The Raining Night

“I am here to declare that I have nothing to do with Hank’s case.”
Ashley turned off the TV. Ben’s deep, charming voice vanished from the room. He hadn’t shaved. The rough beard around his mouth made him look more exhausted than he actually was. Hank lay on the couch. Rain drummed against the roof, echoing the rhythm of his heartbeat.
“You alright?”
Ashley sat down beside him. He wanted to ask her what she meant by “alright,” how she defined it, but he held the question back. She would take it as an offence.
“Have you eaten anything?”
Instead of answering, Hank turned the TV back on.
“…After the social media influencer Hank Brown was accused of sexual assault by Betty White, his fiancé and business partner, Ben Blake, stated that he had
nothing to do with Brown or the case in front of the camera…”
“Asshole.” Ashley cursed, switching the TV off again. “I can’t believe he said that.”
“Do you wear Penhaligon’s The Coveted Duchess Rose today?” Hank caught the scent when he reached for a pillow behind her. He sat up straight, with a pillow
resting on his lap.
“Yeah. Why?” She didn’t reply to him instantly. She hesitated at the sudden shift in topic. He knew he changed the subject too randomly, from a framed heartbroken gay romance to the fragrance of a luxurious, prestigious brand, but this was the way his brain operated. They had never fully understood each other as siblings. Sometimes Hank wondered if it was because even he himself didn’t truly understand him.
“Nothing,” he said, “nothing.”

The fact was, Ben worn the same perfume that day.
The whole sexual accusation was obviously too ridiculous. They had been running their social media account together, building a group of followers around their relationship for almost ten years. People had never questioned his sexuality, never, until Betty’s post.
People commented on every short video he made, insisting that all of them were scripted. They said Ben and he were a screen couple who despised one another secretly behind the scenes. They believed Betty’s statement, even though she was a trans woman and accused Hank of making her pregnant.

They joked about it at first.

“Do you think her followers will actually believe her?”
He asked Ben while they were cuddling on the bed. Ben’s fragrance gradually invaded his senses gently and appealingly. He had always thought this perfume was designed for Ben. It was rose-based, but subtle, with a softness that hid something sharper beneath.
The Duchess Rose must be like Ben, he assumed. Charming in a dangerous way, slipping past his defences with ease. Hank had always sensed the shadows behind Ben’s brightness, but he accepted them willingly. Like a sword coated in honey.
“People like gossip, you know.” Ben sighed against his neck. The warmth of his breath relaxed Hank’s nerves. “Even if they know it would be a medical miracle for a trans woman to be pregnant?”
“Even then,” Hank had said. “Yes.”

Hank hadn’t eaten all day. He knew he needed something—anything—to keep going, even if he had no idea what his future would be like, or how absurd his future would turn out to be. He unlocked his phone. Do not disturb. A purple icon next to the food delivery app showed 99+ notifications. He couldn’t help but tap it.
He typed “ben_blakeeeee” into the search bar.
No results.
He stared at the empty page. His body was plummeting like the rain pounding on the roof.

“Will you believe me?”
“I am not a moron, babe.”
The conversation they had the day before Ben blocked him was replaying in his mind. Hank couldn’t shut it off. He thought it might be because he didn’t ask Ben
what exactly he meant. I am not a moron to believe you, or I am not a moron not to believe you. The switch that could silence those dialogues was hidden
somewhere inside the ambiguity.

“Don’t even think of that bastard, okay?” Ashley took away his phone. “Hey… it’s fine, everything will be good again… It’s okay, it’ll be okay…”
He cried in her arms. Hank had never imagined he would cry in someone else’s arms again after their mother passed away. But it was too painful. He might have
some kind of heart disease he didn’t know about, or what else could explain the crushing ache in his chest? It wasn’t metaphorical. It felt physical, as if someone
were squeezing his heart in their fist.
“I thought there was trust between us.”
He was startled at the sound of his own voice. Was that trembling, hoarse, awful sound really his?
“That isn’t your fault, my dear… I think he just doesn’t believe anyone but himself. He’s selfish.”
“But we… I thought we loved each other…”
Those scenes vividly flickered through Hank’s mind: sunlight filtering through leaves when Ben asked him what they were; the shadow of their kiss under that old streetlamp; the scent of buttered toast the morning he woke up in Ben’s bed. Ben had never trusted him, Hank realised. “That sucks,” he whispered.
He understood why Ben didn’t trust anyone. His mother had abandoned him when he was five. That was his childhood trauma, which didn’t heal through time. Hank had imagined they could deal with it together, that he would accompany Ben to face his fear, telling him he would be with him forever, and he would never be abandoned again. However, what if Hank was the one who walked away first, without any explanation? Should he keep his promise? Should he continue trying to heal Ben’s trauma while carrying unrecoverable wounds of his own?
Maybe neither of them needed to change. The thing was that they simply believed in different worlds—one where love created trust, and one where it didn’t, that’s all. It had never been about fixing someone.
“Or maybe he trusts you,” Ashley said quietly, “but he chooses not to.”
Hank didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know which one hurt more.

 

Ashley fell asleep on the couch. He draped a blanket over her.
He looked at his sister’s face. Perhaps the scenario in which Ben was pretending not to trust him due to whatever clichéd reasons was better. It made his love feel less pathetic.
He left the living room. The rain outside had finally stopped.