Archive of Our Own

It's the thirteenth time Charles sees that man.

Maybe it's not that strange after all, if the man lives in this area, then it makes sense that he would shop at this store. What doesn't make sense is that it's the thirteenth consecutive day. That man comes here every day, buys a pack of watermelon-flavoured condoms (Charles does appreciate his taste though), and leaves.

Charles works at an adult shop.

He casually mentions this to Moira, the owner, who doesn't even bother lifting her head from the sales book.

“This is New York, Charles, people have sex.” She says, as if what that man bought was not a family pack of 20, “And this IS the sales strategy of our store. Now you should go put those aromatic candles on the shelf.”

“Judging from the speed he consumes them with, one day he will overdose on the stuff you sell here like cocaine.” Charles teases, but is not going to put too much thought into this. He understands that he is only working here to help paying his tuition; all he has to do is take the money and hand out the merchandise. As to where those things go and what they are used for...he does not want to know at all, to be honest.

He carries a whole box of aromatic candles out from the back, and that man is still there, standing in front of a shelf with his hands hanging at either side of his body and a melancholy look on his face, looking almost pathetic. Charles has never seen anyone standing in an adult shop with such expression on their face; seriously, they come in with faces full of either lust or a silly grin or embarrassment from not wanting to be seen. Who would actually look pathetic?

Now Charles is a bit curious, and the shelf for the candles just happens to be right by the man's feet. He walks over with the box, crouches, and calmly starts shelving the candles.

He could almost hear the sound of the muscles straining from the man's legs, if it's even possible. He swears that he sees the man turning his feet towards the door ever-so-slightly, but stopping firmly.

Charles holds off his laugh and finishes shelving the rest of the candles, then raises his head while still in his crouched position. To his surprise, the man is also looking down at him. Their gazes lock instantly.

Quite good-looking. That is his first impression. The man possesses beautiful, chiseled brow bones and thin lips - something Charles always wishes he could have; square jaw, green-gray eyes – oh maybe with a subtle hint of blue – and Charles can see the colours flowing in those eyes since the man is now trying to avoid his look by turning his face towards the light.

It's the first time Charles gets to observe him closely – Moira has told him not to stare at the customers while cashiering, for most people would feel uncomfortable in stores like this. This man is tall and slim, wears a steel-gray shirt, a pair of khakis and simple canvas shoes. It's probably hot outside, because he has rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, exposing those muscular forearms.

Now Charles understands why he needs to buy the family packs. With looks like this, not only all the women in New York, perhaps even half of the men would gladly climb into his bed.

“Is there anything I can help you with, sir?” Charles asks, and the only thing that confuses him is still the helpless way this man looks, “Are you looking for something?”

The man pauses for a few seconds and smiles, showing his healthy teeth. He looks both happy and regretful.

“No, thank you.” He says seriously. German, Charles thinks. “I believe I have found it.”

He grabs a pack of condoms – watermelon-flavoured, of course – from the shelf. A stubborn guy who sticks to his routine, Charles thinks.

Then he processes the sale for him, watches him dive into the blocks of light and heat outside the store like escaping. The bell on the door keeps ringing and ringing from the man's overly-exaggerated movements.

Erik has lunch with Raven twice every week, and those are actual meals which they have sitting at a table in a restaurant. This usually happens on Wednesdays and Fridays. When he puts the condoms on the table for the eighth, no, ninth time, she finally decides that it's time to say something else other than tease.

“Erik, this has officially become sexual harassment.” Raven looks up from the menu, as Erik takes the seat on the opposite side, “You need to stop giving condoms away to people around you, and I'm saying this for your own good.”

“I have no choice.” Erik dumps himself into the chair, slowly rolls down the bunched-up sleeves from his elbows; his voice sounds like someone who is ready to sacrifice everything to avenge his country and family.

“Talk to him, you coward!” Raven growls, just as the waiter happens to walk over to take their orders, so her voice instantly fills with careless, subtle grace, “or you can just buy something interesting to surprise me.”

“I don't want-” The waiter leans over to refill their water glasses, so Erik pauses briefly, his voice getting more and more quiet, “I don't want him to think that I'm a pervert or something.”

Raven stares at Erik with such pity in her eyes that it's obvious she is trying to piss him off.

“Erik, my dear,” Now she speaks with the equally enraging, gentle tone, “Tell me again how you first met that guy.”

“I went to buy lunch from the cafe around the corner, and he was right in front of me in the waiting line.” Erik replies with suspicion.

“And then you stalked him for three blocks with your food in hand, until he entered that adult shop. Then you stood outside across the street for five minutes, realizing that you couldn't look through those fuchsia glass walls like superman could, so you went in, wandered around for thirty minutes, and bought the first pack of watermelon-flavoured condoms in your life.” Raven cruelly, but most correctly finishes the whole story for him, “Erik, you are pretty much a pervert already.”

Then she points out one more time that Erik needs to gather his nerve to strike a conversation, which then leads to a heated discussion on bravery (Raven's wording is a bit lower-classed, in both sexual and imaginary ways) and male hormones. Then she takes off, does not forget to take the condoms on the table, but conveniently doesn't remember to pay for her own meal.

Erik thinks that Raven is right; she is usually the right one, it's just that Erik is not willing to admit it due to her constant criticizing on his clothing choices. And she is right, he should man up and talk to Charles – Charles, it's what says on his name tag. Erik sits alone on the patio of the cafe, finishes two glasses of liqueur and one cup of coffee, and during most of that time thinks to himself that if he doesn't do it, Charles - who is so close to all those accessible resources – might end up with a woman, or man, with a stupid haircut and a stupid name, entertaining each other with most of the oh-so-creative merchandise from that store.

That almost makes Erik shiver in this hot summer afternoon.

So the next day, there is an Erik who has gathered all his courage, standing under the scorching sun, facing a bright fuchsia door, which is going to trample all over the tiny bit of dignity left in him before he enters...Okay, who is he trying to fool, anyway? There has been no dignity left in him since a long time ago.

Erik pushes the door open, the sound of the bell echoing in the air like his funeral toll. He instinctively peeks at the cash register and sees no one. Erik immediately starts to panic, feels the short little backbone he has grown slipping away through the bottom of his feet.

And then there is Charles. He pokes his too-pretty face out from behind a shelf full of love eggs, smiles in recognition but means to leave him alone, going back to what sounds like tidying the shelves.

Erik desperately wishes that Charles could work at a place like Starbucks, but he realizes that it's just like people can't choose their own parents; you will never know where you might meet the person of your dreams, and in his case, it's behind a bunch of 7-frequency vibrating eggs.

He spends several minutes struggling in the magazine section, as if staring at the bombshells could give him some strength. He wanders towards Charles, trying his best to appear casual and careless. It is hard, he doesn't believe that anyone can look careless in this kind of shops to be honest, but Charles doesn't seem to be paying much attention to him anyway. Instead he is crouching on the floor, carefully putting a big box of lip-shaped toys on the shelf.

Erik stops beside him, forcing himself to stare at those who-knows-what-for merchandise instead of Charles' pale, slim neck. And then suddenly Charles lifts up his head without warning (again). Erik sees that from the corner of his eye, and turns to him.

“Such a hot day, isn't it?” He says to Erik in that soft, pleasant voice, almost sending the man into an over-panicked state with a few seconds of total black-out.

“It is.”

At last he was able to squeeze out his response. Charles smiles slightly and goes back to his work. Raven's words are still ringing in his head, and Erik's imagination of the man (it has to be a man) with a stupid haircut and a stupid name is becoming more clearer by the second. This just won't do.

So before he is able to do some rational thinking, he randomly grabs a finger-sized, harmless-looking metal object from the nearby shelf. Erik likes metal.

“Pardon me,” Erik hopes he sounds graceful (and not shaking), now Charles looks up with those beautiful blue eyes of his, “Could you explain to me how to use this?”

In the following five seconds Erik extremely doubts that he has picked the right question, for the expression on Charles's face is almost mortified – even though he does a good job hiding it, he still lets a pair of lips slip from his hand and fall onto the floor; but this is already Erik's best score so far: he cannot just take that object to the cash register anymore, because this way the conversations between Charles and him will be forever stuck on casual greetings and the subtotal.

“Um,” Charles looks down, quickly picks up the lips and tosses them back into the box. “About this, if it's, um, is it for yourself?”

“Perhaps.” Erik says, confused. Charles stands up gingerly, takes the object from his hand. Erik has to admit that it's actually quite beautiful: cone shape on one end, the other end is decorated with sparkling rhinestones; but of course it could be because Charles is holding it right now.

Charles makes a fist with his other hand, and holds it up in front of Erik's eyes.

“Like this,” he says, and inserts the cone-shaped end into the gap formed by his thumb and index finger, letting the sparkling stones stay outside the fist, “Put it into your, um, anus.”

He just said anus.

“Anus.” Erik repeats, but is not quite sure what he has said.

“This is an anal plug.” Charles explains, sounds quite calm already.

“Anal plug.” Erik repeats again, still not quite sure what he has said.

“It can effectively delay your climax,” Charles's voice is blurry and distant, “Would you like me to wrap it up for you?”

Erik tells him he wants the blue one, for the third time not sure what he has just said.

He is already out of the store when he can think straight again; there is an opaque plastic bag in his hand, inside is an object that can effectively delay his climax.

Erik has to try really hard to prevent himself from face-planting onto the sidewalk.

Erik arrives at the cafe on Friday, collapses into his seat and tosses what he's been holding on the table. Raven watches the object spinning its way towards her, and grabs it.

“What's this?” She frowns.

“Something interesting to surprise you with,” Erik orders beer from the passing-by waiter, “An anal plug.”

And Raven obviously could not read the meaning from its name.

“What the hell is that?”

“It's to be put in your asshole, 'can effectively delay your climax', according to him,” Erik presses the rim of the bottle against his lips, doesn't even bother lowering the volume. Raven and a couple sitting at the next table shoot him a scandalized look simultaneously.

“What the fuck do I need an anal plug for?” she says, finally puts it down.

“I have no idea. Maybe to delay your climax?” Erik responds tiredly.

“No offense, but unlike you, I have a vagina.”

This time it's Erik's turn to shoot her a scandalized look.

“What's wrong with you? Saying that word in public?”

“You will find it very ironic that this came from the person who just tossed an anal plug on the table in public,” Raven laughs at him, prodding the metal plug with her fingertip, “and it's blue; I never liked blue.”

“That's the colour of Charles' eyes,” Erik says gloomily.

“You used his eye colour to pick things to stick in your asshole?” Raven asks in shock, “Erik, you need to talk to someone.”

“And that's what I'm doing right now, isn't it?” Erik gives an exhausted growl, “And clearly it's not helping; now he must think that I'm a crazy weirdo.”

“No, he's probably thinking you are gay, which is true,” Raven points out, “You only bought an anal plug, not a 20-piece surgery knife set.”

“I'd rather take the knives, at least I can use them to cut my throat open.” Erik laughs dryly, and Raven looks at him with sympathy.

“You really do like him, don't you?” She asks softly, “You should just ask him if he would like to have coffee with you or something; it's not hard at all.”

Erik only concentrates on chewing his lettuce salad, and watches Raven toss that anal plug into her purse.

“He's gay,” Charles concludes, “I knew it.”

Moira is lazily leaning against the counter, musing as she watches Charles clean the store.

“It must be really hard, finding another gay man in New York,” she teases him with pity in her tone, “and allow me to remind you, maybe his girlfriend likes to take it in the back.”

“He is too sexy to be straight, Moira,” Charles rarely uses the scolding tone; it makes Moira laugh out loud.

“My, my, you need to print this on a banner and go join the parade with it,” Moira walks towards the back while raising her voice, “The world needs your anti-heterosexual speech, Charles.”

Charles pauses his mopping and looks over at the condom shelf. Ever since his purchase of that anal plug, that man hasn't shown up for a week. Charles sighs, hoping he didn't misunderstand the way of using it and hurt himself, or as Charles has predicted, damage something that shouldn't be damaged from the excessive usage of condoms.

And the following week, Charles goes to school, and works when he doesn't have classes; life is peaceful and plain as usual. The only thing worth bringing up is that a woman who lives in a building across the street has brought her vibrator in to repair twice in the same month. Charles doesn't have the guts to imagine where she's used it in to wear it down so fast. And the German guy is still nowhere to be seen.

“Your Watermelon-Flavoured Gay Man didn't show up today?” Moira asks, and Charles groans in reply from where he is slouched by the counter. “That's right, stop smiling at the customers with that friendly baby face of yours, now you finally look like a cashier with shitty costumer service. Just like what I taught you at the beginning, Charles, I'm so proud of you.”

That has entertained Charles. He puts on his jacket and grabs his wallet from underneath the counter.

“If there's nothing else for now, I'm going to have lunch.”

After Moira takes over the cash register, Charles pushes the door open and steps into the heat waves outside. He normally goes to the cafe three blocks away and gets their not-too-impressive sandwiches and really-awesome white mocha for lunch. And to get there, he needs to cross one narrow street and two busier intersections. Most of the time Charles follows the rules, but the sun is burning the back of his neck as he stands at the smaller intersection, waiting for the light to turn green. Desperate for the shade under the buildings on the other side, he covers his head with the hood of the jacket, looks around with determination, and runs through the red light.

Then tragedy hits him.

Charles crosses the empty street safely, but just as he reaches the other side, he sees a policeman wearing the blue uniform standing right in the shade with crossed arms. He heart sinks with a chilled feeling as if it has gone through several icy cold baths, while the other man stalks over with a very cop-like, unpleasant careless motion.

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. Charles curses to himself, he is going to lose a few hours of pay to this damn ticket.

“The light was red.” The policeman says while walking closer, one hand resting on his waist. Charles stares at his gun nervously and gives up the thought of running away; he chooses to beg.

“I'm so, so sorry, officer. You see, I only have a super short lunch break...” He lifts his face, planning to use his so-bright-as-if-they-are-going-to-tear-up blue eyes attack under the sun – it always worked like charm when he couldn't make the deadline of his report or was fighting for the last package of discounted beef in the supermarket – but his voice suddenly clogs in his throat. There is a pair of green-gray eyes under the officer's hat, and they too are glued there when they rise to meet Charles' face.

Charles can sense that the situation is changing, although he's unsure if it's changing towards the good or the bad direction. The Watermelon Ga...or the Policeman – he doesn't know what he should use to address this man – anyway, the German has lost his cool and relaxed atmosphere in a split second. His hand leaves that slim waist and reaches towards his head, but not sure what to do. After a small pause he finally decides that he could use this pose as a gesture to take off his hat.

“You...” he puts the hat under his arm, once again is wearing that pathetic expression he had when walking in-between the shelves in the store. “You have run through a red light.”

He is almost murmuring now, Charles thinks sympathetically, I should say something to help with this awkwardness.

“Please don't give me a ticket, I beg you,” Charles says, “I'll repay your kindness by not telling anyone what you have bought in the store.”

This is meant to be a joke, for real. Charles is even smiling, but the man looks like he's just been critically wounded; the tip of his ears turning bright red under the sun.

“That was a misunderstanding.” The policeman's voice weak and low.

Charles remains sympathetic while looking at the other man's face, which reminds him of that of an emphysema patient. Poor conservative fellow, maybe his partner is hard to please.

“I understand, officer,” he says with his gentle, know-it-all tone, “It's okay. It's just that I have been wondering why you haven't come to the store for such a long time.”

The policeman stares at Charles with his bright eyes. The name E Lehnsherr is visible on the front panel of his uniform. Could it be Eberhard, perhaps? Hell no, “the strength of a wild boar” sounds way too silly on a man who could look arousing as a stripper even in his police uniform.

“You noticed that I haven't been there for a long time?” he mumbles.

“Of course. We are such a small store, you know,” Charles replies, then looks at his watch, “Oh no, I only have twenty minutes left. Please officer, if you have to give me a ticket, could you please use something cheaper, like indiscriminate defecation?”

E Lehnsherr smiles a very charming (and most-likely-will-not-give-you-a-ticket) smile, making Charles almost want to kiss him, for gratitude or for lust.

“I can give you a ride,” he says, pointing at the police car parked by the road, “if you like.”

Charles looks at the vehicle, then at E Lehnsherr.

“Are you sure you won't get in trouble from this?” Charles asks, “I mean, letting a stranger get in the police car.”

“I toss strangers into this car everyday. It's my job.”

E Lehnsherr walks Charles to the car, then they stop by it for a moment. Charles gives him a smile.

“Can I sit in the front, Eberhard?”

“Erik,” E Lehnsherr corrects him, flashing his teeth like he did in the store last time, “unless you want to be handcuffed to the back seat, Charles.”

Charles dives into the passenger seat with lightning speed, trying to stop his heart from thumping and his mind from imagining handcuffs and things beyond them.

Erik is in a good mood.

He steps into the police department building humming “I Believe I Can Fly”, and manages to finish the song right at the moment he sits back on his seat. He turns on the computer, planning to write some reports that haven't been touched due to his melancholy week. Raven busts in like a tornado, scans around the office and locks target on Erik before dashing over.

“YOU!” she stabs Erik's shoulder with her index finger, “Damn you, Erik, do you even know how far I had to walk?”

Erik blanks out for a few seconds, THEN realizes what she was talking about.

“Oh, OH, I'm so sorry, Raven,” he can't help but laugh, “God, I've completely forgotten about you.”

“Don't. Ever. Dream Of Me. Buying Donuts. For You. AGAIN!” she hisses between gritted teeth, finger almost drilling a hole in Erik's shoulder, “You can't just abandon your partner by the road and drive back yourself!”

“Sorry, but you have to listen to me, I just ran into Charles,” he brags smugly, “and I gave him a ride.”

Raven falls silent for a short moment, trying to process all the information with a frown.

“Which interrogation room is he in?” her head turns towards the row of doors to the left, “I knew this was gonna turn out bad. Was he selling marijuana in that shop?”

“What? NO!” Erik protests.

“You need me to bring the phone book and hammer over?”

“Of course not! I only gave him a ride to the cafe around the corner.”

Raven stares at Erik, who is smiling like an idiot.

“Good,” she sits down in front of him, asks slowly, “and then? You had coffee with him?”

“Nope. He was in a rush, so I just left after dropping him off,” Erik says with great satisfaction, “You should have seen the way he said thank you to me, Raven, you will like him.”

“I love you, Erik, but you are a moron.” Raven's voice is deadly calm, as if she's telling Erik that his cancer is terminal, “He is going to get his food and go back to have wild sex with his boyfriend, absolutely won't remember who the fuck you are.”

Erik looks at her from the other side of the monitor, terrified.

“Why do you say such horrible things?”

“I said the exact same thing to my mom when I was twelve, because she said my friend Nancy was only my imagination,” Raven smiles, “And you know what? Nancy really was my imagination.”

Erik decides to focus on his report before his good mood gets infected, but Raven is not going to let him off so easily.

“Actually I have a good plan, you just have to abuse the authority a little bit,” she leans forward, “You know small shops like that normally won't put too much effort on fire prevention. You just go in there and start picking at random things, tell him that you'll make them close down if he won't date you...”

“Thank God you are a cop,” Erik interrupts with a defeated face, “Or else I might have to arrest you first.”

Raven shrugs before standing up to leave. A traffic police named Sean whose desk is in front of his slides over in his chair, and with a mocking grin asks him if there are any free condoms today. Raven digs her fist into his guts on her way out.

“Don't torture Erik.” She shakes her fist in front of Sean's face threateningly.

“As if you are not doing it yourself!” Erik shouts at the top of his lungs.

“I'm doing it out of love!”

Raven shouts back while leaving the office. She always leaves all the paperwork to Erik, but takes all the condoms and the anal plug; it's so unfair. Erik works on the reports for several minutes, and thinks that Raven is right, as usual; he should have walked Charles into that cafe, then maybe bought him a coffee, or even really given him a ticket, this way he would have the opportunity to get his social security number, and then use the police database to find out his address and phone number...NO. Erik strangles the thought, he's not a pervert, and the most pervert-like thing he has done was following Charles to his workplace. He cannot keep going down like this.

He recalls that soft and lonely (Erik swears that he saw loneliness) expression Charles had when telling him that he hadn't been to the store for a long time. It gives him a burning sense of commitment. The last time he had this emotion was when he took the Oath to become a cop, and it has made him a good cop. He believes that it will also make him a good lover.

So in the morning a few days later, Erik is chasing after a drug dealer in the community, and finally tackles the guy down after five blocks. He uses this as the warm-up, sends the guy to the police department, then takes off his gun, puts a jacket over his uniform, makes sure he is all presentable in the public restroom, and then walks towards Charles' shop.

He's ready both mentally and sexually. However, when he pushes the door open with a fluid, crisp motion, what he sees is not Charles, but a woman standing behind the counter, to his utter disappointment.

Erik looks at his watch, not sure if Charles has taken his lunch break earlier than usual, so he wanders around in the shop for over an hour. During that time he randomly grabs a harmless-looking yellow rubber duck out of boredom, and that thing suddenly starts vibrating like crazy, almost scaring the living daylights out of Erik. He notices that the female cashier keeps looking back and forth between himself and the phone, probably on the verge of calling the police; and that is not good considering he IS a cop himself.

Erik puts the duck down in defeat, grabs a pack of condoms and puts them on the counter. He takes a peek at the name tag on the cashier's shirt when she scans the bar-code: her name is Moira, and she is the owner.

“Um, excuse me,” Erik opens his mouth, “Is Charles not working today?”

And Moira pauses there and stares at him with the watermelon-flavouered condoms in her hand like that for a long time. Her expression morphs from suspicion into sudden realization.

“You are that ga...” Moira chokes on the word that didn't make it out of her mouth, Erik looks at her, confused, “You are that policeman; Charles has talked about you.”

“Really?” Erik lights up.

“Yup, quite a lot actually.” Had Erik not been blinded by love, he should notice that Moira's non-stop coughing is obviously to cover up her laughs. “He has classes this morning, won't be here until later.”

“Oh,” Erik replies quietly, “then, please tell him that I've stopped by.”

Sighing to himself, Erik turns to leave. Moira calls from behind.

“Hey, officer,” She grabs a sheet of paper from the counter and thrusts it into Erik's hand, “Takes this, maybe you'll be interested.”

Erik looks down at that pink flier, with script font right in his face saying that there will be a class on “teaching you and your partner to correctly use erotic toys to receive maximum pleasure” in the store on Friday evening. Despite how positively torturous this class will be, just holding a flier of this colour in his hand is already making Erik want to hide. He frantically says thank you, tries to stuff the paper into his pocket as fast as possible as he pushes the door open, only to run straight into someone who is walking towards the store.

“Erik!” Steadying both of their bodies, Charles lifts his head and laughs brightly, “I didn't see you. Sorry about that.”

“No I,” Erik turns and points at the entrance, still recovering from his panicked state, the cool he had earlier has already gone to nowhere. “I wasn't watching.”

Charles tilts his head and smiles, hands in his pockets. He always looks so cheerful, and oh how Erik likes him this way.

“Oh, you got our flier,” Charles says with delighted surprise, pointing at the piece of neon-coloured material poking out of Erik's pocket, “Fantastic. I was going to give you one myself. Are you coming?”

Now Erik is facing the most painful choice in his life, almost as painful as when he couldn't decide whether to become Superman or Batman at the age of eight; and Charles is staring right into his soul with those God-blessed bright blue eyes which could rival the Blue Grotto. He cannot refuse. God how is he able to refuse?

“This Friday I...”

Erik speaks with great difficulty, and his voice is probably too low to be heard by Charles, because the latter smiles again and keeps on talking: “Actually I organized this event. You know, ever since that day you asked me about the anal plug, I have been thinking that there are probably a lot of people having trouble using these things.”

He looks up at Erik, who only wants to beg him to stop doing so.

“We welcome partners too.” He blinks playfully, but to Erik it's like pulling the trigger of a gun that is pointing at his heart, “Please, Erik?”

Erik says yes within a blink of an eye.

“Charles,” Moira calls as Charles turns around to wave at Erik, who is about to cross the road, “You just missed your gay regular customer.”

“We just ran into each other at the door, quite literally,” Charles says happily, “He promised to come to the class on Friday.”

Moira seems to doubt that.

“Are you sure? He was holding the flier like it was a used condom.”

“Don't blame him, you know how Germans are.” Charles reaches to straighten up the whips and boots hanging on the wall.

“Yes I know, and now I understand why you have eyes for him.” Moira flips through the Penthouse Magazine with her chin in one hand, “The way he pushed the door open was like he just came out of a limo, and there was a red carpet in this little store.”

“Plus he is a cop.” Charles adds.

“To quote from you, 'too sexy to be straight',” Moira smiles carelessly, and gives Charles a deep look, “You know, I think he kinda likes you.”

Charles smiles with a frown.

“I told him that we welcome partners, Moira,” he says, “And he simply said okay.”

Moira shrugs and hands over the cash register to Charles.

“At least we will find out what kind of partner is causing him to consume condoms with such speed.”

And she walks away after her irresponsible speech, leaving Charles alone behind the counter. He sits himself in the corner facing right at the vent, watching a few customers scattering around the store. They wear expressions full of either lust or silly grin or embarrassment of not wanting to be seen, but no one stands in front of the shelf looking pathetic, not knowing what to do. Thinking of that man makes Charles want to laugh, at the same time he misses that scene, to the point that what he sees right now feels totally boring. At last he blames the twisting feeling in his stomach on the expired milk he drank this morning. Moving his hurting head away from the AC, he goes to ring through two dozen of fuzzy handcuffs for a man who is buying them all.

Charles admits that he's doing this on purpose.

He tries to leave the store at the same time, take the same route to buy lunch, and then take all the time in the world to enjoy the scenery on the way back. At first he wasn't quite sure why he was doing this, until one day on the sidewalk, he actually sees Erik walking over from the opposite direction.

Wonderful, Charles. Now he is feeling the irony and joy at the same time. Don't tell yourself that you only take this route for the awful sandwiches.

Erik is on duty, wearing his uniform sharp and straight like a murder weapon, and walks against the moving crowd slow and steady. He looks completely at ease, as if the entire street is his property. Charles is just thinking that he doesn't often get to see the man not looking scared, as Erik looks over, eyes sweep past him, pause uncertainly for a few seconds, then rotate back onto Charles's face; meanwhile his footsteps come to a halt.

Now he looks like a deer shocked by the headlights of a car, again.

“Hi,” Erik whispers soft and low, showing a nervous smile that's almost sexy, “Lunch break?”

“Yup. Just,” Charles swallows back the sentence he was going to say, and instantly forgets what that sentence was; he blurts out without thinking, “Are you hungry?”

The obvious invitation puts Erik into a silence long enough for the self-cursing Charles to have time to appreciate those long fingers hanging by his legs, and have dangerous fantasies of those fingers wrapped around the grip of a gun or his own throat.

“I'm afraid I can't stay for long,” Erik says, looking sincerely regretful, “but I can walk you there.”

And that's good enough.

It's not a long walk, so Charles purposely walks slower, and spends some time being trapped in the crowds, then using even more time to finally walk around them. Erik on the other hand just goes with this ridiculously slow pace, even though his legs are long enough to easily surpass those people, if his gun won't scare them away.

“What made you want to be a cop?” Charles' question catches Erik's attention, which is being drawn to the display of a flower shop they walk by. He turns to look at Charles.

“I guess every boy has dreamed about it at one point,” Erik smiles, “Guns, handcuffs, uniforms, busting the door open with your body and shouting 'EVERYBODY GET DOWN!'. Stuff like that.”

Charles is amused. Then Erik asks him: “So what made you...I mean, work in an adult store?”

“Just a part-time job to cover some expenses; I'm studying Genetics at the University,” Charles shrugs, “but I guess every man has probably dreamed about this at one point, too: guns, handcuffs, uniforms, except maybe the part where you bust the doors open with your body and shout.”

Erik laughs out loud with fondness and approval; Charles is startled, but in a good way. The laugh lines look really good on his face; he probably laughs more often, even though Charles is not sure if he's witnessed the man laughing with his mouth open that many times.

“I haven't had the chance to bust a door open yet, actually,” Erik leans down, and whispers to him like it's a secret, “Don't trust those stupid movies; we can afford battering rams.”

Charles laughs too, and blames what happens next entirely on Erik's surprising sense of humour and the pleasant smell of his cologne: he is completely unaware that he is already at the intersection, with the cafe right on the other side of the street, and more importantly, the lights for the pedestrians glowing red. He steps forward without looking or thinking, and then something tightens around his right shoulder, pulling his whole body backwards with a too-strong force. It's not a comfortable physical experience: a motorbike roars by the tip of Charles's foot, just as he falls heavily onto Erik's not-soft-at-all chest and the pile of police equipment around his waist.

“God,” Erik's deep voice is right by his ear; he sounds both worried and amused, “You are really into red lights, aren't you?”

When the lights turn green, Erik walks Charles safely to the other side of the street with a hand on his back, and carefully says goodbye. He walks away to the next street, back straight like a knife; Charles watches, feeling the sharp stabbing pain spreading out.

No, God. Charles thinks, terrified, God, I think I'm just into you.

“I think we made some actual progress.”

Erik says gleefully as his appetizer – garlic bread – is being served, and Raven's piercing gaze goes straight into his eyes.

“I'm not gonna marry you just because you lack the guts to come out of the closet, Erik.”

“You told everyone in our lives that I was gay, Raven, the only thing you didn't do was shout out my sexual orientation right on the street. You have pretty much blown up my closet.” Erik counters with an unusual calmness, “Not you; I'm talking about Charles and I.”

Now Raven looks slightly interested. She orders a bottle of liqueur, and is ready to drink to Erik's life stories as always.

“So you slept with him?”

“No. He invited me to have lunch with him, but I had to say no to him thanks to you leaving all the work to me on that day.” Erik rebukes.

“You have to understand that every woman has those inconvenient days every month.” Raven lifts up a finger to remind him.

“I don't see any difference between the two of us except that you have a vagina.”

“Hey, it's public.”

Erik is not going to argue with her; instead he pulls out that wrinkled pink flier from his pocket and pushes it towards her. Raven takes it and reads; knowing she will be silent for at least a few minutes, Erik dives into the sea bass on his plate.

“Oh my god,” Raven's voice is unbelieving and ecstatic, like a faithful believer witnessing the bleeding statue of Virgin Mary, “They invited Emma Frost to be the instructor.”

“Who?” Erik is confused.

“Emma Frost! The one who wrote 'Mindfuck', and 'Enter Your Man's Head before He Enters Your Body'?” Raven can barely contain herself while screaming quietly, stabbing the flier with her finger, almost enraged by Erik's blank expression, “How could you not know? This woman is a genius! She knows absolutely everything about sex; she can make you come by just standing there with all her clothes on!”

“Nobody can do that, Raven.”

“I bet Charles can, when you are having 'Little Erik's Fun Time' every night behind the locked doors.”

Erik's knife slips and scrapes across his plate with a sharp screeching sound, earning them yet another angry glare from the patrons sitting at the next table.

“Do not call me Little Erik,” Erik stops her with gritted teeth.

“Why am I not surprised that you didn't deny it?” Raven says cheerfully, handing the flier back to Erik, “You have to go to this class, Erik, you will benefit from it for the rest of your life.”

“Will you go with me?” Erik asks longingly. Raven's right hand twitches on the table, looks like she just aborted the action of grabbing the fork and stabbing it through Erik's hand.

“Erik, use your brain. You have to go alone, to show Charles that you are single and horny, and are willing to,” Raven reasons patiently, then peeks at the flier, “'correctly use the erotic toys to receive maximum pleasure' with him.”

“I don’t even know how to have a normal conversation with him!”

“Buy him something!” Raven growls. Now the patrons at the next table start to shush them angrily, so she turns to face them with menace: “Shut up! This is not a fucking movie theater!”

Then she quickly turns back to treat Erik with the same attitude: “Buy him some flowers, or condoms, anything! God! Erik, you should thank your mom for giving you such a pretty face, or else you would still be a virgin right now with your poor knowledge on dating!”

Now even his mother is involved in this mess. Raven storms off before Erik can say something to protest. He decides not to be mad at her, even though the angry patrons at the next table are now blaming him for everything, and she has left the bill to him again. She is in a terrible state with a bleeding bottom, so it's tolerable for her to be somewhat rude...maybe, Erik can't really put himself in her shoes since he doesn't have a vagina.

He looks at the blindingly bright flier against the white tablecloth, sighs in self-pity.

Charles has prepared most things needed for the event by 7 pm. The always-closed glass doors are wide open this time; there are already several couples sitting inside, chatting quietly with curious delight.

“You sure it's a good idea to sit them in a circle?” Moira asks doubtfully while making the punch, “It looks more like a group therapy for sex addicts than a class.”

“The shape of a circle will calm people's minds. Best examples are those who tried to communicate with the universe.” Charles replies seriously, staring at a vibrating egg he picked up, “I'm thinking to let them hold these display models of the massage toys, and make them vibrate whenever someone wants to speak. You think it's a good idea?”

“I don't know if it's a good idea, but it will definitely crack me up. Go ahead.”

So Charles carries a box of toys out to the entrance, and hands them out to people who come into the store. This is when he sees Erik, who is mixing himself into the line, wearing a simple but smoking hot white (that's totally his color) V-neck shirt and leather jacket, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, expression utterly resolute.

“Erik,” Charles beams happily when the other man stands in front of him, “You came.”

“As I promised.” Erik lowers his head and smiles. Charles finds it hard to look at his smile for too long, so he squeezes Erik's arm encouragingly, and tilts his head to look beside the man.

“Where is your, um, company?”

“I came alone,” Erik frowns as he scans the box Charles is holding, as if it contains explosives that need to be disposed of, “What's in this?”

Charles makes a cheerful “oh”, and reaches to the bottom of the box, after some fumbling he pulls out a palm-sized green silicon stick, and pushes it into Erik's hand.

“Meet Patchy Paul,” says Charles, “He is also from Germany. Later on if you would like to speak, just hit the switch and let it vibrate.”

Erik's hand is shaking slightly, as if Charles just put dog waste in his palm.

“I don’t think I will get a chance to talk, Charles, maybe you should-” He tries to speak calmly, which makes Charles want to burst out laughing, but he holds it back.

“Maybe you should go inside and find a seat; it's almost time to start.”

Charles gently interrupts, and gives Erik's back a light push, before turning to greet a couple in the back of the line. Through the corner of his eye, he watches Erik hesitatingly walk away and stand in the circle of chairs for what seems like forever, until a young couple welcomes him to sit beside them. Only then does Erik finally place himself – with overly proper gestures - in the chair, and only taking two-thirds of the surface.

Charles smiles at this until his cheeks are sore from it; this is probably his favorite scene of the week.

At 7:30 pm the class starts, and people have filled every space available in the store. There is a stir in the crowd as they applaud for the appearance of the speaker, Emma Frost, who is a gorgeous creature with natural blonde hair and killer curves. With looks like that she shouldn't even have to actually seduce a man to make him kneel at her feet, but she is still the author of many best-selling erotic novels and reference books on healthy sex life. Charles has read some of them in the store, and has spent three weeks negotiating with her agent before finally getting the opportunity to hold this event.

“Good evening, I'm Emma Frost,” Emma greets gracefully, sitting down on the tall chair Charles has prepared for her, and crosses those long legs cladded in white boots. “I am a person of order, and it's the same in sex, you have to consider how the other person feels, not just your own release. So I see that you all have the massaging sticks, good. Please make sure you do use them later, should any of you have questions.”

Charles peeks at Erik, who looks somewhat calm, with Patchy Paul lying on his lap.

“Okay,” Emma is pleased to see positive response from the crowd, “Now first of all, please pair up with another person, and I will demonstrate the relaxation massage.”

The crowd scatters and reforms. Over eighty percent of the people have already come in pairs, so unsurprisingly, Erik is left by himself in the corner. Charles notices his embarrassing situation after everyone else has found a partner, and is about to tell Emma, as she, too, looks over at Erik.

“I don't-” Erik starts, hesitating. Emma raises her palm at him, then the tip of her finger draws a curve to point at the Patchy Paul in his hand, her intention obvious like a torture. Erik looks at Charles as if begging for help, the latter helplessly gestures at him to switch it on.

Therefore Erik is forced to look for the switch on Patchy Paul under everyone else's stare, and with a face of someone meeting his executioner, holds up the steadily vibrating toy.

“Yes, sir?” Emma replies softly, “Do you have a question?”

“I don't have a partner.” Erik says, already giving up.

Emma turns around and looks at Charles' name tag.

“You can go pair up with him, Charles,” She says, quirking up the corner of her scarlet lips at a dumbstruck Charles, “I believe we have lots of same-sex couples here tonight; this should be a good demonstration.”

Hearing the agreeing laughter from the crowd, Charles has no choice but to walk towards Erik, who looks both more calm and yet more panicked.

“I'm sorry,” Erik whispers.

“It's alright, I'm glad to...” Charles is about to comfort him, when the man shakes his head.

“No, I mean I'm sorry, I don't know how to turn this thing off,” He painfully hands over the still-vibrating Patchy Paul. Charles coughs out a laugh, and switches it off for him.

To show his gratitude like a gentleman, Erik gives the chair to Charles (or maybe he just want to give Patchy Paul to someone else), who really doesn't think it's a good idea, since now Emma is announcing that the standing person has to massage the sitting one, which means that Erik is going to put his arousing, beautiful fingers on his bod- oh no he shouldn't keep thinking; it will only make things worse.

Now Erik's hands are already on touching Charles' shoulders, neither too hard nor too gentle, and they casually wrap around his entire shoulder. Charles can feel the fingertips ghosting over his collarbone, but when he turns slightly to look, Erik's hands are perfectly still. Then he realizes that it's the rapid beating of his own heart making his entire body shiver.

He has to do his best to will down the burning temperature on his cheeks, as Erik faithfully follows Emma's instructions, pressing down on his neck and behind his ears with perfectly-controlled strength. He's really grateful that Erik can't see it from behind.

“Am I hurting you?” Erik leans down slightly, voice mixed with worry; his warm breath spreading beside Charles' ear shell.

“No, no no, it's good. Thank you.” Charles replies in panic.

“Because your ears are red.”

Oh shit.

Charles grudgingly tells him in a quiet voice that it must be the AC not turned on strong enough. Erik seems to relax, stands straight and goes back to torture Charles' will with those warm, long fingers. It feels good. Actually it feels a little too good, but not relaxing at all, for Charles' fingers twisting around Patchy Paul are almost going to severe the thing into two halves.

Finally Emma's voice puts his torture on suspension; she asks them to switch places. Charles pounces off the chair, mumbling thank you to Erik, who is looking at him with a bright smile.

“This is a lot more interesting than I expected.” Erik says cheerfully, sitting down on the chair with his back to Charles.

That's what we wanted anyway. Charles sighs quietly, laying his hands on Erik's shoulders. He is not surprised to find hard muscles there, with clear lines of tendons easily detectable by his fingertips. And now he can smell his cologne again; this is never going to end.

“I thought all cops had donut crumbs on their ties,” Charles jokes, hoping to kill the tension, “but it seems like you are doing a good job keeping yourself fit.”

Erik's muscles tense under his palms. The man turns his face slightly, his profile beautiful like a statue.

“I just,” He pauses, turning his head back, “I spend some time on jogging.”

“I'd rather eat dog poop than go to the gym.”

“No need to go to the gym, just run a few miles in the Central Park. You should do it too when the weather is nice.”

“Maybe we can go together next time.” Charles says without thinking, and Erik doesn't respond for a few seconds. He tries to remember if he messed up on the wording, to make it sound like anything but a simple, friendly invitation.

“Of course.” Finally, Erik replies softly, and lowers his head in relaxation, exposing the soft nape of his neck. Charles almost wants to kiss the skin there.

Fortunately Emma stops his crazy impulse. She is going to explain the correctly way to perform prostate massage, since it can be used between both same-sex and different-sex couples. Charles realizes that he needs to hand out the prints, before regrettably letting go of Erik's shoulders and dashes to the back.

Moira is there, watching Charles knock over a box of masturbating eggs with surprise.

“What's wrong with you,” she asks, “Are they really communicating with the universe?”

Charles crouches down to put the eggs back into the box, and then he sighs heavily.

“I'm in love,” he says, “but now I have to hand out the prints for prostate massage.”

Moira swirls her chair around to face Charles.

“There's punch outside, Charles, the prostates can always wait.” His boss says gently, “I hope it's not Emma Frost; you'll end up with a broken heart.”

“No,” Charles says, depressed, “It's the Watermelon-Flavoured Gay.”

“The word 'gay' itself is already to your great advantage, my dear,” Moira says instantly, “Not to mention that you have such a lovely face.”

“Do I?”

“It's too lame to pretend that you never noticed, Charles. You knew exactly how to make those baby blues work their maximum charm when you asked me to give you a raise.”

Charles laughs; Moira hands the stack of prints over to him.

“Just go chat to him after this is over, ask him out to have some food, and massage each other's prostate.”

Charles is not even in the mood to point out how many steps she has skipped there.

“Look at those condoms. What if he already has a boyfriend?”

Moira shrugs.

“Who says you can't score when there is a goalie?”

Exactly the wisdom Charles needs in his life.

Since Charles has been gone for quite a while, the crowd starts to move towards the table with the punch bowl, chatting and introducing each other. Erik retreats into a corner, pulls out his phone and dials.

[911. What's your emergency situation?] Raven's lazy voice drifts over.

“Raven, it's me.” Erik lowers his voice and says.

[Erik? What happened? Did you get robbed?]

“No, I just wanna tell you that everything's going smoothly,” Erik says happily, “We just did relaxation massage. I get to be paired up with Charles because I came alone, thanks to your advice.”

There is silence on the other end of the line.

[Erik, this is the emergency line.] Raven calmly reminds him, [You dialed the emergency line just to tell me that your date is going smoothly?]

“Yup. I know you are covering this shift tonight; your phone is turned off.”

[Wonderful, now we have truly become BFF's,] Raven says matter-of-factly with an excited tone, [so you haven't forgotten that every emergency call is being taped for records, right?]

“Oh, I don't think they are going to monitor every single unnecessary phone call.”

[I want Emma Frost's autograph.] Raven says.

“I will not embarrass myself by asking for autographs.”

[And you wanna know what's even more embarrassing? Me sending a copy of this conversation to that store, addressing it to Charles.]

“You should be ashamed of yourself as a cop, Raven.”

[You should be ashamed of yourself as a virgin, Erik.]

“I'm not-” Erik is about to counter with a louder voice, when there is a light tap on his shoulder. He turns around to see Charles standing behind him, attempting to hand him a copy of the prints with a smile. Erik hangs up right away, ignoring Raven's shouts about autographs on the other end.

“Is everything okay?” Charles asks with concern. And Erik is too busy staring at the red finger marks on his pale neck, so he doesn't really hear what the question is.

“Oh, nothing. It was just my partner,” Erik puts his phone away, annoyed, “she wanted me to get her Emma Frost's autograph.”

And Charles stands there dumbly for a long time, until a few people walk over and help themselves to the prints in his hands. He comes back to himself with a violent shudder.

“Of course,” he says hurriedly, brushing away a strand of chestnut hair from his eye, “I will, I can try to ask for you after the class. You should have brought her with you, after all, this class was mainly designed for couples.”

“Brought who?”

“Your partner.”

This time it's Erik who stands there dumbly for a long time, and then Charles' embarrassed expression clicks something in his head.

“No, NO, my god,” Erik laughs, “I meant the partner on my team, not in a relationship.”

Charles pauses for a few seconds before showing an enlightened expression, then he smiles; he bites his lower lip out of habit, then he lets it go and quirks the corners of that lip line until the curve can't go up any further, and finally parts those lips to show his pearly teeth. Erik feels like he is witnessing the brief moment of a flower finally blossoming after waiting for an eternity; his heart is filled with dumb courage.

“Do you mind stepping out with me for a minute?” He asks, before the courage disappears. Charles silently questions with a smiling frown.

“You don't wanna miss the prostate massage, Emma is the expert.” As they watch Emma push out a rolling table with a very life-like model of a male's lower half, Erik is very sure that he is willing to miss all this.

“It won't be long.”

He successfully convinces Charles to follow him outside the store. The night temperature is not low in the summer, but there are some breezes. Erik asks Charles to wait for him right outside, while he walks around his car that's parked a few steps away, opens the door, and takes something out from the back seat. He walks back slowly. Charles is standing under a light post, he looks both knowledgeable and naïve, both casual and focused, just like a painting, a painting that will never really be finished because the painter spends too much time and effort trying to make it perfect, but will never achieve the image in their heart.

“For you,” Erik says, almost with fear, and puts the ruffled object he is holding into Charles' arms.

Charles looks at Erik, and then looks down at his arms.

“These are...” He opens his mouth softly.

“Condoms.” Erik replies.

“You have given me a bouquet of condoms.” Charles looks at the enormous bouquet that a person needs both arms to hold. It's formed by hundreds of condoms fixed on wires with ribbons, and then wrapped in pink and blue papers. There is no emotion in his voice, as if he is stating a mere fact, “and they are watermelon-flavoured.”

Now Erik starts to think it's a terrible gift; maybe Raven isn't always right.

“I don't really like the watermelon flavour,” he starts to babble randomly out of panic, “it's just, I overheard you talking to the owner when I first went into the store, you said that it was a good flavour, of course I'm not trying to encourage you to use them as much as possible-”

Now Charles lifts those blue eyes and gaze into his, and this doesn't make Erik calm down a tiny bit.

“ I know it sounds like a creepy stalker,” Erik says dryly, “I know this IS what a creepy stalker does; I am sorry.”

Charles is in thought, while playing with the wrapping paper of the condoms with his fingertips.

“You know,” Then he looks away. Erik feels like someone has finally taken away the blinding light that has been facing him the entire time; it almost makes him tear up in relief, “I have some pirated movie DVDs in my apartment.”

“What?” Erik is very confused.

“Also some books I failed to return to the library, and sometimes I ride my bicycle or bike without wearing the helmet,” he ignores Erik and keeps talking, “And it was not the first time I failed to comply with a red light when I saw you that day.”

Erik stands in the night air, listening to Charles list out all the little mischief he's done in the past without a clue.

“Charles, what are you trying to say?”

Charles looks embarrassed; his whole face is almost pink, which could be from either the street light or the hot weather.

“I'm saying” he says with a tiny voice, “you should, if you want to, you can put me in handcuffs.”

The blankness strikes Erik's mind like an outfield fly ball, leaving him dumbstruck for about ten seconds.

“Is this,” he stutters, feeling his stomach jiggle, “Is this some kind of joke, because I,”

“I hope not,” Charles makes a series of nervous, laugh-like sounds, “because you see, I'm normally not this nervous when I flirt.”

“Are you flirting with me?” Erik is startled.

“I'm trying to make you realize this.”

Erik's mind is a mess from all the shock. He does not know how he should react to this, the only thing he is able to do instinctively is reach out and grab Charles' hand, which is placed around the bouquet, and squeezes the warm fingertips tightly. Charles lifts his face and smiles at him; his jiggling stomach is now singing Hallelujah.

“Now what?” he whispers, “shall we go back to the prostate massage?”

“No,” Charles says softly, holding the bouquet with one arm, while the other one wraps around Erik's waist, pushing him to walk forward. “I think we can go for a walk.”

“And then?” Erik's arm circles around Charles' shoulders.

“Maybe we can talk, and get to know each other.”

“And then?”

“I have a bottle of unbelievably good red wine in my apartment.”

“And then?”

“And then maybe, we can find some ways to make you like watermelon flavour.”

Their voices fade under the dim yellow street lights, as the shadow of two heads gently overlap each other.