Chapter 17
17
“You’re not supposed to be able to talk,” Ezra says, closing the front door firmly behind them.
It had taken Ezra several minutes to get past the shock, and even longer to ease himself all the way out from under Jonathan’s arm—he’s a cuddler, apparently, and protested Ezra’s leaving without fully waking. Ezra had to try to pretend he couldn’t see the absolute devastation on Ben’s face at the sight of it. He pulled on his shoes, thanking every lucky star that he and Jonathan hadn’t done much more than kiss after all, and it’s Ben who inclines his head toward the door.
Now, sitting on the front porch, wrapped in a blanket he’d pulled off Jonathan’s living room couch to ward off the chilly air, Ezra doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say.
The wind ruffles Ezra’s hair and he shivers. Ben’s hair doesn’t so much as flutter.
“I think,” Ben says at last, in that same soft, thoughtful voice, “that we’re a little past what I’m supposed to be able to do.”
There’s nothing Ezra can say to that that won’t sound absurd. “Why are you here?”
A faint smile touches Ben’s lips. “Philosophical start.”
“This isn’t my usual rodeo.”
“I’m an overachiever. At least, I was.” He’s not blue or translucent or spectral or glowing; he looks ordinary— handsome and tired and rumpled around the edges. This close, Ezra can see the flecks of green in his hazel eyes, the occasional gray strands scattered through his dark hair, the stubble on his cheeks. Was he intentionally growing out a beard, or did he miss a few days of shaving?
Ezra can still feel the phantom touch of Jonathan’s hands on his skin, the ghost of his fingertips skimming the line of Ezra’s back under his shirt. “Oh my God,” he says, horror mounting. “Could you see—”
“No,” Ben says. “Though thanks for confirming there was something to see.”
Ezra drops his head onto his knees.
Something brushes his back, a sensation like ice-cold water mixed with runny egg whites. He jerks back and whips his head up, shivers running down his spine. Ben’s hand is still outstretched, like he’d tried to pat Ezra’s shoulder in support, and he slowly pulls it back, looking down at it in a twist of discomfort and disgust.
“Sorry,” he says, and the ease has dropped out of his voice so completely it’s as if it was never there. What’s left is something small and—Ezra’s chest goes tight— afraid . He flexes his fingers, as if he can still feel them. “Did I hurt you?”
The question catches Ezra by surprise. “No,” he says. “No. I’m okay, I was just surprised. It was cold, that’s all.”
Cold and unpleasant, but he doesn’t need to say that. Ben nods, though, like it’s a good enough answer, and wraps his arms around himself, looking down the dark street. It’s a cloudy night, the moon hidden from view, and the light from the streetlamps is hazy against the fog. All the words turn dusty and dry on Ezra’s tongue.
Ben breaks the silence, still looking somewhere beyond, where the streetlights fade into the darkness. “Jon and I used to sit out here all the time when we first moved in. I’m— I was a horrible sleeper, and then once I was in residency, I never had consistent shifts, so I never had a decent sleep schedule. I’d lie there and just not sleep, so eventually I just started getting up and sitting out here instead.” He looks down at his hands, flexes his fingers again, then laces them together, resting them on his knees. “He always told me he hated waking up to an empty bed. Said he’d rather be awake with me than asleep alone. So we’d sit out here and drink tea in the middle of the night, and not even talk, and it would be…peaceful.”
He looks down at his hands, rubbing them together as if to warm them. Can he feel the cold? “I hated that tea, but I drank it anyway, every time. He still does it, when he can’t sleep. I sit with him, but he doesn’t know I’m there.”
Ezra swallows. “Are you? Always?”
“No. Only sometimes. I don’t know where I am when I’m not here.”
There’s nothing Ezra can say to that. He chews the inside of his cheek until he tastes copper. “What can I do?”
Ben doesn’t respond, just holds Ezra’s gaze for several long, quiet seconds before he suddenly looks up and over Ezra’s shoulder. His eyes widen, just for an instant, and when he snaps back to Ezra, there’s something wild on his face.
“ Fix it,” he says, and then, abruptly, he’s gone.
“ What, ” Ezra says to the empty porch, and then nearly startles out of his skin when the door to the house opens behind him and Jonathan’s voice, thick with sleep, says, “Ezra?”
He turns. Jonathan is standing in the doorway, backlit by the light in the hallway. His hair is rumpled and smushed to one side, his eyes bleary as he looks down at Ezra in confusion. “What are you doing out here?”
“I—” Ezra goes with what’s easiest. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh,” Jonathan says.
He hated waking up to an empty bed.
He’d known this was a bad idea. He’d known .
It’ll be so much worse, now, to leave.
Jonathan bites his bottom lip, like he can read the hesitation in Ezra’s face. He says, uncertain, “Come back to bed?”
Ezra can still feel the trailing cold of Ben’s almost-there touch.
But he can still feel the echo of Jonathan’s hands, too.
“Okay,” Ezra says, and gets to his feet.