Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
It smells like toasted bread. And not just a hint of scent coming from the kitchen and filtering underneath Charles’ door. The toaster may as well be next to him on the mattress. This mattress is hard, it hurts his hip. Or his hip hurts rather. So does his head. What’s going on? Where is he?
Charles starts chewing on his saliva.
He was at Elsy’s leaving party. But he’s not with Elsy. He left her to… talk to Liv.
His body tightens.
Liv’s revelations. Fred. Australia. Fred’s passport. Milton burning Fred’s passport. Milton.
How will Charles bear being home? Is that why he didn’t go home? No. He wasn’t driven by fear or hate last night. He felt empowered and chose to go… to Loris.
Charles pushes himself up so fast, his brain hits the back of his skull. He’s in Loris’ bed. Practically naked. And Loris is here, bare-chested in front of his easel, his back turned to him.
What happened? What have they—
Loris spins around, scratching the skin of his belly, and Charles gasps a waft of toast-scented air.
His hands all over Loris. Loris pushing him away. Then holding him, caring. And listening.
There’s a hole in Charles’ chest where everything he wished to tell Loris used to weigh. He blurted it all out while he was wasted.
The mattress needs to swallow him up and spit him out into another galaxy. Now. Right now.
‘Are you actually awake?’
‘My bladder is about to burst!’
He untangles his legs from the duvet and staggers towards the nearest door.
‘Please don’t pee in my closet.’
Charles steps aside, storms into the bathroom and pulls down his boxers in the nick of time. He was indeed about to burst.
If I don’t kiss you I might explode.
Shit. Did they kiss? Did he dream that they kissed? What would be the better option? Escaping through the sash window?
Charles drenches his face with half a litre of cold water, nips another half, then looks up at the mirror. His skin appears greenish between the drops trickling on his cheeks. And on his hip, the skin is purplish verging on black. How on Earth did he get that bruise?
He braces himself and plods out of the bathroom. One of his socks is lying on the coffee table and his phone is switched off on the sofa. He hasn’t lost it. Small win.
‘Do you have an iPhone charger?’
‘There’s a multi cable thingy near the microwave,’ Loris deadpans before rubbing his lips together.
You don’t taste sober.
Shivers run down Charles’ limbs. They definitely kissed.
‘You okay?’
‘I’ll need a few minutes…’
‘Coffee’s still warm, toast might be cold.’
Charles shuffles to the kitchenette, where he blinks a couple of times at the digital clock on the microwave. ‘Seven-thirty? Why are you up and drawing?’
‘Your fidgeting woke me up. Your purring and babbling kept me up.’
‘Right… I’m already mortified, please don’t rub it in.’
‘I barely slept before a coaching session with a bunch of six-year-olds. I want you to feel bad.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Charles plugs in his phone and turns it on, massaging the corner of his left eye. He recalls walking like a robot in the fog. But why did he walk here? Did he slip and fall?
In need of brain fuel, he grabs the coffee pot and a mug drying by the sink. Two pieces of bread are sticking out of the toaster. Butter and jam might be more than what he can stomach, so he takes a bite of plain toast and a mouthful of coffee to soften it.
He’s less nauseous than he should be, proportionally to how little he remembers, which means he stayed away from bubbles and didn’t mix wine colours. Small win number two.
He takes another bite, but it doesn’t go down his throat as smoothly as the first one. The notifications popping up on his screen trigger an ominous alarm. Elsy. George. Spencer.
‘Did I drunk-text someone?’
‘Yeah, I made you warn your people that you were here.’
‘Oh.’ Charles lets go of the bread and puts the mug down in fear of dropping it too. ‘Shit.’
‘I didn’t think of proofreading you. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be, it’s my problem.’
‘Sure, but I drunk-confided in a friend once, and that’s not how I wanted to have that conversation. So if you need me to take the blame, as if I stole your phone and made stuff up, we can negotiate what it’s gonna cost you.’
‘Thank you.’
Charles gulps and opens his chat with Spencer. It’s safer to start with him. Spencer is purblind, he wouldn’t take the hint even if he received a photo of Charles straddling a naked Loris.
He gulps again. What an opportune graphic thought…
23:35 SPENCER text me back anytime
23:57 SPENCER still up and waiting
00:21 Its noooot Easter yet.
00:26 SPENCER wth man
Charles exhales with a bit more ease. This odd answer doesn’t require any damage control, so he switches to his conversation with George.
00:05 GEORGE Why is my first 2019 night with Hannah disrupted by my sister and your fake wife panicking over your whereabouts?
00:13 GEORGE *missed call*
00:24 Am alrightt Im with someone aweeet sweeet like Alex!!!! Miss you Gergee go tomoorrow (FRench have maSSIVE LOOONG PILLS! GO Spurs ;!!!!!.
00:27 GEORGE I guess this effusive drunkenness is a good sign but call Elsy she’s really worried
Charles’ stress shoots up again. He clenches the butter knife to click the end of its handle.
23:24 ELSY Where did you go?
23:32 ELSY Phil told me <3
23:44 ELSY Where did you go now?
00:09 ELSY *5 missed calls*
00:15 ELSY I’m about to call the Ledwell landline and I don’t give a fuck the consequences you’ll have to face!
00:22 Nooo don’t call that house theyre dickheads. Im someqwhere safe you can chiiiiiiill but am not cold anymore love you.
00:25 ELSY *missed call*
00:26 ELSY Chill?? I’ll behead you with a fork it will be slow and excruciating you’ll see how chill I am!
00:42 ELSY I paid for your tab and collected all your clothes you dickhead junior!
‘Damn it…’
‘How bad?’
‘Not too bad, but I’m a moron.’
Charles rubs his throbbing temple as guilt seeps into his relief. He didn’t give himself away, but he broke a very important clause of his agreement with Elsy. They never disappear on each other without warning.
07:42 I’m so sorry Els. I’ll provide the fork myself! I don’t remember what time your plane takes off but let me know when it’s alright to call you.
He texts George that he will arrive shortly before the football match, then he sets up his phone on top of the microwave, exhaling what’s left of the surge of nervousness he underwent.
Loris has redirected his attention to his drawing.
His profile is extremely tense. It’s not artistic concentration, but Charles can’t decipher his expression.
He has no badly-typed summary of what he put Loris through.
So he chews on more coffee and toast, hoping to recollect what happened.
Unfortunately, the light coming from the ceiling is dancing on Loris’ shoulders, making it harder to focus.
Every time Charles is about to grasp a clear picture of Loris’ reactions to his confessions, it disappears behind the live painting happening on his back whenever he moves his arm.
The more he tries to remember what he’s done to Loris, the more he imagines what he’s yet to do with him.
Charles isn’t craving bread and coffee anymore.
He’s yearning for Loris’ taste. And it doesn’t matter how much he got to enjoy it last night if he has no memory of it.
But at least, his drunk-self took the plunge.
Nothing stands between them anymore. Every second spent wanting Loris without trying to indulge this desire is now plain masochism, and Charles is done being the main player in his own misery.
Shaking crumbs off his hands, he inches towards Loris and only stops a step behind him.
Loris straightens up with a deeper breath in, completing a pencil stroke with a comma gesture.
His heart going six miles a minute, Charles lifts his hand to trace a comma between his shoulder blades.
Loris shudders as their chests heave in sync, but he carries on drawing, flicking his wrist to create short arabesques that Charles reproduces along the relief of his muscles.
When Loris tilts his head to the side, Charles presses his mouth against his neck, incapable of waiting any longer.
Loris comes to a complete stillness, increasing the impression that the flat is spinning.
Time stops and Charles parts his lips, but Loris drops his pencil and turns around.
Charles is forced to move back, and this total lack of physical contact between them makes him realise he had never truly missed anything before.
Loris’ eyes are flaring, but it’s impossible to tell what these flames are fanned with.
‘I’m sober now…’ Charles barely hears himself over the pulsating blood in his ears. ‘And I… I’m not sure what I said when I wasn’t, but if I haven’t apologised for being terrified to want you and acting like a selfish…’
He notices the impulse that thrusts Loris forwards, so when their lips meet, his mouth is still open, but he’s already forgotten what word was meant to come next.
And all of a sudden, he recalls how they kissed last night.
But this kiss is better, on every single level, because he’s fully present, reacting to every brush of Loris’ tongue, to every caress he gives or moans from.
He feels everything, overpowered by a lust he would be frightened by if he hadn’t waited years to want something so badly, freely and consciously.
He would betray his country for more of Loris right now, so when Loris breaks the kiss, revolt twists his stomach.
‘Charles…’
‘No.’
‘Just so we’re clear, we’re gonna address some things you said.’
Charles sways away, tempted to revive the French Revolution. ‘Yes. Of course. I understand… Like what?’
‘We don’t have to do it this morning.’
‘Oh. Great. Excellent.’