knownangels

[knownangels]

maslow's hierarchy

wc: 6.8k

Benji drags himself out of bed a moment before the alarm kicks off. 

By now, he’s developed somewhat of a sixth sense for certain happenings around base. It’s a sense that might, were the more superstitious recruits given a crack at describing it, be called preternatural. 

Lately those murmurs have picked up both in popularity and frequency; Benji likes that. It could be any number of things to thank for the increasing number of terrified soldiers bumbling out of his path, avoiding trips to medical. It could be Benson has resumed his charming habit of fabricated ghost stories about the resident medic. It could be Benji’s own doing, really: his recent predilection for hanging around the terrifyingly unpredictable corporal hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Whatever it is, Benji’s thankful. Any time another set of eyes pops wide and snaps away from his face, it’s like a needle has split his vein and shot something straight to his heart. Something that makes his head swim, something that blows his pupils wide, something that makes his mouth twist with pleased adrenaline. 

Something wicked nice, as the corporal might put it. 

*

 He takes his time meandering down to the clinic, where his on-call alarm had been directing him. Benji hadn’t been fortunate enough to be on the mission from which all the trembling, blood-soaked soldiers return. But his luck is good enough that there are a fat number of them, wet with fear’s sweat and stinking of that post-fight metallic tinge. 

He likes being there when it happens. Not just because a body will open in any number of interesting and memorable ways. Not just because they cry and scream out of fear and pain alike. Nah. Benji likes being there when it happens because inevitably, once the fog of sleepy shock passes, once they realize the predicament they’ve gotten themselves into with whatever nasty, painful misfortunate — 

They look at Benji. They know he’s there. Know why. Know that he holds, in eager glove-clad hands, the tools to fix them. To make it stop hurting.

(Whether he will or not is another story entirely.)

Benji likes watching the injured take that journey. It always plays out so obviously on their face as the path winds, tugs them along. This hurts, turns into someone help me, turns into oh fuck, not him, not him. Benji might not have their friendship. He might not have their trust. He certainly doesn’t have their loyalty. 

But he does have their reliance. Their need. To stop the bleeding, to close the wound, to make the pain stop. They fear him, but they need him — and Benji likes looking at a face and seeing need swiped across it like splatter. He likes it almost more than the fear.

*

The first injured mercenary he attends to is green. New enough that he doesn’t know any better. As Benji approaches the door, light gleaming through the cracks of the frame, he hears the soldier’s dismay. 

“Not him,” the mercenary is chanting, over and over. Pleading, really. He must have seen Benji’s name on his chart. New enough that he dodesn’t know better, but been here long enough to be warned. Maybe to hear a story or two. 

“Please, please. Not him. You can do it— right, Dr. Toussa—doctor? You can, can’t you? Please, man.”

“Mais no,” Nick responds, his familiar and even tone carrying through the crack in the door. He sounds amused. It’s nearly a laugh. “What a preposterous assumption, private. I will be retiring for the evening. Perhaps — oui. A nice glass of chardonnay awaits, I think. Une récompense, you see, pour mon travail acharné.“

Benji waits beyond the door, listening to the near-tearful begging of the injured soldier. The quiet shuffle of fabric as Nick undoubtedly removes his stark white coat, lays it carefully on the coat rack he keeps by the door. 

Which swings open. The arc throws just shy of the tip of Benji’s nose — only a few centimeters.

He doesn’t move.

“Ah.” Nick says, as congenially as he seems capable. “Bonsoir, Benji.” 

“Evenin’, Nick.” Benji tilts an imaginary hat. He feels his mouth already pulling into a grin. “Leave some for me?”

“And otherwise?” Nick chuckles. “Do labor of myself when you are so happy to help? Non.”

Despite the congeniality, despite Nick’s seemingly high spirits, despite Benji’s grin — the hallway is tense. Benji stands in front of him, short but broad. Unmoving. Arms tucked behind his back. 

Nick doesn’t move an inch, despite leaving medical with hastened steps. He doesn’t look to be in a hurry home any longer. He looks frozen. He looks careful.

Benji’s smile widens. After a beat, he moves to the left with a single sidestep. The hall now open to him, Nick moves as well. But like always, he rotates the parallel to Benji’s shoulders. Keeping them facing each other, eyes locked to his, grey-dotted jaw soft but shut. 

“Well, y’know how it is.” Benji tilts his head, showing teeth now. “You have to be real passionate in the healthcare industry, yeah.”

“Thankless work.” Nick agrees. He has begun to walk backwards, towards the exit at its far end. The stark red letters of the sign blink in a halo around his pale hair.

Benji clicks his tongue sorrowfully. He folds both hands over his heart. “Well, gosh. Thanks an awful much, doctor.” 

The moment hangs just one long, delightful silence longer. Then Nick tilts his chin (head tipping only enough to dip his nose, his eyes staying locked to Benji) and tips an invisible brim of his own. 

“Certainement. And, merci à toi, of course.” Nick takes another step. “Goodnight.” 

Benji smiles wider. For a split second, Nick begins to turn as if he intends on giving Benji his back. His steps stutter only that second, though. Benji has the pleasure of watching him twitch and still. Briefly. Almost impercitbly; Nick is more than that. Better than. 

But Benji notices. 

So Benji waits until Nick is halfway down the hall, halfway to putting Benji and the base in his rear view, to call out.

“Nicky.” He says, lifting his voice only slightly over the distance. “Is that what Margot used to call you?”

Nick stops walking abruptly.

He can’t tell if Nick swallows. If he has any sort of response to what is, as they both well understand, a cruel jeer despite Benji’s friendly tone. He doesn’t know if Nick fears him. He sort of doubts it. But what he does get, what he sees plain as day: 

Need. 

I need you to stop talking. Nick’s eyes say, boring into his like drills. I need to be away from you. I need a glass of wine. 

Benji’s wide smile twitches, as if it wants to pull wider. He likes the need.

“Oui.” Nick admits evenly. Barely three breathes have passed between them. “Sometimes.” 

“Well. Not anymore, anyway.” 

Benji waits a few breaths, too. Then he nods, smile tilting into an intrigued upside-down frown, and happily ducks into medical for his emergency shift. 

*

The blubbering private nearly pisses himself when Benji steps into his “room”. In reality, the curtain-separated cubbies are barely more than a gurney and what little equipment can be crammed into the space. For this unlucky bastard, it’s just Benji and his kit and his eager hands. 

Benji snaps gloves onto them as the new merc watches. His tan hands are white-knuckled on the edge of the gurney, fingers tight between the rungs as if he’s holding on to avoid being washed out to sea.

“I heard you talking to Dr. Toussaint about me.” Benji says, retrieving his suture kit and gauze. He holds the paper wrapped square up to the light, pretending to assess it for unsterile tears or rips. 

The soldier before him says nothing, but his breathing picks up. Any quicker, and the monitor’ll start going off. If he’s expecting Benji to lash out, or to hurt him, or do something worse like any number of the vile acts he’s committed in stories…he’s probably surprised by Benji’s careful, expert treatment. 

The wound on his leg is thoroughly cleaned, sterilized, and adequately closed up. Benji isn’t cruel for a second of it, although the desire to touch two centimeters deep in the split of red-weeping tissue sits fresh at the front of his brain. 

“I heard rumors.” The private brushes fingers against his thigh. He doesn’t sound terrified anymore. Maybe just a bit wary. 

“Most of you have.” Benji says. He turns with a shrug to pluck the gloves off and wash his hands. He closes the lid on the empty numbing syringe, tucks it dutifully into the sharps container, and does everything quick, correct, and by the book.

If not…uncharacteristically kind.

“Guess they’re wrong?” 

Benji turns and props himself against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. When the private’s eyes stray down, Benji corrects the expression on his face by making it softer. 

“Are you asking, or telling.” 

His nearly-silent words make the other soldier smile slightly. He leans forward, wound in his leg forgotten, fear put out back. 

“I guess I’m telling.”

Benji ducks his head, as if shy. “I’m not like that.” He asserts. He sounds how he ought to — kindly assertive, but not defensive; humbled, but hurt. He sounds like it bothers him, what people think. That it wounds him. 

“At least not that I’ve seen.”

Benji takes a step closer. The private doesn’t seem concerned by the fact that the door — his one escape — is now on the other side of the medic. 

“I just,” Benji says, dragging from the end of the gurney to close his palm lightly around the soldier’s gauzed thigh. “Really am fulfilled making people feel better again. Like…making them feel good.” 

The private smiles at him, eyelashes fluttering. 

Benji smiles back. Then he squeezes.

Hard.

*

But he goes back to his quarters alone. Worse, he goes back to his quarters unsatisfied. There was no nice throb in his gut, no half-hard tightness to his trousers, no telling flush or sweaty neck or arousal of any fucking sort. Usually, he wouldn’t be alone. The private was exactly the sort who accompanied him — scared but intrigued, confused about the source of their need. 

And yet Benji had sent him off practically with a lollipop. Sure, the reopening of the gash in his legs had hurt — if his soulful shriek of pain was anything to go by — but that’s where the evening had found its end. Not in more pain, or a kiss to along with it, or more on top. 

He could have added threats. Another welt to go with the seatbelt criss-crossing his chest. The wounds: blade to the thigh, stripe of red along his sternum; Benji’s teeth printing his neck. 

Except.

Benji goes back to his quarters alone. Nothing lingers with him about that night, about the treatments. Not even that sad little sound that he’d rung out as if from a rag. Benji’s usually all about those sounds. Pain or pleasure, they meant a job well done, that he’d accomplished either. It was do no harm, after all, not do no pain. 

As for pleasure?

*

Midnight creeps by. Then one, then two. He lays still, for the most part, the length of those hours before his patience (thin, already, the mood he’s in) snaps entirely.

Benji sits up with a snarl, legs hanging over the side of the bed. He scrubs at his eyes. He’s getting —he’s remembering — and there aren’t any lovely sounds or flashy colors or sticky, wet insides to dance in front of those memories. He’s stuck with them for the moment, faint and blurry but there nonetheless, fuck. 

And then— 

He hears a laugh resound the length of the hall. It’s peppy but full, a winding sort of off-key at the end. For each second that it echoes on, that sort from the sort of humor that shocked, Benji’s foot taps quicker. 

What’s so funny, corporal? He thinks. Benji is no stranger to venomous thoughts, but the bitterness layered in that surprises him. Who’s making you laugh? Tell them they’re late on their physical, hey? Send them down. I wanna hear the joke, too. 

Benji tosses himself back on the bed. His thoughts bump around together: collide, bounce away, overlap, muddy up. One of the only consistents is a mess of red hair. That laugh lingering. He imagines it as a creature attached inside his ear. 

Benji slips his hand down his chest. Rests it there, finger pressed into the divot of an old bullet graze across his pectoral. It presses slightly. On that particular spot of tough scar tissue, the touch causes a strange sensation he’s never found a similar feeling. It’s almost like an ache. Almost like a nerve was reattached wrong in the healing process. Pressing down there makes something tug slightly beneath the skin, an almost hurt. 

Benji swallows and huffs out his air. Then he keeps the touch moving down. The slope of his stomach; hipbone; thigh. 

He’s quick about it. Or…it’s quick. He has a laugh stuck to the interior of his skull. The more he loses himself in the easy rhythm of his hand, eyes pinched shut so he can better connect to memory, the fainter that laugh gets. It turns instead to certain noises he’s heard before. Recently, in fact. The yelp from the soldier, he imagines as Xavier’s own higher whine. A little cry of pain, a swear or snarl with that messy accent. 

Benji imagines the heave of these noises in a warm chest. Skin under his palm. He imagines pressing down with his weight. Holding down. The stutter of the chest, a noise turned into a pitiful gasp for air.

In his mind, he lets up. The cruel — potentially lethal — fantasy lingers in the pricks of tears to green eyes, pinched-angry red nipples, a plummy bruise of incisors to his shoulder. But Benji feels the body beneath his pulls in a breath from that brief imagined mercy — 

Then he imagines it laughing. 

Holy shit, Xavier says in his head. That one kind of hurt. 

Benji’s — well. It’s quick, after that. 

*

The following week, Benji lingers after a briefing. The remainder of the company flow around him, trickling from the room like shadowy fish on a current. The number of soldiers at the base dwindles by day; they’re all aware of the ones who don’t come back from missions, who disappear after a meltdown by the commando, or leave in the middle of the night. Benji’d caught Tanaka at the far side just that Friday evening, shuffling some big-eyed redhead out a breach in the perimeter. He’d nudged her slightly behind him in some last-ditch show of heroics, but Benji had only shrugged and tapped his nose. 

His silence was another favor to collect on. Tanaka was smart enough to know it. 

Tanaka is also smart enough to pay little attention to Benji’s behavior. Their eyes briefly amongst the crowd, two pairs of dark pools magnetizing together before one bounces away. Always observing, that one. Benji was glad to have a pair of eyes when he’d need them, and even happier to know that Tanaka respected threats when they were given in earnest. Or implied. 

Benji gives him a cheeky little nod anyway. The other man disappears around the corner, a tail-end of the crowd of black uniformed bodies. And once everyone has gone, Benji goes back into the room. 

He knows Tanaka’s probably still waiting around that corner, protective but wary. 

I’m not gonna kick your dog, mate. Benji thinks as he strides across the room. Don’t you worry. 

His footfalls are quiet, but not silent. It doesn’t shock him to discover that the corporal is otherwise occupied, when he wrenches open the door to the meeting room’s supply attaché, as Nick calls them. Fucking supply closet, the rest.  

In the blurry darkness, Benji can make out the corporal’s tall form tucked into a corner. His back is to the door (sloppy), shoulders curled and head hung between them. Benji opens the door further;  light spills in near his boot. It does a wonderful job of illuminating, like a work of shadow art, the frantic movements of his wrist. But it also alerts Xavier to the fact that someone has discovered him in an incredibly compromising position.

Wouldn’t be the first time, Benji knows from rumor. It’ll have to be memorable. 

“Oh God,” Xavier whimpers, dropping his chin. He sees the yellow sliver of outside light and lets out a shocked yelp. “Don’t—“

Benji shuts the door behind him, casting them in pitch-black. Xavier stumbles, whirls around, shoots an arm out that nearly catches Benji in the face. He dodges it and then makes a guess whereabouts — 

“Jesus!” Xavier squeaks, making something fuzzy and predatory pound between Benji’s eyes. “I’m — I thought—“ 

“Relax.” Benji says, pulling himself towards Xavier with the grip he’s caught on his sleeve. His fingers trace up a slim wrist, find Xavier’s own palm. It’s slick and warm from arousal, the heat of his own body. 

“Just me.” 

Xavier goes quiet and then makes a similar sort of noise to just a moment prior. Except — hungrier. Weak. His big body sways towards Benji, an arm slinging around his shoulders. Xavier tucks his face almost immediately down, knocking their foreheads together. 

“In that case, I think it’s please don’t charge me with public indecency and more w-ooow you have such good timing.” 

Benji holds onto his forearm while Xavier leans back into the corner, his feet bracketing Benji’s boots and barely keeping himself upright. They knock together, one of the only indicators Benji has of their proximity. 

“You know people keep talking about the closet masturbator?”

Xavier freezes. His arm halts the lazy tug he’d taken back up. “They have?” 

“No.” Benji huffs after a beat. “But you fuckin’ believed me, huh. Nah, Xavier. Just saw you duck in here last week.” He leans in until he finds the coarse material of Xavier’s shirt. He tugs at the fabric with his teeth, then readjusts and catches skin with the next bite. Xavier squeaks again, then moans. 

“Oh. I—“

“Was doing this, huh?” Benji reaches between them to cover Xavier’s hand with his own. He squeezes. 

Hard.

 “Fuck.”

“Not quite. That what this is about, huh? You thinkin’ about it?”

“Yes.” Xavier admits. “I mean, no — it’s not what—“

“The sitrep, then?” Benji’s laugh is incredulously mean. “You get off going to boring ass meetings, Xavier — that’s fuckin’ pitiful.” 

He can’t see Xavier’s angry blush, his pinched expression of contrite, prissy annoyance. He wishes he could. But he can only feel the little throb in his hands, the way Xavier shuffles and tries to get closer even as he sounds angry.

“No, I am not fucking jacking it to the meeting, you asshole. God. You’ve done a lot of shit to me, but that insult might be..like, it.”

Benji squeezes him again, drags the touch along with Xavier’s hand upwards, trying to get his rhythm back. “You not feeling fulfilled, Xavier? Gotta come look for it among this lot? Two weeks in a row you come take care of it alone. That’s what you were doing last week, yeah? Not snortin’ blow or fucking around. You were alone.”

Xavier swallows audibly. His weak thrashes, his attempts at getting away — they halt. He makes a soft noise, and then those attempts redouble. Benji holds him still throughout the squirming. Benji allows it for a moment longer before switching both hands to Xavier’s biceps and firmly pinning him to the wall. 

He steps close enough that he knows the front of his shirt brushes up against very vulnerable skin. On cue, Xavier gasps and throws his head back with a resounding clang to the metal shelf behind him.

“Ah, fuck. You’re — you are awful close.” Xavier says nervously. He tries to move again. “I’m freaking out a little, here. I don’t like — it’s dark, this is a small —“ 

“Are you alone right now?” 

He imagines Xavier’s big, sweet eyes plink-plink together. 

“No.” The corporal breathes. He arches closer to Benji; his eyes haven’t adjusted to the light fully, but now he can make out Xavier’s towering silhouette before him.With his free hand, he reaches up to touch where Xavier’s mouth ought to be. Instead, they brush against a chin.

Benji adjusts and slips them inside, pressing and pulling down on Xavier’s tongue. 

“Were you last week?”

It sounds vitriolic. Angry. But Xavier doesn’t seem to mind the rough interrogation. 

“Yeah,” he admits. His own voice is shot through and rough with arousal. He sounds as though he’d been breathing hard right before Benji discovered him. He wonders how close the poor bastard is. How close he can get him, before he starts making more noises.

“You gonna be alone tonight?” 

Here, Xavier hesitates. Benji can tell there are eyes searching for his, even in the dark. 

“I don’t need to be.” Xavier finally settles on, the words hot around Benji’s fingers. He pulls them from Xavier’s mouth and curls a fist in his shirt. 

“Then you won’t.” He says. With a hard yank, Benji pulls their faces together. Expectedly, they collide off-course. He feels his gums split in his mouth, the taste of copper as his lip connects with Xavier’s jaw. 

From there, though, it’s not a difficult adjustment. Their mouths fit together, Xavier’s breathy noises intoxicating him from the inside out as he swallows them down with each kiss. 

When Benji thrusts a hand into his hair, Xavier’s chest heaves out of sync. 

“I’m going to —“

“No.”

Xavier’s mouth drops open against his cheek. He wails a little, clearly trying to keep his voice down. Benji dares anyone to come investigate those noises; he assumes that is what Xavier’s scared of, but he’d sooner kill than share those noises with another soul. 

“Not until you come see me tonight.” Benji purrs against his throat. He bites down, front teeth digging in to a sharp collarbone, and Xavier hiccups a telling sob. “No pun intended.” 

*

He makes it quick for Xavier. Or — it’s quick. 

He’s barely got his hand around that pale cock before Xavier’s breath hitches. The noises he lets loose are uncharacteristically quiet, few and far between. Benji gets a strange, crushing disappointment in his chest before he realizes why. 

When the orgasm passes, Xavier’s eyes flutter back from his skull and settle wetly on Benji. His hand strokes up and down Benji’s forearm, where a tendon is still taut from the firm grip he maintains. His breathing returns to normal, the heave of his chest all that remains of the particularly strong orgasm.

“Your hand felt too good,” Xavier whines this explanation, his tone sweet and sleepy and shy. Benji thinks back to the prior month, where he’d watch Xavier pummel a man to death. Until his teeth were stuck with blood, until the creature that lived in him shone out through his eyes. His stomach flips, but it’s an alien sensation he can’t compare to anything else — like the press of his thumb into that divoted scar.

*

Xavier is eager. He likes to play games when they’re fun and when they’re dangerous. It’s barely any work at all to get him to agree to the little wager Benji sets out, once they’ve both cum another time and have melded together sticky. Xavier agrees to his dare with an adorable, competitive snicker. 

“That’ll be easy,” he says, crossing an X over the left side of his chest with a finger. “With that reward? Pft. Not even a challenge.” 

But he doesn’t sound sure; Benji has been a first-hand witness to the ways that the corporal approaches sex: ready, willing, happy to be there and find attention lavished upon him. Even if however brief. Even despite Benji’s teasing of his appetite, his proclivities, his lack of will power when it came to getting himself off…Xavier simply smiles at him, head cocked and eyes glinting. 

Can touch yourself ‘til we see each other again, but not finish. I’ll handle it for you, if you can —but I bet not. 

“How long will you be gone” is only a question Xavier thinks to ask after he’s agreed to the terms of the dare. And when he sees the smug, victorious look on Benji’s face — well. He seems a little fearful, a little needy. 

*

It’s a week Benji’s away. A mission he gets assigned to, rather than waiting duty back on base. He knows it’s only because their numbers have dropped so low. He knows he’s a liability out here, as likely to hurt an ally as a foe if the mood struck. He knows that’s why every soul up to the commander avoid him, try to keep him off rosters. 

“Spooky fucker,” one of the bomb-unit boys mutters as he passes by. Benji is in a good mood. Instead of whirling with the knife tucked in his belt, opening up the other soldier’s throat, Benji simply smiles. 

“Boo,” he says, widening his eyes. He has, as Nick would say, une récompense waiting. All he’s gotta do is behave.

*

Lately, Benji’s been real good at behaving. 

Except when he returns to base, he’s faced with a bit of a problem. Tanaka finds him in the equipment space, storing his dusty pack for the next time they need a butcher on-field. 

He knows immediately something is wrong. 

“While you were all gone, there was a breach — not my spot, don’t fucking look at me like that. Someone tried to get to the commander, and Xavier—he’s asking for you.”

“Aw.” Benji pouts. “He needs a little home visit?” 

As he goes to leave, Tanaka’s hand closes around his wrist. Benji could turn that touch immediately, break his fingers, break his wrist — maybe keep going up the arm. He coldly turns back to the other soldier, instead. 

“Whatever the fuck you’re doing to him, it’s gotta stop.” Tanaka hisses. “I had to convince him to let somebody look at him. Got fucked up in that fight, protecting everybody. And he just kept saying you’d take care of him. That you’d do it.”

Benji allows himself to be shaken. His face remains neutral. 

“Whatever you’re doing,” Tanaka growls. “It’s gotta end soon. Do you hear me, man? I will kill you.”

Benji smiles at him instead of responding. The big ones are all bark. The little ones go for a bite — then return for seconds. He 

*

Benji finds him exactly where Tanaka told him he could be found; sat atop one of the exam stations in medical, close to Benji’s usual haunt. Xavier has an arm in a wrapped bandage, tattoos peeking out from the top of the blood-pinked gauze. There’s a knot developing on his temple, his lip has managed to split again, and a bruise develops like a blossom on his jaw.

Benji whistles as he enters the clinic. The corporal’s smiling before his eyes even rise fully from the ground. 

Then it drops into a glare. 

“You fucker. You didn’t say a week.”

“Had it handed to you, huh Wolffe?” Benji sing-songs, ignoring him. “Look more roughed up than usual. Problems focusing will do that.”

“I’m not having trouble focusing—“

Benji fits his tongue to the side of his cheek, gesturing lewdly in the air between them. He tops it off by frowning and miming flaccidity with his finger. 

“Fuck you.” Xavier grumbles, cheeks heating. 

“Ooh,” Benji cooes. “Proper grumpy, huh?”

After a perfunctory wash of his hands, he turns to the supply cabinet and retrieves a new roll of gauze and some other tools. The box of gloves he debates on — then tucks surreptitiously under his arm. “You know, you didn’t have to wait.” 

Xavier’s cool, intelligent eyes follow him as he moves; its not the same wariness as Nick, or the hateful fear-touched ice of Tanaka. Specific to Xavier, specific to Xavier’s eyes on him. 

“You asked.” 

Benji drops his armful of goodies on the rolling tray beside the gurney and pulls it closer. He steps between Xavier’s knees. They widen slightly to offer space — Benji feels saliva pool in his mouth at how quick and habitual it seems. 

You asked. The implication: I obeyed.  

“I said.” Benji corrects evenly. “Seems like you just interpreted it as a request, hey?” His head tilts coyly so he can peer up at Xavier while still unwrapping everything. Surprise, surprise: ruddy splotches of color have flooded the corporal’s cheeks. “Or— or a command? Xavier. Nasty. You wanted that?”

Xavier scoots forward. His long legs tuck around the back of Benji’s thighs, ankles locked. He glares at Benji, regardless of the warm contact of their bodies or sneaky climb of a broad hand up Benji’s side. 

“I wanted you,” Xavier says. The clarification drops a hot weight of arousal into Benji’s stomach, even if he knows that snide half-grin and fluttering lashes are purposeful. 

Benji takes his jaw roughly, without warning. His fingers dig in to softly stubbled skin. This touch earns a gasp — and then the other hand Benji fits over his thigh earns another. 

“Bullshit,” Benji purrs, bringing their faces together as if he’s going to grant a benevolent kiss. “You just wanted to cum. Sick fuckin’ dog. Couldn’t even wait a week, huh?” He shakes Xavier’s head, squeezing those adorable freckled cheeks before letting go. “Oughta be ashamed.”

Xavier’s face floods with more color, but those big excited eyes don’t stray from Benji. He’s too earnest when he speaks: “I’m not.” 

Another flip of his stomach, alien in sensation only because of the context — intimate, truthful, soft. Benji already lets Xavier hold him, when he’s given the opportunity to linger after one of the explosive times they slip away together. Benji already lets him do so many things he shouldn’t; make enough allowances and something will go soft. Spoil. Not in the good sort of rotting way. 

Benji ignores that gentle admission, the hand tucked beseechingly into his waistband to touch skin. He wipes sterile his supplies and is meticulous about setting them out, ready and available for whatever wounds Xavier’s been hiding. Maimed creature under the porch sort. 

“Fuckin’ stupid for not letting anybody look at you.” Benji notes, gesturing to the half-hearted gauze wrapped around his arm. “You do that?” 

Xavier glances down at it. “Yeah. Learned watching you.” 

Benji snorts. “That so? Well you’ll be ready for the big leagues soon, right?” He starts a slow unwind of the wrapping, fingers electrified whenever they brush skin. “Nick’s the surgery guy. Bet he’ll let you sit in, watch ‘em fish some shrapnel out of guts— if that’s so interesting.” 

His wrist is suddenly enclosed in a tight grip. When he peeks up at Xavier’s face, its stony and disgusted. “Stop fucking with me.”

“Stop showin’ up and making yourself a target,” Benji sing-songs back. When he gets at the wound along Xavier’s forearm, he pouts; it’s nearly all healed. The edges of the laceration — from a serrated blade, just a light enough swipe not to tear — aren’t even pink with inflammation. 

“Boring.” 

Xavier laughs at his yawn. “Man, can you be normal even for a second? You can just get me some Tylenol, an ice pack for my head maybe. Call it a day.” 

Benji leans forward and spreads his hands on either side of Xavier’s hips. The taller man sits upright a little more, eyes widening. Every possible point of contact between them drifts closer, but Benji is careful about keeping them separate. Just close enough. Just almost there. Hasn’t that been the whole point? 

“Would that make you feel better, corporal? Gettin’ taken care of?” He asks, voice dropped low enough Xavier needs to sway forward to hear each word. “Wanna bandaid for your booboos? Want me to kiss it better?” 

Xavier lets out a shaky breath. “I want—”

The snap of a glove fills the room. It’s loud and unexpected enough a noise  that Xavier jumps. His whole form twitches between Benji’s arms, shoulders pulling up to his ears before relaxing. 

“Jumpy bastard.” Benji notes, a fond note unfolding alongside the mean tease. “How’d you even manage it, a fight? All scared and…” he glances down to Xavier’s lap. “On edge.” 

“I’m very good at what I do.” Xavier mumbles defensively. 

“Hm.” Benji tsks. That hiss between his teeth nearly covering the soft snap! the button on Xavier’s black trousers offers. “Me too.” 

Before he’s even snuck a hand down that split fabric, knuckles grazing the zipper, Xavier falls back on his elbows. He nearly careens over the opposite side of the gurney, and Benji has to swallow a laugh at the shocked yelp that escapes him. The legs stuck around his waist tighten as Xavier adjusts for balance, shuffling closer. Benji shoves his shirt up his stomach to watch how it ripples with breath, abdomen taut with the long stretch of his body. 

“Oh. Thought I was gettin’ medical attention.” Xavier finds his voice to snark. “Guess this isn’t as professional an establishment as I thought.” 

Benji leans forward to drag teeth over his hipbone, tugging the fabric down until it bunches at the thighs. He’s unwilling to move further away to take them off entirely, but Xavier doesn’t seem to mind either; he kicks his long legs, finds them mostly trapped, and then whimpers pathetically. 

“How often?” 

This doesn’t receive a response right away: Benji’s pulling on the nitrile exam gloves. Each careful movement as his hands are covered is carefully monitored by Xavier. Green eyes darkened, lids heavy, lips parted.

“Are you going to jack me off with those.” He says intelligently. 

Benji can’t help the amused snort. “I’m unprofessional?”

“It’s been a week.” 

Even without prior knowledge, even if that had been an admission — Benji can tell. He can tell because when he wraps his hand around the half-hard cock between Xavier’s legs, they kick. 

“Oh fuck—“ Xavier goes, in that tell-tale way. Benji snorts again, mean and judgmental, and tightens his fist around the base. 

“Naw, mate. Really. That’s just embarrassing, isn’t it?” Despite this, Benji strokes once. Just once. But firmly enough Xavier throws his head back.

“Seven days!” He squeaks. His hand shoots up to wrap around Benji’s wrist, tugging at him pathetically. Trying to get more — trying to get enough. 

“Benji —come on, man.” 

“Dunno,” Benji hesitates. His free hand lifts to Xavier’s thigh. He digs fingernails in to the muscle. Hard, hard — until Xavier whines and tries to twist away from that grip. “How’d I know you kept your word?”

“I did,” the corporal promises weakly. He’s already close to begging; his head’s tossed back again. Pretty auburn hair frames in a loose sweaty curl around the shell of his ear. Benji fixates there for a moment, at the bruise near his temple. His fingernails dig into Xavier’s thigh more, other fist squeezing around Xavier’s rapidly filling erection. 

“I promise. Not a — I didn’t — the whole time—”

“Hm.” Benji murmurs. He goes for thoughtful. He goes for benevolent. “You sayin’ you deserve it, Wolffe? You deserve one real good one? You been good, s’what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” Xavier whines. He’s barely been touched, but when his chin drops to his chest Benji can see tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

“You’re not sayin’ it.” 

The poor bastard’s face goes so red Benji imagines him exploding in a shower of viscera. He nods desperately, then swallows to find his voice. 

“I’m —I’ve been good.” 

“Again.” Benji starts a slow rhythm. “You’re what?” 

“I’ve — I’m good.” Xavier whisper-whines, his eyes fluttering quickly as Benji’s wrist picks up speed. “Oh, fuck. M’good.” 

One, two, three— at four pumps, Benji slows. At five, he stops entirely. 

Xavier reacts. His whole body shudders, shoulderspulling back as he drops forward. He makes an angry, mournful sort of noise, heels tapping incessantly and mad behind Benji’s back. 

The corporal is not know to be a patient man. Benji has heard stories — and witnessed, on more than one occasion — how he gets when that thread has gone thin. When it snaps. Properly frustrated, Xavier is lethal. Properly mad? Another story entirely. Lethal would be a blessing. 

Benji nudges their foreheads together to find his eyes; they’re seething, burning. And yet he doesn’t move. He doesn’t shove Benji away. He takes a big breath, rubs his nose along Benji’s, lets out a hitching sound from his chest. 

The tears start up properly. 

“Please?” Xavier whines. When Benji doesn’t offer a response, simply observes, the meltdown begins. “Please — please. I was good. I did what you said. You can’t just — that’s cruel, you can’t. I waited. I didn’t — I just need—“ 

Need. Yeah. That’s what it is, the illumination behind the tears and bright green irises under the clinic’s harsh light. It’s need, behind the frustration and genuine anger and (humiliatingly, to Xavier) desperation. 

Benji is, by some force too brutal and big and grotesque to name, dropped to his knees. He pulls Xavier to the end of the gurney, letting go of his thigh for only a moment to find the lever that lowers it. Xavier’s boots thump the ground. Now his lap is a decent height for Benji to press his cheek to skin he’d bruised with fingernails. He rubs his face there, breathing hard as he swipes his tongue over the purpling crescents. He keeps it out, saliva pooling once more, as he tugs Xavier with more purpose and finesse. 

“I’ll blow you next time,” Benji says matter-of-factly. It’s not an offer. Not a promise. He’s going to. He will. No question, no command. “You can cum on me.”

Xavier’s mouth drops open. His eyes pop wide and then squeeze shut and then Benji can’t make out the rest of the expression that follows because his head goes slack on his neck, totally weightless. His bottom half lifts off the gurney entirely, hips punching up just a few times before he lets go — not just of the long-delayed uncoiling of an orgasm, but of a noise. Unlike the random private, it sinks into him; as if his chest is porous, permeable, waiting to be filled. 

It’s not the only sound — Xavier’s slick in his hand, gets messier and downright filthy as he chases more of the touch. He’s not even fully hard when he comes. Benji wonders if it hurts like that. Hopes so. Xavier likes a little of the hurt.

Benji pulls away; he waits until Xavier glances back down at him to drag his tongue between his fingers, along the black material. 

“Jesus?” Xavier pants. His hand lifts — but its the elbow keeping him propped and upright, so he starts to fall backwards. Benji gets an arm around his waist as he rises, stepping between Xavier’s knees again. He pulls the gloves off while Xavier recovers his breath. Those green eyes follow them in the arc towards the trash.

“All better?”

Xavier snaps to him. He looks — Benji doesn’t want to break him open, in that moment. He just wants to watch. His torso is slick with sweat, a decently messy splatter of cum across a pale stomach. Benji reaches out to touch it, spread his hand through it…and stops. 

Always observant, the corporal notices this hesitation. His doped smile slips off to be replaced by a pinched brow. 

“Was that too quick?” He asks, gathering himself up. He yanks his shirt down, shoulders rounding. 

“Certainly wasn’t a long while, was it?” Benji teases. He jerks at the air again, wide motions of his elbow. “Weren’t long enough to gimme a cramp, so. Thanks for that, s’pose.” 

Xavier’s expression doesn’t soften. Or change at all. Benji feels that thread thin; an awareness of the corporal’s mood has engrained in him, embedded like shrapnel beneath the skin. He might ask Nick to dig around, just in case it’s really there. Fuck. 

“Do you even—“ Xavier croaks. He sounds pathetic. “I mean. I know…I know this isn’t normal. It’s…” he takes a shuddering breath. “It’s not good. I know that. I’m not fucking stupid. But do you even —”

Benji’s hands snap up to frame his face. The touch is anything but gentle; his palms fit there, anyway. They’re eye-level with the gurney lowered, with Xavier sat. He seems shy about the sudden intimacy. Or maybe the fact that his pants are still undone, that he’s still vulnerable and exposed in another fashion than this desperate request for clarity. 

“I take care of you,” Benji asserts. “Me, alright.”

He drops one side of Xavier’s burning face to reach for the gauze, some antiseptic. One handed, wrapping a fresh protective layer around the healing gash on Xavier’s arm is a bit of a challenge, even for him. He’s not looking, either. He maintains that prickling eye contact, focus drooping to Xavier’s mouth for only a moment: when he draws in a sharp gasp as the gauze is pulled tight. 

Benji is gentle about it otherwise, even if the fingers of the hand cupping Xavier’s cheek pinch in, dig crescents to match the ones on his thigh. 

“You.” Xavier breathes when he’s done.

“Come see me tonight?”

The corporal nods dreamily. He looks fuzzier in the eyes than a moment before, when pleasure had spaced him out entirely. Because it’s a question, not a command. Come see me— do you even —

What, Benji wonders. Care? Dunno. But I’m satisfied.

#writing #bp #xw #bp x xw #evil au #ok. i have no explanation for this it has just been awhile since i touched this au and its disgusting im SORRY

[knownangels]

right tools

wc: 6.4k

The first time Benji watches someone stitch a wound, he’s eight. It happens in the kitchen, rather than the far future’s dusty alley or pollen-heavy clearing or crumbling ruin of an office park. It would be nice to look back and say that the majority of cuts and scrapes and pokes happened here: a modest, permanently yellow-tinged kitchen from the hue of the cabinets, the shade of curtain.  

Yeah. It would be nice. 

*

So. He’s eight, in the kitchen. Appa says:

“Don’t tell her.” 

It’s a warning as much as it is a laugh, but his father’s face (a face Benji will one day soon grow into) is set in a severe, pained grimace.

Benji’s eight, in the kitchen, and he watches. Watches with his nose tucked to the counter, fingers holding onto the cool tile, as appa washes at the knife wound. The water in the sink floods with a rosy tint. Benji watches the spot, on the back of his hand between thumb and index, where the red bubbles undiluted. 

“When’s it stop, appa?”

“Shush,” he responds in his softly firm way. Benji’s young enough that the note of concern in his tone worries. Makes his shoulders tighten.

“Well? When?”

“Go get the first aid box, will you?” 

Benji goes. He returns, the padded fabric box a balanced like a holy relic in his small palms. He won’t know it until he’s older, but his mum keeps it becuase of her job at the bakery — seeing wet hands fumble a knife or fingertips inch too close to a hot oven rack. She likes to be prepared, now. 

And now is when Benji’s eight, in the kitchen. He watches: appa pinching skin together, blood welling up but slowed, the careful glide of a curved needle through skin. It fascinates him in a way that he won’t express with words for a good number of years. Something about the resilience — the complexity — of the human body. The things it can overcome with just the right tools. Not so hopeless if you’ve prepared. If you have the right tools.

It isn’t long before that sweet, optimistic little truism wipes near-clean of him. The human body is resilient, but—

Benji doesn’t stay prepared. Benji doesn’t always carry the right tools.

* 

He doesn’t like to think about that day on the wharf; when something serious and big settles in him. Fear, yes, because he’s holding skin together like appa had that first time, but not just fear. If, at sixteen, he had trust in the extraordinary, Benji might label it as some cosmic understanding. The weight of it settles over top of him like a blanket, comforting instead of smothering. It brings the quiet crisis-calm that will make him so good at what he does in just a few short years. 

He feels hysterical, wants to laugh all mad and anxious like the body beneath him is — fucker can’t keep it serious even in an awful moment like this.

It’s a memory that, when it pulls to the surface, makes Benji cringe. Not because of the nastiness of the wound itself (because it is, it is, it’s just about the most enthrallingly disgusting thing you can’t look away from) or how he’d handled it all. 

The laugh hurts to remember. He hasn’t heard it, save for news or interviews or recordings, in years. He starts shoving the memory of the wharf down: the blood in the sand, the nostril-sting of sea salt and copper, that laugh. It hurts. Hurts more than any wound he’ll get or fix or assess with pity. 

For Benji, it’s a reminder: he doesn’t always carry the right tools. 

*

He gets good at pushing things down. At twenty-one, in some shithole somewhere, he’s proving his worth to a team into which he barely remembers being recruited. 

It all gets fuzzy, which is nice. His first year of training he’d spent stifling late night home-sick cries into his pillow, lonely for so much more than he realized he could miss. 

He shoves at it, though. Doesn’t stop shoving. And eventually the crying peters out to maybe once a year, if that. Benji patches more bullet holes and sewn more tissue and smelled more copper. He gets used to it all. The things to be fixed are no longer shallow kitchen knife cuts, and even if he hasn’t the preparation or the right tools, Benji gets good at adapting, too.

He’s twenty-one. He grits his teeth as he stands, tips of his fingers warm and tingling from where they’d been pressed to the underside of a jaw. The skin was cool to the touch, but checking the pulse is mandatory despite blue lips and a tacky pool of ichor gluing the dead soldier to the floor. 

Benji hasn’t adapted to this part, yet. But he will. 

*

He takes up the habit around the time they take up, too. 

Quinn’s his superior. And unlike superiors in the past, Quinn’s a person. They’ve got some years between them, but it doesn’t stop the fast click of their personalities. Benji gets sent to him for reprimand. He’s still twenty-one, still not used to certain things, but he knows the flicker of interest in somebody’s eyes. He adapts: he cracks a joke, even though he knows better. Quinn laughs, even though he really, really knows better. 

It starts like that. 

And the habit starts like this:

He recognizes the pin on the front of the gunner’s vest. It’s splattered, very aesthetically, with flaky blood. The color covers the face of the cartoon character; Williams had fished it out of a stamped envelope from his family not a week prior.

“From my sister,” he’d said, holding the silly thing up for Benji to see. “Used to watch this shit after I walked her home from school.”

They’d talked about family briefly, then. It was the first time Benji had done so in years. It would be the last time in years, too. 

Quinn’s covering him while he checks for a pulse. He watches Benji’s uncharacteristically shaky hand touch to a brown wrist, then under a jaw just in case, and then to an inner elbow, sleeve pushed up, and then — 

“Benji.” He warns, firm and somewhat tired. Quinn’s adapted too. They all have. 

Benji ignores him, though. He isn’t sure why this is different. Why it feels — 

My sister. 

He swallows a sound, eyebrows drawn tight. And then Benji reaches for the clasp of the dead soldier’s helmet. It clatters loudly against concrete as it rolls away. 

Williams has his eyes popped open, lips slightly parted. Benji’s been at it long enough that ‘sometimes they look at peace’ is a crock of shit meant to cope. Williams doesn’t look peaceful. He looks, as most of the young soldiers Benji’s patched or coded look: fucking terrified. 

My sister. 

When he collects the tags, he plucks the pin off too. Both get put in a separate pocket from the others he collects in these morbid appointments. 

Quinn watches him. Something like judgment prickles at the back of his neck from that stare. Benji hopes its soothed later with a touch.

*

The mud beneath his boot squelches like some sort of creature — it’s thick with rain and blood alike. Despite the tight lacing, it nearly pulls his foot free. Without much care for etiquette, Benji shakes his foot with a grimace. It knocks against the shoulder of a body half-buried in the mud. 

“I need new socks.” He grumbles. 

“Priorities.”

Benji turns to cast a short look at his lieutenant. By now, Benji’s twenty-three. Quinn is not. 

“Right.” He kneels to collect the body’s tags from around its neck. He thinks of it like that, because it’s easy than thinking Pvt Johnson. Always got biscuits from the vending machine. Threw a fit if they were out of stock, but it was just his fault, right? Only one who liked the awful fucking things. Proper bricks. Pvt. Johnson and his fucking bricks.

Johnson’s not got a head anymore to chat back, when he usually would. The tags are easier to lift away, as a result. 

“Can’t do your weird thing,” Quinn points out. He’s half-paying attention; multi-tasking, as is necessity and habit, by watching Benji with eyes in the back of his head and scanning the horizon ahead. 

“Don’t got a weird thing.” Benji says, rising from his crouch. He tucks the tags into Quinn’s front left pocket, reaching around his hip to do it. 

“C’mon,” he cajoles, offering a warm squeeze to the connection of Benji’s shoulder and neck. He likes being touched that way. With familiarity. “Everybody knows you got plenty of weird things.”

“Fuck off.” He sputters regardless, brushing off a hand he’d rather have stay in place. Because—

“Right. Fuckin’ hell, you the only one allowed to make jokes, is it?” Quinn snorts. It isn’t properly annoyed, the way Benji is and trying not to show. “I’m a pass-around, too.”

He turns towards the window, arms crossed. 

“Should get movin’. Enough standup, ‘cuz we’ve got what — half-dozen missing specialists?” 

“Benj—“

“You leading or am I?”

There are times he wishes that nickname were softer. But he also imagines an idyllic world where he hadn’t let the term slip into his lieutenant’s lexicon. Corrected him from the jump. There had been plenty of call signs, plenty of foul or nasty or inside-joke laced names he could use. 

But Quinn had started off with it, hadn’t he? That Benj. It’d become a personal touch to their otherwise professional conversations. It had been something he started to listen for. Something he started to hope for.  

By the time that hope had needled in, it was too late. It was a habit. And like weird things, Benji had plenty of those.

*

So. Benji develops a habit. 

It doesn’t spiral out of control. He doesn’t get manic about it. He’s gotta be the most level-headed guy on the field, after all. Cool under pressure. When shit goes belly-up, when limbs start flying, blood weeping— he’s got to stay cool. 

He does, for the most part. So much that he develops a bit of a reputation. He shoulders off the jokes about being kept from funeral homes, held back from the base hospital’s morgue. 

It’s not like that, of course. He takes the helmets off the bodies because he needs to see. Not because he wants to. Not because he likes it. 

But because Benji has developed a habit.

It starts as a reality check. It starts as a reminder. It becomes, very quickly, punishment. 

He forces himself to look at every single face. Ally or enemy, doesn’t matter which. He looks…if he can, anyway — it’s another thing entirely if they’re blown to bits, or the face is gone. He doesn’t like when that happens. The times he’s in combat, Benji never aims for the skull. He gets reprimanded for being a poor shot, for being cruel, for making it slow on purpose. It’s none of those things. He wants them to be recognizable. He wants them to be remembered. 

Benji has to remember, too. 

Because he’s stifled a lot, hasn’t he? At twenty-seven now, the majority of his service blurs. He pushes so much down its like looking into a muddy pool to pull something back up. It’s a cop-out, isn’t it? He’s getting off easy. So he’s got to see the faces. He has to remember. If he pushes down things like unique scars or birth marks, the human quirks of a face, he’s just skating by. He’s not suffering enough for the things he’s done.

For the things he knows he’ll be doing. 

*

Recently, the habit has taken a turn. At first it’s just about memorizing. Recently, it’s about…anticipating.

Recently, it’s about —

Now, when Benji pulls a helmet off, he does something he’s never done in these moments. 

He holds his breath. 

It’s about the preparation. It’s about the right tools. And deep down, Benji knows he’s not equipped with either if what he fears comes to pass. If he pulls a helmet off and he sees — he remembers —

So he holds his breath. He prepares to put one specific face to memory…and leave it there. 

Benji thinks about the fact that his last glimpse of a particular face might be a mask of death. And he’s filled with a lot of strong emotions at the thought — none of which he feels entitled to. It doesn’t make sense, that such a fucking intense onslaught overcomes him. Makes his fingers shake if the skin beneath a helmet is particularly pale, or the stubble any semblance of auburn. 

The fear always accompanies the anger, sours in his chest and his gut. 

And then the relief. He hates himself for that most of all, the relief. 

*

Benji pauses now. He crouches above a body and pauses. He knows its real fucking bad, proper irresponsible, to be doing that. Hesitation is the real killer. 

He’s twenty-seven, and the fight is long over. A deafening rhythm of mortar and gunfire and other impossible sounds of combat echoes in his skull, makes his ears ring. 

His heart’s pounding, too, but that has less to do with the remnants of a fight than the now-adrenaline of an enemy in front of him.

Under him, rather.

He and the lieutenant are on their usual post-mission round up. Respectively: collecting wounds or bodies, gathering intel and reports on enemy movement. They’ve been working together more than six years, now. Long enough that Benji can pick up new lines on Quinn’s face, the streak of gray at his temple. Tino scoffs when Quinn gets called old (always behind his back, of course; everybody’s got a death wish, but not that sort). The two men only have a few years between them, and Tino can’t appreciate a good dig if he’s adjacent. 

Anyway, they clear fast together. They’re incredibly effective. Quinn trusts him to handle his own. It’s the only reason Benji’s alone when the soldier catches him by surprise, that trust. He shouldn’t be off-guard; as capable and trained and deadly as he is, he’s just kitted for a medic. He shouldn’t be alone. He hasn’t the preparation or tools to handle a more dangerous enemy than the average soldier.

And this, if their brief struggle is any indication, is not the average soldier. 

Benji’s panting from the effort. Even clearly wounded, weakened, in piss-poor exhausted shape…the soldier hadn’t made it easy. 

“Wanker.” Benji hisses. The soldier twitches, a breath of air that might be a laugh jostling his prone form. Benji scowls and puts more weight down, right into the center of his chest. He sniffs hard, tasting blood in the back of his throat from a snapped elbow to the face. 

“Oh, wanker.” He levels his rifle center-left on the enemy’s black-clad chest. He’ll go for a vital, but not the head: the poor fuck’s gonna go in pain, but the least he can do is not contribute to more of it. Benji makes it quick. Benji always tries to make it quick. 

But the body beneath him is still putting up a fight, trying to buck him off. It fucks his aim off — he can’t get a good shot in close quarters, and he doesn’t want to concede any more space because he’d prefer not to be in another headlock. 

Benji leans in again, full weight now. The soldier wheezes. Its a rattle wet at the edges; less like he’s got a wound to the lung and more like he’s been here awhile. Resting, maybe? Regaining strength? Trying to heal without the proper tools. 

There’s a clatter from a floor below. Both their heads whip to the side, alert.

“Benji?” Quinn calls. 

Benji swears. Then he returns his focus to the enemy soldier, who has thankfully stopped moving as much. In fact, he’s still as death now, the only indication of awareness his chin tilted to the side. 

“Mate,” Benji says to get his attention. The gleam of his helmet’s visor turns on Benji again. “Listen. Lieutenant’s about. Nasty prick, okay? It’s either me—“ he moves a gloved hand to his hip, the pistol tucked there. “Or him.You really don’t want it to me him.”

There’s a pregnant pause. Benji assumes, incorrectly, that the man’s weighing his final option. But then the soldier lets out a long breath. It sounds…relieved. 

“Hello nurse.” 

Benji freezes. It’s the first time he’s spoken. During the fight, he’d been silent except for the usual grunt of pain or effort. And now, that voice — the man — soldier — 

Benji recognizes it. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” It slips out of him, consonants elongated in a sizzling whisper. “Xavier?” 

The shiny black shell obscuring his face tilts coyly. Benji, swallowing the lump in his throat that builds at the muscle memory action of tucking his finger beneath polymer and bullet resistant material, tears off the helmet. 

He sees Xavier’s face, memorizes. Wants to immediately put it back on. Because the last time — it’d been the only thing keeping Xavier in one piece.

“Xavier.” Benji says again, more breath than anything. 

That pink mouth curls; it’s another familiar flash of memory in the back of his skull. He sees it close, that moment Xavier had leaned in. Feels it, almost, on his skin. 

Benji’s heart kicks up frantically. Quinn’s — 

“People are gonna talk if we run into each other like this.” Xavier teases. His voice is a purr, but it’s also a touch too loud. 

The panic properly overtakes Benji, then. He glares at Xavier, hoping to reprimand, and then realizes his own helmet obscures the withering look. So he takes it off. 

They stare at each other; vulnerable in the worst ways a soldier can be around an enemy. 

But it’s Xavier — who lets out an appreciative sigh the second their eyes touch. He slumps back a little, like the ground is a perfectly comfortable place to rest. 

“What are you doing here?” Benji seethes. He glances over his shoulder, out the ruined window at the far end of the little room Xavier’s taken up shelter in. 

“Oh, you know.” Xavier tucks an arm behind his head, winding his other wrist in the air. “Vacation.” 

Benji does not laugh, so he throws both hands in the air, letting them flop outstretched either side. 

“Man, what does it look like?” A note of discomfort betrays his humored mood. “I’m stuck here, alright? You assholes are everywhere — not you, I mean. Obviously. But —“

“Quinn.”

Xavier’s face darkens to something so nasty that its genuinely shocking. He opens his mouth to speak, but a gunshot below them echoes in the ruined building. Their gazes fix to the side once more in tandem. 

Benji lifts a finger to his mouth. Xavier nods. The bright mischief in his eyes has dulled. It’s a prepared, ready look that Benji recognizes. 

So he reaches his hands up to either side off his head, covers his ears. Xavier nod and does as instructed, watching with those green eyes as Benji swings to the side, fires a single shot out the window. It rings, regardless. Loud.

“Benj?” Quinn’s voice is a bit more insistent than the last call, the echo winding upwards. It’s dead silent otherwise; he hasn’t started to climb the stairs yet. 

Benji takes quick stock of the situation, eyes traveling circles around Xavier’s face. Then: 

“Sorry, sir.” Benji shouts back. “All good. Clearin’ out, couldn’t hear you. Shoulda called the shot — found one still breathin’.”

Xavier’s chest lifts beneath his boot. Still breathing. Benji glances towards the helmet that’s been tossed aside. He cannot look away from the distorted reflection of them in the shiny visor. 

Benji’s finger is still on the trigger. He tucks it back into its holster, trying to fight the ebb of nauseous fear from deep within. He imagines a crueler world, where they’re not known to each other. Where his bullet lodges into a chest instead of a post-skirmish, smoke dimmed sky. 

“Well? How copy?” 

Quinn’s next call startles them both. It’s close— close. Benji turns, and Quinn’s head bobs up the stairs. 

The only thing keeping Xavier out of sight, beneath Benji’s boot, is the ruined mound of rubble he’d chosen as shelter, obscuring his resting spot from the doorway. Although it’s concrete and rebar, built to last, Benji can think nothing of it other than fragile. All that stands between Xavier and death is —

The rubble. The rubble and Benji. 

Benji swallows. He blinks down at Xavier, then lifts his head to the side. 

“Gave ‘em a third eye.” 

Quinn quirks an eyebrow as he climbs the final step, making his way down the hall towards the blown-open doorway of the room. He stops, somewhat fate-designed, just shy of an angle that will bring Xavier into view. 

“Unlike you, mate.” Quinn says. As Benji’s unit commander, he’s deeply aware of his combat habits — and the rumors.

Benji’s mouth scrunches in a half-scowl as he debates this slip up. Then, he offers: “He fought me.” 

Quinn snorts. He leans a broad shoulder against the crumbling doorway, knocking loose a piece of concrete. He isn’t wearing his helmet, either. Quinn’s just a different kind of crazy. 

“Pissed you off?”

“Like I said. Fought me.” Benji glances down at Xavier only briefly— he’s worried what his face might do if their eyes linger. If he’ll betray his anxiety. Quinn will sniff it out. 

“Fought dirty.” 

Xavier grins dirty, too. Benji has to tear his gaze away.

“They always do. Fuckin’ roaches.” 

Xavier’s face twists. Cold, emotionless. 

“Yeah, well. Lucky scapel’s in the kit.” 

Quinn whistles, nose scrunching distastefully. “S’nasty, mate. Come on. You gotta be so creepy with it?”

Benji has a reputation carried by rumors — Quinn’s probably one of three who knows they carry no weight. But he also knows Benji’s off enough for them to exist in the first place. 

“You like creepy, Lt.” 

He isn’t sure what makes him say it. What twists the words flirtatious. But Benji’s adaptable. He’s finding the right tools. And he isn’t sure what wound Xavier sports, if it’s serious, if it needs sutured. But he knows he isn’t prepared for the one Quinn would give him, if he was discovered. The helmet’s off, and Benji wouldn’t get the option of remembering that face. He wouldn’t be able to look away. He wouldn’t be able to forget. 

 There’s another pause. When he was younger, just Quinn’s intense stare directed at him, on him, had been enough to flood his stomach with heat. Now it just makes him cold and nervous. 

Take the bite, he begs internally. C’mon. Get the fucking worm. 

“I’m going up to four.” Quinn announces. “Bird in the sky says we’ve got visuals of somebody I’ve been looking for, ‘round here and this fight.” 

“Alright.” Benji says hesitantly. “And—“

“And I’ll be quick.” The lieutenant promises. He’s so level all the time that Benji has become an expert on picking up those little deviations. Now, there’s just that tiny degree of heat in his tone. Hook through the cheek. 

“And then?” Benji prompts, voice equally low. He turns at the waist, giving Quinn more attention. He kicks at Xavier’s belt, jostling his body. “What are my orders after I’m done resupplying with this one?”

Quinn’s eyelids droop slightly, but like the rest of his tics, it’s barely noticeable. “Then you meet me a floor up, and we go from there.”

“Aye, sir. On it.” 

“Fast.” Quinn amends, backing slowly out of the door. “Be fast about it, Benj.” 

He snorts, offers his superior a flicking salute from the temple. “Heard, Q. Fast about it.”

The lieutenant’s steps down the hall are loud, and Benji wonders how truly distracted he’d been not to hear the man coming in the first place. He’d been more occupied than he thought with—

The body beneath his boot hustles suddenly. Benji snaps his rifle back into position without realizing it.

Xavier freezes. 

“Fuck.” Benji swears, holstering it and then rubbing an embarrassed hand over his jaw. “Sorry. Fuck.” 

Benji starts to lift his foot, free Xavier of his weight. He shifts himself back enough that he nearly falls over when a broad palm circles his calf. Keeps him in place. 

“Dude, sorry.” Xavier chuckles quietly. His long arm can push that grip as high as the top of Benji’s thigh, which is squeezed hard enough to make a lump of heat drop into his stomach.

“This whole thing is, like, kind of doing it for me.” He flirts, fingers dropping again to the top of Benji’s boot. They worm beneath the cuff of his pants, find skin, tug annoyingly on leg hair. He’s smirking, wanting attention, wanting Benji’s focus — and he has it. 

“I’ve just pointed a weapon at you,” Benji whispers back.It’s hard not to betray his amusement, though, and his annoyed tone only makes Xavier grin wider. The incredulity is funny to him. 

“Yep. Exactly. Man, you get it, huh?” He squirms in a way that makes Benji believe he needs up. When he lifts a little to allow an escape, he expects Xavier to roll away.

But he doesn’t. He moves, but —

Xavier pushes himself further away, and Benji’s boot drags down his chest. Further, down a heaving stomach until the pressure rests just at Xavier’s groin. 

The soldier falls back on his elbows, chin tilting towards his chest to watch the path of Benji’s boot. And then it tips back towards the ceiling when he sighs roughly. More of a moan, really. 

“Are you serious.”

Xavier peers down his nose, cheeks flushed but expression mischievous. 

“You are.”

“Deadly.”

Benji snorts. “You’re in the middle of enemy territory, mate. Just nearly had a run in. And clearly out of sorts. You don’t have a fucking piece on you, and…is this the time for it, man?”

Xavier blinks up at him innocently. “Has anyone ever told you it’s so hot when —“

“Xavier.” 

He holds both hands up in surrender, but Benji’s conscious of the rhythmic shifting of his body. “I mean, is this how we’re going to spend quality time? Becuase if it is, I will make so much time for this.” 

“Xavier.”

“Like so much.” 

Admittedly, Benji’s a bit hypnotized. He’s not pulling away. Not reprimanding as much as he ought to. Xavier’s hair is fluffy and wild in his face from the helmet, hanging loose in a mess around his pretty features with his neck tilted back like that. Benji could pull away. He really should. But Xavier starts to really rock his hips and it launches the moment from sort of joking, sort of serious territory to — to — 

“I could get off on this,” Xavier admits in a heinously filthy whisper.

“Xavier.” Benji says a third time. There’s no real hint of annoyance in it, now. It just sounds…well. Turned on. 

“Oh man,” Xavier laughs. “That’s good. Really. That and the uniform? Yeah, I could—“

“You gotta get out of here.” Benji insists. His voice is rough, but insistent. He knows better. He needs Xavier to prepare. Needs him to survive. And this is putting a very real roadblock in that. If Quinn takes too long — if he suspects —

Xavier’s teeth dig into his lip to stifle a moan. His face is beginning to go properly pink, and every nudging pull of his hips gives Benji a brief peek at the obvious outline in his pants. The sight makes his tongue heavy in his mouth. 

“Xavier, listen. You fuckin’ bastard, I—“

“I miss when you’re not nagging at me.” Xavier whispers conspiratorially, his sleepy-lidded eyes twinkling. One of them winks. “You little shit.”

The words do something to Benji he can’t explain. He doens’t want to think about. Because they go real real fucking deep. 

Miss it, Xavier says. Like he means miss you. 

Benji wants to tell him that every time he pulls a helmet from a skull, from one of Xavier’s fellow soldiers especially, he worries it will be his face staring lifelessly back up at Benji. Benji wants to tell him about the wharf story. Benji wants to tell him about his sister. Benji wants — 

“That ain’t quick.”

They jump again. Benji stumbles back to both feet, arms shot out to hold himself steady. 

“Fuck!” Benji yelps. He leans forward a little, although Xavier’s still obscured from the sudden reappearance of the Lieutenant. It’s instinctual. Protective. 

Benji swings his head back at the ceiling, trying to keep his cool. Benji is good at that, keeping cool. He’s good at adapting. He can do it. 

“Mate. Piss off. Please announce yourself. S’like being haunted, yeah? You just fuckin’ pop up, all silent.”

“Sorry.” Quinn clips out, humor-laced and not apologetic whatsoever. “All done here, then? Must have been awfully loaded.” 

Benji glances back down. Then he kneels and pats at Xavier’s chest, his side pockets, looking for anything that he can use an excuse — 

Xavier’s fingers circle his wrist, drag his hand down his thigh to a buckled pocket. Their eyes fit together when Benji squeezes, fishes out what is inside. 

He rises from his crouch and holds his hand out to Quinn, who takes the contents of his fist wordlessly. Benji watches as he unfolds the crumpled note. 

“What is it?”

Quinn’s eyes lift to the top and read down the scrawl again. He swears and clenches it in his fist. “Intel was right. That —“ 

Benji’s eyes snap to his hairline at the spitting vitriol. 

One of Quinn’s big hands rubs over his face. “Intel was right. The target was here, except it looks as though his evac was hours ago. Might make our way there, see if we can pick up the trail.”

Hours ago. Benji casts a side-glance towards the man still prone. He’s stuck here? 

“Did this one—“

Benji tenses. Below him, he senses Xavier tense. The hesitation in Quinn belies a need for more information. If he’s curious about the source of this note, he might ask to see the body. He might— 

Xavier shifts again. Benji recognizes, from their recent bout, that he’s preparing for a fight. He won’t fucking win against Quinn. That much Benji knows for sure. He’d be pressed to name a man, himself included, that would leave a fight with the lieutenant victorious…or leave a fight alive, at all. 

“Aye, Q.” Benji says slowly. “Just a poor fuckin’ radiant target, this one. Target your after the type to leave ‘em behind? Might’ve been distraction to make evac.” 

Quinn’s eyes darken with pure hate. It’s intense enough to make Benji feel frozen in place. “He’s the type to do whatever he needs to do.”

Benji doesn’t spare another lingering glance downwards. He can’t. He’ll do something regrettable. He’ll do something worse than dropping a squad mate, of letting himself be captured and hauled out by Xavier’s compatriots. He worries that what he’d do is quickly becoming anything.

“Think they’ll come back for him?” Quinn finally asks, watching Benji round the rubble towards him. He sounds annoyed still, but his eyes follow Benji’s movements with that sort of focus. So. 

“Maybe. Don’t think the two of us ought to chance anything with a potential entire group though, Lt.” Benji says. He stops in front of Quinn. He stops an unprofessional distance away from Quinn. A familiar distance. Benji looks up at him. 

“I’ll follow you whatever the call, sir, but —“ Benji knocks the back of his knuckle against Quinn’s vest. “Promised a tour of floor four, wasn’t I?”

Quinn’s eyes narrow briefly, but the pupils are blown. “Did I?”

“Let me pick through the rest of this one’s kit, hey?” Benji hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Medic. And then I’ll be right up to bed.” 

Quinn’s silences make him nervous. But, fortunately, the next one is punctuated with an amused huff. The lieutenant doesn’t speak again, simply turns about and heads back up the way he came. 

Benji waits until he’s out of view, out of earshot, to whirl back around. He doesn’t even realize that his fists are clenched. That it’s settled over him, while they flirted: that awareness. The clinical anticipation, but none of the pre-fight adrenaline jitters. 

He was preparing. He was gathering his tools to fix a problem. Because that’s what it would have been, right? If Quinn hadn’t bought it. If he’d pressed to see the so-called corpse. It would have been a fucking problem. 

“Don’t go down the stairs.” Benji says quickly, dropping back into a crouch next to Xavier’s prone form. He points at the ground like Xavier’s a dog that needs the physical order, too. “Let five minutes go, then get yourself the fuck outta here. East wall has a structure break — you can scale off the side. But be fuckin’ careful, yeah? I’m not fixing a broken bone.”

“Benji—“

Benji grabs the front of his shirt. “Mate. If Quinn sees you — if he sees you, yeah?” He shakes Xavier. “That’s it. That is it, okay? Do you get what I’m saying? I can’t — that’s it. You gotta swerve ‘em. Our pick-up crew, too. You got ten minutes to get out and avoid that.” 

“Benji.” Xavier tries again. Benji won’t let him waste the time for a third plead. 

“Xavier.” He snaps. “I’m buying you time, dickhead.”

“Buying time,” Xavier says distantly, as if he’s taken a bite of the word and doesn’t like the taste. Benji throws his own pack off and begins fishing for it. “The big ugly fucker—“ 

“You didn’t even see him.” Benji argues, pulling a scalpel from his kit. 

“Did too.” Xavier argues mullishly, his face twisted like a spoiled child’s ready to argue. “He’s —“

“Xavier, take this. You’re a sharp one, yeah? You’ll get out. You’ve got time. We’ll get you out, and then you can tell me all about how you managed it. All the drama and details next time—“ Benji pauses, his fist curled around Xavier’s hand where he’s curled long pale fingers around the handle of the scalpel. 

Next time. 

Benji suddenly imagines a helmet pulled off, tossed to the side, a dead body beneath him instead of this alive, flushed, argumentative one. He imagines a mess of bone and flesh — imagines the mangled face of his squad mate, flattened by Xavier’s boot. Imagines it on Xavier’s pretty neck instead. 

It nearly makes him sick, but he bites his tongue until the nausea passes. 

And when it does, Benji can’t help it. He leans forward and crashes their mouths together. He’ll lose his mind if he doesn’t. If he hasn’t got the taste of Xavier on his tongue when he leaves, something that lingers alive. He scoops an arm under Xavier’s shoulders and pulls him entirely off the ground, other hand gripping his chin to hold him still. 

It’s not more than a messy, crushing, painful smack of their faces together. It’s nothing messy like their first. Nothing that feels as though it could build into more, turn so hot and stifling until there’s nothing to be done but to begin to remove clothes. 

But it is passionate in his desperation for that bruising contact.  It’s a might be the last sort of kiss, Benji’s monstrously building anxiety warns. So he softens it at the last moment, squeezes his eyes shut, and makes it sweet for just a heartbeat. 

Xavier whimpers like the kiss is more, anyway. When Benji pulls away he’s licking at his own lips. His eyes are shot-through dark; the electric green of spring leaves. Benji wants to go in for another. Another — but they don’t have the time.

“You’re not gettin’ anything,” Benji teases breathlessly. “Relax, you prick. Don’t got the time.” 

He squeezes his hand around the scalpel in Xavier’s —they’ve both nearly forgotten about it. But now, Benji lifts it to touch to a spot on his neck, his side, and the small of his back. 

“Here, quick. Or a jab and twist here, that’s close to the stomach. This, back here? Do it fast and it’s right to the kidney. Hurts like a fucker. Definitely lethal if you do it right, okay?”

“Okay.” Xavier breathes, staring at each vulnerable spot as Benji guides his hand. 

“Look. They'll go down long enough for you to —“ he pauses, swallows. “For you to do whatever you need to do. And you fuckin’ do it, Xavier, okay? You get out of here.”

“Man.” Xavier breathes, and the way it flutters at Benji’s hair is the only reason he realizes their faces have drawn closer again. “You are so goddamn hot, you know that?” 

Benji can’t help it. He kisses the enemy firmly again, fingers dug into his soft, flushed cheek. 

Then he straightens; adapting, preparing, fishing out the right tools for the job.

“Lt,” he calls, staring down at Xavier. “All clear. Headin’ up now.”

*

When Benji pulls his shirt off later that night, back on base, it clings to him painfully. He winces and pulls harder until it peels away from a spot on the small of his back. A quick march towards the shared bathroom, a twist of his spine to glance over his shoulder, reveals the issue: 

Where he’d guided the scalpel in Xavier’s hand, a smear of dried blood. He swipes at the wound with his thumb, a slow peel of each section of skin until it begins weeping red again. 

He isn’t sure how long he stands there, in the low blue light. How long he stands there, staring at a wound he’d guided the enemy to give. 

Benji presses his fingers to the spot again. Then he snaps the faucet on, perfunctorily cleans the area, and heads back to his quarters. 

He keeps a first aid kit stashed beneath his bed. Not his field kit, but a personal one for emergencies. This isn’t an emergency, but Benji lifts the familiar padded top of the kit and finds thread, a suturing needle, and gauze. 

He’s good at this. Good enough that he can stare ahead at the blank wall across from his bed, arms behind his back to sew himself together, and think. 

A weapon tucked into the enemy’s hand, directions on how to kill effectively. And right before that moment, rather than fear or dread, Benji had been coolly preparing for a fight. 

Just not against Xavier. 

#writing #bp #xw #bp x xw #val au

[knownangels]

inconsequential

wc: 2.7k

The first time is inconsequential — that’s the word Saha uses on the phone once he explains it all, anyway.

And it’s Saha because…well. He isn’t sure who else to go to about it. Benji’s too deep in his own post-breakup angst

“And then what?”

“Then she asked if I wanted to sneak off and have a smoke.” Maran says. His brow wrinkles as he relates this information. He’s got the phone set on his dresser; he needs his hands to sort through all his (dirty? clean?) clothes, figure out what he ought to wear tomorrow. Even though its a cheap brick of a phone and probably water damaged, even though Saha’s voice comes out the crackly speaker all wrong, he still feels a wash of relief as she walks him through the day’s events.

Well, event. Just one astoundingly fucking life altering event.

“And…?”

Maran pauses, his confused expression deepening. “I said no?”

“Maran.”

“Well, I don’t smoke!”

Saha’s laugh cuts in the middle, volume distorting over the poor connectivity. She’s in London these days, in the middle of her studies — nothing is more indicative of the distance to him than those occasional dropped calls.

“She didn’t care about all that, though. She was just trying to get you alone and suck face more.”

His cheeks heat. Maran drops the trousers clutched in his clammy hand and presses a palm over the warmth. “It wasn’t suckin’ face, Saha, c’mon.”

“Well now it really won’t be! You turned her down.” She laughs. “So it’s inconsequential, right?”

“Is that the rules?” He wonders, edging for humor because the unfamiliar depth of that word makes him anxious. He fumbled, so… — he imagines Raquel dusting her hands, shrugging, flouncing off —

So that’s it?

“S’no rules to it, Maran.” Saha laughs. He can hear her set down her own phone, and the noises of a gas stove switching on. Saha was a shit cook, never had need to learn, so he wonders what’s prompted her to learn now. A girl, maybe. Probably.

Maran sighs and goes back to scrounging in his basket, searching for a nicer shirt. He’d learn to cook for Raquel, if she wanted to kiss again. He could make noodles. Probably.

“‘Sides, why would you want to hang about with somebody who does that and then laughs after? She told you it was a dare.”

“But you just said she was trying to—“

“Yeah, think about it.” Saha insists. Maran snaps his mouth shut and tries to, but whatsoever answer she expects him to formulate must not come quick enough. He hears her shuffle around and then pull out a chair, fall into it with a huff, and then—

Then she goes absolutely off about the whole thing with a clarity that he had never considered. That point she was trying to get him to think of himself, maybe. How Raquel might like him fine enough, might even want to kiss more after all but stealing his first proper one for a laugh. But how she also didn’t have the respect to let other people see her attraction without covering it up under humor. How he deserved better than that.

Maran listens the whole way through, of course. He’s fourteen and a bit lost; he’s been eleven and lost; six and lost. Saha has always been one of the people he felt comfortable slipping his hand into so he could be guided back onto the path. So he listens, and he really does try to think about it—

But the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks about how nice Raquel’s hair had smelled (lavender and coconut) and how soft her lips had been, and any sort of wisdom about worthiness or equity in partnership or whatever else Saha’s prattling on about kinda go in one ear and out the other.

“But what if I go apologize to her—“

“Maran!” Saha laughs incredulously, cut from her sentence midway. “Have you listened to a single word? Oh, bastard — you’re hopeless!”

*

The kisses after that are nice. He’s got a girlfriend (of sorts, loosely, no labels) and then another, another — and then a string of girls because Americans are pretty poor at differentiating accents. Unlike back home, nobody seems to get on him about sounding low-class or rough.

“I really ought to think the One Direction lads should be knighted.” Maran notes to Benji. They’re stood outside a loud house party, watching Maran’s latest girlfriend flounce off with a few of her friends in tow towards a ride share. He waves, but she ducks in without looking over her shoulder. “I mean, what they’ve done for UK-US relations alone—“

Benji’s eyes flick up at him, darkly humored even in the near-pitch black of night. “Knighthood’s a scam, mate. Upholds the empire. Whole thing should be binned.”

“You should be binned.”

“Naw, you.” Benji snorts back. The hand holding his cigarette flicks towards the retreating car, then snubs out the ember on the patio railing. “Fuckin’ dog, you are.”

Maran flattens a hand over his chest. “I’m very respectful.”

“Y’think you’re invisible ‘cuz you’ve got yourself tucked in the corner? Mate, everybody might as well seen your tongue touch ‘er tonsils.”

Maran purses his lips to fight a grin. “A’right, mostly respectful. Most of the time.”

“Hasn’t she got the same name as the last girl?”

He opens his mouth to argue, and then smartly snaps it shut.

*

The truth of it is that Maran hasn’t had a proper committed relationship since before he’d followed Benji stateside. Meeting Fiadh is a fluke and a blessing and, later…

Later, Fiadh’s something worse. Something he feels too guilty to name. He tells himself for a time that it wasn’t her; they just weren’t a proper fit; it was the relationship itself; it was Maran himself. When they meet, everything is washed in a honey-sweet tinge of familiarity and excitement. But when they part, it’s a nastiness — one that he would prefer not to attribute to her.

It just seems impossible. It’s Fiadh, after all.

At first, being with her reminds him of water after mint. She’s sweet and fun and invigorating. She keeps that coiled ball of new relationship excitement high in his chest, tucked just beneath a pounding heart and clammy hands. Being with Fiadh feels like standing out on the school grounds, watching Raquel march up to him with a determined glint in her eye. She feels like a first kiss a thousand times over.

And then she feels like: eugh, told you I could, easiest dare of m’life!

It isn’t Fiadh. Not really. He reasons it out to keep her as far from the blame as possible. Maran knows he has a few hang ups — he knows what projection is, he knows that he —

Well. He hasn’t had a proper committed relationship since he followed Benji stateside. And he knows that might leave a bit of grit, a bit of friction, in any future thing he jumps into.

(Maran thinks he might always, always jump without looking. Hesitating is unfair, isn’t it? Hesitating means he isn’t being trustworthy.)

“Really?” Fiadh exclaims when he tells her.

How funny is it, first girl I’ve properly, seriously dated over here isn’t even American?

“Oi!” He leans over her until she flattens to the grass, his shadow slipping over her to block the afternoon sun. Fiadh looks good in the afternoon sun — she spills all pretty and golden, orange caught in the wispy white edges of her blonde hair.

Maran tucks fingers into her waist, squeezing impishly to tickle. She offers a single reserved laugh (a huff, really, and maybe he hears more amusement in it than really exists) before batting his hands away.

“S’that supposed to mean?” He asks, intensely afraid the second the words slip out of him.

“Ach.” Fiadh dismisses, a flap of her hand and that throaty little vocal filler he loved so much. “Y’know what I mean. It’s just…well, girls talk, don’t they.”

Girls talk.

Fiadh reaches up to tuck the collar of his shirt crisp and neat against his shoulder again, smoothing her hand over it primly before pressing a kiss to his jaw and urging him back on his patch of grass.

Later, once they’ve broken up, he’ll reflect on those sorts of moments. When she’d freshen him up, or recommend a different pair of nicer trousers, or ask when he’d grow out of the dye, or twist her beautiful face into something almost offended when he’d attribute an outfit to the thrift shop.

Like I was a doll, or something, he’d thought exactly once, fresh post breakup phone call with Saha, red-eyed and crying so hard he’d given himself a headache. And then he’d never thought it again. Because the insinuation was cruel, wasn’t it? Too cruel for Fiadh.

As cruel as a dare.

*

The door to the flat swings open. Just in time, too — Maran’s been pacing so hard he had started to fear leaving a sad little track in the hall carpet.

“Hey, dude.” Lark squeezes one sleepy eye shut with a yawn. “You good? It’s like…holy shit. Three am.”

His acknowledgement of the hour seems to wake him up a bit more. Maran watches guiltily as awareness plucks at the sleepy veil making Lark’s under eyes puffy, his shoulders rounded.

“M’sosososososo sorry, mate.” Maran spitfires. He lifts his empty hands from his pockets for just a split second, then shoves them back inside. They’re shaking. “I’m just — I forgot to give— uh. Is Ben asleep?”

Lark tosses a look over his shoulder. “I hear his TV going.”

Maran’s face starts to split into a grin. “So fifty-fifty.” He imagines Benny up at his desk, shoulders hunched with awful posture Maran wants to correct with a soft touch. Or passed out, arm over his eyes, as X-Files reruns blare on as background noise.

Instead of responding, Lark shuffles blearily to the side to make room.

Maran can count on one hand how many times he’s paused outside Benny’s door. Even fewer, when he’d knocked. He should. Everybody’s entitled to their privacy. But that had never felt like a necessity with the two of them. Even before—

Maran lifts a hand, palm wiping over his smiling mouth. It hasn’t even been two hours since their dunk at the pool.

Even before they were together.

His knuckles are about to make contact with the door. But he drops his fist, still trembling, to wiggle the handle instead.

On his bed, Ben’s spread out exactly how he’d get situated right before a nap. Or, considering the time, a proper sleep.

But his eyes are open. Maybe too open, as they land on Maran. He doesn’t seem shocked though, just — they’re awful wide. A pulsing anxiety lodges in Maran’s chest, but it isn’t that new-relationship feeling, the tightly coiled knot, the anticipation of approach.

He takes a step into the room. “I’m sorry.”

“Mar?” Ben asks, brows briefly dropping before he grins. Clearly confused, but — Maran smiles too, feeling it stretch stupid and full across his face.

“Sorry,” he says again, making himself laugh. “Not for anything — well for barging in. But I can’t…you dropped me off and I just can’t—“

Ben stands from the bed, bare legs swung over the side. Maran had spent the better portion of the evening looking at him (and touching and tasting), but he finds it hard to fight the stray of his eyes across black ink. There’s the faint smell of chlorine clinging to him. Or to Maran. Or to both of them.

He stands in place, letting Ben close the distance.

“Couldn’t s-sleep?”

Maran swallows, teeth sinking into his lip. He can’t do anything but stare at Ben; the soft texture of his hair where it hangs in front of an icy stare, the gentle smile lines around his mouth, the pitchfork crinkle spread out from the corners of his eyes.

Ben doesn’t feel golden like sunlight or guilty when they press together, chest to chest and hips bumping. An arm slings around Maran’s back, notched right where his spine ends. He shivers.

“Me either. Wanna stay here?”

Maran does his best to make sure the kiss he plants on Ben’s shy, smiling mouth leaves nothing up to a delayed interpretation. It’s everything but inconsequential.

*

They don’t really announce it. Not right away, anyhow.

The next evening, at an illegal bonfire on some rich somebody’s lawn, Maran drops himself into Ben’s lap.

Chatter lifts and ebbs around them, akin to the buzz of beach flies and summer lightning. In his immediate vicinity, Matilda and Benji’s conversation silences.

Maran is quiet, too. He hadn’t been anticipating the feeling that came with doing this. He’s plenty affectionate with everyone. He’s used to an arm slung around his shoulders or Xavier lifting him around the waist, creating a space-reaching beast when Maran scrabbles up around his shoulders.

But Ben’s thigh beneath his is a different sensation entirely. A different sort of kind, gentle warmth. He wraps an arm around Maran, fingers digging into the ticklish spot along his flank. He knows it’s there. But he squeezes anyway, maybe just to make Maran yelp and laugh — and then the arm gets tighter.

He laughs until it comes out a bit too breathy. Then Maran quiets.

It doesn’t feel like a laughing matter. It feels like— he can’t —

He’s held.

*

The next morning, he catches a bus to campus and sprints across with only moments to spare, only to realize: there’s someone in Ben’s lab.

Maran lifts his face away from the glass with a pout. He leans back to double check the label next to the door — yes, right number — and then peers inside once more.

And then, like he’d heard Maran’s desperate little thoughts, Ben appears from the blind spot in the corner of the room. The other person (his lab partner?) tosses their head back and laughs at something he says.

Maran wrenches the door open.

Both students whirl around to stare as he dances into the room, bag of take-out held aloft and balanced on his head. He’s causing a commotion, he knows. Probably interrupting something important. Maran thinks of a constant needle from Fiadh — childish — but only for a brief moment. He forces the grin bright once more and slips over to a desk.

It’s strewn with papers and diagrams, but nothing that looks important — or breakable. Ben’s bag, simple black canvas with several patches and hand-sewn designs, rests atop another he doesn’t recognize.

Maran sets the take-out down and taps the shiny silver strap.

“I like this color,” he lies, smiling big and charming at Ben’s lab partner.

They don’t speak. He frowns, glances at Ben.

“Is th-that from the pho place?”

The smile returns. “You forgot your lunch in the fridge.”

Ben pushes his safety goggles up, making blond hair spring everywhere, as Maran approaches in a zig-zag. His blue eyes follow the movements, clearly humored by the display. And the amusement makes him look less tired. Less stressed.

“You c-c-could have just brought it to me?”

Maran shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. But you like this stuff.”

Ben’s lab partner interjects with a short laugh, but when both their heads turn they look deadly serious.

“Something funny, Gee?”

They flap a hand in the air, lips parted as if they plan to respond to Benny’s needling. But — then their eyes stray towards Maran and go a bit wider.

They don’t know?

Maran thinks of sunlight in hair, of plain chapstick briefly touching his mouth, a body against his at a party who he can never name, a string of girls he probably didn’t treat as well as he could have, and —

He thinks of Raquel, her laugh; he thinks of her offer for a smoke. In private. The back of a girl’s head as she ducks into a car.

“Gigi,” Ben says, startling Maran a bit with how close his voice is. “This is M-Maran.” He tucks a strong arm around Maran’s waist (held, smaller, vulnerable, held) and shuffles him closer. “Mar, this is Eugene. We’re carrying each other this s-s-semester with a hope and a fuckin’ dream.”

Maran and Gigi blink at each other. Then Gigi offers a curling, hesitant smile.

“And science.” Gigi adds.

Ben snorts, puts the fist not squeezing unapologetically at Maran’s hip into the air. “And science.”

“I thought Benson was making you up.” They say. Their voice isn’t soft or waifish, just quiet. Maran likes that he’d got to lean closer to hear. “At some point you’re just like — wow, nobody has that many stories and is telling the truth.”

“Fucker.” Benny sneers fondly, although there’s a suspicious flush to his cheeks when he looks down at Maran.

You talked about me, Maran thinks, head fuzzy. How funny.

#writing #mgc #mgc x jlb #college au #egd #and on the third day there was gay or something like that right? isnt that easter?? #ft. egg’s gigi :3

[knownangels]

movie

wc: 3.3k

CAMERA SHOT - EXT. - A FIELD FROM ABOVE. YELLOW-TINGED, PERHAPS EARLY SPRING OR LATE FALL. PERHAPS AMERICAN MIDWEST. 

CUT TO:

The CAMERA drops from far above. Then the CAMERA rises from a yellow-tinged grassy field like a shark from water. It moves forward, slowly, down a rolling hill. There are trees around the clearing; there is no wind, and they do not sway. But as it parts, the grass shakes and shivers. 

CAMERA SHOT - EXT. A BACK-FACING VIEW - SUN SETTING OVER HORIZON

The silhouettes of four INDIVIDUALS, of varying heights. They are following a self-made path through the grass. Most of the field lays behind them; based on the distance and the exhausted slouch of shoulders, they clearly been walking for some time. 

CAMERA SHOT - EXT. THE FIELD FROM BEHIND THEM - PEEKING FROM THE GRASS

The CAMERA winding through the field. It begins to move faster, parting blades of dry shrubbery. Faster. Faster. Blurry shapes in the distance: the INDIVIDUALS. The camera draws closer, jittery and snakelike, to the quartet. They don’t seem aware: their conversation and idle travel-chatter is increasingly (but barely) audible over the sound of wind, of grass parting. 

CUT TO:

A forwards-facing view of the INDIVIDUALS. From left to right: BENJI, who wears a worn leather jacket and scowl; LARK, whose roots need rebleached and seems the least tired of the four; TINO, sun-kissed and older than the others, but dewey and in good spirits; finally, XAVIER, who towers over the other three and is the only one carrying two backpacks.

Behind them, the grass flattens in a zig-zagging line. There is SOMETHING following the four men; none of them are aware. It moves closer. It moves faster. FASTER, FASTER, UNTIL IT IS RIGHT BEHIND THEM.

CUT TO:

CAMERA SHOT - CLOSE-UP OF XAVIER

There is a sound like hundreds of voices whispering. The noise grows louder as whatever cuts through the grass towards them, and seems to trail up XAVIER - right next to his ear. 

XAVIER (yelps, stumbles) Ah!

In tandem:

LARK (stopping) What? What?

TINO (also pauses) Y’alright son?

BENJI continues walking for several paces. Then he sighs heavily and turns back with his arms crossed. 

BENJI More drama? 

XAVIER swats at his ears repeatedly, hands protectively cupped around them for a moment. He heard the whispers: he seems to be the only one who did. Obviously perturbed, he glares up at BENJI, who is now snickering. 

XAVIER I heard - something touched me - 

He looks over his shoulder. The others peer around him, back towards the smooth field. The acres of grass sway in tandem; there is no longer a bent trail besides their own. 

BENJI (snorts) That hard up for it? Imagining the grass gettin’ fresh?

TINO (exasperated, ‘disappointed dad’ tone) Benji. 

XAVIER Fuck you-

LARK Can the fight wait, like, a half mile? We’re almost there-

BENJI Won’t make it if we stop every five seconds to hallucinate-

TINO (serious, final) Benji. 

CAMERA SHOT - EXT. - OVERVIEW OF THE QUARTET AS THEY BICKER. 

FADE OUT

FADE IN

CAMERA SHOT - EXT. TO INT. - A DILAPIDATED WAITING ROOM OF SORTS

A large double-door creaks open; stood in the low afternoon light, framed by the waning sun, is TINO. He fidgets shapelessly at his hip for a moment, and then the camera is flooded with brilliant white from a flashlight. 

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - FURTHER INTO THE WAITING ROOM.

Something in the darkness, hidden from the yellowy cone of light, sinks around a corner further into the shadows.

XAVIER stands slightly behind TINO and BENJI. He has one hand curled (protectively or requesting protection, unclear) around TINO’S arm. The other hovers near BENJI’S bicep. XAVIER glances down, realizes the proximity, and then snatches his hand closer to himself.

XAVIER Did you see that?

TINO Nope. What was it?

BENJI (muttering) Figment of his imagination, probably.

XAVIER flushes. It could be embarrassment or anger. 

XAVIER Would it kill you to-

BENJI (flatly) Yes.

TINO lowers the flashlight with a sigh. The darkness looms closer, but otherwise the only sound is the distant chirp of birds and rustling of nature. 

TINO Okay. Xavier, son, how about you go help Lark get everything sorted in the equipment tent? You know how he is with those posts - can’t get them anchored for nothin’.

CAMERA SHOT - EXT. COURTYARD - OVER TINO’S SHOULDER

In the vine-encrusted, time-worn courtyard just behind them, LARK pauses from his unpacking of their backpacks, straightens, and waves enthusiastically. He puts both fists on his hips and smiles. He is totally unaware of the tension. 

CAMERA SHOT - INT. WAITING ROOM - BENJI AND XAVIER GLARING

BENJI Right. Go run along then, yeah? Brought you to be the muscle, not jump n’ piss yourself at every sound.

XAVIER (heated, losing his temper) Tino invited me along to help with data collection, you didn’t bring anything other than your shitty fucking - hey! Go fuck yourself -!

As he’s talking, BENJI has lifted a hand between their faces. Fingers and thumb press together to make a mouth, which he opens and closes alongside XAVIER’S Boston drawl.

TINO (fully done babysitting/peacekeeping) Benji. Stop. Xavier. Go help.

XAVIER and BENJI stare at each other a moment longer; XAVIER glares, BENJI smirks victoriously. 

XAVIER (to TINO) Yes sir. (to BENJI: lifts his middle finger) 

TINO and BENJI watch him lope down the stairs to the building. Lark spreads his arms, gesturing as the taller man nears. Xavier waves his own, his venting about the situation at hand audible even across the distance. 

TINO (turns to BENJI) What in the hell has gotten into you lately?

BENJI (innocent, but he’s not even buying what he’s selling)   I don’t know what you mean, Ti. 

TINO You know, the rest of us don’t have even a hint of a problem with that boy. He’s been nothin’ but nice, and you -

BENJI (mood souring, expression shuttering) Pft. Nice.

TINO Listen. Job needs done. We don’t got a lot of time to hash this out now. (He pokes a finger into the shorter man’s chest) But you best not take that as a…sweeping’ it under the rug situation. 

BENJI What would we even sweep? 

He’s glaring over his shoulder, where LARK and XAVIER are animatedly chatting to each other. They look comfortable, close, and like they’re having the time of their lives - even as they just unpacking a variety of electronic equipment and other supplies. 

BENJI’S expression sours further. His brow is wrinkled in displeasure. 

BENJI Nothin’ to sweep. 

TINO (bad impression of a buzzer)

BENJI Aw, come off it - there’s nothin’, Ti, I don’t-

TINO (another buzzer noise, somehow worse) 

BENJI I’m not allowed to dislike the guy?

TINO (smiles, affirmative) Ding ding ding. Right answer. What’s your prize?

BENJI (taking the flashlight out of his hand grumpily) Five minutes alone. Let me do the survey. 

TINO shrugs and begins to walk backwards out the door, and down the stairs. He has a pep in his step; optimistic, maybe, of solving the apparent bad blood. He does a pause, brow furrowing, and then quickly turns and catches BENJI by the elbow. 

BENJI Wh-

TINO We’re talking about this once we get home, Benj. I’m not letting y’all fester whatever nastiness is going on. And I’m not (he pokes again, more firmly) letting it put anybody in danger. You hear me? 

BENJI pauses. Then, begrudgingly, but still in a mocking impression of XAVIER:

BENJI Yes sir.

CUT TO:

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - A DARK ROOM - CLOSE-UP OF XAVIER - HAND-CAM, GRITTY FILTER, UNSTEADY.

XAVIERadjusts the camera and the picture gains some clarity. He steps back, more of him coming into frame. He spreads his arms and strikes a pose. 

XAVIER What’s up guys, it’s me, Zac Brogans, and it’s another episode of Ghost -

LARK (out of frame) That’s not his name.

XAVIER …Zachary? 

LARK Naw, man. It’s Bagans. 

XAVIER (confidently) I think you’re wrong about that. 

He comes towards the camera again, and the frame swings. There is a brief shot up his nose and the sound of fingers tapping away at a screen. Then XAVIER pouts. 

LARK Google says I’m right, doesn’t it?

XAVIER (mockingly) Google says I was - (normal voice) Listen. I’ve been through a lot today. I’ve been bullied. Leave me alone.

LARK moves into frame. He glances at the phone in XAVIER’S hands. Their foreheads briefly knock together, and they share a quick grin. 

LARK (sobering) What’s up with that, by the way? 

XAVIER makes a noncommittal, distracting noise. It does not work.

LARK (unwilling to drop it) C’mon. You and Benji. You don’t have to be at each other’s throats all the time. 

XAVIER If he wasn’t such an asshole-

LARK He’s not- (pause) Well. He’s just kinda - (pause) Benji is - 

XAVIER An asshole.

LARK He cares, okay? And you care. Tino does. I do! So if something is going on - (another awkward pause) We can talk about -

XAVIER drops the camera back onto the surface he’d propped it against. He slaps his hands over his ears.

LARK (exasperated) I don’t mean that -

XAVIER (shouting) GOOD. I AM GOING TO GO SET UP THE REST OF THE CAMERAS. AND I AM NOT GOING TO THINK ABOUT ANYTHING RELATED TO-

LONG PAUSE. WIND WHISTLES THROUGH THE EMPTY ROOM WITH THEM. 

XAVIER AUGH. FUCK YOU I THOUGHT ABOUT IT.

LARK barely muffles his laughter as XAVIER flees, a variety of microphones, EMF readers, and handheld video cameras in his arms. 

CUT TO:

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - A DARK HALLWAY - CLOSE-UP OF XAVIER - HE IS RUNNING

XAVIER Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

Behind him, as he runs, doors on either side of the hallway SLAM open and closed. The noise is deafening; XAVIER winces against it as he runs. And then, skidding, he stops outside a door with some light spilling from its window. He darts inside. He slams the door and leans against it, the camera hovering near his chin. It is trembling, as if XAVIER’S hands are, too. 

XAVIER What the fuck-

DISEMBODIED VOICE RUN. 

XAVIER screams. He throws himself to the side. 

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - A ROOM LIT BY A SINGLE CANDLE

Prone and panting, XAVIER scrabbles backward across the ground as a figure strides out of the darkness. The CAMERA, his phone, has been flung in his terror. An angled frame of the room shows this confrontation occurring upside-down. 

THE FIGURE draws closer. The doors slamming outside have stopped; the only sound is XAVIER’S exhausted wheezing. He jumps to his feet, hands outstretched. He seems to be brandishing something in his left - a crucifix.

FIGURE/DISEMBODIED VOICE Bit presumptuous, yeah?

XAVIER goes still, then snarls. 

XAVIER Jesus! 

He raises a fist, clenches it, waves it mid-air between then. Then, as if it takes a tremendous amount of willpower, lowers it to his side. 

XAVIER (absolutely exasperated) Jesus. You get off on that or something?

BENJI drifts out from the shadows. He is smirking, much too proud of himself for the scare. 

BENJI Hm?

XAVIER I said - God, you are such an asshole. I said do you get off on that? Messing with me for no reason?

CAMERA SHOT - XAVIER’S ANNOYED, YET STILL STARTLED - FROWN, FRAMED IN THE SPACE BETWEEN BENJI’S COCKED HIP AND ELBOW. 

BENJI immaturely pumps his own fist in the air, sneering. 

BENJI Awful concerned about the circumstances of my gettin’ off, huh? Freak.

XAVIER You - oh, man. We really don’t have time for this. Didn’t you hear that shit?

BENJI Mate, I’ve been setting up for the past hour. 

He taps a pair of headphones around his ears. They’re connected to a blinking microphone in the corner of the room.

BENJI Haven’t heard nothin’ but this.

XAVIER This is — we’ve been here an hour? 

BENJI stares at him incredulously. 

BENJI Why the fuck would Tino send you off on your own if you can’t handle a little asylum over-nighter? This is basic shit, mate. I thought you had some experience. (scoffs) Lark didn’t say you were a total rookie. 

XAVIER grits his teeth. He points at BENJI. His finger shakes. He is clearly doing everything in his power to control his temper. 

XAVIER I just got chased by something. And then scared by you. And now you’re being — I can’t - you are so - 

BENJI rolls his eyes. He moves across the room towards XAVIER’S discarded phone and picks it up to hand over. Then he squeezes past the taller man, bodily moving hims away from the doorframe. 

XAVIER Don’t fucking-

BENJI (exasperated, but edgy; he is close to a temper snap too) Would you cool off? Fuckin’ hell, man. Go finish your set up. 

BENJI leaves the room with a cheeky two-finger salute over his shoulder. He hesitates in the hallway, unbeknownst to XAVIER, who has turned his back to assess the new crack in his phone screen. He seems like he wants to say something. But then he turns and disappears in the direction XAVIER had initially fled. 

CUT TO:

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - A LARGE, DARK AND EMPTY CAFETERIA 

On the southern wall of the tiled floor, a set of bars separates the kitchen area of the cafeteria to the rest of the space. There are a variety of tables and chairs, dusty and askew from the years of disuse, scattered around. On one of them, closet to the jail-like barrier, rests a stack of equipment. A mic pack, a handful of spare batteries, and a phone. It is face-down, its case covered with a variety of fading band stickers. It rings and rings; a looping stanza of string-heavy music from a classical Japanese orchestral piece.

LARK sits on the other side of the bars, trapped in the small kitchen space. He has both hands covering his ears, his face twisted in a terrified, angry grimace. 

LARK SHUT UP. SHUT UP!

The phone’s tune increases in volume.

VOICE Lark? 

LARK No. Shut up- 

He avoids eye contact with the ringing phone. He needs to use it to call for help — although he’s small, there is no way he can squeeze through the bars. 

VOICE (coming closer) Lark?

BENJI and TINO round the corner. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, looking terrified as well. BENJI’S hair is a mess;  TINO is covered in a layer of grime and soot. 

LARK (sobbing with relief) Oh. Fuck. It’s — oh fuck, get me out of here. 

TINO darts towards the bars, fingers wrapping around them. He shakes, testing the resistance. 

LARK Turn the phone off, I can’t - 

BENJI Phone? 

TINO Has he been in here all night - ? Alone? I thought you checked on him, Benji.

BENJI (defensive) I did! Half past two, like you asked. 

TINO That was three hours ago! What were you thinkin’? You saw the readings - you heard what Xavier said about the boiler room-

BENJI (scoffing) Yeah, and he’s been seein’ things all night. Just green, Tino. He’s just a fuckin’ coward and green- 

TINO whirls around. He looks angry now, but his eyes shine with a bit of genuine fear. BENJI takes a step back, shocked to see that particular display of emotion. TINO is not green. TINO taught them what they know - he is usually unflappable, a constant calm even when shit hits the proverbial fan. 

TINO (voice shaking, loud but not yet yelling) He ain’t green. And you ain’t - (pause) 

BENJI (pause, then cold) Ain’t what, Ti? 

TINO Ain’t actin’ right, lately. Now you pack up whatever the hells goin’ on in your head  and help me get Lark outta here. Look at ‘em. Hang it up, Benji.

LARK is trying to put a brave face on, witness to this rare almost-fight between the two. But there are clearly drying tracks of tears down his cheeks. TINO moves away, down the hall.

BENJI crosses over to the table to collect LARK’S phone. He taps at the screen repeatedly. 

BENJI Here, mate, let’s get some music playin’ while we look for the keys or another way outta there, yeah? Get you right and sorted, but at least some good tunes will distract you -  (he frowns, pauses) The hell, Lark? How long’s your phone been dead for? 

LARK stares up at him through the bars. He looks at Tino. He looks at the phone. Then the tears start freely again, his head hanging to hide their intensity. 

LARK It was ringing - it was my mom’s ringtone - it was ringing, Benj. It was. I’m not hearing things. I swear. 

BENJI (disturbed, trying not to show it) Okay, man. Okay. I har you. I believe you Lark, okay?

BENJI looks up at TINO, who has reappeared with a pair of bolt cutters. 

BENJI Xavier’s still not checked in? 

TINO (intensely worried, now) No. Fuck, no. 

CUT TO:

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - AN ABANDONED LIBRARY - CLOSE-UP OF XAVIER - HAND-CAM, GRITTY FILTER, UNSTEADY.

XAVIER Ok, now check this out- 

He jogs backwards, arms out for balance. Tongue stuck out in concentration, XAVIER does a little wiggle to assess the space he takes up. And then he tucks his long legs and leaps in the air, arms pinwheeling as he attempts a jumping backflip. Out of frame, a variety of paranormal equipment begins beeping. XAVIER doesn’t hear, initially - he is busy recovering from the failed attempt, rubbing his sore hip.

FOOTSTEPS slowly walk across the room; they can be heard above XAVIER’S petulant whining, but their source unseen. 

XAVIER Ow. That - ow. 

VOICE (echoing, multilayered) Making a movie? 

XAVIER freezes. Palms flat to the ground, his fear-widened eyes go even bigger as the footsteps draw closer. He’s looking off to the side, pupils growing larger and larger in the dim night vision as something the CAMERA cannot see moves closer. 

Finally, a foot pads into frame. It is just sinew and muscle, dripping a wet puddle where it stands. XAVIER’S terrified eyes draw upwards. 

VOICE (slowly becoming more corporeal as it speaks) I love movies. And you already set up all the shots for me. All this fancy equipment. 

XAVIER whimpers in pure terror, his arms drawing closer to his body like he’s getting ready to run again. His face goes slack with panic: he can’t move.

VOICE Let’s go find your friends, though. We have the star -

A similarly wet, stripped arm floats into frame; the VOICE points a long, bony finger in XAVIER’S direction. 

VOICE ... and the crew.

The arm folds, making a disgusting squelching sound as the VOICE ostensibly presses a hand to its raw chest. 

VOICE Now we just need the supporting cast.

CUT TO:

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - SECURITY CAMERA IN THE CAFETERIA - TOP-DOWN VIEW

TINO We know there are some restless spirits here, son, there’s bound to be some activity. 

BENJI and TINO help LARK to his feet. The bars have been cut - and, with their combined strength - pried apart to free the terrified man. 

LARK (near hysteric) No - no. It’s something else. We have to find Xavier-

ALL THREE MEN slap hands to their ears as a piercing, awful noise that rises from the bowels of the old building. It seems to come from the walls, below them, and deeper into the depths all at once. It’s the sound of a thousand or two thousand or ten thousand machines all jamming at once, gears and pipes bursting, not an explosion but worse.

VOICE (off camera, all around, echoing) Beat you to it, cutie.

CAMERA SHOT - INT. - THE CAFETERIA - CLOSE-UP OF LARK 

The CAMERA glitches and goes black.

#writing #bp #xw #lt #tl #bs #ghost hunters au

[knownangels]

casualty

wc: 5.1k

Some of the men in his unit, Benji doesn’t care to know. No shock to him that their line of work attracts the worst of the worst — proper scum on the bottom of the shoe types. He doesn’t care to know them, and doesn’t care to think about the fact that they all might be a bit more alike than he wants to believe. He’s here too, after all.

And no matter what kind of bullshit they’re fed, protection or defense or whatever the fuck, Benji knows at the end of the day they’ve all got fingers on the triggers of rifles pointed at bodies. At faces, if you’re one of the real sick ones. At kneecaps or joints or fingers, if you’re Robson. 

Robson’s one of the ones Benji doesn’t care to know. He’s a hero, the way everybody tells it. The hero worship, you ask him, has gone to the man’s head. Rotted whatever had been up there (not much) into soft, nasty sludge. Robson spews it wherever he goes. Almost like he leaves a trail of it wherever he goes. One that you’ve got to dance back and forth across if you’ve got the unfortunate task of following him. All the careful avoidance of a kid with hopscotch, lines in the sidewalk — none of the innocent enjoyment.

So Benji tries to avoid him. Not just because he wants to avoid that sick cloud hanging about the bastard, but also because —well. Benji knows himself. He knows his tolerance for the man’s particular brand of bullshit runs real, real thin. And he’s got two warnings on his back already for being happy to throw a few friendly fire right hooks. He isn’t sure if Quinn will accept another attempt to —

“Kiss arse.” 

Benji’s eyes flick to the side. The sneer is barely audible over the other sounds of the bar…or at least it would be, if Robson wasn’t trying so bloody hard to make it heard. 

He sighs, feeling a headache form between his brows at the tone of the other soldier’s voice. Its not just a needling little accusation. The lieutenant is out of earshot, Robson’s flanked by two of his stupid fucking muscle pals — nah. He wants trouble.

Benji just isn’t sure why Robson’s after it with him, is all. Uncashable checks, and all that.

He really shouldn’t open the door, but Benji wedges his foot in the crack anyway: “Wassit now?” 

And, as foreseen, Robson shoves into it to throw it wide. “Buyin’ a round out of the goodness of your heart, or ‘cuz you’re after something with the LT again?”

Benji tries not to let the annoyed stiffness show in his shoulders, but a nasty smirk branches Robson’s thin-lipped mouth. Fail.

“After a better watch posting, if anything.” Benji says, trying for levity. It don’t have to be the way you’re after, is the rippling undercurrent of the joke.

“Posting.” Robson snorts suggestively. “I’ll bet.” Oh, it does.

Benji sighs and sits back in the booth, eyes finally flicking up to where Robson stands at the end of the table, tree trunk arms crossed over his chest. A little tweak here and there, he wouldn’t be too bad — even with the crooked nose. A little tweak here and there, Benji might find him passably attractive. Here and there, and Benji might have found a spot in the late hours of the night where he suspects Robson wants him.

“Very school-yard of you.” Benji notes, following that line of suspicion. “If you’re just filled to the brim with jealousy mate, you oughta just say that.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket then. Robson and both of his flankers watch as Benji pulls it out to inspect the message. 

There must be something particularly aggravating about the ease in which his attention has been drawn away from their attempt. Robson scowls and snatches the phone from his hand. 

“Oh,’ey. Your pretty sister.” Robson drops and slides into the booth alongside Benji, thumping him jovially on the back with the hand not clutching his generations-dated phone. “You’ll put me in contact with her, yeah? Must be lonely. Y’know, considering all the time you spend here on base. On Quinn’s —“ 

*

Benji props fists on his knees in the alleyway, face breaking into a sweat as he heaves. 

“Oh, shit. Mate.” The lieutenant doesn’t offer him a warm, soothing hand between the shoulders as beer and what was once greasy bar food spills onto the concrete. “Watch the boots, yeah?”

The smell of Quinn’s cigarette doesn’t help his nausea any. And the cold night air slices at the cut on his cheek, where Robson’s sharp knuckled punch had caught just right to split it. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the blow to his stomach, the nasty bruise forming right above his diaphragm. It’s a curling, aching sort of pain that is much more manageable now that Benji’s emptied his stomach. At least, more so than the initial punch — sharp, immediate oh fuck I’ll die right now sort of pain. 

He’s just proud of himself for throwing another good punch of his own, for having made it out the bar before he embarrassed himself void of the night’s drink.

“Real supportive. Thanks.” Benji rasps. He spits into the nasty puddle and winces. “You moved awful fast, pullin’ us apart. Y’know, for a guy ninth percent alcohol at this point.”

He glances up just in time to see Quinn shaking his head, the cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth. Benji imagines reaching up and taking it. Sharing. Tasting him in ways they usually don’t — not just intimate, but somehow innocent. 

Sensing Benji’s next line of inquiring, Quinn scoffs: “Don’t ask to bum one, man.” 

“How do you fuckin’ know.” Benji laughs hoarsely. He finally straights up, tips his head towards the night sky and cool air. It feels good. Washes away the last bits of clinging nausea. His cheeks feel a little warm still, but he thinks that might have more to do with the — well, not fond. Not really. If they weren’t occasionally going at it how they do, Quinn could never be accused of being more than absolutely professional. Real platonic. But still.

He knows Benji enough to catch that moping for a smoke before he even asks. Isn’t that nice? asks a soft little voice in the back of his head. He pays attention. He thinks it’s funny. Maybe he even thinks it’s endearing. 

“Always want one after you start somethin’,” Quinn says. Observation is much less sweet than mind reading, than knowing, so Benji frowns.

“I didn’t start shit—“

“Benj, you knocked the fucker’s front tooth out. You swung first.” 

“He was—“ Benji clenches his fist. “Saha’s off limits, mate. Over my rotting fuckin’ corpse does someone chat nasty about her like that. Even a big dumb idiot like Robson who don’t know better.”

Quinn snorts and then schools his face into that severe neutrality, like he hadn’t meant to let it slip.”Well he knows now, aye?”

She’s not into blokes.

Think I got a shot gettin’ one into her, honestly. 

Awh. Robson, man. S’his bloody sister. 

But Benji had already been standing, shoving them both out of the booth, eyes not wild but cold as that frantic, angry efficiency had rushed blood in his ears, blackened his vision. 

*

The rough part about it is this: Robson only grows more fond of him. He even thinks they’re mates now, proper fucking friends. That they’ve bonded or something, because Benji’s knuckles split red. Robson gets a framed photo of his dental appointment on base and gives it like some sort of peace offering. 

Benji shoves it beneath his cot and forgets about it entirely amongst the cobwebs.

He can’t even be all that pissed about the new — albeit misplaced — friendliness. The comments about Saha stop altogether. The needling and intimidation attempts do, too. He isn’t sure what annoys him more; that Saha’s worthy of respect only as she relates to Benji’s humanity now, or that Robson won’t even do him the favor of acting punchable anymore. 

*

Quinn thinks they haven’t evened out yet, though. And in his backwards way of handling things, he pairs them up on more than one occasion. Robson’s good muscle. Solid in and out, first contact sort of soldier. Not recon. He’s not careful or skilled or as neurologically gifted as that sort of work requires.

And Benji might be perfectly capable alone, but Quinn makes the rules: medics get a partner. Back-up in case cover is required. Just-in-case muscle, he calls it.

Benji would prefer it anyone else — but. Quinn’s dangling that third write up over his head if he doesn’t acquiesce to the new assignment. Aye, aye LT! it is, then. 

*

“Three inside.” Robson tinny voice cuts into Benji’s earpiece.

He winces at the sudden noise, plucking the tech away for just a moment. This close to their inter dimensional quarry, sometimes that happens. Signal jammers or comm blocks or whatever freakish sort of otherworldly tech they bring with them. 

“You don’t sound sure.”

“Three inside.” Robson says again, more firmly. Then: “I think.” 

Benji sighs and adjusts where he lays on the embankment. His scope drifts along the top of the warehouse's window line. It’s a dilapidated structure; the site of a former skirmish. They’re following some intel that one of theirs has been holed up. Injured. Protecting some piece of tech that the higher ups really want to keep out of enemy hands. 

“Roof’s clear.” 

“You don’t sound sure.”

Benji’s jaw clenches, annoyance sweeping over him at the mocking repetition. “Well I’m not exactly workin’ with the most clear of info, am I?”

“Reckon they’ve not seen the approach, hey?” Robson wonders, ignoring the jab.

Benji watches his helmet bob along the bottom pane of the windows as he works his way through the structure. He clears the hall. Uniform, precise, snappy. There’s a reason Quinn keeps him around. He’s efficient, if not fucking brick-headed. 

“Betcha two pints on Saturday that I get the drop.” Robson sing-songs, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. He turns a corner suddenly, disappearing from the guardianship of Benji’s scope. He frowns.

“Mate. I cannot cover you if you go—”

He’s cut off by the sound of gunfire. It crackles his earpiece painfully. Benji almost tears it from his ear, but more sounds follow: masculine grunts, scuffling. A savage, raw-throated shout. Sounds as if Robson has stumbled upon some sort of fucking wild animal, not an enemy.

That’s what Benji’s hoping for, at least. There’s silence on the other end for a stomach-churning few seconds. And then —

“There were four.” Robson’s broken voice croaks. 

The earpiece goes quiet. 

*

“Fuck,” Benji chants, his sprint down the hill towards the building more stumble than anything. “Fuck, fuck fuck — shite for brains piece of— fuck!”

Once he’s off the steep knoll, Benji shoulders his rifle in favor of his silenced side piece. Less punch, but gives him the edge that Robson’s loud front door preference lacks. 

Benji falters only for a moment as he shoulders the warehouse door to follow Robson’s footsteps. He thinks of their fistfight, the blatant disrespect to his sister, the blanket of dull ignorance that he —and the other soldiers Benji prefers not to know — drape themselves in like a shield.

Robson isn’t the worst of the worst, though. But it isn’t just a desire to avoid guilt that carries his boots forward. Much to his chagrin, it is genuine concern.

“Wanker.” Benji swears under his breath, even though he shouldn’t; if there’s someone nearby, if he’s too late for Robson, he’s close enough they’ll hear. 

*

It’s relief like little else when Benji finds him. He’s down the hall, a south-facing area into which none of the afternoon sunlight spreads. Even in the darkness, even with his back to the doorway, Benji recognizes his new partner. Watch his back, Quinn had told him —and he is, as he approaches. 

Robson’s kneelt over the prone form of a combatant. An enemy. 

(A person, something distant and young and wounded within Benji offers. Another person. 

It hurts him to shake that tiny voice from between his ears, but Benji has spent too long stifling that boy to let him come back to the surface.)

The enemy is wearing an inky, mostly-black uniform. Like he’s been cloaked in the shadow itself. Recon, he guesses. Nondescript, but with the tell-tale markings of the counterpart universe interlopers. Thieves. World-enders.

Attempted, at least. It looks as though Robson has put an end to this particular attempt. These ones are tough fuckers. Scary when cornered. Benji has patched many a serrated edge-torn wound from their nasty knives. They’re meant to tear and buy time, get away; these are soldiers, but their info-gatherers first. In and out. 

This one, just in. Tough luck. Benji wonders what panic tastes like as it rests on the tongue of a man who will die in a world not his own. 

Ther’s a wet crunch. Benji winces, yanked out of his spiraling thoughts. 

“C’mon.” He tries. But Robson only brings his fists together, fingers laced, and swings them high above his head. 

His eyes are a little crazed when they bounce over his shoulder to find Benji. He grins as he brings his joined fists down for another wet sound. A thudding, skin-on-skin impact.

Benji is reminded about how brutally savage this man can be in combat. Quinn paired them together for a reason. They’re— 

(Not alike. Not alike. Not alike.)

“Robson.” Benji tries again. His partner is breathing hard, but his shoulders and hyperventilating chest are the only things moving. No more swings — for now. He looks coiled, though. Ready. He wants to do it again. He wants to cause more hurt. 

Robson is worse than the ones he doesn’t want to know, in someways. He’s not particularly skilled, but he’s savage. And he seems to enjoy this sort of thing too much: when things become close. Personal. 

And this enemy has seemed to drag something wicked out of him. Something psychotic. Benji saw the hint of it, just now. 

“You gotten, you prick.” He says, approaching slowly. He isn’t sure what instinct keeps his gun level with the enemy, when the silencer should be pointed at the ground. “You gottem. Real fuckin’ done in, this one.” 

He goes for humor. Brutal, violent humor. It’s worked once with Robson. He bonded to Benji over a fight. Maybe he’ll do it again. 

“Naw,” he growls instead. He readies another over-the-head swing. “Naw, I’m not done.”

“You don’t want this,” Benji says.” He isn’t t sure what he’s referring to. None of their palms are clean. None of them are innocent. They’ve all killed. They’ll kill again shortly, most likely. But this— 

The body beneath Robson kicks its legs. And that’s when Benji realizes it isn’t a body at all.

The poor fuck’s still alive. 

More than that, the poor fuck is putting up a fight. 

Robson isn’t a small man. The wrecking-ball swings of his fists weren’t softened. But the merc still has fight in him. Still nearly manages to buck the soldier off him. Almost, almost, and Benji’s nearly rooting for him, especially when the next swing comes. Especially when Robson leans down and laughs in his obscured face. 

Benji’s impressed. But his stomach is also rolling dangerously. A taste of distant nausea, a fight not dissimilar to the brutality here. His aches with a ghostly sort of pain. Right where Robson had once split it from the same fists.

There’s blood pooling around Robson’s knees. Not his blood. Benji’s stomach rolls again. It’s an awful lot. It looks thick. It’s from somewhere important. 

Awful way to go, another voice in him offers. Medical, succinct, disjointed. Slow.

“Robson—“

“Naw.” He interrupts. It’s a breathless grunt, filling space where a word should be. Benji was right — there’s an animal in this room. Just not who he thought. Robson’s still sharp and cruel with that anger. Benji recognizes that he’ll kill the poor sap before anything else happens; before Benji can pull him away, intervene.

Robson thumbs off his radio. Ice runs through Benji, prickles his scalp.  

“He tried to fuckin’ choke me, mate.” 

“Alright.” Benji says, voice low and beseeching. He doesn’t want to watch a man be bludgeoned to death, once human to wet and pulpy. “C’mon. Gottem.” 

“Fuck no.” Robson hisses. “Sticks, man. You shoulda heard what he said—“

The not-body beneath him wheezes out a wet, gurgling chuckle. 

Robson settles back, his head tilted inquisitively. Then he bellows and goes for another punch. Now the man beneath him groans. Now, he sounds weaker. Really, almost dead.

But to Benji’s shock, the noise is followed up with an absolute snarl of intelligible, half-mess words and syllables. Swears. 

They trickle out from a mouth filled with blood. Maybe bits of teeth. Robson readies another punch, and settles it right to the man’s chest. Benji’s close over his shoulder now. Close enough to see how the enemy’s helmet has been split right down the center. Red trickles from a crack on the visor, slippery and shiny blood rivuleting down smooth black. 

Benji’s focus drags from the crack outwards. To the enemy’s shoulder, which fuzzes in his vision as it settles on a black balaclava. It’s been tossed aside, visibly wet with blood, near the beaten man’s limb arm where it rests on the ground. Pieces of the visor are scattered around it like glass. 

Benji takes a step forward. 

“Face won’t do you much good when it’s fucking meat, will it?” Robson sneers. He grips the man by his tactical vest and shakes violently, pulling him off the ground somewhat. 

As he does so, it brings him more in Benji’s sight. 

There’s a pause. A ripple of horrible, awful silence. Benji freezes. 

Then the enemy soldier gathers spit and lobs it, loud and wet, directly into Robson’s snarling face. 

“Still will get laid more than you, ugly,” he wheezes. There’s an unhinged laugh. Something wild and edgy that cuts through the room, humor driven out by his own base, childish insult. It rings off the concrete walls. Echoes. 

Benji’s stomach feels as though it drops out of him onto the floor, further — beneath the earth. Through it. 

“Robson.” He says weakly, voice suddenly thin and hoarse. He knows that laugh. He knows that pale jaw, that bump on the nose. “Robson, you gotta stop.”

Except he doesn’t. In fact, he doubles his effort. The next punch is the sickest of them all. It connects and snaps the enemy — snaps his — snaps the head to the side. And before it can loll back to look at either of them, Robson fits his meaty, bloodied fists around — around his neck.

“I wanna watch you die, mate.” Robson says, cold like Benji’s never heard him. “M’gonna watch it fade.” 

Benji takes another step forward. There’s no light in the room, but his eyes have adjusted. He recognizes that face, even though it’s bruised and broken in several spots. 

There is an unmistakable bunch of red hair springing from another split at the top of the helmet. It breaks through, reminding him of a fragile little planet shoving itself through a crack in the sidewalk. Stubborn to survive, fueled by a spiteful drive for one more day. One more glimpse of sunlight. Benji turns towards the door, where he can see exactly that — golden and beautiful, dripping through the shelled warehouse’s windows. 

His fingers twitch. His gun is still up. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t dropped it. 

“Robson.” He tries, tries, tries. The plea is edging closer to a warning. “Don’t.”

A pair of familiar eyes cut to him. Well, one. The other is too puffy to open. Benji finds himself quickly assessing the remainder of his— the enemy’s — injuries when an even more familiar mouth opens. Speaks.

“Hey,” says the interloper, the enemy, the other person. Says Xavier. 

Benji blinks rapidly. His gun is still up. He hasn’t holstered it yet. He should have holstered it.

“You gotta stop.” He whispers again. Now he’s properly ill. Nauseous, like that night in the bar. Standing next to Quinn, smelling his choice familiar smokes, wanting it wanting it wanting it. 

“You have got to stop, mate.” 

“You sick fuck,” Xavier croaks. When he tries to smirk, it splits his lip further. His voice is shot through. And Benji doesn’t want to make eye contact, because one of them is swollen in a blackened, bleeding wink so severe it makes Benji’s stomach churn. “How long were you watching?”

He can’t help but bark a laugh, but it sounds near-hysterical.

“I’m fit to kill ‘em, Sticks.” Robson laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, I really oughta.” 

He reaches down to his own hip. To retrieve his own weapon. Benji watches as the muzzle is crammed beneath the pale, blood-soaked edge of Xavier’s chin. 

His one good green eye looks apologetic. Almost mournful. Tough luck, Benji. Well, it was bound to run out at some point, right? 

“No,” Benji says, and he notes the confidently loose grip Robson has on his weapon, and he notes the sticky blood around his knees is from Xavier, and he notes that he’s moving, he’s stepping forward, and he notes that he moves —

He moves. And Robson moves. And they both cry out, they both grunt, they both swing and scrabble for their respective discarded weapons and it’s a fight, it’s fight, it is a fucking fight —

Benji’s cheek is split on the other side when it’s done. He’s got a boot to the center of Robson’s chest. It is the first thing he notes when he drops back into himself. The second is his exhausted, adrenaline-soaked breathing. 

The third is the hole that punches through Robson’s own cheek, that exists somewhere near his temple judging from the blood that steadily spews from the wound.

Benji drops to his knees. The wheezing is proper loud, almost cutting through his thoughts. There is a gun in his hands that isn’t his. 

He has a vision  (a memory, almost through murky water) of Xavier weakly wrenching it out of his own holster. Sliding it across the ground, urging Benji to use it, use it, because Robson’s hands were around his neck. 

“Think you got him.”

Benji’s eyes swim to the side. He stares at Xavier and realizes it’s neither of them. Both of them look to Robson at the same time. 

“Oooh, fuck.” Xavier groans. He pulls himself to his feet, hand cupped around his rib as he limps closer. “Jinxed it.” 

“I—“

“Man. You just did a war crime. You…like, good?” 

“Oh fuck.” Benji says. He clutches his temple with his free hand, and then drops the shaking gun immediately. He’s about to fucking lose it, he can feel the absolute fucking panic, the madness, creeping at his edges. “I — I killed him.”

Xavier sucks his teeth. “Nah.” 

He crouches next to Robson’s almost-corpse, impressively agile and steady despite his condition. Then he spits into the man’s face again. Straightens to his full height, kicks him in the stomach. 

“Nope.” Xavier confirms cheerfully. “He’s definitely alive.” 

And then he lifts one long, long leg — capped in a black steel-toed boot— and drops it. Benji watches it as if in slow motion. Watches the give of Robson’s facial bones and tissue as Xavier brings that hard stomp down through his weakened skull. 

It makes a sick, wet noise. 

Then Xavier does it again. 

The second is sloppier. With a crunch, and a sucking sound as if Robson won’t relinquish a hold on Xavier’s ankle. Xavier lifts with a scowl and a shake of his foot; the third stomp is more a thud, because it connects mostly with concrete.

Benji stares, eyes unblinking. 

“There!” Xavier chirps after a moment. “Was. Was alive. Now he’s dead.” He comes to crouch next to Benji. “You didn’t kill him. Don’t worry! I did.” He attempts another wink, except its just one side of his bruised face twitching. 

“Anyway. Come here often?” 

He sounds different. Like his nose might be broken. He sits down across Benji, legs spread out. His wet boot nudges Benji’s hip. 

Benji swears and puts his head in both hands. His ears are ringing. Rushing with blood. 

“Hey. Look.” 

Benji does. He can’t imagine what sort of expression is on his face, but Xavier’s grinning like he hasn’t just gotten beat within an inch of his life. Like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be but sat on a ground wet with mixed gore. With Benji.

“Be honest, Benji. I still have the money maker, right?” 

God, his stupid fucking accent. His stupid fucking theatrics, gloved hand waving a circle around his face. Benji can’t help the way his lips twitch. Then curl. Then split wide.

“Bloody hell.” He breathes a laugh. “Mate, shut up? Your timing —Yeah. Fuck.” It’s the truth. “Yeah, you still got it.” 

He glances over at the corpse, then. The corpse that shouldn’t be — the one across from him should have taken its place. 

“I’m so fucked. I’m gonna get dragged ’fore the court. They won’t even be wrong. I killed—“

Xavier whistles. “Yeah, fuck. Your own guy. For me!” 

Benji stares. 

“Uh. I mean, sorry. I killed someone for me.” He tilts his chin down, leans closer. “Better?”

“We went out for drinks a few times.” Benji says. Xavier pouts. And he really shouldn’t feel compelled to clarify, but he does: “With the squad, y’know.”

Xavier snorts. “I was about to say. Woof. What a downgrade.” 

Benji pushes to his feet abruptly. He’s not all that shocked to find himself unsteady. Xavier follows him with a pained grunt, hand outstretched first to cup Benji’s elbow. Then it roams up his arm, squeezes his shoulder. 

Benji thinks maybe more to keep himself upright than to comfort.

“I don’t know what to do.” He admits. He’s thinking about what he’ll say. What he’ll tell Quinn. How his ruined life is about to be ruined more, if possible. How Saha and his mum and certainly his father will never be able to look at him again, once they find out. If they already could stomach to look at him now.

The turmoil must be evident on his face.

“What do you mean?” Xavier laughs. “Lie, duh.” Then he doubles over and vomits onto the ground between their boots. 

“Oh.” 

“Ugh. I think I have a concussion.” 

“Been there.” Benji finds himself joking. He shouldn’t. He’s just — well. And Xavier— “Are you alright? Will you be?” 

“Yeah. Got a medic right here.” Another one of those face-wink-twitches. “Joking. You got me enough, right? I have an inbound anyway. Was calling them when that fuck launched at me.” His pretty green eye pops wider. “Oh fuck. They’re inbound. You have to get out of here.”

Xavier backs abruptly towards a windowless exit door at the perimeter of the room. He opens it to check the field beyond, then turns back around. 

“Fuck. Now, probably.” 

“I—“

“I’ll spare you this time. But next time you might have to bribe me. Or, like, nurse me up real good.” 

Benji’s chuckling that manic, hysterical thing as he brushes past Xavier to stand in the doorway. He’s going to have a panic attack. He can feel it rolling sharp in his veins, like the icy shock from earlier. At least he’ll be a safe distance away before it really kicks at his ribs, sends him sobbing to his knees. 

“I’m a dogshite liar,” he says for now, head tilted up. Xavier is standing too close to him. He reeks of blood and sweat.

But not fear.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Bail me if it doesn’t work out?” 

Xavier sways a little closer. His split lip drips down his chin with the force of his smile. “I’ll drain my savings. Just say the word.” 

Benji turns to leave. Several paces away, near his original spot on the hilltop overlooking the warehouse, he turns back.

Xavier stands in the doorway, bent in half with his hands on his knees. When he notices Benji’s pause, he lifts one hand to raise a thumbs up.

*

The official sitrep passes without a hitch. 

The unofficial one, unfortunately, is less smooth. 

It, as all his usual unofficial meetings with Quinn go, happens in the lietuenant’s quarters. They’re beige and sparse. The walls are un decorated and the same hue as the sheets. Benji’s cheek is leaving a red stain on the pillow; he can feel how wet the fabric is beneath his skin. Know it will stick and pull at the stitches when he inevitably gets up to leave. 

His hand is tucked under his chin, other arm bent tight and pulled towards his bare chest. Knees drawn up, spine curved as he regards Quinn next to him. A distance away, of course, because this is a circumstance of necessity and necessity only.

Still, he imagines reaching across and drawing a feather-light touch over Quinn’s bicep anyway. 

He’s pulling on another cigarette, arm tucked beneath his head. The ceiling pulls his attention, as it often does when he’s working through a problem. That makes Benji nervous. That Quinn might be working through a problem, related t this whole mess. He’s not a good liar. And his recap to the superiors hadn’t gone anything but smooth — but Quinn isn’t them. He knows Benji.

Just a little. 

“Benji. You said how many, again?” 

“First sweep, when he went in? Robson said three.” Benji says. Not technically a lie. “I mean, ‘fore — before he went quiet.”

Quinn turns his chin just slightly. Not fully looking at Benji. Not head-on. He’s almost glad for it, even though it makes his chest ache a little. He doesn’t know if he has it in him to lie to his Lieutenant right to his face a second time. 

And just like he’s reading Benji’s thoughts again, Quinn shifts to look at him properly. Lidded, intelligent eyes pierce into him. See inside, Benji fears.

“Three?” 

Benji swallows. Horrible dread fills him. He untucks his arm and reaches across, fingers resting against the beige sheets just millimeters short of Quinn’s body. He struggles through the fear and offers: “Just three.” 

It’s more convincing than he expected. Quinn nods. Then he lifts to an elbow, leaning over Benji. 

“Look spooked, still. Go again?” 

Benji regards him, eyes saucer-round and lips parted. He thinks about the wet crunch. He wants to go back to his quarters, curl up in his bed, and drown himself in music until he forgets those noises.

Instead:

“Yeah, need it.” He lies, and does his part to close the distance between them. 

#writing #bp #xw #bp x xw #val au #this rewrite was so satisfying. finally removing the tainted references to worse media in their core au is so healing LMAOOOO #big warning for the gore in this again its Nasty #also. #typical benji. so you know what to expect there

[knownangels]

pathetic

wc: 5.9k

Matilda is nineteen when the inching creep of illness finally takes him. She’s twenty five when it kills.

She collects her bounty from Isaac with a palm-up gesture of victory; he slaps a crisp twenty dollar bill into it and sighs. It’s a remarkably similar noise to the faint shhhhhhf down the hall, where Bunny busies herself dragging his body. 

When she passes the entrance to the dining room, where the two younger Rhoades children are completing their deal, she swears and drops the corpse. As it hits the ground, Matilda is not startled to find the thump against gleaming parquet wood so quiet. In the last few years, he’d lost quite a bit of weight. 

“Oh, fuck you.” She hisses as she marches up to them, jabbing a finger into Matilda’s shoulder. “What’d you say?”

“Three years four months nine days.”

Bunny’s mouth twitches into an intrigued, yet judgmental, scowl. She clicks her tongue. “That’s incredibly specific and so suspicious.” 

Matilda shrugs. “I was going off vibe.”

“I said five.” 

“Six.” Isaac signs.

Their father (the only one Matilda has ever cared to know and label and love) sighs and leans heavily against her shoulder, draped like a golden age starlet with a wrist over eyes bracketed with gentle crows feet. 

“You’ll donate to my renovation fund, right?” She asks demurely, making her voice all funny and high. The transatlantic accent is as accurate as it can get, not at all put-on: she’d spent a few decades in the late 19th century prowling the east coast for fun. 

“I’ve seen the offshore accounts.” Matilda says. She lifts two fingers, the twenty lodged daintily between them. “This isn’t even a drop in the bucket. I think you’ll be fine without my twenty.”

Before she knows what is even happening, Bunny has snatched the bill and zipped back towards the hall with a mean laugh. 

“Thank you oh so much, darling, it really is such a generous contribution to my future den of inequity and debauchery!” She pauses at the cracked door, mouth dramatically pouted and brows cinched as she looks back at them over a shoulder. “Do you think the bloody chains are too…you know?” 

“Camp?” Isaac spells out slowly, adding a sarcastic twist to each letter. 

“Stereotypical.” Matilda offers instead. 

*

Their mother insists upon dining as a family together that evening. Even Happy joins them. He sits between the scientist and Leo, arms crossed and unamused brow as heavy as usual. Isaac tells him a story, some gossip circulating in his mundane little friend group. He’s insisted on going to school, getting a degree; to what end, Matilda isn’t sure. She suspects he must like getting out of the home, meeting more people. She suspects it might also have something to do with the sheer volume of eager young men on a college campus, but will withhold that particular dig until he does something to piss her off. 

A soft clearing of the throat gathers their collective attention. 

“Now. I’m so very pleased we were all able to clear our schedules for this time together.” She touches a hand as far down the table as possible, towards their scientist. “And for those of us who set aside important experiments.” 

He shrugs, hands lifted slightly from the tablecloth in polite acknowledgment. “No need. The spinal cord transfusion did not take, as I suspected, and it went through quite the painful looking rejection.”

Everyone around the table, save Happy, make a sympathetic noise. He’s busy playing a word puzzle on his phone.

“As I was saying,” their mother continues, “I’m glad that we are all together today. Although I suspect that none of us has made a sacrifice of lost love, and certainly none of us are toughing through heartache, it can be a confusing thing. Death, I mean.”

“Rot in peace,” Isaac signs. Without looking up from his game, Happy lifts a hand to press thumb and index finger together, jabbing his wrist forward: period.

Their mother fights a smile. “Even so. There can be a variety of mixed feelings with a passing such as this. Although I think we will likely carry the evening as usual, I just want to make it clear that we are a family — we’re here for each other, whenever that need may arise.”

No one looks down the table at Matilda, except her mother: Happy’s phone dings. Isaac and Leo launched into a rapid-fire conversation about some political intrigue of lord so-and-so from wherever seating of the council, a side-show of drama that Matilda would otherwise also be drawn into. The scientist picks at his plate of food (although she’s never seen him eat, the plate will be mysteriously empty the second her eyes drift away and back), and Bunny busies herself shouting word puzzle answers to their accountant although he hasn’t asked or provided the clue.

You, her mother’s eyes seem to say. I am talking about you. I am expecting you to break down. I am expecting mess. Your father, although you never referred to him as such, has died; there’s no way you handle this like you should. I am expecting the worst. 

*

Matilda gives her the worst. 

The whole third floor is set aflame. She finds an ancient tome on one of the displays in the master bedroom and tears each page until the pieces are as close to molecular as she can manage. Three windows broken, two handmade rugs made ribbon with her nails alone, the moonflower patch she favors near the back patio dug up and salted. 

By the end of her rampage, Matilda forgets that it had started as a testament to her mother’s lack of faith entirely. She has just proved a point — but it is exactly what set her to this in the first place. Because she’s right. Matilda could not handle it: every atom of rage within her bubbled to the surface made her wonder. Made her fear.

Is this him? Is this him? Is this him?

No matter the nature of her creation, the mode the means the method — weren’t the pieces of her him, at some point in time? He’s dead. She reminds herself of that. She tries to, as she sits in the dark blue twilight, in the dirt graveyard she’s made of her mother’s beloved creation, but all she can think: this is him. 

Undoing. Destruction for the sake of it. Destruction for spite. A burning, unhinged desire to inflict the hurt she feels, the hurt she has no name for; a method to, if she’s fortunate, deflect it. To uproot, to ruin, to deny simple pleasures and love where it dug deep and blossomed. To create something vile from something sacred. 

Matilda kneels, shoulders curved and feeling wretched, in the remnants of lily-white blossoms and freshly watered soil for ten more minutes. Then she pushes herself to her feet, knees dirty, to go and tell her mother what she’s done.

*

I understand, she says. I understand, Matilda. 

She isn’t angry. But only because she had been right all along. Her palm cups Matilda’s cheek as softly and lovingly as ever. Matilda loosens the hug, but her mother doesn’t let go. Her free arm stays locked tight around Matilda’s shoulders. It feels more like a clutch than a hug. 

When they finally part, she’s looking up at Matilda with eyes full of unwavering love…and pity. 

Every concern Matilda knows she holds for her youngest child s validated, in that moment. She is unstable, she is incapable of controlling her capability, she is the last of three creations — each more strange and off than the last. She wonders, if she were a bit more wrong, whether she could have been the one in chains.  

Loved, of course. 

But loved and kept.

*

When she turns the corner down the hall from her mother’s room, fists wiping angrily at her eyes, someone catches her at the elbow and yanks her into an empty room.

She doesn’t yelp or turn with gnashing teeth or scream; there are only a few people in this place, and she trusts them all. 

Especially Happy, who it turns out is the one with a firm hand around her elbow.

“You gotta know something, kid.” He says, voice low. She wants to tell him there’s no point in that — that if her mother wants to hear, she will. Privacy is granted as long as one is within the lady of the manor’s good graces. And awarded even after, but with cost. Matilda doesn’t want him to owe anything; she doesn’t want him to pay his debt in pity, either. 

“I don’t want to know anything but nothing for a few hours.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “Which is why I’m going to go smoke until I puke and dissociate on, like, another plane of existence. You’re welcome to join.” 

Happy ignores the deflection. He even shakes her a bit. Matilda blinks. 

“It’s about that decrepit ol’ bastard.” 

*

It’s a relief that he’s gone. It’s a pity that he goes as he does, and a crime that it was fast. She would have liked it if he suffered. She would have liked to do it herself. She would have liked her mother to do the honors. Maybe Bunny. 

But they hadn’t been given the choice or the chance, because it hadn’t been the exhaustion or the wasting illness he’d survived for so long. When Happy hands her the folder of photographs and receipts and maps and transcript radio communications, he gives that choice back. That chance. 

“What is this?” She asks, but the answer to that question becomes starkly clear as the pages flit by. Shipments across sea, substances ordered and smuggled, deals across country lines that break historic alliances. All under the noses of the most powerful vampiric courts in the world. All with a purpose. 

“They haven’t perfected it yet.” Happy says when she gets to a glossy, if not slightly blurry, photograph of a ruined lab. There are glass vials shattered amongst the tile, a still pair of shoes out of frame, a bloodied lab coat tossed haphazard to the ground. And there, on one of the tables, is a glass tube of liquid. The color of its contents is hard to describe; all Matilda knows is that it calls to her, even in print. There is something about it that radiates — something. 

“It’s toxic so far. Mostly. Well, y’know. Sometimes.” He rotates a wrist in the air. “Kinda dogshit about lab safety, you got a buncha thralls banging around doing—” 

She blinks at him. 

“Okay. Anyway. Like I said, they haven’t perfected it yet. But they’re close, I think. Got sources. Not sure if it’s supposed to be a street drug, or some kind of control device, or just vampires being weird and fuckin’ evil.” Happy looks off to the side then back at her. “No offense.”

“None taken.” Matilda flips through several more pages. Chemical compounds, notations on phenotypes and Rh factors and all sorts of other scrabbled together research. “He was on this, or something?” 

“No. Someone gave it to him. Enough to be lethal.” He shrugs when her eyes snap up. “Well shit, Matilda. None of us, obviously. Only reason I know about all this —” his focus falters again, down the hall. Matilda imagines a little trail going down the stairs, out the west wing, into the sterile cool interior of their scientist’s lab on the grounds. “It’s not done yet. They need someone smart to fix it. Make it…whatever they want it to be. Distributable. And…” 

“They want him.” Her fingers tighten on the page. “What was the point?”

“It’s all connected.” Happy says. Then he pauses and snorts, making Matilda’s lips twitch. “That sounded real conspiracy. I know, I know. I mean, serious. I’m being serious as hell right now, all right? Shut up."

All the emotion bubbles up in her again, but this time there’s no destructive itch. She just flattens a hand over her mouth to fight the giggles. 

“He was definitely involved in some shit back in the day. I’m sure you know. Or I’m sure you’ve been told, right?” Happy’s head tilts to catch her gaze again. “Vamps in a lotta circles wanted him dead or controlled or worse, and not just because he was a fuckin’ clown. And I think they find out he hadn’t ate shit, and wanted to make it happen.” 

“How would anyone know?” 

Happy gives her a look. “Which one of us fucks around with ‘em the most?”

*

She finds Leo lounging where he can usually be found. On the rooftop, arms tucked under his mop of golden curls, red-ringed pupils shut to the glow of the moon. 

“You’re in my light.” 

Matilda doesn’t move away from him, doesn’t cast her shadow politely off to the side. She waits until he cracks a lid open. He’s fed recently; the wet mercury of their eyes gets deeper, gets layered, once they’ve had a little blood. They don’t have to drink like others. Leo just likes to. 

Matilda crouches beside him, knees tucked and arms wrapped around her shins. “This is pretty sentimental of you, ‘Lo.” 

Leo’s head turns at the old nickname. She wonders if a vision of her, tiny and knobby-kneed, bounces through his head fondly. She wonders if Leo is capable of fondness. “It’s relaxing.” 

“Yeah? Is that what he used to yank you up here to do? Relax?” 

To her delight, the comment flusters him just enough to pull an annoyed huff. It’s counter intuitive to a good mood, which she needs him in to ask questions, but the sibling need to tease him about an old flame is too tempting. 

“I’m putting Benji down on the list of banned topics.” 

“My first amendment right.” Matilda says, voice a mask of shock. 

He huffs again, and now sits up straight. “Did you come up here to just be fucking annoying, or —”

“Happy thinks somebody killed him.” Matilda blurts. They stare at each other a long moment. She rocks back to fall on her ass, flop backwards to spread her arms and lay against the night cooled material of the roof. There will be twigs and bits of shingle in her hair but…she doesn’t want to move. She can’t. Everything bubbles up again, but there are no giggles now. No destruction. It just feels heavy. 

Leo blinks. “Dad?” 

“Don’t call him that.” 

“He was, Mati. Like, at least by biology a little bit?” He squeezes her knee. “I’m not saying you don’t get to be — you don’t get to feel — Jesus.” Leo swipes a hand down his face. “Just…tell me what Happy said.” 

She glares at him, thinking of the folder and its contents store beneath her bed frame. “Did you tell anyone about him?” 

Leo is such a shit liar, she thinks. The question smacks into him in an immediate display of shock and then guilt. His eyes go big and no, not me for the barest second. And then everything closes off, expression stony and smooth. He turns it off so well, but he’s still her brother. They’re still made from the same stuff. 

(Him?)

“You did.” She hisses. “Who?” 

“Nobody.”

“Leo.” Matilda sits up too. Then she stands, the moon to her back. He’s in her shadow again. “Leo. Tell me who.”

Leo tries not to. He really does. But she makes her eyes big, her expression serious and wounded and something akin to the little girl who would come in and tug his sleeve, ask to play, cry for attention, need a hug when she fell. Matilda doesn’t mean to be so good at it. To manipulate so thoroughly. But she learned it from him. She learned so much from Leo. 

“Alright.” He says finally, with a sigh. He reaches out with an empty palm, and Matilda knows (in the way that siblings do, silent communication and a shared pattern of thought) to put her phone there. He types in an address to her notes. And then a name.

Matilda’s face scrunches at the letters. “Fi-ah…fi-duh?” 

“Her name’s Fiadh.” Leo rolls his eyes. That flustered look is all over him again, shoulders up. She can’t tell if it’s for show. If she’s being a little manipulated, too. “Fee-ah. She — I told her. About him. About the cellar. About — I don’t know, it…it was just one of those moments, you know?” 

Matilda doesn’t know. She nods anyway.

“I trusted her. I’m not sure why.” He goes distant, trying to recall the memory. When it seems to elude him, his face scrunches. “I can’t remember telling her, though. She runs this place out in the country. Like a blood bank, except for the pussy ones.” When Matilda offers him an unamused look, he rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. The no humans losers. The ethical fucks. Stupid. But — she smuggles. I know she does. I don’t know how or what, but it was some shady shit.”

Matilda nods. She stands. 

Leo shoots out to grab her ankle. “Mati.” 

It’s all he says. Her name, the hold on her, the grip, the concern; she’s kept. She’s weak. 

The heaviness returns to her, a weight expanding cylindrical from the center of her out. She’s afraid to burst again. She’s afraid to — him. 

She can see the pleading in Leo’s eyes. Sometimes, when he looks at the two of them (his babies, even though he won’t say it, his siblings, his wards, the parts to his whole, three angles fit to make an equal triangle) she doesn’t doubt how deeply he feels. 

And then other times, like when she’d caught him burying something stiff and pale in the backyard beneath the willow, she thinks: him.

She’s glad she hadn’t dug that portion of the garden up. There are things she wants to know, and things she doesn’t.

*

Fiadh is pretty. Her little rabbit farm is cute. 

Matilda hates her immediately and with a strange stab of red-hot rage so severe that doesn’t shock her so much as catch her by surprise. 

Matilda isn’t jealous of her adorable bedroom, painted earthy green and with plenty of tasteful velvet, weave, and jewel tones. She isn’t jealous of sweet little animals that roam the whole farmhouse, nor the pink-painted hutches in the big barn out back, nor the acres of wildflower planted land for them to roam happy and free. 

Matilda isn’t sure what she’s jealous of — but it rises up in her just like the heavy anger, the desolate feeling of something being taken. 

I don’t know what you did, she thinks, staring at the back of the girl’s head through the sheer-curtain covered window. But you took a right from me. From us. I don’t know how, but I do know how I’m going to get some of it back.

*

Up close, Fiadh’s hair is even prettier. It’s shiny and long, ending in bouncy curled waves by her elbows. Matilda imagines brushing it. She imagines running her fingers through it. She’d call it maybe — amber. Maybe honey. Something darker, layered; just ruddy enough not to be blonde, a color so interesting that people pay hundreds to have it mimicked. 

Golden, but ran through with auburn strands; yes, honey. Honey.

Not any, though. The fancy kind; glass jar, organic sticker stamped, tasteful and classy minimalist font. Overpriced. Because at the end of the day — it tastes just the same as any other honey. It’s nothing special. It doesn’t taste better, smell better, come from a better hive. 

Matilda fists her hand in that hair and yanks. 

*

It’s a short fight. Fiadh’s as strong as any vampire, but she clearly isn’t accustomed to using it. Matilda had waited for all the security vehicles to leave. Had watched as Fiadh stood in the doorway, a robe hanging from one shoulder precariously, to wave them off for the night. It was an awful lot of security for a silly little farm, vampiric clientele aside. 

Fiadh isn’t strong, but she knows things that Matilda wants to know. And that isn’t the jealousy, although it stays stuck wet in the bottom of her throat as they glare at each other, all the same. 

“I’m going to eat them all.” Matilda reveals in a sultry, winded whisper. Her fist is tight to Fiadh’s throat, the other woman’s close to a similar squeeze under her jaw. She pushes Matilda’s snapping, laughing jaws away with a sharp cry. Her disgust at the admission is enough: Matilda throws her off with enough force that her diminutive form gets air. 

Fiadh braces on trembling hands, palms bloody with streaks from Matilda’s sharp nails. She looks pathetic. She looks pretty. Matilda nudges her cheek with a knee, and Fiadh looks at her with wet, terrified eyes through honeyed strands.  

Matilda is stronger. Matilda comes from a better hive. 

She likes to think she tastes better, too.

*

Fiadh is a good Catholic girl. Or she was, at some point, before turning. She screams and wails and then moans weakly from the chair Matilda has restrained her in. A crucifix taped to the center of her heaving chest is enough to keep her weak. 

Matilda wants her weak, not dead. Awake, not out. She wants to make sure she watches. 

You took something from me. I don’t know what you did — I just know I want that back. 

“It’s your last chance.” She singsongs. She stands in the center of the room, a black and white mottled rabbit tucked in the crook of her elbow. Its fire is so, so soft beneath her fingers. She wanted a rabbit when she was younger. She wanted a whole zoo. Bunny and her scientist had done their best to fulfill every one of her desires, but that particular age had been trouble — she would have torn through anything fragile. She would have torn through anything strong; the willpower had not been a trained skill, then.

It is now. But more often than not, Matilda finds it fun to abandon. 

“Please,” Faith sniffles weakly. She looks pathetic. She still looks beautiful. Something nasty and cruel bubbles up Matilda’s chest. “Just tell me what you want, okay? I don’t know what I did. I’m sorry. I’ll make it better. I can help.”

Matilda sneers. She could make it quick. Fiadh had given a merciful death — one that wasn’t hers to give. And that was a luxury. A privilege. A nicety for things that deserved it. Maybe the rabbits deserve a merciful, painless, quick death. But Matilda doesn’t have it in her to offer that, at the moment. 

Instead she lifts the rabbit to her mouth. She holds Fiadh’s gaze for the entire of the slow, steel-jawed bite. She sinks her fangs into its neck slowly. She drinks slowly. It gives a little kick and yelp, something sad that twists a piece of her deep down. Then its little fragile chest begins to heave as it dies. 

Slowly.

Fiadh watches in horror. Her big bloodied-amber eyes are beautiful and wet, tear-framed as they are. They spill over her cheeks and down her neck, over her clavicle. Matilda hopes they burn when they get to the raw skin where the crucifix rests. 

When she’s done with the creature, she tosses it aside in a fluffy heap in the corner of the room. Faith moans again, broken-hearted. 

“That wasn’t even your favorite one, was it?” Matilda kneels down to peer at its limp body, the collar around its neck that reads Snowbell. “I want to know which ones are your favorite. No — I want to know which ones you hate. Do you have them all named? Do you mix them up, sometimes? Gosh, some of them look alike. Do you have to put collars on them so you know which is which, because you don’t love them all equally?” 

Fiadh sniffles. Her brow isn’t knotted with rage, an expression Matilda might respect. Instead, it’s slack and sad. She’s already given up. One little bunny, and the fight has gone out of her. 

Pathetic, Matilda’s thoughts scoff. 

“Cunt.” 

Her eyebrows shoot up, a grin splitting her messy, gory mouth. “Oh.” 

*

Matilda is methodical about it, after that. The brief glimpse of fire in the vampire hadn’t lasted long. She’d returned to her normal sniveling, damsel-in-distress tears just as soon as the insult had passed her lips. 

Around rabbit four, she tries to dip her face away. To squeeze her eyes shut. Matilda goes and finds a little white one, fur dyed lilac purple, with an adorable bell collar in an adorable fluffy bed in Fiadh’s adorable, adorable bedroom. 

She fists a hand in that pretty hair (streaked with sweat, flyaways, imperfect) and forces Fiadh to watch her drain that one, too. And when she’s done, when the other vampire looks sick and pale and like she would prefer to be anywhere else but in that stifling hot, metallic-scented room, Matilda leans down. She rubs their mouths together until Fiadh recoils with a retching noise, tears flowing freely to mingle with the red stain smearing across her mouth and cheeks. 

*

She feeds and feeds and feeds.

Unlike Leo, it isn’t something she does often. She and Isaac prefer the food of the living — more substance, more diversity, more tastes. 

But there’s something about the rabbits that makes it incapable to stop gorging herself. The adorable farmhouse and Fiadh’s adorable bedroom will need gallons of stain remover by the time Matilda tires of the tortuous little feast. And still, as she stumbles blood-drunk down the front steps of the wraparound porch, Matilda eyes the rabbit hutches across the yard and hungers. 

The walk back into town will take her the remainder of the night. She imagines walking towards the city limits as the sun rises; were she a little different, it would bake her alive. Leave a smear of shadow and ash on the roadside. But she’s not a little different; she’s a little him. And so she walks and walks, waits for the feeling of the sun on her face. 

She feels normal until the third mile. It’s then that her steps become strange and off kilter. Her limbs feel tight and heavy. Not with exhaustion, but something else. A dizzying soda carbonation fizz that has her cheeks warm and eyes blown wide. It reminds her of the punch-drunk crossfade of alcohol and a club line offered on a pretty girl’s compact mirror. 

By mile six, the feeling has faded into something nasty like withdrawal.

She favors her left side in a heavy, pained limp as she walks. The night air is crisp and wet, the perfect weight of humidity filling her lungs with every step. Honeysuckle and ozone cling to the rainy pavement, mist rising from between its cracked fissures. For a moment, she imagines she moves through prehistory; a fog-filled jungle, instead of the after-rain concrete. Ferns larger than her head — ferns larger than buildings. Creatures of all size and shape, scaled and feathered and fanged or blunt-molared.

But it’s not millions of years in the past. Matilda is the only creature around; things smart enough to avoid her, do.

The operator of the approaching car is not one of those, so it seems. She can feel the rumble of it beneath her bare feet. And even without that, she had heard the heartbeat of its occupant three miles out. Her senses are better when her stomach is full, her tongue slick and heavy with something iron rich. But they’re not usually this good. And surely not from something as meager as a few rabbits. She feels…she feels— 

The car approaches, but Matilda doesn’t turn from her steady trek. Her face remains forward until she knows the driver is near enough to see her.

She schools her eyes wide, terror-filled. The tears spring up so quick she feels a tingle of pride. And then she pauses in the center of the road, hair whipping around her face as she turns to be blinded by the headlights. It isn’t acting that brings one bloody palm up to shield her eyes. It isn’t acting that makes her muscles quake, her skin shiver; but it isn’t the weather, either.

Matilda has never felt so warm inside. So snap-fast alive. And when the car slows, she realizes it was not a heartbeat she heard, but a steady bassline.

The driver is not human. There are no lights on in the interior, but her eyes — whatever Faith had been smuggling in those cute little beasts was something else, that was for sure. She can see each individual follicle of peach fuzz on his face, each dark hair that completes the shape of his pretty, concern-scrunched brow. 

More than all that, Matilda focuses on the blood-flushed wet meat red of his eyes. 

It takes so much willpower to keep her mouth from jumping into a nasty, intrigued grin. But it takes nothing at all to stumble forward, one shaking hand outstretched in a silent plea. 

“Help,” Matilda whispers, knowing that he can hear it even twenty feet away, even as quiet as she keeps the word. 

The car’s engine does not cut; he’s stupid for that. She could close the distance and pull herself into the front seat of the — well, she’s not sure what sort of car it is. The trashy shine of a classic muscle car likely fifteen years older than she is…they all start to look the same. So do their owners. 

Except this one. She likes this one. No pretentious, condescending gleam to his eye. No, howdy, lil girl, no are you all alone out here, do you need a lift, no oh my fucking god oh christ what are you please don’t it hurts. 

Not yet, anyway. Her mouth fills with saliva as the driver vacates. He’s graceful about it in a charmingly careful way. Like he doesn’t trust this — like he knows better.

Matilda squeezes her arms tighter around her waist. The cardigan she’d stolen from Fiadh’s closet slips, bunches at her elbows. 

He knows better, but his posture relaxes when the pale curve of each shoulder is revealed. She’s almost disappointed in how quickly. How easy, as usual, that they are. Always, always easy — even the ones who know better.

“Help,” Matilda squeaks again, stumbling forward. She falls with a soft noise — nothing too loud, or too sharp. She’s supposed to be weak, after all. She hangs her head to mask the sharp breath she takes when the wind carries his scent over. Dark and rainy, sticky leather like he didn’t care about the state of the seats, something spicy and sharp — boy. 

She puts a hand to her mouth to wipe the saliva. And then, because she’s supposed to need help and she’s supposed to be weak, she fakes a sob.

“Did — holy shit.” He must see now how covered and sticky with blood she is; Matilda looks up just in time, bright grey through strands of rain-wet hair, to watch him cover his own face. His eyes have dilated dark and big, lashes fluttering. The fresh smell of it calling to him, most likely. He’s trying to hide what he is from her. He hasn’t noticed yet.

That she’s more like him than a human. More than him, in the first place.

“Are you alright? Fuck. Were you all the way out in the forest? Where’d you come from?”

Matilda stares up at him. You don’t want to know, handsome. 

Instead of speaking, she wills the tears back up and begins to sob. 

*

The drive back into civilization is long enough that he keeps turning from the drivers seat, assuring her that they’re almost there, she’ll be okay, she’ll be warm soon enough. 

That he sits there in one piece, his pretty neck in one piece and untorn by her teeth, is a miracle. He doesn’t seem to realize it. He only sees the shivering figure of a scantily clad girl, a rescue, tucked under his jacket in the backseat. 

It smells of him. The car smells of him. And it smells like more than just him. It reeks of a whole crowd, a barrage of sensation that makes her stomach turn. 

“Your car is so cool,” Matilda lies. In the rearview mirror, his eyes dart to her when she shifts. He’s quick about turning them away; he doesn’t want her to notice their off-putting color. “If I get sick in it, I’m going to feel awful.” 

“It’s not mine,” he laughs. “So don’t worry about that. Aim for the seats if you want. Leather is expensive to clean, apparently.” 

Matilda offers what she hopes is an adequately charming and weak giggle. “You hate whoever drives it?” She makes her eyes big. “Or — or. Oh my God. Oh God, you didn’t steal it —” 

She can hear how loud his nervous gulp is, even without the recently enhanced senses. “No. I— it’s my friend’s car. I was borrowing. Uh, legally. Legally borrowing.”

Matilda pretends to relax, like she believes him. She tucks the jacket higher around her chin when he looks back again — for a moment too long.

“I’m so glad you were out here. I got lucky — I just. I don’t know where they came from. I don’t know where my friends are.” Her voice hitches. “Do you think — do you think they’re okay? Oh, fuck. You aren’t going to believe me, but…” 

“Try me.” 

Matilda fights a smile. She tries to channel Fiadh; pouting, pretty, pathetic. “It was supposed to be just a group of us. There’s a place up in the mountains—” she pretends to demure here, withhold details. It flusters him visibly to fill in the blanks. “But when we got there — they... There was so much blood.” 

The driver is quiet for a very long moment. His knuckles look extra pale where they grip the wheel, and Matilda loses track of herself staring at the working flex of his jaw. 

When he glances at her in the mirror again, he jumps. The car jerks and he overcorrects, veering them in the other direction.

Matilda has moved closer, impossibly silent in the cramped interior. She leans as close as she can without touching, her chin hovering just over his shoulder. Their eyes snap together in the rearview, and something confused passes over expression alongside the momentary terror. 

In each pass of the streetlights, Matilda’s eyes look even more otherworldly. She’s fed. She wonders if she can see all that blood beneath the grey. She isn’t masked with fear, traumatized or shaking. Matilda stares at him, head cocked, fanged smile sharp and very close to his neck. 

“Help,” Matilda whispers. She inches forward, lips parted, fingers curling around the driver’s seat. Inching closer and closer to a clawlike hold on his shoulder. “Help, help. There are monsters out here.” 

The breaks screech. Matilda laughs wildly as the car loses control and careens in a circle; although the blur of their spin-out snaps his attention, she can only stare at him in the mirror. She thinks of spilling blood and the taste of it and the give of flesh beneath her teeth. Slow motion midspin, she reaches up to tuck hair behind his ear. It leaves a smear of wet blood to dry in the bleached strands. 

*

When the car settles and the smoking tires slide to a halt, when Lark whips around with hand outstretched and a stake retrieved from the drivers side door (amidst wrappers and receipts and condoms, for fuck’s sake), there is no one in the backseat.

There is no one on the road, either. But he swears he sees the shiny glint of a pair of eyes retreat into the tall grass on the side of the road. 

He swears.

#writing #mmr #jr #bs #flk #lt #mmr x lt #vampire au

[knownangels]

even

wc: 5.3k

Benji has never once thought oh good, it’s over. Never once had the first breath of fresh air after a skirmish — fumes and smoke and the tang of something metallic in the back of his mouth, like he’d dusted them between his molars instead of shot them from the barrel of a gun— and thought: ah, it’s done. 

For some soldiers, the aftermath is the end. When the relief washes in and the adrenaline dies and the help arrives. Benji’s the help. It’s a crooked, evil phenomena: dreading the end of a fight. Crosses his wires all up in a tangle; it makes him twisted and selfish, doesn’t it, that he dreads the pause in gunfire?  

But that doesn’t mean it’s ever silent, after a fight. The explosions and drumbeat of bullets and clinking of mags and spent rounds — it covered the rest of the noise. 

He keeps his cool, of course. Part of the job. But if there was ever a portion that tested and stretched the limits of his composure, it was the after-noises.

He’s never thinking ah good, it’s over. He’s thinking: aw fuck, here we go. 

*

Benji has the misfortune of taking something to the shoulder. Well. Relative misfortune. The other poor bastard taking cover behind an upturned stack of crates with him is a bit worse off. 

“Patch me up.”

Benji winces when he turns his head. It pulls something, tugs some muscle connected to the injury. Blood bubbles up between his fingers, soaks through his glove. 

Not so much as what soaks through the infantryman propped beside him. It’s a pool between them, spread out like some uncrossable, ruby-shined sea. Within it, the reflection of the noontime sun transfixes Benji. That, or he’s getting woozy.

He’s silent a beat too long; the other soldier begins to panic. He twitches all over, like he means to move. To grab Benji’s arm, his vest. Maybe he thinks he does move. Maybe, in his mind’s eye, he’s shaking Benji by the shoulders.

Maybe he really does think Benji can help. Because this is the part of the battle — the after — where Benji’s job starts. Where the little red cross on his uniform becomes a beacon, rather than a scrap of fabric with a few stitches loose. 

(Benji’s only loose stitches, ever. He prides himself on that.) 

But no amount of tight stitching is going to help the other injured man. Benji’s got a through and through, nice and clean. He can tell, the way the wound aches. You get enough of them, wounds that is…well, you start being able to differentiate pain. Being able to tell the difference in missing flesh, the way nerves throb a specific way for a tactical blade’s slash or shrapnel aching deep. The absences feel different. Voids, and all that. 

“Patch me up!” 

Benji glances up from the nasty, serrated combat knife buried handle-deep in his solar plexus.  When the other soldier screams it, his whole torso shudders. That’s how Benji knows what it’s hit — getting winded after a blow to the center of the chest is shit enough. This is a bit worse. It’ll be about now that he realizes he can’t pull another breath: on cue, the soldier’s eyes pop wide. His face starts to lose color. 

Benji winces as he props himself up to a kneeling position. He lets go of his own injury, gritting his teeth until he swears he feels one chip.

“Rough way of it,” Benji croaks. He’s not sure if it’s from overuse or not speaking at all; he never knows what happens, in the midst of the during. He goes someplace else. Checks out of the hotel, so to speak. Benji laughs.

“What do —you— mean—?” The infantryman wheezes. Benji wishes he knew the man’s name. But they’re all cannon fodder. Frontline first in bastards, he and this one. His name isn’t known either, or else the man would have used it. 

“You’re going to die.” Benji says. With his good arm (not as bad arm, he supposes, because he can feel a nasty fucking bruise blossoming in the crook of his elbow) he reaches across to pinch the man’s eyelids wider. His pupils swim, catching Benji only for a moment before they slip away. 

“I’m —no. You…medic.” 

“Got a basic med kit, sure.” Benji’s focus drifts back to the wound in his chest. The man heaves a breath — one of his last few — and shudders. Another spot, one Benji hadn’t noticed until just now and one that rests unfairly close to his heart, spits a stream of crimson. 

“Hurts—!”

Benji tips the man’s chin up. His head hangs back loose on his shoulders. He shivers again. Somehow, hemusters enough strength to give Benji’s wrist a claw-like grip. Benji welcomes it: the sting of nails into skin distracts from the throb in his shoulder. 

“Got painkillers, yeah.” Benji pats his cheek awkwardly. No matter how many times he finds himself in this position, this gunpowder-scented bedside with none of the cool depressed indifference of a hospital room, he knows he’ll never get better at the manner. It’ll eat at him something fierce, sure. He’ll sit up and remember the exact shade of silvery flecks in this man’s eyes. But easing their final closure with kind words or comforting promises or sympathy — 

Nah. He’s shit at it. Always will be. 

“Got painkillers,” Benji repeats, patting the man’s cheek to stir him a bit. “But it’ll have stopped hurting by now, right? By the time I give ‘em to you, it’ll be done. It’s good to go quick, mate. Promise. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes, sometimes. ‘Sides, you got your brain intact, lucky you. All those nice chemicals of your own’ll be giving you the trip of a —”

The man’s panicked expression slips into something peacefully slack. Doped up. Benji huffs out a laugh that, were it his first time in this exact scenario, might strike him as morbid. 

“Lifetime. Aw, ‘pologies. Poor choice on my part.” 

Benji makes quick work of the chain around the man’s neck. The little blue tags they kit each of them out with are cheaply made. Transparent, light-catching material, maybe resin, with silver etched letters and numbers. Benji has seen them shatter when dropped. Benji has treated a man who ran chest-first into a wall on leave, crunched his tags against his chest, and needed them fished out with a pair of tweezers. He hadn’t much appreciated the Operation joke Benji’d made, during.

He leaves one of the rounded rectangles in the man’s fist, which needs to be manually closed — so he can be identified, once clean-up touches down.

The other tag he slips into his pocket. It’s the first of the afternoon, the first of this after (Benji’s beginning), but it won’t be the last. By the end of the next hour or so, a half dozen of them will clink together. He might even forget they’re there; he might only remember to take them to his lieutenant, to be transferred to records then shipping then family, the next morning when he’s tossing his trousers into the hamper to take them to the wash on base so the blood from this man’s gaping chest wound which stains his thigh and seeps warm onto his skin can be wrung out and tint the water pink — 

Benji blinks. With a gentle hand cupping the back of the dying soldier’s head, he guides that fluttering, distanced gaze down to his own. He holds up the single tag on its chain.

“Rough way.” Benji repeats. He is at his usual, habitual loss for what else to say. “We’ll get it to —well, whoever. Family, or —y’know. Whoever.” 

He hopes the man doesn’t slip away to his hapless fumbling. Would be a particularly shit end to his already shit day. 

Once the body has gone fully limp, Benji pushes himself to his knees. He does a careful check of his surroundings. Other bodies lie amongst the rubble, some out in the open, some groaning  —or dying — from their injuries just out of vision. 

Benji slips the tag into his pocket. He bites his glove off, velcro strap ripping loudly but not loud enough to drown the after-noises. The etched letters of this first man are a soothing texture beneath his swiping thumb. But he can’t make out the word they spell. He never learns the man’s name. 

He doesn’t want to. 

*

 When he discovers, after a thorough assessment of the remnants of the firefight, that he is the last of this particular squadron alive, his hands only set to shaking a little.

Benji has not been in this position before. Their leader for this mission, a stalwart and square-jawed woman by the name of Jamison— or maybe Jemison, or Jamesson — lies in a crumpled heap behind the warm exhaust of a generator. The production facility they had been tasked with protecting had come under predicted attack, but it seems as though despite all her experience she had not been able to predict the nasty, forceful blow to her skull.

Her tags get tucked alongside the others. Benji is all too aware of his own, now. They’re nestled against his chest, digging in beneath the strap of his vest. He’s the only survivor. He needs to get a working comms established; their commander’s radio has been crushed by the same weapon that had made jelly of everything above the shoulders. 

He’s the only survivor. He needs to find a way to share that information. He needs to find someone to share that information with. He needs to get back to base. He needs a shower. He needs sleep. He needs—

To pay attention.

His gut moves him. He has no control of his muscles, so it must be instinct. Instinct: one single breath to his right, behind a corner. Instinct: the swivel of his hip. Instinct, the steadying placement of one boot back, braced to mitigate the momentum that pushes him back as he catches a swinging weapon by its handle. 

It’s instinct that uses both arms to yank his assailant off their feet. But it’s Benji, his shoulder and the pain that comes with this life-saving motion, who screams. 

He stumbles with the shock of it. Like lightning. His palm bruises and cramps. HIs whole arm goes limp as it sizzles white-hot up his forearm, wraps his bicep, and settles like a shard of pure electricity in the oozing hole in his shoulder. 

“Fuck!” Benji gasps as he falls. Embarrassingly, right on his arse. 

“Fuck you!” The weapon-wielder yells back.

It shivers him with déjà vu.

Benji has the sensation of someone looming over him, someone holding him to the ground with a fist in his vest; he has the sensation of instinct and adrenaline seeping from him hand-in-hand. His gut coils weak once more, no longer offering him any help in the face of danger. He’s lost more blood than he realizes. And with that realization comes another:

He’s the last left. There will be no one to deny him painkillers. No one to joke about his assigned method of departure, rough way. No one to tuck his tag in his fist. No one to take it back to base, to identify be identified, to be sent home. 

“Benji.” Benji says. He says it. Not instinct. It’s written on his tag. But he wants them to know.

There’s a long pause where he imagines the graceful arc of the weapon he’d briefly caught. He imagines it cutting through the air. He imagines whatever it is burying itself in his skull. Imagines the mess. 

Benji blinks his eyes open (when had he squeezed them shut?) and stares, for a moment, blankly. 

“Oh shit.”

“Oh.” He breathes. And then, for some reason, he smiles. “Oh shit.” 

*

 “It’s still cute.” 

Benji’s scowl turns into a proper wince; Xavier winds the bandage around his shoulder too tight. He’s not as practiced at this — maybe not at all. And Benji had refused to touch the little bottle of painkillers in his kit. 

It felt wrong. He — it just was wrong.

So he bites his knuckle the whole time Xavier tends to him. While the wound is cleaned, while its packed (squeamishly, which is admittedly charming), while a firm hand pulls the strip of white cotton tight, tight, tight. 

“Sorry?” He’s still delirious. Head swimming from the blood loss, the wind-down of medical trauma. Of endorphins running out. Of—

(the flash of the warehouse, bodies strewn, guns smoking, the after-noises, the man’s rolling eyes)

“Your name.” Xavier insists. "It's still cute."

He looks no worse for wear; almost as if he hasn’t been in the midst of it at all, aside ruffled hair and a sweat-slicked face. There are circles under his eyes, but then again, Benji hasn’t seen a set without them in quite some time. He just hasn’t been close enough to the enemy (which is what Xavier is, his mind insists) to see how they’d been faring.

Not as bad, if Xavier’s chipper, toothy grin and color-flushed face are anything to go by. They’re not, Benji knows. He is by definition an anomaly. Not of this place, this world, and certainly not the standard by which other battle-pallid faces and distanced eyes should be judged against.

I need a fucking nap, Benji thinks, because his thoughts are rapidly unspooling. He keeps his mouth shut to keep them from escaping that way.

But Xavier nudges him. Friendly like, an elbow to his undamaged shoulder. It jostles enough to hurt, but its numb enough now that he can grit his jaw to it.

“Remember? We ran into each other before.” Xavier snorts. “You threw a gun at me. Kind of stupid.”

“Out of ammo.” Benji defends. “What else am I s’posed to do, I see a big bastard like you comin' at me?”

He pretends not to notice how Xavier’s chest puffs at that, even though it wasn’t a compliment.

“Run, maybe. Although that doesn’t always help.” 

“Didn’t.” Benji says. He gestures at the massive gore-slicked hammer propped against a crate adjacent to the position they’ve taken; Xavier had pulled him away from the open-air warehouse floor into a smaller room. Managerial, if he were to guess from the monitors and upended bullet-riddled file cabinets. There are probably useful documents in there he ought to go through and save, bring back for intel. 

But Xavier’s smiling. There’s something off about it, a twist that isn’t charming or jovial that hints at a dark few future hours; Xavier had been the only survivor of his crew, too. 

“Well, us either. A few of those guys were assholes, though, so —“

Benji laughs incredulously at the awful implication of that.”What, so they deserved it?” 

Xavier’s laugh smears right off his face. His eyes do a funny thing: distance and blur.

“Some of them.” He intones quietly, voice dark and monotone. Benji hasn’t known him long enough (doesn’t know him at all!) to determine if that’s uncharacteristic. Given their last encounter, it might be.

And just as quickly it appeared, its gone. Xavier straightens up to his full height, which is fucking up there, and snaps the clasp of Benji’s now-empty med kit shut. He pats it twice, pauses, pats it again. Then tucks it carefully inside Benji’s pack before zipping that shut, too. 

“There we go. You’re all set.” He kneels down again. He’s so tall their faces don’t nearly align, but when he tilts his head its just about there. “Are you going to tell people I kissed it better?”

His breath drifts over Benji’s face. It smells sweet, like fruit flavored candy. It also smells like blood; he has a cut on the inside of his mouth somewhere that still leaks, turns the delicate pink between his white teeth a fresh, deranged red. 

“I’m not going to tell anybody anything.” Benji says. He doesn’t say it because he’s nervous there’s a threat underlying a smile that is, by all visual clues, absolutely threatening. He says it because — 

He says it because he wants Xavier to know he can be trusted. That this isn’t just another good deed, another favor. It isn’t happenstance. A moment of weakness; of mercy. Two’s a pattern. He says it because telling Xavier: if we see each other again — 

No. He can’t say that. 

Something beeps on Xavier’s person. He pats his chest, then his breast pocket. From there, he pulls a tablet. Or what looks like one. Its transparent screen is peculiarly thin. With the blue glow and digital beeps, Benji gets the impression that its technology is incredibly advanced. Futuristic, even. Certainly nothing he’s ever seen. 

And that too is something he should act on: he should pull his side piece from its thigh holster and level it at Xavier’s pale forehead (where a cluster of freckles thins in the center, from brown to nearly his skin tone). He should pull the trigger. He should take the tablet, he should find out if Xavier has tags of his own, he should take the documents, he should turn them all in —

Instead, Benji reaches up and taps his knuckle against the back of the tablet’s screen. 

“Tell your mum ‘hullo’ for me, yeah?” 

Xavier blinks. And then he laughs, wild and delirious — just how Benji feels. 

*

He has no need for them and has never believed in the workings of the universe to as enchanted a level as they require, but the fact that Benji makes it back to base is nothing short of a miracle.

A narrow escape of two enemy patrols. Sliding down a muddy hill (because of course the rain started up) into a drainage ditch. The ambient temperature isn’t too low, but Benji’s injured. And the water is thigh-deep. And the shock of it is enough that he gasps and goes cold all over.

And it should be there they find him, blue in the lips and gray in the face and dead, tag tucked in his own fist and thumb pressed so hard to the name it etches into skin instead of cheap plastic. 

It is there they find him. He just isn’t dead.

His lieutenant claps him hard on the back. It’s his injured side. The gauze has, again miraculously, avoided soaking through with the disgustingly muddy runoff that coats the rest of him. 

Perhaps because it was wound too tight.

“At ease, mate.” Quinn barks. The rest of the pick-up squad gathers around them. Some start to ask questions — who’s with you, where are the rest, where’s the commander, how’d you bloody do it, private? — but the lieutenant creates a barrier between Benji’s listless, tired gaze and the rest of them. 

“Now how have you managed this time, Benj?” 

He doesn’t know Benji’s injured. But the squeeze he puts to that wound on his shoulder feels deliberately harsh. Any other time, the informal touch and it’s proximity to affection might stir something in his gut. But whatever heat that could be there has been eaten up to fuel its instinct, instead. 

Instinct that had saved him. Instinct that had wandered him blindly through the warehouse and right into the path of — 

Benji doesn’t pass out until they have him on the medical transport. But he comes awful close to it then. 

“Miracle, sir.” He chirps. 

*

It turns out he has a bit of internal bleeding near his spleen. And a concussion. Shoulder-shot is baby shit, so some of the others say. Plenty of them are duty served enough to be ninety percent scar tissue. Benji doesn’t want to go that way. He’d like to be mostly intact when he goes. But more and more, he’s realizing that is a privileged afforded to very few in this line of work. 

He spends four days in recovery. A week in post, another on desk duty. He eats up as much of the free time as he can doing things he ought to enjoy. Puzzles. Shooting the shit with some of the other injured, still recovering from missions past. Going over strategy and intelligence with the lieutenant, even though its not information he should be privy to and only knows because its offered under less than professional circumstances. 

Benji thinks of the dead man’s rolling eyes on both of those occasions, when they come up. 

“Sorry.” He pulls away, feigning a wince. The lieutenant’s quarters are darkened with only the orange glow of a distant desk lamp to illuminate them. Benji faces away from it; there isn’t enough light to show the deceit twisting that expression. “Still sore. Thought I could —“

“Tough through it?” Quinn finishes for him, broad chest under his palm rumbling with a laugh that he finds pleasant. It feels good to touch. To be touched; that’s why he’s here. It’s always why he is. Benji gets too much of the after-noise. The clutching of his wrists, of his vest. The begging. Patch me up. Patch me up. 

That’s the real reason he returns to his own quarters, gut icy with something he’s scared to name. 

“No need, mate. Go get your shut eye. Need you functioning anyway.” 

*

Before he slips under his own covers, in his own room, Benji takes his tags off. The chain tinks against the end table’s edge, and the last thought he has before sleep pulls him under is a fearful one: 

Don’t shatter. Don’t shatter. I don’t have tweezers on me. I can’t pull the pieces out. What if it cracks right along my name? Who will know? 

*

He’s cleared for the next mission. And just like the previous, things go south very quickly. 

Patterns, he’s thinking, lip tucked between his teeth as he patches up a particularly nasty gash. It’s not serrated, or else the damage would be worse — this one had been unfortunate enough to take the blade between clavicle and armpit. It will be a slow heal. It will sting like a bitch. Itch like one, too. But the wound’s recipient seems no worse for this shared information, when Benji informs him of it. 

Benji wonders if Xavier is ever worse for the wear. If he’s capable. Even carved up, exhausted. Both of them separated from their respective squads, hunkered up in the same rotted-wood cabin in the middle of nowhere; he should be wary, tired, exhausted, teeth pulled back defensive.

Except when Benji had stumbled into the decrepit old shed, he’d only —

He’d only smiled. 

(“Knew it. We were totally due for another one.”)

That jolliness has faded only slightly the longer Benji spends, carefully disinfecting the edges before pinching the skin together to stitch. He takes his time. He takes time he hasn't got to spare.

“Hurt?” Benji asks, eyebrows pulling in when Xavier shakes his head. “Mate, fuck off. Looks like it does somethin’ fierce. I’ve got pills—?��

Xavier squeezes his eyes shut. The smile slips and then plasters back in place, more plastic-stiff than a moment before. 

“You nursed me back to good health, doc.” Xavier somehow manages to purr, despite his obvious state and rough-edged voice. “I’m okay. I can get back. We’re not even, though. So next time—“

“No.” Benji says. He isn’t sure what he’s denying; that they’ll meet again, that they’ll tend to something open and raw and bleeding on the other, that there will be a next anything. 

There shouldn’t. 

“But we’re two-one. You have to get me back.” Xavier sticks his lower lip out, puppy-eyed and sweet. “Just one more favor?” 

Benji winds the gauze too tight around his midsection and yanks the shirt back down over his torso. He’s very professional about it. His gaze does not wander. He does not linger, does not press firm to heaving ribs and note the jump of Xavier’s body beneath him. Not just the movement of breath, a pained gasp, but — but —

“Fuck you.” Benji says, but it doesn’t have the intended effect.

Xavier just smiles. 

*

“What?” 

Benji isn’t in his bed on base. He sits upright, and the sheets drift off him like water. There and then gone. 

He feels his lungs move, his lips part. 

There’s a laugh on the other side of the room. He’s suddenly feverish. Sweat sticks to him, his chest heaving with desperate breaths. When a hand flattens to the center of it, right above his solar plexus, it slips like he’s slicker with something other than sweat. 

“You woke up, like, all panicked. And went ‘who will know?’. Fucking spooky.” A laugh. “Weird.” 

Benji opens his eyes, then. Except — he’d noted the clock on the wall, the second pair of shoes kicked off by the door to his room, so his eyes had already been open…hadn’t they? 

There are no windows in his room on base, just four bland gray walls. But he feels a breeze — a stirring of fabric, like curtains in the summer—-

Benji sits up again. His head swims and everything goes funny, colorful.

“What?” 

He glances to the side. He’s not in his room. He’s not in his bed, on base. He leans over the side of the mattress. The sheets slip from him like water, and pool on the ground. 

Benji realizes he rests on a shitty, thin futon. Right on the ground. It’s been nudged into the corner of the room — the room being a spare. Mostly empty, devoid fo decoration in a house that shares both those qualities. He hasn’t had the time to do much with it, other than agonize over the debt he now runs with his sister. 

Debts, the thought drifts airily around him like a physical thing. Two-one. Patterns.

His head swims when he turns it the opposite direction, towards the window on the north side of the room. He’s not on base — there are no rooms. He’s in the house, and he’s with— 

Xavier stands against the sunlight that pours in. He fades at the edges, wispy and gold, shimmering like a cartoon oasis. When he finally stands in front of Benji (head tilted and towering, like that high-noon triage in the warehouse weeks ago), he plots out the light. And as he drops to his knees, scooting so that Benji has no choice but to lie back against the mattress, the room is less bright than it was a moment before. 

“You talk in your sleep.” Xavier says. He reaches towards the back of his neck, triceps flexing in a distracting enough manner that it draws Benji’s focus there. He pulls a black, sweat-slick shirt off himself slowly; Benji is incapable of doing anything but watch as each pale inch of skin is revealed. 

“Do I?” He asks, throat dry. 

“Yeah. Wasn’t expecting it.” Xavier smiles and leans over him, braced on stiff arms. He winces; the pull of his brow is cute. “It’s cute.” 

Benji laughs. His hand is suddenly full of warm, smooth skin. Xavier doesn’t look pained this time, as he slides that hand up and down prominent ribs. The gnarly blade has barely left its mark; where it had torn him open, there’s barely a scar. 

“We shouldn’t. We probably shouldn’t.” Benji says. It stirs a strange feeling in him, something close to familiarity. 

“Not your type?” Xavier laughs. It’s that mad and unhinged thing. It doesn’t quite fit the moment. “Bullshit.” 

Benji hasn’t the brain power to react to the ego-driven quip with anything but a gasp. Xavier flattens over top of him, a graceful roll of their bodies together. The sheets are back on him; Xavier pulls them off, the last barrier. He’s warm against Benji, pressed chest-to-chest. Smiling that quirked, strange smile. Not soft at all. Benji wonders if it ever softens — and then he wonders nothing at all. 

They’re kissing — in the middle of it, suddenly. There’s no build up, but it feels languid as though they’ve been doing it for some time. Xavier’s broad hand, fist clenched like it had been around the handle of that hammer, rests on his chest. The other has wedged between their bodies, is nudging the sheets off, is pushing Benji’s sleep pants down his thighs, is — 

Xavier stops kissing him, pulls back just enough to pant against his face. He smells sweet, like he’d just had his body weight in candy floss before they’d gotten to this point. Up until this point, he’s been kissing close-mouthed and shy. But when their cocks touch, squeezed sweetly in together Benji’s hand now, not his, the force of those kisses becomes something else entirely.

The more their hips rock together, skin dragging deliciously, the firmer Xavier’s mouth. He skates kisses across Benji’s jaw, leads teeth down his neck, and then stops to press his forehead to Benji’s chest. To watch. 

“Guess I am, huh?” Xavier pants. His voice is soft and humored. Benji laughs about that, shaking his head — that’s something about the other man he’d noticed right away. The sweet, boyish hint of ego laced in every word. 

It’s sticky and hot, sweat on his temples and dripping onto Benji’s chest, his cheek. He licks his lips and tastes salt. Tastes metal. When Xavier throws his head back and moans softly, his teeth are bloody.

The beginning of the orgasm tightens his stomach then, a warmth spreading in a swirl beneath his belly button. His thighs flex, calves squeezing enough that a cramp zips up his leg.

“Two-two.” Xavier sighs, face buried in his neck. His hand has wedged between them again, is pulling Benji just the way he likes, with the grip and rhythm he prefers when he’s close, he’s close—

Being pulled from the dream is a fist to the gut.

*

Benji jerks awake with a noise that startles him even more.

His shoulder is still tenderly healing, and now it’s properly sore: that arm is lifted at an uncomfortable angle, maybe has been for awhile. His fingers are tight in his hair, fisted in a clench so severe the joints ache. Benji has little to no warning as both consciousness and orgasm split him in separate, abruptly dizzying directions. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, a soft whine slipping alongside the shocked expletive. It’s a longer one than he’s used to; it leaves his hips twitching and abdomen heaving for a good while after the last bit of release cools on his stomach. 

He lays there, breathing hard, staring up at the perforated ceiling of his room on base. 

Benji turns his head to the side. His tags rest in a tangled heap; he’ll have to pick the knot apart at first-call breakfast. In the dark, he can’t make out the letters of his name. He knows they’re there, etched into the rectangle. 

He doesn’t drift off again for another hour. He’s too awake, once he’s pulled himself into the bathroom to wash off the mess, once he’s pulled the scratchy sheet off, once he lays there, shivering and staring up at the ceiling. 

The lack of tiredness starts to frustrate him. Benji reaches up and squeezes his shoulder. To the healing divot of new, pink skin Benji presses his thumb, harder, harderharderharder. Until it hurts, until it’s electrifying, until he has to scowl and shut his eyes and think of something else to distract. Some way for his mind to wander around the pain, some distraction—

Benji relents his grip. He turns onto his uninjured side. He dreams of curling into a ball on his thin futon in an otherwise empty room.

*

He gets exactly four hours and eleven minutes of sleep. His eyes are red-rimmed and underscored with purple shadows the next morning, when he sits across from his lieutenant, when he is briefed on another mission

I need to pack extra in the kit this go around, Benji thinks, blinking sleepily. Just in case. Really. Just in case.

The lieutenant, perhaps mistaking his tired stare for something of secretive interest, smiles back at him. A second later, a slip of paper is passed beneath into his stiff fingers. Benji unfolds it across his lap to read:

functioning?

When his eyes lift, the lieutenant’s sear into him. Benji lifts a flat palm and wiggles it. 

So-so. 

#writing #bp #xw #bp x xw #val au #<- new core au we're reworking hehe #also mentions of violence/gore/brief and nonexplicit illusions to self harm behavior #you know. the benji special.

[knownangels]

jlb + mgc

wc: 5.3k

It's nearly midnight when he realizes it.

Their flat is sparsely decorated, but as the thought comes to him (a sudden zip of clarity right through his otherwise fuzzy-tired brain, the movie’s shit after all) Maran nearly upends the cute potted plant and several knick-knacks on the coffee table.

“‘Ey!”Benji yelps. His reflexes are somehow quick enough to keep Maran mostly on the couch as he tosses himself upright and catch the little wooden bobble before it hits the floor and, most likely, snaps. “S’from Saha.”

Maran ignores him, because the realization has coalesced into something nastier. An unfurling anxiety in his chest. A snap of cold, unpleasant fear. 

If I don’t — If I don’t — he thinks. And what follows is yet another barrage; a worst-case scenario slideshow, mightwhatifmaybe twisted into ugly reality. Or, as real as it gets in his head. 

Maran sits even straighter and then curves forward with a groan. “Oh, shit.”

Instead of winding an arm around his shoulders and offering a word of comfort, Benji kicks at Maran’s legs to make room again on the couch. They’d been a bit tangled up but comfortable. His best friend seems to be prioritizing the return of that specific comfort. Rather than…

Palm flat over his chest, Maran groans again. “M’gonna have a heart attack.” 

“Shuddup.” Benji drawls, socked foot wiggling under Maran’s thigh for the warmth. “Course you fuckin’ start up during the only good part of this shit.”

“Benji, this is serious.”

In the blue light of the living room, technicolors from their movie washing little flashing patterns over his face, Benji’s dark eyes look pretty. And the sight of them is so familiarly comforting that Maran slumps a bit, feels himself relax. Not all the way. Almost. 

Benji’s sleepy gaze tracks around his face for a second — searching — before it narrows.

“Prick.”

“Dickhead.” Maran seethes back, nudging his legsoff the couch. “I’m having a crisis.” 

“Bit more quietly, yeah?” Benji tilts his head at the screen once more. There’s a nasty little curl to his mouth. “Said this part—“

They’ve seen this movie about a hundred times. It’s Thursday, third week of the month, and that’s their night — Benji keeps a busy schedule with studies and his on-campus job, and Maran’s got his own gig no matter how ill-paying or illegal). Besides being flatmates, they’re rarely in it at the same time. Sometimes the only times they see each other for a week are if they both end up at the lads’ place.

Thinking about it makes Maran feel a bit bitter for the good ol’ days. When summers felt like a proper holiday, schedules didn’t have to be worked around. 

Maran leans forward abruptly and turns the television off. Benji blinks at it. Then he sighs. Then he digs his heel beneath Maran’s knee until it hurts.

“Well? Out with it, please.”

“Haven’ttakenBenoutyet!” Maran pulls his face from his hands to blurt.

They stare at one another. He no longer feels as though his heart’s going to explode from his chest, leave a little smoking hole. But it hurts. It hurts, still. 

“You go out for food all the time.” Benji says. His brow is knit. “And you make him go to the skate park with you. And that time you wanted to go to the trampoline place. And the pool, yeah? Movies—“

“That was before.” Maran insists. 

Before: soft touches under an elbow or to the small of his back that made him pause. An unpracticed but lovely smile across a loud party. The excited little snap of familiarity when their eyes met and passed a wordless joke.Before Maran even knew that it could feel like that. A stomach’s tight wind. The scratch of stubble on his neck, or how nice it was to fit together at the same height, or waking up to arms wound around his stomach and—

“That was before.” He repeats. “It didn’t count. Plus, those aren’t always dates.”

From the corner of his eye, he notices Benji’s face wash with confusion. 

“But…they are, sometimes?”Now it’s his turn to sit upright. “So what makes — well, ok. So say—“

“We’re gettin’ off topic.” Maran declares, standing from the couch to put hands on his hips. “You’re s’posed to keep me in check and here I am being the world’s worst boyfriend?”

“You’re the worst of a lotta things.” Benji says wryly. “M’sorry if I can’t keep track of ‘em all.”

Maran smacks his fist into his palm, ignoring the dig (quite the bigger person move, if he’s asked, especially with that snide victorious grin settling over Benji how it is). 

“Gotta make up for it.” He says, already planning. “Gotta be the best date ever—“

“Said that about, aw. Fuck. Whas’her name, started with a J? Took her to that green space on a hike or whatever.” Benji snickers. “And then you turn up back at ours with a leech on your arse and no girl in sight?” 

Maran blinks several times then goes dead in the face, hands outstretched into claws. Benji screeches and kicks at him, arms squeezed tight to his sides, but it’s too late. Maran will not take disrespect and leave a survivor.

* 

Right on the dot, quarter past five, Ben’s bedroom door swings open. He doesn’t seem shocked to find Maran sat on the edge of his messy bed; it’s where he usually is, every Tuesday and Thursday at exactly this time. 

“You get into caffeine?”

“No.” Maran replies immediately. He glances down at his wringing hands, a tapping foot. “Hm. No.”

Ben, from where he’s paused in the doorway, laughs. It makes Maran’s cheeks flood a little, although it’s no different or more suggestive than it usually is. It’s just — it’s a very nice sound, is all. He’s always shocked to pull it as often as he does. Pleasantly, sure. Pleasantly shocked. Shocked all the same.

“Relax.” Ben meanders slow across the room, shucking his bag off his shoulder to thump loudly to the floor. He leans a bit as he slips between Maran’s knees, parting them to accommodate. “I believe you.”

The flush gets warmer. Warm still when Ben cups his cheeks and tilts his face up for a slow, soft kiss. 

When it ends, Maran blinks up at him with heavy lids that almost refuse to open again. 

“You gonna ask me if I h-had a good day?” 

Maran cannot look away from the pink flush around his mouth, up his cheeks. “Huh?” 

Ben shakes him a little, then shoves him backwards onto the bed with a palm to the forehead. “Precious. Precious fuckin’ baby.” 

Maran sits up on his elbows. He’s trying to remember what he was here for, sitting there eagerly (anxiously) waiting to announce. Except. Ben’s doing his post-class declothing. Boots kicked off, shirt unbuttoned, jeans snapped to scratch below his stomach, belt shhhfing as it’s pulled half out of the waistband — 

Maran cannot look away. 

“Y-you get your brain eaten today or what?” Ben teases, in front of him once more. He sounds pleased though, a bit shy; he’s noticed the close-watch perusal. He’s enjoying the attention. 

“You look nice.” Maran says, slipping hands up the back of his thighs. His fingers brush soft, warm skin either side of his spine (curved a bit, from sitting in the lab stools for several hours) and dig in enough that Ben makes a noise and stumbles forward. “Keep that on?” 

Ben’s eyebrows quirk towards the ceiling, a nasty smirk lifting his whole face. “Oh, for like—?”

“I thought,” Maran starts, and then bites his lip. 

The sentence is there, right on the tip of his tongue, but Ben’s looking at him. Eyes soft, cheeks also a little warm, hands making a gentle sweep down and up Maran’s skull. He loses his train of thought entirely. But he wants those words out. He wants it to be special. 

He wants.

Maran swallows and tucks his face into the familiar, clean smell of laundry. Ben doesn’t usually wear undershirts, so each side of his button up parts at each junction. Maran’s nose tucks into the folds of fabric, finds skin. He presses closer, arms tightening. 

“I thought we could go on a date.” Maran says. Except he isn’t sure if that’s loud enough. If he’s heard. And there are certain things that he’s needed Ben to hear. That he’d like to take them on a good, proper first date is one of them. There are more serious things he’d like to say — scary ones — but here seems a good start. If he can fucking get it out. He’s never had trouble like this before. Or, maybe people had been kind to lie otherwise.

“I mean.” Maran lifts his face and tries for definitive. “We’re going on a date, so leave that, yeah? You look nice.” 

Ben stares down at him.

*

By the time they’ve made their way down to the lot, most of that usual smarmy confidence Maran’s such a fan of has returned. He gets crowded up against the stairwell door, hand wound around th back of his neck for the kiss Ben’s eager energy insists on. And he’s stopped again at the car, pinned against the drivers side door by the hips. Ben does his best to make a proper mess of his neck. 

When Maran flattens hands to his chest, he really does mean to push him gently away. Just enough to breathe a second, collect his thoughts — he’s always swimming in them, with Ben this close. Everything goes nice and soft and fuzzy. 

“Hold on—“ he tries, but he’s laughing and Ben knows he doesn’t mean it fully, so teeth return to his neck after a brief pause. He gasps, back arching off the window when five firm fingers press into the valley of his spine. They roam a bit further, both hands greedy over either side of his tailbone; Maran tips his head back and makes eye contact with the camera attached to the light pole above them. 

The sky above is muddy grey, washed light with the noon sun fighting to come out. It’s not ideal weather for what Maran has planned, and it’s not ideal that there’s a little red light blinking, but he — 

Maran shivers then, eyes fluttering at the black lens. He imagines briefly what it must look like, from that perspective. Arms tight over broad shoulders, hanging on deliriously, Ben’s messy hair beneath his fingers — holding him where he is as much as trying to reign it all in a bit. 

“Hold on.” Maran tries again, throat bobbing with a swallow. He sounds serious this time. He is serious this time; Ben relents immediately. Not without leaving a wet, noisy kiss right to the center of his throat. And he doesn’t step back all the way, not cold turkey. They haven’t had long to establish those sorts of things, the important things he calls them, but Ben knows him well enough by now. Well enough that an immediate retreat isn’t what Maran needs, even if he’s asking for space. 

It feels better to breathe hard together, chests touching as well as hips (and lower, he tries very hard not to think about). 

“This could be the d-date.” Ben tries, nose tucking briefly to Maran’s jaw before he slinks a separation of a few centimeters between their bodies. His foot is still firmly between Maran’s, keeping them close. 

“Huh?”

Ben laughs. He jerks his head towards the backseat, tongue tucked between his teeth. “I’m pretty cheap. Push some of that onto the floor and we’re in b-business.” 

Maran’s fuzzy thoughts clear up a bit at his tone; he doesn’t stop to interrogate the joke, though. Ben’s diverting. He knows why. Well. At least a bit. A date isn’t exactly what Ben’s used to, self-admittedly. And that’s part of the reason— 

“Distractin’ me.” Maran teases, loosening his grip around broad shoulders to rest his wrists loose at the base of Ben’s neck. “You’re so fuckin’ mad I’m not telling you shit.”

Ben scowls at him, dropping the suggestive expression. “I hate surprises.”

Maran nudges him away enough that he can slip into the driver’s side. Technically, he should only ever be a passenger — he’s got no papers, no visa anymore. Matilda had drawn him a little stick figure on a scrap of paper, framed with his name and a nonsense series of numbers. Trust me this is legitimate, had been written in her proper, pretty scrawl underneath. 

Ben doesn’t have to know all that, though. For as much as Maran’s told him, he’s got a temporary permit and he’s up to date on all the paperwork. 

Instead of rounding the car and going in the normal way, Benny crawls across Maran’s lap and the center console. It’s a moment of scuffling and laughter and hands groping places they really don’t have to be, for the whole process of settling into the passenger seat. 

Ben coasts that sneaky hand up his knee as he starts the car, tucking fingers between his thighs. Maran’s eyes go a bit funny, staring straight ahead while that touch moves slowly up and down his jeans seam. 

“You’re going to make me—“

Blond eyebrows snap up. The touch goes higher, palming him properly. “Oh, that right? Already?”

“Crash!” Maran insists, cheeks flaming. His skull falls back against the headrest when the teasing squeeze doesn’t stop. “Ben.”

“You haven’t even s-started the car.” 

He laughs. He doesn’t feel like laughing. He feels like — “I won’t at this rate.” 

“Oh no.” Ben coos, leaning across the console to get properly in his face. Their noses almost brush so Maran glances away, snorting, but he follows. Cranes his neck, lifts up, puts weight on Maran’s thigh to bring their faces together again. His mouth dries up a little. “Oh nooo. That would be so awful. Very very b-bad.”

“Why are you bein’ evil.” Maran whines. The car hums, pleasantly familiar. They’ve fallen asleep under the stars in here. Gone to drive-ins, which Maran is sort of obsessed with. And yeah, like Ben’s trying to get a repeat performance, spent time in the cramped back. More than the soft twist of arousal behind his navel, Maran thinks of the security. The intimacy, the closeness. It’s nice like a messy room. Nice like waking up to fingers stroking his cheek. Nice like a blanket tucked under his legs for a movie, like the last fry handed off with a fond sigh, like — 

“We’re doing a date.” Maran asserts. He snaps back into motion, taking Ben’s wrist and offering his knuckles a parting kiss before squaring him away on his own side of the vehicle. 

Ben looks cute battered like that, eyes wide and lips parted. It makes Maran’s knuckles on the wheel a bit tighter than they ought to be; he drives slower than he might otherwise, thinking of that paper tucked in his wallet and his clammy palms. 

*

When they pull into the grocery store lot, Ben’s huffy about being made to wait in the car.

“I’ll be quick.” Maran promises chipperly, leaning down to peer inside. Ben’s face is contrite. It makes him so cute, so Maran tells him as much. 

“Yes p-p-please.” Icy eyes roll up and away. Ben peers across the heat-shimmering asphalt, arms crossed. “Cigarette counter guy always hits on you.”

Maran barks out a laugh at the absurdity of that. “You’re on something.”

His boyfriend — still a novelty, to even think that title — turns back towards the window. “He does. F-Fucker.”

“Then why you comin’ here? Perfectly good gas station nearby.”

Ben’s mouth twists. “Because I like t-talking about you when I pick up a fresh pack. So he knows.” 

Maran blinks. Imagines that scenario, for second. Maybe: Ben, still sleep-soft and grumpy from realizing he’s run out of smokes, strolls in looking like the asshole he’s about to be. He could ask for specifics, for quotes but it’s more fun imagining what Ben might say. Maybe he compliments Maran. Makes a suggestive, early-morning like reference. Something about having just seeing him. If he outright shares the label they’ve decided on. Maybe he calls Maran boyfriend.

And then, blush returning, Maran imagines he just plainly says: yeah, that guy? I know that guy. We’ve got a date later. We’re together. Me and him. Me and Maran.

Maran swallows. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” 

He goes to turn away, but one step is as far as he gets. Ben snags him by the wrist and pulls. Maran, still a bit in his head with the fantasy scenario of being flaunted, doesn’t expect the strength of it. He stumbles and catches himself against the door. 

Ben leans out of the window, sunglasses pushed down his nose. The way he peers up at Maran, the way his pink mouth pulls up at the corner, the track of shrewd eyes around Maran’s face, then down his neck where his shirt comes away from his chest —

“I’ll m-miss you.” Ben teases. “Be quick.” 

Maran usually stops to chat the nice old woman that works in produce. He usually lingers at the cigarette counter, where he usually pays. Except this time, arms full of an outdoor blanket and food and drinks and a wicker basket, he uses the self-check aisle and tries not to make blushing eye contact with the camera. 

When he returns to the car, Ben’s pushed the passenger seat back. He’s dozing, even though Maran had been quick. The summer sun barely cuts into the interior, but enough of it slices across his cheek. When he hears Maran approaching, the bags’ rustling giving it away, he turns his face. 

Maran pauses for just a second when their eyes slide together. Then he grins and tries to shake off the too-big shivery feeling that tingles up his scalp. 

“No peeking.” He insists. 

Ben grins. 

*

He’s got an old plaid scarf from the early spring still tucked in the side door. He gestures for it and, as they pull out of the lot, instructs Benny to use it like a blindfold.

“Oh.” Ben breathes. Maran has his eyes on the road, or else he’d see the strange, vulnerable shift of his expression. “Oh, it’s that kind of d-date, huh?”

Maran laughs, even if that bubble of anxiety is working its way back up his core. At the next red light, he watches Ben fix it around his eyes. His pale hands come up in a tada gesture once he’s done. And Maran has to focus on driving again, knuckles white on the wheel— because there is something there, seeing the peek of his suggestive smile. 

And it’s that — a smile. Not a nasty, sneaky grin. No watery, insecure sneer. It’s soft at the edges. There’s a bit of pink to his skin, right at the edge of the scar. Ben’s blushing, and he’s smiling a real one because he’s having fun and he feels— and Maran is—

The car swerves. Maran swears, jerks them back into the center of the lane. 

“Jesus.” Ben laughs, his hand shot out to grab Maran’s knee. “What the fuck?”

“Cut off!” Maran lies, giggling high and tight. “Oh, shit. Some fucker — uh. Wow. Asshole!” 

*

The park’s gravel drive crunches under tire as they pull up the serpentine path. Windows down, fresh summer air flowing and fresh. Ben taps fingers to the tune of the song on the radio, a steady rhythm on Maran’s knee that fulfills his itchy need to fidget by proxy. 

“Are we out in the w-woods?” Ben asks, head tilting towards the window.

“A little,” Maran acquiesces. 

“I won’t hike.”

“You don’t have to hike.”

“I won’t do it.”

Maran puts the car in park and then leans across to yank a strand of blond hair chastisingly. “You don’t have to, Ben, c’mon. It’s only a short walk.”

“How short?” 

“Ten minutes, maybe.”

Ben drops his head back with a groan, as if Maran has just admitted to sentencing him to walk the fucking plank. 

Dramatic, he thinks fondly. His touch slips down over Ben’s scarf-covered cheekbone, fingers curling under his scratchy jaw.

“I’m going to make you carry everything too.”

“What is this?  A date, or some fucked up labor m-march?” Ben leans closer into where he figures Maran must be, only slightly off the mark. It’s cute how his focus is a bit to Maran’s left. “You t-taking me out in the woods to like, dig my own grave or something?”

“Ben.”

There’s a beat of silence. “That’s kind of hot, actually, like— the d-danger—“

“Ben.” Maran laughs. He twists the keys off and drops them into Benny’s lap with a shake of his head. 

*

Maran leads him to the quiet little glade he and Lark had found, last time they’d been out this way. It’s just shy from the path — only five minutes into a random direction. There’s still an abandoned red glove marking the way. 

(“She won’t miss it.” Lark had promised him when he’d stuck it on the branch. “She’s got so many pairs of gloves she won’t even notice it’s gone.”)

Ben’s confidence and easy enjoyment of their afternoon drops slightly. The energy cuts through the air like something palpable, touching cool to the nape of Maran’s neck. He’s been made to stand, sighing and grumbling impatiently, while Maran sets up the contents of their mini feast on the blanket. 

“Ok, you fuckin’ prick. You can take it off now.” 

“You’re going to be naked, right?”

Maran drops onto the blanket with a snort. “For fuck’s sake— just take it off, Ben.”

Ben paws at the back of his head. “Alright, fine. But just because you sound hot making demands—“ 

He squints against the sunlight, adjusting with a silly one-eyed squint that makes Maran feel like his face is going to split in half. He’s facing just off to the side, their little picnic out of sight, so Maran has the pleasure of watching his expression shift as he turns and notices. 

“Oh.”

He tries not to let that tone and the flat look on Ben’s face get to him. Instead he spreads his arm invitingly. 

“What’s this for?” Ben asks. His boot nudges the blanket’s edge.

“Customary to picnics, as I understand it.” Maran says primly. He’s getting more and more anxious the longer Ben looks like that. Not — not softly amused, anymore, but — there’s no nice curve to his mouth. No sparkle of something to his gaze. Maran swallows. 

“Um. Couldn’t find the brand you like.” He reaches for the six pack behind him and sets it next to the plastic platter of food. It’s cheap — he doesn’t make fancy cheese money. Groceries in the States were a fucking scam. “The website says this was close in taste? Dunno. All that shit is the same to me. And, um. not sure if you like the fruit so I’ll eat it, but I—“ 

Ben drifts quiet and hare-like closer to the spread of food. Maran doesn’t dare move an inch; he’s afraid to startle. He keeps his arms wrapped around his knees, chin resting between. 

And eventually, Ben settles into an awkward cross-legged slouch across from him. For a spread of time, there’s no sound but the quiet, distant bird-song and ambient noise of the forest. It’s a pleasant day; out here, not even the sounds of the city or the rumble of the highway breaches its protective bubble. 

“This…this wasn’t really what I had in m-mind when you said date.” 

Maran’s heart careens into his stomach. “I—I know it’s lame. I don’t know. I was just thinking…I dunno. We haven’t — we kinda just jumped in, yeah?” He laughs nervously, recalling that blue-tinged night at the pool. “You know. Right in the deep end. Hah. Sorry. We can pack up—“

Ben’s hand shoots out to wrap around his ankle when he pulls it closer, meaning to tuck beneath him and stand. He’s not looking at Maran, but at the six-pack rumbling the blankets between them. 

“How long have you been p-planning this?”

“Not long.” Maran assures. “Last Monday? So it’s no worries, yeah, like if you’d want to go back and do somethin’ else. Watch a movie or —y’know, just hang out like we usually do? I like that.” 

He’s desperate to earn back that easy, comfortable energy. And, horrifyingly, he’s desperate not to be desperate. The collision of those two desires in him is almost a physical thing. Writhing, sort of, inside his chest. 

Is the beer wrong? Are there brown bits on the fruit? Do you like a different brand of biscuits more? Y’think the blanket’s ugly? I sort of just grabbed it becuase the sticker said machine washable, and if its gonna be on the ground — well, we can reuse it for stuff — but if you hate it and this turns out to be a bad time, I don’t know if I can look at it again it’d be too embarrassing—

Ben gets to his knees suddenly, shuffling across. When pale hands cup his face, Maran pretends he can’t feel the shiver to them. 

“You’re going to yap yourself s-sick.” It’s a warm tease, more than a warning.

“Fuck off!” Maran yelps, nudging his hands away shyly. Ben catches him, forces him to look once more. That swell of anxiety melts a little. Or, at least becomes a different kind, with all that attention focused directly on him. He has to shift it. Give himself a break, since Ben doesn’t seem interested.

“I— do you want to see what else I brought?” 

Ben’s eyebrows hitch. But if he’s expecting more flirtatious banter, if he’s about to pull Maran into his lap…well. That would be nice, right? Maran would go, if tugged.

Instead, he fishes into the deep pocket of his hoodie — not his of course, not technically — and retrieves the mint tin he uses to hold needles and thread. He has a couple of them stowed around because tends to forget them. Or lose them. One in Matilda’s car, one in his winter jacket, one in Xavier’s. Even one tucked behind the contents of Ben’s nights that he doubts the other is aware has even been put there. 

“There’s a tree over there by the creek,” Maran starts to explain, threading the needle with muscle memory as he talks. Ben looks only briefly, his focus quickly returning to Maran’s hands. “It’s got, y’know. Oh, I can’t even —” Maran snorts, touching the back of his hand to a warm cheek. “I can’t even say— well. It’s got all those initials, yeah? Like when people carve’em in.” 

Ben makes a face. And he has a moment of delight, to be proven right; Maran pulls the other thing in his pocket out, holding it up for Ben to see. His boyfriend takes it, rubbing the green and brown felt between his fingers. 

“Thought you wouldn’t like that.” Maran teases. “Nerd. Leave the trees alone and all. So I glued that together— I thought I’d like to take you out here when we found that on our hike. Lark and me, I mean.”

Ben’s staring at him. Maran balks a little, biting his lip, then takes his felt crafted tree back and knots the end of the thread. 

“So. I — We can still do that dorky shit, right. Without makin’ that poor tree’s condition worse.” 

Ben lurches forward. His palms smack audibly to Maran’s cheeks; he’s dragged forward into a firm, close-lipped kiss. 

“You should put it in your lab,” Maran gasps when they part, only for the rest of the sentence to be cut off in another. He gets lost in it a bit, Ben’s thumbs digging into his cheeks to urge his mouth open. Ben shifts closer, knees on either side of Maran’s hips. He keeps them upright with an elbow against the ground, careful to keep his fist curled around the needle as not to poke either of them somewhere important.

“So everyone knows what a big fucking dork you are.” Maran teases. His voice trails off in a dry little hitch because Ben chooses then to bury his nose against Maran’s neck. His face feels hot. 

“They’d never let m-me hear the end of it.”

“Your lab partner?” Maran asks. He’s heard about them, an unlikely connection that had started over particularly hard class material. It’d quickly become a fully forged friendship, even if he hesitated to call it that — all his secretive, snarky fondness. 

Ben nods, but it seems more like an excuse to rub his face there. 

“Well, it is kinda silly.” Maran says. “Kinda kindergarten.” 

Ben pulls away slowly to look at him. He’s lovely under the green tinged forest light, especially with flushed cheeks. Quite proud of himself, he swipes a hand up and down the curve of Ben’s spine. 

“I felt bad when I realized we hadn’t done this yet. Like. Gone on a proper one. And I wanted it — I want it to be special, I suppose.” Maran beams up at him. “You deserve that.” 

A passing beat of silence; the birds overhead, the creek in the distance burbling, a barking dog even further no doubt accompanying its owner on their own trek. Then Ben kisses him firmly once more. 

“Show me how to?”

Maran has to take a second to process that question: as Ben asks it, he rearranges himself to prop his head in Maran’s lap, legs stretched out over the picnic blanket. He toes off his boots, kicks them off to the side, and reaches for the needle and thread. 

“Okay.” Maran whispers. He hands the tree over and guides pale, tattooed hands into position. If his own fingers linger, lock between them and squeeze — who could blame him? “D’you like grapes?” 

Ben is a quick learner. He works diligently at the stitches as Maran points where to poke the needle through, and the letters slowly begin to form. The top of his J is a little wonky, but Maran withholds judgment; first time for everything. 

“When I was a kid we didn’t get f-fruit money that often.” Ben recounts. His voice is quiet and slow in concentration, a pleasant cadence that makes Maran sink back a little on his palms. “Always got the green ones, ‘cuz they were cheaper. Hated them.”

“I got the red.” Maran says. He leans over Ben to find the plastic container. 

He cracks it open. He pauses, fingers hovering over the shiny red fruit.

He wants to share how much he liked planning this out. Even if it had him dead nervous at every step over the past week, even if there were times he felt stupid and childish. Even if he imagined worse case responses, just to ready himself in the unlikelihood they’d happen: Ben laughing at him, Ben scoffing, Ben refusing to even tag along in the first place. Worse ones: that he’d sit there, staring blankly as Maran tried his fucking arse off, only to ask why hadn’t he taken them somewhere nice or why hadn’t he asked first, what if he had plans?

He’d liked going to the craft store and finding suitable colors for that felt tree. He’d liked picking out the food assortment, the bubble of anxiety and excitement as he traipsed the grocery aisles, knowing that Ben was only a few paces away waiting for him to return. And he’d like the bright smile in the car, when Ben’s usual hatred for the element of surprise had melted into something sweet and soft, just because Maran was the one delivering it. 

Because he trusted. Because —

“Can I feed ‘em to you?” Maran asks quietly, ignoring the little roll of shameful humiliation that floods his cheeks at a question like that. 

Ben glances up, pink in the face too, and regards him for a moment. There’s a hesitation there — a distrust, almost. Like Maran’s about to laugh and throw them across the clearing, just for cruel casual fun. 

“Yeah,” Ben says instead, his voice just as soft. 

#writing #mgc #jlb #mgc x jlb #college au #holds them in my hands like two baby birds #i need to kill them.

[knownangels]

party

wc: 3.5k

Benji keeps his head down, nose uncharacteristically in his phone. He hasn’t got much to take his attention on the screen; its an outdated model with few apps besides those pre-loaded. He uses it to text and occasionally prove Maran on the definition of some word with a quick web search, but that’s about it. 

He pretends to find something interesting in the notes app, as he’ll likely be doing a few hours from now. Swiping his thumb up and down the screen, seeming busy to bystanders (too many) doesn’t dull the noise of the store, however.

“Why the fuck d-does this list have —“ 

Benji glances up just in time to see Benny shake his own phone at the wall of refrigerated fresh juices. They’re in the organic section, which might as well be a completely foreign country to either of them. 

“What kind of store even stocks p-p-pomegranate juice?”

Benji rounds the cart, accidentally brushing up against a posh looking woman who seems a little miffed to be anywhere near the loud, brash blond’s vicinity. Still, her gaze sort of lingers on the back of his neck as she scoffs and pushes away, which makes Benji snort. 

“This kind.” He says, nudging Benny aside to point out the hourglass-shaped bottle of dark ruby liquid. “Right there, you bellend. Kill ya to be wrong and quiet?”

“Yes.” Benny clips out, snatching the bottle from the shelf and purposefully shoulder checking Benji as he tosses it in their cart. “It w-would. One fancy fuckin’ fruit juice down—“

Benji sneaks a peak at his list, noting the additions of several of Maran’s snack food amongst the alcohol and party basics. “Five to go?”

“What is she, hiring a full s-service bar?” Benny squints at the list then throws his hands up in the air. “Dragonfruit extract. That’s going to be a fuckin’ grand, at least. I haven’t even had that shit before.”

His tone of voice is one Benji knows well — he’s not really pissed off about the contents or length or price tag of Matilda’s list. She’s paying, after all. And her birthday events are pretty legendary; Benny’s almost guaranteed a good time, even if there will be one too many rich-taste cocktails for his liking. 

No, Benji recognizes his tone. It’s the get me the fuck out of here strain. For him, it’s near constant in a store. And Saturday morning, with the crowd and noise and — 

“Me either. But I’m not gonna be the one to turn up wth a short list.” 

Benny, hands on his hips, looks at their cart full of snacks and alcohol, paper plates and red plastic cups. “She’s not gonna notice one thing.”

Benji peers up at him, fingers clutching his phone tighter now. He’d really like to get going. “It’s Matilda.” He says. “And it’s her birthday. She’ll make it your funeral, too.“

Benny’s eyes narrow as he debates this. Then he sighs, head tilted dramatically back on his neck, and shoves the trolley forward with a hip. “Fuck. She really would, huh. N-No issue sharing the spotlight as long as I’m fucking dead.”

“I’d eulogize.” Benji offers as they circle the produce area, round the bakery, and head back towards the center of the store. 

“You would n-not.”

“I would.” He insists, sticking a foot between the wheels and Benny’s boots in so blatant a trip attempt that someone behind them laughs. “I’d start it somethin’ like: ‘we’re gathered here to remember’ — y’know, blah blah, how those go —“

“Sure.”

“And then I’d have to say, y’know, ‘he was a disgusting freak of nature but he was ours’.” 

“You’ll make me c-cry.” Benny deadpans. He sneers at someone blocking the aisle, which Benji respects. Another reason he hates this shit is because doing that, calling people on their shit public decency, isn’t socially acceptable for some reason. 

“We’ll never get rid of him, not really.’”

“Because he was such a light and good influence.”

“Nah,” Benji chirps. “Roach.”

“Fa—”

An elderly woman rounds the corner in front of them. Benny cuts himself immediately off, flashing her one of his weird yet charming grins with a little faux-hat tip. She rolls her eyes and flaps a hand, but takes the offered space and carries on with her shopping. 

*

They meander towards the exit once their cart fills a bit more. A pint of ice cream sneaks its way in among the party supplies. Benji shoots Benny a teasing look when he realizes it’s Maran’s favorite flavor — double chocolate brownie and peanut butter, and not from a particularly cheap brand.

“Might as well just tell ‘em.”

“Might as well just s-suck —“ Benny’s phone goes off with a tell-tale ding! Benji smirks; he’s got a special sound, some little cartoon noise from one of Maran’s favorite shows, to indicate a text from the man himself. 

“Not a word.”

“Fa—“

Suddenly, Xavier stumbles out from the neighboring aisle. He looks paler than normal, fingers twisted in the plastic casing of a bag of chips. 

“Holy shit they’re all out of Lucky Charms—guys!”

Benji pauses, having taken over trolley pushing duties when Ben’s phone came out to text. “Alright?”

“You guys left me.” Xavier pouts. He starts towards them and nearly barrels over someone, dances around them with comically exaggerated movements that are both graceful and graceless at the same time. Benji swipes his fingers over his mouth to hide the smile.

“Did not.” Benny argues, gesturing down the crowded aisle with too wide a sweep; he nearly hits someone too. “You went, ‘oh, they got the f-f-fancy cheese crackers here’ and ran off.”

Xavier aims that pleading puppy stare on Benji, who avoids eye contact and shrugs. He had done exactly that.

“I got way too high, dude,” Xavier whispers. His breath is hot on Benji’s neck, as close as he’s gotten. He does his best to ignore it. “I’m like five more seconds of noise away from running out screaming.”

Benji snorts. With a hand cupped under Xavier’s elbow, he guides them away from the crowded aisle towards a stack of chips. Xavier tucks one under his arm as they pass.

“Here.”

“Benji.” Xavier whines excitedly, tugging at Benji’s sleeve as he delves into his jacket pockets for — “Oh, shit. These are your good ones.” 

Benji deposits the pair of earbuds into Xavier’s massive palm, fighting another grin. They go into his ears immediately. He has a playlist on his phone specifically for — well, this. A bunch of electronic and house music he’s not particularly attached to

“Noise cancelling.” He offers. 

Xavier tilts his head, gesturing towards his ears. Can’t hear you — then the playlist starts. His face lights up. Benji has to turn away, cheeks flaming about the fact that Xavier follows only a step behind him the rest of their shopping. At the checkout, which is as crowded a section of the store as possible, their hips brush several times as Xavier tries to maneuver himself away from the press of bodies and noise. Still, his foot taps to the music. The sense of victory is enough that Benji doesn’t mind the drain from his account.

“Forgot my c-card.” Benny pouts exaggeratedly, out-turning his pockets and no doubt hiding the credit card between his fingers in some magic trick. Benji glances at Xavier, happily in his own world, and shrugs.

*

On the way back to the car, Benji hears a shout rise up in the parking lot. A patter of feet and the loud brrrr of a car horn follows. Something crashes into the back of his legs, and he stumbles against the boot with a soft, surprised noise.

“Yuna!” A familiar voice cries. Benji glances around for it, twisted at the waist, and then instinctively down.

Little arms wrap around his calves. Yuna, a sleight girl of six who sports a poorly managed bob because she insists on cutting it herself, clings to him. He knows her from the community center’s music program for kids; his first semester at the university, he’d found a flier in the campus bookstore requesting musicians for youth tutoring and has been doing it every weekend since. Yuna’s one of his favorites, and a bit of a genius besides.

“I saw you in the store!” She shouts. She lets go of Benji’s legs and takes a step back; his hand shoots out and grabs her shoulder, pulls her back away from the busy lot’s lane. 

“Yuna, where the f— where’s your mum?”

“Dad day.” She announces. Then her tiny voice drops, conspiratorial and whisper-light. “I saw you steal grapes.”

Behind him, already lazy behind the wheel while Benji unloads their party haul, Benny snorts. Benji’s face heats up, especially when he hears Xavier’s muffled what, what? and a shuffle that tells him the other man is getting out of the car.

“I wasn’t stealing.” Benji insists. He squats down to fix Yuna’s hood back up around her ears; it’s rainy, and the tips of them are going pink. “I was testin’ to see if they were good.”

“Were they?”

He shrugs, mouth pinched in a thoughtful grimace. “Meh.”

“Yuna!” 

Her father, out of breath, jogs across the parking lot. Benji rises to his feet and snatches Yuna up around his hip as he goes. She kicks and laughs, her rain boots knocking a familiar rhythm against his thigh.

“You been practicin’ that song?” Benji asks. He hears the passenger door shut, another set of footsteps on pavement. Slower than Yuna’s father as he approaches, and then they too pause.

“Ba-ba-ba-dum dududu bam!”

“Nice.” Benji laughs. He passes her off fluidly to her father as he approaches. “Can’t wait to hear it on Saturday.”

“I’m so sorry,” the older man says. He squeezes Yuna close, briefly burying his face in her neck. “Yuna, you can’t do that. Daddy needs you to stay holding my hand in the parking lot, okay?”

“But—“

“I told you we would say hi, but we didn’t want to bother Benji.”

“I wanted to bother him now.” Yuna insists. Her bottom lip trembles, but her eyes don’t well up. Benji tries not to laugh at the manipulation attempt.

Benji steps closer to fix her boot, which has started to slip off her foot from all the jostling. “Yeah, happy to be bothered. But you listen to your dad, okay? There’s a buncha cars and it’s dangerous to run around like that. You might see them, but they don’t always see you because you’re so little.”

“I’m not that little.” Yuna insists. She tugs at her father’s jacket lapel, turning the big shiny eyes to him instead with the same goal. Benji watches him soften a bit more and squeeze her tighter. “I got a whole ‘nother inch on my height chart yesterday.”

Benji whistles to indicate how impressed he is by this information.

“If you’re okay to be bothered more —“ her father says, pulling Benji’s attention up to his bespekcled face, “Yuna’s at mine this weekend. I’m, uh, doing this new meal prep thing. Made way too much food. If you have a day open…”

“Oh?” Benji tilts his head at the little girl, makes a face to get her to laugh. “Might have to rain check that, got a stacked calendar. But I’ll see this one Saturday like regular, yeah?”

“Yeah!” Yuna shouts, throwing both tiny fists into the air. 

“Uh. Yeah.” Her father agrees, with slightly less enthusiasm.

They say their goodbyes and Benji goes back to emptying the rest of the cart. He’s glad her father hadn’t made mention of the copious amount of alcohol going into the car. He’s almost done loading it all up when he glances over the hood.

Xavier stands on the other side of the car, his palms flat to the roof and face…strangely blank.

“You’re getting rained on.” Benji laughs incredulously. “M’all done here, already loaded up. Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Xavier says, voice thin over the following crack of thunder. 

Benji slips into the back of the Mustang, legs tucked up to accommodate the several angle Xavier has to slide back his own seat. He catches Benny’s red sunglassed stare in the rear view mirror, and raises his eyebrows.

“You get the DILF’s n-number, dude?” 

Benji scowls in confusion, Benny just continues staring, and Xavier slips lower in his seat, the volume of music blasting from his earbuds rising to a worrying level.

*

Later that evening, Xavier repays his debt tenfold. 

Well. Benji would never think of it that way. Anything he’s done to ease Xavier’s way a bit has been for just that —not with the end goal of reciprocation in mind.

Letting yourself get used? The mean little voice in the back of his head needles. Typical Benji, isn’t it.

The alcohol doesn’t make these sorts of thoughts louder, but it doesn’t pick at the careful netting that holds them back. And once that little hole in his defenses is made, they tend to spill out. 

He wonders if he looks as pathetic as he feels, wedged into as quiet a corner of the party as he can find, leaning against the wall. He’s got a rapidly warming beer in one hand, half-finished; it’s his third, maybe. Fourth. He hates the taste of this particular brand, but it’d gotten ignorable the more he’d drank, so. He’d kept going. 

And if it doesn’t quiet the sound of his own increasingly critical thoughts, it was least makes the external voices easier to muffle. Matilda throws a good party, and the people around him seem to be having more fun than he is; no one has approached him in a decent spell, not since he’d scowled openly at some poor, pretty blond from Matilda’s glass blowing class, or something. The invitation to dance had died before it could even be punctuated with a question mark. Benji felt a little bad for the twist of embarrassed rejection flashing across the young man’s face, but he was in no mood — and he was no dancer.

He sort of just wanted —

“I need to get out of here.”

Benji swings his head to the side. It’s a bit slower than his thrumming vision betrays. With hooded eyes, he stares up at…Xavier.

“You n’me both.” Benji responds. It’s soft against the steady bam bam bam of whatever top hundred chart song the stereo beats out. Xavier leans down to hear him better, their eyes never straying apart; that consistency makes Benji’s chest twinge. 

“So? Let’s go.”

Benji looks around. “It’s Matilda’s birthday.”

Xavier laughs, chin tilting back to flash pale throat. There’s a flashy rainbow strobe on her mantle, and it licks shades of blue, green, red across the column. Madly — drunkenly — Benji wonders if the skin tastes different under each color.

“She left, like, an hour ago dude.”

“What?”

“Irish departure, or whatever it’s called.” Xavier hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Lark was my ride but he went with her.”

Benji’s turn to laugh at the absurdity of that. Good fodder to tease him about  later. What sort of prick leaves their best friend for a chance to get laid? He imagines asking. And, true to his nature, Benji imagines the chipper, smart-ass response: This kind, bro. 

*

The irony of his internal teasing is lost on him a half hour later, once they’ve miraculously survived the walk back to Xavier’s flat. There aren’t any suspicious sounds coming from either of the other two’s rooms, but they sneak on dramatic tiptoes, jostling each other and trying not to giggle, anyway. Whatever sort of sneakiness they think they have is totally undone by the loud slam of Xavier’s door as they tumble inside, falling against one another in a drunken effort to stay quiet.

The irony continues to elude him, even as Xavier finds a movie and kicks off his shoes and they turn around, room stifling hot for some reason, to change out of uncomfortable party clothes. Benji doesn’t thank him for the borrowed pajama set; a blue gone fishin’ shirt with holes in the ribs and a too-long pair of plaid joggers.

“What are we feeling. Looks like Netflix refreshed so all the good horror—“ 

Xavier breaks off suddenly. Benji gives up on rolling the hems up his ankles to access the silence, half expecting a monster or something equally frightening on the screen. Instead, its just some muted auto play trailer of a shit comedy. Xavier’s staring at a spot next to him, eyes glassy with a remaining alcohol sheen.

“Find something?”

“Yes.” Xavier says immediately. He loads up the movie and tosses the remote aside, diving under the blankets. Benji follows, notes the frame squeaks under their combined weight. Reminds himself to check the screws on the bottom, next time he thinks about it. Next time his fine motor skills aren’t significantly impaired, too.

“Did you have fun?” Benji asks over the jazzy lulling soundtrack of the opening credits.

Xavier tucks into his pillow, hand coming up to slip between his cheek and the soft jersey fabric. Benji watches him settle with heavy eyelids. 

“I’m not gonna lie, the best part of the day for me was getting to listen to music at the store.” Xavier admits with a giggle. “Sometimes that shit is so exhausting there’s no way I can have fun.”

Benji settles too; it takes a bit longer, shifting around on the mattress and ignoring the bump of their legs together. There’s no way to fit without touching, so eventually he gives in and slides his knee between Xavier’s own. 

“The store?” Benji asks sympathetically. 

“The party.” Xavier corrects, to his shock.

“You love parties.” Benji laughs. “You love dancin’ and music and talkin’ to people and crackin’ jokes so forty different drunk fucks piss ‘emselves laughing.”

Xavier casts a quick glance at the television. “Um. That’s a generous crowd estimate—“

“Fifty.”

“Shut up.” He huffs. He goes to kick at Benji, but with the angle and their intoxication, it’s no use. It only serves to tangle them together a bit more. Benji feels the ever-present tingle of a chill slip off him, replaced by a blanket of heat; between their bodies, touching, and the blankets Xavier hadn’t bothered to kick off, he’ll be sweating and over-warm in no time.

He refuses to fucking move.

“To be fair, you did a fair bit of hosting once Til disappeared.” 

“They went for a birthday walk.” Xavier intones like it’s a great secret. “Lark had a special gift for her, or something.”

“Or something.” Benji snorts nastily, his shoulders jumping with the force of a restrained laugh. 

“What—“ 

And its no longer restrained, once Xavier’s face crumples like that. With realization. Abject fucking horror, that look. Benji can only hysterically giggle at how the weight of that knowledge (or something, special gift) ages him in seconds. 

“M’so sorry, mate. Oh, fuck. Oh your face, Xavier, holy — m’sorry. Really.”

“You’re not.” Xavier whines. There’s no heat to his tone, no genuine annoyance or disgust. In fact, at least to Benji’s own ear, he sounds…amused. 

When his humored tear-heavy eyes crack open again, Benji finds himself being observed. 

“Something on my face?”

Xavier shakes his head. The quiet sounds of the movie carry on. Benji’s got no idea what it’s about, the characters, the plot. He feels stuck in place by the pinning green stare across the mattress. 

“Ddi you have fun?”

He deliberates this. Shopping was fine. He liked seeing his students out and about. Liked being recognized, made to feel important. He liked introducing Xavier (my friend), liked that he stood close and twitched to the music Benji provided, that he’d lingered in the kitchen while Benji helped with party prep, that he’d given the earbuds back dead because he enjoyed the playlist enough to listen all the way through. 

He hadn’t liked the party. But he liked leaving it. He liked leaving with Xavier. He liked the idea that people had seen them leave together. That people had also, inevitably, seen Matilda and Lark do the same. Benji liked the idea that maybe similar conclusions would be drawn. 

And he feels bad for that. Feels unfair. Feels — feels…guilty. Dirty. Manipulative. 

He swallows the strange lump in his throat and shifts a bit in bed. Their legs are still tangled; he can’t go far. Instead of answering, Benji dodges. He tells the story of one of Saha’s equally legendary birthday parties, just to draw a thread of connection. To keep his mind off the warm body so close to his, touching him. 

To keep his mind off the fact that Xavier’s eyelashes flutter prettily as he holds onto conscious. That he tries so hard to keep listening, even as sleep takes him. 

Benji keeps his mind off all that, largely; at least until Xavier sighs as he goes under. The second his breathing evens out into something sleepily rhythmic, Benji’s brain fills with nothing but thoughts of Xavier content just like this. Falling asleep this way, movie in the background. A dozen times before this, and if he’s lucky, a dozen times after. 

As tired as he is from the long day, he genuinely isn’t sure if he’s dreaming as he tucks hair behind Xavier’s ear, presses knuckles to a sharp, cheekbone. He hopes so. He doesn’t have permission to touch — to bother.

I had fun. Benji thinks, vision blurring as the exhaustion catches up to him now, too. I feel happy. You were around. How could it be anything else?

#writing #bp #xw #bp x xw #jlb #college au #i just wanted to write something cute im sorry ok it is brainless and boring with no plot but i Needed To

[knownangels]

rot

wc: 6.8k

He thinks that maybe Dunwall is a place built on grief. One quick glance into the pages of its history is marred with plague, with suffering, with tragedy and loss and horror and subjugation and hate. It must be built upon the bones of something ancient and angry; or worse, exhausted. 

Maran teases when he insists all of this one evening, when they’ve broken into his father’s liquor cabinet and sit together, alcohol-leaden and curved backs slumped together. Maran leans over more, draping himself over Benji’s shoulder. His prickly scalp scrapes against his cheek, and it’s about as comforting and familiar a texture as he’s ever known. 

Perhaps the last swig had been one too many, though. 

“The whales,” Maran repeats, a sullen and soulful impression of Benji, his deeper tone. “Mar, the whales.” He giggles high and mad, hiccups at the end. “Whale revenge.”

Benji scowls, although Maran can’t see it, and plants his feet to push back against his best friend’s weight. He’s liquid in his limbs, though, and accomplishes little more than toppling them both in a laughing heap to the ground. The upending of the world makes his head spin, and when his doubled vision shimmies back into something he can parse, something whole and relatively steady, they’re shoulder-to-shoulder and gazing up at the sky. 

The garden is cool and quiet this time of year, buds opening to blossoms with every slow-creep day of warmth. Soon, everything will burst forth. Soon, the color and smell of new life. 

Despite that, beyond the yard and far walls, the bustle and toil and stench of the city remains. For all potential of goodness, the beauty and loveliness that might happen within the confines of the city, it still is there. It still lingers. 

Benji wonders how long things linger. Like poison. 

“I’m not saying it were them,” Benji slurs in a way that only a handful of people in his life can parse. Maran is, fortunately, one of them. “M’saying s’another thing. The whales. But another fuckin’ thing.” 

“You drank too much.” Maran points out, though his words mush together just as sloppy. “Leave ‘em out of your fuckin’…your melodrama. What’d they do?”

“Nothin’ but get ev- eve—eviscerated.” 

“Evi—Eviscerated?” Maran pushes himself to his elbows. When he leans over Benji, he obscures the stars and the moon. HIs eyes gleam, liquid and syrupy as off it as he is. “Fuck’s sake, man. You are sloshed.”

“Wiped out!” Benji insists. “Gone. What’s left, anyway? Shoulda left the oil where it was, in ‘em — now we’ve got it in the land and the water and the lungs. Y’know people are gettin’ sick? N’it’s all worry about the plague come back. Ery’body old’s wringin’ their hands.” Benji blinks. “Dunwall’s fucked. Not just the whales.” 

Maran laughs again. It sounds less humored. More concerned, a little higher in his head. “You’ve got to get a grip, mate.” 

But Benji has seen what comes from the desire for a fist around something, even if that something is one’s own mind. He’d rather it unspool and worry and panic than keep himself properly contained. So few people talk about the struggles of the city in the way they sometimes do, when off a few glasses. Like a tattered, tragic history, suffering is a staple of Dunwall. A simple fact of reality. As unavoidable as the seasons, as the river’s currents, as the month of harvest. Nobody talks about why. 

Benji thinks there’s a reason. He isn’t afraid to share it: 

*

Dunwall is a thing rotted. To the quick, to the core. 

And he doesn’t just say that now, because he’s stood in a line slowly shuffling. Each quiet occasional (never quick enough) shhhf of boots on tile is a machination of bureaucracy; that, to him, is just as evil as eviscerating an entire species. 

Slightly less evil than the price he’s got to pay just for a copy of a piece of bloody paper to be put in his waiting hand — but only very slightly. 

“That’s it, then?” He asks, staring down at the parchment. It’s got a neat roll of twine, an official shiny red wax stamp of the Empire’s symbol embossed.

“That’s what?” 

He glances up at the official, seated on the other side of the window in a little clerk’s station. She’s old, but not ancient, with golden spectacles perched on her upturned nose and smile lines around her pursed, bored mouth.

“I mean —” Benji lets out a laugh, although it’s more huff than anything amused. Air in, air out.  His hair messes beneath a clammy palm; they keep this particular government office so warm it’s stuffy. “Fuck. Oh, sorry — I mean, fuck.” 

“Have I given you the wrong document?” She leans forward in her seat, peering back at him from behind glass so clean it’s nearly invisible. A long finger taps at the desk her side of the window, near the shiny metal slope beneath that allows them to pass things back and forth. “I’ll gladly check, but I’m sure that’s the correct one. The deed? I’ll check, but it’ll cost another two hundred to have it resealed.”

His eyebrows hitch. “Two — no. No, it’s right. Sorry. I just, it’s a big deal, isn’t it?”

The woman looks at him for a moment, then casts a glance over either shoulder. Then she leans forward until her breath softly fogs the glass. 

“You’re holding the line up for me, lovey, but this bit—” she taps the desk, finger pushed into the groove where the rolled parchment has just been passed to him. “It’s been the talk of the office this week, do you know that? Good bit of land you’ve got, abouts Poolwick even? That market’s been nasty for decades, so few of us were privately — privately, love, it don’t bear repeating— excited to see it given back to family. Whatever strings you managed to yank to have this done, well. They must have been more ropes, yeah? You’re entitled to enjoy it.”

He beams at her properly now, unable to help the expression from slipping forth. “I intend to.” 

She points a slim finger at him. Perhaps fighting a smile of her own: “And you keep it out of the hands of those industry beasts, you hear me? Won’t hear nothin’ about another factory being built on that pretty lake.” 

Benji has no plans to build a factory, and assures her as such. He’d like to return his family there. He’d like to invite another family to join, and Maran, and maybe whoever Maran would like to invite, and maybe — well. He has time to figure the specifics out. 

*

Only when he’s back in Maran’s room at the estate does he fully accept the reality of what he’s just managed to do. The clerk had no way of knowing how right she’d been, with that off-handed remark about pulled strings. The paper, wrinkled now from being excitedly clutched in his fist the whole trip back, holds more than just a bequeathed acreage sold to the empire several generations back. It’s years of work, of saving every single coin he could find, of picking labor shifts after a day guarding, of meetings and letters and delayed appearances before magistrates and solicitors. 

The latter of which he only managed to successfully hire as representation for this goal (to sort the language of the law, something he’s never had neither desire nor respect nor time to pick apart) is Maran’s father. So, the man’s grandiose office of mahogany and golden trinkets and shiny lacquered imported trim should really have been his first stop. 

Gabriel, as only Benji’s internal thoughts flippantly refer to him, is sat at the massive desk when the guards usher him inside. He knows firsthand how heavy that piece of furniture is — on more than one occasion, the duke had insisted someone “help” move it to catch light when his manic whims decided the sun was necessary to accomplish his day’s tasks. Or, task. Benji has only ever seen the man judging with hands tucked behind his back. Or signing a document. Or flipping a coin between his slim, tan fingers. 

Benji knows this man hails from the western shore of Serkonos. Maran’s mother — the thought of whom pains him — from the east side of the island. Both had been pushed from these places with the northern islands’ settlement, vacationing elites, and Gristol’s upperclass. He thinks this is the reason the man had any interest in helping Benji secure his own family’s land once more. He knows it is the reason for Gabriel’s iron grip on Dunwall politics, his cultish drive for possession; for more and better and greater than what had been taken from his own lineage. He’d known power and prestige, had it taken. 

Maran has his will. His stubborn, spiteful sense of accomplishment without the ugly tarnish of ambition. Benji hopes he stays that way. Benji wants to help him stay that way. 

“It all worked out, then.” Gabriel says, even before Benji has taken the paper from behind his back and relaxed his dutiful, respectfully tucked pose. He makes himself smaller in the presence of this man — not because he’s scared for his own safety, but because Benji knows hate. He knew it far longer than before he’d met Maran’s father. And yet it had been Gabriel, his cruel and authoritarian reign on his own family, who made Benji understand hate. 

Benji had been just eight the first time he witnessed one of the old bastard’s punishments. Just twelve when he realized: a father was not always the man who tucked the blankets to your chin, who retold an exciting bedtime adventure story with new details each time it was spun, who gently kissed your mother’s fever-hot forehead before tying an apron around his waist and happily undertook both share’s responsibilities of the house during the week she rested. 

“In the end.” Benji says. He slides the paper across Gabriel’s desk. Although it hurts to watch, although he’d like to have the honors, although it’s his family and their acreage, he allows that wax seal to be broken by the duke’s thumb. He knows what Gabriel wants — what he expects. Benji will work the land back to baseline and then, because it’s a lovely plot in a good location near a burgeoning neighborhood of Poolwick’s growing enterprises, and because Benji has so far only ever been a grateful, loyal boy who follows the rules, Benji will sign over the property.

But Benji is only a loyal, rule following boy with certain eyes on him. And for certain strings to have pulled, ropes to be hefted, money to be made, his deal to be closed….Benji had moved outside the range of vision. It had required a path outside the constraints of legality and politics and respectful citizenship. 

Benji had lied. Often. Benji took dubious jobs requiring hired muscle to move in the little hours of the night. Benji had smuggled, and stolen shipments of weapons, and rooted himself into some of the deepest, most rotted-through parts of Dunwall. And some of it, he had enjoyed. 

The trickery the most. 

So he smiles when he watches Gabriel unfurl the piece of paper. He thinks only of his plans for that land, and the look on the man’s face — far in the future — when Benji denies him the luxury of a purchase. Getting one over on this bastard will feel so good.

*

He keeps the secret for months. He’s saving it for a specific, special day. One that is always warm and golden in the height of summer. It’s one of his favorite days of the entire year, and for the past ten, he has never spent it alone. 

Until now. 

Gabriel has plans to open a resort in the hills above Karnaca, a sprawling vacation estate in which he can conduct business during the warmer months, when Gristol is even morewet and depressing than usual. Benji suspects it’s also being constructed as a destination to which he can send potential allies and partners. Only those, of course, with sway both social and material. Guests who will, by coercive wooing or outright threat, ingratiate themselves into a one-sided deal with a clear favor.

In true ruthless fashion, he’s offered hefty bonuses and leave to any of the current estate staff willing to travel for the summer and help see the Karnaca grounds is developed to specific, strict standard. Few of those who have this offer extended, including Xavier, decline it. It will put a sea between them for far longer than Benji is ever wiling to part from him, but —

“It’s fine. It’s fine. It will be fine.” 

Warm hands clutch his cheeks. Xavier holds his laughing form in place while an absolute barrage of kisses are sundered over his face. There are wet tear tracks there, because despite the words, it will be the longest they’ve spent apart in years. 

“It’s not fine.” Xavier says, rapid-fire between each of Benji’s assertions. “I’m going to wither away and die. I need to get these in —” he interrupts himself to smack a few more loud, wet kisses to Benji’s mouth. He squirms half-heartedly, squeezing Xavier’s ribs and shaking him as if this isn’t exactly where he wants to be.

“It’ll be good money.” Benji assures him, because that — it will be great money — is one of his few comforts. He wish he could say in addition to Xavier’s guaranteed safety, traveling in such a large and affluent group with familiar faces from the estate who care for him nearly as much as Benji himself. But nothing is assured in the isles but suffering and the need for money. 

Fuck’s sake, he’s been in Dunwall too long. Maran is right about the melodrama, although he’ll die before he admits that.

*

They spend the week before Xavier’s departure largely in bed, of course. But also in their favorite places. Their chosen pub in the Financial District that boasts a chunk taken from the southern wall, weathered by age and rumored to be from the age of the last dynasty. Xavier, secretly, is a great fan of that particular tale; its romance and intrigue, its stalwart yet compassionate empress, and Dunwall’s victory over plague. 

Xavier is hopeful like that. Benji is reminded of this again and again as they travel between their familiar roosts. The pub, the park, a botanical garden, an occult shop that serves as both an exhilarating terror to Xavier but unignorable temptation to his curiosity. They hold hands as they walk, or hook elbows together, or otherwise touch in ways previously deemed too intimate for public. 

Xavier is hopeful, but when Benji is tugged laughingly down an alley for kissing (different, of course, then two warm palms slid together and must be private), he doesn’t feel that way at all. In fact, he feels quite the opposite. So stiff and panicked is he, even with Xavier in his arms and free with affection, that the kissing tapers off. The sweet, needy noises that he lives to hear slip into something questioning. Then, concerned. Benji doesn’t realize there are tears on his cheeks until fingertips touch to them, all the gentleness contained in his lover poured into that gesture. 

“What?” Xavier smooths a hand up his chest. It becomes a gentle, comforting pressure around the back of his neck

Their noses nudge together and Benji takes a shuddering breath. It does nothing to help the strange tightness in his chest, the vice clutch of unsourced panic crawling up his throat.

“I don’t know.” He admits in a whisper. He moves his hands from their lusty grip to a slim waist in favor of a more chaste embrace. It feels good, maybe even better in the moment, to be held that way instead. And he’s so grateful for this — Xavier’s understanding, his desire and compassion alike — that the tears start afresh. 

“Crying because I didn’t give you the last piece of taffy? Manipulative.” Xavier teases. They’re aside a busy street. The bustle of the crowd is a din of vendors and traveling merchants, out-of-towners and city natives alike. No one can hear them, but still Xavier pitches his pretty voice low. Just for Benji. Just for them. 

The sweetness gets to him. He’s properly crying about it all, now. 

“Shut up.” Benji rasps. His fists are locked in the back of Xavier’s jacket. “You like that shit better.”

“You like it better.” He argues, broad shoulders rounded and spine bent to put their faces together. He’s smiling. That wonderful, messy thing that flashes teeth whiter than any working class city boy has a right to have. Something like grief stabs strangely into Benji’s chest; he has no idea why, no knowledge of its source. He feels silly for it. There’s nothing darker there, nothing other than the vague looming he’ll be out of reach soon, a whole sea away. There’s nothing darker there, even though they stand on a paved Dunwall street, and there is always something darker, deeper, disgusting in Dunwall. 

So Benji lurches up to bring their mouths together, a quiet sort of sob lodged silent in his throat. 

This can’t be healthy, he thinks as they kiss and kiss, but he’s satisfied to find that another pair of hands clutch as desperately to him. And even when Xavier begins to make noise into his mouth, that fear in his chest stays tight and present. He can’t shake it. He chalks it up to the simple fact that they’ve never been apart this long. Not since they were young, not even for visits outside the city to family, on jobs, on other trips. 

He wants to say something romantic, then. Something like I’ll miss you or I’m going to be here waiting or Did you know the fee to have a marriage certificate officiated in Gristol courts is only a little bit cheaper than a whole fucking land title? 

Instead, he’s silent as they kiss again. It only lasts a few more seconds; sometimes, the way they come together feels too intimate even for this sort of tucked away privacy. 

*

Xavier spends his final day in Dunwall with his family, and takes his final meal in Dunwall with his family, and sleeps his final sleep in Dunwall with his family. Much later, in his bitter recollection of those twenty four hours, Benji will reflect on the irony of these facts: it is his final day, final meal, final sleep at all.

And at this realization not yet to be had, Benji will experience something new — aside grief, that is. In time, the rot he knows infects the city will creep from its resting place beneath the cobblestone streets he strides. The choking miasma of suffering and tragedy and loss and horror will twine from the soles of his feet up, traveling like poisoning of the blood. Inside to out, always to follow, always to be a part of him. 

One day, soon, Benji too will become victim to whatever lingering legend or curse has slithered into Dunwall’s being. 

He’ll be worse for it. He doesn’t know that yet, though. 

For now, sitting in the parlor with Maran, their shoes off and liquor once more uncorked in the absence of his father (gone ahead to Karnaca, as if he’d ever travel with the staff), all Benji knows is the sweet rush of alcohol.

“It’ll pass so quick.” Maran assures, not for the first time that evening. “And I’ll only have to deal with your moping for a season.” 

Benji offers him a loopy smile and raised middle finger in response. Then, just as quick as it flit to his face, the grin falters. 

“I—”

Maran groans loudly, fists pressed into his eyes as he tips his head back — and chair, so severely on its wobbling legs that only Benji’s heel hooked around one keeps him upright. “Don’t fuckin’ start! You kick off again and I’m in this state and then we’re both here weeping on the floor, worrying like hens.” 

Benji sniffles to contain himself, at least for Maran’s sake. “You’ve stressed yourself more worried about him than you are bein’ in charge of this absolute shitshow.”

Maran makes a face then. A contrite, bratty twist of his brow, a bullish and annoyed pull to his mouth. “Xavier’s more important than any of this.” 

Benji agrees. Benji scrubs his eyes with the back of his fist, and then opens his arms for Maran to crawl into. They fall asleep in the middle of the floor just like that. 

His back hurts in the morning when they see Xavier off at the docks.

He wheezes when Benji squeezes around his waist, holds them tight together. And even though he’s the one leaving, doing something new, it’s Xavier who rubs a firm, soothing pet up and down Benji’s spine to ease that sleeping position strain. 

Maran stands to the side, teasingly whistling and not making eye contact with the rare display of affection. 

“Bring me taffy,” Benji mumbles into his chest, uncaring for the rain-slick fabric beneath his cheek. He can’t say anything else dancing around his skull, and it feels a silly thing to settle on, but:

Xavier response is a hearty, sweet laugh. The rumble of it vibrates into him. He holds that feeling until the ship disappears over the horizon, across the sea. 

*

He wishes he could say that the moment it happens, he knows. That he feels it. That there is some deep and preternatural awareness that travels him, heart to veins to limbs and digits, of Xavier’s own steady beat. Of when it ends. 

But he doesn’t know. 

He isn’t there to see the flash of knife through the wind churning, ever constant currents, above Shindaerey Peak. He isn’t there to comfort the sting of it to Xavier’s cheeks, wet with tears and pale with fear. He isn’t there when blood pours between cracks of ancient stone to trickle down below, where the thin, corrupted veil separating the weak remnants of the void drink from the red rivulets. He isn’t there when the magic of the world sings anew, when a new entity is chosen, or when this age’s new cult discover there is no body to cart away into an accident scene worthy of covering their sacrifice — their crime.  Benji isn’t there for the crackle of ozone in the air. For the way the wind stops, just briefly; the way the turbines still, and the way a burst of energy sends a ripple of outages throughout Karnaca’s upper district.

But only for a moment. There is profit to be made, and so there are backup generators and staff to see that they’re kept in good maintenance because it’s power, after all, that runs it all. And it’s power that leads Xavier, sheep to slaughter, and it’s power that slides the knife through flesh that ought to be kissed lovingly, and it’s power that ensures control remains in the fists of those this choice benefits. 

Someone must be chosen, after all. It’s worked that way for as long as anyone can remember. Longer than the whales, the boy who came before, the one before that, the one before that. Even the deepest, oldest slate of the mountain itself forgets. 

Benji isn’t there in those final moments, doesn’t feel the moment it happens although he will wish he did, and he isn’t there to know that the truth of this is revealed to Xavier in his final seconds. 

What would you have become, if not this? Someone asks him, petting hair from his face as the blade descends. A dockworker, doomed to die of injuries at too young an age? A feeble, crippled thing with nothing to offer except burden? You’ll save us all this way, you know. The void is everything, holds us all in its cradle, and there must be someone to reign over its domain. 

Benji isn’t there to know that this simple city boy is told he’ll be more, this way. Worse — he isn’t there to assure him that all he had been, prior to his death and rebirth, was good and wonderful. 

Perfect, even.

*

The news comes in the form of a letter to the Wolffe family. It is Xavier’s eldest sister who brings the news to Benji. He will respect her forever for delivering it in person, rather than parchment, and suspects that the lack of tears in the moment are nothing more than a drought of them after an initial torrent. 

There is a month left to Xavier’s contract at the Karnaca estate. Per its terms, the remaining money due goes to his family. They have plenty to put it towards, the number of mouths in that home. 

One less, Benji thinks, and feels the threat of manic laughter so severe that he has to excuse himself immediately.

But, even as he withdraws to his quarters and locks the door and wedges a chair beneath the handle, the laughter never comes. In retrospect, he doesn’t recall what does: whether he cries or wails or tears chunks of his hair or mourns however gracefully or violently is lost to those initial few hours. They’re a blur of nothing when he reaches for them in his memories, and so he eventually stops trying. 

He remembers Maran’s grief well enough, anyway. 

*

Like his initial mourning, Benji can’t recall the first clue he had that something more foul than an unfortunate, reasonless tragedy had taken place. Surely at the instance that there was no body. Surely the quiet, guilty averted glances of the surviving staff that returned at the end of the summer. Surely it’s something. Surely there is a clue. 

He is unwilling to admit that it’s a gut feeling, that sense of suspicion. Because what does it say, that he holds within him some knowing of something terrible, something rotten having taken place— and not a knowing of the exact moment the most important life to him was snuffed out?

*

A little over a week after the remaining staff returns — and one month after Xavier’s death — Maran catches him in the estate’s east wing, leg slung over an open window ledge. 

Benji freezes and glances over his shoulder. They stare at each other for a long, long moment. 

“If you fucking toss yourself to the yard, I swear —”

Benji snorts, even though he has felt devoid of humor for so, so long. Devoid of anything but…well. Nothing, really. He’s only felt empty, and so the recent wash of rage and suspicion and paranoia had been welcoming. Like a warm, familiar embrace. 

“M’not killing myself, you arse-faced bastard.” He fires back, tugging the dark cloth from around his nose and mouth so Maran can better hear the insult.

Maran crosses the room in a few strides, bare feet padding across parquet without any thought to how loud he’s being. His skills of stealth and diversion are only so honed to the point of occasional sneak-outs and late night trysts off the estate require. Maran isn’t like him. Maran doesn’t know how unalike they have grown to become. And he might have his own suspicions, but Benji doubts they run as deep and vile as his own. 

As he’s enfolded in a tight hug, Benji imagines the rot of Dunwall creeps from him onto the edges of Maran’s soft sleep shirt. Stains it and the little thread of embroidered vines gracing its edge. 

He drops his head to Maran’s shoulder, squeezes his eyes shut, and then shoves his best friend away by the shoulders. 

It’s so strong and unexpected a motion that Maran doesn’t just stumble backwards; he trips toe to heel, arms pinwheeling, and falls on his hip with a loud, sharp cry. 

Hate me, he thinks. Hate me, hate me, hate me.

“What the fuck?” Maran hisses, maimed more to the heart than anything else. He stares up at Benji from his prostrate place on the floor, brows pinched in annoyance. Otherwise, his expression is nothing but wounded. 

“I’m going to Karnaca.” Benji blurts. He hadn’t meant to reveal anything. He’d meant to slip out, unseen. But — 

Maran gapes at him. He starts to gather himself, to get to his knees — and if he does, if he comes forward, if they touch again, Benji knows — Benji knows himself. 

“Benji —”

The stars no longer twinkle above the city skyline. Although luminous, they’re distant. They’re muffled by the smog and smoke and ever-flickering lights. When they were children, before oil was replaced by a new wave of technological innovation, the constellations could be easily picked out. Now…

“Finally sorted my shit. Bucked up enough this year. I was gonna—” He thinks about a piece of parchment crammed into a fireproof safe beneath the floorboards of his mother’s home. He has resigned himself, perhaps out of some sick sense of duty, never to step foot on that land. He can’t bring himself to walk it alone. “I told Saha and everything. Had a script. Made her read it, wanted to be sure it didn’t sound —” he chokes up then, clears his throat. “I was going to ask. I — I have to go.”

Maran has fallen silent. And Benji knows he shouldn’t, but he casts another look over his shoulder as he swings both legs out the window. Maran kneels, hands uselessly loose in his lap. His eyes are shiny with rapidly welling tears, and now Benji has to look away. 

“Please don’t, Benji. Please.” 

And that plea comes so, so close to enough. 

*

Benji’s determination is all that it takes to begin unweaving the underbelly of Dunwall’s shadier dealings. He grew up in the city, already aware of the shadows — but now he has reason to delve into them, reach in and pluck specifics. He has suspicions that need dragged into the light of day, and it’s only the fierce (perhaps mad) drive to accomplish this that allows him access to criminally-adjacent interworkings. 

When he catches the Rhoades girl around her slim throat, he has to temper how hard he shoves her against the ugly wallpaper. She’s a sleight thing, gracefully and fragile in that birdlike way some noblewomen tend. He doesn’t want to hurt innocents, no matter how intwined they are in this work. It’d be hypocritical. It’d be wrong.

(And still, he isn’t sure how long that line will remain uncrossed. He has to know.)

There’s nothing meek or caged about the way she angles her chin and clamps down on his wrist hard enough to draw blood. Benji clenches his jaw against the sharp pain, waiting for the bluff — and she cedes first, if only to make a disgusted face at the metallic taste on her tongue. Benji has never dealt with this broker of information before, in his occasional black market dealings, but she has a reputation. 

He spots the source of those rumors in the fierce, narrowed judgement aimed from her pretty eyes. 

“Name your —”

“I’ve no price you can match.” Benji interjects. He lets her go and steps back so that she can slump to the ground with at least a bit of dignity, but she doesn’t do more than wobble on long legs. A slim, well-manicured hand wraps around the flushed skin of her own neck, but that soothing touch is the only weakness from their encounter she displays. Benji is, begrudgingly, impressed. 

“If it’s blood you’re after just make it quick. And make sure to arrange me some way nice. There’s a chaise I like in the library — but I’m telling you now, if I’m not found dead and pretty, I’ll haunt you until you wish it’d been you.”

Alright, fine. He likes her.

“One of your little network’s agents is working for Giarrizzo-Cohn. She’s better at pretending to be a skilled maid than keeping secrets, bless her.” Benji holds his palm flat, even between them; she’s taller than him by several inches. “About here? Curly hair. From Tyvia, I think?” 

He’d tried to fuck someone from Tyvia, recently. Auburn hair (wrong shade). It had gone no further than a hand (wrong size) on his shoulder for Benji’s stomach to turn enough to make him flee. 

At the mention of Odette (and probably the cruel insinuation of her safety at stake), Matilda Rhoades’s face shifts entirely. The bravery fades into obvious concern, although the rage still simmers beneath the surface. 

“What do you want.” 

 Benji shrugs. “I’m headed to Serkonos. I need to know where Lethe holes up.” 

She snorts, which seems to him a very unladylike thing to do. And yet it makes him think of Saha and her freely given amusement; it’s a flash enough of recognition to soften him more. She’s dangerous, if not the way brutality is — but charm.

“Do you understand how very upset a broker of Lethe’s caliber will be if I give out information like that?” 

“So you know.” 

Matilda opens her mouth then closes it. “I just woke up. You pulled me from bed.” She squeezes her eyes shut and pinches the bridge of her nose.

Benji raises his hand in cheeky apology. “Not at your best. Things slip.”

Matilda gestures towards a little folding desk in the corner of the room, and Benji goes to it — without turning his back. When he returns with a dull, sharpened-short pencil and notepad, she scribbles on it before tearing the paper and smacking it into his chest.

“There.” She waves her hand at the door. “Close it on your way out, you sad fucking goblin. And say hello to Maran for me, will you? He owes me gossip.” 

*

Benji makes the mistake of falling into fitful sleep on the ship over. Just one quick, short nap. One snap of his eyes shut. When he wakes, his pack is gone from between his ankles. He had tied the strap tight around one calf, and still the thief had managed to finesse it without waking him. If he were in a better state of mind, he might respect it. But he isn’t — and because he knows only one contact on the whole accursed isle, because the fears them, Benji winds up in a tavern with the only coin lining his pockets. He’d been traveling light, after all; he’d embarked on this trip with little thought as to where it would lead him, if anywhere but the grave, when it was over.

He can only face Lethe several drinks in. 

Until now, they have exchanged dealings through only written correspondence. The letters come coded; he takes them to Dr. Sullivan for a price. 

When Benji drops through the skylight into the messy studio, it seems that his arrival is expected. He had no idea what to expect of this strange and mysterious merchant of information. He is not expecting an artist, and he is not expecting the fantastical array of gore on canvases scattered about the room. Some of them span from floor to ceiling; others are no larger than his palm. All of them are stomach-churningly detailed, rendered with care, skill, and a suspiciously precise amount of detail. These are works with love in every brush stroke 

“Kitschy.” Benji comments into the darkness of the studio. “How much d’you budget for red pigment, I reckon?” 

“More than your life is worth.” 

Benji turns to the voice, which sounds to him as androgynous as its owner. Lethe, or the person he assumes has taken that moniker, steps from the shadows like a wisp, a phantom. They are as light as one; a blank canvas to be projected upon, to be painted by others. Benji is no painter. He has no idea which colors he’d used to begin to render them. In the low light, he sees only the glint of silvered skin and hair, and eyes a muddy ruby-red. 

“Rude. Haven’t done anything to you, have I?” 

Lethe spreads their arms, striding into the slice of moonlight. They seem to disappear, plains of a wide nose and full lips only visible in slight shadow. Anonymity makes sense, considering their — condition? He’s never met anyone that looks the way they do. 

“You broke into my studio.” The broker says, gesturing with one hand to their surroundings. “If you had good intentions, you’d visit the gallery like the rest of my patrons.” 

Lethe rounds the diameter of the moon’s spill. Benji mirrors it slowly, keeping them at the same distance. The hair on the back of his neck is standing on end. 

“What do you want?” 

“Just like that?” Benji fires back, masking twinging nerves with as much cheek as he can muster.

Lethe glances towards the wall behind him, and stupidly, he looks too. A clock ticks gently, both arms pointed upright. When he turns back, Lethe stands directly before him. He finds a step back impossible. It isn’t often Benji has felt…cornered. 

“It’s late.” Lethe correctly points out. “And I have a showing in the morning.” He must imagine that twitch of their mouth. “If you don’t mind.”

“I’m looking for someone.” Benji admits, and winces. He hopes not too much is betrayed there, in that look, because somehow it feels as though all of the pain he’s held onto since Tess visited  bleeds in. “Or, uh. I’m looking into what happened to someone.” 

*

The mystery unravels quickly, once Lethe pulls that initial thread for him. What he discovers in the subsequent weeks, is done in a period of depraved obsession that he spends either in a rented room, researching into the long hours of the night, or roaming Karnaca’s backstreets and hovels and paved streets in neighborhoods of wealth alike. The whole story is a bit more nefarious than the murder of one poor boy from Dunwall. And, if perhaps he had a bit of distance from the details, it would be downright horrifying. A cult intent on restoring controversially powerful magic — the weavings of the world — seems an awful children’s story. The sort meant to sway little ones onto the right side of morals, of society. 

A fantastical notion, in of itself. It’s a bit late for Benji anyway. He stops recognizing the face in the mirror. Soon, he’ll stop looking at all.

The first one — a proper cultist, judgment bequeathed by way of the myriad of writings in her office and the vast amounts of books on the void stacked in the adjoining library— happens to be one of Lethe’s many patrons. He’s expecting a shadowy cloaked figure. A beautiful witch, maybe. Someone kept forever young by dealings with the powers of the void. Someone more concerned with their own life than that of an innocent. 

She isn’t any of that. She’s a kind looking old woman with pictures of grandchildren in golden frames tacked to the wall and knots in her gray-touched hair. He suspects it’s because several of her fingers are curled towards her palm, gnarled by the touch of arthritis. It must make it hard to hold a brush, and the pride of her upbringing must make it difficult to ask for help. He discovers later that she was from Tyvia. Same town as Odette, it turns out — he wonders if she moved for the warmer air. Better for the joints, he’s heard.

When he corners her in her sprawling estate’s quaint study, she drives a knife tucked up her lacy sleeve into Benji’s side. He pulls it out with a grunt and pushes it through her heart. 

It certainly isn’t painless, but he makes it quick. It’s the only one of the subsequent six lives he takes that is. By the end of it, on the other side, Benji returns to Dunwall and wishes he had saved that mercy for himself. He’s only sick that first time, emptying his stomach in a back alley several blocks from the Tyvian elder’s estate. He’s only sick the once. That first life. He’s heard it before, and is only a little horrified to find it true: after one, the rest are easy. 

He thinks that maybe he was right, in the end. There is something rotten in the city. It corrupts, and it takes, and it kills, and it is horror. It is suffering, inescapable; and rather than fear it has seeped into him, Benji knows. Benji knows a lot, now. Namely, that there is something rotten in him. 

The worst of it is maybe the secret he keeps tucked closest to him, only to him. It isn’t one meant for brokers, or traded for coin. It is the sort of secret whose worth is more precious to him than any amount. Because it would do more than devastate Maran to know the role his own father had in a ritualistic sacrifice, one of his friends. It’s the kind of secret he can’t carry. It’s the kind of secret Benji can. Better the rot is shouldered by him than someone else. Someone innocent.

But then again, his mind winds to him late at night, curled and knees-tucked alone in a bed that had once barely fit two, what had innocence done for Xavier?

#writing #bp #xw #mgc #mmr #bp x xw #dishonored au #elliot was quicker to the angst for this au than i was #so i had to get revenge #very sorry everyone u are collateral

[knownangels]

lighthouse

When he tells his mum, her knife clatters against the side of her plate and takes a chunk clear off the ceramic. Even if it weren’t cheap, it’s secondhand. Ugly, she calls those plates. I’ll buy us a nice set when we have the spare to spend. 

Guilty eyes track the shard as it spirals a dance across the moth-chewed tablecloth. They follow the floral pattern (not really ugly, just a little) as it spins on its curved edge to become a swirl of color. Green leaves, pastel blue and pink blossoms, blue, pink, blue — purple. 

He’s scared to lift them. It’s been just them so long they’ve grown accustomed to even patterns of breathing. Her air is angry. 

“Maran.” She clips his name out between clenched teeth. The broken shard stops spinning. He slides it back across the table, finger pressed to the smooth lip and obscuring those daintily painted flowers. 

“What?”

“Maran.” She says again, sounding like absolutely not. She won’t let those words slip. She rarely does. She gives and gives and gives.

His turn. Only fair. 

“I already signed it.” He forms his words into a laugh, hoping the rest that follow won’t become a fight. “Binding, isn’t it. Take me to court.”

When he glances up at his mum, sat across the kitchen table, her fist is tight around the knife. The grip is so tight he can see flushed blood beneath umber skin that wraps her knuckles.

“That is a long time —”

“It’s a lot of pay.” 

“Fuck of a lot for —” He tells her the exact amount, enunciating each zero.

Her mouth snaps shut. 

The kitchen falls silent. 

Maran watches something play across her face that he doesn’t feel at all equipped to interpret. The pull of her brow looks like it does when he’s caught her sniffling, but her mouth is fixed in that you did what snarl. And something else rests behind her dark eyes; it isn’t Saturday morning mirthful laziness, or the glitter of her grudge-holding snuck in while speaking to their stubbornly rude neighbor. 

There are two pairs of guilty eyes at the table. 

*

She sends him off with six jumpers, three pairs of hardy trousers, maybe a dozen pairs of socks, a sock darner that had been his summer whittling project, and a cloth bag of lavender sprigs that are meant for laundry. It clinks suspiciously when she tucks it into a pocket, so Maran sneaks up behind her to snatch it away.

“Little bastard!” She howls, snatching at the back of his shirt — too slow. He slips away and stumbles across the room, peering into the little bag. Tucked amongst the dried stems are a couple of rocks. Shiny as obsidian, silver flecks smooth under his thumb. 

“Don’t make fun of me.” She warns, crossing to prod at his stomach until he snaps his elbows tight to ward away the tickling.

“Did I open my mouth!” 

“No. Because you’re a smart one.” She teases. Her palm slows into a soft pet over the back of his hand. “And you be smart, okay? Ah, fuck’s sake. This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.” 

He grins at her while she shakes his whole arm, her grip as tight in his sleeve as it was on the knife. He’s gone on jobs before — none so far or for as long away as this, sure. But he’s grown and he’s gone off alone. He’s come back every time. 

They both manage to hold it together until the moment he steps across the threshold. She drags him down for one last hug, one more pinch to a cheek she freckled herself. Maran squeezes her back just as tight; her soft, worried heaving make his eyes sting. 

Into each of his jumpers, at the nape of the neck, she’s sewn a simplified outline of their little house in thick yarn. Coral pink for him. Navy blue for her. He smoothes his thumb over the raised edge of it through her sweater, tracing the edge of the roof he’d once climbed and the gutter that hangs from a rusted screw that had once torn a red line down his calf and the corner of the eastern wall, which sports a hairline fracture from its settling foundation.

“Where you carry it.” Maran mumbles into her shoulder. Home’s where you carry it. It’s their code. Has been for as long as he remembered — at some point, he’d been little and unwilling to leave her arms to go to a neighbor’s or stay the night at a friend’s or be apart. Clingy, the both of them — I miss you, I’ll miss you was too much. Made them into congested full-on snotty, sniveling tears. And of course when one of them went off, the other was inevitable. 

“Shut up.” She groans, shaking him by dancing foot-to-foot. He laughs to be jostled. “Oh my days, Maran, would you shut your mouth? Really? I’d just stopped.”

But she says it back as he loads his meager packing over a shoulder. Really, really leaving. She says it a bunch of times, muddled between words of a prayer meant to shelter and guard and protect. One that, technically, asks him to be guided through a peaceful night into a safe return the next morning. Maran has never heard her pray aloud before.

And Maran won’t return the next morning. 

He won’t return for many, many more mornings.

*

He falls asleep on the bench at the docks, arms locked tight around the packed-full bag in his lap. He falls asleep on the ferry. He is the only passenger this late in the season, but his arms stay locked tight, fingers digging into the over-stuffed bag. He falls asleep, and because he sleeps so soundly to the crash of the waves against the boat, he would have no sense of time passing except for the mark of the sun in the sky. It warms his face. It warms his dreams; in them, he’s still sleeping, except now it’s a gentle summer morning beneath a willow

By its position, he wakes in late afternoon. He stumbles sleepily towards the cabin and knocks on the door. Privately, as it swings open, he imagines a dusty tomb’s crypt slab sliding free: the ferryman is up there in age. He’d been the only one to know the coordinates of their destination and how to navigate the waters — beyond the sound, the water became unpredictably shallow in places. The wrong captain would gut his ship trying to coast without experience. 

The old man looks as though he’s fallen asleep on the trip, as well. Maran isn’t sure if that’s a good sign, that he can make such a trip at ease, or a poor one. And, is it worse than the laugh he’d let out when Maran requested the lighthouse? Worse than the humored oh, there? he’d volleyed back?

*

The boat stops a distance away. Maran stands on the upper deck, fists tight to then rail. Like the boat can hold him there, in place. Like the inlet stretching before them is magnetic, like it wants to pull him, like if he lets go, he might as well be yanked across the remaining distance. 

Rest of the way on foot, the ferryman tells him. Maran doesn’t want to fucking move. He doesn’t want to look, either, but he can’t stop. 

He wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d gone into this blind, knowing it was good money for a reason. Not knowing — this. 

He thinks it looks like the half-finished grave of a monster, too ferocious to be properly buried. The craggy rocks and sea-sodden dirt pile unevenly around each spire where they rise from the earth. Every jutting piece of metal has been spaced evenly from the last; they form a gaping maw of time-tarnished teeth threatening to break through the mantle. At the center is the towering lighthouse, its white gold eye blinking shut, rotating, blinding, repeating.

The pattern is hypnotizing. He’d gotten in trouble for tearing a page from an oceanography picture book: an anglerfish and its beautiful lure, even on paper, had scared him that bad. 

As he stares upwards at the light, chin tilted towards the gentle patter of rain, Maran can only think of that crumpled page. 

“Cut it too close.”

Maran jumps. 

The ferryman extends the meager canvas bag. His frail arm isn’t so frail after all, even frozen there while Maran waits for his brain to catch back up to the moment. They stand at the edge of a rocky piece of land, jutting through the sea and extending towards the lighthouse in a narrow strip. 

“Sorry?”

As he slings the bag over his shoulder, Maran follows the old man’s gesture towards the monster — the lighthouse — in the distance. 

“Said, nearly cut it too close. Bridge’ll be gone by morning, if not sooner. That big hill it sits on?” He laughs. “Hope you’re ready to do some sland living for the next season.” 

Maran’s expression must betray his churning stomach, because the laugh tapers off. It isn’t followed by a noise of pity or comfort, which he sort of expects and would really like to hear.  “Um, that — well. That wasn’t really mentioned.”

The ferryman brays another laugh and claps him so hard on the shoulder that the stumbles forward. A wave laps at the toe of his shoe. He dances back from the shoreline, back into the vicinity of the old bloke, whose sea-spied smell Maran can no longer differentiate from the rest of the salt in the air. 

“Well of course it fuckin’ weren’t. Dumb enough fuckers, th’lot of the green ones like you. No offense. And even then, y’think they’d be stupid enough to take the job, fixed with all its details?” He snorts. “No chance.”

Maran stares.

“Like I said. No offense, lad. Look, stop givin’ me that. You’ll be right as, nice and cozy and cushy. Waited on hand n’foot, fresh fruit, meals cooked to your specifications…”

“You’re being a prick—”

“I’m providing levity to the situation at hand.” The man lifts his cap with a dramatically flourished bow that is cut short by a wince, hand to the small of his back. Maran fights a smile. “Ooh. Ow. You’ll need it, with the real prick about.”

Maran glances towards the rolling waves for a split second, which is as much as his stomach can bare before he gulps and has to look away. “Did they fail to mention the sea monster too, then?”

Another chortle. “Aye, there y’are. Levity. And naw, no monster — far as we know, right? Just company. ‘Least with that you can give yourself over to somethin’ other than the looming threat of isolation madness.” The ferryman wiggles his fingers. 

He wrinkles his nose and slings the bag tighter to his body. If he makes it to the lighthouse quick enough, the whipping ocean air might yet have spared its smell of home. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“Naw.” He agrees, winking and tapping his nose. “More.” 

They part with no fanfare. Maran heeds his warning about the upcoming season and its weather and surrenders a fistful of candy in exchange for the promise of a note sent home, which he scrawls quickly against the ferryman’s curved spine. 

Mum - Arrived. Incredibly creepy. View’s okay, otherwise. Sweater’s warm, thanks for patching that bit under the arm. Doing well! Will continue to do well! Will see you soon, doing fuckin’ well! -Maran

“Fuck’s sake,” the man crows, flapping a hand behind him. “Y’said one. A note, not a novel.” 

*

It’s a fifteen minute walk towards the far shore. It is the longest fifteen minutes of his life. The lighthouse seems to not move any closer — and yet, at the same time, his eyes tell him it grows on the horizon. Closer and larger and closer and larger, until he walks into the shadow of one of its guarding spires. The one nearest him looks blackened at the top, and he realizes then that they must be lightning rods. The lighthouse itself is metal, or the exterior at least.

Algae slips beneath his shoes. The path is well worn. He keeps his eyes forward as he walks, too scared they’ll wander to the side and into the depths of the sea and he’ll find something looking back. But even still, his gaze is drawn down every few paces. He has to keep an eye on it or else he’ll fall, and being in the water with whatever lurks beneath the waves is worse than simply seeing it, right? 

Like the path, the base of each spire —and the lighthouse itself — is dottingly adorned with barnacles, weathered a mottled gray in spots by salt, bleached in others by sun. But whatever metal composes them is dark. It doesn’t turn a pretty teal like aged copper, and yet he has a sense by looking at it the alloy is old. Maybe ancient.

At the thought, Maran shivers. He clutches his coat tighter to his body as he ascends the stairs up the hill, closer and closer to the rising pillar. Childishly, he’s relieved to find the lighthouse doesn’t hide the sun. He hates that in stories — when something blots out the sun. Fucking awful omen, if ever there was one. Instead, as he gazes up, he finds that it sits slightly to the left. He stands there, shielding his eyes and watching the yolk-yellow light drip as the horizon beckons it below, and breathes a sigh. 

It’ll be fine. Home for awhile — not forever. Proper fucking scary, sure, but only awhile. Lid on the dramatics’ll make it easier. 

Maran shuts his eyes and takes another deep lungful of air; it smells close enough to that his heart quiets a bit. The return of its steady beat gives him enough courage to take the stairs two at a time — stupid, because they’re slippery as the walk down. But it makes the trip more enjoyable. Makes it seem more fun and less like he’s walking himself towards…well. He isn’t sure. 

An experience decidedly not fun. 

*

He’s winded by the time he reaches the front door. It’s thick, weathered dark wood with a massive brass knocker. He contemplates it for a moment, finds he hasn’t the energy to lift the contraption, and instead braces himself on the frame. He surveys the rest of the inlet. Although the sky is clear, not yet hazed by the approaching night, he can barely make out the mainland’s sleek mirage. The ferry is also a further distance away than he thought — almost as if the old man had hurried to leave. 

He shivers again, sick of omens. Sick of superstition. With a wet dog shake, he catalogues the rest of the tiny grounds. The lighthouse and its maw, which he tries hard not to think about as surrounding him too; a study oak two-story attaché that bulges from the side of the lighthouse obelisk like a tumor, dotted with narrow windows and an old chimney, where he presumes he’ll be boarding; a rainwater cistern and well with pumps that seem, from one glance, to be at least attached. Beyond, towards the far edge of the hill near the shore, is a storage shed and a chicken coop. 

Maran brightens a bit at the idea of more company, other than a faceless nameless second keeper. He had no idea if the coop was occupied but his mum had always loved feeding birds. Every haircut, she’d make Maran gather his curls in a towel and toss them out the window. 

Good nesting material. 

When he goes to knock at the door, Maran’s rubbing a thoughtful hand over the crown of his head. He needs a cut. 

The door swings open, and Maran thinks: well, at least I’m not the only one.

*

They sit at the tiny kitchen table. It’s a smaller room than even the one back home. At the thought of it, Maran shuffles. He fingers thread tighter together, knee bouncing. 

He wouldn’t describe his company as unkempt. Haphazard, maybe. He needs a haircut, same as Maran: light strands spread out from his knit hat, stick to his cheeks from the damp sea breeze. He needs a new pair of boots, too. Maran knows how that goes. 

Neither of them have taken off their coats yet; the other man sits back in his chair with a lazy recline, one arm tossed behind, his coat open and hanging off his shoulders. Maran looks everywhere but that penetrating, unblinking stare. He feels himself being sized-up, judged, found wanting. 

Whatever expectations he’s had, Maran falls short. 

“You’ve n-never done this before.” 

It’s the first thing either one of them has said since Maran was ushered inside.

“Um.” He glances around the tiny room, making note of everything (stoveiceboxstoragebootscoatrackstairswindow) besides the other man and that stare. He laughs nervously. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.” The chair opposite creaks. Maran still doesn’t look up. “You scared of the ocean, or something?” 

Maran thinks about that long, long fifteen minutes. He thinks about the waves lapping at either side of the rocky bridge. Thinks about his worn flat-soled shoes across slippery algae. Thinks about losing his footing. Thinks about falling in. Thinks about —

“Yes.” He laughs again. “Yeah, like. Very. Kinda daft, takin’ a job like this. I mean. Considering?”

“K-Kinda? Very.” 

When he looks up, the stare has shifted towards the tight thread of his fingers. Maran feels the weight of it, the judgment, and squeezes tighter. 

*

They don’t get on. Maran tries not to let it bother him. But the first thing he’s asked to do is fix a leak in the cistern collection pipe. He hasn’t a moment to set his things down, or find a good place to tuck the square of fabric he stows beneath his pillow, or clear his head of this new situation and its anxieties. 

The order is lobbied, a bit coldly, in his general direction. Maran lets his hand drop to his side, smile faltering. 

“I—Well, fuck. Thought we might as well be on a name basis, since we’ll be stuck together a bit.”

“If you last the night, s-sure.” He’s met not with an introduction but a cruel, smarter-than-you sneer. “Last five guys apparently tossed themselves from the top, and those were hardy s-seamen.” The other man snorts. “Seamen.” 

*

He wishes he could speak to Benji. Just for a moment — just that quick burst of frustration to let out. Uncork. The excitement, the homesickness, the frustration, the fear. Instead, he settles for cursing under his breath the entire twenty minutes it takes to make the repair, the entire thirty seconds to round the lighthouse. The barrage of four-letter words only pauses when he finds the front door.

Bolted into the thicker metal is a panel. It’s about five hands tall and three across, with whirls and divots scattered across the surface. In some places, like each of the four corners, the metal has been worn smooth. 

He realizes the barely visible markings must be all that remains of engraved letters. It looks as though the plaque is commemorative of the lighthouse’s birthdate, or maybe who its named after, or a historical tidbit. Whatever the details, they’ve been lost to time.

Passing through the entry gives Maran another missed detail. A sudden gust of wind sends him lurching in quite a bit faster than he intended. His shoulder connects painfully with the doorframe, and something digs in to the swell of his bicep. 

The other keeper is nowhere to be seen, so he doesn’t feel so bad about the startled yelp he lets out. Pouting, Maran rubs at the sore spot and looks for the culprit — only to discover that it’s a thick chunk bolted to the interior frame. The shape is familiar, a rectangle about as long as his finger and domed slightly. He smiles a little, thumbnail tracing the marking barely visible beneath layers of paint: a mezuzah. 

They don’t have any in the entryways  of their home, but his mum had told him about her childhood. And this far, it was a good reminder of that connection. 

He had been hoping it would curb some of the lingering fear.

*

It doesn’t. The fear twists in him until he falls asleep, and then without his consciousness to stifle, it springs forth.  Maran dreams. 

He steps up to the door and presses his hand on the plaque and is snatched into the sky. By the wind, or a hand in the back of his shirt, or the earth falling slipping beneath his feet. He hovers far above the inlet, a proper island now that the sea has eaten the path. No return. No hope going back home. 

When Maran reaches up to check that the embroidery still nestles against his neck, the ground rushes to meet him. He falls and falls and falls, plummeting towards the ground. He thinks briefly to look up, at the sky and sun, maybe have his tragic final moment be nice at least. But his skull is locked forward like there are icy fingers holding him still. Forcing him to watch as the grey rock and coarse sand rushes to meet him. He’ll be broken against the rocks, or flatten to the waves, or worse — 

He doesn’t feel the landing. But when he tries to sit up and assess the damage, hand behind him to touch the ground, it isn’t there. Looking to either side, he realizes he’s hovering slightly — but not caught by divine machination or mysterious mercy. 

Instead, one of the spires has made an impaled home in his gut. There’s no blood, no tear in his jumper, no pain. When Maran reaches up to touch the metal, a soft oh leaves his lips. 

*

It’s a scream when he wakes, though. He has the sensation of falling as he shoots upright, and it takes a moment to gather himself. He’s sweating, a hand clutched to his shirt. 

On the other side of the shared living space, Maran’s unnamed companion also sits awake. His legs are pale, dangling over the edge of his cot — well, Maran has the cot. He has the bed. First come, first serve. 

“N-nightmare?” 

Maran nods. His breathing wavers. He doesn’t want to cry in front of a stranger.  

“Yep.” He lies back down abruptly, turning his back too Maran. “Figured. Don’t go s-swimming. There’s an algae bloom. You’ll get fl-flesh eating bacteria and die. Slowly.”

Maran takes as deep a breath as he can manage. His hand, flattening over his stomach, doesn’t find a raised scar or wet wound or evidence at all of his dream. The relief feels childish. “Okay.” 

There’s a stretch of silence, where Maran thinks the other man might have fallen asleep, then: 

“Benson.”

*

The first week, Maran chips away at the mezuzah’s paint. He doesn’t recognize the letter carved into the wood, but he knows it’s oak — like the rest of the house. He finds another bolted to the beam that supports the spiral stairs leading up to the top of the lighthouse. There’s no door, no entryway, and he’s baffled as to why it’s there of all places when none sit in the frames of the living space of bathroom or storage shed. He stares up at the dizzying spiral, the flash-blink-flash of the mysterious light above, and decides not to dwell.

Instead, in the first week, he assesses the coop: full of fed and happy hens and one unhappy. He sterilizes and fashions an empty barrel in the shed to hold water in case of emergency, which gets a an approving nod from — Benson is a mouthful, but Maran hasn’t called him Ben anywhere but his own head. As starved as he is for companionship and guidance in this new place, the other keeper seems more interested in keeping to himself than listening to Maran ramble. 

The first week, Maran carries home on his back and tries to make the best. He flings himself into chores, preparing with all the (admittedly meager) knowledge he has of surviving a long season. And he avoids the spires. He avoids looking at them. He doesn’t touch them. He gives them, as best as the small expanse of land will allow, as respectful a distance as possible. 

For what it’s worth, the dream doesn’t repeat.

*

The second week, the third, the fourth: they pass. He hasn’t nearly enough to fill the hours, but there’s work enough to be done that he manages. There is a bookshelf full of dusty paperbacks and a few hardcovers that he largely ignores. Nothing calls to him (reading never has), and his fingers would feel gruesome touching page corners previously flipped by the dead. 

Bens— Ben has no trouble devouring their contents. He finishes a book a day. Maybe more. Even the thick academic tomes eventually get placed in his finished pile. Over time, Maran urges a summary from each. Mysteries, thrillers (an ear-reddening romance that seems more wank-accessory than literature), and even an ancient almanac. 

“The weather patterns and harvests and b-b-biodiver —” Ben pauses, his brow furrowing. “The environment completely changed. It’s fascinating.” 

Maran listens to all this with a fist tucked under his chin, attention rapt. Just because he doesn’t want to read doesn’t mean he lacks interest. Ben, as it turns out, is the perfect teacher. And for good reason; Maran finds out, as the time stretches, that he’s a scientist. While the money called, the opportunity for research seemed more attractive to Ben. 

“It’s just a little lighthouse.” Maran laughs. “What’s so interesting about ten paces of grass and some chickens?”

“It’s w-weird.” Ben asserts, leaning across the rickety table to make a serious face. Maran laughs. The smile that’s been pulling at the corner of Ben’s mouth comes out full force. For the first time. “Nobody’s studied it. Little isolated place, all this sea around it? S-Something’s here.” 

He launches into theories, then. Barometric pressure readings and tidal temperatures and nitrogen levels in stagnant pools and evolutionary patterns of fauna — 

Maran is kept by no invisible force; simply sits there, hands around his mug of tea, blinks occasionally. Mostly, listens.

*

 He tries to keep track of the time, after that. Things become…strange. The weather milds, then worsens. It snows early, and then he finds a raspberry bush behind the coop that boasts new buds. Maran finds his hair needs to be cut. Without a mirror, he has no choice but to go to Ben. 

“What’s the best way to go about this, you reckon?” Maran laughs haltingly, empty bin for clipping clutched to his chest. 

Benny glances around, then back at Maran, the slight difference in their heights with his boots and Maran’s trainers, the kitchen table. Then he drags the chair over (with an awful screech that makes Maran wince) and hops onto the table. It sways but doesn’t break. When he tugs the chair and gestures towards it, Maran hesitates. 

“C’mon. You want it b-buzzed. It’s that hard. I’m not gonna d-do you dirty.” Ben laughs. It’s become a more common sound over the past month. Still, he stays where he is. Ben rolls his eyes. “Sit down, Maran.” 

He goes. He goes immediately. Maran stumbles on the leg of the chair and is caught at the shoulder by a firm hand, but eventually he plants himself in the wooden seat. 

He isn’t sure he breathes the entire length of the haircut. But that can’t be right — it takes too long. Ben is meticulous. Ben is careful. He makes small talk about his latest experiment, something about nematodes and red algae. Maran watches curls float softly to the bottom of the bin and wonders if he’s getting sick. His head’s pounding with his pulse, and his brain’s foggy. He touches a finger under his nose at one point; he’d been prone to nosebleeds as a kid. His fingerprint comes back dry. 

Ben lays a hand across his shoulder. “All done.” 

Maran doesn’t move for a moment. His eyes lift, and he glances across the room, out the thin window that sits just above the utility sink.

There are storm clouds on the horizon. 

He must say as much, because Ben leaps to his feet. “Fuck, those stupid fucking birds are out.”The table rattles. So does the bin, when Maran drops it. He scoops up the hair that flutters out, feeling tears prick at his eyes when a tuft slips out the open door on the wind. The gulls have cleared out already — there’s no birds who will use it for their nest. He watches as the clouds creep closer, and is inexplicably filled with dread.

*

The next morning, Ben sits at the table with his head folded in his hands. 

“We lose something?” Maran asks tiredly, rubbing a fist into his sleep-sore eye. “Cistern looked fine when I checked but if there’s a repair —”

“Supply was supposed to be yesterday.”

Maran blinks a few times. He glances at the door. “Oh. The storm.” 

Ben’s eyes are red-ringed when he lifts his head. 

* 

Maran does it. He makes the excuse for more firewood from the pile, but Ben’s smart. Ben’s the scientist. He must know. He chooses the oldest girl and kisses an apology to the top of her head before it’s lobbed off, clean and kind. He isn’t sure what he’s meant to say, if he’s meant to say anything, so he just repeats the snippets he heard from his mum. Shelter, guard, peace over night and safety the next morning. 

*

Rationing isn’t hard. They only have to do it for a little, anyway. And Maran is used to lean months — he knows how to make rice last, chicken can keep on ice for six months on a stretch, and there’s plenty of canned things to pick through if it comes to that.

It’s not the chickens that starts to do Ben in. It’s the inconsistent weather, the nights that feel shorter than eight hours, and sometimes, the water near the south edge of the inlet reads boiling. 

Maran isn’t sure if that’s algae. He doesn’t think so — but he’s not the scientist.

The scientist insists there’s something there. The scientist starts having nightmares. Maran wants to ask if they’re the same as his, because they touch his mind some nights, too. He’s scared of the answer. He’s scared that it’s only been three months, and the isolation has gotten to them both.

“Is it electric?” Maran asks one evening as he’s bundling up at the base of the stairs, chin tipped up towards the flash-blink-flash. A panel has come loose near the top, and someone needs to fix it. Ben hadn’t needed to ask for Maran to know it would need to be his job.

He looks at Ben when his inquiry his met by silence. They rarely are. Ben looks even paler than usual, washed in the patterned churn of darkness and light, dark and light. His eyes reflect the light; Maran thinks it might be more hypnotic against that blue than the dark blanket of sky. He doesn’t say as much, and when the moment passes, he wishes he had.

“I don’t know.” Ben gestures around them. No wires, he doesn’t say but Maran gathers. No generator. But it goes and goes, a continual spin, continual light. There are no traces of burnt soot or wick or lantern oil to pretend it’s light is sourced by fire. The original analog. It must be electric. *

It hurts to think about, so he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t make Ben think about it either. That night, they do nothing but swap embarrassing stories like a couple of kids, cross-legged on the floor with a split two-thumbs of the last flask of rum and an unfinished card deck. Ben wins, but only (Maran insists) because most of the hearts are missing. 

When Maran lands on his cot, the left leg that creaks and keeps him up when he turns splinters, shatters, drops him to the floor. 

Ben laughs, but it’s not the usual pleasantly high lilt. It sounds a little manic. Maran feels manic. He splays arms and legs out, a starfish on dry land, and stares up at the weathered ceiling.

“I don’t want to jinx it—”

“D-Don’t, oh hah — oh, don’t fucking say anything you b-b-b—”

Maran raps his knuckles against the floor. “It cannot get fucking worse than this, mate. Swear!”

Ben tosses himself back against the mattress, and the creak that resounds in the quiet air makes them both pause — anticipating the comedic timing— but remains upright. They catch each others eye, and the laughter doubles. Maran’s stomach hurts with the force of it. When he splays his hand across his tensing gut, he hopes he thinks of this moment instead of his nightmare. 

Ben catches his breath. And then he leans across the space, one hand braced on the floor, to tug at Maran’s jumper. There’s another pause, another quiet swell of silence, another extended moment where they lock eyes. 

Ben doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t offer. But he shuffles back, shoulders to the wall, and makes room. 

Maran fills it. 

That night, there’s another storm.

*

There’s another storm. Or earthquake. Or other tectonic shift. Something that shakes the inlet, shakes the attached house and spills pans and belongings and rations, knocks a shelf from the wall, rattles the furniture, forces the lighthouse to creak and groan like a metallic beast. 

Something. Maran isn’t the scientist, but the waves beat as high as the window and the coop is washed away by morning and the cistern is flooded with salt, has to be pumped, and —

And it’s something. And the light is red.

The light has gone red. Flash-red-blink-flash-red. Red.

*

Ben joins him at the base of the stairs. Neither of them climb up to investigate. Neither of them externally share the internal fear that it might be a one-way trip.

They go about their day without speaking. There’s no acknowledgement of the light, or how it spreads in a sick tinge across the waves, or how it doesn’t breach the surrounding fog nearly as well as the bright golden yellow. Maran doesn’t ask him to read the aviary guide’s entry on canaries, and Ben doesn’t offer — he makes space, and Maran fills it. 

Maran has a nightmare. He dreams of climbing the stains and sitting on the floor in front of the light. He dreams of watching it turn (slowslowslowly). He understands, in that distant dreamlike way, that when it touches him that will be It. And when it does, red light spilling over the patch in his jeans at the knee, it burns through denim and skin and bone and all that’s left of him, at the top of that staircase, is the flash of red over dust. 

He wakes, but not violently. Arms around his waist keep him in place; he can only jerk forward, as if throwing himself away from the heat, and cry out. There’s a knowing, similar to his dream, that if he opens his eyes all he’ll see is that reflected wash of crimson. 

He doesn’t say anything. Ben, face buried in his shoulder, only shushes quietly. He turns until Maran has no choice but to do so as well, until their positions are switched. Maran draws air as they slot together, moves back a bit — he starts to apologize, because it was nightmare but — 

Ben pats behind him for Maran’s hip. His hand fits snugly there, grips with a strength and insistent that spills heat into Maran’s face. Then he yanks Maran forward until they press together, chest to back and hip to hip, legs warmly tangled.

“Sorry.” 

Ben hums sleepily. “For?” 

Maran can’t verbalize it. Too embarrassing, too heavy the shame. His lips part but stutter over the explanation. And he can’t move to explain, because — well — 

“Um. You know.” He sighs when there’s silence. “Ben, mate. C’mon.”

The body tucked against him shudders with a laugh, which does absolutely nothing to fix the situation at hand. 

“S’fine. I’m fucking with you, Maran. H-Happens.” When Maran takes his turn with silence, he isn’t permitted to get away with it. Ben nudges himself back (purposefully, the bastard, it has to be) and makes Maran gasp. “Regularly, here’s hoping.”

“Fuck you.” Maran grumbles, but the heat is probably lost when he rubs his cheek into a sharp shoulder blade and falls immediately back to sleep. 

*

The next morning, just as Ben leans in with hands cupping Maran’s cheeks, a foghorn sounds. 

Ben squeezes his eyes shut and tucks his tongue — which Maran cannot help but stare at — against his canine, head falling with a thump-thump-thump against the pillow they shared.

“If this is a hallucination I’m going to be actually so fuckin’ pissed.” 

Maran shifts, untangling their limbs from the almost-kiss embrace. It would have been nice. He wants it. More than he realized, he thinks, until they were exactly here. But —

“That’s the ferry.” 

They stare at each other. Then they nearly trip over one another bolting for the stairs.

*

It is. It’s not a hallucination. It is the fucking ferry.

Both of them, barefoot and in nothing but thermal underclothes, rush out the front door and steps towards the edge of the water. It’s still too shallow for the vessel, so Maran takes the dinghy out to bring the old familiar face to the inlet. 

“Light’s gone wonky, then?” 

“Have you ever seen it do that?” Maran asks, putting a plate of ration-gruel in front of the man. “Sorry. All we got.”

The old ferryman makes a face. It isn’t a pleasant one at all. “Rough month, lads?”

*

When he’s gone, and the sack of supplies rests against the front door like a sandbag meant to keep something out, Maran watches Ben pace the floor. 

“A month.” 

“It can’t have been.” Maran insists quietly, hands tucked between his knees. “It can’t have been just a month. I was counting days. We ate three of supplies — we nearly ran out.” He stares up at Ben, eyes not just wet but brimming, spilling over. “Are we losing it? Are we?” 

“No.” Ben’s turn to insist. He takes Maran’s chin in his palm and shakes him gently. The other flattens over the top of his scalp. “Your hair grew, Mar. It grew. That’s n-n-not a month’s fuckin’ worth of hair I cut.”

But they have no explanation, do they? Other than isolation. A mistracking of days, no matter how precise Ben is, how clean and careful his records. How consistent his notes. Wrong? And the sun in the sky, the passage of time; if he counts the minutes of boredom, that can’t wrong. Seconds, minutes, hours: real. Tides: real. Moon phases: real. That can’t be wrong. Ben can’t be. There has to be another explanation. There has to be another way —

Maran’s brow furrows. 

“I think.” He glances up at Ben, whose hand falls away to rest over the back of his neck. Maran hasn’t told him about the embroidered house at his nape, but a pale thumb rubs its comforting circle there, anyway. “I think you were right.” 

“What? Your hair?” 

“No.” Maran glances over his shoulder towards the door that separates them from the interior of the lighthouse. He thinks of the mezuzah on the beam. “No, Ben. That there’s something here. I think it’s underneath.”

Ben’s hands sting when they clap to his cheeks, but the kiss makes the pain worth it. Or, Maran thinks privately, maybe sweeter.

#writing #mgc #mgc x jlb #lighthouse au #i had to start 2024 spooky yall know me uwu

[knownangels]

merry

“It is so proper festive in here.”

“Will you relax?”

"Right? Festive. Uh, Christmas-y. That's what people say."

"Saha."

“No, really. I assume you had Xavier put up the trim lights? That’s real cute, honestly. It’s so festive. All like. Green and red.”

“You’re going to burn a fuckin’ path into my new floor, could you—”

“And it’s Christmas, yeah. So it’s meant to be festive. Because it’s Christmas. The gift giving bit is like the most important part.”

Benji slips in front of her before she can pace back the way she came. He puts a hand on either side of the cabinets, barely reaching each because they’d gutted and fixed up the kitchen nice recently and its big, there’s room for a person to cook and another person to hover and it’s a family home, where family gathers, where their family gathers and another family is about to start gathering, it’s about to be a whole fucking melding of families and probably a tradition and Saha will have to see —

“If you get sick on my floor I will ditch you out in the snow.”

Saha wraps her arms around her stomach. Like she can hold the nervousness in and pretend exactly that is not about to happen. “It’s really cute that it’s snowing on Christmas.”

Benji rolls his eyes, but doesn’t take for granted the gift of her anxious focus shifting elsewhere. “Shoulda seen that one, the other day. Not an untouched bit in the back, he ran out and just fuckin’ rolled about like the dog.”

Saha makes an oh fuck that’s cute sort of face, feels the affection and fondness twist her mouth into a wounded pout. “That’s so sweet I’m going to puke about that instead of my awful gift.”

Benji sighs now. There’s an edge of actual wariness to the noise. 

She throws her arms into the air. “Not really, for fuck’s sake! I do think if you want me to be normal you should pour me another of those coffees Xavier’s making.” 

“Her little brother snorts. “The spiked ones? You know how heavy handed he’s been — nah, Saha, just settle down. You’ll be ass over if you get another.”

“Gonna be ass over my head in t’fucking grave if you don’t refill my cup right now, Benj.” She shakes him, both fists tight in his garish green sweater before picking her mostly empty coffee mug from the counter and waving it in his face. Benji laughs all the wild, hands tight around her wrists as he’s jostled. They’re warm from being in the kitchen, handling all the dishes he’s got going at once. And when he tips his head back to laugh, eyes pinched happily and mouth open to show the green Christmas cookie icing stain on his tongue, Saha feels that little twist in her chest.

It’s a swell of emotion she can’t quite place — the anxiety is the only thing missing; happiness and relief and joy and envy and rage, for some fucking. She lets go of him abruptly and steps around, excusing herself towards the bathroom in the hall. 

“Hey —”

“I’m fine!” She calls over her shoulder. Balled fists, face-forward. She doesn’t want to ruin the nice evening, and she’ll do exactly that if Benji catches a glimpse of the tears. 

*

It’s simple as to steel herself and pretend nothing’s wrong. Privately, sat on the comfortable sofa with a steaming mug of coffee warming her palms, Saha wonders if this is just part of Christmas. She’s had plenty of friends who celebrated, even if they weren’t religious. And while their family hadn’t done much, except mum picking extra shifts up for bakery-related business around the end of the year, a little gift here or there wasn’t out of the question. Maran and his mum had accustomed their childhood more towards the eight days of Hanukkah, which really seemed to her a warmer holiday overall. None of consumerism that she was shocked Benji wasn’t ranting about — although she assumed it was to keep the pout off Xavier’s face. 

Frankly, he seemed to enjoy the holiday so much that it might be impossible to get him to frown at all. 

Saha takes a sip from her mug as she watches Xavier launch into the next leg of a childhood celebration tale involving an unprofessional Boston mall Santa Clause. He doesn’t seem to have any sort of the Christmas malaise some of her friends talked about. Or if that was a private mourning, if he was good at hiding it.

Maybe you leeched it from him this year. Shouldered it. That’s nice, at least. Right? He deserves to relax. Maybe he hasn’t got time for being down when Benji’s letting him bounce around to the point of exhaustion. Maybe the sad gets kept away by ice skating and tree hunting and decorating and shopping and and seasonal playlist curating and movie marathons, biscuit baking, sled riding.

Saha thinks that might be the grand secret to Christmas — it just keeps everybody busy through the tiresome, dreary, fucking awful end of the year. No time to be lonely if you’re constantly doing the next required thing, right?

Holy shit, offers a much less woe-is-me voice in the back of her head, you need to get back on that antidepressant yesterday, girl.

*

Their final guest is running late, so Xavier doles out one gift for each of them as a consolation. He settles on the floor between Saha’s knees, rubbing his flushed cheek against the velveteen fabric of her bell Christmas-tree patterned bellbottoms.

“This is so cute.” He mumbles, settling cross-legged with a gift bag in his lap. 

“I wanted to be festive.” Saha laughs, running a hand through his messy hair. “Benji’s got a few under his belt now, thanks to you. But I’ve never really done a whole big business like this before.” She shrugs. “Few corporate-y business parties here and there, but. Yeah. Nothin’ official like. Nothing that counts.”

This is, apparently, not the right thing to say. Or maybe it is. Xavier tilts his head up more to look at her, his eyes flooding with tears.

“You’re spending it with us,” he tries to whisper, but ends up croaking a bit emotionally. “That’s special.”

Saha’s throat gets tight, then. She glances up at the television, which is set to a holiday playlist. In the top left corner of the screen, a profile picture bounces along to the beat. Xavier has set it to be a picture of the two of them, their cheeks pressed together to properly fit in frame. She smiles nearly as wide as Benji is in the snapshot. 

And still, that gently tugging thread pulls at the center of her chest. 

*

Benji’s freebie gift is a set of stickers tucked into a red envelope, alongside a gift card to a music shop in the city. He’s sat in front of the tree across from Xavier, his legs outstretched so at least their knees bump. When his eyebrows pull in, Saha scoffs at him. 

“C’mon. We are never gonna get through this if you boohoo over some stickers and a gift certificate.”

“It’s really thoughtful, you clown.” Benji defends. He’s several cups of egg nog in, himself; he gestures loosely at Xavier, who somehow correctly reads the motion. He twists from his spot against Saha’s leg to lean up and give her a proxy hug, long arms wound tight around her shoulders.

“You’re welcome.” Saha huffs breathlessly, patting Xavier between the shoulders.

“Thanks.” Benji snarks.

The doorbell goes then, and directly into her ear, Xavier whoops in excitement. 

Saha falls back a little against the cushions with the energy he expels pushing upright to his feet. Distantly, she hears Benji’s laughter and the swell of the next song and the crackle of the fireplace, Anika’s gentle snoring where she naps in a new dreidel-print dog bed near the door. She hears the heavy thud thud of Xavier’s running, slipper-clad feet, the ancient door’s tell-tale creak, and the excitedly noisy reunion of two siblings who clearly love each other very much. Who have missed each other that much more. 

Saha stares at Benji. He tilts on one hand, braced to the floor, to peer down the hallway. He’s grinning in the way she remembers only from the distant past and the immediate now; their wedding, this celebration, Maran’s occasional visits, family dinners. 

The feeling comes again: joy, relief, sadness, envy. Anger.

Fuck Christmas, actually, Saha thinks. Bah humbug, or whatever. Stupid fucking holiday and its stupid fucking general depression.

“I’m getting another drink.” She announces. Perhaps a bit too loudly, because Benji even hears it over the chatter of the siblings at the front door. She crosses the mouth of the hallway towards the kitchen as quick as she can; not only because the open front door is leaving a draft, but —

“Fuckshitpissfuckbastard.”

“I have not heard that particular carol in, like, years.”

Saha twitches and presses a hand to her chest as she turns, nearly upending the coffe all over her blouse. For a moment, she avoids eye contact with the other transient visitor in the kitchen. It brings her focus to a pair of nicely tailored slacks — nice, because they don’t look too well done. Still a bit of mess, oversized in a fashionable way. The button-up is not oversized; Saha finds she wants to avoid the particular clinginess of that article of clothing only slightly more than the eye contact. 

The eldest Wolffe’s eyes area slightly different shade than those of her only brother. If the light hits Xavier right, his are a gorgeous, earthy green. Tess has pine needles on rich brown dirt — little flecks of hazel here and there, if Saha looks too close.

Saha looks far, far too close.

“Made it up just now.” She admits, turning back to the counter for another mug. The decaf will need rebrewed, once she pours a cup and properly spikes it for the latest guest. Tess takes the mug and lifts it slightly in thanks. “Think I could go for Mariah’s throne?”

Tess’s pretty eyes sparkle at her over the rim of the mug as she takes a sip. “You’d chart, at least. Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“Thanks.” She replies. If the woozy, stupefied look is obvious across her face, she’s going to off herself. “I mean— oh, right. Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks.” Tess parrots, her voice lilting with a clear tease. “I’ll grab the tray, you take the bottle?”

“Fuckin’ hell, really shouldn’t.” Saha breathes heavily, the air lifting her bangs away. 

Tess laughs loud. Nearly the same as Xavier’s, just with less chest to it. “I meant take the bottle in? I’ll grab the food.” She leans over to peer closer at the array of appetizers Benji’s slaved over and whistles. “Looks so good, Benj. Damn.”

As she bends forward to observe the food (with an air of professional interest that is so wildly endearing), a little bunch of shiny necklaces slip from the neckline of her shirt. Saha’s tipsy, lidded eyes blink at the glimmer. Her mouth goes a bit dry.

*

They all catch-up and converses nad joke for far too long; the food disappears before it can go cold, but by the time Xavier excitedly doles out presents, the sun has already set over the horizon. 

“I’m so sorry,” Tess hiccups as he adds to her pile. “It’s totally my fault. I got caught up—“

“Don’t care!” Xavier singsongs, rapping a knuckle against a pentagonal shaped, candy cane-wrapped gift near her knee. “Christmas. Open!”

“Do we need a system?” Saha wonders aloud. “Is there, like, a system for who opens what? So nobody runs out first and it’s —“ she glances around the circle, three pairs of  equally sloshed eyes on her. “Okay. Sorry. Nevermind, I just…” She snorts, and then to a chorus of cheers, tips back the rest of her bitter coffee with a flourish.

*

Not an hour later, Benji and Xavier doze surrounded by a combined pile of gifts on the couch. Xavier, face buried in the crook of Benji’s neck, still wears his silly elf hat and ears. Saha knows from stories he can sleep pretty heavy; she carefully plucks all the accessories off and leaves them on the coffee table with the rest of the night’s rubbish. Wrapping paper, crinkly bows, sparkling fistfuls of tinsel and thin, festive tissue. 

The soft clink of glasses and plates echoes from the kitchen, so she meanders towards the sounds. Vertigo — certainly from the amount of carbs and sugar and way, way too much alcohol — forces her to lean her head against the archway. 

“Like them, isn’t it?” 

Tess hums and shuts off the water. “Hm?”

Her cheeks burn with strange humiliation. She knows its unwarranted. She hates repeating herself; for so long she’d been accused of mumbling, or being soft-spoken. The alcohol, again. 

“Said: like them, isn’t it.” Her head shifts against the wall, tilting vaguely towards the sleeping lump of boy on the sofa. “Proper younger sibling behavior, crashin’ and leavin’ the cleanup for us.”

Tess laughs in agreement. “They know they look too cute to be bothered.”

“Bastards.”

The eldest Wolffe shakes off her hands over the sink, wipes them on her nice trousers. Saha smiles. Her bleary head focuses on that as attractive.

“I don’t want to offend—“

“No, we really did not celebrate Christmas growing up—“

“No!” Tess laughs again, then slaps a hand over her mouth at the volume. Her eyes widen, but the soft noises from the living room don’t stir. “Jesus, no. I was going to say…I was going to step out, but I didn’t want you to think I was running off or something.” 

She fishes in her pocket, holds up a matte rectangle and waves it. 

“You oughta stop.” Saha blurts without filtering the thought. She slaps her own hand over her mouth. “Fuckin’ hell, I cannot turn it off sometimes. M’sorry.”

Tess offers her a shrug and beneficent half-grin. Her teeth are charmingly crooked. “Come out with me?”

Saha freezes for just a moment. Her fingers are a little cold right at the tips, like she’s been leaning on her hand too long; the pins and needles have set in. She thinks immediately of an email sat, read but unanswered, in her inbox. A canceled flight, mailed note of condolence with the excuse of an imaginary schedule conflict.

“Alright.”

Tess’s grin hasn’t faded, but when she receives that affirmative it doubles in wattage. Saha walks away first, because like the cutely intertwined bodies in the living room, the profile picture, the lights trimming the house…that smile is a little too bright to look at. 

*

“I liked the knife set.” Tess says, once they’re bundled and comfortable on the porch. 

Saha feels awful, in that moment. Not just because the chairs they sit in are angled together, the moonlight slips in ribbons of gorgeous silvery tinsel across the pond. Not just because she lied, she hasn’t kept in touch, and that she bought the gift Tess thanks her just two days ago.

“I saw it and thought of you,” Saha admits, biting her tongue for its honesty. “I’m really glad you didn’t think it was daft.”

Tess is silent a moment. Then she chuckles. “They have adorable little cartoon animals on the blade? What’s not to like about them.”

“They’re not professional!” Saha laughs, waving her hand between them. It accidentally buffets some of the fumes from Tess’s vape towards her, and she coughs. “I thought — honestly, why would a professional use those. You’ve probably got fancy custom bits from, like, a Japanese knife company.”

“A lot of the good expensive ones are Japanese, actually.” The blanket over their laps shifts as Tess turns more towards her. Saha doesn’t move. “Kinda impressed you knew that.”

“I did a sponsorship.” Saha says. She winces. “Eugh. I am so sorry —“

“Oh my God, a sponsorship —“

“Please.” 

“A sponsorship! You’re famous.”

“I hate my fucking job.” Saha spits. With feeling. 

A lull of silence settles over them, after that sudden outburst. It’s heavier than the fleece shielding them from the (admittedly mild) December air. 

“That’s partially why I — I lied to you. It wasn’t a brand meeting with my manager. I lied. I say it was, but I was —I hate this job. And I didn’t want to make it part of…that.” She fumbles over the words, head still fuzzy from the drinks and come-down of perhaps a little too much socialization for one evening. “That’s your passion, yeah? And for me it’s not that. Absolutely at all.”

And I’m mid-thirties still not sure who I am. Or what I’d like to do. Or where I want to be. And I’m still lying to you. I do hate my job. I fucking hate it. I want to be doing anything else — something that matters. But that’s not why I ghosted your invitation. It’s because I’ve always been a sister or a daughter. I’m mid-thirties and that’s all I really know about myself. That’s all I know how to be? I really, really like you and that’s scary by itself. But everything about me has orbited Benji. Still does, in so many ways. And you’d be another thing in that column — because of Benji.

I want things, she doesn’t say. I want things for myself. I want things and I can’t ask for the things that I want.

“Fuck Christmas. Bloody fuckin’ holiday,” Saha mumbles, head dropping down to her hands. She feels a warm palm span her shoulder, curve into a gentle hold, for just a moment.

And then she spills sick — gingerbread cookies and Irish cream coffee and cute holiday appetizers and way, way too much alcohol — all over Benji’s newly painted deck. 

*

When she wakes up the next morning, tucked snug beneath the comforter in their guest bedroom, there’s a glass of water and a pill on the side table. Saha falls back against the toss-turn mess she’s made, groaning and shoving an arm over her face to shield from the morning sun. The pillows are comfortable, but unfortunately not nearly enough to smother herself with.

#writing #sp #sp x tw #core au #bbgirl i am so sorry i cursed you with the Gay AND the anxiety my bad

[knownangels]

food

For some reason, the little clink of the jar going atop the fridge sticks in his memory.

“There.” Amma says, turning back to Benji with her hands on her hips.

He’s young, still particularly small — in the memory, she peers down her nose at him, nose wrinkled. He can’t tell if she’s upset with him or just joking. So he sticks his bottom lip out, makes tears start to spill over. 

“Oh, you little manipulative bast—” Her dark eyes cut to the kitchen table, where Saha’s working on a school project. Snitch. She’d gone running when she heard Benji pull a chair to get at the jar of biscuits (now jailed far out of reach).

Amma scoops him up. He clutches at her shawl, tries to use it as leverage to kick a bit higher on her hip and push up to just brush little fingers against the jar —

“Ooh!” 

And suddenly his world goes tipsy, upside down, and the swing of gravity forces a strange lump into his throat that makes him burst into giggles. Saha glares at him from the kitchen table. He sticks out his tongue. 

“Monster.” Amma accuses, leaning over to pinch his cheeks with her free hand. She shakes him with the other, making the laughter louder and louder. Saha puts a hand over her mouth. Hides the smile.

“So much for out of sight, mum.” She says. Benji likes her sing-song. If he’s nice enough, she’ll read to him before bed, after Amma has finished her last story. She does different voices, but not as well as their father.

“I’ll say!” Amma agrees. She scoops Benji upright and dances away, keeping his flapping arms just far enough there’s no hope for more treats.

But, true to theory, Benji only thinks about them for the next few hours. He whinges a bit as he’s tucked in, arms crossed over his chest, and Amma indulges it only as long as it takes her to become stern.

“You’ll make me cry, Benji, with all that.” Her slim fingers tuck under his chin, lift it enough to pull the blanket snug how he likes. Then she tucks him in at the sides, a tiny tight burrow nestling childish frustration. 

“Amma can’t cry.” Benji argues. His bottom lip juts out. “You can reach them.”

“You like the biscuits better than my cooking?” Now her eyes go wide. They sparkle with little star shapes projected from the nightlight in the corner — Benji doesn’t like being denied, but he hates the dark more.

He frowns, mouth softening from its anger. “No…”

“Well you won’t mind those being up for a bit, will you?” Amma’s happiness comes back, beaming the same as the sun as it spills through his window in the mornings. She leans forward, brushing their noses together. “I’ll make you better ones, hey? Forget those store ones. Out of sight out of mind.”

He stares up at her a moment, eyes thinned. Then he squirms an arm out of the blanket cocoon to tap his chin the way he’s seen Saha do over a tough maths problem. 

“Okay.But only for a little. And then I want them again, amma. Please and thank you.”

Amma softens at his switch. She pecks him on the forehead and agrees to his demand, but only because she knows Benji better than himself at that point.

The biscuits go forgotten for weeks. Benji doesn’t think of them again until he bumps into the fridge roughhousing with Maran and the jar comes clattering to the floor. It shatters. They will, when soon confronted, pin the jagged chunk in his mother’s kitchen floor on the other.

*

When Benji’s grown, many lessons and sayings from childhood lose their magic. Their power. He supposes that’s the melancholic nature of growing up, really. The grandeur seeps from everything and it’s never so easy as bringing it back by shattering the cookie jar.

Out of sight, out of mind. It’s one of those things that loses its hold. Or muddies itself, rather, in the complexities of an adult conscious. Benji forgets things if they’re under or behind or within. But only bits and bobs like the remote, or a hair tie, or a document he purposefully tucks somewhere separate from the others, somewhere  so unique he’llnever forget its hiding spot (he does, always).

But some things are never out of mind. When they’re not in front of him, they’re there more, actually. Always, at best, swimming about the back of his skull — at worst, stuck to the interior of his forehead like a nasty post-it.

When Xavier first tells him about wanting to find employment, it slaps into his head before they’ve even ironed out the details. Or, in the case of a former mercenary, sorted the necessary forged documents. 

The note would read: Xavier’s gone. Out of sight. Xavier’s gone. What if — what if — what if. Never, never out of mind.  

And really, it shouldn’t be so hard, should it? After all, they’ve spent so much time apart — more, Benji thinks, than they have together. Although it’s been nearly two months. A fantastic two months; too much carry-out, not enough leaving the house. Tangled up or at the very least close, learning things about one another that have gone unsaid. Not even just sex, though certainly plenty of it — they learn each other, and Benji learns a bit of himself too. 

A job would be good for him. A job would help stifle a bit of the guilt, the burgeoning energy of burden that somehow hangs around his freckled shoulders. That makes him push another chore, do another task, seek Benji’s approval. Benji tries to tell him it’s enough. That his presence and safety is all that matters; he could do nothing but lounge around and it would carry Benji another fifty years of happiness, easily. 

And yet, for all his endearing layaboutness, that nasty history trails just as heavy as the taken care of guilt. Orders and tasks and approval and validation and one after the other, the serotonin of a job well done, of a pat on the shoulder, of  a finish line —

Benji gets it. He does. But it’s hard to swallow the sickness when Xavier out of his sight has always meant Xavier in the sights of someone else. It’s difficult thing to separate aside the safety of this shared idyllic existence, which feels most days like a dream. 

Benji is always sort of waiting to wake up.

*

 The first few weeks of Xavier’s new job, Benji gets more done in the house than he had spread over all his leaves combined. He’s hesitant to admit he overdoes it, although he does; hesitant to admit that he’s lonely, although he is — even though Xavier starts off part time, the absence aches. Benji felt silly for it, but each time Xavier loped down the porch steps (despite how thoroughly kissed) the fear crept up each brick in his place. He was reminded, each time Xavier rounded the bush at the end of the drive in that awful, loud truck, of how often he would disappear around the edge of a building, over the horizon, out of a room. Dressed in a different uniform, with a different glint to his eye, a different destination. Always away from Benji. Further and further out of reach.

It could be the last time hung over his head jus as loud and obtrusive as it always had — Benji had been real fucking disappointed to find that fear lingered. Although it was more mundane now, it didn’t shake him any less. The threat of allied bullets punching into him felt eons away, but the mad compulsive terror was just as close: What if he got in a crash? What if they’ve found him? What if he gets crushed in some freak fucking accident that a mechanic gets in, I dunno, an engine falls on him, a tire pops —

Sometimes it brings him down the path towards the driver’s side door, tossing himself halfway in just for another kiss. Another. Just in case. Another. 

Out of sight, always in mind.

Another. Another. Another, another.

Until, breathlessly: “I can just call in sick.”

Every time, Benji snorts and pushes his face fondly away and shakes his head — although he wants to say yes. Wants to ask if they can return to those filthy, soft, first few weeks; too much take out, never leaving. In sight.

It wouldn’t be good for Xavier. He wants to only ever do what’s good for Xavier, from now on. 

“G’wed, you loon,” he says instead, waiting for the jar to shatter, waiting for the dream to end.

*

Benji does what he always has with that twisting, anxious energy. He shoves it down into something compact and useable. He rents a machine to repave the back patio. He watches two videos on reshingling a roof and then does it — proper expert work, no leaks. He cleans and buffs and stains the pretty wood floor in the sitting room, finds a comfortable chair big enough to fit someone, say, nearly a foot taller. 

It starts to feel more and more like a finished home, instead of a distracting project. He has something to work towards instead of something to keep him busy, something to return to. Something too pragmatic to off himself and leave unfinished. 

Still, he spends nearly every spare moment he’s got to himself fearing the day — convinced it’s inevitable —  he’ll once again be the sole occupant. What else is there in a life that has felt, in so many ways, like its fingers were parted just enough for control to slip through the gaps?

*

Saha comes around for tea, oohing and aahing meanly about how clean the foyer is. 

“Not a single spider or mud track.” She acknowledges, nasty little smirk on her mouth. “You pay him fair, right? I like that one.”

“Fuck off,” Benji mutters. His cheeks flush for a reason he can’t quite place. Although the coat rack has one rung free because Xavier’s up early for his shift, Benji tosses it over the back of the couch.

She doesn’t — fuck off, that is. He’s glad for it. She deserve to. She really should. Saha has been much too patient with him. Much too kind. Five years and minimal communication would be more than enough reason to be a bit cold. They’d grown up with enough years between them even before he’d gone off to play at soldiering that he couldn’t blame any tinge of stranger that infected their relationship. 

Yet Saha is all sister as she sits at his kitchen table and lets him whine about his worries, albeit censored of the (goryconfidentialshameful) specific details. She still hasn’t a clue the nature of his work, aside the normal enlisted activities.  And frankly he’d like to keep it that way. The urge to tell her the truth was strong; the urge to keep at least a shred of his humanity in her eyes, stronger. 

“Well, you’ve really not talked to anybody about it.” 

“Sell yourself short.” Benji deflects, brow pulling inwards as he takes a sip of tea. 

Saha scoffs, eyes rolling up to the ceiling — there’s no longer a hole there, or a mottled bit of moisture damage. He’d gotten to those spots the previous week, although getting up the ladder and tilting at that angle to work had been a bastard to his side.

“M’not talking about me you fucking bellend.” Saha admonishes. He smiles; he loves when her accent returns. The longer she’s back in town, the more she’s around the old haunts, more it twists familiar. “Saying, y’know, proper professional like.”

“I did my discharge interviews?” Benji mutters. He’d really been hoping the conversation wouldn’t turn this way. “Got cleared.”

“That’s not — Sure, yeah. I’m sure they’re real thorough about taking care of you lot once you’re done sellin’ it for whatever — listen, Benj. Circling a bunch of boxes saying no, I don’t want to kill myself or, like, no, I’ve not thought of committing acts of violence isn’t really taking care of yourself.”

“I got cleared —“

“You were sixteen, Benji.”

His head snaps up at the rough, wet tone of her voice. 

Saha leans half over the table, one slender brown arm reaching across the distance — and yet still out of his space, fingers extended but curling as if pressed against a barrier. Her big eyes are shiny with tears that only spill once she blinks. An image of their mother crying the same way snaps across his thoughts like a lightning strike.

“I’m not trying to assume anything. And I’m sorry if this is like, helicopter behavior. You were sixteen. You’re sitting here telling me you worry about — about some fuckin’ mad stuff, Benji, alright? It’s…I don’t want to say it’s abnormal. It’s not, all things considering. I’m sure you’ve been through it. But.” 

That word lingers between them, hanging tinny and thin. When it drops off, only the silence remains. It’s awkward but not unmanageable — or wouldn’t be, if Saha’s tears weren’t dripping audibly onto the table.

Benji stands and rounds to to her, scooping her up in as tight a hug as he dares. She smells familiar, and he has a sudden burst of memories — fuzzy ones, from when he was young young. Hair oil frying under a straightener in the morning, way too much cheap perfume borrowed from one of her school friends, the powder detergent of their shared childhood. He slumps a little and fights not to go to his knees. 

“I’ll look into it,” Benji promises. When she sniffles, he rubs his nose into her shoulder and tries not to cry, too. “Let’s go see something, yeah? Enough sad. There’s this shit fucking romcom out. Bets on if the theater off Kensington still has that nasty gloryhole in the bathroom?“

Saha sniffles again, but this time it’s accompanied by a wet, disgusted laugh. She cups the back of his head and ruffles his hair, then pushes away to glare down at him. 

“You are so fuckin’ nasty. He should break up with you.” Then her grin widens. “Also, definitely. You’re gonna owe me a fiver.” 

*

The next day, Benji pauses his drywall duties in the guest room to meander down to the fridge and scrounge for a snack. He scowls when he realizes that Xavier’s forgotten his packed lunch, then he blushes because of the whole scenario — Benji had cooked it for him, packed it for him, liked to send him off with food because he still was so willowy and some extra would do him good. 

It’s so domestic that he stands there, bludgeoned and silent. The fear starts to creep in: how long have we got this for? How long until something goe belly-up? How long, how long?

And why him, of all people? Of all the stupid fucking twats to be at either end of a rifle has Benji made it out on the other side. Back to normal life, where the air smelled like a candle Saha insisted on leaving with him and wood shavings and crisp fall air from the open windows. Why him, and surely not any of his own merit, and why —

Sixteen.

Benji shuts his eyes and takes a deep, slow breath. Then he snatches the lunchbox from the shelf, his keys from the hooks Xavier had insisted he put up near the front door, and heads for the car.

*

It’s a tiny place. Not in quite as old a building as their house, but the sun-faded brick certainly stands out among some of the newer buildings in the city. Wedged on the unkept end of a winding hilltop street that refuses the deep-pocketed developers, the mechanic and its flank of rusted parts and wrecks behind chainlink is an eyesore. To patrons of the nearby vegan bakery and residents of its neighboring luxury flats, its nothing but ugly. To the working class people of the neighborhood who don’t want to be scammed over premium oil, it’s a necessity and word-of-mouth hero. And despite the vines that crawl up the east wall, the hedge that really ought to be trimmed soon, it’s really not all that ugly. A well-kept place, considering.

Benji pauses beneath its big acrylic sign (not crisp LED faux-neon, but charmingly yellowed and outdated font). Family owned! is plastered in neat black script beneath the name of the business. That bit is true and not just for marketing. He’d gone to secondary with the owner’s daughter, although they hadn’t known each other well at all. The building had been standing there for as long as he could remember.

Some things about the place are new. In particular, the blinking open sign hung in the front window. Beneath it, a notebook paper has been messily torn. Updated hours have been scrawled in very familiar handwriting, and an absolutely shit doodle of a dog leaning out the driver’s side door (left, wrong side, the American side). It makes him huff, quiet and fond).

Noon crawls syrup-thick and orange in a lazy Friday lunchtime, but Benji isn’t expecting the shop to be quite so…absolutely empty. The front garages have been shuttered, but the fluorescent light above the reception counter is on. Benji ignores the little bell that sits near a fake potted plant: he knows from experience that it’s broken, anyway. Someone had nearly started a fight with some dickhead customer that had kept slapping it, and pried the striker from inside. 

That same someone, Benji suspects, is likely the source of the thump thump thump bass-heavy music that floats from behind the half-wall separating the workspace and waiting area. He fights a smile, because he’s imagining the reaction his sudden appearance is about to earn. 

Oh well, no way around it, bastard shouldn’t have his music up so high if he’s not looking to get surprised. 

It makes him pause. A full-body, anxious sort of stiffening. Every muscle locks up and Benji braces himself against the wall.

He imagines a different scenario. Of stomping his feet much louder than necessary, of waving an arm around a corner; of a different time, and place, and sometimes, it feels, like they’re the awful, bitter remnants of a different person altogether.

He swallows hard and lifts his free hand to his side, cupping the wound that still bothers him if he moves too quick, exercises too hard, twists a certain way. He squeezes. Feels his fingers indent to the strange, soft-tough scar tissue. It’s the strangest sensation. The nerves underneath have largely died, but his body still, still, still tries to solve them. Something reconnects in a funny enough way that makes it ache. If he presses hard enough, he gets a twinge down by his hip, like an itch under the skin: that strange reconnection of wiring that didn’t quite fail, just got confused. 

The sensation is enough to bring him out of the not-quite memory. Crumbling concrete and distant cracks fade away, the throb of bass returns and his surroundings refresh. He shakes his head and straightens and hope he doesn’t look half as sweaty and pale as the brief clutch of that fear has made him feel.

The bit of comfort that carries him forward is the knowledge that he doesn’t need to lift his feet higher, bring his boots down harder. It isn’t dangerous to startle Xavier, anymore. 

It’s just fun.

*

He pauses next to the cheap Bluetooth speaker, head tilted as he tries to place the lyrics. 

“That Portuguese?”

There’s a yelp, a loud metallic clank, and then a painful sounding thump of flesh on something hard. All three noises echo, to varying degrees, in the closed garage.

“Jesus—!” Xavier shrieks. Then, “Fuck!”. Then, finally: “Owww.”

Benji sucks his teeth apologetically, hands leaving the pockets of his jacket as he rounds the disemboweled car. It’s shiny red front panel is propped open, obscuring Xavier as he leans over its contents.

He’s pouting adorably. The expression hasn’t yet washed all the lingering startle from his face, and the combination of his jutting lip and upturned brow pull a softer, more sincere noise from Benji as he approaches. As he does, he’s nearly bludgeoned; Xavier’s pout morphs slowly into a smile.

“Oh, you look hot.” He rubs at the crown of his head, smudging something dark into the roots. He doesn’t seem to care. “Okay. Forgiven.”

“Boss in?”

Xavier’s lip quirks attractively naughty. “Maybeeee,” he drawls. “Why?”

Benji chuckles and wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling with enough force that Xavier bends low. He ignores the smell of oil mixing with shampoo; its Xavier’s usual scent. The sore spot on his skull receives a soft, careful kiss. 

“Hope you survive that one.” He teases. “Not a mortal wound, yeah?” 

Xavier straightens back up, aiming that grin down his nose at Benji properly now. “I don’t know. Think I should get a second opinion. From like, —“

Benji groans, shoving back with an eye roll. Xavier stumbles comically just to earn a laugh at the tail end of it, and is successful. 

“Awh, mate, fuckin’ drop it already.”

“Haha, but I need head treatment.” Xavier waggles his eyebrows, sets aside the tool in his hand in favor of creeping closer with raised hands and greedy, flexing fingers. “Get it?”

“I brought you food, and you fuckin’ repay me like this? Steal five years off my life with an awful bit—“

“You brought food?” Xavier perks up. All that lurid, nasty charm filters innocent. Sweet. It’s one of Benji’s favorite looks on him. They’d both been too used to fear. Too accustomed to making the other’s terror and anxiety a third bedfellow. Sweet and excited is how he ought to be. All of the time. 

Benji holds up the canvas tote dangling from his other hand, tucked hidden behind his back. 

“Forgot your bag on the table again,” he explains as well as he can, attacked by thankful kisses all over his face. “Leftovers anyway. And I ended up not goin’ in because they were — well, doesn’t matter. Not having you go a day on an empty stomach and then come back and clear our fuckin’ cupboards out.”

Our.

They both pause at that. Benji’s face is warm from the attention and the admission, the simple domesticity of the task he’d left the house for (bringing lunch felt so normal, so out of reach and now right here, just for them). Except when the pause lingers, companioned to the stare they pin each other with, his cheeks go properly hot.

Our. 

He can’t quite remember when that first slip happened. With each day that passed, each day that they woke up together, existed in the same space without the heavy threat of unpredictable violence — Xavier has started to feel less like a figment of his imagination or an impossibility. His jacket on the coatrack, rain-wet work boots at the door, shirts tucked neatly in a dresser that had been just Benji’s for so long.

“Well?”

Xavier’s eyelids flutter. His gaze snaps down and then back up, before his own shyness ebbs a bit. Enough for him to smile, almost-normal.

“You made me food.” He says. A pale hand touches to Benji’s forearm, drifts up to squeeze his shoulder. “That’s so—”

“Is it Portuguese?” Benji blurts.

“It’s…you —“ Xavier shakes his head. Benji watches the tickle of sweat-slick curls stick to his temple. He becomes even more aware, if he hadn’t been too aware already, of how close they stand. That Xavier’s maddeningly adorable jumpsuit has been unzipped and peeled from his chest and tied around his waist, that the white undershirt beneath is a little translucent with sweat, that his defined arms are bare. 

Benji wets his lips. He feels that cold shiver of excitement race up his shoulders.

“I’m pretty sure it’s Brazilian? Matilda sent me the album to listen to.”

And sure, he’s fond of her, from what little he knows. Did Xavier more than a few solids to get him out. But frankly, he really couldn’t really give less of a shit about the source. Not now. They’ve stood too close for too long, and the four hours apart feel boiling when he considers the sudden drop of heat into his stomach. 

Four whole hours? How’d we ever do more? 

“You off at the normal time?”

Xavier’s smile widens and he tucks his chin to better level their faces towards one another. “Why? You bring me lunch and make date plans?” His hand squeezes again before slipping around the back of Benji’s neck and winding into his hair gently. “People are going to think you like me or something, dude. Careful.”

Benji regards him for a moment before slowly reaching back and taking his wrist. He’s slow about lifting that big palm to his face; holds lidded eye contact while his jaw drops and he laves a wet streak from the thrumming pulse at the base of Xavier’s thumb up to the tip of his middle finger. It’s his clean hand, but there’s something still vaguely metallic to the regular taste of skin. Sort of gross, sort of hot. They’re close; he feels Xavier twitch against his thigh.

“Close up fast.” Benji recommends, enjoying the dizzy look of astonishment plastered across that handsome face. Without Benji’s grip around his wrist, Xavier’s hand falls, leaden, back to his side. Halfway back towards the front door, he tosses another grin over his shoulder. 

“Extra bread in there for you, handsome.”

He’s got the song blaring from that speaker stuck in his head the rest of the afternoon.

*

When six finally rolls around, Benji lingers at the front of the house so he can better hear the under-tire crunch of gravel. There’s faint, congenial shouting; he often gets a ride from his boss, who must have been out for lunch of his own when Benji swung by. 

Loping footsteps approaching the door make him feel shy from their eagerness. He doesn’t want to seem too desperate in comparison, waiting by the door. He retreats into the living room once those steps draw closer, sitting awkwardly on the sofa. 

There’s the sound of a key in the lock. Another thing he orchestrated and will, under interrogation, pretend not to know anything about. If he likes the reminder of that metal in Xavier’s pocket, so what?

“Holy shit.” Xavier exclaims, his loud, excited sing-song echoing all the way down the hall. It makes Benji grin. “You outdid yourself.”

Xavier crosses to him in half as many steps as  it usually takes him; Benji even double that. Big hands close around his wrists and then he’s tugged upright, stumbling with the force of the pull into Xavier’s chest. They bump together and laugh. Benji presses his cheek over his warm sternum, eyes fluttering closed. He must be smiling like a proper fucking idiot, now. It stretches so much his cheeks start to hurt. So does his chest.

“Yeah?” 

He isn’t sure why his voice sounds that small. That quiet. That, I missed you so fucking much, but we just saw each other. 

Xavier launches into a riveting,raving, Hell’s Kitchen-esque review of the meal. Naan, of course, ranking as high as it could possibly go.

When Benji opens his eyes, he’s looking out the patio doors across the dusk-golden pond. Sunlight ripples at its softly lapping edges. And the two of them are there, in the glass reflection of the door, arms around each other. Benji doesn’t like how the cross of molding across the door cuts them in quarters, and feels immediately insane for that thought. 

He swallows the shame of that desire and tilts his head to look up at Xavier instead, intending on interrupting the detailed food review. He doesn’t need to, after all. Their gazes touch softly together; Xavier’s mouth falls silently open. 

“Xavier?” 

“Uh — yeah.” 

Benji grins, and one of the arms wound around his waist travels up a spine that flexes beneath the touch. 

“Gotta clean up a bit. Messy project today, tile n’sealer n’shit.”

“Right.” 

Benji grins, his eyes lidding at the soft, eagerly hypnotized tone. “Go shower for me?”

Xavier blinks down at him slowly, eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbone — which goes immediately, beautifully red. “A-Ah. Okay. Yeah. Sure.”  

*

Benji tucks his nose against a slick jaw, mouth open against the pale column of Xavier’s throat as they both pant. He has got two long legs hitched over his elbows, the muscles tense with how close he is. How close they both are, really. It’d been frantic and messy to begin, but they’ve slowed substantially. Xavier’s needy, gorgeous noises have gone softer and longer; they leave him in low, pulling notes rather than the usual short gasps or punchy hiccups of sound. Yanked out of him by steady thrusts meant to drag everything out — so what if Benji does it purposefully? They feel so good connected like this  that Benji has to squeeze his eyes shut at the beginning, usually. Otherwise. Otherwise. 

“Fuckin’ love you,” Benji groans. 

“I’m gonna —“ Xavier whines in response, breaths thick against his cheek. 

It makes Benji laugh throatily, the noise tucked into sweat-slick skin. He slows even more until the pace is almost paused entirely. Until there’s no more proper thrusting, drives of his hips forward, but little rocking cants of motion. The denial makes Xavier dig nails into his biceps, and that in turn makes Benji moan. 

He muffles the noise against Xavier’s jaw, his tongue brushing along a raised portion of skin. He knows that spot. He sees it every time he pictures Xavier, often of course. It’s a part of him, just as lovely to the whole package as bright eyes or a mischievous smile. It’s apart of him, because it’s a scar, because someone took a knife to Xavier at some point and broke him open and he bled and had to heal and that bit is there forever because all of it is inescapable, is permanent, is —

A dream. Too good to last. The dream can end. It will end. Out of sight. 

Benji freezes. He goes — well. Out of mind.  He isn’t quite sure where he goes, actually. All he has the sensation of is the strange, heavy return. 

*

He settles back into himself slowly. He’s still naked. He’s sat in the chair in the corner of the bedroom, some ugly piece from the charity shop he’s been meaning to fix up. He’s shivering, toes numb but fingers warm —he’s holding a cup of tea. Herbal, from the smell. It’s late. Xavier probably doesn’t want him to drink caffeine. 

Xavier.

Benji lifts his chin towards the bed, that awareness so bone-deep and interlinked in his marrow that he doesn’t even have to guess at where Xavier is in the room. He knows. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, one knee bouncing at the other propping an elbow which in turn props a chin. Xavier is rarely vacant — but this expression is close to it. His brow isn’t worriedly pinched, but slack. Mouth in a neutral line, eyes glossy and unfocused to a spot on the floor.

When Benji makes a soft noise, he jumps. And then he’s across the room, knees knocking in a painful sounding thump as he goes to the ground in front of the chair. Warm palms smooth up Benji’s side and then immediately retreat, snatched into his chest with guilt that makes Benji’s own feel tight and sad and wrong. 

Please, he thinks. Or maybe says, because the touch return. It spreads over his knees and thighs, coasts up his chest to hover above his heart and then press. 

When Xavier tugs him — carries, really — back to the bed and tucks them both into a safe, tight cocoon of blankets, is when the tears come. He tries to apologize but the sentiment is angrily kissed from his mouth, hands buried in his hair to take that oiliness from him. No need, the touches over his face insist, no need, I get it, I get you, I have you, I’m here.

He dreams of wading into the pond and slicing his heel open on a familiar ceramic shard, interlaced with dated pink vines and yellow flowers. He dreams of warm hands touching his face while more wrap gauze around the wet, broken skin. He dreams of being carried into the house, up the stairs of a patio unfinished in the waking world. 

The dream ends.

*

Xavier laughs hesitantly and holds Benji a careful distance away with hands flat to his chest. His fingers twitch a little, gently indenting flesh like they can’t help but make that greedy connection. 

“Hold on— oh, wait, yeah — yeah, keep going.“

Benji presses his face into Xavier’s neck, tongue darting across the beautiful silvery line that drags across a freckled jaw. It doesn’t taste like anything but skin and sweat. It doesn’t taste of blood or gunpowder. 

“If anything happens to you I’ll go mental.”Benji admits, pawing at pale thighs to bring them around his hips. Morning after, his soul touching the interior of his chest again, that post-it ripped from his brain and crumpled and tossed in the corner. Only way to get it out is pull it into the now, read aloud what’s scrawled across the sick neon yellow.

“I’m so fuckin’ terrified of losing this.” Benji continues, pushing frantically at both of their sweats. He traces a thumb over a raised hipbone, drags that up until Xavier squeaks and softly giggles at the touch. 

Benji’s eyes snap up to his face at the same time his hand wraps around Xavier’s half-hard cock. “Not like, just this, but —“  

Xavier gasps his name in a voice morning-rough, with chord of need that anchors Benji in the moment. His fingers toy and wind through curls, tugging with a reverent touch. Its entirely without insistence; patient and petting, waiting, allowing Benji to move in comfort.

They try again and are, judging from the litany of noises filtering into the morning air, largely successful. He’s a bit more frantic than the snail’s pace of the previous night, but no less greedy. He hooks an arm around Xavier’s shoulders and lifts their torsos together, hot and tight and tacky. Each time green eyes flutter shut, Benji stops. Touches fingers to his cheek, a bunched eyebrow, part lips. He forces Xavier to open them, watches the green swim prettily to find his own. 

For the duration (rather quick, frankly, but he refuses to feel shame about it because fuck is it good), Xavier is forced into heated eye contact. Benji graces him a few kisses, particularly when the tears spring up and those noises become properly desperate. Otherwise, their eyes lock together. Benji makes sure of it. He’s scared of what will replace Xavier in his mind if he breaks that.

He watches even after Xavier arches and cries out and writhes, pretty in the sunlight, to fall limp into their messy bed. 

Our. Benji thinks. He watches the path of his hand as it strokes up a slightly fuzzy thigh, over a heaving stomach. 

“We— we should probably talk about that.” Xavier pants, lifting the arm over his eyes to find Benji. 

Benji nods, fingers curling over his chin. He looks at that thin scar, looks at the others trailing over glistening shoulders and a panting chest. He nods again, then fits his palm to Xavier’s cheek and leans down for a slow kiss that lacks all of their usual messiness. He hopes none of the fear seeps in; he thinks Xavier sees it, anyway.

When they part, Benji touches fingers to his mouth. His nose is pink from the kissing, from his own flush — lips from the rough friction of facial hair. Looking at Xavier, laying sated beneath him in a mess of their sheets on their bed in their home, has Benji swallowing a thickness in his throat.

“Breakfast?”

Xavier smiles, and pulls him down for another kiss. Another, another, another.

#writing #core au #bp x xw

[knownangels]

i love....unfinished drawings.....who has time to fully render anything (naima belongs to @unknownangels) (@huevonuevo told me to post this and i never will ever deny them)

#don’t talk to me i’m #not ok #her lil stacked necklaces and hair i’ll cry my girl??? #naima

[knownangels]

a lil style study of @unknownangels' maran that i lost the patience (and wrist power) for towards the end,, enjoy 🍝

#AHFJSJDBG #MY GOD THE COLORS ILL FUCKING WEEP #mgc #friend art

[knownangels]

sometimes babygirl just has to kill people and we all have to let her (matilda belongs to @unknownangels)

#mmr #friend art #anyone else get their sexy evil dhapmir drawn??? no??? fuck you MY GIRL!!!!

[knownangels]

canoe

It’s nothing. It really is. It’s nothing.

Benji repeats this mantra, again and again, as he ties and unties the red checkered flannel around his hips. Head tilted and brow furrowed, he stares at himself. Really, it doesn’t matter what he wears — it’s nothing. Nothing important, nothing special, nothing to get excited over. 

Except, as he contemplates himself into a mental rut, something traitorous rises up and tells him: maybe it is. Maybe he should get excited. Maybe he should get his hopes up. Because there was something he was trying to push down. Something squirming in the general area of his stomach — not butterflies, not just yet, but moving like it wanted to be. 

Or, no. That big, flattering smile was at the prospect of getting out on the water at all. Benji had seen the sports counselor excited before, wading waist-deep to chastise and “save” a camper who spluttered and laughed in the shallow end. Excited as he took a dare to dive into the lake, at the boozy parties the counselors tended to throw when everyone else had turned in. Excited when the sky opened up, Benji watching from the safe, dry interior of the medic cabin as he led a parade of kids out to stomp in mud and then hurriedly scurry back inside when the thunder cracked too close. 

Xavier must have grown up near water. He liked it. He couldn’t possibly like Benji; they barely knew each other. It would be nothing. It was nothing.

*

It’s something that first night Xavier drags a canoe from the shed down the sloping bank, Benji trailing after him with a smoke between his lips. It feels like fucking something, to watch him carefully balance it and glance over his shoulder and hold out a hand. It’s so something that Benji stumbles into the canoe without help, because the brush of skin seems too much. A wall he can’t even force himself to climb, for fear of what sits at the other side beneath dangling feet. 

He pretends not to notice the pout his cold shoulder earns. Pretends not to see a bit of that excitement seep out of Xavier to leave an ichorous puddle alongside the silt of the shore. As they shove off towards the center of the glassy black lake, Benji pretends not to look at his face cut and carved by moonlight, either. That feels like something, too. And if it’s something —

It can’t be nothing. 

*

The second, third, and fourth times aren’t nothing, either. For a solid week, it becomes their habit. No — more a ritual. Benji’s last group of campers doesn’t shuffle out of the barn until six. By then, they’re all tired from a long day of fun, ears ringing and voices sore from all the music they throw themselves into. They complain and whine about being hungry, being tired, being bored of songs (even though they never are). And the only reason Benji is patient enough to withstand fourteen childish voices whinging at him is because for the past four nights, Xavier has been right on time. 

Five past, a knock on the barn door. Benji pauses from packing up some of the instruments into their protective cases and casts a glance over his shoulder. 

“S’open.”

“I knew that.” Xavier says cheerfully, strolling into the low-lit barn with that signature grin. His fists are tucked into either side pocket of a camp branded sweatshirt, because there’s no room for pockets in his pants. Well — he hasn’t got much by way of pants. They’re shorts, really, and Benji’s not looking at them. Hasn’t been looking at them. Or his pale fucking thighs, either, really he’s not even sure how somebody stays that color out in the sun as he is, but Xavier never really seems to tan only freckle more and Benji —

Benji shakes his head. He laughs, too. “Sorry. Head’s all over the place today.”

Xavier lopes across the empty space of the barn — updated with acoustic foam and fairy lights, an old standing piano in the corner wheeled in courtesy of the camp’s psychologist on a favor — to sway before Benji. With his messy mop of hair, he looks like a reedy cat tail. Benji finds himself smiling at that mental image, Xavier’s head poking out of the water, green eyes dancing all mischievous. 

“Wanna guess what can clear it?”

“Smoke break.” Benji says, feigning seriousness just so he’ll get a glimpse of that dramatic, annoyed pout. “Kidding, mate. Haven’t got enough on me for a ferry ride, though.”

The look disappears in favor of that soft little grin. Xavier taps his chin. “Hm. Well—“ he drags out the word in a sing-song, doing a two-step stride around Benji as he finishes closing up a xylophone case. “Okay. I’ll give you a discount. But only this one time. And only for you.”

He ducks his head to avoid betraying the weird, embarrassing blush that earns. “Free rides, huh? Won’t make any money in the canoe business that way, lettin’ people mooch.” 

“I’m not letting people mooch.” Xavier says, rapping a knuckle against a drum that Benji hasn’t gotten to yet. It thump-thunks pleasantly. “I’m letting you mooch.”

It’s not nothing — but Benji’s so fucking scared to think of it as something.

*

Turns out he does a fair bit more of mooching than just their usual ride out to the center of the lake. Xavier unzips his hoodie (slowly, in a way that confuses him and makes his mouth dry) to reveal two stashed beers tucked into the inside. Benji retrieves them, fingers trailing over the cool, condensation-wet material of his shirt for maybe a second too long.

“You’re after something.” Benji accuses teasingly, although the words sound wrong the second they leave his mouth. Bitter. Like how a mouth feels, tastes after getting sick. A tang of something foul and nasty. He regrets it immediately, but the joke goes over normal for his companion.

They spend time, as they usually do, chatting mindlessly. Benji has told him so much in the four short hour-long trips they’ve taken this week. He knows so much of Xavier. Mostly, gossip about other counselors, because Xavier has such an adorably unapologetic knack for spreading it. But Benji knows about his sisters, his friends back home, a bit of Lark’s family problems because Xavier wants to be supportive and give advice but isn’t quite sure where to start. 

Benji shares, too. More than he has with someone that isn’t Maran or his own sister. He tells Xavier things he hasn’t even mentioned to Xavier. And holds, very close to his chest, some things that he’s been reminded of their past few visits. 

What do you want from me? He thinks, watching Xavier lean back in the canoe. The motion jostles them slightly, but not enough to threaten an upturn into the smooth, shiny water. Not even enough to bother, really. Because he looks frankly stunning at night, all the color of him washed with a dark blue tinge. 

What do you want, because it’s never just this? If it’s something — I might give it to you. It might hurt. Fuck, it’ll hurt, because this isn’t the first time I’ve gotten caught up, you might have heard. Have you heard any of that? Hope not.

Xavier talks and talks, movements of his jaw and throat making Benji guilty for drawing his gaze so specifically. He trails a hand off the side of the boat, pinky coasting through the water as they drift in lazy circles. The other holds his beer bottle, kept cool submerged up to the neck in lake water. Both his legs are over the side, too. Waterlaps up to his knees, and the canoe isn’t so large that Benji isn’t close; he can see the prickle of goose flesh over pale skin and wants to touch. 

Instead, he pulls off his own jumper and tosses it over Xavier’s chest.

He breaks off his sentence abruptly, something about the art counselor gone off in the woods, coming back with mushrooms she innocently insisted everyone try.

Xavier glances down at the jumper. Spreads a wet palm over it, brow pinched in confusion.

“I already have my hoodie?”

“You look cold.” Benji says, tucking into himself with a fist under his chin. He looks off over the stretch of the lake, past the far west bank and up to the smattering of trees and the massive hill off in the distance. The moon rises just over the rounded, capping it like a massive glowing nightlight in the sky. “Fuckin’ hell, man. Just put it on.”

Xavier sits up abruptly and does so, both hands working the sweater over his mop of red hair. Only once it’s on, his eyes unblinking as they stare at Benji, do they both realize he’s just — well, just fucking let go of his bottle into the lake. 

They both peer over the edge of the canoe, and then Benji falls back with a snorting laugh as the bubbles rise dramatically to the surface and pop pop pop.

“Not funny!” Xavier snickers, hand over his mouth. The sweater is tucked around his knuckles. He swipes Benji’s own bottle from his hand and knocks the rest of it back in one go, pausing to hiccup and then laugh again and go a bit pink and fuck is he cute. 

“You littered.” 

A figure in his peripheral catches both their attention; humanoid, it appears suddenly as a dot on the far horizon, at the top of the hill. Backed by the massive harvest moon’s glow, it looks eerie. Ethereal. 

“What — holy shit, what is that? Did one of the kids —?”

“That’s her then. Mother Nature.” Benji makes his eyes wide and serious. He points into the rippling water, towards the bottom of the lake, and glances over the side. “Oooh. Come to get revenge.”

“Don’t.” Xavier warns, his voice tight. Benji’s head snaps back towards him. He looks scared, bottom lip between his teeth and eyes wide. “Oh, fuck. Don’t even joke. What— who is that? I didn’t realize anyone was that far out here.” 

“We’ll go find out? Bit of a night hike.” Benji lifts one of the oars from the bottom of the canoe. “Just go n’ask. Hey, are you the vengeful spirit of the earth, here to enact punishment on litterers?”

“You’re being an asshole,” Xavier whispers, and sounds so serious about it Benji pauses. He drops the canoe and holds up his hands, then leans across to spread them over Xavier’s forearms.

“Mate, m’sorry, okay? I’m only fuckin’ with you. I know — listen, s’my friend. They live, like, a few kilometers out. On this big ranch. Their parents — well, reason Maran and I ‘ave the job, yeah? I promise. Look. They bring stuff in from outside that the admins don’t want us gettin’. Like cigs for me n’Ben, yeah? Proper smugglin’ like. Xavier, trust me. I’m letting you in on the secret. Even got a signal.”

Benji stands, somehow ignores the shaky grip of massive hands around his ankles to keep him steady as the canoe rocks. He lifts both arms above his head to form an O; the figure on the hill pauses a moment, then mirrors it. He waves afterwards. 

“See? My mate. I’m sorry, Xavier, okay? Don’t pout at me anymore.” 

“You owe me a replacement beer.” Xavier says, still pouting. There’s a little twinkle back to his sharp gaze, though, and Benji counts that a victory. “Maybe two.” 

“A’right, two.” His mouth starts to curl in a grin, and when Xavier opens (obviously to negotiate further) his own he holds up a finger. “Ah-uh. Two maximum. Don’t keep trying t’finesse me.” 

“Don’t keep falling for it.” Xavier responds cheekily, making Benji suck his teeth in annoyed respect. 

*

The trip back to the shore goes smoothly, although they keep their voices down to a quiet chatter. It’s late enough that somebody in security will be making rounds; they see the little golden dot of a lantern through the trees before it goes abruptly out. When it does, they make a hushed, giggling sprint towards the storage shed. Working together, they manage to get the canoe back in place at the top of the rack in near-silence. 

“Celebratory?” Benji asks, fishing his pack from a pocket and holding it up. 

“You live in my brain, dude,” Xavier sighs.

As he reaches for the pack in Benji’s hand, something in the woods snaps a twig. Or a branch, by the fucking crack of the sound. It echoes a bit through the trees. Benji’s brows snap up into his hairline. 

“Fat fuckin’ deer, that,” he teases after a moment, wanting to wipe away the look of startled fear on Xavier’s face.

And it works. Xavier snorts, and then he laughs. Then he’s properly wheezing, his hands on Benji’s shoulders to steady himself. It sounds a bit nervy, like the figure on the hill still was spooking him and only just now has the discomfort abated. Benji feels guilty.

Benji feels — 

Something. When Xavier finishes that gorgeous, contagious sound, there are little beads of amused tears in his eyes. And his nose is red; maybe from the laughing, maybe from the chilly night air. Benji sways forward, entranced, and of course that’s the exact moment Xavier pulls away and turns to lean against the canoe rack. He slides slowly to the ground, fingers lacing through fringe as he shakes his head. 

“Oh my fucking God. You’re so lame. That wasn’t even funny.” He huffs again. “Holy shit, I’m jumpy.”

“It was kind of funny, c’mon.”

“No.” Xavier insists, tilting his chin to stare upwards. It’s the only time Benji’s had some sort of height on him. It makes his stomach flip. “No, it really wasn’t.”

“You laughed so hard at it, though?” Benji says, sinking to his knees next to Xavier’s sat figure. “You properly fucking snorted over it, mate.” 

Xavier shakes his head wordlessly, green eyes sparkling with challenge as he sticks to his guns. Stubborn fucking bastard, Benji thinks fondly. Keeping the bit going. 

Before he knows what he’s doing, Benji reaches up to cup Xavier’s cheek in a cool palm. There’s a bit of dirt on his palm from the way he slid to the ground, from handling the canoe. A little streak glances over Xavier’s chin from his thumb. Both of them have stopped breathing. Benji’s vision buzzes a little at the edges; the soft, mindless excitement of touching someone always does that to him. Of being touched. Which he is — Xavier’s hand has drifted up to wrap around his wrist. Not pushing or pulling away, but just touching. 

“Are you — did that beer get to you?”

Xavier laughs, eyes squinting. “No, dude. You’ve seen me do a keg stand.”

“You fell over.” 

“I looked so fucking cool for like, five whole seconds though.”

His nose is still red. Benji leans forward and touches their foreheads together. He hears the hitch of breath, and he isn’t sure who it belongs to. Whose lungs it leaves; he’s sane about that, the unknowing. Their noses brush, and Xavier winces a little from the contact with the sore bridge, so Benji — 

Benji adjusts, chin tucked, to nudge his cheek and bring their mouths together. 

It’s more than something. Definitely not fucking nothing. Especially when he slings a knee over Xavier’s thigh to settle into the warmth of his lap, long legs tucked. When he cradles either side of a freckled face as they kiss. Xavier makes a soft noise into the even softer meld of their mouths, and that’s all it takes for it not to be soft anymorre. Benji’s lips part. A tongue teases against his. Then, also before he knows it, he’s being tasted so thoroughly he starts panting. They’re kissing properly now, fast and needy with breath heavy and shared. And he’s panting. A big hand winds up his shoulder, catches over the thread-bare edge of his t-shirt, and winds into his hair. 

It feels so good Benji groans and forces himself away, eyes shut for a moment and lips pressed together as he gathers himself. 

“I haven’t —“

His eyes snap open.

“Done that before?” Benji asks, unable to keep the note of incredulous horror out of the question. “Fuckin’ hell, man. Please tell me I didn’t steal that in a dusty shack, of all places.” 

Xavier swallows, his eyes seemingly stuck to Benji’s mouth as he talks. He shakes his head and the connection of their gazes then is almost too much. Benji feels like buzzing out of his fucking skin. 

“No, I just — not with. Like.” His calloused hands trail up Benji’s thighs, dip slightly under his shirt. Benji arches into the touch, sighs when warm palms wrap his ribs to settle on his back, between skin and fabric. “Um. Another guy? You.”

You.

Something crashes loose in Benji’s chest. It rattles and rocks and settles in his gut, heavy with fear and arousal alike. He feels guilty for the latter, bitter about the former. He tries to temper the emotions, but something must show; Xavier looks anxious all of a sudden. 

Been here. Benji thinks, mulling the thoughts over. He can’t help but swipe a thumb over a pink, shiny bottom lip. Been here, haven’t I? Little summer side business before you go back to somebody soft and pretty, maybe? Happened before. Fuck, Xavier, please don’t do this to me.

But, Benji knows he does inevitably does it to himself. Every time. 

He leans forward and catches Xavier up in another slow burning kiss. Despite the alarm bells in his head, despite the anxiety of this maybe being just like the last. They kiss until the moon starts to dip low, and then they talk a bit more after that and kiss and talk and Benji tries, really, not to think of Xavier like those past experiences, but it’s a pattern hard to break.

He’d like to — because it doesn’t seem like nothing when Xavier tilts his head back with that soft, excited grin (the same, he thinks, as when he’d offered to take Benji out on the water). 

#writing #camp horror au #bp x xw #spoilers but the branch was a bone snapping but we dont know that yet uwu