Fic: Chris Traeger Naked
Title: Chris Traeger Naked
Fandom: Parks and Recreation
Characters/ Pairings: Chris and Ben friendship, Leslie/Ben on the side
Spoilers: The Debate
Rating: PG-13 or maybe R, but I don't know. I mean, this is about nakedness. But it's not exactly sexual. Any homoeroticism is completely unintentional.
Word count: ~5100
Summary: Yes, Ben knows the answer to that question. Unfortunately.
Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own it or there wouldn't be this tragic lack of nudity on the show. This is a labour of love.
Notes: This started out as an innocent comment I made, apropos of Jennifer Barkley bringing it up, about the probable appearance of Chris Traeger's penis in the discussion thread for The Debate over on leslie_ben. craponaspatula, beetsbearsbsg, and stillscape chimed in and before you knew it, we were discussing the state of all of Pawnee's penises. Then saucydiva took this over to tumblr, and princess-george accused me of encouraging the discussion and told me to get on with writing this, while saucydiva and stillscape and I went on about how Ben might have found out about it, this thing that shall not be discussed. Big thank you also to rikyl, who was not only brave enough to beta this, but had a bunch of intelligent things to say about it, too. This is for all of you beautiful weirdos(, to borrow craponaspatula's phrase). But it's mostly my fault and I do apologize. Also, yes, I'm aware that there's a bizarre jumble of Sanskrit and Chinese going at one point, but, uh ... oh well. Comments are fantastic, of course.
Recognize beauty and ugliness is born.
Recognize good and evil is born.
Ku yu wu hsiang shen.
Is and Isn't produce each other.
- Tao Te Ching
Chris Traeger Naked
The adrenalin starts to wear off during the car ride home. Leslie yawns. She's looking out the window as Ben steers the car through the now nearly empty streets of Pawnee. He thinks back on the day - the spine tingling excitement they both woke up with, the nausea he felt during those moments in the debate when Bobby got the upper hand, the rush of triumph when Leslie delivered the mother of all ass-kickings. It's like winning the mayoral debate all over again, except so much better because he shares it all with Leslie. Leslie whom he loves to love and like so much.
When he was elected mayor, his attitude was really more like … like that of Jennifer Barkley. Her indifference astounds him now not because he can't see how somebody could view it all as just some kind of game, but because her way of thinking clashes so violently with his own feelings. They've stood next to each other just behind the scenes at all these events - vying for endorsements and negotiating interviews and organizing giveaways and acting like intellectual boxing coaches during the debate tonight. And while he can only barely contain himself, has to stop himself from fidgeting nervously and letting too much of his feelings show, she's answering emails on her phone or painting her nails or - oh god, he's done his best to bury it in some dark, dark corner of his mind, somewhere between memories of melting down in front of Cindy Eckart and that time he was 16 and his mother walked in on him masturbating to a picture of Kathy Ireland, yet here it is - asking him about Chris's penis of all things!
He snorts.
"What?" Leslie asks.
Ben shakes his head. "Oh, nothing. At all. No. Don't worry about it."
"Okay," she says, sounding dubious. But she goes back to watching her town pass by behind the window.
≈
"Okay … here's the deal. I need to ask you something," he says through a mouthful of toothpaste.
Leslie's already in bed, studying poll numbers and some of the earliest press on the debate. Ben walks in from the bathroom, goes over to the window and shuts the curtains. He picks up their clothes, which lie scattered on the floor, and puts them on the chair by the window, not looking at her. Leslie raises an eyebrow.
"Okay?"
He moves to the foot of the bed and fiddles with the edge of the comforter.
"Because I don't know, I think Jen may have some kind of trick up her sleeve. And … I don't know, I can't stop thinking about it."
"Really?"
"Or … I mean, it could be nothing. Eh, it's probably nothing."
"No, tell me. Ben, if there's even the potential that she's got some-"
"She seemed weirdly … interested, I guess would be the word. In Chris."
Leslie laughs.
"Oh stop. I know that's nothing unusual, believe me. But you know how if Bobby wins he'll try to bring in a new City Manager, and- She seemed weirdly interested. In a weird way. It was just … weird."
"What did she say?"
"Uh … she … uhm …well, she asked if he had a girlfriend."
"That's it?! Honey, no offense, but have you looked at the guy? I mean, if you and I weren't … and if I didn't know him of course, I might-"
"Ahhh! Stop! That's not all she said."
"Oh, it's not?"
"No." He swallows the toothpaste and studies the floor.
"Ben?"
"Mh."
"So what else did she say?"
"Argh. She asked … she asked- About his, you know."
"About his what? His job? His car? His life insurance?"
"She asked about his penis, okay! Specifically, if it's normal."
Leslie laughs. Guffaws, rather. It's a while before she manages to straighten up enough to speak. Ben stands at the foot of the bed, remnants of toothpaste drying on the edges of his mouth.
"Okay … " She's still giggling a little. Then she lets out a heavy sigh, theatrically, and brushes the tears from the corners of her eyes. "Okay. And you thought that was strange."
"You mean you don't find that strange."
"Uhm, not really no." She smirks and gives a shrug.
"You mean you go around … you went around … asking men about their-"
"Hm, you know, I don't think I have, actually. I've asked much stranger things on first dates though-"
"Good lord. Don't tell me." He makes a pleading expression, which she ignores.
"- oh, but there was that one time Ann suggested I ask you about yours."
"WHAT?!"
"Yeah. Before we went on that road trip together. She was kind of trying to get us to hook up-"
"And you thought that was- Okay, that's- Alright. I've heard enough, I think."
Ben retreats to the bathroom where he spends a good ten minutes biding his time, brushing his teeth with fresh toothpaste, splashing water in his face. When he returns to the bedroom, he gets into bed next to Leslie without a word. She's mercifully silent.
At least until he's half asleep, when she says, "So, Ben, are you saying you really don't know the answer?"
"Mhh … the answer to what?"
"Is Chris's penis normal?"
"What?! No. I mean- what does- why would you care?"
"Just curious. If you do. I mean, you did spend twelve years on the road together. That's … just twelve years. Is all. And you're really telling me you never saw him naked. Ever? Not even once?"
He buries his head under the pillow and doesn't answer. Leslie shrugs and keeps reading, for a few hours, until her eyelids start to feel too heavy.
≈
Ben dreams. You wouldn't know it because unlike Leslie he rarely stirs, doesn't twitch, and he never cries out in his sleep. But that doesn't mean he isn't caught in some vivid world of his own imagining. Or, like tonight, in colourful nightmares of the past …
1999 - Rising Sun, IN
"Ben!" A series of enthusiastic knocks accompanies the voice coming from behind his motel room door.
"Hey Chris," Ben says, opening the door. He yawns. You can't blame him; it's 4:30 in the morning.
"Ben," Traeger says. There are two guns aiming at Ben's chest. He freezes. Yet Traeger, who is clearly insane, wears a winning smile."Fantastic news! I have found - literally - the best thing for us to do. Hurry up! Get dressed and let's-" Traeger snaps his ... guns? Fingers, that's what they've suddenly transformed into.
"Uh … what are you talking about?" Ben rubs a hand across his face. He had kind of premonition about this guy, Chris Traeger, who hugged him to his chest so tightly it squeezed all the air from Ben's lungs when they were assigned to be partners two days ago. And yesterday, on the two-hour drive here from Indianapolis, Ben had the impression he was sitting next to a giant disembodied smile, steering the car, yet without any real person attached to it. At any rate, there must be something wrong with the guy's face, because as far as Ben can tell, Traeger has never yet stopped smiling in his presence. Not even for a minute.
"You'll see. And when you do, it is-literally-going to knock your socks off!"
"O-kay. Well. Give me a minute." Ben shuts the door in Traeger's face and exhales sharply.
He hesitates. His head must not working quite right yet at this hour, because he can't for the life of him imagine what there could be to do at 4:30 in the morning that has anything at all to do with cutting the budget of Rising Sun, IN, population 2,304, down to size. Then again, what choice does he have, really? Traeger has been at this way longer than him, and he probably really shouldn't get their first assignment off to an antagonistic start. That's what comes naturally, of course. Antagonism. But he promised himself he'd try to let go of some of that acerbic disposition of his, would try to make a good impression in this job …
Reluctantly, Ben peels off his pajamas and slips on a pair of khakis and a shirt. Should he wear a tie, too? No, screw it, nobody should expect a state budget specialist to be in full business attire at 4:30 in the morning. This isn't a job that involves extreme emergency early morning calls, or at least he hopes it's not ...
The dream shifts - and Ben finds himself next to Traeger on an expanse of grass at the bank of the Ohio River. About a dozen people have assembled here, all looking in the general direction of where the sun is just about to rise across the river.
Is that it? Traeger brought him here at some ungodly morning hour to watch the sunrise like a pair of star-crossed lovers? He really … he doesn't … he's going to have to have a word with Traeger about this, he thinks, but before Ben can muster the appropriate amount of outrage, something else happens.
The first beam of the sun crosses the horizon. It transforms the light that envelops the river bend they're facing, tingeing what was a cool bluish scene with greyish sky and dew-heavy grass anew in an orange-pink glow. The dew drops become strangely substantial and turn hyper-luminescent, somehow, like orange and pink glow-in-the-dark beads of glass. The temperature of the cool June morning instantly seems to rise by several degrees as well, and then there's that sky! The sky, which has turned a stunning, unnnaturally brilliant shade of neon magenta ... It is, all of it, a breathtaking spectacle, and Ben longs to revel in that sky, wants to touch the firm little beads of light on the grass and see what happens when he does- But he barely has time so much as take in the view, because one of the assembled has stopped forward, and, facing the sun, she has lifted her arms, palms pressed together, above her head.
"Om surya namaskar," she chants, over and over again. She's facing away from Chris and Ben, yet her voice booms loudly and reverberates, like a gong. "Ahhhoooouuummmm, surya namaskar." And - then, suddenly, she pauses and just when the last note of her chant has died, her- the sun's backlight makes it hard to see, but her- at least Ben definitely thinks her- no, yes, her clothes have definitely … vanished. She's now completely and utterly- yes, she's standing stark naked facing the river bend.
And looking around, Ben finds the people next to and in front of him and Traeger … they're all naked now, all except Ben himself. Or is it that they were all naked from the start? Ben can't remember ... it seems like something he'd have noticed, but you never know ... not with this sleep-addled brain. And they all seem so entirely unconcerned about their nakedness. In fact, they're joining in the chanting, lifting their arms above their heads, and ... What is this? Some kind of cult? This is nuts, right? These people are clearly just … nuts. Insane. Loco. Bananas.
Good lord, Ben could still be sleeping right now, in his toasty warm bed in kind of a shitty motel room, fully clothed and blissfully alone.
He doesn't know why he looks to Traeger for an ally in his shock - there is no reason to expect the man that brought him here - at gunpoint no less, or so it felt - to share these feelings … but, after all, he's the only one he knows among this group of, of … lunatics, though not well. No, he doesn't know him at all well, really … In any case, it doesn't matter why, Ben turns his head to the left and … and catches Traeger divesting himself of his last piece of clothing, a pair of boxer briefs. And- oh yes, Ben realizes that there is in fact a good amount of clothing, not just Traeger's, strewn all around the grass ...
"Sun salutation meditation," Traeger whispers, straightening. He gives Ben what he presumably means to be a reassuring smile. "Just go with it." And he lowers his hands until they are in front of his chest, then opens them and lifts them over the sides and above his head again. "Ahhhoooouuummmm, surya namaskar," Traeger chants with the rest of the group, his eyes on the rising sun.
Just go with it???, Ben thinks. Because there's no way. Even if the light wasn't hitting Traeger's chest quite spectacularly, highlighting the soft rise and fall of the muscles there, making him look every inch like what they call a 'Greek god' … Ben would never … certainly not in public …
But of course the light is hitting Traeger, spectacularly. Rather too spectacularly. It's like he is in rivalry with the sky, that stunning sheet of solid magenta. His toned muscles swell and shift with the movement of his arms, and his skin is a perfect shade of golden brown all over. In fact, his chest gleams, and his penis is glowing orange and fully erect and-
But no. No, Ben thinks, perfectly lucid all of a sudden. That never happened. That's not how this goes.
No, in fact, the sky is an ordinary sky, though the sun does rise, rather prettily, beyond the river. And Traeger is naked-that much is true. And of course the first sunlight of the day is hitting Traeger quite beautifully, and his toned muscles do swell and shift with the movement of his arms, and he has a perfect, even tan, and his pen- But no. No, Ben's absolutely not going to look past the man's waist, no. Not ever. Never. Ben, who's 24, but well aware that he looks several years younger with his scrawny chest and skinny limbs and terrified face, is already feeling … inadequate is not really strong enough an expression- but, yes, for lack of a better word, Ben's already feeling inadequate enough in the presence of the 32-year-old Traeger, Greek God.
"Recognize beauty and ugliness is born. Recognize good and evil is born. Ku yu wu hsiang shen. Is and Isn't produce each other," chants the woman in front, and the group punctuate her chant with a deep guttural ahhhooooummmm.
Ben bites his lip as more verses follow. He stops watching Traeger and hopes this will all be over soon, and then-mercifully-it is. There are two long chants of "ahhhooooummm" followed by a "shanti shanti shanti ahhhooooummm" and then the group take a collective bow and pick up their clothing and begin to disperse.
Ben risks another tentative look at Traeger, who's taking a long gaze at the sun and inhales deeply. "Ben Wyatt!" he says, and throws a naked arm around Ben's clothed shoulders. "That was amazing-and-I do want to thank you for sharing this moment with me. This is the beginning of a wonderful partnership, don't you think?"
Before Ben can reply, can give Traeger a piece of his mind, maybe - although in this lucid state Ben knows very well that all this happened almost thirteen years ago and he never did get around to giving Chris a talking to about this after all -, something hits his chest. Ben's eyes fly open. He's in a dark bedroom and Leslie has just shifted in such a way that her right arm landed on his front. Ben reaches for the glass of water on the bedside table. Taking a sip, he shakes his head, as if to clear it, and then goes back to sleep.
2002 - Fort Wayne, IN
He's about to die.
For sure.
Any second now.
Fuck, this hurts.
He doesn't want to die, not really, though death just might be preferable to this. This pain ... Anyway, no use debating this, because here it is! Here it comes!
Okay, no. Maybe that's a touch melodramatic. Maybe Ben's not about to die exactly. But that's the closest thing to what this feels like. Not that he's ever felt what it's like to die, but still. His heart is beating too fast, like his own heartbeat is trying to overtake itself, and- oh god, but even if he isn't about to die, he's surely about to pass out and then Chris, superhuman being that he is, is going to carry him out and Ben's never going to …
He knew it was a mistake to tell Chris, and it especially was a mistake to tell him in the biggest city they've been to, where there are facilities for everything and therefore excuses for nothing. He really should know better by now, but sometimes he just underestimates the unfailing nature of Chris's inclination to try to be helpful … And now, now he's paying the price, as he's ... fuck, he's about to die after all. For sure. Any second n-
-the sound of a whistle penetrates his thoughts. Ben can't quite believe it. That means it's over. It's over! This is all over and he's free! Free!
"Ben! Great job, buddy!" Chris lends a steadying hand as Ben just about falls off the exercycle. He's wearing metallic blue spandex bike shorts and a black tank top, all skin-tight of course, and there's only the slightest sheen of sweat on his skin, damn him. It doesn't even make any sense: Ben's 27 and Chris is 35, and clearly there's no justice in the world, none at all.
"Water," Ben, in his baggy workout shorts and faded University of Indiana tee, moans. The Greek God hands him a bottle as he claps him on the back. "Terrific job! I-honestly-didn't know you had it in you, but you were off the charts, Ben Wyatt, just incredible!"
Okay … so even though Ben was the one to suggest he might want to start working out a little - with emphasis on a little and to start - Chris is responsible for this choice of hardcore spin class, and Ben is absolutely and most definitely going to murder him for this. In cold blood. Just as soon as he's done gasping for air and dying of thirst, of course.
Next thing he knows, Ben's sitting in the gym's bar area, a protein shake in front of him - how did that get there? - enjoying the dubious pleasure of watching Chris from where he sits as the other man takes his top off and falls into a quick rhythm on the treadmill. "Hey, wait for me while I cool down a little on the treadmill over there?" Chris had said, as he deposited the hyperventilating Ben in this chair. Cool down, my ass, Ben thinks. He can still hear his own heart beating ... boboomboboomboboomboboomboboomboboomboboomboboomboboom ... it goes, unnaturally loud and fast and irregular. And for some reason he can hear Chris's pulse, too ... boom ... boom ... boom ... steady like clockwork. It vibrates through the room and picks up no speed at all even as Chris turns his jog into a gallop. ... boom ... boom ... boom ... boom ... And due to all this racket of his heartbeat - or really probably just because he's Chris - Chris is attracting looks from every woman passing by and quite a few of the men, too. His crotch, the only part of his body not firm enough to withstand such undignified movement, wobbles up and down with each step and- no, Ben's not looking at that, specifically, not at his genitals, what on earth are you thinking of? It's just that the spandex leaves next to nothing to the imagination, and the fabric glitters, mesmerizingly, with each step and each shift of light. In fact, it's hypnotizing you, mocking you and daring you to look, and then you can't look a-
-Ben wakes with a start. Urgh. What's wrong with him? His girlfriend, his lovely, lovely girlfriend who just delivered a total home run of a debate is sleeping next to him and here he is, dreaming of Chris's … Chris's … whatever. Irritated, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and heads to the bathroom to pee. He's not going to dream of Chris, or any part of Chris's, anymore, he tells himself as he climbs back into bed. Absolutely not.
His subconscious, however, has other ideas …
2006 - Bremen, IN
There's the sound of harps, coming from somewhere out of sight. Quiet but penetrating, it sets Ben's teeth on edge.
Where is he?
The air is heavy in here, humid and warm.
He's inside, though, and he feels off-balance, because there are tiles beneath his bare feet, and they're ever so slightly wet, so that he could slip at any moment, and-
Oh, god ... no!
Chris divests himself of his bathrobe without further ado. Stark naked and armed with only a towel in hand, he sends Ben a blinding smile and disappears into the hot room.
So that's what this is. Bremen, IN, population 10,032, a town that, true to the heritage of its name, has a German sauna. Or "eine deutsche Sauna," as Chris said in what Ben feels sure is terrible German. He remembers that.
What he doesn't remember is how Chris talked him into this one ... But he must have, because it's happening. Ben strains to think how in the world he could have got here, but the air is too perfumy - he catches a strong whiff of orange peel - and the harps are making him drowsy, and so-
Ben starts when a man and a woman walk past, hand in hand, without a sliver of clothing to mar their naked skin. He's sure they weigh at least 600 pounds together, too, and- so, that's what's expected of him … he's supposed to … Yes. Ben stares at Chris's robe on a hanger in front of him. Yes, it is expected to- but there are women around … not exactly attractive women, maybe, as far as he can see, but members of the opposite sex nonetheless. And there're men around, of course … equally naked and Ben's not sure which is worse, actually.
He takes a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. Okay. Okay. He can handle this. It's just a body, isn't it? He can do this, go in there, sit, sweating, next to Chris … Oh, good lord, no. I can't, I really, really can't, he thinks even as he removes his own robe and hastily ties the towel around his midsection in its place.
Inside, the air is even more cloyingly sweet and five people of various sexes are scattered around the semi-darkness. Ben wistfully eyes the empty bottom bench, but- "Over here!" Chris calls and waves him over. Of course. He's sitting at the very top, where if Ben's knowledge of physics doesn't fail him - and it doesn't - it's hottest of all. And it's hot in here. So very, very hot. Ben thinks he's starting to feel faint already, and he's only been in here for about 10 seconds.
But he climbs the benches and takes a seat next Chris, who has spread his towel out under him. Ben leaves his around his waist, because, he … he just can't. He already feels inadequate enough, thank you very much. He's 31 years old and even though Chris is pushing 40, they look about the same age now. Except that Ben's as weedy as ever-if they lived a hundred years ago people might suspect him of suffering from consumption-and Chris, whom people are always telling he doesn't look a day over 25, is still every inch the Greek God. Muscular, but not overly so, not like a bodybuilder, but like a swimmer maybe, all lean and limber, and … for god's sake, Ben looks away.
Fifteen minutes later, Chris slaps his thigh below the towel with a sweaty hand and beams at him. "Ready to go?"
Ben's just glad to regain the comfort of his bathrobe, but Chris ... Chris immediately steps through a door to the outside, where he jumps into an icy pool. Ben's head clears for the first time since he got here, instantly, like someone flipped a switch. It's January! There's a draught of ice-cold air from the door and snow beyond it. The water out there can't possibly be much above freezing! Ben watches with alarm through the glass door. He's genuinely worried that Chris might have a heart attack and drown, something like that, because this is insane, even for him ... and when he does, Ben won't have the strength to carry him out ... it's going to be so humiliating- But then, of course, the Greek God, the very picture of virility, hoists himself up out of the pool and sprints back toward the door.
And how does the man manage to stay just the right shade of silky tan in the dead of winter in podunk, Indiana anyway? Under the same conditions, Ben's own face veers back and forth between pasty and pale and red and sweaty, like right now. But-Ben can't help but make that slightly savage observation-in the ice water at least Chris's dick has shrunk to about a third its normal size-
AHH! Ben narrowly avoids crying out as he wakes. Next to him, Leslie's mumbling quietly. Something about love and like, which is their thing to say to each other, his and Leslie's, but right now it seems she's addressing a stack of waffles. It doesn't matter. He'll take it. Anything other than reliving these nightmares about Chris's- Not gonna do that, Ben isn't. So he settles back down, and wraps an arm around Leslie's waist, and watches her until his eyes fall closed again.
2010 - Indianapolis
A bell jingles as Ben pushes open the door. The windows are covered by black cloth, but a skylight causes a strange pattern of chiaroscuro to fall across the studio. Dust permeates the air and gives the broad shafts of light an almost physical presence. The whole place has the atmosphere of a cathedral.
"Ben Wyatt! You found me!" Chris calls from a pedestal in the middle of room. His voice echoes in the high-ceilinged space. He's beaming but not otherwise moving, and strains to look at Ben from the corner of his eyes.
"This is my partner, Ben Wyatt," Chris says to the sculptor who's hammering away at a block of marble in front of him as Ben floats - at least he thinks he floats, because he doesn't actually seem to be moving his feet - more centrally into Chris's line of vision. "Ben, this is the Maestro Andrea Capelli, he's-literally-the most exciting sculptor of his generation."
"Hey,” Ben nods towards Capelli, who ignores him. “What's so important it couldn't wait until you … you know … until … you weren't … completely naked, maybe?" Chris's text spoke of very important news and where to find him, this place so far out on the edge of town that it took three attempts to find. But now that Ben sees him posing buck naked in the artist's studio, he has to wonder if it's really as urgent as all that.
"Ah, yes, sorry about that. But I'm-literally-going to be here for hours yet. Anyway, it's nothing you haven't seen before, right?"
"I guess," Ben waves him off. At least this time he won't have to join him in his nudity, he thinks. And, admittedly, it's difficult for Chris's body to bother you like this. Held absolutely still and thrown into sharp relief by the skylight, he looks like a sculpture already. A Greek god, immortal and perfect, but perhaps not quite real.
"I have fantastic news, Ben! New assignment." Chris smiles. Ben has to hand it to him, his self-control is impeccable. He sounds as enthusiastic as ever, but, except for his face, he's not moving, not an inch. "Town of Pawnee, about 90 miles south of here, population just over 66,000. Budget decisions have been suspended pending our evaluation of their deficit. Sounds amazing, doesn't it?"
Chris's definition of amazing is admittedly broad. Still- it's a pretty good assignment, by the sound of it. Ben will gladly take anything over 10,000 in terms of population. Over 50,000 is even better. The smaller towns rarely are of interest anymore. The work's usually done within a week, a fortnight at the most. But these larger cities, with their more complex interplay between City Council and executive, always pose a challenge. And Pawnee will be Chris and Ben's biggest assignment in a year.
"Yeah, alright. You're right. Sounds pretty good." Ben smiles.
And then he ventures a look at the marble slab the sculptor is hacking away at. He's got the rough shape down. The legs and feet have been given more detail than the rest already. And right now he's- oh hell, no! Ben eyes go wide, because with a fine rasp, Capelli is just now putting the finishing touches on Chris's penis! A perfect likeness. Ben can't tear his eyes away. As if magnified in a comic-strip, Chris's marble penis fills his entire field of vision as it's being caressed by the sculptor's tool. And yes. Yes, Ben might as well admit it, that penis is, in fact, perfectly normal, in life as well as in art, though not normally especially large. But not especially small either … and why is he thinking about this at all, what's wrong with-
-the alarm sounds. 6 AM. Leslie, in true Leslie-fashion, finds her voice immediately.
"'Morning! I didn't sleep-debate Bobby this time, did I? Ben? I definitely feel like I didn't."
"Mhhhh…no." Ben stirs sluggishly and wipes a hand across his eyes.
She smiles sweetly. "Good. I'm glad you got a good night's sleep for once."
And he doesn't have the heart to tell her that he's exhausted. That his sleep was fitful and tormented, that his muscles ache and his head hurts. That all these dreams that have been haunting him throughout the night have left a distinctly bad taste in his mouth.
And even if he did. Even if he could bring himself to protest the veracity of her statement, to plead with her for a few extra hours- He won't. No. Because he's never, never ever, going to tell her just how well he knows the answer to that question.
THE END
----------------
Follow-up: Waiting
Fandom: Parks and Recreation
Characters/ Pairings: Chris and Ben friendship, Leslie/Ben on the side
Spoilers: The Debate
Rating: PG-13 or maybe R, but I don't know. I mean, this is about nakedness. But it's not exactly sexual. Any homoeroticism is completely unintentional.
Word count: ~5100
Summary: Yes, Ben knows the answer to that question. Unfortunately.
Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own it or there wouldn't be this tragic lack of nudity on the show. This is a labour of love.
Notes: This started out as an innocent comment I made, apropos of Jennifer Barkley bringing it up, about the probable appearance of Chris Traeger's penis in the discussion thread for The Debate over on leslie_ben. craponaspatula, beetsbearsbsg, and stillscape chimed in and before you knew it, we were discussing the state of all of Pawnee's penises. Then saucydiva took this over to tumblr, and princess-george accused me of encouraging the discussion and told me to get on with writing this, while saucydiva and stillscape and I went on about how Ben might have found out about it, this thing that shall not be discussed. Big thank you also to rikyl, who was not only brave enough to beta this, but had a bunch of intelligent things to say about it, too. This is for all of you beautiful weirdos(, to borrow craponaspatula's phrase). But it's mostly my fault and I do apologize. Also, yes, I'm aware that there's a bizarre jumble of Sanskrit and Chinese going at one point, but, uh ... oh well. Comments are fantastic, of course.
Recognize beauty and ugliness is born.
Recognize good and evil is born.
Ku yu wu hsiang shen.
Is and Isn't produce each other.
- Tao Te Ching
Chris Traeger Naked
The adrenalin starts to wear off during the car ride home. Leslie yawns. She's looking out the window as Ben steers the car through the now nearly empty streets of Pawnee. He thinks back on the day - the spine tingling excitement they both woke up with, the nausea he felt during those moments in the debate when Bobby got the upper hand, the rush of triumph when Leslie delivered the mother of all ass-kickings. It's like winning the mayoral debate all over again, except so much better because he shares it all with Leslie. Leslie whom he loves to love and like so much.
When he was elected mayor, his attitude was really more like … like that of Jennifer Barkley. Her indifference astounds him now not because he can't see how somebody could view it all as just some kind of game, but because her way of thinking clashes so violently with his own feelings. They've stood next to each other just behind the scenes at all these events - vying for endorsements and negotiating interviews and organizing giveaways and acting like intellectual boxing coaches during the debate tonight. And while he can only barely contain himself, has to stop himself from fidgeting nervously and letting too much of his feelings show, she's answering emails on her phone or painting her nails or - oh god, he's done his best to bury it in some dark, dark corner of his mind, somewhere between memories of melting down in front of Cindy Eckart and that time he was 16 and his mother walked in on him masturbating to a picture of Kathy Ireland, yet here it is - asking him about Chris's penis of all things!
He snorts.
"What?" Leslie asks.
Ben shakes his head. "Oh, nothing. At all. No. Don't worry about it."
"Okay," she says, sounding dubious. But she goes back to watching her town pass by behind the window.
≈
"Okay … here's the deal. I need to ask you something," he says through a mouthful of toothpaste.
Leslie's already in bed, studying poll numbers and some of the earliest press on the debate. Ben walks in from the bathroom, goes over to the window and shuts the curtains. He picks up their clothes, which lie scattered on the floor, and puts them on the chair by the window, not looking at her. Leslie raises an eyebrow.
"Okay?"
He moves to the foot of the bed and fiddles with the edge of the comforter.
"Because I don't know, I think Jen may have some kind of trick up her sleeve. And … I don't know, I can't stop thinking about it."
"Really?"
"Or … I mean, it could be nothing. Eh, it's probably nothing."
"No, tell me. Ben, if there's even the potential that she's got some-"
"She seemed weirdly … interested, I guess would be the word. In Chris."
Leslie laughs.
"Oh stop. I know that's nothing unusual, believe me. But you know how if Bobby wins he'll try to bring in a new City Manager, and- She seemed weirdly interested. In a weird way. It was just … weird."
"What did she say?"
"Uh … she … uhm …well, she asked if he had a girlfriend."
"That's it?! Honey, no offense, but have you looked at the guy? I mean, if you and I weren't … and if I didn't know him of course, I might-"
"Ahhh! Stop! That's not all she said."
"Oh, it's not?"
"No." He swallows the toothpaste and studies the floor.
"Ben?"
"Mh."
"So what else did she say?"
"Argh. She asked … she asked- About his, you know."
"About his what? His job? His car? His life insurance?"
"She asked about his penis, okay! Specifically, if it's normal."
Leslie laughs. Guffaws, rather. It's a while before she manages to straighten up enough to speak. Ben stands at the foot of the bed, remnants of toothpaste drying on the edges of his mouth.
"Okay … " She's still giggling a little. Then she lets out a heavy sigh, theatrically, and brushes the tears from the corners of her eyes. "Okay. And you thought that was strange."
"You mean you don't find that strange."
"Uhm, not really no." She smirks and gives a shrug.
"You mean you go around … you went around … asking men about their-"
"Hm, you know, I don't think I have, actually. I've asked much stranger things on first dates though-"
"Good lord. Don't tell me." He makes a pleading expression, which she ignores.
"- oh, but there was that one time Ann suggested I ask you about yours."
"WHAT?!"
"Yeah. Before we went on that road trip together. She was kind of trying to get us to hook up-"
"And you thought that was- Okay, that's- Alright. I've heard enough, I think."
Ben retreats to the bathroom where he spends a good ten minutes biding his time, brushing his teeth with fresh toothpaste, splashing water in his face. When he returns to the bedroom, he gets into bed next to Leslie without a word. She's mercifully silent.
At least until he's half asleep, when she says, "So, Ben, are you saying you really don't know the answer?"
"Mhh … the answer to what?"
"Is Chris's penis normal?"
"What?! No. I mean- what does- why would you care?"
"Just curious. If you do. I mean, you did spend twelve years on the road together. That's … just twelve years. Is all. And you're really telling me you never saw him naked. Ever? Not even once?"
He buries his head under the pillow and doesn't answer. Leslie shrugs and keeps reading, for a few hours, until her eyelids start to feel too heavy.
≈
Ben dreams. You wouldn't know it because unlike Leslie he rarely stirs, doesn't twitch, and he never cries out in his sleep. But that doesn't mean he isn't caught in some vivid world of his own imagining. Or, like tonight, in colourful nightmares of the past …
1999 - Rising Sun, IN
"Ben!" A series of enthusiastic knocks accompanies the voice coming from behind his motel room door.
"Hey Chris," Ben says, opening the door. He yawns. You can't blame him; it's 4:30 in the morning.
"Ben," Traeger says. There are two guns aiming at Ben's chest. He freezes. Yet Traeger, who is clearly insane, wears a winning smile."Fantastic news! I have found - literally - the best thing for us to do. Hurry up! Get dressed and let's-" Traeger snaps his ... guns? Fingers, that's what they've suddenly transformed into.
"Uh … what are you talking about?" Ben rubs a hand across his face. He had kind of premonition about this guy, Chris Traeger, who hugged him to his chest so tightly it squeezed all the air from Ben's lungs when they were assigned to be partners two days ago. And yesterday, on the two-hour drive here from Indianapolis, Ben had the impression he was sitting next to a giant disembodied smile, steering the car, yet without any real person attached to it. At any rate, there must be something wrong with the guy's face, because as far as Ben can tell, Traeger has never yet stopped smiling in his presence. Not even for a minute.
"You'll see. And when you do, it is-literally-going to knock your socks off!"
"O-kay. Well. Give me a minute." Ben shuts the door in Traeger's face and exhales sharply.
He hesitates. His head must not working quite right yet at this hour, because he can't for the life of him imagine what there could be to do at 4:30 in the morning that has anything at all to do with cutting the budget of Rising Sun, IN, population 2,304, down to size. Then again, what choice does he have, really? Traeger has been at this way longer than him, and he probably really shouldn't get their first assignment off to an antagonistic start. That's what comes naturally, of course. Antagonism. But he promised himself he'd try to let go of some of that acerbic disposition of his, would try to make a good impression in this job …
Reluctantly, Ben peels off his pajamas and slips on a pair of khakis and a shirt. Should he wear a tie, too? No, screw it, nobody should expect a state budget specialist to be in full business attire at 4:30 in the morning. This isn't a job that involves extreme emergency early morning calls, or at least he hopes it's not ...
The dream shifts - and Ben finds himself next to Traeger on an expanse of grass at the bank of the Ohio River. About a dozen people have assembled here, all looking in the general direction of where the sun is just about to rise across the river.
Is that it? Traeger brought him here at some ungodly morning hour to watch the sunrise like a pair of star-crossed lovers? He really … he doesn't … he's going to have to have a word with Traeger about this, he thinks, but before Ben can muster the appropriate amount of outrage, something else happens.
The first beam of the sun crosses the horizon. It transforms the light that envelops the river bend they're facing, tingeing what was a cool bluish scene with greyish sky and dew-heavy grass anew in an orange-pink glow. The dew drops become strangely substantial and turn hyper-luminescent, somehow, like orange and pink glow-in-the-dark beads of glass. The temperature of the cool June morning instantly seems to rise by several degrees as well, and then there's that sky! The sky, which has turned a stunning, unnnaturally brilliant shade of neon magenta ... It is, all of it, a breathtaking spectacle, and Ben longs to revel in that sky, wants to touch the firm little beads of light on the grass and see what happens when he does- But he barely has time so much as take in the view, because one of the assembled has stopped forward, and, facing the sun, she has lifted her arms, palms pressed together, above her head.
"Om surya namaskar," she chants, over and over again. She's facing away from Chris and Ben, yet her voice booms loudly and reverberates, like a gong. "Ahhhoooouuummmm, surya namaskar." And - then, suddenly, she pauses and just when the last note of her chant has died, her- the sun's backlight makes it hard to see, but her- at least Ben definitely thinks her- no, yes, her clothes have definitely … vanished. She's now completely and utterly- yes, she's standing stark naked facing the river bend.
And looking around, Ben finds the people next to and in front of him and Traeger … they're all naked now, all except Ben himself. Or is it that they were all naked from the start? Ben can't remember ... it seems like something he'd have noticed, but you never know ... not with this sleep-addled brain. And they all seem so entirely unconcerned about their nakedness. In fact, they're joining in the chanting, lifting their arms above their heads, and ... What is this? Some kind of cult? This is nuts, right? These people are clearly just … nuts. Insane. Loco. Bananas.
Good lord, Ben could still be sleeping right now, in his toasty warm bed in kind of a shitty motel room, fully clothed and blissfully alone.
He doesn't know why he looks to Traeger for an ally in his shock - there is no reason to expect the man that brought him here - at gunpoint no less, or so it felt - to share these feelings … but, after all, he's the only one he knows among this group of, of … lunatics, though not well. No, he doesn't know him at all well, really … In any case, it doesn't matter why, Ben turns his head to the left and … and catches Traeger divesting himself of his last piece of clothing, a pair of boxer briefs. And- oh yes, Ben realizes that there is in fact a good amount of clothing, not just Traeger's, strewn all around the grass ...
"Sun salutation meditation," Traeger whispers, straightening. He gives Ben what he presumably means to be a reassuring smile. "Just go with it." And he lowers his hands until they are in front of his chest, then opens them and lifts them over the sides and above his head again. "Ahhhoooouuummmm, surya namaskar," Traeger chants with the rest of the group, his eyes on the rising sun.
Just go with it???, Ben thinks. Because there's no way. Even if the light wasn't hitting Traeger's chest quite spectacularly, highlighting the soft rise and fall of the muscles there, making him look every inch like what they call a 'Greek god' … Ben would never … certainly not in public …
But of course the light is hitting Traeger, spectacularly. Rather too spectacularly. It's like he is in rivalry with the sky, that stunning sheet of solid magenta. His toned muscles swell and shift with the movement of his arms, and his skin is a perfect shade of golden brown all over. In fact, his chest gleams, and his penis is glowing orange and fully erect and-
But no. No, Ben thinks, perfectly lucid all of a sudden. That never happened. That's not how this goes.
No, in fact, the sky is an ordinary sky, though the sun does rise, rather prettily, beyond the river. And Traeger is naked-that much is true. And of course the first sunlight of the day is hitting Traeger quite beautifully, and his toned muscles do swell and shift with the movement of his arms, and he has a perfect, even tan, and his pen- But no. No, Ben's absolutely not going to look past the man's waist, no. Not ever. Never. Ben, who's 24, but well aware that he looks several years younger with his scrawny chest and skinny limbs and terrified face, is already feeling … inadequate is not really strong enough an expression- but, yes, for lack of a better word, Ben's already feeling inadequate enough in the presence of the 32-year-old Traeger, Greek God.
"Recognize beauty and ugliness is born. Recognize good and evil is born. Ku yu wu hsiang shen. Is and Isn't produce each other," chants the woman in front, and the group punctuate her chant with a deep guttural ahhhooooummmm.
Ben bites his lip as more verses follow. He stops watching Traeger and hopes this will all be over soon, and then-mercifully-it is. There are two long chants of "ahhhooooummm" followed by a "shanti shanti shanti ahhhooooummm" and then the group take a collective bow and pick up their clothing and begin to disperse.
Ben risks another tentative look at Traeger, who's taking a long gaze at the sun and inhales deeply. "Ben Wyatt!" he says, and throws a naked arm around Ben's clothed shoulders. "That was amazing-and-I do want to thank you for sharing this moment with me. This is the beginning of a wonderful partnership, don't you think?"
Before Ben can reply, can give Traeger a piece of his mind, maybe - although in this lucid state Ben knows very well that all this happened almost thirteen years ago and he never did get around to giving Chris a talking to about this after all -, something hits his chest. Ben's eyes fly open. He's in a dark bedroom and Leslie has just shifted in such a way that her right arm landed on his front. Ben reaches for the glass of water on the bedside table. Taking a sip, he shakes his head, as if to clear it, and then goes back to sleep.
2002 - Fort Wayne, IN
He's about to die.
For sure.
Any second now.
Fuck, this hurts.
He doesn't want to die, not really, though death just might be preferable to this. This pain ... Anyway, no use debating this, because here it is! Here it comes!
Okay, no. Maybe that's a touch melodramatic. Maybe Ben's not about to die exactly. But that's the closest thing to what this feels like. Not that he's ever felt what it's like to die, but still. His heart is beating too fast, like his own heartbeat is trying to overtake itself, and- oh god, but even if he isn't about to die, he's surely about to pass out and then Chris, superhuman being that he is, is going to carry him out and Ben's never going to …
He knew it was a mistake to tell Chris, and it especially was a mistake to tell him in the biggest city they've been to, where there are facilities for everything and therefore excuses for nothing. He really should know better by now, but sometimes he just underestimates the unfailing nature of Chris's inclination to try to be helpful … And now, now he's paying the price, as he's ... fuck, he's about to die after all. For sure. Any second n-
-the sound of a whistle penetrates his thoughts. Ben can't quite believe it. That means it's over. It's over! This is all over and he's free! Free!
"Ben! Great job, buddy!" Chris lends a steadying hand as Ben just about falls off the exercycle. He's wearing metallic blue spandex bike shorts and a black tank top, all skin-tight of course, and there's only the slightest sheen of sweat on his skin, damn him. It doesn't even make any sense: Ben's 27 and Chris is 35, and clearly there's no justice in the world, none at all.
"Water," Ben, in his baggy workout shorts and faded University of Indiana tee, moans. The Greek God hands him a bottle as he claps him on the back. "Terrific job! I-honestly-didn't know you had it in you, but you were off the charts, Ben Wyatt, just incredible!"
Okay … so even though Ben was the one to suggest he might want to start working out a little - with emphasis on a little and to start - Chris is responsible for this choice of hardcore spin class, and Ben is absolutely and most definitely going to murder him for this. In cold blood. Just as soon as he's done gasping for air and dying of thirst, of course.
Next thing he knows, Ben's sitting in the gym's bar area, a protein shake in front of him - how did that get there? - enjoying the dubious pleasure of watching Chris from where he sits as the other man takes his top off and falls into a quick rhythm on the treadmill. "Hey, wait for me while I cool down a little on the treadmill over there?" Chris had said, as he deposited the hyperventilating Ben in this chair. Cool down, my ass, Ben thinks. He can still hear his own heart beating ... boboomboboomboboomboboomboboomboboomboboomboboomboboom ... it goes, unnaturally loud and fast and irregular. And for some reason he can hear Chris's pulse, too ... boom ... boom ... boom ... steady like clockwork. It vibrates through the room and picks up no speed at all even as Chris turns his jog into a gallop. ... boom ... boom ... boom ... boom ... And due to all this racket of his heartbeat - or really probably just because he's Chris - Chris is attracting looks from every woman passing by and quite a few of the men, too. His crotch, the only part of his body not firm enough to withstand such undignified movement, wobbles up and down with each step and- no, Ben's not looking at that, specifically, not at his genitals, what on earth are you thinking of? It's just that the spandex leaves next to nothing to the imagination, and the fabric glitters, mesmerizingly, with each step and each shift of light. In fact, it's hypnotizing you, mocking you and daring you to look, and then you can't look a-
-Ben wakes with a start. Urgh. What's wrong with him? His girlfriend, his lovely, lovely girlfriend who just delivered a total home run of a debate is sleeping next to him and here he is, dreaming of Chris's … Chris's … whatever. Irritated, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and heads to the bathroom to pee. He's not going to dream of Chris, or any part of Chris's, anymore, he tells himself as he climbs back into bed. Absolutely not.
His subconscious, however, has other ideas …
2006 - Bremen, IN
There's the sound of harps, coming from somewhere out of sight. Quiet but penetrating, it sets Ben's teeth on edge.
Where is he?
The air is heavy in here, humid and warm.
He's inside, though, and he feels off-balance, because there are tiles beneath his bare feet, and they're ever so slightly wet, so that he could slip at any moment, and-
Oh, god ... no!
Chris divests himself of his bathrobe without further ado. Stark naked and armed with only a towel in hand, he sends Ben a blinding smile and disappears into the hot room.
So that's what this is. Bremen, IN, population 10,032, a town that, true to the heritage of its name, has a German sauna. Or "eine deutsche Sauna," as Chris said in what Ben feels sure is terrible German. He remembers that.
What he doesn't remember is how Chris talked him into this one ... But he must have, because it's happening. Ben strains to think how in the world he could have got here, but the air is too perfumy - he catches a strong whiff of orange peel - and the harps are making him drowsy, and so-
Ben starts when a man and a woman walk past, hand in hand, without a sliver of clothing to mar their naked skin. He's sure they weigh at least 600 pounds together, too, and- so, that's what's expected of him … he's supposed to … Yes. Ben stares at Chris's robe on a hanger in front of him. Yes, it is expected to- but there are women around … not exactly attractive women, maybe, as far as he can see, but members of the opposite sex nonetheless. And there're men around, of course … equally naked and Ben's not sure which is worse, actually.
He takes a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. Okay. Okay. He can handle this. It's just a body, isn't it? He can do this, go in there, sit, sweating, next to Chris … Oh, good lord, no. I can't, I really, really can't, he thinks even as he removes his own robe and hastily ties the towel around his midsection in its place.
Inside, the air is even more cloyingly sweet and five people of various sexes are scattered around the semi-darkness. Ben wistfully eyes the empty bottom bench, but- "Over here!" Chris calls and waves him over. Of course. He's sitting at the very top, where if Ben's knowledge of physics doesn't fail him - and it doesn't - it's hottest of all. And it's hot in here. So very, very hot. Ben thinks he's starting to feel faint already, and he's only been in here for about 10 seconds.
But he climbs the benches and takes a seat next Chris, who has spread his towel out under him. Ben leaves his around his waist, because, he … he just can't. He already feels inadequate enough, thank you very much. He's 31 years old and even though Chris is pushing 40, they look about the same age now. Except that Ben's as weedy as ever-if they lived a hundred years ago people might suspect him of suffering from consumption-and Chris, whom people are always telling he doesn't look a day over 25, is still every inch the Greek God. Muscular, but not overly so, not like a bodybuilder, but like a swimmer maybe, all lean and limber, and … for god's sake, Ben looks away.
Fifteen minutes later, Chris slaps his thigh below the towel with a sweaty hand and beams at him. "Ready to go?"
Ben's just glad to regain the comfort of his bathrobe, but Chris ... Chris immediately steps through a door to the outside, where he jumps into an icy pool. Ben's head clears for the first time since he got here, instantly, like someone flipped a switch. It's January! There's a draught of ice-cold air from the door and snow beyond it. The water out there can't possibly be much above freezing! Ben watches with alarm through the glass door. He's genuinely worried that Chris might have a heart attack and drown, something like that, because this is insane, even for him ... and when he does, Ben won't have the strength to carry him out ... it's going to be so humiliating- But then, of course, the Greek God, the very picture of virility, hoists himself up out of the pool and sprints back toward the door.
And how does the man manage to stay just the right shade of silky tan in the dead of winter in podunk, Indiana anyway? Under the same conditions, Ben's own face veers back and forth between pasty and pale and red and sweaty, like right now. But-Ben can't help but make that slightly savage observation-in the ice water at least Chris's dick has shrunk to about a third its normal size-
AHH! Ben narrowly avoids crying out as he wakes. Next to him, Leslie's mumbling quietly. Something about love and like, which is their thing to say to each other, his and Leslie's, but right now it seems she's addressing a stack of waffles. It doesn't matter. He'll take it. Anything other than reliving these nightmares about Chris's- Not gonna do that, Ben isn't. So he settles back down, and wraps an arm around Leslie's waist, and watches her until his eyes fall closed again.
2010 - Indianapolis
A bell jingles as Ben pushes open the door. The windows are covered by black cloth, but a skylight causes a strange pattern of chiaroscuro to fall across the studio. Dust permeates the air and gives the broad shafts of light an almost physical presence. The whole place has the atmosphere of a cathedral.
"Ben Wyatt! You found me!" Chris calls from a pedestal in the middle of room. His voice echoes in the high-ceilinged space. He's beaming but not otherwise moving, and strains to look at Ben from the corner of his eyes.
"This is my partner, Ben Wyatt," Chris says to the sculptor who's hammering away at a block of marble in front of him as Ben floats - at least he thinks he floats, because he doesn't actually seem to be moving his feet - more centrally into Chris's line of vision. "Ben, this is the Maestro Andrea Capelli, he's-literally-the most exciting sculptor of his generation."
"Hey,” Ben nods towards Capelli, who ignores him. “What's so important it couldn't wait until you … you know … until … you weren't … completely naked, maybe?" Chris's text spoke of very important news and where to find him, this place so far out on the edge of town that it took three attempts to find. But now that Ben sees him posing buck naked in the artist's studio, he has to wonder if it's really as urgent as all that.
"Ah, yes, sorry about that. But I'm-literally-going to be here for hours yet. Anyway, it's nothing you haven't seen before, right?"
"I guess," Ben waves him off. At least this time he won't have to join him in his nudity, he thinks. And, admittedly, it's difficult for Chris's body to bother you like this. Held absolutely still and thrown into sharp relief by the skylight, he looks like a sculpture already. A Greek god, immortal and perfect, but perhaps not quite real.
"I have fantastic news, Ben! New assignment." Chris smiles. Ben has to hand it to him, his self-control is impeccable. He sounds as enthusiastic as ever, but, except for his face, he's not moving, not an inch. "Town of Pawnee, about 90 miles south of here, population just over 66,000. Budget decisions have been suspended pending our evaluation of their deficit. Sounds amazing, doesn't it?"
Chris's definition of amazing is admittedly broad. Still- it's a pretty good assignment, by the sound of it. Ben will gladly take anything over 10,000 in terms of population. Over 50,000 is even better. The smaller towns rarely are of interest anymore. The work's usually done within a week, a fortnight at the most. But these larger cities, with their more complex interplay between City Council and executive, always pose a challenge. And Pawnee will be Chris and Ben's biggest assignment in a year.
"Yeah, alright. You're right. Sounds pretty good." Ben smiles.
And then he ventures a look at the marble slab the sculptor is hacking away at. He's got the rough shape down. The legs and feet have been given more detail than the rest already. And right now he's- oh hell, no! Ben eyes go wide, because with a fine rasp, Capelli is just now putting the finishing touches on Chris's penis! A perfect likeness. Ben can't tear his eyes away. As if magnified in a comic-strip, Chris's marble penis fills his entire field of vision as it's being caressed by the sculptor's tool. And yes. Yes, Ben might as well admit it, that penis is, in fact, perfectly normal, in life as well as in art, though not normally especially large. But not especially small either … and why is he thinking about this at all, what's wrong with-
-the alarm sounds. 6 AM. Leslie, in true Leslie-fashion, finds her voice immediately.
"'Morning! I didn't sleep-debate Bobby this time, did I? Ben? I definitely feel like I didn't."
"Mhhhh…no." Ben stirs sluggishly and wipes a hand across his eyes.
She smiles sweetly. "Good. I'm glad you got a good night's sleep for once."
And he doesn't have the heart to tell her that he's exhausted. That his sleep was fitful and tormented, that his muscles ache and his head hurts. That all these dreams that have been haunting him throughout the night have left a distinctly bad taste in his mouth.
And even if he did. Even if he could bring himself to protest the veracity of her statement, to plead with her for a few extra hours- He won't. No. Because he's never, never ever, going to tell her just how well he knows the answer to that question.
THE END
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Follow-up: Waiting