She was absolutely right though, wasn't she? Even before they were both famous, Bentley had always looked for her name -- in school classroom listings, in competitions. Perhaps he wouldn't have admitted it, back then. They'd always had that little challenging affair between them, and honestly Bentley couldn't even remember how it had started. If there had been any formal claim of it at all. Or if it had just always been a little unspoken spark between the pair of them, and that had been the easiest way to deal with it growing up.
Time had not changed that, either. Bentley still looked for her name in the media, smiled each time he'd gotten a text from her while on the road, and looked forward to the times that they could steal time together, or even just have a video call to connect them when they couldn't be close. It had always been Van. She had been the one that had pushed him to want to better himself, to host even a fraction of the talent she did. She had been the one that believed in him, that cheered him on the loudest, even when they were meant to be competing. She had been the one that had won, and he didn't feel like it was a loss.
"I think you're right." The smile against his lips grew, loving the warmth and softness of her touch, even has his own fingers that had lingered in her hair, moved to brush away the tear that had formed and tracked down the curve of her cheek. "I don't know about you, Van, but I'm tired of pretending. I'm in this, I always have been... and I don't care what anyone else thinks, I just want to be with you."
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Coming home from a long trip when he was in his late teens, Indy realized after yet another argument he was never going to please his father and it was best if he just tried to live his own life for himself.
Maybe itās petty, me writing to you. There isnāt much of a chance that youād know about me, let alone this letter reaching you in any means. And I know that I should practice letting things go, and letting the flow of the Universe take the course it knows. Maybe thatās why Iām writing this in the first place, knowing that youāll never get it. Because then itās out of me, and I can move on from there. Take a breath in, and release it.
When I found out that her hand had already been promised to you, I was crushed. Even in the small time that we had shared, she had been so outrageously kind and compassionate. There was a part of me that wished our time together could last forever - and then you came along. Or, I guess, I was in the way. Youād already been in the picture, I just hadnāt known it, and for that, I know I canāt fault you. And knowing that itās not without huge reprimand - I know I canāt fault her for staying true to the promises that had already been put in place, long before I was in the picture. Not that she hadnāt offered. I want to make that clear. You almost lost her, without even knowing. But I couldnāt, could I? How utterly selfish it would have been of me, to have her give up everything just for us to have a chance.
So you need to work hard to make her happy. I hope that you see that she is fire, she is brilliance and beauty. That she deserves every praise, every devout and loving gesture that you can muster. Most of all, I wish you both well. I canāt hold it forever - the smoke that filled my lungs over this. Itās time to exhale.
It had taken him a long time, particularly after his first break up and string of failed relationships to truly understand what worked and didnāt work for him in compatibility. Bentley is drawn to those that have a gentle soul. Thereās something so much more profound about deeper connections than just physical attraction, or simple things like āfunnyā or āsmart.ā Theyāre certainly good attributes, and he loves to laugh - a good sense of humor would be nice, but thereās something more about how one treats another, or themselves that is much more precious.
Someone with a thirst for knowledge, a spark of adventure, and a love of life. Someone that can be playful - loving cheesy jokes and bad puns just as much as holding host Ā to deep meaningful conversations about life and love. Someone who he can take care of, and would, in turn, take care of him. Someone to travel with. Sing with. Smile with. Someone that when he looks at them, itās like the sun rising on his life over and over again, and heās caught up in their grace and genuine nature. Someone who is home.
kyanite:an anger headcanon
It takes a lot to get Bentley angry. Heās a very chill sort of person and really doesnāt like confrontation - heād much rather talk it out, calm things down, and see if anything can be worked out peacefully.
However, he can snap - just as anyone pushed too far from their limits. His reaction is really based upon the situation at hand. If itās something that he can simply remove himself from - he will. Leaving gives him enough headspace to clear his thoughts and get calm again. Heās a pretty forgiving person, and thatās the best way to earn it quickly, is just letting him have a few moments alone. If the situation is bigger, or simply isnāt something to be walked away from - he has a tendency to be rather blunt and call people out on their bullshit. Not just in that very moment, but things that had piled up over time that heād noticed or passed over because it wouldāve been too much energy to say it then. There would not be a moment wasted getting to the point, or hurt, of his anger.
Then there are times when all ration thought is ripped away from him. That, however has to be something huge happening - and heās likely to just be headstrong and charge into action without a plan - letting his heart and emotions rule his actions.
pyrite:a physical health headcanon
As much as Bentley wanted to play sports growing up, his coordination simply wasnāt there. When he was young, it didnāt matter because it was a group of kids in a field and there were points, and teams that won, but at the end of the day everyone sat on the same porch eating ice cream sandwiches and laughing. A little older, and it was all bench time for him, when he actually managed to get on the team.
Running wasnāt a hobby, nor swimming a real forte ā but he could hike and canoe and sail. He could endure rock-climbing and repelling. Things that took the right mindset, he could accomplish and build his strength and muscle from thereā¦ but something that was typically thought of as athletic, simply werenāt for him.
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į¦ for a drabble about a romance/their love lifeĀ
Sheād been known for wearing those big brimmed hats in the summertime. The kind where it flopped just a bit about the edges, so that if one wasnāt looking at the right angle, all that could be seen was the brush of rouge upon her lips as she gave this little smile - like she knew a good secret and it was just hiding on the tip of her tongue. It was often that he would steal glances of her, hoping to catch that smile when she wasnāt quite so aware. Sometimes he was successful, the sun catching her just right - sometimes not. Still, he loved every minute, captivated and intrigued.
The backs of their fingers would brush every now and again as they walked - like little feathers in the reminder of how close they were. Clasped together it felt hot and awkward in a way, and this was so much more natural for them. Their gait was slow, and there was no real destination that they had among the small shops on the strip. She simply liked to browse. It wasnāt particularly his favorite thing to do, but it was time with her, and that was all that had mattered to him.
Itād been a street performer that had caught his attention, case open at their feet a few coins scattered against itās velvet lining and hoping for more. The man sat on an upturned milk crate, his boots worse for wear, jeans ragged, the leathered lines on his skin showing all that heād seen and the sun that heād soaked up along the way. But it was the way he plucked each note, each cord, that held Bentley. Standing there, he could feel her lips press against his shoulder for a moment, the brim of her hat brushing against his neck, as her hand trailed down his arm to try and gain back his attention. A small chuckle, and a quick smile over his shoulder towards her, moving to press a quick kiss against her lips. Just before turning away from the musician, he fished his wallet out and left a bill in the case, giving the man himself a small nod and smile, before he was lead along further down the street.
ā for a story about their family/home life
He could never pinpoint what it was, but there was always something like salty air and flowers that had been brought to mind, whenever his aunt visited. It clung to his motherās crisp curtains, spreading throughout the house like the rising sun. Her stories were always impassioned, the gleam in her eyes as she talked seemed to spark from time to time - letting anyone who listened have a phantom taste of the wonders she described.
Auntie Jillian had a kind, round face, hair the colour of butterscotch, and brown eyes that seemed to reflect all the lands that sheād roamed. Whenever she came for a stay, there was never a quite moment - music from whatever land sheād been to played in the family stereo. Different smells wafted from the kitchen, and there was laughter - one very particular laugh from his mother that he only heard when her sister visited.
āDo you know what day it is, Benny?ā She asked him, a crooked smile forming as she leaned into the table towards where he sat. Fork in hand, he looked up to her, eyes full of wonder, thinking that another story was surely coming. āNo ma'am.ā He told her, in earnest, a small shake to his head. At the ripe age of six, he could probably imagine some creative answers about dinosaurs or some cowboyās adventure ā but instead he sat, waiting for her to enlighten him, eager to learn.
āItās pig day.ā Her answer was matter of fact, and Bentleyās face fell slightly, thinking that she was merely joking with him now. That was, until that gleam in her eyes sparked and she told him of the shops sheād seen in Chile, all displaying these tiny pig statues with a unique quality. They only had three legs. Said to bring luck and fortune, she went on while Bentley listened, a smile growing on his face as her tale spun colourful pictures of the city and itās people.
āAnd on this day, itās said to be even luckier,ā Jillianās nose scrunched up, a little wrinkle forming as she smiled even wider, setting a small pig statue in front of Bentleyās plate, āIf one were to get one on pig day.ā
ā¬ for a bad memory that still haunts themĀ
[for length]
Growing up, heād never really understood the meaning, nor namesake of a moose lodge. There had been one in their town, the building always with a pristine flag out front with itās sign - but Bentley nor Patrick had never set foot in it before. The idea behind their trek there now, was that it was much larger than the cabin that they and a small few others had been sharing. A larger space meant that more people could join them - that there could be the start to secure a central sanctuary for those that were still out there with little to call their own assets. All they wanted was to help out and preserve any amount of humanity that they could. And this was their start.
Months had passed since the Outbreak had spread itās panic against the lands. People turned to desperate means of survival - which included raiding anywhere they could for food and supplies. The Lounge was not without itās marks of this raveragry. Papers littered the foyer and hall leading to grander rooms - the further in, tables were over turned, cabinets left opened and emptied. The young men took their time, careful and sure steps within the building - surveying it for use, checking where potential weaknesses were, where they could fortify and where they could set up designated areas. For what they needed - for what everyone needed - it could work. With a little effort, it would be all worth while, if it meant that others could find safety and band together as humanity intended.
āY'reckon thatās a kitchen back there?ā Patrick whispered, giving a small nod towards the room they hadnāt ventured into yet. āCould have a gas stove - maybe even some food somewhere.ā Bentley surveyed the door in question - the swinging kind, like the mess hall of a camp. If there was a kitchen in this place at all, thatās where heād guess too.
āLetās find out.ā He whispered back, cocking a small grin at his best friend. Even if it was only a few dusty cans of lima beans or something - it was a meal that they could bring back share with the others while they discussed the option of moving them all to this place. The cabin was mostly secure, and it might take a bit of convincing, but both Bentley and Patrick were sure that gaining a bigger area to help others be safe and secure too was the right thing to do. Both of them headed towards the room, still keeping sure of their steps and hopeful that their efforts would pay off. It was a kitchen, something that once would have looked more crisp and clean in itās prime. Now the stainless steal prep-top was covered in a layer of dust and grime, the dim light pouring in from the windows showed the particles thick in the air, seemingly motionless in itās path.
Patrick had turned his attention to the stove - inspecting the units and and line to see if there was still a working element for the pilot light. Bentley stepped further in, finding a pantry - mostly empty, some trashed packages on the floor, and what looked like flour having been spilled across one of the shelves. Stepping back out, the boys shared a smile - seeing that Patrickās attempts had been proven useful. A stove. That would mean a better ability to boil bigger quantities of water at a time to purify it - cook bigger meals, when the subsistence was to be had. Moving towards the freezer, Bentley inspected the latch for a moment - the heavy steel door - heād remembered one in the camp kitchen too. A small room, sealed with a heavy door. Their very own panic room - if all else failed.
Unlatching the lock, Bentley gave a tug on the door - bracing himself for the odd stench of potentially soiled food. What emerged, however, was much fouler than either of them had been expecting at all. Death had wafted out of the walk-in. The groans sounded as light poured into their prison, and Bentley gripped the hatchet he carried tightly in his grasp, already moving - cutting down the closest ones to the door. They just kept coming - packed in their like sardines. If theyād been herded in there, or had been hiding and never had a chance to escape it they didnāt know. All that mattered right in that moment was that they were highly outnumbered by the lumbering bodies of the dead. Patrick had joined Bentley in the fight ā but there were too many, pushing out of the freezer, sometimes stumbling and falling over one another causing the wave of them to be pressed closer to the two survivors, doing all that they could to control and clear the area. Hands wrapped around Bentleyās wrist - fingers trying to dig into his skin, as he yanked back - only to be reached for again by another. And another. They needed to retreat - get the hell out of there and into a better space. The cramp of the kitchen wasnāt idle for taking on this many, with so few to help. They were surrounded too quickly, and it was all they could do to keep themselves alive.
Bentley felt a hand on his collar, he immediately shifting to try and get free, only to realize that it wasnāt a member of the dead that had a hold of him. It was Patrick - trying to push him out of the mix of it all. āGo āā He could head him saying, but the burn in his eyes and the blood pounding in his ears prevented him from deciphering anything more. No, he couldnāt. A fierce shake of his head, and another swing at the closest corpse near him.
āC'mon, Ben - Go!ā Patrick shouted this time, the noise reverberating through the walls of the kitchen, seeming to agitate the dead around them. Space was closing in, and Patrick gave him another shove as best he could, the dead converging on him, instead of the pair of them.
āNo!ā Bentley yelled, āNo! No!ā His voice was hoarse, but it was already too late - Patrickās scream ripped through the room like a cannon - the sounds of gnashing teeth and cracking cartilage following in itās wake. Bentley hacked at the ones he could, trying in vain to stop the massacre from happening - to save the life of his brother ā but there were too many, they were too quick and too ravenous in their deeds.
The crimson stain that painted itself along the floor, nearly stopped Bentleyās heart - his eyes burned and he knew that he had to leave if he wanted to make it out alive as Patrick intended. Legs felt like lead as they carried him away from the kitchen, from the lodge, from the death of his friend - just before his stomach wretched. Heaves mixed with the sobs that seemed to rip through him mercilessly.
