Nikolas felt Ben’s love for him then as a tangible presence as real as the scent of the flowers or the sounds from the corridor outside. Nikolas dropped his act and allowed the warmth of that love to unman him. He held out his hand. He needed Ben in his arms and didn’t see why he should pretend otherwise.
Perhaps it was the hand that did it.
Bandaged and swollen as it was, it did sort of get to the heart of the matter—the whys and the wherefores of the hideous outfit—but Nikolas didn’t think his gesture warranted a sharp step back or the shutter that visibly descended over Ben’s previously animated features. He could have sworn the temperature dropped a few degrees, too, but that might have been the smock doing its arse-exposing thing.
His hand still outstretched, Nikolas thought that Ben suddenly resembled the men he had once worked with—those who didn’t obscure their feelings to enable them to do the things they did, but creatures who had lost all human connection and who were entirely hollow. As if with a flick of a switch, Ben had become entirely…deflated. Nikolas had an immediate flashback to the last time Ben had come to him in a hospital, and what terrible event had followed from that. His heart rate ratcheting up, he croaked, “What have you done?”
An uncharacteristic guilty flush rose on Ben’s smooth cheeks then faded as swiftly as it had appeared. “Nothing, and hello maybe?”
Nikolas heard something in the reply as unlike his Ben as the blush had been, but he was tired, and although he suspected only a few seconds had passed since Ben’s arrival, it seemed a lot longer, so he patted the bed next to him and once again held out a hand.
Ben came and sat on the edge of the bed. He hesitated and then took the offered fingers, squeezing them for a moment before letting them go.
“Hello, Benjamin.”
Ben’s blush returned, but Nikolas was now in the mood to find anything Ben did extremely attractive, so he overlooked the sense he was missing something and smirked when Ben replied in their secret code, “Hello, Nikolas.”
They stared ruefully at one another for a moment until Ben ran his hands over his jaw, scrubbing at it as if he’d at that moment woken from a deep sleep.
“What happened?”
“You don’t have rabies.”
Nikolas grunted. “Why am I in hospital then?”
“Sepsis shock. From the…” He indicated to the bandages and slumped a little. “Don’t do that.”
Nikolas was trying to pump the swelling away from his fingers and suddenly agreed with Ben that this wasn’t such a good idea. He relaxed back against the pillows. “So, what happened? I don’t remember.”
“What’s the last thing you do remember?”
Nikolas pouted, thinking. “Being sick on the stairs. And you naked in minus thirty. That was…revelatory.” Ben winced a little, and Nikolas put it down to his irreverent sense of humour. He put his hand on Ben’s thigh idly. “I need to get out of here, get home.”
Ben nodded and stood, going to the window. “Couple more days the doctors say. Then if you’re careful and rest you can recuperate at home.”
The space Ben left on the bed seemed inappropriately large and cold for one very tight, hot, well-formed backside, and Nikolas pursed his lips for a moment, considering its message. Despite being exhausted to the point of bewilderment, he asked, “What’s wrong?” and then added, because he felt pretty sure he knew exactly what was the matter, “I’m fine. Nothing a little home cooking won’t fix. Even I am relishing the idea of eating something.”
Ben turned and smiled wanly. “Babushka’s bringing you something this afternoon. When she first came, she was convinced you’d be lying on a filth-encrusted mattress in a corridor or something. I tried to explain, but the language…”
“Ben…?”
“Hmm?”
“Just tell me. What’s wrong?”
Ben perched on the armchair next to the bed, fidgeting with a hangnail. “Nothing. I’m just tired. It was…you were wrong, by the way. It wasn’t George Mayberry who killed Matt. Guess who?”
Nikolas tried to force his mind back to events that seemed slightly remote now. “The bear?”
“The mother. Terry. That’s why old George was so convinced it was you.”
“I look like—?”
“No, moron, because she told him she’d seen you. He naturally believed her. So did the daughter, I think. And it wasn’t premeditated either. They came to join them on the holiday on the spur of the moment, and she saw what Matt had done—and that he’d brought Mattie away to cover it up. I don’t blame her for killing him, except for trying to implicate you.”
Nikolas could feel himself drifting away a little at the end of this. He was tempted to see if Ben would climb onto the bed with him for a while, needing to feel Ben’s vitality, even if it seemed subdued, but by the time he’d translated this in his very slow brain, it was too late.
§§§
Naturally very fit, treated with the best medical knowledge available, Nikolas felt well enough to go home by the time Babushka made her visit that afternoon. She was all for smuggling him out and was heading off to find a wheelchair before being restrained by the more mature family members who’d accompanied her. Emilia had Nikolas’s hand grasped very firmly in her own, and Miles had dismantled the buzzer to see how it worked, so Nikolas allowed himself to be trapped.
He wasn’t too tired to tell them the story of his escape from death, however. Not sepsis, of course, which was boring, but from the bear, which had tracked them mercilessly across the polar ice. He was surprised at the lack of scepticism from his audience, until Emilia admitted, “We know. Ben told us.”
“What? Ben told you what?”
“About the bear! How it tracked you both and kept attacking. There was only one cartridge left when he got it right in the mouth. He thinks it swallowed the flare.”
Miles added, “It exploded—the bear.”
Emilia rolled her eyes. “It died anyway. Fell on top of Ben, and he couldn’t push it off. He had to dig away the surface ice and sort of slide out.”
Nikolas wrinkled his nose. “Huh.”
§§§
Ben came back that evening with some food from Nikolas’s favourite restaurant in Exeter. He didn’t want to eat it, but he did to please Ben. Ben looked as if he needed cheering up. Even his heroic efforts with the Kobe beef didn’t raise a smile though. “I heard about the bear.”
Ben nodded. “It was touch and go there for a while.”
“But it’s over now. We’re home. We’re okay, Ben. Both of us.”
Ben made another small and equally meaningless gesture of assent.
Struggling a little for a topic of conversation, which had rarely happened between them before, Nikolas asked, “Has Peyton been handling things on Svalbard for us? I do not intend to return to answer any questions.”
“Yes. He’s—you’ll have to ask him. I—It’s—Yes.”
“What’s wrong, Ben? I mean it. Tell me.”
Ben took the container from him. “Nothing.” He suddenly seemed more his old self with a broad grin. “You didn’t die. That’s all that’s important.”
§§§
Nikolas couldn’t remember a time he’d seen anything more beautiful than his perfect glass house under weak February sun. He’d rather have seen it in even weaker January sun, but his stay in hospital had been longer than he’d anticipated. Two weeks. Nine days, to be exact. A lifetime.
But he was fine.
He’d be better than good given time.
His hand was the only visible reminder of their romantic holiday, and even that was healing nicely. He’d possibly avoid playing Brahms for a while, though.
Ben stopped the car at their favourite spot on the lane which allowed the perfect view of the house, the tor, the glass swim lane, and the manicured grounds, just now coming back to life with snowdrops under the trees and daffodils in profusion where their gardener, the old codger, was cultivating them along the driveway.
&
nbsp; Nikolas slid out of the passenger seat and walked to the edge of the ridge, waiting for Ben to join him. Eventually, Ben did, hands in his pockets, scrunched slightly against the cold. “You shouldn’t stand out here.”
Nikolas didn’t argue. He simply stretched back, holding his hand out for Ben to take, so he could pull him into an embrace. He’d be warm enough with Ben Rider pressed against him.
“Come on, Radulf’s got a surprise for you.” Ben turned and climbed back into the car.
Nikolas made a slightly wry face, and as he eased back into the vehicle, he tried to decide whether this was at the thought that there was anything the dog had produced that he would want, or that Ben had, once more, avoided him.
Nine days.
Nikolas knew exactly how long he’d been in hospital, because for nine days Ben had been as devoted to his care as Tim and the moron, Emilia, Miles, Babushka, and even Enid Toogood, who had, she said, been coming to the hospital anyway and didn’t want him to think she’d gone to any bother especially for him. Manners dictated that she wouldn’t want him to feel obliged to reciprocate in any way.
Ben’s care had been exactly like all of theirs—constant, predictable, welcome, familial, puzzling, occasionally inconvenient, usually tiring, but utterly…passionless. In their definition of that word. The meaning that had sustained their love for over a decade. The burn, the consuming fire, the permanent ache…Those had no more been present in Ben than they had in the rest of his created family. The moron had, in fact, been more physical than Ben. Nikolas had woken from a sleep to find Squeezy drawing on him. In indelible ink he’d written nil by mouth across his groin with an arrow pointed down.
Nikolas had actually found it funny, which had only driven home to him how much he was missing such interactions with Ben.
But he was trying to cut Ben Rider-Mikkelsen some slack. He’d seen this…distancing before on Aeroe. All Ben needed was to be convinced that this was not a hallucination, that they weren’t still on the ice, struggling for their lives, and all would be well.
§§§
Nikolas actually was impressed by Radulf’s present. A new trick. Squeezy had taught it to him during the last nine days. If anyone shouted, “Bear!” Radulf would collapse and play dead. No other word worked—Nikolas tried it. But “Bear!” proved infallible: a huge collapse, a feeble groan, and then a theatrical shudder until Radulf lay…expired. Of course, secretly, Nikolas was more pleased with the reception he received from the old dog, but he and Radulf kept their fondness for each other well hidden until others weren’t present, so to anyone else it had appeared only as a paw on the leg as Nikolas eased into a chair, and a pat on the head.
They knew though.
Secret devotion.
A bit like him and Ben then, Nikolas reflected with some bitterness. He liked them to be covert in public but not as much this! Ben usually never missed an opportunity to touch him, even if it was just passing him a mug of tea and brushing fingers, or bitch slapping him, which was annoying but pleasant in its own right.
In some ways, Nikolas was putting off finding out what was wrong.
It wasn’t like him, he knew. Uncharacteristic. He was cutting himself some slack as well though. He had nearly died, after all.
And he felt something bad was coming his way in Ben’s explanation, something he was fairly sure he’d already worked out for himself. Ben was scared to touch him. Ben had discovered that Nikolas Mikkelsen wasn’t infallible, that he could, in fact, break. The solid ground beneath Ben’s feet had been shaken loose. It would terrify anyone whose default setting was passion through relentless physical extreme. They fought and fucked and wrestled and bit and hit and kicked, torture and tease mixed and mingling in unceasing desire for each other’s bodies. So, where did that leave Ben now? For too many days, Nikolas knew, Ben had been confronted by his weakness, forced to witness it again and again. Had he stood there thinking, “If I touch here, will this tube pull out? If I stroke here, will it hurt? If I kiss you, will you die?” So, Ben hadn’t touched or stroked or kissed.
Nikolas was more than willing to cut some slack, not ask, and let Ben come to a realisation in his own way that he was absolutely fine. Nothing that time wouldn’t heal.
He studied Ben making the tea, relishing the idea of drinking from fine bone china, and then tipped his face to the sun once more. “How are the houses coming along?”
Ben brought a teapot and two cups to the table. No mugs. No slopping. He was clearly making a special effort. “Enid invited Babushka to Scotland. They left yesterday so Em and Miles can get back to school. I think she’ll stay until the summer to give us some…so the houses can get on a bit.”
Nikolas apparently wasn’t scratching the right bit of Radulf’s neck so the paw went higher. “At least someone is pleased to see me.”
Ben coloured a little, and Nikolas, noticing this with interest, added, “Seeing being metaphorical, of course.”
“He’s been bumping into things a lot recently. I took him to the vet in Ashburton, and he said he thought his eyes were worse. He didn’t even see the thermometer coming this time.”
Nikolas was tempted to make a pointed comment about the dog being lucky any such things were coming his way, but was distracted by the actual news imparted. He cupped Radulf’s whiskery old face and peered into his amber orbs. “Maybe there are experts on these things we could consult.”
Ben simply shrugged, and this, as much as anything else he’d done in the last few weeks, made Nikolas’s hackles rise. Something was coming his way, and he had the very distinct impression he wasn’t going to like it.
Ben poured the tea and added some milk. Nikolas accepted a biscuit. He weighed a little over eleven stone, which was far too light for his six foot four frame. He knew this. He’d lost a lot of weight since he’d last sat at this table, some of it muscle, and that wasn’t acceptable. “I think I’ll be joining you in the gym more frequently.”
Ben flashed him a look through his long lashes and something stirred pleasantly in Nikolas’s groin. He laid his good hand on the table, palm up, for Ben to take and entwine their fingers. Ben studied this invitation for a while then touched the tip of one finger to his palm. It was as light as a feather, inconsequential, but it fired off like a spark and ignited a touchpaper of desire and repressed need for Ben’s body. Nikolas needed to smell Ben and stroke his skin, run his tongue into all the places he already knew the taste of, and then he needed to possess him and leave his seed inside. He stood and held out his hand. “Come.” Then he smiled and added, “On.”
Ben leant back in his seat. He turned his head to the view across the grounds, the sun catching his hair and forming a halo on the dark strands. “We need to talk.”
“After, Ben. I know you’re scared you’ll break me. But I’m still me. I’ll let you take it easy on me, promise.”
“Sit down, Nik. Please.”
Nikolas didn’t want to. And not only because he was hard; blood, what he had left these days, had drained south, leaving his brain high and sketchy. He didn’t want to hear rational explanations or fear. There was nothing wrong with Ben that couldn’t be cured by a physical demonstration of just how well he really was.
Ben held his gaze again. “I need to tell you something. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and I don’t know where to start.”
Nikolas sat again. “Why can’t you tell me after?”
Ben nodded, as if that brought them nicely to somewhere he wanted them to be. “Because there won’t be an after. We need to…no, this is me, not you. I need to stop doing this with you, Nik. The…sex. It’s wrong, and I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.”
Nikolas was nodding, too, until he realised he was doing it and stopped. “I’m sorry, Ben. I’m a little slow on the uptake at the moment. I’m not at my best. Run that past me again.”
Ben closed his eyes briefly then opened them and said with more confidence, “I asked God to save your life. On the ice. There wa
s no pulse and you stopped breathing. You died—despite what they told me at the hospital. I prayed and God saved you. He actually brought you back from the dead and restored you to me. And I promised that I would do whatever he wanted in return. I couldn’t work it out—what the exchange would be. But now he’s shown me the way, you see.” He suddenly jerked forward, and Nikolas reared back, an instinctive defensive reaction. “It’s the commitment I was looking for. The answer. To keep you safe. I promised you and now I’ve promised God. Do you see? I have promised God I will live a pure life. Do you get what I’m trying to say?”
Nikolas didn’t have a fucking clue what Ben was going on about.
He kept this thought buried deep and shifted his gaze away, out into the softly sunlit garden.
“You know this too, Nik, deep down. I know you do. That’s why you’ve been so resistant to us being gay. You know you’re not gay. I’m not. We’ve been so wrong, and you knew it before I did. I corrupted you. I forced you into this when you only wanted…well, you weren’t gay. Aren’t gay. I see it all now. Once I asked for help, God gave it to me in spades. He showed me all the answers. We aren’t simply bodies, Nik. We’re souls—sex shouldn’t be at the heart of any relationship; that should be an awareness of God’s purpose for us in the next life.”
Nope. Still not making any sense, but the grass needed cutting. He made a mental note to ring the old codger.
“Say something. Nik…this…Just say something. Please.” Ben slapped the table, and Nikolas blinked.
He glanced down. He had stitches running from his forearm down across his wrist and palm and around his thumb. So much for nice hands. Another scar to add to his collection.
His impressive collection of battle scars.
He had spent his whole life fighting.
He’d fought everything and everyone. Sometimes he hadn’t even known what he was fighting for. Abstractions possibly, not tangible rewards such as food, freedom from pain, the right to go on breathing—all of which he’d fought for many times when they had been denied.
John Wiltshire - [More Heat Than the Sun 07] Page 15