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All in all, Oliver Putnam’s life was pretty great at that moment. No complaints, really, barring the time spent prone in the back of a work van next to a rotting cadaver and the trauma of being interrogated by an idiot of a cop. And the paternity surprise, of course. Those things weren’t at the forefront of his mind as he sat in the diner, herringbone wool coat open and splayed out on the bench, lightly fingering the menu before he realized how greasy it was. He tried to wipe his hand off on a napkin and put on his million-watt Oliver smile to talk to the man sitting across from him.
The man that usually sat across from him was Charles. But this wasn’t Charles. This was Timothy and he was friends with Howard’s hyena-playing boyfriend Jonathan. Truth be told, Oliver wasn’t sure what he was doing here, though he could admit that hearing the backstage drama and gossip was so salacious and fun.
“I remember that kind of thing happened constantly with Fosse and Verdon on Chicago. God, you wouldn’t believe how those two could make everyone uncomfortable with just a look.” Oliver took a sip of water.
Timothy laughed and asked, “So you worked on the original production of Chicago?”
“Well, I was around it. So pretty much, yeah.” Oliver paused while Ivan delivered his open-face turkey sandwich with gravy, which had enough of a dipping situation to satisfy him.
“No Mister Charles today?” Ivan asked, carefully setting down the oval plate swimming in greasy liquid.
“No, not today,” he said affably. He was in a good mood. He hadn’t talked to Charles about lunch or known what Charles’ plans were. Turning back to Timothy he asked, “So were you looking for advice about starting directing? Or were you looking for an in with casting on my latest project? I don’t know if Howard and Jonathan thought I would have some kind of in on Broadway right now.” He hoped it wasn’t the Broadway angle. He had only had a meeting or two about the new play. He was hopeful, but it was early. Who knew how these things would pan out. And he actually liked mentoring young actors and talking to them about making the shift to directing. Some young people liked to hear from those with experience. Not everyone was as stubborn as Lea Michele after all.
Timothy looked down at his BLT sandwich. “Um, no. I don’t think that’s what they were thinking. I’m in Lion King with Jonathan right now. On Broadway. I think they just thought we would like getting to know each other.”
“Okay,” Oliver said with a shrug. The turkey sandwich was the right amount of crispy and soggy as he cut into the toasted bread on the bottom and scooped up a hunk of cranberry sauce. It was the right amount of salty and sweet too, both warm and cool. He loved the juxtaposition, the delightful push and pull of opposites. It was one of the reasons he adored doing the podcast with Charles and Mabel so much. He suddenly felt guilty for eating lunch without checking on Charles. Maybe he should have texted and ordered something for him.
The diner table had taken on an awkward silence while they ate. In the background the bell dinged when orders were ready and people bustled in and out around them, coats swooshing and plates clanking down on the tables. Oliver pulled out his phone. “Excuse me, I never do this, but I’m just going to check and see if I should order something for lunch to bring back for Charles. Charles is my -.” He stopped to think of the right word. “Partner.”
“Oh, from the podcast. Right. The guy who plays Brazzos.”
Oliver nodded. “Yes. Well, he does more than that. Is more than that. I think so, but don’t tell him I said that. Anyway, I’m just going to check and see if I should bring him anything.” He hit send and placed the phone face down on the table. “Do you want to hear about how I got Andrew Lloyd Webber a cat as a present and he rejected it?”
Five minutes later Ivan had checked on them twice with Oliver practically having to shoo him away from his turkey platter, and he hadn’t heard from Charles yet. The chime of the door greeted the diners and in walked Charles, black hat in his hand.
“What are you doing here? I just texted you asking if you wanted something!” exclaimed Oliver.
“I didn’t get any text message,” Charles said. He held up his phone and stared at it and then there were thirteen notification sounds, as if he willed them into existence. “Aha! Text from Oliver! I must’ve missed it because I was getting my script package from Ursula and you know how there’s a dead zone down by her office.” He read outloud, “Hey I’m at the diner in a meeting and thought you might be hungry. Should I bring you some lunch? See you soon, love, Oliver.”
“I’m quite thoughtful,” Oliver chirped. He moved over so Charles could sit next to him.
“You’re so thoughtful that now that I’m here, you can pay for me!” Charles looked triumphant for some reason. And so fucking happy.
Oliver was mildly aware that they were having a moment of some kind, that they were staring at each other goofily and he wanted to grab Charles’ all too pale cheeks and kiss him in front of a total stranger. Something about Charles’ face always made Oliver feel warm inside. He would probably get one of those patented sour puss Savage looks if he ever mentioned this to Charles himself. But whether it was the way his eyes sparked to life a little bit behind his glasses when he spoke to Mabel or how even in his saddest woe-is-me moments his face had a light to it, Oliver felt like he won his favorite prize every day he saw Charles, just for waking up, just for being alive.
From across the table, Timothy held out his hand. “I’m Timothy. I’m Jonathan’s friend from the show.”
“This is Charles,” said Oliver. “My partner from the podcast.” He was grateful that he settled on that description ahead of time. “And Brazzos fame, obviously.”
Timothy was quiet, asking Charles a few questions about working in television and finishing his BLT without fanfare. With Charles sitting next to him, Oliver felt much less awkward about the meeting, even though he usually had no trouble carrying a conversation with a friend or a stranger. For whatever reason Ivan stopped checking in every two seconds as well, as if the world had righted itself now that Charles was there.
“It was nice meeting you both,” Timothy said, gathering up his things to go, after they all worked out that Oliver was going to pay for everyone.
Oliver looked up and gave a sunny smile. “We enjoyed meeting you too! I hope you learned a lot!”
Timothy nodded and answered, “I think I have.”
Oliver turned back to Charles. “Are you up for a trip to the farmer’s market?” he asked.
Two hours later, back at the Arconia, Oliver had been storing his produce and contemplating a nap. But someone was knocking relentlessly on the door and the longer he ignored it, the louder and more insistent the knocking got. “Seriously?” he yelled, flinging the door open.
The door-knocker was Howard. “So Jonathan says that you didn’t hit it off with Timothy. What gives?”
Oliver frowned. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked. “I didn’t realize that there was any hitting off to be done.”
“No shit you didn’t realize!” Howard pushed his way into the foyer and turned around. He seemed awfully worked up. “Timothy told Jonathan that you started talking about work and then babbled on about Charles and then Charles showed up!” Howard suddenly put his hands to his cat-haired sweater and gasped. “Oh no, did you invite Charles because it wasn’t going well?”
“Listen Howard, all this is scintillating. But I have no idea about anything you’re telling me. I don’t know about hitting it off and I didn’t tell Charles to show up. And I resent the idea that any time someone my age just talks about something you label it as ‘babbling.’ It’s frankly very ageist.” Oliver gestured to the door so Howard would take the hint.
Howard stopped and stood way too close. Oliver could see the little clumps of Sevelyn’s fur where it had collected on Howard’s sweater, could see the little paw prints left from the dust of the litter box. There was enough accumulated fur to make a miniature cat. Oliver tried not to visibly shudder at the hygiene situation here as Howard continued on. “You should try to make it up to Timothy then. He’s a catch and Jonathan doesn’t just dole out his friends for any old set up, okay?”
“Okay,” Oliver replied, just to get this nosy as fuck cat neighbor out of his apartment. He puttered around for the next hour or so, organizing some old sheet music at the piano, placing Somewhere from West Side Story on the top and the songbook from Les Mis on the bottom. Who knew anyone could make a hit musical about stealing a loaf of fucking bread? It still annoyed him and he ought to be better about letting some of that go by now, but he wasn’t. He was about to make a cup of tea when his phone dinged from underneath a pile of Playbills, faded by the sunlight and tissue-thin to the touch.
It was Charles.
Howard just came by and yelled at me for going to the diner while you were meeting with that actor.
Any clue what this is about?
Oliver scratched his head. He was confounded by this whole thing. Clueless! And that’s unusual for me!
Haha! Dinner at yours or mine?
Oliver responded, Come to mine, this place could use some cheering up. He added a heart emoji and toggled his phone to silent. The late afternoon sun was weak and crept its way across the floor, almost every inch filled with stacks of papers and books and plants that could use more water, more gentle care and attention. Oliver traced the path and settled onto the couch where the light was brightest, where his decorative pillows were warm to the touch. He put his head down and thought about what he would make for dinner with Charles. What a weird day so far, and he was Oliver Putnam, so that was saying a lot.
***
Oliver had done a little bit of thinking, which could be a hazardous thing. It was a pleasantly brisk Sunday and he and Charles were meeting Mabel for brunch. As they walked, Oliver brought it up. “It just occurred to me, Charles. Do you think Howard and his boyfriend were trying to set me up with that guy from Lion King? ”
Charles looked stunned. “Set you up?” he parroted. “As in a date? Not just a thing where two people like discussing Liza Minnelli an inordinate amount?”
“I’m starting to think that maybe they told Timothy I was single and it was a date.” In front of them the traffic walk sign was winding down from a bright orange number symbol to a flashing hand, but Oliver, as was his way, ignored it and forged on.
Charles put his arm out to stop Oliver from walking into a stampede of oncoming traffic. “Well, I’m not convinced of this. That guy Timothy was young, and awfully fit. And two guys discussing Tommy Tune’s dancing over a meal doesn’t have to be a date.”
Oliver shook his head. Charles was such a naive little bunny. No wonder the bastards of the show biz world were so cruel to him sometimes. He took a different tack. “So you’re saying people wouldn’t set me up with someone who was young and hot? Because I’ll have you know, I am perfectly capable of snagging a babe.”
“Okay, believe me, I know, I’ve seen pictures of your ex-wife.” Charles rolled his eyes.
“In fact, the person I’m seeing right now is halfway decent looking,” Oliver continued. He was on a roll. “If you have a Casper fetish, which luckily I do.”
At this point Charles caught on to the joke and was laughing so hard he shoved Oliver across the sidewalk once they crossed. “Fuck you,” he said, good-naturedly.
“Gladly,” Oliver volleyed back, feeling bright like a peacock in his fabulous purple coat, and he grabbed Charles’ hand as they drifted towards each other again.
He could feel Charles’ perpetually confused look. “What are you doing?” Charles asked.
Sighing, Oliver squeezed tight and was inwardly a little fiendishly happy that Charles winced. “Just let me hold your hand, okay?” And he did, all the way to the threshold of the small Tuscan bistro that Mabel picked out.
Once inside the door, the velvet drapes pushing them inward, Charles let go, ostensibly to unbutton his sensible coat and unwind his wooly scarf to hand to the guy at the host stand. Oliver walked with his hand at the small of Charles’ back as they were led to the table though, if not to send a message, then because he liked how Charles always ran a shade warm and he could feel it on his fingertips.
“Charles, Oliver, this is Chrissy. She’s an old girlfriend of mine,” Mabel said. She didn’t get up to hug them, just gestured to a pretty young woman about the same age.
Charles bristled beside him, the tension practically radiating through his truly unimaginative navy blue sweater. “Oh! So you’re broken up but still friends?” he asked, his voice strained with false casualness. “That’s very cool, very mature.”
Mabel glared at both of them and Oliver didn’t understand why he should be being given the evil eye. He wasn’t the one making an ass out of himself. “No! Not like that. She’s just my friend from Bayport from way back. Not literal romantic girlfriend.”
When Charles glanced at him, Oliver smiled patiently. “What?” Charles demanded. “That was unnecessarily confusing given the last time we had this discussion and you jumped all over me for not getting it quick enough!”
“No one is jumping all over you, either that time or this time, love,” Oliver soothed with a pat on the arm. “I think I’m going to try a real salad today.”
“They’re always like this,” Mabel said to Chrissy. “Can we just fucking order please?”
Chrissy brushed her hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I think it’s very sweet. Mabel and I have been friends for twenty-five years or five months, depending on how you look at it. How long have you guys been together?”
“Two years or two months depending on how you look at it,” Oliver answered at the same time Charles said, “Nobody’s together here.”
Mabel snorted. “I should have warned you. Don’t ever ask them anything. They’ll never agree even though they’re actually talking about the exact same thing. It’s a truly wild phenomenon.”
“Hey!” they both shouted in protest and everyone laughed.
After lunch Mabel and her friend were going to check out some thrift shops, which even if Oliver had wanted to go, he sensed they were not invited. That scarce winter sun was lower now, it got dark astonishingly early in Manhattan these days, but Oliver still wanted to do a quick walk through the park after eating his salad and a quarter of a chicken parm. Being on a non-dip diet was a big change to his system. Though his hair was looking better than it had in years.
“In our day people called each other their girlfriends and it meant ‘girl’ and ‘friend’ because you couldn’t say the other thing that it meant! Now it means both things, I guess. But I really feel you wouldn’t say ‘boyfriend’ about a boy who is your friend unless he was really your boyfriend.” Charles kicked at a bunch of rocks on the path, sending them scattering outward in front of them like a V.
“So you haven’t been calling me your boyfriend, then,” Oliver joked. He knew where this was going, or where he wanted it to go. Charles was smart, and intuitive. But sometimes he lacked the real finesse in people and conversations, that ability to see something that was there, out on the horizon, and steer the ship along the path straight towards it. Oliver had the talent to cut a direct trajectory, as well as cause a shipwreck. It remained to be seen yet how this one would turn out, but he steered on. “Should I be offended by that?”
Charles literally came to a full halt and almost knocked over a little girl who had broken off from her family to chase a pigeon, her vibrant coattails, pink as bubblegum, flapping in time with the pigeon’s dusty grey wings. “What are you even saying?”
“Mabel’s friend asked how long we’d been together and you said nobody was together. So I’m just extrapolating from that answer that you’re not shouting from the Arconia rooftop that I’m your boyfriend.”
“Chrissy.”
“Who’s Chrissy?”
Charles threw up his hands. “Exactly! I’m not telling some rando that Mabel brought to lunch with us my whole personal business, Oliver. You know that I was still making those omelettes for Lucy six years after Emma left me! It’s taken me almost a year now to stop referring to Jan as my girlfriend! I can barely say the words ex-girlfriend. I’m not a fast-moving guy in that department and I wish you wouldn’t expect it of me.”
There was a bench around the bend and Oliver led them to it. He hated how uncomfortable and cold it felt in the winter and then how the metal, black and unforgiving, heated up in the summer enough to burn through your shorts. Not that Oliver would be caught dead wearing shorts. He draped his arm along the back of the bench and turned towards Charles. “I do know all of that, and I don’t expect anything of you except for you to just talk to me. That’s what we’re doing, you and me. So what’s this all about?”
“I guess it’s hard for me to be in my seventies and think of myself as someone’s boyfriend.” His mouth set in a firm line, Charles looked out to the rink, where families, boyfriends, girlfriends, wove around each other on the ice. There was laughter in the distance and it sounded nice.
“But you called Jan your girlfriend the day after you slept with her. Which was like your second date,” Oliver pointed out. “So other than me bringing up the fact that you were kind of a ho, it can’t really be that.”
Charles grumbled, “Why are you so sensible sometimes?” but there was no real heat there. He laughed a little under his breath, like he did when Oliver was definitely right about something, or onto something, and he was caught out. “Would it make sense to you if I said I think I’m just being cautious?”
“Go on.” Oliver nodded and moved his hand to the back of Charles’ neck. He had mittens on, it was almost freezing, but he pushed his hand under the stiff collar of Charles’ peacoat and squeezed gently. It was like dealing with a brand new puppy who was just discovering his legs could take him anywhere in the big, wide world, but didn’t have the sense to sniff it out, to stay close to the ground, to take things one bulldog-sized step at a time.
“I opened my heart, Oliver, and my life, and I got royally fucked, and not in the good way. We were all in so much danger because I fell too fast and felt too much and then I had too much to lose. So I’ve got to take it slow.”
“I understand all that,” Oliver said slowly. “But being with me is not going to put you in danger, as long as you don’t count bankruptcy.” He was pleased when Charles laughed at that. It was like finding a tiny lost trinket, beloved and golden, after pawing around in the sand for hours with no luck. “And if I royally fuck you, it’s going to be in the good way, if that’s what you’re into.” Charles laughed harder and Oliver felt his body lean into him, the best sound and the best feeling in one person and one moment. “So I think we’re pretty good, right?”
Charles grinned at him from their spot on the benches and then grabbed his hat before a gust of chill could sweep it away. “We’re good,” he said. “But can we go back now please, I’m really fucking cold and I think my knee may have seized up.”
They shook out their legs to get out the stiffness and Oliver adjusted his mittens. “Who’s living a better life in their twilight years than us?” Oliver joked, as he reached out and helped haul Charles up off the bench.
Charles caught him around the waist and briefly held him there. “Nobody,” he said, and he had that look, that silly, stupid, Charles-is-happy look, that made Oliver want to shout everything about their relationship from the Arconia rooftop, that made Oliver want to pledge his life to making sure Charles had that look every day from now on.
“Nobody,” Oliver repeated, and he grabbed Charles’ hand, held it in his own as they wound their way out of the park and to the long zebra-striped crosswalk to go back home. Even as they passed Lester, standing in his ill-fitting uniform, doorman’s cap slightly askew from the wind, Charles hadn’t yet let go.
Lester nodded at them, and if he had any reaction to the hand holding, he didn’t show it. “Good afternoon Mister Charles, Mister Oliver,” he said.
“It’s a great afternoon, I would say,” Oliver replied cheerily, and pressed the elevator button to take them up.
***
It was Lucy who invited him over to movie night at Charles’ place. So Oliver showed up with two bags of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, which Lucy tore into immediately, and a bottle of riesling and some leftover packs of Orville Redenbacher’s that he found in the back of his pantry, most likely from when Will would have sleepovers as a kid.
About twenty minutes into the movie, Lucy was texting with her one hand while the other hovered over the bag of cheetos. Charles had abandoned them under the pretense of going to pop some more popcorn and Oliver was scared shitless. He fled into the kitchen and shrieked, “Holy shit!” before coming to a halt in front of Charles. “Why did you not tell me this movie was so scary?”
Charles had the audacity to look amused. “I didn’t know you were scared by horror films. You seemed like you got off on playing games where people were serial killers during a blackout! ” He screamed blackout like Oliver had and dissolved into giggles.
“Shut up!” cried Oliver, and he pushed Charles against the cabinets, but he was laughing too. “This movie is really scary! I don’t know why I thought this was some cry-fest tv show about triplets in Pittsburgh!”
“This is Us,” said Charles, like that explained something. “Not This Is Us.”
“You’re making no sense to me at all right now.” Oliver waved his hand in front of Charles’ face. “But hey, I’m pretty frightened and weirdly enough sort of horny too, so can we just hide out in here? The kid won’t even miss us.”
Charles smiled and put the bowl of popcorn on the kitchen island. “You want me to hold you and tell you it’s just a movie and everything is going to be all right? Poor Oliver, it must be so scary for such a sweet little baby.”
“I’m not going to reject some cuddles if that’s what’s being offered.” He opened his arms and Charles wrapped him up.
Everyone thought their love interest, partner, boyfriend, person, whatever non-distinct label they wanted to use, had a certain telltale smell. But Oliver had come to learn that Charles smelled different at different times - like olive oil and buttery onions in the morning when he made omelettes and like citrusy shampoo and the hair oil he didn’t want anyone to know he used in the shower, but Oliver had snooped in the bathroom and found it. He smelled like fresh sheets that had dried in the air on the laundry line in the afternoons when he’d been walking, and the soft, private spot just behind his ear smelled like sea salt and reminded Oliver of the beach after a storm.
“Feeling better?” Charles asked. He tucked his chin on the top of Oliver’s head, which Oliver liked very much, even though it emphasized how much shorter he was, which was actually not all that much. But no one ever seemed to notice that fact when they were together. If Oliver had to be the smaller one, he didn’t really care as long as it was Charles at his side.
“I’d take some light groping too,” suggested Oliver, pressing his luck, he knew, but Charles laughed and squeezed his ass.
“I wasn’t sure what happened to you two, or if I should just excuse myself and leave you to your adult communications.” Lucy looked up from her phone when they returned and scooted to the end of the couch so they could sit next to each other.
“It turns out that Oliver is scared of horror movies,” Charles explained.
Lucy’s eyes were shiny and she tossed her phone onto the coffee table. “But that’s the whole point, Ols. You feel the physiological reaction of the scares, but intellectually you know it’s not real. It’s just a movie. It’s just a way to get that part of your brain firing. Like anything else. It feels scary, but then it goes away.”
“I hear you,” he said. “I just don’t think it’s for me. It’s like how Charles hates dirt. Or fun.”
“It’s not at all like how Charles hates dirt! Most people don't like dirt.” Charles protested. “And what does that even mean, it’s like how I hate ‘fun!’“ He made finger-quotes for the word fun and Oliver sadly shook his head. “I think I can enjoy fun just as much as any person.”
“The fact that you said it like that shows you can’t, but okay.”
Charles smacked Oliver on the arm then and Lucy sighed. “If Oliver is too scared to watch the rest of the movie maybe you should just put him to bed,” she said to Charles.
That sounded like a great idea for many reasons. Oliver knew that the way he and Charles lived were also juxtaposed. But he occasionally liked to leave the cluttered busyness of his past, his apartment filled with relics at every twist and turn, tucked into every cranny and filling every surface. Sometimes he thought if he were truly smart or healthy he would box it all up or sell it at auction or donate it to schools. But he still lived among it, breathed it in. It was the opposite of Charles, who played out his loneliness in clean lines and faultless artwork and perfect mid-century designs. Who was to say which approach was better. But he usually got a restful night’s sleep in Charles’ bed no matter what.
As he moved off the couch to the hallway that led to Charles’ room, Charles grabbed his arm. “You can’t stay in my bedroom. Not while Lucy’s here!”
Oliver made a face. “Oh right, so you’re going to show me a scary movie, feel me up in the kitchen, and then send me back to my own apartment to sleep alone? No thanks!” A new idea occurred to him. Not as advantageous but better than nothing. “Oh hey, you could come back with me!”
“And leave Lucy alone here? No way!”
“Charles,” he said, exceedingly slowly. “There are no more murderers in the building. That we know of. Currently.”
“Okay.” Charles pushed his glasses up. “In the world of baby steps, this feels like a much bigger step, you know. Having you stay over here when Lucy is too. And I know, she’s progressive and young and would love to tell everyone at that ridiculously overpriced school that she has two gay dads, but I don’t know if I’m ready for that. She and I haven’t even discussed it yet, you and me. That’s the truth.”
Oliver squeezed his hand. “I respect that, Charles. Look, I can try to convince you and say it’s just like watching a scary movie, that you feel that reaction of being frightened but in reality you know you’re safe, you’re in your home with your awesome kid and your awesome person. That’s me by the way. But if it’s too much still, then it’s too much.”
“God, you did level up since Season One,” he joked and squeezed Oliver’s hand back. “Listen. I’ll go with you back to your place and make sure you’re nice and safe and that Winnie is being a good guard dog. And then I’ll see you first thing in the morning, okay?”
That was acceptable, so after bidding goodbye to Lucy, they took the elevator down to ten. Oliver’s apartment was free of any visible baddies, save for the ghosts of the past that haunted his world every day. “Your bed is so uncomfortable,” Charles complained, flopping around and rolling inadvertently to the center. “What’s in this bed anyway? It feels like a pile of hundred-year-old feathers plucked from a goose who had eczema.”
“I may have taken it from the set of a play. After Roberta moved out and took the bed that she had to pay for when I had no money.” Oliver closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at Charles. There was no way to throw glitter over this portion of his life and make it shine. “I knew better than to fight her on any of that. Paupers can’t be choosers, right?”
Charles stroked his cheek with the back of his hand and it was so genuinely tender, so open-hearted and fond, Oliver wanted to cry. “We’ll get you something new, especially if you want me to stay here,” he said quietly.
“I heard those sleep number beds can be nice,” Oliver murmured. His heart rate, which spiked high from the movie and the kitchen canoodling and the serious relationship talk, had now evened out. Maybe he would be able to sleep, unplagued by bad dreams and equally troubling self-doubt and worry.
“Sure,” Charles agreed, and he ran his fingers through Oliver’s hair and gently traced his eyebrows, his temples, his ear lobe, the nape of his neck. “I heard they’re perfect for couples.”
***
The drive out to New Jersey was excruciating. In the passenger seat of Aphrodite, Oliver’s leg jiggled uncontrollably. Charles kept looking at him. “You are about to jackhammer a hole to Bangladesh if you keep this up! Did you eat those chocolate coated espresso beans again?”
“I’m sorry, I’m just nervous.” Oliver folded his hands in his lap and looked out the window, the streaks of frost that he had hastily scraped off only slightly barring his view. He seriously regretted giving Charles shit for his freakout about being called a boyfriend and his insistence that they keep everything PG-13 for Lucy’s sake.
He was about to come clean on all that when Charles put his hand on Oliver’s already jiggly knee and gave it a shake. “I wanted to tell you. I had the talk with Lucy.”
“Oh Charles, please, not now. She’s seventeen right? I’m sure she already knows about that and didn’t need you awkwardly fumbling through a talk about what happens when two people love each other very very much.” Oliver slid lower in his seat and began to chew his fingernail. His stomach was tight and not in a good way. Eating that pretzel from Dante was a mistake.
“No! Not about sex. Or, not about sex per se anyway.” He used his best sexy voice and tried to leer at Oliver a bit which just made Oliver laugh. “I talked to her about us.”
“Oh!” This was interesting. Oliver sat up too quickly and the seatbelt pressed into his shoulder. “Tell me more.”
The sensible driver he was, Charles kept his eyes on the road. He had a big grin all over his face though, as he said, “Well she mostly already knew. She always liked you, from that first day she met you. I think she was just happy for me to tell her. You know, happy to hear me say it. It was really good. I should have listened to you.”
“And now I can stay over?”
Charles’ smile didn’t dim. “And now you can stay over,” he answered. “But we’re still getting you a new bed.”
Hearing that the talk with Lucy went well and he could sleep in Charles’ comforting bed whenever he wanted lightened him a bit. Talking to Will would go similarly well, he was sure. So when they pulled up to the house, Oliver fairly dashed out of the car and up the stairs. Will had made baked mac and cheese for the kids (and Oliver) and a ham and he bought a chocolate cake.
“This is more regular food than I’ve had in a single meal with your dad in two years,” Charles said to Will. “It looks amazing.”
Will smiled and he was talking to Charles, but he gave Oliver a little wink. “I don’t know what it is, maybe the change in diet, maybe something else, but he’s looking better than ever these days.” He sliced through the pink spiral ham, making trim, thin cuts in the meat. “What have you guys been up to? I haven’t heard too much out of you lately, Dad.”
Oliver held out his plate, the bone china from Tiffany, with a simple gold edge, that he had given to Will when he got married. He was glad Will didn’t save it up and never use it. Today was as special a day as any. “Well we had the farmer’s market last week. Lots of winter produce. Lots of gourds. Charles loves a good gourd,” said Oliver. “And I think we saw Tom Hanks buying some really tacky table decorations for Christmas.”
“That sounds surprisingly normal. No murders, no arrests, no poisonings. This is regular life for Oliver Putnam now.” Will scooped a hefty spoonful of mac and cheese onto Oliver’s plate while they talked.
“And Charles-Haden Savage,” Charles added, unfolding his napkin and placing it properly across his lap.
“Oh, this is exciting. I have my meeting with the producers of the new show on Thursday!” Oliver took his seat at the dining room table and turned to Charles. “Actually Charles, I was meaning to ask you if you’d come with me.”
Charles coughed and banged his fist against his chest. “You want me to come with you to a Broadway show meeting?”
“You know how I get. All up in my head and then I come up with wild, genius ideas and I can’t explain anything. I’m used to you doing the talking.”
“And the thinking,” Charles told him.
Will laughed at that. A lot. “My dad needs his ego checked like that. You’re good for him,” he said.
Too much chocolate cake later, when the sun was drifting low and the sounds of the day hung quiet in the air, just a hum from the highway and the rattling of empty tree branches, Oliver sat on the deck with Will and watched Charles do his best to entertain the grandkids. “You know Willie, I did want to bring something up with you today. Nothing bad,” he amended quickly, in case there was apprehension on Will’s part. “In fact, it’s something pretty good.”
“Oh yeah? Other than the play?” Will was watching him with expectant eyes.
“Yeah. I know it might be weird for you to hear, because I hate to admit it to myself that I’m no young thing anymore. But…” He realized that after all the guiding of Charles and all the pushing and all the experimenting with different names for this, he wasn’t sure what to say.
Will’s hand, which has been wrapped around his coffee mug, was warm and strong when he reached out to Oliver. “Dad,” he said. “I know what you’re gonna say. And I’m so happy for you.”
Down in the yard, half covered in darkness now, Charles was acting out scenes from Brazzos with the grandkids. He turned and caught Oliver’s eye and waved and Oliver waved back. For some ridiculous reason Oliver felt like crying. Again.
“What do you think, I’m casting him as little Brazzos in the prequel!” Charles called out.
“You’re brilliant!” he called back with a miles-wide smile. He turned to Will, still holding his hand and said, “Sometimes I have to pinch myself, I can’t believe he’s with me.”
As they made their way down to the car to do the drive back to the city, he said this outloud to Charles, who just shook his head. “You better believe it, Oliver. I feel like I’ve been lonely for the last fifteen years of my life! I’m not wasting the next fifteen!” he said and gave Oliver a nice hug, for someone who claimed not to do hugs.
Neither of them were great at driving at night, especially Oliver, but he offered to drive anyway. Charles was tired and he had his hat propped against his knee, his head pushed against the cold metal of the passenger door with his eyes closed as they carefully drove east. The hulu girl’s hips swung back and forth with the bounce of the car over every rut in the road, every bump on the highway. Oliver pressed his knee against Charles’ while he slept and, as they exited the tunnel, let his eyes refocus out of the darkness, adjust to the lights of the city.
***
“Hey! Oliver!” Howard chased after them to get to the elevator. “What is your problem? Timothy told Jonathan that you haven’t called or texted or e-mailed.” He gave a huge sigh after the e-mail part.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because! You said you would try to clear it up with him! And honestly, you don’t seem to me like the kind of guy who is in any position to be ghosting dates.” Howard pushed the button for his floor emphatically.
“Hey!” Oliver yelled. “One hot chorus boy doesn’t mean you get to be all judgey with me! Six months ago you basically had a Mrs. Havisham situation going on with your cat, so I wouldn’t talk, Howard.”
Charles interjected, “This is still about the guy from the diner? Howard, tell your boyfriend to stop setting up my boyfriend! He doesn’t need a date!”
Howard blinked five times exactly. “You two are together now? God, you’ll be so insufferable!” he cried as he exited the elevator at his floor. He turned around and with primly clasped hands, said to them, “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I’m very happy for you both. Please don’t be insufferable, though.”
They took the elevator to the apartment and Oliver was sure his face was doing something complicated the whole time. When he was studying improv, he had taken a class where every week he looked in a mirror and learned all his expressions by heart. That way he would always know what was being transmitted to the audience. Oliver knew when his face looked distressed or annoyed or hungry. “What?” Charles asked. He was staring. “Quit looking at me like that!”
“Charles, I’m going to make a suggestion. We’ve come full circle and I think you should kiss me now.”
“This is the least romantic come-on I’ve ever experienced, but okay.” Charles leaned down and tilted his head and pressed his lips against Oliver’s. They were dry and warm and he smelled like beeswax and altoids, and it reminded Oliver of a memory, something almost forgotten to his dormant heart. What it was like to feel affection and attraction and care for someone who gave it back freely. When they pulled apart, they still had their coats on and Winnie was pulling at the cuff of Oliver’s trousers and Charles was awkwardly holding the half of a cake Will had boxed up for them. “What’s this about?” Charles asked, surprise in his voice.
Oliver didn’t have a good answer but decided to hold nothing back. “I’m really happy,” he said. And when he looked at Charles, he had never been more sure of what his face was doing. It had been a long time, but he knew being in love by heart.