#I missed these boys so much sdfjksdfsdhafk

[spacetimewraithwrites-archive]

Temporal Displacement

“Hey, Benny, c’mere.”

Ben raised his eyes from his music book and let out an impatient sigh through his flared nostrils upon coming into immediate visual contact with the cardboard boxes strewn about Reagan’s kitchen, labeled and neatly organized as was his way of doing things. “I’m not fallin’ for that one again, pal.”

The sound of Reagan also sighing, wistfully, almost sadly, sent another bolt of pure anguish through Ben’s heart. The days grew longer but their time together grew shorter, and while Reagan was especially adept at hiding his suffering from his lifelong best friend, he wasn’t an expert at it.

Ben stood from the stool at the large kitchen island and closed the hardback sheet music journal, brushing his fingers over the leather cover, staring at the doorway before deciding to cross the threshold into the living room, where Reagan stood amongst a couple of photo albums perched on the couch and the coffee table.

He glanced up from the open album in his hands, turned halfway through, his crystalline blue eyes just missing portraying the sly smile creeping onto his face. “I found a goldmine.”

Ben’s shoulders slumped. “Listen, I know I was a prepubescent freak of nature—”

“It’s the day I bought the Capri.”

Ben paused mid-gesticulation and raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

Reagan coyly beckoned him with a hand and turned the book as he approached. “1955. Think it was June. The first big purchase I ever made with the money from the act.”

Ben’s brow furrowed as he took a distracted gander at the pages. “Money from the act? The hell you mean, where else would it come from?”

Reagan swallowed, lightly cleared his throat, and pointed to one of the grainy photos. “...Nowhere. Look, you got a big stupid grin on your face."

“I think Faye might’ve just told me we were havin’ a baby.”

They fell quiet and Ben pulled the album closer to his face to get a better look. Several black and white moments captured for an eternity of himself and Reagan standing in front of the powder blue ‘55 Lincoln Capri, hair blowing haphazardly in the breezy Los Angeles wind. It was taken only five years ago but it felt like forever, what with Abigail joining the Gilmore and Murray family, finding a new manager for Reagan, becoming worldwide phenomenons separately as their worst nightmares dictated when they were kids....

Ben squinted to stave off the swell of emotion threatening to show itself as he latched onto one photo in particular; the sight of Reagan with his hand in his pocket, giving the lens that devilish grin he’d perfected, practically trademarked, using Ben’s shoulder as an elbow rest. They were so happy, so professionally divided, but it didn’t bother them in that exact second because they rode high, provided for their families, doing what they did best and making time for each other.

Ben snapped the album shut and threw Reagan a somewhat desperate grimace.

Taking the album from him, Reagan, having deciphered exactly what that expression meant, turned back to the purposeful chaos of the room and pulled out a framed photo of Ben when he was fifteen. Gangly and awkward, but finally growing into his looks, brown hair smoothed down within an inch of its life thanks to his mother.

“No!” Ben shouted. “You put that back—why...why the fuck do you have that?!”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that,” Reagan said, the tiniest breach of his natural Irish brogue seeping through the false Jersey accent he’d adopted decades ago. He flashed a gorgeous smile and tucked the photo under his arm. “Might take this on the plane with me.”

“How’s that gonna look, fella?”

Reagan laughed. “Not good.”

“Ya fuckin’ think?”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Reagan said suddenly. At Ben’s smile fading, he nodded. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Ben looked around, taking in the sight of all the boxes again, the various things Reagan had to bring with him overseas. The past, their past, their lives coming to an abrupt halt for something that couldn’t be avoided, for potential tragedy.

“I don’t think I am, Reg.”

Reagan pinned him with a very distant stare and Ben did nothing to return it.