Shattered

Eleven

Charlie's POV

I stared at my knuckles, completely torn up and bruised and bloody. I had been at the gym since it opened, pushing myself to work harder and harder. I had forgotten to use boxing gloves when I used the punching bag, so now I was standing in the locker room with blood running down my hands and arms and desperately trying to wash it off.

"Afternoon, Winston." Dave Woods greeted as he came back from the showers.

"Is it?" I asked distractedly as I dried off my hands.

"Jesus, kid, what did you do to your hands?" He asked, and I shrugged before I left. It had been two days, and I hadn't talked to Steve since what happened. He hadn't had any shifts at the DX, and I'd been spending all of my time with my bandmates, practicing, or with Coach, training.

But on the bright side, I had saved enough money to rent an apartment. So I lied about my age and I was now living in a shitty part of town, in a shitty apartment. It was small and cramped, and all my furniture was from a thrift store, but it was home.

There was a couch in the living room, a mattress and an old dresser in the bedroom, and in the kitchen there was a fold-up table and some folding chairs and an old radio. I had my amp and bass in the living room as well, and my songwriting notebook was hidden under a couch cushion.

I had barely any cooking stuff, but I didn't really care. I was just glad to have a roof over my head and to be able to stop sleepin' on benches.

I would have to start working more shifts at the DX if I wanted to afford food. And I'd have to work harder to win at boxing matches.

.

"You're avoiding Steve." Soda called me our after work three days later.

"Hm, am I?" I replied, ducking under his arm to get out the door.

"Why?" He demanded, following me.

"'Cause." I said, lighting a cigarette. Soda took it out of my mouth and I glared at him, but he didn't back down.

"Why, Charlie?"

"Because, Soda." I retorted, walking faster. "What do you care, anyway?"

"'Cause you're both my best friends, and Steve is sad that you ain't talkin' to him. And I, sad that you're not talking 'cause I miss hanging out with you both." He actually looked sad when he said that.

"Fine." I sighed. "Alright. I'll talk to him."

"Right now?" Soda beamed.

"Tonight." I replied, and he nodded.

"I'm holdin' you to that."

"Alright," I sighed, running a hand through my hair. Recently, I'd stopped greasing my hair and just kept it combed back.

.

That night, I called Steve from my apartment.

"Hello?"

"It's Charlie."

"Charlie? Where are you callin' from?"

"My apartment."

"Since when- alright. Okay."

"We need to talk." I leaned against the wall and bit my lip while I awaited his response. There was a beat of silence.

"Okay."

I gave him my address and he promised to be over soon. I lit a cigarette as I laid on the couch, staring up at the ceiling while my mind raced with what I would say to him.

When I heard him knock on the door, I almost fell off the couch, but caught myself.

"Hey." I greeted, stepping back so he could come in.

"Nice place." He half grinned.

"Thanks." I closed the door behind him. We were both silent for a moment, and I felt tears prick at my eyes. "I'm sorry. I fucked everything up, I ruined-"

Steve grabbed my face and looked me in the eye. "Hey. Shh. It's okay. You didn't mess anything up, alright?"

"I- I didn't?"

He kissed me, and it was everything I ever imagined.

When he pulled away, it was hard to mask my disappointment. Steve laughed when he saw my face. "Sorry, babe."

I smiled slightly. "D'you wanna spend the night?"

"Sure. My old man don't care, anyhow."

He borrowed some of my clothes, which were too big for him, but oh well.