In The Punch Line

4∆4

Charles Seymour was unreasonably good at giving foot rubs.

For about the eighth time in the course of the train ride, Eugene told himself what a terrible idea that had been. On one hand, he felt vaguely grateful to Carl Garcia for letting him discover this. But on the other, this was quickly getting out of hand. He had very nearly just made an embarrassing noise.

"Your turn," he said, finally, removing his feet from Charles' lap. Charles shot him a vaguely nervous look.

"Carl's gone," Charles said.

"It's only fair," Eugene said.

"A-all right," Charles choked, removing his loafers. Eugene had no idea why he'd thought this idea was any better.

"So,  boyfriend, what do we fight about?" he asked, trying to take his mind off the way Charles seemed to have melted into the seat opposite the instant he'd laid hands on him.

Think of it as knitting.

He'd taken up knitting to stop smoking once. It had mainly worked.

"We--" Charles giggled. "I'm sorry, that tickles."

"Sorry."

"I didn't mean for you to stop."

"Oh."

"We fight about -- I'm messy. I'm always leaving coffee cups about."

"And you're never on time," Eugene said.

Charles grinned. "This is getting uncomfortably factual."

"I use all the hot water when I shower."

"I like Jane Austen novels."

"I can't stand Jane Austen novels."

"Why not?"

"Charlotte Bronte said they were a beautiful painting of a commonplace face."

Charles harrumphed faintly. "That misses the point," he said. "It's not meant to be an extraordinary face. That's like asking a portrait to be a  landscape. All the Brontes wrote were landscapes."

"Literature bluff. I thought you were a geneticist."

"I'm not only a geneticist," Charles said. "You aren't only a model."

"Being only a model would be a lot more boring than being only a geneticist," Eugene said.

"Not for most models," Charles said, shooting him a quizzical look Eugene found difficult to read. "I think you're fairly unique."

"What  do we call each other?" Eugene said, switching the subject, wishing that  Charles Seymour's quizzical wasn't such a perfect concatenation of wide eyes and parted soft lips.

"Eugene," Charles said. "And Charles. No code names. I thought we established that."

"I mean -- are you the 'darling' type? Or is it 'dear'? Or 'pooky?"

"It's certainly not pooky," Charles said. "That sounds like a contagious disease."

"Good."

Charles leaned back into the chair. "If you keep doing that I'm going to fall asleep," he murmured. "You're uncannily good."

"So're you."

"I appreciate your commitment to the role," Charles said.

Eugene decided to push his luck. "No need to be so formal, darling."

Charles chuckled. His laugh had a wonderfully warm sound to it. "You're a  better boyfriend than some of my real boyfriends," he said. "How on earth are you single? You're a phenomenal catch."

"I love your laugh," Eugene said as if that were an answer.

"I'm serious," Charles said, looking slightly puzzled.

"I'm apparently attractive to shallow men," Eugene said.

"Only want the package? Not interested in the contents?" Charles said, and then Charles was blushing and Eugene thought My God, this weekend is going to be torture.

"Precisely," he said. "How are you single?"

"Isn't it obvious enough?" Charles asked.

"Not from where I'm sitting," Eugene said, instantly cursing himself for the hackneyed choice of words. "You're cute, you're a genius, you're funny,  you give good foot rubs--"

"Shut up, dear," Charles said. "People  tell me I'm enough of an egomaniac as it is without the world's most  gorgeous man pumping me full of compliments."

"Hyperbole, Charles. I'm only the most gorgeous man in North America," Eugene said.

Then they were both laughing.

Charles yawned. He nodded off with his feet still in Eugene's lap and Erik didn't move for the next two hours.