Charles by Con Riley

12

They left just before six that evening, Hugo directing him to a country pub quite a way from Glynn Harber.

The roads narrowed into lanes as Charles followed his instructions and steered the Defender through shady, tree-bough tunnels. He glanced sideways. “This lane’s getting narrower. Are you sure there’s a pub along here?”

“Yes.” Hugo rubbed his knee as he spoke. “It’s good we’ve come early. It gets busy.”

Charles wasn’t so sure that could be true with this pub being in the middle of nowhere, but he focused on driving, changing gear as the road steepened. “I can’t imagine they get much trade this far off the main road.”

“It’s always been crowded when Luke’s brought me.”

“You come out here often?”

“With Luke? I suggest it whenever he looks—”

Charles glanced sideways again to see Hugo doing an almost perfect impression of the same grim look Luke had given him on their first meeting. “Ugh. Don’t,” he laughed. “I want to enjoy the evening, not feel like I need to spend the whole evening in the thinking corner.”

“Luke’s not that bad.” Hugo shifted in his seat again, moving as if pain still dogged him, not letting him fully settle, no matter how much he denied it. “He can be a lot of fun. Was great to share a flat with at uni until he decided three was a crowd.”

“If you say so,” Charles said, almost sure that fun and Luke wouldn’t ever be caught in bed together. In fact, fun would probably run in the opposite direction. “So he got the personality transplant after he graduated?”

“Ha! Maybe you had to be there to believe me.” Hugo was silent for a few minutes. “And I suppose he is a bit different these days, but saving Glynn Harber is a challenge.”

“Saving it?” Luke had mentioned similar, but the school seemed bustling to Charles. “Is it really in trouble?”

“According to him, yes. It’s generally a tough time for small independent schools, but Luke’s always been a man with a mission. He’ll keep it going.” Hugo leaned forwards. “Take the next left. It’s easy to miss the turn-off.”

Charles did as instructed, turning the Defender up an even narrower, steep lane. “I wish you’d told me to bring oxygen. Any higher and I’ll get a nosebleed,” he grumbled. “Thought you Outward Bound sorts were always prepared.”

“That’s the Boy Scouts, and yes the pub’s high up, but nowhere near high enough to make your nose bleed.”

Charles changed gear again, still climbing, the Defender almost jumping ahead as they reached the top of the hill. They left the dark tunnel of trees behind, and his breath caught.

“That’s why it’s always busy,” Hugo said quietly. “The view makes the climb worth it.”

Charles pulled into a car park and got out, striding over to its bordering wall, a hand raised to shield his eyes from the evening sunshine. He almost jumped at Hugo’s hand landing on his shoulder, so engrossed in spotting landmarks.

“Can you see the school?”

“I think so. It’s very sheltered,” he said, realising that, just like its Cornish name had promised, the school was a well-hidden haven. “Wait. Is that a lighthouse?” He pointed out where light glinted above the tree line. “What’s it doing inland?”

“No, it’s actually a dome on top of the old art building. That light is the sun reflecting off it. I’m not sure it serves a purpose. The whole building’s eccentric.”

“Eccentric and serves no purpose? So it’s like a folly? We’ve got one of those. Built by my namesake, much to the disgust of my brother.”

“That’s George?”

Charles nodded, not sure when he’d mentioned his brother’s name, but tickled that Hugo had remembered.

Maybe the scent of food should have drawn them to the pub, but Hugo’s arm had settled across his shoulder.

Charles was in no hurry for them to move yet, not while they stood close together, the woods and moors spread out before them as though someone had shaken out a patchwork quilt in shades of green and granite. “George can’t deal with the fact that one of our ancestors built a castle wall for no reason.”

“A wall? I thought follies were towers.”

“Not ours. It’s just the one wall, with an abandoned building behind it. Keir and I used to sneak in and play there before the brambles and ivy took over. It’s pointless too, according to George, but I thought it was magic.” And it had been to boys small enough to climb through a gap in a boarded window. “It’s just the one storey, but it’s got everything Casterley’s ground floor has, only built to a smaller scale. All of it locked up on the deathbed instruction of the earl who built it.”

“Spooky,” Hugo murmured.

“I always used to feel as though I might find him there when we’d creep in.” He laughed at himself; at the way the building behind the folly wall had always felt solid to him instead of pointless; safe, instead of scary. “There’s a painting of him in his flying corps uniform in our hall. George says I could be his double, only he must have been more competent.” He caught a glimpse of Hugo frowning. “Well, he must have been. No way could I fly a Sopwith Camel like he did in the First World War. I would have flown in the wrong direction.” He lightened that truth with a smile. “I’m a lover not a fighter.”

“You’re more than competent at what you love,” Hugo said, sounding certain. So certain that Charles didn’t argue.

“I do love the folly,” Charles admitted, sure that must be why George had chosen it as a project for him to take on. Equally aware that managing a restoration project was beyond him. He’d have to liaise with who knew how many people, run a budget, and schedule work in the right order. “George wants me to restore it when I finish working here.”

“But you don’t? Why?”

Charles didn’t answer. Didn’t want to. Not when that meant admitting he was more scared of getting it wrong than of George losing patience with him. Dyslexia was so much more than switching alphabet letters, for him, or getting bamboozled by handwriting. It made completing tasks in order a nightmare, sequencing something that only other people managed without thinking. Instead, Charles asked a question to divert the conversation. “So what makes the art building eccentric?”

Hugo allowed that change in subject, but he watched Charles closely. “Apart from having a pointless glass dome? One whole side of it is made of glass panes too,” he said. “Terrible for keeping in the heat, but Sol says it will be a perfect studio, once it’s renovated.”

“Sol? He’s the art master? I don’t think I’ve met him yet.”

“Yes, Solomon Trebeck. He’s at a festival with his scholarship students.” Hugo’s arm felt heavier for a moment, tighter. “He might give you a private viewing of his work, when he gets back.”

Charles turned slightly. “Is that what happened when you arrived?” He waggled his eyebrows. “He invited you to look at his etchings?”

“Yes. Although to be fair, I only think he asked me because he’s lonely.” Concern creased his forehead. “Luke’s not sure if he’s settling in. He promised Sol a state of the art studio, but he’s stuck with a cramped temporary classroom. And it must be quiet for him here after living in London. There’s just him rattling around alone in his staff flat since his nephew moved in with the boarders.”

Hugo made another confession Charles hadn’t expected. “Sol asked me to sit for his students.” He let out a small huff of laughter that didn’t come close to happy. “That was about all I was good for when I first got here. Sitting.” Despite the evening sun, Hugo seemed to darken as if they were back under the tree cover.

“But you’ve made progress since then, haven’t you?” Charles asked. “Said you hardly needed your stick until you wrenched your knee”—he nearly added the words for me—“in the woods?”

“Yes.” Hugo drew in a deep breath, his broad chest expanding. “Yes, I have. Mostly because of you. Fetching and carrying for me. Supplying frozen peas and pain pills. Your arrival’s been a blessing. Best few weeks since I arrived here.”

He didn’t give Charles time to argue. Just as well because he was surprised into silence. “Shall we go inside?” Hugo asked, and now that Charles knew to look beyond his surface, he saw a hint of teasing. Heard it too when Hugo said, “I think you’ll appreciate the menu. It’s got plenty of seafood options.”

“Seafood?”

“Yes.”

Charles wrinkled his nose. “Not a massive fish fan to be honest.”

“Not even if crabs are on the menu?”

Charles laughed, the sound following as they went inside, Hugo’s arm still around him.

* * *

After ordering,Charles carried their drinks out to the pub garden at the rear of the building. “Where do you want to sit? Here?”

He headed for the nearest picnic bench, stopping when Hugo said, “No. Over there,” pointing to the far side of the garden.

Charles wasn’t sure if Hugo was trying to prove something to himself by walking farther than he needed, but he followed, understanding when he got there.

The table Hugo had chosen was up on an elevated section of decking. Charles climbed the few steps behind Hugo to see a view that stretched even farther than at the front of the pub, the grey peaks of even more tors visible, along with the glint of the sea in the far distance.

“Wow.” He sat on the same side of the bench as Hugo, speechless.

“I know. The view from the car park is good, but this knocks its socks off.” Hugo took a sip of his drink, chasing beer foam from his upper lip with his tongue tip. “Oh, now that was worth skipping some painkillers.”

“Is that why you’re so achy?” Charles asked. “You wanted a beer so badly that you didn’t take your medication?”

“How do you know I’m aching?” Hugo turned slightly to face Charles. “And no, that’s not the only reason I didn’t take them. I wanted to feel this.” Charles felt the nudge of Hugo’s good knee against his. “Feel myself, instead of woozy. Have an evening where I feel normal, for once, doing the same as other people on a Friday after work. Sharing a meal”—his gaze locked on Charles—“with something stunning to look at.” He broke away then and said, “It is, isn’t it?”

Oh.

The view.

Charles blinked, nodding, then took a quick sip of his drink, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach, relieved by the distraction of something else glinting in the distance. “What’s that over there?”

“Where?” Hugo looked where Charles pointed. “That’s High Tor. Probably someone on its summit.” He rummaged in his pocket, pulling out a compact pair of binoculars.

“Bloody hell. Where do you buy your clothes? The same place that Mary Poppins gets her bags? Just how deep do they go?”

“My pockets? You can have a feel for yourself, if you want to find out.”

“Okay. But fair warning, I’m going to be disappointed if I don’t find an umbrella or a coat stand in there.” Charles shuffled closer. “Last time I had a go at a lucky dip was at a church fête. I feel like I should give you fifty pence before I have a rummage.”

“No charge, but”—he put a hand over the pocket that was closest to Charles—“try inside the other unless you want my snotty hankie.” Hugo’s gaze was lively, nothing still about it.

That fluttery feeling inside Charles spread. He leaned across Hugo to reach inside his other pocket. This was the closest they’d been since they’d kissed, he realised. Much closer than they sat every evening with a pillow and tablet between them.

His mouth was right there.

Close enough to kiss.

Looking away from it was harder than Charles could have predicted.

He caught himself before he could lean even closer, grabbing for the first thing he felt in Hugo’s pocket.

He pulled out the type of compass the sixth-form students had brought with them to show his class, set on a clear plastic base with grid lines that Charles hadn’t been able to line up on his map for love nor money. “Well that’s a massive disappointment.” He tossed it on the table. “I want my 50p back.”

“What were you hoping for?”

“Something useful, not something pointless.”

He only noticed that his hand had curled into a fist when Hugo covered it with his own. Charles unclenched, surprised, and Hugo’s fingers slipped between his, not exactly holding it down, but not letting go either.

“I wouldn’t say a compass is pointless,” Hugo said, nonchalantly, as if their touching that way was normal.

Maybe it was for him. Giving comfort must have been part of his training. And maybe Hugo had remembered how all that walking in circles in the woods had upset him.

Charles watched Hugo incline his head towards the moors stretching below them. “I would have been lost many times down there without one.”

“On those moors?” They didn’t look too much of a challenge to Charles, the peaks no higher than molehills from this distant perspective, but Hugo nodded.

“This view is deceptive. The tors are a different beast entirely from ground level when the light goes, or it’s stormy. Then they’re rough and unforgiving. Yes, they look beautiful this evening, but one step in the wrong direction can be dangerous down there, especially if the mist rolls in.”

“Why do you like hiking there so much then?” Because Hugo did, Charles already knew. He came alive every time the moors were mentioned.

“It reminds me of lots of good times. Tough times. The best times.” Hugo lifted the binoculars with his free hand. “See if you can find High Tor with these.”

Charles did, almost disappointed that he had to use both hands to hold them steady and adjust the focus. But then the top of the Tor became crystal clear, a group of hikers atop it. “I’ve got it.”

“Now scan to the opposite side of the moor. Whisper Tor is smaller. Can you see it?” Hugo touched his shoulder, until Charles turned far enough to see it.

“Okay. Yes, I think so.” There weren’t any hikers on its top. Instead they crowded around its base—weird when it looked so much easier than High Tor’s steep challenge.

“Now look to its right. What can you see?”

“Nothing.” Charles squinted, adjusting the focus again. “Just a shadow.”

“Just a shadow that’s actually a long drop into a quarry.”

Charles looked again. “Really?”

“Yes. Not the kind of thing you want to stumble across without knowing. There’s water at the bottom, but the drop can still be deadly.”

“So why does Luke let the sixth-form students hike there?”

“Because the High Tor challenge course doesn’t go anywhere near it. And of course, we supervise them.” His eyes closed then, and Charles sat close enough to see that hint of auburn played out on his lashes too, their tips as bright as the disappointment he saw when Hugo opened his eyes. “Or, I would be there to supervise them.” He rubbed his knees, his frustration so familiar that Charles couldn’t help commiserating.

“It’s really shit not being able to do what you want, isn’t it?” Charles hurried to add, “I mean, I do count my blessings. I’m fit and well and have no real worries, but….”

“But?” Hugo asked. He held his pint glass, but he seemed more interested in listening than drinking, Charles his entire focus.

That made it easier for Charles to talk about real frustrations for once, instead of being flippant like he might have with a hook-up. He tapped the compass and made a confession. “But, I never know whether my fuck-ups are a dyslexia thing or a me thing. I can’t ever figure that out, so I spend a lot of time feeling—” He was so sick of the word stupid.

Maybe something in his face tightened because Hugo said, “Hey. I’ve seen you read and write plenty of times without breaking a sweat. All that prep work you do every evening? All the notes to add to learning journeys? You’ve clearly found ways to manage everything that matters.”

Charles nodded, looking away, but Hugo caught his chin, his hold light but encouraging him to face him. “I’m sorry, Charles,” he said, his eyes wide and watchful.

“For what?”

“For whatever, or whoever, made you feel that you need to be embarrassed. I’ve seen what you do.” Hugo dropped his hand but his gaze didn’t relent. “Your compass is in here.” He touched Charles on the chest, tapping over his heart. “And you read it with no trouble. Not only that, you help children navigate life with it.” He nodded until Charles did too. “We all have things we haven’t mastered, Charles. Things that makes us feel like beginners instead of accomplished.”

Charles doubted that. Perhaps Hugo saw his scepticism.

“You think I know everything?” Another little huff came with his next chuckle. “Believe me, I’m a novice in some things where you’re an expert.”

Charles almost asked what, but Hugo touched the compass again and said, “I could teach you how—”

Frustration bubbled over. “No you can’t. I already know how. How isn’t the problem. It’s that I can’t apply the information. I can listen to instructions, but that doesn’t mean I can execute them in order. That goes from compass-reading to taking down a phone message, to…. Well, to everything, really.”

Hugo sat in silence, but he nodded, still listening, so Charles continued,“There’s this frustrating, never-ending disconnect between what I see and what my brain does with that information. Not all dyslexics have low working memory like me. I can’t trust myself, ever.” That word he hated popped out. “It’s so incredibly stupid.”

“But you aren’t, are you?” Hugo said. “You’re the opposite. I’ve thought it since our first meeting, but today only confirmed it.”

“Today?”

“Glue and glitter?” Hugo said, his voice so soft that Charles felt those flutters come back. “More like magic.”

A waitress brought their meals then, her appearance justifying a feeling Charles couldn’t trust either.

Flutters in my stomach, for fuck sake.

I’m hungry, that’s all.

But as they ate, still trading stories for hours, Hugo’s knee rested against his, and the feeling persisted, lasting throughout their shared meal.

Finally, a darkening blanket foreshortened the view, the evening over, and Charles drove them back to the stables.

Once home, he pulled up and turned off the engine. The courtyard shadows deepened, no sign of life, or light, from the main school building.

“Thank you,” Hugo said, unfastening his seatbelt.

“For what?”

“For showing me how you spend your Friday nights. For sharing one with me from start to finish.”

“Well, this isn’t actually how I’d usually finish a night out,” Charles said, unfastening his seatbelt, but making no move to get out.

“No?” There was barely enough light to see Hugo’s gaze drop to his lips, but Charles noticed. Saw Hugo’s eyes glued to them like Charles knew his own had stuck to Hugo’s earlier.

He’d felt so close to kissing him back at the pub. It would be so easy to believe Hugo felt the same way now, especially when he asked Charles, “If not like this, then how?”

“Not sure I should confess that.” Was it his voice that came out so husky? Charles cleared his throat, but it made no difference. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes.”

Charles would usually have had sex.

Cramped in the back of a car, or with a hand clamped over his mouth in a nightclub bathroom.

Naked in a stranger’s bedroom, if they made it past the hallway.

Or on a staircase, the small of his back scuffed by carpet friction.

He’d clutched many a couch frame for balance at the end of other Fridays.

Clung to the edge of table tops too, fucked by men who knew how to make him feel it.

He’d get off, and go home, or take someone home with him if Keir was away on business, making the most of the balcony off his apartment by getting rimmed against the railing with the Thames glittering below him.

Any of those options were his usual Friday-night conclusion.

Tonight though, he and Hugo would have to walk into the stables together, no way to avoid each other if what seemed like a good idea now turned into a bad one later.

He drew in a deep breath. “I’ll tell you another time. With a curtain between us, maybe.” God knew what Hugo would make of that list of happy endings. “But I’ll finish this Friday night by going to bed early. And with reminding you to take your pills so—”

Hugo didn’t let him finish, his voice rougher than usual. “I want to kiss you again.” He slid along the bench seat. “Can I?”

Bad idea, a small voice whispered. Terrible, terrible idea.

Charles ignored it, nodding.

He leant in to meet Hugo, raising a hand to cup a face he didn’t need more light to see; didn’t need map-reading skills to survey. He found the ridge of his scar, felt it tense under his fingers, then Hugo relaxed, and their mouths met.

Fuck, it was as shocking as last time. Deep somehow, despite their lips barely being open. Brief, but strangely tender.

“Thank you,” Hugo said before Charles had a chance to ask for more. To beg for it, because he would. Or pray. Anything, if Hugo would come closer instead of withdrawing.

He watched Hugo open his door, every cell in his body clamouring, wanting, demanding they pick up where they left off and end this night like he had so many others.

But Charles sat still, only sure of one thing—this felt more like a start than an ending.