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Victor’s stomach drops when he hears Benji ask, “What if Victor and I went?'', first from the guilt of potentially missing Mia’s thing, then from the feeling of relief that he might miss it, and then again from the guilt of feeling relieved. He isn’t sure if this is a good idea, but with every pleading word out of Benji’s mouth, and every discreet glance down to Benji’s bare arms, his willingness to say no fades. The guilt doesn’t.
The trip up to Willacoochee is largely uneventful, mostly passing the time by guessing the names of the songs on the radio and singing along when something familiar comes on. Victor honestly can’t remember the last time he was this relaxed. Probably the last time he closed Brasstown with Benji - they’d used Benji’s playlist that time, and they danced to “9 to 5” while cleaning up until, between the dancing and the laughter, they couldn’t breathe. Over the last few months, Victor’s felt increasingly at ease with Benji, even if their conversations have been mostly casual and lighthearted, seemingly interrupted every time they start to get somewhere deeper. It’s not that Victor doesn’t want to talk about things beyond cheesy pop songs and outlandish customers. They just haven’t had the right time and space for it, and by the time their shifts are over, minds wander back to curfews and coffee spills and trying to just enjoy the few minutes they do get to themselves. But he still has a simultaneously sinking, soaring feeling that he would tell Benji anything if he asked.
When Benji starts talking about road trips and Dolly Parton, a spark lights up in Victor’s chest. Not enough to burn, but just enough to warm his insides a little bit. Just enough to reach his eyes. This is the most he’s heard Benji talk about his parents or his coming out, and for once his curiosity is sitting outside himself. He wants to know Benji. This Benji. The Benji who dances to Dolly Parton songs when no one else but Victor can see and sings along in the car way too loud to be good if he were anyone else but somehow perfect because he’s Benji. Not so he can decipher himself. But just so he can decipher Benji. Despite the quiet sadness that settles between them, the shared feeling of parental strain, the spark is still there. Still warm.
Just as the guilt starts to subside, creeping back into the pit of his stomach where it never quite seems to leave, Benji’s phone rings on the dashboard. Benji ends the call as quickly as it began, taking the warmth and ease that had settled over Victor with it. The reminder that life, Benji’s life, exists outside of this car, shatters the moment they had just shared and brings a wave of discomfort through Victor’s whole body. He braces the steering wheel harder, the leather yielding under his fingernails as he tries to keep his expression friendly but neutral. He doesn’t think he succeeded.
“I’m not gonna force you to road trip with me and just talk to my boyfriend the whole time,” Benji explains, but even with his eyes mostly on the road Victor can see him start to shrink into himself in the way he does whenever Derek has been around recently. Really for most of the time Victor has known about Derek. His shoulders hunch forward, and he turns toward the window, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt and avoiding meeting Victor’s gaze when he glances over. With the ease of their earlier conversation snatched away by a ringtone, he figures now is as good a time as any to broach the topic that’s been in the back of his mind since he found Benji making latte art post-anniversary date at Brasstown. Victor swallows the bitter taste building in the back of his throat, the one that crawls in whenever Derek comes up, and breaks the brief but uncomfortable silence.
“You know you can talk to me about stuff, right? Like I talked to you about my stuff with Mia. If something’s up, you can tell me.” Victor’s eyes shift from the road to Benji and back to the road again.
“Nothing’s up. There’s nothing to talk about.” Benji looks pointedly out the window, making himself even smaller as he curls against the door. Victor wants nothing more than to reach across the console and unfold his arms, make him take up space again. He doesn’t.
Instead, he shakes the disappointed, hurt look from his face and tries to keep his eyes on the road instead of the boy beside him. He knows Benji doesn’t owe him anything, but he at least thought they were good enough friends for him to be honest if something was bothering him. Even if he wasn’t ready to talk about what that something was. But maybe he was wrong, and they really were just coworkers and school acquaintances to Benji.
“Oh, okay. Like, I know you have a ton of friends and stuff, but I guess I just thought…”
“You know ?” Benji turns toward Victor for the first time since the phone rang.
“I know what?” Victor shoots Benji another look.
“That I have a ton of friends.”
“I mean, I just kind of assumed…”
“Why?” Benji is almost fully facing him now, with a surprised look on his face.
“Well, I mean...you’re you .”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you’re just like, cool, I guess.” Victor shrugs, trying to keep his gaze forward and not analyze every change in Benji’s features when he should be watching the road.
“Cool? Really? What about me says cool?” Benji says with a smirk.
“I don’t know! Just, the vintage t-shirts, and the band, and the hair, and the…”
“The hair? Really?” Benji’s smirk grows into a proper smile, though his eyes maintain their smug sparkle.
“Okay, stop! I get it!” Victor finally lets out a breathy laugh, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.
“It’s fine. I’m just messing with you. I’ll take the compliment...and my hair is one of my better features.” Benji runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it in a way that leaves it in that perfectly messy look that makes Victor feel like his whole chest is buzzing. He scrunches his face and tries not to draw attention to the fact that his cheeks have gone from lightly flushed to on fire in the last thirty seconds.
Benji’s smile fades back to a neutral melancholy, but he stays angled toward the center console this time. “I guess I mostly used to be close with Lucy, but we kind of drifted apart after things got serious with Derek…”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. I do miss her sometimes. But Derek didn’t like doing stuff that she liked to do, and she didn’t particularly like Derek, so...I guess I mostly just have him now.”
“You have me,” Victor says before he can catch himself, so soft it’s almost a whisper. A fraction of a second after the words leave his mouth, the gravity of what he just implied hits him, and he prays to whatever higher being might be listening that Benji didn’t notice the slight swerve of the car as Victor regains control. “I mean, like, as friends. Like, we’re...kind of friends, right?” Victor rambles.
“Of course we are,” Benji says softly. Victor turns to meet his gaze for the first time since the phone rang, a small but genuine smile inching its way back onto his face.
The moment is interrupted, once again, as the GPS tells them to take Exit 62 in half a mile. The atmosphere in the car is still heavy compared to their earlier singalong, but the tension in Victor’s neck and shoulders is already beginning to dissipate.
The longer they’re away from Shady Creek, the less Victor worries about returning in time to be Mia’s plus-one, but as his worry lessens, a different kind of stomach ache settles in. The anxiety that had been beating fast, in his throat, now slow and deep, nestled just under his diaphragm. It drops into his gut when Wally tells them the repair can’t be rushed. Benji notices Victor’s uneasiness but seems to blame it on an itch to get back to Mia’s. Victor’s mind spins for excuses, reasons this won’t work, to cover up the truth that he’s not itching to get back to Mia’s at all. In fact, the more time they spend outside their Shady Creek bubble, the stronger Victor’s desire to run away, to stay here or keep going elsewhere, anywhere that isn’t a constant reminder of the things he can’t fix. Victor lands on a half-truth about being underdressed for the event in question, and Benji promptly identifies a solution.
The afternoon they spend thrift shopping is the lightest Victor has felt in weeks. It’s the feeling he had in the car, before Derek’s call ruined the moment. Warm and easy and calm, but somehow brighter than it was earlier. They try on so many outrageous outfits that he almost forgets what he was shopping for in the first place, until Mia calls and reminds him. Thinking about how much he’s enjoying himself while letting Mia down makes him feel a little sick to his stomach, but he shakes it off and meets Benji by the check-out counter. When Benji reports Sarah’s instructions to stay overnight if the machine isn’t ready, the sick feeling turns into a wave of fully fledged nausea. He swallows to dispel the lump in his throat and answers his ringing phone for the second time. When Wally tells him the repair is done, Victor is surprised by his own disappointment. He should be happy he’s going to see Mia, right? He should be relieved that he won’t be disappointing her, even more, again, but instead he just feels...hollow. Then he sees Benji turn away from the check-out counter and smile. Not his dumb smile. Or his sad smile. Or his signature smirk. A small, genuine smile. Just for Victor. Before he realizes the full weight of his decision, his brain tells his mouth to say, “We’re gonna need to spend the night,” and just like that, the nausea dissipates and the lightness returns.
They stop at a diner for dinner on their way to the motel. A few other small groups have braved the impending storm to go out for a meal, but most have chosen tables in the middle of the restaurant, farther away from the windows. Despite the threat of thunder and lightning, Benji insists they sit at a booth along the wall, claiming it’s the only acceptable seating arrangement for an authentic diner experience. Victor slides onto the red vinyl, keeping his distance from the window, but he refuses to let his weather-related fears ruin this meal. Soon, an older woman wearing an apron and a name tag reading “Deb” comes over to the table, notepad in hand, and Victor orders a grilled cheese sandwich. Benji, on the other hand, requests a full breakfast plate and looks pointedly at Victor. “You know, it should be illegal to come to a diner and not order breakfast food.”
Victor rolls his eyes and lets out a good-natured sigh. “Well then, I guess I’ll be adding a side of pancakes to that order,” he says to the woman. Once she’s out of earshot, he continues, “But I doubt they’ll compare to mine. My pancakes can win over almost anyone, you know.”
“Oh, really? I guess I’ll have to try them some time.” Benji looks up at Victor, a smirk starting to pull at his lips.
“Oh. Um. Yeah, I guess so.” Victor looks away for a split second, anywhere but Benji. Anywhere but that smirk and those golden eyes looking up at him. Thankfully, the moment passes quickly, and Benji continues the conversation as if Victor’s heart hadn’t just gone from normal to racing in the span of a sentence. They fall into an easy rhythm, talking about nothing in particular but still enjoying each other’s company. Victor’s shoulders tense briefly when Benji loudly brings up Mia as the waitress drops off their food, but then Deb leaves with a knowing smile at Victor and Benji quickly turns the topic back to something blissfully inconsequential.
While they wait for the bill, Victor’s mind starts to wander to Mia again. If the espresso machine hadn’t broken down, he would probably be eating mini quiches and trying not to embarrass himself in front of her dad right now. He feels his shoulders start to tense just thinking about it. Today was so much easier than any date he’s had with Mia, and he knows that’s part of why he lied about the repair. Dates with Mia always raise his anxiety above its usual baseline, but that’s normal, right? Dates are supposed to be nerve-wracking, and hanging out with friends is supposed to be easy. Because as much as this feels like a date, laughing over dinner and silly thrift store outfits, it isn’t. As much as Victor is more relaxed here than he’s been in Atlanta ever, he’s not with Mia, and it’s just a work trip. The ever-present knot in Victor’s stomach had been loosened for most of today, but he starts to feel it tying itself tighter when he thinks about how he isn’t disappointed that he missed Mia’s event for this. Deb brings over the check before the knot can take up permanent residence again.
“Thanks for stopping by, boys. Enjoy your evening,” she says as she places the slip of paper on the table and walks away.
Benji’s card is on the table before Victor can extract his wallet from his pocket. “I’m the one who dragged you all the way out to Willacoochee. The least I can do is buy you dinner to make up for it.”
“You don’t have anything to make up for,” Victor says, promptly blushing and looking anywhere but Benji’s eyes. “I just mean, this has actually been kinda fun. I think I needed to get away for a little bit.”
“Yeah,” Benji replies, eyes flickering down to the table briefly and then looking up at Victor again with a soft smile. “Me, too.”
When Victor opens the door to their motel room, he realizes that the “double” room they booked meant one double bed and not the two beds he’d envisioned, and the strange look they got from the man at the front desk makes more sense now. He tries not to think about the implications of their room configuration while Benji gets ready for bed. He sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for his turn in the bathroom and scrolling through Instagram to keep his mind off the fact that Benji is showering a few feet away. A picture from a basketball game back in Texas. A selfie of Lake at Brasstown. A candid shot of Andrew in a suit he’s complaining about wearing. And Mia. Laughing across the table from Andrew, in an elegant off-the-shoulder dress. Victor locks his phone and places it screen down on the nightstand, pulling his hand away like he would receive an electric shock if he kept contact for a second longer. The sound of the water running in the bathroom fades into the background, the ringing in Victor’s ears taking over instead. Just as his vision starts to narrow, the bathroom door opens, and Benji’s “Your turn,” snaps him back to reality.
Victor hopes standing under the hot water will help him relax enough to sleep in a room next to Benji, but he’s disappointed to find only lukewarm water and mediocre water pressure. He’s probably only in the shower for a few minutes, but his sense of time is thrown off by the fluorescent lighting and cramped space, and it feels like it could’ve been hours or seconds. When he feels his shoulders finally start to ease down his back, Benji creeps back into his mind. He tries not to think about him in this very shower moments before, hands roaming over the firm, flawless chest Victor had caught a glimpse of at the thrift store earlier that day. He tries not to think about him standing at the sink in only his boxers while he brushes his teeth, leaning over the counter lazily. He tries not to think about him putting on his t-shirt and running his hands through his hair, making it perfectly messy again. He fails on all three counts and forcefully shuts off the water. He shakes his head and rolls his shoulders, trying to get back to the empty headed, relaxed state he’d reached for only seconds before his mind betrayed him again. He throws his boxers and Brasstown shirt back on and stares at his reflection in the mirror, gripping the edge of the counter with both hands. As he makes eye contact with himself, he sees the guilt and shame and fear in his eyes. But he also sees the most himself version of himself that he’s seen in ages. He sees Victor, laid bare in front of him. And so he rips open the plastic encasing the toothbrush he’d bought at the gas station that evening and lets the feeling of the cheap, rough bristles ground him.
By the time Victor opens the bathroom door, his heart rate has settled back near its normal pace, only spiking slightly at the occasional unexpected rumble of thunder or crack of lighting. His odd moment of clarity while brushing his teeth stuck with him, leaving him feeling neutral if a little awkward, which is a vast improvement over the alternating rapid panic and sunken guilt before it. With his newfound perspective, he suggests he sleep on the floor, but when Benji says, “Come on, there’s plenty of room,” the wave of relief is palpable. Benji settles back against the headboard and Victor breathes a deep exhale simultaneously. He can do this. It’s not like he’s never shared a bed before. Family vacations. The occasional out of town basketball game. That one time Felix fell asleep working on their history project. This is no different.
He sees it when he goes to set down his jeans and belt before getting into bed. Benji’s license, on the dresser in plain view. His heart skips in his chest as he wrestles with the immediate wave of confusion and hurt that Benji would keep this from him, but it only takes a couple of missed beats for concern and curiosity to take over. There’s no way Benji would keep something like this from him unless it were a big deal, and after the progress they made in the car earlier, Victor doesn’t want to lose another opportunity to get to know him even more. The wonderful, beautiful, insecure, trying-so-hard-to-be-collected-that-he-almost-breaks boy on the bed in front of him, who has been such a mystery but such a reassurance and comfort and routine at the same time. And so Victor asks.
When Benji says “That wasn’t exactly true,” Victor decides to hang back and give him some space, scared that any sudden movements might frighten him like a trapped bird, shutting down any hope of a deeper conversation. As Benji tells him about the time before he came out, Victor listens intently. He’s shocked not only by Benji’s honesty but also by his own reaction to the situation. He always thought that learning more about Benji’s coming out would either make him even more anxious or lend some clarity to his own questioning. But instead his only concern is Benji, his own doubts cast aside in favor of taking in Benji for all he is.
Victor breaks the distance he’s kept between them after Benji mentions the accident, climbing into the bed and sitting cross-legged next to him. Their knees are almost but not quite touching, and if Victor weren’t laser-focused on every word from Benji’s mouth, he would be thinking about how quickly he got comfortable being in Benji’s space after they started working together. It felt so natural, being this close to Benji, in a way that would’ve scared him if it didn’t feel so good. He tries to cram as much of that feeling as he can into three words. “Were you okay?,” he asks, trying to convey with his eyes all the care he feels for the boy across from him. He thinks it worked, when he sees Benji relax and bring his eyes to meet Victor’s in an unspoken “thank you” for listening, caring, instead of the judgement and morbid curiosity he had guarded himself against. Victor knows now that he was right. Benji wouldn’t have kept something from him unless it was big, and this was big. But instead of feeling scared or angry or overwhelmed at the magnitude of the omission, he just feels peaceful, grateful to be accepted into Benji’s most private moments and trusted so deeply. He says a silent thank you to whatever cosmic force brought them to Willacoochee that day and promises to keep the secret.
“I won’t say anything...but thank you for telling me,” Victor speaks quietly into the shrinking space between them, eyes sparkling in the low light as he holds Benji’s gaze and tries to show just how important this moment is to him, too.
“Yeah, of course. You are so easy to talk to,” Benji responds, a smile blooming on his face as his shoulders relax. He looks lighter than Victor can ever remember seeing him. Somehow younger and more mature at the same time, the pain of someone beyond his years etched onto his face but tempered by the relief of their shared moment. He mirrors Victor’s shy smile when he says, “I’m really glad you started working at Brasstown.”
“Me, too,” Victor says, wanting to live in this moment of closeness forever, where nothing exists outside this room. Benji licks his lips, and Victor’s insides flutter. He lets his eyes drop down to Benji’s mouth for a split second before bringing them back up again, waiting for Benji to break eye contact first.
Benji lowers his gaze to his fidgeting hands, seemingly not sure where to go from here. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is a gorgeous mess, and Victor can’t look away. Benji breaks the prolonged pause with, “I guess we should probably get to sleep, huh?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we should,” Victor says, still beaming despite the heaviness of the conversation they just had, the glimmer in his eyes visible even in the dark. Even after Benji rolls over and turns off the light, Victor stays seated, shaking his head and wondering what he did to earn this night. To earn this boy’s trust and honesty and friendship. He hears the sheets rustle as Benji grabs his phone from the nightstand, and another wave of thunder shakes the room. When he hears the soft thunk of Benji putting his phone back down, he swears he hears a quiet sniffle just before Benji tugs the blanket up around his shoulders. Another crack of lightning illuminates the room for a fraction of a second, and Victor waffles between extending his arm to Benji and pulling it into his chest. His face contorts in indecision, before he finally reaches out and touches Benji’s t-shirt-clad shoulder. Benji lifts his head slightly and turns to look at him, confusion visible in his eyes, glassy and bloodshot around the edges, even in the dark. Victor whispers, “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m fine,” Benji says tightly, the forced smile on his face not reaching his eyes.
Victor squeezes his shoulder before withdrawing his hand. “Is this about that phone call earlier?,” he asks solemnly.
“Really, Vic. I’ll be okay.”
“Okay. Well, I’m here if you want to talk about it.”
“Goodnight, Vic,” Benji says as he rolls back over to face the opposite wall, snuggled into the sheets like a cocoon, as if they could protect him from the outside world.
Victor uncrosses his legs, careful not to disturb the boy laying next to him, and slips under the covers. His brain wants to replay the ups and downs of the day, but his body is exhausted from the long drive. He stares at the ceiling, his body starting to win the battle with his brain. As he feels his breathing slow to a deep, regular rhythm, he hears in a soft, broken voice, so quiet he almost isn’t sure if it’s real or in his own head, “I need to break up with Derek.”
Victor’s breath catches in his throat as he’s jolted out of his near-slumber. He slowly, carefully rolls to face Benji, but he doesn’t respond. His entire body lit up with that one sentence, but he doesn’t know what to say. How could he, when he doesn’t even know how he feels? For all his reservations about Derek and confusion about Benji, seeing Benji hurting leaves a pain in his stomach, different from the usual one but no less uncomfortable. Before he can process those seven words enough to react, Benji flops onto his back. He turns his head to look past Victor, facing him but not meeting his eyes. Victor props himself up on his arm slightly and asks, with the most sincerity he can muster, “Did you just need to get that off your chest, or do you want to talk about it? I’m here either way.”
Benji’s eyes flit towards Victor’s for a moment before he shifts his gaze downward. Taking a deep breath, he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I do want to talk about it.”
Victor sits up on the bed again, cross-legged but keeping the sheets over his lap this time. Benji repeats the motion, albeit more slowly and keeping his arms under the blanket, as if trying to shield himself as much as possible from the surprisingly chilly motel air and anything else that could touch him and crack him open, leave him exposed.
When it becomes apparent that Benji won’t continue the conversation unless prompted, Victor turns on the dim lamp on the bedside table and reaches out to place a light hand on Benji’s knee over the blanket. He gently asks, “So, what’s going on?”
Benji sighs, and Victor can see that his hands are fidgeting under the blankets. “I guess it’s just been a lot of little things. Things that have accumulated over time and it’s finally getting to me. He makes me feel bad a lot of the time. About the things I like to do. About being a romantic. Being with him just makes me…anxious now. Honestly I don’t even know if I should be making a big deal out of a lot of it, but maybe that’s just because I’m used to things being this way now. But maybe if I’m used to it, that means it isn’t a big deal? Because if it were a big deal, you’d think I’d know and it wouldn’t have gotten this far.”
Victor squeezes his knee gently and interrupts his train of thought when he pauses for a breath. “Hey, little things can add up. Just because you’ve dealt with something for a long time doesn’t mean it can’t bother you or hurt you.” Victor prepares himself for what he might be about to hear and locks his features into a neutral but supportive expression, encouraging him with, “So, do you want to talk about what’s been bothering you?”
“Yeah, I guess I’ll start from the beginning. Are you sure this is okay?”
“Yeah, of course it’s okay, Benji. You’re my friend.” Victor pulls his hand back into his own lap and swallows down the lump forming in his throat, wanting to be there for his friend but not quite sure how to proceed. He’s never helped someone through a breakup like this before, much less someone who he maybe kind of has some more-than-friend feelings for. Whenever stuff like this happened back in Texas, the relationships weren’t usually this serious, and Victor is pretty sure the way his teammates talked about girls would’ve made him uncomfortable even if he weren’t questioning. Before he can fall too deeply into the rabbit hole of his own thoughts, Benji’s voice pulls him back to the motel room.
“So, you know how the accident happened right after I got my license?”
“Yeah,” Victor nods solemnly.
“And I got my license on my birthday back in November.”
“Um, yeah…” Victor says, unsure of where this line of reasoning is leading.
“And Derek and I just had our one year anniversary...in March.” Benji pauses, waiting for Victor to connect the dots.
After a brief moment, Victor realizes, “Ohhh, you were together before the accident. So, before you were out.”
“Yeah, for almost eight months” Benji says, turning to look down at his lap, a hint of what Victor thinks might be embarrassment creeping onto his face, but it’s hard to tell if the slight pink is from emotion or a trick of the light.
“Wow. I can imagine how hard it must be to keep such a big part of your life a secret for so long,” Victor says sympathetically, hoping it comes across only as a comfort and not as a truth.
“It wasn’t so bad. Derek’s a pretty private person, and my parents don’t bother me much about that stuff anyway.” Victor flinches a bit at the implication. Benji continues, “But anyway, I guess I just...always feel like I’m trying to care enough for both of us. And sometimes that’s enough and sometimes it isn’t.”
Nine Months Ago
Benji watches the clock on the microwave turn from 6:59 to 7:00 as he finishes plating the pasta on the kitchen counter. He’s never thought of himself as much of a chef, and he knows that if there’s something to be found lacking in his meal, Derek will point it out, so he ordered takeout that had arrived five minutes prior. Lack of a home-cooked meal aside, Benji is not one to let an opportunity for presentation pass him by, so he carries the two servings of chicken parm, now on the Campbells’s nicest dishware, into the dining room. He sets the plates down on the deep red tablecloth on either side of the centerpiece, a vase of lilies he picked up on his way home from Brasstown. After arranging the silverware just right, he uncorks the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon that he nabbed from his parents’ wine rack. They wouldn’t miss it, and knowing how infrequently they dined at home, probably wouldn’t notice. He does this often enough now to know they either don’t know or don’t care. Benji isn’t sure which option he would rather believe. Shaking his head a little to clear the thought from his mind, he pours two glasses and situates them next to the plates. With a satisfied smile upon beholding his handiwork, he sits at the table and waits.
Benji unlocks his phone and sends Derek a “where are you” text. Then he does it twice more. 7:15. 7:30. 8:00PM. He picks at the breading on his now mostly-cold chicken, not in the mood to eat it anymore. Maybe he should’ve expected this. Maybe it was too much to hope that they could enjoy a nice dinner in like a normal couple. If Derek were here, which he isn’t, he would probably call the whole thing juvenile, unnecessary, heteronormative. He takes a sip of his wine, smooth and warm down the back of his throat, and he thinks about his parents. He assumes their evening looks a lot like the one he had planned for himself and Derek, only lakeside and actually for two. It seems like they spend almost every weekend there in the summer, on top of their already long work weeks, but Benji is almost a little bit grateful for all the privacy. He doubts he would’ve been able to hide Derek from them for this long if they were around more. Then again, maybe if they were around more he wouldn’t have to hide. By the time his mind returns to the dining room of the Campbell family home, his glass is nearly empty. He shifts in his chair, shrugs slightly, and downs the rest of the wine. A few drops make their way onto the tablecloth, from the side of the glass or from Benji’s mouth he isn’t sure, but he’s thankful that his choice of tablecloth hides the stain. He checks his phone again and pulls the second glass towards him.
At 8:55, Benji’s phone buzzes with its first notification of the evening. “Sorry, got caught up with the band. Be there soon.” He pushes his chair back from the table and carries the two plates of cold chicken parm, one untouched and one picked apart but largely still there, back into the kitchen. Benji knows he won’t be able to stomach the leftovers tomorrow, and his appetite for the evening left a long time ago, so he scrapes the food into the garbage and loads the dishwasher. He fights the burn that starts in the inner corners of his eyes and spreads until his vision starts to blur. No. Not now. Derek is almost here, and three months isn’t that big of a deal anyway. It would be unreasonable to assume he would’ve remembered that, right? That he would’ve been expecting anything out of the ordinary, no more than their usual casual weekend hangouts when his parents are out of town? Benji walks into the guest bathroom off the living room, legs still stiff from sitting in an uncomfortable chair for a little too long. He grips the edge of the counter, cold granite pressing into his palms in a stark contrast to the warmth emanating from his belly and down his limbs, on account of the two glasses of wine. He lifts his gaze to make eye contact with his reflection and wills the red tinge in his eyes to go away. He closes his eyes for five seconds, ten, twenty, before washing his face and hoping it’s enough to remove the evidence of his reaction. When he looks in the mirror again, the only indicator left of his evening so far is the gentle red stain left by the Cabernet on his lips. He returns to the dining room table and pours two more glasses.
It’s almost ten when Derek finally knocks on the front door. Benji gets up from his chair and makes his way through the kitchen to the foyer, wobbling slightly when he stands as the three and a half glasses of wine catch up with him. Disappointment and frustration and insecurity are fighting in his head with excitement and desperation during the thirty-second walk from table to door, and even as he turns the doorknob he doesn’t know which is winning.
Derek moves to step into the house before Benji can even move out of the way. “Hey, Babe,” he says so casually Benji could almost forget he’s three hours past the agreed upon time.
“Hey, I -” Benji’s greeting is cut off by Derek’s mouth on his as soon as the door is locked behind him. Normally he would be aggravated by the interruption, but the desperation is winning out in his mind, and he leans into the kiss. After all, this is what he wanted for their three month anniversary, right? For Derek to be here and to want him and to make him feel a little bit less alone than he felt three months ago? He breaks away from the kiss, gesturing towards the dining room, and says, “Do you want a drink? I got a glass out for you.”
“Oh, no, I’m good. Had a couple beers with the band, you know how it is.” He slides his arms around Benji’s waist, fully encircling him and bringing him in closer. Benji lets himself be pulled in, enjoying the warmth of another body pressed up against his. He can smell the faint remains of the beer on Derek’s breath and resists a grimace - he never was a big fan of beer - while Derek looks lovingly into his eyes. Well, Benji isn’t sure what “lovingly” is supposed to look like, but this is as close as he can imagine. Hunger and pride and want, all mixing together in the blue eyes that bore into his golden ones. Derek continues, “It’s already late. Should we just go ahead and…” He nods toward the staircase leading to the second floor bedrooms.
Biting his lower lip, still stained red from the wine and just a little bit swollen from worrying it with his teeth, Benji looks up at Derek with a small grin. “Yeah. Yeah, we should.”
Benji’s mouth is on Derek’s before they even reach the stairs.
As Benji finishes telling the story of his and Derek’s three month anniversary, the first of many occasions brushed aside by Derek, Victor fights conflicting feelings of pity and guilt, relief and overwhelming sadness. As much as he tries to focus on Benji, his mind slips back to Mia and the event he’s missing to be here. The guilt surges up into his throat, but he swallows it back down and lets the strange combination of relief and sadness take over. Somehow knowing that Derek and Benji’s relationship was far from the perfect picture he’d made up in his head after he first saw Derek at Brasstown unknots Victor’s stomach a little bit, and he tries not to think too hard about why. When Benji pauses to take a deep, albeit slightly shaky breath after recounting the first quarter of their relationship, Victor slides almost imperceptibly nearer to him on the bed, now just close enough to feel the warmth of Benji’s thigh next to his without touching it. He hesitantly lifts his hand and places it on Benji’s shoulder, hoping to offer some comfort but not quite sure how, and for the first time since he announced the impending breakup, Benji turns to look Victor in the eye. Victor’s face contorts to reflect the pain he sees traced in every line on Benji’s face, in the dark circles under his eyes, in the curve of his hunched shoulders, in the sheen of tears that haven’t yet fallen. He gathers all the air in his lungs, fighting the tight feeling in his chest, and asks gently, “Did you ever try talking to him about it? About making time for things you care about?”
“Yeah, kind of,” Benji says, breaking eye contact again to look down at the blankets. Victor slowly moves his hand up and down Benji’s arm in a soothing motion, urging him to go on but afraid that anything more than the most delicate touch might break the fragile thing between them. Victor thinks he feels Benji lean in to his touch, just barely, before he continues, “I mean, yes, I’ve told him it’s important to me, but he mostly just apologizes when he fucks up instead of actually trying not to fuck up in the first place. And I guess for a while that was enough, but I’m just not sure if it is anymore. It feels like we have the same conversation over and over again, and it always ends with him saying sorry and me feeling like shit.” Benji takes his hands out from beneath the sheets and runs them through his hair, like he always does when he’s stressed or nervous or indecisive, but this time he pulls more roughly than usual, tugging at it in a way that makes Victor wince a little bit at how it probably hurts. He settles with his arms wrapped around his sides, his left hand on his right arm just below where Victor’s is still lightly squeezing his tricep. Victor can see the anger and hurt and shame betrayed by his scrunched expression when he says, “But I just keep letting him do it anyway. And sometimes I get so mad at myself for putting up with it, but I just didn’t want to lose him. So we just keep repeating ourselves and he apologizes and says he cares and I just keep pretending to believe it.”
Three Months Ago
Benji is wiping down the last of the tables at Brasstown when his phone buzzes in his pocket, twice in quick succession. He tosses the damp towel over his shoulder and drops into a chair, figuring he’s close enough to the end of the night to take a quick break. He pulls out his phone and reads the first text: “Hey practice is running late so I’ll just meet you back at your place”. This is the third time Derek has flaked on him like this in the last few weeks, and Benji is disappointed but not surprised. He rolls his eyes and slides his phone back into his pocket, not reading the second message. He resumes his closing duties, scrubbing a little too hard, setting dishes down a little too rough. He’ll have to take the bus home now that Derek won’t be picking him up, and it’ll take him at least twenty minutes longer to get back. If he’s lucky with the bus schedule. After locking up Brasstown, he walks over to the bus stop a couple blocks over. He decides to read whatever half-assed apology Derek sent him while he waits, finding only a “sorry :( still looking forward to tonight though”. Benji scoffs, rolls his eyes again, and boards the mercifully on-time bus.
An hour after Benji returns to an empty house, he hears a car pull up in the driveway. As he walks to the door, his steps echo through the kitchen, the sound filling in the hollow space, and he wonders what excuses Derek is going to make tonight. They can only have the same conversation so many times before Benji breaks, and his patience for Derek’s stories is starting to wear thin.
He opens the front door, taking in the way Derek’s form blocks out the light from the street. Benji feels suddenly small, dwarfed by Derek’s shadow in the doorway. Derek takes a lumbering step forward, grabbing onto the door frame as he sways a little bit, and says, “Hey, I’m s-”
“Sorry? Yeah, I know,” Benji growls, feeling more in control of the situation again now that he’s realized the state Derek is in. “God, are you drunk, Derek? Seriously? I thought you were at practice!”
“I was at practice!” Derek raises his voice to match Benji’s. “We just stuck around and had a few beers with friends after.”
“We? Who’s we? Because I know the band wouldn’t have been cool with this. You know they know about me,” Benji seethes. As embarrassed as he is that the band knows what happened last month, he couldn’t hide it from them, despite his best efforts. At least they had been supportive, all things considered.
“Just Scott and Jess and a couple others. It’s really not a big deal,” Derek says, stoic but with a tinge of exasperation creeping into his voice. Neither name sounds familiar.
“It kind of is though, Derek. I mean, I never see you anymore unless we’re at practice or you’re here like this ,” Benji says, gesturing towards his boyfriend with a flick of his wrist. “And we both know why you’re here.”
“C’mon, Babe. You know you’re more to me than that.” Derek crosses the kitchen and takes Benji’s hands in his own, a pleading look in his eyes. Benji knows that look by heart now, much better than he would care to admit, but somehow his resolve softens for a split second anyway. When Derek leans in to kiss him, the proximity rekindles Benji’s frustration, and he pulls away as the bitter smell of beer fills his nostrils.
“No, I’m not doing this right now. You know I asked you not to come here like that,” Benji snaps, backing towards the living room.
Derek puts his hands up in a sign of defense. Or maybe concession, Benji isn’t sure. “You asked me not to drink around you, and I haven’t. What, am I not allowed to have a beer with a friend, now, too? I can’t just stop my whole fucking life for you.”
“You didn’t drink here, but you’re still drunk here. It’s the same fucking thing! You don’t even care about anything but yourself. I don’t even know why I would’ve expected you to-”
“Babe. Babe, I do care about you. You know that, right?” Derek says in his softest voice, the one he only uses when he knows Benji is right but won’t admit it. The one he uses to sugarcoat white lies and half-truths and keep Benji coming back every time. He inches closer to Benji and, when he finally reaches the other side of the room, takes his hands again. This time, Benji doesn’t pull away.
“Yeah, I know,” Benji says dejectedly. He doesn’t know if he believes Derek or not, but right now the thought of facing the truth is worse than stomaching Derek’s stories, so when Derek pulls him into an embrace, he lets him.
“I’m sorry, okay? I’m really sorry, Babe,” Derek mumbles into Benji’s hair, holding him close around the waist, Benji’s head resting on his chest. Benji nods into Derek’s sweatshirt. “Hey, Scott dropped me off since I couldn’t drive back myself. Can I crash here tonight? Your parents are still at the lake, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” Benji says hollowly. He follows Derek up the stairs to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. When Derek kisses him, he tastes bitter, and Benji is pretty sure it’s not just the beer. When Derek goes to tug Benji’s shirt over his head, he lets him. And when Derek pulls them both under the sheets, Benji tries to feel something. Anything. But feeling nothing with Derek is still better than being alone.
A couple hours later, by Benji’s best guess, he wakes from his restless sleep to find Derek’s arm thrown over his side, his head buried against Benji’s neck. Derek’s arm tightens around him as he mumbles in his sleep. He swears he hears a name.
It isn’t his.
About half an hour later, Benji has recapped the first nine months of his and Derek’s relationship, through the winter break to the start of the new semester, when Victor first started at Creekwood. Most of the time, Victor feels like he could’ve known Benji forever, but hearing the details of Benji’s last year remind him that a whole lifetime existed before they met. The longer Benji talks, the more the pieces fall into place and he sees the most complete version of the boy next to him that he ever has. At last, the first tear drops down Benji’s cheek, silent and slow, and Victor is suddenly aware of how delicate and special this moment is. Benji, who is always there with wisdom beyond his years when he needs it. Benji, who is always the strong one, the brave one. Benji, who right now looks like the most exquisite piece of pottery that has been shattered and glued back together again, different than before, with more jagged edges, but with a new, unmatched beauty. A second tear falls, and then a third, and Victor tentatively reaches his arm around Benji, pulling him into an awkward side hug as he starts to quietly cry. With barely a second’s hesitation, Benji lays his head on his shoulder and leans into him, letting Victor support more of his weight.
After giving him a minute to breathe, Victor speaks into the too-big-yet-too-small room, “Caring about someone doesn’t give you a free pass to treat people like that. It’s messed up, and I’m so sorry you’ve been going through that for so long.” He squeezes his arm a little more tightly around Benji, as he feels the wetness of Benji’s tears bleed through his t-shirt. “If you don’t mind me asking...why have you stayed with him this long?”
Benji takes a deep, raspy breath and sighs. “Honestly, I think it’s just better than the alternative. Or at least less scary. At least when I’m with him I feel something . I just couldn’t let that go. I’m just so terrified that if I lose him, that’s it for me. I’d rather hear his excuse of the week than just be so completely alone. He at least pretends to care.”
After a tense moment, Benji’s ragged breathing and Victor’s rapid heartbeat the only discernible sounds beyond the rain outside, Victor pulls away slightly, just enough so that they’re face to face again, and says resolutely, “It’s not fair to you, Benji. You deserve so much more.” And with that, Benji crumbles, like one small stone being pulled from an already unstable cliff and starting a rockslide. He wraps his arms around Victor like a lifeline, gripping the back of his shirt and burying his head in Victor’s chest. “I know,” he says, his voice muffled by the fabric between them. “I know that now.”
Victor folds Benji into a proper hug, resting his chin on the top of his head and rubbing soothing circles on his back. His focus hasn’t left the motel room for nearly an hour, but for just a moment his mind returns to Shady Creek, to the girl he left behind. He knows it isn’t the same and that he does care for Mia, but he also knows that he doesn’t care like she thinks he does. That he’s still pretending, even if some of it is real. He realizes that he can’t keep going like this, hurting her more deeply every time he lies by omission or otherwise, and he makes his decision. A sudden crack of lightning followed imminently by a boom of thunder brings him back to the present, and he holds on a little tighter. He wants nothing more than to take away some of the pain radiating from Benji, but it seems impossible when he’s feeling so much himself. The knot in his stomach is gone, and the pit in his gut is nearly undetectable, but his entire body burns with a horrible longing to give Benji some relief from the overwhelming hurt.
Victor isn’t sure how long they stay like that, Benji crying softly, Victor holding him for dear life, but eventually Benji is quiet and still, though Victor can tell he’s still sniffling occasionally. Not yet letting go, he finally asks the question that’s been on the tip of his tongue since Benji first startled him from his near-slumber: “Why now?”
Without extracting himself from Victor’s arms, Benji rests his forehead on Victor’s shoulder and whispers, “I think he’s cheating on me.”
Last Week
Benji clocks in for his after-school shift at Brasstown thrumming with nervous energy, matching Victor’s similar live-wire aura behind the counter next to him. Despite the palpable anxiety radiating from both of them, they work just as efficiently as ever, making even the most complex coffee orders perfectly in sync and in record time. Benji’s mind has been spinning all day trying to think of something, anything to show Derek he’s still invested in their year-long relationship, that he cares, but for four glorious hours he manages to lock that away and focus only on the espresso machine in front of him and the barista beside him. He always liked working at Brasstown, with its ever-present smell of lattes and pastries and the gentle folk rock playing in the background, but over the last few months it’s really become Benji’s haven from the outside world. He blames it on the upgrade to assistant manager, shrugging off Victor’s arrival within weeks of the promotion as coincidence.
In the lull following the afternoon rush, they start talking about weekend plans, chatting about everything and nothing as they always do when they have free time, and thoughts of Derek and their upcoming anniversary escape from their cage in Benji’s mind. Before he even realizes where the conversation has gone, he’s telling Victor about their first date, nearly a year ago. Victor has a tendency to do that to him. To make him talk without noticing the depth of it all, the personal details he shares that would normally be buried so far away no one else could reach them. But Victor does. He recounts their dinner of spaghetti and meatballs at the old Italian place, the words coming out of his mouth before his brain can process them. “So ugly. So delicious.” A light wash of pink creeps up onto his cheeks a split second later, after his mouth-brain connection is restored.
Before Benji has time for the embarrassment over his last comment to fully sink in, Victor suggests the most romantic thing Benji has heard all week. All month. Possibly ever. Without thinking, again (why does Victor do that to him?), it just slips out. “Mia is a lucky lady.”
“Yeah, she’s the luckiest,” Victor replies sarcastically, his face scrunching up like it always does when he’s uncomfortable. Benji’s heart rate picks up when he notices, hoping he wasn’t the one responsible and wanting nothing more than to make it better, to bring back his smile from just minutes ago, though he doesn’t quite know why. They talk about almost everything, but they never really talk about this, so he isn’t sure what to expect when he asks Victor what’s wrong. A wave of relief passes over Benji when he realizes Mia is the source of Victor’s anxiety and not him and that he may actually be able to help calm his nerves. He tells Victor about figuring himself out, and suddenly they’re back to normal, joking behind the counter, moving in and out of each other’s space with ease. When he slips into the back room to clock out and Victor’s hand brushes his shoulder, his heart skips a beat. Startled. That’s all. Nothing more.
The night of their anniversary dinner, Derek brings up the show every other breath. All Benji wanted was tonight, one night, for it to just be the two of them. No bandmates, no parties, just them. But all Derek can talk about is the show and his friends and the weird opening band that Benji feigns interest in while Derek raves about how innovative they are (they aren’t). After suffering through a half hour of forced conversation, awkward silences, and Derek’s complaints, Benji finally works up the nerve to say, “I thought maybe we could skip the show tonight. You know, since it’s our first anniversary and everything.”
Derek laughs. Benji tries to hide the wounded look on his face, but Derek isn’t looking closely enough to notice anyway. When Derek tells him he doesn’t believe in “all that stuff”, he’s surprised by his own disappointment. He thinks after all this time it shouldn’t hurt anymore, he should be used to this, he should’ve expected it, but it stings just the same. More and more lately he’s felt a knife between his ribs, nestled neatly into the cage, and most of the time he can ignore the dull throb, until Derek twists it and the sharp pain radiates through his chest again. Benji feels it plunge deeper when Derek talks about the morons who buy greeting cards. He pulls out the cheesy anniversary card he’d bought for his boyfriend and covers his face with his hand, feeling the warm pressure start to build in the corners of his eyes but trying to laugh it off.
“I’m sorry. I’m a dick,” Derek says flatly. Benji’s lost count of how many times Derek has uttered that exact line over the last few months. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. At what point does it lose its meaning? Does it really mean anything if he keeps apologizing for the same things, over and over again?
They eat in silence for another few minutes, and then Derek says, again, “Hey, do you think it would be cool if we caught the end of the show?”
Benji replies, “Yeah, you go ahead. I’ll meet you there,” having no intention to go anywhere but directly home to his bed to sleep off his desire to be numb. Benji feels only hollowness when Derek tells him “You’re the best” on his way out. After sitting with his head in his hands for a moment, he hauls himself out of his chair and starts to clean up the mess he regrets having made.
As he folds the tablecloth, putting away the last visible reminder of his underwhelming dinner, Benji makes a decision. All he wants to do is go home and curl up under a blanket and wait for today to be over, but before he lets himself do that, he makes himself do one thing. Something just for him, unimportant and ultimately inconsequential, but selfish and pleasant enough to unseat the knife from his rib cage just a little bit. So he pours himself a latte.
The door opening startles him, and he accidentally draws a line through his already hard-to-identify foam art. If someone had asked him five minutes ago if there was anyone he wanted to see tonight, he would’ve laughed, said no, run the other way, but as soon as his eyes meet Victor’s, he feels a smile break out on his face, the first one to reach his eyes all night. It falters when Victor asks how his evening went, and he quickly pivots to Victor’s big date. Victor seems just as uncomfortable, giving only a vague “fine” before changing the subject again. Benji brushes off his curiosity, tamping it down inside him and locking it away. He tells himself it’s none of his business (he wishes it were) and returns to his latte art. When Victor comes around the counter, Benji’s breath hitches, and he thinks he hears Victor’s do the same when he leans over his shoulder to guide him as he pours the milk. He pretends not to notice, though for his sake or Victor’s he isn’t sure.
When he asks what Victor wants to make and he quotes Benji’s earlier commentary on Italian food, the flush of pink on Benji’s cheeks is immediate. He’s never going to live that down, but for some reason, he thinks he might be okay with that. The blush fades, but the warm feeling stays behind. Benji tells himself it’s just from the hot coffee he’s sipping, even as the heat spreads through his whole body, comforting and strong.
Leaning against the counter with their artfully crafted beverages, they talk about everything but their respective evenings, until Victor has to leave to meet his curfew. Benji’s heart rate speeds up when Victor puts a hand on his shoulder on his way out and then plummets again when the door swings shut, leaving him feeling lightheaded and strange. Despite the weird fluttering in his chest, he’s surprised to realize this is the lightest he’s felt all day. His mood has improved so much, he even finds himself checking in with Derek, willing to meet up again even though the show is probably long over. He cleans up what he and Victor left behind and locks up Brasstown.
Stepping out into the crisp night air, he removes his phone from his pocket and finds a one-word reply from Derek: “Afterparty”. He slips his phone back into his pocket and takes the long walk home instead of the bus, knowing he’ll pass by Ty’s apartment on the way. Sure enough, he can see the people flooding out of the apartment and into the street from a block away. He spots his own band, minus Derek, out on the front lawn, drinks in hand. They all give him uncomfortable looks, but he blames it on the proximity to alcohol. He’s gotten used to being around it again, and he’s told them as much, but sometimes they still don’t know how to act around him since they found out. He waves and pushes his way inside. He greets Ty and Jess and some other vaguely familiar faces, too distracted by his search for Derek to place them.
After a few minutes of awkwardly weaving in and out of the crowd, he gives up on searching the old fashioned way and resigns himself to Find My Friends.
Derek isn’t even at the party. He’s at a house. It isn’t his. “Good fucking try,” Benji mutters, his voice barely audible but cracking nonetheless.
When Derek appears at Benji’s front door the following afternoon, “I’m sorry” on his lips once again, Benji doesn’t say a word. Derek tells him about the show, and Benji nods and smiles at appropriate intervals. Benji soon finds himself back in his bed, Derek’s arms around him but somehow colder than he was when he tossed and turned alone the night before. He thought he was done asking. Done fighting. But it slips out anyway. “Where were you last night?”
“I told you. I was with Ty and Scott and Jess and the band, hanging out after the show,” Derek mumbles, seemingly agitated at being asked a second time.
“Okay,” Benji whispers, omitting his detour home from Brasstown. He silently runs through the memory. Ty. Jess. The Band.
Scott. Why does that name sound familiar?
Then he remembers.
Victor isn’t sure exactly how or when it happened, but by the time Benji’s story reaches the present day, they’re horizontal once again, Benji’s back now against Victor’s chest. As Benji finishes describing the afterparty and its repercussions, Victor’s hand presses hard against Benji’s chest in an attempt to sooth the sobs wracking Benji’s entire body. He had barely spoken while Benji let out everything that had built up over the last year, everything he had held inside, but he tries now to put all of his comfort, his support, his concern into the way his arm squeezes around Benji’s ribs, holding him like an anchor. He loosens his grip slightly, giving Benji room to catch his breath, and the words finally come out so naturally, so effortlessly, that it takes him by surprise. “Benji, you’re the best. You’re thoughtful…and sweet…and patient. So patient. You deserve to feel like you can just be yourself, and that’s enough. Because it is enough, Benji. You are enough.”
The spark that warmed him up earlier, filling his chest in the car and at the thrift shop and over dinner, went back into hiding when Benji broke down, but Victor tries with all his strength to summon it back. The tighter he holds Benji, the more he concentrates on the closeness and relief he feels despite the pain, the brighter it starts to get. It’s small at first, barely the flicker of a candle between his lungs, but it grows as he wills the spark to warm up not just himself but Benji, too. As the warmth returns to Victor, spreading through his whole chest once again and, he hopes, to Benji’s, he feels Benji’s body start to still, though the sound of gentle sobs persists. In between ragged breaths, Benji whispers, “I just feel like I’m losing myself, every day I’m with him. And I can’t do it anymore. I deserve better than that.”
Victor lets Benji’s realization, though quiet, linger in the air around them. It feels important enough to take up space, to fill the room and quench the need for any other words between them. Victor can’t tell how much time passes, minutes or hours, but eventually the only sounds left are the rain outside and Benji’s breathing. He can feel Benji crying more than he hears it, given away by the uneven rise and fall of his chest under Victor’s hand. Eventually his breathing evens out, but Victor’s doesn’t. For the first time in his recent memory, hot, silent tears trace their way down his cheeks, and he finally lets himself feel the ache he hid away when Benji was awake. Victor isn’t sure how much of the pain is his or Benji’s, but it’s mingled together all the same, the spark that warmed them both now burning him from the inside out. He closes his eyes, focuses on Benji’s steady breathing against his chest, and wills himself to sleep.
When Victor wakes up, everything feels fuzzy, between the way his head aches and the adjustment to the light. It takes one breath, and then another, for him to realize his arms are still wrapped around the sleeping boy beside him. Benji. In bed next to him. And the events of the previous night come rushing back into his mind. He suppresses his first instinct to quickly retract his arm and move as far away as possible, his desire to not wake Benji outweighing his fear of the awkward morning ahead of him. He carefully extracts himself from the embrace, slowly sliding out of bed while Benji rolls over in his sleep. Even with his eyes closed, Victor can tell they’ll be red and swollen when he wakes, but even then, he finds himself unable to look away. He finally tears his gaze away when Benji stirs, yawning and stretching his arms before blinking open his eyes and sitting up. They don’t speak when getting ready that morning, aside from a quick “your turn” or “here you go” when taking turns in the bathroom and packing up, but the silence is shockingly comfortable compared to the harsh awkwardness that Victor was expecting. Victor doesn’t know if he wants to escape this tiny room and never look back or stay here forever, so he focuses on gathering his things and mapping out the trip ahead of them.
The car ride starts off quiet, the silence from the motel room that morning carrying into the first hour of the drive. The closer they get to Shady Creek, the more the pit starts to reappear in Victor’s stomach, and the harder it gets to hold it in. When they hit a small patch of traffic, bringing them to a brief standstill, Victor blurts out, “So last night you told me something you’ve never told anyone before, and I think I should return the favor.”
Benji gives him a confused look, though Victor isn’t sure if he’s more confused about the content of Victor’s outburst or the fact that he broke the silence at all. After a beat, he lifts an eyebrow, and Victor takes it as an indication to continue. “Um, I lied about the machine,” he says, eyes flickering down to his lap before returning to the road. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel while an agonizing second passes by without a response.
“I know,” Benji replies, a small smile spreading across his lips.
“You know?”
“Yeah, the receipt had a time stamp. And I wish you’d told me, but honestly I kind of wanted to stay, too,” Benji admits. He turns away from Victor, looking down at his hands, and softly says, “And I’m glad we did. Despite…all that. Or because of it.”
“Me, too,” Victor says, barely audible as they pick up speed again, the traffic around them starting to move. He can tell Benji is waiting for more by the way he’s still sitting totally upright, even if his face is still turned away a bit. He knows he owes Benji more than that, but he can’t speak past the lump in his throat. After a minute, Benji slumps back against the window, and a tense quiet replaces the comfortable silence from before his admission.
When he can’t stand it anymore, he swallows down the bile creeping up his throat and breaks the silence again. “Um, there’s actually another thing, too.”
Benji perks up in the passenger seat, a look of curious concern on his face, but says nothing.
“I need to break up with Mia,” Victor says in one quick breath, not taking his eyes off the road. His knuckles pale as he grips the steering wheel tighter in the beat before Benji responds.
“Oh.” Victor sees the look of surprise on Benji’s face from the corner of his eye. “In the spirit of returning favors…do you want to talk about it?” Benji asks.
“No, I don’t. Not yet. But I’m hurting her, and she deserves better,” he says in a tone that’s simultaneously sad and hopeful. “I do, too.”
They sit in silence for another few minutes before Benji reaches for the radio dial. The sound of a morning radio DJ’s overly peppy voice fills the car, followed by the opening notes of “Don’t Stop Me Now,” and the tension is gone. It starts with Benji singing along softly until soon they’re both belting Queen, and suddenly things feel a little more okay again.
When they get back to Brasstown, Sarah relinquishes them from their duties for the day, upon seeing how visibly exhausted both boys are. Victor appreciates the chance to make up for the missed sleep from the previous night, but he secretly wouldn’t have been disappointed if he had to stay, spend one more shift with Benji before facing whatever waits for him at home. They step onto the sidewalk outside, and Victor gives a small wave as they part ways, not quite sure how to say goodbye after everything that happened in the last twenty-four hours. Just as he pivots to start the walk home, a hand appears on his shoulder, and he turns around. “Wait,” Benji says, before throwing his arms around Victor’s neck and squeezing tight. Victor’s arms instinctively wrap around Benji’s waist, pulling him into a hug, as Benji’s hands dig into the back of his shirt. “Thank you,” Benji whispers into his shoulder. Too soon, he pulls away, leaving his hand on Victor’s shoulder when he says, “You’re a really good friend,” before turning around and starting down the sidewalk.
Victor stands, unmoving, watching him disappear into the light crowd of Sunday morning shoppers, his heart shattering into pieces in his chest.
Three Months Later
Victor is sitting on the couch in the Campbell family living room, Benji tucked against his side, with 10 Things I Hate About You playing on the TV in front of them. They’ve been working their way through the library of largely 90s content that Benji considers essential viewing, with which Victor was tragically unfamiliar. Over the last few weekends, they’d fallen into a comfortable rhythm of couch, popcorn, movie, and more popcorn, and this weekend is no different. Victor places their second now-empty popcorn bowl on the coffee table in front of them and then reaches his arm around Benji’s shoulder, where it had been before. Benji snuggles closer into him, and Victor gives his arm a gentle squeeze, looking down at him with a soft smile. Victor thinks he could stay like this forever, on a comfy couch with Benji curled up next to him. As the movie nears its end, he tries to think of something that could be better than this, but he gives up when he struggles to imagine anything that could possibly make him feel more content.
As “I Want You to Want Me” by Letters to Cleo starts to play and the credits roll, Victor grabs the remote to pause, fully expecting Benji to grumble, like he always does, until he lets it play to the end. Instead, Benji turns to look up at him, a surprisingly serious expression on his face. “What are we doing, Vic?” he asks.
“What do you mean what are we doing?” Vic says, confusion melting the smile he had moments ago.
“This. I mean this. Us.” He gestures between them with his left hand, his right still resting on Victor’s left thigh.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Victor says, guilt starting to override the confusion in his features.
“But you do, Vic. We’re clearly not just friends, but I don’t know what’s going on here,” Benji responds, more insistent than before.
“I don’t, either,” Victor replies, finally looking away from Benji and pulling his arm back into his own lap. He fidgets with his hands, anything to distract from the long-overdue conversation he’s been trying to postpone. He knew it was too good to last, that they wouldn’t be able to do this forever, pretending like nothing else existed beyond this couch.
“I think you do. And I get why you don’t want to talk about it, but I can’t keep doing this anymore.”
“Wait, you can’t ? Benji, what are you saying?” The guilt and discomfort on his face morph into panic.
“I’m saying that you need to be honest with me or I think we need to stop this, whatever this is.”
Victor is quiet for one, two, three seconds, but it feels like an eternity as he pieces together his response. “I don’t know if I can be.” He looks down at his hands, guilt and sadness returning.
“Please, Vic. I know. And you know that I know. This is a safe place to talk about it, but it’s a two-way conversation.”
Victor melts a little bit when he takes in the look on Benji’s face, pain and sympathy with a glimmer of hope. “I know. I know you know, but I’m just not sure I can handle what talking about it is going to mean. I don’t want to break this by bringing other people into it.”
“Have you told anyone yet?” Benji asks softly, laying a hand on top of Victor’s.
“I haven’t told anyone, but Mia figured it out,” he whispers, barely audible by the end. He laces his fingers together, forearms bracing on his knees, and stares at the ground.
“I’m so sorry, Mia.”
“You’re sorry? Victor, I feel like I don’t even know you anymore. Like I made this whole thing up in my head.” Mia turns her face away from Victor sitting next to her on her bed.
“Mia, I promise you that’s not true. You’re amazing, but I just can’t do this anymore.” Mia sees the pain in his eyes when he says it, but she still feels like someone just sliced through her with a knife, leaving her exposed and bleeding.
“Did something happen on that trip?” she says quietly, her change in tone sudden and cold.
“No, nothing happened.” Victor raises his hands in defense, panic evident in his voice. “Well, yes, something happened. But not what you think.”
“It’s Benji, isn’t it?” she whispers, turning back to look at him directly with widening eyes.
Victor avoids her gaze but gives her an abbreviated truth. Without revealing any specifics, he tells her about their heart to heart. That Benji just needed someone to talk to. And Victor listened. Nothing more.
“It’s Benji,” she sighs, shaking her head and turning away again. A statement, not a question this time. “It’s always been Benji. I can’t believe I missed it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Victor says.
“Come on, Victor. I’m not dumb. You went on that trip and then Benji breaks up with Derek and you break up with me. I don’t know for sure what’s going on, but I know it’s not a coincidence.”
“I promise nothing happened. Please, Mia. You have to believe me,” Victor pleads, an edge of desperation in his voice as it cracks.
“I do believe you, Victor. I do. But we both know it’s not a coincidence, and that’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it, and I think I’d rather not talk about it, but it’s always been him, Victor.”
“Please don’t say anything,” he whispers, barely audible at all.
“You know I won’t.” She meets his eyes for a meaningful second before turning away again, slow tears starting to trace down her cheeks.
“Bye, Mia.”
“Oh, Victor,” Benji says. Victor detects the hint of pity in his voice and shies away.
“It’s fine. Really. It was for the best,” Victor says as he looks over his opposite shoulder, away from Benji’s sympathetic expression.
“It may have been for the best, but it still hurts, Vic. And that’s okay.”
“It’s not, though. I feel like all this is doing is hurting people. Mia, you, my parents...God, my parents.” Victor’s voice breaks, but he manages to keep all but a single, hot tear from spilling out onto his cheek.
“It’s hurting you, too, Vic. You have to see that. If you’re not ready, then you’re not ready, and we don’t have to do this. But you don’t have to go all or nothing either. You don’t have to jump right into family and parents and all of the messiest parts. You can take it one step at a time.”
“It wouldn’t be fair to you,” Victor replies, still pointedly looking at the end table next to the couch and not at Benji.
“And, what, this is fair to me?” Benji responds, anger breaking through his resolve for the first time.
Victor isn’t sure which one of them stood up first, but he couldn’t stay still any longer, the tension rising in his body like floodwater. He turns to face Benji fully for the first time since Benji started the conversation and sighs. “No, it isn’t. But I don’t want you to have to do this halfway.”
“We’re already doing this halfway, Vic,” Benji says, voice firm.
“I know, but once we do this all-in I don’t want you to have to take it slow, Benji,” Victor says, frustration seeping into his tone.
Benji pauses for a moment before responding, quiet with wide eyes. “But you want to do this all-in?”
“Of fucking course I want to do this all-in. I love you, Benji,” Victor nearly shouts.
The Campbell’s living room is silent, air heavy with the words Victor just spoke into existence. Finally, after an infinite five seconds of the phrase hanging in between them, Benji gently responds, “Victor, I am happy to take it slow. I love you, t-”
Victor steps forward, closing the gap between them and crashing his mouth into Benji’s before he can finish, swallowing the words on the tip of his tongue. The spark of warmth that being around Benji always lights in his stomach, sometimes reaching his smile, his eyes if he’s lucky, fills his entire body - even the pit just under his diaphragm that he thought would never leave. Victor’s right hand reaches up to Benji’s cheek, Benji’s hands already tangled in his hair. As Benji moves one hand to the small of Victor’s back, pulling him flush against his chest, Victor’s tongue grazes Benji’s bottom lip, and the spark turns into wildfire. Victor wraps his other hand behind Benji’s neck, tilting his head up further to deepen the kiss and bring him impossibly closer. Victor’s skin burns where it touches Benji’s, and he wonders how he ever let himself get this far without this, without feeling this alive, without Benji filling his senses and nothing else.
Victor breaks the kiss first, stepping back just far enough to breathe but keeping his hands where they were, not ready to lose the heat of Benji’s skin under his. He’s still close enough to hear Benji’s breath, soft but panting, through his still-parted lips. He feels the warmth on his own lips with every exhale. Victor tries to find the words to describe the look in Benji’s eyes in that moment, cycling through hope and awe and restlessness and love, but he’s not quite able to pin it down. A smile breaks out on Victor’s face, wide and bright and happy, real in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. So real his eyes crinkle and his cheeks start to ache. He slides his hand from Benji’s neck to grasp his hand between them, lowering his forehead to barely brush against Benji’s.
“Victor, are you sure about this?”
“I’m always sure about you, Benji,” Victor responds, looking through his lashes fondly and swinging their joined hands between them slightly. “One step at a time, right?”
“Yeah. One step at a time.”