‘You shine even in the dark…’
‘Goodnight, Charles.’
‘G’night, One L.’
His eyelids are heavy, so he lets them fall, even if that means not looking at Loris anymore.
It’s alright, he will see him tomorrow. They have so much kissing and touching to do tomorrow morning. And less important stuff, but everything is important if they do it together.
‘Loris?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Tomorrow we’ll have to do something about your handwriting…’
If Charles wrote with Loris’ handwriting, his novel would be in French. And he would write it on a boat. He’s on a fisher boat. But he’s not writing. He’s conducting the waves with batons, instructing them to propel him towards a grinning sun on a ceiling-sky.
SEVENTEEN
It smells like toasted bread. And not just a hint of scent coming from the kitchen and filtering underneath Charles’ door. The toaster may as well be next to him on the mattress. This mattress is hard, it hurts his hip. Or his hip hurts rather. So does his head. What’s going on? Where is he?
Charles starts chewing on his saliva.
He was at Elsy’s leaving party. But he’s not with Elsy. He left her to… talk to Liv.
His body tightens.
Liv’s revelations. Fred. Australia. Fred’s passport. Milton burning Fred’s passport. Milton.
How will Charles bear being home? Is that why he didn’t go home? No. He wasn’t driven by fear or hate last night. He felt empowered and chose to go… to Loris.
Charles pushes himself up so fast, his brain hits the back of his skull. He’s in Loris’ bed. Practically naked. And Loris is here, bare-chested in front of his easel, his back turned to him.
What happened? What have they—
Loris spins around, scratching the skin of his belly, and Charles gasps a waft of toast-scented air.
His hands all over Loris. Loris pushing him away. Then holding him, caring. And listening.
There’s a hole in Charles’ chest where everything he wished to tell Loris used to weigh. He blurted it all out while he was wasted.
The mattress needs to swallow him up and spit him out into another galaxy. Now. Right now.
‘Are you actually awake?’
‘My bladder is about to burst!’
He untangles his legs from the duvet and staggers towards the nearest door.
‘Please don’t pee in my closet.’
Charles steps aside, storms into the bathroom and pulls down his boxers in the nick of time. He was indeed about to burst.
If I don’t kiss you I might explode.
Shit. Did they kiss? Did he dream that they kissed? What would be the better option? Escaping through the sash window?
Charles drenches his face with half a litre of cold water, nips another half, then looks up at the mirror. His skin appears greenish between the drops trickling on his cheeks. And on his hip, the skin is purplish verging on black. How on Earth did he get that bruise?
