#richarles

Words: 2150

Tags/TW: Smoking, swearing, alcohol abuse, mentions of canonical suicide, angst, first-person (Richard's POV), additional tags to be added

Character/s: Richard Papen, Charles Macaulay

Setting: Post-canon; Houston, Texas

A/n: Very new to the fandom, so feel free to leave any notes :)

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Part 1:

Even after leaving Camilla in Boston and returning to California, she haunted my mind as a delicate ghost, more often appearing as a delusion than a dream. Night after night, I attempted to sleep, but there she was, gazing down at my drowsy face, golden hair resting above her shoulders, and bright eyes burning into my mind. She would always twirl in a dark sundress, a blooming belladonna in disguise. Luckily, these dreams only lasted so long. Maybe it was completing my dissertation, and the pressure subsided once I finally obtained my PhD, but soon I had different dreams—not with Camilla, no, but with someone whom I hadn’t seen since the day Henry killed himself.

Over time, I had come to see my love for Camilla as a facade to mask any other feelings I held during our time at Hampden. Would the situation have turned out differently if I had admitted that I truly did not love her? I cannot say. But the succession of events that followed my completion of graduate school would not have happened if I had known about the endless guilt that consumed Charles’ mind after he had mistakenly shot me.

My memory has grown hazy, but I remember Charles having always been such a delicate creature when we hung out together. When I drove him home from nights at the Brasserie, he could barely discern between reality and illusion, but still smiled at me when I dragged him to his apartment, and when I took him to the hospital, carefully clinging to my arm as if it was life itself. He never let the alcohol completely consume him until he believed I had betrayed him. I hope that, before then, I acted as some sort of guiding light when he was deep in the valley of despair.

I never blamed him for what happened. I never blamed any of them, for that matter. At least, that’s some semblance of the truth, which began to reveal itself years after.

When my dreams of Camilla dissipated and were replaced by reenactments of that night, I was struck with a horror that hadn’t rushed through my veins since I heard Francis had been hospitalized for attempting suicide. But in the dreams, there was no Henry standing by the window with Camilla in his arms, nor was there Francis, sitting there idly and staring at the gash in my gut; it was just me, Charles, and the gun.

Neither of us ever spoke. It was like watching a silent film: the gun went off, the bullet swirled through the air, and right as it was about to make contact, I woke up, usually gasping and wide-eyed, frantically searching my skin for a mark, but all that was there was a reminder that we never did speak, Charles and I; the situation was never addressed.

Now, we were strangers.

Where was he now? Still in Texas, perhaps?

God, Charles, Charles, Charles, I would think after waking from one of the dreams, my head in my palms, shaking, and turning onto my stomach, nuzzling my face in the flat pillow. Why, of all people, am I thinking of you now?

It was after an especially vivid dream that I decided to travel to Houston. In the dream, I was Hyacinthus, grinning back widely at Apollo—Charles, whose hair was as bright as the sun and white robe bellowing in the wind. He threw the disc, and I ran after it. I could feel the earth rattle with each step I took, and when I jumped to grab the disc, rather than hitting me in the head, it sliced through the left side of my stomach. As I lay there dying, crimson rivers flowed onto the gentle spring grass and coated the pale hands of Charles, who cradled me and coerced my cheek, shiny eyes glistening with tears of grief rather than excessive drinking.

But since the laws of fate bind us, he whispered, you shall always be with me, and cling to my remembering lips.

My mind had created a falsified version of him. Charles was no Romantic or one to attempt to woo others; he normally tried to display authority through possessive actions, but failed in doing so since he had a clumsy way of handling things. Despite this, my dream brought back another of Apollo’s lines in Orpheus’s song:

You are my grief and my reproach: your death must be ascribed to my hand. I am the agent of your destruction.

I wasn’t able to fall back asleep that night.

The following morning was Monday, February 16th. I grabbed my carry-on bag, threw it in the trunk of my car, and began my three-day road trip to Houston. During my scenic route across the beautiful highways of America, where I saw desert, desert, and more desert, I had time to debate whether I was going on this trip to get an apology from Charles or if I was going to spill the complex feelings swirling in my mind. I was terrified that I wouldn’t even see him—I mean, I had no idea where he was. Even Camilla only knew of the general area he was now living in. She told me he was in Galveston; Houstin being the nearest city, I would make a base there, and then maybe branch out toward other islands along the Gulf. Anyway, what were the chances of even being within a mile-radius of him at any point in time? And if he was still with that woman or another person, would he even acknowledge my existence? He has tried so hard to push the past away, so who would want to see the ghost of all of his wrongdoings come walking into the present?

It was more clear, however, that I hoped not to see him. Then, I wouldn’t have to come to terms with the undeniable passion growing in my heart. I could continue believing that Camilla was the one and only person whom I ever truly loved.

I made it to Houston in twenty-five hours. Flooring the accelerator along I-10 made sailing across the desolate towns and countryside a breeze.

It was a chilly Tuesday, with the weather forecast predicting cloudy skies and an afternoon shower. I checked into a three-star hotel on Main Street, called The Old Yard, and decided to rest in my room until the evening. Once I unpacked my belongings into the bedside dresser, I changed into a navy shirt and corduroy trousers, spreading out a long twill coat at the end of the bed. I suppose what I took away most from my time in the Greek department was how to dress, and since then, it has become one of my greatest insecurities.

I had brought Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta with me; it had become one of my favorites of his plays outside of Doctor Faustus, and I re-read it until the sun began to set.

When the stars began to glisten across the sky, and the honking horns from the streets bellowed, I set the playbook onto the bedside table and took the elevator down to the lobby. I asked the concierge where the nearest bar was, and he recommended Ad Libitum. I was pleased when he told me a taxi could take me there shortly, and I waited outside under the glaring neon sign. The street lights began to flick on, and the rich scent of wine floated down toward me, mingling with smoke puffed from smokers swaying outside alleys.

The taxi pulled up to the sidewalk quite aggressively, coming to an abrupt halt and honking for me to climb into the back seat. I couldn’t see the driver’s face, but his sighs indicated he had a long day and would rather be doing anything than taking me to some tourist bar.

We arrived at the bar in a similar fashion, and he smacked his hand against the wheel for me to get out. I did so, and the second both feet were on the sidewalk, he took off without hesitation. This was my first time in Houston, and although it appeared to be just another city, I didn’t know if I necessarily liked it.

I turned around toward the bar and was surprised to find it kind of charming. It had a vintage feeling to it, even from the outside, almost as if it belonged in a quaint town over a large city such as this.

I pushed open its tall wooden doors and was greeted by warm, gilded lights hovering over the polished bar top that seemed to reach across the entirety of the room, curving into the wall on each side. It was beautiful. There had to be at least sixty barstools, and each one was occupied except the one at the opposite end of the bar.

I rushed to take it, striding across the floor until I reached the end of the bar. I was sure that it would be taken by the time I got there, especially since there were no booths or tables to take as an alternative. Quickly, I pulled out the final bar stool, glancing at its plush red cushion and mahogany legs, taking a seat and staring up at the back of the bar. I had never seen so many varieties of liquor, beer, and wine in my life. And behind it all, a long rectangular mirror reflected my gaze back at me. I flagged down the bartender and, feeling utterly exhausted from my drive, I asked for a Vieux Carré. It has become one of my favorite cocktails after a weekend trip to New Orleans a few years ago, and is a surprisingly great way to test whether a bartender can handle a complex order.

Waiting for my drink, I decided to walk toward the stage that stood about ten feet away from me. There was a Steinway piano standing solemnly in the center.

“Like music?” The bartender asked.

I whipped around, and he held my cocktail in his hand, shaking it back and forth, the ice cube clinking against the glass.

I blinked, retaking my seat. “Yeah, I do.”

“Ya know,” he began, “we have a guy who plays for us every night. He’s pretty good, if you’d like to stick around for the show.”

He handed me a flyer. On the top, in big bolded letters, was written “Charming Charlie and Cheerful Tunes.”

It took everything in me not to burst out laughing. Never had I read a more ridiculous headline.

The bartender plucked the flyer from my hands, grinning. “Pretty clever, ain’t it?”

“Sure is,” I said, biting my tongue and smiling back. “So, when does he go on?”

The bartender glanced at his wrist, revealing a vintage Omega watch with a gold bracelet. Where could someone like him get that?

“Soon.”

Someone shouted from the opposite end of the bar.

“Howdy, everyone!”

I stiffened. No way.

“Hey, Char!” said another voice. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty shitty, if you ask me! But fine, I guess.”

No one replied.

Footsteps grew louder, and soon I knew someone was standing behind me.

“Who are you?” said Charles, placing a firm grip on my shoulder.

I didn’t reply. I knew he could see my sweaty face in the mirror, and I hoped he would walk away.

Suddenly, he spun my chair around, and I came nose-to-nose with the man I had so hoped to see and not see.

Charles growled, his cheeks flushed and brows snapped together. “You know, it’s rude not to respond to someone when spoke—”

“O-oh,” he murmured, stammering back, and scratching his head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

The bartender exited the bar and leaned on the counter, his gaze drifting between Charles and me. 

“Boy, I’ve never seen Charlie spooked like this.” He laughed, pulling a camera out of his pocket. “This is going on the Wall of Shame.”

I turned my seat back around, indirectly staring at Charles's ruffled hair, dyed a brighter blonde, but his eyes were still red-rimmed and saggy; he had never really become sober. And maybe that was another hope I had; that he had become happy and grown into a better man. I had managed to wean myself off of pills, so maybe he had said goodbye to his old buddy Scotch, and the times in-and-out of rehab meant something.

But they hadn’t.

And now he was stumbling up the stairs onto the stage, already drunk and pulling out the piano bench, adjusting its height, and preparing to play some of Charlie's old tunes.

Maybe if I had found him sooner, he wouldn’t have ended up like this, miserable and alone, battling against the choice to trust his dark instincts and give in or finally reach out to the estranged lovers he left behind.

♡♡♡♡

"Charles."

12 years, since Richard Papen saw his friend Charles Macaulay. A lot changed since that fateful day in that hotel room.

Charles is sober now. Has been for sometime. So he wrote a letter to the one person he always considered a friend. Henry was a self serving bastard. Bunny, a moocher. Francis well..that was a can of worms he didnt want to open. Camilla...he was still not brave enough to face. That left Richard. And something about Richard always made Charles trust him. At the police station, in the big snail.

And Richard, proved him right. Everytime.

So here he was, standing outside Charles' apartment. He had knocked thrice on the door, but there was no movement or sign that someone was there on the other side. He turned to go back, when Charles opened the door.

"Richard..?"

"Charles."

"You came..."

"You called."

Charles threw his arms around Richard, wrapping them around him, pouring everything he wanted to say, every emotion he was feeling in the moment, gratitude, longing, sadness he has felt all these years over losing him, into that embrace.

Richarles Rodrigues.