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Log Title: Poem to Ben

Log setting: Front porch of the house on Moss Street, afternoon.

Log Cast:
Benjamin
Walker
Trace

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Creeeak-whump. The front door could definitely use some WD-40, but for this or that reason the residents haven't gotten around to that. Out steps Ben, dressed not quite warm enough for the weather, and carrying a steamy cup of coffee in one hand. In the other hand he holds a ring of three keys, which he peers at most confusedly. Whatever in the world they're for, he's sure he doesn't know. Giving up, they're slid back into his pocket and he turns toward the swing.

Trace is seated on the porch swing, head down. His braids hide much of his face as they sway gently with the slow rocking motion of the swing. He's trying so hard to look casual, but there is a tension in the line of his posture, a rigidness that makes it a not quite successful slouch. There is folded piece of paper he holds, which he fondles, running fingertips along the edges idly.

Benjamin stops, blinking, and bites his lip for a second. Every line in his body strains for a moment, with the effort to not rush forward, scoop you up, examine for bruises and soothe away hurt feelings. It's difficult, really difficult. Perhaps it's that careful tenseness in Trace's posture that holds him back. With a deep breath, he attempts, "Trace? Are you all right?" Where have you been, are you hurt, do you hate me?

Trace lifts his head to look at you, after you've spoken. Yeah, he was aware of your presence as soon as that door squeaked open, but he's making a huge effort to stay smooth and collected. Hell, he's making a huge effort just to stay planted on the swing. "Yeah," he says, somewhat hoarsely. "Gettin' along. Stayin' with some people." Vague assurances. He looks down to the letter in his hands. "Wrote ya something."

Benjamin steps back casually, leaning his rump against the rail on the opposite side of the porch from you. He curls his fingers around the cup, lifting it for a few quiet sips. "We miss you," he offers after a moment or two. It sounds so lame to his ears. So completely not expressive of all the sorrow and wistfulness and regret he feels. But if he tried to say it, it'd drive you away again, he knows. He gulps, and nods in the vague direction of your hands. Can't erase the bitterness as he murmurs, "Why didn't you just stick it in the mail slot?" Please tell me you wanted to see me, really wanted to.

"Oh, ahm'not allowed t'miss ya?" Trace sniffles, eyes still down on the folded piece of paper. He's quiet for several drawn out moments, and after a moment it's too heavy, that silence. He shifts uncomfortably beneath its weight. "N' I guess... I owe you more'n that. I mean. You've been--" His throat closes and he tucks his chin down close to his chest, shaking his head a little. A tiny huddled boy on the bench, he could be as young as twelve or thirteen holding himself so pitifully. Braids form a ragged blue curtain about his face. His shoulders shake once with the effort of supressing emotion.

Two steps patter and creak the aging floorboards. As ever, one of "Ben's kids" in trouble or emotional is like a magnet to the man. "I've been what, Trace?" he sighs, soft. "You don't owe me a thing. It's me that owes you and Jason both a big apology. You put some trust in me, and I know how difficult that is to do. But I still betrayed that trust, and you have every right to be angry with me." Though he's calm as he speaks, no checked tears waiting to spill forth, the guilt and self-hatred shoots through his voice like poisoned thorns. The shattering of the family is his fault and his alone. That's a belief unshakeable.

Trace sniffles again and doesn't look up. Can't look up. He's rooted right there, and it's an effort even to lift his hand and hold the note up to you. "I can't.." he whispers, and then swallows hard. He can't speak, that's the thing. That's the point of writing for you. There's no way his emotions will form coherant sentances as he is now. "It's in there," he finally chokes. Should you unfold the paper, a rumpled fifty dollar bill is revealed, or perhaps flutters out if it's unexpected. Not taken from the purse; that was a twenty, two tens, some singles. This is recently won. And there's more, written on the paper itself.

Silence for a moment or two, before slow steps bring Ben the rest of the way across the porch. He stops a little bit from you, pausing. Maybe if he doesn't take it, never learns the truth, then hope can live on. Hope that his family will come together again. Once he touches it, takes it, learns your heart then... then hope will be lost. He knows this. But false fantasies get one nowhere, and so he stretches out fingers to take the offered paper. Not unfolded yet, not even as he retreats back to give you space, still watching you. "Trace, will you... I mean... I just want you to know..." Damn. Nothing he can say will soften this tainted feeling. He's become impure. And he knows the world sees him like this. Always thought they would, but for different reasons. With their anger and hatred and judgement beating on him, he retreats toward the front door again. "Thanks for coming by," he manages in a choked murmur. "I'm glad you're safe."

"Ain' even gonna read it?" Trace protests, soft and plaintive. He finally looks up as you start to retreat, his face a mask of distress and despair. His accent unweaves, reveals deeper roots, "Ah doan', ah doan' raht poems fer jes' nuthin', on'y when it's 'portant." He stands up, fists clenched with tension rather than anger. "Fahn, doan' read it. Ah was scairt ta watch ya anyway." A few steps are aimed towards the porch's entrance, but they're hesitant because that's also bringing him closer to you.

Benjamin shrinks back against the door, shoulders lifting as if they might guard his neck somehow. Such power you have, little one, to bring this usually quiet and self-possessed man to quivering fear. "I'm afraid to read it!" he blurts out, watching you with steady pleading. "I'm afraid that then it'll be over for good. I know I should've thought of that... a long time ago." Four, five months ago even. "I'm just... I will if you want me to, but then what? Then I cry and you leave and it's all over? Then what?"

"Ah jes' wanted t'let ya know what ya done t'me," the bluecap whimpers, liquid-shiny hazel eyes lifted to yours bravely. "But y'do know, so guess ya right, no point right?" He turns out towards the street, putting his back to you, and leans against one of the railing's slender wooden pillers. He puts his cheek to the surface. His voice is a little steadier, though not as calm as he'd like; there's a tremble to it. "You was my Ben, who I could come and talk to, and the only one who thought I should learn stuff. You was gonna... gonna teach me about, about all them books and what it all means and the whole world. Ben," He holds the piller tighter and chokes past a constricting throat, "I d'wanna run away twice!"

Trembly paper-unwrapping flutters behind you as you speak, and there's quiet for a few moments. Never before in his life has Ben disliked is speed-reading ability. Always an asset; tonight, it makes the pain that much swifter and sharper in his heart. "What I did to you," he repeats softly, voice shaking. Probably his hands and arms and all of him is shaking, too. "Trace, I don't want you to run away. I never wanted to hurt either of you. It was... a stupid, stupid mistake. Just... one of those things... that happens." Quieter and quieter, more and more hopeless. Arguing it becomes progressively more pointless in his mind. "I'm never going to have children, Trace. I wanted to know what it was like, to be a father." "Well, ya screwed it up," Trace points out bluntly, and then gives a weak, unhinged laugh. "R'mebbe ya didn't. S'what parents all do, they fuck you over, I guess." He shakes his head. Stop that. The boy turns away from the piller, leaning his back to it as though it's all that's keeping him upright. "Nuthin's pure," he says miserably, tearbright hazel eyes lancing you. 'Nuthin'. An' I guess I jest gotta learn that." He shakes his head and averts his intent gaze. "I gotta see 'bout Jason 'fore I do anything. But I dunno, this is so much, it's too much for us." His voice has been controlled now. Quiet, lowered tones, mature again and stating facts. "An' Jason's certain Walker did stuff, and Glass, and I'm all he has right now. Else' he got nobody. So I can't come home, but I wanna. You should know I wanna. Happiest times'a my life's been here."

Now it's Ben that can't look at you. One hand is clutching his still full coffee cup, and the other holds the paper he's still staring at, without really seeing. "Yes, I screwed it up," he spits out vehemently. But no, the anger isn't focused at you, that much is glaringly obvious. "And so this is my punishment. One damn night and I have to live with the knowledge that I destroyed any chance at having a family for the rest of my life." Fingers tighten and clench, wrinkling the paper, sloshing coffeedrops on his hand as it shakes uncontrollably. "Jason will never forgive me. You'll never forgive me. None of your friends will ever forgive me." He looks up now, angry, hurt, but it's still not directed at you. All directed inside, all doubled and redoubled in on himself. "You'll never forget me screwing up your second family. You'll resent me forever and I'll die with that resentment. I hope... I hope you can find something. Someone..." Stops. Shakes his head. It all hurts too much and it's so pointless. So completely worthless, anything he has to say.

Walker comes out of the grey house marked 613.

The front door tugs open, not a rough pull but if there's a certain person leaning on it, they might be a smidge thrown off balance by the unnanounced tug.

Benjamin leans partly on the front door, partly on the frame, and shakes. It's a problem for the coffee cup in one hand that's sloshing, and the sheet of paper slowly being crumped in the other.

Trace looks at Ben, continues to look at him even after he finishes his rant. Helpless. What's he supposed to do? You're asking him to fix these things? He can't even take pleasure in the man's trembling. No sense of power at all, just a growing, gaping helplessness that even his typical dogged optimism can't fill. "What'm I poseta do?" he complains meekly. "I can't make Jason feel nuthin'. All I can do to make the effort of tryin' t'understand, m'self..." He shakes his head. You seem to be asking too much of him.

Benjamin shakes his head a little, despairingly, staring off at the poorch floor somewhere. There's nothing -to- be done. What's already been done has been more than enough. The opening door throws off Ben's already shaky balance even worse, and he stumbles a half-step back before righting himself. Only a second of self-control, though, before Ben sinks right on back down to the floor, half in and half out of the doorway. Coffeecup falls to the side, spilling darkbrown liquid all over the floorboards. He hangs his head, refusing to look up at either of you.

Walker blinks first at the backside of Ben -- there's another trembling coffeecup. He reaches to take it away before yet another mug is shattered. There's been enough breaking of things these last days. A little too late as the thing clatters to the porch. Well, at least it didn't break. Shadowed jade eyes flick to Trace and narrow minutely; it's a scrutinizing look many folks have seen but few that have come around here have actually had focused on them. Assessing. "What's goin' on?" Tone's velvet-soft as ever, devoid of hostility. Or abundance of warmth. "Ya awright, hawt?" Attention's on Ben now. Apparent that he's not all right but he's asking anyway. Give everyone their say. Yep. He's a big voucher for that. Give everyone their chance to say something. He's not going to just step back inside the house. Even though running away without saying anything is easiest. Isn't it?

There's another bit of paper clenched under the written-on sheet that Ben holds, which he forgot to mention.

Yeah, and putting the damned note in the mail slot and getting out of here would have been easier too. But here stands cowardly Trace, skittish and feeling the fear expand in his stomach as Walker steps out and narrows a look at him. "Saw his note," he mumbles softly. "N'wrote one'a my own." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, boards creaking gently with the nervous movement. What little courage he has is gripped tightly in clenched fists and his gaze darts from Walker to Ben. A little louder he asserts, "Hadda talk with Ben." So he came over and waited on the freakin' porch. Because after all, "Y'never lock the door," he points out in a near-whisper, not quite offended, but unhappy about it.

"No," Ben blurts, in response to Walker's question apparently. "No, I'm not all right and I'm not going to be alright and it's not Trace's fault so don't get mad at him." Without looking up, he scrapes the other little paper out from underneath the big one, and holds it toward Walker. "Here." Fifty dollar bill, despite the fact that Ben already paid the man back. Extra payment, maybe. Pain and suffering, isn't that what it's called legally? Carefully, methodically even, he folds up the other sheet just as small as he can make it, and holds it close to his stomach. Mine mine mine.

"I stopped unlockin' m'door when I had folks stayin' here what didn't have keys. But somebody stole somethin' so I figga'd ta be safe." SO calm and delivered so cool you'd almost think he wasn't talking to someone who was staying here. Or someone who knew what he was talking about. "What's on th' note?" Think he's not going to ask about that? This is the same person who pokes through anything. Even things not his. The money's plucked from Ben's offering hand, ignored save for the gesture to take it. He might not even know what he's holding for all the attention he's giving it. Other hand tucks the liquid gold fall of long hair behind a riveted ear, expression expectant. Somebody better cough up the information; his majesty's waiting.

"We jest needed a hotel room," Trace mumbles unapologetically, hands shoving down into his pockets, shoulders hunching. Sticks'n stones Defense mode. "Anyway, we was gonna try'n get Jason's stuff, like his flute and pipes, and the PSX. Left'em here." His eyes flicker between Walker and Ben, landing specifically on the note more than once. Will the professor give it up?

Benjamin's fingers curl tightly around the note, obscuring it from view. "A poem," is all he says about the nature of the writing for now. It's his. Maybe later, maybe when he's not bleeding, then he'll give it up, but now. He pants lightly as he sits there, only now realizing where he is, and how asinine he must look sprawled out on the floor. Sudden surge of energy yanks him up to stand again. "Check the trash," he mutters bitterly. "It's where we put all our most prized possessions."

Trace's eyes widen, and he looks to Walker for confirmation. "Did you really throw it out..?" he says in a small voice. "Jason's flute and panpipes and everything?"

Just needed a hotel room. What. The stay here or the money taken? Walker won't even go there. Some things aren't worth deigning to dip into. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't." Only a dig through the garbage is going to answer that. Doesn't look like he's planning on inviting you in, bluecap. He looks to Ben, brows lifting. "Ya got coffee on yerself. Why doncha go clean off." He makes a little room for a Ben to squeeze by, eyes moving back to Trace. "Yer not th' only folks what can just turn yer backs on a year of so-called friendship." See what you get for cutting the homeowner out of the loop?

Benjamin has been spilling a whole lot of crap on himself lately. Might make a good metaphor for another of the hastily-scribbled poems he's been turning out by the shredded w astebasketload lately. Turn his back he does, with one backward glance at Trace. Does he whisper he's sorry again before disappearing into the darkness of the house? Or is it just the beating pulse of sorrow that makes it seem that way?

Benjamin quits the stoop of the grey house marked 613 and steps inside.

Trace's eyes stay wide and full of disbelief. Just silent and stunned a moment. Then he erupts, "What the fuck! You act slighted? You? I've lost *everything*!" His voice tries to break with a sob, but he forces it back into functioning, and the tears sting his eyes in rebellion for the denial. "The best thing I ever had! S'all broken!" He shakes his head with more denial. "We were poseta last f'rever! I believed..." He turns away quickly, his body wracked once with emotion he can't face you with. Feet pump against the concrete before he even gives them the signal to flee. Darting past you and down the walk as quickly as his skinny legs can take him.

"Yer th' ones that left!! Remembah that, Kevin!! Yer th' ones that left without sayin' goodbye!" Walker's not too proud to yell that after you; loud enough for you to hear. Not to proud to shout even though the words are chopped by two sobs that he didn't mean to escape. Hard to maitain a chilly front when emotion tells in your voice like that. And just like that he's gone. A flicker of candle flame snuffed by the winter wind. The door doesn't even slam. Just snicks shut.

The boards of the strong weathered stoop creak as you quit the shelter and step inside.

In the kitchen, the water is running and has been running ever since Ben came back in. He's standing at the sink, rubbing his hands together over and over under the spout of faucet water, staring without really seeing. All he can see, hear, are Trace's words again and again, both those spoken and those written on the tightly-folded bit of paper now in his pocket. The sound of the door jolts him from his stare, and he remembers to shut off the water.

The door snicks shut, just closed. Not slammed emotionally. Not like the wood-muffled shout that was just sounded from the other side. Holly's shout. A pause in the entryway lets the door to support his back for a few breaths while he reigns in his out-of-hand emotions. Breathe, Holly. Breathe. Goood. Only now does he think to look at the crumpled bill in his hand and it immediately gets tossed to the hall table before an approach is made to the kitchen. Hover in the doorway. "Hawt..?"

Benjamin steps back, finding the dishtowel slung through one of the drawer-handles and rubbing wet, water-burned hands dry. He draws in a deep breath as well, watching the drying process with blank thoughtfulness, then turns toward you. "Holly, I'd like you to give me something tonight. I don't want to have to think any more." So perfectly calm, steady dark eyes fixing on you. A rational decision, you see? Not an emotional demand. "You were right. It can't be fixed, and there's nothing I can do. But I'd rather not think about that tonight. Please?"

He stares at you for a long moment, eyes assessing but not with that warding chilliness he favored Trace with. Reading your distress. Homing in on it. "What's th' poem, hawt?" Wants to see that before anything else. Not denying you. But he's not agreeing either. "Show me what he gave ya." A slow step breezes him gently toward you, footfalls squeaking softly as rubber soles meet linoleum.

Very near a pout, the long, pulled expression that forms on your lover's flushed face, but closer to despairing than spoiled. "It's just going to make you angrier," Ben complains and warns all at once, as he slides a hand into his pocket. About to disobey a direct order? Not on your life or his health. He even unfolds it for you before handing it over. Maybe the words, the source of his utter abandonment of hope, will justify the strange and very un-Ben-like request.

** Trace's Poem **

What have you done
To us, to me
To three
So fiercely I believed
We could never be broken

We, your children
Could you not let us be
Your children?
You have your love!
How could you risk ours?

Was he too pretty,
Was the temptation too great
To twist your child's confusions
And insecurities
And misplaced love?

And I, the untouched
Still I know
This is not about two,
But three
Meant for always.

How am I to understand?
You should have seen him
Should have held him as he shook
My beautiful, my brave,
My faithful one

Your children
Your family
Left broken for a moment's sin
What have you done?
I will never understand.

*********

Braced with the warning Holly takes the unfolded paper from you, not bothering to smooth the pinched lines as deep jade eyes travel over the words written there. China doll face changes not a bit as he reads, even as the paper lowers. Even though his impulse is to crush the thing. No, Trace, you won't understand. Not so long as refusal to stick around and hear Holly's truth is high. A moment's sin. One helluva long moment. And he'd never declare the intimacies a sin. Not the one known and not the many unknown. The priest he confessed to said only lies can kill love. Love knows no boundaries, not even that of gender. And that love isn't a sin. He refuses to believe otherwise. And the weird thing is, that for all the strife the confession from Ben to Jason made he still wouldn't change what was done. But instead of crushing the work he simply hands it back. "Let's g'upstairs."

That's the toughest part. Ben can apologize all he wants for hurting the boys. he can be guilty as hell for breaking up the family. But it doesn't do any good, no one will believe the apologies until he himself honestly regrets what was done. That's something he can never do, regret the hunger for him in Bat's eyes, regret the shy hand on his shoulder in the night, regret the pleased surprise in puppy-brown eyes in the morning. Never. Only a nod greets your words, moving even as he takes back his damnation and folds it up again along the blunt lines. He slips past you and moves up the steps.

Behind you soft footfalls gently herd you into the upstairs where the curtain's still drawn against the mural the fallen angel threatened with primer paint and roller just yesterday. He didn't cover it with paint thanks to the combined weight of yours and Glass' pleas to save it. If only for Bat. But fuck if he's going to look at it. "Get undressed an' comfy, hawt." Gentle words. Soft, laced with mellow affection and consolation. He moves over to the Drawer o' Wonders -- put back and refilled with the contents spilled the other night -- and tugs it out. "I didn't t'row their shit away," he murmurs as he digs. A moment of silence to let you absorb that miniature amazement. No, he didn't. Thought real hard about it but he was too much a sickening sap to actually follow through. Like the mural. "I ain't gonna give ya a shot." He almost adds: not your first time. But he bites it off quick. Praying there won't be a next time? Out comes a squat little tarnished tin; a traditional snuff tin ornately carved with twining lilies.

Benjamin slinks across the room with his head ducked, born down on from above by the weight of accusation. In private he shares it with you, but in public he alone is guilty. No matter what Jason suspects the only infidelity he has proof of is Ben. Teach him to try and be truthful with friends. Leaning one hand against his dresser, he steps out of his shoes and undoes his jeans, tugging them off along with underwear and depositing it in a heap on the floor. Henley follows, and the whole soft-cottony mess is tossed into the bathroom hamper ungracefully. The dim light last night didn't lie entirely. Though the scars haven't disappeared, they're no longer the pouting pink they were just a few nights ago. Faint, white, weeks-healed scars. Perhaps time flies on the emotional rollercoaster. Naked and almost ashamed of it, he pads back toward the bed, arms wrapped around his torso, trembling. The drawer gets a glance of trepidation. Sure, he asked. But can he go through with it, really? The shaking he can bluff off as chill, climbing quickly up to flop on the bed and find a blanket.

Walker slides up on the bed, setting the tin aside for a moment so he can remove his stompin' boots. Those shed he grabs the box again and slides up all the way onto the bed. Sitting crosslegged he opens the cover of the small box to expose a compartement of white powder -- not a lot left but this occasion certainly warrants a dive into the diminishing stash -- complete with little plastic tooter. This he hands to you. "I'll get a mirrah an' blade. Hold on." He rises again and heads for the bathroom. Several long moments and soft digging follow. A few longer moments and out he comes, nekkid and bearing a video-cartridge sized smoked-glass mirror and a brand new straight-edge razor blade. Back onto the bed with a swing of hair and he's plucking the box from you once again. "Ya evva toot before?" He's guessing if you have it's cocaine of crystal. Certainly not heroin.

No matter the circumstances or the twisted pit of Ben's stomach, Holly's perfect body always draws a quiet sigh. Nudity can't possibly become an unremarkable thing in this house, not with someone as heartbreakingly lovely as his husband sharing the bed. Selfconscious of his own body for the first time -- it's so cl unky, lately, so inefficient to contain and feel all the things he feels adequately -- Ben pulls the blanket up around his waist as he sits crosslegged. "Once... I think. There's a part of my life I don't remember much of," he admits softly, watching your thigh as you settle near. "Y-you'll have to show me." His teeth are nearly chattering now. He can't be cold; the heat glows in a close aura from his body.

Walker taps out a small pile of white, giving it a few pushes before looking over at you again. "Ya don' have ta do this ta yerself, hawt." He's not oblivious to your fear. How could he be? You're shaking like a leaf and you have that little pinched-mouth thing going that you get when you're worried. "If yer scared ya shouldn't do this. Jus'... smoke a bong 'r somethin'." He's allowing you the opportunity to duck out. Just say the word and the tin will disappear as though it never was here.

Benjamin shakes his head, firmly. "No, I'll be all right. You're here and I'll be safe." To prove that point he scoots a little closer to you, his thigh beneath the blanket nuzzling up against yours. "I won't be able to stop thinking otherwise, and I can't keep it up or I'll go crazy." And that's no exaggeration. He can almost feel his mind start to come unhinged with the impact of it all. Thoughts being damped out like a stereo speaker turned up too loud, cancelling itself to ensure its own survival. With a hard swallow he looks up at you, completely in earnest. Please?

Again with the searching expression. Apparently satisfied with what he sees there in those troubled brown eyes he looks to the chopping of lines. Can't keep thinking or you'll go crazy. How many times has that same exact thinking brought him right here before? So many times. Is he an addict? Yes. Is he a fiend? No. But he is an addict. It's only the fear of running out that's kept him from going to the well more often this past week. These past weeks. To make certain occasions like this the stuff's available. In short order four lines are cut, two for each. Two's not going to do much for him save make an example of him so you know just what to do. In demonstration he sweeps rose gold hair aside so as not to drag it through the H and sniffs up one of the lines, head jerking up quickly. A quick smudge at the burning side of his nose and he repeats the process with the other before passing the mirror on to you. "Do it quick an' deep. Yer gonna taste some nasty shit in th' back-a yer throat. That's th' drip. Jus' let it slide on down."

Quiet and still, he watches you do what he could never imagine witnessing up until tonight. From a pained begging to never do it in front of him -- imagine when he thought your drug intake was the worst of his problems? eons ago -- to a collected request to be let in on the ritual, has he progressed or digressed? His hands finally still, out of necessity, as he takes the tools from you and situates them in his hands. No great ceremony, no moments of preparation. Simple mimicry and perhaps a faint memory from this blasted mind that can't stop thinking and never forgets. Never did he think he'd become a prisoner of his own intelligence. He bends, he positions, he sniffs up and throws his head back again quite suddenly. Sure he got all of the line but it becomes a direct searing burn into his mind. Eyes shut but brows shot up, lips parted to breathe shallow, he's overcome. But exactly what he wanted. Burn and smoke out the thought, leave his brain pure and blank. Best move quickly before he's overcome by the drug and sap up that second line. Another woozy bend, a longer snort, and your lover becomes quite completely helpless. With a submissive, shivery sigh, he pushes the plastic and mirror toward you, and drops back onto the bed.

Walker takes the dusted mirror and blade and pushes them up onto the headboard, quelching the envious feeling that stirs in the back of his mind. How long has it been since two lines of heroin did that for him? Only one thing can bring that kind of puttied bliss anymore and it's not two lines. Even thinking about it makes his arm itch. Wants to be there with you in your regression. And right now he could shoot up and you probably wouldn't even care till tomorrow. If he did it in the bathroom you might not even know about it. Dare he? A swallow pushes the bitter after taste down, refreshing the urge. "How ya feelin'?" he murmurs, reaching to pet soft brown hair.

Hands that refuse to respond with a proper grasp reach for the smooth skin Ben knows is there. His fingers press together, palsied, seeking, needing the reassurance of another human form. "Jesus," he gasps on a shuddery breath. Hot molten metal becomes the slowing pulse through his veins, starting in his head and dripping down through the rest of him bit by bit, hot-oil-massaging out the siezed clench of muscles. Fear... is a distant concept. "Be close," he whispers, remembering to breathe again long moments later. "Hold on to me." Lest he slide away and get too far lost and not know how to get back. Never can get back from a place he's never been before.

It was only a half-entertained notion to leave you here; you don't like being alone when you're stone cold sober. He couldn't leave you alone like this. He looks to the suggestive snuff box on the headboard, fingers faltering in their petting of your hair. Gawd but he could go for huffing up a few more lines. He did it to himself. He could've just told you how to do it. "Hold on hawt..." He can't help it. It's calling too loud. Any louder and he's going to start scratching. A careful crawl -- real careful so as not to jostle you too much -- takes him back to the drawer where he lowers himself to his belly, alabaster backside turned up to the ceiling as he unzips as covertly as possible his little black bag. "Ya want a cigarette? I'll help ya hold onta it..." The words cover the soft unzipping sound but don't cover the crinkle of tinfoil. But that's okay. Long hair hides what he's up to; doesn't allow you to see the needle slowly pushed under pierced tongue. Slow depress of the plunger and the needles shoved unceremoniously into the drawer. No fuss, no muss. No nasty little hole in pale flesh. No whammo-rush either; the rush that will catch him in a few won't be near as intense as straight in the main but that's all right. He just wants the numb, really. Though without the rush at all it wouldn't be... fulfilling.

"N'..." One sound is enough to express that. He couldn't breathe in properly to smoke anyway, as right now he's only breathing when his body reminds him to. You mustn't leave. Those few seconds that you're gone almost wash him away on th e brightgold heat pushing through his body. By the time you return to hold him he's far distant, murmuring only the vaguest, distant incoherant words. Yours... one... melted... my life. Every touch of skin to skin is a tiny flow of lava, smoothed by the light sweat that coats every inch of your lover's body. The rush comes as you hold him, a strong white riverrushing sparrowsinging waveleaping headlong rush during which he clings to you, hot tears spilling because something -has- to give even if its not sorrow and not joy but just leaking. And it rushes through and kidnaps you both and merges body and soul until you're left... silent... still... adrift on an island of each other in a universe of numb blackness, between you the only seeds to life waiting and hoping to grow. With his head on your shoulder and limbs tangled, lips parted and breathing spare against your chest, rush becomes numb becomes sleep becomes nothingness.

** FTB **

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