Work Text:
(2009)
Moderation has never been his strong suit, he has learnt this all too well by now. For so many times he didn't know when to stop, and for every line he finally draws, he steps over another right away. Alcohol. Weed. Drugs. Women. It's a never-ending cycle.
He fears this will be just another entry in the endless list of things he shouldn't do.
-
The third time it happens in that hole disguised as a registration studio where they've been working for a little more than a month, waiting to rent a place they can call their own. It happens there, just like the first time, but unlike the first time he doesn't have the excuse of a whole day of struggling, angrily, joyfully cashing out crumpled words, banging his head along drums and basslines, until a melody grabs him by the throat and uncorks his brain, opening the gates to a cascade of syllables of disarming clarity.
See I'll be scared if there wasn't a riot, pushin'and pullin', grabbin'some hair, pukin'and fukin' up the sidewalk.
The first time (he remembers it well, it was barely a few weeks ago) they end up sitting on the floor, late into evening, dead tired.
Ryan sits with his legs crossed, his gaze still fixed on his laptop, ear-buds on, eyes scrutinizing the screen. Ben leans with his back against the wall. His head still bobs softly to the tune that hammered into his skull for hours. He's hungry, and in dire need of a shower, what with how much he sweated and the scarce ventilation in the room he smells like shit.
Ryan pulls the ear-buds off and let them fall on the keyboard. He raises his arms over his head, index fingers pointing up to the ceiling, looking accomplished.
“This is it. This is gonna blow. In ten years, people will be shouting for it at concerts, I bet!”
Ben feels like chuckling at his friend's enthusiasm. He knows that in the morning they will listen to the track they just recorded and want to crush it into pieces and light it up on fire. And from the ashes they will build something even better. By now he knows this is the only way they can work together.
Two over the top perfectionists, setting standards way too high for their own good. But it works like a charm.
“This is the bomb,” Ryan says again, and he glances at Ben, eyes gleaming with pride, grinning ear to ear. His grin is contagious and Ben smiles back, he can never be indifferent to his friend's excitement.
He thinks he should tell him, some time, how good it is for him to work together like this. He thinks he would like to shake his hand with gratitude, he would like to hug him.
He would like to kiss that smile.
The thought is so sudden, so bright, that it feels like it's not his own, it feels like some external force has nailed it into his brain. His hands and jaw stiffen, and he has to stand up, quick like bitten by a dog, and walk a couple of steps away.
Selfish selfish selfish me yeah me.
Ryan stares at him, surprised, and Ben gives a nervous laugh. He says he got a cramp and cracks a joke. Ryan chuckles, and goes back to his computer. Ben runs a hand through his hair, feeling awkward, restless. He wonders what kind of devil has stopped to whisper into his ear.
-
That was the first time he thought about it.
-
Fast-forward to the present. The third time.
Same place, almost the same time, no excitement for a well-done job this time around. Just accounting, people to contact and collaborations to work out, and so much tiredness, so much exhaustion. Two days ago they were in talk to start production for a video, now it all seems far away.
They're alone again, the two of them. Ben is sitting in front of the mixer. He hears Ryan walking back and forth, busy with something, behind his back, and when he comes closer Ben is fears he's about to ask him again if he wants some coffee. Ryan seems to live on coffee, these days.
He doesn't, luckily. “Come on, let's get out of here and go grab some food,” he says instead.
Ben nods, without opening his eyes. He lifts his arms up, trying to stretch.
“This shit is driving me crazy...” he groans.
Ryan leans over from behind, he wraps one arm around his neck, grabbing his own wrist, and squeezes Ben in a fake chokehold. “The economy will kill us all, man...” he says. His voice sounds amused, if a little tired. He's too much of an optimist to think they might not be able to scramble up the money they need.
The rapper opens his eyes and catches a glimpse of the other's reflection, in the glass separating them from the booth. He looks at the younger man, twenty-one years in a little less than a month. Ben's just five years older, but he feels as old and as weary as the city where they're standing. He searches for Ryan's eyes and watches the way his face mingles on the glass with the microphone on the other side.
He pats Ryan on the arm. The younger man relents his hold, without letting it go. All of a sudden he is too close, even if he hasn't moved at all. Ben feels a growing embarrassment, the same one he felt after the second time.
The second time, uh?
-
The second time they're at a club with a bunch of friends. It seems like everybody has known each since from a lifetime, under the colored lights, and Ben feels like he hasn't shut up for a moment since they stepped inside. When the general attention shifts to a girl who's telling a vivid recollection of some scene that happened in that club a little ago, involving fake IDs, Ben is finally able to leave the conversation and relax, sipping his drink. Ryan sits a couple of people away, on the edge of the seat, clearly caught in the story that makes him burst in laughter time to time, and Ben finds himself watching him close.
He has tried not to linger on that moment in the studio, he filed it into his memory as his brain going on short for a second. After all, he hasn't even ever felt attracted to a man before. He sees himself calling his mother, looking for answers just like when he was a kid questioning his sexuality for all the wrong reasons. Those doubts have vanished with the years, and he thinks it might be a little too late to start going at them again.
Another laughter, not for him. Ben catches himself searching for something funny to say to get back into the conversation he was so relieved to leave only minutes ago, just to bring Ryan's attention back to him, make him stop looking at that girl he feels almost...
Jealous of. Just as he's thinking this Ryan gives him a sideways look, gives him another of his smiles, and Ben almost chokes on his drink. He groans inside, and stares somewhere else.
He spends the rest of the evening looking for ways to distract himself, until he decides it's time to go. A couple of friends offers to share a cab, and Ryan downs his drink and stands up, saying he's coming as well.
Their friends get off the car first, and the cab rolls through Friday night traffic, under the light rain. The two men sits in silence, Ryan is staring outside the window, Ben tries to focus on the wet sidewalk, on the hurried passers-by, but he soon gives up and starts stealing glances at his friend's hand, resting on the seat.
He pictures himself into his mind (he might as well do that, at this point, and the easiness with which he does so is both unexpected and comforting) reaching for that hand and take it into his own, just like he would naturally do, like he has done so many times with some girl. Take it to his lips for a soft kiss.
The mental movie stops abruptly, because Ben doesn't have the slightest idea of what would happen next. Well, beside seeing the most important friendship, and the most honest, most intense artistic collaboration he ever had into his life crash and burn before his eyes. Just for a couple of moments of... confusion? Stupidity?
He looks up, gives Ryan's profile a glance quick as a snap-shot.
A couple of moments of awareness. Of illumination.
There's a song playing on the radio, The National. Ryan looks away from the window, mumbles how he likes this song. He has been planning a project with it, for a while. When his eyes meet Ben's he becomes quiet. He watches him intently, and Ben wonders what is he seeing right now, in the semi-darkness, with the coloured stains left by lampposts and headlights washing over their faces.
He feels strangely at peace.
Only after he's back home he thinks about his friend's thoughtful expression, about his silence until he said good-bye as he exited the cab, and now he feels embarrassed, terribly so, he feels insecure. He paces around until the sun peeks through his windows, and when he looks in the mirror he wonders who is that tired man who's looking right back at him. Who is that pathetic man who's trying to remember how to make music and poetry, and who might have fallen in love with his best friend.
The anxiety doesn't leave him until they meet again, and everything appears normal so he can breathe again. It seems Ryan hasn't noticed anything weird in his behavior, or if he has he doesn't mention it. And what could he notice? Ben knows it's all in his head, this big fucking mess, and he's set on not letting it out.
-
After the second time Ben thinks nothing will ever happen, he won't let anything happen. This unexpected turn of events will pass too, leaving no trace in their lives. As long as he doesn't do a thing.
Moderation and self-control. Not his strongest suit, he knows.
-
Back to where the two of them are right now, to the studio, way too close for comfort. Just like those other times, Ben only has to let this moment pass. He can do that, just like he can with all the other moments that will come, until they'll grow far and few, until this stupid, useless flame will be smothered. It's the path of less-resistance, the less complicated, it is what he has to...
What if he doesn't?
Ryan starts to pull back but Ben's hand shoots up to grab his arm, he withholds it against his chest, his fingers press over the red ink, linger on it. He rubs the skin with his thumb, gently, and lets his head rest back against Ryan's shirt.
Ryan's eyes in the reflection turn from amused to confused, and then embarrassed, and Ben, who has spent half of his life freestyling, doesn't have a fucking clue about what to say. He's already regretting the small gesture. He lets his hand fall down and fumbles, looking for a joke, anything, that can defuse this dangerous moment.
Then Ryan wraps his arms around Ben's shoulders, holding tight, he leans down, his cheek brushes against Ben's hair and his lips press a quick kiss on his cheekbone, then he crushes his face on Ben's shoulder, his body bent against the back of the seat in an awkward position.
Silence stretches for a few seconds, they seem to last an eternity.
Ryan speaks, his voice muffled by Ben's shirt. “Say something, please. Because I only have one backup plan for this situation, and it's to drop down and fake my sudden death.”
Ben shakes up and can't hold back an incredulous laugh. He stands up, evading Ryan's embrace just to turn around and take him into his arms in turn. He feels the other man press against his body with strength, almost with desperation, and he can't even start to believe any of this. Then Ryan kisses him and what he does or doesn't believe does not matter anymore.
-
Maybe this is just another weakness, this yearning for the person who made his life such a better place, this wanting him in all the ways he's able to.
Maybe this is just the only thing he truly needs.
Truth, the only thing I ever used in moderation.
-
-
-
-
“The third time you thought of kissing me. Tonight was the third time.” Ryan states, in a flat tone. He's sitting on the bed with the blanket wrapped around up to his chin because Ben's house is cold like hell if hell was frozen.
“Yeah.” Ben is rummaging through the heap of clothes on the floor, looking for his shirt. The mattress lays directly on the floor, so he doesn't have to lean over much. “It's crazy, isn't it? I thought it would be better to pretend I didn't feel like that, I figured I would only make a mess and I didn't want to ruin yet another good thing in my life because I can't keep myself in che—ow!” A pillow hits him over the head, interrupting him. “What the fuck?” He exclaims, turning around to look at Ryan in a huff.
Ryan is staring right back, glacially. “Ben, I've been thinking about it, about this” he waves his hand around “for at least four months. Four fucking months. I've spent weeks denying it all, then I tried to convince myself I should get over it. I told myself over and over that I had no hope, and that it was for the best. All the while I couldn't stop imagining me jumping you, or hoping you would jump me. All the while I was still looking for any sign you could...” He shakes his head and lets himself fall back on the mattress. “And in the meanwhile you, from time to time, asked yourself 'well, maybe I could kiss him, or maybe not.' Hypothetically speaking. I hate you...” he concludes.
Ben pulls the blanket up so he can sneak under it, he rests his arm over Ryan's warm body and decides he doesn't care about explaining how things didn't go exactly like that, because right now he's happy to stay like this, on his side, his face a breath away from that of his best friend, who says again that he hates him, before kissing him.
Maybe he should add also a lack of spirit of observation, to the list of his biggest flaws.