Disclaimer: The poem is "Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost. And, as usual, Benny and the others are not mine.
A/N: I swear these three little snippets fit together in my mind. Just a little oddly, and kind of sideways. Because it's fun to do that.

i. Some Say the World will End
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.

It surprised Benny a little that he could fit everything of his that mattered into a single suitcase. It didn't seem… right somehow, but looking around his room in the loft he couldn't see anything else to take with him, and the suitcase lay on the bed, half full of clothes and little things—toothbrush, his alarm clock, a few books—that he needed or wanted, but nothing he couldn't live without. Was this all his years of living here had amounted to? Just a few personal belongings he didn't care much about anyway?

His mouth twisted in a wry smirk as he stepped forward to close the suitcase and secure the latches. That was all this life ever got them. After four years of living here, starving, freezing, living on little more than dreams, Benny was done. Let the others waste their lives on artistic ventures that never got them anywhere, but he'd given up.

No, this wasn't giving up. Not when he had nothing to give up on in the first place. This was just… wising up. Realizing how the real world worked. Maybe if he kept telling himself that it would ease his mind, get rid of that faintly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He picked up the suitcase and steadied himself. He could hardly turn back now. Alison was expecting him at her house, and the others wanted him gone for the most part. This wasn't home anymore.

When he stepped out of the bedroom and into the living room, Maureen gave him a cold, hate-filled look from the couch, and without a word stood up and stalked into her own bedroom. Benny supposed that meant he wasn't getting a goodbye from her, nor from Collins, who had been out of the loft more and more often lately and hadn't been home for a few days. That, at least, Benny didn't mind. He knew Collins hated to say goodbye.

April bounded forward to hug him around the neck, and he awkwardly hugged her back with his free arm. April alone seemed not to be upset with him, and she gave him a sad little smile as she stepped back. "Don't you dare forget us while you're out in Westport. Come visit us every now and then, alright?"

"I will," he answered quietly. The others wouldn't be happy with him coming around often, but if April asked…

Mark walked across the room to shake his hand, stiffly polite. "I'll see you around then, I guess. Take care." He attempted a smile, but it fell flat. Benny nodded and smiled back as best as he could manage. Roger stood across the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. When Benny glanced over, he raised one hand in what might be considered a wave, more or less. Mark must have ordered Roger to behave himself today, or he'd be making cracks about "Muffy."

From there, it was out the door and down the stairs, out to the street to hail a cab and head home to Westport. He didn't even glance over his shoulder to look at the loft one last time before he left for good. If he had, he might have noticed his four (now former) roommates standing by the windows, watching silently this one more step in the process of fragmentation.

ii. What I've Tasted of Desire
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.

Benny knew he shouldn't be here, for any number of reasons. Alison would never forgive him if she found out. And if she knew, so would her father; he had never liked Benny for his daughter, and would take it out on him. Mark and Roger still lived on the top floor, and if they saw him here, they could very well call Alison and tell her themselves. He had no doubt that if they did see him, they would. Even knowing that, Benny still couldn't stop himself from dropping by the club once or twice a week, and once a week, or at least every other week, he would end up going home with her, despite everything common sense and self-preservation told him. Knowing he was being an idiot never stopped him from doing the idiotic.

Or maybe it was just that wicked little smile of hers that got him every time.

The two of them had only made it as far as the little ratty couch in her front room before she'd pounced on him, and Benny didn't mind in the least. Not with her half-straddling him, and her biting his lower lip teasingly, maybe a little harder than necessary, maybe pressing her body against him with a little more force than needed, but it didn't matter. Maybe she was still a little high, but he didn't care.

Funny, how she'd been living here even when he had still been in the loft, just upstairs. Funny how he hadn't cared then, and only did care when his clean, tidy little lift with Alison got too constricting, pinched a little too tight. When he wanted for a few hours to bring back some scrap of the life he'd had, wild and dirty and messy and bound to come tumbling down any day now, so precariously balanced on hope and delusions. She was all of those things, just like the Village itself. An easy escape from Westport, a momentary window to the past, but indirect, a slanting and sideways pathway to something like what his life had been. Close enough.

And she was pressing against him hungrily, crushing her mouth against his as her hand slid down, just barely brushing against him through his pants, and he groaned softly and arched against her, and his hands were tangled in her wild, frizzy hair, pulling her closer… Her tongue teased his, drawing him in deeper, deeper, and if he'd let himself he could have just fallen in and drowned in her, but never did let himself, never forgot…

He shouldn't be here.

She unbuttoned his pants without much difficulty and slid her slender little hand down, lightly tracing the inside of his thigh with her fingertips, down and back up but not—quite—really touching him. He moaned softly, almost a whimper, almost a sigh, muffled against her lips either way. No, he shouldn't be here, but he was, and there was her body pressing against him, her lips against his and her tongue in his mouth, and her hand around his cock, teasing so gently it almost hurt, and he couldn't bring himself to care about what should and shouldn't be.

iii. If It Had to Perish Twice
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Benny brushed the snow absently off of his coat as he strode to the elevator, very glad to be in a warm building again. Two days before New Year's, and it was absolutely freezing outside—the heated apartment building was a welcome thing. Not quite so glad to be home. Things had been uncomfortable lately, since Alison had found out. Icy looks and the cold shoulder, and her barely speaking to him. She hadn't exactly made him, but he'd been sleeping on the couch the past few nights.

Reaching the elevator—which was thankfully empty, though that was hardly surprising this time of night—Benny pushed the button for their floor and leaned heavily against the wall as the doors slid closed. This late, maybe she'd be asleep and he wouldn't have to talk to her, or face that accusing look in her eyes. Maybe, if he was lucky, she would just ignore him and they could pretend nothing was wrong, except for the fact that they weren't speaking.

No such luck. When he opened the door to their apartment, he immediately saw Alison on the couch, curled up in a blanket with her legs pulled up to her chest. She had been staring at her hands quietly, twisting her ring around her finger, but stopped as soon as Benny stepped inside, looking quickly up at him, then down and away.

Benny didn't say a word to her as he took off his coat and hung it in the hall closet, took off his shoes and put them away. He avoided looking at her as best he could, unwilling to meet her cool gray eyes, except once accidentally when he glanced over and caught her watching him. Her eyes were red from crying. It didn't suit her. Alison had always been a sort of ice princess, coldly beautiful with her pale skin and blond hair and gray eyes, and she never showed it when she was hurt. Seeing her hurting now unnerved Benny, and knowing he had done it even more so.

He left the room in a hurry, unable to stay there with her much longer without either snapping at her or giving in and apologizing for everything he'd ever done. Neither was a course he wanted to follow, so the simplest alternative he found was to leave the room and escape those chilly glances filled with hate and anger and hurt and God knew what else.

As he passed the open door to their bedroom, Benny's steps slowed a little. That bedroom was always so neat and tidy, all clean lines and absolute orderliness, picture perfect. No photographs on the dresser or the walls, nothing to make it seem that anyone actually lived there. The thought shouldn't have occurred to him, but he couldn't help considering how easy it would be to leave, how everything that he really wanted would fit easily into a single suitcase.