literature

Everyone Else - Part 15

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twentyGenre: josei, m/m, drama, psychological, mature, contemporary, romance, road trip

- - -

Another week goes by and he hasn’t seen Donnie at any of the usual spots. Charlie can’t even bring himself to go to the café. Work piles up on his desk and he cannot afford pointless distractions from his job. He thought Donnie would be perfect since he always seems to hide behind an immutable mask of nonchalance and general disinterest in anything that wasn’t trivial. Donnie has made his choice too -- he walked away after seeing who he really was. Charlie shuffles the papers before him with more force than necessary and thumps them hard on the desk to ensure they are neatly stacked on all sides. It was Donnie’s fault anyway for having displaced naïve illusions about him. Charlie sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. People must always hide who they are -- it’s only natural etiquette. This shouldn’t even be an issue.

When he was a child, speaking his mind or acting out of turn would immediately get him shut down. Anything found in his possession that was not believed to be his must have been stolen and was destroyed, trashed, or thrown away. He recalls how every night, under his bed sheets with a flashlight, he used to read a series of fantasy books he had borrowed from the library -- something which had eventually taken a toll on his eyes. A friend once gifted him a hardback autographed edition of one of the books. It was ripped up the minute he got home. So needless to say, he’s grown a little wary of getting attached to certain things that could easily be taken away, so he may as well cut his losses while he’s ahead.

The only non illusion he has right now is that of needing a drink. He rolls his shoulder to stretch out the muscles and packs his things. As soon as he hits the exit door, he’s met with a man in a fedora and black leather jacket pushing his way through.

“Ah, excuse me,” a soft voice says. The man lifts his head up so that the brim of the hat reveals a smooth and bright face. “Would you know if an Alexander Mallory works here?”

Charlie narrows his eyes at a sight he never thought he’d see again; that face momentarily causes him to question whether rips between dimensions exist. It is as if his brain simply cannot compute this situation, making his body short circuit for a second.

“Charlie?” The man’s eyes widen. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says and gives him a smile overflowing with such relief it starts to make Charlie itch.

He notices now the corner of a small black leather-bound case sticking out from behind the man’s shoulder. So it seems music is still following wherever he goes. Just two months ago, the same man had given him three days to show up as a sign of his feelings for him, but he hadn’t. Perhaps now he really has moved on. The thought stirs something up inside him -- perhaps a sense of hurt pride.

“One of the talents ours company manages has a gig here for the Jalapeño Festival.” He darts a hand inside his coat and hands Charlie a card. “Isn’t it neat? I’ve got a business card, now.”

Charlie takes the card as an automatic response and briefly skims the off-white cardboard rectangle.

“I see… Well, have a nice stay,” he says and brushes past him.

The man catches him by the elbow. Charlie flinches but doesn’t pull away. “Hey, now, I came all this way and you’re just gonna leave like that?”

Charlie stares at his hand, then steadily raises his eyes at his level.

“Yes.”

“At least have a drink with me. I never once forgot about you.” It’s like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he would slip away from him once again. If it means that he won’t know what he really is, then he’s fine with that. It doesn’t matter if he has to slink back from out of his world -- as long as he doesn’t disappoint him, too. He never wants to become a liability or a burden. He can take care of himself.

He tugs his arm away. “Well, I easily forgot about you,” he says and walks away.

The man lets go, his shoulders deflating. “Hah, of course you did,” he says. “You have terrible memory.”

He can hear the apologetic grin in his voice, the slight quiver he has when things don’t go as planned, and he can picture the lines dug in the corner of his eyes by years of smiles and sadnesses… Sadness of loving. Sadness of false love. Sadness of remembering. Sadness of forgetting. Sadness of the could-have-been. Secret sadness. They taint and colour everything he says, everything he touches, everything he sees, clinging to him the way he clings to their seductive familiarity. How could he forget?

“Charlie,” the man calls after him, prompting him to turn around before he yells any further and causes a scene. “I’m glad to see you’re doing okay,” he says with a face so serious it didn’t suit him at all.

Charlie turns away as he feels guilt and discomfort rise within him. Fifteen years have passed and I haven’t changed, he thinks. No, that’s not it; it’s more like I can’t change.

- - -

“Mr O’Connell,” a voice calls. Finlay turns around to see a portly young man with a scratchy beard and tattoos coiled around his arms; the badge hanging around his neck is the only indication that he works backstage. “Tonight was a big hit,” he says. “The production team is going out to celebrate. Will you be going?”

Finlay finishes up telling a staff member to direct the V.I.P fans to the waiting room, then turns to the man and rubs his index and middle fingers against his temple. “I dunno… ” he says. “Maybe not tonight.”

The man cocks his head to the side. “Are you sure? They did say you were the one who made this gig possible after all. It might put a bit of a damper on the whole reason to celebrate.”

Finlay looks at his watch if only to give him something to do while he thinks. Work is work. He couldn’t allow himself to sulk because Charlie didn’t jump into his arms when he saw him again. Then again, it’s not like he could ever forget him. Is he just wishing for too much? Why does he feel so helpless? Is it like this for everyone else, too? It still feels like he has never become a real adult. He heaves an exasperated sigh that is more for show and looks back at the man who is waiting for an answer.

Everything he’s tried to make into reality quickly disappears through the cracks between his fingers. Has staying alive always been such a constant struggle with himself? He knows it wasn't actually thanks to him that the gig was possible.

“Sure,” he breathes out. “Wouldn’t wanna disappoint,” he says with a tight smile.

Charlie probably doesn’t want him right now, but if he needs him he’ll be there.

-

The production team has barhopped to the third grubby bar after the already lengthy dinner celebration. Despite how long it’s been going on, Finlay is actually having fun, and has a pleasant buzz going. Everyone is drunk from the festival’s success. The singers roar with the producers and managers, while the rest talk more shop and philosophies. Finlay sweeps the room with his gaze on the offhand chance he would recognise a familiar head of coffee-brown hair. The glint from someone’s glass catches his attention, prompting a sharper focus. A straight profile reveals the side of a smooth, sharp face illuminated by soft tones and a quiet expression softened by a few glasses of whiskey. He never thought he would actually find Charlie again so soon, and yet he’s neatly tucked to the side of the bar, entertaining a random stranger with fake interest. He wants to deny it. He wants to deny the fact that Charlie has lived away from him for fifteen years and has probably entertained so many other people, people who have affected his life more than he could, being so far away.

Their new talent’s face suddenly brightens as an idea strikes him. “Finlay!” he cries. “You still have that sax on you? This guy is always polishing the damn thing, but I’ve never seen him play it. Play us a tune, yeah? It’s a special occasion!”

Everyone hears the idea and starts egging him on, cajoling and nursing the excitement of the evening.

Finlay curls his fists around his saxophone’s case, as a mixture of thrill and anger broil inside him.

“I think you’re right,” he says to the others’ cheers.

He unravels the glossy instrument that has kept him company during the years that counted most for him and fixes the mouthpiece on. Thinking back, only one song could equally unravel Charlie from his own box, almost like undressing him in public. It’s probably an underhanded move, but he figures now is his only chance. He wets his lips and breathes in.

The music blows through the room, hushing several conversations nearby, and finally reaches the other side of the bar as a powerful echo. The notes collect together and tingle against his eardrums. In a flash, they are drowned out. A staff worker tells him to put his instrument away as it’s bothering the other patrons. The group deflates and privately curse the rules of the place, muttering how much better the bars are in New York.

Finlay gets up and walks over to the other end. Charlie is frozen in place, his hands around his glass, perfectly still.

“We were only seventeen. I want to forget about you,” he says to his glass. His words are slow and measured.  “I… don’t want to trouble you.” The silence between them hangs thick, interspersed only by background chatter and laughter. Finlay wordlessly sits himself down next to him.

“No one wants to be a burden to anyone,” Finlay says, nudging his elbow against Charlie’s.

Charlie doesn’t react. “I don’t want you to have to deal with my problems. Just keep smiling and playing that music.”

“Go out with me.”

“No. I never contacted you again, and didn’t go see you after you asked me to. Remember?” Charlie continues to say to his glass.  The bartender sidles in front of them to fish out a glass from under the bartop.

Finlay lowers his voice. “But it’s not because you felt nothing for me, right?” He puts both arms before him on the counter and leans toward Charlie. "I don’t want to forget you.” Charlie only tightens his grip around the glass. Finlay leans back and pats himself for a cigarette, only to remember smoking isn’t allowed, and sighs. “I know you always think you need to do things on your own without anyone’s help. But it’s also stupid to create your own suffering.”

Charlie finally turns to look at Finlay with eyes still wavering from the music and alcohol. His voice is a monotone, grave timbre, made rough by years of careful restraint. “We were only seventeen.”

It’s as though he had reverted back to that awkward, silent seventeen year old from fifteen years ago, trying to break through a wall he’s been painstakingly building since he was a child. Finlay trails a cool hand down a clammy neck to the inside of the man’s collar, unlocking familiar sensations the further he slides down to his stop at his collar bone.

“You’re not an unfeeling machine, Charlie,” he says into the man’s ear, his hot breath curling around his lobe and neck, eliciting a shiver. “You don’t have to be perfect for me. All I want is to share my world with you. My music is yours.”

Charlie's shoulders tremble as his lips distort into a tight chuckle. He puts a hand on Finlay’s chest and pushes him away.

“I’ve never wanted your music,” he says with all manner of snideness dripping from every syllable. “You’ve always done things without any regard to how others might feel, barging into my life when I never asked for anything. If you think I need you or your music to be happy, go re-evaluate your life. It’s not like I expect you to understand anyway. We’re simply too different.”

Finlay feels something drain from his core, like a cold realisation he’d been denying has suddenly chilled his naïveté.

“You say things like we’re so different,” Finlay says, “I would never understand… You build these walls and push me away. You draw this line between you and me, so you don’t even understand that I feel like a stranger to you. I think you’re just lonely.”

“Is that right…” Charlie scrapes the stool back and fishes out a crisp twenty dollar bill from his wallet and slides it toward the bartender. “Thank you for the nostalgic chat, Finlay, but this is where our ways part once more.” A noticeable wobble in his gait tells Finlay that the alcohol must have caught up with him by this point.

Finlay narrows his eyes and asks, “You’re not driving home, are you?”

“I’m not done drinking my fill just yet. But I am done with this bar.”

The liquor, surrounding chatter and all the evening’s excitement oozes thick and heavy through Finlay, dragging his mind to a slack, difficult pace. His eyes follow the elegant, unconcerned swish of Charlie’s overcoat while his coffee-brown hair outlines him faintly. The distant, boyish figure throws up a hand in goodbye and dims and fades out of the clamour which bends and warps around him, never touching.

The team is still busy ordering food and drinks, but Finlay feels the weight of a failed opportunity grip his chest with a sickening weight. The stress and heat of the day make his dark hair stick to his forehead in clumps, and his hands tighten around another glass to control his frustration. It feels like he’s been running after a glorified memory all his life and it’s all blown up in his face.

The newly minted singer on their team extends a strong arm over to Finlay and pats his shoulder in a gesture of knowing camaraderie. Finlay accepts the concerned motion and thins his lips into a smile; it’s not like he would let his mood bring everyone down, not after all they’ve worked for. The night stretches on, pulling along with it the much anticipated intoxication of the evening.

-

The thrill of the evening and flow of alcohol trickled to a stop when less and less people remained to maintain the cheer. Eight of the party of twelve had already left, and three of the five left had already slumped over each other’s shoulders with growing fatigue and resignation collecting under their still defiant, low-hanging eyelids. Finlay’s own endurance has dwindled, with only a slow burning remaining from speaking with Charlie still trailing in his mind. As he makes his way out the bar, a tingling vibration runs up his thigh. His fingers feel like sausages from the way he sluggishly pulls out his phone. Unknown number.

“Hello?” Finlay’s confusion and fatigue have worn his voice to a thick slur.

“Fiiiiin,” the voice drags out his name in equal slur. “I’mma do it,” it said.

Finlay’s brain slowly gears into functioning capacity as he matches up the voice. “Charlie?” he says, both incredulous and taken aback.

“I…” The voice stitches into a belch, making Finlay frown in disgust and double his focus. “There’s somewhere I need to go.”

“Go where?” The hairs on his neck rise at the implications. Charlie is in no state to go anywhere, meaning he’d probably get himself killed while trying.

“Excuse me, hello?” a female voice interrupts them on the other line. “I work at the bar your friend is at. Would you mind coming to fetch him? It would be a problem if he got into an accident on the way home.”

“Uh, yeah…” His head spins as a hundred questions pop up in his mind. “What’s the address?”

Once he gets there, a huddle is waiting for him, slumped at the counter. His brain instantly sobers up when he sees the face of the figure -- resting with a mock-serene expression, with dribble staining his chin. Flashbacks to the first time he saw Charlie drunk hit him, and he wants to hide Charlie away.

He slithers a hand under the man’s shoulder and hoists him upright, eliciting a groan that rumbles deep within his chest, and drags him outside to his car. Charlie places open palms flat on his car while his whole body twists and heaves, as if trying to crawl out of the tight clothes, until his throat finally hacks out a pale, thin stream. Finlay raises a hand to the arched back and gently rubs circles between his damp shoulders, half expecting to be swatted away for showing “pity”. Instead, Charlie wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, completely ignoring the hand on his back. The man’s eyes suddenly sharpen, his brow slightly furrowed, as though he’s remembered something important, and he flashes Finlay a look of fierce determination.

“There’s somewhere I need to go,” he says, his words slow and deliberate. “I need to go now.”

Finlay pats his back. “You’re not going anywhere like this, buddy.”

Charlie swirls round on his feet and finally swats the hand away in annoyance; his face is now steeped in the most emotion Finlay has ever seen. “No,” he says, “you don’t understand.” His words still carry the weight of all the night’s drinks and makes Finlay lean back a little. He then reaches into his pocket to hand Finlay a crumpled, yellowed note paper with a barely readable address scrawled onto it. “She’s waiting for me,” he says. “I need to go there.”

A soft breeze in the dead, late, late hours of the night plays with the flimsy piece of paper trapped between Finlay’s fingers. He looks from the sprawled lines of ink to Charlie’s figure now slumped over the top of his deep red mercedes, hovering between forced wakefulness and drunken sleep.

“Okay,” he finally says. “I’ll take you there.”

- - -

Warm sun rays trickle in through wooden shutters weathered and chipped by intrusive sand and heat. Only the humming and mock-horn sounds from Charlie’s hunched figure breathe a familiar homeliness into the dry walls. The boy raises his head toward giggles that trail in from the next room that have swiftly wedged themselves between him and his toy cars, and he collects his limbs beneath himself to head toward his sister’s room. He is completely drawn in by the bubbling excitement that pours through chafed rooms, rooms that have wilted under the weight of innumerable rules and restrictions.

He pushes the door ajar and sees an unknown blonde girl in a long, pastel pink skirt, throwing her throat back in laughter, an eyeliner in her hand, while a girl with darker hair, his sister, groans in exasperation.

“I thought you were going to be serious about this, Sophie,” she says, getting up to examine the damage in the mirror.

She is wearing her favourite light blue cotton shorts, a garment whose indecency her mother said were only fit for pyjamas. Yet Claire loves them. They show off her long, graceful legs which she thinks are her best feature, right after her hair. For Charlie, the best feature has always been her hair. The way it tumbles around her shoulders as she lets him brush it and the way it sifts through his fingers calms him.

The blonde girl catches a glimpse of him through the door and tilts her head with a curious smile.

“Hi there,” she says. Charlie shies away from the door as though he’s been caught doing something wrong. “Is that your brother?” she asks Claire.

His sister turns his way, revealing a black squiggle that mimics a scar all the way to her temple. “Yeah,” she says, and her straight face brightens. “You wanna play with us, Charlie?”

The boy nods and steps into the room with a weak smile that wavers between politeness and thrill. The brief moments of relaxed play time they are allowed come when their mother is out shopping and their father is at work.

-

“Oh my gosh, he is just so precious,” Sophie squeals with two hands curled under her chin, her eyes wide in sheer adoration.

Charlie wants to scratch his cheek, but is afraid to undo the make-up applied to his face. So he stands there in his black under the knee socks and mini blue marine skirt Sophie had brought, curling his hands behind his back to stop himself from itching. Claire grabs him by the waist and hauls him in front of the mirror.

“See, Charlie? You look like a princess. Aren’t you pretty? Don’t you like it?”

Charlie’s heart beats fast at the person with bright lips and pig tails looking back at him. He smiles back at Claire and nods enthusiastically.

“I like it, I like it!” he says.

“You’re so cute, Charlie,” Claire says and nuzzles her nose into his neck to nip at the flesh with her teeth. “I just want to eat you up.”

Charlie squeals and wriggles in her arms, pushing away from his sister while still trying to keep the make-up on.

“Stop it,” he giggles. “You’ll ruin it.”

A tell-tale crunching sound from outside alerts them that their mother has returned. Charlie races out of the room.

“I’m gonna show Ma!” he says.

Claire’s face drains of all colour as she reaches after Charlie. “No, don’t!” she cries, but the boy has slipped past her grasp and is already at the door. She swears under her breath as she grapples all the make-up in the room to stuff them under her mattress. Her friend pours make-up remover into a tissue and hurriedly scrubs the girl’s panicked face. She swats her away and dashes out the door.

“Ma!” Charlie jumps up and down at the entrance, his pigtails threatening to come undone at every bounce.

Claire swoops down from behind the boy and scoops him up into her arms. The entrance door opens just as she darts back down the hallway.

“Claire? What’s going on?” their mother’s voice booms across the walls, laced with suspicion.

Claire’s whole body is shaking and gasping for air as she slams the door shut. Sophie looks at her, her face seized with worry and unease, silently asking what she should do now. Charlie stares at her, perplexed and hurt, believing his sister wants to make him a secret. A loud knocking at the door makes Claire jump.

“Yes?” she answers in a weak voice. Her eyes dart to all corners of the room, making sure the make-up has been stashed away.

“Open this door,” the strident commanding voice is enough to make Claire’s heartbeat trip over itself from how fast it’s pounding. She looks at Charlie and bites her lower lip while her brow furrows apologetically. Her shoulders finally slump in resignation as she takes a step back and opens the door.

Her mother’s angular frame looms impenetrable in the doorway as she focuses her hawk-like gaze amongst the people in her view.

“Sophie,” she says, “I think you’ve been away from home for too long. Your mother might get worried.”

Sophie gives a tight nod and briskly leaves the room. Their mother gasps when she sets her eyes on Charlie's transfigured state.
"What on earth did you do to him?" she cries and rushes to him. She pokes and turns his face in all angles as if to check he hasn't caught a disease.

Charlie grimaces and pulls his face away from the prying clutches of his mother. "But I'm pretty!" he says in protest.

"Don't be stupid," his mother snaps back. She yanks him by the hair, wrenching a surprised yelp from the boy, and drags him out the room. Before exiting, she stops in front of Claire's lowered head and slaps her across the cheek. "Clean your face," she bites out. "It's disgraceful."

Charlie wails as his clothes are torn off his small frame, sometimes with such force that his mother's nails tear his skin as well.

"Stop crying," his mother chides him. "Will you just stop?"

And when he doesn't, a wet sponge is violently scrubbed back and forth over his gaping face. The soap stings his eyes and he cries louder.

"Shut up," she cries, and scrubs harder over the reddening, supple face.

Cold water suddenly douses him in a thousand pinpricks, digging holes into his back. Charlie tries to take in deep breaths to smother his cries, but only ends up swallowing a frothy mixture of soap and water.

- - -

The pitter-patter of rain against the car window stirs Charlie into semi-wakefulness. His eyelids slowly peel back, chasing away the remnants of a bad dream, while a grey, low hanging ceiling comes to focus. He groans low in his throat, feeling as though his head has been smashed against concrete. A vague memory of getting into a car hits him. He turns to see Finlay, arms crossed and limbs tucked as neatly as possible into his body, snoring at the wheel. A pounding headache storms louder with every drop hitting the window; he puts a hand to his temple and grunts. What day is it? What about work? He pats his pockets down for his phone and leaves the car.

-

Finlay jerks awake at the sound of the car door slamming shut, and swivels his head to the passenger seat. Its emptiness jolts his brain wide awake, making him cast a quick glance at the back of the car before opening his side and stepping out. He finds Charlie walking toward the closed gas station he’s parked behind. A curtain of light rain buffets the dry dirt ground that surrounds them for miles around, shrouding Charlie’s shrinking silhouette.

“Hey,” he cries after the man. “Where you going?”

Charlie ignores him and keeps walking, phone to his ear.

Finlay catches up to him with a little jog, while rain piles up in his hair to fall in his eyes. “Come on, Charlie, get back in the car,” he says. When that doesn’t work, he puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes lightly. “Charlie.”

The man swivels around and stares at him hard from under a streaming brow. “Why am I here, Finlay?”

“Hey,” Finlay retorts, not liking the accusatory tone. “This was your idea.”

“I was drunk.” Charlie states blankly, as if Finlay should have known better. “Do you often seek out drunks for wise counsel?”

Finlay opens his mouth to say something, but fails to find any words to contradict him. The rain sweeps between the two; Charlie shivers and flinches as a gust of wind whistles in his ears.

“Come back to the car,” Finlay says softly, almost pleading. “We’ll talk inside.”

“You’re taking me back,” Charlie says.

“Yes, I will… Just come to the car; I’ll explain.”

Charlie’s jaw muscles jump as he considers his words, unsure whether to believe him or not, but decides it’s better to listen to him rather than stand in the rain any longer. They both trudge back through shallow, streaming puddles, wondering in the back of their minds how it could rain so much in Texas so early in March. They slam the doors to the car shut and attempt to breathe heat back into the sheltered confine. Finlay takes in a difficult breath and puffs his cheeks out.

“Right, so you see,” he starts. “The reason I listened to you instead of driving you home like I maybe should have was…” he trails off as he searches for something in his soaked pockets. Charlie finally has a proper look at him now, and notes how the grey morning light makes his face look so much older than before -- the redness and rings around his eyes add on years to a face still round with youth. He must have driven all night despite having celebrated the night before. “This obviously had to mean something so important to you that you weren’t ready to tell me about it,” Finlay finishes and hands him a tiny piece of paper.

The grey square of paper looks so old it threatens to fall to pieces at any moment. Charlie gingerly takes a corner with his thumb and forefinger and scans the chicken scratch inked into it and blinks, waiting for recognition to sink in. He doesn’t even remember writing anything like this down, or perhaps he’s forgotten all about it. The clumsy writing could easily have been a child’s, or that of an inebriated man. The address, however, is something he recognises clearly. He stares at it for another minute, his face closed in thought, as he runs through a dozen logical, coherent explanations for wanting to see that place.

He lowers the paper in his lap, looking to have come to a conclusion, and opens the door to leave.

Finlay leans over to catch his arm, misses, and crumples into the emptied seat. He looks up at Charlie, eyes that were heavy with exhaustion now peeled wide open. “What are you doing?” he says.

Charlie looks back down at him. “We’re going to need some food, aren’t we?” he says, and gives an almost imperceptible shake of the head. “A plane would have been so much easier.”

Finlay makes a wry mouth and sinks back into his seat. There’s no denying that. However, his impulsiveness is also what makes him good at his job, such as taking risks to find new talents for his agency. He stares after Charlie’s half-jogging figure while shadows drift in and out of his vision, eventually sealing his eyes in total darkness.

- - -

tbc
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I'm not even gonna try predict when this ends anymore. I know how it's going to end, but there's still a journey to get there. Also: ROAD TRIP! :D This time, I'm going to include a number of awkward and troubling events to befall our protagonists so that they can truly rediscover each other.

I'm also going to stop giving an ETA on the next parts. Who's still reading this very slow story anyway T^T 
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BobMango4's avatar
*clings to you five ever*