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Benson needed much more tenderness than he allowed himself to admit.
Randy would see it in his tense shoulders before he wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him into a hug, causing him to relax instantly.
In the way his characteristic furrowed brow would go away when Randy's thumb smoothed the wrinkles before cradling his cheek in the palm of his hand.
Or in the unconscious way he would intertwine his fingers with Randy's when his hands started to tremble slightly due to his constant state of stress and anxiety.
On his bad days, Benson was barely a distant shadow of his former self. He had that watery, sad look in his blue eyes that clenched Randy's heart in a fist.
He couldn't get him out of bed under any pretext, and he found him staring at a fixed point in the middle of nowhere. Even when looking at him, there was a hint of that emptiness, and that scared him to the core.
In those moments, Randy simply lay down beside him and held him, stroking his hair and talking about a future that neither of them knew if they would ever reach. Perhaps they could finally have a dog, and he would let Benson name it, no matter how ridiculous his choice. Maybe they could stop looking over their shoulders and tensing up at the sound of a police siren. Perhaps if they kept building this new life together, the old one would disappear completely.
Without murders, without manipulation, without violence.
Benson made small sounds that indicated to Randy that he was listening, while burying his face in his neck and cuddling even closer.
Given the circumstances, a small victory that felt insufficient. Because Randy knew that Benson needed much more help than he could provide with his love, but he wouldn't accept it even if he had the chance.
Living together made him understand Benson's obsession with "fixing" him. You see that person who is clearly suffering, and you just know that despite their baggage, they have the potential to get out of all the shit around them if only someone intervened.
The fact that Randy was in love with that person didn't help the growing desperation that settled in his stomach when Benson started hyperventilating and repeating like a mantra that he felt like he was going to die.
Randy wasn't prepared, and he hated not being prepared, hated ending up crying alongside him in the middle of one of his panic attacks while trying to calm him down.
He had heard many times that one wasn't supposed to be the rehabilitation center for their partner, but he cared little if it wasn't healthy to let his volatile mood swings consume him.
He just wanted to make his pain disappear.
On good days, Benson was the first to wake up (later he discovered he didn't really sleep) and would find him humming a song and preparing breakfast.
"Darn it, Randy, I was going to bring it to you in bed," he would say, and he would hug him tightly to kiss him.
Where there had once been darkness, there was now pure light and energy. Too much energy.
It was crazy. His mind raced a mile a minute, and sometimes he talked so fast and about so many things that it was hard to keep up.
Benson was suddenly a god walking among mortals, and Randy watched him with a mixture of slight relief and overwhelming concern.
It was good to see him happy, but his happiness wasn't normal. And it always came to an end, leaving him back in bed.
Randy wasn't stupid; he had heard about this before, although he wasn't qualified to diagnose it.
Without a doctor, without medication, and with Benson's bad habit of drowning his sorrows in alcohol, they would hardly be able to stabilize him.
Benson was aware that something was wrong, but he was accustomed to dealing with it on his own, and any conversation Randy attempted to steer about it was met with a "I'm not damn crazy."
This saddened Randy to no end because it meant that someone had planted that idea in the head of a young Benson who might have been asking for help.
The matter angered him, and Randy had to spend the rest of the day trying to get him to talk to him again.
"You know I love you, but don't pressure me. It won't be pretty."
While Benson no longer physically harmed him, he didn't push him around or squeeze his fingers around his throat; the threat of his temper remained a dark cloud over their relationship.
Randy's kisses and caresses worked to appease him, reminders that, even though there were places in Benson's mind where he still couldn't conquer, he had great power over him.
He could see the struggle on his face as he invaded his personal space and cornered him against the kitchen counter. He placed both hands on his chest and moved them up to the back of his neck, gently pulling his hair to give him a long kiss on the lips.
At first, Benson remained alert and tense, but he gradually softened as Randy made his way with kisses along his neck.
"Randy Bradley, you play dirty."
"And you don't play at all."
He knew his words would awaken Benson's competitive side and they would end up wrestling to see who could dominate whom.
Finally, Randy would end up beneath a smiling Benson, who would hold his wrists while straddling him.
He had never been so in love and scared in his life. Not of him, but of those cycles of depression that often seemed to tear him away from his arms and swallow him whole. He feared the thoughts that might cross his mind, feared that his impulsivity might make him act on them.
That's why he often stayed awake, watching him sleep, making sure he was safe in his arms, making sure he didn't think about going anywhere he couldn't follow.