Archive of Our Own

Charlie feels like a kid again—like he’s standing there scuffing tile in the grocery store next to his mom who’s ambling on with an old friend she bumped into on Aisle 10; and his feet ache, and he wants to go home, or at least rip open those Ruffles he threw in the cart, but he can’t, because we have to pay for it first Charlie, and me and Denise haven’t seen each other since junior high, Charlie.

He already asked if they could leave an hour ago, but Pim just has to compliment some girl on the way out and now they’re talking about teeth whitening strips, of all things. And it's hot. There’s firepits blazing in every other corner of this place, despite the fact that they’re deep in the middle of summer, and there’s so many people crowded on this rooftop bar it should probably be considered a hazard at this point. As Pim chatters on, Charlie scans for emergency exits, just in case.

“What part of Illinois are you from?” Pim says.

“Lincoln,” the girl responds, checking her phone. “So like—north of Springfield.” 

She’s high off something. Definitely wasn’t invited to this at all. On her bodycon dress, a Shein tag sticks out from her armpit and she sports a name tag that reads “Russell Brand,” obviously stolen from downstairs. The fact that The Boss is friends with Russell Brand isn’t a surprise.

“Oh nice! And…what’s brought you to Pennsylvania?” Pim emphasizes this as if Pennsylvania were The Promised Land.

Jesus Christ, why do you care? Why does anyone? It takes all the force in Charlie’s body not to throw his head back and groan like a child, but that would be considered rude and he really doesn’t want to be in the dog house tonight. So instead he painfully clears his throat, shifts his weight. Hopefully it gets the message across.

It does not.

“Well, originally I moved here for this job I got at an ad agency but I ended up getting fired because of this huge situation that happened with one of the IT guys and blah blah blah…” 

Charlie doesn’t understand why he’s not getting paid extra to attend The Boss’s birthday/networking/early Groundhog day party. Or why so many people showed up in the first place. He doesn’t understand a lot of things. Looking down, he watches the way Pim clutches a red solo cup to his chest, like it’ll keep him steady. Pim catches his stare for half a moment—this tiny, upward glimpse that he’s been giving Charlie a lot lately—a look that seems to say, despite everything, that he’s the most interesting person in the room. Maybe even the world. 

Again, Charlie doesn’t understand a lot of things. Like when he comes back to earth to hear Pim say: “You’re part of the Blue Man Group?” 

“Yeah, it’s just a side gig thing.” Russell Brand scans the room way over Pim’s head like she’s trying to find someone. In the light now, Charlie can see the peeling leftover paint on the edges of her forehead.

“Wow, that sounds so fun! I mean, how do you even get involved in–” 

Okay, that’s it. 

“Pim.”

It comes out sounding annoyed. Which Charlie is. But he trudges on, places his hand on Pim’s shoulder for extra reinforcement. "Can we please leave.”

There’s a pause. Pim flashes an incredulous look at Charlie but recovers quickly, smiles at Russell in apology.

“Um. Sorry. Like I was saying, uh—-how do you even get involved in…?”

But Russell has checked out a long time ago, or was likely never checked in at all. As if they’d evaporated into thin air, she stumbles, sidesteps into a wall of people behind them and walks away with a slosh of her Cranberry Whatever, most likely in search of the hor d'oeuvres floating around. Charlie can practically hear the trumpets from heaven—a glimpse of the near future flashes in his head: microwaved queso, Instagram Reels marathon, Pim by his side in bed, voice sleepy as he asks what their plans are tomorrow. Hopefully, it’s nothing. They should make a run for it.

But Pim turns to Charlie, his eyebrows turned down, and Charlie knows, something in him deflating, that this has become A Thing. The trumpets tamper off. Goodbye queso…

“Why would you say that?” Pim says.

“Say what?”

“That you want to leave? She probably thought we didn’t want to talk to her anymore.”

“Uh, yeah because I didn’t want to talk to her anymore, that’s why I said it.”

Pim’s hand visibly tightens around his drink. It’s just water, unsurprisingly, though Charlie likes it when Pim’s tipsy—how handsy he gets, his whole body humming. Maybe when they got back to his place, Charlie could convince him to have a glass of wine. Or two. 

It was trains of thought like these that sometimes made Charlie wonder if he was—

“Can we please just try and socialize for at least a few more minutes?”

“Dude, we’ve been here for like—an hour already.”

“But it’s The Boss’s birthday!”

“Is it?”

Pim opens his mouth and then closes it. “That is what this is, right?”

“Okay, see? You—you want to stay so bad and you don’t even know why we’re here.”

“Well, The Boss expected us to be here.” Pim’s voice has gone softer, maybe to deescalate the situation. Ever the responsible one. Almost to himself, he adds: “What do you have to do that’s so pressing right now, anyways?”

Charlie thinks of it immediately. Doesn’t say it. But half laughs out anyways: “You, dumbass.” 

Which wasn’t actually true. They’d only been doing this for what, two months now? and like, yeah he’d thought about it before, but Pim was sensitive to that kind of stuff. He didn’t want to freak him out. But still. Pim getting frazzled is the best. It’s one of Charlie’s Top 100 Favorite Things about him, alongside his hands, the way he reaches to grab the mugs in Charlie’s kitchen cabinet—the careful way he buttons his shirt in the morning, always from the collar down.

“Yeah?” Pim says.

This is a response Charlie did not prepare for. His mouth goes dry.

“I mean…if you want…” He lowers his voice, a tactic he’s learned will always make Pim draw closer, and he does, like clockwork—-eyes wild and manic for half a millisecond. “We could always just step out for the bathroom and—like. You know.” 

Pim stares. Seeing the wheels turning in his head sends a jolt of panic through Charlie’s body like lightning.

“Ha! Kidding.” Charlie says, voice cracking. He stands up straight, coughs, and looks around the deck. For emergency exits. “Just kidding, man. Obviously.”

Pim continues to stare, in a different way this time. He chews on his bottom lip. “Okay.”

“I-I don’t even have like…condoms. Or anything like that on me. So. Yeah.”

Pim nods to himself. “Right.” He took the bait. Thank God. Pim surveys the crowd, casual as ever. “Here, why don’t you go grab some marshmallows at the chocolate fountain and I’ll keep talking with people? Just for a bit longer?”

Charlie stalls. “What you—you don’t want me to come with you?” 

“I mean…do you want to come with me?”

Absolutely not. He’d rather not endure another conversation, or see anyone else here, ever again. But Charlie doesn’t say this. He just stares at his feet, not understanding why this suggestion makes him so mad.

“So—you’d rather me just go hang out by myself while you’re over here chatting it up with a bunch of strangers? That’s how you want to spend your Friday night?” 

There it is.

“I’d like you to come with me, Charlie, but if you don’t want to, you don’t have to! I just thought…” Pim looks up at the people surrounding them, his eyes sort of big and hopeful. Of course he wanted to make friends. Pim was always trying to make friends, wherever they went—with drive through workers, Game Stop check out guys, Mother Nature.

“I thought you wanted to leave?” Charlie says. “We were just leaving.”

“Just five more minutes? Or, you can still go if you want and I’ll meet up with you later!” 

But this only sounds worse. Pim must see that on Charlie's face and comes closer into his orbit, resting a hand on his wrist.

“Charlie, you know we’re representing the company here. This is a good opportunity to meet other people! It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with you, but we already see each other so much, you know?” 

“We literally don’t, Pim.” 

Pim cracks a grin, like he can’t help it; this chiding, ironic glimmer in his eye. Charlie suddenly wants to hurl himself off the building. 

“You know what. Fine. Whatever. Stay as long as you want.” He knows when he’s not wanted. Charlie pulls himself away, turns, and winds through the crowd of people towards the bar (because screw the chocolate fountain), trying not to feel like every step is enormously difficult. Peeling himself apart from Pim is an arduous task these days. It sort of feels like trying to remove an old sticker off a wall—there’s always little remnants of paper; sticky, sweet adhesive. 

He finds a spot at the bar, orders a Corona, feels the glass buzz alongside the club bass blasting through the speakers. He has a headache. His back hurts. And the more he thinks about the situation, the angrier he feels. What was Pim trying to imply, that he wasn't a good representation of the company? He was practically the mascot. He could be sociable. He could network. He’d network so damn hard he’d know every last intimate detail of everyone in this place, down to their sex lives and Google passwords and childhood pets. 

Charlie clumsily slaps his wallet out on the bar, empties it on the table in search of a business card to support this grand plan. He takes out a Salty’s giftcard, an unused condom, and an old movie stub. Finally, lodged in the back there’s a lone, waterboarded slip of paper that’s probably been in there since he started. It’s even got the old logo.

“What’s wrong with you?” a voice says. Charlie looks up, surprised—and it’s Allan. Of fucking course. 

“Nothing.” 

Allan orders a gin and tonic and leans up against the bar to survey the room, most likely sizing up his prospects. Tsking, he pulls out a chair, and they sit there in silence for a few moments, the sound of trap music and senseless chatter roaring around the deck. Charlie sighs.

“Dude, have you seen The Boss tonight, like at all?”

“No, I have not.” 

Charlie pauses. Then: “I just like—don’t even know what the point of this event is, or—or why we have to stay for so long. Like, we should be getting paid at least overtime, right?”

Allan says nothing, takes a long drink. Doesn’t even nod.

“I mean, I think Glep mentioned at some point that this was like, a Groundhog Day party? But wasn’t Groundhog Day weeks ago?” Charlie fumbles for his phone to confirm this. 

“Punxsutawney Phil is on the guest list, actually.”

“You’re kidding.” He types into his phone, then scoffs. “What the fuck!” He shows Allan his screen, injustice radiating from his body. “Dude, Groundhog Day is in February.”

“I know.”

“Why the hell is Punxsutawney Phil here?”

“I don’t know.” 

Allan just does his job, infuriatingly. 

“This shit is so stupid.”

“Is Pim not letting you leave?” Charlie knows what’s coming, and there it is—that shit-eating, lazy grin Allan’s been sporting the past few months, like he knows exactly what Charlie’s thinking at all times. The first time he ever saw it was at a Halloween party two years back, when Pim lost some bet with Glep and came to the office dressed as Sailor Moon.

“Pim has nothing to do with this, okay? I can leave anytime I want.”

Allan laughs flatly. “Okay.”

They settle into silence again. Talking to people other than Pim, Charlie realizes, actually sucks so bad, like getting a root canal. He stares into his drink, watches the way the lime bobs behind the amber glass. How would Past Charlie react if he were told everything that’s happened now? He probably wouldn’t believe it. Or maybe, he’d walk away, swatting the idea exactly like he is now—knowing deep down the inevitable.

***

Once, maybe over a year ago now, there was an out of town job that required them to overnight at a motel—some shitty Super 8 Allan probably booked just to piss him off—with only one bed (Ha Ha, gay joke, very original Allan thanks a bunch). Which wasn’t that terrible considering it was a queen and they had enough room, save for an occasional brush against the leg or something. So no big deal. Whatever.

The only thing about sharing a bed, Charlie realized as he gets up in the middle of night—clumsily paws through the darkness and guzzles some metal tasting tap water from the sink—is that being this close makes everything harder to hide. And Pim is still awake. Charlie can tell as he collapses back into the mattress, hearing his breath hitch just slightly. He spares a glance and sees Pim’s face illuminated by the neon sign of some fast food joint across the street. He’s just staring at the ceiling, hands folded on his lap. Thinking. 

Charlie half wonders if he’s okay, but turns, manhandles his pillow to get comfortable again, and settles back into the mattress, a spring lodged right into his chest. He turns again. Now there’s two springs in his chest. Dude, actually fuck Allan. 

“Charlie?” Pim says after a few moments.

“Hm?”

“Are…are you still awake?”

“No. I’m fast asleep.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Charlie waits a moment, then sits up by his elbows to look at Pim, his hands picking a loose thread on the thin quilt. He should just make amends with the fact that he’s not getting any sleep tonight. 

“What’s up, man?”

Pim doesn't meet his eye. Which is probably a good thing. Making direct eye contact with Pim is sort of—intense. He doesn’t know why. 

“I can’t sleep.”

“Dude, me neither. This mattress fucking sucks.”

“Yeah...” Pim waits a moment. Like he’s testing the waters. “I don’t know, I guess I just…I can’t stop thinking about our client today.”

An old guy in an empty house. Needed help setting up decorations for his birthday party. Pim made a cookie cake. His kids never showed up. Charlie already blocked it out of his head, like he does with most jobs. 

“Pim, you can’t get hung up on that kind of stuff.”

“I know. It’s just hard.”

“Sure. But think about it like this: we only see, like, one perspective. We don’t know how they actually got in those situations, you know? I mean, maybe that guy was like, a deadbeat dad or abused his kids or…something.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” 

But Charlie’s theory didn’t even sound convincing to himself. What felt like an hour ticked by, then two. The guy had gripped Charlie’s shoulder, tears in his eyes, and said how happy he’d be if they’d stayed instead. The cookie cake was good.

“Can I tell you something?” Pim says. 

Charlie is wide awake now. He’s learned that question is the smoke, and Pim’s about to let the fire into the room for a moment. He’d never seen Pim let his cynicism come out around anyone else but him.

“Go for it.”

Pim waits, then says: “I think I’m gonna end up like that.” 

Charlie can’t help but laugh. He catches a glare from Pim next to him, clears his throat. “Dude, what?”

“I’m getting older, Charlie. I thought I’d have time to—you know…meet someone, get married, start a family. But…” Pim didn’t need to explain it. Dating apps seemed to go against his moral code, for whatever reason, and finding someone naturally these days was about as likely as winning the Powerball.

“I think I’m just too much,” Pim finally says, like closing a book.

“Too much?”

“Yeah. Just…I don’t know. Too much for other people. That’s what my folks always say, at least. I always used to ignore them. But maybe there’s some truth to it, you know?”

Anger and something like panic suddenly flares up in the pit of Charlie’s stomach. Pim toning down whatever he had going on was like if the sun decided to dim—maybe they were both hard to look at directly, but you were fucked when they went dark. He’s never thought about it that way before. The truth of it sits heavy in his brain like a boulder. 

“Dude, don't listen to your family. That’s bullshit. Like, what—what does that even mean, anyways?” Pim’s family were the last people to be critical of anyone. Unthinkingly, Charlie adds, “And whatever. Fuck what they think. You’re not too much for me.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Then two. Realizing the circumstances, Charlie gulps unbelievably loud and focuses on a corner of the wall where the outdated wallpaper is starting to peel back. He feels Pim shift.

“Yeah?” Pim says.

“Yeah, man. I mean. Obviously.” 

Part of this is a lie. When Charlie first met Pim, he couldn’t help but feel like his optimism was a little grating, or at least like he was just trying way too hard to be Employee of the Month. But the more time they’d spend together, the more he’d come to really like Pim—how much care and detail he put into every little thing, his sincerity, the way he’d listen and nod agreeably at every client's insane need—-his undivided attention could make a person feel so special, so important. Charlie had even started saving up his rants for Pim. Unlike Zoey, he liked the way he’d ask follow up questions, hum in agreement, face blank in absorption, like he’d soak up and go along with anything Charlie would say, or think, or do, or want him to do.

Pim is clearly still in overthinking mode. For some reason, seeing him like this makes Charlie’s heart double jump and sink like a rock skipping across still water. Probably indigestion.

“Pim, you’re good. You’ll meet someone eventually. Sometimes those things are like, right in front of your face, and you don’t even realize it.”

Pim doesn’t say anything, but his brow furrows just slightly. Whenever Charlie looks back at this moment now, he can’t help but feel like the World’s Biggest Dumbass. Because then, he has an idea. 

Any normal, intelligent person would not come up with this specific solution to cheer up their coworker. Any normal person wouldn’t be sharing a bed with his coworker in the first place. But before Charlie can consider these things, he lunges at Pim in the dark, hands grabbing at his waist. Sometimes he’d do this to Zoey when she’d come home in a shitty mood after work. Its success rate was usually a solid 30%.

But oh my God, this was like, 110%. 

Pim yelps, his hands grabbing at Charlie’s, laughter bubbling over them like a fountain. 

“Char—lie!” Pim’s uninhibited laugh sounds different than his usual one—more alive, jumpy, ringing like a bell.  

“Shhh,” Charlie says, trying to hold him down. “You’re gonna—wake up the whole hotel.”

“Then, stop—it!” 

“Bro, you gotta stop being sad first.” Pim only gets louder as Charlie’s hands spider up to his shoulders, where he bunches up his neck, shuts his eyes. And then, after a few moments, his voice gets sort of hiccupy, which results in a thought that blasts through Charlie’s head that has no chance of being censored—like a giant blimp barreling across his mind with a banner in bold that reads: HOLY FUCK HE’S SO CUTE. 

Charlie stops after that. 

Still wary with Charlie hovering over him, Pim’s hands come up to shield himself. His face is red and he’s wearing this half crooked smile as he catches his breath—one that looks surprised at Charlie’s forwardness but also…something else. Charlie pulls away before he can find out what.

“Sorry,” Charlie says, suddenly feeling strange. He wasn’t expecting Pim to be so soft. So reactive to his touch.

“No, it’s…” Pim laughs again. “You’re okay.”

Charlie gets off Pim, moves to the side. Why did he do that? He mumbles: “Sometimes that cheers up Zoey. So I thought maybe…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Why was he comparing Pim to Zoey? He looks over again, and Pim’s knees are to his chest, just staring at him with a strange expression. Like something has clicked into place. 

“Sorry I just…it sucks to see you sad like that. I just thought like—sorry. That was gay.”

“Charlie, it’s okay.” A beat, then: “I mean… that is kind of your job, right?”

“What?”

“To make people smile?”

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up.” Charlie rolls over, spring still in his chest.

“No it’s true!” You’re…you’re very good at it.”

What a cheesy thing to say, Charlie thinks. He can feel his face heat up. He lies awake long into the night. Because of the mattress. 

***

Now, alone at the bar after having watched Allan saunter off to find his next victim, Charlie can’t help but think about that night in the motel. It’s a strange playback loop that runs on repeat in his head when he tries to figure out how he got to this point, how he’s in a position where he’s waiting for Pim (Pim!) to leave so they can order Thai food and lay in Pim’s bed (Pim’s bed!) and make out for hours like teenagers (again, with Pim. In his bed!!!?). Maybe at some point Pim can stand on his back too because he’s like, the perfect weight to crack it back into place after a long day: his hands coming up to massage Charlie’s neck afterwards, kissing the back of his ear.

Everything about it is insane. Everything about their “relationship” (or whatever you’d call it) is insane. Every time their hands touched; every sleepy good morning and call of his own name was underscored by the loud drumming beat of Charlie’s heart, which often felt so intense he wondered if he was going into cardiac arrest. He remembers one sober night in particular, hovering in the darkness, the smell of clean sheets and strawberry soap, his pacemaker clicking like crazy—-somehow frozen in place over Pim who’d laughed, saying: “I’m not gonna break, Charlie.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Pim was a fucking tank. If some disastrous thing were to happen between them, Pim would move on. Charlie knew that for certain. Charlie never had the kind of weight that could make someone break.

He gets a glimpse of Pim now in the crowd, talking to some suited up guy, a very flashy looking, Wallstreet fella. Tall and fit and here for the open bar, most likely. Sticks out like a sore thumb. He doesn’t miss the way his eyes are half lidded—-how Pim laughs at something the guy’s said, maybe a little too hard. 

Sometimes Charlie wondered if Pim actually liked him or if he was just the closest thing he could get, considering his age, considering the biological clock ticking. Love was mostly proximity based anyways. Maybe that was the real reason Pim was always so friendly with everyone—so he could leave on a drop of a dime, leaving Charlie holding the bag; because Charlie’s never been broken up with, of course not, he was the heartbreaker here, he’d be the one to leave this thing unscathed. And he could do it whenever he wanted too. 

For God’s sake, he wasn’t even gay.

Resolved, Charlie stands up. If Pim was keeping his options open, then so could he. He wanders through the candy-colored crowd of people, everyone shouting and sweating and slurping each other over the blaring club music that’s turned up about 12 notches since it’s gotten dark, the smell of bad deodorant, vodka, and then a swathe of something sweet flooding his senses—-strawberries. He hears an all-too-familiar voice call his name but, miraculously, keeps moving.

Finally, Charlie stumbles out of the lurch of people until he reaches the balcony, the city shining dully beneath him. It would take a while for Pim to find him now, considering how short he was. Another thing Charlie liked. Maybe he should go help him, make sure Pim doesn’t get lost.

No, he was mad at Pim right now. Mad at him for networking. Mad at him for wanting to leave the relationship that they don’t have. Charlie leans against the glass railing, swaying a bit as he does, and unbuttons the top of his shirt. 

Now it was just a matter of time. Women wouldn’t be able to resist his raw animal magnetism. He considers, then undoes another button. 

***

The first time Charlie called Zoey by Pim’s name during sex, she laughed. The second time, a month later, she told him she had to go.

“Why are you being so dramatic about this?” He stood shirtless in the middle of the room, watching as Zoey pulled her jeans back on. “We spend a lot of time together. We’re fucking—coworkers. That’s it.”

“Oh my God, will you stop fucking yelling at me?” 

“I’m not yelling!” Charlie yells.

Zoey keeps moving around the room, grabbing her keys, her purse from off the dirty carpet floor. “I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

“Talk about what?” She doesn’t say anything. “Zoey, talk about what?”

Zoey wipes her eyes before she puts her glasses back on and slams the door as she leaves. Charlie tries to do anything else. He paces the room, opens his laptop, consults Reddit, eats half a Family bag size of Funyuns, and lays on the bed in the yellow light, raging at himself—because no matter what he does, he knows he can’t stop what’s bound to happen next.

Pim answers on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Come over,” Charlie says.

Fifteen minutes later, they sit crisscrossed on the bed and smoke. Uncharacteristically, Pim had started having a few hits every time he visited. Charlie had a few theories why. 

“I’m sorry about Zoey. Again.” Pim says carefully. He’s not high yet. He waits anxiously, eyes glued to the door like someone will walk in and catch him at any moment.

“It’s fine. We’re actually…” Charlie hesitates, then blurts: "We're actually on a break right now.” He doesn’t miss the way Pim sits up slightly, how his pupils suddenly watch Charlie's every move.

“She said that?”

“No. I’m saying it. Right now. I’m deciding we’re on a break.”

“Oh.”

It’s quiet. A little awkward. Charlie takes another hit. 

But things become easier when the high begins to settle. They turn off the lights and talk about nothing over a cartoon playing from Charlie’s laptop that balances on his knees—yet Charlie can’t help but feel like a lit cigarette near gasoline, because the closer Pim gets, the more he laughs and says his name and leans his head against his arm to get a better view of Coach McGuirk yelling at Brendan across the soccer field, the more he feels like everything around them will explode.

After another episode, Pim hums and reaches for the roll, his hand lingering a second too long on Charlie’s arm. He sits up, eyes red and bleary. It was so weird seeing him like this. On a weeknight, no less. If Charlie hadn’t called, he’d probably be sleeping already. Maybe reading a book with a cup of Sleepytime Tea.

Charlie knows he’s full on staring, but he can’t help it. Pim still coughs every time—it’s really cute—-the way his eyes scrunch up and the smoke dissipates into the darkness draped around them like a blanket, and suddenly, he understands for a dull, blinding moment that this—not just the sneaking around and the guiltily shared, badly rolled blunts, but everything—was temporary. Pim would meet someone one day (because how would someone not fall in love with the guy) and then, that was that. He’d quit his job, move outside Philly to the suburbs, and start a family. It will be good. It will be what he deserves. And yet…these strange moments suddenly feel so fleeting and precious and scarce, like the terribleness of finding out an average person only gets 80 summers, if they’re lucky. Which just wasn't fair. 80 summers wasn’t nearly enough for anyone.

“Will you stay the night?” Charlie says without thinking, the words sounding foreign in his mouth. Pim’s eyes focus on him through the fog, sobering up instantly. 

“Oh. I mean…isn’t Zoey…?”

“Zoey’s not coming back, Pim.” Glancing down, Charlie sees his hand has landed on Pim’s knee. 

“I…I figured, but—“ Pim looks down at Charlie’s hand, the way his thumb circles. He covers his face with his hands. “Sorry. Um.”

“Hey, don’t do that.” Peeling Pim’s hands back, Charlie holds them in his own. Out of all the times he’d been over like this, nothing like this had happened before. Even in his current state, Charlie knew that. A line had been crossed—but for some reason, it didn’t seem to matter anymore. Something had been growing inside of him, not since the motel, but since he met Pim, since he’d known how strange and energetic and bubbly and sugar-soap sweet he was that it seemed to be gnawing away at Charlie from the inside out like a damn cavity—but he was gonna face it head on, face Pim’s wide-eyed stare, his expression that’s so kind and soft and blushy and his smile that’s half embarrassed and half terrified and skewers right through Charlie’s chest like a wooden stake.

“Pim, can you stay? Please?”

After an agonizing moment, Pim nods. He squeezes their hands, and then inches away, flashes this look—the one where he needs permission to go through with something, where he isn’t sure what to do. 

So Charlie makes the decision for him.

Despite the burning in his chest, it’s all so easy after that—to take Pim in his arms, falling down into the bed wrapped up around each other, kissing over and over in the hazy dream of it all. Pim doesn’t say anything about the crumbs in his sheets, or Charlie’s unwashed hoodie with a ramen stain on the front. He just hums underneath, arms wrapping around his neck, and Charlie suddenly Knows: this is it. This is everything. 

But deep, deep down, Charlie Knew something else about Pim that made his stomach clench up every time he saw it on full display like this: Pim was selfish. Waking up the next morning, Charlie can see it as Pim puts his shoes on, goes for the door, then hesitates. Turning, he walks slowly over to Charlie still in bed and kisses the top of his nose. When Pim pulls away, he looks like he’s about to cry.

“See you at work,” he whispers.

Charlie watches him go. It was only a matter of time now. Before he knew it, all of his worst traits would latch onto Pim. And then, just like Zoey—who used to be kind, who used to be sweet—looking at Pim would be like looking in a mirror. 

He calls out sick that day.

***

Back at the party, Charlie’s head pounds thinking about all this now—wondering why even in his quietest moments, Pim always seems to creep back in, like water under a tightly shut door.

You know what, even better question—why have one minute and 14 seconds gone by and not a single person has thrown themselves on him?

“Charlie?”

He whips his head around, and then has to immediately put up his battle armor, because Pim is walking towards him—tentatively, like stepping on ice.

Charlie huffs and looks out at the skyline, staring at nothing.

“Are you okay?”

This view sucks. There’s a giant Meep Beer ad and a highway overpass barreling straight through town and maybe if things didn’t feel so weird between them right now, Pim might still say something like “Oh, Charlie, isn’t this view lovely?” but of course, Charlie almost always wants to fight with Pim as much as he wants to hold him and he doesn’t know why—why Pim makes him feel the way he does and why it was so hard yet so easy to break up with Zoey, and why even now, he feels like it’s his fault—that in normal circumstances, Pim would never go through with what he did, not unless he was hanging around some terrible presence just constantly fucking polluting him all the time and—

“Charlie?”

“Dude, what?” 

Pim goes quiet. The Meep ad looks like it might have been AI generated, now that Charlie is really looking at it. The girl on the front stands in a strange pose, her hip bone jutting out unnaturally.

“Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine, Pim.” 

Another pause. “Okay. Well. I’m ready to go when you are.” Charlie feels Pim hold his hand then, and he can practically hear the sirens blaring off in his head. Before the damage can be done, he shoves away, slices off Pim’s affection with a clean cut.

“Hey, you know what, here—here’s an idea, Pim. Before we leave, why don’t you say bye to your boyfriend first?”

It’s Joever. Charlie’s anger was inescapable once he had waded in—irritation like quicksand; suffocating, just sinking him deeper and deeper.

“What?” Pim says.

Suddenly, the music stops. Every light and electric fire burns out, all at the same time. Charlie’s heart stops at the timing of it all. He turns to see this giant spotlight light up and taper off towards a clearing in the center of the room, landing on an obnoxious 15 foot tall cake. 

There is an explosion—smoke billows out over the floor and instinctively, Charlie pulls Pim towards him. He lets go when, through the dissipating fog, a figure now sits on top of the cake in full drag.

It’s The Boss.

I am going to spare the reader the details, which consists of a karaoke machine and a Jason Mraz “I’m Yours” cover, but at this point, Charlie can take no more. 

He moves, away from the crowd, away from Allan perched in the corner controlling the spotlight, away from all of the stupid work bullshit and Wall Street guy and Punxsutawney Phil and most of all, Pim, who just has to follow calling out his name anyways.

“Charlie, wait!”

He keeps going. Not realizing how drunk he really is, he accidentally trips on some lone Michael Kors bag and face-plants on the deck. Head reeling, he stumbles up, persists all the way to the other side of the room where the elevator resides. He jams his thumb into the down button. Misses. Slamming it again, Pim rounds the corner, pure confusion on his face.

“Charlie?”

Charlie ignores him. Senseless rage is at his ears, inches from submersion. 

“Did—did I say something wrong tonight?” Pim says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to be…earlier when I…” Pim falters, then blurts, “I would never cheat on you, Charlie.”

Charlie thinks it. Doesn't say it. Then:

“You know what Pim, considering the circumstances lately, I wouldn’t put it past you.” 

And without another word, the elevator opens and Charlie steps inside, not looking back to see the damage.

***

It’s 3:13 AM. 

Charlie can’t sleep because of his crazy ideas. Obviously. 

But genuinely, did anyone ever actually find out the purpose of that party? There was a birthday cake, so there’s that. But no one actually sang anything, or seemed to be there for reasons other than getting plastered. Flashes of it stick out now like an old film reel—colored lights, bad DJ set, Pim calling his name as he leaves. Fucking Wallstreet Guy.

But mostly Pim. His face crumbled like a paper bag by the elevators. There is this evil part of him that relishes that—the way his bullshit can make Pim react in such big ways. Pim is emotional. Another thing he likes. Maybe coming in at slot number 43.

Those words still pulse in his brain. I would never cheat on you, Charlie. Pim was so corny. They weren’t even dating. The idea alone makes Charlie’s face hot—he sinks deeper into his sheets, grabs a pillow and tries to smother out his feelings.

But most of all, above all else—Charlie can’t stop thinking about his back. From falling on his ass at the party, it seems to hurt even more now, an ache between the shoulders that never seems to give. He could just go to the chiropractor, but what would be the sense in that? When he has…

The old routine replays. Charlie gets up, paces, logs on Steam, closes it after five minutes, pops an Advil, considers week old Temple Star take out, ultimately rejects it, and eventually goes back to his bed, holds his phone in between his hands, and hits Favorites. 

It goes to voicemail. Cutting off Pim’s chipper message, he calls again. 

But still. No answer.

Charlie calls Pim nine times before he really starts to panic, because there seemed to only be two options for the circumstances: Pim was so mad that he would likely never talk to Charlie ever again, or worse—he was with someone else right now. 

Fucking Wallstreet Guy.

The answer of what to do next is incredibly clear, like looking through glass. Charlie pulls out his Uber app, walks outside seven minutes later and hitches a ride across town to Pim’s apartment, thinking he might explode, or attack, or throw up if he’s not sitting in that room by himself. Maybe he’d even cry. No I wouldn’t, he thinks. Scratch that.

Once they get there, Charlie gets out of the car, makes the walk up the nice little flowered drive to Pim’s apartment, already planning what to say. If Wallstreet was there, there’d be no words at all. Charlie would kick his ass, right there on the shag carpet. And if for the other scenario, the one where Pim was so mad he’d decided he was done with Charlie, then he’d say something like, well you know what, maybe that’s for the best Pim, because you are obviously a much better person than I will ever be and I hate dragging you down in my bullshit anyways, so lets just call it quits, yeah? Let’s never speak of this strange arrangement we’ve had the past few weeks where I stay over and you bake muffins or something and we stay up all night talking because I love you too much to keep doing this to you, to keep influencing you and taking everything that makes you so great all for myself, like hoarding a flashlight under a blanket; and I’ll quit my job, join the CIA, see a chiropractor while I’m at it, and try to forget, try to forget the way you make me feel because it’s too much to handle anyways and—

Charlie stands in front of Pim’s door. It’s got a wreath on it for summer. He knocks hard.

And then, Pim is standing there in one of Charlie’s old band T-shirts, hand rubbing at his eyes as he cracks the door wide open. And Charlie can tell. There’s no one else there.

What the hell was wrong with him?

“I’m sorry.” Charlie says. 

Pim stares at him for a moment in annoyed, tired confusion, as if this was an extended, very unwanted part of his dream.

“Charlie, it’s four in the morning.”

“I know, I just—” Charlie puts his hand on the door, pushes it open a bit more. “Can I come in?”

Pim really thinks about it for a second. Considering his warm welcomes in the past—getting pulled inside and peppered with kisses as if they didn’t just spend all day together—Charlie’s heart feels brittle.

But eventually, Pim sighs. Without another word he walks back and leaves the door wide open. Charlie shuts it behind him. The smell of lavender diffuser hits his senses as he pads back through the dark hallway and into the kitchen, where Pim begins to take his kettle out from under the counter.

“Can you make enough for me?” Charlie says.

Pim gives him a look. “Are you going to drink it?”

“Yeah.”

Pim doesn’t believe him. Still, he fills the kettle up with more water, throws in two good heaps of this tea from a nice metallic container that’s probably expensive. This whole process would be a lot easier and faster in the microwave, or just using bags, but Pim was particular about stuff like that. Always going the extra mile for quality. Another thing added to the list.

Pim leans up against the island and crosses his arms, this faraway look on his face as he waits.  Charlie stands in the middle of the room, miles away.

“I got really worried when you weren’t picking up,” Charlie says.

“Sorry. My phone died.”

It’s a bad lie. His phone is literally charging in front of them, on the counter, where he keeps it before bed. Pim keeps his phone out of his room at night to avoid messing up his “circadian rhythm,” whatever that means. But Charlie doesn't press it.

“Pim, can…can I ask you something? If you don’t mind.”

Pim doesn’t look at him. “What?”

“Do you…do you think you could stand on my back? Just really quick?” 

Crickets. Charlie continues to dig his hole.

“Cause when I fell at the party it did something really weird, and I even took some Advil but it still just—like it feels really sore. And you don’t have to if you’re still really mad at me, and like, obviously that’s not the only reason I’m here and I feel bad about what happened—I feel really bad, and I want to talk about it, but before that do you think you can just—”

Pim is already moving towards him, rolling his eyes. His hands meet Charlie's waist as he gently guides him to the wall. 

“Lay down.”

Charlie does. Face smashed into the tile, his breath hitches as Pim’s weight slowly presses onto him, unsteady as he finds his footing. 

“Can you go up?” Charlie says, quietly.

Pim shimmies upwards, already seeming to know what the issue is. He presses his feet in with more weight, and Charlie’s whole body seems to fit back into place perfectly, a resounding crack filling the room. Pim winces.

“Oh my Goodd,” Charlie says. “Yes.”

But Pim wasn’t finished. He moves up and down Charlie’s body, getting in at least three more cracks that send a wash of relief every time. Charlie just closes his eyes, hums.

“Thank you, baby.” He wishes he could see Pim’s face right now. Charlie’s pet names, an experience as involuntarily as breathing for him, embarrass Pim in the best way. It’s awesome. 

Pim just hums in response, most likely trying to recover. Tentativity, he straddles Charlie's back, his hands coming up to his neck to give him a massage. Always going the extra mile.

“Dude, I suck so bad,” Charlie says.

“No you don’t. Don’t say that.”

“No like—you just wanted to talk with people and make friends and stuff I had to go and just…” He doesn't finish his sentence. Neither does Pim.

Then, in a voice that Charlie can’t decipher, Pim says for maybe the 100th time tonight: “It’s okay, Charlie.” 

Though something still feels very off, and strange. Pim kneads a knot in Charlie’s neck for a few more moments, then climbs off. He doesn’t even bother to kiss his ear.

From the floor, Charlie watches as he checks the tea on the stove, pours himself a mug, and walks slowly back to his bedroom. Without turning around, he calls behind his shoulder: “All the other mugs are in the dish washer.” 

The ground is suddenly very cold. Charlie stands and realizes he has to go through with this. Right now. For his sake. For Pim’s. 

So with purpose, he shakily walks back to Pim’s room and opens the door. He’s just laying there, staring at the ceiling. Thinking. Like the night in the hotel room. Like despite everything, nothing had changed—that being alone was never actually his worst option.

“Pim, I think we should call this off.”

Before Charlie can continue, Pim scrambles up and looks at him, wide awake and terrified at those words—and looking at him in the soft glow of the room, Charlie can see it, this primal fear in his eyes—like if Charlie leaves, his whole world will crumble into pieces. 

And Charlie begins to cry.

Charlie hasn't cried since GTA 6 got delayed for the third time. But that was in private anyways. He’s never cried in front of Pim. He swore that would never happen a long time ago—-so when they’re held hostage or at gun point or any other terrible thing happens to them on a random Tuesday and Pim looks up at him, needing someone to tell him Everything Will Be Okay, Charlie can do that. Charlie can be that person for him. 

“Charlie?”

“Pim, I—I can’t keep doing this to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t keep…dragging you through this shit and making you worse and like—pulling you down to my level, man. I don’t—” He sobs. “Why the fuck do you even hang out with me? Why would you do that to yourself?”

It’s so embarrassing. Myron Gaines once famously said about crying, don’t, and Charlie has tried to follow that mantra the best he can. Though he only feels another wave rise up inside him when he hears Pim’s voice, gone incredibly soft, saying: “Charlie, come here.”

He sniffles over. Pim’s arms are already wide open. Charlie lets himself be held, the mattress creaking as he settles his head against Pim’s lap and they sigh deeper into the sheets together; Pim’s chin rests on his head, their shapes a perfect fit, like a puzzle piece.

“How many drinks have you had tonight?” Pim’s thumb comes to brush a tear off Charlie’s cheek.

“I don’t know. Like—two. Three.”

Pim waits.

“Eight.” Charlie finishes. 

“Counting the shots you had before the party?”

Charlie doesn’t answer. Yet Pim doesn’t scold him, or point out the obvious. Instead, he takes Charlie’s limp hand into his, squeezes it tight.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie parrots.

“I said it was okay.”

“No, stop saying that. It’s not okay. This isn’t okay. You…” He wipes his eyes, sits up, and looks at Pim dead on. “I made you cheat on me with Zoey. You know that, right?”

Pim looks pained at just the sound of her name. Still, his face takes on this hardened, weathered look as he says: “You didn’t make me do anything. That was…that was my decision too.”

“But if you didn’t know me or hang out with me so much you wouldn’t have done it.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true and you know it.”

“Charlie, nothing could have stopped me from what I did that night so just—I know it was wrong. I feel awful about it. Honestly.”

Charlie prays that’s the end of the conversation–the check mark that acknowledges they’re both fucked up so they can just forget it. But then Pim looks at him, stammers as he says: “But I…can I say something?” 

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember that night we went to the drive-in movie together?”

“What?”

“It was a Scream rerelease during Halloween. You really wanted to take me.”

Oh right. Feet on the dash, the seats pushed down, Pim holding onto his arm for every jump scare that always made Charlie’s stomach stir with a feeling that was all too familiar now. Is this how it’s always been? It makes him cringe a bit, peeling back memories to find how much of them were soaked in affection without him even realizing. All the dinners out, the movies in. Oh God, they even went to the damn pumpkin patch together that one time. 

“I just remember that night you said something that really stuck with me. When I was talking about my parents on the way home.” Pim gives him a weak smile. “You said: sometimes you have to let yourself be a little selfish.”

Charlie’s heart drops.

“Pim, that’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“What?”

“I’m not good for you, man.”

“What are you—that’s not true, you’re—”

“No, listen Pim, if—I can’t keep doing this to over and over and pretend like it’s fine to be over here all the time, and—and if I’m being totally honest man you might as well be like, an alcoholic or drug addict or something at this point, cause nothing can be worse for you than hanging out with me, okay? And that’s what I know now. Nothing—“

Charlie’s already getting up. He’s forced to stay when he’s ripped back, a pull like whiplash on his hoodie that brings him to Pim’s face, looking at him angrier than Charlie’s ever seen.

“You don’t get to decide what's good for me, Charlie. Okay? You don’t. So just stop it. Please.”

Charlie stares at him, then looks hard at a stain on the sheets from when he spilled some wine a few weeks ago. Pim couldn't get it out.

Pim grimaces, eyes following Charlie’s gaze. “Sorry,” he says. After a long moment, Pim finally sighs, intertwines their fingers and squeezes tight. His voice comes out so soft it’s enough to make Charlie fall over.

“Charlie, you make me feel full. You—you make me feel safe. Like everything really is going to be okay. And everything is okay. I don’t know if I can—I mean, my whole life, I’ve never…”

So corny. Charlie face gets hot, imagining 27 year old Pim—his world somehow cracking wide open at the new hire, this Actutane, Primus-blasting kid who stumbled on this job after a drunk night speed running Indeed.

It’s so hard to believe. He’s even heard similar variants in countless ex’s now—the Oh Charlie you’re so strong and handsome and good at everything spiel—but then again, Pim was an outlier in all of that. No one ever called out Charlie’s bullshit like Pim, and then forgave him quite so easily for it anyways. No one ever made Charlie want to be better.

“I don’t need to worry about that guy at the party?” Charlie asks, voice quiet.

“Guy? What guy?”

“Nobody. I just—I saw you laughing with this guy at some point.” 

Pim’s face is blank. 

“He had a suit?” Charlie tries.

It clicks into place. Pim grimaces at the memory. “Charlie, that guy was trying to sell me a blender."

“Huh?”

“I think he worked for Vitamix? Or something? I don’t—I don’t really know how he got there.” Pim looks down at their hands interlocked, idly. “We do need one though. I kind of want to get into making smoothies. But I just thought, not here, you know?”

Charlie doesn’t miss the way Pim says we.

“We don’t need a blender. I’ll just smash shit with my hands.”

“Mmhm.”

“Or if you want I can mash food in my mouth and feed it to you like you’re a baby bird or something.”

Pim gives him a crazy look and rubs his free hand down his face, accepting defeat. “Okay.” 

Charlie smiles. “Just a thought.”

They meet each other's eyes, then. It’s late. Charlie’s bone tired, slightly delirious, and suddenly, looking at Pim in the faded light, realizes how selfish he really is—how much he wants to have Pim for himself, forever, just like this.

He brings Pim’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles, each one an apology. One for who he is. One for what he does. One for what he puts him through.  

Pim looks at the ceiling, already embarrassed, and begins to babble, like he often does when supplied with attention like this. “Look, I-I know we’re still figuring all of this out and it can be…a little awkward or, or new but…”

Charlie trails his lips up Pim’s arm, relishes the way his voice wavers. Another apology kiss for the party, for what he said, for barging in so late.

“You don’t need to worry about…I don’t want to be selfish about anything but you, Charlie. And–and I'm sorry that’s awful."

“Pim.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I just want to–start new from all of that and just…I’m sorry if what I want is too much. I’m sorry I’m too much. I—”

Charlie moves all the way up Pim’s shoulder to his neck—for Zoey, for that night in the motel, for being so paranoid, so needy—and then hovers dangerously close. Pim sinks deeper beneath him, his breath hitching and a world of emotion written on his face—guilt, adoration, relief.

Charlie kisses him. It’s still everything. And it’s for the biggest apology of them all. Pulling away, he finally says it, after all this time:

“Dude, I think I’m seriously in love with you.”

And then it’s Pim’s turn to cry. His eyes well up, arms come to wrap around Charlie’s neck like a life preserver.

“Is that okay?” Charlie says. He holds his breath, holds it in even after Pim nods into his shoulder, shaking.

“You’re not going to leave, right?” 

The idea seems so far away now. Charlie holds Pim close and tries to believe that some things really can be that simple.

“No, Pim. I’m not.”

In fact, it was never even an option.