Chapter 22 Charlie #2
A hum is the only answer he gets. This is followed by Eden spreading Charlie’s legs then shoving his face between them, something warm and wet filling his ass along with Eden’s probing tongue.
“Holy shit,” Charlie grunts once he realizes exactly what Eden is doing.
Sure enough a finger joins Eden’s tongue, shoving the come that drips down the back of his thighs back into his hole. He’s so relaxed from his own orgasm and so fucking turned on that it doesn’t take much before Charlie’s begging for it, all but howling with pleasure when Eden slides into him.
“Such a fucking slut,” Eden croons, slamming into Charlie. His legs spread wide, his hands above his head and his entire body suddenly strung taut despite the recent orgasm. “You like being fucked with your own come?”
“Ngghh.”
“You do,” Eden presses, the slow rolling of his hips in sharp juxtaposition to the erratic pitch of his breathing. He lowers his face, nosing into Charlie’s cheek before whispering, “my come whore, my slut, mine.”
“Yours,” Charlie groans, pretty sure no one has ever owned him as thoroughly as Eden is. There is no going back from this moment, no getting over Eden, ever. This man above him—this prickly, strong, skittish, dirty-mouthed man—is it for Charlie.
There’s a feeling when Charlie paints, when he’s so connected to the art that he ceases to exist. He’s nothing and everything all at once. He feels that now—this consuming oneness with Eden. A sense of complete and utter bliss that damn near has him floating out of his skin.
Everything is Eden, and the sounds he makes as he fucks into Charlie—broken off, desperate sounds like he can’t get enough.
Like maybe he’s as fucking wrecked as Charlie.
Everything is Eden: his pretty face flushed and sweaty, his hair in disarray and his eyes blown wide.
Eden, and the overstimulating sensation of his dick filling Charlie, knowing he’s using Charlie’s come to drive him past the edge of pleasure.
Eden who ran, who might keep running, but is allowing Charlie to see him at his most vulnerable.
Eden, Eden, Eden.
One of them shouts, Eden maybe. Or Charlie.
Because Charlie’s definitely coming again, too soon and so sensitive his dick almost hurts, and his arms ache, and he’s so full of Eden and his come.
It’s leaking out of him, both of their releases dripping out of Charlie’s ass while Eden peppers kisses across Charlie’s jaw and face murmuring words so frantic and low he can hardly comprehend them.
All he knows is Eden is holding his wrists, bringing them to his lips and kissing them, and there are tears that are definitely Eden’s soaking his arms and then his cheeks as Eden kisses him again.
His tongue ring and lip piercings are a sensory delight, especially compared to how damn soft his lips are.
Everything about the kiss is so perfectly Eden, and Charlie will never get enough of him. The words he says don’t matter, but the way Eden feels in his arms does.
Together they fall apart, wrapped around each other in a bed too small with feelings too big. Eden’s entire body shakes as he claws at Charlie’s shoulders and wraps around him, almost as if trying to climb into Charlie’s skin.
Charlie’s wrists are sore, his body spent, but he’s got enough energy to wrap up his boyfriend and kiss the top of his head.
Charlie doesn’t have words so he hums, thinking back to one of the songs his abuela sang to him as a child.
She almost never spoke Spanish in front of him, but sometimes when she was over late, and she helped his parents by putting him and Andrew to bed, she’d slip into her native tongue.
Charlie can’t remember the words—thinks maybe he should ask Alec later—but he remembers the tune and the sound of her voice and how safe she always made him feel.
Hoping to make Eden feel even an iota of that same love and safety, he hums the song now, stroking his hand up and down Eden’s back until his sobs subside.
Only then does Charlie chance inching his hand upwards to draw his fingers through Eden’s hair.
The strands are silky soft, and Charlie does it again, delighting in the feel of Eden’s hair slipping through his fingertips.
Fully expecting Eden to tell him to stop, Charlie is surprised when the opposite happens, and Eden lets out a sigh of contentment, going boneless atop Charlie.
Grateful Eden can’t see his face, Charlie bites back his own tears while he continues to smooth his hand over Eden’s head and down the back of his neck, half playing with his hair and half petting him, unused to being allowed to touch like this.
If Eden feels even a fraction of what Charlie is feeling right now, it’s no wonder he ran.
Charlie doesn't have any of Eden’s trauma or abandonment issues, and even he is slightly terrified by the intensity of these feelings—by the depth of his attachment to Eden.
Charlie is a big enough man to admit that he’d spent the week wallowing about rejection, partly because as Andrew aptly pointed out he really never had been rejected before, but also because it was easier to focus on his hurt pride than how broken his heart had been at the idea of losing Eden.
Looking back, he hates that he let a week go by without forcing Eden to face him.
He knows Eden. He should’ve known this is what Eden needed, to be reminded that Charlie isn’t afraid of him even when Eden is terrified of them.
Continuing to play with Eden’s hair, he’s pretty sure he could die happy like this. Somehow having Eden naked on his chest, letting Charlie touch him like this, is almost better than sex. There’s an intimacy to it, the kind Charlie is unfamiliar with. The kind he wants more of.
The longer they lie together, the more Eden’s breathing slows to the point Charlie wonders if he’s sleeping, but this thought is proven inaccurate when Eden breaks the silence with eleven painful words.
“I was four the first time they cut my hair off.”
Charlie’s hand stills, unsure if he should stop touching, but Eden reaches up to move it again, wordless permission for Charlie to continue. He does, stroking his fingers through Eden’s hair with all the tenderness he has always been denied.
“I don’t remember much, only that there was lice at the preschool they sent me to, and the foster family I was with had a lot of kids.
They said they didn’t want me giving it to all of them, they didn’t have time to deal with it so the dad—I don’t even remember his name—just took me into the garage and buzzed it all off.
I remember crying. I didn’t want short hair, but he told me to man up. ”
There aren’t enough words for what Charlie is feeling, and he suspects none of them would help Eden process, so he bites his tongue and remains silent while Eden continues to talk.
“After that, I wouldn’t let anyone cut my hair for years.
I screamed and bit, which is probably why no one wanted to keep me.
My file said ‘difficult to manage’ under a lot of the placement transfers.
My hair got pretty long again, and by the time I was in fifth grade, a lot of people thought I was a girl.
It drove my foster parents at the time crazy.
They hadn’t asked for a girl, was what they told me when they tried to cut it off.
I was small, but I could fight. Only…only one morning, I woke up and it was gone.
” There’s a hitch in Eden’s breathing, his entire body tense.
“They cut it all off while I was asleep. I walked into the kitchen, and my foster dad, his name was Richard—just smiled and told me it was time I looked like a man. That was the first time I ran away. I waited until they went to work and I ran. I ran until my legs hurt. I was gone for two days before the police found me sleeping behind a Walmart. When they brought me back, there was a trash bag with my stuff in it, and that was that.”
Words escape Charlie, leaving nothing but devastation and sadness for a smaller version of Eden who was hurt and betrayed and violated, for the version of Eden now who carries the invisible scars of that pain.
Charlie will probably never get to know every trauma Eden experienced, nor does he think he has any right to dredge up things Eden’s not ready to share yet by asking.
Maybe, just this once, he can be not just a respectful boy, but a good one.
Pushing up the stack of bracelets on his left wrist, Eden exposes the delicate underside, showing off the numbers tattooed there. Charlie’s noticed them before but never asked. He assumed it was a lucky number but now he suspects it’s the opposite.
“Thirteen. The number of homes that didn’t want me.”
“Eden.”
“Don’t tell me you feel sorry for me,” Eden says, sounding so small and broken that Charlie breaks with him. “Please.”
Charlie does feel sorry for him, not in a pitying way, but in the way you have empathy for someone because they never should’ve had to endure such trauma so young. He’s not sure now is the time to try and explain that though, so he focuses on the other things he feels too.
“I’m proud of you.”
“Fuck off.”
“My refractory period isn’t that fast, unfortunately.”
“Because you’re old,” Eden teases, some of his light returning.
It’s not bright like the sun, but small and strong like a candle lit in the dark.
Charlie really is proud of him. He survived in a world that did its best to try and dim his light so it would stop burning.
Instead of letting them whittle him down to nothing, he became the match instead of the flame.
“You’re going to wound my ego, baby.”
“Your ego could take knocking down a peg or two. It’s a wonder you can fit that big head of yours in a room.”
“It’s not my fault I know I’m handsome and talented.”
“Fucking menace is what you are,” Eden grumbles, rubbing his face into Charlie’s chest. “What am I going to do with you?”