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“If any of you gentlemen have ever pined for a thing and longed for it during twenty long years and then suddenly found it within reach, then you will understand my feelings.” —Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet
Boston, 1980
Matt meets Ben—kind of—when he’s ten years old. On pretty summer days, Matt rides around the neighborhood on his bike, playing cards that his dad wove through the spokes fluttering in the wind. He rides up and down their street, around the cul-de-sac on a cross street. Sometimes he’ll take a different cross street and make three rights until he’s back on the other side of his house. He’s younger than most of the kids in his neighborhood, so Matt usually rides around alone. It’s good, refreshing—gives him time to think. He likes it.
Today is different. When Matt glides down the hill his house rests on, he almost plows over a kid chasing something that looks like the yoga ball Matt’s mom keeps in the basement. The boy is lanky, Matt’s age or maybe younger, with a mess of dark hair. Matt swerves to miss him but ends up skidding out on someone’s lawn, landing hard on his right shoulder.
“Motherf—”
The pain’s so sharp that Matt can’t think straight, much less be embarrassed that he just wiped out. Immediately, his whole body breaks out in a sweat that makes him shiver.
Before he can even try to get up, the boy—the reason Matt’s lying here in the first place— is standing over him.
“Hey, are you okay?” he says at the same time the door to whoever’s house they’re at opens.
“Benjamin!” someone calls from the doorway. Matt’s vision and thought processes aren’t the best right now, but he’s pretty sure the kid looked up, so maybe his name is Benjamin? And mom. Or some woman? Who is… mad? Which makes this his house. Matt throws up in the yard.
“Mom, I think he’s hurt,” the boy—Benjamin, Matt hazily remembers—calls towards the house.
Matt feels Benjamin’s mom approach them, manicured lawn reverberating with her hurried steps, before he can see her. “Oh, honey,” she says, crowding into Matt’s vision. Matt’s conscious (not a hundred percent coherent, mind, but conscious) so she tilts his face side to side and asks, “Okay, what hurts? Can you stand?” Before Matt can answer, she’s motioning for Benjamin to go to Matt’s other side.
“Shoulder hurts,” Matt says as Benjamin and his mom begin to gently hoist him up, Benjamin by Matt’s good arm and his mom by his waist, keeping pressure off his injured shoulder. He’s clammy all over but doesn’t care.
“Okay, honey,” Benjamin’s mom says when Matt stands. “You live here?”
Matt nods, hoping he’s not going to be sick again. They’re barely three doors down from his house; he can make it. He points to the top of the hill. “There.”
Benjamin’s mom exhales, relieved. “Your parents are at home?”
“Yeah,” Matt says. As much as he wants to cry, every time his body prepares to let out a sob, the motion in his shoulders sends a shock of pain through the entire right side of his body. It’s like cold water, or a slap in the face. It halts all other bodily functions, so all Matt can do is breathe through the pain.
He’s near-delirious with it.
“Can you walk?” Benjamin’s mom asks. It sounds like she’s underwater, or he’s underwater, or they’re both underwater and Matt’s right arm has been taken off by a shark. It’s his arm, not his leg. Matt can walk, so he nods.
Matt has lost track of the boy; he’s still here, presumably, but out of sight. Not talking. Bye-bye. Then Matt stumbles, his foot catching where the lawn turns into pavement.
Benjamin’s mom positions herself on his good side, letting him lean against her as they walk. Still, when Matt trips, Benjamin appears on the other side of him almost immediately. He places a hand on Matt’s chest to keep him from falling forwards and though the movement jostles his shoulder a bit, he’s grateful.
Benjamin sticks close to him for the rest of the walk to Matt’s house. It should take a minute, but at the pace Matt’s going, it’s taking about five times longer.
“What’s your name, honey?” Benjamin’s mom asks.
“Matt,” he eeks out, still shivering.
“Well hello Matt,” she says, obviously trying to get his mind off the pain. He’s not sure that’s possible, but Matt appreciates the effort.
“I’m Ben,” the boy beside him says. He gives Matt a shy smile.
Matt’s mom is at the door as soon as they knock. She’s wearing her cooking apron, and for a second Matt doesn’t think about the pain, just wonders what they’re having for dinner.
“Okay baby, I think this is an ER trip,” Matt’s mom says when Ben’s mom explains the situation. Inside, Matt’s house smells like bread. Maybe she’s baking?
“Do you need anything? Anything we can do?” Ben’s mom asks helpfully. Ben is standing behind her, but he keeps curiously looking over at Matt.
“No, but thank you for getting him here.” Matt’s mom is curt but not rude, probably just worried. The pain in his shoulder is duller now. His mom yells for his dad from the front door. “Kent, get the keys!”
Before leaving, Ben’s mom takes his hand. “We’re the blue house down the hill. I’m Chris and this is Ben,” Ben’s mom says. “Come knock if we can help.”
“Thank you,” Matt’s mom replies, shooting the other woman a grateful smile. Matt looks at Ben, mimicking his mother’s face. “I’m Nancy. Thank you again.” They leave with an awkward wave. The next thing Matt knows, he’s laid out in the backseat of his parents’ Honda as his dad speeds down the street. Matt watches out the window as they pass Ben’s house, skid marks still in the yard with his bike now propped up on the front porch. Safekeeping.
Matt meets Ben formally the next day.
Matt’s wipe-out didn’t break anything luckily, but it did cause a nasty sprain. He’s going to be wearing a dorky sling for at least a week, unable to do anything except read and watch TV. And he hates reading.
The doorbell wakes Matt up from where he’s dozing on the couch during yet another rerun of M*A*S*H. Usually it’s Matt’s job to get the door, but there’s a blanket over him and he’s too tired to move. Thankfully, his mom answers instead with a, “Oh, hello!”
“Sorry for dropping in unannounced, but I just wanted to see how Matt is doing,” he hears a familiar voice say from the front door. Ben’s mom. “And to bring you this.”
Matt can’t see them, but he hears his mother say, “This is so sweet, thank you. Chris, right? And Ben, hello!” At this point, Matt sits up on the couch so he can see down the hall. His mom has a casserole dish in her hands. “Come in, please.”
Matt waves from the couch with his good arm. “Just a sprained shoulder, thank God,” his mom says. “I appreciate you checking in.”
Their voices fade as the women walk into the kitchen. Matt assumes Ben will follow them until the boy plops down into the armchair beside him.
“How do you feel?” he asks after a second.
“Shoulder hurts. They gave me some meds though, so not too bad.” Matt’s still a little annoyed that the only reason he got hurt in the first place is because this kid was playing in the road, but whatever. Maybe he’s cool.
“Sorry you had to swerve,” Ben says, which is enough of an apology for Matt.
“‘s okay. You bring the bike back?”
“Yeah, it’s on your porch. It’s cool.”
“Thanks,” Matt says, playing with the fringe on his blanket as they slip into silence.
Then, Ben sticks out his hand. His left hand. Matt wonders if the kid has never shook hands before or if he’s just really smart and knows Matt can’t shake with his right. Ben smiles at him with crooked teeth, making his whole face light up. “I’m Ben.”
Matt reaches out, awkwardly shaking Ben’s hand. “I know,” he says. “I’m Matt.”
“I know,” Ben replies. They pull their hands away, and Matt smiles back.
“Do you like M*A*S*H?”
Ben nods. It’s easy, like riding his bike down an empty road.
Boston, 1987
Matt’s third favorite thing is Boston in the fall, right behind the McDonald’s near their high school, where the drive-thru workers know his order by heart.
It’s so beautiful this time of year. Between the changing leaves and the way October wind makes the Charles River slosh against the barriers when he and Ben walk through the Esplanade—he’s a goner for Boston. It’s why Matt hasn’t even considered colleges that aren’t either in the city itself or a quick drive away. He’s really hoping for Harvard: just a hop, skip, and a jump away from his three favorite things in the world.
That said—Boston in the fall is cold. Boston in the fall is cold especially at night. Which is exactly when Ben has the brilliant idea to sneak onto Matt’s roof.
“You couldn’t have suggested this in the summer?” Matt asks him. They’re lazing on Matt’s bed, just talking. It’s 11 at night and they’re supposed to be in bed—not that a bedtime really works when it comes to them two. They sleep at each other’s houses almost every weekend, cycling back and forth like children of divorce. Their parents find it hilarious.
“I didn’t think about it in the summer. Besides, it was so clear today. Don’t you want to see the stars?” He says the last bit in a sing-song voice, which Matt pretends to hate.
“Okay,” Matt relents. Ben whisper-whoops. “We’re bundling the fuck up, though.”
Fifteen minutes and a lot of layers later, Matt and Ben carefully maneuver over to the part of the roof that’s level with Matt’s second story room.
“If I freeze my ass off,” Matt says when they get settled on a blanket and under another. “You’re gluing it back on.”
Ben chortles. “What ass?”
Matt shoves him, then realizes where they are and where exactly Ben might land if Matt shoves him the wrong way. He wraps a hand around Ben’s arm instead, pulls him closer. They stay like that for a beat, neither speaking. Matt holding Ben as a reflex turns into Matt holding Ben because… Well, it just feels right.
And besides, Ben doesn’t seem to mind. He settles his head in the crook of Matt’s neck. They’ve always been a little tactile with each other, but this is different. Matt doesn’t really know how, and he’s sure as shit not going to say anything, but it’s different. It makes him feel warm despite the crisp air.
Hesitantly, slow enough that he could hopefully pass it off as stretching, if necessary—Matt wraps his other arm around Ben’s waist. Ben—incandescent Ben, hair shaggy from a few too many weeks without a cut, Ben who is Matt’s most favorite thing—Ben scoots closer.
The silence between them is comfortable, as it usually is. There’s a lot of unspoken understanding between them, and Matt guesses this situation is no different. They’re basically cuddling, not that Matt’s ever gonna use that word, but somehow, it isn’t weird. It’s just them.
Ben breaks the silence first. “Gonna be stupid bored next year.”
It’d be vague to anyone else. “Nah, I bet you’ll replace me by week two.”
Matt’s attempt at levity falls flat. Ben remains silent for a moment but unlike last time time, Matt feels the tension coiled in his body.
“When do you think you’ll replace me?” he asks, head turned up so he’s staring past Ben, at the sky.
“Huh?” Matt asks, because what the fuck. Ben just stays silent, like he’d never spoken at all. For the first time, Matt’s having trouble reading him.
When it becomes apparent that Ben is not going to answer him, Matt pulls away and forces the other boy look at him.
Ben’s doing his damndest to avoid his eyes, but Matt’s not having it. He grabs Ben’s chin. It’s a little rough, but he wants to make this point. “You asshole,” Matt says, and finally Ben looks at him. Matt doesn’t really know why he’s mad, only that Ben’s question made something flare in him. “You want me to replace you?”
Ben’s eyes are wide. His arms are limp. Finally, he speaks.
“Please don’t.”
Matt’s breath catches. They talk about deep stuff sometimes, sure, but the raw vulnerability in Ben’s voice dizzies him. The least Matt can do is be vulnerable back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
When they’re inside and actually, finally getting ready for bed, neither boy says anything. Something strange and untouchable blooms in Matt’s chest when Ben looks at him before turning out the lights and Matt just knows.
They keep the sofa bed in Matt’s room, but Ben never sleeps on it again.
Hollywood, 1998
When Matt and Ben get back to their hotel room, the air is electric with victory. They try to say something and it comes out gibberish. Because, like, what the fuck. Matt and Ben just—what the fuck. Applause still echos in Matt’s ears, making the room spin. He’s drunk with excitement and barely able to process.
The award feels surreal in his hands, and seeing the matching one in Ben’s hand—what the fuck. It’s a testament to their work, to their talent—to the unbreakable bond they’ve shared since childhood. Matt would have never, in a million years, made it here without Ben.
“Can you, like, actually believe it?” Ben finally says, his voice a mix of wonder and disbelief. He’s staring at Matt like he’s the sun, the moon, all the stars in the sky. You are, Matt thinks inanely. “Matty. You did it.”
It shocks Matt enough to speak. “We did it, you idiot. Come here.” If it’s possible, Ben smiles wider. He lunges at Matt, jumping right into his open arms.
“WE DID IT!” Ben yells, and Matt wonders if anyone told the hotel there’s two Oscar winners (?!!!) celebrating on floor 23. If someone complains about noise, Matt’ll knock ‘em with the little gold guy. He’s heavier than he looks.
Ben is also heavier than he looks, which is why Matt falls over onto one of the beds, letting Ben fall on top of him. They’re still in their suits, in their shoes, but they’re laughing deliriously and Matt would happily spend all night here, just like this, if Ben didn’t want to move.
When their laughter dies down, Ben raises up on his hands to look at Matt’s face. He’s got a leg on either side of Matt’s thighs and it should be weird, Matt thinks, if it was anyone but them.
“All those fucking late nights, the arguments and rewrites…” Ben says. “It was worth it, huh?”
Matt nodded, smiling, his eyes never leaving Ben’s. “I couldn’t have done it without you, man. I hope you know that.”
Ben noses at Matt’s temple before pressing down with his lips. One of Ben’s go-to funnies for Matt is bestowing him with loud smooches when Ben wants to get a rise out of him. But this isn’t that—Matt’s sure of it. Not only is it a silent kiss, but Ben’s lips linger at Matt’s hairline, like he’s trying to decide something. Suddenly he pulls back, checks for something in Matt’s eyes. Whatever Ben finds, it relaxes him. He smiles—shy like the first day they met, and yes Matt can still picture him at the bottom of that hill—and kisses Matt’s other temple in the same quiet, gentle way. Then his eyelids. The goddamn tip of his nose.
Something’s happening, something new. Ben is above him, kissing him, possibly about to actually kiss him. Matt is surprised to discover that really, he’s not surprised at all. If he really thinks about it—maybe it was inevitable.
“Matty,” Ben says, almost reverently. Matt’s hands, previously at Ben’s waist, reach up to caress his neck.
“Yeah, Ben.”
Like a fucking movie script (and they would know), a knock interrupts whatever was-or-wasn’t about to happen. It’s some lady someone hired for them, Matt doesn’t know. Through the door she tells them it’s time for interviews and photos. Good thing they kept their shoes on, Matt guesses.
When they get downstairs, the ballroom is a whirlwind of congratulations, champagne toasts, and flashing cameras. Matt and Ben navigate it with only a little discomfort, mostly on Matt’s side. But Ben sticks close, visiting journalists and posing for pictures.
Tonight has changed everything for them, and back in the hotel room, they stopped just shy of changing even more. As with this dreaded afterparty, Matt’s taking Ben’s lead. Whatever Ben wants to do, Matt will do it gladly. If he wants to do nothing, Matt won’t either.
When the party dies down and they can slip out, they wander to a balcony overlooking the city. The cool night air is a relief from the heat and noise inside. Below them, the streets of Los Angeles glow gold and red.
“Remember when we used to dream about this?” Ben says quietly.
Matt nods, his eyes fixed on the skyline. “Yep. Always seemed so far away, out of reach.”
“No,” Ben says, looking at Matt. “I always knew you were gonna do something incredible.”
The earnestness in Ben’s voice makes Matt weak in the knees. “Well, here we both are,” Matt says. “We did something incredible.”
Silence blankets them. Matt feels a million emotions bursting inside him: pride, gratitude—something deeper that he had long kept buried. The night had a way of stripping away pretenses, leaving only the raw truth. Ben felt it earlier, and Matt feels it now.
“Let’s go back to the room,” Ben says, nudging Matt’s shoulder. “I’m fucking tired.”
If Matt thinks about them holding hands on the way down the hall, thinks about Ben closing the door behind them and easing Matt against it—strong arms caging him, warm breath on his neck, the barest brush of lips against his—
He’s an actor. No one, not even Ben, has to know.
New York, 2001
When Matt and Ben agree to appear on Late Night with Conan O’Brien, Matt expects Conan to ask them about Hunting, about the upcoming Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, which he does. What he didn’t expect—though probably should have—is Conan asking them about them.
“So, you guys have been friends since, what, middle school?”
They both laugh. Ben is sitting closest to Conan’s desk, so he answers first. “Elementary school, actually. I was eight when I met Matt.” A chorus of awwws from the audience washes over the room. He turns to the man beside him. “You were, what, ten?” Ben knows the answer, but it’s a good segue to Matt.
“Yeah, and I almost killed you because you were playing in the middle of the road.” A beat. Matt turns back to address Conan. “Which led to Ben almost killing me.” Laughter erupts from the studio.
“Okay, you have to tell us more,” Conan says from his desk. Ben knocks Matt with his shoulder affectionately. Matt warms.
“So I was riding my bike, right, and Ben’s house was right down the hill from mine. I’m gliding down the street and see this kid, and I’m about to just plow right over him, right, so I swerve.” Matt can practically feel Ben’s body tighten, trying not to crack up. Of all the times they have shared this story, it’s never been on live TV. “Luckily I missed him, but I just completely wiped out in his yard because of it. Sprained my right shoulder real good. All ‘cause this dude was chasing a ball.”
“Buuuut,” Ben retorts. “Who was the first one to come to your aid?”
Another awww.
“This is incredible. Not about you dying, of course, that’s horrible.” Laughter. “But you’ve been friends since then?”
Ben looks over at Matt. “Near ‘bout inseparable, huh?” They smile at each other. If Conan catches it, he doesn’t comment.
“Yeah, Ben came to my house the next day to drop off my bike. When I finally got out of the sling, we rode around the neighborhood together almost every day.”
“Tell us, how have you managed to keep such a strong bond throughout the years? What’s your secret?”
Ben’s quicker on his feet than Matt, who’s kind of still wondering that. “Lots of patience. Even more quarter pounders.” Everyone laughs. It’s the perfect thing to say, so Matt lets it sit.
“A fine establishment indeed! Was that your go-to?”
“Yeah, I think we had McD’s at least three times a week.” He turns towards Matt. “Remember that time you made us drive all the way back after we got home because you realized they forgot your cheese?”
“Of course. They forgot the most important ingredient. I’d do it again!”
Conan looks starstruck, even though technically, he’s the bigger star. But good banter means good ratings, so Matt chalks it up to that.
“You guys clearly have a lot of fun together,” Conan says, not ready to shift the conversation. “But tell me, with such a close friendship, has there ever been any...you know, awkward moments?”
Matt smirks. “Well, there was one time at an Oscar after-party…”
Ben cuts in immediately. “Nope, we don’t talk about that night. Too many embarrassing dance moves were involved.” Matt bumps Ben’s shoulder with his own, knowing. Ben leans towards Conan’s desk, mock-whispering. “What we can talk about is Matt’s obsession with late-night karaoke sessions. He has a surprisingly good falsetto.”
Matt throws his hands up in pretend embarrassment. “Another thing we agreed to never mention!” Ben pinches his cheek, smiling.
“I still have a recording of you singing ‘No Scrubs’ as my ringtone, you know.”
“Hold on, you recorded that?”
Cue the awwws.
“Lots of history between you boys, huh?”
Ben shines at interviews. Once Ben grew into his once-lanky body, his shyness has all but disappeared. Matt hasn’t been quite that lucky, which is why he’s more than happy for Ben to lead here. “We’ve been through a lot together. It’s those shared experiences that make our bond what it is.”
“Well, whatever it is, it’s working. You two have a dynamic that’s rare to see. Thanks for sharing a bit of your world with us tonight.”
Matt and Ben smile at each other before turning towards their host. “Thanks for having us, Conan,” Ben says.
“You may have learned one too many secrets, but yeah, this was really fun.” Matt’s a little surprised that he means it, but not really—Ben is here, after all.
Conan turns to the audience. “Give it up one more time for Ben Affleck and Matt Damon!”
When the show cuts to commercial, Ben and Matt retire to the dressing room backstage.
“‘Lots of patience,’ huh? Must be tiring,” Matt says with a smile. Ben wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in. As usual when Ben touches him, warmth floods Matt’s body. Idly, he wonders if Ben body reacts to his in the same way.
“It’s you,” he replies simply. Ben plants an exaggerated smooch against Matt’s temple, an affectionate gesture he defaults to when they’re alone. “So no, not at all.”
Los Angeles, 2002
When he gets a break from filming, Matt goes to visit Ben.
He’s dating some actress/singer/something now. Matt’s heard of her, met her even, but he doesn’t really get who she is or what she does. Only that Ben met her a few months after their Conan interview. Only that every time they talk on the phone—so almost every day—Ben mentions her at least once.
Matt steps off the plane and immediately remembers why he’s never moved out here.
Fuck, LA is hot. It’s March; it’s probably going to snow this week in Boston. Matt’s heart clenches, aches, for home—for a lot of things these days, but mostly for home.
When Ben picks him up from the airport, it’s like the old days. They fall into the same rhythm they’ve always fallen into, swapping off-handed insults neither of them mean and reverting to the touchy-feely nature they had before making it big. Ben doesn’t mention his shiny new girlfriend once.
“So I was thinking,” Ben says when they’re almost at his complex. He seems a little hesitant. “Casey’s having a little shin-dig tonight. Maybe… we should go?”
Ah, so Ben’s hesitant because he knows Matt. Since they were teens, he’s known Matt inside and out—literally. Look close and you’ll see matching scars on their left palms, a drunken oath established the night before Ben moved to LA to never leave each other behind. Even their blood has touched.
Ben knows Matt, which means he knows Matt hates parties.
“Ben.” They’re sitting at a stoplight two miles away from Ben’s place. He did this now, Matt thinks, so he can’t walk just away.
“Look, I know, okay.” As usual, Ben’s read his mind. “I know you. But I also know that some Oceans people are gonna be there, so it’s not like you won’t have anyone to talk to. And me! We can stick together. Or if it blows, we’ll just show Casey our mugs and leave. Please?”
Matt’s a goner when Ben brings out the p word. Ben knows this, of course.
One mile to go.
“Why can’t I just stay at your place?”
“Oh come on, you can’t just come to LA to eat pizza and watch pay-per-view porn on my couch.”
Matt doesn’t take the bait. When the heckling approach doesn’t work, Ben pivots. “You’re really gonna make me go by myself, Matty?”
And damn, Matt’s also a goner when Ben uses his childhood nickname. No one calls him that anymore except Ben. It’s become special, sacred.
Sometimes he hates how well they know each other.
“Why don’t you take Jen?” Matt has to about gag out her name. Ben, thank fuck, doesn’t notice.
He doesn’t answer, either, at least not immediately. Instead, he just turns into the lot for his complex and parks. “Broke it off with her last week,” he says. He looks distant—maybe nervous? But not sad, not heartbroken. Just… away.
Matt’s acting chops have gotten him this far, so he leans on them. “Shit, man. I’m sorry.” He hopes it’s believable.
“No you’re not,” Ben says, and Matt’s face flushes with embarrassment. “But I’m not either, so it’s okay.” He turns off the car and opens his door. Matt follows his lead but isn’t about to let the conversation end there.
“What happened?” he asks as they make their way up the stairwell to Ben’s apartment. It’s much nicer than the one they shared while writing Hunting, and a wave of nostalgic grief pierces Matt like an icepick.
“Different values, not compatible, blah blah blah,” Ben says as he unlocks the door, leading them inside. “It doesn’t matter, okay?”
“Well are you, like, okay?”
Ben throws his keys on the counter at the same time Matt throws his bag onto the couch. In sync, still.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Ben says, and Matt believes him. “I broke up with her, so maybe you should ask Jen.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Jen,” Matt says before he can stop himself. He rights himself: “I thought you liked her? What the hell happened?”
Ben plops down on the couch beside Matt’s bag and throws his head back. Objectively, the couch should not be big enough for two men and a duffle. But in the stillness of Ben’s empty apartment, even if they were forced to occupy the same physical space, Matt thinks neither of them would mind. He takes a seat, his thigh touching Ben’s.
“I already told you.”
“No, you said ‘blah blah blah.’ That gives me nothing.”
Ben throws his arm across the back of the couch, turning towards Matt. “It’s really not important.”
Matt knows Ben just as well as Ben knows Matt. Without a shred of doubt, he asks, “What aren’t you telling me?”
For a second, Matt thinks that maybe, for the first time in their friendship, he’s overstepped. But Ben just sighs, closing his eyes.
“It was about you, okay?”
Matt halts. His concern fades, confusion overtaking it. “Huh?”
“Yeah,” Ben says, opening his eyes to look at Matt. “She wanted to come over tonight. I reminded her that I was picking you up, that you were literally staying here for a week at least, and I’d have to see her later. She didn’t like that, so I ended it.”
Matt’s still puzzled. “Didn’t like that?”
“Didn’t like that,” Ben repeats—which wow, way to be helpful.
Matt makes a frustrated noise. “We act like we can read each other’s minds, man, but we can’t. Why’d you break up with her over that?”
Ben fiddles with his hands, squeezing his thumbs inside fists like Matt knows he does when he’s itching for a drink. On impulse, Matt unfurls his hands and holds them instead. It seems to calm him down. Matt thinks, with more than a little pride, it always does.
“She gave me an ultimatum,” Ben says. “Her or you.”
The statement hangs in the air for a few seconds. Matt’s not sure how he’s supposed to respond—a part of him wants to apologize, but Ben would see right through that. Another part of him wants to cradle Ben’s face in his hands and whisper, I’d choose you too. Because he would, every time. He’s Matt’s favorite thing in the world.
Instead, Matt grins and gives Ben a pat on the cheek. He’s always been good at self control. And when he states, “You’re helping me pick out an outfit for tonight,” a smile widens across Ben’s face.
It’s not Boston, but it still feels like home.
Matt ends up wearing an old Dave Matthews Band t-shirt that he bought Ben as a joke one time.
“See, it’s come back to haunt you.”
Ben wears a dark green shirt and light wash jeans. Before they leave, Matt tousles his hair. “Just be glad I’m not trying to use that gel shit everyone’s on right now.”
“Your career is too promising for a death wish, so I don’t think I need to be worried.”
It’s a 20 minute drive to Casey’s, but it takes them another ten to find a place to park. Finally, they secure a spot a couple blocks away that only costs an arm at the meter, leg intact.
Casey’s eclectic yet cozy home was a far cry from the glitzy Hollywood events Matt and Ben were used to attending, both together and alone. He’d gotten better the past couple years, but Ben still grounded him, even at casual stuff like this. Nestled in a quiet neighborhood in the Hills, the house was filled with warm, inviting light and the hum of conversation. Someone was… grilling, it smelled like? God, Matt hadn’t been to a cook out in forever. Maybe he and Ben should have one the next time they’re in Boston.
When Ben had said “shin-dig,” Matt pictured loud music and rivers of liquor. Instead, when they make their way to the backyard, they’re greeted with some indie mix on a boombox and—yep, those are definitely hot dogs. That’s definitely Casey Affleck in an apron, grilling hot dogs in LA. There’s 20, maybe 30 people here with more than enough space. Matt’s surprised and charmed by it all.
“Big brooooo!” Casey calls when he sees Ben. The brothers hug, and Casey moves to Matt. “Glad you came, buddy! Dogs’ll be done in a few.”
Ben claps Casey on the back before pointing to an unlit firepit near the far fence, not isolated but not in the middle of the action—just like Matt likes it. Just like Ben knows.
“You should have told me this was gonna be a high school kickback,” Matt says when they sit down on a couple of chairs. “Would have agreed a lot sooner.”
“I genuinely had no idea. Pleasantly surprised, though. I’d rather hang out with you than schmooze anyway.”
“Feels like we’re our old selves for a change.”
At this, Ben looks over at Matt. There’s something in his expression that Matt can’t quite place. It’s familiar, though. Not familiar visually—but the fondness in Ben’s eyes, the something—Matt knows that look. When Ben’s around, he lives in that look.
And now that look is looking back.
“Dooooogs! Get your dogs!”
Casey’s exclamation incurs a round of cheering from attendees far closer to the grill than them. Matt quirks an eyebrow at Ben, who shrugs. “We’ll pick up Indian on the way home.” Matt pumps his fist in silent victory.
After the hot dogs have been served and Casey’s finally sat down to eat, Ben claps him on the shoulder on their way out.
“Thanks for the kickback, Case,” Ben says.
Matt claps his other shoulder. “This was chill, man. Next time I’m in town, I request burgers.”
The three of them laugh, and Matt and Ben leave through the side gate. “Love you guys!” Matt hears Casey yell at them from over the fence. Ben snickers.
“Sappy motherfucker. I’ll text him later.”
While Ben drives, Matt calls in an order at an Indian place they pass on the way back to the apartment. Once the takeout is secured, they take it upstairs and collapse on Ben’s couch. No one’s moved the duffle bag, so they’re touching again. Matt feels on fire.
The duffle remains on the couch until they finish eating. Then, Matt shoves it off with his foot so he can stretch out longways with his head in Ben’s lap. Ben plays with his hair, toying at the strands. The Dave Matthews Band shirt is probably two sizes too big for him, but Matt’s starting to wonder if maybe Ben just wanted to see Matt in his clothes. Not that Matt would mind, but he wishes Ben would come out and say it.
He wishes Ben would come out and say anything, really.
“I’m totally in love with you, Matty.”
Motherfucker, Matt needs to stop wishing things around Ben, since apparently that dickhead can read his goddamn mind. How did he know—
Oh. Wait.
It takes him a second, but Matt finally processes what Ben just said. Which is good, because Ben’s fingers have stopped carding through his hair and he’s now staring at Matt like he’s terrified, like he’s certain he just fucked up righteously.
He’s gonna shut down. If Matt doesn’t do something, Ben is going to shut down completely and never speak of this with him again. And over Matt’s dead body will they go back to ignoring what he now suspects they have both been ignoring for years.
With his head still in Ben’s lap, trying to look him in the face is awkward, and Matt’s neck is already getting strained. But then their lips finally meet and every other thought is pushed out of Matt’s head except for Ben’s name.
The crisis comes right after Matt pulls away. Here is his friend—his best friend—whom he’s probably been pining for since the beginning of time, and Matt just kissed him. Kissed him.
The worst part, Matt thinks, is that Ben is mirroring his panicked look. In a moment of pure bravery, reassuring Ben as much as he’s reassuring himself, Matt sits up and leans over Ben, crowding his space, framing Ben’s face with his hands.
Matt kisses him again, deep and languid, and Ben makes a small whimpering noise. They keep at this, over and over—countless, insistent presses of lips, each meeting the other like they had been waiting their entire lives.
And Matt thinks, Well.
Vaguely aware he’s speaking between kisses, Matt hears himself say, “God, Ben, you don’t know,” and Ben’s reply: “I do, I do.”
When they come up for air, Matt asks, before he can stop himself, “Me?” Ben pulls back, face lit by the incandescents around them, his lips swollen.
His answer comes immediately. “Always been you.”
“All these years?” Matt asks. Ben smiles softly.
“Yep. Every fucking one.”
The next morning when Matt wakes up, Ben is curled around his back like a question mark.
Matt has no idea what time it is, only that it’s too early and he’s too comfortable to get up. He snuggles back into Ben, who’s still sleeping. With every inhale-exhale cycle Matt feels against his back, his brain thinks finally, finally—and it was so easy. So easy to kiss Ben, touch Ben, go to sleep with Ben, wake up tucked inside Ben like the most precious jewel. Easy, like riding his bike down the hill that led him here.
Matt imagines waking up exactly so for the rest of his life. No matter where he is, he’ll be home.