Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is a piano on the opposite side of the wall. Charles knows this because the walls of the house are thin and he can hear it perfectly, he has been hearing it for the longest time. There is never any other sound coming from the other room, except for the clear notes of the instrument. 

The first memory he has of the piano, or at least the first true memory he has of its existence, must be from the time he was around four years old. His father had gotten home that day in a sour mood, a temper Charles was still learning to recognise at the time. He scrambled to hide under his bed the moment the doors downstairs shut with a deafening bang. The screaming started next, one-sided, and he thinks he remembers covering his ears. The footsteps followed the shouting, measured and heavy on the stairs, and he may have been about to cry. 

And then, the music happened. It was clumsy, single notes, out of tune and out of order, and barely hearable from across the room. But he heard them, clear as day, and they drowned out his approaching father. He didn’t hear the door of his bedroom being kicked open or the words his father yelled at him in his furious daze. He barely felt the slap on his temple. He thinks he may have nodded and apologised for whatever his father deemed upsetting that day, but he doesn’t remember much of anything. The only thing he remembers is the early stages of the music which would bring him comfort for years to come. 

He falls in love with the piano that day. 

He starts begging for an instrument shortly after. He goes to his mother first, when his father is out of the house, and asks her for a piano. The first time he does it, she just chuckles sadly and shakes her head without saying a word. He remains persistent, and mentions his wish after every concert behind his wall. It takes some time before she finally starts taking him seriously, but then one day after dinner, when his father is in a rare good mood, she makes an off-handed mention about it. His father just grunts, too focused on the TV to listen to anything that’s being said. It’s a start. 

In the meantime, he spends a lot of time with his ear pressed to the wall, trying to hear as much of the piano as he can. The music changes a lot. Sometimes it’s dark and smooth, and even scary. He doesn’t like it when the scary music is played, but he enjoys the pretty sad songs.  But then, then there are times when the music turns rough and awkward, unskilled, but so much happier. Once he learns how the calendar and clock work, he makes note that the other musician (because it must be two different people) appears on the other side of the wall 4 times a week in the late afternoon. He tries to be by the wall every time they start playing. 

He looks out of his window more often, trying to catch a glimpse of the neighbours living in the terraced house attached to theirs, but he never manages to see them, somehow always being a little too late. 

🎼🎶

When he’s six, he gets a book about music on his birthday. He’s not too good at reading, but it’s so rare for him to get anything he treasures it anyway, and desperately tries to improve his skills. When his father is out, he asks his mum to read to him, and then he attempts to follow after her. 

There is a chapter on key instruments in it which he’s re-read so many times he knows it by heart now. One day, he takes a pencil, and scratches piano keys into the desk. They are ugly and uneven, and he gets his first proper beating after his father finds out. He has to wear trousers and long-sleeved shirts for two whole weeks in the middle of the summer to hide the bruises, and the book gets torn to shreds and thrown out. 

The desk remains though, and he drags it to lean against the wall with the piano behind it. He taps at the keys he made, imagining they’re the actual instrument, and tries to guess which sound should pair with which key. He likes to think that he gets it right at least half of the time. 

It's Christmas after he turns seven, when it finally happens. Unlike in the previous years, when the package under the tree was small, if there at all, this time there is a large, slightly misshapen thing wrapped in grey paper. He uses all of his strength not to run to it the moment he sees it; instead, he walks into the kitchen and starts helping out his mum, who is already making breakfast. By the time his father wakes up, the table is set with a variety of fancy dishes, which only appear once a year. 

They wish each other Merry Christmas, and Charles is secretly very proud of himself when he manages to make it sound cheerful but not too enthusiastic. His father even gives him a curt, approving nod, and it feels a bit like a miracle. They eat in silence, and even though he wants to inhale the breakfast and run to the tree, he forces himself to eat slowly. He gathers the plates after they’re finished and does the dishes without prompting, and does not dare say a word lest his father’s mood sours. 

Finally, when he’s done with cleaning up, his father tells him to see under the Christmas tree. Charles follows him to the living room, and waits until he takes a seat in his favourite chair, before he dares to approach the gift. He waits for the final permissive nod, and then he finally rips open the wrapping, still careful not to make too much mess. 

It’s an old Yamaha keyboard. He can see scratches here and there, and the paint is chipped in a few spots, but it’s a keyboard, and he can feel the happy tears in his eyes. He swallows them down because boys don’t cry, and turns to his parents. 

“Thank you,” he says, and his mum gives him a smile. His father looks all smug when Charles looks at him, so he adds “Thank you, sir,” for good measure. That seems to please the man, as his focus finally leaves Charles, and he reaches for the remote. Charles takes it as a sign to clean up the wrapping paper, and then as quietly as possible tries to drag the keyboard to his room. His mum helps him carry it up the stairs, because it’s way too heavy for him, and then returns with a stand a few minutes later and helps him set it up on it. 

He starts playing with the keyboard that same evening. He drags his desk back to the window, where it used to stand before, and sets the instrument in its place. He spends the next hour reading the rumpled guidebook and trying to figure out how to make it work. He finally succeeds with plugging it in, and immediately turns it off when the first, accidental note resonates through the room louder than he expects. He then takes a permanent marker and signs the keys with their corresponding notes, following the scratches on his desk. 

He doesn’t sit down to the instrument afterwards, even though he desperately wants to, but it’s nearing eight p.m. and he knows that he should be getting ready for bed if he wants to avoid trouble. 

🎶

He doesn’t know how to start learning to play properly. He goofs around, tapping the keys at random, trying to see if it leads somewhere – it never does. It’s frustrating, to say the least, but he’s determined. 

The first thing he does learn is not to turn the keyboard on when his father is home. Even if the man seems in a good mood at first, it will quickly turn sour if he hears Charles making noise. Charles finds out the hard way, too, and when his father beats him up for being too loud, he’s sure that it’s the last he’ll see of his keyboard. A miracle happens, though, and the instrument remains unharmed. This does make the whole process even trickier, however, because his father is between jobs, and it’s never sure when he will be home. 

The keyboard remains almost untouched all throughout January, and through most of February. This does not mean that Charles is wasting time, though – if anything, it’s the opposite. When his classmates aren’t looking, he visits the school library. He befriends the librarian quite quickly – a very talkative man who, upon learning Charles’s Punjabi descent, reveals himself to be from Kolkata. This, and the man’s surprisingly extensive musical knowledge, make Charles idolise him immediately. Mr Kashi teaches him things about music and piano, and lends him books from the library for much longer than it is allowed, under explicit promise to return them before school year ends. Back home, Charles tapes the books to the backs of his drawers, to hide them better from his father. It works. 

As much as he would like to spend more time with Mr Kashi, his schoolmates make it impossible. They are a rowdy bunch, troublemakers to boot, and Charles gets carried away more often than not. His teachers don’t like him much, probably even less than the other boys because he’s different, and he frequently ends up the scapegoat for the group's antics. His father seems to like that he’s friends with those other boys, though, probably because they are sons of some of his friends and colleagues. Secretly, Charles doesn’t think he likes his mates that much, but his father wants it so he doesn’t really have much choice. But then something changes, and he starts spending his detentions in the library, helping Mr Kashi with sorting out the books, and he doesn’t mind getting in trouble so much anymore. 

His hair is getting long, a little uncomfortable, but instead of asking to have it cut, he steals one of his mum’s hairbands and tries tying it up. It’s messy, and most of the hair ends up falling out, but he grins into the mirror, one front tooth missing, and he almost feels like the main character of that movie he loves. His father catches him, home early again from what must have been either a job hunt or a drinking session, and rips the hair tie out with some of his hair. Charles bites down the cry of pain, but cannot stop the rolling tears when the man all but ties him to a chair and shaves his head bald while muttering something about how ‘no son of his will be a ladyboy’. Charles doesn’t know what it means, but cries all the same, and once his hair is shaved off clean, he gets a few new bruises to his endless collection for the tears shed. 

He asks Mr Kashi about the meaning of ‘ladyboy’ one day during detention. It slips out without him really intending to say it, and the silence in the library is deafening when Mr Kashi looks at him. Charles is on the verge of his seat already, prepared to run in case he’s upset the man, but nothing of the sort happens. Instead, the man asks him where he heard the phrase, and patiently listens to Charles’s explanation, before introducing him to the term ‘queer’, and a lengthy and colorful explanation of how people can love. Charles finds it fascinating, especially the stories about Mr Kashi and his partner, but he knows better than to talk about it outside of the library. He has a feeling it may end badly. 

His father finally gets a new job in February. Charles isn’t really sure what it is, but it does mean that his father isn’t home that often anymore, and most nights he returns late in the evening. This, finally, gives him the opportunity to start learning. 

He tries to put Mr Kashi’s books and teachings to good use, but it’s hard, and the notes and letters get jumbled in his head. He refuses to give up, though, the music on the other side of the wall being his main motivator. The happy, clumsy notes he vaguely remembers aren’t so rough anymore, though. Whoever the other musician is, they’re clearly better at learning the piano than Charles – the songs they play are smooth now, with only an occasional false note, which is long gone by the next replay.

He gets the idea one afternoon, when the song behind the wall is unusually fragmented, the sounds more jumping from one to another than flowing like they usually do. He thinks that the other person must be learning something completely new. He sits down at the keyboard, and taps at the keys until he thinks he finds the one that sounds exactly like its counterpart on the other side. When the next note plays, he finds it too. It gets more difficult when the single notes turn to proper chords, but all the books finally become useful, and he manages to catch those too. Step by step, he learns. 

He isn’t sure when his neighbour realises what Charles is doing, but they do, and whenever they play anything, there is always a pause for Charles to follow; and whenever Charles makes a mistake, the other person replays the melody so he can correct himself. It’s really nice, if a bit strange. He likes to think that he and the mysterious neighbour are friends. 

The biggest surprise comes when his mum starts joining him by the keyboard. She never said a word about knowing how to play, but apparently she does, and in his father’s absence, she becomes his second teacher. She doesn’t always have the time, and he learns from his neighbour more often than from her, but there are afternoons when she sits next to him, or takes him on her lap, and teaches him a song. Those are his favourite days, and even if his mum’s song clashes with his neighbour, they do not seem to mind the noise, and play anyway. Sometimes, they even join them, and in those moments, Charles thinks he’s the happiest he’s ever been.

🎼🎶

When he’s 10 years old, something changes. There is silence on the other side of the wall, for the longest time. He starts counting time one day, and gives up after 63 days. He’s worried, so worried that something has happened to his mysterious friend. He plays the keyboard still, always at the same time, which remained unchanged despite the years coming and going. He tries to play the songs he likes to think they’ve learned together, he tries getting a reaction. Nothing happens. 

After too many days to count, something changes again. The music on the other side returns, but this time it’s sadder. Not scary, like the other musician who still sometimes plays, though. It’s sombre, and Charles, shaped by Mr Kashi’s lessons, thinks he recognises one of Chopin’s Nocturnes. But even then, despite being so much more melancholic, Charles knows that his mysterious friend is back at the piano. 

They play more often now, and for longer too, and it’s always sad. He is tempted to join them, try to follow or harmonise to the best of his abilities, but with the music so sorrowful, it doesn’t feel appropriate. He waits, then, and only starts practising when the other musician seems to be done. It’s upsetting, and he feels as if he’s losing something he never really had. He’s not sure what to do. 

🎶

There is a rumour going around at school that someone new joined them. He never sees the person though, but it makes sense – a second rumour follows quickly enough, that whoever the person is, follows an individual study course. His mates make it their goal to find and figure out the new boy – and it’s a boy, he learns – whether to befriend him or to bully him, Charles isn’t really sure. They never really succeed, though, and the new boy remains elusive to the point of people starting to doubt his existence. It’s almost as if he is a ghost. 

He still gets in trouble at school, still gets the brunt of the consequences, and still hangs out with the blokes his father likes – those things don’t really change. What changes, though, is his membership in the school’s cricket team. He gets admitted to the core team despite being a year younger than the rest of the players. Turns out he’s fast, has good aim and hand-eye coordination, and the coach moves him up. His mates are jealous, but he doesn’t care because it’s the first time his father tells him he’s proud of him. 

He spends a lot of time training, but still tries to make time for the music, and manages to establish a semi-successful schedule; the only downside is that it’s even harder to catch his neighbour at the piano than it was before. 

His mum sends him little post-it notes with his lunch. He’s not sure his father knows about them and doesn’t care, or if he’s completely unaware of the little tradition, but every time Charles opens his lunch box, his mum’s handwriting greets him. He has to hide the notes from the others – he remembers bullying another boy for a similar thing not too long ago, and hates himself a little bit for going along with it instead of stepping in. He’s scared, though. He doesn’t want his mates to turn on him. 

The notes give him an idea though, one which he ponders for weeks, and which he almost abandons – until the song on the other side of the wall turns a little happier than it used to be, and he feels hope building in his chest that maybe his friend is not yet gone. 

He prepares a post-it note with his idea, then sneaks to the house attached to his and sticks it to the front door. He briefly wonders if he should ring the bell and run, but decides against it – there doesn’t seem to be any lights turned on inside, so chances are that the neighbours aren’t home. He leaves, the thoughts of the little yellow paper making him bite down a grin. 

At five p.m. on the dot, he is at his keyboard, fingers already warmed up and ready to go. He taps a single note on the high-end of the instrument, and waits. And waits. And waits. He tries playing the same note every few minutes, when he figures enough time has passed between them, but nothing happens. When the clock starts nearing six, he is on the verge of giving up. He plays the note one last time, more as a goodbye than anything else, and almost jumps out of his seat when a response comes – an echo of Charles’s instrument, followed by a bright chord. He almost cries. 

He waits a few more minutes, tapping at the key every once in a while, to assure his neighbour that he hasn’t left, all the while they warm up, running scales up and down the instrument. They finish their preparation by echoing Charles again, and he feels like something amazing is about to happen. 

He’s been wondering long and hard what song to choose – he doesn’t feel as confident in his skills as his neighbour might, and he doesn’t want to embarrass himself. They have dueted before, yes, but it never felt purposeful. This time is different, this time Charles asked. 

He goes with the song his mum taught him first. He feels like it may be her favourite song, but he’s not sure. He knows it’s from a movie that he’s never seen, but which he’s heard is really sad. He thinks he vaguely remembers reading about the story that inspired it in history class. 

He plays the first few notes, and they’re sad. It’s on purpose, though, because choosing a happy tune after his neighbour has been sad for such a long while still feels weird to him. So he goes with this song, which he knows is not the happiest, but which always carries a hopeful note to it – and warm memories of time spent with his mum, which he holds close to his heart. 

His neighbour joins after the first verse, right before the chorus, and it makes Charles trip over the keys a bit. But the other person doesn’t seem to care, swimming through the song without stopping, almost as if they didn’t hear Charles’s fumble. He shakes his hands off quickly, and joins right in time for the chorus. 

He’s right about this duet feeling different than the other ones – there is something special to it, when the music harmonises despite the wall in between. When he closes his eyes, he thinks he can almost feel his neighbour sitting right next to him, another set of fingers running next to his. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until the final note reverberates through the room, and something wet and salty hits the corner of his mouth. He quickly wipes the tear away. 

There’s a noise that makes him jump up, and it takes him a moment to realise it’s clapping. He turns to see his mum in the doorway, and she’s crying too, but she’s also smiling the big, lovely smile Charles doesn’t get to see too often. It makes the tears well up in his eyes again, and he abandons the instrument to run into her arms. He’s up to her shoulder already, and it’s always strange to see her getting smaller and smaller before his eyes. He remembers looking up at her, and she seemed so far away from him until she picked him up; now, he can almost hide his face in the crook of her neck with his feet still on the ground. The music on the other side of the wall carries on, as if their duet has never happened, but he can hear some stray, false notes in between the bars of whatever the song is – remains of their duet, proof that they did play together after all. 

From that day on, the notes become something of a tradition for them. Charles prepares a suggestion on a bright yellow post it note, and sticks it to his neighbours’ front door, and at the set time, his friend joins him on the other side of the wall. It doesn’t always work out for them – sometimes, they can’t get the time right, or the neighbour doesn’t seem to know the song Charles offers for the duet. There also never seems to be an offer in return – whatever Charles says, the other person usually follows, but he never finds a post-it note on his own door. He tries not to be too disappointed about it – no matter how much he plays it up in his mind, at the end of the day he doesn’t know his neighbour. 

🎶

His father loses his job, and it’s worse than the last time. The break lasts longer, and he is getting angrier and angrier about it. He never sees it happen, but when his mum starts wearing cardigans despite the spring weather, he knows bad things are happening when he’s at school. He is torn between staying as far away from his house for as long as he can justify it, and returning immediately after the cricket practice is over to get his father’s attention off his mum. He feels like a coward every time he chooses the first one. 

It’s impossible to practise on the keyboard again. His father is in and out of the house at most random times, and Charles cannot adapt to a timetable that doesn’t exist. He tries playing for short bits of time when his father is not present, even the few minutes when the man is smoking out front. He wonders what his neighbour is thinking about his misshapen schedule. He wonders if they care about the missing post it notes. 

He makes mistakes, miscalculations in his father’s comings and goings which cost him dearly. He loses count of how many times his father beats him up when he catches him playing. He often covers the keyboard with his own body, to protect it from being smashed to pieces. He has bruises all over his ribs and back, and he falls short during one of the important cricket games of the year, which makes his father even angrier. His coach takes him to the side after the match, asks about his home life, and Charles lies through gritted teeth that everything is fine. His team shuns him for the rest of the school year – Charles’s failure cost them their chances for the championship. 

His mum doesn’t play with him anymore, too absorbed in placating his father. He thinks it’s stupid, because his father is always unhappy these days, and even being in the house seems to annoy him – everything seems to annoy him. Charles sneaks around as much as he can, trying not to be seen or heard. He thinks about the new boy at his school that no one seems to ever see, and wonders how he does it. He fancies the thought that were he to ever meet him, they would have an excellent fun playing ghosts together. 

There is another change on the other side of the wall, and it takes Charles an embarrassingly long time to realise that whoever plays the piano there must be trying to compose a song of their own. The melodies they come up with are a bit strange, he thinks, not like anything he’s ever heard before. It’s almost as if some notes are missing here and there, and when he can, he turns into a game of sorts – trying to fill in the blanks that the other person leaves in between. It’s fun, even if it mostly means tapping the keys at random, and he’s absolutely delighted when some of his suggestions seem to work for the musician too. 

He can’t help but wonder about his neighbour. Or neighbours, because there still seems to be at least two people playing the piano, one more often than the other. He never hears any other sounds from behind the wall, not a single word – which seems strange, because he is able to hear even the quietest of notes played. He knows that they can hear him too, and not much worse, because their duets always sounded great despite the separation. 

He wonders whether they hear his father beating him up. It keeps happening more and more, every little thing Charles does enraging the man. His grades are too low, he doesn’t help enough in the house no matter how much he tries, and even getting in trouble with the other boys at school doesn’t seem to amuse the man anymore. 

Sometimes, when his father puts his hands on him, Charles can still hear the music being played in the other house. It used to be a comfort, he thinks, way back when. Right now, he’s not so sure. He wonders whether the neighbours ignore him on purpose in those moments – they never seemed to do that when they played together or when he was trying to learn from them. He likes to think that maybe they don’t mean to ignore him, too absorbed in the music – he gets that. But when his father’s leather belt connects with his back and legs, he wishes they would do something. He wishes they’d help. 

Chapter Text

At fourteen, not much changes for him. Most of his friends from primary end up in the same secondary school he goes to, maybe because it’s really the only one in their town. This means that the crowd he runs with doesn’t differ too much – for better or worse. His father jumps between jobs, sometimes managing to keep one for longer, sometimes floating in between for weeks. 

His mum, in turn, keeps juggling three jobs at once, and so they manage to get by even in the rougher times. As a result, she is almost never home. He tries keeping up with her chores, staying on top of cooking, cleaning and shopping to lighten her load, and keep his father from exploding. On the days when he fails at any of those, he runs. 

There’s a park on the way from his house to his school. It’s really nice, green and quite big for the small town. There’s even a pond which always looks tempting, especially on hot days, but there are signs all over the park not to swim in it – apparently there is something wrong with its bed, and there were few instances of people drowning before. He keeps away from the pond, even when his friends double dog dare each other to jump in. None of them do, however – everyone still remembers what happened to Tim Robinson’s older brother. 

He likes the playground the most. It’s a bit old, and most of the equipment is worn down and squeaky, but there’s a charm to it, he thinks. It tends to be full of kids most of the time, but when the evening falls it empties, and Charles can avoid his father there to his heart’s content. He often meets up with other boys there, and watches as they film stupid videos on their phones. Charles never joins – he doesn’t really want to be doing those things, and he doesn’t have a phone anyway. His father believes getting him one would be a waste of money. Then again, his father recently seems to think that any amount spent on Charles is a waste. But that’s okay, the bills are more important, and he doesn’t want his mum to run herself completely ragged. 

He knows he probably shouldn’t be doing it, but he loves climbing onto the roof of the slide tower in the middle of the playground. It’s the perfect height for people watching, and not many can reach him. He spends hours observing the townsfolk, quite a few of whom he recognises. He cannot help but grin when the little kids spot him up there – they are always so awed and delighted, and he would bet whatever penny he can find that they end up trying to climb it too, to the detriment of their parents. 

He stays out for hours, way after the sun sets. All of his friends usually leave before he climbs back down and makes his way back home. If he’s lucky, his father is asleep on the couch with the telly on – those returns are easy, he doesn’t even need to be too quiet in his movements. If he’s less lucky, his father will still be awake and he can either take another walk around the block to outwait him, or he has to sneak past the man. He’s successful most of the time, and on the off chance he fails, his father usually keeps the beatings down to the minimum. 

He rarely plays on his keyboard these days, too afraid of the consequences, and if the silence on the other side of the wall is anything to go by, his neighbour is also taking a break. It hurts him in the strangest way, this missing piece that he's grown too used to, and he finds himself distracted and distraught. He feels restless in a way he hadn't in a long time, his hands looking for something to occupy them, his fingers absent-mindedly tapping ghost melodies into the desktops at school. His friends notice and mock him for it, but he manages to turn their attention to something else. They forget quickly, and he learns to hide better.

A rumour starts going around one day, about someone seeing two boys kissing in the hall near the music classroom, and suddenly his friends turn into bloodthirsty hounds. They desperately try to hunt down either of the boys, preemptively calling them ‘faggots’ and ‘cocksuckers’. Charles isn't really sure what those words mean at first, but he sneaks into the library to look them up on the school computer. His stomach twists as he reads about the meanings of the slurs, suddenly remembering the conversation he had with Mr Kashi once upon a time, and he pretends he doesn't feel another part of him crumble to pieces. He decides not to think about it, and when his friends start another tangent, he just laughs emptily and nods. But they are fourteen, and so rumours never last long – it goes away eventually. Charles drowns out the relief he feels when it does.

🎶

It's the end of March and there is a yellow post-it note on his front door. He sees it from a mile away, the little neon square standing out against the dark wood. He runs to it and rips it off carelessly, stuffing it into his pocket. He opens the door and walks in quietly, but his parents’ shoes and jackets are gone, and he breathes in relief. He's alone. He dresses down from the warm clothes and runs upstairs, fiddling with the innocuous piece of paper hidden in his trousers. Despite knowing that there's no one else home, he still closes the door to his room before pulling it out.

The handwriting is neat, way more elegant than Charles's chicken scratch letters. There's not much content to the note – not even a name, just a time and a song. The request is simple enough – he is to start playing with the second verse if he knows it. He grins when he reads the title, and turns on the keyboard to start warming up. He remembers watching the movie with his mum a few years back, one of the rare days when his father was out. She rented it on a whim from the public library, and offered to watch it together. They made some hot chai and cuddled up on the couch. He has fond memories of that evening, even if both of them ended up crying more than once.

When the decided hour gets closer, he taps a key to let the other person know he's ready. There is no response, but precisely at half past four p.m., the song starts on the other side of the wall. He waits patiently for his turn, listening to the melody. If possible, it sounds even prettier than it does in his memory. When the chorus slowly comes to a wrap, he places his hands on appropriate keys, and holds his breath as his first chord harmonises with the neighbour. He follows the song, and notices that the piano has quieted a bit for the verse. He's not sure what it means but he doesn't stop, and his cheeks hurt from grinning when the piano is back in full force when the second chorus comes. 

The song ends all too soon, and Charles feels unsatiated. He hadn't realised how much he was missing this – the keyboard, the music, the duets. He racks his brain for another song, and when nothing comes to mind, he just starts playing chords at random until it starts sounding familiar. He plays and plays, and doesn’t notice the outside getting dark. When the door downstairs closes with a bang, it’s too late. 

He jumps away from the instrument and freezes like a deer in the headlights. He forgot to do anything when he got home, too absorbed with the piano – there’s nothing for dinner, and there may still be dishes from the morning in the sink. When his father kicks open his door, he doesn’t think. He runs. The man is screaming already, red in the face, and when Charles bolts to pass him in the door he feels his hand wrapping around his forearm. The fingers burn on his skin but they never manage to catch him, as he rips his arm away, banging his shoulder on the doorframe in the frenzy. 

He runs down the stairs and through the front door. It’s freezing outside and in the back of his head he thinks he hears his mum chide him for not wearing anything over the threadbare t-shirt. He doesn’t care about it, though, doesn’t feel the cold with adrenaline pumping through his veins. He doesn’t run through the front gate, instead jumping over the fence separating him from the neighbour’s house. He feels his trousers catch on one of the spikes and hears the tell-tale rip of fabric, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He runs to the front door instead, and starts banging on it with panicked fervour. 

“Please,” he pleads, falling to his knees, “Please help me! He’ll kill me, I swear he’ll kill me!” He bangs and begs, and screams, and cries – to no avail. It’s as if there’s no one home, but he knows someone is inside. They just played the piano together. 

He doesn’t stop the desperate pleas even as he hears his father’s boots stomping on the pavement. He almost loses hope, but then there is a tell-tale sound of a lock being turned. He breathes in relief. “Please-”

The door doesn’t open fully, just a sliver, enough to let out some light and nothing else. A face peeks out – a woman’s face. She’s older, pale, with light hair and the coldest eyes he’s ever seen. She looks at him, distant and unmoved, and he shivers when their eyes meet – suddenly he knows, he will not be saved. “Please…” he begs anyway, voice hoarse and weak from the screaming and the frigid air. The stone he’s kneeling on hurts his knees, and his neck aches from looking up at the woman in despair. And then, without a single word, she closes the door in his face. He can hear the lock turning. He can hear her walking away. 

His father gets him, and Charles doesn’t cry when he drags him home. He doesn’t cry when he locks the door behind them, and he doesn’t cry when his father’s hand first connects with his face. He expects a few punches and a few more unkind words. He still doesn’t expect his father not to stop. But the man keeps going. 

Charles loses track of what is happening to him after a while, doesn’t register the punches when he’s still standing, he doesn’t know when he falls to the floor, and when his father starts kicking him in the ribs, only to pick him up to punch him again. He doesn’t know what’s happening or being said to him. He hears someone screaming before belatedly realising that it’s his own voice he’s hearing. He thinks he might be begging his father for mercy, but he cannot be sure. The last thing he remembers is falling, before everything goes dark. 

🎶

The first thing he registers after waking up is a strange, high-pitched beeping. He tries opening his eyes, and regrets it immediately – the lights around him are too intense, and they hurt. He doesn’t remember what happened. He doesn’t know where he is. 

He thinks he hears someone move next to him, but then again he doesn’t really know anything right now. Yet suddenly, the blinding brightness that’s been bothering him even through his eyelids, dissipates. He makes a decision. He opens his eyes. 

The space he’s in is unfamiliar – bright white and sterile even in the dimmed light. There’s a strange machine next to him, and he realises he must be in a hospital. He doesn’t know how he got there. He moves around a bit and everything hurts, he has to stifle a whimper. His head is the worst, he reckons, followed by his chest and left arm. He tries to take stock of himself, but it’s too much for his addled brain. He finally looks around properly, and startles when he notices the woman next to his bed. 

She’s sitting in a chair on his right, a bit out of arms’ reach but still not too far. She has dark skin and even darker curls, kindest eyes, and a very sad smile. She’s wearing a white coat and there’s something hanging from her pocket, and another thing around her neck. She must be the doctor. 

“Hello, Charles,” she says, and her voice is really soft and deep, and doesn’t grate on his ears as much as he expected it to, “How are you feeling?” she asks. He tries to shrug, shake his head, but it hurts (everything hurts) and makes him dizzy. He attempts to hum in response, but he makes barely any sound; it feels like there is sand in his throat. 

The woman picks up a glass from the night table that he didn’t notice before. He brings it closer to him, and holds a straw in place so he can wrap his numb lips around it. “Easy there,” she says as he goes for the drink, and it takes every ounce of strength he has in him to obey her words. She allows him a few small sips before taking the water away. “You need to take it slow. We don’t want you nauseous, do we?” she asks, and he now knows better than to nod. 

“My name is Deidre, and I am the doctor in charge of you,” she introduces herself, “Do you remember what happened?” He doesn’t, and trying to remember anything only makes his headache worse. He mouths a weak ‘no’, almost voiceless. The doctor nods in understanding, still looking at him with that sad smile. 

“You are at the hospital,” she explains, “We have admitted you with three cracked ribs, a ruptured spleen, broken elbow, and a grade four concussion. Not to mention various brusings and other minor wounds.” He feels himself shrinking as she lists his injuries. He doesn’t really understand the meaning behind half of the words she’s saying, but he knows they are bad. “Do you know what might have caused this?” she finishes, and suddenly it hits him, the memories of the evening (and is it still the same day? He doesn’t know) flooding back full force. He doesn’t say anything, though, and she sighs. He thinks she sounds disappointed. 

“Your father called the ambulance for you,” she continues, and it makes his brain stop, “He said that you took a fall down the stairs.” If Charles could, he would have laughed at the pretty lie – but he’s weak and his ribs hurt, so he doesn’t. Something in his desire to react must have translated, though, because the doctor’s face turns serious and she leans towards him. 

 “Charles, I need you to be honest with me,” she starts, and although she still sounds kind, there is steel to her words now, a hardness that scares him, “The ambulance has been sent accompanied by the police. We have heard this excuse before, and your father is in custody now.” Their eyes meet, and it makes him shiver, “Charles, if your father lied to us, if you did not fall down the stairs and something else is going on at home, you can tell us. You need to tell us, and then we can help you ,” she reaches out, placing her hand over the sheets, next to his arm. He itches to pull away, but he remains still. “I swear we can keep you safe.” 

He feels like crying, when she looks at him like that, patient and understanding, and terribly kind. The promise of safety sounds so tempting, so enticing – but he’s all too familiar with empty words, and his hopes have been let down one too many times. He looks away. 

“Charles, please,” she implores, “Tell me the truth. Tell me what happened.” 

He wants to, he wants to tell her everything so desperately, but the words won’t come out. He thinks of his mum, alone, and of his father, angry and disappointed, and he can’t do it. When he looks back at her, he gets the ugliest feeling that she knows what he’ll do; but he's his father's son - he swallows the lump in his throat and lies anyway. “It’s true,” he says instead, the first, damning words that are finally audible, trembling throughout the room, “I fell down the stairs.” 

The doctor sighs and shakes her head, and he feels terrible. He regrets his choice immediately, but he doesn’t have it in him to take the words back. He feels like he just sealed his fate to something even worse than the past. She pats the bed where her hand was before, and stands up. “Your mother is on her way,” she says, turning to leave, “There is a button on the left side of the bed. If you need anything, just press it and someone will come,” and with that, she leaves him completely alone. 

He stays at the hospital for a little over a week. His mum gets there around half an hour after the doctor leaves, and she cries and kisses his forehead multiple times, because she’s not allowed to hug him. He manages to convince her to go home for the nights, and he thinks he almost manages to succeed in telling her not to skip work because of him. It falls just a tad too short, and she visits during the day anyway. His father gets released two days after the accident. He doesn’t come to visit. Charles thinks that’s for the best. 

He gets home with a doctor’s note allowing him two more weeks of absence at school, and explicit order not to exert himself. His room feels strange, unfamiliar – his mum must have cleaned it up when he was gone, because everything is way too in order. He kind of hates it. The keyboard is still by the wall, turned off and slightly dusty, and Charles gets the violent urge to throw it out the window. He takes an old bed sheet and covers it with that instead. He makes a promise to himself to never touch it again. 

The strangest change is his father, who now ignores him completely. Doesn’t talk to him, pretends he’s not in the room if they’re both occupying it. Charles still sees his nostrils flare from time to time, and there’s more than a few sentences abandoned mid-word, but overall it’s like he’s turned into a ghost. He can’t decide whether that’s good or bad.

He decides to test it one day, not long after Christmas. He steals some alcohol from the cabinet in the living room, just enough to coat the bottom of the glass with amber liquid. He takes a cautious sip from the bottle for good measure, and almost spits it out on the floor. But he has things to do, so he swallows the whisky and shakes it off, before walking back into the bathroom. He puts the glass on the sink and drops a sewing needle into the liquid, alongside a small golden ring earring which he swiped from his mum’s meagre jewelry box. He waits for a few moments, washing his hands and earlobe thoroughly in the meantime, then fishes the needle out. 

He lifts it up to his ear and points it as much to the centre of the lobe as he can gage. He takes a breath, wishing his shaking hands to steady, and then without second thought he stabs the needle through his ear as hard and fast as he can muster. It hurts like a bitch and he didn’t plan it correctly enough, the needle pricking his thumb on the other side of the ear. He curses colourfully, and lifts the thumb to his mouth, leaving the needle hanging from his ear. He looks up into the mirror, sees the blood dropping into the sink, and cannot help but grin.

He opens the cupboard behind the mirror, fishing out a bandaid and some hydrogen peroxide he completely forgot about, gets his finger in order, before refocusing on the ear. He douses it with the liquid from the front and the back, and hisses as it bubbles a bit. He picks up the earring, also washing it off with the disinfectant, because suddenly that seems like a better idea than alcohol. He takes another breath, pulls the needle out, and swiftly replaces it with the golden ring. He admires his work in the mirror, making sure to wash off any blood from his ear and the side of his neck, before cleaning up the bathroom. He can’t help but whistle a cheerful tune in the process. 

He doesn’t say anything at dinner, but he knows exactly when his father notices the new addition, as the man’s knuckles turn white on the cutlery in his grip. He’s fuming, but he doesn’t say a word, and Charles takes it as a massive win. He turns to his mum, and her disappointed gaze suddenly makes him itch to pull the jewelry out and forget about the whole thing. He turns back to his plate, and ignores her gaze for the rest of the evening. He wonders what’s suddenly hurting more – his ear or his conscience. 

He returns to school after New Years and finds that nothing seems to have changed much in his absence. He’s out of the cricket team for the time being, but he still comes to watch the practice and the games, anything to occupy his time. His friends ask about what happened and he tells them the same lie he told the doctor. They buy it, making a few jokes at his expense, but letting it be in the end. He pretends not to notice the way Simon looks at him, a terrible recognition in his eyes. He’s not sure he likes Simon, but in that moment they seem to reach a silent understanding.

He feels a strange sort of detachment, almost as if he’s not really a person anymore. It almost feels like he’s looking at his life from the outside. He doesn’t really care about anything anymore – not his friends, not his grades, not the school. When the music starts on the other side of the wall, his blood boils and he has to leave the house. He stands by as his friends find new victims, never really joining the fights but not stopping them either. Robbie Wright brings a pack of fags to their usual playground haunt, and they split it between the seven of them. The cigarettes are disgusting, bitter and biting at his throat, but he smokes anyway, for lack of anything better to do. The smell of smoke sticks to his clothes for days afterwards, and he pretends he doesn’t see his mum’s disappointed gaze. 

Life goes on around him, but he seems stuck in a strange sort of limbo where he doesn’t really have control over anything anymore. It’s almost as if something is weighing him down, an invisible hand pressing him to the ground, holding him in place. He can watch, but he can’t act. He’s tired, he’s powerless. He’s always been so. 

When Stacy Hughes invites him to her 15th birthday party, he doesn't say no. He doesn't say no when she greets him with a kiss to the cheek at the door, or when Robbie pushes a can of cheap beer into his hand. He doesn't say no when a few hours later Stacy takes him by the hand and leads him upstairs to her room, and when she kisses him, he doesn't say no either. And when Tim Robinson barges into the room a few minutes later, he doesn't say no to having a smoke in the backyard. As he leaves the room, he pretends he doesn't hear Stacy's silent sobs. They smoke two packs at once and he pukes into the bushes along with Tim and Robbie shortly after. When he’s offered to take a pack with him, he takes it without a word. 

He doesn’t think he likes himself anymore. He doesn’t really care about it anyway. 

Chapter Text

Charles Rowland is a few months shy of turning sixteen when his life changes.

He and his mates are hanging out on the playground as usual, the sun long gone behind the horizon despite the early hour. He’s sitting on his regular perch on the roof of the slides, winter chill stinging him in the face and sneaking through the tears in his old jacket. He bites down on the half-smoked cigarette that’s hanging loosely from his lips, bumping it up and down and watching the weak, ember glow flicker at the end of it. 

His mates are messing around the playground, mostly wrestling on the old equipment. Even from afar he can hear the swings creak under the weight of Simon and Tim, despite them both being on the thinner side. Three other boys turned the carousel into their own boxing ring, one of them spinning it faster and faster while the remaining two try to push each other off. He winces instinctually when one of them falls and hits the frozen ground with a loud thump – that will leave some bruises for sure. 

The little construction he sits on isn’t safe either, trembling as Robbie jumps from slide to slide like a madman. He swings up, almost halfway through joining Charles at the top of it, a slightly feral grin on his face when it peeks over the edge of the roof. Charles braces himself for a friendly scuffle, when his entire demeanour changes. He seems to spot something over Charles’s knee, his face going from playful to violent. Charles winces. 

“Ay!” he yells, and other boys immediately stop and turn his attention to him – it’s a bit impressive, how much power he holds over them, “Over there! I think that’s him!”

Charles follows Robbie’s hand to see what he’s pointing at. For a moment he doesn’t see anything, and briefly entertains the idea that Robbie is messing with them all. But then his eyes find a lonely figure walking through the park, briefly bathed in a soft yellow glow of the park lamps, before disappearing in the shadows like a ghost. He doesn’t see much of the figure, just that they’re wearing a long dark coat, and there seems to be a letter bag hanging off of their shoulder. He has no idea who that is, but the hair on his neck stands up all the same. He has a bad feeling. 

“What are you on about, Robbie?!” he hears Simon yell back, the boy’s voice cracking pathetically mid-sentence. Charles is really happy his voice started and stopped changing way before his mates’ – although the jokes were merciless, at least it’s already over. 

Robbie jumps off the slides, and Charles has to wrap his fingers around the roof tiles to keep steady. In his opinion, this playground should be considered a safety hazard; but he likes it too much to say anything, and it’s not like people care about his judgement anyway. 

“Ain’t that the git that the others told us about? The stuck-up faggot that no one seems to know?” Charles freezes as Robbie jeers, thoughts running through his brain, trying to figure out who they are talking about. And then it hits him – the boy at their school, who seemed to disappear every time someone got close to finding him, the one who was seen kissing with another boy in the school corridor some time back. The ghost boy. 

At once, his mates’ heads snap towards the person walking slowly, before starting to yell over each other in confirmation. He watches as if in slow motion as they run towards the boy, and he can hear them yelling even as the distance grows between them. It’s like the boy doesn’t hear them approaching at all though, and Charles watches as something falls to the ground when they get him. He watches hands flailing, and still hears some slurs yelled loud enough to carry. He watches as the boy falls to the ground.

And then he’s running. Later, he won’t remember how he got down from the roof, how he covered two hundred yards in seconds, almost like flying. He gets to them and immediately starts pulling his mates off the other boy. From the corner of his eye, he sees him curled up on the ground, knees up to his chin and arms wrapped around his head. He pulls at the collar of Robbie’s hoodie, his hands straining to drag the other boy away. The moment he sees a sliver of space between his mates and their victim, he steps in, throwing his arms wide to hide him. 

“Hey, that’s enough!” he yells, and watches as the boys freeze in befuddlement. For a moment, he thinks they’ve reached a tentative stalemate, that they’ll let it go and find something better to do. No such luck. 

“What the fuck, Rowland?” Tim breaks the silence, and Charles knows that things will get very ugly, very fast. He starts bracing himself mentally, but still lifts his hands up in a placating gesture. 

“You’ve had your fun, and I’m sure you’ve taught the poor guy a lesson”, he says, trying for a light-hearted tone. He’s not sure he succeeds. “There’s no need to carry this on, is there?” 

It’s strange, standing up to his mates after all these years. Memories are running through his head, different times when he was either standing by as they tormented whatever victim they chose in that moment, or – on particularly bad days – he remembers joining them. He’s suddenly ashamed of himself, but confused too. All these times staying idle, watching kids not too different from the one behind him being thrown into lockers and pushed against walls. But then, none of them were ever curled up on the ground, not like this one is. Not like Charles was, all too often, when his father was still paying attention to him. 

“Are you siding with the fag, Rowland?” Robbie asks, pulling him out of his musings. He pushes him, and Charles stumbles back, almost tripping on the boy on the ground. 

“Now I am sure we can talk this o-” he doesn’t finish, a fist connecting with stomach, pushing all the air out of his lungs and making him bend in half.

In the end, being beaten up by his mates isn’t too different from being beaten up by his father. He tries fighting back, but they outnumber him and his bones are still stiff from the cold, and he finds himself shuffling backwards. The ground turns uneven beneath his feet and he belatedly recalls the barely-frozen over pond, which is probably not very far behind him. A part of him starts wondering whether it would be better to drown in the icy water or to get beaten to death by his mates – because they do not seem to want to stop, and when he glances at Tim, it’s like he’s not really looking at him, eyes glazed over and furious. They’ve been drinking, he remembers suddenly, and something in him shrinks. 

He takes another step back, and there’s a moment of weightlessness as he tips backwards. He starts closing his eyes, ready to meet the cold water, when something wraps around his hand and pulls him back to his feet. He opens his eyes, and sees a figure pushing through the raging mob, pale fingers closed around his wrist. He looks at the boy he was just defending and their eyes meet – his seem to glow in the dim light, and Charles sees the beginning of a blackeye develop on his face, a trickle of blood running down from a split lip. 

And then the ghost lets him go just as quickly as he caught him, only making sure Charles is steady before spinning around and punching the nearest boy – Simon – right in the face. Swears fly around as blood gushes out of Simon’s nose, and the victim-turned-saviour hugs his hand to his chest. 

It sobers Charles up, though, enough for him to get a second wind. It’s still not a fair fight, but this time he’s not alone. He punches, and kicks, and even bites with reckless abandon, but his whole body is hurting and he’s quickly running out of strength. The other boy, despite the force behind the initial punch, also seems waning. Charles doesn’t think they’ll last much longer. 

He registers an unfamiliar voice yelling “Over there!”, and then there are people all over them, neon yellow vests blinding him briefly. It’s a blur when the hands pull them apart and drag them away, separating them in seconds. Charles and the ghost boy somehow find themselves perched on the same bench, a policeman and a woman standing next to them, while the rest of the boys are being dragged away by other officers. Someone’s talking to him, he thinks, but all he hears is an incessant buzzing in his ears. He feels dizzy. 

He isn’t aware he’s leaning over until a hand steadies him. Something holds him in place, there and gone, before another thing wraps around his shoulders. He doesn’t realise he’s shivering until a thick, heavy material envelops him, and the shaking subsides slightly. His gaze is blurry, but he manages to focus enough to see a pair of worried, pretty eyes looking at him.

He vaguely registers footsteps getting louder and louder, until there's a touch on his knee. He flinches, and then turns towards the new person, and blearily realises that he knows her.

"Hello, Charles," doctor Deidre greets him, "We must stop meeting like this."

He manages a weak chuckle, shaking his head. He regrets it immediately, and closes his eyes as the world spins. The steadying touch on his shoulder returns, and he waits for a few moments before he looks back at the woman. She's crouching in front of him, holding a steaming mug in one hand, the other one now holding onto the bench he's sat on.

"Hi, doctor D," he greets, and his voice sounds awfully weak to his ears. The woman sighs at him, and then follows it with a small smile.

"You cannot help but get into trouble, can you?", she asks, but he has a feeling she isn't looking for an answer. "Will you be able to hold this?", she follows, lifting up the paper cup.

He wants to say yes, but realises that he's still shaking despite the additional warmth provided by what must be a winter coat. A hand shoots out of his peripheral, reaching for the mug, which the doctor passes over. He turns to the hand's owner, the ghost boy occupying the bench alongside him. He watches as he twists the cup on his knee to switch the hold, and then turns back to him. Their eyes meet, and he notices that the boy is not wearing his coat anymore. He looks down at the brown wool pooling around his waist instead. Oh.

The boy slowly lifts the cup to Charles's lips, and were Charles less out of sorts, he'd probably feel terribly embarrassed about needing this much help. As is, though, he slowly sips at the sweet, hot tea he's being offered. It burns his lips and throat, and warms him pleasantly from the inside. After a few more gulps, he tentatively reaches his hands up for the mug, and looks up in bafflement as the other boy pulls it away from him, and then reaches into the pocket of the coat Charles is now wearing.

It's a very strange experience, and would probably be even weirder under any other circumstances, but it doesn't last long enough for Charles to think about it. The boy's hand withdraws, and then a pair of gloves is extended towards him. He looks up in surprise, confused by the kindness, and the boy shakes the gloves insistently. Charles folds and pulls them on, and then accepts the tea that's finally passed back to him. The ghost (and he should really stop calling him that) nods in satisfaction, and turns away to face the doctor. Charles honestly forgot she was there.

The doctor doesn't seem to mind his lack of attention, because she's still smiling when he looks back at her, although this time she seems more amused. "I won't be asking any difficult questions before we get you both properly warmed up. The ambulance should be here soon."

That gets him to sober up instantly, and he's well on his way to start protesting, but a stern look is enough to leave him silent. "You are not talking your way out of this one, young man," she says, that steel edge that he remembers all too well back in her voice, "You are quite clearly on the verge of hypothermia, and your friend here most likely broke his hand. An impressive feat, if I do say so myself." She points to the other boy as she speaks, but he's not looking at them anymore. His eyes are roaming around the park, and he seems to be shivering slightly.

Charles instantly feels guilty about it, and moves to shake off the coat that's hanging off his shoulders. His movement, however, seems to catch the other boy's attention, because he turns and frowns at him, stopping him dead in his tracks. He mouths a 'thank you' instead, and the other boy nods, seemingly satisfied, before turning away again. Charles watches as he moves to reach for something on his other side before flinching quite severely and frowning at his hand, now swollen and purplish in hue.

"Oh that's definitely broken," he says, not sure whether to the boy or to himself, but he gets no reaction either way. The other boy hugs the injured hand back to his chest, and reaches for the thing with his uninjured one. He takes a slow, elegant sip from the paper cup, and Charles can't help but watch as he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He quickly buries his own face in his cup when the other boy starts turning back towards him. He ignores the lifted eyebrow assessing him in the corner of his vision. 

He registers a tell-tale wailing of an ambulance slowly intensifying in the distance, and he feels himself tense. Opposite him, the doctor sighs in mild annoyance. “About time,” she mutters bitterly, “Thank God neither one of you is actively dying, because at that point it would have been more productive to call a funeral service.” Charles can't help but chuckle, and turns to the ghost boy to see if he also found it funny, but his eyes are focused on something in the distance again, the paper mug resting on his knee. It's as if he didn't hear them talking at all. Charles realises that in all this time (and he doesn’t really know how long it's been) he hasn't heard him speak once. 

A theory starts building in his head, but he doesn’t get the chance to test it because the paramedics are upon them and Charles is suddenly drowning in questions. His eyes dart to the other boy, another med talking to him, and he watches him frown slightly at the woman. He can't focus on him too hard, however, because the man talking at him is making his head hurt. He's never been a believer, but he's on the verge of thanking God when doctor Deidre steps in with a sharp “Hey, let them breathe!” 

The two medics jump away with muttered apologies, and only then Charles notices how young the pair is. He suddenly understands the nervous chattering, and huffs in amusement. He hears a relieved sigh next to him, and watches as the other boy reaches into his letterbag and fishes out something which Charles cannot yet properly make out. 

The boy then drops one of the things onto his lap, and lifts the second one to his face, hooking it around his ear and attaching a disc-like thing to the side of his head. He follows suit with the other one, and Charles feels terrible for giving himself a mental pat on the back when his theory is proven correct. The boy closes his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath, and then fiddles with something by the hearing aid closer to Charles, winces violently, and then moves to the other side, also ending the ministrations with a wince. He sighs. 

“Could you please repeat all of that? Slowly, if possible.” His voice is… not what Charles expected. It's surprisingly soft, almost a whisper, and he subconsciously leans in to hear better. The tone, though, is sarcastic, snarky, and the words seem strangely sharp in their cadence – very proper, nearly fake in how they sound, almost as if the speaker was mocking the person he was talking to. He doesn't know why he seems so thrown off by the sound of the other boy's voice, but hearing it so close after so long gets him strangely unbalanced, dizzy. Or it may be his other injuries – he can't be sure. 

He watches as the paramedic's eyes open in surprise, and she gapes at the ghost boy, gaze jumping from him to the other medic and to Doctor D as if asking whether they also heard that. Charles chuckles, but it gets stolen away when the boy's sharp gaze darts to him. And then his lips quirk up, amused. Charles feels like he's on the verge of something, he just doesn't know what. 

The paramedic's attention refocuses on the boy, and Charles gets accosted with his own list of questions, which is asked only marginally slower than the first time around. He answers them to the best of his ability, but he doesn't seem to have much control over what he's saying, and his eyes keep running away to the side, watching the other boy getting poked and prodded by the medic. 

“They should get looked over in the hospital,” one of them concludes finally, and he watches the woman taking care of him nod in agreement; his blood seems to freeze in his veins. The other boy doesn't seem to like the idea either, but he just shakes his head in a sigh. Charles looks up at the doc and he knows that he's outnumbered. 

“Best get going, then,” Dr D says, checking them over one last time, “Charles, I already have your mum's number, I'll call her on the way. Is there anyone I can call for you, dear?” she turns to the other boy, and he nods mutely. 

“My aunt,” he confirms, “I can give you her number now, I would rather take those things out for the ride,” he explains, tapping at his hearing aids. The doctor agrees, and Charles tunes out the string of digits the other boy recites, as hypnotic as they sound, too distracted by the flashing lights of the ambulance.  He wonders how mad his parents will be later. In his defense, he had a good reason to step in. Or so he hopes. 

The ride to the hospital is silent apart from the wailing of the sirens, which are painfully loud, and defeat any chances of speaking. Charles feels only mildly jealous of his companion, who seems to be entirely unbothered by the noise without his hearing aids. The boy is still being taken care of, one of the paramedics improvising a makeshift sling to secure his hand. That Charles doesn't envy, and he can't help but wonder how much force the bloke used to break his knuckles on Simon's nose. He vaguely entertains the idea of seeing Simon in a few days, wondering how big the dressing on his face will be. Not that he pities him, though – the bastard had it coming. 

Even though the journey to the hospital shouldn't be too long, it still feels like it's next to forever, and his eyes have more than enough time to roam. The ghost boy is finally freed from the medic’s clutches, and he immediately closes his eyes, head falling against the wall of the car. There is a voice in the back of his head, telling Charles that he shouldn't be staring at someone like that, but he's tired, cold and in some amount of pain, and the other bloke has his eyes closed. And sue him, there are things to look at. 

Bisexuality is not exactly a new term to Charles – he has heard about it after all, back in the day from Mr Kashi, and he's had his suspicions about himself ever since he first watched Pirates of the Caribbean with his mates back in Year 7. He never dared giving it much thought – it felt dangerous to have such realisations with the others around and his father breathing down his neck. He figured if he liked girls anyway, he didn't have to care too much about potentially liking the boys as well; he could find a nice enough bird to settle with, and maybe sigh over Orlando Bloom from time to time, otherwise content in a picture-perfect life his father would let him live. So yes, it feels strange to finally feel this way about someone in his vicinity, but not exactly unwelcome. And who knows, maybe it's just a one-off thing that will go away after he stares his fill. 

His eyes wander for a second, before settling on the face of the boy dozing across from him. He takes in his curls, damp from the humid winter air, pooling on his forehead and coiling around his ears. He only just sees the long eyelashes casting shadows over the boy's cheekbones, already quite striking and promising more. He slides down the slightly crooked nose right to the lips which he doesn't dare to think about too much at the moment. 

He travels down the long, pale column of his neck, partially hidden by the dark scarf still wrapped around it, over the slope of his shoulders and the plane of his chest, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He briefly entertains his midriff and fully skips the waist area, the back of his neck turning embarrassingly hot and cold at the same time. He finishes his tour by sliding along the long, long legs, crossed at the ankles and dangling just a bit over the floor. It hits him, then, that the boy must be taller than him. 

His eyes start travelling back up involuntarily, taking stock of the little bits of the boy's wardrobe instead – the formal-looking shoes, dress pants, the stark white shirt and the dark sweater vest, and to top it all off he spots an actual bowtie peeking from beneath the scarf. For someone who’s supposed to be around Charles’s age, the bloke sure looks like he escaped a whole another era. Or a Doctor Who episode. His gaze finally makes its way back to the boy’s face, and Charles regrets eveary single decision that led him to this very moment – because the boy is awake and staring right at him, one eyebrow up on his forehead. Charles burns, and he's not entirely sure whether it's just embarrassment that he's feeling. 

His first instinct is to look away, and he does, fast enough to hear something in his neck pop. He looks at the wall separating them from the driver's space, and he wonders whether the doctor has already notified his mum. But then, a small voice in the back of his head appears, asking him why should he be looking away from the pretty boy on the stretcher opposite of him. So he looks back. 

The boy is still looking at him, and when their eyes meet again, his head tilts to the side, curious. Charles steels himself on the inside, then smiles – a wide grin that he's gotten entirely unused to, so much so that it makes his cheeks hurt. It works, and the guy scoffs, breaking their connection. Charles thinks he sees a reddish hue on his cheeks, and it makes him dizzy. The boy's eyes keep darting to and away from Charles, almost as if he's trying to make a decision. Finally, he seems to settle on something, because he stops fidgeting, and starts digging through the pocket of his trousers, before fishing out a phone. He gives Charles a calculating look, then starts typing. 

Something ugly rears its head up deep down in Charles's belly, a seed of doubt that he doesn't like at all, but it's gone in seconds when the boy extends his phone towards him. It's a narrow space and the screen ends up inches from his face, but he still has to squint to read it. 

‘Apologies for dragging you into this, but I do appreciate your help. I would rather not think about how things would have gone if you didn't step in, so thank you. My name is Edwin.’

He mouths the words as he reads, a way for him to process the letters more easily, but he still needs to read it two more times before he starts understanding it. When he finally gets it, he looks up at the other boy in surprise. He's shockingly close now, leaning in to get the mobile nearer, and he almost jumps away when their eyes meet, wincing as he jolts his bad hand. Charles hisses in sympathy on instinct, still reeling from the boy's words. He tries to remember the last time anyone thanked him for anything. He thinks it may have been his mum, but then again, their relationship turned quite tense after his ‘rebellious’ phase, and he can’t be sure. 

He has no idea how to respond to the boy. He doesn't know sign language, and he doesn't own a cellphone; he pats his pockets hoping to find a scrap of paper, but to no avail. He suddenly feels awful. He waves his hand, trying to get his attention, and waits for the boy to look at him. He does, eventually, and he seems confident again. He tilts his head to the side again, waiting. Charles really should stop considering that head tilt adorable (he's not really sure when he started to think so, some time in the last few minutes). He breaks eye contact, shaking off the distraction, before looking back. 

“Can I borrow your phone?”, he starts as slowly as possible, trying to enunciate each word properly instead of jumbling them together as he usually does, “I don't have one, and I don't know sign.” He watches the boy's gaze dart from his eyes to his mouth, and wow talk about distractions, before finally settling. The boy leans away, shifting on the stretcher, before giving Charles a small smile. 

“It's okay, I am pretty good at reading lips,” he says, and the sound of his voice surprises Charles so much, he jumps up on the chair. It's not like he didn't hear it ever before, but for some reason he didn't expect the boy to speak. It takes him a while to process what he's been told, and he can feel his jaw dropping. 

“Do you mean you understood the paramedic without the aid-things?” he asks, the words rushing out of him. The other boy's eyes widen, and he isn't sure whether it's surprise or confusion, but he eventually chuckles and shakes his head. It's a nice chuckle. 

“You have to speak a little slower,” he explains, and suddenly Charles feels very embarrassed, “If I caught the question correctly – no, I didn't, at least not the majority of it. She was talking way too fast for me to follow, especially in the dim light.” Charles nods, understanding, then bites his lip. He vaguely registers that the boy's words are a tad more slurred now, not as mockingly proper as they were in the park, and slightly louder. He wonders what's the reason for the change, then has to physically stop himself from hitting his forehead when he realises it may have been the aids. 

He makes eye contact with the medic that's in the back with them. He completely forgot she was there, and he feels the heat returning to his cheeks. She just gives him a small smile, and then goes back to scrolling on her phone. He’s not sure whether to be grateful or offended. 

He looks at the boy, watching as he plays with the hem of his sweater vest. He's not looking at Charles, so he uses the opportunity to stare at him some more, before another thought hits him, and honestly he should probably get his shit together a little bit more. He all but throws his hand at the other boy, almost hitting him in the chest in the process, and winces internally. It gets his attention, though, and he stares at Charles, then at the stretched out hand, and at Charles again. Charles wonders whether he misstepped, and it gets almost painful, before the boy lifts his own hand, left hand god damn it Charles, and awkwardly shakes Charles's own. This cannot get any more humiliating, he thinks. 

“I'm Charles,” he introduces himself finally, his voice cracking pathetically over his name, which he completely forgot to share. The boy just smiles sweetly.

“Nice to meet you, Charles,” he replies, and hearing his name in the stranger's lips, so careful and measured, makes his stomach flip. “I’m Edwin.” And although Charles has just seen it written down, having it said to him feels more final. The boy, the ghost from his school, now has a name – Edwin.

“Chuffed to meet you,” he responds with a smile, and withdraws his hand quickly when he realises they may have been holding them a bit too long. He opens his mouth to continue the conversation, but the ambulance slows down to a complete stop. He realises that the sirens aren't wailing anymore and that the engine is silent too, and seconds later the door opens from the outside. 

He's immediately hit with blinding white light, and even though they're only in the parking lot, he can already smell the signature chemical odour of the hospital. It makes him grimace in disgust, but the expression is quickly wiped off when he hears laughter next to him. He looks back at Edwin, who is still chuckling, and sticks his tongue out at him in mock offense. To his delight, Edwin rolls his eyes. 

He scrambles out of the ambulance, and reaches to help Edwin out, not thinking much about it. It does take him by surprise when Edwin actually takes it. Doctor D approaches them with a smile, hands buried in the pockets of her winter coat. “How was the ride, good?” she asks, and Charles shrugs. 

“It was okay I guess, right?” he replies, turning to Edwin for confirmation. He finds the boy digging in his pockets again, and watches as he pulls out the hearing aids with the face of someone who's about to be sent to battle. The doctor seems to catch onto it too, because she steps to Edwin and catches his hands before he can do something more with them, shaking her head. He stares at her in confusion, and Charles is about to ask what's going on, when another person approaches them. 

He's a big man, dark skinned, with a quite impressive salt-and-pepper beard that's a stark contrast against his white uniform. “Hello,” he greets them, waving his hands around peculiarly, “I'm Doctor Walker, but you can call me Mick. I'll be taking over your care now, young man,” he says, still gesticulating colorfully. Charles follows his words, and then turns to Edwin. The other boy's eyes are shining when he looks at the new doctor, and he quickly puts his implants away, before waving back at the man. And oh, they must be signing to each other.  

It stings a little bit, seeing how happy Edwin is when someone talks to him in his language. Charles doesn't really know why he suddenly feels inadequate, or why he cares so much in the first place, but watching him talk so comfortably hurts, although he knows it shouldn't. 

He flinches when a sudden weight settles on his shoulder, then leans into it slightly and turns towards doctor D. She's looking at him with that kind smile that he remembers a bit too well. “Let's get you properly checked over, hm?” she asks, not really waiting for an answer, before steering him away. In the last moment, he manages to catch Edwin's eye, and he waves awkwardly. The boy cracks a smile and waves back, before turning to his doctor again. Charles looks at him until he disappears behind the corner. He suddenly wonders if he'll ever see him again. 

He follows the doctor through the hospital as she navigates long white corridors which only confuse him further. She finally opens a door that leads to a small office, an older nurse already inside, smiling brightly at them as they enter. “Hello dearie,” she welcomes kindly, and he manages a weak ‘hi’ and a smile. He’s suddenly very tired. She pats the turquoise little bed-thing, encouraging him to sit, and he all but falls on it. He lets her poke and prod to her heart's content, nodding at her happy chatter, and answering any questions she has. She cleans the cuts on his forehead and tends to the cracked skin on his knuckles. She takes his temperature at least three separate times, and stitches his lower lip, which he didn't realise was split in the first place. She asks about allergies and then makes him swallow some meds. She takes his pulse and listens to his lungs while making him cough exaggeratedly, then pokes and prods some more.

He doesn't know how long he sits on that bed, allowing the woman to care for him. The doctor comes back (and when did she leave?) with his mother in tow. She takes one look at him and sighs, shaking her head, but she cracks a small smile all the same. She doesn't approach to hug him. It stings more than the disinfectant on his cuts. 

Finally, the nurse lets go of him, deeming him in well-enough shape to go home, with explicit instructions to watch out for anything out of the ordinary. Apparently he narrowly avoided hypothermia, but a common cold can still get him in the coming days, and god forbid it turns into something worse. His mum signs the discharge papers that the doctor brought with her, and he hears the women talking as he counts the tiles on the office floor. 

“Come on, love,” his mum calls him finally, and he jumps off the cot. His head doesn't hurt anymore, probably thanks to the painkillers he's been fed, but he still feels oddly fatigued – like his entire body is made of stone. The doctor approaches him one last time, her eyes knowing, and he hates it a little bit. 

“Take care of yourself, Charles,” she just says, but he knows that there's more hidden between the lines.

“You too, doctor D,” he replies, and tries for a smile. It's a small thing, he knows, but it's genuine, and it'll have to do. The doctor nods, letting him through the door. He has half the mind to turn around in the doorway and thank the nurse, before dumbly following his mum to the parking lot. 

He expects the ride home to be uncomfortably silent – for some reason, all their one-on-one time is now quiet and awkward, but this time it isn't so. They stop at the first red light outside of the hospital, and his mum reaches out to hold his hand. He suppresses a flinch. 

“The doctor told me what happened,” she starts conversationally, and Charles wonders whether he's about to be lectured, “She was the one to call the police, too. Apparently she was walking back home from her shift when it all went down. She saw everything.” 

His eyes widen and he looks at his mum just as the light turns green. She starts driving again, withdrawing her hand; but before she puts it back on the steering wheel, she gives him an amused look from the corner of her eye, and lifts his chin up to close his jaw. The car falls silent again, and Charles watches the street lights flash around him, thoughts running a mile a minute. He cannot make sense of them or what he's feeling, everything spinning around him, blood roaring in his ears, his heart doing its best to jump out of his chest. He thinks he may be dangerously close to a panic attack. They stop at another red. 

His mum lets go of the steering wheel and turns to him as much as she can, catching his face between her hands and kissing his forehead. It's like magic, how it all just goes away when she’s there, and he suddenly feels like a little boy again. 

“I am really proud of you,” she says, looking deep into his eyes, and he cannot help the tears that start rolling down his face, “I am always so proud of you.” And she's crying too, he realises, and for some reason it makes him laugh, and she chuckles too, and it's bitter and sweet and so, so peaceful. He thinks the lights may have turned green, but the road is empty and no one cares when they miss their cue and have to wait through another red. 

There are so many words piling up on his tongue, almost two years of being angry and contrarian for the sake of it stacking up in this one moment. He wants to apologise, to explain himself, to promise to be better. “I love you, mum,” he says instead, hoping it encapsulates all of those things. And when his mum replies “I love you more, priy,” he knows it did. The light turns back to green. They drive home. 

They stop in front of their house, and his mum lets the engine cool off before they get out of the car. There are no lights on inside, and he wonders if his father is asleep or absent. His mum seems comfortable, though, as she slowly walks to the door, and he figures it may be the second thing.

He's almost by the entrance when a roar of engine draws his attention back to the road. He watches as another car pulls into the spot right behind theirs. The street is bathed in the soft, orange glow of the lights, and he watches as a woman gets out of the car. He recognises her immediately, and it sends ice-cold prickles of fear down his spine – he may have only seen her once before in real life, but ever since she closed the door in his face, she's been faithfully haunting his worst nightmares. 

He tears his eyes away from his neighbour's uncaring face, drawn to the person following her. His head is downcast, and he's holding one of his hands close to his chest, supported by a sling. He's not wearing any coat, just a dark scarf wrapped carefully around his neck, and he's following slowly behind the woman. He's almost reached Charles when he stops and looks up. All the breath is stolen from Charles's lungs when their eyes meet, and a million things suddenly start making sense all at once – it's dizzying, and he stumbles in place. He thinks he hears his mum calling him, but he ignores her, too shocked to act on anything. 

Because his other neighbour, possibly the second pianist, is the person whose coat is still wrapped around Charles's shoulders, and whose gloves squeak around Charles's knuckles. It's Edwin. 

Chapter Text

He can't sleep, tossing and turning in his bed, looking for peace that refuses to come. He's too cold and too hot at the same time, the covers pooling around him, almost suffocating. He kicks them off, then pulls them back up to his chin when he breaks out in shivers. His entire body pulsates with pain, freshly bruised ribs tuning in with aches years old, brand new cuts harmonising with white scars as if they've known each other all along.

And there's the roaring in his head, not fully coherent, but he still knows exactly what it's trying to say. It distracts him from the pain only to lure him back in when the memories of the evening push and pull at his brain like ocean waves. It feels a bit like drowning, he thinks, and as if on cue his lungs don't feel big enough anymore, breath turning short and flat, and too slippery to capture. He sits up violently, a sobering stab of pain running through him, bringing him back to the world of the living. He's alive, he remembers, hurting but alive.

A mug mocks him from the nightstand, glaring almost brighter than the angry red digits of the alarm clock reminding him that he was supposed to be asleep hours ago. He picks it up, the soft sloshing of the once-hot chai breaking the near-perfect silence of his room. He promised his mum that he'd drink the spiced tea fully before going to bed, to warm up some more after the hectic day. He lied on both accounts, he surmises, still disappointingly awake as he sips at the almost full mug of now completely cold liquid. 

Despite the loss of its temperature, the chai still burns in his throat, the mix of spices aggravating it further in a strangely comforting way. It’s familiar, the sting of cinnamon and cardamom chased by the silky aftertaste of honey. He tries to drink slowly, but fails about three sips in, and starts gulping at the drink, only now realising how thirsty he is. He downs the tea in seconds, and regrets it immediately as a violent coughing fit follows. He hacks and wonders if his lungs have finally decided to escape his chest. He picks up a pillow and covers his face with it to mute the noise he’s making, hoping he won’t wake his mum. 

He hears the doors open downstairs and immediately swallows the next cough, leaving it jumping in his lungs and tickling at his throat. He glances at the door of his bedroom, thankfully closed, and sags a little bit, not realising he stiffened up in the first place. He hears heavy thumps of boots being dropped on the floor, followed by just as heavy steps making their way around the ground floor. He waits, the pillow still pressed against his mouth lest he betrays himself with his breathing. Thankfully he doesn’t have to wait long, as his father makes his way upstairs, and the door opposite his bedroom opens and closes with a surprisingly silent thump. His heartbeat roars in his ears and the suppressed cough still scratches his insides, but he doesn’t dare make a sound. Slowly, he lays back down, and hugs the pillow closer to his chest, desperate for some sort of comfort. He doesn’t remember ever having a plush toy. He thinks, embarrassedly, that he could use one right now. 

He isn’t really sure when or whether he falls asleep. He keeps tossing and turning, images flashing in his mind like visions, and the lines between reality and his imagination blur together, waving seamlessly with each other in his subconsciousness. He’s stuck in a loop of the evening, the scenes playing out in his head like a movie; but there are hiccoughs in the plot, glitches, and suddenly there’s no other boys on the playground, just him and his father, and he’s not running towards someone but away, like a hunted animal, and when he starts falling into the frozen lake, there’s no one to catch him, no one to save him but his father’s face looming over him, suddenly surrounded by his mates, laughing and jeering as he…

Falls…

He wakes up in cold sweat, nothing but sheer terror rattling around his brain. It takes him a while to realise where he is, and when he does, he falls back against the mattress with a dull thump. It was just a dream, just a stupid dream that tired him out more than if he were not to sleep a wink tonight. 

It’s bright outside already, the cold morning sun peeking through his window with an icy glow. A frankly insane bird is chirping, and he can see it hopping merrily on the thin branches of the silver birch tree. He watches it, allowing the creature’s frantic yet joyful movements and soft song to bring him some peace. 

He only starts gaining some coherence when the panic subsides, and the rest of the world starts slowly intruding on his little haven. The bird flies away, its job done, and he tunes into the sounds of the house instead. Someone’s moving around downstairs, the clanging of pots and pans a dead giveaway of his mum. He thinks he hears the radio playing too, not loud enough for him to catch the tune, but still noticeable in the buzzing it leaves in the air. He closes his eyes, tired, and allows it to carry him away a little more. 

There’s no images flashing in his head this time, just a soft ember glow, like a lantern breaking through the night. He cannot see who’s on the other side of the light, but they feel safe, and he relaxes. He dreams of music, simple notes of different songs mixing in his fantasy into a tune both expectedly cacophonic and oddly harmonious in its jumbled familiarity. It’s like the light itself is singing, and it sounds like piano keys. 

When he wakes up this time, it’s honey-slow and gentle, and despite it not being nearly long enough, he feels surprisingly well-rested. He gets out of bed, amazedly mindful of his injuries, and pads to his closet. He pulls out his underwear, a pair of soft joggers and an old t-shirt, and follows into the bathroom. He struggles out of his pajamas, the jostling not helping his hurting chest, and spends a few minutes admiring the palette of bruises on his upper body. He takes his time assessing the cuts and stitches, and the blackish-purple blotches on his ribs and stomach. It’s an ugly composition, and he suddenly feels self-conscious about it, turning his head away in shame. 

He turns on the shower, letting the cold water clear out before stepping in. The steady stream hits against his neck and shoulders, massaging them out at least a bit, and he sighs when he finally feels warm. He combs his fingers through his curls, making sure they’re thoroughly wet, and turns his face up to let the water wash over it too. He picks up his shower gel, applying some on his hands first, leathering it into his hair scratching against the scalp, before picking up his sponge and soaping it up. He’s meticulous in his ministration, making sure to scrape all the dirt and sweat off, the rough surface of the sponge scratching his skin pleasantly. Despite desperately wanting to stay in the tub, he doesn’t linger, staying only long enough to rinse out the suds. He cannot help but think about their water bill. 

He gets out of the shower finally feeling like a human being again, drying himself with a towel and putting on his clothes. The t-shirt is too big on him, almost falling off his shoulder, and he doesn’t want to think who wore it before him, even if the company name on the left side of his chest is a dead giveaway of the shirt’s origins. He combs his hair, watching stray droplets hit his reflection, and brushes his teeth before deeming himself satisfactorily ready for the day. He goes to throw the pajamas on his bed, entertains the thought of fixing it up, and abandons the thought the moment the smell of food hits his nostrils. 

He makes his way downstairs, and stops in the kitchen doorway to watch his mum buzzing around. She’s humming along to the song playing on the radio, her head bopping to the rhythm, and he struggles to remember the last time he’s seen her this happy. He lets the moment last a little longer in its peculiar merriness, before he decides to finally announce his presence. 

“Hi mum,” he greets softly. She startles anyway, her shoulders jumping up in surprise before she turns to him. She’s smiling, and he doesn’t know why he finds it surprising, but returns the smile anyway.

“Hello, bachcha,” she says, “Slept well?” He flinches internally at the question, knowing the truthful answer and the correct answer are two completely different and contradicting things. He hates lying to his mum but he hates worrying her more, and he fights an internal battle before figuring out his response. 

“Well enough,” is what he settles on, deciding to try and toe the line. “I am still a bit sore, but nothing too awful,” he adds, and now that is a straight up lie, immediately revealed to him but the twinge in his ribs. He isn’t sure whether his mum catches it, as she simply hums in response, and turns to the stove.

“Are you hungry?” she asks instead, “I’m making scrambled eggs and bacon.” And oh, that explains the delicious smells. Charles’s stomach grumbles treacherously, and apparently loud enough for his mum to hear and make her chuckle. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she concludes, not waiting for his answer. 

“Yeah,” he confirms lightly, making his way to the table. The pot of coffee is already waiting in the middle of it, a mug on either side, and he reaches for the one closer to him, pouring in the steaming beverage for his mum first, and then switching the mugs around and filling up the one for himself. He reaches for the milk, adding a generous splash, enough to make the coffee turn from black to light brown. His mum joins him at the table, placing a plate full of steaming eggs right in front of him, and he watches as she sips at her mug, completely devoid of any additions. He wonders if she actually likes the taste of it, or if it’s just another sign of aging, a hurdle that will come his way sooner or later. He puts the thought away for now, though, digging into his breakfast. 

They carry on in silence, his mum drinking her coffee and him eating casually, the only sound in the kitchen provided by the radio. He recognises the song, some upbeat radio-friendly tune that they overplayed last summer, and he absent-mindedly runs through every lyric in his head, despite not knowing the title or the artist. 

His mum is browsing through the morning newspaper, and he sees some rips in the thin pages, most likely a result of his father tearing his way through it earlier in the day. She doesn’t look particularly interested in it, he thinks, watching her glaze over the headlines without finding anything to make her stop and read. He observes her from the side, the wrinkles marring her forehead, the barely-visible crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes. There are a few gray strands already shining in her otherwise pitch-black hair. It hits him like a truck, then, that she’s getting older. Somehow, he didn’t notice her aging until this very moment. It hurts. 

He finishes his breakfast and his coffee, then cleans away the dishes, making sure to take care of the empty coffee pot and his mum’s empty mug as well. He expects her to leave the kitchen, but as he’s nearing the sink, she chooses that exact moment to break the silence again.

“A policewoman visited earlier today,” she says casually, and Charles almost drops everything to the floor. He manages to aim at the sink, and the dirty plates fall with a racket, but thankfully receive no damage in the process.

“Oh?” he urges her, turning on the tap. He itches to look at her, but focuses on the task at hand. The methodical movements help settle the anxiety he feels building inside. 

His mum hums in affirmation and he swallows down a groan when she doesn’t immediately follow up. “She wanted to talk about yesterday,” she finally explains, and his shoulders stiffen. He opens his mouth, full of questions, but she beats him to it, “She didn’t seem too pressed about it, though, and when I explained that you are still asleep, she suggested that you can visit the nearby station later today. If you want.”

Charles frowns at that, somehow more confused by the explanation. “So she didn’t want to talk?” he presses, finally turning around to look at his mum properly. She’s already looking at him, and when their eyes meet, she just raises an eyebrow and looks a little to his left. Charles follows her, then turns off the tap. He looks back. 

“She said that they have enough evidence already, which honestly surprised me. I don’t remember the local department ever being this efficient before.” Charles lets out an ugly snort at that, and it makes her smile a little. “Apparently one of your frie-,” she hesitates, “the boys that beat you up told them everything without much prompting. He seemed to think that it would help his case when it comes to the consequences.” 

“Will it?” he prompts, and his mum shrugs. 

“Only time will tell, but the sergeant mentioned something about expulsion. It’s nothing certain yet, though.”

Charles finds himself sagging in relief, leaning heavily against the kitchen counter. It makes his hip pulse with pain, but it’s not bad enough not to ignore it. “That’s… good,” he says lacklusterly, still trying to understand the situation. They sit in silence for a few moments, and when Charles realises there is nothing more to add, he turns back to the dishes; a thought hits him before he grabs a dirty mug, and he looks around again. “But wouldn’t they need, uh, the other side of the story or something? To confirm everything?” He doesn’t really know what he is talking about, but he thinks he read about it once in some book or other. 

His mum hiccoughs at that, her eyes widening, and she shakes her head. “Oh, of course, I thought I was forgetting about something.” Charles rolls his eyes fondly at that, before picking up the dirty mug. “That doctor from yesterday, the one who witnessed almost everything, shared her statement with the police already.” That woman must be a guardian angel or something, Charles thinks lightly, and doesn’t let himself ponder what would have happened if she wasn’t there at the time. “The sergeant also already has the statement from the other boy, she was on her way back from them when she knocked on our door. Did you know we are neighbours? What are the odds,” she wraps up, chuckling lightly, not realising that she just tilted Charles’s world on its axis.

Edwin. 

He likes to think he almost forgot about him, but that would be yet another lie he told himself today.  No, as much as his mind has been occupied by, well, everything that has happened yesterday, Edwin has been there too, in the corners of his mind, haunting Charles like the ghost he’s been in his head this whole time.

His memory is suddenly drawn to the coat that he unwillingly borrowed, and he realises he should return it. The moment it hits him, the anxiety is back in full swing, knotting his stomach like a sailor’s rope, and filling him with dread and anticipation. He finishes up with the dishwashing, his hands shaking the whole time and making him knock the cups and plates together, leaving them ringing through the air and clogging up his ears. Or maybe that’s just the bloodrush in his head. His mum says nothing at the noise, but he can feel her eyes drilling into his back - not obnoxious, but persistent enough that it makes embarrassment crawl up his neck. He puts his last plate down and turns around once more.

“Um, mum…?” he starts, hesitant. She hums, feigning disinterest, but he can see her eyes crinkling in amusement. He has this strange feeling she knows what he’s about to ask even before he’s entirely figured it out. “The coat that I came back in yesterday, is it okay if I go return it?” 

“Is it the neighbour’s?” she asks in lieu of response, and oh, he knows he’s being played with. He takes the bait though, struck with the easy banter that used to colour their conversations way back when, with his father not around. “Yeah,” he confirms begrudgingly, shrugging lightly and regretting it immediately. His mum frowns at that, some concern appearing on her relaxed face, and he realises he must have given himself away. 

“Meds first,” she says, getting up and rummaging through the boxes of some generic painkillers. She passes him three colorful pills which he swallows diligently, and chases down with water after she gives him the look. He sticks his tongue at her, both to show that he did take the meds, and maybe to taunt her a little. She cracks a smile at that and pokes his nose in retaliation. “Just be careful, yes?” she says lightly, and he nods in agreement, then tries to leave the kitchen as calmly as he can muster. When he hears a chuckle following him out, he knows that he failed miserably.

The coat is hanging by the door, although he doesn’t remember putting it there. In the daylight, he can finally appreciate it. It’s thick and a little coarse to the touch, deep navy that makes it look almost black. It looks like it’s more expensive than any piece of clothes that Charles has ever worn, but it also bears the familiar signs of wear and tear only a long-worn piece of clothing can have. He notices some neat stitches around the cuffs, where the sleeves must have worn out with time. There’s a patch on the left elbow, and one of the buttons looks different from the rest. There’s also a small flower embroidered on the right side of the collar, a tiny but detailed thing, and Charles wonders why it’s there. He lifts his hand to rub against it gently, feeling the soft bumps of the thread underneath his fingertip. He thinks his mum would probably know what flower it is, but asking about it feels like uncovering a secret that’s not his to know. 

He looks away, reaching for the maroon hoodie hanging next to it. One of the sleeves is tangled underneath the coat, and he pulls it out carefully before putting it on with much less caution. He then reaches for the coat again, checking the pockets to make sure he didn’t lose the gloves, then taking it off the hanger and laying it gently in the crook of his arm. The two items make a startling contrast, both in colour and in the attention put to it. He has half the mind to feel embarrassed about his own threadbare hoodie, the holes and rips that were left unattended for far too long, before he shakes it off and slips on his shoes. “It shouldn’t take long!” he yells by means of goodbye, and hears his mum’s ‘be careful’ just as he steps outside. 

The journey is short if slippery, the pavement ahead glistening with a thin layer of ice, treacherously beautiful if one isn't careful enough. There is a moment when he considers just jumping the fence separating the two frontyards, but his eyes are immediately drawn to the precious cargo in his arms, and he decides against it. He walks slowly, mindful of how he places his feet, but it still doesn't take long before he stops in front of the neighbouring door, raises his hand to knock. That's when he freezes.

Consciously, he knows it's been two years since The Incident. He knows he's not the same boy anymore, fourteen and terrified, and that the odds are the woman won't even remember his face - if she's home to begin with. He knows all of that, and yet for a split second, a wave of sheer panic overtakes him, immobilizing his joints like Medusa's gaze, his heart ready to beat right out of his chest. It must be some sort of miracle that he doesn't run away, tail between his legs. That, or the grounding weight of the coat draped over his forearm.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Two more times, just to be sure, just get his heartrate closer to a human than a hummingbird. Finally, after what feels like an eternity and not, he knocks.

When a pale, cruel eye peeks through the door, he doesn't flinch. He doesn't stutter; "Edwin lent me his coat yesterday. I wanted to return it," he says, and it's a statement, his voice not lilting with doubt at the end, not terrified out of his mind. The woman, and she's Edwin's aunt, because it didn't truly hit him until now, looks at him impassively. He waits. She closes the door, but this time what follows is the sound of a latch clicking open, and a burst of warm air hits him in the face as the house finally lets him in.

She doesn't say anything, doesn't invite him inside, but he hesitates only a moment before walking through the threshold. To say that he's feeling incredibly awkward is an understatement. Will she take the coat from him? Should he just hang it and… leave? Is there a user manual for interacting with a person who must hate your guts at best? He suspects that even if he asks any of those questions out loud, he will not get an answer. Some small part of him starts to wonder about Edwin's childhood — is his aunt just as unfeeling with him as she is with others? — but he abandons that train of thought as soon as he recognises it for what it is. At the end of the day, Edwin is a stranger, and he doesn't need Charles prying into his life.

Still, there must be something he can do to get out of this horribly awkward limbo. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can make a sound, the woman approaches the staircase and flicks the light on. Then off. On again, and then off, and then switches it a few more times. His jaw clicks shut, and his stomach rolls in confusion at this cheap, horror-esque display; and then he hears movement upstairs and feels himself flush with embarrassment as he realises what must be happening. You can't call on a deaf person, can you? This must be a way for Edwin and his aunt to communicate across the house.

He's sure he's already beet-red, but when Edwin finally appears at the top of the staircase he can feel himself turning maroon. Edwin's eyes widen in surprise, mouth falling open in a little "o". Charles has no idea what to do, and his brain short-circuits him into waving. He regrets it instantly, and only just stops himself from hitting his forehead in despair. Before he can do anything else, like saving the crumbs of his dignity, Edwin disappears, his feet echoing against the walls — and Charles finds it baffling, that someone so difficult to catch at school can be so loud, before he realises that he's been left alone with the aunt again. The woman is staring at him, completely still and unblinking, like a particularly judgemental lizard. Curse this family and their apparent fixation on leaving him hanging, he thinks bitterly, and starts swaying back and forth for lack of anything else to do.

Finally, though, Edwin reappears, running down the stairs and trying to put in his hearing aids with one hand. He fumbles, and one of the devices tumbles down the last few steps. Charles cringes instinctively, sending a quick prayer in hopes of it not breaking down, then all but launches himself to pick it up. When he straightens, he faces the violent realisation that Edwin is right in front of him, one step above and forcing Charles to look up to meet the other boy's eyes — wide open and surprised.

He realises he's both staring and probably crowding Edwin, so he takes a rushed step back while the other boy reaches for his aid — the stupid little dance leaves him feeling like some overgrown accordion. Edwin's mouth quirks up in amusement, but he nods gratefully as he takes the device from Charles, and proceeds to awkwardly hook it around his ear. He fiddles with it some more, probably looking for the switch that would turn it on, before finally meeting Charles's eyes again.

"Hello Charles," he says finally, and it makes him feel funny all over.

"I forgot to give you your coat back yesterday," he all but spits out, words rushed and awkward. When did he get nervous? And why? He thought that knocking on Edwin's door would be the most stressful part of the whole ordeal but no, apparently actually facing Edwin will be the thing to make his anxiety spike up to levels as of yet unknown to man. How nice.

Edwin lifts an eyebrow at him, but blessedly seems to ignore Charles's crumbling composure in favour of taking the piece of garment off his hands. "Thank you," he says politely, "You didn't need to rush so much with it. I don't think I am going anywhere any time soon," he adds, waving his right hand playfully. Charles winces.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, because it feels polite and like an appropriate follow up to Edwin's statement, at least if his near-scrambled brain is to be trusted. He watches on as Edwin shrugs and bypasses him to the coat rack, hanging the coat on an empty bolt. He doesn't respond until he turns around, and in the awkward silence between those moments Charles miraculously manages to pull himself together.

"I am somewhat alright, all things considered," he says politely, but then something in his expression turns mischievous. "I do think that breaking my hand might be a small price to pay for breaking Simon's nose," he adds, making them both laugh. Charles very quickly realises that Edwin's laugh is nice, the kind of sound that he could listen to for hours without growing bored. It's soft, rather on the quiet side, but incredibly melodic — it makes him think of a Disney princess, of all things.

"Do you want to come in?" Edwin asks suddenly, and Charles almost chokes to death (no, he is not being dramatic in the slightest). He looks at the boy, eyes wide and mouth open in surprise, and whatever else there might be in his expression that makes Edwin blush. "I was just about to make tea," he explains, "I thought you might appreciate a cuppa."

Charles starts nodding before his brain fully processes the question. "Yeah, some tea would be brills, big fan of tea, me. Can't get enough of it!" shut up Rowland, you're rambling. Edwin notices it too, sending him an odd look, before nodding at him to follow him towards the kitchen. Inwardly, Charles groans, then slips off his shoes and follows the other boy deeper into the house.

He hovers awkwardly in the door as Edwin dances around the kitchen, still surprisingly graceful despite only one functional hand. There is something enchanting in the way the other boy moves, and he's staring his fill until he realises that there's one more person in the room.

Edwin's aunt is sitting at the kitchen table and just… glaring. Not reading anything, not even a glass of water in front of her at the table. He feels like he's being x-rayed, turned inside out by those unfeeling eyes. He feels like whimpering out of stress, but there is only so much humiliation he can handle in one day.

Edwin must have some sort of sixth sense, however, because the moment Charles starts to feel nauseous under the scrutiny, he turns towards his aunt and signs something at her, his movement curt and sharp. The woman stares at her nephew for a few more moments, then gets up and leaves, Edwin's eyes not leaving her until she disappears somewhere. Then he turns to Charles, and his gaze softens.

"Sorry about that," he says, the icy edge from moments ago gone completely. Charles gives him a small half-smile. "It's fine," he says, shrugging, "Although she does seem… intense."

That makes Edwin chuckle, and he's still huffing adorably as he pours the water into two cups. "She's a correctional officer," he explains as he passes one of the teas to him, a simple red mug that matches the style of Edwin's blue one. "Sometimes I feel like she never really leaves her job," he jokes, but there's a more sombre note to it, almost making it fall flat. Charles suppresses a wince — that would explain at least some of the woman's mannerisms, but it doesn't make them any less exhausting. He wonders how Edwin is still sane.

"We all have our quirks," he adds instead, giving Edwin a crooked grin, and something in the boy relaxes. He nods, smiling, before passing Charles in the doorway. "Come on," he encourages, and once again, Charles allows himself to follow. It becomes a strange habit, and a quick one to develop too, this tendency to follow Edwin wherever he goes.

He's three steps away from the landing before finally waging a guess as to where Edwin is leading him, and subsequently has no time to prepare whatsoever for what's about to happen.

His first thought is that he was wrong: the walls of the room are a formal shade of dusty sky blue, looking bright in sunlight but with nothing else to them. All the furniture is in a matching shade of medium brown wood, and the bed is made so nicely it looks fake. The place looks scarcely lived in.

The only odd piece in this catalogue-esque space is the upright piano leaning against the wall to Charles's left, and he instinctively knows that it mirrors the position of his own keyboard. It's a striking instrument in wood so dark the finish looks almost purple, with gold accents throughout — enough to make them noticeable, but still tasteful. There's a couple of trinkets on top of the box, too — a few which Charles cannot make sense of, and a single picture frame, lacquered in navy.

It's like the piano is calling to him, and he takes a tentative step in its direction. He can feel Edwin's eyes on him, but when their gazes lock, the other boy just nods in encouragement.

"You play too, don't you?" he asks, taking a measured sip from his mug. "Yeah," Charles confirms, and places his tea on the desk as he passes by — he has a feeling that placing his mug on the piano would be severely frowned upon.

The keys are uncovered, glistening in the sunlight, and when Charles presses one of them gently, the piano sings. It's nothing like the old keyboard in his room, no slightly artificial tint to the note. The sound is crisp and pure, reverberating through the air beautifully. He finds himself grinning.

There are a couple sheets leaning against the music desk, and at first he thinks that they've been printed out with how neat the black notes look; until his gaze falls on the last sheet, only half-full, and a fountain pen laying next to it. Sure enough, when he takes a closer look it's clear that each note has been meticulously written out.

"What's this?" he asks, turning around to Edwin; he thinks he sees a red tinge on the boy's cheeks. "Just something I've been working on," he explains, and Charles' eyes widen in surprise.

"You compose?" he asks again, absent-mindedly tapping at another key; and because he's still looking at Edwin from the corner of his eye, he doesn't miss the small wince at the sound, the aborted movement of a hand ready to reach up. It hits him, then — the sudden reaction today, the hesitation yesterday. "You don't like those things much, do you?" he asks, tapping the side of his head, before Edwin can even answer the first question.

He frowns in confusion, but then his eyes widen in understanding, and he looks away. Charles doesn't like the expression on his face — it's too close to shame for his liking. "Hey," he starts gently, as if calming down a spooked animal, "It's okay, I'm not judging, just asking."

Edwin stares at him with suspicion before sighing deeply, as if giving up. "No, I do not enjoy wearing them," he confirms, "The noise makes my head hurt."

"Oh," Charles says dumbly, but it does make sense, doesn't it? If he spent most of his time missing one of his senses, suddenly having it back would feel overwhelming at best. He makes his decision.

"You can take them off, if you want," he nods, channeling as much confidence into his statement as he possibly can, "In fact, you don't have to wear them at all when I'm around, if you don't want to," he adds, and wow now that is bordering on overconfident. Why did he immediately assume he will be sticking around, again?

Edwin, god bless, doesn't seem to notice his blunder, because he just keeps staring blankly at him, the expression is so blatantly thrown off, Charles feels he has misstepped. But then, "How would we… talk?" Edwin eventually asks hesitantly. Charles shrugs.

"We managed yesterday, didn't we? In the ambulance," he reminds, chancing a small smile.

"I suppose you are correct," Edwin concedes, also smiling lightly. Charles feels like he's just won something.

He watches as Edwin tentatively reaches to his right ear first, presumedly turning the device off before unhooking it from his ear, then moves to the left one. He places both on the desk, and the sigh of relief is so audible, Charles can hear it from across the room.

"Better?" he asks, enunciating carefully when Edwin looks back at him. "Much," he says, and he even sounds lighter like that, "Thank you."

Charles grins. "Don't mention it," he says, before deciding to circle back to his first question. "So, you write music?"

"I do," he replies, approaching the instrument. He taps out a few chords with his functional hand, but they sound a little awkward. Charles tries not to frown, but Edwin seems to be aware of the issue anyway, as he sighs deeply, "But it seems a break is in order. Unfortunate, but not much can be done about it."

Charles hums in acknowledgement, and upon realising Edwin won't hear him, he taps a few keys trying to resemble the sound. The other boy seems to get the joke, because he looks up at Charles in amusement.

"What were you composing anyway? If it's not a secret." It seems to be the right question to ask, because Edwin grins, a full, pretty smile that Charles carefully catalogues away.

"It's a short piece I'm working on," he explains, his eyes shining with glee, "I need to submit it by April to secure my scholarship at Julliard. I won't be going until I finish high school, of course, but," he blushes, "They offered in advance, and it would be remiss of me not to take them up on the offer."

Charles feels his jaw drop open in stupefied wonder. "Mate that's amazing!" he exclaims so quickly he isn't entirely sure Edwin caught it, "So like, are you a prodigy or something?"

Edwin's blush deepens into beet red, and he mutters something under his breath. Charles raises an eyebrow, and he sighs. "I think that is a very generous word you've used, Charles. I simply know my way around a piano better than most," he says primly, and Charles can't help but laugh.

When he looks up, Edwin is already looking at him, both eyebrows high on his forehead in confused amusement. "I think you're understating your skills, mate," Charles explains, and watches the other boy blush furiously. He blushes easily, Charles notices, his milky white skin exposing every single change in temperature. It makes Charles's mind want to spin in directions in which it definitely shouldn't, and he has to pinch his arm behind his back to bring himself back to Earth.

"Do you want to try this out for me?" Edwin asks suddenly, and Charles blinks at him.

"I'm sorry?" he says dumbly; he's heard the words, they simply refuse to make sense in his head.

"You can play the song if you want," Edwin says, "It would be good to have an outsider opinion."

Charles gapes at him. "Are you sure?" 'Aren't you afraid I'll butcher it?' is what he really wants to ask. Edwin, ironically enough, seems to hear the actual question anyway.

"I wouldn't offer if I weren't certain," and oh, that makes Charles blush in turn. He swallows, nods, and tentatively sits down on the piano stool.

Edwin comes even closer to the instrument, and quickly browses through the sheets, setting them in order. Charles waits until he places them back on the desk, and gives him a nod.

Charles studies the music carefully, and realises that it might be a little out of his comfort zone when it comes to skills — there's a lot of runs happening on the left side, and he knows he's had too long a break to even consider attempting them; he's determined to give it a go anyway.

He tries the first few chords as a way to warm up, and glances at Edwin, for some reason desperate for his approval. Edwin gives him a small smile, and nudges his shoulder encouragingly. That settles it.

He manages to go through roughly one sheet before he starts struggling, his left hand slipping and failing to catch up. A hand on his shoulder stops him; his fingers freeze mid-note, and he looks up to see Edwin frowning slightly. His heart plummets.

"Sorry," is the first word that comes out of the boy's mouth, and Charles gapes, "You are amazing on your right, but I forgot the left can be challenging at the default pace. You are also going a little too slow. Would you mind terribly if I joined? I'd take the left only, for rather obvious reasons." He has the audacity to sound bashful and genuine about it, and Charles thinks that he has never been more confused in his life. He nods dumbly.

Edwin gives him a small, grateful smile, as if being given permission to play his own instrument is some incredible feat, and nudges Charles's left side gently, taking half a seat on the stool once he has enough room.

"It should go like this," he explains patiently, and to Charles's further shock, starts humming Charles's part of the melody instead of playing his. "The time signature is quite straightforward, with four beats per bar, but the composition builds a little towards the end, which might make it rather rough without proper warm up. Shall we give it a go?"

"Sure'" Charles replies, then clears his throat awkwardly and nods instead.

Edwin counts them in quietly, and somehow, miraculously, it's smooth sailing from there. Charles's fingers still slip a little at times, but he doesn't miss the keys the way he did when his focus was divided. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Edwin's hand slowly picking up pace as the melody continues, and even with how little he truly sees of it, it looks effortless. Their hands brush from time to time when their fingers meet on nearby or same keys, and it makes sparks fly all over him.

The song ends all too soon for his liking, and he doesn't realise he's breathing heavily until the final notes finish echoing out throughout the room.

"And?" Edwin breaks the silence, turning to him, "What do you think?"

Charles has no idea where to start. "It's," he tries, but no word feels adequate; it also doesn't help that Edwin, for entirely platonic and justifiable reasons of course, is consistently looking at his lips. It's actually a little maddening, and he needs to bite his tongue to stop it from darting out of his mouth.

"Cinematic," he finally settles, and feels immediately and immensely gratified when Edwin looks at him in surprise. "I can imagine it in a movie soundtrack, or something," he adds.

"It doesn't feel… incomplete?" Edwin asks hesitantly. Charles frowns.

"Why would it?"

The boy sighs wearily. "I cannot seem to get the ending right," he almost whines, and Charles has no idea what to do with himself about it, "No matter how I try to fade it out, nothing feels correct."

Charles bites his lip, then looks at the music. He taps out the last few chords slowly, then frowns and does it again. "I think I understand," he says when Edwin looks at him again, "It builds so much up to this point, that simply fading it out makes it almost anticlimactic."

"Precisely!" Edwin exclaims, throwing his good hand in the air, then drags it across his face.

"But," Charlest continues, biting his lip. It's Edwin’s composition, meddling with it doesn't sit right with him; and yet he can't shake the feeling that his idea might work. "In the movies, when you have those high-stakes scenes, after all the action wraps up, it rarely fades to black right? The characters get to unwind a little before the plot moves forward."

"Are you suggesting," Edwin begins, his eyes shining, "That instead of cutting it short, I should extend?"

Charles nods, then watches in bemusement as Edwin jumps up from the stool and crosses over to the desk in a few long steps. He starts to dig furiously through one drawer. "I didn't think…" he mutters, and Charles chuckles. "Aha!"

He places one more sheet on the desk, the scoots back next to Charles. "It's a short melody I wrote a long time ago. It's not enough to be a piece of its own, I don't think, but maybe…" he looks at Charles hopefully, "Can you play this for me? I'll accompany you as before; I- I want to know what you think."

Charles bites his lip and studies the new melody carefully. It looks a lot simpler, slower and more… elongated. He glances at Edwin and sees the boy watching him already. He nods, and Edwin smiles.

"Let's start with the last couple of bars of the original and then move into this?" he suggests, and Charles agrees readily, shaking his hand a little to have it relax.

Edwin counts them in again, and Charles starts without hesitation. The melody is short, but it works, almost like magic. They wrap it up swiftly, and when he turns to Edwin, the other boy is already grinning.

"I think you got it, mate," Charles praises, and Edwin's smile gets impossibly wider.

"Indeed, it seems I do," he replies happily, "I just need to write down the accompanying melody, and it's good to go." It's then that Charles realises that Edwin must have improvised his part, because there was only Charles's part on the sheet. He gapes at the boy in awe, but Edwin is not paying him any attention anymore, running his hand over the keys in what Charles assumes is the melody he just came up with.

He briefly battles with himself, before gently waving his hand in Edwin's light of sight. "Do you want me to write it down for you?" he asks when the boy finally looks at him, and Edwin absolutely beams.

"Yes, please," he says, then leans to the side and pulls out an empty lined sheet and a pen from… somewhere. Charles takes the supplies, and takes a quick look around to find a flat surface to write on. Finding none, he decides to stand up and just use the top of the piano, making more room for Edwin in front of the instrument.

Watching Edwin work in real time is something else entirely. Despite his best attempts, Charles has never managed to compose any music himself, and that alone is enough to make him admire the process; but it's also about Edwin himself, the slightly intrusive affair of watching how his brain works.

Even with only one hand, Charles assumes the non-dominant one, Edwin still moves smoothly back and forth over the keyboard, playing the initial melody and then slowly retracing the improvised accompaniment. He only instructs Charles on what to write when he's confident in the outcome, but even in the breaks between his small task, Charles is hardly bored. In fact, he is so absorbed in it, that he completely loses track of time.

That is, until Edwin's phone, which has been laying on top of the piano the whole time, lights up with an incoming text notification, and Charles notices that it's already past noon — somehow, he's managed to disappear for almost two hours, despite promising to be back soon.

"Shit," he curses, wondering how to tell Edwin that he needs to go right now. The boy is already looking at him, and some of Charles's distress must be showing on his face, because he frowns. "Is everything okay?"

Charles winces. "Yeah… I just promised my mum I won't be long, and well…' he smiles awkwardly. Edwin's eyes widen, and he looks at his phone as well.

"Oh dear, I did not intend to keep you away for so long, my apologies."

Charles can't help but chuckle. "It's okay, I didn't notice it either, and it's not like you kept me here against my will," he says, and feels himself blushing furiously.

Edwin blushes again, and chuckles. "Regardless," he continues, "If you need to go, please do not stop yourself on my behalf."

Charles nods, but inwardly he wilts. The thing is, he doesn't want to go, but unfortunately, he should. His mum might not be worried sick, but he doesn't want to risk her getting miffed about his absence.

"Thank you for the tea," he says, and he cannot keep the regret from his tone. Thankfully, Edwin doesn't hear it, leaving him with just the words. The boy nods, "Don't mention it."

They sit in a mildly awkward silence for a couple of minutes, for some reason suddenly struggling with keeping eye contact. "Let me walk you to the door," Edwin says eventually, standing up.

Charles picks up his almost-empty mug and finishes it off, then keeps it close as he navigates the stairs behind Edwin. He steps into the kitchen quickly, gently places the cup in the sink, then walks back to the hall and starts getting dressed again.

"Actually, Charles," Edwin starts again once he pulls his head through his hoodie, "May I ask you a favour?"

"Sure mate," he affirms easily, "What's up?"

"I will not be attending school for some time yet," he begins, and that ridiculous boy actually sounds peeved about that fact, "But I would like not to fall behind on classes. Would you mind gathering my schoolwork and bringing it to me? I will provide my schedule, and you do not have to do this every day," he falters a little at the end, and Charles realises he's nervous.

"Of course," he replies once their gazes meet again, "It's no problem. Just fair warning, I am… not good at school, so I won't be able to catch you up on anything if needed." Is he embarrassed to admit it? Very much so; but he figures it's better to be upfront now.

Edwin shakes his head at that. "That is perfectly fine, I was not expecting you to; and although I do not believe your 'bad at school' sentiment, I would not mind helping you out if you are truly struggling with something."

Charles almost rolls his eyes at that, but stops himself — either to hide the fondness the action would surely display, or to avoid risking Edwin taking it badly. "Thank you," he says instead, and he means it. It makes Edwin smile again.

"Of course," he echoes Charles from moments before, "Thank you for bringing the coat back. It truly means a lot."

Charles nods, not sure what to say to that. He sways on his feet once, then glances at the door. "I need to…"

"Oh, yes, right," Edwin says primly, and unlocks then opens the doors for him. "I will see you soon?" he asks, and Charles hopes he doesn't imagine the hopeful tone — that Edwin means it.

"Tomorrow," he promises without a second thought. They exchange a small smile, then nod at each other. Just like that, a deal seems to be made.

Charles goes back home with a task on hand, a promise on his lips, and butterflies in his stomach. He cannot wait for tomorrow to roll around.