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The difference in environment is staggering. Here—much further into the city and a fair distance from the usual grumbling townspeople—chattery teenagers make themselves known, adults carry their alcohol in their hands without shame, and kids scream as they run from place to place to snag all the sweets. It's far from the religious, principled school of Welton Academy. Neil's ears ring as he hears so much laughter from every age available. Even the oldies are out on their porches, their carefully carved pumpkins showcasing their immense spirit. Sweets and all sorts of things are waiting in baskets, bowls and bags, for the steadfast youth to gnaw on later that night.
“Okay– so, it should be around the corner, maybe around the bend. You see it?” Charlie's attention is brought back to the fact that he's driving a vehicle. His eyes glance to Neil's, before focusing back on the road, squinting at the upcoming turns. He's not quite used to the city, it's not where he grew up. It just happens to be the closest city to Welton.
“Dearest Neil, if it's around the corner how am I meant to see it?” A grin crept onto snarky lips, finding amusement in himself. Yet, the grin begins to drop as he purposely slows the car, leaning forward to get a better look at either side.
“Charlie. You’re— you’re closer to the bend, it’s a better angle than mine.” Neil briefly explains, but he's unsure as to why he even bothers. The map is faded and it's constantly crinkling beneath Neil's hands as they move the paper around with delicacy, the sound softly soothes Charlie in a way, and he catches sight of those hands. Yet he glances back to the road before he can think much about those hands at all. It backfires, ironic process theory strikes him whenever it comes to Neil.
“Alright, is it in view now?”
“Left or right?”
“Turn left.” He answers, looking back at the map again. “Definitely left.”
“Yeats Close. Number thirteen, yeah? That's unlucky.”
“On point for Halloween though!”
Charlie looks over to check the fading map, Neil scoffs with a smile and pulls it away, folding it slightly inwards into his body, “You don't trust my navigational skills?”
“Oh, please!” The other proclaims, shaking his head and forcing his gaze back onto the road. “Seems to be a lot of activity there. It should be this one, if my amazing intuition from God is correct.”
“Mhm, sure. There is most certainly not tens of cars suspiciously parked outside this incredibly decorated estate.”
“I’d have too much power as a cult leader, we should all be overjoyed that I'm not one. It's definitely this house, but we'll have to park a little further. It's far too crowded.” Charlie adds, biting his bottom lip and providing the road with his attention once more.
“Try driving further down, should be a dead-end.”
“Hence Yeats Close.”
“Yes. Hence the ‘Close’, smartass.”
The air is cold as their doors open simultaneously. Charlie's footsteps are quicker, eager. Neil walks with precision, as if this is some sort of test. His whole life has been a test, a concentrated exam in which he always seems to fail, regardless of his decisions in any path available.
Charlie tugs him along, by turning to face him, walking backwards, being intently smug with a smile on his face, his hand grabs at Neil's shoulder, and as Neil catches up, the arm slinks around his broad shoulders. The heat emanating from Charlie rivals an oven, Neil thinks. Neil is cold, and the other teen provides a warmth only Charlie could truly give.
“Brighten up, boy. We're gonna get smashed.”
“Booze?”
“What else?” Charlie laughs, and Neil fixes his posture and smiles at the sight of the pretentious boy beside him. The light from the houses dawns onto Charlie’s face in cascading rays, painting his features into that of a haunting imprint in his mind, the brightness flushing out any remaining colour. The scene leaves Neil’s chest clenching, his throat collapsing on itself. Charlie turns towards him, grinning brightly before running up to the door of the house, abandoning Neil in his state of reluctant adoration. His legs stutter before he’s drawn into the overlapping shouts and chatter emanating from the house. Returning to the car seems to be a door shut behind him.
When he enters the house, he’s immediately greeted by the staggering increase in noise. There’s an endless sea of people, parted only by turned backs and groups huddled together. There’s music playing from a jukebox somewhere, and Neil briefly wonders where it originated from. His eyes search, scanning the crowd for a figure with slightly too perfectly mussed up hair and a dark priest robe. They finally click onto Charlie when he enters the closed kitchen, observing the sight of the other boy luring in a starkly blonde girl, smiling too wide to be sober. He’s leaning his lower back against the counter, resting his elbows on the top.
Neil stares for a second too long before snapping out of his senses.
He makes his way to the two, the girl’s head swiftly turning towards him in surprise. Charlie doesn’t pay him any visible attention, but Neil’s aware of the way his pupils shift minutely in his direction. ‘Blondie’—Neil decides to name her—hesitantly nods in greeting, her hand tightening its grip on her flimsy plastic cup. Charlie finally turns to him, and Neil can’t seem to place where this acute fixation stems from. In reality, it was chronic– their companionship had always seemed to spark an inner battleground of heart and mind. Logic, to him, is a dictator. Calculating its way through precise moves of kings and pawns, suffocating any spark of feeling or truth. It had always been that way. He was a prisoner of his own upbringing, and Charlie had been lighting fires in the carefully curated library since they met those years ago.
Charlie beams at him, his eyes are cloudy with a haze, but there’s still his Dalton-esque aspect of calculation in it. Neil knows it’s a carefully constructed charade, one that sings to the eager faces of unsuspecting girls before leaving them with nothing but the remnant smell of his cologne on their pillows in the morning. Alongside the lingering taste of alcohol dancing on their tongues. Sheets crumpled half-off the bed, the empty space beside them cold and unfeeling. It's routine. It's fun, frantic– immediate. Charlie lives for it. Neil, however, finds himself severely opposed to the uncaring lifestyle that Charlie flaunts so brazenly.
“Well, what brings you to my side of town, dear devotee?” It's annoyingly charming. Annoyingly– frustratingly Charlie. Neil grimaces, not outwardly mad, but not necessarily concealing how he's feeling. He wants to deny the way it tears– rips at his mind, how the sight beckons him closer, as if he really is a follower, placing all his faith into Charlie blindly. It hurts his eyes. He shuts them tightly.
Blondie seems to get uncomfortable– shifting awkwardly, her arms crossing protectively over her chest in the new environment Neil's presence has created. She slinks off into the sweating crowd of costumes. Charlie is unamused by the lack of goodbyes.
“Look at that. Aren't you a good sport?” Charlie scoffs, facing Neil properly. Neil scrunches his eyes, before opening them once more. The pain of the sight decreases, but it's no less glaring. The light behind Charlie gives a glow around his head.
“Pardon?” Neil murmurs, wrinkling his nose at the abominable stench of the house. No windows are open. Sweat, alcohol, and substances reign supreme, dominating whatever fresh air there was previously. It's unbearably stagnant.
“Look—” Charlie gestures to the empty space before rolling his eyes, “She's gone and blasted off now.” Neil squints where she once stood.
“And? Go find her.” Neil rebuttals, unsure as to why Charlie is so agitated about some girl. He seems to think he's too good to chase after her.
“Oh, real rich.” The other scoffs, grabbing at a mysterious nearby bottle and taking a confident swig. He barely winces, and that's how Neil knows it's good. It smells divine. Yet, Neil prevails against the golden liquid. It's out of his control, in less than a second, he's nostalgic for what he once had, the Charlie he once knew. It was easier, but they didn't know it then. With time, they both grew to know it, and neither will accept that fact nor speak it aloud. Neil's head is fuzzy, he presses the balls of his palms to his eyes, attempting to tame the cruelty of years gone by, but they invade nonetheless, logic has no power here.
The king has been knocked off the board, overpowered by a far greater threat, one that has no appearance or figure. It clouds his mind, and Neil can briefly hear Charlie asking him something, asking whatever comes to mind. Then there's nothing, a void takes place in his ringing ears. It's sickening, because when he comes to, Charlie is gone. He's in the white-tiled kitchen, sweating and lightheaded. Unfamiliar faces surround him, and nobody spares him a glance.
The stale state of the atmosphere suddenly feels suffocating, spreading and choking throughout his lungs. It slithers down his alveoli, encasing them in a distilled solution of smoke pouring from the ends of numerous cigarettes. His hand instinctively moves towards the base of his neck, fingertips dancing lightly over skin. He can feel himself leaning back faintly, not willingly, feet mechanically jerking back to support himself from fumbling to the floor. There’s a moment of frozen time, the clocks ticking to zero on the wall, before some unknown – sprinting, fleeting – force drags Neil out of the stifling kitchen, the blaring sounds of chatter in the open living room, up the stairs. He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t seem to care. A door opens abruptly, a couple jumping at the sight of Neil standing across from the exit from what he can now see is a bathroom.
Neil steps to the side of the hallway, his face schooled into neutrality as the pair hurriedly make their way down the stairs, their footsteps echoing loudly in his sore ears. He rushes into harshly lit alcove, silently shutting the door behind him. Some part of him knows it makes no difference in the ocean of sounds the house harbours, yet habits built tall over years force– suppress the instinct down. He finds himself staring at his own reflection. It’s surreal in the light, his costume out of place with his normal uniformed attire, dark circles dragging his eyes more strikingly downwards in the cold.
Air drags itself out of his throat, lungs collapsing inwards on themselves. He can’t seem to make it stop, staggering slightly backwards as the force of it pulls him. He desperately tries to grasp, grip for the oxygen around him as tears begin to sting in his eyes. There’s not much he can do now, he knows. He knows how this ends– how it will inevitably end. As much as he can force himself not to blink, not to succumb to the cavernous dark beneath him, the final act will always be the same. In the end he will find himself curled in a ball, chest rising shakily, hands trembling.
It’s the path he goes down now.
He can feel his breath shuddering before his back hits the wall behind him. It pulls him upwards, slightly, from his black hole. There’s only a brief moment of lucid consciousness, though, before he’s pulled back under. The pressure in his ears caves him inwards, critical mass bursting through his veins, undulating in waves of vibrating panic. He stumbles forwards again, planting his palms onto the sink in front of him, chest heaving. Neil knows that the way he’s… felt– about Charlie wasn’t normal. He knows it never has been. When they were younger, it was much easier to accept, easier to let the reality wash over him.
When he was younger, he was okay with them staying the way they were, okay with the small stone in his chest staying as it was. They had each other – time with each other – and that was enough for him. Yet now all he can feel is the pit in his stomach gape open, the tears beginning to spill their way down his cheeks continuously. His eyes are closed, but nonetheless he can feel the height of the sobs wracking his body. It’s embarrassing, in some way. Mr. Perry had always looked down with disdain whenever he had cried as a child, and he can feel the repercussions repeating themself throughout. The window is shut tight in the bathroom, he doesn't need to open his eyes to see it, he can feel it, like the heat of an oven coursing through every bone, it sears his mind, making the most basic thoughts unreachable. He could always explain things away with logic, push down the expanding guilt he had every time he enjoyed something, but something about this house was a curse. It was boiling, everywhere you went, you were a victim to flames. His blood was past the point of no return, subject to hell.
Neil shut out the last of his thoughts, back to the small corner in the back of his head. He wouldn’t do this here, not now, with all the uncertainty and packed nature of the house. One inhale. With that, he pushed himself off of the sink, dusting off his palms on his costume. His costume. His mind quickly jumped to the boy who had dressed him up. Neil’s hand sped to the handle of the door to swing it open, the constant chatter of teenagers and music flowing back into the small room. He started making his way down the stairs, weaving through the sea of people.
Charlie has zero sense, it's been drained from his head without fail, the alcohol cruelly dehydrating him. His footsteps are uneven and they display his drunkenness very well. He's mad about it. He's got his arm around a girl, while looking at another, her eyes are blank, she wants Charlie, but it's shallow. He's on the receiving end for once. He's sick of the constant talking they're doing, he only cares for conversation to a certain degree, and they're most certainly overestimating how important they are to him at this moment. Now he remembers Neil, having had his arm around the other boy earlier. His stomach sinks and he winces visibly, but in the dim lighting, nobody cares. Nobody notices, people keep talking, his ears start to ring, deafening, rebelling against their sole purpose. His equilibrium falters along with his eardrums, awful and hot, he regrets wearing the cult-ish attire. It's boiling, and his insides roil in retaliation, he prays his cologne is heavy enough to drown the smell of body odour he's certain he's exuding.
He finds it in himself to smile, but it's in amusement at his own pathetic nature, his innate desire to maintain zero celibacy. It's sinful, by the Bible. It’s instinctual of him, of humans. Who cares about premarital sex? He's far from the ideal son already, so he might as well indulge in this deep end. He’s the textbook definition of what not to do, and it makes him laugh. He's no longer in the party, he's back at Welton, holding Neil closely by the arm, their breathing tangling while they remain scared to act. It angers Charlie. He can sleep around with every girl, regardless of what authority says, but when it comes to Neil, it's as if it hurts to even desire him.
It's meant to be freedom here, after so much pain and brutality in the outside world, he sought liberation amongst his own generation, yet it appeared that outside expectations still seeped through the thick walls of this richie house. Or, perhaps, it's just him, because as he looks back to the girls, they've grown clingy, with that inebriated glaze in their eyes, it's romance, it's raw, just through mere connected gazes, they know what they want out of each other. So Charlie pulls away. He lets them have it, because he wants that. He doesn't want a girl to romance, he wants a boy to love. He wants Neil, craves him, that true sweetness and understanding that always clings to him. His hair, his hands, his eyes, they run through his mind in swift flashes. He holds the fabric near his chest in a tight fist, as if his heart is pained. His knees are tempted to fail. ‘God,’ he thinks, ‘where is Neil?’
He's done something wrong, he feels. He knows it, he's messed up, and he can't remember how, because of the liquor lingering lovingly in the back of a sickly throat, it dares to lather his tongue and taste buds, to coat his gums in tingling numbness. He lets out an unhappy laugh, keeping his eyes shut as he sinks against a wall, amidst the other drunk teens, kissing and fighting and playing typical party games. One boy is dared to kiss the prettiest girl in the room, and rather than kissing who Charlie assumes is the girlfriend, he kisses another girl, without a second thought. He rolls his eyes at the generation's dramatics, yet he cherishes them, because this is what teenage years are like. It's unbelievably stupid, but it never seems like that in the moment. It always feels like the biggest thing in the world, as if you'll never recover. Charlie knows how it feels. He silently empathises with the boy for just a moment. It's normal to be confused, but you're taught to hide it, another obligation amongst many already assigned to struggling youths.
Charlie needs to cry, but the most he finds himself doing is mildly tearing up and softly laughing while his hands cover his face haphazardly. It's awful, his mind doesn't work properly. He gets depressed, and just chuckles hopelessly, rather than reacting the ‘normal’ way, with proper tears. He's sitting there, he has no idea where he's walked to, if he even walked at all. His head aches with a heaviness, one he could only really give alcohol the credits of creating. It's a road he always goes down, but now it's different, because he knows what he wants, and it's not another girl to bed. Alcohol can only get him so far, help him forget the reality for so long. When he sobers up, he knows he'll be near Neil, with that urge he always has, and if Neil doesn't reciprocate, Charlie might as well just give up all together and stick to abandoning girls after a single night.
His eyes sting, and for just a second, he wonders if he'd accidentally taken up an offer on a joint rather than what he thought was a cigarette. His hands tremble slightly, snaking into every pocket he has, finding one sad, slinky, crushed up smoke. He manages to scour for his lighter, flicking the flame and lighting up, pulling a large inhale, lips caressing the end as they always did, especially with Neil's. He had a specific way of smoking, it made Charlie’s stomach turn and his cheeks go a tint of cherry. Thinking about it influenced his eyes to flutter closed, gentle, not clouded by anxiety or the liquor. His head leans back against the wall behind him, eventually facing the ceiling, cigarette hanging between his lips, like he'll never let go. The atmosphere changes, time ticks away, people are getting tired, mentally regressed back to tired tweens that think they're mature for their age.
Despite all the noise, there's one voice he can pick out, like a soul amongst the damned, pure and untainted by the house of temptations. A soothing voice that calls to him, putting his heart at ease with zero effort, regardless of the tone that laces the lilt.
“Dalton.” The address is clear, how many Daltons could there be? It makes Charlie smile, sickeningly sweet, because he knows Neil is mad, but he couldn't help but miss that subtle frustration.
“Neil?” He's barely able to murmur, his rich brown eyes are squint, shining delicately in what little light there was. Neil is standing over him, he can make the taller one out by mere silhouette, he knows that shape, that body, that voice. It sings to him in a cruel song. He can see that head shake, in what he can only assume is disapproval. Charlie's cigarette is long gone, smoked to the filter, which hangs uselessly from plush lips. He sees that silhouette crouch down, Charlie's eyes follow the downwards motion in obedience. Careful fingers pull the filter away, flicking it to the ground without care. He's still smiling he's unable to stop. It's like he's been blessed, always, over and over again. Each time he's near Neil, he wonders if all those believers are right, all those preachers and followers and priests, because only a God could've created Neil Perry. There's a hand on him subtly, gently feeling each pocket, until it retrieves a key, and Charlie doesn't protest or move a single muscle, he stays on display. Finally, he's able to make out the facial expression that plagues his saviour, the soft furrow of his brows, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration, slotted between smooth lips, the dilation of those pupils, wide enough to fill each iris.
Neil was having a hard time, there was a slight breathlessness in his lungs as Charlie gazed at him, like an abandoned puppy receiving true attention for the first time. Neil holds the car key in his hand, all while it slightly shakes. He makes eye contact with Charlie, and he isn't too fond of how drunk he is, but he's looking at him with so much adoration, he isn't controlling his expression, nor playing any of this off as a joke. It's the only time he's ever so obvious about his feelings for Neil. He smells like smoke, heavy cologne, while his uneven exhales consist of expensive spirits. He can't believe the sight, it's different to the other moments he'd caught Charlie dozing off while drunk on booze. He's overtaken with urge, because Charlie looks surreal, so often appearing unattainable, he doesn't even realise he's got Charlie by the collar, clenching the fabric needlessly, like the other may slip away, and this will all be another regret. The house isn't cleared out, people are just falling to the floor in their inebriated states, and deciding they'll rest right there. Everyone in this place is in the way all the time, Neil thinks. His hand is being covered by a new one, Charlie's one, the grip is loose, resting on his heated skin without thought.
All Charlie can think of is how badly he wants to hold Neil closely. Neil is plagued by thoughts of keeping Charlie for himself.
Neil leans forward, and for a moment, Charlie's breathing hitches, his smile softening in preparation. Instead he's greeted with an arm around his waist, while Neil's head rests near his shoulder.
“You hold on tight now, alright?” Neil softly commands, and Charlie swallows harshly, his hands gripping at Neil's biceps. He quietly chuckles, taking advantage of the situation to feel Neil's muscles, squeezing them under the guise of merely listening to the instruction. Neil rolls his eyes in slight annoyance, in spite of the slight grin pulling at his lips. As he pulls them both to stand, a light grunt leaves him. Charlie laughs a bit louder at that, and Neil shakes his head to try and deny the chuckles that escape himself. Now they can both clearly recall why they're best friends, it was never something they questioned, but little reminders always had them rekindling that childish joy of a longtime friend. They're clinging to each other, even as they stand, simply laughing, soft chuckles that drown out the unpleasant surroundings. It takes them about a few seconds or so to remember where they were, and when they do, Charlie grabs Neil's tie. Neil’s eyes open wider, to an evident degree, meeting Charlie's half-lidded gaze.
“I would… like to leave,” A near-silent hiccup interrupts him, “Please?”
“That's the plan, obviously.” Neil replies, now looking towards the sliding door, the one that leads to the backyard, likely looping back to the front. He glances back towards Charlie, whose eyeliner is deliciously smudged. Neil suppresses the odd urge to kiss him. Except, it's not really odd if he's been wrestling with the idea for a few years already. It's familiar. Not welcome in any sense, but he's grown to know it. Charlie has a stupid, smug grin on his face, and Neil is certain it's because Charlie knows. There's so little space between their faces, it's not a temptation, it's a dare, a must, a fiery need that's lingered between them, refusing to burn out. Yet, Neil turns his head away. Not now, he can't do it now. Charlie's breath is warm against his neck, and it's hypnotising, clouding his overworked mind even further.
“Hey,” Charlie whispers, right near his ear, soft and barely audible, his voice is breathy and weak. Neil shuts his eyes tightly, before opening them again, continuing to gaze at the sliding door.
“Mm?” He hums in response, his heart beating a bit quicker than necessary. Truth was, Neil was no less sober than Charlie. It was shameful, he thought. Unable to deny himself, despite having done it so many times before.
“Nothin’.” He murmured into Neil's ear, intentionally close, eternally teasing. They’re silent as Neil lugs Charlie to the sliding door at the back of the house. When his hand briefly skims the glass of the door, he can feel the cold seeping through from the autumn air. The sides of the door are fogged up, and when Neil manages to crack the door open enough for it to easily slide, he’s hit with the breeze delivering fresh air, the hot smoke from the inside of the house billowing outwards. He manages to stabilise Charlie while allowing him to carry himself out the door, their feet making light crunching sounds on the grass of the backyard.
All the other houses on the street are dark now, the moon high enough to cast a light down on the ground, painting darker shadows behind them. There’s the faint sound of music emanating from behind them, that dims slightly as Neil slides the door closed.
“Alright– we’re not parked too far from here. Just- try not to trip over yourself.” All Neil gets in response is another hum. He shifts his gaze over to the boy beside him, drinking in the bow of his head as he leans his weight onto him, his half lidded eyes, the loose strands of hair dancing in front of his nose– the curve of his lips. There are no words exchanged, when they continue walking to the front of the house, it’s a comfortable silence. Weighted, but familiar and old.
Once they’ve left the property, there’s the absence of clamouring clashing from the house. Crickets make themselves known, the last remnants of summer hanging on. Neil can hear Charlie’s breathing now, slow and continuous, a metronome to their steps. As their feet reach the road, the footsteps begin to reverberate through the air. Neil can see a shadow running across to them from the suburban street as they make it to the car, stopping hesitantly at their feet. He can make out the shadow is a raccoon now, it’s eyes scanning their faces, chattering slightly. Charlie seems to take interest in the creature, pushing himself off of Neil to crouch down beside it. Neil lets go with uncertainty, keeping his hands hovering slightly over Charlie’s back in case of a drunken topple. The other boy doesn’t say anything, just continuing to hum slightly as he holds his hand above the raccoon’s coat before patting it awkwardly. It growls somewhat, quickly scrambling away before running off again. To Charlie, the raccoon is much like love. You touch it wrong, and it runs away. The idea earns a slight giggle from him, and confuses Neil.
Charlie stumbles to rise, and Neil assists. He wraps his arms tightly around that firm waist, strong and stable, fingers interlocking to keep a good hold on the shorter teen. Charlie leans back a bit, especially as they both stand, Neil is stable behind him, regardless of the soft falter his legs occasionally face. Once he's got Charlie standing properly, he lets go, except for one hand on the teen's shoulder. Charlie, however, has fistfuls of Neil's shirt, just missing the chance to hold skin. He's clinging without thought, Neil wants to think. Yet, he clings with total intention, purposeful and playful. Neil slots the key into the car door, turning it swiftly and unlocking each door. Charlie smiles at that for some reason, and he can't exactly recognise why. He can only assume it's the irrationality of the liquor.
When Neil turns, the distance minimises, and they're face-to-face, time is met with a pause, the eye contact is prolonged, one could deem it unnecessary. It's when Charlie's hands go lax, that Neil understands. Those hands travel from fistfuls to open palms, they're holding his waist with no fear. Neil's own hand seems to move by itself, gently traversing to the back of Charlie's neck, cupping the nape with precision. Now it hits Neil's mind, Charlie's notorious reputation. He's heard it second-hand, never primary. Those lips that always talk and talk, rarely ever shutting up. While they aren't closed, they're certainly silent in this moment. He's heard Charlie boast on and on about each girl, but never a boy.
“Didn't think it would be me tonight, did you?” Neil murmurs lowly, there's a hint of amusement laced over his voice, but it doesn't care to cover his clear craving for Charlie.
Charlie can't help the way his breathing changes, laboured yet shallow, looking up at the taller with pleading eyes that only speak of utter lust. Not for anything physical or demanding, but for Neil, and whatever he was willing to give. Charlie, on the other hand, was ready for Neil to take anything, whether that be his lips, his hands, his car or his clothes, he'd give it all without a care in the world, because this was Neil Perry, and only a God could've created Neil Perry. It's as if Charlie has been pushed far beneath glowing water, bioluminescence fluttering around each limp limb. It’s serene, and calm and free, and nothing like trying to kiss those girls.
“Neil—”
“Charlie.” His voice is a bit firmer than Charlie's soft beg.
“Please…” Charlie looks adorably vulnerable, a pathetic air about the usually charismatic and sarcastic boy.
“Is that.. what you want? For me to kiss you, yes?” Neil lightly taunted, he found some humour in the way Charlie held zero smugness now. Yet, Charlie's eyes narrowed, a hand snaking to the small of Neil's back, which caused a nervous smile, and that smile amused Charlie. Neil saw how quickly Charlie could switch, and his stomach was twisting with nerves, it had him feeling like an excited schoolgirl.
“Dalton?” Neil's voice wavered, still holding that giddy grin. Charlie leaned forwards, tilting his head.
“Please, Perry. No need to call my name when I'm right here.” His eyes flickered between eye contact and resting on those lips. Neil's hand finally tightened on Charlie's nape, a slight possessiveness ringing through him, something he never outwardly displayed, but with people locked away in their houses, Neil has a new sense of liberation he's certain he's never truly felt. Without word, or thought, they're powered by true craving and innermost love. They're breathless before they even know it, tasting the spirits on one another's lips, hands roaming, all with one purpose: to keep the other as close as humanly possible. But it's not possible, because Charlie and Neil find the limits of human physicality tragically limiting, they can't reach into each other or truly intertwine, they're bound by physics and logic, but nothing could ever make sense of love.
Neil's back turns cold, the car door is borderline freezing as he's pushed up against it, but heated hands slink their way beneath his shirt and hold his waist in a beautifully constricting manner. Charlie's skilled beyond Neil's imagination, he couldn't understand how much he'd been constantly missing out on. He finds himself thanking Charlie internally, for allowing him this, for encouraging it, actively pursuing him. It takes a miracle for Neil to finally open the nearest door into Charlie's car, and all that ultimately ends up happening is that Charlie chases his lips once more, toppling Neil over as they crawl themselves into the backseats.
Nobody's driving, nobody's getting home tonight. The car warms, continually becoming hotter into the early hours of the morning. They don't need candy when they have each other.