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Nothing quite drives home the ethical implications of this thing he and Ben are doing like walking into the kitchen and finding Ben kneeling on the counter, reaching for some glasses.
Two steps back. John bought the house after seeing how high the ceilings and the counters were, because he'd never seen counters he could lean comfortably over, except in department stores. He loves his counters, kind of like how he loves his truck.
One step forward. Ben is not short. Seriously. He just looks short next to John and these counters were built for giants.
One more step. John's counters really are oversized, but the cupboards are made for giraffes. You'd have to be at least John's height or taller to reach things even on the bottom shelf.
So, here he is, in the kitchen, watching Ben rifle through the cupboards for a glass, wondering how many germs can be found on the human knee. It's the kind of thing Ben would know. Ben is still kneeling on the kitchen counter, looking like a ten year old.
Jesus.
John's feet are bare and don't make a sound on the hardwood floor as he walks across the kitchen. There's dust on the floor. One of the luxuries about not being married is that he doesn't have to sweep the floors unless he can actually see the dirt, although since he and Ben started doing this thing, Ben's had periodic freak outs where he strips down to his waist and scrubs floors and windows.
It's not as hot as it sounds, really. It's frustrating as hell, to be honest, especially when Ben runs out of things to clean and starts yelling, and John has to push and prod and yell back to get into his head and find out what went wrong.
It's easy to slide his arms up, around Ben's waist and wait for the other man to lean back.
"Hi," he says to Ben's neck.
"You need more glasses," Ben says, holding up the lone survivor of the set Chickie gave him when he moved in. It's chipped at the edges and looks sad and tired. Maybe that's just John, since it's three a.m.
Ben taps the glass gently against the cupboard and John takes it away, putting it back and pulling Ben backward, gently.
"Off the counter."
Ben slides down until he hits the crook of John's elbow and they're standing back to chest, hip to waist. John tightens his grip and grabs a dishcloth from the sink, wiping the place where Ben had his knees.
Ben exhales, one deep breath and John lets him rinse the rag in the sink. He never knew what the hooks above the sink were for until Ben insisted on doing his dishes and made a little ritual about hanging the dishcloths up.
Ben follows his gaze to the clock and hangs his head, a little shamefaced.
"Sorry."
John grits his teeth.
"Let's go to bed."
Ben lies with his back to John in bed, but lets John wrap an arm around his waist and pull him in tight.
……………………………………………
Ben spends about twenty minutes on the phone before and after work with his sister, but actually leaves the room for once. John watches him through windows and glass doors, but all he can tell is that things are said that both parties are going to regret.
"I want to get some glasses," is all Ben says after shift, when John asks him if he's coming back to his place, or finally going back to his own house. "You have no glasses."
"I have glasses."
"You have cups," Ben corrects and for a moment John wants to tell him he got divorced precisely because he didn't want to have conversations like this anymore, but if cups are the worst thing that comes out of this, he can live with it.
"Fine."
……..
The woman at the counter had made a face because John had come in first and that was why they left the first store. The second one had made John nervous and the third had had rainbow unicorns on the counter.
"You okay?"
Ben's looking out the window.
"Fine," he says and points at a garage sale. "Let's go there."
…
By some fucking miracle they actually manage to find some glasses. Ben washes each one like some kind of ritual and fills two of them with juice when they eat. They both eat in silence, and John enjoys the food but hates the way Ben's eyes are far away, the way he pauses sometimes, like he's surprised to see that he's still eating.
John offers to do the dishes, but Ben tells him to go sit the fuck down.
He lets it go for a while, sits down with the game and thinks about having a beer, but when he goes into the kitchen, Ben's finished wiping down the counter and he's standing in front of the kitchen closet, hand on the door.
John can just see how this is going to go and he honestly doesn't feel like sleeping next to the lemon-fresh scent of Pinesol, so he just steps between Ben and the closet door and looks down at him.
"Want to talk about it?" He asks.
Ben shrugs and looks away. John takes him by the shoulders and looks in his eyes.
"Let's talk about it."
Ben tries to pull away, but he doesn't try hard, lets John pull him into the living room, down onto the couch. John doesn't quite know what to do, so he just puts an arm around Ben and keeps watching the game.
After a moment, Ben pulls away, leans in, looking at the TV screen. When he talks, his voice is slow and steady.
"He's in the hospital."
John sits up. "Yeah?"
"My sisters, and my mom," Ben says. "They want me to go see him."
John watches him. "You going?"
Ben rubs his eyes, looking tired. "He's such a fucking bastard."
"Yeah," John waits.
Ben stretches, then surprises John by curling up next to him.
"I don't know what I want to do."
"How long do you have?" John asks. Ben shrugs.
"A few weeks. A month?"
John's dad died in prison, a heart attack in his sleep, an unfortunately peaceful end, in John's eyes, back years ago, while John was overseas. John didn't attend the funeral, just picked up the ashes and threw them into the water, hoping something clean came of it.
This is Ben's thing. This is something that can only belong to Ben, every inch of it, something only he can carry. John's had his own thing and it's over and done with.
So he waits.
Ben shakes himself, and pulls John closer to him.
"I'll be okay," he lies.
……
John picks Ben up from the hospital. Ben's standing outside when he arrives, leaning against the concrete, kind of looks like James Dean's slightly butcher grandson.
"I'm not going to sit here all day," John yells out the passenger window. "Get in the fucking car, Boot!"
Ben laughs at him, but climbs in.
"Hey," he says, fiddling with the air conditioning until John slaps his hand away from the controls.
John waits until they actually get out into traffic before he says anything.
"Okay?"
Ben shrugs.
"Let's get something for dinner," he suggests. "I don't feel like cleaning up."