Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
‘Nice of them to give you the afternoon off.’
‘I took it myself,’ Charles replies, stepping over a rain-filled hole. ‘You texted you were depressed, so I told them I was done for today. I don’t think they cared. I don’t care if they did.’
‘Okay…’ Loris glances at him, new questions arising in his gaze, but for the third time since they met at the edge of the park, he chooses not to voice them. ‘I never said I was depressed, I said desperately uninspired.’
‘Same difference, no?’
Charles gives him a frail smile and gets a concerned one in return.
He wishes he could swallow back the weariness leaking into his voice.
And conceal the dark rings under his eyes, the stiffness of his body and the effort it takes to stretch his lips.
All the reasons why Loris appears so worried.
All the signs that Charles is hurting so deeply, he didn’t even hope it would fade once they would be together, about to share a moment he’s been envisioning for a week.
Of course, it’s easier to fight the cold in his chest in the vicinity of Loris’ warmth. Easier to pierce through the darkness when the Heath is a beauteous scenery of contrasts that only exist in the sunny aftermath of a storm. Of course it helps.
Many things have helped Charles lately.
Arguing nonsense with George. Calling Elsy at hours only decent for her. Planning naked moments with Loris. Wrestling with his novel. Even loathing his parents was helping.
Charles had built such a solid wall of sideshows in front of his rekindled grief, he didn’t notice it was swelling fast and gradually percolating through cracks in the bricks.
Until it reached him, last night.
Back home after twenty-four hours spent in George’s flat, Charles was padding up the stairs when the beam of his phone torch highlighted a detail in the Christmas photo: Fred’s hand, firmly gripping his shoulder and pulling him closer, to the point that their heads probably knocked right after the shot was taken.
Fred was perhaps trying to convey his strength, his regrets and his love, as he was on the brink of flying away and leaving Charles forced to fend for himself.
But he didn’t make it clearer that morning.
After all, he planned on talking to Charles before his departure.
He would have held him with all his strength, his regrets and his love.
Fred would have, he wanted to, but he never did, and Charles started suffocating on the staircase, crushed by the violent arms of the void his brother left behind.
He managed to drag himself to his bathroom floor before a sob tore his chest in half, and he didn’t move until the glow of dawn seeped in through the curtains.
‘How come you were uninspired?’ Charles asks, his leather derby shoes sinking into the squishing mud. ‘You no longer need me. You’re just pretending, because you’re addicted to my company.’
‘I’m not! Pretending, I mean.’
Loris bumps their arms together and sways away instantly.
They don’t have to be discreet, they’re far enough away from the main paths, but Loris is careful with physical contact today, as if he guessed that the slightest touch could shatter Charles.
‘Sometimes, a pencil feels like a pencil instead of an extension of my hand, so I’m less comfortable than usual holding it. I’m too aware of the tool and not in control of my strokes. In those cases, it’s safer to stay away from my works in progress. Does that make sense?’
‘It does.’
‘What about your inspiration? Still looking for the right setting?’
‘No, I’m… I’ve… How are your friends?’
‘Charles…’
‘What is everybody up to? Tell me, please.’
Loris looks really alarmed and reluctant to keep on acting like he’s not, but he grants him his wish.
‘Phoebe smashed her exams so she’s in a great mood.
Aliah and Andres, business as usual. She curses bratty kids and their parents, and he never curses anything.
Hey, are we almost there? Wherever you’re taking me?
It looks like the next storm is approaching. ’
The wind has picked up and the sky is brooding again, but Charles waves the remark away.
‘They’re shower clouds, we’ll survive. But yes,’ he points to a bench propped against the trunk of an oak, ‘I think we’ve arrived.’
‘You think?’
‘I’m ninety-eight percent sure.’
Loris observes the surroundings, his eyebrows bunched together. ‘It seems quite peaceful and—’
‘Pretty unremarkable, I agree. But your dad chose it, so it’s special.’
‘What?’
‘Based on his diary, this is his spot. Where he thought he’d propose.’
Loris turns around again. ‘Really?’
‘I also checked a second spot the other night, but direction-wise it doesn’t work. So my money is on this bench and—’
‘I mean, really, you found it? You searched for it? At night?’
‘I’m a sucker for spooky treasure hunts.’
‘Okay, I… I followed you convinced nothing could beat Sofia, but this? This is—’
‘Look at it, then!’ Charles steps away before Loris can lean forwards. ‘And take your time. My father won’t show up to ruin your moment today.’
Loris catches him by the wrist and pulls him back against his jacket. ‘Thank you.’
‘It wasn’t much of a—’
‘It was. It is. It’s a huge deal, and you know how huge.’
Charles inhales the perfume on Loris’ scarf, floundering for a safe response. A banality, a clever joke or anything that could lessen the intensity of their embrace. But he comes up short, and not a sliver of credibility would make it past the tears thickening in his throat anyway.
He can’t pinpoint when the switch occurred, but Loris’ arms have tightened around him. Initially powered by his gratitude, they’re now sheltering Charles.
‘Loris…’
‘It’s okay, I’ve got you.’
‘No, not now. Not here, that’s not fair. This is your dad’s spot, your moment, it can’t be about—’
‘My dad came here for solutions, and there’s only one I want to find. Except I don’t know what the problem is.’ Loris releases his hold to meet Charles’ watery eyes. ‘Talk to me.’
Charles shivers as dead leaves swirl around their legs. Loris is clearly imagining the worst, which is even less fair.
‘It’s nothing new, it’s… It just hurts today.’
‘What does?’
‘Fred. Thinking about Fred. You know how I… I struggled with my memories, because different versions of him overlapped and it was… It drove me crazy. I thought I was crazy. But it’s over, I’m not confused anymore.
’ Charles pours every ounce of light left in him into a quivering smile, because Loris needs to know it’s a good thing.
‘It’s all coming back. I remember who Fred was.
I remember our relationship, the plans we made and…
everything. Everything I had when I had him.
And so, for the first time since he died, I know what I’m missing.
For the first time, I know exactly who I lost and…
It feels like I’m losing him again, I’m losing him for real, and I’m—’ Charles chokes up but holds his breath until it passes. ‘I’m just—’
‘Don’t do that! Let it out. You can’t keep it bottled-up inside.’
‘If I start, I don’t know when I’ll stop. Last night I couldn’t stop.’
‘Then you don’t stop. I’m here. Doesn’t matter how long it lasts and what it takes out of you, I’m here and… Wait.’
Rain drops are thrumming the ground, so Loris leads him towards the bench, protected by the broad limbs of the tree.
Charles couldn’t resist even if he wanted to, close to crumpling.
He can’t recall a time when such weakness wasn’t coupled with shame, induced by his inner voices.
But they’re staying silent today. They can’t argue he should be tougher.
Not when surrendering to his pain, in front of the last person he wanted to show his vulnerability to, is the bravest thing he’s ever done.
Loris sits down first and Charles collapses onto his lap, shaking, sobbing and wrapped in strong blanket arms.
***
Charles takes the glass of water that Loris filled up, drinks a sip to ease his irritated throat and closes his eyes.
‘We’ve got to get you out of these wet clothes,’ Loris says, pressing their foreheads together.
‘The lengths I go to in order to borrow your stuff…’
Loris laughs, soundless, just a breath that tickles Charles’ lips, but his relief is loud. Charles himself wasn’t sure when he would be able to form a full sentence, let alone a joke. But the magic of Loris’ place is already operating.
It’s not the sense of safety Charles finds when he’s here. He never felt unsafe outside, neither on the bench nor on the walk back, racing clouds that presaged a proper thunderstorm. He had shut down, but Loris acted as shield, crutch and compass at once.
The power of the flat is to inject substance into Charles’ thoughts. His mind has more space to grow in this cramped room than it ever had in the mansion he’s supposed to call home.
Loris draws back towards his wardrobe, and Charles makes for the window, nipping at the water. The roof of the North Haven is barely discernible through the torrential downpour. A flash of lightning criss-crosses the sky and, two seconds later, a loud thunderclap shakes the building.
Fred was terrified of thunderstorms. Refusing to admit it, he would take shelter in Charles’ room under far-fetched pretexts.
The weather pattern of his nocturnal visits didn’t lie, but Charles never pointed it out.
He treasured their conversations about Fred’s latest obsessions.
They stayed up so late once, discussing sea turtles, that Charles dozed off in class the next day.
Milton chastised him harshly, but it was worth it.
That same week, Charles composed a piano lullaby for the turtles. He still remembers the chords.
‘Here.’ Loris hands him a pair of sweatpants and a black jumper. ‘Do you want to eat something?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Help yourself whenever you’re hungry, okay? No need to ask. Or to wake me up if your stomach riots in the middle of the night.’