Work Text:
APRIL 26th, 1991
It was cold in the attic. Not freezing, but the kind of damp chill that seeped into sleeves and curled around ankles.
The air smelled of old wood and rain – sharp and metallic – and the light was dimmer than usual, filtered through the thick, grey storm clouds outside the narrow windows.
Outside, rain tapped a restless rhythm against the roof. The downpour kept starting and stopping as if the wind couldn't decide whether to allow it or not. It must've been the irregular pattern, or the sharp stiffness in his neck, that woke him.
Edwin blinked, slow and bleary, trying to make sense of what he saw. The attic was darker than it should've been. He shifted slightly, the worn blanket dragging with him, and the movement jostled the figure beside him. All long limbs, tousled hair, and slow, steady breathing. Charles.
Still asleep. Mouth parted slightly. His breath was faintly visible in the cooler air. Edwin paused, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest. His side was pressed against Edwin's for warmth.
It wasn't warm in the attic. But next to Charles, Edwin barely noticed it.
Charles always looked younger when he slept. Less like the boy who ran headfirst into any injustice plaguing the school grounds and more like the boy who kept biscuits in his schoolbag just in case Edwin forgot to eat lunch again. It did strange things to Edwin's chest, watching him like this. He pushed the feelings down.
With a quiet groan, Edwin sat up, stretching out the stiffness in his spine. The attic was their usual meeting place; a small safe space in a school that had let them both down. Over the months they had been friends, they had managed to bring more and more things in: boxes of books forgotten by some teacher – a good alternative for a desk; a blanket they had – perhaps illegally – borrowed from the storage cupboard in the sleeping wing; and an old PE mat stolen from the gym below.
The gym was only used for indoor sports like fencing and boxing nowadays, and once a week by the girls' school for aerobics classes because, unlike the girls' gym, the boys' school owned a large stereo system. Like clockwork, Edwin would watch a group of hormonal teenage boys sneak in front of the big glass windows of the building to watch the girls dance in tight outfits every Monday afternoon. Edwin did not care for it much, but he had gone once, mainly to keep up appearances. Every boy at school had done it, and he didn't wish to be perceived as even stranger than he already was.
Today Charles and he had met after their afternoon class, Charles wanting help with an essay for literature. But since it was a Friday, and Charles was really only motivated by urgent deadlines, they must have dozed off instead. Again.
Edwin checked his watch. It was just past eight in the evening. It had been so dark outside, he had expected it to be later.
"Charles", he said quietly, nudging Charles's loafer. "Charles, wake up."
Charles stirred, grumbled something unintelligible, and rolled onto his back.
"It is eight", Edwin added.
At that, Charles's eyes opened. He sat up fast, eyes unfocused, and his voice sounded faintly panicked. "Eight in the morning?"
"In the Evening."
"Bloody hell." He wiped his face with one hand. His hair was flattened to one side like a very tired bird. "You scared me. Why'd you let me fall asleep, anyway?"
"You looked peaceful."
Charles gave him a vaguely accusatory look, then yawned. "You're obsessed with me."
"Yes", Edwin said flatly. "I secretly pine for you while you drool on school property."
Charles snorted. "Lucky for you, then, I'm charming even when unconscious."
They both stood, collecting their things and brushing lint off their clothes. As they climbed carefully down the ladder into the storage closet and past the change rooms towards the big exit doors, Edwin realized something was wrong.
The lights were off, for a start – not even the hall was lit – and the entrance doors at the far end of the hall had a paper draped across them from the outside.
They walked towards it slowly.
When they reached the door, Edwin peered through the glass as Charles pulled on the handle.
"Locked", Charles mumbled, unhappy. He straightened to look at the paper. The letters were clear enough, but they were mirrored, and it took Edwin's brain a few seconds to work them out. Charles did not seem to have that problem.
He read without hesitation: "Gym closed for the day due to weather warning."
Edwin stared at him.
"You read that mirrored so easily?"
"Yeah. Why?"
Edwin gestured helplessly, trying not to think about how attractive he found that. "That is witchcraft, Charles."
"One does try." Charles gave a modest shrug.
Edwin looked from the sign to the locked door and back again. "So. We are stuck."
"Looks like it."
There was a pause.
"We are going to miss curfew", Edwin said.
Charles's face did something complicated before he shrugged again. His smile turned teasing. "Your perfect attendance'll be in jeopardy, mate."
"Shut up." Edwin rolled his eyes, though a trickle of worry lingered in his stomach. He glanced back towards the storage closet. "Should we simply wait it out upstairs?"
Charles gave the door one more rattle, then nodded. "Suppose so. Better than sitting in the dark like a pair of Dickens orphans."
The rain outside picked up as they climbed back up to the attic. It was loud now, drumming on the roof. Edwin felt his pulse settle just a little. The attic wasn't ideal, but it was theirs. Familiar.
And, Edwin thought as he sat back down on the mat, pulling their ratty blanket over his knees, at least he was not stuck here alone.
A BLANKET FORT & OTHER BAD IDEAS
It started with a complaint, as most of Charles's worst ideas did.
"It's freezing", he announced dramatically, rubbing his hands together. "Absolutely arctic."
Edwin raised a brow from where he was curled against the wall. The torch – which they usually only used in the winter – sat on the floor beside him, shining a large circle onto the ceiling and lightening the room a little.
"You are wearing a jumper and a cardigan", Edwin observed, gesturing broadly.
"Your cardigan! You should be even colder than me!" Charles exclaimed.
"It is almost May."
"In England."
"Touché."
Charles blew into his hands, then began rifling through the pile of odds and ends in the cabinet. Some of it they had collected over the past few months, but some of it must have been in the attic for decades. A gym banner. Two emergency foil blankets. For some reason, three versions of Clue. A ratty sleeping bag someone had left behind, filled with holes – it looked older than Edwin. One truly awful PE bib. A kettle.
Edwin watched Charles’s silent flurry of activity for a moment before asking, warily, "What exactly are you attempting to do?"
"Build a fort."
"Out of what?"
Charles stopped long enough to meet his eyes. "A pile of junk and faith."
Ten minutes later, the so-called fort stood – or rather, wobbled – before them in all its hideous glory. A precarious tent-like structure draped over two folding chairs and a stack of textbooks, propped up by two brooms and held together by a shoelace, a dumbbell, and sheer force of will. It sagged in the middle and smelled faintly of old rubber and socks. One side had already begun to collapse.
"It is dreadful", Edwin said, impressed despite himself.
"It's ours", Charles countered, crawling inside and immediately whacking his head on a broom.
"That was karma", Edwin snorted. Still, he followed him in. He would probably follow Charles anywhere.
The space inside was cramped and chilly and completely ridiculous. And yet, once they were both settled with their legs pulled in, the cave of mismatched stuff surrounding them, Edwin felt a strange sort of warmth. Not from the fort, obviously. From proximity. From Charles.
They stayed there for a while, talking nonsense; complaining about teachers they hated, what songs Charles was currently listening to, whether ghosts were real. Charles claimed he could absolutely take a ghost in a fistfight. Edwin asked how one punches the incorporeal.
"I'd find a way", Charles said solemnly. "For you."
It was unbearably silly. And somehow, it made Edwin's chest ache in a way he did not quite want to acknowledge with Charles this close.
Eventually, though, Charles started fidgeting again, his knee bouncing, fingers drumming against his trousers.
"I need to move", he muttered. "I'll go mad sitting still."
"You already are."
"I'm taking you downstairs", Charles declared, crawling backwards out of the fort and nearly knocking it over entirely. "Come on. I'm teaching you to box."
Edwin blinked. "That is a dreadful idea."
"Too late."
The gym was lit by two streetlamps close to the wall of tall windows. The floorboards gleamed, and the lingering smell of liniment and old sweat clung to the air. Charles, in his element, raided the equipment cupboard with their torch in hand and returned triumphantly with two pairs of boxing gloves and a mouth guard Edwin adamantly refused to wear.
Charles waved it at him anyway. "Health and safety."
"You are not putting that anywhere near my face."
"You wound me."
Edwin let himself be guided to the middle of the room, where Charles began explaining stances and jabs, all confidence and swagger. It was charming, in an entirely irritating sort of way.
"Alright", Charles said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Hands up. Elbows in. Like I showed you."
Edwin raised his fists half-heartedly. "I feel ridiculous."
"‘Cause your stance is all wrong."
"Thank you, Charles", Edwin deadpanned.
Charles started circling Edwin with a serious face, tutting quietly like a disappointed coach.
"No, not like that. Here, you'll fall on your face." Charles stepped closer, lightly nudging Edwin's foot with his own. "There. That's better."
"You are awfully serious about this."
"I don't want you getting hurt."
"I am not going to get in a fistfight with anyone, Charles."
"You say that now", Charles replied, then grinned. "But imagine the look on Headmaster Campbell's face if you decked him."
"Well, that is a thought."
Charles laughed – bright and unguarded – and Edwin could not help smiling too, even if the gloves still felt like bricks tied to his wrists.
"Now, do what I did", Charles said, showing again how to jab, his movement smooth and hypnotising. Edwin, on the other hand, was spectacularly bad at all of it. Charles was patient, if clearly trying not to laugh. When Edwin accidentally hit himself in the nose attempting an uppercut, Charles actually dropped his gloves to double over.
"Do not laugh."
"I'm trying to help you", Charles said through laughter.
"You are mocking me."
"Only a bit."
Edwin scowled but could not help smiling a little. It was impossible to stay cross when Charles looked at him like that: wide grin, bright eyes, joy radiating from him like sunlight.
Eventually, after Edwin missed a swing so wildly that he spun a full quarter-turn, Charles caught his arm gently and held it.
"Alright", he said. "Pretty sure we've proven you should never be trusted in a fight."
"I could use words."
"Your sharp tongue is pretty lethal."
"Precisely."
They stood there for a moment, breathless and flushed. Edwin's pulse was hammering loud in his ears. Charles was close. Too close. Edwin couldn't move. It was Charles who broke eye contact first, glancing down as he took off his gloves.
"Just call for me next time you need to fist-fight someone, alright?"
"I will not", Edwin said primly. "I do not want you getting hurt."
Charles huffed – not quite a laugh – like the thought of him being protected from hurt was amusing. "That's not how this works, mate. Call me or I'll be cross with you."
"No." Edwin looked at him, stubborn and sincere, standing in the middle of the gym floor as if he could will Charles safe through sheer refusal.
The space between them buzzed with heat and something unspoken.
Then: Charles's stomach gave an incredibly loud growl.
"Tragic", Edwin said. "Even the mighty fall."
"We should've packed sandwiches", Charles muttered.
"Do you have any biscuits left in your backpack?" Edwin asked.
"Mmh, I think so."
CHARLES'S LAST HOPE
Charles was rummaging again. He was back to full energy after their biscuit break, and it worried Edwin, who was leaning against the wall, watching him with a kind of fatigued dread. Edwin was silently rethinking every life decision that had led him to this gym at nearly ten o'clock at night.
Then he saw the bat.
"Oh no", Edwin said flatly.
"Oh yes", Charles grinned, holding it aloft like a knight brandishing a very middle-class Excalibur. "If boxing's not your thing – and it's very much not – then maybe there's a cricketer in you."
"I do not believe there is."
"You don't know that."
"I do", Edwin said seriously. "I have failed P.E. for the past two years."
"That's because you spent most of it skipping off to read behind the changing rooms."
"A very reasonable choice, given the circumstances."
Charles ignored him and walked back to the middle of the room, demonstrating the stance; how to bend your knees, and how to loosen your hold on the bat just so while swinging. When Charles swung the bat, it looked like the most natural thing in the world – like he had been born to use it. Edwin could certainly appreciate how Charles looked playing cricket. He had, in fact, watched a few of his games, even if he hardly understood anything about the sport beyond how good Charles looked playing in the sun.
Before Edwin knew it, Charles had pulled him back to the very spot where he had so terribly failed at boxing. He placed the bat in Edwin's hands with the reverence of someone handing over something much more important. Edwin took it awkwardly, weighing it in his palms.
"I do not even know the rules of cricket", he said.
"You don't need to. Just swing like you're trying to knock the absolute soul out of something that's pissed you off."
Edwin raised a brow. "Tempting."
"Good. That's the spirit. Now, just swing the bat like I showed you."
Charles stepped back, arms crossed, watching with the kind of eager focus that made Edwin feel as though he were about to disappoint the best thing that had ever happened to him. Still, he squared his stance, bent his knees a little, and gripped the bat correctly.
"Ready?"
"Not even slightly."
And then he swung.
There was a blur of motion, a whoosh of air, and then the bat flew.
It shot from his grip like it had something to prove (probably how bad this idea had been), sailing in a wide arc across the room, completely ignoring the laws of dignity and trajectory.
Charles darted forward and threw himself over Edwin before the bat had even landed. They both went down in a heap, Charles's arms caging around him, Edwin flat on his back and blinking up at the ceiling.
The bat landed several yards away.
Silence.
Then:
"Did it hit you?" Charles asked, his voice muffled against Edwin's shoulder.
"No."
A beat.
"You okay?"
"Yes."
Another pause.
"Are you laughing?"
Edwin was, quietly, and very much against his will. "A little." If he were honest, he felt a little hysterical.
Charles groaned and shifted just enough to look at him. Their faces were close now. Far too close. Edwin could see the tiny birthmarks on his cheek, the way his lashes curled even in the dim light from the windows. His hair had been perfectly styled when they met that afternoon, but by now it was thoroughly mussed. It suited him.
"You nearly died", Charles said solemnly.
"I nearly embarrassed myself to death. That is not quite the same."
"I saved you."
"You crushed me."
"I shielded you."
"Gallantly", Edwin said with a small snort.
Charles didn't move. "Well, at least we know you're not a batsman, either."
"Tragic", Edwin murmured. "All that untapped potential."
They were still tangled together. And yet, neither of them seemed in a hurry to untangle.
Outside, the wind rattled the gym doors.
Inside, Charles stared down at Edwin, his face unusually closed off.
Edwin swallowed. "We ought to get back upstairs."
Charles nodded, but he didn't move.
IN THE ATTIC WITH NERUDA
By the time they returned to the attic, Charles had declared cricket "a more dangerous sport than he had thought", and Edwin's arms were aching from a single failed swing. Perhaps he had pulled something. Edwin immediately went to crawl into the unstable 'mostly not blankets' fort with dramatic flair, almost hiding. He hated to admit it, but the foil blankets Charles used for the main roof actually stored some warmth. If only they didn’t crinkle so loudly every time he accidentally brushed against them with his head.
"You nearly killed me", Edwin muttered from within the fort.
"You nearly killed me", Charles shot back, nudging Edwin's foot where it peeked out. He flopped onto the PE mat before the entrance. "Your throw is a danger to society."
"I did not throw. I released with artistic force", Edwin said, lifting his chin. As he caught Charles's eye, they both grinned. "There is a difference."
Charles started giggling, and heat bloomed in Edwin's chest. It was infectious. Outside, the storm wind rumbled low, like a distant beast.
Charles crawled in beside him, and they settled under the blanket fort together. Their legs mostly stuck out, so they shared the one proper blanket, draping it over them. The torch sat between them again, casting its warm upward light and making the small space brighter.
Once they were settled, Charles asked, "You got anything to read?"
"Now?" Edwin blinked at him.
"Yeah. I know you've got a book in that bag of yours. You always do."
"Well… yes", Edwin admitted slowly. "But it is only a poetry collection. Not exactly thrilling bedtime material."
Charles shifted to look at him, eyes curious. "Go on, then."
"You want me to read you poetry?"
"Yeah."
"Really?"
"I like your voice", Charles said simply and added, smirking, "Makes you sound smart."
Edwin rolled his eyes, but felt the back of his neck grow hot. "I am smart."
"Exactly."
With a slightly flustered sigh, Edwin rummaged through his satchel and pulled out a slim, battered bilingual edition of Pablo Neruda's selected poems. He'd recently borrowed it from the school library, and perhaps related to it a little too much as of late. He had not once imagined he would be reading it to Charles.
"Who's the poet?" Charles asked lazily, watching Edwin sit down again, cross-legged and upright, brushing against the foil blanket with every slight movement of his head.
"Pablo Neruda."
"Sounds Spanish."
"Chilean", Edwin corrected, clearing his throat and tapping a finger against the spine of the book. "He writes rather beautifully."
"Can I choose the poem? Just say a random page number and you read it, yeah?"
"Of course." Edwin cleared his throat again.
"Page twenty-eight, then."
Edwin hesitated when he saw the title – Poem XVII – and read the first line in his head.
"Go on, then", Charles encouraged.
Quietly, Edwin began:
"I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul."
His voice caught at the word secretly and Edwin hoped Charles hadn't noticed.
He hadn't considered how intense some of these poems were; how personal, how vulnerable they felt when read aloud to someone. To Charles.
"I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body."
He stumbled over the lines and flushed, but Charles wasn't laughing. He was watching him – quiet, attentive, still.
Edwin swallowed. "Sorry. This one is a bit… floral."
"No, it's nice", Charles said softly. "Keep going."
Edwin licked his lips and did. Another few lines, then another poem. The poems unfurled – unravelling longing and velvet and distance and want – until the words blurred into a soft, weighted silence.
The quiet that followed felt like a second blanket folding over them both. When Edwin finally looked up, Charles was staring at him as if he'd never seen Edwin before. Then Charles shifted closer, sitting up so their shoulders brushed.
The attic was dim, and the sound of the rain on the rooftop was louder now.
"You've got a voice for it", Charles said. "Reading, I mean. Makes everything sound sort of… right. Like it's meant to be said out loud by you."
Edwin tried not to blush. "That is very generous of you."
They sat like that for a moment, pressed close under their battered blanket, the air turned electric with unsaid words.
Then Charles asked, "Can I see it?"
"The book?"
Charles nodded.
Edwin passed it over, their fingers brushing. Charles flipped through it, lips quirking when he stopped, and Edwin had a bad feeling about it. He knew what sort of poetry Neruda also wrote. When Charles's smile turned wicked, Edwin knew he was doomed.
"Every Day You Play, huh?" Charles's tone was far too casual for what he said. Edwin's stomach dropped straight through the floorboards.
Charles cleared his throat dramatically, then read aloud in a far-too-smooth voice:
"My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
Until I even believe that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."
He gave a mock gasp, eyes wide in theatrical scandal. "Edwin. Your poetry's got loads of sex in it!"
"Good Lord, give it back", Edwin hissed, snatching the book out of Charles's grip. "They are not all so– so–"
"Racy?"
Edwin covered his face with the book. "It's poetry. It's meant to be sensual."
"Bet the school library didn't realise how sensual."
Charles laughed, collapsing back against the wall, arm brushing Edwin's and nearly bringing the whole blanket fort down.
DESERT ISLAND TAPES & FUNERAL MUSIC
Charles was still grinning when he finally flopped back onto his back, the sound of the storm rattling faintly against the gym roof below. The attic creaked around them like a wooden lung.
Edwin placed the book carefully to one side – embarrassed it had ever been involved – and lay down next to him, their shoulders brushing again.
"You ever think about what you'd put on a desert island tape?", Charles asked, after a long silence. "Like, ten songs, and that's it. Forever."
Edwin gave a soft hum. "I have thought about what I would want at my funeral. That is not quite the same, is it?"
Charles turned to him slowly. "You what?"
"Not in a macabre way", Edwin tried to explain. "More… what music one might choose as one's last word, or at least, one's truest."
Charles just looked at Edwin frowning before he shook his head. "You're a bit morbid, mate, you know that?"
"You say that as though it were news." Edwin shifted onto his side, facing Charles properly now. "Go on, then. What would be on your desert island tape?"
Charles didn't answer right away. He chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking up to the blanket ceiling.
"Probably something from The Specials", he said at last. "Maybe 'Ghost Town'. Oh, and 'One Step Beyond' from Madness. Something that kicks."
"That tracks", Edwin murmured. "You do like a bit of noise with your melody."
"What about you? Let me guess. Something obscure. Slow. Sad."
"Not all sad." Edwin hesitated, then admitted, "At present, I think my favourite song might be Crazy by Patsy Cline."
Charles blinked. "Huh?"
"I am aware that it is not particularly hip."
"No, I didn't mean it like that." Charles sat up a little, elbows braced behind him. "I just don't know if I remember how it goes."
Edwin shrugged, a little self-conscious. Debating whether to say it, he decided he had already given the title away and explained, "It is about wanting someone who does not want you. Being a fool for it. It is very … dramatic."
"You are very dramatic."
Edwin huffed. "Says the boy who once said 'tell my story' when you merely had a sore throat."
Charles shrugged. "It was really sore."
"You lived."
"Barely."
Charles grinned. It faded slowly.
"I want to hear it", he said after a moment. "Crazy, I mean. Will you show me sometime?"
Edwin's eyes met his, something quiet and wide in them. "Alright."
A hush settled between them again, warmer this time. No longer awkward; almost cosy.
Then Charles muttered, almost sheepishly, "I think I'd put a Patsy song on my tape too. To even it out."
Edwin laughed under his breath. "Which one?"
"Dunno yet. Haven't really given her a proper listen." Charles looked at him. "But if you're on the island with me, maybe I'd put Crazy on just for you."
Edwin opened his mouth, then shut it again. For a moment, all he could do was look at Charles – the honest, open shape of him; the slow grin; the way he always seemed to mean what he said, even when it sounded like a joke. The weight of it made Edwin's chest feel tight.
He looked up at the sagging ceiling of the blanket fort. "If I were there, you would not be on a desert island alone, Charles. It might even be a good thing if we were stranded together. Keeping each other out of trouble." Edwin tried to tuck the sincerity away beneath a curl of humour. "I mean… if you wanted me there."
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Charles turning towards him. "Wouldn't wanna be stranded on a desert island with anyone else, mate."
THE PAPERBACK SACRIFICE
Charles laid back again, arms folded behind his head, a crooked little smile still playing on his lips.
"Alright", he said, voice low in the dark. "What about a book? You only get one on our hypothetical island."
"Oh, that is impossible", Edwin said, clearly tortured. "I loathe the idea of limiting myself like that."
Charles chuckled. "C'mon, pick one. Desert island rules."
"I would have to bring something clever. Something comforting, too. Probably something I have read a hundred times but still wish to read again. So…" He paused, frowning up at the blankets. "Either a Max Carrados mystery or one of Miss Marple's. They are both terribly comforting, in different ways."
"Choose one, mate."
Edwin let out a long, indecisive breath. "Very well. Carrados. I adore the way he observes things no one else does. It is rather inspiring, actually."
Charles shifted. "Alright. Then I'll bring a Miss Marple."
Edwin blinked. "Would you?"
"Yeah. That way you've got both. You'd nick mine the second I fell asleep anyway."
A slow, stunned smile crept onto Edwin's face. "That is rather lovely of you."
Charles shrugged, but his voice was soft. "Well, it's you. You're worth the paperback sacrifice."
They both laughed, quiet and fond, the attic glowing dim and safe around them. And maybe it was the storm, or the warmth in the blanket fort, or simply how very much like a heartbeat Charles sounded when he was himself. Edwin turned onto his side, looking at Charles's profile in the dim light, and for once tried not to suppress his feelings when Charles was around to see them written on his face.
Quietly, without meaning to – barely even realising it had crossed his lips – he said: "You are very hard not to fall in love with."
Charles stilled.
Edwin blinked, eyes wide now, breath caught.
"I didn't– That wasn't– I meant–"
Charles turned his head slowly, meeting Edwin's gaze.
There was a pause.
Then: "Yeah", Charles said, voice low and honest. "You too."
Edwin flushed to the roots of his hair, half-horrified and half not.
"I genuinely did not mean to say that aloud."
"Shame. Best thing you've ever said to me." Charles smiled faintly.
Edwin groaned, burying himself in his arm. "God. How mortifying. I did not mean to say it. It simply… slipped out."
Charles shifted beside him on the creaky floorboards of their makeshift fort, leaning on one elbow now, turned toward Edwin.
"Yeah, but… you meant it, didn't you?"
Edwin peeked up from the crook of his elbow, warily. His cheeks were flushed, eyes uncertain.
"I– well, yes. But saying it aloud is rather a different thing."
"Why?"
"Because it changes everything."
Charles was quiet for a moment. His fingers picked idly at a loose thread in their blanket.
"I don't think it does", he said eventually, voice quieter now. "I think it sort of explains everything. Doesn't it?"
Edwin stared at him, every nerve pulled taut.
"We saved each other's lives once", Charles said, giving him a lopsided smile. "Maybe it was always going to be us."
Edwin blinked fast, mouth parting just slightly. "You are not merely saying that because you are locked in with me and half-frozen?"
Charles laughed softly. "No. I am still freezing, though. The blanket fort is well shite."
They were closer now, somehow. Their knees almost touched, and in the half-light, Charles had gone very still, as if he were trying to decide whether he was brave enough.
"Can I…" Charles started, then stopped. Swallowed. "I want to kiss you. Is that all right?"
Edwin gave a tiny nod, too fast. "Yes. Yes, please."
So Charles leaned in – careful, gentle, like a secret – and pressed his mouth to Edwin's. It was clumsy at first, too soft, as if both of them had only ever imagined it and weren't sure if it was real. But then Charles tilted his head and Edwin made a small, surprised noise, and everything settled into place.
It was warm. Uncertain. And completely, terrifyingly right.
When they broke apart, foreheads still touching, Edwin whispered, "I truly was not planning to say it tonight."
"That's alright. I was planning to kiss you eventually." Charles grinned.
"You are impossible." Edwin let out a breath, half–laugh, half–relief.
"Yeah", Charles murmured, eyes still on him. "And you like me anyway."
Edwin did not answer. He simply leaned in and kissed him again.
BEGINNING OF EVERYTHING
The storm had quieted to a distant grumble by the time Charles and Edwin lay curled together beneath their wobbly blanket fort, their bodies pressed close. The attic was still, interrupted only by the occasional creak of old wood and the soft sound of breathing.
Charles's hand rested on Edwin's waist, his thumb drawing slow, idle circles over the fabric of Edwin's cardigan. Their legs were tangled without thought, comfort found in proximity. Edwin's head was tucked naturally beneath Charles's chin, and Charles could feel the gentle puff of breath against his throat.
"I can hear your heartbeat", Edwin murmured, barely above a whisper. "It is steady."
"Yours is faster", Charles replied, voice sleep-blurred. "Excited, are we?"
"Do be quiet", Edwin said fondly, shifting just enough to burrow closer.
They lay there in silence for a long while. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just quiet, in that way you can only be with someone who knows the shape of your silences.
Charles blinked slowly, his body sinking deeper into the softness of blanket and boy, and the safety of the moment.
"You are not cold, are you?" Edwin asked, already sounding more asleep than awake.
"Not with you", Charles murmured, pressing a kiss into Edwin's hair.
A beat passed. Then Edwin exhaled a tiny sigh, his voice slurred by sleep.
"I would give up all the Max Carrados in the world to fall asleep like this again."
Charles didn't answer right away. His eyes were closed. He was nearly gone, too.
But just before sleep pulled him under, he whispered, "You won't have to."
Outside, the wind softened to a sigh. And in the quiet shelter of the attic, two hearts beat steady and warm, wrapped up in the very beginning of everything.