Chapter Text
There were about a thousand and a half reasons he didn't say it out loud, but for years, Charles thought about asking probably once a day, at least:
"Hey Edwin, which level of Hell is it where you make friends with a gorgeous boy who's always wearing knee socks that show off his really excellent legs, but it turns out he doesn't like to be touched?"
Obviously Charles would never be that flippant about Hell, after seeing the lingering effects it'd had on Edwin. For that matter, he'd come to hate jokes the living made about Hell. If people knew what that place could do to you, they wouldn't mention it so lightly.
(Though Edwin seemed to find jokes about Hell grimly amusing. "It's to be hoped they never have to know the truth of the matter," he'd say, "and if they go there, they won't be laughing.")
Just as obviously, Charles would never want to make Edwin feel self-conscious about his aversion to touch. Especially since he thought they were sort of working on it together, even though they'd never talked about it directly.
After their first few months together, Edwin had started doing things like sitting slightly closer to Charles and touching the edges of their shoes together, or letting their elbows jostle a little.
Charles responded by sort of spreading out his arms more and leaving his hands in accessible spots where Edwin could touch him without anybody making a big deal over it. Edwin began to occasionally skim fingers over his sleeve or even the back of his hand.
And gradually, Edwin seemed to get comfortable with sitting near enough to touch shoulders and even knees. Charles was proud of him and honored by the show of trust, so he felt guilty that it also drove him just a little bit spare to have Edwin sitting close by with the elegant curve of his calves in form-fitting stockings just... there like that.
Not that his legs were the only distraction. Edwin had lovely strong deft hands. A good face, handsome in an interesting way; the light never seemed to hit him the same way twice. His eyes looked dark most of the time because they were deep-set under his strong brows, so when the real color showed— hazel green— it was like seeing a secret.
His perfect posture set off a tall fit frame with nice shoulders. Even when he was a bit more relaxed, instead of slumping forward like a modern geezer, he'd lean back a bit and stand with his hip cocked.
But what Charles really liked best was the way he moved. Graceful didn't feel like exactly the right word for it, but it was something. Every action seemed to have just a bit more to it when Edwin did it. He didn't really swing his hips when he walked but they were definitely more involved when he walked than when most blokes went about it.
Even in motion, he always seemed to be positioning himself as if posed so someone could draw him, with his chin lifted, his eyebrows expressive and his fingers curled just so.
There was a lot to admire about Edwin. But most of it was locked away behind five layers of clothes and six feet of personal space and a reflex of tensing up whenever it was impossible to avoid a touch.
His legs became such a source of fascination because while the rest was discernable if you just watched him a while, those knee socks immediately showed what was going on down there. Buttoned up as he was otherwise, the stockings were just one single knit layer showing off elegant legs, nothing underneath. Practically scandalous.
No. Bad Charles. His friend had a hard go of it in Hell, Charles should be focusing on making things feel easy and safe for him. Not ogling his long legs.
They were so nice, though. Once when Edwin was really shattered from doing loads of complicated magic all at once to ward their new office, he briefly lapsed into his orb state, just a handful of light. Of course Charles kept close to watch over him while he was like that.
A few hours later, the orb expanded and blossomed into a human shape, and just like that, the two of them were sharing the sofa with Edwin's legs on Charles' lap. Edwin still looked knackered, so Charles just gave the instep of his shoe a little pat to get across that he should stay that way if he wanted, and that seemed to work; Edwin rested like that for another hour.
Charles spent the whole time determinedly not petting or touching or even staring too long at the lovely stocking legs draped across his knees. It was beautiful woolen torture.
Not that he'd ever say it out loud.