‘Oh, don’t be! That gave me back three years of life he had cost me. Who’s Vincent de Cenmething?’
Loris edges closer. ‘Up to you. Whoever you need him to be in this parallel universe where you manage my career.’
‘I thought it best to justify in advance the time we’ll spend together. If the past five minutes haven’t put you off all things Ledwell-related.’
Charles scrunches his nose, but he’s not truly worried. He may not be fluent in Loris, his current expression is filling him with a heady energy that could power all the lighting systems of the house if they malfunctioned.
‘I now find it remarkable that you’re only an occasional twat.’ Loris thumbs Charles’ bottom lip and leans next to him, their shoulders pressed together. ‘Hey,Sofiablinded me earlier, but… Fuck.Putain. Cazzo. Kurwa. You live with a Dalí! Why is it hidden upstairs? And the bronze?’
‘There’s already a Moore and a Dalí downstairs.’
Loris produces the same sound he did earlier on the street.
Charles smiles and moves to face him. ‘You still owe me a couple of “Fuck, you live withSofia” translations.’
‘True. Let’s see if I remember.’
Loris brings his hands under his chin, points at Charles, brushes his chest and knocks his fists together. He then starts spelling letters with his fingers but wriggles them after two.
‘You can sign?’
‘Clearly not. I looked it up online back then, to impress you, but I haven’t rehearsed since before… What? Why are you looking at me like that?’
Whatever ‘that’ means to Loris, Charles can’t answer.
He’s no longer fluent in his own feelings. Not when Loris outshines the wonders exhibited around them. Not when he provides Charles with truths that evenSofianever helped him fathom – like how he’s as precious and special as the painting. Loris considers himself lucky to be with Charles. It’s obvious in his gaze. It’s been obvious from most things he’s done this week, but Charles is a slow learner when it comes to loving himself.
Now that his insecurity has followed his father outside the room,he’s getting a strong sense of how important he’s become to the man who’s revolutionising his existence. And the one thing that matters is to keep on pampering him.
Loris accepts a kiss as a response and hugs him closer, but Charles resists to lift his jumper.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I don’t know.’ Charles opens Loris’ jeans. ‘I have no idea what I’m doing. I should have looked it up online, to impress you, but I’ll wing it.’ He drops to his knees but doesn’t feel the floor. Everything seems abstract, apart from Loris’ contracted abdomen five inches away from his mouth. ‘Focus onSofiaif I’m doing terrible.’
Loris grips his upper arms and squishes them hard. ‘Can you lock?’
Charles looks up and disregards everything he thought he loved about painting and sculpting. Loris is breathtaking, his eyes darkened, the shadows underneath his cheekbones sharpening his jawline, the tilt of his jawline broadening his shoulders.
‘You can hold the door closed, I’ve seen the muscles your back is made of.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Certainly. Can I?’
‘Certainly…’
Charles moistens his lips and presses kisses along Loris’ V-line as he pulls down his trousers.
It is crazy, yes. The highest risk he’s ever taken combined with the least experience he’s ever had.
But this is also the most alive he’s ever felt.
It’s like playing an instrument for the first time and he doesn’t expect to have an innate gift for it. He listens to the sounds Loris is panting, records the reactions of his body and tries to pair them with the moves that provoked them. But added to his own sensations,Charles is a bit out of his depth.
It’s alright, he will improve over time. He has to excel at it in the future. This might be the meaning and purpose he was looking for, and he’s already addicted to it.
Charles gets up too fast, intoxicated by Loris’ taste, dizzy from the rush of adrenaline that hit him when Loris twitched between his lips. He loses his balance, but Loris holds him, his eyes burning with a fire that adds another year to Charles’ life.
