Darling boy

chapter 4

Charlie woke up to the gray light of early morning seeping through the thin curtains. His head throbbed, and his body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. He blinked at the ceiling, the events of the previous night coming back in sharp flashes—the bar, William's hand on his wrist, the way his heart had pounded in his chest as if it were trying to escape.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand and was greeted by a cascade of notifications. There were countless unread texts from William—long strings of messages sent at all hours, some coherent, others less so. "Where did you go?" one read. "You didn't have to run off like that." The tone shifted between worried, apologetic, even angry. "Just let me know if you're okay."

Not a word of it had been mentioned in the band's group chat. William had kept it private, kept it just between them. But there was a weight to the texts that Charlie wasn't sure he could bear. He didn't want anyone's pity, least of all from William.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he typed out a simple reply: "Forget about it."

It was easier to brush it off, to pretend it hadn't happened. To go back to being the quiet one who never asked for anything. He tossed the phone aside, the faint vibration of more incoming messages buzzing in the back of his mind as he lay there, staring blankly at the cracks in the ceiling.

He fought with himself all morning over whether or not to show up to rehearsal. He'd been absent too much lately, and there was only so long he could keep making excuses before Nathan started breathing down his neck. But the thought of facing William—or any of them, really—after the previous night filled him with a kind of dread that settled deep in his gut.

In the end, routine won out. He dressed in his usual armor—another oversized hoodie, low-rise jeans that clung to his thin frame, and worn-out sneakers that felt familiar underfoot. The mirror reflected a pale, exhausted boy who barely looked like he had the strength to carry a guitar, let alone play one. But it was better than staying in that apartment, drowning in the silence and the suffocating weight of his thoughts.

When he arrived at the rehearsal space, the others were already there. Damon and Dean were messing around with their gear, laughing over some inside joke. Sebastian and Tara were in a quiet conversation off to the side, their voices low and affectionate. And then there was William, standing near the amps, his gaze flickering towards the doorway as Charlie walked in.

Charlie gave a half-hearted nod of acknowledgment to no one in particular, keeping his head down as he set up his guitar. The room was filled with the usual background noise—strings being tuned, the clatter of equipment—but to Charlie, it felt like an amplified version of his own nervous heartbeat. He could feel William's eyes on him, the unspoken tension that had not yet found a place to settle.

He strummed a few chords, letting the vibrations flow through him like a static charge. It was grounding in a way, that familiar hum. But even as he played, he could feel the pressure building behind his eyes, a kind of dull throbbing that didn't quite go away.

And then, suddenly, there was a warm trickle from his nose. He blinked in confusion, reaching up to touch his upper lip and pulling his hand back to find it smeared with blood.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, quickly setting his guitar down. "I'll be back in a minute," he said to no one in particular, turning on his heel and heading towards the bathroom before anyone could ask questions.

But William wasn't one to let things go. He followed Charlie without hesitation, catching the bathroom door just before it swung shut.

Inside the narrow, dimly lit bathroom, Charlie was hunched over the sink, one hand pinching his nose, the other bracing himself against the countertop. The sharp scent of metal filled his nostrils as the blood trickled down into the porcelain basin, staining the white with dark red smudges.

"What are you doing here?" Charlie asked, his voice muffled by his own hand. There was a faint note of irritation in it, but it was undercut by a deeper weariness.

William leaned against the door, crossing his arms as he watched Charlie. "What do you think?" he said, his tone carrying a hint of frustration. "You ran off last night, now you're bleeding all over the place. You can't expect me not to notice."

Charlie let out a sharp exhale through his nose, wincing as the motion sent another small stream of blood trickling from his nostril. "I'm fine," he said, though the word sounded unconvincing even to him. "Just give me a minute."

William stepped closer, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a crumpled tissue. "Here," he said, handing it to Charlie. There was something uncharacteristically gentle in his movements, a kind of cautiousness that Charlie wasn't used to seeing in him.

"I don't need—" Charlie started, but William cut him off, pressing the tissue into his hand.

"Just take it," William said, his voice low. "You're not fine, and I'm not going to just stand here and watch you pretend you are."

Reluctantly, Charlie accepted the tissue and wiped at his nose, his gaze averted from William's. "Why do you care so much?" he muttered, more to himself than to the other boy.

William's jaw tightened. "Because I'm not blind," he said. "And you're clearly not okay."

For a moment, the only sound in the small bathroom was the drip of water from a leaky faucet. Charlie could feel the frustration rising in his chest, but it was mingled with something else—something that felt dangerously close to gratitude, and he wasn't sure how to deal with it.

He dabbed at his nose again, then glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, his cheeks pale, the faintest tremor in his hands betraying him. He hated this—this feeling of being seen, of being cared for when he didn't know how to accept it.

"You should go back," he said quietly, his voice raw. "The others are waiting."

William shook his head. "Not until you do," he replied. "You look like you're about to collapse."

Charlie's grip tightened on the edge of the sink, his knuckles whitening. "I just need a minute," he repeated, but his voice lacked the firmness he wanted it to have. He felt the tension bleeding out of him, leaving behind a kind of hollow exhaustion. "I'll be fine."

"Sure," William said, the skepticism in his voice clear. He reached out again, his hand resting lightly on Charlie's shoulder. "Just...go home, alright? Take the day off. You've been pushing yourself too hard."

The touch was gentle but steady, and for a second, Charlie didn't know how to respond. It felt strange, but not unpleasant—like there was something fragile and human in the way William's fingers lingered on his shoulder, something that Charlie hadn't felt in a long time.

He pulled away, the motion sudden and awkward. "I'm not a child," he said, a bit too sharply. "I don't need a babysitter."

William's hand dropped back to his side, and his expression hardened slightly. "I'm not trying to babysit you," he replied, his tone clipped. "But if you keep pushing yourself like this, you're gonna end up in the hospital. Just think about it, okay?"

Without waiting for a response, William turned and walked out of the bathroom, leaving the door ajar behind him.

Charlie stood there for a long moment, staring at his own reflection in the mirror—the faded boy in the hoodie with the bloodied tissue clutched in his hand. His mind was still numb, his body aching with fatigue, but somewhere beneath all that was a faint stirring of something else. A resentment, yes, but also a flicker of...something he wasn't ready to acknowledge.

He took a deep breath, dropped the tissue into the trash, and ran cold water over his face until the blood was gone. Then he walked out of the bathroom, each step heavy, his chest tightening with the unspoken weight of everything that had passed between them in those few tense minutes.

William was right—he wasn't fine. But for now, he would keep moving. Because that was all he knew how to do.