Archive of Our Own

"Hey, Victor! Would you mind signing my yearbook?" Benji extends the book towards him with a shy smile.  

"Yeah, of course." Victor accepts the yearbook and fumbles to retrieve his own from his backpack, which he's currently stuffing with a semester's worth of papers and books that had accumulated in his locker over the last several months. He finally manages to retrieve it and offers it to his classmate. "Sign mine, too?"

He eagerly accepts it while Victor opens Benji's yearbook to find a place to sign. Nearly every page is covered with writing in assorted colors and varying degrees of legibility. A particularly impressive collage of photos and drawings accompanies a chaotic scribble over the last two pages, with "Reserved for Lucy" written neatly at the top in Benji's handwriting and underscored by "the greatest person you know, now and in perpetuity" in the same scrawl that covers the rest of the page.

He can't help but feel self-conscious about the few signatures that occupy the pages of his own yearbook. It was no surprise that Felix had written a small novel describing, in excruciating detail, the story of the "greatest bromance of all time." But aside from Mia and Lake, only a few others had bothered to sign it. 

True, he'd had a brief flirtation with popularity when he first started at Creekwood after attaining the seemingly unattainable dream girl and becoming the star of the basketball team. But his popularity proved to be short-lived, with public opinion swiftly turning against him after his breakup with Mia, as if his classmates resented him for discarding what they themselves could never have but so desperately wanted. 

"I saved you a spot." Benji leans over and flips back a couple of pages to reveal a crisp white page, only marked by the words "Victor's Page" printed at the top. 

"Awesome. Thanks." Victor stares at the blank page, trying to figure out how he can boil down his complicated feelings for Benji into a simple yearbook message. There's so much he wants to tell Benji. But he's also afraid of feelings that have grown beyond friendship and how the the truth might reveal itself between the lines of anything he writes, like some kind of optical illusion.

"I have to run to catch my bus, is it okay if I hang on to this until tomorrow? You're closing with me, right?" 

"Yeah, sure, that sounds great." Victor closes the book, relieved to have some time to organize his thoughts. He watches as Benji disappears down the hallway, a fitting bookend to the first time he'd ever laid eyes on him at the start of the semester. If only he'd allowed his gaze to linger a moment longer, he would have caught the quick look Benji shot behind him before exiting the school doors for the final time that year.

That night, he sits down several times in front of the yearbook, mocked by the unyielding whiteness of the page before him. His pen comes dangerously close to scratching the surface on a few occasions, only to waiver and retreat at the last second. 

He flips through the yearbook idly, hoping for inspiration. He chuckles when he notices that several pictures have been defaced. Andrew now resembles Mr. Peanut with a tophat and monocle doodled over his portrait and a speech bubble has been added to Ms. Albright's picture which reads, "Have I told you about the greatest love story Creekwood has ever seen?" He notices that a few others have been adorned with mustaches, funny hats, or animal ears and he wonders what offenses these unlucky people had committed to earn the ire of the artist. He's not sure why since he's never met her, but he's fairly certain that Lucy is the vandal in question. 

On a whim, he finds his own picture, which is now surrounded by small red and pink hearts. He has to laugh a little at that - apparently he has a secret admirer. If only he had been a bit more curious, he would have been the first to discover that Benji’s picture now included the caption, “Salazar is the Sala-star of my heart” but that would only be discovered years later when nostalgia strikes, to much amusement and good-natured teasing. 

After his fifth failed attempt, he decides it's best to sleep on it. That he's just over-tired from his finals and everything will be clear in the morning. Except he finds himself awake at 3am, restless and unable to go back to sleep. 

His mind drifts to Benji, as it so often does at these lonely hours and he sighs, knowing that trying to sleep is futile once his mind has taken off on a Benji-tangent. His forces his wayward thoughts to the pending yearbook message, determined to at least do something productive if he's not going to get any rest. 

Maybe it's best to start at the beginning. Should he tell Benji that he had momentarily mistaken him for an angel, golden and gleaming in the afternoon sun, when he alone stepped forward and offered a hand to lift Victor off the ground that first day? That the hours they spent together at Brasstown quickly became his favorite part of the day? About how he foolishly allowed himself to think that Benji had been singing to him at Battle of the Bands, only to be harshly reminded that someone like Benji couldn't possibly feel that way about someone like him when he saw him with Derek? 

No, he definitely shouldn't mention any of that.

Maybe about their day in Willacoochee, then? That he'd never felt closer to another person than he did in that bed listening to Benji share his deepest secrets, vulnerable and unguarded. And how the weight of his words - "I could've died without ever really being who I was" - settled heavily in Victor's gut, pointed and unbearable until he sloppily vomited them back up in a tear-filled confession. He can still feel the soothing stroke of Benji's hands in his hair and the gentle hum of his shushing that Victor, pressed against his chest, could feel more than he could hear. How he'd fallen asleep that night in that crappy motel room feeling irreparably shattered, yet emerged the next morning from the cocoon of Benji's arms and legs with a fragile sense of hope that maybe, just maybe, things might turn out okay. 

He definitely will not bring up the warmth he felt spreading through him as Benji's arms tightened around him and tugged him closer when he'd tried to wriggle free of their tangled limbs, hoping to avoid any awkwardness that might arise from their sleeping arrangements. How he'd allowed himself instead to surrender to the persistent embrace, reveling in the soft whisper of Benji's eyelashes against the nape of his neck and the reassuring evenness of his breathing. 

The sudden chill he'd felt when Benji hastily retreated upon waking, muttering embarrassed apologies - "Oh God, was I spooning you? I'm so sorry!" - and how he couldn't contain his newfound levity, teasing, "I'm pretty sure the technical term for this particular situation is jetpacking." How he'd memorized the sound of Benji's laughter when he'd raised his arms to imaginary jetpack controls and did his best jetpack impression, "Shyoom shyoom shyoom." God, that was a great sound - Benji's laughter, that is, even muffled by the dingy comforter he'd pulled over his face, and not Victor's jetpack impression, which was honestly nothing to write home about. He suspected, but could not prove, that the speed with which any lingering discomfort dissolved away was due, at least in part, to how natural it felt for the two of them to be tucked away together, safe from the rest of the world.

Maybe it was safer to write about the night a few days later when he'd finally worked up the courage to break up with Mia. How the lights had still been on at Brasstown when he'd walked by on his way home even though it was hours past closing. The way that Benji didn't seem surprised when the bell at the front door tinkled to announce Victor's arrival and how he'd made his lying-but-for-a-good-reason face when Victor asked why he was still there, claiming that he still hadn't perfected his latte art and that these quiet times were the only decent time to practice. The way that a simple offer of a cup of coffee, poured from a still steaming pot, accompanied by the quiet concern in Benji's eyes, encapsulated a host of unspoken questions - Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it? Do you know that I'm always here for you? Except he wasn't sure that he wasn't imagining that last one. 

There was the night they’d gotten caught in a downpour leaving Brasstown and Benji, who was always prepared for these situations, insisted on walking Victor the entire way home, even though it took him 20 minutes out of his way. How they’d crowded together under the small umbrella and Victor felt a tingle every time Benji’s arm, which was wrapped loosely behind his back, brushed against him. How they’d jogged the last block in tandem to the safety of his apartment stoop to escape the worst of the storm, laughing and breathless. And the irresistible pulling sensation Victor felt as he studied the water droplets that clung to Benji’s long eyelashes. That he was sure they were having a moment until a loud clap of thunder caused them both to startle, breaking the spell they were under. And the relief he felt when his phone buzzed later that night with a text from Benji letting him know that he had made it home safely. 

No, that wasn’t any good either. 

Or he could tell Benji about the night of the dance. They'd both ended up without dates at the last minute and somehow it was decided that they'd go to the dance together - as just friends, of course. Funny that Victor could no longer remember which one of them brought up the idea in the first place. To the surprise of no one, Felix had invited himself along and spent the entire ride to Benji's house trying to decide if they should call themselves "The Three Musketeers" or "The Lone Wolves," which earned a quiet "Neither" from Victor, whispered under his breath. 

Victor can still feel the way his heart skipped a beat when he caught sight of Benji at the top of the stairs over Mrs. Campbell's shoulder, fussing with the sleeves of his teal suit and running a hand through his carefully tousled hair. How time had seemed to slow when Benji caught his eye while descending the stairs and a shy smile crept across his face. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with the boy in front of him, Victor might have caught the knowing grin on Mrs. Campbell's face when he stammered out, "Um, you look...nice" before she'd shushed them out the door so they wouldn’t be late.

Despite his reservations about dancing in public, he'd finally relented to Felix and Benji's requests to dance with them when "Call Me Maybe" came on and Benji insisted that it was their song and how suddenly he didn't care that he was all elbows and spindly legs because Benji was laughing with that laugh of his and nothing else mattered anymore except for that. Or he could confess that when he'd left Benji at his front door with a quiet "Goodnight" that it felt like they were parting with an ellipses instead of a period, with too much left unfinished between them to end the night with anything more definitive. 

The significance of these moments could easily have been overlooked by someone less perceptive. Except that Victor was watching, carefully cataloguing each and every moment in his mind to be recalled from these archives and analyzed when insomnia strikes at 3am and he's desperate for a hint that maybe there's something more than friendship behind those gentle hazel eyes. If only he could see the longing gazes that always seemed to occur just off camera. 

Maybe he should just write, "Benji Campbell, I am hopelessly, desperately, and madly in love with you and I want nothing more in life than to spend the rest of my waking days with you" because in truth, that's what all the other stories really add up to anyway. 

But to admit that is to cross a line that can't be uncrossed. And Victor's not sure if he's ready to take that step. Because despite all of the evidence that he's pieced together over the last few months, it still seems completely improbable that Benji could want him the same way that he wants Benji. 

So he re-collects all these well-worn fragments, tenderly tucking them away to be scrutinized again some other time. Decided, he climbs out of bed and clicks on his desk lamp. Before he can change his mind, he sits down and writes a quick message. It's banal, trite, and hollow, which he hates because Benji deserves so much more, but it's also safe. Anything more than that and Victor is sure that the truth will come tumbling out. 

“We really did have some crazy times this year, huh?” Benji jokes when he returns from his break. He’s wearing his disappointed-but-trying-not-to-show-it face and Victor instantly feels guilty, knowing that Benji had found the yearbook that Victor had hastily dropped in his locker, eager to be free of its burden. 

“Why don’t you take your break now? It’s quiet, I can manage for a bit.” 

Victor reluctantly leaves, feeling like he should apologize before he goes but also unsure of what to apologize for. He retreats to the breakroom and finds his yearbook waiting in the corner of his locker. With shaky hands, he retrieves it, taking a deep breath as he readies himself to open it. It shouldn't surprise him that Benji had filled every square centimeter of the last several pages, but it does. Drawings, anecdotes, and song lyrics are woven together, telling their story.

The drawings catch Victor's eye first. A sketch of the two of them dancing together with song lyrics wrapping around them. A doodle of Baby Shark. Sarah, about to go on one of her infamous tirades. An umbrella. A latte with a misshapen meatball drawn inside of it. A clown that looks suspiciously like Mia if you look at it carefully enough. Victor zooming along in a jet pack. Wally with the espresso machine. Three wolves howling at the full moon - "How can we be lone wolves if there's three of us?" Benji had mused to Victor. The bench where they'd escaped for some fresh air during the dance, sitting in comfortable silence as they watched the stars. 

And then he starts to read and he realizes that he hadn’t been the only one keeping an inventory of the time they shared together, made clear by Benji’s recounting of stories that had escaped even his own fastidious memory. As he reads, a sense of calm and clarity settles over him, knowing that his most closely held wishes are within reach if only he has the courage to speak them into existence. And then he remembers that Benji is waiting at the counter, thinking that his own feelings, which he’d laid bare in the pages of Victor’s yearbook, are not returned. 

He quickly grabs Benji’s yearbook, scribbles a line in it and leaves the break room. He has to make this right.

Benji seems surprised when Victor emerges from the breakroom. “You still have 15 minutes left on your break, you know.” 

“I know. But reading what you wrote in my yearbook reminded me that I forgot to mention a few things and I figured an amendment was in order.” He offers the yearbook to Benji, who accepts it with a curious but guarded expression. 

Benji flips to Victor’s Page, reading aloud in a flat tone, “I’m going to kiss you in about 5 seconds. (Unless you don’t want me to).” He stares blankly at the page as the meaning of the words sinks in and then raises his eyes to Victor’s in surprise. 

“...4 and 5.” Victor whispers, as he takes a step closer so that they're only a few inches apart. He gently reaches out to hold Benji’s face with one hand, lightly stroking the soft skin under his thumb. “Can I kiss you?” 

Benji pauses a moment to consider, swallows thickly, then nods almost imperceptibly. “Okay.”  

Victor pulls their faces together, expressing everything he’d been too afraid to commit to writing. Besides, there are some things that are better said through touch, through the gentle caress of fingers on the small of the back, the brushing of nose tips, and the touching of foreheads. 

“I have so much to tell you,” Victor murmurs, lips still pressed to Benji's temple.  

But this is only the prologue.