Chapter Text
It was the kind of night that blurred into day. Los Angeles lay asleep under a sprawl of lights. But Ben was awake.
The silence of the penthouse was heavy, broken only by the soft clink of ice in his glass. He sat by the floor-to-ceiling window, bare feet resting against the cool floor, a glass of amber liquid in his hand catching the city lights.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not after everything.
He lit another cigarette, the flare of the lighter briefly illuminating his face. The expensive liquor burned on the way down—familiar, almost comforting. A poison he knew well.
It was so different from the cheap whiskey he used to drink in that damp Boston apartment. He remembered that place—the thin, stained walls, the cracked ceiling, the constant drip of pipes. He had been no one back then. Just a broke kid.
But he’d been happier. Freer.
So why didn’t it feel that way anymore?
The pills he’d taken earlier did nothing, just a hollow echo of numbness. The air in the apartment was thick with the stale smell of cigarettes, clinging to him, to the expensive fabrics, to the very silence.
He ran a hand over his face, the stubble rough against his palm. Each breath felt heavy, thick with regret—a life that had spiraled beyond his control.
The city lights blurred, a mocking, beautiful view.
Ben closed his eyes and let the alcohol take over. It was better not to think. A key turned in the lock. The door opened, then closed. Footsteps.
He knew them. Always knew them.
“Not a good time,” Ben mumbled. He didn’t even move.
“The hell are you doing drinking in the dark?” Matt’s voice was worried, not angry.
“I said not now. Fuck off.”
It came out harsher than he meant, but Matt didn’t flinch. He knew Ben. Knew he was drunk—heard it in the stretched words.
Matt stepped closer and gently took the glass from his hand. “You look like shit, by the way.”
Ben finally looked at him, the city lights illuminating his features.
God, he missed him.
Matt took a slow breath, glancing at the pills scattered on the coffee table. “You know you’re not supposed to mix alcohol with antidepressants, right?”
“And who the fuck are you, my mom?”
Matt sighed, shaking his head. He didn’t answer. What could he say?
He knew it was hard for Ben. One hundred fifty-three days sober. Then his wife left. The social media storm, the divorce, the tabloids, the constant attention—it all pushed him over the edge. Broke the streak.
Matt set the glass aside and sat on the floor, right in front of the window—Ben’s spot.
That was what he was good at. He didn’t have to say anything. He could just be there. That was enough.
Ben’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Matt met his gaze, expression open. “Like what?”
“Like you’re sorry.”
“Well… I am sorry,” Matt said quietly, but firmly.
Ben snapped, his voice cracking. “Well, you shouldn’t be. I’m not. We should’ve done this a long time ago. This marriage was a damn mistake.”
“You don’t mean that,” Matt said softly.
“Not all marriages work out like yours, you fucking asshole,” Ben spat, bitterness lacing every word.
Matt blinked, caught off guard. “What? Are you seriously turning this on me and my marriage now?”
Ben exhaled sharply.
He knew he couldn’t. It wasn’t Matt’s fault.
Matt had said it all along. Let’s go out there. Tell the world.
But it was always Ben. His fear. His hesitation. His need to play it safe. Internalized homophobia or whatever the crap he never fully untangled.
“No,” Ben muttered, barely audible. “It’s not your fault. Never was. It’s all on me.”
Matt let out a slow breath and stood. “C’mon… there’s no one to blame.” He placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder, gentle, grounding. “We knew the consequences. We made a choice. Both of us. Didn’t we?” He paused. “Now let’s get you cleaned up. Get some food in you.”
Ben didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to care.
But he didn’t have the energy to fight. So he let Matt pull him up, guide him down the hall. The bathroom light was harsh, cold. Matt turned on the shower and helped him step under it. A quick shock of cold water.
Ben hated how familiar it felt. A damn déjà vu.
Over the years, it had become a ritual. Ben getting drunk and reckless. Matt dragging him home. Making him coffee. Splashing cold water on his face. Forcing him into the shower. Handing him pills during the worst hangovers.
It was pathetic.
It was tender.
It was theirs.
Back then, Ben liked the attention. Loved it, even. When he was young and reckless—when no one knew his name, when nothing mattered.
Back in those Boston nights.
Cheap bars. Cheaper whiskey.
Matt’s hand pulling him into some dark hallway, both of them laughing into each other’s mouths. The heat. The closeness. The way they lost themselves without thinking—without caring who saw.
It wasn’t about sex. Not really.
It was freedom.
The kind that burned hot and stupid and bright.
He could taste him, let the alcohol take over as he pushed closer, harder. Leave bruises along his neck. Whisper things that didn’t need to make sense.
Now… everything felt heavier.
Every touch. Every joke. Every look.
Too much meaning. Too much pressure. Too many eyes watching. Too many years of pretending.
So when Matt helped him sit on the couch, it didn’t feel anything like the old days.
Back then, Ben would’ve grabbed Matt’s wrist, pulled him in, kissed him deep, pushed him back without thinking.
But not now. Not after everything.
Matt noticed the way Ben looked away.
That part was new. They’d had a thousand problems, but distance had never been one of them.
Hell, they knew each other’s bodies better than their own.
Matt sat beside him. Their thighs touched.
Ben didn’t react.
Matt leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. “You want me to get you something?” he asked.
Ben shook his head. “I’m sorry I’m being an asshole.”
“It’s alright,” Matt murmured. “You’re my asshole.”
Ben stared at the ceiling. “It just… spiraled. Maybe we should’ve—I don’t know. What would you do if Luciana found out?”
Matt frowned. “Luciana knows about us.”
“Yeah. Well… so did Jen.”
“Jen didn’t know. Not really. She just… connected the dots.”
Ben let out a quiet, humorless breath. “Same thing.”
“No,” Matt said. “Not the same.”
Silence settled between them—heavy, but not hostile. Like the room was breathing for them.
Matt shifted closer, slow enough to give Ben time to pull away.
He didn’t.
Matt’s hand rested on his arm, thumb brushing gently.
“Hey,” Matt said softly. “Look at me.”
Ben hesitated. Then he did.
“You’re still here,” Matt murmured. “You didn’t break. You just… bent a little.”
Ben swallowed. Something in his chest loosened.
Matt leaned in, pressing another kiss to his shoulder—warmer this time.
Ben’s breath hitched.
Then Matt rested his forehead against his. Just for a second. Quiet. Steady.
When they kissed, it wasn’t wild like before. It was slow. Careful. The kind of kiss meant to say you’re still here.
Ben kissed him back. Barely moving—but present.
Matt pulled him closer, and Ben let himself fold into him, face pressed into Matt’s neck.
“You’re okay,” Matt whispered. “I’ve got you.”
Ben’s fingers curled into his shirt. Not crying. Just… breathing differently.
Matt held him tighter. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s go to sleep.”
Ben nodded.
Matt guided them to the bed, pulling the covers over them.
Ben turned into him, arm wrapping around his waist—firm, like he needed proof he was real.
Matt’s hand rested against his chest, feeling the slow rhythm.
For the first time that night, something in him eased.
“Love ya, Matty,” Ben whispered. “Always will.”
Matt smiled faintly. “Yeah… love you too.”
They stayed like that, quiet.
Then—
“Stay tonight?” Ben asked softly. “Don’t leave after I fall asleep.”
“I won’t,” Matt said. “I’ll stay.”
Ben closed his eyes. Then opened them again.
That look.
The same one that used to undo everything.
“Fuck it,” Ben muttered—and kissed him.
“I fucked up, Matty,” he rasped. “I fucked it all up…”
Matt shook his head immediately. “No, we’re not doing this again—divorces happen—”
“No,” Ben cut in. “Not my marriage. Us.”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “I ruined everything. What we could’ve had. The life we could’ve had. I even messed up yours…”
Matt didn’t interrupt this time.
Just listened.
Then gently cupped his face.
“It’s okay,” he said.
A lie. But a kind one.
“No,” Ben whispered. “It’s not. I don’t deserve to be saved.”
Matt pulled him closer, firmer now.
“Hey,” he said, steady. “Don’t say that. You’re not done.”
Ben looked at him.
“Whatever you think you ruined—we can fix it,” Matt continued.
“Remember Boston? Twenty-four bucks between us? We made it through that.”
He exhaled softly. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
That did it.
The fight drained out of Ben.
He sank into Matt, breathing slowing, body going heavy.
Within minutes, he was asleep.
Matt stayed there, holding him.
Listening.
Watching.
When he finally shifted, pulling a blanket over him, the silence felt louder than before.
Matt stared at him for a long moment.
Then leaned back, thoughts unraveling.
Boston.
The apartment. The hunger. The way they used to believe they could survive anything.
Then everything that came after.
The distance. The damage. The things they never said.
Matt pressed a hand to his chest.
We’ll be fine.
He wasn’t sure he believed it.
But he wanted to.
He looked at Ben again, trying to find that reckless 20-year-old kid in the man in front of him.
It was harder now.
Life was supposed to get easier, but it didn't.
But Matt was still stubborn.
Always had been.
And maybe… that was enough.