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"Come on, mate."
Despite being: first, extremely vexed, and second, trained since birth to neatly ignore the majority of his emotions, physical sensations, and otherwise improper reactions, Edwin can recognize quite well the moment of personal weakness before it overtakes him.
And right now?
He is so, so unbelievably fucked.
Leave it to Charles, to be aces at loopholes. “Know what they say, mate? Can't open a door, pass through it. Can't do that? Wriggle your way in through a keyhole.”
So now there is Charles, trying to physically make himself the size of a dandelion sprite in Niko's mason jar to fit right into the crook of Edwin's better judgement. He should be sorry, given what he's done, but he has no qualms, takes no prisoners, the full arsenal of his unruly magnetism on display. What is left of Edwin is shredded into tiny iron filings and sprinkled on a sheet of paper.
And if he stands in the middle of it, what is Edwin supposed to do? Not cluster along the flux lines?
Impossible.
And so, Edwin is willing to put his rightly placed chagrin aside for a spot of detective work, if only to remain focused on the problem's core— he catalogues all the new, clever ways in which Charles tries to wriggle out of an apology.
The evidence is startlingly clear. Charles' chin is tucking itself in, smile turning sheepish, unashamed, eyes veiled by feigned contrition peering from under his eyelashes, hands up as he approaches the spooked, wild thing that wears Edwin's face. He's ruthless.
Edwin feels thrown back in time to a similar scene, not too long ago— when Charles' vulnerabilities shone through a pair of glassy eyes, a tight grip on his woolen coat, and a wobbly, hopeful smile.
Perhaps it was because Edwin knew then, but he remembers saying you're the best person I know, which wasn't the whole truth. When the current flowing through his body sang, you're beautiful. When something was begging him to add even when your nose gets snotty in a ghost rules defying manner, because it would make Charles laugh. When the space between them was so minuscule, faces mere centimetres apart, close enough for breath to mingle should they need it. Intimate enough to steal it from Edwin's chest. You're gorgeous, Charles, always, the words like a well-oiled sword taking shape at the back of his throat, ready to rush out and strike.
But Edwin was not the type to charge. He was not made particularly brave, either, not in this regard. A braver man might make him undone with: you're beautiful, it's a fact of the afterlife, and do not give me this look, Charles.
(Admittedly, Edwin has tried to not get too attached to the fickle foundations of the ghost world, on the odd case they needed to build something solid atop the structure. But no matter what loopholes they found, the beauty— the pillar of Charles' grace— remains stubbornly set in stone, demanding to be acknowledged and utterly distracting. No one has managed to tame it. Scarcely anyone has even tried.)
So, Edwin counts down in his head.
The chin, dropped in penitence. A harmless lie.
The damned long lashes too, which would rather benefit a lady— and Edwin spares a moment to send a private thanks to anyone who’s listening, to the sky, that they benefit his friend instead.
And the smile.
A peculiarity not lost on him then, and just as convincing now. He's learned to recognise it; he should be able to control it. Only today, the lack of tears makes Charles almost too bright, diamond sharp and shrewd, confident in a way that is quickly becoming worrying. Looking down at the black loafers shuffling forward, there is still a bit of distance left for Edwin's brain to work full time. He kicks it into overdrive, lest it gets distracted, and quite soon too.
Charles, his best friend, both of them back in the London office. His most trusted companion, wearing the white sleeveless top that had Edwin going through an entire workshop on how to subtly avert his gaze without raising suspicion. It was going rather brilliantly. When questioned, he could not tell you how much of a contrast it created with Charles’ tanned skin.
Or how those suspenders split his torso into parts, left and middle and right, begging to be examined like the fluorescent sign in Tongue & Tail. Or the way the gold chain gleamed, greedily catching the scant rays of sunlight streaming in through the windows, or the light from the sconces at night, shining at the most unexpected of times. Catching him off guard, as Charles usually does, but... catching him all the same.
Things have not changed between them, and yet there's a wisp of knowledge that Charles tries to use, teasing the line between Edwin's confession and the tentative aftermath, testing its give. He won’t begrudge him that, for a part of Edwin's heart will always lay bare on that staircase.
And Edwin told him—
Told him he's—
Charles' journey ends. Abruptly.
His love, Edwin's mind supplies, because he can never get a moment’s peace, barely a step or two away from him, slowly closing the distance and wrapping two bare, lean arms around Edwin's neck.
Oh.
"C'mon?" Charles croons, almost pleading but not quite, eyebrows twitching up, wide eyes the colour of black pools never leaving Edwin's.
He gasps as Charles' limbs weigh him down like two anchors, almost heavy enough to phase them through the floor. Strange heat erupts in his face and seemingly everywhere else, chest and stomach and other places he's not willing to examine right now (Later, a voice in his head hisses), radiating down and rushing back to the crown of his head, making him dizzy. Edwin fights to keep his eyebrows furrowed, but the left one twitches; so does the corner of his mouth.
There's a distant sensation at the top of his head, caused by a finger lazily twirling a dark strand— the shortest, curliest one, which always manages to escape his ministrations. "Don't stay mad at me, yeah?"
Edwin curses, mentally. Just to make sure Charles has not developed Crystal's psychic skills, he adds a few Edwardian ones his friend won't have a chance to look up later.
He should have seen this coming, truly. He’d put a stop to it immediately, he would, as soon as he saw his friend's lips pull back when they started their little argument. At the exact moment when Charles' body straightened up.
One tick, Edwin was dragging him over the coals, happy to go off on a tangent after cracking a tough case, the familiar routine settling into their bones— what was left of them, anyway— for the much-needed stress relief. The banter was enjoyable. It was their whole thing. Charles would quip something back, and he would pretend to be irritated, and Charles would poke him until they both laughed and laughed and it would be grand. But Charles' back had other plans; it tensed, and his face— Edwin was not sure what to make of that look. On anyone else it might have been described as dangerous, artful, cunning, especially when combined with the feline-like movements (and don't you dare think about the Cat King now). Far too nonchalant for the occasion.
"Whatever it is that you're doing, it's not working," Edwin bites out, though he is slightly more annoyed at his et tu, Brutus? arms than at Charles. The boy he's reaching out for just— huffs. Fair enough, he supposes, as the doomed contradictions of his arms uncross from his chest and find Charles' slim waist— and oh, the rudest boy he knows wastes no time in sinking into their combined non-weight, a sharp chin digging into his shoulder. How can he be so trusting? Simply waiting to be caught?
Charles' hands clasp him tighter, the right one wrapping around the back of Edwin’s head like a bandage, the left one hanging loosely, fingers tugging and pinching his vest as if trying to say a wordless off, and Edwin feels full and he feels secure and he would like to never move again, thank you very much.
A sigh leaves his mouth like something... divine, for lack of a better word.
Time to settle. To think. Against all reason, it's easier to think with Charles safe and sound against him.
In fact, Edwin thinks Charles would make an excellent Death, if he'd ever choose to trade places and stop running. He could soothe a soul into oblivion. Take your hand, take your whole life too and never ask for anything in return.
A minute or ten passes in silence, Charles seemingly content to become a devotee at the altar of Edwin's evolving madness. He blows icy puffs of air that have the curious effect of absolutely scalding Edwin through the collar. Ghosts do not have to breathe, they shouldn't be able to feel breath at all, what on Earth; here’s another caveat to add to the catalogue. Well, it would go there, should Edwin be able to track down the mental pen.
Something between them is growing charged and crackling still.
Edwin... doesn't know what to do with his hands on Charles' back, or rather, he doesn't seem to connect the movement of his wandering palms with whatever the jumbled feelings are, that swirl around the vicinity of his heart. All right. Edwin can sort it out piece by piece.
Since Charles cannot see his face, tucked in like this, he lets it soften. It is terribly hard to hold onto anger when you map out the nubs in Charles' spine, dig into the dip between his shoulder blades, explore the flatlands and the trapezoid deserts of a broad back. Edwin prays again the tremble in his fingertips will go unmentioned, for it certainly won't go unnoticed.
A singular deity hears the prayer, and he has the gall to chuckle right into Edwin’s ear. "I take my confession back," Edwin croaks, voice unlike anything he's ever heard, a mouthful of pesky emotions, why, oh why do they pile up where he doesn't need them?
Charles shakes. Head first, the rest of his body follows. "Like Hell you are."
The audacity.
Another minute flies by, where they fit together like a jigsaw puzzle: an old, rubbish piece found beneath the carpeted floor in the living room of a family who has spent their afternoons in polite company and hardly ever with each other; the other piece, the first one sacrificed to tearing of the wrapping, a part of a charity shop box passed from hand to hand, never quite appreciated or properly missed. Their frayed corners matched marvellously, without glue, simply because they wished to stick together. You could take one by the edge and the other would follow, a sorry, no version of this where I didn’t come get you.
At present, Charles is beginning to sway to an unheard song, swinging them both; tiny left and right movements that make Edwin want to make dents in his hips, keep them still; or pull him closer, try to encourage a different sort of rhythm. Faster. More urgent. One that would break the glacial pace, with sighs wrought from lips and— well.
There should be some guilt attached to this feeling, Edwin realises. He waits for it to come.
His head is quiet.
"I was being dead serious. Whatever I said on the staircase, forget it. I do not like you— not even as a friend, I'm afraid," he tries again.
The right hand tugging at Edwin's hair cups his neck in response, a pinky marking the end of the collar, trying to get under it. Edwin makes a sound, just one, but in the stillness of the room it rings out like a bell— Charles hums, pleased, his hand driving down and parking on the small of his back, bringing Edwin's not-quite-alive body flush to his own. Edwin is suddenly not so sure he can hold them up. Chest to chest, belly to belly, a foot stepping between his feet, everything, everywhere, Charles, Charles, Charles. "You," Edwin creaks, a broken, weak and needy thing, "you're a menace."
"And you love me," mumbles the menace right into his collarbone, the lowest of blows. "You love me, Edwin Payne."
Edwin... Edwin wants to rip something. Wants to tear out his hair until he's bald, wait for it to grow back, shave again, pick up the loose strands from the floor, glue them back on and then, finally, shave it off for good— for better or worse. Perhaps, in a fit of melancholy, march off the cliff's edge and disappear into the crashing waves.
It would be pointless, of course. If the last thirty years have taught him anything about partnerships, it is that Charles would rather hop through an endless mirror than let Edwin get hurt.
And vice versa. Needless to say.
The thing worth saying about Charles Rowland is: his Schrödinger's awareness dictates reality, allowing for more than a fair share of paradox. He mostly does what he's best at, which is to take action: and as a result, he gets to choose what happens next, what matters he can be blissfully blind to, already two steps ahead of the consequences. Anything outside his jurisdiction is handed over to Edwin.
He doesn't seem to notice, for instance, how his words raise the room's temperature to a few thousand degrees, the edge of him too busy burning like the photosphere. And this close, Charles' skin should smell bland, a vacuum of one of the five senses they lost the privilege of long ago. But particles move faster in heated environments, and Charles is scorching, his fragrance a pyramid, the head, the heart, and the base notes unfolding themselves one after the other in minute increments.
Edwin wonders briefly, hysterically, whether want can manifest itself in the form of haptic and physical hallucinations. The earring Edwin finds to have a sharp, ozone-rich smell of titanium. His cotton shirt is as soft as a lamb that would graze in a mountain pasture, and it smells like fresh laundry that failed at getting rid of a grass stain. Underneath it all, something so uniquely Charles, a scent he’s never known when alive; not tied to any specific space, not really tied to his body. It’s the relief when Charles phases through the agency door after a round of errands, or when Charles finishes his sentence perfectly. When he holds him close, like this, when all their touchpoints send out a Morse code of drawn-out tremors and sparks. It’s what Edwin breathes in, and out, in, and out, following his guide.
Charles' body in this realm is a marvel, truly; a quiet, dark storm cloud, and Edwin is nothing more than a key tied to a helium balloon on a string. Tied to a greater purpose.
"You, Charles Rowland—", someone help him, a bolt— a kiss— is being pressed to his neck, quick and striking, "—ah, are the worst person I know."
Charles goes... still.
Edwin's phantom heart skips a beat, fearing he’s overstepped; Charles has never kissed him before, oh dear, has he ruined everything? He can still feel the press like a sweeter iron brand; what if this was a turning point, what if Charles wanted— and he had messed it all up?
Charles almost wrenches himself out of the grip, distressed, and it’s Edwin’s turn to desperately grab at his shoulders, Charles’ hands flailing a little before coming to rest on his chest, a push-and-pull as if he didn’t know whether he wants out or not. Edwin's hope is that he doesn't, otherwise he would be the one digging his hole in the ground.
“I—”
“No. You will not take it back.” Edwin’s eyes find Charles’ after a whole eternity, it seems, and he’s astonished to see the fear, the self-doubt creeping in, all of that easy charm on hold.
“But it was—”
“Charles. Please.”
He doesn’t know how to say, you have always been braver than me and you wouldn't do anything I did not want you to and thank you and please do not say you are sorry and do it again. They are both in unexplainable need of more air, mouths slightly open, and he thinks he can pinpoint the millisecond when Charles’ gaze lands right on his lips. Edwin’s mind goes through a litany of he kissed me, he kissed me—, while Charles looks up at the ceiling and somehow manages to blush, after all, as ghosts apparently do.
The boy takes a shuddering breath, "...And,”— the sound that comes out is awful, but frankly, Edwin couldn’t care less if he had the voice of his old nanny. “And you've spent some time with really awful people, haven't you?"
“Pardon?”
“You said I’m the worst, but you’ve spent some time with the lot in… in Hell.”
“Hmm. That is correct.”
Despite everything, despite the growing thunder in their stomachs, tentative fingers come back to brush at the sides of his head, play-tugging at the curls unfurling, the sensation even stronger when he is at arm’s length, no longer overwhelmed by their proximity. You’d reckon Charles has had his fill after what must have been a solid quarter of an hour spent embracing. Hugging? Whatever it was, Edwin's body feels like it has just awakened, coming out of a particularly deep slumber. He’s feeling a bit more like himself, moreover: brand new, reconstructed with fitter parts, now that his whole body knows how to hold him, and his neck carries the tiny ghost of Charles’ kiss.
"They do not hold a candle to your awfulness, though,” he teases, suddenly remembering what brought this on, their half-baked fight and Charles being far too clever for his own good. Charles snorts and rolls his eyes, and the air feels lighter again. Freed from worry, he returns to his default state of— smiling, a sharp canine biting into his lower lip. Ah, there he is. "Mhm. I'm so evil. A real trippin’ lad. Almost feel sorry that you're stuck with me."
"I shall."
"You shall," Charles agrees, gently mocking. The corner of Edwin’s lip turns up in a sweet curve.
"And where is my apology?"
"It was right there, wasn't it?"
Oh, for goodness sake.
"Charles?"
"Yeah?"
"Do not hand me a living bloody mouse when I am waiting for something with my hand outstretched ever again. Thank you."
Charles' laugh is a damn revelation. It could bomb their entire office building or drop from the Heavens as a reversed offering to the weak and the damned; it seems deafening enough to Edwin's ears.
"Absolutely no promises, mate.”