‘I mean tonight! Where were you?’
‘Oh! I was at a party with my friends, but I left because I wanted you. No. Shit. Sorry. Because I wanted to see you.’
‘Did you tell them where you were going?’
‘Of course not! I just left. Not sure they noticed. But the bartenders must have. I didn’t pay.’
Did he leave a debit card behind the bar? No, they don’t request cards there, it would offend their customers. They can trust their customers. Oops.
‘You need to.’
‘Duh, I know! I’ll go back tomorrow.’
‘No, you’ve got to warn your friends that you’re okay.’
‘Oh.’
Loris is a true Alex. This is sweet and heart-warming, but Charles is far too warm already. He unbuttons his shirt, pulls it open and fans himself with its tails.
Loris turns away. ‘Text your friends.’
‘Oui, Monsieur.’
Charles takes his phone and clicks his tongue at new messages from Spencer. Can’t he wait? Will his subscribers unsubscribe if his ski vlog isn’t online before Easter? Charles replies briefly, then replies to Elsy, and also to George. He misses George. It will be nice seeing him again tomorrow. Tottenham might lose the match, but Charles will win if he sees George.
‘Here.’
Lorisis back beside him, very close and very bare-chested, holding a glass of water and a white pill.
‘What a massive block of… What’s that?’
‘Paracetamol. French dosage.’
Charles takes a sip of water, puts the glass back into Loris’ hand and slips the pill between his lips. He keeps it in his mouth while he finishes his message to George, then he tosses his phone onto the sofa and tilts his head backwards to swallow.
‘Ugh, water tastes stupidly bland. I won’t get high, right?’
Loris opens his wardrobe. ‘Not with one gram of paracetamol, no.’
‘Can I trust you on that? Because I got very high on your massage! Remember when you gave me a massage? It was… Chef kiss!’ Charles joins his thumb and forefinger together, looking at Loris through the circle. ‘And I was thick, really. It wasn’t your massage I was obsessed with, it was your hands touching me. I blame the prejudiced twat for not taking the hint. The moron who didn’t think you could know your art. Remember him? Well, he’s very dense! Tons and tons of preconceived ideas. And being into a guy? Never! Ledwells are straight, Sir, yes Sir! They keep a straight face, they stand straight, think straight and fuck straight. All straight! Nah, I’m boiling.’ Charles shakes his hands at the t-shirt Loris is offering him and loses his own shirt. ‘So you see, I couldn’t possibly be into you. And then, I was very possibly into you, but I couldn’t.’ He pulls down his jeans and wiggles to free his feet. ‘Because my father, if he learns that I wank in the shower thinking of you, he’ll send me to conversion therapy. Which is funny because he wouldn’t send me to therapy to fix anything else. Well, no, it’s not funny, he’s a total dickhead, but— Come on!’
His left ankle is stuck in the jeans. He hops towards the sofa for support, but when Loris reaches for him, Charles grabs his shoulderinstead. It’s nicer. There’s more muscle on his shoulder than on the sofa.
‘You’re perfect like your drawings.’
‘Charles…’
‘Yes,fer de croix, I knooooow.’
He contorts himself to tugs at the jeans, his face an inch away from Loris’ V-line. This is torture. He’s so attracted to Loris.
‘Do you want something to eat?’ Loris asks, releasing him from his caring grasp. ‘More water?’
‘No, I want to explain why I brainwashed myself because I had to stop wanting you.’
‘You kind of did, and I really need to—’
‘I did? Good! So you understand why I couldn’t see you. If you’ve ever looked at yourself. You’re like the anti-brainwash. Which makes you a… braindirt? No, that doesn’t sound right. In any case, I had to stop wanting you. Wanting you seemed so complicated and messy, and everything in my life is already messy. So I said, “No, Charles, no Loris for you!” and I’m quite good at getting over things I want. It should have been easy peasy grenadine squeezy, but…’ He squishes Loris’ cheeks. ‘It wasn’t! I kept looking at your profile picture. That didn’t help. You know you look a bit stupid in that photo? With your hair dyed all blond as if you were a member of NSYNC. I love that photo of you. And the more I looked at it, the more I realised you’re the kind of stupid I need. You’re… You’re the plate of spinach I’d break my arm for. You’re— Hold on.’ Charles plants his fists on his waist, staring at the duvet cover. ‘Have you changed your sheets since Enzo slept here?’
