log: charlie and neil

[suckthemarrow]

characters: Charlie Dalton and Neil Perry.
summary: Occurred about Feb 1st. Unfinished. Also so long it didn't fit in one post, some of it is in a comment. Charlie comes to see Neil, they swap stories and Neil actually manages to deal with some of his major issues.


The way Charlie sees it, he has a few options. Once the Captain had come to collect Cordelia (with only a nod) he'd been left cold on the couch with his book of Plath, a pit of fury in his stomach, and a half-empty glass of red in his hand. Hair of the dog. It takes him all of five minutes of brooding alone before he throws on a shirt and heads for Neil's apartment. The Captain can play his games all he wants, because Charlie is playing right back. It's what they do. In his darkest moments, the forbidden thought floats through his head - the revolution is just another one of their power games.

He mulls over the choices as he walks to Neil's, hands jammed in pockets and chin high in the air. One, break something. Well, that's a given. Preferably it would have been someone's face, but his bedroom wall had worked nicely too. Two, break into Kennit's apartment and wait there, explain that his friends are different and he'd prefer if they kept it that way. Explain that he knows they're a weakness. Redouble his efforts. Make it right. Three, distract himself and indulge in his weakness under the guise of keeping Neil safe from himself. There's a lot of damage control to be done, but Neil is priority number one. There really shouldn't be more than one option, at this point.

It's rare that Charlie puts anyone before himself, but everything he's feeling is so huge and terrifying, he just needs to not think. There's too much rage and hurt and that thing he'll never name, because he's better, he's better. At this point, it might be easier to help Neil than to help himself. So he raps twice on the door and stands back, trying to wipe that I am going to break every bone in the body of the next person who breathes near me look off his face. Easier said than done.

Neil likes the computers, and it's not just the seemingly endless amount of poetry available through them. They're a distraction, a link to the outside world, an easy way to say; I'm still here, I'm still alive. Pretend like everything's fine and he wants to be social when really he keeps straddling his chair, chin on his arms, staring past the screen into familiar blankness.

Which is what he's doing when there's a sharp knock at the door. Jesus. Neil appreciates the fact that his friends are glad to see him, he really does, but to him it's been barely a few days since he last saw them, and already their constant checking up on him is beginning to grate a little. He isn't going to do it again - or at least, he doesn't think he's going to do it again, not when he's finally free of his father. He gets how much potential Babylon has (as though he couldn't, with Charlie raving at him drunkenly, Knox leaning bright-eyed on his shoulder, so filled with passion.) But that doesn't make certain revelations any less miserable, and already introspection has its frosty-fingered grip on him.

When Neil opens the door, the fact that Charlie's there doesn't surprise him much. His smile is already plastered onto his face, but it cracks a little when he sees the fire in Charlie's eyes. Damn it, Neil. It's Nuwanda. Neil pushes the door wide open and leans his back on it, tilting his head and turning his expression all curious, his hands flat against the cold wood. For a moment his eyes flicker past Charlie's shoulder to the bare paint of the empty corridor, and then back to the brewing stormclouds. No Knox. That's unusual enough to keep Neil's initial questions at bay. "Hi," he says as Charlie comes in. "Do you want some food?" He's barely been here two days and already he's eating better (or perhaps, nutritionally, worse) than he ever did at home or Hellton.

For a few seconds, Charlie just stands in front of Neil and stares, trying to slow his breathing. It's okay, he's okay, they're both here, they're fine. "Hi," he says unnecessarily as he makes his way in, not bothering to look back. Cordelia doesn't share her food, and though he's a decent cook, it's always made him tired. Charlie just throws himself onto the couch, legs on the coffee table in front of him, and nods absently. "Please." Food might be a comfort right about now.

His head is a swirling mess. It always is, but the complete feeling of abandonment (no one just ignores Charlie Dalton) has worsened it. Conflicting desires and nameless rage and fragmented lines of poetry all coalescing into this blank state of mind, nothing but emptiness and white. Charlie wants nothing more than to go off on a profanity-laden rant, just to finally expel it all from his head, but there are two fundamental problems with that. One, it means admitting that he's been burned by something so trivial, which in turn means admitting all manner of emotions he's been successfully keeping in the undercurrent. Two, Neil Perry is not really the person to drop all of your issues on. Maybe he was, but not anymore. Charlie's still got enough sanity left to suss that out.

"People are fucking stupid," is what he finally settles for, throwing Neil a contemptible look. If anyone has ever understood his rage, it's been Neil, and maybe now he'll get it more than ever. "Making a big deal out of a little thing. There's worse shit that goes on." Charlie runs both hands through his hair and clasps them behind his head, resisting the urge to just ask Neil point blank. He's got vague memories of awkward moments when they were drunk, but at this point, Charlie is beyond caring. Anyone else's problems to distract him from his own would be a welcome change.

Even the kitchen is still all new to Neil, but he has at least worked out the basics; he flips on the kettle and puts bread in the toaster, pulling out cheese and vegetables and things from the 'fridge. It's about the healthiest he eats (frozen pizza his probably his favorite new discovery after the internet) and his jaw clenches as he listens to Charlie, glad the basic food preparation gives him an excuse to keep his back to where he lolls on the sofa.

It's like he can feel the anger, radiating out from Charlie in that extreme way he's always had. It's so real. But he doesn't reply at first, just lets his friend stew for a moment while he slices a tomato. Eventually he brings over a plate of buttered toast and a plate of things to go on it, putting them both down on the table. "What's got you so worked up?" he asks mildly in unison with the clack of the crockery, but the glance he gives to Charlie is serious. Neil gets Charlie's rage, and it scares him a little how freely he throws it around, as though it's inexhaustible (maybe it is; rage and money, two things a Dalton could never run out of.)

The kettle begins to boil, but Neil hovers there a moment, trying to work it all out from the slope of Charlie's back - a little too carefree - from the twitch of his fingers like he wants to ball them into fists. "Is it the stuff on..." he gestures towards the computer, still not familiar with the thing humming like a living thing in his living room. At night, when he sleeps, if he sleeps, he pulls it out of the power. "With your room-mate?" He isn't sure yet what he thinks of her. Charlie seems to hate her, but Charlie's hatred is fairly common coin.

Yeah, it's the stuff on the network. Stupid shit that means so much, because he lets it mean so much, lets Kennit's games get into his head. Charlie hates how easily it's taken over his life when he's been doing all he can to resist technology, and he begins layering vegetables on his toast as he talks. "Yes and no," he says, a smile creeping across his face despite everything. "Cordelia's a bitch, but I don't care about her. Really." That part's true, at least. It's unlikely that he'll ever even admit to himself what's got him so worked up, much less Neil, so he just takes a huge bite out of the toast and shrugs. "Captain's being an idiot. Just people," he says after he swallows the mouthful, then reconsiders it. "Not Knox, and not you."

Charlie's rage never burns out quickly, but it's starting to fade as the food hits his stomach, turning into a dull murderous thump instead. "Thanks for the toast," he says idly, but it doesn't lessen the intensity of anything. Everything. Charlie closes his eyes and lets it wash over him, just briefly - he's pissed off and left behind and jealous, really fucking jealous when he has no reason to be (because he's Nuwanda, because he's better, because he's the one that caused Kennit to do this in the first place and there's some sick sort of power in that) and he's going to hit something. Or someone. Or jump someone. Whatever, it's all the same catharsis in the end. Affection and lust and violence and anger are all becoming one supremely disturbing melded emotion in Charlie's mind, as if they weren't close to that already. Everything is sharper when he opens his eyes again, and everything is mercifully much quieter in his head. It's only real if I make it real, he reminds himself.

When Neil makes his way back into the room, Charlie smirks up and motions for him to sit. "I'm glad you're here." It's something he's said enough times already, with his face pressed up against the back of Neil's neck and smelling soap and wine and meaning it more than he's meant anything in a long while, but it doesn't stop being true. For all the bullshit it's caused, it's worth it. "And you're sticking around this time," Charlie says matter-of-factly, punctuating his words with another bite of toast.

Funny, how all Charlie had wanted at school was girls; girls girls girls, and now he lives with one and all he can do is call her a bitch? But then, if some of her allegations are true... Neil doesn't want to think about it. It's as though it would make all his confusion and pain completely irrelevant, for Charlie to be so brazen about something like that. Captain's being an idiot. With only words on a screen to go on so far, Neil is beginning to wonder precisely what Charlie and this new Captain have-

He stops his thoughts lightening-fast as he re-emerges with tea and plates for both of them, but he knows his introspective expression stayed on his face a little longer than it should have. God damn but face-to-face interaction is harder, especially when Charlie's all sharp-eyed and sober. but his eyes are closed, and for the first time Neil wonders if maybe this is hard for Charlie, too. It seems almost impossible in his mind, because he's more Nuwanda than ever, carefree and with all the world coming so easily to him.

Neil grabs a couple of pieces of toast and leaves them dry as he flops down next to Charlie, turning to face him and pulling his legs up, a barrier between them. He rests his plate of toast precariously on his knees, and waits until he's finished his mouthful to talk, like his mother taught him. Pretends that those words so casually uttered don't send a thrill of sick foreboding through him. He puts down his toast and twists his fingers together, wiping off crumbs, trying not to feel the cold steel in his hands. "Jesus, Charlie," he mutters, and then glances up, eyes suspiciously bright but his expression otherwise smooth, friendly. He's had time to rehearse this as meticulously as he rehearsed his soliloquies as Puck. "I'm glad you're here," he says, and it's not quite an agreement, he doesn't add the 'too'. More an echo, and like an echo it is hollow and empty and the silence after it has Neil pressing his lips together with self-chastisement.

Charlie knows how to shoot a gun. Fact. That's one of the few things he's glad his father taught him. He's an okay shot, too, but still - it feels false in his hands. He wants to feel bones breaking and blood between his fingers, and a gun, a sword, that's all so impersonal. Still, he's thought about it. Turned the Captain's gun over in his hands and tried to think, this is what Neil felt, but he's never had it in him to feel the metal against his head. Method acting. It's just not his bag.

Inexplicably, all of his hunger has dropped away, though he drinks the tea just to be polite. Keeping up appearances is important, after all. But, really, fuck appearances. Sometimes things just need to be said. Addressed directly. Whether it freaks Neil out or not.

"Okay. Look." Charlie moves quickly as he speaks, taking the plate from Neil's knee and setting it with the rest on the table. His face is dark when he turns toward Neil. It only takes a second's consideration before he pulls his legs onto the couch as well, leaning forward to cross his arms over his friend's knees, resting his chin on top of them and locking their eyes. Because that's the only way to do this right. "I don't get why you did it. Don't explain, because I won't get it," he says unceremoniously. "I don't care if you don't want to be here, alright? That's not how this works."

Any other person would hold back on this (there's no use guilt tripping a depressed guy) but Charlie isn't any other person. "So much shit happened afterwards," he says. "And I fucking hated being the bearer of bad news. Do it again, and it'll be twice as bad. So." Despite the heavy emotion it drags up and the words that come next, he just smiles a challenge up at Neil and arches an eyebrow. "Do it and I'll kill you first."

When Charlie touches him Neil flinches back, but doesn't drop his gaze. It takes him a moment to recover from the fact that Charlie would even bring this up, from the way he's too, too close. He's right about one thing at least; Neil knows Charlie will never understand why he did it. He has always had opportunity piled on opportunity, the ability to break about and do whatever he could want. Someone like Charlie Dalton could never understand what it was like to feel trapped and pointless.

He is about to say that he doesn't care what happened afterwards (the whole point had been that he would never have had to deal with what anyone else felt ever again, but that's all gone to hell now) but Charlie's smile strangely lightens something in Neil and his lips twist in amusement. "How are you going to manage that, slick?" he asks with a little chuckle; it's such a crazy Charlie thing to say and Neil suddenly feels comfortable again. Comfortable enough to realize he should probably lie and deny ever thinking about - about doing it again. Avoidance isn't good enough, Charlie's known him long enough to see right through that.

"Man, don't worry," he says, and he's a good actor (he has the gift, right?) and his smile seems genuine. "I'm not going to do anything stupid, you're not going to have to be the bearer of- of anything. So just, lay off, okay." A hand he had raised to gesture dismissively runs through his floppy fringe and he drops his gaze. "You don't have to worry about me, Charlie," Neil says, and reaches for his toast again, wanting something to nibble on. "So can we, uh, not talk about this? Please?" He knows what he does want to talk about, and it sits heavy and cankerous in his stomach, but he doesn't say anything else, just chews contemplatively, the food cardboard in his mouth.

"I have my ways," Charlie muses under Neil's words, but the smile begins to falter. Don't worry. Of course. That would be so easy to do, just let Neil go about his business and Charlie his. Trouble is, he doesn't know what Neil's business is anymore, unless- oh. Oh. "Not worried, just being a friend," he says dismissively, leaning further over Neil's knees. "Get used to it, okay? I take this shit seriously."

Too much of that. "Captain's doing something you might be interested in," Charlie says through his smirk. For a few horrifying seconds, revolution bubbles on the tip of his tongue, all of the secrets he's been keeping so well - because maybe they speak of it on the network, maybe there is subtext, but no one knows the plans whispered under a cover of darkness. And no one will, until they come to fruition. A big damn shock. That's all he wants. There's a light and a confusion in Neil's eyes, so he bites it all back and soldiers on. "He's backing a play. A musical. Bye Bye Babylon."

It's not something he'd ever do (there's enough on his plate as is) but damn it all if Neil wasn't the first person he thought of. "But, you know, if you've left that all behind, turning over a new leaf..." Charlie pulls himself away from Neil and flops back to his side of the couch, because this is what he does. Pushes people into things and laughs in the face of an oncoming explosion.

"Are you serious?" Real enthusiasm spreads its way across Neil's face, putting the lie to all the rest of it so far. This time it's his turn to pounce forward; god, he'd almost forgotten what it was like to feel the onset of this mania. He's been so fucking blank since he came down off that stage, and the idea of doing it again. "Bye Bye Babylon? That's really morbid," he reflects. As though he can talk.

But then he slides forward, grabbing Charlie's wrist and shaking his arm as though that can fully express his glee. "You really are serious, aren't you!" A new leaf? Fuck that. Neil's coming to realize grades don't matter here like they did back home, but he still has a drive to succeed. Acting, however - up until now he's been almost sorry his father isn't here, because when he had floated back to consciousness and out into this world, he'd still been shaking with the effort of holding his hand to his temple and keeping it there, and ever since then he's imagined seeing his father's face, having him apologize to Neil, or maybe Neil apologize to him. He isn't sure. But to act, oh to strive and memorize, play stupid games backstage and run through the same damn line twenty, thirty lines, to be someone else for months at a time and at the end of it take the stage and listen to the applause. It's what he was meant to do, he knew it, he still knows it.

"Of course I want to do it, I can't believe you didn't tell me about this before? I haven't missed auditions, have I? That's amazing, Jesus. A play, they're really putting on a play." This has swept all thoughts of Charlie and the Captain from his mind, but now he comes back to himself and he's very close to his friend. Neil puts distance between them again, eyes blazing, and grins his Robin Goodfellow grin. "Thanks," he says softly.

This is easier, this is so much easier. Charlie laughs when Neil does, and the smile that stays on his face is genuine. For the moment, he can ignore the underlying smolder of power, of getting the reaction he wants, because his friend's happiness is enough. "Slipped my mind," he says before Neil removes himself, and damn it, this would have been easier when they were drunk. Then, most things are. "The directors are fucking insane, I think they'll still accept you. They'd better." He flicks his eyes over Neil before diving forward again, like some bizarre seesaw they've got going.

For as long as he's known him, Neil has always been lanky and slightly awkward. Charlie has no trouble pushing him down, though in a way, he misses the familiar challenge of tackling someone stronger than him, just because. Just because. The momentarily forgotten rage begins to trickle down again, hiding just behind his grin, and he knows that in all likelihood, Neil can tell. Charlie's got issues and they both know it. But he doesn't want to fight against Neil, though it may eventually come to that - everything is the same in the end, after all. For now, he just shifts until he's kneeling over his friend, arms crossed in front of him. It's not the most stable of positions. Neil could easily throw him off, if he really wanted to. But why would he.

"If they don't, I'll crack some skulls," he continues jovially, like nothing just happened. He looks down at Neil and shrugs. "I mean it. I didn't know if you'd still want to, but no one's stopping you this time. You're your own person now." Despite the slight discomfort, the light in his own eyes hasn't gone out. If anything, it's intensified, but he's not about to get on another epic speech about the many merits of Babylon.

"My own person..." says Neil, echoing again. He grimaces; it's almost true, but there's still Charlie. If Neil was free to be his own person, he probably would have offed himself the moment he'd gotten back to his own apartment. So his father's not here, and he's glad. So he's learned enough about how to be an individual. But he'll never be his own person. Can any of them? Really? Charlie's got Knox, and already a new Captain...

Neil grabs the front of Charlie's shirt, intending to push him back, off, away, uncomfortable with the close contact, the way once they stop wrestling it's just contact. This would indeed be easier if he were drunk. But his awkwardness makes him hesitate, pondering whether it would be too telling, and instead he just leaves his hands resting on Charlie's chest, staring up at him myopically. The rage shines on his face, and it's easy to imagine him cracking some heads, at he put it. "You're more violent than I remember," he reflects, but the buzz is still humming in his chest and he follows it with another grin.

"C'mon Charlie," he adds, tugging a little. "Get off. Eat your toast. Get off." All his dumb thoughts about the reasons behind Charlie's rage and his own touching issues and everything, everything else he never wants to instigate is percolating on the tip of his tongue, and at least rough-housing is an excuse not to talk. Neil shoves.

This is a bad idea. Under the layers of latent madness, and frustration, and pain, and everything else that has made Charlie the way he is, he knows this for certain. Everything he does is a bad idea nowadays, but words and ideas can change the world. One day, this will all make sense. In the meantime, though. "Am I?" Charlie asks, though it's rhetorical. He knows that being here, even for a relatively short amount of time, has finally tapped into the darker parts of his person. Stuff that can't be expelled through sword training or boxing, something unnameable and real.

He steels himself against Neil's shove and strikes back, quick and twice as hard. It scares him that he's already forgotten how bony his friend's shoulders are, makes him wonder what else he's forgotten. "Guess I am. It comes free with revolution," Charlie says, marveling at how easily it just slips out. He's got a vise grip on Neil's shoulders, bending over him to pin him into the couch. Charlie's never really been good with personal space (his mother called him handsy; Keating said it in nicer words) and he knows that Neil is the exact opposite, he knows that, he just doesn't have it in him to care.

"Neil. I mean it," he repeats, lower this time. Charlie's close enough that their noses are almost touching. It's all he can do to hold back. He's quite literally shaking with tension, because he's never been good with reining himself in, either. He doesn't even say what he wants to say. I'll kill who you hate. Just stares Neil down for a few seconds before finally letting out a bark of a laugh. "Thanks but no thanks, I'm pretty damn comfortable."

Too close, way too close, and Neil can't back away. He hates being trapped, more than anything else in the world, and it's as though all his problems have manifested in Charlie and are pushing in on him. The brief high of acting collapses again, as it always seems to here in Babylon. The air's too humid, everything is grey and stale, and joy is just brief bursts followed by the desolation again.

"Revolution?" Neil asks, tasting the word. It's bitter. His eyes are dark and his doesn't know how to fight with his fists like Charlie does, doesn't know how to lash out like Charlie does, turn his own secret violence against anyone other than himself. "Is that what you and your new Captain do together?"

The disgust in his voice isn't aimed at Charlie at all. Neil shoves again as he says it, wanting to catch Charlie off-balance, choke off the strange sensation this much close contact always gives him. He rolls forward with it this time, sitting straighter, still nose-to-nose but with a little more room to move. "I don't-" he hitches a breath, realizes he's stuttering like Todd and the thought makes hysteria rise in his throat. "Don't touch me, get off me." He pushes uselessly again.

Charlie relents, if only a little. It's still enough to surprise him. He just lets his hands drop from Neil's shoulders, cocks his head a little to the side. "Yeah, it's what we do," he says slowly. Neil really isn't helping himself much, but Charlie backs off the slightest, his face inscrutable. People telling him no - his best friends telling him no - it always stirs defiance in him. Tell him not to do something, and he'll do it again and again. "Look, would you stop?" There may even be a little hurt in his voice. Maybe it's left over from Kennit. He'd rather not identify it.

"It's what we do," Charlie repeats, eyebrows raised in defiance. To tell or not to tell. Fuck it. "You did your thing, you seized your day. This is mine. I can't tell you much, but- Phone call from god, that was just the beginning. This is bigger than. Everything." He's choosing his words carefully as he reaches up to push Neil's hair off his forehead, and it ends up perhaps more forceful than it should, but that's just how it goes. "Not getting off you," he adds, the smile returning.

He twists the other hand loosely in the fabric of Neil's shirt, just so he still has some grip on him, and gives a shrug. "I didn't mean to piss you off," and that's the truth. Charlie's still smiling, still devious, but at least he's being truthful.

Maybe somewhere deep down Neil knows that he'll trigger that in Charlie, the defiance, the need to do the opposite of what people tell him. What else is the point in pushing at him? But he's not pissed off, he's not, just confused and left out and sick of hiding from the only person in this entire Dome who's ever accepted him for who he is, not who he pretends he could be.

"I want you to tell me," Neil says, and he's honestly and earnestly enthused, perhaps a little bit through the joyrush of relief. Charlie hasn't contradicted any of the weird thoughts birthed earlier in Neil's head, but what he says is enough to put a new spin on it all. Return the touch of fingers on his forehead back to innocence, and calm Neil down a little. "Bigger, how much bigger?"

The word revolution sparks images to newspaper headlines and Neil pushes aside the learned avoidance of that kind of thing to really consider it. "This isn't like the Dead Poets' is it? More like..." he tries to vocalize what he's imagining, the mania coming back. He breathes hotly between them. "More like that stupid Welton Society Candidates thing. Except the opposite. And in here, in this weird place." The idea of overthrowing the government doesn't remotely occur to him. The government is just the way it is, a background stability to the rest of Neil's quieter ideas of anarchy. "I just thought... because Cordelia said..." Neil's gaze drops away and he sags a little. "It doesn't matter. But that's really neat, Charlie, good for you."

Oh, well, fuck it all to hell and back. He wants to tell Neil. This is such stupid shit, this is why he hasn't even so much as breathed a word of revolution around Knox. Because he knows that they're his biggest weakness. Even when neither of them were in Babylon, even then, they were heavy on his heart. They hold him back. Charlie shakes his head furiously; these aren't thoughts he needs to be having right now. "Bigger than everything, like I said," he says under his breath before meeting Neil's eyes again. "Bigger than the government." Because he can't think of another way to say it without spilling everything. We're going to tear this world apart and rebuild it and you're going to go along with it because I don't want you to get hurt. The thought alone, clear and burning hot in his mind, is enough to make him click his teeth and close his eyes. That's too much.

"Not like the Dead Poets," Charlie agrees. "And not quite like the Candidates, thank you." There's really nothing he could compare it to. What they're doing is new and powerful and cannot be contained in words, even if he wanted it to. Poetry is the only thing that comes close, and even then, he can't think of a full quote. "Unconquerable souls," he murmurs nonsensically, looking through Neil to oceans and infinite possibilities. "A clean slate." With your own face on. He still shivers a little at that, just a little, and it's enough to get him to focus again.

Neat. Yeah. That's definitely what it is. Good for him. Still, Charlie knows this isn't the time to take issue with those words. They'll all understand, somewhere along the line. Neat. "What did Cordelia say?" His lips twist, a little wicked, though he doesn't move at all. She's said plenty of things. Incriminating things. Leave it to the roommate to spoil all the fun of a nice shock factor. "What'd she say, tell me. I want to know," Charlie echoes, his fingers absently pulling at Neil's shirt to bring him that much closer.

There's no doubt about it; Charlie's abstract. But Neil's always liked that about him, that if someone draws a line in the sand, he'll cross it. it gives him the courage to follow, even the drive to step first. So his fragmented mumbles, the reflection in his eyes of far-off lands and the clash of fist on flesh, the sound of a revolution bigger than everything... Neil's okay with that. Even if it sounds crazy, or too big for him to encompass when there's no much other new stuff to think about. He can take it all in stride. It's part of being there for Charlie, watching and trying to understand and trying to ready him for the cold water that will temper him eventually.

But what Neil can't deal with is his own inability to know what he wants, and the mischief in Charlie's eyes says I know exactly what accusations you want to fling. Because they're true? "She said..." Neil's out of focus; his hand drifts up and strokes a finger absently over the curve of Charlie's ear, touching the soft skin with the same detachment with which he had stroked his pyjamas that horrible night. He feels like a hypocrite and he doesn't know why.

"Dammit." Neil just crashes his forehead against Charlie's shoulder, snapped back to reality but not running this time. "I dunno, Charlie. She just implied some stupid shit. Nothing. She said nothing. It doesn't matter." Every breath in smells like red wine and poetry and his own guilt, and his words are muffled by Charlie's collar. He asks, not meaning to sound accusatory but emotional enough that he can't help it; "Why are you even here?"

Neil won't be the one to say it, so Charlie just shrugs it off for the moment. He's never understood why this sort of shit makes people so uncomfortable, but then again, he's also never had problems admitting who he is. It's probably not what Neil thinks. After all, Charlie's got his eye on everyone. And he's so in his own head that the gentle touch startles him into sudden action; he's going to do it, he's going to. Some things don't need words. In fact, they're better off without.

But what should really be a split second decision takes too long, and then he's got Neil talking into his chest. Charlie just shrugs minutely. "Why the hell not?" The hand that had been gripping his friend's shirt moves to his hair, tangling there instead, just so he can maintain some control on the situation. "People are pissing me off and you're good at making me feel better." It's bizarre, but this up-and-down insanity session they're having really is helpful for Charlie. He just pulls Neil back and gives it a little consideration before pressing their foreheads together, because at this point, he can't stand to not be close.

"Making up for lost time," Charlie muses aloud, bowing their heads a little as he does. "Or maybe I just want to be here, you ever think of that? You're my friend, I like spending time with my friends. Shit like that." Relieving a little guilt, keeping him safe, but those are two reasons Charlie doesn't quite want to throw out into the open. He knows his brand of affection isn't always the most conventional. He knows he's a jerk. Still, though. Neil could beat him, or at least try to, or yell at him or keep making his silent assumptions or just keep doing what he's doing. Charlie isn't going to leave.

Making up for lost time is what gets Neil, makes him shudder himself away. Those were good answers, they were all good and reasonable answers and Neil is glad Charlie's here, that he doesn't have to be alone with the silence of the walls, the sound of next door's television turned up loud, the click and hum of the computer, the boiling kettle. Stupid little shit getting on his nerves. At least now he has a reason to be driven completely mad, for his emotions to fluctuate high and low and high again, nausea swelling in the pit of his stomach.

Neil wants to touch Charlie's ear again, but he grips the back of the couch, digs in his nails so the tendons stand up on the back of his hand. "I like spending time with my friends too," he huffs, twisting so his shoulder's against Charlie's chest. "Even if you still haven't learnt anything about personal space." He shoots a grin backwards, still turning away.

Because it's not like this never happened during school, rough-housing and incredibly lame snuggling, all of them all over each other but Charlie especially. Still, maybe now, when everything is so hollow and blank, he's beginning to come to terms with why that's always been awkward for him. Getting that close to Charlie's lips is too much of a temptation, but he vocalizes the other thought instead, the other realization. This entire evening has been one slowly unearthed self-discovery after another. "I'm glad your here," he says. "I'm glad we're both here." And maybe it's only fleeting, and the feeling will fade with Charlie's warmth and the excitement of acting and revolution, but he means it.

For whatever reason, Neil pulling away for the nth time finally trips the trigger in Charlie's brain. He's tired, of this, of himself, of everything. He's not been sleeping well, he's still pissed off, he keeps having to let go of Neil, he keeps saying stupid shit that means well, it really does. And sure, the game of cat and mouse is fun for a while, but hitting the wall one too many times just stokes the fire he's been trying to put out.

"Yeah," he agrees without even really thinking. As long as he's here, Neil is okay. But okay isn't good enough. Okay is never good enough, nothing is ever good enough. At least he and Neil have that in common. There's so much, so many things he made himself forget for fear of waking up back at home with the smell of gunsmoke and snow. Welton and Lake Champlain and his mother's garden parties and Henley Hall and his vision is darkening with everything Neil. Insane. And maybe that's why he lunges forward again, or maybe he doesn't need a reason. Fine, fine line. "Personal space isn't really my thing," he says when they hit the arm of the couch, and Charlie's got enough momentum that there's no room for air between them anymore.

It's autonomous, but when Neil reaches up to feebly push him off, Charlie just grabs his hand and grips it tight. "Don't take this too seriously," he hisses. Get over your problems. Or at least pretend you're over them, pretend well enough so we can all pretend, too. But he doesn't say these things, just moves his other hand against Neil's side and digs his fingers in, trying to feel skin and blood and ambition. "And don't be stupid about it. You're a fucking genius, so don't think too much." That's all the warning he gets before Charlie presses their lips together, still with that devil's grin and not even as hard as he could or should. It's only then that his mind is quiet, save for the echo, making up for lost time.

It's one thing entirely for Neil to let the thought creep into the depths of his mind, that maybe kissing Charlie wouldn't be so bad, that maybe he's not as asexual as he pretends. It's another to be pushed backwards and have dry lips against his. His first kiss.

For a moment that's all it is and Neil wishes he could take Charlie's advice and just go with this. His eyes close, his lips open, and his tongue darts out. Charlie tastes like wine and the freedom of the cave, which snaps him back to himself and then he turns his head away, slides off to the side, agonised. Rejection has never been his forte.

He shoves, hard. Charlie's stronger, but Neil's vehement. "Don't-" he says a little brokenly, unable to meet Charlie's eyes though his grip on the other's hand is white-knuckled tight. "Don't pretend, Charlie, jesus." Neil's free hand comes up to swipe over his face, hide his excruciated expression. He wants to pull himself together but he's always too open with Charlie and there's only tatters of his facade left to pull. He's being stupid about it, yeah he's thinking too much; how it's worse because Neil knows Charlie isn't the one acting. "Sorry," he adds, almost an afterthought.

The push is what catches him off guard. No, no, no. He's already been pushed away by everyone else here who matters even the tiniest bit. Neil will not be one of them. He fucking refuses. Charlie lets himself lose balance and fall forward again, still nose to nose with Neil. The smile is gone now, and the fingers he presses into his friend's side are shaking with effort. They're playing a game of who can break whose hand first, and while he doesn't want to hurt him- he kind of does. Charlie twists Neil's wrist as he speaks. "Not pretending. And you're not sorry."

He can tell himself that it's about business, about keeping Neil alive and safe, but it's not anymore. Charlie's face is coloring with rage and pain and at this point, he might very well cry. Not out of remorse, just fury. Just fury. Babylon is supposed to be his, he's supposed to get what he wants, what he fucking deserves, this is. No. "You liked it," he says suddenly, the smirk returning full force as he lets go of Neil's wrist. He palms his friend's face instead, and there's a bitter amusement in how absolutely horrified he looks. "What makes you think I'm pretending? I don't pretend. That's your thing."

His hand slides down to Neil's neck, and his pulse is so fast, Charlie's not sure how he ignored it before. "Stop freaking out," he adds, quieter this time. But he doesn't let go of Neil's side, doesn't move apart from him. Neil will stop freaking out on his terms only.

Neil goes limp. He's not giving up, he's not, because Carpe Diem translates to determination, getting up the courage to fight against apathy and convention and the mundane. But he lets Charlie touch him, staring out across the bare expanse of his living room, same color as everyone else's, same coffee table, same computer desk, just like getting a dorm room again, though this time there's no-one to share it with.

With a deep breath he tries to stop freaking out. Analyse the situation rationally. Charlie kissed him, but that's not surprising. Charlie is always the first to take something too far, to venture into the unknown, vocalize the chaos and desire that thrums through Neil and all their adolescent brains. But he's also right, and Neil worries at his lower lip as his nose brushes over Charlie's cheek. "Yeah," he says, agreeing with - everything. Pretending is his 'thing', even Keating had spotted that (the gift, the gift, it echoes uselessly in his mind) and. He liked it. Even if it wasn't perfect, he understands the appeal; it's the same as the way Knox would get all dreamy over just the idea of Chris.

That said, Neil's not exactly getting dreamy over the idea of Nuwanda. But he's calming down a little, more dazed than frantic. "Huh," he says, which is utterly inane, and he's smarter than that. A fucking genius, right. "You know Charlie, most people don't converse while lying on top of their friends." So maybe Charlie's not lying on top of him, and maybe the stuttering mantra of too close, too close has faded into background white noise, but it's still a little awkward. But he's not going to do any pushing, it smarts of caged animal and the way Charlie's face looks makes something deep inside Neil ache with stupid sympathy. "Just uh. Look, don't move, okay?" He winds his hand up to Charlie's shoulder, leans forward and kisses him gently, trying to get a feel for it without actually thinking about how ridiculous this entire situation really is.

He's not most people. Charlie lives for ridiculous moments like this. Getting completely lost on the way back from New York and having to spend the night in his car, Knox's hyperventilating and many concerns keeping either of them from actually getting any sleep. Sword training for future plans and hours of idle, half-drunken scheming with the Captain. And now this; whatever this is, Charlie knows it's right. It's sort of synchronistic, in fact. Neil was the first guy he consciously knew he wanted, his first real friend, and the original co-conspirator. Lost and found and now he's kissing Charlie, all sweet and amateur, and damn it all if he doesn't like it too.

For a few seconds, he doesn't move. Lets Neil feel it out himself. But it doesn't last long - Charlie's forcing his lips apart (then again, Neil's pretty compliant about it) and shifting his weight to try and get comfortable, tracing Neil's teeth and stroking fingers along the back of his neck. All he can taste is soap and tea and melancholy and steel. Maybe this way he can absorb some of Neil's sadness, use his talent as the alchemist's son to turn it into rage and expel it to the masses. Save Neil from himself. Maybe Charlie just thinks too much, but it's not even that. He doesn't feel like he's thinking. These things just come to him, easy like his movements, and Charlie's got to wonder if he's the only one of his friends who didn't resign himself to the boring Welton life.

"See, good things happen when you stop being a spaz," he's saying against Neil's jaw. He's a bad person, because the thought flashes through his head, and Charlie's laugh is more like a growl at this point. "Cordelia likes to imply stupid shit."

Neil stops because he needs to breathe; deep anxious lungfuls that seem to contradict the very zen state of his mind right now. He has so much to think about that a weird, controlled calm has swept him, and even with teeth grazing his neck Neil just sorts through his thoughts. Forget pretending, forget all the boy's school bullshit, forget ugly words like fag. But remember this. He rearranges himself around Charlie this time instead of bothering with pushing and pulling and rests an elbow on the arm of the sofa, glad to have a little more space, even if it isn't between them where it needs to be.

"Wow," Neil huffs out into Charlie's hair, and he shakes for a moment with a silent laugh. He lets all his terrified breath out in a whoop and flops his head back to smile. The sky hasn't fallen, the world hasn't ended, no-one's here to yell at him and Charlie fills every inch of the guilty silence.

Whatever Charlie says, Cordelia's innuendo was at least half right, and Neil's so caught up in self-discovery that he's curious about the rest. "So you and the pirate, the Captain..." he dangles it a moment, playing a game of fill-in-the blank. "I mean, is this a new thing for you?" Neil is beginning to suspect Charlie has known about him all along, which incites a grinning anger to bubble in his chest. He cards a hand through Charlie's hair instead, thumb stroking his ear, a little more deliberate this time but still brief and apologetic.

Even with Neil's chest heaving against his (I did that, and the surge of familiarity makes him grin and bite at his friend's ear) Charlie still doesn't move away. He's not sure he ever will. Catharsis, yeah, but as long as he's got Neil underneath him, he plans on keeping it that way for a while. "What Kennit and I do is different," he says autonomously. But Neil deserves something more than his standard excuse, so Charlie just rests his head in the crook of Neil's neck and speaks there. "We're a lot alike. You guys weren't here. He likes poetry, he's got all these ideas."

Charlie hasn't let himself get all dreamy and far-eyed about Kennit. Not on the nights he's alone with nothing but his books, not even while talking to Spitfire, not ever. Because it's not like that. But he allows it here, just for a few seconds, and the expected ball of rage in his stomach has disappeared. Now he just feels empty and tired, and he still feels wet virility paint along his jaw and he can't keep thinking like this. Focus on Neil. "We're going to change the world," he says finally, lifting his head again to look down at Neil. "Things happen." Because that's the only way he knows how to describe it. It's not that he was desperately searching for any companionship, not that he settled for the Captain - what they have is indeed different, and Charlie doesn't believe in fate (it can be defied, like everything else) but he does believe that their meeting was something close to it.

Still, though. He's with Neil, focus on Neil. Charlie removes his grip on the other's side, finally, only to slide his hand under the shirt and right back to the bruising spot. Just to feel hot skin and draw another reaction out of Neil as he speaks. "Not new," he says musingly. The fact is that Charlie's never bothered to ask people their sexuality - because it doesn't matter to him, and because he assumes everyone is like him. And why shouldn't they be? It's a better way to live, he's pretty convinced of that fact. But here in Babylon, with the staunch breeder/nonbreeder labels, he's beginning to learn that his automatic attraction to everyone literate isn't quite the norm. "Why didn't you ever tell me?" It's not accusatory, just genuinely curious.

It's hard for Neil, but when Charlie speaks about Kennit, he hears it. Respect and... more than respect. He can practically hear Charlie drifting, riding waves of revolutionary thought, the way he gets when they're drunk and they read poetry and afterwards, they both just think about what it means. Except in his head Captain still means teacher and the idea of the outrage that kind of thing would have caused at Welton is enough to crease his brow. It's not the fact that Charlie feels these things, is free to feel how he wants. He's just concerned for his friend. That's all it is.

When Charlie's fingers dig into his skin, Neil winces with his whole body, cringing off to the side, like the pain reminds him that nice as this is, it's anything but normal. "I didn't know," he says, looking up at Charlie and he means it. It's a little bit a lie - he knew he didn't like girls, and he knew that down in the desolate depths of his mind, there was something a bit different. But he could play along, pretend it was fine in the locker-rooms and fine sharing a room with someone and what he'd felt about Todd, the tangle of it, was just normal friendship. So okay, maybe he had known. Or maybe it just makes sense now in twenty-twenty hindsight. Every flicker of guilt and confusion is obvious in his eyes. "Or I could have guessed, but... it's not that easy, Charlie. It's not that easy."

Now that they've stopped kissing, Neil's surprisingly a little less awkward; it's easier just to relax and let Charlie be all over him instead of 'being a spaz' as Charlie had put it. He realises his hand is palming big smooth circles over Charlie's back, and it startles him but he doesn't stop. "I mean, did you know?" he throws in. "Did you need to be told?" He's still little convinced that all this is because Charlie has him figured out, kind of a deliberate awakening, even if that hadn't been Charlie's intention coming here. "And it's not like you ever told me..."

Charlie can't help but roll his eyes a little. Of course it's not that easy. He's had this conversation with Knox; how the hell does he take it all in stride, exactly how many silver spoons was he born with. It's not that Charlie's lazy - he'll work if he has to, and he's not the type to give up without a good fight. It's just that most things seem to fall into his lap, and this was no exception. Then again, a part of him knows he's of a different breed than Knox and Neil. He never felt the need to hide from his parents. From himself. He's a horrible liar, and why do something he's just not good at? That's not his nature.

"I don't think about shit like that, Neil," he says with a smirk. "I assumed? I mean, Welton." Charlie gives a shrug at that, because he doesn't like using the all boys' prep school excuse - it's more of a catalyst, not a reason in itself. "I always assume, so I'm never surprised." And it's kind of a funny outlook to have, but it works for him. For a second, Charlie thinks to mention Knox, but in a way that's even more complicated and horrifying to explain than the Captain, so he just shrugs again. The hand on his back is calming, and he's even starting to feel bad for hurting Neil. Guilt is creeping back in, so Charlie just traces his fingers lightly up his friend's side, resting against his ribs.

There's a sudden surge of affection, another realization of just how much he missed Neil. Being able to say things, point blank and true, and have someone accept them - but that's how it's always been with them, and he hates that he took it for granted for so many years. "I didn't really feel the need," he murmurs, almost to himself. No one asked. So he never told. How fucking cliché. "I like everyone. That girls-at-Welton crusade wasn't for show." Sometimes, very rarely but sometimes, he thinks that if it had worked (or if his school had just been coeducational in the first place) he wouldn't have ended up like this. But Charlie knows who he is, and knows that isn't true. "Anyway, I'm glad I know, even if I had to force it out of you."

Neil is running his hand over all the bruises from sword training, and despite himself, he grimaces a little at the pressure. He's given up on keeping any part of himself upright anymore, worming his way into the scant space between Neil and the couch, disentangling his hands. "Switch," Charlie says easily. If Neil's going to do this, he's going to learn how to do it right. You've got to know how to trap people, how to turn the tables and feel out the power for yourself. Charlie will teach him, shouldering his friend and grinning mischievously. "Come on, switch, it'll be good for you."

"It'll be good for me?" Neil's laugh is incredulous, but it's still a laugh. For a moment he isn't even really sure what Charlie wants him to do, and then it's funny because he's been roped into this, not unwillingly but roped nonetheless, all evening just trying to keep up with his friend's bizarre way of thinking. So of course, the tables should be turned by Charlie. He's not even sure this counts as taking control of the situation, rolling himself over and sweeping a leg behind Charlie's calf, one long-fingered hand clutching at the other's collarbone, pinning him.

"Eating my vegetables and studying Calculus is good for me, Charlie," Neil says, a little derisively but still genuinely amused. "Not this." It's strange to actually do this; it's not rough-housing because Charlie's letting him. Making Neil take control, and the reins are awkward in his unsteady hands. He doesn't have that desire, to get up in people's faces - he never has. If Charlie assumes, Neil never assumes anything about anyone, because he knows there's so much more to people. He always figures, he's so good at pretending, what's to say the rest of the world isn't too? Which is maybe why he's always liked Charlie, who is open without being obvious, honest without being shallow. There's a lot to figure out, but Neil's never had to think that he couldn't solve the puzzle eventually, that Charlie would keep secrets from him. Maybe that's why the entire thing with this Captain felt like a betrayal.

That thought irritates him. This wasn't a secret Charlie kept just to be obnoxious. He didn't think about shit like that. He didn't really feel the need. Neil's fingers tighten, just slightly, and he breathes hot and damp at Charlie's temple. Neil is always hyper-aware of every inch of his own body. Proprioception; partially it's just the affect of having grown a whole heap in a very short space of time, but it comes in useful for acting. Right now he feels every square inch of the body heat between them, tracking his hand's movements towards Charlie's wrist. Somehow the idea that this is Charlie, his very male best friend, is both pushed into the corner of his mind so he can't be horrified and an incredible turn-on.

"That said," Neil says, and it would feel more natural to speak in Shakespearian pentameter but hey, you work with what you've got. This isn't puck, and it isn't poetry; the rasp of his flesh on cloth in the quiet apartment is raw and real and terrifying. "Good for me or not..." He kisses Charlie gently, still uninterested in clashing and burning and this time breaking apart before Charlie can turn it all demanding. "I could get used to this."

God help him, he's going insane but he likes this. He likes it a whole hell of a lot. Give Neil a little power, give him a direction to go in, push and watch him go. Works wonders. Charlie snaps his hips up only very slightly, just enough to make contact (that's how you do that, he grins) and lets Neil kiss him. It's infuriatingly tender when all he wants to do is force his friend back onto the couch and attack. But that's just the animal part of him that's never been put to rest, no matter how many people have tried, no matter how many power games he's played.

"Are you kidding?" he laughs when Neil breaks away too soon. "This is the best thing in the whole fucking world for you. For anyone, but especially you." Or Knox. It's ridiculous, that he got Neil to come around before Knox did, and that he can't be here without thinking of him. Nothing is ever good enough. He's finally got Neil making his move, small and frustrating as it is, but his mind wanders. It shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't let it, so Charlie laces one hand in Neil's hair to ground him and pulls them back together. He's going to keep forcing this until it's easy for both of them, yeah, but he won't push Neil into anything he doesn't want - because this is already more of a leap than he expected when he came over, and because (again, as much as it pains him to be diplomatic about this) he's not going to let his friend's first anything be because Charlie is using him. No. This is okay, for now.

Charlie falls back again after a bit, wanting to see what Neil will do when he's not pushing him into anything. "You were great," he says suddenly, fingers kneading against the base of Neil's neck. "Puck. You really were." He barely got to say it that night, but it's all they talked about on the walk back - Knox punch drunk with love and starry-eyed, his arm flung around Charlie, kicking up snow and both of them teasing Todd about rooming with a star. And even as he lay in bed, before that horrible visit from Hager, arguing with Cameron over whether or not they expected Neil to be that amazing. Of course Charlie did, of course. And he knows it's exceedingly random and he probably doesn't have to say it, but Neil never gives himself enough credit and Charlie's feeling generous. He just smiles up at the ceiling and wonders where he was going with that thought. Matters not; he tends to get a little incoherent with passion, and he's always trusted Neil to be able to sort out what he means.

"I know," Neil agrees, thinking of the way he'd told his mother exactly that. But that drags him back to the dead silence of the suburban living-room, his mother smelling like cigarettes and failed expectations, so he kisses Charlie again to shut him up. Neil doesn't have experience, just neurosis, and he's left with nothing to draw on other than his powers of mimicry, turning Charlie's lust back against him. He bites Charlie's lip, a little playfully, and for a moment it's all teasing and dragging. Then ruins it by stopping as soon as he's free, unease growing in his chest. This doesn't feel right.

It's not the gay thing (which is how Neil has already started to classify it in his mind, the gay thing, like the acting thing, just another way in which he's a disappointment to his non-present parents.) It's because this is Charlie, and he isn't sure he can keep doing this, playing so lightly with physical affection, without beginning to give it weight and meaning it couldn't - shouldn't - have. Neil knows he has a starry-eyed romantic in him, but he's doing this because Charlie's here and it's bright and new, not because it's Charlie. Not because it's special. Neil always used to talk about finding the special girl, if they made him talk, if he had to say something; that's why he wasn't interested in just ogling some centrefold's tits. Now that he knows the real reason he isn't any less sure that there's a right person out there. And Charlie, well, Charlie's his best friend, and he takes for granted that people love him like he takes everything for granted.

When Neil pulls away, it isn't abrupt; he lingers a moment, tasting Charlie's mouth. Something primal beats in him, urging him to just keep going. He smothers it. It's not then-I-saw-the-Congo chanting and right now he thinks he's seized enough day. He'd regret doing something he can't take back more than he'll ever regret loosening his grip, glancing off to the table at the side with his fringe falling in his face. "Listen, you're gonna say I'm thinking too much but I kind of want to..." He shrugs with one shoulder, realising his fingers are shaking against Charlie's skin. "I just want some space for a bit," he says, sitting up, straddling Charlie's lap. He rubs a hand over his eyes, reality coming back to him - how long has Charlie even been over? He doesn't know, he's lost his sense of time.

A little flushed, a little short of breath, Charlie follows Neil up as best he can. Jesus. "You want me to leave," he smirks. It's true, he's been here a while, but Charlie has to keep telling himself that Neil can be left alone. There's a sort of rekindled faith in his friend now - he did say he was glad to be here, he told Charlie not to worry. As if that's possible, but maybe, just maybe it'll be easier now. Best of all, he knows he's tripped something Neil, or at least helped it along. It's not that he quite intended to, but. Well, what does one expect. He's a god, after all.

Charlie is quiet for a while, turning this over in his head. With all of Neil no longer pressed against him, the gravity of everything is setting back in. The reason why he's here. The real reason. Of course something great came of it, but he didn't get what he came for. Charlie doesn't feel even the slightest bit better. He was able to forget, for at least a little while, but there isn't enough catharsis in the world to push it completely out of his mind. Fuck all, his throat is getting tight and his chest feels like it's going to cave in and he's talking around it as best he can. "Anyway, I should go check on Cordelia," he adds smoothly. "Make sure she's okay." And by that, he means stare her down, interrogate her mercilessly, get into a screaming match as they do. End up sparring with an invisible partner in his room just so he won't break his no-hitting-girls policy, then sulking on the couch, avoiding the book of Plath and progressively getting drunker. The prospect is a dismal one, but maybe the Captain will be there. Maybe Charlie will be able to walk past him, all smug and resilient, and he just won't be able to keep up with their little game. It could be good.

With his breathing back to normal, Charlie reaches up to gently, gently grab Neil's face in both hands. The kiss is softer than the rest, slower and more purposeful. It's saying everything that's been swirling in his mind for years, intensifying in these recent months. This physical stuff that makes Neil so uncomfortable is the bread and butter of Charlie's world, the only way he knows how to get some points across. He's smiling when he pulls away - Neil's going to be okay. Maybe Charlie won't, maybe he'll end up going mad here in Babylon and tearing everything apart, but Neil will be safe.

His hands drop to Neil's legs, and now Charlie's grinning full force. This is a weakness; shit, is it ever, but it's his favorite weakness. "I can't go if you don't get off me." Not teasing, not even a plea. Just matter of fact.

"You don't have to leave," Neil says instantly, not wanting Charlie to think that's it at all. Every instant they're together makes the silent separation easier. He likes having Charlie around, keeping him manic and on the easier side of crazy. And he likes Charlie pinned under him, it means he can fold one arm over his head and stretch upwards, which he does.

He slides one leg straight, foot hitting the ground, and he plucks Charlie's hand from his thigh and holds it between his own. "Honest, you don't have to leave." He can still feel that last soul kiss, and that kind of does make him want to kick Charlie out, but then that would be awkward, and he'd question himself too much. "I just want some space, you know, physical space. And to get my head clear again."

A little part of him could see something more terrifying in Charlie's silence than the consequences of letting him stay, letting him do what he wants. He still isn't entirely sure why Charlie's angry, but he thinks he has a much better clue, and it's better to distract him from that as long as possible. Still, that doesn't change the fact that he's feeling a little claustrophobic, and Neil stands, bumping his shin on the coffee table and wincing. "Are you gonna eat any of this?" he asks, gesturing to the food and moving around to the other side of the coffee table, grabbing the tea he'd barely had a chance to touch. He takes a sip and pulls a face. "I'm going to warm this up." The microwave was one of the first things Neil mastered. And he's not going into the other room to get away from Charlie, or at least not just; he really is beginning to feel the light-headedness, adrenaline catching up with him. "Want anything?"

"Justice," Charlie answers in a hollow voice, flopping back on the couch. Not the police kind of justice. Not the conventional, Babylon kind. He wants his justice, he wants everything. But that's not the answer Neil was looking for, so Charlie just stretches out and pushes his hands through his hair. It's been a fucked up day, and he hasn't been hungry for a while. "I'm fine, but thanks."

Physical space. Right. Charlie has always known he's different, because being close doesn't bother him. In fact, it's vital - he feels like he's suffocating whenever he's alone. Maybe he's just needy. Maybe that's it. Whatever, either way. He just wants to get blindly drunk and forget that any of this ever happened, but that's not an option. Charlie curls up on his side. "Sorry about the food," he calls with a little laugh. "But I'm fine." It feels strange repeating it, but now that he knows he's not, he's really not, there's a need there to keep saying it. He hates this feeling in his chest and all its implications.

But Neil's opinion has always mattered to him. He's an encouraging friend, perhaps too much so, and everything he says still holds so much weight in Charlie's head. He keeps staring out across the living room, absently rubbing the bruises on his arm and shoulder. "Do you think I'm making a mistake?" he asks. Personally, Charlie doesn't think so, but it always helps to hear. "With the revolution," he clarifies, yawning a little as he does.