by Lily Morton
I raise my eyebrows. “My penis?” I offer.
“On the fabric, you twat.”
I look down. “Little Father Christmas figures,” I offer.
“And you are wearing them because you’re actually five?”
I lean back against the cabinets. “I’m wearing them because I’m not a soul-dead banker who probably starches his underwear.”
“Only if I ever wore any underwear,” he advises me and winks cheekily.
We’ve both made these sorts of remarks before. They’re an established part of our banter. But as we stare at each other, the silence lengthens and thickens. The doorbell chimes, and we both jump. As it chimes again, we look over at the door as if it’s going to answer itself. I notice out of the corner of my eye that his chest is rising and falling rapidly.
“Who can that be at this time of the morning?” He sounds so much like an old lady that I want to laugh.
Instead, I cross over to the door and peer through the peephole. I look at the figures in the hall, blink and then look again. “It’s my dad and Aidan,” I say.
“Here?” he says incredulously. “At nine thirty in the morning?”
I bite my lip and try not to laugh.
“Oh shit, I need to get dressed. Let them in, Charlie,” he urges and whizzes past me, his buttocks bouncing tightly under their towelling covering.
I’m still looking after him even as I open the door and usher my dad and stepdad in.
My mum and dad were best friends and made me after a very drunken mistake at university. When my dad confessed to her that he was gay, the friendship never suffered. Instead, they decided to raise me together and moved into a house with my mum taking the downstairs flat and my dad the upstairs. When I was two, he met Aidan, who moved in with him. They’ve been together ever since and got married last year. My mum met and married a lovely man called Phil a few years ago, and they now live in Norfolk on his farm. I miss having her close, but she’s very happy.
“Hello. Earth to Charlie,” comes a dry Irish-accented voice. “Goodness, Sam, your son appears to have frozen. Do we switch him off and on like the help desk always suggests?”
I blink and turn to find Aidan watching me. I mentally check that there’s no drool at the corner of my mouth from looking at Misha’s bum. Phew, there isn’t. My stepfather’s expression is as sardonic as usual, his green eyes glowing in his angular face.
“It’s called rebooting.” My father edges around his husband and steps into the flat. “Surprise,” he says, his voice warm and rich.
“It certainly is,” I say, accepting his hug and inhaling the scent of sandalwood. It’s the cologne that my mum makes, and he’s worn it since I can remember. “What are you two doing here?”
He shrugs. “Can’t two wonderful men–”
“Handsome men,” Aidan adds.
My dad winks at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. Let me start again. Can’t two handsome men pay a visit to their child without being cross-questioned about it?”
“Cross-questioned?” I enquire. “You’d never have got through torture if you think that was hard.”
“We brought a couple of boxes of your books over,” Aidan says, disappearing out of the door and returning with a box. “Now you’ve settled, you can have them.”
“Settled? I’m not snow.” I look at him helplessly as he carts in another box. “Where am I supposed to put them?”
My father looks around, and his brow wrinkles. “Where are your bookcases?” he says in a completely bewildered voice.
I shrug. “Misha doesn’t have any. He hates them and likes plain walls and minimal fuss.” We exchange looks that agree on the incomprehensible nature of that.
“Why?” my dad asks in a scandalised tone of voice, suggesting that I’ve just said that Misha prefers to boil small children.
I nod. “Thank you. It’s nice to have my opinion reinforced.”
“It’s just not natural,” my dad mutters.
Aidan chuckles. “Not everyone wants bookcases holding up their walls,” he says cheerfully.
My dad shakes his head. “You should watch your foul mouth,” he advises.
“What’s up?” comes a voice from behind us.
We turn and watch Misha coming towards us. He’s only wearing old jeans with a plain white T-shirt and a grey cardigan, but he still looks fresh and handsome. And sadly, not nearly naked enough. I force that thought very firmly away. I don’t know why the hell I’m thinking it anyway. He’s my friend—end of story. I’ve always admired his looks but have been able to ignore them, as they come attached to a penis that’s had more conquests than the Roman Empire. Besides, I actually have a boyfriend.
“We brought Charlie’s books around,” my dad says, holding his arms out for a hug. Misha wraps his arms around my dad, smiling happily. He’s always got on with him and looked to him for advice when his own dad died.
Misha steps back and hugs Aidan too, before looking at the boxes on the floor. “Is that it?” he says dubiously.
Aidan laughs. “You know him too well. No, there’s another ten boxes at home.”
“They’ll have to stay there, then,” I say. “Where am I going to put them? They won’t fit in my room.”
“In here,” Misha says casually. “We’ll go out and buy some shelves this afternoon.”
“In here?” I gape at him.
“Why is your mouth open? Are you trying to catch flies?” he enquires.
I shut it with an audible snap. “No, it’s just that I’m sure you just said you’d buy shelves for my books.”
“I did.”
“Yes, that’s what confused me, Misha. Because the last flatmate you had, you moaned when he put a picture up on the lounge wall. Not shelves that contained twenty tons of books.”
He shrugs. “That was him. This is you. You’re a special case.”
I narrow my eyes. “Did you mean that to sound like I’m a nut job?”
Misha laughs. “No, it was completely fortuitous.”
“Hmm,” I say dubiously.
“Charlie, you’ve only been here for forty-eight hours, and we already have a new sofa. Why would bookcases come as a surprise to me?”
“You have a new sofa?” Aidan says. “Well, that’s good news. Last time I sat on that steel and leather contraption I lost all feeling in my legs.”
“That was a very expensive piece of designer furniture,” Misha says in a resigned tone of voice.
Aidan laughs. “They totally saw you coming.”
“That’s great,” my dad says, clapping his hands. “Let’s have some tea.” He pauses. “Oh, does Misha’s kitchen now have tea?” he whispers to me.
“Yes, Misha’s kitchen does have tea. I do have food and stuff in there, you know,” Misha says crossly.
“Only because we went to Sainsbury’s last night and did a food shop after buying the sofa,” I say.
Aidan laughs. “I can actually see your coolness vanishing right in front of me, Misha. If I put out my hands, I could almost touch it as it sails out of the door.”
Misha shakes his head.
My dad nudges me. “Go and get dressed while I make the tea,” he instructs me, and I skedaddle to do as I’m told.
Misha
After watching Charlie head down the corridor, I turn to the two men behind me. Charlie’s dad gestures towards the kitchen, and I follow them. Aidan immediately bustles around making tea and Sam settles down on a chair. I eye them both affectionately. They’ve been so good to my family and me over the years, and I love them like they’re my own kin, but it can’t be denied that they’re both lookers.
Charlie gets his looks from his dad, as his mum is slender and red-haired. Sam is stunning. I’ve seen pictures of when he and Aidan got together, and he glowed in them. All blond hair and long legs and a big smile. Even now in his fifties, although the youthful glow has gone, he’s very handsome. His hair is greyer and there are wrinkles around his eyes, but he’s still fit and charismati
c with a wide smile. However, at the moment that smile is missing in action.
“Charlie looks terrible,” he whispers.
I sigh, feeling all the worry that had lifted briefly settle in my stomach again. “I know. He’s getting thinner, and he looks like he hasn’t slept for years.”
“Has he?”
I shrug. “He fell asleep on the sofa last night halfway through a TV programme. Sleep’s not the problem. It’s the seizures.”
Sam winces, and Aidan squeezes his shoulder. “How many is he having a day?” he asks. His voice has lost its usual humour and now has the firm edge I’ve heard at the hospital when he’s ordering everyone around.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I feel disloyal talking about Charlie, but these men are his family, and we all want the same thing—Charlie happy and healthy. “He had one that I know of yesterday,” I say slowly. I hate those fucking things and what they do to him more than I’ve ever hated anyone or anything in my life.
Aidan tsks. “They’d stopped altogether. Why start again?” he muses.
“I don’t know, and you know what else?” I lean forward and whisper. “I won’t know because he refuses to talk about it.” I sit down at the table and sigh. “I know they’re bad and seem to last longer than they did before.”
“Maybe we should talk to Harry?” Sam says in a doubtful voice. “He might know more.”
I shake my head dismissively as soon as they mention Charlie’s boyfriend. “The only time he’d notice a seizure would be if it happens while Charlie’s on his arm in public or when he’s naked.” I shrug. “Those are about the only things he’s interested in.”
I grimace at the thought of my work colleague, Harry. Charlie’s been going out with him since he met him at an office party four months ago. I’d taken Charlie as my plus one, and Harry had taken one look at him and made a beeline towards him. Then I’d had to watch as Charlie fell under his spell.
I tap my fingers on the table. I’ve always disliked Harry, and the feeling is entirely mutual. He’s arrogant and a complete wanker and when I got the job we both went for, it had cemented the mutual mistrust. My dislike has been made worse because he’s such a tosser towards Charlie.
He’s in love with Charlie’s looks and parades him around like he’s the latest diamond-encrusted Rolex, not to mention the way he puts him down and makes sly jokes about how much he earns. And Charlie makes so many excuses for him: Harry is too tired from work; he’s had a bad day. It drives me fucking mad, and Charlie and I actually fell out over it a month ago. That led to Charlie not talking to me for a week which upset me badly because I can’t bear him to be angry with me. So I’ve backed off for the time being.
“When was Charlie’s last epilepsy review?” Aidan asks, bringing me out of my thoughts. “This should have been picked up at that.”
“Who knows?” I shake my head. “He never mentions them and won’t talk about it.”
Aidan straightens. “We should talk to him.”
“That won’t work because he won’t tell you anything,” Sam says, surety in his voice. “He’s so set on telling everyone that he’s fine, he won’t admit to any problems.” He looks at me. “And you know that too.”
I nod. “Of course I do.”
“And you’re worried?”
“Of course I am.”
“Is that why he’s moved in with you?”
I contemplate the question. “I do want to look out for him, but I just feel more settled when he’s here, if that makes sense.”
Aidan smiles. “Even though you’re not much of a one for sharing living space?”
I shrug. “Charlie’s the exception to that.”
“Charlie’s always been your exception,” Sam says. “Right from the first minute you met him.”
I smile. “He’s the same. We look out for each other.” Both men watch me, and I groan. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” Aidan asks, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Don’t look at me with those heart eyes. Charlie and I are best friends and nothing else, and that’s all we’ll ever be.”
“Okay,” Sam says in a suspiciously obedient voice.
“We are,” I argue. “And if you think we’ll be something more, get that out of your head. I don’t want a relationship with anyone, and Charlie’s already in one.”
“Already in what?” Charlie’s voice comes from the lounge, and he appears barefoot and dressed in his ancient Levi’s and a grey T-shirt proclaiming that he has no shelf-control.
“You’re in a relationship with Harry,” I say. “Is it still him? Because I haven’t seen him since you moved in. Oh, how I live for the time when he stays here, and I can see so much more of him. As if working with him isn’t bad enough.” Aidan and Sam look anywhere rather than at Charlie, who is glaring at me. Seeing the look on his face, I immediately backtrack and say in a penitent voice, “I’m so sorry. What I meant to say was that I do hope you haven’t dumped him for Jamie.”
Jamie is a posh boy who follows Charlie around like he’s Brad Pitt covered in strawberry ice cream on a hot day.
Sam shudders. “Oh, him,” he says in a disgusted tone of voice.
“Dad,” Charlie chides.
I stare at Sam. “Why that face about Jamie? He’s as likeable as Winnie the Pooh.”
Aidan laughs, and Charlie nudges him. “Jamie said something that offended Dad.”
I look at Sam. “Offended you? What could he possibly say to offend you?” I ask in an amazed voice because Sam gives Charlie a run for his money in the easygoing stakes.
Sam mutters something, and Aidan laughs harder.
Charlie shakes his head, a smile tugging at his wide mouth. “Jamie thought that Enid Blyton wrote ‘Dracula.’”
I start to laugh. And once I’ve started, I can’t stop. “Oh my God,” I gasp, “that’s priceless. The Lord of Darkness having a picnic with fresh tomatoes and lashings of ginger beer,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Did you try to have one of your really long literary conversations with him, Sam?”
“Like the ones that are always wasted on you?” he says with a twitch of his lips.
“Sleep aids are never wasted on me,” I say solemnly.
Sam throws his head back and laughs loudly. “Misha, you have always been and will always be a little shit.”
Aidan nods. “He speaks the truth.”
I look at Charlie. “How is it that you’re hanging around with someone whose idea of reading is looking at the titles of the videos on PornHub?”
“Jamie’s not so bad. I actually met him in a library.”
I think of the sweet upper-class boy. “Was he lost? Had he stopped in for directions?”
Charlie shakes his head, but I can see he’s trying not to laugh. “He’s just not a reader. He has other good qualities.”
“Is one of them excessive vacuousness?” I ask dubiously.
“Enough,” he says firmly. “And don’t start on Harry again either.”
I bite my lip to stop my litany of complaints and watch Charlie put some bread in the toaster. He looks around the kitchen with a puzzled look on his face.
“Misha, where’s your compost box?” he asks in a concerned voice.
I blink. “My what box?”
He turns to face me. “The box for your kitchen waste. It helps with recycling.”
“You look a bit possessed when you use the word recycling, Charlie. Makes me want to cross myself.”
“It’s very important,” he says earnestly. “We have to do our bit for the future of the planet.” He stares at me. “So where is it?”
“In one of the cupboards? Who knows?” I hold up my hands in defence. “Until you came to live here, I never had any kitchen waste. Not unless you count vodka bottles.” I hesitate. “Do you count vodka bottles?” I ask hopefully and slump when he slowly shakes his head. “Damn, I really thought for a second that I’d been an ecowarrior and never realised.”
He looks at me pityingly. “I’ll ring the council and get some more recycling boxes. We’ll be doing the right thing before you know it.”
“Great,” I say faintly.
He turns back to the toast, probably happily secure in the knowledge that this is only the first in the many lectures he has in store for me.
“I’m going round to Mum’s on Monday night,” I say to him. “Are you coming?”
“It depends. Is she making solyanka soup?”
I grin at his hopeful tone. “Probably.”
“Then I’m definitely coming.” He sneaks a look at me that I’m probably not supposed to see. “Any particular reason for the visit? You don’t normally go round during the week.”
I frown. “She’s called a meeting.”
Aidan grins. “What have they done now?”
I sigh at the thought of my teenage twin sisters. They’re hellions. “I don’t know,” I say grimly. “She’s saving that for when we get there.”
Charlie winces. “Eek! Sounds ominous.”
“Sounds tiring.”
“It’ll be fine,” he tells me comfortingly.
And even though they’re just words, they’re also Charlie’s words, and so they work. I still do my best to grimace at him. “Easy for you to say, Charlie Sunshine.”
He shakes his head at the nickname that Aidan gave him and Charlie’s friends adopted. “Do you want me to come? If not, I can go round to see Dad and Aidan.”
“No, I want you to come,” I say quickly.
“Why?”
I shrug. “It’s easier.”
He turns back to his toast, and I realise two things. One, I’m staring at his perfectly shaped backside, and, two, Sam and Aidan are watching me do it. Sam has a massive smile on his face, and Aidan’s eyebrow is cocked in that wicked way it has.
I shake my head repressively at them. “Oh, thank you,” I say in surprise when Charlie puts a plate of toast in front of me. “Is that Marmite? You hate Marmite.”
“It tastes like gravy jelly, but you like it for some strange reason.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I’m making Bolognese for dinner. Do you want some?”
I catalogue the blue eyes that are the colour of my favourite pair of jeans, the mouth that’s almost too wide for his face, and all that beautiful hair waving onto his shoulders in shades of butterscotch and toffee. He’s glowing in the sunlit kitchen.
