Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Charles left his jumper, coat and scarf behind.
It didn’t matter in the heated car, but he’s now outside, ten frontages away from the flat, because he couldn’t remember Loris’ street number when he booked the Uber.
His blood is turning solid, but he’s afraid to run on the icy ground.
It would be easier if he had skis. Phil probably had a pair at the bar.
Unfortunately, it’s too late to go back.
Charles eventually reaches the green door – on which he can’t see any number – and presses the bell, breathing with his mouth open to create a Macallan-flavoured steam. Macallan is a pleasant-sounding word. So is Craigellachie, the name of the village where the distillery is located.
When light pierces through the curtains on the first floor, Charles lets go of the bell. Bell’s is produced at the Blair Athol distillery. He learnt the map of Scottish whiskies when he was sixteen.
Why does he remember that, though, instead of the street number of Loris’ place?
That’s because there’s none. That’s right.
Is Loris back in London? Or did he take the Eurostar to go to—
The door flies open, and Charles chokes on his frozen breath.
‘Damn! Your chest is covered with muscles!’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Loris yanks him inside. ‘What’s your issue with dressing for the weather?’
‘Yes, I’m a bit cold.’
‘No shit.’
‘And you’re a bit mad.’
‘No shit!’
Loris slams the door shut and brings his fingers to his messy hair. The motion highlights more muscles on his bare torso, making it very complicated for Charles to keep his gaze up.
‘Do you hate me?’
‘No. I hate that I was asleep and now I’m standing on the doormat with your freezing ass!’
‘Can we go stand in your flat instead? I need to talk to you. I have a lot to say.’
‘Really, Charles? Now?’
‘Well, you just came back, didn’t you? Merry belated Christmas by the way, and happy New—’
‘I’m gonna belated murder you.’
Loris stomps up the stairs, grumbling in what sounds like Spanish but must be French.
‘Is that a oui?’
‘Hurry up! I’m coaching tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know.’ Charles doesn’t know much after all. But he knows that the way Loris’ sweatpants are hanging on his hips will be at the centre of his novel. ‘I’m writing a novel.’
‘I don’t care.’
Charles frowns, first at the curt answer, then when he realises Loris had left his door blocked ajar with a trainer. Wasn’t it risky? What if Charles had been a psychopath?
‘Weren’t you scared I was a psycho?’
‘I was hoping you were one.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
Charles closes the door and leans against it with a moan of delight as the warmth of the flat melts the blood cubes in his veins.
The easel is unfolded in the middle of the room. Loris has yet to unpack his suitcase, but he’s started reproducing the sketch of the old man from the Eurostar.
‘I approve of your priorities!’
Loris rests his hip against the backrest of the sofa. ‘What do you have to say?’
The ceiling lights are bathing his body, speeding up the melting happening all over Charles.
What does he have to say? That he’s sorry, and a coward, and will try to make amends.
‘I want you.’
Loris averts his eyes with a nervous laugh.
‘Sorry! That’s not what I was thinking! But I’ve been trying so hard not to think that, now I can’t think about anything else and it just bursts out and it’s…
’ Charles edges closer, hypnotised by the V-line shadowing Loris’ lower abdomen.
It’s hot. It’s insane how hot Loris is. Insane and new.
‘And it’s important. How much I want you.
’ He takes Loris’ hand and presses it against his chest. ‘Can’t you tell?
Can’t you tell something is malfunctioning? ’
Loris shrinks back. ‘Stop it. You don’t get to—’
‘If I don’t kiss you I might explode. And if I kiss you I will explode. But better to explode from kissing you than from being miserable not kissing you. Am I right?’
Loris gapes, but no words escape his lips. They’re insane too. That’s not new.
Does he think Charles’ lips are insane? He said so once, mentioning Pavel’s paintbrush. Did he want to kiss Charles that day?
‘Don’t you want me?’ Charles cups Loris’ chin with his palm to stop him from turning away.
‘I think you do. But you also want to murder me. I’m sorry I gave you reason to.
I’m— Oh, they’re still here!’ He caresses the three beauty spots below Loris’ nose.
Of course they’re still here. Beauty spots wouldn’t leave such a face. ‘I’m truly sorry, you know?’
Loris is keeping is eyes squeezed shut and his fists clenched. It seems to require great effort not to touch Charles. He should spare himself the trouble.
‘Loris?’ Charles whispers against his mouth. ‘With one L?’
Loris breathes out and sends a blaze down Charles’ throat that no whisky could match.
Dizzy, Charles staggers back, but Loris grips his waist to keep their lips locked and pushes his tongue in.
Charles whimpers, sinking his fingers into Loris’ insane shoulders.
No, they’re more than insane. Worthy of being screenshot and studied in depth.
But he will do that later. Right now, he slides his hands down and inside Loris’ sweatpants.
Why is he wearing any? And why is Charles wearing these jeans, too tight for the surge of desire he’s experiencing? He needs to take off his clothes. They need to kiss and touch each other until all novels are written, all paintings painted, all symphonies—
‘No.’ Loris clasps Charles’ wrists to pull his hands out. ‘Sorry. Not happening.’
‘Very much happening.’
Charles twists his arms free and leans forwards again, but Loris pushes him back.
‘No, Charles.’
‘Why? Because you’re mad at me?’
‘Because whatever you think you want tonight, you might not want it in the morning.’
‘I’m not drunk if that worries you.’
Loris rubs his lips together and scoffs. ‘You don’t taste sober.’
‘Alright, I had a drink or six, but I’m very sure I want you.’
‘After what happened last time, I’m gonna take your certainties with a pinch of salt.’
Loris steps aside, and Charles folds his arms, because if they’re not around him, they’re just in the way. What happened last time? They kissed. He enjoyed it. But he freaked out and acted like a dick.
‘That’s fair. You’re a fair guy. I like that.’ Charles nods, appreciative, but scrunches his nose when Loris shakes his head. ‘What?’
‘You’re more drunk than I thought.’
‘It’s not my fault, it’s my brain, it added alcohol to my whisky, so I wouldn’t… So I’d forget that… Because I learnt a shitload of— No.’
Charles knuckles his forehead. No. Not now. None of that here, in his safe place. He will deal with it at home. He will have to go home. That sucks. He would rather never kiss Loris again.
‘You learnt a shitload of what?’
‘I can’t go home. I mean, I could, it’s not far, but I’ll hate it if I go. Can I stay? Can I spend the night?’
‘Here?’ Loris scratches the back of his neck. ‘It’s a terrible idea on many levels, but if you need a—’
‘I’ll behave! I’ll try not to kiss you again.
Hold on. No. I will not try to kiss you again.
That’s better. I won’t, I swear. Croix de bois and croix de fer and…
What is it again? That French childish pledge?
I don’t remember. It’s odd, I remember the most random shit, like the map of the distilleries or— Hey!
Are you aware there’s no number on your front door? What? There’s one?’
Loris is smiling behind his pinched lips. It’s confusing. Charles can’t think clearly when he looks so hot but also really soft.
‘Yeah, you can spend the night. But where—’
Charles squeals and kicks off his left shoe. ‘Sleepover, whoopee!’
‘But wait, where did you come from?’
‘London. England. Oops.’ Charles guffaws when his other shoe hits the easel. ‘We’ve never talked about where I’m from?’
‘I mean tonight! Where were you?’
‘Oh! I was at a party with my friends, but I left because I wanted you. No. Shit. Sorry. Because I wanted to see you.’
‘Did you tell them where you were going?’
‘Of course not! I just left. Not sure they noticed. But the bartenders must have. I didn’t pay.’
Did he leave a debit card behind the bar? No, they don’t request cards there, it would offend their customers. They can trust their customers. Oops.
‘You need to.’
‘Duh, I know! I’ll go back tomorrow.’
‘No, you’ve got to warn your friends that you’re okay.’
‘Oh.’
Loris is a true Alex. This is sweet and heart-warming, but Charles is far too warm already. He unbuttons his shirt, pulls it open and fans himself with its tails.
Loris turns away. ‘Text your friends.’
‘Oui, Monsieur.’
Charles takes his phone and clicks his tongue at new messages from Spencer.
Can’t he wait? Will his subscribers unsubscribe if his ski vlog isn’t online before Easter?
Charles replies briefly, then replies to Elsy, and also to George.
He misses George. It will be nice seeing him again tomorrow.
Tottenham might lose the match, but Charles will win if he sees George.
‘Here.’
Loris is back beside him, very close and very bare-chested, holding a glass of water and a white pill.
‘What a massive block of… What’s that?’
‘Paracetamol. French dosage.’
Charles takes a sip of water, puts the glass back into Loris’ hand and slips the pill between his lips. He keeps it in his mouth while he finishes his message to George, then he tosses his phone onto the sofa and tilts his head backwards to swallow.
‘Ugh, water tastes stupidly bland. I won’t get high, right?’
Loris opens his wardrobe. ‘Not with one gram of paracetamol, no.’