Chapter Text
"I still can't believe it."
"Believe what?"
"That it's ours. That we have a place of our own."
A place of our own — sounds so foreign to Randy's tongue as he speaks. A dream never once expected to come to fruition. Yet it's here. It's finally here.
"Yea," Benson chides. "tell that to the bills for the mortgage when they come rollin' in."
Randy swats his arm.
When they awoke this morning, they were met with silence. Perhaps the most soothing form of silence they've heard in a while. A different one for a middle-of-nowhere town. Or maybe that's pure delusion — pick up from one middle-of-nowhere town and drop into the next — except this one is blanketed in lucious flora and fauna that doesn't appear to be as desolate as the part of Louisiana they hail from. Maybe.
Morning light has it's harshness filtered by the clouds. It had been raining yesterday when they finally crossed the finish line of their roadtrip up to their place of permanence. Months in the making and now they're finally here to rest. Remnants of the storm's events were found as puddles in the divots of old conrete. They followed crackles in it, streaming towards the crabgrass lawn. Porch and deck stained with rain, seepening into the years of rot and releasing mildew in its retaliation. The smell of pure, wet earth leeched up in the air. It was potent to their nostrils the moment they hopped down from their truck. A new aphrodisiac. A new sense of home.
Benson aches horribly, now, as he sits up in bed the following morning. They'd haphazardly threw sheets on a full-size bed and passed out on top of them last night. He's usually a good early riser. Up before Randy, ninty percent of the time. However, Randy was putting him through the fucking wringer last night. Not in the pleasant way, to be assumed. No this torture was a majority of the day, to be clear.
Yesterday, when they made their way inside to flee the dwindling storm, Benson had sighed the moment they passed through the door. The screen door screeched and slammed shut behind them with a metallic, wobbly clap. Randy paused at the end of the mudroom — still as a statue. He has a way of going completely rigid and mute when things aren't right. His tells are so goddamn obvious that Benson clearly must love him, or else he'd be wringing his neck with how weird he gets about these things. They're still working that out and Benson is still searching his depths for patience on that accord.
"Why is the furniture still here?" Soft, but wavering. Anxious gaze flitting about the room.
"Rand, I told you." Benson set his bag down. "The owners left it to us."
Dissapproving. Deeply dissaproving. Randy's face contorted into the expression of a miffed toddler about to go irate. Just on the precipice of having a complete freak out over nothing, in the scope of things. That's what Benson would argue him, anyways. Randy particularly fixated on the faded couch with its dilapidated cushions. The wear blatantly obvious in the ugly, patchy fade of the armrests. He hated it the day he saw it and he hated that it had the gall to still sit here upon Randy's arrival. His eyes then followed to the recliners, pieces of fabric torn in various spots and hanging with a pitiful despondency.
The grimace set in something harsh. It's everything they saw in the initial tour, but blissfully, Randy assumed they'd be starting from scratch. Plans to shop an Ashley's or Bob's for affordable pieces. Or a thrift store, if they had to. But Randy has always had some phobias when it comes to used furniture.
"What?" He laughed.
"Ben. Why would they leave us with this?"
"A kind gesture." He reasoned. "or maybe they didn't wanna fuckin' deal with all this shit."
"What if it's got bedbugs? Or, like, gross crap they don't wanna tell us about? I thought this was going to be empty when we got here."
"Bedbugs?" He raised his brows. "Rand. If that were a real problem, the realtor would've clocked that shit beforehand."
"You don't know that," he hissed. "besides, he was really fucking sketchy." His brows tighter together. Rubbed his fingertips into his palm in a fit of nerves. Tried really hard not to sink his nails in these days like he used to. Breaking habits little bit little.
"Or how 'bout," Benson sighed. "the owners were eighty fuckin' years old. Randy, you think they're gonna push mattresses and couches out the goddamn door? And do you really think they have the funds to hire someone and get it out? Not that big a deal."
Randy glares. Don't be an asshole, sat right on the tip of his tongue. It's balled up like a wad of spit and ready to launch. It's most likely the last couple hours of Benson's playlists that have him ratcheted up to this degree. That and the ache in his legs from sitting for so long. He should've gotten out and stretched like Benson had suggested at the rest stop they pulled into earlier. He just wanted to get here by that point and roughed it out
"Look. A win-win." Benson continued. "They don't have to spend to get rid of it. We don't have to spend to get new shit. It's already a tight budget."
Randy clenched his jaw. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in. Shoulders fell from the tightrope of tension when a warm hand he knew all too well cupped his shoulder.
"Believe me, I'd get whatever the princess wants. But I think we'll be okay for now with some old crap ass furniture to make due."
Randy rolled his eyes. Stupid pet name to get under his skin. He hated when Benson said that, even if used purely in jest. Though it was more to make Benson laugh than Randy.
"And probably, this stuff is better than the shit they sell these days. Might be worth holdin' onto."
Benson tread his boots over to the kitchen. Peeked through the warped panel blinds to take a gander at the money shot of a view. They scored this place on a wing and a prayer and it still feels surreal. Even after the paperwork, the signings and standing inside it presently.
"Well I'm not sitting on anything until I clean it." Randy's ultimatum.
No room for negotiation.
Huh. A wonder where he learned that tactic from.
Benson drew a deep sigh to himself. He continued to focus his stare out the sliding door. Watched the water ripple against the lingerings of the storm's breeze and proceeded to close his eyes. He'd almost always will surrender to his man's will. Randy should be lucky Benson loves him too much.
So, again, this is what brought Benson here — this morning's state of minimal cognitive function. Every joint aches from hours of that shit. They had gone back out to visit one of the local drug stores. Shit tons of baking soda, a ridiculous assortment of other products Benson couldn't name, and one of those furniture washing whatever-the-fuck things. Benson barely glanced at the box, he was too busy providing an anticipatory glare at Randy's wallet over which exact credit card he was about to pull at check out. (Randy used his own.)
That little thing was just another loud, pitchy vaccuum that Benson never wants to hear run again. He swore he could hear it in his sleep and throughout his dreams last night the way his ears kept ringing. Randy ran that fucking thing for hours, going over and over every crevice of every. fucking. thing.
"I don't wanna hear that shit again for a week minimum."
This was the last thing he gritted out to Randy, before good night of course, when they finished for the day. Randy actually felt a little bad, then. In that moment, it all clicked and settled him into reality. Benson's eyes were sunken in with dark rings by that point. Perhaps poor lighting accounted for the unsettling perception, but Randy took it serious. Who, on the other hand, was deeply energized by this whole ordeal and had Benson helping him twist furniture every which way. It's a true wonder how Benson didn't huck that thing right into the lake when the hand hit 11 pm on the clock.
So while Benson is slower to rise, Randy is prompt on his feet. Sore too, of course, but youth has its resilience and Randy's still holding onto it with a steadfast grip. He's swift to prepare, at the very least, a coffee for him. Takes a chance to make him a coffee milk, maybe give him a little taste of home, if he's gonna be on the grumpier side.
Benson pads into the kitchen by the time he finishes this. As a gag gift one year for Christmas, Randy bought Benson a pair of giraffe print pajama pants. Turned out he genuinely loves them and wears them all the time around the house — comfortably worn and faded to his liking. He skulks up behind Randy and pats his hip. Randy gives him his coffee.
"You okay?"
He grunts.
Benson draws a sip. Mind thick in a fog, gears still turning, but Christ.. if they get to have this kind of view while he wakes up? He may not ever complain again after this. A whimsical little lie he'll bait himself with.
Docks neighboring them are accessorized with boats — speed, pontoon, canoe, jet ski — all pristine, with their glossy finishes and neatly tucked covers when not in use. There's a couple floating docks several feet out. Clearly for kids to swim out to and jump off of for hours to burn off their energy. The main road is several feet further, creating a short bridge between two islands to connect them. It's adorned with a gas station and dock, boats passing under the bridge and hitching to posts to gather their goodies from the station. Minimal activity in these wee hours now, but he can picture these exact visuals later, come noontime. Randy hugs Benson's waist from behind, breaking up his cycling fantasies, and presses a chaste kiss to his exposed shoulder. Murmurs into it,
"Promise I'll give you a really good handjob for yesterday."
"Yea," He laughs. "You owe me like, twenty."
He feels the smile from Randy spread over the skin of his shoulder. That's about as much of an acceptance of an apology he's gonna get from Benson. He'll take it. Randy indulges, a teasing swipe of his palms over the tops of Benson's thighs.
"Not now, you fuckin' moron."
Both of them laugh and the echoe of it spirals up into the open ceiling of their new place. Though Randy held next to no experience when they first got together, he was a quick learner. Benson showed him the, figurative, ropes when they first started messing around. Nowadays,Benson would without a doubt confirm that Randy gives even better ones than him. This dinged his ego for maybe, say, half a second at the realization. But it's really difficult to mull in envy for too long when big, gentle hands like Randy's are twisting him into the swells of nirvana. But that's okay, he retrieves his sense of pride the way Randy writhes when he's sheathed nice and snug down Benson's throat. It all balances out in the end.
Randy's stubbled chin props to Benson's shoulder.
"You and I both know you can't say no to me."
"And look where that's got us."
"In a really nice place."
Randy pecks two kisses. One to the crook of his neck and the latter just behind Benson's ear. He retreats to the fridge to make them some breakfast. Eggs in a carton is pretty much the only effort they have the energy for and it was a last minute purchase while they were out. A miracle they remembered "oh right, we gotta eat tomorrow morning and there's nothing in the fridge. Throw it in the cart."
It's a culmination of smells now. Ripe with chemicals in the form of artificial lemon and pine — that of which Benson has no clue why Randy thinks it smells any better after that manic furniture cleaning fiasco. However, the "old house smell" is something that's bones deep and inherent in its structure. (Benson can't even bring himself to tell Randy about the basement situation yet.) And now, there's the addition of eggs and toast into the mix. He's gonna hurl on an empty stomach.
Benson cracks the sliding door open to mitigate the intensity. That and before he passes out or develops the world's worst migraine for the rest of the day. He can't decide which is a better fate. Instead, the gusts of a cool, lakefront breeze are heartily welcomed by the pair of men.
"Hayley and mom will be coming up with the dogs," Randy reminds him. "By.. tomorrow, I think?"
"A'ight." Benson murmurs into his coffee.
"Kinda miss them, even though it's been a few days." Randy sets down their plates on the small round table.
He wonders, for a flash of a second as he does this, how many times the prior owners did this. Meals together at this little spot. Talking about everything and nothing just as they're doing right now. He only hopes to be so lucky that he and Benson have a solid few decades of this together.
"I think they want a break from us." Benson says into a mouthful. Opposite of what he wants to say, which is that he misses his old Jamie girl like crazy.
"No, you just want a break from Tucker." Paired with an all-knowing smirk.
"Caught me." Benson admits, though it's half-hearted. As if he cared what Randy thought on this matter. "I was fine with Jamie. You brought that terror into the mix."
Tucker the little Fucker.
Jamie is a chocolate lab mix the two adopted. They've had her about three years now and she's closing in on eleven years old. One of those classic cases — "we're just gonna look" — when they pulled into a shelter one afternoon after some routine errands. They knew they had to get her by the third time they cycled past her kennel. Benson, especially, knew he was screwed when he couldn't stop staring at that gentle, sad face. Tail swishing against the floor each time she saw him specifically.
Tucker is the newest addition. Whether he's actually a pure cavalier spaniel or not, that's up to the universe and the fee is long paid by now to dispute it. But if Randy had suggested a friend for Jamie one more time Benson was going to scream. So they messaged the goddamn breeder from a FaceBook page Randy followed religiously and they drove the three hours out to go pick up the little fool. He was awfully cute as a fresh pup when they got litter pics. Is now, with a silky black and white coat with two little shit brown dots for eyebrows. Still even carried a bit of a milk belly when the lady put him into Randy's arms. And no, he's not the worst dog ever, but that dog has pure will of its own now at a year and a half. It was Randy's idea. He has to train him. Benson was just fine with his docile — trained — old gal. Jamie doesn't shit in his workbooks.
That frustration melts, though, when Tucker curls up to sleep against Jamie's belly. They have a framed picture of it packed in one of the boxes somewhere. He's a sweetheart when he wants to be.
"Hayl sent me a selfie of her with them last night." Randy remembers. "They were either at my cousin's or a hotel. I can't remember."
His mother was gracious enough to let the dogs stay home with her while they got everything settled up here. It would be too stressful bringing all of them at once, so the head start was appreciated. Besides, she wanted to see where they'd land anyways and she was a little too happy to help where she can.
Randy sets his fork down and reaches for his phone to sift through texts to find it. He was pushed into getting an android and still has to learn it. Kind of misses his Blackberry a little bit, honestly. He'd gotten that after his Nokia broke but now those are obsolete. iPhones were too outrageous for him to justify spending on, especially with this momentuous new investment they have in their laps now. Benson, on the otherhand, lives in bliss with his simple flip phone. Only in recent years did Randy finally sway him to upgrade one and somewhat keep up with the times. His old one you could barely hear a fucking word he was saying with how much it broke up.
"He's not a terror," Randy finally registers Benson's prior comment while he scrolls with haste. "He's a puppy."
Benson says not another word. His only communication — an incredulous lifts of his brows and a shake of his head.
Whatever makes you sleep at night, Rand.
Randy finds the photos. Tucker lies belly up ontop of Hayley — ears flopped out to the sides. Splayed out in similar fashion to Hayley's blonde locks. Both their eyes are wide, though Hayley plays into exaggeration. Randy, in his mind, begs for the day she stops doing the fucking ducklips, duckface, duckwhatever look. One of the few things he and his mother agree on about. Jamie is curled up at the edge of Hayley's bed. Not necessarily wanting to cuddle, but letting her back touch to Hayley's foot. Benson is the only one with priviledged access to cuddle time.
Benson squints to focus on the screen, then laughs under his breath and shakes his head once more.
"Jesus."
Benson couldn't part ways with his Chrysler. He just couldn't do it. Thing was long gone, despite diligent maintenance, and he knows this. Everything has it's time. Yet there was too much sentiment behind it for him to release the reins on it. A lot, coming from someone who really isn't all that sentimental to begin with. However, he caved and eventually invested himself in a newer car. A truck, this time. It's a pre-owned Cheverolet pick-up — a Silverado from 2000. A few more decades up to date, at least. It's color is reminiscent of his beloved Chrysler, but more of a soft beige.
Randy genuinely could not understand why those shades of yellow were the colors Benson flocked towards. He thought it was the ugliest color known to man, but that wasn't a fight worth having. Tempting, though, every time Benson made some offhand comment about how shit Fords were, since Randy always drove that brand. And Randy barely cared about any of this, keep in mind. But, oh, one of these days he's gonna unleash that petty argument. His shitty color choices and snotty opinions on car brands. He'll keep it tucked in his holster down the line. A day when Benson really pushes his buttons.
Regardless of Randy's petty observations and musings, Benson cared so much about that car they hitched it all the way up here. Randy was the one to suggest it, even. So they'd parked it with care in the grassier patch of designated parking they own. For it to sit and rot there, Randy guesses? He doesn't know to what end the purpose of all this was. But there it sits. A token of home. Perhaps a morbid grave of an old life well lived — Randy let's Benson have that if the visual soothes him somehow.
Anyways, cars are the least of worries right now. Instead, they have brighter things to turn to. Bigger projects to focus on. That's what makes them want to wake up in the morning.
They threw some next to decent clothes on after breakfast. Maybe a step up from pajamas, but that's a generous judgment. The drive into town took about ten, fifteen minutes, on a good non-traffic day. In these weaning days of summer, they don't have to battle headaches like that. So they're left with long stretches of empty road — dotted here and there with private property. Small homes and ranch style houses. Establishments that at one point were someone's home, converted to niche shops and the like. It's miles of thick, waving boughs of green from the treetops. Trees are that and more up in these parts. Something of a rarity from where these two are from, at least in such a concentrated volume as this. All they knew used to be miles of flat, flat, flat — so the comfort of being consumed by so much life is almost overwhelming. The wonderment certainly will not last very long. It'll all become a part of everyday ritual. Though for now, they'll soak in this honeymoon phase of it. They deserve that much.
"Not that it should be the first thing we do," Benson pipes up. Randy's knocked out of his daydreaming. "but I really wanna get those steps fixed."
"What, the porch ones?"
"Nah the uh, those ones by the dock. Did you see that shit?" He turns, incredulous. "Didn't even put my foot on it to test it, I was gonna go flyin' through."
Randy grimaces. Their "yard" albeit a short square of grass out back, has a short wall where it meets the lake water. Around some overgrown shrubs to their right, is a direct decline into the water. To the left, is an atrociuious excuse for a boathouse. It's caked in yellow do-not-cross tape. Cracks in its foundation and a concerning concave in the roof. But sure, focus on measely steps into water.
"You'd think insurance wouldn't like that." He remarks. Benson nods, no doubt.
"Porch and deck are still on the list though," Benson acknowledges. "All that wood is barely hangin' on. Need more measurements on it. But there's that and then I wanna see the dock situation. Looked a bit unstable when I was out there."
"Ben, I think we need to focus on one project at a time." Randy is delicate with it and doesn't want to crush his ambitions.
Benson no more than snickers in response.
It's something equivalent to that of a Lowes or Home Depot. More regional version of the better known improvement stores to this area — which will be a consistent theme they come to discover as the weeks pass. Remind them of home, just a touch. Benson has all the measurements down and could toss the lingo to the employees there for the supplies he needed. This is Benson's wheelhouse since taking the direction into contracting, with a specialization in carpentry. Randy leaves those details up to him. He instead stocks up on what they needed that he can easily retrieve off a shelf. He had sat down with Benson at dinner one night and made notes to himself so he wouldn't forget.
He can't help but smile, really. Never in a million years did he think he'd get to live such a mundane life with someone he loves and cherishes like this. Much less, did he think he'd be excited to live a mundane life like this. Not just sitting with this bleak, lifeless acceptance over the whole ordeal. There are hopes and dreams and plans and ambitions woven in the midst of it. Something both of them want to build together. He smiles wider to himself as he rather mindlessly gathers products in his hands. To a passing customer, they must think wow, that guy must really enjoy buying nails.
