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It’s been six months, and Ben still doesn’t like or trust his father’s reject children from another timeline. Part of that, he’ll admit, is just how often they wax lyrical about Their Ben. How clear they are that Their Ben was ultimately, entirely and unquestionably preferable to him. Their Ben was apparently Mother Teresa and Gandhi and Oprah all rolled into one. Their Ben was kind and calm and encouraging and did they mention he saved the world? The way they talk about Their Ben, he catches his own siblings looking at him strangely sometimes, perhaps searching for traces of this saintly sibling in him, their angry, bitter brother.
Ben’s been stood next to another brother and found wanting once already. He isn’t interested in doing it a second time, especially not to an absent version of himself. He stays away from the Umbrellas, and expects his siblings to do the same.
They don’t.
Most egregious, unquestionably, is Sloane. A month and a half after the Umbrellas dropped into their lives and living room without warning, she had packed her bags and moved into the grotty hotel they called home with nary a backward glance; not even Marcus ordering her to stay could stop her. A month ago, she came back with a hideous engagement ring, six tagalongs and the proposition that they all moved into the Academy, filled up the dozens of empty rooms, make them one big, fucked up family.
Ben voted no. Of course Ben voted no. Fei and Christopher, too, were against, but Marcus, Jayme, Alphonse were swayed by Sloane’s puppy-dog eyes, and now he was stuck living with the enemy.
The enemy, at least, were also stuck living with him.
So while Marcus and their Seven had their long, fireside conversations, and Jayme and Alphonse made nice with their soon to be siblings-in-law, and even Fei thawed towards their Number Three enough to risk jumping through various timelines via suitcase in order to get her daughter back into a stable world - their world - Ben was laying down the law.
Anyone tried to speak to him, they were insulted. Anyone tried to emotionally connect with him, they were screamed at. Anyone tried to touch him, they got a punch. Anyone tried to hug him, they got the Horror. A few weeks in, everyone in the house is avoiding him, his siblings included, and that’s just how he likes it, thank you very much.
Almost everyone.
Their Number Four is- persistent. In the same way a child fixated on getting a new toy is persistent. Talking, and whining, and wheedling day and night until they get what they want.
And what Number Four wants, apparently, is- just to be around Ben.
It’s ridiculous. It’s annoying. It’s infuriating.
Sometimes, despite himself, Ben almost likes it.
It’s not because of Number Four himself, god no. He’s loud and obnoxious and it doesn’t matter at all that he keeps on getting up after Ben knocks him down, keeps on coming back when Ben chases him away. It’s not Ben he’s so determined to be around, after all. Four looks at him and sees his saintly, departed brother, just like the rest, but. But. Ben can admit, objectively, that Number Four is attractive - an uncommon kind of pretty that Ben’s always been partial to; big eyes and angular features and miles and miles of tanned skin.
Ben just wishes he could appreciate it more. The effect is lost every time Four opens that soft, pouty mouth.
The first time he dreams about Number Four, it’s the Horror that does it. Ben’s monster is tame now, his control over its movements absolute, and Four is chattering away about something Ben doesn’t care enough to listen to in the background of the dream; it is the work of a moment to release the Horror which slithers towards Four in a manner not unlike a large snake approaching dinner.
“H-hey, Benerino,” Four stammers, pressing himself against the back of the armchair he’s splayed across, like a few inches will make any difference, “your buddy’s getting a little too familiar, if you know what I- I- hey-!”
In the back of his throat, Four whimpers, and the part of Ben that is the Horror can feel the vibration as it forces itself past his front teeth, expands to fill the space of his mouth so his tongue is pressed down and from the outside, his cheeks grow full and round. Four’s pretty eyes are big as saucers, and he squirms in place, trying to pull away, trapped by the back of the chair, and unable to leave it because of the strength of the tentacle pinning him in place. “Hmmph!” He tries to speak, but the word is completely unintelligible, mouth distorted and sound muffled by the Horror’s presence. “Mmph!” He tries again, and fruitlessly tries to pry the tentacle out, away with his bare hands, but he can’t grip onto the slimy surface, and even if he could, the Horror is made of muscle and little else; it’s a doomed effort.
Ben finds himself fascinated by the sight, by the little mewls that he doesn’t hear so much as feel, the way Four can do nothing to free himself, not even cry out for help. He’s trying, stupid thing - Ben finds he doesn’t even mind all that much, not when it is so obvious that Ben is completely in control of him and the Horror both.
“H’nn,” Four entreats him with his eyes, still squirming helpessly like a fish on a hook. There’s a glimmer in them that grows brighter for every second Ben makes no move to help him, no move to stop the Horror at all.
He’s never looked so beautiful. He’s certainly never been so quiet.
The dream stretches out, after that - Ben in the dream is reading something, he doesn’t know what, but it gives him an excuse not to look at Four, or to pretend not to. In fact, he’s hyper-aware of him - his pathetic little moans and whimpers, his flagging energy, his arm muscles bunching as he continues to try and push the Horror away, although he must know it’s hopeless.
When Ben wakes up, he’s as hard as a rock.
And, well- once the idea’s in his head, it doesn’t go away. The Horror curls inside him with unspent energy, reminiscent of the way toes curl with attraction. He finds himself fantasising about it, as Four talks and talks and talks.
“Shut up,” he snaps, like he’s done two dozen times before, to no effect whatsoever - not even a pause.
“-then Artie suggested we go and get tattoos, but he said it real loud, so eventually there’s about twenty members of the squad trying to squeeze into this one little tattoo parlour, spilling out the door like-”
The Horror moves.
Unlike in the dream, Four doesn’t have time to protest or complain - one moment, he’s jabbering away, and the next-
A short, sharp shriek, muffled but not as totally as it was in his dream as the tentacle pushes itself past the other man’s teeth. And then-
Pain.
Instinctively the Horror retracts, back to the safety of it’s own dimension; it’s pain is distant, muted, but Ben still hisses anyway, more from surprise than anything else. Four doubles over and spits the black blood of the monster onto one of Dad’s more hideous carpets, gasping and spluttering.
“Ben, what the fuck,” Four chokes out, sounding like he’s on the edge of hysteria. He looks up and starts; Ben’s risen from where he sat, crossed the space between them - he’s close enough to grab at Four, which he does, fisting his hand in his hair and dragging him up to eye level.
“I told you,” Ben says, blood running hot from the shocked, scared look on Four’s face, “to shut the fuck up.”
Urgently, Four bobs his head up and down, despite the way Ben’s hand pulling at his head limits his rage of movement. “Okay, okay, I get it, I get the message, I’ll leave you alone, I’ll-”
“That’s not what I told you to do,” Ben tells him. “I told you to shut up. Clearly, you need some help.”
Four’s eyes widen as he realises what Ben is getting at.
“No, it’s, it’s fine, I can-”
Ben roughly covers his mouth with his free hand, digging his thumb into the hollow of Four’s cheek. In a display of self-preservation Ben hadn’t been sure Four was capable of, he stays silent. “You really can’t,” Ben says, “but it’s okay. I can help you. That’s what family does, right?”
Four swallows. There are tears in his eyes.
Ben’s achingly hard.
“Now I’m going to take my hand away,” he says in a patronising tone. “Do you think you can manage to stay quiet when I do?”
Another short, limited nod.
Ben removes his hand. To his satisfaction, Four says nothing, just brings his hand up and rubs at his cheek, where Ben can see a small imprint of his thumbnail. “Good,” Ben says, adjusting his grip, releasing Four’s hair to put his palm across the back of his neck instead. “See, you can learn. Now, let’s make sure the lesson sinks in, shall we?”
Four jerks, opening his mouth like he’s going to try and speak again, but Ben tightens his hold on his neck and his mouth shuts with a click. Ben pushes him over to the sideboard, where Grace keeps the plates and cutlery and, most importantly right now, napkins. The one that Ben pulls out is thick, well-starched and undoubtedly cost an obscene amount of money, like everything else in the Academy. He balls it up in his fist.
“Ben, I don’t-” Four tries again. Ben shoves the cloth inbetween his parted lips, his hand on the back of Four’s neck preventing him from moving away. “B’n!” Four protests through the fabric, and starts pushing it out with his tongue. Not giving him the chance to get it out all the way, Ben picks up another napkin, identical to the first, and pushes that and the first in as well.
Belatedly, Four raises his hands to push Ben away, but the Horror is already there, wrapping around his wrists and anchoring them to his sides. “B’mph! ‘Ouff-”
Still too loud. Ben forces a third napkin into Four’s mouth, packing it tightly enough that his cheek’s puff out and his lips can’t quite meet. “Mmph!” Four cries, struggling ineffectively against the tentacles, the padding.
“That is so much better,” Ben says, grinning at Four who whimpers pathetically. “See, I knew you could do it. But, just so you don’t backslide,” he produces a fourth napkin, rolled lengthwise so that it’s thin enough to fit between Four’s lips, press the cloth stuffed in his mouth further inside, and has the Horror spin Four round so he can tie it tightly behind his head, “I’ve given you a bit of help, okay? There we go. You’re doing so well, staying so quiet for me.”
Four tosses his head from side to side, testing whether or not the gag will stay in place; to his dismay and Ben’s delight, it does. He gives a final tug at his wrists, as if the Horror might’ve weakened since the last time he tried, and is disappointed. His shoulders slump.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Ben gasps, faux-horrified. “Thanks so much for reminding me. You can’t expect me to stop you from being naughty and taking that out all the time - I’ve got better things to do, frankly.” He takes another two napkins, rolls them up like he did with the gag, and with the Horror’s help, ties Four’s elbows and forearms together, his victim whimpering all the while. He’s got enough cloth to practice some of the hard knots that Dad insisted they learn both to tie and untie in the event of a hostage situation against a scout. Even if by some miracle Four can undo the one - and it would be a miracle, as it isn’t around his wrists but out of the reach of all but the tips of his fingers, and he’s unable to see it, even if he has had the same training from his alternate Sir Reginald - he has no chance of getting to the other.
Satisfied, Ben releases Four who stumbles forward, looks round at him with big eyes and wet cheeks. His lips are stretched wide and his curls fall into his eyes, and without the ability to tuck them behind his ears, he tosses his head from side to side before eventually being forced to accept the obstruction to his vision. With his hands and elbows bound, his chest is pushed forward, and his struggles to manipulate the bonds lead to him almost shimmying in place. Little, unintelligible noises still escape his gag, but Ben finds he likes them - the garbled attempts at words, the heavy breaths, the grunts of effort as he tries fruitlessly to push the makeshift gag out of his mouth. Overall the effect is-- gorgeous.
“Now,” Ben says softly, “you have two choices. You can run out and show whoever you come across what mean old Ben did to you, and hope that they’ll let you out instead of getting in on the fun. Or, you can sit back down, stay nice and quiet like you should have in the first place, and I’ll let you out when I’m ready.”
He doesn’t wait for Four to think it through; he just goes back to the sofa and his abandoned book, and finds his place. I love to sail forbidden seas, Ben reads as Four haltingly moves back to the armchair where he’d been sitting beforehand, awkwardly trying to find a comfortable position with his arms tied awkward behind him, his jaw still working to accommodate the gag, and land on barbarous coasts.
“Hey, Klaus?” he says quietly, after a few more minutes of mmphs and muffled sighs. Four’s head snaps up, not unlike a puppy’s when it’s name is called. He guesses they’re about on the same level, intellectually. “I’m proud of you.”
Ben hides his smile as Four blinks, thunderstruck. After all the progress they’ve made today, he thinks he might just be able to tolerate the other man’s presence after all.