Chapter 2
“Wake up.”
The far too loud and familiar pitch of Andrew’s voice drags Charlie out of sleep land. Not at all prepared to wake up, he rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillow. He was having the best dream. There was definitely a blow job involved and—
“Hey,” Charlie whines when his blankets are yanked off, leaving his bare ass exposed. Rubbing his body against the still warm sheets, he attempts to soak up the lingering warmth.
“Time to rise and shine, sleepyhead.”
Charlie grunts, flipping Andrew the middle finger.
“You have the worst manners.”
“You’re my brother, you don’t get manners,” Charlie tells him, turning his face to peer at Andrew, who is not at all unexpectedly dressed in a crisp, perfectly fitting black suit.
His tie is perfect, as are the matching pocket square and his hair, which he’s styled off to the side in a swoop.
He is put together and handsome. It makes Charlie cranky, realizing he’s going to have to do the same thing.
The only thing he hates more than clothes are fancy clothes.
He wore one of his favorite paisley silk shirts to the opening last night, but Amanda, his agent, told him in no uncertain terms a suit was expected for the second night.
Something Charlie complained to Andrew in text messages, which he apparently took to heart, judging by the matching suit hanging up behind him.
“No,” is all Charlie says, aware he’s being petulant but not caring.
“Yes.”
“S’too early for this, take pity on me.”
“It’s literally nighttime,” Andrew corrects. “And you’re the one who told me you needed to wear a suit tonight.”
“I was bitching, not looking for a keeper.” Charlie rolls away from Andrew, closing his eyes. His attempts at falling back asleep are thwarted when his pillow is yanked from beneath his head. Fucking Andrew.
“The gallery doesn’t even open until eight, Annie. Let me sleep.”
“I let you sleep all day. I brought over your groceries at one, cleaned your kitchen, then went home and read an entire book before I showered, changed and came back. I’m bored, and you need to get up to get ready.”
“You can’t make me,” Charlie grumbles, rolling onto his back before throwing an arm over his eyes.
“I can and I will,” Andrew retorts in a tone that leaves no question about how serious he is. “Time to wake up, princess.”
“If either of us is a princess, it’s y—” his stolen pillow slams into his face with unexpected force, cutting off the rest of what he was going to say and reminding him why, despite Andrew’s mild-mannered appearance and personality, he’s the last King man you should tease.
“Shit,” Charlie curses, rolling off the bed and onto the floor. His knees hit the rug with a thud at the same time the pillow smacks him in the back of the head a second time. “I’m fucking awake, calm down. Did you read a fucking action book or something earlier?”
“It was a fantasy novel about—well,” Andrew pauses, clearing his throat. “It was a romance.”
Romance, Andrew code for one of his spicy books.
If Charlie wasn’t slightly terrified of being hit with the pillow a third time he might tease him, but it’s clear Andrew isn’t going to put up with Charlie’s bullshit tonight, and the truth is he needs Andrew’s help getting into that god forsaken suit.
He also really wants Andrew with him tonight.
The gallery opening last night was boring.
Most of the time Charlie loves showcasing his art, but he does better at the smaller galleries.
This weekend’s showcase is at one of the premiere galleries in Santa Leon, and while Charlie is fully aware of the prestige of this and the potential income he can generate, he absolutely fucking hates having to wine and dine with rich people who want a piece of him before buying his art.
The first night is manageable, the second becomes torture.
What Charlie needs tonight is his twin, and maybe that hot blonde’s phone number. Getting that would definitely make tonight better.
“Are you going to get up?” Andrew asks.
“Eventually,” Charlie replies, spreading his legs wide and lowering himself into a deep stretch to wake up his muscles. “The carpet is itchy on my balls.”
“You could fix that by sleeping in clothing. They make these novel things called pajamas.”
“I hate pajamas. They’re stifling,” Charlie says, arching his feet while grabbing his toes. It stretches his calves in the most delicious way. “You know I need to be free when I sleep, and that includes my dick and ass.”
“Your dick and ass could be free in boxers.”
“They need to breathe.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but cotton is a breathable fabric.”
“Oh shut the fuck up,” Charlie hisses, too cranky to be witty. “I’m hungry. Did you bring me food?”
“I told you, I filled your kitchen with groceries.”
“Groceries aren’t food. I don’t want to cook. I want to eat.”
“Useless fucker,” Andrew grumbles.
“Aw, you love me,” Charlie smirks. He tilts his head up, pleased to see fond exasperation on Andrew’s face. There’s something comforting about someone who knows everything about you, accepting you, that’s always made Charlie feel settled. “You brought me food, didn’t you? Didn’t you, Annie?”
Charlie knows a lot of what Andrew does for him he could do himself, but he often forgets or doesn’t prioritize it, and he likes having Andrew around all the time to help and remind him.
That and he knows Andrew loves to micromanage him.
They’re maybe slightly codependent, but they literally shared a womb; it's not Charlie’s fault he’s attached to his twin, and he’s literally Charlie’s favorite person in the world.
“Yes, I brought you food.” Andrew walks around Charlie to straighten the bedding. “You think I was gonna try to get you in a suit on an empty stomach? I’m stubborn, not stupid. I stopped on the way here and got you arroz con mole.”
“From Juanita’s in the strip mall?” Charlie perks up. “Also stop making my bed, it looks too neat.”
“Of course from Juanita’s. It’s the best mole in town.”
At the mention of his favorite food, Charlie’s mouth waters. Everything Juanita makes is delicious but the mole is Charlie’s favorite–the savory, sweet sauce balanced perfectly by its earthiness. It’s also got a heat that builds in your throat from Guajillo chiles which Charlie loves.
“Also,” Andrew continues interrupting Charlie’s internal mole appreciation, “a made bed quiets the mind.”
“What if I don’t want a quiet mind?” Charlie counters, tugging the blankets out from the bottom of the bed to be ornery. He’s too hungry and tired to deal with this.
“Everyone wants a quiet mind,” Andrew says, tucking in the bottom of the blankets.
Not Charlie but he’s too hungry to be more of a shit and argue so he rises from the floor. Before he makes it to the bedroom door, a pair of boxers hits him in the back of the head. He peels them off, arching an eyebrow at Andrew, who looks far too innocent.
“Put those on,” Andrew instructs. “I’m not staring at your dick while you eat.”
“Why not? You have the same one.”
“Not all of us spend hours staring at ourselves in the mirror every day.”
“Bold of you to assume it takes me hours to appreciate how hot I am,” Charlie laughs, shimmying into the boxers before running to the kitchen, needing to escape before Andrew throws any more clothes at him.
If he’s going to spend the next few hours in a suit then the least he can do is ensure he’s as close to naked as possible until it’s time to walk out the door.
Waiting for him in the kitchen is a styrofoam container tied up in a plastic bag.
He rips the plastic open, stomach grumbling as the scent of freshly made tortillas wafts out of the steaming hot foil container on top.
He sets the tortillas to the side, flips the lid open and nearly weeps with joy when he sees chicken surrounded by mounds of fluffy orange rice all covered in thick mole.
“I can feel you salivating from the bedroom,” Andrew laughs, settling himself at the kitchen island beside him.
“Can you fucking blame me?” He rips open the foil, using one of the tortillas to scoop up rice and mole and shoves it all in his mouth, pretty damn close to crying happy tears.
Again. When Juanita’s opened up in a small storefront situated between the laundromat and a panaderia across town, Charlie quite literally cried the first time he tried the Michoacan red mole so close to the one his abuela used to make that, for a second, it’d been like she was still alive.
Their abuela had never taught Alec to make it, and their poor Midwestern mother could hardly manage white people taco night, let alone attempt mole.
Since then, he makes it a point to frequent there as often as possible, both to support a small business and to support his belly. If Charlie could live on it, he would.
“Slow down before you choke,” Andrew snorts, sneaking one of the tortillas.
Unlike Charlie, he doesn’t like mole, so he merely rolls his tortilla tightly before taking a bite.
His appreciation of the handmade tortillas isn’t as vocal as Charlie’s, but it’s evident in the way he smiles.
Charlie feels his face break into a mirroring smile as he leans his shoulder against Andrew’s.
Only when the pile of tortillas are gone does Charlie get a spoon, shoveling every last bite of mole covered rice into his mouth. Possibly too much at once if the way Andrew gapes is any indication.
“What?” Charlie asks around a full mouth.
“I was wondering if you were trying to break a world record for putting things in your mouth.”
It’s lucky for Andrew that there’s too much food in Charlie’s mouth for him to make a dirty joke his brother would definitely not appreciate. He thinks it to himself though, laughing while he chews.
“Seriously?” Andrew groans.
“I didn’t say anything,” Charlie points out once he’s finished chewing.
“You were thinking it though.”