Darling boy

Chapter 6

When Charlie woke up later that evening, the light had dimmed to a faint dusk. William was still sitting by the bed, though his posture was more relaxed now, as if time had unraveled some of the tension from his shoulders. Charlie stirred, and the movement caught William's attention. Their eyes met for a brief moment, something unspoken hanging between them—a tentative thread that was neither entirely connection nor detachment.

"Feeling better?" William asked, his voice soft and a little guarded.

Charlie nodded slowly, though he wasn't sure how much better he actually felt. "Yeah," he said, his voice rough from sleep. "You didn't have to stay."

William shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You looked like you needed someone here," he replied simply. There was no pity in his voice, just a quiet acknowledgment that carried a weight of understanding. "Anyway, you should probably eat something. Drink some water."

As the minutes passed, Charlie could sense that William was waiting for the right moment to leave. Eventually, he rose from the chair and said his goodbyes, keeping his tone light and unassuming. He didn't push for anything more, didn't linger like he was expecting gratitude or conversation. When he left, the door closing softly behind him, the apartment felt hollow again, as though the silence had settled back in, wrapping itself around Charlie like an old habit.

Over the next few days, Charlie kept in touch with the band through the group chat, responding to their occasional messages and deflecting their concerns with half-hearted reassurances. "I'm fine," he'd write. "Just needed some time to rest." The lies were becoming automatic, the kind of responses he could give without thinking, without letting anyone see the cracks beneath the surface.

He spent most of his time near the window, smoking cigarette after cigarette, the gray smoke curling around his face in delicate wisps. The light from outside bathed him in a soft glow, giving him an angelic, almost ethereal look, his pale features illuminated by the dimming afternoon sun. But inside, he felt anything but heavenly. He was still raw, still reeling from the strange comfort of William's presence and the darker ache of his own self-destructive habits.

Meanwhile, the rest of the band had gathered at a local bar, a place with worn leather booths and old rock music humming through the speakers. Dean and Damon were at their usual spot near the back, their laughter echoing across the room as they exchanged jokes and half-remembered stories from past gigs. Sebastian sat close to Tara, her head resting on his shoulder as they chatted quietly, a small, contented smile on her lips.

William, for his part, had fallen into the easy rhythm of flirting, a drink in one hand and his gaze drifting over the room. He was already a little drunk, but he moved with that same natural confidence, the kind that drew people toward him even when his attention was scattered.

It was only when he turned back to the bar to order another drink that he saw a familiar figure across the room—a familiar mess of brown hair and the slouched posture of someone who was already more than a few drinks deep.

It was Charlie.

William blinked, half-thinking it was some kind of illusion, but no—there he was, tucked into a corner near the end of the bar, a half-empty glass in front of him. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes half-lidded as he took another sip, completely unaware that any of his bandmates were in the same place.

Charlie hadn't intended to end up there. He'd left his apartment with no real plan, just a restless need to get away from the stifling familiarity of his own solitude. One drink had led to another, and the world had grown pleasantly hazy, the rough edges of his thoughts softening with each swallow. But now, there was William, standing there looking at him like he wasn't supposed to be there, and something in Charlie's chest tightened.

"Charlie?" William called out, the hint of surprise cutting through his drunken slur as he made his way over. "What... are you doing here?"

Charlie glanced up, his vision swimming slightly. "Just... drinking," he mumbled, the words tumbling from his lips with a loose, unguarded quality. "You?"

"Same," William said with a crooked grin. "Guess we both needed a break, huh?"

The conversation flowed easily between them, carried on the undercurrent of alcohol that loosened their tongues. The usual guardedness had fallen away, replaced by a lightness, a kind of careless ease that came only when the world was spinning softly out of control. They joked, talked about nothing in particular, even laughed a little—something that felt strangely rare, even as the sound left Charlie's mouth.

At some point, they found themselves drifting toward an empty couch tucked into a dark corner of the bar, away from the noise and the crowd. William flopped down, his limbs sprawled lazily, and Charlie sank into the seat beside him, a comfortable warmth buzzing beneath his skin. He was drunker than he realized, his limbs heavy, his thoughts drifting in and out like the ebb of a tide.

It was then that his body seemed to move on its own, a subconscious seeking of warmth. Charlie leaned against William, his head resting on the other man's shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The heat radiating from William's body seemed to seep into him, dissolving some of the tension he carried. Without thinking, he found himself slipping his hands under the hem of William's shirt, the cool skin beneath his fingers anchoring him to the moment.

William stiffened, a sudden alertness breaking through his drunken stupor. He glanced down at Charlie, who was nuzzling against him with a strange mix of innocence and unconscious desire. For a moment, William didn't move, didn't breathe, caught off guard by the soft, almost childlike way Charlie clung to him. His hand moved to Charlie's back, not pulling him closer, not pushing him away—just resting there, unsure what to do.

It was only when he felt Charlie's hands wander a little too far up his torso, fingers tracing along his ribs, that William shook himself out of it. "Charlie," he murmured, his voice low and thick with an uneasy mix of concern and something else. "Wake up."

Charlie's eyes fluttered open, a confused glaze to his expression as he pulled back, blinking at William like he was seeing him for the first time. His cheeks flushed with sudden, overwhelming embarrassment, the realization of what he'd just done crashing down on him.

"I—I didn't..." He stammered, pulling his hands away as if he'd touched something burning. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" His voice trailed off, and he stumbled to his feet, swaying slightly.

"It's okay," William said quickly, though there was a tension in his voice, something that suggested it was anything but okay. "You're drunk. Just... take it easy."

But Charlie was already backing away, his face pale, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. "I'm... I should go," he mumbled, not meeting William's gaze. "I shouldn't... have—"

"Charlie, wait," William called after him, but it was too late. Charlie had already turned, weaving through the crowd toward the exit, his heart pounding in his chest, shame twisting like a knife in his gut.

Outside, the night air was cold, biting against his flushed skin as he staggered away from the bar. His mind was still spinning, the alcohol mixing with a deep sense of humiliation that left him feeling hollow. What had he been thinking? Touching William like that—acting like some desperate fool looking for comfort in all the wrong places.

He kept walking, his thoughts tumbling over each other, frantic and disordered. He didn't know what was worse—the fact that he had done it, or the fact that, for a brief moment, it had felt good. There was something about the warmth of William's body, the solid presence of him, that had made Charlie feel almost safe. And that, more than anything, terrified him.

He wrapped his arms around himself as he walked, the chill settling into his bones, sobering him just enough to feel the full weight of his own awkwardness. He had to put distance between himself and William. He had to get away before he made things worse. Before he let himself believe that any of this was anything more than a drunken mistake.