Chapter Text
Charles was thirteen years old when he got his first job. While other children of his economic class were able to relax and enjoy their immense privilege, that was not the life Charles’ father wanted him to have. His weekends and weekday evenings were spent biking down to the docks where he would help keep inventory of fishing supplies. He certainly wasn’t strong enough for the physical tasks other port jobs would have required, but keeping inventory played well with his natural talent with numbers.
Even as he was juggling his job with school, fencing practice, chess club, Model U.N., and the countless other extracurriculars his parents signed him up for, that attention to detail never dulled. Even if it culminated with him collapsing from exhaustion one night the moment his shift ended. One of the sailormen he worked under had to drive him home.
When he saw where Charles lived, the heavy iron gate, the sprawling gardens with marble fountains, the towering spires, he asked Charles:
“Why the hell are you working in a shipyard?”
Charles explained that his father believed that working from a young age built character and discipline.
To which the sailor responded:
“Must be nice to only have to work for those reasons.”
Charles’ dynamic with his coworkers at the shipyard never felt the same after that.
All of the money Charles made from his job, which barely scraped the minimum wage, was to be handed back to his father who would deposit it into two bank accounts. One account Charles wasn’t allowed to access until he was eighteen, and the other required Charles to ask his parents for permission to make a withdrawal.
It didn’t take long for Charles to realize that this was not the norm for other kids his age. Not only would most kids have parents buy things for them, but the kids who also had jobs were allowed to have more freedom with their spending. New shoes, new records, new bikes, all of the things Charles knew his parents’ wouldn’t let him buy.
That’s when Charles began requesting extra hours at the shipyard. The additional money he made was miniscule at best, but it was money he was able to keep from his parents.
Years passed before Charles saved enough to buy anything worthwhile. It took an equally long time for him to decide what his first personal purchase was going to be. But the moment he saw the guitar displayed in the shop window, he knew he had no other choice.
At that moment, it didn’t matter that he never touched a guitar in his life or that his only musical instrument experience was with the violin (an instrument he was horrible with -- it was the only time his parents ordered him to quit an extracurricular activity). The guitar was the most beautiful thing he’d seen, his friends were egging him on, and there was nothing Charles wanted more than to surrender his earnings for the privilege to take it home with him.
And so he did, and the joy he felt from his purchase was immense. For once, the proof of his hard work at the dock wasn’t stashed away in a shoebox under his bed. It was in his hands in beautiful glossy mahogany and gold finishing.
His father didn’t feel the same way about the purchase. The moment he saw the guitar when he got home, he didn’t speak to Charles. Instead, he grabbed him by the back of the collar and marched him back to the shop so he could return it. The joy had been snatched away from him as quickly as the guitar had been.
As they drove home, his father repeatedly berated him for spending his money so carelessly -- all while a pit was steadily growing in Charles’ gut.
Charles surrendered the rest of his money stash over to his father the next day. He could no longer look at it without feeling ashamed.
…
His father’s lesson continued to burden him throughout all of high school. Charles learned to never want anything, to never expect anything. He never did anything risky, because unlike the other rich kids, Charles knew his parents wouldn’t be there to bail him out. No parties, no late night joyrides, no sneaking out with girls.
Well, there was another reason for that last one.
Charles kept a job during high school. Other kids like him were usually handed “jobs” at country clubs or their parents’ offices, where they would spend the day lounging around and inviting their friends over -- if they showed up at all. Charles was never given a job at his father’s firm or his mother’s office. When the shipyard job failed to pan out, Charles eventually landed a position at a bookstore. Sometimes, kids at school would stop by just because they thought the image of him standing behind a cash register was funny. They’d come in, mess up the books on the shelves so Charles would have to rearrange them, and leave without buying anything.
During one of these shifts, when Charles was forced to clean up after his peers, Charles came across a particular book near the back of the shop.
It was a magazine, one of many that were scattered around the floor. Charles barely noticed the title because he was too transfixed by the image. The cover showed a photo of a young man wearing jean shorts that were cut short enough to expose most of his toned thighs. He was muscular, but in a way that seemed different to how Charles was used to seeing muscular men in comic books or in the movies. He looked graceful, the way his head was tilted away from the camera, highlighting the slope of his neck down to his bare chest. The straw hat the model wore also helped to cast a shadow over his face, drawing more attention to his slightly-parted lips.
The cutoff shorts, the hat, the farmyard backdrop and the demure posture. Charles had seen this kind of image before -- with women. He was well aware of the “Farmer’s Daughter” trope. More than one of his classmates brought up Catherine Bach as Daisy Duke as something of an awakening. But this was the first time it ever occurred to Charles that men could be desirable like that. The model’s body, his muscles, his poise. It wasn’t just about exhibiting power; it was about beauty. Charles found it beautiful. Found him beautiful.
During his shifts, Charles would often find excuses to go to the back of the shop so he could look at it. With each pass he made, he was also trying to solve the mystery of what he wanted from this image. He knew it was a shameful indulgence, but he didn’t know for certain what he was indulging.
All he knew is that he would never be able to buy it. He felt guilty paying extra for dessert at lunch. There was no way he’d be able to live with himself if he exchanged money for something like this.
Which is why, when he was closing up the shop one night, he picked up the magazine and stuffed it underneath his jacket. The magazine was later hidden under his mattress. But even in the privacy of his bedroom, the shame of indulgence stopped him from ever reading any further.
…
Charles found more time for indulgences in college. Not through drugs, or alcohol, or partying. He usually kept to himself, rarely tearing away from his studies. Law school was on the horizon and he needed to be on his best behavior. His parents were still helping to fund his education. It was the only thing his parents ever offered to buy for him and Charles didn’t want to waste that.
But occasionally, Charles would lock eyes with another man across the room. And sometimes a knowing glance would turn into the gentle touch of the arm, or interlocked fingers in the dark where no one could see.
It was a gamble whenever Charles would bring a man back to his room. With each touch, each kiss, Charles could feel the prospect of law school slipping through his fingers. If word got back to any of his dream schools, or his parents, then his life would be over. If he wasn’t working towards his future career, then he was wasting his time. No, worse: he was jeopardizing his future. And for what? A single night of pleasure?
But some nights, it was a risk Charles was willing to take. Even if he always turned those men away the next morning. Many of them were intelligent, charming, funny, and handsome. But they all caused shame to well in Charles’ heart whenever he thought about them in any way that wasn’t purely primal.
Word of his escapades never breached the walls of his room. When he got into his dream law school, his parents still agreed to help pay for his tuition. Faculty commended him at his ceremony for his discipline, but Charles knew that wasn’t the full truth.
If he were truly disciplined, he wouldn’t have woken up so many times with that aching shame burning a hole in his chest.
…
There was no time for indulgences in law school. They say the first two semesters of law school are the more grueling months of anyone’s life. But many of his classmates still found the time to socialize and exist outside of the confines of their studies.
Charles never allowed himself to have the time. When he wasn’t sleeping, he was studying -- and he rarely slept. Every day after class, he would come home to his empty apartment and prepare dinner. It was the same thing every night: minute rice and a can of soup. He would eat that while he studied.
Every meal. The same rice, the same soup. Three meals a day, seven days a week, three years. Charles could have calculated the exact number of grains of rice he ate if he could afford to think about anything else, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t think about branching out, or treating himself. He couldn’t afford to make friends. He wasn’t an undergrad student anymore. It would have been so easy for him to lose his chance to go to law school because of his past foolishness. He couldn’t afford to waste that.
His efforts paid off. Charles got his law degree. He returned to his apartment alone, hung his cap and gown over the back of a chair, and prepared his first meal as a law school graduate:
His 3276th packet of minute rice.
…
Charles threw himself into his law practice and it didn’t take long for him to develop a reputation as a rising star in the field. This was everything he worked for, everything he set his own wants and desires aside to achieve. He had a steady job. He was making money. This was the life his father was preparing him for. It was the only thing he ever prepared for.
So why did Charles always wake up with an intense sense of dread gnawing at his brain?
There was nothing else to work for. All he ever knew was work. Sometimes, Charles would pray that he would lose a case. At least then, he’d be able to recapture that feeling of having to fight for something again. But sadly, Charles was cursed by his own competence, and his life trudged on as normal for years.
However, Charles was due for an indulgence, and a large one at that.
His colleagues never understood his decision, but only because they never knew how truly desperate he was.
If they saw what Charles’ lifestyle looked like, if they saw how miserable he was when he came home each night, if they saw how he no longer had the ability to feel joy--
Maybe then they’d understand why he agreed to leave his practice and manage that band.
…
When Charles started managing Dethklok, every day became a fight to stay afloat. In order to present the band as an entity investors would be willing to take financial risks over, Charles had to spend money. Lots of money. There were networking events he’d have to buy his way into, advertisement spaces he needed to pay for, looking like Dethklok was anything more than just a bunch of guys starting a band required money.
After a night of wearing a fine suit and rubbing elbows with big names in the music industry over a fancy dinner, Charles would return home to his apartment, and down a glass of cheap brandy as he looked over his personal finances and how he was sinking deeper and deeper into debt.
…
Charles didn’t expect Crystal Mountain Records to ever get back to him. He sent a copy of the band’s CD to their office knowing that it would most likely end up in some intern’s wastebasket. The idea that anyone that important would ever give them a second glance felt like a sick joke, but it was fun to pretend.
When the labels’ head executive got back to him, Charles nearly passed out on the floor of his office. Fortunately, he managed to keep his composure on the phone long enough to secure a meeting.
Charles held his ground and negotiated to the best of his ability, but he felt like he couldn’t hold his breath until the contract had been signed and he was shaking Roy Cornickelson’s hand.
He did it. He helped to build Dethklok from the ground-up. His work wasn’t for nothing. He might even...be okay.
“Hey,” Pickles called from across the table. “Yer not gonna order anythin’?”
The band decided to celebrate in style. Every inch of their table was hidden behind an abundance of food and drinks -- except for the space in front of Charles, which was still empty.
“No thank you.” Charles shook his head. “I have food at home.”
The band groaned.
“Seriously, man? You can’t turn it off for one night?” Magnus rolled his eyes.
“I feels like I ams being judged now.”
“Yeah! What’sch wrong with you?”
“Get. Drunk.”
“Dude, you just got us a record deal. That’s worth celebrating, right?”
Charles stared down at the table. There was no reason to give in. He did have food at home, and it wasn’t like his work was over now that they had a record deal. If anything, the label would now expect Charles to be on his best behavior. He couldn’t let that slip now…
But the boys could be very persuasive when they got obnoxiously drunk.
Charles sighed and waved down one of the servers.
“I’ll, ah, take a slice of cherry pie.”
The table erupted in cheers, and Charles couldn’t help but smile.
It was a small indulgence, but it was the most he could afford.