Ben was in way shape of form to anyone who knew of him, or been unfortunate to know him a good man, god no, he was always painted as one systemic thing, and that was bad, trouble.

He was rude, abrasive, as if he genuinely couldn’t tell the difference between honesty and just being a dick and in his defense he couldn’t.

But there was one time, where that could be seen as slightly inaccurate, inconsistent, and there was only two eyes that have seen it, that belonged to one person. You.

As now, as he leans forward, kneeling between your legs, his hand sliding up your thigh, his eyes are slightly watery. In this form, it was almost a therapy session, the way he bled out the words he’d never bore to a soul, and hear he was telling you everything, how he wished he wasn’t this way. How he wished he could tell the difference, and he just couldn’t.

It’s not like he felt bad, he just didn’t get it. The responses of others to him. It was almost pathetic, really, the way he was leaning towards you as if craving that closeness— that connection between you two.