#taim-verse

Ben Mears leaned against the wall, and the wall leaned away.

To its eternal credit, the floor gave him a moment to catch himself before it spun around him, sending him careening into the side of a drinks table with just an overzealous flick back of his hair as cover-up. Thankfully, all heads turned to the fashionably late gaggle of beat writers who had just entered. The very ones who wrote extensively about never being caught dead at such a gathering, and who now deposited their coats and took their thrones by the already melting ice sculpture. 

Ben sighed and counted to three, punctuating each beat by tapping his third, but most prestigious award of the week against his thigh. If thousands of tons of concrete weren’t enough to keep him upright, maybe a fresh Pabst Blue Ribbon would- Ah, who was he kidding? If he smuggled something that cheap into here, one of the plain-clothed bodyguards would have taken him to the ground by now. 

He eyed the rows of luxury amber spirits… Surely, his ten-year subscription to the New Yorker had covered the cost of his host’s drinks by now? His guilt assuaged (he knew whose influence that was), he grabbed two glasses of brandy and poured them into a third one, and toasted the grand, shining ice maiden. The duel was on for which of them would last the longest amongst all this hot air.

With this hour’s models finally settled in, the miniature, enclosed Times Square, for a moment completely frozen in time, burst into life again. A sea of people all criss-crossing through makeshift thoroughfares and landmarks of authors, critics, and publishers (who had magically forgotten Ben’s past flops) merged into one monstrous deluge of silk and designer cashmere as Ben gave up trying to track the stoned waiter with the cheeseboard. 

Just a few blocks away, the real Times Square roared with angry car horns and the jeers of excited tourists. However, not even the busiest intersection in the world could cut through the cacophony of perfunctory chatter, aggressive networking, and backhanded compliments sharper than any wooden stake. Or so they seemed to Ben. Maybe it was all innocent. Maybe his fellow nominee really was delighted that a previously mid-tier writer had ‘such a marvellously rich backstory’, but then again, he had supposed ‘everyone must have something worth mining’. Asshole. As the Washington Post critic, an old acquaintance at these parties, had put it better over entrees, “By Jove, there’s something between those sideburns after all.”

He quite liked her. She certainly made for more engaging conversation than the probing money men snooping around for his next critically acclaimed hit, even if it was his worst seller in years. At least she had actually read it. Judging by the same rotation of questions he had spent his evening answering, most of the ass-kissers could not say the same.

Now his partner-in-insults was canoodling with her inner circle while Ben practised his wall-flower pose, perfected through awkward college years, and quietly made redundant as his conversational tag-team with his wife steadily bloomed. Their eyes briefly met through the crowd, exchanging sly, exhausted winks. Between the verbal jabs and brief moments of unity while they bemoaned the state of literature (for which she held him partly responsible), she suddenly mused that he looked taller than the last time she saw him, whatever the fuck that meant. He didn’t think that was possible after Jerusalem’s Lot. Stuck in a suit that chafed at every angle, surrounded by people whose faces filled the trades, not just the tabloids like he used to, he felt smaller and smaller.

Ben always refused to think of himself as a victim, despite the death that had haunted his whole life and practically written his magnum opus for him. But a victim of his own success? Oh, now there was a thought. The writer-for-hire ten years ago would have happily left twenty victims in his wake to be called that, plus a few choice reviewers and publishers as thanks for such a lofty moniker. A lopsided smirk stretched out his punch-drunk, rosy cheeks as one such publisher strutted past. 

Miles always called it his wry whiskey look, the one that reared its handsome head whenever he selfishly shared a joke with only himself.

But no, he wasn’t thinking of him right now. He was at home, looking after their son and far more demanding cat, despite his insistence that he would come if Ben wanted him to. And Ben did, of course he did, but he also knew this was his idea of hell. So instead, Ben cleared his throat and head in the same sip and went once more into the breach to schmooze with the best of them. Unfortunately for him, the best of them included his editor, who threw an arm around his shoulders before he could retreat behind the chocolate fountain and gleefully marched him straight into the lion’s den.

A hand from somewhere topped up his glass, “So what’s the next one about, Mears?”

“Werewolves”, he proudly affirmed with the most serious expression he could fix. “Although I may change it to an incubus.”

Miles would have laughed at that. Mark would have rolled his eyes, but what was the point of being a dad if you couldn’t embarrass your son every once in a while?

Instead, a woman in a dress worth more than his partners’ entire wardrobe cut in. “I love the story at the end about meeting your wife. She sounded so special.”

“She was”, Ben said simply. It was partly why he had written the book - to close the chapter on his childhood that Miranda had worked with him to put into perspective. She hadn’t lived to see it through to the end, but dedicating the book to ‘M’, without whom none of this book would have meaning, ‌felt like something approaching closure. Little did anyone else know the ‘M’ referred to three people, not just his wife. 

“Are you going to write about her next?” the woman probed.

“No. Or at least, not yet. Don’t think I have it in me right now.”

She hummed out an insinuating, disingenuous noise- it was a dead ringer for the sound Miles made when he devolved into one of his rarest, but Ben’s favourite, moods: petty. Such was the power of the most condescending parents at his school’s PTA meetings that even a man as polite as Miles had honed a pitch-perfect imitation of them to rival a New York socialite. It should have got a chuckle out of him, but seeing her eyes suddenly glaze over as though it could literally erase him from her sight made his jaw tighten further.

“But we’ll see,” he bit. “Hopefully, I can get caught up in a few more tragedies and see if that sparks something.”

He captured her withering gaze between the teeth of his wolf-like, unamused smirk. She only broke free when habit made Ben glance to where his son should be, suppressing an annoyed laugh or the urge to run away and join the circus, like he always threatened to do when Ben caused a scene.  

Before he could take another swipe, his fellow nominee, Sam- or whatever his name was, hooked his arm through his and dragged him away with an excuse about checking the Mets' score together for a bet. Sam wove through the disinterested crowd with ‌the practiced ease of a man who had always been nominated but never quite won. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw the ice sculpture standing strong. Fucker.

If only Miranda were here. She would have executed that woman before all her peers with a single, scathing remark, so subtle that she would have experienced social death long before she’d ever even realised she had been cut. When they first met, Miranda’s ease of wit terrified Ben, almost as much as it turned him on. But it was also why Miles hated these things. The ride home usually consisted of lamenting what he wished he’d said, instead of how he had actually smoothed things over with his southern hospitality and quiet, if nervous, charm. But on the odd occasion when the knives did come out? Ho boy. Ben couldn’t squirrel him home fast enough. 

Ben Mears landed softly on the chair nearest the pianist. In all the hubbub, he didn’t even realise they’d been a piano, let alone music. Sam, definitely Sam, didn’t take the seat next to him. With a smile wryer and whiskey-er than his own, he gestured a tip of his proverbial hat. “Don’t ruin that nice face of yours with a broken nose, it’ll look terrible on the dust cover.”

Despite the joke, Ben looked suitably admonished. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure if he had misread her intentions or not. He’d been out of sync all day, exhaustion and homesickness mixing into a potent concoction. Sam patted his shoulder. “Give yourself five. Hey, maybe take the time to work your wife into that werewolf story? It’ll buy you a second house to store all the awards you can steal from me again.”

That got a laugh out of him. Yeah, he remembered Sam from the old days now. Make that five, or was it six favours he owed him? As thanks, he’d get Miles to pray for him when he got back to Minnesota, but in the meantime, a promise to behave and the last of his brandy would have to suffice.  

Miles. 

Ben had tried not to think about him and Mark while he was here so he could focus, but it was no use. 

He missed them. He’d been on his victory lap for two weeks now, and the nerves along his skin were already pricking at him. Feather-like, ghosts of touch in the shape of their outlines, enticing- urging him to return to the real thing. However, it was nothing compared to the 32 years he’d missed them before he first saw his future husband in an innocuous antiques shop in Maine, and his would-be son bounding up the stairs of a run-down drive-in. He could do this; he was being ridiculous. Ben just had to hold out for a few more days, and he’d be on the plane home.

He slowed his breathing, just as Miles had taught him. The woman at the piano must have been at least in her sixties, her grey hair slightly dishevelled as she moved to the bars of her music while the crowd moved to the open bar. Basking in his own little oasis from the chaos, he leant over, and after the third psst, she recovered from her reverie and nodded at his request- Nina Simone, one of Miles’ and Miranda’s favourites.

Listening to her deftly transition into his song, Ben forced himself to relax into the sofa. He flexed the old crick in his neck from too many long hours writing. Left. Right. Then back to the left in time with the soft piano music. And then it stayed there, suspended over his shoulder. A flash of annoyance hit him. The crick always went away on the third stretch, right where a soft, auburn mop would gently buff against it and massage it out as it nestled in closer. Without it, Ben looked like a curious puppy, struggling to make sense of the ocean of colourful patterns of designer suits and dresses before him. 

And then, just as his stomach rumbled, an angel appeared. He thought he’d never see that beautiful face again.

It was the blessed, stoned waiter. Red-rimmed eyes and cheap deodorant, which barely hid the telltale grassy odor, announced him long before his lumbering steps did. Wherever the hell he’d been, it didn’t matter now. He was here. And he’d refilled his platter.

“Um, Mr Mears?” he stuttered.

“That’s me.” Ben jumped in his seat, any pretense of being the aloof writer thrown out the window.

“Hey uhh. L-listen, I know I’m not supposed to be weird at these things, but I’m a b-big fan.”

He didn’t mean to sound quite so surprised. “You read my book?”

“Yeah, man!” he shouted, quickly hushing himself before his supervisor caught him. Although Ben figured the young man couldn’t be that concerned about professionalism as he dived to take the seat next to him. “Loved it! I almost didn’t recognise you; you’re taller than I imagined.”

Ugh. There was that stupid expression again. It bothered him so much that he missed the blundered “and older too.” What the hell did that mean? 

While Ben suspiciously squinted at him, as though perhaps it was some code, or even a curse, the waiter looked him over anxiously. Waiting to see if it had worked. Eventually, Ben gave up and relaxed. “Well, it’s good to meet you…?”

“Rudy!” he shouted again. He tried and failed to mirror his hero’s casual pose. “You’re my girlfriend’s favourite too. She’s read all your stuff.”

“Really? Well, that’s kind of you to say,” and weird, he mentally amended. He wasn’t sure what the appropriate level of enthusiasm was for someone’s book about parental death and childhood trauma, but it wasn’t this. Still, once upon a time, he had been the star-struck fan, so he muscled through as though Miles was there judging his politeness like an all-seeing, exacting God. “She… must have very morbid taste. I’m impressed. A woman like that’s a keeper - make sure you hang onto her.”

“I will!” Rudy nodded like a puppet on a string, hanging on his every word. “Um, you wouldn’t sign this for her, would you? She’ll freak.”

Ben pointed at the cheese platter. “That cheese still up for grabs?” 

It was on his lap in an instant. “Go for it. I already fucked up and spilt half a glass of wine over some hotshot. I ain't getting another gig here.”

That got a genuine laugh out of him. He happily took the disconcertingly sweaty napkin to sign while popping cubes of cheddar into his mouth. 

All the while, Rudy watched him like a hawk, committing every squiggle to memory. “You, um... writing a sequel, y’think?”

Ah, there it was. Ben sighed, his teeth gritting together. Betrayed by his own guardian angel of all things, but his husband’s voice echoed loud and clear, Be nice, sweetheart. 

“God, I sure hope not.”

The stomach next to him rumbled. Taking mercy on the young man, Ben passed him a handful of Hors d'oeuvres, which he instantly snapped up, grateful to have something to occupy his mouth with before he ran it off more. It lasted all of two seconds.

“Ah, but the cliffhanger was so good! That sex scene in the park? And when that chick died and then came back to eat her boyfriend? Or the dude who got so scared he had a heart attack on the spot? It was awesome!”

Wait… What?

Ben shoved down the sudden urge to clamp his hand over Rudy’s mouth. To accuse him of writing such things was tantamount to treason in a place like this, but instead he fell back onto the sofa with a warm, billowing laugh. Of course, he hadn’t read the Marsten book. 

It had been his first novel since The Lot. He’d listened to Miles and Mark exchange thoughts on their favourite monster movies and comics while he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the tales of heroes who always saved the girl, villains who got their comeuppance, and mandatory happy endings. But after what happened in that accursed town, why not? Why not believe in them again? One ridiculous, thinly veiled yet gratuitous vampire book later, he had overcome his writer's block and was ready to put his childhood to paper. Ben had only intended the shlock for his family and closest friends, but they’d encouraged him to send it to his publisher, and then, before he knew it, they had one hell of a beautiful new kitchen and one very full college fund for Mark. 

“Oh, that book?” The cracker almost lodged itself in his throat as he chuckled. “Ahh. I mean, I hadn’t really thought about it.”

An angry voice came from behind them, demanding that Rudy return to work before they threw his sorry ass out. Reluctantly, he got up, clutching the napkin, his clammy palms already smudging it into one giant blob. “Well, if you do, we’ll be the first in line. Oh, man - if you call a character Rudy, give him a cool-ass death for me?”

Ben grinned and crossed his heart. “I will. Extra gory.”

He couldn’t remember the last time someone looked so excited. Definitely not in these four walls.

As the waiter disappeared into the crowds, Ben felt lighter. And, somehow, rather inspired. God, his family would be insufferable when he told them… 

He sighed again. Dammit. Now that they were on his mind, they were all he could think about as everything else passed him by. The volume swelled in the room until the ground shook; he couldn’t hear the people who came over to congratulate him, nor did he much care by that point.

Ben Mears had finally achieved his childhood dream of becoming a prestigious, award-winning author. He was proud of himself, truly. He’d defeated vampires, writer's block, and his adopted son’s homework between furious, inspired writing sessions to get here. And yet all he could think about was how he missed them all… and how he wanted to give Rudy the final send-off he gallantly deserved and land himself straight onto the list of banned library books. Suddenly, the idea of being ‌a full-time horror writer sounded rather appealing. If nothing else, he knew how to give those stories the endings they deserved.

Just a few more hours. He just needed to get his shit together.

Any moment now.

He clicked his fingers.

…. Now!

….

Ah, fuck it.

Instead, he gathered up his shit, and threw as many free entrees into his bag as he could. On the way out, he passed ‌‌the ice sculpture, still standing. Just. 

By the time the crowds started to make their excuses to leave, the only sign Ben Mears had ever attended the party at all was the glass of whisky hidden under the pianist’s chair, with the pinky of the ice sculpture snapped off to keep it cool, a star-struck twenty-something’s signed napkin and one Washington Post critic. Entertained, and thoroughly smug, as her ploy to tell that fawning waiter how to ingratiate himself into his favourite author's good graces actually worked. Just say he looks taller, he loves that.

As Ben called the cab, stepping out into the bulging mass of pedestrians, the slayer of vampires, the saviour of Maine? America? The world? Breathed in the frigid, gas-soaked air of New York and disappeared back into the night. No longer Ben Mears: the author, but simply Ben Miller-Mears of Ashford, Minnesota, he felt…better…no, taller. He mirthlessly smiled. 

Those bastards.

However, in his defence, it helped that he carried his award for all to see. Let them gawk; he would leave ‌sainthood to his husband. He had a sequel to write.

In his younger years, Ben Miller-Mears could never let a falsehood go uncorrected, even if he wasn’t sure if he was right; however, age, fatherhood and marriage had softened him (unless it was about sports). Now, he didn’t mind; some he even rather liked, such as how his husband thought he was the clumsiest oaf this side of the border. Which was half-true; he was clumsy. But not this clumsy.

The clock struck 10. It had taken him nearly 24 hours to get back, but he had done it.

Mark should be asleep by now, while Miles prepared for their daily phone calls while he was away. Throwing the front door wide, it whined on its hinges and clicked loudly when he closed it. He jangled his keys before putting them on the sideboard. Having some sense of self-preservation, he toed off his dirty shoes, but clambered over every squeaky floorboard and clanked the glasses against the worktop. Just quiet enough to let Mark sleep, but loud enough for Miles to know he was there.  

For as far as they had come, it still wasn’t a guarantee how Miles would react if Ben snuck up on him. He didn’t want to spook him, but he had been gone for weeks. He had time to think, plan. So instead, he let Miles assume, not for the first time, that he had gotten one up on him. He really should have won his prize for husband of the year instead.

As their cat let the wayward food-dispenser scritch under her chin, Ben caught sight of their bedroom down the corridor. He half-expected to see a shadow potter around through the slit in the door, but the house was completely quiet. It was so tempting just to barge in there and kiss the man inside senseless, but he’d waited two weeks for this. He could do five- four more minutes. 

Ben placed the award on the kitchen table and patted it on the head. You, my friend, are going to win me so many arguments. Little did he know in the darkness that he had left it on top of all Miles’ newspaper clippings of his recent award success.

Being back in his own home, surrounded by all his old comforts, Ben felt like he could breathe again. And when he did, he smelt the homemade brownies that Mark and Miles always made together on a Thursday night in time for the weekend. This was the life. Following his nose, he opened the fridge, and there inside was a sight even more beautiful than he imagined. Brownies, yes, but there was more.

Pabst. Blue. Ribbon.

A whole, beautiful case of them, waiting just for him.

And underneath? Oh sweet, Miles. A selection of cheeses from the local farmers' market, without a drop of bargaining required, and next to that- His heart stopped. An expensive bottle of gorgeous amber, more delicious than mana from heaven, with a note attached.

‘Missed your rye whisky smile - Love, Miles x’  

Shit. Four minutes was too long. Without ceremony, he grabbed the bottle, ignoring the glasses, and necked a quick swig. A bit of liquid courage went a long way for what Ben had planned, and while Miles didn’t drink, he loved the taste of it on Ben.

His socks padded along the floor towards their bedroom, stopping just to check in on Mark as he lay sleeping. In only a few months, he’d be starting college. And after that, who knew? But for all the mixed feelings his soon-to-be absence stirred up, Ben never took for granted that after everything he’d been through, they wouldn’t have to worry about him. He closed the door gently. He’d tell him all about his book ideas… tomorrow. 

Ben felt more anticipation walking down that final stretch of carpet than ‌when he stepped up to take his award. The scent of chamomile and sandalwood filled his nostrils, a subtle smell that somehow turned heady in his weary senses, bringing him back to life and down to earth all in the same inhalation. The plane had been delayed, and his taxi hit every traffic light between the airport and here, but none of that mattered because now he could smell chocolate fudge brownies and sandalwood.  

With a small push, he let the door creak open. And there on the floor was his Miles. Ben had been picturing him on his knees since he left New York, although to his eternal damnation, if definitely not his eternal shame, it hadn’t been an image of him praying. Yet there he was, his back to him, his elbows resting upon the mattress with his Nana’s rosary in his hand. The only sign that he knew Ben was there at all was how quickly he thumbed through the beads.

Ben relaxed against the frame, crossing his arms. Even as his skin shivered at being so tantalisingly close, he watched, not wanting to disturb the scene before him. And yet, Miles always said he was the heretic? When he was the one innocently praying in his most seductive, scandalous briefs, and Ben’s traitorous, oversized bedshirt that had stolen Ben’s fantasy for itself and swallowed him whole. Sure, it was the cheap supermarket briefs he wore every day, but he had no right wearing something that slutty. Allowing it to hug the plump peach of his ass while his own husband, of all people, was standing right there empty-handed.

When finally Miles got to the last bead, he tittered to himself. Ben thought he sounded like a beautiful songbird, or a fiendish imp. It was normally one and the same.

“You prayed for an angel, Mr Miller-Mears?” Ben asked, with all the panache he could muster, even as he panted through every word, still recovering from his race back from the airport. 

On cue, Miles got up and turned to sit on the edge of the bed in one smooth, elegant motion that Ben’s knees ached in envy of. How was it that he could look so innocent, and yet so knowing all at once? It wasn’t fair. The dimples of his cheeks burrowed to a sharp point, ballooning out his pink cheeks like a chipmunk prepared for the winter. A small tilt of the head, a flutter of his lashes, and a glimmer in his eyes that held him as though for the first time all over again. 

Ben licked his lips. Miles couldn’t move his fast enough.

“That depends; I was prayin’ for the house to dust itself. They teach y’that up in heaven?”

Miles had the gall to shimmy in place to get comfortable, wriggling his ass against a fabric that wasn’t Ben’s increasingly tight pants. 

“I didn’t think you were supposed to make demands of the big man,” Ben tutted.

A ray of sunshine struck Ben as Miles’ smile grew pearly white teeth. “No’, but I don’t have much to bother him with these days. ‘Specially now you’re back.”

Ben’s eyes softened. All those years of writing, and yet his fae could surpass all his best work with just a few words. But what stuck in his throat the most was that it was true. They still had bad days, sometimes downright horrific ones, but as they pushed through every one of them, it paved the way for the quiet, gentle knowledge that they would always pass. The party would end, the nightmare would let them go, the broken dishwasher would get fixed. And Ben would always return. 

An enigmatic smile fell upon Miles’ face when Ben didn’t respond. He hadn’t meant to throw him off; however, he always preferred to know when Ben was out of sorts. Not pushing him further, Miles held out his hand, and Ben followed it like a lost child. Their fingers entwined together as Miles brought it up to cup his own face. “And what did I do to deserve a visit from a heavenly thing like you?” 

He pressed a kiss to the swell of Ben’s thumb, and before he could do it again, Ben tipped his face up between both hands and kissed him. Tender, at first, a few passing swipes of his lips as though they needed time to warm up after so long apart. And then harder, full. Coaxing Miles just enough to plunder his mouth as Ben opened up for him. He could feel the exact moment his beloved tasted the whiskey on his tongue when Miles hummed in satisfaction straight into his mouth. 

Voice as smooth as the drink, Ben whispered, “That’s what you did.”

Leaving him with a quick peck, Miles leant back just enough to see the thing he had missed most. “There it is.” He kissed the corner of his mouth again as if he were greeting an old friend. “So pretty f’me.”

He lazily traced his smile with his thumb, smoothing out his chafed lips and onto his laugh lines as though he had the power to make wrinkles disappear. Ben didn’t need to see himself to know it had worked. It took everything Ben had not to chase, but after a few blinks, his brain caught back up. Nothing could wipe that smile off his face now, especially with Miles tracking his every movement as he stepped back and then paced around the bed. Who needed the baying crowds at the awards ceremony when he had the only audience he ever needed right here?

“Wait-” Miles suddenly interrupted. “Y’not back early cause somethin’ happened are ya’?”

Ben clucked his tongue in feigned shock. “For a man of God, you have such little faith.” His voice lowered an octave, sultry and with more ham than even his harshest critic had accused him of. “I’ll have you know, I was the model writer. I gave my speech. I thanked them and all my fellow nominees for the honour. And now that I’ve been a very good boy, I’ve come to claim my real prize.” He elongated the word until it ran out of oxygen and his throat ran hoarse, like Barry White. Or, as Miles worried, the beginnings of a chest infection.

He giggled anyway, “You’re incorrigible.”

“Maybe, but I’m obviously not doing my job as your husband if you can use big words like that, country boy.” Ben came to a stop by the old record player and lowered the needle onto whichever record was there. Crossing his fingers, his hopes lifted with the violins, and then dropped again as the sullen, dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra sang, ‘The Stars Will Forget You’. Shit. 

He closed the curtains. The owls didn’t need to see this. It was going to be a challenge, but Ben Miller-Miles had overcome worse. With a deft hand, Ben undid the top button of his suit jacket.

And at the same time, Miles undid one of his.

The music burst into life, creating a hushed burst of laughter from Miles as he admonished. “Shhhh, Mark’s asleep.”

Conceding his point, lest their young ward come in and scar himself for life, Ben did as he was told, increasing his challenge level by lowering the volume until it reverberated low across the room. Luckily for him, Ben had never met a challenge he couldn’t blunder or talk his way through. He could barely make out the lyrics, but what little rhythm there was dragged his hips from side to side to the beat.

Ben beamed. Miles groaned, “Oh, Lord.” It must have been a record for how quickly Miles’ eyes rolled into the back of his skull as his back hit the mattress with a soft thump. However, the ceiling was a momentary reprieve from the embarrassment. 

Grabbing Miles by the ankle, Ben pulled him back down the bed before he could even think of escaping, or divorce. “Ah, ah, ah. Where do you think you’re going? Your favourite show is on,” he admonished, sitting Miles up on the edge and kicking his legs out so he could stand between them in his own exclusive stage.

He undid another button before lowering his lips to Miles’ ear. His hot breath felt like fire against Miles’ skin. “Now, my love. How do you want me? Soft and sensual or hard and fast?”

Sheer delight danced along Miles’ countenance, even as he strained for smugness. “Benjamin, that's like when you ask me how I want my eggs. We both know you can't crack an egg to save your life. They’re gonna be scrambled either way, so give me the Husband Special from the beginnin’.”

Ah, the famed husband special. Previously known as the fiancé special, and then boyfriend special before that. There weren’t any secrets between them, not anymore… Except one. He didn’t want to tell him what Miranda had dubbed it.

“An excellent choice, sir,” Ben said with all the seriousness of the servers he had met in New York, and all the pomposity he hoped Rudy never learnt. “Although I must say, I do make an excellent omelette.”

Okay, maybe he still had to be right sometimes.

However, for all the jokes, Miles could see he needed reassurance. It had been a couple of years since they’d been apart for so long, and Ben’s early return didn’t make him worry - no, he knew him well enough to read that it wasn’t serious. But it did instill in him a sense of purpose. One that led him to bring Ben’s hands together and knight them with a kiss.

“And you always take such good care of me when I need to stop thinkin’, or when I wanna be close to you.” Miles squeezed them tight. “But I’ve missed my bubba.”

I missed you my whole life, Ben wanted to say. But that was too corny. Corniness was tomorrow’s agenda along with cuddles, ice-cream with Mark and whatever dusting Miles wanted. So instead, with a flick of his wrists, another button fell. “The Husband Special it is then: Slow and dumb.”

He didn’t have to worry about impressing anyone here. Without further ado, Ben popped another button, then another in time to the music. Standing in the tiny spotlight of his beloved’s gaze, he girated to the crooning, somber piece as though it was the soundtrack to a seedy strip-joint. He heard a crack in his knee. And then his ankle. But no matter. He persevered, snaking his tie out of his shirt and lassoing it around Miles’s neck, drawing him in as if to kiss before pushing him back.

“Miles”, he hissed. “I can’t hear the music if you’re giggling.”

It was a defense he had uttered time and time again. “Then stop making me-”

The tie hit his face before the words ever passed his lips. 

The song was already winding down, and if Ben remembered correctly, they were nearing the end of the album. Before things got very quiet and very awkward, Ben worked his way down the jacket with the dry efficiency of a Formula One crew as the album went dead before skipping to the next tune. A livelier one, if not somehow more miserable. Thankfully, ‘Ol Blue Eyes was no match for Ben’s that glinted mischievously as he worked his belt free from the buckle and then cruelly spun on a dime, leaving Miles with an eyeful of his plump, ample cheeks that swayed like a cobra trying to hypnotise its prey.

Maybe it was just the time apart, or perhaps he really was that easy, but it somehow, infuriatingly, worked. Miles remained glued to his seat. His bottom lip glowed a crimson, shiny red that alternated between opening in shock and being sucked ‌between his two front teeth, looking like a cartoon bunny obediently waiting for its treat. But two could play at this game. 

Knowing exactly what it did to Ben for Miles to wear his things, he undid his shirt as Ben hooked his thumbs into his pants. Where Ben inched them lower, one drumbeat at a time, Miles left his shirt hanging loose off his shoulders and reclined back onto his elbows. The expanse of his scarred chest was on full display, all muscle and soft, pillowy fat. Still, the underwear stayed on; that could be Ben’s treat for the show. 

Once his pants hit his knees, Ben shimmied them down the rest of the way like a failing hula-hoop and kicked them across the room- thinking better than to bend over and risk a spanking from Miles that would send him tumbling. Finally, free of its confines, Ben teasingly turned back, whipping his head around first and letting his hefty, pronounced bulge follow. As if there way any chance Miles wasn’t looking, he cupped himself and squeezed.

Since leaving New York, Ben had eaten nothing but a tiny bag of peanuts and a square of complimentary chocolate, yet he wasn’t salivating the way Miles was. That is, until he saw how confident his trickster fae looked. There, in his briefs, stained with a small wet patch, and his shirt that parted like the Red Sea over the subtle swell of his-

“-Tits.”

He didn’t even realise he said it until Miles’ luscious laugh graced his ears. Great, Miles wasn’t just a better writer; the good Catholic boy was effortlessly the better stripper too. All bets were off. Shaky hands lashed out at the rest of his buttons, helped along by Miles’ much steadier ones until his shirt too joined his pants in the ether. The music now forgotten, Miles kissed and licked at every piece of flesh he could latch onto, as though Ben were the last meal of a starving man. Leaving little pink marks in his wake, Miles descended lower and lower until he reached his belly button and speared it with his tongue. He pistoned it in and out like it was his greedy hole until every muscle in his torso flexed in both surprise and pleasure.

The connection between brain and body momentarily severed, Ben threaded his fingers through Miles’ hair and, after a quick nod, Ben heaved one foot onto the bed and brought Miles’ head straight into his crotch. His attempt to keep to the music lasted as long as it took for Miles to mouth at the underside of his balls. Helpless to do anything other than chase after the delicious sensation, Ben panted under his breath while his husband nuzzled his painfully hard cock with his nose, teased at the fabric with his teeth and licked, from top to bottom, the full length of his shaft.

It may not be the full thing, but just the weight of him on Miles’ tongue was addictive. 

And besides, two weeks was an awfully long time. After a couple more sucks, Ben was dangerously close already. His member twitched under the confines of his briefs, bumping up against wherever it thought Miles would kiss next, desperate for just that bit more friction. He didn’t want it to end so soon. And yet, against his better judgement, he moved Miles’ head with him, rubbing him further into his bulge as Miles did his utmost to keep up and let his mouth hang open, his tongue lolling out so Ben could hump against it like a dog in heat.

“Sweetheart”, Ben groaned. “You feel so good. Missed this. Missed you.”

In response, Miles grabbed a handful of Ben’s butt and held him in place while his other hand devilishly went to work and pulled Ben out of his briefs. Not fully. That could wait, but just enough for the head to shyly peek out the waistband, blushing and purpling. 

A bead of pre-cum wetted the tip, but was gone as quickly as it came as Miles took him in his mouth and suckled on it. Distantly, Ben could feel him doing it in time with the music. Or what he could remember of it. His blood pounding against his eardrums like a big brass band, Ben gave himself over to his partner’s control. And how easy it was to control him after all these years. Miles sucked on the engorged, bulbous tip like a lollipop, obscene, wet sounds cascading from the back of his throat, and from Ben’s sweet lips, a more luscious, sweeping orchestra than even Sinatra could ever conjure. 

He should have known better. He did know better. However, Ben looked down anyway. From over his crown of hair, whipped up into a windswept, autumnal frondescence of curls, Ben saw Miles palming at himself. Sensually teasing and keeping himself on the edge as he lapped at the sensitive underside of Ben’s head like it was his god-given mission. 

A liquid pleasure stirred in Ben’s gut at the sight, threatening to erupt. Miles must have felt Ben’s eyes burning into the back of his head as he slowly leaned back, and with his mouth still full of Ben’s cock, he batted his lashes up at him. Ben’s whole body lurched.

“I’m close, baby. Please.”

But the faes of fairytales weren’t known for their mercy. With a resounding snap of his briefs that shot both their heads to the door to check that they hadn’t woken their son, Miles put Ben back into place. 

When the coast was definitely, 100% clear, Ben pushed Miles onto his back with a single tap. Miles scrambled on his elbows toward the headboard, but Ben lunged before he could even reach the middle of the bed. If entire states had separated them for weeks, now not even a centimeter remained between them. Chest to chest, legs weaving together, and mouths drinking the same glorious moans, Ben’s skin no longer thrummed along the outline of its other half, waiting for it to return. Their bodies were together again, and with it, Ben’s slowly heart settled into its keeper’s embrace.

At first, they just enjoyed the taste of each other again. The feel of their hair streaming between their fingers, of Ben’s sideburns and the security of Ben’s weight against Miles’ body. None of them knew who started it, but when their clothed bulges ground together, everything built back up until they devolved into a mess of limbs and muffled moans.

“B-Ben. Bubba- Sugar-” 

As Miles went through the Rolodex of pet names, Ben’s whole existence honed in on where he could punch out another choked whimper from his love. He rutted their hips together with abandon, rolling and thrusting into Miles’, their spit and pre-cum slick underwear keeping them contained. Each pass was electric. Each kiss grounding and devastating in equal measure. The only thing keeping either of them from cumming was the control Ben barely hung on to which kept the bed from banging against the wall.

But neither of them would last much longer, nor did they want to.

On a particularly hard thrust, Miles threw his head back, a high-pitched whine strangling his throat as he struggled to stay quiet, but he was too far gone. His cock throbbed against Ben’s, which seemed to pulse in response to his arousal. Chasing that feeling again and again with little stutters of his trapped hips, he punched out tiny ‘uh uh uh’s until all of a sudden, Ben’s hand clamped down on his mouth. Eyes wide, pinned open just as Ben pinned him to the bed, his husband smirked. And then, oh so very slowly, he brought his mouth to the back of his hand and placed a gentle kiss on where Miles' mouth lay underneath. Miles groaned, the vibrations warming Ben’s palm, but he kept at it, building the kiss further until he was making out with him through the barrier of his skin. It had no right being that hot. Then again, neither did his attempt at a striptease.

Whatever he gave, Miles returned tenfold, dragging Ben by the hair as close as possible, undulating his hips in time with the kiss, dragging their cocks together, until saliva pooled under Ben’s palm. Ben couldn’t be sure if Miles was trying to drive him crazy or simply got lost in the feel of him, but whatever his intentions, they were all working. 

In a flash, Ben whipped his hand away and crashed their lips together. The reaction was instantaneous. Miles rose to meet him, almost pushing him onto his hands through the strength of the kiss as he feasted on Ben’s lips, drawing out every pretty sound he could. Yet just as quickly as he moved, Ben pushed him back down, rearranging them so he could lean over just enough to lower their underwear. 

Miles’ hips stuttered as Ben fisted Miles’ dick and then his own, coating them in their joint slick and then encircled their cocks together with his hand. The simple motion released another gush of pre-cum from Ben. His hand didn’t fully encase them, but Miles was on it, mimicking his position at the root of their shafts, while Ben took the tip. It was enough. They stared entranced as their hips worked without them, gliding their lengths together in a jerky, stilted rhythm that somehow heightened the feeling of ecstasy with every pass and squeeze. 

Miles’ cheeks flushed. His balls drew up, his hand losing what little grip it had, and his toes curled and kicked at the bed.

And yet it was Ben who finished first. By the time Ben realised he was cumming it was too late. However, ever the eagle-eyed, prepared concierge, Miles caught the telltale signs and brought their mouths together to swallow the wrecked, drawn-out groan that wrung Ben’s body and soul from the outside in. As Ben spurted ropes of thick, pearly white cum onto Miles’ tummy, Miles clamped the heels of his feet over the defined demarcation between ass and thigh. He rocked Ben into him, giving him the friction and comfort he needed to ride the crest of pleasure even as it crashed and slammed against him, leaving him a quivering wreck in Miles’ arms.

Miles kissed his clammy forehead, cooing sweet nothings into his hair, as though it would hold on to them until Ben had recovered enough to hear them. Just as his breath started to even out, Ben suddenly twirled him and Miles around, landing on his back as Miles sat up over his waist, his cock standing to desperate attention.

“On me, on me, love,” Ben begged. Drool pooled out of his mouth as though he’d lost the wherewithal to close it.

Well, who was Miles to deny him after such an incredible rendition of the Husband Special? Taking himself in hand, it moved in a blur as he jerked himself off, helped along by his husband who cupped ‌his balls and groped mindlessly at his thighs, biceps, stomach- anywhere he could reach.

“That’s it”, the writer slurred. “So beautiful. Give it to me, please.”

With a soft whimper, Miles succumbed to the pleasure that had been building since Ben had first walked into the room. His spend pulsed out of him, hitting Ben square on the chest, dribbling down onto his stomach and onto his hand as he lost himself in the image of Ben’s rapturous, beatified gaze that soaked in every drop, as his skin did the same.

Gathering what little strength he had left, Miles collapsed onto his side so he wouldn't squash Ben. His heroic attempt was for naught, however; Ben guided him straight back into his chest, wanting so deeply to feel Miles plastered against him that he ignored the mess between them. With sleep trying to wrestle Ben away, he hadn't meant for his hand to drift up and cup Miles' pec; it just went where it pleased.

Trying not to laugh and jolt his recovering husband, a crooked, dreamy smile painted Miles' lips as he kissed Ben's jawline. “Still incorrigible.”

So much for making him forget his big words. Without meaning to, Ben yawned. Not to worry; it could go on tomorrow's agenda with the rest.

But one thing that couldn't wait was his speech. Absently, his brain urged him on. This was the perfect opportunity to extoll all his husband’s superlatives and ensure that Miles knew, without a shadow of a doubt, just how much he had missed him.

“And you.. You’re…” God, words should come easier to a writer. Miles’ eyes were too distracting, so instead, he serenaded his other favourite body part: His tits. “Hot.”

Close enough.

His speech won him the best award of the week, a slap on his flank and a kiss to his nose. He would have to move soon and get cleaned up… But he figured he had saved five minutes earlier on when he came rushing in; he could claim them back now. Heavy lids gently closing under the weighted blanket of Miles’s tender caress, the hours spent on the plane suddenly caught up with the middle-aged writer. His neck seized. He cricked it to the left. Right. And then back to left. And as he did, a soft buffer of hair nuzzled into it and soothed the ache away. Ben was home. 

That night, as he slept like the dead, he dreamt of the undead. Not of being bitten, or of his family being turned and damned for all eternity. But of one stoned waiter, stake in hand, drenched in blood and making one last stand against a horde of ravenous vampires. But perhaps he would disappoint his friend, if just a bit. Rudy would have his day, and then maybe he would live to see another one, because all Ben could dream about, encased in his soulmate’s arms, was happy endings.