Not even a week had passed since its beginning, and already Benny was unable to consider a time in which this had not been the norm, nor a time in which it might be withheld from him. Valentin’s fingers were on his scalp, the scratch of his well kept fingernails light enough to send the occasional shiver of pleasure down his spine yet firm enough not to tickle. His breathing was a familiar metronome, a shallow and subtle rise and fall of the chest upon which Benny sprawled, cheek unbothered by the buttons of his shirt. His heartbeat a welcomed thu-bump, thu-bump, thu-bump against his ear, accompanied less and less frequently by the odd noise of digestion and all the queer audible workings of a body which one became acquainted with when so closely pressed to it. He was in heaven, and heaven was within him, and around him, and under him, and with its arms on him, and its legs tangled round him, in his bed, in his home, in his heart.
And then the knock had come.
Selfish, Benny had whined, just loud enough for Valentin to hear him. Had burrowed his face against his chest, kissed it through his shirt, huffed, and puffed, and squeezed his arms against Valentin’s sides. And then, knowing he must, and knowing that he would return to heaven and that heaven would return to him soon enough, he had rolled his weight off. He had shared one last chaste kiss, and then slumped back onto the mattress in the spot Valentin had vacated.
Napping had not happened, even though he had longed for it. In the absence of a body to listen to, to give his attention, his own became far too loud. It begged him to stretch, and to move, and to find new and interesting things to see and touch and smell. He had risen only five minutes after Valentin had left, and had turned his attention to the task he had promised of himself: letter writing.
He worked for fifteen minutes, and then his mind, scattering like seeds in the wind, refused to work any more. Words turned from a flow, to a trickle, to a drip, to a stop. In place of ink, Benny spilled out sighs. He missed heaven. If he strained his ears very, very hard, he could just about imagine that he could hear Valentin’s high, soft voice carrying up the stairs. He could just about imagine the careful metre of his speaking. He could just about imagine the way his voice might change as Benny entered his little lecture, the way his eyes might soften and widen all at once. He could just about…
Benny was down the stairs before rational thought had even entered his mind. In his hands, his half-written letter, his ink and his pen, and the blotting paper – a tool someone as prone to mess as Benny could never be without, if writing was meant to be done. Down there, he no longer had to imagine Valentin’s voice, for he could hear it. High, soft, and in careful metre, though sometimes giving way to a pause for meaningful emphasis, or the searching of words. With his clutter held to his chest, Benny peeked his head through the gap in the door, and pushed it to give better way for the rest of him. It creaked, as old hinges were wont to do, and just like that the considered on and on or words halted, and three faces quickly turned to meet his. Valentin’s eyes softened and widened all at once.
“What?” Benny said, a little dumbfounded; he had been so intent on listening to the melody of Valentin’s voice that he had forgotten, for the most part, to pay attention to what was actually being said. Then, with a casual wave, with a too-bright for casual smile: “Oh, no, no, actually I was wondering if I might join? To just- write. My letters. Over there.” He pointed to the smaller desk past Valentin, pressed tightly against a windowsill and peppered in all sorts of instruments for the examination of bits, which Doctor Forester was sometimes tasked with.
He knew, really, that the house was his (or his family’s), and that he hardly needed to ask permission to enter. And yet it felt quite cheeky to intrude, to bring his selfish longing to be close to Valentin into that little space, where such lofty subjects as moral dilemmata were being discussed. Benny’s questioning, permit-seeking gaze dropped from Valentin’s to the children before him, whose names he was sure he knew, if he would only be given a hint. Tabitha, maybe, and Thomas. “May I?” he asked them, remembering very much how, as a child, he had revelled in being asked permission from real, true adults, if only as it made them seem so much more human, and far more game for a bit of cheek.
The answer was a yes and no at the same time, and the two Meir children and the one Talbot boy allowed Benny to take a seat at the smaller desk by the windowsill of a house that was his own, and watched him curiously for a while.
Valentin took in the sight of his hands spreading out the letters, his hair, stubborn and soft, falling and falling into his face, the collar and shirt, no doubt crinkled and overfolded because of their nap earlier. All the while he wondered how the Meir children would possible be able to work while someone else was in the room, how they could possibly focus without being distracted by the sound of Benny’s breath, how he might get them to concentrate on Aristotle anew. How! How, if someone so much more interesting had come and stole the lesson?
It was then that little Tim cleared his throat and Valentin blinked. Turned his head. Found both Meir children look at him -- waiting. Waiting for him.
Valentin huffed out abashed chuckle, “Right, right,” and went back to work. The Meir children were now capable of constructing, unknotting, and arguing for a plethora of moral dilemmas, and the writing paper before them was coloured with ink, while Valentin had lost every such skill. Rationally, there was no doubt, no school, no master of philosophy, who wouldn’t argue that teaching children was the path one always had to choose if the chance arose. Emotionally, however, all Valentin wanted, was to go back to bed and nap some more.
