notes ⸺ i really, really fucking love ben/carlos. anyway.
triggers ⸺ none that i can think of, though please do not hesitate to correct me if there is something i may have missed.
「 ❛ called you angel (kissed prayers up your spine) ❜ 」
or, carlos learns that there is more than one connotation to the words good boy.
⸺ oo1.
It's two words, and really, it shouldn't be that big of a deal.
Two words that have him feeling as if his skeleton has stepped out of his skin, marbles rattling around in his skull that hums unevenly like a broken washing machine. He's got a dog in his arms, fur tickling his skin, the creature's tiny tongue coming up to lick at his chin and his nose. Not a killer, Ben explains, and Carlos believes him. Just a little bundle of fur curled up against his chest, a sort of warmth spreading through him, like petals sweeping through his limbs and tickling his nerves.
"Good boy," Ben says, and the world stops spinning. Birds pause midflight and the wind drops dead and for a moment all that exists is the sound of Dude breathing noisily in his arms, Carlos' own heart clanging like a fire alarm in time with the words echoing inside the colosseum of his chest ⸺ good boy good boy good boy. All he can do is stare, and the situation is so bizarre he chokes on the words that threaten to climb up his throat as flurries bloom inside his stomach.
The prince of all virtues leaves him alone, then, words clipped and short and punctuated with a sort of clumsiness that does certainly not go hand-in-hand with how he presents himself normally as he stumbles off with a half-wave, a goofy grin that gently presses the edge between kindness and something more, something that sticks in Carlos' gut and has him cursing himself for letting his imagination get away from him. Carlos really needs to sit down, so he does, Dude's fur soft under his fingertips, tiny pink tongue darting out to lick at his nose again.
His mind is whirring and clanging with unsaid things, the sound of rusty deadbolts dropping to the ground and mechanical humming drowning out the sounds of the woods around him. No birds or rabbits or squirrels here ⸺ only Carlos' mind, a broken down mess of a machine struggling to keep churning away. The spot on his arm, the place where Ben's fingers pressed against his skin through the fabric of his shirt, it burns, and Carlos never wants it to stop.
Because they're two fucking words and it really, really shouldn't be a big deal. Somehow, it still is.
⸺ oo2.
All it takes is, "Three...two...go!" and Carlos disappears in a flurry of kicked-up dirt and stray blades of grass, fifteen yards down before Ben can even blink, his skinny legs churning, lungs burning and it feels like he's trying to breathe inside of a fireplace but he doesn't stop, shoves the pain back and forces himself forward until he's nearly toppling over the line painted in the grass, lying flat on his back and trying to coax air back into his lungs. Ben always laughs, waving the beeping timer over his head as he trips and stumbles over to where Carlos is lying in the grass, arms splayed out as he waits for his heart to stop thudding so loudly in his ears.
"New record! You're killing it," Ben praises, flopping down beside the boy in the grass and holding the stopwatch in front of his eyes, heart swelling with pride and it feels as if his chest is going to burst; he is used to the joy that descends upon Ben whenever he watches somebody succeed ⸺ he knows if he asks, Ben will absolutely blame it on his mother's own kindhearted nature ⸺ but it's different with Carlos, like Ben is watching the sun explode. Such inferences are cut short when he realizes Ben is squeezing his shoulder, leaning back in the grass, head lolling onto his shoulder casually as his eyes slip shut for the briefest of moments to shield himself from the sun's glare. "Good boy." Casual and proud and happy. It shouldn't be a big deal.
But the words, light and airy and spur-of-the-moment, seem to vibrate; they feel like tangible things that explode into bubbles and hover in the air around their faces. When Ben finally plucks the courage to open his eyes again, Carlos is glancing off to the side and chewing on his lip thoughtfully, cheeks a little red in a way that they weren't even after he finished running. He feels hot and cold all over. "Thanks," he murmurs, so soft the wind nearly catches his words and swallows them, and then he's rolling onto his belly, grin prominent on his features and when he speaks this time, any traces of uncertainty have slipped away, though his tone is hasty as he fumbles to get the words out. "So, again? I bet I can go even faster this time."
Ben hardly has time to sit back up and flick the button on his stopwatch before Carlos is taking off again and leaving him behind, laughter and giddy grins and a bellyful of nervous energy lingering in his wake.
⸺ oo3.
It starts out innocent enough.
They're sprawled out on opposite sides of the castle courtyard, kicking a soccer ball back and forth lazily while they take turns reciting excerpts of hundred-year old poetry from their textbooks, words that die the moment they leaves their lips. The air is wet, thick with condensation and the promise of more rain later, perhaps, though for now the clouds have shifted so the sun can peer down from the heavens at them, warm the earth with its rays. The humidity sticks to their skin and their hair is matted against their foreheads and it would be sort of gross, but back on the Isle such hot weather would mean the stench of rot and decay permeating his nostrils, leaking under the cracks in the doors even if they stuffed towels in the gaps there and covered their faces with damp washcloths. Here in Ben's garden, all he can smell is roses. It isn't a change he's opposed to.
The next minute, Carlos is reciting the final line of Poe's A Valentine for the fourteenth time today, and Ben is saying good boy with this big grin on his face, the same one that's always plastered there when he praises him for something silly and trivial and Carlos feels dizzy with it all, like the world is spinning beneath his feet. The next thing he knows, Ben is on top of him, Carlos' own back pressed against the earth. He can't quite remember how he got there and they're just sort of staring, breathing each other's air, and Ben has this look on his face that makes his breath hitch, an expression that bleeds concern and something else he can't quite identify. Carlos has never been so scared by something he cannot understand.
"You okay?" Ben asks, arms on either side of Carlos' shoulders.
The words get caught halfway up his throat, and he forces them up and through his teeth. "Yeah. M'fine, thanks." Ben doesn't move. Carlos doesn't want him to, but he also wants to squirm away and run, curl away from whatever this is that has his insides churning.
Ben is laughing, then, nose dipping as he does and brushing faintly against Carlos' cheekbone. His heart feels like it's in his throat. "Does it bother you?" Ben asks then, sort of sheepish and flustered and not at all princely, in Carlos' own opinion.
"Does what bother me?" he asks finally, words crawling out of his mouth as slow as slugs and as rough as tree bark. It sounds like he's been gargling soap.
"When I, like. When I call you that," Ben blurts, and then he's laughing again, and hooks his chin over Carlos' shoulder, their chests pressed flush together and there are about three layers of fabric separating them here on the grass in the middle of a rose garden overlooked by a towering castle whose spires stretch themselves so high Carlos is sure one could kiss the clouds from up there.
And Carlos is about to ask, when you call me what, but then it hits him like a bullet in the chest and it feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the world. His mouth feels dry, throat jammed with cotton as he blinks. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to wrap his tongue around the words that scurry around in his mind like a litter of mice. Because he can't very well say, It doesn't bother me, exactly, but sometimes you say it and it makes me think you don't mean it in the way you're supposed to and it makes me feel like my whole body is on fire, or like I'm being dunked underwater and I can't come up for air, and I don't know why I feel like that; all I know is that I shouldn't feel like all the air is being sucked out of my lungs every time you say it.
Instead, he says, "I think I really want to kiss you. Or I want you to kiss me, or." He swallows the lump in his throat, turns his gaze to the sky, to the grass that tickles his cheek, the trees in the distance. Anything but Ben's face. "I don't know."
Ben's lips twist into what is not so much a smirk as it is a genuine smile, and it makes Carlos' skin clammy and his gut twist all over again because everything about Ben is so fucking genuine it hurts, and Mal might not think so but Carlos knows so, knows that Ben cares and loves and protects so fully and passionately with every single fiber of his being from the look on his face. He doesn't think Ben could lie if he tried, brain wired to play the protector, the hero instead of the manipulator.
"Okay," Ben says, and on the surface it's as simple as that. Carlos has kissed people before ⸺ he likes to kiss, really, likes to feel good and make people feel good but under Ben's heated gaze he feels so small. It feels like he's being unraveled, ribbons of flesh being peeled away and it is only now that he realizes that Ben has always seen right through him.
"You look like you want to eat me," he notes absently and Ben just laughs quietly, captures Carlos' bottom lip between his teeth and fuck, they're kissing. Like, really kissing. Ben's laughter, gentle and soft like a passing breeze drips down into Carlos' own throat like honey or cough syrup. It's true, though, what Carlos said about the eating thing ⸺ there are times when he'll look up only to find his gaze met with another set of eyes that burn with a sort of curiosity, like Ben wants to take him apart and study every single piece of him and Carlos always ducks his head, cheeks flooding with color because it's just too much sometimes. It's overwhelming, that look paired with the fact that it's directed at him. It feels like the gaze could burn holes in his skin and mostly it just makes Carlos wish Ben would kiss him again.
And he does ⸺ god, he does, kisses that start out chaste, butterfly-light and soft against his mouth but, as the sun makes its way silently across the sky, quickly evolve into something that has Carlos' stomach twisting sharply because he wants so much and he thinks that no matter how much Ben gives him it will never be enough.
In between sliding kisses down his spine, fingers dipping below his waistband while sweat pools in the hollow of his collarbone, sunlight catching in his hair, Ben whispers good boy, smoothing down his hair and Carlos just shudders against him, pressing himself closer like he wants to disappear, wants Ben to pull him inside his own ribcage so if his heart is as beautiful as he imagines it is. Carlos knows, of course, that human anatomy is an ugly thing, red-purple-blue-black organs all piled and strung together, blood pulsing over skeletons, but something inside him whispers that Ben is different, that if you peeled back layers of skin and muscle and pried apart his rib cage, his heart is pure gold and glittering within his chest.
Things he will never forget ⸺ how cold the grass is beneath him despite the muggy weather, water droplets raising goosebumps on his skin, the taste of Ben's mouth against his own, like fresh strawberries and chocolate and saltwater and empty rooms, the scent of roses that invades his senses and lingers there for hours after they've straightened their clothes and left the garden, the press of Ben's hips against his, the tickle of his hair against the smooth plane of his stomach, fluttering like the butterflies that patter around inside his ribcage, the way Ben's eyes look in the hazy, dying sunlight; glazed over with pleasure and still searching, and there's that look again, that look that says he just can't get enough of looking at Carlos' face. The thought makes Carlos' insides squirm like eels but it's a nice feeling, he thinks, albeit one that will require some getting used to.
"Didn't ya know," Carlos gasps, tugging away for a moment and balancing himself on his forearms, voice light but words the exact ones tumbling around inside his skull, "that princes aren't supposed to be kissin' villain's kids? Seems like common sense to me." And he's ready for this to be over, for Ben to let the words sink in as he flops back onto the grass and they go back to reciting poetry and flitting around something that chills him to the bone and Carlos already wishes he'd let Ben kiss him for just a little longer. Still, he can't seem to stop himself from saying things he wish he didn't, so he blurts, as a means to end his spiel, "Thought you guys were raised to be smarter than that."
Ben looks a little wounded by his words, and something tells Carlos it's not himself he's feeling sorry for. He hates it, hates the way Ben's pity makes his gut shrink but Ben just kisses him again, pins his wrists against the ground in a way that says I don't care.
⸺ oo4.
It's a quarter to four in the afternoon and classes have just let out for the day, cavernous hallways echoing and vast in their emptiness one moment only to flourish into a plethora of clicking footsteps on linoleum and the chatter of happy kids and sad kids and angry kids and everyone in between the next.
Carlos is quicker than Ben, though not by much, and by the time Ben shows up outside his room Carlos is waiting for him, slouched lazily against the wall and grinning crookedly and in no time at all they're through the door, a brief exchange of greetings falling from their lips. Their clothes are pooled on the floor and they're tangled together under the sheets, foreheads knocking together, goofy grins blooming when Carlos whispers hi like it's some sort of secret, something meant for Ben's ears only, words muffled and shielded from the real world by this fort of blankets and pillows and afternoon sunlight. Ben smiles, whispers back hello and how was your day?
It feels like the only time they have an abundance of minutes to spare, loads of them overflowing and spilling all over the floor like sand from an hourglass. It's a good thing, too, because Carlos likes to talk, and Ben likes to listen. They're a good match, in more respects than one but this one especially ⸺ Ben rests his chin on his forearms while Carlos prattles on about his day, about the boring books they're reading in English and something he learned in math and how he's trying to teach Dude how to fetch, a venture that has thus far been unsuccessful. They swap stories and lazy kisses as the sun outside dips lower and lower, sky turning blood red and purple speckled with flecks of pink, an amalgamation of colored light draping itself over the sheets they lie beneath. They knock their bare knees together and Carlos buries his face in Ben's shoulder while Ben murmurs my good boy, and the words drip with love, the purest of love, and absently traces patterns on his back, fingers following the curve of his spine like lines on a map. Carlos says nothing, usually, worn out from rattling off the details of his day but it might be the happiest he's ever been.
More often than not, they wind up dozing, awakened only by Jay calling through the door that the dinner bell is ringing and they should probably hurry up.
It's a mess of tangled sheets and limbs and giggles muffled into pillows and the backs of hands. Them being late for dinner is never an unusual occurrence, mouths spilling laughter as they tear down the hallway ten minutes late, shoes scuffing the marbled floors as they rub sleep from their eyes, fingers fumbling with the buttons on their shirts.
⸺ oo5.
There are days, certainly, where Carlos is a miserable sack of gloom and sniffles, curled up in bed with his head under the sheets, body making a small bump in the blankets, though still relatively large in comparison to the Dude-sized lump that rests beside him. His mind is spinning with his mother's words that always reappear like ghosts when he least expects them, nipping at his heels and squeezing their way back into his head. He knows better than to listen to her, now, but it's easy to forget to be strong. It's easy to let her unravel him all over again, because even the ghosts of her words know exactly how to tap into the softest parts of him.
Ben tries to help, because he always does, a sort of benevolence pumping through his bloodstream that is concurrently nauseating and reassuring as he rubs Carlos' back through the sheets, gently trying to prod information out of him.
"Where's my good boy?" he'll murmur finally, voice plagued with concern and desperation, and Carlos will peek his head out from under the blankets, cheeks red and lips twisting into a smile that he can't quite help and Ben will smile and burrow under the covers with him, pull him close and sometimes Carlos wants to talk about it, but mostly he just doesn't, eyes flashing like warning signs that beg him not to ask, and Ben understands, so he bites his tongue and keeps quiet. He's had to learn, of course, to know when it is best for him to just let people be despite every bone in his body screaming at him to do something, to try help despite there being nothing he can do.
There are times, of course, when Carlos does want to talk about it, and it gives Ben the suspicion that Carlos is one of those people who has never allowed himself to cry, or maybe he did when he was young and drained every last drop from his skull and now there's nothing left. Either way, Carlos doesn't cry, and Ben doesn't think it's because he doesn't allow himself to. It's a common occurrence, he's noticed, with kids from the Isle, emotions muddled and eyes glazed and confused always, heads wired differently than those born and bred in Auradon with silver spoons stuck in their mouths and silk on their skin, ears graced with only words of kindness.
Mostly, Carlos just lays with his chin tucked over Ben's shoulder and when he does feel like talking, he doesn't cry. Somehow, it's even worse that way, his voice faltering and breaking like choppy waves, like not crying is more emotionally draining than just doing so.
"I miss her. And, like, I know. I know that I shouldn't miss her but I do. I miss my mom," he whispers, voice cracking as the final word touches his lips, and Ben understands; oh, he does, or at least he wishes he could, his own chest aching at the thought and if Carlos cannot cry then Ben will weep for him, for childhood and innocence lost.
⸺ oo6.
Carlos really can't help that English class has never been his forte, the hours of his dark eyes tracing along the curves of printed words that line page after page after page serving only to make his eyelids heavy and his mind fuzzy. It is times like this, certainly, that having someone like Ben around is a good thing, because Ben might be a prince but he understands Carlos' own mischief more than he ever expected. So when Ben shows up in the doorway with a good-natured smile and the perfect excuse to bust him out, it is not so much a surprise as it is a blessing.
Their destination after said prison-style breakout is always unknown until they stumble upon it ⸺ often it's the garden, where Ben can press him against trees and tackle him in the grass and whisper words against his throat, their fingers twined together and digging into the dirt; Carlos will go back to his room with grass stains on his shirt and leaves in his hair, but worse things have happened. Other times, Ben shows him around the castle that seems to grow exponentially every time, winding staircases and tiny doors and endless hallways.
Today, though, Ben is tugging him down the hall with a sort of urgency that has Carlos' palms sweating. Today, he's pulling him into a storage closet where the air is thick with cleaning spray and mothballs, shoving a box in front of the door in a last-ditch attempt in case anyone tries to disturb them. Today, he's pressing Carlos against the wall; the sound vibrates inside the tiny box of a room, plastic shelves wobbling. Carlos is, for the first time, struggling to keep up, lips moving clumsily against Ben's.
"What's gotten into you today?" he laughs breathily, pushing Ben away for a moment so he can suck chemical-infused air into his lungs.
Ben leaves his lips alone for a moment only to attach his mouth to Carlos' neck, kissing up the column of his throat and pressing them to the underside of his jaw. "Want you," he murmurs against his skin, as if that explains everything and really, it shouldn't make Carlos' breath hitch the way it does. Maybe it's relief that Ben feels the way Carlos feels all the time. On the other hand, maybe it's fear, the overwhelming idea of all of this suddenly being ripped out from under him.
Still, he laughs, fingers clutching at Ben's arms and tugging him closer, noses bumping as he places a kiss to his chin and then his cheek, sweet and a little anxious, sight obstructed by the darkness draped over the room. Another peal of laughter. "Do ya?"
Ben blinks up at him as if he can't quite believe the words before his hands are on either side of Carlos' face, fingers forcing his chin up so he can kiss him again, messy and desperate and with something to prove. "Of course I do," Ben mutters, fingers dragging down his chest, settling on his hips. "Always want you."
"S'good," Carlos practically slurs, head falling back against the plaster when Ben bites at his earlobe. "Always want you, too. Need you. Need you so much." Their hips are slotted together and Carlos is thankful for the dim, nearly nonexistent lighting because he's already half hard, desperate and needy and he doesn't want Ben to see how red in the face he is.
Footsteps echo down the hall, and Ben presses tighter against him. They exchange nervous, giddy laughter into each other's mouths, bug-eyed and limbs trembling with nervous energy as the footfalls stop, for a moment, like a creature with its ear pressed against the door, listening. They pick up again after a moment, fading into nothingness as Carlos keeps time by the shaky breaths that leak from his lips and Ben's heartbeat thudding beneath his palm. Then for a little while it is quiet, and they exhale in unison, followed by more laughter. Carlos doesn't think he's ever laughed as much in his entire life than he does with Ben. It's nice.
"We need to keep quiet," Ben insists, forehead pressed to his, even though his fingers are slipping beneath Carlos' waistband, teasing, and it's impossible for Carlos to suppress another whine even though he knows Ben wouldn't do something so reckless as fucking him here; that will have to wait for later when they're safe within the castle walls, nothing but an endless array of empty rooms and doors that lock from the inside to protect them, so Ben swallows the noise with another kiss. It's sloppy and they're both panting but he doesn't stop until Carlos has quieted down again, muffling his moans into Ben's shoulder and his neck and the back of his hand. "Good boy." And Carlos shivers, then, eyelids heavy. He feels drugged with pleasure, almost, whenever the words grace his ears. It's so nice.
Good boy, good boy, good boy. Ben rolls the words into his skin like a prayer, whispers them into the crook of his neck and presses them into his mouth, and the words feel permanent, somehow, like ink staining his skin, words digging themselves into his flesh and making a home there, clusters of letters thrown together in a mess of chaos that only the future King of Auradon can bring about inside him.
Carlos holds those words close as they beat like moth's wings inside of his chest, folds them up like love notes and tucks them away for later.
i'm still not entirely sure how i feel about this as i find it to be one of the weaker things i've written but ben/carlos is really fucking slept on for literally no reason at all and i would not be able to live with myself if i didn't at least try to contribute to the cause.