Chapter Text
Distance grows between them the whole way back to the village.
She can't walk with quite the same resolution. Still, she doesn't stop walking, and she doesn't intend to.
Ben is well ahead of her, now.
Hurt, shame and frustration work together to slow her down. She can't compete with how a healthy mind deal with those particular emotions ---if he's dealing with them at all right now.
Tears are still rolling down her cheeks by default at this point, and she's pretending for no one but herself that she's not aware she's crying.
It seems to be a much shorter walk than when she was leading, in the opposite direction.
When the store is in sight, the iron curtain has been pulled down, obviously by no one else than the lady from earlier.
Rey winces with a full body shudder at the thought of what happened between them; the misunderstanding that almost sent her spiraling.
If his plan is to get her inside that store again, she's not ready to face that woman.
Although to be fair, she's never ready to face anything or anyone. She's always had to push through life, long before depression made necessary for her to push through even the most mundane event.
If she listened to herself, nothing would ever be done.
Without realizing it she's put her forearms across her stomach while walking, holding herself, shielding the ache there. Her steps slow down more and more as they approach destination.
She's the most difficult person to give attention to, she knows that. She's also the type to be the most in need of it.
And mind you her life isn't what it used to be, because now she doesn't want the attention of just anybody.
There used to be a time where anyone could do.
She's so truly very fucked.
He's his back to her, not walking fast but most definitely going there.
If Ben can hear her cry despite how quiet and far from behind him she is, he doesn't turn around once. His shoulders visibly tense a few times, she notes -probably because she's desperate to read into everything she sees.
He stops at what must be a service door of sort, on the right of the iron curtain, and puts his hand in his pocket, searching for the keys.
With her head down, she walks to the bike.
She barely has the time to think about reaching for the handlebar, that he takes two steps to her and yanks the bike out of reach, hissing "Stop that" and making her flinch again -what's rapidly becoming a habit of his.
She stills, mouth downturned, wishing she could stop annoying the shit out of him, but she's not even trying.
He's still not looking at her directly. A second later the door is unlocked, and he steps aside, jaw set, keeping the door open for her to enter -waiting there perfectly still, determined to make clear that she has to step in first.
She'd like nothing more than to flee, hide and cry in private, just like when she was young enough to do all those things. But even though insecurities persist in life, people stop forgiving you at some point for acting like a child.
Since she was born she's been compared to the average girl, the average woman. But she wasn't born average.
She will always be the only one aware of the efforts she makes. And people will keep judging her harshly regardless.
Then again, most people can go fuck themselves.
Not everyone particularly deserves that she makes an effort.
Head still low and cheeks wet, she passes him, and finds herself in the smallest and most narrow staircase she's ever been in. Just like she's careful not to touch him stepping in, he does the same entering the small space and closes the door.
It's too dark then to see anything at first -it gets her some time for her eyes to get used to it.
He's right behind her, not moving at all, silent, and although there's only one way to go she stays there too, blinking, facing the stairs, waiting for him to take the lead once more.
"Is this where you want to spend the evening?" He finally asks -his voice sounding too close to her, making the hair on her neck stand.
She stiffens.
Her body is drained. She shudders and reddens some more, aching and feverish, and takes the stairs, hearing him follow behind her.
She tries to be sharp then, but her slightly wavering voice fails her:
Where's your friend?"
He doesn't sound bothered -not by her question, not by the fact that she's upset.
"She's never here on Thursdays nights."
Smells of mint, cumin and ginger get to her before she's at the top of the stairs. The sun hasn't completely set yet -it isn't dark enough out to already warrant turning the lights on inside.
She hears chicken, birds, and cicadas coming from outside. All the windows must have been left open.
She stops at the top of the stairs, facing a short corridor, not knowing where to go. From where she stands, she sees a small living-room with a giant Berber rug on the floor, and a couch that takes two walls.
Because he's right behind her he grabs her elbow, firmly enough that he maybe doesn't notice how she tenses when he gets her to move forward, to the entry of another room further down the corridor.
The kitchen.
Inside, there are only two Formica chairs and a table, a sink and a few cupboards, and barely enough space to move. The window at the end of the room is wide open.
The room is half the size of her own kitchen, and God knows that everything in her house is small.
Without a word, he pulls down on her arm to get her to sit on one of the chair.
Then, he leaves the room.
No matter how badly she wants to calm down, take a deep breath, her ribs are stuck, and she can't seem to be able to do anything other than wince and sniffle.
She tares at the doorway through her tears, hands on her lap tightening on the hem of her dress, her heart apparently still outraged about what's happening although she can't say exactly why.
Pretending like the past three months haven't happened at all isn't possible, is it?
It'd be nice if it was.
She hears water running in the next room. The next moment, the sound of his steps through the apartment coming back toward her make her avert her eyes quickly to the ground, her chin in.
It's hardly the right behavior to have, she knows that, but it's clear to her and surely to him at this point that she's without a plan.
When she hears him stepping right to her, before she has his bare feet in sight, wet, cold fingers hold her chin and tilt her head back to look up at him.
Before she can properly do so, though, and still without saying a word, he runs a soaked washcloth over her face. She goes rigid completely, but doesn't do anything to stop him, her lips tight to keep new, quiet sobs in.
Eyes closed, she lets him carefully cool down her burning skin and clean the salt off her face, press her nose a bit roughly and wash the sweat off her forehead with methodical, efficient wipes.
Glancing up at him with swollen eyes she can see that he's still avoiding her eyes, although his expression is rather blank compared to earlier.
"I'll have to leave soon..." she murmurs with a tight throat -and he turns her back to her at that, throwing the washcloth in the sink in more or less casual fashion. She feels new, hot tears roll over her freshly cleaned cheeks when he doesn't say anything back, watching his back as he gets plates out of the fridge instead, ignoring her.
So, she adds a bit louder, hating how whiny she sounds:
"...I don't want to go back home when it's dark."
He's busy at the counter, moving things in front of him that she can't see.
"I don't care," he calmly informs her, not bothering to turn around. "You're eating with me tonight."
This, is so close to what she needs -being in the same room as him, having him wash the tears off her face, being about to share a meal with him. So close, but it must not be it -because she winces again trying to keep from crying.
"I'm not hungry at all," she ends up weakly snapping, voice cracking.
There's a short silence, then without turning around once more he counters with a voice shockingly down and even:
"...I really don't give a fuck, Rey."
Her hands tighten on the fabric of her dress, her shoulders tense --she lowers her head, tucking her chin in. She can't pronounce another word. All she wants is for things to be right again.
Maybe the silence then, that stretches a bit too long is what makes her glance up at him. She catches sight of a spoon he's holding, his hand on the counter, and a plate in front of him, before her eyes go further up and meet his.
He's still facing the counter, but his head is turned just so he can look at her.
She does it before she can stop it, probably boosted by the fact that he's looking directly at her this time. She doesn't know where her audacity comes from -although her trembling hand and hunched form doesn't scream courage at all. She'll always be the only one aware of the efforts she makes.
Still silently crying, she brings her forefinger to her lips, slowly -like it's the heaviest thing.
And she taps there, barely, on her upper lip -her eyes still on his, soon unable to see his reaction without blinking as new tears keep forming and blur her vision.
For the gesture to be so hesitant, she must have thought possible that he'd scowl at her, snap at her and just plainly reject her. It makes so little sense to her the next moment, when she gets to have his actual response.
There's barely the time for a shudder, before he leaves whatever he had in his hands on the counter.
The short distance between them is crossed in a second -and he bends, no question asked, to press his mouth to hers.
Her hands immediately go up to grab his collar and keep him there.
There's really no hesitation at all anymore from either of them. It's very domestic, and feels intensely familiar, the kind of kiss dropped when there's no time to kiss, when one of the two is late for work but the need for a kiss is stronger.
There's no sensuality in it, and no finesse either. It really just needed to be done.
He presses his lips good against hers, once, twice, and every time they part he readjusts his angle and kisses her a bit more forcefully. His hands on the back of her neck, he holds her in place, tilting her face to his and taking his time to give her the amount she needs, waiting for the cup to overflow.
His touch liquefies her, and new quiet sobs of relief are muffled against his mouth.
She pushes him away gently after a moment and bends in half to wipe her face with her dress, despite sensing that she's not quite done crying just yet. She's never cried that much in her entire life -but now she's crying from relief. Just like that.
He doesn't move at all until she lifts her head back up. Then, he wraps a hand around her arm to get her to stand up, and slides his own arms around her, holding her tight by the waist, leaving her little to no room at all to move, with no choice but to take the kisses he presses everywhere on the lower half of her face -not that refusing or resisting his attention crosses her mind even once.
She sniffles, shivers, takes small gasps of air in his hold, feeling him sigh against her. The embrace is overwhelming. She cranes her neck to be sure she'll receive everything he's willing to give, and just a few times quickly rubs her face on his t-shirt to dry her cheeks with a strangled noise.
"Are you done?" She hears him ask, then, tone a bit dry, but soft. She can't be sure that he's talking about all the crying, but it seems to be a safe bet that he is.
"No, I'm not!" She shoots back -again, trying to be sharp but only managing to sound small. He almost cuts her off with a smack on the nose. She blinks, hiding her face in his chest.
"...how many is enough?" He murmurs on her temple.
She has no way to know if he's talking about his kisses or about her tears -either way, the answer is the same: "...I don't know."
She closes her eyes when he presses his mouth on her brow, gently pushing her hair away -causing another tear to roll down her nose.
"You washed your hair?" He notices, nonetheless ending the observation as a question. He runs his fingers there while she mumbles back against his chest:
"I did, I took a shower---"
She knows her words must be unintelligible. She can't explain it, but her throat tightens again when she says more about that:
"---it's so hot outside that I reeked again after two minutes in the sun."
Getting emotional over the injustice.
Once again not with a whole lot of tact, he grabs her elbow and lifts her arm up, bending to bring his face to her armpit, deadpanning a casual:
"Let me smell--"
She promptly lowers her arm back against her ribs, huffing a quiet how funny that gets a short chuckle out of him, before she hides her face back in his chest.
She'd be one with him, hide in him if it was possible. It's not, so she can only try to be as close to him as can be, holding him tight against her, tighter than he holds her already.
Silence of another kind is back between them as they stand there in the middle of that small kitchen.
Just when she tells herself that she might finally have cried all she could, she feels tears that aren't her own wet her hair at the crown of her head.
Lifting her face, her eyes half-closed, she hears herself say against his shoulder:
"I thought about you every day."
It's as if all this time it had been that simple to say it. She can't remember why she couldn't.
His hold tightens around her, so much that he doesn't seem aware anymore that she needs to breathe.
"I couldn't do anything ---without you" she says again, her voice sounding much less certain, particularly when she adds in a whisper, defeated: "...I was useless."
His hands dig hard in her back and waist at those words.
"...what are you talking about," he murmurs. "Don't say that."
She tries to leave it alone, but apparently not hard enough, because she ends up insisting.
"It's true."
He leans back to look in her eyes, and there's no tenderness in his expression -his voice remains low, his tone in check, but he's close to bare his teeth at her:
"You're free to think that, just don't say it to me. I hate it, and I don't want to hear it."
She presses her lips tight, staring back at him.
He opens his mouth again, thinking better of whatever he was about to say, finally narrowing his eyes as he asks: "...didn't you come all the way here?"
He swallows. "I know what it means about you..."; his tone becomes hesitant: "...are you telling me it doesn't mean anything?"
Her chin trembles then, a sudden emotion catching her off guard and mismatching what she says next:
"...I went a few times to another village before I found this one," she starts, voice cracking: "--one that was like, an hour away."
Confusion barely passes over his face before he presses his lips tight to very obviously keep from laughing -and failing.
"...what? ...an hour away, how ?"
"Don't laugh," she whines weakly, voice wavering.
"I'm not laughing," he protests, laughing.
She buries her face against him, her words muffled: "--it was an hour by bike."
"--oh my God."
"...under that fucking sun," she mumbles again.
His chest shakes from the laughter he tries to contain. "Jesus. Is that why you're so tanned?"
"I think it might even have been more than an hour," she finally murmurs.
She barely eats when he serves her a plate of leftovers, cold red bell peppers that Zineb cooked at noon with some bread, and for all the confidence he tried to have about them sharing a meal, he barely eats either. Too much emotion for either of them to be able to handle anything else -or even to talk that much. It's alright, though, the silence is warm again.
The night falls without warning.
From where he's sitting, Ben extends his arm and flips the light switch on the wall, turning on a light bulb at the center of the ceiling.
"No rouge?" She asks him when he stands up to put the plates in the sink, giving her a severe case of déjà-vu that makes her repress a shudder.
It's been years since she's cared about what tomorrow will be made of.
"No rouge," he repeats, his back to her, quickly washing the plates. "There's no alcohol in this house. Zineb doesn't drink any."
It's weird for her to realize, then, that the very real resentment she felt two hours ago for that woman is absolutely gone now.
He's drying the plates with a dishcloth in hand when she tells him:
"I-- can't go home if it's that dark."
He interrupts his task, gauging the weight of what she just said.
She expands on that: "I mean there are ---no street lights along a good part of the road, back to--"
"You're not going home," he informs her, but his slight incertitude makes it sound like a question. The next second, he rectifies his whole posture, although he's unable to hide his reluctance.
"...if you want to go home I can walk you there."
"I don't want to." She hesitates. "I just --wasn't sure if you wanted me to stay here, I--"
He snorts -loudly, bending a bit with a hand pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Mon Dieu," he mutters, huffing a short laugh. "You're right, might as well double-check."
When he's done with the dishes, he doesn't tell her to follow him. Instead, he turns the light off right before leaving the room, and she jumps to her feet, hurrying behind him.
There's enough light from the moon outside to allow them to see once their eyes get used to the dark, even in the corridor and the stairs.
In his bedroom, he doesn't turn the light on. There's barely any need.
The window is wide open, and a light breeze comes from outside with the singing of the crickets and cicadas, causing her to have a violent déjà-vu once more, of the times they've lain down on the couch back at the house in the evening with the French doors left open.
Immediately, she feels the urge to take off her tennis shoes to be barefoot like he is. She's taking them off when he lies down on the single bed near the window without a word, his feet dangling at the end, hands flat on his stomach, his head turned to her.
The moonlight bathes half the room. She can't see every detail of his face, but it's not dark to the point that she can't see his expression.
She finds soon that it's of no use anyway, because he keeps his expression carefully blank when he says no to her, right when she steps forward to join him.
She stops where she is.
He speaks so softly then, that the words don't immediately reach destination.
"Let me see what's under your dress."
Her own flat tone surprises them both.
"Your Mom is under my dress."
A stunned silence follows.
Even in the dark she can see his eyebrows slowly go up on his forehead.
"...that's where she was all those years?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Can I say hello to her?"
There's no reason to be shy. But Jesus Christ if her heart isn't beating fast. He doesn't look nervous, not one bit.
Slowly, not even trying to tease, she gathers her dress in both hands, feeling her face heat up. It doesn't make much sense. She's shown him a lot, and in broad day light.
Somehow, she feels more exposed this time.
He's not even looking at what she's showing him, his eyes fixed on her face. It helps, but it's also unsettling.
The moment the fabric is lifted up at her hips, he comments dryly -his voice still low and soft but clear in the quiet:
"Very nice panties," he casually extends his hand, "Can you take them off? ...so I can see them from up close."
She's too nervous even to snort.
"Sure," she breathes, rolling her panties down, her dress covering her once more.
She steps out of them, takes a step toward the bed.
And hands her underwear to him.
The second he has it, he throws it on the other side of the room.
"Thank you," he still says, his tone as flat as ever. "Can I have another look?"
She wonders if he can hear how uneven her breathing has gotten already as she slowly gathers her dress at her hips once more, the night air hitting the hot, wet skin between her thighs.
Presenting herself.
He still pointedly doesn't look down when he says: "Can't see anything from here, come closer."
--moving a hand a bit higher, on his chest, and tapping there. "Here."
To get her to sit there.
For a moment, she doesn't move. And he doesn't say another word, face perfectly blank.
She inhales, letting go of her dress once more -and takes a final step toward the bed, lifting a leg up to straddle him.
There isn't much room on either side of him to fold her legs, and also, she has to sit on his stomach, which means she can't really completely sit.
So she lets a foot on the floor next to the bed -her attention elsewhere, as his hands are already on her thighs, the muscles flexing under his touch.
She braces herself on his chest, feeling the pad of his thumb graze her inner thigh back and forth under the dress, getting closer each time to where she needs him.
The suspense doesn't last long. Turns out he's not trying to actually see anything.
His head comfortably down on the pillow, looking up at her with the most relaxed stare, he doesn't miss any of the stutters her body does when he starts to very gently rub her clit with a light touch in slow, patient circles.
Thighs flexing, her hips move on their own soon enough, and she breathes through her nose, her face hot, his hands busy under her dress while she tries not to be too obviously desperate, clearing her throat, pressing her lips tight to keep her sighs in.
"...all good?" he asks, nonchalant, right as his thumb slides in between her folds, sliding back up entirely coated to roll with ease over her clit, making her huff sharply above him.
"Yes," she hisses, her eyes shut hard, her fingers planted in his chest. "...good, all good," she repeats, mumbling.
Naturally, that's when he stops, bringing his thumb back on the inside of her thigh.
She sighs, loudly, exasperated.
She should have expected it.
What she couldn't have expected, however, is what he says to her when she downright glares at him:
"---I think it'll be more comfortable for you if you rest on my face."
...oh.
Because she stares at him, frozen, he calmly asks:
"Did you hear me, Rey?"
She clears her throat again. "Um. Yes."
"Okay," he goes, adding when he sees that she's still not moving: "Whenever you're ready."
She narrows her eyes at him, then immediately gets distracted by his mouth and stares at it, thinking about how it'll feel pressed and pushing against her, kissing and sucking her there--
--before that same mouth slowly curls into a smirk when she's apparently already been staring too long at it.
With wobbly legs, she crawls over him, planting a knee right next to his head, her other foot still on the ground. Her hands take hold of the metallic headboard. It squeaks as she uses it for balance, to be sure to not actually sit. She feels her face burn while hovering above him, seeing his entire head disappear under her dress and feeling the air get warmer on her cunt as she blindly lowers herself, anticipating the contact, holding her breath--
His tongue barely gives her folds a lick that she gasps, surprised, and reflexively moves her cunt away -like she would if she had burned herself trying to enter a bath too soon.
But his hands just behind her thighs now grab her ass to guide her down to him, fighting her bashfulness -and she feels plush, full lips close on her flesh and give it a good, loud suck.
The first of a long make-out session.
Head bowed she stares at her skirt, trying her best not to charge against his head, all the wet muffled sounds he makes under the fabric leaving her out-of-breath in less than a minute.
She doesn't even pay that much attention to her thighs and how they burn trying not to give in and full on smother him with furious rolls of her hips, her mind soon entirely focused on how his mouth doesn't go anywhere near her clit, letting his nose tease it repeatedly instead.
She becomes seriously light-headed hearing how heavy his breathing gets the more he goes, feeling herself gush all over his chin, her left thigh trembling madly as she lets out quiet, breathy fuckfuckfuck in a room otherwise only filled with the creaking of the bed and the slurping of the mouth she's riding.
His hands grab her ass trying to keep her steady on his face, but it becomes increasingly more difficult for him to match her enthusiasm when she soon starts bucking against him with feelings, her face in flames, cursing all she can -so he buckles up and slides his arms around her thighs to hold her firmly down, so determined she has to wonder if he's no trying to suck her soul out of her cunt--
-her mouth opens soundlessly, her hand ready to break the headboard in half with her grip as she lets the shocks course along her core, rigid over him until her shaking form rides it out, rubbing the rest of her arousal on his mouth to make sure nothing goes to waste.
Blinking herself back to reality, she catches her breath, arms trembling, and sighs, pushing with her remaining strength on her leg to free him.
Her dress uncovers him, and even in the darkness she can see how flushed he is, how hot, chest heaving, the lower half of his face from his nose to his chin shining in the moonlight.
She made a mess.
She stands back, a knee on the bed next to him, and looks over at his shorts, finding them in a very tensed predicament.
He doesn't miss a beat, his hand finding her ass under the dress and gently petting her.
"Why don't you hop on it," he suggests flatly, voice a bit hoarse, adding as if he was talking about something cooking on the stove: "...I think it's about ready."
He himself doesn't make any move to do the big reveal and remove any clothes, and just looks up at her. He clearly wants her to unwrap her present.
And she goes to tend to him.
It's the least she can do.
Her body is still catching up, wetting her thighs, when she delicately pulls on his shorts, his cock bouncing back against him, heavy.
He sighs, mumbling: "Take care of it for me, it's bothering me."
She doesn't even gratify that with any kind of response other than planting a knee next to his thigh, straddling him there, before she wraps her hand around him, making him quietly suck in some air.
"...here," she says, slowly pumping him, pressing the head lightly and running her thumb there. "Here you go."
Right then, she decides to use both her hands, for the show, taking her sweet time, relishing in seeing his chest stutter and his eyes go black at the sight.
"Perfect, thank you," he breathes.
She waits just enough for him to repress soft moans at the back of his throat to move up and straddles his hips.
With lazy rolls of her hips, she presses his cock down on his abdomen with her cunt and slides back and forth along it, her face closer to his again.
Her attention, however, is mainly on how hard he feels against her as she very generously coats him.
This is better in many ways, she can lie down on him, runs her hands under his t-shirt, feel how solid, warm and alive he is under her.
She could do this all night.
She looks up, eyelids heavy, panting, getting wetter at the sight of the crease on his forehead, and how tight his jaw is, the feel of his hands gripping her ass.
She could do this every day for the rest of her life.
His tone is teasing again when he pushes a strand of hair away from her face, breathless, with the hint of a smile on his lips:
"Look at you, how determined..."
And she's about to huff, but the building of her second orgasm along with the sudden change of expression on his face makes her listen instead.
He breathes mon coeur at her, lips parted, very serious, running his thumb over her lips -she's not sure what he said, but she knows what it means.
It's more than enough to suddenly make her chase both their orgasms with a fervour she's likely never had for anything else before, rolling her hips again and again until he spits and curses, his back arching while she does the same ---until they pant, spent in each other's arms.
She doesn't want to ever let go.
Sure, coming twice might have helped, but she doesn't remember the last time she's felt this serene.
She lets the slow movements of his chest under her own soothe her.
He's silent for so long that she's certain he's fallen asleep, and her own eyes are closed when she hears his voice reverberate through her, as he simply states, out of nowhere:
"I don't want us to be apart ever again."
Cheek pressed against him, she murmurs back without the slightest hesitation:
"...me neither."