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‘It never rains in California,’ that’s what they say, and it’s all talk. Two damn days of downpour and Ben has had it with this rain.
It wouldn’t be like this if they were still in New York. Sure it rains plenty in Brooklyn, but this isn’t the same. He’s restless and bored and feels liable to do just about anything.
They’re in the kitchen of Sid’s apartment.
Ben’s place is still being done up nice, and he’s bunking with Sid until it’s ready.
It’s the middle of the afternoon. Sid is sitting across the table from Ben, drinking his tea. Ben is glad to be here, free of the restraints of dealing with the fellas back East.
Los Angeles isn’t Ben’s city - yet - and it has him sore.
Sid’s in shirtsleeves, drinking a cup of tea and reading the L.A. Times. He dips his teabag, lays it neatly on a saucer. There is something compelling about the precise way Sid does things, the way his workman’s hands taper into elegant fingers.
“Sid?”
“Hmm?” Sid doesn’t look up.
“Let’s go somewhere. For a drink or somethin’.”
“It’s two in the afternoon, Ben,” Sid replies.
Ben starts pacing, restless. There’s just something about the rain that gets under his skin. Sid’s stillness has a way of making Ben feel less like breaking things, but it doesn’t seem to be working today.
It’s different, when its just the two of them.
Ben doesn’t need to be so loud. Sid’s edges aren’t so sharp. He shares those rare genuine smiles with Ben. He goes to the pictures and laughs.
“Play something,” Ben requests, gesturing to the living room where Sid keeps his violin.
Sid glances up from the paper. Maybe just to keep Ben from wearing a hole in the floor, he acquiesces.
He retrieves his violin and Ben sits at the table, stealing Sid’s paper and browsing while Sid sets up.
Sid’s hands are something else, Ben has always thought so. His fingers are long and slender. With a violin in his hands they’re deft as any surgeon’s, clever and graceful. Sid holds the instrument with such gentleness, like it’s an extension of him.
Sid begins to play.
Ben goes still.
He doesn’t recognize the song. It’s not something they would have played back in the day, when it was Ben and Sid and Meyer. There’s a simplicity to it that makes it pure, haunting; too truthful for Carnegie Hall.
There’s nothing in the world but the music filling his ears, opening places Ben didn’t know were there. Nothing to do but watch the way the light falls on Sid’s hands, calling out the music with something more than the bow and his deft fingers, his half-closed eyelids, a rare softness to his mouth.
Ben is suddenly grateful it’s raining: California sunshine wouldn’t feel real right now.
He takes a breath around the ache in his chest. Sid plays as if there is nothing but the music, the world forgotten. He draws out the last note, bittersweet and beautiful. There is a gentle, pleased smile ghosting his lips.
The music has faded but it doesn't stop reverberating inside Ben, echoing in his chest.
Sid walks up to him, softly, that calm, certain gait, like he’s preparing for violence. He walks up to where Ben sits and just stands there, a long, still moment while Ben looks up at him.
Ben licks his lips, mouth dry.
Ben knows he should say something crude, break this raw stillness between them. Something that sounds like Ben, the opposite of this rare gentleness of Sid’s.
What comes out of his mouth is, "Thanks, Sid."
A thank you for playing, but it feels hollow. Something from a long list of things Ben owes Sid, a compilation of gratitude and sadness. A list of things Sid would never ask for, and Ben would never think to give him.
Sid nods minutely, that faint smile hardening in a way that makes Ben's chest ache.
He has to look away, focusing on Sid's fingers instead, watching the care Sid takes in returning violin and bow to the burgundy velvet bed of the case. The economical way Sid moves.
Sid pours himself another cup of hot water, reusing the tea bag.
Ben can’t explain it but he likes the way Sid’s shoulder blades are faintly visible beneath his shirt, the sharpness of them like wings. He wants to rest his palm against the heat at the small of Sid’s back.
Ben snatches the thought back: men don’t think this way about their best friends.
Sid turns and watches him for a moment, dipping his tea bag.
He’s making a decision. Ben knows that expression, and he longs for something stronger than coffee.
Sid doesn’t drink coffee but he keeps a tin for when Ben comes over.
Sid approaches the table and sits. He sets his teacup down and does the most extraordinary thing: he extends his hand across the table, interlaces their fingers and squeezes.
He does it so quickly that Ben can barely register the heat of Sid’s palm, the calluses on his fingers, and then the sudden absence of something more than touch as Sid uncurls his fingers from Ben’s hand.
Something his Aunt Rachel used to say, “hold onto love with both hands,” and what did that ever get her but a man with whiskey on his breath, a man who was easy with his fists.
Ben’s hand shoots out and captures Sid’s.
Sid blinks but doesn’t pull away, lets Ben interlace their fingers again. Ben has never held a man’s hand before. It’s so intimate. His heart is pounding.
He should pull away, make a joke, something, before. Before.
Odds are high that the look on his face matches Sid’s.
Oh.
Ben almost laughs. Ben knows Sid. He knows him. He licks his lips, helpless.
Takes a deep breath and rises. But it’s Sid who makes the move. He stands so close, close enough that Ben can feel the heat of his body. Those clever fingers curl around his nape and coax Ben down so Sid can kiss him.
The kiss is soft, Sid’s mouth against his, gentle in a way that even Ben didn’t know Sid could be. Ben kisses back, learning Sid’s smart, sardonic mouth.
Slow, Sid goes slow, without hesitation. He’s tender with Ben the way he’s tender with his violin: he knows just how strong it is, just how to play it.
Ben slides one hand down Sid’s back and rests his palm there, soaking up the heat at the base of Sid’s spine.