“Yes,” Ari breathed at once, without pausing to think about it. “Yes, it’s alright.”
Ben had actually come, and now that he was standing here Ari was desperate for him not to leave, desperate to drink in all of him, to try and understand the intervening years between them, how he might have been. Ben had been so important a part of his life for so long that living as they had for the past two years, practically strangers, seemed almost unthinkable. If Ari had thought it could fix things, or undo them, he had – clearly been wrong.
Ben was looking at him, and Ari thought he caught a flash of a smile from him, but wasn’t quite brave enough to linger on his face yet. Ben was still standing, and Ari hadn’t stood up from the bed, so for the moment his gaze rested on Ben’s hands, moulded into fists. (He might be furious, Ari realised. That would be fair.) Ari watched his fists open and his fingers flex, wondering how to translate this: discomfort, or resentment, or – no, now Ben’s hands were clasped together, he didn’t know.
He closed the book without looking at it, and let it slip from his lap onto the bedsheets beside him. He stayed sitting, almost too nervous to move, but planted his feet onto the floor to ground himself, and looked up at Ben from here. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth, already wishing he could soften the tension he saw in Ben’s shoulders, his stance, his jaw. Earnestly, he asked: “How are you?”
Ben had actually come, and now that he was standing here Ari was desperate for him not to leave, desperate to drink in all of him, to try and understand the intervening years between them, how he might have been. Ben had been so important a part of his life for so long that living as they had for the past two years, practically strangers, seemed almost unthinkable. If Ari had thought it could fix things, or undo them, he had – clearly been wrong.
Ben was looking at him, and Ari thought he caught a flash of a smile from him, but wasn’t quite brave enough to linger on his face yet. Ben was still standing, and Ari hadn’t stood up from the bed, so for the moment his gaze rested on Ben’s hands, moulded into fists. (He might be furious, Ari realised. That would be fair.) Ari watched his fists open and his fingers flex, wondering how to translate this: discomfort, or resentment, or – no, now Ben’s hands were clasped together, he didn’t know.
He closed the book without looking at it, and let it slip from his lap onto the bedsheets beside him. He stayed sitting, almost too nervous to move, but planted his feet onto the floor to ground himself, and looked up at Ben from here. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth, already wishing he could soften the tension he saw in Ben’s shoulders, his stance, his jaw. Earnestly, he asked: “How are you?”
