The Rooftop Variable

The deadline for the Legacy Campaign was tight. It meant late nights.

It was 9:00 PM on a Thursday. The HVAC system had powered down to "Economy Mode," leaving the office humid and still.

"I can't look at another spreadsheet," Benji groaned, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt lifted slightly, exposing a strip of pale skin.

Arthur looked away quickly, focusing on his monitor. "We have to finish cataloging the 2015 press releases."

"I need air," Benji declared. "Roof?"

Arthur hesitated. The roof was technically off-limits after hours, but Benji had a key because Benji had keys to everything.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting on a concrete bench in the roof garden. The city of Seattle sprawled out around them, a grid of amber and white lights. The air was crisp.

Benji had ordered Thai food. They were eating out of cartons with plastic forks.

"This is better," Benji said, pointing a dumpling at the skyline. "The air down in the Archives is recycled too many times. You need oxygen, Arthur."

"I like the Archives," Arthur said defensively. "It’s predictable."

"It’s lonely," Benji countered gently.

Arthur stopped chewing. He looked at Benji. The moonlight softened the chaotic angles of Benji’s face. He looked... serious.

"Why do you hang out down there with me?" Arthur asked. The question had been rotting in his gut for weeks. "You’re... you. You know everyone. You could be at a bar. Or with the marketing team."

Benji set his dumpling down. He turned on the bench, facing Arthur.

"The marketing team is loud," Benji said. "They talk over each other. They’re always 'on.' It’s exhausting."

He looked down at his hands. "Down there, with you... it’s quiet. You listen when I talk, but you don't demand that I perform. You just let me be. It’s the only place in the building where my brain slows down."

Benji looked up, his eyes searching Arthur’s. "And... I like you, Arthur. You’re smart. You’re kind. You make sure my coffee doesn't have foam."

Arthur’s heart hammered against his ribs. It was a different kind of panic than the fire drill. It was vertigo.

Benji reached out. He placed his hand over Arthur’s on the bench. His palm was warm.

"Is this okay?" Benji whispered.

Arthur stared at their hands. He wanted to turn his hand over. He wanted to interlace their fingers.

But then the voice came back. *“He’s just being nice to get the work done. You’re a project, Arthur. A broken thing he’s trying to fix.”*

Arthur pulled his hand away as if he’d been burned.

"We should get back," Arthur said, his voice cold and robotic. "The press releases won't file themselves."

Benji’s face fell. The light went out of his eyes. "Right. Yeah. Work."