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Ben Doyle is, despite himself, heterosexual.
It’s something he’s deeply sure of. Even when he dated women pre-transition, something about it always just felt so... not queer. He loves all his guy friends, but has never considered hooking up with any of them. He and Adam had kissed once, wasted at a party, and it was incredibly funny but nothing more.
So why does he suddenly feel nauseous around his boss? Sam Denby hired him five years ago as a writer for Wendover, and they’ve been buddies ever since, but if you’d asked Ben to consider sleeping with Sam before today he would have laughed loudly in your face. Now, he struggles to concentrate on anything in Sam’s presence. As they race down a train platform in God-only-knows-middle-of-nowhere-England he wishes their hands would brush, anything. Sam is famously not big on physical affection, and Ben feels like he’s back in fucking middle school.
Ben has heard of guys ‘unlocking’ their attraction to men once they start T and become fully present in their own bodies and minds, or whatever. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s just shot day, and Sam just happens to be there. Ben has fought too hard to be read correctly to start reconfiguring his labels now. He has, at many points in his transition, clung to his straightness as an affirmation of his gender. He knows this makes no sense, but it’s not something to be helped. Maybe part of him resents the idea that even this could shift. That just as he’s settled into himself, into his name, his voice, the shape of his face, something else might be tilting sideways. Logically, it doesn’t matter if he is bisexual, but it will mean relearning how to consider himself, something he’s not especially fond of.
eight days later
Sam is staying in New York for a bit after the group’s return to America before heading home to Aspen. They landed on Monday where they had a full day of work followed by the season 15 premiere and afterparty, did three different promo shoots on Tuesday, and now have a full slate of meetings on Wednesday. Needless to say, the three are wrecked.
Ben is posted up on the floor of an office in the Nebula NYC building, jabbing at his laptop, when he hears the door swing open. Sam had warned the guys he’d be late to this meeting. As Sam steps into the room, Ben feels something inside of him shift. Sam has had a haircut: just a trim plus layers and some pieces that frame his face. He looks pretty. Ben is glad to have a tdick in that moment. A visible boner would’ve probably ruined his career. Fuck, crushes are stupid.
“Hey Sam,” Adam mutters, eyes not moving from his screen.
“Hey guys,” Sam replies, pushing his new bangs out of his eyes with the back of a cupped hand and planting himself in the chair closest to Ben.
Ben notices things in fragments, now. Sam’s presence subtly redrawing the room's centre of gravity. The faint scent of shampoo. The way Sam’s new haircut shows more of his face, revealing the nibbling of his bottom lip that would have been covered by his old hair falling forward as he looks straight down at his laptop.
The all-too-familiar exhaustion that settles into Ben’s bones after Jet Lag wraps for a season has well and truly reared its head by this point. Sam’s presence doesn’t aid his concentration, either. At times, Ben finds himself almost watching the meeting from out of his body, as if floating above himself and his colleagues in a corner of the room. After half an hour or so, he feels his eyelids flutter closed for a moment, and excuses himself to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face does practically nothing to quell the rising threat of passing out right there. He only just barely registers the three quick raps on the door of the single-stalled bathroom.
“Ben, you all good?”
It’s Sam.
“Yup,” Ben manages. “Think I’m gonna head home soon, though.”
After a minute, Ben emerges from the stall. When he enters the office again, Sam and Adam are staring at him.
“You look rough, buddy.”
Ben raises his brow at Adam, eyes narrowed. His ears fill with static.
“Right, I’m calling the meeting,” Sam says. “We all need a good night’s sleep. Or four.”
As Ben stumbles onto the subway home, he is once again plagued by thoughts of Sam, and his steel-blue fucking eyes under his beautiful lashes that are the same colour as his stupid hair.
six days later
Just past midnight, in the blackness of his bedroom, sitting cross-legged on his bed with his duvet pulled over his knees, Ben tugs at his tape. He had only applied it two days ago, in a hotel bathroom in Scotland, but his skin’s already burning underneath, and he can’t take another second of it. He still hasn’t managed to find a brand he doesn’t have a reaction to, evidently. As he pulls, the tape clings to his scars from his last attempt to fix his chest in this way. A fresh wound opens over the scar on the left face of his torso. It stings as air rushes to it. Ben swears under his breath as he rips the last strip off. He’s always faced removing tape as if it’s a bunch of really big plasters: best done in one swift motion. Typically, this only works to make the pain worse.
The smell from under days-old-tape wanders into Ben’s nose, a mix of sweat and adhesive. He has grown to crave this. He immediately gets to scratching at his now-exposed chest. It feels good, for a second, until his fingers on his tender nipples send a dull pain through his body. He glances down at the tits poking out from his body, lit by the screen of his open laptop, and is enveloped by a wave of nausea. Knocking his ill-fitting glasses back up his nose with the knuckle of a bent finger, he grabs his sweat-stained binder with a swipe. He pulls it backwards over his arms and drags up the zip towards his chin, before throwing his glasses on his bed beside him, slapping his laptop shut, flopping back, covering himself in his duvet, and squeezing his eyes shut, all in one continuous motion.
Ben lies awake, listening to the deafening sound of his own heartbeat rise at a dangerous rate. And then, all at once, sunlight is streaming onto his bed through his open blinds and he is drenched in sweat and blinking sleep from his eyes and stretching and tearing his binder off and massaging his throbbing ribs and his heart is still beating just as loud and just as fast and he can’t really breathe.
the following morning
“Hey Sam, this is really lame, but can you help me with my shot?”
Ben has been on testosterone injections for four years, and has never had a problem with the needle before today, but he slept horribly, and a text from the one ex he’s no-contact with plus him running out of Zoloft has his anxiety howling like he hasn’t felt since his diagnosis. The last thing he wants to do is reveal this to Sam, but they have to head for the airport in five and he sees no other option. He’s been poised on this couch to inject for 20 minutes now, failing to work up the nerve. Pathetic, really. His ribs cry out in rage, recoiling at the lasting effects of the prison they had been trapped in all night.
Sam had crashed on Ben’s couch as his plane home had been cancelled at the last minute, and he now wanders out of the bathroom at the call, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. He looks annoyingly beautiful.
“I mean yeah, but you have infinitely more experience.”
“Ah, it’s easy,” Ben assures with a wave of his hand. “I’ve already drawn the T and got the air out, all you need to do is stab me here in the leg at 90°,” he explains as he grips a layer of fat on his upper thigh. “It should go in about an inch deep, then you slowly inject the fluid.”
Sam looks deeply unsure.
Ben places the needle into his friend’s hand and closes his fingers around it with his own. He scowls internally at the way his heart soars when they touch.
Something flickers behind Sam’s eyes. Something indiscernible. “Alright,” he mutters, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. He somehow seems more nervous than Ben, the one getting stabbed in the leg. “Do I… sit?”
Ben had only been given his shot by someone else once, the first dose he’d taken, when his nurse had shown him what to do. And she’d done it standing. “I don’t think so.” The rush of butterflies he feels as Sam leans over him does help to distract from the present moment, at least.
“Okay, well, here goes nothing,” Sam mutters, clutching Ben’s thigh with a firm tenderness that makes Ben’s leg muscles contract involuntarily. He shakes off the throb of desire that begins to form. That’s so gross. Sam’s doing him a favour.
“Exactly what you wanna hear from the person stabbing you with a sharp metal-” Ben trails off as the needle breaks his skin with a pinch. It does hurt more than usual, maybe due to Sam’s inexperience or because the muscle receiving the medicine is much tighter than it should be, but then it’s over and Sam is looking down at Ben with the utmost concern filling his beautiful eyes and the pain is subsiding and Ben doesn’t know whether he wants to kiss Sam or cry.
And then Sam says something that changes everything and nothing.
“Sorry, I take my estrogen orally so I haven’t practiced that.”
…
Ben never really knows how to react externally when someone comes out to him. He is so clearly gonna be chill about it, so he doesn’t usually make a big deal. As he looks into Sam’s eyes, just in this moment, the world is still. Ben is filled with a gentle, warm fondness for his friend that spreads through his entire body. Everything falls into place. All questions answered.
At the end of the day, Ben Doyle is, despite himself, heterosexual.
three hours later
“You’re the only person I’ve told,” Sam says matter-of-factly.
Ben’s heart skips a beat. Not that he’s particularly surprised, but it’s nice to hear. “When did you get on E?”
“Two months ago yesterday.”
“Hell yeah. It doesn’t matter either way, but are you gonna tell the audience?”
Sam shrugs. “Maybe. Eventually. I’m taking it slow,” she says, before hesitating. “I really need to tell Adam.”
“You know he won’t care.”
“I know, but you know what it’s like. It’s hard. I’m not very far in.”
Ben flashes her a grin. “Yeah, I know.”
“I wasn’t planning on telling you today, by the way. I’m not really sure what happened.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad you did,” Ben says, before pausing for a moment. “I was wondering about the haircut.”
A small smile tugs at Sam’s lips. “I’ve known basically since I hired you. Obviously I knew about trans people before we met, but you coming out to us so casually was the reason I let myself face the thoughts I’d been pushing down all my life. I just wish I’d decided to do something about it before now. 27 feels like way too late to start.”
“Bullshit,” Ben replies, drawing out the first vowel. “I fucking hate that narrative. There’s not an age where it’s too late to transition. I know a dude who came out in his 60s, and he’s doin’ great!”
Sam considers Ben for a moment. The eye contact claws at Ben’s stomach. His palms suddenly feel clammy. And then Sam’s zone is called to board and the pair are sharing a swift hug and Ben is blowing a mock-kiss and Sam is walking towards the tunnel and Ben is watching her go, wanting desperately to call out that he’s proud of her or that he’s maybe in love with her or anything to make her glance back at him, just for a moment.
And then she’s gone.
Ben was the reason her egg cracked. Or part of it, anyway. He feels a pleasant warmth rise from his gut to his collarbones. He smiles.
30 minutes later
You can tell Adam if you want
do you want me to?
…
Yeah kinda
I’m awkward and it’s embarrassing
its not but i can
im happy to
Thank you Ben
Plane’s taking off
love you sam x
♥️
the following day
“Why didn’t she tell me herself? Did she think I’d be a dick about it?”
“It’s just tough sometimes, man. Don’t take it personally,” Ben reassures as he relaxes back into the booth, stretching his back and scratching at his beard.
“Should I text? Is that too much?”
“A text is entirely appropriate. Just be chill. It’s not that big a change.”
“It kinda is.”
“Eh. Won’t be in a few days.”
Adam runs his hands through his hair three times fast. “You’re right. You’re right.” He grabs his phone from the table and types something, before glancing up at Ben, panic welling in his eyes. “Can I still call her ‘dude?’”
“I have no idea. Ask her.”
Adam sends a message (after much deliberation) and puts his phone face-down… and then picks it up and sends another message and then puts it back face-up. He lifts his hands to his face, palms facing out.
Ben raises his eyebrows, failing to fight a smile.
The screen of Adam’s phone lights up.
Thank you :)
Adam’s whole body deflates into his chair. His screen goes dark before immediately flashing on again.
And dude is fine. You call girls dude all the time.
Maeve’s dude
Everyone’s dude
Ben thinks that everything will be okay.
He knows it, in fact.
three weeks later
“The Reddit’s noticed Sam’s pronouns,” Adam mutters.
“Already?! Bro, Nebula fans are lame,” Ben jokes from face-down on the floor of his kitchen. He says it lightly. He doesn’t feel it lightly. He’s had his fair share of scrutiny from the internet over his identity since being outed. He knows how horrible that shit can be.
Sam had added her pronouns to her Instagram late last night, accompanied by a panicky text to Adam and Ben. Ben had only seen it in the morning after he was woken, as he often is, by Adam at his door.
“What’re they saying? Has Sam texted you?”
“A couple losers but mostly it’s support. And nope, she hasn’t.”
Ben rolls onto his back in order to make eye contact with Adam, keeping his arms pinned to his sides. “Adam, I have something really embarrassing to tell you. But I must swear you to secrecy. It cannot leave this apartment.”
The corners of Adam’s mouth twitch into a smile. He’s upside down from where Ben’s lying. “No promises, buddy. What the hell did you do?”
“I’m serious.”
“Fine,” Adam concedes, eyebrows raised.
“I think I have a thing for Sam.”
“Brother, you’re kidding.”
Ben shrugs helplessly.
“That’s your boss, dog.”
“I thought I was finally having the gay thoughts the prophecy foretold. Turns out I’ve got spidey senses or something.”
“For my sake, you can’t date our employer.”
“Relax,” Ben drawls. “I know she’s my boss. I’m being cool.”
“No, no ‘being cool.’ You can’t tell her.”
“But she’s my friend. And I can’t keep working like this.”
“I know she’s your friend, but- What if something went wrong? What if you dated, and then broke up? What would happen with work?”
As Ben and Adam bicker, Ben feels his pocket vibrate. He fishes out his phone to a text in the Jet Lag groupchat with the three of them.
sam: They all hate me
adam: ???
sam: I got rid of the pronouns
I’ll say I was hacked
It was a joke
I was drunk
A friend took my phone
Something
Ben calmly swipes to his contacts and scrolls to D for Denby.
“We’re not done with this conversation,” Adam hisses, before Sam picks up.
“Slow down, Sam,” Ben says into his phone.
Sam’s voice crackles down the end of the line. “I can’t do this.”
Ben clicks the button for FaceTime, but Sam doesn’t accept. Ben stares at his face filling the screen. He’s been on hormones long enough to have been visibly masculinised basically as much as he’s gonna be, and yet he still feels his stomach drop a little.
“You can do this. You’re, like, the strongest person I know,” Ben states plainly, as if to question the idea in the slightest would be ludicrous.
Adam begins to speak, loud enough for Sam to hear. Ben glances up at him, and sees he’s reading off his phone.
“I’m a closeted trans woman living deep in a red state, stuck in the house of transphobic Christian fundamentalists. I’ve been a fan of Wendover and Jet Lag for years. I know it’s parasocial but this genuinely means the world to me. Maybe there is still time. Maybe I will make it out. A girl from my silly little travel show did.”
Ben feels a lump rising in his throat. He knows he won’t cry, but he does clench his jaw which immediately begins to ache. He hears Sam let out a note of laughter. She turns her camera on. Her eyes are red.
“Well, New York’s been blue since the 80’s so I don’t think that was Adam coming out to us,” Ben says with a small smile, the urge to cry fading. “You helped that woman. Not that that’s your responsibility, but you did.”
“For every mean post, there’s 10 nice ones, and 20 that just wanna talk about game design,” Adam chimes in.
“Oh yeah, people are way more upset about how streamlined our early seeker game is now than you being a woman. Jet Lag: The Game is divisive at the moment.”
Sam chuckles softly. “I think I just pushed myself a little far.”
Ben hums. “There’s no pressure to do anything before you’re ready,” he says, frowning and rubbing his beard. “That said, the three Reddit freaks with nothing better to do shouldn’t get a say in your life. They’re bored, and you're awesome.”
Sam is quiet for a long time, before asking something that causes Ben’s mind to go blank and hazy, just for a moment. “Does the guilt ever go away?”
Adam glances up at this. Ben avoids his eyes. His ribs pulse, and his jaw aches. He subconsciously rubs the spot on his thigh where Sam had given him his shot the last time he’d seen her. He’s still learning, fighting tooth and nail every single day, to live with the guilt. After all this time, he’s only just beginning to get there. Sam has a long journey ahead of her.
“You learn to live with it.”