Chapter 11 #3
‘He ordered an old-fashioned. I said, “Sorry, we’re out of oranges.” He replied, “It’s okay” and he pulled an orange out of his pocket.
So I asked, “Do you always have an orange in your pocket?” and he went like, “Yes. Don’t you?
” He was super confused that I didn’t carry an orange at all times.
He was so confused that, when I turned around to prepare his drink, I started reassessing my life.
You know… Listing moments when having an orange could have made a difference.
I was mixing whisky and sugar with a bar spoon, slowly, clockwise, and I realised how useful an orange can be. ’
Loris is massaging Charles’ skin, slowly, clockwise, dissolving the tightness in his neck.
‘I cut a piece of peel and I added it to his glass. He paid, stood up and left without drinking it. Strange bird, right?’
‘And then?’
‘That’s it. I ate the orange and went about my business.’
‘This is… not a great story.’ Charles is clicking his pen on his own, following the steady beat of his heart. ‘It’s lame. You just made it up.’
‘Did I?’
‘The pub doesn’t do cocktails. You’re a weirdo.’
‘Am I?’
There’s doughnut sugar in Loris’ stubble, where his cheek would break into a dimple if he smiled brighter. Not enough to spread into heart-shaped glasses, but Charles collects the powder with his forefinger and traces an imaginary outline around Loris’ left eye.
‘What are you doing?’
Charles circles his right eye. He’s light-headed, floating in a bubble where time is distorted. Where he could always count on Loris. Where he had already heard his lame orange story and spread invisible sugar on his face.
He must have done it before, otherwise it wouldn’t feel so intuitive.
‘Thank you for this pointless tale.’
‘You’re welcome, I’ve got plenty.’
Charles traces a monocle chain down to Loris’ chin.
No, it’s the first time he’s doing so. He had never noticed the three beauty spots aligned between Loris’ nose and the corner of his mouth. He had never realised how plump his lips are.
‘You okay? Charles?’
Especially the bottom one. Plump, moist and surely sweet, like the flesh of a cherry. The colour isn’t cherry, though. It’s a fairer shade. Loris would name it and come up with an artistic soliloquy about it.
‘Yes…’
Grenadine. That’s what Loris’ lip reminds Charles of. That’s what it must taste like. An iced fruity drink on a summer day.
Has he tasted it before?
He would bet his pendant it tastes like grenadine.
‘What do you want to—’
Charles presses his mouth against Loris’ lips. He has to check before he bets his pendant.
‘Charles…’
Loris sinks his nails into the nape of Charles’ neck, sending a surge of electricity down his spine.
His breath isn’t grenadine. It’s nutty, like a hot caffeinated drink on a winter day.
And no, Charles had never tasted Loris before.
Every touch of their lips is a learning experience.
There’s nothing familiar about the flavours and sensations going to his head, about the warm shivers coursing through his body.
They’re warm, they’re increasingly warm and, all of a sudden, they’re searing, because his tongue is brushing Loris’ tongue.
Charles grips his waist and hauls him up onto his knees on the sofa, their hips pressed together.
He can’t process what he’s learning anymore, it’s too complex. It’s an exhilarating assault on all his senses. It’s fast and messy, and when Loris’ hand finds the skin above his belt, Charles moans and kisses him deeper.
His moan ricochets on the surface of the bubble and comes back to resonate in Charland like a thunderclap.
He’s kissing Loris.
Charles snatches himself from his clasp and falls backwards against the armrest. ‘Fuck. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
‘But it’s okay that you did.’
‘No.’ Charles cowers further away when Loris caresses his knee. ‘I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to.’
‘Okay... I’m sorry I let you, then.’
Loris drops his arm and sits on his heels as a flash of bruising confusion streaks the myriad of blues glistening behind his eyelashes.
His lips are wet and now cherry red. His t-shirt is pulled down, hugging the muscles of his shoulders, revealing those on his torso.
He’s so breathtakingly attractive, Charles brings his fist against his mouth not to scream.
He’s out of his mind. He’s not attracted to Loris.
He’s not, except his entire body is aching to be touched by Loris’ hands, resting on his thighs.
‘I need to go.’ Charles jumps to his feet. ‘I need to be— I have to meet—’
‘That’s not true. You don’t need to be anywhere.’
‘I’m leaving.’
‘Let’s just take a minute to—’
‘I don’t want to be here!’
The silence that follows is so heavy, Charles wishes he had shouted even louder, so his own echo would deaden the certainty that he’s being hurtful. He picks up his pen and teeters around the sofa to gather his clothes.
‘Fine…’
Loris sounds anything but fine. Nothing is fine. Nothing is safe anymore. The bubble is on the brink of bursting.
‘But where are you going? Charles?’
Why isn’t it bursting?
‘Don’t leave, you’re panicking again.’
‘I’m not, I— Home. I’m going home. I’m sorry.’
Charles rushes out of the flat and hurtles down the stairs. The steps creak, loud and ominous, and what the hell happened? How the hell did he—
He’s forced to come to a stop outside when he ploughs into a teenage girl who almost drops her phone.
‘Watch out, moron!’
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I— Shit, Loris, I’m sorry…’
Loris can’t hear him, and the girl isn’t listening. She’s drawing away, and so is the bus Charles would have collided with hadn’t he crashed into her.
He staggers back against the green door, hypnotised by the route indicator at the rear of the bus. One six eight. This bus goes to the office, it doesn’t go home. Charles needs to go home. He just needs to walk home, one step at a time.
Doucement.
With convulsing hands, he puts on his coat and rolls his jumper into a ball to cling on to.
One hundred and sixty-eight. Times three, five hundred and four.
Respire.
He shouts into the fabric and eases his way into the pedestrian traffic.
Times three, a thousand five hundred and twelve.
Charles makes it home past the billion, with no guarantee that his calculations are correct, but determined to continue until the mental effort knocks him unconscious.
It would count as brain damage. He could chalk the memories of the past hour up to it and convince himself that none of it happened.
It would be fair. Half of his life feels like a collaborative work of fiction. Why would the moments he needs to erase remain vivid facts?
‘Charles?’ Alice is padding down the stairs, curlers in her hair. ‘Are you alright?’
She won’t believe he’s alright. He feels like he’s been hit by the bus and certainly looks like it.
‘I had a… road crossing scare. It set me on edge a bit.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Tyres screeched, so I froze and didn’t look the other way. But the driver slammed on the brakes and nothing happened.’
It’s one hundred and sixty-eight levels of twisted to play this card, and Charles might go to hell for it.
But hell after life is a work of fiction too.
The real hell is the look of his mother, switching between sheer worry, repressed heartache and intense disapproval – her coping mechanism, in order to repress deeper.
She always finds something disgraceful to zero in on, such as the undone collar of Loris’ cheap polo shirt.
A blaze crawls up Charles’ spine. He’s wearing Loris’ polo shirt.
‘I’m good now, I’m home, I’m…’ He’s not supposed to be home. ‘Elsy’s friend, Divya, she really wanted to see the play, so I gave her my ticket.’
Alice’s worry, heartache and disapproval turn into excitement. ‘You did? Brilliant! We will finally toast your admittance letter during the lighting party.’
‘Brilliant, yes…’ Charles draws blood from his thumb. ‘I’ll go get ready.’
‘You do that, darling. I will see to it that more champagne is put on ice.’
She pets his hair and kisses his cheek. Whatever pointless feat she’s impressed by, Charles grasps this lifebelt thrown into his pool of self-loathing.
He pushes himself over the first two steps and climbs up as casually as his legs allow him to, because Alice is watching.
There’s only so much edginess he can get away with before it reaches his father’s ears.
The last thing he needs today is a reminder from Milton that PTSDs and panic attacks are myths created to excuse weakness of mind.
On the landing, Charles brings his punctured thumb to his mouth, hoping the metallic taste of his blood will spoil Loris’ intoxicating breath.
How can someone’s breath linger for so long?
And why on Earth did he taste it? What kind of episode was he going through to naturally shove his tongue down Loris’ throat?
He didn’t want to kiss him.
It’s Loris. He’s not attracted to Loris.
He’s—
Charles comes to an abrupt halt in front of the Sofia room.
Near him, I am eager to face my lies and find my truths.
Wrestling out of his coat, he sprints towards his bedroom to shed the red polo shirt and jump into the shower.