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."
The point isn't to litigate the issue or to be swayed away from it, which is what prevents Benedict from denying or nitpicking Abby's argument. He gives a helpless little shrug instead, finally looking at her, his expression oddly sympathetic: she may be right, but his heart is much more difficult to convince than his mind.
"What does it even mean to deserve something?" he asks, fiddling once more with the trim.
She doesn't have all the answers. She isn't going to pretend she does, either. He isn't looking at her so she replies again, out loud this time. "I dunno. If you figure that out, could you let me know?"
A little chuckle follows, laced with actual amusement-- it's hard to have a conversation like this without any form of self-effacement, even for him.
"Yeah," he agrees, with a serious nod, "as long as you do the same." His eyes flit up to meet Abby's, his expression still mostly somber, but bearing a quiet gratitude. Thanks for listening.
"'Course," she says quickly. They make eye contact for a moment, wherein lies a moment of genuine, mutual gratitude and care.
And then Abby says, "Are you eating that," and takes some leftover food off his plate with her fingers before he can say anything at all, popping it into her mouth.
He's pretending to look and stay mad, but it's impossible with Abby's rapid collapse into whatever this is. Benedict watches her a moment in minor concern, but it's quickly split by a grin of genuine amusement.
"Look at you," he scoffs, "felled by your own hubris."
She has to swallow quick to be able to cough, the sound that and half of a laugh mixed in. When she calms down and wipes her eyes, she says, "Fuck. I always am."
Stupid.
But she thinks she might have made him feel a bit better in the process, so it was worth it.
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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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"What does it even mean to deserve something?" he asks, fiddling once more with the trim.
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She doesn't have all the answers. She isn't going to pretend she does, either. He isn't looking at her so she replies again, out loud this time. "I dunno. If you figure that out, could you let me know?"
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"Yeah," he agrees, with a serious nod, "as long as you do the same." His eyes flit up to meet Abby's, his expression still mostly somber, but bearing a quiet gratitude. Thanks for listening.
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And then Abby says, "Are you eating that," and takes some leftover food off his plate with her fingers before he can say anything at all, popping it into her mouth.
You're welcome.
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"Yes," he says indignantly, "...I'm going to get you for that."
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"Look at you," he scoffs, "felled by your own hubris."
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Stupid.
But she thinks she might have made him feel a bit better in the process, so it was worth it.