Chapter 10 Charlie #3
“If your dream is driving around in something that looks like a wind-up toy car. I didn’t even know they made cars in that color.” He squints at Charlie’s car which, under the harsh street light, appears kind of piss yellow.
“Did we meet up to insult my car? It’s fine if we did, just wanna get my expectations straight.”
“I can’t imagine there was ever anything straight about you.”
He’s got on an all black hoodie now, the sleeves tugged down over his hands and the hood pulled up to try and shield him from the chill in the air. Loose pieces of pale hair stick out, his eye makeup sparkling when he steps beneath a beam of light.
“Where’s your skirt?”
“I didn’t know if it was safe to wear it walking to the bus this late at night,” he answers with a shrug. The bulge in his hoodie pocket suddenly makes sense. “Addy’s car is at the mechanic, so she’s borrowing mine to get to work and—” but he cuts himself off sharply.
“And—” Charlie prompts curiously.
“That’s all,” he replies. He takes two steps closer to Charlie, tipping his face up defiantly in a way that makes Charlie want to drop to his knees.
What the fuck is it about this guy? Something about his delicate, soft features and that gorgeous makeup a sharp contrast to his fierce glare is doing something to Charlie.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“That you felt like you had to take your skirt off. Santa Leon is great but I get it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m queer too.”
“Okay, it’s not a contest.”
“I didn’t say it was.” Charlie fidgets with the bracelet in his pocket. “You shouldn’t have to be ashamed of who you are was all I meant.”
“I’m not fucking ashamed,” he retorts, butting up into Charlie’s personal space. He withdraws a hand from his pocket and pokes Charlie. “Don’t play the savior.”
“I wasn’t,” Charlie protests.
“You were. Boo fucking hoo. Well, you can stop it now. Being aware of my surroundings at night because I know damn well that how I dress triggers people who are uncomfortable with my gender presentation doesn’t mean I’m ashamed. It means I don’t have a fucking death wish.”
“I didn’t—” Charlie starts then stops. Shit. Maybe he did. He didn’t mean to though.
“You did,” he asserts, pulling his hand back. “Don’t say shit like that again. And don’t fucking feel sorry for me.”
“You’ve got a lot of rules, you know that?”
“No one made you come,” he retorts, shoulders hunched in on himself. Like a flash, Charlie sees another canvas. No dress this time. Nothing fancy. Just the man standing before him, ripped jeans, a dark hoodie and those goddamn eyes, brighter than the moon.
He doesn’t even need to close his eyes to see it.
So many shades of blue. Celeste, eggshell, sapphire.
Then something darker. Harsher. Ocean cavern.
He can almost taste the paint—bitter, metallic, sharp.
His fingers itch to smooth across his canvas the way they wish they could smooth across the man in front of him.
He wants to touch him, but he’s not sure what might happen if he did.
“You can leave, you know.”
“Do you want me to leave?” Charlie asks.
He mumbles something unintelligible and shrugs his shoulders, looking like he’s trying to all but disappear into his hoodie. His discomfort is palpable, and Charlie acts without a second thought, withdrawing the bracelet from his pocket.
“You left something at my house,” Charlie whispers.
This is going to ruin his chance. He was going to use that bracelet as an excuse to get this guy back to his house, to try and shoot his shot for one more night. But something about him makes Charlie know he’d feel like a dick if he did that.
“Is Ella your name?” Charlie asks. He won’t press for more, but he wants this at least.
“Where did you get this?” He asks, snatching the bracelet up and pushing it onto his left arm.
“Under my bed. Must’ve fallen off when you fucked my brains out.” Charlie grins, but the expression isn’t returned. Instead, he stares at the bracelet, running his fingers over the letter beads.
“Eden,” he whispers so quietly Charlie almost thinks he’s misheard.
“Did you say—”
“Eden,” he repeats, louder this time. He lifts his pretty blue eyes up to meet Charlie’s gaze, and Charlie nearly staggers under the intensity of that look. “That’s my name.”
“Eden,” Charlie repeats, tasting the syllables on his tongue. It sounds the way painting feels, melodic almost. “Who’s Ella?”
“Why did you bring it back?” Eden demands, in lieu of an answer.
“It’s yours, any decent person would have.” He doesn’t mention that it took him a week to return or that he wore it during that time. He’s a decent person, but he’s no fucking saint.
“It means a lot to me,” Eden says in a way that suggests that confessing cost him something. “I—thank you,”
Charlie smiles, stepping closer. “You don’t have to thank me, Eden.”
Something about Eden draws him in, like a moth to a flame. He’s so goddamn beautiful that Charlie can’t look away, doesn’t want to look away.
“Eden.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t, my favorite word.” Charlie inches closer, the pull damn near making him collapse. He curls himself around Eden, tempting fate by getting as close into his personal space as he can without actually touching.
He’s so fucking close that Charlie can almost taste him, can see his lip gloss sparkling, can smell the faintest hint of something sweet like cherry or bubblegum on his mouth.
Suddenly, he has to know.
“Do you use flavored chapstick?”
Eden’s chin juts out, like he’s gearing for a fight. “Why?”
“Because I like it.”
“Didn’t fucking ask if you liked it,” Eden grits out. Despite the sharpness of his words, Eden rises on tiptoes, his mouth slightly parted. He’s responsive, but it’s clear he doesn’t want to be because he seems to catch himself, dropping his heels to the ground and frowning.
“I like it, Eden.”
“Just because you know my name doesn't mean you get to use it.”
A smile tries to pull across Charlie’s lips. He never thought he’d meet anyone who argued more pointlessly than he did, but Eden could make an art of it. Eden is a goddamn work of art with his pretty facade and heart wrapped in barbed wire.
Suddenly one night doesn’t seem like enough.
“Go on a date with me,” Charlie blurts, uttering the kind of sentence he never thought he would.
“No.”
“Please.”
“No,” Eden repeats.
Charlie bows his head, lowering himself down so close he can pick up the lingering scent of tortillas and oil from working in the restaurant, but something sweeter on his lips is there too.
“I’ll take anything you give me,” Charlie tells him, not above admitting how desperate he is.
“What the fuck, Charlie?”
“Your rules,” Charlie whispers, hands lingering midair. He knows the rules. He won’t break them. “If not a date, what? One more night, like the one in my studio?”
“What, you’re just gonna let me fuck you and walk away? Just because it’s what you think I want?” Eden manages to make it sound both like a statement and a question. “Because that’s fucking stupid. You’re a fucking idiot.”
“You’ve said that a few times now.”
“It’s how you’re saved in my phone.” The second the words are out Eden looks like he’s ready to bolt.
“You saved my phone number?”
“Just in case you were a stalker and tried to kill me or some shit,” Eden mumbles, looking anywhere but at Charlie. That’s alright, Charlie is looking at Eden, and he has no intention of looking away until he’s forced.
“Here I thought I proved myself as an anti-stalker.”
Eden makes a derisive noise, reaching for his left wrist. He fingers something beneath the bracelets—a tattoo, though of what Charlie can’t tell with the stack of bracelets covering it.
“If you’re uncomfortable, I can go,” Charlie offers.
“Fuck you,” Eden yells.
Taken aback Charlie does something he’s never done before—he shuts his mouth. He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t have a clue what to say.
“How fucking dare you,” Eden yells, working himself up. He reaches for Charlie, fisting his hands in the front of Charlie’s neon jacket. “Twenty fucking years on this stupid fucking planet and I fucking hate everyone. Let me hate you.”
“Eden.”
“Why can’t I hate you?” Eden croaks, the declaration so small and broken.
A single gash through Charlie’s heart, another across the painting he knows he’s going to create tonight.
Something dark, angry, and small like the man in front of him.
His pain is a tangible thing that Charlie can feel, one that needs to bleed onto the canvas.
Charlie doesn’t have a goddamn clue what’s hurt him, but he knows a broken boy when he sees one.
“Can I hug you?”
“Can you—fuck. Fuck. You,” Eden grits, hands fisting so tightly in Charlie’s jacket that Charlie stumbles forward.
He’s not sure which of them does it, just knows Eden’s lips touch his in a demanding kiss, bruising in its intensity.
Eden devours him, kissing him like he’s never kissed anyone before, like he might never kiss anyone again.
Hot tears that aren’t Charlie’s coat his cheeks, salty and sharp against the sweetness of Eden’s bubblegum flavored chapstick.
It’s the single most intense, confusing kiss of Charlie’s life, and when Eden pulls back with kiss swollen lips and mascara running down his cheeks all Charlie can think is what a beautiful disaster he is.
“Eden.”
Eden stumbles, the shock of panic on his face enough to have Charlie taking a step back. Not to get away but to protect, to afford Eden the smallest scrap of power he’s clearly scrambling to hold on to.
“Don’t,” Eden says, shaking his head. “Just don’t.”
“Okay,” Charlie whispers.
He’s never been good at listening, but he listens now, and it hurts. It hurts really fucking bad.
“I just…I—” but Eden doesn’t finish, turning to look behind him before he bolts and runs away into the darkness, taking a broken shard of Charlie with him.
Maybe Andrew was right. This sure as fuck feels like feelings.