When they finally arrived at Isaac's apartment, Benedict allowed himself a moment to catch his breath. Unfortunately, the cool night air hadn't helped him calm down much. He had had to press Isaac too close to him while walking.
A sign on the door read "Walker." Something about that name sparked a flicker of recognition in Benedict, though he couldn't quite grasp it.
He gently shook Isaac, whose head was resting on his shoulder.
"Isaac? Can you unlock the door? We're here."
"Hm?" Isaac murmured sleepily, swaying slightly.
He leaned his full weight against Benedict as if he were the only support he had. If Benedict let go now, it would be only a matter of seconds before Isaac collapsed in the hallway. And Benedict absolutely couldn't allow that. Isaac muttered something unintelligible and snuggled even closer. Benedict cleared his throat audibly to pull him out of his trance.
"Isaac, I need your key."
"Oh!" Isaac slurred, his eyelids trembling as he struggled to wake up a little. With almost comical effort, he pushed himself just far enough away from Benedict to reach into his pockets. "One moment."
He then rummaged through his pockets until he triumphantly held up a set of keys.
"Got them!" he shouted cheerfully, proud as a child.
Benedict looked at the keys, which suspiciously resembled his own keyring, and took them from him. Somehow, Isaac had actually grabbed Benedict's keys.
"Isaac, those aren't your keys, they're mine."
"What?" Isaac asked, confused. He squinted at the keyring, then shrugged. "Oops… looks like I ended up in the wrong pocket."
Next, he pulled out Benedict's notebook, which he always carried with him.
"Those aren't keys either, that's my notebook," Benedict said patiently. He tried to get the slightly drunk Isaac to finally find his own keys without losing his patience. Honestly, he even found the whole scene quite amusing.
Isaac stared at the notebook with curiosity. "Can I take a look inside?" he asked boldly.
"No."
Benedict carefully took the notebook back. He wondered how Isaac's hands had even ended up in his pockets without him noticing.
Isaac gave him a sulky look. Then he shrugged. "Too bad."
Benedict adjusted the way he was holding Isaac; it was getting harder and harder to keep him steady.
"Isaac, the key. You're getting heavy," Benedict chuckled, trying to hide the faint amusement in his tone.
Isaac snorted, muttered something unintelligible, and after a moment, he actually held up his own key.
"Got it!" he cried triumphantly again, as if he had achieved a small victory.
Finally, Benedict thought, exhausted, feeling at the same time a strange, warm sensation in his chest. He helped Isaac open the door.
He unlocked it and placed the keys in a clearly visible spot on the sideboard to their left as they entered the apartment. He closed the door carefully behind them.
"You're home, Isaac. Can you manage on your own?"
"Sure, I'm completely sober again!" Isaac said cheerfully. He stepped away from Benedict and actually seemed to have solid footing—more or less—though his body still wobbled slightly.
Benedict rolled his shoulders and watched him. Isaac was slim, but with his height of at least 1.80 m, maybe even a bit more, he carried a noticeable weight. Isaac took off his coat and hung it on the coat hook. It took a few tries to get it on properly, and each time he wobbled precariously.
"I should get going too," Benedict said. He had safely brought Isaac home, so now he could head back.
But then something clattered to the floor, and he just caught sight of Isaac losing his balance and trying to grab onto the sideboard. Benedict muttered a soft curse and decided he would get Isaac into bed before he hurt his head in his drunken state.
With a quick movement, he caught the young man before he hit the floor. Isaac's hand reflexively clawed at Benedict's shirt, his fingernail briefly scratching Benedict's neck. The pain was barely noticeable, and in the next second, Benedict had already forgotten it had happened.
"Are you okay?" Benedict asked, concerned.
"Don't know… everything's spinning," Isaac murmured, eyes half-closed.
Benedict sighed softly. "I'm taking you to bed. Come on."
"Okaaay…" Isaac slurred, letting himself be guided only half-heartedly.
They dragged themselves through the hallway into a stylishly furnished living room. Benedict switched on the light and couldn't help but look around. Isaac clearly had good taste. A painting on the wall caught his attention: unusually detailed, in a style that seemed somehow familiar to him.
Hadn't Isaac said he painted? If this is his work, then he's damn good.
Benedict wanted to ask him immediately, but the young man hung in his arms like a wet sack. Instead, he decided he would bring it up at their next meeting at the café.
Once they reached the bedroom, Benedict made his way toward the bed.
Just a little further.
"Okay, Isaac. You just need to sit down, then you can lie down," Benedict said, briefly grimacing. "Sorry… I should have stopped you before you drank too much."
He bent down to set Isaac down, but Isaac wouldn't let go. His grip was surprisingly firm, and Benedict nearly lost his balance. With a small groan, they fell onto the bed together.
For a moment, Benedict lay over Isaac, looking down at the man with the striking albino features. His hair was tousled across the pillow, looking incredibly soft and awakening in Benedict the urge to touch it. Isaac's gaze was clouded by alcohol; he breathed through his mouth, and for a moment Benedict's eyes lingered on his full lips.
He quickly looked away.
A bad idea—because now his gaze fell toward Isaac's midsection. His sweater had ridden up slightly, revealing a pale, surprisingly muscular bare stomach. The faintly flushed cheeks, the open gaze—altogether it seemed like the embodiment of something forbidden, something both to fear and desire.
Benedict exhaled softly. For a brief moment, he forgot the world around him.
Perhaps Benedict had also had too much to drink. He must be drunk too; how else could he explain looking at Isaac so unrestrainedly? His guilty conscience lingered at the edges of his awareness. He absorbed the moment completely.
Isaac looked at him through half-closed lids, his gaze fixed on him. Then he tilted his head slightly.
"When I first saw you, I never thought that under all that messy hair hides such a handsome man," he murmured softly. Benedict's heart thumped so loudly in his chest that he could hear his own heartbeat.
No, this is wrong, he scolded himself. He scraped together the last remnants of his drunken dignity. Benedict tried to sit up, but Isaac's hand still held him fast.
"Isaac…" he began hesitantly.
With more strength than Benedict had expected, Isaac pulled him closer. Their faces were now only a hand's width apart. Benedict made another attempt to pull away.
"Isaac," he said this time in a firmer voice.
"Hmmm?"
Suddenly the world spun, and now it was not Isaac lying on the bed, but Benedict. Isaac straddled him, and the next thing Benedict felt was Isaac's cool hand brushing across his cheek, then his thumb gently tracing a line just beneath his eye.
"Uh, Isaac?" Benedict breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper. He felt overwhelmed by the situation. It was far too soon for this kind of thing, and yet he couldn't help staring at him. Waiting for… what exactly? Immediately a pang of guilt struck him, the rings around his neck feeling unbearably heavy. Benedict swallowed the rising desire and forced himself into a serious expression. "Could you maybe… get off me?"
"Your eyes are really a beautiful color," Isaac murmured, unconcerned. "You don't often see ice blue like that."
His gaze was as intense as Benedict had rarely experienced.
"What?" Benedict whispered. "Isaac, you're drunk. Get off me and lie down."
"Wait, I'm just trying to memorize the color, otherwise I can't mix it," Isaac slurred, concentrating.
"Why?" Benedict asked, growing more and more confused. So Isaac didn't want anything sexual from him at all—he just wanted to study his eye color?
"Has anyone ever told you that you look really good? Your eye color has the most beautiful shade of blue I've ever seen." Again, his thumb traced just beneath his eye. The touch was so gentle, as if Isaac were handling something precious. "Sculptors of the past probably used a man like you as a model for their statues. No wonder such incredible works were created. You're inspiring."
Benedict felt a strange tingling spread through his chest—a mix of astonishment, fascination, and a quiet nervousness. He didn't know whether to laugh or protest, to look away or lean closer to Isaac. Everything inside him was in chaotic disarray, and yet he couldn't stop staring at him.
Benedict was speechless.
Someone had loved his eye color. Dan.
The next thing he felt was Isaac's hand on his stomach, his fingers cautiously gliding over the fabric of Benedict's shirt. None of it helped resolve the turmoil inside him. Neither Isaac's touch, which sent shivers through Benedict's body, nor the intense gaze with which he regarded him, nor Isaac's weight pressing against Benedict's most sensitive area.
How long had it been since he'd been this close to someone?
"I-Isaac… would you please get off me?" he stammered quietly.
But Isaac didn't listen. He leaned over Benedict, his lips close to his ear, his upper body now completely resting on Benedict's.
"Ben," Isaac whispered, using the nickname for the first time, right in that moment. "I want to paint you."
The words came as a soft, tired murmur. The voice tickled Benedict's ear, and his body reacted in ways it hadn't for a long time. But before he could say anything, Isaac's body went limp. He nuzzled against Benedict's chest, and a second later Benedict felt warm, steady breaths on his neck.
"Isaac?" Benedict whispered cautiously.
The only response was the silence of the apartment and Isaac's steady breathing.
The guy had fallen asleep on him after saying something like that? Damn alcohol. His body had responded to everything Isaac had done, even though Isaac hadn't intended anything sexual. Benedict's face felt like it was on fire.
He felt ashamed of what had happened. How had he let himself go like that?
How long had it been since he'd felt anything at all, especially physically? His jeans were definitely tighter than before. Isaac's weight on him didn't exactly help.
Pull yourself together, Benedict. You allowed yourself to hope, even though there never were—and never should have been—any expectations. What would Dan think if he knew what you were doing here?
Carefully, he pushed Isaac off him. He stood up, took a few deep breaths, and then laid the young man properly in bed. Only once he had successfully tucked Isaac in did his heart begin to calm.
He cast one last glance at him before turning off the light and leaving the bedroom. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment.
Isaac wanted to paint him? How could a single statement create such chaos inside him?
He couldn't really explain what had happened in there. His guilty conscience toward Dan now weighed like a ton, seeming to drag him down. His gaze fell back on the painting above Isaac's couch. He didn't think too much—he let his curiosity take over. Anything was better than dwelling on guilt.
The painting depicted a forest scene. Sunlight gently shimmered on a river, with a waterfall in the background. The scene felt so alive that Benedict felt as if he were really there. He lost himself in the details, spotting all the little animals hiding in the branches. Damn, he could almost smell the water and hear the birds chirping.
He let his curiosity guide him, looking at two more paintings before arriving at a door that was slightly ajar. The strong scent of paint wafted from the room.
Benedict knew he should leave. But his curiosity was stronger. He pushed the door open, switched on the light, and found himself in a room twice the height of the others. The first thing he saw was a gigantic canvas in the center of the room. Other paintings leaned against the walls, most covered with cloths. There was a cabinet and a counter filled with hundreds of paints, brushes, and materials Isaac apparently used for painting. A bay window offered a wide windowsill, lined with cozy cushions. Next to it stood a small table with a book, a bookmark peeking out.
But he barely registered any of it.
It was as if he were a moth drawn to the light, moving involuntarily toward the large painting. It depicted a battle scene: one man had just been killed, another sat over him, the murder weapon still in his hand. Benedict's gaze lingered on the survivor's triumphant eyes. His heart clenched as his eyes moved to the dead man, finally resting on a puddle reflecting the desperate face of the killer.
Even if he tried, he couldn't put into words what this painting stirred within him.
It was a masterpiece. Painted, yes, yet he could feel the despair emanating from it.
He touched the rings around his neck.
How could someone as cool and detached as Isaac capture so much emotion in his paintings? How did he manage to unsettle Benedict over and over again?
Suddenly, a chill ran over him, as if someone were watching him. He quickly turned around, his heart pounding, scanning the room. But no one was there. He was alone, and Isaac lay completely drunk in his bed.
Now, from sheer lack of sleep, he was seeing ghosts. He cast one last glance at the painting and decided it was time to leave. Turning off the light, he exited the apartment.
At least he hadn't found anything suspicious about Isaac. But he had discovered so much more about him. Isaac was full of surprises. He wanted to know more about him—would Isaac ever meet him again?
But as quickly as the thought came, he pushed it away. It couldn't happen. He had more important things to do. He needed to focus on what truly mattered:
Catching the damn phantoms and avenging Dan.
There was no time for anything else.
And so it had to remain.
Yet the feeling of Isaac lingered long after—even when Benedict arrived at his own apartment and tried to fall asleep. He couldn't deny how much joy the evening had brought him. How different Isaac had been compared to their meetings at the café—and all because he'd relaxed with the help of alcohol and allowed himself to fully engage in the evening.
With mixed emotions, Benedict finally sank into his pillows, slowly drifting into a dreamless sleep. A faint smile played on his lips, and deep inside, he knew: this evening would stay with him for a long time, despite everything.