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Benedikt had decided to wait for him in the dimmest lighting possible. Take Marshall by surprise once he walks through the door. Maybe he could be the one flustering for once, instead of being the one flustered . It would be nice for there to be some sort of change in dynamic, even if only for a moment.
But that thought came four hours ago, and Marshall still hasn’t returned home.
Benedikt takes a glance at the clock resting on the coffee table. 1:03 am, five minutes more than the last time he checked. In the hours passed, he’s managed to sketch half of a still-life, read twenty poems from a random poetry book he found on the shelf, and fail at cooking a decent meal. The sad excuse of it sits in front of him now, nearly untouched.
After 12:30, he had turned a brighter lamp on, deciding that if Marshall isn’t getting here anytime soon, he would make it known that he has waited all this time the moment he stepped through the door. A little guilt wouldn’t hurt, just like a single shadow doesn’t do damage to the sun.
It’s normal for either Marshall or Benedikt to show up home an hour or so later than planned, but this was such a stretch. Benedikt had previously assumed that his uncle had sent him to do some sort of business involving the Scarlets, possibly spying. It’s typically Marshall he sends off to do that sort of business.
But Benedikt knows it shouldn’t take so long. Lord Montagov wouldn’t need so much information that it takes someone this long to get home. Especially considering the recent hunger for said information.
Benedikt stands, heading for the front door. He grabs a coat from the coat rack sitting just next to the door and throws it on. He doesn’t even check to make sure it’s his, and he doesn’t care.
If his suspicions are true, he better get Roma. He’s sure his uncle wouldn’t give a damn that Marshall’s gone missing, but it might serve him good to ask if he’s sent him somewhere.
Still, if not, Roma would help Benedikt go looking.
His hand is inches away from the door handle when it moves, as if being turned this way and that. Benedikt stops, straining his ears. He pulls his hand back, and takes a step away.
The handle turns, and the door opens.
Marshall is looking down, fiddling with a loose string on his shirt. It looks like he’s trying to rip it out, but his fingers are trembling too much to be successful.
Ben looks at him for a moment, stunned, before clearing his throat.
Marshall's head shoots up, and only then is the moisture on his cheeks made apparent. Dirt runs through the tear streaks, coloring the edges a faded brown. There's also blood. It's smeared a little from a cut in the left side of his face.
When he sees Benedikt standing there, his mouth falls agape. They stare at each other for a moment before Marshall blinks hard a few times, and takes a shaky step back.
"Ben," he says, frantically moving to fix himself up. He tries to smile, and it may have been believable, if Benedikt hadn't memorized the real thing. Seen it countless times. "I didn't know . . . " he exhales. "I didn't know you would be awake now."
Benedikt doesn't bother. "Where were you?"
He takes hold of Marshall's arm, and pulls him through the door.
"I have been up for nineteen hours today, and almost five of them were spent sitting here—" he gestures around them—"waiting for you to get back home. I thought you were killed! Or worse, lying somewhere almost dead. Suffering."
He lets go of Marshall to throw the door shut. Then, he walks into their kitchen, flipping the light on. Briefly, it stings his eyes, but he barely notices. He knocks twice on one of the countertops. "Sit here."
Marshall does so after only a moment's hesitation. He hoists himself onto the granite with more effort than usual. Benedikt takes note of the struggle but doesn't voice his concern out loud.
He runs his fingers over every cabinet door, trying to remember which one holds the medical supplies that he keeps around for instances just like this. He knew, just knew that Marshall would get himself hurt one day, and he didn’t want to be unprepared.
They refrain from speaking, both parties figuring that they shouldn’t speak. Marshall thinking he’ll only worsen Benedikt’s mood, and Benedikt thinking he’ll only make the situation that much more awkward. Once he finds what he was looking for—gauze, bandages, and a white cloth—he turns to Marshall. "Where are you hurt?"
As if shocked by the question, Marshall's eyebrows momentarily flick up. He starts to push himself off the counter. "You don't have to do that. The injuries aren't even that severe. They'll go away in a matter of a day or two."
Benedikt grabs his arm, fingertips digging into the muscle. "You could get infected. Or the bleeding could suddenly get worse. Or you could be the one to make it worse. Something could get inside the wound. Anything could happen, Mars." He lets go. "Now sit back down."
Huffing, Marshall obliges, and they fall back into the painful silence. Ben takes the same arm from before, gentler this time, and inspects the wound. He hums. Not a thoughtful hum. The kind of hum you make when you've just discovered something.
"I don't think it's as bad as I thought," he admits. If Marshall isn't mistaken, he wonders if it's relief he hears in Benedikt's voice when he says it. The thought brings a small smile to his face.
"See? I'm not as stupid as you take me for," he smirks. Benedikt gives him a glance of acknowledgement, turning on the sink. He looks calm as he runs his hands under the water, but his whole upper body rises and falls with a sigh. Marshall feels his stomach twist, smile faltering. He looks at Benedikt. Really looks at him.
His skin, pale and smooth, the type Marshall thinks of when he reads his poems, looks duller than normal. His eyes are like throwing stones into a river and watching the water ripple, though the space underneath them is now decorated with bags of weariness. His lips, ever so lovely, are like the scarce moments right after you wake up, when you aren't fully conscious, but not fully unconscious either. That time of bliss. Probably the only truly soft thing about him at all, to any outside viewer.
Oftentimes, Marshall finds himself staring at them when Benedikt speaks. Watching them move. Almost to the point where the words go unheard. There have been multiple occasions when Ben would have to snap him out of it, quite literally.
Ben.
Such a simple name. Or nickname, Marshall supposes. Sometimes, he even says "Benny," but usually it's when he's only joking. Secretly, he loves it. But Benedikt seems to hate it, so he avoids letting it slip out.
Marshall feels a tightness in his throat, a realization suddenly coming to him. One he doesn't want to think about. One that involves an emotion that goes farther than the pits of friendship. He pushes it to the back of his mind, telling himself to think of other thoughts. And he does try, but in this situation, guilt comes before happiness.
Ben spent hours waiting for him to come home. Hours of his time. Marshall even reckons he was going to go looking for him. That's why he had a coat on and everything. And he hasn't even asked for a goddamn explanation. He owes his best friend that at least.
"I was coming back home from the casino."
Benedikt looks up from where he is, now drying his hands. His movements slow. "What?"
Marshall swallows, shifting his sitting position until he's resting on his hands with his calves hanging off of the counter top. "Tonight. I went with Roma, but when he left, I stayed late. I, uh, promised him I wouldn't, but I did."
Benedikt sets the rag down, now wetting the softer cloth. He takes Marshall's wounded arm and sets it down next to him. "And then?"
"And then," Marshall continues. "I wasn't paying attention while I was finally walking home, and these three guys jumped out from an alleyway. Scarlets, I think."
Benedikt wrings out the cloth, staring blankly into the sink. "Scarlets? You’re sure they were Scarlets?"
"Pretty sure. They all had red scarves wrapped around their wrists. They came out of nowhere, started calling me names."
He winces slightly once Benedikt starts to pat the cloth on the wound, cleaning it. "Names?"
Marshall sighs. "You know, the ones everyone uses. 'Flower,' 'Queer,' 'Homo,' among other, more harsh things."
"You say that like it's nothing," Benedikt scoffs, frowning. There's a dryness in his throat. "People are sick these days."
Marshall smiles, but it looks strained. He stops Benedikt's working arm with a soft touch from his free hand. "Don't feel that way. Very few understand, but that's not our fault. There will come a time." He doesn’t specify what time specifically, or what will happen then, but the implication is clear. There will come a time where people like me are accepted.
Benedikt's teeth scrape at the inside of his cheek. He mumbles when he opens his mouth. "If the world were kinder, we would both be asleep. You wouldn't be bleeding. And you wouldn't have to worry about getting jumped by three men for something you cannot control." Near the end, his voice breaks, and blinks hard. Breath wobbling, he continues tending to the wound. "How'd they even find out?"
Marshall pulls his hand away. "I must admit, I was being quite reckless in the casino. I was a little tipsy. Roma even had to make me shut up when I mentioned a boy I had seen earlier today. He was very good looking, but the people around us didn't like hearing that coming from my mouth."
Benedikt is quiet. He shakes his head, but shows no further reaction.
"Anyway, those guys were probably spies. I think they waited until I left to put the scarves on. And when the time was right, they struck." He makes a fist with his free hand, mock punching the air.
"Hold still."
"I'm fine now, though," Marshall says. He looks to his left, where Benedikt now bandages the gauze covered wound. A few strands of his light waves have slipped down onto his face, and Marshall feels his fingers twitch. He aches to reach out and brush them away, but he knows that would be absurd. Why ruin something perfect for a selfish reason?
"You're not fine," Benedikt challenges. He moves to stand in between Marshall's legs and taps his torso. Marshall lifts his shirt for him to inspect. Nothing too serious, just a few scrapes and a whole lot of both blue and yellowing bruises. The yellow ones must be from days ago. Still, Benedikt's frown deepens.
"Stop doing that to your face," Marshall says. "You'll get wrinkles."
Without thinking, he drops his shirt back down, using his thumb to smooth out the frown on Benedikt's brow. Now he wears a neutral expression, lips slightly parted. From this angle, his stone-in-river eyes sparkle. Must be the lighting.
But before he can get carried away, Marshall pulls his hand back. He smooths his shirt over his torso again.
"You seem to be mostly okay, other than that cut on your face, and some bruises." Benedikt crosses his arms. "You're lucky, Mars. They really could have killed you."
Marshall tilts his head, giving Benedikt a kind, close-lipped smile. He's not fully looking at him, more staring straight into nothing, like he always does. Marshall taps his cheek, and he looks.
"What?" he asks. His voice is tired and hoarse, sounding like he's been yelling all day. Unlikely, knowing him.
Again, Marshall has the urge to stare, but an apology is long overdue. His hand falls back onto the counter. "Benny?" he asks, his smile turning full, yet staying soft. Benedikt rolls his eyes, but let's him continue. "I'm sorry for being stupid. It won't happen again."
"Doubtful," Ben says. A pause. "But thank you. I . . . accept your apology."
"Yes!" Marshall springs into action, throwing his arms around Ben. The force is enough to push him back a few steps, but he manages to catch himself, hands coming around Marshall's waist.
"What's this for?"
"Everything," Marshall says. "I don't give you enough." He pushes away, his hands traveling from Benedikt's torso to his face. He cradles either side of it in his palms. "You give me everything, and all I do is act like an idiot in return. I shouldn't have stayed late. I shouldn't have talked so openly about men. I shouldn't have gone home alone. There are few things from this night that I don't regret."
Benedikt's mouth falls partly slack. With all the attention now on him, he feels his face heat up. He knows Marshall can feel it on his palms, but if he notices, he doesn't say anything. Doesn't embarrass him. He wouldn't. Not now.
Feeling bold, Benedikt takes one of his own hands and covers Marshall's with it.
"You make me food?" He attempts. "You lighten up the house. If you didn't live here, nobody would want to come and visit because it would be so gloomy. You make me laugh when I never would have expected to laugh. And I don't know if you know it, but you like to keep me away from danger, no matter how many times you get yourself into it." Benedikt lets his lips form a small smile.
Marshall's eyes have grown glassy, and now he's left speechless for the first time in a while.
“So, you know.” Benedikt clears his throat. “You’re not that bad, even if you are an idiot.”
Marshall nods, fighting back tears. He sniffles, and takes his hands back to wipe at his eyes. Benedikt takes a step back, fully pulling away now.
“We should go to bed,” he says. He spares a glance at the clock. 1:34. He figures Marshall needs a moment to himself, and starts to take quiet steps down the hall. His feet, covered by socks, barely make noise on the wood floors.
His room is kissed by moonlight when he reaches it, the source being the large window on the right side of the room. It's the complete opposite of Marshall's room, which is encased in full darkness during the night. Yet, during the day it's brighter than ever, while Benedikt's is dull. Not that he minds. He's always preferred the moon over the sun.
And while nighttime is the best time for Benedikt to lie awake and think about what the future holds for him, to recount every decision from the day and wonder if he should've done something different, he really does need sleep. If he waits any longer, he's afraid his sleeping schedule will be too out of control to fix in a short period of time.
A few paces into the room, he passes his easel. On it, a canvas. On that, a painting. A painting of Marshall.
The other boy hasn't yet seen it. Benedikt isn't hiding it, but Marshall never comes into his room. Says it’s too dark during the day. Not decorated enough. He had said the same thing about the apartment itself when they moved in. Since then, he's done a good deal to the place, filling it with all of the paintings, plants, and whatever other little accessories he can afford.
As Benedikt stares at the painting, he tries to see from someone else’s perspective. At the angle he had painted Marshall, he's smiling at something the viewer can't see. It's based on a true event that took place not one week ago. The viewer may not know, but Benedikt knows he's smiling at a piece he'd just finished. The moment he saw Marshall smile like that, a million ideas came flooding.
This was the only one he could get to work almost perfectly.
He decides to look away. Come back to it in the morning, when his mind is clearer. Then, he can fix all the little mistakes that he thinks he sees now, but could be a simple trick of the lighting.
His train of thought is distracted by a knock on his door.
"It's me," Marshall's voice says, as if it could be anyone else. "Can I come in?"
Benedikt faces the door. "Yes."
Marshall opens the door, not actually entering. He smiles at Benedikt, seemingly giddy. "Hi."
Ben, slightly amused, sits on the edge of his bed. "Hi?"
"I have a question before I go to sleep."
"Okay."
"I like kissing boys, right?"
Benedikt blinks, wondering if there's a correct answer to this question. "As far as I know."
Marshall hugs himself for the second time that night. He leans against the door frame. "Yeah, and I was wondering if . . . maybe you do too?"
Unfazed, Benedikt shrugs. "I wouldn't know. I don't go around kissing many people."
Exhaling, Marshall continues, now taking a few strides into the room. "Would you ever want to find out?"
Benedikt is almost positive he knows what the real meaning behind Marshall's words are. Well, more like he can't think of anything else that they could mean, because with Marshall you never really know. Just to make sure, he says, "Are you asking if I want to kiss you, Mars?"
Marshall purses his lips, physically bracing himself. "Possibly? Depends on what you would say."
Benedikt smiles. "What if I say no?"
Marshall hums, also smiling. "Did you know you get smug when you're tired?"
"I don't."
"You do," Marshall says, but it sounds something like loving. "Anyway, what's your real answer?"
Benedikt stands, and in four steps, he's right in front of Marshall.
As swiftly as he can manage, he takes the back of Marshall's neck and pulls him in. He catches his lips while the other hand finds his hip. It's sloppy, and admittedly dramatic, but all the sensations that come after make it worth it. Benedikt isn’t surprised to find that Marshall’s lips are soft, or that his touch is light. He feels his arms wrap tenderly around his waist, as if being too harsh would do something terrible.
Everything. Everything about Marshall makes this kiss worth it.
Benedikt pulls away first, eyes wide. Marshall takes a split second longer to open his own, and when he does, they're half-lidded.
"Woah," he says. "Ben, I feel kind of dizzy. In a good way." His hands tangle into Benedikt's locks. "Is that a yes?"
"I can not believe I just did that."
Marshall's smile falters. "A no . . . ?"
Benedikt moves his hand from Marshall's neck to his cheek, bending his fingers and running his knuckles along the side of his face. "It's a yes."
"And this isn't just a one time thing? If I wanted to do that again, I could?"
"Here, at home, you can. Or just when we're alone."
"What about Roma? What will we tell him?"
"We'll tell him that I kissed you at 2 am, and now we're . . . "
Marshall's face lights up. "Dating! We're a couple. Officially. As of right now."
"Dating. Yeah."
"I can't believe this. I'm actually dating someone."
Benedikt yawns. "Uh-huh. Me too. And I love that we're dating, really, but we seriously need sleep."
Marshall backs up. "You're right. Sorry. I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight." Back to his normal self, Marshall grabs the door handle as he's walking out, ready to shut the door. "Oh," he says. "and lovely painting, by the way. Can't wait to see it when it's finished." He winks, and shuts the door.
Benedikt blushes. He hears Marshall open and close his door, and he waits a few seconds for the heat on his face to clear.
When it does, he says to the empty room, a delayed response to Marshall’s compliment, "Thank you."