Charles by Con Riley

20

Aprickle of unease woke Charles early the next morning.

Was it Tor, he wondered blearily, wisps of a dream dispersing where Tor stood sentry at the gate to the outdoor classroom, refusing to play no matter how much Charles tried to tempt him? Or was it someone else that prayed on his mind enough to wake him?

Maybe the evening he and Hugo had spent together after that kiss in the classroom still lingered, Charles trapped by his offer to go slow when all he’d wanted was to press his foot on the accelerator. Would have sped from zero to sixty if it wasn’t for the memory of Hugo confessing that he wasn’t ready.

Not yet.

And maybe not with Charles at all, given how fast the weeks passed here.

He might be gone before Hugo got there.

He lay back and listened to the dawn chorus. It should’ve been uplifting, but for no reason he could label, the unease that had woken him lingered.

Maybe it was the thought of going out later together. Every other time he’d met somebody, Charles had skipped spending one-to-one time with their clothes on. He’d cut to a naked chase instead, which meant no one got to really know him.

Or was that prickle of unease because of what Hugo had said in the classroom, acting as if Charles was someone special?

Like his friend Nathan, his subconscious offered. Someone who’d known Hugo forever, and from the sounds of it was a hero. A saviour. Not someone who’d need reminding about which paint pots needed filling.

Charles rolled over like that might help him avoid a truth that Hugo hadn’t yet noticed, but his brother had recently told him. If we spend more time together, he’ll find out that I’m literally as shallow as a puddle.

Blackbirds sang and wood pigeons cooed while he fretted. The sound reminded him of home, where doves used to wake him. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, remembering their fluttering below his and Keir’s shared bedroom in what had been the Heppel nursery. The sound had always been a comfort. Today it didn’t help him.

He huffed out a huge breath.

Maybe it had been the ping of a message that woke him.

He fumbled under his pillow for his phone. It was set to silent, but some new messages did wait for him. He rubbed his eyes, peering at the timestamp—George had sent them after midnight, replying to his last message, uncharacteristically cheery.

George: Yes I remember making Keir puke. Remember you kicking me in the shins too. You were always plucky.

George: Any chance you can pop back in the morning?

George: Really need to go up to town with Fliss. Might need to stay over.

George: It’s the weekend, Charles. Come home and mind the adviser in the attics for me, won’t you?

He even offered a rare-for-George enticement.

George: He’s very pretty.

Charles paused before replying, then decided not to. Not yet, anyway, while it was so early. He lay back, aware as soon as he did that what must have woken him was the sound of Hugo talking. His low voice travelled through the bedroom wall between them as it had so often since Charles had got there.

He’s talking to Nathan.

Charles pictured the wreckage of a city he’d watched the day before. Remembered Hugo’s taut expression. Heard the soft thump of something falling to the floor next door—one of those daily reflection books by the sound of it. One that maybe Hugo and Nathan worked through together.

That was good, he told himself.

It was good that Hugo had someone to share a passion with that Charles found foreign.

Sunlight found the gap in his curtains, the shadow of the window frame painting a cross on the wall between their rooms. Charles mirrored the shape, running a finger over his chest as he remembered that Hugo and Nathan had both studied the same subject—Theology. And Nathan had been good at Greek and Latin. Charles pictured his own family motto which might as well be written in Klingon, and he snorted, trying to imagine a world where any of that came easily to him.

He couldn’t.

More unease prickled as Hugo’s voice rumbled, Charles unable to make out distinct words, but still listening while typing a quick reply to his brother.

Charles:Sorry. Bit busy today.

Then he rolled out of bed to shower.

Hugo’s bedroom door was cracked open. As Charles passed on his way to the bathroom, what he said was much clearer.

Too clear.

No way not to overhear it.

“You don’t have to get jealous,” Hugo said, his voice oozing fondness. “He’s the opposite of serious.”

Charles carried those words into the bathroom with him, turning them over as he squeezed toothpaste onto his toothbrush. But even after brushing, the froth swirling down the drain, the words lingered.

He might not have been talking about me, he told himself as he showered.

And if he had been, Hugo wasn’t wrong, was he? Shallow as a puddle, remember. You were just literally thinking the exact same thing.

Hugo still talked as Charles finished and returned to his bedroom without stopping to eavesdrop. He dressed, and was lacing his shoes at the front door when Hugo finally ended his call and came out of his bedroom. From where Charles knelt, he saw Hugo turn in the direction of his bedroom.

Charles called out, “I’m here. In the living room.”

“Oh, I was just coming in to see you.” Hugo came into the living room. His grin was bright—much brighter than he’d ever seen it. Hugo pointed to his knee. “Look. The swelling’s completely gone. It’s back to normal.” He carefully bent his knee a few times. “Well as close to normal as it’s going to get. Talk about perfect timing.” Then he noticed what Charles was doing. “You’re going out now? I thought we were going to that sculpture garden togeth—”

“Changed my mind.” Maybe that came out sounding as brittle as Charles felt because Hugo’s wide grin narrowed. Faded. Concern replaced it.

Charles tugged at laces only to see that he’d already tied them. He yanked them loose and retied them rather than look up, keeping his head bowed even when Hugo asked, “Charles, are you—?”

Charles injected some brightness. “Remembered some things I need to do in the classroom. Rain check on going out?” He let himself out before Hugo could answer, or stop him.

Stop me?

Why would he?

Charles crossed the courtyard, making the mistake of glancing over his shoulder to find that Hugo had caught hold of the door instead of letting it close. Maybe his knee wasn’t as healed as he’d stated—he held the door jamb tight enough for his knuckles to whiten.

Charles jogged around the side of the school building, not stopping until he got to his classroom, where a locked door barred him.

Shit.

He’d left his key on the table.

He rested his forehead against the glass, having an internal conversation.

Why did you run away? He was only telling Nathan the truth about you.

Once more, he was reminded of his brother, quoting Latin at him.

Leaving like that was the opposite of perseverance.

For some reason thinking of George was easier than facing that truth. He pulled out his phone and sent another message.

Charles: I could come home today.

Charles: If you really need my help with the adviser.

George’s reply pinged in so fast, he must have been holding his phone.

George: Too late.

George: I’ve already sent him off for the day so I can take Fliss to her appointment.

He felt bad then, and texted carefully so George knew how much.

Charles: I’m really sorry. I didn’t realise you were serious about needing me.

George seemed to type for ages, three dots rippling over and over until he sent a final one-word answer.

George: Okay

Charles had a feeling it wasn’t. He quickly typed another message.

Charles: See you at half-term though. I promise.

A voice from behind him made him jump.

“Hello. Should you be here?”

He turned to find a man around his own age watching from the next classroom’s doorway, his dark eyes wary.

“Yes. Hi. I’m Charles. Helping Ruth? Are you staff?”

The man nodded, and came towards him. “Solomon Trebeck. Sol. Art master. Hi. Sorry for the inquisition. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone here.” He shook the hand Charles offered. “I’m usually all on my own here at the weekends. Nice to have some company, for a change.” His gaze lingered with what Charles guessed was interest, but he couldn’t rise to it this morning.

Didn’t have it in him to even want to.

Wouldn’t, not while that snippet of overheard conversation still circled his chest to constrict it.

I’m not serious.

There was no reason for his chest to keep tightening as Sol watched him, interest there, but reserved, as if waiting for a sign it might be welcome.

And it would’ve been, in any other situation.

Sol was the kind of man that Charles was often drawn to—a little wild, like the long, black strands escaping his hair tie—offering a distraction that he would have previously jumped at.

Sol gestured towards his classroom. “I’ve been away with some students. They won several prizes at a festival. Come and see, if you’re not busy? Be good to have someone to show them off to,” he said. His smile was small yet hopeful.

But what Charles had overheard still echoed.

I’m no reason to be jealous.

Remembering that should have been the shove Charles needed. A push towards finding some easy fun here. A sign from above, like Hugo had mentioned. One that should’ve told him to accept Sol’s invitation. He opened his mouth to say yes, but another answer popped out.

“I can’t.” He checked over his shoulder as if Hugo might have overheard him. Of course, the hallway stood empty.

“No problem,” Sol said, acquiescing.

He seemed about to back off, but then did something Charles might not have noticed if he wasn’t attuned to how the very young summoned courage.

Like some of his quietest children, who found friendship-making tricky, Sol blew out a short, sharp breath and then asked a halting question.

“H-how long are you here for?”

Oh. He’s shy.

“Until the end of term.”

“Another time then?” Sol suggested, sounding awkward.

And he is lonely, like Hugo mentioned.

“Yes, I’ll come back,” Charles said, no idea why he added, “I could bring Hugo with me?”

“Hugo? Ah. You’re sharing the stables with him?” A much less nervous interest lit Sol then. “Yes, bring him too. He still hasn’t seen the works he sat for. Maybe you can convince him to. Look.” He swung his classroom door open, and led Charles to a wall covered in art featuring the same life model.

Only Sol’s hand on his shoulder stopped Charles from recoiling.

“These are by my scholarship students. They’re a bit confronting, aren’t they?” Sol asked, his voice low and quiet as if Hugo might hear them, which was ridiculous, Charles told himself, just like it was ridiculous to recoil from charcoal on paper. From paint on canvas. From the bloody smudge of pastels all showing Hugo as he must have been when he’d first arrived here.

None of the art resembled the Hugo he knew now.

These artworks featured someone tortured.

And not just physically; Charles saw glimpses of that guilt he’d witnessed when Hugo had confessed he’d left Nathan behind with those children. Some of the images hinted at it. Others painted it into each line of his body, pain rendered in excruciating detail.

“This piece won the top prize,” Sol said with a hint of pride. “My nephew’s work.”

Charles hesitated, not sure if he wanted to see, but he turned where Sol pointed.

Hugo’s scar was livid, but more than his face conveyed rawness. His eyes did too, pits of stark, dark-night-of-the-soul emotion that Charles could hardly look at.

Sol said, “It’s almost uncomfortable, isn’t it?”

Charles nodded.

Tried to speak.

Gave up.

“He sat for this shortly after he arrived.”

“It’s…”

Awful.

“Intense. I know,” Sol offered softly. “It was very generous of Hugo. He was such a great model. Said that sitting still was all he was good for.”

“He’s good for much more than that.” Where had that snap to his tone come from? Charles cleared his throat to hide it, too late going by the way Sol’s eyebrows had risen. “I mean, the students I’ve met seem to like him. Not sure that happened by him sitting around and doing nothing.”

Sol nodded. “I agree. The man has the patience of a saint, to be honest. He gave up a lot of his free time for my students. He didn’t have to.”

Sol touched the edge of a canvas, thumb brushing the words Cameron Trebeck. “Really went above and beyond, for my nephew in particular, but he’s never seen the finished products.” He turned pensive. “Can’t have been easy for him to sit and have the whole class stare at him. I know a lot of the kids avoided him….” He gestured at a bruised expression Charles recognised all too clearly.

That’s how he looks when he remembers the bombing. Like he’ll never stop seeing it happen.

If he’d looked like that every day when he’d first got here, no wonder the kids gave him a wide berth.

A penny dropped then, two wires of a loose connection twisting together—no wonder Luke was so worried about him too.

Regret struck like a hammer.

He was meant to be helping Hugo to be happy, wasn’t he? And this was why.

This.

“I’ll bring Hugo to see it,” Charles promised. He needed to see his progress. Might feel better if he knew how far he’d travelled since he’d arrived at Glynn Harber. He turned to leave. “We’ll come together. Soon,” he added, not sure where that certainty had come from.

Sol saw him out. “Be good to see you anytime, Charles.”

Charles jogged back the way he’d come, halfway down the hallway before he realised that while Sol was someone who’d usually have caught his eye, he hadn’t once felt the urge to look back.

* * *

He didn’t get allthe way back to the stables. Halfway there, he ran into Hugo, who caught him by the shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” Charles panted.

“Looking for you,” Hugo said, looking nothing like the pain-filled pictures Charles had just seen. Only, now that Charles stood at arm’s length, maybe he did see a hint of worry—worry that Hugo admitted to him right away. “You were unhappy, Charles,” he said, plain and simple. “Seemed… hurt before you left? Did you get some bad news?”

Charles shook his head, glancing back the way that he’d come. There were images in Sol’s classroom of real pain. “It was nothing important.”

“But?”

That creased brow called for honesty.

“But, I heard you this morning.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Hugo said. “Did I wake you? I can call Nathan from the living room tomorrow.”

There was no reason for that name to feel pointed. Hadn’t he been glad Hugo had a good friend? Hearing Hugo say his name should be inconsequential. But….

Hugo dipped his head so their eyes met. “I’d rather you tell me than hold in something that matters to you.” He squeezed his shoulders before letting go. “You could always come back to the chapel, if you need a curtain between us before confessing.”

Charles glanced his way to see that although Hugo’s gaze was still worried, it also held a hint of a twinkle.

“This is actually pathetic,” Charles admitted, “but I heard what you said about me.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe in the grit of the footpath. His next glance found Hugo perplexed.

“About you?”

Charles nodded, deciding that was enough detail. “But it’s really not important.”

Hugo wouldn’t be deflected. “All I can think is that you overheard me say that we were going out together today. That I was looking forwards to it. Was that it?”

Charles shook his head.

“Or did you hear me say how much I enjoyed Netflix and chilling with you.” And there more of the twinkling that should warm him, not give Charles goose bumps.

“I’m not serious,” Charles blurted, rubbing his arms. “That’s what I heard you say.” He wished he could drag the words back the moment they slipped from him, because Hugo had only told the truth, and he knew it. “I mean, I know I’m not serious. And what we’re doing isn’t either, only—”

“You’re not serious…?” And there was a return of Hugo’s perplexed expression. Charles watched it spread, a line bisecting Hugo’s brow before it lightened. “Charles, don’t you remember what I called you outside my office?” He lowered his voice. “I can remind you if you’ve forgotten.”

He didn’t need to. Low working memory or not, Charles would never forget it.

Sweet and kind and caring.

Charles couldn’t make himself say it. He studied the grit on the path some more.

“They’re just three little words, Charles. Are you fishing for me to say them again to you?”

And now Charles was certain Hugo teased him. “No. I remember.” He quit avoiding his eye to find Hugo smiling.

“That’s what I think of you, Charles. What you overheard this morning about not being serious wasn’t about you. I was talking about Luke.”

“You don’t have to tell—”

Hugo ignored him. “I told Nathan that Luke was threatening to throw in the towel on the headship to travel the world instead. Nathan wanted to know if I thought he was serious or joking.”

“Really?”

Hugo nodded. “Nathan loves to travel. I said he didn’t have to be jealous of Luke traveling instead of working here because it would never happen.” He gestured to the school building. “Luke swears he’s a confirmed bachelor, but he’s pretty much wedded to this place. He was just having a bad day when he said it. We’re all allowed to have those.”

“Ah….” Charles felt more than a little stupid. And a whole lot lighter.

“Ah,” Hugo agreed. “I promise that if I have something to say about you, you’ll be the first to hear it.”

Charles almost squirmed at his sincerity. “Ugh. Ignore me. Shall we forget it happened?”

“No.”

Something inside Charles sagged. “I get it. The stables are your home. You won’t want to share with someone high-strung.”

“Who said anything about you being high-strung?” Hugo frowned. “Would someone high-strung have handled Tor with so much”—he paused before saying one of the three labels he’d applied to Charles—“care? I promise that’s something I’m going to remember long after I leave here. You, Charles Heppel, are my new gold standard for compassion.”

Hugo’s arm settled over his shoulder, and Charles started to feel better.