The rhythmic sigh of the air brakes, the hiss of the heating vents, the low thrum of the engine – it was all a lullaby for Benjamin, whose head had finally tilted, finding purchase against James’s shoulder.
James didn’t move. Couldn’t. The muscles in his neck were already stiff from holding himself rigid, a self-imposed brace to keep Ben undisturbed. A strange, sharp ache bloomed in his chest, a mix of tenderness and something else, something unnamed that had been growing, knotting itself tighter with every mile they’d put between Minneapolis and home. Winnipeg felt a lifetime away.
The bus cabin was a muted world, a cocoon of dim overhead lights and the occasional cough or rustle from other passengers. Benjamin’s breathing was soft against James’s ear, a steady rhythm that felt more substantial than his own frantic heartbeat. James could smell the faint, clean scent of his shampoo, mixed with something else, something that was just *Benjamin* – the faint trace of autumn air and the lingering sweetness of the candied walnuts they’d bought at that market downtown.
He watched the way Ben's dark brown hair fell across his forehead, a stray strand tickling the curve of his brow. Benjamin’s lips were slightly parted, a faint smile playing at the corners, as if even in sleep, he was dreaming of something good. James wondered what it was, what sun-drenched memory he was replaying. Was it the sculpture garden? The ridiculous matching toques they’d bought? Or maybe… maybe something simpler, something quieter.
James traced the outline of Ben's jaw with his gaze, noting the soft shadow of emerging stubble, the slight flush on his cheek. Benjamin was a creature of kinetic energy, all restless limbs and quick, bright laughter. Seeing him still, vulnerable in sleep, was like looking at a hidden landscape – a quiet, profound discovery. His hand, resting on his lap, twitched. James wanted to reach out, to brush the hair from Benjamin’s face, to simply rest his fingers on the warm skin of Benjamin’s cheek. The urge was a physical tremor, but he kept his hand still, clenched around the worn denim of his jeans.
The Unspoken Language of Fields
Earlier, when Ben had still been awake, they’d talked. Or, more accurately, they’d spoken in that language they’d perfected over the years, a dialect of half-sentences and shared glances. Ben recounted the disastrous attempt he’d made at carving a pumpkin at his aunt’s house. James had listened, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest when Ben described the pumpkin collapsing into a pulpy mess. James had watched the animation in his face, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the subtle tilt of his head.
"It just… deflated," Benjamin had said, a sigh that was almost a laugh. "Like my artistic aspirations."
James had just smiled, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the bus's heating. "I thought it was pretty ambitious, Ben. Going for the grim reaper with a scythe, instead of just two triangles and a jagged smile."
Benjamin had nudged him then, a gentle push against his arm. "Hey, I aim high. Unlike you, who probably just draws stick figures on your notes."
"I draw *meticulous* stick figures," James had retorted, and the easy banter had filled the space between them, a comfortable, familiar blanket. But underneath, a different current flowed. It always did. A current James felt pulling him deeper, threatening to sweep him away.
Minneapolis had been a blur of new sights and sounds, a temporary escape from the familiar confines of their small prairie town. For a few days, they were just two teenagers, untethered, exploring the city, their laughter echoing in galleries and across bustling market squares. They’d spent an entire afternoon in a used bookstore, Benjamin meticulously sifting through old comic books, James pretending to read a dusty poetry collection while really just watching Benjamin, the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the quiet murmurs he made to himself.
They’d shared a greasy pizza in a park, the autumn leaves crunching under their feet, the air sharp with the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. Benjamin had talked about his plans for next year, the vague idea of an art school, the anxiety simmering beneath his excited words. James had offered quiet encouragement, a steady presence Benjamin leaned into without even realising.
It was in those moments, in the shared silences and the unspoken understandings, that James felt it most acutely – this tightening in his chest, this desperate, quiet longing. It wasn’t just friendship anymore, hadn’t been for a long time. It was a gravitational pull, a deep, undeniable affection that scared him more than anything.
Approaching the Fringes of Winter
The landscape outside had turned monochrome. The last slivers of light were gone, leaving only the inky blackness of the Manitoba plains, occasionally broken by the fleeting glow of an oncoming headlight. James pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, the vibration a dull ache against his skull. He could feel the warmth of Ben's head against his shoulder, a small, radiating heat that fought against the creeping chill from the window. It was a small comfort, a private intimacy that felt both precious and profoundly painful.
He thought of their last night in Minneapolis. They’d walked back to the hotel, the city lights painting long shadows on the pavement. Benjamin had stumbled, a slight misstep, and James had instinctively reached out, catching his arm. The brief touch, the unexpected contact, had sent a jolt through James’s system. Benjamin had smiled, a quick, almost shy smile. "Thanks," he’d mumbled, pulling his arm away a moment too soon. The air had bristled with something unsaid, something fragile that James hadn’t dared to name.
That was the thing, wasn't it? The unspoken. It was a comfortable place, a safe harbour for their friendship. But it was also a prison, a silent, unyielding wall built of fear and assumption. James imagined the words, forming them in his mind: *I like you, Ben. More than a friend. I… I think I love you.* The words felt impossibly heavy, too big for the small space of the bus, too volatile for the quiet hum of their journey.
What would Benjamin say? What would he do? The thought was a cold knot in James’s stomach. Benjamin, who was so openly, effortlessly himself, so accepting of everyone. But this… this was different. This involved *him*, James, and the messy, inconvenient truth of his own heart. He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk losing the easy companionship, the shared history, the comfortable silences. This fragile, precious thing they had.
He shifted, just barely, a small adjustment that didn’t disturb Benjamin. The movement sent a fresh wave of pins and needles through his arm, but he ignored it. He focused instead on the steady rise and fall of Benjamin’s chest, the soft sound of his breath. It was a strange comfort, this proximity, this quiet communion. He was holding Benjamin, in a way, keeping him safe in this temporary bubble between two cities, between two phases of their lives.
The bus droned on, a metallic beast carrying them relentlessly northward. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that once they crossed the border, once they reached Winnipeg, something would irrevocably shift. This quiet, almost sacred space would dissolve. The unspoken would remain, but the opportunity for it to become something more, something real, would perhaps vanish with the cold prairie wind.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the image of Benjamin’s sleeping face burned behind his eyelids. The journey was almost over. The long, winding road had to end. And with it, perhaps, the last chance he’d have to bridge the great divide between them.
The bus slowed, a subtle change in the engine’s pitch, a faint drag of brakes. A few passengers stirred, stretching. Benjamin’s eyelids fluttered, a slow, hesitant wakefulness. James felt his own breath hitch. He wanted this moment to stretch, to unfurl indefinitely, just the two of them, suspended in the quiet hum of the bus. But the world was calling them back, and with it, the stark reality of separate paths and unconfessed feelings. Benjamin shifted, a soft sigh escaping his lips, and his head rolled gently off James’s shoulder, a silent severing that felt like a bell tolling for something James knew he would never get back.