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“What are these bits?” Charlie asks. Ben can hear him poking at the zucchini blossoms that lie on the counter.
“That’s the stem of the flower.” Ben pauses in fluffing the rice and gives Charlie a long stare. “We won’t eat those, so don’t try.”
“Wasn’t gonna.” It's clear Charlie’s annoyed, and he doesn't try to hide it.
“Sure,” Ben says. Charlie's lanky body twitches with a current of electricity, catching his attention. Ben sighs, counts to ten, and makes an effort to be patient. Having Charlie in his kitchen is like having a baby deer in the sights of his rifle.
Ben clears his throat to conceal the pleasure he feels as Charlie's eyes widen. “Why don’t you grate the zucchini for me?”
Charlie's face takes on a pink hue, not the bright red that Ben finds attractive, but it's a good look, nonetheless. Ben can tell that he wants to apologize and watches with fascination as Charlie chokes it back.
“Right, of course,” he says instead. He continues to appear lost.
Ben rests against his countertop, thinking about his options. The rice has several more minutes and his tomato sauce is cooling. With their full class load, fun was a rare occurrence for him and Charlie. ‘Seize every moment,’ he thinks. “The grater is in the drawer,” he tells Charlie.
“Oh, um, yes,” Charlie stammers and opens drawers.
Ben suppresses a smile as he watches Charlie swell with frustration.
‘Best not to poke at him too long,’ he thinks. Turning towards the correct drawer, he removes the grater. “Here,” he calls to Charlie.
Charlie's face turns the color of Ben's favorite ice pop, ragin' watermelon. The sight of him reaching for the kitchen tool with shame triggers something insidious within Ben. Charlie is a gift that never stops giving.
“Thanks,” Charlie mumbles. Grating away, he shrinks into himself like a slowly deflating balloon.
"Don't worry about it," Ben says, offering his own gift.
They work in comfortable silence, or at least Ben does. Even with his back turned, he can sense Charlie wants to talk. He always wants to talk. He’s full of questions about Ben’s uni classes and if Ben has any siblings. It’s a constant topic that Ben broaches with his therapist: how to answer Charlie’s never-ending questions.
“Honestly,” his therapist advises.
“Yeah, but Charlie always thinks I’m lying to him,” Ben says.
“Well, that’s to be expected,” she tells him bluntly. “You did lie to him for the majority of your relationship.”
Ben doesn’t think his therapist likes him very much, but that’s all right. The issue of him not being liked by everyone is something they’ve been working on.
“He doesn’t like my answers,” Ben explains. “Like when I finally got him to have lunch with me and he asked me what I’ve been up to these past couple of years?”
“What did you tell him?”
“Mostly boys and booze,” he says. “It’s the truth.”
She suggests discussing effective communication once again, sighing as she notes something down.
Ben bites his lip. All they do is talk about talking. “Fine.”
“Why are you trying to get me to eat flowers again?” Charlie asks, drawing Ben back to the present.
“You didn’t believe me when I said I could cook,” Ben says, turning off the rice cooker.
“The fact that you are making me eat flowers doesn’t help your case.”
“Stuffed zucchini flowers are one of my favorites. My mum makes them every summer, but I’m not going home this break.” Ben mixes the rice with the tomato sauce. He’s seen his mum make this exact dish a million times, but he can’t shake this nagging feeling that he is forgetting something.
“Things aren’t better with them?”
Ben tightens his fist around the wooden spoon, using it to ladle rice. He takes a deep breath and counts to ten, reassuring himself that Charlie's tone is ordinary, and not a sign of pity towards Ben.
"No," he says in a level tone. “They probably won’t be for some time.”
“I’m sorry,” Charlie says.
‘Christ, what the fuck are you sorry for?’ Ben wants to snap at Charlie. ‘ It isn’t your fault that my parents don’t want a queer for a son. It isn’t anyone’s fault, but mine.’
But Ben doesn’t snap. He doesn’t lose control or take it out on Charlie. Today he is earning a good grade in being a decent human being. Go, him.
“Don’t be,” Ben says instead. He even turns and smiles. His therapist would be proud.
Charlie smiles back, and while it's not as big as the ones he gave to Nick, it's only for Ben.
Ben examines the pile of zucchini shreds Charlie has before him. “Let’s mix those in.” He waves at the pot he has on the stove.
Charlie has to squeeze in beside him to add the zucchini, almost like he is settling into a trap. Ben tries not to focus on Charlie's slender wrists, which are exposed as he pushes up his oversized jumper to his elbows. Ben can count the scars that run along Charlie’s inner forearm, and he wonders if tonight is the night that he can touch them. He’ll ask permission, of course. Ben always asks permission before he touches Charlie now.
“Umm, so just stir it all together now?” Charlie asks.
Ben shakes off his daydream. Charlie’s gigantic eyes blink at him, waiting for instruction.
“Yeah,” Ben confirms and stirs the mixture. “And then we will stuff the flowers.”
“Mmmm,” Charlie hums. He still hasn’t moved away. “I still think you’re screwing with me, but this does smell good.”
“Trust me,” Ben says, even though he knows Charlie won’t. “You’ll like it.”
“I haven’t eaten today, so I’ll pretty much eat anything.”
Ben bites the inside of his cheek. He's often left speechless when Charlie discusses his lack of eating and sometimes questions if it's a test. If he was supposed to emulate Nick, by crying in solidarity and shoving food into Charlie's mouth. But then Charlie and Nick ended things because of how co-dependent they became. It’s why Nick went to University in France. According to Charlie, at least.
“Then it’s a good thing I made such a large batch,” Ben decides to say. He glances at the olives and box of Triscuits. “Until then, why don’t you eat the snacks I put out?”
“I don’t need to be managed,” Charlie snaps.
Ben pauses stirring and glances at Charlie. Color has already drained from his cheeks and lips and he stands like a wax figure. The good thing about Charlie is that he will hang himself if given enough rope. Ben didn’t know how to be delicate about feeding Charlie’s fire when they were teens, but things are different now. Ben knows how to be more careful.
“I’m sorr-” Charlie begins, but Ben cuts him off.
“The olives will expire if you don’t help me eat them and if that box of crackers is there by the time my flatmates get home, then I won’t get any at all.” He leans into Charlie’s space, closing the small distance between them, pinning his prey further. “So be a good lad and go eat.”
Color returns to Charlie’s cheeks. “If it’s to help you, then.” He sits back down and immediately starts shoving crackers into his mouth.
The tension that had been gathering in Ben's shoulder blades finally eases. The feeling of uncertainty about his actions bothers him. Ben didn't imagine their current situation would transpire when he saw Charlie in the university library last fall. He’d only wanted to apologize the right way this time. To show Charlie that he’d learned more about the world and himself. He’s found peace in identifying as queer without burdening others with his self-hatred.
Ben wonders if Charlie knows the extent to which he represses his anger. Every time he seeks permission to harm Charlie, a part of him wishes Charlie would say no. The situation might make Ben confront his own nature.
He wraps the pot handles in an orange tea towel, zoning in on the heat of the pot rather than his sick thoughts of what-if.
“Right,” he says, bringing the pot over to the kitchen island. “Now, we are going to stuff the blossoms with the sauce I made and stick them in the oven.”
Charlie frowns and sticks several olives in his mouth using both hands. Ben has a complicated relationship with what he finds both gross and endearing.
“You’ll help,” he says, firmly.
“But I’m dreadful in the kitchen,” Charlie whines.
“Which is precisely why you have me.” Ben takes an olive and places it near Charlie’s lips. “Open?” He works to pose it as a question.
Charlie rolls his eyes but parts his lips to accept.
“There you go, sweetheart,” Ben says, only partially joking. “Down the hatch.”
Charlie's laugh unnerves Ben, reminding him of jagged nails on soft skin. He breathes, even brings out the mantra that he and his therapist came up with, although Ben can tell it disturbs her.
Blood, teeth, pelt. Blood, teeth, pelt. Blood, teeth, pelt. He repeats. It’s not working, which means something has to give.
“You know I’m still an arsehole, right?” Ben says. He throws the tea towel over his shoulder and confronts Charlie with a stare.
Charlie’s cheeks are bulging with olives, his eyes glazed over with a false sense of safety. “Huh?”
Ben holds back on calling him stupid. Charlie isn’t stupid, he simply doesn’t understand his place. That was why he needed Ben.
His father’s words come back to him against the backdrop of an early autumn morning. As they followed a red deer through the woods, he explained to Ben that the world's natural order consists of prey and predator relationships. That to catch their prey successfully, predators must use techniques of stalking and capture.
“But we don’t have to kill anymore to survive,” Ben said. He’d been hesitant to join the trip, believing that he didn't have the heart for hunting, but that wasn’t the problem. His fondness for it was the issue.
A mixture of disappointment and pity coated his father's face as he leveled him with a steely glare. “Natural predation will always be a component of the world's balance.”
The touch of cold hands on Ben's face brings him back to reality. “Is everything alright?” Charlie asks.
Ben's spine liquefies at the contact. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Charlie doesn’t seem to believe him as he pulls away, but that isn’t unusual. “Now help me fill these in,” he says, gesturing to the blossoms.
Once he has explained the instructions to Charlie, the work goes quickly. He lets Charlie chat away with him about his classes, the professors he hates and the ones he loves. Ben is mindful of every word he says, every nuance of his voice when discussing other students or the song he's been listening to on repeat.
Ben believes that regularly showing empathy towards others is like exercising a muscle, a concept that others don’t seem to understand. Ben had tried to express his affection by throwing Charlie on the couch, biting his stomach, and scratching his back until Charlie couldn't take it anymore, but Charlie still finds flaws in how Ben shows he cared. Ben's actions are constantly lost in translation, as if he speaks another language.
It’s one reason Ben invited Charlie over to his flat to teach him how to cook one of his favorite meals.
“Did your family eat this often?” Charlie asks.
Ben shakes his head. “Mostly holidays or family get-togethers. It’s time-consuming and you can’t find the blossoms year round.” He places a stuffed zucchini in the pan. “It’s meant for special occasions when you want to impress someone.”
Charlie pretends to swoon and clutches his heart. “Oh, Benjamin, are you saying that this is a special occasion?”
“Not even close,” Ben laughs. “And don’t call me Benjamin.”
“Whatever you say,” Charlie says, smiling. Ben watches him prepare his last blossom. While he still has a lanky build, he now sports a solid layer of muscle thanks to playing rugby in high school.
Ben had been caught off guard when he’d hugged Charlie and felt his toned abs and massive thighs, which were concealed under his oversized jumpers and cargo shorts. On the first night Charlie spent over, Ben couldn't stop touching him. It had been like Ben had pulled him out of his fantasies, and he couldn’t stop digging his fingers into his muscles, tendons, and bones. Until he reached the essence of what made Charlie himself. Ben had pictured himself closing his fist around that essence, finally gaining insight into the individual who had tormented him for years.
Sometimes Ben doesn’t know if his body can tell the difference between desire and anger.
“Mmm, it actually looks edible,” Charlie says once they’ve finished filling the pan.
Ben scoffs. “It will be edible, you knob,” he says, grabbing the pan. “Open the oven, will you?”
“How long will it take to cook?” Charlie asks as Ben sets the oven timer.
“An hour and a half,” Ben says. He wipes his hands on the tea towel and eyes Charlie. “My flatmates won’t be home until tonight if you want to finish these crackers.”
Charlie looks at the kitchen island with disinterest. “I think I’ve had my fill.”
Ben nods his head slowly. “Then what should we do to pass the time?” They both know what’s going to happen, but it has to be Charlie’s idea.
Charlie fidgets, not responding. A mixture of distress and decaying flowers fills the kitchen.
Ben could make this easy on him. The option is available for him to grab Charlie, push him against the kitchen counter, and let him be upset afterwards.
But that isn’t them anymore.
“There’s always the telly,” Ben offers.
“Sounds boring,” Charlie says. “What if we fall asleep and the food burns and us with it?” His eyes roam everywhere but at Ben.
“Mmm, so watching the telly is out.” Ben nods. All he has to do is provide the trap, but Charlie is the one who has to fall into it. “We could doom scroll on our phones?”
Charlie laughs, and Ben hates how happy it makes him. Things would be so much easier if they’d never met, if Ben was stronger, better. More determined to resist.
“There are less depressing ways to pass the time,” Charlie says, fluttering his lashes. His flirting hasn’t gotten any less awkward, but Ben is nevertheless captivated by how vulnerable it makes him. Like a doe in a sunlit forest clearing, Charlie draws nearer, his steps unsteady but full of curiosity.
“Are there?” Ben asks, licking his lips. The idea of having Charlie underneath him, peaceful and cooperative, builds anticipation in the atmosphere.
“There are,” Charlie says. His readiness is marked by trembling hands as he places them on Ben's shoulders, uncertain but determined. He arches his neck to peer up at Ben. “I could show you, if that’s something you want?”
As Ben stares at Charlie's carotid artery, he considers squeezing his neck until he falls into a state of blissful dreams, drooling in Ben's grasp. It's what nightmares are made of. He knows it's not right, but he can't help but question if Nick had ever considered Charlie in that way. Charlie is such beautiful prey. How could anyone not see it?
He can’t wait any longer. Without touching, tasting, or feeling, he might cause harm to something or someone. Ben tugs Charlie closer to him, chest to chest, and buries his face in Charlie's neck. As he breathes in the scent of Charlie, his body quivers. Despite knowing he should have asked permission, Ben has been well-behaved lately. Charlie’s back is ramrod straight in Ben’s hold and he again can’t help but compare this to the way Nick would touch Charlie.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Charlie whispers. He strokes Ben's neck, calming him even more. At last, he appears to have melted into Ben's grasp.
Ben questions if he's manipulating Charlie. Is it impossible to stop constantly checking and reaffirming the authenticity of your relationship if you want comfort from the person you used to mistreat?
To be honest, Ben is sick of himself. At times, self-improvement can feel tedious.
‘Blood, teeth, pelt.’ Ben silently chants. ‘Blood, teeth, pelt.’ The mantra helps him regain control, if only for a moment.
He lifts his head up from Charlie's shoulders, but still holds onto him. “Let’s go kill some time together,” Ben says, heading for his bedroom.
Charlie mercifully follows after him.