If he came to the dining hall late hoping to miss most of the usual crowd he may be disappointed when Abby comes in, fresh from the baths, her hair drawn back in a tight, still-damp braid. There is a wet spot on the back of her shirt where the tail end rests against it.
Naturally, the moment she spots him, she takes her food over to the same table to she can sit down opposite from him.
"Hey."
He does seem anxious and hurried, but these are not unusual Benedict emotions, so.
He offers Abby a little smile of greeting, glancing at the state of her hair but refraining from commenting on it-- people are allowed (and encouraged!) to take baths, after all. Not everyone is finicky about ensuring they're all dried off before they appear in public again.
And it almost would have been normal if Abby hadn't been expecting a little comment about her hair, because he always makes one (either positive or negative). She pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth. And then she says, "Hi," and puts it in.
Now she's really looking at him. The nervy fidgeting, the way he scoops his hair back but then lets it curtain dramatically across his face again.
He freezes briefly, and that’s as much an indictment than if he’d simply said no. “Of course,” he says nonetheless, and straightens, raising his head haughtily to tuck his hair back behind one ear; he glances at Abby furtively, playing at his stereotypical arrogance, but he’s a poor liar.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Nothing hideously stupid and embarrassing happened earlier, after all.
"Because you're acting weird," Abby points out, fairly. He should know that he's being obvious, at the very least.
But she stops looking directly at him.
"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," is not a guilt-trip, or to reverse engineer him into telling her. Abby gets it. Sometimes you want to sit around having a bad fucking time without lifting a single finger to do anything about it. She starts to eat her dinner, spooning stew into her mouth.
Abby scoffs. "No you aren't. You're going about it the wrong way."
Desperately wanting him via crystal isn't going to work on somebody like Kostos. This is her theory. "He probably likes saying no to you because he gets a kick out of it."
"I know." That much has been made abundantly clear, but it does little to assuage Benedict's anxiety or his self-doubt. He lowers his head, pressing at his temple, seeming to crumple in on himself.
"It doesn't matter. If it's not him, it's someone else." He gives a little shake of his head-- this isn't a problem that began with Kostos, even if Kostos is the most recent visible example.
Abby points her fork at him. "Yeah. You have bad taste in men."
Which is a little rich coming from her, but he doesn't know that. She doesn't think she's ever been in a position to give anybody relationship advice but that isn't about to stop her from trying. Benedict looks deflated, a little sad. Abby doesn't like seeing him like that.
"Have you tried sleeping with somebody who would treat you nicer?"
Opening his mouth, Benedict shoots Abby a glare, but the retort dies on his lips and becomes a scowl instead. He hunches his shoulders, directing his sulky gaze to the table instead.
"I have," he mumbles, "it's not... the same." She hit a sore spot, perhaps.
Abby realises a little too late that her usual, bolshie attitude isn't funny right now, it's only kicking him while he's down. She pauses, jaw working, reluctant.
"... Sorry." Like he needs her being a dick to him too.
New tactic. "Do you want me to help, or d'you just want me to listen."
He hesitates, still looking away, and doesn't entirely seem to know how to answer that question. After a long moment, he turns his gaze back to Abby in a searching look, as though half-expecting her to take another crack at him. When she doesn't, a bit of the tension releases from around his eyes, but there's an element of shame to it, too: constantly expecting the worst from people is a Him problem, after all.
"I don't know," he admits, lightly biting the inside of his cheek, "I don't want..." He trails off, looking for better phrasing, "...it's not your problem."
This better, stronger relationship between them isn't exactly new but Abby is bad at expressing herself. More than that, she ribs the people she likes, leaning mercilessly on them because she expects them to take it, and understand that she's saying I like you. It's not a great way to be.
To hear it stated so bluntly reopens a wound that hadn't closed quite right, that Benedict wasn't even fully aware was still there until it gives a jolt of pain; his eyes well up, and he's rapidly blinking away the damp, because he's not a crier. Or at least doesn't want to be.
"I'm not good at," he begins, but is now all too aware of where they're sitting, and that anyone around them might spot him-- he's never had a good poker face-- and take a shot. "...I don't want to talk about it here."
She notices, and her brow furrows in concern but she doesn't say anything. This all feels very fragile and she's said stupid, thoughtless shit to him in the past that had him storming off. Abby wants to show she's being careful.
"Okay. We—it doesn't have to be here. Or now. I just want you to know, you can... come to me, to talk, whenever you're ready. If that's something you wanna do."
God, she feels too big, almost clumsy. Still new to being a good friend, to anyone.
"Let's go upstairs," he mutters, because the idea of starting this conversation back over at some future date is almost worse than just continuing it now, in public. He rises abruptly, bringing his plate along and waiting with an impatient fidget for Abby to follow.
Assuming she does, he leads the way to his room-- which used to be the room containing only his water pipe and its paraphernalia, but which is now actually somewhat furnished with the sorts of things people keep when they live in a place. He's moved back upstairs.
It's a good spot. And it's exactly what Abby would imagine if asked to describe a room that Benedict lives in; a water pipe, his only roommate. Slouchy, comfortable cushions everywhere. Throws and rugs a central feature. "Nice."
She takes one of those big cushions to sit down with, and looks at him expectantly.
She's glad this is happening right away too, without a pause in-between. Means she doesn't have time to second guess anything she just said to him even though it was sincere.
The room has had a few years to build back towards its former glory, but still hasn't quite attained the sheer luxury of being financed by a high Magisterial house in Minrathous; perhaps it never will, and perhaps that's all right.
Still holding his plate, Benedict flumps onto one of his pillows and takes another bite, seeming to relax somewhat now that they're somewhere more private, even if he doesn't speak again right away. It's several thoughtful bites later that he finally mumbles,
"I'm not good at being a friend. Or... a lover. Whatever." Bite, chew, chew. "I'm selfish, and I'm stupid, I don't notice things."
Abby thinks of saying same, but this isn't about her. She stops herself by putting food into her mouth (though talking around it has never been something she's shied from in the past).
She observes, "At least you know that." So, theoretically, he can work on it and... change? Why does she have a feeling that isn't the case. Hmm. "Like—I mean, you're self aware."
Bene shrugs a shoulder, not dismissing the notion, but not entirely accepting it either.
"It only goes so far." He takes a final bite, and, setting his plate aside, settles onto the pillow on his stomach, arms folded in front of him with his legs crossed at the ankle and kicked up behind. "At a certain point it's just. Me. You know?" He fiddles with some trim on the edge of the pillow, staring at that instead of Abby, "a person can only change so much."
"So... what." Whoops, that sounded pretty blunt. Abby swears she is trying to listen and be helpful. She even puts her plate aside even though she isn't finished eating her dinner, saying loud and clear: you are more important than roasted potato.
He winces, but ultimately takes no offense: if Abby were genuinely cruel, they’d never have gotten this far.
“I want,” he says weakly, “I want to be someone people can like.” He scowls, looking down, embarrassed. One long finger begins to trace the embroidered pattern on the pillow. “But not—- because they see potential for this or that, or because I’m changing myself, or… not that change is a bad thing, but,”
He hesitates, a distinctly weary quality overtaking his frown. “I… Maybe I’m not sure who I even am anymore. But whoever it is, I don’t think he’s worth much. I don’t think there’s much to love there, and I don’t think there ever has been. And maybe I—-“
His voice hitches a bit and he angles his head away. “—maybe I like people who treat me like shit because at least they’re honest, aren’t they? And I can give them what they want.”
It's difficult to listen to him say this. He is saying it about himself and Abby likes him (it's sad), but also because it is deeply relatable. How many times has she thought these exact things about herself whenever she's stuck in some gross, self-pitying loop? I want to be someone people can like. I'm not sure who I even am anymore. Whoever I am, I don't think I'm worth very much. It's weird to hear that come out of somebody else's mouth.
She's quiet as she listens, looking at her plate and letting herself be uncomfortable, to sit in her feelings and sort through them. That's something she's learning to do too.
Finally, she clears her throat.
"I mean—I know it's not the same thing, but I like you. And other people like you, Benedict. Byerly does, and Ellie does." There's more, of course, but a list isn't the point she's trying to make here. Let her guess at something. "I think you like people who treat you like shit because you don't think you deserve anything better than that, even though you do."
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Naturally, the moment she spots him, she takes her food over to the same table to she can sit down opposite from him.
"Hey."
He does seem anxious and hurried, but these are not unusual Benedict emotions, so.
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"H'llo," he replies, pleasantly enough.
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Now she's really looking at him. The nervy fidgeting, the way he scoops his hair back but then lets it curtain dramatically across his face again.
She says, casually, "You good?"
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“Of course,” he says nonetheless, and straightens, raising his head haughtily to tuck his hair back behind one ear; he glances at Abby furtively, playing at his stereotypical arrogance, but he’s a poor liar.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Nothing hideously stupid and embarrassing happened earlier, after all.
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But she stops looking directly at him.
"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," is not a guilt-trip, or to reverse engineer him into telling her. Abby gets it. Sometimes you want to sit around having a bad fucking time without lifting a single finger to do anything about it. She starts to eat her dinner, spooning stew into her mouth.
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...until he can't anymore, and he sets his fork down in a huff, using the same hand to prop his chin instead.
"I'm not a crier," he mutters.
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"Don't listen to Kostos."
She puts potato in her mouth. "He'sth an athhole."
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But I want him anyway, goes unsaid, as he pushes food around the plate with the fork in his free hand, his brow furrowing prettily.
"I'm stupid for trying."
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Desperately wanting him via crystal isn't going to work on somebody like Kostos. This is her theory. "He probably likes saying no to you because he gets a kick out of it."
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"It doesn't matter. If it's not him, it's someone else." He gives a little shake of his head-- this isn't a problem that began with Kostos, even if Kostos is the most recent visible example.
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Which is a little rich coming from her, but he doesn't know that. She doesn't think she's ever been in a position to give anybody relationship advice but that isn't about to stop her from trying. Benedict looks deflated, a little sad. Abby doesn't like seeing him like that.
"Have you tried sleeping with somebody who would treat you nicer?"
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"I have," he mumbles, "it's not... the same." She hit a sore spot, perhaps.
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"... Sorry." Like he needs her being a dick to him too.
New tactic. "Do you want me to help, or d'you just want me to listen."
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"I don't know," he admits, lightly biting the inside of his cheek, "I don't want..." He trails off, looking for better phrasing, "...it's not your problem."
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This better, stronger relationship between them isn't exactly new but Abby is bad at expressing herself. More than that, she ribs the people she likes, leaning mercilessly on them because she expects them to take it, and understand that she's saying I like you. It's not a great way to be.
So she clarifies. "You're my friend."
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"I'm not good at," he begins, but is now all too aware of where they're sitting, and that anyone around them might spot him-- he's never had a good poker face-- and take a shot. "...I don't want to talk about it here."
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"Okay. We—it doesn't have to be here. Or now. I just want you to know, you can... come to me, to talk, whenever you're ready. If that's something you wanna do."
God, she feels too big, almost clumsy. Still new to being a good friend, to anyone.
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Assuming she does, he leads the way to his room-- which used to be the room containing only his water pipe and its paraphernalia, but which is now actually somewhat furnished with the sorts of things people keep when they live in a place. He's moved back upstairs.
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She takes one of those big cushions to sit down with, and looks at him expectantly.
She's glad this is happening right away too, without a pause in-between. Means she doesn't have time to second guess anything she just said to him even though it was sincere.
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Still holding his plate, Benedict flumps onto one of his pillows and takes another bite, seeming to relax somewhat now that they're somewhere more private, even if he doesn't speak again right away. It's several thoughtful bites later that he finally mumbles,
"I'm not good at being a friend. Or... a lover. Whatever." Bite, chew, chew. "I'm selfish, and I'm stupid, I don't notice things."
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She observes, "At least you know that." So, theoretically, he can work on it and... change? Why does she have a feeling that isn't the case. Hmm. "Like—I mean, you're self aware."
That is a good thing.
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"It only goes so far." He takes a final bite, and, setting his plate aside, settles onto the pillow on his stomach, arms folded in front of him with his legs crossed at the ankle and kicked up behind.
"At a certain point it's just. Me. You know?" He fiddles with some trim on the edge of the pillow, staring at that instead of Abby, "a person can only change so much."
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"What do you want to happen?" Is what she means.
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“I want,” he says weakly, “I want to be someone people can like.” He scowls, looking down, embarrassed. One long finger begins to trace the embroidered pattern on the pillow.
“But not—- because they see potential for this or that, or because I’m changing myself, or… not that change is a bad thing, but,”
He hesitates, a distinctly weary quality overtaking his frown.
“I… Maybe I’m not sure who I even am anymore. But whoever it is, I don’t think he’s worth much. I don’t think there’s much to love there, and I don’t think there ever has been. And maybe I—-“
His voice hitches a bit and he angles his head away.
“—maybe I like people who treat me like shit because at least they’re honest, aren’t they? And I can give them what they want.”
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She's quiet as she listens, looking at her plate and letting herself be uncomfortable, to sit in her feelings and sort through them. That's something she's learning to do too.
Finally, she clears her throat.
"I mean—I know it's not the same thing, but I like you. And other people like you, Benedict. Byerly does, and Ellie does." There's more, of course, but a list isn't the point she's trying to make here. Let her guess at something. "I think you like people who treat you like shit because you don't think you deserve anything better than that, even though you do."
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