Chapter Text
“Surrender's just a word
'Til you try it out
And see how hard it is to hurt
With someone else around”
--Someone Who Loves Me, Sara Bareilles
Edwin learned many things during their sojourn in Port Townsend. Things about himself, about Charles, about the depth and breadth of their friendship, and the lengths they were willing to go to for each other. He learned that there was room in his unbeating heart for more than just one close friendship, and that family can be something you build rather than just something you are born into. He learned that people are capable of so much more goodness than he ever imagined… as well as so much more evil.
But of all the revelations that town unearthed, there is one in particular that Edwin still struggles to accept, and it is thus: not all change is bad. It is never easy, but it is possible to come out of the other side of it better than you were before.
Everything feels different after they return to London, but in the same way everything is much the same as it has always been. Perhaps the only thing that has truly changed is Edwin himself.
They solve cases as they have always done, and are, in fact, busier than ever. They play Cluedo and listen to music on the Victrola or stereo; they go to the museum, the cinema, the library; they spend quiet evenings walking the city or sitting on the roof watching the stars.
They add some new trinkets to their collection. A replacement cricket bat. A perpetual flower vase. A jar that sounds like the ocean when you shake it, filled with wilted dandelions and brightly-coloured seaglass. A quilt that changes colours based on who touches it. A cursed jukebox. A painted seashell with plastic eyes glued to it.
Charles tries to teach Edwin self-defence again; it only goes marginally better than the last time. Edwin responds by offering to teach Charles Aramaic, and is surprised how long Charles hesitates before turning him down. Charles tells Edwin about his parents, and doesn’t hide it when he walks in one day and sees him watching them through the mirror. Edwin opens up to Charles about Hell, as well as the distant and somewhat faded memories of his life before it.
The Night Nurse--who would not let Charles call her “Charlie” and so he calls her “Nursie” instead, delighted every time at the way the nickname makes her scowl--visits once a week to make sure they stay on task. She is never what Edwin would call “friendly” but she grows less antagonistic over time. Most importantly, she never tries to interfere with their work beyond sometimes dropping off cases she thinks warrant their attention.
Jenny comes to London to open a new butcher shop, and Edwin finds her company surprisingly pleasant now that she can see him. Or rather, he finds her unpleasant in the same way some people consider him to be. They meet every other weekend for “brunch,” as Jenny calls it, and they both take it as an excuse to complain freely to someone who will not judge them for it. He visits her butchery every now and again with the express purpose of giving it a reputation for being haunted, to scare away unsavoury types.
Edwin dedicates a section of his notebook to writing letters to Niko of all the things he wishes he could tell her. Her absence is like an open wound, the pain of her loss sharp and present, and he never becomes less aware of the empty spaces that should have been filled with colour and light.
Crystal assists them with cases as often as she can while trying to rebuild the life she has only recently regained. She moves into her own apartment, but they keep a futon mattress at the office for her use. The office slowly starts to reflect her personality just as it does Charles’ and Edwin’s, her jackets thrown over chairs, polaroids she has taken with Emma tucked into the corners of bookshelves, separate stacks of mail with cases that specifically require a psychic touch, and Edwin finds he does not mind it as much as he thought he would. She considers returning to school, though she has yet to do so, and she starts spending more time with living people her own age. She even goes on a few dates, some with boys, some with girls, but all of them with normal people; no demons, no supernatural beings, no ghosts.
Edwin worried the last factor might be a point of contention, but it does not seem to be the case. He does a poor job of hiding his relief that Charles is not upset he and Crystal are no longer courting. He wasn’t privy to their conversation about it, and has no interest in prying; all that matters is that Charles is happy with the way things have turned out.
After the first night that Charles read Edwin to sleep as they laid on the sofa together, Charles has made a point to carve some time out of their nightly schedule for just that purpose. He continues to assure Edwin that there is no shame in needing time to recover after their recent ordeals, but Edwin struggles to shake off his embarrassment at his own weakness, doing his best to ignore and overcome this new failing of his incorporeal body.
Charles is patient with him, but frustratingly persistent, and the way he lights up in joy and relief every time Edwin gives in only makes it harder to resist doing so the next day. Arguing about it makes Edwin feel a little better about giving in, at least, even if it is inevitable that he always will; he doubts he could deny Charles this even if he wanted to. Truly, he doubts he could deny him anything .
So now every night for the last nearly two months, after Crystal and Jenny and the Night Nurse have left for their respective homes and there are no more clients to see, Charles pulls him down onto the sofa and Edwin gets to spend a few hours with his head pillowed on his best friend’s chest as the sound of his voice soothes him into sleep.
And he loves it. God help him, but he loves every minute of it.
Even when the nightmares come--and they always come, despite Charles’ best efforts--they are easier to face. The doll spider and Sa’al and Esther Finch and all the other monsters lurking in his psyche after over a century of existence become easier to face when he knows he is not alone. When Charles’ voice still whispers at his ear and the phantom weight of his hand still presses him close. When he knows that when he wakes it won’t be to more pain, but to the cool caress of Charles’ hands on his fevered skin.
He catches himself starting to look forward to it on slower days when he has time to think, and it is a struggle to cut off that line of thinking before it can evolve into a full-on craving. It would be so easy to do so. Especially with how… strange Charles has been acting since it began.
In particular, Edwin has noticed Charles staring at him lately.
Not frequently, but often enough to be more than a coincidence. Sometimes when he finishes jotting down notes in an attempt to organize his thoughts, or brainstorming out loud as he paces the length of the office, he will look up to find Charles’ eyes on him, watching him with a pensive expression.
There is something in his eyes that Edwin cannot put a name to. It reminds him a bit of the Cat King, though it does not frighten him or make him feel like a cornered mouse, like prey . Instead it leaves him feeling curiously warm.
Charles is quick to cover it up, once he realizes he’s been caught, giving Edwin a charming and frustratingly irresistible smile. Then he’ll voice some clever insight that inevitably ends up being the exact piece of information Edwin needs to make progress on their case. By then it’s too late to say anything, and so he lets it go. Or he would, if not for the fact that it keeps happening.
For all his energy and bluster, for all his impulsivity and reckless disregard for his own well-being, Charles Rowland is patient when it comes to one thing, and one thing only : Edwin Payne. He is always careful and considerate, in a way no one else in his life or death has ever been, with Edwin and his… reservations. Charles stands at the metaphorical threshold until he’s let in rather than barging through the door, occasionally bumping up against the barricades Edwin has erected to protect himself but never threatening to knock them down.
It is another factor that has both changed and not changed since coming home from Port Townsend. There is a sense now that Charles is… waiting for him. Waiting for him to do what , he has no idea, and that is the part that Edwin keeps coming back to, analyzing as if it is any other riddle he cannot solve.
After his confession in Hell, shouldn’t Edwin be the one waiting to be let in? Why does it feel more than ever like it’s the other way around? What could Charles possibly be looking for that Edwin hasn’t already offered?
The answers to those questions remain unforthcoming, and Edwin does not quite feel brave enough yet to ask for them. And yet the questions remain, filling the air in the office like smoke until he has no choice but to breathe them in. He can only hope he does not choke on them.
It is a slow day in the office. They have just finished tying up the last loose ends of a case, and Crystal convinced them (rather, Crystal convinced Charles , who in turn convinced Edwin, an admittedly clever approach on her part) to take a day off before they choose what to do next. She is spending it at her own apartment, presumably catching up on sleep if her complaints before she left are any indication.
There is music playing softly from the cursed jukebox--not intentionally, but they have yet to figure out how to make it stop, or even what makes it start in the first place. It took Charles over an hour to convince it to lower its volume to a tolerable level, and he spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon tinkering with it. He seems to have convinced it to let him choose what kind of music it plays now. Or perhaps it’s just in a good mood.
Leave it to Charles to be charming enough that even cantankerous record players cannot resist him.
Edwin is penning the final lines of a letter to Niko and wishing, as he often does, that he could actually talk to her. That she could give him advice on what to do about what he has mentally started referring to as the “Charles Situation.” Niko may be equally as inexperienced as Edwin, but she has--had--a level of emotional intelligence in which he is sorely lacking.
Why don’t you just ask him? He can hear her voice so clearly in his mind that he has to resist the instinct to turn and look for her. Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for. I don’t think Charles is really as experienced with any of this as he pretends he is. Pretty sure he’s just as scared as you are.
If only it were that simple, Edwin writes. But I will try. For you, I’ll try. I will let you know how it goes. Missing you always, E. Payne.
He carefully closes his notebook and tucks it away in his pocket, stifling a yawn as a wave of fatigue momentarily overtakes him. His condition is improving, slowly (too slowly), but with so little else today to occupy his thoughts, it is hard to ignore.
“You alright, mate?” Charles asks, his voice startlingly loud after so long spent together in comfortable silence.
Edwin looks up to find Charles staring at him, sitting on the floor with what appear to be pieces of the jukebox (how on Earth is it still playing music while it is disassembled?) spread out before him. How long has he been watching him? How much of his mental conversation with Niko did he witness?
It must take him too long to answer, because before he can reply Charles is already bouncing to his feet and over to the desk. His hand falls onto Edwin’s shoulder with the ease of decades of practice, his warm brown eyes searching Edwin’s face with a singular and almost unnerving focus.
Trying to maintain eye contact is like staring directly into the sun, so Edwin does not bother. He smooths down the front of his shirt and readjusts his sleeves as an excuse to look away. “I am perfectly fine, Charles. I simply wish I had something more to occupy my time rather than all this waiting around.”
“Right.” Charles sounds amused and not at all like he believes a word of it. His thumb kneads a small circle in the tense muscle above Edwin’s clavicle, and it is distracting enough that Edwin almost doesn’t catch what he says next. “Maybe we should call it an early night, then. If you want.”
There is something almost eager in his voice, and Edwin cannot help but look his way to see if he’s imagining it or not. But the look on Charles’ face is just as hopeful, pleading with him to say yes, as if he looks forward to it every bit as much as Edwin does.
Pretty sure he’s just as scared as you are , Niko’s voice reminds him.
Edwin takes a deep, fortifying breath, turning his chair so that he faces Charles directly, and stares unflinchingly into the sun. “Is that what you want?”
Charles ducks his head, hand sliding off of Edwin’s shoulder as his expression shutters, a smile slotting into place to cover the flicker of vulnerability that had been there a moment ago. “It’s not about me, mate. It’s--nah, forget about it. We don’t have to--”
It is impressive how often he does this, now that Edwin knows to look for it. He knows Charles is trying to break himself of the habit and let him in more, but it can take time, especially with something so ingrained. Edwin usually lets it go without comment.
Not this time.
“Charles,” is all he says, gently beseeching, cutting off Charles mid-sentence, and the walls crumble as quickly as they were built.
“Yes ,” Charles admits, surprisingly emphatic. The tips of his ears turn the most appealing shade of red. “I want to--God, I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
“So have I.” It is much easier to confess than Edwin thought it would be, and he is rewarded for doing so with a genuine smile from Charles that is so joyful it takes his breath away.
Charles springs up from the edge of the desk, suddenly overflowing with restless energy. “So can we? Should I grab us a book or--”
Edwin stands more slowly, trying not to let himself get caught up in his friend’s enthusiasm. “Actually…” A flash of fear crosses Charles’ face, as if he expects Edwin to change his mind. He moves at once to soothe it away, resting his hand on Charles’ shoulder in a mirror of the way he always comforts Edwin. “I believe it is my turn to read to you.”
The crooked smile Charles throws his way does not quite cover his sigh of relief, but Edwin lets him pretend it does. “Might be a bit tricky to read and sleep at the same time, but I guess if anyone could do it, it’s you.”
He selects Murder on the Ballarat Train from the shelf, the story one he has read often enough that he possibly could recite it in his sleep. By the time he turns around, book in hand, Charles is already waiting for him, perched on the arm of the sofa with the colour-changing quilt in his hands rippling in shades of indigo and violet.
The actual mechanics of how to fit on the sofa together are more complicated than Edwin expects--or perhaps he is the one complicating them; it seemed fairly straightforward when it was Charles directing them. They spend a few minutes in a hopeless tangle of limbs, both of them only barely avoiding tumbling to the floor before they finally figure it out. Charles is half-crushed into the cushions and half-sprawled across Edwin, their legs still tangled together but in a way that feels purposeful, and it’s…
Oh. It’s perfect. The weight of his body feels solid and real, but it does not make Edwin feel restrained, does not send his mind back to Esther Finch’s torture device or the press of grasping, writhing bodies in Lust.
He feels held, but not trapped. Safe. Cherished.
Even though it is unnecessary and cannot provide them any warmth, Charles pulls the colour-changing quilt over them both. It shimmers like oil spilled on pavement, cycling through the rich purples it always turns for Charles and the pale minty greens it prefers for Edwin before settling as a golden yellow, lantern-bright and as warm as Charles’ smile when he sees it.
Charles snuggles impossibly closer, every curve and angle and plane of his body fitting seamlessly against Edwin’s, his face burrowing into the space where neck meets shoulder with a contented hum that Edwin feels more than hears. A shiver rushes through Edwin, awakening long-dead nerves, and it has nothing to do with the chill of Charles’ skin.
The truth is, Charles always feels a bit cold to the touch, but Edwin has never found it unpleasant. It is a lingering effect of the way he died, Edwin presumes, because in every other way Charles Rowland is incandescent, radiating light and warmth out of every pore. It should be soothing against Edwin’s fevered skin--he always runs too hot, just on the edge of uncomfortably so--but the faint brush of cool lips over his dormant pulse point only makes him feel warmer.
Part of him, a shameless, reckless part that he rarely acknowledges, wants to chase the sensation. To see if he can bring the warmth back to Charles’ skin with enough persistence and dedication.
Edwin locks that thought down ruthlessly, crushing the spark of desire before it can spread. Now is the worst possible time to have such thoughts. Charles knows him far too well not to notice any sign of distress.
His traitorous heart does not listen; it hopes; it craves , already working to coax that spark back to life.
“This is brills,” Charles murmurs, blissfully unaware of the effect he’s having on Edwin. “Think anyone would mind if we just stayed like this? Like, forever?”
“Our clients may find it a tad unprofessional. Not to mention what Crystal might have to say about it… but the idea certainly has merit, I admit.” Edwin is grateful that his voice remains steady, even as he feels his self-restraint unravelling like a snagged jumper.
“Too right it does.” Charles chuckles, sounding so damn pleased with himself Edwin cannot help but laugh with him.
Edwin opens the book--which somehow was not misplaced during the scuffle to arrange themselves on the sofa, clutched to his chest in the small space not covered by Charles--but finds himself surprisingly reluctant to begin reading. The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher and her adventures are not as compelling as the lithe form of his best friend pressed to his side. Perhaps they could skip it, just this once; perhaps Charles would not mind if they simply held each other until they both fell asleep.
He shakes the idea away immediately. Even a flimsy pretence is better than none at all.
“Fortunately, the Hon. Phryne Fisher was a light sleeper. She had dozed for most of the journey, but when the nauseating odour of chloroform impinged on her senses, she had sufficient presence of mind to realize that something was happening while she still had wits enough to react…”
As he reads, Edwin’s free hand finds its way to the nape of Charles’ neck before travelling up into his hair, unable to resist the allure of those soft curls. It earns him a pleased groan that is quickly muffled with his shoulder. Edwin is proud that the sound only makes him stumble over a few words before he catches himself.
Barely three pages in, Charles is already dozing off, body growing heavy and slack as sleep takes him. By the end of the first chapter, so is Edwin, words becoming little more than a blur on the page. He still has the presence of mind to close the book and set it carefully on the floor by the sofa, and then he doesn’t think about anything at all for a while.
Sleep is a strange thing, for a ghost. They never fully lose consciousness--to do so would be to cease existing, in theory, since what is a spirit if not lingering consciousness made manifest?--but some are capable of blocking out enough outside stimuli to imitate the real thing. Edwin is not one of those people. He remembers, vaguely, that he was a deep sleeper in life, but the circumstances of his death followed by seventy years in Hell being hunted as prey have rendered him unable to reach that level of vulnerability anymore.
Here, with Charles, he comes close. It is easy to let his guard down and trust that Charles will protect him as he has done for nearly thirty-five years, to let himself drift with only the familiar weight of his best friend anchoring him to reality. Even his nightmares hesitate to get too close.
The next thing he is aware of is Charles’ voice in his ear. It is what he normally wakes to, but not like this, soft and fond and completely lacking in the panic that it usually holds. “Edwin? You awake?” The question is followed by the gentle but purposeful press of cool lips against his cheek.
Edwin chases after that brief touch like a flower chasing the sun even as he drags himself back to full consciousness, but it evades him. He opens his eyes so he can more easily seek it out.
It is dark in the office, that’s the first thing he notices. It was mid-afternoon last he recalls, which must have been hours ago.
The second thing he notices is how close Charles is. Edwin can feel his nose graze Charles’ cheek, taste the currents of their breath mingling hot-and-cold in the space between their lips.
There is no third thing he notices. Death herself could be in the room with them, and Edwin would not see her, would not see anything that is not the enchanting brown of Charles’ eyes or the slow curve of his smile. If Heaven were ever an option for Edwin, if there truly is a kind or happy afterlife waiting for him, it cannot possibly compare to this.
Edwin is loath to break the silence and risk ruining this perfect moment, but there is one thing he must ask. “Am I dreaming?”
Because his dreams have never been kind to him, not ever , and if this is a dream he needs to temper his expectations now. That way it will hurt less when this is inevitably taken away.
The tips of their noses brush as Charles shakes his head. “No, mate. Not unless I am too.”
This close, Edwin can see the way Charles looks down, gaze dropping to his lips for a tick before flicking back up to meet his eyes. He can see the way his pupils dilate for reasons that have nothing to do with the darkness surrounding them.
For the first time in his short life and very long afterlife, Edwin doesn’t think. He just acts.
It takes only the smallest movement, barely more than a tilt of his head, for his lips to meet Charles’. It is hardly worth calling a kiss, really, more ephemeral even than the one stolen by Monty some months ago. But it sends fire coursing through Edwin’s body, synapses igniting in ways he never imagined they could, and Charles…
Charles is frozen, hands clenched tight in the fabric of Edwin’s shirt as if he wants to pull him closer--or push him away. He does neither. He does not move at all, in fact, for long enough that Edwin begins to doubt his own understanding of the situation. If he misread some signal… if Charles did not want --
He pulls away quickly, both from those thoughts and his best friend’s lips. That he had just kissed. Without even asking first .
“Charles,” his voice breaks on the name, but he pushes through it, “I’m sor--”
Charles surges forward, life returning to his body all at once, and steals the apology from his lips, swallowing it along with the surprised and undignified squeak that follows it.
To compare this kiss to the ones that came before is to say that a bonfire is like a matchstick because they both burn. It is bright, all-encompassing, devouring Edwin’s doubts like so much kindling.
And there is no longer any question that Charles feels it too. He is eager, desperate to consume and be consumed by the flames, his hands dancing from Edwin’s shoulders, to his back, his waist, his face, tangling in his hair, setting off fresh sparks wherever he touches.
Edwin should probably feel some measure of embarrassment for the sound he makes when he feels Charles’ tongue slide against his lower lip. But how could he, when it earns him an answering groan, followed by a smaller, broken noise when he opens to allow him entrance. And then the kiss becomes something else entirely, and Edwin lets himself be lost in the flames.
He understands now. He understands why a boy on the edge of death, huddled and freezing in a dingy attic with only a lantern and a runaway ghost for company, would lament the loss of this over any other Earthly pleasure. Edwin doesn't know how he's survived one and a quarter centuries without experiencing this (except he hadn't survived it, had he? That was rather the point). He cannot imagine ever returning to an existence where this was never his, or could never be again.
They stay that way for a long time. They kiss until Edwin is no longer sure where the line is between his form and that of the beautiful boy in his arms. Until there is no longer any trace of cold lingering on Charles’ skin, until the choking Hellfire-heat within Edwin burns down to embers. Until desire thrums under his skin like a new heartbeat.
When they finally break apart, the office is still lit only by the city lights outside their window, still quiet beyond their heavy breathing and the insistent currents of music playing from the disassembled jukebox. And everything has changed, but also nothing has. Breathtakingly new and achingly familiar all at once.
Charles looks the same as he ever has, his lovely features more familiar to Edwin than his own. But his lips are bitten red around his smile, eyes half-lidded and impossibly dark, hands trembling as they cup Edwin's face, thumbs restless across his cheeks.
His voice is gravel wrapped in velvet when he finally speaks. “That was…” Charles interrupts himself with a laugh, breathless and giddy, “That was even better than I imagined it'd be.”
“Imagined?” Edwin's thoughts are curiously sluggish, struggling to focus beyond the weight of his best friend in his lap. “This is something you have… thought about before?”
“Well, yeah,” Charles states like it is obvious. Perhaps it should be, after what they had just done. “Like, all the time, actually. Especially the last couple months.”
What.
What?
Edwin tries to voice his confusion, but it comes out stumbling and incoherent.
Charles still manages to understand him. Of course he does; he always has. “I had to be sure first, didn't I? That I wanted this the same way you did. You're too important to me to risk mucking this up.”
“And do you? Want this?” The questions come out as pure desperation, but Edwin could not care less how needy he sounds. All he cares about is the answer.
Charles’ smile turns crooked, teasing, and Edwin knows what he intends to say even before he does. “Hmm, maybe you should kiss me again, yeah? Just to be sure.”
“Charles!” Edwin thinks he does a pretty good job sounding scandalised, but he ruins it with a smile of his own. He leans forward to grant Charles his request, but Charles moves too; he misses his target, and his lips find the smooth expanse of his cheek instead.
Edwin Payne is nothing if not resourceful. Any good detective knows how to adapt to changing circumstances. So he does just that, and explores this new opportunity he's just been given, mouth sliding along the sharp edge of Charles’ jaw.
He kisses the skin just under his ear, tongue darting out curiously to see if he can taste him, and the intoxicating sound Charles makes is almost enough to compel him to forget the importance of their conversation.
As if he can hear the direction his thoughts are heading, Charles pulls back, both hands firm on Edwin’s shoulders like they are the only thing keeping them apart. “God, mate, you are…” again, he cannot seem to find the word he wants, replacing it with a sound that’s half fond laughter and half longing whine. “I wanted to do this properly. Had it all planned out in my head and everything.”
“You had what planned out, Charles?” Even if they are not kissing, Edwin can’t seem to stop himself from touching. One of his hands presses insistently at the curve of Charles’ lower back. The other curls around the side of his neck, forefinger tracing a path he wants nothing more than to follow with his lips. Or perhaps his teeth. Oh, isn’t that an intriguing thought.
Charles shakes his head, eyes drifting closed. “Doesn’t matter. Stupid jukebox ruined it all anyway.” He shakes his head again, more insistently, stopping Edwin’s next questions before he can ask them. “Not the point. This is the only part that matters.”
His grip on Edwin’s shoulders loosens, hands drifting higher until his thumbs rest in the divots of his clavicles. He leans in close, gaze warm and beseeching, gently requesting his full undivided attention. And they are still on the sofa, clinging to each other and tangled in the colour-changing quilt, but for a moment they are also on the staircase out of Hell and Charles is looking at him just like this.
Edwin does not need to breathe, but he suddenly feels as if he cannot get enough air in his lungs, choking on the swell of hope in his chest.
His hope is rewarded with the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen, from the most beautiful person he’s ever met. “I love you, Edwin Payne. I’m in love with you, like really completely crazy about you.” Charles brushes his knuckles over Edwin’s cheek, sweeping away a tear he didn’t realize had fallen. “And I think I never saw it ‘cause… well, I always have been, even all the way back on that night in the attic. I loved you with my last breath. With the last beat of my heart. And every single bloody second since.”
A sound escapes Edwin that might be a sob and might be a laugh and might simply be Charles’ name, but he hardly even notices. It is insignificant next to the fact that Charles loves him .
Charles loves him, and he loves Charles, and this is not a dream.
“Already said that, didn’t I? This is real, I swear it’s real,” Charles says, voice full of the same awe that seems to be lodged in Edwin’s throat, and only then does he realize he said the last part out loud.
Edwin does not think he’s ever smiled this wide, cheeks aching with the strain of it. “It would have to be, wouldn’t it? I certainly lack the imagination to dream up anything so wonderful as you.” Inspiration strikes, and he tilts his head slightly, making sure Charles’ eyes are on his, then adds in a whisper, “My darling Charles.”
Charles visibly shivers--Edwin catalogues that reaction as something worth further testing--and his hands return to Edwin’s face, holding it with an intense desperation, squirming in Edwin’s lap in a way that makes him see stars. “Edwin, mate. Love ,” oh, and now it’s Edwin’s turn to shiver, “can you please kiss me again? Now that I know what it’s like I don’t ever wanna be not kissing you.”
Edwin kisses him, of course, seeking his lips before Charles has even finished asking. How could he ever deny such a request from the boy he loves? Truly, he doubts he could deny him anything.