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BREATH
Oyster Bay, 2008
Not long into their collaboration, it's agreed that Reed will mostly be the numbers guy, while Ben's more hands-on with the biomatter shuttle. Reed's not terrible at making adjustments—not by normal standards, anyway—but it's hard to beat a kid who lives with tons of mangled metal and broken machines. Tools just seem to turn a little more easily in Ben's hands, gently coaxing out the responses Reed is looking for. There haven't been any power outages (well, not major ones) for months, for example.
Reed is the only person Ben's ever known who seems to concentrate better when he's talking. The clang of metal on metal, the squeak of a wrench and clink of a screwdriver, are drowned out by Reed's monologuing as they work in the garage.
"It'll be years from now, of course," Reed says as he writes. Other people might think he’s just doodling by the way the pencil scrawls so easily across the pages of his notebook, but even crouched down on the concrete floor, making adjustments, Ben knows better. "Decades, probably. So it's stupid to wonder about it now, I guess, but I keep thinking of when we'll be able to send a person through the shuttle."
A page is flipped in the notebook, barely perceptible over Reed's voice. "It'll be us going first, I'm sure—after animal testing, probably dead bodies too—but I can't decide on the destination. I've already changed my mind a hundred times. The top of Mount Everest? The South Pole? Hawaii would probably be the popular choice."
There's the slightest hint of disdain to Reed's clipped voice at that, and Ben huffs a laugh. He's gotten to know a lot about Reed through his voice—Ben hears enough of it—and Reed always chafes at reaching for the lowest common denominator, always. The predictability of it fills Ben with an odd sense of affection, blooming in his chest like a petunia. He's been feeling that a lot lately, and he's not sure he can help it. It seems as natural as breathing.
"Right now I think the National Air and Space Museum might be good, but is that too obvious? I don't know." Reed sighs, his pencil still scratching out endless numbers Ben has no hope of ever understanding. "Where would you want to go?"
There's a pause then, a cue that Ben's input is needed. He frowns at his own oil-stained hands, twisting and twisting and twisting at the wrench, and answers, "Anywhere's fine."
"That's not helpful! Think bigger."
Ben tries, but as far as he can figure, there's nothing bigger than what's going on in this little room.
FLAME
Oyster Bay, 2012
"That's okay," Reed says one night when, after a bunch of new calibrations, the newly rechristened cymatic matter shuttle fails to bring back the Matchbox car from wherever it was sent.
Reed gingerly steps away from the shuttle, which is filling the garage with gentle plumes of smoke, and starts shuffling through the mound of papers on the desk. "You look at the machinery while I'll check the schematics, and then we'll go again. Science is all about trial and error, testing and retesting—this should be expected." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than anything else. "It's not about a big eureka moment, like in the movies."
Ben can relate. It hasn't been like the movies for him either, where gay people all seem to wander around in denial until love leads them to one moment of epiphany. For Ben, it's just something he's always known about himself, living under his skin, as much a part of him as being Jewish or hating coconut. Making a big deal about it just doesn't feel natural, especially with a brother like Jimmy around.
But noticing the muscles in Reed's forearms as he leans against the desk, that's new. Taking a second to linger on the fall of his dark curls over his forehead—Mrs. Richards keeps nagging him to go get a haircut—and the faint dusting of freckles over his nose and the way his eyelashes fan out as he reads over his notes, everything that makes Ben's whole body heat up—yeah, it's new.
He turns away quickly, hiding his flushed face by turning toward the shuttle and fiddling with the knobs, tugging at the wires. For months now he's been noticing Reed, really noticing him, and all it does is make him flustered and mad. He can't think of a worse person to have a crush on than his best friend, his building partner, the candle he's drawn to like a fluttering moth. These kinds of feelings just complicate things.
It'd be pointless to say anything about it. Reeds talks so much, Ben figures he'd have said something already if he felt the same way.
Frowning, trying to chase the thoughts away, Ben shakes the shuttle a little too hard and the side panel pops open. More gray smoke rolls out, along with a tiny plastic jingle ball—slightly melted—that Mrs. Richards' cat Lumpkin likes to bat around.
"Eureka," Ben says.
FLOOD
Oyster Bay-Manhattan, 2014
Ben takes the train out to the city with Reed, carries his suitcase into the Baxter Institute for him. The building is immediately intimidating, a thick-walled skyscraper filled right to the top with future mad scientists, where Reed's future will be laid out like a red carpet, where a kid from the salvage yard isn't even smart enough to do the grunt work anymore. This is no place for the likes of Benjamin J. Grimm, and when he puts his old Swiss army knife in Reed's hand, it's supposed to be goodbye.
Except it's not. Reed keeps calling him.
The calls mostly come in the late afternoon or a few hours after dark, whenever Reed remembers to eat without Ben there to remind him. Between bites of food, he talks about his day, his week, however long it's been since the last call. He can't get too specific about the actual work—it's classified information now, when he and Ben built prototype after prototype side by side—but there's still plenty to vent about.
There's the things that Reed's genuinely thrilled about, like getting to focus entirely on something that interests him—"No more wasting time reading for English, thank God"—and being far away from assholes like his stepfather and surrounded by science-minded people instead.
There's Reed's complaints about those science-minded people, the ones on his team. He talks about someone named Johnny a lot—"I don't know if his heart is really in it"—and some guy called Victor even more—"He's the worst, Ben, seriously; he makes Mr. Kenny look humble and open-minded"—and acts like Dr. Storm is a wise old god. He does not, Ben notices, talk about Susan Storm at all, which would be comforting if he didn't know Reed so well.
And there are little read-between-the-lines things, offhand comments about not having time to get out of the building and explore the city much, how he's mainlining Jamba Juice smoothies and thick, sugary coffee to have the energy to hit all the team's deadlines, and that once in a while he still wakes up in the middle of the night and panics, not knowing where he is. The things that make Ben's heart ache, the things that make him angry because he can't do anything to help, and Reed wouldn't even want him to.
Eventually, Reed slows down long enough to remember to ask, "How are you?"
And later, when the wave of emotions finally hits, there'll be a lot of things Ben will have wished he said. Things like, Sick of hearing all about the people that took you away and I'm stuck out on Long Island with no hope of ever getting out of the junkyard while my best friend's gone living his dream come true—how do you think I feel? and Sometimes I wish you would finally let go so I can at least move on enough that just the thought of kissing somebody else didn't feel like I'm betraying you.
But in the moment, he's always just so happy to hear Reed's voice, so relieved to know that today isn't the day Reed finally forgets him, that all he can do is answer, in all honesty, "I'm good."
ROCK
Manhattan, 2014
There are no trains into the city this late—the first train out of Oyster Bay doesn't leave until five in the morning—so Ben borrows an old beater from the salvage yard, so banged up and ancient it can only be surviving on hopes and dreams now, and drives in. Keeping the car moving takes up most of his attention, but in the back of his mind, there's Reed's voice, the middle-of-the-night phone call that's brought Ben this far, the same words echoing over and over.
I'm not going without you, okay? Who's going to have my back?
He parks the car a dozen blocks from the Baxter Institute and walks the rest of the way, picking up his pace as soon as he sees the glass lobby doors. Reed is there waiting for him, and when they hug Ben can still pick up the faint hint of alcohol on his breath, the excitement under his skin, but overriding all that is just the feeling of Reed under Ben's hands.
"You trust me, right?" Reed asks as they head deeper into the building, his face cut by a brilliant smile, and Ben's heart beats a little faster, just like it always has, always will, as long as Reed's involved. It's a response as predictable and familiar as rock, and they both know he doesn't need to answer.