Chapter 11 #2
“You know how sometimes,” he says, turning his gaze on Ben and letting his smile go smaller, “there’s just the best possible version of something?
Or maybe not the best, but the version that’s most yours.
That works the best for you.” He swirls his still-full glass in his hand without looking away from Ben; Ben, at something of a remove, thinks it really shouldn’t be so hot, the way he doesn’t spill a single drop.
“I love figuring out stuff like that, don’t you?
The right way to approach a given dish, or a given drink, or.
” He pauses, tilting his head slightly, almost a question, but not quite. “A given person.”
“Pete?” Ben’s heart is hammering in his chest, but he tries to tell himself his voice comes out smooth and cool.
This lie becomes less convincing the longer he talks.
“To be painfully, excruciatingly honest here, I feel like we’ve entered the territory where, like, how it’s supposed to go is you say something smooth, and then I say something smooth, except I’m not going to say something smooth, okay?
I’m never going to say something smooth.
You have to assume I’m like someone who was raised by wolves or in a cave or on the moon, I’m not suave, I’m going to say something weird!
Or off-putting! Or become completely convinced that I’m reading the signals all wrong and you really are trying to have a conversation about the joy of recipe development or whatever—”
And then Pete is rounding the counter, chuckling slightly as he closes the distance between them with all the easy confidence Ben’s never seen him summon on camera, seemingly not nervous at all.
He steps into Ben’s space with grace and ease, crowding him back against the counter just enough to force Ben to look up at him, breath caught in his throat, as Pete says, “I’m not trying to have a conversation about the joys of recipe development, Ben, no. ”
Ben should wait for Pete to kiss him, give himself some scrap of plausible deniability, not to mention dignity; he does not.
His self-control gives way all in one go—in spite of weeks of telling himself he had it all under control, it snaps like a twig the very instant Ben’s certain this whole thing hasn’t been in his head.
He grabs Pete by the worn straps of his tank top and pulls him down into the kiss, letting go of one strap to slide a hand up Pete’s neck, into his hair, when Pete snakes an arm around his back and pulls him close.
“My good man!” Ben’s conscience screams, as though briefly surfacing from the ever-churning sea of anxiety that is Ben’s internal landscape.
“Wait a moment, please! We can talk about this! A nice breath of fresh air, that’s what you…
Oh. Oh, well, I must say, this is quite a good kiss, isn’t it?
Of course my objections stand, but he does seem to know what he’s—wait, is that his hand against your thigh or—do you know what?
You seem to be handling this without me anyway, so.
No hard feelings! See you for our guilt trip later, already got it scheduled, looking forward, bye! ”
Ben forgets very quickly about his conscience, and then about ever having even had one.
He forgets about Chris, and about the party downstairs, and his dreaded early bird flight to Michigan in a few short hours.
He forgets about the videos, and Late Night with Brian O’Malley, and Pete’s horrible, unlucky history with the internet.
Who, he thinks, when he can think at all, could remember anything right now?
This is a time for recording the present, not sifting around in the past, and for the moment Ben lets everything go but the here and now.
He kisses Pete like he’s wanted to kiss Pete for weeks: hungrily, and intensely, and possessively, with an amount of himself in it that would usually scare him. It doesn’t scare him. Pete’s kissing him back too thoroughly and too well for Ben to access that brand of terror right now.
Ben had assumed, based on Pete’s personality, his daily struggles to find items like his keys, wallet, or phone, and essentially everything else about him, that he might be a bit unfocused in this arena, easily distracted or hard to follow.
After all, anyone that hot wouldn’t have to try very hard, not if they didn’t want to.
God knows Ben, in his various imaginings of things, had not minded the thought of having to direct Pete a little.
It wasn’t exactly his usual vibe, but for Pete, and Pete’s body and hands and face, and the way Pete wears a pair of jeans—well.
Ben would have been more than happy to cover any gaps.
But to his surprise and pleasure, Pete focuses on Ben the way he’s able to focus on a complicated culinary process, at least if no camera is rolling.
He’s not scattered and in need of direction; he kisses Ben meticulously, with an attention to detail that steals Ben’s breath from his chest. His hands are everywhere—stroking Ben’s neck, sliding up the back of his shirt—and then both dropping low, fingertips sinking into the soft flesh of Ben’s thighs through the thin fabric of his suit trousers.
He lifts Ben as though he weighs nothing, as though he’s a side of beef or a Christmas ham, and deposits him gently on top of the counter, all while kissing him.
“God,” Ben gasps, half laughing, when Pete pulls away to press a kiss against his jawbone, “we’re going to have to re-sanitize all the surfaces—”
“To be honest,” Pete breathes, low and hot in Ben’s ear, “I wouldn’t say I’m concerned about that right now.” And then they don’t talk anymore.