#cross bearers

Chapter 1

His discharge medication arrived in a small white paper bag. Just an antibiotic, Tylenol and mild anesthetic cream. Too high risk they had said. Can't trust an addict like him with painkillers.

He had been so lucky to survive, even luckier to avoid jail time on account of his war record and the political machinations that made covering it up easier than the truth. You should be happy. You should be grateful, they had said. It was all the same, a series of ‘theys’ who never introduced themselves, telling him how he should feel as he hugged himself on the floor as the effects of the methadone rolled through him like the waves of a storm. But what right did he have to complain? He was a monster. The hospital priest offered a confession before he left but he just shook his head, giving no explanation other than the unshed tears that pricked his eyes.

Miles Miller sat in the front lobby of the Reno hospital waiting for the taxi that would let him depart and disappear into whatever godforsaken hole would take him.

His whole life was now reduced to the clothes on his back (courtesy of the priest's donation), a crucifix around his neck and a small white paper bag of meager offerings so his doctors could say they had tried to help when he turned up on the list of John Does. He felt too numb to feel any bitterness however, he just hoped that wherever Darlene was now she was happy. That could be his legacy before he disappeared.

His turmoil was obvious to the other people in the room who all gave him a wide berth, as though he was a black hole that would suck them inside if they got too close. All except one man. A man barely into middle age, dressed in the finest black coat, with hair and mustache finely stylised, no hair out of place, who dared to stare directly into the abyss in human form. He smiled.

“May I have this seat young man?” He sat down next to the slumped figure before he had a chance to respond.

Miles looked up briefly, just enough to take in that there was someone there before nodding and casting his eyes back down.

“If you don't mind me saying, you look very lost little lamb. Can a concerned stranger ask what is troubling that head of yours?” It took Miles a moment to realise the stranger had been talking to him, and another moment longer to process how blunt he was being.

“I-its nothing sir, b-but thank you for asking- I'll be fine.”

“Come, come now. This is a place of healing and here you are looking quite the opposite. It is obscene to see God's own country chew out its brave veterans who served her. Am I right?”

Miles shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. The man spoke with an easy confidence that never ended well in Miles' experience. People like this always wanted something from someone. The man thought the mention of his service would peak his interest, but he was nothing if not acutely observant, he saw the clench of his fist and changed tack with efficient ease.

His voice was suddenly quiet, comforting. “Its okay, you don't have to say anything. I could only imagine how difficult it is to be told you were doing the right thing and to give your life to it… only to realise they had lied to you.”

That caught his attention. Miles tilted his head and looked up at him. In his hunched position the man towered over him. Miles felt so small.

“...’aint just the army that does that.”

The man grinned like a predator cornering a baby rabbit who didn't have it's instincts yet to run. No one had smiled at what Miles had to say in so long he didn't see the vicious grin cloaked in sheep's clothing.

“Now that's wisdom that should be reserved for the old, not someone like you with their lives ahead of them.”

“‘Last part sure doesn't feel like it’s true…” remarked Miles miserably.

The man smacked his lips together in what Miles assumed was a lashing of concern, but the noise sounded more like a famished King about to dig into a delicious meal to his ears.

He asked simply, “And why is that?”

Miles slammed his mouth closed as every confession nearly came tumbling out of his mouth. He had already said more than he wanted. He figured he'd have to get used to people's intrusive questions with the injuries of his face still being raw and angry, but this man was digging deeper than just the scars that marked his skin.

“I-I'm sorry to be rude sir but I don't know you”, he said slowly, shoulders squared as if he expected retribution for his rudeness. But the man took it in stride.

“No, it is me who is sorry. Old habits die hard, I used to be a pastor back home you see. You get used to people wanting to tell you their stories. I fear I'm too gregarious for my own good!”

That piqued Miles' interest. If he hadn't been so uncomfortable he may have seen the stranger take note of his necklace.

“You were a pastor, sir? Where from?” he asked, trepidation giving way to his curiosity. The man's voice had felt exotic to Miles, he must have seen so much in his life.

“The where from doesn't matter, it is where I'm going to that does. Tell me, what denomination are you, son?” His voice dropped an octave at his new title, testing the waters for a response. The subtle shift in his jaw gave him his answer.

“C-catholic” he responded, a small smile decorating his boyish face. He liked talking about his religion, that much was obvious, even as he appeared nervous for what response it would garner. Not ideal, but workable. Manipulatable.

The man admonished himself for hedging his bets on the young man being a good WASP, but it was a setback easily overcome.

“Ah. You know I may have been a Pastor but I have a great respect for the Father Church, son”, the lie was bitter on his tongue but his charm soothed it over like honey. “I have studied so many of your best saints and theologians on my travels. Honestly in another life I would have been happy as a Priest I think.”

“I-I haven't read much theology… never really had the opportunity to be around any books that fancy”, he explained. Embarrassment stained his cheeks as he realised how well read the man was compared to him. Miles assumed he could even speak Latin.

The man's normal modus operandi would be to shower him with praise, the final machinations of his trap. Such a shame, a man with your intelligence deserves better, I can show you your potential. But the wringing of Miles’ hands and the quickening of his heart beat that thrummed like an ancient pagan war drum in his ears gave him an artist's inspiration. It had been so long since he met such an excellent candidate. He couldn't let him slip through his fingers.

“It is a pity but you don't need books to understand God's plan.” He sits up straighter then, forcing Miles to sit back to take him all in.

The man's voice took on a gravitas that Miles' recognised from Old Testament sermons, “... What I learnt was the great theologians have one thing in common, they see the things other people turn a blind eye to. The evil in the world, but also the good, the potential in small things that show you the greater whole. You understand?”

Miles didn't understand, but the conviction in his voice lulled him to believe everything he said. Here was a man of great faith and worldly and literary intelligence, and yet he wanted to talk to him. It made his palms sweat.

“I… I think so sir”, he answered, teeth worrying his lower lip. He was a terrible liar.

A stately hand rested on Miles' shoulder, its heat matched only by the warmth of the man's smile as he looked at him proudly. He could feel the hidden muscle under his fingers. “I thought you might. You are an excellent example, here - let me show you.”

The man suddenly reached forward, his hand coming towards his throat. Miles jerked back, pupils dilating instantly as the adrenaline flooded his system. He swallowed thickly, preparing his lungs for the inevitable grip around his throat, his hand shooting up to grab his assailant's elbow.

But the pain never came. Instead the man hooked his pointer finger into the chain of his necklace and tugged it, examining the tiny cross in his meaty palm like it was a lost relic being offered up to him in sacrifice. The pendant represented the last connection to Miles’ family, to his old self, the one that still believed in his ability to do good. Be good. And the former Pastor soothed the pendant in his thumb like it was the most precious object he had ever seen. The tenderness brought tears to his eyes, the same ones that had threatened to escape since he was first admitted.

“It looks old, a family heirloom I presume?”

He gulped, “it belonged to my Nana. S-She raised me after my parents died.” He didn't know why he told him that.

“I'm sorry for your loss, my son. She was obviously a great and faithful servant” hopefully like her grandson.

The cold chain dug into the back of Miles' neck like a leash but cooling the sweat that pricked his skin. Hot quick breaths filled the closing space between them as Miles looked at the man's steely, piercing gaze rather than the object of his interest. He felt like a moth pinned to waxpaper, happily accepting it's fate to be kept on display if it meant this stranger would keep seeing him as a butterfly.

The man's voice was considered, the facade of emotion choking him as he spoke, “It looks old, but it's obviously been well loved. The gold is worn slightly from where it's been cleaned so often. The chain is new but matches the pendant like it was carefully considered. It's simple but the metal is expensive. I imagine this was either a significant gift or she saved for a long time for it, especially with how little a woman of her generation got paid. She obviously loved it very much. As well as the person she gifted it to.”

He gently put the pendant back to it's home on Miles' sternum, giving it a gentle pat like he was saying goodbye to a beloved. It felt like the noose around his neck had finally loosened.

Miles' didn't move, he felt exhausted all of a sudden. Emotions long felt out of his reach came crashing back as he snuffled, “h-how did you do that?”

“I am on my way out east to Maine to open an antiques shop. Finding the hidden value in the most overlooked of places is my calling”, he inhaled deeply, mirroring how affected the young patient was. In reality, the thrill of the verbal chase was setting his nerves alight.

After a pregnant pause, the man continued, “Your simple necklace teaches me that I don't need books to have religion. The simple faith of a loving grandma to her ward is just as powerful. It tells me a simple act such as cleaning can be an act of love, but also can harm. But it's that very imperfection that makes it unique and beautiful.”

The intensity of the man's gaze would have scared Miles just moments earlier but now it captivated him. He so desperately wanted to learn how to see the world like he did.

“I… that was amazing, sir. But I-I don't understand, why don't you stay as a preacher then? Y-You're so good at it”

The man looked into the middle distance, eyes glazing over like he was under a spell. “You must forgive me but a man must keep some of his secrets. It is a difficult story I'm afraid and you are burdened enough.”

His heaviness of tone made Miles want to plead with him to continue, but he couldn't put his finger on why. He wanted this man to know all about him, every detail, and in turn he wanted to be worthy of knowing all about him too.

He worked up the courage but the man got there first. “I know it sounds superfluous, but I collect objects that other antique dealers neglect. I treasure them until they impart their lessons and then I honour their wisdom by passing them onto the next person who can give them a home…. I just hope it translates into a good business plan!”

The man laughed, giving permission for Miles to let out the breath he didn't realise he had been holding. “I think you'll be amazing sir.”

“Ha! I hope so too. Pray for me that I find a dependable assistant when I'm there who can see my vision like I do. I shall need it, I think.” Straker looked at Miles out of the corner of his eyes to see if he had taken the bait.

“-Taxi for Mr Miller!”

The voice of the cab driver echoed through the reception, the shout signalling the end of their acquaintance and the start of whatever life still awaited for Miles. It was like a bucket of arctic water had been thrown over him. Miles' could feel the sob play at his vocal chords in staccato rhythm, “I g-guess this is me Mr Stracker.” The finality hit him hard.

“I guess so, Mr…?

“Oh, Miles. Miles Miller”. He gave out his shaking hand.

He took it in his hand and gave it a firm shake, his touch lingering a second longer, “Richard Straker. It has been my pleasure.”

But Miles didn't get up to move. His shoes were filled with led, the magnetic presence of Mr Straker pulling him free of every other physical force in the universe and holding him within his orbit.

“-is there a Mr Miller here?” The cabbie sounded irritated now. He started to turn to leave, the annoyance of losing a job evident on his face.

“Just give us a moment, he will come to you when I am ready!” called Straker, voice booming like a thunder clap. It was the closest thing to anger he had heard from him, the act of possession sounding like protection to Miles. But he couldn't protect him, not from what was on the other end of that taxi.

Watching the taxi driver leave to stand outside, cursing the whole way, Straker readjusted his kindly mask. Once settled in place, he took Miles' shoulders into his hands, encasing him from the outside world until it was only him, away from the gaze of the startled onlookers, his back turned to the door like he could keep the encroaching future at bay. He did not know if this would work but Richard Straker always trusted his intuition.

“May I leave you with one final piece of advice before we part?”

Miles nodded, a tight thrust, not trusting his voice to speak.

“If I have… misread, then put this from your mind. But I have told you my story because I believe there is a special place for men who tread lightly upon this earth. People try to be great and burn everything in their path to get what they want…” his mouth twitched a grin before he regained control, “but it is the meek who shall inherit. There is a glory to being how God made you, for he does not judge who you truly are. You cannot be evil in following your nature. Even if there are certain… predispositions that the rest of the world does not yet understand, what you know in your heart.”

Miles' eyes went wide, mouth forming a lose ‘o’ as his skin paled. He… he couldn't know could he? He had spent his life hiding that part of him away. How could a stranger, a preacher no less, see through every defense in just a few minutes?

“I… d-don't know what you m-mean”, he stuttered. His inner voice screamed at him to tell him, to confess, to take that chance before he disappeared and finally experience something approaching acceptance. But he couldn't do it. This had been his first happy memory in months and he could not risk tarnishing it.

Mr Straker just looked at him, casually amused like one would look at an innocent babe. He patted his cheek before rising.

“Then do not think anymore of it. I wish you well young man, go with God.” He then bowed his head and left, shoulder knocking the cabbie on his way out, leaving his companion looking even more destitute than he had found him.

It started as a bubbling in his chest. Then an eruption in his throat as a manic laughter echoed into Straker's car like the climax of a grand opera. It drowned out the deluge of rain that appeared from nowhere in the normally barren Nevada air. Oh he had been glorious. The boy had been a muse sent from the greatest of Greek tragedies and delivered right to him. He knew a rehab centre would make for an excellent hunting ground, but this had been too easy even by his standard.

Now all he had to do was wait. He closed his eyes, a smug look of satisfaction dancing over his features. He hadn't even needed to put the man under his thrall. Build the gallows and let the boy come and hang himself.

He started to count down… 10…9…8…7…6…5…4…

The knock on his window came even earlier than expected. Miles looked drenched, his pounding on the car window rung out with a frantic desperation as if the hounds of hell themselves were at his feet. Little did he know he was pounding on those very doors.

Straker waited an extra moment before lowering the window.

“Um, Mr Straker I-I was just wondering.. that assistant position… I… is it available? I know this is presumptuous of me but you're right… I'm desperate. I'm not afraid of hard work, I'll do whatever you need, work any hour just…. Please, I have nowhere else to go.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

He heard the click of the car lock before he saw the beaming smile of his new boss welcoming him home.

Within an instant he ran to the back door of the car.

“Miles!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Assistants get to sit in the front, my boy.”

If he had sat in the back, maybe he would have seen the still drying blood under the seat.

Chapter 2

Time is a flat circle. He knew that now.

You can do everything you were supposed to do, escape the clutches of small town America, go to college, get married, write a book, buy a house, write another book, live in complete domestic bliss. You can even do the things you weren't supposed to do, learn to ride a motorbike, watch as your wife, succumbed to her injuries, bury her, sleep with your biggest book critic, get drunk at one too many parties, sleep with your editor, and throw your typewriter through a hotel window, accidentally landing on said editors car.

But in the end you'll always do the one thing you swore you'd never do. Come back to Jerusalem's fucking Lot.

And why the hell not? If his future lay dead and buried under a head stone simply titled ‘Miranda Mears: Beloved’, the last callous irony of an author whose writer's block wouldn't even give him the reprise to compose an epitaph, then why not return to the past.

They say you can never go back, but you can visit. If that was true then he was going to become the longest staying, unwanted house guest in Maine history.

Driving into the Lot for the first time in over a decade had felt like an act of surrender. He fled the hustle and bustle of New York life, his friends, and the paparazzi, vultures desperate to catch a whiff of where his self-destruction would lead him next, all the while he tried to hide the grief that now controlled his every waking thought and dream. But despite his best attempts, everyone could see through the window to his heart, that gaping hole in his chest blown wide open, that granted a free peep show to the wreckage within him to everyone morbid enough to look. He sure did miss the Mets though.

His new editor, not the one he had a drunken one night with, nor the one he had the sober two night stand with, had recommended he get away, take a break, work through ‘whatever this is’. He had scoffed at first, scoffed slightly less at the proposition he got paid in advance for giving what a small portion of the public cared about, a look into the tortured writer's psyche.

The problem was he didn't feel tortured. Tortured implied conflict, like the Byronic hero of one of his novels. But that wasn't him, to him it was all very simple. A man got drunk and drove through a stoplight. His wife was dead. He should be. He had writer's block. The ghost sighting of a murderer haunted his entire adult life. And now he had to figure out how to spend the rest of his days.

Much to his editor's chagrin, he knew what he preferred to write about.

So here he was. In his childhood hometown, where his grandparents had first made their home, where his father had died and his mother had her final breakdown. And now he would be the next, and last, in line. He had told Miranda he wasn't ready for kids. He didn't know if he regretted that decision now or not.

He had pulled up to the Marsten House, one of the two totemic incidents of his childhood still standing, decrepit, hollow, its previous charm now appearing impotent in the modern age. You and me both, pal. The writer had stared at the window, eyes strained against the sun that rose behind it, its majesty eclipsed by the gothic wooden mansion on the hill, imposing what was left of its presence on the town below. It would be too easy to see the ghost of Hubie Marsten just like that, but even in the thick, dust covered glass he saw what he thought was a shadow flicker and disappear.

The sold sign outside the gate put a halt to his plans to stay there and investigate. He asked around town, reacquainting himself to long forgotten surnames from his childhood, and learnt it had been sold to a Richard Straker on behalf of his business partner, the illusive Kurt Barlow. He had gone to see Mr Straker at his antiques store and had been, thoroughly, and completely, unimpressed.

He had met people like Straker before, too many Straker's littered the publishing industry, blowing smoke up his arse and waiting in eager anticipation for him to say thank you sir, may I have another. Straker had said he was sorry to hear of his wife's passing but Ben shut him down before her name had ever rolled off his poisoned tongue. He had tried to be subtle, and then direct, but Straker gave nothing away as to why they had chosen the Marsten House of all places to stay. Nor why you would open an antiques store in the middle of nowhere. He left without a goodbye.

With his interest piqued, the mystery of the Marsten House finally started to cleave his mind away from the ever present thoughts of Miranda. He threw himself into town life, spending long days at the library going through old newspapers, interviewing locals old enough to remember the Marsten murders and sitting in the coffee shop drinking weak black coffee until Mrs Hubbard shooed him out to close up. Now it was only when he was at his most carefree he would see the body of his wife in the corner of the eye, never longer than the blink it took to wash the image away.

Against all of his prejudices Ben Mears had started to enjoy being in Salem's Lot again. Maybe even for the first time. The people were folksy, some of them kind, some of them close minded, the gossip of how smutty his books were giving him an easy sign of which group that individual belonged to as they gave him a dirty side eye. However, without exception, they were all interesting, the small glimpses that gave way to what went on behind their closed doors was only ever a moment away. It graced his writer's curiosity with the allure that enticed him away from his desire to shut himself away with his grief. He was no longer content to stare at his dusty typewriter and let time pass until it could finally catch up to him. The writer wanted to be out in the daily grind of small town America to catch these small moments of life. Maybe, even after the book was written, he could be part of the community. Either way, they all provided excellent material for a future fiction book he thought he would never be able to write again.

His mood now lighter than it ever had been since his wife had passed, he went for drinks with Matt, a local teacher and now friend and confidante to discuss his findings. It was from him he learned about the Straker assistant, the one who manned the shop most days. Well now, Straker had never deigned to mention an assistant. Ben sat forward, drinking in every detail of his new lead.

He was a tall but unassuming figure, least when he stood in profile, never a hair out of place, uniform never creased. He looked to Matt like a character from a children's comic, a boy playing a man whose underpaid artist never bothered to draw more than the same couple of outfits. Matt talked of him fondly, of what little he could truly say of him. So Ben took it upon himself to enquire around town, no one able to give more than a fact or two (if they even were facts) before they would shrug and dismiss him, lest it be too easy for the gossip to make its way back to the source.

From what he could piece together, this Miles Miller was as elusive as a fae. He wondered if he had crossed paths with him and had simply never noticed, as if physics itself converged around him to keep him in whatever in-between state he inhabited.

He did the errands for Mr Straker beyond a normal shop assistant’s job description, that much the town agreed on, but they couldn't say how often he ventured outside. The young man always seemed to be on call but treated everyone with a gentleness of spirit like he never felt put out by his lowly job. If anything he had a disciple's devotion to the man and the same devotion to anyone who aided the task of the day.

He did random acts of service for various people in town but with such a lightness of touch and meekness of manner they required heavy prompting to remember it at all. He didn't talk much when in public, always polite but softly spoken like if he spoke too loudly someone would realise he was there and the spell would be broken. That is unless you were one of the few residents who had visited the antique store, then he was as professional and attentive as any worker could be, speaking confidently about any manner of topic and working tirelessly to get a sale. These were the people Ben could get to speak of the assistant the most.

However despite his best efforts to tease a loose tongue into action, no one in the whole town was able to comment on his life before the Lot. Not a soul could place his lilting accent or say where the scars on his face had come from, although nearly all had at least hinted of it. He had collected theories ranging from the fanciful to the cruel, and yet despite the mystery that surrounded him, no one seemed particularly interested to learn anything further. He was, after all, still an outsider.

He explained all of this to Matt over dinner, his friend gently amused as Ben talked about the young assistant as though he lay at the centre of the zodiac mystery or Jack the Ripper, rather than a poor real estate decision. He rolled his eyes, a muttered “writers” spoken under his breath before he advised that if he wanted to catch his white whale, all he had to do was visit the shop on most days of the week or the Catholic Church in the early mornings or evenings where he spent an unbefitting amount of time for anyone not with a body count.

Ben had just laughed, throwing his usual generous tip on the plate before bidding a hasty goodbye. He had a shopping trip to plan.

It was 9:45am and here was Ben Mears acclaimed(ish) author, loitering outside a dead end business, waiting for it to open like an alcoholic outside the earliest opening bar, shaking with anticipation for what was inside. If anyone asks, I just -really- love antiques.

He stood outside the bus stop, the shelter giving him enough distance from the store to jump into the nearest hedge if Mr Straker decided to turn up. He didn't think he could look at that sickly sweet smile again.

10:05 and no signs of life. So much for the dutiful assistant.

10:15 and the bus stopped to open the doors for him. He waved it away, the driver looked perplexed but relented. It was the only bus for the next two hours.

10:25 and he had had just about enough.

Ben crossed the road towards the shop and stood near the window as if browsing the small trinkets on the ledge. He bent over, covering what he could of his face with the display and turned his gaze between the cracks. And there he was. For fucks sake he must have been here well before opening time.

The store was dimly lit, the gentle orange hue of the wall fixtures and the single overhead light bathed the room in a gentle autumnal glow. What light there was from the window was swallowed by the shadows of shelves laden with innumerable antiques, books and curiosities, as they cast their penumbra over the displays until the silhouettes created an interlaced cross cross pattern of darkness. The only thing he could make out clearly was the tall figure of a man, much younger in years than the charlatan he had met days before.

Ben willed his body to enter and yet he remained almost still, the slight duck of his head to remain hidden, the only sign of movement. The man looked… At home in the shop, as though he had been designed by the same architect to take up residence in this shop only, his marmalade coloured cardigan matching the ambience of the room and honeyed brunette hair that was of a piece with the varnished furnishings. Ben could see every movement as the light enveloped him, and him alone, like a dancer on the stage. He thought if he dared walk out of his tiny spotlight, the glow that caressed his relaxed features would follow him, as if it radiated from somewhere deep within. Matt had been right, he did look like a being that could only exist on paper, but not on the dailys, something that belonged in The Met…

He shook his head and clicked him tongue to himself. Ben always did this. He fell hard and fast multiple times a week… Didn't he? That's what the papers had said anyway. To him it felt like the only way to exist, to be a writer, had been to see the capacity for connection and beauty everywhere, or at least it had been until the accident. After that, the sexual had quickly replaced the platonic as he grasped for whatever hand would hold his while he drowned under the weight of his grief.

Even Miranda had joked that if he didn't work from home he would have professed his undying devotion to five different people by the time he walked into his office each day. However, it was that big hearted, open affection that always got him into trouble, but it was also one of the reasons she had yes to their first date. Maybe she really did know him better than he knew himself.

He had offered her hurried assurances at the time that he would be faithful, and he had been, both emotionally and physically. But she had just looked at him with that knowing smile she did when he was rambling, and without an ounce of worry she told him she never doubted it. Not that it ever stopped her teasing. Nor did it stop some innocent looking once in a while.

A memory grazed over his mind, just floating along the edges, long forgotten in the collage of their relationship. He remembered how she nudged him when a particularly handsome actor had gushed at a party about how much he loved his book. Alcohol stained her breath as she put her lips to his ear, “he was easy on the eye wasn't he?”

He wondered if she had known he liked men as well as women or if it was just the drink talking. He wished he had been braver and asked.

But melancholy was an old friend by now and the image of Miranda watching him hide behind a window display while he admired a shop attendant brought a kind of quiet comfort. Dear god she would have been impossible.

The assistant now moved gracefully behind his place at the counter as he went through his ritual, pulling down ledgers, taking stock and performing seemingly complex sums with just mental arithmetic and the slow movement of his slim lips as he talked himself through it. Ben rolled his eyes to no one but himself. At least he could still feel that long dormant emotion again. But he wasn't one of his tortured Byronic heroes, so he didn't need to worry which emotion it was.

Ben opened the door, the bell immediately signalling his arrival to the young man who instantly stood up straight like a soldier reporting to duty. His demeanor changed with him as the relaxed reverie was replaced with an easy, homely yet professional charm. He looked almost grateful to have had his peace trampled on.

“G-Good morning, sir. Welcome to Barlow and Straker's Antique store, please let me know if there's anything I can help you with.” The assistant's voice was deeper than he had imagined, a soothing timber entwining with a still youthful twang like he had not yet grown into it.

Ben smiled at him, casual and light as he approached the counter, doing his absolute utmost not to stare at his scars. “You can actually… although tell me is it Straker or Barlow today?”

The man looked confused before softly giggling, whether polite or genuine Ben couldn't tell. “N-Neither. It's Miles Miller, sir. Pleased to meet your ac-cquaintance”, he said with a quick bow to the head.

Ben took his hand from his jean pockets, his shirt sleeve rolled up to the elbow, and with a honed informality from many a book signing, extended his hand,“you too, Miles. Ben Mears.”

Not expecting the courtesy, he stayed to attention before noticing the offering, “Oh!” A quick shake. “You're the w-writer everyone has been talking about.”

“For my sins”, he smirked. Hands raised in mock defence, he added: "Didn't realise I was the talk of the town.”

Chastened by how quickly he had offended his first customer of the day he gapped like a fish washed up on land wondering how he ever got there.“O-O-Oh n-no- I didn't mean to imply -”

“Don't worry, I know”, a hand raised in a placating gesture, Ben's smile unchanging. “Promise my books are nowhere near as pornographic as everyone in town thinks they are.”

“Oh no, I haven't heard anything like that.”

Ben just gave him a look, eyes piercing through half closed lids, that somehow still twinkled with a mischief that welcomed him into the teasing. It was a double edged sword of which Miles was unsure which side he was on.

The assistant blushed, patchy rosé hues dotting his neck and apple round cheeks until they soaked into the tips of his ears like someone had just thrown wine over him. “O-okay maybe something like that”, he saw the widening smile of the writer and relaxed, returning it gratefully. “If it's any consolation we get complaints about our books written hundreds of years ago.”

No one in town had ever mentioned how easily the assistant blushed, Ben thought. A tiny part of him hoped it was just him. Still got it.

“‘Appreciate the honesty but to tell you the truth Miles, when you're a writer you're just glad to be talked about at all! They have to buy the book if they wanna burn it.”

Now that laugh sounded genuine to Ben's ears. Miles thought it was no wonder people lined up just to meet him for a fleeting moment. Ben thought he would like to try and hear that sound again, to learn the difference between that perfect servant’s laugh and the flesh and blood man's underneath.

In truth Miles had never heard a writer be so self-deprecating, and he had met a few at the El Royale, normally in the middle of their book tours or looking for a retreat for their writers block. They were, in his experience, some of his hardest customers. Always wanting a new room because the lighting was wrong, always complaining that other people were daring to make noise in their presence… always doing something management wanted him to film. He used to love reading but stopped when he started to record the faces he recognised on the back of book covers. The authors that had given him so much comfort on lonely nights in his tiny bunk. It always made his job so much harder.

Ben drummed a small tune lightly on the desk that separated them with his fists. He paused for a moment, looking out the window for any would-be customers, before he leaned imperceptibly closer, the motion drawing the clerk into his confidence. Miles felt himself taking the bait, his elbows coming up to lean on the desk before remembering the manners his Nana had taught him.

“I have to admit I came in planning to butter you up because I'm going to be your most awkward customer for the day.” Ben gave him his winningest mile, the same one he used for his Variety profile. “Is it working or do I need to keep going? If it's not, I have a lot of opinions on how well you’ve spruced up the place, but I warn you, writers are notorious brown nosers.” Miles didn't know what that meant and he didn't want to know, but his customer’s honesty and humour kept his professional curiosity at the forefront.

“Mr Straker said awkward is just another word for someone who needed help but didn't know what for yet.” He beamed, teeth shining like the chain around his neck, reciting his boss like it was holy scripture. Jeez kid, what hold does he have on you?

“Well I hope you like a challenge then.” Ben threw himself into his pre-written spiel, elbows resting on the desk as he restarted his tune with his fists, “So my family is from the ‘Lot and when my mother passed I was living in New York so gave their stuff to the county to sell. I… wasn't in the headspace to deal with it at the time, but… well, it's been a while now and I've been trying to find where some of it went. Was told your bosses may have brought some of the stuff that got put into storage?”

 Ben could see the clogs in Miles' head turn with a quick and honed efficiency, shifting in his mind every item in the shop for what he could be looking for, faster than any computer in the town library. His eyes glittered with an excitement that shot a spark of envy over the widow. An envy that was as unfair as it was hypocritical. 

 The truth of his purpose was a lie wrapped in enough history and just enough genuine remorse that he could pull it off. He certainly wouldn't have said no if Miles did find something of his past, but what he really wanted was to keep him talking long enough that he slipped up. And if his research told him one thing, it was only a slip of the tongue that would get him to talk ill of his master.

 “I-I think we have a few things from the town down in the basement that we haven't itemized yet. I would be more than happy to get them for you to have a look at if-if you don't mind waitin’?” Miles looked like all his birthdays had come at once.

 Well, this was going better than expected. Ben stood straight, “That would be great”. A pause for effect, “if it's no bother that is.”

 However, Miles was already around the counter before he could finish. “No bother at all sir, it's what I'm here for.” He had wanted to say it would be his pleasure, no, his honour to reunite someone with something so precious, that it was special to see someone who appreciated his family like that, and a celebrity no less. He seemed so unlike the others, so much kinder. But Mr Straker had admonished him for his overzealous eagerness to please, told him it made him reek of desperation with a cold sneer that transformed the kindly man's entire demeanour. Miles had been crestfallen, so his boss took pity and gently lay a hand on his shoulder, assured him it was normal for a once and always addict such as him (as he was often reminded) to misstep, but he would be there to correct him. To help him. You see, it was ill form to discuss your good deeds, better to work quietly in the darkness.

 It was in his readiness to instruct and guide him that enabled Miles to find his way out of the darkness. There was nothing he wouldn't do for him. And he knew how that would sound to anyone else, but that deep seated trust had been earned by Mr Straker, he was sure of it, because he was a good man. Maybe, one of the best. And he would never ask Miles to do something that wasn't right and betray that trust.

 But Ben was not Mr Straker. As soon as Miles was out of sight and walking down to the basement, Ben was behind that counter like it held the darkest of state secrets. Miles had left the ledger open on the counter, each sale was listed with price and customer in fine and precise handwriting. None of the items jumped out at him as suspicious, but the infrequency of business had stood out. If the books contained premium purchases he could understand how they stayed in business, but to his admittedly limited knowledge, they look like they had been undersold. He looked under the desk but all he found was a cold cup of tea and a flapjack in a Tupperware box. 

He could hear Miles moving boxes under his feet, so he walked gently in case the floorboards creaked under him lest it gave him away. You're getting paranoid Ben…

 The author then performed a quick sweep across the room, looking at the items for sale across the many different mantelpieces and display tables. They had all been cleaned to perfection, barely a quantum of dust settled over any piece, even the ones in the dark corners of the shop. He didn't know what he hoped to find but the only object that appeared out of place was a large book, leather bound and worn at the spine, that leaned out as if recently removed. Ben checked to listen if Miles was on his way back but when he heard the shuffling of boxes, he slowly eased it from the bookcase.

 The book cover simply held the words ‘Accounts of Wizardy in Pagan Europe’ by a Fr Graham Hudson. The pages split at a few choice edges, so he gently teased them open and… oh.

 On the pages contained black and white drawings of men. Naked men. Dancing around a fire as they summoned the demon from the depths of hell. Ben flipped through it again. A small smudge the size of a thumb print now decorated the yellowing pages as the paper hosted the figure of two men in ‘coitus’ as the book put it, warning against the deceptions of satan as it showed a naked devil behind them urging them on. 

 Ben heard the sudden shuffle of steps and hard gulp that punctuated their sudden stop. He turned, book still in hand. Miles looked horrified, his face freezing like a fawn in the headlights. Ben kept his face neutral like he'd just been discovered browsing a Sears catalogue.

“Uh-um, just a couple more b-boxes, sir. I-I'll be right back.” And like that he put the boxes on the floor and ran back downstairs, loud thumps threatening the integrity of the rotting staircase.

 Ben almost let the moment pass, as though if he kept mum the revelation of the timid clerk would be forever enclosed within this store that safely housed a multitude of other secrets from history.

 But when the poor man was out of ear shot Ben finally let his stunned amusement bubble up and punch its way from his lungs. Oh Miles, you dark horse. 

 He put the book back into its place and lifted the boxes of antiquities that had been all but thrown to the floor onto the counter. Ben had almost forgotten his original purpose of collecting information on the Marsten House in the thrill of this one singular man. But maybe he could kill two birds with one stone? Miles had given him his precious glimpses of the man beneath his work cardigan so readily, more so than any tale of him ever had, his shy smile that tugged his lips against his professional training, the twinkle in his eye when he made a joke like he wasn't sure if he was allowed, and then the glee when he had heard Ben’s request. He had lapped up the opportunity to help him. Maybe it was more than professional courtesy?

 …. What in hell was he thinking? Miles had been nothing but the perfect gentleman, and here he was about to plot his seduction all for a book idea. Had this novel truly meant that much to him?

 Disgusted, he admitted to the jurors in his mind that yes, it had. His subconscious had turned the book into his lifeline. But that didn't excuse it. Miles had been so mortified at the potential of being found out, and why shouldn't he be, Ben was a stranger. Miles had no way of knowing he was the same. 

 Ben had once been the young man in the small town, unsure why he was feeling urges that the preacher warned against with a growing fervour as moral panic broke out across the country. Just once as a teenager he had taken that leap, however small a step it seemed, and squeezed the wrist of his childhood best friend, with his cute blonde curls and thick veined hands, as they sat together studying. His friend hadn't even reacted but that hadn't stopped Ben tossing and turning every night for a week after. 

 Only the death of his wife pushed him to throw caution to the wind as he finally reached inwards to make peace with the side of himself that had been his constant, distorted shadow. He had felt like Peter Pan, the boy who had spent too long in denial but had finally managed to sew his own double back to make himself whole again and ready for his future. He wondered if Miles had struggled like he had.

 Suddenly ashamed with this whole venture, he let out a deep sigh, clawing his fingers through his long hair. He wanted to leave, the shadows in the room were enclosing in on him with accusatory fingers, tendrils of darkness dancing in his vision. Ben heard the telltale footsteps coming up the stairs, slower this time.

 Ben went to the gaping mouth of the stairs, to see the limbs of Miles carrying three boxes stacked high as he ascended back to ground level. Not realising he was being observed he hadn't remembered to hide his limp.

 “Here let me help you with that.”

 “I-Im okay, sir” came the voice from the boxes, “just- Ooph.” 

 The boxes clattered as they were forced back into Miles’ chest. He braced himself for a deluge of small explosions as he lost his grip on the top of the pile, its contents about to spill- Miles' breath hitched. He feared the place loud noises could drag him too. 

 But there was silence. He swayed, the panic not yet releasing him from its clutches. Sturdy, thick forearms encircled his bounty and bracketed his own. Just holding, the hairs bristling against his own after he had rolled his sleeves up to rummage through the basement. If he hadn't been composing himself he would have seen the person whose arms they belonged to, staring at the track marks that lined his skin, cruel remnants of a past unforgotten. 

 Ben's heart sank into his chest, but he quickly averted his gaze back and took the top two boxes from the tower. 

 He sounded solemn, uncertainty now entwining itself with guilt, weighing his voice down, “Here let me get that.” He gave him a quick tight lipped smile, hoping to god that Miles inferred his meaning. We're good, pal, you're safe with me.

 Ben took the boxes to the counter giving Miles time to collect himself and follow. The shop assistant returned to his home by the counter, his hair was frayed now at the nape, his curl slicked back from where he had run his hand through it in the safety of the store room as his heart raced in shame. He hastily pushed his arms down below the desk and slipped the long sleeves back down, his eyes scanning Ben's to check for any signs he had spotted his mistake. Mr Straker would be so disappointed if he could see him now.

 His prayers answered, Ben remained focused on the boxes before him, delicately picking up candlesticks, old clocks and ceramic plates with the same tenderness that Miles showed these tiny treasures. His breathing finally started to slow down.

 “Wow, Miles - got loads of stuff here. And this is all from the Lot?”

 Miles wrestled his quivering voice into submission, closing the ledger absentmindedly to keep his hands busy. “Y-yessir, mostly from p-people who have departed and a few trinkets people have pawned off h-here.”

 “Thank you for grabbing all this, you don't get service like this back in New York,” he shook his head in disbelief.

 Tension slowly easing from his shoulders as he slipped back into his work like the comfiest jumper. Miles smiled proudly, however the resonance of his anxiety still vibrated along the lines of his lips. “Mr S-Straker said if it falls to your lot to be a street sweeper then sweep like Michaelangelo so all the judges of earth and heaven will say you s-swept well.”

 Ben's brow furrowed, “Then let me say you sweep with the best of them… but, didn't Martin Luther King say that?”

 “O-oh did he?” A heaviness fell over Miles, but why Ben couldn't say. “Guess… he must have read it.”

So Mr Straker is a plagarist. And not even a very good one. Knew I hated him.

 Ben didn't know how to respond without creating suspicion so he went to work going through the boxes while Miles helped, examining each item before offering it up for appraisal. They continued like this in easy company, conversation finally light and breezy as Ben recognised a couple of vases from an elderly neighbour, and Miles told him the history of a turn of the century vessel flute. When the conversation wasn't on the boxes contents Miles seemed happy to listen, attentive to Ben's rambling stories of his memories of Jerusalem's Lot, asking pertinent questions and gently huffing a mellow laugh from his nose like a full body one would break this peace they had created for themselves. Or I'm just not as funny as I think I am…

 Finally when they were down to the last box, Ben rummaged to the bottom of the carboard and pulled out an old Rolex. Mesmerized, he held it up to the light.

 “I…. I think we've actually found something Miles”, he said in utter disbelief.

 The shop assistant bounced on his heels. “Oh really? Can I see?” 

 Ben took a moment. Here it actually was. The Rolex that his dad bought himself when he first got made partner at the law firm. Even at just seven years old Ben could remember how truly happy he was, twirling his mother like a Disney princess in the ballroom of their kitchen as the joy cascaded from her and showered him underneath as he reached out to try and grab the hem of her dress. The Rolex had framed his father's wrist from that day forth. In his innocence he had wondered if his father had slept and showered in it. It captivated Ben. He always stood straighter with it on, often rolling his sleeve down to show it off to anyone richer than him as they walked past, like it had magical powers to draw people in. His Dad had once told him that a watch like that opened doors, including to people's hearts. At the age of nine and a half, Ben's first short story had been about a boy with a magical watch that opened a door to Atlantis. His dad had not been alive to read it.

And now at thirty two years old he finally received his promised eighteenth birthday present.

 Ben swallowed, he was not a tortured soul, and not tortured souls give their dad's watch willingly to a shop clerk without making a thing out of it. He hadn't even noticed Miles putting the latex gloves on.

 Miles seemed to instinctively understand the importance of the jewellery before him, handling it in his gloves with the lightest touch, as though every touch point was an act of violation to be minimised.

 “Looks like it's a Bubbleback from the oyster line… must be early 30s…”

 “Yeah, Dad said it was pre-war” remembered Ben, still trying his utmost to keep his voice steady, arms now crossed under his chest as he sat on the corner of the counter. 

 Miles’ eyes twitched to where his customer was now perched but he said nothing. He just nodded and started to wind the mechanism, “I-I think it's actually still working. It must have been very well looked after.”

 Ben twisted to try and see what Miles did.

 “For it's age even the strap isn't bad. Presume your dad didn't work in manual labour?” asked Miles. He sounded like he was in the middle of a daydream. 

 “Yeah, lawyer. How'd you know?”

  “Here”, he pointed to the end of the strap. “This always gets caught against things but the s-stitches are barely frayed. The dial has a bit of sun damage too but nothing like you'd expect if he worked outside.”

 “Nice party trick, but you don't need to convince me to buy it”, Ben chuckled, hand outstretched for its return. But Miles kept it clutched to him. He looked… Disappointed? He tucked his face into his shoulder, covering the scars that littered his left side from sight.

 Ben could barely hear the mumbled response, “S’not a party trick…”

 Swallowing his words, Ben didn't respond, his mind was too busy working overtime to figure out why his words had cut so deep. Way to go writer…

 Before he could apologise Miles continued, louder now, trying to regain his composure to pave over the crack in his professionalism. “This is how we appraise items here, we look for the personal history not just the official one. Like here”, he stood closer to Ben, watch now within arms reach, “it's o-obvious your father was a bigger man by the wear in this adjustment hole, but there's use in a couple of smaller ones so he either gained or lost a lot of weight for it to effect the wrist”. Ben didn't have the heart to tell him it was the cancer. Miles plowed on, “It's been polished a few times so he clearly loved it. And here, do you know what this means?”

 The watch was turned upside down and offered up to Ben who enveloped the dial in his broad palm. Engraved in the silver case was the date ‘5.3.1942’. he caressed it with his thumb.

 “It's uh… um”, he was going to lie and say it was his parents' wedding anniversary. He wasn't sure why it was so difficult to let Miles in on something so small, but he needed to make amends, even if Miles didn't know he had been wronged. “It's… my birthday.”

 And once again, Ben was met with that easy understanding that made space for him and all of his constipated emotions, present but not pushing, as Miles removed the gloves and turned his back to put them away.

 Once composed, Ben broke the gifted silence, “okay, so definitely not a party trick.”

 Miles blushed, pride pricking at only his crows feet, suppressed like his self-satisfaction was his most shameful secret. “You're just saying that… I'm.. I'm nowhere near as good as Mr Straker.”

 Ben saw the opportunity to discuss his superior, but let it slip through his fingers, “Well for what it's worth, I'm impressed.” Ben took the Rolex and put it on his left wrist, weaving the prong through the last hole his father had used, testing out the weight. Miles leaned in, watching the quiet moment, the joy in performing his job well burst in his chest building to an almost painful crush. 

 “That's…. I-It's worth a lot.”

 Ben cautiously lifted his eyes at him, expecting to see him standing tall like the dutiful servant again, but instead he was face to face with those wide eyes and plump cheeks. In his eagerness to gaze upon the watch's return home Miles had leaned forward until his forehead was almost crawling its way under the writer's chin to burrow a new hiding place for itself.

 “Give this service to everyone, Mr Miller?” the sound travelling on the thinnest of air.

 The other man looked up, pupils dilating just a fraction but not moving, as though if he kept very still the bird of prey hovering over him wouldn't see him amongst the weeds. “I…. It's what we d-do here. W-we collect things that the world has left b-behind and we look after them until they f-find their home…”

 Their breath mixed together in the tiny bubble of air between them, hot and wet as it caressed upon both of their lips. Ben could smell him now, the scent of sandalwood, incense and just a hint of damp filled his senses. It was intoxicating. Miles breathed in whisky and coffee. Could taste it too.

 “There's no pricetag… you could ask for anything you want for this.” He tried to tease but it came out as a long exhale. So much for trying to be his friend. However there was no undercurrent of manipulation now, as truly terrible an idea he knew this was, he couldn't help but succumb to the enigmatic Fae’s magnetic pull, as elemental as two atoms giving into the laws of the universe and colliding. 

 And to his surprise the shop assistant bit his bottom lip like it was the last line of defence from whatever he wanted to say. “I..I could over charge you..”

 Ben hissed out the gentlest of laughs. Was he so oblivious to his flirting or was this all the poor man could do? Either he wasn't as affected as Ben was or he had felt it too and it had broken him. Fondness warmed the tips of his ears. 

 “No, I don't think you have it in you.”

 He just stared at him then, daring the younger man to tip his hand, but he kept it clasped safely to his chest. “A-and why's that?”

 He hummed, pretending to ponder the question, “because you undersell everyone else, so why not me?”

 Ben knew his mistake as soon as it had passed through his lips. He sucked a breath, pointlessly trying to inhale the words back inside his throat. As instantaneous as their connection had been, just like that it was now brutally snapped apart. Ben could feel the cold air return to his face as the lips that had captured his singular focus parted…and moved away. He sensed the change in atmosphere even before he saw the anger flash across Miles’ face. It hadn't occurred to him that anger was in his emotional repertoire.

 “How… What do you mean? H-how do you know what we charge? Nothin’ here has the price on… You've not been here before…”

 Ben floundered, “I was just teasing Miles…” But his eyes betrayed him, the single flicker to the ledger bringing the game to a sudden, screeching halt.

 “You… You looked at our b-books?” Miles stepped back like Ben was infectious, piecing together every interaction, every smile, every compliment that wormed its way into his confidence. He looked confused. He looked mortified.

 “I don't understand, s-sir”, the accusation left unsaid. Miles' had learned to handle a lot of things in his life, but anger wasn't one of them.

 Shame coloured his brow, confirming all of Miles' fears. “Please, Miles - it's Ben, you shouldn't have to call me sir-”

 “No, I don't t-think I will, sir”, Miles drawled. Miles' fists clenched, knuckles white. Miles had sworn he would never be manipulated again-

  “Please, let me explain-”

 The shriek of the door bell snapped Miles’ head to the entrance. Ben followed slower a beat later, taking in the bite of Miles' jaw as his perfect composure struggled to the surface. The door slammed against its hinges as a short, middle aged man with greasy slick back hair and thick rimmed glasses bumbled into the shop, completely unaware of the tension that he was stomping into.

 “Ah, there you are, boy. A word, please.” It was a statement, not a question. The man's tone washed a protective wave over Ben. He squared his shoulders, the hairs on his neck bristling. 

 Miles gulped, the quick nod of the head disguising it from the intruder. “O-of course, what seems to be the matter, Mr Jamieson?” He regretted the words as instantly as his customer face burned scarlet.

 “The matter!? The matter is you swindled me!”

 “I-”

“Last week you sold me this toy monkey for my daughter, and within minutes it broke!”

 “P-please-!”

“-She's been crying all weekend!” He flailed the mechanical toy like a weapon at the stunned clerk. 

“W-we c-c-can-”

“I demand my money back and to speak with your manager. To think this town just lets any old dreck in these days-”

 Ben took a step forward, his heavy step putting a halt to the tirade. Miles thought he was going to hit him. So did Mr Jamieson. So did Ben. But instead a palm was offered up before him.

“Mr Jamieson, is it? Please, may I?” asked Ben, slipping into the cool and slick writer persona. 

 Mr Jamieson eyed him suspiciously and spat, “please, be my guest.”

 Ben took the monkey and examined the back hatch, removing the key and twisting the spring back into place. He reinserted the mechanism, gave it a turn and the toy sprang into life, its tiny arms beating the drum that set his teeth on edge. Ben didn't bother hiding the smug look on his face as he handed it back.

“Mr Miller is a professional, I promise you he wouldn't dupe you, so if you don't mind he's busy with another customer.” Ben beared his teeth like a predator under the guise of a sickly sweet smile before giving the man a single wave goodbye.

 He stormed out cursing the whole way.

 Ben blew out the tension he didn't know he had been holding. The thumping in his chest drowned out the last of his intelligent thoughts. He slipped a gaze to Miles to see if he still looked furious, his body slouched like a naughty child that had been scolded. Had Ben overstepped? Hopefully the fact he hadn't broke the mans nose and bloodied the floor clawed back a couple of brownie points.

 Looking at Miles however, he knew there was no salvaging this. Miles looked dumbfounded behind the counter, nails digging into the hardwood like a storm was trying to drag him out to sea, while the rest of him stood deathly still. The only sound in the store was the ticking of antique clocks and the slow suck of air as Miles kept himself afloat. 

 Guilty for the part he played, Ben spoke like a man giving his signed confession. “Look-”, his name felt forbidden on his tongue now. “I'm sorry… I came here to learn about the Marsten House that your boss rented. I know it sounds stupid but I'm writing a book on it and-” I saw a ghost there and it haunts my nightmares, and my wife's dead and this is the only thing that makes me feel human again. I hate your boss for taking it from me and most of all I hate myself for being so thickheaded that I let myself hurt you when all you've been is nice to me. I don't need anything from you other than to know you're okay. I want you to know I'm the same as you, that you can talk to me-

 He sighed, all his energy leaving his body with it. “-I didn't mean to trick you, I just wanted… I don't know now what I wanted… I'm just, sorry.”

 Miles wrung his fingers over his wrists, “I… would have told you.”

 He felt like he had been slapped. “What?”

 “If you asked… it's no s-secret. They're interested in history and the house has history. It was available, so they bought it”. Abashed, Miles shrugged his shoulders. Simple.

 What a shit show. Ben spoke to the floorboards. He felt like he was supposed to laugh but he couldn't.

“.... I should go, thanks for your help today. And I am sorry. I mean it.” Ben started to loosen the clasp of his father's rolex.

Miles cleared his throat, voice now hoarse. He looked as tired as Ben did. “It was uncatalogued”

“Hm?” Ben hummed. 

“T-The watch…. It was in a b-batch lot. We have no record it was ever here.” His face was pressed to his shoulder again but he seemed to think for a moment and then finally looked back to Ben.

 “Your father wanted you to have it...and… Mr S-Straker would understand.” He didn't sound very sure of that but Ben knew better than not to accept this moment for the olive branch it was. 

 He adjusted the strap back on, now feeling even more precious under his fingertips, “Thank you… I don't know what to say.”

 Curtness sounding alien on his tongue, Miles stuttered, “T-Then don't, just go, please. I have w-work to do.” 

 Grateful for his mercy, Ben turned to finally put this trip to bed. He should have felt relieved but the urge to stay and plead his case again tugged his shoulders back. He ignored it.

 The cold autumn breeze hit him as he opened the door. He'd forgotten there even was a world outside that tiny, cramped store, with just the shop keeper that had ripped him from his new equilibrium in just one quiet October morning.

 At first he thought it was the gusts of wind teasing him with what he wanted to hear, but the sound was louder and more solid than even the blistering fall air could carry.

“And thank you. For stickin' up for me, Ben.”

 He turned and nodded. “Keep sweeping, Miles.” Ben waved, car keys now dangling from his ring finger, and left. He stopped only to gently ease the door so it didn't slam, leaving the shop assistant to gather himself before dutifully putting each and every antique back into its rightful box. He hadn't stopped long enough to make out his expression. 

What a fucking shit show.

Chapter 3

One of the true joys of the modern age is that no matter how much you've fucked up, hurt someone, or made an ass of yourself, there will always be someone willing to take your money and tell you, hey it's okay, you're not a bad person, don't think about it for a while and it'll all blow over. That'll just be $2 thank you, sir. And what kind of patriot would Ben Mears be if he did not partake of such a fine American tradition on this mild and breezy Friday evening in the Jerusalem's Lot Drive-in Theatre.

God bless America.

The drive-in was the cultural epicenter of the Lot, men in rubber suits pawing at scantily clad women, the closest thing the town got to the treasures of the Guggenheim. But within the dust trials and poorly defined spaces, it was the one place where the full gambit of small town life could be seen without a movement of the neck. For the next few hours people would line up, their worlds enclosed in the warmth of station wagons like animated snow globes, each a portal to happy families all alike or unhappy ones all very willing to let their fellow moviegoers know just how uniquely unhappy they were. Ben had always loved films, coming to the drive-in had been the highlight of his week, and his biggest refuge after his father had passed away. Now the films felt slight at best and insulting at worst. The stories of pure heroes, monstrous villains and studio mandated happy endings had lost all value in his life as soon as his motorbike had hit tarmac.

He wasn't sure what was playing tonight and he didn't care, he just wanted to let himself drown in the sea of town life and look up at the stage curtain of the sunset, the dusty warm hues dragging down the sun to reveal stars suspended on the heavenly stage, the same as they have always done. There was nothing new under the sun, but at least the heavens themselves were just about pretty enough to watch as time slipped by.

The writer sat in his spacious Citroen, popcorn untouched on the passenger's seat, as he tapped his pen against the notebook with merely the words ‘Marsten House’ contained within. Underlined and then underlined again, and then again after a second coffee break. The eyes of the meek shop assistant, glistening with heart wrenching anguish, had taken his inspiration captive and held it without ransom. Maybe he should just give his publisher a biography on how he stomped on a journalist's camera because he never got a puppy for Christmas like they wanted.

Ben knew he had to apologise, he just also knew from his track record that his best attempts normally made it worse. Miranda had often joked that the words ‘so it was both our faults’ needed banning from the house before the only book award he'd be a part of was her memoir of his murder. He took the hint then. Ben turned the page of the notebook, wrote ‘Apology’ and underlined it. Nothing came to him. He underlined it again.

In truth he didn't know how to approach it, or if he even had the right to. The voice in his head that whispered sweet, poisoned nothings in his ear, excusing him of that extra shot of whiskey because he needed it, or that cruel word to a sympathetic colleague because what could they know of grief, now reared its enticing head again. He had only been nice to Miles, he didn't do anything to hurt him, he was just too sensitive…

Ben slammed the dashboard with his notebook, the bang shocking the voice to silence. He had followed that voice right into this mess and it had never gotten him out of one before. Resolved, he promised the Michelin Man air freshener that he would visit Miles' in the morning and see where it led. Neither him or the mascot looked convinced it would work.

As the drive in screen still lay dormant, Ben arriving long before the shorts were due to start, he saw a single figure grace its way behind the rows of cars, a bundle underarm, shoulders hunched, legs carrying him to the concession building from where the projector was housed. The figure looked taller than his huddled form suggested, but its head remained down turned so as to not offend any would-be onlooker with an accidental merging of eye contact. That was Miles alright.

Ben steeled himself as he watched him climb the fire exit to the platform of the building just below the film projector. Once on the roof, hovering above the chaos and frenzy of parking cars, drivers yelling at each other to ‘move it for god's sake’, Miles stood taller than Ben ever thought him capable of. But the closing of the day masked his features in shadow, swallowing his whole body within their tendrils like they were of one entity, intimately familiar and at peace with each other's company while the headlights kept the inhabitants illuminated below.

Hair waving in the breeze as he looked out over the lot, he reminded Ben of a painting his wife had loved, a soldier who had quietly ascended above the bedlam of the hell below, single handedly planting his flag on the hill. He had wrestled with whether the soldier was a pitiful figure thinking he was safe when war still raged at his feet, or a heroic one, finding even a temporary peace in a futile act, performed in isolation. Ben left to join him before he had time to talk himself out of it.

Ben walked up the stairs slowly to give the man ample time to hear his incoming presence. He wasn't sure what he expected but when he reached the top step he saw Miles, sitting on a picnic blanket and resting against the back wall, knees bent out in front of him between the selection of juices and seemingly home baked goods. Miles rolled his head to identify the intruder. Where Ben braced to see anger he saw only tiredness, bags settled deep under his eyes, but upon the flicker of recognition a resignation fell over him. Ben felt awkward, twisting his feet into the floor.

“Um… I bring offerings”, he greeted, lamely holding out his bag of popcorn.

Miles drew his knees up and rested his chin, “S’okay Mr Mears… I… Y-you didn't mean nuthin' by it.”

He should have been grateful for the forgiveness after the last two sleepless nights, but he had spent enough time with Miles to recognise the sincerity in his tone… and the lack thereof.

He considered his words carefully, “No Miles… I don't think it is okay. I got carried away and…”. Excuses bubbled back to life but he pushed them down, “I hurt you. I don't need you to forgive me but I want to make it up to you, if you think I can.”

Miles' eyes darted over Ben, looking for any signs he was lying again. He was used to giving apologies, not receiving them. The man before him sounded genuine, but so had so many other people in his life. Miles' hadn't trusted his judgement since the war, each betrayal over the years sedimented another layer of mistrust until it had built up under the name of self-preservation and survival instincts. Instincts that now bristled at the contrition offered up before him. But Ben stood there, not coming closer, a hand on the rail like he was prepared to leave as soon as Miles said the word.

Hesitating, Miles wrung his hands around his wrists as he responded, “That didn't seem like it was written this time…”

“No, it wasn't. With my writing these days it probably would have sounded even worse”, he laughed mirthlessly.

The reminder of his books made Miles’s knees twitch closer to his chest, but as on edge as he felt, he couldn't leave someone in need of forgiveness like he had been at so many points in his life. “I overreacted… t-that's all. You just needed information and I … it's not like you knew anything about me. C-could have been a real stick in the mud, ya know?”

He feared if he didn't stop he would tell him all about the El Royale and why he had been so upset at being lead on, how he thought he was coming so far only to realise all it took was a nice man to bat his eyelashes at him and he would convince himself he was the same as him-

He swallowed and caught the nervous rambling before it could leave his throat, “But I f- forgive you, if you think you need it.”

Ben could sense he wasn't telling the whole story but he didn't push. He ran his fingers through his air, “Thank you, Miles. I don't think you overreacted, but you're a good man.”

Miles saw then shades of washed out yellows and reds appear suddenly over the features of Ben's face as he looked right at him. Light caught the peak of his nose, colour swallowing shadow and amplifying their luscious tones in turn as they danced melted into his skin. Miles could hear the cartoon start on the screen but kept his gaze firmly on the image of the man, colour repainting him with every new frame of film. He thought maybe not all the reds on his cheeks were from the reflection.

Miles’ voice carried over the theme tune, “You… taking that popcorn with you?”

“Oh! Yeah - sorry. My wife always said I was terrible at apologies. Here ya go.” He walked over slowly and placed it next to the blanket, not wanting to tower over the sitting man. Miles smiled softly and nodded, his heart beating slightly faster.

Ben looked uncomfortable again, his body unsure how to exist in space, hands thrust deep into his pockets and bouncing his weight between his legs. It reminded Miles of himself in middle school, trying to work up the courage to ask the mousey bookish girl who had been his best friend to the prom, as everyone told him he was supposed to do.

Unable to abide awkward silences, Ben tried to apologise again out of habit, but he just gulped the air. Miles looked no better as he watched his toes sway to the music from the film, building the courage to lunge at the bag of popcorn like it was on a mousetrap. Ben wanted to say so it was both our faults?

Ben huffed a laugh at the echoing of Miranda's teasing in his ears. A laugh that then built itself into a tremor against his permission, a shudder that rocked his shoulders as he tucked his chin into his chest to try and keep himself contained.

Miles raised a questioning eyebrow, but grabbed the popcorn while he was otherwise occupied. Most of the laughter Miles heard was from the TV or Straker, a shrill cackle when Miles thought he must have said something funny, whatever it was. He thought he liked the sound of Ben's more.

“Sorry!” He took a moment, the tension suddenly diffused from his aura. “Sorry- it's just. God, my wife would have thrown my lifeless body from this building by now if she could see how stupid I'm being.”

Miles' lips tugged a confused but shy smile, still not sure what was so funny. He picked at the popcorn that lay before him like a bird. “I… I don't think you're being stupid, Mr Mears.”

“Please, Miles- Call me Ben. I'm barely older than you.”

“Ben”, his name warmed the air between his teeth. “I heard about… I'm s-sorry for your loss.”

Ben figured he must have heard about him from the town or read one of the accounts of him published in the papers. The idea of Miles knowing that side of him sent a chill down his spine, but his smile managed to hold firm.

“Thanks. It's been a year and a bit now and… Nothing reminds me more of her than when I'm being an idiot.” Miles' slight huff of a laugh through his rose tipped nose.

“I-I… can throw you if you want. In her honor?”

He sounded nervous like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to joke about it but Ben howled like a wolf from last month's horror marathon.

He stood straighter now, kicking the roof like stones on a beach. “Oh Miles, she would have loved you. Even in death she gets people to gang up on me.” He pointed to the Sudan below, “Just make sure you aim me at that bastard Jamieson’s car will you?”

Relaxing, Miles joined in, giggling around his popcorn until the sound of the screen drowned them out and the dust settled around them, the lines of the battlefield slowly dissipating. Ben suddenly didn't seem so far away.

Finally, turning to leave the warm refuge of Miles' picnic, Ben waved, “Well I should be going Miles, enjoy the film. Hope it's better than last week's showing.”

He was down the first step when he heard him. “Umm… w-we can watch it together… i-if you want?” The timid voice sounded like he was asking for a stay of execution.

“You sure?”

He nodded, shuffling up on the blanket to make space for him to plant his flag on the hill with him. “Can't eat all this by myself.”

Ben practically skipped to his place by Miles’ side. His companion came out of his protective shell and relaxed his legs into the softness of the weave. He passed him a glass of apple juice.

“You not got anything stronger, boy scout?” Ben teased. “Not interrupting a date am I?”

Miles blushed but didn't flinch under his gaze this time, “Actually, s-something like that. I think they stood me up though.”

“Miles, Miles, Miles. It's always the quiet ones.” His smile was pulled taut and thin, the crows feet the only giveaway to a hidden discontent. He clinked his glass to his and necked it in one go.

The shorts wound down before the first of the double bills ran through the projector above them. They had chatted happily over each and every one, Miles growing increasingly more confident, gently and subtly teasing to the point Ben often only started laughing minutes later. Meanwhile, Ben finally allowed himself to believe that no, he wasn't going to stick his foot in it, and the Illusive Fae would still be there after every blink. Ben was happy to ignore the terrible film, Miles couldn't believe someone could so easily draw his attention away.

In their own world above the ocean of cars, Ben told Miles what New York was like (he was unconvinced), the greatness of the Mets batting lineup (definitely unconvinced) and the story of the book premier with the ice sculpture and an open bar (definitely mortified). Miles had told him of his life through Baseball, starting with his love of the St Louis Browns (Go Browns) whose move to Milwaukee had caused him to run away from home on more than one occasion, the pee wee team he helped coach in high school (Go Ponies), and even made tentative mention of his squad in Vietnam who won the Company’s baseball tournament (Go Delta team). Ben didn't need to know what happened to them after.

Miles had spoken with a barely contained glee that reminded Ben of his young cousin, excitedly telling him about every single fact he knew about dinosaurs, all for the love of dinosaurs. There was no bravado, no attempt to impress the other like the people he met in New York, just a deluge of gratitude for being given the opportunity to spout information and anecdotes that only Phillip Marlowe could make sense of. He couldn't imagine Straker wanting to talk ball.

Ben had never thought about what the shop assistant would be interested in outside of his hovel, but of course the all American boy would love the all American game. Ben had asked him about what he thought of the Giants’ chances this year, but he had just blushed and said he couldn't keep up with it anymore as it was now more of a sleep aid when it was too quiet at night. Which was true, however there was something too personal about telling him he had been a halfway decent pitcher with a mean sweeper. He had a chance of going pro, making real the only dream he remembered his father sharing with him, before the toil of war had taken that away too. Maybe Ben could have seen him play for the Mets and cheered him on, wearing his jersey as Miles pitched the perfect game for him.

To his surprise however, he had found himself telling Ben about his Nana before his brain caught up with his mouth. He had told him how his Nana had taken him in at just thirteen years old after both of his parents had died in a house fire that still wasn't out by the time he returned from school. But he didn't focus on his despair, Mr Straker had told him that it was between him and God and he shouldn't burden others with it. So, instead he told Ben of her best meals, of her love of Jimmy Stewart and Jazz and her dedication to take him to practice every week.

Despite the conversation, Miles had kept in good spirits, proud to be able to give his Nana another witness on earth to her life. Ben had been stunned to silence at the depths of Miles' love for the little kindnesses in his life, all the while he struggled to keep his eyes fixed away from the scars on his face and needle marks he knew were buried under layers of clothing. Ben didn't know how he did it. There was a kind of bravery it took in showing that vulnerable side of yourself that, without affectation or pretence, showed how you loved. Ben had struggled to show that side even to his wife after years of marriage, a wry insult always at hand to defuse the moment.

Ben took a sip of his third juice, “How do you do that, be so…. Good?”

Miles just looked confused, tilting his head to the side, “W-What do you mean?”

He chuckled in response, shaking his head in disbelief, “that! Just finding positives in everything without even realising you're doing it.” Tell me how I can be like that…

Miles' gaze went to the fork buried in his slice of pie, his response a low murmur, “takes more than just looking to be g-good. G-gotta do stuff too. Don't help no one to just think pretty things”.

Mumbling with a mouth full of Miles’ homemade brownies Ben responded, “But it helps doesn't it? Seeing the value of things, of people. Knowing they won't screw you over in the long run?”

Miles swallowed his bite of pie and turned to Ben. His eyes shimmered in the coming twilight with an emotion Ben had seen enough times in the past year to recognise it instantly, pity. “Think you spent too long in the Big City. ‘Sides, I don't believe you should do good for what you get back. S-should do it because it's right, no questions asked.”

Ben clicked his tongue, “Ah I get it now… lemme guess, raised Catholic?”

Miles sniffed back a laugh, “G-got it in one. I'm told it's pretty obvious.” He moved to put his plate back in the hamper, a soft hiss escaping between his front teeth as he clutched his shoulder.

“You okay, bud?” Asked Ben, immediately twisting his body incase he needed assistance.

Miles rotated his shoulder, trying his best to keep the pain off his face, used to the many aches of his body. “Y-yeah I'm fine. Mr Straker just needed help moving some crates into his house last night. Must have pulled it… I-Im fine.”

Ben took the plate from Miles' hand and put it in the basket between them. Miles turned his attention back to the screen as if he had been watching the movie all along, brazenly trying to hide his discomfort at mentioning the elephant made of rotting wood and broken glass that still lingered like an unwanted house guest.

Ben knew he should leave it be but he needed that demon exorcising. He sat straight, legs crossed as he tapped his knee with a solitary finger, “Straker… he asks a lot of you doesn't he?”

Miles didn't budge, knew what he was angling for. Mr Burke and his landlady Ms Winters had got there long before Ben had and failed. Miles sounded rehearsed as he spoke, “Mr Straker asks for what is best for me. He's given me my life… I'm s-so grateful for the jobs he gives me because they all teach me things, keep my mind focused. The d-devil finds work for idle hands he says, and I think he's right…”

Mr Straker's warning echoed in his mind. An addict is always a hair away from relapsing… The devil has got your scent boy and he will not give you up. You must fight him each and every day and when you can't fight him any longer, that is what I am here for…

He looked bashful as he rubbed the crux of his elbow where the reminders of his past lay. “‘least in my case”, he mumbled.

Realising he had said that out loud, Miles pushed himself up straighter and reanimated his voice, putting on his salesman's drawl, “I-I can never repay him for all he's done for me, but I feel better for tryin’. A-And I work hard for him. I think that's why he always asks me.” He tried to stop his chest from puffing up like a peacock as he waited for the approval from Ben that never came.

Not realising the growing dread that kept his companion struck dumb, he continued, “I… wasn't in a g-good place when he met me. I was stuck all the way in the great s-state of California. Can you believe it? It was…”. He faltered for just a second, “like providence.” He looked back at Ben then, willing him with all of his power to see this for the blessing it was. Ben thought he could see the almost imperceptible glimmer of doubt strain the dimple in his cheek. He hoped so much he had.

Miles took a sip of juice again, throat not used to talking for more than a sentence or two at a time. “H-hes taught me everything I know. I love the job, all the pre-loved possessions that I get to take care of and find homes for”. A twitch of the mouth passed over him, “Wouldn't say no if the store was a bit busier ‘mind.” Miles hoped the mild complaint would show Ben there was nothing to worry about, he was in his own mind. Not that Ben had said anything to the contrary.

Ben however, was worrying. A lot. An absolute copious, plethora of worry. Just what did that bastard have on him? He didn't get the sense that Miles was being overtly forced into anything but there was something going on, the reports of how little people knew him, the injuries, the secrets… the cloud that darkened his face back at the shop when he felt threatened. But the answer remained floating just outside the reach of his mind, taunting him with the knowledge that there was definitely something there. Not wanting to press in case Miles shut down from him completely, he changed tack.

“You know a lot of the folk here then?”

Miles relaxed and finished his cup, “Not personally, but… of a fashion. Just when they come to the s-shop or I'm out doing chores mostly”. He stared into the bottom of the empty glass, swirling it around like a whisky, “I'm too busy o-otherwise with my own things.”

In reality Mr Straker had warned against him getting too involved, and when he warned, what he really meant was for him to do it, and do it to the letter. It's too early to reintegrate into society, too many temptations, too obvious to anyone who looked what you are. He was to stay in the shop, relearn his people skills under his guidance to build him up until he was ready. He believed him. He was grateful, really he was. But there were people he could safely help if he was quick enough, and Mr Graham was awfully lonely since his wife died. He didn't have to speak much, just listen to him, Miles was sure that was okay, even if he never deigned to mention it to Mr Straker.

He was dragged from his thoughts as Ben looked him dead in the eyes. The intensity of his gaze pulled Miles in until he was locked in placed. He felt like he was being hypnotised by the sinking black depths of his pupils as they swallowed the last of the blue flecks. Ben's hand twitched as he reached for the right words but Miles was too transfixed to notice.

“Just tell me Miles. Are you happy? As in, you're okay, right? You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. I… I just want to make sure.”

Miles nodded like a puppet on a string, but he knew from Ben's expression he wanted his words and only his words. Miles didn't think anyone had asked him before, not since his Nana had died. He sat still as the credits rolled down his clothes. He couldn't think and make eye contact with Ben at the same time, so he looked up at the sky and started to count the coming stars.

Miles ran his finger over the glass still in his hand before clasping it tightly together in both palms. Despite the wringing of the poor drinkware, his voice sounded surprisingly peaceful to Ben's ears, “If you asked me before I came to this town, I would have said n-no. That I just… I just wanted to see one more sunrise and then I… I could be happy.” Miles’ licked his chapped lips and dug his spine deeper into the brick. His chin was trembling but his tone only brightened, “But now? I get that… everyday. S-so yes, what else could I be?”

It sounded more like he was asking himself that question.

Miles saw the concern as Ben turned his head back to the screen and inhaled a palm of popcorn to keep his mouth busy before he said something he could regret. He could see him bounce his knee and trail his finger nails over his pant leg, chalky lines following close behind as he dug in. Miles just looked to the tips of his toes, his stomach turning that he was burdening another just like Straker had warned. Before he could apologise he was hit with an idea.

“Hey Mr Mears-”

The writer gave him a look.

“Sorry, Mr-Ben. You've not been back in town long right? Well, can I show you s-something?” he asked shyly.

Ben looked confused but nodded, “Sure, ‘course.”

Miles pushed himself up into a squatting position and duck walked to the edge of the roof as to keep out of the beam of the projector. He sat with his legs dangling over the side while Ben scooted up on his ass and kept a gap between him and the edge.

He pointed out over the parking lot. “Okay see that blue Ford, licence 3-0-3?”. Ben nodded.

“Thats Dr Cody, she's the doctor. Cars from Maine, Pinto. She is a kind soul, real smart. Husband died in the war. Always takes the same spot, once rear ended Steve Gibes for taking it. She always stays late to do home visits”

His finger moved an inch to the right, “next to her is the Red Mustang from Vermont. T-that's Mike Ryerson's car, it'll be his turn to drive. Him and his friends always alternate. He s-spends too long at the bar, but I think he wants to cut back for his mom. Just doesn't quite know how and his friends complain if he drink none.”

And so he went on, the Davidson's who left the kids to never feed the cat, leaving it to Miles to drop off leftovers, Jeanie and Liv, two friends who always watched the boys rather than the film, Fred Swanson who got drunk and drove his car through his ex wife's house, the van of Andrew Straub and his girlfriend who was sleeping with Mr Swanson… Miles knew every car and every story inside.

Ben wasn't sure why Miles wanted to show him all this, hadn't properly introduced his intentions before he raced ahead, but as the list went on the comments edged closer and closer to gossip until he was full blown telling him about secret love children and robbery convictions. He looked uncomfortable telling Ben these facts but divulged more with every question or admission of intrigue. And no matter how dark the tale, each portrait was signed with a flourish of a positive. In some cases the ‘but’ did more heavy lifting than Ben thought possible, but Miles still said it with complete empathy.

And then it dawned on him. And Ben knew. Oh. Miles had wanted to impress him. Wanted to show he wasn't some lonely shut-in who was scared of the outside world, who knew people, understood the world wasn't unicorns and fairies. That there was a darkness in the Lot and he wasn't some wide eyed kid who shielded himself from it. He saw it and he accepted it wholeheartedly. Maybe even a little attracted to it.

Ben had to admit, he had picked up more than the author had in his interviews with the town, despite Miles’ seemingly inconsequential interactions with all of them. He seemed to treat them with the same love and focus he gave to each of the objects at the store that he was devoted to.

But Miles didn't realise it wasn't him that Ben doubted, it was his boss.

When they were out of cars, Ben chuckled, “Miles, id almost guess you were cynical. Colour me impressed, we'll make a writer out of you yet.”

His eyes widened slightly in shock, “N-No, Ben. I… they're flawed but that's what makes me so interested. I know how hard it is to be good - ‘specially when it feels like no one else around you cares to try. But they all try… I… think they just don't know how to do it” he said, clearing the heaviness in his voice with a deep sigh.

Ben looked out again at the swaths below. “Matt says Salem's Lot is rotting from the inside out.”

Miles took a moment and kicked his feet as his brow furrowed. He spoke slowly, “I… think that is every town. Every p-person. But it's the same as it ever was.”

Ben nodded, on that they could agree. “You come up here a lot then, to see all this?”

“Every week, rain or shine”, he drawled, a quiet contentment returning to his demeanor.

In truth there was a time films had been discarded, as the actors and directors piled into the El Royale the same as the writers had done, but he had a reason for giving them a go again.

“I don't drive so Mr Taylor kindly lets me come up if I keep on eye for trouble.”

“Don't the films get boring?”

He looked aghast, twisting to fully face Ben as his whole demeanor became electrified, “Not at all! They had ‘Creature from the Black Lagoon’ and ‘Cat People’ just last week!” Ben flinched as he remembered how he had told Miles how bad he found last week's offerings, but if he remembered it in his enthusiasm, he didn't show it.

“‘Think that was my favourite one yet. The Creature in the first one looked s-so good! Made you really r-root for the monster. I love those ones. He just wanted to be with the lead, y’know…” He struggled around for the words. He just wanted to be in the company of the one he loved, but the others misunderstood him and thought he was going to hurt her, so they killed him. But he felt ridiculous saying that out loud to a famous author, despite his love of the film. He had spent the next monotonous day at the shop dreaming of it, of both being the monster in search of his beloved and what it would be like to be cherished by one, the thoughts ever expanding until he had rushed to the book that Ben had pulled that housed his shameful secret, turned over the ‘out to lunch sign’, and ran down to the basement.

Despite his reticence Ben listened patiently as Miles' gave up and talked about the soundtrack. And it was easy to. Ben remembered the boy he was. How he would have loved talking about his favourite monster movies with Miles. If only they had known each other back then. If only Ben still had access to that part of him that loved these movies.

“Heh, well my date is much more eloquent than I am, shame they're not here” Miles concluded. Ben gave him a strange look at the repeated mention of the date but said nothing and turned to look out over the lot.

Conversation drawing to a natural lull. Miles started to clean up some of the rubbish before the next film, but his companions' quietness drew his attention. He hadn't thought Ben was capable of silences.

Sunset now bringing the curtains down for the final show of the evening, it illuminated the back of the screen with it's final gasp until it sank below the surface. The remnants of its glory had been swallowed into inky tentacles of the night as they creeped down from the sky and engulfed the writer into total shadow.

He looked to Miles like a monster from his films. A black hole made manifest, cheap lighting effects enticing his imagination to fill in the blank, but not in a bad way Miles thought. No, never in a bad way with Ben, not anymore. The liquid honey thoughts should have scared him, brought those survival instincts back raging to the surface to fight the pull. But his thoughts were quiet. He felt 2D, a cinematic damsel who had no agency other than to give in to the creature before him in all his dark and terrible beauty. The whole world around them now felt like it was ensnared within his form, time stopping and all of light, matter and intelligent thought converging to a singular point on the nape of the shadows neck where Miles wanted to bury himself in.

Miles felt like Ben was taunting him, waiting for the moment to consume him completely. All Miles had to do was say the word. He thought that the black hole known as Ben could pull him from this town, tear him apart from the inside out, reveal every secret hidden deep within his bones, and then rearrange him into something completely different, something whole... The monster and beloved made manifest as one single being. The only new thing under the sun. It sent a shameful throb through his very core.

The void, with all its promise, finally and slowly turned to gaze back at him, tiny specks of light the only feature piercing through the plains of what was once a face. In his stare, Miles' frenzied, frightened lost brain was held in the safety of his hands, just like he'd been taught the Lord held the stars. He couldn't breathe, it made him feel like he was a passenger in his own body, ready to give himself over, if only he could just put one foot in front of the other.

The frames of the film started up again, expelling the darkness for just a fraction of a second as the celluloid caught in the projector, each flicker suddenly visible to the naked eye. The mortal man appeared and disappeared again into darkness as the reel stuttered along, man and monster, his writer and his seducer, transposing themselves on top of each other as they overlapped into the physical world. It was like the old flip books Miles drew as a kid as the being lumbered towards him, vanishing and then transported closer with each passing frame like waking blinks, until he had finally escaped out of the heavenly light of the projector, out of the film and into his spectators reality.

He was right in front of him then, a creature void of form merging with it's solid flesh and bone for the last time into Ben the writer. His Ben. Miles shook his head and gulped, adam's apple quivering in sympathy with his knees. Those were dangerous thoughts. But as the film now played, light reabsorbed into his skin, the shadows were forced to give up their host and he decided he was correct, it was his Ben. They both were, two sides of the same face, one darkened by world weariness and grief and the other that carried on in spite of it, a wry smile and well placed kind word that plastered over the schism between the halves.

He reminded Miles of a recently turned back werewolf, blinking in the light with no recollection of who he was or how he got there. Ben looked to be imprisoned in the same daze, his mouth opened and closed again, he wanted to say something but all that came out was a pained sound that he trapped back between his teeth. A singular hand came up towards Miles' jaw and stopped at the moment he thought he may strike, palms just hovering over the radiating heat of Miles’s flushed cheeks like it's warmth was all he needed to know this was real.

Miles didn't know if he or the hand moved first, but the hitch in Ben's throat told him he felt it too as Miles' breath warmed his skin, wet lips opening just enough in a barely there imitation of a kiss as it dragged over the meat of his palm. Real or not the kiss lingered like a ghost over the plains of his grasp. It beckoned for more, now solid as he held Miles' tilted head so he couldn't wriggle away, begging for just one more touch of his lips. But the firmness gave way to a gentle caress of its thumb, tracing soothing circles over the deep set scars that peppered the left side of his face, hesitant, giving Miles a chance to back out. Instead a soft phantom of a high pitched whine reverberated within the cup of his large hand.

All movement then ceased as every iota of Ben's focus and being was honed into that one slip between his teeth, that inky black pool that called him in with that siren's song. He pressed his thumb firmer, messaging the taut skin and trialing each landmark like he wanted to learn the map of Miles' face by touch alone.

He didn't see the shame that swelled in those precious eyes as Miles’ mind clawed through the syrupy haze to catch up with realisation of what he'd done. Of what Ben was doing to him. He shied away, lids closed shut as he hid his scared face within the refuge of the very man's grasp from whom he was hiding. Ben could feel his heart beat galloping along the sharp line of his jaw.

Ben felt a tug as Miles’ clasped Ben's sleeve, fisting a clump of his leather jacket and pulling it taut. The writer panicked, mortified he had overstepped, but when he went to release him, his grip in the jacket didn't budge. The pull however lowered the sleeve just enough to reveal the silver case of the rolex that hid in his cuff. Miles choked back a sob at the sight of his gift that sent a wave through his whole body that kept crashing against his thrumming bones. Ben could feel rather than see Miles steel himself against his heavy, quickening breathing, riding it out as it raged like a gale force storm against the solid safe harbour of Ben's grip.

Miles could hear it now over the ringing in his ears, oh so soft and sweet as it caressed against the air around him, “Miles… Miles… Miles”. He whimpered again in the response. Another hand braced the opposite side of his head before he could hide again as Ben soothed the crown of his head into the hairline of the smaller man, nuzzling back and forth into the silky soft waves. Ben breathed slower. He breathed for the both of them, until Miles' body reacted with his and their rhythm melded together in a single harmony. Miles focused on the cool sensation of the watch against the underside of his jaw as it held him grounded.

Ben finally broke the suspended silence, he sounded pained as he begged, the last confession of a dying man, willing every last drop of feeling through his words and into the man whom he held within his open hands in prayer. “Tell me…” he murmured, his voice cutting through the thunderous pounding, “if I'm wrong you have to tell me… please…”

Miles felt his head tilt back as Ben moved away just an inch, the gap so small that Miles felt his spine bow backwards to meet those shimmering pleading eyes that had so recently asked for his forgiveness… is that what this was? Just something Ben thought he owed Miles? The voice that kept him alive stirred from its slumber and in its low voice it whispered, “he's just pretending to ask… he's just like the rest of them.”

And Miles listened. But he didn't pull away. He wanted to push down that voice and drown it out underneath Ben's ever hoarsing drawl until he never had to hear it again. So he waited. Ben's thumbs kept up the metronome rhythm against his cheeks. And he waited, his breath entwining with his in the ever diminishing space between them. A shallow pool that Miles wanted to drown in as all his shame floated away. But still he waited, Ben's voice lulling him in a trance as they just existed together above the town far far below, “take your time M-Miles… I'm not going anywhere…”

Miles waited for his subconscious to retort back. But nothing came. Not from his shame, his experiences from the past or worries of the future. Just the voice of Ben in the present silencing all of them. Miles finally lowered his grasp on his jacket and moved it to his stomach underneath, running his nails down the lines of the shirt that hugged his skin tight. Miles parted his mouth, the bottom lip quivering slightly under the tease of Ben's soft gasp.

Ben's voice sounded strained but wondrous “Your words Miles… I need to hear you say it”.

But Miles couldn't. He shook his head feebly. No one had ever asked him like this before. So instead, for the first time in years, he took what he wanted. Miles stood on his tip toes as he placed a feather light touch to the corner of his lips, chaste enough that it could have been mistaken for a greeting. But Ben moaned filthily.

Miles went to lower himself onto his heels but Ben was already walking him back the few steps into the wall of the building, cutlery clattered as he stepped on the remnants of their picnic. Miles thought he was going to fall but Ben curled an arm around his back to keep him upright as his other hand curved around to the back of his head to cradle it so it didn't hit the wall.

Ben surrounded Miles, enclosed him in the protective shell of his jacket as Ben's imposing form sheltered him from the outside world. Miles felt so safe, so cherished as the arm around his waist came to his chin to lift it up on a single circled finger. He sounded wrecked. “Do that again Miles. Please.”

Miles sobbed. His body didn't seem like his own as he raked his nails along the neckline of his hair and dragged Ben to his mouth. Ben didn't respond at first, too deep in shock at the teeth and tongue that clamoured to take up space in his hot mouth, but with a deep and guttural groan he pushed his chest into Miles, pinning him to the wall. It should have made him panic as the scar on his stomach burned tight, but instead the solid muscle hidden under the writer's attire drove him to ruin as it kept him at Ben's sweet mercy.

Ben opened his mouth for the eager lips below as he guided Miles clean shaven face to him. He let Miles take and take and take until he finally had to gasp for breath, head spinning. Seizing the opportunity, Ben gently nibbled his teeth along Miles’ swollen wet lower lip until he groaned. He slowed the kisses down as he licked into Miles open and wanting mouth, just exploring the cherry red opening as fingers caressed the back of his hair with the same charged teasing flicks. Miles wasn't sure how to respond, he didn't think people did kiss like this. But he loved it, loved B-

He was moaning with every caress of the tongue now as Ben pushed even closer like he was trying to stitch their flesh together. Miles didn't know where to keep his hands, they wanted to touch every piece of Ben they could get. Voice rough from disuse Miles’ whimpered, “B-B-Ben… B-Ben p-please.”

“Please what Miles? You gotta tell me what you want”, Ben cooed, voice tight as he fought to keep control.

The damn broke, tears now pricking his eyes Miles cried, “M-more.”

And so Ben gave it to him as his skilled tongue thrust itself into Miles’ gaping maw, wrestling his tongue into submission, playing it like a cat with a stunned mouse as he plundered his most treasured bounty. Miles only thought ran like a mantra in his mind: God, he's tasting me.

A sharp and sudden clanging, feet on metal that shrieked in a stampede to the top, invaded their sanctuary. It took until it was nearly at the top for Ben to hear it as he suddenly pushed himself off and fixed his crumpled shirt. Miles just stood there in a daze, so Ben ran a quick shaking hand over the other man's hair to flatten it down. His clothes were still in place but there was nothing he could do about the shiny glaze to his skin, thoroughly kissed lips and blissed out look in his eyes.

Realising his attempts were futile, Ben put himself between Miles and the noise, but a quick hand to his elbow held him back.

“Miiiiles! Sorry I'm late!”

A child then, no older than twelve, dressed in an old parker and knitted hat barrelled towards them, obvious to anything around him other than the excitement to see his friend.

“H-hey Mark”, He replied back. He sounded a million miles away, so Ben turned to find him, but he was right where he left him, a slight dizzying sway jangling him in the wind.

Miles took a gulp and waved briskly, speed blurring the shake in his hand. “W-where y’been s-scout?” he slurred.

Ben just stood there in shock as he felt the air move around him as the child ran straight last him to Miles. He rolled his hand through his hair. He couldn't believe it. His eyebrow quirked to Miles but his face was pale. He mouthed, “This… your date?”

He really couldn't believe it. The whole inciting incident to this fucking shit show and he just missed that Miles was teasing him? When Miles had told him the first time that he had a date he couldn't quite but his finger on caused him stomach to drop, on the final mention he practically burned with that unspoken emotion that animated his every muscle to take that giant leap forward. And… It had been a joke?

Ben looked like all the blood had left his body, he hoped to God he hadn't misread it but no. He had felt how Miles had responded. He had wanted it to, just as much as him. He just needed to talk to him.

However, Miles feigned a smile as he looked at the boy and only the boy, “e-every week since I got here he's kept me out of t-trouble. M-Mark, this is B-Ben.” When Mark turned, Miles wiped his slick mouth with the back of his hand again and again until it was dry.

Mark beamed, the hole in his front teeth whistling his greeting, “Nice to meet you! You a friend of Miles?” The kid turned to Miles like Mark was his proud parent. Miles chuckled but it sounded hollow.

Not realising he was being addressed Ben finally replied, “Uh yeah, hi Mark. I've heard all about you.” Liar.

Mark gave out his hand as Ben took a second to return from his daze and clasp it. The kid seemed nice. Didn't mean he didn't want to punt him from the roof.

“Sorry I'm late”, said Mark. “Dad wouldn't let me out until I finished my homework.” Miles nodded.

“As he s-should… B-But we're glad you're here now.” He finally gave Ben a pointed look, chagrined he eventually smiled at the intruder. “I've saved you some of the brownies I made”, said Miles as he hurried to clean up the mess they made of the picnic as Mark dive-bombed the box of goodies.

Ben watched out of the corner of his eye as Miles stood straight and exhaled when he thought no one was looking. He could practically see the transformation as the Miles who had just had his tongue down his throat, transformed back into the professional and reliable store clerk. Miles followed after Mark as Ben still stood bolted to the floor. How could he just go on like nothing happened?

However, when Miles turned to sit down against the wall he had just been pinned against, Ben knew. Poor boy was just as fucked as he was.

Miles’ perfect composure cracked down the seams like it had been hit by the earthquake that broke the Ritcher scale. He sat with his knees to his face like he had at the start of the evening, now held higher to try and cover his mouth. But Ben saw what he was hiding as he observed him hold his bottom lip within his canines like Ben had done when he made Miles slow down. His thumb ghosted over the scars that Ben doted on, lingering on the apple of his cheekbone where he had paid the most attention. It sent a hot flush down Ben's throat. He needed to see him like that again in his bed, in his sheets where he could take his time and kiss every single one until-

God, his wife really did have him dead to rights, he was falling hard and fast.

Before he could spontaneously combust, Mark beckoned their new addition to their film club to come share in the candy he had brought. Ben didnt move for a moment, unsure if Miles wanted him to stay, but he gave a small imperceptible nod and Ben sat down without another thought.

They sat a respectable distance from each other with Mark wedged between them. The final film finally started up as the projector was fixed once again, the honks of the cars telling the projectionist in no uncertain terms how reviled he was. It worked to drown out the tension between them.

They looked at each other over the boy's head. Then back to the screen. Then just from the corners of their eyes. Then at their feet before back again. Ben broke the standoff, whispering “Miles… I…”

“Shhhhhh! The films starting!” protested Mark as he shuffled into Miles' one armed embrace for warmth. Ben sat affronted but Miles had just giggled and tugged the boy's hat down over his eyes in playful admonishment. “Sorry boss”, he smiled warmly, finally returning back to his body as his friend squeezed in closer.

Despite his shushing Mark talked incessantly over the entire film, giving trivia, opinions and commentary like he was paid by the word. Miles had nodded along the whole way, somehow taking in both him and the film until eventually, once his racing heart was brought under control, Ben started to relax into the rhythm of the film and their blooming little club. Sure it was stupid but the kid had charisma, he'd give him that, maybe even enough to convince him that the story wasn't hokum and the characters could realistically have their happy ending. Maybe.

As Ben dropped Mark home and Miles hurried after him ‘just to make sure he got in okay’, a car drove past, a tick above the speed limit. It turned down a side road, out of the rearview mirror of the writer who had closed his eyes and hit head against the car wheel muttering ‘stupid stupid stupid’. He picked up the notebook that said ‘Marsten House’ and ‘Apology’ in underline, wondering if Miles had seen it. He wondered if Miles wanted to be courted or a one off fling. If he liked red wine or spirits. If his landlady was innocent enough to believe single male friends stayed the night all the time. He drove home before his boarding house turned the water off for the night.

But when the sun rose the next day none of those thoughts entered Ben Mears mind. Nor Miles Millers. No thoughts entered the mind nor words left the mouth of anyone in town other than one question: “Where had Ralphie Glick gone?” If Ben had been looking at the road and saw the crazed, salacious look in Richard Stracker’s eyes as he drove past, maybe he would have known.

Just like the way Ben was grinding his hips against the bed, dampening the sheets with a mix of his pre-cum and the saliva that dripped down from Miles' drooling mouth.

Miles didn't know how long he'd been at it. It felt like an eternity. It felt like no time had passed at all. All Miles knew was the unmistakable taste of his husband on his tongue as it pistoned in and out of Ben's loosened hole.

As much as Ben had halfheartedly protested, he'd obviously prepared for this ahead of time. There was just a hint of the gentle body wash they both used specifically for such an occasion along with the addictive musk that was all Ben. The thought that Ben had done all this just for the off chance that Miles might catch him sent a shiver down Miles' spine. He let out a moan against his love's skin, pulling Ben's cheeks even farther apart to place a kiss as best he could against Ben's entrance. He couldn't resist letting the flat of his tongue circle the wet, puckered hole one more time as well before pulling back.

Sitting up, Miles let himself admire the delectable sight before him - a valley of milky white skin now mottled with pinks and purples and reds from Miles' teeth and mouth and hand. Idly, he stroked a fresh hickey, one that was so new that it still shone in the light from where Miles had lathed at the mark with his tongue.

When Ben whined again, a smile tugged at the edges of Miles' lips. His voice was husky, deepened by sheer arousal when he asked, "More?"

Ben's answering "please" was half-whimpered, half-moaned.

It didn't take long to work him open. Just a bit of lube and Miles was able to slip a finger inside, groaning at the way Ben's hot, slick walls clenched around him as if desperate to keep him there.

A second finger went in almost as easily as the first. The tightness in his own pants was nearly unbearable, but Miles was too focused to acknowledge it beyond adjusting himself to relieve some of the pressure.

By the third finger, Ben was begging, pleading for more.

"'M ready, 'm ready," Ben practically chanted, canting his hips, trying to get Miles' fingers to touch the spot he appeared to be purposefully avoiding. "Stretched enough, please!"

Miles chuckled, placing a kiss on the curve of Ben's spine as he slipped his fingers out, shushing his lover's cry of complaint at their absence.

He didn't even bother to pull his pants down, just unzipping and giving himself two efficient strokes with a lubricated hand. He could feel the way Ben tensed as he felt the head of Miles' cock press against his entrance. One whispered "relax" was enough to make Ben purposefully loosen his body enough for Miles to ease his cock past the tight ring of muscle. Soon enough, he was seated fully inside Ben, dutifully waiting until given the go ahead to move.

It didn't take long until Miles had his husband exactly how he wanted him - writhing underneath him, each little 'plap plap plap' sound of their bodies meeting answered by a matching 'ahh ahh ahh' made even hotter with the knowledge Ben was so fucked out he didn't know he was making any noise at all. Grabbing the other man's shoulders, Miles used that as leverage to speed up, pounding into Ben with all the passion he'd felt for him ever since he realized what item of clothing his husband was wearing behind that locked bathroom door.

"This what you wanted?" Miles panted in Ben's ear. "You put on that slutty little jockstrap just to get me going, darlin'?"

Ben didn't even seem able to speak anymore, just nodding his head dumbly, crying out when Miles angled his hips to hit that spot inside of him that made him see stars.

Ben wasn't the only one who was far gone. Words spilled from Miles' mouth like his brain was on autopilot, the firm hold he usually had on his accent slipping as a little bit of twang broke through. Miles barely heard what he said as he hissed, "Want me to fill you up? Breed that tight little hole until you can't move without some 'a me spillin' outta you?"

"Yes!" Ben sobbed out as he drooled onto his pillow, hands white knuckling the sheets as Miles pounded into him. "Please, Miles! Need you to cum!"

"You first," he growled, biting the side of Ben's neck.

The mixture of Miles' words and the feeling of his teeth on his skin was enough to send Ben over the edge with a keening cry, cumming all over the jockstrap Miles had purposefully left on him.

Miles wasn't far behind, only lasting a few more pumps of his hips before he came hard enough that it nearly punched the breath out of him, leaving him gasping his lover's name. He rutted into Ben, his hips twitching with each thick rope of cum that painted his lover's insides.

Miles collapsed on top of the bigger man, and they laid there for some time, both panting and exhausted. When Miles shifted, going to pull out of his husband, Ben let out a whine of complaint, using his longer arms to reach back and grasp at Miles' ass to keep him inside. Miles obliged but shifted them both onto their sides so he was no longer crushing Ben under him.

They stayed like that for a while, slowly catching their breath.

Miles spoke first.

"I'm sorry I made you late for tennis."

The silence that filled the air was somehow much more deafening than the slap of their bodies together or even Ben's cries of pleasure. Miles opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything to break the interminable stillness, but Ben's laughter beat him to it.

By the time Ben could speak, he'd turned around in Miles' arms, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes.

"Sweetheart," Ben said, fighting down another unbidden giggle, clearing his throat to finish his sentence. "You just fucked my brains out, and you're apologizing?"

"Well, when you put it that way, it does seem kind of silly," Miles sheepishly admitted, letting out an awkward chuckle himself.

As if sensing the lingering discomfort, Ben cupped Miles' cheek and drew him in for a kiss. It wasn't frantic or rushed. Just a slow, lazy touch of lips.

It always amazed Miles how much affection Ben could put into even the simplest kiss. It was as if he used his whole body, like he was a string on a guitar that, once plucked, vibrated with sound.

Even when Ben pulled back, smiling up at his husband, Miles felt the connection. He felt it even more when Ben muttered "fuck it" and surged forward, capturing Miles' lips again. This kiss was still slow but much less restrained, Ben's tongue immediately searching for and finding Miles'.

Even during their first one at the drive in, it had occurred to Miles that Ben Mears kissed like he was trying to taste him, and that remained true even years later.

By the time Miles pulled back, wiping the drool off his chin with the back of his hand, Ben laid on his back, legs wrapped around his husband to hold him there. He tugged at Miles' shirt from the back, trying in vain to yank it out of where it was tucked into Miles' khakis and pull it over his head.

"Not fair," Ben mumbled, licking his lips as if still trying to taste Miles' kiss there. "I'm naked as the day I was born, and you haven't even taken off your socks."

"Not true," Miles quipped back, smiling down beatifically at his husband. "I took my socks off before I broke into the bathroom. And you still have this." His fingers slipped underneath the elastic waistband of Ben's jockstrap, pulling it back and letting it snap lightly against his lover's skin.

"Ow!" Ben pouted, all but sticking out his lower lip in protest. Miles rolled his eyes but indulged him, giving Ben a quick peck on the lips that he, naturally, tried to chase.

Miles sat up and deftly undid his belt, flinging it off the bed in two swift moves. Ben had already sneakily unbuttoned part of his shirt, so he easily pulled it off and tossed that to the side as well. Miles starting wiggling out of his pants as best he could with his husband's legs still wrapped around his waist.

When Ben started trying to pull off his jockstrap, Miles stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

"Woah, wait. What are you doing?"

"Getting out of my underwear. It's soiled," Ben pointed out before muttering to finish his sentence, "And it's getting cold."

"Don't take it off."

Miles said it a little too quickly. From the way Ben froze and the sly smile that curled his lips, Miles knew he'd never hear the end of it.

"Fuck, baby. You like it that much?" It could have been the light in the room, but Ben's eyes seemed to darken at Miles' little, almost embarrassed nod.

"You gonna warm it up for me?" he teased, shifting his hips to brush against Miles' still exposed cock which twitched with interest.

"You gonna warm me up?" Ben practically purred, grinning like the cat who got the cream when Miles' nod was much more enthusiastic.

Miles' eager eyes raked over his husband's body as though he hadn't had him in days instead of minutes. Didn't matter how many years they'd been together; Ben was as gorgeous as the day they'd met. Probably even more so. The dusting of brown hair across his sun-kissed torso, leading from his dusky pink nipples down his soft stomach to the thick thatch of hair that trailed under the bright white cup of the jockstrap. Even his tan line around his waist from mowing the neighbors' yards shirtless and countless days spent in their little pool in nothing but tiny swim trunks made Miles' mouth water with the urge to trace it with his tongue. There was no bulge there, not yet. They weren't in their 20s anymore, so their refractory periods were a bit longer. But Miles knew it soon would be. And as Ben loosened his grip on Miles' waist, spreading his legs, Miles stared in awe as his spend streamed down Ben's ass and thighs onto the bed. It felt like he was at a pagan altar, worshiping some ancient forgotten fertility god who was beckoning him into its clutches.

As if Ben was reading his mind, he spoke again.

"Gonna 'breed my slutty little hole', huh?" he purred, throwing Miles' impassioned words back at him while looking up at his lover with bedroom eyes. "Looks like I need filling up again."

'Yeah,' Miles thought to himself as his blood rushed south. 'He's definitely not making it to tennis today.'

Divider Credit -> @/thecutestgrotto

Images in headers are not mine.

Hope you liked it! Feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

He'd planned everything so well: made sure to pick a day and a time that he knew Miles would be out of the house, carefully avoided talking in detail about his plans for the day since Miles could smell a lie from him before it even left his mouth, and even washed his outfit one piece at a time in the past few weeks just to make sure Miles suspected nothing. Yet all Ben's carefully crafted schemes were falling apart in front of him, crumbling like a sandcastle under a rogue ocean wave.

"Sweetheart? Theresa and Gladys had to reschedule the knitting circle," Miles called again. His voice was getting closer. It sounded like he was in the hallway near Ben's office. "Little Molly got the flu, so they offered to stay with her so Charlotte could still go into work."

'Damnit,' Ben thought. Of course their granddaughter got sick. Why wouldn't she? The universe loved to laugh at Benjamin Mears. But why would Theresa and Gladys have to watch her? What the hell was Joe doing that was so important that… 'Oh. That's right…I invited him.' Ben closed his eyes, letting out a low slow breath instead of the big, dramatic sigh he wanted to.

"I figured I'd nip home and spend some time with you before I need to head out for the bake sale," Miles said, his voice coming ever closer. This time, it sounded like he was at the door of the bedroom. Ben's suspicion was confirmed when Miles continued with, "Ben? Are you in the bathroom?"

He could hear Miles' footsteps now getting closer. And closer. And closer. Until he knocked on the bathroom door, causing Ben to just about jump out of his skin, bumping into the towel rack and sending it clattering to the tile floor.

"Ben? Sweetheart, are you okay?" Miles asked again, concern now lacing his voice. Ben felt a pang of guilt, but at the sound of Miles jiggling the (thankfully) locked door handle, he knew he had to push that feeling down. It was the only way he was going to make it out in one piece.

"Ben?" Miles called again, twisting the door handle again, more forcefully. "What was that noise? And why aren't you answering…" His voice cut off abruptly with a sound like the oxygen had left his lungs all at once. Ben looked around, mentally trying to figure out what could have stopped a concerned Miles from checking on his suspiciously quiet husband. It was with dawning horror that he realized that it could only be one thing - the tennis racket.

'Fuck! Shit! Balls!' Ben mentally cursed himself. How could he have been so foolish? He should have taken it with him into the bathroom when he went to change just in case something like this very situation happened. Or at the very least he should have grabbed it when he knew Miles was in the house.

'Maybe that's not what stopped Miles,' Ben reasoned with himself in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable. Denial is always the first stage of grief, after all. 'Maybe he saw that I threw my socks on the ground yesterday instead of putting them in the hamper. Yeah! He fucking hates when I do that.'

Unfortunately, that reckless optimism didn't last. When he heard Miles' footsteps patter away and the sound of the dresser drawer, the one where Ben kept all of his tennis shorts including, naturally, the very pair he was wearing, opening and closing, there was no denying that the jig was up. And now the true battle, one for Ben's very soul, was sure to begin.

"Beeeeeeeeen," Miles called in a singsong voice back at the bathroom door, his voice sickeningly sweet. "Ben, my love, open the doooooooor."

'This must have been what it felt like for Mark when Danny Glick showed up at his window,' Ben thought bitterly.

"Beeeeeen. C'mon, baby, lemme in. I missed you!" Miles called again, pitching his voice to the perfect pout. "Didn't you miss me?" Ben could picture him now: standing at the bathroom door, his brow furrowed, making that cute little wrinkle between his eyebrows, lip sticking out, just begging for Ben to kiss, his big blue eyes round and sad, maybe even glistening with unshed tears.

Ben ripped his mind away from that image, shoving down the urge to unlock the door and embrace his husband. He hated Miles being sad, especially if Ben was the one who made him that way. The doorknob slowly turned, like Miles was trying to carefully test it without Ben noticing. Fortunately, his resolve hadn't fully weakened, so Miles was kept at bay - for now.

Unfortunately for Ben, Miles was nothing if not clever.

"Ben?" Miles' tone changed entirely, starting to sound genuinely worried. "Ben, baby? At least say something. Answer me, please?"

It was a ploy. Ben knew it was a ploy. But he wasn't dumb enough to think Miles would go away if he didn't answer. The door was locked for a reason. Miles knew he was in there.

"Ben?" Miles called again, beginning to raise his voice, an edge of panic invading his tone. "Ben, are you hurt?" The rattle of the door knob became incessant, like if Miles twisted it enough, maybe it would open. The sound was jarring, like something from a horror movie when the killer had cornered their victim and had only a flimsy door between them keeping the final girl alive. Ben knew about that feeling all too well. "Do I need to break the door down?"

'Okay,' Ben thought to himself, giving Miles a sharp look even though the other man definitely couldn't see it. 'He sounds far too excited about smashing the door in.' Still, he reasoned, he might as well at least answer his husband…

"Miles, I'm fine," Ben called, wincing at the way his voice cracked on the word 'fine.' He cleared his throat and restated his words. "I'm fine, babe. Stomach's just a little upset, that's all." An obvious lie, but he had to try something.

"Oh, really," Miles said sardonically. Ben could picture his husband rolling his eyes.

"Yeah," he bit out. "Must've been that shepherd's pie that Amelia gave us. Haven't been feeling too good all day."

"Is that right?" Miles said again, the sarcasm even heavier in his voice.

"Yeah. I wouldn't come in here if I were you. We might need to light some candles in here and open a window to air it out," Ben called.

Ben had often heard of the phrase "a light bulb moment," but he'd never put much faith in it. His bursts of inspiration were rarely sudden. They were more gradual things, more like building a house than flipping a switch. He started with the foundation, shoring that up before starting on the walls, then the ceiling, then the roof. Then voila, a fully built house. Or a fully baked idea. Or a plot for one of his books. Honestly, Ben was in a state of fight or flight; metaphors weren't exactly forthcoming at the moment. Anyway, Ben Mears had never had a eureka moment until right then when he looked at the bathroom window.

'Eureka,' Ben thought to himself.

Miles was still calling out to him, changing tacks and emotions with a fluidity that was more fitting to a professional thespian than sweet, mild-mannered Miles Miller. But Ben ignored him.

Instead, he started a list:

Tennis outfit, i.e. polo shirt, white shorts, and 'sports undergarment'? On his body. Check.

Keys and wallet? In his back pocket (thank God). Check.

Tennis racket? In the bedroom, completely unreachable. Fortunately, Phil usually carried a spare that Ben could bum off of him. Check.

Tennis shoes? That was a trickier prospect. They were by the front door in the shoe cubby storage that Ben and Mark built a few years ago. Ben could risk dashing in and grabbing them, but Miles was small and fast. The likelihood of being caught was raised exponentially by at least 25%. (Or 100%. Ben wasn't sure. Math was Miles' thing, not his. He wasn't a boring mathematician. Ben Mears was an effete English degree-wielding intellectual. Which, as Miranda would often remind him, meant he was a complete dumbass.) Anyway, Ben had a pair of boots in his car just in case of emergencies. Not the best shoes to play tennis in, but they'd have to do. Check.

Now all that was left for Ben to do was get out of the window without drawing Miles' notice, and he'd be home free. Or, more precisely, he'd make it to tennis with the boys on time.

'For once,' Ben thought, scowling as he thought about all the other times Miles had thwarted his outings.

As Ben slowly worked the window open, careful to not make a noise, he thought to himself. Sure, he could have gotten changed at the tennis court, but those bathrooms always smelled disgusting, the floor was even more disgusting, and he could barely use the damn toilet the stalls were so small let alone put on an entirely new outfit.

He also could have worn his regular clothes on top of his tennis clothes, but Miles could always tell. It was like he had a sixth sense. Most people only had five - sight (vision), smell (olfaction), hearing (audition), taste (gustation), and touch (tactile perception). Miles had an extra one - intuition (tennis shorts).

And, even though he'd've liked to, Ben wasn't allowed to wear regular clothes on the tennis court. It was in the park rules. Normally, that wouldn't hold Ben back, but he'd been on the receiving end of some nasty and particularly pedantic violations over the years. Officer McDowell would love any excuse to give Ben Mears yet another citation for flouting the park's extremely necessary and not-at-all-stupid guidelines.

Finally, at the rather unpleasant thought of George McDowell's unpleasantly jiggly jowls, Ben managed to wedge the bathroom window open enough to fit through. Carefully, he climbed on top of the toilet, managing to hook one foot out of the window before it occurred to him - it was awfully silent. He'd been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't realized Miles had stopped talking and shaking the doorknob. As much as he'd love to believe that Miles had simply given up the ghost, Ben Mears knew his husband so much better than that.

And before he could get his other foot out the window, the door knob clattered to the ground and the bathroom door blew open. Miles emerged, holding a screwdriver, his face a mask of unbridled (and deeply impatient) lust. Those big blue eyes locked onto his target - Ben's butt stretching the tight fabric of his tennis shorts, ready at any moment to split under the girthy weight of his fat ass.

Ben couldn't help it; he froze and time seemed to slow down with him. A thought flickered through his brain, one he was too stubborn to admit to himself - there was one actual solution to this problem. Well, besides the obvious one of giving up on tennis for good. Ben could have just worn boxer briefs. He'd worn those shorts plenty of times around the house with Miles placing nary a hand on him. But it was what was underneath the shorts that made Miles go feral. And, as much as he protested that he just preferred the feel, Ben Mears wasn't quite ready to admit to himself that he wore them on purpose.

Before he knew it, time had started again. Miles dropped what he was holding, casually scooping Ben up, throwing him over his shoulder, fireman-style. Most people assumed that Ben was the strong one in the relationship. After all, he was the one who relished in doing the manual labor around the house - planting and caring for their extensive fairy garden, chopping wood both for their house and for their neighbors, and mowing the lawn for any of the elderly in town. But Miles had a deeper kind of strength, one that came from years of quiet labor bolstered by the sheer amount of lust pulsing through his veins.

When Ben wriggled, Miles reached up, smacking his husband's ass hard enough to sting even though the fabric of his shorts. Ben let out a hiss of pain.

"Stop squirming," Miles said simply. Honestly, it was more words than Ben expected to get out of him. Miles was in what Ben referred to as 'caveman mode.' Ben would be lucky if he got anything more than grunts and the occasional growl out of him when he was like this.

It didn't take too many steps for Miles to reach the foot of their bed, carefully letting Ben fall from his shoulders and bounce lightly on the springy mattress.

Ben glanced at the door, his final last ditch effort to save himself from his inevitable fate, but alas, Miles had outsmarted him again. The door was closed. But that didn't stop Ben from arguing as Miles crawled over him on the bed.

"Miles, baby, the door isn't locked," he pointed out, literally pointing towards the unlatched door like Miles didn't know where it was. Ben was definitely panicking.

Miles only answered with a grunt as he started fumbling with the fastening of Ben's shorts like he was desperate to get them off to find the prize inside. 'Definitely caveman mode,' Ben thought fleetingly, his despair evident even to himself.

"Miles, my love, light of my life, what if Mark comes home and walks in on us?" Ben protested feebly, his words sounding weak to his own ears let alone Miles'.

"If Mark hasn't figured out to knock on a closed door in this house by now, especially the bedroom door, that's on him," Miles said, easily flipping Ben onto his stomach and wriggling the white shorts down and off of Ben's body.

Even Ben had to admit he had a point.

Miles let out an unmistakable sound of animalistic glee as he admired Ben's exposed cheeks, the eponymous straps of Ben's jockstrap perfectly framing them for Miles' eyes. He'd once described Ben in tennis shorts as "tantalizing wrapping paper for my favorite present," and, from the way Miles started planting kisses on the insides of Ben's thighs, Ben knew he wasn't exaggerating.

As Miles spread Ben's cheeks, letting his thumb brush over his puckering hole, Ben knew for sure that what he had feared was coming to pass - he was definitely going to be late for tennis. Again.

Also, seriously? Read "Try As I May (I'm Still Fighting For You)" by @hi-res-tm. It's so fucking good. 💚

Divider Credit -> @/thecutestgrotto

Bonus header that I loved but preferred the other one:

Images in headers are not mine (well, the Miles ones are screenshots I took, so I suppose they're mine?)

Hope you liked it! Feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

Chapter 8

Thump thump thump thump 

 His eyes were closed tight, the line of his narrow lids glued shut to block out everything but the feeling of each thump on the crown of his sweat-slick hair. The simmering heat coated his body, each droplet of water streaking down his huddled figure to reveal the pastels of pink beneath his skin like a sunset breaking through the grime.

 He forced his body to try breathe steadily through each drop. Dial turned down, they came slowly, the rhythmic patter guiding his rib cage up and down in stark contrast to the harsh scrub of the flannel against tender flesh. The clawing scent of cheap mint and lime soap kept him grounded even as it invaded his nostrils and into his throat. It just needed to drown out the evidence of last night, and then he would be done- to wash away his sins and be purified, born anew. He should have been excited. The voice in his head told him he was. Then why did the chords in his shoulders still tighten with each strike of the shower?

 In Vietnam, he had smelt only blood and dirt as he fell to his knees, surrounded by the dying he could only bear witness to. In the El Royale, he could only make out his own blood through the smoke as he fell into the arms of the woman he swore would be forced to watch him die. The chorus of thump thump thump, the torrent of the tropical storm and the life-saving spring of the fire sprinklers, all mixed in the tiny cubicle into a pounding, deafening echo of his past. He inhaled the soap again.

 He had weathered the deluge before, and he would do it again. The trembling of his hands was obscured as he planted them under his armpits, as he distracted himself with memories of his Nana, who had guided him to shower whenever he needed to relax, just as Ms Winters had done. He focused on them, on their kindness, their undemanding love and on the feel of a spring drizzle back home in Arkansas, causing the water to feel kinder on the ebbing motions of his chest until eventually it evened out. 

 Mind clearer, Miles thought then of Straker, who had told him to wash often to keep his temple pure because of the challenge. That to be afraid of the water was a weakness he must overcome as he prepared him for the trials that were sure to come if his defences fell. And now that they had, it was imperative that he build them back up as quickly as he himself had torn them down.  

 When Miles was done, he turned the shower off. He sighed, relieved or disappointed, he wasn't sure, as he flung the door open and stepped back out into reality. But the tension immediately returned to his spine, pulling him upright with a harsh jolt as his shoulders straightened, preparing themselves to carry out every command that had been thrust upon them over the last year. Just like the good soldier he was.

 So he prepared his work clothes, patting down any suggestion of a crease. He cleaned his teeth pearly white, spat and then brushed them again twice as rigorously. Deodorant sprayed over his body and then the clothes on the rack before he got dressed in his smartest uniform, popping the buttons in with finesse, and a tentative pride like he was braced for a barracks inspection. Soft hues of oranges and browns enveloped him as he zipped up the corduroy jacket that had belonged to Ms Winters’ late husband, before he returned the crucifix necklace to its home around his neck and turned to the mirror, combing and gelling his hair until even the stubborn cow lick was tamed.

 Examining himself now, steam fogging the glass, blurring out his eyes until only the blemished skin remained, Miles took in each wound in their totality, committing them to memory all over again so he could never forget how far he had let himself fall these last two weeks. How his pride had deluded him into believing he was the person he saw reflected in the twinkle of Ben's smile, rather than the mirror. Observing the skin pulled taut at his jaw, he wondered if maybe it was just morbid curiosity that had led Ben to kiss him at the drive-in, wanting to coax the touch-starved, doe-eyed shop assistant into revealing his secrets with just an easy imitation of affection. Perhaps the writer had just wanted to know how to describe the texture of his scars for a future book, how a man's lips compared to a woman's, all before he left for New York again.

 Miles knew the thoughts were cruel, but to the man who had been his stalwart in the search, not to himself. Without realising he was doing it, Miles ran his fingers over his cheekbone, soothing the skin under it like Ben had done when they kissed. It wasn't until the finger brushed the corner of his lips that he realised he had closed his eyes. 

 Ignoring the twitch under his suit trousers, he padded out of the bathroom, socks grazing the carpet of the halls as he struggled to lift his feet. But something wasn't right, Ms Winters' door was open - Miles was always up before her, unless-

 Miles heard the lazy morning singing as his landlady duetted with Sintra on the radio, accompanied by the harsh spits of sausages on the grill as she made breakfast. The realisation hit him - he had been so fixated on his goal to do everything perfectly, he had taken for granted that he had woken up at his usual time. Catching the blistering sun that lit up the landing, his stomach dropped. Just how long had he stayed up last night?

 Ms Winters pulled out a couple of plates as she set the table, humming to the trumpet line as she cracked the eggs over the pan. She turned the radio up louder, drums banging in time with the hurried clatter of steps as her companion barrelled down the stairs, holding the rail for support as he descended. 

 “Mornin’, Ms Winters!” he shouted from the living room as he ran to collect his keys.

 She startled from her reverie as he was behind her in a flash, a hand bracing against her as she nearly stepped back into him. He weaved to her side as he went to open the cabinets in a hurry.

 “Morning to you too, Miles”, she greeted, spinning to try and keep up with him as he searched the kitchen. “- What's got your knickers all up in a twist?” 

 Miles found the tupperware of simple oat flapjacks that he had made last week. They would taste like cardboard by now, but they would do. He refused to make eye contact as he placed it into his rucksack; years of playing the dithery old lady to get the town gossip had honed her skills into something truly formidable. She could suss out what he was doing last night with just a passing glance, and right now, cheeks flushed and deodorant clinging to every fibre, he was an open book. “Oh.. I'm.. I'm sorry, ma’am, it's just… I'm late for work, I promised Mr Straker I'd clean the s-shop today.”

 She gave the back of his head a disapproving look, “That man's got two working hands, hasn't he?”

 “Yes ma’am, but I've barely been there recently - it'll only take an hour. It's the least I can do before I head out with Mr Mears.”

 “Ah… Well, about that, your friend rang this morning”, she said, turning the radio down before stirring the pan. “- he was very nice and polite. I actually liked him.”

 The mention of his name sent his shoulders to his ears, voice cracking in cadence to the sizzling bacon fat, “He rang? What… w-what did he want?”

 The stillness in his frame didn't go unnoticed. Her voice was kind but firm, “Miles, turn around, please; it's rude to speak with your back facing someone.”

 She knew his weakness. If he didn't do it, the mere utterance of ‘what would your Nana say’ would have forced his hand. Turning slowly, he kept a grip on his bag. Her tone was scaring him, but still half asleep, he couldn't place why. 

“Thank you. Your ‘Mr Mears’ rang to say he wants what I've been telling you - for you to get some rest. Said he was worried about you yesterday and that Fr Callahan has offered to go with him today.”

 Miles waited for the punchline that never came. Ben couldn't have replaced him… Or could he? He would be well within his rights to feel fed up with carrying Miles' weight. Had Ben thought Miles was leading them astray? Maybe he was just bored with his company, disgusted by how Miles had hugged himself to him the day before- hell, perhaps he had blamed him for Glick not yet being found?-

 “No!” he shouted, embarrassed by the outburst, but he couldn't rein it in. “I… I don't- I'm fine, I promise. I'll ring him back and t-tell him-”

 But Ms Winters raised a single hand, and he stopped instantly. “He was already heading out, Miles”, she explained, voice soft like she was trying to console a crying child. “He said that you nearly fainted out there, that you were struggling to walk. Lord almighty, and to think you then cleaned the whole house after I asked you to leave it!”

 Flinching, Miles remembered the note he had ignored. It hadn't occurred to him how much it would affect her. He could only think she was upset because he had disobeyed.

 “I'm sorry, ma’am”, he said, forcing his voice to soften into something quiet enough to appease. “I didn't mean to make you upset. What can I do to make it right?”

 Instead, she just lowered her eyes, worrying the chain of the necklace as she reached for the words Miles knew he wouldn’t want to hear. Panicking, he picked up one of the plates, lips curling but not meeting his eyes as he crept towards her. 

  It was almost a good impression of a laugh as his head ducked to meet her gaze, “Want me to throw the dishes everywhere? Leave a mess to clean for you- Y-You know I'll hate but just say the word!”

 But she didn't bite. “No Miles. I'm being serious. I… you do understand, don't you? Why we're worried about you?”

 Crestfallen, he put the plate down. “You don't have to worry non’, Ms Winters, m’fine.. I would tell you if I wasn't.”

 “No, that's the problem. I don't think you would, Miles”, she said carefully, like she was still figuring out the words even after they came. “Ben mentioned he dropped you off at dinner time, but you weren't here when I went to bed. Where were you last night?”

 Miles gulped, unsure what she was angling for, but the suspicion in her tone went through him like nails on the chalkboard, “I was working- T-That's all! Promise I wasn't getting in any trouble!”

 He didn't realise that was the answer she dreaded most.

 The landlady turned the pan off; the air was thick in a way Miles had never been the target of. He didn't know why what he had said was wrong, but that didn’t stop him from forming another apology before she spoke-

 “At night? When you know perfectly well rumours are spreading about you and your bosses? Miles, it's dangerous…”

 He did know it, even if he wasn't ready to admit it. It went against everything he wanted to believe about the town he called home, even as he felt it was pushing him back out into the cold. He'd seen it himself, from innocuous things like passing suspicious glances as he went to the shops, to people shoving past him harder than accident could explain, and muttered, sharp words he couldn't bear to try and make out. He hadn't asked Ben if he had noticed it too, and Ben hadn't asked him for the same reason: Neither wanted to worry the other.

 “It's the only time I got...”

 “-Its the only time you have to rest,” she bit. Seeing him flinch broke her heart, but she couldn't let him deflect as he always did when the topic of Straker came up. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “Please. I'm not mad at you, just tell me - how often is he asking you to do this? Does he know how much you're taking on?”

 Her tenant stood frozen, still recovering from the snap of her voice like a whip across his ears. He steadily shook his head back to life, not even seeming like he knew he was doing it, “I'm sorry- but please, I know what you're tryin’ to get me to say and I won't, I… I won't speak ill of him after e-everything he's done for me”. Despite his protests, he took another step forward, hoping she would drop the subject, hug him and kiss his cheek like she did every morning before work. All he wanted was her comfort, even as he knew he would have to break away from it to return to Straker’s orbit. Observing her carefully, he choked on the breath he didn't know he was holding. She looked so disappointed. 

 Miles tried to think of the perfect argument to make her brighten up again - she glowed like the morning sun when he made her smile, but his mouth only flexed to form the defence of his beloved boss that never came. All Straker had done for him, the same argument with her again and again, and still he couldn't think of anything to soften the worry that deepened the wrinkles of her brow. 

 Never possessing the confidence to express how strongly he felt, Miles flung the backpack over his aching shoulder and made to leave, “I just… I can't do this today ma’am. I admit, yesterday? It was tough, but I'm all better now… a-and I have to get to work.”

 “No, Miles. I've held my tongue for long enough”. Ms Winters grabbed his wrist as he tried to escape over the threshold of the kitchen, halting the man twice her height. “If we don't have this conversation today, then when? When you’re so exhausted that you make a mistake and end up in the hospital? Because that is what will happen if he has his way… Just give me one good answer; why is he putting you through all this?”

 “He ain't putting me through anything I don't want to do, nothin’ he don't believe is good for me”, he said, as harshly as he pulled his wrist free, causing her to stumble. Hating himself for using force, Miles didn't know why her words sent a shudder of dread through him, but it made him feel trapped, like he was back at the police interrogation room after the El Royale. “It's my job, ma’am, one that I've been failin’. I know you don't see it, but it does help me, he says-”

 “What he says is as worthless as gum on a boot heel! The things that come out of your mouth, Miles, the things he puts in your head? They scare me. And I think deep down they scare you too.”

 Seeing the impact of each word hit him like it had taken physical form made her throat clench, as if her body was trying to protect him from herself, but she wanted, no- needed a fight. All Ms Winters craved was for him to rage against her so she could throw it right back at him, to show her cherished friend every single light inside himself that Straker was trying to extinguish- but that she saw burning, struggling to break through the darkness of his shadow. It was unfathomable to her why he chose this sweet boy to sink his claws into- but he had done, as sure as God made Moses. As sure as she heard his muffled sobs as he slept in that morning. 

 But as he shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, he made for the door. The draft sent a chill through her old bones; it felt like another flame blowing out. 

 “Wait. Sweetheart…”, she entreated, “Can't you stay a while and have breakfast with me? I've made this for you, Miles. Old biddie like me ain't apologising, but we don't have to talk if you're angry… Just let me see you eat something and know that you'll be okay today.”

 Miles unlocked the door and turned back, eyes fixed on the blue lounge rug that spanned an ocean between them, ignoring the enticing smell of the cooked breakfast he had so often given in to. He brought a hand to his mouth and nibbled nervously on the nail of his thumb. She hadn’t seen him do that in months. “I don't want a fallin’ out with you, ma’am…”, I want to explain everything so much, but I can't see you look at me like that again- “I-… I'm just gonna go, Ms Winters. You have a good day.” 

 He didn’t turn back as she watched him leave.

 Across from town, past Main Street and into a small offshoot of shops that lined the wooded edge of the Lot, Richard Straker stared down from the top floor of his store like a gargoyle haunting a cathedral. As silent and unmoving as ancient stone from his perch in the window, he watched. And he waited. But still his ward did not arrive. Instead, a single man, one he had seen before rummaging around like a diseased rat in search of smaller prey than him to infect, now bent low before the door of the antique shop. Hood pulled over his face, yet confident enough to act in broad daylight, he got out a lock pick and went to work.

 The owner looked down like a vulture, tracking prey that did not yet know it was dead, his hefty shadow spreading down over the facade like inky tentacles towards his master's next meal. But then he had an idea. A merciful one, of a sort. He could put the malefactor to some use, certainly more in death than he had ever been in his wretched life. So insignificant was he, that Straker never recognised the man with whom he’d once crossed paths. That months ago, he himself had set into motion the events that would lead a boy, not even old enough to drink, back to his doorstep, and thus his death.

 Life had been cruel to him. But Richard Straker was crueller.

 By the time the hooded man looked up, the window was empty. And on a cool, sunny autumnal day, weather forecast prophesying it would be the last of its kind for the year, Justin Ryerson disappeared. No one in his estranged family was still alive to miss him, nor did the usually nosy neighbours report the screams as he was dragged from the door to the boot of a car. 

 The only proof of his existence was the bag of abandoned spray cans, and dropped from his hand, as his wrist was snapped underfoot, a single knife that had been intended for the absent shop clerk.

 By the time Miles arrived, the blood and spittle that was strewn across the front step had been cleaned, the knife hidden, and Straker's car gone. Only a message, sprawled across the wall and front window in still-dripping neon pink paint, gave any indication as to what had occurred. The final letter cut off, slashed downwards in a sudden drop to the floor:

“WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE MONSTER”

 Already dazed from his confrontation with Ms Winters, Miles’ legs reacted before his frazzled mind could play catch-up. The bus stop was the only thing propping him up as his eyes frantically darted over each letter and back again to confirm to himself it was real. Without looking, he sprinted across the road, shoes barely clearing the sidewalk as he ran to the front door and straight into the shop. The door was unlocked, giving way easily with a shove of his still-aching shoulder as he cried out for his boss.

 The shop was deathly still except for the gentle sway of the curtains. Yet everything was as he remembered. Not taking any chances, Miles grabbed the antique candlestick holder from the table display, dropped his rucksack and hugged the bookcase against his back all within a single step. Shimmying against it as his focus flicked between the back room to the basement, and Straker's office behind the desk, he held his breath - knuckles dancing across the body of the makeshift weapon as he braced for an attacker that never came. Avoiding all the creaking floorboards he knew so well, he fiddled with the doorknob, but it didn't budge - it was locked from his side. Pirouetting silently on his heel, he then turned his attention to Straker's office. Years spent in the forests of Vietnam kept his nerves steadier than they had ever been in the last 24 hours as he crossed the floor with practised ease - but as he prepared to knock the door down, he stopped. There on the counter was a note. Even from a distance in the corner of his eye, Miles knew Straker's handwriting anywhere.

 Lowering the candlestick, he picked up the paper. Written in the most precise of calligraphy, it described the events of a young criminal who came to vandalise the shop, ranting and raging after the assistant with expletives not meant to touch the ears of God or the sanctity of the written word. Straker assured him he was taking the delinquent to the Sheriff’s office, after which the young Mr Miller was to come and see him at home to discuss the delicate matter of his unauthorised absence. 

 And yes, he was unharmed. The ‘despite being alone’ and the ‘no thanks to you’ left unwritten, but its invisible scorpion tail struck between its reader’s ribcage as sharp as the pocket knife it had replaced. Its poison seeped through frozen veins as Miles recoiled, fisting the note between trembling fingers.

 The letter never confessed that it had been the man whom Miles had devoted his life to, who grabbed the spray paint and defaced the shop. That it was Straker who wrote the message, knowing what would hurt his ward the most, with an unrestrained glee that powered each dramatic flick of the wrist. All the while, Justin’s cries for help were muffled by the cleaning rag lodged between his teeth.

 And so the poison was left to fester into his racing thoughts - Miles had let him down. Worse than that, what would have happened if Straker hadn't been there to stop the assailant? Would he have gotten the jump on him? Killed him? Heaven forbid what if Straker had died protecting him?

 And all because he stayed up late into the night, giving into his most sick and twisted fantasies and memories, ungratefully turning his back on everything he had been taught. How dare he, of all people, think his boss’s guidance hadn't been enough? And now it was Straker who bore his punishment.

 Miles felt sick, the room turned on its own axis as his stomach spun against it. Knees giving out, he caught himself against the desk, retching into his hand to save the rug. The bile burned at his throat - but his stomach was still empty. Coughing through the acidic taste, he planted his feet below him and staggered to the cleaning utensils under the desk. Each step was matched with a stuttering inhalation followed by exhalation as he practised his breathing exercises like they were the only thing keeping him from breaking down. He carried that focus as he filled the bucket with water, washed his hands and went outside to clean the paint.

 It took hours to wipe it clean; the pink was so vibrant that it stuck to each and every crack along the wooden facade as he scrubbed it, and then scrubbed it again. No longer did the routine free his mind, instead it sent him further down the spiral as the scrub of the sponge rubbed his fingers raw. Miles thought he recognised the kick of the ‘K’ from his boss’s handwriting, but he put it down to simply the curve of the windowsill.

 As the autumn sun began to fall early in the afternoon, still he cleaned until he could be sure his Master’s pride and joy was spotless. His only company was the shadows of the occasional passerby who stopped to gawk before their silhouette moved on with its day. Miles thought he even heard one shadow snigger.

 When he was finally finished, he wiped his sweaty brow, disposing of the bucket and returning to his once safe haven at the desk. The sign was turned to ‘open’, but the shop remained empty. Miles, fingers racking themselves through his previously immaculate hair, tried and failed to expel the fear that snapped his neck every time he heard a foreign sound. The shop was too quiet.

 He had already gone around and cleaned the inventory, treating each item like an old, fondly remembered friend as he mourned the ones who had gone to new homes. The layers of dust were thicker than they had ever been during his tenure, but he couldn’t blame Straker for not having the time.  However, they didn't hold the same power over him now; their familiarity dulled by just a couple of short weeks, he no longer recognised the weight in his hands. How could their company compare to his new friends? Let alone the writer who had already moved on from him. 

 Miles pushed the thought down. He looked towards the book of witchcraft that Ben had found on their first meeting, still at its place on the bookshelf, taunting him with the pictures of sodomy and tantalising debauchery inside. On a previous day, maybe he would have given in, but not anymore- before he had time to reconsider, he picked it up and threw it in the trash outside. He was about to close the lid when a flash of metal caught his eye, drawing him in; he found a pocket knife sticking out of the recent refuse. Flicking the blade up, Miles used his skills learned in appraising the antiques and saw the recent soap marks, inferring it had just been cleaned. The handle was new, rarely used, if not even recently bought - he recognised it instantly from the DIY shop down Mainstreet. It didn’t belong to his boss, so where had he gotten it from, and why had he thrown it away? Miles knew the obvious reason why it would have been cleaned, but his boss had assured him he was unharmed and there was no way he would hurt someone and then hide the evidence… But surely he would have mentioned if the perpetrator had brandished a knife at him? 

 It must have been nothing, just the worries of an over-anxious mind. Yet, his hand moved without thought, putting it into his pants pocket for protection. 

 Ever the dutiful servant, he then looked for more jobs to do to distract himself from the doubt that he refused to let seed in his mind; he picked at the pages of the ledger, looking for new inventory to appraise - but there was nothing. No purchases, and only a few scant sales he himself had made last week… But then why had he found some of the antiques missing during his rounds? It didn’t matter, however. None of it did, as the blank paper that stared back at him felt just as dread-inducing as the scene when he had first arrived. Straker had never mentioned any money concerns, but if things continued like this and they remained in the red? There was no way they could afford the rent at the end of the month if this was all they had sold… A single, terrifying thought suddenly seized his fragile mind in an iron grip: If whatever Miles had done wrong to ostracise them from the community, then drove them out of business… then what would he do? Where could he even go? He didn’t have another place to call home, not since his Nana had died.  

 The clock struck 4 pm. It was an hour early, but God help him, he couldn't remain with just himself for company anymore. Turning the sign to ‘closed’, he left before it got dark and made his way for the first time this week, back to church.   The weight of the rosary beads proved to be a more stabilising presence in his hands as he knelt in the back pew of the Lot’s only Catholic Church, St Joseph’s. So at one with the shadows and simple furnishings, he looked at a piece in the outdated chapel. Miles had hoped beyond measure that Callahan would be there, having returned from the search with Ben to grant him guidance before he faced Straker. There was, however, a part of him that he refused to give voice to, that upon seeing the priest, he’d see his regret for having even taken his place by Ben’s side. It was a shameful, unworthy thought, but Miles found his weakened state was bombarded with more and more of them.

 Desperate to take confession, he found the church was closed. Thankfully, Callahan had given the young believer a key for whenever he needed the peace that the large but humbly decorated nave could provide. He may be alone still, but he never felt lonely there. Reds and greens illuminated his moving lips as the setting sun caught the stained-glass window, the kaleidoscope of colours diffused the scene of the resurrection into sharp jagged edges across the stone floor, swallowing up the kneeling man in their spotlight. Head bent low, his fingers moved around the chain, one wooden bead at a time, as he said a Hail Mary, a Glory Be at the decade and repeated, going around again and again until he reached 131 beads. One for each person whose life he had taken. Upon finishing, his fingers gingerly rolled the focal bead between thumb and forefinger, whose bright copper shine had long been rubbed to a dull, cloudy shade of bronze. It had been gifted to him by his first army squadron that had been wiped out in a swift ambush on a stormy, sweltering evening outside Da Nang. A single bullet casing from the sniper rifle that he had used to destroy so many lives, melted down into something Straker had insisted he keep upon the cord. It was sacred, he had said, to be gifted the ability to use his hands to protect - he just needed reminding what could happen when it was directed by worldly masters.  

 Straker had given Miles his own worship regime to follow, one rosary set to remember and meditate on his sins, the other to show gratitude. Prayers of penance finished, he placed the dark, black, mass-produced rosary into his trousers pocket and took out his second rosary, the one his Nana had left him, along with his necklace. The beads were from her only ever pilgrimage, a collection of her favourite colour, green agates and malachites alternating on hand-woven cord as he did as he was instructed; to remember and give thanks for each of Straker's lessons. One for each decade, tying his mentor intrinsically to the memory of his loving Nana, cementing the new foundations of his life, plastering over the old. The prayers took much longer than his first rosary and grew seemingly every week. 

 Upon the final set of beads before the cross, he changed course. He asked forgiveness - one for Ms Winters and Ben, Straker, and Ralphie Glick, all of whom he failed.

 Knees tender against the thin cushion, he lingered a while longer, the draft of the slowly delapidating church swayed his body along with the wave of his fringe, the curls caressing his clammy forehead, soothing him like a lover's hand into wakeful dreaming as he searched for that inner peace to forgive himself. He made the sign of the cross, not knowing if he found it, but the practised, well-worn motions gave him a familiar comfort anyway. The church was quiet, but it felt safer than Straker’s shop.  

 By the time he gave up waiting for Callahan to arrive, the sun had set, and the church was awash with just the warm spheres of candlelight as they guided his way out and into the blackening clouds that were swallowing up the newborn stars. But that just left the question, where was he? Ben had always insisted they were back before nightfall, even as Miles protested he could go on longer by himself. Miles was terrified of confronting Ben after he took an ageing priest on the search of all people, rather than him. He knew they would have to discuss it eventually, but the rejection still hurt, even as he walked across town once more to Ben’s boarding house, set on doing something proactive to help. He just needed to know he was okay. Awash with anxiety for his friends, he didn’t care that he had been left behind anymore.

 The clerk hummed, nervously and out of tune to himself the whole walk over, drowning out the voice in his head screaming at him that it was a bad idea. But when he got there, he didn’t see Ben’s car parked on the street. Pace quickening as he hurried to the porch, he hammered on the door, far too loudly if the furious look on the owner was anything to go by. But she said she hadn’t seen him and slammed the door in his face.   Miles tried the Sheriff’s office around the corner, but the receptionist informed him that all the officers were out on several disturbance calls. He considered asking about the vandalism at the shop, who the perpetrator was, and if they had mentioned him, but the weary look on the receptionist’s face gave him pause. Not wanting to be any more of a burden today, he dropped it.  Another lead tapered off in another dead end. He considered asking the others for assistance, but Miles didn’t want to bother Matt, who had already done so much to help them, especially since it was a school night. He thought of asking Susan, but she was already in hot water with her increasingly volatile mother, a fact she would happily ignore to help Miles - hence why he ventured past her house alone. The shop assistant knew then what he had to do.  Seeing it as the only way to help his friends, he met his fear head-on, rehearsing an apology in his mind that could never fully describe the contrition that held him by the throat as he made his way under flickering street lights to the Marsten house.  Turning off the main road, he plunged his hands deep into his jacket pockets, his shoulders hunched as he protected himself from the few onlookers who watched from behind their curtains. Whether imagined or not, he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t stop the hairs on his neck from standing on end. Anxiety radiated from under his many layers as he watched the hurried rhythm of his shoes make their way towards the Marsten house, stopping only when he sensed another presence on the pavement, feet then making a sharp turn to cross the road. If Ben and Callahan were still missing, and a storm was coming in, Mr Straker would help him find them. But the knowledge didn't ease the sense of foreboding he felt in the air.

 By the time he made it to his boss’s residence, thick, black clouds encircled the haunted remains of the once family home turned murder scene. It looked as though the evil that had taken place there still drew them in from all corners of the county, to shield it from anyone not brave enough to venture into their total darkness.

 Whereas once Straker had waited patiently in his car for Miles to throw himself wholeheartedly into his expert seduction, now he looked down from the attic window like a Roman Emperor, watching the willing slave venture into the lion’s den without a word said to entice him. His Master would be so proud when he saw the offering he had created for him. 

 Straker gave the signal, a flash of his pocket watch lost to his ward as it clashed against the thunder rolling towards them upon the horizon. But the beast behind him saw it as clear as day.

 Miles had only ascended the first step when a voice from behind him stopped him dead in his tracks. He could recognise that voice anywhere, heard it often enough when his bedroom was too quiet, and the shame of their acquaintance plagued his thoughts. Even in his paranoid state, he had never heard him coming. 

 “Miiiiillllleeeesss. Where do you think you’re going, friend?”  He didn’t turn around, not at first, hoping he was just hearing things, but the snigger grew louder.  “I missed you earlier, what were you getting up to, I wonder?” the voice hissed. 

 Slowly, Miles turned around to see the shadowy figure covered in darkness as he stood outside the light that descended from the Marsten House’s window. He wore a hood pulled up, covering his face as he waited, the contours of his body swallowed under the baggy clothes, and yet he could still see how primed he was. Feet on tiptoes, muscles coiling tighter and tighter, like a spring about to snap.  But Miles didn’t move. He couldn’t. He couldn’t even hear his own voice over the shuddering heartbeat in his ears, “J-Justin… So, it was you who defaced the shop and attacked Mr Straker?” The figure just nodded. “I.. I… thought he took you to the police?”  Justin laughed, his chest heaving with fevered excitement, “It would take more than bars to keep me from you, Miles. I won’t leave you alone, not the way you did me.” His taunts cut as sharp as any blade upon his already bruised soul, “Now tell me, what did you do with Ralphie Glick?” 

 Miles felt the ground ensnare his feet to the steps, as the sight of two sharp teeth glimmering under the blackness of the hood pinned him in place. The sweat that ran down his forehead felt deathly cold. “Justin, p-please. Whatever you think I’ve done its not-”  “It doesn’t matter, Miles!” he shouted. “Nothing you say does! You said you wanted to help me? You think you can walk into town, pretend you’re all innocent like you belong here!?” He started to encircle the quivering clerk, pacing the edge of the light from the window like the boundaries of an arena, “But I know. I know what those scars are from, killer. Fired enough shotguns in my time to know a buckshot wound when I see one. You get caught trying to snatch another kid out west?”  “I-Its not… Please, J-Justin, I can e-explain. I- I didn’t mean to hurt you- Tell me what I did”, but he could tell his pleas were falling on deaf ears as he crept closer up the hill towards his cowering prey.  Changing tack, he tried so desperately to keep the blood-curdling fear from his tiny voice as he straightened up, “D-Dont come any c-closer! I-”. And that was when he saw it, as the man who had tormented him for months revelled in breaking the threshold of the light. Miles couldn’t contain the gasp that shot his vocal cords. Recoiling in fear, the smell of decay reached him at the same time as the sight of the soft material of his jacket. It was drenched in congealing, thick and clotted scarlet blood, all from his left shoulder to the hem. There was no way he should still be standing, and judging from the ashen, grave pallor of his face, his body agreed with him. Miles felt his stomach lurch.

 However, despite every nerve in his body screaming at him to make towards the house, Miles wouldn't budge. Not without trying to help him first. “Justin, you’re hurt. We need to get you to a h-hospital, you’re bleedin’ out.”  But Ryerson’s response was only to let that painted Cheshire grin twist and spread over half of his face like a distorted funhouse mirror image of a real person, his teeth a sickly yellowy-white that otherwise blended into his moon-touched skin. It would only take two quick leaps, and he could have Miles within his claws. “Oh Miles, why would I go to a hospital when I have a donor right here?” He inhaled, filling his chest and exhaling with an almost orgiastic sigh, “...Smelling so sweet and ripe? Just ready for me to tear you open-”.

 Finally, Miles’ feet started to move him up the stairs, even as his knees threatened to buckle. He assumed he was delirious from blood loss, but whatever spite was still animating the clamouring husk towards him, he knew he couldn’t reason with it as Justin anticipated his every move, the motions too considered, too perfectly restrained for someone on death’s door, as he took a stride forward for every one of Miles’s quick and terrified steps back.  Suddenly, seeing the frenzied, gleeful glint in his eyes, he remembered the shine of the blade he found in the trashcan. He grabbed the pocket knife and held it straight between them, pointing it at his throat, keeping Justin over an arm's width away as he tried to retreat to be within earshot of Straker’s house.  “Stay back - I-I-I’ll use it!” he tried to shout, but it came out barely harder than a sob as he held his outstretched arm with his other to keep it steady. He almost lost his footing as he stepped backwards up the hill, but the moment's hesitation as he cricked his eyes back was all Justin needed - it was only a flash of lightning, and he was gone. Ducking and weaving under his arm, the attacker’s sharp nails dug into Miles’s wrist, piercing the skin like a rabid dog’s bite as he twisted his hand up. Through the tears of agonising pain, Miles could still just about make out his fatal error - in his terror and trepidation to hurt Justin, he hadn’t even released the blade. Years in the army, nerves as steel as he killed with steady hands on the trigger, shot cultists even as he fought through stab wounds… all the survival instincts that kept him alive through impossible odds… All disappeared on just a stormy evening in Maine against an unarmed civilian.  

 Before he could question why, his fingers were yanked back with a might heave, almost to the point of breaking as Justin took the knife from his palm and waved it in front of him, “Ah ah ah, little rabbit. Its not safe to play with toys, especially if you’re not willing to use them.” 

 Miles took a swing with his free hand, but seeing him struggle energised Ryerson all the more, batting it away like it was nothing. Helpless and desperate, Miles thought he saw passerbys walk down the road - he tried to call out, but they merely sped up, crossed the street and disappeared. He sobbed, hoping he just hadn’t shouted loud enough.

 Justin ignored his cries for help. He knew no one could stop him. With almost superhuman strength, Justin shoved him onto his back with just a single flat hand to his sternum that hit him with the force of a wrecking ball. Miles’ head smacked against the wooden step behind him. Pain flashed behind his eyes as the crows that flew in front of the pitch-black clouds that swirled above him like water down the drain. But something wasn’t right; two stars stayed perfectly still. Blinking through the static haze, he made them out as the glimmering pinpoint light of the predator's eyes bearing down on him. But Justin’s eyes were sunken and hollow like a cadaver. It was the sharp edges of his canines he saw.  Legs astride his arms, completely confident there was no way the military veteran could overpower him, Justin watched him struggle like a worm wriggling through the mud towards the maw of a hungry bird. Miles felt hot, sticky liquid clumped his hair as he struggled to recover, pushing himself back with weak kicks of his heels further up the stairs as though there was any hope of escape. It only took a single boot to his throat to stop him dead in his tracks.

 It wasn’t since his withdrawals in that lonely hospital in Nevada that Miles Miller thought for certain he was going to die. And now, feeling the rubber imprint itself into his flesh, pushing down his bobbing Adam’s apple with a playful encircling of the outsole of his trainer, all he could do was grab at the ankle that could end his life in one crush of his heel. 

 The lack of oxygen darkened the periphery of his vision, closing in like the Iris out cut of a closing credits, accompanied by the Thump thump thump of the rain striking his skin. No longer in the comfort of Winters’ home shower, the overwhelming, indescribable cacophony of sensations all converged to send Miles back to the forest floor of Vietnam. Justin, standing proud above his victim, was transformed into the enemy general who cackled in broken English, raining spittle down on him as the storm clouds opened up above the two men in cruel symmetry.  The lightning crashed again like a flashbang, the electric clap triggering the memory of his squadron that was slaughtered as each rumble of thunder ricocheted in his ears like the bullets that flew past him. Justin must have noticed as he squatted over the dazed man below him, his head blocking out the moon, as he sardonically clicked his fingers in front of his unseeing eyes. The rain seeped through his clenched mouth as he tried not to scream, but the drops wormed their way through his defences, the sensation against his tongue forcing him to gasp, opening him up to the torrent above him. It made him gag; it felt like his head was being dunked into the toilet again, back in middle school. Justin’s weight crashed into him like the fist of his bully as he let up on his throat, only to drop to his knees, straddling his chest to press his spine further into the painful edge of the step. He didn’t realise it through the rain, but his tears finally broke through past tightly shut lids.

“Aww don’t cry, Miles, keep that taste in for me - it's a waste of perfectly delicious fear.”

 Justin wiped the streaks away with a mockingly loving thumb before he shoved his head to the side and dived at his naked neck. He nuzzled the juicy vein with his bony nose as if he could smell it under the sweat-drenched skin. Even Miles’ scent was exquisitely sinful. But the action had turned the veteran to face the knife that lay in the tall grass. He reached for it with a clumsy hand as it strained against the knee that planted itself on his bicep. His fingers grazed the handle, but he couldn't reach it.

 Justin must have felt him struggling, but he gave no sign of concern as his teeth followed the vein to the cup of his shoulder. The assailant's breath was bone-chillingly cold as he spoke into the marred skin like a lover, “Ahhh. I can smell it, you know. All that sin polluting your blood… No, enhancing it. Oh, the enticing things you have done, Miles. And to think you thought it was something I needed saving from”. He ran his tongue back up over his neck, smearing the rain with his saliva, causing the man below to kick at the air frantically - but it was no use, he only laughed harder as he rode the bucking like a seasoned bull rider, tiring the animal below him until he was ready to be put out of its misery. “Fuck- I can even taste it. I know the bitterness of heroin anywhere, Miles, and it's seeping from you. Is that the only reason you tried to befriend me? Wanted to see if I could help you score?”  Miles whimpered as the freezing lips against his jaw made him seize up, “Ohh, and that saltiness? Heh… Not so innocent are you, little clerk?”  Miles tried to block him out. It scared him how he could guess such things even as he must have been jacked up on drugs. But before Justin could continue, Miles used his cockiness to lunge at the now readied knife, barely able to reach - but he did it. Taking it in his hand, fingers tight, knowing his life depended on it, he yanked his arm out from under the knee. He raised it to Ryerson’s neck and-  He froze. The hood had fallen during the scuffle, revealing the boyish honeyed locks of greasy hair underneath. Justin stirred, releasing Miles' neck as his green eyes stared daggers into him. And yet? He looked so young. The years of drug use marked him with blemishes like unmapped constellations, a unique galaxy of spots and grazes that at once reminded Miles of his own that he had gazed upon just that morning in the bathroom, hidden under the wounds of the shotgun pellets. The ones that he had hidden under stolen makeup from the maid’s room at the El Royale. That he had been blessed to live long enough to see healed. And here he was, about to take away Justin’s life, and with it, his only shot at the redemption Miles had been gifted several times over.

 Justin was right, Miles had abandoned him. In the early days of his life in the Lot, he had watched as Justin stole the money from the back of Mr Gregson’s milkfloat. The telltale tremor in his hands mimicked Miles’ own as he had set up camera after camera, just for another hit to feed the beast until he could sleep again. They had struck up something close to his first friendship in years, Miles promising him he would help him quit. Even then, he hadn’t been sure if Justin believed him, but he never got the chance to prove to him that he could do it. Straker had seen them together. Against his absolute command to stay out of public life. It took only one conversation in a dark alley, Justin’s feet straining desperately to return to the floor, to ensure he never went to Miles again. He had told the frightened boy of barely eighteen years that Miles wanted nothing to do with his worthless life anymore. But Miles never knew, and Justin never told him. Instead, he made it his mission to make Miles feel afraid as he had done in that moment. And he did, all because Straker allowed it.  So now? Knowing he was about to extinguish the stubborn, tarnished but still divine light of another soul. One that had survived so much, even surviving him? He couldn’t do it. He promised at the altar of St Joseph’s that he would never make it to 132 kills. 

 But what was the alternative?

 To him, there wasn't one. 

 So he stopped struggling and lowered his arm back into the grass. The wet, dewy autumnal leaves crunched under him as he forced himself to relax and remember the Lord's prayer. The gentle rocking of the grass in the breeze reminded him of home. He clung onto that feeling tighter than the knife, willing it to carry him through what came next-

 He took a shaky, choked breath. He had tried. He hoped beyond all hope that his God knew just how much he had tried. And now he tried one last time to fight against the encroaching memories of his past, pushing down the rising terror that flooded his lungs as he focused on the feeling of the soil, and not the warm liquid that was soaking into it from his head. 

 Miles looked up, avoiding the sight of the man he forgave, more readily than he ever had done himself. He prayed for him, hoping he would find the kindness he had from his friends. But in his vision, as the dark clouds seemed to come to greet them, there was a crack - just a tiny peak. A single star, bright and as radiant as any he had ever seen. The whites of his eyes glistened like diamonds under its beauty.

 His Nana's voice echoed in his ears through the ringing static. He had lain with her like this in her allotment, not long after his parents had died. She told him of how his ancestors from Ireland knew the Ursa Major as The Plough. Of how his parents and the generations before him all worked the farms of Arksanas tirelessly for their families. She reminded him to embody their example, to tread lightly upon the earth, never harming, never ungrateful, even with all the hardship they had both suffered. She had taken his hand in hers and pointed him towards the star that shone brightest, “Remember, Miles, that star has looked down upon our family since time itself began, just as it looks over Ursa Minor. That’s why your father always called you his Little Bear. And if you're ever lonely or afraid, just point your finger up, and you'll see it, that’s where your parents are now, watching over you.”

 And for years he believed it. He gazed upon it from his bedroom window as he said his nighttime prayers to his parents. Even when he was drafted, he and his Nana vowed to look for the Plough every night and think of each other, even as he was half the world away. She promised it would always guide his way home to her. And ever loyal, the young soldier had kept up the ritual long after she had died, the letter from home taking weeks to reach him.

 There was no way for him to know which star hung above him, but as his body turned colder than the ground, and the body on top of him shifted, he chose to believe. He hoped his family saw something in him to be proud of.

 The grass cradled him even more gently than Darlene's soft arms had done. 

 But it wasn't to last.

 “-Pathetic little rabbit”, came the voice. Miles kept his gaze up, his whole world shrinking to just that one point as he tried to block it out, but no amount of wishful thinking could prevent that sharp tug in his hair that dragged his vision back down to earth.

 He knew he was supposed to see Justin, but snapped away from his one comfort; all he could perceive was how the bloodied man before him looked so much like the young cultist he had shot dead as he readied a gun at Darlene. The hand that snatched the knife was now dripping red, the same hand of the baby-faced private who had clutched at his pant leg as he begged Miles to save him. He snatched his arm back from his grasp, the same as he had done with his leg, as he left the boy to the fate he never learnt. But Justin was stronger than the young soldier and dug his nails into Miles's shoulder blade until the knife dropped from his hand. The wounds burned like the knife of the girl who stabbed him in the stomach on the casino floor. Each inch of tendons and sinew tried to escape, tearing itself further under inhuman claws as his screams of pain rang in his ears like the cries of his Nana when she heard the news that her only son had died. It was too much - every memory and traumatic sensation flooded his body as he was left trembling and numb on the stairs, in the mud of Vietnam, on the floor of the hotel- he didn’t know - he just knew he felt cold, he was scared, he was so sorry, he cried out- “Ben…!”  But all of a sudden, the pain lifted, and with it, the figure above him was forced to his feet. Still dazed, Miles could barely make out the shadow that towered over him and even his would-be killer, but he saw his neck bend back unnaturally under strong hands that threw him to the ground. Lightning flashed again as if he was back being recorded at the El Royale-

 The harsh, pointed features of Straker bore down on him like a vengeful demon from a medieval depiction of hell that littered his family's church walls. They had scared him into repentance as a young boy, and it did again as he watched as Straker turned to grab the slimmer man by his throat. The thunder muffled the command his Master uttered, which made the frenzied slashing of Justin Ryerson stop on a dime, as if he were a cheap toy whose batteries had fallen out. 

 If Miles’s eyes hadn’t closed in fear, he might have seen Straker pat the assailant on the back as he sauntered off. Instead, Miles babbled nonsense words in the rhythm of a prayer, closing himself off as the image of the terrifying shadow still burned into his mind’s eye. Still, as the fear threatened to drown him completely, the figure changed, only subtly, into the man who had stood in the penumbra of the cinema projection just two weeks earlier. The man who had taken him in open hands and held him in a soft embrace until his mind was calmer than it had been in his entire adult life. Whose form had protected him from the world, not scared him, who kissed away every fear until they all became meaningless compared to the sounds he drank from his lips.

 Without realising it, his heart beat that bit slower, no longer skipping chaotically under his chest. It was only when large, calloused hands hiked him to his trembling feet that he felt his blood-soaked arms hugging himself. He collapsed as quickly as he was forced to stand, knees striking the hard ground as he grasped at the neatly pressed trouser leg before him for support. He let go, seeing how he stained the fine material with his dirty claws. He was too exhausted to realise it was his blood. Instead, all he could do was crane his neck up at the towering statue of his saviour.  He nervously followed Straker’s gaze to the knife that lay unused on the floor and back to him. Vision blurring from the throb in the back of his head and the swaying of his limp torso as he struggled to remain upright, he couldn’t make out his Master’s strange expression. But he saw his shoulders raise and his fists tighten as he blocked out the star behind his hulking frame. Spiralling out of control, mind struggling to comprehend if he was still alive, Miles waited for him to say something. Anything. However, he stayed silent. Unmoved by the sight before him. “P-Please Straker- I…I…”, he sobbed. He kept apologising for ruining his trousers, even as he pawed at him like a child desperate to be lifted by a disinterested parent. Still, he remained motionless. Miles brought his head to his outer thigh as solid as a tree trunk, crying into it with body-wrenching hiccups, “I’m s-sorry, i’m sorry- I.. I c-cant kill no more. I can’t- Oh God, help me sir- Mr Straker- please, p-please.”

Finally. Finally, as the cries made his throat burn raw, a soft hand smoothed his wild, muddied hair. The hands that had protected him now also comforted, even as their owner’s voice was monotone, like it had never been touched by emotion before, “Stop your snivelling, Mr Miller. We have much to discuss.”  

Chapter 9

The street lights flickered on and off as the writer hobbled down the street, the ice pack that wrapped his swollen ankle now dripping down his torn pants’ leg and into the mouth of his boot. The gentle hum of tortured static reverberated in his ears, calling him towards his destination as it grew louder and louder into an ear-piercing screech - and then, with a tight crack of broken filament, the bulb that illuminated his way through the eerily quiet corner of the Lot, went dead. The Lot became deathly silent behind the fallen stage curtain of the night. Ben Mears couldn’t stand it. And yet, with the day he had, why would he expect any different? Don't mock me, Miranda. I can do that myself, he thought. If there was one thing his beloved wife had loved, it was telling him I told you so. And boy, she’d be looking at him like all her Christmases had come at once. But then again, she would never have let them get into this mess in the first place.

 Leaving Miles behind to search for Ralphie Glick had felt like he had willingly cleaved away an increasingly vital part of himself. As though he had simply chosen to go without air for the day. It had been a gut-wrenching decision that had kept him staring at the ceiling until every spec of mould had nearly seared itself into his retina. That is, if the image of his friend nearly collapsing the day before hadn’t imprinted itself there first. Now he was on his way to learn if it had been worth it, or if his plan had backfired spectacularly. Miles forgave everyone; that wouldn’t be the issue, but in Ben’s burning desire to protect his friend, he had forgotten whether Miles would forgive himself. Ben always knew that his role was to support the army veteran in leading the search, but having taken that mantle upon his shoulders for just a few short hours, falling into a ditch, and then requiring an elderly priest to carry him back home… His ego was almost as bruised as his sprained ankle. But yet, there was another, greater emotion he felt sitting on his chest, threatening to crush it if he couldn’t name it. It was not the guilt, and not even the embarrassment. It was one that Miles’ absence had made all the more stark and urgent. He had a terrifying hunch what it was, his friends (and even his wife) had teased him enough that he felt it every time he saw a pretty face holding his book. But only once before had the feeling tilted the world off its axis. Ben needed to see him, then he would know for certain how much of a fool he was.

 So Ben hopped on one leg like he was going for gold at the Olympics, the white picket fence keeping him upright as he remained determined to reach the house at the end of the lane. Despite it only being 8 PM, just a couple of houses shone their warm beams of light upon the pavement ahead, shimmering golden flecks in the puddles that had been left behind by the storm. Ben was drenched. A sopping wet cat of a man, as his waterproof no longer felt like it lived up to its name, and his long hair stuck to his sideburns like Velcro.  But the torrential thunder storm hadn’t sent nearly as much of a shiver through him as what, no - who, he saw coming out of the home of his dear companion. 

 Ben could recognise that broad frame anywhere; sauntering towards its parked car, a spring in his step, twirling his cane like he was preparing to burst into gleeful song. To Ben, however? He just looked like an old black and white monster hidden under gentlemen’s clothing, as though he’d walked onto the set of the wrong film. Those creatures had terrified him as a child. And now, years later, he felt about the same.  Stay with me, Miranda…

 Ben had fantasised about it enough times by now, wanting so badly to pick a fight with the beast under the trenchcoat and trilby since the first day he got into town. Even if the voice in his head assured him he would be doomed to lose, sprain or no sprain. And on any other day, he would have ignored that voice and run straight in there - but now? He stood himself against the fence, unmoving like a deer caught in the gaze of a wolf, even as he was the one watching Richard Straker. Now wasn’t the time, not when he needed to check Miles was okay. His friend had never mentioned Straker coming to visit his home, and in his ever-effusive attempts at trying to convince Ben of his master’s kindness, Ben had no doubt this must have been a first.  So he waited him out until he was far enough away to enter the property unnoticed. That was, until all of a sudden, Straker stopped, like the plug had been knocked out of him as he powered down. Blocking the entrance to Ms Winter’s abode, Ben couldn’t see the toothy, devilish grin as the shop owner sensed the presence watching him, fingers tapping against the walking stick as though it was a keyboard as he scripted the scene ahead.  It felt impossible that the shadowy figure knew he was there, but as the seconds dragged on, as still as a painting, there was no other explaination. Straker was waiting for him. Ben was loath to succumb to his games and make the first move, so still he waited. And waited. Until the dread-inducing concern for Miles propelled him forward before the voice in his head could curtail him back. Straker shivered in anticipation. He didn’t need an elaborate trap to get Ben to come to him, as he had done with Miles. He just needed to stand there and watch him run in headfirst.  Straker didn’t move as he approached, and that was just fine with Ben. He kept his neck straight, refusing to bow it as he turned the corner of the driveway. Allowing himself one quick ‘fuck you’, he bashed his shoulder into the statue that was Straker - but the man didn’t flinch, instead Ben bounced off him like he had been catapulted against a brick wall, causing his ankle to nearly buckle.  But as Ben wobbled on his feet, Straker’s back unfurled like a cobra uncoiling out of the grass. Despite his vivid memory of the man, Ben hadn’t remembered him looking this tall. He tipped his hat in greeting, “Mr Mears. I don’t know what is custom back in New York, but amongst the decent folk of the Lot, we consider it polite not to stare”.  It hadn’t taken more than a hello before the voice sent his hackles up. He glared at him between the thin slits of his eyelids, refusing to take the bait. “I’m more a part of this town than you, Richard. And right now you’re in my way, so if you don’t mind?” Ben made a shooing motion with his hand, but still Straker didn’t budge, only watched with fond amusement like watching a puppy learning to bark for the first time.  “Come now, son, why the animosity?” he drawled, eyes soft under the sharp lines of his crow's feet. “I confess I’ve been eager to catch up with you. I have not seen you since you first entered my little shop weeks ago.” 

 Ben shrugged his shoulders, “Shame. But I’m not here for you, just Miles.”

 The other man continued unperturbed, smiling kindly even as his eyes barely blinked lest he miss a twitch of a tell. “Ah, yes. Mr Miller has told me all about this little… friendship you have going on. It’s all very dear, and I have to admit, I have been wanting to give you my thanks. It warmed my heart hearing how you’ve been helping him come out of his shell. He has so much potential, doesn’t he, Mr Mears?” He let the comment sit between them, roping him to fill in the gaps, but Ben’s poker face remained as tight and fixed to his face as Straker’s mask.  In truth, it had been a lie. Miles had barely told him of his new friend until today, but the fact that he was here at all gave him almost all he needed to know.   “Cut the crap”, shot Ben, hard and firm as he rolled his eyes. “He’s been helping find a missing kid, or did you miss that as you played house with a murder site?”

 He wasn’t going to let Straker smooth-talk him, but if he wanted a fight, he’d give it to him. After all, he’d spent the last few weeks wrestling with the foremost question in his mind - Was Straker just a preacher with a controlling streak? Or was there, somehow, something, even more insidious than that, going on?  Straker’s head tilted like an owl, lips curling almost imperceptibly as he saw the deflection for what it was. So this puppy has bite. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, nor frankly, do I want to. I would like to build bridges with you, Mr Mears, not burn them.

 His voice took on an edge, the same one he used to bat off the paparazzi after his wife’s death, “Look. I know you’re full of shit. And you know I ain't buying what you’re selling. So you either get in that car and drive away, or you drop the act and tell me what it is you’re really after.”

 Ben had expected him to deflect and schmooze him, but instead, Straker did something to really anger him. He looked affronted. Upset. He even imitated an emotion he had never experienced - he appeared afraid. Like he really was just Richard Straker, of Straker and Barlow’s Antiques. Ben’s brow furrowed. It was the first crack in the writer’s expert poker face as Straker’s mask only rested more comfortably. 

 Ben snapped before, heaven forbid, Straker could pretend to snivel.  “Look. I don’t know what you did to get Miles to believe in you, but I see right through whatever game it is you’re playing.” He raised a pointed finger, jabbing it into the air between them, angry at his attitude, and even angrier that he was being drawn so easily into this dance when Miles was just meters away. “Back in New York? Your type is as common as a subway rat in any publishing house. So either tell me what you’re doing to him, or kindly step out of my way, ‘preacher’.”  But little did Ben realise that in his attempt to provoke, not even a minute into their conversation, he had already made his fatal mistake. One Straker never missed. Even as Ben examined him in turn, he didn’t catch the split-second dart of his eyes to the Rolex adorning Ben’s wrist as his sleeve drew up. It was the very one Miles had given him on their first meeting. Relishing in giving his clerk just enough of a leash to choke himself, Straker had noticed its disappearance but said nothing. After all, where would the fun, the challenge, be without a little chaos to reaffirm his control?  Instead, he watched and waited until it turned up again in the hopes it could be used to hammer another nail in Miles’s coffin. And what a glorious decision it had been. His ward had a crush. How delightfully disgusting. How pathetic. How… Perfect. What possibilities it granted.

 And just like that, Straker’s expression changed, not a lot, but just enough that his shoulder squared rather than recoiled. He had got what he wanted; it was just a shame that his opponent had proved to be so disappointing after all. Now, all there was to do was to squeeze the writer dry while he decided what to do with him.   “You think so little of him that he could be so easily seduced into whatever fanciful schemes you think I’m capable of?” he asked. Straker’s face took on an approximation of melancholy as he added, more to himself than to Ben, “Maybe that dear boy really was wrong about you…”  Ben’s dimple deepened. Straker clocked it. But it wasn’t the doubt that affected Ben; it was how obvious it was. Ben had built up the slick, snake-oil salesman-turned-preacher in his mind into a legendary soothsayer who would try to pinpoint any weakness and charm him onto his side… But instead, he was dismissive. Condescending. He hadn’t accounted for that. This is why you never make plans, Ben.  “A-And what is that supposed to mean?”  Straker smiled wistfully, bouncing his cane against the ground as if he could ever need to deliberate, “It means he told me you were different, that you saw in him what I do. But still you speak of things you have no understanding of. Not that I blame you, of course, not when he withholds so much.” He paused as though the words pained him deeply to say, as if they weren’t a betrayal he was luxuriating in, “Tell me, Mr Mears, what has he told you about his life before me?”  “Nothing more than you know, I’m sure”, Ben responded, wary and defensive, unsure what Straker’s angle was.  “Nothing you even suspected?”  Ben gave him a pointed look, “Not anyone else’s place to ask.”  “Hm. We are all responsible for each other, but if that is how you feel, believe me when I say that when I first met him, he was the most pitiful sight I had ever beheld”. He smoothed his moustache as he looked towards Miles’ bedroom window, “However, as the Good Book says, the last shall be first. Whatever we do for the lowest of our brethren, we do for the Lord.”

 “You know the verse of that one?” Ben asked. Testing even as he knew the answer, unsure if he was hiding the smug twitch of his lips, he so desperately wanted to release.  Straker quirked an eyebrow, “You think me a religious zealot?”  “Quite the opposite in fact.”      Straker huffed a laugh that expanded his chest impossibly broader as he filled his trenchcoat. Ben couldnt get a read on how strong he was under that costume. “Cute, Mr Mears. But I promise you, I have studied secular philosophy and psychology, and it is that which I use to help him, not just the Lord’s Word. I value reason and the sciences just as much as you, but I see where they fall short. It is only through divine forgiveness that a sinner like him can be saved. But he has to want it, and that is what my order gives him. Hope. Hope that even he can be better.” 

 “I'd ask you to give me your sources”, teased Ben, eyes glimmering as he took his shot. “But I know you’d just plagiarise them like you do all your ideas”.  The author remembered the quotes Miles would recite, word for word, like they were divine scripture… It had broken his heart to hear Miles believe his beloved teacher had composed them just for him. But Ben had recognised them all. Books, films, poetry… All bastardised into something ugly and twisted. It offended the writer in him. But as Miles’ friend? It made him downright sick.

 But the sucker punch didn’t seem to land the knockout blow as Ben had hoped. Instead, Straker’s lips somehow strained into a new, even more amused ‘bless your heart’ smile befitting of a pompous preacher. He was like an acclaimed thespian, trained to carry whole scenes with the subtlest changes of expression, all while his words told a different story. 

 However, hidden underneath the performance, Straker’s mind recalculated. Plotted ever more elaborate plans in just seconds. So the writer had seen through his teachings, had he? He was smarter than he appeared; he’d give him that. And judging from the reticence of his ward to speak of him, mixed with Mears’ blundering, it was almost certain he had tried to poison him against him. 

 All of his plans, years of work, were in jeopardy of being destroyed in an instant if the man before him was left unchecked. Struggling to hide his excitement, Straker wetted his lips as he twisted the screws.  “You call it plagiarism, I call it providence. Tell me, what could be greater than using the vast wealth of human knowledge to help one single, lost soul?”  Still weary, Ben crossed his arms. “Ah, so that’s what you want me to believe, that you’re the good Samaritan doing this out of the goodness of his cold, dead heart?” If he wanted to appear as just a preacher, he could speak his language. “What, you think this will get you into heaven for something you did or is he just a pet project for you?”  Oh, he was fun. Dropping his voice just an octave lower, drawing Ben in subconsciously as he strained to hear him, Straker bit back, “I do not think you should accuse me of viewing him like a pet, Mears.”

 All the colour drained from Be’s cheeks in an instant. “And just what is that supposed to mean?” He questioned. He felt uneasy. Even as Straker remained still, Ben felt the air shift around him, like he could charm even nature itself into his will.  If you could strike him with a lightning bolt, Miranda, now would be the time.

 “It is quite simple”, he said, like an attorney presenting his argument as if it were an open and shut case. “I know what you’re doing. You think I’m naive to Mr Miller’s nature? I know back where you’re from, such things are considered commonplace, but here? You could destroy him, Mr Mears. And just to entertain, what exactly? I’ve heard the stories of you, we all have. Want another notch on your post? Sample a local delicacy before you leave for New York again?”  Sucking in his lower lip to keep it from trembling from rage, Ben dug his fingers into his coat, hugging his arms tighter like he could hold himself back from lunging. Straker knew he couldn’t charm him. But he could anger him. Quirking a teasing, bushy eyebrow, his tongue thick in his mouth as he savoured every syllable, Straker went in for the kill.  “Or is he just a quick distraction from your wife?”  Bullseye.  “You better not say another word, you ignorant fuck-"

“Or what? Will you strike me down? It is a small price to pay if it means Mr Miller sees what’s under those eyes you bat at him like a cheap whore. And do not think I would joke about this when I say others have seen how you look at each other, too.”  “Bullshit”, he spat. Wasn’t it?  His whole body was vibrating like an elastic band held too tight, ready to snap. There was nothing he wanted more than to fling everything back at Straker. He should have known better, but in that moment, he really was just a preacher. However, that just made Ben hate him all the more. He sounded just the same as the one who led his Sunday school as a child, who put the fear of god in him, ensuring he never told even his own wife that he was also attracted to men. It was a regret that still brushed against his mind in the quietness of his empty bed.  He thought he had come to terms with it, but years of hiding who he was, how he felt, came raging up his throat for the first time in his life, threatening to carry the words he knew he should never utter like a deluge ready to break the Hoover Dam. 

 We’ve grown closer than you ever will. I understand how much he loves and is loved. He has told me cherished memories as though he was remembering them for the first time, ones he could never have told you. I know his favourite film, his Nana’s recipes, what his best pitch was and the name of his childhood dog. I can tell when he thinks his own joke is funny or he suppresses his pride, all because you, you absolute fucking bastard, told him it was wrong to feel joy. So fuck you and fuck everyone else in this town, but I know, with complete and utter certainty, when he wants to kiss me. I know the feel of his lips, the softness of his cheeks, the strength of his body and his soul, even as you’re trying to snuff it out. All because I can do something you’re incapable of. I fucking love him-  But he couldn’t say any of that, even as that crushing feeling in his chest suddenly eased. God help him, Straker’s trap had nearly worked.   “Nothing is going on between us”, he muttered feebly, swallowing all he wanted to say back down, burning like acid the whole way.  Smug and amused, Straker stood there like he had somehow heard every word he wanted to say. “Hm. If you say so. I had hoped he was strong enough now to find his own way, that you could even be a positive influence for him, but the wool has been lifted from my eyes after speaking with both of you today.” 

 That got Ben’s attention again; however, it only spurred Straker to act even more pompously as he drew the line in. He reached for a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it to his forehead, despite it being completely dry, before returning it. “I tried to step back and let him make his own decisions. I even granted you the benefit of the doubt and never told him that you came snooping around my shop, nor that you partook in idle town gossip as if he were just another book idea to research. But I see now I was wrong. No longer will I stand idly by while you add to the loadstone around his neck.”  Straker was right. He had done all of those things.

 “I'm not even going to waste my breath responding to that”, Ben retorted, trying to sound dismissive, as he honestly didn’t trust himself to keep his cool anymore. He hadn’t nearly lost control like that since the dark days after his wife had died. It scared him… Made him hesitate enough that Straker could barrage him with jab after jab without interruption-  Huh. Maybe I can work with that…

 “You don't have to, but it is imperative you at least understand that this town is the best hope he has for salvation. It is quiet. The people are good, Christian folk, and it is free from the vices of the city. It is his best hope of salvation. If any of your feelings are genuine, the kindest thing you can do for him is to leave and go back to where you belong, Mr Mears. Wherever that still is.”  He pounded the floor with his cane for emphasis, twisting it hard into the ground like he was crushing an insect into a bloody pulp with its tip. 

 “They already shun him”, noted Ben. Straker was getting cocky. Good. “Not to mention you and whoever your elusive partner is.”  “Now they shun us. They didn’t before you came into town”. He seemed closer now, his broad shoulders nearly blocking his view of the house. Since when had Straker moved? 

 “What did you think was going to happen, two young men, outsiders no less, spending time together as a child goes missing? I was encouraging him to make a community for himself, make true and honest connections for the first time in his life. Not destroying it like he used to, and certainly not jeopardising it all for a tumble in the sack.”  Got you. Miles had implied just yesterday that Straker had been holding him back from public life. He wasn't delusional or stupid. He was lying. The mask was finally slipping.

 Feeling himself renewed with confidence, he found his voice again. It was worth every second of pain standing on his bum ankle as he hit back, “He doesn’t need you, Straker - Call it whatever you want, but he is perfectly capable of helping himself, and if not? He has friends. What you’re doing is draconian, inhuman. You are what no one could survive. So what, you want me to back off and leave him alone with you? Not a chance.”  But if there was one thing Ben Mears had never learnt to do, it was how not to be a sore winner. It was why Miranda had banned Scrabble at their dinner parties. It was why, now, Straker knew there was still more work to be done. More victims to claim. So, young Mr Miller thinks he has friends, does he? And here he thought just having a crush was delicious…  Despite not realising the mistake he made, Ben didn’t think the shit-eating grin on Straker’s face was so fake anymore as he spoke, “No, that isn’t what I want, but it is the reality you’ve made for him. You wanted me to ‘drop the act’, Mr Mears? Then fine, let’s be perfectly honest with each other. You think I'm hurting him? Then tell me, why is it, even after he got out of rehab, after the earthly judges failed and let him go free from his heinous crimes, did he continue to seek to punish himself? That he spent weeks unable to get out of bed, eat or even wash himself?”

 There was an acid in Straker’s voice as he spoke that made Ben’s stomach churn. No longer did he sound concerned for his ward; he sounded delighted. Proud. Relishing in the look on Ben’s face as he told him every sordid detail. He took a step forward, pretending he just wanted to intimidate the injured writer. Ben felt Straker’s breath against him, hot like the fire of a dragon. It even looked like smoke as he kept spewing his bile into the cold autumn air. He tried his best not to, but Ben retreated a couple of steps, while Straker never missed a beat.

 “I have stopped him from hurting himself more times than you could imagine, so trust me when I say I know the signs. He has barely been to Church lately; he has started to lose control of his emotions, give into the lust that you keep trying to stoke, not to mention he raised his voice in anger to his dear landlady today. And tell me, was it your fault he was late to work today for the first time since his last episode?” Straker was almost growling, his voice a shout and a whisper all rolled into one.  “...And worst of all, he is back to covering his arms again at all times, no matter the weather. It honestly would not surprise me if he’s using again, Mr Mears. Or do you call that him helping himself too?”  The cold air somehow felt thick in Ben’s throat as he tried to think of a response, anything, that could get Straker to back down. Miles had made mention to dark times while living in California, and he’d seen him hide the faded scars of the needles himself. But Ben surprised even himself. He didn’t fall for it. Years ago, he had lost a book idea to a young fan who asked him a million questions he had been too naive to see the intent behind. His wife had consoled him afterwards, looking him straight in his eyes so he never forgot; never trust someone who asks so many questions and gives nothing of themselves in return.

 And that is what he had done. He had made no mention of how hard he had pushed him, the toll the search had taken on Miles, let alone how incredible his devotion to the cause had been when everyone else had given up. Miles wasn’t failing because of those things; he had been strong in spite of them. Ben thought upon all he knew of his friend, all the ways Straker was wrong and ignorant, and finally the incredible parts of him he was blind to… And he knew. His racing thoughts had been right.  He loved him.

 Not in the way he once loved so readily and easily, this was different. This was as simple as every thought, every action and impulse of his day all coming back to the same source of inspiration: Miles Miller. Straker could never understand; he wasn’t a passing fancy, a distraction, or even a book idea. He wasn’t the cryptid, urban legend he first thought, or even the perfect soldier whom he followed gladly every day. This was a love that infected his every waking moment and dreams, that had helped him free himself from the lingering shackles of his grief as he rediscovered the world all over again. The Marsten House had been a dead end, but now his mind was awash with creativity once more. Not a day went by in his company when he didn’t find something new he wanted to write about.   And even as the town let them down, as he was stuck locking horns with a man who felt like the devil himself, trying to make him doubt the revelation that felt holier than anything the preacher had spouted… He felt hope. In just two short weeks, the young man, so embarrassed by his folksy way of speaking, so sure he couldn’t express all the things he felt, had convinced the cynical writer that under all the evil, there was something good. Maybe even beautiful, hidden below the rot. He had even caught himself doing what just months earlier had felt impossible; he enjoyed the cheesy movies of his childhood again. The happy endings didn’t seem so fanciful to him anymore.  Finally, his mind quiet, his hands no longer shaking, he saw Straker as clear as day. And right now? He was standing in his way.  He reached inwards for a strength he didn’t know he possessed, a righteous anger that never sat comfortably on his younger, socially shy shoulders. But it had done on his beloved wife's. And if there was one thing he loved, it was to do an impression of her, to piss her off and make her laugh without fail.  Hope I make you proud, honey…  “You’re full of yourself if you think I've caused all of that - YOU are the one setting up these traps just for him to fall into. All from your gothic house while you play dress up and act out your god complex. Well, you are no god, you’re not even an intellectual. You keep asking me to tell you this and that, well, how about you answer one of my questions - just what could a preacher want with a pawn shop in the middle of nowhere? Let alone one that needs an assistant to work so hard they pass out while they sell jack shit all day? So you. Tell. Me. Mr. Fucking. Straker. What would I find if I got the police to search your house?”  “Hm.” He responded. Finally, he was at a loss for words.  Pressing his advantage, unable to stop now the dam had broken, he felt something of the excitement Straker felt - “You’re nothing but a vulture preying on the dead and dying that you yourself are killing -”  - And then it hit him. Straker should never be quiet. He wasn’t even looking at him anymore; he was examining the back of his glove as he flexed his hand, listening to everything but Ben…. Making sure the coast was clear. Ben wracked through his mind for what he had said wrong, but he couldn’t think - not when the hairs on his arms bristled against him like a thousand tiny knives.  But he had made a mistake, of that there was no question. Straker didn’t know Miles had nearly passed out. He was loath to admit it, but he thought he had extorted every confession from his trembling lips back at the Marsten House. And now? Learning he had friends? That his pathetic object of lust had been allowed to poison his thoughts against him? That he had collapsed and not told him?... That he had been so pathetically weak? Maybe the situation was even more concerning than he thought. 

 And at the centre of it all was this one upstart writer who dared to think he had won. That he could get anything out of him without him allowing it. Checking one last time that there were no witnesses, he slowly, without drawing attention, placed a gloved hand into his pocket. He clutched the knife that had almost killed Miles within a tight, blood thirsty grip. It was a crying shame; it would have been a glorious sight to watch the shop clerk do it himself.  “Ah, so that explains how upset he was today. He faltered just once, and you abandoned him, tossed him aside for someone else, is that it?”  Fuck. Just what had Miles told him? Ben had gotten his answers; he needed out before he fucked up again. “We’re done here”, he said simply, knowing it was futile. But they were only done when Richard Straker said they were done.   Ben tried to hobble past him, his ankle barely bearing against the strain - but he was stopped dead in his tracks. Straker held his cane before him like a crossing guard, daring him to try to pass. Stealing himself, Ben made a motion to raise his stick with a dismissive hand, but then he saw something that truly surprised him. Straker looked completely unguarded. He thought at first it was anger, but no, the expression that peered through the cracks was twisted with cruelty and awash with something that even in all his experience as a writer, he couldn’t quite name. “I don't think so, Mr Mears. You may think I’m killing him, but quite the contrary - I am going to make him into more than you could ever comprehend in your meagre, mortal existence.” 

 The cloth of his pocket shifted as he flicked the blade. His wrist twisted as his elbow raised. He’d done this enough times by now, he’d only need one shot at that exposed neck of his, and as Ben turned to some unknown distraction, he saw his moment and- A light. Sharp and as welcome as any sight hit the two men as the door to the house opened. It was Miles’ landlady, Ms Winters. She didn’t shout, or even say anything. She just stared Straker down like a vengeful guardian angel. Ben now owed her two bouquets.

 Knowing there was no way he could kill Ben and get to the old lady before she closed the door and rang the police, Straker released his grip on the knife and lowered his cane. He turned, his whole demeanour suddenly changing as he tipped his hat like a kindly country preacher on his rounds. Ms Winters crossed her arms, like a bouncer ready to throw him out if he so much as one step towards her house. Ben really did like her.  Straker turned back to him. His face was perfectly neutral, as if the outburst had drained him of all energy to affect any emotion, other than the hiss of his voice as it stretched thin upon his vocal cords, “If you refuse to heed my warning, then go see him if you must, and make your own decisions on whether you’re really ‘helping him’. But just remember, he was not always a righteous man, nor even a good one, no matter what he tries to tell you in there. He has hurt people, Mr Mears. More than either of us can comprehend. What will happen, do you think, if he feels he has nothing left to lose?”  Ben shook his head, his face now awash in the warm light of the house that beckoned him, “That is not the man I know, Straker. If you did truly care about him, you would have been able to name just one of his hundreds of qualities while you’ve been babbling your saviour nonsense this whole time. So believe me when I say I will find out what you’re planning, and I will stop you.” His voice sounded much more confident than he felt.  Laughing, Straker pushed past him as Ben had tried to do at the start. This time, his ankle already wobbling like jelly, he fell on his ass with barely a glancing blow to his shoulder. Fingers sinking into the grass as he pushed himself upright, it was too dark to see the blood stains on Straker’s pant leg that had been left by Miles. They stared at each other, Ben trying to stay in control even as the soggy earth soaked into his clothes, but within those inky black pupils that looked down on him, he saw nothing at all. Ben had heard it said evil is just the absence of good, but within those windows to the soul, he didn’t see goodness, or evil. Just a void. A complete and total absence. It was almost hypnotic… Drinking him in like he could fall into it and never have to think or feel ever again… All of a sudden, he understood how people were drawn in by him.

  It was Straker’s own voice that dragged Ben back as he blinked as if he were trapped in a daze.  “You think your clever little words mean anything? Fine. So be it, if you’re so confident”, he goaded. “Ask him what his record was in the war. Ask him where those scars came from. And if you’re really feeling brave, ask him where he worked before the Lot. Then see if you’re still here in the morning, Mr Mears.” He tapped his hat for a final time with his cane to the woman in the doorway, “Good evening ma’am.”     Richard Straker had work to do if he wanted to keep his employee pure. And if he couldn't? Well, there was always plan B. 

 And just like that, he walked away and drove off, the headlights blinding Ben as Ms Winters came over and helped him to his feet with a soft hand. Ben released a shuddering breath he didn’t know he had been holding as he said his thanks. Despite getting more answers, Ben didn’t feel like he had won. He had seen right through him, or so he thought, and yet even then Straker left looking like the cat that got the mouse.

 But he didn’t have time to reflect, with a harried tug, the landlady pulled him towards the house. Having only seen her on the first day of the search party, it had never occurred to him she could ever look scared and helpless, “It’s Mr Mears, right? We spoke earlier?” He nodded, trying hard to make out her pleas against the backdrop of the shop owner’s voice that still rang in his ears.  “Please, it’s Miles… That cad dropped him off, and- and- He ran upstairs to the bathroom and won’t let me in. He speaks so highly of you, please you must try to speak to him. I’m so worried, there’s something wrong, I know it-”.  She didn’t need to ask a second time.  He ran as best he could through the front door. He trekked muddy boots up the stairs, barely able to lift his injured leg up the steps, but it was no matter. The thunk of his feet helped drown out the voice he was as assuredly running away from as much as he ran towards Miles. He tried to speak to Miranda, to quash the question that sank its tendrils into his mind, each repetition growing louder and louder into a full Gregorian chant that he swore was echoing in the walls of the house.  Real shit show, hey, honey? You’d have given him a shiner, I know it. I hope you didn’t see me fall on my ass. I…I… But it was no use. Still, Straker’s voice lingered in his ears like he’d been chosen by an ancient curse to drive him mad.

Chapter 4

What do you think, Miranda? A writer who couldn't get past a first draft of a mystery novel solving a kid's disappearance. Be something wouldn't it? If you can hear me you should have special all-seeing ghost powers, so give me a sign where Ralphie Glick is.

The repurposed pick up truck hit its fifteenth pothole in as many minutes, tossing Ben Mears into the man next to him, twice his size and half as patient as he shoved him back into his spot. 

Fine, be like that. Not like something as petty as death is gonna convince you to give me an easy time for once, is it? But then, I bet you'd have found the kid before I even got out of bed this afternoon.

And the bed was where Ben wanted to be right now. The evening before had sent him in a tailspin, he could still feel the surprisingly hard press of the young man's teeth against his tingling lips as he parked up next to his boarding house. Deciding he very much needed to be drunk to think this through, he plugged his traitorous mouth with a beer, and then a second, third, fourth… until he passed out asleep, still fully clothed on top of what he hoped was his bed. When he awoke at lunchtime the next day, he still smelt of the home baked goods Miles had lovingly made. The sickly sweet, rich smell of butter and sugar had sent him running to the bathroom as they came back up.

 The plan had been to storm over to Straker and Barlow's Antique Store as soon as he sobered up, maybe not even waiting that long. He would then face the shop clerk, the one who had so deviously seduced innocent ‘ol Ben Mears, with talk of family and monster movies, just before he had begged so wantonly into his mouth. Ben would take that very clerk’s shoulders within his hands and do… something.

If Ben had learned anything from their first meeting, it was that he was better off not making plans. However, he hadn't even made it down the stairs before the news of Ralphie Glick’s disappearance reached him courtesy of the manager. Within an instant, none of his issues, the mind fuck of the night before, the hangover and definitely not his book, were important. He skipped his midday breakfast and joined the next group out of town.

 Ben kept his head down, the remnants of the beer still curdling his stomach. Maybe he should have sobered up before he jumped on the vehicle with the broken suspension, packed in like sardines with sweating, mud drenched farmers. Each bump made his gut lurch with it.

The town rolled away from view as the truck pulled out of Jerusalem's Lot and towards the heavily forested woods that surrounded the county as though it was its own conclave, cut off from the rest of the world by an ocean of pines, oaks and decaying farmland. Judging from the slack jawed yokels who lined the open air cabin, maybe it was.

Yeah yeah I know. A big city writer comes to town and calls everyone inbred before he goes for a jaunt in the woods and gets his limbs chopped off one by one. I'll be on my best behaviour. 

 Ben had taken up talking to his wife just a few months after her funeral. In the haze of grief and alcohol he couldn't remember what started it but after just a couple of days he forgot how he ever survived without it. At first it had been a crutch only at his lowest points, when the silence of their home had been overwhelming - his depression, self-destruction and anger at the world moving to fill the vacuum where she should have stood. However, the comforting back and forth with his beloved sparring partner had enticed him to crawl out of that seemingly never ending hole of grief, as even without replying, she was still able to beat him in an argument. If booze and one night stands weren't enough to bring him back, competition certainly was. 

 Now it felt like she was just in the other room, just out of view. Listening. Still existing. He knew it was likely bullshit, ghost or no ghost at the Marsten House, he didn't think he truly believed in an afterlife. However, he figured with all he'd been through, he was allowed just one comfort.

There may have been a time before Miranda, when he was so singularly focused on becoming a successful writer, that Ben Mears would have sat at home, wished the search party well with a fleeting thought and returned to work. But now side by side with the ever present companion that was his grief, he couldn't stand by while someone else suffered an even more unimaginable loss.

 Well, I'll think to you later. Talk to whoever you need to up there to help me out, yeah? Do me a favour and maybe I'll even tell you about my new… Friend.

A swirl of cold air hit him as the truck entered the grove where the tents and prefabs had been set up for the volunteers, his baseball cap flying off his head in a loop-de-loop and over the edge of the truck. Ben chuckled to himself, drawing side-eye from his already unimpressed comrades who didn't trust something as dangerous as an outsider.

That you rolling your eyes at me, honey? Well fuck you too, it's your fault I'm in this mess.

Ben then saw his friends, Matt Burke and Susan Norton, wave him over to their table under the dining tent as the truck parked up. They sat before a queue of people, all waiting patiently in line for a bowl of whatever was in that steaming collection of tureens. And manning the complex set-up was Miles Miller. Even from a distance Ben could see his reddened cheeks and tip of his nose as he fought through the autumnal chill. Ben thought he could see his nerves bristle under that expertly maintained facade as his eyes ping ponged whenever the customers made small talk and he tensed his shoulders with each new person who approached. However, his face never wavered from the perfect, professional server as he poured ladle after ladle of delicious looking stew, all with a smile that the downtrodden volunteers couldn't help but return.

Don't say anything Miranda…

 Despite his protest, a small warmth in his chest blossomed as the thought stuck around that bit longer. His <em>friends</em>. And just maybe someone even more than that. As dire as the situation was, he let himself bathe in that fragile strength - that here he was, finally opening up and making genuine connections again. No longer held up in his office letting the phone ring out as he stared at a blank page. Ben didn't need to speak to Miranda to know she would have been proud.

Gotta go, wish me luck…. And I love you… But you already know that.

 Ben took the seat nearest the food stand so he could hide behind his heavy coat, his back to Miles lest there was enough alcohol left in his bloodstream to act out one of the many terrible ideas his traitorous mind was goading him into. 

He instead looked out over the ever shifting stream of cars as concerned neighbours came to join the search. It reminded him of what Matt had said, that there was something rotten at the center of Salem's Lot - but looking out over the ensemble of town life, each and every corner of the Lot was present and willing. It was just a shame it took a tragedy to make it happen.

Matt saw the sway in Ben's shoulders as he sat down, politely ignoring it as he gave his knee a quick slap before announcing it was time for lunch. He had gotten up and joined the increasingly long queue on behalf of the three of them before the protest could leave Ben's lips. Susan however, edging herself incrementally towards his slouched husk, had no such sympathy. She barraged him with rapid fire questions, delighting in the furrow of his brow as her purposefully incessant nattering hammered against his tender skull. She cupped her chin in her hands like an innocent little Cupid.

"What got you in such a state? Get stood up? You get laid? Pfft if only. That means you saw another ghost at the Marsten House? You gonna pay me for all the research by the way? You betta or I'm going to the Times-”

As the piercing streaks of pain flashed behind his eye sockets with each syllable, Ben questioned every life decision that brought him to his most terrifying interrogator. Thinking this is what it must be like to have a little sister he looked around at all the volunteers and wondered why no one was coming to save him.

He had just tried to be nice to a fan, but her knowledge of the area was exhaustive for someone for someone of her meager 24 years. All Ben had asked of the excited librarian was to help him find a single newspaper clipping, and by the end of the day she had the entire Marsten family tree for him. The next day she had the financial records of the builders who had made the house. The day after, the transcript of the murder trial. Sure she was brash, too quick witted for him and far too full of energy to ever keep up with. And sure she made certain he knew how invaluable she was everyday, maybe even every hour. And yes, she had even crashed at his boarding house after another fight with her mom, doubling Ben's rent with his puritanical landlady for a month…. But by god, he really liked her. Just not out loud, his hangover couldn't take it.

“-ohmygod what is that mark on your lip!?” 

Susan's ability to whisper a scream never failed to amaze Ben. She lunged herself at him, ducking under like a lethal boxer as she went to grab his chin. Knowing exactly what she was like, Ben pre-empted her - twisting his body around and pushing her away.

But as his head whipped back he briefly made eye contact with the progenitor of his injury. Miles looked like he had been frozen in time behind his work station, just for a moment as his mouth hung suspended. Ben thought how beautiful his bangs looked sticking out from under his woolly beanie. It was just a pause, long enough to see the fleeting change of expression but not enough to untangle the web of emotions that played out under his angelic, innocent cracked mask. The corner of Ben's lips imitated the faint suggestion of a smile, causing Miles to straighten, raise his scarf up to his beetroot nose and throw himself back into his work. Ben had no idea if that was a good sign or not. 

 But unbeknownst to him, Susan followed the direction of his lingering gaze. She leant back, fingers wrapping along the table as she tabulated the evidence until she smiled to a conspiracy of just herself. 

By the grace of whatever god hadn't forsaken Ben, Matt had returned with three steaming bowls, all balanced on his coat’s padded arms. Having just enough semblance of decorum, Susan let the moment pass and tucked into the soup, all the while her eyes dissected his every movement. It wasn't often Ben Mears felt himself blush.

Even under her silent interrogation, the thick chicken and vegetable soup had been delicious. Crisp carrots and hearty potatoes smothered in greasy on the bone meat paired with a bread roll and an indulgent amount of butter. Ben didn't think he could ever get bored of the aroma.

He can bake AND cook? Miranda he's got you beat already... I'm joking, obviously!... don't haunt me dear.

 The trio had sat passing the time, chatting as happily as they could given the situation as the mass of people came and went with their first assignments. In their boredom as the small police force scrambled to organise half the town, people joined their table to eat and mill about, but no one sat nearer than two chairs away from the big city interloper.

 Determined to ignore the tension in the air and keep his companions spirits up, Matt pulled out a deck of cards, expertly splitting the deck so they could play a few hands of poker while they waited for their group allocation. Susan had played a high risk, high reward game while Matt folded every time the bet went more than an hour's wage. That just left Ben, arranging his cards with a practiced nonchalance as his face remained the dictionary definition of neutral.

 Susan leaned forward, an evil excited glimmer in her eyes as she goaded him further, “Come on Mears! You've what? Won nine straight? You have to make it a perfect ten.” She looked at the three of a kind, it was risky but she thought she saw a shadow of doubt pass over his features.

 Matt concurred, sucking on his pipe with amusement, "lady's got a point Benjamin.”

Ben shrugged his shoulders, sighing a quick “call”.

 Susan knew she was screwed as soon as he had sighed. She threw the hand down in defeat before he even presented his hand. Straight flush. Just-Fucking-Course. Ben let his immaculate poker face slip as his mouth curled up, hissing a laugh like a snake. Susan was livid. Matt just felt like he was back at work with his unruly school children.

Ben teased, collecting his earnings with a wide swipe of his hand, “I'd like to say good game but, you know…”

“Can it, no one likes a sore winner-” Susan sulked.

The sore winner laughed, “Win sometime and maybe see if you still think that". She just punched him in the arm.

Before Ben could retaliate with a playful shove of his own, he felt a cold chill hit him as a young man, barely in his twenties with wavy chestnut hair and blue hoodie, brushed past him.

“Fucking Queers”, the man mumbled as he stormed past without a another look.

Ben quirked an eyebrow at his friends, what's his problem?

"That's Justin… he's…” Matt waved his pipe as he searched for the word.

Susan supplied it for him, “-A dick.” 

 Matt rolled his eyes but nodded, “in a manner of speaking. Don't mind him. It's just how people can be ‘round here with new folk, says it about everyone". His chest puffed out before he sighed, "Just be grateful you're not that Miller boy.”

Matt didn't see the squaring of Ben's shoulders as he kept his protective gaze on Justin, making sure he wasn't about to encircle the tables and make his way towards the food stand.

"What’s he got against Miles?”

Ben realised his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. Matt didn't seem to notice the slip but Susan’s eyes darted with the formulations in her head racking up, and then she beamed. Eureka.

Jumping in before Matt could respond, she leaned forward, voice hushed but firm, “He's a triple, quadruple dick to him. Got it in his head that there's something more between him and his boss, wink wink.”

Ben took the hint, but reached for that poker face that won him a day's rent and nodded along, suppressing the urge to go over and strangle the guy. In the safety of his mind, he had to admit a similar thought had occurred to him. At first he dismissed it as just his anxiety over-analysing the night before, but the way Miles spoke of Straker was reverent, holy and every other religious term he could think of. Certainly all accolades Ben found Straker unworthy of in their one brief interaction. He didn't think it was sexual, but who was he to say of the clerk he barely knew other than his love of work and the taste of his skin?

What he did know was that it all came back to one point: Why did a small-time shop owner seemingly need to have such a hold over his assistant? Just thinking about it sent his teeth on edge as he thought what Miles could be going through… Ben prided himself on his creativity but even with his most outlandish theories he couldn't quite connect all the dots together. Everything just felt too neat an answer, and he didn't like any of them. 

Maybe this is why I never finished that detective novel…

He broke from his thoughts as he realised Susan was still talking, that evil smirk returning as she realised he had drifted off. “... Justin probably got it from his Dad - he watches those preachers all day bang on about how the devil worshipping, homosexual commies are coming to take our kids and-”. Susan stopped herself as the implication became clear, and now that a kid has disappeared…

Ben saw the shiver run through Susan. In response he lightly brushed the ankle of his friend with the toe of his shoe, just letting her know he was there.

Six days ago, as Ben had ran into the Lot's only library minutes before closing. He had chased that moment of inspiration all the way to the darkened back row of books, where he had found Susan. Hair tussled, blouse only half buttoned and lipstick smeared across her teeth. He had also heard the high heels of someone as they ran off out the fire exit. Ben's heart broke remembering the undiluted fear reflected in her face as she slowly took a step back, hands up in placation. Ben swore to himself he'd never be the reason she looked like that again.

“I…B-Ben please-”

"No! Susan its fine I-”

“You can't tell my mom, she'll kill me-”

 “I won't-”

"I'll do anything just-”

He hadn't known if touching her was a mistake but he panicked, arms shot out to reach her until shuddering shoulders settled under soft, gentle palms. It had been the first time he ever said it out loud:

 “Susan! Calm down, it's okay-"

 "It's not-"

"- I'm bisexual!”

There was a pause, darkness encroaching all around them as they stood under the only light of the fire exit. The shuddering started up again, but this time she was laughing, unbridled and awed as she took him in like a friend, not just a fan. It had been infectious. Crushing her in his arms as he held her to his chest, her joy and relief reverberated into his bones until it poured out of him. They laughed like maniacs in their fragile bubble until Susan slapped his arm and shushed him. Always the Lot's dutiful librarian.

In their tiny place under the protective shade of the tents, Ben saw the same fear he had that day. It made him take notice.

“-Shit, okay maybe we do need to keep an eye on him”, Susan concluded, turning quickly to see Justin storm into a group of volunteers preparing to head out.

Ben was about to probe further when they heard voices behind them. They sounded outraged but tight, like the chords of their neck were the only things them under control. Ben turned and saw the queue for lunch become agitated as a woman held court to anyone trapped in line. 

 He felt a tug against his arm. “Oh god it's my mom… don't let her see me”, groaned Susan pulling her hood over her head. 

 Ann Norton struck the air with each point, indignancy and righteous anger animating her like a TV evangelist. Her voice carried just enough for the gang to catch snippets, what did we expect with all these outsiders coming in… it was just a matter of time… why trek out here when we should be searching their homes… And on it went, each proclamation accompanied by Susan's grains as the line before her dispersed one at a time. A few stayed by, bowls in hand, and listened enraptured. When she finally inched her way to the table filled with fresh food she was bright red with anger, the storm raging in trembling fists she whipped up inside herself. 

The chair creaked under Ben's shift in weight as he braced himself to charge over, the presence of Ann's daughter the only thing keeping his feet planted in the dirt. He watched as she approached Miles with her entourage, staring daggers into him, but he responded with the same unwavering professional kindness - only Ben saw the death grip on the table's edge. He strained to hear as Susan's mom bared her teeth, her jaw pulled taut as she gritted out words beyond his reach. It wasn't until she slammed the table at something Miles had said that he could hear:

“You can vouch for him? Of course you would defend him. If you were together yesterday, tell me - just what would someone like him want with a boy like you?”

 Ben shot off his feet before Miles could collect himself. He'd be damned if the woman who made Susan's life hell would get away with it again - but he didn't get far before Matt grabbed him arm. He shook his head, “Don't make it worse” he chided.

 Before he had time to second guess, a short woman, no more than 5’3 and in her seventies, wearing an old knitted jumper under a waterproof parker, came from around the back of the food supply van. She lay a gentle guiding hand on Miles' arm to cleave him from the safety of the table, giving him a squeeze as she came between him and the other woman. Ben couldn't make out the words but the disgust on Ann's face gave him a good idea of the venom behind her kindly exterior.

 Miles looked pale as he shuffled away, shoving his hand in his pockets and raising his shoulders as though if he tried hard enough, they could cover his ears from the shouting contest behind him. Whoever the old woman was, she gave as good as she got. Ben made a mental note to send her a bouquet of roses. 

  Seeing Miles start to swerve away from them, Ben went to intercept him, but Matt appeared a few steps ahead and guided the man over. He looked hesitant, closing into himself, but the teacher knew how to get his way.

 “One more for the poker game?” smiled Mr Burke to the table. 

 Susan looked horrified as he was shown to his seat opposite Ben. “God, Miles I'm so sorry about her.”

 “What on earth was that about?” blurted Ben. It hadn't been what he wanted his first words to be, but he had to know for sure if his fists were ever going to unclench. Was it about me or Straker?

 However, Miles just pulled his hands from his pockets and worried his nails under his knitted gloves, not even chancing a glance at Ben.

 “O-Oh… S’nothing. She just took offence to the portion sizes” he muttered, huffing a humourless laugh from his nose. 

Susan lightly slapped his arm, quietly laughing in spite of herself, “Don't be nice”.

 That won a tiny smile from the young man from above his scarf, “Sorry ma’am, don't wanna be anything other than.”

 Suddenly there was a clatter behind them, Mrs Norton stormed off, throwing her bowl to the floor as the old lady waved her goodbye. Another sore winner, a woman after my own heart.

 Susan chose to ignore the display as she'd grown used to and continued, "In which case stay a while - nice boys pay out and you owe me Miles.” 

 Ben was already suspicious as soon as she let the ‘ma’am’ go unmentioned, now he was sure there was a plot against him. However  Miles was the one who looked like he was at the centre of a sting operation he gulped in the air before exhaling it all in one long puff. 

 Miles and Susan stared at each other until the shop assistant broke the standoff, “I didn't know you knew B-Mr Mears.” Ben watched as the pair had their own private conversation with just their eyes, one he assumed Susan had won when Miles finally looked at him. He didn't think his rosy cheeks were just from the cold.

 “Oh yeah! Been helping Ben with his next book actually! Research, proof reading, doing a couple interviews. You know, the actual work - turns out they're right, never meet your heroes…”. She circled a lose lock of hair around her finger, “sorry, did I forget to mention it earlier?” the words rolled trippingly off her innocent tongue but unintentionally stung. 

 Miles leant his injured cheek against his shoulder and it rolled into his chest, crestfallen, “Oh…”

 It was Ben's turn to join the fray of unspoken parleys as he mouthed a pointed ‘what are you doing’ at Susan. She just smiled sweetly. Matt looked confused. Figuring what else was new he cleared his throat, shuffling the cards. 

 In truth Susan knew exactly what she was doing. She had been with an inordinately skittish Miles just that morning, minutes after opening time, searching through their store room for any copy that was left of Ben's books. The shy clerk, whom she had assisted before in his search for tomes his boss demanded, had never, ever asked for a book for himself. Sure he said it was for his landlady but he truly was a terrible liar. 

 Susan had figured he wanted 'Conway's Daughter', notorious smut scenes and all, but was too ashamed to admit it. It had been a strangely sweet sense of pride that swelled within her when he accidentally let out a chorus of thank yous when she told him she would order one in. You dark horse Mr Miller.

 The news of the missing Ralphie Glick had cut the moment short as Miles was preparing to leave. Susan figured he would return to the antique store he haunted like a friendly ghost, too sensitive to be involved with something so morbid, but instead he had been at the base camp before her with his landlady, pots and pots of food in hand. Now she looked at the two men, both as uncomfortable and bashful as the other and grinned. Definitely a dark horse.

 Seeing the hard knot in Miles’ dimples as he gritted his teeth, Ben left Susan to her schemes and finally bit the bullet. The writer scratched at his jaw, letting his shirt sleeve fall just far enough that his Father's Rolex, the one Miles had gifted him, peaked into view. He hoped it would make his intention clear to the observant appraiser, however Miles was looking everywhere but the man he had been looking out for all day. 

 Matt, oblivious to the building tension, started to deal the cards. Refusing to let him stew in his mind a moment longer Ben pressed his foot into Miles’ boot. It had only been a soft action but he jumped, knees barely avoiding the table. Rolling his eyes and giving up on all subtlety, Ben stared at him. Hard. Then down to his watch and back at him. And Miles had followed the whole way. His eyes widened, mouth catching flies. Ben winked and ran his canine over his bottom lip while covering his face away from Susan. 

 Matt cleared his throat, “guest to start, young man.”

 But Miles just sat there, pupils dilating to welcome in every detail. Ben figured he must have trusted what he saw because the muscles in his face relaxed, and with it his laugh lines grew heavier and radiance returned to his cheeks once again. Matt placed his bet first.

 Miranda so help me, I'm fucked.

 Miles had been about as terrible at poker as Susan had expected, each lie twisted his features as though he was before St Peter himself. She had not fared much better as the entertainment before her became pay-per-view as she was rinsed clean, too distracted by the Ben and Miles show to keep a poker face- but to all their surprise Matt swept them all. And then he did it again.

 Ben didn't realise he had looked at Miles whenever he had a bad hand.

 They prepped for their last game as the police started to collect the list of names and dole out allocations. Despite the encroachment of reality, the group created their own tiny space, empty bowls long forgotten as Susan ensured the conversation remained laden with gentle teasing and mutual bullying of Ben until even Matt had started to join in. He didn't mind, Ben still had no idea what he and Miles were and he wanted to respect Miles' comfort, so he weathered the storm of Susan's machinations to distract from the game of footsy under the table.

 But God she was good. “You're gonna have to take out a mortgage or start doing strip poker rules Miles if you don't shape up quick”.

 “Taking advantage of an innocent country boy ma’am?” drawled Miles, delighting in petty revenge as he fluttered his lashes. Ben tried to ignore the feeling of pride as he watched him integrate into their tiny band. 

 “Just be glad I'm giving you a choice, sir”

 Making the decision for him, Susan started to hum striptease music, rolling her shoulders in time with her tune. To everyone's surprise Miles took his knitted glove within his teeth and pulled it off by the pointer finger, then delicately hooked the same finger under its pair and teased it off. It was barely more than a suggestion of a striptease but as he caught Ben watching, it was enough to plunge his head back into his scarf like a startled turtle.

 “If my Momma asks, I never did that.”

 Jumping in before Susan could make him disappear completely, Ben appraised the gloves thrown into the betting pot, casually asking if he made them himself.

“Oh, um n-no! It was Ms Winters, my landlady”, he turned to point at the woman who had slain the dragon Norton. He was a really awful liar. 

 Ben let it drop, “either way, put them in the pool”. He pulled his own worn down gloves off and rattled them in his cupped palm like dice before rolling them onto the table, “come on, daddy needs a new pair of mittens”.

 He thought he could sneakily win another blush just for him, a cherished farewell present before they left, but Miles looked at him in… challenge? He cut the cards, shaking his head, but Ben saw how charmed he looked, biting the inside of his cheek to halt the laughter that deepened his crow's feet.

 “I thought you'd won ten in a row, you can't afford to buy some?”

 He clicked his tongue in response, "maybe I just want yours? ‘Sides, I'll take feedback from people who have won a game, thanks.” 

 “Then listen to me Benjamin, learn to quit while you've got your pants on”, joked Matt, checking his cards before chucking a $1 bill into the pile. Susan placed her final one down, resisting the urge to put it down Miles' shirt for the show. She figured they were doing fine without her help. 

 “Defend your honor and this is the thanks I get”, poked Miles, suddenly looking abashed as he realised his slip. So he was defending me to Mrs Norton. “Umm… I.”

 “Miles. Shut up and deal.”

 Matt turned to Susan, titled his brow up and she nodded her agreement. He shook his head, blew on his pipe and watched for Ben's tell.

 The gloves fitted Matt perfectly. 

 As the game wound to a close, their temporary paradise was cut short as the allocations were finally called. Ben was in a group with all three of them. There was a part of him that had hoped he would be able to spend time with Miles alone, but their shared camaraderie found its easy tenor amongst the crowd of searchers that kept a spring in his step. Ben had become the leader of the group, how he wasn't sure as the others came to him for suggestions rather than the police presence assigned to them. It felt at odds with the suspicion he'd been treated with early but he figured Miranda had put a good word in for him after all.

 Completely out of his depth as a writer he'd turn to Miles who had a depth of knowledge on surviving the wilderness that shocked all of them. But Miles had been happy to keep to himself, supplying suggestions and then disappearing again to the back of the crowd. He would bat down any attempt at a complement, stating they can thank him if they found Ralphie.

 But there was something more going on. Face turning paler with each failed lead, the realisation grazed across Ben's mind that Miles seemed pessimistic, maybe even defeated before the search had really begun. It felt so at odds with the man he knew who saw the goodness in everything, who believed in divine Providence like it was the only truth he could believe in. Ben had wanted to drag him away, take his face into his hands again and plead with him to smile. To tell him what was worrying him and that everything was going to be okay. That was his job after all, Ben was supposed to be the pessimist. 

 But he couldn't, not with all the townsfolk around them. So step in step he walked with him in the privacy of the back of the crowd. Their shoulders occasionally knocked inconspicuously, until the crowd was dense enough that he could quickly snap his hand out and take Miles' in his own. He gave it a reassuring squeeze, quickly retracting it before they could be noticed - but he was pulled back, Miles holding on for dear life, fingers interlacing and hiding their new shape in the narrowing space between them. The clerk kept his head forward through the trees, never deviating, but the tiny bead of water glimmered at the corner of his eye. Ben asked Miranda to keep a vigil on him. 

 “It'll be okay Miles.” I hope.

 He had just nodded, blinking the tear away before it could fall and bring him down with it. He thought all the death in his life was finally behind him. Miles had staked his whole recovery on that one simple hope.

He gripped the hand in his while the other caressed the rosary hidden deep in his pocket. He was trembling, so Ben just held it tighter.

Chapter 5

 The woods groaned and swayed through the howling gusts of wind like they were already haunted. A copse of totemic pine trees stood tall over the mist that kept every long buried secret just out of view, while the shadows of wildlife danced in and out of the smoky haze, like their ghosts had not yet been laid to rest after an apocalyptic wild fire. 

 And through it all, Miles Miller and Ben Mears once again ventured into that seeming mythical borderland of ancient towering trees that lay just outside Jerusalem’s Lot in search of Ralphie Glick. Just as they had done every day since he had disappeared. The pair had never paid much thought to Matt's belief that the town was rotting from the inside out, but they had to admit - now? He had a point. 

 Just two weeks had passed and the town was now beginning to move on, concern turning to irritation that the child reprobate had the nerve to take attention away from other matters so long after his rightfully allotted time in the spotlight. Sheriff Gillespie, Dr Cody and Matt kept their search going where they could between their demanding jobs, whereas Susan could only try her best under the heavy thumb of her controlling mother. That just left Ben and Miles to keep the daily rescue attempts alive. Mr Straker had kindly let Miles take the ever darkening afternoons off to keep up the efforts, assuring him that it warmed his heart to see Miles take up the role of the good shepherd looking for a lost lamb. And leaving the rest of the sheep unprotected…

 In his effusive gratitude Miles had missed the predatory grin, but under those sharp teeth, Straker knew the meticulous young assistant posed a potential threat to his lifelong ambition. Yet he was to be it's catalyst. It was part of what made Miles so delicious. His meticulousness in every facet of his job could very easily lead his dutiful servant to see something he shouldn't… Not yet anyway. Straker was weary of letting his pet have such a long leash, but the search served to keep him sufficiently distracted, and if he pulled too hard, then he had ways to bring him to heel. 

 Ben Mears thought they'd passed this fallen Balsam Fir last Tuesday, and they definitely had walked through that dried up pond on Friday, but Miles had assured him that they were in fact different, the fir had not been hollowed out with rot, nor the pond been so full of silt. If it was anyone else Ben would have said he was full of shit, but Miles wasn't just anyone. Judging from the scars, Ben assumed Miles had served in Vietnam, but Miles never mentioned it and he never asked. So instead Ben Mears just put his faith in his friend’s ability to navigate through the rough terrain while he just had to put one foot in front of the other, the same as every other day. And if he kept Miles’ spirits up to go again, then he could sleep at night knowing he'd helped the missing kid as best he could. 

 As for Miles, he didn't know how he was still going. Ever since the kiss at the drive-in he was in flux, the routine that safeguarded his sobriety, and kept all his deepest darkest secrets and frightened, panicked thoughts locked up tight, had been left discarded like dirt at his feet. He should have been terrified. He was terrified. But also he felt exhilarated in a way he hadn't thought possible anymore.

 As he helped Ben over the broken footpath that splintered into the undergrowth, all his training came back to him as he navigated his way through thickets and fog as far as the eye could see. Despite the obstacles he still got them both to their destinations, like he had been born in these woods. Like the Fae of his memories was now a hunter. Even Ben had noticed the way he stood straighter as he had to get used to readjusting his eyeline. 

 “You… Seem different, Miles”, Ben had said slowly, in case just the suggestion may have caused offence. But Miles had just nodded, the blush running up the back of his neck as he walked a pace in front of Ben.

 “I-I feel different. It's like…”, Miles opened and closed his mouth as all his possible explanations rang hollow. He thought for a while before hesitating, tilting his head as if the answer would come on the breeze. It sounded stupid, but it was just him, Ben and the ghosts. Ben seemed to like it when he said stupid things, so he bravely continued.

 “Y’remember that movie I mentioned I like? Creature from the Black Lagoon?” Ben nodded. “W-well there was a s-sequel… they captured the creature and put him in this giant aquarium. And he had to stay there in his enclosure… just to watch behind the glass as everyone else's lives went by while he was trapped.” 

 Miles suddenly felt ridiculous. He kicked the autumn leaves in frustration as he walked. However, Ben finished his thought, “So the creature escaped, right?” 

 Miles kept a couple of paces ahead, but Ben could see his frigid breath come out in tiny huffs. “Y-yeah. B-but for me I don't wanna run away… and yet I'm not behind the glass anymore…? I don't know, f-forget I said anything-”

 However Ben kept his thoughts going like an experienced editor, gently probing Miles as he sped up to step inline, “No Miles, I get it. It's the same thing that happened to me when I started the Marsten book…”

 That caught Miles' attention, curiosity flashed over his gaze, slowing his pace ever so slightly. 

 Ben continued, his voice at one with the tenor of the woods, quiet and considered, "I never thought about it like that before but you're right - when Miranda died it was like someone else took over and I just sat back and watched like it was on TV. I let myself stop thinking for months…”. He remembered the nights laying in bed staring at the ceiling as the brandy made the tiles spin like the leaves trapped in the wind above their heads.

 “Occasionally I was let out, but that normally ended up in the entertainment column. ‘Figured the other me was doing a better job than I was so… I'd just let him take the wheel again”, Ben quipped dryly as his voice tailored off. 

 Miles rearranged his backpack on his shoulders, ignoring the growing pain from its weight as he responded, “It's nice… in its own way. It felt safe when I needed it b-but I can't sit back and watch while a kid is missing”. He clenched his fist round the sternum strap, he knew all too well the kinds of people that existed in this world. He remembered nearly crying in front of Ben that first day, scared at the uncertainty that lay before them, but in spite of the fruitless search, he felt more certain that ever that there is where God intended him to be. 

 Ben's jaw locked into place as he planned his response carefully, eyes like a hawk watching for any reaction he could catch, “Did you feel trapped Miles, like the creature did?”

 A shy rueful smile tugged at his lips, hiding the joke he knew Ben wouldn't find funny. “It was for my own good,” he said simply.

“… And now?”

“I… think, hope I'm ready to s-step out and… see what happens next”. Their eyes met through the mist, the twinkle of Ben's drew him in like a lighthouse to safe harbour. A couple of weeks ago and Miles would have spluttered and pulled away, but now? He let himself linger, not lessening the distance between them, but sharing the moment, keeping the unspoken evening at the drive-in alive. Not pushing the feeling further, putting it to one side, tending to it like a sprouting flower with tiny moments, and just letting the other know it hadn't been forgotten. At least, to his shame, that's what Miles hoped it was.

 He wondered what Straker would think if he could have heard him, if that was what Ben was looking for in his response. He had made it clear he didn't trust his boss in spite of Miles' protests and now he feared he was letting Ben's doubts seep into him through osmosis. However, Straker would be happy for him… right? All his guidance was leading up for Miles to be able to stand on his own two feet again, sober and right with God. And here he was, the cold metal of his crucifix serving as an ever-present reminder of his Nana, hoping he was making her proud as he pushed himself as far as he could for one child.

 Then why did the thought of Straker walking in step with them, just listening to them, crush the air from his lungs like it was held in a vice? And why did the itch from the needle scars plague him more than ever?

 Ben squeezed Miles' arm under the layers of warm clothing, bringing him back to himself. He was good at that now, slowly learning the signs that Miles was drifting off into the abyss of his spiraling thoughts.

They walked in an easy silence listening to the singing finches as they soared above, before the path came to a sudden stop over a rocky incline up towards their search destination. Miles gulped as he felt the red and twisted knife wound that painted his stomach pull at his skin like it was lurching, holding him back. A steady hand then reached out and placed its large palm firmly on his uninjured shoulder.

 “Think we can go around? Us writers aren't exactly known mountaineers”, softly chuckled Ben. His neck craned up to the top of the hill, but his gaze flicked over to the grimace on Miles face as he once again tussled the backpack on his increasingly haunched frame. Miles nodded. He knew Ben could have climbed it easily but he was coaxing the heavy bag from Miles' narrow shoulders before he could protest. Ben brushed him off and muttered ‘I just needed to grab my water bottle’ as he unzipped the bag, took a sip and closed it again. Without a fuss he propped Miles' rucksack over his own shoulder and powered on ahead. In that moment Miles didn't know if he felt weak or grateful.

 Miles fiddled with the torch in his hand, ready to turn it on as the last hour of light stretched out over the canopy of trees. Despite Ben's unwavering stubbornness in carrying both bags, Miles' body was beginning to falter. The toll of working the mornings, the expeditions and Straker's inevitable late night call for overtime had compounded the chronic pain in his shoulder and torso into a live wire that snapped and crackled with every clench of a muscle. Miles could feel his walk turn to a stagger as the leaves became denser under his heavy, jutting steps, each protruding tree root twisting into an insurmountable obstacle that tripped him on each crossing.

 Ben was talking to him now but his breathing ran so ragged he could only focus on making it just another step, and then another - because maybe that was all that was needed to find the Glick boy. Just another step. And maybe just one more after that. So if he gave up and missed it? How could he ever live with himself? He couldn't. So he shuffled his foot another inch further…and again-

 Suddenly a gentle arm guided him, strong and steady onto a tree stump before his knees could give out from underneath him. It took a beat before Miles realised he wasn't moving anymore, the hand on his shoulder made sure of that.

 Ben's face broke through the television static of his vision as sweet, crisp water was poured through his lips, quenching the thirst he didn't know he had. He looked concerned? Why would he be concerned when I feel fine? Ben sounded so far away, yet he could see the wrinkles that lined his eyes, “Hey Miles, think we can take a break? My feet are killing me.”

 Miles murmured a quiet ‘y-yeah’, wiping the droplets of water from his chin before Ben patted his cheek, you're good buddy.

 Miles watched, perched on the stump like a Fae once again, as his companion put down the backpacks and stretched his arms out like a man coming out of hibernation. Pain rescinded only slightly as Miles rubbed the muscles in his shoulders through his hefty coat, before moving onto clenching and unclenching his jaw in well practiced fashion, as the cold air strained the scars of his face. He looked down and saw his freezing, cyanosed hands shake as he squeezed his knees to regain sensation. Oh that's why he was worried…

 Ben took one look at the lingering tension in Miles' body and took that as his cue to settle in against the neighbouring giant oak to give him time. Miles watched and knew before his back had touched the bark he had made a terrible mistake in stopping.

  Ben was dressed in an old waterproof that swallowed up his shoulders in its shiny dark blue material, trail pants rolled down to his muddy boots, and his gloves, finally returned after the poker game, torn up even more from the vines that had obstructed their mission until they hung limp from his fingers. Ben looked to Miles like a host of a nature documentary, all decked out in the correct gear but his slick hair, unblemished skin and soft hands gave away that he was more used to hotel rooms than the forest floor. However, in just the last few days he had looked more and more like the rugged outdoorsman, as his stubble caressed his jaw line, skin tanned and sweat clung to the nape of his thick neck. And Lord help him he didn't even need to be in Ben's presence anymore to see every cord of muscle, every line that framed his mouth like he was waiting and willing in front of him.

 Seemingly unaware of his companions attention, Ben's eyelids fluttered closed as he gratefully took his place against the solid white oak. He hadn't even opened his eyes as he murmured, “trees big enough for two”. His left arm was held outstretched, welcoming him into his body like a lover waiting for him at the end of long days labour. Miles had so desperately wanted to crawl up and burrow his way into the crux of his shoulder and make his home in the pocket of his raincoat. 

 Ben had to know what he was doing to him, Miles thought. Had to. But his face was the perfect picture of tranquility, so he sat a respectable distance away, not hearing Ben's huffed laugh over the snapping of twigs. He had stayed like a stranger forced into proximity on a crowded train as Miles kept his arms pressed tight to his sides, all the while Ben's arm lay loosely on his shoulder, hand kept suspended in the air. He had heard Ben's soft snoring after just a few minutes, the whistle of air through his nostrils a gentle bird call that drew Miles into his trap. 

 He shuffled closer and stopped. Waited to hear the telltale signs of Ben stirring. Nothing. He moved up again. Miles could hear the low vibrating snore buried deep in his ribcage like a bear waiting to get out. He wanted to put his ear to it until it sung him to sleep. Yes, there would be no explanation that could suffice if Ben had woken up, but that didn't stop Miles thrumming in the same frequency as Ben's low purring. 

 Thinking he was in the clear, suddenly a heavy weight descended upon his chest. Miles stopped breathing. Ben rolled over and nuzzled into the soft wool of his jacket, nose burying in like it was trying to dig it's way the clammy skin beneath. Miles thought he could feel Ben's heated breath below his thermals. 

 The crown of Ben's head beckoned him in until he almost covered it with his cheek. He inhaled. The sleeping man no longer smelt of smoky whisky and bitter coffee, but of a heady mix of salt, dirt and moss. It felt raw, primal. The smell of a man pushing himself to his limits to save another soul. It was intoxicating. It was, oh god help him, in his exhausted state it was arousing.

 Miles' fingers reached out to stroke the back of his head, caress the ends of his oily hair and lift that handsome face so he could sample the crook of the neck. The very one he had obsessed over for what felt like his whole life… but he couldn't. Even in Ben's unconscious state it felt dangerous to be this soft. What if they were caught? He knew it was irrational but what if someone recorded them? Even just the idea of Ben waking up and pushing Miles away was enough to set his teeth on edge. 

 Miles thought he had implied he was at least sympathetic to his leanings, maybe even curious or had some experience after his wife, but that wasn't the same as wanting Miles Miller. Straker was right, he wasn't the best judge of character, especially not of a handsome man who paid him any attention. Maybe he was only seeing what he wanted to see and this was all one big misunderstanding? Wouldn't be the first time…

 Miles didn't know anymore. So he kept his hands to himself. He dryly coughed, waking the sleeping writer whose sleep encrusted voice muttered a ‘hows your father, bud’ before realising where he was. Miles was up and leading the expedition on before Ben had wiped the drool from his jaw. He kept his trembling hands stuck deep within his pockets as both rucksacks weighed him down. 

 Miles’ resolve had faltered. All it had taken was a pain in his back, a bit of tiredness and a man to show him an ounce of kindness and here he was, lusting after him like he was a drug for him to sample when there was a child to find. All of Straker's mentorship had been to protect him against even these minor stumbling blocks. He sped up, leading Ben on  so he couldn't see the staccato bob of his Adam's apple as he suppressed his tears of frustration.

 He definitely wasn't ready for the world again.

On the way back from the search Ben and Miles parted ways with a promise to see each other at the reception of Ben's boarding house before they set off once again to find Ralphie Glick. Ben had driven in a daze as the strain of the week caught up with him, lids slipping against the ongoing traffic, all the while Miles slept with his forehead pressed against the window, his snores blowing air like frosted icing onto the glass. In their state, neither of them had seen the station wagon following behind, nor did they notice the ever dwindling signs of life throughout the Lot.

 Day by day they had driven the same route home, through main street and down the hill towards Miles' home. And one by one houses kept their curtains closed, mail piled up in the letterboxes and solitary neighbours who never left the house went unmissed. Straker had learned the whole town's habits from his research, but more so from Miles' slip of town gossip as Straker asked about his days. Miles had been so excited that his boss was engaging him in small talk, like he was an equal or even a friend, that Miles had forgotten all about his prohibitions on engaging in unnecessary public life. 

 Straker had been concerned that his ward was stemming the tide of what was acceptable, but his extracurricular activities had let him know exactly who to target and when. He could let Miles off once, he would just tighten the other screws.

 After Ben had dropped him off, Miles hadn't even opened the gate to his house when Straker pulled up, a strange look on his face as he curled his pointer finger to him, beckoning him to come hither. Standing tall to attention despite the twinges of pain that shot up his spine, he ran over. Miles had a Pavlovian reaction to the sound of Straker's engine at this point. 

 Straker handed him a list of boxes that needed bringing from the store to the Marsten house. It was the fifth time in as many days that his boss has given him jobs to do after a physically and emotionally draining day of searching for Ralphie. Miles wanted so much to plead that he couldn't do it again, that the pain in his back and stomach was only getting worse, that the draw of the needle to drown out the pain was calling to him... To just please let him go to sleep. But he said none of those things. The toil of the search was beating him. He needed Strakers guidance now more than ever.

He took this list with an ever professional, thank you sir and went back out to work. Despite his resolve, it felt a lot harder without Ben there.

Chapter 6

 Miles Miller was late for supper. Miles Miller was never late for anything in the Lot, that is, until he had met Ben Mears. Now thoughts of the writer led to distraction, a distraction that interfered with almost every facet of his well ordered life, which led to day dreaming, often when he was supposed to be going through his precious, stringent routine, which worse, led to desiring… And that was where the problem lay. 

The shop assistant realised now he had become complacent, and as Richard Straker always said “you must always draw fresh breaths after outbursts of vanity or complacency”. The job for Straker should have only taken him an hour, instead it had taken two, the inability to handle the pain as he'd been taught and thoughts of the writer weighing his every step.

 Miles turned his key and unlocked the door to the baby blue Victorian-Style home, the overhang sheltered him from the increasingly frosty New England air as the incandescent porch light dazzled him, waking him from the fugue state that had carried him home. Miles inhaled that fresh breath Straker had demanded until he went dizzy.

 But the dizziness just made him think of Ben, kissing him with a ferocity that had scared him as he selfishly sucked the air from his lungs like a drowning man's final gambit. It made him shiver as he remembered the knives of Ben's canines, as he had so tenderly held Miles' lower lip between them, the threat of drawing blood melting away as they coaxed a long exhale he had been holding in for years.

 Miles shook his head. He definitely had lost his way, he saw that now. But that didn't mean he didn't desperately want to give in to temptation.

 He had been wrong in his evaluation to Ben, in his haste to move forward he had lost his very foundation. However, to his eternal gratitude his mentor had provided him with the tools he needed to find that narrow path again. Mr Straker had, from the very first day, instilled within him an urgency to fill his days with work, to forget the idle man who had simply stood by and watched as evil seduced him without nary a protest, but to stay present in the moment, to keep his physical body in check until his soul had time to heal and take over again. He needed to go behind the glass again. He was, after all, a once and always addict.

 It had only been a singular occasion, but early in his employment Miles had come into work with a small toothpaste stain embellishing his lapel. “How can you expect to keep your craven mind in order if you cannot create order in your own home?!” Straker had boomed, his shoulders perched up to his ears and he towered over the quivering young man like a vulture. The fear had caused him to rearrange entire life around that singular question. When Straker had praised him months later for looking “respectable enough”, tears had pricked his eyes as Miles told him of how he had taken his advice to heart and devoted his every waking moment to living up to that standard. 

 He teared up as he spouted gratitude after gratitude, every utterance music to Straker’s ears. Miles never forgot how proud he had looked of him.

 Miles twisted the door handle and let himself inside, the house welcoming him home into its spacious and immaculate living room. He kicked off his boots and placed them in the shoe rack, making a mental note to clean and polish them before bed. Despite the late hour, two standing lamps illuminated the intricate handmade rug and drew his eyes to the table by the flora patterned sofa where a single note lay between the coffee cups and playing cards.

 Don't worry about cleaning Miles, I'll get to it in the morning. Thank you for all your doing looking for the Glick boy - you deserve a rest! There's steak in the fridge for you. Sleep well. - Ms Winters

p.s I mean it, no cleaning!

 Ms Winters had been one of the few people in town he could say he had a genuine connection to. The widow offered her home to him for half the price of the boarding house, tea and breakfast included. Not that it had ever been formally agreed, she just brushed any protests to the contrary. I've made too much food, it's going to go to waste, you just need more meat on your bones, a growing boy like you… Until he eventually relented and spent two afternoons a week sharing a fish chowder on her tiny fold out table by the window. Miles didn't have the heart to tell her he didn't like chowder.  

 It didn't take long before Ms Winters home was littered with tiny trinkets from the shop, small tokens of his appreciation tailored expertly to her. She had loved and cherished every one, each taking pride and place across the house like an art gallery dedicated to her. Slowly but surely it had become a shared space for them, the boundaries blurring as what is mine became what is yours. And as Miles grew in his understanding of her, she grew with him, all with a lightness of touch and gentle motherly intuition. When one of his ‘dark clouds’, as she called them, hung over him, she'd take it upon herself to keep him to routine, very different than the one imposed by Mr Straker. Every day she would provide him with a wake up call, fresh towels encouraging him to shower and a put upon feebleness that triggered Miles’ chivalry as he helped her shop or cook. He knew exactly what she was doing, but she had waved off any attempts at thanks with a briskly muttered, 'I have no idea what you're talking about sweetie'. Once he had climbed out from under that cloud he would cook her a full Sunday Roast with all the trimmings, whether she liked it or not.

 Miles never told Mr Straker about his connection to Ms Winter. He tried, but the words never came out. Miles didn't know why, but he told Ben all about her.

 Miles smiled to himself as he picked up the note. She was always fretting over him, making sure he was okay and that the ‘horrible boss’ of his wasn't working him too hard. He had figured she didn't know many non-americans so chalked it down to the small town mentality that Straker explained was the reason for most of the Lot's ills. Miles had tried to defend his boss to her but after she threatened to go over there and give him a piece of her mind, he learnt it was better just to smile and promise he wouldn't push himself too far, thank you kindly ma’am. 

 And he hadn't done. Which was why now, when the remnants of coffee filled his nostrils, he took another fresh breath, the smell seducing his mind to drop it's guard as quickly as they had been built back up. Miles was back at the shop, the writer just inches away as the notes of bitter chocolate and hazelnut had been so close he could taste it… 

 Miles pocketed the note and as silent as a door mouse, he placed the fine china onto the tray and brought them into the kitchen, where only the reflection of the moon provided a shimmering silver outline to the normally pristine workspace. The workspace that was now littered with the evidence of Ms Winters weekly bridge game. He sighed. He had a lot of work still to do.

 He set the tray aside and removed his mud caked waterproof and threw it into the washing machine, the loss of its weight a relief to his sagging shoulders. As he worked, the assistant wondered if the landlady hadn't played some small part in his current predicament. It had been all too easy for him to stop trying with her, to give up the struggle and just finally be. It was seemingly so harmless to bask in her sun, but he had been burned, and so returned to work in the darkness, vowing to keep to his routine with a religious fervour. He hoped she would understand. 

 The voice of Mr Straker rung in his ears as he ran the tap and filled the water with washing up liquid, rolling his sleeves past his elbows in the solitude of the kitchen. He plunged his hands into the skin-numbingly hot, soapy water.

“Your eyes can deceive you Mr Miller, they led you into sin and they can do it again. When you clean, clean like it's your soul. Clean every inch no matter how clean it looks, and then clean it again, in case there is any spec of impurity that you have left that could fester.”

 The soap was caustic against his tender, grazed skin. He ignored it and cleaned again until they were ready to dry. Miles moved then with a regimented efficiency he inherited from the army, moving around the kitchen like a programmed automata, collecting the refuse from the table, cleaning every surface, item and inch of the floor. The mop and bucket was in the basement and not wanting to disturb Ms Winter he got on his hands knees and cleaned with just a washcloth and soap. 

And true to Straker's word, he did it a second time. All the while, Miles' teeth gritted against the screaming of his calves while his fingers slipped on the floor, struggling to keep himself upright as his shoulders kept shuddering in sheer and utter exhaustion.

When the task was finally completed, Miles scooted to a kitchen chair, placing his palms on the seat and dragging his body up to table level before sitting down. His stomach growled in agreement with the rest of his body that was currently revolting against him. The frail figure looked toward the fridge where the leftover steak had been stored for him. His mouth started to water, like a good southern boy steak was his absolute favourite. But Straker's voice echoed again in the stillness of the room:

“Miles, have I ever told you the theory of John Kellogg? He believed the modern ill of using food to poison your body for quick physical pleasures is the drug of the masses. Grains, fruit and vegetables are what the humble, righteous servants ate in the time of the prophets, and it is them that you must emulate”

 Miles remembered the shame he felt when he first questioned Straker's guidance as he saw him eating a roast chicken in his office. It had been the only time he felt truly afraid of his teacher. He screeched at him like a banshee, fist hammering the table, punctuating each point like the Almighty himself was in agreement. 

“It is best you keep your body pure with the contaminants -you- have already put in Gods temple! Do not think for a moment Mr Miller, that -you- are in any position to remove the spec from my eye when yours is so full of the utter filth you put there.”

 Just remembering Straker's quaking body, fiercely trembling like he had been struck by Zeus’ bolt as he barred down on Miles, was enough to make his stomach lurch at the idea of food. He thrust his hands between his thighs and pressed them together to keep his shaking hands still as the memory receded.

Inhale...

Exhale...

Inhale...

Exhale...

 Despite the fear Straker had instilled, to his shame, it was the one he had probably broken the most. Ms Winter was too persuasive, too crestfallen when he declined her hard work. It had been a rapid decline down that slippery slope to baking for Mark at their film nights, and learning to cook with his landlady, even if he did just pick at the results.

 Resolved that this was what he needed, he pushed himself from the chair with a huff of exertion and made his way to the fridge. The light strained his eyes as he felt for the tupperware before closing it again, returning the room to its silvery blues that melted into the darkest black shadows. Miles took the steak and walked on tip toes across the kitchen and to the back door, pushing it slightly ajar.

“Heerreee kitty kitty… pspsps”, he whispered, jiggling the cuts of ribeye in the box.

 Meow.

 Twin pricks of light then appeared, perched over the fence, tilting and twisting as it analysed the offering at the threshold. Slowly the amber orbs glided to the floor without a sound, at one with the darkness it had appeared from. Those inky shadows converged around the narrow eyes and into the silky black form of the Davidson cat. 

 She brushed her head against Miles' heels, the rumbling purr keeping him warm against the autumn breeze.

“Hey sweet girl, sorry I've not been ‘round much to feed you. Y’missed me?” The curve of her back to meet his hand as he kneeled down to pet her gave him his answer, “here got something s-special for my special ‘lil lady”. 

 He dropped the chunks before her before stroking her again. He didn't want Ms Winters being suspicious that there was anything wrong.

 When the cat meowed her goodbye, Miles closed the door again, the soft click of the lock signalling the end of the only break he had all evening. The balm she provided for his suffering body and mind went with her however. It hadn't been this bad since Straker found him at the hospital.

 Miles looked towards the cabinet where Ms Winters kept the medication. One single Tylenol wouldn't hurt would it? He just needed a good night's sleep…just one…

“You used heroin to run from pain and it made you weak Mr Miller. If you're going to face the world again without temptation you need to not only confront it but welcome it like the sage teacher it is.”

 Straker hadn't outright said not to take painkillers but his meaning had been obvious. He had instilled in Miles a hypervigilience against any substance that changed the senses whether it was medication, drugs, alcohol or even caffeine. All were equally dangerous in his recovery. Miles walked past the cabinet and staggered to clean the living room.

 Miles walked the same path around the lounge, feet wearing holes through the carpet as he followed his tried and true routine to a T. And slowly but surely Straker's promise that his routine would save him came true. His mind finally felt free of distraction as he cleaned the tables and dusted the mantelpieces, the pain in his body keeping him singularly focused, each action requiring conscious, painstaking effort, but it was working.

 “Simplicity can only be achieved through great agony of mind and body.”

 Miles breathed a fresh breath. He welcomed the pain… he wanted to welcome the pain. He sobbed once, anguish melting the peaceful facade of his face. Miles’ hand slapped over his mouth like it was a traitor escaping its prison. 

 He knew he should go shower, do his hail Mary's, iron his clothes… He should check the dining room to see if it needed cleaning… but he couldn't. God have mercy, he just couldn't anymore. He wanted to see Ms Winters, to selfishly wake her up and let her take over, to sit him down, make him a hot cup of Coco and just ask him what was wrong. He wanted to tell her every secret. He wanted to curl into her like the Davidson cat and weep. She would know what to do…

 It hadn't been a single evening and already he couldn't do it anymore. It had seemed so easy a few weeks ago. All Straker had done for him and this was how he lived up to his ideals.

“A boy who relies on such doubtful comforts as others, can never be a man.”

 However the voice wasn't taking root in the salted path anymore. His traitorous thoughts wanted Ms Winters to give him everything he shouldn't have, to take his pain away, to listen to him, to make him his favourite meal and leave the dishes in the sink…

 And Miles wanted Ben Mears. He wanted him to… God he just wanted Ben. A throb wrung out his body, pain and desire entwining to steal the air from his lungs. He wanted- no, needed Ben to kiss him again. He would feel better then, just a chaste one between friends. Not the one that had set his soul alight, made him want to damn himself to hell if only he could feel Ben sing into his mouth again like a siren's curse.

 “Your inclinations are your gift, a rare burden to bear is a great honour. God accepts you for who you are and it is your duty then to resist the temptation it brings and bring him glory in your purity…”

 Straker was right. Of course he was right. Miles could do this, it was his greatest test and he couldn't fail. Not when his soul depended on it. He just had to distract himself. He could sit and watch TV…

 “That box is nothing but poison to your impressionable mind…”

Listen to the baseball…

“You mustn't run away from your thoughts, face yourself in silence…”

 He could knit…

 “Such womanly pastimes are unbecoming for a man, we don't need you softening even more…”

 He could do…. Nothing.

 He knew that now. An objective fact one knew as sure as gravity or the sun rising.

 The thrumming patter of his heart skipped and then galloped in his ears like a frightened rabbit transforming into a stampeding stallion. Face pale in the moonlight, he tried for that fresh breath again that Straker always reminded him of, but the air felt thick and stale. It felt like each suck of oxygen was contracting the room towards himself, until it would close in and crush him. Dark splodges encroached over his central vision, he tried to blink them away but they just multiplied, filling every spec of light they could find. 

 He just needed to relax. That's all. God wouldn't want him to suffer one of his spirals alone, or worse wake a kind soul like Ms Winters at the stroke of midnight. He could ask forgiveness in the morning when he was stronger, speak to Straker for guidance, and then he would try again. In the morning. 

 Miles climbed the stairs to the second floor, and then his attic room as silently as his flat feet would carry him, skipping the bathroom entirely. 

 Despite his diligence in helping his landlady in her quest for godliness through cleanliness, the attic that he called home showed no family resemblance to the rest or the house, nor the shop he kept in pristine condition. Dust collected along the walls of the windowless four walls, spider webs entrapped stragglers in the triangular point of his ceiling, giving the room the shape of a church knave. 

 A single cupboard kept his single collection of clothes, a nightstand housing his radio, his rosaries, Bible, and a collection of yarn and needles. He left them all untouched as he undressed. No decorations adorned his room other than a hanging cross and a baseball glove. It was the same make as the one his father had gifted him for his seventh birthday, signed by his favourite player. It hadn't survived the fire that claimed his parents.

 The only other display of the man who lived there was a book shelf that was kept full of antique study books that were read dutifully each day. That is, until his trip to the library a few days ago. Miles closed the door, hurriedly dressed into his pyjamas and took the paperback interloper, hidden behind the academia, and settled himself on top of his well worn duvet.

 If the evening was going to go any differently he would have got under the covers. He wouldn't have picked up the book, put his crucifix necklace in a drawer, worn his softest pair of underwear, or stopped by his landlady's door to check she was definitely asleep. He would have showered and washed away the smell of the man he had spent his day with. 

 Miles carried out the ritual like a man staggering under the inevitability of marching to the firing squad. 

 He caressed the front cover like it was a holy relic from St Paul himself, tracing his finger over each letter, “Conway's Daughter by Ben Mears”.

 Miles had the page numbers memorised of the scenes that had scandalised the town, lest anyone found a suspiciously placed bookmark. He turned to his favourite.

 For a final time, he took in that fabled fresh breath, hoping the pure air would release him from whatever grip had him in a chokehold. But nothing changed. He tried, he really had. With a deft flick of the wrist, he unbuttoned his pyjama pants and with the lightest, barely there touch, started to tease the wet spot of his briefs.

Chapter 7

The knave shaped roof looked so very, very far away. Miles’ rented room was tiny, not even large enough for him to raise his arm to half height. But lying on the bed, surrounded by darkness, it felt like he was outside, the cool draft bristling the follicles of his curled fringe as the ceiling melted into a faraway sky. The heavens looking down in apathetic judgement. 

It felt like the scene from his book, the one which was propped up on the carefully arranged set of pillows next to his turned, angelic face. His eyes were hyper focused on every curve, every flick of every letter. Engrossed, he embodied the new convert, reading the Good Book for the first time with awed wonder as with each word it rearranged the world he thought he knew. 

The minister's daughter trembled under the stranger's firm hand, pressed against her open, waiting mouth. No one had touched her in so long that every brush of those calloused fingers along her cheek sent shockwaves down to her core. The forbidden fruit between her thighs started to release their fabled nectar…

Miles grunted into the protection of his palm. He held it so tightly to his face that only the spit and carbon dioxide from his lungs now filled that miniscule space. He'd never read an erotic novel, not until Susan had ordered in that much discussed debut of the man who now consumed his thoughts. He wondered if she knew what he was in for.

 He had looked through playboys like every teenage boy had done, seen the pictures of naked women with their breasts on two page spreads and wondered why he felt nothing. But then again he never had read anything sensual before. It ignited his senses in a way porn mags never had. Each word was an ember that his imagination tended too, slowly seducing him into its allure until it fanned the flames into an inferno under his skin. 

 If anyone found it, he was prepared and armed with an essay on how much he liked the characters and themes.

 Miles told himself he just wanted to learn more about Ben, maybe flatter him a bit by reading it. Despite the situation he found himself in, he really did try to find his more prestigious novel, but Susan had beaten him to the punch, or so she said. He was just going to read the story and skip any scenes his Nana would have smacked him around the head for reading. However, when the first one passed by his eyes without a slither of resistance he had read through the night, every page and every word, until the alarm interrupted the final paragraph.

 But even then, skin clammy and sweat beading in his lower back, he hadn't touched himself. He was more diligent in his routine then. Less tired, less broken, less desperate. 

 His right hand was held above his briefs, a single, hesitant finger drawing the outline of his cock like he was gliding it over a still stream, gently skimming the waves of the fabric but steadfastly keeping his touch light lest the tension break and he plunged deeper.

 The barely there touch conditioned his mind into believing he really was just reading a regular, boring ol’ novel, lulling it into a false sense of security. All the while satisfying that incessant, demanding twitch that searched in vain for his palm to relieve the thudding ache that tightened his briefs with each passing, forbidden word.

 All Miles had to do was keep his eyes moving, just keep following the next letter, and then the next, and then he would finish the chapter in time for his mind to catch up to his body's schemes and reign himself in again. He had to give himself just enough that it took the edge off. That's all. He didn't need to orgasm, didn't need the shame to turn and knot his already weak stomach. And then if- when he succeeded, he could sleep without fully giving in to temptation. 

 He just had to keep his breathing steady. Eyes on the page and focused. The notion passed over his mind, if he was just going to read it then why was he silencing himself? Miles willed the words on the page to drown out his own. 

 Jessie tried to plead with him, but for what she did not know. The Stranger licked the cup between her shoulder and neck, dragging over her pulse like it was a threat and a promise all rolled into the tip of his tongue. She said she wanted him. That he should leave. That he should stop kissing her while she pushed him down her body. To just please please give her anything he wanted, so long as it was something. But the Stranger had just smiled, delighting in the sea of contradictions as he watched over her writhing form, waiting for her to catch up with what he knew to be true. That she was his now, and always would be. And still he did not touch where she desired him most. 

 If he hadn't been driven to the point of exhaustion Miles would have snickered at his friend's verbosity, the same within his fiction as in flesh. He would have rolled his eyes in fond annoyance, not pleasure. 

 Miles could feel the editor's hand pushing the writer's towards his inevitable commercial success, but it was still him behind the reels of text. His Ben who could follow a thought past its logical conclusion, far beyond what Miles ever thought possible with his knowingly self-effacing wink of silliness, like a joke only the reader was privy too. But God help him, it just made it feel all the more like his Ben was speaking to just his Miles. As though Ben was showing him something only he could offer him. Like only he knew what Miles was going through right there and then. The possession made him throb-

 Miles stopped that thought before it could fester. He was not his Ben, and he wasn't his Miles. He couldn't think of Ben now. It was just words he wrote for money. Good words, very very good words, but he wasn't here and Miles had no right thinking of him. Not with his hand so near his hardening cock, and definitely not with his blush so high in his cheeks that his facial scars turned an angry visceral scarlet. 

 But despite his efforts, his body was slowly succumbing into that warm pool in his stomach where his mind had no authority like a sleeper agent waiting for the moment to seize control. With each escalation in the page, a slight hint of his nail was added as he teased his stomach around his throbbing member, keeping his nerves alight with his traitorous subconscious’ promise to his body of more, more.. if it could wait his mind out that bit longer…

 The stranger huffed a laugh against her breasts as she whimpered, “Whatever would your daddy say if he saw you like this?”

 The word triggered a sharp gasp as Miles lost control for just a second, his nail slipping and running the length of his cock. The sensation silenced his traitorous thoughts and all others. Miles whimpered into the cocoon of his hand. Daddy? God Mr Mears…

 With nowhere to go, the vapor paced its tiny enclosure before returning to wet his lips like the whisper of a lover's kiss. He wanted so desperately to take the hand from his mouth, take that kiss and wet his cock with it like it was from Ben's mouth-

 How was he falling into the same trap so quickly? Maybe it was just because he'd never read anything like this before - yeah that was it. The experience reminded him of the first plunge of the syringe, how it had taken his breath away as the initial rush started a chain reaction in his body that rearranged every atom, only to ever feel that euphoria when he gave himself over completely, mind, body and soul.

 Now the thought terrified him. Straker had been right, he was an addict and now he was replacing heroin with thoughts of the man who could replicate it with all his senses still intact. But therein lay his problem. Bringing the book closer to his face, he blocked out the outside world and gave himself over to each and every sentence until all he could see and feel was the universe of the book. His mind threw away every sensation, every thought that was not the Stranger, focusing on the black shadow in human form that his mind supplied. He knew it would have helped if he could have pictured more than an empty void, one so similar to how Ben had looked before he kissed him, but even he couldn't delude himself into believing it would have been anything other than the face he dared not think about.

…Jessie, finally accepting the inevitable, gave herself over to the stranger, the man who seduced her with just a knowing look, a rough hand and a kind word. Giving into the desires he had unlocked within her, she revealed in the throb that pulsed through her veins like the pounding of the drums in an ecstatic heathen ritual that came up from the ground. It cradled her body and drew her home until she grew roots. She never wanted to leave.

 He gasped into the gag of his hand “Mmphf! F…fuu-G’d.”

 Miles was painfully hard now, the fabric of his briefs twitching as his cock tried to free itself from its confines. 

 But still Miles tried to press on, taking in every word, until eventually he felt himself sink as his bed started to drift away. Slowly at first as his mind eased into that syrupy sweet oblivion that beckoned him to return to his most primal state, until he was surrounded by the sticky morning dew of the story. The rough blanket merging into the baying grass along his skin and the draft of the attic lulling him into the cool spring breeze. He looked down in his mind's eye, taking Jessie’s place as he calmed his breathing, visualising the roots of the book like restraints, coming from the earth and holding him to the bed, both to imprison and to keep safe. His cock tried in vain to reach the friction it craved.

 But his plan had worked too well. It was all consuming now. 

 Miles felt the drums pulse like it was him in the scene, but not like a ritual, instead it was the pounding of enemy war drums. Each pulse sent a shiver down his spine that had his aching back quake in pain and anticipation. His vision went hazy as he tried to make out the words on the page. To press forward. But he couldn't see beyond his nose anymore. He tried to wait the moment out, wrestle his body back under his control. He ordered himself to breathe again, only for it to come out in tiny puffs, tricking his heart to race, like even his lungs had joined the revolt and was gaining allies against him. 

 And through it all his finger gathered forces, his touch now fourfold as his hand lightly grasped the shaft, not tugging yet, but curling just slightly around what they could reach, tendons twitching, readying themselves for the instant Miles gave in and the order was given.

The man kissed his way down her stomach, his breath teasing her as he stayed just a hair above where she wanted him most. She pleaded but he remained as impassive as a pagan idol to her suffering prayers. That is until she gave him what he was waiting for and with a final gasp, lifted herself to his waiting mouth in offering…

 It was too much, he felt every kiss down his body as though the Stranger was in the room with him. Turning away from the book and onto his back, he clenched his eyes shut to lock himself away. But his eyelids provided futile protection. His lack of sight only heightened each press of the strangers lips that ghosted downwards, his heart stampeding in his chest as though a warm, hot mouth really was about to envelop him for the first time in over a year. Miles thought if he tried to get away, he would be blocked by strong, sturdy arms barricading him onto his bed.

 And against the arch of his ear he heard the whisper of a voice behind him like static, an intercepted radio transmission overlapping with another interloper. He knew one of the voices but would not name it.

“Thaaats it Miles-”

 “It's okay, you're okay, I'm right here-”

 “-Just give in. You know who we are right?”

 “-We can make you feel so good together-.”

 “Just open your eyes.”

 “We'll take care of you, just let us, please.”

 He knew he should stop, but like a child who thought the monster really was in the closet, he feared the face that would be before him if he opened his eyes. Without the book to keep him in check, his fantasies raced through every lustful thought he could conjure, all the while the Stranger delighted in his prisoner like a victorious King, touching every inch of skin like it was his divine right. Miles was lost, he pleaded like Jessie, in his mind or out loud he didn't know. 

 Before he could whimper again, he let go of his mouth and replaced it with the hem of his shirt. His hand now free, he moved the one that had held his dick and wrapped around his bed sheets, mimicking the vines in his fantasy as they stopped him reaching out to drag his tormentor on top of him, to claim him.

 But he needed it. Needed him. 

 Before he could talk himself out of it he grabbed his cock with his spit slicked hand and squeezed. Saliva mixed with his precum as he shot his hips up off the bed, his shoulder blades pressing into the headboard as he offered himself up the Stranger like a sacrifice at his alter. 

 The hairs on Miles' arms stood to instant attention. The heavens must have been pleased with his offering. 

 Miles' lips bubbled under watery, muffled cries. Oh God he could feel Ben sat just behind him, his arms enclosing him, caging him, as his chin rested on Miles’ shoulder. He knew it was just the headboard against him, but Lord help him he thought he felt his hot, wet breath against the tip of his ear, warning his teeth were just a whisper away.

 “That's it, you're doing so well for me… Nearly there now. Just a little more.”

 But he couldn't. This was wrong. So wrong. His thighs were screaming at him as he strained off the bed.

 “Okay, it's okay. Just give me control, you just need a little hand.”

 The timber of Ben's voice echoed through his ears, down his quivering neck and into the tremors of his thighs as he strained to keep himself still. Yet it felt like Ben was ensnaring his every muscle from the inside with just the lash of his tongue. 

 And then he felt the hands of the Stranger again. But not just his hands, the ache of his legs now imitated the feeling of the shadowy figure's body pressing into his lower half, keeping him surrounded on all sides. Still with his eyes clamped shut, Miles finally, finally let himself imagine the Stranger leaning forwards and taking his fist into his own. Losing all control, he pictured the character guiding his hand, up and down, squeezing and fisting as he hadn't let himself do for months.

 That's when Miles felt himself be dragged under, like every system in his body had staged a coup as the sensation of Ben behind him merged with the stranger before him. 

He wanted so much to wrestle back his control and stop. But he couldn't… Not when he was in his Ben's arms. Mother Mary full of Grace grant me the strength-

 But they were everywhere. Miles felt surrounded, physical and auditory stimulation mixing with the sweat and dirt in his skin that he had inhaled in the woods as Ben lay against him. He couldn't stop the hand that picked up its pace, fisting him as best he could through his briefs, foreskin enveloping his sensitive head with every pass. 

 It felt as though Ben's voice had conjured the shadowy stranger to life, from page to reality before him in an ancient pagan spell. It served to fuel his fantasy, all to make him think of Ben Mears, and Ben Mears alone. And yet only the Stranger touched him. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so good, so floaty.

 “There you are… You got it. So beautiful between us. He knows what he's doing, just keep floating and I'll catch you when you fall. You are ours now aren't you Miles? Our good boy?… Fuck, so proud of you…”

 The wavelength of Ben's husky baritone finally hit its mark. Good boy. It severed Miles from his own nerves, leaving the writer and Stranger in command of his every muscle, every chord and sinew, all to do as he commanded like a puppet master. And now, fully trapped within his domain of the story and storyteller, Miles was to stay still and listen. 

“You know how this scene ends right? Go on, keep reading for me. Give into it.”

 With his head still floating in that indescribable place, he did as his puppet master willed, mind following body, and emptying itself in surrender. Now completely under its hypnotic power, the remembered story twisted, turning into something he no longer recognised. They poured in like honeyed poison through the ears.

 Miles felt the roots of the earth pull him under, twisting around every available inch of his skin as he gave up all thought. The earth held him within it's loving grasp once more, each root now framing his features, presenting him like a gallery of fine art to the Stranger above him. The Stranger appraised him and with a final nod of satisfaction he took his swollen, heavy cock in his hand and caressed it, creating a warm embrace for the good boy to thrust himself into…

He didn't have the presence of mind to consider the change of character.

 Miles lowered his hips like his puppet strings had been cut. Then without missing a beat he was gone. He offered his dick up again and again, sodden hand now fucking his cock as hard as the barrier would allow, shaft jumping with each thrust towards the heavens.  It was all too much. All Miles could do was pathetically beg with each convulsion of his body, ”mmhmm…pwe..asseee…mhm-ah! ”. 

 But his mind wasn't through with him yet. With each thrust, the shadowy figure in his mind's eye started to melt along with his mind. His hand was a blur as Miles imagined each pump was only because the Stranger willed it, and now he started to shift. The inky black of his face started to recede in the presence of the overwhelming goodness and light that was beneath it. There was only thing left for his mind to betray him with. 

 He tried to change the image of the Stranger from the blurred out shadow into a celebrity. He thought of actors from the drive in movies, chins so chiselled you could crack rocks with them, men who got the girl and the guy if you picked up the subtext…. But it didn't work. He thought of people who had fucked him in the past, people he had fucked. And when that failed it was townsfolk, people he had passed on the streets, actual strangers… just anyone other than him.

 And none of them were enough. Even in his mind's eye it was just Miles’ own hand now. The shadow watched over him and looked… Pleased? In a low gravely voice, enthused with static the Stranger finally spoke again. “You wanted this Miles… just give in. You deserve this. No one understands, do they? Just how hard you try and try and all so you could end up back here with me…”

 The arms around him were still there. He felt the original Ben's lips kiss into the dimple of his spine while the Stranger kept flickering like a TV channel in a thunder storm.

“N-n-no, I didn't want-please, I just wanted to be g-good.”

 But even as he said it, the palm of his hand encircled the head of his engorged cock, polishing it over and over like it was the most precious antique. He was whimpering openly now, the tremors of his chin dislodging wet thick tears from his eyes as his sang his pleas in harmony with the up and down of his wrist. 

 “Come on Miles, you don't have to be good to deserve me.”

 The man of his fantasy looked up, head no longer the shadowy blurred features of the stranger but of slicked dark hair that looked wild, like he'd been clawing at it for hours, a face held by the side burns that promised such delicious friction and a soft open smile that stared back at him like a mischievous imp. Ben?

The figure with Ben's face clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes, “who else, bud?”. 

 The arms behind him suddenly enclosed him like a chain, taking his breath away. The Ben behind him was growling in time with the blood rushing in Miles' ears. He seemed to control Miles then, snaking his fingers down his stomach, making the muscles clench in pleasure until he roughly rubbed his thumb of the leaking slit of his pulsating head. 

“One last push Miles. What did I say at the drive in?”

 The Stranger merged his hand with the other Ben's then, causing Miles to take his cock in both hands, one teasing the slit and the other fisting himself from root to tip. The scream from Miles was broken, barely silenced by the shirt as spit flooded out the corner of his mouth. “Please…”

 “Ahhh that was it. Please what Miles? You gotta tell me what you want.”

 And in the privacy of his room he let his shirt go and he cried, not ‘more’ this time, but “F-fuck me! ‘Want you to make me yours! Want… want you to make l-l-love to me."

 Finally the hand that caressed his clothed slit let go and forced its way under his briefs and spread his precum into every inch of his turgid cock.

 Tears blurring even in the darkness of his closed eyes, he pictured the Stranger-turned-Ben before him. His expression changed then on a dime as he retook on the persona of the character. Those kind eyes darkened as the whole fantasy narrowed to just those piercing eyes and devilish grin that he didn't know if it enticed or scared him. 

 He laughed cruelly, “Just think, if you hadn't ran off that day this could have been real. This wouldn't just be you and your hand. I could have made you wail.”

 The Ben behind him chimed in, growling, “Could have made you mine. You could have stayed in my bed forever.”

 Miles' hand retracted from the front of his underwear like he had been burned. No no he couldn't do this. Couldn't use the image of Ben to indulge whatever sick fantasies he was holding. 

 “Ahh, always the coward Miles. You'll never know now will you? Just what it would have been like to have my cock for the day.” And at the Ben pounced at him-

 He opened his eyes wide like a wild animal but the voice chased him back up from the depths of his lurid, vivid imagination, into which he had fallen so far.

The slick New England drawl brushed his ears as he struggled to take in his surroundings, “you said you wanted to be good Miles. Well then, why don't you be a good boy for me and cum?”

Miles jerked up straight like he had just awoken from a nightmare. Felt like it too. The room around him spun as he brought his knees up to shield his head from whatever night terrors still lingered under his bed. His sticky fingers teased the fraying waves of his hair at his crown like he was unspooling his puppet strings back into place, reinserting control back into his own body. But he was still floating, the strings tied themselves around an empty husk, moving on instinct as he started to panic. Ben had said he'd catch him hadn't he? So where was he-

 Miles felt his breathing catch, causing his meditation exercises to kick in like the final failsafe against his spirals.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He sobbed.

But he was coming back into himself.

Jesus Christ, what had he done? 

 Miles wiped the back of his hand against the tear trodden paths of his cheekbones and then down to his mouth to wipe off the spit that had pooled under his palm. The draft of the windowless room, cold and stale through the rotting planks, kept his muscles on edge as he went through his breathing exercises again and again…

 But it wasn't working, he was still, so achingly, shamefully hard. Miles opened his hips wide, just enough to sneak a glance at the swollen, wine-blushed head of his cock as it peaked out from under the hem of his cotton white underwear. Soaking in pre-cum, he felt disgusted. Ashamed. And still so aroused. He knocked his head gently a couple of times against the wall above the headboard in frustration, “s-stupid… stupid..” he mumbled to the spiders.

 The thought of taking a cold shower crossed his mind. Then his Bible. And then his rosary. However none of them could draw his attention away from the tightness in his stomach. Miles turned and saw the source of his fantasies sprawled across the floor, pages open wide tempting him back. Ben's face taunting him on the dust cover.

 With a hard swallow he jumped from his bed and slammed ‘Conway's Daughter’ shut. Miles held it away from his body as he returned it to its place behind his study books like a cheesy B Movie, the cursed artifact being returned to its unholy temple as though its power wouldn't call out to him again…

 Miles stood then, lost in his barren, lonely bedroom. His veins thrummed with a nervous energy that pulsed and whined against his skin, urging him to do something. He encased his face in his hands as he wrung them down the length of his jaw as he made his decision. With a quick shuffle of his legs, he kicked his pyjama pants to the floor. He'd sinned already, he would face his penance… tomorrow. 

 Miles knew he needed his mind clear of distractions to face Straker. To face another day heavy labour past his limits. To continue to search for a missing child while the rest of the town gave up hope. To survive another day walking shoulder to shoulder with Ben Mears without falling into sin. Or worse, leading Ben down the path Miles had made for himself.

 He told himself it was a necessary evil.

 The shop assistant walked on his tip toes to his bed, his sheets now a crumpled mess. He straightened out the quilt cover with a finesse from years at the El Royale and carefully moved one of his pillows half way down the duvet, folding it in half. Still not removing his underwear for fear of crossing that unacknowledged line, Miles gently lay his crotch over the silky cushioned surface, chest against the bedspread as he turned his head to the side to get comfortable. It had been so very long, the last time he had masturbated had been in his hospital bed, the withdrawals from years of heroin crawling under his skin like an army of ants until it was all he could do to stop himself escaping.

  Miles scrunched his eyes closed. All he had to do was get this done quickly and absolutely not think of Ben Mears. Simple.

 The panic finally released itself through his fingers and toes as he forced himself to relax. He left his mind to drift without thought, leaving it to float through his memories for the experiences that tickled its fancy. Oxygen filled his lungs as he breathed deep. He wanted this done fast, so he retracted into the filthiest experiences he could bare to dig up.

 He pressed the pillow down under his weight like the salesman who had come through the El Royale, mid 30s, baby faced but authoritative in an old timey way. He looked like he could host an advert about the dangers of reefer madness. Ironic then that he had offered Miles a small rusty tin of powdered heroin in exchange for a night in his bunk. Simon, as he had given his name, although later it was Steven, had pushed Miles' head into the taut cloth of the cot, the space barely enough for one of them as he covered Miles completely with his body, hips railing him into his bunk as it bounced him back onto his long thick cock. 

 In his room, Miles gave himself over to the memory of how every thrust had hit his prostate as he replicated the merciless hammering of his hips against the pillow, crushed underneath as Miles had been. The scene spurned him further into his lust, hot and quick, but it stopped short, the realisation of how much of his payment had been laced with cutting agents whispered it's cruel lesson, causing Miles to stutter. Always so naïve Miles, always thinking this person will be different…

 Kindly, his imagination changed the scene before he could spiral. He cycled through again and again. First the couple who gave him his only experience with a woman, but called him a slur when they caught him staring too long at the man who sat watching them. Next the actor who Miles had worshipped as a star and then with his mouth, but who laughed in his face when Miles admitted he liked ‘dumb fucking kids movies’. And the dealer who returned again and again, with increasingly higher prices and demands. 

 All devoid of their context, they served their singular purpose, hips hammering into the increasingly wet surface of the pillow like if he went fast enough he could outrun every painful and upsetting feeling they dredge up and just leave only the good. But he couldn't, with each snap of his hips he plateaued, drugs and time fading the good parts of his memories so they changed before he could give himself over. 

 So he chose a lonely spring evening he had more recollection of, grinding his hips down and encircling them in figures of eight. It was of the young baseball pro from Iowa on his way to play his first major league game. Drunk and high off his own success he had waved the money from his signing fee before Miles' nose like it was supposed to impress him. It had. 

 The star had just laughed as Miles kitty licked the star's balls as he built up the courage to take a man into his mouth for the first time. The memory of his heavy weight against his soft palate helped Miles keep his thrusts hard against the bed. The twitch of the man's cock as Miles hummed around him, the obscene noises as he was pulled by his tie down further and the salty taste on his lips as he remade the bed after… 

 But still he couldn't quite reach his end. Pace speeding up again to escape the quivering in his shoulders, Miles started to run out of slideshows to shift through. The memory lingered too long as he felt the ghost of $5 bills being slipped into his back pocket before the man slapped his ass. It whipped up all the old emotions he had tried so desperately to escape from. Before he could move on, the baseball player's smiling face in the obituary flashed before his eyes before he could suppress it down as he had done countless times before.

 Legs starting to scream against the strain of the hard thrusts. He held himself up into his forearms to relieve the thudding ache, the bangs of his fringe covering his eyes as they swayed with each frenzied movement. Miles tried to calm himself, the cacophony of images and mindless friction was too much and yet his erection started to flag, chaffing against the silky softness of the pillow. The juxtaposition of memories made his reality feel too inadequate, they excited but didn't lay claim to his imagination like the book had.

 So instead he lowered his head between his forearms and sunk into the pillow, letting himself drift to the man who had enraptured his thoughts for years. He just teased himself now, lulling himself back into that floating state where the world became frozen in ice while he drifted below.

 The man of his fantasies had come in with his nuclear family, a wife and two kids, young and seemingly carefree. They had lingered in his mind as one of the hotel's most morbid mysteries. They looked like they belonged in a catalogue or spreading the Good Word on day time TV. The husband had ordered room service at 3am, and led by the desire to be a dutiful worker, Miles had knocked, none the wiser. The man opened the door, shadows collecting under his eyes as they scanned the corridor for what he did not know. Miles peeked over his shoulder and saw that the room was empty. 

 The blonde hair blue eyed male pulled him in, muttering something or other about an agreement he and his wife had. He had left the implication unsaid but Miles had danced this waltz before. Conscience straining against the idea of (knowingly) interfering with the holiness of marriage, Miles spluttered a half hearted apology before leaving the ordered ham sandwich on the floor and running off. He had tried to forget the incident but the family had returned on their way home from their holiday. The husband didn't make eye contact and for that Miles would always be grateful, especially as the order came in to set up his camera.

 And in spite of the hesitation as he read the note, he did as he was instructed. Because he needed a fix. Because he had seen their power. Because they would release the tape of him on his knees for a young man with dark skin and kind eyes who looked like his lieutenant in Hanoi. He did it because they told him to.

 Powerless, Miles had stood and watched from behind the mirror, perhaps for the very first time as he pressed record. The man had lain on his bed, penis in hand as he slowly edged himself, the steady up and down rhythm magnetising Miles to the scene. They breathed in sympathy, up and down in time with the rise of his hips. Miles had felt the tightening in his pants as he watched, eyes flickering up and down, up and down. But he felt entranced, lulled into his pleasure as if it was his own. He didn't want to defile the man's privacy by undoing his zip, even if he was the enabler of his destruction. Innocent yet damned, the husband looked sanctified in a way that still enthralled and mystified him. Miles never learnt why management wanted to record him, who he was or how they knew he'd produce material worth blackmailing with. He just knew he wished he could tell him he was sorry, whatever the damage was.

 But despite all the guilt, he shut off the before and after and focused just on the up and down rhythm of his hand. Of how the man’s every muscle spasmed independently of the other, babbling to himself as he seemed to be able to send himself to a place Miles only could with a needle. 

 Miles tried in his attic bed to replicate the full body bliss the man had been under, face forced lose as he mimicked his open mouthed pleas to himself, humping his length in time to his memory. But it still wasn't enough, he couldn't send himself to that place without the heroin. Maybe with Ben-

 Silencing the traitorous thought, he kept it up longer, holding onto the memory as though his time behind the mirror had been never ending, playing it on a loop until finally, finally he could feel the welcome arms of that precious head space draw him under.

 He just needed a bit longer and then finally he could stop digging up the dead. His mind drifting off, his body took over, hips chasing after the pleasure in tight circles of his hips that only his mindless body had access to. The sheet crumpled under him with each drag of his arms as he pushed himself forward incrementally, his forehead hanging heavy between them as he grunted out each rotation of his waist.

 If Miles had remained in control, he wouldn't have let his desire land on the first time someone had tied him up. But he wasn't, so memories of the man who walked in for a one night stay, played in his mind like a projection at the drive in. 

 Miles had thought he worked for management or the government with how he waltzed in, chin held high and clothes fresh as daisies as though he hadn't just come through an ocean of desert in the height of winter. The slow seduction had been what really set him apart from his other encounters. The prospective guest had been a tall, heavy set man with brown hair as dark as the finest varnished mahogany and complemented with a thick Texan moustache that overshadowed his top lip. Miles had thought he had walked right out of a history book, authentic cowboy clothes and all. His gruff demeanor was offset by his gentle probing as he watched in amusement as Miles gave his prepared speech, teasing him and grinning ear to ear with each blush it elicited: ‘Any girls hidden under that desk Mr Miller?’ ‘You give all your guests such 1:1 attention Mr Miller?’ ‘Does it ever get lonely in that bunk, Mr Miller?’

By the time his belly was covered in his own cum, he wasn't Mr Miller anymore. 

“Pretty thing like you dear boy, you deserve to be savoured.”

 The stale beer and cigarette smoke clawed in his throat as it had surrounded Miles as surely as the man's broad shoulders enveloped him as he tied the concierge, face down, wrists tethered to the bedposts with an efficiency that Miles now recognised as experience. Rope tight and secure, the Texan nipped the supple rise of his bottom in promise of what was to come. Miles had never felt so helpless. And yet? His heart had never felt so safe. Even years later, remembering the feeling of his restraints, smooth leather of a belt worth more than his day's wage, and realising there was no mercy in their give could give him a heady rush.

 Miles' skull had carved a hole into the mattress as he struggled against the overstimulation, his neck twisting back and forth with each graze of teeth. No one had ever insisted he came first, and no one had even tried to make him come twice. He hadn't known how to process it then, both the physical and the emotional thrill, the overwhelming sensation of being taken apart piece by piece. So much time had been spent and wasted chasing that feeling again. 

 His survival instincts hadn't yet learnt to beware a pretty face and a sweet promise of tomorrow. How was I ever so stupid? 

 Miles had been blindfolded, but the smell of bourbon and cloves in the most expensive room of the Nevada side of the hotel was unmistakable. Miles couldn't remember the man's name, but years later he could feel the itch of his salt and pepper stubble as he kissed his way down his spine. It was the first time Miles had felt worshipped. Like he was something precious, cherished, not just a toy to be used and thrown away like the others. His tears had felt as wet as the patrons tongue as each filthy, whispered confession brought the dimples of his spine closer.

“So beautiful aren't you?” the man asked, more to himself than the body below him. He sounded wrecked, like the very sight of the sweat pooling in Miles' lower back was an oasis in the desert. Miles blushed at the praise, groaning into his pillow as he shook his head. Even the man's words were too much…

 “Ah, beautiful and shy are we? With your spend still hot on your stomach?... Tch, well I'll have to fix that won't I?” An open mouthed kiss to his back sealed the promise, lingering as he huffed smoldering hot air into him like he could reanimate the body pinned below him. Miles squirmed alive again.

 The man pushed his weight into the back of Miles’ thighs, pinning him, playing with him like a lion with a lamb as he bracketed his smaller legs with his own. The man in the hotel had wasted no time. As soon as Miles spread his legs, strong hands grabbed both cheeks and spread them wide open. He blew a scorching hot air onto his eager hole, teasing it to relax. But Miles tensed up, worried he wasn't going to prep him first, however the man eased his grip just a fraction as he felt the muscles that filled his palms go heavy.

“Anyone ever eaten you out boy?” He asked. Miles thought he sounded genuinely concerned.

“I… don't know what that is.”

The man was silent. Gulping, Miles realised his mistake, “oh, sorry! S-sir!” 

 The game between them had felt strangely playful in a way he hadn't experienced before. Leaning into it, Miles started to relax. 

The Texan brought his face up to Miles' ear. He spoke slowly, savouring every syllable as he drawled, “Well son, it's when I run my mouth ever so gently over the rim of this tight lil pucker”. His thumb brushed the skin around it, teasing but not pushing without Miles' consent first. “And then when you're all pent up, thinking you can't take anymore, you'll be so loose n’ easy for me I can just snake my way inside n’ fuck you open with just my tongue.” He laughed then, low and warm like he couldn't believe his luck, sharing it with the young man below. “I already got you into my bed with just my mouth, ‘think I can get you to come with it too. You want that sweet boy?”

 Miles' ears burned in embarrassment, but despite the aftershocks of his orgasm still wringing the tendons of his twitching legs, his cock stirred back to life. “Yessir”, he mumbled, “please… want that…”

 Anticipating the next step, the Miles in the present changed his angle against the pillow, hitching the clothed tip of his cock between the fold. He tested a quick thrust, the muscles of his lower back clenched tight as the small space gave him just enough of a suggestion of a waiting hole. 

 He thought he would tease him first but his innocence had riled the Texan into such a state that he hadn't even waited for Miles to get comfy before those big hands had stretched his legs out like he was a gymnast not a hotel clerk, and dived into him. The sounds had been filthy as he sloppily tongue fucked his way into his hole like there was an army at their door. Each lick was met with a wet suck as though he was feasting on his final meal. Miles was silent, his mouth suspended, loose and open around a scream that had got lost in his throat, all the while the man wriggled the tip into the narrow space. The pleasure whited out his brain. He never knew sex could feel like this. All he could think was what else could this man show him? What else could he experience that no one else had ever found him worthy of?

The man slapped him then, once, hard on his buttocks as the aftershocks tussled against the man's moustache. The surprise forced his legs further out and opened him up. The guest immediately hooked his thumb into the spit slick hole to keep him wide so he could piston his tongue in and out, flat against his walls to claim as much of the concierge's insides as his outsides.

 It was like a live wire had been snapped as Miles careened, high pitched and wanton. Panicking at his outburst he tried to close his legs, but the man growled, pulling him back. Miles worried that he had incensed him, but instead he had just softly caressed the cherry red mark from where he had slapped.

 He was reverent as he spoke, watching the hole twitch below. He couldn't help himself, he kissed it chastely. “As if you've been sat behind that desk, waiting years for me to come find you. To open you up like a flower on my tongue”. Miles' skin held the words as sacred as his touch.

 Suddenly, exquisite pain bloomed on his shoulder as the man bit down. Hard. Teeth branding the concierge for what he was - “But I know a slut when I see one”. 

 Miles must have whimpered as he remembered the vibration of his chest channel though him as the man chucked warmly, “oh you like that don'tcha? My slut. And you are mine aren't ya darlin'?" To prove it, his mouth he buried into him again like he never wanted to leave again. Miles had hoped he wouldn't. 

 “Mm’not a- s-slut” he slurred, barely registering that someone was speaking. Even back then, Miles' own ears could hear the lie as he groaned the protest through his gaping mouth. But despite his best efforts his body betrayed him, his weeping cock painted the sheets below like it hadn't already been teased for hours, the precum easing the glide of his body as he alternated between squirming away and towards the man's mouth. It had taken him days to stop it consuming his thoughts as he worked. 

 Sensing Miles falling deeper, the guest grabbed a handful of hair and pulled his head back in a harsh tug, body now strained on the right side of pain, never stopping its thrusts into the bed. The man was laughing as he teased, “Ah so you're not a slut, but you don't deny y’mine?”. His voice vibrated against him as he spoke into the cushion of his ass.

 “N-n-no. No sir. I… I'm yours.”

 The man let his hair go with a push, forcing his face back into the bed, “Gooood boy. Say it then, say you're mine.”

 “I'm…-ahhhh!”

 A smack then, loud like the crack of a whip. His ass cheeks radiated the shape of another open palm. 

 “You hesitated boy, do it again. If you want me to treat you like you're mine, I need to believe it.”

 His command sent Miles' head back into a spin as he nodded frantically, “I'm yours! M’all yours! P-Please sir, I'll do anything you want-”

 “Anything?”

 “M’yessir!”, the concierge slurred, mouth loose around the syllables as he arched his rear towards him in tribute again. “Just don't s-stop.”

 Miles remembered the triumph in his voice, like the devil himself had won the deal for his soul, “How could I say no to such pretty, slutty pleas? Get comfy I ain't stopping until you know exactly what you are.”

 His nose burrowed into the cleft of his ass as far as he could. Miles had loved the brush of his moustache as it set his nerves ablaze, every type of stimulation hitting him all at once and yet not enough. He remembered every detail of it as his hips thrust against the pillow in the present. Lifting himself onto his hands and rutting against it with each swipe of his tongue, the cramp in his legs now keeping them tight like the man had tied them to the bed posts too. Oh how he wished he had done that. So he pictured it - Big strong hands wrapped around his ankles as he expertly tied his belt to tether them together. Miles was close now. The ghost of the man's finger when he finally came again, minutes maybe hours later, collecting his sticky cum and pumping it into his loose, wet hole made him howl.

“And you say you're not a slut. Well, you sure did squeal like one”. The man had kissed his head as he lolled against the pillow. He had been completely boneless when the man Texan finally removed his blindfold and made him watch as he finally pushed the largest cock Miles had ever taken all the way in without any resistance. It was as he built towards his fourth orgasm of the night that the man held his cock tight until Miles had finally blubbered “I'm your slut, your slut, your slut-”. The man hadn't even needed to ask.

 Miles knew what happened next, but he had spent the last few years trying to forget the morning after. He had always imagined that first night sleep together. Book after book described a fabled next morning, waking up invigorated after a dreamless sunrise, the protagonist now transformed by the love of their soulmate. However, Miles tossed and turned. The man's promises of being his echoed sweetly in his ears. Every time his sleep cycle was at its lightest he would wake up with a start, heart racing like a kid on Christmas day waiting to see what joyous sight awaited him. And every time he saw the man's meaty hands wrapped around his chest and hip, groping, possessing him even in his sleep. Sometimes Miles would wake and ever so lightly rub the cleft of his ass along the still semi-hard cock, wondering if he could slip it inside himself without waking his bedmate. Claiming him as he had claimed Miles. 

 However, sleep overtook him for the final time before he could put his plan into action. He missed his opportunity. When he next awoke the arms were  uncoiling and the legs slipped out from under him, leaving the freezing winter air to fill the void the man left.

 Miles pretended to be asleep to see what the man did next. He felt a gentle kiss to the back of his neck as the man got up from the bed, got dressed and pulled his wallet from his pocket. He wrote a message with the hotel branded notepad, placed it with a crumpled $10 bill and left, never to be seen again. The next few months had shown him how naive he was to have thought they could be anything other than a quick fling, and with the proceeding years he had learned to look back at their night together with something approaching fondness. However, the years weren't enough to dull the piercing heartbreak and scalding burn in his cheeks when he read the note. 

  If it was Ben, would he slip out under the cover of darkness? Or would he have stayed the night? Held him in those thick arms and shielded him from the cold until the morning? No point thinkin’ those kinda thoughts. 

 But his better judgement had left ages ago. The scene had reached its conclusion and Miles' was losing his focus as he humped into the cushion of the pillow. 

The chorus of my slut, my slut, my slut had ignited the the heat pooling in his stomach to finally start its inevitable, unstoppable boil up his lower spine. But it was the thought of Ben, not the Texan and not any of the other men who had left come morning, holding him, kissing him awake with hushed professions of love as he spooned him from behind that spurned his thrusts again. Of course it was delusional, even The Stranger had said he would never know what it felt like to be with Ben. But in this state his subconscious didn't care anymore. Didn't care about anything other than how he could have him, if just for a moment.

 What was left of intelligible thought, scraped down to the bottom of the barrel as the jerks of his hips lost their timing and the painful strain in his back threatened to ruin everything. It was in the dwindling options for any memory he could use that he returned instead to the fateful day at Straker and Barlow's Antiques.

Miles had struggled to make out the man through the overwhelming canvas of sunlight streaming through the windows. The man who had screamed and cursed, spittle spraying the desk as it held firm as the final barrier between Miles and a certain punch. 

“The matter!? The matter is you swindled me!”

“I-”

“Last week you sold me this toy monkey for my daughter, and within minutes it broke!”

 “P-please-!”

 The stuttered pleas came out as the past had scripted, Mr Jamieson’s face turning beetroot in time with the hitch of his voice as he got angrier and angrier. Miles hadn't been sure if he had kept the impending panic attack hidden from Ben, but in his mind's eye he now stood outside himself like the action was all an animatronic show before him. He looked pale, lower lip trembling as his eyes darted back and forth, dragging his head on a swivel with them. If the picture before him was right, there was no doubt Ben had known what was coming.

 But his unconscious mind had played the scene for a reason. Where once the writer had stood and intervened with a calm word and quick repair of the toy, he now stood still, the scene playing out longer than reality had let it. Miles watched as he imagined what would have happened if Jamieson continued, “you queer son-of-a-bitch! Can't even run a fucking shop for the only man who ever saw you more than the pathetic filth you are!”

 It hadn't been subtle but he didn't want it to be. From his view from the audience he focused his mind's attention to the figure of Ben, as he in turn tilted his head towards him, breaking the fourth wall with a shushing finger over his cruel smirk. 

 Going rogue from the scene, Mears stalked towards the screaming customer with exquisite dramatic flare, waiting for the exact moment-

“- You should have died back in that hotel!”

 With a tap on the shoulder, the man turned just in time to see the fist plunge deep into his gut. Bent over in pain he missed the hand that grabbed the back of his hair and viciously tugged it back, careening the neck with it until Jamieson’s knees buckled. Ben held him there, giving Miles just enough time to picture the remorse on his face before the writer clenched his fist tight, drew his elbow back and released it straight into the man's jaw. The man was unconscious before he hit the floor with a bang.

 The Miles of the scene relaxed as quickly as Jamieson had gone down in a limp heap. Slowly regaining composure, Ben straightened up, shoulders back but eyes wild as he stared at the quivering shop attendant. Focused entirely on the face before him, Ben brought his bloodied knuckles to his mouth and tantalising slowly ran his hand over his lips, coating them in the rouge coloured reward from his conquest. Still pinning Miles to the desk with just his predatory gaze, he encircled the barrier between them, steps tight in case his prey attempted to flee. But he didn't. Instead he hooked his thumb into his tie, tugged loose and placed it on the desk between him and his saviour. Brain so drunk on pleasure he couldn't write any lines for himself to say, Miles shimmied his trousers below the swell of his buttocks and bent himself forward, chest pressed into the mahogany surface. He turned to watch as Ben just stood there, unmoving. Just watching and waiting.

 Miles placed his arms behind his back, wrists crossed over and nodded. 

 In the present Miles readjusted the pillow between his soft but muscular thighs, cradling it between himself lengthwise, the edge of the pillow teasing along the entirety of his straining cock. He rode it like a bull, springs orchestrating each plunge of his hips, their screeching filling the room as he encircled his hips in time with his fantasy self's offering. His entire top jaw enveloped his lower lip as he hummed Ben Ben Ben.

 He had never thought of someone fighting for him before. The occurrence of violence at once thrilled and terrified him. Intense, fiercesome and all at once protective, Miles finally let himself soak it all in. His Ben. And for tonight he could just let himself be his Miles.

 His Ben, his Ben, his Ben.

The image jumped forward, the writer now as bare as Adam took Miles wrists and held them together with a knot of his tie. His fantasy self not needing prep, Ben took himself in hand and plunged himself between the valley of his ass with just a single thrust. Screaming, moaning and whimpering all coalesced into one sound within his mind as Ben took and took, hard and fast like every inch of him had just one purpose: To be claimed by the man who after two short weeks had enthralled him, better than any drug, made him want to be better, even as he lay here utterly failing to do so. He imagined him pushing his head into the mahagohny, fingers mean but teasing the roots of his hair, feeling how soft it was.

The form above him growled, the intensity of each thrust pushing him further onto the desk, “Y’Made for me… such a good slut aren't you?”

 It should have scared him, to be called a slut again. To have someone talk such sweet nothings with no hope they'll be there in the morning. To be so easily turned on. Instead his hips just gained momentum, the liquid bliss now twisting up his spine like vines up a tree waiting to bloom as he gave into the imagined feel of Ben's heavy balls slapping against his ass.

 Floating outside his body, Miles thought he recognised the similarities between his dream and the book on Witchcraft in Straker's shop. He wondered for just a second if Ben would instead make love to him like he had seen in films, soft and tender caresses punctuated with a kiss. But even now, as he gave himself over to the darkest of his fantasies, he didn't have the capacity to dare let himself imagine a Ben who took him in his arms. Who cooed until his frightened heart settled under his palm and let him feel safe as he kissed his love into the safety of his neck until all the thoughts of Jamieson, the war and the El Royale disappeared. 

 It hit him. The stranger was right. He would never know. So the only Ben he could have continued on, voice cruel and sardonic, detached of feeling, because that was all he knew. “Whatever would Straker say if he saw you? No, don't answer that. I'll make sure he knows exactly what his prize pet has been up to.” He started to spank him in time to his unrelenting thrusts.

 What-...I is that what I am?

 But the voice breezed past his thoughts before it caught, "You're mine now. Always have been, always will be. And when you fall asleep to escape me? I'll just make you mine there too.” His torso pressed into Miles' back then, strength overwhelming him as he bit his ear to seal the deal. The fantasy suddenly pushed him towards that final precipice. He wanted so dearly to take that leap. So he tried to gather all the sensations of men before - their body heat, the feeling of their breath, each grope, bite, lunge and deep, hard delicious thrust until the vines of pleasure reached around to entangle his frantic brain and finally… finally… his mind was blissfully quiet. And in that tranquil state, there was Ben, sleeping peacefully against the oak again, opening his arms to him like he was wanted, desired, loved. 

And then the pleasure plunged. Straight down every nerve and into his red hot cock as it spasmed against the front of his briefs, sticky white rope coating himself as it had nowhere to go. And through it all he kept thrusting against his pillow, picturing himself riding Ben, making Ben claim his insides with just a drop of his hips. Ben looking at him at the drive in like he knew everything about him and wanted to kiss him anyway. He started to babble like the man in the mirror, nonsense sounds that felt like he had been granted the power to speak in tongues, but the screaming burn of his calves brought him back down to earth as he seized against the pillow for the last time and collapsed into the bed.

 Miles didn't know how long he lay there, the aftershocks rearranging every exhausted cell in his body like he was being remade anew. Quick gasps and breathy whines escaped his loose mouth with ease as he was forced back into the cage of his body, feeling returning to every finger and toe as he fought to stay in that precious syrupy headspace like a fish resisting the pull of the net onto land. 

 The cold air pricked every bead of sweat along his bare legs as he felt hyperaware of every inch of skin again, each droplet a cruel reminder that no one was there to catch him as he fell. Ben hadn't been there a second time either.

 And so he stayed, stuck to his quilt until the tears subsided and the straining of his muscles forced him to move. Miles felt empty, but he needed it that way. Slowly he pushed himself up from the bed, shimmied out of his sticky underwear and collected his discarded pants and stained pillow cover. Letting his routine once again lead him around his tiny room like a toy on a string, he hid the stained clothes under his bed until he could deal with them tomorrow when Ms Winters was out. He thought of getting a shower, purifying him of all the evidence of his weakness, but it would only serve in waking her and drawing more suspicion. 

 So, forcing himself to be mindless lest he realise just how far he'd gone, he mechanically dried himself off with a tissue, his cock tender under his apathetic touch, before throwing it in the bin. He pulled out a new tissue and opened the cabinet drawer that housed his two sets of rosary beads. Picking them up through the thin barrier that protected them from his defiled hands, he placed the relics on top so they'd be the first thing he saw come morning.

 Miles then unfurled the covers and climbed inside. He scrunched his eyes shut, forcing himself into that sweet oblivion where he could escape the guilt and the shame. All before Straker's taunts could reawaken in his heart. 

“The devil is always at your heels, little lamb. All it takes is one measly slip…”

He felt the ghost of Ben's arms encircle him, silencing the voices as finally drifted off in quiet, peaceful slumber, just as he always imagined.

Across the Lot, a loud urgent banging forced a door’s lock to tremble and strain under the plethora of blows. Each thump loud enough to wake the dead but hell hath no fury like a landlady losing money.

“Mr Mears, there are other guests who need the hot water!” she chided loudly like the door was reinforced with steel.

But Ben just turned it up, water cresting down his face into a single point from his chin. “I'm…”, don't say coming, don't say coming, "n-nearly done Mrs Wallen!”

He didn't hear the click of her tongue but he heard her footsteps trail off. The patter of the shower water now torrential he sped up his hand as he gripped tighter, fingers a blur as he slammed his crotch forward for the final time.

“Fuuuuck Miles…”