Good Things Fall Apart

Chronic

two months later

The rain's broken out of nowhere, fat drops that barrage the windshield and drown out the sound of the world.

Victor and Benji are oblivious to this, pressed up against each other in the backseat, lips fused and hands wandering. They've agreed that staying fully clothed is what they're comfortable with for now, and Victor is grateful for that. He's not sure if he would survive any less fabric between them.

He kisses Benji hungrily, chilled oasis after a weeklong desert journey. Aside from the heavy patter of rain, the only sound is lips colliding, pulling apart, little grunts and puffs of air through their noses. Benji looks gorgeous all laid out in the back, cheeks ruddy, hair disheveled and pupils shot through with desire.

As Victor pulls away, yellow light speckles Benji's face, the dim glow of the parking lot dappled by globules of rain that gather on the windows and drip, drip, drip. Benji reaches up to touch Victor's face, his lips pink and shiny.

"We have to talk about it eventually," he says with caution.

Victor clears his throat and sits back on Benji's legs. He twists his neck and looks out the windshield, wishing Benji hadn't brought it up at all.

"Does it have to be now?" Victor asks, his head still sibilating with the sensation of Benji's mouth on his.

Benji props himself up on his elbows and cocks his head. "I think it should be."

The shift in Victor's mood over the past several weeks is stark. He's been at the end of his temper, irritable and non-communicative, even after he promised Benji he would be honest with him about everything. An unanswered text from Simon haunts him from inside his phone, the blue "unread" dot some kind of drawn out bereavement. Because all Simon's ever done is help, and all Victor's ever done is take that for granted, upset Simon, dump his issues in Simon's lap and hope for the best.

Felix has been avoiding Victor, which hurts the most. But Victor deserves it. After he blew him off the night he got back, Felix's demeanor and priorities have been abundantly clear. He spends most of his time with Lake and Mia, and because Victor is too afraid to confront the truth and explain to Felix the maelstrom in his mind, he elects instead to suffer from afar. Benji offers every day to sit with him at lunch but Victor knows how it will look.

It will look like the truth. And he's not ready to see that himself, let alone have everybody else perceiving it.

Not only that, but Victor has edited his schedule at Brasstown, taking on absurd hours in order to avoid working side by side with Benji. There have been a few new hires in the last month but Victor hasn't bothered to commit their names to memory, relies on name tags and the hope that they care as little as he does.

And his father. His damn father. A sketch of a man, the mere shadow of one, no substance. He can't look Victor in the eye, can't even bear to be in the same room. Being at home is standing in the eye of a quickly enclosing storm. And while his mother had been courageous during their last altercation, she has to walk around their home on a high wire dusted with glass. Meals are tense and silent. Adrian has left the table crying twice just this week because nobody would speak, hardly even to answer him, and something hideous is crawling its way from Victor's inside out, knowing that if it weren't for him, his father would be gone and they might be able to breathe.

So he's shirked off most of his schoolwork. He moves robotically through his days, going through the motions, playing the cheerful barista at work, coming home and falling into fits of unrestful sleep, his walkie talkie silent, his head deafening. Even if his mother is willing to put in the work to love this part of him, she can never do it with his father around. Which is why he wishes he could sharpen his claws, dig them deep into his abdomen, and wrench this out of himself, flailing and naked.