Chapter Text
Part 1: The Intimacy
Benjamin
The surrounding lights illuminated the building, casting a harsh glow that swallowed the night sky. It was a stark reminder of the countless stars he had once admired lying in the quiet fields of his hometown in Southern Illinois. The sounds of the paparazzi echoed, demanding attention and posing as if their worth depended on it. Smiles were worn like masks, each one a hollow promise of goodwill.
He hates it.
Ben despises it.
Benjamin wasn’t really the type to hate or hold a grudge. Heck, he practically loves almost everything. He loved how the livestock on his farm ran away from him. He thought it was fun chasing all of them down with pappaw as the smell of mammaw’s cooking filled his lungs when breathing too hard. He loved how his cheap apartment looked when he first moved to Los Angeles. It was kind of yucky, but he decided to clean it up and decorate it with some nice homey ornaments, flowers, and a picture of his parents. He also loved how busy and noisy the building of Seagulls Times is, even if it was filled with deadlines and yelling from his head editor of the newspaper, Clara Tulls, who was a lovely woman when she wasn’t tearing his ears off.
The newsroom was filled with people he got along with dearly. Like, how Tina was always there either to criticize his work or tease him to hell while dealing with five tablespoons of sugar—a habit he felt concerned about, but he was too scared to even argue with Tina’s sharp tongue. Then there was Garry, one of the most easygoing friends he'd ever had, who always had Ben’s back.
In short, he always tried to find the bright side in everything he disliked. After all, if he didn't, people would start to think he wasn’t Ben at all and run for their lives, screaming. But when he started working as a journalist in the Seagulls Times, he knew one thing after living there for so long. How wealthy people are fake.
It may sound clichéd—farmboys in the city get culture shock. Still, as a journalist, Benjamin saw through the city’s façade. The longer he stayed, the clearer it became.
Everyone entering this building to donate reeked of reputation-seeking and publicity. Their care was a performance, every gesture stiff and hollow: practiced poses, plastic smiles, rehearsed replies. The insincerity buzzed in his ears and made his eyes roll.
And yet all of these people were either bragging about their properties or searching for connections solely to take advantage of them to get what they want. And all the people who weren't attending and were standing by the gates were blinded by the flash of cameras as they tried to see what was under the lights.
Though here he was, standing at the building’s entrance, heart pounding. Only the beautifully orchestrated music was the thing that calmed his racing heart. His press badge, clipped to his ill-fitted suit, displayed the name ‘Benjamin Schmidt’ with an unflattering photo of himself. He had tried to tame his stubborn dark curls, but they looked even messier than before he combed them. In his messenger bag were his trusty notebook and recorder, some random papers, and his thick-rimmed glasses—which, at least, actually flattered his jawline.
He stepped inside.
After navigating the elevator and halls, Ben finally reached the gala venue. It was crowded, filled with the soft chatter of guests—almost all holding glasses of sizzling champagne. The grand decorations made everything feel more intimidating to him: painted portraits, statues of figures, animals, or even plants, and creatively crafted ornaments made from trash that he would love to use in his apartment.
It was an art charity event. People donated money, and artists donated creations. Not just businesspeople attended—even artists, who could be as stuck-up as CEOs.
About two years ago, he interviewed a sculptor who made a statue of Obama for a political column in Seagulls Times. Ben made sure to capture the artist's personality as accurately as possible, which he found condescending and very shallow.
In the middle of his inner turmoil, he felt a familiar nudge at his side. It was Tina, in a stunning rouge dress that complemented her dark features, champagne in hand, and with an expression Ben knew too well meant she was going to annoy him while he was already in a bad mood. “You look like a lost puppy in the middle of the woods, Benny. Looking at all the attendants like giant trees that scared you.” She scoffed teasingly, linking her arm with his and steering him through the crowds.
Tina was one of his best friends and someone he could always count on. She had been with him since he moved in and was confused about city life after years on the farm with his Mammaw and Pappaw Schmidt. Tina knew all his fears and dislikes. What made her special to him was being the first person he came out to as a Pansexual man. Her strong support helped him come out to his parents as well. Which was recently in twenty-thirteen—when same-sex marriage was still a debate. Thankfully, his parents accepted him warmly, and Ben was forever for their open-mindedness. Back to Tina—she could be a bit…
“Look, Tin. You know that I never wanted to be here right now. Surrounded by these people isn’t really my style, I would rather write about how the wheat fields move with the wind." his Midwestern drawl evident as he spoke. Letting Tina lead him through the crowd to the bar, Ben followed. Once there, they both took glasses of champagne and sipped slowly, arms still linked.
Tina just rolled her eyes in a fond way that close friends would before she nudged him by the side. “You’re writing poetry now, Benny?” Tina chuckled amusedly.
Benny looked down at Tina, hesitating for a moment before nodding. Though a self-deprecating chuckle left his lips. "Well...Maybe I have written some poetry in my spare time..." Ben said slowly, adjusting his glasses—a habit of his—before meeting her eyes with a crooked smile and hopeful look. "Do you want to see what I am working on?" He looked down at Tina, who was six inches shorter than his six-foot-four frame, with slight hope.
Tina looked amused for a moment before she shrugged and slipped off Ben’s arm to sit at one of the barstools, an interested look on her face. “Hit it with me, oh thee poet.” She said, in a bad Shakespearean voice, before taking a sip of her champagne.
Even though his best friend had just mocked him, Ben beamed at her agreement. He stumbled onto the stool next to Tina while searching for his papers. When he fished them out of his messenger bag, he heard Tina’s shocked and amused gasp nearby. "How many did you even write, Benny?" she laughed in disbelief.
He shrugged nonchalantly as he tried to tidy the papers that were filled with his poetic writing. “Like…About ten to fifteen. There’s more in my old room when I was just a boy on a farm.” He said casually, with a hint of excitement.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if it were some romance and farmboy shit?” Tina gave him a knowing look.
“Hey, not all of them are those!” His frown deepens. “But the ones in my bags are…”
“You are hopeless.”
“No, I’m not. And also, don’t talk about my farm like that...”
She lets out a joyous hum before taking a long sip of her champagne. “Do you even still want to hear my poem?” Ben asked, his voice sounded more discouraged as his large frame started to sag a little on the stool.
“Don’t give me that attitude, Ben. You look like a lost puppy who has been left abandoned all alone.”
“Stop saying that.”
“But you do.”
“Stop it already, gosh…”
Tina let out another laugh, yet it was softer. “Okay then, big boy. What you got with the poems?”
He then picked one of the papers from the pile and held it as if it were an important, formal text. “Okay then, I guess I’ll do this one then…” He then clears his throat. Though awkward with his movements.
“You Smell Like Summer After Rain
By Benjamin Schmidt
You smell like summer after rain,
like moist ground trying to be brave,
like fields that sway when the clouds pass by,
and my heart sways that way as well.
Your smiles are like puddles reflecting light,
proud to hold the sky just for a moment.
Your laughter comes like thunderstrikes,
the soft ones, the one that tells me it’s going to be alright.
You walk like an unpainted memory,
and I won’t shy away from discovering them.
You smell like peace, content and happy.
And I don’t care whether it will end or not.”
I think I naile-
A sharp laugh can be heard next to him
Tina was holding it in the entire time Ben performed his poem. But she clearly can’t handle it anymore as she just laughed her heart out. Not like they weren’t being watched by probably a hundred higher-ranking guests in the room. All eyes went to them.
Mostly him…
Great…
Ben felt like he just wanted the ground to swallow him whole, like how the grass did when he was just star-gazing back on the farm. But back then, the stars were looking at him brightly with hope and a future. But right now, the people were looking at him with sharp eyes and condescending gazes. But thankfully enough, they went on with their prior conversation. Some might as well be gossiping about him, and some just went back to bragging.
Predictable…
Meanwhile, Tina was still coming down from the high of laughing at his poem. Does she think it was good, or is she laughing at him? But, right now, he was fully red as a person with LA’s summer sunburns because he felt intimidated and humiliated in the guests’ eyes on him.
Tina finally managed to breathe after laughing so much, wiping the tears that started to form in her eyes. “Benny! You’re ruining my mascara! You don’t know the pain of having a pencil just an inch into your eye, you man.” She took a deep breath, calming herself down. “But at least we’re even after I publicly embarrassed you in front of all these people.” She punched his arm gently, still giggling at Benny’s poem.
Ben buried his head in his hands, groaning internally. “I’m starting to regret being friends with you, Tin…” He breathed out, mumbled under his hand as his glasses started to skew a bit from his face.
She eye-rolled him playfully, finishing her glass of champagne and putting the empty glass back at the table. “Come on…” She hummed sympathetically, then she leaned in closer net to Benny. “How about this? After performing that awfully corny poetry and getting yourself embarrassed in the middle of such a glamorous event, why don’t I make it up to you by treating you to your favorite at Kitshen’s Diner? Deal, dork?” She poked him on the side playfully, the contact made him jolt immediately.
“Hey! That was uncalled for. And for the record, I grew up next to corn fields, so don’t ask why it was so corny!” He started to fix his messy dark curls and crooked glasses before turning to look directly at her with a considering expression. “You know what? I think you got yourself a deal, Miss Kendra.” He reached out for a faux handshake that was just left hanging when Tina turned around, her back to his front, and started calling out to the bartender.
Great, thanks, best friend for life.
He turned around and began observing the area. Searching for the reason why he was even here in the first place. A good story and a meaningful quote. Which, through his journalistic lens, is just the same story: PR-trained responses and just trying to blind people with their completely forced actions.
Benjamin could just ask mindless questions and get it done with. He didn’t want to waste his time with one-noted rich people with big names who’re only worth for the celebrity gossip.
He can hear a few things that Tina was asking the bartender. Seemed like she was her usual professional self now.
Suddenly, the venue's lights dimmed, with only a stage light illuminating a few cloth-covered crafts at the back. Then the host of the gala went up to the stage, clearing her throat as she held a mic. “I would like all guests to sit in all the seats that are reserved with your name on them.” She announced to the crowd as they began to take their seats.
But, as press journalists, they keep their seats at the venue's bar as the event starts.
“Firstly, I am grateful to all of the guests who are present and active in the donation box, as we are funding a better and fully furnished art education for those who can’t afford it.” The host started in a professional voice before continuing. “And secondly, this is when we present artists all around the world who donate their art to our causes.”
“They are really putting some effort this year,” Tina mumbled next to him.
“Basically…” Ben just sighed before sipping his glass of champagne.
He started thinking about interviewing an artist from the stage just to get things done and head back to his apartment, where he could sleep off the night's craziness.
But every artist who came on stage was blander than a blank canvas, doing all the presenting and donating for the wrong intentions. Ben sighed loudly before deciding to give up on the hunt for a worthwhile story, standing up from the stool and tidying his equipment. “I’m done here. I know you are capable enough to handle this story all alone.” He muttered towards Tina, but she was completely focused on the event. Always the professional story-hungry woman.
“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead, Benny. I understand. I’ll be alright,” She waved dismissively.
He nodded, fixed his glasses one more time, slung his messenger bag on one of his broad shoulders, and finally walked off toward the exit of the room.
“Next up, presenting… Aiden Frezzel Bailey!”
Before he left the venue, he turned around to check if he had forgotten anything and did a final check-up on Tina, making sure she was alright. Then, out of curiosity, he glanced at the podium.
And it felt like he was getting blinded himself…