Charles by Con Riley

13

Charles woke early the next morning, wondering why he felt awake instead of dog-tired. His head didn’t have the happy-hour pounding he’d have woken with when he lived with Keir in London, his mouth nowhere near its usual birdcage-bottom dry and gritty. He shifted, rolling from his front to his back to find his arse didn’t ache either. Then he touched his lips, remembering, as the quiet sound of a voice came from the next room.

Hugo.

He must’ve been speaking to someone on his phone, like he had every day so far, using that same low pitch of last night, asking if it was okay to kiss him, as if Charles was some blushing virgin. But it hadn’t been a bad end to a Friday night. In fact now that he’d slept on it, it had been the perfect end to a second week of feeling valued.

Charles rolled out of bed and opened the curtains. The sky above the garden was indigo already, the sun clear and bright and—

I’m so happy to be here.

It was a simple feeling. One that Charles held onto on the way past Hugo’s bedroom to the bathroom, the rumble of his voice persisting. The mirror there confirmed it—another week of Netflix and early nights had done wonders.

It was more than sleep, he thought as he brushed his teeth and splashed his face before heading for the kitchen. This week had been the best he could remember since Keir had moved to Cornwall. Sure, he’d had plenty of nights out since then. Ones that had ended with far more than a brief kiss, but those hadn’t been with someone who laughed with him, and listened. Someone who was so—

“Good,” he said as Hugo appeared in the kitchen doorway, rumpled in his boxers and a sleep-creased T-shirt, all of his stark lines softened. “I was just coming to ask if you want tea or coffee.”

“Either,” Hugo said. “Just as long as there’s—”

“A biscuit? Because a drink’s too wet without one?”

Hugo smiled, and the day got brighter. Then he took a step away from the door and Charles remembered.

“Your knee.” He did his best bossy George impression. “Where’s your stick?”

“I don’t need it. It’s much better.”

“Tell that to someone who hasn’t watched you hobble for weeks. Get back to bed and put it up on a pillow. I’ll bring your drink to you.” He busied himself by rooting through the kitchen cupboards, pleased that Hugo did as instructed, the doorway empty when the kettle boiled and he turned to pour the water. It was a simple pleasure to sling teabags into mugs and add a stack of chocolate Hobnobs to a tray he started to carry out before doubling back and raiding the freezer.

“Tea, biscuits, and peas,” he said, backing into Hugo’s bedroom to find he’d followed the last of his instructions as well, his knee propped, Hugo lying back against his pillows, relaxed and still rumpled.

“You’re an angel.”

“Hardly,” Charles said, surveying Hugo’s knee. “You know, I usually think that bigger is better in the bedroom, but”—he set the tray down and climbed onto the bed for a closer inspection—“that’s the kind of less swollen I approve of.” It wasn’t all gone, but it did look better, the scars much less red and angry.

“You were right. Resting it has made a difference.”

Something had.

Even the way he lay back was different. He wasn’t limp with exhaustion this morning, or tense with pain he’d hidden. This version was—

“Fabulous.” Charles said, breathless like he’d run a mile instead of carried a tea tray from the kitchen. “That’s fabulous news. But no point pushing your luck, so how about you let me fetch and carry for you this weekend too like I did when I first got here?” He imagined George’s astonished face at him making that offer.

This is different.

It won’t feel like a chore to help him. Like some kind of token effort.

“What would usually be your plan for the day?” Charles asked. “Last weekend, you were completely stuck to the sofa, but what do you actually do at the weekends, if you’re not being….”

“Please don’t say holy.”

Charles liked the smile Hugo tagged onto that word today, seeming more at peace with his decision to change direction, finding it easier to smile while saying, “I never was, remember? And even if I had been, my holy card would have been revoked for….”

That smile faded. He pressed his lips together like that might hold back what he’d been about to mention, and there were the faintest hint of clouds at the edge of his expression. Clouds that might bank there in a way that Luke had hired him to stave off.

Charles shifted position, sitting closer to stop those clouds from building. “For kissing me? I thought I’d already explained, but just to be clear, I kiss people I like goodbye. I kiss them goodnight too.” He watched Hugo’s eyelashes lower in a still sleep-dusted, slow blink. “And if I really like them, I kiss them good morning as well.” Charles did that, leaning in to brush his lips against Hugo’s cheek, rough with stubble, scruffy in a way that might’ve done things for him if saying this hadn’t been more important. “I promise you, you would have known if I didn’t want to be kissed last night.”

Charles wasn’t conscious of deciding to kiss his other cheek too, but he must have lifted himself up to do so because his lips dragged on more stubble, desire building, like those clouds had, banked and waiting.

“Charles…” Hugo swallowed and blinked faster a few times. “Do you really want…?”

Charles sat back, studying a man who he might not have taken the time to notice before. Now he did, seeing someone who was more than long and broad in the way he liked, but who also hesitated, holding back, as if what Charles thought mattered more to him.

Do I want?

Yes.

Will that make him happy?

Charles wasn’t sure.

He started to ask him, but it seemed that Hugo had come to his own decision, because he pushed himself up at the same time, slotting their mouths together, his lips soft like Charles remembered, his kiss tentative, still doubting.

Charles pulled back slightly. “What did I promise?” he asked, his voice lower pitched than before.

“That I’d know if you didn’t want me to kiss you.” Hugo swallowed one more time, those wide eyes of his searching, scanning, looking for a lie perhaps before committing.

Charles saw the moment he got there, felt the heat of his breath a second before he tasted the mint of his toothpaste. Then Hugo’s arms came around him, his hold firm as the chest he pulled Charles against.

This was a different kiss to last night, just as deep, but lasting longer. Testing, as if Hugo still didn’t believe he could go ahead and do this. Have this. Take whatever he wanted.

Charles almost smiled.

When was the last time he’d felt this kind of hesitancy?

It was sweet, he decided, sinking into another kiss that came with Hugo running the palm of one hand from his shoulder down to where the waistband of his boxer briefs started. He moved it up again in a maddeningly slow slide, retracing the same path, exploring Charles over the fabric of the T-shirt he’d slept in.

He’d have done the same, if he’d had a hand free, Charles thought, only he’d shove his hands under Hugo’s clothes to sweep over all of that spare strength he kept hidden. He’d push his shirt up, and off, so he could find out if his chest was smooth or hairy, and if he’d like the same slow licks Charles made into his mouth across the hard peaks of his nipples.

That thought encouraged him to brace on one forearm instead of both hands. Then he got lost for a while in kissing, sidetracked by Hugo getting into his stride in a way that took all of his concentration, owning his mouth now that he was over his hesitation, kisses turning consuming.

Charles had to break away to catch his breath, wondering if he looked as raw as Hugo did below him. His chest heaved and Charles needed to see it, taste it, maybe leave his mark, if Hugo liked that.

He straddled Hugo’s good leg, and guessed that he’d liked what they’d done so far, because Hugo’s cock was hard already. He kissed him again, pressing his thigh against it through the thin cotton of Hugo’s boxers.

Hugo groaned into his mouth, deep and guttural.

Charles felt the twitch of his cock against his thigh, and more than anything else in that moment, he wanted to taste that part of him too.

He slid a hand under Hugo’s T-shirt, his fingers finding the soft skin of his belly, thumb brushing across a trail of hair he’d kiss his way down if his mouth wasn’t already busy. Instead, he started to slide his fingers under the waistband of Hugo’s boxers, only for Hugo to stop breathing.

“No?” Charles circled his thumb, rubbing that rough trail of hair, but Hugo shuddered.

Charles pulled back, kneeling above him. “Either you’re really ticklish, or you’ve decided against—”

“No,” Hugo said, breathless, and damn, he looked amazing while flushed, his lips so well-kissed they’d plumped. “Not against.” He closed his eyes and blew out a long, slow breath. He kept them closed and said, “Just….”

Charles looked down, saw the way his breathing hitched, took in the outline of his cock straining the front of his boxers, then he knelt back and studied Hugo’s sore knee, which he’d kept bent out of the way. Charles was almost sure he hadn’t knocked it. It didn’t appear to be swelling again either. “Is it hurting?”

Hugo opened his eyes. “Is what hurting?”

“Your knee?” He made to get up, but Hugo sat up too and caught him by the elbows, holding him where he was.

“It’s fine.” He frowned and admitted, “Well, it’s not fine exactly, but that’s not why I can’t…” He glanced away. Charles followed the line of his eye, which landed on a stack of books on his bedside table.

“I’m going to take a wild guess that none of those are by Dan Brown or John Grisham.”

“No.” Hugo lay back again. He opened one of the books and flipped through pages which seemed more a workbook than fiction, bible quotes and questions next to space left for hand-written answers. He moved a bookmark—one of those letters on the vivid-pink paper Charles had noticed on his first visit. “They’re daily reflection workbooks. Prompts for prayer. That kind of thing. I have a friend who works through the books at the same time as me. We talk most mornings. Or write, once we’ve had time to think.”

Charles couldn’t imagine. “Each to their own. I talk to friends via WhatsApp, and listen to audiobooks that come with a happy ending.”

“Oh, mine does too,” Hugo said, that uneven smile back, thank goodness, until it flickered. “Just because I’m not following through on ordination doesn’t mean I….” He let out a huge breath. “I didn’t think this through.”

Charles did draw away then, getting off Hugo, and sitting on the bedside. Something inside him also gathered itself into a tight coil, about to retreat until he saw the way Hugo’s boxers still tented. “Listen.” He wasn’t sure where the words came from but they spilled with the firm conviction he only felt for few things.

For my work.

For the people I love.

And for how much he believed what he said next.

“This is my body.” He rubbed a hand over his heart. “There’s nothing wrong with how I choose to use it. The only wrong thing is trying to control how someone else uses their own.” He held that hand up before Hugo could answer. “I mean that everyone should have a choice, that’s all, and respect other people’s. If you want to stop, I’m one-hundred per cent okay with that. But you also need to know that I’m happy with my choices. I don’t regret anyone I’ve fucked, even if the sex was a disaster.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I’ve had plenty of terrible sex, but it’s always been my choice, always, and frankly even when it goes wrong, I nearly always end up having a fun time.”

“Fun,” Hugo repeated as if it was a foreign concept.

“Yes, fun. That’s all sex needs to be, right?”

Hugo didn’t answer.

That urge to retreat rushed back. Charles slid off the bed to stand beside it. “And don’t try to tell me that anyone saves it for marriage these days.” He meant to joke, but it sounded hollow. “You’d only waste your own time trying to convince me. No-strings sex suits me. Sorry if that shocks you”—he glanced at the bedside table—“or goes against what your good book tells you, but that’s really not my problem.”

“I—”

“Do you know what’s a real sin?” Charles plastered on a smile, and said much more brightly than he felt, “letting our tea go cold. I’ll go make us another.” He retreated for real then, because for all of his conviction, being judged was still a shitty start to the morning.

One that made him worry.

He should have listened to that small voice.

Living together would be awkward if they fell out. Staying at all might be questionable, and not only because this morning was going in the opposite direction than Luke had wanted. But his make him happy edict wasn’t worth any amount of judgement. Not to Charles.

He’d rather leave than feel it from someone he respected—and he did feel that for Hugo. Respected his quiet stoicism, and liked the way he listened more than he quite knew what to do with.

In the kitchen, he tipped away their cold tea, watching it swirl down the drain and following it with a blast of water. He jumped when Hugo spoke from the doorway.

“Can I tell you what really shocked me?”

Charles didn’t turn to face him. Couldn’t yet, but he nodded.

Hugo came nearer. Close enough that Charles felt the stir of his breath on the back of his neck; heard what he said over the rush of the tap water. “What shocked me was how much time I’ve wasted since I made my decision.”

“‘Wasted’?”

“Yes. Wasted while trying to figure out how to be… normal, I suppose. I kept trying to see what a normal future might look like. What moving on might feel like. But I couldn’t grasp it. Like this water with no plug to stop it from draining.” He reached around Charles, his other hand gripping his shoulder for balance, and let the water run through his fingers. “It kept slipping from me. Didn’t matter how much I tried, I couldn’t hold on to it.” He turned the tap and the water slowed to a trickle. “Then I sat beside a closed curtain in the chapel and heard someone on its other side describe a life so full and vivid that I could almost picture myself in it.”

Hugo’s lips brushed the side of his neck, and Charles stopped breathing.

“Could almost reach out and touch it,” Hugo said, his voice so low, Charles felt it.

Hugo cupped his hand, the water pooling in his palm. “You know what I heard in your confession?”

Charles shook his head, his inhale ragged.

“Belief.”

Hugo’s lips brushed the other side of his neck, and Charles shivered.

“Belief,” Hugo repeated behind him. “In your confession. In you making the most of your creation. Charles, you make life sound like a celebration.”

Charles nodded. Unable to speak. His throat tight and his eyes stinging.

“I heard you say that even if your life wasn’t perfect it could be full of passion. The same passion for life I want to make the most of. I’m wasting it now, Charles. And I’ll keep on wasting it if I don’t move forwards.”

His mouth found the edge of his earlobe. “Everything you said was heart-warming. Human,” he whispered. “Gave me hope.”

“Even the crabs?” Charles said, his voice thick.

“Especially the crabs. To be honest, they were my favourite.” Hugo pulled on his shoulder. “Charles.”

“Yes.”

“Will you turn around?”

“No.”

Hugo dropped a kiss on the slope of his shoulder. “Please.”

Charles did turn, seeing the moment Hugo noticed his eyes were glossy. “I’m a sap,” he explained. “I cry at commercials on the telly. You’ve only yourself to blame if you say nice things about me.” And that had been the nicest thing he’d heard about himself in ages.

In forever.

It didn’t help that Hugo’s gaze softened.

Charles evaded it, but Hugo lifted a wet finger to his chin, tilting it so their eyes met.

“I’m so attracted to you, Charles.”

“Your cock certainly is.”

“All of me is. To everything about you. Not just your body. To your spirit. I see it every time I pass the outdoor classroom. Hear it when you laugh at Netflix with me, when a man like you must have a hundred other options. I feel it every time you get peas out of the freezer for me, or force-feed me pain pills.”

Charles wanted to laugh. He firmed his jaw instead. “But?” he asked, because there had to be one.

“But I don’t know how to do no-strings,” Hugo admitted. “Don’t know how to be a normal person, full stop. Don’t know how to be anything other than committed.” He sounded helpless. “I’m so lost.”

“Well then,” Charles said, that tight coil inside him finally loosening, his voice shaky. “It’s a good thing I found you.”