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The evening is fading into early morning and Oliver glances out the window of Charles’ apartment to stare at New York’s light-polluted sky. Despite it all, the moon is bright, near full but not quite. They’d spent half the night playing the Westies’ stupid game Oh-Hell until Charles lost for the fifteenth time and threw a fit which prompted Mable to call it a night. She sweetly packed up the cards and quelled Charles’ grumblings and Oliver set the dishes from their snacks in the sink, finding with a yawn that he had grown tired too. Still, though Mabel has been gone for almost half an hour, Oliver finds himself lingering in Charles’ apartment.
“I don’t mean to be an old fart,” Charles still goes on, clipping and tossing a bag of clips into a cabinet, “But I don’t think we need to play that stupid game ever again. Keep that on the other side of the Arconia.”
Oliver turns finally from the cloudless, starless sky and meets Charles at the island, amusement at the edge of his lips, “Don’t worry. It does take practice to achieve .”
Charles makes an irritated noise, getting down two wine glasses and a new bottle of something white as if he doesn’t expect Oliver to leave, “Yeah, well, I’d rather not.”
They each take their respective glass of wine and head to Charles’ couch, leaving the bottle open and awaiting return on the counter. Oliver feels the exhaustion seep from his bones as he hits the cushions, relaxing with a noise that ages him. Charles doesn’t seem to mind much, in his own thoughts about something, but he does turn his body ever-so slightly towards Oliver, as if ready to talk whenever he is.
For the moment of silence, Oliver looks around at the room he’s grown so familiar with over these last few years. Their apartments are so unalike: Charles’ neat and tidy with organised surfaces and perfectly framed and hung works, and Oliver’s cluttered and busy in its own arranged fashion with bits and baubles of everything, as long as it fits him and the aesthetic. They’re the same size, but a cat could stretch more comfortably in Charles’ living room. His eyes catch on the ‘Brazzos’ poster and the brown hair he can’t imagine Charles having.
Oliver takes a sip of his wine, leaning forward to set his glass on the coffee table beside Charles’, which he hadn’t touched yet, “The great thing about show business is that friends can be found even on the shittiest sets. Enemies too, but that ruins the moment.” Charles catches on, looking at the poster Oliver is still eyeing.
“Yeah, I’m afraid it didn’t ever do her much good, but for the longest time she was my only friend,” He turns to face Oliver, a simple softness to his gaze, “I’m grateful for you and Mabel now, but I’ll miss her forever.”
Oliver reaches for Charles’ hand where it’s sitting on the couch between them, taking hold of it sincerely, in a way he hopes to be reassuring.
“You know,” Oliver starts with a sigh, his voice hoarse at first, a twinge of something difficult at the edge of his voice. He hides it subtly with an upturn of his lips, “I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like to have met you sooner. On Broadway, maybe. When your career still had potential before ‘Brazzos’,” He’s momentarily amused by his own taunting and Charles watches his smile; soft and concealing. Oliver has seemingly always been one of those people who laughs, or makes others laugh, to avoid sadness, “...Before I met Roberta or dove into a life that would break my heart. Could we have been friends?”
Charles takes a moment to answer, his eyes flitting around Oliver’s face like he’s gauging whether to be serious or banter. Eventually, “No way. I probably would have thought you were one of those jackass directors who only cared about themselves.” He teased with friendly humour, easing Oliver into his own reply.
“Yes, you’re right I had very little tolerance for idiocy back then. Like when Dame Maggie Smith and I did shrooms with a Scandinavian stripper on that Alaskan cruise in ‘73. It ended up being a cover for a gay club but we all had a very fulfilling evening, “ He explained, a wistful glint in his eye.
“I don’t think I see how those two things correlate,” Charles’ brows crease in the middle.
Oliver leans closer, adjusting his position but not breaking the careful contact of their joined hands, “Oh, it does! I can give you the details but it will get graphic and you may never be able to look at Professor McGonagall the same way ever again.”
Charles’ eyes blow wide for a moment, “No, no. I’m perfectly fine remaining in the dark.”
“Your loss.”
For a moment they descend into comfortable silence again, the warmth of their unspokenly held hands. Charles lets out a long sigh, resting his head against the back of the couch and letting his mind drift again. Oliver looks over into the kitchen and right out the window to the row of the West Arconia’s apartments. He can’t shake the thought of a shooter poised across the street that night, ready for Charles. It makes his stomach sink and his scarf feel like it's too tight.
The strangest thing to come from a casual hobby of solving murders has been the fear. You spend your life knowing you’re going to die, even if it’s an idea that only reaches you north of fifty. But to be this near to death, even if you feel like you are giving it justice in some small way, you still fear that loss. It’s what Howard must have felt for Evelyn; the feeling of rinsing Sazz’s ashes from Charles’ hands and sleeves. And yet, sometimes, in the space between breaking into apartments and pressing record, they’ve found time to sit down, look around, and find love. Even if it’s more to lose, the love seems to outweigh the fear, if only for these moments.
And that’s what this is, one of those moments. Oliver knows it when he turns back to face Charles, who’s still eyeing the ceiling. He almost wants to giggle at the childishness of sitting together on a couch holding hands in a manner just short of platonic. Proximity wise they must have been close for years; faces glanced past on elevators or shoulders bumped in hallways. Oliver finds himself thinking they could have been friends in the past but if fate meant it took solving the death of Tim Kono all that time ago then in a way it must have been worth it to end up together, tired, on this sofa now.
“Charles,” It breaks their prolonged silence, heavy but waivering like the beginning to a sentence Oliver isn’t sure how to finish.
The man in question raises his head, looking at Oliver with soft interest, his eyebrows pinched upwards and a small smile on his lips.
“This may sound strange, but do remember I am a man who attended a party at Elton John’s house before the rehab,” Oliver glances away, finding himself unusually shy and self-conscious, but then Charles moves his thumb tenderly across the back of Oliver’s hand and he knows just what to say, “Could I kiss you?”
Without hesitation, earnestly, Charles answers, “Sure.”
Oliver almost expected a ‘what?! why?!” and had a lovely excuse of ‘do remember you’re a man rapidly approaching ninety, there aren’t too many fish in the sea’ but the reality is much more jarring he almost forgets his original question.
“You said I could kiss you…?” Oliver asks, just to clarify.
Charles nodded, easy confusion seeping into his features, “Yes, I did. If it was just a joke I missed it–”
But Oliver cuts him off, a hand around the back of Charles’ neck as he pulls him in for a kiss. Charles hums, losing the rest of his sentence against Oliver’s lips. Maybe it’s the exhaustion but Oliver thinks he’s waited his whole life to feel this perfect. The smell of Charles’ cologne filling his airways; the taste of mint chocolates they’d been sharing earlier on his lips. For this moment there is no fear of loss or dying because in a childish way Oliver thinks they could live forever.
However, it doesn’t take long for his lungs to burn with their need for air and Oliver has to lean back, just far enough that he can feel Charles’ steady breaths across the bridge of his nose. Oliver can feel his chest rise and fall as he catches his breath, lulling him further into sleep.
“I’m… really glad you asked.” Charles says awkwardly, a grin splitting his features and highlighting his now-crooked glasses.
Oliver brings their still-joined hands to his lips and kisses the back of Charles’ before resting his head on his sweater-clad shoulder, “This is so comfy I never want to leave.” Oliver yawns, being coaxed to sleep.
“We don’t have to but your back will hate you in the morning. Mine too.”
Oliver adjusts his head position on Charles’ shoulder to be more comfortable, speaking one last time before drifting to sleep, “But I’ll love you, and that’s all that matters.”