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It always felt like the air had been permanently stiffened since he heard the news, like every breath Ricky took was going to be his last, and that the Earth itself was slowly closing in on him.
Ricky had locked himself in his room since the funeral—it was now only a few weeks after. His dad never bothered to check on him, as expected. He doubted that he even knew what happened, and if he did, he didn’t care. The uncomfortable smell of unwashed sheets and the stench of beer became increasingly familiar to him.
He never considered himself suicidal. He wasn’t thinking about considering it now. All that he wished was to have something take care of him so he didn’t have to do it himself. Maybe all the alcohol that had been entering his system since Ben’s death would finally be enough to take him out and rot away—not that it did anything else useful. Drinking only ever brought the remembrance of Ben back to him, but at least it made him feel numb enough to the point where it didn’t feel like he was going to have a heart attack every few seconds.
The wonder about how he had never expected this always came back to him. Part of him wanted to go back to those final moments in Ben’s house, with him begging Ricky to stay, and ask himself what are you thinking? instead of what is the world going to think?
Ben had told him about what he had been planning before Ricky appeared ages ago. He made it sound like it would never happen again, at least to Ricky. Ricky thought that he had instilled enough hope in him to let him go. He just assumed that he was going to be alright, that he would listen to Ricky for once. But he should’ve known, Ben was infamous for not listening to anyone. Of course. Ricky should’ve known Ben better than anyone.
A clutter of bottles sat on the edge of the bed, stolen from his dad. Old papers from Ben’s sketchbook were strewn across the floor, given to him by Donna. She said that her mother claimed his death was her fault, but Ricky didn’t buy it. Whatever had happened between them, Ricky had left beforehand. Maybe if he didn’t leave, he would've been able to prevent it all.
His entire life felt like a cycle of wishing he could have done something to change the past. His mom, Ruth, Ben.
Light hadn’t entered the room in a while, as the curtains were kept drawn shut and the only thing occasionally lit was a few flickering candles. Ricky sat huddled on his mattress, alcohol clouding his mind, his arms tightly crossed against his chest. He had grown into the habit of holding onto himself at night, just to simulate the presence of what he and Ben used to have. The nights where Ricky would constantly run through his thoughts, questioning if Ben felt the same way, if cuddling him at night was only an accident, if he had ever held Lola that way.
Quiet breaths came out of him unsteadily as all he could do was think. It was all thinking, running in circles in his mind, all leading him back to Ben. Everything else in the atmosphere was dead silent, like the rest of the world was mourning him as well. They should have been. Ben deserved to be loved by everyone who was stronger than Ricky.
The air shifted around him, in an oddly familiar way. He didn’t immediately put his finger on it until he heard the voice looming from behind.
“Hi, Ricky.”
Ricky tensed, breath nearly stopping.
He couldn’t decipher whether or not he was simply stuck in a memory from when he would visit the Brooke’s’ house nightly, and Ben would be sitting around painting, waiting for him—or if it was a different presence.
Ben’s voice came out in a strange whisper, changing volumes like it was static.
“Shitbird, I missed you.” The sound creeped into his ears, looping itself into his brain.
It’s just another ghost. That isn’t Ben, he tried to convince himself.
“Do you miss me?” Ben asked endearingly. Ricky nearly opened his mouth to respond, to straightaway respond with a yes, yet he stopped himself.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk. I like the quiet.”
Ricky swallowed anxiously, his hands beginning to shake. He had to see it for himself—he wanted to see it for himself.
His head slowly turned, not knowing exactly what he was hoping to see. If he saw Ben, it would tell him that he was, in fact, losing it, but if he didn’t, it would assure him that he was truly gone.
The former won over.
A flickering image of Benjamin Brookes sat behind him, with his legs crossed and a small smile, the kind Ricky would always subconsciously count when they were together. Ricky blinked back beady tears forming in his eyes, the denial of his death growing stronger in his brain.
“I’m not mad at you anymore. I just want you to come back,” he pleaded, tone laced with sweetness. Ricky felt his trembling increase as the image of Ben seemed to become clearer, like if he were to reach out and touch it, his hand would be placed on his rough, cool skin.
Ben’s arms looped around his neck, hugging him from behind. Ricky felt something like a familiar, heavy weight on his back as Ben rested against him.
He always told himself that he would fight against the ghosts that plagued his mind, but he wanted more than anything to lean into the comfort. Ben wasn’t treating him like Ruth had. He hadn’t been vengeful, he didn’t blame Ricky for what happened. He was there to reassure him.
It felt safe to indulge in the comfort.
Besides, if he wasn’t real, how could he feel him?
“Ricky, it’s okay. I’m right here,” Ben whispered.
He was right there. Maybe if he spoke back, Ricky could atone for his sins. Ben could forgive him. Ricky felt himself smile at the thought, for the first time in what felt like forever. It felt almost unnatural, like the corners of his lips were being drawn upwards by someone else’s hands.
“I’m sorry,” Ricky blurted.
The crying was quick to start. It always was whenever Ben held him. He could break down in seconds, knowing he was safe to be vulnerable.
Tears cascaded down Ricky’s face in an endless flow as he sputtered, trying to speak. No matter how much he cried, even if he were to cut his own heart out of his chest, nothing would ever rid him of the guilt.
“I’m sorry, Brookie. I’m so sorry,” he stammered out, his voice hardly above a whisper. He had surely gotten one of the few people in his life who had cared about him killed. The only person who he had ever truly fallen in love with the existence of.
He didn’t deserve any of this. He didn’t deserve to feel comforted even by his own perception of Ben.
“It’s okay, Ricky. I forgive you,” Ben said, the sweet whispers growing louder in Ricky’s mind.
“I love you.”
Ricky’s world came to a stop, choking on a sob. It was like he had slowly been descending into a dark nothingness, yet had stopped midair.
Ben’s fingers crept down his forearm, intertwining their hands together.
Ricky felt another tear run down his cheek.
This wasn’t his Ben. He had to realize that. His Ben—his Brookie—was back in his coffin, his body that had washed up on the seashore buried deep underground.
“You’re not real. You’re just like Ruth,” the words came out more bitterly than he had meant them. He was more angry at himself for not thinking what would really be the consequences of leaving Ben.
“Why not?” The ghost asked.
Ricky knew it was too good to be true, but the real truth of it all hurt. The reason why he could tell it wasn’t Ben caused him more pain than anything.
“Ben would never say that he loves me,” he choked out.
The ghost fell silent. Ricky squeezed his eyes shut tight, feeling the weight slip away from him.