SENIOR YEAR

THREE MONTHS BEFORE GRADUATION

She wouldn't stop looking at him.

She sat across the way in the auditorium, mostly staring straight ahead, same as him. But every so often, when she thought Ben wasn't looking, her eyes would slip over to him, her brow furrowed, and it was impossible to tell what she was feeling or why she was doing it.

Either way, it scared Ben. His sweaty palms shook and rubbed on the thighs of his jeans, trying not to think of her eyes or the way she bit her lip. She was distracting him, goddammit, and today was an important day. He absolutely had to win this debate, with half the school watching, in order to look good for college, to prove he wasn't a total loser in front of Eagleton High School's debate team. But everytime he saw her lately, all he could think of was her, the feel of her lips, on her knees, his hands in her hair.

She won that day because ever since then, Ben has been addicted.

Actually, Leslie had sort of been haunting him without even meaning to. He saw her everywhere. In the hallways, in his dreams, when he closed his eyes, in his bed. And maybe it would all be a little bit more bearable if he even so much as knew what this was. He and Leslie were rivals. They'd been fighting everyday damn day since the first day of freshman year, and it was all they knew. They could try and make things better, try and make things work, but they fell apart every time.

He was just waiting for it to happen again, a ticking time bomb.

They were all dressed nicely for the occasion, their friends all here to support them. The lead teacher for their debate club, Mr. Newport, was running back and forth frantically behind the scenes, bags under his eyes and his tie loose. Microphones and tables were being set up, notes shuffled, whispered conversations on their debate topics and their players. Leslie wasn't on today, but as part of the team, she was still here to watch Ben— to distract him, to ruin him, even.

He had her to impress more than anyone. If he crashed and burned in front of her today, he didn't think he could ever look her in the eye again.

Mr. Newport tapped the microphone and the crowd fell silent, whispering falling away until everyone was looking forward. He smiled weakly, shifting nervously under the spotlight, and cleared his throat. "Pawnee High School, welcome Eagleton High to our school today for our sixth annual Debate Club showdown. I'd like to ask you all to show your utmost respect to those up on the stage. That includes turning your cell phones off, listening intently, and no interruptions or speaking out of turn." There was a shuffle as students went to put their phones away, a couple grumbling under their breath. "Today we welcome from Eagleton, Ingrid De Forest, and from Pawnee, Benjamin Wyatt."

There was an outbreak of applause as they both stood, coming up to the stage together. Ingrid was clearly a very well put together opponent. She wore a fitted dress and jewels and looked far too rich to step foot in Pawnee, which might've explained the scrunched up look on her face, as if she had smelled something rancid. Ben faced her on the stage and shook her hand, where she let go much too quickly, shaking her hand out afterwards.

The debate topic was a simple, easy one. Pawnee and Eagleton had been keeping each other at arm's length for years, so today's objective? Explain what made their town better. What made their town worth living in, as if trying to sell an Indiana newcomer to the area.

So, fine. Fine. Ben could do that. Ben could absolutely sell this goddamn town that he's hated most his life.

Ingrid started off very strong. Eagleton citizens had more wealth, bigger homes, better food, and a healthier lifestyle. They didn't have to worry about raccoons and litter and greasy burgers and they even had celebrities on retainer and palm trees, somehow. Ingrid made Pawnee out to be nothing but a dirty, trashy town that ruined people, brainwashed them, a nightmare you can't wake up from, and for some reason, something in Ben's gut bubbled and he didn't feel very good at all.

No, he felt angry.

Because how dare they speak that way about Pawnee? How dare they look at these people and call them weirdos, call them stupid, make them out to be anything less than passionate about the things that matter to them? His heart swelled with something that felt an awful lot like pride, and he was practically seething by the time he reached the microphone for his turn.

When he looked out into the crowd, Leslie wasn't looking at him anymore. She was staring at her lap, her shoulders gently trembling, and he could tell she was fighting between anger and sadness over Ingrid's words. It was just a debate, but this little town meant everything to Leslie. She lived and breathed Pawnee.

And what was Pawnee, really, but an extension of Leslie Knope?

"While Eagleton sits up on their hill and looks down on Pawnee, at least we know one town is getting things done," Ben said, his voice carrying across the auditorium. "At least we know that while one town is listening to their celebrities and having brunch and going for horse dancing lessons, another town is down in the dirt, doing what needs to be done to make itself better."

He hardly recognized the words coming out of his mouth. The more he spoke, the more he seemed to distance from himself, turning into something stronger, much more confident, someone who truly believed the words he was saying.

"Pawnee has raccoons, sure, but they're part of our charm. It's something that brings us all together. Call us weirdos, but we're weirdos who care. You'll always see it's citizens standing up for what they believe in, holding their ground, making their voices heard." He took a deep breath, grabbing the microphone, and spoke directly from his heart. "Our rec center classes teach valuable skills. Our parks are beautiful places to walk around in, maybe have a picnic in Ramsett Park. City Hall is huge and beautiful and filled with so many people who are working hard every single day to make sure Pawnee citizens are happy, working even in their off time. And little charms, little town staples like JJ's Diner…"

Ben met Leslie's eye.

"... well, JJ's Diner is home to the best breakfast food in the world."

And there it was— that tentative, gentle smile. She didn't look away, but raised her head higher, her eyes shining with something that looked suspiciously like tears. This meant something to her, far more than Ben could ever hope to understand. But Pawnee was her home.

He cleared his throat, and with his closing remarks, he didn't once look away from her. "I moved to Pawnee from Minnesota when I was only eight years old. I came into high school, even, hating everything about it. I was bitter, and lonely, and so desperate to get out there and find my way somewhere else. But now I'm going to college in this town. Now I've fallen in love with this town. And Pawnee… Pawnee is special."

And the strangest thing about it all— he actually believed himself. He didn't feel himself lying for even a moment.

The next several hours passed in a blur of activity, after the debate was ruled in favor of Ben's side. Pawnee High erupted into cheers, Eagleton trying to pick fights in the crowd, and Ben was pushed around everywhere, between people trying to talk to him or Eagletonians trying to swear at him. Andy and Tom were clapping his back, Jen was shaking his hand in congratulations, Ben's parents were there to silently nod their approval before they slowly started bickering with each other over who's great idea it was to move to Pawnee in the first place. But Ben didn't care, he couldn't even be bothered to listen to them— he just kept searching her out.

His eyes scanned the crowd for any signs of her, even though he had no idea what he would even say once he found her. There weren't enough words to properly express exactly how he was feeling, and he wouldn't even know where to begin. He was pushing his parents to the side, looking through the crowds, wondering if she was so tiny that it was possible she was simply trampled down by everyone else. Either way, Leslie seemed to have disappeared, leaving just the ghost of her real smile in her wake.

"Dude," Tom called out, appearing at Ben's shoulder. "You're coming to my party, right? As soon as we get out of here a bunch of us are heading over— gotta celebrate your win, man."

Ben grinned, thinking one more time about his win, how there was something to celebrate instead of something to mourn. It was enough to make him feel powerful. "Of course," he told Tom, before dropping his voice significantly. "Uh, did anyone get any…"

"April's out getting the drinks right now, my man," he snapped, pointing both his fingers out. "Best plug in the game, I'm telling ya."

"Thank god," he breathed. "Let's get out of here now before my parents find me again." He sent a quick text just letting them know he was leaving with Tom before quickly making his escape, climbing into Tom's car with Andy and Jean-Ralphio.

The party started fast. Ridiculously fast. The blur continued as they walked into an empty house that filled up in only an hour. April showed up not long after they did with bags full of cheap alcohol, shoving a bill in Tom's hands, and the guests surged over to her, creating a makeshift bar, as Jean-Ralphio set the music to full volume.

Ben was instantly lost in the party. Everyone wanted to talk to him, even people that didn't give a damn about Debate Club nerds, simply because it was a Pawnee win against Eagleton, which was miracle enough to get even the most bitter of them celebrating. He hugged people, shook hands, and accepted drinks from those who would offer them. Several beers, several shots, the music so loud he could feel himself vibrating, his brain quickly going fuzzy, the room starting to spin just slightly, stumbling over his own feet, and then—

He saw her.

He saw her, knocking back a shot with Ann and April, wincing as it hit her but refusing to use a chaser. She was still dressed just as nicely as she was earlier, in a red blouse and dark pants, her hair tied back at the nape of her neck, and now he really couldn't stop looking at her. The alcohol was hitting his brain and it was all he could do to stand and watch her as she giggled, that smile playing on her lips, trying to figure out if he should say anything at all.

He shouldn't, should he? They were still rivals at the end of the day. She still didn't like him and he wasn't supposed to like her. The most they ever shared was a spin-the-bottle kiss at a party not unlike this one and an angst-ridden blowjob after a fight in the boys' locker room. It wasn't enough to build any kind of friendship on, it wasn't enough to give him any reason to go up and talk to her without a reason.

But god, he wanted to.

He swayed on his feet and stood rooted to the spot, occasionally bringing his beer up to his lips. His eyes went completely out of focus trying to think about the whole Leslie situation, spots of blurry blonde hair in his vision, before her voice jolted him back to reality.

"Wyatt," she greeted him, and even though she was using his last name, it was without her usual malice. "Hey. You don't look so great."

She was here. Not just at the party, but right in front of him, holding an identical beer to his own. She was looking right at him with the tiniest little smile on his face, and it was enough to make him swallow hard.

"Oh," he mumbled. "I'm sorry. I… you know, alcohol. Celebration. Things like that. You… um… what's up?"

He was making a fool out of himself, but all he could think about was the memory of her mouth on his dick and it had been far too long since he last talked to her.

"I guess I just wanted to say congratulations, too," she said. "I mean, it's not everyday that someone from Pawnee beats Eagleton."

"You hate Eagleton," he blurted out, and her smile got wider.

"Of course I do."

"You're actually talking to me. I wasn't really expecting that. I mean, why are you…"

"I really like what you said up there," she said, but it was so quiet he barely heard her. "Um, do you wanna get away from the music for a bit? Somewhere a little more quiet, private? I just… I just have something I wanna say to you."

Dumbfounded, Ben nodded, following her as she spun on her heel and made her way through the crowd. The problem, however, was that Leslie was much smaller than him, and therefore much better at sneaking her way past people. He was losing her quick, pushing and shoving, so he grabbed her. His drunk brain that couldn't process what might not be a good idea grabbed her hand, holding it tight, and she didn't even question it, either. Maybe because she was just as drunk as he was, but she didn't recoil away, instead dragging him through Tom's living room and up the stairs to an empty hallway, lined with pictures and a closet door. Here, they could still hear the music, but it was a dull thud more than anything else, gently vibrating against the walls like static.

"Hi," she breathed when they stopped, and it occurred to both of them that they were still holding hands. They let go very quickly.

"Hi," he echoed.

"You said Pawnee is special."

"I did."

There was an odd air between them, not unlike their usual tension, but… slightly shifted. This tension was heavy and nerve wracking and made his skin tingle, but it didn't seem like it was going to end in name-calling and screaming. Instead, they kept looking directly in each other's eyes, swaying gently on the spot in the dimly lit hallway.

"I didn't know you felt like that," she said. Her lips were slightly parted, her chin up. "I mean… when I first met you, you said you hated Pawnee. You… you gave me all these reasons, and it made me kind of hate you—"

"I used to hate Pawnee," he admitted, and the second it was out of his mouth he knew it to be true. "Just used to. But Pawnee is a really special town. I… I love living here." He felt his heart drop in his chest, thinking of Pawnee, but suddenly it was no longer just about the town. Suddenly it was so, so much more than that, more than he could ever express openly, more than he even knew what to do with. It was a feeling he couldn't quite pinpoint in his drunken state, and all he knew was this girl right in front of him, this girl that he kind of very much wanted to touch. "And I… and I look forward to the moments in my day where I get to… to see the town. And talk to the town about… stuff. And the town has really nice blonde hair too, and… and has read a shocking number of political biographies for a town, which I like."

Leslie shuddered, something he could see so obviously in her shoulders, holding herself together. Her face filled with color at his words, taking a moment to breathe. "I'm not quite sure you're talking about the town, anymore."

"Well, why not? I think I've been kind of hating this town for years for no reason, just because the town is strong and doesn't take my bullshit and it wasn't what I'm used to. Maybe I put way too much energy into being mean to the town instead of getting to know the town and all the things that make it great. And the town doesn't deserve the hate it gets, because the town really cares, god, no one is more passionate than the town—"

She kissed him.

Leslie kissed him, grabbing him by his jacket and pulling him in, pressing her lips very firmly to his. She swallowed the last of his words, barely mumbled against her skin, before Ben came alive, grabbing her face with one hand and circling the other around her waist to get her closer.

She tasted the same as she did last year, when they first kissed— like whipped cream vodka, and a very distinct something else, almost like strawberries. Something sweet, something addictive, something that pulled him in and refused to let go. Their eyes squeezed shut and she moaned against his parted lips, and from there, everything could only escalate that much faster.

If asked, he couldn't tell you who pushed who into the closet. All he knew was that suddenly a door was opening and slamming shut and his eyes had to adjust to the dark. They pulled apart at the lips only for a moment, and Ben took the opportunity by grabbing Leslie's shoulders and pinning her against the wall. She gasped in surprise, and he reached up to cradle her head, before curling his fingers around her hair tie and yanking it out to let her hair down.

"Ben?" she gasped, almost a question. "Ben, Ben."

"Shhh," he hissed, and something in him just seemed to break. A part of him that never really got to touch her, who was pushed away when he offered to, where she has given but never received. And it was a bad idea, maybe all of this was, but suddenly he couldn't hold back anymore. He simply wanted.

He grabbed her face and kissed her again, and she responded with equal levels of passion. Everything about this was frantic, hurried, as if any minute now they might snap into their right minds and it would all be over. They grabbed at each other like the clock was ticking, and maybe it was. Maybe the alcohol would wear off and they would be just as horrified by each other, turning this into something more like screaming, maybe tears, or maybe nothing at all.

Delicate.

And yet harsh.

Her fingers scrambled to untuck his shirt and not wanting to be outdone once again, he started to pull at her clothes. He hoisted her up the wall and pinned her with his body, his knee settling between her legs with a soft gasp from her lips. He pulled her blouse right over her head and smoothed his hand over her skin, along the dip of her waist, creeping to her back and reaching to snap the clasp of her bra. Just that was enough to send her shivering, clutching at his shoulders, her breath hitching as his palm covered her bare breast, thumb rolling over her nipple until it hardened, reveling in the feel of her under him and the arching of her back as he touched her.

"Please," she gasped, successfully pulling his shirt over his head. "Please, please."

"Tell me what you want." He lowered himself to scrape his teeth along the side of her breast, and when he moved over to her nipple, she fully shouted, as if not expecting it, a grunt that sent her quickly spiraling. His fingers found their way to the clasp of her pants, tugging them down her hips, eager to get her as naked as possible in his presence before the morning came. "Tell me what you want."

"Ben," she whined, as he rid her of her pants and snapped the waistband of her underwear. His eyes were just adjusted to the dark enough to see they were a pale pink and soaked through.

"Tell me," he repeated.

"Touch me," she whispered, and there was a quiet vulnerability there, something so soft, so unusual. A side of her he had never seen before— a side where she allowed herself to release control, where she let herself lower her guard and give in to what she wanted at a very primal level. She was writhing, shivering between him and the wall, her nails digging into the bare skin of his back. "Please."

It was the barely whispered please that did it for him, the way her fingers drifted across the bulge in his pants and tugged him closer, begging for friction. In fact, she really did look close to begging, holding him tighter as she lost her balance, as Ben spread her legs without a single gentle thought. They were well past being gentle, well past wasting time.

He slid her underwear down her thighs and tossed them aside to get lost in the closet, instantly meeting her pleading by sliding a single finger through her folds, feeling her out, figuring out what made her gasp and what made her moan. She fully cried out when his thumb slid over her clit, trembling in his arms, so he used this as a target, circling gently and testing how long she would last before she broke.

"You wanted this, didn't you?" he asked her in a low voice, his arm working between them. "You're soaked. You wanted this. You really wanted this."

She didn't respond, whimpering into his shoulder, groaning loudly as he slid two fingers inside of her. He curled them gently just once before he gave no mercy again, pounding in and out of her so furiously that it shook her whole body, his palm brushing her clit with every stroke. "Tell me," he said to her again, barely recognizing his own words, hardly understanding the severity of them, of just what exactly he was trying to get her to admit. "You've thought about this, haven't you?"

"Ben," she cried, her head falling to his shoulder, biting into his skin. "Please—"

"You've wanted this. Tell me you've wanted this. You've wanted this for a while, haven't you? Always wanted this."

She choked on a sob, and he could sense her building, his muscles working between them, sweat on her forehead as she looked up to try and meet his eyes again. She was gently bouncing with the force of his fingers, but she still found a way to look at him, as if to communicate something without words.

And the saddest thing was… she almost looked like she was going to cry.

Maybe it was the force of the confession, or the alcohol getting to her brain, but her eyes watered as she panted, holding him tighter, and yet somehow more intimate, tracing along his skin with a tremble of her lips.

"I've always wanted this," she whispered, something raw and real in her tone, and for some reason, Ben didn't quite catch that. "I've always wanted you."

…

He was warm when he woke up.

Very warm, and very stiff, like he had slept wrong. His head was pounding, reaching up to rub the crease of his brow only to hit something soft, and someone next to him moved.

Oh. Oh, god.

It wasn't that he was surprised, really, because he was definitely just lucid enough last night to know what he was getting himself into. He just hadn't had the thought process for what finger-fucking her might mean after the fact, and what it meant for the precarious tightrope they had been walking on all year.

It didn't make things any better that, while he remembered large chunks of what happened, there were still slight gaps in his memory. He remembered the feeling of her as she came, clapping a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet as she screamed, falling into his arms. He remembered arms wrapping around each other and holding hands and… and he knew that they talked. They talked before the kiss, and they talked while he was inside her, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what about except for the fact that she said his name.

Not Wyatt. Just Ben.

And it occurred to him, then, as he looked over and saw her tiny frame curled up on the floor, in this tiny little closet they somehow fell asleep in, that what happened between them was intimate. It was rough, and it was raw, hurried and frantic, but it was something deeper, something unsaid between them, something that meant more than either of them would ever let on. Her hair was fanned out around his head and she wore his shirt, so oversized on her, while Ben was forced to throw on one of Tom's sweaters left sitting in the closet to cover his chest.

Everything had been so fragile, but now this was bordering on breaking.

"Oh god," Leslie whispered to his side, and he found her slowly sitting up, looking around the still dimly lit closet, staring at the shirt she was wearing with a lack of pants on underneath. She saw him, her eyes widening, opening and closing her mouth. "Oh, fuck. Ben. I remember."

"I remember too," he mumbled, feeling a little awkward even looking at her. He didn't exactly regret what happened between them, but what if she did? What if this was the worst possible choice they could've made for themselves in the long run?

There was a long, awkward pause between them, as if both of them were just trying to figure out what to do. They woke up in Tom's closet, hungover, after completely ditching a big party to be together. Explaining this to Tom and Andy would be an utter nightmare, especially considering he wasn't so keen on the idea of sharing that it was with his long time rival, Leslie Knope, of all people he could've fucked.

And Leslie… her hair looked soft, limp and slightly mussed up, pushing it out of her face. Her lips pouted with her deep sigh, and it suddenly hit Ben that he didn't want to hear her turn him away. He didn't want her to tell him to go, didn't want to face the pain of rejection. He didn't want to put his heart on the line when he didn't even know exactly what he was feeling, or what they were doing at all, but he couldn't let his own heart break. So when she opened her mouth to speak, he instantly cut her off.

"This doesn't have to mean anything," he told her, rushing through the words. Her mouth closed, and she took a tiny step back.

"What?"

"What happened last night. It doesn't have to mean anything. We were drunk, and emotions were high, and we were both just kind of there and available. I mean, that means nothing, right?"

And Ben didn't catch the shaking of her fingers, the wetness in her eyes, the way her shoulders hunched in and she recoiled as if she had been punched in the gut. He noticed none of this, too focused on finding an escape route, too focused on keeping his own heart swept away under lock and key.

"I mean…" Leslie started, choking on her own words. "I mean… yeah. It… it didn't mean anything. It was an accident, really."

"Exactly!" He threw his hands in the air, tearing his eyes away from her in favorite of staring at the floor, doing up his belt. "Exactly. It didn't mean anything. We don't even have to tell anyone. We can just forget it ever happened and move on. We don't have to talk about it again. Okay?"

Leslie hesitated for just a moment, as if stuck on something, her lower lip trembling. And when he saw her, he only saw regret in her eyes, the realization of a mistake made, a line crossed.

(And Ben didn't realize it then, but the mistake made wasn't being with him— it was imagining being with him could possibly end in any way but heartbreak.)

"Okay," she said, so quiet that he strained to hear. "Okay. Nobody needs to know."

PRESENT DAY

There's a sort of quiet loneliness in losing yourself in past memories, knowing that there's nothing you can do to change them.

It's something so dark, so deeply heartbreaking, to remember a moment that meant nothing at the time, but holds the weight of the entire world in the present. It all comes to him at once, even, drowning him, dragging him down until all he can hear is his own words in that tiny closet, staring at her eyes that were so bright in the dimmed light.

He was foolish, then, even more so than he is now.

To think that then, he had it all. He didn't even know it yet, but his life was in screaming color, so perfect, every opportunity presenting itself, just for him to shoot it down everytime. And now, falling through the floor and losing his breath in this darkness, he can see every little sign.

And she gave so many signs.

Tiny glances here and there, the way she kissed him at their first party. Coming up to him after he stood up to Mark, smiling at him when he talked to her about Dave. Telling him there was a guy who didn't like her back, getting to her knees in the boys' locker rooms. The way she looked at him when he said Pawnee is special, like years of hatred hit her in the gut like a knife of regret. Trying to take it all back by kissing him and telling him that she had wanted this all along.

The heartbreak on her face when he told her it meant nothing at all.

It was like there was some string between them, connecting them at every moment, every level. A string that kept them tied to each other, a string that led them to each other every single year, every fight and every kiss and every single moment they looked in each other's eyes and could simply be. A string that they kept cutting, just to pick up and tie it all over again, as if testing just how strong it really was. It's cut for the very last time, now, and the remains slip away from him, leaving him nothing to hold onto but her ghost to haunt him and his own memories to mock him.

He should've told her then that he loved her.

And now he never will.