“Where are you?”
“Driving,” Andrew answers, surprised it took Charlie this long to call.
“Are you sure you can’t come by and help me get dressed? I can’t believe I need to wear a suit again,” Charlie whines.
“It’s an important night,” Andrew reminds him. “You know that art curator from New York is coming tonight. If he likes your work, this could lead to huge things.”
“What if I don’t want huge things?” Charlie says. “What if I want to wear my Crocs and paint-stained clothes and live a normal life.”
“You’re still going to live a normal life in your hideous Crocs, Charlie. This is just going to give you opportunities that might occasionally require a suit and networking.”
“Gross,” Charlie gags.
“More notoriety means more money to spoil Eden,” Andrew reminds him, not above manipulating him. He knows Charlie well enough to know this phone call is less that he needs Andrew to actually help him get dressed and ready and more that he needs Andrew’s emotional support.
“You’re right,” Charlie hums. “He loves the custom skirt Denise is making him for the wedding. I could afford to get him a whole custom wardrobe.”
“I don’t want a custom fucking wardrobe,” Eden pipes up from the background.
Andrew resists the urge to laugh. Eden absolutely would like a custom wardrobe, but nothing in the world could make him admit that. Eden is allergic to having wants and needs.
“A suit though, Annie. I feel like my dick is in jail. Why are these pants so tight?”
“They’re not tight, you’re just used to elastic waistbands.”
“Stretchy waistbands are fucking great,” Charlie says, following this statement up with a heavy sigh. “It feels weird you’re not here helping me get dressed.”
“You can dress yourself, Charlie.”
“Just because I can, doesn't mean I want to. You always come to these stuffy events with me. You’re better at being polite.”
“Pretty sure you can survive one night without me,” Andrew says, a prickle of guilt for not being available for Charlie whenever he needs him warring with a selfish relief at being missed. Sometimes, he worries that Charlie will suddenly stop needing him now that he’s got Eden, but times like this remind him that he and Charlie will always be close—and maybe a little codependent.
“Ugh, fine,” Charlie sighs. “But have you seen my shoes?”
“Which shoes?”
“The ones that feel like feet prison.”
“You’re going to need to be more specific,” Andrew says.
“The ugly brown ones.”
“Wait, aren’t you wearing a black suit?”
“Yes.”
“Charlie,” Andrew groans. “You can’t wear brown dress shoes with a black suit.”
“Why not?” Charlie asks.
“Because it doesn’t match.” Andrew taps his navigation, checking his expected arrival time before returning his attention to Charlie. “You need to wear the black shoes. But not the ones with the laces, the loafers with the buckle.”
“Why the fuck do I even own two pairs of black dress shoes? That seems excessive.”
“Says the man who owns twenty-one pairs of Crocs.”
“They’re all different colors, Annie. That is completely different.”
