Benji

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I ran out the door, dodging a few pedestrians as I frantically searched for Benji. My mind was racing, so many thoughts flying through my head, each more ridiculous than the last. I don’t know why I was so worried; all he’d done was walk out, and it wasn’t like he was in danger of dying. And yet I couldn’t stop myself from jumping to the worst conclusions.

Finally, I spotted him hurrying down the road. His head was down, his small frame being buffeted by the wind.

I wasted no time in running after him.

As soon as I reached him, I grabbed his shoulders and spun him around, holding him close but not quite hugging him. He’d put his sunglasses back on but his cheeks were glistening with tears and he was sniffing delicately.

“Oh, Benji,” I murmured softly.

At the sound of my words, he launched himself at me, bursting into tears. I acted on instinct, wrapping my arms around him and holding him close. He buried his face in my shirt, muffling his sobs.

“Shh,” I whispered, over and over and over, smoothing his hair away from his face because I remembered how much he liked that.

I ignored the few people that gave us strange looks as they passed, focusing all of my attention on trying to comfort the boy in my arms. He was still sobbing, his body shaking as he gasped for air. The desperate way that he clutched at the back of my jacket almost brought tears to my eyes. I pulled him tighter against me, pouring everything I had into somehow healing him.

“Shh… Benji, love, it’s okay. You’re okay. Shh…”

He slowly began to calm down, no longer sobbing, his breath coming in smaller, ragged gasps. I pulled away slightly, gently removing his sunglasses and tucking them into my pocket. He kept his head down, trying to hide his tear-stained face from me. I just sighed, tilting his head up and using my sleeve to dry his cheeks, taking extra care around his bruised eye.

He attempted a watery smile, his hands never releasing the fabric of my jacket.

“C’mon,” I murmured, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He adjusted his hold around my waist and we began to walk toward where I’d parked my car.

“I’m sorry,” Benji whispered, and he sounded so small, so sad and ruined and helpless and broken.

“Don’t be.”

I was so scared. Scared that if I spoke too much or too loud or too harsh, scared that if I spoke at all he would shatter. I was scared that he wouldn’t smile again, that I’d never get to hear his laugh again, that he was irreparably broken. I was scared and angry and hurting, all because he was hurting.

We got into my car and Benji curled himself into the passenger seat, his arms wrapped around his knees. I could barely focus as I drove. Every few minutes the silence was punctuated by Benji’s sniffling, and every time I looked at him all I could see was the hurt and the pain.

I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to hurt someone so sweet.

The very thought itself made me so angry. It was like kicking puppies, or something. Only this was worse because this was Benji and Benji meant so much to me.

By the time we pulled up in my driveway, my knuckles were white and aching with tension. I released my grip on the steering wheel and got out of the car, slamming the door. Benji followed me timidly inside.

I took a few calming breaths before I turned to him, well aware that I probably looked furious.

“Who did this?”

His eyes widened and he took a faltering step back. “N-n-no one.”

I raised my eyebrows, deciding to humour him. “Oh. So what happened to your eye then?”

He shrugged, reaching a hand up to rub at his nose. “I, uh… tripped and, um, hit my face on a table.”

“Benji, I’m not stupid,” I muttered, seeing right through his weak lie. “Just tell me who did it.”

“No one did it, it’s nothing,” he mumbled, looking down at his feet as he scuffed his shoe on the carpet.

I exhaled forcefully, running my hand through my hair. Why was he being so difficult? I only wanted to know who had hurt him so I knew who to hospitalise.

“C’mon, I’m not going to do anything,” I lied. “I’m just curious.”

Benji shook his head, strands of hair falling across his forehead and hanging in his eyes.

“Just tell me,” I said, trying desperately not to yell at him. “Why won’t you tell me? Who are you protecting?”

“I’m not… protecting anyone,” he frowned. He looked down, playing with a loose thread on his shirt, so vulnerable and insecure-looking that I almost caved right then. “It doesn’t matter, Reid.”

“Yes! It does fucking matter,” I snapped, my grip on my anger slipping. “You’re hurt, Benji, and I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

He froze for a moment and the slowly looked up, his blue eyes shining curiously. “…Why?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I sneered.

Even as I said it, I felt sick. I hated myself for doing it, but I couldn’t stop; I was scared, so scared.

Someone had hurt Benji and it was killing me to not be able to fix things. I was scared for him, scared that it would happen again if he didn’t tell me who had done it. I was scared that maybe next time it would be worse.

I was angry that someone had actually done this to him in the first place. He was a good kid, an adorable kid, a completely innocent kid, and I couldn’t think why someone would want to hurt him.

And, as selfish as it sounds, I was scared for myself. I knew I was falling for him, fuck, how could I not be? And I was just so scared that he’d see my trying to protect him as a confession of feelings, and I still had no idea whether those feelings were reciprocated or not. It was so terrifying, and I know it’s wrong, but I figured that if I lashed out at him, no one would be able to accuse me of having feelings for him.

Even just thinking that made me feel sick. All I wanted was to hold him, to take him in my arms and make everything disappear. I mean, this was Benji, and he was like some kind of diamond, or something. He was so beautiful, so perfect in every way, and I felt that he had to be treated with care and love and tenderness, as though he was something fragile, like he might shatter at any moment.

“Benji,” I pleaded, trying to keep myself calm. “Please, just tell me what happened.”

He blinked a few times, looking up at me, and his eyes were shining with what looked like unshed tears. His face was impeccably blank as he regarded me.

“No.”

“Fine. You know what, that’s fucking fine,” I snapped, turning away from him. “It doesn’t matter.We’ll just forget about it, yeah? Fine!” I knew I was being ridiculous and immature and mean, but it was killing me to not be able to help him. It was killing me to not be able to make everything better.

I turned to face him again, outwardly ignoring the way that his chin trembled, when inside I was falling apart. “I wanted to help you,” I told him, my voice louder than I wanted it to be, “but whatever. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that I can’t stand seeing you hurt. That I feel like I’m dying when you cry. It doesn’t matter that I fucking care about you! Just. Whatever.”

I stayed long enough to watch a single tear drop from his eye, to watch it fall, caressing his bruised skin. I stayed long enough to hear him whisper my name. I stayed long enough to feel my heart tear itself into pieces.

And then I stomped upstairs, slammed my bedroom door behind me and found myself punching a wall for the second time within a week.