Chapter 8: Doubt Thou the Stars are Fire | May, 2015

Holly

I reach his address in Bayswater an hour after we'd planned, since my flight was delayed at JFK, but made no less excited by the jetlag. I'd gotten one of London's famous black cabs from the airport, here, and had reveled throughout the whole ride in the class of the driver, and the fact that I have finally landed on soil outside of the United States for the first time in my life. There's a vague, pleasant smell of fresh grass and cool rain which is unique to London, and makes my spirit swell with excitement at this newness. By the time I've arrived on the front steps of Ben's building and rung the bell (despite the ache from the internal bruising in my still-healing ribs and the jetlagged feeling that I've just been in a time machine), I'm totally elated.

I cannot help but grin widely when I hear him quickly descending stairs beyond the door at the sound of the doorbell, his steps hurried and close together, almost stumbling, like those of a very exuberant young child upon the arrival of a long-awaited friend.

When the door opens, it all happens so quickly that it's not until I'm already inside the foyer with the door shut quickly that I realized he's pulled me quite abruptly inside, perhaps for the sake of privacy. But once I get my wits about me again, seconds later, I get the chance to look around the entryway, a beautiful, simple, old-fashioned place, with heavy stairs leading up the side to the rooms above. But better than the immediate intrigue and hominess of the building itself, is the sight of Benedict in front of me, beaming from ear to ear, eyes sparkling in the light from outside and the fixture high overhead.

"How are you!" he exclaims in the merriest voice, and draws me into an embrace—tentative at first, but slightly too tight.

I can't help but wince and inhale sharply against his chest, and he suddenly steps back, eyes studying my face with intensity. "I'm totally fine-" I tell him before he can ask. "Just some internal bruising, or something, with the ribs, that isn't totally healed yet. But the pain subsides quickly." And even as I tell him this, the pain does subside, and I smile at him brightly, embracing him again, more lightly and grinning as he chuckles and his chest hums deeply against my cheek.

"It is... great to see you," I tell him, once I've pulled away, not wanting to linger too long in his arms, for the sake of propriety... though there is a certain warm quality to his body that makes me feel extremely comfortable and safe... though I'm not quite sure what to make of that, yet. Regardless, I'm extremely grateful that we're able to so suddenly slip into a comfortable, casual physicality.

He grins back at me, looking down from his height, taller than I remembered him in my mind, his eyes remarkably bright as he says, "You, too!" his deep voice lightened by the excitement at finally seeing one another face to face. "Here, let me take your luggage."

And I can't protest as he takes my small suitcase in hand and we start up the giant stairs together, smiling and laughing and shaking our heads at how glad we are, the whole way. "I can't even express how grateful I am for this," I tell him, as we continue to ascend the stairs towards the top floor, which is his. "For you to invite me into your home... it's very special, and I feel quite honored."

"Oh, I won't hear of it," he laughs back. "Your company is a pleasure, and I thought, why would you stay in a Hotel when I have a guest room, so close to your internship?"

"Well," I say, feeling a bit of heat across my face both from the climb—keeping up with him is not the easiest thing in the world, as I'm much shorter in stature and he's much more used to these stairs—and from the particular way he smiles at me, so full of acceptance and friendliness. "It's extremely kind of you, and I'm grateful for your hospitality."

A few seconds later, once we've gotten to the top floor, we stop in front of a door left slightly ajar, and he swings it around for me with a humble, "Here we are," as he carries my suitcase into the apartment.

But all I can do is stand in the doorway and stare.

The apartment is unbelievably large and spacious, open with every aspect used very cleverly, so that it, on the whole, is the most comfortable place I've ever set foot in. I have to remind myself for a moment that Ben can afford all of this, in such a beautiful area of London. In the corner of the main room there's a piano, with a violin resting atop it, a bookshelf stacked with plays and a few novels. A radio sits on a giant windowsill that I could practically use for a seat, and calm classical music streams from its speakers quietly. The apartment itself is old fashioned, with wooden floors, cool, modern furniture and beautiful tall windows open to the summer breeze: the perfume of flowers from the nearby park wafting through the air dreamily. Natural light reminding me that it's late morning, here, streams in through the windows. All of this I can see just from the main entrance room, and I can tell from two branching hallways that there are many, many more rooms to explore, and I have only seen the tip of the iceberg with this impressive home.

"Oh, my word..." I say, incapable of holding back the sigh that comes straight from my chest at the sight.

Ben chuckles in humility when I speak, and turns around after assuring me that it's "just home," beckoning me to follow him down one of the hallways, into the rest of the apartment.

He treats me to a tour of the whole apartment, showing me the linen closet, bathrooms, a series of recreational rooms for reading, film-viewing and the like. He tells me multiple times that I am welcome anywhere in the apartment, points out his own bedroom door in case I ever need him, makes sure I know I'm welcome to the kitchen. He's about to show me to my guest room when suddenly his eyes glance up at an analog clock hanging on the wall behind me, and a look of such sudden realization comes into his eyes that I have to turn around and check to see what he's looking at.

"Shit..." he mutters to himself as I turn back to him. "Look, I thought we'd have a little more time, but after the delay... I've really got to run. I'm on the verge of running late to a meeting."

"Oh," I say, making sure to let him know through my tone that I'm not upset, "With whom, may I ask?"

"Well..." he starts, rocking back on his heels and looking at me a little bashfully. "I neglected to tell you until now, but..."

He looks up at me, delaying, and I urge him onwards by raising my eyebrows and smiling. There's something I adore about the way his mouth turns upwards at the corners, the jolly sparkle in his eyes. "What is it, Ben?" I say with a half-suppressed laugh at the mischievous look in his eyes.

At length he inhales and then says, with his eyes closed in mock apprehension: "There's a performance of Hamlet at the National Theatre in a month and I've been cast!"

When he tells me, he lets it out all in one very rapid breath, so that I have to retrace his words before my face drops open into a wide grin of surprise. He knows from our phone conversations that I adore Shakespeare, and that Hamlet is in my top three favorites of his plays. "Oh, my God!" I say, having to exert a great amount of effort to keep from jumping up and down. "You're Hamlet?!" I slap him playfully on the arm and he raises his hands in mock surrender as I, laughing and feeling suddenly childlike and free, continue my verbal assault: "How dare you keep this from me! Ben, I am so, so excited for you! But don't let me keep you, please, please go-"

He shakes his head a little at my extreme exuberance, and says, "I'll be meeting with the director Lyndsey Turner and Sian Brooke, our Ophelia. We're having tea someplace... Here..."

We start back through the hallway and get to the entryway, where he takes a key from a peg by the door. "I got this made for you. You'll have until the afternoon to acquaint yourself with the apartment, but I do have to ask you to stay inside. Just for safety's sake."

A little surprised by this, and just a tiny bit apprehensive, I say, in a joking way to shield it, "Do the paparazzi have your place staked out?"

"Not yet, thankfully," he says with another of his low chuckles. "I've been keeping a very careful, low profile. But you can imagine the trouble we'd both be in if someone happens to have already found me out, and gets a picture of a strange young woman coming out the front door."

I nod my head, feeling my face drain slightly of blood as I imagine just that; I hadn't thought about the fact of his being famous at all, really—he just seems so normal and easy-going in the day to day—and suddenly being faced with it is a little overwhelming, especially in such a context.

He spots the time again on another clock and looks at me with apology in his eyes, but also sincerity. "I've really got to get going—we'll talk more in a while. I should be back around two. Look, I'm really, really sorry for leaving you so suddenly—you'll be alright?"

"Are you kidding me?" I say to him brightly, ecstatic, motioning around at the apartment to elaborate on my point. "I'm going to be great. Now, go, before you're late! Go do your badass job!"

At this he gives a full laugh, and I wave him goodbye as he goes out the door and promises to call as soon as he's on his way back. I stare at the door for a moment after he's left, and I chuckle to myself, muttering, "Prince of fucking Denmark," in excited disbelief.

"I heard that!" he calls from down the hall, and I smile at his laughter, and listen with a stupid grin on my face, to the sound of his feet pattering down the stairs and the door to the street opening and closing.

I set myself up in the beautiful, spacious guest room—Ben has clearly put new sheets and blankets on the bed for me, and brought in a desk for my work—and I almost lay down on the extremely comfortable queen sized bed (the biggest bed I've ever had the opportunity to sleep in in all my life). But I have to force myself to keep from falling asleep, reminding myself of the time, here, and intent on getting into the flow of the new time zone.

There's a bathroom connected directly and personally to the room, and I strip myself of my airplane clothes, and take a shower to wake myself up again. It's an absolute joy to be showering in an actual bathroom, with actual settings on the shower head, and nice soaps and shampoos—none of them scented too strongly, though one smells mildly of lilies, for which I'm grateful. I'm relaxed and happy to wash off in a place with a real sense of cleanliness and privacy, which I hadn't gotten in the dorm showers back in New York. Everything about Ben's place, in fact, is nicer than any other place I've ever lived or stayed in before.

After showering, wrapped up in a cloud-like towel and sitting in a comfortable, ergonomic work chair by the little desk, on which I've sat my laptop and some books by the Benedict-provided lamp, I call Alex excitedly. It's around five in the evening in New York, but the usual early-onset exhaustion that plagues my friend during the school year is gone from her now, in the summer, and she speaks with overwhelming enthusiasm, getting me to tell her everything—though I'm so excited, myself, that it doesn't take a whole lot of effort on her part. I sense that she's just slightly jealous of me... okay, extremely, absolutely, completely jealous of me... but she's been sworn to secrecy about this whole thing by both myself and Benedict, and though she's been fangirling slightly about this new stage in our relationship (friendship, I have to keep reminding her, rather strictly), I trust her not to talk.

After talking for almost thirty minutes straight and feeling a bit hoarse, I hang up, leaving Alex to go out to dinner with her group of extraverted friends who are staying in New York for the summer along with her.

Once I've ended the call, I get my first chance at real freedom and peace. I'm elated to be finally away from the United States for the first time in my life—I would really love to go exploring London, but I want to honor Ben's wishes, and common sense also tells me I should wait until I have a partner in crime before going out and doing anything. Carefully, I open the window a crack, and breathe in the London air, excited and inspired.

For hours, I sit in front of my laptop and write, a new story streaming out of my fingertips in a torrent of excitement and frenzy, that leaves me completely exhausted when I'm recalled to reality. It's around six o'clock when Benedict messages me, saying he's sorry that the meeting lasted so much longer than he thought it would, and asking me if I'd like him to bring home some Chinese.

After a quick text conversation, I'm jolted effectively out of my writing frenzy. I'd been barely conscious of what I was writing as I was writing it, and I'm sure that half of it at least is pure nonsense, but I'm glad to have gotten it out of my system all the same. Suddenly I'm reminded that I'm still in the bath towel, and I go into the bathroom (sure to avoid looking at myself in the mirror, not wanting to be faced with what I already know is there, the scar from the gunshot wound, the blossomed bruises still lingering across my side), and dress in a fresh pair of clothes: some loose, comfortable sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt. It's almost pajama-like, especially with my natural messy bun, but, hey, I'm practically on vacation.

I worry a little bit once half an hour has passed and Ben still hasn't arrived back, but I busy myself by locating a drawer of placemats and such, and then by setting the table for us—and in no time, he's coming in the door at seven o'clock, announcing that he's back in a tone that tells me he's tired out, but in the best way, by talking about what he's passionate about. When he makes it into the kitchen he remarks on what I did, and once we get over some awkward niceties which I'm sure will smooth out into a comfortable regularity as we get more used to each other's company, we sit down to eat.

We settle into a comfortable line of conversation, discussing how we plan to keep our arrangement secret. I let him know that I've been thinking of starting to jog again, and he gives me a few good, safe places I can go, also offering to help me navigate public transportation, though he strongly advises taking cabs to and from the publishing house, since they're the safest, and most reliable.

After we've eaten and put the food and dishes away together, working easily as a team, we move into the other parts of the apartment, and I interrogate him gently about his thoughts on Hamlet—which he is very willing to discuss. I ask him if he actually knows how to play the violin, and he impresses me with a couple of tunes. By the early night, when the sun has set and dusk is fading to a more solid black in the sky outside the tall windows, we're playing duets together, me, exercising my memory and straining to read some sheet music on the piano with acceptable accuracy.

Before too long, though, we're both yawning slightly at the late hour, and with a mild nod of acknowledgement, we depart from each other for the night, going off into our separate rooms. From down the hall, lying in the immensely comfortable bed, I hear the sound of the shower in Ben's room starting, and the sound of the droplets hitting the tub send me off quickly into a very deep sleep.

But I wake up at some point in the middle of the night to the feeling of a hand on my shoulder, and a lingering feeling of sheer panic that makes me jolt up at the touch, breathing fast, the shadowy room cast in a dark red lens of fear. It's not until I've buried my face in my hands and groped around the unfamiliar bedside table and flicked the switch on a lamp that I realize the owner of the hand I'd felt had not been a phantom lingering from a nightmare, but Benedict himself. And in the next moment I realize, with a wave of regret that—momentarily—overpowers the terror of the nightmare I've just been woken from: that, in my initial panic of wakefulness, I must have accidentally hit him.

For a moment, in the wake of the nightmare, in which my father had featured, I'm close to believing that he might suddenly strike back in retaliation, hitting me back, harder, and I remain on my bed, half-cowering instinctively. But then I remember just who it is who's standing nearby me, and I feel a further embarrassment from my thoughts and feelings. I have to work through it, though, his quiet stillness registering and snapping me back into the present and the situation at hand.

"Oh, shit..." I say, half to myself, and push myself up out of the bed, going to him where he stands a few steps away, eyes wide in surprise, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyebrows furrowed in a suppressed pain. "Oh, my God, I'm so sorry," I say to him, covering my mouth and—instinctively—reaching up a tentative hand, before letting it fall, realizing it would be counterproductive to touch him.

"No," he says, putting a hand out and scrunching up his nose before letting his hand fall. "Really, I'm okay, you just grazed me a little. Were you... you're the one who needs to be asked if they're alright."

I shake my head slightly, trying to put a finger on what had happened during my sleep; the disorienting effect of the fact that I was in a dream, not in reality, sends me reeling, and makes my knees literally buckle, so that Ben has to reach out and wrap a stabilizing arm around my shoulders to keep me from falling. And then, embarrassed beyond belief, I realize that I've started to cry—not in a way that's too ugly, thank the powers that be, but crying nonetheless. And I hate that I've had a bad dream, hit someone I care about so much, who had only been trying to help.

He's perfectly tolerant, however, and after coaxing my legs back to strength with a few helpful adjustments and vague, wordless sounds from his mouth that somehow communicate a sense of safety and trust to me—he helps me to walk down the hall and into the kitchen area, where he turns on the light to its low setting and sits me down at the table.

I place my hands on the dark table, spidery and looking almost bloodless in the night, and I look at a clock vaguely, seeing that it's somewhere between midnight and one in the morning—the witching hour, fittingly. After a few moments I finally force my tears to subside but as soon as they've left a terrible shaking takes their place, and that, I can't suppress in time.

Ben brings me a glass of water—not too warm, but not so cold that it makes me choke up further—and sits across from me, scooting his chair to be a little closer to me, but still far enough to give me space. He looks at me with severe worry in his eyes, though he tries to mask it with a friendly, unpresuming support that, in itself, almost makes me want to cry again, just from his sheer goodness.

"I can't even believe myself right now," I say, once I've collected myself and worked up enough confidence in my voice to speak. "I can't believe I woke you up. I can't believe I... Jesus. I'm sorry I hit you." I have to avoid his powerful eyes, not wanting to cry from his gentleness, or to get stuck looking at him, when I'm so afraid that my own eyes might reveal too much.

Through all of this he manages to chuckle—a slight darkness to the tone of his voice, but still, a redemptive comfort to the sound of his voice and breath resonating in his chest. "Well," he says, to my words, "It wasn't your fault—it wasn't deliberate. Holly... I'm not mad at you."

This punches a significant hole in the dam of my self-control and I let out a few tears at his outstanding kindness before restraining myself again with much difficulty. "Did I... did I say anything?" I manage to ask, incapable of holding my curiosity any longer.

"No distinct words, just, some mumblings, and a shout."

I rest my forehead on my hand and breathe deeply, trying to piece together the vague, terrible images which came to me in the night, but also trying to vanquish them at the same time. But I can't stop remembering that...

"Do you want to talk about it?" Ben says, breaking through my rambling subconscious, allowing me to focus all of myself on this one moment, on his words, on the space between the two of us in this dimly-lit kitchen.

"It was something..." I start, "something about my father. I can't remember any specifics, just..." I break off again, remembering the distinct feeling of his hand pressing into my face, then into my shoulder—and the way that waking to the feeling of Ben's own hand on my shoulder had prompted me to fling my arm out in self-defense. Something about this jars me to no end, and I have to stop, knowing that tonight is not the night to revisit this. I shake my head in Ben's direction, not mustering a smile, for I know he doesn't expect me to.

"Really," I say, breaking the few seconds of silence which seem much longer, lengthened especially by the heaviness of the night and of my hot, lingering tears. "You've done more than enough. You don't have to listen to this; I don't even know what I'm saying... I'll be okay. We should both get some sleep." I feel quite awkward for a few seconds afterwards, wondering, briefly, whether any words had actually come out of my mouth, or whether I'd just been so nervous and insecure that I only imagined myself to be speaking.

But then Ben stands up with an acknowledging nod of my wishes, and offers a hand to help me stand up, as well. I take it weakly, trembling a little and then half-walking, half-stumbling willingly into his arms, embracing him loosely, not letting myself collapse again. Tenderly, he returns the gesture, placing his hands cautiously on my back and then letting go after a few moments have passed.

"Thank you," I say to him, when we've stopped outside my guest room. He nods through the darkness to me, a pulsing loyalty in his eyes reaching out to comfort my heart though he doesn't try to touch me. Then I turn back into the room and close the door very quietly, hearing him do the same down the hall.

It's a long time, despite the warmth and comfort of the deep, soft bed, before I can finally fall back to sleep—for I'm caught up in my confusion, the fear and phantom pain that my dream brought back to me after being so long suppressed. And, in addition, the strange confusion that takes over me when I think of how immediately supportive, tolerant, and understanding Benedict had been, despite the circumstances. Those accepting eyes seem to stare at me from inside my own mind, and thus it is nearly morning already when I actually go back to sleep.

Over the next days things get only progressively better from that night onward, and after a few days, the troubling darkness of the dream has been forgotten entirely in the warmth and brightness of the days that keep me in comfort even as I sleep through the nights.

I start running again, and my body and mind feel much better very quickly after going on some of the routes Benedict suggests to me. Every day I call Alex and tell her about what's been going on in London, and she tells me about a development back in New York to do with a boy she's very interested in, and who seems to be interested in her, too.

The internship goes extremely well, and I've been in contact with the professor who recommended me in the first place, expressing my deep gratitude for the experience and opportunity. I'm making surprisingly good money from it, too—and am actually placing it in a savings account, which I've never been able to do before, as I've always had to work to earn my keep and to pay for food, both with my father and, later my aunt. Now, I no longer have to survive paycheck to paycheck, and the other opportunities springing from the internship itself are extremely numerous.

Ben absolutely insists that I don't pay him anything. He's overjoyed, he tells me repeatedly, to have my company, wants me to be here, and doesn't need me to give him anything for it. He also makes the point (reluctantly, to end the argument) that I don't have as much money as he does—he can support me with ease, and is happy to do so, in exchange only for my good and "long-overdue" company.

It's a thrill to be getting paid for work I am actually challenged and enriched by. My job entails writing short blurbs for book, formatting manuscripts, reading submissions and writing reports to give official previewers an initial summary and opinion (the part of the job that is the most stressful to me, as aspiring authors' dreams depend on it). I'm given some duller tasks, too, such as reorganizing files, but this is expected, and I am more than willing to do anything I can to keep the cogs of the place oiled, feeling like I have a true sense of responsibility and value as a part of a team. After a few weeks, my bosses have become impressed with me, and I am allowed the honor of assisting one of the actual editors in editing a full manuscript: I spend hours working on it every evening at the apartment, Ben sometimes looking over my shoulder and conversing lightly with me, when he's not at rehearsals, or studying on his own.

I am the only summer intern at the publishing house, as they are extremely selective, but I keep my humility about me as I always have. It's a great time, not having to be outlandishly social with my older coworkers, being offered the luxury of hunkering down to a more private type of work, learning all I can. Being a developing professional in such an environment is a relief after a year of University, a welcome change of pace. With the men and women I work with every day, I have been starting to get back to a place of trust, which gives me an ability to walk around with much more security in myself than I have in a very long time—perhaps in my whole life.

Both Benedict and myself are in our absolute happiness zones, living out the best versions of ourselves, so it is with remarkable ease that we interact with each other, approaching each new day of work and leisure with a childlike brightness that I want to last forever.

I'm extremely impressed by his personal practicing, the way he runs over and over his lines, sometimes muttering, sometimes silent, sometimes aloud—until I convince him to join me in the main room, so that I might hear him working his genius. It's a joy to watch and hear him work through the literature of it; we have deep, satisfying conversations about Shakespeare's intentions and their repercussions in the modern day. More and more often as the month progresses, he gives private performances of various monologues, soliloquies, and other lines for me. Often, citing my credibility and trustworthiness as a literature major, he asks my opinion, or even for my help in choosing between interpretations, between versions, until he fleshes each phrase out to perfection. On the whole, it's a stunning and majestic process to behold, and I cannot help but feel a little giddy sometimes when I watch him, sure that I am hearing these centuries-old lines delivered as they were always intended to be.

In addition to our playful, joyful ways of working together, we also manage to make some mischief. One of our favorite things to do together has quickly become going out on walks at dusk, in less populated parts of the city, on more private streets and in parks, to keep from being seen, but always, just slightly, tempting fate.

When the month of August is about to begin, and with it, Ben's long-awaited performances, I'm on a phone call with Alex, and she brooches an unexpected subject.

"So..." she says, her voice still a little high-pitched after telling me about an exciting date she'd just been on with the boy she'd met at the beginning of May. "What exactly is going on between you and Benedict?"

It takes me a few minutes to really grasp what she's implying, and I have to say "What?" a few times, before she finally gets to the point.

"I mean," she says, speaking lowly, "he offered you the guest room inside his actual apartment, Holly. He must like you."

"I don't-" I start with a slight chuckle at the unexpected topic. But then I realize that I can't truly continue, knowing for sure that I have faith in what I'm talking about... For it's true that over our time together, I've started to wonder whether I feel something between Ben and myself that counts as more than friendship. But I can never be quite sure with him, who just seems so happy and full of energy all the time, and not only because of me. I wonder if it's only Alex being too hopeful, or if the problem is on my end—me, who has no idea how nonviolent attraction works, me, who has never had a boyfriend, not even one of those two-second, third grade playground boyfriends.

After that phone call I try to put Alex's words out of my mind, and their implications, but after having it all laid out before me like that, and after looking into the slight doubt of my own mind regarding the state of my relationship with Ben—a subtle stirring of feelings I can't quite understand or trust—I can't quite go back to the innocent of friendship we'd existed in before.

And though nothing is changed in the way I approach him from the day to day, or in the way he, in turn, approaches me, I can't help but wonder...

Author's Note:

How's everyone doing?! Sorry that there wasn't any Benedict POV in this chapter... Next chapter will DEFINITELY make up for that. And also, sorry for the slight delay! I usually get these chapters up in the very early morning, and stay up through the night to get them written, but last night I just absolutely crashed, so I wasn't able to get to the keyboard until this evening. Hope I didn't let you down too badly!

Glad that you guys are still coming back! More excitement coming up soon—next chapter will be a big improvement from this one, hopefully! :)

Okay... Who had the luxury of seeing Lyndsey Turner's production of Hamlet? Oh. My. Goodness. Pure awesomeness, and especially for a Shakespeare nerd like me!

Une-papillon-de-nuit

25 July, 2020