‘Yes. He’s understanding and patient, so—’
‘Good grief, don’t play stupid. He’s a gem, that’s wonderful, I’m swooning! Now give me something saucy. Be careful!’ George slaps Charles’ arm, because he just wasted three pounds’ worth of beer snorting at his simulated swooning. ‘I allowed you to be coy last time, but I expect detailed updates.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Because my ultimate goal is universal knowledge. But porn has its limitations.’
‘You watch gay porn?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Well, you might teach me stuff,then.’
‘Let’s find out.’
‘We’re not having this discussion now, George.’
‘No one’s paying attention to us. Which I find a bit offensive.’
‘Not now that I’m sober.’
‘Fine, but you’re buying tequila on the way back!’
‘Alright.’ Charles inhales the chemical waft of his cocktail to rid himself of the naked memories burning the tips of his ears. ‘By the way, why did your escape plan involve Hannah’s hacking skills?’
‘To disable the alarms so we can stealSofia.’
Charles laughs the concept off, as tempting as it is.
But when George steps aside to shake hands with an acquaintance, Charles greets the picture sketching itself on a new page of his mental notebook. An art heist could be the central plotline that his novel is missing.
And a central plotline might be the ideal distraction from the latest ugly chapter of his personal story.
TWENTY-TWO
‘Nice of them to give you the afternoon off.’
‘I took it myself,’ Charles replies, stepping over a rain-filled hole. ‘You texted you were depressed, so I told them I was done for today. I don’t think they cared. I don’t care if they did.’
‘Okay…’ Loris glances at him, new questions arising in his gaze, but for the third time since they met at the edge of the park, he chooses not to voice them. ‘I never said I was depressed, I said desperately uninspired.’
‘Same difference, no?’
Charles gives him a frail smile and gets a concerned one in return.
He wishes he could swallow back the weariness leaking into his voice. And conceal the dark rings under his eyes, the stiffness of his body and the effort it takes to stretch his lips. All the reasons why Loris appears so worried. All the signs that Charles is hurting so deeply, he didn’t even hope it would fade once they would be together, about to share a moment he’s been envisioning for a week.
Of course, it’s easier to fight the cold in his chest in the vicinity of Loris’ warmth. Easier to pierce through the darkness when the Heath is a beauteous scenery of contrasts that only exist in the sunny aftermath of a storm. Of course it helps.
Many things have helped Charles lately.
Arguing nonsense with George. Calling Elsy at hours only decent for her. Planning naked moments with Loris. Wrestling with his novel. Even loathing his parents was helping.
Charles had built such a solid wall of sideshows in front of his rekindled grief, he didn’t notice it was swelling fast and gradually percolating through cracks in the bricks.
Until it reached him, last night.
Back home after twenty-four hours spent in George’s flat, Charles was padding up the stairs when the beam of his phone torch highlighted a detail in the Christmas photo: Fred’s hand, firmly gripping his shoulder and pulling him closer, to the point that their heads probably knocked right after the shot was taken.
