01 The One I Want - 14. The Letter

This was exactly why Rick hated coming home. His relatives fell on him like sharks and bait. He'd answered all their questions a million times before and yet the cycle insisted on repeating itself.

"Rick, how are you?" "Looking good, boy!" "When are you going to get tired of the Big City and come home?" "You still going on about that teaching nonsense?" "The military, Rick, what d'you think about them goings-on over there?" "What? No steady girl?" "When are you going to settle down, make an honest woman out of Louisa?" "When you getting married, Rick? Can't be a bachelor forever, you know."

Usually, his mother would pipe up about grandchildren, but she remained curiously silent, and his somewhat step-father was nowhere to be seen.

But that wasn't the worst part. They swarmed and buzzed with no regard for his personal space. There was no such thing as privacy there, all 'What's up, Rick?' 'What's with the frown?' 'What you thinking about?' and on and on. He'd run away screaming as soon as he'd been able, planning and planning his escape for years. The family was so caught up in itself that outside friends and relationships were considered strange, not normal, and everybody did whatever the family wanted. Everyone but Rick. They meant well, but Rick needed his space, needed out, not caged or trapped into familial expectations. As much as he'd loved and respected his grandfather, and his uncles, he couldn't live like that, wedged into a cookie-cutter caricature of a Southern gentleman.

At least he could lose himself at the lake, tubing or taking his younger cousins sailing. They went swimming and hiking, too, plus the nightly cook-outs and BBQ, manly talk around trashcans of beer, and fireworks every night.

With all the chaos with Ben in the hospital and then watching him after, Rick had never gotten around to cancelling his tickets, which turned out to be a good thing after all. Another thing Rick had forgotten was just how hot the Carolinas could be in the summer. L.A. was hot, but on the East Coast, he had to contend with the humidity, sometimes as much as 80 or 90 percent, which was like breathing warm fog.

Rick didn't get a chance to accomplish what he'd set out for North Carolina to do until after they returned to the farm following the holiday.

When the roosters crowed at the crack of dawn, he stretched, blinking blearily, his body still stubbornly operating on West Coast time. Rick was in his old room, where his feet trailed off the end of his twin bed unless he lay diagonnaly or bent uncomfortably at the knees. The room looked much the same as it had the last summer he'd spent any significant time at home. Posters of sports stars hung on the walls, faded and curled at the edges, and a giant, gaudy crucifix dangled above the door.

He groaned and dragged a pillow over his head. Church had been something else again, a nightmare of epic proportions, almost as if his mother's lover had planned it that way. He'd certainly glared at Rick hard enough throughout the sermon.

Brimstone and hellfire, Rick preferred to be damned than to be stuck in Heaven with that smug, arrogant, hypocritical ... asshole!

"Rick!" His cousin Alex banged on the door. "Aunt Bea says breakfast!"

He forced a pleasant tone. "Coming!"

The family's farmhouse was on the state's list of historical homes. Built originally in the 1700s, the farm and fields had burned during the Civil War, surviving mostly intact afterwards. Three generations -- now four -- still lived at the farm. The bedrooms were tiny, but there were many of them. The families of the two oldest boys lived there, the children all raised together, plus Rick's mother, her mother, and some of Rick's grown cousins, one with children of her own. The place was always full and noisy.

Grandma Lorraine and Beatrice made breakfast for the starving hordes every day while the men and children tended to the early morning chores. Rick's aunts both worked in town, so they usually left right away, leaving Lorraine to clean up while Beatrice vanished into the business office and the men went out to the fields, taking with them all the school-age kids that were home for the summer.

Curtis and Martin, like Rick, were there on vacation, and the three of them sat around the table drinking coffee lazily and catching up.

"So," said Curtis, stacking dishes to take into the kitchen, "what's Aunt Bea got Uncle John doing?"

Rick shrugged, feigning disinterest.

"I heard you got in some sort of trouble," said Martin.

Rick eyed his cousin over his coffee cup. "Is that so?" he said evenly.

"Yeah," Curtis said, coming back. "Heard Mom talking about it. Said Aunt Bea and Reverend Carter flew all the way out there to see you. Figured you must've been in some kind of trouble, 'specially after she called up my dad straight-away when they got back."

"So, what's up?"

And they say women gossip, thought Rick with a sigh. He debated with himself, elbows on the table, staring at his coffee. He'd been overwhelmed with family the past few days, but, if he were to be honest, it was just avoidance. He'd kept his secret too long to make this easy, but that was why he was there. At least, starting to tell the truth was one reason.

"Well," he finally said, "I told my mom that I'm gay and she kinda flipped out."

There was silence for a long minute. Staring into his coffee, Rick missed the look exchanged between cousins, who as suddenly spat out questions one right on top of another.

"What? You can't be serious!"

"Rick, you can't just say something like that!"

"You're not -- You better be joking!"

"Does Louisa know?"

"What have tried? I mean, are you sure?"

Rick just drank his coffee, hoping that his nerves weren't showing (and that he wouldn't puke), and waited for the rapid cross-fire to end.

"Yes, I'm sure," he said quietly. "Don't you think that if I could choose, I'd choose not to be this way?" He sighed, setting down the mug and sitting back in his chair. "It just doesn't work like that." He wished it did, for that would have made his life one heck of a lot easier. Perhaps that wasn't the best choice of words, however. Both cousins looked a little squeamish.

"You mean you ...?" started Curtis.

"With another dude?" Martin added. They stared at each other.

"Yes."

"But how does that work? Never mind! I don't want to know."

Rick thought about protesting that it wasn't all about sex, but he could almost hear Ben laughing at that, so he just shook his head instead. "Well, that's what's got my mom so worked up about."

"Geez, Rick!"

"And you're just springing this now?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

As the news sank in and the shock wore off, Curtis and Martin just looked appalled. Rick's mom wasn't the oldest, but Rick was the oldest cousin, the first grandchild. He had three years on Curtis, four on Martin. He'd practically helped raise many of his cousins. So much for hoping their younger years would make them more accepting.

"Well, 'least you're an only child."

Rick frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Curtis shrugged, taking a big mouthful of coffee. "Dies with you, then, don't it?"

Rick rose, smacking his cup on the table. For a minute, he was so angry he couldn't speak, finally snarling, "Fuck you!" He spun around, hands curling into fists, when he heard a snicker.

"Frederick!" Grandma Lorraine stepped into the room with the sixth sense all mothers seemed to develop when their kids were up to no good. "Take it outside, boys."

Tearing his gaze from his cousins, Rick nodded politely to his grandmother. "I'm going into town," he said shortly.

His Uncle John's office was about an hour from the farm, in downtown Raleigh. Raleigh was an interesting city. It didn't look like much at first, but you'd be in the heart of town before you realized it. Although hardly New York or L.A. or even Charlotte, Raleigh was still a fairly large city, managing somehow to hold onto its small town charm.

John Mills was one of the darkest black men that Rick had ever seen, and he'd always thought him handsome. Uncle John was all warm smiles, firm handshakes, and hugs. He and Rick's Aunt Maggie had eloped straight out of high school. Took Grandpa Henry's heart attack to reconcile the family. Being away at the Academy, however, Rick had missed most of the drama. He was almost sorry for that now, considering he was there to rock the boat himself.

The law office was small and unpretentious, with only a couple dozen staff. Dusting off his jeans, Rick dodged the cubicles to his uncle's office and knocked before sticking his head in. Too busy with work to spend more than just the 4th at the lake house, the men hadn't managed much more than cursory greetings and the obligatory questions.

"Frederick," called John, waving him in. "What brings you in, boy?"

Rick shook his uncle's hand, again with the polite smile. "I understand you have some paperwork for me, sir."

"Ah, good!" John's smile brightened. "I'll get that right out. Have a seat."

Rick remained standing, outwardly calm, but inwardly too agitated to sit. He didn't like lying to his mother, fully aware that by doing what he planned, he could very well tear open a rift between himself and his family he might never be able to repair; however, he was far too angry for much in the way of misgivings. He had to end this so spectacularly that nobody would ever dare to be so meddlesome again.

The lawyer set a hefty binder on his desk. "Here you are, son."

"What is all that?" asked Rick, thunderstruck.

"Just the usual. Go on." He pushed the well-wrapped burden at Rick. "Take it with you and have a look. You'll see. You're doing the right thing." Tapping the top with a pen, John added, "I marked everywhere you'll need to sign. Bring it back when you're done."

Rick nodded dumbly. "Yes, sir." He grabbed the package, returning to his rental to stare at the ominous binder with growing concern. When he turned on the ignition, he headed cross-town instead of back to the farm.

He wasn't exactly sure where the apartment was, so Rick circled around a bit. He found a parking spot eventually, however, and was soon knocking at the appointed door.

"Rick!" The door swung wide to allow a petite, brown-haired woman to crush him in a bear hug. "When'd you get in town? Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I'd have cleaned or something! Come in, come in, don't just stand there like a dummy."

Rick followed, cheered by his old friend's sunny exuberance. "I figured our moms would've let you know," he said, dropping the law paperwork on the coffee table.

"Nuh-uh." Alice's voice trailed off into the kitchen. "Haven't spoken to Mom in months. Becky's got a kid now, so that's all they want to talk about and I'm tired of being grilled about being an old maid."

Ice chinked into glasses as Rick settled into the couch, staring at a family photo of Alice and her twin brother, Alex, their older brother, and two younger sisters. Next to that was a dollar roll of photos from a booth at the state fair one year. Rick had towered over the dimminutive Alice and her brother, just then hitting his first growth spurt. That was the last time they'd really been together until Alice had moved home after college.

"So?" Alice reappeared with tall glasses of iced tea. "What about you? You get that PhD yet?"

Rick grinned, turning away from the photos. "Yeah," he answered, accepting his drink with a broad smile. Nothing like good ol' southern sweet tea.

Squealing, Alice jumped up to plant a kiss on Rick's cheek. "Congrats! It's about damn time. Hey! We should throw you a party!"

"Ah, Alice, I don't know." He wasn't in a particularly celebratory mood.

"Why so glum all of a sudden? This is a good thing, right? Isn't it what you wanted?"

"It is, but, Alice, I'd just really rather not."

Tilting her head, Alice stared at Rick for a second. For years they'd exchanged little more than Christmas cards and emails, with an occassional visit thrown in, but she still recognized that inward worry-face. "O-kay," she said slowly, "but you at least got to let us take you out ... and what's that?" Without waiting for a reply, Alice dove into the stack of paperwork.

Rick set his glass on a coaster. "That's why I'm here," he said, gesturing to the documents. "I need to know what all that says. You know I'm no good with all that legal-eez stuff."

"Are you suing someone?" asked Alice, frowning. That didn't sound like the Rick Wengstrom she knew.

"No." Rick shook his head for emphasis. "I'm trying to stop it."

"Shouldn't be too hard," said Alice, flipping through the top inch or so. "It's all in your name." She arched a brow, glancing over the papers at Rick. "You're suing someone, but you don't know what about?"

Rick grimaced. "That's about right. My mom's idea of saving me from myself or some such nonsense."

Alice blinked at him once or twice as the news sank in and then her eyes went wide. "Rick!" she cried, leaping up to hug him over the table in excitement. "You told her! Good for you!"

"Well ..." he murmured sheepishly. "I had a pretty good incentive."

"I'm so happy for you! Who's the lucky guy? Do you have a picture? Let me see!"

He pulled out his cell, showing Alice the picture-background of Ben the night before the accident. Ben sat in his office chair, clothes askew, face flushed, eyes to the side, lips slightly parted. Rick braced himself, because he knew Alice would squeal.

"Ooooh! He's so cute! You're so lucky, Rick!"

He sighed, taking back the phone to cradle in his hand. "Maybe. If it's not too late."

Alice's happy smile faded. "Oh, Rick. What happened?"

"That." He pointed to the documents. He leaned forward to rest elbows on knees and rub his face. "He must think I'm behind it all. I'm so screwed, Alice! And what if something happens while I'm gone? I have to know what they've done, I have to!"

Taking one of Rick's hands between her own, Alice perched on the coffee table. "Then we'll find out, okay? We'll get this all sorted out. You'll see."

He chuckled bitterly, face in hands. "He needs me, Al. He needs me and I left him! I'm sure he hates me -- what'm I going to do?"

Gasping, Ben's eyes popped open. Hand to his mouth, he raced for the bathroom, only barely making it before he began to vomit. He'd held it together at first, if only barely. He hadn't realized how big a hole Rick would leave in his life. He sat in his office and waited and waited and waited, but he never came.

It must be true.

Against his better judgement, Ben went to his grandmother's 4th of July barbeque. Everyone was so happy, drinking, talking, eating, it just all seemed to shut him out and he hovered along the fringes until he'd felt someone staring.

Shivering, Ben sat up on the floor of his bathroom, sweat making his shirt stick to him. He knuckled sore eyes, wiping away tears with irritation bordering on despair. He couldn't seem to catch his breath, and his watch only read two oh three a.m.

The whole house was dark, and had been for days. Fear ate at him again and he backed into a corner, arms over his head, face tucked against his knees. Rick wasn't coming back, which meant that no one would know when Will came for him again, because he was out there! Ben had seen him!

It was at the barbeque. There'd been that feeling, of eyes on him, that caused Ben to turn, to look around, and then he'd seen him, standing plain as day across the yard, on the other side of the picnic tables, and he'd been smiling. Ben had run; he must have, because the next thing he remembered was Genny knocking on the locked bathroom door, his phone ringing as she called to him through the door.

What was worse was no one believed him.

He'd told Jean, the psychiatrist Lance had sent him to, just out and blurted it first thing, after he'd sworn not to tell her anything, and she'd just patted him on the arm and asked him what else he could remember, calling it a flashback and did she think he was stupid or something? She was trying to box him into a diagnosis of post traumatic stress disorder and damned if he was going to let that happen again.

Doctors had been 'diagnosing' him with all sorts of things since he'd gotten his head smashed in as a teenager. Some of it was useful, getting him special care and forcing the school to continue his education, but most of it was nonsense, and a nuisance. He didn't need a medical degree to tell his shrink to go fuck herself.

He wasn't going back. He wasn't! But that wouldn't stop Will from following him, from finding him, and .... His imagination stopped there. Ben panted, shivering from cold and anxiety. He hadn't left his home in a week, keeping all the lights off, pretending not to be home. He just knew that if he went out, Will would find him, and then ... and then ...

His hands clapped over his ears, but the words he heard weren't real, and they swirled around and around inside his head. Only one person could make them go away, and he wasn't there.

Rick's apartment was where Ben had fled following the barbeque, but the landlady, Traci, said he wasn't there, that he'd left shortly after his doctoral defense. He was gone, and he probably wasn't coming back because the cats were being taken care of by other people, and this was all his fault, it had to be!

Next to the alarm clock was Ben's cell phone. He had the device in his hands before he could think about what he was doing.

His thumb jabbed the end button before the call could connect. Half snarling, half crying, Ben hauled back and threw, the plastic shattering against a wall. With another soft sob, he crumpled against the side of the unmade bed. Reaching for Sherbert, he hugged the plushie to his chest.

He sat there until cooling sweat made him shiver, and then rose, going out into the kitchen. Unshed tears made his eyes burn. He was so tired!

Back in the bathroom, a small glass sat by the sink. Ben filled the glass from the tap, tucking Sherbert more firmly under his arm. He sipped, making a face, then set the glass down on the counter to open one of the cupboard doors. He stared inside for a minute.

Rows upon rows of little, orange bottles and white labels bled together. The linoleum under his feet made him shiver, the artificial breeze from the a/c freezing the sweat on his body. Outside, all was quiet, like it should be at this time of the morning.

Ben grabbed a couple bottles and squinted at the labels, rubbing his eyes again with the back of his hand. The medicines dropped onto the counter and Ben reached back for a couple more. He finally found the one he wanted, a hairsbreadth from losing his grip on the panic that always lurked just below the surface these days.

He shivered harder, fresh sweat dripping down his back. Juggling Sherbert, Ben struggled with the lid. Fucking child-proof caps!

When the top popped open, little, blue pills jumped out of the top like popcorn. Ben swore, slamming the bottle on the counter to reach for the pill cutter. The cutter sat next to the empty organizer, empty for the last week because Ben didn't know what went where. If Genny knew he wasn't taking his pills, she'd have a conniption; however, Ben wasn't about to tell her. Damned if he could make sense of all the labels, though! But he didn't need all that shit. He had some excedrin in the bathroom, that was good enough. As for the rest? Doctors were always trying to get people to take medicines they didn't really need. He'd be fine. He was fine!

The only ones he wanted were the sleeping pills that his new shrink had given him, he just wanted to get back to sleep. He was so tired, all the time, but he couldn't seem to sleep enough to make it go away.

The pill cutter went on the counter by the glass and Ben picked up the bottle to shake a couple pills into his palm. The pills had the same look and feel as Smarties, those little chalk-like candies popular around Halloween.

Shivering again, instead of only a couple, the entire bottle spilled out over Ben's cupped palm. He stared, irritation forgotten.

There was a reason why Ben didn't like taking medicines or having pills in the house. Ever since he'd first given in, the desire lurked always just below the surface, waiting for another chance. No one would know. This time, there was nobody around. Gran was in Hollywood, Genny in Huntington Beach, Shelly and Doug in Anaheim, and Rick ....

Almost mechanically, Ben's arm snapped forward, dumping the handful of pills into and around the waiting water glass. Sherbert fell to the floor unnoticed. Dropping the pill container, Ben wrapped his hand around the cool glass, swirling the water around the fizzy, slow-dissolving pills.

What was the point? He should have died years ago, many times over. Why continue to struggle? Rick was gone, everything was gone, there would soon be nothing left. Two weeks and not a word from him. It must be true. All of it. And, out there, somewhere, was Will. He'd find him, was probably just waiting for the right time, and he'd come barging in. There was no escape.

He clutched at the glass. What did I ever do to deserve this?

It was all a lie. He'd known it, kept telling himself it couldn't be true, and yet ... Why? It hurt so badly some days he couldn't hardly breathe. He couldn't get angry, kept trying to make himself angry, but he couldn't, just couldn't. There was a black hole in his chest where his heart should be, sucking away his life until there was nothing left.

"I can't do this," he murmured to himself. "I can't keep doing this." What was there to fight for? Rick was stealing everything he'd ever worked for his whole life. He might as well take what was coming to him -- At least when Will said he loved him, Ben knew he meant it.

Two weeks since he'd thrown Rick out and not a single word. Why did his thoughts keep going back to him?

"He doesn't want me!" shouted Ben, slamming his fist on the counter. "It wasn't true, any of it!" Pill bottles went flying as Ben swiped his arm over the countertop.

He wouldn't be able to face Rick in court, he just knew it. Just like when he was fifteen, he'd lose it the minute he saw Rick again. Not like it would matter, anyway, Ben could see it in Lance's face, the hopelessness. He'd fight, that was just his way, but it was a lost cause. Ben was a lost cause.

He'd lost his touch. If he lost his company, there'd be nothing left. He was nobody without his job. No interests, no hobbies, just work, knowing he was helping people.

But was he?

This lawsuit would act like a breaking dam. He might as well just go to jail now and save them all the trouble and expense, but that would drag Doug and Shelly down, too, and he couldn't do that to them. They didn't need him, they hadn't needed him in a long, long time, if ever. It was always Ben who had needed them. Their home was a safe place, somewhere he could go and just be himself, to hide away and recharge, ready to face the world again. He'd only ever come between them.

He'd known from the start that Doug was as straight as straight could be, straight enough to be completely weirded out when he'd learned that Ben was gay, straight enough to still occassionally be weirded out. Only a class project had kept them together, forced them through the awkwardness and into real friendship. Then Shelly had entered the mix and they'd been happy, happy to Ben's exclusion, and that had hurt. He could make other folks happy, that was fulfilling, but to have such joy always nearby rankled, stung like salt in a never-healing wound. He loved them both and wanted them to be happy, but it hurt. So badly!

Why everybody else and never me?

He didn't even really need to ask, he knew the answer already. He wasn't worth it. Physical gratification could only take you so far. Pat, even damaged Pat had known that.

"I need you to help me," he'd said. "I trust you, Ben. It can only be you. Will you? Help me?"

Pat had been an engineering grad student, someone Ben had run into during his long hours in the library at Berkely. They'd talked many hours, Ben eventually coaxing the shy, older man into LGBT meetings and activities. Sexually molested as a young boy, he was terrified of being intimate with someone, but he'd fallen in love with the founding member of their campus group. Even though Nick and Pat had hardly spoken more than a couple words to each other, their attraction had been painfully obvious to just about everyone else. Pat might have been a virgin, but Nick wasn't. Nick had been raped at a frat party, an event that had been splashed around not only the school newspaper, but the city as well, because he'd been determined to seek justice, not just for himself, but for everyone else too ashamed or afraid to stand up for their rights.

Suffering through counselling following that disasterous concert, Ben had met Nick in the lobby of the school health and wellness center. Within a few weeks, the fledgling support group Nick had started doubled in size with help from Ben's marketing strategies. They'd been fast friends. The basis of that work, of the things they tried, had turned into Ben's online company when he'd moved back home. Nick now operated a non-profit organization, a support group for troubled teens.

That was the only thing I did right, he mused, staring at the clump of pills in the bottom of his glass. He loved Pat and Nick in his own way, still talked to them occassionally, sent them kids when he could, and he missed their company terribly, even after all these years; but what they had was not what Ben had shared with either of them, or anyone else.

He'd thought -- God!

Snapping upright, Ben grabbed the glass. He hadn't been able to help Will, and Rick ... Rick was a liar. He'd never meant a word he'd said. How could he?

Nobody wants me.

They came to Ben for help, people did; he got them over their issues, and they moved on. He was what they needed, for a brief time, and that was it, a brief glimpse into what it might mean to be happy with someone, an insight into what he might have had, once, if he hadn't screwed it up. He'd pushed too hard, too fast. Didn't he counsel kids now? Nick could say it wasn't his fault, but he hadn't been there, hadn't seen the way James had looked at him. Anxious, uncertain, betrayed.

It'd have been better if I'd never been born.

His gran wouldn't have lost her son, Genny would've had a real family and home, James would still be alive. He just messed everything up! If he was too stupid to realize what Will and then Rick were doing, then it was best it stop, stop for good. They couldn't sue him if he was dead, right?

He raised the glass.

Except, why did he keep seeing Rick's face?

There'd been one morning Ben had awoken to find himself on his side, Rick beside him, eyes open, just watching him. They weren't touching, not talking, just eyes to eyes. The contact had made Ben nervous at the time, a little disconcerted. That was not sexual attraction hanging between them then. He didn't have words for it. Curled up, knees bent, fists under his chin, Rick had just stared at Ben. He hadn't been able, at the time, to turn away, so he'd hidden behind his eyelids instead. He could still sometimes feel the ghost of Rick's touch as the man had leaned forward to kiss the very tip of Ben's nose.

Shivering, Ben touched fingertips to his nose, a little bit of warmth running through him to chase away the chill. For a moment.

Glass shattered against the floor, cool water against his feet.

Ben collapsed to his hands and knees. "I can't!" he gasped. Louder: "I can't do this!" Shouting: "Fuck!"

Rescuing Sherbert before the puddle reached him, Ben snuggled the stuffed animal against his face, weeping into the fake, orangy fur. Sherbert didn't smell like Rick anymore, but the plushie was the only thing he had of him.

God, when had this happened? He shook his head, wrapping his arms around his knees and laying his head on top. It was no use. He was a horrible person and would always be alone.

"It's not fair," he whispered.

He didn't particularly want to move, but his body wouldn't let him stay, cramping and letting him know in no uncertain terms that he was cold and sore in too many places to count. Slowly he rose, skirting the edge of the watery, glassy mess, unable now to even look at it.

As he walked back to the bedroom, a chilly draft from the garage drifted across Ben's feet, making him shiver. He paused, turning his head. With steady but reluctant steps, he moved into the near-empty garage, stopping in front of the small stack of plastic storage tubs.

When Ben had been hospitalized his sophomore year of high school, Gran had gone to the school and, during the process of filling out paperwork to get Ben special education services, had opened his locker and collected his things. The law hadn't changed much in thirty years; by law, Ben had a right to receive the same education as his peers, no matter where he was. Though they could only anticipate him waking up, they still expected that he would, collecting the work and materials for that eventuality. With nothing better to do, Ben had actually been a better student at the hospital than he tended to be normally.

At the bottom, mixed in with everything else, had been a letter, addressed to Ben in James' handwriting. Ben couldn't remember ever receiving such a thing and had jumped to the conclusion that the letter was James' goodbye. Knowing that, Ben hadn't been able to open it, the wound too fresh, too afraid of what it might -- or, worse, not -- say.

He put it way, set aside everything, anything that had even the slightest bit of memory, forgotten until those stupid tubs had shown up in his garage. When Rick had pulled out the photo, Ben had been too overcome with memories to recall the letter, and now the need to know that last, hidden recess of his past filled him near to bursting. That was it; he had to know. To think you were safe, only to be so brutally exposed, to everyone, left Ben raw and aching.

Thanks to Doug's persnicketiness, the tubs were stacked according to weight. The lightest of the four, on the top, was the one Ben wanted. When he lifted the plastic tub, the muscles of shoulders and back gave a sharp twinge, but there wasn't an answering pain from his side, which made Ben sigh a deeper breath in relief. He set down the tub and dropped Sherbert from his teeth to land on the lid. He shoved the trophies around to get at the shoebox, pulling off the top.

The oily sheen of newsprint met his eyes first. Ben didn't have to unfold the page to know that he held the obituary. Underneath that was the envelope, as crisp and unopened as the day he'd first found it. Setting down the newspaper clipping, Ben picked up the picture, the letter held uneasily in his other hand.

That had been a good day. James had been so proud of him. James' dream was to follow after his idol, Greg Louganis, and become an Olympic diver. As a junior, he'd already been scouted by a couple different schools. He'd been waiting for an offer from UC Irvine, Louganis' alma mater. What would James have said if he'd known that his idol would publicly announce he was gay, and that he was HIV positive? Ben shook his head. He still counted the retired diver as one of his heroes. He'd done a lot for gay athletes, and brought necessary attention to the epidemic that was HIV. Ben had always wanted to do something as important, to make that kind of impact on the world.

His gaze slid back to the picture, snapped so hastily by Gran after his very first competition. Ben still thought he looked like a ten year-old boy in the photo, especially next to the toned vision of young adulthood that was James. Old pain twisted in his heart as his memory filled in the gaps in the black and white, grainy photo.

Like all the swimmers, the two of them had kept their bodies shaved, wearing caps for their hair, and goggles outside competition to support their teammates. James had insisted, and as team captain, keeping up morale had been one of his responsibilities.

"Why'd you do it?" he asked, startled when his voice echoed in the mostly-empty space. He hadn't meant to speak out loud.

Carefully, Ben set down the picture, holding the letter-sized envelope in both hands. There wasn't much to it, a single sheet or two, perhaps, a bit of yellow tape on the bottom edge to be certain of the seal. James' formal, blocked print spelled out 'Benjamin' on the front.

Suddenly loathe to open the letter in the cold, impersonal-ness of his garage, Ben pushed himself to his feet. Technically, the cemetary didn't open until 9 a.m., but he knew ways to get in and out. The trouble was whether or not he could get there. He chewed on his lip, staring at his motorcycle. He hadn't ridden since ... well, for several months now, but there was no one to yell at him for what he was thinking, or fuss if he couldn't manage. And Will would never catch him on his bike.

He crossed over to set the letter on the workbench and stradled the motorcycle experimentally. Grasping the handlebars, he rocked the bike off the stand, kicking up the smaller support. There was soreness, he'd expected as much, but it was tolerable. Sliding off, he pushed the bike forward to face the exit, still uncertain, but no less determined. He could do this.

In minutes, dressed and with a backpack slung over his shoulder, Ben pulled out of the drive, closing the garage door with the remote he tucked back in a saddlebag. Pulling down the visor of his helmet, he gunned the engine for the Hollywood hills.

Forest Lawn in July was often hot, dry, dusty, and muggy from smog. At almost four o'clock in the morning, however, gray light ruled a sky free of haze and the breeze from the ocean still managed to reach that far inland. The cemetary was, in Ben's opinion, in a rather odd location, surrounded by the freeway to one side, un-developed land another, and a residential district everywhere else.

He parked as if visiting one of the homes, then set out on a meandering course that would bring him to one of the easiest access points. Every inch of his body ached and he walked with one hand on his side, adrenaline keeping his eyes jumping from point to point so that no one could sneak up on him. He'd driven a long, circuitous route to get there, he wasn't going to let his guard down just yet.

Climbing the fence was awkward, pulling at his sore side and out-of-shape muscles, but he made his way inside without being detected by any of the cameras or security. He knew the way well enough to have made his way even in pitch-dark, but he always looked for the tree anyway. There was a tree near the plot where James lay, a tree beneath which the family had purchased a bench. Ben stopped there to trail fingers along the marble lettering, then took the half-dozen steps to where his friend waited.

He'd left his helmet with the bike, leaving him to unzip his jacket and slide the bag from his shoulders. He plucked at the grass along the corners of the headstone, tracing the angel, James' name, and the dates. There were no tombstones in the traditional sense, only concrete or marble slabs inset in the ground. The grounds were maintained with a meticulousness that wouldn't be out of place for the Huntington Botanical Gardens, but grass always managed to creep up around the stones.

"God, James," he murmured. He sat there, head bowed, hand on the cold stone, hearing James' wild laughter in his ears. Rick's laughter was prettier, but when the always formal and restrained James laughed, he just let go.

He hadn't wanted to attend that last swimming and diving meet, and he and Gran had quarrelled. In the end, he'd gone and because he was late, he'd taken a short-cut between the temporary bungalows. He didn't remember much of what happened next, only flashes of movement, of the paralyzing fear and pain, of screaming, begging for help that never came, the taunts and laughter ringing in his ears.

He should have died that day, wished he had. Running to catch the bus, he'd thought he heard James laugh and he'd slowed to turn and look back at the critical moment. Instead of hitting him straight on, the baseball bat only clipped the side of his head.

Ben had never told anyone that, of hearing James' laughter. Spending three months in the psych ward after his overdose had convinced Ben to keep much to himself. He believed, honestly believed, that he'd meant to commit suicide that day, but somebody had called 9-1-1 from the house. Everyone insisted that Ben had either changed his mind or had used the attempt to call attention to himself, because there was no one else that could have made the call. He'd purposely waited for Gran and Genny to be gone for the day, convinced the doctors he was okay to be home, convinced family and friends that he was safe to be left alone.

The paramedics said they found Ben in his bedroom, exactly where he'd meant to be found, and nowhere close to the phone. What else could it be? He believed, and that belief was the only comfort he had against the terrors that teenagers could inflict upon each other.

Over the years, the sense of someone always watching faded, until it was no longer something he thought about every day, or even regularly. Sometimes, though, he'd hear that laughter again, or spy a reflection in a storefront or mirror that had him rushing around trying to find the source. Or, like when he'd cracked his head in that surfing accident, he could have sworn James had been there. Thankfully, his friends had shrugged off his ramblings as the confusion of his concussion. Shelly was Catholic; she believed in guardian angels, but this was something private.

He had often, over the years, come to the cemetary, to sit by James' grave and think. He found the quiet, beautiful land peaceful and encouraging. Just being there seemed to make tough decisions easier.

Lance's shrink said that Ben had to let go of the past in order to move forward. Rick had told him that Will was not James, and even Ben knew that helping one wouldn't give him absolution from past mistakes, but he couldn't help wanting that, needing forgiveness, even if he never could quite decide what he'd done wrong. Studies told him that suicide was an extremely personal event, but James was his best friend and he hadn't noticed any of the warning signs he now knew to look for. Could things have gone so sour over just a summer? That confrontation at school was one of the last things James had ever done.

When had he put the letter in Ben's locker?

Trembling hands pulled Sherbert out of the backpack, tucking the stuffed animal into his lap before pulling out the envelope. He just held the old, faded paper in his hands a minute as the breeze rustled in the tree branches above and flipped at his hair. Damn it, he needed to get his hair cut.

There was fog that morning, settled over the hills and giving everything a quiet, lonely, almost mystical glow. Ben huddled into his jacket, lost in the world.

He turned the envelope over and slid a finger beneath the flap, but paused again. Once he did this, there was no going back. His gaze slid down to the orange bundle between his arms and he took a deep breath. He had to. This was the right thing to do, the right time. If not now, he never would. This was his, and only his. He wished Rick was there to wrap him in his arms, to feel the strength in his body against his back, but he'd made that decision, too. You couldn't go back, or remain in the past forever. Having his life written down in black and white in front of him put a different spin on things. God, he was self-absorbed!

Ben took a deep breath.

The paper tore easily and he peered inside. He pulled out a plain sheet of notebook paper and several green bills fluttered to the ground. Like the envelope, the bills were faded, stiff and dry with age. Ben collected them in awe. Unfolding the paper, he saw only a handful of words, 'Benjamins for my Benjamin.' Ben's throat constricted, tears coming to his eyes. Five hundred dollars. James had given him his entire savings. His parents had accused Ben of stealing the money, and he'd had it all along.

His lips quivered. "Oh, fuck, James."

Putting the money back in the envelope, Ben pulled out a secondary, overlooked piece of paper. James' handwriting was a little harder to decipher, worn in places and shiny as if he'd erased multiple times. There was no date.

'First of all,' the letter started, and Ben could imagine James being irritated with him. The older boy had tried many times to pay for Ben for things, but he always refused, his pride not allowing what he considered charity.

Ben hugged Sherbert tight against his chest, eyes widening a little as he read. It was almost as if James were right there, kneeling behind him, hands on his shoulders, reading aloud.

First of all, Ben, the money's yours. I want you to have it. For the boat. Follow your dreams, Ben. My parents, well, they won't understand, so I'm giving it to you, because they won't. Try not to hate them, they just don't understand.

James

Ben caught a knuckle in his teeth, but that didn't halt the sobs. It was so like James, to say everything and nothing all at once. What the fuck did it mean? He would never know. James was gone, dead and gone, forever.

To the East, the sun began to peek over the hills. For Ben, the beauty was a distant thing. He sat in the damp grass with his head on his knees, and gave up the grief that had ridden his heart for so long.

Fingers ghosted up the back of his neck and through his hair. Ben whirled, hopping up in a crouch. Looking around wildly, he saw no one and frowned, fisting a hand in his hair momentarily before pulling roughly.

I'm going insane. I really ... I ... He shook his head and settled down, willing his pounding heart to calm. Pulling Sherbert back into his lap, Ben read through the letter a few more times.

James ....

Alone for so long, independent and trusting to his own judgement, where had everything gone wrong?

"James, James, I need you!" he murmured into his knees. "What do I do? What do I do?" He sniffled. "God, I miss you." And he wasn't sure which memory he spoke to, faux fur soft under his chin.

In his mind's eye, he imagined James smiling, joking, daring him to leap off the high dive or switch places and drive ...

"Just for a little, it'll be fun! No one'll know!"

He blinked. He sat up straighter, and then peered at the letter, held so carefully in his hand. For the first time in ages, he remembered James as he was, and not how he'd imagined him, all grown up, with Will's face. Or, rather, Will looked the way Ben imagined a mature James.

James had olive skin, half Caucasian, half Hispanic, shorter than average, Ben would tower over him now, but with wide shoulders, narrow hips, and strong, strong legs. His chest was barrell-shaped; he was a passable swimmer, but he was too small to be competitive. He was also the only boy Ben had known growing up that had taken gymnastics and ballet. Both he swore helped his diving. Ben had only a few free classes at the YMCA to compare to. James had often teased Ben that he could bench-press him, which probably hadn't been far from the truth. Ben had been an awkward, gangly teenager, with the face of an eight year-old. Wasn't that much different now, he added bitterly.

He closed his eyes, laying his cheek on his knees. James had never once treated him like a child, never talked down to him, never made fun of him, not even in jest. He'd listened when Ben talked, a comfortable, supportive presence for advice, and an unending source of mischief.

"Chill, little dude," he'd say.

Rick was the same way. He didn't look a thing like James, nor did he fit, in any way, Ben's ideal. The breeze brushed against his cheek and Ben shivered. When James had died, Ben had felt numb, all over, dissociated from the world around him, everything dull and lifeless. With Rick gone, there was a constant ache, a sharp pain in his chest that never went away and occassionally stabbed him with spikes of agony, making Ben want to collapse and cry.

He'd always been an emotional kid. His first memory of being publically shunned was from crying in kindergarten. He wasn't sure anymore why, just that the laughter had caused his weeping to increase. He'd ended up in the nurse's office, which hadn't been bad, but it had set a trend that Ben hadn't climbed out of for years.

He wiped away fresh tears, hurting inside without a clue how to address his pains. No, that wasn't true. Ben knew what he wanted, had wanted for weeks now, but Will ... and James --

"Help me, James," he whimpered. "I need you, so much, I don't know what to do!"

No, he knew what to do, he was just scared. Ben didn't make mistakes in relationships. He adapted to fit the needs of his partner, accomodating them and slowly teaching them to trust again. He didn't chase -- he was chased.

He'd never had to apologize before.

No, that wasn't true, either, but, no, yes, of course it was. He hadn't done wrong with Will; Will just liked to hear him beg.

"I didn't do anything wrong, I didn't do anything wrong," he repeated quietly, refusing to let Will continue to terrorize him. That was an exercise his new shrink made him do. Positive thinking, she called it, using the mind to re-wire itself, a jump-start out of the endless cycle of self-recrimmination he'd fallen into.

"Will wanted you totally dependent on him," she'd said. "Without even meeting him, I know that from what you've told me. It's a typical tactic. Your weakness made him strong. Take that power back, Ben. Take it back."

Ben closed his eyes. "'You have no power over me.'" He whispered the line from Labyrinth over and over again but it wasn't working. Nothing did, except for Rick.

This had to be some awful, cryptic divine joke. God was messing with him. Had to be. Rick was everything Ben had never asked for, never wanted -- never thought he wanted. He was dominant without being domineering, protective but not smothering ... and he could make Ben laugh like nobody's business.

The whole situation was too confusing. Ben wanted to trust his instincts, but he was afraid. He should have talked to him, he knew that, and yet, he was afraid to ask. He'd stood up to his friends with Will, and look where that'd gotten him!

"What do I do?" He squeezed his knees, the letter crinkling from the pocket of his jacket. "What would you do, James?"

He knew what he wanted to do. When Rick invaded his dreams, Ben saw him as he had that last night, eyes so soft and bright. When Rick looked at Ben that way, he didn't feel threatened or insecure, he felt amazing. He cried more from those dreams than any others, hurting from a wound that seemed etched into his very soul. He'd had something wonderful and magical. No one had ever made him feel that way, superman-strong, and yet protected.

Rick loved him, he really did, and not for what Ben wanted him to see. He'd never gotten the chance to be anything but himself. Rick saw him as he really was, lonely and heartbroken and wanting -- so much! -- just to be wanted and needed and loved.

He rubbed his chest, awkwardly in his huddled position, but there was a certain stubbornness on his face now. What to do was suddenly so clear. He just had to have the guts to do it.