Requiem [COMPLETED]

Nothing Good Happens After Drinking, Midnight, or Acting on Good Intentions

[Above is a rough approximation of what Charlie looks like, minus glasses]

What followed—well, here is what I've managed to piece together from talking to Charlie and Stan, and the few things my brother has admitted about that night. And some of it is purely my own supposition.

The bar was crowded when they arrived. Sven had told me he'd just hoped the evening would consist of people mostly leaving him alone and him spending as much time with Charlie as possible. He wasn't hard to find. Charlie loved people, loved crowds, loved talking. He looked like nothing so much as a banker that night with his argyle sweater vest, buttoned-up shirt, and gold-rimmed glasses. Charlie spotted him; he seemed momentarily stunned at seeing Sven. He probably wondered if it was a mirage or a doppelganger at first.

My brother was drawing a lot of general attention; he was the kind of guy if you saw around town you could picture flirting with a cute girl at a party and drinking shitty beer, knocking the heel of one of his worn boots against the floor in an "aw shucks" way when she started to try and pick him up. In the tight black shirt he looked more muscular (and uncomfortable), looked older. Charlie surged through people towards him, hesitating as he registered Leif's hovering presence. Confusion and then irritation flashed across Charlie's face. Sven regretted that he hadn't come on his own.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Hey," chimed in Leif last, missing the delicate touch of reticence in Sven, the coldness of Charlie. "So who's coming tonight?"

* * *

What lead up to this moment had started over a year ago when Sven had crashed at Charlie's before he made enough money and found an apartment for us... There had been too many moments to count, Charlie in boxer briefs, or Charlie hugging him, or Charlie and him in close quarters brushing past each other, reaching for a toothbrush or something out of the fridge.

"Sven," Chuck called out from the kitchen, "did you—there's no possible way you—where's the coffee?"

"I drank it all, sorry."

"No, I mean the bag, not what was in the carafe." After a drawn out silence Chuck yelled, SVEN! SERIOUSLY?!

Sven strolled around the corner, his too-loose jeans slowly sliding down his hips, rubbing his eyes. "I was filling out job applications until late last night—I kinda lost track of time."

"Damn it, Trosvig. You're gonna kill yourself ingesting that much caffeine!"

"Honestly, how can you not already know this about me after growing up together? I can drink an entire pot of coffee and still go straight to sleep."

"And this is just one example of what is fundamentally wrong with you as a person," Chuck replied. "Just because you can doesn't mean you should—" Chuck found himself tongue-tied as Sven caught his jeans before they completely fell down and hoisted them back up on his hips, not before Chuck saw the clefts of muscle outlining the divide between his lower abs and hips—that wonderful V that one could only get from regular exercise. As well as the trail of dark hair running from his belly button down as it started to widen right above...Damn. Was Chuck seeing things or...

"Sven, why don't you have underwear on?"

He shrugged, his sleek muscles shifting across his shirtless body. "Why do we have to wear smaller, secret shorts under normal shorts or pants? Unless it's fucking cold what is the point in layering?"

"Without another layer those jeans are going to fall off."

"I was going to ask, can I borrow a belt from you?"