Re: Times Square: Ronan/Ben
[When he steps clear of the bathroom, eyes puffy red and lips alcohol burned, Ben rubs his hands over jean-encased thighs. This is wrong.
So much of this is wrong that he doesn't take the kit from Ronan, just lets him set it down next to him. His eyes drop down when he shuffles into his pair of sweat pants, instead of looking and teasing like he normally does. Like it feels right to do.
He waits to feel Ronan's weight on their bed before he finally looks up. Reaches for the kit and turns it in his hands, just for something to do.
Blinks.] You don't - [Have to. Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn't. Ben isn't sure, but this was Ronan's home before they started dating, before his bed became theirs and his things - his t-shirts, and pants, and toothbrush - began to find a home next to Ben's.] I'm not kicking you out, Ronan. [The words come out flat; he winces.] I'm not, I don't - I don't know if that's going to change or [another pause, because he doesn't know how he's going to feel when he gets back. He doesn't know if it'd be better for them to separate now or if they're going to get through this. Or if they need to be separated while they work through things.
Too many unknowns. There's one thing that is known. He takes a breath.] Thank you for telling me.