Through Your Playground Eyes

Merryn and Rhys are six and a half years old when they meet Benedict.

His grandmother, who they’ve lived next door to their entire lives, brings him with her one day when she’s baby-sitting the two of them. Merryn and Rhys’s parents both work a lot, so when neither of them can look after their children they enlist Mirella to do it.

(She doesn’t mind, exactly – she loves the twins, loves them with the kind of intensity she reserves for family and friends and those she cares about the most – but a part of her wonders sometimes what kind of a childhood these two young children are going to have if their parents are never around, are always working, are always busy.)

And one day, when Merryn and Rhys are six and a half years old, Mirella is already looking after her grandson, Benedict, whose parents are also workaholics and have no time for their only son, when Iwan and Gwen have to rush off to work at the last minute. She tuts and sighs and nibbles her lower lip when they ask, but she doesn’t say no. She never says no. She couldn’t do that to the children.

“Tesorino,” she says briskly, as she’s putting on her coat and gathering her stuff together to take next door, “we have to go to the house next to us. Is that okay?”

Sniffing a little, Benedict nods and pushes his glasses up his nose. He’s a quiet little thing, her grandson, and Miri thinks this will be good for him, mixing with children his own age. That is, if he doesn’t just spend the entire time clutching at her leg or hiding in the cupboard or sitting in a corner by himself like he does whenever he’s forced into familial congregations. She makes a face.

“There are some children there, your age, and I have to look after them as well,” she informs him with a gentle smile. “They’re nice, you’ll like them.”

At least, she hopes he will. She’s not sure about Merryn – the girl is, well, loud and bubbly and wonderful, truly wonderful, and Mirella loves her like her own granddaughter but she doesn’t think she quite trusts her with her own grandson – but she’s certain he’ll get along like a dream with Rhys, that lovely, sweet little boy.

(Sometimes, she has trouble remembering that Rhys and Merryn are actually related, even though they look scarily alike for fraternal twins. But then she’ll catch the two of them in a heated argument about something or other and she’ll see the same, shining ferocity in his eyes that’s ever-present in Merryn’s own, and it’s suddenly not all that hard to believe.)

“Okay,” Benedict says in his soft, quiet voice, and Mirella beams then, because he rarely talks to anyone, even her.

“Fantastico!” she exclaims, ruffling her grandson's hair. (She’s been trying to teach him Italian ever since he was born, because his mother refused outright to speak it around him for fear of confusing him. Someone has to educate the boy. Mirella hasn’t gotten much farther than the occasional word, though, because Benedict has trouble making himself understood in English, let alone another language.) “Let’s go, tesorino.”



Rhys barrels into her the minute she walks through the door, wrapping his tiny arms around her waist as far as they’ll go. She laughs as she hugs him back for a few seconds, before prising him off and holding him at arm’s length.

“Ciao Miri!” Rhys says enthusiastically, greeny-brown eyes wide. (Mirella’s been teaching him and Merryn Italian too, but mostly accidentally. She can’t help that it’s her mother tongue and she slips into it every now and again, if ‘every now and again’ loosely translates to ‘basically all the time’.) “How are y- oh. Who’s this?” Rhys asks, turning to smile hesitantly at Benedict.

Benedict’s peeking out from behind his grandmother, face soft with bewilderment and what is likely fear. His serious blue eyes are darting all over the hallway, scrutinising his new surroundings for ninjas hiding in the shadows, and other terrifying creatures of that ilk.

“Ciao Rhys,” Mirella smiles back, patting down his unruly dark brown hair. “This is my grandson. Is it okay if he plays with you and your sister? I have to look after him too, but I think he’d have more fun with people his own age than an old woman like me.”

She gives a rueful smile at that, knowing it’s true, but Rhys looks positively scandalised.

“Miri, you’re not that old! You’re only-” He breaks off, scrunching up his nose with the effort of calculation. “How old are you?” he asks, curious.

“Too old,” Mirella laughs, shaking her head at him. “Far too old it seems, sometimes.” Wrapping a firm hand around Benedict’s shoulders, she steers him forward and pushes him gently in Rhys’s direction. “Say hello, tesorino.”

“Hello,” Benedict squeaks, and Mirella feels a surge of pride somewhere in her gut.

Rhys turns to him, puts on his politest smile and sticks out a hand. “Hello,” he says, in an oddly formal tone that makes her want to laugh and laugh and never stop because it sounds so wrong coming out of his mouth. “I’m Rhys. What’s your name?”

“Be-Benedict,” Benedict mumbles back, his eyes wide and uncertain as he takes Rhys’s hand in his own and shakes it lightly.

“Nice to meet you, Benedict,” Rhys beams, still holding the other boy’s hand. “Come on, me and Merryn– that’s my sister, my twin sister actually, and she’s a bit scary but she’s not so bad, not once you get to know her, but anyway, we’re playing Doctor Who outside and you should so play with us too, it’ll be great.”

Mirella watches in open-mouthed amazement as Rhys tugs her grandson off outside to the garden and Benedict just lets him. He goes willingly, shuffling out from behind her and allowing himself to be pulled along by the sheer buoyancy of Rhys’s excitement. He doesn’t even turn his head to glance back at her and search for reassurance or support, and that’s kind of incredible.

Rhys is still talking at a hundred miles an hour and Benedict has still not said anything when they reach Merryn, who’s perched on top of a cardboard box, wielding something that looks suspiciously like a screwdriver. It can’t be, though, because what would Merryn be doing with a screwdriver? Has she taken up DIY as a hobby like her mother? Mirella is confused.

“This is my sister,” Rhys informs Benedict in a hushed voice, squeezing the other boy’s hand, which he has yet to relinquish his hold on, Mirella can’t help but notice. (She’s not spying on them, not at all, merely keeping a careful, watchful eye on them from the kitchen. With the window wide open. Yeah, totally not spying.) “Hey Rhino,” Rhys says, louder this time to carry across to the girl on the cardboard box, “this is Benedict. He’s Mirella’s grandson.”

Narrowing her eyes, Merryn jumps down from her cardboard box and strides up to them, her face inches from Benedict’s as she eyes him suspiciously. “You sure he’s friendly?” she asks Rhys, not taking her eyes off Benedict. He cowers a little at the intensity of her gaze and Rhys grips his hand tighter, scowling at his sister as he takes an infinitesimally small step forward, in front of Benedict.

“Yes he’s friendly and he’s really nice and he’s going to play with us and is that okay with your royal highness?” Rhys snaps, chin jutting up into the air.

Merryn’s eyes flick over Benedict in a vague sort of appraisal, taking in his dark-brown-almost-black hair, the way he’s fiddling with the fraying hem of his muddy brown jumper. When she finally comes to rest on his wide, owlish eyes, she smiles at him.

“Alien or companion?” When Benedict just stares at her, bemused, she elaborates with, “Choose one. To be. You know.”

“I, um,” Benedict says, voice barely more than a whisper as his gaze darts between her and her brother, “I don’t mind.”

“Okay, you can be a companion,” Merryn decides for him, nodding to herself. “Rhys is an alien. And I’m the Doctor.” She sticks out her hand, a wolfish smile on her lips, and winks at him. “Run!”

Benedict isn’t exactly given much choice in the matter when Merryn grabs his hand, pulling him out of Rhys’s grip, and dashes off, dragging him along behind her, but he’s certainly not complaining. Rhys lets out a – kind of pathetic, considering his voice is nearly ten years shy of actually breaking – roar and stomps after them in an exaggerated mockery of a terrifying alien.

Benedict is- well, Benedict is grinning, actually grinning, smile stretched from ear to ear and sparking life in his eyes, and there is an outside chance that he even laughs a couple of times, high-pitched squeals of delight every time Rhys gets close enough to ‘kill’ him or Merryn.

Mirella shakes her head, dumbfounded, still watching from her perch by the kitchen window. Benedict never makes friends this easily – or, indeed, at all, to her knowledge. She certainly doesn’t think she’s ever seen him this happy, this easily, blissfully content.

(She has no idea why she’s never brought him over before, but she’s suddenly sincerely glad that she did.)



Benedict starts visiting his grandmother all the time after that.



“But I want to be the Doctor!” Rhys is whining, his eyes narrowed and his fists clenched. “You’re always the Doctor! It’s not fair!”

It’s a few months later and they’re all at Merryn and Rhys’ house, playing in the TARDIS in their attic because it’s cold outside, cold enough to mould the air into misty grey gas rings whenever they breathe out. Miri’s holding the fort downstairs, since their parents are all working late again.

Merryn rolls her eyes at her brother in a mimicry of the adult motion, and folds her arms across her chest too just for good measure. “That’s because I’m the oldest and the smartest and I’m just better than you.”

“You’re only older than me by ten minutes. Besides, you’re a girl,” Rhys sulks, jutting out his lower lip. “You should be Susan or something.”

Her eyes darken with impatience. “Look, you can be the Master. You like the Master.” At her brother’s incredulous expression, she amends her statement with, “Adric, then. Jo? K-9?”

Rhys looks very much like he wants to argue, but he hasn’t been saddled with Merryn as his sister for more than eight years, counting the time they shared in their mother’s womb, for nothing. He’s not sure she even knows what compromise means – no, wait, of course she does. Merryn’s been devouring books for breakfast, lunch and dinner for as long as Rhys can remember and he’s pretty sure she is intimately familiar with the vast majority of the words in the English language as it stands, including, no doubt, ‘compromise’.

She just doesn’t think it applies to her.

“You can be Sarah Jane, if you want,” Benedict offers, generously, adjusting his long, dark-haired wig with the hand that isn’t clutching one of Mirella’s handbags. There’s something red smeared across his lips – Rhys isn’t entirely sure that it’s lipstick – and his eyes are glittery with garish pink eye-shadow.

(Benedict makes a very pretty girl, Rhys thinks, almost absent-mindedly, and the thought’s drifting away before he can grab at it and make sense of it.)

“It’s okay,” Rhys assures him, leaning against the door of the TARDIS, face carefully arranged into a martyred expression. “I’ll be Adric, it’s fine.”

“Great,” Merryn grins, and then she straightens up. “Now come on, we have to save the universe from the Daleks before they destroy it all!”

“Why is it always the Daleks?” Rhys mutters, scowling at the floor. “Aren’t there any other aliens who want to take over the universe or blow it to smithereens?”

(Rhys likes the word ‘smithereens’. He heard it on TV the other day and decided it was his favourite word ever, and as such has been taking any and every opportunity to drop it into casual conversation. He’s rather proud of this one.)

Merryn considers his point for a few moments, then nods gravely and says, “The Daleks have destroyed all their home planets so they can’t. We must save the universe and restore order and justice to the worlds!”

Rhys decides – wisely – that it’s probably not worth arguing with her. Taking Benedict’s hand somewhat resignedly, he lets Merryn lead them over to where the salt and pepper shakers are assembled on the floor in front of them in neat rows like tiny, plastic soldiers. They stare each other down for a few moments, sizing up the enemy.

“Prepare to die, alien scum!” Merryn yells, and the battle is on.



It’s not even a year later – seven months and twenty three days, to be precise – that Benedict’s parents announce that they’ve both been offered a job at CERN, and they’re moving to Switzerland as soon as is humanly possible. No one’s surprised, really – they’ve been after jobs there for years – but when Benedict breaks the news to Merryn and Rhys, lip quivering and gaze fixed on the floor, both of them look like the bottom’s fallen out of their world.

Rhys stomps out of the room, ever the drama queen, slamming the door shut behind him. Benedict winces, draws further into himself, jumps a foot in the air when Merryn touches his arm gently.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispers, breathing heavily. He thinks maybe Merryn’s getting better at understanding when people – namely him – are angling for a hug because she wraps an arm around him and tugs him into her chest, holds him tight like Rhys normally does.

“I know,” she says, voice soft. “We don’t want you to go either. You’re our best friend, Ben.”

(Benedict’s not so sure that’s true. Merryn doesn’t have a whole lot of friends apart from him, he knows that for sure, but Rhys has this sort of effortless, magical charm which hypnotises people, draws them to him, makes them want him and want to be him at the same exact time. Benedict is certain Rhys has loads of friends who aren’t him and are much better qualified to be his best friend.

Rhys is definitely his best friend, though, and sometimes, Benedict thinks that might just be enough. This, however, is not one of those times.)

“Rhys is angry with me, isn’t he?” Benedict’s voice is low, quiet, quivering in the air beside Merryn’s ear. “He- he hates me.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she says sharply, clutching him tighter. “He doesn’t hate you, he’s just mad. But he’ll get over it,” she promises, and she sounds so confident that Benedict could almost believe her.

But then he remembers the look on Rhys’s face before he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, remembers the hurt and the betrayal mixed in with something Benedict can’t name, and he whimpers, burying his head between Merryn’s shoulderblades. She just holds him, not even complaining that he’s getting her favourite t-shirt wet and snotty, and Benedict thinks that she’s maybe his best friend too.



His parents are ready to move less than two weeks later. They’ve found a place they can stay in Switzerland, even got someone interested in renting their house for the foreseeable future in case they ever want to come back. (They won’t.)

And Benedict... Benedict refuses to go. Benedict, who hates confrontation, who hates disappointing people, who doesn’t even know how to ask for what he wants the most in the whole world, says no when his parents are moving all their stuff into boxes.

“I’ll stay with Nonni,” he says, like it’s that simple. (Of course, he doesn’t see how it isn’t.) He sets himself down firmly upon an upturned cardboard box, arms folded across his chest. “She can look after me while you’re gone.”

“No, Benedict,” his father sighs, shaking his head. “We talked about this.”

“But I don’t want to leave,” Benedict mumbles, biting his lip hard. He doesn’t move.

His mother and father exchange a look over his head. He hates it when they do that. “Benedict,” his mother says, squatting down to meet his gaze, “this is a fantastic opportunity for us. For all of us.”

“But I don’t want to leave,” he repeats, louder this time, and he sounds upset enough that his mother actually looks guilty for a few moments. “I don’t want to leave Rhys and Merryn. They’re my friends.”

“You can make new friends,” his mother offers, but Benedict only shakes his head vehemently.

“No I can’t,” he murmurs, his jaw clenched tight. “Not like them. I don’t wanna go, Mama. Please don’t make me go.”

His mum’s face cracks and guilt seeps in to fill the holes. “Oh Benedict, sweetheart,” she murmurs, pulling him into her arms. “We’re not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Olivia,” his dad warns, like he can see the thoughts playing out inside her head.

“He wants to stay, Patrick,” his mum replies, steely voice in cold contrast to the one she reserves for Benedict. “Who are we to make him leave?”



The next week is hell.

His parents have a lot of Private Conversations on the phone to his grandmother when they think Benedict’s asleep, or behind slammed-shut doors when they know he isn’t, and they glare at each other over the top of his head like they’ve forgotten he even exists. He’s not sure quite what’s going on because no one will tell him, but he’s astute enough to realise that nothing more is being packed up into boxes and his parents have gone back to work and they’ve halted all their plans and it’s all his fault.

Benedict doesn’t want to be difficult. Benedict doesn’t want to cause a fuss. Benedict doesn’t want to make everyone unhappy and angry and hating each other. Benedict really, really doesn’t want to leave his friends, but he doesn’t want to tear his family apart because of his own stupid selfishness either.

And that’s why, after a particularly awful argument that the tiny, semi-detached house is still quivering from even though his dad stormed out half an hour ago, Benedict shuffles into his parents’ room and crawls into the bed next to his mum. Her arms curl around him automatically, and he buries his head in her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the fabric of her shirt. “I didn’t mean to- I just wanted- I’m sorry.”

“Oh Benedict,” his mother sighs. She’s patting the top of his head, squeezing him tightly to her chest. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. We’re the ones being selfish, not thinking about what you want and need. You’re the most important thing in our life, not some silly job.” She laughs, but it’s high and shaky and very definitely fake. “It’s not like the pay’s that good, anyway.”

Benedict lifts his head, face drawn up in horror. “But it’s your dream!” he protests, his earnest voice almost entirely reminiscent of the presenter on the CBeebies television programme he watched with Merryn the other day about dreams and aspirations. (Merryn thinks CBeebies is silly and childish and just for little kids, but she watched it with him because Benedict asked and because Rhys still won’t even look at him and because it was the first time she’d seen him smile in weeks, and Merryn just couldn’t find it in her to deny Benedict that shred of happiness.) “You can’t just- you can’t not do this, you can’t not follow your dream because of me. I won’t let you.”

His mum laughs softly, at the utter seriousness in his eyes, at the level of sincerity in his voice. He’s six years old, she reminds herself, firmly. Six. Years. Old.

“You love your grandmother, don’t you?” she asks eventually, head tilted to one side.

Benedict frowns, confused, because of course he loves Nonni, she’s his grandmother and she’s wonderful. “Yes?” he replies, still uncertain, but he feels like his mother needs a definitive answer for some reason.

She bites her lip, staring at him like she’s searching for something. Benedict doesn’t know what she’s looking for, so he keeps his face as open as he can and prays she finds what she needs.

“Yes,” she says, quiet and drained and a little bit defeated. “Yes, you do.”

And Benedict hasn’t got a clue what that’s supposed to mean, so he only burrows closer to his mum and lays his head on her shoulder. They lie like that for a while, curled up in the foetal position, until Benedict’s breathing starts to even out and he falls asleep in his mother’s arms.



Benedict moves in with Mirella the very next day.



He doesn’t cry when he struggles up to his grandmother’s front door with a suitcase that dwarfs him, filled with all his worldly possessions. He doesn’t cry when Mirella gathers him in her arms and glares reproachfully over his shoulder at his parents, even though he can hear his mum sniffing and he could see the wetness glazing his dad’s eyes when he turned away. He doesn’t even cry when he watches them drive away, curled up in the familiar folds of his grandmother’s skirt.

He cries later, though. When he’s certain he’s alone, tucked up safe in his new bed that he must have slept in a million times before, he weeps, tiny body shaking with silent sobs.

But he’s happy, happier than he’s been in a long time. Now, he lives with his grandmother, who never forgets that he needs feeding at least three times a day, who always has a smile and a hug and a kind word in his ear. And Merryn and Rhys are right next door and he’s moving to their school at the start of next term, which means he’s basically going to see them all the time.

His chest swells with joy at the prospect, and the tears pouring out his eyes start to dry on his cheeks.



It only takes Rhys a day to forgive Benedict for almost moving away from him. He turns up the next morning, Merryn standing by his side with a stern, unyielding expression on her face.

When Rhys just stands there, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot and refusing to meet Benedict’s eyes, she sighs, mutters something unintelligible that sounds vaguely disparaging and shoves him forward.

“Hi,” Benedict says, glancing shyly up at Rhys once before dropping his gaze to the ground, lip caught between his teeth. He doesn’t know if Rhys is still angry with him. Merryn told him he wasn’t, but Merryn doesn’t always tell the truth.

“Hi,” Rhys says, trying for offhanded and casual and missing by several hundred miles. Merryn gives him a sharp, pointed look and he sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m- I’m sorry. For being an idiot. It was stupid, I just- I’m sorry.”

And before Benedict can say that it’s fine, really, it’s better than fine because he is so ridiculously glad that Rhys is speaking to him again, Rhys steps forward and wraps his arms around Benedict, tugging him close and smushing his face into the other boy’s neck.

“Don’t you ever leave me again,” he says, his voice muffled but unmistakably fierce. “Ever.”

Benedict wants to say that he didn’t, that he was never going to, that he never will, but he only mumbles, “I won’t,” and hugs Rhys tighter. He’s missed Rhys’s hugs.