Chapter 17 Eden #2
“He’s a good fuck,” Eden confirms, refusing to admit even to Addy exactly what path his thoughts were following.
“Is that all?” Addy asks, setting her empty cocoa cup into Eden’s before reaching for his hand. He watches her fingers twine with his own, light and dark. He loves her hands.
“You’re beautiful, you know.”
“And you are changing the subject,” Addy points out, resting her head on Eden’s shoulder, her long box braids falling down his back.
Ella’s shrieks and squeals fill the air, seagulls scattering in her wake. Behind her, the sky darkens with vibrant shades of pink and orange casting its warm light on them, a last glimmer of day before it fades.
Charlie would love this sunset. Would he ever want to come hang at the beach with him and Addy and Ella?
Would he want to build sand castles and chase seagulls?
The thought makes him mildly nauseous and dangerously close to tears.
Charlie doesn’t even know Ella exists yet.
Because you won’t tell him, his brain reminds him.
Through it all, he’s done his best to keep things casual, ensuring that when Charlie leaves it will hurt less, but he’s starting to suspect it’s going to hurt no matter what.
“Eden.” Addy squeezes his hand. “You know it’s okay if you like him right?”
“I don’t need anyone else. I have you and Ella. You’re all I need.”
“And you’re always going to have us,” Addy whispers, slipping her other arm around Eden’s waist. “Even if you one day found a man you could love, you wouldn’t lose us.”
“I won’t fall in love,” Eden scoffs, leaning into her embrace. “Love is for idiots.”
“Would you tell Ella that?”
“God, no.”
“Then why is it okay to tell yourself?”
“Oh fuck off,” Eden grumbles without any real heat.
“I mean it, Eden. All the things you want for Ella—happiness, a stable future, love if she wants it one day—those are things we want for you, too.”
“I told you, I have you guys,” Eden says, his voice low and choked. “I don’t need anyone else. I don’t want anyone else. Me and Charlie are just having fun. It’s not serious.”
“Okay, Eden. If you say so.”
It’s clear Addy thinks he’s lying. Worse, Eden knows it too.
He might not need Charlie, but he wants him, and somehow that’s a hell of a lot scarier.
The smell of something burning drags Eden from sleep, followed by the low cursing that can only be one person.
Squinting at the clock Charlie keeps on the bedside table, it’s all Eden can do not to frown.
Six-thirty. Why is Charlie awake at six-thirty?
Eden wasn’t going to sneak out of bed for another forty minutes.
Charlie should be in bed next to Eden so he can fully appreciate that he sleeps naked.
Or if not fully appreciate it, since there’s never time for morning sex, at least sleepily appreciate it.
Instead, Charlie’s half of the bed is cold, indicating he’s been gone for a while.
That, more than the bad smell and the increased frequency of cursing, is what drags Eden out of bed.
He really hopes Charlie wasn’t up all night again.
After last week, Eden got worried and has taken to trying to fuck Charlie so good he passes out.
Not that it’s any of Eden’s business whether Charlie sleeps or not.
Only he looks like shit when he doesn’t.
A handsome, beautiful shit. Oh, who is Eden kidding?
Nothing makes Charlie look bad which is really fucking rude.
The fact of the matter is, Eden worries when Charlie gets those dark circles under his eyes, and he understands even more now why Andrew comes over so often with food or to check on him.
More than once, Eden has come over after a shift at Juanita’s to find Charlie in his studio painting.
When pressed, Charlie often can’t recall how long he’s been there or when he last ate or drank unless Eden or Andrew had been by to check.
It’s frankly a wonder he’s kept himself alive for thirty-two years, or that he manages to keep his pets alive.
Then again, Charlie is far more adept at taking care of others than himself, something that makes Eden squirm with discomfort.
Unsure where his own clothes or underwear went after last night's rather vigorous adventure, Eden settles for stealing one of Charlie’s shirts out of his dresser.
It’s too big, hanging off his shoulder and skimming his upper thighs, but Eden’s not dressing to impress, he’s dressing to figure out what the fuck is going on.
He’s clearly not the only one because just as he’s sneaking out of Charlie’s bedroom, he hears a familiar soft mewl of confusion.
“Hi Agnes.”
Agnes meows, though whether in greeting or displeasure remains to be seen.
She’s been a little more skittish since he accidentally squeezed her, and he’s been gently trying to win her favor ever since.
Not that he wants Charlie to know that. He shouldn’t care if Charlie’s pets like him, but this is Agnes’ house, and Eden would hate for his presence to make her uncomfortable.
With another quiet meow, Agnes moves towards Eden, rubbing against his ankles in what he hopes is permission to pick her up. Careful as he can, he scoops her into his arms, pleased when she butts her head into his chin.
“Wanna go find your idiot daddy?”
She meows loudly, and Eden can’t help but smile.
That smile falls off his face when he walks into the kitchen and takes in what can only be described as a disaster scene.
The kitchen window above the sink is open while Charlie tries to direct billowing smoke off the stove towards it.
The smoke is coming from a skillet filled with something very black and lumpy.
On the floor is more of whatever was in the pan, though in various globular stages.
The kitchen table is covered in flour and egg shells, along with a bowl of something that is, judging by the hand written recipe on the table, supposed to be pancakes but looks more like play dough. If play dough were the texture of vomit and a frankly horrifying color.
“What the fuck is going on?”
Charlie’s head swivels, a look somewhere between surprise and horror crossing his face.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“You trying to burn the house down woke me up.”
“I wasn’t trying to burn the house down, I was—uh.”
Eden moves closer to the table, eyes roaming over the recipe. ‘Alec’s famous blueberry pancakes’ is scribbled on the top in Charlie’s familiar loopy handwriting.
“You’re making breakfast? You never eat breakfast. Not unless Andrew or I cook.”
“I know,” Charlie says, waving more of the smoke towards the window with a plate. He sighs heavily, apparently giving up and carrying the pan of blackened pancakes to the sink and turning the water on. The pan sizzles as the black pancakes flop into the sink. “Don’t say anything.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I’m thinking a lot of things right now, Charlie.”
“Were any of them how life changingly handsome I look in the morning? Or how sweet and thoughtful I am to get up so early to make you breakfast in bed?” He stops, turning to look at the mess he’s made. “Err, or tried to. Definitely an A for effort in there somewhere.”
Eden worries his bottom lip between his teeth, taking in the picture Charlie makes.
He’s wearing a pair of tie dye boxer briefs and an apron that says if you see me cooking, run which was probably a gift from Andrew.
There’s batter on his cheek and flour in his hair.
He’s a fucking disaster, and apparently Eden is fucking into thirty-something-year old men who can’t fucking cook.
“This is a disaster,” Eden tells him, lowering Agnes to the floor. She sprints away, clearly not in the mood for whatever is happening.
“Yeah.” Charlie tugs at his hair, and Eden’s chest does some kind of weird flip-flopping thing as the gravity of the situation hits Eden.
Sure, it smells like the fire department should be here, the mess is ridiculous, and none of it looks edible but Charlie—can’t cook for shit and never wakes up in the morning unless it’s for coffee or sex—got up to cook for Eden.
No one but Addy has ever done that for him.
People don’t do things like this for Eden.
It feels almost boyfriend-like. Not that Charlie is his boyfriend.
He has no idea what they are. Charlie’s attempted several times over the last week to try to talk about it, but Eden always changes the subject.
He’s very good at distracting Charlie until he forgets he was trying to talk to Eden about things Eden doesn’t want to talk about.
“You didn’t need to cook for me. I already put out,” Eden teases.
“You don’t need to do that,” Charlie says in a tone more serious than Eden is used to hearing from him.
“Do what?” Eden scoffs, playing stupid.
“Cheapen everything. I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“I’m not—”
“You were.”
“Fuck you,” Eden snaps automatically, guilt making him uneasy at the wounded puppy look on Charlie’s face. Eden sighs heavily. “I’m sorry. No one has ever…I’m not used to this.”
“Never had a boyfriend make you breakfast?”
“I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
“Until now,” Charlie grins, his smile falling when Eden doesn’t return it. “Eden.”
“Let me help you clean before I leave.”
“Eden.”
“Where are the paper towels?”
“I don’t use paper towels, they're bad for the environment,” Charlie tells him, opening a drawer full of rags. “But Eden, can we talk? Seriously.”
“About how bad you fucked up breakfast?” Eden laughs, the sound hollow and forced even to his own ears. “I should take a picture and text it to Andrew.”
“Only if you want him to have a heart attack and hurry over here with plastic gloves and bleach.”
“Might need it to handle this mess,” Eden surveys the disaster, trying to mentally catalog what needs to be cleaned and not the expression on Charlie’s face. “We should start with the floor so Birdie doesn’t step in it.”