Charlie

The last time Damon ever brought up kissing was a few days back. Since then, the subject had been dropped and we’d returned to our normal routines, the same routines we’d developed along the years in our friendship.

With Tommy coming and going to friends’ houses, and with Damon and I constantly busy with our own work, the idea of bringing up anything other than this routine sounded impossible. Damon also looked as if he’d paused writing for a short while, but at the same time he was always distracted by it.

Observing him, I noticed how much I did that in general. Observe him. It must’ve been rude of me, though I couldn’t help but be concerned when he plunged himself into his work.

Vera was correct when she said that she was worried about his views on love. He hardly talked about it, unless it had something to do with his writing. And although we were friends of ten years, his habit remained the same. Either he revealed too much, or he didn’t reveal anything at all. 

These days, I saw that he was at this certain stage, of hiding something from everyone and dwelling on it. I had to give him time, but I wished I knew what was troubling him.

Damon had become relaxed about working lately, so much that his tired eyes had turned a bit less sleepy and more calm about his deadline. It was a relief to see that he’d gotten rest.

We were sitting in our usual spots after getting off of work late. He was on the other side of the dining room table, while I took last minute looks at a few things I got in the mail.

He was in front of his laptop, knees tucked against his chest, as his arm rested on his knees, chin atop the top of his hand whilst his other tapped at the keyboard.

I set down a couple of papers to begin a conversation, but he was faster. Out of nowhere in our silence, he asked me, “ . . . what’s your favorite type of story?”

Sometimes Damon would ask the randomest of questions, though I knew how important they were. “I’d like to hear what your favorite type of story is, author.”

Damon’s eyes glowed from the computer screen as he looked up at me. “I thought you knew.”

“Vaguely.” I told him. “You write a lot of different things.”

He pursed his lips, deep in thought until, “I like love stories.”

“Me too.”

“Preferably when the characters are enemies, but then become lovers.” He said, smiling at me. I loved seeing his reaction when we spoke of things like this. “Or rivals. I love it when rivals fall in love.”

This went along with the fact that he was currently writing a book with the exact same setup. Again, I wasn’t sure if that was what he preferred in real life, or if he was simply talking about his preferences in writing.

He stared at me, waiting for my answer. I believe he’d asked me this once, though I hadn’t thought of it seriously like how I was doing so now.

I kept our eye contact as I replied, “Best friends to lovers.”

Damon

Best friends to lovers.

My question had backfired on me. It was too late to pull it back, since I’d already said it. At this point, all I could do was put on a poker face and hope to the gods that I didn’t reveal anything that could’ve hinted at how I felt towards him.

Charlie had given me such a straightforward answer, while I’d given one merely on the fact that I just . . . liked . . . enemies to lovers. . .

No matter how much I loved fanfiction, I couldn’t accept that I’d probably experience something similar to that. There was no way that would ever happen.

“O-Oh, yeah.” I averted my stare to drag my fingers along my keyboard distractingly. “That’s a . . . a great trope.”

“What is?”

I jumped slightly at the voice that’d appeared at my ear with this new question.

Charlie looked to his son, who had suddenly showed up at my side, watching us with confusion. He was wearing his usual jacket, the one he wore when we went out, with a backpack slung over one shoulder and his shoes on.

He caught me by surprise, but I was grateful for that. I could stop talking about tropes and finally calm down. Too many things were happening at once.

“Friends to lovers stories.” Charlie brought it up, again.

It was no use. I was doomed.

Tommy clapped once joyfully, “Oh! I love those. And stories with magic.”

“Like the novel Damon is writing?” His father asked.

“Yup!” He beamed.

I eyed his backpack, “Sleepover?”

He nodded happily, “The new boy in my class invited me over to his house again.”

“Is his mom downstairs?” Charlie checked his phone, which had been faced down on the table. “I’ll go right now—”

“Harris told me you already know his mom. So . . .” He placed a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Just walk me downstairs and come back up quickly. I’ll be okay.”

Charlie placed his own hand over his child’s and stood up, bending to look into his face. “I’ll walk you all the way to the car.”

Tommy glanced at me for a split second, as if contemplating something, and then eventually gave in to his dad's commands. “Fine.” He said, pulling on his father’s arm, “Let’s hurry.”

I gave the kid a small wave as Charlie made his way to the front door, holding Tommy’s hand. He was growing more and more every day, just like his dad. I was afraid that he would grow taller than me one day.

And I told myself that it’d be a long time since that would happen, but in reality kids grew very fast. If I blinked, he would probably already be graduating high school.

Sometimes I could get a little too sentimental. So when they closed the door as they left, I sighed somewhat sadly. It wasn’t too apparent how fast time could go by, especially when working on a novel. All I could think of was deadlines and chapters that needed to be written, whilst the days went by like nothing.

There weren’t enough hours in the week for me, honestly. Even if I thought that, I also was aware of how precious it was to spend my time happily. My joy, as I’d found, was here—with family, friends, and writing.

I wished I was better with words outside of story-telling, so that I could finally gather the courage to tell them that, as well as tell Charlie how much he meant to me . . . differently from what I felt before, and differently from how I felt towards other people.

But would he want that? I wanted to tell him anyway, just to let it out. We told each other so much through the years. There was no doubt in my mind that I had to let him know, even if he decided to reject me.

Dazedly, I stared at the front door, expecting to see Charlie come back.

He didn’t.

So, I closed my eyes and dug my face into my arms on the table surface, allowing every word I could think of in that moment to totally consume me, body and soul, to distract me from literally everything.

Charlie

There was an image of Damon that I had in mind. I saw him in many ways, but the one vivid picture I could readily recall was that of him at his computer, face down on the keys, either sleeping or having a crisis.

This was one of those occasions where I found him in that same position, only this time his computer was closed and pushed a bit far from him onto my side of the table. He never had a curfew, though it seemed like he was finished for the night.

I shut the door as silently as I could, just in case he’d fallen asleep, which was fruitless because he regarded me as I stood by his side, leaning partly on the table to look down at him. His eyes were watery, pink around the edges like he’d yawned or was close to sleep.

From this angle, all I wanted to do was reach out to him, to push back the hair that had fallen to his face, to wipe away the water that’d collected on his lashes. What would he say to that? Would he brush it off as something that I’d do as his friend? Or something else?

I refrained from doing any of that.

He took a look briefly at his laptop, “I should work.”

“You should rest.” I urged him lightly, placing a hand on the table to support myself.

Damon pouted. It was a thing he did when he was drowsy. “But—”

“But I’m worried you’re not getting enough sleep.” I told him, leaning closely to raise a brow at him. “There has to be another thing you can work on that won’t drain you.”

My advice wasn’t of any help. Any type of work drained you no matter what. And in Damon’s case, his career revolved around the fact that he had to constantly live in his fiction. At times I asked myself if he ever considered the world outside of books.

Almost like he read my concerns, he shook his head, “There are a lot of things I need to work on—chapters I paused because . . .” His words stopped.

“Because . . . you need inspiration?”

Damon hid his expression behind a sweater-paw hand. It wasn’t like him to leave a chapter unfinished. His editor was strict about their deadline.

“It’s the—the scene I—” He tried using his hands to explain, but then gave up. “You know what I’m talking about, Charlie . . .”

He didn’t want to say it, but I knew.

I knew it the moment he grew rigid. It was unusual because he never had a problem with those scenes. It was only recently that he began to grow weary of writing it.

There wasn’t a way I could help him with that. I wasn’t a writer. I was only his muse. And as a muse, I had to do my part differently than him.

His shoulders slumped, “Denice wants to see the kiss scene soon, but I haven’t written it.”

I slid his computer towards him. When he gazed at it, I recognized how much he wanted to write. Something was holding him back.

“Damon . . .”

His attention focused on me instead, “Yes?”

I offered once again, and I would do it a million times over, if that was what he needed to be happy. I just wanted to see him write—to see him do what he loved to do without worrying. “ . . . let me help you.”

Damon

He asked me once more, which was what I hoped he’d do. I could expect nothing less from my muse. I only wanted to know if he was doing this out of pity, or if he was forcing himself. If so, then I did not want that.

If he didn’t want to help me with this story reference, then he didn’t have to. I’d made it clear to him before, when I told him that he was my muse. There was no need to cross that boundary.

“Please do . . .” I said without thinking.

There I was for the millionth time, choosing to act on my selfishness. Though, part of it was important in creating. I had to put my real, genuine feelings into my stories, otherwise I’d be wasting people's time.

Charlie leaned down to my level, but I took his collar before he could attempt to start. When I got up from my seat, he stayed sitting against the table, waiting patiently for my orders.

This wasn’t the first time I’d asked him to act out a scene with me. The only difference was that this wasn’t just a simple piece of dialogue exchanged between two characters—no, this time it was an actual kiss.

I took his arm, sliding my hand down to latch onto his wrist and pull at him so that we could stand face to face. My characters had contrasting heights. It worked between Charlie and I, but in reality I found that he was much taller than I was. Too tall, actually.

Charlie brought his glasses away from his face, tousling at his hair with his fingers. It was a habit of his every time he got off of work. I knew this because I stared at him while he did it way too many times at this point.

I stopped myself from admiring at how attractive he was even without his glasses, just in time to bring him closer to the nearby living room wall with me.

He wasn’t confused anymore when I asked him to act out scenes. It was a practice that we did whenever we could. We were super busy with our own work already.

Closing my eyes, I let out a small, nervous laugh, “Charlie—I can’t believe I’m asking you to do this.”

Charlie looked really calm, like I had never asked him to kiss me. “You got this.” He assured me. “This’ll help you, right?”

It will surely make me fall for you more.

“Yeah . . .” My tone stayed as timid as ever. “It’s just . . . there’s a specific way I wanted them to . . .”

He listened intently.

I bit my lip as I muttered, “Do you—do you know how to, uh . . .”

How could I explain that this scene needed him to cage me against the wall with his arm? Kind of like a kabedon?

Internally, I cursed at myself for thinking of this scenario for the story. Though I wasn’t entirely at fault. My characters also had to take the blame for it too.

“Your . . .” I held his arm up to bring his hand on the wall behind me, near my left ear, while I steadied his other hand beneath my chin, lifting my head up to see him. In those short seconds, our proximity had mostly vanished into nothing. “Your hands need to be like . . . this.”

He examined our positions, “I like it so far.”

“I promise you’ll like it.” I guaranteed him. “I meant—the kiss scene . . . not—um—”

Charlie drew his fingers to the bangs near my eyes, pulling them back over my ear. He was giving me a small smile, warm, familiar, the kind of smile I’d seen him make over the years. “I know.”

To be honest, that alone was enough to make me want to write. But I was determined to do this! If not now, then when?

I stuttered, “G-Good.”

“What does Hallow do next?” His voice dropped low.

“Williams . . . first does this to Hallow.” I put my hand on his heart, to stop him from coming any closer. “He’s hesitant.”

Charlie took my fingers in his, interlocking them. “Then I’m guessing Hallow tries his best for them both.” He said, “Because of the love potion.”

“Correct.” I imagined the scene. “Williams—he takes Hallow’s jaw . . .” I mimicked that action, and brought myself closer to his shoulder, to dig my face into his white shirt.

This was the part where the first small kiss needed to happen. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t muster up the courage to tell him that. I stood there, latching onto him, praying that my heart wasn’t beating as loudly as I thought it was.

He slid his hand around my neck, cupping my face, “Damon?”

“I’m . . .” I frowned. “Charlie . . . I . . .”

“We can stop, but—” He pressed his nose to my temple, lips lingering there softly without sparing a moment. I thought he would kiss my forehead, but he drew himself back. “But I at least have to do that.”

I touched the place where he had been originally, and I tried to respond.

My ears were hot, probably red. “Don’t stop.”

A minute felt like it’d passed as I said that, and when the quietness finally broke, Charlie ruffled my hair. “Here . . .” He said.

The next thing he did, was in no way what I expected he'd do. 

He tilted his head, gradually, to place a chaste kiss to my neck, right below my ear, near my pulse.

When he did that, he took my waist with both hands steadily, pressing me against the wall as I clutched at his arms firmly.

Partly releasing my frozen body, he gave me that same smile. “A kiss for today.”

I opened my mouth to speak, though nothing could come out.

Oh no.

I'd—

I'd crossed the line . . . with my muse.