Emerald City Aftermath (Charlie/Meyer; 1920)
nobodywantstobeinschoolforever:
Oh god he’s shirtless. Or close enough, considering it’s a thin white undershirt. A damp thin white undershirt. And damp boxers. And nothing else. Fuck. As he turns around Meyer’s gaze can’t help but skip down over said undershirt and boxers before he meets Charlie’s eyes again. The fatigue is too heavy for him to really react, but clearly it’s not out of his system because it’s an effort to keep his eyes up. Even exhausted and quiet, Charlie is like a beacon. It’s frustrating in more ways than one.
He smiles weakly at Charlie’s attempt at a joke, but aside from offering him something to sleep in too there’s not much Meyer can say. It’s not like he’s going to admit to wanting to hide the bandages and any bruises he accumulated from view, despite the heat. “You don’t look much better,” he says as Charlie rubs at his eyes. Meyer resists the urge to do the same, and clamps his jaw shut against a yawn. He’s been able to stave it off for this long, but he knows his limits and it’s a good thing AR generally doesn’t have early-morning meetings, because Meyer is fairly certain he’s going to sleep longer than usual tonight.
His eyebrows raise minutely at Charlie’s next words, and, no, definitely not out of his system, if the muted pang of interest he feels at the innuendo is anything to go by. So much for suppressing baser instincts. Ignoring that… they’ve shared a mattress before this, and they can go back to normal, if that’s what Charlie wants. It’s not quite what Meyer wants but it’s a better alternative than losing a business partnership and friendship, so. Back to normal it is. “Whichever you’d prefer, but I don’t think anyone’s ever gotten a restful sleep on that couch,” Meyer says with a tired shrug. If he maybe wants Charlie to stay close, it’s not like he hasn’t been selfish enough tonight. Either way, it’s getting harder and harder to stand up straight without swaying, so he heads over to the bed and shakes out the blanket before curling up against the wall beneath it. Charlie can do whatever he wants, he tells himself, and he is not hoping for the mattress to dip next to him. He’s not.
“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie agrees with a bob of his head and a thoughtful dip in his brow. He’s not even sure what’s he agreeing to; he’s just relieved Meyer didn’t kick him as far away as he could get him. It’s a good thing he’s beyond fatigued at this point, or he’s certain the hopeful enthusiasm might have buoyed in his voice. He’s not sure the relief wasn’t helplessly transparent regardless, though it’s safer than it might have been.
Charlie chuckles as he follows Meyer across the room, trying to pretend that he doesn’t feel like he’s trouncing over a very well-protected boundary. “Yeah, think I still got a crick in my neck from earlier.” Fuck, he needs to stop talking when he’s this tired. “From—your couch.” Not from you. He’s got something in his neck from that, but it’s more like the memory of Meyer’s hot breath on his skin, his face pressed into the side of it and lips brushing skin and—
It’s not something Charlie should think about with only thin fabric covering him.
He hastily yanks back a corner of Meyer’s blanket and clamors into bed beside him, pulling the blanket up over his hip. Charlie lies on his side, arm bent beneath his head and propping him up slightly. His pulse is ringing in his ears again, or maybe it’s just the memory of Meyer breathing, whining—he curves his hips back, away from Meyer. He’s let too many things out that night; he doesn’t need Meyer knowing that it’s stirring just to stretch out next to him. Although, it’s a small bed. It can’t be helped if their legs bump—or if Charlie doesn’t pull back when they do.
He licks his lips, searching Meyer’s face, with his heavy lids and exhaustion. “Are you—” He hesitates. Meyer’s not okay. Why would he be? And what would he say, even if Charlie asked? “You sure you ain’t gonna be too warm in this?” he says and thinks it sounds stupid. His free hand brushes Meyer’s shoulder, just briefly skimming over the fabric of his pajamas, as he holds his breath and waits for Meyer to change his mind.
The bed’s somewhat larger than the ones from his childhood, one of the few extravagances Meyer’s allowed himself, but not that much wider, and he's still used to leaving as much space for Jake as he could. So it's habit, not proximity, that makes Meyer curl up just a bit tighter when Charlie settles next to him.
At least that's what he'd say if anyone asked. Not that Charlie will. Not that Meyer will be conscious enough for very much longer to give any answer at all.
It’s getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open, even with Charlie crowding into the bed next to him. Meyer’s almost too tired to feel—satisfied? relieved? he doesn't know what to call it—that Charlie hasn't left, is right here where Meyer can make sure no one did follow from Atlantic City to finish the job. Useless as he'd be should something happen while he’s in this state, it's still a comfort to have Charlie close. Whatever else comes of this, at least Charlie’s safe.
He only hums in response to Charlie’s fingertips skating across his shoulder, eyes slipping shut despite himself. The words themselves take more than a few seconds to register, and he can't do anything more than faintly shake his head. “Don’t think you wanna see underneath it,” he murmurs, words slurring together and half-said into the pillow, exhausted enough to be unguarded about the mess of bruises and bandages hidden by the shirt’s sleeves. It's not a particularly impressive display. He presses his face harder against the pillow, some of the tension strung across his shoulders draining as consciousness drifts away.
