Chapter Text
Erik’s day started with the regular vibration of the ceiling.
There were tiny dust particles dispersed in the air because of the ballet class on the ground floor vibrating the ceiling, floating amid the light that was falling into the room. He kicked away his blanket and took his time gazing through the narrow window on the top edge of the wall and all the shoes hastily stepping across the street. He stayed so until he was lucid enough to recognize the music coming through the thin floor above him as - like always - the Military Polonaise, then he finally got up.
Just when he was wiping the remaining shaving foam from his face, Raven called. She sounded as irritable and impatient as last Monday, full of never-ending complaints. She condemned his ignorance of deadlines; Erik opened the fridge to take out the milk and put the noisy phone on the egg tray. Then he kicked the door shut.
He put on his coat and locked his door. When he reached the street from the stairs of the basement, he ran into Emma who was wiping the French Doors. She was the owner of the ballet classroom as well as Erik’s flat, and was way too young and beautiful to be a landlady.
She saw Erik and smiled.
“Cześć, Erik,” she said in an elegant but unsure tone. “Am I pronouncing it correctly?”
Erik was tired of explaining to her that he’d moved to Germany when he was a toddler and probably knew less Polish than she did. He thought maybe it was like beauty contestants, when asked about their goals, all shared the same dream of world peace. Maybe Emma was treating him as this introverted, pathetic polish guy, so he’d eventually ask her out one day, only for her to refuse cruelly, and put a star with his name on her wall of glory.
“Oh and I’ll have someone examine your water heater today.”
Or maybe Emma really was a nice person, and Erik a sociopath.
“As for my name, yes.” Erik answered. “Thank you, Emma.”
Emma smiled and turned towards her glass doors, which were polished enough to reflect her image. Erik went to the café around the corner to eat breakfast. Usually he would have Eggs Benedict and a black coffee. He would sit at his usual seat near the window and it would take him one and a half hours to eat his food and read that day’s papers. But today he’d gotten up too late and the small store was already filled with people, so he only took a coffee to go and grabbed a bagel before he squeezed through the crowd.
For he didn’t want to go back to his flat, he had no choice but to eat his meal on a bench in the park nearby.
Erik examined the small park unintentionally. He passed by a million times every day, but he’d never taken a stroll inside. The park was round, with a white fountain in the center, surrounded by benches and trash cans here and there. On the lawn farer away, there were several elderly men playing croquet, their silver hair glistening under the sunlight. Erik zoomed in his view, and noticed that all benches around the fountain were taken. A woman wearing the newest spring fashion was busy tipping something on her blackberry phone, checking her watch restlessly the whole time. On her left there was a young man in a beige coat, who was leaning forward to share his breakfast with a flock of pigeons. Erik closed his eyes and opened them again. He tried to turn the world motionless in his gaze, to form a picture of either perfect balance or imbalanced perfection, since that should’ve been his job. But it was futile, for the world was still spinning like crazy, the streets were a mixture of car horns and footfalls, and he still hadn’t found anything that was willing to come to a halt for him.
Erik drank up his coffee and stood up. He threw the cup along with the half-eaten bagel in the trash and left.
He came from Germany to the US three years ago.
Erik’s career started in the city of advertisement: Düsseldorf. He shot publicity photos for some of the biggest agencies there and held photography exhibitions from time to time; he was young, assiduous and had both talent and luck, so he soon made a name in the industry, while his artistic career seemed propitious as well. That's when Shaw got in touch with him.
Sebastian Shaw was the tycoon of speculation on the east coast. Up until today, Erik still wasn't sure what exactly made this rich man this rich, he only knew that he invested a lot of money into things that fancied him, and all those things brought him more money back. He invited Erik to his photography gallery in New York for a high-salaried job, and generously paid for the full rent of his studio and flat. Like he’d mentioned before, Erik was too young, too eager to prove himself. With the additional support of his mother, he didn't hesitate to leave Düsseldorf for New York.
He might have had a reputation in Germany, but in New York, he had to start from scratch: he took every job he was offered, from small pictures in catalogues of department stores to the huge exhibitions Shaw signed him on. He arranged every detail himself and worked at least twelve hours a day. Until one morning, when he opened his eyes, he saw the vibrating ceiling unreasonably being on his right and had to be careful so he wouldn’t choke to death on his own vomit. Erik struggled to reach for his phone and called an ambulance. And he finally thought, this wasn’t good.
After he’d left hospital, he hired Raven.
The girl didn’t bring any certificates or references when she applied for the job - she was even late for ten minutes. But Erik liked her outspoken nature; he wasn’t an academic anyway and on top of that hated wisenheimers, so he gave her the job.
In the second year of his life in New York, everything seemed to go so well. Erik earned himself his status and reputation. He transferred a generous amount of money back to Düsseldorf every month and still had more than enough cash left. He had a lovely assistant and a hot landlady and the gallery was prospering. Everything seemed to go so well, until his mother’s obituary reached New York.
It wasn’t unforeseen, but definitely unexpected. His mother hadn’t been healthy; Erik hired domestic servants to look after her and planned to take her to the US after his career had finally settled down. But he’d lost himself in ambition and vanity and waited until he’d forfeited his chances. When he flew back to Düsseldorf to set his mother's affairs in order, Erik realized that the money he'd transferred was hardly used, it was all deposited under his name and had swelled to a rather impressive sum.
Erik loved his mother deeply, but he didn’t collapse. There was no reason to collapse in a place he’d abandoned; he calmly conducted the funeral and accepted offers of comfort and condolence from his old friends and distant relatives. He stayed the night in his old room, sat still in the kitchen that smelled like cinnamon for the entire morning, packed his luggage, flew straight back to New York and dove into an endless loop of work. Raven's repeating advice of taking a break and having some rest was ignored completely. At first he worked during daytime and drowned himself in alcohol at night. A few weeks later, occasional headaches and trembling fingers made him realize that this unhealthy lifestyle was hindering his efficiency at work immensely. So Erik changed his schedule. Once night fell, he changed into running shoes and chased the moon down the streets of Brooklyn, until he was so exhausted he fell asleep the moment he dropped himself on his bed and dreamed of nothing.
One night - actually one morning - he ran into Raven.
Erik wasn’t wearing a watch, but the grocery store across the street run by the diligent Chinese couple was ready to open, so he assumed it was around half past five in the morning. His assistant was standing at the stairs leading to his flat in the basement, leaning against the cast iron handrails. She shrank into her down jacket and watched him running towards her. Erik stopped in front of her and regained his breath, and she didn’t say a thing. Behind her, where the street immerged in the horizon, the morning sun was rising. Her messy hair was a golden white under the sunrays.
“Good morning.” Erik felt that he should say something, so he did. Raven tilted her head and looked at him unbelievingly.
“You are a mess, Erik.” Her tone was also unbelievingly gentle. “You know that?”
Yeah, thought Erik, that’s right.
“Come here.”
Raven raised her arm and dragged Erik into an embrace. It was an unexpected and uncomfortable embrace; Erik wanted to laugh at the fact that she had to tiptoe to reach him, he wasn’t even sure if he should hug back. But before he could do either of these, a tear dropped on Raven’s coat. He watched it slide down the waterproof material, closely followed by another. Then another. And another. He felt his entire body tremble and ache for no reason, and he still wasn’t able to hug Raven. He clenched his fists tightly inside his pockets. It was alright. Raven was alright. She was here and she didn’t know what odious things Erik had done. It was alright. Erik remembered his pain from that one morning, when the sky was heeling and the world was crumbling apart, and he was about to suffocate himself with tears and snot. Meanwhile Raven was clamping him between her arms, as if he would otherwise shatter into pieces.
Maybe he would.
From that day on, Erik had lost his interest in photographing anything in particular.
But reality was cruel.
No matter what burden you were carrying, be it grief or misery or sorrow; no matter how you’ve lost your ambition and hope and were wandering through life without purpose: The bills would punctually land in your mailbox. Shaw might have paid for most of his expenses, but that wasn’t for a lifetime; Erik was living in one of the most expensive cities in the world - in fact, he had to win his bread.
Grudgingly, Raven turned down all those offers that were artistically connotated and only accepted the purely commercial ones for him. Erik was able to photograph a plate of Duck à l’Orange, whose rim had been wiped again and again, with the highest level of patience and lowest level of emotion. Even if this kind of work wasn’t exactly well-paid, and the photographer usually wasn’t given credit in the printed version. But this was perfect: This was exactly what Erik needed. Shaw had ringed him several times on that account, sometimes implying and sometimes expressing his discontentment, but Erik didn’t actually care. How bad could the situation become? The worst case scenario would be going back to Düsseldorf with nothing, and even that wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
When he strolled back to his flat, he saw Raven standing in front of the ballet classroom and talking to Emma. He muttered a curse, turned around and went back to the lush green park. His bench from before was now occupied by a tangled couple. Erik slid his hands into his pocket and sank down dispiritedly on a bench near the fountain. On the other side of the bench sat that young man in a beige coat who was feeding pigeons.
Erik gave him a once-over out of habit; he had no better thing to do anyway.
He was in his early thirties, maybe a bit younger than Erik. His worn coat was made of a rather expensive material, though it didn’t look like a designer one - it might have been tailored. Under the coat he wore a flannel shirt and a cardigan, and the watch that was visible whenever he threw bread crumbs towards the pigeons was thin as paper. In the space between him and Erik lay a thick pile of paper and a pencil. Pratt Institute wasn’t far away, so Erik deducted that this man was likely a professor. Someone who came from a wealthy family and got into Ivy League effortlessly. He probably passed his evenings by drinking whisky and smoking cigars with his even wealthier schoolfriends in various clubs, while talking about dreadful topics like how to widen the chasm between rich and poor.
Erik wanted to drop his gaze and examine his shoes when the man looked up and straight at him. A long time from now, when he recalls this day, he will find it naff, but at that exact moment, he simply thought, I’ve never seen eyes this blue.
It was natural that the professor, being unaware of the hardship of other people, had a good-tempered round face. He smiled politely at Erik, then lowered his eyes to collect his things. His movements were smooth and steady; this made Erik drop the assumption that the man wanted to leave because he’d invaded his privacy.
“Have a pleasant day,” the professor said when he stood up. His voice was light and graceful, with a heavy British accent.
Okay, so it’s not Ivy League, but Oxford or Cambridge. Erik watched him walk away and thought. He’d mistaken a lot.
The professor might simply be a nice person, and Erik a sociopath.
Erik thought maybe he really was too bored.
His schedule, if one excluded the activities of vital importance, basically consisted of hiding from his assistant, and when he failed that task, doing some work that could’ve been done by any other random person. And due to Raven’s growing aggressiveness, he fled to the small park nearby more and more often after he’d bought his breakfast.
Whenever Erik was sitting dejectedly on the bench, thinking about how he was twice Raven’s size, not to mention the one paying her salary, and why he ended up living like a homeless person who could only enjoy the sunlight in the park, the professor was always there. He was wearing his beige coat, adding a scarf when it was cold, and an umbrella when there was rain.
Erik’s regular seat was under a tree on the outer circle of the park, where he was able to see a quarter of the professor’s face. He spent long hours watching him sitting on his bench near the fountain, eating his sandwich, tearing the toast and scattering it over the hungry pigeons. The third time he encountered him, he noticed that the man had bought two portions of meal, only to make sure that every crazy pigeon got its share of food.
Here in New York, normal people would simply walk up to the professor, say ‘hi’ and talk about the weather. Then they would ask questions about whatever interested them. Unfortunately, Erik wasn’t one of those people. He spat at himself and brought his camera from work, and studied every detail on that man through viewfinder and zoom: He often had a pile of paper at his hand, sometimes a book but he seldom read it; his coffee cup is from Juno Restaurant a few blocks away, maybe he lived around there; he had freckles across his pale nose, and his lips were always a freezing red. Erik thought that except for his beautiful eyes, this was a rather ordinary man.
He didn’t even know why he kept staring at him.
Extremely rarely, the professor would notice him - maybe he was drawn by the intensive and frequent gaze, maybe he wasn’t - anyways he would turn towards Erik and nod and smile. Every time he did so, Erik felt a powerful urge to go and talk to him, or pressing the shutter release under his trembling fingers, but after all he never did. He tried to recall the last time he was so eager to photograph something, he also tried to recall the last time he hesitated this long before he pressed the shutter. The memory was either too distant or frankly non-existent.
One morning, Erik was devouring a baguette and thinking about stealing the pigeon’s attention with it so the professor who was sitting under the sun as always would enrich him with his blue gaze from the distance; Erik had contemplated for a while now about which angle of lighting would make his iris gain a translucent brightness on paper. Just when he was lost in his thoughts, he saw a policewoman entering the park out of the corner of his eye. She looked around and her eyes rested on the professor, then she started walking towards him.
Erik was startled at once, he stood up and hurried to the fountain, when he neared the bench the professor happened to look up and surprise spread across his face due to the sudden proximity. Erik snatched the remaining half of the smoked bacon sandwich from his hands and tucked it into his pocket.
“Excuse me?” The professor said in surprise.
“Police, you’re feeding pi-” Erik had started to explain just when the policewoman came to them.
It’s no use, Erik thought and tried to confront the cop’s scanning eyes by acting as if nothing had happened, she’d definitely seen it.
“Hi, Moira.”
Beside him, a suppressed laugh escaped the professor’s voice. Erik looked down and saw him leaning against the back of the bench and looking at the cop. He kept his elbow on the armrest, while his palm was covering his lips that were pulled into an excessive curve. Oh shit. The sandwich in Erik’s pocket became burning hot, and the temperature rose the whole way to his cheeks.
“I happened to pass by.” The policewoman’s curious gaze still remained on Erik’s face. “Friend of yours?”
“Oh yes, goody-goody.”
The professor chuckled and winked briskly at Erik. “Erik.” Erik stretched out his hand apathetically towards the cop.
“I just came to say hello.” Moira gave Erik a sturdy handshake. “Nice to meet you, Erik.”
The professor also shook her hand familiarly before he watched her leave. Erik took out the sandwich from his pocket.
“I’m sorry. I thought - I mean - I’ve seen in the news that someone wanted to prohibit the feeding of pigeons by legislation,” Erik explained embarrassed. The professor took the sandwich from his hand. He tilted his head and looked up at Erik, his blue eyes twinkling while he smiled. It’s this exact angle, Erik thought, like a skylight welcoming the sunshine. Perfection.
“I truly hope they won’t take this little happiness from me and these poor birds,” the professor said happily. He gave Erik his hand, “Sorry, how rude of me. Charles.”
Charles. Of course it’s Charles. What else could it be?
“Erik. But you already know it,” said Erik and Charles laughed again. His palm was soft and warm. “I shouldn’t bother you.”
“Oh, you’re not bothering me at all! Please, take a seat - Good Lord, you look a lot taller when you’re standing,” Charles shifted and made him some space. “I got to know more about my rescuer.”
Erik frowned and smiled. He wasn’t sure if this was going in the best direction.
“Has anyone told you that you’re quite pushy?” He joked. Charles grinned, tore the rest of the sandwich into pieces and threw it towards the birds.
“Do you live nearby?” Charles asked. Erik nodded.
“Across the street, not far away. And you?”
“Recently yes, out of certain sorrowful reasons, I’m staying in a hotel nearby,” Charles smiled, “but I like it here, it is much more vibrant than where I live.”
“Don’t leave the hotel at night. You don’t want to see the people here being vibrant because of your wallet.”
Charles was laughing again; it made him look witty and childish at once. He seemed as if he could blurt out a stupid but adorable question at any time, but also solve an abstruse question about the origin of the universe. Being like this, he definitely took to campus life like a duck to water.
“Are you a professor?” Charles looked at him surprised, so Erik thought he might have crossed the line of privacy and added, “I mean, like, teaching at a university. You look like a professor.”
“Oh no, my friend, I’m a writer,” he answered, carelessly calling a person he’d known for less than five minutes ‘my friend’. “I’m staying in a hotel because of the nearing deadlines. My editor is a monster.”
That explained the paper and the pen. Feeling a certain kinship to him as a fellow sufferer, Erik’s interest was awakened, and he asked him politely about the genre he’s writing. Charles shrugged and told him - in an either modest or perfunctory manner - that it was all mediocre stuff. Then he grinned and said that even if he was shot in the arse, he still wouldn’t tell him his penname.
“What do you do for a living?” Charles asked back, then lifted his hand to stop him from answering. “Wait, I can guess.”
He leaned nearer and lowered his voice mysteriously.
“You are an assassin.”
It took Erik a few seconds to realize that this was a joke. Meanwhile Charles started laughing in delight with his loveable voice.
“How come? Because I’m German?”
“I don’t believe in stereotypes.” Charles put on a serious visage. “You look like a killer. Keeping a grave face, walking around with an uncanny camera in a park where there are only elders and dogs… You’ve never taken any real photos, now have you?”
Erik looked at him, not knowing whether he should feel upset or bemused. If he really was following targets with this device, then Charles would certainly be the first one to welter in his own blood.
“So you think someone has paid a high price for me to come here and kill elders and dogs?”
“Who knows? I’ve heard that Mr. Hudson has made many enemies while playing croquet,” Charles lifted his chin towards the lawn on the other end of the park, “they think he pretends to have a rheumatic disease to lower his opponents’ guard, only in order to steal all their pension.”
This made Erik laugh. A brief ringtone shrilled on Charles’ side, he paused perplexed for a couple of seconds before he fished his phone from his pocket. He opened it clumsily and muttered that he never got used to these electronic gizmos.
“I have to go. It was nice to meet you, Erik.” He collected his paper and pen, stood up reluctantly and shook Erik’s hand again. “Try not to kill anyone when I’m away, alright?”
“I can’t promise that,” said Erik coldly. Charles laughed genuinely and wished him a pleasant day before he left, just like the first time they talked.
The winter sun was dazzling. Erik stayed on the bench for some time and rubbed his hands to regain some warmth in his fingertips that were freezing cold because of his groundless nervousness and clumsy jesting. Later he went to the tiny book store near his flat; except for Dickens and other deceased authors, he’d found twelve Charles. Two of them writing romance, two writing thrillers, two writing about finance, three about health care, one was writing biographies, another about religion, and one was writing recipes. But on the photos in the author’s bio, there hadn’t been a single one who was his Charles.
The next day when Erik arrived at the park, his - he really should stop using this term - he meant, Charles was sitting on his usual spot again and waved at him happily.
“I’ve brought you jam-filled hand pies,” Charles added a paper bag to the freshly bought breakfast on Erik’s lap. “They’re usually sold out after ten o’clock. Luckily, I got up quite early today.”
“That’s kind of you.”
Charles watched Erik examine the jam-filled hand pies with an eager interest. He opened and closed his mouth, but didn’t say anything. For someone of his profession, it was probably the same feeling as standing in front of a wall full of ancient books and not knowing where to start.
“What’s in your paper bag?” Charles finally asked curiously. “A Beretta 92?”
“Only a beef sandwich,” Erik opened his bag for him to see, “but I can still kill something with it, if necessary.”
Charles laughed and together they split the sandwich to feed the pigeons. The jam-filled hand pie was delicious.
“How is your book going?” Erik asked.
“Very slowly,” Charles responded in a sad tone, “in fact, I was hoping maybe you could help me.”
“Me?”
“I am a lazy author. I tend to use my surroundings as inspiration.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
“It depends on the perspective.” Charles chuckled. “A few years ago, I wrote about the affair of a distant relative of mine. You know, these people would gather around after dinner to smoke cigars and drink brandy, as well as to boast about the investments they’ve made and the women they’ve fucked.”
“I can imagine.” Erik was amused by Charles’ choice of words that didn’t suit his appearance at all. Charles shrugged.
“Anyway, I described their sex life in such vivid details, I received a letter from his lawyer right after the book was published. Although they decided not to sue me in the end, you can think of how splendid our relationship has been ever since.”
“It did more harm than good, then.”
“Well, it did earn me a place in the Amazon Best Sellers Rank.”
They both burst into laughter. The elders on the meadow stopped their mallets and looked at them. “Sorry, Mr. Hudson!” Erik raised a hand and shouted. That sent Charles giggling again. Erik noticed that it was fairly easy to make him laugh; he also noticed that unutterably, he was happy to do so.
“Oh shush, it’s your fault if I end up with indigestion,” Charles coughed, “tell me about you, Erik.”
“How I survived in an institution run by terrorists by beating 30 kids that grew up with me and became their only human weapon?” Erik put on a serious visage. “I won’t give you information about my life for nothing.”
Charles gave Erik a feeble hit on the shoulder with his fist.
“No, I’m serious, Erik,” he laughed. “Why did you come here? What do you do?”
Erik had to force himself to blink with an unduly effort to take Charles’ ‘why did you come here’ as an innocent and well-meant question. Especially when it indeed was an innocent and well-meant question.
He’d asked himself why he was here, in this country, in this predicament from which he struggled but failed to escape. He’d asked himself so many times he’d lost hope in finding an answer.
“I’m a photographer.”
Charles’ face lit up when he heard that.
“Really? What do you photograph?”
He wanted to say ‘mediocre things’ so Charles would twinkle his blue eyes in a chuckle again, but the latter’s gleeful and earnest expression made him change his mind.
“Various things. Recently it’s mostly food.”
Since even Erik himself thought that the truth was humiliating and meagre to speak out, he was expecting Charles to lose his curiosity or even show disappointment. But he didn’t - maybe because of his well upbringing, or maybe he really was interested in this.
“You like to photograph food?”
There he goes. Using his posh accent and intelligent brain to ask adorable, stupid questions - it’s like asking some worker in a port if his hobby was to drive a forklift.
“I’m good at it, at least,” Erik smiled at himself mockingly. He lowered his sight and tried to fold the paper bag again and again, “I mean, photography isn’t about retaining the special moments, it’s about making moments special by retaining them. Everybody smiles at the camera to show their best side, so we only have to appreciate without agitating it.”
Erik waited for a response for a long time, so he lifted his gaze from the paper bag. Charles was regarding him with an enigmatic visage that was close to a faint smile.
“A very special theory, Erik. A bit eccentric, but very special,” he commented gently.
“And you?” Erik felt embarrassed, so he retorted. “Do your like writing?”
Charles cocked his head, perplexed.
“Yes, maybe. Many things become less simple if you think too much about it,” he replied, “no one can keep me from writing, not even myself, so I’d say I probably like it.”
They were silent for a moment. Charles was throwing bread crumbs with a smile on his face. Erik looked at his skin that only gained a healthy color under the sunlight, and his blue eyes that were tinged with a grassy green.
“Why do you come to this park every day, Charles?”
“I’m trying to find inspiration.”
Erik looked at the empty papers at his hand.
“Have you found it, then?”
Charles turned his head towards him, resting his elbow on his legs with his face on the palm, and smiled idly.
“No,” he said in a whisper. His voice shouldn’t have changed at all, but it sounded extremely slow and soft to Erik’s ears. “But I’ve found you.”
Erik should’ve queried if he was trying to flirt, or made fun of this line, but he didn’t. He instead closed his eyes and opened them again. Charles turned motionless in his gaze, forming a picture of either perfect balance or imbalanced perfection. His curly hair fell on his brows, hiding the faint wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. If he so desired, Erik was even able to count the tiny freckles on his cheeks.
Oh God, please don’t be like that, Erik thought and struggled to move his fingers that were frozen along with his throbbing heart. Please, he is only an ordinary man with beautiful eyes.
And he panicked and fell in love.
The problem was that Erik couldn’t simply ask his…his new friend Charles if he wanted to join him for a maybe-not-so-innocent dinner. He’d never had a romantic relationship with another man - for God’s sake, this idea had never even crossed his mind. He didn’t know how to show his affection towards a guy, and couldn’t be certain what reaction was going to await him. By which he meant: What were the odds that you meet an unlovable man in a park, and then - either fortunately or unfortunately - discover that he was also gay?
Usually Erik wasn’t a coward, but the problem was, he’d never had a very good friend, or someone who made butterflies flutter his stomach. Unfortunately, Charles was both to him. And this made the situation very tricky.
A sudden shriek and the sound of something falling then startled Erik, his elbow quivered and hit the fixer next to him. He grabbed for it in a flurry and managed to catch the bottle seconds before it fell over.
When Erik came out of his primitive darkroom angrily, Raven was crouching at the sofa and sorting a pile of books.
“Books should be on the shelf, not on the floor.” She vented on Erik.
“And you should knock, not barge in.”
Raven kicked her slim leg backwards. There was a loud thump when her sharp heel hit the middle of the door.
“As you wish, boss,” she said sweetly and grabbed a book on the top before falling into the sofa in a graceless manner. “Now you may hand over the photos so I can do the rest of the work for my incompetent employer.”
Erik had learned to ignore her rudeness the first month he hired her, because otherwise it would only lead to even nastier situations.
“Do you think those are mediocre books?” He tilted his chin towards the pile of books.
“It depends,” answered Raven indifferently. She turned another page of the recipe in her hands. “If your biggest wish is to make a banana muffin in ten minutes, I guess it’s pretty useful. Why?”
“I’ve met someone.”
Raven raised her eyes in an inhuman speed.
“And?”
“It’s not what you think. It’s a guy.” Erik explained dryly.
“Finally!” Raven shouted towards the ceiling. “You’re finally admitting it!”
“Admitting what? You thought I was gay?” He raised his voice unbelievingly. “Why?!”
“You wore a purple turtleneck to work, Erik. Do you know how long the male stylists of Vogue were talking about you like crazy?”
“I was dating the cover girl, Raven, not the stylists.” Erik pointed out. Raven shrugged.
“Well that didn’t work out, now did it?” She winked at him.
“It didn’t work out because I couldn’t stand eating half a grapefruit for breakfast every day… Why am I even discussing this with you?” Erik shouted. He let himself fall into his chair and clicked his mouse agitatedly.
“Nobody cares about the models, tell me about this guy,” Raven’s voice rose from behind the recipe book. “Hey, Erik, come on. I promise not to laugh.”
He wasn’t sure if hesitating now would make him seem gay, but Erik indeed wanted to talk to someone about it. If he had a choice, he would have preferred someone like Charles, who didn’t know him as well, but unfortunately Charles was the subject of the talk, so Raven was his only option. And that was pathetic.
“He’s an author,” Erik hesitated and said. He found this whole story including himself rather stupid. “He told me he writes about mediocre stuff. I don’t know his penname, so I’m just searching randomly…”
“Really? Have you tried Stephenie Meyer?”
“No,” Erik thought he might’ve missed the joke and asked dubiously. “Should I?”
“Yes,” Raven answered earnestly. “You like him.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to say.”
“But you like him.”
Erik gave up. He turned his gaze towards his computer.
“You know I didn’t hire you to annoy me.”
“Yeah, you hired me because I’m the only person in the world who dares to kick you in the ass,” said Raven when she sat up from the sofa and glared at Erik. “I need those photos, Erik, tell me you’ve finished.”
“I can give you the entire world, except for those photos.”
“Fuck your entire world,” Raven was in such a fret she’d lost her humor. “You know Shaw will kill me.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Yes, he will,” said Raven fiercely. “He’s a member of the National Rifle Association, for God’s sake! You hired me so you don’t have to deal with him!”
Erik waved his hand next to his ear to signalize his temporary loss of hearing and interest. Raven stood up and grubbed for something in her bag that was big enough to carry a dismembered corpse. She then walked towards his desk and smashed The New Yorker on it.
“Have you read this magazine, Erik? You know what they say about you?” Raven ripped the page open with a brutal force. “See? ‘A Rising New Star’. You’re ‘rising’, not up there already. Shaw will shoot you down with his rifle.”
“I'm fine with my life now,” said Erik without looking at her, “taking simple offers like shooting photos for gourmet magazines -”
“Yeah, as if it's your greatest passion to shoot a plate of chocolate brownie from various angles.” Raven wrinkled her nose. “How can you easily give up your success, Erik?”
Erik glanced at the magazine with lacking interest. He was looking at a photo of himself, in which he was wearing a neat casual suit and sitting on a high chair, looking vigorously into the camera. This was only a few months ago. Erik could clearly remember how Alex Summers, a young photographer in his studio, had taken this picture. The boy came to New York from Sacramento only to become a member of his studio; he was headstrong and obstinate and often got into quarrels with clients because of that. But Erik kept him on, because Alex was assiduous and extremely talented.
‘Nobody can whet your talent, because it is inherent. But society will eventually cut your edges’ was what he told Alex, for Erik himself had made the exact same journey.
“Look at him,” Erik murmured, pulling the corners of his lips into a smile, “like a proud rooster.”
Raven looked at the page he was viewing and frowned. Her pink lip-glossed lips parted and closed again.
“You know what, never mind.” His assistant lifted her hands. “You know that Shaw is planning a photography exhibition; you know what kind of people will be attending; you know what you have to provide. You know everything you need to know. Just think about it yourself, I'll get to you a few days later.”
She walked the whole way into the kitchen; Erik heard the chinks of the beer bottles when the door of the fridge was opened. Then Raven returned, put the almost frozen phone on the desk and raised one finger at him warningly.
“Stop putting your phone in the fridge.”
She rushed out just like the way she came. Erik listened to her footsteps climbing up the stairs, then vanishing in the clamor of the streets. He pulled the magazine close, leaned back and skimmed the pages. Seconds later he rolled it up and threw it across the room; the pages opened their wings like birds in the air, and landed on the sofa with an unexpected grace and lightness.
He remembered Charles' pigeons. And overwhelmingly, he remembered his blithe, soft voice and his eyes that were so blue they could melt every second. Erik buried his face into his palms and groaned.
Soon came Raven’s revenge.
She’d gotten Erik a real big project: a consortium had imported a luxury restaurant chain from Europe and was going to open five branches in North America before spring. And Erik’s studio was responsible for everything from brand image to plating to magazine commercials.
Their correspondent at the consortium was a young man named Sean, who was in fact way too young to be in this position; he definitely got the job over other more experienced colleagues because his father was a member of the board. But Erik didn’t dislike this young PR manager; except for his habit of asking for Erik’s opinion on every detail and his insistence on the full member attendance to every photoshoot as well as all (in Erik’s eyes) irrelevant meetings, Sean was a fairly nice guy. Though he seemed to be walking on thin ice, because every time there was a delayal in the schedule, he would look so scared as if he’d pee himself in the pants and mutter ‘God I hope I won’t mess this up’, which always made Raven snicker secretly.
Under normal circumstances, given that this was a job that would enhance both his bank account and reputation, Erik should have thanked or rewarded his proficient assistant. But the third time he was woken by the ringing of his phone and noticed that it wasn’t even seven in the morning, and on the other end of the line there again was Sean’s unnervingly placid voice asking about the color scheme and new ideas for commercials, it all became a nightmare.
Erik wanted to shout and scream and hang up the phone, but he really couldn’t do that. He had to tell himself that the payment was enough for him to sleep on it for a year; only then he had the patience to veto down all of Sean’s stupid ideas.
Every morning he was forced to enter his office at 8 o’clock. Raven would stand up from her seat and hand him a warm coffee. She would also press the accept button on her Bluetooth earphones before Erik could let out his entire anger on her and point at the full meeting room, as if none of this was her doing, showing him her I-am-the-best-assistant-in-the-world face innocently.
Maybe she really was. After all this was actually his dream job: a busy schedule, prescribed aesthetic standards and a generous honorarium. Erik would’ve thanked Raven, if this job didn’t make him unable to go to the park for five days in a row.
Erik had tried going to the park at different times, sometimes at night after a long working day, sometimes at lunch break although he had to drive 40 minutes from his office to get there. But Charles was never there. He seemed to only show up in the morning, just like a goddamn petunia. He sometimes went to photoshoots in restaurants in downtown New York, and when he was zooming in those tiny dishes that costed a fortune, he always thought what if he’d met Charles here and now, his elegant and graceful Charles, who would fit perfectly in a place like this: What would he say to him with an avid smile? He would tell him unostentatiously which wine he recommended and which dish he unsold. He would deride swanky people, stories and things through whispers at his ear, and ask Erik whether he wanted to go for a walk on the streets of New York. He thought it would definitely be like that.
This made him notice that even though they were living in the same district, he’d never seen Charles outside the park.
Erik eventually ran out of patience and decided to skip his morning conference one day. Before he was ready to leave, he hesitated a moment in front of the fridge with his phone in hand. Raven’s warning voice was still echoing in his mind, so he only muted the phone and slid it into his pocket. He went to the park with a bag of pretzels he bought at the peddler’s on his street.
Charles was there, as always. Due to the sudden lukewarm temperature, his beige coat was nowhere to be seen, and he looked slim and agile.
A flock of pigeons gathered at his feet. Charles was looking down, but he obviously wasn’t paying attention to the birds. Erik knew that because some of the pigeons were on their best way poking holes into his trousers. He went forward to shush those ungrateful creatures away. His shadow blocked the sunlight Charles was enjoying the whole time, so the latter raised his face confused. Before Erik could gulp out a better greeting than ‘hi’, Charles’ bemused face broke into a wide smile, just like a goddamn petunia.
“Erik,” he said softly, sounding both surprised and delighted, “I thought I've lost you.”
Erik kept this angle to look at Charles. He was staring back at Erik and thereby at the sun; his eyelashes were trembling under the piercing light and his eyes a nearly translucent color. Erik tilted his head and smiled.
“You’re not real, are you?” Erik said unsure and half-jokingly. “I’ve never seen you elsewhere.”
Charles cracked a smile and made room for Erik to sit down.
“This is New York, my friend. You might not encounter a single familiar face even if you wander the streets for an entire month.”
Erik agreed and put the paper bag on Charles’ lap, just like the latter had done before. The savory smell of salt and pepper escaped the bag before Charles’ had even opened it. Erik felt chagrined when he realized that something as rich might not have been the best choice for breakfast. But Charles didn’t seem to care, he took out one pretzel gleefully and sprinkled his hands with grains of salt.
“Thank you. I’ve lived here for all these years, but I’ve never tried one of these, can you believe that?” Charles said in wonder. “Aren’t you hot?”
“What?”
“It’s a sunny day, the highest temperatures are 69 degrees, and you’re wearing a turtleneck.”
Erik nodded in embarrassment and muttered that it was alright. They chatted about the abnormal weather and shared a huge pretzel. Then Charles suddenly smiled and waved, and when Erik looked at that direction, he saw Moira passing by the streets outside the park and smiling and nodding back at them.
Erik thought this was a good opportunity.
“Are you two…” He asked hesitantly. Charles turned, saw his expression and chuckled.
“Oh, no. That was a long time ago.” Charles whisked the salt grains off his trousers with a handkerchief. “We tried, but it didn’t work out.”
“May I ask what happened?”
“Of course. But to be honest, I don’t really know either.” It was the first time an expression close to embarrassment was showing on Charles’ face. “It may sound stupid, but I’m rather bad at it - at keeping long-term relationships, I mean. We had huge rows; I can’t even remember wherefore.”
“But you’re still friends.”
“It makes us both a lot more comfortable,” Charles smiled as he corrected himself, “I mean it makes me a lot more comfortable when a woman who can both legally hold and fire a gun is a friend and not a girlfriend who hates my guts.”
Erik laughed dryly. He told himself that this was still some good news; after all, Charles wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and that charming policewoman wasn’t his girlfriend. Still he hadn’t found an answer to the most fundamental question.
“I guess I’m the person who loves me most in the world,” Charles said and then frowned slightly. “Is it a bee or your phone?”
Erik shook his head, indicating that he should ignore it. That strong vibration in his pocket had already made his leg go numb ten minutes ago.
“Maybe it’s something urgent.”
Charles lifted his chin, so Erik had no choice but taking out his phone. It showed twelve unreceived calls, all from his studio. Just when Erik decided to ignore it and put his phone back in his pocket, a text message arrived. It simply read: ‘Shaw is here, roll your ass and’
Raven couldn’t even finish one foul sentence, so it probably was urgent.
Erik gritted his teeth and apologized to Charles. Silently he cursed his boss in the nastiest ways in every language he knew and hated that he couldn’t cut himself in half or put Charles in his pocket. Charles just smiled and shrugged understandingly.
“I know it’s urgent. Go.”
Erik stood up and felt like the terrible husband who had to leave his considerate wife alone due to unscheduled work coming up at midnight. The fact that he couldn’t kiss Charles goodbye made it even worse.
He returned after a few steps. Charles raised his head.
“Tell me about you.”
Charles looked surprised.
“What do you want to know?” He asked gently, placating Erik’s haste and impatience.
“Everything.”
He watched how Charles’ gaze shifted from mirthful to bewildered and cloudy, like he was trying to solve a myth but wasn’t sure what would happen afterwards. He watched how Charles’ lips parted and closed, like he wanted to smile but the smile hesitantly froze at the corners of his mouth.
Shit, he’d jumped the gun. He’d made Charles misunderstand, even if there was nothing to misunderstand.
“Just one thing,” added Erik anxiously, “tell me one thing about you.”
Charles’ lips parted and closed a few times yet.
“……I can drink a whole Yard of Ale in 30 seconds.”
Erik raised his eyebrows. Charles buried his face in his palms and groaned.
“Oh God, I don’t know why I told you that,” his voice was full of remorse. The part of his face that wasn’t covered by his hands was a bright red. “May we start once more? I’ll tell you my favorite book.”
Erik burst into laughter. He couldn’t even remember how many times he’d laughed like this after he’d come to New York, but it occurred almost too often these couple of days.
“It’s not as simple as you think,” grumbled Charles in his defense.
“Of course,” Erik struggled to stop his laughter. He frowned and looked at his miraculous Charles, “I have to go.”
Charles tilted his head and looked back at him. He bumped the back of Erik’s hand softly with his fist.
“Hey,” he said, “have a pleasant day, Erik. Promise me.”
Charles tone was disconcertingly sincere, but Erik didn’t promise him. He only responded quietly in wishing him the same.
Later, when he entered the studio, before Raven could have said anything, Erik took off his purple turtleneck that had made him sweat the whole time and threw it into the garbage in front of her eyes; he then ordered his assistant to buy him a new shirt.
“I hate you,” said Raven spitefully when she snatched the credit card from his hand, “and I hate your stupid purple turtleneck. Why on earth are you still wearing it? To impact your sexuality to the world?”
Erik would never tell her that all he wanted to do was an experiment, while the outcome was all but promising; he simply pushed open the door to the conference room heroically, wearing an undershirt, and went to meet the richest bastard he’d ever encountered in his life.
Sebastian Shaw sat on the seat of honor like a king; that usually was Erik’s seat, but he didn’t really care. What he did care about was that Shaw was holding an overflowing glass of wine - it was nine o’clock in the morning.
Shaw had never been someone easy to deal with. He was autocratic and verbose, enjoyed his life in an extravagant and unceremonious manner, and, on top of that, was a narcissistic control freak. All these characteristics were only aggravated by the intake of alcohol; that’s probably why Raven was calling for help.
“Erik!” Shaw leaned into his chair and spread his arms, a proud and content smile showing on his face.
Erik chose to sit down on a seat a bit more far away from him, and shot the secretary who was wearing a snowy suit and standing behind Shaw a condemning look. He didn’t know that man’s real name; he’d only heard Shaw calling him by the strange name ‘Riptide’. Raven once told him that’s because this guy was able to get Shaw a cup of freshly made Civet Coffee during a F5 tornado out of the evacuated ruins of a town. Even if that task seemed impossible, Erik couldn’t query the veracity of that rumor, because it sounded exactly like something Shaw would command his secretary to do.
Riptide only returned a cold and somehow self-pitying gaze, and put an empty glass on the table; he then poured in a clearly too large amount of wine from the bottle in his hand. The bouquet made the air in the conference room smell of indolence and dissipation; Erik knew that Shaw was now going to boast of that bottle of wine which only he was able to enjoy, just because he had a huge goddamn vineyard in southern France.
“What brought you here?” He took the initiative to cut off any words coming out of Shaw’s mouth, and pushed the goblet out of the reach of his nose.
“I do have to know where my money is flowing,” Shaw pursed his lips and frowned.
Just then the glass doors to the conference room were pushed open, Raven walked in and put a plastic bag on the desk. She rolled her eyes at Erik in an angle only he was able to see, then turned around and asked Shaw whether he needed anything else, smiling all over her face.
“Oh, take it easy and sit down, sweetheart,” Shaw pulled out the chair next to him gallantly. Erik tossed his head viciously at his assistant, telling her to get out.
“You have to learn to have fun, Erik,” Shaw’s regretful gaze followed Raven until she disappeared at the end of the corridor. “Oh dear, I should get myself an assistant like that, too.”
Riptide’s expression was still blunt, for he didn’t seem to be jolted at all. Erik thought it was probably like the movie Raven had watched a million times: if you were able to survive a year under this man, and meet his request of a plane that can take off in a storm and an unpublished new Harry Potter book, then you can survive in every company in the world.
“No matter how all-mighty you are out there, once you’re home, a woman can still crush you in no time,” Shaw lamented as if in a Shakespearean drama, “you know, there was a woman, the most beautiful I’ve seen in my life…”
“I really have to go back to work, Shaw,” said Erik damply. Shaw didn’t show any displeasure; Erik thought that this might be the quality of his superior that was the most worthy of approval - though it was also the only one: He respected hardworking people, and would give you a free hand in your work, only because he was complacent enough to believe that you both wanted the same thing.
“Alright,” Shaw stood up and buttoned up his suit jacket elegantly. “I know you wouldn’t disappoint me, Erik. And I was delighted to hear from your lovely assistant that the photoshoots for the exhibition are going smoothly.”
Erik had no idea what he was talking about, but he was smart enough not to ask.
“You know how those assholes from Manhattan see me. They think I’m a tasteless parvenu. I shall have you prove them wrong,” Shaw grasped Erik’s shoulder and bared his teeth in a grin. “But hey, don’t feel any pressure, okay?”
After Shaw had left, Erik shot towards Raven’s desk like a fireball and fumed at her.
“Why did you tell him the photoshoots are going smoothly?”
Raven looked positively surprised and didn’t back off the slightest.
“What should I have told him? He was complaining that you haven’t been in form these days, and hinted rather obviously that he was in charge for your employment visa - well I can’t just sit back and watch you being repatriated to Germany, now can I?”
Erik’s rage rose to the peak because of her words. The reason in him knew that he himself was causing the problems, not Raven and not even Shaw - they were only doing their job; but on the other hand the destructive thought hit Erik that he didn’t care whether it was New York or Düsseldorf, he thought about his works, all the vanity and pride he fought strenuously for, he thought about his foggy future and his mother. Erik only wanted to smash something, preferably something that might cut him and make him bleed all over the ground.
“I don’t care! Who told you that I cared?”
Just then Alex walked into the room, carrying a few bags of equipment, and was startled by Erik’s growls. He stopped and looked at them puzzled.
“It everything alright?” He asked. But Raven and Erik were busy glaring at each other and didn’t pay him attention.
“You don’t care? If you’re gone, I’ll lose my job! Alright, I can find a new job, but how about Alex?” Raven dragged the blonde man into this. “You’re a horrible boss, but probably the only person in New York who’s willing to hire him!”
“You’re leaving?!”
Alex exclaimed. Erik was perturbed by both of them.
“I don’t owe you anything!” He bellowed.
“You don’t owe anybody anything!” Raven shouted back. “God! Erik! You’ve once been sleeping less than three hours a day, drinking coffee till you had gastric perforation, you’ve even been shooting stupid photos for those gossip columns, and for what? For you to waste your talent like you’re now?”
Just when Erik wanted to respond with some irrational coarse words, he saw that there was an astonishing amount of tears running out of Raven’s swollen eyes. She wiped them off brutally with the back of her hand, and smashed her way into the lady’s toilet, knocking over several things. Before Erik could’ve recovered from his shock, Alex walked near to lift an overturned tub of foliage plant, then looked at him helplessly.
“Boss, that was not cool.”
Erik’s anger had now washed off, leaving him only with dreariness and bewilderment.
“Back to work, Alex.”
Alex complied tactfully. Erik returned to his office; he continued with his work halfheartedly while paying attention to the toilet. But Raven didn’t come out, and since she was the only female in the studio, Erik couldn’t ask anybody to see to her. He went to the supermarket during lunchtime, and coincidentally saw the salad box that Raven liked, the one which Erik and Alex mockingly called pseudo-organic rabbit food; But the emphasis was Raven’s favor, and Erik was a bastard who’d made a woman cry, so even if it priced nine dollars, he still bought it.
Back to his studio, he dishonorably held the salad box and knocked at the lady’s toilet’s door for quite a long time without getting any response. Just when his embarrassment was on its way turning into a second wave of anger, Alex stuck out his head from behind his desk and told him that Raven had left ten minutes ago.
Erik rushed to check his assistant’s seat; except for her missing bag, all her unnecessary accessories on her desk and the cosmetics in the drawer were still there. This made him recover from the anxiety of Raven not coming back.
After he’d finished his schedule, Erik left the salad box inside the fridge in his studio and drove home. He went around his flat a few times and finally found a free parking space. Since it was in front of the small bookstore he sometimes visited, he decided to go inside.
The guy at the counter was that shy young man he’d met a few times; he wore an old-fashioned pair of horn-rimmed glasses that suited him surprisingly well, and he smiled a timid and friendly smile at Erik as he walked in. His nameplate read ‘Hank’. Erik walked straight to the back of the store and scanned through the bookshelves. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the young man, Hank, was leisurely doing some dispensable work near him, but from time to time he eyed to Erik with curiosity and hesitation. Meanwhile Erik had found another Charles between the shelfs: How to smile with your liver.
“Are you looking for a book?” Thank God he ventured to speak up before Erik couldn’t stand it anymore. “Mr. Lehnsherr?”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Erik looked at him surprised. Hank smiled nervously.
“Emma sometimes buys some novels here. She talked a bit about you. I - I suppose I’m a reader of yours.”
He took a few steps back and pulled out a weighty hardcover book from the top of a shelf, then handed it to Erik full of hope. Erik recognized it as his photography collection from a few years ago. He had still been in Düsseldorf back then, and ambitiously photographed a series of statues on the streets, using the light of different daytimes to paint vivid expressions on their broken faces.
“You also take photos?”
“Oh, no,” Hank smiled as he pushed up his sliding glasses. “I know nothing about it, but I appreciate beautiful things.”
Erik nodded, he didn’t feel like responding anything, but Hank seemingly didn’t want to walk away yet either.
“Are you looking for something specific? We have a computer at the counter.”
“No, I’m just -” Erik paused, looking for my Charles, “actually, yes. Do you have Stephenie Meyer?”
Hank’s lips clearly twitched; Erik didn’t know what that meant, but it probably wasn’t good.
“Good choice,” Hank responded weakly, as if Erik had just chosen a bottle of good wine in a Michelin restaurant. “She’s one of the best-selling authors here. Does your girlfriend want to read her books?”
“No, my assistant suggested me to read it,” said Erik suspiciously. He followed him to the best-seller section, and was surprised when Hank pointed at the grand reservoir of the same book series on the shelf. “Hell, is it a very long story?”
“Too long,” answered Hank.
In the end Erik bought the ‘Twilight’ tetralogy and ‘How to smile with your liver’, and signed on Hank’s apron under his request.
The next morning Erik received an e-mail from Raven. She requested an indefinite time off in a polite but unyielding way, and all attempted phone calls ended up in her mail box, as if she was determined to make sure that Erik realized the graveness of the matter. Erik, in his rage, answered with a mail solely consisting of the word ‘Whatever’; he told himself that he could do his work without Raven, just like he did before he met her, and that it was no big deal. But evidently the problem lied in their expanding business, and in the fact that Raven had told all their customers that she was getting a time off, before she got her time off, while handing over Erik’s contact information; so for a couple days in a row, Erik and Alex found themselves in a serious lack of personnel accompanied by the continuous shrieking of the phone.
Alex pleaded him to make up with Raven, but Erik didn’t want to swallow his pride. He knew that he did wrong, but at the same time stubbornly thought that he’d been spoiling his employees, so that they believed they could do whatever they wanted without getting sacked.
On that Tuesday a week after Raven had left, when Erik finished his work at 10:30 pm and went out the building with Sean, he was surprised to find at least one inch of snow covering the ground. Snow was still soundly drifting down the sky that was colored a reddish black from the lights of the city.
“Damn this weather,” complained Sean as he put on his gloves, “that’s why I’m vegetarian, the earth is dying, you see, I’ve just put away my duvet, and now it’s been snowing all day.”
Erik wished him good night and decided not to drive his car in a weather like this; he took the subway and read ‘How to smile with your liver’ on his way home. Of course he chose to read this book first - at least he had a liver, and Raven never mentioned that the other book series was about some fictitious alien romance. When he left the warm carriage and walked towards the escalator that was exposed in the freezing air, he felt so cold his nose could’ve bled from breathing alone. Crossing the park was the shortest route, so he gasped for air through his mouth and hurried towards his flat on the other side. The heavy mist faded into the snow, and the park was quiet as a grave.
When Erik passed by the bench under the tree, the one he used to sit on, he subconsciously looked towards the fountain. By doing that he immediately stopped, for to his surprise he saw Charles sitting on his regular seat. This was at night, he had to remind himself, Charles never appeared at night - at least he never encountered him, especially not on a hell of a cold day like this. Charles was wearing his beige coat, hands in his pockets, and was gazing up at something whilst leaning back; Erik moved close silently, trying to reach his side without startling him.
The streetlight was pale and bright, snow was scattered all over his body and instantly welted away between his hair and on his coat. Erik then realized that Charles wasn’t actually looking at anything; he was keeping his eyes shut and smiling faintly, seemingly not at all disturbed by the cold weather. Erik lifted his hand amused and wiped his damp face. Charles was surprised theatrically, jumped up from the bench and turned his head in a flurry.
“Oh Erik!” Charles uttered a low cry. “You’ve startled me.”
“I’ve told you not to leave the hotel at night. It’s goddamn cold and nobody’s around, what are you doing here?”
Since Charles had already stood up, he didn’t sit back down on the bench. It was the first time Erik saw him standing; there was still some distance between them, so Erik didn’t have to overlook him, but nevertheless he could see that if he pulled Charles into an embrace, those soft brown curls would brush his face perfectly, and he’d only have to slightly turn his neck in order to plant a kiss on his cheek -
But this fantasy had to stop now.
“Have I told you that I’ve started writing on my manuscript?”
“Really?” Erik smiled and regarded Charles through the pale fog.
“Yeah,” Charles lowered his gaze, “usually I write at night, but since it’s going so well and it’s snowing today, I decided to take a walk outside. How do you do?”
“I’m well,” Erik frowned. “Rather busy, I’ve had a big fight with my assistant and she left me, but I think everything is still good.”
Charles sent him a way too sincere look again, and for that one moment he felt as if he’d been scanned by a sophisticated instrument, his bones and blood and even his heart being read like a book. It wasn’t a nice experience.
“Do you, um, want to come to my place? It’s not far away, a lot warmer than here,” he turned around and pointed at the direction of his flat with his thumb. Charles smiled and stamped his frozen feet to reactivate them.
“I’d love to, but there’s something that had been concerning me, would you hear me out?”
“Of course,” Erik answered puzzled.
“I have a friend,” said Charles, “he always looks unhappy. Whenever there’s something nice that amuses him, his laugh would eventually turn into a frown, as if he’d acted wrong.”
“What happened to him?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Charles gently. “What happened to you, Erik?”
Erik stared at Charles, dumbfounded, for a long time. The latter became uneasy because of his silence, and stammered that he didn’t mean to pry.
“I just think maybe you need to talk to someone, Erik, I’m not talking about a psychiatrist, you’re not ill, you just … look very sad.” Charles’ voice sounded upset and hasty; he seemed as if he regretted every word that slipped from his mouth, but couldn’t hold back from talking. “A friend, family, even your dog or a homeless man on the street.”
Of course, Erik didn’t know if he’d really behaved the way Charles had described - maybe he had, but he didn’t know. He didn’t think Charles was prying into his personal life, and he didn’t think the strait he currently found himself in was something hard to talk about, either. He could tell Charles - actually, he was very happy to tell Charles; the only worrying thing - the only thing worrying Erik - was that he might be disappointed by Charles’ reaction and answer to it. Erik knew he might, because he knew better than anyone what he had to do to get out of this strait, only he wasn’t able to carry it out.
“I’ve got you,” said Erik huskily at last, “why do I have to talk to homeless people?”
“Thank you,” Charles seemed immensely relieved, he reached down to wipe away the molten snow from the bench with his handkerchief and beckoned Erik to sit down with him. “That means I don’t have to interrogate you for information.”
But where to start?
He blurted out everything to Charles.
He described him the weather and scenery and their house in the old city of Düsseldorf, and his room at the end of the hallway on the second floor; he told him he struck his head on the low ceiling of that attic during his last years in that flat whenever he wasn’t careful when he got up, and it always left him crying tears of pain; he told him he bought his first camera when he was fourteen, he delivered newspapers in the morning while keeping that from his mother who worked night shifts; he told him his father died so early that his mother had to work three jobs to make ends meet; he told him how much he wanted for her to have a good life, and used that as an excuse to come to the States to satisfy his own vanity, while his mother only supported him wholeheartedly; he told him he didn’t even get to say goodbye to her, and didn’t shed a tear on the funeral; he told him the sound of the shutter had lost his interest, and while it became only a tool to make his living, he wasn’t even able to manage that well.
Naturally, Charles listened to everything all too silently, then he gently put his palm on Erik’s upper arm.
“I’m very sorry, Erik,” his voice was moist and soft. Erik opened his mouth but didn’t say anything, instead he only nodded.
Then they remained silent. From time to time a squeal of cars slashed across the night. Erik’s fingertips had long gone numb from the cold.
“My father died very early too,” Charles suddenly said. He glanced down and rubbed his fingers, “My grandfather was an industrialist and had an old mansion in the suburbs. As long as I can remember, I’ve been living there, until my mother passed away.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“She probably had better knowledge of wine than of her son, but thank you,” Charles smiled briefly. “I had a stepfather, Kurt, who had been my father’s colleague. He was nonchalant about everything including my mother. We lived under the same roof, but hardly conversed.”
“You didn’t like him?” Erik couldn’t really imagine Charles disliking anybody.
“I always felt he was sustaining the marriage for money,” responded Charles mildly. “So when I was in high school and my mother passed away, my only thought was that Kurt was able to legally obtain everything my grandfather had spent a lifetime to build, then kick me out so he and my stepbrother Cain who bullied me would be able to merrily lead their good life.”
A bitter adolescence, thought Erik, wealthy but loveless, maybe that’s the main reason why Charles immersed himself in inditement and literature.
“Did he do that?”
“No,” Charles frowned, his gaze seemed distant and unsettled through the reminiscence, “no, he didn’t. There was a fire - the wires caught fire - Cain wasn’t at home that evening, only me and Kurt. The mansion was too old, there were paintings and curtains and carpets everywhere, and the fire spread so fast we couldn’t quench it; Kurt pushed me out from the window of the second floor, I broke a couple of ribs, then the house exploded and he didn’t make it.”
Erik didn’t know what to say. Charles leaned back and blew out a long breath. He then turned his head and smiled at him.
“For a long time, I thought it was my fault. I didn’t set the fire, of course, but he saved my life, while I was deeply convinced that he hated my guts.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Charles.”
“It wasn’t your fault either, Erik,” said Charles calmly. He watched Erik with his blue eyes that seemed bottomless at that moment. “You think you are to blame for your mother’s death, hence you are unhappy. When you walk, it’s as if the whole world is weighing on your shoulders. You are murdering yourself, and that’s only because you don’t know how good you are, and how much your mother loved you.”
Erik felt his ribs ache, he wondered for a while and finally realized that it was because he was breathing in the icy air excessively. Charles, his bright Charles, who was virtuous, who had all the qualities Erik adored and admired, Charles who made the world a better place by simply sitting there; had he - just like Erik - also once drunk too much wine and felt too much pain, and concealed too much anger and helplessness that had to be exerted? He wanted to embrace Charles, but wasn’t sure if it was to comfort himself or to comfort him; he thought maybe that was why Raven embraced him that one early morning.
“You are not alone, Erik,” Charles squeezed Erik’s nape and shook him gently. His hand was cold as ice, but his voice was low and firm.
He wanted him to stop doing this, Erik thought, he would shake out his tears, and the whole situation would turn into an utter embarrassment. But he couldn’t control himself; how were you to control your heart or the gravitation? Drops of water were falling from his eyes, almost like a waterfall, and landed on the ground between his feet, melting into the snow.
Charles pulled his hand away from his nape and wiped the tears from Erik’s face with his sleeve. The fabric was heavy and scratchy, and a fresh fragrance of Charles’ cologne escaped his cuffs.
“You should go home and have a good night’s sleep,” Charles said, his movements following the rhythm of his words, “like you’ve never been asleep, okay?”
Erik lifted his head with Charles standing up. He stood there with a tilted head, as if he was examining something strange but cherished; his smile was pondering and cautious. Erik didn’t think twice before he grabbed for Charles’ hands, the latter caught his breath, and the cloudy vapor in front of his nose extinguished in a second; then, maybe it was him pulling Charles, maybe it was Charles leaning down, his lips fluttered to Erik’s like a bird closing its feathers.
Everything was the way he had imagined.
Charles’ smell was clean and equable, his nose and lips were cold and dry from the snowy weather. His fingers were curled up in Erik’s palm and trembling, the latter tried to close his hands to steady that uncertainty, only to realize that it didn’t all come from Charles, but also from his own heart pounding faster than ever. Erik didn’t feel dizzy though, on the contrary, he felt as if everything had come to a halt; he finally realized that maybe it had never been the world that was spinning like crazy, but he himself.
Charles let out a choking sound from his throat, breathed in deeply and withdrew. He looked exactly like Erik did - his complete face was red, and he looked messy and flurried, carrying a perplexed but fervent smile on his face; he softly squeezed the tip Erik’s fingers. His blue eyes were flickering like starlight.
“Good night, Erik.”
He whispered solemnly, turned away and left. Erik stared after him until he disappeared into darkness.
Charles never came back after that day.
The next day, when Erik made a detour to the park before he went to his office, he discovered that Charles wasn’t there. He didn’t think about it much, instead he dove into his usual busy schedule and looked forward to seeing him again. But the next day passed, and the day after that, and the day after that, and Charles still wasn’t there. That’s when Erik noticed that something was odd.
Erik waited from three days to three weeks. He waited from nine to ten in the morning, then went to his office and worked till nightfall, and waited from ten to eleven in the evening, but that gained him naught. He hadn’t the slightest clue where Charles had gone, why he’d gone there or whether he was coming back.
He tried to ask other regular visitors of the park, and searched the fiery croquet matches for that Mr. Hudson of Charles’ stories; by doing so he almost enraged a group of native New Yorkers who were together more than 300 years old. It was when he had to describe Charles to them that he realized how superficial his knowledge was about him; the elders on the other hand all had a blurry recollection, they talked about how there might have been a young man like that, while remembering him having red hair or wearing a brown coat. That was rather unforgiveable in Erik’s view, but after all he’d never seen anybody else chatting with Charles, so it was no wonder they didn’t know he had such beautiful eyes.
It was disgraceful to admit that he even thought about asking the policewoman Moira of Charles’ whereabouts, but she seemed to have disappeared with him; the cop on patrol now was a sturdily built man, who told Erik coldly that he’d been transferred here recently and didn’t know anyone by the name Moira.
A month after Charles had left, Erik finished the tiring project Raven had forced him upon and the restaurant opened as planned. Sean brought him a bottle of good wine in return; he had also somehow heard about Erik’s participation at Shaw’s exhibition and made a hearted offer that their restaurant could take care of the cocktail party that evening. Erik thanked him and gave an exhausted Alex a week off, then spent long hours sitting on the bench in the park, reflecting what exactly he had done wrong. At first he thought he’d done everything wrong; he shouldn’t have told Charles that many unpleasant stories, he shouldn’t have let Charles tell him those unpleasant stories. But the time spent on self-reflection shortened with the days passing by and the weather getting warmer, and he thought he actually hadn’t done anything wrong, since everything felt so flawlessly natural, even that hasty and chaotic kiss in the end seemed like perfection.
Stepping into the second month, Erik was finally able to restrain himself from going to the park every day to search for someone who wasn’t there, or crazily imagining the person ringing his doorbell being Charles, even if he didn’t know his address at all.
Erik started photographing again.
The reason was quite mundane. He walked half the parks there were in New York, bringing his camera to convince himself that he wasn’t looking for Charles. The sunshine was fierce but not particularly hot that afternoon, the wind stood still and the sky was clear. Erik was at a park three stations away from his home, next to him was a bronze statue black with rust. He had no interest in finding out who it was portraying; he only leaned against its base and stood there.
Several mothers shot him a suspicious look when they passed by with their children, though Erik couldn’t blame them; a single man with a high-end camera and a nursery just across the street - if you added both things together you wouldn’t draw any good conclusions. He drifted his gaze to the right side of the park, letting his eyes wander idly around the wooden benches there. Then he saw a young man in a beige coat.
Erik’s heart darted to his throat at this instant, even though he knew at that very same instant that it wasn’t his Charles.
He zoomed in through his lens and stared at the unfamiliar profile. The man was looking at the grey pigeons on the ground with a flagging interest; there was still half of a sandwich left, lying next to his legs, but it didn’t seem that he wanted to feed them. He sat there until he finished his cigarette at hand, and stood up holding his sandwich. When he walked into the flock of pigeons he hesitated for some seconds, then threw the food on the ground a bit farer away. Dozens of pigeons clapped their wings and threw themselves at it, almost submerging the man in the flutter of wings and the sound of the wind, and at the same time Erik pressed down the shutter.
It was strange; he’d lost passion in photographing anything because he’d lost somebody, and now he regained this passion because he’d lost somebody again. He tried to remember Charles, and every tiny details seemed so vivid; his soft brown curls and his fingers, his charming laugh, the faint fragrance, both icy cold and comfortably warm, that drifted from his collar whenever he leaned near, and his blue eyes; all ordinary things became so extraordinary in his blue eyes, he had looked at Erik through those eyes, he had kissed him once.
The forty-third day after Charles had left, Erik found himself unable to break out from drowning in a lengthy shock. He realized the reason why he hadn’t been restless and anxious these days like when he’d lost his mother, was because with that kiss, Charles had taken away all his pain, all the emotions he could sense.
At that moment Erik understood that even without any desire, he could photograph everything in the world, be it large or small or moving or still, be it bright or dark or beautiful or ugly, be it something he adored or something he detested; he could photograph everything in the world, except for his Charles.
He would never be able to photograph Charles.
One evening, almost three months after Charles had left, Erik followed the address on Raven’s CV and went to her apartment.
The place was okay - there wasn’t a caretaker but a pretty nice elevator, and when you walked down the floor, no sound escaped the closed doors, so the building was quite soundproof. He ringed the doorbell and heard Raven shouting ‘coming’ from inside. After another long wait (she was obviously examining him through the peephole), there door was finally opened, and his assistant stuck out her head from behind the still-attached door chain.
“What,” she said gruffly.
Erik could see that she wasn’t angry anymore, but only pretended to be so - though that alone was threatening enough when it came to someone like Raven.
“I’ve brought you something,” he handed her a USB stick through the crack, Raven took it skeptically.
“What’s this?”
“The photos for the exhibition,” he said. Raven looked at the stick, then looked at Erik.
“You’ve finished them?”
Erik nodded, then squeezed a full paper bag from the supermarket through the crack, it went through with painful cracking sounds. It took quite the effort before Raven finally had it in her hands, she glanced at it and gave a surprised laugh.
“This is nine bucks each,” she took out a salad box unbelievingly and gestured to Erik, “how many are there?”
“Twelve.”
“You’re crazy.”
“That’s what the cashier said.”
Raven sighed and closed the door. After some clattering sounds, the door was opened again. She was wrapped in a bathrobe, also wearing a pair of wide trousers and fluffy slippers; her hair was bound into a low ponytail. She stood in the open doorframe and watched Erik with a troubled expression.
“You look like shit, as always,” she said rudely but her tone was gentle. “Alex said he hasn’t seen you at the office for some time.”
“I was busy shooting what’s in your hands,” said Erik. “You answer Alex’ calls but not mine?”
“Get yourself a Facebook account, boss,” Raven teased and made way. “Come on in.”
Erik entered the flat; Raven closed the door and told him to sit down wherever he liked before she went straight into the kitchen. Erik glanced around him; the flat had the same open design like his, with the living, sleeping and cooking area forming one whole room, but it was only half the size of his basement. There were several pieces of antique furniture next to the wall; Erik chose to sit down on a red armchair. Raven came out with teapot and mug; she put a salad box on Erik’s lap and sat down on the sofa across him. She then opened her laptop and plugged in the USB stick.
“Eat, otherwise they’ll go bad before I get to finish them all.”
Erik ate the salad with her in silence. The room was filled with only the sound of chewing lettuce and Raven clicking the mouse. The screen was whitening her face and eyes. Actually Erik wasn’t nervous about his work being inspected by his assistant, because Raven never really commented on anything.
“What made you do this?” said Raven. She sank into her chair and looked at Erik. “I mean the exhibition.”
“He left.”
“Who?”
“The author I told you about.”
Raven answered with a low ‘oh’. She was finally willing to step back from her offensive behavior, instead she looked at Erik sympathetically.
“What happened?” She asked softly. Now that wasn’t at all necessary - as if Erik would have burst into tears if her voice was too loud.
“I don’t know. He just stopped showing up.”
Raven was silent for a couple of seconds.
“Could it be like in the movie ‘The Lake House’ and he had a car accident on his way to meet you?” She asked hopefully.
“You should stop watching things like that,” Erik frowned and chuckled, “and I don’t think there is any chance Twilight was written by a man.”
“You read it?”
“All four books, but don’t tell anyone.”
Raven laughed; it was her usual laugh, full of fondness, enthusiasm, curiosity and wit. Erik thought he really liked her.
“Will you come back to work?”
“I haven’t quit, now have I?” Raven put her palm on Erik’s knee and patted him lightly. “I just… You always look after the people around you, Erik, I know you do. I just can’t watch you not looking after yourself.”
She looked sincere and worried, just like Charles.
“Just like you always look after me, right?” Erik smiled smugly. Raven clenched her hand into a fist and hit his thigh hard.
“Don’t get too used to it.”
She warned him; then she stood up and went to the bedroom and came back with a pile of blankets.
“Lie down.” She grabbed Erik’s salad box and put it on the table, then pointed at the sofa where she’d just sat and ordered.
“Really? No music and champagne first?”
Raven ignored his joke. She pulled on Erik’s arms and threw him onto the sofa, then swaddled him tightly with the blanket.
“Now sleep like you’ve never been asleep.”
Raven turned off the lights and murmured, standing at the sofa was her dim but firm silhouette. Erik thought those words sounded really familiar, there’d definitely been someone who told him exactly the same thing, but he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to recall. He really wanted to have a good night’s sleep, though. Raven walked away, and after some time, distant and soft music came floating from the bedroom. Erik closed his eyes and felt safe and calm.
You are not alone.
He only had a tiny bit of resistant anxiety left in his head; he knew that Charles was a good man in everybody’s eyes, he knew he would never lack anything, be it material or emotional; he would have lots of friends, he would encounter someone who loved his as much as Erik did, or even more than Erik did. But, Erik thought, what if the naïve and earnest and idealistic and witty elements of his personality were seen as flaws by the person he’s with, or being corrected by any means, and what if that made his Charles think he wasn’t good enough?
He would never treat Charles like that. But that didn’t mean anything anymore.
He told Erik, you are not alone.
But you make me so alone.
Shaw was delighted by the photos.
He called Erik one morning, complacently announcing that he’d set the date and place of the exhibition and also sent Erik and every rich person in Manhattan an invitation on Facebook. Just when Erik wanted to tell him that he didn’t have Facebook, something clicked and the alarms went off in the back of his head. He googled his own name and as expected he found a link to his Facebook account on the page of his studio. The profile picture was that photo from The New Yorker, Raven was his ‘sister’ and Alex his ‘brother’. They were even considerate enough to change his relationship status to ‘It’s Complicated’.
Someone was knocking on the glass wall of his office, Erik raised his head and saw Raven and Alex pressed to the glass, giggling at his computer screen and winking and blowing him kisses. Erik discovered sadly that he couldn’t be angry at them.
Because of Erik’s nonchalance, he wasn’t aware that Shaw had rented the entire top floor of a skyscraper and was planning to hold an extravagant outdoor cocktail party on that warm spring’s night until the very day of the exhibition. He stopped Raven who was about to knock off at the elevator.
“Are you coming with me tonight?” Erik asked. Raven hadn’t changed into her dress yet but had already put on her makeup. There were even glitters on her pale chest. “It seems like a rather formal occasion.”
“You mean as your date?” Raven grinned. “Sorry, boss, you’re too late. I’ve got a date.”
“How much have you paid that poor soul?”
“Don’t make me hurt you, Erik.” Raven raised her fist as a warning. The elevator opened and she walked inside cheerfully. “I’m sure you can find some other girl who’s skinny as fuck and on top of that won’t snatch food from your hands.”
“I won’t date anyone who’d punched my eyes green.” Erik shouted before the doors closed.
“It’s called eyeshadow!” Raven ferocious roar descended along with the elevator.
Erik hesitated for a while and decided to go stag; after all his relationship status was still complicated, and he had no intention to stay long.
He went home and changed. He refused to wear a stupid tailcoat to that party, instead he only pulled on his best suit jacket over a simple white polo shirt, combined with a pair of jeans and oxfords. He called a taxi, and when he went up from his basement to wait on the street, he ran across Emma.
“Nice suit,” his landlady smiled and locked the door of her ballet classroom. “A date?”
“No, a photography exhibition downtown.” Erik helped her with the blinds, and they walked down the short stairs together. “Have you got any plans for Saturday night?”
“I’ve got a few unfinished novels,” to his surprise, Emma shrugged. “You know, the week is long, and I don’t really have time to relax.”
His taxi arrived and she wished him good luck. Erik held the door to the backseat open and watched her leave. Then he suddenly called after her.
“Hey, Emma, do you want to come with me?”
Emma turned back her head in surprise. All the superiority and ignorance and disgust that Erik had expected to show up on her face was nowhere to be seen; instead, she even looked flattered.
“As you see, I don’t have a date,” Erik said, a bit embarrassed. “If you don’t have any other plans tonight - there’s nice food.”
“Where’s your author friend?” Emma teased.
Hell, can’t Raven keep anything to herself?
“Gone,” said Erik briefly, trying to shield from Emma’s sympathetic look.
“Left a bit of a gap here, if I’m to be honest.” He pulled the corners of his mouth in to a smile and bent his arm, showing the space inside of his elbow. “I was rather hoping you would fill it.”
Emma stared at him speechless for quite a while, then began to smile jovially. This made Erik wonder how he’d never noticed that his landlady had never really smiled even once. The whole time she was a loner like him, lacking social competence.
“I hope you wouldn’t mind making a detour to my home,” Emma gave a curtsy jokingly; smiling, she slipped her arm under his and got inside the car with him. “A lady needs some time to prepare.”
Erik told her as long as she didn’t paint her eyelids green, they were good.
Erik wished Shaw hadn’t put that much effort into this exhibition: the moment he left the lift and stepped on the twenty-sixth floor, a couple of photographers - wearing tailcoats - came out of nowhere and flashed him and a sparkling Emma with their cameras. Just when Erik was about to protest, they’d already turned their interest towards a celebrity couple coming out of the elevator.
The top floor was open and spacious, with lanterns like streetlights standing here and there. Erik’s chin fell at the sight of his photos being printed as six-feet-tall posters, set up and presented in between the crowd. The warm evening breeze carried the jazz music of the live band, and everybody was wearing expensive suits or floral gowns, sipping wine and talking in undertones; there were chefs grilling porterhouse-steaks a couple of tables away. Everything was fine, except for the fact that Erik desperately wanted to go home.
Emma, being a woman who owned several expensive apartments in downtown New York, was dragged to the corner by a group of ladies - obviously old friends of hers - for small talk right after she’d walked around and looked at all Erik’s photographs with him. Erik did simple oral interviews with a couple of magazines and started to look out for Raven. Shaw, wearing an all-white suit, noticed him first; he swam through the sea of people elegantly with his arms outstretched like a ray and locked Erik under his arm.
“Oh Erik, isn’t this splendid?” He shook Erik’s shoulders and sighed, half-drunk. “We all hit rock bottom sometime, but I’m glad you’re back.”
“Really? You don’t look like you know what rock bottom even means, Shaw.” Erik didn’t bother to struggle, only responded glumly.
“Believe me, I know what it means. And this cocktail needs ice!” Shaw suddenly turned his head and shouted at the chocolate-skinned woman next to him. Erik noticed that except for a sullen riptide, he also brought a well-rounded but small female companion; the woman took the glass with a displeased expression, then sashayed into the crowd on her high heels and disappeared.
“You talk to your wife like this?”
“Wife?” It took a while until Shaw’s eyes, befuddled from alcohol, focused on Erik’s face. “Oh, no, that’s Angel, she’s a stripper. But I tell you, Erik -”
He threw his arm around Erik’s shoulder familiarly and looked down, the words hazily sliding out his mouth, his voice soft.
“Once there was a woman - the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”
Oh please not this again.
“Shaw, you’ve got guests.” Erik tried to interrupt him; he lifted his head and wanted to beckon to some other people to distract his boss.
“Hear me out, or I’ll strip and ruin your exhibition, you know I keep my word.”
“…I’m listening.”
“Anyways, we got married, bought a nice house with a pool, had tea parties or barbecues in the goddamn symmetrical garden every Sunday, and spent loads of money on curtains and bedsheets. Good old days,” Shaw narrowed his eyes. “Well, at least in the beginning, but you know what marriage is like.”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s like, she’ll start to trouble you with stupid questions like ‘darling, do you want the sheets to be all white or wimbourne white’ - I don’t know the fucking difference between those two colors, but you can’t say that, you have to sit there and discuss this the whole afternoon and pick out one of those dozen goddamn bedsheets, then let her thoroughly attack your taste and eventually choose the one she likes - otherwise you don’t care about her at all.”
“I’m not sure if I want to know this.”
“And, when you’ve finally decided to really care about her, and ask her where she’s going before she leaves home, the real disaster’s coming; she’ll tell everyone she knows that you are a control freak that drives her crazy. Honestly, Erik, why the hell is it like that?”
“I don’t know,” answered Erik exhausted.
“In the end we fought whenever we saw each other, God, I hate her, but I love her to death, even now,” Shaw said in a resentful tone. “Then there’s that nephew of mine. Have I ever mentioned that I’ve got a nephew?”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Yeah, whatever, I don’t even know which side of my family he belongs to. He wrote a novel; I don’t read that kind of novels, but my wife does. Anyways I have to say that the boy’s got some talent - he changed the names and described my tragic marriage and colorful affairs in vivid details - you can imagine how things went after that.”
Yeah, his Charles made it to the Amazon Best Sellers Rank.
Erik’s heart beat so hard his ears buzzed.
“What’s the name of your nephew?”
He asked hastily. Angel came by and handed Shaw the cocktail with ice, and he was busy kissing his bored companion and his glass, not at all thinking about Erik’s question.
“Christian or something,” answered Shaw indifferently.
“Charles. Is his name Charles?”
“Yeah, that’s right, fucking Charles,” Shaw cursed. “But you know what? I don’t blame him. Maybe me and Emma splitting up was a good thing. I mean, look at me now.”
“I don’t see any difference.” An icy voice rose from behind, Erik turned around and saw Emma standing there with her arms crossed. “Still old and pathetic, with a downgrading taste in women.”
Shaw coughed lightly, looking perfectly composed, but released the arm he twined around Angel and adjusted his tie. Erik now realized that Emma was Shaw’s ex-wife. This explained how a thirty-year-old woman could own five apartments in downtown New York by running a ballet classroom - it must have been a divorce gift.
“Good evening, Emma,” greeted Shaw softly. “It seems that you’ve received my invitation via Facebook?”
Emma smirked.
“Your relationship status is still showing ‘Married’, Sebastian, change that,” she warned him, “and stop texting me or posting trash on my timeline.”
“I don’t want to interrupt,” Erik interrupted their childish quarrel; Shaw and Emma looked at him simultaneously, “but where can I find Charles?”
Emma didn’t seem to understand the question. “He’s talking about my nephew, the little bastard that ruined our marriage,” Shaw reminded her eagerly. Emma didn’t buy it at all.
“Your poor nephew described me as ‘a melancholy beauty whose heart and age can’t be read, who wasted her youth on loving her dissolute husband’, Sebastian. In case you haven’t noticed, you are the bastard that ruined our marriage.” Emma turned her face and her eyes wandered amongst the crowd. “I’ve seen him just now.”
“You’ve seen him just now? Here?” Erik hissed. Emma didn’t pay attention to the change in his tone; her eyes fixed on a distant spot and she waved her hand.
“Look, over there. Hi, Charles!”
Erik turned his face too hastily, almost drawing out a dazzling white line with his gaze; he didn’t spot Charles, only his assistant Raven, who was wearing a tight dark blue scaled gown that looked like the night sky. She heard Emma’s voice and lifted her hand in a greeting, and Erik finally noticed her companion who was submerged by the crowd.
It was his Charles.
But why now, why here, why did it have to be Raven, why did it have to be Charles - he had imagined various ways of reencounter, but none of them could’ve been worse than this one now. The only fortunate thing was that Charles looked very well, not like he’d had an accident or lost his memory or anything, he looked exactly the way he should look: wearing a splendid tuxedo, elegantly guiding his date through the crowd of millionaires like the gregarious gentleman he was; his smile was relaxed and confident, until he turned his head alongside Raven and saw Erik.
I hate him. Erik felt his reason being torn into pieces, and this was the only thought he could cobble together; he suddenly understood Shaw’s words. God, I do hate him, still I love him to death, even now.
Charles’ expression was hard to describe; he watched him dreamily, narrowing his eyes, as if he wanted to query something and laugh, or as if he wanted to turn on his heels and run; between the flooding emotions there was dismay and joy and surprise and rapture, all floundering in a haste; Raven unsuspectedly started dragging him towards him, and Emma had already narrowed Shaw into the corner, poking on his chest.
“Boss -”
“Erik -”
“Charles -”
Raven, Charles and Erik all called out different names at the same time, then they looked at each other speechless and in surprise, unsure of who should continue first.
“This is Charles,” Erik started to introduce Raven’s date to her superfluously.
“No shit,” said Raven skeptically, “he’s my brother.”
“This is Erik,” Charles said carefully in a suggesting tone.
“He’s my boss!” Raven shouted. “What the hell, aren’t I the one who’s supposed to introduce you two?”
Erik didn’t know how to explain this situation, Charles obviously had no idea either. Raven’s eyes darted between them, then she gasped.
“Oh my God! He’s your assassin in the park!”
Her scream had attracted some curious eyes. Charles flushed red and coughed loudly.
“You told me he was unreasonably handsome, you liar!”
Erik wasn’t sure who she was offending, but anyways he was grateful that he got to see how Charles looked like when he was nearly dying of embarrassment.
“For Heaven’s sake stop talking!” Charles muttered weakly, his voice a croak. Raven’s sharp gaze bored into Erik instead.
“My brother is the mediocre writer you fell for like crazy?”
Charles choked out a laugh, now Erik understood how it felt being driven into desperation; then Raven thumped Charles’ shoulder without any warning, hard, and her brother wailed and looked at her in shock.
“This is for you abandoning my boss,” she said savagely. Erik wasn’t given the time to feel touched before a purse flew across his chest; the piercing pain that followed made him wonder whether Raven had put crystals into her bag to help with sweaty hands, just like girls in ancient times did when they attended a ball. “And this is for you wooing my brother.”
Charles was first to start chuckling dazedly; Erik was on one hand amused by the situation, on the other hand he’d never dared to hope that he’d see Charles’ laugh again, so he laughed along him. Only Raven stood there frustrated with her arms akimbo, her pose so graceless it was an insult to her beautiful gown.
“It’s like running into your parents having sex,” Raven groaned. “I need another drink.”
They watched her divide the crowd like Moses divided the Red Sea and walk away. Struggling, Charles raised his blue eyes until he had no choice but to face Erik alone.
“Sorry,” he apologized dryly.
“No problem,” said Erik carelessly. “I’m sorry, too.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m unreasonably handsome.”
Charles smiled in surprise and quietly let out a long sigh.
“Has anyone told you that you’re quite pushy?” He replied softly. He put his hands inside the pockets and lifted his chin in a question. “Mind to take a walk with me?”
Erik was more than happy to agree.
They went around the crowded bar and tables and strolled along the fence. Charles stopped to look at some of the photos from time to time; Erik didn’t speak up, only stood next to him in silence before they went towards another one. He finally had time to ruminate what he had shot the past days. Shaw required scenery of modern New York; Erik abandoned all famous buildings and tourist attractions, instead he made thousands of photos of people feeding pigeons in small parks he visited. Women and men, children and elders, some were all smiles and some were pale. Charles stopped again, Erik raised his head and saw that they were standing under a detailed black and white photo, in which the pigeons surrounded the man in the center like a hurricane, only leaving his arm, lifted to protect his face, and a corner of his coat to be seen. Charles stopped moving forward, he stood there with his face lifted for a long time, his gaze delicately smoothing every line on the paper, his eyebrows forming a light frown in concentration.
“It’s beautiful,” he whispered.
I know. Erik thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. This is all you.
“Where have you been?” He chose to ask instead, and that was what Charles had been waiting for. He leaned against the wall behind him.
“Various places.” Charles dropped his gaze on the tip of his shoes, he smiled at Erik after he’d also leant against the wall next to him. “Book fairs. I have a new book to promote.”
“Everything went well?”
“Yeah, it’s just reading the book to a few hundred people at the booth, I think I did alright.”
“That’s great.”
Erik wasn’t lying, he really thought it was great; Charles was healthy and whole and had even finished a book. But he was able to tell that Charles was remaining silent due to unease and guilt.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” Charles pleaded slowly and sincerely; he softly brushed Erik’s palm. It wasn’t cold, but the temperature of his hand was a lot lower than Erik’s.
“I’m not.”
Maybe he was. Erik couldn’t take his hand, that would’ve been too soon and too late for both of them; he wasn’t even sure if Charles would turn away and leave again.
“I lied,” Charles spoke gently, his voice immerging in the high notes of the saxophone and becoming cloudy. “I did go to various places, and I do have a new book to promote, but I was running away.”
“Why?”
Erik asked. Charles looked at him with those nostalgic blue eyes, as if he refused to believe that Erik didn’t know the answer, or hoping that this was already a sufficient response. A long time passed before he said, I was afraid of frightening you, Erik.
“Do I look frightened?” Erik couldn’t help but laugh.
“You will be,” said Charles upset, “when you discover what I have discovered, you will be.”
“You can simply say it, Charles. Anything.”
Charles started nibbling on his lower lip neurotically and went silent for a tormenting long amount of time. His soft curls had grown longer and fell beside his face, and Erik had to fight against the urge to lift his hand and smooth them back.
“I think I…” Charles eventually dropped his head, as if this would make the words leave his lips faster. “I think I like you.”
Erik was still waiting for him to continue, but Charles had already lifted his eyes slightly and stared at him full of hope.
“That’s all?” He opened his mouth astonished.
“That’s all?” Charles uttered a wounded and dispirited groan. “Did you really understand what I was saying? It’s not the ‘hey I like you let’s go to the sports pub and have an ale and spit on the TV like real men’ kind of like, but the ‘if you don’t mind I’d like to spend a whole day with you in bed’ kind of like.”
Erik laughed in surprise, he’d almost forgotten how lovely and endearing Charles was.
“That’s a generous invitation.”
“Please don’t mock me, at least not now,” hissed Charles like a dying animal.
“I’m not mocking you, it’s just,” Erik bit back his laugh and explained, “I don’t understand, Charles. You just disappeared; I didn’t even get the chance to ask you anything. I didn’t even know who you are.”
“It’s not an excuse, I apologize. But I’ve told you that, tragically, I’m really bad at dealing with this kind of things, especially because I’ve never fancied people of the same sex romantically,” Charles lifted his hand wearily to stop Erik from raising his eyebrows. “Yes, Erik, I’m only British, not gay.”
Coward, Erik thought, just like me. Mindful of gains and losses, wanting to anticipate things but at the same time fearing to be overhasty. Erik never had feelings like this for another person; then he thought, if it wasn’t for Charles to withdraw and flee first, maybe he would’ve been appalled by the feeling of falling upside-down from heaven and run away himself.
“So you were frightened,” said Erik softly.
“Alright, yes. I was frightened.”
Charles gave up and admitted, he grabbed a glass of whiskey from the waiter that passed by. Erik gently pulled the glass from his hand and put it on the fence; Charles glared at him crossly.
“I like you, too.”
“Yeah I thought so, that’s why we should…” Charles’ hand stopped mid-air and he lifted his eyes unbelievingly. “What did you say?”
“I said, you are not the person who loves you most in the world, Charles,” Erik said, word by word. “I am.”
Charles who was always voluble now seemed like a fish stranded on the shore. He opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came through his throat. By the way his eyes were turning red, Erik assumed he would either start crying or puking, and he wasn’t sure which one he preferred.
“But you don’t even know who I am.” Charles finally fished words from the deepness of his lungs, his voice harsh.
“I think we should start from the beginning.” Erik straightened his pose and put out his hand. “Erik Lehnsherr. Unfortunately not an assassin. I make my living with photography, and I like you.”
Charles stared at his hand that rested midair for a long time, long enough for Erik to notice Raven frequently looking towards them from the distant, the band playing a melodious classic piece, Shaw and Emma wrestling in a feverish dance in the corner; long enough for Erik to want to grab his collar or smack his face. Then Charles tardily reached for his hand.
“Charles Xavier. I write books, I like you, but I still won’t tell you my penname.”
He smiled like he was finally giving up; the way he tilted his head was just like the first time they kissed each other, cherishing, pondering and cautious; he dropped his gaze and kissed Erik’s knuckles, his hand was soft and warm.
They both thought this was stupid. They both thought this was ridiculous. At the same time, they both thought this was utterly romantic.
Two weeks later, Erik would be recommended a new Amazon-four-star book about an assassin who loves to feed pigeons failing an assassination and being dragged into a huge conspiracy and eventually, falling deeply in love with a girl with blue eyes.
The author was Professor X from upstate New York.
Erik walked down the streets of New York with that book pressed to his chest. The rustle of the paper bag sounded like music, and Erik was smiling like an idiot.
This was stupid. This was ridiculous. But this was also utterly romantic.
He’d finally found his Charles.
- The End -
2012/03/26