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Edwin is reading. Charles doesn’t know what the book is about, he can’t see the title from this angle, but it’s a thick, monster-sized tome that Edwin had convinced the bloke running the Fell bookshop to part with. (Charles was a bit distracted during the whole event, there was a giant snake there just watching them from a sun soaked chair. Charles watched it back.) And now–Edwin is reading.
Whatever the book is (it must have clever ideas, or clever characters), it’s making Edwin smile; a delighted little quirk at the side of his mouth. Barely there, but practically a beacon, if you’re Charles. And Charles is keeping his hands curled tight in his lap, because the urge to reach is making his fingertips shake. Edwin’s joy is a quiet, fierce thing, and Charles is never struck by the need to be still, except with Edwin, soaking in the presence and the silence and the peace they’ve carved out for themselves in their flat.
Edwin’s eyes lift from the page (the text looks tiny, the book is probably older than both of them combined) and catches Charles staring. Charles shrugs a little helplessly, a little hopelessly, no words welling up to explain the oddness. Edwin arches an eyebrow, mouth twisting into a concerned frown, and guilt pulses in Charles’ chest at the thought of ruining the blanket soft peace of the day.
“Charles, are you alright?” Edwin is still looking at him, like Charles is a puzzle, a case worth solving.
Yeah, is on the tip of his tongue. It wouldn’t be a lie either. Charles is here in this room, almost dizzy with content, because Edwin is here too, with his snappy commentary and shelf of manga from Niko and the passive aggressive post-it note war he’s been having with Crystal. Charles loves him so bloody much that it’s a good thing he doesn’t need to breathe anymore, because just thinking about it makes him forget how .
But he didn’t say that to Edwin, did he? Wanted to get him out of hell and back in arms reach and safe; no time for Charles fully realize, to murmur back I’m in love with you too, you know ? He’s been running from the cold for so long he didn’t know what to do when Edwin stopped.
“Charles?” Edwin’s properly frowning, now. That won’t do. Charles gives himself a mental shake.
“I’m good, mate.” He pulls up a smile from his non-corporeal heart. “What are you reading?”
Edwin’s brightens. He lifts the cover so Charles can see the fancy gold typing on the front. “--it’s quite fascinating, really.”
“Yeah?” Charles stands from the chair he’d been haunting (ha) until he’s at Edwin’s chair. He sinks to the floor, then gently leans back until he can tip his head to rest on Edwin’s knees. “Read it to me?” Charles asks him, quiet. He’s looking up at Edwin, so he knows the pressure he can feel on his head is from Edwin running his hand through Charles’ curls. His eyes fall shut. If he could be alive again (he doesn’t want that, not truly, but if ) he would want Edwin alive, too, so he could hug him close and hear him breathe and feel the way his fingers clutched tight against his sleeve. He would want to know the warmth of their palms, hands swinging between them, Charles smiling widely and Edwin pretending he doesn’t like it, but lacing their fingers tighter together.
“It’s a love story,” Edwin says, and it sounds almost like a warning.
Charles opens his eyes, smiles up at Edwin. “Best kind, isn’t it?”
Edwin stutters. Charles blinks innocently at him, forcing himself not to smile when Edwin huffs and swats his shoulder. Edwin settles back in the chair, smoothing the pages of the book in the fussy way of his, not seeing the way Charles smiles at him for it.
That’s ok, though. Charles will find the words.
They have time.