Chapter 13: Sweet Flowers are Slow | Summer, 2016

Holly

I'm multitasking, making a meal for my Aunt and nursing a mounting headache, when I receive a call from Benedict and sigh aloud with relief.

For the summer, I've been staying at my Aunt's apartment. Alex is away with her family on a road trip out west, and staying in the dorm room seemed impractical without her, and while my Aunt was so close by and in need of company. It's still the month of May, a few weeks away from when Benedict and Tom will be coming to New York. Once their spurt of filming here has ended, Ben has planned to take me back with him to London, since I've been offered a second paid internship at the publishing house, which has—extraordinarily—invited me to return.

The knowledge of Ben's presence here in such a short time is one of the only things that keeps me going through this difficult time.

I've gotten a short-term job for myself, waiting tables at a diner in lower Manhattan, which is helping me to contribute to the apartment's rent, and to bills, until I return with Ben to London to intern again. Hopefully, after this summer, I'll have enough money to do better than just scrape by, and might be able to get a job throughout the school year, as well. It will be a lot to tackle, but at least it would be better than what I have to deal with now.

Ben has expressed his awe at my plans and my ability to tackle so much at once, offering to supplement my income with some of his own reserves, but I've always declined his generous offers. No matter how much I appreciate his endless support, and the growing trust and affection I feel towards him day by day, I could never tell Ben about what's been going on with my manager at work...

He's a real asshole, a man who seems like he has been an asshole for most of his life. At the outset I tried really hard every day to keep an open mind, to tell myself I didn't know what was going on in his life, that, maybe, he was struggling with something outside of the diner that made him this way, or... maybe... that he'd been abused as a child, not so far off from what I, too, suffer from.

But it didn't take long for me to deduce that there wasn't much that could truly redeem his actions. He's made a habit of being sexually lewd to all the female employees—who are too afraid to lose their precious positions, as am I, to say anything against him. But lately, he's focused in extra attention on me. In the beginning, I had a couple of female coworkers who were willing to talk with me about it, but after a time, they all began to get frightened of him even more, and now, for the most part, I'm on my own. He knows he can do almost anything, and that I'll still stay on working for him, because I'm so desperate for a salary, however small. Multiple times during my shirt he'll slap my behind, and even more, he makes crude faces and says disgusting things in my presence, manipulating some of the male staff to join in the taunting.

Earlier today, though, my first shift of two on Saturdays, he crossed a new line. When Benedict calls, and I'm fixing a meal for my incapacitated Aunt, the headache I'm also nursing originates from when my manager yanked my hair on the job to get me to look at him when he spoke to me—causing me to drop an order I was carrying out into the dining area in the process. He made me pay for the ruined meal, the dishes which had shattered, and I'd also had to endure the shame of telling the cook what had happened—which made him glare at me like I'd just killed his pet dog.

Not to mention the extreme pain that had gripped my head like a vise when he yanked my hair, and lingered much longer. Two hours and two Advil later it still hurts like hell, and he was so rough that I can't help considering myself lucky that I'm not bald.

If there's anything good about the past month or so, it's my Aunt, herself.

I'm grateful beyond words that she isn't trying to impose upon my life; she hasn't tried to suddenly come in and act as a guardian figure to me. She acknowledges aloud that I have been strong, that I have been the one to get through all the hardship in my life on my own. She honors that, and doesn't try to take any credit for where I am, now.

But she's still miserable, on her own, and today has been one of her worst days. She's locked herself in her room, and seems to have been sleeping for hours, apart from the few times when she's groaned and whimpered aloud, incapable of holding in the physical and mental difficulty of her lingering withdrawal.

I've been hard at work preparing a nice meal for her, to distract myself from the pain of the headache and my anger at my manager, and also so that when I have to leave again for my second shift of work—which I'm not looking forward to AT ALL—if my Aunt decides to come out in search of something to eat, she won't have to do any work. In my mind, it's the least I can do to repay her for the great efforts she's expending in finally taking care of herself for the first time in her life—and, by extension, taking care of ME.

The vibrations of my cell phone jolt me out of my focus on the meal, but I instantly brighten up, forgetting about the pain from the hair-pulling and the stress regarding my Aunt, when I see that it's Benedict on the other end of the line.

The moment I answer the call, however, the endorphins flooding my system turn against me. Before I can get the speaker up to my ear, he's saying: "Holly, this is urgent..." in a darkly serious tone, an edge of panic in his voice.

My heart literally leaps up into my throat. A sudden terror consumes me and I feel every part of my body set on edge. It's a miracle, for how my throat has suddenly closed up, when I hear myself say, shakily: "Okay? What do you need me to do?"

He takes a sharp, shuddering sigh, as though he's actually panicking about something serious...

And then, all at once, his concerned aura is replaced by one of business, and he says in a sarcastically deadpan tone, all the previous traces of panic erased: "Do you have a way of accessing BBC? There's something I'd like you to see."

I feel myself exhale heavily, and I have to physically catch my weight on the edge of the counter, at how lightheaded I am with the revelation. I'd truly felt upset, but I muster a laugh, not letting onto how much the joke had worried me when I was already so high strung. "Not. Funny." I say. And, luckily, he seems to look over the underlying tone of stress in my voice, and chuckles. "Goddamned actors," I mutter, and he laughs harder, any opportunity for him noticing my serious worry evaporated... good.

"But sincerely," he continues, his voice the usual light-hearted melody which I'm used to, which is like honey in my ears, and quickly calms my heart after the moment of fear. "There's a show on I think you'd enjoy."

My first instinct is to tell him that I can't indulge this at the moment: I have to finish up this meal for my Aunt, in case, and I have to be getting ready for work soon, too. But the tone in his voice and my desire to just escape to some other world with him—however briefly—is too much to be denied.

"Yeah, I can get it. My Aunt is love with everything Britain."

"Good. Hurry, I don't want you to miss the beginning."

I abandon my cooking and move through the small, tight space of the apartment, only having to turn the corner to be in the tiny living room which houses two chairs and an old television against one wall. I turn it on, navigating to the right channel, making sure to keep the volume down so that I don't worsen my Aunt's pain in the adjacent room, and I can't help but plop myself down in one of the chairs, exhausted after a long day, and not caring that it will be hard to make myself stand up again after sitting down for the first time all day.

"What is this?" I ask, watching the opening going over across the screen. I recognize a couple of faces, but I'm positive I've never seen the show before, and my interest is piqued. "The Hollow Crown?" I say, watching the words being broadcasted. I notice a flash of Tom's face and wonder briefly If this is the reason why Ben wants me to see it... The thought of us both watching something at the same time across the ocean from each other is slightly romantic and it catches me off guard from my goal for only a beat before I return to myself. "Ben, what is this?" I say again.

But he continues to stay absolutely quiet, apart from the whisper of a covered laugh on the other end of the line that makes me smirk. So I decide to just reign in my curiosity and wait for my answer to be revealed to me in the natural course of time, being extra, dramatically quiet for Ben's sake as I watch the screen, the opening finished, the show beginning.

The first shot onscreen is of a hand poised over the pieces of a chessboard. I recognize it in a split second as Benedict's hand—I would know his hands anywhere—and I suddenly stand up from the chair as though I've just been electrocuted. "Benedict Cumberbatch, what IS this?!" I say again, glee infusing my voice as I go to kneel in front of the TV screen.

"You'll see," he says, laying on the mystery thick, and I'm incapable of holding back the huge grin on my face. He never fails to make a shitty day turn around with the snap of his fingers. I bite my lower lip absentmindedly in anticipation and watch the screen, wanting to know just what this TV show is that he's been hiding from me for who knows how long, probably just for the sake of this surprise.

Slowly the camera moves out from the chessboard, revealing the coiled muscles of his arm, then sweeping over a disfigured back... I begin, at this moment, to guess—hopefully—at what this might be... but I don't let myself get my hopes up.

But when Ben—the on-camera one—turns to look directly at the camera, and begins to deliver the opening monologue of Shakespeare's Richard III, I cannot contain my excitement.

"Oh. My. GOD, Ben!" I manage at length, settling back on my heels and putting a hand to my chest, listening with a smile to Ben laughing over the phone, at the same time as his recorded self continues delivering the monologue with dastardly precision. "I'm going to faint!" I say, honestly, taking a deep breath. "How long have you been keeping this secret!"

He knows full well that Richard III is one of my favorite Shakespearean characters, and I know he must have taken great pains in concealing his involvement in such a show from me. "This is the final episode, actually," he informs me. "The earlier ones cover all of Shakespeare's histories. Tom is Henry the Fifth, to boot-"

But I interrupt him, shaking my head wildly at my immense amusement, and gasping when Dame Judi Dench appears on the screen. "You're on a show with Dame Judi Dench?!" I exclaim, and have to clap a hand over my mouth, with a worried look in the direction of my Aunt's room, hoping I haven't disturbed her rest. Luckily, there's no stirring behind her door.

"Ouch..." he says sarcastically, responding to the surprise that my voice had held.

"I didn't mean it like that," I say with a light laugh.

He's about to say something more, probably a wisecrack worthy of my worship, but suddenly, an alarm starts going off in the kitchen. I gasp a little, and spring up from the floor, hurrying back and turning it off before my Aunt can become too disturbed.

"Shit," I hiss under my breath, quickly scraping at the bottom of the pan to ensure that nothing has burned too badly, realizing that I'll probably have to throw out a quarter of the food.

"What's wrong?" Ben says, voice laced with real worry this time from the other end of the line.

"I'm alright," I assure him, deeming the meal finished and setting it out into containers for easy accessibility in case my Aunt gets hungry later. As I hurry, the clock on the wall catches my eye, and I sigh again, the sheer exhaustion of my mind and body overcoming the enthusiasm which Ben provided just a minute ago. "Ben," I say, almost with a cry, my throat hoarse and weak after the long day, and with the knowledge of many more hours of stressful work under the reign of my manager to come. "I really have to get ready for work."

He waits a moment, the gentle warmth of his concern reaching out to me from thousands of miles away, and then says, clearly trying not to sound too concerned—which he knows only makes me feel more upset: "Sweetheart, You sound exhausted."

His name of endearment for me almost makes me collapse then and there: I want so badly to be able to lean into his chest, to feel the warmth of his arms around me... but I have to keep myself strong, have to stay standing up. "I am," I admit, not trying to keep the honest exhaustion out of my voice, leaning against the counter and massaging the bridge of my nose, feeling on the verge of tears with the longing to just lay down and slip into a dark, dreamless sleep.

But then Ben's voice comes warmly over the speakers. "I'm giving you a tight encouraging embrace," he tells me. It's a little game we've been playing with each other, during our physical separation, and it's helped to ease the pain, if only slightly.

I exhale, closing my eyes and imagining the feeling. "I'm kissing your chest and returning it," I sigh lightly.

For a few precious moments we remain in that other place and time—and it's as though I really can feel his arms surrounding me, the warmth of his body, his heart beating against my ear.

But then it has to end and we both exhale at the same time, releasing each other from the imaginary hug. "I'll let you go," he says reluctantly. "But—for me—please, try to get some rest when you get home."

"Are you kidding?" I say, mustering all the energy I have left and channeling it into my voice. "You just gave me a new television show to binge watch, and you want me to actually get some shuteye?"

"You're right," he says with a low chuckle, "what a hypocrite I am."

I sigh again, and go into the living room to shut off the television again, before leaning against the wall, forcing away the desire to yawn in my tiredness. "I'll get some sleep," I assure him. "I promise."

For another moment, we're in that place, again, that place where we're together, where it's only us, and schedules and jobs and time itself is not necessary. "I love you, Holly," he says.

"I love you, Ben."

Benedict

Tom and I alight together from the airplane in the early evening, refraining from interacting much as we steal through the airport in hats and sunglasses. It's a relief when, at last, we make it to our pre-ordered private car out front with our luggage in tow, without having been spotted, and are directly on our way to the hotel. I consider calling Holly and letting her know we're safe, but I know she'll be at work, and don't want to risk disturbing her. Both Tom and I are thoroughly tired from the jetlag, and the fact that it should be almost midnight back in London, our time—but we quickly break through the ice of the sleepiness, and fall into our usual banter.

Within the hour we've gotten to the hotel, checked into our rooms, gotten our baggage settled and re-opened lines of communication with our assistants and fellow cast members. After a time, the exhaustion I'd felt coming off the plane has dissipated, and I'm overcome by a sort of electric excitement, no threat of sleep on the horizon, especially when I look at the view of the city outside the hotel room window. Tom, as though sensing my restlessness, is quick to knock on my door, coming from his own suite across the hallway.

"Have you told Holly you're here yet?" he asks, once we've sat ourselves down on the couch by the window.

"No, actually," I say, checking the time and frowning, knowing her shift still hasn't ended. "I don't want to bother her while she's working."

But even as I say it, an idea takes form in my head, an idea which seems so straightforward and obvious that I can't believe I hadn't thought of it earlier. And Tom, in turn, gets a clever glint in his eye. "I'm feeling a bit hungry... Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he says at length, rather cheekily, and I give up a chuckle before nodding my head.

After freshening up and changing out of our airplane clothes, we both get into another car and direct the driver to the diner where Holly has been working, and will continue to work until a week from now when she and I escape again to London for the remainder of her summer off of university. It's with a continuation of our luck at the airport that we get a private corner booth for ourselves without attracting any attention, and chuckle at each other, easing into our casual conversation while we wait, glad to find ourselves in such a normal setting for a change.

Holly comes out of the kitchen looking slightly agonized and extremely tired—more tired than the both of us combined, even after our flight. But she brightens up instantly when she comes toward us across the dining area and recognizes us. I can't help but laugh aloud when she smiles broadly and then has to reign her happiness in, adopting a more professional façade as she comes to stand in front of our table.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she says, looking between Tom and I with a raised eyebrow, setting menus in front of us and taking great pains in reeling in her amusement at her situation.

"Good evening, Lady," I respond with a good-natured sarcasm, reaching for her hand and kissing her knuckles, making her jump a little and stifle a laugh against the back of her hand. I feel instantly more relaxed after finally being able to touch her again, and Tom gives me a devilish look across the table, grinning up at Holly—he's been clear to me about how much he enjoys her company, for how casual and good-natured she is, and how happy she makes me.

Holly slips her hand out of mine and looks over her shoulder nervously towards the kitchen doors before truly relaxing, though not enough to dare take my hand again. "When did you two land?" she says, still fidgeting slightly and taking out her notepad, poised and pretending to write.

"Almost two hours ago, now," I say.

Tom considers her face, testing the waters, and makes the right decision in the end, saying, "And we're very thirsty for..." trying to put her stress at ease. I feel slightly bad for having surprised her so completely.

"Water?" I ask, and Tom nods, both of us repeating the request with affirmative nods.

"Thank you," she mouths in Tom's direction.

"Good to see you again," he says congenially, set on helping to put her at ease, "We don't want to get in the way of your job-"

"But-" I interject, cutting him off with a chuckle, "... we do." She laughs a little, but I can tell that she's nervous about something. "I love you," I tell her again, catching her hand and squeezing it before letting her go, watching her. She looks over her shoulder and smiles once more before disappearing behind the kitchen doors.

"She was certainly caught off guard," says Tom, face open and bright as he picks up his menu discreetly, studying it with exaggeration as two young women pass by our booth on their way to the restrooms. Once they've passed I let him know he's in the clear and he sets the menu down again, still studying it when he says, discreetly, "But Ben..." without looking up at me, "She's really in love with you."

I can't help but smile at my best friend's words, warmth blossoming through my chest at my heart's recognition of their truthfulness. I don't need to respond; Tom looks up at me and smiles, and I know he's extraordinarily happy for me. Without needing to speak further along that route, we set about making a decision regarding what to order.

Shortly, she comes out to take our order, still seeming a bit tense, but happy enough, and definitely more at ease than she had been when she first reacted to the surprise of our presence. Her posture is businesslike, but she remains slightly jocular, a light banter quickly ensuing. Tom makes an order of a light salad and I, deciding to be a bit more adventurous, turn to her and clear my throat, saying, "Je voudrais le Croque-Monsieur, s'il vous plait, ma cherie" (I would like the Croque-Monsieur, please, my dear).

For a second her pen stops against her notepad and she stutters a little, looking down at me. But promptly she gathers herself with a little smirk and replied wittily, "A Croque-Monsieur, you say? I think you've already got one-" she nods her head to a dumbfounded Tom "-sitting across from you... will he not suffice?"

Both of us are made speechless momentarily, impressed by both her ability to comprehend French and by her wordplay, knowing that Croque-Monsieur would literally translate to a "Crunchy Mister." I nearly snort with amusement and Tom actually has to cover his mouth as he shakes with laughter. She turns around swiftly after that, taking our menus and leaving us both shocked, looking after her with slack jaws, and then turning back to each other, chuckling uncontrollably.

But then she comes back out again, ten minutes or so later, with our food. There's no doubt that she's upset, and she's completely incapable of mustering her previous lightheartedness. It seems, even from a distance, as though she might actually be on the verge of tears, her small body bent in an unexplained aggravation. What taps me towards the edge of my wariness, though, is that, when she places down our food, and leans closer to me, I notice a band of red skin around her wrist, slightly inflamed, as though from a blow.

"What's this?" I question instantaneously, worry stitching my eyebrows together as I feel a slight pang of protectiveness shudder through my mind.

She's about to draw away again but I catch her at the elbow and pull her closer, examining her wrist. Tom also notices and leans over to look at what's captured my concern, clicking his tongue worriedly when he sees the reddened skin. "It was an accidental burn," she tells us quietly, almost in a whisper. "Nothing to worry about."

But it's not lost on either of us that she looks extremely uptight and distressed, something she could hide from the other customers, but that she can't hide from me. Something is definitely not right, and the reddened skin doesn't look like the result of a burn at all. But before I can say anything else, she pulls herself away with a quiet force, knowing I won't manipulate my strength against her to force her to stay. Her eyes are downcast when she says, more to Tom than to me, "Let me know if I can get you anything else," before hurrying away again.

It's with particular stiffness that she comes out again after we've both eaten, to re-fill our water glasses and ask if we want desert.

"We'll just have the check, please," Tom answers in my stead, a smile ready on his face. But both of us have noticed that a man, who appears to be Holly's manager, is looming outside the kitchen doors, watching our table with crossed arms. I might worry that he'd found out who we were, if he didn't look so clearly upset and slightly suspicious, on his own—and instead I piece together the worsening red wrapping around her wrist with the man in an instant.

"Is everything alright, love?" Tom asks her, looking back at her after assessing the manager by the kitchen, as I had. Tom and I exchange a momentary glance and it seems we're both wondering the same thing, but we know to be cautious, and not to jump to conclusions.

"I'm fine," she says to him, almost through gritted teeth. But there's something behind her dismissive smile that tells us both otherwise. I look into her eyes, trying to convey our trustworthiness, trying to find the truth, but I'm met only with a wall of worry and aversion that I can't quite crack, and she hurries away before I have a chance.

We both watch carefully as she goes back to the kitchen, and the manager says something to her—rather harshly—before they both disappear. Tom and I look at each other for a beat, both concerned, but we decide not to do anything yet. And just a minute later, she comes out to give us the check, looking slightly relieved, and as though none of the anxiety she'd clearly suffered in the past minutes had ever happened.

"My shift ends in five minutes," she says to us, leaving it open-ended, inquiring after our follow-up plans.

"We'll wait for you if you want to come back to the hotel with us for a little while," I propose, looking at Tom, who nods his agreement.

"I would love to join you," she says, an expression of increased relief on her face. I can tell that something's been going on behind the scenes this whole time, but decide not to question... yet. "My Aunt will be wanting some alone time tonight, anyway," she adds.

I'm extremely grateful for her Aunt's presence, though we haven't yet met in person. She's told her Aunt about the two of us and her Aunt, unlike Alexandra—though she's a very kind and supportive young lady—looks at our relationship objectively; which is an external influence Holly is glad to have.

And, true to her word, Holly comes out of a different door other than the swinging ones to the kitchen five minutes later, dressed out of her work slacks and shirt and into her usual, casual yoga pants and college sweatshirt, looking tired but less under strain than she had during her shift. We leave together and get our car back to the hotel building, talking casually all the way, Holly fitting (amusingly) comfortably in the center seat between Tom and myself. Just over the course of the ride she seems to lighten up significantly, becoming more at ease in her own skin and with the two of us, leaning her precious head on my shoulder and smiling against my arm when she feels me take her hand. Her sweater covers her reddened wrist, so I can't look at it discreetly as I would like to, but she squeezes my hand and is so relaxed between the two of us that I almost forget about my concern.

Until when, later, we're back in the hotel, the three of us together in my suite, she heads straight to the bathroom, excusing herself, and turns on the sink, leaving it on for an unnaturally long time.

"Something doesn't seem quite right," Tom says, the first of us to speak on our shared thoughts.

"I agree," I say to him after a moment, looking worriedly towards the bathroom door, wondering what she's trying to hide behind the sound of the water. "I'll go see to it."

She doesn't open the door when I knock the first time, or the second, and its only when I plead for her to open the door that she finally does, letting me in. I close the door around behind me, offering her some privacy, and I gently take her face in my hand, not letting her hide herself from me, a startled breath catching in my throat when I see that she'd turned the sink tap on to hide the sound of her crying. She looks at me for a moment before her face drops down again, and her small body shudders with a new wave of tears, the exhaustion finally catching up to her physically as she sobs. I reach behind me and turn the water off, and sit her down on the toilet seat, kneeling in front of her and questioning her gently.

She winces and hisses a bit when I pull up the sleeve of her sweater to reveal the inflamed wrist, which has started to swell slightly, and the pain on her face makes something in me sting in response. I don't dare touch the red band of skin directly, but after sifting through the cupboard under the sink, I locate a tube of salve and a bandage, which I apply for her while she tries to get her crying under control—rather unsuccessfully, though most of her sobs have subsides, leaving her with a series of shudders and sniffles.

It astounds me to no end, still, just how much she as an individual has endured, how she continues to persist through every trial, how much her body and heart have had to bear over the years. The fact of her existence before me is a miracle in itself, and I can only hope she can feel my deep care for her through the gentleness of my hands as I bind her wrist, making sure it's not too tight before taping it and taking her hands in mine.

By now, she's calmed down enough that I can look into her eyes without her looking skittishly away. A few tears slip from their corners and roll down her cheeks, but she continues to look at me, so much of her gumption suctioned out of her suddenly, but a resolve still remaining.

"I know it's not a burn," I say, probing the waters, stroking my thumbs along the palms of her small hands. "Was it that man in front of the kitchen doors?" I ask after a moment, neither of us needing context for the question.

She nods her head in the affirmative and sniffles again, clenching her jaw a bit, asserting, "He's a prick." I try to chuckle a little, but it comes out morose, and she looks up at me with a trembling from on her face. "God, Ben, I'm just... I'm so. So. Tired."

And now the tears speed up again, her shoulders shaking, letting me keep her hands in mine but tucking her head down between her knees with the groan of someone who has just run five marathons back to back. This is the moment I've been missing—to be able to hug her in reality, to brush away her tears and draw her into me, let her release all of her exhaustion in my arms—so I seize it.

When I first draw her nearer, her crying actually intensifies, as though her relief causes her pain—which I can understand. I ensnare her waist gently and draw her off of the toilet seat and down to me, letting her sit on my lap while I lean back against the bathtub, pulling her flush against me and keeping pressure on her back until, slowly, her crying ebbs. She's slumped gently against my chest and shoulder, and the scent of her (her tiredness punctuating her regular sweet scent of books and fresh air) fills my head, letting me to relax, in turn, against her as our hearts fall into the same rhythm at last after our long separation. The warmth of our closeness fills my chest with its own bittersweet release and it's a long time before either of us dares to speak again.

"Holly," I start warily, after enough time has passed, knowing not to let the problem at hand rest for too long, or else she's bound to keep us from coming back around to it. "I think you should quit that job."

I feel her tense slightly against my chest, and I loosen my hold on her when she pulls back against my hands to look at me with an expression of confusion in her eyes.

"If you want backup," I say, trying to be funny but—I can tell—failing under these particular circumstances, "I can go with you as an intimidation factor. Look..." I see her face visibly draw back further; she knows what I'm about to suggest, but I can't keep from doing so in my need to help her. "You know I'm more than willing to help with money. Anything you need for your contribution to rent, bills, food... anything, Holly. You know that."

She groans almost despite herself, but doesn't have the energy to shift off of me, instead expressing her usual disagreement with a determined shake of her head in the negative. "And YOU know I'm not comfortable with you spending money on me," she says, so exhausted that her eyes almost droop closed, and she can't help but lean her head on my shoulder again, making a smile ghost across my lips as I hold her close. "I can't even believe I let you convince me to keep that copy of Great Expectations after I found out how much you spent on it." I can feel her mouth twitch up into a smile of its own against my chest; this has been a real point of discussion and playful argument between us—and I know that, though she's serious about not wanting financial help, she doesn't want to argue about it, which is a relief, as I know we're both simply too exhausted to do so without running the risk of hurting each other.

"Here we go again," I say dramatically, chuckling, the vibrations in my chest inciting a more light pulse of laughter from her own spent body. And just like that, the tension between us is dispelled.

"I appreciate your generosity, but... I'm going to just work through this last week," she says after a moment, bringing us around to our original subject of her job. "Just five more days, until the date I was going to leave anyway. Okay?"

At length I have to agree, seeing her point, knowing the ways of these stingy sorts of managers, knowing that she won't be given a paycheck unless she works to the scheduled end date, and knowing that, even if she did resign, she would never accept money from me. But silently, I vow to keep a careful watch over her for the next five days, to ensure to the best of my ability that she is as safe as possible. Watching over her shouldn't be too difficult, as I have very little filming to participate in, and will have most days entirely to myself, to be with her as much as possible.

We come out of the bathroom together a few minutes later, once she's scrubbed the tracks of tears from her face, and decided not to mind if Tom notices the redness in her eyes, knowing she can trust him as a fellow emotional being. When we get out into the common space, we're instantly struck by the sight of Tom himself, draped out over the couch dramatically. He turns to us at the sound of our exit and says, "Don't start fighting on me, lovebirds," in an accent so posh that we both lighten up in the snap of one's fingers.

With ease the three of us settle in on the couch, exhausted in our own ways and strangely high on the view of the city-which Holly marvels over shamelessly. She texts her Aunt's phone to let her know where she is, and then sets it aside, fully present with Tom and I. Conversation strikes up quickly, and it's not long before we've spanned multiple topics, engaged totally in each other, the three of us feeding off of one another's energy admirably, given the time of night and the high-running emotions from myself and Holly's end of the couch.

We soon discover that she and Tom have an almost identical taste in music: very versatile, but with extra respect for Rock from the sixties through the eighties, and Classical music. They can both sing along to the entirety of U2's Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For, and both Tom and I have to stand up and applaud when Holly makes it all the way through Mozart's 29th Symphony in A without missing a single note.

But the fun can only last so long, before Holly literally passes out, when she and I have just sat down after slow-dancing to Phil Collins's Lady in Red. The least I can do is guide her to the bed before she collapses, and I tiptoe back over to the couch, where Tom has turned off the music for the sake of allowing "the poor girl some peace."

After a few minutes of calm, comfortable silence, during which I can feel my bed and the presence of Holly in it calling, and Tom seems to be setting himself up to leave us for the night, he shifts and turns to me with a conspiring grin. "Whenever the day comes that we're all three in London together," he says, the lights of New York reflected in his eyes from the window, "we should set aside some time together. You both are welcome in my apartment, you know. I love you two together."

I chuckle and hold back a yawn, smiling at the thought of a relaxing evening with Holly and Tom in front of his fire: it's a thrill to me to know that my two most loved companions also enjoy one another's company. "Are you going to show her your record collection?" I say mischievously. "Or is it too early?"

"Oh, definitely too early, mate," he chuckles. "Exposure to my record collection is a very advanced stage in my relationships."

"What does that make me, then?"

We share a few good quiet laughs before, when it's nearly one in the morning (we're both shocked to discover), Tom dismisses himself to his own suite for a shower, exhausted and ready to collapse into bed, himself.

I would do the same, as well, but I know that I have Holly to attend to first. I start by taking her hair gently out of its hair tie, and placing the latter on the bedside table along with her phone, which I don't think will run out of charge overnight. Then I pull back the covers on the side of the bed she's not occupying, and pick her up every so gently, placing her down again on the sheets and then joining her under the blanket, spooning her carefully. A deep happiness spreads through my entire body—I'd missed this terribly in the months since our Christmas spent together. After a moment her body rises and falls with a deep breath, and her subconscious murmurs something loving to me, making me smile just before I slip into sleep after her: the most content heart in all the world.

Holly

I'm invited to be in Benedict's hotel room whenever I want to be, but in the end, we choose not to risk it. He and Tom are only ever there at night, anyway, so when Ben and I spend our time together, it's mostly in my Aunt's apartment. She's been getting out every day looking all over the place for employment, to get herself back into a routine. And there's something half-funny and half-frightening about being in a place I can call (in part) my own, with Ben, without my Aunt. It makes me feel, ever so slightly, like the rebellious high schooler I never was, and never would have been.

Six days, which is all we have together before we'll be flying back to London for the remainder of the summer, seem to absolutely fly by. But within them are sowed important seeds that make me wonder what the next months will hold for us. When we're alone, out walking in the park covertly, or kissing and touching dangerously in my little bedroom, I feel a thrill—and, countering it, a sharp and very present spike of caution and wariness.

It's on one particular late morning, when Ben kisses me with a gentle, overwhelming abandon against the counter, that I feel force to verbally brooch the subject we've both been turning over in our minds. I feel that I can truly be honest with him, so it's strange when a feeling of worry comes into my chest at what I know I need to say. Eventually, though, once I've carefully pressed my hands against his chest, making him step back a bit, looking at me attentively from his towering height, I find my center again.

"Benedict," I start, my emotions like a cloud of butterflies, the flush still hot and beckoning on my cheeks, and another sensation... lower... lower... telling me to shut up and act on instinct. "I want to be more physical with you," I say, truthfully, marveling inwardly at my own courage for looking directly into his eyes. "But..." I say, noticing the flash of agreement in his eyes, "I'm frightened." His eyebrows furrow slightly in sympathy- "Not of you," I amend, "But... I just don't want to... panic, when you... when we..."

I shake my head after a moment of mental stuttering, and scoff at myself, putting my palm against my forehead in a gesture of insecurity which isn't lost on Ben. Consolingly, he pulls my hand from my face, and tilts my chin up tenderly, looking down at me with his eyes infused completely with understanding and a willingness to converse, which sends my heart sailing with relief and recognition of just how lucky I am to be with him.

Before our six days are over, he is sure to let me know that he wants to move slowly with me; that, if I'm uncomfortable, he will never, ever force himself on me; that, if necessary, he will wait for a long, long time, until I am ready. And this new trust between us only makes my desire for him grow—a desire hampered, now, only by the psychological block my mind has placed between emotional love and sex. The way Ben and I can talk about my needs, my fears, only assures me that I won't have to wait the eternity that I've feared before preparedness comes, before I can cast off my blanket of anguish and memory, and rush forward to embrace him physically, in the present.

But until then, we take it slow.

When our time waiting in New York has run out, I leave work with relief, a more-than-earned paycheck in the bank account, and pack myself a small back for London. I am confident that my Aunt will be in a better condition than ever before this summer, having found a job and—seemingly—found herself, too, at last.

Bidding us goodbye at the hotel, Tom (who I've come to trust and rely on extremely after just two meetings in person) jokes about our abandoning him in New York for the remainder of the filming, but then lets us go, extending his good wishes, and telling me that he hopes Ben and I might find our way into his apartment for a relaxing evening in the not-too-distant future.

At the airport, we stay separated from each other by a few feet, myself walking some paces ahead of and to the side of Ben, so that if someone happens to recognize him, I won't be caught in the crossfire. Once we find our gate we sit apart, too, making the whole thing a terribly funny joke, casting long hello-stranger glances at each other across the space...

Until the joke is no longer a joke, and a woman actually does approach him while we're waiting. He takes a picture with her and exchanges a few words before she leaves again, one of those huge fan smiles on her face which I'm becoming more and more accustomed to as I spend more time around him. The whole time, he avoids looking at me but for a few glances, and a single wink, and I have to cover my mouth to stifle my shaking laughter at the hilarity of it all...

Then we finally get on the plane, and sit down together, laughing at the experience, conversing about our hopes and plans for our time in London, and dozing on and off beside each other for seven hours as we are borne over the sea, through the clouds, into the future...

Author's Note:

Just thought I should mention that Holly's situation at work is taken in part from something I actually experienced. My manager was not as sex-oriented in his terrorizing of his employees, but he was definitely close. He had a penchant for startling the younger women in his employ with loud noises (there were two of us at the beginning and then the other girl—wisely—quit, leaving me to fend for myself, in a sense). I actually did end up dropping an order at one point, and he made me clean up the mess—which left my customers waiting way too long, and made them very rude, and made them decide not to leave a tip—and he also had me pay for the meal and the dishes, AND tell the cook what had happened. And, oh, boy, was the cook PISSED OFF. All in all that job was a terrible experience. Asshole. In short: unless you're out-of-this-world lucky, Benedict and Tom are not going to show up in your defense. Stand up for yourself and get the hell out of there as soon as you can. Don't let the bastards grind you down!

For anybody who was wondering, the title of this chapter, "Sweet Flowers are Slow," is part of a line from the play Richard III: "Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste," yet another piece of Shakespeare's absolute genius... Really, though, I cannot get enough of Benedict in Shakespearean roles! The Hollow Crown was just stunning. And, also, Tom Hiddleston as Henry V?! Awesomeness.

I just want to take a moment to express my gratitude for you guys. Gosh, life really has it in for me right now. But things are going to get better eventually. This story is really serving as an effective refuge for me in the meanwhile (at least when I have the time to return to it)…

So many more people are reading this than I ever imagined could be possible, and so soon in the process as well! I WELCOME and ENCOURAGE reviews and comments from EVERYONE—it really helps me to keep going with this. Thank you so much for your commitment and support! You guys really keep me motivated, and I am grateful beyond words.

SO, things are FINALLY getting a little more physical! I as the writer am trying to be patient with Holly's needs, as is Benedict, and I hope you will be patient with me, in turn. More of that next time...

Une-papillon-de-nuit

5 August 2020