The only way they even wind up seventy percent dry before getting into bed is because Simon does the job himself. Then Charlie’s on top of him, and Simon stops complaining.
It’s easy. It’s so straightforward with Charlie. Charlieknowshim. Simon doesn’t need to be anyone he isn’t. And he doesn’t need to wonder whether it’s working for Charlie, because Charlie can’t shut up about it.
Right now—Charlie over him, almost inside him, one hand on Simon’s knee—Simon feels untethered. He’s floating through space, Charlie’s body the only real thing in the universe.
“This is what I was talking about,” Charlie says. “Not lazy. You just want to be taken care of.”
Simon goes hot with embarrassment—what the fuck, Charlie—and is about to argue, but then Charlie presses in and he gets distracted. Also, maybe Charlie’s right. Simon just wants to drift and know that Charlie’s going to make it good for both of them. He’s slightly resentful to be discovering this about himself in his thirties, years of merely satisfying sex put into context.
After, Simon pointedly steals the duvet and attempts to pinch Charlie’s shoulder, but he’s tired and his hand lives on Charlie’s shoulder now.
“Jeez,” Charlie says, his face buried in the pillow. “It wasn’t an insult.”
“I know. I, uh. Thanks for that. I mean.” He isn’t going to saythanks for taking care of me, because he hasn’t grown a new and better personality, but he trails off in a way that lets Charlie fill in the blanks.
Charlie flops half on top of him.
“It’s nice,” Charlie says. “I mean, taking someone who’s usually a bit cold and making thembeg?”
“I wasn’t begging.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Mmm, no, that must have been somebody else.”
“Anyway, that’s not some niche fantasy that I just invented. It’s an entry-level sex fantasy at best.”
“You’re great at sex compliments.”
“Every single fucker,” Charlie says, sounding a lot more pissed off than he should, considering, “who thought you’d call themnames? How fucking dumb do you have to be?”
“Don’t kink shame,” Simon says automatically.
“I’m idiot shaming,” Charlie says into Simon’s clavicle. “Like, I get the appeal. You’re snotty and mean and rich, and then there’s the whole clothing situation. That dynamic would work if you were a totally different person.”
And instead, Simon’s apparently someone who likes being taken care of, a phrase that now lives in his head, spoken in Charlie’s voice, rough with want. He shivers a little and lets Charlie forcibly cuddle him.
“Do you ever do it the other way?” Charlie asks. “You said you’d fuck me to save my life. What do you need? A doctor’s note? A prescription?”
“A court order,” Simon suggests. “A petition with ten thousand signatures. No, it’s good. I like it, sometimes.” He shuts his eyes, lets himself imagine it, feels his body react. “As long as you don’t mind doing all the work and me coming in two minutes.” He’s mostly joking, but it’s important not to oversell the experience.
When Simon opens his eyes, Charlie’s grinning at him, like Simon isn’t being actively unsexy and relentlessly weird.
“My flight leaves tomorrow at noon,” Charlie says. There isn’t a question in there, but he doesn’t sound entirely sure about it either.
“I’ll go with you to the airport,” Simon says, even though he’s never gone to the airport for anyone’s flights but his own. That must have been the wrong thing to say, because Charlie doesn’t answer. “Or,” Simon says, getting with the program. “You could change your ticket. Stay. If you wanted.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“I mean, it’s your funeral.” Simon can’t imagine that spending an entire week in close quarters with him is any kind of fun. “I’m going home on Monday. I just have to go to Greenwich on Saturday for Nora’s graduation.”
The truth is that Charlie gets on Simon’s nerves less than he’d have thought. That morning, Charlie was listening to music loud enough that Simon could hear it from Charlie’s earbuds. Simon simply announced that he was about to commit homicide, fair warning, and Charlie gave him a thumbs-up and lowered the volume, not even pausing in between sit-ups. When Charlie encroaches on Simon’s side of the bed in the middle of the night, Simon pokes him until he moves.
And it goes both ways—when Simon monopolizes the bathroom performing his skin care regimen, Charlie harasses him until he gets out. When Simon gets cranky about overdone eggs or makes the barista show him the carton of oat milk, Charlie doesn’t hesitate to tell him what a pain in the ass he’s being. It’s almost like after griping at one another for seven years, they can handle minor domestic bullshit without much drama.
It’s not that Charlie has thick skin—Simon doesn’t think anyone who experienced the Dave affair could think Charlie was thick-skinned. Nobody who saw Charlie on Simon’s couch, needing to be told he isn’t dumb, could think that.
And anyone lying next to Charlie in bed, when he’s gone suspiciously quiet and still, would know something was wrong.
