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In the aftermath, silence felt sacrilegious.
Richard lay still, afraid to breathe too deeply, as though the motion itself might shatter the fragile peace that washed over the room. Half of him was wrapped in warmth—Charlie’s head resting on his chest, the soft rhythm of his tired breathing an anchor—and half in the cold fear that if he moved, no matter how little, this would all vanish.
The snow outside hadn’t stopped falling. It blanketed the world in white, relentless and plush, in a feeble attempt to bury what they had done in faux innocence. Each falling flake felt like benediction and malediction, purity mocking the sin it sought to hide. Richard watched through their frostbitten window and wondered if reconciliation could look so beautiful.
Charlie shifted slightly in his sleep, a hushed noise escaping him, something between a sigh and a laugh. His hand twitched against Richard’s jutting ribs, and it made his stomach turn. It ached. It ached more than anything ever had before. Worst of all, it reminded Richard of everything he knew he couldn’t want, everything he needed to fear.
If this was damnation, it was quieter than he had ever imagined. No wall of flames, no incredible thunderstorm, no wrathful God tearing open the heavens. Just the muffled thrum of snowfall, the soft hiss of their heater, and two boys tangled in a vice too virtuous to name.
Richard looked up toward the sky, toward heaven. His thoughts roared like a storm, scripture rewritten in blood and wanting. Somewhere in the chaos, truth began to take shape: if God had been watching, He had not turned away.
“…Rich?”
Charlie’s voice broke through the quiet like a crack in stained glass—rough, hoarse, still heavy with sleep and pain. It was hardly louder than a whisper, but it reached him all the same. Richard looked back down, his breath catching. Charlie looked almost human in the half-light, stripped of his mischief, his sharp words, his irreverent grin. Hair sticking up at odd angles, lips dry, eyes misty with exhaustion.
He looked ruined. By God, he looked perfect.
Something deep within Richard twisted, sharp and gnawing. Seeing Charlie in this state, so vulnerable, so alive, made the guilt pool hot in his chest. ‘If this is the only way I can help him,’ Richard thought, ‘through ruin and undoing, then what does that make me?’
Charlie shifted again, wincing softly at the pain in his lower half, now more sore than burning, “You okay?” he asked, voice frayed, still half-lost in sleep.
Richard swallowed hard, “I should be asking you that.”
“You didn’t get your ass totally fucked up-“
“Okay, okay!”
“What? You’re the one who did it,” Charlie muttered, letting out a soft chuckle yet lacking his usual smirk.
“Hah,” Richard replied with an unfeeling scoff, gaze flicking to the window where snow continued to fall, incessant and unclean, “I’ll pay for it.”
Charlie opened his eyes fully, studying him—his lover, if that was even the right word, when what they’d done felt less like love and more like collapse. A faint smile tugged at his lips, sad and knowing, “You think too much, Cameron.”
Richard looked away, unable to bear it all. It was too warm, the affection dressed in blasphemy, the wolf in sheep’s clothing, “Well, one of us has to.”
And in the dim, sanctified silence that followed, he swiftly realized that holiness might not live in prayer after all. It was instead held in moments like these, fickle and mortal, where guilt and love were impossible to tell apart.
“We have to get ready soon. It’s almost dinner,” Richard said finally, his voice barely carrying across the narrow space between them. He kept his gaze fixed on the window, on the snow tumbling in lazy spirals beyond the glass. Anything was easier than looking at Charlie.
He could feel those eyes on him—heavy, searching, infuriating. Charlie had never been one for silence, and yet the quiet between them now felt deliberate, almost adoring. Richard busied himself with the mess of his own hair, his movements too precise to be casual. “You know we’ll be late,” he added, though the words sounded hollow, more like an excuse than an order. He needed something to fill the air, something to drown out the pounding of his own heart.
Dropping his temple on Richard’s chest, Charlie groaned, the sound lazy and drawling, “Let ‘em wait. I don’t think the world’s gonna end if I skip dry chicken and unseasoned potatoes.”
Richard’s hands froze mid-motion, “You can’t keep doing that,” he said quietly, but there was no real conviction behind it. He wasn’t sure whether he meant skipping dinner or pretending the last 24 hours hadn’t happened.
Charlie moved slowly and painfully, sitting up properly for the first time in hours. “You’re wound too tight, doll,” he murmured, voice low and amused, “The whole world’s falling apart, and you’re all worried about what I’ll eat for supper.”
“That’s because if I didn’t, you’d rot away in this room playing a dirty old sax, Dalton,” Richard replied sharply, still not making eye contact. His throat was tight. He could feel the heat of Charlie’s stare on his cheek like sunlight—too bright, too dangerous.
Charlie chuckled softly, that familiar reckless warmth creeping back into his tone, “Yeah, yeah. Saint Richard Cameron, savior of the starving artist.”
“Stop it,” Richard groaned, but his voice cracked at the edges, not with anger, but with something he didn’t dare name.
When he finally looked to face him, Charlie was smiling in that way that made everything worse; tender, fond, and a little sad, “You really don’t get it, do you?” he said.
And for a fleeting second, Richard thought maybe he did. But, admitting it would have felt too much like sinning all over again.
“Charlie, seriously, we have to go.”
“Oh, please, babe, it’s not that-“
“Don’t call me that,” The words came out harsher than he intended, then cushioned into something desperate, “Please. Please don’t.”
Richard tried to be stern, but his voice trembled anyway, betraying the gravitas he wanted to project. There was something about the word that made his chest seize, tears prickle. It wasn’t sinful like before; it was worse. It was intimate. Domestic. It was the kind of word people said out loud, in daylight, without shame. And that was something he couldn’t afford.
Charlie froze mid-laugh, his usual cheeky smile faltering into confusion, then regret, “Cam-”
“Don’t,” Richard whispered again. He dragged a hand down his face, the weight of everything crashing over him all at once—the snow, the silence, the weight of Charlie in his lap. He reached out almost unconsciously, his hand landing on Charlie’s bare thigh. The warmth of his skin radiated through his palm, grounding and overpowering all at once.
“This was already a lot, Charlie,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the sheets beneath them, “I…” The words trailed off, caught between breath and confession. He couldn’t name what this was; sin, want, love. Naming it would make it real, palpable. He wanted- needed anything but that.
Charlie’s face softened. The cocky defiance melted into something small and almost boyish. “…My bad,” he murmured after a pause, voice uneven.
“I just…” Richard started, then stopped. The air between them was heavy with everything unsaid. “If you make it sound easy, I’ll start believing it is.”
Charlie blinked at that, then gave a faint, rueful smile, “And that’d be the worst thing, huh?”
Richard’s hand slipped away from his thigh like retreating from a flame, “You don’t get it,” he said, not unkindly.
Charlie tilted his head, eyes soft now, no trace of teasing left, “I think I do.”
Richard didn’t answer. He just lay there, the sheets growing cold beneath his feet, the snowlight spilling pale over his face. For a moment, neither of them moved. The world outside was still, pure, white, merciless. Inside, everything burned quietly.
“I don’t hate you, Charlie.”
“Neither do I. Obviously,” Charlie replied, voice unnervingly casual, but the faint edge of warmth in it made Richard’s chest tighten, “Would a hater let you do all this to me?”
“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” Richard said, each word dripping with sarcasm, though his eyes betrayed the small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips.
“I do,” Charlie drawled, inching closer towards Richard’s face with that exasperating, lazy grace, “And, you know, I think I’m perfect, too. Great at wooing women, great at making a change, great in bed-”
“Charlie!” Richard yelped, voice keen, cheeks warming, and yet his pulse betrayed him, thudding unevenly against his ribs.
“What?!” Charlie protested, mock-offended, but the troublesome glint in his eyes was impossible to ignore, “I’m just trying to lighten the mood, Cam! You’re way too tense, all things considered.”
“I’m not tense,” Richard muttered, though his hands twisted in the sheets, betraying him. “I’m… focused. On, uh, getting us out of here in time.”
Charlie scoffed, playful, leaning closer so the tip of his shoulder nudged Richard’s, “Focused, huh? Sure, sure. All that pious brooding, worrying about later instead of enjoying the present.”
Richard tried to look forbidding, tried to ignore the way Charlie’s closeness made the room feel smaller, warmer, more dangerous, “God forbid I don’t want you to get paddled again,” he said, tone clipped, though his chest tightened with every word.
Charlie leaned in slightly, eyes catching the pale snowlight from the window. “Really? Wanna take care of me again?” he whispered, voice low, teasing, devastatingly intimate, “You’re way too good at it.”
Richard exhaled sharply, caught between laughter and frustration, guilt and something far more insistent. The praise tore him apart, pulled at his insides until they were all shredded up. He wanted to push Charlie away, to scold him, to pretend this closeness didn’t feel like fire in his chest. But he couldn’t. Not fully. And for a moment, he let himself just… watch, heart hammering, breath caught, and think that maybe, somehow, he didn’t hate this—didn’t hate Charlie at all.
“I’d take care of you any day, Charlie,” Richard said, trying for nonchalance but failing, his voice caught somewhere between a sigh and a scold, “You need it. You’re kind of a wreck.”
Charlie grinned, sharp and lazy, eyes falling briefly to Richard's bruised lips, “But the good kind, right?”
Richard hesitated, eyes flicking to Charlie’s body; the faint bruises along his collarbone, the flush of red on his cheeks, the way his grin always came a little too easily. “Sure,” he said finally, tone dry but as soft as he could muster, “If there is a good kind.”
Charlie laughed, low and rough, the sound curling around Richard’s heart, “You think about that? Whether there’s much of a difference between good and bad?”
“I don’t-” Richard began, but Charlie’s hand brushed his wrist, barely a touch, but enough to unravel whatever composure he had left.
“Relax, Cam. I’m teasing.”
“I know,” Richard muttered, though his heartbeat didn’t get the message. He looked away, trying to collect himself, but his gaze landed on Charlie’s toothy smile and all the air seemed to leave his lungs.
Charlie shifted closer, close enough that Richard could feel his warmth radiating through the minuscule space between them, “You’d really take care of me?” he asked, quieter now, voice losing its edge, “Even if I don’t deserve it?”
Richard exhaled, strong but trembling, “That’s exactly my problem.”
Charlie’s smile widened, slow and dangerous, “Guess I’ll have to make it worth your while then.”
Richard didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The way Charlie looked at him—part challenge, part confession—was too much. Too close. And yet, God help him, he didn’t pull away.
Both of their lips ached, both literally and in all the ways that ached deeper than flesh, when they met once more. This kiss was nothing like the others. Gone was the urgency, the hunger to consume, and what replaced it was gentler, almost devout. It felt like discovery, like they were learning each other for the first time even though they had explored one another deeper than anyone else had before, tracing the borders of something they weren’t supposed to touch but couldn’t bear to let go of.
Charlie’s tongue brushed against the roof of Richard’s mouth, tentative, unhurried, like a prayer murmured by someone who didn’t believe but wanted to. The taste of him lingered; faint smoke, mint, and something human and heartbreakingly real.
Richard’s fingers curled weakly in the nape of Charlie’s neck, pulling the soft brown curls of his hair, grounding himself, steadying the tremor that wanted to climb up his spine. It was dizzying, the way the world seemed to go still around them—the snow, the silence, the breath between their lips—as if time itself bowed its head in reluctant witness. There was no triumph in this kiss, no battle to be won. Only the quiet surrender of two boys who had already lost something and were still reaching for each other anyway.
When they finally broke apart, the space between them pulsed with warmth. Charlie’s forehead rested against his, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
Richard exhaled, trembling, eyes fluttering shut. “Shit,” he said softly, “I can’t help it.”
“God, you’re really something, Richard,” The way Charlie said his name made it sound like a covenant, all low, drawn out, amorous at its core. Richard felt his pulse skip, an inconvenient flutter that betrayed him instantly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked, trying for edginess but landing somewhere closer to breathless. Charlie dipped his head, the corner of his mouth curving into that maddening smile. It was the kind that made Richard feel both exposed and seen, the one that ate Richard whole.
“It means,” he drawled, dragging his thumb along the curve of Richard’s jaw as he looked back up, “you’ve got this whole serious, by-the-book thing going on, but under it all… you’re dying for someone to screw it up.”
“I-” Richard’s words caught in his throat. His face burned, and he tried to pull back, but Charlie leaned in closer, eyes glittering like mischief made flesh. They were so close that Richard could see the pores on his nose, the cracks in his lips. Hopelessly, he wanted to capture them in his own again.
“Don’t tell me I’m wrong,” Charlie murmured, “You like the chaos. You just don’t want anyone to know.”
Richard tried to look away, but Charlie’s breath was warm against his cheek, and it took everything in him not to melt, “You think you know everything, don’t you?”
Charlie chuckled, unabashed, “No,” he said, voice hushed, “I just know everything about you.”
And maybe it was the way Charlie’s lips lingered just a little too close, or the fact that his hand was still resting over Richard’s pulse, feeling it race, but for a moment, Richard thought, ‘If this is sin, then let it burn slow.’
For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them was warm, charged, like the lull before lightning splits the sky. Richard’s heartbeat was still stuttering beneath Charlie’s fingertips, and he hated that he didn’t want him to move his hand, that he wanted him to stay forever even though that was entirely impossible.
“You’re not as good at reading me as you think,” Richard said without thought, his voice quieter than he intended.
Charlie smiled even wider, which Richard didn’t even know was possible, “Oh yeah? Then tell me what I’m missing.”
Richard’s gaze flickered from Charlie’s eyes to his mouth, to the faint marks on his collarbone, then back up again. He swallowed, almost smiled. “You talk too much,” he murmured.
“Maybe I’d stop if you gave me something better to do,” It slipped out of Charlie like a dare. Richard’s breath caught, swallowing down the inhibitions he once had. And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned in, just close enough that Charlie’s expression faltered into surprise.
“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Richard whispered, “Always have to push until someone bites.”
Charlie’s voice shifted into something smaller, but bratty nonetheless, “Depends who’s biting.”
“Careful,” Richard said, the faintest grin tugging at the corner of his lips, “You might find out.”
Charlie’s laugh was low, breathy—the sound of someone realizing they’ve been matched, “God, Cameron,” he uttered, closing the last inch between them, “you might actually kill me.”
“Only if you want me to, Dalton.”
And when their lips met again, slower, heavier, threaded with something new, Charlie thought for once that Richard Cameron was finally learning how to sin without apology. The kiss deepened before either of them could breathe. It wasn’t gentle this time, wasn’t searching, but the culmination of a tension neither dared to name. Richard’s hand trailed down Charlie’s exposed chest, landing on his slender hip and dragging him closer. Charlie laughed against his mouth, teeth grazing his bottom lip, and the sound made Richard’s heart weak.
“You like that?” Charlie teased, voice rough and taunting in his ear.
“Shut up,” Richard hissed, though his other hand was already tracing the line of Charlie’s chest, thumb resting where his hickeys lay deep.
“Holy shit. Make me.”
And he did. Richard rolled them over until Charlie hit his mattress with a dull thud, light pouring across his bare shoulders like a blessing that didn’t belong to either of them. Richard kissed him again, harder this time, a gasp between them that felt half like a prayer.
Charlie’s hands found his back, dull nails scratching unclad skin, palms hot and desperate in their exploration. “Didn’t think you had this in you, Cameron,” he whispered, breath hitching when Richard tilted his head, lips grazing the corner of his throat.
“Guess you don’t know everything.”
“Oh, I’m learning fast.”
Their foreheads pressed together, both of them breathless, grinning like they’d done something unspeakable, which, in a way, they had. Charlie tugged him closer until their bodies were flush, until Richard could feel the quick rise and fall of his chest beneath his own.
“You keep kissing me like that,” Charlie murmured, “and I might start believing in miracles.”
Richard’s reply came irrationally, slow and certain against his mouth, “Then start.”
And when their lips met again, it wasn’t about heaven or guilt anymore. It was gravity—violent, unholy, and real.
Their desperate contact shattered with the sudden, echoing bang on the door, a sound too real, cleaving through the fragile world they’d built between breaths. Richard froze first. Charlie’s lips still ghosted over his, warm and wet, but the spell had already broken.
“Charlie? Cam?” Neil’s voice came muffled through the wood, bright and unassuming, like it hadn’t just pulled them both back to earth, “Dinner’s ready! You two coming or what?”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The snowlight still cut through the window, dusting Charlie’s skin in pale gold, his hair a halo of chaos. Richard’s chest heaved, and all he could hear was the sound of his own stuttering heart; violent, pleading, a desperate attempt to make sense of what they’d just done.
Charlie leaned forward, close enough that Richard could feel his breath ghost over his cheek, “Saved by the bell,” he whispered, voice thick with laughter he couldn’t quite hide.
“Don’t,” Richard said, his own voice trembling somewhere between panic and yearning. His hands hovered, unsure where to go now that they weren’t grasping at Charlie’s body. “Just- just get dressed.”
Charlie smirked, slowly stretching as he crawled out from under Richard, “You think he’d notice if we skipped dinner?”
“Yes,” Richard snapped, though his eyes betrayed him—lingering on the curve of Charlie’s shoulder, the slow drag of fabric over skin, “He’d notice. They all would.”
The knock came again, lighter this time, Neil’s voice fading down the hall. “Alright, but hurry up! There might not be any left by the time you get there!”
As the footsteps receded, silence flooded the room once more, heavier now, thick with everything they couldn’t say. Charlie stood by the window, smoothing down his white t-shirt that he had quickly pulled on while simultaneously tugging on some cotton pants, a crooked smile painting his lips.
“Guess we’ll have to confess at dinner,” He joked softly, glancing over his shoulder.
Richard managed a weak smile, but his hands were still trembling, “Charlie, we can’t.”
And for the first time in a while, Charlie didn’t laugh.
“We can’t just act like nothing happened-“
“Something did happen, Charlie,” Richard cut in, harsher than he meant to, “You got paddled, and I took care of the aftermath. That’s all.”
Charlie stared at him, incredulous, “That’s all?” His voice cracked halfway through, disbelief dripping into anger, “You do all that—the flirting, the kissing, the-” He broke off, running a hand through his hair, the movement frustrated and helpless, “And now you want to pretend it was just some… accident?”
Richard couldn’t look at him. His gaze dropped to the floor, to the uneven boards between them. He realized only know that it was just him truly exposed, with nothing but words and shame to cover his most vulnerable parts up, “It’s not nothing,” he said quietly, almost like it was being dragged out of him. “But out there-“ he gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the whole suffocating world outside it, “out there, it has to be.”
Charlie laughed, bitter and disbelieving, “God, you really are scared, huh?”
“Of course I’m scared,” Richard snapped, finally meeting his eyes, “You think this is easy for me? You think I can just walk around acting like this doesn’t go against everything I’ve been taught? Everything I believe?”
Charlie’s expression softened, but only barely, “I didn’t ask you to believe in me, Cam. I just asked you not to run from it.”
“I’m not running,” Richard lied. His throat felt tight, his palms slick with cold sweat. “I’m just-”
“What?” Charlie pressed, stepping closer, “Being good? Being holy?”
Richard flinched at the word, “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make a joke out of it.”
“I’m not joking,” Charlie said, suddenly tense, “You can tell yourself whatever you want, but you’re not gonna forget what happened. Neither will I.”
For a long moment, they just stood there, the air between them thick and suffocating, light still spilling through the window, cutting them both in half. Richard could hardly bring himself to look up at Charlie. It was all too familiar—the sinful altar boy looking up at what was supposed to be his saviour.
“Please, Charlie,” Richard said finally, his voice barely holding steady, “Just let it be.”
Charlie took a step back, and the look he gave him wasn’t angry anymore. It was worse. It was understanding. “Yeah,” he said after a long beat, “That’s what I figured.”
He turned away, running his fingers through his hair, the sound of silence rough and final, “See you at dinner, Cameron.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click and, somehow, that hurt more than the shouting ever could.