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In the dog days of the summer of 2009, John Carter and Rachel Greene both move back to Chicago on the same weekend. She’d sent him a text—all settled in and starting her studies in a few weeks. Apparently Doctor Corday was able to hook her up with a one-bedroom in her old building. Probably costs a fortune, but from what he remembers he thinks Mark’s ex can afford it.
Their synchronized second stab at a life in the windy city starts now, except it’s actually not the second time back for either of them, John realizes. Time really does go by, it’s not just something people say.
Technically, John hasn’t actually left Chicago since the transplant, but the final box of his stuff arrived this morning so he’s deeming it official. He rifles through the box while the sound of footsteps travels in from the kitchen. He’s handed a flute of sparkling cider.
“What’s all this for again?” says Benton, sniffing at his own glass.
The difference between a man like John Carter and a man like Peter Benton is as simple as the cider in their glasses. John is overindulgent, over-reliant. Excess is his temptress. Celebrate with a glass of champagne instead and he might never stop. John’s needy. He wants things all the time. Benton, on the other hand, simply doesn’t drink because he doesn’t see the point. He’s disciplined—John wakes up every morning and has to try to be.
“Well,” says John, lifting the flute. “For a lot of years my stuff was in cities all over the world. Paris, Kinshasa, Darfur, Chicago. But this box right here,” he says, dragging his free hand along the smooth cardboard, “means I’m officially home.”
Benton smirks, rolls his eyes. Fifteen years ago, John could have never predicted a moment like this one. This version of Benton is so dissonant from the intimidating mentor John was matched with all those years ago at Cook County General Hospital. The man whose approval John sought as fiercely as his medical degree. It’s not that he’s changed. In fact, Peter Benton remains the most consistent, constant, steadfast individual John’s ever met. It’s that at some point, he let John in, at least a little bit.
“How’d we ever go on with you,” jests Benton, lifting his glass and clinking it with John’s. They chuckle, each taking a sip. “Really, Carter. Welcome home.”
—
At the end of her first week, John invites Rachel to the Carter Center to have lunch. They sit in his office at a table by the window, watching ships sail along the river while they chew on salads and catch up.
“I thought maybe I’d wind up back at County, but there’s a lot to be done here while we’re still new. You’ve got a ways to go before clinicals start, but you’re gonna love it there.” John puts down his fork and grins warmly at Rachel, resting his chin against his hand. “So- how’re you liking school?”
John, not for the first time, can’t believe the mature young lady that she’s evolved into. If John would allow himself a moment of weakness, if he tapped into the pit of his stomach where all of his sadness lives, he’d think about the fact that Doctor Greene never got to see either of his little girls grow up. Here’s one of them now, in front of John instead of Mark. What makes him deserving—luck? “It’s great so far. I’m learning a lot, but I’m definitely eager to get more hands-on, you know?”
John nods. There’s a few moments of quiet, but Rachel snuffs it out.
“What you’re doing here is awesome, Doctor Carter. Thanks for showing me around.”
“Of course.” John lays his hands flat on the table. “Rachel, if you’re looking for something more interactive, would you consider volunteering at the Center at some point? I’m sure we could find a way to give you some credits for it. I know it’s not as glamorous as emergency medicine, but-”
“Oh, totally,” she replies easily. “I’d love to, are you kidding? Can’t make any promises about my residency, though. My ultimate goal is actually oncology.”
“Oof,” says John, inarticulately. “Really,” he squeaks, a little quiet, a little reverent. Not that he’s able to keep that up—a second later, he sticks his foot in his mouth when he adds, “that’s a really tough specialization. Not that you aren’t capable, I just mean it’s difficult to be around that much- I’m sorry. You probably considered all of that.”
Rachel doesn’t spook easily, it seems. She offers him a lopsided smile. “Yeah, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it. I know it won’t be easy, but it’s personal.”
John nods, proud in proxy on behalf of her father.
When Rachel heads out to make it on time to her lecture, she pauses at his office door.
“Oh,” says John, presumptive. “You can just leave that open.”
“Doctor Carter, I just wanna say- I’m glad we’re both here, but I think what your ex-wife did was super shitty.”
John wonders what she knows and who she possibly heard it from. There’s that fire Mark used to worry about. Seems that’s one trait that she hasn’t aged out of.
“I don’t mean to overstep,” she adds.
“You’re not. Have a good lecture, Rachel.”
“Just- call me if you ever need anything, okay?”
John laughs. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
He realizes, later that night, that Rachel feels sorry for him. Maybe that’s a stretch. At the very least, she thinks he’s lonely, and the absolute truth of the matter is that she’s got a fair fucking point.
—
On a Friday morning at the bloom of fall, John is spurred into action at the memory of his conversation with Rachel. First, he pulls Gamma’s jewelry box from the closet in his bedroom. John takes off his wedding ring, takes off Kem’s father’s bracelet, and he stores them away amongst Millicent Carter’s jewels. He clasps the box closed, and then the closet door follows.
Her words are still on his mind when he grabs his cell phone and sends a text.
Dinner tonight? My place @ 8?
John goes about his morning routine, giving himself a good shave, taking his Tacro and Myfortic, and tucking his body into a fresh suit. He’s contemplating the addition of a tie when his phone starts to ring.
“Hello?”
“You know, we may be living in the same city again but that doesn’t mean I’m at your beck and call, Carter.”
John’s pretty sure that Benton can feel the brightness of his smile through the phone. He can hear one in Benton’s voice, too, despite the fact that he might die before admitting to such a thing.
“What the hell does that mean?” says John, phone held up by his shoulder while he rummages through his dresser drawers.
“It means you’re coming to me. I’ll send you my address.”
“Okay.” John bites his lip. “Should I bring something? I can stop for pizza, or-”
“Don’t bother,” he replies, his voice even lower through the phone than it is live. “I’ll cook.”
“Sounds like a plan,” says John. “See you later, then.”
“Yeah. See you, Carter.”
He hangs up and settles on a striped tie that he doesn’t think he’s even looked at since the nineties. Then, he sits at the foot of his bed. His heart is racing.
It’s not the anti-rejection meds. His side-effects have been pretty tame for the most part—a little nausea that usually subsides after breakfast, a headache here and there. This has nothing to do with that.
The issue, John’s determined, is that his body is getting its signals crossed. His stomach stirs and flutters. The problem, if he takes the time to really dig deep at it, started with the transplant, though the kidney isn’t to blame. John woke up and Doctor Benton passed him the PCA pump, and suddenly there they both were—two old friends he hadn’t seen in so long. Two reunions in one day. Fentanyl flooded him, blissful and numbing, and Benton sat at his bedside, just as soothing as the drugs. The way it felt—it’s been months and John still hasn’t shaken it. Benton’s getting dragged into those feelings against his will. Addiction, momentary appeasement, euphoria. It’s gotta be why whenever John thinks too hard about Peter Benton, it’s like he’s craving a fix.
Work is a lovely distraction, though, and the day rushes past him in a blink. It’s so busy already, and that’s just from the patient load. The administration of it all is another complex layer that John’s still wrapping his head around. More than once, he’s had to give Doctor Weaver a call to apologize and seek advice. January rotation can’t come soon enough. A handful of med students will make all the difference around here.
John decides that it’d be barbaric not to bring something to dinner. You’re invited to someone’s home, you bring something—flowers, a bottle of wine. Seeing as neither of those things suit either of them, John stops at a bakery, selecting an assortment of pastries. Benton might balk at the sight, so he picks out a few of the ones with fresh fruit just to be safe.
And then the hour arrives. Benton no longer works in suburbia-ville, but he still lives there. John pulls his Jeep into the driveway of his ranch-style and knocks on the door with the feeling from this morning inevitably, inconveniently returned and buzzing just beneath his skin. He takes a breath, and the door clicks open.
“Carter. Come in,” says Benton. He’s in slacks and a dress shirt, though it’s significantly unbuttoned and folded a few times at each cuff. Casual Benton—an oxymoron and a sight to behold. “And take off your shoes.”
John obeys, stepping inside and out of his dress shoes, and cranes his neck around to get a nosy look. All those years they worked together, the closest John really ever got to experiencing Benton’s life outside of County was attending Thanksgiving in the house he grew up in. That was fifteen whole years ago. He always wished there would be other opportunities, but it never seemed like Doctor Benton shared that sentiment.
“Nice place,” says John, and it is. Meticulously clean and minimalist—very Peter Benton. “And it smells amazing. Whatcha cooking? You still doing the whole vegetarian thing?”
Benton eyes him. “I am. Is that a problem?”
“Definitely not a problem,” smiles John. “Especially if it smells this good. Oh,” he adds, remembering the pastries. He holds the box up by the baker’s twine. “I come bearing dessert.”
Benton hums, clearly wary, though that was to be expected. “Carter, you should be limiting your sugar intake. You know that.”
“I do! One eclair won’t kill me.” John passes the pastry box to his reluctant companion and starts unbuttoning his peacoat. “I know this isn’t something to mess around with. I’ve been taking care of myself.”
Benton appraises him with a once over, and nods approvingly. “I can tell. You’re looking good, man. Healthy.”
“Thank you,” he says, the feeling in his gut threateningly traveling towards his knees. He looks down for a beat and smooths out his suit and tie. “So, you didn’t answer my first question. What’s cookin’, chef?” John smirks. “You mighta missed your calling,” he adds, because it seems like a pretty funny thing to say to one of the best surgeons in the city.
Benton chuckles—one breath, the way he always has. John drapes his coat and suit jacket over an accent chair and follows Benton to the kitchen, ever the dog on his heels.
“Thai curry with kale, sweet potatoes, tofu-”
Benton whips his head around, maybe to make sure John didn’t run for the hills at the mention of nutrition. When he seems satisfied, he turns back and approaches the counter, placing down the sweets and giving the simmering liquid a stir at the stove. “Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”
“M’not worried.”
The kitchen’s really sleek, yet more lived in than the other rooms he got a look at when he came in. He can tell that the Bentons spend a lot of time in here. He can picture Reese at the breakfast nook working on his homework, Benton and Cleo chopping veggies for the mise en place. That reminds him-
“Is Cleo working?”
“Uh, I don’t know, Carter,” he replies. “Why?”
“Oh, well,” shrugs John. “I guess I assumed she’d be joining us for dinner.”
“Why would you assume that?” asks Benton, grabbing bowls from a cabinet. He sets them down and angles himself towards John. “I think you misunderstood. Cleo doesn’t live here. She’s just a friend. Been that way between us for a while now.”
“I- okay. Yeah, I definitely misunderstood.” John bounces on his heels. He shoves his hands into his pants pockets. He’s not sure why that information is making him so antsy.
Benton, infinitely intuitive, picks up on it, John thinks. “Why don’t you go take a seat at the table,” he says, giving him an out. “I’ll start plating.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Here, bring these,” he says, passing John two glasses filled partially with crushed ice and lime wedges. Benton pulls a tall bottle of sparkling water from the fridge. “Top shelf,” quips Benton.
“Very nice. I got it.”
They eat at the dining table despite it being just the two of them. These days, if he isn’t at the Center, John usually eats on his couch. The effort put into this feels special. Benton puts on a Billie Holiday record and they eat and chat and keep each other company. All things considered, it feels extraordinarily easy. John thinks about that cliché, old friends picking up where they left off like no time has passed at all. In their case, he’d say time having passed has actually made all the difference. He’s grateful for what it’s done to them.
“So,” says John, wiping his lips with a napkin. “What’s Reese up to on a Friday night?”
“Ah- let’s see. Today is Model U.N. Then the group gets dinner and the parents take turns carpooling the kids home.”
“Is he involved in a lot of stuff at school?”
“Man, every day of the week. Serves me right, too.”
“Serves you right?” John’s grinning from ear to ear. He can’t help it—when Benton talks about Reese, he lights up in a way that is wholly reserved for his son. His joy is infectious. “What does that mean?”
“When we moved out here, I could’ve bought a nicer place, a nicer car. Thought I should probably save anything extra for the college fund. It’s not enough that he’s black and deaf, that kid is in every club, he’s in student government—he’s got a busier schedule than me and he’s top of his class. When the time comes, he’ll get a full ride and he’ll have his pick of schools.” Benton shakes his head and laughs. “Didn’t you hear, Carter—black boys from Chicago get to be president now. Should’ve just bought the dream home.”
John laughs, shaking his head. Reese sounds like a Benton, alright.
After they finish, John tries to help clean up but he’s bluntly shooed away. He takes the opportunity to snoop around the living room, checking out the bookshelves that line the walls and the family photos that fill in the gaps for all the time they were apart, and for a time before they ever knew each other.
Eventually, Benton meets him on the couch, pastries and a pot of coffee to accompany them in his tow.
As promised, John helps himself to an eclair. Benton holds off for now, opting for the coffee.
“Carter, let me ask you something. Your ring finger is, ah- unadorned. What happened?”
“Mm, you noticed that, huh?” John says cheekily. He’s met with a nod. “You know, if you hadn’t been there- if you weren’t at Northwestern the day of my transplant, I don’t think I ever would’ve called her. Kem and me- god. We were on and off the whole time. The whole time. Five years, and we spent most of it apart. We were usually on different continents.”
John fields the temptation to spin his ring or play with the rope of his bracelet. He’s unadorned, now, like Benton said—unattached. Benton nods at him, offering a safe cue to continue.
“It’s done. We’re divorced—officially. It was a clean split, she- she didn’t want anything, any of the money or whatever, which I guess was always part of the problem anyway. I just,” says John, swallowing his unease, burying it along with the rest of it. “Now, I just want to keep going—live my life.”
I want to be happy again, he doesn’t add. Somehow, he thinks Benton knows anyway.
“Do you wish I never suggested you call her?”
“Not at all,” John says, reacting immediately. “I don’t like being left in the dark. I needed to know, I needed to hear it from her.”
“And you’re- good, right? You’re okay.”
John can count the number of times that Peter Benton has asked him that in fifteen years on one hand. He’s on the verge of being moved, but he bottles that, too. He nods, even though he’s sorta choking on it. “I’m okay.”
“Good.”
“Speaking of jewelry,” says John, seizing the opportunity to take the focus off of himself.
“Ah, yeah, still got my earring. I know it’s old school but, hey. It works for me.”
John smacks a hand to his face, shaking his head and giggling. He could really get used to this playful side of Benton. “No, man. You know, I wasn’t sure before but now that we’re in slightly closer quarters,” he says, pressing a finger against his own tie, right between his collar bones. He imagines the tip of his finger passing impossibly through his clothes and touching his own bare skin where on Benton, a silver pendant lies instead. “Is that what I think it is?”
Doctor Benton, to some extent, has always been defined by his steely deadpan. To John’s surprise, he thinks he might be reading a hint of self-consciousness as he draws attention to the necklace Benton’s worn every time they’ve seen each other in recent history.
“Yes,” says Benton, gentle and serious. “It’s what you think it is.”
John remembers that morning so well. Benton’s final week at County, that moment in the park. He fleetingly thinks about it pretty much every single Christmas, much in the way he thinks about Thanksgiving at the Bentons whenever the holiday rolls around. John’s sentimental, that’s why he gave Benton the token in the first place. For him to be wearing it all these years later… John didn’t figure it meant that much to him, let alone anything at all.
“I’d say I only put it on to see you, but we both know that’d be a lie. I didn’t know you were going to be a patient that day.”
John nods, trying to settle his heart rate as if Benton could get a reading from looking alone. “What are you saying exactly? You- do you wear it every day?”
Benton nods. It’s practically shy.
That feeling. That goddamn feeling. It’s wreaking havoc on his stomach. “Why?” John asks.
Benton shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders a little bit. “I- I’m not sure. It’s hard to explain.”
Touch has always been a tricky thing for the two of them. At first, touch meant Benton was showing John the right way to take up space in a trauma, how to properly do this or that. Touch was hands on his shoulder, a push in the right direction, a reminder to go faster or the patient might code on them, or a hand on his knee when he finished med school.
They didn’t keep that up, though. When John left the surgical program, touch was disappointment, or maybe even disgust. A push, shoved to the dirty ground beneath the L where people pissed and spit and snuffed out their cigarettes and where snow rotted into slush. It became fists, it became defensive.
And then, suddenly, a kiss to the head. Arms around him, faces pressed together. They made it back around, it became something precious once again, something profound. There’s no antagonism left—they’re too old. All that’s left between them, it seems, is ease and understanding.
So John grabs his hand, and Benton lets him. He’s compelled. The necklace is a daily routine. Every morning, John shaves his face and takes his transplant meds and has a cup of coffee, and apparently, Benton clasps a necklace around his neck bearing a silver token that epitomizes the push and pull of the first eight years of their relationship. Surely, there must be some rationale. It’s hard to explain. “Can you try?” John pleads.
“Okay. I guess I wear it as a reminder.” With his free hand, Benton strokes over the metal. “Of the good we do. The impact of the work. I used to focus so much on being the best that the impact escaped me. But that’s the thing you always got. I was your teacher, Carter, but you taught me a thing or two. And-”
Benton’s hand is so warm against his. Big, too.
“I can admit it. I’ve never had a better student. Even when I didn’t know what to say to you, and even when I’d heard you left Chicago- I don’t know, Carter. I can’t say I fully understand it but it- it comforted me to carry you around.”
John cannot let him see his face. He can actually feel his blood vessels expanding, the pink heat blooming all over his cheeks in incriminating splotches. Instead, he lets himself fall forward fast, tucking his body against Benton’s, letting him decide whether to push or pull. Benton embraces it, wrapping one arm around John’s waist and the other around his head. Benton’s hand cups at the back of John’s skull, familiar and somewhat paternal. It’s not the first or even the second time he’s held him this way.
“Why do you do that?” probes John, hopeful that it doesn’t sound like he doesn’t want it. “Why do you always hold me like this?”
“I don’t know,” replies Benton, not letting go, and not even loosening his grip. “I don’t know,” he whispers.
“It’s okay,” says John, matching his quiet tone, saying it just for him. “It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.”
—
The cold sneaks up on Chicago as it always does, but good company’s been keeping John warm.
Dinner becomes a regular thing with Doctor Benton. Sometimes Benton cooks and sometimes Reese is there to join them. Other times they get take-out and lounge around at John’s. Tuesday lunch in his office at the Center becomes a regular affair. Part of his motivation to socialize has to do with Rachel’s comments a few weeks ago, but it also has plenty to do with the unpleasant memory of his final year at County General. In his grief, that year had become one of the most isolating of his life—it’s a situation he refuses to subject himself to ever again, so long as he can help it.
John doesn’t put all of his eggs in one basket, though. He and Rachel meet at coffee shops and do the riverwalk and talk about med school. He spends a lot of hours catching up with Susan over the phone and trying to make plans to get together, whether here or in Iowa. John gets back in touch with Luka, too—talks his ear off about living in Kinshasa and Darfur and hears all about Boston and his son.
Very suddenly, John’s life is well-rounded and making sense again. With the train back on the tracks, it’s hard to believe that he started this year off with three standing dialyses appointments per week.
At the tail-end of November, John gets some exciting news. His assistant stops by around noon and passes him the sandwiches he ordered and a binder from the education office. John carries everything over to the table by the window.
“What’s that?” asks Benton, pointing at John’s very full hands. John manages to keep everything balanced and in tact, depositing the stuff onto the table.
“Uh, lunch?” answers John, taking a seat across from him.
“Very cute,” says Benton, and John bites his lip. “The binder.”
John flips it open and cards his fingers through the pages. “These are my med students. My first batch. They’ll be starting their outpatient rotations here in January.” He flips through the pages, stopping when his eyes land on a very specific name. “Would you look at that. They approved Rachel as a student volunteer.”
“Mm. That’s nice.”
“I know,” he says, unwrapping the sandwiches and making sure Peter gets the meatless one. “I was really hoping we could make it work and give her some credits for it. I think I’ll break it to her on Thursday.”
“Thursday? What, are you spending Thanksgiving with her?”
“Mhm,” John nods, not thinking much of it.
“You’re not going to Elizabeth’s in North Carolina, though, right? Or- where does her mother live again- St. Louis?”
“No, no,” says John, shaking his hand dismissively. “I’m working so we made plans to meet for Chinese. Nothing fancy.”
Benton huffs. “On Thanksgiving? Mm, no. You’re not doing that, Carter.”
“I’m not?“
“Come to Jackie’s. Both of you. We have plenty of room.”
“Really?” John means to say so much more than that, but that’s what comes out. He hopes it isn’t pity that drove Benton to ask. He wants it to be real. He wants him to have said it because he wants him there, not because John’s plans make him seem like a pseudo-orphan. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Come on, don’t be like that. I’ve been meaning to ask you anyway. Can I tell Jackie you’ll be there?”
“Okay,” relents John, nodding.
For the second time in his life, John Carter finds himself amongst the Bentons for Thanksgiving dinner. The configuration is a little different now. Benton’s mother passed fourteen years ago, and his nephew’s been gone a while now, too. His niece got married and they have a little one on the way, and Reese hadn’t even been a thought in Benton’s head back in those days. The table is fuller in some ways, he notes as Jackie and Cleo pass the sides clockwise around the table, but emptier in others. Regardless, he knows that he and Rachel are both grateful for the hospitality—for being thought of when they figured they’d be sequestered to an evening of take-out and TCM.
The companionship he gets from Rachel is not something he’d been expecting. There’s a generational gap that they feel quite glaringly at times, but that hasn’t prevented them from becoming fast friends. He was in her shoes, once. Sometimes it actually feels like it wasn’t that long ago. He still remembers what it’s like to be on the bottom of the food chain, trying to prove that you have the right stuff. There’s also the fact that they’re on a similar path, getting used to their hometown again after so much time away from it. On a more complicated level, though, he thinks they each remind the other of Mark. There’s something comforting about that—having been guided by the same hands.
And it’s not just Rachel. John honestly didn’t expect things to take off the way they have with Benton. John stands in the corner of the kitchen, a bystander to the post-feast antics. Jackie, Walt, Cleo, Reese, and Rachel are loudly playing cards at the now-cleared dining table. Jackie’s daughter is resting off the meal with her hands cupping her bump, snoring through the football game that her husband’s got on. And John- John, for whatever reason, can’t seem to pry his eyes away from the back of Peter Benton’s head. To the chain clasped around his thick neck, like two linked hands that won’t let go until they’re made to.
“Carter?”
“Mhm,” he says, barely pulled from his trance.
“I thought,” says Benton, the sound of running tap water and squeaky rubber gloves the backdrop to his voice, “you were supposed to be drying while I wash.”
That manages to rouse him from his momentary catatonia, and he walks over to meet Benton by the sink of dirty dinner dishes. “Yeah, that was the deal. M’sorry,” says John. “I got distracted.”
“By what?”
John cringes at the prospect of admitting the truth, looking at the window just above the kitchen sink for an out. “Look up,” he says, grateful for the white lie presented on a silver platter. “It’s snowing.”
Benton sucks his teeth. “Oh great.”
“Been a few years since I’ve seen snow but I can’t say I missed it,” says John, grabbing a dish towel and having at it. “Eh. Maybe a little bit.”
The forecast didn’t call for snow, but the temp dipped lower than expected, as it does here, and by eight it’s really starting to pick up. The first of the season. It’s as if Chicago’s got something to prove to John and Rachel for having turned their backs on their city for so long. Everyone agrees to call it a night a little early, to head out and get home and, hopefully, avoid the worst of it. John grabs his coat and digs out his car keys.
“If I’m gonna get you and Reese back in one piece, we should make a run for it, like, now. It’s only gonna get worse out there,” says John, slinking his beanie onto his head.
“Oh, Reese isn’t coming,” says Benton, buttoning his own coat. “He stays with Jackie and Walt every Thanksgiving night. It’s tradition.”
“Oh,” says John, dumbly.
“What?” asks Doctor Benton as he wraps a scarf around his face. “What’s the problem, Carter?”
“No problem,” says John, rocking slightly on his heels. There isn’t any problem, not at all. He’s feeling a little antsy, the way he does whenever he and Benton are alone together these days, but things really are fine. He sticks a gloved thumb in the direction of the door. “Shall we?”
Goodbyes are exchanged, and John even gets a big hug from Jackie that feels the way the holidays always seem to in the movies. He signs goodnight, Reese—a little something he picked up from weekly dinners—and that earns him a squeeze from the kid. He and Rachel promise to meet for lattes next week.
And then it’s just John and Benton in the Jeep, and a visibility level that is really rapidly declining.
John’s not even forty years old yet and he’s seen his life flash before his eyes in an alarming variety of ways and amount of times. He’s had guns held to his head, a knife plunged into the vulnerable pink of his organs. His body has failed him, as has his brain. He’s had enough of that for a lifetime—he doesn’t feel very much like challenging the elements any more than is totally necessary. Benton may have moved out of the city proper, but Jackie and Walt are still in the family house. Seeing as John’s place is so close by, it seems absurd not to just hole up there for the night.
He wonders how to best broach the topic as they hold still at a red light. He’s not sure if Benton would find the suggestion strange.
“I was thinking,” says John, delicately. The light changes, bouncing and reflecting neon green light all over and off of the accumulating snow. He crawls forward cautiously. “The road’s are already such a mess. What if-”
“Can’t I just stay the night at yours?” inquires Benton, making things unexpectedly plain. Benton is a textbook pragmatist—John’s not exactly sure why he thought he’d have to convince him of anything. Why he thought he might have to lure him. “Seems like the most practical option.”
“Yeah, yeah definitely,” agrees John, heart thumping beneath the tightly wound seatbelt strap.
“How many guest rooms have you got in that mansion of yours, Carter?” he teases.
“Hey, I do not live in a mansion,” John corrects him through a laugh. “Anymore,” he adds, pointing his finger at Benton for emphasis.
Coats, shoes, scarves, and hats get shaken out and put away as soon as the wind pushes them into John’s house. They gravitate towards opposite ends of the couch to chat and decompress. If they were anyone else, anybody besides Doctor John Carter and Doctor Peter Benton, this might be the opportune moment for a night cap. As it stands, though, neither of them drink and frankly, John’s already feeling fairly intoxicated just at the thought of being the object of Benton’s attention for the evening.
John’s been trying to make sense of it. Besides the crossed signals which he’s already managed to identify, there’s something else he’s realized has been contributing to the feelings he’s been associating with his former mentor. Ever since John finished his residency, he’s spent years being the most seasoned practitioner in any given space that he inhabits. He’s dedicated so much of his time to teaching, leading, guiding. Being around Doctor Benton feels regressive, but in the most complimentary connotation. Beside Benton, John is forever the student, the subordinate. He doesn’t need to know everything or have all the answers because Doctor Benton has lived longer and seen more. He feels safe around that energy, and since he’s gone so long without it—John tells himself—there’s a novelty that flutters through him when they’re together.
They hang around the living room for a while, but eventually the conversation slows down and they head upstairs to get settled in for the night. John gives Benton a spare toothbrush and a shirt and sweatpants that are on the bigger side, and then shows him to one of the guest rooms, right down the hall from John’s. Benton thanks him, and they part ways for now.
Back in his own bedroom, John takes his meds, chugs a half a glass of water, and undresses down to his boxers. He shuffles into bed with a relieved sigh, drowning himself in blankets and angling his body towards the window.
Now that he doesn’t have to drive through it, the snow is bringing John an all-consuming sense of peace. A lot of years’ve passed since he’s been graced by the sight of snowfall with his head on a pillow. It reminds him of being young, of being a blank slate. By tomorrow night, half of the city’s pure white snow will become dirty, grey slush. For now, though, it’s unassuming and unblemished.
He’s still staring out the window when there’s a knock at his door. He sits up against the pillows, stricken with self-consciousness for deciding to forego pajamas. It’s a silly thing to be insecure about. Benton’s borne witness to his body under the knife on multiple occasions—he’s seen John bare and bathed in the fluorescent exposé of the OR. But he’s not a young man anymore, and there’s something much more intimate about moonlight and street lamps against fresh snow. John tugs at the duvet to make sure he at least covers his nipples before he calls, “come in.”
Benton enters, shutting the door behind him and coming to the foot of John’s bed. “May I?”
John nods and motions him over, drawing his knees close to his chest beneath the blankets so that Benton doesn’t sit on his feet as he gets onto the bed.
“Can’t sleep?” asks John.
“Guess so,” says Benton. “Never been great at falling asleep outside of my own bed, even at work.”
John thinks about all of the unorthodox places he’s slept in his life—in medical tents and beneath mosquito nets. In rehab beds and dialysis wards. He can’t relate to Benton’s affliction, but he can at least benefit from it. He was starting to feel a little bit lonely, even with only a hallway in between them.
The room is dark, but the light from outside is amplified by the stark white snow and it shines onto the planes of Benton’s face. It helps him see that Benton’s eyes are big and glassy and observing John with some sort of fixated interest.
“Hey- thank you for today,” says John, unsure of how else to fill the quiet. “It meant a lot to be invited.”
“I’m glad you were there,” replies Benton, low. He gets up, gets closer. Sits back down by John’s feet. “Actually, I’m glad that you’re here at all.”
Benton reaches for the lip of the blanket, edging it down John’s chest, down his knees and his legs, down until John is hidden by nothing but his pair of boxers. “Why’s that?” John asks, his voice betraying him by cracking, putting that kinetic feeling in his gut on display just as much as his skin. One of Benton’s hands cups John’s knee and it’s like he feels it everywhere, in every nerve-ending of his body, in the scar tissue littered across his back and stomach, and—for reasons that will perhaps only escape him for another minute longer—he even feels it pulse through his cock.
“You haven’t figured that out by now, Carter?”
Doctor Benton is wearing John’s clothes and a Christmas gift from eight years ago around his neck. John is wearing nearly nothing at all. And they’re kissing. Benton’s hand is on his knee and they’re in John’s bed and the snow is piling up thick and intrusive against the pavement and Peter Benton is kissing him, lips against lips, noses against cheeks. They pull away after a handful of seconds, the noise wet and exaggerated in John’s otherwise silent bedroom.
“Um,” says John, blinking. “Um, I’m not-”
He knows what he’s trying to say. That he’s not that kind of guy. That he’s never even thought about another man. “I’m not,” he says, staring at Benton’s lips, plump and slick with what he presumes must be a combination of their spit. Fuck, that’s so hot. “Wait,” says John. “Can you do that again?”
Benton complies without hesitation, invading his space once again but this time with hands on either side of John’s jaw. He holds John’s face in his large palms, gently reuniting their mouths. Benton pecks at him, kissing John’s bottom lip once, twice, then pulling away with a sticky pop to do the same to his top lip. “You’re not what?” asks Benton, his breath against John’s tongue, diving right back in to attend to John’s bottom lip again.
“I- I’m not,” John attempts, but the wind gets knocked right out of him as Benton ducks down to start pressing soft kisses to his neck. “Jesus,” whines John, his head whipping back to grant easier access to the thin, sensitive skin of his neck. “I must’ve been mistaken,” he says, mostly to himself.
For months now, John’s been battling a feeling he doesn’t have a name for. He still doesn’t have it pinned down, but this—the closeness, the kissing, the touching—it’s at least granting him somewhere to put it. Rather than letting it buzz unbearably inside of his stomach, he gives it to Benton. He imagines it passing through his skin to Benton’s, osmosis or contamination, being sucked right out of him as Benton’s lips work wetly against the hill of his Adam’s apple.
“You’ve done this? With- well, I mean-”
Benton pulls back, and John learns that he definitively doesn’t want that. He’s only had this for a few minutes but he already needs Benton back against him, misses it intensely and immediately. He scrambles, not allowing him to get very far, positioning Benton’s hands against his shoulders. Then, his own hands settle on Benton’s elbows, ensuring he stays put.
“With other men?” says Benton, filling in the blanks. John nods, intrigued. “Yes,” answers Benton. “Does that surprise you, Carter?”
“Yes?” John shrugs. “No? I’m not sure.”
“You want me to stop?”
“Oh, that I am sure of,” says John, tilting forward until the pointy tip of his nose drags against the flesh of Benton’s cheek. John might’ve been caught off guard, but if he knows anything about himself at all it’s that he will pursue a good thing until it sours. He’s chased highs to the point of dependence. He’s followed unrequited love across the planet. This, despite its potential to induce an identity crisis of epic proportions, at the most fundamental level feels fucking good. Something new for John to get addicted to. John nuzzles into the skin of Benton’s cheek, gifting a kiss right against the corner of his mouth. “Don’t you dare,” he whispers.
Benton does stop, but only to put himself on equal footing with John. He rids himself of John’s clothes, tossing them god knows where, and falls back into bed bare-chested in just a pair of boxers and that goddamn necklace. John pulls him in until they’re tangled against each other on their sides, and he keels forward to smack kisses against the silver medallion and into Benton’s collar bones.
In the dark like this, and with the snowstorm making everything feel a little surreal, it’s easy to blur the lines of time and reality. Is this John’s friend of fifteen years, the man who has made settling back in Chicago such a seamless endeavor, or is this John’s mentor, his med-school match, the infamous Doctor Benton, the most callous, talented young surgeon at Cook County General. He’s not delusional—John’s aware that they don’t look the way they did, that their youth has elapsed, that they’ve both lived a thousand lives since those days and grown to mean more to each other than they ever could have anticipated, but he also can’t totally isolate themselves from their history. John’s considered the possibility that he might never grow out of wanting to do a good job for Doctor Benton, and in these current circumstances, he’s never been so sure that that’s the truth.
John allows intuition to be his shepherd, reaching a hand down to cup Benton through his underwear.
“God. You’re big,” marvels John, letting his fingers do some exploring.
“You like it, Carter?” asks Benton, punctuating his question with a reciprocating caress to John’s stiff cock. John nods, whimpering against his bed mate’s mouth. He hasn’t been touched like this in forever. A year, give or take, he realizes. He hadn’t put much thought into how pent up he’s been, but as he feels his cockhead start to stick messily to the fabric of his boxers, it becomes clear that tonight he’s gonna be pretty damn easy.
“Will you show me how you like it? How to do it right?” appeals John. He abruptly feels frantically overeager, and he humps the wet tip of his cock into Benton’s palm.
“I always have, haven’t I? Shown you how to do things the right way,” says Benton. “Brought out the best in you.” He can’t deny Benton’s claims, nodding, burrowing his blushing face into his neck and finding that he really loves the manly smell of him.
Pulling off his boxers seems like the right thing to do next, so he shimmies out of them and practically begs Benton to do the same. Once they’re stripped down, Benton arranges John onto his back and grinds down into him. Their hard, wet dicks slapped up together is unfathomably, mouthwateringly pleasant. The position though—John can’t hide the twitch in his face as he winces in pain.
Almost immediately, Benton picks up on it and retreats. “Carter?”
“It’s just- my back’s fucked up. I can’t do it this way,” he says, slowly turning back onto his side. He feels old and burdensome, chained down by injury and illness. “Sorry about that,” he says.
“Hey,” says Benton, returning to their former configuration. He runs his fingers through John’s hair, then trails them down to hold his cheek. “Don’t apologize. I knew that, just got caught up in you. Want you to be comfortable, baby.”
“Jesus Christ.” John’s head lolls down as his blush burns impossibly hotter, and a relieved laugh bursts from him. “You’re a sweet talker, aren’t you, Doctor Benton?”
“Mm, none of that. Say my name.”
John is overwhelmed by how safe and taken care of he’s feeling. It makes him want to make it so good for him. “Peter,” he says, and he’s kissed for his compliance. “How do you want me? Whatever you want.”
“What’s most comfortable?”
“Anything is okay, seriously, as long as I’m not flat on my back,” explains John.
“How about,” says Peter, pulling John against his chest, winding his arms around his waist. God, John’s never felt so small next to a lover. Forget what he thought he knew about himself twenty minutes ago. It’s making him leak like crazy. “How about on your stomach. Can I fuck you like that?”
John swallows uneasily.
“What’s wrong?”
“I guess I just don’t know if I’ll even like it,” confesses John, looking into Peter’s eyes. “I want to.”
Peter nudges their noses together. Peter has always been pretty decent at appeasing John’s uncertainty when he's wanted to. “Don’t worry. You’ll like it,” he vows.
John rolls over onto his stomach, mostly convinced, crossing his arms to give his face something to rest against. Peter half drapes himself against John’s back but they both crane their necks to keep their faces close, making out languidly. John can barely believe how perfect it feels to kiss him, can hardly stand the seconds when they have to separate for air. If it feels this right to kiss Peter, John sorta doubts that anything they do to each other could feel wrong.
Peter’s palm strokes John from his shoulder blades down to his tailbone, back and forth and steadily edging lower until he’s also petting at John’s ass. No one’s ever touched him like this—he doesn’t need to say it out loud, it’s obvious. He wants to please Peter so bad that whether the sensation of having something inside of his ass agrees with him or not, he’s decided that so long as Peter likes it, he’s game to give it a go.
“I have, uh- lube. In the nightstand,” says John.
“Don't move. I’ll get it,” responds Peter, pecking his shoulder and rolling away to retrieve it.
With his face buried in his arms and Peter taking the reins, John can’t help his mind from wandering off. Wet fingers swipe across John’s asshole and he wonders if Peter’s ever dated a man—if he would even want to. He touches the inside of John’s body, not for the first in fact, and John wonders if this attraction is a flame Peter’s always held for him, or if it’s a recent development. Is it discovery, as it is for John, or is it rediscovery? Is he remembering something, living out a fantasy he’s possessed for over a decade? Three of Peter’s fingers are inside of him and he bites at the bone of his own wrist, desperate to know if Peter wishes they’d stayed in touch, called each other like they said they would. Would it have made any difference? Were they predisposed to wind up together like this either way?
John snaps back into the present when Peter’s lips loiter at his ear. “You look good like this, Carter.”
“Jeez, no I don’t,” he says, partially dismissive, partly preening. “Really?”
“Yes, really. How’re you feeling?”
“I’m okay,” admits John. He wriggles his hips slightly, fucking his cock down into the mattress. “Ready for more, I think.”
Peter takes the go-ahead in stride, leaving John empty and going back over to the bedside table.
“What’re you doing?” asks John. Now that Peter pulled out, he’s learning that emptiness is a far greater discomfort than his fingers were. There’s nuance to this stuff, after all. John involuntary clenches, regretting that he has nothing to grip. “Come ba-ack,” he whines, sounding a little bratty.
“One second, I’m grabbing a condom.”
“Why? Try as you might, I don’t think you’re gonna get me pregnant, Peter.” That earns him a nasty eye roll, like a beautiful arrow right through his heart. John smirks. “I haven’t had sex in a long time, man. Long time. You really don’t need to.”
Peter shuts the drawer with a sigh and returns. “I haven’t either,” he admits.
“Perfect, it’s settled. Come on. I wanna know what it feels like.” John rocks back onto his side. “Want me to get it a little wet first?”
That earns him a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, you want to try? You’re not yanking my chain?”
He grabs Peter’s cock, playing with his foreskin and jerking his fist up and down the shaft a few times. “Mm, actually I think I can do that, too,” he jests, biting his lip gleefully when Peter shakes his head in distaste.
“Yeah, I wanna try,” confirms John after his joke doesn’t land. “I don’t have to move much, do I?”
“Ah, I think we can manage like this,” says Peter, sitting on his knees by John’s face. He gently drags John’s face closer, until Peter’s lap becomes his pillow. John loves, loves giving head. Obviously, this is an entirely different ballgame—and John kills that joke long before it makes it to air—but this, the act of giving, the service of it is something John is thoroughly familiar with.
John leans in, close and exploratory and a little gun-shy, and licks and kisses at the cock in front of him. He’s timid and slow-going, but thankfully Peter’s tempered with age and is exhibiting absolutely no signs of impatience as John sucks at the shaft, rubbing spit along the skin a little aimlessly. Everything’s pretty chill right up until Peter grabs the back of his head, locks eyes with John, and says, “that’s my good boy.”
So. John thinks he’s starting to get it, actually. On his stomach, taking three fingers with his head buried in his own elbows, it could have been anybody. But that hand on the back of his head and the practiced way it cradles his skull, and that voice uttering praise, the acknowledgement of a teacher to his pupil—it hits him square in the stomach. This isn’t just some guy, this is Peter Benton. This is the man he’s craved approval from since before his prefrontal cortex was even fully developed. It means something for them to be doing this to each other, and now John feels starved for it.
Throwing a bit of caution to the wind, he widens his mouth, sucking down a few of Peter’s impressive inches. “Mm. Knew you’d like that,” says Peter, feeding John flattery along with his cock. “That’s very good, Carter.”
John whimpers, the sound barely able to pass his stretched-thin lips as he suctions sloppily around him. Peter’s guides him back and forth with the solid and steady weight of his hand, and John makes good on his suggestion, soaking him as best he can. Peter—John can tell, he always could—is the kind of man you get on your knees for. He’s the sort of man that you want to be acknowledged by, chosen by, and even if John hasn’t always wanted this, he’s definitely always wanted that. Here he is, being chosen by Doctor Benton. He could have anyone he wants, John is sure of that, but here he is, here he gets to be, hand-selected to be the receptacle of Peter’s pleasure. John’s cock pulses against his thigh and his hole clenches in a zealous reminder of what’s still coming.
He eases his mouth off, resisting back against the strength of Peter’s hand and pulling away. Peter’s cock plops out and bobs in the open air, shiny and damp. John likes the way it looks. He peers up. “C’mon. I’m ready for it.”
He’s aided onto his stomach and then Peter lays across his back once again, his spit-wet cock digging insistently into John’s lumbar.
“I know you haven’t done this before, Carter, so I’m not gonna go too deep,” says Peter, and John can hear him lubing up his cock, sticky and squelching as Peter jacks himself off. He wishes, nearly violently, that he could handle being on his back through this whole thing so that he could have a visual. He didn’t know he’d have an appetite for dick like this, but here he is—a void, needy for something to fill his vacant space.
“Peter, please,” is all he has to say, and then the tip of his cock is kissing at his rim, big, blunt, bulging.
“Breathe,” instructs Peter. “Relax, baby. Yeah, there you go, there you go,” he says, John’s muscles calming and allowing him to edge inside. “My good boy, there we go. Look at how good you feel.”
John bites the skin of his hand, disbelieving. He moans out loud to keep himself from saying what he’s thinking—that like this, with Peter’s lovely, lengthy cock awakening desires he’d never really even considered might be locked up within him, he feels like he belongs to him. Peter’s seen more of him than anyone else he’s ever known—not just his asshole, but every kidney he’s ever had. The blood clot that apparently almost ruined his transplant. Track marks on his arm, and his gaunt, sickly face as he checked into rehab. His blood all over the floor of County. And now, his hole clutching possessively around his cockhead. He’s always been Peter Benton’s to do with as he pleases, even back when he was just a student trying to keep up in the OR, back when whatever blonde girlfriend of the week was waiting for his shift to end so that they could fuck like bunnies. He probably would’ve let Peter do this to him even then without hesitation, he realizes. It surprises him a little, the truth of it, so he whines and whimpers in lieu of a confession, at least clueing Peter in that he’s enjoying himself in the present.
From what he can tell, Peter is only rocking about half the length of his cock inside before he retreats and repeats. He’s being careful on John’s behalf, but Peter must need a reminder that John Carter is an all-or-nothing kind of man. John’s still the guy that wanted in on every single surgery, who wanted to learn everything, try everything at Peter’s side—maybe he’s even that guy more than he ever has been. Halfway has never been his style.
His hand whips back, finding Peter’s stomach. Petting at him, he says, “I want to take all of it.”
“Sure about that?” asks Peter, sounding smug as he rocks in and out.
John takes a very hearty breath, nourishing his lungs, and then he takes matters into his own hands. Most of the time, John recalls, Peter needs to be shown that John’s capable. He slides himself down the bed to get closer, forcing Peter’s cock deeper and deeper, shoving his body back until they’re flush, taking him so far inside that-
“Oh fu-uuuck,” John cries out, sparks and flutters prickling through his entire lower body. “Ohhhh- oh my god.”
“Let’s see,” says Peter, grinding his cock in place. “Do we need to brush up on our anatomy, Carter? What’s that, what’re you feeling? Say it.”
“My- mm, my prostate.” The words are punched out of him in a gravelly whine. “Jesus, that’s what that feels like?”
“Not half bad, hmm?” comments Peter, and rather than answer that verbally John just basks in it, jerking his hips in short bursts to keep the sweet tingling sensations going.
“Gonna try something,” says Peter, and he wraps his arms around John’s chest, lifting him very slightly off of the mattress in the process. “If you’re in any pain, let me know.”
After nodding his consent, Peter pulls John all the way up, repositioning their bodies until they’re both on their knees, his back to Peter’s chest in a more upright fashion. Peter was valid in his concerns—this is definitely not the kind of position John’ll be able to manage for very long anymore, but the way it feels right now is enough to offset the discomfort. It’s slotted Peter deeper, so much so that he can feel Peter’s balls resting against his ass.
John’s always been good at staving off gratification. He can keep up with a pretty rigorous edging, can keep himself from shooting off for a decently long time, and it’s honestly only gotten easier to accomplish with age. His stamina, though, has never had to contend with the one-two punch of prostate stimulation and Peter Benton grunting in his ear.
“I’m gonna fucking come, oh god.”
The only thing John can compare this to is being twenty-three years old and spending nearly that same amount of hours cooped up in the emergency room. Freedom meant shoving off his scrubs and standing under hot shower water for half an hour at the very least. It meant his bed and his fist, beating himself off to exorcise himself of the adrenaline and the horrors and the anxiety of living up to his mentor’s expectations. In those days, John would come so hard and so excessively, desperate to give himself something to feel good about after spending an entire day being bossed around by Doctor Benton. And so, John supposes, this isn’t actually the first orgasm of his that Peter’s been responsible for—with that revelation, he's knows he's not gonna last another second.
Keeping on rhythm with Peter’s thrusts, John strokes himself a handful of times and then he shakes apart, shivering and stammering as bliss overtakes him. “Peter, shit, oh my god,” he groans, thighs wobbling with strain as he saturates his own hand with rope after rope of thick, white come. Peter fucks him through it perfectly, even helping to settle him back down onto his stomach when the exhaustion and imbalance set in. Even still, even set back down, the euphoria courses through him, radiating pins and needles through each of his limbs and butterflies throughout his gut. Given his ongoing challenges—chronic pain, illness, addiction, recovery, divorce—John simply doesn’t remember the last time his body felt this at peace. “Thank you, thank you,” he whispers facedown into the pillow, awestruck.
Peter keeps going, and John thinks he fucks like he operates. Doctor Benton clearly knows what he’s doing when he touches a body—John can’t help but draw the parallel. He’s in and out, timely, no unnecessary bells and whistles with a practiced set of hands. A little bit quiet, a lot focused. He knows what he’s looking for. He’ll leave you in better shape than he found you. John can attest to that in both scenarios.
“Want me to pull out?” asks Peter, and the speed of his thrusts has really picked up now that he’s close to being finished off.
“No. Inside,” says John, shaking his head. “Want it inside me.” John wants a piece of him. Wants the comfort of carrying him around, too.
Peter really, really gives it to him, his hot release shot straight into John’s body, and for a moment, for a split second before it becomes the most perfect and intimate thing he’s ever felt, it frightens him. It frightens him because John knows himself, and he’s historically inclined to get hooked on things and people that are no good for him at all. Admittedly, he doesn’t know what this is yet, but John’s already wondering when he’ll get his next fix, if Peter will even want him again, if he’ll need to learn to cope and go without. Peter collapses down and crushes John into the bed, filling him up, kissing at the nape of his neck, pressing the cool metal of his necklace into John’s aching back, and worry, he decides, does not have a place in his bed tonight.
Peter, on the other hand, looks like he belongs here.
—
Chicago is really special around the holidays when you’re in love.
There’s something about it—and love is what it is, John isn’t about to deny it, although he’s not ready to profess it either—that makes the excessive amount of tourists and the overdone decorations and even the cheesy Christmas songs seem less obnoxious.
The snow throughout December is notoriously such a goddamn hassle, an inconvenience that makes commuting to work a mess and has John begrudgingly shoveling the sidewalk outside his brownstone at ungodly hours. Every single morning he wakes up dreading the outside world and doing a double take at the forecast on the morning news. When John lived in Africa he thought he’d never grow accustomed to the sweltering heat, the blistering sun, the bugs for god’s sake, but now that he’s condemned to the tundra that is Illinois in December, he thinks that maybe isn’t the case. Then again, it’s not all bad. The snow, for example, looks really lovely on Peter’s eyelashes, and he likes the way it pushes them closer together on evenings that they’re out in it when it starts. It’s not like Peter’s about to hold his hand or anything, but sometimes he’ll stop them to wind his scarf around John to make sure he’s warm enough, and that’s reason enough to put up with the constant shoveling.
One night, they accidentally wind up on the CTA Holiday Train. John honestly expects Peter to make them get off and wait for the next one, but he laughs under his breath, eyes sparkling as they watch a group of children get a kick out of it. That prompts a wonderful chain of events in which Peter tells a story about stumbling upon the Holiday Train with Reese when he was about six years old—how excited he was, how enthralled, how happy it made the kid. That then leads to John dragging Peter to bed by the collar of his shirt and putting his absolute heart and soul into a blowjob because Peter lets him in on things, he gets to have this once-mythical version of Peter Benton to himself and the man deserves to get deep-throated about it.
He hasn’t managed to convince Peter to go ice-skating yet, but John can tell his resolve is weakening every time he asks so he’s keeping at it. He does at least find success in dragging Peter, Reese, and Rachel to the light show at the Botanical Gardens. A great time and a few cups of hot chocolate are had by all, and the evening ends with Peter’s scarf affectionately furled around his neck just as the snow starts.
Christmas is at Jackie and Walt’s, and though John doesn’t get to bring Peter home with him this time around, it’s a wonderful day that leaves John misty-eyed by the time it’s over and he’s crawling into bed. To nobody’s surprise it’s a white Christmas, and John watches the precipitation cascade prettily just beyond his bedroom window and he thinks of Peter, of their first time, the first of what’s already been many, and he smiles to himself because he has a name for the feeling he’s had in his gut since he moved back to Chicago, and the name for it is love. When John was at Northwestern half a year ago waiting in bed for a kidney to be flown across the country for him, Peter had asked him—Where are your people? Who do you love in this world, and why aren’t they here with you? His people were here all along, he knows that now. They were waiting for him to come back home.
They’ve agreed that New Year’s is theirs, and John finds himself counting down those often illusive days between the two holidays, so ready to ring in 2010 with a literal bang. He’s got an intimate evening planned for the two of them starting with a home-cooked meal that he even whipped out one of Gamma’s family cookbooks for and ending on a midnight kiss and good old fashioned love-making well into the night.
When the evening rolls around, however, he learns he needs to pivot.
“How late are you running?” says John into his phone after Peter mentions an emergency splenectomy. His cell is balanced in the crook of his neck as he laminates a batch of biscuit dough on his butcher’s block.
“Just an hour or two,” explains Peter, “I promise. There’s something else, though.”
“Oh?”
“Jackie called, her and Walt are both coming down with something. Reese isn’t going over there tonight after all,” says Peter. “I told him to head to your place after he’s done at the museum.”
John’s heart sinks, but he musters up enough of a front to insist that it’s all good and bids him goodbye for now. It’s not that he doesn’t adore Peter’s son, but the evening was meant to be private and romantic. He’s got some candles going, a Marvin Gaye record ready to be spun, chocolate-covered strawberries that he was gonna coax Peter into feeding him. It was supposed to be a whole thing.
What takes place, instead, is the bursting of a bubble.
Reese arrives at his doorstep about an hour later and John welcomes him in, politely takes his coat, and promptly realizes that he and Peter’s son have never spent more than a few minutes alone together. It’s not like John thinks they have little in common or nothing to speak about, but he is somewhat concerned about how well they’re going to be able to communicate. He’s embarrassed that even after months of hanging around the Benton household, he’s really only learned the basics of ASL. He can’t possibly spell out every single word he doesn’t know—that’d be unbearably tedious for the kid.
He follows John into the kitchen and takes a seat at one of the stools at the island. How are you? signs Reese. Okay, that one he knows.
John opens his hand and presses it thumb-first against his chest twice—I’m fine. Then, he copies Reese. How are you?
Reese’s three middle fingers curl down and he extends his thumb and pinky. His hand moves left to right. Same.
John’s about to ask Reese where he was, but he only gets as far as Which before he realizes he doesn’t know the sign for museum. He says it out loud, trying to annunciate so that Reese can read his lips.
He seems to understand because he signs back. The only problem is John has no idea what it means. He shrugs at Reese and laughs a little nervously. Reese clears his throat, signs it again, and says, “Natural History.”
It’s manageable but it’s also unsustainable. It’s tricky to keep the conversation flowing when John has to turn away to take the food out of the oven or grab something from a cabinet. It’s seemingly impossible to have a discussion that’s deeper than the surface. He knows that it’s on him, that his trepidation is the only thing making this so tough. He’s used to having Peter around to fill in the gaps and eventually Reese seems to give up on John’s helplessness, excusing himself to read on the couch. Peter’s arrival certainly perks him up some, but he’s still feeling lousy and inconsiderate.
“Hey, Carter.”
“Hi,” he says, greeting Peter at the door. He bites his lip and hangs his coat so that he doesn’t do something stupid like pounce on him while his son’s only a few feet away on the couch. Peter does give his hand a small squeeze, though, and that’s at least momentarily grounding.
But the thing he keeps coming back to is that Reese is Peter’s life. John’s disappointment in himself is like a weight against his chest for the rest of the evening, and while he doesn’t always remember it’s there, when he does it’s debilitating.
At midnight, John doesn’t get the kiss he’d been banking on. Reese gets one right on the top of his head, though. John gets a clap on the back.
They stay up until around one-thirty and then they all head upstairs to retire to their respective rooms. Reese signs something at Peter, but the only word John catches is Where.
Peter, as he does with just about everything, makes it look so effortless. “Your room is right here,” he says and signs, not missing a beat—and why would he, he’s been at it for over a decade. “That’s John’s room,” Peter says, pointing. “I’m staying at the end of the hall over there.”
Reese looks at John for a moment, and then back to Peter. He signs something that John can’t discern, but it causes Peter to scoff and roll his eyes. His response to Reese isn’t said aloud—none of John’s business, then.
He and Reese exchange good nights and the newest weapon in his arsenal, Happy New Year. Then, he trudges off to his bedroom, assuming he probably resembles a dog with his tail between his legs. Most of the time, John doesn’t feel like Peter Benton’s best-kept secret. They have a really good time together, both in private and with others present. Peter’s known who he is for a long time, and he made the first move. John doesn’t think it’s shame. He hopes it isn’t. God knows nothing about being Peter’s makes him feel ashamed. The culprit, he supposes, is that they’ve yet to define their relationship. If they did, tonight could have been very different, and John lies in bed and mourns that a little bit.
Sleep is not coming easily, so when his door creaks open about twenty minutes later and Peter apologizes for waking him, John waves his hand dismissively. “Nope, I’m up,” he clarifies, sitting against the headboard. Peter shuts the door, locks it, and starts to undress. “I wasn’t sure if you were planning on joining me, to be honest.”
“Course I was,” says Peter, getting under the covers. “Where else would I go?”
“Mm, I dunno.” John nudges and nuzzles their noses together. “Thought you got called into another splenectomy or something.”
“Sure you did,” says Peter. “Nope. All yours.”
“Lucky, lucky me.”
“Happy New Year, Carter,” he says, their lips meeting in a lazy, wet smack. Forgive and forget. It might be a couple of hours past midnight, but this is just what John was hoping for. He’s ecstatic. He groans into the kiss, licking at Peter’s mouth. Then, John, a man on a mission, boldly pushes Peter flat onto the bed and flings a leg over to straddle him.
“Mm, mm, Carter,” says Peter, and John just ignorantly kisses and kisses at him.
“Yeah, yes, whatever you want, however you want me.”
“How about, uh- off,” says Peter.
John freezes. “Off?”
“That’s what I said.” John rolls off of him hastily, helped by the fact that his limbs have essentially turned to dejected jelly. Jesus. He’s had dialysis sessions that left him better off than those words just did. “Listen, I know that Reese can’t actually hear us getting up to no good, but he’s right there, basically right outside the room. I just can’t—you understand.”
John stares at Peter and nods his head and bites his lip to stop his chin from wobbling.
But did you have the same rule with Cleo? Did you never fuck her if your son was under the same roof? I highly doubt that, Doctor Benton. What is this really about?
“Yeah, I understand,” says John.
“Good, good boy,” he says, kissing John’s cheek like some sort of consolation. “I’ll take a raincheck, though.”
“Okay, raincheck. You got it.”
They’re silent for a few moments as they settle down against the pillows, getting into positions more suited for sleep than for play. They mirror each other, curled on their sides face-to-face.
“Hey, Carter, let me ask you something.”
“Okay,” agrees John.
“I walked Reese into the guest room, made sure he was settled, and I- okay, I snooped a little bit.”
“That’s okay,” says John. “I did the same thing at your house. Find anything weird?”
“Weird- no. Just, I noticed. It, well, looks like you held onto a lot of baby stuff. Was that Joshua’s nursery?”
John can actually feel as his face falls. He doesn’t know what to say. How is he supposed to explain that for the last few years if he even so much as mentioned the baby, there was a chance Makemba wouldn’t speak to him for twenty-four hours straight. He’d meant to do something altruistic with it like donate it to County or Sarah’s Circle, but what if Kem wanted to keep something? Rather than belonging to a child in actual need, Joshua’s crib and tiny newborn clothes and cute little rocking horse have spent years stowed away in an uninhabited house, skeletons in a closet uselessly collecting dust.
“Yeah,” confirms John, “it was his nursery.” He remembers the tart scent of orange juice and a baby who wouldn’t kick. Somewhere, deep beneath the room's dark green walls, are paint swatches. “I’ve been meaning to donate that stuff since I moved back, it’s just been pretty crazy at the Center. Thanks for the reminder.”
“Sure,” says Peter.
“Speaking of sons,” shifts John, “I felt like such a jack-ass around yours today. Think you can help me step up my ASL game?”
“I can, but don’t beat yourself up about it too much. Hey, it’s not like you’re his father.”
There was a time, a relatively short amount of time maybe, but there was a time where the love he has for Peter felt uncomplicated. They had a decent run. A few perfect weeks. Nothing is easy forever—John knows that, John’s lived that over and over. He rolls away, they both do, and they sleep.
Gamma used to say something about mornings being a fresh start, but John can’t remember how it went. It’s so strange, John thinks, how someone can be such a staple of your everyday, can say the same thing to you every morning, but enough time goes by and they become something you can only recall in bits and pieces. He lays in bed trying to remember to no avail, but the sentiment of it was that everything is better in the light of day. He wakes up feeling that way, the late morning sun warming up his skin through the windows. He’s even better when Peter walks through the door holding an appetizing tray.
“Morning, Carter.”
“Good morning,” says John through an uncontainable smile. “What the heck is all this?”
“I let you sleep in, you’re welcome. I, on the other hand, had myself an early start,” says Peter, walking over and depositing the tray down onto John’s lap. “Went for a run, dropped the kid off at his friend’s house, whipped up a little something.”
John takes in the spread before him. Poached eggs and one of the leftover biscuits, sliced, warmed, and buttered. A mug of steaming coffee, a small glass of cranberry juice—good for renal function. His pills are thoughtfully placed in a ramekin beside the beverages, and to top it all off, there’s a tea saucer with three of the chocolate covered strawberries they didn’t get around to eating last night.
“Chocolate for breakfast? Uh, who are you and what have you done with Doctor Benton?” jokes John.
“Just this once,” says Peter, leaning forward to kiss the top of John’s bedhead.
“This is incredibly sweet,” says John. “Thank you, Peter.”
“My pleasure.” He gets up and leaves John to it, starting to peel off his running clothes. “Oh, and Carter- let me know when you’re finished. I believe I have a check to cash.”
After breakfast, they fuck like they’ve been needing it for years—which, actually, they sort of have. John’s put onto his hands and knees and Peter gives it to him from behind, rough. John oscillates between laughing and crying, manic and uninhibited in his noisiness. Maybe it’s slightly spiteful, but the house is empty and there’s no reason not to—Peter fills him up, and John fills the room with indulgent reverberations.
“Goddamn, Carter, do I need to gag that mouth?”
John whimpers, tightening desperately around Peter’s cock.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says, shoving three thick fingers past John’s parted lips.
It’s good. It’s so, so fucking good. But good as it is, last night can’t be erased or dismissed. John’s been riding this high made up of old friends and new love, but he’s also on an intense comedown. John spent a lot of years in a marriage where open communication was taboo, never knowing where they stood and too afraid to pry. Old habits die hard, but he’s willing to work on it. He’s not so sure, though, that what’ll be left of him after the work will be of any interest to Peter.
Part of John expects them to fizzle out, but they really don’t. They continue to see each other, undefined yet distinctly, deeply intimate. Reese is rarely mentioned anymore—Joshua, never. They go on like that, but they don’t progress, like a car with its tires stuck in the Chicago snow.
—
“Alrighty, just grab your coat and your prescription and I’ll walk you out.”
“Lovely. Thank you, dear.”
John hovers in the doorway of the exam room, stopped in his tracks by the sound of Rachel’s voice. She’s been volunteering two days a week at the Center since the beginning of the year, and whenever he gets the chance to see her interact with a patient or assist a doctor, he finds himself awash with pride. He knows he’s not supposed to pick favorites, but since Rachel’s technically not on rotation, he’s decided it’s fair game. He watches on discreetly as she wraps up the appointment.
“That’s not your winter coat, is it?”
The gentleman she’s with nods, doing up the buttons of his denim jacket. It’s thin and worn, and doesn’t look like something that could keep anyone warm out in the elements.
“You’re wearing that out there?”
He nods again, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears. “It’s all I got!”
“Oh no, not on my watch,” huffs Rachel. “We’re finding something warmer for you. I’m not letting you leave like this!”
John chooses now to make his presence known, stepping into the exam room and glancing at the chart on the computer screen. “Hi Mister Nelson, I’m Doctor Carter,” he says. “Rachel, can you please escort Mister Nelson to the second floor? We run a coat drive here and I’m sure we have something that’ll fit nicely.”
“Do you have anything in tartan?”
John chuckles. “I’m sure we can find you something practical and stylish. Rachel, come find me when you’re done.”
About twenty minutes later, Rachel arrives at his office bearing gifts of coffee.
“Ahh, how did you know?” John accepts it graciously.
“I just did,” she says, plopping down onto one of his couches.
“You’re good at that, you know.”
“What?” she says. “Making coffee? Well, it helps that you guys have the fancy machines and the organic beans. Seriously, goes a long way.”
“No,” says John. “At the whole beside manner thing. You know how to speak with patients and make them comfortable. That part of the job is not easy to teach. Your dad was like that, too.”
Rachel perks up. “I know he was.” She takes a swig of her coffee, and John comes over to the couch to sit with her, perching at the opposite end. “The HIV clinic isn’t what I expected it to be. My dad used to tell me stories as a kid, how sick HIV and AIDS would make people. I think he probably watched it kill a lot of his patients. But- that hasn’t been the case here, at least not from what I’ve seen. I mean, Mister Nelson’s been living with HIV for half his life and he’s in great shape.”
John nods. “A lot’s changed. Less stigma, better access to medicine. Your dad started his career in a very different world. So did I.” It strikes him, as they reminisce, that the same must be said for Peter. Even worse, he’d known he wasn’t straight during the height of the pandemic. How many gay men did Peter have to watch succumb to illness and ostracization? It makes John ache for him. “But where we’re at right now with it, it’s not like this everywhere,” continues John. “When I lived in the Congo and Sudan, I mean, you can’t even imagine, Rachel. That’s what Kem, my uh- my ex-wife- that’s her purpose, that’s her work. When she visited Chicago for the first time, she couldn’t believe the difference in quality of life for clinic patients. It’s part of the reason she didn’t want to live in Chicago, I don’t think she considered the work as impactful if it was here. Like, she couldn’t see herself-”
John cuts himself off and crosses his legs, scrubbing a hand across his face and laughing. “Jesus Christ, I’m oversharing, aren’t I.”
“Oh, please. I’ve been waiting for you to get honest with me, Doctor Carter. You’ve been through a lot,” she says. “No one should be expected to keep all that bottled inside.”
“You are really emotionally intelligent for your age,” he says. “How’d that happen?”
“I- I almost killed my baby sister,” she answers frankly. “I watched my dad die of cancer and I treated him like shit the entire time. I used to steal his pain meds to get high, I mean, how fucked up is that?”
John’s eyes soften. He’s not sure that he really believes in a higher power anymore, but he feels indebted to whatever forces led them on these intersecting paths. There's more that binds them than John ever knew.
“I’ve had to learn a lot of lessons, I guess. I don’t want to be the person I was,” says Rachel, “so I try to be better.”
John sighs. “I feel that way every single day. God, I’ve got some stories to tell you. Maybe, just- not while I’m at work.” While they’ve been chatting, the sun set. The days are still so short in early February, it still feels like winter is immortal. “Kem doesn’t like the reminder of tragedy. Her father was murdered, and she only ever spoke to me about it once. She didn’t like to talk about the baby we lost. And you know what—every single time I step foot in the clinic, I think about her. Every time I come into work and I see the plaque outside that bears my son’s name, I think about him. When I see you, Rachel, I think about Doctor Greene. But I don’t mind any of it,” says John.
“I like to remember.”
—
On the afternoon of Valentine’s Day, John lands in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. There’s a mini-van waiting for him at arrivals pick-up, and inside of it a sight for sore eyes and her son.
“Carter, get in before they give me a ticket! Come on, move it or lose it!”
John shoves his suitcase into the trunk and cartoonishly races over to the passenger seat, sliding in and buckling like his life depends on it, and it always sorta feels like it does when you’re taking orders from Susan Lewis.
She kisses his cheek in greeting and they zoom off.
“You look terrific, Carter! You’ve been feeling good?”
“Feeling great,” answers John.
“That sparkly new kidney must agree with you,” she says, reaching over to pinch his cheek without taking her eyes off the road. Being in Susan’s presence is more of a comfort than he’d anticipated. He sinks into the passenger seat and adjusts his sunglasses, blushing terribly.
“Cosmo,” says Susan, “this is Carter. Mommy and Carter worked together when we lived in Chicago back when you were a baby and even before you were born.”
“Okay,” says the kid.
“How old are you, bud?” John asks, swiveling around in his seat.
“Five and a half. How old are you, fifty?”
John turns back around.
“Cosmo, honey, that isn’t very nice,” she says.
“Then why are you laughing!” replies John.
Cosmo gets dropped off at his dad’s place, and then they head to Susan’s. “I think I’ve counted fifteen different farms during this drive. What else is there to do around here other than, like, pick apples?” he asks.
Susan scoffs. “God. When you find out you can let me know.”
Her house is gorgeous, and it honestly tells John all he needs to know. Susan’s making more than a decent living here, and the quiet is something he knows she’s long been hunting down. He’s very intimately familiar with what it’s like to search for something beyond your own backyard. He hopes she’s found it here.
The haphazard house tour finishes at the guest room, and John takes the opportunity to take a quick rinse and change into something more cozy for the evening. Back downstairs in the living room, he finds Susan busy at the bar cart.
“You don’t mind if I make myself a drink, right?”
John shakes his head. “Of course not, knock yourself out.”
“My intentions exactly,” she winks. “I think I’ll make my second favorite Cosmo.”
John curls up onto the couch, delighted to be spending a few days off from the Center with a good friend. Sometimes, especially in the presence of people he’s known since med school, John gets hit with this odd notion that no substantial amount of time really passed during his years spent abroad. He feels it now, folded up on Susan’s couch. He feels it when he’s being pressed into a mattress by Peter’s hands.
“You know, Carter,” says Susan, rousing him from his arousing imagination. She comes over to sit with him, letting him rest his feet in her lap. “I don’t have a life and I’m more than fine with that—a few years with Chuck Martin turned me off from it even more than my parents did, if you can believe it. But, I gotta be honest, I was surprised that you were available for a visit on Valentine’s Day weekend.”
John tilts his head curiously, fishing for context.
“I’ve known you a long time. You’re the hopeless romantic. You aren’t exactly known for staying single for very long.” She strokes one of his ankles. “You’re not looking for any action from me, right, because that’s so not happening.”
“Oh my god,” he whines, bashfully burying his face in his hands. “No, no, I’m seeing someone.”
“And you’re spending the most romantic night of the year with me? The sex must not be anything special.”
“I promise you,” John says firmly, “that is not the case.”
“Okay, you’ve got my attention.” She sips her drink, wearing the kind of mischievous smirk that serves as a warning to John. It’s the sort of expression worn by a doctor who doesn’t get to see the light of day often enough. The kind of face made by a parent with a young kid who is desperate for scandal. She’s going to extract some information out of him whether he wants to be forthright about it or not. John bites his tongue. No one knows but them. There’s been this unspoken agreement between him and Peter to keep it close to the chest, but that’s all it is—unspoken. What would it be like to let someone in on this transformative thing that’s been happening to him? “So,” continues Susan, inadvertently solidifying John’s decision to divulge. “What’s she like?”
“Actually,” says John, inhaling deeply. Susan’s not in Chicago, she’s not at County where secrets spread more easily than illness. It feels safe. He wants someone to know. “I’ve been seeing Peter Benton.”
Susan looks at him blankly. “What do you mean you’ve been seeing Peter Benton?”
“I mean he’s the person that I’m seeing. Like, I’m dating him.”
Susan’s eyes narrow. “You’re shitting me. Benton?” Her eyes roll suspiciously. She presses a finger to her lip. “Oh, you know what. Yeah, I can see it.” Susan finishes her drink and puts the empty glass on the coffee table, resting both of her hands on John’s feet. He can tell what it means—that he can speak freely with her, that it’s okay. “So, Carter.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve always wondered,” she says, leaning in. “Does he have a big dick or is he overcompensating for something?”
“Susan!” he exclaims, and laughter fizzles between them, very adeptly breaking the ice. “It’s huge,” nods John, and they crack up some more.
He tells her everything—moving back to Chicago, organically falling back into orbit with Peter, Thanksgiving. It’s a weight off his shoulders, one that he’s spent months chalking up to chronic pain. He feels light and unburdened with the truth out there in the ether.
“Do you love him?” she inquires.
John nods, his lips pulled tight across his face in a half smile. “Yeah, I do.”
“But you haven’t told him that, otherwise you’d be in his lap instead of mine,” she says, punctuated by a pat to his shin.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know if he feels that way. I know that we have a good time together, but-”
“Honestly, Carter, he never liked any of us. He hated Doug, he barely tolerated me and Mark. But you- hell yes. He had a soft spot for you, Carter. He always did.” John’s heart swells with affection. An unintended benefit of being earnest with Susan is stuff like this—insight and retrospect from someone who was there, too. “So why’d you blow off Valentine’s Day?”
“Well, the answer to that doesn’t really have anything to do with him. I’m just not a fan.” Susan furrows her brow, waiting for the rest of it. “Valentine’s Day is the day my med student got killed. So what if I don’t want to celebrate the thing that led to my freaking drug addiction? Is that such a big deal?”
John abruptly feels like a hypocrite. Only a matter of weeks ago, he cast judgement upon Kem for her aversion to ruminating on misery and here he is, an unconscious reproduction.
“If I recall the story correctly,” says Susan, “Benton was there, too. I’m pretty sure he would understand.”
“You’re right,” he says, his fingers finding each other in a nervous fidget.
“I don’t know if I’m the right person to hand out relationship advice. I’m probably not. My parents were a disaster, my track record isn’t great, and I married the same shmuck twice. But,” she says, soothingly, maternally, rubbing John’s calf. “I think you’re so worried about Benton being emotionally unavailable that you’re becoming guilty of it yourself. Tell him what scares you. Tell the guy you love him. Be vulnerable, be real. Maybe it won’t work out, or maybe he’ll surprise you. The worst that could happen is that you find out he isn’t as invested as you are, and you move on with your life. Is he worth the risk?”
“Always,” says John.
“Then I say—go for it, Carter.”
—
On the spring equinox, John Carter says a final goodbye to his former teacher.
There were a few days of fortuitous warm weather about a week ago and almost all of the snow’s cleared up now. Give it another week, John thinks, and it’ll be like winter was never even here.
At the peripheral gate of the cemetery, John and Peter idle around in white shirts and black suits. He let Peter choose his tie and even had him knot it into place. John could have done it perfectly well himself, of course, but he likes to give Peter’s hands something to do.
Thousands of dead Chicagoans stretch for miles behind them.
“That was nice,” says John, rocking back and forth on the heel of his dress shoe. He’s been to plenty that weren’t. “He was a good man.”
“I don’t know about all that. Anspaugh was a good surgeon, though,” muses Peter.
“No, he was. He didn’t have to, but he helped me when I needed it.”
“Helped you drop your residency, you mean,” he says. John nods. “Still think you would’ve made a fine surgeon, but hey. No use dwelling.”
They haven’t decided yet if they’re going to show face at the funeral reception. Weaver flew up and they’d both like the opportunity to catch up with Jeanie, but neither of them can seem to commit to a decision.
“He reached out to me after we lost the baby,” says John. Peter rotates his entire body towards John, seemingly surprised at the reference to Joshua. They haven’t mentioned him in three months, so it’s a warranted reaction as far as John’s concerned. “I didn’t want to hear anything from anyone, but he knew what it was like. Dealing with the death of a child. I mean, it was even worse for him.”
“Come on. Don’t do that, man.”
“No, it was. It was. I remember how freaked out everyone was when he got hired at County, but he wound up doing a lot of good.”
Peter nods, crossing his arms. Guarded.
On the spring equinox, the amount of daylight and darkness is closer to equal than any other day of the year.
“I want to be with you,” says John. “You know that, right?”
Peter shakes his head, laughing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re wrapped up in it, Carter. You do that,” he says. “That’s all.” Peter looks around, then starts walking away.
“Where are you going?”
“To the car,” he announces.
“Peter,” he says, getting his feet moving out from under him to follow, taking long, quick strides. It’s uncanny, the way chasing after a despondent Peter totally transports them to a different time and place. He’s at the bottom of the barrel, they’re just a med student and his mentor, Carter and Doctor Benton of Cook County General Hospital in dull blue scrubs, in masks and caps, in nitrile gloves, overworked, overtired. How many times and down how many hallways has John pursued Peter? John grabs his arm once he catches up. “I’m trying to talk to you. Don’t shut me out.”
“Carter,” he grunts, stopping in his tracks. He shakes out of John’s grip, and then his hand finds the chain around his neck, holding onto it as he speaks. “Damn, I thought there’d be more time,” Peter sighs. “Listen, you may not think it, but you’re still a young guy. You can still find a wife, you can still have another kid. You can have what you want, man. I love my kid more than anything but I’m not having another one.”
“Oh, I see,” says John. “I get it. Like always, you assume you know what I want. You always know what’s best for Carter.”
“Well,” he huffs, validating John’s claims.
“You think you’re the only one who has doubts about the future? What about in ten years when this kidney starts to lose function?” he says, stabbing his hand into his torso. “You think I want to put anyone through that? That I’d want you to see me like that again?”
“John, don’t-”
“And you didn’t even see the worst of it! Listen to me, just- please just listen,” says John, gripping both of Peter’s biceps, making them face each other head-on. There are still attendees departing Doctor Anspaugh’s funeral, passing right by them, looking, maybe even eavesdropping. They both have reputations in this community. If Peter is concerned about that, he’s got quite the poker face. He lets himself be grabbed and he lets John say his piece. “Do you remember the last time we went to a funeral together?”
“Of course,” says Peter. “Doctor Greene.”
“Do you realize that was the last time we saw each other until the day I got my kidney? Seven years went by, Peter. I lived a whole life without you, I already know what that looks like. Do you even know how many times you’ve helped put me back together?” John’s grip loosens and his hands slide down, resting against the knobs of Peter’s respective wrists. Peter doesn’t flinch, doesn’t force any distance. “For years, the first thing I thought about in the morning and the last thing I thought about at night was Fentanyl. Did you know that? Even when I got sober. But lately, it’s you. I wake up, and it’s Peter Benton. It’s you in the morning, during the day, at night. And I know how that sounds, I- I know it sounds fucked up, or like I’m reducing you to this thing that I crave, but that’s not what it is. It’s not a replacement, it’s- it’s a return to form because when I was just a lowly student trying to keep up with you, it was the same deal. You in the morning, you before I fell asleep. I didn’t know then, but you need to trust me when I say that I know now. I love you. I love you even if you don’t feel it too, and if you don’t, I won’t care because at least you know.”
John takes a breath, his hands falling to his sides.
“Are you finished?” says Peter, dryly.
“Yes,” John pouts.
“What? So you don’t think I feel it too?”
“I don’t know what you don’t tell me,” remarks John.
“Some things,” says Peter, and suddenly there’s his hand stroking at John’s hair, tucking a collection of long strands behind his ear. Peter’s thumb grazes the sensitive skin there for anyone and everyone to see. “Some things go without saying.”
“That’s the hill my marriage lived and died on. I don’t want it to be that way with you.”
“Okay, then let me say it.” Peter repositions his hand, skimming through John’s hair until he’s holding the back of his head in that beautiful, devoted way he does. The way he did the first time, ten long, or ten short, years ago. It depends on the day. But he does it again now, in the wake of their former superior’s passing, in the open Chicago air on the first day of spring with John’s old gift fastened around his neck. He holds him and says, “I love you, John.”
His breath is already caught, but John feels on the brink of asphyxiation by the time Peter’s through with kissing him. If he could think, he might wonder who’s watching them. He might also not care. He lets himself be totally engulfed by the man who’s saved him, stitched him together, detoxed him, reoriented him—the man who loves him.
“Anspaugh would’ve gotten a kick out of this,” smirks John when they pull apart.
“Yeah. I doubt that.” Peter chuckles, hanging his head. “We should probably get out of here before we really desecrate the man’s memory.”
“That,” says John, leaning back in, “sounds really hot.”
“Down boy.”
Ultimately, they agree to forgo the reception—better off that way, seeing as they can’t seem to keep their hands to themselves after all that. John’s pleased that they’re on the same page about skipping it. He doesn’t feel like putting up a front of decency in a room of grieving peers. Peter’s got him feeling boyish again, like his body’s not just a chronic punching-bag but something to wring pleasure out of all fucking night long. He feels affectionate, indulgent, inappropriate. He wants to inhale Peter and to be breathed in right back.
Back at John’s, there’s no chance of them making it upstairs. John strips Peter down to nothing right there in the living room and shoves him down onto the couch—the place where just half a year ago, they toasted to John’s return. Peter spreads his legs, his cock fat and erect against his stomach, and John is certain that he’ll never tire of the sight.
“You want to get it wet?”
John bites his lip at the callback.
“Maybe if you answer a question for me first,” he says. He looms in contrast over Peter, still standing, still dressed. John at least unknots his tie, letting it snake to the floor. Peter’s eyeing him head to toe so he shows off for him, casually rubbing a hand over his cock through the suit slacks.
“Shoot,” says Peter, grasping his own cock and working it over really nice and slow and deliberate.
“Did you always feel this way about me?”
Peter shakes his head. “Nah. Listen, you were a cute kid, don’t get me wrong. I noticed that—everyone did. But how could I feel the way I do without all the shit that came after?”
“I know what you mean,” says John. He lets his suit jacket join the tie on the floor.
There was a time, recalls John, when Peter’s affection was this rare and coveted thing. He unbuttons his shirt, unbuckles his belt. Peter’s wide-eyed gaze doesn’t leave his body for a second. Back in the day, for Peter to so much as acknowledge him in the ER would make his day, make his week. How much then, John wonders, has he really changed from the kid he was fifteen, almost sixteen years ago. Since then, he’s lived in cities across the world, he’s lost family and friends to cancer and violence and old age and stillbirth, he’s developed and kicked a drug habit, and yet through it all, he still fundamentally just wants to be in Peter Benton’s good graces. People change, he’s sure of it, he’s seen the proof. In this regard, however, he’s remained true to himself. Maybe he's just as consistent as Peter. Maybe it was fate when they were matched.
“Tell me again,” he says, because part of him still can’t believe it. John kicks off the last of his clothes and shrinks down to the floor between his lover’s legs.
Peter strokes his hair. “I love you, John.”
“I,” he says, leaning forward to kiss at Peter’s balls and his veiny cock and his foreskin, “love you, too.”
He sucks Peter off for a while, taking him nice and deep, choking on it a little in the way he knows Peter likes. He gets his cock filthy and dripping and filled all the way out, but John can sense that there’s something greater they’re both aching for.
John pulls off, his mouth a plump mess, and Peter hauls him up onto his lap.
“Want something?” John says breathy into his ear.
“You know I do,” he replies, his arms encircling John’s waist.
Peter opens him and has him right there on the couch in the house where John intended to raise a family. It doesn’t matter—it never mattered what he expected his life to be. He holds onto the good, wrapping his arms tightly around Peter’s neck, like a tie, like a scarf in the snow, like a piece of cheap silver, and he rides him into the cushions, Peter burying his cock and his love as deep inside of John as it will go.
Afterwards, John sits in between Peter’s parted legs on the couch and gets his shoulders massaged.
“So, how do we tell people?”
Peter hums. “I don’t know. I’ve only ever dated three people—four now, I guess. Half of them have been secrets.”
“Oh, that’s true. So this is a pattern with you.” John laughs teasingly as Peter shakes his head. “Seriously though, how about we start with telling Reese?”
“Carter. Reese figured us out months ago.”
“Wait, really?”
“Mm,” he nods, nuzzling into the back of John’s head. “On New Year's. I told him I was staying in the room at the end of the hall. He said to me, ‘Dad, don’t lie. You’re staying in John’s room.’”
“Huh.”
“Listen, I know I’m not the best at this, but as far as I’m concerned,” says Peter, “that means the world knows. That makes it real, ‘cause Reese and you, Carter, that's my world right there.”
Maybe, John supposes, it was in poor taste for them to flee the cemetery in a haze of desperate lust and make a morose day like this about them, but there’s a reality about their dynamic that their former colleague had an indisputable hand in establishing. Every time, every single time they’ve fallen apart, they’ve come together harder. Leaving surgery was only a temporary sever. Peter leaving County, John leaving the country. No force has ever been able to successfully keep them from each other, and John expects that will always be true.