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"Why would he kick you out?" you ask, unable to stem your curiosity despite the don't-ask vibes Charles is putting off. He looks like a wet dog and frankly smells like one too: his clothes are soaked through, his eyes are red-rimmed and his hair is flattened against his skull. You can tell the only thing he hates more than being seen like this is being asked that question. As soon as the words leave your mouth, he grits his teeth and takes a step inside your house, as if in payment for your meddling. For a torturous moment there is nothing but the sound of rain pounding on the roof of your front porch awning as he searches your eyes for something; you wish you knew what, as you’d give it up in a heartbeat.
"... 'cause I told him I gave up on being school president," he finally replies, eyes downcast, muddied shoes paused on the doormat. He looks at you for permission to move further, permission to fully come inside, as a small shiver travels his body and your heart melts. You certainly weren’t expecting a visit from your friend so soon after the end of the school day. He had rushed off to talk to his dad after deciding to quit the race for student body president, but you couldn’t have predicted he would kick Charles out of the house in the middle of a rain storm over something so trivial. Politics aren’t trivial to either of them, you suppose. Neither of your parents are home and you’d just barely managed to change into something more comfortable when the doorbell rang, almost inaudible over a clap of thunder accompanying the downpour outside.
"Jesus," you start, and then find you have nothing else to say. Anger bubbles under the surface for the umpteenth time since Charles began to let you in on his imperfect home life. Anger isn't constructive now, though. Charles looks so tragically not himself (and cold) that you force yourself to compartmentalize your fury and get your best friend warm, safe and dry. "Let's get you showered. I probably have some clothes that might fit you." It’s unlikely they’ll fit him right, but the idea of him wearing your clothes elicits a secret thrill that you push down for the time being: crisis mode activated.
Charles removes his soggy shoes, delicately shuts the front door behind him, and follows you to your room as he has countless times before. The attached bathroom offers some privacy, so you give him a rudimentary tutorial on how the solitary knob works to control the shower temperature before closing the door to give him space to strip and clean off. Despite yourself, you have to fight the blush rising on your face as you leave him to his own devices. Before you can have a stern conversation with yourself about boundaries and not revealing your sexuality (and growing-out-of-hand crush!) to your friend, you hear the front door open and cringe as your dad audibly trips over Charles' discarded shoes.
Forcing yourself to leave the bedroom as you hear the shower turn on, you rush to the entryway and open your mouth before you've planned out what to say. Your dad gives you a smile and a good-natured shake of his head, causing water droplets to mist outwards in all directions.
"I didn't know you were into this kind of style, son," your dad gestures to the posh shoes still drying on the doormat, mostly unscathed after their collision with his boots. You hazard a grin in response before launching into a speech that you took about twelve seconds to prepare whilst running from your room to the front door. You explain those muddy-but-elegant shoes belong to Charles, something you suspect your dad already knows.
"His dad's a real piece of work, y’know, and he's got nowhere to go, and I'll pay for his food myself since I've got a lot saved from working part time," you beg rapidly, afraid to leave a gap for your father to say 'no'. Your parents (particularly your animal-loving, music-minded, soft-hearted dad) are quite easy-going but you imagine housing a whole other human for an indeterminate period of time would put a strain on any household.
"Well, kiddo, I've got to ask your mother, but… I'm sure she'll say yes,” he gives you another smile and flips his hair out of his eyes, something he’s been doing since long before you were born. In an instant, his usually relaxed expression grows more pensive. “I can't believe the nerve of that Hoffer guy, though, kicking his son out over some pageantry… BS," your dad replies when you take a moment to catch your breath. You pull him into a bear hug, thank him before he can remind you that your mom hasn't said yes yet, and head back to the bedroom. The shower is off, leaving the room eerily quiet save for the tired whir of the fan drifting out of your bathroom.
"Charles?" you give a tentative knock on the bathroom door, heart sinking as you imagine him weeping in the tub or perhaps judging the state of your messy bathroom. Your mom insists that you clean it out every few months, but as you've gotten older she's been visiting your space less and less often. This means that the bathroom trash can is overflowing with wrappers from your favourite candies and a spent deodorant stick or two, not to mention the photo of you and Charles that you just remembered is stuck to your mirror with silly putty. That’s a normal male friend thing, though, right? Having a photo of them in your bathroom? You are approaching a meltdown that might involve breaking down the door and burning everything to the ground when you hear commotion on the other side of the door.
"Can you uh... give me some clothes?" Charles replies, muffled by the door, after moments of agonizing silence. You clap a hand over your mouth, immediately imagine him naked and scrunch your eyes closed to try and stop thinking altogether. Amidst the chaos of his unplanned arrival at your house and your state of shock at showing him the shower knob, you neglected to hand Charles an outfit to change into. Behind the door, he’s got nothing on but your towel, the one you use every day that still has a stain from that time he helped you dye your hair. After assuring him you’ll grab ‘some stuff’, you quickly and quietly ransack your closet for something. It only takes a moment of extra time to locate your favourite old hoodie as part of his new outfit.
When everything is ready, you halt at the closed door to the bathroom and knock shyly as if you weren't just talking together at normal volume less than a minute ago. The door slowly opens and your eyes dart around surreptitiously, seeking flesh, until his head appears along with just under half of his body.
"It's cool, we're both guys," he says, addressing the discomfort you’re unable to conceal, though he doesn't sound convinced himself. Terrified he's somehow sensed your feelings, you give a nervous laugh in response and practically throw the clothes at him through the widening crack in the door. He gets the message and shuts the door as you turn to face your bed, feeling faint as you recall the sliver of exposed leg you could see through the gap. You will never look at your bathroom door the same way again.
The hoodie smells like you and is oversized even on your larger frame; the garment might just swallow Charles whole, something you desperately would like to do. Several deep breaths do little to ground you, but you try all the same. Your best friend will actually be homeless if you don't take him in. He's been rejected by his dad, something that his mom must’ve at least allowed, over his decision to drop out of the race for school president of all things. Your dick needs to seriously calm down and stop thinking about how he's going to look in that damn sweater. You hastily shake away all impure thoughts and prepare your game face for the rest of the evening.
When Charles emerges, his hair is wet and unstyled and your clothes are predictably oversized on his smaller frame. God is testing you. You rise to the challenge, gluing your eyes to his face with concentration verging on lunacy. If he notices, he says nothing: his eyes are likewise glued to the floor anyhow.
"So, how do you, uh... feel?" you stutter lamely, suddenly unable to communicate with a friend who knows everything about you (except that one really important thing, that is). He gives you a trademark Charles glare but says nothing before flopping down onto the bed next to you. You’re sitting on the edge and trying not to freeze as his wet arm brushes yours when he suddenly bolts upright.
“I feel like doing homework. I feel like acing our final exams and going to college and becoming who I want to be, as soon as possible,” he says with the usual determination that sparked your interest when you first met as his excited interviewer, his first fan. If Charles says it will be so, it will be so: you believe this above all else. If he had actually wanted to win an election all these years he would’ve done it, full stop.
Your mother arrives home from the veterinary clinic later, after dad’s plated up a nutritious dinner for four instead of the usual three. Your dog follows her around the house as she removes her bag, hangs her keys and shakes off the umbrella she used to walk the five steps from her car to the front door. Your parents' love of animals partially united them: you’ve heard the stories of the duck pond, the very same one you first people-watched at with Charles. Your mom works hard as a veterinarian in town at the clinic she owns and operates with your father, but she’s far more of a workaholic and ends up with her head in the clouds on occasion. It’s not until she’s right next to you that she notices Charles is even at the dinner table.
“Oh! I wasn’t expecting company. Sorry I’m late,” she rushes to her seat and gives your father a kiss on the cheek. Your dad smiles and takes the first bite, signalling it’s time to dig in. Your mom launches into a story about an obese beagle beginning his water exercise routine that you all listen to with rapt attention. Your dad has his own stories despite them working in close proximity all day: you’re grateful for the background noise as you work out a way to convince your mom that having an extra, 18-year-old child around is suddenly a good idea.
“Are you feeling okay dear?” your mother looks directly at Charles and his half-eaten meal as she takes her last bite. Charles nods his head profusely, putting all of his energy into convincing your family he is just fine. Your mom eyes him suspiciously but doesn’t make another comment, likely chalking up his behaviour to typical teenage melodrama. Your father collects the plates tactfully, not making mention of your friend’s lack of appetite.
It’s your turn to wash the dishes tonight, yet your dad has the water running and the first dish washed before you stand to help. He gives you a look, somewhere between ‘it’s fine’ and ‘talk to your mother right now’, a look you are well-versed in. Not wanting to deal with it, scared of a ‘no’ answer, you roll up your sleeves before your father opens his mouth to draw your mother’s attention. Simultaneously, you realize she’s staring Charles down at the dinner table.
“Will you be staying the night, Charles?” your mom enquires in a plain and non-confrontational manner that somehow still has you straightening your back in defense. Charles looks at you with a deer-in-headlights look and you finally give up the charade of helping with the dishes to face your mom.
“Mom, Charles got kicked out. Can he stay here?” you burst out clumsily before things go any further. You were hoping to have a private audience where you could be spared the indignity of anyone witnessing your begging, but your options ran out as soon as your mom walked in the door and shook off her umbrella. If you have to, you might get down on your hands and knees: Charles doesn’t really have many other friends, and with his pride you’re not sure he’d ask anyone else for a place to stay anyway.
“Kicked out? For what?” your mom asks, shock evident on her face. She looks at your dad for more information, but finds nothing in his apologetic features. You explain the situation, at times all three of you participating as if you’re trying to convince her to take home another shelter animal desperate for love. She holds up her hands defensively to stop the torrent of voices. Your father has halted the dishes halfway through just to dry off and rest a now-wrinkly hand on your mother’s shoulder.
“Of course Charles is welcome here,” she says, looking directly at your friend with a sad smile. “As long as you need, dear. But we should talk to your parents before things go too far.” The prospect of this is daunting for everyone involved. Your mom has never met Charles’ father, but you have the distinct impression they would not get along. Your mom is authentic, loud, unafraid, unlike that weasel of a man who would throw his own son out for deviating from the plans he made for him.
You make arrangements to visit Charles’ place and retrieve his things on the upcoming Saturday. Your dad will be coming along to try and talk some sense into Charles’ dad and hopefully help you protect your anxious friend from any vitriol that jerk might send his way. Part of you still feels like this is a silly disagreement that can and will be resolved after some heart-to-heart discussions, but the terror in your friend’s expression as the trip is scheduled says otherwise. Your mom wanted to come along, but she works Saturdays at the clinic and tends to let her anger get the best of her. Your gently and easygoing father is much less likely to deck Hoffer Sr., even if he ends up really wanting to.
You head upstairs after a hearty meal and set up an inflatable mattress at the other side of your room in an attempt to emphasize your nonexistent heterosexuality. Sleeping next to him would be too intimate for friends, you tell yourself. Even if it’s on separate beds, you don’t want to freak him out. You’ve never had a sleepover with Charles: he never wanted to come over for more than an afternoon, something you always put down to his strict schedule for overachievement.
The weekend brings with it the field trip to the mansion Charles once called home. Your father pulls into the driveway, unable to hide his amusement and discomfort with the excessive gaudiness of the ‘house’ before you: it’s larger and fancier than any others you know. When you approach to knock on the door, Charles grips your arm tightly until the door opens up. Charles’ mother opens the door and looks altogether displeased to see her son. Her displeasure lacks cruelty; it’s rooted more in concern than disgust, you think. Charles doesn’t seem to notice the difference, or perhaps it’s all the same to him as he inches behind your back.
Your dad and his mom chat for a bit as you slow your breathing at your proximity both to Charles and his ostentatious house. It seems from the conversation that Mr. Hoffer is out and his mom is just so terribly sorry about the disagreement he and his son are having, which has nothing to do with her at all. No one present can suppress an eye roll. She gives her blessing, apologies and subtle insistence that Charles stay with you, a concept you remain conflicted about for health reasons.
After the cumbersome small talk, you get the go-ahead to collect Charles’ things. His room is much tidier and nicer than yours, but there’s a coldness to it that creeps you out a bit. While you’re packing, Charles’ sister makes an appearance to tearfully hug her brother and assure him that she loves him no matter what and that she’ll make their dad pay for this. He silences her from divulging further information with a single look and a long hug. Charles packs everything he needs: hair products including but not limited to his hair gel and fancy shampoo, as many pieces of clothing as he can fit in his bag and his trusty notebooks. With a lamentation about where he’ll get his clothes dry-cleaned now, especially now that they’re all crumpled up, you both bid his room goodbye and head back out to tell your dad you’re ready to leave.
Something is wrong when you approach the front room: your dad’s voice is growing louder, an extremely unusual departure from his usual peaceful, low tones. Charles freezes when another, even angrier voice cuts your father off: Hoffer Sr must be home. "Let's bounce," you suggest in a whisper. Eager to escape without confronting that intimidating cretin, you grab Charles’ hand and march to the direction of the exit.
You don’t bother to acknowledge your friend’s father as you head past your own to reach the safety of the car. Your dad makes no effort to stop you, but even at a high speed and with blood pulsing in your ears you manage to make out part of Mr. Hoffer’s rant.
“Regardless, I can’t have a son running around confused saying he’s a queer,” his dad spits out in the moments before the front door you just opened slams shut behind you. Further, worse expletives are muffled by the door but not indiscernible. Without realizing it, you squeeze Charles’ hand and rush to hide behind your dad’s car. Charles is long gone mentally: his eyes are wide and disturbed, even as you keep his hand firmly planted in your own. Within seconds your father is storming out behind you, unlocking the car doors and peeling out of the driveway.
Not a word is said about the allegations Mr. Hoffer leveled against his son as the three of you head home with a bag full of clothes and a fresh set of emotional baggage. It’s not until the next day that you dare broach the subject with Charles in any way. You both have school the following day, and you can’t wait any longer to find out the truth. You remind yourself repeatedly, ferociously, desperately, that him being gay doesn’t mean he’d suddenly want to date you. You think you’re a pretty attractive guy, but he also probably remembers that time you fell into the duck pond while animatedly telling a joke or that time you snorted milk and it came out of your nose. Recalling the last memory almost stops your curiosity from getting the better of you once again, but the desire to know for sure is too tempting.
“Why did he say that about you?” you ask Charles, catching him by surprise as he uses your desk to work on homework. He nearly jumps out of his skin before turning around to face you. You expected panic or fear at your questioning: instead, he looks angry. No further explanation is needed for him to understand exactly what you’re asking about.
"Oh I don't know dude, maybe because I'm gay? Maybe because he kicked me out for coming out?" Charles almost shouts, anger transposed from his father to you. You can't help but show the incredulity you feel on your face: for a moment you feel as though you willed this into the universe by simply wishing for it. If that’s the case, though, you indirectly caused him to be kicked out of his house. That house was toxic, anyway, you reassure yourself half heartedly as if you have any control over what Charles says or thinks. You understand at once that he’s expecting an answer to his revelatory exclamation.
"For... for real? You're gay?" you ultimately settle on asking, lowering your voice to a whisper as if your parents can hear through your door and also haven’t discussed the bombshell his dad dropped yesterday. Recalling that your dad heard what you did (and more) from Mr. Hoffer, you feel sudden relief that Charles hasn’t been kicked out of your house now. Your dad, at least, is almost certainly not homophobic - a pleasant and welcome surprise. Too bad the same can’t be said for Charles’ own father, the loser. Your expression must read as disapproval, because Charles switches from anger to fear in a millisecond.
"Look, I'm sorry. I can find somewhere else to stay, but I'll probably need a few days. I can sleep in your living room or something, your back patio, your front porch, just don't kick me out. You know you can trust me, we’re best friends," he pleads. You try to think of the best way to communicate that you are not homophobic and, in fact, have been crushing on him for a long time now. Words fail. You pull him into a hug and the waterworks start.
You're both crying by the time he withdraws from the hug. Charles chooses to pull away, something that hurts a little before you remind yourself it's not about you right now. Everything is so raw that you feel the need to contribute a piece of yourself, even if the prospect is daunting. You could tell him your sexuality without confessing your feelings. It could be like a solidarity moment or something!
But what if he thinks you're hitting on him? You kind of would be, anyway. But what if that creeps him out? Or what if he thinks you're taking advantage of his moment of vulnerability to prank him or 'try things out'? You stare at him with panicked confusion written all over your face from the predicament your overthinking has got you into, praying he won't flee in the time it takes you to corral your thoughts.
"I'm bi," you settle on saying, which feels mostly true at this moment in time. You’ve liked girls, you’ve liked guys, you've just never actually dated anyone. Ever. You didn’t even realize your feelings for Charles until you were past neck deep and near-drowning in them. It must have started from the first time you met, though you can’t remember the first time you imagined the feel of his lips on yours. Charles’ eyes widen at your confession: initially he’s in disbelief, which quickly morphs to confusion and then, confusingly, to a dose of self-satisfaction.
“I had no idea,” he says, though it’s with this bizarre, awkward, half-smug smile, making his true feelings on the subject nearly impossible to parse. He can’t be grossed out, at least, since he just admitted his bona fide homosexual status to you. A quiet moment follows, but you feel satisfied having added a secret of your own to the mix. Before long your tears have dried and a snack is in order; you’re a firm believer that food soothes the soul.
It takes just over a week of living with Charles for things to start getting weird. There's still nearly a month of school left and you've adapted a routine to maximize your separate spaces and needs. Charles is all about routines, something you learned quickly when his alarm rang at 6 AM sharp the morning after he first came to stay. He gets up, showers, and spends an hour in the bathroom doing whatever he does before he starts in on reviewing his planner and planning the upcoming day. In contrast, you once believed that waking up at 8 AM (a solid hour before school starts!) was an impressive feat, even if you tended to snooze the alarm a few times. No longer.
Charles has started doing this thing where he kind of… wakes you up. It happened this past Friday after over a week of sharing a bedroom and, while caught off guard, you were too sleepy to really comprehend what was going on. Later you convinced yourself that it was a sleep deprivation-induced delusion, infinitely more likely than your best friend standing over you to shake you lightly awake after the second snooze. You spent the weekend working and walking around both with and without Charles, the latter an attempt to create some space between the two of you before you did something crazy. By Sunday night, Friday’s confusion was completely forgotten and you fell asleep before you could remember to be nervous about the next day.
You're dreaming about Charles again, something you had trouble with even before he moved into your room and left his hair products strewn about your bathroom and his favourite books stashed in your desk drawers. Your closet is overtaken by his clothes. Charles has completely infiltrated your room; it’s only reasonable that he’s further penetrated your sleep. This particular dream is abstract, or at least it feels that way when you wake up. You’re in Charles’ house again and a feeling of dread envelopes you as you notice he’s there with you, too. Usually it’s quite pleasant to be around him, but the present proves to be an exception: he looks scared, small and unable to speak. An ominous blanket of fog surrounds the two of you, making it difficult to see or hear him anyway.
You reach out an arm to touch him but he recoils. Any attempt to close the gap between you is similarly thwarted without a clear reason. Your arms flail around uselessly as he dodges each weak endeavour with ease. Frustratingly, you manage to latch onto the fabric of his smart white shirt only for him to pull away yet again and start mumbling incomprehensibly.
“What are you saying?” you question gruffly, annoyed and confused and desperate to get out of this unfamiliar and uncomfortable place. Your voice, too, seems distorted as soon as it leaves your throat. Charles grows louder in response to your own raised voice, even if your words must be unintelligible.
“Wake up!” his voice penetrates the fog, a beacon of light to a petrified man. You realize what he’s saying with a start, and promptly obey without making a conscious choice. One moment you’re trapped in hell with fancy tablecloths, candleholders and an expensive fridge devoid of magnets or life, and the next you’ve bolted upright in bed and are staring directly into the eyes of your best friend. Your best friend who happens to be on top of you, trying to disentangle his tidily buttoned shirt from your curled fingers.
“I am so sorry,” you apologize profusely before taking the time to understand what exactly has happened. Sleep is hard to shake off, especially under the current unbelievable circumstances. Charles pries your hand from his shirt and stands without speaking; you can see the red on the tips of his ears and the back of his neck as he readily retreats to the bathroom. You really fucked up, pulling him on top of you while half-asleep, but it’s hardly all your fault. Charles should know better than to go around smelling amazing and sounding like the love of your life whilst you’re fast asleep.
The morning incident isn’t discussed until evening, after a day full of winding down lessons and awkward hallway greetings. Charles is at your desk again, chewing on a pencil in an unfortunately obvious display of anxiety that he doesn’t even notice he does. He’s poring over an assignment, or at least he appears to be until you notice his eyes darting in your direction. You’re trying to read a comic book but find the practice of stealing glances back at him much more appealing.
“I shouldn’t have…” Charles begins, and you’re not certain you want to hear the rest so you rush to interrupt.
“No, I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. It’s nice of you to try and help me get up for school, especially since I’m sure it’s hard to tiptoe around before I wake up,” you finish nervously, hoping that with your interjection he’ll forget what he was saying and not make some unnecessary promise like not waking you up again or not sleeping in your room or leaving your house altogether. He’s sensed your displeasure at his unspoken sentiment and seems more annoyed than understanding.
“Take a chill pill, dude,” he insists, setting his pencil down with unnecessary force. You take note that the homework sheet is blank save for his name. “It’s weird for me to do that, especially since you know that I’m… I'm… well, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I’ll just stay out of your hair in the mornings so it doesn’t happen again.”
Briefly, you wonder if you did something more devious than simply grasping onto his shirt for dear life. With the way he’s talking, you’d hardly be surprised if he’d been seducing you through your firmly shut eyelids with his masculine wiles. He does have a siren’s call effect on you, but you have enough sense to keep that thought to yourself.
"Why are you bugging out like this?” you ask with only a hint of sincerity, trying to keep it lighthearted while still setting down your comic book and focusing entirely on Charles. He doesn’t like the question, but indulges you all the same. Even when he’s irritated with you or his dad or life in general, Charles never fully blows you off. He sits back in your chair, turns to look at you and rubs his temples dramatically.
“I’m not ‘bugging out’, okay? I just don’t want things to get weird between us. Like, just because I’m gay I’m not trying to- I don’t want you to think that I-”
“Like me like that?” you finish for him, unable to stop the colour rushing to your face and emotions catching in your throat. Your voice sounds hysterical, even to you, revealing more than you ever planned to when he stood on your doorstep the week before last, drenched by the rain and spirit crushed. This is the absolute last time you should confess your feelings for him, right as he’s convincing you he has no interest in you, but you feel compelled to do so. Perhaps sensing your imminent mistake in the making, Charles hardens his features and turns back to his homework with nothing but a grunt of acknowledgment.
You go for a walk. The blessed hours you imagined you’d spend basking in Charles’ company are not what you’d hoped. You don’t want him to leave, but you’re not sure you can take the emotional yo-yo of living with your best-friend-slash-crush for another month or more. You find an adequately sized rock to sulk on at the duck pond as the last rays of sun vanish from the sky. You’re just setting in for a good pity party when you hear light footsteps beside you.
“I’m wearing your shoes,” the voice behind you says, unmistakably belonging to the subject of both your dreams and nightmares. Charles plops down beside you casually, wearing the oversized flip flops you keep by the back door to walk around the yard with the dog and the red sweater you gave him on his first day at your house. It’s almost beyond belief that it’s been just two weeks since he moved in with you; it feels much longer. He's slightly out of breath and the sweater-sandal combo reads as hastily selected.
“You have your own clothes,” you tell him mildly, trying not to let on how the sight of him in your clothes brightens even an overcast and dark night like this one. The glow of the streetlamps in the vicinity illuminate just enough for you to catch his small smile.
“I like wearing yours,” he replies, inching ever so slowly closer to you on the rock you’ve taken up residence on. You wonder if he remembers people-watching with you: it wasn’t that long ago, but maybe it was more important to you than to him. “Look, I’m sorry for making it weird. I just don’t want to ruin what we have,” Charles explains. You swallow thickly, trying not to read too deeply into his statement.
One beat passes, then two, then you swiftly lose count of the seconds spent biting your tongue. Everything you’ve seen indicates that Charles is mortified by the very idea of you thinking he’s got feelings for you. The way he cuts off any line of questioning that involves romance, how he always shies away from talking about anything romantic or sexual, leads you to believe it’s less that he’s ashamed about his sexuality and more that he’s just not interested in discussing it with you. Even telling him you were bi didn’t seem to affect him much aside from that dumbfounded look he had for a day or so afterwards. Try as you might, though, you can no longer convince yourself that your relationship is better off with you concealing your decidedly non-platonic love for the stubborn dork you’re currently sitting beside in the dark.
“Would it be so bad if things were ruined?” you posit, turning your head in the opposite direction of his face so you can’t attempt to gauge his reaction. He starts to sputter and you realize you’re being extremely unclear. “What if it’s me, in love with you?”
The night is unbearably still. Not a single solitary cricket chirps, no ducks splash in the pond, no dogs can be heard barking in the distance. The air seizes up around the pair of you as Charles is evidently made speechless by your half-assed confession. You slowly force your neck to a more comfortable position: straight ahead, less strain and the same cowardly avoidance of any emotional consequences of your words. The guilt and silence begins to eat you alive when he eventually replies.
“Are you?”
“What if I am?”
“I’m serious. Be honest with me. Do you mean that?” he insists, not letting you get away with it so easily. You sigh and dare to turn and face him. His eyes shine in the dark, lit by the streetcars and slivers of the moon visible through the clouds. You stand on the precipice of destroying the best friendship you’ve ever had. At least Kato will still stand by you after this. Probably.
“I like you more than I should,” you state slowly, testing the words as they leave your mouth. Speeches are his thing, not yours. He has to understand how uncomfortable you are, but his mouth is slightly agape and he’s not contributing very much to the conversation at the moment. His look of surprise could simply be self evident, or it could indicate alarm or distaste. There’s also a miniscule possibility that he could actually be excited to hear what you have to say, which gives you the strength to continue even without feedback.
“I’ve never felt like this for someone before, so I guess I can’t say for sure, but I want to be near you all the time. Having you in my room for the past little while has been extremely difficult for me because I want to touch you at any and every given moment. I’m sorry if this is ruining everything, I hope you can understand how hard I worked to hold things back, but all I can think about is how much I love you,” you bluster. In an effort to fill the unnerving silence, you open your mouth again to somehow carry on when Charles cuts you off.
“Kiss me,” he demands, voice breaking as he casts a defiant pair of eyes on you. Eagerly, you comply. Your first kiss is warm and enthusiastic: in your haste to comply, you manage to clack your teeth against his ever so slightly. Going back for a second, you’ve already improved: your mouth slots against his perfectly. If you were to have any regrets, it would be the lack of light with which to see Charles’ every microexpression as it came and went. After a break for air, you’re onto your third kiss and the lighting no longer matters.
Being able to touch what was once off limits sends your head spinning. Charles has to be the one to remind you of curfew and responsibilities and existing in a space outside of the duck pond at 10:45 PM. You head back together, holding hands in the dark and bashfully separating as you approach your front door. Things might be confusing from here on out, but you know you’ll have your best friend beside you. Your best friend whose lips happen to taste better than any fantasy you've ever had.