[Closed] [Mature] Our Young Faces

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

Bad Decision Hours on the 27th of Ophus, 2719

H
e felt Charlie’s fingers curl in his hair, surprisingly firm. He grunted, though he wasn’t sure if it sounded as approving as he felt; he didn’t much care. He was doing his damnedest to show his approval with his mouth and his hand, and other parts still showed it without giving him much choice in the matter.

The first time, he barely heard it. The second, he heard it a little louder over the throbbing of his pulse in his ears – and then he felt it, the tug of his fingers tangled in his hair. He grunted, easing away. His heart was hammering, and his breath was coming too fast to speak. He didn’t think, then, except to wipe his mouth off, and then the other man was running a fingertip along his mouth, tilting his head up.

He blinked, mouth open, drawing in another shuddering breath as he met Charlie’s blue eyes.

He found himself pulled to his feet, and felt a wash of relief and frustration all at once. Come here, he was saying, a hundred miles away from that nonchalant drawl; no, he wanted to argue, petulant, I wasn’t halfway done getting you off. Weren’t you enjoying it? This qalqa’s been mine since before you knew what a man…

Charlie was pressing a kiss to his lips, fingers curling against his scalp, and it silenced his protests. He gasped in his throat, feeling his other hand at the buttons of his trousers. He slid one hand round Charlie’s hip, guided him round.

He eased back against the bed, his head emptying out again. He wanted it like a cool hand on a feverish forehead. Every button seemed one too many. His hand slid up to Charlie’s back as he felt the mattress against his. His other was in a tangle of dark hair, trembling.

His mouth opened and nothing came out. There was a sudden tightness in his throat.

Please, he thought, please let me have this. “Please,” he moaned. Clock the Circle, please don’t hang yourself on this, you mung raen.

All the same, some part of him froze. His hand moved to Charlie’s wrist, almost as if to – it paused, running fingertips over the fine bones, the long fingers. He wanted those long fingers on him just as badly as he’d wanted to touch the other man. He didn’t want to sully the yes he’d wrested from all his shame, from all his pain, for better or worse. For worse, maybe, but by the gods, if he was going to make this mistake in the first place, he was going to make it with both feet over the line.

“Please,” he gasped again, wondering if it was a prayer. And he laughed suddenly, moving to help Charlie with his trousers. He let his hand rest on his back again, leaving him to it.

He traced his finger round the shell of his ear, just as warm as the rest of him. He felt the cool metal of his earring; he let his fingertip linger on it, then moved down the lobe. He brushed a lock of hair from his cheek where it’d been plastered there in sweat. “Only if you kiss me again. You’re very – mm – good at it,” he slurred, then laughed again, bastly-bright.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 27, 2719 - Bad Decision Hours
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

There was just this little fraction of a moment, when Charlie had run his finger over his open mouth, that he'd almost changed his mind about what he wanted. Like, fuck, right? That was a face he didn't see every day. On anyone, but especially this walking bad idea on his knees in Charlie's rathole of a flat, looking for all the world like he was going to argue. Just a moment, though, and the moment passed.

No argument either, ultimately. Charlie could have grinned if his mouth weren't otherwise being put to better use. He did like that sound, caught in his throat when Charlie reached down. He liked it less than the next one, that "please" in that godsdamn voice, hands on Charlie's back and in his hair. Dragged out of him like he wasn't sure if he should have said it. Then Charlie did grin, leaning over Anatole's spare frame all scattered with freckles.

He was impatient, but he did pause there a second, just to look. Just to hover and let his own impatience press against the back of his brain, to see if he could drag it out. There was this kind of tension, too, that Charlie didn't know what to do with. He was almost annoyed, because it looked a little bit like someone was thinking of changing his mind. He didn't fucking get it, but he took the excuse to look anyway.

"Well when you ask so nicely," Charlie said and he was done looking and testing the limits of his patience. One "please" had been enough to shut down most of the bits of him that made decisions and even pretended to consider his actions—two took care of the rest. Not like he listened to those much anyway, or he wouldn't be here right now. And wouldn't that be such a shame?

A pleasant shiver shot down his spine; Charlie had, it had to be admitted, always liked it when anyone did that. I have more of those, you know, he thought of saying; he'd taken out all but the first pair for that awful godsdamn party. He should have taken those out too, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. They looked nice, in his own absolutely excellent and trustworthy opinion. He'd had them now for so long, it felt weird to have them out.

Charlie had moved to finish what he'd started and let his trousers join the shirt on the floor, but he stopped to laugh too, pleased. That was—very honest, Charlie thought. And true. And kind of cute, a thought he was firmly keeping to himself. What a weird fucking thing to think. "I am, it's true," he agreed with an arch of his eyebrows, moving again. Finding some scrap of his brain to be clever with; there always was one, lurking around in there somewhere. "You know what they say—practice makes perfect."

He'd had plenty of that, with all of this, kissing and buttons both. He was done fucking around. Off they went, and good riddance. No pauses to admire this time. Maybe later, but if he stopped again he was going to actually die. He wasn't in any hurry, but he kind of was. Charlie leaned forward to kiss him again, and he let his hands wander deliberately and experimentally.

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

Bad Decision Hours on the 27th of Ophus, 2719

W
ould you like me to ask less nicely? he got the mung urge to say, all low and husky – like a man who’s just figured out he can use something, and can’t seem to stop himself from using it anytime he can. He didn’t have to. He was kidding himself anyway if he thought the words would come out in any sort of coherent order, now that his trousers were being pulled the rest of the way off.

And they didn’t, but a number of other noises escaped his lips. He couldn’t have said what they were; he wasn’t keeping track.

He had watched those blue eyes sweep over him from underneath their long lashes; he had felt them over him like gooseflesh, and had felt even stranger to think they were admiring what they saw. And he had felt even stranger, because feeling that, another wave of it had hit him, and he might’ve thought he was more – rather than less – turned on, if he’d thought at all. Mostly, he was laughing again, and Charlie was laughing too, the laughter tangled up like the skin and the limbs and the mona, and soon enough like their lips, and Charlie’s long-fingered hand wandering its way down.

Practice, he’d said, and he was still smiling against his lips. He believed it. And he’d had practice enough, too, and it was pleasing how much all this was reminding him of it. And reminding him how new he felt, too, how new and strange, and when he wasn’t thinking too hard on it, he rather liked it.

He could’ve kissed him and kept kissing him for hours, utterly done with elocution. He tasted like cheap liquor and salt-sweat and everything right. He liked those teeth, the way they were all just a little crooked now, the way his tongue kept catching that lovely-sharp canine.

He liked the shifting of his back muscles underneath the warm skin, and the way it arched as he danced his fingers up the bones. Remembering the way he’d shivered, he let his hand wander up his neck, through the damp tangles of his hair; he ran his fingertips along his ear again.

He found the stud first, oddly cool against the hot skin, tracing circles round it; he laughed softly again. He wound up the delicate cartilage, paying more attention this time, finding holes where more might’ve gone.

Charlie’s hand was exploring, too. It was close enough now it was almost unbearable. He shifted restlessly underneath him, and the press of the mattress springs almost made it worse; everything made it worse, every sensation burned. He could feel the calluses on those long fingers now, and he could imagine them round a length of pipe or a wrench, could imagine…

His other hand was on Charlie’s lower back, and it moved lower, fingertips curling insistently into his erse. He wondered briefly if he was touching the tattoo. He tried to picture it and laughed again, leaning into another greedy kiss, still running one finger gently along his ear.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 27, 2719 - Bad Decision Hours
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

Weird the way his own soap and his own shitty bathtub alcohol and even his own godsdamn clothes seemed so different on someone else. Better, even, except for the work clothes which he would rather not have had to go through the effort to take back off again. Except that was fun too, in a frustrating kind of way, so he guessed he couldn't complain that much.

This was also fun, feeling a smile against his mouth after he loftily declared that he'd gotten plenty of practice. It wasn't the sort of thing people always took very well, but it was the sort of thing he said a lot. Even Charlie had to admit he made a bad habit of saying things he knew other people didn't take well on purpose, to see what would happen. Fun and kind of charming, the way he was—finally, thank fuck—less skittish and weird now. Seemed to be anyway, from all the noise and the smiling and the laughing and shit.

His hair was going to dry a mess, the way he kept running his hand through the drying damp locks of it. Charlie wasn't going to complain, just a part of him made the idle observation. Charlie made some pleased noise in the back of his throat when Anatole traced along the curve of his ear again. He couldn't tell if it was the earring that was drawing his attention, or the other holes, or that Charlie liked it so much. Didn't care either, he supposed; the result was the same. Warm fingertips running over his skin, all that pleasant electricity lighting up every nerve.

Hot, actually, not just warm. The other man shifted around; Charlie listened to the slight squeaking of his awful fucking mattress and he grinned. For someone who dragged his feet so much getting to this point—you know what? Charlie didn't care. There was clearly a lot of weird shit going on that he didn't need to think about too deeply. Shit that kind of worked for him in a way, because he was here tracing his hand over his side and his mouth along that narrow jaw and back.

Maybe he was still fucked up, more than he thought he was. That would explain a lot. Like, for example, how a man he'd had weird idle fantasies about for multiple actual years was naked in his bed, seemingly begging for Charlie to touch him, and here Charlie was sitting here thinking it was kind of cute the way he kept cracking up. Yeah, he had to still be pretty fucked up, that was all that made sense.

In a kind of abstract revenge, Charlie ran his hand lightly of the bones of his hip and over the inside of his thigh. Knowing full well he was being an ersehole, actually to both of them, but also kind of getting a petty satisfaction out of it. He claimed another kiss from that mouth, dragging his teeth against the edge of his lip. Enough pettiness, then. Sort of—when Charlie did touch him, it was light as anything at first. He was being kind of a monster, and that was fun too.

"What do you want, anyway?" Charlie said, leaning to breath the question rather directly into his ear. "I have had practice with a lot of things," he promised with a thin, sly smile, "not just kissing." His mouth lingered.

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

Bad Decision Hours on the 27th of Ophus, 2719

I
f he’d thought ahead, he might’ve thought this would’ve scared the hell out of him – he’d dreamt of it, hazy strange dreams as unsettling as they were pleasurable, lying naked and hard in another man’s bed – no bit of him hidden by all those fine clothes he suddenly liked so well. In dreams he was himself, until he wasn’t, and then the tide washed back in a wave of fear and shame.

He’d lost it once with Aremu midway through, when he’d got to thinking too much. It’d been bitterly shameful, for all the other man’s patience; it hadn’t been the sort of patience he’d wanted to make him have, that night.

He’d known men, one or two, who liked to get you off but didn’t want reciprocation. He remembered once – he’d been a towhead with the loveliest lips – trailing kisses down ‘til he felt fingers in his beard, guiding his head back up, gentle but firm. He’d tried not to put pressure on him, but he’d felt damned strange about it afterward; he’d even asked, young and mung with nerves, if it’d been because of him. He hadn’t understood then, but he thought he understood now, far too well.

He didn’t want to. He wanted it so fucking badly. And yet he’d had half a second – like always – of thinking it’d be easier if Charlie let him keep going down on him, as if he was a ghost with hands and a mouth.

Well, he thought wryly, he wasn’t much of a ghost. And funny enough, he hadn’t worried when it came to it; it’d happened so fast, Charlie’s eyes and hands on him, his back on the mattress, he hadn’t even worried about whether or not worrying so much was going to kill his mood. (Or worried about worrying about worrying… Gods, who in the hell was he nowadays?)

Charlie was running his hands along the bones of his hip, those bones he usually hated so much, and he was already halfway to moaning; like scratching around an itch, he thought, getting hotter and worse with each second. Those fine, crooked-sharp teeth grazed his bottom lip like an echo, and he grunted, feeling Charlie’s curling thin lips trail along his jaw.

And then – long fingers, comparatively cool, feather-light on his cock, dancing teasingly away. Then back again, stroking lightly, but never long enough. “Fuck,” he husked. He barely registered the question at first; mostly what he felt was the hot breath tickling his ear, and his hand had danced away from Charlie’s to sink into the tangles of his hair. “Uh,” he breathed.

I’m sure you have, Charlie Ewing, he went to say, but all that came out was a funny noise that barely resembled I’m.

What did he want? He hadn't expected to be asked. (What if I don’t–? What if I can’t? Easier to shake those thoughts now, but they were there.) He took a shuddering breath, then grinned, then applied what was left of him to his voice.

“What I want,” he murmured in a low voice, brushing a lock of hair away from Charlie’s forehead, pressing a kiss to his hairline and letting his lips linger, tasting the salty sweat. “Is for you to take me just to – mm – to the edge of it,” his fingertips pressed into his upper back, “and then leave me there – tease me, touch me anywhere else – see how long I can…”

Those long, cool, callused fingers. He trailed off into a groan, kissing his brow again.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 27, 2719 - Bad Decision Hours
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

That's the idea, Charlie could have said, but instead he just laughed quietly with his mouth still by his ear. Really showing off that Brunnhold education with that one. He had this effect on people, to be fair. Anatole Vauquelin was hardly the first man to be so undone by him; it was something of a point of pride, really.

Charlie did have to admit it was usually less interesting an effect, though. Probably because he wasn't as drunk as he usually was. Or he was more fucked up than usual. Charlie really hadn't drawn a conclusion either way on that one. Conclusions required more thought than he was willing to put into it at this point.

He did want to know, though, so he hoped the other man could, you know, pull it together enough to answer the question. Non-verbally could work, depending on the answer. There had been a lot of not-words that Charlie was enjoying hearing, too. Still. There was the start of something that might have been a word, if he squinted. Charlie looked sideways, and he was no more or less teasing than he had been.

It wasn't that complicated a question. Or it shouldn't have been. A midlife crisis did strange things to men, Charlie supposed. Like, for example, drove them to come out drinking with him, and into the Rose to mystery destinations with him, and come to his fucking flat and sing to his godsdamn bird. Odd little things like that. Charlie didn't have that as an excuse; he just was this way. Which did beg the question of what he'd do for his own midlife crisis—he honestly couldn't picture himself old enough to have one.

After a moment though, he did get his answer. Fuck did he ever, a low murmur against his hairline that scrambled his brain like a godsdamn egg. Or something, shit. That had not been the answer he was expecting. Charlie didn't know what he was expecting, honestly; expectations required thinking, and he was trying to do very little of that. He tried to say something clever or coherent in response, but he just managed a sharp, predatory kind of smile and another chuckle that was more in the back of his throat than out of his mouth. Full of surprises, still.

"Sure," he sort of half-mumbled across his skin, which he grazed with his teeth just because it was there and he wanted to. Sure? Yeah. Yeah, sure. The rhythm and pressure of Charlie's hand changed then, focused and intent. Watching to see just what sort of reaction he was getting. He didn't really normally have this kind of patience himself, but—there was something really fucking satisfying about the idea, just now.

"But, uh, you should..." A half a sentence, less than half of a full thought. Just a jumble of short syllables with the polish of the voice he leaned into so much stripped out of it. He shifted, pressing himself just that much closer. A little desperate, even he had to admit, to be touched, too. He hadn't really meant for that bit to stop entirely.

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

Bad Decision Hours on the 27th of Ophus, 2719

C
harlie laughed again when he replied, and that sure in his voice, without its usual affectation – becoming more and more familiar, in a strangely pleasant way – sent another jolt through him. So did the brush of lips and then teeth, gentle but insistent. He shuddered, lips still pressed to his scalp, breathing unsteadily.

He hadn’t expected to be asked at all; and after that –

There hadn’t been half this much talk the first time; there usually wasn’t, when two kov were drunk and high and barely spoke the same tongue. He didn’t know how he felt. Surprised, uncertain. He wasn’t sure how many kov he’d told that to on a fling, and he wasn’t sure how he felt that he was so wickedly pleased at the results. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel later, either, but that seemed to him a Later sort of problem, just now.

It was an unfamiliar landscape, and his only compass was skin and breath and what words he could muster against the throbbing need he felt. One thing he was damned sure of was two years in the Rose had certainly done something to Charlie Ewing.

He groaned softly, his head back against the mattress. He couldn’t give himself over to it, but there was something achingly tantalizing about it. He almost could, almost, like a man just on the edge of sleep, using all the rest of what he had to hold himself together under Charlie’s focus when all he wanted to do was melt.

One of his hands had shifted to Charlie’s chest, the bare warm swath of it, now slick with sweat. He ran shaky fingers over his collarbones, tracing his sternum down.

“Hnnh?” It was a slur he could barely make sense of, bedroom-Charlie, no thought to enunciation; it took him a moment to piece it together. Then he laughed, warm and slurry himself. “Mm,” he said in lieu of anything coherent, shifting to lay another kiss on his brow, grinning.

His hand made its way down Charlie’s tense abdomen, ‘til he felt the feathery, damp beginnings of hair with his fingertips. He followed them down too, step by step, his other hand sliding up to ruffle through his hair again. Half-gone as he was, he still had the concentration to spare, to split between the wanting and the holding himself back and now his attention on Charlie. Charlie had shifted up closer to him, and he could feel the hard curve of him against his thigh; he reached for it now, sliding his fingers round.

“And what else – what else should I do, hmm? What d’you like, Charlie?” He was barely coherent, leaning to murmur against the top of his ear; he traced his lips down the curve of it, kissing the stud. “You know something of what I can do.” He was almost breathless.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 27, 2719 - Bad Decision Hours
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

Charlie didn't have any patience, but he was happy enough to test the limits of other people. This specific person, really; it wasn't the kind of thing usually requested of him. Hard to manage, probably, behind a bar or in some dubiously private back room at a party or whatever. Those were usually really more "get off quickly and leave" sorts of situations, in his extensive experience.

So yeah, it wasn't exactly a common event. None of this was a "common event"; he was enjoying the novelty, if nothing else. But it wasn't "nothing else"; Charlie was enjoying a lot more than just novelty. There was something really fucking good about all of this, the unsteady breath and his head against Charlie's shitty godsdamn mattress like holding it together was taking effort. A heady rush of control almost, which wasn't exactly his thing normally, but, well, fuck. Like, right? Normally his "thing" didn't include having incumbents or neighbors or friend's fathers—or anyone else, honestly—in his flat, either, let alone all of these things rolled all together at once. Rules were made for breaking. Things were just more fun that way.

Charlie's breath wasn't so steady either. His chest shuddered with it a little as one of those fine freckled hands came to draw a line over his bones and down the middle of him. He wanted to whine, but he tried to use his words instead. It kind of worked. Worked well enough, anyway, after a moment and a laugh. Charlie liked that too; godsdamn but he really did.

He wasn't great at splitting his attention, but he did his best. He thought he did admirably well, all things considered. Things like how he actually, honestly, really, didn't think this was going to happen. Not in general, for a lot of very obvious reasons. Not even tonight, despite his best efforts. For what he assumed were other, different reasons he didn't know or care about. So in his own defense, were he to mount one, he hadn't precisely been prepared.

"What? Uh—nn—you..." Charlie had made a needy, shameless sort of sound, and it took him a moment to process the question and not just the way the sound of it right into his ear like that lit him up like a fucking house fire. He liked a lot of things. Most things, he wasn't fussy. A lot of stuff he just wasn't inclined to bring up at this current moment in time, too. Don't ask dumb questions, he might have said if he had enough attention to scrape together to say anything at all. Touch me, I don't fucking care—anywhere, everywhere, any way you want.

"Y-yeah, I do. Don't need to be delicate or anything. I don't... don't care, just—" He had lost track of what he was doing, he realized; his own hand had paused, which he figured was fine ultimately but hadn't been on purpose. Shit. "...Talk to me, if you think you can manage." He'd found his footing a little in the teasing edge to his voice, and a grin to go with it.

[Tom Cooke]

Charlie’s Flat, Cantile

Bad Decision Hours on the 27th of Ophus, 2719

S
top: it was on the tip of his tongue. He managed to hold himself back, even through the doubt. He could feel the fullness of Charlie’s attention on him; he’d felt it even as Charlie made his haphazard, slurring request. His hand was focused, practiced; his attention was practiced – enough, he thought, to know fair well when it was almost time. A name drifted into his head, Narkissos, and his tongue curled against his teeth for how he’d almost said it; he almost laughed. The irony tasted very sweet, mingling with the tang of soap and Charlie’s sweat, the lingering taste of liquor. A hundred other strangenesses whispered in his head, but he had lost himself utterly.

Stop here –

He didn’t have to, in the end; he stroked Charlie lightly, then firmly, and Charlie’s hand went near limp. There was something mant satisfying about that too, about how Charlie melted into that long, pleased and plaintive whine.

There was something frustrating about it, too, wonderfully and horribly frustrating. He felt every grunt and whimper shudder through Charlie, felt his spine arch and shiver like a cat’s, felt his warm breath on his neck. Every noise – and Circle, if there weren’t a lot of them – reminded him how close he was. Like a thrown fist held back the moment before it landed. But godsdamn, wouldn’t the collision be all the better for the pent-up energy?

All his muscles were taut and rigid. His own back was arching against the mattress, and he could feel the springs digging in through the covers, a pleasurable sort of pain. Every chafe – even the scratch of the linens against his skin as he shifted…

Charlie’s voice dragged him back on course. It was somewhat more coherent this time, to his surprise. He felt Charlie’s lips curling into a grin, and then he laughed; he might’ve been more self-conscious, but he was too distracted now, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to.

“All right,” he murmured through a shuddering breath. He didn’t have half the stamina for this anymore, he thought, but – he shifted, and shifted Charlie with him to sit up a little.

One last feathery, teasing stroke; then he set about it with his own sort of focus, rhythmic and very firm indeed.

His lips were still against Charlie’s ear, and he traced the cartilage down again, grazing it with his teeth. “What, uh, d’you w...“ He almost choked on the word; he dragged himself back though every part of him ached, narrowing himself to this one qalqa.

He moved down, pressing his lips to Charlie’s neck, brushing a damp tangle of hair out of the way. That long, pale column of his throat he’d been admiring all night. With a sudden wicked grin: “They say the future’s hidden in the Lady’s skirts, you know,” he murmured, breathless, “but if I’d ever imagined what was up the Lady’s skirts, it wasn’t – wasn’t any of this – not that I ever cared to imagine what was up any skirt…”

He wasn’t keeping track, after a while, of anything out of his mouth. As long as it took, he thought; he was patient, fair patient.

[Charlie Ewing]

Ophus 27, 2720 - Bad Decision Hours
Charlie's Flat, Cantile

This was becoming a thing for him, and Charlie didn't know how he felt about it. Right now he didn't feel much of anything about it all, because he was refusing to examine it any closer. Just throw it in the pile with the rest of the shit from the whole rest of this weird fucking night. It could sit there nestled up right next to those weird fucking stories, the interesting vocabulary choices, and all the Bastian verses.

Scraping his head together enough for that one semi-taunting request had been the last of it. There was nothing in his head after that, he was all nerve endings and heavy breathing now. He shifted, they both did, and there were lips and teeth against the thin cartilage of his ear. There was half a question, before it was abandoned, and fuck him if even that much wasn't kind of great.

He hadn't been specific, partially because he couldn't have thought of anything if he wanted to and partially because he was kind of curious as to just what would come out of that mouth without any further instruction. Charlie reflected that this wasn't the absolute first time he'd ever said this to someone. He hadn't been specific that time either; what the guy thought to say had turned out to be that strain of bedroom talk that was sort of insulting on purpose. Couldn't say it hadn't worked, but Charlie hadn't really been so eager to repeat the experience. He had, but not with as much enthusiasm as the first time around.

That hadn't been what he'd expected here, from a man who Charlie thought might have very chastely just slept over and left in the morning if he'd let him. Who talked to his fucking bird while he was in the bath, too. There was nothing at first, and Charlie was okay with that, honestly; the firm stroke of his hand was probably enough. Was definitely enough, after everything.

Talk of looking up the Lady's skirts wasn't quite what he'd had in mind. Charlie laughed, or tried—it choked up in his throat in a very dignified noise. Don't tell your wife that, she might be disappointed; well, she would probably not like hearing any part of this. They didn't usually, wives. That was often the trouble with them. I hadn't exactly imagined this either, if we're flipping divine skirts here; he laughed again, breathless, more than a little at himself. Yeah, even this worked. Could have read him a fucking textbook and Charlie thought it would have—

He did stop listening closely after a while. A very short while. Charlie slid one arm around to Anatole's back to feel the line of his spine, the muscles of his back. Not a touch with a goal, other than that he liked doing it; it was the other one that had a goal, and he was deliberately ignoring it. Well, that had been the ask, hadn't it? Charlie tripped his fingers over the inside of his thigh, drawing some kind of abstract pattern over sweat-slick skin. The ballroom floor again, he thought hazily; didn't seem so bad so far from its context. Didn't count as something, all the way out here.

Like he had the spare attention to worry about it, anyway. Like he had the attention for literally anything that wasn't all the tension in him, built up so much he thought he was going to snap.