“Are you getting affirmative consent for putting your arm around me?” Simon asks, stunned.
“Babe, you can’t consent to shit right now.”
Simon gives him what he hopes is a scathing look.
“I meant, on camera,” Charlie says. “I would have asked before but I didn’t think of it until now. And, um, you didn’t seem bothered by the picture yesterday.”
It slowly clicks into place what Charlie’s asking.
Yesterday, Charlie said he wasn’t specifically bothered by their relationship—or whatever—being made public, but he’d also said that he wished he’d been able to choose who knew. This, apparently, is him taking control of the narrative. Or trying to, at least.
It’s not like Charlie’s doing this in front of a huge audience. Nobody pays attention to these things, except for the live audience and some media journalists. But the media journalists, bored out of their minds, are looking for anything even mildly interesting to write about. If Charlie’s giving them that, they’ll take it.
Simon spends a solid two, maybe three, seconds deciding whether he has any objections to Charlie’s plan. Does he care whether Charlie feels him up, subtly, on camera? Not really. Does he care that every journalist he’ll talk to this summer for promo is going to say something like, “So, you and your costar Charlie Blakeseemed awfully cozy,” and Simon will have to come up with professional ways to saywhat does it fucking look like?
“Sure,” Simon says. One thing about Charlie is that it’s never boring.
Charlie beams at him. It’s a smile Simon’s seen before, on the show, this whole face situation that unfurls slow and a little crooked, crinkling his eyes. Even on set, it makes Simon feel drugged. And now that he is, in fact, slightly drugged, the effect is too much.
“Oh my God, are you telling me that thing is real?” Simon asks, poking at Charlie’s face, like he might discover that the smile is a hologram. “You’re just walking around with that inside you?”
Simon proceeds to put his entire being on autopilot while he smiles for the photographers. Occasionally Charlie’s arm is around Simon’s shoulder, super casual, except for how sometimes he slips a finger beneath Simon’s collar. And sometimes his hand lands at the small of Simon’s back. It’s exactly the same way Charlie’s been touching Simon in the apartment and on the street for the past few days. Affectionate, but not overtly sexy. It just barely crosses the line out of platonic territory. It’s nothing new.
Usually, what Simon does at this kind of event—anything where he has to appear as himself—is still acting: he’s playing the role of Simon Devereaux. But today, every time Charlie touches him, the persona drops away, and he’s left there, under too-bright lights, as nothing but himself.
He doesn’t know what to do with his face or his voice, doesn’t have the faintest idea what the blocking for this scene should even look like, so he has to get rid of the persona completely and just be Simon. And if that means he has a hand clutching Charlie’s sweater,if it means he can’t quite stop looking at Charlie even when he’s supposed to be looking at the camera, then so be it.
When they go onstage and act wildly enthusiastic about the upcoming season ofOut There, he must look nervous, because Charlie shoots him a questioning glance, an obviousshould I back off. He doesn’t want Charlie to think that, not for a minute, so there’s nothing to do but double down. By the time their bit is done, Simon’s plastered against Charlie’s side and the network guy with all the teeth is looking at them with—well, Simon’s about sixty percent sure it’s amusement, which could be worse.
After they’re done and the PA unclips their microphones, Charlie follows Simon into a bathroom, where Simon takes a face wipe from his bag and uses it to get rid of the makeup. The products the makeup artist used today are different from what he’s used to onOut There, so a full sensory nightmare is unfolding on his face. Charlie watches him like he’s doing something fascinating.
“How much of that was an act?” Charlie asks. “Here, give me that, you’re missing a spot.” He takes the wipe and dabs at Simon’s temple.
Simon would laugh if it weren’t for how much he hates that this idea even crossed Charlie’s mind. “There was no acting involved, except me acting like a—” Like a lovestruck idiot, but he isn’t quite ready to say that out loud. “I just didn’t hide anything.”
Then Charlie’s kissing him, or as much as you can kiss someone while you’re smiling. He tastes like terrible wrong-brand setting spray, so Simon shoves a wipe at him until the makeup is gone, then lets Charlie press him up against the sink and kiss him some more.
“I need to wash my hair,” Simon protests when Charlie has him up against the wall before the apartment door is even shut behind them.
“You need to wash yourhair?”
“Whatever spray they used, I can feel it on my scalp.” Also, that makeup wipe was insufficient, and Simon’s skin is crawling.
Charlie follows him into the shower and proceeds to interfere with all Simon’s attempts at self-care.
“I swear to God, Charlie, if you can’t keep your hands to yourself for thirty seconds.” It’s not exactly unflattering just how much Charlie can’t keep his hands off him. Simon’s not under any illusions that he looks his best soaking wet and lit by an overhead blue-tinged CFL bulb.
Charlie makes it fifteen seconds, but Simon manages to get some conditioner in his hair.
When Charlie’s reasonably clean, Simon kicks him out so Simon can finish his shower in peace. Two minutes later, there’s knocking on the door.
“Comeon, you’re clean enough. What are you even doing?”
Simon attempts to ignore him. There’s more knocking. Edie barks. Simon starts laughing. There’s some pounding that at first Simon thinks is Charlie escalating the bit, but which he then recognizes as the downstairs neighbor banging on the ceiling. Charlie shouts, “Oh, calm down,” and now Simon’s laughing hard enough that he’s in pain. His sides ache. His face hurts. He’s out of practice.
He’s glad to have the door between them because he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what to do. He’s never felt so wanted, or so happy with it, and that’s probably because he’s only been with normal people who don’t bang on doors and make theneighbors mad, and honestly that’s on Simon. Why would he ever think he could make anything work with normal people?
He turns off the shower.
