Best Laid Plans (Garnet Run 2)

Tears were streaming unchecked down Jack’s face. Jack was looking at him with a kind of helplessness Charlie hadn’t seen in a long time. He slumped against the door frame and closed his eyes.

“I can’t believe you.” His voice was barely there. “I can’t believe you never told me you could’ve had your dream. You fucking gave it up for me and you didn’t even ask if I wanted you to.”

Charlie pulled him into a hug and Jack squeezed him so tight it almost hurt.

“I didn’t want that, Charlie,” he said.

“I know,” Charlie said. “That’s why I never told you.”

Then Charlie held him while he cried.

* * *

Saturday morning, Charlie came into the kitchen to find Rye sleepily stirring eggs in a pan on the stove, Marmot perched on his shoulder. He was a vision—all tangled hair and low-slung sweatpants and bare feet.

Charlie and Jane had had their morning nose bump in his room and she had curled back up on his pillow, her favorite place to sleep when he wasn’t home.

“Morning,” Charlie said, putting a hand out for Marmot to bump.

“Mmf,” Rye said.

Charlie took advantage of his sleepiness and moved in behind him, snaking his arms around Rye’s stomach while being careful not to dislodge Marmot. He kissed the top of Rye’s messy head and pretended that he would get to do this every morning.

Pretended that Rye wasn’t going to head back to Seattle after the house was done. That he wasn’t going to be another memory Charlie took out and looked at like a faded photograph on sad days.

“Mmfmf,” Rye said, and leaned back into Charlie with a little wiggle.

“Given any more thought to the layout of the downstairs?” Charlie asked. “Or do you want to leave it as it was?”

Rye didn’t say anything for a while. He turned the heat off under the eggs and picked up two forks from the counter. He offered one fork to Charlie and held out the pan of eggs.

He seemed to intend for them to stand there and eat them out of the pan. Charlie reached over him and took two plates out of the cabinet. Much as he’d enjoy sharing a plate, he didn’t trust sleepy Rye with a hot pan and a cat at the same time.

He dished up the eggs, put the pan in the sink, and drew Rye to the kitchen table. Marmot absconded for territories unknown and Rye stared at his eggs confusedly for a moment as if he couldn’t quite track how they got from the pan to a plate.

Charlie had learned that it didn’t pay to try and drag answers out of Rye. He liked to think things through in his own time and tended to be snappish when rushed. So Charlie ate his eggs and watched Rye poke and scowl at his own.

“Can we leave the downstairs open?” he said finally.

“Sure,” Charlie said.

He wasn’t sure what Rye was thinking about so hard, or what his plans were, but he sketched plans on scrap paper while Rye ate his eggs in silence.

* * *

That night, after they’d showered off the day’s work and were once again watching Make it Home, Rye slumped to Charlie’s shoulder. He nuzzled into him and lifted Charlie’s arm, draping it around himself. Charlie pulled him close, encouraging him to rest his head on Charlie’s chest.

“One more?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Charlie pushed play on the next episode but hardly noticed what the renovation was, so distracted was he by the feel of Rye in his arms. He had molded himself to Charlie’s side like a cat and his breathing was deep and even. He smelled warm and familiar.

Charlie rubbed the ends of Rye’s hair between his fingers. It was usually messy, but Rye had combed it after his shower and though it would be mussed by tomorrow morning, now it was smooth and soft and Charlie could run his fingers through the silky strands easily.

Rye nestled closer when he did it and Charlie moved from the long strands to Rye’s scalp, massaging gently with the pads of his fingers until Rye was liquid against him, practically purring.

Curious, Charlie moved from the pads of his fingers to the tips, lightly scratching Rye’s scalp. Rye made a happy sound. He continued scratching for a while, letting Rye relax further, then slowly—so slowly—he gathered a handful of hair and pulled. Not a yank or a tug, but a gentle pressure.

At first Rye didn’t seem to notice the change. He seemed as relaxed as before. Charlie pulled just the tiniest bit harder and Rye pressed his cheek into Charlie’s chest.

Charlie gathered Rye’s hair in his fist and tugged just a little harder and this time, Rye made a small whimpering sound, buried his face in Charlie’s chest, and curled his arm around Charlie’s leg.

“More,” he said softly.

Charlie pulled his hair more. Still gentle, but definitive. Rye kissed his chest.