The absolute last time.
Chapter Seven
Stan was watching TV when he heard a knock at the door.
He almost didn’t answer—first assuming it was for the neighbour next door, then deciding it could be someone in the building wanting something. Tone was out, but he had a key.
He was almost ashamed to hope it was Ben.
Stan opened the door to find the last person he expected to see.
“Oh.”
Ben was slumped over, his shoulders hunched, with a bright red backpack hanging off one shoulder.
“I fucked up,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Stan nodded and stepped aside, leaving space for Ben to come in. But he didn’t move.
“Am….” Ben took a deep breath, then looked up, facing Stan like Stan was judge, jury, and executioner. “Can I come back?”
Stan’s heart jumped in his throat. “Of course you can,” he said. “Always, Ben.”
“Thank you.”
He shuffled into the flat, looking embarrassed and so small. Stan felt another pang in his chest and pressed the heel of his hand to his breastbone to rub it away. Ben had never been small. He was tall and strong and held his head up with his chin jutted out, his whole stance welcoming challenge. He didn’t crumple like this. Not the Ben that Stan had known.
“I, uh, I bought some food earlier. But I didn’t finish it, and I didn’t want to throw it away, and I thought you might want it.” He spoke in a mumbling rush, the New Zealand twang threading through his words. Like when he was tired. Stan remembered.
“That sounds good. What did you get? Maybe we could share it.”
Ben seemed surprised by that suggestion. He set the paper bag down on the kitchen counter and dropped the backpack on the floor.
“I went to Itsu,” he said. “Got vegan food. My stomach has been messed up, and I remembered that’s what you used to….”
Stan nodded. “I don’t eat just vegan food anymore, but I like Itsu.”
“Can I use your loo?”
“You live here, Ben,” Stan reminded him. “You don’t need to ask.”
“Okay. I’m not going to take drugs,” he said in a rush, suddenly looking up at Stan with wide, begging eyes. “I just need to piss.”
“Okay.”
Ben exhaled heavily. “Okay.”
Stan didn’t want to poke around in Ben’s food, even if he’d been invited to share it. Instead he cleared off the dining table with his work stuff and put it away in one of the living room cabinets, then poured two glasses of iced water from the dispenser in the fridge.
“Do you want to choose something?” Ben said when he came back. He’d taken off his hoodie, and was wearing a very crumpled T-shirt and his loose skinny jeans.
“Or we could just grab some plates and share it?”
Ben nodded. “That works.”
Stan got plates and cutlery from the kitchen and took a seat opposite Ben. He’d had his hair cut, and Stan wanted to mention it. Then decided against it. When he’d been feeling bad about himself, people mentioning his appearance was never a good thing, even if it was a compliment.
“I think this is supposed to be hot,” Ben said, poking at a container of dumplings.
“I don’t mind,” Stan said with a shrug.
“It’s been in the fridge since lunchtime, so it should be okay to eat.”
Stan lightly touched the back of Ben’s hand. “This is good,” he said gently. “Thank you.”
Ben nodded and ducked his head as he carefully pulled his hand away. “S’alright.”
They ate in silence for a while, but it wasn’t as awkward as Stan had expected. Ben looked wrung out, possibly even more so than when Stan had picked him up in LA. He decided not to comment on that either.
Ben picked through the food, and Stan wondered if he had any interest in it at all, or if he was just eating as a performance. Stan had done it plenty of times himself. Eating a meal was a kind of social nicety, one of those things that made you feel like you were normal, even if it only lasted a few minutes.
When Ben set his fork down, apparently done working through the dishes, Stan did the same.
“I’m sick of feeling like shit,” Ben said, rubbing his hands over his face.
“Are you going to do something about that?”
“I’m fucking trying.”
“Ben, going cold-turkey is probably going to cause you more issues, rather than resolving them,” Stan said. “If you really want to get better, then we can get you some help.”
“I don’t want to be locked in a room with any more fucking therapists who just want me to spill all my most traumatic memories for them to wank over later,” Ben snarled. “Trust me when I say I’ve been there and done that. I’ve been to rehab, Stan, twice. I’ve been on monitored coming-clean programmes. I’ve done this shit before.”
“And yet here you are,” Stan snapped back. “Maybe you’re used to people treating you with kid gloves, Ben, but I’m not going to. You told me once you weren’t going to watch me die. Well, guess what, I’m not going to watch you die either. So fucking… sort yourself out.”
He pushed himself back from the table and wanted to storm off, but there was only two bedrooms in the flat, and he wasn’t sleeping in either of them. Feeling stupid, he went and locked himself in the bathroom to calm down.
Stan put the toilet seat down and sat on it, folding himself in half and burying his face in his hands. He was furious at himself for snapping at Ben, especially after Ben had only just come home after his drug binge. If Stan had pushed him away again, he’d hate himself even more.
He was surprised when there was a light knock on the bathroom door.
Stan splashed water on his face before opening it.
“I’m trying,” Ben said quickly, before Stan could interrupt him. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and his lips were dry and cracked. He licked them, apparently a habit. “I know I’m fucking up, and I’m sorry. This is so fucking hard.”
On instinct, Stan pulled him into a hug. “I’m sorry for shouting at you.”
Ben pressed his face to Stan’s shoulder and didn’t hug Stan back and didn’t cry. Stan thought he might break with the effort of not crying, and desperately wanted to tell Ben that he could. But it wasn’t his place.
Instead he wrapped his arms around Ben’s too-skinny shoulders and held him, and smoothed his hand over Ben’s clean hair, and gently rocked them from side to side.
He held Ben for far longer than he had intended, until Ben’s tight, shuddery breaths calmed down, and he started to relax into Stan’s hug.
Only then did Stan let go.
They didn’t talk about it again. It felt like too much, like Stan had crossed a line in both shouting at Ben, which was what everyone else had done and it hadn’t worked then, so why did Stan think it would work now? And in offering him comfort. As much as he didn’t want that to be his responsibility any more, it wasn’t like anyone else was coming forward to let Ben know he was still loved.
Stan was embarrassed, and it seemed like Ben was too. They danced carefully around each other for days, not quite interacting, eyes not quite meeting. Ben went back to his room, and Stan went back to his laptop. It was a strange, new kind of status quo.