Chapter Text
Charlie knows his place. He's there to clean up his friends’ messes; he's there to fuck shit up for better or for worse. He’s the stupid one who everyone can make fun of because sure they’re all idiots, but at least they can read. At least they aren’t Charlie.
He doesn’t really get it, to be honest. He can be simple-minded, absolutely, but he’s not unintelligent by any means. And it’s not that he just can’t read—he knows letters and what sounds they make and “i before e except after c”—it’s just that if you put a string of them together, he can’t really keep them all straight. (He told Mac about it once, but he just said, “That literally means you can’t read, Charlie,” and moved on. Mac is a dumbass, though, so Charlie wasn’t surprised.)
His mother knew. She used to tell people about him when he was a kid, saying her boy was “much smarter than he looks, really, he’s just a little different,” but no one wanted to listen to a whore bragging about her bastard son. Uncle Jack was the only one who believed it, and at first, Charlie loved him for that. He would tell Uncle Jack all about dinosaurs and Egypt and how hieroglyphics seemed so much better than the alphabet, and Uncle Jack would listen and give Charlie the gold stars that his teachers always withheld. Uncle Jack started finding new ways of rewarding Charlie, though, and he didn’t like them nearly as much as he liked the stickers. He stopped saying smart things then, because he’d rather let people think he’s stupid than get rewards like Uncle Jack’s.
(Charlie still has a green folder covered in little gold stars. Sometimes he sees it in his closet and feels sick to his stomach, because a part of him thinks that he could’ve gotten better if not for Jack, and that part of him loathes the disgusting son of a bitch.)
He thinks that Frank can tell because, similarly, Frank is a bit more aware than people think. He sees Charlie solve problems in ways no one else would have even thought of, and listens to Charlie spill out his thoughts when he can’t sleep and is half delirious with exhaustion. The first time, when he was absentmindedly musing over the possibilities of alternate dimensions, Frank probably just chalked it up to Charlie repeating something he heard on TV. A few nights later, though, when Charlie rambled about the questionable existence of god and wondered about what could have motivated someone to make up the complexities of a whole religion, Frank seemed to just accept it and move on.
Frank has become an oasis of acceptance in the midst of the gang’s constant discord. He comes closest to recognizing what Charlie does for them, thanking him for his hard work even if he admittedly isn’t even sure of what it is that he did. He’s apparently told Artemis about it, too, turning her into an unexpected ally who’s willing to go as far as transcribing an entire goddamn musical that Charlie churned out on a whim. (She told him that she has a cousin with something called dyslexia, and that she’s pretty sure he has it too, especially after he told her what he’d told Mac. He might’ve cried a little. Only a little.)
Charlie has come to learn that approval can be something other than gold stars and bad touches, and he’s decided that he fucking deserves it.
It’s a Tuesday evening at Paddy’s with as little traffic as usual, and Charlie is cleaning the booths and trying to ignore Dee sarcastically teasing, “Charlie didn’t turn the closed sign on again, did he?” He would be touched by the way Dennis and Mac tell her to shut up if he didn’t know that they would have done so whether Charlie was involved or not.
“Charlie, why are you cleaning the booths? No one’s sat in that one in days, you’re wasting supplies.”
He wants to tell Dennis that no one sitting there means dust accumulating and that wiping it off with a rag doesn’t use up anything but his own energy, but he won’t. His friends made a role for him, and it’s not his place to go against that and risk throwing off the fragile balance of their group. So he chokes down his explanation and shrugs instead. “Just needed somethin’ to do, I guess.”
Mac, Dennis, and Dee are all seated at the bar, with the expanse of the room between themselves and Charlie. He tries not to think about the symbolism.
Mac snorts, and Charlie already feels his blood starting to simmer. “Yeah, well if you need something to do so bad, how about you fix that toilet in the men’s restroom that’s been busted for two days?”
“Oh, oh that?” Charlie can’t resist the sarcasm that leaks into his voice. “You mean the one you broke with your protein powder shits that you’re probably just gonna break again right after I fix it? Sure, Mac, lemme just fix that right up for you.”
Dennis and Dee gape in amusement, while Mac at least has the self-awareness to look affronted. “Whoa, hey, what’re you trying to say?”
There are two options here: Charlie can back off and retreat back to the predetermined role that he’s been hiding behind for years, or he can take his nail-adorned rat stick and bash the shit out of it until there’s nothing left. There would be no gold stars or touches, only the satisfaction of seeing his so-called-friends’ faces while he burns down the very image they have of him.
He knows what he wants.
He stands up, rag still in hand, jaw set, and he can tell by their faces that they already know that something’s up. Something is different this time: Charlie is fed up with their bullshit.
“I’ll tell you what I’m trying to say, Mac. I’ll tell all three of you assholes exactly what I’m trying to say.” Dennis and Dee don’t look amused anymore. Good, Charlie thinks, if there’s one time for you guys to actually take me seriously, it’s right now.
“Here’s the thing,” Charlie says, and his usually pitched and yelling voice has taken a low serious tone that chills even himself. “You guys don’t know me. You act like you do, but all you know is the character you made up and put in my place. I’m the stupid one to you guys, the one who’s only good for manual labor and laughs.” Dennis opens his mouth, but Charlie points at him and interrupts, “And don’t you fucking dare say ‘but you are the stupid one,’ because I promise you that I’m not.”
Dennis’s jaw clicks shut. Charlie’s pretty sure they didn’t think he even knew the term “manual labor,” so he gives them a second to get over that bump in the road before continuing. “I know that I’m weird, believe me, I think about it every goddamn day, but if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s stupid. You know what am? Well for one thing, I’m dyslexic, not illiterate.” He soaks in the revelation that’s evident on all of their faces, and basks in the little slivers of guilt he can see emerging. “And I’m certainly not your personal janitor. In fact, I’m the only goddamn reason this bar hasn’t been shut down for all of our health code violations!”
He starts to step closer as he continues, steadily closing the gap between himself and the others. They shrink back a bit. “I’ve been doing so much shit for you guys, and I’m tired of playing dumb just because you expect me to!” His voice is rising back up to its usual timbre. “So I’m done. I’m done doing Charlie Work, I’m done being the village idiot, and I’m done taking your shit!”
Silence. There are only a few feet between Charlie and his shocked audience. He takes a couple of deep breaths, then unceremoniously drops his rag at their feet.
“Good luck running the bar without me.”
He turns on his heel and slams the door behind him.
It isn’t until Charlie is by the door of his apartment that what he did really hits him. Oh god oh shit what have I done what have I done I lost my friends what do I do fuck shit fuck. He unsteadily pulls out his phone and taps on Artemis in his contacts (listed as “theatre emoji, winky face, thumbs up”). He wrings his free hand in his green shirt, his favorite shirt, the one he repurposed after the crippled veteran scheme back when Dennis ran him over and oh god Dennis is gonna run me over again isn’t he he’s gonna be mad as hell, fuck, okay new plan, don’t think of the gang, don’t think of the gang...
“You’ve reached Artemis Dubois.” An ever-dramatic voice interrupts Charlie’s downward spiral into panic.
“Uh, hey, Artemis,” he chokes out, leaning one shoulder against the grimy wall. “Do you think you could maybe come to my apartment real quick? I, uh—” He takes a deep shuddering breath. “Could you?”
“Oh I’m al—” her voice merges with a closer and less grainy version of itself as Charlie’s door opens, “—ready here.” Artemis hangs up the phone and worriedly examines Charlie’s shaking frame and panicked eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Wha—why are you in my apartment?” He clumsily stuffs his phone in his pocket and realizes how shaky his hands are.
“It doesn’t matter.” She quickly turns her head inside and yells, “Frank, put the carrots away,” then turns back to Charlie, who’s still holding himself up against the wall. “What happened?”
Tears spring to Charlie’s eyes as he stumbles forward and whimpers, “I think I just broke up with the gang.”