Chapter Text
Ben Hope pulled his Barbour jacket closer around his slim shoulders, and strolled across the cold carpark. Beside him, his fiancée chattered brightly with the friends they had met for a pre-game breakfast. It was her first outing with them and Bec was acquitting herself well, as he had expected. Life was good. Being back in Kent was boring, but everything was boring these days. So Ben smiled easily as the group laughed along, a well-rehearsed chorus from a crew that had been to school together, stayed in touch through university, and arrived at the other side with little change in their line-up. They were a good-looking, healthy, well-heeled troupe – any who were not had fallen by the wayside, naturally. Today’s outing was an excuse to get together in the guise of showing up for their alma mater. The Truham Old Boys still played rugby a few times each winter against various county teams, ably led by their old rugby king, Nick Nelson. Calling themselves the Blues, they hadn’t made too bad a showing this year, and Ben’s group had felt they should ‘make an effort’.
They found a spot on the sidelines, not too close to others already gathered to cheer on the Blues and their opposition, St Johns Old Boys. The wind was biting despite weak winter sunshine, and the ground was wet enough to promise a muddy game. Ben was surprised to spot a few teenagers hovering on the sidelines as well, but his mate informed the group that Nelson was involved with coaching at Truham. The kids must have turned out to cheer him on, a big ask for any teen at 11am on a Sunday. Ben had his doubts about how much they cared for rugby, given how many girls were among their number. Many were staring at Bec admiringly, and Ben preened a little as gossip spread throughout the small community.
Ben’s group had timed themselves perfectly, of course. A few minutes after their arrival, whistles sounded and the teams jogged out to the pitch. Nelson was front and centre of his team, but from his viewpoint Ben just saw the back of his head and his broad shoulders as he headed straight to a rowdy part of the crowd. There were cheers as Nelson’s head dipped momentarily towards someone, and then he was gone. Ben smothered a gasp as he realised who Nelson had stopped to kiss.
Charlie Spring.
Charlie Spring stood further down the field, blushing with cold and kisses. It was a look that Ben had known once, and that memory delivered a wholly unexpected gut-punch. As the whistle blasted to start the game, Ben slipped on his designer sunglasses with an uncharacteristic fumble. Behind their mirrored protection he was safely able to examine the other man at his leisure.
Charlie Spring, age 24, was a little taller and not much broader than the beautiful boy in Ben’s memory. The childish softness in his face was gone, but the healthy glow was new. Charlie was bundled up in a flannel shirt, hoodie, and a battered jacket that looked too big. As he turned to talk to someone, Ben saw that NELSON was written across his back, with the old Truham logo from their school days. Nearby, Ben recognised Imogen, and some others he vaguely remembered as friends of Charlie. He had never bothered to learn the names of the tall Asian boy and that chubby kid who was always reading, but their older versions were there today, each holding one end of a crumpled, hand-drawn fabric sign which read ‘Nick Nelson’ with a crown over the top. The letter ‘i’ had a red heart instead of a dot. Ben snorted inelegantly before he caught himself. Luckily the others were already engrossed in the game, and didn’t notice he wasn’t paying attention to the players. He clapped his hands and made the sort of encouraging noises that were expected. Beside him, Bec shivered a little in the biting wind, and shifted in her high heeled boots. Further away, Charlie was also shivering visibly, probably not kept warm enough by Nelson’s ill-fitting, off-the-rack clothes. He hunkered down into the jacket, turning the collar up a little, and immediately looked smaller and more timid, more like the version of him Ben remembered from a decade ago.
Charlie, age 14, was so heartbreakingly young, so soft, so slight that it felt like he might slip from Ben’s sweaty, grasping hands at any moment.
Charlie, age 24, was still dimpled and sweet, and his voice carried on the wind in the same light husk that Ben remembered. His eyes were still deep blue and filled with worry, anxiously tracking Nelson as he threw himself fearlessly into the scrum. Grunts and the meaty sound of men’s shoulders engaging rang across the field, and Ben was struck by how little Charlie had changed compared to the people they grew up with. The boy, no, the man, was still slim hipped and narrow shouldered, with the same long legs, the same pretty little arse encased in ripped jeans. His dark curls bounced in the wind, and Charlie impatiently tried to push them back into place. Pale winter sun caught the little ring on his left hand, the modest glint nearly blinding Ben.
Through a sudden wave of nausea, Ben cheered for the Blues. Not having watched a single play, he was moving entirely on reflex with the group around him.
Charlie, age 24, was still as enchanting as the boy perched nervously in a music room a decade previous. He still had Ben’s entire attention, and still no one noticed, for Ben had made an art form of avoiding detection a long, long time ago.
Charlie, age 14, was a bird with a broken wing. Ben had been consumed with the need to keep him for his own, despite being able to offer so little in return. Luckily for him, Charlie was susceptible to the crudest manipulation. Ben enjoyed months of sweet smiles and shy kisses, understanding words, and a gentle kindness that he had never known before or since. How much more might he have wheedled from Charlie, age 14? The boy was so sweet and loving, and oh so anxious to please his handsome suitor. Charlie had been perfect. But all Ben’s plans were destroyed the day Nick Nelson came blundering into that corridor, determined to play the white knight and misunderstanding everything. He could easily recall the incredulous anger on that earnest face, the wide brown eyes snapping with righteousness as Nelson leapt to Charlie’s defence. His broad shoulder hid the crying boy from view, and from then on, despite Ben’s best efforts, Charlie somehow became untouchable.
Ben finally turned his attention to the field. Nelson was easy to pick out. Unlike Charlie, he had grown in both height and breadth, and towered over the amateur players around him. Muscles bulged in his arms, and his torso was stocky in classic rugby player style. Ben sneered at the rusty beard which made Nelson look older than his 26 years. His hair was auburn-dark with sweat, clashing horribly with his ever-present freckles. When Nelson took a breather in a break in the game, he swept his wet hair back and twisted to wave at Charlie. He seemingly ignored the group of teens who squealed when his soaked shirt rode up, focussed instead on barking orders at his laughing teammates.
Ben ground his teeth together, ignored the pit in his stomach, and cheered.
As the game wound up with a slim victory for the Blues, Nelson swapped jovial handshakes with his opponents, and slowly jogged back to Charlie. No one batted an eye as their captain swept his giggling husband into his sweaty arms.
Ben was listening for Charlie’s delighted squeals even as he turned to make desultory conversation with his mates. Sweeping his eyes back with apparent carelessness, he found Nelson indulgently allowing Charlie to fuss over the scrapes littering his muddy skin. The cold and exertion had turned his face blotchy red, and he was utterly filthy, but Charlie didn’t seem to mind as he pressed butterfly kisses on scratches. Finally, with a luxurious kiss to his husband’s lips, Nelson was released to the change rooms. Ben watched quietly as Sai and Christian slapped him on the back, and Harry’s obnoxious laughter rang across the field. They all looked sweaty, bruised, and totally relaxed in each other’s company.
Nelson, age 26, had found a way to have it all. Ben wondered bitterly how much freedom his manly physique allowed him. Sure, Ben was tall. The girls cooed over his slim figure and dreamy blue eyes, his cutting cheekbones and pretty mouth. But this came at the expense of the way men sneered and pushed him aside. Ben was always fighting to be heard and respected at the firm. If the piranhas at the office thought he was a poof as well - well. His family’s reaction didn’t bear thinking of either. All he had to do was keep his head down, keep quiet, nod along, and his family money would assure his future no matter what.
It was a well-worn thought process, and Ben wearily wheeled his mind along the usual track.
He turned to his fiancé and offered his usual polite, detached smile to her inane chatter. She had never once guessed any of his inner thoughts and he wasn’t concerned she would catch on now. On autopilot he offered her his own jacket when she complained of the cold wind, and smiled bashfully when the other women marvelled at what a loving, attentive fiancée he was.
He sneered internally, with the ease of long practice.
Without thinking too hard on it, Ben asked around for where the rugby lads would head to next. Harry Green’s place. Naturally. “We should drop in,” he murmured in a casually bored tone. “They’re a terribly dull lot but they’ll expect it of us.” Ben snickered cruelly as the others groaned. “Yah, I know, I’m too nice,” he agreed. He flicked his thick hair back from his brow, and sent a little wink to the knot of girls who had been goggling at Bec’s huge engagement ring. They giggled on cue as Ben offered his arm to his fiancée to lead her back to the Merc. Bec settled her hand on his arm just so, the ring glittering to greatest effect, and flicked her blonde extensions theatrically. A local newspaper had sent an amateur photographer to take pictures of the game, and the man trotted forward to take shots of Bec. Ben could see the headline now: “Soap starlet attends local rugby game with new fiancée”. There would be a colour picture of Bec smiling vapidly while Ben made sheep’s eyes at her, and there would be an inset close-up of the ring.
“It’s only money,” he had purred when the young jeweller in Hatton Gardens presented him with the astronomical invoice. The androgynous young man had glossy dark curls, and his blush was very pretty when Ben graced him with a little wink. Their transaction came to a satisfactory conclusion in the hushed backroom with the young chap on his knees, and Ben hopped into a black cab bound for the City some time later with a spring in his step.
Bec had been delighted with the garish ring, of course, and showed it off with enthusiasm. She made him look good, like his car and his jacket and his watch. Appearance was everything, as his mother was fond of saying, and from childhood Ben had understood that this came at a price that had to be paid.