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Ben’s always been a hermit. No surprise in that. Always cooped up in that room of his, painting and drawing ‘til his wrists give out. But Donna can sense something’s wrong. And it’s not just Ben being his usual brooding self. She knows it’s not just that. He looks almost…tired. The kind of tiredness that settles behind your ribs and guts you of any sense of self you once had.
He hasn’t been talking in class. Hasn’t talked to Ricky, or even yelled at him. He just carries himself with this sunken appearance that makes him resemble a zombie at times, which wouldn’t be an inaccurate comparison considering how much he’s been zoning out lately.
Donna can feel it in her “twintuition”, as she calls it, and her nerves are starting to get the best of her lately, causing her to chew her nails down to the cuticle and feel like she’s jumping out of her skin. Brady tried to reassure her that everything will be fine, but he doesn’t know Ben like she does.
She has to talk to her brother. She will .
Ben sits at his desk in his room, staring at an empty canvas with no paints or art supplies laid out next to it at all. He doesn’t even look like he’s thinking about what to fill it up with. He’s just…gone. His bed is unmade, his pillow stained with tears that look recent.
His eyes, now bloodshot from lack of sleep, droop like a crying child. The dark circles under his eyes are becoming more prominent, and he hasn’t even opened his mouth all day. He’s usually quick to snap at Ricky for talking to him during class, or rant about something he hates with a passion at night, which is one of his favorite things to do when Ricky sleeps over.
The wind blows gently through his open window, rustling his chestnut locs. Ben, however, remains unmoving. The blank canvas stares back at him, taunting and hopeless. He stares. Just stares. Like always. Thinking too much, or as it looks to everyone…not at all.
Donna stands outside his bedroom door, trying to hype herself up for what might be one of the most difficult conversations ever. Ben was never one to open up to anyone, so what difference would it make from his own sister? She takes a deep breath, trying to think of positive affirmations in her mind.
It’s okay, at least you’re thinking of him. At least you care!…Right?
She knocks once. Then twice. By the third time, she just opens his door, peering inside to see if he was just sleeping. What she saw was quite the opposite. It looked as if time had stood still in his room, keeping him from moving or speaking.
God, is he even blinking…?
Donna ponders, stepping further in.
“Ben…?”
She calls out, her steps slow and deliberate, as if he were a deer in the road, staring back at headlights. Ben doesn’t move, but he hums once, delayed and dragged out, like he’s being pulled out of one of the deepest trances ever.
“……Hmmmm…”
She shifts her feet side to side, fidgeting with a clip in her hair she’d let Lola put in earlier because it was “so her”. Her throat is dry, a desert of unasked questions and prickly cactuses of worry. Maybe if she clears her throat, he’ll ask her what she wants?
“Ahem…uh…”
For the first time that week, Ben turns around, standing up to face his twin sister. She almost flinches back from the way he looks, dulled and exhausted with the unspoken torture of his usual sparkle ripped from his sole bare. His voice comes out as a rough whisper, eyes darting between her and the doorway.
“What do you need?”
Donna bites the inside of her mouth to suppress her tears, tasting the metal of the blood pooling in her mouth. Her mouth opens, then closes like she had too much to say but couldn’t pick one thing to stick to. Her breath comes out shaking, and her voice drops low, trying to stay as calm as possible.
“Ben…I’m-I’m really worried about you. I just, I just want to know if there’s anything I can do for you…?”
He stares back at her blankly, the silence between them making the tension so thick they seem to drown in it for a moment. He blinks slowly , like he has to think before doing so or else he’ll forget. He’s been looking like that while breathing too. Like if he didn’t do it manually, he’d let himself…-
“I’m…fine. Could you—uhm…could you just close the door on your way out, please.”
That's not him. It's not. That is not my brother.
She nods a mile a minute, her barely-there nails digging into her palms. Donna doesn’t turn her back on him while walking out, only muttering a desperate plea. Her voice cracks under the pressure of her trembling nerves.
“ Please , talk to me when you’re ready, Ben.”
The door closes with a soft click, leaving Ben in the suffocating silence once again. He sighs heavily, making his way to the edge of his bed and sitting down, running a hand down his pale face. He glances up at the blank canvas, trying to search his mind for any idea on what to create. His mind is clouded.
No use in even trying to be creative today. No use in trying to be creative any day, he guesses. Despite it only being around 7pm, he decides to get under the covers and wait for Ricky like always. Maybe he can fall asleep to the sound of him talking instead of lying awake wondering where everything went wrong.
He lies there motionless, the popcorn ceiling the only thing in his view. He doesn’t close his eyes. But he thinks. About that night. About how he was going to really do it before meeting Ricky. About why this is suddenly giving him so much guilt even though he started to get better.
It just isn’t fair. It just isn’t fucking fair.
He takes a deep breath, the sound of his breathing the only thing filling the void of sound in his room. Then something in him crumples, like someone who got hurt but didn’t register it until a minute later. His face falls, hands flying up to cover any kind of emotion he still has left.
Then he hears it. The chaotic rustling of none other than Shitbird himself trampling into his room. He is not graceful in any way, but it’s not like he ever is.
Ben wipes his tears in a rush before Ricky gets back up on his feet, sitting up and leaning his back against the headboard.
“Heyyy, Brookie Cookie!”
Ricky exclaims, taking his black leather jacket off and tossing it over the back of Ben’s chair. Ben lets out a small huff of air at the stupid nickname, shaking his head with a tired barely-there smirk.
“Hey, Shitbird.”
Ben croaks, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
Ricky looks between Ben and the shoes he’s removing from his feet, untying the laces with the skill of an uncoordinated toddler. Or maybe just a drunk dude. No difference either way.
“You’re in bed early. Usually you’re in front of that canvas, painting flowers…”
He starts, making his way to the bed with a glimmer of mischief in his eye.
“…Or, ya know, my beautiful face.”
Ben shoves him roughly, suppressing a chuckle.
“Shut the fuck up, dude. I’m just tired. Can’t I be just tired?”
Ricky scoffs under his breath, his brows knitting together.
“Right…tired…”
He mutters, climbing onto his side of the bed. He lies down with his back to him, which is weird, because usually he’s always looking for reasons to invade his space, especially at night before bed. Ben gives him a once over, his lips pressed into a tight line.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Ricky turns his head slightly to look at him, the mattress creaking under his erratic movement.
“It’s just…I thought you were getting better…?”
Ricky questions, now turning around completely to face Ben. Somehow, that seems to crack him, even if it’s just a little bit. Ricky can see the way his lower lip trembles and how his breath starts to hitch. If he had looked away for even just a second , he would’ve missed it.
Ben’s complicated in that way. He has unlimited quips up his sleeve, acts like he hates everything even though he doesn’t, refuses to hug anyone, and somehow Ricky continues coming back. Because they both have their reasons. And nothing could change his mind about his pretty boy one single bit.
Ricky shifts closer, the movement shaking the whole bed with how much unnecessary effort he put to practically leap toward Ben.
They don’t speak for a moment, but Ricky reaches out, fidgeting with the button on the cuff of Ben’s shirt sleeve. His usual shit-eating grin pops back up, like an un-cleanable stain you’ve made peace with.
“You know…maybe if you told me what you were sad about , we could-like—kiss it out…or something…”,
He mutters, barely above a whisper, which makes Ben contort his face into a look of disgust, even though he knows damn well he’s thought of it at least 20 times before.
“You’re so damn annoying, Ricky..”,
Ben says with the tone of someone trying not to sound like they want more elaboration on the other person’s part. It doesn’t happen quickly, but Ben shifts his face away from Ricky, his breathing becoming more shallow.
Ricky doesn’t comment. Doesn’t give any kind of inspirational speech. He just waits for him. He waits. And maybe, just maybe…waiting on him is all Ben needs right now.
His crying doesn’t become audible until about two minutes later, when the tears actually start to stain his clothes. Ricky’s never seen him cry. Never seen Ben with any other expression that wasn’t of displeasure or suppressed amusement.
Ben reaches a trembling hand out to rest on top of Ricky’s head, which, despite himself, makes him stifle a giggle. Out of everything he could’ve done,
(from holding his hand to hugging him,) he chose to touch his head?
Ricky finds that absolutely fucking hilarious. But…he can’t laugh yet. He’s gotta hold it in. The only reason he stops holding back a laugh is because now…Ben’s sobbing. He’s not just a quiet, leaky faucet waiting to be turned off all the way, he’s turned UP all the way. So now, Ricky has no choice but to do something. He thinks for a moment.
Brookie doesn't do hugs, but he also doesn’t do…whatever it is he’s doing right now. And maybe it’s like, a baby? Like, if you pick them up and swaddle them and stuff, they’ll stop crying? Worth a shot.
Just as Ricky starts to reach out, Ben begins to ramble. And to no end, like everything he’s saying is disappearing before it’s received by someone listening. His words come out in between gasps, and he keeps on unintentionally making these little strained whimpers that sound like he’s trying so hard not to be loud.
“…Why can’t I stop thinking about it…? That night? I just-I just want Heather to rot in hell, I hate it so much. I hate having to pass by her and look at her fucking face everyday. She looks back at me in the hallway. She knows what she did. She fucking knows. And everyday I just-I can’t take this shit anymore, Ricky, I ca-“
Ricky’s eyes widen, interrupting Ben in a comforting whisper, which is very uncharacteristic in this moment, but he’s trying not to be insensitive.
“Don’t say that, Ben.”
Ricky said his name. His actual name . Ricky never calls Ben by his actual name unless he really means what he’s about to say.
Ben raises a brow mid sob at his words, slowly turning his head to face him with streaks of tears across his face, tears still flowing like a downpour of his agony, paving a road of darkness down his cheeks to his neck, soaking his pajama shirt.
Ricky doesn’t stop. His eyes practically scream out his worry, a sky-blue pool full of thickened, drown-able water Ben wouldn’t mind swimming in.
“Please stop saying shit like that. You can do this. You can do anything. You can do whatever the fuck you want , Ben, I’d let you—I’d let you beat my ass like you used to if it meant that you felt better afterwards. All I want is for you to be okay.”
Ben lets out a messy laugh, wet and sloppy in between his uncontrollable little whines and hiccups.
“You’re still really annoying, so maybe I’ll take you up on that offer one day.”,
Ricky keeps his eyes locked on Ben, even when it’s hard to look. Even when he himself wants to cry, and scream, and beg for him not to do anything to himself. But he doesn’t do any of that, he just keeps looking.
Even when the car crashes. Even though the sound is horrible and scary. Then, in between the smoke, broken bumper, and thick scratches, he’ll help him out of the car, one step at a time til he heals.
Ben finally lies down, back turned toward Ricky. He’s still shaking and crying, letting out these sad little coughs like a miserable little child with a cold.
“Donna came into my room earlier. She was—she-she was worried, I think.”
Ricky lets out a deep exhale, staring at Ben’s back so deeply he could burn holes through the guy.
“You think…? She’s been driving Brady crazy. I’ve been hearing her-“
Ben interjects, trying and failing to wipe the tears and running snot off his face. He points a shaking finger, brows furrowing like he’s furious, but not actually at Ricky himself.
“ Don’t fucking tell her. Or anyone . I’ll beat your ass for real if you do.”
Ricky raises both hands at his side, turning and flopping onto his back to stare at the ceiling
“I…won’t. But, I’ve gotta ask, have you ever tried to tell anyone else…?”
Ben doesn’t respond. The tears get the best of him, leaving him a shaking, snappy puddle of shame.
Ricky doesn’t press. And eventually, Ben manages to answer in between stuttered breaths of air.
“N-no. I’ll look like a pussy. Wh-what will they think? That I just feel guilty about getting play? That I’m just a fucking sissy who can’t tell when he’s ‘lucky’ or not? I’m not gonna put myself through that. I’m just a damn joke , Ricky. You understand that? A Goddamn joke. ”
Ricky looks around the room, eyes landing on the digital alarm clock that reads 8:25pm. He figures Ben’s just gonna fall asleep anyway, so maybe now is the time to actually do something?
“Brookie, let me hold you.”
Ben wipes at his face again with the back of his wrist, pausing for a moment.
“…Ricky, what the fuck.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you’re not. And I’m not crawling into your arms like some princess.”
“Okay, then I’ll grab you, pretty boy.”
Ben turns around, kicking Ricky in the shin. He recoils in pain, laughing at Ben’s quick reflexes. He curls his lips in utter repulsion, looking at the way Ricky holds back a giggle.
“Ugh, calm down.”
Ricky snickers, a smug grin creeping and settling onto his face.
“Calming now.”
“Good.”
“...Good.”
“Okay.”
“Alright.”
The quiet falls over them like a blanket, and the two boys lie there, not quite asleep, but not quite energized, either. Ben's still sniffling every couple minutes, but he's not actually crying anymore. Just crusty in that post-breakdown aftermath that makes you cringe looking back at it.
It would be peaceful, except for the fact that Ricky is breathing so fucking loud . So loud in fact that Ben is forced to be painfully aware of his presence. Why is he breathing like that? Who the hell knows. But at least it's not as annoying as Ben thought it would be. It's kinda like white noise, if he's telling the truth. Just as Ben starts to close his eyes, Someone knocks at his bedroom door.
Oh, great,
He thinks. The one time he actually tries to sleep, someone wants to make sure he's alive. Ugh. Poor timing. Very poor timing. He grumbles into his pillow, not bothering to get up from his bed. Ricky sits up slowly, glancing at the door before looking over at Ben, whose eyes are still closed, his cheeks pink and sticky from tears, and bottom lip protruded in that annoyed way it always is.
“Are you–awake…?”
Ben groans, still as stiff as a log. He sniffles once, opening one eye to glare at Ricky.
“Nooooo, I'm actually dead, and you're lying next to a corpse. No shit, I'm awake.”
Ricky laughs softly, settling back onto his side of the bed. Outside the door, Donna remains a jumble of nerves, waiting for an answer. She waits for any sound that could indicate he's at least awake, because he didn't come downstairs for dinner.
"Uhm...Ben...? Mom left a plate out for you."
He doesn't move. And he doesn't call out, either. He mumbles a response, barely loud enough to be heard with the door closed.
“M’not hungry.”
Donna's footsteps recede as she heads back to her room, her steps still hesitant like she's walking on eggshells. Ricky runs a hand through his hair, sighing gently. Ben turns on his other side to face Ricky, his eyes a bit puffy from recent events. For a second they just stare at each other, soaking up the last moments of silence before Ben rasps something so quiet no one except Ricky can hear him.
“I…I can't do this.”
This time, Ricky gives no warning, now scooting closer to enclose Ben in his arms. Ben doesn't even fight him anymore, resting a hand on his shoulder as he lies his head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. Right now, things aren't okay. And…maybe they never fully will be. But Goddamn if his best friend isn’t persistent.
“You can . But…I'm not going to convince you you can, because I don't think you'll listen to me anyway. So, I'm just gonna let you use my awesome hot body as a pillow instead.”,
Ricky declares smugly. Ben scoffs, pinching the lobe of Ricky's ear. He lets out an exaggerated ‘Ouch!’ then raises a hand to rub Ben's back. He rubs his back slow and steady, like a beat never losing its measure. The second time Ricky checks the clock, it's already 9:00, and…Bens already laid out like a picnic blanket, still annoyed, even in rest. But Ricky would rather be the annoying reason he lives, than the absent one he doesn't.