Ben looked away and adjusted the basket when Stan added two belts to the pile.
“Come on,” Stan said, leading Ben to the tills.
The little shopping excursion came to about four hundred quid, which wasn’t bad, since Ben had paid that for one T-shirt only a few months ago—back when he was actually allowed access to his own money.
They arrived at the flat as a summer rain started to fall, soaking the streets within seconds. Ben watched the water bouncing off the surface of the lock and felt more lonely and more scared than he had in a very long time.
He really, really wanted a hit.
Inside, Ben set the bags down in the hallway and went back to the room where he’d slept the night before. He pulled the curtains closed, toed off his trainers, and curled up in a ball on top of the covers. There, he shivered and shook himself back to sleep.
When Ben woke again, it was starting to get dark outside. That meant he must have slept most of the afternoon and into the evening, longer than he’d managed in a while. His body clock was fucked up beyond immediate help, that much was clear. He stumbled out of the bedroom and into the bathroom to piss. As he stood at the toilet, his stomach gave a demanding, painful growl.
Right. The last time he’d eaten was on the plane here, almost twenty-four hours ago. Ben hated aeroplane food. Even first-class aeroplane food.
He could hear Tone talking in a low voice in the other bedroom, possibly on a video call with someone. Tone usually video called when it was important. He liked to be able to read people’s faces and expressions. In the kitchen, Stan was working at the little table again, hunched over as he typed furiously at the keyboard.
“Is there anything to eat?”
Stan startled, jerking away from the laptop like he’d been caught watching porn. “Shit. Sorry, you scared me.”
Ben shoved his hands into his pockets and couldn’t meet Stan’s eyes. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Stan pushed away from the table, the chair scraping on the floor. “What do you want? I can make you a sandwich. I got some fresh soup delivered too. Or a salad, or eggs, or….”
“Toast?”
“I can make toast,” Stan said, nodding decisively.
“It’s okay. I can do it.” Ben felt useless enough as it was. He didn’t need someone else making his fucking toast for him. He wasn’t a fucking invalid.
“Okay,” Stan agreed easily. “Help yourself to anything.”
“Thanks.”
The bread was in the fridge, which was definitely Tone’s doing—he always kept bread in the fridge. It used to drive Summer mad. It was nice bread too, the stuff with lots of seeds and shit in it. Ben left the end piece and pulled out two of the soft, inside pieces, and slotted them into the toaster.
While he waited, Ben found peanut butter in one of the cupboards. That was definitely Stan’s influence. He always liked fancy peanut butter… not the overly processed, sweet sticky stuff, but the raw, crunchy type that was usually organic and sugar-free.
Ben was suddenly starving.
He grabbed a spoon from a drawer and loaded it up with a huge pile of peanut butter, then carefully nibbled at it so he didn’t make himself sick from eating too much too quickly. He’d made that mistake before.
When the toaster popped, he licked the spoon clean and set it in the sink, then picked a clean knife to spread the peanut butter on the toast. Back when he was trying to help Stan put on weight again, he used to put butter on toast before peanut butter, or sometimes Nutella and peanut butter on the same slice. Ben always liked it plain, though, just toast and peanut butter.
He cut each slice of bread in half and set them on a plate, then quickly wiped down the surface. He really, really wanted to take his plate and go back to bed, but that seemed rude. Stan had gone back to his laptop, studiously ignoring Ben and his pathetic attempt to make some kind of dinner for himself.
Ben went and took the seat opposite him.
Stan quietly saved whatever he was working on and closed the laptop.
“How are you doing?” Stan asked. “You slept for a long time.”
Be nibbled at his toast and nodded. “I don’t sleep very well.” He hadn’t admitted that to anyone else, though it was probably obvious.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Ben almost snapped something about wanting some fucking coke, or whatever Stan could get him, but he stopped himself. Biting Stan’s head off wasn’t going to do either of them any good. “I’m on a pretty rough comedown. I’m not gonna lie.”
“I guessed that, yeah.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
Stan barked a laugh and leaned back in his chair. He twisted his hair into a loose bun and secured it with a pen. Ben had always admired how he could do that.
“I don’t have anything planned,” Stan said. He bit his bottom lip, then sighed. “I’m kind of winging it here, Ben. I figured LA wasn’t working for you, so we could try something else.”
“I’m fucked up.”
“I can tell.”
Ben ate his dinner in silence for a few long minutes. When he was done, he chased a few last crumbs around the plate with his thumb, then licked it clean. The simple food was making his stomach ache with fullness.
“Can we go for a walk tomorrow?”
Stan nodded. “Sure. We’re not far from the zoo, you know.”
“I know,” Ben said. “Maybe.”
He waited for Stan to say something else, but he didn’t.
“Are you going to make me go to a therapist? Or rehab?”
Stan shook his head. “I told you earlier—I’m not going to make you do anything.” He stared down Ben’s expression. “I might stop you from doing things that you do want to do, but that’s only for your own good.”
“What if I want to see a therapist?”
“Then we’ll find you one. Or you can borrow my laptop and find your own.”
Panic gripped at Ben’s chest, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. Well, he did. Because for a couple of years now, people had told him what to do, where to be, how to think and feel about everything. His only outlet had been the music that had been remixed and commercialised, edited for public radio, then he’d been forced to regurgitate it again and again and again until the words felt meaningless.
He wasn’t allowed to have an opinion that wasn’t edited or censored, not allowed to date or fuck people unless they’d been vetted, denied the impulsive freedom that he didn’t know he’d treasured.
And Stan wanted to let him pick his own therapist.
“Okay,” he said.
Okay.
Chapter Three
When Tone got back, Ben was already in bed. Stan had stayed awake, not wanting to curl up on the sofa until he knew Tone was home safely.
It was stupid to pretend they weren’t vulnerable these days. Tone could blend in on these streets with his Jack-the-lad look much better than Summer or Jez or Ben. Especially Ben. HMV sold posters of the band, alongside Justin Bieber and Ariana Grande and whoever else was popular. Like Ares were admired by teenagers who looked up to them. Wasn’t that a terrifying thought.
Tone stumbled through the door just after one in the morning, not that Stan minded. His body clock was still totally fucked. He appreciated the quiet apartment and the chance to work without interruptions.