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Caspian learned that Benedict was searching for him several weeks later.
He was hiding on the outskirts of Shoreditch, in a cramped, filthy rented room with mould on the walls and rats in the corners. Far from Mayfair, from Bloomsbury, from every place where he might be found.
The old man from the bookshop on Charing Cross had passed word through a mutual acquaintance. A young gentleman is looking for you. Tall, well-dressed, from a respectable family. Says you're his friend. Asked me to tell you he's waiting.
Caspian burned the note, but the words seared themselves into his memory.
Benedict was searching for him.
He shouldn't have. God, he shouldn't have.
***
Caspian held out for a week.
He hid like a rat in a hole. Ventured out only at night, for bread and water. Slept in snatches, waking at every rustle beyond the door. The Viscount's men were still prowling the city; he saw their shadows and heard whispers on street corners.
But thoughts of Benedict gave him no peace.
He imagined his face: the disappointment, the pain when he realized Caspian wasn't coming back. Perhaps anger. Perhaps relief at being rid of a burden.
No. Not relief. Caspian knew that from the way Benedict had looked at him that last night. From the way he had kissed him, desperately, as though drowning.
I cannot stop thinking about you.
Caspian leaned against the cold wall and allowed himself to remember. The touch of those lips. The taste of wine. The gravity in those brown eyes when Benedict had said, Allow me to paint you.
He had wanted so badly to stay. Had wanted so badly to say yes to everything those eyes promised.
But the Viscount would have found him. Sooner or later. And destroyed everything Caspian touched. Including Benedict.
No. Better to suffer alone than to doom him to the same fate.
***
On the thirteenth day after learning of the search, Caspian could bear it no longer.
He needed to see him. Just once. Just from a distance. To make certain Benedict was all right, that he was still living his life.
He waited until evening and made his way to Bloomsbury.
The studio was on the second floor of an old building. The window glowed with the warm golden light of candles. Caspian concealed himself in the shadows of the alley opposite and watched.
Benedict was inside. Caspian could see his silhouette moving past the window. He moved slowly, as though underwater. Approached the easel. Stepped back. Approached again.
Drawing.
Caspian stood in the darkness and watched, feeling something shatter in his chest. He was here. So close. Just a few steps, one staircase, one door.
But he could not. He dared not.
An hour passed. Two. The candles in the studio burned low. Benedict sat hunched over a table, and Caspian could tell from the tension in his shoulders: he was suffering.
Because of me.
Caspian clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms.
Leave. Leave before he notices. Before it's too late.
But he could not make himself move.
And then the studio door opened.
Benedict stepped out onto the street. He shrugged his coat over his shoulders, locked the door behind him. Stood for a moment gazing at the night sky, then walked away toward the Thames.
Caspian pressed himself against the wall, frozen. Benedict passed within a few feet of him, so close that Caspian could hear his breathing, could see his profile in the lamplight.
A haggard face. Shadows beneath his eyes. Lips pressed into a thin line.
He hasn't slept in weeks. Neither have I.
Caspian wanted to call out to him. The name lodged in his throat, fighting to escape.
Benedict.
Just one word. Just one step.
But he stayed silent.
Because he knew: if he spoke that name, if Benedict turned and saw him, it would all be over. All his will, all his self-control would crumble. He would not be able to leave again.
And that would doom them both.
Benedict disappeared around the corner.
Caspian exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath the entire time. He sagged against the wall, legs threatening to give way.
Leave. Now. Forget him.
But instead, he looked at the studio door. Locked. But he knew how to handle locks, a skill acquired over years of wandering.
Just a moment. Just to see what was inside. To see what Benedict was working on. And then vanish forever.
Caspian glanced around. The street was empty. Benedict was gone.
He crossed the road, climbed the stairs, and drew a thin wire from his pocket. A few seconds, and the lock clicked.
The door swung open.
And he froze on the threshold.
***
The walls were covered with images of his face.
Dozens of portraits. Drawings, sketches, studies. Everywhere, him. Caspian in profile. Full-face. Eyes closed. Eyes open. Smiling. Pensive. Sad.
Caspian stepped inside, unable to believe what he was seeing.
He was everywhere. On every wall, on the floor, on the table. Unfinished sketches, completed portraits. One canvas stood on the easel: his eyes, magnified, rendered in impossible detail. Every lash. Every shade of grey and blue.
"Good God," he breathed.
This was obsession. Pure, undisguised obsession.
Benedict had not forgotten him. Had not let go. He had drawn him. Again and again. Trying to capture him, to hold on, not to lose him.
Caspian approached the easel, touched the edge of the canvas.
No one had ever seen him like this. No one had ever looked with such attention, such tenderness.
His eyes stung.
He did not deserve this. Did not deserve to have someone suffer so because of him.
Leave. Right now. Before he returns. Disappear and never come back.
Caspian took a step toward the door.
And stopped.
No.
He was tired of hiding. Tired of being alone.
Perhaps the Viscount would find him. Perhaps everything would collapse. Perhaps it would end in catastrophe.
But for one night, one moment, he would allow himself to be happy. Allow himself to be loved.
Caspian surveyed the room. On the table by the window stood half-burned candles in their holders. He lit them one by one, arranged them around the room. Then he sat down on the old settee against the wall and waited.
Benedict would return. And Caspian would be here.
Whatever happened next.
***
Benedict did not expect Caspian to come.
Nearly a month had passed since their last meeting. Nearly a month of searching, empty hopes, and the slow extinction of faith. He still came to the studio every evening, out of habit, out of inertia, because he did not know where else to go. But hope had burned to ashes, leaving only cinders.
On Friday evening he sat surrounded by portraits of a phantom, staring at yet another unfinished sketch. His hand no longer obeyed him. The lines came out crooked, wrong. The image slipped away like water through fingers.
Benedict tossed aside the charcoal and stood. The candles were guttering, wax pooling down the holders. Beyond the window, Bloomsbury was sinking into nighttime silence.
He needed to go out. To breathe. To stop looking at these faces that no longer seemed alive.
He threw on his coat and stepped out into the street, locking the door behind him.
***
London greeted him with cold. The May night was clear, stars visible between the rooftops. Benedict walked without purpose, letting his feet carry him wherever they would.
He passed a tavern from which drunken voices and the smell of ale spilled out. Past shuttered shops with barred windows. Past sleeping houses where candlelight flickered behind shutters.
Ordinary life: people dining, laughing, loving, sleeping. And here he was, walking through the nighttime city like a sleepwalker, haunted by the ghost of a man who had perhaps never existed the way Benedict had imagined him.
Perhaps Granville had been right. Perhaps it was time to stop. To accept that Caspian had left and was not coming back.
Benedict stopped on a bridge over the Thames, leaning against the parapet. The water below was black, oily, reflecting the lamplight. Somewhere in the distance a gull cried: a lonely, mournful sound.
"Let him go," he said into the darkness. "Just let him go."
But he could not.
He stood another minute, breathing in the smell of the river: silt, smoke, rot. Then he turned and walked back. To the studio. To the portraits. To the only place where Caspian still existed.
***
Benedict climbed the familiar stairs, fumbling for the key in his pocket.
He paused, frowning. The door was ajar.
Strange. He had locked it when he left, hadn't he? Or had he forgotten in his distraction?
He pushed the door open.
And froze on the threshold.
The studio was lit. Not the dying stubs he had left behind, but fresh candles, arranged around the room. And in their soft golden glow, standing with his back to the door before the wall of portraits, was Caspian.
He could not breathe. Could not move. Could not believe this was not a hallucination born of desperation and sleeplessness.
Caspian turned slowly.
A gaunt face. Deep shadows beneath his eyes. Sharply defined cheekbones. His clothes hung loose, as though he had lost weight. His hair was dishevelled, stubble shadowing his cheeks. A man who had not slept in weeks, who had been running and hiding, who had forgotten what peace meant.
But those eyes. Those same eyes: alive, burning, full of pain and longing.
"Benedict." His voice broke on the name.
"You." It was all he could manage. Simply: you.
"Forgive me." Caspian took a step forward, reached out a hand as though wanting to touch him but not daring. "Forgive me for making you wait. Forgive..."
Something broke inside Benedict.
He crossed the room in three strides and shoved Caspian against the wall. Not hard, but sharp. His hands seized the lapels of his coat.
"Almost a month!" His voice cracked, went hoarse. "A whole damned month! Where were you? I searched everywhere! I thought..."
He could not finish. Could not say aloud what he had thought. That Caspian was dead. That he had left forever. That everything between them had been an illusion.
"I know." Caspian swallowed; tears glistened in his eyes. "I know. I'm so sorry."
"Sorry?" Benedict shook him. "You vanished! No note, no address, nothing! I was going mad!"
"I saw." Caspian nodded toward the walls covered in his images. "I saw..."
"Then why? Why didn't you come back sooner?"
"Because I was trying to protect you!" Caspian's voice rose to a shout; he shoved Benedict in the chest, pushing him away. "Because everything I touch is destroyed! Because I didn't want to drag you into my nightmare!"
"Too late!" Benedict grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him back. "You already have! From the first conversation, from the first glance! I'm in love with you, you bloody fool!"
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and final.
Caspian stared at him, lips parted.
"You shouldn't have," he managed, strangled. "Benedict, you shouldn't have..."
"But I did." Benedict ran his thumb along his cheekbone, and Caspian closed his eyes, leaning into the touch like a drowning man toward a lifeline. "And I don't care what you're running from. Don't care what secrets you're keeping. I want to be with you. If you'll let me."
"You don't understand." Caspian's eyes flew open, and a tear slid down his cheek. "I'm being watched. I'm being hunted. If they find out about you..."
"Who? Who's hunting you?"
Silence. Caspian looked at him, and in his gaze trust warred with fear.
"The less you know, the safer you are," he finally forced out.
"To hell with safety!" Benedict drew him closer until their foreheads touched. "Tell me. Trust me."
Caspian squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing quickening.
"I..." he began, but his voice broke. "In Oxford. I did something. Something that..."
He fell silent, pressed his lips together, shook his head.
"I can't. If you knew, you'd hate me."
"Try me."
"No." Caspian clutched at his shirt. "Not now. Not tonight. Please."
Benedict studied him with a long look. He saw the desperation. Saw the fear. Saw a man balanced on the edge, ready to fall at any moment.
"All right," he said softly. "Not tonight. But someday you'll tell me. Promise."
"I promise." Caspian nodded, tears streaming down his face. "If... if you still want to know."
"I will." Benedict kissed his forehead, gently. "Caspian, whatever it is, I won't let you go again. No matter what happens."
"I'm so tired." His voice cracked. "So tired of hiding. Of being alone."
"Then stay." Benedict kissed him on the lips, soft and tender. "Stay with me."
Caspian did not answer with words. He simply wrapped his arms around him, hiding his face against his shoulder, and Benedict felt the body in his arms shudder.
"Don't leave me," Caspian whispered through his tears. "Please."
"Never. You have my word."
***
For a long time they stood like that, holding each other in the soft candlelight. Their breathing grew calmer. Their hearts slowed. The world narrowed to two people, to this room, to this moment.
Caspian was the first to pull back, wiping his eyes.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."
"Hush." Benedict took his face in his hands. "Don't apologize."
Caspian looked at him, searching, as though seeing him for the first time. He traced his fingers along his cheekbone, along the line of his jaw, along his lips. The touches were tentative, almost reverent.
"You're real," he whispered. "All this time I was afraid I'd invented you. That you were a dream."
"I'm here." Benedict caught his hand, pressed it to his lips. "I'm real. And I'm yours, if you want me."
Something shifted in Caspian's eyes. Vulnerability gave way to desire. Need. Hunger.
"I want." His voice had gone rough. "God, how I want."
Benedict pulled him close and kissed him.
This time there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. He kissed him hungrily, desperately, pouring into it a full month of longing and fear. Caspian answered with equal ferocity, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
They kissed until the air ran out, then broke apart, breathing hard.
"The settee," Benedict exhaled, nodding toward the old furniture against the wall. "Not a bed, but..."
"I don't care." Caspian tugged him by the hand. "Just don't leave me."
"Never."
***
The settee was narrow, old; the springs creaked beneath their weight. Benedict paid no attention. His entire being was focused on Caspian: on the way he trembled beneath his hands, the way he pressed closer as though trying to merge into one.
He unfastened the buttons of his shirt slowly, giving him time to change his mind. But Caspian did not stop him. He only watched with eyes full of vulnerability and trust.
"Are you sure?" Benedict asked, kissing a bared shoulder.
"Yes." His voice was hoarse. "For the first time in a long while, I'm sure of something."
They undressed slowly, awkwardly, laughing over tangled buttons and the cramped space. When no barriers remained between them, Benedict paused, simply looking.
Caspian was thin. Too thin; ribs showed beneath pale skin. Several old scars, faded and nearly invisible, crossed his body. One on his left side, another on his shoulder, a third, thin and faint, along his collarbone.
"Where did these come from?" Benedict traced his fingers over the scar on his side.
"Long ago." Caspian covered his hand with his own. "I don't want to talk about the past. Not now."
"All right." Benedict kissed the scar, gently, like a benediction.
He laid Caspian back on the settee, kissing every inch of bared skin. Neck. Collarbones. Chest. Stomach. Caspian shuddered beneath his lips, fingers clutching the old upholstery.
Benedict moved lower, leaving a damp trail of kisses along the inside of his thigh. Caspian flinched, tensed.
"Relax," Benedict said, looking up to meet his eyes. "I'll be careful."
"I trust you."
Benedict reached for a small flask of linseed oil on the table, the kind he used for mixing paints. He warmed it between his palms before touching Caspian.
The first touch made him start; his legs instinctively tightened.
"Breathe," Benedict whispered, kissing the inside of his thigh. "Just breathe."
He did not rush. Slowly, in circular motions, he spread the oil, letting the body adjust. One finger slipped inside, and Caspian arched, exhaling sharply.
"Good?" Benedict asked, going still.
"Yes. Yes, keep going."
He moved carefully, watching his face. Watching the tension gradually drain away. Watching the tight-pressed lips part into an open mouth. Watching the furrowed brow smooth and relax.
A second finger. Caspian moaned, throwing his head back.
"Benedict," he breathed, and there was pleading in his voice.
"I know. A little more."
He stretched him patiently until Caspian began to move against his fingers, until the moans became impatient gasps.
"Now." Caspian pulled him by the shoulders. "Please. Now."
Benedict rose, covered him with his body. Guided himself, paused at the entrance.
"Look at me."
Caspian opened his eyes. Dilated pupils, full of desire and fear.
Benedict entered slowly, inch by inch, watching every breath, every movement. Caspian tensed; his hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into skin.
"Breathe," Benedict repeated, kissing his lips. "Breathe with me."
He stilled, letting the body adjust, pressed his forehead to his. Heard Caspian's breathing grow steadier. Felt the body relax, accepting him.
"Move," Caspian whispered. "Please."
Benedict began to move. Slowly. Deeply. Watching his face in the soft candlelight: how it changed with each thrust, how pain transformed into pleasure, how his eyelids fluttered, how his lips shaped his name.
"Benedict. Benedict."
A mantra. A prayer. The only word that mattered.
Caspian wrapped his legs around his waist, drawing him deeper, and Benedict groaned, losing his rhythm. He leaned down, kissed him desperately, hungrily, swallowing every sound, every breath.
He felt Caspian tense beneath him, felt the body tighten around him. He slid a hand between their bodies, wrapped it around him, and Caspian cried out, arching.
"Benedict, I... I can't..."
"You can." Benedict quickened his movements; the thrusts grew deeper, harder. "Let go. I'm with you."
Caspian cried out, shuddered, and Benedict felt warmth spill between their bodies. His name tore from Caspian's lips: prayer and curse in one.
A few more thrusts, and Benedict followed, stilling deep inside with a low groan, burying his face in his neck.
***
They lay in each other's arms, their breathing gradually calming. Their skin, damp and hot, clung together in the darkness, and fine tremors still ran through their limbs: the last echoes of a cresting wave of feeling. Benedict covered them both with his coat, drawing Caspian closer.
Caspian pressed against him, shoulders shaking.
"Hey." Benedict stroked his hair. "Hey. It's all right."
"I didn't think..." His voice was broken. "I didn't think I'd ever be able to feel like this. Safe. Wanted."
"You are wanted." Benedict kissed the top of his head. "More than anyone I know."
"You don't know me. Don't know what I've done..."
"Then tell me."
Silence.
"I can't." Caspian curled tighter in his arms. "Not now. Maybe not ever. There are things you won't forgive if you find out."
"Try me." Benedict lifted his chin, making him meet his eyes. "Caspian, whatever it is, I won't let you go. Even if you try to run again."
Caspian looked at him for a long moment, searching his face as though trying to find the lie. He did not find it.
"I'm so tired of running."
"Then stay with me."
Caspian closed his eyes and pressed closer, hiding his face against his chest. His breathing gradually deepened, steadied.
He had fallen asleep.
***
Benedict lay awake, staring at the ceiling, one arm around Caspian, the other stroking his hair.
Beyond the window, the sky was beginning to lighten: a grey predawn glow. Somewhere in the distance a cock crowed. London was waking.
And Caspian slept in his arms, finally peaceful, finally safe. At least for this one night.
Benedict gazed at his face, relaxed in sleep, and felt his heart clench with tenderness and fear at once.
He was in love. Hopelessly and irrevocably in love with a man who still kept secrets. A man who feared his own shadow. A man who was being hunted.
What secrets are you keeping? Benedict asked silently. And will I be able to accept them when I learn the truth?
Caspian stirred in his sleep, murmured something indistinct, and pressed closer to Benedict.
"Don't go," he whispered through his dreams. "Please don't go."
"I won't." Benedict kissed his forehead. "I promise."
Even if it broke his heart. Even if the truth proved unbearable.
He would stay.
Because for the first time in his life, Benedict Bridgerton felt he had found what he had been searching for in every brushstroke, in every line of charcoal: life itself, pulsing and real. And it was here, in his arms, warm and breathing.
He would not let it go.
No matter what happened.
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