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Ben Mears wasn't exactly known for his subtlety. Just ask any of the scathing reviews for his third book, a vampire romance that was, according to one critic, "as subtle as the bubonic plague and twice as gory." So it was no big surprise to either Miles or Mark the first time he'd let his thoughts tumble out unexpectedly.
They were sitting at home on a random Sunday night maybe six or seven months after they'd moved to escape the ghost town that once was Salem's Lot. Miles casually flipped through the pages of the Sunday paper, the ones he hadn't gotten to during breakfast that morning. Mark was reading the same kind of cheesy horror comics that Ben remembered fondly from his early childhood with overly dramatic names like The Son of Satan or The Tomb of Dracula or, the one that made Ben laugh so hard he threw out his back, Giant-Sized Man-Thing. Ben was ostensibly pouring over the sports pages that Miles gave him, but in actuality, he was admiring his husband. Namely, he was admiring the way Miles left an extra button or two open on his shirt, and if Ben tilted his head just the right way, he could see the beginning swell of his pecs.
He didn't mean to say it out loud. Ben was just picturing Miles' chest - the expanse of his pale skin that had darkened slightly in the recent months from mowing the lawn topless, the dark hair that only existed in small, sparse patches that was soft to the touch, and, of course, Miles'…
"Tits."
Miles peered over the side of his newspaper, looking at Ben quizzically.
"What did you say, babe?"
Ben blinked, his mind snapping back to the present moment. He shook his head, making a perplexed face. He hadn't spoken anything out loud, after all. Miles must have been mistaken. He was about to go back to pretending to read his paper, but Mark's sharp gaze caught his eye.
Like with most things involving Ben and Miles' love life, Mark Petrie was deeply unimpressed. It'd taken some time and had created some endlessly humiliating situations, but the household had finally come to an equilibrium - Ben and Miles were diligent about closing (and usually locking) doors and ensuring Mark may have known what was going on but sure as hell couldn't hear it; Mark had become an expert at knocking before entering and was good at making himself scarce. But on the rare occasions one (or both) of them slipped in front of Mark, the kid had mastered the kind of withering glare that would impress the most frigid schoolmarm. And he was leveling that glare at Ben now.
"What?" Ben hissed in a whisper. Mark continued to appear unimpressed.
"You said 'tits,'" Mark said dryly.
In one quick move, Miles let the top half of his newspaper fall to better see both his then-ward and his future husband. When Ben caught his eye, Miles raised one eyebrow. Ben could feel a blush starting.
"No, I didn't!"
"He did," Mark refuted, unruffled. Turning to Miles, he continued, "He's been staring at your chest all night, scooting closer and closer to you."
Ben looked down, noticing that he was indeed farther from the end of the couch than he'd been when they all sat down thirty minutes ago. He couldn't exactly refute Mark's claims.
"Just when he looked like he was about to jump you, he just randomly said…"
"'Tits?'" Miles finished, now raising both brows at Ben, an amused half-smile playing on his face.
"Yep," Mark said, popping the 'p' at the end of the word. With a sigh, he started gathering up the comics he'd set aside to peruse that night and the can of soda he'd brought with him.
"Where are you going?" Ben asked, purposefully ignoring how his voice shot up half an octave.
Mark shot Ben a piercing look as he stood up. "Getting out while the gettin's good."
Ben sputtered wordlessly while Mark and Miles exchanged their good nights. Once they heard Mark's door click shut, Miles put down the newspaper on the side table, starting to unbutton his shirt even further.
"'Tits,' huh?" he asked with a grin. Ben opened his mouth to protest, but once Miles pulled open his shirt, the words froze in his mouth. All except one.
"Tits," Ben answered, licking his suddenly dry lips.
It happened again on laundry day.
Ben had just emerged from the cave that was his study as though coming up for air. It was past when he'd normally take a break for a quick lunch and, on a day like this one where Miles was off work, a quick kiss. Instead, he'd been so immersed in his new book idea that he'd worked through his alarms and found himself in the kitchen mid-afternoon, guiltily eating now-cold Chicken a la King from the lunch Miles had prepared for him hours before.
Or at least he was until Miles rounded the corner, carrying a basket of folded laundry…and wearing a pair of the tightest pants Ben had ever seen on him.
His jaw went slack immediately.
"Oh! Hi sweetheart! Didn't hear you come out." Miles practically beamed at him, coming up to give his boyfriend a quick kiss that Ben easily accepted even as he tried to keep his eyes on Miles' posterior. "Sorry I didn't come get you for lunch. You really seemed like you were on a roll. Writing going well?"
Ben didn't respond immediately, too focused on how the brown polyester hugged Miles' thighs like a second skin. When Miles stopped talking, Ben refocused on his boyfriend, blinking rapidly to try to adjust his thoughts along with his eyes.
"Uh, yeah," Ben said, clearing his throat and rolling his shoulders back to sit up a little straighter. "Really got going on one scene, and it bled into the next scene until, all of the sudden, it was 2:30."
Ben almost felt bad for how little he was listening to Miles. But how was he supposed to concentrate given such a lurid display? Even Tantalus, the the Greek king of Homeric lore, would pity Ben for the delicious peach hovering just out of his reach.
Even though Ben was enjoying the view from the front, he couldn't help but wish Miles would turn around. And preferably bend over.
The idea struck like lightning, electricity coursing through his veins as Ben Mears marveled at the simple genius of his plan. Miles was always so sweet and helpful, taking any excuse to show his love by doing little things for those he cared about. He regularly surprised Mark with whatever horror comic or movie he'd been yapping about just to drink in the look of glee on Mark's face. One time, Miles had baked some of Ms. Winters' apple crumble to bring to his knitting circle. They'd raved about it so much that Miles made sure to bring some as an occasional treat when the ladies needed a pick-me-up. So it wasn't exactly a surprise that, when Ben "accidentally" flicked his spoon off the dining table, Miles went into action as soon as it noisily clattered to the floor.
"Oh! No worries. I've got it!" Miles casually set the laundry on the dining table before bending at the waist to take the proverbial bait.
The sight was worth every second of Ben's trickery. Since they'd moved into their new forever home, Miles had filled out quite a bit. Turns out that only eating just enough to function and overworking his body to the point of exhaustion meant that Miles was noticeably underweight. The past year of filling, solid meals had changed that. Now, where they would have been loose before, Miles' pants strained deliciously, protesting the sudden movement as they perfectly framed the cutest ass in existence.
Ben loved Miles' little ass before, but he adored how much more full it had become. The brown fabric lovingly cupped each cheek so tightly, Ben could almost see the dimples on either side. He could even see the line in the polyester from how it had hugged Miles' hips and thighs so tightly that there was a visible demarcation where his ass ended and his legs began.
And as soon as he'd bent over, Miles stood back up, holding the retrieved spoon with a frankly adorable grin of satisfaction, like a dog looking for praise.
"Always so clumsy," Miles jokingly admonished, shaking the silverware at Ben before turning towards the sink to deposit the dirty spoon and probably grab a new one to replace it.
Ben meant to say something back that was clever or smooth. Something like "Only when I'm around you, my love" or at least make a joke about 'spooning' Miles. But his eyes were still fixed on the other man's backside. So instead, he abruptly blurted out -
"Ass."
Miles stopped short, turning and looking at Ben over his shoulder. Try as he might to only stare at his boyfriend's beautiful face, Ben's eyes kept slipping down, giving away that, no, Miles hadn't misheard him.
In a heartbeat, Miles' face went from wide-eyed surprise to as close to a smirk as Miles Miller was capable of.
"Ben," he scolded, dancing eyes giving away that he was nowhere near as disappointed as his tone suggested. "Did you drop that spoon on purpose so that I'd lean over to get it?"
Ben didn't say a word, but he didn't need to. The answer was written all over his guilty countenance.
Miles didn't waste any time. He took two steps and promptly bent over the kitchen island, facing away from Ben, before proceeding to spread his legs and arch his back, presenting his posterior for Ben's inspection.
When Ben didn't make a move to stand, stuck staring at the ass on display for him, Miles wiggled his hips tauntingly.
"C'mon, Ben. You wanted it so badly. Better come over here and get it."
Minutes later, Mark opened the front door to the house only to find one of his guardians clad only in a button-up shirt and boxers. He wasn't just standing there, oh no. Ben was waddling down the hall with his pants around his ankles, intently muttering "ass, ass, ass" under his breath as he darted into the bedroom for a bottle of lube. Mark promptly closed the door and, turning on his heel around in one swift movement, headed to Theresa and Gladys' house to spend the afternoon there instead.
It began happening more and more often. Almost like Ben couldn't hold more than one thought in his mind at any given time. If Miles pulled off his shirt to change his clothes, Ben would whisper "tits" under his breath. If Ben grabbed Miles' butt while kissing, he'd mutter "ass" against Miles' lips. One memorable time when Ben returned early from a business trip and walked in on Miles touching himself while moaning Ben's name, Miles only realized he wasn't alone when Ben said the word "cock" out loud.
At first, Miles secretly began to worry. Was this some lingering effect of the trauma they'd experienced back in the Lot? Did Ben happen to hit his head at some point and his brain got addled? When he brought his concern to his boyfriend, Ben explained that this was fairly normal for him. Or at least it was when Miranda was still alive. Apparently, when Ben Mears fell in love and felt safe to be himself, his brain to mouth filter…slipped. That sometimes his conscious thoughts would become unconscious words pulled unbidden from his brain through his lips. When Miles followed up, asking if Ben really just thought the words "tits, tits, tits" when staring at Miles' chest, the bright pink blush that rose on his cheeks was answer enough.
It even became a family joke. Mark bought Ben a subscription to a bird watching magazine for Christmas. When Ben looked confused, Mark pointed at one on the cover and, with a grin, just said the word "tits." Theresa and Gladys, the Miller-Mears family's favorite neighbors, gifted Ben a pair of binoculars with his name on them for his birthday. Gladys seemed to genuinely believe that Ben was a fan of birdwatching, but the smirk on Theresa's face and the glint in her eye showed that the other elder lady knew better. By the time Miles hung up paintings of birds in the living room, Ben knew the joke was there to stay and happily played into it.
Ben Mears was huffy, and he wasn't afraid to admit it.
It hadn't exactly been the best day - it started with an empty bed when he woke up, continued with having to throw out three and a half chapters' worth of work on his current novel, and was made only worse by the small kitchen fire he started at lunch that he put out fairly quickly but spent a full 15 minutes trying to figure out how to disable the newfangled smoke detector that was blaring out a sound so high pitched and loud that Ben was worried the neighbors would come running.
Now he was dressed like an idiot and driving his ward who was also dressed like an idiot to a Halloween party he was only going to because the idea of spending another unnecessary hour away from Miles felt like even more torture than the idea of being surrounded by people he only half-knew and dealing with the dreaded Small Talk.
And to make things worse, Ben only had on half of his costume. What the other half was, he had no clue. Miles said it was a 'surprise,' and Ben had agreed to it. In hindsight, it was frankly unfair - Ben would do anything Miles asked of him…and he knew it. Didn't stop Ben from feeling like even more of a jackass than normal. And it didn't stop his tights from itching.
"What are you again?" Ben asked for probably the third time that evening. He couldn't see Mark's face under the ridiculous spray-painted white mask he was wearing, but Ben could feel the eye roll.
"Michael Myers," Mark answered with the exact level of annoyance that Ben expected. "The killer from Halloween." When Ben said nothing, Mark sighed with obvious exasperation. "That movie Miles and me went to see last week?"
"That explains the knife," Ben muttered, glancing down at the fake butcher knife in Mark's hands. Louder, he continued, "But that doesn't explain the Shatner mask. You said he wasn't in that movie."
"Michael Myers wears a William Shatner mask," Mark explained with the same cadence as someone would use on a small child who didn't understand big concepts.
Ben scrunched his face, looking bewildered. "The villain of the movie wore a William Shatner mask? Is he supposed to intimidate you with his bad acting?"
Mark let out an even louder sigh, one that could almost be classified as a proper harrumph, crossing his arms across his chest.
"At least I don't look like an extra from The Pirates of Penzance like some people in this car," Mark muttered under his breath.
Ben glared at Mark as best he could while still keeping an eye on the road.
As much as he hated to admit it, the kid had a point. The frilly white poet shirt and the weird brown trousers that Miles referred to as 'pantaloons' which only came down to his calves definitely gave off a rather piratical impression. Although his first thought hadn't been that he looked like Long John Silver but another important literary figure.
"What? Am I supposed to be William Shakespeare?" Ben asked almost jokingly as he held out the clothes Miles had handed to him.
When Miles bit his lip like he was fighting down a smile, Ben knew there was a joke to be had that he just wasn't privy to yet.
"Miles said I'm definitely not a pirate," Ben shot back at Mark.
"Yeah, you're a dork," Mark retorted.
Ben let out a snort of laughter that was almost embarrassingly loud. He put his hand over his mouth to stop any more noises from coming out, but it was too late. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben could see Mark pull the mask up and grin at him, not even an ounce of genuine irritation on his face despite his protestations.
Even though the day had been atrocious up to this point and he was dressed like an out-of-work 17th century poet, Ben couldn't stop the genuine laughter that bubbled up and spilled out of him.
The second Ben walked through the doors to the school's lunchroom, he didn't notice the decorations he knew Miles had spent most of the day hanging. He didn't notice the people milling around and chatting, everyone in various levels of costumes from Patty the fourth grade teacher who had gone all out in her homemade Wonder Woman costume that was attracting way more attention than the married woman had hoped for to Gary the P.E. teacher who was dressed as…a P.E. teacher. He barely noticed the kids in plastic masks and superhero capes zooming around the room excitedly, nearly knocking into every adult including Ben. He was too busy looking for any sign of Miles.
The rub was that he had no clue what Miles was wearing. Normally, Ben could catch sight of a mustard yellow cardigan or a crisp white button up shirt or occasionally those sinfully delightful brown polyester pants Miles now liked to wear for the sole purpose of riling Ben up. But tonight? He could be wearing anything.
So Ben did the next best thing - he kept an eye out for Amelia, the school's librarian and also Miles' closest friend besides himself, Mark, and, of course, Theresa and Gladys. Fortunately, she had waist-length fire red hair that she wore down - easy enough to spot in a crowd.
Unfortunately for him, she wasn't with Miles. She was right in front of Ben. And she was grinning with a puckish smile that promised nothing but the sort of whimsical mischief Ben suspected Miles was up to. There was something odd in her hands, something out of place next to the flowing white dress which was remarkably similar to the one the space princess in Star Wars wore. Whatever it was had a bumpy, uneven texture that meant that it was made by hand. When she held it out, he realized it had eye holes.
A mask.
Looking closer only brought up more questions. Holding it in one hand, Ben let a finger run over the side, feeling the coarse texture that no amount of brown or white paint could quite conceal - papier mache. Judging by its ears and what could only be described as a snout, Ben's first instinct is that it was an attempt at a Venetian-style animal mask. Those were usually animals like rabbits, cats, or various birds. One time at a Mardi Gras party in New Orleans in undergrad, Ben found himself entranced by a shirtless gentleman in a fox mask. This looked closer to a dog with a long, brown muzzle, but the ears were all wrong. They were shorter and pointy like -
"A horse?" Ben asked, not able to keep his befuddlement from his face or his voice. What costume would require him to dress like a pirate with a horse head? Was this some reference he didn't understand? That didn't make any sense.
"Not quite," Amelia answered in a sing-song tone, unable to control her Cheshire grin. She pointed to the bottom of the mask, to the end of the not-horse's snout.
Buck teeth.
Curious. Horses did have large teeth, but caricatures of them didn't quite look like that.
Then it hit him. Ben Mears wasn't a horse.
He was an ass.
Ben ignored the crowd as he made his way through it. More than once, he nearly bumped into someone and had to mutter a quick apology before readjusting and continuing his search, cursing under his breath.
Sure, Amelia had told him where Miles was - by the punch bowl. But she conveniently didn't explain where that was, and Ben, ever single-minded in his idiocy, was too eager to find Miles to even think to ask follow up questions. He took off, and the medium-sized cafeteria felt like a forest from a fairy tale, the kind one could get lost in for years.
It didn't help that Ben was distracted. He couldn't help it. All the little clues, the pieces of the puzzle, were coming together as he searched. The frilly shirt, the donkey mask, and, most importantly, the way Miles smiled when Ben asked if he was Shakespeare. Before, Ben had no idea what clothing to look for to glimpse Miles. But if he was right, Ben was looking for something wispy. Something ethereal. Something…befitting a queen.
When Ben finally found Miles, it wasn't some big, cinematic moment. The room didn't quiet to a hush. The crowd didn't part effortlessly to reveal his beloved. Hell, Miles wasn't just standing there with silent grace like an otherworldly creature holding court. The music was still the same volume - loud enough to dance but quiet enough to talk. He actually ended up bumping into someone who narrowly avoided spilling some punch on both herself and Ben. Multiple apologies rushed through his lips, but he never even looked at the person he ran into. His eyes were too focused on a wisp of tan fabric by a stark white table. And when he laid eyes on his beloved, Miles was hunched over to hear the chattering woman next to him. Even from this distance, Ben could tell Miles wasn't listening. His eyes darted around the room, scanning every person, every little bit of movement, searching for Ben just as eagerly as Ben had sought him. And yet, the sight was enough to take his breath away.
The first thing he noticed was, of course, the dress. Miles had only recently felt comfortable expressing his interesting in occasionally wearing more traditionally feminine clothing, something Ben himself enjoyed to do. Although where Ben liked more intimate items like panties, bras, and general lingerie, Miles liked outerwear like dresses and skirts. It was so new and such a fragile thing that Miles rarely wore them outside of the privacy of their bedroom, which made seeing his boyfriend in the middle of his work cafeteria sporting the most gorgeous dress Ben had ever seen even more surprising.
The dress itself was an absolute work of art. Ben had no idea where Miles could've gotten such a thing from. It was a pale brown only a few shades darker than Miles' own skin tone and made of some sort of ephemeral material. Even though Ben was no seamstress, he knew enough to clock the fabric as tulle at least at first. All the tulle he'd ever seen was stiff and, judging by how the young girls in his elementary recital scratched at where it touched their legs, extremely itchy.
This material couldn't be more different. It was diaphanous and looked impossibly soft to the touch, almost as if it was made from gossamer collected by pixies and dried of the lingering morning dew before being sewn into Miles' dress. It hung perfectly, draped across Miles' chest, exposing the peaks of his collarbone and the delicate hollow of his throat before cascading down his body like a waterfall of fabric. Dozens of little flowers had been sewn onto it, only adding to his sylphid appearance. There was a slit up the side, exposing some of the skin of Miles' leg. It was only when he felt his cock twitch in his ridiculous breeches did Ben realize he was already half-hard. And that was before Ben's eyes reached Miles' face.
He looked utterly bewitching. His hair was slightly longer than normal, adding to the otherworldly aura Miles radiated. Ben should have known that something was up when Miles started skipping his monthly haircuts, but he was too tickled with his lover's new hair length to bring up any questions. It further softened Miles' features, giving his appearance a hint of androgyny. Upon the crown of his head rested a garland of flowers, ones Ben easily recognized from their fairy garden - sunny yellow daisies, azure forget me nots, sprigs of lavender, day lilies the yellow-orange of a vibrant sunrise, interspersed with milky-white sprigs of baby's breath.
Miles' cheeks were rouged with a dainty flush that was offset by little splashes of color and glitter around his eyes and temples, highlighting the sharp peaks of his cheekbones and the soft curves of his face. What entranced Ben the most was the gleam of the light hitting the lustrous sheen of Miles' glossy pink lips.
And when Ben stepped forward, into Miles' eye line, the way his whole face lit up with delight elevated his entire appearance to whole new levels of divinity. There was no doubt in Ben's mind who he lived with and slept with and loved with his whole heart. Miles was no ordinary fairy. He was royalty.
"Queen Titania," Ben breathed, his voice a hushed sort of awe, like he was seeing something sacred and couldn't quite bring himself to speak loudly enough to disrupt the sanctity of Miles' presence.
Miles beamed, smiling so hard he could barely keep his eyes open. He stood up straight and stepped towards Ben, gliding away from the woman who was still chattering at him. The world narrowed to the two of them - Miles and Ben in their own little world.
"What angel wakes me from my flow'ry bed?" Miles intoned with a lilt, his voice the most beautiful thing Ben had heard all day. Ben's heart thumped heavily in his chest at his words. Even if much from his college days outside of chasing skirts escaped him, there was no forgetting the classics. Miles was quoting A Midsummer Night's Dream, the part where the fairy queen Titania awoke to find a human with an ass' head in her bed and fell madly in love with him. Sure, it was a result of trickster fairy magic, but Ben chose to ignore that part.
"Miles, you look…" His hands found Miles' arms, barely avoiding the temptation to put them on Miles' waist and pull his boyfriend into his embrace. The fabric was soft against his skin, but Ben wasn't focusing on that. He was too transfixed. "You look like a dream."
Neither of them noticed Amelia slipping in and putting a friendly arm around Nancy, the woman who had been chatting with Miles, and not-so-subtly leading her away.
"I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again. Mine ear is much enamored of thy note," Miles murmured, practically fluttering his lashes.
Ben grinned. "That is the first time anyone's ever told me to keep talking. Or to sing. You are definitely going to regret that."
Miles gently smacked his arm, muttering, "Stop it, you ham. I'm gonna forget my lines."
"By all means, my lady, please continue," he practically purred, giving as much of a bow as possible without letting go of Miles. Ben just couldn't stop smiling. His cheeks were aching from it, but he didn't give a damn.
Clearing his throat delicately, Miles continued, "So is mine eye enthrallèd to thy shape, and thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me on the first view to say…" He paused, emphasizing the next part. "…to swear, I love thee."
Ben shook his head gently, still unable to look away from those big, beautiful eyes of the man he fell in love with, as dark blue and deep as the ocean during a storm. He didn't remember all the words, but he knew some of it.
"Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that." He hesitated, looking to his lover for confirmation. At Miles' encouraging nod, he continued, "Yet, love and reason keep little company together nowadays."
"Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful," Miles murmured. The way he licked his lips, Ben knew his beloved longed to kiss him just as much as he did. Instead, he watched Miles' tongue as it slipped over his dewy lips invitingly.
"Not so neither; but if I had wit enough to leave this wood, I have enough to serve mine own." He let his thumbs rub circles on Miles' arms, watching with ill-concealed pleasure as Miles shivered at the touch, the faint peaks of his nipples hardening visible through the sheer fabric.
As if seeing the look in Ben's eye, Miles' tone turned a little less teasing and little more firm as he said the next lines. "Out of this wood do not desire to go. Thou shalt remain here whether thou wilt or no."
"You show up looking like this and expect me to not want to drag you home and ravish you?" Ben practically growled through lightly gritted teeth. No matter how unaffected Miles tried to appear, the flush that appeared on his chest and crept its way up his neck was impossible to deny, as was the heated look in his eyes.
"That's not the next line," Miles admonished, his voice a little breathier than before. "It was still my line, actually."
"You gonna list all the things the little fairies need to feed me and clothe me with?" Ben teased.
"No," Miles said with a little laugh. "I just wanted to get to the part where I say I love you again."
"By all means," Ben said. Impossibly, he forced himself to take a step back, willing his growing erection to wither or at least stop throbbing with the rapid beat of his heart.
"I am a spirit of no common rate…"
"You can say that again," Ben muttered. Miles shot him a fondly annoyed look and started again.
"I am a spirit of no common rate. The summer still doth tend upon my state…And I do love thee. Therefore go with me."
"I am ready and willing to leave right now."
Unfortunately, Miles wasn't quite ready to go, much to Ben's intense consternation.
At first, Ben dealt with it fairly well. He mingled. As much as Ben was capable of such a thing. But every time he was able to focus on anything but the burning desire coursing through him, Ben was drawn back in like a moth to a flame. All it took was a fleeting moment - a glimpse of tan tulle, a passing whiff of Miles' earthy cologne, the sound of his laughter in the air - and Ben's attention was elsewhere, searching for his elusive fairy queen to fulfill his longing to kneel at her feet.
It was like the universe knew of Ben's immense suffering and, instead of granting him mercy, proceeded to purposefully intensify his anguish.
There was a slow number where Miles was awkwardly forced to dance with Nancy. The look of sheer bliss on her face sent a knife of pure jealousy through Ben's ribs. Sure, Miles wasn't interested in her. He wasn't interested in any women. But Ben should be able to slow dance with his boyfriend, not watch Miles feign enjoyment in the arms of another.
Then Mark caught up with him by the food table, drinking the lamentably non-alcoholic fruit punch. Between bouts of teasing - Ben being stuck at the party and Mark having no one recognize his costume - Mark let slip that Miles had arranged for him to stay over at a friend's house so Ben and Miles could be alone. Which only lead to thoughts of why Miles would arrange that, ones so graphically detailed that Ben had to excuse himself to the bathroom to adjust what was turning into a raging erection.
The last straw was Miles spilling his punch. Fortunately, it wasn't on his dress. The universe wasn't quite that cruel. Unfortunately, it trickled down his hand. And instead of going for a napkin, Miles panicked and licked it. He'd long ago been banished away from Miles, unable to keep his hands to himself, but Ben was close enough to see it in haunting detail.
The moment slowed down like something in a movie, one that was only playing in Ben's head. He skipped past Miles' eyebrows shooting up and the 'o' his mouth formed in shock and right to the good part.
The punch slid down the back of his hand in one of those crooked lines that water does, where the easiest route to the ground isn't necessarily a straight line. He could practically see the droplet of red liquid at the end, hesitating as if thinking about dripping further down. Miles' tongue, dyed dark pink from his drink, darted out, chasing the end of the stream. It chased the end, flicking the bead off his skin.
The motion was familiar. Another shot in Ben's mental movie, a comparison one, of Miles late at night. He was between Ben's legs, stroking his cock leisurely like he had all the time in the world. A pearl of precum welled at the tip. Eager to catch it, Miles surged forward, lapping it up with care and precision, like it was the finest ambrosia.
Outside of Ben's mind, he watched transfixed as Miles traced the path the droplet left in reverse, the red liquid collecting on his tongue as he went. It didn't take any effort to connect that with the way Miles loved to trace the veins in Ben's cock as he went down on him.
And the worst part of it? Miles didn't even notice. He had no clue. Ben kept expecting to see Miles' eyes flicker over or catch even a faint smirk, anything to show that Miles knew what he was doing. To show how hard Ben was in these ridiculous pantaloons. To show just how ready Ben was to bend him over the nearest table, the rest of the world be damned.
Just when Ben Mears thought he couldn't take a single second more of this exquisite torture, Miles excused himself. He carefully edged out of the cafeteria, no doubt heading for the bathrooms.
Now was Ben's chance.
Miles didn't make it far out of the cafeteria before Ben caught up to him. All it took was three flicks of the wrist - snagging Miles' hand and pulling, opening the music room door, and slamming it - and Ben was on Miles.
He didn't hold back, pushing Miles up against the door and keeping him there with his body as Ben ravaged his boyfriend's mouth. The kiss was far from gentle - it was messy and needy and so, so very hungry. The taste of bubblegum lipgloss was one that Ben could imagine himself getting well acquainted with. He pulled the very air out of Miles' lungs with greedy swipes of his tongue, drinking down the little noises Miles involuntarily let out, chasing the taste of that spilled punch.
By the time Ben pulled back, Miles looked every bit the ravished queen Ben was eager to make him - gloss smeared across his lips and chin, hair sticking up wildly, and flower crown askew on his head. He didn't even get a chance to speak before Ben's hands were hoisting his dress up higher to more easily slip under it, impatiently exploring the thighs underneath before making their way around to cup and squeeze Miles' ass. The movement pulled Miles' hips against Ben's, doing little to disguise both of their arousal.
Miles gasped, his head falling back against the door with a light thunk, exposing the creamy, unblemished skin of his neck. Such an offering was too tempting to resist. Ben kissed up the column of his throat as his hand tucked under Miles' thigh, urging him to put it around his waist. When he did as wordlessly instructed, Ben rewarded him with a slow roll of his hips, grinding against Miles. Ben didn't even need to look down to tell he wasn't wearing regular briefs under the dress; Miles was wearing panties. The hand that still rested on Miles' ass ran along the delicate lace, lightly snapping the elastic and practically growling in pleasure at the moan Miles let out.
It didn't take long to work up a rhythm, one faster than Ben usually used. He felt like a feral beast as he thrust his hips. Like a caged animal that had finally been unleashed. His queen Titania kept him pinned up and hungry. Now he had broken out, and it was time to feast.
"Ben!" Miles said. At first, Ben thought it was a moan until he heard it again, quieter and sharper. Like Miles was hissing it out between clenched teeth. That, combined with the feeling of hands pushing his chest, caused Ben to pause and pull back.
He blinked rapidly, trying to refocus his eyes. Miles looked blurred in the dim light, slightly fuzzy around the edges like a TV with its antenna slightly out of tune. The glint of determination in his eyes, however? That was clear as day.
"We can't," Miles whispered, trying to dislodge his leg from around Ben's waist. Unfortunately for him, Ben hadn't quite caught up to the change in plans and gripped his thigh tighter unconsciously. "Ben, put me down."
A few more blinks, and Miles' words made their way through his lust-addled brain enough for him to loosen his hold, allowing Miles to extricate his leg from his boyfriend's grasp. When he pressed against his lover's chest once more, Ben took the gesture the wrong way and started to kneel. Miles' quick hands grabbed at Ben's biceps, yanking him back up with more strength than one would expect from a fairy, let alone the queen of them.
"No. We can't," Miles said, harshly enough that the meaning finally hit Ben like a club to the head. He immediately took a step back, hands reaching out only to steady his lover, not to caress him.
Before Ben could voice his apology, Miles leaned forward, capturing Ben's lips in a much more gentle and regrettably brief kiss.
"'Sokay," Miles whispered, smiling up at him. "I'm flattered you were so turned on that you couldn't even hear me properly."
"I could hear you," Ben argued, his voice also lowered to a hush. "I just thought you wanted me to worship you properly." The blush that climbed Miles' already pink chest was visible even in the murky light that shone through the edges of the closed blinds.
"I do," Miles insisted, "But not here."
Ben looked around, taking in what he could see of the classroom. There was a xylophone in the back that was a no go. The rug on the floor looked clean enough, but they had a better (and softer) one at home. However, the baby grand piano up front was a different story. If he closed the lid, it would be right about at waist height, perfect for…
Miles grabbed the sides of Ben's head and physically turned it to face him instead of gazing at the classroom. "Not on the piano either," Miles scolded, eyes retracing the places Ben had looked. "Or the floor. Or the…xylophone? How would that even work? That would be the loudest, most uncomfortable pla…"
"Then where?" Ben demanded, voice back at regular volume due to his exasperation. When Miles shushed him, Ben repeated himself in a whisper. "Then where? The bathrooms? My car? I know you don't want to do it in your classroom."
"Home," Miles insisted.
Ben didn't hesitate. He tugged Miles away from the door and went to turn the handle. He barely twisted it before Miles put his hand on the Ben's wrist, stopping him.
"No," Miles hissed again. "Not now. We haven't even been at the party for an hour."
"I haven't been at the party for an hour," Ben corrected, voice quiet but filled with a strained desperation. "You've been here all day."
Before he even finished his sentence, Miles was shaking his head. "The party's only been going for a little over an hour. I was working then decorating for the party."
"What's the difference?" Ben hissed. He could hear the pout in his own voice, but the straining bulge in his pants seemed more important than Ben saving face right now.
To emphasize his point, he hastily grabbed Miles' hand, letting him viscerally understand just how hard it was for Ben to wait. His cock practically throbbed at Miles' sharp inhale of surprise.
"Fuck," Miles swore, his voice shaky. "Baby…"
"I've been watching you all night," Ben purred into his ear, savoring the way Miles shivered at the timbre of his voice. "At first, I thought you were teasing me, but no. It was just you being you. And, God, you have no idea what you do to me."
"Ben…" Miles whispered. His hand twitched, like he was fighting the urge to cup Ben's crotch.
"I know, I know," Ben said, not quite able to keep the dejection fully out of his voice. He let go of Miles' wrist, and Miles hesitantly let his hand fall away. "How much longer do we have to stay?"
It took a few seconds of thought, but Miles finally came back with, "Thirty minutes. That's enough time to have mingled enough for everyone to remember I came here and not so long that you'll completely combust."
A smile tugged at Ben's lips against his will. "Maybe you need to feel again, because I'm pretty sure I'm ready to explode."
The snort Miles let out was far from ladylike, but Ben didn't comment.
"Oh, trust me," Miles said with a smile that looked suspiciously like a smirk. "I know what it feels like when you're to that point. You ain't there yet."
Ben let out a breathy laugh but didn't press the matter. He only mumbled "fair enough" and started helping Miles compose himself.
The silence between them was comfortable. It always had been with Miles, even when they barely knew each other. Back when they were a half-washed-up writer trying to forget the wife he'd buried and a deeply traumatized war vet who was also a recovering addict. Now they were just two men getting ready to make their not-so-grand reappearance at a dinky small town Halloween party. Only a few years ago, getting to this specific comfortable silence had felt impossible. Now it was almost ordinary.
They worked in tandem in a way that only years of experience could coordinate. Miles' hands smoothed down his dress as Ben straightened out the back, which had bunched up in an unseemly manner. Miles combed his hands through his hair, returning some semblance of order, then Ben repositioned the flower crown atop the bed of curls on Miles' head. Ben took his time dabbing at the makeup smeared on Miles' chin with his handkerchief, then he had the decency to at least act like he wasn't staring when Miles reapplied his lipgloss.
Neither of them spoke until Miles started smoothing out Ben's shirt, returning the favor.
"Seventy-four."
Miles blinked up at Ben in confusion, those beautiful eyes still blown wide from the arousal that had only been partly dampened by Miles' intervention.
"Pardon?"
"Seventy-four," Ben repeated. This time, he reached out and took one of the delicate tulle flowers on Miles' dress between his fingers, gently rubbing the fabric between his forefinger and thumb. "There are seventy-four flowers. I counted them." He let his hand trail as Miles stood in stunned silence, counting the beads that made up the stems that he could picture Miles sewing himself. It really was a work of art, something only Miles could've made.
"You…counted the flowers on my dress?"
At the hushed awe in his tone, Ben looked up, back into his boyfriend's eyes. They were still beautiful even when they were a little watery.
"Yeah," Ben said with a short nod of his head. "Twice, actually. I figured if I was going to be staring at you all night, I might as well admire all the work you put in. Did you sew these by hand?"
Miles nodded, not saying anything further.
"It's stunning. And so are you," Ben murmured, lifting his hand from the fabric and bringing it to cup Miles' face. Instead of pulling him for a kiss on the mouth, Ben stood on his toes to press his lips to Miles' forehead, finishing it off by rubbing their noses together. Miles let out a watery giggle, and Ben politely ignored the sniffle he made.
There were so many words there between the cracks of their sentences. How they never thought they would make it this far. How they never imagined life could be this good. How they never believed they'd find a place that accepted them, a place that felt like the home Ben and Miles had been missing for most of their lives. And, most of all, how lucky they both were to have found each other and how grateful they felt to stand there in an empty classroom after pawing at each other like two teenagers. It felt so blessedly normal in a way neither had ever truly expected their lives to be after all the tragedies they'd lived through.
After standing there for a few moments as Miles dabbed his eyes on the clean side of Ben's handkerchief, he finally spoke again.
"Seventy-five."
"Hmm?" Ben asked, once again not properly registering Miles' words.
"There are seventy-seven flowers," Miles corrected. He lifted his right arm and turned to show Ben the one he'd missed.
"Son of a bitch," Ben muttered under his breath, which only made Miles let out a breathy little laugh that immediately made Ben smile wider. "Why would you put one under your armpit. Isn't that itchy?"
"A little," Miles admitted, looking up at Ben from under his lashes in just the way he knew drove him wild. "I sewed it on before I thought about that. That's why there isn't one under the left arm."
"Any particular reason behind the number? Or did you forget what year it was?" Ben teased, allowing his hands to rest back on Miles' waist. It wasn't a lustful touch or even a possessive one. Ben just couldn't keep his hands away. He needed to touch Miles somehow.
"Yeah," Miles said with a little mischievous smile, the one that always made Ben's heart flutter. He looked even more like a fae creature than he did the day they met. Or that day in the woods when they leaned on each other. Or the first day they felt safe after leaving Salem's Lot behind. Or even just a few minutes ago when the cafeteria lighting caught every sparkle, every glimmer of Miles' face and outfit.
"It's the year we met," Miles whispered, voice heavy with unspoken emotion. "The most important year in my life."
Taking in a shuddery breath, Ben closed his eyes tightly, willing the tears that had threatened to well up in his eyes to go away. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, ignoring how shaky it sounded. Miles wordlessly tilted Ben's head down to where their foreheads touched, giving him that connection he knew his boyfriend needed while letting him regain his composure.
Time went by. Neither were sure how much. Could've been a few seconds. Could've been a few minutes. But when Ben felt more self-possessed, he opened his eyes. He expected Miles to have his closed as well, but it was like he sensed the movement, his eyes fluttering open as well.
"I love you, Benjamin Mears," Miles whispered, words mostly steady.
"And I love you, Miles Miller," Ben echoed, putting his whole heart into it, willing his words to hold even a fraction of the weight of his feelings.
Despite the fresh coat of lipgloss, Miles kissed him then. It was tender and sweet and far, far too short for either of their liking.
"Five minutes," Miles whispered. "Gotta say goodbye to everyone before I go."
"Okay," Ben agreed, taking a step back, wiping his mouth off on the sleeve of his poncy shirt, uncaring if it stained. He needed to look decent enough to make it back through the party. "I'll wait for you in the car."
Miles shook his head, and Ben frowned immediately. When Miles let out a little watery giggle, Ben only frowned more.
"No, I'm not changing my mind about leaving," Miles reassured, clearing his throat to try to quell his laughter. "I just…we should drive our own cars back."
Ben crossed his arms, obviously displeased. "I can drive you to get your car tomorrow," he insisted.
"I know you can," said Miles with strained patience. "But I don't think it's a good idea."
"What?" Ben protested. "To leave your car here overnight? This is Ashland. It's not exactly New York City. Your car will be fine."
"Yes," Miles argued back. "But I don't think we will be."
At Ben's blank expression, Miles continued. "Ben, you're still…hard. I don't think you're going to exactly be focused on driving."
"I'm probably going to be hard whether you're there or not, sweetheart," Ben admitted somewhat smugly.
Miles lightly smacked his arm. "Yeah, yeah. You don't need to brag about your virility to me, Ben."
Even though he'd agreed to not try anything with Miles, Ben couldn't help himself. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Miles' waist.
"Sounds like you're an expert on the subject matter. That's good, because I have some very…pressing issues." With that, he lightly ground his hips against Miles' thigh.
"Ben!" Miles protested, his voice practically squeaking. He lightly shoved at Ben's chest, but there was no real effort in it. And judging by the way color was rising in his cheeks again, someone was enjoying being manhandled.
"Shh," Ben hushed, grinning as he started to plant little kisses to Miles' jaw. "Wouldn't want anyone to find us, would you?"
"Stop it!" Miles hissed, but Ben didn't miss the way he was attempting to fight down a smile.
"Only if you say please," Ben teased, singing the final word in that off-key way that he knew Miles loathed.
"God, you're such an ass," Miles muttered, gripping the sides of Ben's collar as his lover nipped at his ear.
Ben couldn't help himself. Honestly, he didn't even want to help himself. He just grinned even harder against Miles' skin and said, "Methought you were enamored with an ass."
Miles rolled his eyes so hard that Ben was surprised he didn't pull a muscle.
"That's my line," Miles complained. He tugged on Ben's shirt, silently demanding his attention. Ben did as he wanted, leaning back to look his beloved in the eye.
"The lady doth protest too much." Miles didn't protest when Ben leaned in, giving him another soft, lingering kiss. It wasn't the kind of kiss that started anything, or even the kind that continued what had already been lingering between them. It was just connection. Just them.
"Wrong play, Ben," Miles said, but his smile and that look of pure adoration that Ben could never get enough of gave away his true feelings.
"Close enough," Ben murmured before closing the distance between them again.