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It’s 1am you're both sleeping in your bed because you told him you would rather die than sleep in his.
At least not before he cleans up a little, but you gotta admit that place has a weird charm as a byproduct of being so wholeheartedly Charlie. Sure, it’s nice sometimes to be there with him, but sleeping there is an entirely different feat due to the cats and Frank and the broken bedspring that always digs into your back. So you invited him to your place, and you drank and watched shitty movies and fell asleep at 11 pm because your head starts hurting if you stay up too late these days.
You wake up a couple of hours later, and your window is open because it is late summer and the breeze is nice. You just changed your sheets and they smell faintly of your detergent. He’s on his side, snoring lightly. You’d asked him if he wanted to change into something else but he insisted he was fine in his t-shirt and jeans. At least he took off his shoes.
You don’t mind.
Your hand is on his chest and you can feel how his chest rises and falls with each breath. He smells familiar, of the bar and a little musty (or very musty if you're honest) with a hint of cheddar cheese. It’s Friday, so he has a hint of some sort of cheap sandalwood five-in-one from his weekly shower. And he’s warm, which is nice because it is almost September, and the nights are getting a little too cool to sleep without a blanket anymore.
From outside your window, it's quiet, only the sounds of trees rustling and the occasional car passing by. There's some light coming in from a streetlamp, and it lights up his face just enough that you can see his freckles dotting his skin and his eyelashes flutter lightly when he exhales. You keep telling him how pretty he is and he keeps giving you this weird look like he’s not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment or not. You can’t help saying it, though, he really is beautiful. You smile real wide just to yourself and a warmth fills your chest. You feel safe.
You adjust your body a bit, careful not to move him too much as you get comfortable again. As you shift your arm out from under your side, Charlie stirs a bit and looks at you through half-open eyes. He turns onto his back, and drapes his closest arm around you, pulling you closer. You worm your way onto his chest, putting your head there. You place your arm on his stomach, feeling how warm and soft it is. He laces his hands through yours, and they're rough and they're also beautiful, freckled like the rest of him. He hums contentedly and you feel his other hand rubbing your back absent-mindedly until it stills and his light snoring resumes. You close your eyes and fall asleep listening to his steady heartbeat.
It’s 9pm and you’re both in your apartment.
You’re playing music quietly from a speaker, and both of you are sitting cross-legged on the floor. You had been drinking and talking about nothing in particular when you had suggested drawing together.
It had not been completely unplanned, you had seen Charlie’s markers and crayons before, broken and running out of ink. After one of your shifts, you had gone to Target and picked up one of those SuperTips Crayola sets, the kind your parents always said was too expensive, and that you didn’t need. You had been waiting to use them with him since.
And now here you are, both scribbling away on the coffee table, markers littering the table and floor. You smile to yourself, remembering how excited he was about the markers, especially the scented ones. You look up at him, concentrating on what looks like a cat with laser-beam eyes who he tells you has been chasing him in his dreams. His brow is furrowed lightly and you watch him color the beams with the cherry-scented marker. You can’t help but laugh as you notice unmistakable marker lines around his nose. Upon closer inspection, his tongue is also colored when he speaks.
You look down at your own drawing, a pretty sick-looking dinosaur with sunglasses and a flame behind him. Badass.
It's 1 pm on a Sunday and you’re on your back on his dingy pull-out couch and he’s straddling your hips with his thighs.
You feel the mattress dip where it’s surely been broken for years and it creaks with the weight of the both of you. Weeks-old crumbs are digging into your back but you’re more focused on the man on top of you who is thumbing the hem of your shirt, roaming your body with his hands. You’re out of breath and flushed red, feeling your heart beat faster in your chest.
His hands still briefly as he resumes kissing you, and you strain your neck to close the distance. You hook your fingers in his belt loops, pulling them slightly, granting you a surprised grunt into your mouth.
Charlie’s hands grasp at your skin from under your shirt, slightly calloused and warm, making you shiver and sigh into his mouth.
He kisses like he’s starving for it, sloppily, rough, and entirely impatient. For how little you have seen him drink water, his lips are soft, contrasted with the roughness of his facial hair.
He pulls away from the kiss, staring at you, face flushed so much you almost lose sight of the freckles on his cheeks. You pause to look him over. His shirt is riding up slightly and you can see the trail of hair peeking over the waistband of his jeans, and the freckles dotting his stomach and hips. His face is glistening with sweat as he tries to catch his breath. From above you, his green eyes look dark, almost blending into his blown pupils and shaded by long dark lashes.