Author: Anna Martin
Category: LGBT
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/anna-martin/page,2,529683-the_lost_boy.html
Just before Stan bought the flat, the bathroom had been redecorated in calm sandstone tiles that he much preferred to stark white. The shower had a rain-effect head that dumped water out at a truly blissful speed, and Stan took his time cleaning himself from head to toe.
He couldn’t dry his hair when he was done, because the only hairdryer was in one of the bedrooms, so instead he towel-dried it as best he could, then carefully combed and braided it. Before leaving New York, he’d packed a change of clothes, and though it wasn’t the comfiest outfit in the world, it was clean. Stan changed into another loose pair of pants and a T-shirt and went to open some windows. The air in the flat felt stale; he needed fresh air to blow through.
Though the cupboards still had some staples, the fridge was empty and turned off so it didn’t start to smell. Stan gave it a quick clean, then turned it back on and set up his laptop at the dining table so he could put together a grocery order to be delivered later in the day.
While he was online, he took the time to quickly skim through a list of therapists in the city. He knew a few from his stay in hospital years ago, but it had been a long time, and they were mostly eating disorders specialists. He needed to get Ben to someone who was an expert in addiction. Not wanting to make any decisions on Ben’s behalf, and definitely not when he was this tired, Stan just made a list to present to Ben later.
With that done and the sound of Tone’s snoring echoing down the hallway, Stan decided to give in to his body and curled up on the sofa to nap.
Christ, what a day.
Chapter Two
Ben slept in fits and starts, never achieving full restfulness before being startled awake again. He’d long since given up on trying to get enough sleep. The only shit that he’d found that helped was prescribed by a doctor, and his so-called fucking “friends” had flushed all of that weeks ago.
The grey, dull light told Ben he was back in London before his conscious brain caught up to remembering the flight home.
He was back in London, with Stan and Tone, and it felt like insult on top of injury.
“Oh, good, you’re awake.”
Stan stood in the doorway, dressed in black jeans and black trainers and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair was pulled back into a long ponytail, and if he was wearing makeup, it wasn’t obvious. He looked like an echo of the Stan that Ben used to know.
Ben grunted in response and rolled over. He was so tired, and everything ached.
“We’re leaving in twenty minutes. That should be plenty of time for you to get showered and dressed.”
“No.”
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in the matter. We’re going out, and if you want people to see you looking like that, it’s no skin off my nose. I really would like you to have a shower, though.”
Ben listened as Stan walked away, his feet soft on the carpet.
He heaved himself onto his back and stared at the ceiling, palms up, breathing deeply.
He had no idea where he was. London. Well, it was a big place.
No one apart from Tone and Stan knew he was here. As in this room.
Pretty much everyone he knew was mad at him.
He considered resisting; he was still bigger than Stan, though Stan was likely stronger than him right now, and the image of Stan dragging him out of the flat by his ankles flashed through his mind. He had some self-respect left, and a tiny, tiny amount of dignity.
Ben got up, found the bathroom, and forced himself to take a shower.
He’d been on a comedown for days, since Jez had locked him in his room, bringing meals to him and forcing him to use the en-suite bathroom. They’d confiscated his phone and laptop too, so he couldn’t even call someone to break him out. The worst of the withdrawal symptoms were done—the physical ones, at least—but Christ, he ached for a hit.
Ben hadn’t actually looked at himself in a mirror for a long time. He’d thrown something at the one in his bathroom at the house in LA, and it had shattered into big chunks that lay on the bathroom floor for days because he wouldn’t let anyone in to clean it up. Then he cut his foot on something, and it got infected, and they had to get a doctor to come out to the house because Ben wouldn’t go to the emergency room.
The mirror in Stan’s bathroom was very unflattering. Ben turned his back on it and fumbled for a towel, dripping water all over the floor.
When he got back to the bedroom, his suitcase was at the foot of the bed. He rubbed himself dry and pulled on his sole pair of clean jeans and a T-shirt, then glanced out the window. Early May in California had been bright and beautiful. London was overcast and probably chilly. He grabbed his hoodie and pulled that on too.
Stan was right. It smelled. But he didn’t have anything else, so it would have to do.
He didn’t bother to do anything with his hair, just left the wet strands streaming water under the edge of his T-shirt, and went to find Tone. Instead he found Stan, sitting at a small, two-person kitchen table with his laptop and a cup of coffee.
Stan looked shocked to see him, like he wasn’t actually expecting Ben to drag himself out of bed.
“I’m ready,” Ben muttered.
“Great.”
Stan snapped his laptop shut and gathered up his phone, wallet, and keys, then shoved them all into his pockets. Years ago he would have carried a huge handbag, bright and bold and coordinating with his outfit. Someone or something had dulled Stan’s sparkle, and Ben hated it.
He didn’t say anything. It wasn’t his place to.
Tone was gone, Ben didn’t ask where, and he followed Stan as he locked up the apartment and headed out onto the street. They were right next to the lock, his old stomping ground. People rushed past, Londoners on their way somewhere or tourists taking their time, no one paying the slightest bit of attention to him. It was disconcerting and slightly comforting at the same time.
Stan didn’t offer any conversation as he picked up a brisk pace, heading out to the main road and turning right. They walked in silence for maybe fifteen minutes, deeper into Camden proper, until Stan stopped and pushed open a nondescript white door. The building was unmarked apart from the number on the door.
Inside an older woman sat at a computer, typing away. No one else was in the waiting area, but the posters on the wall gave Ben a good idea of where they were.
“Can I help?” she asked Stan in a bright voice.
“We have an appointment. Novikov.”
“You can actually go right in. We’re quiet this morning.”
Stan nodded his thanks and walked through the open door that led to a small clinical room.
Ben took a seat without being asked.
A few minutes later, a younger male nurse came into the room. “Good morning,” he said, shutting the door behind himself. “We’re doing a full screening today?”
Stan nodded. “For Ben, not me.”
If the nurse recognised either of them, he didn’t mention it.
“Right, no problem. Do you want to hop onto the bed for me? We’ll start with the blood tests.”
Ben did as he was told, though he could feel a flush of humiliation creeping up his neck. He was here for an STD test. Now that it was presented to him, he realised how necessary it really was. He hadn’t exactly been safe with either sexual activity or drugs in the past few months.
He wondered who had passed that information on to Stan. Who had made the decision to bring him here. Not telling him was a good choice. He never would have agreed to it before they left the flat. He didn’t want to kick up a fuss in front of the nice nurse, though—despite what people thought of him, he wasn’t a complete arsehole.
The blood test was fine. Ben turned his head away and didn’t look, barely wincing at the scratch of the needle in the crook of his elbow. Then the nurse took a swab and ran it around the inside of his cheek, and sealed it carefully, before handing Ben another sealed packet.
“I can do this for you, or you can do it y
ourself,” he said. “Most people prefer to do it themselves. You need to insert the swab into your urethra, less than an inch is fine, and quickly rotate it. It often makes you need to pee, so if you can give us a quick urine sample while you’re there, that would be great.”
Ben nodded and slid off the bed.
“The bathroom is just through there.”
He shut the door behind him and snapped the lock into place.
While he went through the even more humiliating process of sticking something in his dick, Jesus Christ, he could hear the low murmur of voices outside, the nurse and Stan talking. Maybe they knew each other. Ben couldn’t decide whether or not that was a good thing.
In the bathroom was a little red plastic basket with a laminated sign telling him that was where he should leave the samples, so he did, then washed his hands thoroughly.
The whole thing took less than fifteen minutes, and after Stan left his phone number with the receptionist for the results, they stepped back outside onto the grim street.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where we were going. I promise I’m not going to do that again, or force you to do something you don’t want to do. But it was important.”
“No, it’s fine,” Ben mumbled.
Stan touched his arm, only lightly, though Ben still winced away, and they started walking back in the direction of the flat. Ben ignored the faint twin throbs in his elbow and his dick, painful reminders of the experience.
When Stan didn’t turn off toward the block of flats, Ben was almost surprised enough to say something. Then he decided he didn’t care, and followed Stan as he weaved his way through the growing crowds on Camden High Street.
Ben kept his hood up and his chin low, though he really wanted to look around and soak it all in. He hadn’t spent much time here since that crazy summer when the EP got picked up and played everywhere, and then the next year they got an invitation to fill a last-minute slot at Glastonbury. They played the John Peel Stage, the legendary home of new and up-and-coming music, and the reaction from the Somerset crowd had cemented their reputation as a band to watch.
Coming back to Camden to hang out or go to Buck Shot for a pint after that was out of the question. The one time they’d tried, all of them together as a band, they’d been mobbed, and Gem behind the bar had been forced to call the police to break it up. Tone had stayed working behind the bar for a few more months, up until Christmas, then even he had to give it up.
Maybe now no one expected to see a member of Ares walking down the High Street. Ben was supposed to be in LA, after all, recording the next album. They all posted often enough on social media that no one would expect him to be home. Not that Ben was in control of his own social media any more. Someone from the record label did that for him. Probably some unpaid intern. Poor sod.
Stan turned abruptly into a store, and Ben almost stumbled as he followed him. It took a few seconds to realise they were in H&M.
He still didn’t care what Stan decided to do with him, even if he was curious as to Stan’s choice of shopping location. Ben was pretty sure Stan had never been the sort to shop in H&M back when they were together, and he definitely didn’t look like he did now.
“Here, hold this,” Stan said, picking up a shopping basket and thrusting it in Ben’s direction.
Ben did as he was told, following Stan to the men’s department.
There, he watched as Stan filled the basket with underwear, socks, T-shirts and shirts and jeans, and a dark grey hoodie that had somehow been put on the racks amongst the summer T-shirts and shorts. Ben was vaguely aware that a lot of this stuff was in his size and that his size was maybe the same as Stan’s size these days. Stan looked a hell of a lot better now than he had when he was really ill, but he was still very slim. Now his arms looked toned, though, instead of scrawny, and he carried more muscle across his chest.
Ben looked away and adjusted the basket when Stan added two belts to the pile.
“Come on,” Stan said, leading Ben to the tills.
The little shopping excursion came to about four hundred quid, which wasn’t bad, since Ben had paid that for one T-shirt only a few months ago—back when he was actually allowed access to his own money.
They arrived at the flat as a summer rain started to fall, soaking the streets within seconds. Ben watched the water bouncing off the surface of the lock and felt more lonely and more scared than he had in a very long time.
He really, really wanted a hit.
Inside, Ben set the bags down in the hallway and went back to the room where he’d slept the night before. He pulled the curtains closed, toed off his trainers, and curled up in a ball on top of the covers. There, he shivered and shook himself back to sleep.
When Ben woke again, it was starting to get dark outside. That meant he must have slept most of the afternoon and into the evening, longer than he’d managed in a while. His body clock was fucked up beyond immediate help, that much was clear. He stumbled out of the bedroom and into the bathroom to piss. As he stood at the toilet, his stomach gave a demanding, painful growl.
Right. The last time he’d eaten was on the plane here, almost twenty-four hours ago. Ben hated aeroplane food. Even first-class aeroplane food.
He could hear Tone talking in a low voice in the other bedroom, possibly on a video call with someone. Tone usually video called when it was important. He liked to be able to read people’s faces and expressions. In the kitchen, Stan was working at the little table again, hunched over as he typed furiously at the keyboard.
“Is there anything to eat?”
Stan startled, jerking away from the laptop like he’d been caught watching porn. “Shit. Sorry, you scared me.”
Ben shoved his hands into his pockets and couldn’t meet Stan’s eyes. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Stan pushed away from the table, the chair scraping on the floor. “What do you want? I can make you a sandwich. I got some fresh soup delivered too. Or a salad, or eggs, or….”
“Toast?”
“I can make toast,” Stan said, nodding decisively.
“It’s okay. I can do it.” Ben felt useless enough as it was. He didn’t need someone else making his fucking toast for him. He wasn’t a fucking invalid.
“Okay,” Stan agreed easily. “Help yourself to anything.”
“Thanks.”
The bread was in the fridge, which was definitely Tone’s doing—he always kept bread in the fridge. It used to drive Summer mad. It was nice bread too, the stuff with lots of seeds and shit in it. Ben left the end piece and pulled out two of the soft, inside pieces, and slotted them into the toaster.
While he waited, Ben found peanut butter in one of the cupboards. That was definitely Stan’s influence. He always liked fancy peanut butter… not the overly processed, sweet sticky stuff, but the raw, crunchy type that was usually organic and sugar-free.
Ben was suddenly starving.
He grabbed a spoon from a drawer and loaded it up with a huge pile of peanut butter, then carefully nibbled at it so he didn’t make himself sick from eating too much too quickly. He’d made that mistake before.
When the toaster popped, he licked the spoon clean and set it in the sink, then picked a clean knife to spread the peanut butter on the toast. Back when he was trying to help Stan put on weight again, he used to put butter on toast before peanut butter, or sometimes Nutella and peanut butter on the same slice. Ben always liked it plain, though, just toast and peanut butter.
He cut each slice of bread in half and set them on a plate, then quickly wiped down the surface. He really, really wanted to take his plate and go back to bed, but that seemed rude. Stan had gone back to his laptop, studiously ignoring Ben and his pathetic attempt to make some kind of dinner for himself.
Ben went and took the seat opposite him.
Stan quietly saved whatever he was working on and closed the laptop.
“How are you doing?” Stan asked. “You slept for a long time.”
; Be nibbled at his toast and nodded. “I don’t sleep very well.” He hadn’t admitted that to anyone else, though it was probably obvious.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Ben almost snapped something about wanting some fucking coke, or whatever Stan could get him, but he stopped himself. Biting Stan’s head off wasn’t going to do either of them any good. “I’m on a pretty rough comedown. I’m not gonna lie.”
“I guessed that, yeah.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
Stan barked a laugh and leaned back in his chair. He twisted his hair into a loose bun and secured it with a pen. Ben had always admired how he could do that.
“I don’t have anything planned,” Stan said. He bit his bottom lip, then sighed. “I’m kind of winging it here, Ben. I figured LA wasn’t working for you, so we could try something else.”
“I’m fucked up.”
“I can tell.”
Ben ate his dinner in silence for a few long minutes. When he was done, he chased a few last crumbs around the plate with his thumb, then licked it clean. The simple food was making his stomach ache with fullness.
“Can we go for a walk tomorrow?”
Stan nodded. “Sure. We’re not far from the zoo, you know.”
“I know,” Ben said. “Maybe.”
He waited for Stan to say something else, but he didn’t.
“Are you going to make me go to a therapist? Or rehab?”
Stan shook his head. “I told you earlier—I’m not going to make you do anything.” He stared down Ben’s expression. “I might stop you from doing things that you do want to do, but that’s only for your own good.”
“What if I want to see a therapist?”
“Then we’ll find you one. Or you can borrow my laptop and find your own.”
Panic gripped at Ben’s chest, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. Well, he did. Because for a couple of years now, people had told him what to do, where to be, how to think and feel about everything. His only outlet had been the music that had been remixed and commercialised, edited for public radio, then he’d been forced to regurgitate it again and again and again until the words felt meaningless.