and it tortures slow

Ben. His best friend, the other member of their two-piece band, and quite possibly his favourite person in the world. There are a few people milling about outside, soaking up the early morning sunshine, and Mike tries to act nonchalant as he stands just outside the tour bus, sipping his coffee as he squints against the sun and peers around in search of Ben. He’s desperate for the two of them to have a catch-up.

That’s one of the best things about a crazy night out: the following morning’s conversation, him and Ben swigging copious amounts of coffee together while complaining about their hangovers, moaning at their tour manager that they’d rather not do any work today, and most importantly, trying to piece together what crazy antics they got up to the previous night. This usually has a time limit: see if they can figure out whether they did anything dumb that would get them in trouble before their manager finds them sitting there sniggering, and they actually get into trouble.

It looks like time is already up today, though – and Ben is nowhere to be seen. Mike has to suppress a groan at this fact, where the bloody hell is he?! – because his manager, leaning against a nearby wall, has spotted him and is strolling over. Mike braces himself for a telling off, feeling the strangest feeling that he did something super dumb last night, though being tragically unable to comprehend what it was. He racks his brain, feeling like it was something that happened in the taxi… god, he was ludicrously drunk… he hasn’t been that pissed in a while. Maybe he said something to offend Ben? Wine does make him sassy. Maybe that’s why Ben’s nowhere to be found? Mike doesn’t even remember the two of them getting home last night… oh god. What if Ben’s dead in a ditch somewhere? What if Ben stripped down to his underwear and frolicked off into the night? He’s always been an enigma, that boy. Mike begins to panic, but then his manager arrives in front of him and he takes a swig of coffee to hide it. Scalding liquid burns his tongue, then slips down into his trachea, and he instantly begins to choke. Casual, Michael.

His manager stands there with folded arms, looking vastly amused and only mildly concerned, as Mike coughs up a lung. “Fun night?” he asks when Mike’s finished, and the singer just shrugs in embarrassment. His manager pulls out his phone, and there’s a few moments pause while he searches for something. Then he holds out his screen for Mike to see, and Mike stares at it, then stares some more, then bursts out laughing.

“Oh fucking hell,” he says, turning red for a whole new reason now. “That’s…”

“A bit gay, yes.” His manager laughs.

Mike’s unable to tear his gaze away. “This is our official account, yeah?”

“Yes. It already has ten thousand likes.”

“And Ben…?”

“It’s on Ben’s account too. You lads must’ve really liked this picture.”

Mike snorts, a memory coming back to him, fuzzy and undetailed, but proven to be real by this very photograph. Lips against lips and the sound of a camera snapping, then hysterical laughter and drinks spilt into their laps, and them trying to keep quiet because they weren’t allowed drinks in the taxi, then fingers against lips, and then… blank. “I think it’s less a case of us liking the picture,” he begins slowly, “and more a case of us really fucking liking alcohol. Hey—what’s the caption? I bet Ben put something witty.”

“Just the word ‘Pure’. And a love-heart.”

Mike frowns a little, his heart doing something strange. He blames the hangover, the remnants of alcohol still left in his bloodstream. But he finds that he’s speechless. “Aw,” he says. That’s all he says.

He pulls out his own phone and opens up Instagram. It’s the first thing he sees and he looks at it closer, realising he likes it, realising he likes looking at it, and then he remembers that he’s still in the company of his manager and glances up, hopeful. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“People are going to think we’re gay or something. It might… I don’t know, tarnish our reputation, or whatever.”

“Mike, it’s 2017. I really don’t think people would give a shit. And, sorry, but you’re not all that important. You’re not, like, Kylie Jenner or someone.”

“Who the fuck-?” Mike begins, cracking a grin.

His manager smiles. “And besides, the public don’t know you’re bi, Mike. I’m pretty sure half the people on this tour don’t even know that. Everyone knows this is just a drunken joke and that all you and Ben will ever be, is just. Good. Friends.” He claps his hands together on each word, probably to emphasise his point.

“Yeah,” Mike says, toying it over in his mind, then he blows on his coffee and shrugs. “I’m, uh, gonna go finish this in the bus. My hangover can’t deal with all this direct light – it’s burning my fucking retinas. Also, I’d better go scour all social media to make sure I didn’t accidentally post my nudes or anything. My dick could be circling MySpace as we speak.”

“Oh my god you’re such a freaking grandad,” their manager, who is approximately five years older than Mike, laughs. “Begone, old man. Go retrieve your dick from the dark recesses of the Interwebs.”

“On it,” snorts Mike, and as he heads back into the tour bus, he hears his manager muttering under his breath amid a fresh round of chuckles: oh my god, MySpace.

***

“Hey, Tom, have you seen Ben anywhere?”

“Nah, sorry, man.”

“Melissa? You seen Ben?”

“Not since yesterday.”

“Alright, Joe? Just wondering, has Benjamin Thatcher graced you with his presence on this fine July morning?”

“Actually, mate, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” their photographer, Joeseth, begins, and Mike leans in close like Joe’s about to inform him of some secret spy mission, or something. “I saw Ben early this morning.”

The singer stares at him, curious. “You did?” He blurts, a little too loudly. “Wait, when? What time?”

He’s been asking around for hours now for information on the whereabouts of Ben, and is becoming desperate. After his conversation with their manager, he finished his coffee and looked at the picture some more while trying to remember exactly what led to it being taken -and posted on not one but two different Instagram accounts – but, annoyingly, with no such luck. His brain is about as empty as his coffee mug.

Everyone figured Ben was just asleep, because he always sleeps in late after a night out, but Mike yanked back his curtain to find his bunk mysteriously empty. The only solace was that the sheets were all crumpled, meaning Ben had slept in it that night and therefore gotten home safely. Still, all Mike wants is to know whether anything else happened… something more than the photograph’s letting on. He has a feeling it did.

Oh god, I did offend him, didn’t I? He hates me now and that’s why he’s run off.

Joe scratches his head. “Like, six? Uncharacteristically early for Ben. I was up taking a few sunrise shots for my website and he came out the bus. I asked him what he was up to, where he was going, and he just said he’d be back soon. I figured he was just getting an early breakfast or heading to the gym or something. Cryptic or what?”

“It’s ten o’clock now,” Mike frowns, not understanding– and this damn hangover isn’t helping. He feels like his brain is being scraped from his skull with a spoon. “He’d be back by now, right? Surely?”

Joe shrugs. “Sorry, mate. I’ll let you know if I see him anywhere, okay? Good luck finding him.” Joe slaps Mike on the back then heads out again, equipped with his bulky camera. He’s got work to do, taking pictures of the venue or something. Busy people everywhere, bustling round, no one stopping to help him find Ben, because she’s got vocal warm-up, he’s got to check in with the venue manager, everyone busy except for him, and he’s the one in the bloody band.

Mike slumps down onto the sofa in the lounge area of the tour bus, clueless, and pulls out his phone. Ben, I rarely text you which is how you know this is serious. Where the hell are you??! Let me know so I know you haven’t wandered off somewhere and died. Also, we have a show tonight and soundcheck will be in a few hours, so LET ME KNOW. Okay?

Then he waits.

And he waits some more.

Then, he decides to take matters into his own hands.

“Mike, where you off to?” their manager asks, catching him outside as he marches away from the tour bus, filled with a sudden determination. He’s dressed in his favourite flowery shirt - the red one, slightly unbuttoned to expose his chest - and black skinny jeans which cling to his legs in the sticky heat. But there’s a nice summery breeze in the air, and as he pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and feels it rifling through his hair, he feels kind of thankful that Ben’s disappeared somewhere. It gives him a chance to explore the city, and to think about what happened last night.

That kiss. He can’t get it off his mind.

“I need to find Ben,” he explains.

“I think you should stay put. I don’t want you getting lost.”

Mike huffs, impatient and indignant. “I’ve been here before. I know my way around. There’s… um…” He thinks about it for a second. The days all seem to blur into one when they’re touring, and he knows that he has been in this strange little European city before, because that’s what he was told, but he’s a very forgetful person and can’t quite place what this city actually looks like. They ventured out last night, of course, but he was already drunk as hell by the time they even left the tour bus. He remembers winding streets, lots of pretty buildings, and… well, all he remembers is Ben, really, making him laugh as they hunted down a bar.

But then, almost as if the universe is handing him the answers he needs, a memory flashes into his mind. Not from last night, but from a few years ago. Him and Ben, walking alongside a beautiful canal, trees hanging over their heads and dappling the walkway with sunlight. Ben loved it, how picturesque and gentle everything was – and Mike loved how much Ben was smiling that day.

“There’s a canal!” He shouts, and just like that, he knows. He knows where to find his bandmate. “I reckon that’s where Ben is,” he explains, “so I’m going to go find him. It’s nearby. I’ll be back soon, seriously.”

Ben had looked gorgeous, as well, that day - the sun bouncing across his tattooed skin and turning his body to gold.

Their manager rolls his eyes. “Alright, fine. Go find Mr Pouty Lips.”

Mike feels a vivid blush spread across his cheeks like wildfire, and laughs to deflect attention from it. “Uh, um, yeah. I will.” He offers a little wave and carries on walking, exiting the venue car park, and craning his neck to follow the road signs that’ll hopefully lead him in the right direction. He feels his hangover fading a little now, his mind becoming less fuzzy, and he reckons this is a good opportunity to piece together what happened regarding that photograph. He chuckles to himself, pulling out his phone to look at the picture again - and the caption: ‘Pure’. He doesn’t know which one of them wrote that, but it’s adorable and it makes his heart go crazy, even though he’s certain it was just a drunken friendship thing. Still… he’s dizzy with joy, and these are the thoughts that fill his mind as he assures himself that it’s normal, perfectly to feel mind-numbingly happy over the thought of kissing his bandmate.

***

Last night – 3.49 A.M.

Everything Mike remembers

“Ughhhhh, I don’t wanna leave,” Ben groans as they stand on the pavement, his arms folded stubbornly across his chest. Mike stands next to him, huddled in his coat. It’s three AM, so no wonder it’s cold. They’ve been waiting for the taxi for almost ten minutes now, the streets clogged with traffic. The clean air would be sobering them up if they’d decided to quit drinking and down some water instead, but nope – Mike is clutching the two double rum and cokes Ben forced them to buy before leaving, his fingers turning pink around the plastic cups. If anything, they’re getting more drunk.

“We have to, Benji,” Mike slurs, taking a sip from one of the cups and hiccupping. “We have jobs and responsibilities and a gig tomorrow and… responsibilities. We have to go home and get some sleeeeeep.” His eyes bulge out as he says this, leaning so close to Ben that he almost trips on his own footing and stumbles over, bashing clumsily into Ben’s shoulder. Oh, fuck. He’s drunker than he thought.

“Oi, don’t spill my drink!” Ben snaps, then bursts into hearty laughter, his voice roaring out across the city streets and echoing off the star-studded sky. In the darkness, Mike sees his smile, big and bright and beaming – his eyes squeezed shut as he clutches his stomach in amusement. It’s a sight Mike wants to wrap up in a bow and gift to himself sometime in the future, when he’s feeling low, because he knows it’ll fill him with instant pleasure - a sight that could be found under a Christmas tree, or something.

“I’m sorry, Benjamin Thatcher. I will try my very hardest not to spill your rum and coke, good sir,” Mike states. He says it in a Russian accent. He doesn’t know why.

The two of them explode into laughter again and Mike holds out one of the drinks for Ben to take a sip of, not quite sure what’s so funny, except that he can’t stop laughing and neither can Ben. God, everything’s so hilarious! His ears are ringing from that club’s music, the sky is tilting all over the place like it’s had a bit too much to drink itself, and his heart is ramming wildly against his ribcage. Maybe because Ben’s staring at him. Smiling. The kind of weird happy glint in his eye that he always gets when Mike’s acting dumb.

Their laughter fades and Ben turns to face him. “You, Mr Kerr, are very, very drunk,” informs Ben, reaching out to boop Mike on the nose. “Boop,” he whispers under his breath as he does it, just to confirm that he is, in fact, booping Mike on the nose.

Mike throws his head back, staring at the sky. “Naaaahhhhhh I’m not. I’m just having a good time.”

“You are.”

“I’m not!”

“So why can’t we stay a bit longer?” Ben grabs one of the drinks and takes a huge glug, wiping excess liquor off his mouth with the back of his hand. He gives Mike puppy dog eyes. Mike’s heart seems to love the sight, because it goes crazy inside his chest. “Please.”

“Ben, you’re older than me, you’re meant to be the responsible one,” Mike says calmly (well, he doesn’t quite say that. He struggles on the word ‘responsible’ three times before finally getting it right. He blames Ben’s adorable-ness for distracting him). “Anyway, tomorrow, after our show, we can get drunk all over again and do it all over again. Sound good?”

“Yeah, alright.”

“So let’s just go home and sleep, okay?”

Ben let’s out a loud, melodramatic sigh. “Okay, okay,” he says, just as the taxi pulls up to the curb. He yanks open the door and pretty much falls inside it, legs sprawled across the backseat. All the while laughing like a hysterical teenage girl.

“Move your legs, dickhead,” Mike commands, pushing Ben’s legs aside as he clambers inside and pulls the door shut behind him. Thankfully, he managed to splutter the address to the taxi driver over the phone, because now, his mind’s gone completely blank. All he can see is Ben, his handsome face smiling in the darkness. All he can think about is what’s right in front of him. The car jolts forward and so does his heart. He can hear Ben’s laughter, the ringing in his ears, the rumbling of the car.

“We can still have fun without being in that club,” Mike assures.

“How? Unless the driver has some sick beats to play us. Driver? Can you switch the radio on please?” Ben rudely snaps his fingers, but Mike just laughs. Ben is a dick sometimes but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a dick too, and that he didn’t thoroughly love it.

Obliging, the driver flicks on some crappy station that’s playing pop hits from ten years ago, and Ben closes his eyes, satisfied. “Great. The party’s never gonna end now.”

“I swear to god, Ben Thatcher, you can’t go ten minutes without listening to music, can you?” Mike observes, and Ben stretches out his legs, resting his feet in Mike’s lap. Surprised, Mike finds himself tapping his fingers against Ben’s ankles, enjoying the weight of Ben’s feet on his thighs. It’s just… a warmth he can’t explain. Maybe he’s a lot lonelier than he thought, maybe he craves human affection more than he’d care to admit, and shit, those are the types of thoughts that only emerge from the dark when he’s had a little too much to drink and when Ben’s looking at him in a particular way. So he shoves them away and shrugs. “What must it be like to be constantly surrounded by noise? Seriously. You’re obsessed, mate.”

“Hey, can you turn it up please?” Ben asks the driver, then closes his eyes again. “You’re a rockstar, Michael, you’re meant to enjoy loud music,” he drawls. “It’s in the handbook.”

“Well, I’m also partial to a bit of silence and a long nap,” Mike chuckles, then glances at Ben. Speaking of which… “OI! Wake up, Thatcher. I thought the party wasn’t over?” He shoves Ben hard and the drummer’s eyes snap open, his fingers instantly forming into rock-and-roll signs.

“NEVER! The party will never die. Nor will rock and roll.” He swings his legs down so he’s sitting upright in his seat, shimmying his body to perk himself up, and Mike scooches a little closer to hand his bandmate his drink. Also to retain some of the warmth Ben left behind. They take small sips for a moment, then Ben suddenly bursts, “Hey, you like that about me, though, don’t you? My love for music. It’s part of my charm.”

Mike rolls his head round to look up at him, finding that he’s slightly slouched against Ben’s shoulder. “Maybe.”

“Hey, dude, you smell good.”

“What?”

“You always do, but I never say it.” Ben’s looking down at him, grinning wildly. “You just smell really fucking good.”

Mike turns pink, then sits up again, coughing to hide the sudden nerves that have struck his chest. He shouldn’t be feeling this anxious around his best friend, someone he’s known for so many years. He even knew Ben back when the drummer went through his punk phase and had a lip ring. That looked fucking hot, Mike recalls, he’s always wondered what it’s like to kiss someone who’s wearing a lip ring, and maybe Ben would’ve been the perfect candidate, he should’ve kept it, maybe Mike should ask him to get it back, and wait, what were they talking about?

“We should do something wild,” Mike decides.

“Like what?”

He considers it. “Like… Go on Instagram live and tell everyone to stop watching two pissed rockstars acting pissed. It would be so meta. Like, woah, they’re just sitting there wasting their lives watching us, but we’re telling them not to watch, and that only makes them want to watch more. It’s genius.”

“Woah.”

“Right?” Mike’s smiling at him, and they’re smiling at each other, and wait, how did they get so close? Because he swears he can feel Ben’s breath dancing across his lips, warm and smelling of rum. “Or we could… uh… we could… do something crazy, and—” He doesn’t finish his sentence, because he finds himself glancing at Ben’s lips and suddenly desperately wanting to kiss them, to feel their warmth against his, to feel Ben in a way he never has before. He doesn’t know why, he guesses ‘cause he’s drunk, but suddenly the urge is so strong that he can’t contain it. It spills out of him and fills the back of the taxi with heat and without thinking about a single thing, he places his hand on the side of Ben’s face and kisses him quickly on the mouth.

It lasts literally half a second – it was only a peck – but Ben’s staring at him with widened eyes, and Mike’s grinning, feeling dizzy. There are just inches between them. “We should take a picture of us kissing and post it on Instagram,” Mike breathes, only half-joking, knowing that this is the kind of wild endeavour that will perfectly round off their drunken evening, but also something that’ll give him the excuse to kiss Ben for even longer. Please say yes.

“You’re kidding, right?” Ben grins.

“It’ll be a perfect showcase of our beautiful friendship,” snorts Mike, and Ben simply shrugs and pulls out his phone. Wait… he’s actually obliging? Mike finds himself giggling nervously, then Ben holds out his phone and directs it towards their faces, and the music is loud now so the driver can’t hear what they’re up to, and Mike is going crazy just thinking about what’s about to happen.

“Kiss me, then,” orders Ben.

And Mike does.

He pushes his mouth up against the drummer’s, fully pouting this time, letting his eyes flutter closed. He lets the warmth and softness of Ben’s lips thoroughly consume him, pushing his lips further into Ben’s, and he’s just about to cradle Ben’s face and actually start kissing him properly when he hears the camera snap, and Ben is jerking his face away, smiling.

They stare at each other for a second, and…

And Mike’s memory is hazy after that.

But he’s sure that that’s when they spilt their drinks and started laughing again and he guesses they decided to post the picture and then arrived back at the tour bus, and said goodnight and stumbled into their separate bunks. Yes, that must’ve been what happened.

He’s been walking alongside the canal for twenty minutes now, checking every bench for Ben while mulling over last night’s events. Something doesn’t make sense – he knows he’s missing something important. But he gets terribly forgetful when he’s drunk (he’s one of those people who pretty much blocks most of it out) and remembering up to this point is, frankly, making his brain hurt. Maybe he’ll just ask Ben.

Speaking of…

Mike rounds a slight corner and sees him, sitting on a bench, hunched over with his chin in his hands as he looks out over the canal. There’s something particularly soft-looking about him right now, his skin pink in the warmth of the sun, his tattooed arms looking toned muscular in a gorgeous black t-shirt. Mike stands there for a moment, dumbstruck. Ben is beautiful. He doesn’t know why he just realised that. Or maybe he knew it all along.

Ben hasn’t noticed him just yet, and Mike finds himself stepping just out of sight, hiding amongst the trees that line the canal because god, the strangest thought has just entered his head, or perhaps it never left. Perhaps it struck him last night and stayed there until now. And now it hits him again, repeatedly, like a lighting strike straight to his chest, and he can’t believe he’s been so stupid all this time. Last night… it wasn’t because he was drunk, but because the alcohol merely uncovered something that he’s wanted all along. That’s why he initiated that kiss. That’s why he kept staring at that picture this morning, butterflies swarming his chest.

Last night, he wanted to kiss his best friend. Because maybe… maybe he wanted to feel something more than just friendship.

It was all he wanted then, and it’s all he wants now.

***

“Hello, you,” Mike smiles as he casually saunters over, flopping down on the bench beside Ben. He’s shoved his strange thoughts to the back of his mind and the bottom of his heart, even straightening out his patterned shirt and neatening his hair in an attempt that if he looks like he’s got his life together, Ben won’t suspect a thing. Ben’s head snaps up at Mike’s cheerful voice, and as their eyes meet through their black sunglasses, a frown forms on the drummer’s face. He doesn’t even say anything, just drags his gaze away and looks back towards the water.

Mike nudges him gently with an elbow. “You okay, man? Where’ve you been all morning?”

“Here,” Ben says, his voice monotonous and devoid of joy. Woah, what the hell?

“Doing what?”

Ben shrugs. “Sitting.”

“Hey,” Mike says. “What’s up with you? Is it the hangover? Mine’s been killing me.”

The drummer shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine,” Mike presses, noticing how forlorn and… angry Ben seems. Like he’s bitter about something – he looks like he’s moments away from actually scowling. And there’s an icy air about him, something cold and cruel, his entire body tense, unable to look Mike in the eye. Mike feels like there’s a wall between them, entirely different to how it felt last night… no space between them at all.

They sit there wordless for a moment. It really is beautiful here – the canal shimmers as it reflects the sun’s rays, the trees on either side of the two parallel pathways tall and blooming with luscious green. A man walking his dog strolls by on the other side, oblivious to the two rock-stars sitting tensely on this mossy bench.

Their surroundings might be, but this weirdness isn’t beautiful at all.

“Is it about the photograph we posted?” Mike asks carefully. “Are you embarrassed?”

Ben opens his mouth to speak. but suddenly unable to bear the thought of Ben being embarrassed by kissing him, and not wanting to hear his answer, Mike blurts: “Because you really shouldn’t be, we were pissed out our brains and it was just a quick kiss, nothing serious, everyone knows it wasn’t serious and we’re just friends and it’s not like we snogged or anything, and just because I like guys doesn’t mean I was kissing you like that, and…”

“Mike,” Ben whispers, and neither of them say anything. In the coming years, Mike will remember every single thing that he felt during that moment: the summer breeze against his stubbled jaw, his fingers raking nervously through his tousled hair, his knees knocking together anxiously, the swirling of his head, the pounding of his heart, the feeling of the side of Ben’s thigh lightly pressing into his as the drummer scoots closer, and the silence. The wide, gaping silence. Then Ben’s soft, sweet voice, cutting through it all and gripping his attention with tight, desperate hands: “What do you think happened last night, Mike? Tell me what you think happened.”

Mike furrows his brow, confused by the sudden sense of urgency in Ben’s voice, and by the question itself.

“We… got drunk and went out, danced, drank, then got in the taxi and… took that photograph. Then we posted it and got back to the bus and went to sleep. And you, mister-” He pokes Ben hard in the shoulder as he says this – “Woke up ridiculously early and vanished from sight. Why are you avoiding everyone?” Ben sighs, and Mike continues, voice almost inaudible, “Why are you avoiding me?”

“Mike,” Ben says sadly. “It’s really… fucking hard.”

It feels so strange hearing those words said with a voice that’s usually so calm, so steady, so sure of what it wants.

“What’s hard?”

“Everything.”

“What, climate change? Imminent nuclear war? Our shitey Tory government? Be more specific or we’ll be here all day.”

“Mike, I can’t.”

“Why not? I’m your best friend, you can tell me anything.”

Mike doesn’t even think about it, just reaches over and grabs Ben’s hand. It feels warm in his, despite his cold demeanour. He finds that he’s clutching it, so hard Ben’s fingers go white, but after last night’s kiss, this morning’s revelation, and the way Ben’s acting now, he needs it. He needs something steady to hold onto in all this chaos.

Ben chews on his lower lip, and his face is so close to Mike’s that Mike can see one-thousand freckles, scattered across his cheeks and warmed by the sun. And if he looked inside Ben’s mind, he’d see it all: all the years of it, the longing, the pining, the praying that Mike would one day wake up and know, because there’s no way Ben would ever build up the courage to say it himself. He needs Mike to figure it out, somehow - to help him.

If Mike looked further, he would see the constant stares: the slip-ups onstage because looking at Mike’s broad back and strong shoulders from behind the drum-kit can all get a bit much. He’d see the times Ben’s poured an extra shot of tequila in the hopes that getting Mike drunk will gift the singer with some sudden sense of clarity, or even a desire to grab Ben and kiss him hard – but it never happened, no matter how pissed Mike got (apart from last night). He’d see all the times Mike has stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, headed for the shower, and Ben has grabbed it and quickly pulled it to his nose, because the smell of Mike is intoxicating, because he can’t get enough of it – it sends him into overdrive, shocks his whole system, but sometimes he needs it, because it’s all he knows he’ll get. The singer would see the countless people Ben has confessed to, hushed whispers after a couple drinks, begging for them to keep quiet, praying that perhaps the more people he tells, the easier it’ll be to tell Mike.

He’d see the fact that almost every member of the crew knows that Ben is in love with Mike.

He’d see it all.

But here, looking at Ben and holding his hand, he sees nothing.

“If you remembered what happened last night,” Ben murmurs slowly, “You’d understand.”

“What happened?” Now it’s Mike’s turn to bite his lip. “Am I… not remembering things right?” Suddenly, he’s filled with terror. Oh god, what if he said something awful? What if he ruined their friendship? What if Ben hates him now?

“Well,” Ben mutters, “you said that it was only a quick kiss, a friend kiss, so that’s how I now you got it wrong.”

“It… wasn’t a quick kiss?”

Mike’s heart is racing faster than it ever has – even faster than when he stepped out on the stage at Glastonbury Festival to a crowd of ninety thousand. He let the tequila he’d downed before that show steal away his nerves, then, but right now he’s painfully sober, with the two litres of water he chugged this morning making him far too aware of his feelings.

“Something happened after we took that photograph,” Ben explains.

“You remember something happening?”

“I know what happened. I was drunk, but… you know I always remember things well, even when I’m pissed out my brain. Way better than you, anyways.”

“Yeah, I don’t doubt that,” chuckles Mike, baffled by his own ability to forget even the most important details. Once, he woke up after the Brit awards, and Ben had to inform him (crying with laughter while he did so) of how Mike had popped a champagne cork and how it had almost hit Taylor Swift, actual Taylor fucking Swift, in the face - and then the memory had come flooding back. It’s strange. He’s completely blank until someone tells him what happened, and then he remembers it so vividly you’d think he wasn’t even drunk at all.

(But some things are more important than Taylor fucking Swift).

“I think it would be best if I just told you what happened,” Ben says.

“Yeah,” Mike agrees. “I think that would be best.”

Last night – 3.55 A.M.

Everything that actually happened

Ben jerks his face away after their silly little smooch for the camera, but he keeps his gaze fixed to Mike’s face, smiling at the singer with twinkly eyes. This is where Mike’s memory goes hazy - but Ben remembers everything. “That was… nice,” he comments, and he instinctively brings his fingers to the back of Mike’s hair, threading them through the soft little curls.

Mike is gazing at him with the kind of awe a kid might adopt if they stepped inside a chocolate shop. He’s actually beaming, his eyes the shape of crescent moons. “It was really nice, Benji,” he slurs, bringing his cup of rum to his lips and taking a hearty swig, then moving in closer – and that’s when it slips from his grasp and he begins to shriek with laughter, laughter which Ben doesn’t join in with because things are serious now, at least he thinks they are… then Mike pushes a finger up against Ben’s lips, and says, “Shhhh, stop laughing,” and the adorable obliviousness of it all causes Ben to chuckle, despite himself.

God, Mike’s so drunk. Ben shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. As Mike said earlier, he’s meant to be the older, and thus more responsible, member of Royal Blood. But Mike’s hand is creeping across his thigh now and god, he’s so pretty, that fucking mouth, those lips swollen with alcohol—

And Mike was the one who initiated the kiss, wasn’t he?

Ben lets his phone clatter to the floor of the taxi.

“Would it be crazy,” he blurts, the hand on the back of Mike’s head so tempted to pull Mike’s head closer, so that their lips are touching again, “If we tried that again?”

“What, spill my drink all over my bloody lap?” Mike snorts, winking cheekily. “I’m all wet now.”

“No, Mike…”

“Oh,” breathes Mike. He’s gone quiet now. His hand is sneaking precariously close to Ben’s crotch and Ben is tensing up, his entire body on fire. And fuck, Mike’s leaning in close, his mouth hovering over Ben’s ear. Ben can feel his warm breath skirting across his skin as he asks, “You mean take another picture, right?”

“No, just the…” Ben glances towards the driver. “Just the kissing part,” he finishes nervously, voice so quiet only Mike could possibly hear it.

“Ask him to roll up the partition,” Mike murmurs, following his gaze. “Beyoncé-style.”

Ben instantly bursts into song, his voice cutting through the silence and the tension: “Driver, roll up the partition, please!” He yells it far too loudly, causing him and Mike to burst into equally hysterical giggles. And Mike’s laugh is so cute, so sweet and pure that Ben grips his striped t-shirt, pulling him in, and then they’re kissing again, but properly this time.

Ben watches as Mike’s eyes flutter closed, then he lets his own do the same because he doesn’t have anything to worry about, now, just the feeling of Mike’s lips, his soft skin, his tousled hair underneath Ben’s fingertips. It’s the nicest kiss either of them has ever shared, messy and drunken but filled with passion; they learn the shape of each other’s mouths, and they kiss and explore each other with urgent hands until Mike climbs on top of him, the two of them squashed into the back of the taxi, and only when Mike’s hands reach down for the buckle on Ben’s belt does the older boy think wait, shit, what’s happening, and yeah he could take advantage and let Mike suck him off like he’s always dreamt about but he’s not going to do that because he has fucking morals and Mike is fucking drunk. So, he pushes Mike away.

“This isn’t what you want,” Ben murmurs, shoving the singer roughly off his lap. Mike’s long legs are sprawled out like a giraffe on ice, poor thing, as he tumbles backwards onto the seat next to Ben, and his face breaks Ben’s heart, confused and pouty and sad. Ugh.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want it. You don’t want to kiss me, you’re just drunk and horny. I mean, same, but… we can’t. It’ll ruin things.”

Because he knows Mike doesn’t feel the same way about him. What would happen if they carried on? Would they have sex? Would Ben finally get everything he’s always wanted?

No. Because he doesn’t want Mike’s body, he wants his heart - to know that Mike will love him just as strongly as he loves Mike.

“I really want you, Ben,” Mike whines, reaching out for him like a baby grasping for a toy. “Please, I’ve realised it now. I want to keep kissing you.”

Ben shakes his head, torn. Mike wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t want to be in a relationship. And it’s just the alcohol talking, anyway. “You’re drunk, Mike, you should get some rest. Come here.” He holds out an arm, and obliging, Mike scoots over, snuggling up against Ben’s chest.

Strange how quickly things can go back to normal.

“Hey, we didn’t post the picture,” he says through a thick yawn, sleepy all of a sudden.

Ben squeezes him tight, then hands Mike his phone. He loves the feeling of Mike’s body against him, warming up his entire body. “If that’s what you want to do, do it,” he smiles. At least that way, he’ll have a souvenir, of sorts - something to look at when he wants to remember how Mike’s lips felt on his. God knows he’ll never get that feeling again.

Mike is grinning dozily at the phone, tapping away.

“I’m posting it on your account too,” informs Mike.

“Go ahead,” laughs Ben.

“Okay, done,” Mike mutters with a satisfied nod, dropping it to the floor again, and within seconds, he’s fast asleep. His soft little snores fill the taxi and Ben lets his head rest on top of Mike’s. Ah, alcohol.

When they arrive back at the tour bus, everything is dark and everybody’s asleep. Ben shakes Mike awake, half-walking, half-dragging him into the bus, then instructs Mike to get into his pyjamas. Ben looks away as he gets dressed. He doesn’t want to take advantage of Mike any further than he already has. He feels so guilty, so sick and so angry at himself…

“You dressed?”

“Mmmmm.”

“Get in bed, Mikey – here, I’ll pull back the covers for you.” Ben tucks Mike in. He’s such a baby, resting on his back and beaming up at Ben. He looks so effortlessly soft and calm and beautiful. “Sleep well, okay? And sleep on your side, because that way, if you vomit, you won’t choke on it and die a grim death.”

“Aw,” Mike mutters quietly, still smiling. “Romantic.”

Ben’s stroking his hair. “I… love you, Mike.”

“I love you too, Benji.”

Mike yawns and rolls over onto his side, and Ben looks at him for a long time, then closes the curtain and shuffles into his own bunk. Mike meant it in a friendly way, but maybe that’s enough. Mike’s friendship… it’s better than nothing, right? Ben is lucky to have him in his life. And this is what he’s thinking about as he falls into a short, shitty, restless sleep.

***

“Ah,” says Mike, remembering now.

“Yeah,” says Ben.

“Quite the interesting night.”

Ben rolls his eyes, feeling sick to his stomach. “Tell me about it.”

Mike is still holding Ben’s hand, his heart fluttering. He wishes he could tell Ben that for him, it wasn’t just a kiss. “Ben, I—”

“It was unfair,” Ben interrupts. “What I did to you, I mean. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. You were way too drunk, you didn’t even know what was happening.”

“You were drunk too,” Mike reminds him, nudging him gently, “and I knew what I was doing. I would’ve stopped if I wanted to. Besides, I kissed you first. If anything, I’m the one who took advantage of you.”

“Still,” Ben shrugs, snatching his hand away and resting his chin in his palms, his elbows on his knees. Mike leans back against the bench, throwing back his head and letting the sunlight warm his skin, golden light falling across his cheeks, his neck, the exposed bit of chest hair that’s poking out through his floral shirt.

“Well, I’m fine,” Mike muses eventually. “Apart from the hangover, I’m not… emotionally scarred, or anything. And that picture is just the reminder of a good night. Otherwise I would’ve deleted it by now.” He reaches his arm out and begins to trace circles on Ben’s back. He knows Ben likes it when people let their fingers dance idly across his back or his arms. Mike has done it multiple times before. He supposes he knows a lot about Ben, really… and he likes a lot of things about Ben. He likes how concerned he is right now. How much he cares. “So… I appreciate you looking out for me, but you don’t have anything to worry about. Really.”

Ben has shivers in his spine at the feeling of Mike’s fingers on his back. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“When you kissed me, that first time… was it the alcohol? Were you just… curious?”

Mike shrugs, unsure how to answer. He did think it was the alcohol, the curiosity, but judging by how much he wants to try kissing Ben again right now… his current feelings would beg to differ.

“Do you like me as more than a friend, Mike?”

“Ben…”

“Because I need to be honest with you. I’m done hiding. Fucking hell, this is awful,” Ben groans, ducking his head. He can feel it building up inside, and if he doesn’t say it, he’s going to explode. “I don’t even care… I mean, I do care, but it’s okay if you don’t feel the same… I just need to get it out. It’s killing me.”

“What is it?” Mike asks. “Are you a secret homophobe? Because fucking hell, Ben, if you’re angry at me for kissing you—”

“What? No,” Ben says, baffled that Mike still doesn’t get it. Can’t he see it, every-time he looks into Ben’s eyes? All the love there? The longing? The constant wishing that Mike would feel the same? Mike still hasn’t figured out that Ben’s in love with him, or if he has, he’s doing a great job of hiding it. But as far as Ben’s aware, Mike thinks he’s straight. He’s never given him any indication that he might feel otherwise, until now, that is.

“Well, what,” Mike says bluntly.

“I think…” Ben sighs. He whips off his sunglasses because he wants to look into Mike’s eyes as he says this. As if by some unspoken agreement, Mike does the same. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Mike pauses, processing this. Ben’s eyes look so gorgeously blue and it’s killing him, but Ben’s words… they don’t really register. Or maybe they’re just not as shocking as they should be. Why is he not surprised? Did he know all along?

“Okay,” he says eventually. “Okay.”

“You’re not… shocked?”

“I think I am. But it’s taking a little while to process.”

“Well, it’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I just wanted you to know.”

Ben pats him gently on the hand.

Another silence.

Then Mike takes a deep breath. “I don’t know a lot about love,” he begins. “But… I think I know that when you feel it, you know. And that’s why I’m so confused right now – because I don’t know how I feel, Ben. I never do. I think somebody’s just my friend and then I think about it some more and realise that I think about them more than I should.”

“Okay…” Ben says slowly, glancing at Mike as he deciphers the singer’s words. The younger boy is so confused, it’s kind of adorable. His brow is furrowed and he’s pouting, gripping his curls as he tries desperately to make sense of his feelings. Ben understands. That’s exactly how he felt the first time he realised he had a crush on Mike. It happened a few years ago, but he remembers it well: all the confusion the doubt that came with it.  “It’s okay if you don’t know how you feel, Mike.”

“But I should, right?” Mike cries. “Love should be like a punch to my face.”

Ben chuckles. “Love is never simple. Sometimes it takes time. Feelings are weird, man.”

“Yup,” Mike groans.

“Just tell me what you’re thinking about,” Ben says. “Whatever it is.”

“I’m thinking… that I liked kissing you.”

“You did?”

“And I’m thinking about how sometimes you make me dizzy, but I always figured it was just an admiration thing. And how you make me happier than anyone else and how I want to spend all my time with you and how nothing’s fun when you’re not around. Like, this morning, when you’d disappeared… everything felt dull and pointless and wrong. Like the world had been coloured in grey. I feel like I need you in my life to stay sane, you know? You’re the one thing that makes sense, even when nothing makes sense.”

Ben nods, getting it. Somehow, their faces have become close again now - just like they were last night: inches apart. The whole world empty apart from them.

“And I’m thinking about how, as a fucking proud bisexual, I really should have seen this coming,” Mike exclaims, throwing his arms up into the air in exasperation, and the two of them laugh. Their giggles only die down when Mike loops his arms around Ben’s neck and lifts his legs across Ben’s lap so that their bodies are pressed together, so much warmth between them.

Mike lets his fingers graze the back of Ben’s neck. “I’m also thinking about how, in a few minutes, we should go for a walk along this canal and talk things through, maybe stop for a coffee in some nice café somewhere. We’ve got some time before sound check.”

“That sounds nice, Mike.”

“But I’m thinking that, first… we should try kissing again. Now that we’re both sober.”

“Yeah, good plan,” smiles Ben, and when they kiss, it feels even better than it did last night. Neither of them thought that would be possible, but they suppose this time it’s fuelled by something more than lust - this time, it’s fuelled by love, and the two of them are so overcome with it that they kiss slowly and carefully, knowing that all that matters is this moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” Mike murmurs between kisses, wanting Ben to know that despite all his messed-up feelings, he knows a number of things to be true: that Ben really is the most beautiful person, inside and out; that he makes Mike happier than anything else in the world; that he’s like all Mike’s favourite songs, mixed into one – an explosion of chaos and cacophonic noise, loud and all-consuming, gripping his heart and refusing to let him go. He knows that Ben is the best thing that ever happened to him, and he tells Ben exactly this, before kissing him with so much passion it confirms his words to be true. He feels so fucking lucky - to know Ben, and to be loved by him. It’s the nicest gift he’s ever been given.

And he knows that… well, he guesses he knows now just how stupidly, unbearably, irrevocably in love with Benjamin Thatcher he is. He always has been, and always will be.

***

Things are mostly the same after that, but also undeniably different. That night, they play a show, and audience members comment on how Royal Blood can’t seem to stop smiling, how they seem like they’re floating in air. And afterwards, Mike and Ben don’t feel the need to get drunk and go out, let alone make out in the back of a taxi. Instead, they talk things through and stay tangled up together in Ben’s bunk, fingers exploring skin which buzzes with electricity and their hearts bursting through their chests. Kissing here, they decide, is so much nicer.