’s able to help and Benny…likes helping. Likes being the reliable friend. Picking people up, driving them places, grocery trips or dentist visits or an hour long ride home. Likes the praise that comes along with it, even if a gun to his head couldn’t get him to admit it.

Even if reliable means three in the morning, outside a nasty looking gay club that could have used a remodel from the year it was burst into existence with a glory hole already pre-drilled in it. Mustang parked almost on the curb. Hanging out the window and shouting at Xavier like a murder witness, or the murderer trying to scare off the murder witness. No real witnesses besides a clump of other club goers suspiciously inching closer—like he might be an Uber that’ll accept cash. They need only one sinister grin from Benny to shuffle closer to each other and look away.

Once a thorough fight over the front passenger seat is made, the three drunks pile into Benny’s well loved car. They bring a smell of alcohol, sweat and human along with them that Benny doesn’t necessarily mind. The doors slam shut and it quiets everything to a hushed sleepiness that he also doesn’t really mind. Matilda slumps into the much coveted passenger seat, kicking heels off promptly, tucking stocking feet up underneath herself. She says nothing, but stares at him with red rimmed hazel eyes. A very pointed stare.

“I’m t-taking her home first,” Benny says, looking into the backseat. Xavier sits with a long leg thrown over Maran’s lap, his temple pressed to the cool glass window. He has the dopey expression of someone whose danced too long and drank too much. Benny has to hope that doesn’t mean he’s going to vomit anytime soon.

“Makes sense!”

He swivels pale eyes from Xavier to Maran, whose hands curl around the denim clad calf splayed across his lap, almost like one might a stuffed animal before sleep. And he looks sleepy—this dreamy, pleasant expression that has subdued his usual giant smile. There’s lines at the corners of Maran’s eyes, a subtle hint of where wrinkles will someday be permanent from how often the boy is caught grinning just like that. His waterlines are red, likely from crying or just being so fucking high, or drunk or both or all of it. His droopy lids make his thick black lashes skim his cheeks when he blinks. And he does. Slowly.

“D-Don’t throw up in my car,” Benny snaps to both of them and then faces forward, an awkward pain in his chest, right underneath his ribcage.

—

With an arm around her middle and Matilda’s head against his shoulder, together they sway back and forth to bad elevator music; pleasant contrast from the club she’d just crawled her way out of. It moves at the luxurious pace of the rich—unhurried and smooth. Air conditioned, with a little camera in the corner. Button face plate pristine. No graffiti, even if it would improve the aesthetic in Benny’s opinion. Matilda’s studio apartment wasn’t even the nicest on this strip, but it was a cut above the under the table three bedroom Benny ‘rented’ from a man that lived in Florida. The elevator in his complex skipped odd floors. The buttons stuck and a rat absolutely lived in the ceiling.

For a long while, Benny had been determined to dislike Matilda. He had assumed she’d be easy to dislike—look at her. There was no hiding money. Not from people like Benny—whose absence of it was so stark, so obvious and influential in it’s lacking. From silver fillings in stained teeth to making the gallon of milk last another week with a little added water. Her nose in the air, pretty and dignified. But Matilda had never tried to hide it either. That would have been worse. More insulting. Nothing nastier than a rich girl that wanted to fit in so bad she lied about it.

So it became somewhat impossible to dislike her. Authenticity was something that mattered to a liar like Benny. Sometimes, he’d wager, he liked her a lot.

“Maran had a lot of fun,” Matilda mumbles against his shoulder, deceptively sleepy.

He decides to actively start disliking her in that moment.

“I will dr-drop you off on some random floor.”

“He’s a good dancer, too,” she adds, including a mean teasing squeeze from her arm around his middle. Her hair smells like fruity cocktail mix, leaving him to wonder what the end of the night was like for the three of them.

“We’re not sleeping together, s-so I don’t know why you’re tr-trying to piss me off,” Benny retorts as the elevator comes to a crawling stop—a gentle sway that barely pops or shudders at all. Back home, if you jumped in the elevator at a certain time you could touch the ceiling with how sudden it would pull up from underneath you. Benny’s disappointed in the lack of fanfare on this one, but Matilda stumbling away from him and out into the wood paneled hallway provides enough entertainment.

There are only three other units on her floor. All of them spaced out. The lighting in the hallway is a little too tastefully dim.

“I forgot my heels?” Matilda says it like a question, but stands there, staring at her stocking clad feet with annoyance more than confusion. Without them, she’s still tall—only a few inches shorter than him. But she also looks oddly delicate. Younger, with her make up splotchy around her eyes and her nose red from who knows what. He reaches out and loops an arm around hers to keep her close and Matilda, notorious hellcat, doesn’t even try to wiggle away.

In fact, her head tilts sideways again until her temple touches his shoulder and together they find her apartment just like that.

—

Getting her inside isn’t actually difficult. It’s almost like the ‘act’ is over once Matilda crosses the threshold into her apartment. The lights in the kitchen have been left on, like a little beacon for her (or really, for Benny). Any part of Matilda that maybe wants to pretend she desires anything other than to be inside a bed completely dissipates. Authenticity. He respects it.

Still, getting her to her bedroom becomes a bit of a chore; lets her snip and snark at him for going this far, knowing she secretly wells up with tears at the idea of someone caring so much. Benny wishes he could hate her, not just for being rich, but because he sees in her too much of what he sees in himself too. That aching; oh you’re doing this because you care? You care? You care about me? So he lets her throw a bit of a tantrum getting her hair into a ponytail in her bathroom, brushing her teeth with a stormy expression that’s just exhaustion and come down from whatever drug Xavier had on hand. It’s kind of cute, but he suppresses a smile so she doesn’t get angrier.

All pretenses are gone when her bedroom door swings open and Lark sits up. Scruffy, bleary eyed, shirtless and nearly unconscious. He mumbles something, then falls backward, arms outstretched into the air above him. She needs no other invitation and quickly crawls forward onto her bed. It’s one of those girlish things, with a plush comforter and more than a few stuffed animals fallen to the ground. Lark looks like a magazine cut out from a Warped Tour ad in the midst of it. But he’s smiling, which is sort of rare on him.

She presses right up underneath his chin, burrowing and he wraps her up in his arms.

“S-So I’m not invited?”

“Fuck off, Ben.”

—

The car door slams behind him, the mustang rocking back and forth with his not inconsiderable weight as Benny slumps himself into the drivers seat. There’s no need for Maran to say anything; his presence is an all consuming sudden ball of heat in the passenger seat. His big pretty eyes blink in the night’s watery darkness — that hazy almost gray color when it’s turned so far late it’s nearing morning. He sits mostly turned in the seat, one leg underneath himself. For some unbearable reason, he’s tying and retying one of his converses, almost like a self soothing tic. And smiling. Of course. Smiling big.

“You too good to ride in the back?” Benny asks, dripping in dry sarcasm. Maran doesn’t even blink, chin tilted down as he continues showing that pretty smile. He’s so devastatingly stupid cute it makes some inside part of Benny feel raw. And annoyed, if an organ can be annoyed.

“Xavier’s like too long to share,” Maran complains, driving Ben to look into the back seat. True to word, Xavier has his six-foot-four self laid out on the back seat. His legs need to be bent, one arm cradling around his ribs while his other hand holds a cell phone tucked to his ear. He lays mostly facing the seats and mumbles mostly incoherently into the phone. The case is a bright yellow color. So not his.

“His died or he l-leave it at Cubics?”

“Oh, dead.” Maran crosses his eyes, hands briefly going to his throat, tongue out to imitate the gesture. Benny’s brain shivers with a brief and horrible intrusive thought before his icy eyes turn back to Xavier. Nearly asleep and barely conscious and still talking in that terrible Boston accent. “He wanted to chat shit with Benj. Who should be sleeping, ‘cause he said he didn’t want t’come out ‘cause he had to study!”

The last part is yelled, Maran leaning back over the seats to get closer to Xavier. The red head laughs, eyes closed, cheeks flushed and sweaty.

“Sit down,” Benny orders and watches Maran fall right onto his ass. He blinks with surprise, hands resuming their place at his shoe, to pick up laces that were once white and are now filthy, constantly underfoot. The car turns over, but Benny idles for a moment, staring at Maran, who stares back at him.

“Seat belt,” he demands next, gesturing with an index finger. This time, Maran’s response is not nearly as immediate. Instead, he yanks his laces tight with a hand and then wiggles his way into the passenger seat, knees touching the dashboard. It doesn’t take the wafting smell of pure alcohol off him to know he’s drunk — and more drunk than Benny’s actually seen him. It’s also in the expression, that still dreamy, sleepy look and his watery eyes. He folds arms over his chest.

“Xavier never makes me use a seat belt.”

Benny swings a stare into the back seat. Xavier looks fully awake at that, and pale as death.

“Dude,” he moans. Dog like in his guilty avoidance, Xavier turns away, the outline of his spine pressing into the thin black material of his shirt as he faces the back seats. “Your best friend is a snitch,” he mumbles into the cell phone clutched to his ear. There’s a laugh on the other end loud enough to hear, crackly and amused.

When Benny turns back to look at Maran, the smile hasn’t diminished one bit. It’s nearly proud, brown and freckled cheeks dimpled. The drunken gleam in his eyes is so beautifully mischievous. There’s a lingering moment where Benny continues to simply look at him, testing to see how long until Maran wiggles uncomfortably into obedience. But that doesn’t happen. So instead, he reaches over and places his hands on the knees pressed to the mustangs dashboard. He shoves — not hard, but forceful and watches Maran’s legs drop.

And then Benny reaches across him, taking the belt. Maran’s pretty brown eyes follow the movement as it crosses his chest and clicks into place. Benny gives it a light, playful tug and then situates himself back into the drivers seat — his turn to be smiling ear to ear, sinister in the dark of the car.

“There’s my passenger princess,” Benny teases, as he turns the car over and feels it rumble to life. Maran is silent as he tucks one of his feet back up onto the passenger seat and begins that little, sweet ritual of tying and untying his shoe lace. Face tilted down, smile pursed and cheeks red.

—

Getting Xavier up into the apartment is far more difficult than Matilda, even with the two of them. Too tall, too lanky, too drunk. He sprawls over both Benny and Maran with his overlong arms around either of them. Affectionate and exhausted and barely able to take one step after the other. The cell phone, somehow, still tucked between his cheek and shoulder. Daylight peeks through the lobby windows, spring like yellow with an almost green tint to it. Maran blinks blearily at it, his energy fraying at the edges finally. He has both arms around Xavier’s torso, holding him up as much as using him as a support beam.

“You want to sleep here?” Benny finally asks, once they’re in the elevator. Xavier slumps against the wall, no longer party to the conversation. “S-So I don’t have to drive you all the way back to Benji’s.” He says it like Maran would be doing him a favor. Makes it easier for that smile to return, chin dipped to his chest as he leans against the elevator door. Benny reaches out and grabs him by the bicep right before the whole thing comes to a jarring, terrible stop and those doors creak their way open.

The apartment — which has been Benny’s home for two years now — is silent and comforting, with morning light dappling the floor and across furniture that’s been hauled off curbs for free. It feels almost alive, like a breathing, slumbering beast, welcoming the three men in. Benny lets Maran endure the brunt of Xavier’s weight as he side steps and quickly snaps the shades shut, plunging the apartment into a cool darkness.

“I’m not even sleepy,” Xavier protests, as he’s hauled toward his bedroom.

Benny, barely able to conceal his frustrated amusement can only reply, “Sure thing, big guy.”

“Really! I could go in to work like this, got a Honda that needs her whole front end redone — Did Benji hang up on me? Benji?”

Maran swipes the phone, his phone, and reveals a black screen. It doesn’t light up even when tapped. Button pressed and nothing but a desperate empty battery in violent green, dead as a door nail in Maran’s hand. He doesn’t even look mad, just tired and humored. Benny can’t imagine being on the phone with an intoxicated Xavier until it dies, sounding like a garbled Boston accented nightmare. More like Benny would die.

Xavier’s face pinches pathetically, dark brows slanted upward and mouth pouting. Handsome even in the dark, maybe more so with the pitiful expression. He’s only a few steps from his bedroom, but that feels like a mountainous task when run into a problem that can’t possibly be solved. Benny contemplates the couch and how cruel it would be to put him — tall as he is — on it instead.

“I’ll leave it with ya!” Maran offers, patting Xavier’s side sympathetically. “G’on then. Sleep, yeah?”

“You had fun, right?”

“Yep!”

“Okay, good. Where is Matilda?”

“Ben dropped her off first. Lark’s got her, no worries. You’re such a brother sometimes, know that? Give Saha a run for her money, all your worrying.”

The conversation slowly becomes inaudible as Maran gets Xavier through his doorway and into his bedroom, presumably into his bed as well. Benny stands there and despite the home around him, feels nearly awkward about it. Hovering, watching through a slightly opened door as a phone that doesn’t belong to him is plugged in beside Xavier’s head. Maran crouched down, mumbling happy platitudes to a boy a few years older than him, likely just as drunk or high himself.

Benny scuffs his boot on the floor a little. No seatbelt. He was never letting Maran in that stupid fucking truck again.

He jumps at the sound of Xavier’s door closing. Maran dusts his hands together proudly. All in a drunk club nights work.

And then they’re both silent.

For longer than what feels like a minute. Maybe even more. In reality it’s likely only a few heartbeats and yet those heartbeats feel loud and prolonged. The shades don’t quite put out the sunlight in it’s morning entirety; the apartment is left gray and Maran in that blue shirt looks so vibrant. Benny leans his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“Well,” Maran says, rocking on his heels, hands tucked into his pockets. “Do you — could watch a movie. In your room, I mean. Or finish that one we started.”

Ashamed of himself, Benny contemplates it. Contemplates the road it would go down. Thinks briefly of the walk to his bedroom. The climb onto the mattress. The arrangement. Side by side. He thinks of Maran, drunk and high and feeling immortal and bold, like all young people do when they’ve been awake long enough to greet the sun and still feel buzzed. He thinks — he knows — that all it would take would be for a hand to wander. Across Maran’s shoulder, fingers grazing the vulnerable, thin skin behind his ear. Down, across a pulse point, up again and under the jawline.

Benny noticed Maran looking at him so long ago that sometimes he forgets he isn’t supposed to know Maran has a crush on him at all. Ignoring that heated belly rush every time Maran’s eyes linger too long, or he stands too close, or he toes the line of flirting the way he would with a pretty girl at a party. Benny knows that if they went to ‘watch a movie’ what would happen. And the thought of it happening when Maran is drunk enough that his accent slurs almost all his words together, is a cold, cold compress to any arousal.

“You’re going to sleep,” Benny says, pushing himself off from the wall. “Lark’s r-room is open.” He offers an outstretched hand. Blessedly, Maran looks more confused about being turned down than he does sad — because likely, Benny would have caved if Maran had turned those doe eyes on him. Instead, Maran’s dry palm slides against his own. He smiles and pumps their hands up and down once.

“Cheers. I know the way.”

Stunned silent, Benny’s head swivels to follow him. Then, “You l-little shit, I should kill you. You’re going — th-that’s my — Maran.”

His laughter, which is too loud for whatever morning hour they’re in, echoes in the apartment, small as it is. It follows all the way to Lark’s room, where Maran is finally wrestled to.

—

There is no bed frame, just the mattress on the floor, squashed into the corner. Still, the blankets look comfortable, particularly as Maran settles himself down into them. He sits up long enough to pinch an adorable pink tongue between his teeth, concentrating as he kicks his converses off. The thunk across the floor, which is covered in clothes that Lark has forgotten about. Benny, feeling rather related to Xavier in that moment, stoops briefly just to pick up the converses and set them by the door. Considering all the other shoes in the room, it’s mostly so Maran doesn’t try putting on shoes three sizes too small tomorrow.

Then, once Maran is under the blankets, on his stomach, Benny sits down on the floor beside him.

“That movie has a sh-shitty ending, anyway,” he says.

“Mm, you watch a lot of shitty movies.”

“With you,” Benny counters. He watches Maran’s shoulders huff with a barely there laugh. The night seems to finally catch up to him then. Even though he faces away from Benny, he can see all the tension slowly slide out of him. Muscles uncoiling, consciousness slowly beginning to fade. Benny reaches out. For a moment, his hand hovers just above the nape of Maran’s neck. It stays there, imagining the curve, the way it would fit.

“Yunno,” Maran says, turning over. Benny’s hand snaps away so quick, his elbow collides with his own ribs, smarting furiously. He clears his throat, and Maran smiles. “Xavier’s kind of a shite dancer for a guy that loves the club so much.”

“Yeah, well,” Benny holds up a hand, tilting it side to side, sneering. “Xavier’s hot. He doesn’t have to be good at anything besides that.”

“Nngh.” Maran makes an audible and strange sound at that. Almost insulted, very annoyed. He throws an arm across his face, heaving out a heavy sigh. Benny, confused, thinks to get a water bottle. Maybe a bowl in case he hurls and ruins one of Lark’s many black shirts. “You think — Xavier, I mean.”

Sitting there, perched beside a mattress with no bed frame and a boy very drunk, very high and very tired, Benny stares down at the little sliver of Maran’s freckled face. He has to bite his own tongue to stop himself from laughing. The jealousy pinkens Maran’s skin. Makes him look sweet.

“Nah. Not really my type.” His knees make a protesting sound as he stands. “Night, Mar.” There’s a rustling in the blankets. Maran getting comfortable, tossing himself over onto his stomach once more. A little mumbled something.

Then louder, “Night, Ben!”

—

Of course he dreams. There isn’t anything else to do but dream. The drugs in his system pass through his blood stream, up into his head, continue the music there instead. Loud. He dreams about…clouds. Fluffy, pastel. One of the first things he learned in school and found it stuck; clouds are water. Staring up at the sky, thinking, that’s just water up there, but in shapes. Pikachu, a car and — himself. But floaty. The drugs had made him feel that way. Up in the sky. Iridescent too, sunrise sort of clouds, all oranges and purples and pinks that swirl together. But water. So — cold. Wet. Uncomfortable? Strange.

And that strange twist leads him elsewhere, his mind taking the subconscious cue — no bad thoughts right now! — and turning. Embarrassingly, a comfort dream, because nothing soothed Maran the way kissing did. Like plaster, he thinks, for a cut. Instead, it’s a feeling. A kiss that makes everything easier. Reminding him of a skinned knee, blood on someone’s lip, the halo lighting of a street lamp on blond hair.

The start of kissing, the anticipation and build up. One to his cheek, the other to the corner of his mouth, teasing and barely there. A kiss that makes everything easier… Fingers touching the sensitive skin of his throat, dancing up and under his chin. Coaxing him closer. Maran, with his eyes closed and yet still seeing that vast horizon of early morning, chill sky, smiling. Dreaming.

“That feels good,” he says aloud, accidentally, because he’s dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s dreamed of Fiadh since their break up, but a sensation of shame unfurls in his stomach none the less. Both hot and cold at the same time (a familiar memory with her). He’s dreamed of her and woke up sad. Hands touching him, her lips, plush and soft and sweet before they were ever mean.

Only, he remembers her feeling less…solid. He remembers her being small against him, tucked into his chest, her hands resting near dainty on his collarbone. He remembers her bedding — because they are prone in a bed, he can sense that much — how uncomfortable it was; too expensive to actually be soft. Maran sits up then, his eyes finally open, expecting the beige of her walls, the little portraits of bugs mixed with the polaroid pictures of her friends and their trips across Italy, Rome, Iceland.

It isn’t. The room is dark. There’s tiny stars on the ceiling that he stares at, uncomprehending. Wondering where the fuck the horizon is, where it went and where he went with it.

A hand slides up his arm. Finds the notch of muscle bisecting shoulder and bicep, rests there. It too, feels different. Broader. Stronger. Still, he’s touched in just the right way he likes to be touched; firm, affectionate, thumb rubbing a circle on his skin. His attention is caught, glancing toward pale, tattooed skin. Blunt fingernails, painted black, polish chipping away. Maran’s eyes slide down a bare forearm, across a well muscled bicep. The way it flexes makes a hot, hungry feeling well up inside him. He recognizes every single tattoo on this arm.

“Ben?”

“Why’d you sit up?” he asks, in that undeniably cute American accent. All his words smushed together, whydyasiddup? Benny smiles, teeth crooked. Maran always found that endearing, the way the bottom row didn’t line up correct, the way his canines sit just slightly askew. It made him look at Benny the first time he’d laughed, really look at him, just so he could see. And he’d never really stopped looking after.

“Are you shirtless?” Maran asks, his voice coming out thin and funny to his own ears. Distant, not necessarily a part of himself. Maran can’t seem to stop looking and there’s so much to look at. Benny’s head tilts, a lock of hair flopping across his brow and obscuring one of his eyes. He looks so…pretty. It’s dark yet he’s there, exposed, just there, laying in his bed (Ben’s bed!), all of him so just there. There. The hungry feeling in Maran’s stomach gnaws and hurts.

“You’re funny,” Benny says in a breathy sort of way. He braces himself up on one elbow. His stomach muscles flex. The gun at his hip. That spider below his belly button. The dark blond hair that trails up his stomach. Maran’s brain short circuits, fizzy and drugged all over again. “C’mere.” His hand moves from Maran’s arm to the back of his neck, eliciting electric tingles all over Maran’s body. And then, in one powerful motion, he pulls.

Their bodies do what bodies do when pressed together. They line up. Arrange. Maran finds himself pressed between Benny’s thighs, just like he likes to be. He can feel a leg curling around his waist, hips hiking up, the heated friction nearly painful. He can feel the slide of their bodies, he can feel the way Benny has muscles in his thighs and how taut they are. He can feel the tickle of chest hair against his own bare chest. It drives him so stupid and insane that he’s panting. Big, deep gulps of air.

It’s a dream. It’s fuzzy at the edges. Immaterial and sharp at the same time. The bed blurs and makes little sense, but every single one of Benny’s pale blond eye lashes are stark. Whatever cotton material separates them feels distant and forgettable, like his dream is one good thought away from making it disappear. Maran, greedy, finds his hands going places he’s secretly maybe always wanted to touch. Benny’s waist. His ribs. Up and around the back of him, clutching shoulders as he sways forward. As that cotton material bunches together on them both.

“That feels good,” Benny whispers, his lips to the side of Maran’s temple. Their heads tilt, facing each other. Something distant in Maran’s head thinks this is Ben, this is my friend, and I want to kiss him, I want to fuck him, I want to be in him, oh fuck, I want that. Benny smiles again, those sharp canines awkward and cute and that distant screaming gets louder. “Well, don’t fucking stop now, Mar.”

The kiss is messy. Wet and steaming, their mouths open and moving together, Benny’s hand hard around the back of his next. Benny hard and Maran wanting to pursue that. Their breathing is loud, the kissing louder, the sounds they both make between each desperate press of tongue and lips louder. The movements change, the sensations with it, Maran’s eyes pinching shut, his forehead falling to Benny’s shoulder, his body tense, his hands digging into bedding, Benny’s laugh in his ear, Benny’s legs, tight around his waist.

I’m gonna cum, Maran thinks bluntly.

Then wakes up.

—

The hangover becomes a brutal third party in his head. It’s a literal bruise on his skull cap, throbbing and pulsing, there and behind his eyes. An ache so strong that it momentarily makes everything else feel dull. The sunlight from Lark’s open window wakes him up, reminds him there are hurts other places too. His hands desperately pat at the curtain Lark uses as shade. He nearly rips it off the wall. His stomach rolls in protest with every movement, his limbs feeling sore. Detached and still in pain. Maran groans without meaning to and even his jaw hurts.

Worse is the erection pressing heavily against his boxers. It’s a needy sensation, almost more painful than the hangover. Maran sits up, staring down at himself, then up to the window where the light peeks through the curtain. He blinks and is all too aware of his eyelids, his wet lashes clinging together. He scrubs a hand over his mouth.

He can’t stop thinking of Benny’s mouth. His tongue. His laugh at climax.

It makes Maran shoot up standing, which triggers a cluster of pain to erupt in his head. The stars behind his eyes are a horrible reminder of the dream. He presses hands to his eyes, breathing in short, concentrated bursts. He stumbles over something in Lark’s room, nearly tripping and going down.

And then Maran makes efficient, short work of putting on clothes and sneaking outside the room.

It’s silent in the apartment. He isn’t sure what time it is — where his phone is — but he knows the men that live here. Had a naughty fucking dream about one of them, didn’t ya? He knows they sleep in late, knows their routines. Xavier’s jacket still hung up, combat boots by the front door, Benny not yet left. The silence feels calming, instead of suffocating. Maran stands in the hallway, breathing in the smell of the place. Cigarettes, motor oil, nice cologne, air conditioner, everything he’s grown to enjoy.

He takes a right into the kitchen, and then stands there dumbly.

Benny sits at the kitchen table, their round little pub style thing that has all their initials (and then some) carved into it. He sits, one arm draped loosely over his stomach, slouched in the chair. In his hand, a beat up paperback, cover bent back to read easier. His hair is pushed back by sunglasses that sit atop his head. Those red, round sunglasses he wears to keep the sun out his sensitive eyes. They lift from the book to Maran, cold and brilliant.

“Hi,” Maran croaks. He coughs into his fist. “Hi,” he repeats.

Benny stands. He puts the book down on the table, next to a plate of toast he’d clearly been chewing through. One slice left, one bite taken out of it. He points to another chair by the table. Maran, dizzy and without thinking, obeys placidly. He sits down slowly, arms folding around his middle. He watches Benny as the older man opens a cupboard and takes out a glass. Watches him fill it with water and then put it down on the table in front of him. Benny stands there, in front of him. Solid. And very tall while Maran sits. He’s in sweatpants and a tank top thats seen better days. Maran got all the tattoos right in his dream. What did that say about him?

“Jesus, you’re wr-wrecked, huh, baby?”

“What?” Maran squeaks and then laughs. He pats himself on the chest, giving Benny a bashful grin.

“Next time, drink more water before.” Benny goes back to his seat. He contemplates for a moment and then pushes the plate of half eaten toast toward Maran. “Th-That’ll make you feel better too. Should eat before Ibuprofen.”

Whatever conversation they were about to have is interrupted. Xavier — dramatic and big — nearly falls into the kitchen, leaning against the counter and groaning loudly. He’s in nothing but shorts that sling low on his hips. Maran wonders why that does nothing for him in comparison to the way Benny idly scratches a hand up underneath his tank top, eyes back on his paperback. Maran wonders why he can’t stop watching that movement. He blinks blearily at Xavier.

“Aw,” the red head croons. “C’mon, you had fun right?”

“Loads,” Maran promises, with a cheek hurting smile. Xavier, so authentic, is infectious. Makes his hangover feel a bit better.

“And this guy,” Xavier purrs, lanky body swaying closer to Benny, who ignores him outright. “Our knight in shining muscle car.” His big, freckled hand lands on Benny’s head, knocking the sunglasses askew. Fingers thread into blond hair, tugging softly. Maran’s is shocked by the piercing annoyance that skewers him, pinning his hand on the glass of water and not letting him move.

“Fuck you,” Benny replies, swatting lazily.

“Naw, you’re such a good friend, Benny,” Xavier coos, folding down over top of him. This isn’t new — Maran’s watched Xavier do this routine to, well, everyone. He’s been on the receiving end of the affection. He’s been picked up and tossed over Xavier’s shoulder, carried around, laughing his head off. But still, his teeth grind together, his headache resuming it’s previous construction work between his temples.

When Xavier presses quick kisses all across Benny’s head, catching his eyebrow, his cheek bone, Maran feels that jealousy like a physical thing in his chest. It manifests and Benny’s shrill laugh only feeds it.

He reaches forward and snatches the toast off the plate, moody and awful as Xavier dances away to fall onto the third chair. Maran stares at it. Stares at the indent of Benny’s teeth, the way his mouth carved out a piece. Maran stares harder, his head foggy and his body hurting. He puts the toast to his mouth, lining up the same place Benny’s was. He takes a bite, thinking, I am so pathetic. And when he looks up, Benny is staring at him.

Smiling. Canine tooth popping free and indenting his lower lip.

“Want to f-finish that movie now?” He asks, eyes hooded.

Maran blinks. Rapidly. Smiles, with his chin tucked down. His cheeks burn. But he nods, happy.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

and if you go, i want to go with you

Later, he will look on this scene with romanticism.

He will wonder at the sunlight through the trees, filtering shards of buttery yellow across the soft, moist dirt below him. The smell of loam, fresh and clean. Birds—he’ll recall their song, their early morning flight and the sound of their fluttering wings in the sky. Everything will be greener when he imagines it; saturated the way only a memory can be, tangled around itself beautifully. Later, it will still hurt, but he will tell others how much that hurt was worth it in the end. How much it saved his life, this sacrifice, pain in this sunlit grove.

“Can’t you hurry it the fuck up?”

And it is painful; not a physical wound, not like the ring of old and new marks around wrists, ankles, throat. Skin rubbed raw and weeping to nasty near permanent scabs. Not like the burn in his lungs from running, or the cramping in tired muscles. His malnourished body, desperate for relief. What it would feel like to lay down on this soil and not get up, the alluring notion of everything ending and it being his choice.

“Fuck off, Ciar,” Sai seethes, blood in his veins racing so hard his hands twitch. Dirt crusts them to his elbows. The grave he’s dug is deep. He doesn’t want an animal snuffling it’s way along and finding his sacrifice. The young man feels the pinprick of tears again, his face already wet with them—and the dirt. He rubs the back of one hand across a cheek, smearing more into his dark brown skin. The tears are good. He worries fingers into the once blue fabric of his mother’s scarf. The tears make it worse. Hurts more, this way.

The scarf is the last thing he has of her, what little tatters of it remain. Sometimes, when he’d been curled around himself, falling asleep on one of the dozens of mats squashed inside the low ceilinged building they’d shoved the prisoners into nightly, Sai swore he could remember the smell of her. The jamun scent, dark purple behind his eyes mingling with her laugh, now the color of bruises to him, once the color of a jam spread across thin bread. Her laugh, her hands, holding his. Her hair, dark and curly and windswept.

Sai pushes the scarf deep into the hole he’d dug with his own hands. Then he touches them to his forehead, trembling. On his knees, bowed over the hole, he touches fingertips to his heart, whispering a prayer. Tears gather on his chin, fat and ripe with misery. They only waver a bit before sliding down the hollow of his throat, the grave for his mother and the last connection to her, denied that.

“Gettup,” Ciar hisses, the sound of his anxious feet on underbrush interrupting Sai’s fevered prayer. He keeps his eyes closed, touching fingers to forehead, mouth, heart and ground. “There’s no Gods out here.”

“For you,” Sai mumbles, pulling himself up. He stumbles, a hand outstretched and caught by Ciar’s. It’s big. Blocky and rough from years in the penal colony; scarred across knuckles and all the way up to his elbows. Scraper scars, they called them, because Ciar was put to work scooping out precious ore from crevices in the mines, blown open by explosives. Sai was almost chosen for that work—slender and long limbed, he would have been a good digger. But he could also read many languages—and write them just as well—and so between back breaking labor pushing the carts, Sai helped sort records for the colony Warden.

It only let him see how much each of their meager lives cost. Profit, that’s all they were.

"Aye,” Ciar says, with a gnashed together snarl of a grin. “If you were sacrificing to my Gods, you’d need blood.”

“He doesn’t ask for that,” Sai mutters, pulling his hand back to wipe the dirt along the shabby rough spun cloth that serves for clothes. He’d left soil on Ciar’s pale hand, but the other prisoner makes no move to clean it off. “Just something that hurts.”

“Huh. Godly enough if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, I know.” Ciar starts into the forest around them, battering away hanging branches with thick, pale arms. Sai watches. For a moment, watching is all he can do. Stand there, exhausted and dirty and marvel that there is no longer a stretch of chain that connects them. For the first time in years, either man moves without the sound of clinking metal, without the stretch of a chain leash that connects wounds at any given moment.

A glance into the sky, burned out yellow and white, Sai doesn’t feel that freedom yet. The ghost of it lingers around his wrists, as though the farther Ciar gets, the yank will come at last.

—

Their journey is that of shared silence and misery. The sun above them does little for actual warmth; both prisoners are reduced to trembling shivers, their flea bitten cloth tunics thin and worn, retaining not even the idea of heat. Malnourished. Underfed. Weak despite years of labor. Barefoot, both of them have bloodied heels and cracked toes. The pain is a dull throb of an ache through Sai’s legs, but he says nothing for it—neither does Ciar and it becomes a point of personal pride, to not complain when the Northerner isn’t.

Especially as Ciar moves like a machine, trudging forward wordlessly. Part of that frightens Sai; his ability to keep moving, as though a force of nature. A creature merely following instincts. It doesn’t matter. His back becomes Sai’s north star, leading him forward through the forest.

When the man pulls up short, lifting an arm to stop Sai from continuing, everything tilts inside. His entire existence has boiled down to simply that—walking. Through the pain, over grass and rocks and twigs. Walking with his tired, dehydrated eyes pinned between Ciar’s shoulder blades, watching the way the muscles moved beneath his tunic. His blood drying between his toes, the wind rustling his unwashed hair. He’d grown so used to moving forward that suddenly stumbling to a stop dizzies him. Spins the world around him. Nearly collides him with the Ciar and his raised arm, who grunts and glances over his shoulder.

“What?” Sai asks, his voice a dry rasp. He can’t remember the last time he had water.

Ciar doesn’t answer immediately. The absence of it creates a swell of fear in Sai’s stomach. He isn’t sure how much of a well there is left for that. Endless though it seems, as some point, maybe Sai just won’t be afraid anymore. It feels far off, wishful thinking. Ciar’s shoulders are a rigid line, every muscle taut and coiled, tight underneath wan skin. Sweat has beaded along his pale hair line, little gems sliding down his throat, disappearing beneath the dull white tunic. Sai finds it hard to take a step forward, not just because of the pain, but because it feels easy to keep staring at that. Simple, easy, the world far too large, too colorful outside the penal colony.

And then Ciar steps aside for him, turning to look at Sai, with wide eyes. And a smile. Sai’s never seen Ciar smile before. It seems out of place—almost scary.

“Look at them.”

Somehow, he manages to tear himself away. He steps around Ciar and looks into a small clearing, made wider by the natural decay of trees. One split open, perhaps by lightening—maybe an animal, striving to deshed antlers. It would almost be a horrifying thought to imagine an animal so large, if it weren’t for the beauty the prisoners have stepped into.

Every surface of that clearing is covered—impossibly—in butterflies. Soft, delicate insects, their wings fluttering lazily. The smell of them is oddly sweet, as though the butterflies are covered in flower pollen. The air about them is hazy, the sunlight nearly a physical thing. The butterflies are every single color Sai hasn’t seen in years; blues and purples and yellows and greens. Iridescent, glittering. A patch of them lift from a fallen tree and scatter into the wind, tumbling around the way only small, pitiful creatures can. Sai stares at them, at the blanket of them all over everything. His throat bobs, his hand touching a spot in the middle of his chest.

And before he can say anything, the entire swarm of them rise, up into the air. They disperse, like a cloudy rainbow, disappearing into the sky and into the forest. Like they were never there to begin with. Only, without them, the forest doesn’t look ugly anymore. Just a remnant of the butterfly swarms resting space. Capable of being strangely beautiful now.

“Bugs,” Ciar says, cutting through the peacefulness. His voice is near, making Sai stumble, arms interlocking around his slim midsection. The other man has an oddly bashful look about him, glancing sideways and then away—then back again. It makes Sai smille back.

“Bugs,” he replies, in wearily happy agreement.

—

“Property line.”

“What?”

It’s the first time either of them have spoken since the swarm. Sai had almost forgotten either of them could even make noise, his existence once again reduced to shambling along behind the other big, snowy prisoner.

Ciar’s arm twists, a finger jabbing toward a tree with a near invisible mark made upon it. A carved symbol, no bigger than a palm and nearly worn away by time. Letter or glyph. Sai approaches, limping slightly with a hand raised to touch it.

“How do you know this?”

“Just because I’m from Aerland doesn’t mean I don’t know what a property line is. You just think all my people run around like barbarians, don’t you? Don’t even keep track of who lives where.”

Sai’s hand drops. He twists to stare at Ciar with a flat expression, only to be met with a savage gleeful one. He stands there, hands on his hips, crooked teeth in a slanted sneering smile. How he has the energy even for that, Sai doesn’t know. It exhausts him.

“I don’t think about you at all, Ciar. Or Aerland.”

“That mark was on another tree, little while back.” Twigs, dirt and dry grass crunch beneath Ciar’s feet as he steps closer. His eyes dart around the forest behind them, a nervous twitch, his humor depleting. The sun has diminished, turning the sky cool and purpling. Sai closes his eyes to it, a fluttering behind his lids, like the butterflies. He presses the heels of his hands into them, his anxieties darting fish in his empty, cramping stomach.

“We risk it,” Sai finally says, not daring to pull his hands away.

There’s silence. As much silence as the forest has to offer, with wind in the trees, scattering the leaves that had made up their trail. Then—Ciar’s foot steps. His north star, moving once more.

—

The woods slowly turn into a field not too unlike the clearing, which slowly becomes a dirt path that blooms into stone path and finally, a lords home. Or the bones of one, the remains of something that once must have been grand and was now only a graveyard. The barns are scavenged through, one collapsed in on itself, the other missing a roof entirely. No clucking hens or braying beasts. The absolute absence of sounds, in stark contrast with the emptiness as well, makes their flesh dimple with nerves.

“Think they had a wine cellar?” Sai asks. Ciar barks a surprised laugh. “We’ll find something for you.”

Which proves mostly an empty promise, as Ciar breaks them in through the side; a kitchen’s entrance, where servants most likely entered and exited. The kitchens themselves relatively bare, scraped clean by looters long before the prisoners. It isn’t nearly as run down as Sai had been expecting—the walls are standing, the ornate runners rug through the hallway they tepidly walk down isn’t nearly as stained as it should be. It’s empty, however, of most things and certainly anything alive. It creaks along with them, but the sound is so subtle, it’s like the manors lost its voice.

Sai runs a hand over a wall as they walk in search now for just clothes and comfort and a place to simply rest.

“In my country, all homes are one story. A long, flat building that connects through a middle room.” He pauses outside of a cracked door, the mahogany dull, the rusted nail hinges coming loose. Ciar grunts behind him, acknowledging. “And you add rooms as the family gets bigger. So everyone can stay together.”

Using his broad shoulder, Ciar shoves against the door and watches it fall flat onto the ground with a startling thump. Dust rains from the ceiling, like snow in Ciar’s hair. He pauses, unnaturally so, with his face screwed up—then bursts into a sneeze. Then another, then a fit of them that shakes the poor mans entire body until Sai is exploding as well, only into belly aching laughter. Holding himself up against the door frame, wiping a dirty hand underneath his eye to catch tears as Ciar swears in Aer, over and over.

"Get over yourself,” he finally snaps, gesturing around the bedroom they’ve found themselves in. “Something ought fit either of us. Need boots more than anything. You need a coat. More than one coat.”

Sai leaves him to his rambling exploration of the molding wardrobe he’s ripped open. Hearing Ciar talk the first time had been shocking—not just that he spoke common, a language that had colonized both their people. But that when he started, sometimes Ciar simply didn’t stop and mostly it was to himself. Sai had been fascinated by that unending torrent when they’d cleared the rusted, sharp fences of the penal colony. It had been raining, water collecting in the deep pockets of their eyes, both of them hollowed and exhausted. Ciar had talked until he was spitting water from his mouth, like a rain trap overflowing.

Sai finds a window, just enough of a sill to sit on, looking out cracked glass at the sky as it slowly bleeds to death. The wind has begun howling at the manor, at it’s broken body. It rattles that window, so he lays a hand flat on it and feels the vibrations. Reminds him of the mines, the bombs going off, so his hand twitches away.

“Gah!” He sputters when clothing hits him, pooling across him, smelling old and unused. It’s finer material than he’s ever worn before, but he’d liked his clothes before the prison. Simple tunics, easy draping, thin and made to cover skin but breathable for the heat this country absolutely never has.

“Think that’ll fit, but you’ll be showing ankles. Make them tall where you’re from.”

“Or Aerlanders are short.”

“Ah,” Ciar tugs at the prisoners tunic, roughly yanking it from himself. “You don’t think of us, though?”

He has nasty, white scars across his back that Sai does not have to ask about. A common occurrence to be whipped nearly to bone; only months ago it was likely Ciar had been tied to the post for something he’d done. Minor or not. Sai looks down at the clothing in his hands, a rich velvet black. His scars are around his wrists, his ankle. A worn pale line around his throat, from the iron collar that they’d managed to pry open.

Sai stands swiftly and begins pulling at his own scratchy, dirty tunic. Feels wrong to put the clothes on when he’s still so dirty, but he has no illusions they’ll find water to clean themselves just yet. Once the leggings are up and the shirt—an equally lavish, if not thin with age material, only this time in a mossy green. He looks up to Ciar and both men blink at each other.

Smiling, Ciar says, “Look different without your scrawny legs out.”

“You’re shoved into that material like it was made for a man ten years younger,” Sai replies, stepping swiftly over the broken down door and out into the hallway.

—

Crumbling stairs descend below the estate, the cellar earthy and the air moist. It’s unfinished, more a carving of a space than anything else, not in disrepair from neglect, but a project that had never seen completion. Not for the first time, Sai wonders who lived here. A family, likely? A mother, father, children. Arms tucked around his middle, he’s forced also to confront that he doesn’t know where here is. He doesn’t know what region he’s in; months ago, that miserable train of wagons—cells, really—had been uncovered only at night to allow prisoners brief respite of clean air. Sometimes, when it rained, they’d be pulled from those wagons and allowed to stand under the downpour. The only way they’d get clean.

Sai further wonders what memory that’s replaced of his. What of his childhood can’t he remember now, in place of standing under rain, unblinking as water fills his eyes. Staring at the muted night sky colors, wondering if it wouldn’t be easier to run and die. His sisters voice, his brothers poor cooking, his father, his aunt. Their mouser cats. The lemon tree that had been planted when his grandparents were wed. Where were those memories?

“So much for wine,” Ciar comments, peering through the space with slitted, suspicious eyes. There’s clothed walls dividing some areas, hanging like phantoms. “I used to like drinking on an empty stomach.”

“What? Why?” Sai uses knuckles to brush cloth aside, finding crates, lids slid off to reveal nothing but straw. His skin crawls at the idea of searching through them.

“Never done that, aye? It’s fun. Take to the drink faster, don’t remember a thing the day after.”

“How is that fun?”

“Well,” Ciar’s rumbling voice comes from the corner somewhere. Sai continues pushing cloth aside, coughing at the filmy dust and residue. “You know—find someone to drink with, then a barn. Go from there.” Brown hand fisted in moldy white cloth, Sai yanks until it comes free, upsetting even more dirt as it falls from a mostly unfinished ceiling. He coughs, clears his throat, throws the fabric aside.

Then gasps.

Though he swore that Ciar was across the cellar, he’s suddenly there, brushing against his shoulder. The entire line of him that Sai can feel, pressed from bicep to the lightest brush of knuckles, is taut, a fist of muscles clenched. He doesn’t step away, though that sudden closeness makes something flip over inside his empty stomach.

“What is that?” Sai asks, quietly.

Ciar doesn’t answer. The air is stale around them, sucked clean of warmth. The skin on Sai’s scalp tightens, fingers curling into shaky fists. Their footsteps are muffled on the dirt flooring as they both step closer, into this forgotten corner. The only light is from slashes of what would be windows at the tops of the wall, dawn light pouring in to illuminate—a marble statue.

Massive, standing atop a small pedestal, it brushes the top of the unfinished ceiling. Motes of dust dance around it. Beautifully done, muscles rendered to exact likeness—a soldier, holding a great war hammer in a restful pose. The chain mail beneath plate armor so detailed, Sai can imagine the texture beneath his fingertips, though he’s never armor before. And moreover, it’s clean. No dirt at all to mar the perfect marble carving, it’s pristine white—and they are like moths drawn toward it.

Cloth drapes over the face of the statue, obscuring it and draping down it’s shoulders like a cloak. The statue is so perfect, the model even has fingernails. Short, bitten, realistic. A vein in his forearm, a ripple in fabric bunched under plate. A perfectly white, indented scuff mark on a boot.

"This,” Ciar whispers, lifting a hand, but never connecting a touch. Though tall, Sai doesn’t even reach to the chest of the soldier. He scoots closer behind Ciar as he approaches, who stares with reverent eyes. “This—how did this get here?”

That pulls Sai to a stop. He glances around the small space, looking for tools, indicating a master craftsman’s abandoned work. There is nothing but the worn out remains of candles, burned nearly wickless, puddles of wax the only audience for the statue.

“Well. Clearly they owned it.”

“How?”

“How did they get it down here, you mean?” Sai steps further around Ciar to look closer at the hammer. It’s a simple thing, not ornate at all, the shafts wood grain detailed. Truly just a soldiers weapon, though. Almost easy to imagine it bloodied. Altogether, he can’t fathom how much the thing weighs—how much it values at.

“Careful,” Ciar says, a hand landing gently on Sai’s shoulder. Gone and there, as quick as the butterflies back in the forest earlier. “I know this statue.”

“You do?”

“Know who it’s depicting.” Ciar answers with a grunt. Then grins his sneering, awful smile once he has Sai’s full attention. One of his canines sits wrong, protruding a bit, dimpling his lower lip. There is a scar there, something clean and white straight down to the curve of his chin. “You were praying earlier. To who?”

Sai sits on that for a moment, unsure how to express religion to this Northern stranger. Not so much a stranger, some strange voice inside of him whispers. Matching scars around his throat, after all. Shared misery. Shared fear. Freedom. Finally, cautiously, he answers, “Sacrifice.”

Ciar blinks away shock, shrugging a massive shoulder. “This is the Dog Soldier.”

“The what?”

“One of mine.” He straightens proudly, gesturing a savage thumb to himself, mouth spread in an even wider grin. “A God of my people. The Hound of Righteous Rage. God of Vengeance, God of Soldiers. Xavier—the Killer of Betrayers.”

“Ah,” Sai mumbles, turning back to the marble rendition of what he thinks is but a young man. Something about the statue seems lonely. Shoved in a corner in derelict, abandoned home. Beautiful and forgotten, left to obscurity and darkness. He reaches up to yank away the cloth draped over him and then Ciar really does take him by the shoulder. Pulls him backward, not roughly, but quickly. Sai stumbles, twisting and shoving himself backward.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re not supposed to look at him,” Ciar explains, all boastful pride gone. Replaced by the serious twist of an anxious expression, a feathering twitch in his jaw. He seems paler, somehow—slightly blue from the barely there midnight light coming through the slashes of windows. “We don’t have anything this fancy back home—but the wooden carvings of Xavier, they’re all blindfolded after they’re made. You’re not meant to look ‘im in the eye, y’see. If you do, he can possess you.” The spidery feeling of anxiety crawling down his back, Sai flicks eyes back to the clothed statue. Again, the intensity of it’s loneliness makes him feel small.

“He takes young soldiers on the battle field sometimes, turns them into machines, naught for killing.” Ciar’s lips spread into a smile once more. “Only your enemies, surely.”

“Stop trying to frighten me, Ciar,” Sai snaps, shoving the other prisoner once more. Made of nothing but solid flesh, the other man doesn’t even budge. But it feels satisfying regardless, so Sai pushes his way past him, as far from the haunting Dog Soldier as he can.

—

“Look as though you’re going to cry.”

“No.”

“Could, if you really wanted to. I’d turn around, if y’d’like.”

“How generous,” Sai replies flatly. “Didn’t even do that when I was changing.”

Ciar laughs as he shreds another book between his broad hands. There’s a strange pink to his cheeks all the way to his ears. A reflection of the meager fire they’ve cobbled together, dancing over his the pallor of his skin. Ciar had been pragmatic when he’d suggested the books, but Sai couldn’t bring himself to the task. Instead he’d held a few of them—cherished the tomes in his hands, the feel of their supple leather covers, the smell of their pages. Not rotted and damp like the cellar, nor musty like the clothes they’d been forced to scavenge.

Now, there was just the stinging smell of smoke in the library they’d found themselves in. It collects toward the ceiling, pillowing there. Ciar had opened the large bay windows, to let out some of the smoke, but it had made both of them nervous.

After adding a few more books to the fire, Ciar settles down the opposite side. And then remarkably, he relaxes. For the first time—not even since they’d escaped, but before even that—the man seems to come…uncoiled. He lays flat on his back, hands on his stomach. His eyes closed, legs kicked wide and lazy. The nervous thrum of energy that had kept them going through the forest, had kept them going through everything, seems to dissolve into the air with the smoke from burned books.

Oddly, it makes Sai nervous. He sits there, knees to his chest, arms wrapped around shins, staring at Ciar and thinks that it can’t be this easy. They hadn’t found food, but they had found a well outside—and skins to fill with cool, clean water. And they’d both drank enough of it to throw it back up and then drink more, like it was the wine Sai had hoped for. They’re warm—and it’s quiet. Feels terrifying to close his eyes, the way Ciar has. To rest any muscle that might be needed next for running, fighting, freedom.

“Our homes were the same way,” Ciar suddenly says, his words slurring together. His chest rises and falls so steadily, so slowly.

“The same way?” Sai watches him through the meager fire. The shadows grow large against the walls, their shelves.

“’Fore, you were talking about where you’re from. Said the houses were one floor—everyone together. Big family. I…” Ciar’s eye lids flicker as he trails off. The veins along them are spidery and soft.

“Did you have a big family?” Sai asks. The heat of the fire makes his eyes burn watery.

“I did.”

They’re silent then, for so long that Sai wonders if Ciar has finally fallen asleep. Only when he looks away from the fire, the northerners pale eyes are staring at him, glossy with the reflection of flame. Then they’re closed once more, so quick—it’s almost easy to mistake whether they were ever really looking at him at all.

—

Sai doesn’t dream, but he wakes up without a shred of lucidity. His mind jumbles together, thinking of purple jam, his mother’s smile, grass underneath his feet in a way that doesn’t hurt—a white statue and stained cloth, the flutter of insect wings, water filling his empty belly until it hurts. Fire—and Ciar.

Ciar, shaking him. Ciar, holding his shoulders, his face close.

“What?” The word comes out as a hoarse whisper and no more follow as a hand clamps over his face. Then Sai really is awake, startling upright, but not fully able to shove Ciar away. The other man crouches over him, a strangle tangle of their bodies. His hand still plastered to Sai’s mouth, his other held up in a curious signal that must be pure muscle memory from a life before imprisonment. Dread, cold and black and familiar, fills Sai’s belly with ice. Footsteps. The creak of wood. Voices. So soft and barely there.

Unconsciously, Sai begins shaking his head, eyes pinned open with the feral terror only a prey animal understands. His hands tremble, clasping around Ciar’s arm. He is the most sturdy thing there is. Slowly, he’s pulled to his feet by the other man, gently maneuvered closer to the windows. Everything feels so incredibly distant, as though Sai has joined the smoke stains on the ceiling and he is watching this, like an amusing puppet show. Two prisoners, who didn’t run far enough; the shorter of the two slowly pushing open a window—and further pushing the taller to it.

“No,” Sai hisses, grasping weak hands into Ciar’s tunic. He gets no answer. Staring, he realizes that Ciar has the oddest ring of dark blue around his iris, when the rest of it is like storm cloud gray. Sai shakes his head again, a pressure building up in his skull, pushing and pushing and pushing. “No, no, no. Ciar. No.”

Again, he’s met with resolute silence. Ciar, saying nothing more, pushes the windows open. He throws a terrified glance over his shoulder—another creak of footsteps. Another voice. Sai watches his throat bob and the sudden impossibilities fill him to the brim. The knowledge that so much could be different and that all roads were now gone. Lost. Burned right before him. His chest tightens on the realization that Ciar is going to die.

Everything else seems so small.

“I won’t make it easy for ‘em,” Ciar promises, in a harsh whisper. His knuckles are bone white as his hand curls around the edge of the window. Sai touches his forearm, slides a hand around his wrist, finds the rough texture of scars. Fat tears spill down his cheeks to his chin. Ciar smiles and it’s soft and sad. Strange, on his features.

A bump from somewhere distant makes both of them startle, fear a pulse between them, inside them. And then, there is no more time for soft touches, for crying, for shared looks or the shared intimate awareness that something else could have happened, something more. Instead, Sai is tumbling from the window, his hands skidding across crumbling roofing. Slender legs kicking to catch himself better—blessedly finding the lips edge and pausing.

Then falling.

Noiselessly.

Safely.

Sai runs for the long dead field behind the lord’s home. He sprints. Stumbles. A sob catching in his chest that he silences with hands slapped across his mouth. A burning reminder of another mans hand having just been there. Boots Ciar had found, one size too small, catching on the uneven ground. The night sky, so dark and everything around him so unrecognizable. Unbidden, unwanted, the memories of the penal colony; those buildings they were shoved into like animals, the mines and dirt and the never ending sounds of pain and misery. The tasteless gruel for food, the coppery unfiltered rain water they rationed. The collar, the chains, the books he helped balanced that put an exact price on Hell. The whipping post. Uneven ground catches him by surprise and he tilts forward—momentum bringing him straight to his hands and knees, pain a sudden shock through his bones. Help, Sai thinks. Someone, please. Please, help us.

The wind shifts, battering him as he scrambles up. It howls around him and the lone, dead field of wasted crops. Tears make everything blurry, the moon fat and high in the sky and her moonlight causing the world around him to go pale, for shadows in the field to elongate and twist. Sai breathes in panicky, short bursts.

And in front of him, only a span of a distance, a figure. Pearlescent under the moon, a dirty white cloth rippling in the wind. A whisper in the air. A voice, low and humming, full of sorrow and fury. The world around Sai shrinks, rippling as though it’s breathing, pulsing and bringing him toward the statue of the soldier. One terrible step after the other.

There it stands, no longer on it’s pedestal. Hands, holding its hammer outstretched before him like a gift. The voice—a haunting, terrible murmur—grows louder as he stumbles toward it. The moon rises, just as white, just as untouched, behind the statues clothed head, like a halo. With every brush of wind, Sai can just faintly see the curve of a jaw, as perfectly sculpted as the rest of the statue.

He reaches a hand out, fingers curling around the proffered hammer. It’s cold like winter; almost so cold that it burns, sears his palm as he steps closer. Some reasonable part of him, small and denied, screams that taking that hammer means he will never let it go. It’s scalding to his skin, fusing. The terrified animal inside him ignores this, reaching with another hand to grasp cloth covering the face of the God of Vengeance.

Swiftly, but dreamily, as though none of this is real, he pulls it away. And Sai is looking up, into the face of a beautiful young man, smiling ear to ear with a violent, inhuman rage. Eyes, green like it’s alive, with pin pricks for pupils, staring directly into his own. There’s time enough for a gasp—and then there’s no time left at all.

—

For a moment, a soldiers hands reach out. Chain mailed, but gentle. Searching. Desperate. Looking for someone and finding nothing.

Finding nothing.

—

There is one memory they could never take from Ciar.

He realized quickly that’s what the colony was really for. Not mining. Not working ore and gem—it wasn’t even really about punishment, though they loved to punish. It was a game for the Inquisition. It was a test—scholarly pursuit, even. A way to discover how to remake a man. To take everything from him—every thought or feeling he’d ever expressed outside those fenced in walls—and fill him with something new. Something horrid. To see how much of a push could be made, until a man died a completely different soul.

And they’d never won with Ciar.

In the memory, his mother is braiding his hair. Once past his shoulders, his first night they’d shorn it to his scalp. There was still a scar around the curve of his skull where the inquisitor set to the task had done so roughly and without care. Ciar never grew it out further after that, but he could remember the feel of his mothers fingers gently putting beads into the strands, braiding one side slowly and deftly.

She’d sing to him, old warrior songs. But in her voice they had only ever been lovely. He conjures the image of her, in that dusty ruin of abandoned opulence. He kneels in the hallway where he’d been caught, a crossbow bolt deep in his bicep. His mother, brave and tall and fierce and just as lovely as her song. He had promised Sai he wouldn’t make it easy—he didn’t intend to.

And alongside her, he lets himself one last vision of him as well. Slender like a blade with eyes just as sharp; dark and intelligent and judgmental. A narrow face, a pointed chin. Eyelashes flickering against sweat as it pours down his face, Ciar thinks, this is worth it then. Sai likely won’t live much longer, but any hour he can give. A day, even. Outside of the colony with sun. That makes Ciar smile, his horrible, snarling grin. Yes, let Sai die in the sun at least. He can do that. It’s what his mother would have wanted too.

“Something amusing, prisoner?”

There are three inquisitors—one dog. It stands near to its master, black lips rippled as it growls. Foamy spit drips from it’s canines, smearing on the dusty rug beneath it. The inquisitors are swathed in their expensive black cloaks. Mimics of each other, yet one stands in front of them all. A wide brimmed hat sits slightly tilted, nearly obscuring one eye. Even his hair is black, lanky and greasy as it spools over his shoulders.

Ciar grins wider, exposing more of his crooked teeth. He responds in Aer, an insult to all four, the dog and their mothers. Being as none of them speak Aer, they don’t flinch or respond, but the head inquisitor tilts his head curiously.

“You have much vitality for an escaped convict,” he drawls, examining a leather clad hand, as though Ciar is not worth addressing directly. The dog barks once, in response to its masters voice. Then dissolves into more frothy snarls. “Perhaps we did not give you enough to do, back home.”

“Home,” Ciar hisses, nausea welling in his stomach. He slips a hand over his punctured arm, feeling it dead and useless at his side. The hot blood gives him strength. “Fuck you—and your prison.”

A crossbow bolt sticks into the ground in front of him, the distinct twang of the device loud in the hallway. Ciar doesn’t flinch from it, which makes the man wielding it look…annoyed.

“Where is the other one?” The inquisitor closest to the manors excessive entrance asks. The doors are slightly bent inward, a breeze coming from outside soft and sweet smelling. Ciar had made his way opposite of the library, intending to be caught quickly and dealt with slowly. The squirming fear of torture in his belly is hard to ignore,, but he thinks again of those dark eyes. The slenderness of Sai’s wrists, and the delicate circle of scars on his dark skin. Ciar’s hand, resting on his thigh turns to a fist. Surely, he can kill one of them. Just one.

“Fucked off when we got past the fences.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” Ciar seethes, eyes narrowing on the inquisitor before him and his ridiculous hat. “Didn’t want that Indaran fuck anywhere near me. Had to take him when I went—you keep us chained like that on purpose, don’t you? Should have used him for food, maybe.” Ciar shrugs his unwounded shoulder, nonchalant. But these are inquisitors, men of the Realm. Men who rape and torture and sleep easy after; men who are responsible for the crisscrossing scars on his back, who delighted in it every time. Men responsible for worse.

They merely stare, their beady eyes unimpressed by Ciar’s lies.

“We could be merciful.”

“But you aren’t, are you?”

“But we could be,” the lead inquisitor says softly, petting a gloved hand between his beasts pinned, black ears. The dog’s snarling only seems to get louder in response. Ciar thinks of it savaging him, tearing at a limb, while he struggles. Dogs. He never really liked dogs. “If you tell us where the other one went, we’ll make your death quick. No pain.”

“No pain?” Ciar asks sarcastically, squeezing his bicep, a fresh flow of blood relenting down his arm, pooling in his hand. “You wouldn’t deny yourself it. Probably all fuck each other stupid after, don’t you?” Again, they stare. Until one of them smiles, his large, square teeth blackened at the edges. And then the fear really begins, a slow creep that kills Ciar’s smile. A horror, both for what he is going to endure for it is sure to be agony, and knowing that when they find Sai, they have no plans to kill him. Too valuable.

He rips the bolt from his arm, intending somehow to use it.

And then the inquisitor looses the dog.

But as quickly as it jolts forward—it suddenly stops. The great big beast goes prone, it’s ears flattening. It releases a piteous whine, it’s entire body shuddering. All of them stare at the creature, reduced from snarling, vicious weapon, to pathetic pup. A smell of urine and a dark, wet circle beneath it and then the dog is up. Sprinting wildly down the hall, directly past Ciar. It makes terrified, yipping yowls as it goes that slowly disappear.

No one says anything. There is nothing but Ciar’s ragged breathing. Maybe the slow drip of his blood from his fingers, if one listens close enough.

And then, the doors burst open.

In the dark, with nothing but moonlight behind from the outside, Sai looks like a shadow. Something white, nearly luminous is clutched in his thin hands. Ciar’s heart rises, treacherous in it’s misguided, uninformed delight at the mans appearance. Unharmed, with black hair dancing in the wind pouring through the now broken doors. Just like the dog; his heart rises and then plummets just as quickly.

“No,” starts as a whisper. And then, yelling, “No! Sai, I told you to—” His words become a strangled sound as moonlight illuminates the mans face. A smile, twisted wide and terrifying. Curving his cheeks to narrow his eyes, which are no longer dark and pretty. But poisonous green, glossy—and brimming with hate. Not Sai, then. Couldn’t be Sai.

“There you are,” the dog master purrs, slowly removing his wide brimmed hat. He doesn’t know something is wrong. That it isn’t Sai standing there, feet spread in a violent stance, his hands gripping a white hammer of all things.

“You.” The word is loud, like a thunder clap, echoing down the long length of the old manors entrance hallway. Ciar rises to his feet, his stomach made of water. His eyes on the hammer as brown hands curl and uncurl around it, in anticipation of violence. “You.”

“Kill the other one,” the head inquisitor says flippantly, tossing a look over his shoulder. That look proves to be his last, as the hammer smashes into the side of his skull, caving it in like it was overripe melon. The body slams to the floor loudly, head cracking further and bursting bloodily.

And then it all dissolves to chaos.

A crossbow bolt flies, sticking in the wall beside Sai, who moves so deftly it seems preternatural. The creature that has become Sai smiles on, thundering toward the inquisitor with a single minded, blood thirsty purpose. He struggles with the crossbow and for the first time, Ciar sees true fear in the inquisitors eyes. It should be glorious; it should satiate every vengeful desire Ciar’s ever had against these brutal beasts, but it doesn’t.

Instead, Ciar has to scramble forward to catch the third inquisitor around the throat before he can descend into the fray. And as he does, they both get to bear witness to Sai’s slaughter.

He lashes out with the hammer. It connects to a black clad chest with a sickening crunch of a sound. Dark, frothy blood—much like the dogs spit—bubbles from the inquisitors mouth as he stumbles backward. Regaining maybe only a few senses, or pure muscle memory, the big fisted man tumbles forward to catch at Sai. To grapple with him. Only the hammer descends once more, cracking across the collarbone this time, snapping the bones like mere twigs. The inquisitor makes a high pitched, squealing sound.

The one in Ciar’s arm struggles and frees himself easily. Every muscle in Ciar’s body has slackened, watching spurts of blood hit Sai across the chest and face. As the hammer hits blow after blow on the twitching inquisitor and his slow dying body. The last one pulls a dagger. As though sensing the blade’s appearance, Sai swivels on swift feet. His body is so beautiful, all elegant lines and shapes, twisted in a soldiers dance.

“Betrayer,” Sai whispers, gripping bloody hands on the marble hammer. The word…flexes the air around him. Rippling the mere air around them. Ciar’s eyes flicker with a barely held on consciousness.

And then, Sai kills the last of their abusers. He dodges every thrust of the blade as though he’s studied them all his life. He parries easily, spirals sideways and thrusts out the hammer—it connects with the inquisitors face, breaking nose, splitting lips. Teeth spurt free, scattering on the ground. He moans, hands raised in a strange plea like so many who had once been before him. Sai, merciless and smiling all the while, brings the hammer down. Twice, with vicious, terrifying justice.

The wind howls through the broken doors. There’s no other sound than that. Ciar falls to his knees, one hand cradling his wounded arm as he stares. Sai—or the creature that has taken possession of Sai—stills and looks to him. The thing behind those once dark eyes is smiling still, but Ciar can see the truth in that smile. Can see that it is a scream. Can see the tears welling up in eyes as green as the forest.

Then he raises the hammer, one last time.

— Sai isn’t sure if it can be called waking up, what he does just then. Maybe it’s like being born, once again. He is there suddenly, conscious, and laying on soft soil. His eyes flicker into a light that seems to be coming from nowhere. A wide circle of it, in an otherwise dark expanse. Foggy, the air around him is dense and wet. He hums a sound, swallowing, rising to his knees. His hands brush across his face, back over his hair, resting on his shoulders. His eyes, which feel weak and unused, like he truly is some new born calf, swim around.

This isn’t a cave. Yet there is no sky. He can tell there is no…end. That there is no ceiling, but there is a darkness above him. Almost like a presence.

There’s a sound as well. A clinking. Chains. The sound sends a ripple of fear through him, propelling him to stand and turn.

He shares this space with an animal. It’s shaggy fur the color of fresh blood, its flank rising and falling in quick, fervent breathes. A hammer, taller than any tree he’s ever stood under, is beside it. And around the wooden shaft, are the chains. Barbed and sinister, glistening wet. They loop around the creature, fastened to a hind leg. Sai, staring for an uncomprehending amount of time, only realizes that it’s a dog when he it turns it’s massive head toward him.

As big as a cart horse, the animal shakes itself all over, a rolling of flesh and fur. It pants, its maw parted, hot breaths rustling the dirt around them. It’s eyes are glistening with pain, wide and green, as large as Sai’s palm.

The creature shifts and makes a terrible agonized whine. Its nose brushes against it’s hind leg. Sai starts forward, hands raised.

“I’ll help,” he says, his voice feeling muffled and underwater. He reaches forward but the dog snarls, it’s lips rippling back over glistening teeth. It snaps its jaws and then cries out, shaking all over. It’s paws scramble in the dirt. Blood, both old and new, all over the poor beast. In puddles around it, sticky on the earth. Sai watches, horrified, as the massive dog savages it’s own leg. Massive teeth snapping around the ankle bone, shaking furiously in a desperate attempt to free itself. Flecks of blood and saliva, eyes white with a rolling madness, more whining from between it’s clamped jaws.

“Stop,” Sai pleads. He feels tears gathering in his eyes. “Stop, please.” But the dog cries as well, its pitiful sounds muffled by the way it devours at it’s own chain bound leg. Tears, impossible for an animal, well in it’s somber green eyes and carve tracks in its fur. Sai’s shoulders tremble. The dog unwinds itself, snapping jaws, snarling, shaking, howling and all he can do is stumble back. Fall upon the ground, hands covering his face, to hide from the poor beasts agony.

“Up now,” a gruff voice says behind him. Before he has a chance to look, hands slip under his arms and haul him standing once more. The surrealistic landscape totters, as does Sai, but warm hands hold him steady. Sai blinks down at a much shorter man. He is broad and shaped similarly; the curve of his nose familiar, the deep set darkness of his eyes and the curls of black hair pinned messily from his face. He wears simple clothes but one fine, gold necklace that disappears into thin cloth.

The stranger smiles, a sardonic thing, with an arched dark brow. Sai collapses, hands touching his forehead. His heart beats thunderously in his throat, as he realizes that there is a God standing in front of him. The very one he had been praying to, not that long ago though it feels like another life. More dream than this inky, strange reality he’s in now.

“Ah,” the Sacrifice says, his voice abashed and awkward, not a thing expected of such a creature. “Don’t do that. Up. Alright, yeah? Up.”

Teary eyed still, Sai pulls himself up. He realizes the sound of savagery has disappeared—and when he glances to the captured animal, Sai sees it laying still. Great, bloodied snout between forepaws, eyes wide and still crying. It doesn’t seem to see Sai at all. A pitiful soft breathy sound exits it’s blood crusted nose. A feeling fills Sai’s insides; a longing, yearning, horrible feeling, a painful emotion that can’t have a name at all.

“I know,” the other God says softly.

“What is it?” Sai asks, his voice quiet amidst the sound of deities.

“It?” Sacrifice asks, his handsome, tired face creasing. His eyes stray to the side, softening, though no less exhausted. When Sai glances there as well, it isn’t the dog anymore. But a man. The painful roil of sadness and yearning remains, heavy in the air with the fog, but no longer an animal; the soldier, the marble soldier made flesh. Sweat slicked red hair plastered to his pale, freckled skin. Blood dripping from his nose and onto the ground, as he kneels there. Head tilted just enough to look from under his lashes. Still hauntingly beautiful, like something untouchable and frightening.

“He,” Sai’s sentence starts. Green eyes never sway from Sai’s God, though. “He was a statue.”

The God of Sacrifice snorts, rolls his eyes derisively, waves a hand in the air. “Fancy shit, yeah? They get his nose wrong. Or—so I’ve heard anyway. Right.” He clears his throat into a fist. “Have things handled here. I’ll—I can take care of ‘im. You need back in your body.” Sai isn’t sure how to answer. Every thought feels more jumbled than the last, syrupy and slow and hard to hold onto. He can still hear the steady, awful drip of blood off the soldier.

“Thank you,” Sai mumbles, unsure what else to say. The urge and desire to supplicant himself again, yet the God looks at him with eyes that so similarly remind him of…family. His older brother or an uncle. Even that soft, near awkward smile, and the tired shadows on his face make him more human than God. But there is a singular sense of power as well; something solid and comforting and otherworldy. Sacrifice slowly pulls a blue scarf from his pockets. Unraveling it between his hands.

Sai whimpers at the sight of it, his dirtied hands reaching out but never touching.

“It was a worthy thing,” the God says softly. Chains rustle beside them. The sound of them drawing taut is a memory that Sai can’t forget. He closes his eye to the sound, but that overpowering emotion of fear and pain and craving feels physically present. The darkness seems to swirl, even behind his lids. His body goes light, as if suspended in water. The upside down feeling of sinking. And overhearing;

It hurts.

Again, whispered once more, I know.

The sound of rustling—clothes and limbs, embracing, a warm burst of something colorful. Then;

—

It’s the sound of birds, first. Sai hears them, even with his eyes, gummy and exhausted, still sealed shut. Birds. Calling to one another, beautiful spring time songs. Then, the rocking motion. Back and forth, and wheels along a hard packed dirt road. Terrified, Sai sits up, gasping in a heavy lungful of clear, sweet air.

“You’re awake.”

He’s not in the closed in space of a cell wagon; dirt and urine and blood and sweat and jam packed bodies on all sides of him. Hot, fetid air, thinking only of the next time there would be rain and he would be allowed to stand under it. No—he isn’t there. Instead, the back of the wagon has a clothed tarp, parted slightly at the front and back to allow air and the sight of the sky. Blue and pure. The crates he’s laid across even have quilted blankets, scratchy from old age, but more luxurious than anything he’s touched in years.

Sai looks beside him, where Ciar sits. A knife glints in his hand as he slowly pars slices of apple.

“What?”

“Hit your head on the way out the window,” Ciar says, snorting his vicious laugh. He takes a slice of the apple, spearing it and holding it out. Sai’s trembling, weak hand reaches forward and takes the slice of fruit.

“How did—where are—”

“Carried you,” the northerner explains, biting into a slice of apple. It crunches crisply between his crooked teeth. A little rivulet of juice runs down his chin and it is so distracting a sight that Sai has to look down to his own, pale bit of fruit. “Made it to a road. Found some of your people, of all things.”

“My people?” Sai looks to the wagons front, where a couple sit. Dark brown like him. The woman turns, her creased face lined softly with age and warmth. She smiles; her hair is tucked away neatly with a blue scarf. Trembling hands slowly bring the slice of apple to his lips. Sai catches the briefest glimpse of his own fingers—and the dried blood underneath his nails.

“Probably should sleep more,” Ciar rambles, crunching further into the apple. He tosses the core out the back, lounging back on the crates like a predator cat freshly satisfied. Sai’s heart beats an unsteady rhythm in his throat as he eats the slice of apple. “Hit your head hard.”

He’s lying, Sai realizes. Ciar gazes out the back of the wagon, his pale throat trembling. His jaw clenched. No, Sai thinks, the fruit sweet on his tongue. Sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted. Big idiot. The voice in his head turns fond. Thinks he’s protecting me.

But he does as Ciar suggests. He lays himself, curved to fit his height, along on the crates, hands tucked up underneath his cheek. His eyes closed just enough that he can still see Ciar, the fluttery image of him shadowy behind Sai’s dark lashes. He finally relaxes, head lolling back, a smile on his face that looks—even to Sai’s barely opened eyes—finally happy.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

life saving wound

wc: 3650 au: fantasy au 2 ch: xavier, benji

Night descends on the army camp like a midnight blanket, dampening everything, muting light but for torches and pitiful camp fires. Conversations turned down to whispers around the barely there orange glow, tired faces illuminated enough to show that exhaustion. Boot steps of soldiers crossing camp soft on damp soil, muffled. The only sound that of a snoring guard, standing out front the surgeons tent. Impressive that, pulls Xavier up to a stop to stare. When the corporal clears his throat—another intrusion into that dark realm of night after a battle—the guard snaps to a harried attention.

“Wasn’t asleep,” he says quickly, battering an eye with a closed fist, making an innocent expression. A spear leans on his shoulder, looking more toy than weapon in the sleepy mans cradled grasp.

Mercifully ignoring that, Xavier asks, “This necessary?” He gestures to the guard and the large tarped in area for medical. A light drizzle of rain—mere suggestion, not enough to kill a fire or force a soldier into his tent early—patters against the sloped oilskin roof of it. The man grunts, shifting on uneasy feet and gesturing behind himself with a jerking thumb.

“Inventory’s been a bit off lately when they run it,” the guard explains with a hapless shrug. “Captain don’t want no one botherin’ the medics neither. Know how that can be.” Xavier rubs at the scar beneath his eye, which itches fiercely no matter what he does. The guard coughs into a fist, brows tilted apologetically. “Not that I’d accuse an officer of that—not at all.”

“Easy,” Xavier says, laughing and raising an open palm. “Got an old wound that acts up in the rain is all. Hoping for something to help me sleep.”

“Oh aye,” the guard says quickly, gesturing to his knee. “Ask for talla root.”

“Yeah?”

“Mum runs an apothecary,” the guard says with a proud puff of his chest. “All’s well, sir, I’ll mind my post.”

“Thank you,” Xavier says with genuine gratitude, clasping the mans shoulder before slipping through the cloth entrance. The smell is clean and slightly bitter inside, with a hint of smokiness from the gaslamps lit around the wide open area. To the immediate left, nothing but the cots for wounded. There’s no wailing, no tortured sounds of anguish and for that Xavier can only be grateful. It’s quiet, a murmured suggestion of a few soldiers, being kept awake by the medics, comforted by company.

To his right, Xavier darts through a series of makeshift cloths walls. He isn’t in search of one single thing—not talla root, or a medicine to ease sleep, or anything to help the infernal itching under his eye—but a person.

Benji stands in front of a beaten metal pot, one hand on his hip while the other stirs soaking, boiled bandages. In this small, cut off area, the air is hot and near damp, the smell of medicine stronger. It brings a heated flush to Benji’s cheeks, the color rich and dark. His hair is scraped back from his face and tied in a messy knot, curls dropping here and there to cling sweatily to his skin. Xavier’s chest feels scooped clean, breath struggling to find a place to live. His hands flex at his sides, a sudden broiling sensation crisping at his skin.

The medic glances over his shoulder, dark eyes widening just a fraction. Enough to make Xavier’s throbbing heart stutter happily. He smiles. Benji frowns.

“You’ve got blood on your cheek.”

“I do?” Xavier pats at the scar beneath his eye, finding it slightly damp. “Hell.”

“Told you not to—”

“Benji, it itches—”

“Yeah? Like I don’t know about scars,” Benji cuts him off with a snort and an eye roll. The gentle reminder of the mage’s arms, the criss cross of magic’s evidence across his skin makes Xavier’s heart shudder once more. His stomach fluttering with a feeling he shouldn’t have, Xavier palms the back of his neck. He takes a small step closer. The lighting in this small, enclosed area feels intimate and delicate, the lantern light highlighting the points of Benji’s features. His eyes, black and shadowy with exhaustion, follow Xavier’s bashful slink forward.

Only when he gets closer does he realize Xavier has no idea where to put himself. Where to put his hands, where to stand—what to say, what to do. There’s a strong beating current inside his veins, a desperate ache to be closer to the mage that he doesn’t think has anything to do with the magic Benji had put inside him. Merely—it’s desire. A very, very strong desire that Xavier thought he knew what to do with.

Not a virgin, he’s well equipped with flirting and everything that comes after. Only, Benji standing there, curly hair sweat slicked and skin shiny at the base of his throat—where his beard becomes small, short hairs, a strangely erotic sight—completely unbalances him. Xavier’s eyes flicker instead to the boiled bandages, a stark reminder of everything existing outside of the tension between the two of them.

“Could get you something for it.” Benji says, suddenly breaking Xavier of the emotional hyperfocus. He blinks and then his smile is giddy and too big, creasing his cheeks, placing small dimples on them.

“Talla root?” Benji’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Guard out front—” The medic mage snorts and flaps a hand, face scrunched in a mean sneer. It only makes Xavier feel like kissing him more—like taking his face and smashing his own against it, devouring that expression like a hungry beast. Instead he fingers the scar under his eye again.

“Quit,” Benji snaps, taking him by the elbow. He turns to the bandages, shoving the metal pot aside to rifle through more of his supplies. Everything is scattered across a low, oaken table that’s scarred more than Benji must be. It’s leg wobbles with every movement. Xavier could fix that. If he weren’t a corporal in an active war that he doesn’t really understand or want to be part of at all. He’d be good about fixing the table, so Benji never had to shove anything under the leg to keep it even.

The gaslamp soft light illuminates the skin at the back of Benji’s neck. The sweat glistening underneath the line of his hair, curls hanging from the knot tied up and out of the way. Xavier—captured and absolutely seduced—curves himself around Benji, chest to the mage’s back. He’s taller—much, much taller—but he feels like a pond reed in comparison to the other man. Still, his chest flattens against Benji’s back, curling closer, his hands smoothing along Benji’s considerable biceps and down his arms, cupping elbows. His nose tucks into brown, inviting skin. He inhales deeply.

“You smell so good,” Xavier murmurs, his breath skating across Benji’s skin and fluttering curls of black hair.

“Can’t expect me to believe that.” Benji’s gruff reply comes out shaky. His hands flatten onto the oak table in front of him. The talla root forgotten—all of his supplies in front of him completely ignored. His hands, Xavier notices, are broad, with small nicks and scars across them. He recognizes the ones between thumb and index finger; blades drawn too quickly nipping at sensitive skin.

“No, you do,” Xavier laughs, tucking his nose closer, brushing against warm skin. “Thought you said you could trust me.”

No words are exchanged then, as Xavier’s large palms slide down Benji’s arms. One clasps his forearm, feeling the tense strength there. The tautness in Benji’s body making a part of Xavier yearn for nothing more than to soothe it away. The other hand, however, continues it’s pursuit. Fingers, long and deft curl under the edge of Benji’s sleeve. Rough callused fingertips search and find the edge of a bandage—one discrete and small, wrapped around a cut made only a few weeks prior.

Benji’s breathing comes heavier as Xavier presses them closer. Closer together and closer to the table. The bandage is pressed softly, fingertip searching below it for that life saving wound.

The moaning sound of his name makes Xavier feel like a hunting blood hound on a pursuit, his nose still buried deeper into the side of Benji’s throat, his other hand holding harder and harder to his forearm. Feeling his heart beat pulsing. Thickness to the air makes it hard for him to breathe too and his cheeks hurt, of all things. His cheeks hurt from how wide his smile is, his lips parted, his breathing harsh directly on Benji’s skin. His tongue could so easily draw a path, taste beads of sweat—

All at once, the corporal steps away, yanking himself and his hands back, eyes blown wide. Benji, looking like a ruffled cat whose furs been rubbed the wrong way, glances over his shoulder with nearly hurt eyes. The expression changes when he too hears the sound of boot steps, their cadence hinting to a hurried, insolent arrogance. Benji hisses, scrambling across the table top for sheaths of paper. Shoves them into Xavier’s hand, pointing to shelving in the corner. Supplies. Inventorying.

Stepping toward it quickly, Xavier scrubs a hand across his mouth, heart thundering painfully against his ribs. Eyes skitter frantically over rows of jars, small, cloth packages holding precious supplies. Bothering the medics. Of course he’s bothering a medic—him, an officer no less. Can’t help he’s a healer. Stupid, he feels stupid and lightheaded with it and then, suddenly, the footsteps are directly behind him.

Not one man, but two. An officer, tall and broad and clearly the owner of the clipped, hard boot steps. The other—an aide, an assistant, a scribe?—short and gaunt with a pale, harried expression and smudges of of exhaustion under watery gray eyes.

“What?” Benji’s resumed task, pulling bandages from water and wrenching them dry. The water splatters the ground around him, droplets on his white tunic, little dots of charcoal gray now. Benji—Xavier’s caring, gentle handed mage—stares at the newly appeared sergeant with an expression so fantastically annoyed and less than impressed. “Need something?” The rough insinuation in his tone makes all the hairs along Xavier’s skin stand on end, chest constricting as if it’s one of those flimsy little bandages being wrung out roughly.

Benji, he thinks with an inward groan. Benji, why do you fast track ways to piss people off?

“Bandages,” the aid blurts out, as the sergeant opens his mouth. Tall and sloppily put together, on second glance the officer looks like he needs bandages. Deep red stains over the shoulder of his navy coat (one nicer, but matching Xavier’s), down the arm, to bloody crusted fingers. He’s sturdy enough. Tall, with the appearance of a soldier, not like an outfitted officer who was merely given rank. He also sneers a scarred lip curled back, black eyes narrowed. He’s pale. Long featured. Maybe northern like Xavier. The name comes to him then—Sergeant Bier.

“Think you can manage that for me?” his voice is tight—maybe with pain—as he steps closer into the small supply corner.

“Naw, these just for show,” Benji replies, holding up a strip of cloth bandage. It drips. There’s a stunned pause that hangs under the pitter-patter of rain on the oil tarped roof over top them all. Then Xavier is scrambling off a cloth bag of bandages and stepping forward, holding them aloft.

Unfortunately, Bier recognizes him as well and cuts him off before he can even say anything.

“Wolffe,” the sergeant growls, brows flattening with derision. A summary of how he feels about Xavier is within the contempt of that single word. Wolffe. Like a curse. Xavier’s hand wilts, but a quick glance to Benji’s ever present glare—directed right at the sergeant—makes him extend it once more.

“Here, sir. Bandages.”

“Ah,” the aide rounds the sergeant. His lips twitch at the corners, almost like a nervous smile. Xavier’s oddly grateful for it. “Thank you. But—but, I was hoping that—I was trying to bring the sergeant—his shoulder, you see. I don’t think he can reach it himself—”

 “Don’t tell them what I can or can’t do, Killjoy.” The aid nods furiously, stepping back without taking the bandages, which sit uselessly in Xavier’s outstretched palm. “Look, I’ve found one them—” Bier makes an off handed gesture to Benji, whose expression has frosted over darkly. Winter’s kill. “Be on your way, and tell the captain it’s being looked after.”

“Yes. Right away.” There’s a moment where Killjoy just stands there, staring blankly at Xavier. Then he scurries away.

Sergeant Bier yanks a wooden chair toward himself. It scrapes along the ground, a knife’s along against Xavier’s spine. He tucks the bandages toward his chest, staring down at them, a foolish embarrassment heating his cheeks. Bier unloads his considerable bulk onto the chair, legs thrown outward as he heaves a burdened sigh. Benji doesn’t move at all; like a stone statue, holding a bandage between his hands in a fashion similar to an assassin with their garrote. He exchanges a glance with Xavier.

Then Benji approaches.

“Took a lance to the shoulder.”

“Mm.”

“Can’t believe they let lancers even get that close. What’s calvary for? Fifth army never had this issue.”

Xavier, pretending to be back at the task of inventorying, has to grind teeth together. Calvary against lances. Stupid. Go back to the fucking Fifth then. He drags a finger across the parchment, finding the words smudged and messy—Benji’s handwriting. Something about that makes a small spark of affection blossom in his chest, vulnerable and soft. Benji’s handwriting—tiny, scrawling, messy and incoherent. His index finger trails a sentence—he can pick out a word here or there. It’s a letter, Xavier realizes. That feels too personal, so he fumbles with the supplies instead.

“How long since you changed this bandage?” Benji’s voice is flatter than usual, stripped of his sardonic humor, or sometimes soft gruffness.

“That why it’s tugging all my fucking chest hair to get it off?”

“Plastered on with blood, yeah? What else you expect it to do?”

Later, he regrets it, but just then Xavier looks over his shoulder. Absolutely nothing could have stopped the immediate surge of jealousy that makes his belly hot. His throat closes, a wrinkle on the bridge of his nose appearing from the sudden grimace on his face. Benji wraps a long, swooping bandage from side to over the sergeant’s left shoulder, careful with the application. Deft fingered, attentive. Black curls hanging across his brow. Bier sits there, legs out, head tilted back, as if enjoying the attention. For a man so hell bent on doing it himself, he seems only too happy to let another patch him up.

“Weren’t in the fighting, were you, Wolffe?”

The sudden attention makes him jump, fumbling Benji’s letter. He smooths it carefully, placing it on the table face down. Clears his throat with his fingers still spread across the parchment and table.

“No. Captain gave me the saboteur team. Not front line.”

A fond memory of Benji’s expression at the news makes him blush then; when he’d explained that he and his few soldiers would be far, far from the front lines, Benji had…melted. There’d be no other word for it. He’d softened all over, a sigh of pent up relief between parted lips. Brows smoothing, the corners of his lips lifting, eyes gentling. It had been such a small thing, such a briefly there glance, but it had meant so much to Xavier.

Bier spits on the floor, which pulls Benji up from his bandaging.

“Barely soldiers, those ones. Can’t even remember the last time any of ‘em have pulled a sword.”

“Yesterday morning,” Xavier replies coolly. “We do drills, same as the others.”

“Well, what a good officer you are.” The pause lets Xavier know that Bier doesn’t really think that. He then gestures one flat, wide hand toward the supplies. “Can get back to that. Bit surprised they have you doing it.”

“Ah…Someone has to.”

“Surprised you can read, is all—grrk.” Bier jerks with the sudden seesawing motion of Benji’s hands, snapping the bandage on tightly.

“All done.” His teeth click together audibly on the sentence, nearly as violent as his hands tying of the bandage. It has an opposite affect than intended, Bier’s attention suddenly sharp on Benji—appreciative. His eyes flicker up and down, rapidly, settling on dark brown hands wrapping up the remainder of a bandage. A painful sensation settles into Xavier’s stomach; into his hands, which becomes closed fists, looking at the way Bier is looking at Benji.

“What is your name, healer?” Bier asked, his voice a faint purr. When Benji doesn’t answer, the sergeant leans forward, hanging hands between his knees.

All at once Xavier is reminded of gutting fish as a young boy. Once, he would have been a fisherman, like his father. He would have caught haul and brought it to the docks, he would have helped load catch into baskets, flipping and jerking their lives away until the animals suffocated. He would have helped, with a gutting knife, remove their insides. Had that traveling group of soldiers not conscripted him, had his life not careened so far off balance—yet found balance, somewhat here—he would have been at home with a gutters knife.

Instead, all he has in the short dagger against his breast that his hand itches for. Instead, he breathes out a short, furious snort that goes unnoticed by the sergeant and his flinty stare toward Xavier’s healer.

“I said—”

“Heard you,” Benji drawls with a sneer.

And before anything can get worse, Captain Sotto brushes underneath the clothed entrance, dusting hands together.

“Ah, Bier, perfect.” The captain claps his hands together. His uniform is only slightly rumpled—hints of a mail hauberk underneath—his yellow eyes piercing in the candlelit darkness of the modest infirmary. Sotto, dark and handsome and regal the way Xavier had always pictured military officers to be, smiles at all three of them. Underneath that smile is something wise, a hard glint that implies he’s too aware of the tension he’d sawed through with razor teeth. Xavier’s knees go only slightly boneless.

“Cap’n,” Sergeant Bier gives a lazy salute that Xavier delivers with much more precision—closed fist to chest, slight bow. Benji does nothing, but continue to wrap the bandages.

“First,” Sotto steps through the entrance fully and then gestures to it. “G’on, Benji, you don’t need to be bored by all this.”

That Sotto is on first name with a medic, one of probably dozens, surprises Xavier. The familiarity behind the gesture and the tone makes him wonder if there’s more to that—but his thoughts pull toward Bier’s satisfied expression, aimed nastily toward the departing medic. Xavier watches Benji leave and his departure creates an absence in the corporals chest, something physically aching. He soothes a hand there, his blood swimming with anxieties. He’d not liked that look from Bier—he’d liked even less how quickly Benji had followed someones order.

Like gutting fish, Xavier feels some core part of himself awakening under Sotto’s stare. A good dog, maybe. Loyal—with a good salute. He swallows a thickness in his throat, folding the letter on Benji’s table and sliding it beneath the rest of his scattered items.

“List of casualties was empty,” Sotto says slowly, folding hands in front of himself, as though he is the foot soldier at ease. Head tilted, looking at Bier, he smiles still. “I’m a fan of that. Whatever tactic employed made that work.”

“Quick retreat,” the sergeant replies with a dark chuckle. He runs a hand back and forth over his newly bandaged wound. Slips fingers underneath the tied off edge to loosen it with a grimace—Xavier finds a sick sort of satisfaction watching that.

“Xavier.”

“Yes?”

“Could you find your alchemist for me?”

“Benny?” Xavier can’t help but smile. “Need something blown up, sir?”

“Oh, always,” Sotto says, with a laugh and a small warding gesture. Something Xavier thinks is unconscious, something many do when talking about Ben. He gives his captain a nod and then pauses on his way to the clothed entrance. Technically, he should acknowledge Bier…only he doesn’t. Xavier glances the mans way—his eyes two large, haunted ponds of green ice that seem to make Bier cringe, thick neck creasing, chin lowered to his collarbone—and then he steps into the main surgeons tent and away from the two officers.

—

He doesn’t look for Ben at first.

Xavier should—he knows he should, and that loyal dog that sleeps within his heart, all too ready to be called good and rewarded for it, knows he should. But he doesn’t.

Instead, Xavier spends half the hour wandering in search of Benji. He checks all the places he knows the medic lurks; pond side where a hatchling hord of baby ducks have made a home and often squawk at him for bits of food, the modest tents of housing for the healers, his own far off in the corner, where he must have placed it himself. A makeshift drink spot, where Benji never really goes to drink, but sits alongside companions with a sleepy, fond smile and a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. He checks all of them and then more—and then finds other medics and the few soldiers Benji speaks with and asks them all the same;

Have you seen Benji?

And none have.

At some point, he has to give up the search, but there’s another dog inside him that doesn’t like that either. He shoves feelings beneath his rib cage, leaving them there to suffer and examine later and finds the alchemist instead. But he’s lonely all the while he does it.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

safehouse

wc: 3850 au: college au ch: xavier, benji

Xavier wakes up with all the finesse of a street dog kicked to alertness. That’s to say—limbs everywhere, giant gasping inhale, eyes snapped open frantically (probably a whimper, similar to the metaphorical alley stray). His heart doesn’t immediately catch up with the movement of his body; it stutters instead, thumping sideways and awkward inside his chest as he sits up.

He huffs another gasp, sliding a sweat slicked hand across his face—and God, all of him is sweaty. Disgusting. The sheets stick to him, the blankets bunched between his overlong legs. The window’s open, but it’s so early that the light pouring in is hazy and gray, like badly steeped tea. Xavier’s hands clasp behind his neck, his breathing stumbling out in a haphazard rhythm. A bead of sweat slips into his eye and he digs knuckles into the socket almost frantically at the feeling. His eye. He’d nearly lost it in the dream…

“Mm?”

The body beside him stirs at all the commotion. A cool, dry hand slips across his thigh and then higher. Settles on the notch of his hip. The fingertips belonging to that hand are callused and rough and delightful sending a shiver across his entire body. Xavier takes the hand, pressing it to his cheek, feeling instantly comforted by Benji’s presence.

Then the dream catches up with him once more and then he’s not entirely sure what he’s feeling.

“Time issit?” Benji’s voice is scratchy and partially hidden, his face still pressed into a pillow. Xavier doesn’t say anything. He isn’t sure he can muster words. Instead, he stares. Still holding his boyfriend’s hand, cradled against his face. Able to feel the calluses from drumming on the curves of Benji’s fingers. Their distinct difference in body temperature is usually so soothing. Wasn’t a rare occurrence for Xavier to make big, pretty eyes and ask Benji to rub his much cooler hands across Xavier’s back; caressing sore muscles that were tight and tired after days spent hunched over car engines.

And it’s not…not soothing. Just…

Xavier distracts himself finding his phone with his free hand, tapping it awake. A cracked screen and a picture of the two of them illuminate him briefly.

“Five oh three.”

“Disgustin’,” Benji grumbles, turning onto his side with a frustrated huff. Then he rolls onto back. His arm drapes over his middle. The subtle rise and fall of his chest makes Xavier’s fear risen hackles slowly recede. He brushes Benji’s knuckles over his lips, remembering the tactile sensation of these fingers but gloved. He remembers the taste of the nitrile, the feel of pain in his cheek, the taste of blood, spit rolling down his chin. He remembers whimpering and moaning and begging for it, the hurt and the cruelty and the passion.

His shoulders jump as Benji’s head lolls to the side, eyes blinking open. There’s no garish scar bisecting one of them. No nasty little sneer. There’s just—Benji. Morning Benji. Sleepy Benji. Xavier’s Benji. Dark eyes blinking awake, the hint of a smile in the curve of his cheek, his dark facial hair soft and alluring. No gloves or scars or guns or combat boots. Xavier’s mouth is dry and he’s suddenly painfully aware of his erection, straining heavily in his boxers.

“Had a weird dream,” he admits, smiling and tucking that smile shyly behind Benji’s hand.

“How weird?”

“Oh, fucking weird, Benj.”

There’s flashes of his lover; the sinister and terrifying shine of Benji’s eyes, the dark swell of arousal in Xavier’s belly, the anticipation and the fear and the lust and the strange love he’d found in it all. Underneath the viscera, underneath the strangest fucking dream he’d ever had, whatever version of them that existed theatrical and apoplectic in his subconscious, was still very much in love. It’s the only thing that makes his shoulders relax slightly.

He isn’t holding the dream against Benji. He is holding it against himself a little—because what the fuck? Why dream that?

“That sort of weird?” Benji’s eyes glance down to the outline of Xavier’s cock, pressed painfully on display against thin fabric. A small dot of transparency highlights the overwhelming need for action. Xavier’s cheeks warm, tingling a path down his throat, across his collarbone. The hand he’s holding against his mouth turns, fingers sliding over his lips, over his jawline.

“Need help with it?” Benji pauses and considers. Then, “Want a hand?”

“Oh my God,” Xavier snorts, falling backward into the bed, listening to Benji’s soft giggling beside him.

“Was a good one.”

“No, it wasn—ah. Okay. It was—so good.”

His eyes flutter shut, enjoying the sensation of a palm closing around him. Xavier’s toes curl with it, calves tightening, chest rising, hands knotting into the sheets underneath him. When his head falls to the side, lips parted, Benji’s mouth is already there to greet him. To kiss him through the lazy, morning handjob. It’s not at all like the dream, which is a balm to the strange guilt he files away to examine later.

After he cums—it doesn’t exactly require that many strokes and Benji’s sort of perfected the technique by now, since they’d moved in together two months ago—they don’t even get out of bed. He apologizes to the shirt he finds on the floor to clean up his stomach and then—well. Then they roll themselves together, a cocoon of blankets and body parts and breathing and soft murmured words until they’re asleep again.

Xavier’s almost late to therapy because of it.

—

The red stress ball has a satisfying thwak of a sound when it connects with Xavier’s palm. Thwak, thwak, thwak, in between sentences and words and huffs and sighs. They’re twenty minutes into an hour and a half long session that has been promised to go longer if it’s necessary. He hopes it isn’t necessary.

“I’m never taking a tolerance break again,” Xavier complains, palming the ball and tossing it up in the air a few times before pitcher throwing it to his therapist.

Dr. Wright catches it smoothly, passes it to himself behind his back, a fancy trick before tossing it back to Xavier. Wright isn’t the first therapist Xavier’s had. In fact, he found that therapy was a lot like trying to date and there could be many first awkward dates. And many first awkward therapy sessions. He’d settled on his third try, mostly out of exhaustion, but also because Dr. Wright had a framed photo of a hockey player on his desk and that felt socially weird enough for Xavier.

For a while he didn’t think he could have a therapist that was a man. One of the few things he’d learned in his bumbling first tries with his other therapists was that Xavier had an issue with men in authority roles over him. Everyone was, at the end of the day, his dad. And Xavier would do pretty much anything for the approval of his father, which would lend absolutely nothing to therapy. Xavier couldn’t get a winning score in therapy. It wasn’t how it worked.

But it explained a lot.

Dr. Wright couldn’t be further from James Wolffe if he tried. Besides being short and Black, he wasn’t an asshole and he was gay. Xavier’s father was a lot of things, but he certainly wasn’t gay (or Black).

“So, you plan on smoking again?” Dr. Wright asks, catching the ball once more. Like most questions from a therapist, this feels like a trap, but Xavier is less anxious than he used to be. Traps have worked before. Caught him by surprise and worked information out of him he’d otherwise have taken to the grave. But it felt safe here. That was important.

“Dunno.”

Xavier waves a hand to indicate he’s done with the stress ball. He throws himself down into the plush chair that sits cocked sideways to Dr. Wrights. Comfortable, oversized, and smelling faintly like Wright’s gorgeous German Shepherd, it is the most relaxing place in his at home office. Xavier’s therapist lives in a fancy place downtown, a stone’s throw from a restaurant that would be too expensive even for his five-star chef sister. He takes clients at home and Xavier’s health insurance somehow covers it, but only for once-a-month sessions.

Any additional would be billed directly to him. Dr. Wright thus far, has given Xavier three sessions outside the monthly and somehow the bill was sort of…lost in the mail, he claimed.

“Dunno is not a complete sentence.”

“Okay,” Xavier huffs indignantly, crossing slenders arms over his chest. He slumps in the chair more. “Since Benji and I got a place together, I don’t feel like smoking as much. I like being—yunno. Like, present, around him.” He wonders when he’ll stop blushing at the mention of Benji and not just because Xavier had gone into explicit detail about the terrifying sex dream he’d had of his boyfriend just moments prior. Xavier is always blushing about Benji in therapy. Something about talking so intimately about a partner in front of another man was always going to be uncomfortable, probably.

Dr. Wright blamed Catholicism. Openly. And often.

“I just don’t wanna have any more weird fucking dreams,” Xavier mumbles, sheepish eyes flickering to Dr. Wright as he settles into his own chair. He’s dressed like one would expect from a therapist—cardigan with patches at the elbows, dark denim that’s rolled at the ankles and loafers to match. He’s handsomely older, with a short, square beard and kind eyes. Has a black band for a wedding ring and a silver bracelet that Xavier has never seen him without.

“Let’s talk about the dream,” Dr. Wright says, lacing his hands together and placing them on a crossed knee.

“I thought we were talking about the dream.”

“Mm,” his therapist hums, tilting his head. “You were talking about the dream. Now I’m going to talk to you about the dream.”

Xavier groans, head falling back against the chair. But he doesn’t disagree. That was another thing about Dr. Wright that he liked (and another thing that distinctly set the man apart from his dad)—he was okay with being told no. He was okay when Xavier didn’t want to explore a topic; he let things lay. He didn’t always push. Xavier always felt it was a therapist’s job to dig. To get underneath the muscle and pry out whatever lived there, toxic and rotting that was threatening the whole limb. Maybe it was, but Dr. Wright didn’t treat therapy like that sort of surgery.

And because of that, through those methods (of gentleness that he is very unused to from authority figures), Xavier has formed a deep trust for the man. Like an anxious, beaten stray that needs a gentle hand, Xavier has found himself relaxing.

So, he doesn’t raise a concern. He doesn’t say anything or change the subject. He sighs instead. He looks at Wright and flops a nervous hand back and forth wordlessly agreeing. As much as it’s probably going to hurt.

“Xavier,” Dr. Wright says his name softly, sitting and leaning forward in his own chair. It’s one of those nice kinds that would always be too expensive for Xavier to own; leather and with a quilted blanket thrown over it. Decorative pillows. He’s thrown one of them before, angrily, before sitting down to cry. Xavier takes one now, tucking it instead to his stomach. He meets Wright’s eyes with wariness. “Did you know that it’s very common for sexual abuse survivors to sort of—act out whats happened to them?”

Xavier’s throat closes, a cold sweat suddenly pooling under his arms. The lights in Dr. Wright’s at home office are suddenly far too bright, creating little dots of color everywhere. He lifts his hands, smiling in a twitchy way.

“But I’m not—”

“I know,” Dr. Wright continues, his tone measured and soft. “Your ex partners—”

“Didn’t!” Xavier interrupts, his voice going thin and a little shrill. “They were just assholes.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Dr. Wright says dryly, arching an eyebrow. The sweat continues pouring, coating the back of his neck now, where his hair has grown out too much. “And I’m not implying anything. I’m just telling you. Morgan and Everett were terrible people. Awful fucking people, Xavier. You deserved better.” They’ve been down this road, though. Xavier knows there’s more to it. His breathing hitches and he presses the pillow harder to his stomach. “I’m saying, that sometimes when people go through something, they’ll think about it. A lot. And it creeps into their life. And I’m not saying it’s always healthy. Or always good. But it always normal, Xavier.”

He pauses. His therapist pause. Instead of replying, Xavier only nods. Sure. Normal. Nothing about that dream felt normal.

“I think it says a lot, in fact,” Wright continues, leaning back in his chair, hands hooked around a crossed knee. “That Benji was in the dream. Don’t you think?”

“Why?” Xavier doesn’t look up. The pillow he’s snatched has a very interesting paisley pattern to it. But it is also a very ugly orange color—like cat vomit or something.

“Because you feel safe with Benji.”

It’s too simple a statement. Too broad. Xavier doesn’t just feel safe with Benji he feels—home. He feels like he’s driven a car for too long and gotten out, wobbly, just finally waking up to realize that he’s home. He feels like some strange muscle in him has been aching for years—maybe his entire life—and is only now finally relaxing. He doesn’t feel safe, he feels protected. He feels like he could walk on inch thin ice and nothing would crack underneath him. That he could wake up and say anything and Benji would just smile at him. That they can have every single argument a couple can have, and cry and scream and be angry and it’ll end up okay. Xavier folds his hands around the back of his neck, realizing tears prickle at the edges of his eyes. Yes, sure. He feels safe. He feels very safe.

“Safe enough that even in a dream maybe slightly motivated by BDSM—who am I to say?—that the dominant party materializes as your current partner. And you know, Xavier, a lot of people have sex dreams about strangers.”

“Gross,” he croaks out, laughing. “No thanks.” Dr. Wright smiles that ever patient, therapist smile. Xavier thinks it might be somewhat fond too. Like Dr. Wright does actually like him outside of the bill.

There’s a moment of silence, where Dr. Wright doesn’t push and Xavier doesn’t say anything. He lets feeling return to his hands, which have been holding himself so tightly it almost hurts.

“You know, you don’t have any obligation to tell Benji either.”

“What do you mean?” Xavier’s eyebrows pinch in concern.

“It was just a dream. If you want to keep your dream to yourself, there’s no shame in that either. It can just be a weird dream you had on a random Tuesday, Xavier.”

He thinks about that.

—

Then, he immediately tells Benji.

It spills out of him, in such explicit detail he starts to feel ashamed of himself. In ways he wasn’t when he was telling Dr. Wright—but he’s telling Benji now. Benji, who in the dream, finger fucked his bloody mouth with gloves on. Benji who was scary and cruel and still so Benji in a hundred different ways. Xavier laughs a few times, but it’s awkward and bumbling and he gets caught up in his words and gives himself a headache. A pulsing feeling behind his eyes.

Because for a moment, Benji seems…upset. His brows turn upward, his mouth thins, a muscle in his jaw feathering. He listens and doesn’t interrupt, and in the beginning had smiled at the idea of a sex dream, lengthy and theatrical. But the more unravels, the more he looks uncomfortable. Worried. Unsure. And then finally, guilty. Like he’d actually done any of it.

Until.

“And uh, Dr. Wright said—” Xavier cuts off there. They’re seated on their bed together. Their bed. Blankets shared, too many pillows when Xavier only needs one and Benji needs more. Especially when Xavier isn’t there and something else has to get crushed into his chest to be held. It smells like Benji, it smells like Xavier too—both of them. They wake up in this bed, they have sex in it, they watch Youtube on their phones, because they haven’t gotten a second TV for the bedroom, because who can afford that?

They’re sitting there, together. One of Benji’s hands resting curled around Xavier’s knee. He stares at it. His eyes go fuzzy, feeling the pressure building up again. He scratches nervously at his throat.

“He said—uh, well. He said some stuff about—About, uh.” He takes a rattling, wet breath. Benji scoots closer.

“What did he say?”

“Something about,” Xavier pauses, staring at Benji, feeling his eyes getting bigger and bigger and unable to stop them. “About how sometimes people who have been—like hurt before, or something. Uh, people who have been—I mean this is his word, right?” He laughs awkwardly, throat tightening. “But people who have been abused before, they sort of act that stuff out. But you know, for me, it’s like. It’s you.”

Jesus, he isn’t saying any of this right. He feels so stupid. He huffs angrily, palms over his eyes.

“Like it was you, in the dream, because—because you would never—and so my brain thought—like it thought of that stuff, but it gave me you. So it didn’t even hurt, it just felt good. Because it was you.” He can’t peel his hands away to look at Benji. He can’t stomach the thought of having hurt him, in anyway, through some stupid dream. It’s their fault—it’s them, who hurt him and made him weird.

Gently, Benji’s hands find his wrists and pull them away.

His eyes are shiny. Dark and beautiful and always a little tired. Xavier doesn’t know what to do, but that feels fine. In this exact moment, it feels fine not to know what to do. Benji—who holds his wrists so softly—leans in. Kissing distance.

Instead, he says, “Do you remember that word, from before? You said it, we’d stop whatever we were doing.”

Xavier blinks, rust colored lashes catching a few stray tears. He laughs, unexpected, like a bubble bursting. He sniffs a few times, nodding his head. Benji tilts his chin down, his eyes darkening meaningfully.

“Seven. Right? It was seven.”

Benji touches their foreheads. His black curly hair tickles against Xavier’s skin. He leans back. He says, “Good boy.” And every thought Xavier’s ever had puffs from existence. Benji pulls himself up from the bed, leaving Xavier dazed, hands limp in his lap. Mouth slightly ajar as he watches Benji cross their bedroom. Everything feels a bit blurred at the edges, but soft…almost comfortable. He watches Benji bend to rifle through the bag he carries to and from work. Watches him find a box of gloves and tug a pair out.

“Oh,” Xavier whispers. “Oh.” The snap of the gloves does something to him, a dark pool of arousal swelling in his lower belly. He leans back on the bed, braced by his hands. Benji approaches, wedged between happily splayed knees to accommodate him. Xavier distantly wonders why his cheeks hurt so much—and later will realize it was the smile, the excitement palpable on every inch of him.

—

They had argued about where to put the bed at first.

Actually, they’d argued a lot when they’d first moved in together. It seemed an easy occurrence as they both struggled to fit together work, life and each other. Every fight was made up of course, sometimes in the very bed they fought over. Sometimes over dinner, with their foreheads together, hands touching in different soothing and utterly non sexual ways. Sometimes they fought and made up in the car, or outside of their friends place during a party, or in a convenient store where when they’d remind each other they were trying to quit smoking.

They’d gotten most of it out of their systems within the first week, before they both, stupidly, realized they were just afraid.

Afraid like they’d been before, when they’d both known they loved the other and couldn’t risk losing them for fear of saying anything. It had been a big step. Living together was something. Meant something.

And they’d argued about the damn bed, because Xavier liked being under a cool open window. And Benji would lose his fucking mind if the sunlight hit him in the morning. They’d compromised by putting it directly in the middle of the room. Threw off the fung-sway according to Matilda, who complained every time she saw it.

But it also made the bed feel like an island. Xavier likes that.

He lays there, one arm thrown over his face, the other splayed to the side. His chest rises and falls, heavy and quick and desperate for air. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough, so out of breath it’s almost hurting. His skin is sweat slick. His hair clumps to his temples, to his neck, in ways he almost always hates. Xavier’s breathing becomes a soft and satisfied humming that vibrates within him, like happiness.

He instantly snatches a hand as fingertips dance around his nipple.

“Dude,” he mutters, eyes opening to glance at Benji. The sunlight never reaches him—as per his own request—but he also looks equally gorgeous in the afternoon’s near midnight darkness. Eyes alight with mischief. He’s just as sweaty, breathing just as hard, and there’s an incredibly smug tilt to his expression. He wiggles his fingers in Xavier’s grasp. They nearly touch the reddened raw sensitive nipple that they’d been aiming for. Instead, Xavier brings them to his lips. Kisses them.

“Was just checkin’ on it.”

“Think you checked on it plenty.”

“Naw, that was biting. Different sort of thing—biting and checking.”

“Please,” Xavier laughs, eyes closed again. “I can’t cum again, Benji. I’ll die.”

“Can’t have that.” It’s whispered close to his ear as his lover curls around him, one bare leg sliding over his own. Every part of him feels sore and used; beautifully so. His arms are tired, his thigh gives a sort of tremble here and there, a delicious aftershock. His shoulders burn, his neck is just as savagely kissed as his nipple had been. He knows a few of those love bruises will last longer than they maybe should. But it’s the sort of sex exhausted that is like a work out that went too long and hurt a little, but feels amazing.

He never had to use the word. He’d never felt pushed to the point of saying it. It was Benji, after all. Everything—even when it got rough in a way that was so different than usual—was still so safe.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

gay card

wc: 1934 au: college au ch: xavier, lark, benny, benji

“I don’t wanna have this argument with you, man.”

“It’s not an ar-argument, because I’m right.”

Xavier’s sighs with exaggerated defeat, hands thrown in the air, hip cocked against the kitchen counter. He gathers the energy to argue with Benny—a man who is very good at arguing—and says, “Look, I just don’t think armpits are hot.”

Benny makes an affronted noise, finally dog earing a page in his book and tossing it down on the pub style table. It was a stolen piece of furniture they’d hauled as a unit up to the apartment a year and a half ago, with knife marks and graffiti covering it. It was home to the three of them, more than the apartment, because they so often gather there—as they are right then. Lark sits across from Benny, early morning scruffy hair messy and eyes bleary with sleep. Despite being the youngest of the three friends, he seems a great deal more mature, bowing out of the conversation with his nose in his phone. His eyes still blink as if in slow motion, though, the night prior clinging to him in every way.

 “You are denying a f-fundamental part of yourself, Xavier,” Benny protests, folding thick arms over his chest. He’s arguably the most awake of them all; but it’s also likely he’s just not slept yet, either. Benny kept strange habits and one of those habits was not having a habit involving sleep at all. “Lark, help me out.”

“No,” the runner answers quickly and simply. His slim, pale thumb flicks his phone screen—if someone were to peer over his shoulder, they would see a social media feed. A loop of people’s various complaints and diary entries interspersed with the very pretty pictures of his girlfriend. Pictures he was trying not to linger on, else he start checking who is interacting with them and putting himself in a sour mood all before breakfast. “Don’t start a queer culture lecture, it ended badly last time.”

At that, all of them turn to look at a crack in the kitchen wall; an indent made by Benny’s shoulder from a collision. Xavier having shoved far harder than he probably meant to, during a nasty spat that could have stopped before it started if Benny was any better about not pressing a point when he felt he was in the right.

Which was most of the time.

“I’m not lecturing,” Benny says, in a tone that suggests otherwise. He tucks fists in front of his head, then wiggles fingers outward. His blue eyes are so wide, the pale irises are full circles. “I’m expanding y-your mind.”

“I feel like expanding your mind shouldn’t happen before ten thirty in the morning,” Xavier complains.

“Okay, imagine a h-hot guy.”

Unbidden—and quite simply, immediately—images of Benji swim into Xavier’s conscious. Benji after rugby practice, using the edge of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face. Benji taking cautious sips from a pint of beer, wincing at the pale ale foam that he doesn’t really enjoy. Benji glancing up at him from under thick lashes, smiling at a stupid joke Xavier had made in an attempt to see that smile. Benji. Crouching on the sidewalk to pet an alley cat that hated everyone but chirruped to see him. Benji. Benji. With his rich, brown skin and his defined, curving nose. Benji. Broad palmed and thick legged, his deep voice and Benji—Benji, standing in Xavier’s room, asking what he wanted to do today, with the simple implication that it would be done together.

“Uh,” Xavier mumbles, scratching a shy finger down the bridge of his long, thin nose. “Okay.”

“Now picture,” Benny continues, in a whispering voice, standing from the table and moving his hands in front of Xavier’s eyes like a hypnotist. “Picture th-that hot guy laying in bed.” Oh no. “And he’s shirtless.” Oh. Fuck. Oh no. “And h-he’s got his arms up, hands tucked behind h-his head.”

Benny slaps both hands on Xavier’s shoulders, his face deadly serious.

“Where do you look first?”

“Not his fucking armpits!”

“You f-fucking suck, Xavier, you know that?”

“Please,” Lark groans, smacking his phone face down onto the sacred breakfast table. Benny’s half filled mug of coffee that he doesn’t need jumps with the force. Lark pinches the bridge of his nose, expression twisted with annoyance. “Please. Til broke up with me last night, can you guys shut the fuck up?”

Xavier and Benny share a glance between them then—a unifying look, that bonds them despite their differing opinions on mens armpits. It’s one of pity and also understanding that both of them should probably leave the apartment, or they’ll be there for the entirety of the couples fight and reconciliation.

—

Xavier’s still thinking about it hours later, though.

Doesn’t help that hours later, he’s laying on Benji’s bed, staring at Benji’s ceiling, while Benji sits at a meager desk and taps angrily at a nearly broken laptop. His hair falls messily in several directions, a hand continually scruffing through it in frustration. He sits there, grunting stormily, mumbling under his breath, a knee bouncing. Sits there in sweatpants that are cotton soft and thin, charcoal gray and flimsy. In an oversized band t-shirt that’s had the arms all but ripped off.

The rubik’s cube he’s been slowly solving slips from his hands and smacks into his brow bone, making Xavier yelp.

“Good?” Benji asks, looking over his shoulder. His wild hair nearly obscures that single, dark eye. That look pierces through Xavier’s stomach, filling him with heat and butterflies and also pain and agony and a horniness that feels nearly illegal.

“Good!” Xavier grins widely, flashing two thumbs up. Benji snorts, shakes his head and turns back to his work. Xavier doesn’t resume the cube; he would have solved it by now if he were taking it seriously. Benji always had a random one in his room, for whenever Xavier needed to sit and think and move his hands. Only Xavier can’t sit and think and move his hands right now. It’s only making it worse. He tosses the cube to the end of the bed and tucks his hands behind his head. That pose suddenly makes it much worse, so he folds them over his stomach instead.

It simmers hotly, a feeling that overtakes his legs and up through his chest. Xavier feels as though he is suffering a terrible curse that Benny has explicitly put him under for crimes of being…not gay enough. Which feels contradictory to the thoughts he’s having about the man just a foot away from him—foot, Xavier thinks, snickering to himself. There’s a joke at Benny’s expense somewhere in there…

“Sure you’re good? Quiet.” Benji leans with an arm slung around the back of his chair. It creaks as he rocks back, tilting until it’s on two legs.

“I got a question for you.”

“’Aven’t got an answer.”

“Fuck off,” Xavier swings a leg off the bed, kicking at Benji, who snickers to himself. He swats at the socked foot that threatens a chair leg. “It’s Benny’s fault.”

“Pfft. Even less of an answer for that one, mate.”

“When you figured out you liked guys—” Xavier pauses, swinging his attention to the ceiling, his cheeks pink. “What did you notice first?”

The stretch of silence cools the warm, syrupy feeling that had replaced his blood. Nervous, he glances Benji’s way, to see him hunched back over his anatomy textbook. The muscles in his arm look sculpted, his tattoos black on his dark brown skin. So many of them, so many hinting at more he can’t see. His shirt, hanging open, revealing the curve of his pectoral. The slight peek of dark underarm hair. Maybe it was sexy. Was it sexy? He liked the hair on Benji’s forearms and his stomach—the heat returns, pleasant until he realizes his friend still hasn’t spoken.

When he sits up, thinking something might be wrong, Benji shrugs his shoulders. A curl of black hair falls messily into his face. Benji flips a page in his text book.

“Always been partial to arms.”

Xavier pauses, sitting there, staring at the back of Benji’s head, as if he’s going to memorize all those messy strands.

—

“Eighteen—nineteen—twenty—”

“Is he asleep?”

Xavier lowers the weight in his hand until its resting on his thigh, though his arm trembles at the movement. Lark—one leg bent, sneakered foot in hand for a hamstring stretch—points at a figure laying on the ground beside them both. Benny’s chest moves in a soft, even rhythm. A sweatshirt lays over his face, hands folded across his stomach. His shirt has slid up slightly to reveal his pale tattooed stomach, the legs of a spider and the hint of a handgun. There’s no snoring, but it’s sort of obvious that he’s asleep.

“Yeah.”

“Dude, gross. These floors have every version of bacteria a place can have. It’s a fucking gym.”

Xavier hefts the weight in his hand up, curling his arm and breathing out through his mouth. Beads of sweat linger at his hairline. He’s lost his rep count, but maybe he should just go until his biceps hurt. More than they already do. He switches the weight into his other hand and then hefts, curling his arm, muscle bunching in protest. Benny shifts on the ground beside him, groaning and flopping arms above his head. The way they bend stretches the fabric of his short sleeve shirt, tightening around considerably thick muscled arms.

“Why,” Xavier says, huffing through his mouth, curling his arm once more. “Does Benny have—any muscle mass—when he does nothing?” Lark switches legs, looking like a bleached flamingo. The stretch is so easy for him, he barely needs to move; just pops a foot up and balances. A duo of girls wanders by, flirtatious in their staring, but he pretends not to notice them. The public gym was always a gamble for Lark, on who would recognize him.

“White trash strength,” he explains with a sneer.

“Fuck you,” comes huffily from underneath the sweatshirt draped over Benny’s face. Xavier tilts his head like a curious dog, examining the tattoos that disappear underneath the edge of Benny’s shirt at his torso, at the middle of his biceps. Unlike Benji, he has seen everything Benny has to offer in terms of body art—and most of it was rather pretty, even if he’d gotten it to make himself look scary. Xavier puts the toe of his sneaker to Benny’s arm, slowly pressing down.

“I can see your pit hair.”

“Pretty h-hot, right?”

“I wish I was dead,” Lark comments, slouching himself to the ground as well, upper body stretching out between his legs, elbows resting on the ground. “Matilda wants me to come with her to Pennsylvania on break and—” Lark cuts off, hands wrapping around the bottoms of his sneakers, stretching forward. He stares at Xavier in annoyed pause, then frowns.

“Is that Benji’s shirt?”

Xavier’s face flushes and he quickly sets the weights down. He hadn’t forgotten that his was Benji’s—he’s never even heard of whatever band it is—but he didn’t realize how obviously not his it would be. It just fits nice; oversized and comfortable and familiar. Benny tears the sweatshirt from his face, sitting up and laughing like an electrified hyena.

“Oh,” Benny snatches at Xavier’s calf, yanking him closer, eliciting yelps. “Y-You’re s-so fucking gay, man.”

Well. So long as he earns the card back, he’s fine with that.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

one of the few

wc: 7k au: new fantasy ch: xavier, benji

When he lays there, in a field of grass, with the sunlight warming even his eyelids, Xavier can almost pretend he’s at sea. That the wind whispering through the field is passing over endless, blue waves. Though he’s flat on his back, hands tucked behind his head, he can imagine that he’s rocked softly by his father’s boat; just as everything was when he was a child, salt curling his red hair, sun kissing freckles onto his skin. Regret doesn’t touch him here. He doesn’t let it.

But he isn’t home. Hasn’t been for a long time—hasn’t seen his family either, and won’t. The army is going in the wrong direction for it, but he has to be thankful for that. The war isn’t anywhere near The Isles. He thinks of his father’s boat, docked. Lonesome, waiting for him, the waves calling him home. In the dreariness of the wet countryside and it’s never ending forests, sometimes Xavier has to pretend.

He crosses and uncrosses his ankles, then folds his legs lazily once more. It’s only mid day, the sun the warmest it will be as summer finally comes to an end. The soldiers long for it; the marches are hell in the heat. Xavier knows better. This isn’t his first winter away from home and he can still remember the brutality of all that desolate, cold whiteness. No chance to even pretend it’s the sea then.

Whoever approaches must think he can’t hear their footsteps. Xavier’s nose twitches.

The ground is soft and the grass is even softer (nothing like the rocky beach he’d grown up beside), but that doesn’t muffle the noise of boots entirely. All soldiers are outfitted with a few pairs, though most have worn through the toes of one by now. Xavier’s hold on for dear life. It was hard enough requisitioning clothes that fit his lanky frame, those over long legs. Boots were a luxury this deep into the war.

A dark green eye opens to examine the toe of one of those very boots, the double wrap of cloth he has around it to hold the sole together. Only a flash of steel catches his attention, bright against buttery country sunlight—then Xavier is gasping and rolling onto his side.

The steel slides almost noiselessly into the ground, half of the sword sunk into the dirt. The remainder sways with the force behind the thrust.

Xavier pops from the ground, a hand darting to his belt knife, tossing it to his other palm quickly. It’s menacing, with a curved tip that he’d used to gut fish when he was a child. Lips pulled from his teeth, the tired, youthful soldier looks more like a mangy dog than a young man. A few strands of his hair fall across his brow, tickling long eyelashes.

“Think you were going to get away with it, then?”

It takes only a moment to realize that the sword driven into the ground is his own. Xavier had taken it off and laid the weapon beside himself while he’d indulged in his half nap. The embarrassment of that—his own fucking sword—seems to snap him free of the feral posture he’d adapted. Hackle raised shoulders droop, his knife hand similarly flagging. Xavier blinks, staring at the stranger in front of him.

They are more than a few inches shorter than him, but most seem to be. Especially here. Xavier’s height was something of an oddity amongst the other soldiers. Many were farmers and those men were broad and short; much like this one. Xavier doesn’t recognize him, but the patch on his shoulder is that of a medic. A red flower, sewn delicately. Medics had their loved ones put the patches on for them and whoever had done so was steady handed. Their cloak is closed with a broach of loyalty to the same prince Xavier fights under, though the clothing is sloppy and worn.

The stranger folds arms across his chest, accentuating the width of him. A closer look puts him at likely the same age as Xavier—young, possibly too much so to be fighting a war that had nothing to do with him. Or, Xavier was fighting. This one, by the flower motif, was not fighting at all. Hell, he should be, Xavier thinks, eying the way a beige tunic strains at the strangers biceps. He wears no chain mail over top, the way Xavier does. It’s one of the few things that makes the reedy red head slightly fuller looking.

“Get away with what?” He cocks his head, reaching for the sword slowly. It wouldn’t have gone straight through him, especially not with the mail. But it would have fucking hurt. The stranger narrows dark, tired eyes. He has shadowy impressions beneath them, bruises that hollow the sockets. Xavier feels a slightly uncomfortable warmth across his cheeks, down his throat, over his chest. Making eye contact suddenly feels very, very difficult.

He yanks the sword from the ground, cleaning it along the inside of his elbow. No it wouldn’t have hurt. The medic hadn’t actually been aiming for him, but rather the space beside him. It would have scared the piss out of him—fighting instinct had been the only thing saving him from that embarrassment.

“Whole camp is up and movin’.” The medic has an accent. Something rural. His voice is low and raspy, lip curling into a mean little sneer. Xavier finds himself staring at that, head tilting further. He fumbles his sword belt back on, cinching it tight and double looping the strap. The medic looks—impossibly—angrier about that. He has rich, brown skin, thick and smooth looking facial hair. Curly black hair sits messily around his face, skimming his shoulders. “Think you just get to lay out here while we do all the work then? Shockin’. Real shocking.”

Xavier finds himself smiling. It’s as warm as the sun he’d been pretending under. That heat turns into a flush that pinkens his pale cheeks and throat.

“Came out here to kill me for being lazy?”

“Wouldn’t have killed you,” the medic snorts. “Would have ruptured something you don’t want fucking ruptured, though.”

“Guess you know all the important parts, huh?”

“They put all the smart ones in infantry, yeah?”

A bark of a laugh escapes him and it’s a pleasant surprise. The medic doesn’t smile, but something in his expression changes. Like something loosening. Just enough to make Xavier step forward. He towers tall and willowy in comparison to this new stranger. Xavier usually hunches around people shorter than him; a sergeant will always scream for a straight posture until that posture makes him look small. Xavier lets himself stand straight, one hand lazy and insolent on his sword hilt. He wets his lips and they curl into a mischievous grin.

“You’re jealous.”

“Of?” The medic raises a dark, thick brow, expression stormy and snide all at the same time. His black eyes are thickly lashed, narrowed and sleepy. “Not me that nearly got skewered because of a nap.”

“If you want to stay out here with me and skirt duties, I wouldn’t mind.” Xavier lifts his sword, the hilt touching the edge of the medics cloak, flicking it outward. A brown hand swats at the sword and Xavier retreats a few steps, laughing playfully. “I could teach you to tie that properly.”

“What? S’tied fine.” The medic frowns. His cheeks turn a shade darker than brown. He glances to the cloak, suspicious.

“It’s wrong around the shoulders.”

“You’re wrong.” The medic pauses. “In the head.” He stops himself once more and then looks satisfied, a curling grin in place of the sneer. When Xavier laughs again—shocked and enamored all the same—the satisfied expression wipes itself away. Dark features reassemble to moodiness, chin tilted down and eyes annoyed. Without entertaining Xavier further, the medic turns on a booted heal and begins stomping through the field.

“Wait!” His own shoddy boots skid on the grass as he rushes forward. The cotton wrapping dirties further. “Who are you? We’re in the same camp. I’ve never met you. Are you new?”

“Think because you’ve not met someone they’re new? Lazy and self important hand in hand.”

“Ouch.” Xavier lays a hand over his chest, lanky legs able to keep up with the shorter medic easily. His grin stretches ear to ear. He feels oddly out of breathe. “I’m—”

“Wolffe. I know.”

“Oh?” Xavier’s voice peaks with pleasure, oxblood colored brows rising on his pale forehead. When the medic glances over his shoulder, Xavier’s ego is punctured brutally and leaks steadily. “Oh. If you know my name, I should know—”

“Wolffe, you shit.”

“Sergeant!” Xavier yelps, scrambling past the medic toward the imposing man standing atop a small knoll. His fingers catch on grass as he ascends to find the killing field the war camp has spent the last month living on. It’s as the medic’s already said—half the camp is deconstructed, turning from a (depressing) livable space into a buzz of caravans, platoons squared for marching and nervous horses stamping their hooves.

“You go off one more time, Wolffe,” Sergeant Taleb seethes, raising a gloved finger. Xavier is envious of that leather; his hands had bled painfully his first few years as a soldier, when he’d trained with the spear. Now they’re as hard as stone, but still able to get fucking cold.

“Won’t happen again, sir.”

“It sure fucking won’t, Wolffe. I mean it this time, no matter the captainlord likes you. I’ll take you out back myself. Like the dog you are. Fall in.”

He’s weathered worse, but the medic, snickering his way off to the side, makes Xavier’s insides curl and his face darken from pink to red. He mumbles more to himself than his sergeant, straying in an opposite direction of the stranger. Xavier can’t stop himself from stealing glances, until finally the beige tunic and red wildflower disappears amongst the crowd.

“Going to get killed, Xavier.”

The poor soldier screams, jumping into the air as another laughs beside him. The sullen younger boy has the hood of his cloak up, shadowing much of his pretty face. Even in the summer, Lark had kept the cloak nearby. His grin peers out from underneath the rough spun cloth, black eyes narrowed accusingly. Xavier could strangle him with his bare hands, but he loves the boy too much. Instead, he loops an arm around Lark’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“Did you see the medic?”

“The one Taleb sent after you?”

“Aw, fuck,” Xavier groans, putting his cheek to the top of Lark’s cloaked head. What an impression, he thinks morosely, his eyes straining for another peek at that mass of curly black hair, that dark, handsome face. His stomach tightens, a strange fluttering up into his ribs. “You know him?”

Lark’s silence is enough of an answer. There’s an odd surge of powerful jealousy that grabs hold of Xavier, icing the veins along his throat, pinching painfully somewhere underneath his jaw.

“They call me a dog,” Xavier mutters, pushing Lark’s head away.

“It’s not like that.”

“I have a reputation and you’re the one snatching up the pretty medics—”

“I said, it’s not like that,” Lark hisses, stomping after Xavier, who makes his way toward their platoon. He’s pleased to find most things already put away; likely, they’ll just have to take down their captainlords tent. It was only a nightmare because the man kept so many maps. And Xavier hasn’t been able to see a single one of them. He’d love to get a look. Just one, to run his fingers over the ink and stare at the patterns. He’d been good with maps, back when—well, before this.

“Do you remember a winter ago?” Lark keeps close to him, quiet.

“I try not to.”

“Right, we all got sick. Not enough fruit.”

“I still don’t buy that,” Xavier says, pointing a finger at Lark as he moves toward the tents. He’d be roped into this duty anyway, on account of his height. Might as well start before someone started barking at him. But I’m the dog. He snorts and shakes his head. “I don’t understand how not eating fruit got all of us sick. Think it’s more likely the grain soiled.”

“Xavier.” Lark manages to say his name like a curse, same way folks will swear by a God when they stub a toe. All it does is make the red headed soldier grin lazily, throwing hands into the air, acquiescing defeat. “Everyone’s scars started opening up, bleeding again. Ghost of past battles and all; they pulled in all those clerics, thought we was haunted and all. When I was taken into the surgeons tent, it was him who helped.”

Lark looks like a black fletched arrow stuck in the ground, cloak up as it is, draped over him. He’s an intimidating figure like that; cut slim and suspicious. Xavier can remember the terrified teenager he’d scooped up off the battlefield a few years ago—Lark had joined a day before and a day later was seeing real battle. He should have died. Xavier hadn’t let him. And he never would.

“He wasn’t weird about it, that’s all.”

Back then, Xavier had thought Lark snuck into the army pretending to be man—wasn’t strictly necessary. There were women amongst their crew, but some people preferred it for safety reasons, he suspected. Lot of bad could happen during a war, not always on a battlefield. It had taken quite a few conversations—repeated and sometimes verging on furious—before he understood Lark wasn’t pretending anything.

He simply was.

Xavier scratches with one finger at the long bridge of his nose, eyes back to wandering toward the eastern side of the camp, where surgeon tents are slowly being packed away. Something settles into him, some sort of knowing that he can’t explain; only that he thinks the last few years have been wasted, if that medic had been here the entire time and Xavier’s never spoken to him. Not even once? What game was fate playing?

“So.” Xavier puts hands to his hips. “His name?”

Lark tilts his chin down, smiling from underneath the hood of his cloak. He looks downright villainous like that, and Xavier can almost understand why some of the soldiers keep a distance from him. Well, the soldiers, but there were plenty of women in the camp that certainly didn’t. Xavier whines, low in his throat, his hands tossing back into the air.

But Lark only turns, his cloak snapping in the wind as he laughs and keeps the secret to himself.

—

Xavier can only see out of one eye, but that’s enough. He stands there, amidst ruin, smoke rising and pluming into the air. The sky smears charcoal gray, dotted with black; swarms of crows and ravens come to pick over the dead. Xavier wishes he couldn’t see at all. Even though the fighting is done, he can’t bring himself to sit down. An old sergeant is in his ear telling him ‘locked knees is fainting waiting to happen’ but he can’t move. A certain hungry numbness eats away at his insides, piece by piece, until he feels his guts are nothing but hollowness. The heart thumps on, loud in his ear. A testament that he still lives.

His hands are cold. He can’t look away. There’s moaning out on the battlefield, the carrion cawing.

“We did it.” The young man beside him cradles a broken hand to his breastplate. It’s crusted with blood and dirt, chain mail blown wide on his bicep where an arrow had punctured through. Field surgeon had dug it out and the soldier had just kept going—they all had. Like hounds on a hunt, with no master to recall them. Xavier, leading them, sword in hand with his bloody eye.

I must have looked like a monster, he thinks and even that doesn’t stir some semblance of emotion.

Xavier sways. Then he falls backward, arms splayed out beside him. The young soldier—Ghen, that’s his name—yelps in surprise. Then screams for the surgeons.

—

A fresh bandage is wound around Xavier’s head, crossing gauze over his eye. He won’t lose it—good thing too, the surgeons assistant had said, smiling shyly. Too pretty to lose. Xavier had wanted to feel anything in reply to that. For the hunger inside him to shift elsewhere, to a lusty appreciation for her pretty smile, or her gentle hands. Instead, he’d sat there, dutifully quiet and appropriately docile as his other wounds were looked over. It was the eye was the worst, but even that will heal.

“You did fine work out there, son.” Captain Sotto sits at his desk, one hand brushing through thinning grey hair. He has dark skin, but clear yellow eyes and the angular face of a northerner. Handsome, though he’s older and bears more than a few scars. They share a same slimness to their features; Xavier had inherited his father’s long, distinguished nose and thin lips. His mother had gifted him his sage colored eyes. Sotto’s yellow hints at a mother that doesn’t match his other features as well.

Despite everything, Xavier swells under the small bit of praise. It makes him stand straighter, push out his chest. There’s an ache all over, from head wound to sprained ankle, but it doesn’t matter. He can’t help the pathetic tatters of his uniform, or the gauze around his head, but he can stand properly.

“How did you know that we’d be flanked?”

“Didn’t, sir.”

“You saw them?”

Xavier shifts. He glances uncomfortably to the ground before raising his eyes to stare at the maps pinned to the tent walls behind Captain Sotto’s desk. His sister had always let him draw in the rivers and the oceans. He liked the cross hatching work done along coasts. Xavier brings his hands together in front of him, breaking his perfect posture, wringing them together.

“I saw the opening is all. I noticed we were weaker on our western side and I thought that if I were to—if it were me…trying to break apart a charge. I would go for that weak point. The trees only look like they’ll choke you in somewhere rough, but they’re sparse along that area.”

“You take naps out there, that’s how you know?”

His teeth click together, cheeks burning bright. A bit of the pride ebbs away. Xavier doesn’t answer. He isn’t a good liar to begin with, and he has a sense that the captain would know better anyway. Still, Sotto smiles wryly, a hand cupping his jaw as he examines Xavier with those feline eyes.

“I am impressed.” Sotto slowly rises, hands folding behind his back. The man is a good few inches shorter than Xavier, but when he approaches, he doesn’t seem small in the slightest. Though he’s slight in build, he is imposing. Candles flicker across the tent walls, across both their faces. Xavier stares straight ahead instead of meeting Sotto’s stare. “You’re from the north.”

“The Isles, sir.”

“Raiders?”

“No.” Xavier’s teeth click once more, his lip curling back, the bridge of his nose wrinkling. “My da is a fisherman, ma’s a laundress at the manor inland.”

“Small folk, then.”

He tilts his head, glancing down at himself and then back to his captain. Xavier smiles, his lips crooked and a little too wide for his face. “Actually, we’re a bit tall in my family.” Sotto laughs at that, surprisingly.

“Common, though.”

“Yessir.”

A silence swells between them. A guard outside the tent coughs. Xavier isn’t sure what he’s meant to do, as Sotto continues looking up at him. The captain breaks eye contact first, swiveling on a boot and crossing toward his desk. He rummages for a moment, before he comes back to Xavier. Without speaking, he reaches for the edge of Xavier’s military collar, pressing a pin there. He sweeps a satisfied hand over the young soldier’s shoulder and steps back with a decisive nod.

“I’ve promoted you to Corporal.”

Xavier glances down to the pin on his collar, the single bar of an officer. He continues blinking at it until the words catch up and then he’s stepping forward.

“Sir, are—”

“Don’t,” Sotto says, raising a finger as he sits back down at his desk, “ask me if I’m sure. The first thing you learn as an officer is to not ask that.” The older man folds his hands placing them on the table amongst papers and a plate of half eaten food. Xavier’s stomach flips over and over itself, his hands feeling unattached and awkward. His smile grows. “I do not do things without being sure.”

He flicks a hand toward the tent flap, where the guard outside coughs once more.

—

It’s near dark as Xavier steps from the tent. The sky is a purpling sort of bruise above them; beautiful and soft. She isn’t the sky he remembers from childhood—that was golden and burnt red, as the sun touches the ocean’s horizon—but he likes this sky too.

He darts away from the tent, trying to hold in all that energy that now threatens to tear him apart at the seams. It zips up and down his limbs, erratic inside his chest like an animal caged. The camp is as lively as he feels, makeshift stalls erected, soldiers milling. Tents full of people spill out, bursting alive. A drink. Yes. That’s what he wants. To celebrate; to find Lark and their strange alchemist, to sit and drink and bask in the glory. The pain in his eye feels secondary to the praise, to accomplishment, to recognition.

The soldier—now corporal—pulls up short from his pursuit when he notices curly dark hair, tousled from the wind. Black, unruly, falling around a brown face. The medic sits on a roughly made stool in front of a barrel used as a table, housing candles for light. He has a sketching pad open on his knee, clutched in one hand while he draws with furious, short strokes. His brows pinched in concentration, mouth set in a grimace. The candles flame makes his dark skin an even richer color.

Xavier’s breath catches.

I want him, he thinks, the thought suddenly maddening. Almost, he forgets the promotion. Almost, Xavier forgets everything that isn’t tunneled to this stranger. He stares for a moment longer, admiring the curve of the other man’s nose, the furrows between his brows. Then he startles himself to attention. He hastily ducks into a larger, circular tent. Inside, rowdy soldiers drink to their hearts content. They’ll neither be marching nor fighting tomorrow. Most of soldiering was waiting around and then being yelled at for waiting around. Drinking and camaraderie was the only thing they had.

“Two, please,” Xavier tells the pretty young man at what would be a counter in a tavern. Instead, it’s a block of wood across more barrels, set up like a bar. Shelves of haphazard design and poor build stand behind him with liquor and drink lined up. The youth grins at Xavier, filling two large tin cups with foamy ale.

“Discounted tonight,” the young man says in a rough, southern accent. “On account of the winning. Here’s hopin’ you do it again, yeah?”

The boy pours a few fingers of ale for himself, taking a quick shot of it before turning on to the next crowd of soldiers. They’re boisterous, excited, but spill good coin onto the wood. Many soldiers know better than to piss where they drink; a good ale house—if the tent could be called that—was important. It would stand the night and the young man tending the drinks wouldn’t find much trouble for himself.

Xavier breaks back into the night, finding the lavender sky darkened to an almost midnight purple. He takes a moment to stare up at it; almost drunk, he feels like the night has slipped away from him. Just a few hours ago, he’d been staring down death, his own and so many others. When he finally pulls himself away, Xavier jumps to attention.

The medic has disappeared.

—

“Mm, saw ‘im go tha’ way.”

“Saint, thank you.” Xavier holds the ale up like a cheer and the older woman laughs. She waves a hand in the direction she’s indicated; a little excuse for an alleyway between two larger ramshackle buildings. These fortifications are easily assembled, and brought back down when necessary. Stabling for horses and an armory for the weaponsmiths. A war could not run without swords and horses, after all.

The last swell of summer must be happening this very night, because sweat pools along Xavier’s collarbone, down uncomfortably across his chest. He doesn’t regret tossing his coat and mail off, stripping down to tunic, trousers and boots. He only regrets that the tunic has more than a few spots of blood. The moist air croaks around them, the sounds of forest life surrounding their war camp. He thinks a pond must be nearby, for the sound of toads. A birds call through the night, one lonesome loon.

Xavier dashes behind the make shift building.

“Hey!”

The medic pauses, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. He similarly has more than a little blood on him from earlier. He would have been on the field after the charge, tending to those soldiers. Xavier can’t remember the one who had come for him. The medic doesn’t turn. Xavier steps closer, a bit of the ale slopping over the rim of the tin cup and wetting his hand. He licks across the back of it, staring eager eyes at the silhouette in the dark as it slowly turns. Though it’s night, the mans face seems perfectly lit for Xavier to see every inch of his annoyed expression. The cautious bunch of his shoulders and the tension in his body.

“Congrats.”

“What?” Xavier blinks with surprise. The ale on the back of his hand is sticky against the night time air. The sun has fully left them now, plunging the camp into darkness and nothing but the wind. The only light comes from torches around the camp, but there are none near them. The darkness feels…intimate.

“Promoted, yeah?”

“You heard that already?”

The medic jabs a finger. The pin on Xavier’s collar—of course. He wasn’t used to that being there. He’d get a new coat soon, Xavier realizes. One with an actual military rank on the shoulder. His face warms and he’s suddenly glad for that darkness. Though, if the other man had been able to see the pin, he likely can see the pink on the high points of Xavier’s cheekbones.

“Thought maybe…would you want to celebrate with me?”

“Thought you could start givin’ orders early?”

“Fucking—” Xavier snaps, huffing a furious breath, biting off a further curse. “I’m not—I just wanted to—Fine.” In one quick throw, Xavier downs a cup of ale. It takes only two practiced swallows and the cool alcohol feels heavy the entire way down. It explodes dizziness inside his skull. Xavier clears his throat, licking foam from his lips and then stepping forward. He thrusts out the other cup, glaring. “At least take it. I paid for it, you know. With my fancy officers salary, suppose.”

For once, the other mans expression is that of surprise and not derision. His thick brows are raised on his forehead, lips parted. Xavier meets his stare and doesn’t relent, the ale held out in front of him. Then he bends, head bobbing forward as if he’ll suck the foam from the top of the proffered drink, but it’s suddenly snatched from his hand instead.

“It’s Benji.”

“Huh?”

“My name,” he—Benji—snaps, taking a sip from the tin cup. “Eugh, this might as well be piss.”

“You, uh,” Xavier grins, “know a lot about the taste of piss?”

“Fuck off?” But Benji laughs. He laughs and it’s full chested, husky and beautiful. Xavier’s knees weaken, his stomach pooling heat in his lower belly. He steps closer as Benji takes another sip of the beer, frowning down at the drink. He licks foam from his upper lip, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. A soft throb starts up inside Xavier and it has nothing to do with the injuries from earlier.

“Benji.”

“Hm?” he looks up at the sound of his name, his eyes tired and suspicious. “What? What?”

“No, it’s a good name.” Xavier fingers the edge of his bandage, his hand still sticky with the ale. “It’s cute, I like it.”

“Well,” Benji looks down, frowning further. It does nothing but make him look more handsome, somehow. “Go sit there, alright?”

“Why?”

“Sit.” Benji gestures toward a crate of supplies, lid half off. Xavier fixes it before settling himself down, long legs extended in front of him. He drums his hands on the crate underneath him, between his thighs, smiling broadly. The one pint of ale surely wasn’t enough for him to be so warm, so lazy headed. He watches, curious as Benji rifles through the tool kit as his side, pushing aside the sketch pad, digging for another canvas pouch.

He approaches, with a stretch of gauze in his hand, another soft pad of cotton. Xavier tilts his chin, head back, staring up at Benji as he stands there. For a moment, nothing happens. Nothing, save for either of them looking at each other. The only sound is a slight rustle with every breath Xavier takes, his uniform stiff from sweat and blood.

“Do you want me to, uh, take it off?”

“What?” Benji shakes his head. “No. Got it myself. Relax.”

“Okay. I am good at relaxing, trust me. The best at it.”

“Xavier, alright, get it.”

He blossoms at hearing his name, crooked smile widening, eyes—or eye crinkling with delight. Benji looks frustrated by that, one hand unspooling the gauze wrapped around Xavier’s head. It unravels slowly, dropping around his pale throat. Xavier shivers at the sensation. The pain is so dull he had forgotten it was there, but as the eye is exposed, he winces. Memories of earlier threaten him, the numbness inside creeping forward like a slinking beast aware of blood. He closes his eyes against it, brows tilting inward.

Benji’s fingers are gentle. He pauses.

“Hurt?”

“Yunno,” Xavier hums. “Feel like there’s some medicine for it. Something, something kiss it better.” He draws the word out with a suggestive raise of his brows, though he can feel the swelling on his eye when he does that. Benji stares, blinking—then his cheeks go a dark red and he snorts, lips curling into a sneer that’s less mean than Xavier’s seen it. He wraps the new gauze pulled from his kit slowly and carefully. Uses fingers to gently press the cotton pad over Xavier’s eye, mumbling for him to hold it there while he finishes it off.

And when that’s done, they have nothing else to say to each other for a moment. Both are caught off guard by that; the simplicity of staring at another person, in the dark, in silence. The rhythm of the forest around them—no longer a stranger to Xavier. In that space of time, he finds it easy to forget everything. Including the promotion that he’s worked so hard for; it seems pale compared to the soft touch of finger tips underneath his jaw, the inspection Benji does on the bandage, as if he’d not just wrapped it himself. His hands fidget in his lap, unable to reach up like they want. Hands deeply callused from spear shaft, sword grip, fighting.

Instead, he shifts slightly to the side, making space for Benji to sit.

“I was planning on staying out here a bit,” Xavier comments idly, fumbling through the inner lining of his military jacket to find the tin can of tobacco he keeps safely tucked away. “If you—”

“Yeah,” Benji says, leaning back on the crate, arms folded across his front, eyes up at the dark sky above them. “Well. Wasn’t tired, anyway.” That seems a lie, from the permanent exhaustion sketched underneath his dark eyes. But Xavier doesn’t call him on it. Instead, he expertly rolls the tobacco, wetting the sides with the tip of his tongue to keep them together. Benji shifts beside him, the gap between them disappearing. Xavier lights both tobacco rolls between his lips, puffing a bit to get them started and then smiling with each pinched between his teeth.

Benji swipes one from his mouth.

“Dog,” he mumbles, taking a drag from the roll. Smoke plumes from his nose, up into the air above them.

“Woof,” Xavier jokes, bumping their elbows, not at all insulted.

—

Where Xavier’s from, they don’t bury their dead. A boat is made by the family—something small and modest, for a single occupant—and adorned with the dead’s belongings. If Xavier were home, what would it be? The wooden practice sword he’d loved as a small child. The miniature figures he’d carved himself. The scarf he’d forgotten to take when he left to join the army, mother made with love and care. They’d put sand at the bottom of the boat, so he could take a bit of home with him; they’d layer shells and rocks, things he collected as an awkward teen. And then, when they were ready, the boat would be pushed out into the current, where loved ones watch.

With dirt and sweat on his face, blood pooling down his side, Xavier realizes he will never be set out to sea—he’s going to be burned. In a grave pile of other dead soldiers, reduced to ash if they even let the fire burn that long before covering the grave with soil. He’ll never seen home again. Never feel his mother’s hands on his cheeks, tutting over how long his hair has gotten. Nor his father’s proud hand on his shoulder, the two of them finally at peace. He’d never see his sisters; never know what became of any three of them.

Xavier coughs blood into a gloved palm, leaning back against a tree. The remains of a tree, hollowed out mostly and torn in two by a lightning strike. He can smell the burnt bark, the dead leaves rustling in the stale air. He looks at the dark blood against leather and all he can do is laugh. He sags backward, head thumping dead wood. The only clear marks on his face are twin lines beneath each eye, clean of dirt and blood from tears.

“Ah,” he groans, his hand pressing against the wound on his side. It’s bad that he can barely feel it. There’s a deep rooted pain there, making his entire left side useless, and yet it doesn’t…doesn’t really hurt. That’s what scares him.

An arrow sits halfway through his shoulder, another buried in his thigh. Even those, he cannot really feel. Blood fills up his mouth again and instead of spitting, or coughing, he merely leans to the side and lets it drool out. Xavier’s dying. The sword had pierced right through his gut and then slid out, nicking something deeply vital to keeping the young corporal alive.

He would have liked to have been set out to sea.

Everything in his vision darkens, his body slackening further, the arm around his middle cradling his insides relaxing. He blinks and time slips from him, mingling with the screaming fighting happening just down the battlefield. He thinks they’re losing, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

He moans wetly, more tears sliding down his cheeks as he tries to sit back up. Then suddenly, hands are gripping him. They curl into the uniform beneath his mail and plate. It’s yanked from him—Xavier lifts a weak hand, woozy as he tries to fend off the scavenger. He wanted to fix things with his da before he died, he wanted to move his ma into a home that stood above the riptide. He wanted to see his sister and apologize to her, for letting her down. The plate across his chest shifts and Xavier makes a pitiful sound.

“Nah, you’re alright—you’re alright, Xavier, look at me. You’re alright.” Hands brush across his cheeks, cup his jaw, lift his head. His eyes flutter open and close. “No, no. No. Gotta wake up, Xavier—gotta stay awake, alright? Alright?”

“Anyone ever told you,” Xavier mumbles, “how mean you are?”

Benji laughs, but it sounds oddly wet. He clears his throat, sniffs hard and pulls Xavier’s head back up by the jaw. His thumbs soothe across Xavier’s dirty cheeks, making the dying man open his eyes fully. He has to blink rapidly for a moment to be able to focus. Benji’s dark brown skin is ashen, his eyes wide, sweat slicking curls of black hair to his temple and cheeks.

“Wow, you look great, Benji.”

“Oh, you fucking—keep talking, alright? Need you to focus on that, ‘cause this is gonna hurt, but I need to look—need to look at it, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t say you need to,” Xavier slurs, feeling his arm slowly unwound from his middle. He can’t even control that any longer, his limbs feeling detached and numb. He breathes and there’s a wheeze to it. “You just r-really want to see me shirtless.” He feels the tunic, wet with his blood, as it’s slowly peeled back. Benji doesn’t say anything. His face pales further, his eyes still wide, lips thinned to a tight, terrified line. Benji’s jaw trembles, his hands withdrawing from the wound. Xavier watches, his cheek to his own shoulder.

He closes his eyes. He would have…he really would have liked to have seen the sea one last time.

Benji’s bloody fingers touch his face once more. They pet his sweat slicked, dirty hair from his face. They touch the scar underneath his eye, a wound he’d tended to so many months ago, when he’d first learned Benji’s name. Xavier sighs out softly. Not a single part of him hurts any longer, it’s all just cold. Very cold.

“Everyone in camp says you’re the most loyal fucking man alive, Xavier.”

“You…talking to people about…me?”

“It’s true, yeah? It is. You’re good, aren’t you? One of the few.”

He doesn’t have any energy to reply, his head leaned back against the dead tree behind him. His heart stutters, beating wildly, desperately.

“I can trust you. That’s scary, Xavier. You have to know that’s scary, right? That is.”

His eyes flutter at the sound a knife makes, unsheathing. The whispering scrape of it. They roll for a moment, before focusing on the dagger in Benji’s hand. It’s simple, a small curve to it, a modest grip with an etching. A good blade. Xavier stares at it. He watches as Benji yanks the sleeve of his shirt to his elbow, exposing his forearm. Xavier stares at that then; even dying, he pays attention to the little bits of Benji revealed to him. His brows pinch at the sight of scars, many layered on top of each other, but they’re shallow and light.

His bloody lips part in a gasp when Benji draws the blade across his skin. It splits, welling dark blood to the surface. The blood continues, rising. Not stopping to pool along the skin, into the crook of an elbow, or the top of a wrist. It rises, into the air, undulating, coaxed by Benji’s hand as it drops the dagger. He murmurs, the pupils of his eyes blossoming and darkening and taking the entirety of Benji’s eyes. The wind whistles around them, dirt pulsing underneath Xavier, the dead tree behind him groaning as it twists.

“Benji,” Xavier whispers, watching the blood magic with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

And then the blood is with him, is in him, isn’t blood any longer but magic; it slithers amongst his insides, finding rip and tear and ruin and healing. It pulls Xavier together. The arrows worm out of his muscles, out of his flesh, dropping uselessly to the ground. He feels a burning itch as the skin closes with nothing more than white scarring. Xavier’s entire body trembles as his side is repaired, as more blood from Benji’s arm rises into the air. He doesn’t speak; no chanting or murmuring. Benji stares, expression grim and determined.

Xavier gasps and his head feels wrenched back, mouth open as blood moves from inside him. As it exits his lungs and leaves, falls wetly to the ground. He inhales and exhales, no burden on rips that had been broken now fully healed. He gasps, a hand going to his side, the other going to his shoulder, where the arrow had pierced through him. Xavier pants, looking from wound to wound, each now fully healed.

And then he looks to Benji, who sits back on his haunches.

His forearm still bleeds. It’s only Xavier that’s been healed.

I can trust you. Benji is a blood mage. That secret could get him worse than killed. You’re good, aren’t you?

Xavier reaches out. He can see the relief in Benji’s eyes, mingled with fear. The most beautiful eyes Xavier has ever seen in his life; nearly black, but a melted, rich brown when the sunlight hits directly. His shaking, bloodied hand reaches Benji, wrapping around his forearm. He closes his palm directly over the cut Benji had made to save him. He pulls them closer, hiding that wound from everyone else. Xavier says nothing.

He merely puts their foreheads together, his heavy breathing mingling with Benji’s. There’s nothing to say; he couldn’t articulate it even if he tried. But Benji is right, he is loyal. And good. And now, with his bloody hand around Benji’s bloody wrist, more committed than he’s ever been in his entire life.

And with that, Xavier Wolffe lives.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

short term

wc: 5962 au: band au ch: xavier, benji

They had kissed two weeks ago and not once since then.

And to be fair, things were busy. Weren’t they? Summer tour transition to fall lineup wasn’t something Xavier was prepared for. He wasn’t part of the process; he was paid to stand there and look menacing in between power naps on a tour bus that usually smelled of bodies. Not necessarily unwashed bodies, but also not necessarily fresh. Instead of being involved, Xavier watches the moving parts of the tour—the roadies and the techs and assistants, all of them frantic in their preparations.

Lark’s routine fall cold makes an appearance, leaving the singer sleeping in the passenger seat up front, swaddled in more than a few blankets. Sniffling pathetically as Matilda sits on the arm rest with bottles of water mixed with electrolyte packets. They break up and get back together in the span of a week usually, but when he’s pale and tired and in pain, Matilda seems less inclined to leave his side than usual.

Benji too.

He hovers. He just doesn’t make it as obvious.

Xavier watches the drummer interrupt the couple, sliding his way onto the dashboard of the big tour bus, right next to one of those old fashion pin-up women that dance as traffic moves. Xavier can’t hear them, down the aisle, helping some poor girl pull off bags of wires and equipment from overhead racks—but he can see perfectly fine. Well, he can see Benji, anyway. He can’t see Lark, knees up in the passenger seat, or Matilda as she squeezes next to him. Just her slim shoulder around the back of the passenger seat.

But he can see Benji and that feels like the most important part. He leans with hands behind him, resting on palms (that Xavier personally now knows are roughly calloused and broad). His inky curls fall messily down onto his shoulders, one single clip trying to reign in tresses of it. Jeans stretch a little too tight across his thighs, booted feet kicking here and there as he talks Lark down from whatever precipice of misery he’s sat on, sick as he is. He looks impossibly relaxed, tired eyes fond. Even the way his chest moves, as he breathes makes Xavier feel so warm its painful like a burn.

“Oh no,” the girl in front of him squeaks, as a bag crashes down on top of his head and sends Xavier sprawling.

“Ow.”

The tour bus spins when he stands, rubbing hands over the back of his skull. He gestures placatingly at the girl, standing there fretting over him with anxious pats to his arm. He tries smiling, wincing with an eye closed, his face and throat flushed furiously with embarrassment. When he looks back down the aisle, Xavier isn’t surprised that Benji is staring at him.

All the air feels suctioned out of that small space, the distance suddenly minute and barely there. They could be touching, that’s how close that stare feels. Xavier can only look back at the barest curve of Benji’s lips into a small, humored smile. His dark, heavy brows pinch, in what might be genuine concern.

In return, Xavier gives him a cheery double thumbs up. Makes the drummer snort and shake his head.

Alright? Benji mouths, lifting his brows incredulously, pointing.

Xavier ruffles his hair with pale palms, adopting a pout. Kiss? He asks silently. He taps a finger to the back of his head, where it truly does hurt the worst. Benji’s eyes lid heavy and darken at the mere suggestion, sending a dancing nerve of electricity up Xavier’s spine. It’s all too easy for him to feel greedy and jealous and frustrated; he wants them to find an empty, dark parking lot again. The taste of Benji’s mouth is seared into his memories, but a memory isn’t enough. He wants them to be alone and they haven’t had a single second of that.

More than anything, even more than desperately wanting to be kissed again, Xavier wants to know what Benji is thinking. If he’s thinking about it at all. If he’s spending nights in the swaying hammocks on the tour bus, eyes closed and imagining the kiss over and over the way Xavier is. He wants to talk to him, even if it isn’t about that. He’d take a conversation about the fucking weather if it could just be them.

Lark’s bleach blond curls pop up in front of Benji, severing their connection. The singer slowly turns to look down the aisle, sleepy eyes barely open.

He sneezes, viciously.

“You okay, dude?” Lark calls out to him, blinking blearily. His nose is a violent shade of red.

“Are you?” Xavier replies, hefting the bag of wires over his shoulder. He reminds himself to call his mom, who panics every single time Lark even sniffles too hard. She’d find a way to get a care package of every single one of his favorites (and vapor rub) to the very next city post office they land in. Xavier can practically hear her chanting. Vitamins, Lark, vitamins!

“Careful with that,” Matilda comments about the bag slung over Xavier’s shoulder, sliding off of Lark’s lap and standing. The motion completely obscures Benji. Matilda folds her long, slim arms across her chest. “Nomi will skin you with her teeth if anything in there is broken.”

“Like an apple,” Lark adds, pantomiming biting into fruit. “Bet you’d be into it, huh?” He punctuates that with a low whistle, raised eyebrows. Then a dramatic cough. Matilda’s arm unwinds, just for one of her hands to gently card through his wavy, beach perfect hair.

“So into it,” she chimes, tongue pinched between her teeth, pretty hazel eyes narrowed playfully. Xavier is all too aware of the hot flush across his cheeks, down his throat. He doesn’t have a quick enough comeback for them, shifting awkwardly as the tech moves past him and hops off the tour bus.

“Alright, leave ‘im be, yeah?” Benji’s voice cuts through, gravely and edged a little firm.

Xavier’s heart does a quick stutter, tumbling around his ribcage like it’s never been connected before. He steps closer, wedges himself into the forward compartment. It feels even smaller with him there. Not enough room for his too big body. He makes shy glances to Benji, but tries desperately to look relaxed as he leans against the broad truck dashboard. The duffle on his shoulder is unfortunately getting heavier by the second.

“The arguin’ is gonna start back up now that they can’t bully you,” Benji says, lolling his head to the side. He’s still sprawled up on the dashboard, insolent looking and bored. He grins crookedly and that grin shoots something warm directly into Xavier’s belly. His mouth dries as he nods, though he isn’t sure what he’s agreeing with.

“Who’s arguing? I’m not arguing. Are you arguing, Lark?”

The collection of blankets that have become Lark slowly deflates in a sigh. He melts further into them, huffing quietly and then coughing loudly.

“There’s no arguing with you.”

“Glad you agree.”

“What are they arguing about?” Xavier asks. He pushes his shoulder against Benji, smiling down at him. He gets a few blinks in response, which is…cute. Almost too cute.

“Gaslighting is illegal,” Matilda quips icily as she steps toward the tour bus door. She looks regal even in leggings and an oversized Ratspit hoodie, her hair thrown into something artfully messy. Xavier remembers how smitten Lark had been since the first day she’d auditioned, his phone exploding with text after text of candid photos where Matilda really did look stunning in every single one.

“No one’s gaslighting you!” Lark yells, his voice a harsh rasp.

“That is literally gaslighting.” She punctuates the sentence with a slam of the door as she exits. A silence rings between all three of them. Matilda’s after image is imprinted on the tour bus, her bright fiery hair and her pale, perfect face.

“What’s gaslighting?” Xavier asks, confused brows pinched in.

“She’s mad at me because I told her to go out tonight.” Lark groans, shifting in the blankets, hands scruffing through his hair, making it stand in every direction. Dark shadows hollow the underneaths of his eyes, but Xavier can’t tell what it’s from exactly. The cold was bad. But touring was something he was quickly discovering wasn’t exactly relaxing. “It’s Halloween, I’m not asking her to be stuck on the fucking tour bus with me just because I feel like shit.”

Benji snorts and slides off the bus dashboard, his movements all too similar to a predator cat slinking away.

“Have you thought maybe she’d enjoy being here with you more than out there without you?” Lark’s cheeks flush with color, but he doesn’t answer, squeezing his eyes shut in a pinched and angry way. Benji makes another huffing laugh of a sound. When it’s obvious that Lark is ignoring him, he makes to leave.

As he passes, his fingertips trail over Xavier’s hip ever so gently, searing a trail of fire across his belly. Xavier has to clamp his teeth to stop a squeak of a noise escaping.

Then the tour bus slams for the second time and Xavier is alone with Lark.

“Bossy asshole,” Lark grumbles. “Both of them.”

“Well, guess you have a type, huh?”

Lark opens one furious eye and rolls away from Xavier to face the truck window.

—

“It’s fine, Xavier.”

Nomi stands with an arm across her stomach, an elbow in her palm and fingertips to her chin. She looks down at the duffle bag filled with cords, wires, and electronics that Xavier could never put a name to. Her light brown eyes flicker over it and then to him, crinkling with amusement, as his skin warms under her humored glare. He palms the back of his neck shyly, scuffing a boot across the parking lot asphalt.

“Matilda said you’d be mad.”

“She’s projecting, love.”

Xavier pretends to glance around in terror as though the keyboardist might be near, which prompts Nomi into dainty giggles. It’s a world conquering feeling to get those out of her. As a catch-all technician, Nomi was sometimes the most stressed of them all (aside the musicians). She bends to begin digging through the equipment, strands of her navy hair falling to frame her pale heart shaped face. She mumbles here and there to herself before sighing, leaning back on her haunches.

“So, you’re coming?” She asks.

“What?” Xavier blinks.

A moment passes. Then, Nomi stands swiftly, toeing the duffle bag closer to the roadie van. She looks at him, as though she’s confused on why he’s confused—but she does this. Nomi had been interesting to get to know the first few months of tour. She spoke like everyone was already aware of what she was thinking, and that it was odd no one had figured out telepathy yet. It was endearing, but made conversations bouncy.

“There’s this big haunted festival type thing that everyone is going to. Famous, like. ‘Round here, anyway. Wherever here is.”

“Oh.”

Xavier nods along, palming the back of his neck, staring at the concrete. There wasn’t much around them besides corn fields, cow pastures and the high occupancy vehicle parking lot, which was empty except for them. A few more hours of driving would get them to their rest stop, but they’d paused here for…more resting before more resting. There were long stretches of boredom on tour followed by intense stretches of frantic business.

A bubble of uncertainty in his chest expands between ribs.

“Benji would be happy if you did,” Nomi comments casually, not looking directly at him.

“He would?” The bubble bursts and fills him with something carbonated, tingling. Head to toe, his body reacts and begs the question; could he find time to be with Benji alone? Nomi blinks her giant, light brown eyes as if sending a telepathic signal saying; yes, yes you could be alone with Benji, and it is painfully obvious how bad you want that. He doesn’t even have time to feel embarrassed, because he’s lightheaded with the idea of it.

Unexpectedly, arms slide around him from behind, pale except for the black tattoos that darken them. Xavier huffs out a noise when they squeeze suddenly tight around his tors and Benny’s high-pitched laughter tickles the back of his neck.

“Of course he’s f-fucking going. You’d leave me by m-myself with these weirdos?”

“Who are you calling weird?”

“Aw, I didn’t m-mean you, Nomi.”

“Well. Now I’m offended you didn’t.”

One of Benny’s arms stays slung around his waist as Nomi and Benny dissolve into a conversation Xavier doesn’t participate in. His breathing is off kilter, a different pattern than it should be. The arm around him is warm and grounding. Solid. Safe. Xavier’s fingers lace in front of his chest, twisting around themselves. As he looks away from Benny and Nomi flirting, he sees a figure darting around the tour bus. As if they were listening to the conversation, wondering what Xavier’s answer might be.

“Yeah, I’m going.” It sounds so resolute that Benny turns to look at him, brows knitted. Maybe he thought Xavier would put up more of a fight. “How scary can it be?”

“Oh.” He feels a hand patting him condescendingly on the side. “You poor f-fucking thing.”

—

This is awful. This is so fucking awful.

A child screams past him, running and dissolving to high pitched giggles as a parent catches them. They’re swung up onto a hip, peppered in kisses and the man chasing with a big cartoonish clown mask also bursts into laughter. Like there’s anything funny about all of that—there isn’t. Xavier shudders, hands shoved into his pockets, turning away. Fucking clowns.

The rest of the fair isn’t much better. A circular event, with food vendors on the outside (the only good part) and amusement in the middle, it seems like it might be the singularly most important thing that happens to the local town. Everyone is out in full, in costumes whether they’re part of it or not. If only it was Christmas. He’d really prefer a Christmas festival.

Instead, it’s dusk, bleeding fully into night and the lights decorating the fair are on theme; reds and oranges and pops of neon greens. It’s not cold, not to Xavier anyway, but people are bundled, carrying steaming paper cups of hot chocolate. Scare actors wander the fair, ready to make people scream and drop them, as if they are nearly ten dollars for one cup. He was going to treat himself to exactly one and probably two corn dogs—and maybe a funnel cake. That was it.

Xavier has to admit there is one good thing about the night. Not just the food, anyway.

“How do they all piss in these outfits, yeah?” Benji asks cheekily, leaning in close to Xavier as he points to a scarecrow—or rather a man in farmer overalls stuffed with hay. His makeup is disgustingly good, with bits of bloodied straw sticking from his face in patches. Whatever small town this festival was connected to was very proud of those special effects. A rusty, broken down bus of dead high school football players had made him so nauseas, he’d had to turn the other way while they passed by it.

There’s no telling if Benji is humoring him in a good natured way or thinks Xavier is so pathetic he might actually faint if he gets too close to the chainsaw actors. He’s okay with either option really, because Benji hasn’t left his side since they got to the fair. They aren’t touching. He wishes they were holding hands; he imagines even, day dreaming between avoiding making eye contact with scare actors, of their hands interlocked.

“Catheter,” Benny answers before he gets a chance, leaning around Xavier, staring down at Benji with wide, serious eyes. They’re pale enough to pass for some of the actors contacts. “Committed to th-the bit hard.”

“Heh,” Benji’s laugh comes out like a little breath, chin touching his own shoulder as he looks up and over at Xavier. The effect this look has on Xavier’s ability to breathe is downright devastating, so he looks away quickly.

“We’re going on s-some rides,” Benny says, hitching a thumb over his shoulder toward a rotating death trap that looks like it was made in the eighties and forgotten about. Every whirl of it creaks worse than the last, but the people packed inside laugh themselves stupid. Nomi’s eyes throw sparkles as she stares. Benny had shrugged off his hoodie and given it to her, which was swallowing her up so that she was just a pale heart shaped face and oversized glasses.

“We’re goin’ in the haunted house,” Benji replies.

“We are?” Xavier is only slightly embarrassed by how high pitched his voice comes out. Benji doesn’t reach for his hand—but his arm moves, just enough so that their elbows are touching. Brushing. The hint of an invitation. Xavier stares down at him, into those sleepy, beautiful eyes. “Oh. Right, no, yeah, we are.”

“Hah!” Benny’s laugh is more of a shout than anything else. “Hah!” It continues, like a hyena, and echoes the entire walk they make toward that haunted house.

—

“Don’t have to, y’know.”

“No, I want to.”

“Nah, mate, you so clearly don’t.”

Benji’s laugh is welcome; like a shot of whiskey in coffee, something that strikes the bloodstream with a vicious ability to wake you up. It tingles in his veins, makes him jittery. Xavier’s breath comes out like a wisp in contrast, his pond green eyes dropping to the half frozen dirt beneath them. The toe of his sneaker keeps scuffing a spot until its well worn to actual moist earth.

The haunted house looms, a small line queuing in front of it—the two of them included. He can hear wailing inside, overlaid crackly Youtube videos of doors creaking and steps in a hallway, ambient spookiness. People’s laughter as they funnel out the back, groups clumped together clinging to each other.

Xavier pops a thumbnail into his mouth, eying the entrance.

“Not an act, is it?” Benji’s elbow bumps his again. He has his hands shoved lazily into the pockets of his leather jacket, eyes keen and narrowed. He’s smiling that impish little grin that makes Xavier dizzy.

“Dude, please,” Xavier laughs, brushing a hand back through his hair, making it fluffy as a chicken. “Like, I get it. Boot camp was probably scarier than this—I’m just—I’m jumpy, okay?” Thinking about it makes his heart speed up; would he have an attack in the haunted house? Would some flashing light remind him of something far more sinister? Would he embarrass himself? Who would Lark call, his sister? Mother? Father?

Xavier’s hands drop to his sides, shoulders squaring up bravely. It was just a haunted house in the middle of Kansa-Idah-Ohio or wherever. He can’t entirely blame the haunted house for the way his heart racketeers inside his ribcage. His nerves strike hard and constant, like a heartbeat. Until Benji’s palm slowly drifts across his own, fingers beginning to lace between his own.

Xavier, to his credit, does not immediately look down like a blushing teenager.

Instead, he squeezes Benji’s hand, grinning ear to ear.

—

Within only a minute of stepping into the ramshackle house—clearly just shacks strung together that are easily assembled and taken down for this festival—Xavier screams. A woman with hair too long, covered in fish hooks threaded through bare skin, laughs her head off as he flattens himself to a wall, hand to his chest.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, his other hand still firmly held by a drummers warm callused palm. “What the fuck?”

“Seen worse,” Benji comments, tugging them along a darkened corridor lit up with flashing lights. Cobwebs and dirty cloth hang from the ceiling, broken glass from destroyed paintings on the ground. Benji’s boot crunch and Xavier’s sneakers scuff. Xavier follows, sweat pooling down his sides, along his lower back.

“How are you not—bwah!” Xavier screams again, throwing himself around Benji as a chainsaw slides through an barely open door, revving loudly. A man cackles wickedly, jabbing the chainless chainsaw. The effect is ruined slightly by someone standing behind him, smoking a cigarette and checking their phone. Xavier’s heart still thunders as his arms tighten around Benji’s shoulders.

“You not do Halloween as a kid?” Benji asks.

“I dunno if you uh, know this about me,” Xavier mumbles as he finally unravels himself. His hand is quickly caught up again, brown fingers folding alongside pale freckled ones. Xavier flushes so warm the sweating continues at his hairline. He clears his throat, takes baby steps after Benji, who begins down the linear haunted pathway. “I’m like—well, my parents are—severely Catholic.”

“No way,” Benji replies, with wide shocked eyes, a hand to his mouth.

“Hey, fuck you, c’mon.”

“Nah, mate, s’real obvious. You wear that necklace. Comes out your shirt sometimes when you’re bent over.”

“Oh, I suppose you’re watching me bend ov—fuck!”

Xavier’s voice pitches high and distraught as an animatronic werewolf launches from the wall at him; it’s fake recorded growl is entirely too realistic. It’s raised, plastic clawed hands nearly brush his face, making him recoil, duck and slide around Benji. He makes a pathetic whimpering sound, entirely unintentional, that feels very loud despite the music and atmospheric soundtrack.

Defeated, he puts his forehead to the back of Benji’s shoulder.

“Anyway, we didn’t do a lot of Halloween as kids. We dressed up as PG-13 characters and went trunk or treating at the local church.”

“Ah.” They don’t move for a second, caught beside the fake werewolf as it slowly retracts into place. Xavier’s hands curl around Benji’s biceps from behind. His heart keeps going, racing and racing and racing. He can smell Benji’s hair, this close. The worn leather of his jacket. If he moved—if he just put his nose to the back of Benji’s neck, he’d smell his skin instead.

“Gonna stay like that?” Benji asks.

“Oops.” Xavier unfolds to his full height, hands slipping off Benji’s arms—until one is caught again. His heart hurts then, the way it pounds. He can feel electricity inside his veins, zapping along nerve endings. Benji in the haunted house looks so beautiful, the flashing strobe lights, the fog machine working smoke up to their knees. Xavier’s mouth goes dry and he smiles again, one of his canines snagging on his lower lip.

Benji leans up. Xavier, shivery with excitement, leans down.

The werewolf deploys again, growling and Xavier screams and leaps himself nearly into Benji’s arms.

—

They exit. Xavier, dramatically, shoving his way through the doubled doors at the end and finding himself into cool, night air. Benji, strolling behind, laughing lowly. The wind bathes his skin briefly in a tingling sensation, his sweat slick neck rising with goosebumps. He almost wants for a heavier jacket, but only briefly. His skin flushes warm once again the second Benji’s smiling up at him.

“Oh my God, finally,” Xavier exclaims, feeling giddy as he throws his arms into the air. He tilts his head back, the sky above him a blanket of whirling grey clouds and night time stars. All of the daylight had retreated during just that short walk through the house. The moon is but a small sliver, barely on her way to newness. Xavier’s heart beats so hard in his throat, he can feel it pulse with residual terror. The doll room had been very fucked up.

“You survived,” Benji comments, his voice a close purr. Xavier jumps, yelping a sound so embarrassing his pale face goes as red as his hair. Benji eyes him, gaze bouncing up and down, assessing with his crooked, smug grin. “Thought you were done for in that last room. Not a fan of hospitals, yeah?”

“Dude.” Xavier breathes out, closing his eyes, putting hands to his chest. His entire body feels altogether too light, like a ship whose anchor has been cut. The giddiness tingles all the way to his fingertips. “My heart is still racing. Man, feel, I swear.”

He doesn’t think about it. Xavier just acts. His long fingers loop around Benji’s wrist; in that moment there is no thought put into it. How every touch so far—besides his frantic, terrified manhandling—has been initiated from Benji. His bubble; how the drummer puts himself around every one else, how careful he is to not touch others, give himself space. Xavier doesn’t think of anything.

Instead, he tucks Benji’s palm to his sternum. Through the thin cotton fabric of his shirt, he can nearly feel Benji’s calluses. His heart pulses, a wild, erratic drum, just below the bone. Benji’s hand is so solid. So warm. So big. His fingers curl just slightly, bunching Xavier’s thin cotton shirt. His heart beat gallops, faster than it had for even a second back in the haunted house.

Xavier blinks at Benji, wide eyed.

Benji stares up at him.

Another yelp—embarrassing and loud just like before—follows as Xavier is yanked around the side of the building.

—

Straw pokes uncomfortably at his skin, the barest sliver exposed on the lowest part of his back, between shirt and the edge of his jeans. Xavier refuses to complain, even as it scratches little red lines that will be there hours from now. Stack upon stack of haybale conceal them from the rest of the festival and also provide a rather convenient spot for Benji to shove Xavier down. He sits eagerly, happily staring up at Benji, hands falling back onto the haybale to support himself. Xavier kicks his long legs out, thighs parting easily as Benji comes to stand between them.

He's warm to the very tips of his ears, all the way down to his toes. His breathing is hitchy and excited. Overly so, probably. Xavier wants to slow himself down, find a way to be less puppyish in his enthusiasm. But he can’t. It takes him over, presenting a little tremble to his shoulders, as if he’s held back on a leash when all he wants is to launch himself forward.

Benji doesn’t seem to mind.

Standing there, his eyes liquid dark, a ring of gold behind his inky curls from a floodlight around the haunted house. Jesus, he looks beautiful. But all Xavier can get out is, “Wow, you are so hot.”

“Oh, yeah?” Benji pauses, a hand raised, about to touch Xavier’s chin. He feels anticipation rising along his skin, the desire to be touched so strong it makes him nearly whine. Xavier clamps his teeth shut, eyes widening innocently.

“I mean—you’re—well, you arelike, the hottest person I’ve ever met, Benji. Swear. I uh, wait, I can say this better—” His rambling is cut off by a hand sliding under his jaw, cupping it. He wets his lips with a quick touch of his tongue, nodding into the touch. “Or we could kiss. We should kiss. If you want to. I thought we might, in the haunted house, but—”

“You want a kiss, Xavier?” The question is murmured, their faces so close that Benji’s breath warms his lips. He swallows a thick feeling in his throat, legs automatically closing tighter around Benji, yanking them together. The other man grunts at the sudden feeling, but the noise is quickly swallowed by the press of Xavier’s mouth. Their lips meet, not exactly soft, but not hard.

Somehow, it’s the best closed mouth kiss of Xavier’s life.

Then Benji opens his mouth, and it’s the actual best kiss of his life.

Their heads tilt, tongues rolling together, hands gripping into one another. Xavier’s hands bury themselves into the backs of Benji’s thighs, clutching him tighter. Benji’s dig into Xavier’s hair, the auburn locks messy and tangled already. They kiss hungrily, messily. They pant between quick breaks, Xavier recapturing the kiss eagerly, hands moving upward. Sneakily, he cups Benji’s ass, groaning with their mouths together as he gets handfuls.

Benji’s husky laugh interrupts the kiss, but only for a brief moment before Xavier dives upward for another. It trails off to something smaller before his head hangs backward, as if cut from a string. Unhinged. He smiles dizzily, eyes closed, enjoying the lingering taste of Benji’s mouth. Everything feels syrupy and slow and perfect.

Fingertips brush over his jawline, over his lips, his cheekbones, the long bridge of his nose. Xavier hums, content in a way that blooms from a place deep in his chest. There’s nothing, in that moment, except Benji and the straw poking uncomfortably at his skin. His needy hands come loose, his arms folding around Benji’s thighs instead, embracing him.

“Alright kisser,” Benji comments, his voice only slightly strained breathless. Xavier smiles, eyes still closed.

“Rate me on a scale of one through ten.”

“Solid seven.”

“How do I get to eight?”

He feels lips brush his own again and Xavier wants to melt. Dissolve. Pretend that the laughter and screaming excitement behind them isn’t there; that no one is there at all. The tour bus lingers in the back of his mind; the commitments. The security shirt that he’s foregone for the night. Getting back to Lark; the hours of traveling they’ll make tomorrow. The lines upon lines of fans standing in near rapture like excitement.

“Do you like touring in the summer or fall better?” Xavier asks, the question coming out only slightly muffled by the tongue that’s swept his own. Benji withdraws, blinking. A curl has fallen into his face, across his defined, curving nose. Xavier lifts a hand and pushes it back, tucks it behind an ear.

“Why?”

“I wasn’t here for the summer one.”

“S’alright.”

“Yeah, but,” Xavier laughs, his arms folding once more around Benji, comfortable. “Do you have a preference?”

A long and somewhat uncomfortable moment swells between them. Benji’s hands linger on Xavier’s shoulders. One of them captures the lapel of his jacket, thumbing the corduroy material over and over. Once, Xavier might have taken that slightly hooded eyed stare to be angry or dissatisfied, tired, or bored. Now, it feels obvious that Benji is anxious.

“It’s just a question,” Xavier promises, squeezing his arms, head cocking curiously.

“Yeah? Know that. Just—don’t have much time, do we? Nomi’ll come looking. Can’t imagine Benson won’t want your attention sooner rather than later. Have a corn dog eating competition, something dull. So,” Benji’s nervous hand flits to Xavier’s face, as though trying to imitate that sensual touch from earlier. It’s slightly off kilter. Xavier leans into it anyway, brows bunching in confusion.

Benji huffs a laugh, eyes wandering.

“Don’t you wanna take advantage of it? We could kiss longer. Was only kiddin’ when I said you were just alright.”

It’s Xavier’s turn to be silent—or almost. His breathing is still louder than it should be, and the kissing wasn’t even an athletic pursuit, just stolen oxygen. He licks his lips a few times, trying to gather a thought in the molasses slow part of his brain that is still kicking its foot with pleasure. Benji’s hand lingers on his jaw, holding it.

“Yeah, no, trust me. I am very about kissing. As much as we can.” Xavier’s arms unwind, hands flattening over Benji’s thighs. He rubs softly, his smile broadening. “But we also have had like no time alone, either. Not even to just hang out. Talk. You’re right, yunno. Nomi’s definitely going to come looking for you. I can’t afford a corn dog competition but Benny is like—wicked needy at times, sure.”

Xavier’s hands still and curl harder. Holding. Squeezing them closer once more. He puts his chin to Benji’s stomach, head back, smiling. “So, I think we should kiss and you can tell me what season you like touring in.”

Someone screams inside the haunted house beside them, petering off with high pitched laughter. Xavier watches Benji’s eyes, the amber lighting of the festival making them shiny. Gorgeous. That’s what he should have said earlier; you have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.

Again, Xavier yelps, high pitched and caught off guard, as Benji shoves him back harder onto the hay and crawls over top of him.

“Spring.” And then he’s kissed hard.

—

“Lark.”

“Uhhhnnngh.”

“Right. Lark.”

“Nnhhmmmhm.”

“You’re droolin’ on Matilda.”

It takes a moment for Lark to realize he’s waking up, his eyes crusty and exhausted. A dream clings to him, but no part of it actually remains. Only that he knows he was dreaming, and it was something pleasant. Warm and inviting and not at all his fatigued reality. His limbs hurt, but that can maybe be attributed to the figure that sleeps, tucked into his lap. Matilda snores softly in his ear, her head tucked against his shoulder and chest. Her long limbs are folded haphazardly, one of her feet cocked up against the window.

He'd fallen asleep in the passenger seat of the tour bus. No one had moved him. He shifts and Matilda doesn’t wake up—sick as he is, as he knows he is, Lark tries not disturb her.

“Feelin’ better?”

“I wish I was dead,” Lark replies, looking over at Benji, as he leans against the dashboard. It’s so dark, that he only knows it is Benji not just by the accented voice, but by the shape of him. Lark would know Benji anywhere, could probably pick him out by bootsteps alone. Though he’s sick, with Matilda in his lap, and Benji right there, he doesn’t feel so bad.

“How did you meet Xavier?”

The question catches him off guard. Lark shakes his head, sniffling hard, barely taking in any air. He groans and coughs and gestures for the water bottle he’d left on the ground. Once given to him, he swallows mouthfuls before answering.

“I lived with him and his family before I came to Liverpool. That was uh, right after my parents kicked me out. I stayed for a year and then you offered me up a spot.”

Wind rocks against the tour bus, scratching softly at the windows. Matilda shifts in his arms, her snoring turning into soft breathing. He pets his hand up and down her back a few times, enjoying the way she snuggles in her sleep, as though seeking him out.

“He’s interesting.”

“I know he’s a lot,” Lark sighs, tossing the water bottle into the driver’s seat, arms folding around Matilda’s thin frame. “But he’s a good guy, I swear. Can you just try to get along with him? Make his life easier? It might be a short term thing, anyway. You know he’s—a lot of shit has happened to him and he just needs a break.”

Benji doesn’t answer. Lark’s eyes blink, bleary, adjusting to the darkness.

“How short term?”

“What?”

The shadow of Benji’s silhouette shoves off the dashboard. Lark narrows tired eyes, peering in the night at his friend.

“Do you have…hay on you?”

“Fuck off,” Benji snaps, waving a hand. “No. M’running to the gas station with Xavier, gettin’ extra cold medicine alright. Probably some sour candy for that one when she wakes up—she’ll be a nightmare with a headache from how she’s sleeping.”

“Fuck, I know,” Lark sighs, but doesn’t even remotely attempt to move her. “Thanks, Benj.”

“Yeah. Well. Anything for you.”

Lark hums in response, head falling back against the cold window. It’s soothing to his warm skin. He can hear a whispered conversation behind him, but doesn’t pick much out. Just:

Short term?

A pause.

Nah. I sort of want to see the tour in spring.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

loose tooth

wc: 1762 au: cyberpunk au ch: benny, maran

The bruises look worse under the flickering bathroom light, neon for a devastating effect on his sensitive eyes. The bruises have only just begun underneath the skin, swelling the cheekbone, a split in the eyebrow drying dark blood. Crusting around pathways for an implant along his temple; little voice in his ear lets him know police are around. Probably broken now.

Benny’s fingers are dug into his own mouth or he’d maybe pay attention to cleaning that first. His immediate concern is a molar in the back bottom row. Every time his finger presses, pain sparks icy and hot all the same underneath his jaw. Blood pools along his tongue, drips over his lip, down into dirty blond facial hair.

Son of a fucking bitch, but he wasn’t going to go to a ripper doc to get that fixed. How expensive were they for dental work? He’d get his lungs replaced again over teeth. His finger pushes the molar, feels it tilt—Benny moans, eyes pinching shut, shoulders tensing. His fingers withdraw and he spits blood into the dirty bathroom sink, hands gripping the sides, head hanging. There’s a plink, plink, plink sound alongside the leaky faucet and his blood.

When the door creaks open, his hand slips into his pocket.

“Ben?”

Too late, he realizes it’s Maran—he’s already turned, mechanical knife in hand flicking out with a shhkk sound. It’s not his best, but wicked looking. Teal iridescent blade, serrated for horrific reasons. Poor scammer startles back, hands raised in front of him. Benny, slumped against the sink, only stares at him. The knife rests on his thigh for a moment, somewhat contemplative. Maran’s big, pretty eyes flicker there. It’s almost unnatural how normal those eyes are; brown and framed with dark lashes, everything organic. Maran’s lack of modifications makes him the most interesting thing in the room at any given moment.

Well, it’s a bathroom, so the only other thing is a graffitied stall, a broken mirror and himself.

“You f-following me?” Benny asks, raising the knife, pressing a button. The blade retracts as quick as it had flicked out, with the same eerie sound. Maran watches that movement, hands still raised in front of him. Then, stunningly, he smiles. Benny’s stomach flips a few times, pain pulsing in his skull diminishing briefly under a wave of hormones that want one thing very badly.

“You’re hurt.” Maran inches closer, his sneakers scuffing on the bathroom tile. Benny watches those sneakers get closer and closer, his eyes blurry from a few unshed tears due to his own shoddy work with finger and tooth. They raise slowly, watching Maran as the space between them is narrowed. The bathroom isn’t that big to begin with. The lights flicker once more and there’s the smallest whirring sound as Benny’s modified eyes adjust to light and dark over and over.

Maran slides his hands into his back pockets, chin tilted down. His eyelashes cast shadows along his cheekbones. He has so many freckles it would likely take hours to count them all, but Benny would. He really would.

Instead, he snorts, brushing a thumb across his bloodied lip.

“Barely.” He notices the way Maran winces. The pawn shop owner looks down at the floor, bumping one of his sneakers closer to Benny’s booted foot. “Y-You squeamish?”

“Oh, tons, yeah. Don’t like blood that much.”

“Th-That why you don’t have any implants?”

“Well, they keep you up for it!” Maran throws a hand up, laughing and somehow another inch has disappeared. Benny’s hands tighten around the sink behind him as he leans back against it, tendons straining in his arms. The blood in his mouth is coppery and strong. His eye throbs, no doubt blackening second by second. “And it’s just—nasty, yeah? Don’t need to see my own insides. Shit, Ben, y’look awful, though. Sure it doesn’t hurt?”

Maran fumbles past Ben for the lackluster excuse of a paper dispenser. Jerks at a few, fumbles more as he seems to try to find a way to lean around Benny and get to the sink. The blond mercenary doesn’t move, chin to his shoulder as he stares Maran down. He can feel another trickle of blood from his eyebrow, curving along his temple and down his cheekbone. Maran stares for a long moment, his pupils getting larger and larger until he finally shivers and holds out the paper towel himself.

“It look th-that bad?” Benny doesn’t reach out to take what’s offered. Instead, he pushes himself from the sink, standing tall. They’re the same height, but Benny’s combat boots have given him a slight advantage. It’s barely enough to stare down and Maran, to his credit, doesn’t sway. He blinks instead. It’s strangely intoxicating, watching those big eyes open and look up at him.

“You don’t look bad—mean, for havin’ fought like that. Guess Xavier scrapped most of ‘em, though?”

“Ouch. My ego.”

“Is doing better than your face, I’d wager.” Maran looks proud of his sharp quip, his plush lips curling mischievously.

Benny takes the paper towels and places them in the sink behind him, where they’ll soak up water and the blood he’d already spit there. Maran’s eyes follow every minute movement, from hands to sink. And then further, when Benny reaches behind Maran and locks the bathroom door.

The click of it is agonizingly loud.

Air between them is suddenly thin and nonexistent. They both breathe like there isn’t nearly enough room for it. For a moment, Benny is aware of more blood on his tongue and the strange way all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Maran doesn’t look aware of anything other than the solid, near aggressive presence in front of him. It makes his pupils go, if possible, even wider.

And then Benny touches Maran’s hip, fingertips bloody but mostly dry. There’s nothing but the slightest smudge of dark, nearly black blood. He slips underneath the white cotton shirt that the younger man wears, touching warm flushed skin. The curve of his hip is surprisingly soft where Benny might have expected hard muscle—like others he’s touched here. He finds that softness somewhat addicting, placing his entire palm there.

And then squeezing, rather harshly.

Maran’s body jumps, his hands scrambling up Benny’s biceps, grabbing the rough material of his denim jacket.

“You’re flirting with me,” Benny says in a quiet voice. He tilts his head, a strand of blond hair falling across his brow.

“Oh. Right. Yeah. I really fucking am, Ben. I—” Maran’s breath leaves him in a rush as Benny steps forward and all space is then truly gone—and Maran has nowhere to go but back against the door, eyes wide. Flickering from Benny’s bloodied bruised mouth and up again to his cold, blue eyes. Over and over and over until his entire body goes supple and his lips part and he leans forward and Benny takes that space too and—

—

Lark’s so fucking annoyed he could snap the semi-automatic in half. Instead, he continues disassembling it. Same way Xavier had taught him years ago, when they were angry, hungry teenagers and owning one of these would have been awe inducing. Now, it’s just routine to pop it open, oil and cloth beside him. He didn’t like being on cleaning duty like this, but sometimes these older models jammed and if they wanted better, they had to use what they had until worse was gone.

Didn’t mean he had to enjoy it. Wasn’t at all meditative the way Xavier liked to say it was. He dips the rag into the oil, smoothing it across the barrel. He’d move onto the magazines next, use the auto-loader they had and hope nothing exploded.

The couch he sits on is relatively run down, insides spilling out at the sides where seams have split. The warehouse in general is rather lackluster; no hint of the dream they’d had as those scrawny teenagers. Night City screams outside the large windows, never asleep. Music plays from somewhere deeper in the warehouse.

Suddenly, weight beside him on the couch makes Lark glance over.

Then double take. Then cringe.

He reaches down between his feet to the cooler, where drinks are left to soak in ice water. He tosses a canned beer to the boy next to him, who catches it clumsily, face a little shell shocked. Poor Maran.

“Didn’t know you got caught in the fight,” Lark says, grimacing as he sets the oiled cloth and gun down. He turns, adjusting so one leg is tucked underneath him, arm slung around the back of the couch. Maran blinks at him, finger wedging under the beer can tab and cracking it open. His shirt has separated from the collar, a thin hole peeking through to show light brown skin. Though he looks relatively unhurt, he’s got the appearance of somewhat having been absolutely manhandled.

“What?”

“Your lip,” Lark says, gesturing. “Blood. You should let Xavier handle the fist fights, man.”

Maran startles and raises a hand to his mouth, furiously swiping swollen lips. He mutters something, taking hurried sips of his beer and sinking further down into the couch. It forms around him snugly, the sort of couch that is ugly in appearance and so comfortable after years and years of men doing exactly that gesture. Lark snorts and shakes his head, unwilling to go back to his cleaning task.

Booted footsteps make him look up, just in time to watch Benny stoop down and scoop his own beer from the cooler. He looks the worst naturally, having been the one to start the bar fight. His black eye sits painfully, his lips looking even more bruised somehow. He moves slowly, but oddly graceful as he throws himself down onto another couch, cocked sideways to the table of guns. Benny, languid and insolent in movement, throws a combat boot onto the table, making the gun and ammo jump.

“Cheers.” He cracks the tab on the beer and takes a slurp of foam that bubbles out from the top. Then sighs appreciatively, slouching down in the couch and smiling at Lark in a suspicious, satisfied way.

Lark shakes his head, leans over to conspiratorially nudge Maran with an elbow.

“Avoid that guy, know what I mean?”

Maran stares at Lark with an uncharacteristically blank face. He slowly pushes his cold can of beer against his reddened lips and nods, eyes wide and fluttering. Benny, behind Lark, cackles a horrible laugh and Lark is forced to sigh and shake his head.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

the outlier

wc: 4392 au: college au ch: nomi, fiadh, maran, benny

struct group_info init_groups = { .usage = ATOMIC_INIT(2) };

struct group_info *groups_alloc(int gidsetsize){

     struct group_info *group_info;

     int nblocks;

     int i;

     nblocks = (gidsetsize + NGROUPS_PER_BLOCK - 1) / NGROUPS_PER_BLOCK;

/* Make sure we always allocate at least one indirect block pointer */

     nblocks = nblocks ? : 1;

     group_info = kmalloc(sizeof(*group_info) + nblocks*sizeof(gid_t *), GFP_USER);

     if (!group_info)

               return NULL;

None of which makes sense, of course.

A groan escapes through teeth clamped down around a plastic straw. Nomi’s hands don’t lift from her laptop, acrylic nails tapping indecisively. The coffee sits situated in front of her for ease of access, shoulders bunched. There’s a knot of tension at the nape of her neck that feel similar to fingers digging claws down into her muscle. Nomi rolls her head side to side, but it does nothing for the stiffness. The code blinks at her, furiously indecipherable, her nearly empty ice coffee rattling as she chews the straw thoroughly.

This is the problem with freelancing to indie game developers; she loves them, truly, their passion being endless and inspiring. But they often had little bugs that turned out to be cockroach infestations that could never be truly eradicated if the foundation itself wasn’t fucking razed to hell. And no indie developer wanted to start from scratch, because it was years worth of work that they couldn’t afford to do over.

And Nomi is already taking this gig at a bit of a discount, because she likes Zephyr. Also—she was sort of in love with the dating sim already. Especially this one character who reminded her a little of…well…

Her eyes flicker to the side, where her phone sits, face down, notifications off. It’s the way it has to be; a single text from Maran would absolutely destroy her concentration and send her spiraling into hours worth of ping pong conversations that were half actual texts and half abstract memes. Third half being links to funny videos. Fourth half might be shy flirting.

Nomi drags in a breath, leaning back in the stiff wooden seat. It’s the same café Benji comes to do all his studying. Nomi had picked it up from him, morning after a party where she was the only one who had stayed sober and Benji was the only one scraping together mental fortitude to still work on class projects after. She likes the place, but it’s authentic in its style. Meaning the chair really is made out of wood imported from a cute farm in Vermont and her ass hurts.

The code continues blinking. She pivots, thinking to stand and buy another overpriced, over sugared coffee; instead of rising, she shrinks.

“Whoa, Nomi! It’s so weird seeing you in daylight.”

“Ah.” It’s the only noise she can make. The sudden trio of girls in front of her makes Nomi’s insides turn over like a caught fish on a dock, waiting to die. Her skin flushes cold and then humiliatingly hot under their collective six eyed stare.

“Get it? Because of the goth thing.” Ria mimics claws and hisses playfully, giggling when she catches an elbow from the other girl beside her. Lew chews a thumbnail, as if obscuring a smile—but it’s Fiadh standing at the apex of the three girls that really makes Nomi want to disappear.

“That’s not even funny,” she says, a hint of reproach in her eyes. She crosses arms over her chest, shiny honey colored hair in a lovely half braid that’s artfully messy. It lays across her shoulder, wisps of hair looking dainty and honest. Fiadh turns her gaze on Nomi, apologetic and commiserating all at the same time. This sort of ‘can you believe my friends? Ugh!’ look that makes Nomi feel worse.

“Hello,” Nomi says awkwardly, unsure of what else to say, with all three of them are standing there.

“Is Matilda with you?” Lew asks in a hopeful voice for obvious reasons—she’d follow Matilda into the bathroom if she could, so obsessed with her to the point of making it weird. Nomi wants to say that (and say it mean, nasty, snide), but instead, she shakes her head mutely. She becomes oddly, painfully aware that her own navy dark hair has been thrown into a lazy bun. A look that is so obviously girl coded for I did not shower today.

“Lame.”

“Did you go to her New Years party? I was like, expecting more?”

“Right, no totally? I thought like, fireworks at least?”

“Well, you know she’s dating Daisuke Tanaka, right? And he’s on a warning for—well, I mean if the cops showed up? Right?”

“Are they dating or are they dating, though?”

“Aren’t you and Matilda tight?”

The conversation goes so quickly that Nomi isn’t sure she’s meant to catch up. Lew and Ria have conflicting accents; Lew something bastardizing Lark’s mostly cute California accent. Ria, a small twang of what Nomi believed was southern. Fiadh hasn’t said anything yet, glued to her phone, nails clicking every once in a while on the screen. The line for coffee moves, yet they don’t move toward it.

“I was surprised by that,” Ria says, folding an arm under her breasts, resting knuckles under her chin. She briefly uncurls her fist to wiggle fingers and grin at someone across the café. Nomi is busy looking for the phantom person receiving the little wave when Lew continues. “You’re like…so different.”

“What d’you mean?” Nomi’s head turns slowly to look at the girls. Aside from the line of take out customers, the café is largely empty. Was anyone actually there?

“Oh, I think Lew just means like, I mean you two look so totally different.”

“Different?” Nomi’s lips purse, brows bunching. “What? ‘Cause she’s thin like?” She tries laughing, but it sounds like a stutter, awkward and unsure. The code she should be working on continues blinking, as if it’s a third party to the conversation. A robot weeping for her inability to interact with humans normally.

“Oh my God, no! Whoa, time out, I am so not saying—”

“Well, you’re just all doom and gloom and Matilda is like a neon artist, isn’t she?”

“And popular!”

The duo of girls stare at each other with wide eyes, as if they can’t believe their own audacity. Can you believe I just said that, Oh my God, haha I can’t believe I just said that, can you believe we’re being like such total absolute cunts right now? This is so, so wild.

The reality is this; Nomi is very aware that Matilda is, as dim witted as it is to say, popular. She also knows that she is not. Prior to the strange sort of merging that Matilda’s friend group had done with Lark’s, Nomi hadn’t really had many friends offline. She was fairly popular (if the word had to be used) in online circles for gamers, hackers, tech enthusiasts. She blended with certain crowds that had certain aesthetics—she was tight knit in a kink community solely because she was a model for a very popular gear designer.

Never has Nomi ever felt embarrassed about being different before.

Before this, anyway.

She braces herself for courage to say something. Like telling them to fuck off, or screaming something crazy in the middle of the café so everyone looks at them and then all four of them can feel the humiliation that’s been broiling under her skin. She thinks of stomping on one of their shoes (pretty, lacy ballet flats) and then not apologizing for a broken toe. Deportation might be worth it.

Instead, Fiadh finally sighs and puts her phone away.

“Will you two birds just finally go order your coffees?”

It effectively silences the duo of girls as if they’d had their collars yanked. They blink big, innocent eyes but slink toward the coffee line. Fiadh tells them her coffee order—an iced Americano with no room for cream. Fill it up to the top, thanks, just the coffee. Something about it makes Nomi want to hate her, but she is also so desperately grateful for the other two girls to go away.

It almost makes her forget how much she despises Fiadh.

“I can’t believe you let them chat your ear off like that for so long.” She puts a pretty hand in front of her mouth, as though embarrassed of the pretty smile hiding behind it. “They can really go at it, aye? They’re dead on sometimes, but otherwise feel like splitting on ‘em both. Wish I had a thing like you and Matilda.”

Sometimes when Nomi is forced to look at Fiadh, she feels vaguely nauseas. There’s nothing really wrong with the girl at all. She’s short and curvy and her skin is flushed from the weather outside. She has a sweet curve to her lips that seems to invite the idea of kissing. Her brows are well trimmed, but not perfect. Every flaw only makes her prettier, authentic instead of arranged.

And Maran had—well. Had he loved her at one point? Nomi’s throat closes and she massages a hand over it, smiling weakly.

“Oh, yunno. Friendship like that comes around once in a lifetime, s’pose. Lucky me.”

“So true,” Fiadh says, with an odd note of sincerity. “Listen, sorry about all their nonsense. It’s just that I came over because I wanted to say hullo to you, is all. Look busy, though, don’t you? I’m so impressed by all that.” She waves a gentle hand in the direction of Nomi’s laptop. A surge of fresh new embarrassment flushes Nomi’s cheeks and throat as she looks over at it.

Crumbs from a pastry sit on a plate beside the laptop, more stickers than any one person needs plastering the thing. The keyboard glows in a rainbow array. It’s not the cute, dainty Apple product that all the girls at university seem to have. Nomi likes her laptop—she’d purchased it with one of her first big paychecks. But the thing is giant and the charger is clunky and it feels so…masculine. She quickly taps fingers across the keyboard, minimizing her work.

The laptop wallpaper is a picture of Nomi and her two boyfriends, one of who is Fiadh’s ex-boyfriend. It’s something blurry that Maran had taken, his lips smashed against Ben’s pale stubbled cheek while Nomi wrangled arms around his tattooed neck and kept him in the picture. She’s smiling so wide that it turns her eyes into nothing but narrowed slits. Benny looks harried and nervous, as he usually does, but there is a slight twitch of a smile to his lips.

Nomi loves this picture more than anything in the world because of that.

When she looks up, she swears for just a split second, whatever mask Fiadh wears to make people like her is missing. There is an undeniable squirming cold to her features, the neutrality of fury that blanks a person’s expression into nothing. Abyss like and somewhat terrifying in it’s otherness.

“I love your nails, by the by,” Fiadh says and that split second disappears if it ever existed. Instead, she’s smiling. It’s something sweet, almost encouraging. She points to Nomi’s acrylics. They’re almond shaped and longer than usual, needing a fill. She wants to say something clever and cutting and rude; Maran likes them, you know, he likes them a lot.

Instead, she says, “Thanks.”

“Anyway, so.” Fiadh leans her hip against the café table. Nomi catches a note of her perfume, something earthy and sweet and just as soft as Fiadh must be. She can imagine that smell lingers. How it must have clung to Maran’s clothes for days after. Nomi folds her hands in her lap, curling her fingers, feeling the nails biting into her palms.

“Listen, I feel like you’ll understand where I’m comin’ from with this, and it’s sort of why I came over here.” Nomi’s heart beats against the side of her throat, loud and obvious. Her eyes dart all over Fiadh’s face, heart shaped and beautiful. “It’s just that I noticed you get your lattes with a plastic straw. And I sort of feel like I have to be that person to tell everyone they should get a reusable one.” Fiadh digs into the tote bag at her side—it has tiny sewn on patches of bugs and stars.

She produces a bright yellow reusable metal straw.

“It’s just so much better for the environment and everything.”

Nomi stares at the straw, as if it’s the most confusing thing she’s ever seen in her life. After a few more blinks, she tilts her head, smiling.

“Oh, are you into this stuff ‘cause of the bugs?”

“The…what?”

“The bugs. Right, ‘cause you’re all about the bugs and everythin’, so you must know about composting and all of it—‘cause bugs live in the dirt. And, and because—” Nomi’s voice loses its confidence the more she goes and the more Fiadh looks bewildered. She’s taken a step on the stairs, thinking there’d be another, only to come up flat on the end. It’s like expecting a hand railing and crashing into the wall instead, or thinking someone’s going to ask a question and saying yes, when they’ve really asked a statement. Nomi’s lost the thread.

“No, yeah.” Fiadh flaps a hand, shoving the straw back into her bag. “Well, was nice catching up! Tell Maran hullo from me, too. Pool should be opening back up soon, if he wants to pick his shifts up again!”

“I’ll let him know.”

When Fiadh returns to her friends, Nomi starts to gather her things. There’s an odd shifted sensation inside her skull, like something went very wrong there but she can’t understand how. Worse, she can’t understand why she let it. Matilda’s in her head, laughing, saying, you are such a scary bitch sometimes after Nomi’s ripped into someone. Xavier, shivering, smiling at her, you don’t let anyone get away with anything, Nomi. Benny, her sweet, perfect Benny, cupping her cheek, ouch, remind me not to piss you off.

Nomi wants to cry, but stuffs everything away into her laptop bag. There are pins all over it of every anime she’s ever watched, and it makes her feel wildly embarrassed. She feels childish. Why does she get the latte with a plastic straw every time? Save the sea turtles and all that.

It’s worse when she stands up and pauses at the door. Ria and Lew, stuffed close together giggling. Fiadh standing there, scolding them quietly, hands on her hips. Then a look of pity she tosses Nomi’s way.

—

Maran’s so dramatic about losing. It’s one of her favorite things (among many) about him—he’s animated. Like a video game character left to idle, stretching and swaying and bouncing on it’s feet. He’s cute like this, on her couch and leaning left and right with the controller in his hands. Maran whispers under his breath, encouragement to the character on the screen. He button mashes, hunched forward until finally leaning back with exaggerated huffs of defeat.

There’s take out sitting on her loveseat (it’s often a collection for things instead of a place people sit), Chinese that they’d rifled through like racoons together. Nomi had offered him wine, but he’d taken a sip and recoiled and truthfully, he’s right. The wife doesn’t really pair with the lo mein all that well.

Nomi, despite that, polishes off her second glass and sinks into the warm tipsy feeling. It’s a soothing balm over frayed nerves, raw and exposed from the earlier interaction that she’s avoid telling him about. She thinks he’d get it. She thinks he’d even be upset for her, but the idea of bringing Fiadh up between them is more nightmarish than having to see her occasionally.

“Rotten,” Maran quips, slouching low and sighing heavily. Nomi admires his profile, his brow line and nose. His lips, plush and pretty, pouting currently. She never has the lights fully on in her flat, preferring ambient colors, blues and purples. It makes his bleached hair look green; she has dye in the bathroom that they’ll eventually get to, tonight or tomorrow. She wants a fun new design, and he wants to sit there for her like a good boy while she experiments.

“Think I’m over this one, Noms,” he says with defeat. Maran navigates the video games menu, opens his achievements to browse them. He hums along with the music, foot tapping on the floor. “Oh, least I unlocked the special outfit you wanted, yeah? Ace.”

“Mar, you know I’m autistic, right?”

“Right, yeah. ‘Course? The photography—and also the makeup, wicked creative.”

Nomi blinks a few times, watching him bite his lower lip and frown at the video game before him. Then she bursts into laughter so loud it startles the controller right out of his hand—poor thing clatters to the ground and skids away. Her arms wrap around her middle, her laughter getting breathier until she wheezes. The wine makes her cheeks impossibly warm.

“Mar, babe, I said autistic not artistic.”

“No!” His expression is horrified as he hunches over her. Maran’s hands (strong, roughly calloused, beautifully gentle) wrap around her shoulders. He holds her so softly sometimes that she feels like she might combust, become a black hole or a collection of stars dying to create some catastrophic event. Feels world ending how caring he is with her. “No—Nomi, oh fuck, Nomi, your—your accent, I thought you said—Nomi, promise, swear, it’s your accent!”

“My accent?” Nomi flutters her lashes, smiling at him, sinking further into the couch. The blues and purples twinkle above them. She likes the way he looks just then, leaned over her like he is. The necklace he wears—a cute heart, a word inscribed, maybe a gift from Benny—comes loose from his shirt. She hooks a finger in it, smiling coy with narrowed eyes. “What’s wrong with my accent?”

“Nothing!”

“’Cause I’m posh?”

“Well, it’s a bit posh, but I like it.”

“Bet your lads back home would make fun of you for dating me, yeah?”

“No.” Maran’s voice goes unexpectedly hard. It makes her pulse jump. Heat in her belly. Then he clears his throat, his lips relaxing into his sweet smile and that smile does things to her that feel downright illegal. “Wouldn’t let ‘em. Anyway, think a few of ‘em would like you lots, Nom. Hen would, he taught me skateboarding. Actually, he’d be jealous.”

“Of?”

A flush creeps across Maran’s cheeks and down his throat. The freckles that scatter his features stand out so much more when he’s blushing. She wants to kiss there and feel his heated skin. She wants to bite into him and shake her head like an animal. She sort of understands why Maran wanders out of Benny’s bedroom with a dizzy happy look on his face and hand shaped bruises all over.

“Well.” He doesn’t finish that thought at all. It lingers for a moment. Maran relaxes above her, sliding hands down her arms to tuck around her waist. His thumbs press ever so slightly into her soft middle. He seems distracted by that, looking at her hands, her body, the give of her against him. She tugs the necklace once more to get his attention and he startles. Then eases more on top of her, his weight so comforting and pleasant. She slowly slides a leg around his waist, refusing to let him leave now that he’s there.

Fiadh is a fucking lunatic, Nomi thinks, winding hands around the back of Maran’s neck to pull him closer. Their lips are so close she can feel the heat of his breath. He’d taste like Chinese food and fizzy drink and that sweet unique Maran taste.

Instead of kissing, he cups her cheek and their noses brush.

“I like you, Nomi. Everything about you, really. Doesn’t—feel like an ass to even say, doesn’t bother me or something, ‘cause it’s not—it shouldn’t bother anyone, and all and—”

“You’re hard right now.”

Maran blinks rapidly, eyes darting everywhere for a moment. Nomi’s hands slide to his lower back, pushing their bodies together. She can feel the truth of that statement against her thigh and very much enjoys the way it feels.

“Yeah? You’re very pretty and very warm and I’m very into kissing you.”

“We haven’t even done that yet.”

“Oh, I was thinking about kissing the whole time, though.”

Nomi’s chest jumps with her laugh and Maran’s forehead crashes to her shoulder as he groans, sharp acrylic nails digging into his lower back.

“Do you wanna have sex then?”

“So bad, but I also want you to know—”

“I know, Mar.” And finds that statement true, that she does know. That he’s never been anything but authentic with her. That sometimes his body language is confusing or he says something bewildering to her or she feels out of place standing in a room even if he’s there—that none of those feelings ever disappear, because whatever part of her brain functions in a different wavelength doesn’t disappear. But it syncs sometimes, its little lines wavering with his to form something pretty and nice as she imagines it in her head. That feels like enough, that feels like more than enough even. It feels like how it’s meant to be; like Matilda and Lark. Not passing for normal under scrutiny, but fucking right.

She wiggles to get Maran to pull back. And he looks stunningly gorgeous as she yanks her shirt off and tosses it to the side, his eyes popping wide and his jaw slackening as if he’s not seen her topless a hundred times before.

—

Nomi never knew sex was passionate like this—she’d dreamed of it. She’d read about it, in countless romance novels that lined a shelf in her bedroom, often overlooked in favor of the computer parts. She’d thought of it, she’d imagined favorite fictional characters in a hundred different ways and then when it came to the real thing, with real people, she was laid back on pillows and sheets and blankets and bored. She was unable to connect to it, frustrated in a way that was painful. She was the outlier, the confusing part of the pie chart that was one tiny sliver that just said UNABLE TO CLIMAX, SEX TOO CONFUSING, NOT WEIRD ENOUGH, NEEDS MORE KINK, NEEDS MORE ROMANCE, UNABLE TO FIGURE IT THE FUCK OUT!

Maran’s hand cups behind her neck, cradling her as they kiss. Their mouths part here and there because of their rhythm, which gets harder but never frantic. Which never loses the edge of gentle softness that makes Maran perfect. Her nails dig angry red lines into his back, proof of pleasure, the opposite of his hands that never so much as bruise her. Job well done, Benny would quip in his nasty condescending voice, kissing Maran messily.

She thought missionary was supposed to be boring. The vanilla, heterosexual couples position. Instead, his chest is pressed against hers, his face burying into her neck as he tenses, as he gets close. Maybe she liked all the strange, fun positions that had them all twisted into knots, maybe she liked all three of them to be exhausted and depleted and sore because of it the next day.

But with him, just him, Nomi likes this best. She feels special like this. Coveted. Not at all broken or confused.

When he cums—on her stomach like she’d asked, because she likes watching him pull out, tug himself to a finish, brows pinched and eyes glossy in concentration and pleasure—she feels that sort of stars exploding behind the eyes feeling. Watches the muscles bunch in his biceps, stomach flexing with the orgasm. She drags nails down his chest then, just like she’d done to his back, listening to the soft whimper moan it elicits.

Without asking, he sinks lower, to make sure she finishes next.

—

“Can’t believe you guys h-had sex without me.”

“Oh, stop bein’ such a baby.”

“And you got food without me, too.”

Nomi watches Benny undress, exhaustion pulling at him. He fumbles with his jeans, the button, the zipper. He mumbles his words, when he already has a terrible American accent. It’s dark in the room, so she can’t see him fully, but she can imagine the bruises imprinted beneath his pretty blue eyes. She can imagine the lines on his forehead from the constant furrowing of his brow. Her stupid academic boy.

Maran snores softly beside her, face down in the bed. Benny has just enough room to slide in on the other side of him—and he rouses for just a moment, a softly whispered ‘Ben?’ that he replies to with a soothing kiss to Maran’s brow. He’s swiftly asleep again after that and Nomi is left to look at Benny over the silhouette of him. The curve of his shoulders and the nape of his neck. Benny looks at her as well and she feels whole and complete now that he’s there.

“I think we should get hitched.”

“Nomi, Jesus Christ.”

“I really do. I think we should elope.”

“Did he do s-something extra romantic tonight?”

Nomi hums, reaching a hand over Maran’s back, finding Benny’s already reaching for hers. Everyone thinks he’s weird or scary or intimidating or freaky, creepy, strange, off putting. His thumb brushes the back of her hand, over and over in a soothing rhythm she could fall asleep too. She suddenly feels like crying, which is ridiculous and beautiful.

Instead, she leans over the sleeping boy, making Maran hum softly in his sleep (her breasts, pressed against his back, something that could wake him from a dead coma). Benny is smiling, she can tell, even in the dark. The smile he reserves solely for the either of them.

They’re going to kiss, her and Benny. Their mouths are close. She’s struck with an idea.

“Would that make Maran have a triple hyphenated last name? Giarizzo-Cohn-Walker?”

Benny has to cover his hand to stop the sudden laugh, head tilted back on the pillow. Maran rouses just slightly underneath her, his hand patting its way across the bed to curl against Benny’s tattooed chest, his mumbling incoherent. Nomi doesn’t have to feel like the moment was ruined, or she made any missteps when Benny smiles like that.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

loneliest boy in the world

wc: 3214 au: college au ch: benny, maran

Benny had stopped enjoying parties a long time ago.

When he’d been a freshman, it was an every night sort of thing for him. Fell into a bit of a bad habit of drinking too much and barely surviving class the next morning—and school meant something to Benny. Wasn’t just a place to occupy for four years before fucking off to find some menial labor job. Which was generally expected of someone who looked like him. Class mattered, his grades mattered, staying in school mattered. The PhD mattered, getting a good job afterwards mattered.

So, he doesn’t do parties anymore, unless they’re thrown at his own apartment (still enjoys these, likes the attention more often than not) or he’s roped in because of transportation. Being the oldest of his room mates and the only one with a car that could seat more than two people, he found himself more often than not going wherever he was asked. Xavier’s big puppy eyes generally worked, if Lark’s didn’t.

It lands him at a party he doesn’t really want to be at and mostly sober—because he’s driving them all home.

“I just feel like I never see you outside class.”

He’s found a secluded hallway with Sujin, leaning against a wall, nursing a lukewarm beer in a red solo cup. The other man smiles up at him, a good five inches shorter. Benny likes the way he keeps his hair, short with bleached tips. He clearly spends more time on it than he’d want people to think, but it has the effect that all he did was scrub a hand through it and leave.

“Do y-you need to see me outside class?” Benny asks, lip’s curling into a smile that most wouldn’t consider friendly. Sujin blushes. Benny knew he would.

“Parties aren’t your thing.” Sujin fidgets with the ends of his sleeves and doesn’t look up this time.

“I like parties.” Lie. “I d-don’t like hockey players.” Truth. He gestures to the Hockey House around them; it’s sat on a long road down campus, right outside the lake that doesn’t actually freeze over fully enough for the players to play on. The house is nice enough considering so many men live there. The walls are practically moist with the number of bodies they have packed in to it for the night. They vibrate so harsh with the music it’s a surprise their framed pictures of past teams stay up on the walls.

“Did Xavier make you come out?”

Benny isn’t sure how to feel about the familiarity of the statement. He’s almost positive Xavier and Sujin have never really met, otherwise Sujin’s crush would be on Xavier instead of Benny. There’s a strange squirm in his stomach that maybe he’s talked too much and now someone knows more about him than they should; nobody should be aware that Xavier can make Benny do things with a simple, please?

But Sujin likes him. He must pay attention.

For now, anyway. He makes big eyes at him and asks about class and borrows his notes and tries texting him (Benny hardly ever actually has his phone on him to answer). And he’s sweet and attractive and they share a few things in common. Benny can imagine Sujin’s tongue piercing and how it would feel if they’d kiss. Can picture pushing up his black sweater and finding pale skin and both of them having a good time.

But it’s also an exhausting thing to picture once the daydreams end. Fitting someone into his life. Introducing them to his (much more attractive) friends. Being more reliable for communication—he’s dated before and it never ends well. People want things in relationships. Benny wants a cure for insomnia and a large cheese pizza.

Still. Sujin. He’s good—he’s nice.

“Xavier’s m-made plenty of people come out th-the closet.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sujin replies, laughing, punching Benny softly in the side. “You suck, you know that?”

Flirting feels nice. Benny smiles into it, takes a sip from his cup, watches Sujin’s eyes flicker there and then away. The tops of his pale cheekbones turn pink. He really is cute.

They talk about class, about the annoying poli-sci major that raises their hand too often. They talk about a TV show that Benny hasn’t seen. Sujin explains the pilot in detail and creeps closer with every exaggerated gesture. Lots of explosions in this TV show, lots of hand movements to follow explanations of those explosions. They talk about Benny’s car, which he didn’t realize people took such notice of. They talk about Sujin’s summer vacation plans, if he’s going to go back home for a bit. The entire time, Benny wonders when he should make a move.

“Are you coming home with us?” A new voice pipes up at the end of the hallway, cutting over the music, over their conversation and Benny’s waffling decisions on if he should kiss Sujin or not. He glances over his shoulder, finds a tiny girl with giant glasses and an annoyed expression.

“Me?” Benny points to his chest, hand still holding the now empty red solo cup.

“Ew,” the girl replies, with a scrunched nose. “You’d need a thousand showers before I let you in my apartment.”

“Mina!”

“What?” She props hands on her hips. A lanyard with far too many keychains attached to it jangles in her hand. Benny stares down at her with a bored expression and she doesn’t even flinch. Instead, her dark eyes slide around him and to Sujin. “Like, are you staying here? Are you finding a ride home? What are you doing, because I’m leaving and I drove you here.”

It clicks into place then—Sujin’s older sister, a year ahead of him and attending the same college. They had an apartment together, rather than rooming on campus, even though they were from…Benny struggles to remember where Sujin is from. His face must go through an impressive look of concentration, because Mina appears disgusted and steps away from him.

“Uh.” Sujin looks up at him.

Unfortunately, there is something so deeply hopeful in his eyes that it makes Benny’s insides curl up. A feeling of near black out inducing panic thrums across his vision for a moment. There’s an announcer inside his head—loud, comical, and horrifying—screaming, decision time, you whore! The audience laughs to trivia show music. Benny realizes too late that he’s taken far too long to say anything, while Sujin’s blush drains and his eyebrows awkwardly tilt upward.

“C’mon,” Mina huffs, darting a hand out to scoop her brother closer. “You need better taste, you know that?”

“Mina, fuck you—Oh my God.” He flicks a look over his shoulder, a clear attempt at civility, though his smile is somewhat dimmed. “Bye, Benny.”

See? See? I’m shit at this. I’m the worst at it. The fucking worst.

And though it shouldn’t be able to get any worse than missing a chance to hook up with a cute boy from class—and one he actually liked—Benny can feel a hand at his back pocket. Someone thinking they’re being sneaky and light fingered, when they are most certainly not. He waits a moment, staring at Mina and Sujin as they trek through a packed room. Then he jerks around, snatching at a wrist—hand caught right as it’s about to free his car keys of his possession.

“What are you doing?” Benny asks Maran, tone flat.

“Huh?”

He’s clearly been drinking. Maran’s cheeks get flushed when he’s been to the keg one too many times, and it’s only gotten worse since Xavier has introduced him to those fruity little cocktails that Matilda makes. His dark brown eyes are shiny, the neck of his shirt yoked, revealing the silver line of a necklace. He has a small stain on the front of his jeans, where Benny can guess a shot of liquor was spit out. Maran smiles and it has a horrifying effect on Benny’s ability to stand.

Luckily, he doesn’t collapse. Instead, he slowly leans his shoulder against the wall and stares at Maran. He smiles wider, withdrawing his hand and slowly tucking it into his own front pocket. Maran’s shoulders raise, converse sneakered feet tucking in slightly. Who me? I’m just a guy, please don’t be mad I almost stole your car keys. It makes Benny’s stomach warm in a way it shouldn’t.

“Didn’t wanna interrupt you and—” Maran’s hand raises and flaps in the direction Sujin was towed off in. His expression briefly changes to something colder. Benny is stunned, because he didn’t realize that he and Sujin had an audience. How long had Maran been standing down the hallway, waiting to approach?

It shouldn’t, but that realization makes him smile. Slowly. And a little mean. A rude curl to his mouth, blue eyes narrowing.

“Wh-What would you be interrupting?” Benny asks, crossing his arms over his chest. Maran huffs a sound, scuffing his shoe across the floor. He slowly slides it until the once white rubber tip touches Benny’s beaten up combat boot. His eyes don’t lift and meet Benny’s. They hover somewhere underneath his chin, around his arms.

“Clearly nothing, huh?”

Oh, Benny thinks, stomach warming further. You little shit.

“You think so?” He lifts his boot and presses it down over Maran’s shoe, so it can stop it’s nudging against him. Benny leans in, so they’re closer. Maran smells a little like alcohol and this sweet, boyish scent. Like he’s been using the same body spray since he was a teenager and never let it go. He radiates body heat so desirable that it hurts to be near him like this. Benny can’t imagine what Maran’s skin feels like to the touch.

“Lad clearly likes you.” Maran is a little drunk, so his accent is even thicker. Maybe a little rougher.

“I’m a likeable guy.”

“I’m not disagreein’ there, you know. Clearly, I think you’re well likeable.” There’s a hum as he sucks his teeth, rolls his eyes to the side, lifts a hand and waves it slightly. Benny follows it like a hound dog finding a bird in the sky. “Just thought his flirting could use some work.”

“Maybe you c-can give him lessons.”

“I’m not flirting with anyone,” Maran says with an indignant tone, putting a hand to his chest. His eyes flash, pretty and challenging.

“I think every girl you come across w-would think otherwise.”

“You’d have to ask them after you got over your fear of talkin’ to girls.”

It’s so unexpected, Benny bursts out with a laugh. It’s high pitched and ends with a giggle as he slaps a hand over his mouth. Someone would think Maran won the fucking lottery the way his face lights up. He inches closer, angling himself to peer up at Benny.

“Got you, Ben. What’s it all when you nail someone in checkers?”

“Chess. It’s a ch-checkmate.”

“Checkmate.” Maran flicks a finger in the air. The triumph in his dark, drunken eyes makes Benny’s chest feel tight. He breathes in nice and slow in an attempt to get oxygen to his brain but all that does is make Maran’s eyes drop to his chest again. His cheeks go dark as he leans back and slumps against the wall. Benny has an overwhelming desire to put an arm between Maran and the hockey player’s nasty wallpaper.

“Why did you want to go sit in my car?” Benny pulls his keys from his back pocket, giving them a glance. Maran doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he goes quiet and somber, linking his hands in front of himself, pushing on his stomach. He glances down at the floor, where Benny’s booted foot is still resting on top of Maran’s converses.

“Just—Drank a bit much, hey?” His nose scrunches a bit, wrinkling as he smiles ruefully. “Well, found myself a bit alone in it all. Then I was wandering and found—and anyway…Guess I wanted to find a place to just fuck off and be lonely?”

“Poor baby.” Benny huffs a laugh, his arms feeling heavy and full of desire as they unwind. “Lonely baby.”

“What?”

Benny rolls his eyes. He reaches out, taking Maran by the wrist. He can feel the boys heart beat crashing against the thin skin, vein throbbing with the pulse. He is warm. He is so fucking warm.

The keys get placed in his palm. Benny slowly closes his fingers around them.

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Maran stares at him, blinking those awful, beautiful eyes.

—

The hockey house has a long, winding drive way that bleeds out onto the street. Cars line the entire way like a trail of ants. Benny had gotten a shit spot, because he’d arrived late—which was largely Lark’s fault. If he showed up to things early, it would look back for his casual attitude. Being on time was even worse. It was halfway through the party or nothing.

Benny finds his car underneath a street light, a cone of amber around it. Sometimes, the light flickers, in a strange little rhythm. On for a long moment, then stuttering in three quick successions and then on once more. Benny only knows because he’s been standing there for a long while, two water bottles in his hands. He contemplates smoking an entire cigarette before he gets into the car.

He can see Maran’s silhouette. The shape of him, in the dark. The light of his phone—or that adorable Game Boy—makes his face a light blue. It clashes with the sepia toned street light. Benny doesn’t want to think about what his heart is doing inside his chest. An hour earlier, he had been contemplating kissing Sujin. He’d thought, even briefly, about bringing him home. Back to his apartment.

Benny shakes himself all over like a dog and then swiftly shoves himself into the backseat of his car.

“Drink this.”

The water bottle gets shoved into Maran’s hand before he can disagree. With them both in the backseat, they arrange to fit better; for some reason it’s entirely natural. Maran scoots into a corner, back against the car door, one leg extended and the other dropped on the floor. Benny sits with one foot extended onto the console and the other tucked up, knee under his chin. They are tangled and close and the heat inside the car suddenly feels unbearable. He wishes he’d stopped to think about rolling the windows down before getting in.

Too late, he supposes. Not even the end of the world could pull him from this car.

Both of them are silent for a bit, sitting there and staring at each other. It isn’t nearly as uncomfortable as it should be and Benny figures maybe that’s because Maran is drunk. He shifts, his leg touching Benny. Without thinking, he closes his pale palm around Maran’s ankle.

“Do you like that guy?” Maran suddenly asks, taking a healthy sip from his water bottle. The condensation on it must bother, because he wipes his palms on his jeans.

“He’s nice.” Maran’s face looks dubious. Benny snorts, uncaps his own water, takes a healthy chug. It unseats his dry tongue, thankfully. He swishes the water and takes his time swallowing. “I’m n-not a good boyfriend. Done it once or twice, d-don’t really live up to the hype.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You th-think I’d be a good boyfriend?” Benny bats his eyelashes in an exaggerated way and fucking lives for the flush that goes from Maran’s cheeks down his throat. It’s a dangerous game to play, teasing at Benji’s straight friend like this. Sometimes he can’t help it; there’s something clearly wrong with him for being so masochistic about it. What ever comes from flirting with straight boys but headaches? Only Maran is so sweet about it—so authentic. As though he really feels it, sometimes. Like he means it, when he flirts back.

“Nice, being away from the noise,” Maran says, letting himself slump sideways against the car seat. His eyes flutter close. He tucks the cold water bottle up near his neck. His chest rises and falls heavily, making Benny look there. It’s like a Victorian peeking at an ankle the way Benny’s stomach muscles clench.

“You know you don’t ha-have to come out every time Xavier asks, right?”

“Right, but he gets excited. And I like it—just lately him and Benj keep disappearin’. Fucking off and all that. And I guess that’s alright, I don’t need to be hip to hip with Benji, alright? I’ve made some friends here. And I like making new ones. I can make friends easy.”

Benny doesn’t need to be convinced. Maran has a personality that sort of moths-to-flame’s people. He’s handsome. He has an accent and American’s love accents. Benny thinks about Sujin—about how he knew bits and pieces of Benny just piecing them together from odd here and there conversations. How terrifying it was to think that Benny might have to supply more. It’s lonely, but it’s safer.

“Jesus,” Benny lets his head bang backward against the car window. “I should be drunk for this.”

“Tell me if I’m bothering you,” Maran mumbles. His foot taps against Benny’s thigh until the hand around his ankle squeezes hard.

“Don’t be a brat.” He watches Maran’s eyes go shiny and wide. Dangerous. Flirting with straight guys was always dangerous and Benny couldn’t help it. This was a straight guy he was going to indulge in. Safer, right? He sighs out his nose, squeezing Maran’s ankle once more before rolling his head to the side, leaning on the car seat as well.

“I meant I should b-be drunk for twenty questions.”

“Twenty questions?”

“You ask first.”

There’s silence between them while Maran’s drunken brain catches up. Then he’s smiling eagerly, scooting forward. He hunches over, crossing his legs underneath him, hands patting on Benny’s calf. The little tap, tap, tap drives him near to insanity. There’s a tattoo of a dagger there; he thinks Maran would like it, would look at it and peer closely and compare it to something from one of his little fantasy games he’s played with Xavier.

“Favorite color?”

“Lame. Blue.”

“That’s so vain!” Maran howls, laughing. “Blue, like your eyes?”

“Dark blue,” Benny replies, grinning despite himself. Unable to stop himself, but Jesus who could look at Maran laughing like that and not smile? “Think Nomi’s hair.”

Maran clears his throat with a fist to his mouth, shoulders shrugging a few times.

“Well, I like blue fine. Nomi’s blue, or light blue. Sort of snowy like blue? Guess snow is white, yeah, but winter blue is good—ask me, now.”

Benny could think of a thousand things, but he doesn’t rush. He settles himself in the car, slouching. It shoves his leg up underneath Maran’s crossed ones. He doesn’t seem to mind at all. The hands that had tapped furiously at him stay there. They pluck gently at black denim. Nervous or excited or both. Benny could think of a thousand things and never be satisfied, but that’s fine. He points to the water bottle and Maran dutifully drinks.

And they play the twenty questions game for far more than twenty questions.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

in my restless dreams, i see that town

wc: 5398 au: silent hill au ch: yasiel, benji, lethe

My favorite memory of you is the swing set. Rusty and neglected, lonely and ignored.

Our backyard, you remember? You finally let me push you until we thought you’d go the whole way around. You didn’t, but it was enough that we thought it was possible. And you let me and I never told you how much that meant to me. You trusted me. No one ever trusts me.

Don’t come for me, Yas.

It isn’t safe. And you’re not strong enough.

I’m sorry.

I love you, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry and I love you.

Don’t

—

The rustle of the forest is like whispers; ominous, cruel, and taunting. So similar to his twin. Nelsy could be a forest, undefinable by map with too many paths that wind to no true destination. Nowhere authentically safe. She was scary and unknowable and cold—and so is Yasiel. Standing on the overpass that leads to Silent Hill, the wind sending murmurs through the leaves, cutting the bare skin of his high, freckled cheekbones.

He's fucking cold.

Yasiel’s lighter clicks a few times before it finally sparks and washes his light brown face in ambers and reds. The flame flickers a few times and threatens to go out before it can complete its simple job of lighting the cigarette dangling between his lips. The nicotine doesn’t warm him up, but it soothes a thrumming nerve inside him. An anxiety that can’t ever truly calm.

Don’t come for me, Yas.

His head tilts back, smoke pluming above him from parted lips. The sky above is cottony with roiling clouds, dark and fat on rain that hasn’t shed yet. Mouse had picked a perfect time to disappear; she always knew he hated fall. The slow death to winter. A season that held too many bad memories for both of them. And he hates the fucking cold. His black denim jacket is all flash and no substance, made to make him look pretty but not offer any actual warmth.

Maybe being warm would just make him feel guilty anyway. What does he deserve, after all? What, indeed.

Yasiel stamps the cigarette out on the railing of the overpass, then flicks the butt out into nature, watching it fall down the steep ravine into the forest surrounding Silent Hill. Adverts online made it seem like a pretty little place, someone’s cozy small town getaway. Writers would book a motel room and finish their next big project, or dads would drag their families to move in and start new. The sheriff from a town over takes a new placement in Silent Hill and feels restless because people aren’t doing cocaine off each other in bathrooms and ending their night jacking cars.

There’s no seeing the town from this far away, but the road into town is shut down. Looks permanent, no less. A rusted gate is padlocked closed, a few plywood boards haphazardly strapped to it. People have dumped trash all around it, like the dumpster off to the side was a suggestion to ignore. Yasiel, if he were athletic like his sister, might have been able to vault over the fence.

Instead, he’s forced to leave his car and take the scenic trail.

According to the map he’d snagged from a rest stop a hundred miles prior, that route funnels directly into Silent Hill’s graveyard before opening up into town.

“My fucking luck,” he mutters aloud to no one but the haughty, laughing wind. Yas folds the map, tucks it into his back pocket along with his lighter.

Then he descends.

—

The fog only seems to thicken the closer Yasiel gets to Silent Hill, and with it a palpable sense of dread. What starts as a modest mist quickly turns into a heavy blanket—and the way forward becomes trickier and tricker. He stumbles over forest roots, slides down the path as it suddenly becomes a gravely hill. More than once, he slips and palms a tree beside him and comes away with a scrape on his hand. The sting follows him.

So does the growing frustration that simmers into fury.

A farm sits desolate beside the trail as it opens from forest into wide open dirt path. A rusted windmill creaks slowly in the wind, the shadow falling over him. The sun is barely able to peek through the grey fog, the heavyset clouds. The farm makes him feel uneasy. It reminds him of an empty airport at four in the morning, or a lot to a gas station where the OPEN light flickers nonstop where he’s the only car parked. He’s reminded of the stairwell in his apartment building, how it goes on and on and on forever as he stands at the top and stares down. It’s a place abandoned except for him.

Yasiel’s heartbeat is loud in his ears as he walks past the abandoned farm. His breathing is uneven and raspy and he can’t entirely blame it on the hike. Grass and dirt crunch underneath his sneakers but otherwise, there is no noise. The severe lack of it is almost loud. He pats down the inside pocket of his denim jacket, reminding himself of the inhaler kept there. It does little to comfort him.

He resolves to hate his sister a little harder as he finally finds the winding path to the graveyard. Flowers, dying of course, line the path like droopy used tissues. The gate is as worn down as everything else Yasiel has encountered, but the rusted chain that barely keeps the back entrance together is easily yanked off. He rubs the metallic dust from his hand onto his jeans, slipping in through the little opening he’s made.

A “Welcome to Silent Hill” sign would have been appreciated and yet all he has is the fog, the tombs like broken teeth burst from the ground and a dark silhouette just a few paces in front of him.

—

“Hello?”

The stranger whirls to face him and Yasiel regrets saying anything. He’s not sure what made him approach in the first place—herd mentality perhaps. The fear of being alone and spotting the singular other person he’s seen since the rest stop prior to entering Silent Hill’s radius.

Rusty and neglected, lonely and ignored.

Whoever they are, they’re angry. The word might not even justify it. Their jacket hood is up, but snakes of curly black hair peek from underneath it, framing his furious expression. Thick, dark brows pull in tight, creating a crease on their brown forehead. The stranger’s eyes are red rimmed and shiny, deep set with purpling bruises underneath them. His lip curls up, revealing teeth in a snarling expression.

Yasiel instinctively steps back.

“You from this fuckin’ town?”

“What? No, I—”

“Is this a joke? Some dickhead havin’ a proper fuckin’ laugh at me, then? Who did this?” The graveyard stranger throws a hand toward the tombstone he’d been standing in front of. Yasiel only realizes then that there is a hole in the ground, coffin shaped and six feet deep. A plot freshly dug for a burial. Nausea wells in his stomach.

“Man, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! I don’t live here, I just—I just got here. I’m looking for—” He cuts off as the stranger’s face flickers with fear and pain and then lastly, worry. All three mingle into something devastating before it’s wiped clean, flat and apprehensive.

Yasiel looks at the tombstone once more. There doesn’t seem to be anything else he can do.

XAVIER WOLFFE

1996 – 2024

ARE YOU GOING TO STOP IT, BENJI?

YOU SHOULD TRY, IT MIGHT BE FUN!

A booted foot kicks out, striking the tombstone and sending it falling backward, the sound of marble slapping on loamy soil a wet smack. Yasiel flinches, taking a sidestep from the man—from Benji? He’s shorter, but broad and his hands, clenched at his sides, shake with unrepentant fury. There’s a glint of something gold at his neck, but Yasiel doesn’t look closer.

“Who is it?” he asks, taking another step away, cautious. Yasiel glances down into the grave to make sure it really is empty—there’s no dead body or even an empty casket, just a depression in the dirt, man sized. The hairs along his arms and the ones at the back of his neck stand to attention. The fog rolls in on the two of them, no less heavy, no less dense. It’s day time and yet the ever present grey makes this graveyard feel like a bog.

Mouse had read Wuthering Heights to shreds, he remembers. Her paperback copy had fallen apart in her hands one night, as she sat bent over in bed, a pen behind her ear. She would have loved this graveyard, and this chilling stranger.

Benji—if that’s who he is—doesn’t answer the question. He stares down at the tombstone, a muscle in his jaw feathering. He looks like he hasn’t slept for days, his clothes rumpled. There’s a drawstring bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, listen,” Yasiel says quietly. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who isn’t?” Benji snaps back, black eyes sliding upward to him. “I’m looking for him.”

“For—For Xavier?”

“He’s not dead if that’s what you’re thinkin’. Someone did this, someone fuckin’ sick and disgustin’ did this.”

Yasiel can’t place the man’s accent directly, besides distinctly British. His voice is rumbly, from the chest and deeply hurt. Words fracture a bit here and there, notably on dead and disgusting. Yasiel goes to ask another question—when’s the last time you saw him or where are you from—any semblance of polite socialization that might lead him down a path where he can ask about Mouse.

Instead, he sees another figure. Not that far from them, partially hidden by a statue of a crumbling angel. The mist in the graveyard has made it almost impossible to see anything other than the smattering of graves and Benji. It thins, only just barely. As though the graveyard wants them to see this.

Only, Yasiel doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to know. He steps back, eyes wide as the dark silhouette materializes little by little. Fear makes his veins cold, make his limbs feel limp and useless. His hand twitches to his lower back, underneath his jacket. He’s horrified at himself, at the sudden dread and terror that seems to be controlling his actions. So, his hand pauses.

That’s when the figure shambles forward.

“Xavier?” Benji asks, startled, his voice tipping high with hope. Dirt scatters into the open grave as he steps closer. Mist unravels around them. Yasiel’s hand shoots out and grabs him by the bicep, earning a dangerous look—he misses it entirely. Benji’s warning glare is wasted on him, because all Yasiel looks at is…is…it.

A distinctly canine jaw opens, mangled tongue lolling from its maw, high pitched whine splitting the otherwise silent graveyard. Drool pours from it’s mouth, mixing with dark, oily blood. The beast is shaped mostly man like; it stands on two long denim clad legs, nude lengthy pale torso tapered to wide shoulders, it’s arms behind it’s back cruelly bent and bound by slick wire. For a moment, a feeling of odd, misplaced sympathy cuts through the fear. It’s in pain, wolflike head rolling back and forth, nose snuffling the air, whimpering. It’s fur is dark auburn and shaggy.

“Xavier?” Benji repeats, his voice a horrified whisper.

The dog head snaps up, large white teeth gnashing together.

“Holy shit,” Yasiel whispers. Then screams as the beast charges toward him.

Everything happens too quickly. The breath is knocked from him as he collides with the ground—Yasiel raises an arm in defense, screaming wildly as an eyetooth catches on his wrist. The skin splits, fresh blood splattering across his denim jacket. Adrenaline is the only thing that keeps him from feeling the pain immediately. Yasiel kicks out his legs, flailing underneath the creature as it snaps its jaws open and close. Its wide open mouth smells like a dead thing, breath hot and foul. It snarls, lips curled back, snout wrinkled.

Then it squeals, spasming on top of Yasiel, who jerks out from under it. He rolls away on the grass, scrambling backward. There’s more blood on him. Dark and slick. This time, it belongs to the creature. Benji straddles it, with something wicked and glinting sharp in the grey filtered sunlight held aloft in his hand.

The doglike sounds of pain continue as Benji stabs, his own voice frantic and loud. Over and over, he plunges the—scalpel? The scalpel. Over and over until the wolf man is just twitching on the ground, bent at a horrible angle with it’s arms tied behind its back. Then slowly, it sighs out one last sound and—and it dies.

“Fuck!” Benji screams standing. He kicks, one final slam of his boot against pale flesh. “Fuck!”

Yasiel must say something too, but he isn’t sure what. It draws Benji’s attention, his focus sharp. And then he’s there, kneeling beside him, holding Yasiel’s hand, as his wrist continues bleeding. The wound is looked over with a clinical eye. It hasn’t started hurting yet; it only burns, like he’s gotten too close to campfire, like he’s laid out under the sun too long, like he’s fallen asleep in a car, baking in the backseat.

“Oh my God,” Yasiel whispers, realizing that it’s not the first time he’s said it. That maybe he’s been repeating it ever since the dog had been pulled off him and killed. His entire body shakes, a pit of cold opening in his chest. Yasiel’s vision is blurry until he realizes that his glasses had been knocked off. Awkwardly, he pulls himself away from Benji to pick them up. When he stands, he stumbles. His elbow is caught, steadying him enough to stand there without falling.

“Thank you,” he says, awe struck and dumb.

“Gonna faint?”

“No.”

“Y’sure?”

“No, I—What—what the fuck was that?”

Benji shakes his head. Yasiel didn’t expect him to know, and yet he still feels lost. Is this a dream? It can’t be. Oh God, it can’t be. He knows it isn’t and that’s worse. That makes it all so much worse. Reality catches up to him, the adrenaline dump draining; and then he’s doubling over, vomiting onto the blood stained grass. He heaves, hands on his knees, panting, stomach muscles clenching. He raises a shaky hand to stop his glasses from falling off once more.

“Can you get back then?”

“What?” Yas straightens slowly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. The bile’s made his lips burn. He almost registers that more than the slash on his wrist, even as the blood clots and dries.

“Up the way you came, yeah? Trail in the woods leads to the road, right?”

“Yes. Yeah, it does.”

“Can you get back?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not leaving this fucking place without my husband,” Benji points into the fog. Into Silent Hill. His hand trembles, but his expression is hard and final. Yasiel can still taste vomit in his mouth, the bitter tang of it on the back of his tongue. He looks down at his hand, where blood has pooled into his palm, into the creases. His life line, his love line, the identical match to his sisters.

It isn’t safe. And you’re not strong enough.

“Let me come with you,” Yasiel pleads, stumbling toward Benji, hands upraised. The scalpels been cleaned on his jeans, making it shine in the dull fog once more. Benji’s hand tightens around it, tendons standing out starkly. Yasiel doesn’t even flinch. He can’t afford to be afraid, but he is. He is so afraid. “My sister is here. I’m looking for her—I have to find her. I’m not leaving, either.”

Wherever she is. Yasiel thinks of the dead wolf man creature on the ground, blood soaking into the dirt and a spasm of fear tightens his chest. His heart turns over wildly. Half of him is out there, in this town, with these things.

“You don’t get in my way of finding him,” Benji says calmly, slowly. The scalpel disappears into a pocket. He pulls his hood back, letting tangles of black curls free. The subtle graveyard wind shifts around them, tickling exposed skin, laughing in their ears. “Then, c’mon.”

—

They don’t encounter another creature—they don’t encounter anything at all. No people, no remains of them either. Just emptiness; cars parked with nothing in them, flyers and newspapers scattering empty roads. Everything is covered in layers of grime, as if Silent Hill stopped being a town a decade ago, frozen in time but not immune to decay.

Which doesn’t make sense because Mouse had been here just last year. Yasiel had dropped her off at the train, watched her go, and then picked her back up just a week later. Silent Hill had existed back then, as a town full of people and life—a hotel to stay in, doctors and nurses and medication and a little diner that she took pictures of. Mouse had even charmed her way onto someone’s tug boat for a ride on the lake. Like it was a vacation, a holiday stay, instead of a sleep study to solve her night terrors.

“Why did your husband come here?” Yasiel asks, breaking the long, cautious silence that’s crept up on them. They walk down an empty street, the fog everlasting and obscuring anything not ten feet in front of them. He’s anxiously straining to hear anything that might resemble a dog. Whining, barking, that terrible sniffing. But it’s just been his own heavy breathing.

“You wanna chat right now?” Benji throws Yasiel an incredulous stare, a pinch between his brows. “More of those fuckin’ things could be out here.”

Yasiel stays quiet for a moment, observing the abandoned street. They pass storefronts, equally empty or boarded shut. Some of them have broken windows, glass scattering the sidewalk. A chill makes him bundle into his denim jacket further.

Then he finally clears his throat and says, “You called it Xavier?”

“Listen, dickhead.” Benji rounds toward Yasiel. His face pales and his hand reaches out, jerking the slender painter by his jacket. Yasiel stumbles, feeling Benji’s body heat suddenly; the clarity that he is a real, living person. “More of ‘em. Like I said. Down the alley.” A tremor runs up Yasiel’s spine, sweat pooling under his arms. He dares to look sideways, shaking so bad even his glasses slide down the tip of his nose.

And Benji’s right. There are more of them, these half human dog wolf things. A bundle of them down a decrepit alleyway, a dumpster overturned, ancient trash piled everywhere alongside cardboard boxes, a rusted shopping cart. Two of the wolves fight each other, arms bound, snapping their maws, catching delicate pale skin and rending flesh. Without balance, they fall on each other, on the ground, tangling and fighting still. They howl and yip and snarl and bark madly, while three stand around them, watching. The bystanders cackle, fangs dripping spit and blood. They laugh, like hyenas, heads rolling back and forth, unhinged.

Yasiel slaps a hand over his mouth to stop a whimper.

“We’re gonna cut this way, alright?” Benji��s voice is close. Real. Real person, really alive. “Slowly. Goin’ for the diner behind us.”

Mouse’s diner. For a moment, he thinks of the picture she’d sent him of the burger she’d ordered. Stacked with the works, as she liked it, thick cut fries and her mayonnaise and ketchup mixture on a side plate. Yasiel wants to cry. He wants to burst into tears and run away screaming, he wants to pretend this isn’t happening. The dogs scream down the alley. Benji’s hand tightens on his jacket.

Yasiel looks over his shoulder. The neon light—Diner 52—miraculously flickers. The glass windows are intact. One single car sits parallel parked outside of it, door open and almost off its hinges. His tongue is dry in his mouth, awkward and fat. He nods once and Benji slowly eases himself off the sidewalk.

The dog wolves never pay them any attention. They kill each other in the alleyway, laughing and barking.

—

The diner tables are dusty, as is the bar where residents must have sat and drank milkshakes and asked a waitress named Marge for the “slamming special” as it’s called on the crumbling menu board. The floor is dirt caked, but the inside of the diner feels oddly safe. Secluded, almost. Respite from whatever is happening outside, with the monsters. Yasiel sits himself down on a stool, peeling his jacket sleeve back to look at his…bite wound.

“Lemme see.”

Benji slings his bag up onto the counter and begins to rifle through it. He’s handsome, despite the anger and the hostility. He has a curved nose and thick facial hair, the kind that looks soft to the touch. When he pushes his black curls from his face, the effect is downright astounding. Lucky bastard, Yasiel thinks of Xavier, then immediately feels guilty for it. Not really time or place, but he’d never been very good at that.

Slut. Mouse’s voice, affectionate and teasing. Her needling fingers tickling his sides, laughing while they smoke on his balcony. Get it out the gutter, Yassy. She’d hated his last girlfriend and loved his last boyfriend and declared herself free from accusations of misogyny anyway. He just simply had bad taste fifty percent of the time, and fifty percent of the time he’d be dating a woman. Yasiel closes a hand over his mouth again, when his throat thickens with the feeling of tears.

He holds his arm outstretched.

Benji’s poured something onto gauze, a little white kit open in front of him.

“Are you a nurse?” He grunts in reply as he begins cleaning the small gash on Yasiel’s arm. The rubbing alcohol burns so bad he flinches, earning a severely annoyed look. “Kind of a pussy, if you haven’t noticed.” It softens Benji’s expression. He snorts out what must be a laugh and reaches for his supplies.

“S’how I met ‘im.” The wound gets dressed tightly. Benji’s efficient, but his movements slow. His eyes stray to the side. “Poor fucking boy got a concussion playing hockey. Came in to the ER and was on my chart. When I was pokin’ him with the IV, he asked to marry me. Was fucking stunned out my mind. Couldn’t really do anything but laugh. Then he got all teary eyed with it. Told me if I gave him my number, we’d end up married someday.”

“Wow.” Yasiel lets his hands fall between his knees. He realizes he’s smiling, but doesn’t feel like trying to stop himself. Benji’s eyes narrow, a nasty smelling sanitizer rubbed between his hands as a poor mans bath.

“Don’t really tell that story,” he admits quietly.

“Guess I have the sort of face that invites honesty.”

Benji’s nose wrinkles, face screwing up as if he can’t tell whether or not Yasiel is joking. He is, for what it’s worth, but Benji still snorts again and says, “You really don’t, mate.”

They lapse into silence. Not long enough either of them can adjust to the insanity of their situation. Yasiel suddenly pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He has no service and he didn’t expect to either—this wouldn’t be a nightmare if he could just call 911 and be done with it all. Still, seeing the NO SERVICE at the top of the screen, where his battery symbol waits at 75% makes his heart plunge.

“This is my sister,” Yasiel says, handing over the phone. On screen, Mouse smiles in her knife like way. They have the same eyes, same heterochromia. One brown, one a green hazel that looks brighter under direct sunlight. She sits on the beach, her knees tucked to her chest, one of Yasiel’s baseball caps backwards on her head. Waves of her wild, brown hair are sea salt tangled. He can’t think of a picture that describes her better. And he can’t look at it as Benji does.

“You’re twins.”

“Oh, yeah,” Yasiel replies, locking the phone and tucking it back into his pocket beside his inhaler. “Down to the eyes and everything. When we were little, people would get us confused all the time. We’re uh, nothing alike in personality.”

“Feel like I know her,” Benji murmurs, his eyes on the floor. “The picture of her. Just felt familiar, that.” Finally, his hand pats his back pocket. First, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lazily lighting on. Yasiel wants to point out that they’re inside, but realizes how stupid that is. Then, Benji finds his wallet and flips it open.

There’s something sweet about him having a polaroid tucked in with a few bills and a receipt. They’re perfect strangers, yet Yasiel feels like that makes sense. Benji holds it for a second, as though unwilling for it to leave his possession even for a moment. Then finally, he holds it out, taking a long drag on his cigarette and looking away.

Yasiel’s heart betrays him and he thinks of the gravesite. The tombstone. He looks down at the picture and wonders if this man is actually dead and Benji is insane—but that would make two of them probably. They both saw those dogs. Yasiel grits his teeth, breathes evenly through his nose, and forces himself to look at the picture and think—alive. Missing. Just like Mouse. Needs to be found. Loved. So loved.

And he is, if the picture indicates anything. Benji has a subdued sort of smile, his eyes purely on Xavier. The photo is of both of them, sitting in a bar, with low lighting and pints of half drank beer on their table. A pale, tattooed hand peeks into the photo, holds fingers behind Benji’s head, in a mockery of bunny ears. Xavier takes up most of the frame, this giant, lanky red head, who is smiling ear to ear. He has an arm slung around Benji’s shoulders, pulling them together close. He is so traditionally handsome that it seems fake, for someone to be that pretty.

Yasiel thinks of the wolf thing, half human. Pale, with its shaggy oxblood fur. He forces the image away, commits Xavier to memory instead.

“I think I know what you mean,” he says, handing the photo back. Benji takes another hard drag on his cigarette, flicking ash onto the already dirty tile floor. The smell of nicotine is oddly comforting. “I mean, he sort of has one of those smiles, but—feels like I know him. Like we’ve met before.”

He’s about to ask what made Xavier come here. Why would anyone come here? Why had Mouse? But it used to be a town before, used to be a real place, where people got hamburgers with all the toppings, and took tugboat rides on the lake. It used to be. But right as he’s about to ask, an old fashion radio crackles to life down the counter.

“The fuck?” Benji startles off the stool, standing in front of it. His cigarette drops to the ground, cherry burning. Something old fashioned, classical plays from the staticky speakers. Crooning and lullaby like, a piano melody that makes Yasiel’s temples throb. He presses the heels of his palms to the sides of his head, groaning for a moment.

Then a voice, clear and direct.

“Listeners, are you out there?”

It’s a soft voice. Spoken with deliberate care and enunciation. As melodic as the music, as distinct and otherworldly.

“What is this?” Yasiel mumbles, stepping closer. He drags the radio closer. Dust puffs into the air around it, leaves an almost clean streak across the counter. The dial lights up, flickering with the radio waves. Something old and show tune like plays beneath the voice. Benji crowds in closer, a nervous look over his shoulder to the windows still blanketed in grime and fog.

“This is your host, Lethe, and tonight I’ll be your guide. Are you out there? Are you listening? No ad breaks tonight, darling. I’m here for you, if you’re here to listen.”

Yasiel fumbles for the map in his pocket, yanking it free and spreading it across the counter in front of him. He trails an ink stained finger until he finds SILENT HILL RADIO TOWER. It’s not close.

“I know it’s hairy out there right now, listeners. Trust me, I know.”

The voice is dry, doesn’t chuckle, but the laughter is nearly implied. Benji and Yasiel share a look toward each other, a mixture of shock, revulsion, and an eerie sense of hope. Someone else in the town. Someone else who knows about the monsters.

“Things have gotten spooky in our lovely Silent Hill. But I want to help you—you want my help, don’t you?”

“Who is this fucking loon?” Benji asks, voice quivering. Yasiel’s fingers scramble over the radio, turning it up a fraction. His heart slams against his rib cage, working up his throat. What a beautiful voice, he thinks, his head fuzzy and aching. “What you doin’?”

“Note down these roads for me, listeners. They’re the bad ones you don’t want to get lost down. Avoid them and follow the posters. The Radio Tower is open, and the call line is on. You have me all night. Do you hear that? All night.”

The radio crackles. Yasiel leans in. He swears if he gets close enough, he hears something else. He hears the radio jockey—he hears Lethe—saying his name. Do you hear that? All night, Yasiel. A series of streets follow in staccato rhythm. He yanks a pen from his back pocket, a trusty friend he’s never without, and hastily slashes out roads as Lethe lists them out.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Yasiel whispers, staring at the map.

“See you soon.” Yasiel.

The radio crackles to dead silence.

“I know what to do,” Yasiel says, turning to Benji, holding up the map. His shaking finger stabs at the Silent Hill radio tower.

“Alright, mate, no offense—you got off to a lunatic on a radio with a smooth voice, and I’m not here to judge, even if m’judgin’ a bit, yeah—”

“No! Shut up!” Yasiel shakes out the map again, bumping their shoulders together, forcing Benji to look. He grunts in disapproval, moves just a bit so their arms are no longer touching. “If this person—this, Lethe—is playing on the radio, we can get them to broadcast something. Do you get me?”

A flicker of understanding plays across Benji’s face. He rears back, staring at Yasiel with wide eyes. A stray curl falls across his forehead. There’s blood on the underside of his jaw, from the thing he’d killed earlier.

“If—” Yasiel starts and then stops and stares at this stranger. Someone he hardly knows, has only just met, has been saved by once. He licks his lips and nods toward the radio.

“If you ask Xavier to come, will he?”

“Yes,” Benji answers with no hesitation. His jaw flexes, tightening, nostrils flaring. He looks to the ground, where the cherry of his cigarette slowly dies, smoke curling in the air.

“Yes. Always.”

—

Alright, listener. Don’t lose me. Everything’s too easy to lose in Silent Hill if you’re not careful—and you are careful, aren’t you? With your possessions and your people.

Are you shocked I know so much? Don’t be. You’ll find out more about me too. We’ll never be on an even playing ground, you and I, but we can get close. If you’d like.

I’m going to help you out of here, but you have to be careful. Have to listen, understand? Don’t trust anyone else. Not even yourself. You know that already, don’t you?

Never have been good with trust. If I say I’m honored to have yours, would it be inaccurate to imagine you blushing? Too far, listener? I understand, but you’ll forgive me. I’m going to be with you through it all.

Why?

You shouldn’t ask those kinds of things.

You’re going to remember soon enough and then you might turn this station off. Things are easy to lose in Silent Hill, after all.

I don’t want to lose you just yet.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

shark/revenge

wc: 1397 au: college au ch: benny, benji, maran, xavier

All Benny can do is stare as the duo walks into his apartment (he thinks of them like that sometimes, the duo, a two for one deal, not always attached at the hip but sort of cosmically linked, unfortunately not in a horny way). He stands in the kitchen, bowl of cereal in hand—knock off Fruit Loops, definitely bought by Xavier—tired in a way that can’t be explained in words. His eyes blink, not in rhythm. A drop of milk slides into his dirty blond facial hair and then tattooed fingers slowly scrub it away.

“Wh-Who the fuck gave you a key?” Benny asks, in a raspy, morning voice.

Benji turns to look at him, as if suddenly noticing the apartment he’s lazily strolled into is actually occupied. By the original tenant no less, Benny would like to add.

“Morning,” is all Benji says with a curl of his lip in a smug little sneer. Bastard.

“Oh, morning!” Maran steps out from behind Benji. He waves. His eyes crinkle at the corners with the force of his toothy smile. No one should be that awake or devastatingly beautiful so early in the day. Bastard, but in such a worse way. Makes Benny’s fingers tingle.

Benji’s sneer grows, exposing teeth.

“Here for Xavier?” Benny asks, in a voice none too friendly. It’s mocking and more than a little mean. With hooded, pale eyes, he stares at Benji, whose own sleepy, dark eyes narrow back.

“We’re going to the lake!” Maran, who bounces on his feet when he walks, gets closer. It’s just the beginning of summer, which excuses the shorts he has on, even if they reveal far too much brown skin and freckles. On his knees, even, Jesus Christ, he has freckles on his knees. “Xavier has an extra pole—” “Heh.” “Oh, fuck off, Benj. Anyway, he wants to go fishing.” As he talks, Maran walks fingers across the kitchen table, eyelashes fluttering as he does quick little glances at Benny.

Instead of replying, Benny takes a large bite of cereal and although it’s very tempting to continue watching Maran (the freckles, the smile, the way he keeps getting closer) Benny glances at Benji. Who continues having that smug, I know something you don’t know, smile.

“Well,” Benny says, setting his cereal down so quickly that milk sloshes over the side onto the kitchen counter. “I’ll go g-get him for you. Think he’s sh-showering, but I bet he’d wanna know you’re here.”

The smile drops off Benji’s face comically quick.

“Nah, not—”

“No, it’s f-fine, I’ll get him for you.”

“Ben—”

He crosses the apartment, smiling ear to ear like someone’s cut his mouth open. Benny’s sense of revenge is blood in the water for a shark. He hasn’t forgotten the way Maran sneakily knocked a pile of clothes from his desk onto DVD boxset Willow had gifted him a month earlier. Not that Benny was reading into things—there wasn’t a real reason to read into things, Maran had a giant sign above his head that was blinking, rapidly and on all the time. Benny was just trying to be good about Benji’s straight friend having his first bi-curious crush.

He has no interest in being a good person when he raises his fist to the bathroom door. Benji’s eyes look panicked, even as his expression stays flat. The shower sounds are just barely there, making Benny feel cruelly satisfied. Something about being Catholic made Xavier take stupidly long showers.

“Benny.”

The warning hiss, like a snake trodden underbrush or just a very, very nervous person with a crush that is so large scientists on a space station could study it, does nothing to stop Benny from pounding a closed fist on the bathroom door.

“Xavier!”

He waits a second. Then raps his fist on the door, harder this time.

“Xavier!”

“What?”

The door bursts open and out tumbles six-foot-four of mostly naked Xavier. A towel is wrapped around his waist, but otherwise, it’s pale, wet skin. His cheeks are flushed either from the shower, or the annoyance. Probably needs a hair cut (that he’ll beg off from Matilda) because the dark wet strands fall into his face and he’s forced to shove them back with a large hand. Because he’s mostly not clothed, his few tattoos are visible. Notably, the large stomach one that draws the eye.

Even Benny had paused at that serif font SWEET BOY on Xavier’s pale torso a few years ago when they’d had their one-night stand. He’s not a hairy individual, probably struggles to get the sometimes five o’clock shadow he has after a string of doubles at the mechanics, but he does have the smallest red happy trail that parts clusters of freckles on his hips.

Benny, a creature of pure evil, looks at Benji with a wide smile. It is decidedly not reciprocated.

“Benji and Maran are here.”

“Oh.” The word drops out Xavier’s mouth, his jaw unhinged. His fist tightens on the towel slung around his hips. He raises his other hand in a wave. “Hi.”

“Is that Halo?”

Everyone’s attention turns to the towel. It has a symbol on it, that does not look like an angel’s halo, but what does Benny know? Xavier lights up in excitement, brushing back his wet hair again. His eyes glitter.

“Dude, yes, I’ve had this towel since I was like fifteen.”

“Wicked,” Maran replies, with a laugh. Benny’s gleeful expression disappears, listening to that laugh followed by a word he’s definitely picked up from the wet Boston native beside him.

“G-Go get dressed, y-you fucking lanky beast,” Benny finally snaps, waving a hand and retreating back into the kitchen.

“Hi, Benji. Morning.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back, do you want a hoodie, it’s going to be a little colder on the lake?”

“S’alright—well, mean, if you have one, yeah, alright.”

“Cool, right, one second.”

Benny leans against the kitchen counter, returning to his cereal, but when he turns, he squeaks at the suddenness of Maran right there. He clears his throat, to cover for the terrible unexpected noise. Maran blinks, full lashed, pretty eyes but doesn’t take a step back. Instead, he stands there, hands linked behind his back, smiling. He’s in one of those swishy, awful track jackets, that Benny figures he’s borrowed off Lark after not bringing nearly enough clothes for his US visit.

“So, you gonna come?”

Benny sputters again, dropping the cereal bowl back onto the counter. More milk joins the small puddle from before. Over Maran’s shoulder, Benji’s deer in red headlights expression has shifted to one of smug menace once more.

“What?” Benny swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, still slouched against the counter. His pale eyes flicker all over Maran and he wishes he had his sunglasses so it wasn’t as obvious he was staring.

“To the lake? Think Xavier only has two poles—” “Pff.” “But thought maybe you’d wanna come with us.”

“Xavier’s truck doesn’t have r-room.”

“Oh.” Maran rocks on his heels, brows upturned. Benny’s hands begin sweating so uncontrollably that he has to briefly wipe them across his shirt. Benji is smiling wider, fully recovered from half-naked Xavier (until perhaps later when he’s alone, Benny thinks satisfied and mean, but takes little solace in that for the moment). “Well, could take your car too, yeah? I could ride with you!”

“Yeah,” Benji sing songs. “Could ride with you, Ben.”

“Shut up—you and Xavier have a rotten playlist—can’t go from Deftones to Britney Spears, it’s awful, Benji—and Ben lets me control the radio, ‘cause he’s nicer than you, isn’t he?”

Maran’s half turned to look back at his friend now, huffy about it, with a brattish twist to his features. Oh God, Benny is in hell, he’s in hell and he probably deserves it. He stares at Benji, who whistles and rolls his eyes and makes a terrible, vulgar motion with his fist. They two British accents dissolve into a petty little argument as Benny scoops his car keys from the little alien figure on the kitchen counter.

Xavier bursts from his room, fully dressed now, hair still just a bit wet.

He holds up a sweatshirt, triumphantly. It’s tie dye. Benji stares at it and then Benny bursts into high pitched giggles, imagining it on the little fucking punk.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

18. hospital room

wc: 2823 au: ghost hunter au ch: xavier, lark, benji, tino

“Oh, wow. Weren’t kiddin’ were you? He is an asshole.”

Xavier doesn’t immediately answer. He stomps further away from the other exorcists, down a long hallway inside the abandoned hospital. It creaks around him, wind through broken windows whispering. Glass crunches underneath his sneakers (makes him nervous, one of them has a hole in the bottom he’s been ignoring). The energy is depressing and heavy, like a blanket that someone’s evil fucked up Grandma knit for them. It makes all the hair on his arms stand up, the back of his neck tingle. He should be scared—he was scared—but now one of Xavier’s primary emotions takes over instead.

He’s angry. Anger is easy for Xavier. Second nature even.

It seethes between his clenched teeth as he ignores the very prevalent and very painful second emotion that has closed his throat. Unable to answer right away, he stops in a door frame, shoulders heaving. His stomach hurts. His hands shake a bit. He attempts a slow breath in and then out. It’s useless.

Ironic, that.

“Xavier? Love, you alright? C’mon, don’t let that prick get to you.”

The phone tilts in his hand, sending a circle of light skittering across run down, soiled walls. He lifts it, looks down at his screen. Nomi sits at her desk, bulky headphones slung around her neck. The light silhouetting her is all pretty blues and dusky purples, the ambiance of her room clashing with his miserable, grey surroundings. She’s so pale that she takes on those colors making her look like a mermaid. But her pale brown eyes blink, large and pitiful.

Great, now she feels bad for him. It doesn’t do much for the anger or…or the sadness that he can’t entirely ignore. The hurt.

“It’s fine,” Xavier says, although it really isn’t. He swallows down the hard feeling in his throat. He has no other choice than to be fine.

“Want me to put malware on his phone for you? Or—Oh! I could put his number up on some sketch forums. Nothing too bad, promise but, like, annoying. For sure annoying, but nothing illegal, swear.”

It makes him smile, cheeks rounding as Nomi gets closer to her phone, speaking emphatically. He knows the inside of her room, the way she keeps her cell phone propped up on a little stand when she’s at her computer. For a moment, he’s in her bed instead, among the comforting plethora of blankets and stuffed animals that she has. No one hates him there. He’d feel welcomed.

Xavier scrubs a hand over his face, groaning between his teeth, exhaling heavy.

“No.”

“That’s it, babe! Be the bigger person! Well, quite literally, yeah? He, what, comes up to your chin? You’re always the bigger person. Look down on that little prick, Xavier.”

His steps slow. He finds himself in the wide-open lobby they’d started in. It’s derelict, ceiling caved, reception sadly abandoned. Debris litters the floor; papers and fabrics and rodent droppings. The waiting chairs, usually bolted down for safety purposes, are loose and scattered on their sides or broken entirely in half. A hole opens up in the floor, revealing layers of concrete that might be breakable down into a basement. Hospital basement. He shivers. No interest there. The grime is just as bad in the lobby as it is everywhere else, a combination of rain damage and plain old dust.

Xavier contemplates leaving and finding Tino out in the courtyard, where all their supplies are set up and watched over with his hawk like eyes. But it feels like defeat. Like crawling back to an authority figure with his tail tucked between his legs. Makes him feel…pathetic.

“Think your friend’s come ‘round to apologize. Or was it the other one, the blond? Someone behind you, Xavier.”

“Huh?”

The phone swings up, his pale and freckled face glowing under its sickly pale light. In the two-way video call, he can see the littlest square of himself and the figure directly behind his shoulder. It’s too dark and grainy to fully realize features. Impossible to discern between Benji and Lark—and Xavier can’t stomach the idea of pretending that Benji would ever come after him. The figure stands in the hallway, right in front of the double doored entrance to the lobby, the doors crashed inward and strewn on the floor in pieces.

“Lark—c’mon, man, I just wanna be left alone—”

Sneakers squeak on the shattered, tiled floor beneath him as he turns. Xavier’s voice dies before the sentence can end.

No one is there.

The temperature plummets to freezing so fast that it almost burns his exposed skin. Xavier gasps, his breathing puffing misty in front of his face. Hands trembling, he nearly drops the phone—Nomi’s voice skips, crackles, reduces to nothing but frightened static.

“I want to…go home…” A voice kisses his ear, like a clump of snow pressed directly against his skin. Xavier would scream, but he suddenly isn’t entirely in control of himself. Limbs go jerky with terror and he stumbles backward.

“Xa-vi-Wh-at—Are yo—kay?—Vier—Hel—o?”

His phone spits Nomi’s audio, every half second of her voice desperate. Scared.

“Xavier!”

“Lark,” Xavier breathes, swinging his entire body in direction of the voice. Oh, no, he thinks. Oh fuck, don’t come in here. But it’s too little too late, Lark stepping over the threshold into the lobby, his youthful face weary. Resigned to apologize for something he didn’t even say. Xavier feels a strange burst of energy remembering Benji’s nasty sentiments, like the anger rekindles him. Lark’s wary, worried face rekindles him. Xavier drags in another frosty breath.

Then he’s sprinting.

In the opposite direction of Lark.

He runs for the chairs, vaulting over them. Sliding on the gritty tiled floor. Kicking the chairs—making noise. Disrupting. Insulting the spirit’s home. Everything he’d learned to piss them off; notes he’d taken in a little composition book, pencil scratching on the side while Tino lectured. Xavier waves his arms in the air, whistling and yelling. Lark looks startled. Then the expression dissolves into fear, and then unmistakable horror as the spirits apparition flickers into something substantial.

A barely there polaroid, just the ghostly, shuddering image of someone; hospital gown dripping something black and oozing, dirty feet inches above the ground. Arms hung limp at their sides, head lolled like it’s broken. A doll hanging in the air by a cruel child’s pinched fingers at their throat. The temperature plunges once more, Xavier’s eyelashes crusting over with the sudden drop.

“What are you doing?” Lark yells frantically, hands scrambling over himself for supplies. Holy water, crucifix, salt, anything. Coming up empty.

“I—Uh, I think—I think I’m distracting it!” Xavier calls back stupidly. He places fingers into his mouth and whistles, the sound piercing through the derelict lobby and echoing off its crumbling walls. His father had taught him how to whistle like that when he was just a boy. The spirits replying scream shatters what remains of glass in the lobby windows, making Lark and Xavier double over with it, hands clasped over their ears.

And then it descends on him.

—

Lark could never really stay mad at Benji.

He remembers trying, actually. He remembers nasty fights as teenagers where he should have stayed mad for weeks. He remembers them falling to the ground wrestling furiously until Tino was hauling them apart. Snapping at his charges, bewildered where all the nastiness could come from (they were so cute when they were younger, after all, he laments very often).

Lark knows it—the anger, the meanness—is just underneath a notch in Benji’s chest. It’s in Lark’s hands. Cold with it.

But the emotion could never stretch long enough to fester. No wound ever appeared. It never lasted. Never more than a day—sometimes not even an hour. Lark would find himself standing in Benji’s doorway, glaring, arms crossed. His feet carrying them without thought. Muscle memory would toe over the threshold and then they’d share one or two more heated, nasty barbs until it was truly well and over. Until Benji’s accent would make Lark laugh or Lark would wiggle his way close enough that the cold bubble of Benji’s carefully constructed barrier would give. Easy.

Lark could always get past that defense. When they were friends as much as they were sometimes lovers as much as they are recovering that friendship now.

Maybe he was the problem then. Maybe Lark was making things worse because he couldn’t stay mad, and Xavier’s anger was justified. He just thought Benji was easy to understand; he thought Xavier was even easier. He didn’t know why they couldn’t figure it out.

Of course, it seems inconsequential now as he watches Xavier run down a hallway, spirit in tow. More important things to worry about.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Lark squeaks with every pump of his arms. He’s faster than Xavier, no matter how leggy the red head is. If anyone should be martyring themselves to distract a spirit, to get to their Priest, it probably should have been him. But Benji and Xavier, despite fighting like cats and dogs (oil and water, all the metaphors someone could imagine) were so fucking similar. He was going to slam their temples together and make them realize that, if—when—Xavier lived through this.

Lark crashes against a wall around a bend in a hallway, his momentum carrying him straight into a nearly dislocated shoulder. Xavier’s feet slap on the tiled floor. His voice is carrying a high-pitched scream as the walls shred around him—claws. The spirit has claws. And it tears those ghastly things across the plaster, dust pluming into the air. It howls, unearthly and mournful as it chases Xavier, the bright beacon of his overwhelming lifeforce.

“Benji, come outside,” Lark screams into the walkie talkie he’s finally been able to free from his pant pocket.

“Wot?”

“Don’t fucking wot me, come outside—Xavier’s tethered something!”

“Wot?!”

Lark bursts into cold night air behind the spirit. He can feel the weather trailing after them, the condensation of cold they leave behind. The frost that glosses over the glass panes lining up the outside of the hospital. The courtyard’s withering plants burst into icicles.

Then Xavier slips.

Come to think of it, he could never stay mad at Xavier either. Maybe it was a condition of loving someone. Every annoying thing they ever did felt pale in comparison to everything else they also did. Their laughter, their mannerisms so familiar and warm. Lark’s heart bursts inside his ribcage, pouring a sheet of cold down into his stomach as he watches Xavier scramble to his hands and knees.

Then the hood of his sweatshirt lifts. The flickering image of the spirit appears in the air. Its head is no longer creaking unhinged on its chest. It’s lifted instead, it’s entire face nothing but a giant gaping maw of teeth. No—not teeth, but—instruments of medicine—scalpels, rusted and bloodied. A bolt of cold fear pierces Lark’s belly. His knees shiver.

Its inhuman strength gets Xavier (not that heavy to begin with) off the ground.

Arms, or the visage of arms, burst out of Xavier’s chest. He screams at the sight of them, jerky in the phantom’s grasp, legs flailing. They’re long, spindly, crimson, and yet translucent and dripping with ichor. A laugh follows the arms, something so horrifying that the ghost they grab hold of shudders. It’s edges blur. It screams with its head thrown back, the maw opening wider and wider as the crimson hands take hold.

And then, loud, and clear and viciously holy, their Priest’s voice.

“I cast you out.”

Lark watches Tino emerge from under the courtyard pavilion. The clouds don’t part dramatically, moonlight doesn’t spill down upon him, illuminating him like God’s virtuous warrior. And it doesn’t need to. In all black, Tino is similar to the courtyard shadows, and yet his raised crucifix is all he seems to need. The hands outstretched from Xavier’s chest withdraw, slowly, fingernails clicking together in some sort of language that maybe Tino understands.

Of all things, the priest smirks.

And then raises the crucifix once more.

He repeats himself, in Latin.

The weakened spirit dissolves right then and there.

—

“He’s okay, right?” Lark crashes to his knees beside Xavier. He’s gone paler than he has any right to be, when he’s a shade darker than the moon half the time. The boy on the ground groans, arms wrapped around himself protectively, lanky body curling up. He turns onto his side, breathing heavily and deeply. A lock of red hair falls across his brow, sweaty and stringy. Lark is almost afraid to touch him.

“Just needs sleep, m’guessing.” Tino kneels as well, brushing a gloved hand across Xavier’s pale brow. Poor boy turns his head with the movement, a subconscious desire for the attention. Lark’s heart pulses with affection and worry.

“Fucking shit, I miss all the fun?”

Benji emerges, his curls sweat slicked and stuck to his face, belying the nonchalance he fakes. He breathes evenly, but deeply, shoulders rising and falling in an attempt to cover up for the run he’d likely been making from across the hospital. His dark eyes flicker to Xavier on the ground. They linger for a half a beat too long to convince anyone of anything and then skate away to Tino. His brows pinch in.

“Hello? Hello! Someone please tell me I did not just listen to my friend die over facetime? Hello!”

All three of them startle away from Xavier.

“What in the world--?” Tino, who’d only just exorcised a spirit and forced another back into its mortal cage, looks positively puzzled by the sound. Lark reaches to Xavier’s front pocket, noticing a little square of light peeking through the dark green fabric. He withdraws the cell phone, standing up and staring down at the screen. A woman looks back at him, her face close to the camera, pale eyes so wide they’re whiter than they are iris.

“Who are—?”

“Is he alive or not, you fuckin’ dunce?” Her voice is so shrill it makes the speaker crackle.

“Yes!” Lark glances between Benji and Tino. “Yes, he’s—he’s okay, he’s just asleep, he just—”

“Well, good. Have no reason to talk to you lot.” The woman sniffs indignantly, her eyes flickering as if taking the other two faces peering down over the phone in Lark’s hand. “Arseholes.”

The call disconnects.

There is silence in the hospital courtyard, abandoned and a final resting place for an unruly spirit that had nearly tried to kill at least one of them. Silence except for the wind whipping their hair and their clothes and also the occasional small snore from Xavier on the ground. Lark looks between Tino and Benji with giant, confused eyes.

“I don’t make a habit of pissing off pretty ladies,” Tino says dryly. He cuts a look between his two wards. “So, I hope you two ain’t do nothing to her.”

“Don’t even know who she is!”

“Maybe she’s Xavier’s secret girlfriend,” Lark jokes with an uneasy laugh. Benji beside him stiffens considerably, hands at his sides clenching into fists and drawing Tino’s watchful Fatherly eye even harder. He says nothing, but Benji swirls around, stomping away. “Where are you going?”

“Clean up,” he bites out, the words gnashed between his furious teeth. Benji pauses and tosses a hand toward Xavier. “Since someone isn’t gonna be helpin’ out with it, yeah?”

“Dude, harsh.”

Lark watches Benji retreat toward the folding tent that houses their supplies in case of rain. The night hadn’t called for it, but Tino didn’t get where he was (wherever he was, anyway) without being an overly cautious and perhaps slightly anal man with his work. Something uncomfortable settles into Lark’s stomach, as though he’s missed something pivotal. When he looks back, Tino’s already gathered Xavier up into his arms.

“Is he really okay?” Lark finally asks, cradling a hand underneath Xavier’s skull as it rests on Tino’s shoulder. Arms. Red, shiny, horrifying fucking arms, pushing right out his chest, and grabbing hold of a spirit. What is fucking going on, Tino? Nothing he articulates aloud, but his black eyes raise to meet the Priest, who only smiles at him.

“Y’let me worry about it, Daisuke.”

It’s easy then, to let everything fade off his shoulders. He looks down at the ground, scuffing a sneaker. And though it takes some shifting and a great deal of strength, Tino manages to move the young man in his arms to free up a hand to gently pat Lark’s cheek. He watches Tino depart for the van.

Then, feeling like he can’t be mad at Benji, he settles instead for pettiness. Shirks helping close up shop and sits on the stone bench in the courtyard and rests for a moment instead.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

7. a diner visit 18. hospital room

[hauntedjpegcollection]

extra bandages

wc: 3305 au: valorant au ch: xavier, benji

The call connects and for a minute there’s noise—a trio of girls talking, laughing, static crackling as the cell phone is moved around, foot steps as she walks away somewhere into her terribly small apartment, the noise is wistful and beautiful and makes Xavier’s heart redouble with hurt and almost bitter resentment—and then Emily’s breathless, excited voice.

“Hi! Xavier, hey. Almost missed your call, sorry.”

It’s Saturday and she’s in college and nothing else exists for her but class and lectures and books, so it makes sense. He wishes she had missed the call, he thinks it would be easier. Xavier can imagine her with her friends, dressed down in clothes passed from their eldest sister, hair freshly dyed black maybe and curling the way all of their hair does. Young with the entire world in front of her, a little drunk off whiskey poured in tea cups while she and her room mates sit around a laptop and play music. Gossip, discuss class, ruminate over love. Nothing pressing, no concerns.

Xavier runs his hand down his face, sitting at the edge of his bed. His hair smells like gunsmoke, even after a shower. He thinks he says hello.

“Thanks, by the way,” she ends a sentence, after a healthy chatter about her classes. He doesn’t understand a single thing about them, their confusing curriculum or the times of day her lectures start and end. He’d been bad in school as a teenager and college had never been an option for him. He looks at his fingers as she talks, notices blood welling up under a nail he’d bitten savagely. It looks strangely black and rotten.

“For?”

“Oh, please,” Emily snorts. Her voice sounds different over the phone. “Mom’s as bad at lying as you are. I know you paid for my books.” Xavier’s shaky thumb moves over the big red MUTE button, so she doesn’t have to hear his raspy inhale. His hand covers his forehead, elbows to his knees. The laminate flooring beneath him is blurry, but he refuses to blink. “Xavier? You still there?”

“Yes,” he manages, in a voice he thinks is rather convincing. He mutes again quickly to clear his throat and swipe a hand back through his hair. The little black dot of blood disappears there. Xavier smiles, sitting there in his bedroom, alone. He can feel it stretch cartoonish and fake. He needs it there to put some sort of inflection into his voice, otherwise she’ll know. And Emily can never know. None of them can. “Why the fuck are they so expensive, huh?”

His little sister laughs, the sound making his heart wrench.

“Are you visiting any time soon?”

Xavier closes his eyes.

—

The cadence of warfare is so ingrained in Xavier that he can tell when it’s nearing it’s brutal, ugly end without even needing a signal. The gunshots are far less, the air becomes oppressive no matter the weather, the dust finally settles. It’s something in his bones. Something innate and instinctual; a hound understanding that the hunt is over, standing at the cusp of a hill and wondering why his master didn’t let him get the rabbit.

He leans against a crumbling plaster wall inside what was once an office building, smearing blood from his shoulder. It is stark red against the contrast, garish and hilariously fake looking. A knife had gotten him, nothing deeper than superficial, but those were always the sort of wounds that bled the worst. He’d not been paying attention, not been on his best behavior. Xavier swipes a gloved hand through sweaty hair, breathing hard.

It was rare to find respite before extract. This hardly counted, but what else was there? He was blessedly alone, and the flickering lights above him danced near hypnotically in his war weary eyes. Xavier huffs a laugh through his nose. He isn’t sure what’s funny, if anything is at all. For a moment, he isn’t even there, but slightly above himself. Staring down at a sweaty, dirty soldier.

Xavier’s comm crackles to life on his shoulder. He reaches for it, ready to respond to the evac signal.

Instead, “We got one.”

The blood on his shoulder has made his tactical gear tacky and stiff. Xavier folds a hand over the shallow wound, his vision darkening at the edges. A dreadful feeling wells inside him. A premonition that he can’t name. The world tilts on it’s axis and everything slides left, everything goes tinny in his ears and his mouth dries, tongue awkward and fat in his mouth. Xavier’s chest constricts, his veins thin, sweat drips off his chin.

“Enemy combatant is medical.”

His boots skid on the ground, kicking up crumbling plaster and spent bullet shells as he runs.

—

“Corporal.”

The kid standing watch is a teenager, maybe twenty if you fucking squint. For a disorientating moment, Xavier is reminded of his sister—not that these two girls look alike. But there’s brief memory of Emily’s birthday; he’d bought her a stack of journals from a local store and she’d acted like it was the best gift she’d ever received, even next to the fancy watch her then boyfriend had bought her. The girl standing in front of him is trembling slightly, with dilated pupils and sweat slicked blond hair. A muscle in her jaw jumps as Xavier steps forward.

“We’re waiting on Sergeant,” she mumbles. There’s a look of shame on her face as Xavier presses past her—clear orders must have been to stop anyone from disrupting—then a weary relief as she’s patted softly on the shoulder. What was her name? Xavier doesn’t know Stiles’s crew as well as he should.

All other thoughts of teenage mercenaries and his sisters and his bloody shoulder disappear once Xavier is in the room. It had been an office at one point, but the desk is turned over. Computer parts strewn about. There’s a splatter of blood on the floor, dark but fresh. A wire hangs from the ceiling, dangling lonely and surreal.

Sweat pools under Xavier’s arms, down his back. He feels sick and cold, his stomach trembling, his hands numb as he steps further into the room. Wilson’s broad back hides his prey, meaty hands on his hips. He’s outlined like a monster from a storybook; harsh and dark and terrifying, a blocky silhouette in black fatigues, rifle slung over his shoulder. Something that exists purely to hurt.

Wilson scares Xavier.

But he is far more scared of stepping up beside him and finding who the blood belongs to.

When Xavier blinks, sweat drips into his eyes. He has to remove a glove and rub the heel of his palm against an eye. Please, God, he thinks for the first time in a long time. Please, please. Please. Pleasepleasepleaseplease.

“Fuck you come from?” Wilson turns to stare at him, a look of surprise mingling with disgust.

And it isn’t Benji.

The man on his knees is wheezing, a broken nose bubbling blood down his chin and onto the ground. He isn’t Benji. He’s—like the girl in the doorway—young. A mop of brown hair, messy and grimy, skin tanned by a clear love for the sun. His eyes are a dark, pretty blue as he glances up to Xavier; fear is making them skittish, bouncing everywhere. He’s crying. Paths of tears clean blood on his face. His lower lip trembles. He isn’t Benji.

“This is a medic.” Xavier’s voice is toneless as he gestures toward the boy. There’s a small red cross on the chest of his otherwise gray uniform.

“I can see that,” Wilson drawls lazily.

“I want to go home.” His voice wavers, wet and thick. His broken nose makes him drop the ‘t’s. I wan’na go home. Hope flickers in his eyes as he looks at Xavier. “Please—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Wilson slaps his gloved hand across the back of the kids head, sending him falling forward. His hands scramble across the ground—his pistol lays disarmed in the corner of the room. Xavier watches the young medic slowly pull himself back to his knees, a fresh wave of tears mingling with the thick drip of his bloody nose.

“Don’t do that.” Xavier’s voice is quiet. He watches a tear slip over bruised skin, catch on the corner of the boys mouth.

“I don’t know anything—” I don’know any’hing. “Please.”

The smell of blood is so strong, Xavier’s mouth feels coated with it. He’s broken his nose a fair amount of times—it’s a big target, Lark laughs, sitting on the edge of a gurney, holding up gauze pads. Benny frets with a butterfly stitch, a useless endeavor. Xavier’s face burns, but he grins, the blood dripping off his chin and into his hands. Oh, shit, it bleeds so much, man. It’s not Benji. It’s not him. Just a kid. Just some kid. Emily and her school books. Pressure wells up inside Xavier’s skull, a pounding feeling at his temple. I wan’na go home, please, I don’know any’hing, please.

Wilson hits the medic again.

I’m so bloody stupid. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Don’t be a sore winner. Please, I don’—Please, I wan’na go home—You could have been wired this whole time—please—

Xavier’s jaw clicks.

Have you got the extra bandages I gave you?

Please.

Wilson’s heavy body falls as Xavier’s fist catches him in the side of the head. He lands bodily on his elbow, howling in pain, rifle skittering across the floor. Absolutely nothing registers within Xavier as he falls to a knee and catches Wilson by the neck of his tac vest. It almost feels routine to punch him again—it doesn’t really feel like anything at all. His fist connects with a heavy cracking sound. Once, twice, a third time striking a cheekbone. Wilson’s howling turns guttural and vicious.

A sharp pain in his side makes Xavier stutter—but like a well oiled machine, he keeps punching. His knuckles split open, old scars weeping. Wilson digs his knee in harder, viciously, going for a kidney, to try and burst something internal. Kill him. He’s snarling it; kill you, I’ll fucking kill you. Xavier feels empty inside where Wilson is trying to hurt him. The injury can’t register, because there’s nothing of Xavier to injure. He doesn’t really feel at all, not even the pain that’s crawling up his body and making his arm twitch.

Screaming from behind doesn’t stop him. Wilson—highly trained, competent, sadistic—gets a single punch in to Xavier’s face. But it’s a good punch. Connects with his eye; there’s a scar underneath that one, from when he’d cracked his orbital bone. Benji had saved him from his own team mate. Benji had killed for him.

Xavier falls backward, looking at the beige ceiling above him, the wire dangling from a missing tile. The screaming continues—the medic is gone. There’s only blood left, where he’d been kneeling. Xavier blinks at the bottom of Wilson’s boot as it comes speeding toward his face.

But the girl from the door way slams into him, sending him falling sideways. Xavier isn’t sure of what happens next. It doesn’t feel relevant at all. His shoulder throbs, reminding him of the cut—he laughs, loudly, wetly, stupidly. Jesus, he laughs so hard the bruise forming on his side from Wilson’s knee groans and protests. He laughs, thinking of those extra bandages. Of course he still had them.

Of course he did.

—

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Sergeant Stiles crashes through the door. Lark—poor fucking Lark—tries to stop her with his hands raised, sputtering apologies that he can’t make. She shoves him aside as if he weighs nothing and Xavier is more stunned that she’s handling a radiant like that, then he is at being screamed at. Being screamed at feels natural. Normal, in this nightmare version of his life he can’t wake up from—Lark hitting his shoulder to the wall, wide eyed and afraid does not feel right.

But Xavier can’t do much more than sit there and stare as Sergeant Stiles snatches him by the hair and wrenches their faces close.

“What were you thinking?” She seethes. Stiles has deep set, brown eyes and a beauty mark at the side of her left eye. She’d learned early to keep her hair short—was a viciously efficient soldier and a Sergeant for a reason. Her grip in his hair feels iron clad, like he’s a puppy scruffed to heel. His throat bobs, but he can’t find an answer. The pain finally has begun registering—in his eye, in his side. Now, at the roots on his scalp.

“I don’t know, sir,” Xavier whispers.

“Injuring one of your own? Letting a prisoner escape?”

“He wasn’t a prisoner.”

“Who says?” Stiles barks. Her fist tightens so hard, he whimpers. The sound is pathetic and small; Xavier feels pathetic and small, like something to be reprimanded and abused. Lark is staring, back flat to the wall, looking at the scene with mortified uncertainty. Something comes back to Stiles then—either Lark’s palpable fear, or the small sound of hurt in the back of Xavier’s throat—because the sergeant releases him and steps back. “Who says?” She repeats it with cold authority, fists at her thighs.

“I said,” Xavier whispers, brushing a hand back through his hair. “I outrank Wilson. He was a medic. Just a medic. He wasn’t armed. Wilson was going to torture him.”

“Wilson’s a fucking freak—”

“You.” Stiles points to Lark, as he threatens to interrupt again. His big, black jacket hangs off one of his shoulders. Disheveled, messy. His face pales. His defense is plain in his expression; but it’s not defense of a corporal. Not even defense of a colleague, a fucking peer mercenary. Lark is defending Xavier in the wrong way—his emotions painful in his pretty, dark eyes. Xavier’s reality is sharpening, his focus clearing. He looks down at his bruised knuckles in shame. “Leave.”

“But—”

“Just go, Lark.”

The young radiant shoots Xavier a wounded look, chin dipping to his chest. But he listens. Slams the door on the way out and makes Stiles face even stormier.

It feels like a long time before she speaks again. Xavier can’t meet her eye, so he continues staring at the scabs forming over his knuckles. He thinks there’s a tooth indent. He wants to feel savagely justified. All he feels is a painful emptiness that won’t go away. Xavier presses a thumb between his knuckles, listening to the creak of his bones, enjoying the warmth of pain blooming on the back of his hand.

“I cannot protect you from that man.”

“I know.”

Xavier doesn’t look up.

“This isn’t the military,” Stiles continues. The fury in her voice is mixed with a terrifying desperation. She isn’t a bad person—that’s what Xavier is thinking, staring at the blood welling on his knuckles. That Stiles isn’t bad. She’s on the wrong side of a very wrong war that they started, but she isn’t bad. “I will tell Lieutenant Tillman to keep you both separated, but I cannot keep a fucking eye on Wilson. He does what we pay him to do.”

“We don’t pay him to torture people.”

“We don’t pay you to be a fucking hero!”

Silence descends once more. Xavier finally looks up at her. Stiles’s fury has drained. Replaced with a weary resignation. Disappointment. Humiliation makes something prickle behind Xavier’s eyes. He blinks rapidly, looks away. He wishes she hadn’t made him get rid of Lark.

“Did you know him? You know—you know he wasn’t whoever you know here. Right? Some ex boyfriend, or something? Doesn’t matter, wasn’t your version of him. You have to remember that shit, Wolffe.”

He wants to ask her if it matters. He was a person. He wanted to go home.

But instead, Xavier nods. He says, “Yes, sir.” And they let him leave.

—

As Benji and Xavier stare at each other, across the hall, he yields to the idea of them being together. He thinks of an even more alternate reality; where Xavier laughs and lopes forward and Benji rolls his eyes and catches him by the waist and Xavier asks, where’s the signal and Benji whistles three times just to indulge him. They smell the gunsmoke on each other and the sweet tang of sweat and Xavier leans down, hunching because of his height, holding Benji’s cheeks and they kiss.

He imagines that without the hallway, without the tactical gear, without the war. He thinks there has to be at least one version where they’re together without the rest of it. Maybe they meet at a college party or maybe they’re neighbors who accidentally run into each other in the elevator all the time. Xavier introduces himself and Benji—who is so like this Benji, but maybe softer—snorts and doesn’t introduce himself at all. He waits a few more times, where Xavier has to impress him with his terrible collection of jokes.

There’s some version of them, not standing in a derelict warehouse hallway, looking at each other like they cannot tell who between them will pretend the other is a stranger first.

Xavier’s comm comes alive. Tillman, his drawling southern accent, “You got an all clear for me, Wolffe?”

Benji stands there. His hair is messy, stringy with sweat. His lower lip trembles, but Xavier thinks that Benji doesn’t notice that tell. That when he’s emotional the smallest part of his expression shakes. Xavier stares at him, at the beautiful pinch of his heavy brows and the elegance of his curved nose. He looks tired. It makes Xavier’s throat narrow. He looks tired.

Xavier lifts a hand to his comm on his shoulder. Presses it.

“All clear here, LT.”

“Atta boy. Round up in five.”

They resume their staring. The silence feels like a heavy, cold hand, pressed against the back of Xavier’s neck. Pushing until it feels like his spine is creaking under the weight of it. He steps forward, looking at the ground. He wants to say something, doesn’t he? Apologize again. Don’t you want it to be real? It was real, it was real when it was happening and it’’s been real the entire time. No one made me go down that alleyway. No one made me kiss you. I wanted to kiss you. It was real for me, wasn’t it real for you?

“Your eye—”

“No.”

It comes out more wounded sounding than he means. Part of Xavier wants to be angry at Benji, but he can’t be. Christ, he can’t, because Benji isn’t wrong. It all looked so bad when one examined it top down, clinical and assessing. And Xavier feels so guilty, because he regrets it. He regrets taking that radianite more than anything, even though it had paid so well on the black market and it had done Emily so good. Xavier hates himself, because he can’t be selfless and think it was worth it. He just feels sorry.

He clears his throat and doesn’t meet Benji’s eye.

“You don’t get to ask,” he says quietly. “If you go out the back left entrance, no one will see you. Just keep low.” When his eyes flicker up, he smiles sadly. “See you, Benji.”

“Xavier—” Benji’s voice cracks a bit. He shoulders his rifle. “Just—Just put some fuckin’ ice on it, yeah? Some ice.”

Later, when Xavier is in his bed, he stares at the ceiling (frozen peas on his left eye) and wonders if Benji can’t help but care. If it’s the nature of a medic to care. Or if—and he thinks its dangerous to let himself think at all, especially this—Benji cares because it’s Xavier. Wouldn’t that be nice.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

most of freedom and of pleasure

wc: 18,571 au: band au ch: benny, maran

Benny’s alarm wakes him up at 5:35 AM precisely. It’s not hard to get out of bed—maybe he’s always secretly been a morning person. Maybe it’s easy because he’s not that good at sleeping.

Either way, pale, tattooed legs swing out of his bed. Bare feet land on a messy floor and he stands. Yawning, stretching, slapping a hand down on his desk for the phone squawking incessantly. Weak city light, polluted fat with fog, streams in from his cracked window and he blinks at it. The silence feels unearthly, a subtle ringing in his left ear making it worse. It’s early enough even New York City is asleep, it seems. A cooing pigeon rests on his windowsill, fat off the sunflower seeds he sprinkles there.

He has a simple routine, usually. He’s up and into the bathroom to brush his teeth and frown at the yellowing stains from nicotine, the crooked bottom row that make his smile creepy. He showers in a brutally efficient way, double washing his hair and still managing to get angry later when it’s greasy and messy no matter what he does. Then he’s dressing in his bedroom, going down to the bodega on the street corner to get a breakfast sandwich and shoot shit with Rupesh until the sandwich is nothing but crumbs on his fingertips. Finally, Benny will clock in at whatever menial job the security agency has stuck him with between tours.

This morning is different. Instead, Benny’s toiletries are packed. He grimaces and rinses with mouthwash, unable to shake the fuzzy feeling on his teeth. Mentally apologizes for anyone he has to interact with today. He dresses in travel clothes; comfortable sweatpants and an oversized crewneck sweater he’s almost certain he stole from Xavier since he’s not from Boston and he doesn’t give a fuck about the Bruins.

The living room is a lonely bachelor’s disaster. Paperback books sit everywhere, fraying with broken spines and dog eared pages. DVD’s stack up beside a TV that is slightly crooked and if on, would have a little cluster of dead pixels. His clothes are tossed haphazardly because Benny has always been the worst about actually putting them into the hamper, no matter how diligent he was about washing them. The couch sags on one end, overstuffed with pillows and a blanket that’s worn through with use. Sometimes he sleeps there instead of his own bed; not like it matters, no one was ever there to share anyway.

Benny stands in it all for a moment, surveying the scene with an almost odd detachment. He wanders to a shelf on the wall, slowly petting two fingers on a statue of a cat he’d stolen on a date with Isaac. The paint has flaked off completely between the ears, right where he ritualistically pets it every single time he comes or goes. There’s dust on the shelves that he should clean.

Benny shoulders a duffle bag he’d left out the night before, yanks a half broken suitcase out into the hallway with him.

“You were too damn loud last night!” His neighbor screams at him, sitting in a plastic chair out front her unit. She’s an absolute crone, with beady eyes and a hateful expression and probably not a single person in her life who loves her. In her lap is a dying potted plant that must never see any light other than the fluorescents above them in the apartment complex hallway. Benny ruminates that even she has something living with her and finds it in himself to be bitter about it.

His usual retort would be to tell Angelica to go fuck herself, crazy old fucking bat. But, it’s not a usual day. Instead, he waves her off, already tapping a cigarette from his pack and sliding it behind his ear for safe keeping as he avoids the lift that never works. Benny struggles his way down the stairs and into the lobby that always reeks of wet dog. He uses his phone to call a car, routes it for the airport. Fully prepares to expense that to his agency.

It’s time to go back on tour and leave New York behind.

He feels like a ghost lingering there on the sidewalk and indeed he looks like one too. With his pale hair and his pale skin and his pale eyes—even his shadow stretches long and gray on the sidewalk, instead of black.

— THE BEGINNING OF TOUR —

“Benji’s friend is gonna be our temp guitarist.”

Mouse is filthy drunk—which means he has to carry her. For a girl who couldn’t weigh more than one-thirty soaking wet, she’s an awful handful. Looking down at her—at the mop of her brown hair, at the smattering of freckles on her nose, the wetness of past tears on her pinked cheeks—Benny cannot help the desire to bury his face into her, to hold her and squeeze her and keep her safe. He doesn’t, thankfully but he supposes he’s a little drunk himself (she had been buying at the bar after all, and seemed convinced there was no limit on her credit card), but he’d also just done his re-clearance test for the security agency, so he’s also drunk off being the one they let protect these fragile little musicians.

“Benji’s got f-friends?”

“Hah!” Mouse cackles as she squirms. His arm underneath the crux of her knees barely keeps her still, his other clamped tight around her shoulders. She’s monstrous about her wiggling, determined and vicious. He does not budge at all. “Fuck you—put me down—you—you fucking cracker.”

It’s his turn to cackle, stumbling his way back toward the hotel Bunny had sprung for this spoiled crew. If anyone saw them maybe they’d think he was kidnapping a disgruntled teenager; but he doesn’t really care. The night seems endlessly dark and effortlessly long and just for the two of them. Mouse was one of his favorites, next to Matilda. And she’d tucked in early for the night, which was probably translatable to, sorry have to go fuck my exceedingly hot, talented, emo boyfriend in our hotel room.

It was nice to be alone, just the two of them. Mouse wasn’t fully recovered from whatever had happened last tour—or half the tour, since it had ended early. And he didn’t want her alone, alone, as in actually alone and drunk in a bar just by herself. Seemed like trouble—and he was the only security who was actually there yet. Tino would be in tomorrow and Xavier wouldn’t be there until the first show in Massachusetts, opening night. Besides, he liked listening to her ramble.

“Pero, fuck that guy, you know? I swear, I’m off guys forever—no offense.”

“None t-taken, I dunno if I qualify s-sometimes.”

When they make it into the hotel, the night auditor blinks at them. Benny jostles Mouse around in his arms enough to lift a lanyard that says SECURITY on it, which surely doesn’t look too suspicious. The night auditor, who has better things to be doing—like writing a novel or playing Tetris or watching Love Island—does not seem to care at all and swiftly proceeds to ignore them. Benny gets Mouse into the elevator, where he finally drops her onto her unsteady feet.

“Tell me about the friend,” Benny says, mostly to give her a distraction. The come down from a bar crawl is something he is all too familiar with. She sags against the side of the elevator, hiccups and rubs at her eyes. Makeup smears across her light brown skin. She looks as young as she is and sometimes Benny is terrified of the fact that they let a kid like her get famous. Twenty five was such a precarious age, straddling between youth and the sudden realization that life sort of just keeps going and you have to keep up.

Mouse swats at her tangled hair, patting it down in an attempt to sober herself.

“Mm,” she hums. “Plays guitar.”

“Shocking.”

“And he’s hot.” Mouse holds a finger up to the side of her nose, closing one eye, looking devious. The effect is a bit lost because of the streaks of mascara from the healthy crying she’d done on his shoulder in the bar. “He’s like—he’s really hot.”

Benny snorts and wraps an arm around her shoulders as the elevator makes it slow crawl upward. He’s not on the same floor as her, but he’ll steer her into her room, into her bed and then probably smoke through an entire pack of cigarettes sitting outside because the anxiety of being the only security presence is making his bones jittery.

“Shaves his head,” Mouse continues her description as she gets out the elevator. Her gait is no longer as wobbly, so Benny doesn’t prop her up. “Dyes it. So fuzzy.”

“Anyth-thing to report b-besides his looks?”

“What else matters?”

“Romantic.”

“I am not,” she raises a finger immediately, swerving to face him. Her eyes are glossy and furious. “Fucking him again. I told you—no more guys.” Benny stares at the finger and then back to Mouse.

“You fucked Maran?”

“You know Maran?” Her eyes pop innocently. Benny’s never met anyone with actual heterochromia, just people who photo edit themselves on the internet to look prettier. It’s much more subtle in person, but underneath the stark hotel lighting, the hazel is shockingly pale and the green is stunningly clear. He’s about to tell Mouse that Maran had stuck around that last tour, a hanger on with Benji and yes, they’d met. They’d…met. Benny had started a bar fight over him embarrassingly enough.

But he didn’t have two different colored eyes, so he probably was not Maran’s type.

Before he gets a chance to tease her about it, Mouse’s face crumples, tears sliding down her cheeks again. They drip off her chin, black with the makeup.

“Do you think—” She sucks in a breath. “Was that cheating? I wasn’t really dating—I didn’t want to be dating—it was just like, he thought we were dating and he was so—so like, obsessed with me—and Benji too and he was so—so fucking weird because Benji slept with him back before and I didn’t even know that—but—but if I was—that makes me the bad person then doesn’t it—”

He shushes her immediately with a soothing sound and a hand on her cheek. Mouse melts into him, arms around his middle, huffing along a wet sob into his already very ruined shirt. Benny pets down her curly hair, tucking his chin to the top of her head. She smells like the cigarettes he’d shared with her, like honey and jasmine. Something feels uncomfortable inside his chest as he makes continued soft sounds to her, like he’s placating a little sister that had skinned her knee. Something he’s not sure he likes, something that sort of scares him a little.

Benny offers to carry her again to make her laugh, which she thankfully does. But instead, he’s pushed back toward the elevator, her cheeks red once more. Mouse tells him to sleep, as if he’s the one who needs it and rather than insisting, rather than playing the security angle and making her let him help, he steps backward into the open elevator. It closes her morose face from view. He’s taken down a few floors.

The room they’d given him was a double, so one bed would never get used, the ghost of possibility in the room with him. Benny lays down on the other that he plans to sleep in, staring at the ceiling, hands resting on his stomach. He itches for a cigarette. Maybe to jerk off and force himself to sleep. Instead, he rummages his own pockets for his phone, finding himself a little more drunk than he’d initially thought he was. Once he does, he opens a text chain he’s admittedly been paying more attention to than he usually would anything else involving his phone.

[02:04 AM] You’re filling in Ratspits guitar spot?

… … …

[02:05 AM] ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡ nooooo someone ruined the surprise !!

The phone is cool against his cheek as he rests it there, staring at the popcorn beige ceiling above him. The fire alarm isn’t even on. No red light blinks there. Surprise? He thinks, feeling a strange warmth crawl up his neck and to his cheeks. The phone buzzes several more times, but he closes his eyes, thinking, surprise…

—

“I’m gonna toss my lunch.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am, Ben—I’m gonna hurl.”

Underneath the back stage lights, Maran is paler than usual.

Benny grunts and sets aside the soda he’d pulled from a cooler backstage. Hand properly freezing and a little wet, he slides it around the back of Maran’s neck and squeezes. The younger man all but falls forward onto him, groaning a sound that Benny’s unfortunately never going to forget. He kneads the tight muscle there and Maran lets his forehead thump onto the security guards shoulder, making continued pathetic sounds. His arms dangle at his sides, but Benny imagines them moving. Imagines them slinking around him and holding. He thinks it’d be nice. He thinks Maran would hold him differently than others have before, that he’d have a reserved, gentle touch.

“You d-don’t have big shoes to fill, man.”

“He was tall as fuck?”

“No, I mean—” Benny laughs, smoothing his cold, wet hand across Maran’s shoulder. He squeezes there too, maybe a little harsher than he means to because the new temporary Ratspit guitarist jumps. But Maran is finally grinning, instead of looking like warmed over death. Staring at him, with big, glossy eyes. “I mean, h-he was a shit musician. Hated listening to him.”

“Oh,” Maran pulls the word out long, bobbing his head. He folds his arms over his chest. Which does something to Benny’s, looking at his biceps. Makes him want a cigarette or four. “Saying it like that implies maybe you like listening to someone else play then, yeah? G’on. Wanna compliment me a little? Could use it, Ben, m’so serious, right at the edge of throwing it up all over the fans—could say something a little nice, tell me I’m good at it, please—”

Benny slaps his hand across Maran’s mouth. His pretty brown eyes go wide, lashes fluttering.

“Shut up.” Benny walks behind him, closing hands around Maran’s shoulders. He begins steering the guitarist toward the rest of his band mates, as they prepare for opening. “You’re good, baby. You’re very good. I’m going to enjoy being security tonight. Alright?”

“Okay.” Maran sounds dazed, even stumbles into Benji—who glares, tired and annoyed but Benny isn’t sure if that’s tired and annoyed default (hot) or tired and annoyed pre-show nerves (where’s Xavier, then?). He doesn’t stick around to find out, because Benny suddenly can’t make eye contact with any of the band. Certainly not with Maran standing beside him looking like he’s been woken from a two hour floor nap, blinking dizzily.

As he leaves, a hurried walk with hands shoved into his pockets, Benny glances back. Maran’s silhouette is bright from the on stage lights as a tech gives him the guitar he’ll be using for the first half of the set. Looks like a proper little angel like that.

***

“I am not dating a fucking cop.”

“Dude.”

“Don’t ‘dude’ me, man.” Isaac throws hands into the air, furious. His handsome features are arranged all wrong, anger sitting incorrectly on his full lips and his big eyes. “You’re the one being stupid as fuck. Soldiers are cops.”

Jonny stares down at the Air Force pamphlet in his pale hands, instead of looking up at his boyfriend. His best friend. He’s seated on Isaac’s bed, while the other boy does circuits around his small room. The windows are thrown open, New York’s wet summer heat pouring in and making this entire conversation worse for it. The pamphlet crinkles as Jonny holds it tighter, tries to gather something coherent he can say that’ll make Isaac understand.

“I can’t stay with my dad,” he lands on lamely.

“Don’t do that,” Isaac replies instantly. He stops pacing. He never likes when JB is mentioned, always makes a tendon in his neck stand out as if he’s suppressing something painful. “Mom said you could move in and she’s good for it. She loves you.”

“Loves me now,” Jonny says, slowly narrowing his ghostly pale eyes. Isaac flinches as if he knows what’s coming. “Until she finds out I’m fucking her son.” They both flick a glance to the shut door that separates them from the rest of the Williams family. The irony isn’t lost on either of them that Isaac’s little sister can’t close her door when her boyfriend is over. This semblance of privacy is afforded only because of a continued lie.

Silence fills the room, neither of them breathing for a long moment, caught in the terror of what would happen to them. The cruel possibilities seem endless—and the kind ones are a fantasy.

“You could go to school,” Isaac mumbles. “You’re fucking smart, J. Like really smart. Don’t waste it.” He’s so close and yet so far away, standing just outside Jonny’s reach. He wants him closer, wants to pull him between his knees and bury his face into his stomach and ask him if everything is going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay, isn’t it? His birthday looms so close that each day feels like a marching death sentence.

“I’m sorry.” He says it and Isaac looks at him and understands that it’s final then because Jonny doesn’t apologize for anything. Isaac makes an audible sound as he swallows, looking at the floor. Hands on his hips for a moment. Then one reaches out and Jonny leans instantly for it, letting it touch his cheek. Letting Isaac brush a hand through his long blond hair, tuck it behind his ear. He closes his eyes and enjoys it. They’ll shave his head in basic training. He wants to hold onto this feeling while he can.

“You’re going somewhere I can’t follow, J. I love you, man. But we’re breaking up.”

“Okay.”

They stay like that, Isaac holding Jonny’s face, Jonny’s hands wrapped around the backs of Isaac’s thighs. In that melancholic moment, he can still clearly remember the day they’d become friends at the playground because an older kid wouldn’t stop stealing Jonny’s basketball.

He yanks them together, falling onto the bed.

“Can we be boyfriends for the rest of the night?” Jonny asks, smiling as wide as he possibly can while he’s still seventeen and everything is still alright. Isaac laughs and they kiss, even if it’s quick and even if it’s a little sad. They resolve to break up in the morning instead.

You’re going to be lonely, Jonny. It’s going to be really fucking lonely, man.

But that’s nothing he hasn’t survived before.

***

One night, on a rest day, they do an experiment.

The band is on the first leg of the tour—that means everyone is still in high spirits. No ones gotten the flu from malnutrition, no injuries, no broken equipment, Bunny hasn’t made anyone cry yet. Things are still fun, like the entire band is made of hibernating creatures that come alive during these stints. They run the first half of the tour with another band they get along with; have known for a time now, even before they were in magazine spreads or recognized getting coffee, asked for pictures and cried over autographs.

Benny watches because everyone is anticipating a fail. It seems like an impossible task, to be sure, but Xavier stands at the edge of the stage confidently.

“Feels unfair,” the lead singer of the other band mumbles to Benny. He nudges their elbows together, like they’re in on a secret. Sandy brown hair and narrow grey eyes and he’s tall as Xavier, waif thin though like a reedy cattail sticking up in a pond. Benny figures it’s sort of obvious why he keeps standing so close and talking directly to him. Thinks the singer is lucky Maran is taking a nap on the tour bus—boy’s far more nasty with people hitting on him than Benny had ever anticipated.

Not that he didn’t enjoy it. His heart squeezes when he imagines that sleepy, freckled face waiting for him.

“He’s heard Benji drum more than he’s heard Ryan.”

“We d-don’t hear shit,” Benny replies, pointing to his ear. “Wear muffs the whole show.”

“You watch them practice though, don’t you?”

Of course Xavier does. And Benny too. More so than he ever did before. Still, Benny reacts to the overt friendliness with frosty indifference until the singer wanders away to bother Mouse instead.

The drummer begins, launches into a song that is neither Ratspit nor Basement Mom (or whatever the bands name is). Benny can’t recognize it by tempo alone, but by the way Lark sways beside him and Matilda hums, it’s clear that it’s some sort of staple among their music genre. Xavier stands a distance in front of the drum set, hands flexing at his side. He has a glassy look about his eyes—same kind of look he gets during trivia, when he already knows the answer.

Benji approaches next. To Benny, there is no real difference. The tempo sounds the exact same; nearly hypnotic with how precise it is, hearing it replicated. Makes him wonder which of them is the natural—Ryan or Benji. Certainly, Benji looks more passionate, eyes closed as he enjoys himself. They don’t need to wait for him to finish. Xavier reacts full body. Arms thrown into the air, head back, barking a laugh. He spins around, darting for the drum set and his still drumming boyfriend.

In a rare display of public affection, Xavier wraps arms around Benji’s middle, swinging him onto the ground. They land into a tangled pile as Xavier yells, over and over, “I knew it! I knew it!”

Benny and the lead singer who keeps hitting on him stare in amazement as the entire band rushes in then. As Benji is covered by bodies.

“Wow. That was impressive.”

Xavier’s doggish laughter is the loudest in the whole group. The love can be felt in that sound alone.

***

The community center smells like stale coffee and cigarettes, both of which Benny has already thoroughly indulged in. He’d stolen more than a few of the free (very dry) donuts as well, before throwing himself into the creaky metal folding chair. He’s always early to these things, which is saying something. The military had ingrained in him, ten minutes early or you’re late—and the rest of these sad fucks are military too, so he isn’t sure why they aren’t more on time.

It usually gives him a moment alone with the sponsor of the meetings; handsome woman named Casey who he was pretty sure would sleep with him if she wasn’t running the Veterans Mental Health meetings herself. As it were, it usually just let him ignore the buzzing in the back of his head for a few extra minutes. She’s too busy tonight, trying to help her newest aide figure out how the community center doors stay open.

Benny closes his eyes and crosses his arms over his stomach, legs thrown in front of him as he slouches in the chair and fancies himself a snippet of a nap. The military had also royally fucked his circadian rhythm; so now he sleeps in microdoses. Milliseconds of sleep here and there, nothing substantial. A ringing in his left ear makes it more than a little difficult to sleep at all. Benny shoves a pinky finger into it, knowing that won’t make any difference.

The chair beside him scrapes across the ground. He peers sideways at the sudden appearance of someone new.

“Man, I’m nervous,” the stranger immediately says, staring at him with pretty, green eyes. They’re a sort of mellow, watery sage, set deep in a pale and freckly face.

Benny lets himself look, salacious eyes raking from top to bottom, then top to bottom again. When he finally settles on the mans handsome face once more, Benny is stunned that he hasn’t scared him away with that look alone. He’s not found many friends in these circles; they didn’t like that Benny spoke mostly negative at every chance he got toward the institution that had fucked their brains into being here. They also rarely appreciated his callous flirting, especially with the men in attendance. It had most certainly gotten him punched in the face before, but he’d been getting punched in the face since he was twelve years old so that was nothing new.

Instead of quickly shuffling over a few chairs, the red head is still staring at him.

“Is it normal to be this nervous?” he asks, fidgety hands lacing in front of him. He has classic scar build up on his knuckles. Boxer, then. Maybe he was infantry.

“No.”

“Really?”

Benny sighs and closes his eyes once more. He can’t reach for the anger that’s usually sitting right there easy for the taking, instead just feels a small twinge of guilt. It isn’t true—he’d been just as nervous, sitting there the first time, knowing they were going to make him talk. Make him say something. Maybe more nervous. He wasn’t popular at these things for a reason, after all.

“You’re fine, kid.”

The circle finally gathers. Men and women sit like they’re still in the military, hands cupping coffee, blowing on steam. They have the same sort of hollow stare that greets Benny in the mornings, when he’s brushing his teeth. The kid gets called on to talk and he pops up from his chair as if the request if coming from a drill sergeant. Benny almost expects a parade rest stance, but instead, he’s got his hands in front of him again. Plucking anxiously at the ends of his sleeves to hide his knuckles.

“I’m Xavier. Uh. Wolffe. Xavier Wolffe. Marine. Was—I was a marine. I was honorably discharged for combat injury—Humvee got—” He makes a garish exploding sound with his mouth, sucking on teeth as he smashes his hands together. It lasts for what feels like an entire minute. Then he stands there, staring around at blank faces.

There is nothing but silence until Benny breaks it with high pitched laughter.

—

“Hey.”

Xavier’s puffing and out of breath as he catches up with him on the sidewalk. Benny doesn’t slow down, but one of them has stupidly long legs it seems and it’s not Benny, so Xavier manages to stay caught up with him anyway.

“I liked what you said back there.” He’s less out of breath as he says it, but a hand lingers on his side, as if protecting some weakness there or nursing a pain already embedded.

What Benny had said was a rant about the military being a hydra; no matter how many heads were cut off, there’d only be more, with open maws ready to scoop up unsuspecting teenagers—mostly from poverty stricken neighborhoods—and chew on them until they were nothing but bloody bones and mental illness that sat around in circles on Saturday nights talking to each others echo chamber. Also, he’d gone off on another tirade about how the VA’s office hours kept changing every time he called about his tinnitus.

“Wh-what do you want?”

It’s late at night, so the streets are busy with people who have actual lives. They dodge around the two broken toy soldiers, their laughter loud, their conversations airy and wispy at the edges. The sweetness is diminished by the orange street lamps that make everything too saturated and harsh. Xavier stares at him—though a stranger, Benny feels it far too easy to read the vulnerable sheen to his pond colored eyes. He taps a cigarette from his pack and those eyes go from vulnerably soft to delightfully hungry in a second.

No more words are exchanged—or needed, in that moment anyway—as Benny lights his own and then passes the pack and Zippo to the younger man. His big, scarred hands are shaky with excitement to get one lit.

“Really got to y-you, huh?”

“My sister said it would make me feel better,” Xavier explains, exhaling a long stream of smoke into the air. They naturally tuck themselves closer to the street, so people can avoid them easier. Parked cars separate them from the terrible downtown traffic. Benny takes a risk leaning on one, pleased when an alarm doesn’t go off. “But it felt—Dunno. It felt fake, right? It felt…weird.”

“Sure.” Benny takes a long drag on his own cigarette, bobbing his head like a hungry bird. “It’s because it is. The military t-takes us and puts us all in th-this little family, right? And th-they say that these are your brothers and sisters and th-there’s no one in the whole wo-world that’s going to get you like them. And then y-you go off and something terrible happens and you come h-home and so you try and f-find that family again that the military made you think was the most im-imp-important thing in the world—and you find it here, in these sh-shit groups and realize, wait, fuuuuuck—” Benny slaps his forehead in an exaggerated gesture that makes Xavier laugh.

“I don’t even like these people!” They’re both laughing then, grinning at each other. “Wait, fuck, I never actually g-got along with them—I never believed these—these fucking ideologies they worship, I never fit in at all—and just compromised m-my integrity for what? My values for what?” Benny finishes the cigarette and tosses the butt out into the street. Xavier is staring at him like an intensely curious dog, head tilted endearingly.

“All I got was a broken ear drum a-and—well, I’m good at handjobs now.”

Xavier sputters into an bewildered burst of laughter, dropping his half finished cigarette and stamping it out.

“Jesus, you’re—you’re kind of weird, you know that?”

“No,” Benny steps back up onto the sidewalk, slinging an arm around Xavier like they’ve known each other for years. “Never heard it before. Want to get shitty p-pub nachos with me?”

***

“Wanna know how I knew?”

It’s just them, sitting in the back of the bar together. Close enough that Benny can smell the almost sea like tint of Xavier’s cologne or whatever makes him smell like sun and the ocean and the color of summer. He’s grinning, ear to ear, and drunker than he probably should be when they have to be up early in the morning.

Xavier’s still nursing his last beer, both paws around it like the pint might wander off. Benny sucks foam off the top of his own, trying hard not to think about the sleeping boy on the tour bus and how bad he wants to be there. To wake him up with a gentle kiss to his jawline and hear him mumble ‘Ben?’ like its natural to just wake up saying his name.

But Benny is interested. How did Xavier know the difference between Ryan and Benji’s drumming? Plus, it feels like sometimes it’s hard to get Xavier alone. Hard to just be two guys, two friends, at a pub together, eating very shit food on their per diems when there’s a whole circus going on around them that they’re tangentially part of. He feels steadier somehow, even toasted as he is. Xavier radiates an undeniable feeling of safety—not just because he’s gotten Benny out of more than a few bar fights. Xavier is…well, he’s Xavier.

The giant red head unfolds, going slack against the bar booth and looking up at the ceiling with an even wider smile. The chip in his tooth doesn’t diminish his looks, handsome asshole.

“Benji does this thing, before he starts drumming.” Xavier pantomimes holding sticks, closing his eyes as he does. Seems to sink into a memory, or maybe multiple. Of watching Benji play, hours of it on repeat. His smile softens, but goes no less goofy and crooked. “He slides the drumstick across the edge of the drum before he starts.” Xavier’s hand follows an imaginary path, slow and dream like. “And it feels like he does it just for me. It feels like he’s doing it, and knows I can feel it.”

Xavier must realize how silly that is—likely Benji picked up the habit young when he was still learning to drum. That it’s just some ingrained muscle memory and yet, in that moment, Xavier looks to be glowing with the idea of it. That this small, simple touch, this routine, Benji’s ritual of sorts, is something that he’s part of now. Simply for remembering, simply for imagining that Benji is running a finger along him instead of a drumstick along his kit. Benny believes the entire thing is true, that Benji does it every single time just for Xavier now, because it’s magical.

Because sometimes, when he watches Maran practice, he envisions those brown hands on him instead. Every time Maran plucks a string, tunes the guitar and goes again, to test it—Benny is thinking of those fingertips brushing along his lips, dipping and touching his tongue. Every time Maran adjusts the strap of his guitar, pats a pedal with the tip of a dirty converse, Benny is hawk eyed and watching and without realizing, he’s memorizing. Someday, Maran wont be up there, someday they’ll find a permanent replacement.

And Benny wants to have what Xavier has now. He wants to be able to close his eyes and confidently say, yes, that’s Maran. That’s my Maran.

—

He waits for the third song because it has a guitar solo.

Nothing big, Benny’s not even sure if he should call it that (he’s shit at the industry terms, he is not a musician and would never care to be one—looks miserable, genuinely). But it’s not necessarily how the band works, either. Their music loops within itself, a sort of beast that only makes sense with all legs present and functioning. Benny—who is a strict listener of mostly R&B and old hip hop—can actually appreciate the puzzle piece nature of Ratspit. They ultimately always form a better picture when they’re together; even fractured as they are now, with a substitute piece haphazardly slung in.

Benny thinks they look even better with that substitute piece.

They play music like a group of friends, not like the professionals vying for fan attention. No one seems too highlighted, nor left behind; they crash into each other sometimes, Lark’s wild energy like waves over them all. Yet there is a moment in this particular song where Maran gets to shine—where he gets to show Ratspit’s cut throat audience that there’s a reason he’s filling in and it’s not just because he’s pretty—and that’s what Benny cares about.

He stands at the front, arms crossed but prepared. It’s become one of his favorite places to be posted; he took joy in getting to shove back the fans, who he did not like in the first place and found little respect for. The band got to see them at their best. Worshipping at their feet with posters to sign, crying into hugs, faces bright and flushed with excitement. Benny, Xavier and Tino saw them at their worst, at their nastiest, at their pushiest and ugliest. Tossing them back into the masses, where they writhe together like drunken worms, while the musicians stay safe just up there on the stage, that was when Benny felt his most useful.

He knows the part is coming because of the lighting change from a garish pink to a soft yellow. The color makes sense for Maran. His energy feels similar to the sun on a lazy summer day, warming skin and feeding plants. Not too bright, but just enough to see even with your eyes closed, through thin lids, popping day time constellations. Benny can hear through the protective gear—he’s too close not to hear—but it’s as though he’s underwater at the same time. It’s hazy, waterlogged, nothing distinct or clear. Benny lifts a hand and subtly shoves the ear muff to the side.

Then the noise explodes. Even just his one ear uncovered makes everything sharp and brutal. Lark’s voice, Matilda’s keys, Benji’s drumming, Mouse’s low bass notes strumming everything together. Then the distinct opening notes of a guitar that will carry the song through to the end. Benny closes his eyes, not something he’d usually ever do while working, and tries to imagine what Xavier had said; that Maran’s hands are instead around him, not the neck of a guitar.

He thinks of Maran’s calloused fingers finger walking down his chest, touching the spider beneath his belly button, smoothing over his skin. He thinks of hands cupping his ribs, of Maran’s lips brushing his own while they both breathe the same air. The playful hint of a kiss. He can sort of feel it then, the connection of music and pleasure. Music, Maran, touching, sensation, just for him.

The guitar squawks, notes going painfully high—then cutting into something pitchy and strained that makes Benny’s ear sting.

A discordant jumble follows and then what Benny hears mostly over the ringing, is stomping feet on the stage. Lark’s awkward attempt to keep the song moving with lyrics, Matilda’s laughter of all things (as he is right underneath where she stands most nights). The ear muff snaps back into place, a suction cupped sound slurping away the remaining music and Benny, bewildered, can do nothing but glance behind him. Right into Maran’s glowering face.

It’s an expression he’s never actually seen on him. Maran, who smiles almost all the time, whether those smiles are real or not. Maran, whose grin is so permanent that Benny has the curve of his lips memorized and could see them with his eyes closed. Beautiful, smiling Maran, staring at him with slitted, furious eyes. They stay like that for half a second—then the guitarist is dancing back into place, readjusting the guitar around his shoulder and slamming into the next note.

The song continues in a hurried rush. The audience roars to life with it, content to see the music continue after a little side show.

And Benny is left standing there like a tornado victim; eyes widened, hair messy, hands slack at his sides. When he looks left, Tino is grinning underneath his twitching mustache with hands on his hips.

—

“What were you thinkin’?”

“Uh?”

The hallway Benny has been roughly tugged down is humid and moderately dark, with lights flickering on and off in a morse code that maybe only the ghosts understand. It’s the end of a food run to a shitty two grill kitchen, where bar food gets concocted to feed the audience tumbling out of the main stage venue. The atmosphere is seemingly perfect for their first ever couples argument (because that is undeniably what it is). It smells like badly burnt fries and day old hamburger and even worse, Maran looks atrociously handsome with his face screwed up into a mixture of confusion and pure fury.

Benny is fairly sure whatever emotion he’s meant to be having at Maran man handling him away from the rest of the crew, it’s not this odd sense of giddiness. He can’t tamp down the smile on his face, the way it keeps twitching back to life, even as Maran glares at it and him. His pretty, dark eyes keep flickering up and down, up and down. As if assessing that smile and how much Benny was worth yelling at.

“Baby, c’mon,” Ben finally says and is rewarded with an indignant sound.

“Don’t do that,” Maran seethes, hands fisting into Benny’s black security shirt. The guitar, the offending instrument that is taking all of Maran’s attention, all of his touch, is still strapped to his back. It swings loosely with every animated gesture. Benny has an incredibly stupid impulse to take it and smash it against the wall. Instead he sags backward against the concrete instead, chin tilted down, but eyes still forward.

“You’re this close to an amp,” Maran pinches fingers together, hissing his words. “And you go and do that? And think I’m not goin’ to catch you either, Ben? Like I’m not up there watchin’ you.”

“Watching me?”

“Watching you! Course!” The guitarist blows out an exasperated breath through clenched teeth, eyes rolling. “Course I am and you’re distractin’ as hell sometimes. Bob your head along to the drumming—makes me stupid jealous Benji gets that out of you—” Benny’s bubbled up laughter stops Maran. His face goes blank and then, if at all possible, even angrier. And hurt. His brown eyes are shiny with it. Benny springs forward quickly, cupping Maran’s cheeks, feeling the tension in his jawline.

“Mar—”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not—”

“Y’just did.”

“No,” Benny says firmly, pulling them closer. That god damn guitar bumps around on Maran’s back. His brows twist upward, the hurt bleeding into vulnerability to be comforted. Benny is there for that, he wants nothing more than to do just that. He’ll take getting yelled at; he might even like Maran yelling at him a little bit. Worrying about him. But he doesn’t want this—Maran sad. Never that.

“I’m—I m-mean I laughed at—Mar, I am not—Jesus. Trust m-me, I’m not listening to Benji drumming. Alright? I don’t g-give a fuck about drumming.”

“Well,” Maran’s cheeks puff with attitude. He rolls his eyes. “Don’t go that far, he’s a good drummer.”

“I’m practically playing Su-Sudoku in my head the whole set, Mar. You know I do-don’t listen to this kind of music.” They’d spent a whole night actually, passing Maran’s phone back and forth, filling a playlist with music they both liked. And none of it was Deftones or…whatever else was inspiring Benji and Lark at fourteen years old. “I w-wa-wanted to hear you, that’s all.” He soothes thumbs back and forth across Maran’s cheeks, touching freckles. “And I’m sorry I fucked up your part. I didn’t know you w-were going to catch me.”

“What?” Maran’s face crinkles in adorable confusion again. He curls a lip, shakes his head. “Nah—Ben, please. I don’t care about the part. I’ll just do it again in a week, right?”

“Maybe you can do it for me,” Benny murmurs, leaning in. His hands have moved from Maran’s face to his throat. His touch is gentle, a thumb rubbing the hollow of his neck, another finger touching his wildly beating pulse. “Just for me? Private show for your bad boyfriend?”

Maran twists away at first.

Then he leans greedily into the affection, huffing about it and melting for it all the same. His arms wind around Benny’s midsection; strong, warm arms that Benny dreams about and imagines placing bites across from forearm to deltoid, possessive markings joining freckles so everyone knows Maran belongs to the sun and to Benny and nothing and no one else. Maran’s face angles down, brows still crinkled, cheeks still puffed with his dwindling annoyance. Benny skates lips across his brow, buries a kiss into his temple and then to his neck where he bites softly.

“Don’t do that at a show again.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean it!”

“Mmmhm.”

Maran interrupts the heavy mouthing Benny’s placing to his neck to grab onto his face. He yanks them closer and inexplicably places several kisses to each of Benny’s ears, messy, playful, uncoordinated. Benny can feel the blush creeping from his cheeks all the way to the tips of those half deaf ears.

***

“Dating you is like dating a fucking mannequin sometimes.”

“I can find a w-way to make that sexy,” Benny declares lazily from the bed, hands tucked behind his head. Cael stands at the foot of it, looking violent with their anger. They’re actually strikingly beautiful when mad; Benny thinks it’s probably a bad thing, but he likes it about them so much. That the tug of arousal in his stomach outweighs any fear toward that anger—or maybe it doesn’t and that’s what makes it so much better. They have fierce features, an aquiline nose that demands attention and high, piercing eyes. They’d dyed their hair the sort of yellow that made valley girls jealous a few days ago and wisps cling to their sweaty skin.

Benny and Cael seem to argue more in the summer, in the unbearable heat of their apartment. Benny’s last paycheck went to new tires and Cael’s last paycheck went entirely to the car insurance (that didn’t cover tires?) and so no paychecks went to window units to cool down their hellish NYC shoebox.

“It’s not fucking sexy,” Cael snaps, hands clawed and furious in front of them. “I could get more emotional depth out of a fucking boxers dummy.” And it’d be your new emotional punching bag too, Benny thinks, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. Mold grows in the corner—he briefly wonders if it’s black mold causing them both to go slowly insane. Or if this is just the inevitable decline of his first major relationship after discharge. It feels poetic that everything after that moment would be tainted, something predicted by his first major relationship years and years ago.

It’s going to be lonely.

“What do you w-want me to say?” Benny finally asks, standing from the bed.

“That you feel real human emotions sometimes—and then you express them!” Cael’s voice rises to what could be considered a scream. When they step toward him, Benny flinches. An old muscle memory he never forgets to feel ashamed of. Cael either doesn’t notice, or in that moment doesn’t care. A part of Benny is thankful for either; it means he wont have to explain the twitch on the examiners table with them. They wont have to dissect through the bloody emotions at all. Benny can fake this for them, he can figure it out, so long as they never find the actual root.

He takes them by the wrists, holding them up and staring them down. Cael’s only a few inches shorter than him. It makes them lift their nose in a defiant pose, bump their chest into Benny’s in challenge. He can see it in their eyes, though, how badly they need something from him. Something.

“You piss me off. That’s an emotion.”

“You’re such an ass,” Cael mumbles, but the tilt of their head becomes less vicious and more welcoming, like their throat is now open for Benny if he decides to want it. The touch of their chests is no longer a spark for an argument, and more of a suggestion. It was inevitable to come to this conclusion rather than the one Cael might have wanted—if that was truly their intention at all. Sometimes Benny wasn’t sure, sometimes it felt like they started arguments so they could end up here after all. Sometimes, he wasn’t sure if this was the only intimacy he was capable of at all.

So he kisses them. They kiss him back. It’s immediately hungry and a little mean; he likes that about them. Cael is a collection of sharp edges and a slightly wicked tongue and it almost feels comfortable being around someone like that. Caring about someone like that. He grabs them hard by the hips, swings them down onto the bed. They’re already in the act of tugging off their tank top to reveal olive skin that’s easy to bruise with his teeth. Benny feels somewhat in auto pilot as he goes to his knees and yanks them closer, so his mouth can please them.

They’re a rough connection in the bed, sheets ripped off corners, pillows and blankets shoved aside. They nearly dent the wall with the harsh bang, bang, bang of the head board—thankful they’re a corner unit with no neighbors. They even manage to laugh at that, together, after when they’re sweaty and stuck together and Cael is forgiving Benny for whatever it was he did wrong. Not feel enough or know what to say or not say anything, or maybe they were just tired from their double at the diner and it didn’t really matter. The sex sort of made up for everything else.

So they don’t break up that night, but rather three weeks later.

And it’s shockingly amicable. As amicable as a break up with Benny can be. It’s Cael talking mostly, in the end. Explaining, apologizing, getting angry just to deflate from the emotions and apologize again. They even touch one last time, a soft gentle slide of their hands together as Cael gives Benny the keys—this break up had been in the making on their end for longer than they’re willing to admit, since Cael has a new place already. The dishonesty stings something deep beneath the layer of ice Benny has managed to cave himself in, but he says nothing.

He’s left to sit there on the couch alone, to stare at the out dated TV as it plays reruns of some show he doesn’t even like. Left sitting there thinking, what is it? What is it anyone wants from me? Why can’t he find it in himself to give? Was he born without it, or did it get stolen from him, or was it lost along the way?

Benny decides not to care. He opens a beer and sits lower on the couch and stares at the ceiling, at the spotted black here and there, and he thinks, this is lonely.

***

Maran sprints into the hotel room and is on the bed, jumping like a kid, before Benny even has the door closed behind him. He locks it with the deadbolt, because he doesn’t trust anyone, let alone underpaid workers that can make keys to any room at any time. A duffle bag slings off his shoulder, filled with his own clothes and some of Maran’s they’d stuffed in on the tour bus once they all realized they’d be treated to lodging tonight.

This was meant to be a room he’d share with Tino, hence two beds, but Tino—being a man of both God and also insane empathy—had decided to give Benny a little privacy. By that, he really meant, the Ratspit stand in guitarist was welcome to the second bed (Tino knew the second bed was not where Maran would be sleeping, of course).

“This is fucking ace, Ben,” Maran says, his voice hopping around as much as he is. Arms spread open wide, surveying the mid tier hotel room. To Benny, it was a room and a bed (or two) and nothing to be impressed by. These sort of places had stopped feeling liminal and strange and exciting to him. But for Maran, this was an adventure, something new to experience and gawk at happily. Benny gets to the end of the bed and stands there, unable to stop smiling up at him.

“Got shoes on th-the bed.”

“Oops!” Maran drops onto his ass, simple as. Before he can kick them off himself, Benny stoops and catches his ankle. He pulls himself closer, resting the heel of Maran’s converse on his thigh. His fingers touch lazily, brushing across ankle and calf and feeling his short, fuzzy body hair. Maran’s cheeks darken a bit pink, his smile going lopsided and almost shy—but still, there’s a hint of something bemused.

“What?”

“Bit weird for this one is all,” Maran says, wiggling brows, looking from his foot to Benny. The security guard huffs and begins unlacing the shoe slowly, enjoying himself. Benny tugs the shoe away and tosses it, lingering a hand on the arch of Maran’s foot. He gives a suggestive squeeze that elicits a giggle. “C’mon—probably got dirt in this bed. Let’s—wanna move to the other one?”

His voice lilts hopefully, nervously. Benny pauses in the act of unlacing the second shoe. He yanks it free and tosses it aside the same time as he glances over. Maran uses that small moment to spring back up. Their bodies bump together, either because Maran doesn’t realize they’re so close, or wanted them that close to begin with. Benny steadies himself with hands around Maran’s biceps, appreciating the feel of them as he always does. He’s surprised when Maran leans forward and kisses him, hands tucking behind his neck and pulling them closer.

And Maran is a good kisser, too. Not gentle, but not hard, the pressure of his mouth just perfect; his tongue isn’t a darting, anxious thing, but a soft rolling, sensual touch. He moves against Benny in a way that a well practiced lover would, pushing their hips together, hands running appreciatively over his shoulders, the tops of his arms, the front of his chest. Sometimes Benny finds himself stunned that his often shy, relatively carefree boyfriend kisses like this. Experienced and enthusiastic. It melts a part of Benny, makes him ease into it.

Has them falling onto the bed, parts of them twisting together. One of his legs shoved Between Maran’s, one of his hands spreading up underneath his shirt to touch his stomach, his side, scratch up along his back to cause a moan. Kissing is something Maran can do for a while, Benny has pleasantly found out. Kissing, for Maran, is never just foreplay, but rather an act itself. One where he usually comes up for air, happily panting and asking if they want to sneak away to a gas station together for snacks.

Except now the kissing becomes a little more urgent. And Maran’s hands move with intention. First, down Benny’s chest. Then to the front of his jeans, were fingers pop open a button and begin unzipping. A surge of warmth makes Benny groan, shiver and then pull away. He blinks blurry eyes at Maran.

“I thought,” Maran starts, finger tracing the teeth of Benny’s zipper and making it very hard to concentrate. “Well, y’know…Since, we’re alone? Like, actually alone. And there’s a bed.” He raises his eyebrows a few times, cheeks delightfully red, lips spread into a hopeful and shy smile. Benny’s heart convulses, sending a twitch down his arm. His hand grips Maran’s hip so hard he feels unmoored for a second.

Then nervousness descends.

He could mean other things; things they’ve already done. But the way Maran says it, breathy and excited. How fast he moves, the way Maran always moves when he’s nervous about something and trying to conquer it. Like he was forcing excitement into his veins alongside the anxiety, combining in something shivery and too quick. Benny chews the inside of his lip—right on a little tattoo of a bunny he’d gotten in his early twenties—and looks down at him.

Maran, post show, tired, a smudge of make up at the corner of his eyes. Sweaty and still exhilarated, glowing and pretty. Benny’s thought of fucking Maran in every single way a person can fuck imaginable; bent over something, up against a wall, spooning on the floor in a tangle of blankets, he’s imagined every single scenario possible, touched himself to the thought of it, imagined it even when they were touching each other in the new ways Maran got to be touched. He thought of it with every hand job, with every private moment, sometimes in a way that felt a little obsessive.

And yet…

“Uh,” Benny sits up on the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. There’s prickling all over him, uncomfortable and familiar in it’s terror. “Not tonight.”

Silence. And then, “Oh.”

Benny tries to turn toward him, but is surprised at Maran rising as well, sitting up with an embarrassed sheen to his eyes. The clear hurt makes him withdraw, a coldness radiating from him. Everything begins spinning for Benny then, the anxiety between his lungs like a pole wedging itself inside him and pushing, pushing, pushing until his chest hurts. Feels like bursting into splinters.

“Is there like, a reason then? That you don’t wanna have sex with me?”

“No, but—”

“You’re makin’ me feel like I’m—” Maran gestures to himself, the fatigue from the show incredibly apparent then in the dark smudges beneath his big, brown eyes. They’re wounded and dark. “Like I’m bein’—I’m askin’ for something and I’m being pushy—”

“You’re not—”

“All the other things we do, yeah? Right? Like the signs are pointing toward it—you want me, right?”

“Jesus,” Benny blows out air hotly, threading fingers into his own messy mop of hair. “Maran, yes. I do, I f-fucking really do.”

“Well then it’s something else, innit?” Maran tosses his legs over the edge of the bed, staring down at the shitty hotel floor carpeting. The room had felt magical to him only a few moments ago; one of those firsts he was getting to experience with this tour. Being here, with the band, with his best friend. Benny’s heart thuds painfully against his rib cage, working up to his throat. He’s light headed with a nervous energy he wasn’t expecting.

“You’re making me feel like I’m—yunno. Childish. Like you’re patronizing me, sometimes. Treating me like I dunno what I’m doing. I know some fucking things, Ben, alright.”

Benny says nothing. He lets the statements fall and expand and swell into the room and fill up everything with pressure. His hands drop into his lap and he doesn’t know how to tell Maran, in that moment, that he is so fucking thankful for him. The bluntness of what he’s saying, the directness, even if it cuts into him like a hot knife.

Everything before Maran had felt like some fight he was navigating half blind (or half deaf, if he wanted to be funny about it). People never said what they really meant, they fought and laughed and snapped and always left Benny to struggle to figure out what was actually wrong; what he was actually doing wrong. Maran says it. He always says what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. Benny never has to dig, and he’s so tired of digging. He sucks in a wet sounding breath, not realizing how hard his throat has closed up for a moment.

He realizes, awkwardly, that he’d not even removed his combat boots. So Benny takes a moment to tug them off and toss them into the corner of the room. Then he turns and kneels at the foot of the bed, so he can stare up at Maran.

“I d-don’t think you’re childish.” Maran levels a flat stare at him that conveys what he thinks of that statement. Benny squeezes Maran’s thighs, harsh in a way that gets his attention and snaps him from his petulance. Maran’s warm, calloused hands wrap around Benny’s forearms and it soothes a part of Benny’s animalistic anxiety. “I’m being an asshole. I sh-should say what I’m thinking. It;s just—it’s hard fo-for me to do that sometimes.”

It’s Maran’s turn to stay silent, though Benny can see that’s difficult. Words puff up his cheeks, as though he’s holding them back. Benny loves him so much for it, for giving him a moment to breathe and talk, when it is so hard to speak at all.

“I want to. I just don’t want t-to do it here.”

“In The Marriott?”

“No. Mar,” Benny laughs and hangs his head for a moment. “On tour.”

“Oh.” Maran pauses and adjusts slightly. He slopes, so that his legs spread further, allow Benny room between them more. He leans back on the bed, on his elbows. He looks devastating. The length of his torso, the small definition of his chest seen underneath the way his oversized shirt drapes on him. He tilts his head, smiling just slightly, cautiously and clearly with some annoyance still. “Trying to make it special? Ben. I’m not a virgin, you know that, right?”

Benny groans and immediately buries his face into Maran’s lap, pushing his cheek into the younger mans hip. A hand falls into his hair. He shudders at the affection, gripping hands around Maran that much tighter.

“D-Don’t say that. When I th-think of you fucking other people it makes me jealous and angry.”

“Maybe I wanna make you a little angry too, huh?”

“I don’t want to fuck you,” Benny says, into Maran’s skin. “And then share you with everyone else.” There’s a long pause. The body underneath him shifts. Their breathing seems louder. The room around them smaller. Benny squeezes his eyes shut. Forces somewhere inside himself to come up with words. “It would d-drive me fucking insane, if we slept together and then everyone else g-got more of you tomorrow. The band or fans, or the crew.” Some selfish part of him rises up like a creature, hungry for blood, snuffling at the vein on Maran’s hip.

“I want yo-you so bad and I want—really want—this to be something.” And they hadn’t defined that something in words yet. And those words catch on his teeth brutally, but Benny still lifts his head, chin resting on Maran’s torso, staring at him. Because for once, Benny thinks, he doesn’t want to stumble into sex like it’s something casual, something easy, something to remedy things. The only intimacy he’s able. “Like. Boyfriends, alright? I’m asking you to be my fucking boyfriend.”

Maran’s sudden smile is dazzling. The sort of smile that people take pictures of. That stop people dead in their tracks and wonder how a smile like that exists. The sort of smile that makes Benny feel light headed and unworthy. He swallows, eyes flickering self consciously away until his face is snatched—he’s pulled closer. Stumbling, he goes, onto the bed, chest to chest with Maran.

“Now we’re fighting as boyfriends,” Maran declares, grinning lopsidedly. Benny sneers, rolling his eyes, but slips arms around the other man, tightening until he gets a groan out of him. “Still a bit peeved, just lettin’ y’know.”

“That’s pa-part of being my boyfriend. Make it up to you when I bring breakfast up tomorrow.” Benny pulls away to turn and find the remote to the fancy TV in the corner. It flickers to life with a click; nicer definition than anything he’d probably ever own. Benny stands up, groaning and stretching tired arms above his head, as Maran looks at the TV with confused upturned brows.

“There’s always c-cartoons on in America at this t-time of night.” He gestures and walks toward the other end of the room. “Gonna take a shower. P-Pretty sure some fan spit on me at some point.”

And predictably, it’s only a few minutes into the shower, before Maran is creeping in. Is stripping down, sliding into the hotel shower, underneath the burning hot spray of water. They’re kissing, bodies notched together in a way that makes everything warmer and sensual.

And it feels more intimate than anything Benny has ever done when Maran grabs the soap and laughs as he runs it across Benny’s chest.

— THE END OF TOUR —

“I’m not even jet lagged,” Maran lies, boldly, as the elevator slowly rises. It’s miraculously working, the one week out of a month when it does and it’s the very week Benny’s taking Maran home.

Not Maran’s home. Naturally. But, Benny’s. When he’d proposed New York City to Maran, as an after treat from the tour, he’d had to brace as one-hundred-eighty pounds of pink haired boy was suddenly in his arms. He’d not stopped his excited chatter about it since—not on the bus ride to the air port, the plane from Los Angeles to New York. Not even the baggage claim, where he’d stood behind Benny, hugging him with his chin to his shoulder, peppering odd facts he’d learned about NYC in some article he’d read online.

Maran bounces on his heels, dirty white converses squeaking on the equally scuffed tile floor. Benny—who is jet lagged—hums and slips a hand around the back of Maran’s neck. The guitarist sags into the gesture, draping forward against Benny. The backpack he holds knocks against Benny’s tattooed hip a few times until it’s ultimately dropped to the floor. He wasn’t necessarily prepped for the length of trip Benny had planned, but it wasn’t as though Maran couldn’t get the authentic New York experience and go to a laundry mat with him.

Not like Benny wouldn’t mind letting him borrow some clothes, either. In fact, a little spark of hot arousal swirls in his lower abdomen imagining Maran in one of his ratty t-shirts and nothing else.

He shoves the feeling down as they make it to his floor. Then Benny’s scooping the bags up and leading Maran out.

“Who’s that?” Angelica screams as they get closer to Benny’s door. She sits as iron clad as usual, unmoving and uncaring, thin and gangly in her nightgown. A light flickers at the end of the hallway where someone keeps the stairwell door propped open to chat with a shadowy figure within.

“That’s a snake plant,” Maran comments, his voice suddenly effervescent, charming and light. He points to the dying plant on the old womans lap. It’s yellowing, curling and looking drearier than when Benny had left. “You should really water that, love.” Benny’s mean old neighbor blinks as though hypnotized by Maran, clutching the potted plant with her gnarled hands. He isn’t sure if it’s the voice or the accent or if it’s been long enough since anyone’s said anything other than ‘shut up, Angelica’ but it manages to silence her far better than anything else.

He gives her a small, polite wave as Benny struggles with his door and then yanks him inside.

—

There’s a pause, naturally, for them to kiss.

Benny traps Maran in the entryway, two hands to his face as their mouths press together. It’s warm and breathy, their heads tilting back and forth to capture new angles. Benny can feel his boy’s smile, can taste the happiness on his tongue as it touches his own. He gets shoved back against the door for that blatant pleasure, pinned to be kissed harder and deeper. When they pull away, Maran looks dizzy with it, panting happily, arms draped over Benny’s shoulders. His eyes shine delightfully, crinkled at the edges, where crows feet might one day stamp with old age.

“Great start to the tour,” he chirps, pressing forward.

“Not m-much to tour,” Benny replies, with a lame cringe as he steps back and gestures.

He’d been thinking of this part for most of the plane ride, where he was largely alone with his thoughts between Maran passing out (near immediately) and then waking up to chat happily (and bribe the flight attendant for more than one packet of cookies). The part where Maran steps into his apartment and sees the way he lives. Benny isn’t stupid, he knows that too much can be gleaned from a persons home and finds it easy to be embarrassed by his own. He lives in a cramped apartment, six stories high in an apartment complex stacked between more housing. It gets too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter, he pays too much for it and it’s never particularly clean.

Still, Maran turns himself in a circle in the kitchen. He pokes through everything he wants to see—cabinets, the fridge, drawers. Benny lets him, a silent hovering presence as Maran touches everything, nerves prickling along his pale skin, an energy similar to right before lightning cracks. Maran pauses to pet the cat statue, his fingers touching where Benny’s have a thousand times. He wanders into the living room, where he takes a great pause and then points to the couch. Benny stares at it nervously, wondering what’s wrong with it besides the obvious; heaped with a blanket and pillows, it looks like a makeshift bed.

“Ben, that looks so fucking comfortable,” Maran declares and then throws himself onto the couch. A pillow jumps from it and lands on the floor—he quickly scoops it back up and to himself, wiggling further onto it, sighing happily. “No shot. Ah.” He smiles, eyes closed.

“What?”

“Smells like you, s’all.”

Benny’s face warms almost painfully. He treks back for the bags and starts hefting them. As he gets to his bedroom door, Maran sprints off the couch, tumbling beside him. They share a look—Maran, excited, Benny, humored—and then he opens the door.

He’s surprised Maran doesn’t launch at the bed immediately and spread out and seduce him right then and there. Instead, he steps inside and spins around like he had in the kitchen and the living room. He walks to a wall and touches a poster that’s fraying and curling around the thumb tacks at the edges. He stops in front of a dresser, piled with things, a baseball bat leaned against it. He opens the closet and looks inside, finds the mess that Benny puts there instead of clothes. He makes his way over to the small excuse for a desk where magazines are spread out, a journal that he doesn’t poke through, but instead closes respectfully.

Maran pauses at the window and stares at the pigeon hooting there.

“Th-There’s sunflower seeds,” Benny says, pointing to his desk. “In the drawer.” Instead of feeding the bird, Maran turns around and walks back to Benny. His eyes are shiny at the edges, even though he’s smiling. Benny scratches the back of his neck awkwardly and then flicks the light switch off and points to the ceiling. Milky white stars explode across the ceiling from wall to wall.

“Oh?” Maran says it like theres something caught in his throat.

“Yeah, I—uh, I tried to m-map some of my favorite constellations. I know it’s l-lame, but I didn’t want you to be surprised when—” Benny squawks when he’s suddenly scooped up into an embrace. It’s so hard and swift for a moment, all he can do is blink until he feels Maran’s chest shaking against him. “Mar, are you fucking crying?”

“No!” Maran laughs, but it does sound notably wet. His face is buried into Benny’s neck, his arms squeezing a little harder. His breath is warming, tickling. Benny has to laugh just to keep himself sane, cupping the back of Maran’s head, soothing it down his neck, over his shoulder. “No—s’just the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, Ben. The cutest, I’m serious. I love it. I want you to tell me them. Alright? Tell me which is which. Tell me their names.”

There’s a distant memory that threatens the edge of Benny’s vision; a grown man kicking a stolen textbook from a little boys hands, drunk laughter, boot stomping on illustrations of space nebulae, galaxies, stars, crying. Who gives a shit? Who? You think you’re so smart? And above that, Maran’s callused fingers brushing the space between Benny’s shirt and the edge of his jeans, a touch so gentle it feels like it has to be misguided. So soft and tender, while his head stays tilted back, staring at the stick on, glow in the dark stars. Benny clears his throat and takes Maran’s hand and leaves his room.

—

“Coney Island is a tourist trap,” Benny explains while the subway car sways around them. “You’re going to love it.”

Maran sits with a map on his lap. He studies it with a pinched, concentrated expression. Turns it this way and that, freckles crinkled prettily across his wrinkled nose. Benny stands. Deliberately. He stands in front of Maran, a hand holding the top rail. Feet slightly spread, other hand lingering lightly in his bomber jacket, wrapped around his keys. An elbow could easily become a weapon, a sharp bone to the point of someone’s nose—quick too, if anyone were to approach them from behind. Maran is shrouded safely by the curve of Benny’s body in front of him, nearly closing him off from everyone else. He’d objected at first (“I have taken public transport, y’know.”) but given up when he realized there were some things Benny simply did not budge on.

Maran’s knees brush his own occasionally as the subway map is perused, a cute pink tongue tucked between teeth.

“Wish Xavier were here,” he sighs. Cold jealousy fills Benny up to the brim for a moment, before Maran exhales once more and begins to shove the map into his back pocket. He has to lift his hips to get to it, drawing Benny’s eyes to a sliver of exposed brown skin. “He’s just better at those, yeah? Crazy good memory. Does Boston have subways like this, then?” The jealousy drains as quickly as it had come on, a feeling of intense affection replacing.

“Nothing compares to the NYC su-subway.”

“Smells a bit.” Maran’s grin is wicked and sly. He crosses his arms over his chest, legs kicked out between Benny’s shins. “Any part of New York smell good?”

“Y-You’re gonna eat your fucking words, Mar.” Benny leans down, half menacing, half affectionately. And despite the rather full train they ride, he gives Maran a gentle kiss to the corner of his lips and when he withdraws, is pleased to find that sly grin turned bashful and soft.

—

Coney Island is, as promised, a place for tourists. Benny never planned on taking Maran anywhere that would appear on a ‘Fifteen Must Sees in NYC!’ article online. He’d planned the pizza place he’d gone to his entire life growing up, the library that had been his safe haven, the small parts that made New York big for Benny; but Coney is different. Times Square could burn for all Benny cared, but an amusement park would come alive under Maran’s eyes. And it does.

There is something near magical about the experience of watching someone else experience something for the first time. Maran’s excitement begins in his hands, which raise involuntarily into the air in front of him. Continues to his eyes, that are bright and starry under the neon park lighting. His shoulders bunch, his mouth slackens and then—he turns to Benny and grabs him by the biceps, asking; what first, I want to try a corn dog, can we play that punching game, look at the size of the fucking drink, Ben, I love this place.

And as he enjoys it—as he eats a greasy plate of funnel cake and finishes it off with a slurp from a fizzy drink—as Maran plays a GUESS YOUR WEIGHT game and comes off looking sheepish—as he dodges around authentic New Yorkers that don’t move out of the way for anyone—and as he slings his arm around Benny’s waist and tucks himself closer and smells like sugar and the sea directly beside them and looks at him with those big, beautiful brown eyes and steals a kiss, all Benny is thinking is; I love you.

So Coney Island is worth it.

“And you!” A man in front of a game yells into his bedazzled microphone, pointing directly at Maran. “And do you think you have what it takes to conquer the Kong?”

“Conquer the what?” Maran sputters, laughing, near drunk off the food and the energy. The sun’s dwindled to absolutely nothing, painting the sky black with not a single star. It’s gotten cold enough that Benny’s jacket has switched to Maran and it hangs off slightly loose around his shoulders. He tosses the empty soda (his third) into a nearby overstuffed waste bin. Benny catches him by the elbow.

“It’s a s-scam, Mar.”

“Aw, sounds like someones been bested by the Kong before and can’t handle the embarrassment of it all!”

“You throw b-baseballs at King Kong as he climbs the Empire State Building,” Benny explains, even as he’s tugged closer to the game. It’s lit up dramatically, prizes hung around the foundation. The game master sits on a stool, looking smug about his antics; he’d managed to mark Maran fairly easily. Benny has grudging respect for con artists. It was a living. “Except, you’re n-never gonna knock Kong off.”

“A sore loser and a liar!” The man announces into his microphone, voice bellowing eagerly. A gaggle of college aged girls laugh behind them, stumbling together. They hoot encouragement as Maran picks up a baseball and he flushes under their attention. Benny doesn’t have it in him to be bitter; the flush makes him look sweet and youthful.

“Hey, hey! Money first, man.”

Benny slaps a ten dollar bill onto the counter, leaning against it. He levels a flat, arctic gaze on the owner, who clears his throat and looks to Maran. As he does, Benny notices the oversized, floppy eared rabbit stuffed animal, hanging haphazardly by the top of the game. As anything rabbit theme tends to do, it makes Benny smile. Just an upturn of the corner of his mouth. But Maran notices Benny noticing and Benny then realizes that nothing will stop Maran from attempting to win the damn thing. It tilts something in him for a moment, a strange off balanced feeling.

It’s a slim role reversal for the night; Maran’s chivalrous side, his charming side, his boyfriend side. Benny has to hide his smile into his shoulder, sunglasses nearly falling from the top of his head.

It does not stop Maran from losing.

“What the fuck?” he throws hands into the air, as the last baseball disappears. Kong remains on the skyscraper, red eyes blinking, a guttural laugh track playing behind the electronic music pumping from the tinny speakers. “Mad. I hit it like four times!”

“Scam,” Benny reminds him, winding arms around Maran’s waist. The girls had disappeared after realizing that Maran and Benny were not friends prowling the amusement park together. They’d been cute, though; offering encouragement, complimenting Maran’s accent, rambling on the sidelines and one had even inquired on Benny’s tattoos.

“Bastard,” Maran mumbles. He pauses, rocking on his heels, giving Benny a brief look from under his lashes. “Why don’t you try?”

“Scam,” Benny repeats.

“Right, well.” A warm brown hand slowly brushes up and down Benny’s arm. There’s a gentle squeeze to his bicep (and that squeeze feels transplanted straight to Benny’s cock when Maran is looking at him the way he is). “Wouldn’t mind watching you throw a baseball for a bit, even if we can’t win.” There’s actually no world where Benny would deny that stroke to his ego, so he slaps another bill onto the counter right away.

Of course there’s no winning. But Benny supposes it isn’t about winning.

He’d played baseball as a kid, in his neighborhood borough. As kids did. He was never that good at it, but it wasn’t about being good, just like the game isn’t really about winning. It was, for him, at that tender age, about not being home. It was about being with friends and feeling alive for a brief moment of time between the spaces where he wanted to die as a child. The grit of the baseball feels nice under his fingers. He realizes, in that moment, it’s been a very long time since he woke up wishing he hadn’t.

It would be a startling enough thought if Maran wasn’t already making him jump—his hand lashing out to snatch the rabbit off the clip and run.

“Hey! Hey—you fucker! You get back here, you fucking British fuck!”

“Oh fuck! Oh! Fuck!” Maran’s collapsing on himself laughing, scrambling through the crowd as Benny follows and they’re not too far a distance away to realize the game master hadn’t actually run after them. One rabbit was not worth abandoning his entire stall. They collide together, the laughter cackling in the air around them, hands grabbing at each other. They bump against a storefront, giggling and jostling the prize between them. Benny feels like a kid again, for a moment, a kid in the soft space of safety and excitement, an immortal feeling that stretches out endless.

“You f-fucking thief,” Benny squeaks between a laugh, grabbing the rabbit from Maran and holding it aloft. “Oh, yo-you’re getting kicked back to Liverpool, baby. The police are on their way.”

“Take me,” Maran intones dramatically, hands lifted, wrists together. “A crime of passion, officer. I needed that rabbit. See how happy it’s made my boyfriend?” His lips slip into a dizzied smile at the word, freckles bunching around his cheeks. Makes himself happy just to say it and Benny feels floored by that. He tucks the rabbit under his arm and cups a hand behind Maran’s neck, pulling them close. He doesn’t know the time, it’s slipped away entirely. Could be midnight, could be four AM.

“Only place I’m taking you is home.”

— TWO DAYS BEFORE THE END OF TOUR —

“Hey.”

“J!”

Isaac’s voice cuts through the chatter of the bar. The noise dies entirely as Benny manages to get outside, shouldering through a group of men who give him nasty stares but don’t actually start anything.

The tour bus sits at an awkward angle, propped up on the strangest (and probably strongest) looking jack he’s ever seen. The tire had blown in a dramatic way, but since there were so many other tires, no accidents had actually happened. They’d limped to the side, the entire beast of the tour derailed. Xavier sits with a group of specialized mechanics as they peruse the line of back tires—he’s utterly comfortable with them. Benny can hear his loud laughter, even as Happy stands at the back looking like a blot of misery with a credit card.

At least they’d landed at a place with alcohol so half the crew could wet their tongues while the other half entertained themselves in the parking lot. Maran was part of that entertainment, skateboard out, teaching Mouse tricks. He holds her by the waist as she attempts to stabilize, the board slipping out from under her endlessly. Nomi’s laugh is distinct, a loud snort that echoes and makes Maran puffed up with importance.

For Benny, this was a long time coming conversation that seemed as perfect as any other time to have.

“How’s th-the play?”

“Oh shut up, you hate theater.” Isaac’s voice is soothing in it’s familiarity, in the way it’s rooted to Benny’s very childhood. Some of the first memories he has and doesn’t hate, include a child like version of that voice. And while, once upon a time, hearing Isaac had only made him end the phone call in tears, now his steps are light and excited as he gets behind the bar. A lonely, flickering flood light is his only company as he leans against the brick wall. A dumpster manages to make everything smell acrid and sour. His heart still races.

“Dunno. Midsummer is gay. I like th-the gay ones.”

“All theater is gay. It’s theater,” Isaac drawls. Benny can hear his cast mates in the background, just as loud as the bar had been. There’s a rustling noise and then it’s silent over the line except for Isaac clearing his throat. “Stop stalling. Tell me about him.”

Most would describe Benny as quiet, if they were strangers. He often elected not to talk in front of groups; half out of fear and half out of shame. Fear that everything would go wrong, shame for the fear itself. Shame again, for the stutter he could never go more than a few sentences without. And even those that knew Benny, were aware of how easy it was for him to let conversation roll around him instead. But faced with Isaac, it’s easy to talk. It’s easy to suddenly spill everything he’s thinking.

“Isaac, I’m—I’m fucking doomed, man.”

“Oh, fuck?”

Benny laughs, sliding a hand across his forehead, letting the back of his head hit the wall. His breath catches in the air, dissipating into the night. He closes his eyes.

“He’s s-so good. He’s so sweet and—and just fucking kind. God, you’d fucking love him, Isaac. He’s funny, he’s hilarious.”

“Exact opposite of you.”

“Fuck you.” Benny pauses, chewing at his lip. “I can tell he’s sort of lonely too. You know? That uh, th-that lonely that’s underneath it all. That you’re trying to hide so no one notices and c-calls you on it.” Isaac hums and doesn’t interrupt even as Benny lingers in silence for a moment. He thinks of Maran, thinks of that big, sweet smile and how it’ll slip infinitesimally if no ones looking directly at him. “It feels crazy t-talking to him, just never running out of shit to say. You’re right, exact opposite. F-Feels like we have nothing in common. Except music.”

“Tupac fan?”

“Shut up,” Benny laughs, but it’s a vulnerable sort of sound, softer than it usually is. “We spent an h-hour reading th-the endings to scary movies he doesn’t want to watch. Fucking adorable. Squeamish. Doesn’t wanna s-see them, but can’t help but wanna know. I think he l-liked scaring himself so I’d sleep in his cot with him. Do I sound stupid right now?”

“No,” Isaac answers quickly and Benny strives to hear any dishonesty. It isn’t there. He settles down onto his haunches, phone crooked in between his ear and shoulders, arms resting on his knees.

“And he’s beautiful.”

“Oh yeah?”

Benny closes his eyes again, shifting a hand through messy blond hair.

“He’s s-so beautiful. He’s got these freckles. On his face and his knuckles. On his fucking knees. And the most amazing arms. I mean, muscular a-and soft—that combination. And his skin is so smooth. He’s so cute, but he’s also so—so fucking sexy.” And his mouth, Benny wants to add. His mouth, the shape of his lips, the warmth of it, the way his tongue tastes, the way he moans into kisses like they’re as good as orgasms. Benny pauses to stare at a drip coming off the dumpster.

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Twenty-six!”

“It’s not that young,” Benny mumbles defensively, voice thick and gravelly. “I was thinking…” He waits for Isaac to make a quip; to tell him ‘thats rare!’ or to laugh, or to stop him. But he doesn’t. There’s an infinite patience on the other end of the line, a love that is eternal and now wholly platonic and entirely too supportive. Benny digs his fist into his eye, loosing a shaky breath.

“W-Would you maybe—if y-you can—save us a seat for your play? He’s gonna be with me for a few weeks.”

There is a swell of silence. The dripping from the garbage seems unfairly loud. Benny’s knuckle presses just a bit harder into his eye.

“You’ve literally never introduced a single person you’re dating to me.”

“I know.”

“Like ever.”

“Well. So-sometimes it’s awkward, because you’re technically someone I dated.”

Isaac sighs and it crackles over the phone. Benny presses it to his forehead. He tries to breathe deeply, but his lungs fill with the scent of refuse from the bar and he coughs a few times to clear it. Isaac is still quiet for a moment longer, before his soft laugh makes every part of Benny relax.

“I’ll get you tickets.”

Benny jumps to a stand when the subject of the conversation rounds the corner. His big eyes searching, face plastered with worry until he sees Benny. And then—like he always does—Maran bursts into an ecstatic smile. The spill becomes an incessant drizzle and they’re both fascinated, watching as an entire bags worth of liquid spills out onto the ground, shiny like an oil patch. Benny dances away from it, slinging an arm around Maran and pulling him back as well.

“J? Hey, man, you there?”

“Yes!” Benny yells into the phone, Maran glancing and—

“Oh, sorry! I was lookin’ for you, Xavier almost got crushed by the tour bus, fuckin’ believe that? So Benji’s proper mad now and—Oh, sorry, right, phone call! Phone call, right!” Maran does a hop around him, further from the spilling unknown substance, his hands still smoothly cupped over Benny’s ribs.

“Oh, wow. Christ. He does sound cute.”

“Thank you!” Benny yelps into the phone. Maran covers his mouth with both hands, eyes innocently wide as he takes a few steps back. He peels away those freckled, beautiful hands and mouths ‘sorry’. He’s grinning so hard it’s almost unreadable. “I’ll—uh, I’ll c-call you back. Later.”

“Much later, probably.”

“Yeah.”

“Love you, J.”

Benny, standing there, feels lighter than he ever has. His world feels bright and strange and beautiful; garbage spill not withstanding. He smiles at Maran, who ducks his head, rocks on his heels and glances around the building to wherever the chaos is. Benny, smiling, says to his best friend, “You too.”

— NOW —

However small the apartment is, it suddenly feels that much smaller now. The red number on the oven blinks rapidly, 3:12 AM. There’s a pot sitting on a barely working eye, clean but never having made it from sink to proper place. The ambient droning sound of the heater, pumping lukewarm air that poorly circulates rumbles in the background. Benny’s hands sweat, tingle at the tips of his fingers. He feels oddly exposed without his jacket, his arms bare of anything but tattoos.

The rabbit gets placed onto the couch amongst the blankets and the pillows. It’s ears are so top heavy that it immediately falls over. Benny can already tell it will become a permanent fixture. That if a fire broke out, he would be saving his extensive paperback collection and that fucking rabbit.

Maran retreats back into the kitchen, where Benny waits for him.

“Are you tired?” he asks, his voice curling at the question underneath his question. Do you want to go to bed? Bed with me, maybe? His eyes are round and bright, not a hint of sleepiness. For a brief second Benny is stunned Maran is really there, in his messy apartment, three in the morning, and asking if Benny wants to fuck him.

“Maran, I…” he trails off, searching for words that don’t come to him. The inside of his head feels similar to Coney Island; too many lights on with nothing of actual substance. It feels like a con artist; he feels like this might have been a mistake. Not this, nothing about Maran, being here, three in the morning, stolen rabbit stuffed animal on the couch, could be a mistake. But this—this waiting. Building it up to something special—but could it be special, like this? Like Maran was a boy he’d smuggled away for one thing and one thing only. There’s a screw in Benny’s chest, tightening, pinning him to the floor.

Maran doesn’t say anything. Blessedly, he doesn’t say anything. He lets things rearrange in Benny’s frantic head space, until it has no choice but to calm. 

“I don’t w-want you to think,” Benny starts. He glances around his tiny kitchen. He forces himself to continue. “I didn’t bring you h-here just to have sex.” He leans with a hand on his counter and regrets the mess. The old mail piled up, a science magazine that he’d embarrassingly put sticky notes and tabs in, the numerous take out menus that he cycles through when he’s here alone. Maran stands at the opposite end of the kitchen, which is not a long distance, but he still feels far away.

There’s more silence, and that starts to feel less like Maran is giving him space and more like something is wrong. Until Maran’s fingers start fidgeting with the zipper on his stolen jacket. He’s glancing around, eyes roving the disarray of the apartment he’d already examined. He’s trying to fight a grin on his face, which makes Benny’s heart warm into a new sort of rhythm, something hard. Something that pulses. When Maran finally does get the zipper, he pulls it down in a way that looks agonizingly attractive. The layer peels away, making Benny’s mouth go dry.

“Uh,” Maran starts and then laughs. “What if we did have sex, though?” His smile is so sweet, so inviting and so pretty that the mail under Benny’s hand scatters. He takes the three short steps between them in one single stride and catch’s Maran’s face to kiss him.

—

They crash into the bedroom together in a tangle of limbs and kisses. Clothes getting jerkily discarded, yanked and thrown away. They’re both bare chested, and that cute belt Maran wears has been torn clean off and tossed aside. Benny shoves hard until Maran is back against the wall, a soft sound leaving him as he connects. The lights haven’t been turned on yet, just the dull stars above them and a never ending neon light outside the window illuminating the room. Maran makes sounds that he tries to bite off at the ends, his head thrown back as Benny descends his chest, leaving bites and kisses.

When he makes it to his knees, Maran is gasping, hands threaded into his hair.

“Wait—Ben.”

The pause is so immediate he feels shaky with it. Like driving for hours on end and finally stepping out of a car, body still reeling with the momentum of moving, never stopping. Benny kneels there, hands on Maran’s jean clad thighs, staring up at him. It’s too dark to see his expression, so he slaps at his wall until he finds the switch and the room bursts alight.

Seeing Maran’s smile makes the nervous part of his rabbity heart slow.

“Okay?” Benny checks, hands making soft movements up and down Maran’s thighs.

“Yeah—Oh, no, yeah—better than,” Maran laughs, brushing a free strand of blond hair out of Benny’s face. His fingers curl, touching more, brushing over the bridge of his nose, over a cheekbone, down to his lips. Maran’s face has gone pinkish and sweet. “Just…like, if you do that…feels really good and…” He breaks off his sentence, mouth tilting awkwardly. “I’ll cum too fast, Ben. Don’t wanna end it early, s’all.”

The radiator gurgles in the corner of the room. Benny continues kneeling, staring up at Maran, who has now started petting back those loose strands of blond hair. His smile is curved anxious and sweet and Benny realizes that Maran’s never been with a man before, but he also has never really enjoyed himself before. No, Maran’s had sex and he’s liked it and he’s probably had plenty of fun but it all ended there, didn’t it? That he cums once and everything is wrapped up, neat and tidy. Benny tilts his head, a meanness to his features then.

He slinks a finger into Maran’s waist band, languidly running his finger underneath it. He listens to the sharp inhale it elicits. It makes him smile, narrow his eyes.

“Sex doesn’t end after you cum once, Maran,” he says, voice breathy and low as the boxers are peeled further down. He exposes dark pubic hair, a smattering of freckles on a hip bone that he wants to kiss with tongue. He keeps pulling, revealing the prize his mouth wants. Maran’s hard cock threatens to hypnotize him, to silence whatever he was saying so it can be in his mouth, on his tongue. Benny remains on his knees, looking up as Maran’s eyes dilate further and further. As his hands fight to remain steady, holding Benny’s cheeks. “I’m going to make you cum as many times as I can tonight—might even make it hurt a little.”

He isn’t sure if the whimper is for the statement, or because he punctuates it by wrapping lips around the head of Maran’s cock.

—

For Benny, foreplay had always been some of the most enjoyable parts of sex. There was something about himself he never denied, a pleasure that derived from someone else’s pleasure being center. Benny could leave himself untouched entirely, could simply watch someone else come undone over and over; he’d like there to be tears and writhing and begging. He’d like it to be messy and lengthy and for the shuddering end release to be loud. It’d be enough for him, it’d feel just as good as if it were done to himself.

Maran stumbles through the foreplay, unused to being on the receiving end. He lets Benny direct him, glossy eyed with happiness to be free of decisions. Benny arranges him on the bed, puts him on his stomach, crooks one of Maran’s legs up and fucks him with his tongue. Maran pants and squirms and bites into Benny’s pillow in an attempt to stop the sobbing noises of excitement; lets himself slip a few high whimpered moans when fingers join tongue and he’s cumming hard, for the second time. Once in Benny’s mouth and now again on the bed.

“Sorry about the bed sheets,” he pants, voice shaky.

“I don’t give a fuck about these sheets,” Benny grunts, leaving a trail of kisses from the delicious curve of Maran’s ass to the top of his shoulder. “Get on your back.”

When he does, everything stops. The momentum up until then had been frantic and fast and hungry; there’d likely be little finger print sized bruises on Maran from how hard he’d been pulled around, how his thighs had been parted roughly for Benny’s mouth. The excitement in Benny’s hands had translated to holding hard and watching Maran’s cheeks bloom with color and his eyes brim with pleasure. Now, with Maran under him, everything seems too real. Too present. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling, his pretty lashes wet.

“Good?” Benny asks. He slips hands down Maran’s body, tucking them around his thighs, moving them closer.

“Yes,” Maran answers quickly, head bobbing. Benny takes his chin in his hand, holding it. Not roughly, not as hard as before, but firm. He leans in, their faces close. Maran rises, as if for a kiss, but Benny holds him still.

“Good?” he repeats, staring down into gorgeous brown eyes, deeply pooled with lust and happiness and fucking love. It’s too hard to meet Maran’s gaze, to see all that reflected, but he does anyway. He stares and feels Maran’s chest heaving, feels his cock hardening for a third time against his own stomach. The excitement thrumming through Maran feels electric where parts of them touch and there’s few parts of them left not touching.

“So good,” Maran replies in a breathy, throaty voice that makes Benny wish he’d let himself cum at least once. He’s smiling as he’s reaching for his bedside table, barely looking, fingers scrabbling to find the little plastic square he’s looking for. As he does, Maran lifts himself boldly, captures him in a kiss. And it’s a good kiss because Maran’s a good kisser, leaving Benny breathless, making him groan, making him use his other hand to push the boy flat on his back.

When he’s located the condom—finally, after many small interrupting distractions from Maran’s lips—he leans back on his knees.

“Oh.”

“What?” Benny gets the corner between his teeth, ripping.

“Well,” Maran drags the word out, laughing. He rests his hands slightly above his head, displaying the generous curves of his biceps. Benny drinks in the site of him, hungry and angry all at the same time. There’s bruises already forming from hard sucked hickies at his throat and pecs. He works the condom free from the package. “I mean, we don’t have to use one, right?”

Benny pauses then, staring down at him. Maran squirms, hips lifting, their cocks rubbing together for a moment so brief it feels almost painful instead of pleasurable.

“Not like I can get pregnant, Ben.” His following laugh is sweet, his smile pretty and his eyes glassy with mischief. In the space of a second Benny allows himself to recognize what Maran is implying and then imagine it. He thinks of Maran’s knees to his chest, of fucking into him like a mad person, until his thighs are sore with the force of his thrusts. His mind wanders to the delectable vision of filling Maran, to breeding him into the fucking bed like he’s asking.

Benny has to blink a few times to make himself see clearly.

“It’s easier for clean up,” he explains. Then he winds a hand around Maran’s throat, stopping whatever next bratty, seductive thing he’d say before it can drive Benny into a frenzy. Instead, he places the condom in Maran’s hand, grinning ear to ear in a way that makes Benny’s face look like a knife’s edge. “Put it on for me.” He’s rewarded with a deepening blush on Maran’s cheeks, the color dark and red underneath his pretty freckles. Benny stays hovering, hands on either side of him, indenting the bed with his weight.

There’s something deeply erotic about watching Maran fumble a bit with it. Not just that it feels good—hands on his cock, always feel good—but the newness of it. The way Maran’s fingers stumble through rolling the condom down. Benny watches with shark hungry eyes as he lingers, fingers brushing the spider underneath his belly button. And then he’s laying there, ready for it.

And underneath the excitement is a nervousness. His smile flickering, eyebrows tucking upward. Maran’s hands lift, awkward in their movement, almost jerky.

“Dunno where to put these,” he mumbles.

Benny could tell him anywhere because Maran could touch him in any place and it would feel like heaven, like a gift. But Benny knows that Maran isn’t asking where, he’s saying, please. Please, tell me what to do. I want to be told what to do. So Benny takes one of his hands and softly tucks it behind his neck, where fingers will splay across a font tattoo of the word PAIN. He takes Maran’s other hand and guides it to his lower back, feeling fingers pressing lightly.

There’s more lube, generously added.

The press of himself into Maran is almost too much at first. The tight warmth, the body underneath him going tense, a heavy, shaky exhale. A hand at his neck, the other at his back, points of encouraging pressure and then Benny is momentarily absolutely lost in the sensation of penetration. Synapses firing on high, calf muscles bunching, his teeth snapping together. He puts his face into Maran’s neck, groaning with the base pleasure of it all; the relief of it, like being thirsty for so long and finally having a glass of ice water, sweating with condensation.

It’s slow at first, which is good. Is so good. The drag and the warm friction, feeling every inch of Maran. The desire to possess him feels so overwhelming that it becomes a physical need, the thrusting becoming harder at the mere thought of it. Mine, a chanting pulse in his brain. Mine, mine, mine—and his obsessive desire must reflect not just in the way he bites into Maran’s shoulder, but something he says. It makes Maran whimper (“yes”) and roll his body upward.

And then it stops being something slow and starts becoming something searingly passionate and hard. Benny gathers Maran’s legs closer, hooking an arm under one of his knees. Sweat slides down his back as Maran’s hand does the same, digging blunted nails into his skin. His thrusts then are snapping, are almost a mean tempo. It’s obscene, to watch himself, to see the shine of lube on his cock as his body pounds back and forth. Maran’s hands scramble for anything to hold onto. His head tosses to the side, mouth slack and open and wet and inviting and pretty.

“Knew you’d look good like this,” Benny grunts, pulling Maran’s lifted leg closer. “Taking it hard. Good boy.”

Glossy brown eyes swim to meet his own frozen stare. Maran’s flushed across his face, down his neck, sweat gathering in the hollow of his throat like a treat that should be savored, licked. Benny’s hand gropes forward across his chest, squeezing hard around his pec and making Maran whimper. He bites his plush lip, his hand frantic to hold onto Benny’s wrist. Not to move it away, but to keep it there. He’s trembling, cock bouncing on several hard thrusts, cum leaking onto his stomach.

“That’s it,” Benny groans, dropping the leg he’s been clutching, bearing his weight forward. Maran’s voice goes higher then than it has the entire night, a strangled sort of moan, head thrown back on the pillow. The desire to make Maran cum again, to make him cum with his own cock buried in him makes Benny feel maddened. He grits teeth together, concentrated, his hand sliding across Maran’s beautiful brown stomach, feeling the tackiness of cum already there.

Maran gasps at the pressure of Benny’s palm, his legs twitching as they lock around pale hips. His hands scramble and hold onto anything they can find.

“Oh fuck, Ben,” he manages in a raspy voice. “When you touch there, I can feel your—”

“Maran,” Benny moans, frantically shoving fingers into his mouth. He laughs around the digits, a wet, pleasured laugh. His body is shuddering. His eyes are shut, little tears at the corners pretty like gems. “Don’t fucking say that.” Benny’s thrusts become a frenzied, quick thing then, everything driven out of him. He can’t keep any sort of rhythm, his mind blank except for repeating those words over and over, when you touch there, I can feel, when you touch there, I can feel—

And then Maran’s teeth graze Benny’s fingers and he whimpers and his hand shoots down between them. He doesn’t need encouragement, but Benny talks him through it anyway, eyes watching as Maran’s cock twitches and jerks in his grasp. Maran jerks himself to a fast paced finish. His entire body shivering underneath him. He makes whimpering sounds and Benny removes his hand to be able to hear them better, fingers wet with Maran’s spit. He grins as he puts them into his own mouth, watching Maran’s face tremble, slack jaw and beautiful.

Benny’s own end takes him by surprise, punching through his stomach and making him go rigid. He holds Maran by the back of the neck, body arched as he cums. It leaves stars in his visions, like the ones on his ceiling. It makes him feel depleted in every way, drained of energy and everything coherent. He drops onto Maran, their chests sliding together. Sweat and cum makes them messy, but none of it matters. Face tilted, he stares at Maran, who stares back at him.

They stay like that.

Maran cups Benny’s cheek and leans in. It’s not a kiss; they’re both too exhausted for it. But their lips brush regardless, a shared breath between them. He can feel the callus on the tip of Maran’s finger, where it’s built from playing guitar over the last year. Benny closes his eyes, smiling because he knows that touch now, he has it memorized and it will always be his.

—

Ben, are you awake?

Mm.

Sorry, I thought you were.

Hm?

You’re talking in your sleep.

About?

Said somethin’—like scared, maybe. Dunno, sounded worried. Sorry.

Mm.

Are you scared?

Maran, I love you. Go back to sleep.

Oh!

—

There’s a strange, familiar ache in his abdomen and his legs when Benny wakes up. He comes to, blinking, vision obscured by the pillow he’s face down in. It’s cold, his shoulders exposed, blanket low on his back. Benny groans, searching for it, to pull himself underneath it’s warm safety. Instead, his hand lands on skin. Smooth, warm skin.

He sits up, staring down as Maran stares up at him.

“Mornin’,” he says, in a cheery voice. His phone sits on his chest; Maran looks wide awake, as though he has been for hours. And probably has, knowing him. Benny doesn’t know what time it is, won’t know until he finds wherever the fuck he’d left his phone last night, but he can tell it’s early. The sounds of morning traffic are muffled outside his window, someones car alarm already blaring, an ambulance wailing. Two pigeons have gathered now, a tale of sunflower seeds clearly having spread.

“Watching me sleep?” Benny’s voice is raspy and low, rumbling out of him. Maran’s cheeks go pink.

“Was not.” He rolls onto his side as well, phone sliding and getting lost amongst the blanket and the sheets. He doesn’t seem to care as he inches himself closer. He looks tormentingly beautiful in the yellow morning light. There’s a bruise on his collarbone, in the shape of Benny’s mouth. He smells like sex, the tang of it arousing. He’s grinning, bashful and sly as he slinks closer and closer, until they’re up against each other. His hand moves over Benny’s side. Pauses on a tattoo he likes, trailing fingers over it. Benny wants to grab him, wants to tell him how insane he feels.

He wants to scream it; he wants to say I love you so much I would fucking kill someone for you, I would literally do anything for you, do you know how much I love you, you can’t begin to fucking believe how much I love you, you’re mine, mine, mine.

Instead he yawns, tucking a lazy arm around Maran and scooping him close.

They lay together for a while, in the morning light and the cold of his apartment. Everything feels very distant, the idea of touring again, the band, even breakfast. Nothing seems to really matter, their bodies so close that their breathing becomes one inhale and one exhale. Benny can nearly feel himself dozing again, muscles finally relaxed and content.

“So, I was thinking,” Maran begins, nose nuzzling under Benny’s jaw. “I, uh, I’d really like to do that again.”

“Aren’t you f-fucking sore?”

“No.”

Benny’s hand sinks under the blankets, grasping the meat of Maran’s ass and squeezing. His lover gasps, bucking forward against him, ending it with a squeak.

“Right, well, a little sore.”

“You know what cures that?” Benny’s fingers slide, touching, teasing. Maran’s breathing quickens. “A shower.”

“Fuck you? Are you saying I smell?” Maran rears back, grinning, hands on Benny’s chest. In reply, they wrestle, laughing, Benny pinning the guitarist to the bed. He shakes him, puts his mouth to his skin, trails those kisses under Maran’s arm and into the sweet, concentrated smell of him. It makes Maran erupt into giggles, legs kicking the blankets off the bed. And finally they untangle, sufficiently warmed by each other.

It’s hard, watching Maran go, nude as he is.

But as the door to the bathroom closes behind him, Benny finally stands and scoops his phone from the floor. Their clothes are scattered everywhere, but he has a feeling they wont be getting dressed any time soon. Maybe for the entire day. He’d like that; the entire day, naked in his bed, Maran’s body pressed against his own.

Benny lays back down, a nervous energy propelling him forward. His chest feels tight and his breathing a little difficult as he opens the browser on his phone. His tongue sits awkwardly in his mouth, his thumbs pausing before typing into the search bar:

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