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If you want, meet me at the car park.
Brennan doesn’t think he’s looked anyone in the eye since the whistle blew, and all he could see behind bleary eyes was the ball, high and wide. Ethan’s and Craig’s words go in and out, nothing registering in his head. It’s simultaneously white noise and the most agonising sounds of the crowd, nothing but the heavy disappointment of what could’ve been.
Ben gives him a thin smile when Brennan approaches his car. Expectant, even when left on read — he knows Brennan too well for him to have a reason to say no. Wordlessly gestures for him to take a seat. The stereo hums with the song of some indie 80s band that Brennan recognises solely based on Ben’s music choices. Ben takes a route Brennan doesn’t recognise, or perhaps it’s the dim roads that’s making it hard to tell, or how Ben’s driving much faster than he usually does, blurring the trees and hills into nothing but indistinguishable greys.
“Open the window, it helps.”
It does, of course it does, because the air’s finally circulating into his body — Brennan hadn’t realised how tense he had been. Sticks his head out a little once Brennan notices they’re virtually alone. Like a curious dog, except the stuffiness of the car was going to put his mind on the edge of a breakdown. The wind blows; tears can’t fall as his eyes dry in the breeze. The air starts to smell of the sea once Ben speeds down the M4; they’re in the direction of Swansea, of the place Ben calls home.
The route is suddenly much more familiar, even if Brennan’s only been here once. Like he’s memorised every road and turn that will always lead to Ben. “Neath?”
Ben lets out a lighthearted scoff. “And your stuff at camp?”
Brennan blinks at Ben, but his eyes stay on the road. “Was I supposed to bring-”
“No. I’m just playing with you. Yes, Neath.”
Brenna splutters, “But my-”
“Don’t think about it.”
There’s a nod Ben doesn’t see; Brennan doubts Ben needed to see or hear anything to know how he’s feeling. It’s all the air, anyway, the way it feels so thick it’s almost difficult to breathe. But it’s far more freeing than staying back at camp, where all he could do would be to drown anyway in his guilt, let the disappointment both carry him to bed and keep him awake, like a noose around his throat, just tight enough to remind him of a lost American Dream.
────
The engine goes quiet in front of Ben’s family home, and he reaches into the back seat and pulls out a hoodie, uncharacteristically oversized for Ben’s taste in clothes. “Probably best not to wear our Wales gear out and about.” Brennan flushes, how he must’ve been too eager — desperate — to meet Ben, neglected changing out of his clothes at all.
“Your parents?” Brennan asks; he doesn’t think he needs that pressure, either. Another level of disappointment that he can’t handle. Even the idea of looking his own grandparents in the eye right now makes him feel like throwing up.
“They’re staying in Cardiff.” Ben eyes him, but doesn’t press, leaves to grab his caps, waits for Brennan to rush out before heading inside.
The home is as Brenann remembers, not that he expected much to change. Dark wooden furniture complemented by an assortment of colourful but worn fabrics, all decorated with family photos and flowers on every surface. Plenty of Cymru memorabilia around: flags, pins, bucket hats, and half-and-half scarves. Photos, too, of Ben in white and in red. Belgium, Slovakia, Russia, the USA, even.
The weight of what they no longer have could crush Brennan to the ground and below.
The air’s still for the first time, and Brennan feels like he might suffocate. “Mind if we open the window?”
Ben gives him a weighted look against the sound of the trees rustling against the increasingly harsh wind. It’s not unlikely that rain will start pouring soon. But they both run warm, and Ben’s always been unreasonable when it comes to Brennan’s wants.
The wind blasts loudly through the living room, and Ben disappears into the kitchen. Sink running, fridge rummaging, drawers opening. Any sound that isn’t the heavy thud of his heart sinking when he missed.
────
Brennan tries not to hyperfixate on Ben’s 100 caps memorabilia, tries not to think about the shine of the medal and the glimmer of the golden cap, boxed in engraved glass, made to be displayed, made to be admired, made to be seen. Except Brennan knows that Ben’s going to store this in his closet and would probably say something along the lines of, "This place isn’t a museum." Like his achievements weren’t something to show off, or perhaps he just didn’t want to show anything off at all. He recalls when Ben told him that even his diploma sits idly back in his office drawer back in London.
But it’s the way the cap glistens, how the yellow lights emphasise the warmth in the gold; Brennan’s sure it does nothing to make his red eyes and dreary state look any better. But it’s beautiful, the colour of a winner, and it’s a permanent shine on Ben’s career. 100 caps, Joe had joked the night before the Belgium game that Gareth’s going to send him a grumpy voice message, something about how he better not come for his tally; Brennan’s never got to ask how serious Joe was about that, or whether Gareth ever did catch up with him after that loss.
Brennan thinks it’s more likely that Gareth would joke about now having matching caps. Matching golden caps, which only four people have. Probably pretend it’s some super cool, exclusive club, like it’s some VIP thing, even if everyone knows they’re too humble for the boasting — Ben had only grimaced when Joe began reminding him soon after the game that he’d probably have a stadium applauding him in a few months' time.
(When Brennan had brought it up on the train back to London, Ben grinned, no sign of any embarrassment. And for a split second, Brennan feels the same fondness Ben has for his face in his heart.)
Ben returns with a plate of crackers and cheese — if the atmosphere was any better, Brennan would grin up at him, and make a weak joke of his age. He still could, tempted, but Ben pats his hair as he sits next to him on the couch, and his brain short-circuits, jaw loosens. He follows Brennan’s eye path; the frown that appears so faint, so quick, if Brennan hadn’t been so attentive to Ben, like a moth that always hovers around the same flame, he would’ve missed it.
There are many things Ben could point out, like how Brennan’s eyes are still wet and red, or how the window really needs to be closed now because the chill becomes almost unbearable, or that Brennan’s not supposed to be away from camp at all, and the chances of Ethan calling up the police when he notices are definitely higher than zero.
But Ben’s never been one to press on bruises to test the pain, or to ask for the obvious, or to complain about his own discomforts.
“Is Neco alright?” He asks instead.
“Not going to ask about me?” Brennan tries to joke, but it comes off too raw, too honest, too vulnerable.
Ben reaches for the crackers — Brennan hadn’t meant to ignore them — and hands one to him. Flashes a contemplative look with a slow chew, forever the think before you speak kind of person.
“I don’t need to ask to know.”
────
The guest room’s neat as ever — Brennan can’t imagine anything of Ben’s being anything less than neat — and Ben fiddles with the heating. There’s a photo of baby Ben on the dresser that Brennan has to bite back his coos, and there’s another of him with the League Cup. A beep, and the radiator whirs back to life, warm air slowly filling the room, forcing its way down Brennan’s lungs and refusing to get out.
“Is the hoodie bothering you?”
You know it’s not that, and Ben knows it, but the question’s meant to be a signal for something; either a do you want to talk about it now or a let me know what you need help with, but Brennan can’t figure out which is which, and the world feels like it’s spinning. He takes off the hoodie anyway, red shirt with the crest underneath; it falls somewhere with a light thud, but he doesn’t have it in him to apologise as he watches Ben pick it off the ground. He chucks it into a nearby laundry basket, and Brennan can’t remember if it’s a hoodie he left from the last time he was here. All he feels is the crest burning over his heart, a warmth he can’t cool off, filled with the disappointed groans and gasps of the stadium as the ball flies over.
Everything’s blurring together, and Brennan’s trying to control his breathing. He’s pulled down to the edge of the bed, sinks into the mattress, and for a moment, he feels weightless.
“-you hear me?”
Brennan nods, though he doesn’t entirely feel like himself, but Ben pats his cheek and ruffles his hair with affection as he walks towards the dresser, and his heart burns. Clothes are thrown in his direction, landing next to him, and he has to try to blink his eyes hard to see clearly. Jumper and sweatpants from the brand he’s been obsessed with lately, in his usual oversized fit. A different colour from the one he usually goes for, a muted sage green that stands out against his closet filled with greys and browns. It’s been on his wishlist for a while; he’s been waiting to see if they drop another collection before purchasing.
He doesn’t recall telling Ben any of this.
He wonders if he’s too predictable, or if Ben went out of his way to ask Neco or Archie about it. Perhaps he just knows him too well.
“Hopefully it fits you,” Ben pauses, briefly looks up and down on Brennan, “Feel free to keep the clothes if they do.”
Brennan managed to pry from Joe that if Ben’s offering you something nice but phrasing it as a choice, he actually really wants you to say yes. But he bites back his eagerness, his desperation for Ben’s attention, and meekly nods.
“Bathroom’s first to the left, let me know if you need anything; I’m in the room next to yours on the right.”
For a second, Brennan almost has the audacity to say you, but he swallows it down. He’s getting ahead of himself when there’s little that he deserves tonight, and suddenly his eyes feel like they’re burning again. His mouth dries when Ben looks at him with questioning eyes; Brennan can’t tell if it's because he can’t say anything or that he shouldn’t. He watches Ben walk towards the window — even the smallest gap makes the wind roar, filling in the silence. The heating cranks up, and Ben ruffles his head again before walking towards the door.
“Good night,” with a thin smile; he knows the night will be anything but good for Brennan, but he’ll offer the false hope anyway, and Brennan will always take it.