Chapter Text
“seems like somebody got lonely, huh?” ben asked, accent just as heavy as ever as you plopped your head right into his lap. you two had argued not too long ago which you ended with an angry “leave me alone! i never want to see you again!” which is ironic to say the least given your current actions. your legs curl up toward your chest as he places a warm, comforting hand atop your head. “shut up,” you grumble, replaying the prior argument in your mind, refusing to back down from the idea of always being right — even if you act a bit dramatic while trying to get your point across.
“you know, there’s no shame in apologizing.” ben says in a quite deadpan manner. “and why would i do that?
“ you snap back, refusing to admit how nice it feels to have your head lightly caressed. “‘cause apologies sorta..” he searches for the right words, dull blue eyes drifting upward. “it helps.”
“well i’m not doing it.”
“alright, then.”
the day onwards is… quite dull to say the least, everything is the same besides the tension between you two, of course you argue occasionally but this time it’s harder to let go and make up somehow.
you’re in the kitchen, looking through your countless cabinets to figure out what to make for dinner. wooden doors gently slam as you hastily close each just as fast as you opened them; your brainstorming isn’t working.
you hear the familiar sound of footsteps behind you, causing your body to tense, your shoulders lifting slightly before dropping. you ignore it. it’s obvious how frustrated you are at your sheer lack of creativity when it comes to cooking— makes you wonder how exactly the contestants on cooking tv shows manage with outlandish ingredients, you can’t even deal with the basics.
“having trouble?”
you ignore him, trying your best to look like you know what you’re doing.
you definitely don’t need help from the likes of him. (even though he’s the one who taught you how to properly hold a knife.) you don’t need him at all, in-fact. (you’re living in his apartment.)
he walks toward one of the cabinets you had forgotten to close, you tell yourself, “he’s dumb, he couldn’t possibly come up with anything. definitely nothing better than i could do, it’s not my fault that he doesn’t keep any useful ingredients around here.”
you’re lost in your head, still incredibly bitter over earlier, while watching him move around the kitchen. of course the opposite of your thoughts is true — he did find something that could be made into a cohesive meal, albeit, it’s mostly herbs.
you watch him silently, but all you can see is his back, so it’s not like you’re learning anything— what are you watching for?
you do feel a little bit bad deep inside, though.
while lost in thought you hear a small hiss, and a quiet “ouch.” before watching ben rush to the sink, turning on the faucet. “god dammit!” he swears, running his hand under cold water.
“jesus,” you scoff, making your way over while trying to not make it obvious that you care just a little bit.
“let me see that,” you command. he complies, putting his wounded hand into your’s.
“how the hell did you manage to do that?!” you ask, looking at the deep gash along the man’s knuckle, he shrugs. “guess my hand-eye coordination isn’t as good as i thought.” he replies, trying to put on a strong face even though it hurts like hell.
now you definitely feel bad for him.
you signal for him to wait before turning around and running toward the bathroom within his bedroom. you haven’t been in here before so you make it quick. searching through his medicine cabinet, you accidentally knock over a few bottles of pills and one bottle of nyquil whilst searching for a first aid kit. you finally find one hidden on the furthest up shelf, grabbing it before dashing to the kitchen with it in hand. you take a look at his hand and it’s still bleeding; he got it pretty deep.
“okay, uh… this will sting but it’s alright, right?” you don’t even wait for his response before signaling for him to kneel on the ground as you crack open the kit.
all you know about this stuff is the dramatized movies you’ve seen.
first you grab a small alcohol pad from the kit, wincing as you open the sterile packaging.
“3…” you begin to count down as you hover it above the gash.
“just do it quickly,” he says, looking anywhere but the injury. “okay… uh…” you’ve always been quite squeamish, and the simple act of cleaning the area is freaking you out.
he holds back a laugh as he watches your expression, as you shakily, gently wipe the area. “sorry.” you stutter, expecting him to be in a hell of a lot of pain, but all he’s doing is staring at you.
you grab a bandage from the kit, a large one.
“use the weird-looking one.” he says, glancing toward the kit. he’s referring to a finger bandage.
“it’ll stay longer.” he continues. what a know-it-all.
you sigh, unwrapping it, but you have no clue how to apply it. “you see those two ends?” he asks, “wrap those around— fuck! too tight!” you fail to hold back a laugh at how it didn’t bother him having alcohol applied to his wound yet winces at you wrapping it too tight. you loosen it a bit. “now what?” you ask him, refusing to look up to meet his eyes.
“the top portion, just fold it down.” and so you do, and you did a lot better than expected.
“listen,” he says quietly. “i’m sorry.” you’re taken aback. did he set you up? was this all on purpose? was this a ploy to get you closer to him? now that you think deeper into it, it’s impossible to cut open your knuckle so deep by mistake. your thoughts are interrupted by the feeling of being pulled closer by your back, and as you look down all you see is his lap.
“c’mon, i don’t wanna fight anymore,” he continues, nuzzling his face into your hair. “it’s hard when you’re mad at me, and when i’m mad at you.” his voice is simontaniously soft and heavy. “let’s just make-up and forget about it all.” he’s near pleading with you as he wraps his arms around you, his face pushed into the top of your head.
you push your pride to the side since, after all it does take two to fight; aswell as it does to end it, and maybe you were a little overly argumentative (but still not wrong.
“you idiot,” you huff, keeping your arms down. “fine- i’m…” the word feels stuck, you never feel the need to say something like this. “i’m sorry, too.” you finally get out.
“i forgive you. now, you say…?” he asks.
“ugh. i forgive you, too, i guess.” you reply under your breath. your stubbornness never seems to waiver.
“good.” he replies , a smile crossing his face as he feels you return the hug. you’re still on the floor of the kitchen — and might be there for a while.