Chapter 17 #2
Charles’ lips head straight for the spot on Loris’ neck that he had to abandon earlier.
He resumes painting on his back, this time with firm but anarchistic strokes, a bit frustrated by his incapacity to touch his entire body at once.
And Loris’ fingers are travelling down his spine artistically, when Charles wants abstract and messy.
He kisses his way up, reaches Loris’ earlobe and elicits a noise that becomes his all-time favourite sound.
He will provoke it once more now that he’s found the switch.
He will compose a film score with it. But Loris catches his lips in another kiss and, soon, Charles is the one producing unheard-of sounds because of the friction of their hips.
Loris is pushing him, or Charles is stepping back. It’s not easy to determine with the room twirling and so much skin to feel.
When Charles’ legs hit the bed behind him, Loris draws back.
His eyes are still burning and it’s now obvious what from.
Yet, he looks hesitant, as if he fears Charles might not be sure.
But the only thing Charles is torn about is where to build the first barricade if they don’t kiss and rub again, so he drops backwards.
Surprised, Loris lets him slip from his grasp, Charles finds himself on his own on the mattress, and Bastille seems like an appropriate place to bring planks and chairs, albeit a bit cliché.
‘You’re so ridiculously good-looking.’ Loris’ gaze is tracing the shape of Charles. ‘It’s beyond understanding.’
‘Your bathroom mirror disagrees.’
‘That’s the lightbulb. Even I look bad in there.’
Charles laughs, but Loris looks all sorts of sinful at the moment, his V-lines teasing him, so he kicks the back of Loris’ knee with his heel.
Loris outstretches his arms to break his fall and glances up with a reproachful shake of the head.
Charles grins proudly, for a second. The next second, Loris is pressing kisses along his ribs and turning the flat into the microwave Charles blinked at earlier.
Or yesterday. Perhaps in 1789. Time is a construct after all.
Nothing is real.
This is unreal.
This is unlike anything Charles has experienced.
But the unknown he should be edgy about – the muscles rolling underneath his fingers or the stubble scratching his chest – echoes in the deepest part of him.
Like a song he listens to for the first time but whose lyrics tell a story he could have written.
It’s a misleading impression, though.
‘Loris…’
‘Hmm?’
‘Less scoopy scoop of your life but… I’ve never done that. I’ve never been with a man.’
Loris crawls up between Charles’ arms and legs to look him in the eyes. ‘I’ve never been with you.’
Charles chases his bottom lip, but Loris pushes himself up after just a touch, more serious.
‘We can stop if you want to.’
Charles raises his knees to barricade him. ‘You wish.’
‘No, I don’t wish that.’
‘Don’t listen to me. Carry on. Carry— Yes…’
Loris is slithering against him, hard already and hardening, which draws new chords out of their mouths.
Charles isn’t going to last much longer, and still he wants more. He slides a hand into Loris’ pants while he pulls down his own boxers, but this initiative startles Loris. He brings his waving to a halt and casts a glance at the kitchenette, looking hesitant again.
‘Don’t stop now! Unless… you prefer to?’
‘No…’
Loris pushes Charles’ left thigh until his leg lies straight on the bed to slip his thumb into the boxers. Charles moans with anticipation, then whines and flinches when a pang of acute pain arises from Loris’ touch.
‘You okay?’
‘It’s just… Hip… hurts…’
Confused, Loris falls on his side next to Charles and pulls down the waistband more carefully. ‘Wow, what did you do?’
‘Don’t know, don’t care. Carry on, it’s… Holy mother of—’
Charles bites his lip and arches his back under Loris’ grip.
From messy, his ability to kiss goes wild. Mayhem in the streets. Utter chaos of projectiles flying and barricades collapsing. He starts gibbering revolutionary chants, making up words as he goes while Loris’ fingers are igniting all the right spots.
There’s no more bone under Charles’ boiling flesh. He’s all nerves, searing and crackling, and just as he finds the perfect anthem, they tighten all at once.
His body jolts, trembles, jolts again, and might tremble forever if Loris keeps on caressing him. But he’s also kissing him, gentle and soothing now. Charles is too short-winded to actively partake in it, but he makes a note that he adores it.
‘Damn… Vive la France…’
Loris chuckles against Charles’ cheek and releases him. ‘Please don’t hate me.’
‘Peculiar request at this exact moment.’
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Well, go, if you have to go, I’ll just— What the no?’
Charles quivers once more and opens his eyes. Everything is hazy around Loris, but his apologetic pout is very vivid.
‘I need to be out of here in ten minutes.’
‘Says who?!’
Loris rolls on his back and gets off the bed. ‘The rugby club.’
Charles wipes sweat from his forehead, blinking in disbelief. What kind of uprising-worthy decree is this?
‘School holidays aren’t over yet!’
‘The head coach is hardcore and some parents want to exhaust their kids. Here.’
Loris hands him a towel and jumps back when Charles makes a snatch for his thigh.
‘But what about you?’ He points at Loris’ crotch. ‘That needs to be taken care of.’
‘Not by you today. We’re not rushing this.’
‘That’s not fair. And… if you expect me to be ready to move in ten minutes, you’ll be disappointed.’
‘No, you can slam the doors on your way out.’
Charles grumbles and closes his eyes. He finds the towel by feel and pulls it onto his stomach.
But when the shower starts, he stays still, hit by a mental picture of Loris taking care of himself in a cloud of hot steam.
Charles scrunches his eyelids to smudge it.
He doesn’t want to imagine it. He wants to see it, he wants to be there and participates.
But he can’t, because an authoritarian coach and overwhelmed parents need Loris. The guillotine should make a comeback.
It turns out that the vision of severed heads, dripping blood around a rugby pitch, is a bit of a turnoff, so Charles finally wipes himself and pulls up his boxers, yawning.
He will try to get more sleep after Loris is gone.
Then he will go to George’s place for the football match and, later, he will come back here to kiss Loris’ earlobe.
And his V-lines. He hasn’t touched Loris’ V-lines.
That’s unacceptable. Is that why the Frenchs are constantly rioting?
Is there a rule against tasting V-lines in their constitution?
Charles and Loris will fight the French constitution.
Once they’re done experimenting all the touching.
‘I was thinking…’
‘Me too,’ Charles mumbles. ‘We have work to do.’
‘Uh?’
‘Nothing. What were you thinking?’
‘I’m gonna be gone for three days, so I was wondering, because of what you said when—’
‘What the no, now?’ Charles sits up, and the arousing sight of Loris unrolling a thermal top down his torso increases his outrage. ‘Why three days? Are you taking the kids to Murrayfield?’
‘I’m travelling to Kent after practice. Late Christmas celebrations with my grandparents. I’m coming back for my shift on Tuesday.’
A rope forms a knot around Charles’ stomach, but he silences his indignant refusal and the desire to decapitate Loris’ relatives.
‘Not to sound clingy, but it’s a bit upsetting.’
‘You gatecrashed a long-planned schedule.’
Charles looks down at the thumb he’s scratching.
It’s alright. He has to work early tomorrow and to go home at some point. He wasn’t going to bask in bliss and lust forever. He wasn’t, but now that he can’t, he painfully wishes he could have.
Loris sits next to him, wearing sport pants, a black hoodie and a preoccupied expression that moves the rope from Charles’ stomach to his heart.
‘The thing is, it feels like something is going on at home.’
‘No. Something is going on in Charland, about home.’
Loris takes his hand to interrupt the scratching. ‘Anyway, if you need to not be there, I keep a spare set of keys at the pub. I can text Patty that you’re gonna pick it up. If you want to stay here while I’m away.’
‘Really?’
‘If you don’t eat all the charcuterie I brought back from France.’
‘I… I might take you up on that. Thank you.’
Loris leans closer for another gentle kiss, and Charles’ heart swells so much the knot snaps. It’s perfect too. It’s peaceful. White flags and doves waltzing in the wind. But Charles’ tongue is quick to take some liberties, so Loris stands back up.
‘Nope.’
‘Five more minutes. You can Uber it.’
‘I am Ubering it. I made that decision when you were drawing on my shoulders. Do you mind cleaning up breakfast?’
‘Least I can do. Can you please pass me my phone? Oh, and can I borrow warm clothes? And you said not to eat all the charcuterie, but can I try some?’
‘Anything else?’
‘I’ll let you know.’
Loris tosses the phone onto the bed and brings a travel bag near the door, where he puts on his coat and a pair of trainers. ‘Okay for the clothes. Not sure about the charcuterie. I haven’t forgiven you for—’
‘You didn’t let me apologise!’
‘—ruining my night.’
‘Oh. That, yes.’
‘We’ll talk about your drunk explanations when I’m back.’ Loris zips up his collar over his scarf. ‘Don’t make a mess.’
‘I won’t invite more than ten people at once.’
‘Bye, Charles.’
‘Bye, Loris. With one L and two V-lines.’
Loris smiles and Charles closes his eyes to preserve this memory rather than the sight of him leaving.
When the door of the building slams downstairs, he grabs his phone.
He checks that it’s not on silent mode – in case Elsy tries to contact him – and sets his alarm for noon.
He toggles the light switch and pulls up the duvet, because Loris took some of the ambient warmth with him.
Curling up on his pain-free side, Charles sinks his cheek into Loris’ favourite pillow, which feels exactly the same as the other one.
Loris is just another creature of habit.
Hopefully, they will make a habit of early morning fondling.