Chapter 22 #3
‘Please make a note of this energy, for later. So… That was a lot already, but what fucked me up, and I’m only grasping it now, is that…
I met new people at uni, and naturally we broached personal topics.
I mentioned Fred, because erasing him didn’t feel right.
And reflexively, I talked about Fred the brilliant lawyer-to-be, dating a car company heiress, destined to perpetuate the Ledwell glory if tragedy hadn’t struck.
That Fred. The myth. I just blurted it out.
But then I would hear myself, like when you’re on the phone and there’s an echo.
My words would hit me back and… it was so confusing.
I was second-guessing myself with no idea why I was second-guessing myself.
And if I tried to unravel the sensation, my brain would split in half, it was… It was awful.’
Charles drops the pastels. He presses his fingertips against the black area of the drawing for a few seconds, then brushes its brighter parts.
‘It was awful, and thinking of Fred became a waking nightmare. Up until then, I enjoyed reminiscing about childhood memories, when he still fit all narratives. But from then on, even those perturbed me, because they highlighted that I didn’t have any clear memories from later on.
That Fred either felt like a stranger or a product of my imagination.
Something was off. Something was wrong with me, but I never told anyone.
I was ashamed. I couldn’t admit to erasing my brother.
So I buried those feelings, where they festered, and…
I went real messy, real fast. I would go from sleepwalking through weeks at a time to suddenly being affected by absolutely everything… ’
Charles runs his palms across the sheet. The easel wobbles, so he catches its support arm, but the pastels left in the open drawer tumble onto the floor.
‘Shit.’
‘It’s okay if you damage and replace it. I’d love a proper drawing board.’
Charles crouches and groans when the muscles of his thighs rebel against this sudden effort.
He puts the pastels back into the box and remembers that he’s not wearing his own sweatpants just in time before wiping his fingers on the cotton.
Stretching his back, he slogs towards the kitchenette to wash his hands in the sink.
When he turns around and leans against the worktop, Loris shifts his chair to face him. His caring attentiveness brings Charles back to the afternoon he opened up to him for the first time, with a guarded confession about his pen.
‘I’ve been using the past tense, but that’s more or less where I was stuck when we met.
And the plan was to never tell you about Fred.
I was back to not mentioning him, to avoid feeling insane.
Besides, I didn’t want you to know how messed up I was.
I wasn’t aware that you’re a weirdo who gets artistically turned on when I’m at my worst.’
‘That’d make another interesting Instagram biography.’
Charles smiles and folds his arms that grow heavier by the minute.
‘The night Patty came to the pub to collect some keys, she triggered a memory of Fred. An old one, but it involved his shenanigans and his secret girlfriend, meaning the part of him I had blotted out. So it brought that version of Fred back to life. It unlocked something. And in the following weeks, it felt safe to dig deeper. Thanks to you.’
‘Because I had no preconceived opinion?’
‘Yes, that too, which is why I lost the plot when you googled my family. But mostly, it felt safe because that you kept Charland busy.’ Charles sinks his fingers into his sore neck.
‘You left very little room for my good old hindering crap to do its hindering thing. But after we kissed, it made a spectacular comeback, and I completely backtracked regarding Fred. Until I went to the pub to find you, but I found Patty instead.’ He hunches and rolls his shoulders. ‘Did she tell you about that?’
‘She said it wasn’t her story to share and— Wait. Stop those blunt moves.’ Loris gets up and outstretches his arm towards him. ‘You’re gonna make it worse. Let me.’
‘I can’t handle a torture session right now.’
Loris sits on the bed. ‘I’m gonna be gentle.’
Resting between his legs will likely impact the precision of Charles’ story, but some temptations aren’t meant to be resisted. He takes off the jumper and hastens to tuck himself against Loris’ hoodie.
‘Terrific plan…’
Loris wraps his arms around Charles to hold him close, in what feels like a reaction hug to everything he’s heard so far.
Charles squeezes his wrists to reassure him.
Going through the past seven years wasn’t the ordeal he feared.
Now that his pain has been heard and accepted for what it was, it’s behaving inside his chest.
‘So, Patty…’ Charles says, wary that the comfort of the moment might lull him to sleep.
Loris releases his grip and pushes him into a straighter posture. Charles protests at first but admits that it’s a blessing in disguise as soon as Loris begins tracing patterns on his bare shoulders.
Staring at the window that now reflects the warm atmosphere of the flat, Charles recounts his interaction with Patty and how her revelations shed a steadfast light on who Fred was.
‘I’ve seen it. The mess of paint Fred left on a wall in Patty’s living room. It looks great inside that frame she chose.’
Charles tilts his head to invite Loris’ hand to move to his neck. ‘I’d like to see it too.’
‘Ask her. Patty adores you. Just yesterday, she was telling me to take good care of you. And it sounded like a warning that if I don’t, I’m gonna find myself jobless, homeless and headless.’
‘I’ll wait until Liv is back in London. It’s important that we go there together, because… I’ll tell you about my conversation with Liv now. But it might be… I… I’ve processed it, but it’ll never be alright.’
Loris has already pulled him back closer and murmurs, ‘I’ve got you,’ like he promised in the park. Charles curls up sideways between his arms, absolutely trusting that Loris does.
His voice wavers, but he completes the puzzle with Liv’s insight, explaining what led Fred to climb behind the wheel of an undrivable car while Charles’ main concern was to hide The Mind of Wonders in his bedroom.
Loris remains silent, but his tension screams an outrage that Charles leans on to continue. He touches upon his latest encounters with Milton and relates the confrontation with Alice, which eroded his capacity to stomach it all.
It helps that Loris’ quiet reactions support the hatred Charles is experiencing in waves.
He knows he’s entitled to despise his parents, and Liv, Elsy and George have confirmed that he is.
But Loris’ heart is made of a softer fabric, sewed by a compassionate and reasoned mind.
Feeling it thump in anger frees Charles from any bout of guilt lurking in the shadows of his brain.
‘I’m impressed that you’re not losing it.’
‘I am, but I’m finding myself at the same time, so it’s a… Not just through you, though. It’s my journey. You and I, we’re on a separate one. I’m not putting everything on us. I’m not counting on you to be… I’m not saying that— I’m aware it’s—’
‘Breathe. And turn off Charland.’
‘I’d be a different person if I were in charge of the switch.’
Loris starts massaging Charles’ temples with his thumbs. ‘Let it rest at least.’
‘Well, keep this up and I’ll crash out in two minutes.’
‘Good.’
‘It’s five.’
‘Who cares? It’s midnight in Manilla.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I used to be obsessed with time zones. I had a map pinned above my bed, and every night I asked my mum to quiz me. Now my brain is an international clock.’
‘This is the sexiest fact I’ve learnt about you.’
Loris smiles and forces Charles to lie down, leaning on his elbow to tower above him and resume his massage.
‘You’re not cold?’
‘I’m fine.’ Charles closes his eyes, running his fingertips along Loris’ bottom lip. ‘I’m alright…’
He’s not, but he will be.
A long bumpy road stretches ahead of him, but he’s finally standing tall in the middle of it.
Charles wakes up six minutes later. Or six years. He can’t tell. What’s his name? What country is he in? Is Mona Lisa really following the Girl with the Pearl Earring on Instagram?
The last question gets an answer as soon as he rubs the remaining snippets of his dream from his eyes. As for the place, it becomes concrete when Loris’ head pops up over the sofa backrest.
‘Welcome back.’
‘What day is it? And why does it smell like pizza?’
‘Monday, still. And I’m eating pizza.’
Charles sits up, his stomach chewing itself. ‘Tell me there’s some left. And not just sauce to lick off your face. Although I’d do it.’
‘Gross. Although I’d allow it. Yeah, two slices.’
Charles sways towards the sofa and plops down against Loris, who moves the plate away from his lap to prevent Charles’ elbow from landing in mozzarella.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Like calling in sick tomorrow. I’ll need more than what’s left of the night to be ready to interact with a human being.’
‘So what am I?’
‘Some sort of alien.’ Charles brushes Loris’ knee below loose basketball shorts. ‘Did you change again?’
‘Yeah, after I worked out and showered.’
‘While I couldn’t watch? Rude. What else did I miss?’
‘A bit of progress on my glitch drawing, but now I’m considering restarting it from scratch. I’m gonna decide tomorrow, when I’m in a better artistic mood. I love your piece, by the way.’
Loris points at the pastel artwork propped against his TV.
It looks like Mark Rothko and Jackson Pollock collaborated on a project. Using their non-dominant hands. When they were four years old. And on drugs.
‘It’s a mess.’
‘But it tells your story. It’s important. Because I feel like you’re underrating your resilience.’
‘The Ledwell motto is that the best one can do is a must.’
‘And you stick by your family’s big principles? My bad. I probably misread the situation whenever you unbuttoned my jeans.’
Charles shoves a morsel of pizza into Loris’ mouth. ‘Shh. I’m barely functioning, I forbid you to make good points.’
Loris traps his forefinger between his front teeth, caressing it with the tip of his tongue, and Charles finds himself way more alert.
‘Hold that thought. I’m still hungry.’
‘Who’s rude, now?’
‘You’re a great snack, but you won’t keep me going until—’
Loris nudges him and reaches for a glass of water on the coffee table. Next to it, his laptop is on, displaying a folder of photos that look quite old.
‘What are those?’
‘Pictures my mum digitalised a few years back. My gran’s birthday is coming and she requested a drawing. I had no clue what to do, but now that I’ve seen my dad’s spot, it’s obvious. I’m gonna draw him under his tree. So I’m looking for a reference shot.’
Loris swaps the glass for the laptop and enlarges the photo of a young man posing outside a barber shop.
‘Damn! You’re like twins. Except he looks very English and you look super French.’ Charles sets the plate aside, gnawing at a piece of pizza crust. ‘Can you show me more?’
On most photos, James Robson is standing in front of facades that have long changed. Charles recognises every single spot anyway, and it doesn’t take long before a new notebook opens in his mind.
This slideshow is more than a perfect illustration of the diary.
It could very well compose the fitting setting for his novel.
He tried to move his story geographically but failed to let go of Hampstead.
Perhaps the answer is to move it to the eighties.
To dress his Fred in denim jackets and oversized t-shirts.
‘You’re still with me?’
‘Yes…’
‘Okay, good. I’ve got questions. Because I spent my workout thinking about your parents.’
‘Ugh. Why?’
Charles twists his waist to look at Loris, who tosses the laptop aside and loops an arm around him.
‘They’re a foreign concept to me. What’s their deal? What made them this way? I mean, if you’re okay talking about them…’
Charles would rather move on to having dessert in the form of Loris’ lips, shining from the water he drank. But it’s smarter to answer now, when his parents are already staining the aura of the flat.
‘I guess my father is just copy-pasting his own tough upbringing, minus the daily flogging. Because it did him good. He’s successful and respected.
His marriage is solid. He has no friends and plenty of acquaintances, which is social heaven to him.
He’s never happy, but personal fulfilment isn’t a big Ledwell principle.
So he must be convinced that being an uncompromising bully has many benefits. ’
‘And your mother? She’s so miserable under his yoke that she—’
‘She’s not under his yoke. Not at all. She supports him because she agrees.
Those two were a match made in hell. I’m not sure what her deal is…
Her mother passed away when she was young.
She always boasts about raising her sister.
No one asked her to. Their father was around and they had nannies.
No one forced her into the trophy-housewife way of life either.
Again, she saw that as a duty she was content to carry out.
I think she was just born an adult, with ice in her veins. ’
‘Or her own mother did a number on her when she was a child and it took a toll.’
‘Or that, but that’s too close to an excuse, and I’m done trying to understand. She doesn’t deserve it. Now, do you have more questions about Milton and Alice or can we get to what Charles wants?’
Loris pulls him until he straddles his thighs. ‘Meaning?’
‘Your lips and fingers all over my body.’
‘Granted.’
Their kiss sends Charles’ mind spinning in a second. It drowns the noxious emotions he considered fuelling his desire with earlier and convinces him never to let that happen.
His want should only ever be powered by a sense of belonging he had longed for his entire life and by the way Loris’ touch makes him shake out of his skin.