e. morin

Chapter 1

The Montreal twilight deepened outside, pressing against the tall-paned windows of the brick walk-up. Inside, the apartment was warm with garlic and onions sizzling in butter. 

The room flickered with rapid bursts of light from the old TV. 

"Left, Charlie! Go left! You're gonna fucking drop it—"

"Shut up, I'm trying!" Charlie laughed.

Charlie and Tom were jammed shoulder to shoulder on the thrifted velvet couch. From the kitchen, Hazel snorted, knife thwacking against the cutting board. 

“Dinner’s in twenty, dorks.”

"We’re saving the galaxy, witch," Tom said, eyes on the screen. He bumped Charlie with his shoulder.

Charlie nudged him back.

The buzzer rang—a long, drilling sound that demanded a signature.

"I'll get it," Charlie said.

Peeling himself away from Tom’s side was like stepping out of a hot bath. He pressed the intercom button and waited. Heavy boots thudded up the stairs until a hand pounded on their door. 

When Charlie came back to the living room, he was holding a white envelope. The garlic and butter, so nice ten seconds ago, now made his stomach turn.

"Who is it?" Hazel asked, though she didn’t turn around.

"Government…" Charlie murmured. He was staring at the logo in the corner: Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada.

He tore the tab and pulled out the letter. The text didn't make sense at first—just blocks of black type that swam on the page. Then, the words sharpened into focus.

Inadmissible. Non-compliance. Revocation.

The paper started to shake in his hands.

"Charlie?" Tom’s voice came from the left, but it sounded far away, and the lilt was gone. The controller made a dull thud on the coffee table. "Char, you’re shaking. What is it?"

Charlie tried to speak, but nothing came out. He held the letter out blindly.

Hazel snatched it. Her eyes darted across the page. "No. No, this is... this is absurd." She looked up, face pale. "They’re saying the adoption sponsorship is void? Fucking—thirteen years later?"

"What?" Tom stood up. He suddenly took up a lot more space.

"They’re reviewing his status," Hazel’s voice pitched up. "Departure order? No! Mom and Dad filed everything!"

She was spiraling. "We need an immigration lawyer. We need Dad’s old lawyer. But it’s Friday night. Oh my god, if they come here..."

Charlie couldn't hear her anymore. He was frozen in the center of the room, staring at a knot in the floorboards until it blurred. 

Hazel paced frantically. Tom turned to his best friend. Charlie’s fingernails were digging into his palms.

Tom tuned out Hazel entirely. He didn't ask to see the letter.

He crossed the room and stopped directly in front of Charlie. He stepped right into his line of sight.

Then, Tom dropped to one knee.

"Charlie," Tom said. "Marry me."

Hazel froze mid-step, the knife still pointing at the ceiling. "What the fuck? "

Tom didn't flinch. 

Charlie blinked, a tear finally breaking free. He looked down at the man he had loved in silence since he was fourteen, kneeling on the hardwood.

"You..." Charlie’s voice was barely an exhale. "You want to marry me? For real?"

Tom’s face was open. There was no hesitation in his eyes.

"Yes, I do," Tom said. He squeezed Charlie’s hands. "I can sponsor you. We get married, you stay. Nobody takes you anywhere."

The apartment felt alien. The controllers on the coffee table. The peppers on the counter. The letter on the floor that had managed to destroy the evening instantly.

Charlie looked back down at Tom. He held Charlie's gaze, his thumbs rubbing circles into the back of Charlie's hands.

"I'm taking him downstairs," Tom said. He stood up, pulling Charlie with him. "We need to talk. Alone."

Hazel stepped in front of the door and slammed her palm against the wood.

"The fuck you are." Her face was flushed, eyes wild. "Are you out of your mind? Why should I let you take him?"

"Hazel, move," Tom said flatly.

"Fuck you. He’s in shock. We need a lawyer, not whatever this bullshit is. Let go of him."

"Hazy," Charlie managed. He tugged on Tom’s hand to feel the resistance. "Hazel, stop."

"Charlie, fucking—no, he’s taking advantage of you somehow. I know it."

"He's not," Charlie said. He took a shaky breath. "I want to go. I need... air. Please."

Hazel looked ready to scream, or maybe cry, or maybe punch Tom in the jaw. She glared at Tom, pointing a finger inches from his nose.

"If you hurt him," she threatened, "if you break his heart, I will never forgive you."

"I know," Tom said. 

Hazel slowly lowered her arm, stepping aside just enough to let them pass. "Ten minutes. If you aren't back in ten minutes, I’m coming down there."

~

The walk down the flights of stairs was stiff. The stairwell smelled of old carpet and other people's dinners. They didn't speak.

They pushed through the front door and stepped outside. Under the orange glow of the street lamp, Tom’s car sat waiting at the curb. It was a dark, sensible sedan, always polished, tidy against the cracked sidewalk.

Tom opened the passenger door, waiting until Charlie slid into the seat before closing it with a thunk.

Tom got in the driver's side. He didn't start the engine. The car was quiet, smelling of leather and the woodsy cologne Tom had worn since university.

“Are you really sure?”

Tom turned in his seat. “Charlie—”

“Wait, please, listen to me,” Charlie interrupted. His hands were shaking in his lap. He looked up, eyes red and wet with tears. “Don’t you want to get married for real one day? You want a family and a normal life. You can’t just… throw that away for a paperwork glitch.”

Tom reached across the center console and trapped Charlie’s hands in his.

Charlie flinched slightly, then slumped. 

“This isn’t a sacrifice, Charlie,” Tom said. “There is no one on this planet that I love more than you.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “You love me?”

“Yes,” Tom confirmed softly. “I love you.”

Charlie stared at him.

“You want to be with me?” Charlie asked. “Like… together?”

Tom nodded, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. I want to be with you.”

"You... You want to kiss me?"

Tom laughed. "Yes, Charlie. I want to kiss you."

Tom leaned across the console. He released one of Charlie’s hands to bring his palm up, cupping Charlie’s jaw. 

Their first kiss, Charlie’s first ever kiss, was tentative.

Charlie was rigid at first, his lungs holding onto a breath he forgot to release. But Tom was patient. He tilted his head, guiding the angle, applying a gentle pressure that didn’t demand, but simply offered.

When they parted, Charlie kept his eyes squeezed shut.

He opened them. Tom was still there, centimetres away.

Tom pulled back just enough to scan Charlie’s face, his gaze dropping to Charlie's lips and back up to his eyes. 

With a rough exhale, Tom leaned back in and hauled Charlie into a hug. It was clumsy—the gear shift dug into Charlie's hip and the hard plastic of the console pressed into Tom’s ribs—but neither of them pulled away. Tom buried his face in the curve of Charlie’s neck, holding him with a surprising desperation.

Charlie rested his cheek against Tom’s shoulder, staring out the window at the brick façade of the opposite building.

Tom loved him.

~

“We can’t go back upstairs,” Tom said softly. “Not yet. You need quiet, and Hazel is… in battle mode.”

Charlie nodded against Tom's shoulder. “She’ll freak out if we don’t go back. She said ten minutes.”

“I know.” Tom gave Charlie one last squeeze before shifting in his seat to pull his phone from his pocket. “I’ll handle it.”

He typed quickly.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m telling her we’re going to my place,” Tom said, hitting send. “That you’re safe, I’m taking care of you, and I’ll bring you back by noon tomorrow.”

The phone buzzed almost instantly.

Tom glanced at the screen and laughed dryly. He turned the phone so Charlie could see it.

Hazel (THE GENERAL): You have 12 hours. If he doesn't text me good morning, I am calling the police and then coming over to dismember you.

“See?” Tom said, pocketing the phone and reaching for the ignition. “She agreed. Mostly.”

He started the car. “Let’s go home, Charlie.”

Tom pulled away from the sidewalk. He drove with one hand on the wheel.

Halfway there, Tom reached across the console and rested his hand palm-up on the armrest. Charlie, for once, didn’t hesitate. He slipped his hand into Tom’s, lacing their fingers together.

Tom pulled into the underground garage. He killed the engine.

~

The front door clicked shut.

The penthouse was exactly what you’d expect from Tom: modern, spotless, and filled with designer furniture that should have felt cold, yet somehow felt like a sanctuary. 

Framed photos of their university days lined the hallway—Charlie laughing at a bar, Hazel graduating, Charlie and Tom graduating, the three of them on a ski trip.

“Sit,” Tom said warmly, nudging Charlie toward the deep leather sectional. “I’ll be right back.”

Charlie sank into it, pulling his knees up to his chest. He watched as Tom bypassed the coffee machine and opened a narrow cabinet to the far right. Inside sat three familiar tins.

Cream of Earl Grey. Jasmine. Rooibos.

Charlie felt a lump in his throat. Tom didn't drink tea. Neither did Hazel or Tom’s other friends. They all drank black coffee that tasted like battery acid. 

Tom knew exactly how long to let the water boil so it didn't scorch the leaves. He reached for the wide-rimmed mug—Charlie’s favorite because it warmed his hands better—and he didn't ask about sugar. He just knew.

He walked back to the living room. He sat down close, right next to Charlie’s hip.

"Here," Tom murmured. Their fingers brushed as he handed the mug over. 

"Thank you," Charlie whispered. He wrapped both hands around the ceramic and took a sip. 

It was exactly how he liked it.

He lowered the mug, staring into the dark liquid.

“Since when?”

Tom picked up a grey throw pillow, his thumb digging into the fabric.

“Four years.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “That… Thomas…”

“I know,” Tom said quietly. “I never thought I was… I mean, I never looked at guys. And then I realized I was looking at you.”

“Four years? Why… why didn’t you say anything?” Charlie asked. “You knew… You knew I love you…”

Tom turned to him, his expression pained. "I was terrified. Of scaring you."

He leaned forward, looking earnestly into Charlie’s eyes. "You’ve been through all this horrible shit. Even up until recently, you’ve been in so much pain. I thought..." He cut himself off, shaking his head. "I hoped I was protecting you by keeping it to myself. I’m sorry I made that choice for you."

Charlie replayed the last four years in his head—the way Tom stood guard at parties, the way he answered calls on the first ring, the softness in his voice that Charlie had mistaken for pity.

It wasn’t pity. It was restraint.

“It hurt,” Charlie admitted. “Thinking you didn’t see me that way.”

“I do see you,” Tom promised fiercely. “I’ve always seen you.”

Charlie looked at his best friend—his fiancé—and saw the fear behind the intensity. The fear that he had damaged the one thing he was trying to protect. He imagined receiving this confession four years ago. He thought about how much therapy he’s had since then.

“I forgive you,” Charlie said. He set the mug down on the low coffee table and reached out, covering Tom’s restless hand with his own. “You were trying to do the right thing. We can’t change it now.”

Tom exhaled. Tentatively, he lifted his arm, hovering it behind Charlie’s shoulders. He paused, giving Charlie the space to pull away.

Charlie stared at the hand, then leaned in. When his temple met Tom's shoulder, a small shudder went through him.

Tom’s arm settled around him. They sat there in the quiet of the penthouse. For the first time since the letter, the adrenaline that had been holding Charlie’s spine straight began to drain away.

He tried to keep his eyes open. He wanted to memorize the feeling of Tom’s hand rubbing his upper arm. He wanted to ask a million more questions. Are you sure? Is this real? Why me?

But his body decided for him. His eyelids grew heavy.

Tom didn’t move, terrified of breaking the spell. Eventually, he realized Charlie was out cold.

“Char,” Tom whispered, wiping a dry tear track from Charlie’s cheek. “Charlie, wake up. Let’s get you to a real bed.”

Charlie groaned. He let Tom pull him up, stumbling slightly as they walked down the hall. But the moment they crossed the threshold into the bedroom, the sleep vanished from Charlie’s brain.

The room was dark and cool, smelled overwhelmingly of Tom. He had only been in here briefly once or twice before.

Tom walked to the king-sized bed and pulled back the duvet.

Charlie froze in the doorway. A bed wasn’t just furniture.

Tom noticed immediately. He stopped pulling the covers down, turning slowly, holding his hands up where Charlie could see them.

"Hey," Tom whispered. "Char. It’s just sleep. I promise. We are just going to sleep."

Charlie searched Tom’s face, looking for the lie, the trap. He found only the same steady, gentle Thomas he had known since high school.

Charlie swallowed hard, nodding jerkily. He forced his legs to move.

Getting into the bed felt surreal. The sheets were cool against his skin, comfortable despite him still being in his sweater and jeans. He lay on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, body rigid. 

I am in Thomas’s bed, his brain repeated mercilessly. I am in Thomas’s bed, and he knows I love him.

Tom got in on the other side. He stayed close to the edge, leaving a wide, respectful space between them.

The room settled into silence.

Charlie lay there, eyes wide open. It felt too fragile. If he moved, he might wake up back in his own apartment. 

Slowly, his hand trembling, Charlie reached out across the empty space. His fingers found the hem of Tom’s t-shirt. He gripped the fabric tightly.

Tom didn't say a word. He slid across until the gap was gone, draping his arm over Charlie’s waist.

"G’night, Char," Tom breathed into the darkness.