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Timing, in Benjamin's experience, is something that has never worked in his favor.
He has plenty of examples (far too many to count) both big and small, ranging from awkward social interactions to accidentally skipping two years of his life. Timing seems to have it out for him. Then again, he technically created at least half of everything, so maybe it's just Benjamin. It would make sense, he supposes, if it's his fault even on a cosmic scale. Today it manifests itself in having the most draining phone call of his life right before he's going to play host—which is a skill he's already notoriously mediocre at on a good day. He only manages to splash his face with cold water and make the couch look vaguely nicer before there's a knock on his door. He swears under his breath, resigns himself to at least two hours of socializing on a low battery, and sneaks one last glance at the time to make sure it's not 5 o'clock.
"Hey, Quinn." He sounds normal enough when he opens the door, he thinks, and not like he's two seconds away from screaming into a pillow until his voice is gone. So far so good. "Sorry if it's a bit of a mess."
Quinn steps into Benjamin's apartment easily, hands in his pockets as he looks around. "No worries, man. I'm not expecting a full tour."
"Right." Benjamin closes the door and gestures to the couch. "Uh, anything to drink? Got water, coffee—well, it's probably too late for that, but I have tea—"
"I'm good." Quinn cuts him off with that, looking far too cool for someone that's just sitting in his living room. Benjamin nods awkwardly.
"Alright," he says, unfortunately aware that his body needs something to do before he has to sit still for at least an hour and fifty-five minutes. Benjamin heads into the kitchen and starts making himself a cup of mint tea. He tries to focus on the movement of his hands to keep his mind from wandering. "How's Jasper?"
He can mostly see Quinn from where he stands, peering at him through the archway. He shrugs (again, looking far too cool for someone that's lounging casually). "Oh, he's over the moon. When he dropped me off here, he already had a playlist selected just for picking up Oliver."
Benjamin sets the full kettle on his stovetop, leaning back on the counter to look at Quinn fully. "Do we know how exactly Oliver plans to sneak Jasper into the studio for his 'exclusive tour'?"
"I mean, he's a lead writer. He probably has some pull there."
Benjamin specifically remembers Oliver complaining about not being able to bring non-staff into the studio for Lumbersweats and how he was gonna have to "get creative." Benjamin specifically remembers refusing to ask any follow-up questions for his own peace of mind. "I'm sure he figured something out."
Quinn huffs out a half-laugh but doesn't respond, leading them into a brief, awkward silence. Benjamin taps the counter with his fingers, staring at the wall and refusing to think about the phone in his back pocket.
Timing never works in Benjamin's favor. He hears a 'ping!' right as Quinn starts talking again, promptly muffling anything that he's saying. All he can focus on is unlocking the screen and reading through the wall of text, his stomach churning in on itself with every word. For an eternal five seconds, his eyes keep reading the last two sentences on loop.
I know she's your daughter too. I just need more time.
"Hey? Earth to Benjamin?"
He blinks up and checks the clock. 9:17 PM. Quinn is still on the couch. "What?"
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Uh." As much as Oliver teases him for it, Benjamin has never been more glad for autocorrect than at this moment, barely managing to type with his shaking hands to reply.
I completely understand.
He sets the phone down on the counter as if it's as hot as the stovetop. "No, sorry, what is it?"
His eyes flick between Benjamin and the phone on the counter, clearly curious. Benjamin swallows and clenches his jaw, staying resolutely silent. Quinn, mercifully, lets it go. "I was saying that the guys are organizing a friendsgiving type of thing. Just giving you a heads up, since you'll definitely get an invite."
They’re almost halfway through October. Right. Benjamin has a calendar around here somewhere. "Oh."
"It's fine if you don't go," he says a little too easily. Benjamin tries to not take it personally, or wonder why he even would take it personally. "It's probably not gonna be the day of, anyway. Jasper and I are going to spend that with his mom. I imagine Oliver will be the same, with his family."
Benjamin forces himself to take a deep breath. He doesn't even know why he's annoyed. He should be glad that he has at least an option for a Thanksgiving plan, with three grown men he barely remembers interacting with, while the rest of his friends spend it with their family. No one's fault but his own, anyway. "Great."
"What about you? What do you usually do for Thanksgiving?" Quinn asks, for reasons Benjamin can't even begin to comprehend. He glances at the clock so that he doesn't look at his phone and shrugs again, clenching his jaw before forcing himself to speak.
"Well." Benjamin grips the edge of the counter, painfully aware of how there's no ring pressing into his finger. "I usually spent it with my in-laws. That's not happening anymore, for obvious reasons. So."
Quinn doesn't even have the decency to look uncomfortable. Maybe Benjamin is feeling it enough for the both of them. It still ticks him off a little. "You never did your side of the family?"
He closes his eyes. Counts to five. Opens his eyes. "Not really."
"Ah," says Quinn. Benjamin closes his eyes again. You don't have to elaborate, he tells himself. He's not asking why, and even if he did, you don't have to elaborate.
"They moved out of state a few years ago," he elaborates. "Here, at least. Not in—" He gestures to his brain and then outwards. "You know. Whatever. And we aren't exactly..." Benjamin’s eyes drop down to the kitchen tile, wringing his fingers since his apple is out of reach, suddenly feeling a little too big for his body. "Yeah, we just went with my in-laws."
Benjamin doesn't really know how he expects Quinn to react to all of that. Maybe just an awkward topic change, or some generic variation of "Sorry about that" before moving on from this uncomfortable conversation.
He doesn't get either of those things. Instead, he gets a scoff.
Benjamin looks up from the kitchen floor, eyebrows furrowed, to look at him. Quinn's tongue is pressed against his cheek, hands still in his pockets even though he's been sitting on the couch for almost ten minutes. "Huh," is all he says.
Benjamin frowns. "What?"
"Nothing." Quinn shrugs, raising his eyebrows and pressing his lips together with the motion. "It's just kind of funny."
The kettle starts to let out some air behind Benjamin. He ignores it, squinting at Quinn and trying to tamp down the flare of annoyance in his chest. "Funny?"
"Yeah," he replies, finally making eye contact. It's pointed enough that it would make Benjamin flinch, if he wasn't staring back just as sharply. "I don't know, Benjamin. I mean, shouldn't you try and see your parents? You know it's the right thing to do."
The kettle whistles. It's not nearly as overstimulating as that barbed comment. It throws Benjamin off-kilter, feeling like crunchy leaves beneath his feet, like sunlight filtering through trees above him, like the weight of his mistakes crushing him from the inside out.
He and Quinn have never really talked about that argument. At the cliff, surrounded by the soft light of the dawn and Oliver's words, it was easier to just let it go. The apple Benjamin offered had been an olive branch of sorts, even if it very quickly bent and strained when they arrived at an empty house. Still, a crooked smile and a "Whenever you're ready, Quinn." had felt like a closed chapter, and Benjamin was never planning on opening that particular book again. Quinn had never brought it up either, until now. They'd just wordlessly agreed that some things were better left alone.
So he and Quinn never talked about it—truth was, they never really talk about anything. They’re more than fine in group settings, but when it’s just the two of them, there’s a slight discomfort that seems to haunt them in the shape of that forest. Their one-on-one interactions are always tense and therefore avoided. Based on their track record, and this current conversation, it had been for good reason.
The kettle is still whistling. It's about to be 9:20. Benjamin quickly shuts off the stove and turns back around, forcing himself to take a deep breath. "Okay," he starts, forcing his voice to stay even. "I wasn't exactly thinking about that at the time—"
"Right, that would require you to think about anyone else."
Quinn finally, finally looks annoyed instead of perpetually unbothered. It would be relieving that he's actually being honest for once if he wasn't also being an asshole about it.
Benjamin was thinking about someone else, is the thing. It was all he could think about. It is all he can think about; his phone on the counter matches the weight sinking into his gut. Benjamin can never claim to not be selfish, not after what he did (Quinn's sharp words echo back at him, a taunting and brutally honest blow, landing against him with the goal to hurt as much as possible. You got bored and you found someone else). On any other day, Benjamin would take the blow again, knowing it's what he deserves.
I completely understand.
Today, Benjamin storms into the living room, and he's pissed off.
"Sorry, are you seriously trying to preach the moral high ground? You? The guy that literally started a cult?"
It strikes a nerve. Quinn shoots up from the couch, his face twisting slightly when he points at Benjamin. "Stop trying to change the subject. You always avoid shit you don't like, and I'm not letting you this time."
Benjamin levels him with an incredulous look, because he's not wrong, but he also needs to look in a goddamn mirror. He truly doesn't know where any of this is coming from. "Quinn, what is your problem, man?"
Quinn laughs, shaking his head as he steps closer. Benjamin hates it. "Maybe you're my problem, Benjamin. Maybe I don't like it when people are fucking hypocrites."
"It was complicated, " he says slowly, like Quinn is stupid, and the glare he shoots back at him feels like a small triumph. "And I didn't even know about what had happened between you two, at first."
"Would it have mattered?" Quinn shoots back. Benjamin stumbles over his words—he doesn't have any defense for that. Quinn scoffs again. "Whatever. It's not like you know anything about good parenting anyway, right?"
The hole that's carved itself into Benjamin's chest today cracks open even further, and the air in his chest runs away from his lungs like steam from a kettle.
He's talking about Benjamin's dad. He knows he's talking about Benjamin's dad, and not about Benjamin, because Quinn's eyes widen just a fraction right after he says it, only realizing what it sounds like after the words have already left his mouth. He knows Quinn didn't mean it in the way that he's taking it.
Quinn opens his mouth to correct himself. On any other day, Benjamin would've let him.
He shoves Quinn back, hard. "Fuck you."
Any hint of remorse on Quinn's face evaporates, shifting back to a scathing glare as he shoves him back. Benjamin holds Quinn’s palms to his chest and shifts his weight forward, making Quinn stumble backwards. They aren't throwing punches by any means, just grappling with each other—it's the kind of thing he does with Oliver when he's awake, play-wrestling when they argue over which video game they should play.
There's nothing playful about this. They land on the couch and Quinn tries to roll Benjamin sideways onto the floor. Benjamin presses his forearm down on Quinn's chest and centers his weight as much as possible, stopping the momentum in its tracks. Quinn grunts and tries to push him off again, shoving at Benjamin's bicep and using his legs to try and move Benjamin's knees. He wobbles but manages to stay put, and it feels like another small victory when he sees Quinn's face, red with frustration. He hooks his legs around Benjamin's this time, forcing him to drop his weight down to keep his balance, their bodies flush against each other. Benjamin is trying to figure out how this is supposed to give Quinn an advantage when his hand wraps around the back of Benjamin's neck, pulling him down.
There are several things in Benjamin's life that he can't even begin to explain. How he and Oliver dreamed each other and the universe without realizing. How he ended up genuinely being friends with the guy he was once in a cult for. Why he can't stop ruining the good things in his life. Why Quinn is kissing him when they were arguing less than a minute ago. He certainly can't explain why he finds himself kissing him back, but whatever the reason may be, he does.
Quinn is kissing him roughly, his hand keeping Benjamin’s head in place while his other hand roams up and down the side of Benjamin's torso. His own hands are occupied, since one is pinning Quinn to the couch and the other is holding up his weight, and he can't help but feel like Quinn does have the upper hand, despite Benjamin being on top of him. The flare of annoyance from before makes a return, more in his abdomen than his chest, and it makes him act before his brain can kick in, grinding his hips downwards against Quinn's.
Quinn moans into Benjamin's mouth, his hand clutching Benjamin's sweater like a lifeline, so Benjamin does it again. Heat pools in his gut while his heartbeat works overtime to compensate. He does it again, and again, and Quinn's hand on his neck trails upwards to grip Benjamin's hair. He's not proud of the noise he makes against Quinn’s lips, especially when Quinn pulls him back, eyes lit up with mischief at his response.
"Shut up." It would probably have more impact if he wasn't so out of breath.
"I didn't say anything. That was all you," says Quinn, because he's the worst. He's just as breathless as Benjamin though, so at least they're on relatively even ground. Quinn pulls him back down, this time by the hair, and wraps his legs around Benjamin's thighs to pull down his hips, too. He groans, burying his face against Quinn's neck. He shivers under him, his hands now roaming under his shirt, and Benjamin feels burning trails on his skin at every point Quinn makes contact with. Benjamin removes his forearm from Quinn's chest finally, reaching down for the sliver of skin between his polo and jeans. Quinn makes a strangled noise that feels like his best victory so far.
"Off," Quinn orders, tugging up at Benjamin's shirt. "Get it off."
He’s not a huge fan of Quinn bossing him around. At the same time, Benjamin has never needed to take off his clothes more than in this instant, so he sits up and obliges. He can see Quinn shedding his jean jacket, clearly in just as much of a hurry, before he sits up to meet Benjamin and catches his lips in his again. In a move that is very unusual for Benjamin, he finds himself biting Quinn's lip. He groans and grips Benjamin's thighs, trying to buck his hips upwards, but they're no longer at an angle where that gives them the friction that they need. Benjamin forces himself to pull back, quickly thinking about the logistics of his plan before putting it into action. With one foot on the ground and his knee on the couch, he pulls Quinn's legs closer around his hips, ignoring clear confusion on his face.
"What are y—?"
"Hold on," Benjamin orders, tightening his hold on Quinn's waist before standing up. Quinn lets out an undignified yelp, grasping for Benjamin's shoulders as he's lifted up, his legs wrapped around him like a koala.
"Shit, would a heads up have killed you?" he mutters breathlessly into his shoulder, pulling back to look at Benjamin's entirely unapologetic expression.
"Oops."
He glares, but he's also clearly flushed as Benjamin carries him to the bedroom. "You're such an asshole."
"Takes one to know one."
Quinn can't argue with that, it seems, so he just kisses Benjamin again. Benjamin has to focus on not running into any furniture, but he manages to make it to the bedroom with Quinn pressing wet, hot kisses against his neck. He practically throws him onto the bed, because he can, and as much as Quinn is still glaring at him, Benjamin doesn't particularly care.
Quinn immediately starts unbuttoning his jeans, and the sight of that shoots straight down his navel, pressing against his pants uncomfortably. He swallows heavily before kicking off his shoes, reaching down to unbuckle his belt. The motion isn't as hurried as it was earlier; he can feel his fingers trembling against the synthetic leather.
It's not a pause by any means, but the pace has slowed down enough that Benjamin can think, and that doesn't tend to end well for him (who is he kidding? Nothing ends well for him). This is a terrible idea, objectively. All of this is a terrible, stupid idea that they're both going to regret. If things between them were tentatively awkward at best before, doing this is only going to make it worse. He should stop this before things inevitably go wrong.
Then again, he thinks, they've already kissed (they've done a little more than kissing, at this point). If things are already ruined, it doesn't really matter how far they go now. Benjamin can't change what they've already done, and he's already going to wallow in regret afterwards, so what difference does it make if they stop now or later?
Quinn throws his jeans somewhere on the floor and Benjamin exhales slowly, tossing his belt in a similar direction.
"What are you looking at?" Quinn asks, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Benjamin pulls down his zipper, not missing the way it catches Quinn's eye, or how his ears somehow turn even redder.
"I'll give you three guesses," he deadpans, staring at Quinn pointedly. His eyes only shift downward when Quinn swallows, taking in the curve of his Adam's apple as it bobs up and down. Benjamin gets on the bed, his knees sinking slightly into the mattress as he crawls over him. He leans down, Quinn's leg wrapping around one of his and—
Benjamin lets out a surprised huff when he lands on his back, looking up at Quinn who is smirking like a little shit. "Ha."
"You're ridiculous," he fires back, his hands immediately pulling up at Quinn's shirt. He shifts his weight backwards for a moment to fully get it off and—oh, he's straddling Benjamin. This feels like something he should've realized immediately. The sight of a shirtless Quinn breathing heavily over him, his thighs pressing against the sides of Benjamin's torso, his hair tousled beyond belief, and his eyes dark from dilation as he looks down at him, it all comes together to steal his breath away. His heart pounds so heavily that he wouldn't be surprised if Quinn could hear it or even feel it.
"Like what you see?" he teases, his voice a little hoarser than usual.
Benjamin has never been a good liar, so he doesn't even bother. "Yeah."
Quinn's face is already red, but it spreads down his neck and even to some of his chest. Benjamin's heart jitters in response, delighting in the undeniable proof that Quinn isn't a perpetually relaxed figure, cool beyond belief. Benjamin can make him burn. He traces his fingers up and down Quinn's thighs, making him shiver. He wonders how red he can make him, and the idea settles in his gut, liquid and heady. Quinn swallows, his neck still flushed. "Are you gonna do anything about it?"
"Someone's needy," Benjamin teases back.
Something flashes in Quinn's expression, too quick for him to place it. He drops back down, his skin burning against Benjamin's. "Fuck off," he hisses, and he sinks his teeth into Benjamin's neck.
Historically, Benjamin has never really been one for hickeys. He's bad at giving them, for starters, only able to leave a slight red mark at most. As for being on the receiving end, whatever enjoyment he could get from them is immediately cancelled out by the sheer mortification of anyone seeing the aftermath. Still, he's already established that this is a terrible, stupid idea, so he doesn't bother stopping Quinn. Benjamin lets his hands trace his back until there's a sharp jolt of protest from his neck. Benjamin's nails dig into Quinn's skin, his throat letting out something between a hiss and a groan.
"Fucking ow, Quinn." He feels a tongue lathe against the worried skin in response, and he can't help the slight moan that follows it. Quinn detaches himself for only a second before he bites down on another part of his neck, higher up.
Experimentally, Benjamin bucks his hips upwards. Quinn whimpers, the sound reverberating against his skin before Quinn grinds down against Benjamin. It's overwhelming, and he needs it to happen again immediately.
They do this for a few minutes, the lack of layers between them heightening everything in a way that’s almost intoxicating. That's when, right as their hips slot together and Quinn presses down, Benjamin's brain chimes in completely unprompted, because it hates him.
You shouldn't sleep with your friends. You're going to ruin things for everyone. Why do you even want to have sex with your friends? That's not normal. Imagine if you were doing this with Oliver. Imagine doing this with Jasper.
He glances at the hair next to him, moving his hand up to tangle through it. It's dark brown, with dirty blonde roots coming in. He's doing this with Quinn. It's fine. He doesn't want to have sex with all of his friends, he just happens to be doing it with one of them. It's fine.
You want to, but what if he doesn't?
No, he counters mentally, because Quinn pulled him in to kiss him. He initiated.
Right?
Benjamin frowns, thinking back to their argument. They were wrestling each other, then Benjamin pinned him down, forced him onto the couch, and then Quinn put a hand on his neck. Did he pull or push? No, he definitely pulled. But what if he felt like he had to? It's not like Benjamin left him with a lot of options back there.
"What?"
Benjamin blinks. Quinn is looking down at him, frowning. He doesn't know what time it is. His brain screams at him to check, because if it's about to be 5 o'clock then Isabelle is going to come home and look at what you've done—
"Are you sure about this?"
Quinn's eyes search his face for something, though Benjamin isn't sure what. Maybe he can tell that he thought about having sex with Jasper for two seconds. Benjamin's mouth opens again, words spilling out. "It's okay if you don't want to do this, or if I—"
"I do." Quinn's gaze pierces right into him, making Benjamin's mouth go dry. "Do you?"
"Yes." His voice is barely above a whisper. Quinn nods. His brain takes advantage of the brief silence to chime in again. He's only saying that because you made him uncomfortable and he was supposed to stay the night. "But if you're not—"
"Shut up, Benjamin."
He kisses him again, his tongue pressing lightly against Benjamin's lips. His brain doesn't know what to do with Quinn's refusal to confirm or deny its current spiral, but his mouth knows to open against Quinn's, and it's a lot easier to focus on that.
Quinn's mouth is hot, and the heat of it pools in his navel when he bites Benjamin's lip. A little frantically, his hand traces Quinn's back before settling on his waist, his thumb tracing under the waistband of his boxers. It's unexpected enough to throw Quinn off-kilter and, with a grunt, Benjamin takes the opportunity to roll them over. Quinn lets out a yelp that almost sounds like a squeak, equal parts annoyed and embarrassed as he looks up at Benjamin.
"Ha," Benjamin echoes back with a self-satisfied grin.
"You're— hmm." Quinn cuts himself off when Benjamin's hand trails down, tracing right below the waistband again.
Benjamin tilts his head innocently. "Sorry, what was that?"
"I hate you," Quinn manages, lifting his hips up and tugging at Benjamin's waistband with intent. Benjamin steels himself with a quick inhale and helps get both of their boxers off, pointedly not looking down.
"Oh no." He continues the bit with a dry voice. "However will I go on? I'm deva— hah." Without warning, Quinn presses his palm between Benjamin's legs. He's thankfully already kneeling, which is the only reason he doesn't immediately fall over. He has to put his weight on one arm against the mattress when Quinn starts stroking him, a strangled moan breaking out of him.
"Sorry, I didn't quite get that." Benjamin can hear the smugness dripping from Quinn's voice. He rests his forehead on Quinn's shoulder, trying to even his breathing.
"Fuck." Benjamin wasn't aware that his voice could sound this strained and desperate. Quinn's grip tightens just slightly as he moves his hand downwards, and Benjamin presses his mouth into his shoulder to muffle the sound that he makes at that. Something familiarly tight coils inside him, and he tilts his head towards Quinn's neck, copying him from earlier and biting down.
The reaction is instant. Quinn's grip falters and he whines, clutching Benjamin's arm hard enough to bruise.
Huh, Benjamin thinks. Interesting.
He's not good at properly leaving any marks, he knows, but he still has a perfectly good mouth. It seems to be more than enough for Quinn at least, writhing under him at every lick and press of his tongue. Every noise he makes builds up hot and heavy in Benjamin's gut.
He pulls back only because his tongue is getting sore, and he takes in the man below him. Quinn looks wrecked, flushed red at every possible inch of skin. The sight takes Benjamin's breath away again. Maybe, he realizes, the tension that he felt whenever they were alone had been this all along. At least partially. He just hadn't been able to place it until now, getting to see Quinn unraveled like this. Maybe their terrible idea was only a matter of time.
Quinn reaches for Benjamin's hip, almost in a daze. It takes him a couple tries to speak. "Benjamin."
The way Quinn says his name goes straight to his dick. Quinn, unfortunately, notices. "Benjamin," he says again, tugging him closer.
"Quinn." It tastes right in his mouth, ending in a gasp as they press against each other. Quinn is hot against him, his hands keeping Benjamin's hips flush against his. Benjamin thinks he's going to feel the press of his fingers against his skin in his dreams. He's dreaming now, he reminds himself, but any thoughts in his mind immediately melt away when Quinn moves.
The friction between their abdomens and each other is driving him insane, and it doesn't help when Quinn is moaning into his ear as he guides Benjamin's hips against his. Benjamin feels like he's burning from the inside out. It's addictive, and he needs to be closer, and he's so close, heat coiling in his abdomen, tightening like a rubber band about to snap.
"Quinn," he whimpers, his hands gripping his shoulder and his hair. "Quinn, please."
Quinn twitches under him, tightening his grip on Benjamin's waist as his hips stutter. Quinn's head presses back into the mattress, gasping, and Benjamin presses his mouth against his neck again. Quinn's hand shoots up from Benjamin's waist and straight up to his hair, tugging hard.
The rubber band snaps. Benjamin follows Quinn with a moan, his body tightening and releasing until it leaves him absolutely spent. He falls next to Quinn, panting as he stares up at his popcorn ceiling. They both slowly catch their breath, Benjamin blindly reaching towards his nightstand until he reaches the Kleenex box (the benefits of allergies, he supposes). He hands one to Quinn and then wipes himself clean, quickly tossing the two crumpled tissues onto his nightstand before staring at the ceiling again.
Well.
Benjamin has never been good at breaking awkward silences on a good day, let alone after a day like this, with post-nut clarity hanging over them both like a cartoon thunder cloud. Luckily, he doesn't have to.
"I didn't..." Quinn starts, pressing his lips together in thought. Benjamin's brain starts up again. See? He didn't want to do it, you made him— "I didn't mean it. Not like that, at least. You're not—I mean, you are, or at least you're… trying to be?"
Even Benjamin's brain can't keep up with that. "Dude. What?"
Quinn stares up at the ceiling, pointedly not looking at Benjamin. "The good parenting thing." His stomach sinks a little at the reminder. Ah. Right. "I didn't mean it about you and your daughter."
Benjamin closes his eyes. Counts to five. Opens them again. "I know." He shrugs, a jerky motion that does nothing to soothe the ache in his chest. "Not that you would've been wrong."
Quinn shakes his head. "You love that kid, man. Everyone can see it. And you've been trying to be a part of her life again, which can't be easy after... what happened." Quinn mirrors his shrug, the motion much smoother on his shoulders. "But you're doing it anyway. That's what a good parent does."
Benjamin bites down his lip, reaching at the foot of the bed for his throw blanket and pulling it up to cover them both. He doesn't have the energy to grab any of their clothes or actually get under the covers when his bones have just turned to lead. "Yeah, well. It's not going to happen for a good while." He swallows down the lump that carves itself in his throat. It doesn't really go away. "If ever."
Quinn turns to look at him, confused. Benjamin sighs. "Isabelle and I talked today. It was..." He runs his hands down his face. "Well, she said she had to think about it. And then she texted that she needs more time. And I mean, I get it. I really do. I put myself in this position, anyways. It's no one's fault but mine." He smiles a little ruefully down at the blanket, picking at it. "So, uh... not a great day. Kind of took it out on you."
Once again, he doesn't know how he expects Quinn to respond. Benjamin doesn't bother guessing this time. Quinn looks away, staring at the wall for a moment before:
"I saw my mom today."
Benjamin's eyes widen a little. Quinn swallows, his eyes flitting about for a moment in the silence. "Figured I could try visiting her, maybe."
He doesn't say anything else. After Benjamin figures out that he's not going to continue unprompted, he asks, "How did it go?"
Quinn scoffs, but it's small and pained rather than pointed and mean. "It went great. Like, actually. It was good. We had tea. I met... Arthur. We all chatted. It went well."
Benjamin waits again. "But?"
"I don't know." He presses his tongue against his cheek before shaking his head, looking down at his lap. "Brought old stuff back, I guess."
He thinks of Quinn's expression in the forest. More than that, he thinks of Quinn's face when they jumped into Jasper's head. He thinks of the fear in his eyes before he bolted. He thinks of chasing him despite that.
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't." Quinn holds up a hand, looking at him genuinely. "Stuff was weird for everyone. Neither of us handled it well. Let's leave it at that."
Benjamin pauses for a moment, making sure that Quinn means it. He seems to. Benjamin nods. "Okay."
"Okay."
Another silence settles over them, less uncomfortable than the first. It's still tense. Benjamin purses his lips, tapping his fingers on the blanket for a moment.
"So." Good enough start. "About... this."
Quinn glances at him. Benjamin gestures vaguely, at the blanket covering them and their shirtless torsos. "Y'know. This."
As if he's trying to keep a straight face, Quinn raises an eyebrow and smiles slightly in amusement. "Come on, Benji. Use your big boy words."
He rolls his eyes. "Are we going to talk about us having sex or what?"
"There it is," he quips. Benjamin shoves his shoulder. Quinn shoves him back, laughing. "What is there to talk about, man? We hooked up. It was good. We were both pent up, we probably needed that, it worked out. Pretty straightforward."
It being a matter of circumstance makes sense, now that Quinn is pointing it out. "Right." A thought occurs to him, blaring like a small alarm. "Jasper and Oliver can never know."
"Oh, yeah," Quinn agrees. "Absolutely not. It'd just makes things weird, y'know? They might think it's something else."
"Right," Benjamin agrees a little hollowly, trying very hard to not think about what "something else" would even be. "It's just a one time thing."
Quinn nods, holding out a hand to shake. "Still friends?"
Benjamin snorts, because he's pretty sure that this is the hand that Quinn jerked him off with like ten minutes ago, and this whole situation is a little absurd.
He takes it anyway, giving it a firm shake (and Oliver must be getting to him, because the accidental euphemism makes him crack a smile). "Still friends. Ish."
Quinn raises his eyebrows, his eyes playful. "Ish?"
"Quinn, I can count on a single hand how many times we've hung out one-on-one."
He laughs at that and runs a hand through his hair, still a little disheveled. "Okay, fair." He grins at Benjamin, a little crooked in a way that makes his eyes squint. "I guess we should do something about that."
The look on Quinn's face makes his stomach flip. One time thing, he reminds himself.
"Yeah." Benjamin nods. "Maybe we should."
It is not a one time thing. Benjamin really doesn't know what he expected.
When they actually followed through on spending more time together, Benjamin initially thought they'd maintain their other agreement, too. They went out for drinks—which yeah, okay, Benjamin can admit that was their first mistake. He was aware of that the second Quinn texted him about it. Still, he couldn't find it in himself to suggest a different plan—at least not without coming off like a creep. "Hey, I don't think we should go to a bar. Yeah, if there's any alcohol involved, I am way more likely to want to get in your pants again, at least more so than the current amount. How about coffee?"
It was fine at first, clinking their drinks together and cheering to being more than friends-ish—their second mistake, because even though they'd meant becoming regular friends, it absolutely came off as becoming more than friends, and neither of them bothered to clarify. Quinn sipped his cider and Benjamin sipped his beer (the only thing he was going to order for the night, as a preemptive measure) and they had good conversation, even when it eventually veered into a game of Never Have I Ever—which was such a bad idea that Benjamin thinks it counts as mistakes three and four.
Somewhere around mistake number seventeen, Benjamin's counter is digging into his back as Quinn undoes the fly of his pants, while Benjamin's lips press against the junction between Quinn's jaw and neck with a moan.
This is Benjamin with one beer. He absolutely cannot let Quinn see him when he has a margarita.
Afterwards, Benjamin reiterates that this isn't going to be an ongoing thing. Quinn agrees, shrugging on his denim jacket with a nod, that it won't happen again.
"It's just not a good idea, y'know?" Benjamin tells him after they go out for coffee, pulling his sweater back on over his head. "With our overlapping friend group and everything."
"Yeah, we don't want anything to get complicated," Quinn says about an hour after they come back from the movie theatre, rubbing at his sore knees. "This was a one time thing."
"Seven time thing, at this point," Benjamin corrects, tossing tissues into the bin after their trip to the museum. "But yes, this is the last time."
"Exactly," Quinn agrees, pulling Benjamin by the drawstrings of his swim shorts, still damp from their beach outing. "Last time."
"Last time," he echoes against Quinn's lips, while the show they chose to start together is ignored in the background.
At some point, Benjamin is pretty sure that Quinn started saying it like it's their own little inside joke. Benjamin wishes that he was kidding, too. He wishes that he was just teasing Quinn about their arrangement. But every time, Benjamin means it, because no matter how many times it happens, it's just as terrible of an idea. And every time, Benjamin takes one look at Quinn and folds like a house of cards made out of tissue paper. He has to pull out a new Kleenex box for his nightstand within two weeks. This situation is getting out of control.
Because this is happening so often, a few things become a part of their routine. They don't tell anyone about their arrangement. They always go to Benjamin's apartment, for ease, because Jasper would definitely find out otherwise. They always sit down (or lie down) to talk after, ranging from what they've been up to that day to whatever might be weighing on them (one time Quinn talks about the new set of crafting materials he just bought, and another time he admits that he doesn't know how he’s supposed to feel about Arthur, and another time he mentions that he's considering getting another piercing). Quinn will always either walk back to his place or crash on the couch, depending on the time and day. Benjamin still has no idea how his back isn't sore from sleeping on his couch, or from anything else they do, really (then again, Quinn is surprisingly bendy—which is absolutely not the point right now Benjamin, christ).
There's a tentative new normal, almost, with what they're doing. Benjamin would call it good, or even nice, if it wasn't still an objectively, stupidly, terrible idea. He should make more of an effort to stop this before it blows up in both of their faces. He should have a sliver of self-control so that this doesn't go too far. There's a lot of things he should do. None of them include Quinn climbing onto his lap and Benjamin pulling him closer. He does it anyway.
Which brings him to right now, sitting on his bed, with Quinn straddling him as they kiss, already half-undressed. Quinn pulls back suddenly before he reaches for his jacket on the floor and starts digging through the pockets. Benjamin barely gets a chance to ask what the hell he's looking for before he pulls out a condom with a victorious grin. There's a playful, challenging glint in his eyes, as if this is a fun idea and not them playing hopscotch over the line that they very much should not cross.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Benjamin presses his back against the wall and looks at the square packet like it's a live grenade—which it might as well be, in the metaphorical sense.
Quinn smirks, tilting his head slightly. "I'm pretty sure protection is always a good idea, Ben. Did you never get the talk?"
"Shut up, you know what I mean," he shoots back, staring at Quinn pointedly. "It's a big deal."
"I mean, sure." Quinn raises a teasing eyebrow. "If you're a coward."
"Quinn." They tend to bicker a lot when they're doing this, but there's a weight amidst the anticipation that hangs over Benjamin. "I'm serious."
He finally sobers up, sighing before picking at the edge of the wrapper. "I honestly don't think it's that big of a deal, man. We've already done plenty. It's all sex. Seriously though, if you don't want to, that's totally fine. I don't mind. We can do other stuff, or just call it a day." He seems earnest, shrugging with one shoulder as he searches Benjamin's face for something. "Just thought it might be fun. It's your call."
Benjamin searches deep inside himself for that sliver of self-control, or at least a little self-preservation. He looks at Quinn. He gives up.
"Who would even...?" Benjamin starts to gesture and then thinks better of it. Quinn's lips twitch into a smile.
"Dealer's choice. Might be easier for you to top, since you haven't bottomed before."
Benjamin takes the wrapper from Quinn's hand and places it on the bedside table for now, raising an eyebrow like a challenge. "Says who?"
Quinn's eyes widen a little, puzzled. "I thought you said you'd only made out with, like, one guy before this."
"Yup."
"So am I not the only guy you've done stuff with?"
"No, you are," he says simply.
He can see the moment Quinn's confusion shifts to realization. He tries not to preen at the reaction. "Benjamin."
"Yes?"
Quinn's lips break out into a mischievous smile. It shoots a jolt of excitement down Benjamin's spine. "Well, aren't you full of surprises?"
He can feel his own mouth twitch upwards slightly, though he tries to tamp it down. "Are you going to make a numbered list?"
"Fuck off." There's no heat behind it. His fingers trail circles on the bones of Benjamin's hips. He shivers, leaning forward so his lips just barely brush against Quinn's.
"Feeling's mutual."
Quinn kisses him. They don't do a lot of talking after that, for a while. It's all wandering hands and building tension. Through it all, Benjamin can practically feel the shiny square on his nightstand staring at them.
"Okay, how are we doing this?" he finally asks.
"However you want," Quinn answers unhelpfully. "Come on, what do you want, Benji? Use your words."
He rests his hands on Quinn's thighs as he thinks, idly tapping the edge of his underwear. The bright pattern jumps out against Quinn's skin, a bunch of Mac n' Cheese boxes on top of a lime green and teal background. He got a monthly subscription a while back apparently, slowly growing his collection of increasingly ridiculous boxer briefs. They're all so stupid that Benjamin tries to get them off of him as soon as possible. He has a sneaking suspicion that's why Quinn keeps wearing them.
He can feel himself pressing up against Quinn automatically, who shifts his hips into it easily. He pictures them without any layers in between, pressing even tighter, and he has to close his eyes at the mental image. Benjamin swallows, the motion heavier than it should be. With a deep breath to brace himself, he forces the words out, pushing them past his teeth and lips as his cheeks flush beyond belief. "I want to be inside you."
Quinn hums, tracing his finger against the waistband of Benjamin's underwear—dark green, because his closet is all plain, solid colors. "That can be arranged."
"Like this," he blurts out, his grip on Quinn's legs tightening briefly. "I want you here. I want to see you."
The pink on Quinn's face brightens just slightly, his nose nearly red. "That can be arranged," he says again, though his voice is a little more strained.
This is a terrible idea, he thinks, as he takes in Quinn's reactions to his fingers. This is a terrible idea, he thinks, as he lets Quinn roll the condom on him. This is a terrible, terrible idea, he knows, when Quinn starts to lower himself on him. The only things he can think after that are tight and fuck and hot and right and good, good, so good.
Quinn starts to move but Benjamin presses his hands down against his thighs, trying to think coherently for two seconds. "Give me a sec," he breathes out. "Holy shit, Quinn."
Quinn isn't doing much better, if the sweat on his brow and shallow breathing are any indicator. "Benjamin." His voice shakes a little, which elicits a reaction out of Benjamin, and Quinn can obviously feel it, biting down on his lip harder than he probably should. "If you don't start moving immediately, I'm going to kill you."
"Someone's impatient," Benjamin stalls.
He's learned that, for all their teasing, Quinn doesn't like words like 'needy' or 'desperate', so he's not entirely sure how 'impatient' is going to land. It seems to go over alright, considering Quinn's responding glare is playful rather than pissed off. "Oh, it's like that, huh?"
"It's historically been like that," Benjamin points out, still holding down Quinn's legs. "Surprised you hadn't picked up on that yet."
He rolls his eyes. "Fuck you."
"Other way around."
"Can you just shut up and move?"
"Why don't you make me?"
It's at this exact moment that Benjamin realizes that, though Quinn can't move up and down, he can rock back and forth. He slams his head back against the wall at the sensation, any remaining blood in his body rushing downward. "Fuck," he says a little weakly. "Okay."
Quinn looks far too proud of himself, running his hands over Benjamin's to loosen their grip. He then places one hand on Benjamin's waist as the other tangles into his hair, making eye contact through his unfairly long eyelashes. "Okay?"
This is a terrible, stupid idea. Benjamin nods anyway.
Quinn moves. Benjamin just barely manages to hold on, his hands gripping onto anything and everything to stay grounded when everything is tight and hot and—
"So good." He squeezes Quinn's shoulder and waist, words pouring out of his mouth in-between moans. "You're so good, you feel so, so good, Quinn, fuck."
Quinn whines, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pressed together tightly as he keeps moving, skin turning redder by the second. There's a bead of sweat trailing down his cheek, and Benjamin wipes it away with his thumb. Quinn's skin burns to the touch. He's breathtaking. Benjamin finds himself bucking his hips upwards, as if he can somehow get even closer to Quinn. It definitely does something—Quinn squeezes his eyes shut, his mouth falling open with a moan. Benjamin does it again, meeting Quinn halfway on each thrust. He finally opens his eyes, looking down at Benjamin a little desperately. Benjamin just traces his thumb against his cheek, breathing heavily as he looks right back at him. Without breaking eye contact, Quinn tilts his face to press his lips against Benjamin's thumb. Benjamin traces his bottom lip, pink and swollen from kissing. Quinn takes him by surprise, again, when he wraps his mouth around Benjamin's finger, hollowing out his cheeks.
"Hah—christ." He traces his free hand up and down his back, gliding easily as Quinn keeps grinding up and down. He can tell his words are coming out more slurred, but he can't really do anything about it when Quinn's mouth is on him and he's inside Quinn and he truly has no idea how he hasn't fallen apart yet. "You're so good, so so beautiful, such a pretty mouth."
Quinn hums into the praise. Benjamin can feel it on his tongue. He's so close. Still muttering compliments in a haze, he moves his hand from Quinn's back to his abdomen, trailing until he can wrap his fingers around him.
The sounds that Quinn starts making are nothing short of obscene, his jaw going a little slack as he trembles under Benjamin's grip, and he knows that these noises are going to haunt him in the shower for months. He twists his wrist, and when Quinn tightens around him, Benjamin feels them both finally let go.
Quinn all but slumps over Benjamin when they're done, his face buried against his shoulder as he breathes heavily. Benjamin really doesn't want to move him, but he already feels sticky all over in a way that he knows will make his skin crawl soon. As gingerly as possible, he lifts Quinn with a slight wince at the sensitivity. Quinn fully detaches himself at that point, flopping onto the bed like a ragdoll face-up. His eyes are closed, still taking deep breaths. Benjamin quickly discards the used condom with a wrinkled nose and wipes at himself with a tissue. He grabs one to hand to Quinn as usual, but he pauses when he sees him still lying down with closed eyes. He purses his lips for a moment, running the tissue paper between his fingers.
Quinn lets out a noise when Benjamin starts wiping him down, but he makes no effort to move, either. Benjamin tosses the used tissues and looks down at him again.
"Do you want to shower?" he asks.
"Hmm."
Benjamin frowns slightly. "Are you okay?"
"Mhm," Quinn confirms, eyes still closed. "'M good."
Benjamin keeps looking at a clearly dazed Quinn, hair plastered to his forehead. He lets out another noise when Benjamin's fingers start to scratch his scalp, trying to make his hair look at least halfway presentable. Not that it makes much of a difference, Benjamin figures. He'll probably shower once he returns to the world of the living, and with how late it is, he's going to crash on Benjamin's couch tonight.
He cards his hands through Quinn's hair anyway. He doesn't seem to mind.
After a few minutes, Quinn blinks blearily before squinting up at the ceiling, still in a slight daze. He looks confused, which Benjamin has to admit is a little funny. He pats the top of Quinn's head a couple times. "Morning, sunshine."
Quinn's eyebrows furrow. "Morning?"
Benjamin chuckles. Man, he is out of it. "Nah, it's been like... ten minutes, maybe? Didn't realize you actually fell asleep there."
Benjamin pulls back his hand when Quinn carefully goes to sit up, his eyes slowly coming back into focus. "My bad," he says calmly. It sounds odd for some reason, but he did just wake up from a post-sex nap, so Benjamin shrugs it off.
"You're fine. Nothing wrong with being asleep, right?" He taps at the apple on his nightstand with a slight smile before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "C'mon, I'll get the shower going for you."
After fighting with the knobs for a couple minutes, he manages to get the temperature to something that isn't scalding or freezing. He steps back into the bedroom, internally debating whether they could shower together or if his refractory period was starting to hate him. His train of thought is interrupted by the sight of Quinn pulling his shirt back on. He's almost fully dressed, his hair still tousled and his face impassive. Benjamin blinks, his mouth moving silently for a few moments. "Uh." Quinn doesn't turn to look at him, too busy putting on his shoes. Benjamin tries again, still thrown off his rhythm. "The water's ready."
"I'm good."
His voice is still oddly calm. Benjamin frowns. "Good?"
He puts on his other shoe, even though it feels like it just dropped. "Yeah, I'll just shower at the house."
The water keeps running, a surprisingly calm backdrop to this absolutely baffling interaction. "You're walking? Now ? It's like... past ten."
"I don't mind," he says easily, looking for his denim jacket. He still hasn't looked at Benjamin. "Don't worry."
Benjamin isn't sure he would call this emotion worry, per se. Whatever emotion he's feeling, because he truly doesn't know what emotion he is feeling, he just knows that he's out of his depth.
"You're being weird," he blurts out, because Quinn is being weird, despite the casual way he shrugs on his jacket without a care in the world, as if they hadn't agreed earlier that he'd be spending the night. In fact, it's weird because he's so casual, as if nothing strange is happening. Benjamin feels like he's losing his mind a little bit.
Quinn finally looks at him, and Benjamin is suddenly very aware that he's completely naked while Quinn is fully clothed. It's somehow not as embarrassing as Quinn's cool expression, a complete detachment from the languid haze he'd been in just a few minutes ago. Not for the first time, Benjamin is reminded of the fact that Quinn is a memory. Sometimes the light will hit him just right, and he looks like an old photograph or a living echo. Right now, he looks ephemeral, like a vague recollection that's already becoming fuzzy in Benjamin's mind.
"Like I said, I'm good." He shrugs, smooth and collected all around. Benjamin feels like clunky and jagged edges. Quinn shoots him a very brief smile, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "I'll see you around."
And with that, Quinn turns around and leaves.
Benjamin hears the front door open and close. The shower is still running. His eyes land on the silver wrapper on the floor. He automatically goes to pick it up and throw it in the trash. He goes into the bathroom. He steps into the shower. He stands in the shower. His skin doesn't feel clean. Nothing does. He gets out of the shower.
He goes through the motions until he's back in bed, ignoring what he'd been doing on it earlier and who'd he'd been doing it with. Benjamin feels like he's wandering in the aftermath of an explosion, and whatever line they weren't supposed to cross has been completely obliterated to ash.
He closes his eyes. Counts to five. Benjamin still isn't sure what happened. All he knows is that something feels wrong and there's nothing he can do but sit in it. He may not understand his mistakes still, but it looks like at least their aftermath is consistent.
He opens his eyes. He checks the time. It's 11:09 PM.
Benjamin tells himself to wake up.
Like Quinn said, they see each other around. The venn diagram of their friend groups is a singular, overlapping circle, so it's kind of inevitable. The four of them will go to the bowling alley, or watch Lumbersweats, or to a botanical garden, and they'll all hang out and have a good time.
They see each other around plenty. The thing is, they don't talk.
Quinn makes no point of suggesting one-on-one hangouts anymore, and the two attempts Benjamin has made to suggest a plan have been smoothly but solidly turned down. im busy then, srry, but maybe next time. When they're in group settings, he always greets Benjamin with an even smile and a slight head nod. Quinn is perfectly fine and perfectly polite and perfectly distant. Benjamin kind of hates him for it.
Benjamin isn't stupid, okay? He almost has a doctorate and he wasn't born yesterday. Quinn is obviously no longer interested in whatever arrangement they had going. There was always going to be a last time eventually, and Benjamin can live with that. Quinn is done with him. The thing is, he still has no idea why. And not only is he refusing to tell Benjamin what the reason is, but he's pretending they have nothing to talk about at all.
So they don't talk. It's almost like everything is back to how it was before, except Benjamin still feels that weird crawl on his skin since Quinn left his apartment. The way things are going, it looks like he's just gonna have to learn how to live with it forever. Add it to the list.
It's fine. At least their other friendships have been spared from whatever explosion went off after Benjamin went to set up the shower almost two weeks ago. They spend time with Oliver and Jasper, and it's good, even though Oliver keeps shooting him these concerned looks that he doesn't want to acknowledge yet. They spend time with the ex-cult, too—and they do invite Benjamin to their friendsgiving, along with Jasper and Oliver and Quinn. It's on the Monday of Thanksgiving week, to accommodate for people's other plans, which Benjamin doesn't have, although Isabelle has been texting him again recently. It's still a very rocky work in progress, but despite the tension, they're talking through it, which is more than he can say for other areas of his life. Benjamin accepts that invitation because he might as well, and because he knows Oliver is going to shoot him more of those looks if he's the only one to be a no-show. He's not sure if those looks are part of the reason Oliver invites him to Thanksgiving with his family—well, "invite" implies the illusion of choice, which Oliver doesn't exactly leave room for when he announces that Benjamin is in charge of dessert. Still, it seems to settle some of Oliver's concern when he agrees to bring a pumpkin pie, and it settles some of the weight in Benjamin's chest, too.
It makes their current plan a little more manageable, despite how chaotic it is. Peterson, apparently, has been dabbling in mixology recently, and Robert proudly organized a cocktail night to help them develop their skills. Everyone has taken turns trying Peterson's drinks, whether they're classic cocktails or experimental inventions, which have varying rates of success. William is currently drinking a bastardized old fashioned while he talks to Oliver about stage scripts and screenplays, with Benjamin only chiming in on occasion. He can see Robert and Jasper off to his right, where Jasper keeps handing Robert the little umbrellas and cherries from his drinks. Robert happily takes them, placing the paper umbrellas over both of their ears while a collection of cherry stem knots slowly grows in front of them. Benjamin makes a point to not touch that table or any of the spit-covered cherry stems, even if he can admit they're impressive, considering Robert has a tongue piercing. Further back, the door to the kitchen shows Peterson trying to do another salt rim. It's looking about as messy as the one in Benjamin's hand, the salt occasionally flaking down his hand and on the floor whenever he sips his prickly pear margarita. Behind Peterson, as physically far away as he can possibly be without straight up leaving, is Quinn. He's chopping limes, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Benjamin takes a big, big swig of his drink to not think about the last time he saw Quinn's eyebrows do that.
It's fine. It continues to be fine when they all get their second drinks. Now Benjamin is mainly witnessing Oliver and Robert's conversation, only half following. He's pretty used to Oliver's tendency to go on tangents and switch topics like he's playing jump rope, but it's a whole other thing when he's talking to someone else with that same ability. William is helping Peterson blend something while Jasper and Quinn stand off to the side, having a quiet conversation that would look a lot more serious if Jasper didn't still have a paper umbrella tucked over his ear. Benjamin's current drink is red and fizzy—pomegranate soda and tequila, maybe? It's a Peterson original, and honestly not that bad, though maybe a little too carbonated for his taste. He completely loses track of what Oliver and Robert are talking about, and Benjamin watches Quinn poke his head in the kitchen to make some joke at William. Both Peterson and William laugh at it, and Quinn grins, because he's cool and chill and entirely fucking unbothered, apparently.
It's fine. It's incredibly fine. By the third round, Benjamin is still halfway through his red and fizzy concoction while they all sit in a pseudo-circle, chatting with each other while someone's playlist fills the background from a Bluetooth speaker. He doesn't know who's in charge of music. Quinn, probably. He likes making playlists. It's a hobby that he takes very seriously; he would proudly show off whenever a playlist he made got more than five saves, grinning excitedly about the fact that someone outside their friend group liked his work. He would look giddy, almost, squinting softly as his lit phone screen reflected back on his eyes, almost making them glow.
Quinn is sipping something clear with a paper umbrella and a silly straw. His lips wrap around it as he takes a sip, giving Robert a pat on the shoulder. His eyes are relaxed, but not really—Benjamin has seen him relaxed, and this isn't it. This is the Quinn that leans on doorways and smirks like he stepped out of a magazine and keeps his hands in his pockets. Benjamin knows there's more underneath the aloofness and measured expressions.
Quinn sets his glass down and heads to the bathroom. Benjamin taps his fingers against his glass, staring at the doorway he just left through.
He doesn't have to chase after him. He doesn't have to do anything. He can just sit right here next to Oliver and wait, and let the discomfort under his skin fade on its own.
He knows that it won't.
With one last sip, he pats Oliver's shoulder and says he's going to the restroom—he's the only one that's really going to notice Benjamin's absence. Oliver gives him a quick nod and a smile before turning back to Jasper, resuming their in-depth discussion of the Lumbersweats hexelkin arc.
So now Benjamin is leaning against the wall, staring at the bathroom door in front of him, wondering how in yart's sake his life got to this point. He feels creepy, obviously, cornering Quinn like this, but he has a feeling that any other attempt to try and talk to him will be easily avoided or shut down. Benjamin just needs to know why. That's it. Benjamin knows there's something wrong with him fundamentally, somewhere deep in his brain that he can't rewire. He knows he can't change that. But he needs to know what he did this time to end things, even if it's as simple as "I'm just not feeling it anymore,” or he’s going to drive himself crazy. He needs some degree of closure so he can at least try to leave this weird post-explosion limbo they've been left in. Quinn can act cool and aloof all he wants, but he has to be feeling whatever this is, too. There's a reason Quinn is avoiding it.
"You always avoid shit you don't like, and I'm not letting you this time."
Yeah, look in a goddamn mirror, Quinn.
As if on cue, the door opens. It takes Quinn exactly two seconds to see there's someone waiting, two more to see that it's Benjamin, and one fraction of a millisecond to school his expression. For once, Benjamin catches it. He keeps his arms crossed, making no effort to move, while Quinn stands in the doorway. Benjamin also catches the way he shifts his weight back and forth, like he was about to lean on the doorway but thought better of it. Quinn swallows, inhales, and shrugs.
"All yours, man."
Quinn turns to squeeze past Benjamin and heads back to the party. Just like that. Like he doesn't have a care in the fucking world.
The past couple weeks slam into Benjamin like a freight train, burning white-hot and seething beneath his ribs. He grabs the collar of Quinn's stupid jacket and yanks him back, pushing him into the bathroom before slamming the door closed behind them. Quinn almost stumbles over the toilet, the lid falling shut in the process. He's finally showing a degree of emotion on his face. Surprised. Confused. Irritated.
Yeah, he thinks bitterly, the memory of Quinn turning around without a single explanation constricting in his chest, how does that feel?
"What the hell?" Quinn spits out, as if he doesn't know exactly what this is about. It’s so aggravating that Benjamin has to clench his hands into fists. He feels poison pooling in his mouth, itching to tear into Quinn for ghosting him. Benjamin wants to scream at him for running away, wants to hit him where it hurts and say that it’s clearly all Quinn knows how to do. Maybe this is the only way they know how to talk, he thinks. Whether it's forests or apartments or cramped bathrooms, it's always raised voices and barbed words, lashing out with intent to hurt.
Except that's not true, is it? They've been able to have conversations that aren't fights. Plenty of them, in fact. They all just have one thing in common.
At the end of the day, Benjamin is a man of science. He is also kind of drunk (he knew he shouldn’t have had a margarita around Quinn), and pent up, and a little bit desperate for options, but he's mostly a man of science. If you've tested out a method in the past with over a 95% success rate, it is only logical to trust it will be successful again. This could go horribly, he knows. This could result in the 5% of catastrophic failure. But, as he's already learned, he has an affinity for terrible and stupid ideas.
Quinn lets out a muffled "Hmph!" against Benjamin's mouth, his body going stiff in shock when Benjamin kisses him. The regret is instant. What the hell is he doing? What the hell is wrong with him? He pulls away, an apology already on his lips. Quinn pulls him back in and steals it away, his hands gripping Benjamin's shirt.
95%. Pretty good odds.
He holds onto Quinn's waist and tries to pull him closer, even though they're already flush with each other. Quinn stumbles and, with a surprised yelp, falls back on the toilet seat. Benjamin wastes no time chasing him down, sitting on Quinn's lap and kissing his neck, his hands roaming a little frantically. Instinctively, Quinn presses upward, and Benjamin responds by grinding his hips down, rolling against Quinn with intent. He lets out a noise under him that is going to drive Benjamin into a frenzy, but is also louder than it should be. He slaps his hand over Quinn's mouth and he makes another noise in response, which Benjamin is absolutely going to examine later. He uses his other hand to trail under his shirt, purposefully going for all the areas he knows Quinn is sensitive to, all while pressing open mouthed kisses to his neck. Quinn must be as pent up as Benjamin, because he's trembling and twitching into every point of contact, his breathing quickly going shallow.
Benjamin only manages to find some self-control, apparently, when he has an objective in mind. He pulls back his hips, mouth, and roaming hand from Quinn in one move, who lets out a frustrated sound against Benjamin's palm, still trembling just slightly.
"You're coming to my place tonight," he says. It doesn't matter that his own voice sounds a little wrecked, because he's clearly doing a lot better than Quinn, who is still trying to buck his hips upwards into empty air. He finally huffs against Benjamin's hand and slumps down, glaring at him. His Adam's apple bobs up and down. He takes a couple deep breaths. Finally, he nods.
Benjamin removes his hand and sighs deeply, nodding. "Okay. Now go back out there, I'll be out soon."
Quinn stares at him for a moment, still flushed and with his shirt untucked. "Are you being serious right now?"
"You came out here first," he points out. "It's gonna be weird if we leave at the same time, or if I leave before you."
Quinn knows this is all true. Quinn also knows, however, that Benjamin is getting a kick out of the whole situation. So what? Quinn kind of deserves it. With another glare, he stands up and tries to look presentable, adjusting his jeans a couple of times with a grimace. "I hate you so much."
"I'll live."
He gives Benjamin a long, exasperated look. It’s leagues better than what he was getting from him ten minutes ago. Quinn just barely shakes his head, as if he's waking himself up, and closes the door behind him.
Benjamin lets out a sharp exhale, leaning his hands on the bathroom sink before daring a glance in the mirror. His hair is a little tousled. His cheeks are pink, but that can be explained away by alcohol. He runs his hands up and down his face, trying to figure out how he's going to get through the rest of the evening.
He'll see Quinn. He's not entirely sure what he'll do after that.
The walk back to Benjamin's apartment is nothing short of awkward, tense, and so sexually charged that he fears making any people walking past uncomfortable.
It's getting cold enough for Benjamin to wear a jacket. He mirrors Quinn by keeping his hands in his pockets, the leather keeping the brisk air at bay. The weather shows on Quinn's face, every passing street lamp showing the pink flush at the tips of his ears and the edge of his nose, just barely visible. Benjamin tries not to stare too much, but his eyes keep catching on the glint of Quinn's hoop earrings. He looks like a memory again, like something nostalgic that you want to hold onto for just a few more minutes. Benjamin picks at the seam of the pocket and stares ahead.
His keys jingle as he sorts through them in the dark—whatever time it is, it's late—and manages to unlock his door. There are no lights on, because his electricity bill is already atrocious as it is, so he's still trying to guess where the key bowl is when Quinn presses him up against the door. Benjamin tosses his keys blindly. They definitely land on the floor. He doesn't particularly care right now.
"You are such a fucking asshole." Quinn goes with that as his opening statement. "We were there for, like, two more hours after that."
Benjamin levels him with a deadpan stare. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was waiting around for me uncomfortable for you?"
It's a little sharper than he means it to be. Quinn notices, his face darkening slightly. "Sorry that I couldn't be at your beck and call, princess."
His voice is mocking, dripping with derision. Benjamin, already exasperated, clenches his jaw. The poison pools in his mouth again. He swallows it down, squaring his shoulders and letting out a short breath. He doesn’t take the bait this time.
"Don't bring your weird kinks into this."
It surprises Quinn enough that he can see a twitch of a smile before he presses his lips together. "Shut up."
Benjamin knows he's stealing this line straight out of Lumbersweats again, but he can't help it. "Why don't you make me?"
There's a glint in his eyes before Quinn presses up to kiss him, licking into his mouth and tugging at Benjamin's jacket. He obliges, pulling off Quinn's jacket as he sighs into the kiss. Benjamin tries to step forward but Quinn slams him back against the door again, nails digging into his lower back. His bedroom might as well be in Antarctica right now, with how unwilling they are to make the trip over there, but even his attempt to shift sideways onto the couch is stopped by Quinn, pulling Benjamin back to center before pressing his palm over his jeans.
Well, Benjamin's neighbors are going to hate him. They might as well be in Antarctica too, for all he cares.
Quinn undoes the buckle of Benjamin's belt so quickly that he can't help but be impressed. He can't help but be turned on too, but that's a given. He bites Quinn’s lip and tries to tuck his hand under his shirt like earlier, but Quinn actually swats him away, as if he's a kid reaching for the cookie jar. He pulls back (not by much, because the door is immediately pressing against the back of his skull), a little offended. "What are y—?"
"You said to make you shut up, right?" Quinn interrupts, pulling Benjamin's pants down just enough for access. Any possible response Benjamin could think of swirls down the drain of his mind when Quinn gets on his knees, still making eye contact.
The first time that Quinn gave him a blowjob, Benjamin very quickly had them pause to switch positions, because he couldn't really handle standing up (more importantly, staying up) if he was on the receiving end. Every time after that, Quinn has always made sure that Benjamin is kneeling, sitting, or lying down. Benjamin knows for a fact that Quinn remembers this. He doesn't get a chance to point that out before Quinn's lips wrap around him, and he has to hold on to the doorknob and the arm of the couch to not immediately lose balance.
"Fucking—shit, Quinn, god," he babbles out, slamming his head against the door a little harshly to ground himself. "You're—hah—such a dick."
He doesn't even dignify Benjamin with a response, looking up at him through those stupidly long lashes as he swirls his tongue and bobs his head. Benjamin whines, because he's pent up enough that he probably won't last long, not like this, with Quinn being so relentless. His gasping quickly turns to moaning, and he pats a little desperately at Quinn's shoulder, to let him know that he's about to—
Something tightens at the base of his dick, cutting off the building tension like a cork plugged back into a champagne bottle. He makes a noise that he is not proud of, confused, until he looks down at Quinn's hand squeezing around him, keeping him from falling over the edge. There's a competitive glint in his eyes.
"Wh–what, why, what're you—?" Benjamin's tongue struggles to form words, let alone coherent ones, but Quinn cuts him off anyway.
"You can wait a little longer, right?" he asks innocently. "You'll live."
Benjamin is pretty sure this counts as a murder attempt, so he's not really sure he agrees. "Wh–no, y—"
Quinn puts his lips on him again, and Benjamin tilts sideways, because his legs have officially declared that they are no longer cooperating. Quinn pulls off of him—thank god, because he doesn't want to deal with any teeth-related accidents and the most mortifying possible reason to end up in an ER—but as soon as Benjamin stumbles to sit on the arm of the couch, Quinn is back like he never stopped. He's able to go all the way down, and Benjamin whimpers when he can feel the back of Quinn's throat. He digs his nails into the fabric of the couch, his breath ragged, watching the way he goes in and out of Quinn's mouth. A strangled moan catches in his own throat, squeezing his eyes shut as heat pools in his gut, so so close—
Quinn's hand squeezes again. The frustration sticks to his chest like a live wire. He keeps his eyes shut tight enough that he can see stars. The upholstery presses against his fists as his hands tremble.
"Come on, Benji. You can wait a little longer, right?"
Benjamin can feel everything. His head shakes, eyes still squeezed shut. "Quinn."
The tone of his voice changes something. Quinn's hand disappears. It's both a relief and a loss. There's not a hint of teasing in his voice when he asks, "What's wrong?"
Too much. Not enough. Benjamin forces himself to breathe to find more coherent words. His brain comes up blank. "Too much." Benjamin hates how uneasy he sounds. "'S not good when it's too much."
"Do you want to stop?"
Benjamin shakes his head frantically. "No no, I need to—I can't—it's too much, I need to—please don't stop, stop stopping, please—"
"Okay." Quinn's voice is calm, but not in the eerie controlled way from last time. "Okay. I won't stop this time. I promise."
He believes him. "Okay." Benjamin nods before running a hand down his face. "Okay, you can—please, Quinn, please."
Benjamin doesn't open his eyes until Quinn's mouth wraps around him again. He's moving slower this time—not at a torturous pace, just a less overwhelming one. Now it's Quinn's eyes that are closed, swirling his tongue in a way that makes Benjamin a little light-headed. He's so hard that he might actually pass out, which is exactly why he doesn't love standing for this kind of thing. Quinn relaxes his jaw as he goes down, his tousled hair falling over his eyebrows.
Benjamin brushes it away and cards his fingers through Quinn's hair. He hums into the touch, and Benjamin feels it all around him. He whines, his hips twitching, as he keeps playing with his hair.
One of the times they did this particular position, they decided to try out Benjamin taking the lead. He'd held onto Quinn's hair with a solid grip and moved him up and down, guiding his pace and occasionally fucking into his mouth. It had been fun, and Quinn enjoyed it, but Benjamin was no longer a fan the second he saw tears in the corners of Quinn's eyes. He’d clarified that it didn't actually hurt, that it was just a natural reaction from his gag reflex, and Benjamin believed him, but he just didn't feel comfortable if the other person cried. His brain found it too easy to weaponize that against him. His mind would haunt him, the thoughts persistent for days afterwards. See? This is proof. You hurt the people that you care about. Your love hurts.
So he makes sure that his fingers move softly, gently trailing along Quinn's scalp as he keeps moving. Quinn's hands tighten, squeezing Benjamin's thighs as he leans his head towards the touch. Benjamin lets go of the couch to take one of Quinn's hands, easing his grip, and then holding it there. Quinn lets out a high-pitched noise at that, his eyebrows furrowed, and Benjamin wishes he were flexible enough to kiss away that wrinkle above his nose.
Quinn keeps his eyes closed, holding Benjamin's hand as he takes him in fully. He hollows out his cheeks with purpose, Benjamin feels the hum in the back of his throat press against him, and he's gone.
He doesn’t know how much time passes. He keeps running his hands through Quinn’s hair to remind his body that it’s still conscious. Eventually, he more or less comes back to himself. Quinn has already pulled his underwear back up, and he’s still kneeling on the ground. Benjamin almost feels bad for not offering him a pillow, and then remembers that Quinn didn’t exactly give him an opportunity to do that anyway. He doesn’t feel like a live wire or an exposed nerve anymore, but he’s weirdly shaky from the inside out. Quinn is resting his cheek against Benjamin’s thigh, his eyes searching Benjamin’s face carefully. His voice is a little hoarse when he speaks. “Are you good?”
Benjamin resists the urge to automatically respond with I’m fine, taking mental stock. “Enough. Better.”
“Did I suck your soul out?”
Benjamin exhales softly, in what could almost be a laugh. “Little bit.”
Quinn drops his gaze, looking at the wall next to them. He takes a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself for something. “Sorry. The whole…” He makes a face, clearly uncomfortable. “I should’ve realized.”
“Hey.” Benjamin tilts his head back up. Quinn doesn’t make eye contact. “You realized pretty much when I did. And, I mean… the first time was. I mean, it was. Y’know.” He doesn’t know why he’s flustered about this when he just had his dick in Quinn’s mouth. “I liked it. It felt good at first. Genuinely. Just maybe go a little easier on me next time.”
Quinn looks at him and—shit, why did Benjamin imply this would be an ongoing thing again? Before he can backtrack, Quinn nods. “Still. We should have a safe word or something.”
Benjamin is only a little embarrassed it took them this long to discuss this. “Oh. Yeah, probably.”
Quinn smirks, running his fingers on the seam of Benjamin’s jeans, tracing the outside of his knee. “You know, a lot of people use the word apple.”
Benjamin snickers. “Oh, Oliver would get a kick out of that.”
“Ew.”
“Not like that, dumbass.”
“Hey, I don’t kinkshame.”
“Hm,” Benjamin considers. “Debatable.”
Quinn smacks Benjamin’s knee softly. “Rude.”
“Yeah, I know, you’re into that.”
With his eyes fully adjusted to the dark, it’s easy to see how Quinn flushes at that. “Glass houses, Benjamin.”
“Hey, you’re the one that got tackled and decided the natural progression from that was to make out with me.”
It’s a joke, and Benjamin cracks it easily, equal parts lighthearted and teasing. It’s not until he says it out loud and the words hang in the air that he really takes them in. Back then, when Quinn pulled him into their first kiss, he hadn’t questioned it because he was far too busy kissing him back, but he had no idea why Quinn had actually done it. It’s been a little over a month and he still has no clue.
Something indescribable passes over Quinn’s face. He swallows and clears his throat, wincing at the motion. “Apple as a safe word would be pretty complicated for us, considering. What about like… tree?”
It’s easily the most unsubtle change of topic that he’s ever seen Quinn attempt, but he doesn’t quite want to call him out on it. Not yet, at least. He doesn’t really know what he wants.
Benjamin, what is in this for you, man?
The memory should be sharper, more piercing, but this time it’s muffled and the ache is only dull. He only thinks about this particular memory because of Quinn’s suggestion. It’s an unbidden, distant, irrelevant case of word association. Benjamin must still be a bit delirious, because for whatever reason, he decides to say his stupid, unfiltered thought out loud.
“Ah,” he says sagely. “A tree.”
Quinn looks up at him, slowly pressing his lips together. Benjamin’s lips twitch upward. Quinn’s shoulders start shaking.
They burst out into full-bodied laughter, wheezing hysterically. Benjamin tries to muffle at least some of it with his hand, but Quinn is cackling, his forehead pressed against Benjamin’s leg. They barely manage to contain themselves before they make eye contact and lose it again, giggling like complete idiots.
“Jasper Christ,” Quinn gasps, his hand pressed to his stomach. “I can’t believe I forgot about that guy.”
Benjamin buries his face in his hands, still chuckling. “Oh, I couldn’t forget it if I tried, man. It was so ridiculous.”
Quinn giggles again, fluttery and warm. He presses a hand to his mouth and smiles up at Benjamin, his eyes squinting happily. “I think we have to use that one.”
Benjamin snorts, grounding himself through the fun, jittery feeling that is floating in his chest. “Yeah, I think we do.”
The silence settles over them comfortably. Benjamin keeps messing with Quinn’s hair.
“Oh, hey.“ He remembers his much more relevant thought from earlier. “Are your knees okay?”
“Oh, they’re killing me,” Quinn says matter-of-factly.
“Stand up?” Benjamin tells him a little incredulously. “You know that’s gonna be so much worse tomorrow.”
“I am well aware,” he says. “Worth it, though.”
Benjamin shakes his head softly. “Idiot.”
Quinn hisses slightly as he gets up, bending and stretching out his legs a few times. Benjamin pulls up his pants properly and is about to stand up as well when he notices Quinn’s pants.
Right. They haven’t quite gotten around to that. It doesn’t look like Quinn is planning on it, however, when he goes for the closet where Benjamin keeps the spare pillows and blankets.
Benjamin is still notoriously mediocre at playing host, but he’s not that bad at it.
“Get on the couch.”
Quinn turns around and looks at him curiously, his eyes flitting about Benjamin’s face. He figures out what he’s getting at and waves his hand dismissively. “It’s—you don’t have to, it’s fine.”
“I know.” He does. Benjamin leans back his weight on his hands. “I want to.”
“Not that I wouldn’t love to,” Quinn says, “but you nearly passed out when you came down my throat.”
Sometimes Quinn will say things like that as brazenly as possible, with the explicit goal of getting a reaction out of Benjamin. Luckily for Benjamin, as Quinn so eloquently pointed out earlier, his soul is on vacation after having Quinn’s mouth on him. He’s feeling a little loose and a little brave.
“I’m well aware, Quinn. I plan to return the favor.”
The point for this round goes straight to Benjamin. Quinn doesn’t even go pink, his cheeks skipping straight to red as he opens and closes his mouth a couple times.
“Okay, then.” Benjamin can tell he’s trying to come off casual, even though he doesn’t quite pull it off. “Your house, your rules.”
He wrinkles his nose at that. He hears the phrase enough when he’s awake; he’d like to keep that completely separate from this, thank you very much. Quinn sits down and Benjamin stands up, mostly successful in his endeavor to not stumble while Quinn unbuttons his jeans. Quinn hands him a throw pillow, because he’s a better host than Benjamin usually, even though he doesn’t even live here. He kind of has to kiss him about it.
“Are you sure?” Quinn asks again once Benjamin gets on his knees, his hands on the waistband of Quinn’s underwear—red background with a black, blocky font that just reads “I’m packing!” and a text winking emoji. He doesn’t want to know what it says on the back. “I know we’ve done other stuff, but this is a first for you.”
“Yes,” he confirms, because it’s not often that he feels this bold, and he wants to seize the opportunity. He wants to make Quinn feel good. How hard can giving a blowjob be? “Even with your stupid underwear.”
“The whole point is that it’s without underwear.” Quinn says, like a smartass. “And you only think that because you have boring underwear.”
Benjamin strokes Quinn over the fabric to make him shut up. It works. He finally gets his ridiculous underwear off—Benjamin takes his own shirt off while he’s at it, because Quinn likes looking at him, and he’s still feeling bold—and focuses, trying to remember what Quinn usually does when the roles are reversed. He starts slow, gauging Quinn’s reactions to his movements and keeping track of what makes him twitch or groan. He turns his eyes up when he finally wraps his lips around Quinn, who presses his hand against his mouth and makes a strangled noise.
“You’re gorgeous,” he says into his palm, almost too quiet for Benjamin to hear. He decides to take another page from Quinn’s book and sink his head down.
Less than two seconds after that, Benjamin is coughing into the crook of his elbow, his eyes prickling with tears as he swears up a storm. Quinn runs a hand through his hair reassuringly.
“Yeah,” Quinn says, once Benjamin’s throat stops trying to kill him. ”Gag reflexes are rough.”
“You make it look so easy.” He coughs again. “How do you do that all the time?”
Quinn snorts, clearly amused. “You calling me easy, Ben?”
“Yes,” he croaks. Quinn rolls his eyes.
“To actually answer your question: practice. Plus, some people just have better gag reflexes. You got like halfway down, that’s honestly not bad.”
Benjamin swallows, wishing he’d had the foresight to grab a glass of water earlier. “Okay, let me try again.”
“Ben—”
“Please.”
Benjamin has learned a lot about Quinn these past few weeks. He’s learned what works sometimes, what doesn’t work at all, and what works pretty consistently. He’s not above using that information for his own gain.
Quinn isn’t actually easy. He just happens to fold very easily when Benjamin genuinely, truly asks nicely.
“Okay. Just… go slow, okay? I don’t want you to actually choke.”
“Any other tips?” He’s only half joking when he asks, but it seems to give Quinn an idea.
“How about I talk you through it?”
If only Benjamin were younger, that alone would let him go a second round. For now, it just makes his body buzz pleasantly, settling in his chest like a promise for later. “Yeah, okay. I’m a good listener.”
His brain chimes in, because it hates him. Think about your engagement speech. You mostly memorized it. Isabelle, the past few years years with you have felt like—
It’s 1:05 AM. His brain keeps reciting it, occasionally overlapping with Quinn’s words.
“That’s it, that’s— hmm, I think that’s as far as you can go, so just focus on that.” And for me, it’s never been a question of if we’d get here, but when. “And you can use ah, your hand for the rest of—hah, yeah, for where you can’t reach and just… try to relax your jaw, like you’re—just like that.” And that feeling got me thinking about fate. “That’s a–aah good pace, that’s—fuck, good, that’s good, you’re doing great, Ben. God, Ben, that’s so good.”
He’s still running his fingers through Benjamin’s hair. Benjamin kind of wishes Quinn could pull the thoughts straight out of his brain, like yanking out weeds. By the time his brain is reciting the journal article, he reaches for his own hair and tugs it, looking up at Quinn and hoping he gets the message. His eyebrows furrow, face beautifully flushed as the realization dawns on him. “You want me to pull?”
Benjamin nods as much as he can manage, minding the teeth, because he’s a little worried that freeing up his mouth will make the speech spill out from his brain to his vocal cords. Quinn has to swallow a couple times, like he’s bracing himself for something as he slowly but surely strengthens his grip.
Moments where you fall asleep. And then—
Quinn pulls. Benjamin almost cries with relief, even when Quinn stops pulling and starts gently pushing, guiding Benjamin’s head further down. He luckily remembers to slacken his jaw on time, hands frantically scrambling for purchase on Quinn’s knees. He doesn’t really bring him any further down than before, but Quinn moans as if he’s just bottomed out, his lips pressed together so tightly that the skin around them goes pale. His eyes flutter as he looks down at Benjamin, and the sight intensified the buzz of his body even more. He’s making Quinn feel good. He’s doing something right. Quinn stumbles over his sentences, his voice wavering.
“Are you—is that—?”
He belatedly realizes that they probably need to think of a safe word that works when their mouths are otherwise occupied. For now, Benjamin gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up even though it feels like the unsexiest way to give consent of all time.
Quinn doesn’t seem to mind it at all. He settles both of his hands in Benjamin’s hair and pulls again. Benjamin makes a point to move his tongue and look up at Quinn as his head is bobbed up and down, hoping he looks half as good as Quinn does when the roles are reversed. A couple of times Quinn misses the mark by a little bit, going down slightly further than Benjamin’s throat can handle. He chokes momentarily before: “Just–just breathe through it Ben, breathe through your nose, you can do it, you’re doing great, if—ah, fuck—if you need t’ stop just grab my hands, okay? Just pull me—hah—pull me off if you need, okay? You’re being so good, Ben. You feel—” he fully cuts himself off with a whine, his breathing shallow “—so, so good, just like that, you make me feel so fucking good, you don’t even know what you do to me, you’ve always been so good.”
There is nothing in Benjamin’s mind other than Quinn’s ragged praise and the grounding pull of Quinn’s hands and Quinn’s wrecked voice and Quinn, Quinn, Quinn.
Quinn’s hips jerk a little erratically and suddenly Benjamin is being pulled off, his jaw sore and tongue exhausted. Quinn’s hand moves from Benjamin’s hair to his cock, trying to finish himself off, all of his movements quick and desperate. Benjamin reaches forward to wrap his hand around Quinn’s, matching his frantic pace. He gasps at that, writhing and twitching until he finishes on his own chest. Quinn slumps on the couch, completely worn out, and Benjamin kneels back, taking in every detail of this moment. Quinn is a memory, and Quinn is real, and he wants to drink in every second in his mind.
“I—” Benjamin coughs immediately, wincing. He’s pretty sure strep would be less painful.
Quinn makes a noise and taps at his throat. Benjamin is able to interpret it as his attempt to say, “Water.”
His knees are only a little sore, and they’re nothing compared to his throat, but he still has to remind himself to walk slowly. He circles back before he reaches the kitchen to clean up Quinn’s chest (he started keeping a Kleenex box in the living room about a week after they went out for drinks). Quinn lets it happen with a content hum, his eyes closed comfortably. Benjamin runs his hand through Quinn’s hair once before forcing himself to step away, suddenly a lot shakier.
He ignores the dread that’s starting to build up in his chest as he fills a glass with water and gulps it down. He doesn’t look at the living room as he grabs another glass and sets it down, staring at the sink.
He can’t predict what Quinn is going to do. He can only try to be a decent host and get him some water. He just hopes Quinn doesn't decide to walk out the door before then.
Once he turns on the faucet, he leans his weight onto the counter in front of him, shoulders almost hiking up to his ears. He should’ve grabbed his shirt, he thinks idly. Benjamin stares at the filling glass and grabs onto his elbow, a meager attempt to cover himself up. He forgets to turn off the water until it overflows. Once he does, Benjamin just stares down at the glass, eyes glazing over.
He should go back into the living room. It doesn’t matter if Quinn is fully dressed and decides to walk home at nearly two in the morning just to get away from him. Benjamin should offer him some water before he leaves. He should hurry up, actually, so that he doesn’t miss Quinn.
“Ben?”
He startles, whipping his head towards the archway. Quinn’s leaning against the frame—not how he usually does, cool and aloof, but like he’s too tired to stand up otherwise. He’s mostly dressed except for his shoes and jacket. Benjamin forces himself to take a deep breath, handing Quinn the glass, a little water spilling on the ground. “Sorry, zoned out.”
Quinn takes a few sips of water, his Adam’s apple shifting repeatedly with the motion. Moonlight streams in through the window behind him, giving him a silver outline that almost glows. He looks ephemeral again. Benjamin bites his lip and leans against the counter again, one arm loosely wrapped around himself. Quinn empties the glass and sets it down, looking at Benjamin carefully.
“Are you okay?” Quinn asks.
Squeezing his own arm, Benjamin exhales carefully. His body buzzes like it’s on a different frequency, a hum in his bones that makes his muscles tremble. His mouth weighs heavy, like his tongue has been injected with lead. Maybe he’s still a little bit like a live wire—raw and exposed, every inch of his skin unstable.
His throat hurts when he responds, raspy and muted. “Tired.”
Quinn keeps looking at him. His jacket is somewhere on the floor, and he’s picking at his nails, like he’s trying to make up his mind about something. He sighs eventually, a full body motion that seems to settle his internal debate. Quinn reaches a hand out, nodding his head towards Benjamin’s bedroom. “C’mon.”
Benjamin figured that his skin would scream at him as soon as it made contact with anything or anyone, but instead it settles when he locks his fingers with Quinn’s. A little dazed still, Quinn softly pulls him until he’s staring down at his barely-visible duvet—he has blackout curtains, which means it’s even darker than it was in the living room. His eyes haven’t adjusted yet, so it takes him a few fumbling attempts to pull back the covers.
He goes through the motions of getting his jeans off as he hears a drawer opening off to his right, Quinn rummaging around for something. He hands Benjamin pajama pants and then goes to the kitchen, coming back with a re-filled glass of water and placing it on his nightstand. Benjamin sits gingerly on the bed, his heart settling in his still-sore throat as Quinn helps him lie down before pulling up the covers over him. He feels nails on his scalp and his eyes flutter closed. Quinn’s fingers pull back and Benjamin somehow manages to catch his wrist in the process, softly holding him in place. He can tell from the angle that Quinn was turning away to leave, to either walk out again or crash on his couch.
Benjamin doesn’t know what he’s feeling, exactly. His brain is too foggy and sluggish to make sense of something as complicated as that. But he knows he’s dreaming, and he knows Quinn is here, and he knows he wants Quinn to stay.
“Please.”
Quinn doesn’t move for a long, long moment. Benjamin can feel his pulse on his wrist, a soft quick thing, before Quinn pulls away. He can hear his footsteps and the sound makes Benjamin’s skin try to dissolve from the inside out—until he hears a drawer open.
“I’m stealing your clothes,” Quinn informs him. “I can’t even see what I’m grabbing and I know it’s boring.”
Benjamin summons what little energy he has left to flip off Quinn, even though he can’t see it. Somehow, Benjamin knows that Quinn flips him off right back.
The bed sinks under Quinn’s weight when he crawls on it, shifting under the covers before he finally gets somewhat comfortable. He’s lying on his back by the time Benjamin turns himself over, and he’s only able to make out the outline of Quinn’s profile before his eyes drift closed.
“Night,” he mumbles, the sound catching in his throat in protest. Still, his skin is a lot more settled when he hears Quinn’s voice.
“G’night, Ben.”
Everything that’s been happening in his dreams is a little too much to really think about when he wakes up, so he doesn’t. Benjamin has enough to worry about in fifth grade. He sits next to Oliver on the bus, and talks with Belle before class, and he groans with everyone else when their teacher informs them that they have a history pop quiz. Still, Benjamin finishes early, because this is the stuff that they just reviewed yesterday, and he’s pretty sure the teacher just copy-pasted from the textbook anyway. Oliver gives him a pleading look when he turns his paper over that Benjamin ignores, because it’s one thing to give him the answers from his math worksheet and a whole other thing to cheat on a test. Benjamin places his chin on his hand and kicks his feet, already bored (it’s 8:17 AM, he always has to check what time it is if he’s bored, because being bored is bad, but knowing what time it is helps). He yawns, still ignoring Oliver’s pout next to him as he listens to pencils scratching on paper. He closes his eyes for a second.
It’s really dark when he opens his eyes again, too warm and comfortable for a fifth grade classroom. He’s napping, then. There’s the grounding weight of the duvet on him, pressing solidly down on his chest and shoulder, breathing softly.
No, not the duvet then, his dreams aren’t that weird.
Quinn goes a little stiff suddenly, practically draped over Benjamin. He must’ve realized Benjamin is dreaming again. Before Quinn can even think about moving, Benjamin throws his arm over Quinn’s and leaves it there, pressing his cheek against Quinn’s hair. He remains very, very still, like a skittish animal with a freeze response. Benjamin presses his lips to the crown of his head and tells him to go to sleep, though it comes out more like “G’sleep.”
It’s warm and comfortable, he thinks, once Quinn slowly relaxes. He’s practically melting into his shoulder, tickling Benjamin’s neck every time he exhales. Something fond settles in his ribs, right where Quinn’s arm is wrapped around him, snug and cozy.
He wakes up once everyone finishes the pop quiz, a little out of it, but smiling. He feels a tickle on his neck all day. Benjamin usually hates feeling anything ticklish, but today it’s just nice.
“You look better today,” Oliver says at recess. They’re sitting across from each other at a picnic table and exchanging their lunch snacks, trading Oliver’s cherry tomatoes for Benjamin’s pear slices. Oliver tries to grab his Fruit Rollup and Benjamin slaps his hand away. “You’ve been really sad over there.”
Benjamin frowns a little, putting the straw in his apple juice. “I’m not sad over there.”
‘Over there’ has been their established code for Benjamin’s dreamscape, so that anyone that might hear bits and pieces of their conversations doesn’t think they’re that weird. Based on their current level of popularity, it’s not working out that well.
“You’ve been super sad, Benny.” Oliver pops a pear slice into his mouth and talks while he chews, because he’s gross. “Like, depressed sad. It’s like when John Kidman and Heidi Schuyler broke up and David Young said he saw him crying in the boy’s bathroom by the library.”
Benjamin’s eyebrows furrow. “Since when are John Kidman and Heidi Schuyler dating?”
“They aren’t dating anymore, Benny. Keep up.” He sticks his tongue out at Oliver, who keeps talking. “Anyway, breakups are hard and stuff and they bum people out. But I’m glad you’re less sad now! That was my whole point.”
“I wasn’t sad, I’ve just been feeling… weird I guess. And I didn’t break up with anyone.”
Oliver pulls out a Capri Sun, which is so much better than Benjamin’s apple juice. He seems puzzled. “You didn’t?”
Benjamin wrinkles his nose a little. “No?”
“Okay, okay.” He holds up his hands in surrender before taking a big, long sip of his Capri Sun (Pacific Cooler, the best flavor). “So you and Quinn just had a fight?”
“I mean, not really? I don’t know. It was weird. But we worked it out… I think.”
“Cool.” Oliver grins at him, all braces and dimples. “I’m happy for you, man.”
Benjamin can’t help but smile back. “Thanks.”
He pulls out his ham and cheese sandwich from his lunchbox, holding it up to his mouth to take his first bite before pausing.
“Oliver.”
“Mhm?” He’s chewing on another slice of pear.
“Why did you think I had broken up with Quinn?”
He looks at Benjamin like he just asked him if the sky was blue. “Because you guys were hanging out a bunch and then suddenly you weren’t and you got all weird and sad right after that happened?”
“Uh huh.” Benjamin nods, still holding his sandwich. “Oliver, I’m not dating Quinn.”
Oliver actually looks confused at that. “Because you broke up?”
“We didn’t break up!” Benjamin feels his face slowly but surely turning red. “We aren’t even dating!”
“Oh.” Oliver considers this. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, Oliver!” He finally sets down his sandwich, too embarrassed to eat anything. “I don’t—” Benjamin glances around to make sure no one hears them. “I don’t even like-like him, okay?”
Oliver crosses his arms, squinting suspiciously. “Riiight. So you don’t want to kiss him even a little bit?”
“Dude!” he scream-whispers, blushing up to his ears. “Shut up!”
“Come on, Benny! You don’t ever think about how much you want to hold hands and kiss him and stuff?”
“No!” he lies, sitting on his hands and glaring at Oliver. “No I don’t! Quinn is stupid!”
“That’s a mean thing to say about your future boooyfriend.” Oliver teases, grinning big and wide.
“I don’t like-like him!” Benjamin insists, ignoring how his neck tickles. “He’s mean and stupid and his kisses are like, whatever, and it’s not like I daydream about him so shut up!”
Oliver’s smile drops, his mouth turning into a giant ‘o’ shape. He leans forward on the table before scream-whispering, “You kissed him!?”
Benjamin’s eyes go really, really wide. “No.”
“Benny.”
“Nope.”
“Benny!”
He shoves his face in his hands, groaning. “Nooo.”
There’s aggressive tapping on his shoulder. Oliver starts shaking him. “Benny!”
“Okay!” He holds out his hands a little stiffly. “I kissed him a few times but I don’t like-like him!”
“A few times!?” Benjamin shushes him. Oliver ignores him. “Dude! How can you kiss him a bunch and not like-like him!? That makes no sense!”
“Yes it does! We just kiss as friends!”
“That’s not a real thing,” Oliver accuses, crossing his arms. “You just made that up.”
“No I didn’t!” he says. “It’s a real thing!”
“Benny, that’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid,” he pouts.
“What difference is there between what you guys are doing and two people that are dating? Quickly.”
Benjamin sputters—he hates being put on the spot and Oliver knows it. “We don’t go on dates!”
“You guys keep hanging out just the two of you! That’s what a date is!”
“So do you and Jasper,” he counters. “That's just hanging out.”
Oliver holds up his index finger as if they’re in court. “Except me and Jasper don’t kiss.”
“Okay, well…” Benjamin frowns, thinking it through. “Well, if we were dating, don’t you think I’d know about it?”
“Benny, no offense,” Oliver says, knowing full well he’s about to be offensive, “but you’re not exactly good at picking up on hints.”
“There are no hints to pick up, Oliver.” He picks up his sandwich again, even though he still kind of feels like he should go to the nurse. “I don’t like him like that, okay? I mean, I’m a terrible liar. Don’t you think you’d be able to tell if I was lying about this right now?”
Oliver looks at him closely, pressing his lips together before puffing out his cheeks. “I guess,” he relents, grabbing another pear slice. “But you didn’t tell me you kissed Quinn a bunch, so.”
He feels the guilt turn around his stomach. He can’t check the time, but he makes a point to do that later. “Sorry. We didn’t want people assuming stuff. And if I told you, Quinn would have to tell Jasper, and it just becomes this whole thing—”
“I get it,” Oliver says, chewing thoughtfully. “I mean, I guess I did start assuming stuff. It’s just a little crazy, man.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” Benjamin bites into his sandwich and they actually eat their lunch, hurrying before they have to go to English class.
Oliver finishes off his Capri Sun and sighs. “Man, I just can’t believe it. I mean, you were moping over there. I could’ve sworn you got dumped. But now that I think about it, I’d be sad if I got in a big fight with you or Jasper or something, so I guess it was more like that, right?”
It’s hard for him to really feel everything from his dreams here, so it only comes to him in hazy, broad strokes. “Yeah,” he agrees, because that’s what it has to be. “We’re just friends.”
The bell rings. They go to class, and the teacher starts talking about blue curtains and symbolism and hidden emotions. It’s boring (11:51 AM) and he doesn’t really get it. He starts to zone out but quickly shakes his head, focusing on taking notes.
He doesn’t want to take another nap today.
Benjamin takes a long, long time to fall asleep.
Eventually, it gets much brighter behind his eyelids and he opens them blearily, greeted by the sight of his apartment instead of his childhood bedroom. He tries to take stock of his surroundings as the sun hits his face. There’s no weight on his chest or tickle on his neck and he closes his eyes again, rubbing at his eyelids before running a hand through his hair. There’s a glass of water on his nightstand next to his apple, and he groans a little before taking a long sip. He’s not exactly looking forward to telling Quinn that Oliver found out about their arrangement, but hopefully the “fifth graders don’t have much of a filter” card is enough to earn him some leeway.
Benjamin pushes himself up to sit, squinting at the way the sun streams in almost blindingly. Quinn must’ve opened the curtains last night—no, this morning. There’s the familiar scent of instant coffee wafting in from the kitchen. He considers calling out, but doesn’t want to strain his throat any more than necessary. With a sigh, he rests his back against the headboard and closes his eyes, drinking in the warmth on his skin.
“Morning, princess.” Quinn’s voice is a little distant, probably at the doorway. “Do you know you’re dreaming?”
“Yup,” he says, clearing his throat once he hears how scratchy he sounds. Quinn hisses.
“I really did a number on you, huh?”
Benjamin huffs, stretching his arms over his head. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
That does make him laugh, though it ends in a yawn. “Fair enough. You made coffee?”
“Yup,” Quinn says, his voice coming closer before Benjamin hears the soft thud of ceramic on wood. “Lots of cream, one sugar.”
Benjamin peeks one eye open to look down at his cup, his lips twitching upwards, before he turns to glance at Quinn.
He’s taking a sip of his own coffee, which Benjamin just knows has an atrocious amount of sugar in it, squinting a little as the light hits his face. It highlights Quinn’s dark circles slightly, especially compared to how pale he is where the sunshine glows on his skin. He’s wearing a sweatshirt that’s ever-so-slightly baggy on him, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It’s navy blue, Benjamin notes, which clashes horribly with his stupid underwear.
Benjamin blinks. He blinks again. Quinn cares about his appearance a lot. Why are his clothes clashing? Sure, it’s early, but he’s pretty sure he’s never seen Quinn wearing this before, especially because it doesn’t quite fit him.
“This is soft as hell, by the way.” As if he’s reading his mind, Quinn holds out the bottom of the sweatshirt, examining it. “Do you just bathe all of your laundry in fabric softener? No complaints, but still.”
Oh, right. He borrowed it from Benjamin last night. Quinn wore Benjamin’s shirt while sleeping in his bed and cuddling against him and making him coffee.
What difference is there between what you guys are doing and two people that are dating?
Quinn is wearing Benjamin’s shirt.
“Uh.” Something that kind of sounds like his voice manages to squeeze out of his vocal chords. “That one’s, um. Dry clean. Dry cleaning only. So. I take it to… the dry cleaners.”
Here’s the thing. He’s aware that Quinn is attractive, and funny, and a lot more emotionally intelligent than he gives himself credit for. He’s aware that he enjoys spending time with Quinn. He’s aware that he feels nice and good and synonyms when he’s around Quinn. Right now he’s really, really aware that Quinn is wearing Benjamin’s shirt. He’s aware that he’s having feelings about that fact, like an insane person.
Quinn almost takes another sip of his coffee (that he made, while wearing Benjamin’s shirt, using Benjamin’s mug) before pausing, looking down at him curiously. “You good, Benji?”
Benjamin laughs. Kind of. It’s more like a manic, hysterical burst. Quinn furrows his eyebrows, and Benjamin is truly, officially, clinically deranged. “Yep! I’m great!”
“Uh.” Quinn lowers the cup slightly. (Benjamin’s cup! Quinn knows where he keeps his cups! Why wouldn’t he!) “Are you sure about that?”
“Mhm!” He knows things. He’s intelligent. He almost has a doctorate. It’s not like he needs a ten year old to spell out his feelings for him. “I’m so good! Why would I be freaking out?”
Here’s the thing! He’s aware of a lot of things when he’s an adult. Too many, usually. He doesn’t have the brain capacity or maturity to be aware of all those things in fifth grade. He can be objectively aware that he’s working on his dissertation, but only be able to process the water cycle and different biomes. He can be objectively aware that he and Quinn are friends with benefits (which he didn’t think about over there until Oliver brought it up), but he doesn’t have the terminology for that in fifth grade. All he has is crush and cute and like-like. And now he’s an adult again, thinking about the concept of like-liking someone as a twenty-seven year old because Quinn is wearing Benjamin’s shirt and now he’s aware that he’s having very specific feelings about it.
He’s aware of a lot of things when he’s an adult. He is only just now becoming aware of the fact that he has feelings for Quinn. Benjamin’s timing has never, ever been worse.
Quinn looks at him a little warily, his eyes flicking down and back up to Benjamin’s face. “No one said you were freaking out.”
“Exactly,” Benjamin agrees. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
“No, no.” Quinn holds up a hand, still eyeing him with caution. “You are freaking out. I just don’t know why.”
Benjamin shrugs, raising his eyebrows while his lips twitch into a smile, because he’s an insane person. “I don’t—I’m not—it isn’t—nope.”
His expression shifts from wary to genuine concern. “Are… are you having second thoughts, or…?”
Benjamin shouldn’t laugh at that, but he does. “No no no, that would imply me having first thoughts, which I clearly didn’t.” Quinn frowns, obviously perplexed.
“Okay, so… what is it? Why are you freaking out?”
Quinn is wearing Benjamin’s shirt. He takes a deep breath. There’s no getting out of this conversation. He could’ve, maybe, if he’d just realized this earlier, but god forbid he get the benefit of experiencing this revelation in private.
The simple truth is that he didn’t realize it sooner. He’s realizing it now. And Benjamin has always been a terrible liar, so all he can do is tell Quinn the mortifying truth.
“I’m freaking out because we’ve been hooking up for over a month, and somehow!” He cuts himself with another short, manic laugh, shaking his head incredulously. “Somehow! I didn’t figure out that I have feelings for you.”
Quinn’s eyebrows shoot up, almost hidden behind his tousled hair. Benjamin nods, gesturing at his bewildered expression. “I know! Yup! Exactly my reaction!”
“You…” Quinn licks his lips, his voice measured. “When you say feelings—”
“I like-like you,” he blurts out, because apparently the only way he can convey and understand his emotions is with elementary school concepts. “And I realized this about two minutes ago because you’re wearing my clothes and I have a thing for that, apparently. A non-sexual thing. A romantic thing, at least mostly—it looks really good on you by the way, did I mention that?” Quinn opens his mouth. “Not the point. The point is that I have a crush on you, and I don’t know when or why, but I do! And I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it, which—I am sorry about that. I know it makes all of this and us—not us! Not saying there’s an us, that has connotations that you did not sign up for—it just makes everything complicated, obviously, which is the exact opposite of what you wanted—”
“Benjamin.”
He finally shuts up, his lips mercifully pressing together so that he stops saying words. “Mhm?”
Quinn sets down his cup next to Benjamin’s and kneels with one leg on the bed, picking at his nails. His eyes are still flitting about a bit restlessly, but his expression is firm. He takes a deep breath.
“I figured it out when we had sex.”
Benjamin blinks. ‘Figured it out’ implies—wait. “You… you knew that I—?”
“No.” Quinn scoffs at that, a little nervous. “I had absolutely no idea that you had those kinds of feelings.”
Quinn pauses, the tips of his ears dusted pink. Benjamin’s brain clicks. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” Quinn takes another breath before he keeps going. “I definitely felt it before then. It’s not like I kissed you for no reason, when we had that fight. It was just easier to tell myself that I was letting off steam. You’re attractive, obviously, so it was only natural that I’d be into you like that, you know?”
“Uh huh,” Benjamin says, a little strangled and suddenly very aware that he still doesn’t have a shirt on.
“So I kept telling myself that it was no big deal. Just sex. And then after we were done, you…” Quinn swallows. “You were all gentle and soft and… and nice, fuck, I don’t know. It was sweet, and I liked it, and that scared me, I guess.” He drops his gaze, rubbing his palm up and down his thigh as he speaks. “I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I didn’t, and I thought that if I just kept my distance it would go away, because I clearly couldn’t handle doing stuff casually if I was having feelings.”
“So you ghosted me,” he says pointedly.
Quinn winces with a hesitant shrug. “Pretty much. Besides, it felt… weird to keep going, if I felt like that and you didn’t.”
Benjamin still isn’t happy about it, but he can understand that much. If Benjamin had figured out his feelings earlier, his brain would’ve been constantly screaming at him about how immoral and slimy he was for keeping up their arrangement. He wouldn’t think that of Quinn at all, to be clear, if he’d decided to stay after that night—Benjamin is just unfortunately acquainted with how his own mind works.
“And then last night?” he asks, picking at the edge of his sheets.
Quinn smirks. “You made a pretty compelling argument.”
Benjamin runs a hand down his face, trying to suppress his smile. “That’s one way to put it.”
“It’s an accurate way to put it.”
Quinn’s eyes are practically sparkling in the morning light as he smiles—hazel, complemented by Benjamin’s sweatshirt. Fondness fills his chest at the sight, quick and steady. A new, favorite memory. “Thank you for staying. Last night, I mean.”
His eyes soften at that, picking at his nails again. “Yeah.” After a moment, he inches his hand forward. Benjamin takes it in a heartbeat and squeezes his palm. He can see Quinn swallow, even though his voice still wavers. “Thanks for asking.”
Benjamin rubs his thumb back and forth for a moment. There’s still a tan line on his ring finger, faint but haunting. It could be an omen. Undeniable proof of his mistakes. A reminder that he can always ruin the good things in his life. Benjamin couldn’t erase it if he tried. He could dwell on it until his skin withered. He could carry it like a self-fulfilling prophecy. He could let it hurt him every time he closes his eyes and checks the time.
But maybe, just maybe, he can accept the discomfort. Acknowledge it and then let it pass. Not a promise or a vow, because he can’t ever guarantee anything, but an attempt.
Benjamin can always ruin the good things in his life. But, just because he can doesn’t mean he will. That has to make a difference. That has to be enough.
“What if I ask you to stay again?”
Quinn holds his breath, his eyes searching Benjamin’s expression. He seems to find what he needs, locking their fingers together. “It depends,” he says. “Are you going to ask nicely?”
Benjamin considers it, looking up at the ceiling and pressing his lips together. “Sure, since you’re obviously into that.”
Quinn’s face flushes and he shoves Benjamin’s shoulder, who chuckles at his response. Quinn doesn’t let go of his hand. “Fuck off.”
The laughter settles in his chest, leaving a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Will you please stay?”
Quinn’s hand tightens in his. The sun glints against his earrings when he nods, his ears flushed red. “Yeah. Okay.”
Benjamin kisses him. For once, he doesn’t feel like he needs a reason.
(About two minutes later, Benjamin’s phone pings with a text notification. It pings again. Then again. Then about four more times.
“So,” Benjamin starts. “Oliver found out.”
Quinn snorts, his hands idly tracing Benjamin’s shoulders. “Well, I guess Jasper can finally relax. And say ‘I told you so’.”
Benjamin frowns. “Wait, he knows? Why did you tell him!?”
“I didn’t! He found out all on his own.”
“How?”
“That first time, when he picked me up the next morning.” Quinn shrugs, a little amused. “You left your shirt on the living room floor.”
Oh. “Well, that’s mortifying.”
“Besides, why are you even getting offended? You told Oliver.”
“Yeah, in fifth grade. I can’t be held liable for that.”
Quinn rolls his eyes. “You absolutely can, considering that was yesterday.”
“Jerk.”
“Hypocrite.”
Benjamin kisses him again, scrambling to put his phone on silent. Oliver can wait. “Shut up.”
Quinn grins, his eyes squinting and full of mischief. Benjamin feels like maybe, finally, the timing worked out just the way it was supposed to. “Why don’t you make me?”)
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