Chapter Text
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4:30 PM, 1992
On a Wednesday
Philadelphia, PA
…
“Hey!”
Charlie stiffened. He knew he should keep walking but his steps faltered as his fingers twitched at his sides; itching to curl into tight fists.
“Yeah you, Bubble Boy! Where’s daddy?” Charlie tried to ignore the sting the words instantly inflicted. “Oh that’s right. He’s gone, ain’t he?” The voice, sneering and poisonous, grew closer as Charlie stayed put on the sidewalk. His backpack hung over his shoulder like a heavy weight, though not nearly as heavy as the anchor of the rest of his life that he carried around.
A hand came down hard on Charlie’s shoulder and spun him, and Charlie’s feet twisted, his eyes narrowed and jaw set as he locked eyes with the taller boy.
Don’t pick this fight. You know you can’t win. Just walk away.
But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He refused to walk back— Uncle Jack could be home. His mother could have another man over. Or maybe she was gone again.
Either way— Charlie would rather bleed on the pavement than go home that night. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Leave me alone, man,” he squeaked, his voice pitching high. He grit his teeth as the boy yanked his collar forward.
“Oh? Leave you alone? Like your daddy left you with your whore of a mom?” the kid laughed as Charlie tried to plant his feet and pushed at the other boy’s chest weakly. “Poor little Bubble Boy, afraid you’ll get sick if I touch you?”
Charlie seethed, his cheeks turning red as he wrested out of the boy’s grip and backed up a few steps, his hands twisting around one strap of his backpack.
“Shut up!” he snapped. “Just— fuck off, okay? I’m not a bubble boy…”
“Ha! Little liar.” The boy advanced, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Hey— tell your whore, germaphobe, CRAZY mom I say hi!”
“Don’t talk about my mom!” Charlie screamed, his nails digging into the fabric of the strap as he braced himself. He panted, his heart beginning to take off on a track, racing and racing he feared it may never slow down. “Just… don’t give me trouble, man.”
Just. Walk. Away.
“Make me.” The kid took another step forward, closing in. Looming. Charlie shrunk as a wicked grin spread across his enemy’s face. “Fucking rat.”
Charlie took a breath and swung his arms with everything he had, the backpack flying through the air to connect with the kid’s side. If Charlie had been the proper size for his age, maybe he would have been able to hit the kid in the head, his textbooks knocking him out or at least slowing him down. Alas, the books inside cracked against the boy’s shoulder and he only grunted before grabbing the bag and tossing it aside like it was nothing.
Charlie swallowed hard, his hands suddenly shaking hard as he contemplated his next move.
He really didn’t think this through. He never did.
Without thinking it through further, Charlie lunged, swinging his fists like a wild animal, still not sure if there was really a proper way to throw a punch, even after years of being beaten up. His fists collided with the boy’s shoulders and he grabbed, trying to shove him back, but his size wasn't substantial enough to even make a difference.
The kid growled and knocked him back, shoving his chest before bringing his fists up. Charlie panted, his green eyes growing wide as he mirrored the stance, hands still shuddering as he squared up and planted his feet.
The kid didn't waste time in delivering the first blow. His fist swung from nowhere, closing the space between them as his knuckles connected with Charlie’s face.
A sharp crack rang out, echoing in his ears as blood sprayed through the air and across the cold pavement.
Charlie gasped as his head was knocked backwards on his neck, blood immediately filling his mouth as it ran down from his nose. He staggered backward, blinking away the spots from his vision before he finally stabilized again, a few steps away.
The boy, knuckles dripping crimson, smirked in front of him.
Charlie ran his tongue over the front of his white teeth, tasting the sharp tang of iron in his mouth, and grinned as his heart pounded out of his chest. Like he hoped, the smile ran from the boy’s face and he glowered, throwing himself at Charlie again.
This time his swings didn’t wait for Charlie to recover, fists falling like a thunderstorm, bruises blooming along his flesh as blood spread across the concrete like paint on a canvas.
For a second the world went black, bone connecting with bone until Charlie thought his head couldn’t snap further backward. Then it hit the pavement.
Pain throbbed ceaselessly through him, his skull hammering to a familiar drumbeat as he blinked up to see a fast approaching shoe. Instinctively his arms flew up to create a weak shield over his head, fingers splayed over his mop of dark hair as he waited for his face to become nothing but a stain on the sidewalk.
But instead the boy’s boot connected with his gut, knocking the breath from his lungs in a single swoop. Charlie gasped for air, keeping his hands planted over his head for protection as he curled into himself, an automatic response to try and preserve the little consciousness left in his body.
A few more kicks to the stomach left Charlie dizzy and breathless, his eyes spinning like pool balls in his velvet lined skull as the boy grabbed his shoulders and threw him back down onto the concrete.
Charlie tried to keep his head tucked closer to his body but exhaustion overwhelmed his fear and his neck craned as he was bodyslammed. His head knocked back against the cold ground and a sharp pain ripped through the base of his skull before someone turned off the lights.
Charlie felt himself smile right before he couldn’t think anymore— anything was better than going home. Even lying half dead on the cold street.
…
Charlie lifted his head with a groan, the world dancing around him, sunlight just beginning to dip below the distant buildings of the city as he forced himself to sit up and assess the damage.
His nose was almost certainly broken. He’d live. He checked his limbs quickly, no other broken bones. Gingerly, he touched the back of his skull and hissed in immediate pain— maybe a concussion, but he couldn’t possibly be worse off than he already was.
Charlie knew he was different. That’s why he got into fights and ate paint and played with the rats he found in gutters.
A little bump on the head wasn’t going to make it worse. Or fix it.
When he was sure he could stand without puking or passing out again, Charlie got up and looked for his backpack. Every book taken out and stomped on, papers strewn across the ground. Maybe that wasn’t such a loss.
He wiped his hand across the mess of blood below his nose and grimaced at the sight before wiping the rest of it on his shirt.
His mind wandered. He still didn’t want to go home. He never wanted to go home. But maybe he didn’t have to.
The boy thought about his friends. Ronnie, really, was all he had. But he didn’t need Ronnie the Rat right now. Unwittingly, Charlie’s thoughts landed on you. You, with your soft smile and too-loud laugh and those eyes that could see all of him— no matter how he tried to hide.
An aching smile broke through the blood on Charlie’s face and he started walking, dragging his empty bag along the ground behind him as he set out to find the only person in the world who knew the real Charlie Kelly.
…
Most people wouldn’t recognize him like this. Not even his own mother. But you do. Because in the last few years, you’re the first person he comes to after getting the stuffing kicked out of him.
Bloody, beaten senseless, limping and wheezing and crying— all the things he wouldn’t let anyone else see. Not anyone.
So you’ve become used to seeing him walk up your driveway holding himself together at the seams and still dripping blood.
Tonight was no different.
“Oh no,” you mutter as you glance up and out of your bedroom window to see Charlie dragging his feet and walking slowly up your darkening driveway, his green eyes glittery with unshed tears.
You waste no time slipping into your sneakers and rushing out of your bedroom and down the hall, creeping slow enough you don't get caught sneaking out right before curfew.
You shut the door and step out onto the porch before Charlie can even get up the steps, his eyes widening up at you as he shakes gently, holding one arm to his side.
“Hey,” he croaks.
Your lip wobbles against your will as you see the state he’s in. “Rat’s Nest,” you order. “I’ll get you some water.”
Charlie just ducks his head. “Thanks.” And then he’s gone, disappearing into the empty wooded space just past your house.
You grab a bottle of cold water from the fridge before sneaking back out, sprinting to catch up with Charlie on the woodland path. The two of you don’t exchange any words until the two of you have stepped into the old, dilapidated shed you repurposed into a hideout.
You sit on the floor across from Charlie, not blind to the way he hisses in pain as he sits, his back arching as pain shoots through his small body, hands flexing in front of him. You hand him the bottle and then reach into the small wooden box you keep in the corner with your notebooks where you write down Charlie’s stories.
You know better than to ask what happened. It’s always the same story. He wasn’t looking for trouble. Trouble found him.
But you know the truth. That fighting is his only freedom— the only way he can hurt someone for the way he’s been hurt.
You don’t know why he’s so broken, but it’s clear that he is. You decided after you met him that you didn’t care if you never knew— you vowed to stay at his side no matter what happened.
You’ve held true to that promise so far.
“You don’t have to do that,” Charlie says. He always says it, his eyes honed in on your face, gauging your emotions while you rifle through the overflowing first aid kit.
“I know. Come closer.” You beckon him closer as you pull out a stack of alcohol wipes and Charlie stares at them like he wants to eat them. And he might. “Are you high?” you ask gently as he scoots forward on his heels and leans in so you can wipe at his bloody face.
It looks like he wiped most of his bloody nose on his shirt— stained beyond repair— but there’s still some caked onto his lips, a thick trail leading down his chin.
You swipe at it gently but firmly, holding Charlie’s head in place with your free hand on his rounded jaw.
He blinks, refusing to meet your eye, snorting a soft laugh that doesn’t even turn his lips upwards. “I wish.”
“Not funny.” You fold the wipe and drag it across his chin, feeling his jaw clench hard under your palm. “That shit‘ll kill you, Charlie.”
“Yeah,” is all he says, half sigh, half wobbly sound that resembles a cry.
You sigh, too, stopping cleaning his face to look him in the eye seriously. “Charlie, you gotta stop doing this. I mean it.”
Charlie reaches out and takes the dirty wipe from you, rubbing his nose and mouth roughly to rid himself of any traces left of blood. “I’m not high, I swear!”
“Not that— I mean… the fighting,” you snap. “It’s happening more, and— you’re gonna get hurt one of these days. Like… not able to walk away, kind of hurt.”
Charlie snorts. “Pfft.” He tosses the crumpled wipe onto the floor and rubs his palm over his nose before startling, clearly remembering it’s more than just bloody. A dark bruise already forming over the bridge and spreading out to his cheeks. He’d have raccoon eyes tomorrow for sure. “It’s not like I’m picking these fights, man— they just…”
“You don’t walk away, either,” you remind him. “You stay. Every time. Even when you know you can’t win.”
Charlie doesn’t smile this time when he says, “I never win.”
“Hey.” You return your hands to his face, cupping his jaw and forcing him to meet your eye. He blinks, eyes watery, the bruise across his nose making you want to cry for him. “You don't need to win. You don’t need to fight at all, Charlie.”
You know you’re one of the only people he lets touch him like this— so close and raw and real. But at your words, you feel him tense, and he pulls back so your hands fall to your lap, his eyes flickering darkly.
“You don’t understand,” he says quietly. “Nobody does.”
You frown. “I… what is there to understand?”
He shakes his head and looks away so you can’t see the way his lip bounces like he may burst into sobs at any moment. “It’s not about winning,” he whispers.
You don’t know if this is the right thing to do. It’s an urge— a desperate desire to reach out and pull him in, to try and hold him together even though you know you can’t.
But you do it anyway.
You grab the front of his shirt and yank him in, slamming yourself into his surely bruised chest and knocking the wind from his lungs as you squeeze. Your hands ball into fists at his back, arms shaking as you hold him against you tightly.
He gasps gently, his palms planted on the floor beneath you before suddenly he wraps you up, too, his hands scrambling to pin your body against his like he’s afraid you may float right out of his grasp. His breaths are unsteady as your fingers crawl up to thread through his dark hair, reveling in the way he holds you so close.
Finally you have to pull away, and you cup the side of his face, not backing up completely. Instead you retreat only enough to look deep into his eyes, both of your young sets of lips dangerously close as you remain leaning over his lap.
He breathes hard, his eyes studying your face and flicking down to you slightly parted lips, his tongue darting between his teeth as his brow furrows.
“Charlie, I love you,” you exhale, suddenly unable to catch your breath.
He chokes, his hands instantly dropping from your body to slam back down on the floor. He tries to speak, more than once, but every time it comes out as a soft hitching in his chest as he struggles to articulate.
“H-hold on,” he starts, stammering as you curse internally and push off to scoot back on your heels, embarrassment flushing your face. “I— I don’t…” Charlie shakes his head once, as if trying to dislodge the words you just spoke; sort them in his brain so they make more sense.
“We don’t have to change anything,” you promise, heart racing as the possibility of him returning your affection. “We— we just stay friends. We do the same things every day. We just… love each other. And— and someday when we graduate, we can— get married. Or— or just run away from Philly, move to the country.” You swallow, stomach sinking the longer you watch Charlie curl his fingers into fists as his eyes dart around the ground in front of him.
“I can’t,” he says, so softly you hardly hear it. “I can’t. We’re… too young.”
“We can wait—”
“No!” Charlie runs his hands through his hair, his eyes shut as a visible pain washes over him. “I’m… not ready. I can’t. I’m…” He opens his eyes and you nearly break as the emerald glint bores into you. “I’m sorry,” he tells you.
You nod, throat burning with sudden tears that you refuse to let fall. “It’s… no, it’s okay, Charlie. Can we… still be friends?” Your voice breaks on the last word and now it’s Charlie yanking you into a hug.
He squeezes too tight, but you don’t stop him, just hoping that he won’t let go, so he won’t see you crying.
But when he finally does, you swipe quickly at your face and the two of you walk back to the house without another word on the subject. Instead you talk about school, about stupid things that make you laugh weakly.
When you reach your door, the sun having set, you remind Charlie, “Your mom will worry.”
Charlie just shrugs. “Not really. She only worries once I actually show up. N’then she remembers she was supposed to be wondering where I’ve been.”
You feel a pang in your heart and wave goodnight to your friend, opening the front door and readying to close it behind you. But then Charlie calls quietly, “Hey— uh…”
You turn cautiously, afraid of everything. He may tell you he doesn’t want to be friends at all, anymore. Tell you he’s already committed to someone else.
But his eyes only glimmer with a subtle hope that makes butterflies take off in your belly. “Someday,” he says, “When we’re older, and life isn’t so… gross and dumb…” You smile.
So does Charlie, as he adds tentatively, “Tell me again.”
Still smiling, you ask, “Tell you… what?”
Charlie smiles through the black and blue bruise over his cute button nose, mossy eyes brighter than you’ve seen them in a long time. “That ya love me.”
…