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It’s too good, too easy, this banter we have, this way of teasing each other. It feels like we haven’t been out of each other’s orbit for almost five years, feels like just yesterday I was living in Dillon’s pocket, and he was in mine. Close enough to be real brothers, though my feelings for him were anything but brotherly.
It’s my turn to stare at the river. In late summer, it’s almost dry, but that can change in a flash with one good rainstorm. The banks here are still torn up from the last time, and I’m eyeing the exposed roots of a hundred-year-old oak on the opposite bank. One more flood, and that tree’s gonna come crashing down. I don’t think it’s tall enough to reach the house, but it’s possible, and I make a mental note to talk to people that own that property about it. For today, though, my concern is about Dillon.
“What are you doing here, Dill?” I ask again. My voice is soft, a hushed whisper that sounds like leaves brushing against each other in the breeze that’s blowing through the valley.
“I don’t know. There was a party, I was…” Another fucking shrug. “I…can’t remember.”
“You drove all the way here in that death machine of a car, and you can’t remember?” I can’t keep the anger out of my voice. It’s worse than I thought. “What the fuck? You could have killed someone. You could have killed yourself.” My body trembles from my frustration with him. “Is that what you want, Dillon? Is that what you’re trying to do?”
Now that he’s in front of me, all the anxiety I’ve felt watching him spiral, all the helplessness of seeing someone I care about — someone I love — fall apart comes pouring out. I couldn’t stop myself even if I wanted to.
“You know what this shit is doing to you. You know there’s only one way this story ends. We’ve seen it too many times. Known too many people who’ve lost themselves like you’re doing right now. How, Dillon? How did you let this happen?”
“I…I don’t know.” He’s so flat, so unemotional. Like an alien stole Dillon from his body and replaced him with this hollow replica that’s devoid of any feelings, and it frustrates me.
“That’s fucking bullshit,” I scream at him, my voice echoing off the exposed rocks in the riverbed and ringing in my ears. His shoulders start to rise in another shrug, and I grab his arms, pin them to his sides, pull him around to look at me. “You did this to yourself, Dillon.”
He finally tips his chin up, looks me right in the eye. “It’s all shit without you, Ben.”
“No. You do not get to blame me for this. You made the choices; you did the drugs.”
“Because you weren’t there.”
“Whose fault is that? I quit the business, but you quit me.”
Dillon shakes his head like he’s fighting something, then he pulls his arms out of my grip. I think he’s going to walk away, but instead he grabs me, pushes me against the wall of the house. “I missed you,” he yells, his voice sounding as if it’s ripped from the depths of his soul, and then he slams his mouth over mine.
Dillon
I have no idea what I’m doing. All I know is that I need to touch Ben, to feel him.
His lips are rigid, unyielding beneath mine, and for the span of a heartbeat, I think I’ve made a mistake. I’m about to pull back, but as if he can tell, Ben reaches up, grabs the back of my head and groans as he opens his mouth to mine.
We’re not graceful. We’re not gentle. What we are is starved as we all but devour each other. I’ve got him pinned against the wall with my entire body, my tongue in his mouth, his wrapped around mine, and we’re fighting to get deeper, closer. I’m rock hard, and so is Ben, and my brain is screaming at me more, more, more, and, oh, my God, this is Ben! And yeah, this is Ben. Ben, who I’ve known and wanted and missed for forever. Ben, who kept me grounded and safe when the world went crazy and shifted beneath our feet. Ben, who knows everything about me and was always there for me. Ben, who walked away.
I let go of his mouth with a sob, rest my head against his chest, panting, and his arms come around me. He holds me close, his hands running over my back, caressing, comforting. I’m wrung out, like I’m at the end of a marathon and my body’s got nothing left to give. When my legs start to tremble and buckle beneath me, Ben scoops me up and sits in one of the big wicker chairs with me in his lap like I’m some teenage girl, and he’s my big, burly boyfriend.
The thought of Ben being my boyfriend makes me raise my head and look at him, but he doesn’t say anything. His hands settle me back against his chest then pick up that slow caress again. We don’t say anything for a long time, but then Ben starts humming as he touches me. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Without lifting my head, I ask him what he’s singing and feel him shrug.
“Nothing really. Just some tune I get stuck in my head from time to time. You doing better?”
“Yeah,” I say, but I don’t move. It feels good sitting in Ben’s lap even though we’re almost the same size, leaning up against his warm body with his hands roaming over mine in lazy patterns. I didn’t miss the way we both got hard while we were kissing, and I’m not stupid enough to pretend I don’t understand. Nor am I missing the fact that I’m still half-hard, and so’s Ben. I sigh. It’s a bit of contentment and a bit of frustration because I know I’m about to ruin this moment. “We never talked about what happened that night.”
Ben’s hands falter, then resume their slow movements. “Which part? ‘Cause we talked about what happened at the hotel plenty.”
“You know which part. Don’t play dumb with me.”
“You mean the club?”
“I mean the club.”
Now it’s Ben’s turn to sigh, and its equal parts fond and resigned. “You kissed me.”
“We did more than kiss.”
“We did.”
Hearing him acknowledge it soothes something in me, but then he says, “That was the best night of my life until it wasn’t, but that wasn’t on you. But when those photos came out, you told the world we hadn’t been together, which was mostly true because we never had a chance to be, but you also said there was no way we’d have been together because you weren’t gay. You know you lied, Dillon.”
