When Charlie got home after doing inventory, he smelled something delicious and heard something loud. Ordinarily he’d stand under a hot shower before he did anything else, to try and forestall the ache in his back, but he was drawn into the kitchen where he found Rye dancing and singing along to the blaring music he was playing, while maneuvering two pans on the stovetop.
“Hey!” he yelled. “I’m home.”
Rye jumped like a startled cat and clutched his heart as he sagged against the counter.
“Jesus fucking Christ, don’t scare me like that!”
“Jesus Christ himself could sneak up on you with your music that loud and you wouldn’t even notice.”
Rye made a face Charlie was learning meant he was both amused and irritated at his own amusement because he didn’t like what had been said. Charlie chose to focus on the amused part.
“What is that, anyway?”
“Riven.”
Charlie shrugged and Rye smirked.
“Why am I completely unsurprised that you’ve never heard of one of the most famous rock bands of the last ten years.”
Charlie shrugged again. Rye was right. Probably Jack knew the band, but Charlie’d never been very good at keeping up with popular culture, even when he was younger. It had simply never mattered much to him.
“What’re you making? Smells good.”
“Sesame peanut noodles and a mango avocado salad. I hope you like stuff spicy.”
Charlie wasn’t sure about that. The only spicy thing he could remember eating was a mistakenly selected flavor of beef jerky on a construction site years before.
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” he said. “Do I have time to take a shower?”
“Yeah I still have to fry the tofu.”
“Tofu.”
Rye rolled his eyes. “Go shower.”
Charlie emerged from a shower as hot as he could stand it feeling refreshed and starving. His stomach growled at the bowl of glistening noodles, veggies, and what he assumed was tofu, on the table.
“What is tofu?” he asked as Rye set a bowl of fragrant mango salad on the table and sat down next to him.
“Oh my god, seriously? It’s bean curd.”
“Oh. Thank you. For making this. It smells amazing.” Rye’s smile was a little shy and he busied himself serving the food. “For the record I know about tofu. I just didn’t know what it was made of.”
“Yeah, you’re clearly an aficionado.”
“Where’d you get it, though? And mango. Did they have all that stuff at Smith’s?”
“No, I drove to the Safeway.”
“Wow. Thanks,” Charlie said as Rye heaped noodles and salad on his plate.
Flavors exploded on his tongue—spicy and salty and sweet; hot and cold; the familiar taste of peanuts and the unfamiliar taste that must’ve been sesame. The contrast of the warm, soft noodles and the cold crunch of raw carrot and cucumber...the creamy sauce and the slap of spice. It was like nothing Charlie had ever eaten.
“Holy cow,” he said. His mouth tingled. He tried the mango and avocado salad, bright and limey and cool. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“I moved out when I was sixteen. Could never afford to eat out, so I had to learn to cook. I’ve lived with so many different people since then that I’ve learned dishes from a lot of them.”
Charlie took another bite. He must have been even more exhausted than he’d realized because the taste almost brought tears to his eyes.
It was complex and bright and alive.
He’d cooked five meals a week since he was eighteen and never experimented. Food had always been about fuel; about surviving. This food was about thriving.
“Why’d you move out at sixteen?”
Rye glared. Charlie was becoming familiar with the spectrum of his glares and was pretty sure this was a glare at whatever he was about to say rather than a glare at Charlie.
“My parents kind of...sucked?” he said—the Rye version of diplomacy. Charlie was pretty sure they’d have to do more than just suck to make Rye leave home.
“Yeah?”
Rye chewed his lip.
“My dad was—is—really not a nice person. He’s homophobic. Racist. Just a closed-minded bigot all around, actually. When I was fifteen, my dad saw me kiss my friend Jarrod. He flipped his lid.”
Rye didn’t elaborate, but his flinch told Charlie enough to hate Rye Janssen’s father.
“I wasn’t as... I didn’t tell him the truth. I told him I did it on a dare.”
Charlie realized Rye’s cringe had been partly for himself and his anger intensified.
“You were a kid and you were scared of your father.”
“I know. Still don’t like that I lied. Anyway, my mom never said shit about it to him, or to me. I’m not sure if she agreed with him or was scared of him or just didn’t care. My mom was...” Rye got a faraway look like he was picturing her. “She had some problems, I guess. A germophobe. But like, couldn’t use a plate without wiping it down with alcohol first. My dad would say something awful and she would start cleaning, like she could banish his shitiness with antibacterial soap or something.”
Rye was moving food around on his plate.
“When I was sixteen it just fell apart. I was so sick of hearing these awful things come out of my dad’s mouth. Awful things about me and my friends and about other people. I had this... I don’t know, I was worried if I stayed too long I might start to think like him or something. And then that year at Christmas, my mom kinda deteriorated.
“She started decorating our apartment in September and she would freak out if you touched any of the decorations, but they were everywhere and the place was really small. I tried to tell her that maybe she should talk to someone but she wouldn’t hear it. So I went to my dad. He, uh. Didn’t receive that well. Turned it on me. Basically said he would never let any wife of his see a therapist because only weak, crazy people see therapists, et cetera. And he told me to get out.”
Rye shrugged.
“I could have waited him out, probably. Stayed with a friend for a few weeks then gone home once his temper cooled. But it felt so bad there all the time. So one night after school I packed my shit and I left. I tried to get my mom to leave with me, but she just waved me off. I stayed with a friend for a little while, and then I just...”
He shrugged again, a gesture to say The rest is history.
Then, self-consciously, he said, “Anyway. That’s how I learned to cook.”
It was clear that Rye didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so Charlie just nodded and said, “I invited my brother and Simon over for dinner next weekend. Any chance I could convince you to cook?”
Rye nodded, looking relieved. “Sure.”
The turning of the lathe always gave Charlie time to think and tonight was no different. Usually it brought with it meditations on store problems he needed to solve, improvements he wished to undertake on his house, or worries about Jack. Now, though, he thought of Trevor.
What if Trevor hadn’t left? What if Trevor—and Trevor, understand, could be Trevor or another Trevor, or another—had been his? What if he’d had someone when the call came about Mom and Dad? What if, after he’d told Jack—so young, so scared, trying to act so tough—he’d been able to call someone and say, I’m scared? I’m too young and too scared and I have to act tough for Jack because now I’m all he has?
What if all these years he hadn’t been alone?
He tried to stop thinking, then, because ouch, fuck, but then, Rye prowled into his mind like a sleek cat. What did Rye think of this and what did Rye think of that and what would Rye look like spread out naked in Charlie’s bed, pointed chin tipped up to bare his throat as he screamed and screamed, body shaking with pleasure, and let Charlie see it? And where, where did that thought come from?
Charlie almost never thought about sex. He certainly didn’t think about having sex with people. But now Rye.
As if summoned by the thought, Rye padded into the woodshop, Jane and Marmot following. Jane rolled in the curls of wood on the floor as she usually did and Marmot darted around the room, sniffing this corner and pawing at that tool.
Rye hovered. Charlie tried very hard to ignore him.
It was hard to ignore someone who rearranged the very molecules of your being like a magnet did filings.
Like a third curious cat, Rye peered at the lathe.
“You make chair legs and shit?”
Charlie smiled at the image of his whole woodshop filled with thousands of chair legs.
“I make bowls mostly, but yes, this is the tool you’d turn chair legs on.”
He held up one of the bowls that was waiting for a coat of mineral oil.
“Wow.”
Rye touched the satiny wood with reverent fingertips.
“Can I try?”
Charlie imagined his fingers caught in the lathe, broken bones, spurts of blood. He blew out a breath, conjuring windshield wipers to clear those images from his mind.
“Sure,” he forced himself to say.
He clamped a chunk of scrap wood into the lathe and marked the center.
“It’s about the angle of approach. You’re the blade and you encounter the wood at different angles to change its shape into what you want.”
He handed Rye the roughing gauge and a pair of safety glasses, and set the handrest so the rotating wood cleared it.
“So if we’re gonna make a bowl, we start here.”
He reached around Rye, chest to Rye’s back, and held Rye’s hand at the correct angle.
“Anchor your hand here, hold the gauge steady, and when I start the lathe, just move in a little bit. We’ll just be taking the edge off.”
Rye nodded. His hair smelled like Charlie’s shampoo, but it smelled different on Rye. Darker, sensual, a garden at night.
He hit the power switch and the lathe began to spin. Rye’s hair fluttered and Charlie anchored him with his arms, holding him steady.
“Slowly,” he cautioned, hand light on Rye’s. “And hold tight.”
Rye held so tight the gauge juddered when it hit the wood and Charlie clamped down on Rye’s hand to keep it from hurting him.
“It’s fine. Just go real slow.”
He guided Rye’s hand slowly and surely until the very tip of the gauge kissed the block, snicking off the barest whisper of wood. They pulled back, angled the gauge again, and slid forward, taking off another layer.
Slowly, gently, with his hand on Rye’s, they shaped the curved edge of the bottom of a bowl. After a few minutes they were one body, breathing, pressing forward, pulling back, and changing angle together.
Charlie breathed in the scent of Rye’s night blossom hair mingled with the fresh flick of wood shavings. It smelled like home.
When he stopped the lathe, Rye looked up at him, eyes wide, pupils nearly swallowing the gray of his irises. He blinked and slid his safety glasses off.
It seemed like he looked at Charlie forever. Charlie’s heart pounded so hard he was sure it was audible in the sudden silence. A faint flush pinked Rye’s cheeks and he licked his lips. Then he slid his hand around Charlie’s neck and swallowed hard.
“I wanna kiss you,” he said, voice rough. “And it’s not a thank you or a payment. It’s cuz that was hot as fuck and you’re hot as fuck and...and...”
Charlie couldn’t find any words. His entire being throbbed for Rye and all he could do was incline his head.
Rye’s extraordinary eyes fluttered closed in the moment before his lips met Charlie’s.
The last time Rye kissed him it had felt impersonal, and Charlie had ended it immediately.
This kiss just showed Charlie by comparison how impersonal that kiss had been. This was the real Rye kiss, he realized. This kiss was hot and lingering, and Rye’s mouth was sweet, his tongue luscious, his teeth sharp. Rye’s other hand cupped Charlie’s jaw, like he was afraid Charlie might pull away. So Charlie leaned closer and gathered Rye to him.
Rye gave a small mew of pleasure and it shot down Charlie’s spine like a caress. He wanted Rye to make that sound over and over again. With a hand pressed to the small of Rye’s back he could feel the silken fall of his hair with the other. He twined his fingers into the glorious mess of waves until he felt the curve of Rye’s skull. Every inch of him was perfect.
Charlie felt perfectly in control until they were falling.
He saved them from careening to the ground through sheer muscle and instead ended up with Rye crushed to his chest, one arm bracing them against the lathe.
Charlie didn’t spare more than a fleeting thought to commend himself on his choice of a lathe that would take the hit of their combined body weight.
“You okay?”
Rye’s response was a squeak muffled against his collarbone. Charlie stood them up and bent to look into Rye’s face. Rye was all sharp chin and blinking eyes and swollen lips.
Charlie groaned, reached out a finger, touched them.
Rye’s eyes fluttered shut and his mouth yearned toward Charlie’s.
Then they were kissing and kissing until they were drunk, mouths made for kissing and hands for holding faces and hair and necks and each other’s hands while kissing.
They ended up against the nearest wall, Charlie’s back pressed to the drywall and Rye sagging against him, breathing heavily. Charlie searched for his mouth blindly, lips wanting to know only Rye’s lips.
Rye started pulling at Charlie’s clothing, hands wild, mouth wet, cheek a burning brand against Charlie’s palm.
“Hang on,” Charlie mumbled against Rye’s mouth. Rye made a moue of discontent and pressed closer. Charlie lost himself in hot, heady kisses once more. He wrapped Rye’s hair in his hands, tugging a little, and Rye gasped into his mouth.
“You okay?”
Rye nodded instantly. He was squirming.
“You sure?”
Charlie peered at him.
“Just, um.” Rye glanced down. “Yup.” He swallowed hard. “Just yeah.”
“Rye?”
Rye huffed out a little irritated sound. “I like it when you pull my hair, okay? It gets to me.”
A rush of heat pooled in Charlie’s belly. He wanted to find out every single solitary thing that got to Rye. Just...not all at once.
Charlie slid his hand back into Rye’s hair and tugged. Rye’s eyes fluttered shut and he plastered himself back to Charlie’s chest.
“How hard do you like it pulled?”
Rye’s moan was wordless but heartfelt, and Charlie pulled a little harder. Rye dropped his forehead to Charlie’s chest and groaned. Charlie stroked Rye’s throat with his other hand, fingers gentle on his soft skin, and fisted his hair with the other, tugging more sharply.
Rye’s gasp was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. He did it again and again until Rye was writhing against him.
“Stop, stop,” Rye said. “Fuck, stop.”
He was pressing even closer to Charlie, arms tight around him, but moving his lower body away.
Charlie untangled his hand from Rye’s hair and just stroked it softly.
“You okay?” he asked again.
Rye wouldn’t look at him.
“Rye?”
“God, yes, just you have to stop or I’ll come all over you,” he groaned.
Charlie froze. He’d been turned on before, buzzing with heat, but at those words a bolt of lust tore through him that made him physically jolt.
“But you don’t...you don’t want to now...right?” Rye was asking.
“Huh?”
Charlie felt like he was fighting to hear through an unfamiliar fog.
Warm hands slid up his chest.
“You don’t wanna fuck. Or do you?”
The word cleared Charlie’s head. Fuck.
“I don’t...know.”
“Then you don’t,” Rye said.
“But I want...”
Charlie didn’t know how to say what he wanted. He didn’t know if Rye would want it too. He didn’t know if it was an okay thing to want.
Then Rye was kissing him again, hot and magic in his arms, saying, “Anything,” against his lips like he really meant it.
“I want you to...”
“To come? You wanna see me get off for you?” Rye asked, voice breathy and low, and how could he say things like that?
“Yes,” Charlie moaned. “And...”
“You want to pull my hair while I come for you.”
Charlie’s breath caught because Yes, yes, that.
“But you don’t wanna come?”
“Not...not yet,” Charlie managed.
Later, later when I’m alone in bed and there’s no chance you’ll see me do it wrong.
Rye kissed him, then, deep and yearning.
“Touch me, Charlie.”
This desire was like nothing Charlie had ever felt. He fisted Rye’s hair and pulled until Rye’s face was upturned like a flower. Rye’s breathing was already ragged.
“Can you really... Would you really have...” Charlie swallowed hard.
Rye bit his lip and nodded.
“Okay,” Charlie said.
“Okay,” Rye mouthed.
Charlie tugged on his hair and caught his open mouth in a brutal kiss, swallowing Rye’s moans.
He pulled harder and felt Rye tremble. Rye pressed against him, all attempts to hide his response obliterated now. When Rye’s hips pressed forward, Charlie could feel his erection, hard against his hip. Rye gasped and shuddered, and Charlie felt lightheaded.
“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” Rye chanted.
He writhed in Charlie’s arms like a live wire, pulling against his hand, pressing into his chest and hip and thigh. Desperate.
Charlie felt like a god.
His blood throbbed in his veins and his dick throbbed and his heart throbbed. Every bit of him throbbed for the man who was falling apart in his arms.
Charlie clamped an arm around Rye’s waist, holding him so they touched everywhere, and pulled his hair with a sharp yank. Rye’s head lolled and his mouth fell open. Charlie did it again, then massaged Rye’s scalp with his fingertips to soothe the sting.
Rye’s eyes were shut tight and his pale skin was flushed blotchy from his cheeks to his throat. Charlie couldn’t comprehend how he could be touching someone so beautiful. So free.
In all his adult life, Charlie had never been that free.
Rye gasped as Charlie kissed him, trying to feel even a bit of what Rye felt. Rye slung his leg around Charlie’s hip and pressed even closer to him, and Charlie could feel his hard cock through both layers of their clothes. He felt the moment Rye tipped over, pleasure peaking.
Rye came with a strangled groan, then his mouth opened on silence. He fisted Charlie’s shirt and buried his face in Charlie’s shoulder as tremors ran through him.
Charlie was suspended in a wave of arousal that held him like a cloud. Beautiful and unbelievable and new.
Rye whimpered and his fists eased. He dropped back to his flat feet and Charlie let go of his hair. Charlie listened to him breathe for a while before Rye looked up at him. His lips were swollen and his eyes liquid.
Charlie cupped his face, wanting to see what it was that made someone be able to do that. To want something and to take it.
Under his scrutiny, Rye scowled like a sleeping cat who noticed it was observed.
“No, no.” Charlie smoothed his brow with the press of his thumb. “Sorry.”
He kissed Rye’s hair.
“Um.” Rye’s eyes darted everywhere but Charlie’s.
Charlie kissed Rye’s eyelids, forcing him to close them.
“You’re so beautiful,” Charlie let himself say with Rye’s eyes closed.
Rye nuzzled into him, his breathing back to normal.
“I can’t believe we just did that.”
“Why?” Charlie had rather gotten the sense that this was the kind of thing Rye was used to.
“Because.” Rye glanced up at him. “You... I... I thought you weren’t... Fuck, I don’t know.”
Charlie unclamped their half-made bowl from the lathe and wiped sawdust from the arms of the machine. The wood shavings he left for Jane to roll in later. She and Marmot had disappeared back into the house at some point and he hadn’t even noticed.
Sometimes Jane liked to come roll in the shavings while Charlie slept. On those nights, he would wake to the scent of fresh pine on her fur when she snuggled into bed beside him and curled up under his chin.
“Charlie.”
Rye’s hand touched his shoulder tentatively.
“I lied to you the other night,” Charlie said. “When we were watching Secaucus Psychic. I do believe in ghosts.”
Really, there was no belief involved. Charlie lived with them every day. When he swapped the contents of aisles five and two, putting the screws and nails in front of the cash register to discourage people from slipping one or two into their pockets as Charlie knew they often did, he’d heard his father’s voice in his ear.
When he’d baked Jack a birthday cake the year after they’d died and thought baking powder and baking soda were the same thing, he’d heard his mother’s voice.
If carrying them with him for the last twenty years didn’t prove that ghosts were real, Charlie wasn’t sure what would.
But now, in the aftermath of Rye’s pleasure and his own desire, more than anything, he wished for them to go away. To dissipate and leave him in peace. His own man.
“I lied too,” Rye said.
His voice sounded different and when Charlie turned, Rye was staring right at him.
“When I said I didn’t know just now. It’s... I was pretty sure you weren’t into me like that.”
Rye looked him up and down, gaze appreciative and lingering. “But you are, huh?”
Charlie swallowed hard, the fear of what it meant to admit his desire tightening his muscles. Then he nodded.
“I like you,” Rye said. “I really do.”
The knot in Charlie’s stomach eased a bit.
“I like you too,” he said, voice just above a whisper.
“I don’t know why,” Rye grumbled. “Cuz you’re a bossy, perfectionistic—”
“Okay, okay,” Charlie interrupted.
Rye grinned, his eyes soft enough to let Charlie know he was just teasing.