I'll Burn With You (MXM)

Chapter 31 : Benjamin

"Benjamin, I believe it's time fer you t' quit your post office position," Mr. Price continued, grace only having just finished, "and I'd like you t' be the shop's official inventory manager. You'd be in charge 'f placin' orders, managin' stocks, and restockin' the front 'f the shop when we need it."

Ben, his fingers still by his shoulder for the Sign of the Cross, dropped his hands into his lap. He frowned, yet something swelled in his chest. "What?"

Frances sighed, exasperated. She placed her silverware to the side, wiping her brow before asking, "Does that mean I can finally help with the shop now? I could help with the fabrics or something."

Mrs. Price reached her hand towards her daughter. "I'm teaching you piano tomorrow, neither are you a strong cook. You still need practice."

"What, there are not enough hours in the day that I am also unable to work?" she asked, her question left unanswered.

Douglas patted Ben's back.

He was not sure if it was supposed to be celebratory or not.

"Congratulations 're in order," Theodore announced.

"Very much so," Mrs. Price agreed, a soft smile hanging on her lips as she leaned over to clasp her son's hand.

Ben nearly withdrew.

Their father stood, his cup in hand. "To Benjamin. Despite yourself, you've shown over the past several months that you're more than capable 'f keepin' track 'f everythin' in the shop, even better than your brother."

Theodore's eyes darted away for a moment.

"For that, we will thank the Lord, also, fer your skills." Mr. Price raised his glass. "Here's t' you."

Biting the inside of his cheek, Ben nearly glanced away. The lashes he received yesterday tingled as he pressed his back against the chair. Even then, in his stomach sat a slight sense of accomplishment. It all felt so wrong.

The family raised their cups, as well, whispering their congratulations.

He offered a wary smile, nodding. "Th-thank you, all," Ben whispered, raising his own cup hastily. "I'm..." He forced a chuckle. "...honored, fer such an accomplishment."

His father smirked, nodding his head at him.

The meal resumed. Light conversation drifted like smoke.

Placing his cup back down, Ben did not touch his silverware, only staring at the food, breathless, the smile hanging on his lips. Beatrice leaned into him, offering quiet praise before she moved on to something concerning school and Mr. Conklin, some deeply innocuous thing involving the other students at school that Ben struggled to pay attention to.

She must have sensed this, as eventually no one spoke to Ben, the conversations floating around him like fireflies in the summertime.

Ben settled into the hum of conversation, able to simply listen. He tried to enjoy the family dinner; he really did. He did not speak, lest he embarrass himself and annoy anyone at the table, but just listening was now deeply, profoundly unsatisfying. Not speaking meant Ben could not disappoint the occasion. Just to listen was enough for him, as well. That's what he told himself.

His fingers itched for a pen and paper. He so desperately wanted to write her – him.

The smirk wavered from his lips, and he dropped his gaze, turning away. 'It would be ridiculous,' he told himself. 'We told each other things, and – and...it wouldn't have worked, either. We're both men.' A moment later, Ben stood, his eyes still turned down. "I...I need t' take the mornin' – evenin' air," he announced, not waiting for anyone to follow after him. "I feel sick."