GraySkies

“What time is it?” 

Ben comes over, setting the tray of food down on the nightstand. “It’s around 9:30,” he says before bringing up a hand to feel Arlo’s forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever, but let's take your temperature to be sure.” 

He places a thermometer beneath Arlo’s tongue. It’s one of those fast-acting ones with a color changing screen. He watches as it turns green, declaring him fever-free. Ben releases a sigh of relief as he removes the device from Arlo’s mouth.

“98.6. Perfect. Good. That’s good,” Ben says. He takes a deep breath then lets it go. “All right, yes, okay. Good.”

“Why is your energy so frantic right now?” Arlo asks, eying the way Ben’s rubbing his thighs.

“Because… I was worried. About you having a fever.”

“I haven’t had much of one, though. Just the low-grade one I always get during RA flare-ups.” 

“Right,” Ben says, drawing out the word. “But, I really didn’t want you to have one. Not today. On your birthday, I mean.”

His birthday. Today’s his birthday and he’d promised Ben to have an official celebration. But all he wants to do is close his eyes and welcome the return to sleep. He could communicate that. But Ben had promised it wouldn’t be socially overwhelming or overly long. It seems to be important to him and, well, if he really considers it, he doesn’t exactly want to spend his birthday being dead to the world. It could be nice to actually do something to celebrate. He’s feeling a little better — he can already tell. His joints are sore and, undoubtedly, stiff, but there’s nothing unusual there. But then again, he really does not want to socialize. He can rally, though. He made it through an entire wedding (almost). He can handle a little talking and celebrating with a small group of people.

“Thank you for making me breakfast. I think I need a little more time to fully wake up, but I’ll dig in soon,” Arlo says, offering a smile, as he sinks a little further beneath the covers.

“Uh-huh,” Ben says, humor lacing his tone. “A little more time.”

“What do you mean?” Arlo asks through half-lidded eyes. 

“I just mean, I’m gonna go ahead and put this in the fridge for you.” Ben picks up the tray and begins to turn around.

“Wait. I’m going to — I said I would eat it. You don’t need to take it away.”

“Uh-huh,” Ben says again as he walks toward the door. “Your pancake and scrambled tofu will be waiting for you when you wake up. I know you don’t mind eating pancakes cold.”

“Wake up? I am awake. Just a little … you know, groggy. Just need a moment.”

Ben turns around, his lip twitching as he says, “And ‘in a moment’ your food will still be here.”

“I’m getting up in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

As Ben leaves the room, Arlo closes his eyes fully, relishing in the warmth of the bed and covers. 

* * * 

When he wakes for the second time, he turns over to his side, groaning at the aches he feels throughout his entire body. He sees an orange blur in front of his face. 

“It’s my birthday,” he whispers to the cat.

Classy closes her eyes, then rolls onto her back, clearly in dire need of belly rubs. 

“I’m tired and everything hurts. Go ask Ben.”

For a few moments, they both lie there like that until Classy lets out a giant meow, then stands. Hesitantly, she taps his cheek with her paw. Then his forehead. Next is his nose. When the tip of her claw starts edging to the corner of his eye, he sighs.  He supposes he will have to move his joints sooner or later. He attempts to pull the cat onto his chest and groans in pain. It was obviously a foolish choice anyway because he’d forgotten only Ben is worthy of such treatment. As if to deem him as only half as important as Ben, she settles half her body onto Arlo's chest. Slowly stretching out his fingers, he cautiously begins petting the top of her head. Not too much pain. Her purrs nearly lull him back to sleep, but then he remembers he’s not actually supposed to sleep away the entire Saturday. 

After sliding on his glasses, he checks the time on the smart speaker Ben insisted they buy. 1:00 PM. He grimaces.

Realizing it’s his bladder that woke him up, he grunts as he forces himself out of bed. After he manages to pee and brush his teeth — a process that takes him twice as long as it would someone else — he trudges through the hallway, then finally makes it to the kitchen. 

He hears Ben before he sees him. There’s the sound of rhythmic typing and, instinctively, he shifts his gaze to where the sound is coming from. He catches a glimpse of the laptop screen before he forces himself to look away.

Hey Mom. Hey Dad. Just wanted to tell you that I’m really nervous. I don’t think I need to be but… Fuck. I really wish you guys could speak back to me because

There are several more paragraphs, but it’s painfully obvious that he’s interrupted a deeply personal moment and none of this is any of his business. Except….

What does he mean by he’s really nervous? And why isn’t he communicating that to Arlo instead of his parents? 

Writing these kinds of letters — letters to his parents who both passed away several years ago — has been an instrumental part of Ben’s healing process. There’s been a few nights when Ben’s struggled sleeping or when he’s been caught up in an especially bad depressive episode — or, Arlo suspects,  even when he’s just simply missed talking to his parents — that Arlo’s lain next to him in bed as Ben wrote. 

“It’s easier with someone with me,” he always says.

So Arlo will simply sit there, listening to Ben’s typing while he pretends he doesn’t notice the tears slipping down Ben’s face. He never reads the words; they’re not for him. But Ben seems to find a kind of comfort in Arlo's mere presence during these moments, and being there for him is, of course, the very least he can do. 

But this time, Ben doesn’t need him. That’s good. That’s progress. He should be able to exercise whatever form of catharsis he needs in whatever way he prefers to and doing it on his own — well, that’s great because Arlo can’t always be there with him. And he doesn’t need to be needed. That’s probably not even healthy.

It’s good that Ben identified a problem, found the solution, then worked it out on his own. But….

The issue is that Arlo saw the words.

He should have averted his gaze immediately; he shouldn’t have read multiple sentences. But now he knows. Knows that Ben is feeling nervous. About what? Last night? They resolved that, though. They definitely resolved it. 

He thought they had.

They talked this morning. Ben made him breakfast, so surely he can’t be mad at him. Or maybe he is, but feels guilty about it, so writing to his parents is how he’s working through it. 

But why would Ben be feeling those things anyway? He’s the one who’d lied about going to the hospital. 

Then Arlo remembers the crying. There really was a copious amount of tears. And snot. It’s not exactly like he’s been pleasant to be around this week. Maybe Ben’s nervous because he realizes Arlo is a worthless inconvenience. And he knows he has to — 

No. No. Ben doesn’t think that. It’s abundantly clear through… through everything. But then why is he so nervous that he felt compelled to write to his parents?

His heart begins thumping against his chest, but the laptop slamming shut startles Arlo out of the spiral.

 “Holy shit, when did you get here?” Ben asks, holding a hand to his chest. “You scared the fuck out of me.” Ben’s voice is frail and Arlo’s can’t help but notice how shiny his eyes are. 

“Sorry. I, um, just got here.”

Swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, Ben gives a quick nod. “I was —” He gestures vaguely to his computer, then clears his throat. “How much did you see?” 

“Not much. I saw — I mean, I know you were writing…..” He trails off because he always struggles to verbalize what these are that Ben writes. “Letters to your parents” sounds naive, but “Letters to your dead parents” sounds cruel.

“To my parents,” Ben says, nodding. “You didn’t read it, though?” 

There’s such a panicked quality in his tone that Arlo immediately shakes his head. “No.” Then chews his lip before saying, “Just the first line. I didn’t mean to, sorry. I read that you said you were nervous, but then I stopped.”

To Arlo’s surprise, Ben exhales deeply, his shoulders dropping as though he’s relieved. Confirming this, he says, “Good. That’s good.”

“It is? It’s good that I know you’re nervous about something? Something you don’t feel comfortable talking to me about?”

“No, it’s good that —. It doesn’t matter. I, uh….” He swallows hard. “I was just writing a lot about being nervous about — about the asthma thing.”

Oh.

“You were writing about our argument last night? That’s why you didn’t want me to see it?”

Something flickers across Ben’s face that Arlo can’t quite identify. He looks almost uncertain.

Ben clears his throat again. “If it’s okay, I’d prefer to not talk about it.” He winces then draws in a breath. “I already worked through it by writing about it and so I’d really like to move past that. And focus on you. Today’s your day, after all.”

“Sure, yeah, that’s fine,” Arlo says after a hesitant moment. He files this information away to discuss later. “I kind of slept through most of it, though. The day, I mean.”

“You needed the sleep,” Ben says, shrugging. “And there is plenty of time left in the day. Your breakfast is waiting, by the way. Let me get it.”

Taking a seat, Arlo notices a new box of tissues on the table. After flexing his fingers a few times, trying to ease the stiffness, he plucks one from the box. With both hands, he carefully folds the tissue over his nose and gives an experimental blow. Strangely, he feels pleased at how productive it is. There’s no loose fluid that signals an endless amount of noseblows to come. It’s also not the stuffy kind blow where his sinuses feel packed with cement with no signs of relief in sight. It’s a nice, efficient process that makes him hold onto hope that maybe he’s finally on the mend. 

“Hmmp’shhhoo!”

Just one this time.

He sniffs and the tickle appears to have abated. 

“Breakfast is served,” Ben says, for some reason adopting a British accent, as he sets down a plate. 

As Arlo looks down at his ‘breakfast,’ his jaw drops. Then his eyes sting with tears. 

It’s a pancake with some fruit, but what he hadn’t noticed before without his glasses, is that each and every piece of fruit has been meticulously arranged. There are two banana slices next to each other. On each banana slice is one single blueberry. Directly beneath these is one half of a strawberry. Next to the strawberries, there are two more large banana slices with what appears to be a few dots of chocolate placed on them. Three pretzel sticks expand outward from each slice. Below that is a small piece of another strawberry. Two more strawberry halves are on the very top of the pancake in the shape of nearly perfect triangles. Finally, and most impressively, there are carefully placed banana slices fanning out from the pancake.

“It’s a lion,” Arlo states.

“It is! Isn’t he adorable? It’s almost a shame you have to eat him, but you need the nutrients, so go ahead and dig in.” 

Wordlessly, Arlo takes the fork with its chunky handle that Ben set on the plate as he continues to stare in awe at the pancake lion. 

There has to be at least twenty banana slices comprising the “mane.” He imagines Ben standing there at the counter diligently slicing and placing each piece with perfect precision for the sole purpose of making Arlo smile. 

A flashback of the first birthday he spent with Jeremy hits him with alarming force. He’d woken Arlo up at 8 AM with an announcement that he’d had plans for them both. The day began with a birthday breakfast that consisted of sausage, bacon, eggs, as well as biscuits and gravy. That was for Jeremy, of course. For Arlo, who at the time wasn’t even vegan —  just vegetarian —  there was a bowl of unsweetened oatmeal with mixed berries and a glass of orange juice. Jeremy had taken pictures of them eating the breakfast and posted them immediately to his social media, and that was the trend for the entire day. Picture after picture displaying how happy a couple the two were. Jeremy had planned Arlo’s outfit so the pictures would look exactly as he’d wanted. They’d spent the entire day out and about. There was a walk around the park, a movie, some shopping, then an expensive restaurant known for their seafood. By the time they’d made it home, Arlo collapsed on the couch in exhaustion, though he couldn’t stay there long because it was his birthday and Jeremy had saved Arlo’s “best gift” for last. 

The sex had been — well, it would have probably been fun if Arlo hadn’t been so tired. And if he’d actually wanted it. That wasn’t Jeremy’s fault since Arlo had given consent, which he almost always did. The few times he’d declined Jeremy’s propositions (when he was sick or especially exhausted), he had to hear Jeremy complain about it, so usually just getting it over with was the best course of action.

That’s still coercion, Arlo.

And there’s his therapist’s voice again. He’s been hearing it a lot this week.

He breaks away from his thoughts to be met with Ben’s concerned gaze. “You okay?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. It’s just… you still manage to surprise me sometimes with how sweet you can be.” 

“Every time you call me sweet, you know I have to do something to make up for it, right? I’m going to have to go kick a puppy now or something.”

“Uh-huh. Go have fun doing that,” he murmurs as he takes a bite of banana.

“I will add it to my list of errands,” he comments as he sets a steaming mug of tea down in front of Arlo. “I’m gonna head out in just a bit. I have a few things I need to do — a bunch of boring shit. Do you need me to pick up anything from the store?”

“We need more flour. And potatoes. And soy milk. Probably some oats. And pasta. I think we’re also out of that Kashi cereal you’ve been eating. Maybe some cabbage for that soup we talked about making. Hold on, I’ll make a list.” 

He brings up his notes on his phone and uses his voice-to-text feature to make the list. When he finishes, he sends it as a text to Ben. 

“Sure you don’t need anything for your cold?” Ben asks as stands at the sink, now washing Classy’s water fountain. “You sound better, but I can get some cough drops or something if you want them. You’re still coughing more than I’d like and your voice is pretty  hoarse.”

“The cough will probably hang around a while,” Arlo says with a shrug. “I’m fine, though. The tea’s helping.”

“Okay, good.” Ben places the fountain on the drying rack then comes over to press a gentle kiss on Arlo’s cheek before placing a hand on his forehead.

“I don’t have a fever, Ben.”

“Doesn’t hurt to check.” He turns to the kitchen counter and picks up his keys. “Make sure you keep warm, okay? That t-shirt isn’t enough. I’ll turn up the heat on the way out.”

“You don’t need to turn up the heat. It’s bad for the —”

“The environment can handle two extra degrees,” Ben interrupts. “Relax while I’m gone, okay? I’ll probably be gone a few hours; I’m not sure. But when I’m back, it’s birthday celebration time. Love you!”

“Okay. I love you,” Arlo calls out, coughing at how the words tickle his throat. 

“Stay warm and drink your tea!”

* * * 

For two hours while Ben’s gone, Arlo completes some assignments for his grad courses, using speech to text on his laptop. Unfortunately, the best thing he can do for his aching joints is to actually use them.  Otherwise, they grow stiffer and hurt even worse. He’s been using them only to wipe his nose with a tissue every fifteen minutes or so. 

He examines his hands and sees there’s no swelling or redness, which means it’ll be okay to exercise them. His doctor tells him he must rest them if they are inflamed, but that doesn’t seem to be the case today. He has a love-hate relationship with his hand exercises because they do help, but it’s so hard to motivate himself to start them. There is one thing he can do, though.

He goes to the hall closet to retrieve his hand warming mittens. They’re filled with flax seeds and have to be microwaved. Usually Ben does that part for him, but since he’s not here, Arlo’s forced to go through the process himself and by the time he’s finished, he really needs them. 

When he’s on the couch, he carefully uses the TV remote to navigate to YouTube. He settles on a video essay explaining the reasons why The Catcher in the Rye was never adapted into a film. As he puts his mittens on, Classy, as he expected, comes running into the room. She jumps onto the couch, staring at him expectantly. Sighing, he places his mitten-covered hands on his lap. Classy meows happily before curling up on his hands, purring deeply. 

The mittens are huge and ridiculous, more so resembling boxing gloves than they do actual mittens.  He would never let anyone but Ben or his cat see him wearing them. The one time Jeremy saw them, he — 

No.

Jeremy’s taken up too much space in his head this week. It’s his birthday. He is home with his cat. He’s warm and cozy. Aside from his normal aches, a small cough, a runny nose, and slight sinus headache, he’s feeling okay. His boyfriend will be home soon with groceries.  

His life is good.

“Hmpkxxt! Ht’shh! Hetsngg’t Hetshoo! Hmp’shooo!”

Classy looks at Arlo in what can only be described as a murderous glare before she jumps from his lap. He can hardly blame her. It was, after all, rude to sneeze on her. It’s a good thing cats can’t catch human colds. 

Instinctively, he rubs at his nose with his hand. He grimaces at the small damp spot left on the navy blue mitten. He truly despises colds. 

After ten minutes, his mittens lose their heat and with no more excuses, he knows he must begin his exercises. He starts with making a hook fist, which he repeats several times. Then he moves on to some wrist movements. There’s no significant pain — just a dull ache and stiffness — so he continues.

He’s on the ground with his hands on the coffee table doing the “finger walk” when he hears Ben opening the front door. For a couple of minutes, as he moves through his exercises, 

Arlo listens to the sounds of Ben putting away groceries. 

“Hey, baby, I’m back. How are your hands feeling?” Ben asks when he finds Arlo still sitting on the living room floor, his hands placed on the coffee table.

“I think they’re mostly okay. I’ve made it through almost the entire regimen and haven’t had to stop.”

“Oh, good.” Ben’s smile is bright and full of relief. “You used your mittens! I bet Classy had a nice nap.”

Arlo snorts, then sneezes once into his elbow. “She did until I committed the ultimate sin of sneezing onto her fur.”

Laughing, Ben comes over and kisses the top of Arlo’s head. “So, today is your birthday.” Arlo manages not to scrunch up his face in dread as he anticipates Ben’s next words. “And I have plans.”

“Okay.”

“And for these plans, I need you to not be here.”

“Oh,” Arlo says, sniffing a few times. “I guess I can go, um… to the library or something. Or, I don’t know, maybe —”

“What the fuck? No. I don’t mean leave the house, oh my god.” He laughs as he takes a seat on the couch. “I just mean, your party, or celebration or whatever — We’re having it in the living room. And I have things I need to do. I’m not kicking you out of your home, babe,” he says, laughter fading. “Just go relax in the bedroom or something. Maybe have a little nap.”

Arlo’s eyes are narrowed as he says, “I slept until well after noon. I can’t nap.”

“Yeah, okay,” Ben says, rapidly nodding his head.

“You don’t believe me.”

Ben laughs again. “Okay, you don’t have to nap. Just chill in bed. Read or something. But you can’t stay here. So, go on, skedaddle,” Ben says, waving his hands in a motion as if to shoo Arlo away.

“Fine.” Rolling his eyes, Arlo gets up from the floor. He will continue his video essay while relaxing in bed. He snorts again at the prospect of napping after sleeping nearly twelve hours. 

Ben has such unreasonable ideas sometimes.

* * * 

The room is dark when he opens his eyes. He’d definitely begun watching the TV with the bedside lamps on. So why are they now turned off? The curtains are drawn. There’s also an extra blanket draped across him that wasn’t there before. He flops onto his side and sees his glasses resting on the nightstand — another mystery because he’d never taken them off. 

Arlo huffs out a laugh because, of course, it’s not a mystery at all. He puts on his glasses, then sees a sheet of paper taped onto the lamp.

“I can’t nap.” 

– A liar named Arlo Thompson

PS: You are now permitted to enter the living room when you are ready. 

He sits up abruptly. Is everyone here already? Has he been sleeping through his own party? Coughing, he hastily stands and reaches for the glass of water that also hadn’t been there before his nap. He only winces slightly as his fingers adjust to the movement. 

Overtaken by dizziness, he drops back on the bed. He gently rubs the center of his forehead, then pinches the bridge of his nose. The sinus pressure seems to have gotten worse during the nap. For a moment, he stares at the floor waiting for the pressure to somewhat alleviate. When he stands up, his nose begins running, forcing him to sniff three times in succession. He grabs a tissue and tentatively begins blowing. During the process, he starts coughing — nothing concerning, he mentally notes. It’s a dry, ticklish kind of cough.

When he’s finally ready to stand back up, he wants nothing more than to sit back down. He wonders what exactly this party entails. He knows it’s supposed to only be Felix, Connor, and Addy. But whatever Ben has planned also involved some sort of preparation since he kicked Arlo out of the living room. 

Maybe there’s games planned. Ben and his friends like board games — the elaborate kind that requires an immense amount of critical thinking. Arlo groans at the thought.

He thinks back to a romance novel he recently read. It involved the main character surprising his partner with a scavenger hunt. The partner had to leave the house and drive to multiple places based on specific clues. The places included in the scavenger hunt were, of course, related to significant moments of the couple’s relationship. It was a sweet chapter. Very romantic. And at the time, Arlo remembers thinking that seemed like something Ben may do. 

If Ben does have something like that planned? Well, that better not be the case. Because the mere thought has him wanting to cry at the amount of energy it’d require. He does not want to leave the house. But if that’s what Ben wants? 

Arlo sighs and moves toward his closet. 

He finds jeans and a casual button-up that could honestly belong to Ben. He’s not sure whose clothes are whose anymore with how often they borrow from each other. Looking in the mirror, he frowns. The first thing he notices is how his glasses set crookedly on his face. He adjusts them, then briefly wonders if he can put in his contacts. Deciding he doesn’t want to risk it since he does still have a cold and his eyes are easily irritated, he moves on to assessing the rest of his face.

His lips are dry and chapped. His nose is pink — the edges of his nostrils, though, an aggressive red. Despite the amount of sleeping he’s done, there are still dark circles beneath his eyes. Shaking his head, he decides any further reflection is futile. He grabs his hairbrush and begins untangling his rat’s nest of curls.

When he’s finished making himself as presentable as possible, he stands at the bedroom door and draws in a deep breath. He can do this. He made it through a wedding and most of the reception. And then there’s everything he did before last night while feeling terrible. He went to work when his symptoms were at their absolute worst. He managed to write most of his grad papers while feeling sick and distracted by— 

He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head again. 

He can survive a few hours of a low-key birthday party. He draws in another breath and opens the door.

It’s quiet. Alarmingly quiet. Maybe no one’s arrived yet, though that seems unlikely. It’s possible, though, that Ben texted everyone to let them know Arlo was napping and to hold off on coming. Deciding that’s probably what happened, he continues walking toward the living room.

The first thing he sees is a giant banner hung crookedly on the wall.

S U R P R I S E !

Drawing his brows together, Arlo scans the rest of the room. The overhead light has been turned off. The only lighting now comes from the small table lamp and an assortment of electric candles. There’s also the light coming from the television. As he looks at what is displayed on the screen, he furrows his eyebrows.  It’s the title screen for The Lion King. There’s a huge bowl of popcorn on the center of the coffee table. As his eyes continue to search the room, he sees there is nothing about the room that looks suitable for a party. Several throw blankets are draped over the couch. There’s also a— 

Is that a footbath? 

“Oh you’re up!” 

Arlo’s gaze shifts to Ben. He’s dressed in an oversized hoodie and joggers that Arlo would swear belongs to neither of them. He definitely doesn’t seem to be dressed for guests.

“What —”  Arlo begins.

“Surprise!” Ben suddenly screams.

Blinking rapidly, Arlo can only manage, once again to say, “What?”

“I planned a surprise party!” Ben’s grin stretches from ear to ear. “Surprise!”

Scanning the room again, Arlo shakes his head. “How…. There’s no one here, Ben.”

“That’s the surprise!” 

Arlo narrows his eyes. “The surprise is that — it’s that there’s no party?”

“Exactly. The moment you got sick, I scrapped the actual party idea. Then I figured since you already expected a party, I could surprise you. So, here it is,” he says, gesturing at their surroundings. “It’s your Surprise No Party.”

“Oh my god.” As the realization sets in that there’s no one here, that’s it’s only the two of them, his knees feel weak. He turns, putting his back against the wall as he lets out a long breath and closes his eyes.

“Shit.” Ben’s voice sounds distant. “Shit. I didn’t consider it because, well, because you’re you.  But — Arlo, did you actually want a party? I can call—”

Snapping his eyes open, Arlo sees Ben’s expression is one of pure horror.

So he strides toward Ben and tightly wraps his arms around his waist, nuzzling into Ben’s shoulder.

“It’s perfect,” he whispers.

* * * 

“It really is sweet you got me a footbath, but I think these are intended for nurses and other people with physically demanding jobs — you know, people who spend their entire days on their feet. But I’ve been recumbent basically the entire day,” Arlo says, looking at his feet currently submerged in bubbling water. He has to admit the warm water is pleasant.

“First of all, I don’t know what ‘recumbent’ means,” Ben says as he grabs a handful of popcorn. “Second of all, yet another puppy must suffer because of you, Arlo. You’re really starting to become a menace to their population.” 

Arlo frowns. “What?”

“And third of all, you have to use the footbath because someone has to use the footbath. Maya’s sister bought it for her, and — okay, well, it turns out Maya is one of those evil types of people who re-gifts things. Can you believe that?” Arlo contorts his face into an expression of exaggerated horror. “Exactly,” Ben continues, nodding in approval. “Anyway, I guess, technically, it wasn’t even re-gifted because it wasn’t a gift. She just forced the box upon me one day at my desk.” A pensive look falls over Ben’s face. “Oh. And actually, she was mad, Arlo, because — get this — the footbath was a gift to Maya’s sister from their grandmother. So, for Maya’s birthday, her sister actually did re-gift this footbath. And, like, it wasn’t even subtle, you know? I mean, Maya was there when their grandmother gave her the footbath.”

“Okay, so this footbath has a more sordid history than I ever could have anticipated,” Arlo says, frowning.

“So, you see, you have to use the footbath because so far in its life, it’s been rejected twice. Imagine what that does to a person.”

“It’s not a person….”

“But imagine,” Ben says in a solemn voice.

“Imagine what Ben? This is complete nonsense.” But Arlo’s laughing as he nestles against Ben. The laughter only triggers a small coughing fit.

“Speaking of gifts….” Ben begins, looking pointedly at Arlo.

“You got me a gift?” Arlo mumbles against Ben’s shoulder. The warm footbath, the two throw blankets splayed over his lap, the dim lighting, and the low background sounds of The Lion King have Arlo feeling almost drunk with coziness. 

“It’s your birthday. Oh my god, how could you even ask?”

“Well, you’ve already subverted birthday expectations with the whole ‘No Surprise Party.’ So, I wasn’t sure.” 

“But I would never not get you a gift. Jesus, Arlo.”

“Sorry,” Arlo says, laughing again. 

“Good. Now let me get up so I can retrieve the gifts.”

“Gifts? Plural?”

“Yes, yes, plural. Always plural when it comes to you, babe.”

“A mess of a sentence, but an oddly sweet one,” Arlo murmurs, his brows knitting together.

“Hmm.…That’s teetering the line. But, okay, since it’s your birthday, I will let one puppy go unharmed.”

“Oh my god.”

Laughing, Ben stands up from the couch. As he leaves the living room, Arlo removes his feet from the footbath because there’s really only so much soaking one’s feet can handle. He stares because now he has a container full of … well, of foot water. He should probably dump it, but he’s so warm and comfortable. Moving is the last thing he wants to do. 

Ben’s quick to come back, though, and once he sees the water, he frowns as though coming to the same realization as Arlo — that a footbath seems nice in theory, but in practicality, it’s slightly gross. Wordlessly, he sets down the bag he was carrying and picks up the bath to, presumably, empty the contents. As Ben exits the room again, Arlo lets his eyes close. Timon and Pumbaa sing about having no worries and for a moment, he succumbs to the warm nostalgia that all childhood movies tend to provoke. Maybe the rest of his days can feel just like this. 

When Ben returns a second time, he’s wearing a dopey grin. “I like you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Looking relaxed. You’ve been so stressed this week.”

“Yeah,” Arlo agrees, humming. “Thank you for this evening. I needed it.” 

Taking a seat next to Arlo on the couch, Ben says, “You’re very welcome. There is more to come, though. We have the gifts and then —” He hesitates. “Then we have cake.”

“There’s cake? Where? How have you managed to hide a cake?”

“Sorry, but I cannot reveal my secrets. Okay, let’s start opening the —”

A buzzing interrupts Ben. It’s actually the third or fourth time Ben’s phone has vibrated in several minutes. Ben looks at the screen, frowns, then begins typing. When he’s done, his gaze meets Arlo’s. “Okay, present time!”

“Who was that?” Arlo can’t stop himself from asking. He doesn’t mean to pry; he doesn’t usually ask who Ben’s texting, but there’s something peculiar about how he’s reacting to the messages.

“It was —” Ben clears his throat. “It’s Felix. He’s being —” He gestures vaguely. “Well, you know.”

“I don’t know. Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem. He’s fine. Just talking about stupid stuff. Anyway, this evening is about you and not my best friend.”

And so the two finally move onto the presents. Ben bought Arlo two gifts. He knows this shouldn’t be something he’s thinking about — that he shouldn’t wonder about prices — but the guilt, nevertheless, seeps into him as he considers how much money Ben must have spent. The first gift he opens is a lavender hoodie with the outline of a rhinoceros with text stating “save the chubby unicorns.” It’s made out of all natural materials and comes from a company that is known for its ethical practices that Arlo’s always trusted. That alone would have been too much money, but then Ben also bought him a new pair of warming therapy mittens. These are electric, so he won’t have to worry about losing the heat or getting up to microwave them over and over. Arlo knows that money has always been tight for Ben, even with his new job, so thinking about Ben buying such frivolous things for him? He’s not sure how to feel.

“You are so fucking adorable,” Ben says, once Arlo is dressed in the new hoodie. He has the new mittens on and plugged in.

Arlo blushes. “I’m sure I look ridiculous. These things are huge.” 

“No. You look warm and cozy and honestly I’m jealous. I will be stealing these occasionally, just so you know. Well, unless Classy beats me to it.” The two turn their gazes to Classy as she seemingly comes from nowhere. She headbutts Arlo’s arm until he sighs and drops his hands to his lap so she can settle onto the warm mittens.

Ben’s phone buzzes again. Then, there’s a knock at the door.

“Fuck fuck fuck.”

“What?” Arlo asks. “Who is that? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Uh, the noise scared me. It’s just Felix. It’s cake time!” Ben’s words sound rushed and he’s breathing strangely.

“Why are you nervous about a cake?” 

But Arlo’s words are lost as Ben rushes to the door. “Stay there!” Ben demands. 

He remains seated with Classy on his lap as he mulls over Ben’s behavior. Arlo is missing something. There’s obviously another surprise. It can’t be the cake, since Ben already mentioned it. Felix is at their door…. Maybe Ben does have a party planned. Maybe that’s the real surprise. Arlo frowns at the thought. He knew this evening had been going too well.

“Do you think he knows?” Felix’s voice is loud and clear from where he stands in the doorway.

“Um, maybe try being a bit fucking quieter?” Ben says in an equally loud voice.

There’s another voice, but it actually is quiet so the words are hard to make out. But Arlo would bet the voice belongs to Connor.

“Tell him I said happy birthday!” Felix again.

Arlo snorts, then sniffles at the irritation it causes. “I can hear you!” Arlo shouts — or tries to — then immediately regrets the action as he starts coughing.

“Happy birthday, Arlo!” Connor yells back.

Arlo stands up, resulting in a highly disgruntled Classy, and makes his way toward the door. “You guys can come in,” he says, then furrows his brow at the sight before him. Ben has set a box containing what he assumes to be the cake on a nearby console table. There’s also two cardboard cups of … something. Coffee? Arlo doesn't have much time to ponder over the contents because Ben’s pressing his body against the door, clearly trying to keep Connor and Felix out. 

“He said we can come in,” Felix complains. 

“Don’t give a shit! It’s our evening.”

“Sweetheart, let's go home. You knew this was the plan,” Connor says.

“Okay, fine, but save us cake. And let us know how it goes!”

How it goes?

“Sure, yes, fine, whatever. Now go!” Ben urges, then finally shuts the door.

“What is going on?” Arlo asks when Ben turns toward him.

“Cake time!” Ben’s grin is unsteady. Actually, everything about him is unsteady. His voice is shaky and his breaths are coming out irregularly. 

“Are you okay? Do you — Ben, do you need your inhaler?”

“What? No. I’m not having an asthma attack. I’m just excited. For the cake.”

“You’re excited. For the cake,” Arlo repeats. 

“Yes. I’m excited for the cake! Okay, well, let’s bring it to the kitchen and begin. Or, no, the living room. Yes, that was the plan. The living room. Fuck, is The Lion King still playing? That needs to be turned off. And — the candles. The candles are still on? Right, yes, of course they are. I never turned them off. Okay. Okay.” Ben is now rubbing his hands vigorously against his thighs.

Arlo’s eyes widen. There’s something happening here that obviously extends past a simple birthday cake. Ben is practically losing his mind with nerves, something incredibly out of character for him. The whole evening has had a particular mood to it — a mood difficult for Arlo to articulate. Romantic, yes. Celebratory, yes. But, also — 

There’s the candles. And The Lion King — the movie they watched on their first date. There’s the frantic energy that Ben’s been carrying with him the entire day, and if Arlo really thinks about it, last night, even. Though he’d attributed that to the mini-argument they had. 

There’s also what he’d said last night. That moment when his eyes had doubled their size as he seemed to realize how hurt Arlo was — when he’d said something about not doing this…. About not doing this before Arlo’s birthday. The words had, at the time, only reached the surface of Arlo’s brain, but somehow they must have seeped in.

Because that was weird wasn’t it? That was a weird thing to say.

“Ready? I’m ready,” Ben says, then chuckles. “Like SpongeBob. Okay, shit, living room. Come on.”

Oh my god.

Arlo sits down, feeling dazed. Ben sets the box down onto the coffee table. Then curses and says something about forgetting the “damn tea.” He runs — literally runs — to, presumably, retrieve the coffee cups Arlo had seen earlier.

When he comes back, he’s shoving a cup into Arlo’s hands. 

“Drink the tea,” he demands, a wild look in his eyes.

“Um, —”

“Please just fucking drink the tea, Arlo.” The words have the potential to be cruel, but they’re not at all because Arlo thinks he’s beginning to understand what’s happening here.

He takes a sip and — 

Yes. His guess was right.

“It’s the tea I ordered that first time. When you were working and I — I was sick and you….” Arlo’s words are faint and now his own breathing is sounding strange to him. 

“Yes. When we first met,” Ben agrees, nodding his head. “I promise I did not sneeze on this one.”

“That’s good,” Arlo murmurs, blinking rapidly. His eyes sting. 

“Um,” Ben’s voice sounds choked. “We should open the box.”

“We should open the box.” Arlo nods his head. They both continue staring at the cake as if they know their lives will be different once the lid is off. As if there will be no turning back after this.

“I love you,” Ben says, still staring at the closed box.

“I love you, too.” Arlo sniffles. Then sniffles again. 

Ben is sniffling, too, and his eyes look wet. “Um, the first time I told you I loved you, I gave you a speech.”

“You did.”

“And I made vows.”

“You did.”

“And I’ve done okay with some of them. And, well, I’ve done not so okay on other ones. But, Arlo, I vow to keep trying. Okay? In every way. I will keep trying to be a better person. For myself. And for my parents because even though they’re not here anymore, I want them to be proud of me. But, mostly? Mostly for you, Arlo. I want to keep trying for you.”

Tears are actually streaming down Ben's face now. Arlo reaches up to brush them away. He rests his forehead against Ben’s and the two sniffle, tears running down both their cheeks. 

“We should open the box,” Ben whispers.

“We should.” Arlo’s lips curve into a smile as he turns his gaze back to the cake.

“Okay,” Ben says, clearing his throat and pulling back from Arlo. He places his hands on the box and, shakily, begins opening the lid.

“Ben.” Arlo’s voice is a broken mess.

The cake, in neat professional lettering, displays the words Arlo has been anticipating. 

Will you marry me?

Beneath it, in much smaller letters, are the words: Happy birthday btw

And in that moment Arlo’s existence becomes a tangled mess of laughing, coughing, and crying. And Ben. Ben’s there holding him, crying into his shoulder.

“Yes,” Arlo whispers. 

“Yeah?” Ben whispers, pulling back.

“Yes.”

“Say it again?”

“Yes, Ben. Yes, yes, yes. I will marry you.”

“Fuck, the ring. I forgot the ring. I had a — I bought — I was supposed to have it and get down on one knee. That was the whole plan and I don’t even have the ring. And fuck, the goddamn Lion King is still playing. Oh my —”

Staring down at the unappetizing salad, he gives a slight shake of his head, hopefully signaling the message of “now is not the time to have this conversation.”

“Surely you can eat the pasta, at least, right?” his cousin, Dalton suggests. “There’s no meat.”

Arlo pastes on a smile as he says, “All of the sauces have sombe kind of creamb.”

“But just this one time, right?” Dalton’s girlfriend, Missy, offers in a way Arlo is sure is well-intended. “I mean everyone has a cheat day sometimes. And a wedding is the perfect excuse.”

“He’s not looking for an excuse.” Ben’s voice comes through gritted teeth. Not a good sign. The last thing he needs right now is for this conversation to escalate.

“Yeah, umb, I could eat the pasta,” Arlo explains, hoping his smile doesn’t appear as tired as it feels. “Physically, I mead. Obviously. I’d just rather ndot. I prefer to not, uh….” This was the difficult part of conversations like this, which was why he would rather just not have them. “To eat foods that, umb….”

“He prefers to only eat food made from plants,” Ben finishes, shrugging.

“But, Arlo, have you ever tried alfredo sauce? C’mon, it’s delicious.” Dalton laughs and Missy joins in. 

Dating Ben must have had more of an influence than he thought because the first thing that comes to mind is of fucking course I’ve had alfredo sauce.

“Arlo isn’t vegan because he dislikes the taste of milk products. Like, you do know that, right?” Ben asks around a mouthful of his own lackluster salad (which he’s eating because of, in his own words, ‘solid-fucking-arity, Arlo’). 

“But then, why would he —” Missy begins.

Ben swallows his food before saying, “It’s an ethical stance. It helps to not think of it as a diet, but instead, as a boycott against the meat and dairy industry.”

Missy stares at Ben as though rocks fell out of his mouth instead of words. “But just one time isn’t going to make a difference.”

“It’s fide, actually,” Arlo interrupts, really, really not wanting this to go any further. “I ate a lot before the weddidg ad I cad eat sobethidg after. It’s seriously ndot a big deal.” His face burns.

“Suit yourself,” Dalton says, digging into his own meal.

“Is the bread good, at least?” Arlo asks Ben once Dalton and Missy are engaged in their own discussion. “I cad’t taste adythidg.”

“Eh.” Ben makes the “so-so” gesture with his hand. “I mean, it’s dry.”

“You cad eat other food, Bed. Or bread that actually has butter. You dod’t have to suffer because of mbe.”

“Solidarity, babe.” Ben’s grin is huge as he takes another bite of dry bread. 

“Hup’shnxt!” The sneeze makes Arlo’s eyes prickle with tears.

“This is the last one,” Ben says, handing over a tissue. “Sorry.”

Grabbing the tissue, Arlo releases two forceful sneezes.

“Hh hh hngxt’shuu! Ngxt’shh!” 

“Are you sick?” Dalton asks.

“Gettindg over a cold,” Arlo answers.

“Probably because you don’t eat meat.” Dalton’s chuckle at what he obviously thinks is a witty joke nearly makes Arlo cringe. He swears he has memories of liking him when they were children. “Seriously, I’ve heard vegans get sick a lot more because they don’t get the nutrients they need.”

Arlo internally groans. Not because this is something he’s been arguing against since he was fourteen years old, but because Ben’s next to him. And as affable as Ben can be with people in ordinary circumstances, he completely loses that ability when someone so much as looks at Arlo wrong. This quality is theoretically charming, but in practice, mostly only stressful.

Chewing his bottom lip, Arlo looks over at Ben, and — yes, there’s that expression. 

“You probably shouldn’t speak about topics you know nothing about,” Ben says, his voice flat.

“Hey, I don’t mean anything by it,” Dalton says, hands up, his laughter sounding nervous. “It’s a scientific fact, though.”

“Oh? Where did you learn this ‘fact’? Because Arlo’s shown me studies showing the opposite, actually.” 

“Just… it’s just a fact, dude,” Dalton says, now rubbing the back of his neck. “Everyone knows it.”

“Okay, we’re at a wedding. This isn’t the place,” Missy interjects, a tinge of pink across her cheeks.

Missy’s correct, so Arlo summons every ounce of energy within himself so he can engage in his classic de-escalation tactic. “We cad agree to disagree,” Arlo says, smiling as genuinely as he can while dealing with a terrible head cold, aching joints, and an increasingly unpleasant cousin. 

“You can’t ‘disagree’ with studies. You — ow. Arlo, that’s my foot,” Ben yelps.

“Is it? Sorry. There’s not a lot of room at this table.” Arlo hopes the strain in his voice isn’t evident.

“Oh, yeah. I honestly thought this wedding would be bigger. I’m surprised it wasn’t planned better.” And as Missy begins to gossip in hushed tones, Arlo gives Ben’s foot another — very gentle, barely even there — nudge. 

* * * 

“Are you having fun?” Becca’s smile is absolutely radiant. 

“Hmp’shhnxt! Sorry, excuse me.” Arlo managed to duck his head into his shoulder for the half-stifled sneeze. “Yeah, I’m having — hmph't! Hmkp’t! Sorry, I just - hh - h’tshh’nt! Yes, I’m having fun,” he says, finally.

“There are tears running down your face, Arlo.”

“Oh, those are just….” There is no good way to end a sentence he should never have started, so he shrugs his shoulders and sniffles wetly. Then, for good measure, sneezes again into his shoulder. He looks at Becca through his bleary eyes and there’s unmistakable concern on her face. “I’m having fun,” he tries again, but the words catch in his throat, causing him to cough into a raised elbow.

“You’re leaning against the wall. If you need —”

“Everyone leans against walls sometimes.” He has to project his voice in order to be heard over the loud music. He coughs again.

“That’s your response? Everyone leans against walls?”

“It’s true,” Arlo retorts, stubbornly. “It’s especially common for Americans. The CIA has to train their officers to stand upright because it’s such a cultural tell.” At least, he thinks that’s true. He did, admittedly, learn the information from Ben.

“Why are we talking about the CIA at my wedding?” Becca’s rolling her eyes, but at least she’s smiling now. “And where’s Ben?”

“He went to the bathroom. Are you having fun?”

Her smile grows and Arlo feels the corners of his own mouth curving. “Yes! Everything has been perfect!”

“I’m glad. Just, uh, burn all the pictures with me in it okay? When you get them.”

She laughs, but there’s something to her expression that tells him she’s already thought about this. “You look fine. Just maybe a little under the weather. Nothing to be ashamed of. Except, okay, right now, you may want to wipe your nose. It’s running a little.”

That has been the most recent development of the day. He’s no longer stuffed up, but his nose is leaking mucus at a steady rate, making it hard to keep up with — especially when his nostrils are so sore and cracked that it’s hard to feel the skin there anymore.

Sheepishly, he dabs at his nostrils with the back of his wrist. Maybe Ben found a way to obtain tissues on his trip to the bathroom. At this point, Arlo would settle for one-ply toilet paper.

“If you’re tired, you can —” She stops, chewing her lip. “Nevermind. Just wanted to come say ‘hi.’ I should get back to —” She gestures to their surroundings, to all the people dancing, having a good time. The people who aren’t leaning against a wall trying not to drown in their own mucus. 

“Yeah, go! Have fun!” Arlo says, mustering up a smile.

“Thanks. You try to, too, okay? I’m sorry about the food, by the way! I realized there wasn’t really much for you. I thought you’d be able to eat from the pasta station, but I should have thought harder about the sauces. I thought there’d be marinara available, but obviously there wasn’t. Addy told me I should have been more specific with the catering company, and she’s right! So, I just wanted to apologize.”

“It’s okay! I ate beforehand. And the bread was good. So… no big deal.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah! And, it’s your big day, anyway. You shouldn’t worry about what I eat.”

“But you're my brother,” she begins, biting her lip. “I should have tried harder.”

“It’s okay,” Arlo says again, feeling his face burn for the umpteenth time of the night. 

Becca smiles again, but this time it’s full of sympathy, and what he also expects to be some amount of regret. “All right. Tell Ben I said ‘hi,’ when he comes back from the bathroom. Oh, and happy early birthday!”

“I will and thank you.”

He’s in the middle of another coughing fit when his dad’s voice startles him.

“You sound terrible.”

“I know,” Arlo croaks out.

“It’s good you made it, though. Couldn’t have been easy.”

“Honestly, I’d really like to go to bed,” Arlo admits because, at least, with his dad, there’s never anything to hide. His dad has always been disappointed in him. He’ll always be disappointed in him. So there’s no use in being dishonest.

“Then why don’t you? You should probably rest. You don’t want to spend your birthday feeling any worse than you have to.”

Eyebrows raising, Arlo scrutinizes his father. “What? I shouldn’t just ‘tough it out’?”

His dad sighs. “I know I raised you that way.” Something complicated passes over his face before he continues. “There is some merit to it; I do truly believe that. But it’s possible I may have been a little hard on you all when you were growing up. You, especially. I can admit that. ”

Blinking several times, Arlo can do nothing else for a moment but shake his head. “Are you just talking about toughing it out while sick, or….” He lets the sentence trail off, inspecting his father’s face.

“No.” His dad laughs, wryly. “No, I wish that’s all it was.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

His dad inhales deeply. As he lets out the breath, he shifts his gaze away from Arlo, to the people dancing and celebrating. The music is still making it hard to have a conversation. His dad must sense this because he takes a step closer. “I’m saying I may have been too tough on you. In general.”

“You are?”

“Saying that? Yes.”

“No, I mean, I know you’re saying it. But do you mean it?”

“Why would I say it if I didn’t mean it?” 

“People say things all the time they don’t mean, Dad.”

His dad nods, appearing thoughtful. “Have dinner with us next Sunday. I would say come over this Sunday, but ....” He gestures at Arlo, who is in the middle of sniffing up the mucus threatening to overflow his nostrils. 

“Anyway,” his dad continues. “I want this for you one day. What Becca has, I mean. I want to be there for you one day when you and Ben decide to take that next step.” 

Arlo chokes on his saliva, and paired with his illness, this turns into an unpleasant experience rather quickly. “Y-you do?” Arlo sputters, slowly lowering the arm he’d been hacking into.  His dad rubs his back, wearing a concerned expression. 

“Yes. You’ve been together, what? Two years? You seem pretty happy. Ben seems to treat you well. I assumed soon you may, well… you know.”

“Take the next step?” 

“Yes,” his dad agrees.

“And you’d be okay with that? With us getting… uh, with us doing that?”

An indiscernible expression flickers over his dad’s face. If Arlo didn’t know better, he’d say he looked — what? Disappointed?

“Son, you know I grew up in a different time —” His dad must notice Arlo’s instinctive wince, because he quickly adds, “Doesn’t justify anything. But I want you to understand that I’ve been trying. For years now.”

On some level, Arlo knows he has been. There’s the Sunday dinners, the random Facebook meme his dad will tag him in. The text here and there he’ll get along the lines of “hey, come around soon for a beer.” Most notably, there’s the fact that whenever a new plant-based option comes to Walmart, his dad will send him a picture of it. That’s been a fairly recent development, and the first time it happened, Arlo had stared with his face scrunched in confusion.

So, yes, there were obvious signs his dad was trying to connect with him. But Arlo had assumed his dad was looking for a connection to a son who didn’t exist. A son who would come around and drink beer and eat steak with him. A son who understood football and could introduce him to a nice woman he met from work. Maybe the plant-based burger pictures were bait and his dad had just been trying to reel him in. 

But here his dad is now saying — actually communicating with words — that he’s trying to reach out to him and that he, of all things, wants to be there for his wedding. 

“I don’t even like beer,” Arlo’s surprised to hear himself say.

His dad is just as surprised if his raised brows are any indication. “What?”

“Dad, I haven’t drunk beer since college, and even then I hated it.”

“Are you all right?” His dad’s brow furrows. “Are you running a fever?” 

“No. I mean, maybe? But that’s not —” Arlo squeezes his eyes shut and takes a measured breath. 

His dad seems to examine the people around them, as if checking to see if there’s any witnesses to his son’s possible mental breakdown.

“You always ask me to come around to have a beer. You don’t even consider that that’s not even something I’m interested in.”

Realization settles over his father’s face. “We don’t have to have beer, Arlo. If you don’t like it. You can have goddamn Sprite for all I care.” 

“But that’s not the point!” Arlo is a man in his mid-thirties in the middle of pursuing a Master’s Degree, yet here he is, feeling all of five years old. “If you knew me, you’d know not to even ask about the beer.”

There’s a silence that settles between them for a moment. Until his dad says, “How am I supposed to get to know you if you don’t give me a chance?”

And, well, there’s not really anything to say to that. Not that he’d be able to anyway because he suddenly has to sneeze. He buries four or five sneezes into the crook of his elbow. 

“Listen, next Sunday,” his dad says when Arlo finishes. “Come over. Your mom’s wanting to get into cooking again.”

“Oh.” Arlo can’t stop his grimace. Normally, their dinners together have consisted of frozen pre-made food. There was also always something like instant potatoes. But the rare times his mother has tried actual cooking, it has been unpleasant, to say the least.

“Yeah, I know,” his dad says, looking appropriately sympathetic. “But she swears she will use an actual recipe this time. She found one for some kind of dumpling soup? Whatever it was, the picture looked good.”

“What about the sides, though?” Arlo asks, dabbing at his nose with his aching wrist. “How much of my own stuff do I need to bring?”

His dad furrows his brow. “No, I meant, she found a recipe for a meal you can eat. It’s vegetable dumplings. Something like that. You don’t need to bring sides this time.”

“Is it actually plant-based?” Arlo asks, his gaze narrowed.

“Uh, I think there’s salt? Probably?”

Arlo frowns. “What?”

“Salt.”

“Okay? That’s good. I mean, I’d expect there to be salt?”

“Salt doesn’t come from plants, though, so I didn’t know if I could call it completely plant-based.”

Despite his sheer state of misery, Arlo finds himself laughing. “Salt’s fine, Dad.”

“Okay, then. Good,” his father states before clearing his throat. Arlo notices his cheeks are red.

“Hgnt’shhh! HH ngt’shhxx! Excuse me,” Arlo mumbles miserably into his sleeve.

“You look —” His dad begins, but Arlo cuts him off.

“I know. I’m going to try and find Ben. He said he was just going to the bathroom, but he’s been gone for a while.”

“All right. Next Sunday?" 

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Arlo says before aiming a half-stifled sneeze into his shoulder. 

He makes his way through the crowd of people dancing until he spots Ben, looking impossibly handsome and charming. His smile is huge as he dances and talks to Arlo’s sisters. He says something, then begins walking toward Arlo.

“Glad to see you’re alive,” Arlo says.

Confusion flickers over Ben’s expression for a brief moment, then he smiles. “Yeah, well, you know… bathrooms. A lot can happen in there.”

“Ew, Ben.”

“Kidding. I was kidnapped by Addy. Next thing I knew, I was dancing.”  As he scrutinizes Arlo, no doubt trying to determine his current state of health, he pulls something from his pockets. 

Toilet paper.

“I am so sorry. Believe me, I know how shitty this will feel, but there’s not anything else. I’m kicking myself for not thinking to bring handkerchiefs.” 

“It’s okay,” Arlo says, taking the thin sheets. He turns away to face the wall. As discreet as he tries to be, the simple fact is he has an absurd amount of liquid needing to come out of his face. So, as he fills up the toilet paper, he can only hope no one watches the undignified process. Well, he can also be grateful that the music is loud enough to cover up the sounds. And Ben stands as a sort of guard, hiding Arlo away from most people’s sights. 

Shoving the used paper into his pockets, he turns to Ben. 

“You look like you’re having an absolutely amazing time,” Ben says, his tone wry. 

“Hmp’shxt!”

“Aw,” Ben says, his expression decidedly full of pity. But then he clears his throat and his features smooth out. “Oops. Don’t mean to treat you like a baby. I know you hate that. But….”

“But I look pitiful?” 

“You look dead on your feet, babe. Listen, I’m calling it. We saw the ceremony, ate the shitty dinner, had some cake. Okay, well, we watched people have cake. We saw the toasts… And we — well, I — even danced a little. We’ve mingled. That’s it; we’re done. Let’s go.”

“But maybe I should help clear everything up.”

“What the fuck? No. There are plenty of people to help. Everyone knows you’re sick. Let’s go home.”

“But I wanted to — “

“Stay as long as possible. I know. This is as long as possible. Like I said, I’m calling it. I’ve talked to so many people. I’m tired. It’s time to go home and relax now.”

Arlo scoffs. “You’re an extrovert. You can talk to people forever.”

“Extroverted doesn’t mean ‘talking to people forever.’ Even I have limits.”

Maybe that’s true, but Arlo’s seen Ben socialize for longer than a few hours before without getting drained. This is obviously a thinly-veiled lie. But Arlo simply rolls his eyes rather than explain that because he is bone-achingly tired. 

“C’mon, you can’t possibly pretend you’re having a good time,” Ben says. 

“Actually, I can. You can’t stop me.” It’s a weak retort, but everything about Arlo is weak right now. So weak, that when Ben pulls him close, he lets himself be held. Ben’s arms wrap around his waist and Arlo rests his head against Ben’s shoulder. The tempo of the music is certainly not intended for slow dancing. But that’s what he finds himself doing. 

“We must look so stupid,” Arlo mutters against Ben’s shoulder as they awkwardly sway. 

“I don’t even give a single fuck.”

“You can’t keep saying that. There are children.” 

“Yeah, no fucks given about that either.”

“Ben,” Arlo says, lifting his head slightly from his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Fine, fine. All the more reason to get out of this place. Censorship is deeply unfair, you know.”

“It’s not censorship when you’re out in a public place around —” An intense and sudden tickle sparks inside Arlo’s nose. Before he can make any decision, he takes one quick gasp of air, then he’s shoving his face hard against Ben’s shoulder.

“HEHngt’shh! HEHNgt! Ngt’shh! N’gt! N’gt! Ah hih ng’tshhh!”

“Whoa,” Ben says. Arlo has a single moment to register that Ben’s grip has tightened before he’s tucking his face back into Ben’s shoulder.

“Hng’t! Ahng’t! Heh ngt! Mpftsshhhoo! HEH mpt’shoo!”

“You done? Have you got some more?” Ben’s voice holds no judgement. It’s low and soft, and comforting enough to keep Arlo from melting in a puddle of embarrassment. 

“I’m done, I think —” Another gasp of air and Arlo’s diving back into Ben’s shoulder. “HEHgn’t! Gn’tssh! Mpkt! Hmphshooo!”

“Stupid fucking cold,” Ben mutters, rubbing soothing circles along Arlo’s back. 

“Stop cussing.” Arlo’s words sound thick between all his sniffling. He feels Ben reaching into his pocket — the one with the clean wad of toilet-paper, thankfully. 

After taking the wad, Arlo begins the process yet again of turning away from everyone, then proceeds to blow his nose.

“Hi, honey.” The words make him freeze in place. “Oh, you look just awful!” 

Of course this would be the state his mother finds him in. 

“He’s all right,” Ben says, wrapping an arm around Arlo’s waist again as he turns around to face his mom. “Just a crappy cold he caught from me. But I do think we’re going to head out so we can get some rest. Still not feeling great, myself.” Ben then lets out a string of pathetic sounding coughs that are absolutely fake. “But we’ve had a great time!”

Ben continues being polite while Arlo coughs helplessly into the crook of his elbow. After recovering, he manages to say goodbye to everyone, making sure to avoid any hugging. 

They trudge slowly to the exit, then out into the parking lot, Arlo’s suddenly streaming eyes making it difficult to see.

“We’re going to another Sunday dinner,” Arlo says once he’s in the car and buckling his seatbelt. 

“Not this Sunday?” Ben asks, his brow raised. “You need to rest.” 

“No, Dad said next Sunday. After I get better.”

“Good.”

They drive in silence for a few minutes as Arlo’s brain processes the events of the day. Of the whole week really. He’s pushed himself much further than he normally would while sick. And then there was the incident at Walmart and then Jeremy contacting him again. A chill runs through his body at the thought. It’s been a lot, physically and mentally. The day before, he’d rested, but that consisted mostly of sleeping in between periods of feeling miserable. 

He thinks of his bed and his books; he nearly groans out loud at the thought of the comfort and peace they’ll bring. He needs to rest his joints, though, so holding books is out of the question. But there’s always audiobooks. They’re not so much something he prefers; he likes imagining the character voices himself. But when he just wants to relax and close his eyes, they’re perfect. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the one day of this week he can enjoy. 

But then he remembers.

His birthday.

He’s embarrassed to feel his eyes tearing up just the slightest bit at the thought. It’s something he’s been refusing to think about. It’s his birthday, yes, but more so, it’s an obligation. It’s something he’s letting Ben do for him because it’ll make Ben happy. 

But maybe he can explain how he feels. How merely holding his head up today took an insurmountable amount of energy. Now that he’s considering it, it’s slightly odd that Ben is still insistent on this party. Maybe he has some surprise for him, like a homemade vegan cake or some other special dish.

“Did you think to bring my inhaler?” Ben asks suddenly.

And then every single thought slips from Arlo’s brain as a pit forms in his stomach. “Yes. It’s in the glove compartment.” Arlo’s already moving to reach toward it, but Ben’s hand stops him. 

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, laughing slightly. “No need for it. I was just wondering.”

Frowning, Arlo worries his lower lip between his teeth. “That’s not something you usually wonder about.”

“Do you need to stop anywhere before we go home?” Ben finally asks after an uncomfortable moment of silence. “Have you ever thought about the origins of the word ‘home’? Like, where does it come from? I mean, we have homosapien. Homophone. Homogenous. Homosexual. Home isn’t anything like those words though.”

Feeling his eyes widen to a size that can’t possibly be conducive to ocular health, Arlo says, “‘Home’ is not at all connected to those words.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “No. No, Ben. You’re not just going to obfuscate.”

“Don’t know what you mean,” Ben says with a shrug. “I don’t even know how to skate.”

“You can’t be flippant about this. We’re talking about your asthma, Ben!” His tone is surprisingly harsh and it triggers a coughing fit.

“I hear there’s some albuterol in the glove compartment. Sounds like you may need some,” Ben jokes weakly. 

“Ben. Why were you wondering about your inhaler?” Arlo asks, his voice a thin rasp. 

Ben keeps his eyes fixed on the road as he says, “I may have had a bit of an asthma attack Wednesday.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“It wasn’t a big deal. Obviously. I mean, here I am, alive and breathing,” Ben says with a faint laugh. When he sees Arlo’s unamused expression, he continues. “We were cleaning out the storage room. There was a bunch of old stuff in there. I think Mike must have used it as his personal storage or something because there was a ton of shit in there. Rolled up rugs… boxes of old clothes. Maybe it was mold or dust mites. I don’t know. But I started having an allergic reaction, then it kept getting worse, and… yeah.” 

He continues driving while Arlo’s mind jumps to all the places in their home prone to accumulating dust. His allergies really are getting much worse. They need to get an air purifier. Arlo’s meant to look more thoroughly into those, but Ben’s been mostly fine indoors. But if he’s developing other triggers….

“It really was fine. I recognized the symptoms and got away from the room.” There’s a pause and when Ben begins again, his voice sounds unsteady, and Arlo notices his cheeks turning the slightest shade of pink. “The only problem was we had a bit of trouble finding the inhaler. As in, uh, we literally couldn’t find it.” 

“But you did find it? Eventually?”

“No,” Ben states, his voice unnaturally high-pitched.

“So, what, then? The attack just went away on its own? It was that mild?” Arlo asks, his heart rate finally slowing down. “Then it sounds like a small trigger. You’ll have to update your asthma action plan, but it doesn’t seem like —” Arlo stops, examining Ben’s face. It’s doing a lot of contorting as if his mind can’t decide on which expression to settle on.

 “It did not go away on its own, no.” Ben clears his throat. “But, again, it was absolutely and totally fine and not even close to being a big deal.”

After taking a deep, but shaky breath, Arlo says, “What did you do, then?” 

“Luke called 911. The ambulance came quickly. Gave me a nebulizer treatment with albuterol. I went to the ER, even though I told them it was probably unnecessary. Had some more treatments. Then I came home. Not looking forward to the hospital bill, but I’m fine. Super fine. It just made me realize I should be more careful about keeping track of the rescue inhaler. And, uh, maybe also do better about taking the daily meds a little more, well, daily.” He laughs that nervous laugh again, then rubs the back of his neck. 

Arlo leans his head back against the headrest and squeezes his eyes shut. There’s a headache forming behind his eyes. He feels the urge to rub his forehead, but his wrists are reaching almost unbearable levels of pain, so he refrains. He grits his teeth as memories of Wednesday swirl through his mind. He’d been so sick that day, his migraine being all he could focus on. Well, the migraine and the phone call that he’s still actively working to suppress. While all that was going on, Ben had been in the hospital.

“Are you mad at me?” Ben asks. 

Gritting his teeth, Arlo takes another measured breath. The inhale triggers something in his left nostril and after a fierce tickle that has him hitching his breath for several seconds, he manages to finally sneeze. “Ht’shhoo! Hgn’tshhhh!”

“Bless you,” Ben says as Arlo sniffles. 

Arlo doesn’t respond.

“So,” Ben begins, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. “I’m getting the sense here that you are, indeed, mad.”

“You were in the hospital.” Arlo opens his eyes, finally forcing himself to look at Ben.

“That is a place I was in, yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I did not.”

“So, when you came back so late that evening — when Connor stayed with me —  it wasn’t because you were working late, was it?”

“It was not. After the hospital, then the pharmacy, me and Luke had to go back to the shop so I could get my car.”

The pharmacy. Of course he’d gotten medication. He must’ve hidden it so Arlo wouldn’t notice when he’d come home from work.

“I thought —” Arlo stops talking, trying not to think of the fantasies he had earlier of Ben tearing up at their wedding.

“You thought what?” Ben asks.

 “I thought I mattered more to you than that. Have I misinterpreted the seriousness of our relationship? We live together, share a cat together. You — you treat me like someone who matters. You treat me better than I ever could have imagined someone treating me. So, I just thought…. But then you are taken to the hospital in an ambulance, Ben. And you don’t think to tell me. Instead you lie.” Arlo’s voice breaks at the end of the sentence and it’s not just because he’s sick. He’s about to cry and he can’t even use his wrists to wipe away the tears.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. No, that’s not the situation at all. Holy shit. Holy shit, Arlo. Fuck. Of course our relationship is serious.” A horn honks and Ben curses again as he realizes the light is green. “Okay don’t cry. Don’t cry when I’m operating heavy machinery and can’t do anything to comfort you, okay?” He glances quickly at Arlo. “Fuck. Okay, you’re really upset. Just…. We can pull over, but we’re almost home. We’ll be there in, like, two minutes.”

And so for two minutes, Arlo sniffles, coughs, and wipes his nose against his shoulder. When they exit the car, Ben immediately rushes over to Arlo’s side, but Arlo steps away.

When they enter, Classy’s there, wanting attention. Ben says a quick “hello,” and bends down to pet her. Realizing he doesn’t really know the best place to have a potentially relationship-altering conversation, Arlo keeps walking until he settles on the kitchen chair. Ben joins him and for a moment the two only stare at each other with their hands on their laps.

There’s a box of tissues left there from this morning and Arlo, despite the pain in his hands and wrists, snatches them. After emptying his nose, he lets the discarded tissues fall to the table, since the trash can is across the room and his pockets are already stuffed full.

“So, listen,” Ben starts. “This is not going to be a thing.”

Shaking his head, Arlo says, “What do you mean?”

“I mean I am refusing to let this be a thing. We’re not having this fuck up our relationship. Not right before —” He stops, clearing his throat, something unreadable passing across his expression. “Before your birthday.”

“And you get to decide that?”

“Yeah. Because we’re settling it right now. I’m apologizing, then, we’re moving past it.”

“Why is everyone acting like that?” Ben’s eyes widen, but Arlo continues before he interrupts. “I mean, everyone just keeps apologizing and expecting it to fix everything as though acting like I’m nothing is something that can be forgiven with a snap of a finger.”

“Jesus Christ, where did that come from?” Ben says.  “What kind of conversations have you had today? And that’s not what I’m doing.”

“Becca thinks that, even though we had several conversations about possible vegan options for the wedding, that apologizing for there not being marinara sauce makes up for it. My dad thinks inviting me over for dinner fixes the fact that he’s been nothing but disappointed in me my entire life. And Jeremy thinks he can hurt me for eight years and break my wrist and then just apologize in the middle of a Walmart McDonald’s and expect me to take him back. Now I find out you lied about being in the hospital and you’re looking at me and saying that you can apologize and then, what? We’re fine? Because you don’t ‘want it to be a thing’?”

“Arlo,” Ben says, cautiously, as though he’s talking to a scared animal. “I’m going to get up and make some tea. I promise I’m not trying to dismiss or ignore what you’re saying. I just need a moment to think. And you sound like you can really use some tea; your voice is practically gone.”

And Ben’s not wrong, which makes everything so much worse. Arlo’s voice is hanging by a fine thread. It’s a wonder Ben understood anything at all that Arlo said. 

Arlo listens to the sound of the kettle boiling and Ben’s steps as he maneuvers around the kitchen. He blows his nose, wipes his eyes on his shoulder some more, then proceeds to sneeze harshly onto his lap.

“HET’NgtSHhhoo!”

And is forced to restart the entire process. His words from his little outburst float around his mind, too, of course. But Arlo doesn’t think he can take any of them back because they felt right. 

Ben leaves the room for  several minutes, presumably to use the bathroom, since Arlo hears the toilet flush. When Ben comes back, he’s actually changed clothes. He’s no longer dressed for a wedding, but is instead wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Wordlessly, he walks over and grabs the tea, then sits back down at the table, handing it to Arlo. 

“So you said a lot of things,” Ben states.

Arlo nods, sniffling.

“And there was a lot there to unpack.” 

“Hmpnkt’shhh!”

“Bless you. Um, I really wish you weren’t sick while we’re having this conversation. But also, something tells me you wouldn’t have said any of that if you weren’t sick and exhausted, so maybe it’s a good thing.” He smiles as Arlo takes a sip of tea. “First off, I want to say I’m an asshole. And I want to apologize. But you said so much and ignoring all of it just to apologize feels wrong. I think maybe some other time, we can talk about those things more deeply. But, I will say this. You mentioned Jeremy and honestly, I think — ” He pauses and sighs. “Baby, you’ve got some really big stuff you’re not processing and, oh my god, if anyone knows how much that can fuck a person up, it’s me. I’m not trying to say that you’re mad at me because you’re not processing the shit with Jeremy. I genuinely fucked up. But also, he’s been on your mind constantly since you saw him. I can tell it’s been weighing on you, okay? And you refuse to talk about it. So maybe, I think — I mean, there may be a possibility that the reason you’re so overwhelmed right now isn’t just the stuff with your family, or even me, but because you’re neglecting to address something that happened to you. And, you’re sick and in pain, and would I be right in saying scared, too? When I told you about going to the hospital?”

Ben was right. He’s too sick for this conversation. He starts coughing, then he starts sneezing, and then he has to blow his nose. Now his wrists hurt and his head is pounding and —

Ben was in the hospital. He was in the hospital because he couldn’t breathe. 

He starts crying. Again. 

Ben chews his lip and reaches out as if to comfort Arlo, but pulls his hand away and continues. “I was going to have someone call you when Luke called for the ambulance. But then I got the nebulizer treatment, and started breathing more easily, and it seemed like the ER visit was just precautionary. I mean, okay, I don’t really know. They said I needed to go. But I was breathing okay and the attack seemed to be over, and I kept thinking how horribly sick you were that day. You were already exhausted and working when you should have been resting. You needed to rest and get better. Not drag yourself to the hospital when my asthma attack was already over. But yeah, shit, Arlo, when I was thinking about it a few minutes ago, I thought, what if it was you? What if our situations were reversed? And I get it, okay? I don’t care what kind of condition I’m in. If I’m sick, have a migraine, if I’m puking, even if I’m fucking bleeding out and dying. If there were only ten breaths left in my body —and you were in the hospital? I’d spend every one of them trying to get to you.” He stops and stares at the ceiling for a moment before saying, “Ten breaths would only get me, like, out the door, though.  So, let’s change that to… a hundred? Five hundred? If there were five hundred breaths left in my body, I’d spend every one of them trying to get to you. That just doesn’t sound as romantic, though, does it?” He shakes his head, frowning. The smallest of laughs manages to escape Arlo even as another tear slides down his face. “But my point is, I should have let you know. I am so fucking sorry I made you feel like you didn’t matter.” 

“I was really scared,” Arlo admits, wiping his eyes again. “Every time you have an attack, or any allergic reaction, I get scared.”

“I know you do. I think that was part of it. I thought I could save you from feeling that fear. But that wasn’t my call to make.”

“It wasn’t,” Arlo agrees, once again awkwardly angling his face to wipe his tears away with his shoulder. 

Ben reaches for several tissues from the box and moves forward. “Can I help?”

Arlo blinks, then nods. And so they both sit in silence as Ben gently wipes away Arlo’s tears.

“It’s been an emotional week,” Arlo whispers as Ben wipes a new tear.

“It has been,” Ben says, using another tissue to dab at Arlo’s wet nostrils.

“I haven’t really liked myself this week.”

For a brief moment, Ben stops wiping, but he resumes before saying, “I think everyone has weeks like that.”

“I’ve been a whiny baby.”

“I disagree. I don’t think you’ve whined enough.” 

“Everyone gets colds.”

“Not everyone has RA,” Ben states simply, before wiping again at Arlo’s nose. It’s nice having him so close, not having to strain his voice. “And even if you didn’t, you’re allowed to complain. Colds suck.” 

“I keep crying.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’ve just been so tired and… Jeremy. Seeing him made me feel like, like the way I used to feel when we were dating. Worthless. Pathetic. An inconvenience.”

“And that’s why you’ve wanted to push yourself? To prove you’re not any of those things?” Ben asks, his voice soft. He sets down tissues, then begins running his fingers through Arlo’s curls. 

Arlo closes his eyes. 

“Probably some of the reason,” Arlo whispers. 

“Makes sense.” 

“And I guess I kind of always felt a little like that even before Jeremy. Like an inconvenience.”

“I’m sorry that’s how you’ve felt. I wish I could make your brain be nicer to you.”

“Hpnkt! Hepnk’t! Mkpt’chuuh!” Arlo aims the sneezes away from Ben’s face, but now snot is threatening to run past his lip. He brings an arm up to cover, or wipe, he’s not sure. But Ben just hums as he takes another tissue and begins gently wiping Arlo’s nose.

“I never thought we’d get to the point where you’d trust me enough to do something like this,” Ben says, tossing aside the tissue into the accumulating pile. “There was a time you didn’t even want me to see your spoons.”

“It’s scary,” Arlo says.

“To show your spoons?”

He shakes his head. “To trust someone like this. To love someone like this.”

Ben’s smile is faint when he says, “I know.” 

Then he leans closer, using his thumbs this time to brush away Arlo’s fresh tears. “Can I kiss you?”

He nods and Ben’s lips meet his. The kiss is soft. Comfortable. The way Ben’s rare kisses always are. 

“I also never thought I’d want to kiss someone,” Ben says as he pulls away.

“What have we done to ourselves?” Arlo asks, breathing out a laugh.

“Something terrifying?” 

“And amazing?” Arlo adds, his voice barely anything at all.

“Terrifying and amazing. Sums it up, yeah,” Ben says, laughing.

They sit there together, Arlo sniffling while Ben occasionally wipes away his snot or tears. Eventually, they manage to stop being sappy and pull themselves together.

When they’re both finally in bed with Arlo resting his head against Ben’s chest, he remembers they never discussed his birthday. But that’s a problem to solve for tomorrow.