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Charles threw the car in park five minutes ago, but he couldn't get out. His thumbs traced over the top of the steering wheel, feeling the stiff seam holding together two pieces of leather. He dug his nail into the crevice, and a bit of the thread gave way. He mindlessly picked at it, further splitting the fabric apart and tearing away any chance of his deposit being returned in full for the rental car. But what was another couple hundred dollars.
He could hear the music coming from inside the house, the thrum of a nameless melody slipping through the cracked windows. A low, choked laugh bubbled from Charles' throat when he realized he couldn't remember the last time he listened to music. The last few months bled together in a blur — was it a month? two? more? Maybe it was that night in the car when…
A familiar chill sunk into his bones, prickling the base of his spine and travelling outwards as the memory sunk its claws back into him. Sweat slicked the back of his neck, his hands turned clammy, and the loud pulse in his ears paralyzed him. He couldn't swallow, couldn't move, couldn't steady his breathing — it turned shallow, and he gasped to catch it. And all his eyes saw was the manor, large and foreboding outside the windshield, and a blackness tinged with red clouded the edges of his vision.
Charles pinched his eyes shut and gripped the wheel so tightly his hands ached. He leaned into that pain, chased it even, to drown out everything else. The blood pounding in his ears dragged him down below the barely treadable surface. He felt as if he was dying, as if the breath he needed would never come, and the voice in the back of his mind whispered that maybe it shouldn't.
But another sound cracked through the voice. It reverberated against the thumping of his heart, alternating to its own rhythm. It quickened, and for a second, Charles mistook it for his own heart, beating out of sync with itself and spiraling towards failure. But a sharp rapping hugged the new sound, almost like the tinking of knuckles against glass; and Charles' eyes flew open.
He snapped his head to the left to see his sister knocking persistently at the driver's side window. He met her eyes, first wide with worry to then sharp with annoyance as she stopped knocking. She took a step back from the door, sat her hands on her hips, and Charles only wished he would have thrown the car in reverse and peeled down the driveway.
Instead, he slipped into the role the world wanted him to play and opened the door. As he got out of the car, he ran his hand through his hair, slicking back the bits that were soaked from his sweat; and he maintained a strong grip on the inside of the car door, helping steady his shaky knees. He straightened his back and gave a half-hearted smile to Raven.
"It's about time. I was knocking for a while." Her annoyed demeanor changed into a happier one, and she covered the distance between them. Charles coughed out a breath as she knocked into him, wrapping her arms around him tightly. She gave him a peck on the cheek. "It's so good to see you."
He fumbled with his hands, finally resting them on the small of her back. He returned the kiss, going through the motions. "Good to see you, too." He aimed for sincerity, but it came out emotionless.
Raven let him go, and Charles mirrored her movements. Only it was disjointed, unnatural on his part, and Raven stared at him, probably trying to piece together why he couldn't even return a hug without fucking up. Charles squirmed in his button-up, the collar chaffing at the base of his sweat-slicked neck. At his side, his fingers twitched to rip off the tie, the collar, the whole facade.
Raven outstretched her hand. "How about we go inside, yeah?"
Some things came easier — taking his sister's hand like when they were kids was one of them.
He shut the car door, and as they approached the stairs to the front door, Charles caught wind of cigarette smoke blowing in the breeze. Two men stood on the side of the small porch, orange embers dangling from their mouths. Charles gave them a nod, but they paid him no mind. Grateful, he breathed in the acrid air before tucking behind Raven as she walked into their childhood house.
Charles knew there was music playing, heard it outside right before they entered. But the moment the front door shut behind him, all eyes turned to him in the dimly lit foyer, and the world stopped. His face burned and his ears thrummed; and that sinking feeling trickled down his body. Raven said something to him, but he couldn't make out the words. Instead, he looked from person to person, collecting their stares and feeling scrutinized under a microscope.
His mother with her perfectly manicured hair and face stepped into view, and one by one, the looks stopped. Everyone turned their attention back to their conversations, and Charles hung his head while his mother engulfed him in a hug.
"We're so glad you could make it, honey." Her dry, red-stained lips pressed against his cheek, and he shied away from it. She pulled out of the hug, manufactured smile on her face with barely a hint she was offended. She gestured towards the kitchen door down the hall. "I think we bought orange juice for the kids running around. Feel free to help yourself." She reached out and squeezed Charles' forearm. "Raven told me you got sober, so hopefully with the party slowing down, you'll be fine." The pressure from her thumb was a warning, not an empathetic touch.
As Charles walked with his head down into the kitchen, he tried to ignore the flutes and tumblers and glasses littering everyone's hands. The kitchen door flapped shut behind him, and his shaking hand found the refrigerator handle and yanked it open. The fluorescent light cast a shadow behind him in the dim room, and Charles' eyes landed on the carton of orange juice on the second shelf. Six months of sobriety and he was reduced to children's drinks.
The kitchen door swung open. "Hey, are you okay?" Raven asked, pulling up a chair from the table behind Charles. She sat down. "I know this is probably a lot."
"Yeah," Charles muttered, grabbing the carton from the fridge. He shut the door and set the drink on the table. "Haven't been around these many people since…" His voice tapered off from images spilling in his mind — bright lights, one too many drinks, and splattered red. Charles gripped the top of the carton, denting it. He let it go. "It's just hard."
"Yeah." The word hung in the air like a sword over his head. Charles should have never come here, he would never be the same, he would never—
"I miss my big brother, you know?" Raven cut into the silence.
Charles fell into the chair at the head of the table. He couldn't meet Raven's eyes. "I know."
Raven let out a tight laugh. "I wanted you to come home so badly that I didn't even think of how you'd handle being around everyone. I just asked Mom to invite you." Charles could feel her eyes on him as he stared at the swirl on the wooden table. "Where did you go, Charles?"
"I've just been taking time for myself, sorting things out."
"That's not what I mean."
Charles looked up at her and saw the wetness in her eyes. His heart panged with guilt, but he couldn't bring himself to explain anything. Fate forced his hand the moment he got behind the wheel of his car over six months ago, and to explain every way he'd changed would take hours. He didn't even know if he had the words to describe it.
"It's like you're a stranger to me now," Raven said softly. "And every time I call you to close the ever-growing gap between us, it's either a conversation that goes nowhere or it's you getting frustrated with me. We used to be able to talk about anything and everything; and I feel like there's things you want to say, but you never do."
Charles shook his head. "It's not that easy."
Raven raised her voice a notch. "Of course it is. I was there that night — fuck, I was in the car with you. I went to therapy, I opened up, I moved past it. I put in the effort, and it feels like you're not even trying."
Charles clenched his jaw. "I'm not trying?"
"It doesn't seem like it. What's done is done. You can't change it, and you can't live like this for the rest of your life. You've gotta move on."
"Move on?" Charles let out a strangled laugh as his voice rose. "Just move on? And what? Make my guilt disappear? Force myself to have normal dreams again where I don't relive that night over and over again? Reach out to friends and family who completely left my side after the first few months when I could barely look myself in the mirror?"
"Charles, I—"
"No, Raven." Charles pushed off the table, his chair scratching on the kitchen floor. "You're right. You were there, but your hands weren't on the wheel." Raven opened her mouth to speak, but Charles spoke over her, voice louder than before. "You didn't take someone's life. Instead, you carried on with your life, just like everyone else, while my whole world changed." Charles slammed his hand down on the table. "And it's not fucking fair."
"Charles…" Raven reached out to touch his hand.
He recoiled. "Don't."
He pushed past her, his hip bumping into the table and the carton of orange juice tumbling over. Charles stumbled out of the kitchen, and the door slammed into someone walking by. He didn't even look to see them; Charles just kept running. His vision blurred behind stinging tears as he made his way into the heart of the foyer, knocking into body after body. He couldn't hear their grunts of protest over the pounding of his heart, but Charles could smell the liquor spilling from their glasses. Sweat trailed down his back and his mouth dried up at the thought of just a few drops hitting his tongue, a thought he hadn't had in weeks. It terrified him, so he ran to the only place where he hoped he wouldn't be found, where he could breathe.
His lungs nearly gave out by the time he hit the third landing, and he fell to his hands and knees at the top of the stairs. Sweat dripped down his nose and landed on the carpet runner beneath him, and he pinched his eyes shut. Charles ignored everything else — the sounds coming from two flights down, the voices in his head tearing him apart — and focused on steadying his breathing, getting a grip on the panic attacks that found him more and more with every passing day.
By the time he could breath again, Charles balled himself up on the top step with his back against the wall and arms around his knees. Face tucked in, he started to attend to the other issues at hand. He was stuck in his childhood house in a place he knew too well with no easy way to leave; and the guests downstairs as well as his mother wouldn't let him leave out the front door without some explanation. As for the voice buried deep down, it was hard to quiet — it nagged and belittled, and Charles felt smaller and weaker than he'd felt in months. He wondered if he could sneak back downstairs and into the wine cellar and—
"Excuse me," a voice spoke from the staircase below. Charles threw his head up, nearly smacking it against the wall. He twisted and slid his body further onto the landing and into the shadows to cover his face. Footsteps echoed up the last bit of stairs, and a tall man came around the corner, his hand wrapped around the banister. "Are you alright?"
Hoping the man couldn't see his face in the dim light, Charles put on his best voice. "Quite alright. You can head on back downstairs now."
"On account of the yelling I heard from outside the kitchen, I don't think so." He climbed up three more stairs before spinning on his heels and sitting down on the landing. He leaned back on his hands, eyes trained on the stain-glass window across from them. "Wanna talk about it?"
Charles looked at the side of the man's face. His hairline was speckled with gray and the corners of his eyes housed wrinkles; but he looked not much older than Charles. He tried to place where he'd seen him before — a child of a friend of his mother or another businessman associated with his father or maybe…
"Oh, god," Charles groaned, "I hit you with the kitchen door, didn't I?"
"Slammed me right in the chest, yeah."
"Shit, I am so sorry."
A sideways grin flickered on the man's face. "Don't worry about it. Not the first time, won't be the last. Happens because I'm nosy."
Charles stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them. "Hold on, you were eavesdropping? A personal conversation with my sister and you were listening in through the kitchen door?" He couldn't stop his voice from raising.
The man turned his head to the side, catching Charles' eyes in the shadows. "In my defense, you looked like shit when you walked into the party, and truthfully, I wanted to make sure you were okay."
Charles curved his back a bit, made himself smaller. He laughed nervously to cover it. "Why do you care?"
The man looked forward again. "Because if I went through what you did, I'd want someone to check up on me."
The hairs on Charles' neck raised, and his hands turned clammy. All of his worse fears were coming true sitting in the place where he was supposed to be safe — everyone knew, and even worse, everyone judged him, pitied him, probably even hated him. He could take it from his family, but neighbors? strangers? All their eyes staring at him when he walked in were just judging him, judging him, judging—
"Hey, hey, relax, I'm sorry," the man's voice cut through Charles' unbridled thoughts.
A hand rested on his knee, warming his shivering body. Charles gasped out, struggling to breath; and suddenly, he was engulfed by warmth. His cheek pressed against soft cloth, and through every weak breath, Charles smelled smoke and rose and oud; it felt like the air after a thunderstorm, warm and dewy. Fingers rubbed up and down the top of his spine, and his racing heartbeat eased. He sighed into the man's chest.
After seconds, minutes, hours, Charles couldn't tell, his eyes flickered open at the sound of laughter from downstairs. His eyelashes brushed against cloth and his head moved to the steady rhythm of breathing; and Charles stiffened, remembering where he was.
"Shh, it's alright," the man said, his hand still rubbing soothing circles on Charles' back.
"I shouldn't…" Charles squirmed.
"Just relax please. I know a thing or two about panic attacks, and right now, your body just needs to relax. So let it." Charles didn't have it in him, so he relinquished his fight and melted back into the man's warmth. "That's it," the man soothed.
They sat in silence for a while, Charles breathing in the man's cologne while he just held Charles with no strings attached. Charles didn't even know his name, didn't know a thing about him; and yet the man gave Charles more comfort than anyone in these past six months. For the briefest of moments, he felt like he could breath, and the fog cleared to leave behind just enough clarity to answer the man's second question.
"I killed someone." Charles let the words sit there echoing in his head on repeat, and for once, there was no malice behind it — just a statement of fact. So Charles continued. "Her name was Ella. She was thirty-five, married with no kids. She had a dog and two cats, and she was getting her doctorate in bioengineering. She passed her qualifying exam, so she was out late celebrating with her husband and friends. I was driving back home from a house party, completely drunk with Raven in the passenger seat. I veered off the road and hit her on the sidewalk. I was going fifty in a twenty-five, and she died before the ambulance arrived."
The man's chest rose and fell with every breath he took, his heart beating steady despite the admission. He'd probably heard it before — the whole town and every neighboring town knew, maybe even the whole state of New York — but still, it felt good to say it out loud. So Charles got it off his chest instead of letting it rattle around and decay in there.
"I wanted the cop to arrest me right there, toss me in a fucking cell and throw away the key. But before I was even printed and booked, my mother was there. She talked to every single officer in that precinct and made sure to get me out of there before the cell door even opened. By the time my hearing came around, I was given a lesser sentence — only a fine of fifteen grand, no jail time. My mother paid it right then and there in the courtroom. Fifteen thousand dollars for a woman's life — how the fuck is that fair?"
"It isn't," the man said, his voice barely a whisper.
"It isn't," Charles muttered. He shook his head in the man's chest, closing his eyes. "And everyone expects me to be myself again after it, like I can just walk away from that. I took someone's life. A woman is buried in the ground because of my reckless actions, and I can't shake it. I don't think I'll ever be able to, yet my sister, my mother, everyone else seems to have carried on." He croaked out through tears, "I'll never be the same again."
"You won't." Hearing those two words chipped off part of the shell Charles had been living in for six months. The words that followed nearly shattered it altogether. "And that's okay. Because one day you'll become someone you like again. It might take a few more weeks, maybe six more months, hell, even a couple years. But one day in the future, you'll be you again — different, changed, but still you."
Charles peaked up at him. "You have quite a way with words."
He looked down at Charles with a smile. "Let's just say I have an older sister who is incredibly well-adjusted, and her advice brushes off on me sometimes. I'm awful at taking support, but giving it? I'm great."
"Well, I appreciated this more than you'll ever know." Charles leaned away, and the man took his arm back. The moment ended, but a new one started; and Charles felt lighter than he had in months.
"Glad I could help in someway, even if it was just to talk." The man stood up, brushing out the wrinkles in his pants. "My name's Erik by the way."
"I'm Charles." He smirked. "But I feel like you already knew that."
Erik gave a sideways grin. "Maybe, but it's nice to be formally introduced." He held out his hand, pulling Charles to his feet.
From the sliver of moonlight coming in through the upstairs window, Charles made out the gray-blue hue of Erik's eyes. He found he liked looking at Erik's eyes. "Would you like to get out of here?"
"Absolutely. Your father may have invited me because we work together, but this crowd is not the kind of people I like to socialize with." Erik dug in his pant pocket and pulled out his keys. "I'll drive?"
Charles blinked through the happy tears welling in his eyes. "You'll drive."
*****
The dial tone rang in Charles' ear, his cellphone sandwiched between his shoulder and the side of his head. He counted them out — one, two, three — before Erik sent him to voicemail.
"Look," Charles started, "I know you said to leave you alone for the night, and I know this is my punishment for coming home the way I did. But baby, c'mon, you've gotta give me a second chance here. It was one slip up, and I've been so good for the past few months." He scrubbed his hand down his face and let out a nervous laugh. "Even to my ears, that sounds like complete bullshit."
Charles twisted his glass on the bar, the amber liquid swishing around and nearly splashing out. "I haven't been good, fuck, I know, okay? But I'm begging you to not hold this against me. I can do it, I can get back on track, I did it before and I'll do it again. Just let me come home, baby. Just pick up the phone and tell me I can come home."
He held out on the line, just listening to his heart beat and the light chatter of voices in the bar, until the voicemail cut off and the call disconnected. Charles shoved his phone in his pocket and slouched back into his seat. He rung both hands around his glass, spinning it and spinning it and spinning until the room grew fuzzy along the edges and a lump swelled up in his throat. He threw the glass back and swallowed the liquid in one swoop, the lump going down with it.
The bartender came out of his corner, open liquor bottle in hand. "What another one?"
Charles shook his head, not trusting his voice to say the right answer. The bartender gave him a nod and reshelfed the bottle. Burning a hole in his pocket, Charles pulled his phone back out, checking once, twice, three times for a return message from Erik. But there was nothing but the time — quarter past midnight — staring back at him. Three hours of ignored phone calls and desperate pleas, all of them amounted to nothing.
With nowhere to go, Charles put his phone back and tapped the glass on the counter. "Hey, I'll have another."
The bartender snagged the bottle off the shelf and poured a single. Charles waved his finger, and the man kept pouring. He stopped after a little more than a double was in the glass, and like he did for the past hour or so, Charles drank it down. The liquor warmed him all over, like a friend placing a heavy blanket over him on a cold winter's night. It comforted him, told him everything would be alright if he just let go, if he just took another drink…
Charles pinched his eyes shut. He saw Erik in the darkness, saw how pissed he was, how he ripped his keys from his hand, how he hissed at him to leave. The lump in his throat came back, but instead of washing it down, Charles let it settle in his chest. He opened his eyes to a wall of bottles, each one of them staring back at him, begging him for just one sip.
He ripped his wallet from his other pocket, slammed down more than enough cash, and pushed off the bar counter.
It was cold outside. A slight wind from an incoming storm brushed Charles' hair back. The streets were empty save for a few people stumbling out of bars. He saw himself reflected back in them, and a shiver shook through his body. He wasn't that person, he couldn't be, he wouldn't…
Charles pulled his phone out and dialed Erik's number. It rang once, and then, he caught a voice recording. "Fuck," Charles shouted, his hand hitting the wall. "Erik, please, for fuck's sake, answer me. I know you're awake, I know you're screening my calls — just fucking answer, please."
He hung up and stuffed his phone, only to get bumped by someone leaving the bar. The guy muttered something about moving, and Charles snapped. He spun around, his clenched fist level with the man's eyes. His arm muscle twitched but didn't lunge forward.
The guy tossed his hands in the air and side-stepped. "Calm down, buddy." He continued down the sidewalk with a grumble. "You're fucking crazy, man."
Charles dropped his arm and pressed his back against the wall. He knocked his head on the bricks — he lost his temper, he cursed too much, he fucked it, he fucked it. Charles pinched the bridge of his nose as the world tilted a bit. He tried to piece together the right combination of words to get Erik to answer.
His phone stared back at him as he dialed. Charles didn't even have the chance to hear the dial tone before Erik's voicemail greeted him again. "Erik, please, baby, I'm begging you. I'm sorry I lost my temper, I'm just missing you and I'm worried about us. I'll stop bugging you if you answer. Just let me hear your voice, baby, plea—"
"Excuse me."
Charles put his finger up to quiet a man who came up to him. "Could you please? I'm on the phone."
"I see that," he said, stepping into Charles' space. "But you're also disturbing the patrons of this bar."
Charles laughed. "You know what, man? Why don't you just fuck off, yeah?"
"That's not gonna work for me, buddy, c'mon." The man grabbed Charles' forearm.
"Get the fuck off me." Charles pulled the phone away from his ear and shoved him.
The man stayed steady on his feet and gripped Charles' wrist. "Alright, that's enough." With his other hand, he grabbed Charles' arm and twisted him in place. Charles' phone clattered to the ground as his face was slammed into the wall. "You're gonna sleep it off downtown." The cool touch of metal wrapped around one wrist, then the other.
"What the fuck?" Charles twisted his neck to take a good look at the guy behind him, and sure enough, his badge was looking right back at him. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
"Not kidding." The cop grabbed him by the handcuffs and yanked him off the wall. "I could charge you with disturbing the peace and assaulting an officer, but you caught me on a good night." He spun Charles around and shoved him down the sidewalk to where his car was parked.
"Wait, wait, wait, wait, my phone." Charles craned his neck, looking back at his phone lying on the ground by the bar. "I need my phone, I was calling someone, I—"
"You're gonna take a seat in my car, I'll collect your phone, and then, we'll take a nice, calm drive to the precinct."
Charles stumbled to the cruiser, and the officer ducked Charles' head in the backseat. The cop shut the door, and Charles slammed his face up against the window. The officer kept true on his promise and grabbed Charles' phone, hanging up the call that he never ended. By the time the cop climbed in the front seat, Charles was frantic.
"You've gotta let me call my husband. I was leaving him a message and he probably heard all that and he's gonna be a nervous wreck. He worries, you know, and I gotta—"
The cop held his hand up and eyed Charles in the rear-view mirror. "Buddy, there's not gonna be a phone call now. You can give him a call when we get downtown and get you booked, not a moment sooner, understood?"
"No, no, no, no," Charles begged, his forehead pressed against the plexiglass divider. "He might be asleep by then. You see, he's awake now, and if I catch him at the right time—"
"What part of no do you not understand?"
"Fuck!" Charles slammed his back against the seat. "I'll give you anything you want. Get my blood alcohol, book me, throw me in the cell. I'll kiss your fucking badge, recite the pledge of allegiance, anything. I'm just asking for one thing, just one fucking thing. He's literally all I have, you don't understand. I've fucked up so much tonight, and I'm gonna lose him if I don't—"
"Holy shit, alright, calm down, calm down." The cop picked up his cruiser phone. "What's your husband's name?"
"Erik," Charles said breathlessly. "His name's Erik."
"What's his number?"
Charles recited it by heart. Even if Erik didn't answer, he could still leave him a message. This would be the one that would sway Erik, that would make him see that Charles can fix it, fix everything. Charles waited for the voicemail — one, two, three rings and then his voice message—
"Hello?" Erik's voice filled up the car, and Charles lunged forward in his seat.
The cop threw his hand up, silencing him. "Hello, am I speaking to Erik?"
"You are." There was a harshness to his tone. "Who am I speaking to?"
"This is Officer O'Neil of the New York City Police Department. Sorry to bother you this evening, sir, but I'm calling on behalf of your husband."
A breath came through the receiver. "Is he okay?"
"He's fine, a little intoxicated but fine. He was creating a bit of a public disturbance outside of a bar, but I have him in my custody now. I was planning on bringing him down to the precinct to sleep it off, but I'm more than happy to not book him and drive him home to you. He just seems a bit troubled, and he's awfully anxious to make sure you—"
"Let him sleep it off." And the line disconnected.
Charles slowly sat back in his seat while the officer hung the phone up. He glanced back at Charles through the rear-view. "Precinct it is." He looked empathetic, how odd and undeserved.
He started the engine, and they peeled down the main road. The cop took a turn, and Charles fell to the right. His cheek hit the window, and he didn't make an effort to move. His breath fogged up the glass and his eyes started to sting and his shoulders burned in this sockets, but he reasoned it was part of his punishment. He deserved to feel this way, deserved to feel empty and alone. Hell, he definitely didn't deserve his husband, that much was true. Didn't deserve the kindness he paid him that night, didn't deserve the life they made together, didn't deserve every morning after where Erik forgave him again and again and again and…
They came to a stop, and the officer threw the car in park. He got out, walked around the car, and popped open Charles' door. He slid down the glass and would have fallen out of the car if it weren't for the cop grabbing him.
"Alright, buddy, pull yourself together, c'mon." He held him steady while Charles went through the motions — lift right leg out of car, set it down; lift left leg out, put it down; engage muscles, stand up. He stumbled into Officer O'Neil, his balance shot and his eyes blurry. "You're alright, I gotcha." He slammed the door shut and held Charles by his bicep. "Let's go."
It was a short walk followed by ungodly bright lights. Charles flinched at the voices greeting them and the heavy door swinging open to let them into booking. Someone asked him about his identification, and Charles looked down at this pocket.
Once they had what they needed, another officer told him to stand on a red dot, and a flash of light blinded him. Black ink then stained his fingers, a mark Charles never forgot, before Officer O'Neil carted him down the hallway and towards the waiting cells. Keys jingled in his hand as he opened the third cell on the right and escorted Charles in. He took off his handcuffs and sat him down on the hard cot along the back wall.
"It's a little before one in the morning," the cop started. "So by seven or eight, I'll come back, see how you are, and work on getting you out of here, okay?"
Charles just stared at the concrete floor, empty and alone, empty and alone.
"Alright, then." The barred door latched shut, and the officer's footfalls disappeared down the hallway.
Charles laid down facing the wall and curled up in on himself. His shoulder dug into the uncomfortable cot and his neck strained from the flat pillow, but he counted his blessings — at least he didn't have to figure out where he was sleeping tonight. His plan to sleep at home despite everything fell through. He couldn't even get his husband to talk to him. Erik just…
"He hung up," Charles muttered, tears dripping onto the sweat-stained pillow. "He just hung up without even…" He pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. "He didn't even care, he…"
Charles' murmurs turned into thoughts turned into nightmares when he finally slipped into sleep. All he saw in his mind was Erik's face, red hot with anger, eyes boring holes into Charles' heart. And falling from Charles' mouth was a different flavor of the same excuse he had every time — it was a work event, everyone was drinking; it was a party with friends, of course there were drinks; it was a rough day, just a quick stop at the bar. Nearly five year ago, Erik gave him the space to find himself again, and Charles blew it all with a sip at three years sober.
Minutes passed, hours passed, Charles didn't know, before the sound of keys rattling startled him awake. Charles groaned into the pillow, feeling just as drunk as he did when he laid down. The door squeaked open, and someone cleared their throat behind him.
"Looks like you're getting out of here, Charles," Officer O'Neil announced quietly.
"M'not sober," Charles muttered, his cheek squished in the pillow.
"Oh, I know. Doesn't matter. Get on up."
A hand wrapped around his bicep and tugged him up. Charles went with a groan, swinging his feet around and setting them on the concrete. The cop brought him to stand, and Charles blinked through a sleep-addled state to see…
"Erik?"
Standing in the hallway, Erik stared at Charles, eyes dark and drawn. Their daughter Jean was fast asleep in Erik's embrace, her arms draped around his neck and her legs tucked around his waist. For the briefest of moments, Erik's facade faltered, but it walled back up just as quickly. Charles wasn't forgiven, might never be forgiven again, but it was a start.
Officer O'Neil gave Charles his things on the way out, and he and Erik left the precinct in silence. Charles was unsteady, but he watched every footfall in hopes that Erik wouldn't know how much he drank. But he feared that ship had long since sailed.
Charles got in the passenger seat of their car while Erik buckled Jean in the backseat. She mumbled something, and out of the corner of his eye, Charles saw Erik tuck some hair behind her ear, kiss her on the forehead. Charles warmed but froze right after when Erik entered the driver's side without a word. He started the car and slowly pulled out of the parking lot, and the two of them said nothing the whole ride home, only listened to the sounds of Jean's light snoring and rubber on asphalt.
When Erik parked the car on their street, he paid no mind to Charles, simply picked up Jean and went inside. Charles sat in the car for a few more minutes, the world rotating a little too quickly on its axis. He thought back to the perfect combination of words he could throw together to make Erik understand; but his drunken mind arrived only at a two-word apology.
By the time Charles made it into the house, Erik had put Jean to bed and was now in the kitchen cleaning the countertops. Erik always cleaned whenever he was frustrated or whenever he needed to think; so Charles entered the kitchen with hopes of getting a glimpse into Erik's thoughts. But instead, he received a curt command.
"Go to bed, Charles."
"But I—"
Erik stopped cleaning. "I said go to bed."
"Baby…"
Erik gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles turning while. "Don't."
Charles held his tongue and went to bed, passing out in the clothes he had on. Sometime in the middle of the night, Charles dreamed his itchy clothes coming off and being replaced by a soft shirt and pants. Gentle hands moved him under the covers and brushed his hair back, leaving a kiss on his forehead just like Jeanie. And he swore the cloud he was laying on gave way on one side as someone else fell asleep next to him; but by the time he tried to chase the sensation, Charles slipped into a deeper sleep.
The smell of coffee woke him. It was bitter and slightly burnt, but it reminded him of Erik. Charles rolled over in bed, his face hitting Erik's empty pillow, and he breathed in. It was Erik — it was his shampoo and his cologne and his body odor — and it was the most beautiful thing to Charles. If he could bottle it up and drink it every morning, he would, drunk on his husband instead of the icy liquid that bit his veins.
Charles sighed. If only it was that easy.
He pushed up and out of bed. He eyed their bedside clock — seven in the morning — before padding out of the bedroom and down the hall. Jean's bedroom door was still shut, and Charles rounded the corner and headed downstairs. He felt better, his mind clearer, but any thought of conversation slipped his mind the moment he saw Erik standing the kitchen, his back to Charles, just like before.
He took one step at a time, and his footfalls on the kitchen tile alerted Erik of his presence. He stopped dead in his tracks as Erik turned around, cup of coffee in his hand. He looked different this morning, eyes less harsh but altogether tired. Charles wanted to wipe it all away, but he didn't dare cross the kitchen.
Before taking a sip of coffee, Erik gestured to the kitchen table with his mug. Charles saw a cup poured for him — an offering of eventual peace, he hoped. Charles took his usual seat at the table and wrapped his hands around the hot cup. It warmed the chill at the base of his spine.
Erik set his mug down on the counter and closed the distance between them. Charles watched him, waited for his next move with a nervous heart, and instead of speaking, Erik opened his closed fist and dropped its contents onto the table in front of Charles.
Two aspirin and his one day sober coin.
Charles opened his mouth to speak, to say anything, but the patter of Jean's feet coming down the stairs silenced any chance. Erik turned around, collecting his coffee again, while Charles pocketed his coin. Jean raced in the kitchen, red locks spilling behind her, and jumped straight into Charles' arms. He gave her a big kiss on the cheek as he tucked away last night. And as Charles looked past Jean to Erik, leaning against the counter with a soft smile on his face, he knew that Erik tucked away last night, too.