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When Charles is fourteen, his Dad smashes his cassette tape with a hammer.
He stops leaving his shit around after that, starts tucking his things into pockets, stuffing them into his school bag. And then he dies, and he doesn’t know where it ends up after that. It’s alright though, cause Edwin teaches him to materialize whatever clothes he wants, so it’s basically the same.
Charles learns to navigate the backpack cause, like, he needs to be useful, yeah?
And this way Charles has everything Edwin needs, and if Edwin gets sick of him he’ll just.. he doesn’t know what he’ll do.
But then Edwin gets the record player.
He suggests, tentatively, that Charles might play some of his “Queen” if he liked. After all, if they are to haunt potential realtors away from their new office, they may as well entertain themselves.
So they take turns, switching out; Edwin likes opera. He shows Charles how to waltz, chiding Charles to stop looking at his feet til they’re gliding, whirling around like they’re in the movies. Edwin’s smile is small and pleased and lovely. (Charles' attempt to get Edwin to headbang along to Queen results in a sort of awkward rhythmic nodding. Charles loves him so much he could die again.)
And, like. Edwin doesn’t like clutter. He doesn’t bother with the random tidbits ghosts give them for solving cases. Mostly, he just sort of glances at Charles, who's making eyes at a jar of really cool marbles, or a haunted record player, and comes to some sort of decision. After they’ve closed the case, Edwin hands it over, rolling his eyes at Charles' enthusiasm, and Charles' new prize either goes in storage, or the bag.
Until now, apparently.
Now Edwin comes back from trading at the goblin market with little useless things—a cursed rubix cube, records from bands Charles mentioned years ago.
(Charles isn’t allowed back at the goblin market cause he’s “too nice,” and “cannot haggle to save his life,” and if Lady Troutbucket flirts with him one more time Edwin “will not be held responsible for his actions.”)
It’s a mystery. An Edwin Payne mystery, Charles’ favorite.
And an excellent mystery requires excellent research, Edwin’s always saying. Which is why Charles is frowning down at his book on Edwardian courtship—properly checked out, cause Edwin would rip his head clean off if he filched it. After he got Edwin a library card for his birthday and everything.
Edwin overheard the librarians joking that a well mannered ghost must be checking books out at night, cause they keep disappearing and reappearing, scanned and placed neatly on the shelves. He’s been leaving thank you letters in their ask-a-librarian box, too. It’s his idea of a prank. Charles loves him so much.
Anyways. The whole courting business sounds fucking miserable. Couldn’t even date without interviewing a bloke’s parents first, and sniffing about to find how rich he was. And then you had a nanny follow you around to make sure you weren’t sneaking off to snog somewhere, or having any fun at all.
Charles had asked, once, whether Edwin ever wanted to date anyone when he was alive. Edwin had wrinkled his nose and said that he’d used to think after St. Hils, once he was drafted into the war and most likely killed, at least he would not have to deal with courting.
The thought of Edwin, the perfect picture of restraint as he bent to kiss some posh girl's hand, quiet and stiff backed and miserable, makes Charles’ stomach roll.
Really early on, maybe two years after meeting him, Charles had lied about going ghost clubbing and slipped into a library. He hadn’t known what he was looking for, exactly. Just that sometimes, when Edwin turned on his heel, moving like a dancer, or his eyes lit up when he talked about ‘84 movie Sherlock Holmes, Charles—god. His Dads voice cracked in the back of his head like a whip. Just that he needed his voice out.
Yeah, he knew what Edwin’s Dad would’ve called Charles, and he knew exactly what Charles Dad would’ve had to say about Edwin.
He’d found it eventually. He’d read the line homosexual acts, even including a kiss, were punishable by two years in prison, and he’d—well. He sort of lost it a bit.
He’d made a point, since then, to comment whenever he thought a bloke on the telly was fit. Edwin had jumped like a spooked rabbit the first few times he’d slipped a deliberately casual comment in over movie nights, and then, slowly, over the years, his shoulders had started to go down.
Last week, they’d all piled into Niko’s bed, watching Heart-throbber. Niko and Crystal had been snickering over Edwin’s crush on the blond one. Edwin and Crystal had taken one look at Charles' confused, fond expression and rolled their eyes in sync. It was fucking eerie.
“He’s you, Charles,” Crystal sighed. “Jesus fuck. How are you a detective?”
Edwin had arched an eyebrow, like that would distract Charles from how he was blushing like mad. “Yes, I am beginning to be concerned about your powers of deduction myself.”
Charles had been so fiercely proud of him he could’ve burst.
He glances over at Edwin on the couch, legs crossed neatly at the ankle. He’s writing in careful, neat swoops of his pen, frowning in concentration.
Charles likes watching him. Always has. Likes to drink in the sharp line of his nose, the long fan of his lashes against his cheek. Likes seeing Edwin relaxed, loose and soft, tucked away in their little corner of the world.
Probably should’ve been a sign, that. He snorts at himself, turning back to his reading.
Acceptable gifts were flowers, books, courtship letters, cake, fashionable accessories such as a parasol, or opera glasses..
Well, they couldn’t eat, so. Edwin probably wouldn’t see the point in flowers, since they died so fast.. Maybe he could read one of the books Edwin had been nagging him to read for years. Sneak love letters between the pages. They could talk about it on long nights. Edwin would like that.
Charles is so concentrated that he almost doesn’t notice Edwin cross the room, or what he’s set down in front of him.
He looks up. Edwin’s squared his shoulders like he’s gone to battle, staring fixedly at the desk. Charles sits up, alarmed, following his gaze.
He stares at Edwin’s spiky handwriting, the tidy numbered list.
“I thought, perhaps, that we might—start a new tradition.”
Charles blinks, eyes stinging. “Mate, did you.. make me a mixtape?”
Edwin nods. He’s twiddling his fingers together like he does when he’s nervous.
“Crystal assisted me, and while she was absolutely insuffer—“ Edwin staggered, catching him with a surprised little noise. “Oh. Hello.”
Charles is going to buy Edwin a flower shop. He’ll get Edwin the bloody moon. It’s just not acceptable, Edwin reducing him to a puddle like this.
“I love you so much,” Charles says, muffled into his throat. “You’re my favorite person. I love you so much it hurts, sometimes.”
“Yes,” Edwin says softly, hands curling around his waist. He takes Charles' weight like it’s nothing. “I believe I know the feeling.”