Misjudgement - Lost - Charlie/Sawyer/Sayid
Title: Misjudgement
Pairing: Charlie/Sawyer/Sayid
Word Count: 3050
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Established relationship. Written for Queen zelda_zee, who requested Sayid and threesomes. Also using one of writing_rainbow's prompts.
Summary: When Charlie shows signs of drug use again, Sawyer and Sayid take action. It doesn't go down well.
Charlie won't stop fidgeting. For the entire duration of the movie he has shifted back and forth, tapping his fingers against his knee and then biting at his nails, shifting back and forth and drinking large glasses of water. Charlie swears he hasn't been near heroin since the island, and Sayid believes him. He has to believe him and take Charlie's word at face value, even if there is a prickle of intuition at the back of his mind that tells him that all is not right.
"Charlie," he asks, his voice hushed so that he doesn't interrupt the movie for Sawyer, who is lounging comfortably on the other side of Charlie, his arms spread out across the back of the couch as if he is claiming his territory. "Is something wrong?"
Charlie looks up at him, eyes wide like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. His fingers freeze where they have been tapping against his knee, but then he blinks and motion fades back into his body. He looks down at his lap. "No. No, I just - I need to go to the bathroom," he says in a rush, standing up before he has even finished his sentence. He's out of the room in an instant, the door swinging slowly closed in his wake.
Sawyer's gaze only shifts from the television screen for a moment, but Sayid can tell that he is paying far more attention to them than he wants to let on. Sawyer likes to play at being aloof, and Sayid is content to allow it: he thinks, sometimes, that Sawyer is like a wild animal, content to live under their roof and provide them with his company as long as they don't try to cage him up.
"We're gonna have to do something about him," Sawyer says casually, throwing it out there as if it is absent-minded. It isn't, Sayid can tell, and it is reassuring to know that he is not the only one to worry about their family. "Hell if I know what, but something."
"We'll talk to him," Sayid suggests, but he feels that this problem goes beyond 'talking'. There is no isolated island that they can trap Charlie on in order to force him to get clean. There is no way to separate him from temptation and now Sayid must wonder if he and Sawyer are enough to lure Charlie away from his old lifestyle. Sawyer has given up his cons; Sayid has given up the violence from his past; but perhaps, for Charlie, this addiction is stronger than they are.
The toilet flushes and Sawyer's attention is absorbed once more in the movie. Charlie slips back into the room and slumps onto the couch, leaning against Sayid's side. Sayid's arm curls around his shoulders, holding on tightly as he watches the explosions on the screen and tries to think of how he is going to sort their latest problem.
*
Instead of getting better, it gets worse. Charlie is tense and distracted at all times, far worse than Sayid had ever noticed his symptoms being on the island. His nails are so badly bitten that they are hardly present, ragged edges and nothing more. When they speak to him it sometimes takes a few moments for him to respond, lost in his far-away thoughts.
Sayid makes breakfast, standing before the stove in their kitchen with a spatula in hand. Sawyer and Charlie are sitting at the kitchen table, his boys, with Sawyer's attention caught in a newspaper while Charlie scribbles lyrics into a notepad. It would be the perfect image of domestic bliss if not for the strained, stressed expression on Charlie's face: it spoils everything, and as he flips the first pancake with a chef's ease Sayid can't help but let himself worry.
"Charlie," he says, looking down into his pan. He can fight Others and wield a gun without a single tremble of his hands, but he finds that he can't even look at Charlie as he speaks. The words are going to burn: Sayid cannot be half as brave in his personal life as he is anywhere else. Everyone has their weak spots, and this is his. "I think we should talk."
Charlie's pen is dropped onto the table; the sound is quiet and muffled, implying that it has been placed across the pad of paper. Sawyer's newspaper rustles and the flames of the hob whisper. "Yeah? That doesn't exactly sound promising."
It isn't, not at all, and Sayid begins to waver already: he doesn't want to go ahead with this. He wants to allow himself to be a coward for a little while longer, to watch Charlie falling further without trying to help. He is better at fixing problems than he is at preventing them.
Yet Sawyer is there, and he has never been one to back away from a fight. "Our chef over there thinks you're using again," he says, leaning back in his chair. Sayid has to risk an alarmed glance over his shoulder. Sawyer's legs are spread wide, like he is as comfortable as anyone could possibly be. He's smiling so his dimples show and he seems as if he is well and truly in his element. That alone is enough to let Sayid know that Sawyer doesn't feel nearly as casual about all of this as he is pretending. He never smiles like that when he means it. "You going all Trainspotting on us again, Charlie?"
"What?" Charlie snaps. He's angry already, with an angry twist in his voice that feels as if it might draw blood. "Are you serious? What the hell?"
"We wouldn't joke about this kinda thing," Sawyer says, before he tilts his head to the side in admission. "Well. I would. He wouldn't."
It turns Charlie's blue-eyed gaze on him, betrayal so clear. It makes Sayid wish that he could hide from it, because he doesn't want Charlie to look at him like that. He doesn't want to see Charlie looking at him like that. "Sayid? You don't really think I'd start using heroin again, right? C'mon. You know better than that."
And he'd like to say that this is true, that he has enough faith in Charlie to believe that he can stay clean in this ugly world of temptation: but he can't. He doesn't believe that Charlie could say no. He is writing music again, and it was that path that led him to his addiction in the first place. It is not a large leap of logic to say that it would lead him there once more, especially given Charlie's recent, twitchy behaviour.
"Tell me that you aren't," he says, quietly. "Tell me that you haven't been near it since the island and I will believe you. If not... We can get help for you, Charlie. There arefacilities here."
"'Facilities'..." Charlie repeats; and the blue flame in his eyes burns brighter, angrier, sharper. He looks between the pair of them as if they are his worst enemies, as if they are Ethan Rom come back to life. I am sorry, Sayid wants to whisper while cupping Charlie's face with his hands, but nothing comes out. He remains mute. "Y'know what: fuck you. Fuck both of you."
He stands up abruptly, and the movement is so violent that his chair over-topples behind him. It clatters onto the ground with such a loud bang that it will no doubt alert their neighbours in the flat below. He doesn't even glance behind him at the slain chair, passing a hand over his face instead as if he is not quite sure what to do now that his outburst as done with. It only lasts for a split-second, a bare moment where Sayid could have patched things up if he had been fast enough. Perhaps an apology would have been accepted.
Too late. He doesn't react in time, even with snake-fast reflexes that can take out a fully grown man in under a minute. Charlie steps over the chair, heading for the door, and it slams behind him before Sayid can even think to tell him to wait. A moment later, the front door slams as well. It's raining outside, and Sayid would bet that Charlie hasn't thought to bring a coat or umbrella out with him. He'll catch a chill, he thinks, even though he knows that is highly illogical. He ought to have bigger worries than that.
"As if we needed any more proof that something's screwed up in his head, now he's throwing tantrums too," Sawyer snorts, like this is all alright and all something run of the mill. "And wipe that sorry look off your face, Sayid. He'll be back. Let him cool off, then he'll be back."
Sayid can only hope that he is right: now more than ever, he thinks that Charlie needs their support.
*
It is four in the morning before Charlie slides under the covers of their bed. Sayid wakes up from a fretful doze when Charlie's body presses against his, his cold arm wrapping around his waist from behind. Sayid nudges Sawyer to let him know, and then he covers Charlie's hand with his own. It is freezing and wet, as if he has been outside since he left that morning. Sayid holds on tightly and tries to pass the warmth of his own body over to Charlie's, wishing that it wouldn't be so awkward to transfer Charlie into the middle of him and Sawyer. That's where Charlie usually sleeps anyway, cocooned between the pair of them.
"Are you alright, Charlie?" he whispers into the blackness of their bedroom.
"Piss off," Charlie hisses back, and after that he doesn't respond to Sayid at all - but he's there, with his cold nose nuzzled between Sayid's shoulder blades, and Sayid thinks that he ought to be thankful for that alone, never mind the rest of it. Juggling Charlie and Sawyer can be stressful at times, but they're worth it. Completely. It's the fear of losing one third of their trio that makes him realise just how tightly he wants to cling onto it.
*
By the time Sayid wakes again, several hours later, Charlie is gone once more. Even more unsettling, his guitar has gone as well. His clothes remain in the closet and in their drawers, but that means little. If Charlie wanted to run from them, he would easily leave his clothes behind, but not his instrument. It is as much a part of him as the heart that beats in his chest, and the flat feels vacant without it propped up in the corner of their bedroom.
"Relax," Sawyer says, waving a too carefree hand at him. His smile is strained. "He'll be back tonight. Probably off getting high somewhere."
"That isn't quite as reassuring as you intend it to be, Sawyer," Sayid says. He leans his palms against the window sill and stares out across the city, as if his eagle-eyed gaze might be able to pin-point Charlie from this distance.
Sawyer moves forward, leaning beside him with his back to the window. "I'm worried too," he admits. It's enough to get Sayid to glance at him, because for Sawyer he knows that this is a huge confession. Despite being as entrenched in this relationship as Sayid is, Sawyer likes to pretend at his independence and Sayid is content to allow him to do so, knowing that it is nothing more than an act. Perhaps, out of the three of them, Sawyer is the one that needs this most. "I'm just saying that you gotta cool off a bit. Charlie's not gonna react too well to you crowding in on him like this. Give him his space. When he wants help, he'll ask for it."
"What if he never wants help?" Sayid asks - because that is the bit that scares him most, losing Charlie because they are too scared to fight for him.
Sawyer breathes out slowly and he places his hand over Sayid's on the window. Sayid doesn't stir. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, alright? Give him a week. If he ain't come to his senses by then... We'll figure something out. I will."
Sayid would like to bow his head and surrender this match to Sawyer. He is not a man that needs control, though there are situations where he craves it. He prefers to be slightly further down the ladder than at the top, but at moments like this he struggles with this. He would be a good leader; he would like to be in control of this situation, yet he doesn't know how. It would be a relief to give over to Sawyer.
"I can wait for a week," he confirms, though that may be a lie. Out of the three of them, he is usually the most patient. He doesn't feel patient now, not at all. He feels restless and cornered.
Sawyer claps a hand against his shoulder, allowing his hand to linger there. It is warm, heavy and comforting. Sayid doesn't pull away.
*
"Been busy?" Sawyer asks when Charlie lets himself into their flat. They haven't seen him since he left two mornings ago, and as he sits on their sofa with a book in his lap, Sayid feels a long, relieved breath leave his chest: at least Charlie is still alive. That's something.
"Been staying with Jack," Charlie mutters, barely looking at them. "I needed somewhere quiet."
"And Jack's quiet now?" Sawyer says in disbelief, but it sounds as if he is merely looking for anything extra to get mad about. Jack works so hard that he is hardly at home at all. Charlie would have had the place to himself: of course it was quiet. "I guess that's the perfect place for you, huh. He can get drunk while you get high."
"I told - I'm not using," Charlie snaps angrily, still standing so near the front door that Sayid feels certain that he is about to run straight back out again. "I'm just here to get my stuff."
"You're moving out?" Sayid asks; there is a fear in his voice far beyond any that having a gun pointed at his face could produce.
Charlie rolls his eyes. "No. I'm staying away for a few more days. I need some clean clothes. Socks. Pants. Stuff like that. I'm not quite dramatic enough to dump you both because you think I'm stupid enough to screw myself up again. You're going to feel really bloody stupid yourselves soon enough.
"And what do you mean by that?" Sayid asks, barging in before Sawyer could try to.
"You're both freaking out on me because I'm nervous. That's it." Charlie looks away from them both, smoldering in his rage. "It's messed up. You have no faith in me."
Sawyer huffs air out of his mouth, but to Sayid's surprise he doesn't say anything to make things worse. He is able to hold his tongue, it appears. "What is it, then?" he asks. "If you're that 'nervous' there's gotta be a reason."
There is an awkward pause because Charlie doesn't answer for a few moments. It must be because there is no reason, Sayid thinks. He's searching for one, for an excuse, for a lie, and Sayid hates to see it. There have been too many lies in their lives already. It should be time to leave all that behind them and move on.
"I've got a gig," Charlie says after a few moments. "And I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd make it a big deal."
Sayid blinks in surprise. "A gig?"
Charlie shrugs sheepishly, like a teenager caught doing something wrong. "I'm playing some of my new stuff," he muttered. "No drugs, I swear."
Oh, Sayid thinks, and if he had less self-restraint he would be blushing: he wants to stammer out an apology, but he does not think that 'I'm sorry' would be fitting in this situation. It would take something a lot larger.
"Aw, shit, Lennon," Sawyer exclaims. "You couldn't've mentioned that sooner? Would've saved us all a whole heap of trouble."
Charlie glares and Sayid can see his temper beginning to spark and ignite: Sawyer and Charlie are dangerous together, petrol and cigarettes. It's dizzying to be around them at times, when they're burning as one together instead of trying to take the other down. He steps forward, placing his hands on their arms.
"Boys," he says - and he feels like a school teacher reprimanding his pupils. Judging from the flicker of amusement on Charlie's face, he must sound ridiculous. "Perhaps we can put all of this behind us?"
"You're going to have to hit me extremely hard on the head if you think I'm going to forget about this any time soon," Charlie complains.
"That can be arranged," Sawyer threatens, with a teasing glint in his eyes.
"I am not suggesting that you forget it - that any of us do, in fact. Lessons are to be learned here." They are all such secretive,untrusting people. Maybe this jolt will be enough to help them out of their rut; he and Sawyer will take Charlie at his word, and Charlie will learn that he doesn't have to keep secrets from them.
Maybe.
Sayid doubts it, if he's honest. Charlie and Sawyer are as stubborn as they are argumentative, and he knows that he himself finds it hard to learn from his mistakes.
Sawyer shrugs like it doesn't matter anyway. "So when's the big night, rock star?" he asks - and, just like that, they are okay again. They are friends; they are more than that. Charlie smiles sheepishly for Sawyer and he brushes his hair away from his forehead before he begins to share the details. They move onto the couch once more: Sawyer on one side, Sayid on the other, Charlie in the middle. They all have their favourite spot. Sayid sits back and watches as Charlie and Sawyer chatter and bicker, hoping that he's learnt enough from the last few days to stop him from ruining the best thing that has ever happened in his life.
Pairing: Charlie/Sawyer/Sayid
Word Count: 3050
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Established relationship. Written for Queen zelda_zee, who requested Sayid and threesomes. Also using one of writing_rainbow's prompts.
Summary: When Charlie shows signs of drug use again, Sawyer and Sayid take action. It doesn't go down well.
Charlie won't stop fidgeting. For the entire duration of the movie he has shifted back and forth, tapping his fingers against his knee and then biting at his nails, shifting back and forth and drinking large glasses of water. Charlie swears he hasn't been near heroin since the island, and Sayid believes him. He has to believe him and take Charlie's word at face value, even if there is a prickle of intuition at the back of his mind that tells him that all is not right.
"Charlie," he asks, his voice hushed so that he doesn't interrupt the movie for Sawyer, who is lounging comfortably on the other side of Charlie, his arms spread out across the back of the couch as if he is claiming his territory. "Is something wrong?"
Charlie looks up at him, eyes wide like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. His fingers freeze where they have been tapping against his knee, but then he blinks and motion fades back into his body. He looks down at his lap. "No. No, I just - I need to go to the bathroom," he says in a rush, standing up before he has even finished his sentence. He's out of the room in an instant, the door swinging slowly closed in his wake.
Sawyer's gaze only shifts from the television screen for a moment, but Sayid can tell that he is paying far more attention to them than he wants to let on. Sawyer likes to play at being aloof, and Sayid is content to allow it: he thinks, sometimes, that Sawyer is like a wild animal, content to live under their roof and provide them with his company as long as they don't try to cage him up.
"We're gonna have to do something about him," Sawyer says casually, throwing it out there as if it is absent-minded. It isn't, Sayid can tell, and it is reassuring to know that he is not the only one to worry about their family. "Hell if I know what, but something."
"We'll talk to him," Sayid suggests, but he feels that this problem goes beyond 'talking'. There is no isolated island that they can trap Charlie on in order to force him to get clean. There is no way to separate him from temptation and now Sayid must wonder if he and Sawyer are enough to lure Charlie away from his old lifestyle. Sawyer has given up his cons; Sayid has given up the violence from his past; but perhaps, for Charlie, this addiction is stronger than they are.
The toilet flushes and Sawyer's attention is absorbed once more in the movie. Charlie slips back into the room and slumps onto the couch, leaning against Sayid's side. Sayid's arm curls around his shoulders, holding on tightly as he watches the explosions on the screen and tries to think of how he is going to sort their latest problem.
*
Instead of getting better, it gets worse. Charlie is tense and distracted at all times, far worse than Sayid had ever noticed his symptoms being on the island. His nails are so badly bitten that they are hardly present, ragged edges and nothing more. When they speak to him it sometimes takes a few moments for him to respond, lost in his far-away thoughts.
Sayid makes breakfast, standing before the stove in their kitchen with a spatula in hand. Sawyer and Charlie are sitting at the kitchen table, his boys, with Sawyer's attention caught in a newspaper while Charlie scribbles lyrics into a notepad. It would be the perfect image of domestic bliss if not for the strained, stressed expression on Charlie's face: it spoils everything, and as he flips the first pancake with a chef's ease Sayid can't help but let himself worry.
"Charlie," he says, looking down into his pan. He can fight Others and wield a gun without a single tremble of his hands, but he finds that he can't even look at Charlie as he speaks. The words are going to burn: Sayid cannot be half as brave in his personal life as he is anywhere else. Everyone has their weak spots, and this is his. "I think we should talk."
Charlie's pen is dropped onto the table; the sound is quiet and muffled, implying that it has been placed across the pad of paper. Sawyer's newspaper rustles and the flames of the hob whisper. "Yeah? That doesn't exactly sound promising."
It isn't, not at all, and Sayid begins to waver already: he doesn't want to go ahead with this. He wants to allow himself to be a coward for a little while longer, to watch Charlie falling further without trying to help. He is better at fixing problems than he is at preventing them.
Yet Sawyer is there, and he has never been one to back away from a fight. "Our chef over there thinks you're using again," he says, leaning back in his chair. Sayid has to risk an alarmed glance over his shoulder. Sawyer's legs are spread wide, like he is as comfortable as anyone could possibly be. He's smiling so his dimples show and he seems as if he is well and truly in his element. That alone is enough to let Sayid know that Sawyer doesn't feel nearly as casual about all of this as he is pretending. He never smiles like that when he means it. "You going all Trainspotting on us again, Charlie?"
"What?" Charlie snaps. He's angry already, with an angry twist in his voice that feels as if it might draw blood. "Are you serious? What the hell?"
"We wouldn't joke about this kinda thing," Sawyer says, before he tilts his head to the side in admission. "Well. I would. He wouldn't."
It turns Charlie's blue-eyed gaze on him, betrayal so clear. It makes Sayid wish that he could hide from it, because he doesn't want Charlie to look at him like that. He doesn't want to see Charlie looking at him like that. "Sayid? You don't really think I'd start using heroin again, right? C'mon. You know better than that."
And he'd like to say that this is true, that he has enough faith in Charlie to believe that he can stay clean in this ugly world of temptation: but he can't. He doesn't believe that Charlie could say no. He is writing music again, and it was that path that led him to his addiction in the first place. It is not a large leap of logic to say that it would lead him there once more, especially given Charlie's recent, twitchy behaviour.
"Tell me that you aren't," he says, quietly. "Tell me that you haven't been near it since the island and I will believe you. If not... We can get help for you, Charlie. There arefacilities here."
"'Facilities'..." Charlie repeats; and the blue flame in his eyes burns brighter, angrier, sharper. He looks between the pair of them as if they are his worst enemies, as if they are Ethan Rom come back to life. I am sorry, Sayid wants to whisper while cupping Charlie's face with his hands, but nothing comes out. He remains mute. "Y'know what: fuck you. Fuck both of you."
He stands up abruptly, and the movement is so violent that his chair over-topples behind him. It clatters onto the ground with such a loud bang that it will no doubt alert their neighbours in the flat below. He doesn't even glance behind him at the slain chair, passing a hand over his face instead as if he is not quite sure what to do now that his outburst as done with. It only lasts for a split-second, a bare moment where Sayid could have patched things up if he had been fast enough. Perhaps an apology would have been accepted.
Too late. He doesn't react in time, even with snake-fast reflexes that can take out a fully grown man in under a minute. Charlie steps over the chair, heading for the door, and it slams behind him before Sayid can even think to tell him to wait. A moment later, the front door slams as well. It's raining outside, and Sayid would bet that Charlie hasn't thought to bring a coat or umbrella out with him. He'll catch a chill, he thinks, even though he knows that is highly illogical. He ought to have bigger worries than that.
"As if we needed any more proof that something's screwed up in his head, now he's throwing tantrums too," Sawyer snorts, like this is all alright and all something run of the mill. "And wipe that sorry look off your face, Sayid. He'll be back. Let him cool off, then he'll be back."
Sayid can only hope that he is right: now more than ever, he thinks that Charlie needs their support.
*
It is four in the morning before Charlie slides under the covers of their bed. Sayid wakes up from a fretful doze when Charlie's body presses against his, his cold arm wrapping around his waist from behind. Sayid nudges Sawyer to let him know, and then he covers Charlie's hand with his own. It is freezing and wet, as if he has been outside since he left that morning. Sayid holds on tightly and tries to pass the warmth of his own body over to Charlie's, wishing that it wouldn't be so awkward to transfer Charlie into the middle of him and Sawyer. That's where Charlie usually sleeps anyway, cocooned between the pair of them.
"Are you alright, Charlie?" he whispers into the blackness of their bedroom.
"Piss off," Charlie hisses back, and after that he doesn't respond to Sayid at all - but he's there, with his cold nose nuzzled between Sayid's shoulder blades, and Sayid thinks that he ought to be thankful for that alone, never mind the rest of it. Juggling Charlie and Sawyer can be stressful at times, but they're worth it. Completely. It's the fear of losing one third of their trio that makes him realise just how tightly he wants to cling onto it.
*
By the time Sayid wakes again, several hours later, Charlie is gone once more. Even more unsettling, his guitar has gone as well. His clothes remain in the closet and in their drawers, but that means little. If Charlie wanted to run from them, he would easily leave his clothes behind, but not his instrument. It is as much a part of him as the heart that beats in his chest, and the flat feels vacant without it propped up in the corner of their bedroom.
"Relax," Sawyer says, waving a too carefree hand at him. His smile is strained. "He'll be back tonight. Probably off getting high somewhere."
"That isn't quite as reassuring as you intend it to be, Sawyer," Sayid says. He leans his palms against the window sill and stares out across the city, as if his eagle-eyed gaze might be able to pin-point Charlie from this distance.
Sawyer moves forward, leaning beside him with his back to the window. "I'm worried too," he admits. It's enough to get Sayid to glance at him, because for Sawyer he knows that this is a huge confession. Despite being as entrenched in this relationship as Sayid is, Sawyer likes to pretend at his independence and Sayid is content to allow him to do so, knowing that it is nothing more than an act. Perhaps, out of the three of them, Sawyer is the one that needs this most. "I'm just saying that you gotta cool off a bit. Charlie's not gonna react too well to you crowding in on him like this. Give him his space. When he wants help, he'll ask for it."
"What if he never wants help?" Sayid asks - because that is the bit that scares him most, losing Charlie because they are too scared to fight for him.
Sawyer breathes out slowly and he places his hand over Sayid's on the window. Sayid doesn't stir. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, alright? Give him a week. If he ain't come to his senses by then... We'll figure something out. I will."
Sayid would like to bow his head and surrender this match to Sawyer. He is not a man that needs control, though there are situations where he craves it. He prefers to be slightly further down the ladder than at the top, but at moments like this he struggles with this. He would be a good leader; he would like to be in control of this situation, yet he doesn't know how. It would be a relief to give over to Sawyer.
"I can wait for a week," he confirms, though that may be a lie. Out of the three of them, he is usually the most patient. He doesn't feel patient now, not at all. He feels restless and cornered.
Sawyer claps a hand against his shoulder, allowing his hand to linger there. It is warm, heavy and comforting. Sayid doesn't pull away.
*
"Been busy?" Sawyer asks when Charlie lets himself into their flat. They haven't seen him since he left two mornings ago, and as he sits on their sofa with a book in his lap, Sayid feels a long, relieved breath leave his chest: at least Charlie is still alive. That's something.
"Been staying with Jack," Charlie mutters, barely looking at them. "I needed somewhere quiet."
"And Jack's quiet now?" Sawyer says in disbelief, but it sounds as if he is merely looking for anything extra to get mad about. Jack works so hard that he is hardly at home at all. Charlie would have had the place to himself: of course it was quiet. "I guess that's the perfect place for you, huh. He can get drunk while you get high."
"I told - I'm not using," Charlie snaps angrily, still standing so near the front door that Sayid feels certain that he is about to run straight back out again. "I'm just here to get my stuff."
"You're moving out?" Sayid asks; there is a fear in his voice far beyond any that having a gun pointed at his face could produce.
Charlie rolls his eyes. "No. I'm staying away for a few more days. I need some clean clothes. Socks. Pants. Stuff like that. I'm not quite dramatic enough to dump you both because you think I'm stupid enough to screw myself up again. You're going to feel really bloody stupid yourselves soon enough.
"And what do you mean by that?" Sayid asks, barging in before Sawyer could try to.
"You're both freaking out on me because I'm nervous. That's it." Charlie looks away from them both, smoldering in his rage. "It's messed up. You have no faith in me."
Sawyer huffs air out of his mouth, but to Sayid's surprise he doesn't say anything to make things worse. He is able to hold his tongue, it appears. "What is it, then?" he asks. "If you're that 'nervous' there's gotta be a reason."
There is an awkward pause because Charlie doesn't answer for a few moments. It must be because there is no reason, Sayid thinks. He's searching for one, for an excuse, for a lie, and Sayid hates to see it. There have been too many lies in their lives already. It should be time to leave all that behind them and move on.
"I've got a gig," Charlie says after a few moments. "And I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd make it a big deal."
Sayid blinks in surprise. "A gig?"
Charlie shrugs sheepishly, like a teenager caught doing something wrong. "I'm playing some of my new stuff," he muttered. "No drugs, I swear."
Oh, Sayid thinks, and if he had less self-restraint he would be blushing: he wants to stammer out an apology, but he does not think that 'I'm sorry' would be fitting in this situation. It would take something a lot larger.
"Aw, shit, Lennon," Sawyer exclaims. "You couldn't've mentioned that sooner? Would've saved us all a whole heap of trouble."
Charlie glares and Sayid can see his temper beginning to spark and ignite: Sawyer and Charlie are dangerous together, petrol and cigarettes. It's dizzying to be around them at times, when they're burning as one together instead of trying to take the other down. He steps forward, placing his hands on their arms.
"Boys," he says - and he feels like a school teacher reprimanding his pupils. Judging from the flicker of amusement on Charlie's face, he must sound ridiculous. "Perhaps we can put all of this behind us?"
"You're going to have to hit me extremely hard on the head if you think I'm going to forget about this any time soon," Charlie complains.
"That can be arranged," Sawyer threatens, with a teasing glint in his eyes.
"I am not suggesting that you forget it - that any of us do, in fact. Lessons are to be learned here." They are all such secretive,untrusting people. Maybe this jolt will be enough to help them out of their rut; he and Sawyer will take Charlie at his word, and Charlie will learn that he doesn't have to keep secrets from them.
Maybe.
Sayid doubts it, if he's honest. Charlie and Sawyer are as stubborn as they are argumentative, and he knows that he himself finds it hard to learn from his mistakes.
Sawyer shrugs like it doesn't matter anyway. "So when's the big night, rock star?" he asks - and, just like that, they are okay again. They are friends; they are more than that. Charlie smiles sheepishly for Sawyer and he brushes his hair away from his forehead before he begins to share the details. They move onto the couch once more: Sawyer on one side, Sayid on the other, Charlie in the middle. They all have their favourite spot. Sayid sits back and watches as Charlie and Sawyer chatter and bicker, hoping that he's learnt enough from the last few days to stop him from ruining the best thing that has ever happened in his life.