The sheets are aseptic white against his skin.
Machines that seemingly monitor every intracellular activity within his body hiss and hum like clockwork. Benji Dunn blinks once, twice, and then three times more.
Hiss. Hum. Blip. That means his heart did a thing. Hiss. Hum.
He feels no pain in his chest—good cardiac output—nor armpits and groin—lymph nodes are fine—nor lungs and upper respiratory tract. They ask for him to swallow. Does he feel any pain?
He does. It's barely there, like the aftereffects of a bug. Like the day after little Timothy had swung a didgeridoo into his Adam's apple during rehearsal and Miss Robinson soothed him with ice towels and a slice of treacle pudding.
He hasn't thought of Miss Robinson and Timothy Cobb in decades, and he doesn't know why they come to him now. Benji shakes his head. No, it doesn't hurt.
He's made a miraculous recovery ever since he's woken up. Did he know that, Mister Dunn? Benji wonders where in the doctor's clipboard it says such things, because nothing has made any sense from the moment he opened his eyes. He nods yes, he knows.
Their commercial smiles fade when he asks when he can leave. One of the nurses asks if he has a friend or family member who can pick him up. Benji shakes his head.
On the nights when fatigue hinders his sleep, Benji wonders if he has any. Surely they must have existed at some point. But whenever he wakes, it's to an empty bedside and an empty flower vase which has faithfully stood vigilance over him throughout his entire stay. When behind white curtains the sun chases the moon away for the thirtieth time in a row, he deletes the possibility that they exist.
The doctors are indifferent to the fact that he spends most of his days alone. Benji can almost hear their brains buzzing away like the machines over his bed, juggling the lives of countless dying individuals. It's the nurses he hates the most, for they are the true professionals. He cannot bear the sympathy they are trained to feel, and each time it's like he's back on the choir stage in primary school, Timothy sweeping his musical weapon around just a little bit harder.
One of the nurses finish checking his vitals, and gives another cursory glance to the empty flower vase. She looks at Benji and smiles. Didgeridoo to the throat. He tries smiling back, but she's already gone when he realizes he hadn't moved his lips.
The machines don't offer him any ice towels or pudding, but they soothe him nonetheless. Hiss. Hum. Blip. Benji closes his eyes.
-0-
The human mind was a mysterious thing, Benji supposes.
The way it retains all the behavioral patterns it's learned over the years, and yet it cannot recall a single thing pertaining to who he was, or where he lived. The address on his patient record is the reason why he stands before a single storey house on the corner of ninth. The key was chained to the belt buckle of a pair of bluejeans they said were his, as well as the other clothes in the duffel bag.
It's very homey inside, and Benji thinks he likes it, although not a single piece of furniture looks or feels familiar. The fridge is stocked, and he is suddenly very hungry. He slaps together untoasted bread with some cold cut turkey and explores the house some more.
It's a tiny house, but more than enough space to accommodate one person. He rummages through the wardrobe, running hands across the many well-worn shirts and jackets that hang there. Behind him, the corner bed is neatly made and looks like it's never been slept in.
Nothing feels like they belong to him, but Benji knows the stuff he thinks is unreliable at best. He is going to try.
-0-
It is not working.
It begins with one or two things throughout the week, and at first Benji shrugs it off as mere white noise in his head. The third time it happens, he is listening to the rambling telly while he builds a homemade beef burger with romaine, egg mayonnaise and freshly sliced farmer's market tomatoes.
"There's gonna be a ton of games, folks. Lots and lots of ice cream, too! My personal favorite is the strawberry cheesecake gelato. How 'bout you, James?"
"Nah, the wife is telling me to watch the scale this year. I think I'll be sticking to the firing range—I've been trying to win that giant penguin forever! But it's not just that; there's the rubber duck pond, ring tossing, bottle flipping, so many booths to name!"
"And the kids will love the craft stations. Look at these, how adorable are they? Never got to make one of these myself—I mean, how come everybody gets to do it but me?"
The plate carrying the burger he's stacked so painstakingly slips out of his hand and shatters into a thousand pieces. Bits of ground beef and ceramic pepper the hardwood and there's mayonnaise streaking his cupboard. He stands for a few seconds, shocked. Benji doesn't know what happened. His grip had been perfectly sturdy, but for a split fraction his mind had gone white. The next moment, he's staring at the remnants of what would have been a delicious lunch.
Benji shakes his head. He feels angry, but not at the loss of his burger nor the mess it's made. He turns back to the telly where the two reporters were chuckling at themselves while wearing paper animal faces.
Benji keeps staring, but cannot figure out why their innocent banter had riled him up so much.
It takes a while to wipe down every speck of mayonnaise off the surfaces. By the time he finishes, it's late afternoon and his stomach is pleading loudly. Benji opens a pack of crisps.
-0-
He knows he should be looking for a job.
He skims the papers for hiring positions, circling a few that might interest him. When he takes a step back, he discovers that they're all related to software development and programming. He knows a few languages, and but doesn't know how well he'd fare in a professional environment. He's too afraid to find out, which is why the laptop remains untouched in the corner of his room.
He doesn't know if he's good at anything else. He can wash dishes, at least. As if to make a point, Benji gets up and starts scrubbing through the pile that has been slowly growing in his sink.
Everything is sparkling clean by the time it grows dark, including the counters and stovetop. He feels the most accomplished in weeks and Benji thinks sleep with come easier to him tonight.
He takes his time to floss and brush his teeth, and wipes off the excess bright blue toothpaste from his fingers, grimacing at how sticky they were.
"Blue is glue," he mutters, and immediately has to clutch the towel rack before the sudden bout of dizziness brings him down.
He doesn't know why he said that. It just seemed like the right thing to say. The vertigo is ebbing quickly, but Benji is still somewhat shaken. He stumbles into bed, about to draw the comforter over himself but suddenly realizing what color it is.
And red?
The scarlet dye has become unbearable to look at. He crumples it up and shoves it to the back of his wardrobe.
Dead.
Benji lays down on his mattress, and resorts to curling up for warmth.
-0-
When he sleeps, he dreams of things he does not understand.
Faces are nondescript, existing only in theory and the voices that always try to tell him things sound like nothing at all. Benji always wakes with the same feeling in his chest that can only be described as a pressurized hole.
When it gets unbearable, he wonders if he should go back to the nurses and doctors he'd woken to. He doubts he'll be remembered, as that was already six months ago.
He isn't dying, although that revelation was a gradual process. It takes him another three months to realize that the feeling is not a sign of heart disease, but loneliness.
-0-
His prescriptions are renewed every four weeks.
They'd taken him off the important ones after the first three months. It's now best to let your body recover on its own, Mister Dunn. But here are some things that might help you along the way.
He checks their labels for the millionth time. SSRIs, and other silly things. Take three tablets a day with food. Insomnia.
The doctors would be proud to know that he sleeps like a log, for something like eleven, twelve, maybe even thirteen hours each night. If he's lucky, he might even throw in a nap or two throughout the day. He's been sleeping just fine.
Three tablets a day run out very quickly. The trips to the pharmacy are growing increasingly tedious.
One day, he stops going.
-0-
He's out of coffee.
It's one of those trivial things that can be easily solved by a quick run to the store, but Benji is devastated. Venturing outside is a chore that only results in more headaches and weird moments where he thinks he's remembering something but cannot grasp what it is.
But his head is throbbing something fierce, and he needs something to eat, anyway. Bleary-eyed, Benji checks his bankbook online.
With how he was spending without a real source of income, he's expected the numbers to be critically low. However, he hasn't once seen them go down below the hundreds. In fact, it somehow feels like they they've barely budged at all ever since he first arrived here. Strange.
He will think about this later. He is also craving a nap already, despite having woken only minutes ago. Right now he needs coffee.
Starbucks is bustling in the afternoon.
Benji doesn't know what day it is, but then again he supposes Starbucks is busy at all times. He hates the crowd, but he really wants that venti-sized flat white. He leans against the counter, head resting in the cup of his palm.
It's quite overcast today, but according to the women at the table beside him, it's not going to rain. That is good news, because Benji actually made the effort to shower before heading out. He isn't going to let that go to waste.
Ten agonizing minutes later, he hears his name called at last. He grabs the cup in a hurry, wanting to get to the lids and napkins before making a dash for it. What he doesn't anticipate, however, is the stranger who has been standing right behind him and Benji very nearly douses him with his scalding hot coffee.
"Shit!"
"Jesus Christ!" yells the stranger, jumping away. Benji's reflexes kick in like nothing before, and only manages to slosh the contents of his cup over his own sleeve. "Watch where you're fucking going!"
"Sorry," Benji hisses, cringing at the searing temperature of the beverage drenching his hand and wrist. "Sorry, m'sorry—"
"I have a meeting in five minutes! This suit costs more than you'll ever amount to, you fucking moron!"
"Oh stop, it was an accident," snaps a mother of two, who is watching from the end of the queue.
"Are you all right, sir?" asks a barista, looking concerned over the espresso machine.
"Yes. 'Scuse me," Benji mumbles. He is getting stares and he really needs to get out of here. The throng of people waiting for their caffeine fix has grown substantially. Without bothering for a lid, Benji weaves his way out of the shop.
He gasps for air once he's outside. The coffee spill stinks and is cooling on his sleeve. His hand is still red, but the burning sensation has moved on to his lungs. Leaving the house has been a mistake. He should have simply slept off the headache and ignored the rumbling in his belly like he usually does.
Benji turns around, more than ready to crawl back to bed. Amidst the pedestrians parting like a school of fish around him, something catches his eye.
Off in the distance stands a lone figure, next to the dry fountain. A man. Though he wears sunglasses, he is still facing this way. He likely saw Benji's strange little body-wriggle performed in vain attempt to alleviate the uncomfortable stickiness.
Benji can feel his ears glowing with embarrassment. Not only has a cup of flat white ruined his day, he's managed to humiliate himself in front of more strangers outside. Time to go. By the time he's reached his house on the corner, he's practically running and the coffee has gone cold.
-0-
Even after the Starbucks fiasco, Benji doesn't learn his lesson.
He still goes outside once a week or so, and picks up some things at the convenience shop because hunger simply cannot be ignored. He goes to a different place for coffee now. It's locally owned and half as chaotic.
He's come back from a grand total of three interviews so far. Half the questions are always a breeze. They make him write out a few lines of code. Easy. Check for palindromes in the following strings. Done. Please implement a post-order traversal. He could have done it in his sleep.
The other questions are much more difficult and often leave him stumped. Tell us about yourself, Mister Dunn. Benji never knows how to answer that. What sort of hobbies do you enjoy? Perhaps gaming, once upon a time. The console beneath his telly will likely collect dust until the end of time. Do you have any previous work experiences? He thinks so. But 'probably' is never good enough for any respectable employer.
In the end, all three companies have offered him a position, starting the next day, or week, or month. He writes down the starting date and time on his calendar, but somehow manages to sleep through each one, every time. Alarm clocks are a scam.
But it doesn't even matter, he thinks. When he checks today, there is definitely more money in his bank account than there was a couple days prior. The transaction record is utterly normal—all withdrawals, and not a single deposit. Perhaps it is a system glitch, but this whole time he couldn't have been making purchases if the money didn't actually exist.
He considers calling them about it. But what if it is a mistake, after all? He doesn't know what he'd do then.
Benji closes his laptop, feeling ill. He goes to lie down.
-0-
In many ways, 'emptiness' aptly describes every aspect of Benji's existence, from the prominent gaps in his memory to his days spent in this cozy little home.
He remembers his time at Oxford. He'd been quite happy, then. It doesn't make sense that he'd leave it all to live in Washington, of all places.
It's not just memories alone that leave such extensive blank spaces in his head. There are other things missing, too. At times his body yearns for something as monumental as the presence of a specific human being. On other days, it's just the simple desire to know what it's like for his lips to shape the sound of a certain name.
Living alone in a foreign continent, in a house he cannot fully belong to. He doesn't even have his own identity to keep him company.
If the mind is a universe of its own, then his exists in a void. The loneliness is cosmic, ever expanding.
Benji loathes how his eyes have begun to sting.
-0-
If there is one small gift in this awful turmoil of a world, it is the discovery of a single consistency in his life that he begins to discover bit by bit the more he ventures outside. The consistency takes the form of a man whom he stumbles across every now and then, although from far away.
At first, he begins with short walks around the neighborhood. He visits local landmarks and sits in park benches, watching people pass for hours on end.
He sees different faces each day, and yet they somehow manage to be all the same. During the seven days he's spent at the park—or was it eight, maybe twelve?—not a single soul has bothered to acknowledge his presence. He is a ghost living in a shell of a man, invisible to everyone including himself. Benji's coffee is acidic, slowly perforating his stomach. He continues to sip on it, watching, trying to remember and returning home empty-minded.
Today will be no different. Benji walks to the bins to toss his empty cup.
Up ahead, he sees a man sitting alone at a picnic table. His nose is buried in a large green and yellow book, looking utterly raptured by the tale. Benji drops his cup into the metal bin. It hits the bottom with a soft 'clang'. The man flips a page, scratching idly at his head.
Two days later, Benji tries to change it up and orders tea instead. As he pushes past the door with a scone between his teeth, he sees a man hunched over the display of tomatoes at the farmer's market across the road. Something about the shape of his profile is familiar, but Benji cannot put his finger on it.
He watches this stranger poke and prod the beefsteak tomatoes until choosing a few that apparently satisfy him. When he turns to the cash counter, Benji sees the large green and yellow book tucked under his arm.
What a small world, Benji thinks. He turns to the park, feeling oddly uplifted.
-0-
He finds himself at the public library one day.
Benji feels slightly foolish, because it was by no intention of his own to pick up reading. The single seed of inspiration had sparked from witnessing the man at the park, but now that he's here, he has no idea where to start.
He wanders the technology section, grazing the titles of some coding guides. He flips through some of them, but stacks them away again. There is no reason to waste his time on something he already knows.
He slowly drifts in and out of the row of plays. Beneath the collection of Shakespeare, there are musicals and operas. A leather-bound copy of Turandot.
It would have been nice to see it, Benji thinks wistfully. After a moment's hesitation, he pulls it off the shelf.
The queue is small on a rainy Monday afternoon. He waits to get it stamped, skimming the pages while he does so.
"Excuse me," comes a gentle voice from behind.
He turns to face the one who addressed him. A man, who wears a grey peacoat with tortoiseshell buttons. Benji cannot help but notice how stunning he looks. "You dropped this."
It's his library card. "Oh." He takes it from the man's unwavering hand. His skin is warm to Benji's clammy fingers when they brush in accidental contact. "Thanks."
His vocal chords were still on leave it seems, which isn't surprising given how long he hasn't used them for. The two syllables leave his throat in a disastrously fractured mess, and he can feel his ears burning in shame.
The stranger doesn't laugh. Instead, he gifts Benji with a breathtaking smile that softens his features in the warmest and kindest of ways. For a moment, Benji loses all functional capabilities.
There is an inexplicable sense of urgency brewing in his gut, but he doesn't know why. The more he stares, the worse it gets. Quick, it is saying. Quickly, there's no time.
Time before what?
Before he disappears, it says. You must be quick, before you never get the chance again.
Chance to do what?
"Do you like musicals?"
It takes longer than normal for Benji to realize he is still being spoken to. "No," he croaks uselessly. "I mean, it's an opera."
"You read Italian? That's very impressive."
"No, it's not."
The man's smile grows stale, and Benji suddenly feels like he's committed a heinous crime. The only thing that keeps him from combusting on the spot is the fact that he doesn't appear offended. His gut continues to churn with panic.
Before allowing himself to decipher what the man is thinking, Benji whips around and slams his book on the counter. He is out of the library before his receipt is finished printing.
-0-
The stamped copy of Turandot sits untouched on his couch, and Benji does not leave his bed for more than five minutes at a time.
He keeps the telly on in the living room, hoping it will provide a distraction. Unable to sleep nor function properly, Benji listens to the programmes through a fog.
He cannot stop thinking about the man in the library. There is something about the way his voice had sounded, the way he stood with silent confidence and refined grace. The way his skin had felt from the smallest of touches under Benji's fingertips. His frustration peaks to unprecedented measures.
The nausea never fully goes away. You should have done it back then, it admonishes. You should have remembered.
He doesn't know what, or why. Only that he needs to, before... before...
Please, it implores. Please, remember.
It's meaningless, no matter how viciously he tears at his head. Whatever kind of memory it is, they remain unreachable. Unattainable.
Just like the man who read green and yellow books, who thought Benji was deserving of such a beautiful, beautiful smile.
His frequent trips to the park and the shops are all complementary props to the grand illusion of what he thought was the start of his recovering journey. Benji thinks back to his hospital sheets, and the empty flower vase by his head, and wishes he had never opened his eyes.
He does not go for coffee again for a long time.
-0-
On the fifth evening of living on cold, microwave dinners and tap water, Benji gets a knock on his door.
He has no intentions of answering, but whoever is out there, they are extremely persistent. Benji gets up only to save the poor fist from all the abuse its owner is inflicting upon it.
Grey peacoat, immaculately tailored. A sculpted, handsome face like no other. Tortoiseshell buttons. Lips gently curving into that gorgeous smile that revives the butterflies in his stomach.
"Hullo?" Benji rasps, unsure if he knows how to breathe.
"Hi," the man says, still beaming. "I didn't know you lived here."
"Er..." Benji blanches when he suddenly realizes how dreadful he must look—wildly unkempt bedhead, thick jumper in the tail-end of June, flannel trousers slipping down his arse, no socks.
"Just handing these out." Apparently oblivious to Benji's horrendous state of attire, the man waves a stack of posters around. "I'm volunteering at that Fourth of July barbeque. You know, the one they talk about on TV all the time? Lots of food and fun games to play. There's ice cream, too." A playful wink. Benji nearly chokes on absolutely nothing.
"I do like ice cream," he whispers without conviction. He is thinking of the two reporters on the telly, voices muffled by paper masks. What had they said?
It's a shame we're not wearing masks.
That's not quite how they'd said it. Besides, they were already wearing them at that point.
Everybody gets to wear a mask but Benji.
No. No, that doesn't sound right at all. The world is beginning to sway. "Not interested, sorry."
"That's okay." The man nods as if he's expected this answer. He doesn't sound disappointed. In fact, it seems quite the opposite. "I'll still give this to you, though. In case you change your mind."
The poster is cut from card paper, and the ink is glossy. There is contact information at the bottom corner. Any questions? Fax, email, mobile.
"Good night." Benji moves to close the door, but sudden dark tendrils have sprung into his peripherals. They consume his sight, drain his strength, and he drops like a string-less doll.
"Benji!"
The stranger is by his side in an instant, one foot over the doorframe. Benji wishes he can focus on how those two arms save him before the ground catches up, solid against his back and shoulders. He wishes he can think about how closely he is being pressed against this man. About how their noses are inches apart, and how he can detect traces of cologne on the lapels of the peacoat. A forest of pine, and a remote cabin in its midst. It smells more like home than anything else.
Unfortunately, his attention must be diverted to another, more pressing issue at hand.
The stranger had said his name. Benji is nearly convinced he has misheard. However, he is obligated to ask. "How do you know that?" Dare he hope? "Do we know each other?"
Please say we do. It doesn't even have to be true. I just need to hear someone say it. Please.
"I saw it on your library card," the man confesses. His stricken gaze was enough of an answer on its own. "It was facing up, and I couldn't help myself. I didn't mean to invade your privacy, I'm sorry."
Just like that. Like a house of cards burned to ash, it all comes crumbling down.
"It's all right." The night air feels glacial against his cheeks. Benji realizes he is crying. "Not your fault." He scrubs his eyes furiously and extracts himself from the man's arms. He knows he is being looked at with pity. The hollow ache in his chest amplifies the drumming of each heartbeat.
"I'm sorry," the man says again. Distress is evident in the tightness of his voice, the crease between his brows. "Do you need anything, or would you like me to leave?"
It is the last thing Benji wants. And yet, he knows it would be preposterous for him to even suggest the man to stay. His own audacity humors him. "I should turn in for the night," he manages to say.
It's almost as if the man is reluctant to leave. Desperation has rendered Benji utterly delusional. With a final, mumbled 'good night', he hurriedly closes the door and fixes the lock. It is straight to bed afterwards, without listening for footsteps walking off the porch.
As he lies there counting the minutes that bleed into hours, he realizes what he is missing. The man had never offered his own name, nor had Benji thought to ask for it.
Maintaining a mental snapshot of the man, he tries to come up with a few. When he tests each one out loud, none of them sound right.
-0-
In true American fashion, a sea of flags has flooded the streets as the Fourth of July waits around the corner.
The pamphlet is left out on the kitchen island and Benji studies it for the first time today. Generic messages printed in bright red, blue, and white. Photographs of grinning families with stars and stripes painted over their faces. And in the corner next to mobile, a set of ten numbers.
There is nothing there to indicate that it would be his personal contact. It might easily direct him to some public office desk. He shouldn't be doing this.
Benji doesn't know where this random burst of courage is coming from. What will he say? In the end he merely settles with: This is Benji.
If he is wrong, then it'll simply go ignored, and he can move on. No big deal. His thumb hits 'send' before he can talk himself out of it.
Ten minutes later, a text arrives. He is excited and terrified all at once. With bated breath, he peeks at the screen.
Good afternoon, Benji! How are you?
Short and sweet, not too impersonal. Benji releases an explosive sigh of relief. I'm doing well, he types out with trembling fingers. This is who I think it is, right?
If you're thinking of the random poster guy then yes.
In truth, it is not quite random after all. Benji doesn't know how to confess that he's seen him multiple times in public places even before their library encounter. It feels weird to keep it to himself, but how can he say these things in a way that doesn't come off as insanely creepy? I watched you read your book for about five minutes straight. I saw you buying tomatoes at the market. You'll bruise them if you stab them like that.
Sorry about what happened then, Benji decides to type instead. I was having a bad night.
The response arrives almost instantaneously. Don't worry about it. It happens to everyone.
Benji highly doubts it. There is no way he can explain how he spends most of his waking moments wandering without purpose, trying to find even the slightest clue about the life he's led up until he opened his eyes to white ceilings, walls, and bedcovers.
During his musings, another text is waiting for him. Did you change your mind about the BBQ?
Ah, the barbeque. No. Sorry.
Don't be. If I'm honest, I don't really see the appeal either.
Then why were you going door-to-door about it?
Can't hurt to earn some extra pocket money, comes the sheepish reply. Benji snorts, then startles himself with the noise. He cannot remember the last time he's laughed. Big surprise there. It feels good, nonetheless.
I'm far too late in asking, but I never got your name.
Benji doesn't get a reply for a very long time. With each second that ticks by, he grows increasingly agitated. He keeps scrolling back to his previous messages, worried he might have accidentally said something wrong. There's nothing in their fleeting conversation to indicate anything of the sort.
By the time the fortieth minute approaches, Benji has lost all hope. Hearing his phone finally buzz is like being allowed to breathe again.
It's Ethan.
Nodding shakily, he mouths the name to himself. Ethan. Benji brings up his favorite mental picture of the man, the one where he smiles like Benji is all he's ever cared to see.
That's a nice name, Benji texts back, and it's true; he likes it very much. Pleasure to meet you.
After that, Ethan does not respond again. Benji clutches his phone and waits out the hours, but all he gets in return is the disappointment of an empty notification bar.
-0-
With how abruptly their first mobile interaction had been severed, Benji doesn't expect Ethan to text him again.
Although he has lived here for many months, he hasn't spoken to a single neighbour. Admittedly, he doesn't go out much. Correction: he rarely goes out, ever. And whenever he does, he's quick and his eyes are always fixed to the pavement, all the signs of an unapproachable man. If they are ignoring him purposefully, it is with good reason.
Benji finds himself watching the ducks at the pond farthest away from the barbeque being prepared some distance beyond the trail. The clock has not yet struck noon. The only reason he is out so early is because he hadn't bothered to sleep the night before.
During some point he has heard that it's not good to keep things bottled up. He wishes he had secrets to spill, to feel the weight being lifted from his shoulders with every word that comes out of his mouth. But what if there is nothing left inside him that can be bottled up in the first place? How will he seek this healing catharsis then?
He has lost everything that has made him into who he is now. There is no medical breakthrough, no cure for a shitty, unreliable brain. He is wasting away, and there is nothing he can do about it.
His phone pings in his pocket.
Benji?
He stares dumbly at the pixels on the screen. After leaving what Benji had thought was a perfectly natural conversation without so much as a 'gotta go' or 'goodbye', he cannot imagine what Ethan would want now.
Ethan is the only person to step into Benji's life as of late. It doesn't matter that they've known each other for barely a week, because he is the only person Benji has memories of—memories that can be drawn from present day. Not those godforsaken snippets of time from decades ago that no longer matter. So even if Ethan turned out to be an imprudent prick, even if those pleasant experiences get reduced to the mere physical appeal of his smile, Benji knows he cannot say no to the man.
Hi, he sends. I thought you had a BBQ to volunteer at.
The speed at which Ethan's reply arrives makes Benji wonder if it was already pre-planned and typed out, only waiting to be fired off.
Skipping out on the BBQ, don't see much point in it after all. I'm sorry for not replying back then, it was very rude of me.
Was it something I said?
No. Not your fault in the slightest, all mine.
Oh. Benji doesn't know to react to that. He flounders for an appropriate response, but Ethan's speech bubble is bouncing up and down, indicating that he's typing again.
I'd like to make it up somehow. Would you like to get coffee?
Benji is fully aware that he is openly gawking at his phone. For a few blissful seconds, all traces of fatigue are swept away at the realization that Ethan has just asked him out. Not romantically, of course—he may be a man of several defective traits, but he isn't daft—and yet his poor heart cannot stop seizing up at the mere thought of seeing that smile up close again.
Yes, he sends. Where at?
I'm actually grabbing a bite at this café, the only one on E20th St. Meet here in a couple hrs?
That happens to be the shop Benji has frequented ever since his Starbucks flat white incident. I can be there in 20 min.
-0-
Twenty minutes later, as he promised, Benji opens the glass door to the shop.
The place is small, and it doesn't take long to spot Ethan in the corner. The tiny table provides barely enough surface to hold a plate that consists of mostly crumbs. A tall glass of what looks like more milk than coffee is balanced precariously on the edge. There is still a bit of whipped cream floating at the top where the straw peeks out.
Ethan looks up when the bell jingles at his entrance. He watches Benji sit down, but not in a way that feels unnerving or invasive.
"Good morning." The smile is more reserved today, but still just as genuine. "You look well."
He really doesn't. Ethan probably means he looks more presentable. To help him stay awake, Benji had showered before leaving the house. Freezing cold, but a shower is still a shower. The Chesterfield is a recent discovery in his wardrobe after he went digging for something longer and warmer.
Returning the compliment is too risky a move, because he doesn't know what might come out of his mouth. They just met, and he doesn't want to make a fool of himself even more. Benji flails around for a topic. "Is there somebody else to take your job at that park?"
"Uh, I think so? I'm just a volunteer. I was supposed to count tickets or something. If it's that important, they'd have hired someone."
"Like how they needed the posters handed out?"
"Exactly." Ethan sports a cheeky grin. Flustered, Benji diverts his attention to the menu board.
He nurses an americano to keep his hands occupied while they proceed to talk about everything and nothing at all. At one point, Ethan orders another foamy, creamy concoction that makes Benji's teeth hurt from just looking at it.
Despite the sharpness and angles of his face, when Ethan looks at him, it is with all the ferocity of a newborn lion. There is a special kindness that appears to exude naturally from the gentle slope of his eyes. His hair is lightly tousled, but in just the right ways. He is strikingly handsome, making even a simple, plum-colored shirt look sophisticated.
He can listen to Ethan talk forever, Benji realizes. It's rather strange, because neither of them are very talkative. Ethan is the opposite of a rambler; when he speaks, it is not just to fill the silence. Every sentence is rife with purpose and Benji latches on to every word, providing minimal input himself just so things are kept rolling.
Nearly three hours roll by like that. When they stand to leave, Benji feels more alive than he ever has.
The streets are deserted when they step outside, as everyone is likely gathered in the park for the national festivities. "I had a great time," he says, and he means every bit of it. "I don't have a lot of those, so... erm, it means a lot. Thanks." It's a lame finish, but Ethan is beaming.
Benji has no plans for the rest of the day, but somehow being with Ethan has instilled a burst of energy he didn't know he was capable of. He goes home and proceeds to scrub, dust, and vacuum every available inch of his living space. He tosses all the rubbish that's been lying around for weeks, some maybe months. He does the laundry. He makes his bed. He folds his clothes. Benji doesn't stop to rest because he fears that the moment he lets his guard down, the feeling will vanish.
And he knows it will, because today must have been a fluke. He is just lucky that Ethan happens to be someone who feels guilty about the things they cannot control. Now that he has cleared his conscience with the coffee, he will continue along his way.
Benji had despised the pity when doctors and nurses gave it. Ethan's pity, however, has allowed him to feel things he never imagined feeling again.
-0-
Against all odds, Ethan texts him a week later.
And then, a week after that.
The next week, once more.
They are all trivial, innocent things. At the end of it all, Ethan always asks to get coffee. Benji, being the wretched soul he is, cannot say no.
It has given him an excuse to take care of himself, at least. He's been eating more. At least two meals, or small nibbles sprinkled throughout the day. He's drinking more water, and only ever gets coffee with Ethan now. The withdrawal headaches are brutal, but they are nothing compared to the pain of witnessing the broken look on Ethan's face when Benji can barely stay awake during one of their meetups.
Sometimes they chat for as long as they did for the first time, and other times they don't. Even still, he doesn't understand why Ethan would wish to spend time with him, going out of his way to do so.
Whatever reason there may be, it matters little. It's because of the way Ethan asks 'how are you' like he means it, and refuses to speak until Benji has given a real answer. It's because of the way Ethan texts him links to videos that contain various tips to help alleviate migraines. It's the way he enjoys absurdly sugary drinks, the way he laughs at Benji's sarcastic jokes and smiles at him the way he does.
Benji knows he has fallen for this man, hard.
-0-
Autumn is fast approaching, and Benji prepares for his first day at his new job.
At some point, his coffee outings with Ethan had turned into lunches, then dinners. One night they had been roaming around looking for something new to try, and Benji had stopped in front of a bulletin board.
"Can you see me as a data analyst?" Benji had asked, just because.
"Of course," Ethan had said. "You'd be good at anything."
That's all it had taken. Interviewing at such an enormous company was rather nerve-wracking, but Benji thought of Ethan and kept his head held high.
His welcome day passes in a blur, but everyone is friendly. He even gets his own little office with a giant window that frames the sunset wonderfully.
The minute his shift ends, Benji gets a message from Ethan. How did it go?
Almost like I was nervous for nothing, he sends back.
I told you, Ethan says. Dinner to celebrate?
But we always get dinner these days.
Then I guess this one will have to be special.
Shaking his head, Benji smiles all the way to the bus stop.
Dinner is indeed a bit fancier than what they normally go for.
It is physically impossible to take his eyes off Ethan, who arrives looking like a bloody Hollywood movie star in his three-piece suit. The food is undoubtedly fantastic, but Benji doesn't pay attention to what goes into his mouth half the time.
"I don't even know how long I'll last," he says once he finds his voice again. "You didn't have to do this, either. It's not like I've been promoted to branch manager or anything."
Ethan sets down his wine, crestfallen. "Don't say that. You'll do great, I know you will."
It means more to Benji than Ethan probably thinks. It is easier to forget the blank spaces in his head because they are filled with Ethan every time they spend time together. He can now look in the mirror with confidence, without cringing away; he is learning how to live again, and there is nothing Benji can do to begin repaying this man for that. There are claws that throttle his chest whenever he is reminded of how Ethan could never be his, but it is a small price to pay when he gets to call himself somebody's friend.
-0-
There are first times for everything, they say.
For Benji, several first-times happen in a single day.
Throughout all the times they spent together, Ethan has never spoken above a gentle, conversational volume. Even when things happen unexpectedly, it's always raised brows and witty remarks, and nothing more.
The first time Benji hears Ethan raise his voice is on a Friday evening.
It's starts because of Benji's stubborn insistence on preparing vegetable roast from scratch. He's seen it on a cooking programme—it's just chopping things up, Ethan, how difficult can it be?
Perhaps there is another reason for being so obstinate. Perhaps it is going to be Ethan's birthday soon, and Benji wants to do something thoughtful for the man. A homemade dinner, for example. He's been critiquing his culinary prowess as objectively as he could, and doesn't think he is half bad.
To his annoyance, Benji realizes he missed a few things from his grocery trip that afternoon. Ethan, being the sweet soul he is, has offered to grab whatever he needs and stop by.
While waiting, Benji decides to get started. He is doing quite well until the time comes to cube the butternut squash. After wrestling with it all over the kitchen counters to no avail, Benji resigns himself to acknowledging that he needs a bigger knife.
Acquiring one is easy. The problem lies within the fact that the smaller knife is now stuck in this abominable excuse of a vegetable. Or a fruit, who gives a damn about what it is.
His hands are slippery with sweat and the slime seeping out of the squash, but Benji is too irritated to think about washing it off. He gives one last, violent yank to the knife handle and it comes flying out, but he cannot control its angle and momentum. It takes less than a second for the blade to slice grotesquely across his wrist.
Benji dashes into the bathroom before he starts dripping over his hardwood floor. He runs cold water over it while looking around for something to make a tourniquet out of, but he is afraid to release the death grip on his wrist.
A bandaid will not be enough for this one. He might have to get himself to a hospital. Benji feels very ill. The bleeding doesn't slow or stop.
It is by sheer luck alone that Ethan returns from the market not five minutes later. Benji hears his name being called, but thinks he will vomit if he tries to speak.
It barely occurs to him that the sound of splintering wood could've been his front door, now likely scattered in pieces across his doormat. When he is discovered, Benji has bled over most of the sink and bathroom tiles and the entire place looks and reeks like a slaughterhouse.
"Benji!"
Things shatter and break as Ethan drops whatever he's been holding. Blood is a terribly effective lubricant on glazed ceramic. He slips and tumbles to his knees in his rush to get inside.
Benji has been faintly aware of the tremors that wrack his body, but only realizes how cold he is after Ethan's hot hands feel searing against his skin. It's getting harder and harder to keep his arm elevated and his head raised, and he slips down the bathtub even further.
His fingers which still clamp around the bleeding are being pried open. Benji has no strength to resist and his hand falls away. Ethan takes one look at Benji's mangled wrist and his iron composure collapses like frail sediment in the wind.
"You can't!" Ethan's hands are slick with Benji's blood. It's ruining his jeans and expensive leather jacket. He is gripping Benji's wrist so tightly that his bones creak under the pressure—at this point, it's impossible to tell who is in more pain, because Ethan has buried his face in the cup of Benji's palm, and he's weeping like a babe abandoned atop a rocky summit. "You can't! Please, please don't do this!"
It's all a big misunderstanding. Benji feels own eyes burn with the need to say as such, but Ethan is shouting, begging for him to stay, as if he had been afraid of this for a very long time. Hot tears dilute the viscous pool of blood that has collected in Benji's hand, and Ethan sobs with an anguish he cannot control.
The wail of the ambulance is deafening to Benji's ears, but as he is being shoved into the back of the vehicle on a stretcher, with Ethan clinging to his side, he is overcome with the strange vertigo of experiencing something familiar, like déjà vu.
Like a memory. As though all of this has happened before.
-0-
The sheets are always aseptic white against his skin.
This time around, there are about half as many machines to watch him while he sleeps. However, Benji isn't worried.
He has spent only two nights here so far, but Ethan has yet to leave his bedside once. When Benji awakes for the first time, Ethan is the first thing he feels and sees. Warm fingers are rubbing gently over the pulse point on his wrist, carefully avoiding the stitches that hold the gash together.
Ethan is a right mess; his eyes are red and sunken, lines on his face deepened with stress. Benji finally tells him what really happened—how he wanted to do something nice for Ethan's birthday, how he had stupidly tried to pull a knife out of a godforsaken squash, how none of it would have happened if he hadn't been such an imbecile.
But Ethan doesn't laugh nor roll his eyes at how absolutely ludicrous the whole situation is. It takes a while for him to speak, and he only opens his mouth after the doctors order Benji another day of bedrest while they administer the nutrients he's skipped out on during the first several months of his negligent lifestyle.
"It means a lot to me," Ethan tells him. "Really, it does. But please, don't ever prioritize something or someone before yourself. Your safety comes first before anything else."
"Right," Benji mutters. "Lesson learned."
"I thought you were gone." The whisper is barely heard over the hiss and hum of the machines, but Benji catches it anyway.
"But I'm not." He smiles brightly, trying to alleviate Ethan's mood while ignoring his own hurts. "Thank you for getting me here so quickly. And for caring."
"Of course I care. I'll always care."
"Christ. Where have you been all my life?" he breathes, half-joking, half in wonder.
And just like that, Ethan's composure fractures once more and he's hunched over his plastic seat, hands covering his face. Benji is alarmed. Has he said something wrong once again? "Ethan." He is uncertain whether he should try and reach out.
"I don't—" He sounds just as broken as he had in the bathroom that day, perhaps even more. "I don't know how much of this I can take."
"What do you—"
"Here. I've always been here. In your life—" He draws deep, shuddering breaths that wrack his frame. "Benji, you really don't remember me?"
Cold hands. Numb lips. Nothing but the stretch of terrifying darkness that swallows all things around him until he can only see the man who sits by his side.
"I was your friend," Ethan is whispering. "You were my..." He trails off. What Benji is to Ethan, they will never know.
"No." Benji shakes his head once, then again. "I mean, yes, we are friends. I just... I meant I wish I'd known you earlier."
"But you do." Ethan's voice is splintering like shards of glass, and he looks like he wants to cry again. "You do know me, Benji."
"That's not true. You don't just—forget a feeling like this." Benji mutters. "I'd have remembered. If I'd known someone like you, I'd have most definitely remembered."
"I failed," Ethan chokes. "I wasn't going to let anything happen to you, but I failed." You need to leave. I can't protect you.
A filthy underground alley, darkness punctuated by the neon lights that cast harsh shadows on the walls.
A briefcase, which they had lost.
Tyres screeching across the cobbled roads of Paris, and the gentle roar of a motor boat.
Excitement. Hatred. Fear. Love.
"I don't understand." He cannot think, he cannot breathe—someone help, he cannot breathe. "It was important. People were in danger. There was a rope." It digs and cuts through his throat at a slow but inescapable rate. "I can't remember," Benji cries. "I can't... why can't I? Ethan, I'm going mad. Help me remember. Please."
"It was Lane." Hearing the name is like getting whiplash, and he can do nothing but suffer through it. "I was too far away, and I couldn't get to you fast enough. But you were fine afterwards—or so we thought, and we were wrong because one day you just—collapsed and wouldn't wake—"
Benji! Oh my God, Benji—
Mister Dunn, can you follow the direction of my finger with your eyes?
What's going on? Why is he like that? What happened?
I don't know—we were out for a run—I-I don't—
Agent Hunt, please step aside. This man needs medical attention, fast.
What's wrong with him? Please!
Ethan, get out of the fucking way—
Benji! Benji, look at me. Please say something.
Shit, he's losing consciousness. Do not close those eyes, Mister Dunn. You may never wake up again if you do. Can you hear us?
Oh God, this can't be happening! Benji, please! I'm begging you—
Get him in the ambulance! Ethan, stop shaking him! Do you want him comatose forever?
Take your fucking hands off me, Will, or I'll rip them off your arms—
The wail of an ambulance. Ethan's vice-like grip on his hand as he is wheeled into the back of the vehicle.
"Why?" Benji finds himself crying. Once the dam has been broken, any attempt at a shoddy repair is not enough to hold back the current. He notices the book lying at the foot of the bed for the first time. It's the green and yellow one from the picnic table. Brain Traumas and Injuries: The Cure. "Why did you leave me?"
"I never wanted to, God; you have to believe me. I tried, but I just... couldn't stay away—I had to see if you were all right. The team thought this was the best way to protect you—"
"I wanted to die!" Benji sobs. "I couldn't remember who I was, or why I was even here. I was so—so fucking alone—"
Ethan's face crumbles in the wake of his agony. Months and months of battling his own cancerous mind have incinerated Benji's resolve, and finally the last of their threads snap. He cries and cries into the crook of Ethan's shoulder, until his eyes are swollen and his throat is hoarse.
"I've forgotten you," Benji weeps. "I'm sorry. I can't believe I've forgotten you."
"You'll remember." Ethan's arms hold him dearly, protecting him in ways they never were able to before. "It'll come back one day."
"But what if it doesn't?"
"It's okay," Ethan whispers, soothing like the hiss and hum of the machine above their heads. Lips that are wet with tears press gentle kisses along Benji's quaking neck. "Just remember me in your dreams, as I will you."
Maybe in one of those dreams, they will meet again. And when Benji sees him, he will have remembered Ethan Hunt as the man who made everything in his life worth living for.