Chapter Text
“I think I’m gonna miss this place.”
Joe tries not to sigh—at least not too loudly. It doesn’t work, though; he can feel Charlie’s wary gaze on him. Joe ignores it and immediately feels bad about it, but he’s pretty sure Charlie understands.
He always does.
The garden looks different this time of the year—bare branches, frost-bitten stems, the flowerbeds mulched over for protection. It's so quiet, apart from the distant sound of traffic. It's almost sad, but Joe still likes it. He's always liked it, the way Charlie's hands work the soil, and talks about roots and growth and other things Joe has no idea whatsoever, but it sounds like they're really important.
Maybe they are.
“What are you gonna do with all this?” Joe asks, waving his hand towards the garden. What are you gonna do with us? It’s what he would really like to ask, but maybe it’s better not to push it.
Charlie shrugs, taking a drag from the cigarette in his hand. “I mean, it’s mine, now. I could sell it, or I could rent it. I think I’ll take some plants with me, though. See that wisteria?” He points at a vase with a little tree proudly showing off some purple flowers. “Such a pain in the arse, but totally worth the trouble.”
“Oh.”
Joe knows he should really work on his tone when he says things, especially when it comes to Charlie. He doesn’t care what other people think, really, but Charlie’s opinions are different. Maybe it’s because they’re closer than most of their castmates—or maybe it’s because, as much as Charlie likes to stay quiet, his face usually speaks for him. Like right now, with eyebrows climbing so high they almost disappear under his hair. Stupid, stupid British sass.
“What?” Charlie says, right on cue. “You wanna stay here until you get old?”
Something about Charlie’s amused voice irritates Joe. “Maybe,” he retorts, stealing the cigarette from Charlie’s hand. “Come on, you wouldn’t like the idea?”
“I mean, if you really wanna live here, just say the word—”
“I meant you,” Joe huffs. “Like, relaxing, writing music…”
Charlie bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “God, Joe, that’s you,” he says, almost in disbelief. “I don’t write music. What should I do here?”
“Act in super cool movies?” Joe tries. “You can still garden, and I… I can play my music for yo—what?”
Because Charlie is smiling, but there’s something different in his expression, now. He doesn’t look amused anymore—if anything, he looks sad. He's looking at Joe like he’s holding onto those last seconds of a dream before waking up, knowing already it'll slip away.
But that makes no sense, because Joe is not going anywhere.
“It’s… a pretty picture,” Charlie says quietly, finally. His voice has gone soft. “You should write for Mills&Boon,” he smirks, then, and that lost expression is gone, shuttered away like it was never there at all. Joe wonders if maybe he’s imagined it—wouldn’t be the first time, when it comes to Charlie.
“Alright, then,” he mutters, pretending to be offended. “No songs about you ever.”
Charlie snorts, tipping his head back to look at the darkening sky. “Empty threat. I don’t see how you could write a song about me anyway, mate. People must be interesting, for that.”
“You are interesting!” Joe protests heartily. “I’d have so many things to write about you.”
The words come out more honest than Joe intended, and he watches Charlie’s profile in the fading light—the slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the way his throat works when he swallows. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that out loud; Charlie could find it weird. But Joe can't stand watching a person he loves this much think so little of himself.
Charlie is good at pretending that everything he says is mostly a joke, playing the card of self-deprecation like it doesn't mean anything. But Joe knows better. He sees the truth underneath, and it breaks his heart every time.
“Joe—”
“Don’t say that,” Joe insists, lowly, not daring to look at him. “You are… one of the best people I know, you shouldn’t put yourself down like this.”
Charlie blinks a few times, his mouth open in confusion. Then he tilts his head, curling his lips. “How could I put myself down, having you by my side?”
He smiles, so bright that Joe almost forgets it’s winter and sunset is taking away the crumbles of their last day in Atlanta—their last day as castmates. Something this beautiful shouldn’t end. His heart clenches painfully.
“You know, since you like my garden so much, you should come visit me in England,” Charlie says suddenly. “In the spring, the weather’s nice during that period.”
“Yes,” Joe exhales—maybe too soon, maybe too eager, given the way Charlie is chuckling. Maybe something broken in Joe mends instantly, and one day he’ll dwell on it, but not today.
Today he just wants to enjoy his time in the garden, with Charlie.
SPRING
Charlie was right, Joe thinks, looking around; England is nice during spring.
Joe had never been to Bridlington before—Charlie had a flat in London, and they’d always meet up there when. But if Joe’s being honest, he prefers this slower pace and the sea air over the constantly clouded London sky. The weather’s been kind so far—unusually kind, as Charlie has been saying for days, warning Joe that it might change at any second. For now, Joe will take it.
He still hasn’t gotten used to how green everything is, the garden coming alive in a way he has never seen back in Atlanta; there’s a cherry tree at the back fence covered in pale, pink blossoms, and something purple and low-growing he doesn’t remember the name of creeping between the paving stones. Charlie has worked relentlessly every day since Joe arrived, hands in dirt like he’s making up for lost time. By now, Joe’s learned more about pruning and “hardening off” seedlings than he ever thought he’d need to know.
Not that he minds—watching Charlie is his kind of meditation.
He’s been sitting on a chair for hours now, legs folded against his chest to give himself something to prop the sheet of paper against. He’s supposed to be writing new music, but it’s hard to focus when his brain is far more interested in what Charlie is doing on his flower beds—whatever that is.
Charlie had explained it this morning over coffee, something that had to be deadheaded. Creepy, but Joe had nodded along as he understood. He never does, really, but he likes watching Charlie talk about it, because every time his whole face lights up, Joe wants to see more of that.
“What’s another word for ‘passion’?” he asks out loud, chewing on the pen cap.
Charlie is crouched on the ground with his back to Joe, working on something in one of the big terracotta pots. For a moment he doesn't respond, and Joe thinks maybe he didn't hear. Then he catches the slight shake of Charlie's shoulders and his muffled laugh.
“Are you writing a song or doing crosswords?”
Charlie is clearly proud of his terrible joke, too, laughing to himself like the clown he is, so Joe thinks he deserves it when the pen cap hits him square in the back of the head.
“Hey!”
“Aw, come on. Help me, Chaz,” Joe whines, slumping back in his chair. His ass has gone completely numb from sitting for hours, but it’s been worth it just to watch Charlie in his element. At least someone’s been productive this afternoon.
Charlie sighs patiently and finally sits down on the grass, brushing dirt off his jeans before looking up at Joe properly. “First of all, don’t call me that,” he says, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Why are you forcing yourself to write, anyway? Just wait for inspiration, like you always do.”
Joe stares at him, annoyed—mostly because he’s not completely wrong. The thing is, writing used to be so easy, but Joe feels that making it become a job has taken away part of the charm. He loves that people appreciate what he does, and he’s grateful to have the privilege of being paid for doing what he likes, but—
“What if this is the only thing I’m good at?” Joe says quietly. “And at some point I find out I’m not even that good?”
He didn’t mean to say it. It slips out before he can hold back, but as soon as the words come out of his mouth, he knows they’re true. They don’t make much sense outside his own head, though. For a second, he hopes maybe Charlie didn’t hear a word.
But of course he did. He’s already moving, sitting down properly beside Joe, yanking off his gardening gloves with frustration. He looks up at Joe, exasperated.
“Well, that’s bollocks,” Charlie states flatly, tossing his gloves onto the grass.
Not exactly the comforting answer Joe was hoping for, honestly. “Thank you, now I feel better,” he mutters, looking down.
“I mean it, though,” Charlie insists. “Writing is not your only talent. You’re a brilliant actor, Joe.”
“I like writing more, though.” Joe pouts, even though there’s something about Charlie’s praises that makes him feel immediately better—such a flatterer.
Charlie smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Alright, then take a break and look around. Maybe this garden will give you another single.”
Charlie winks, and Joe feels heat creeping up his cheeks. He’s not sure why—it’s not like he’s said anything weird, anyway.
“It’s easier if it’s about people I love,” Joe murmurs, somehow defensive, but that makes Charlie grin harder.
“You could write a song about every castmate,” he suggests, nudging Joe’s knee with his elbow. “‘Another Day in Gaten’s Basement’. Oh, fuck no,” he grimaces one second later, “that’s dodgy, nevermind.”
Joe winces. “Alright, you’re better as a muse than a songwriter.”
“You can write a whole album about me if it makes you happy,” Charlie says lightly.
Joe goes still. For a second, he’s not even sure he heard that right. But when he looks at Charlie, there’s something careful in his expression. His tone is joking, but the amusement doesn’t reach his eyes.
Joe swallows. “Yeah,” he manages. “Next track’s about your kitchen. Ode to your stove.”
That sets Charlie off—a fit of giggles that Joe knows from experience will last at least two full minutes. Joe just watches, letting the sound wash over him, breathing Charlie’s joy like he can store it up for later.
He’s dreading tomorrow already.
He doesn’t want to leave. Not yet. Not ever, if he’s being honest with himself, which he’s trying very hard not to be.
There are good reasons to live in the States, great reasons. Joe could probably convince Charlie if he really tried. Sooner or later, maybe. In some other version of his life, where Joe knows how to ask for what he wants.
“You alright, Joe?” Charlie asks softly.
“What are those?” Joe deflects, pointing to a cluster of tiny blue flowers near the edge of the bed. He's sure they weren't there before.
It works; Charlie follows Joe’s finger and brightens immediately. “Forget-me-nots,” he explains, almost reverently. “They’re perennials, they live for years. They die back in winter, but they always come back from the roots.” He glances at Joe, reading the confusion on his face, and smiles. “Means they’re tough. Survivors.”
Joe nods slowly. “They’re pretty, I like the blue. Do they mean anything? Like, symbolically?”
Charlie hesitates. It’s just a moment when something goes across his face before he answers. “True love,” he says, quietly. “Devotion, constancy. Soldiers used them during military deployments. Made the separation easier to bear.”
His voice cracks slightly, and Joe’s heart cracks along with it. He wonders if Charlie misses Nat the way Joe misses him, sometimes; if the break-up is as final as Charlie has mentioned months before. Maybe that’s what this is—Charlie making flowers bloom for Natalia just like Joe makes bloom songs he’ll never be brave enough to explain.
Maybe in another life, he thinks. One where Charlie isn’t broken-hearted, and Joe isn’t terrified of his own thoughts.
For now, this is enough.