Work Text:
After a particularly embarrassing, particularly sad ordeal at a work party, Pim finds himself in the driver's seat of the company car, with a groaning Charlie hunched over in the seat directly next to him.
"Charlie, put your seatbelt on."
Charlie huffs. "I'm a grown.. grown man." A swooshing, then clicking sound, and a soft whisper of laughter. Pim starts the engine. "Grown man with grown needs."
A brief moment later, Pim makes his first turn. Charlie lets out a warbling moan of despair, clutching his own body in a plea. He gulps, squeezes his eyes shut. "Ohh, I don't feel great–"
"Are you– please don't get sick in here, I can drive slower–" Pim panics.
"I'm fine, I'm fine. Gonna… close my eyes." Charlie replies, drawn out, miserable.
Pim frowns, and takes the next turn as gently as possible. This time of evening in Meep City is quite pretty, he would note, if he wasn't focused on this current situation. "You really drank too much, Charlie."
Not even an hour ago, Pim said that exact sentence. Charlie was not very interested in processing that at all, though. Pim knew the threshold was crossed a while ago considering Charlie had not started defending himself, not in the typical way at least. He responded with jokes, and stammering. All while Allan and Glep were having a heavy conversation with just their eyes.
He was not interested then, and he’s not interested now. A chuckle or a sneer is all Pim is given.
Pim sighs. "Can you– can you remind me what turn I make here? It's just been a while."
"Uh-huh yup it's um. Wait. I don’t remember." Charlie says, then giggles.
Pim sighs. "I'm serious."
"I'm serious," Charlie parrots, offended.
"Oh. Well." Pim already makes his decision a good 15 seconds before these words leave his mouth: "It's fine. I can drop you off at my place."
The situation, to anyone else, would be annoying. Enough to the point of verbalizing said annoyance to the heavily drunk, irrational critter in the passenger seat who made a fool of himself at a social gathering. Enough to complain outwardly about the fact that in order to get back on the direction to his own place, he’s wasting a lot of time he could’ve spent not dealing with whatever this is.
But Pim doesn't express it. Because for him, this is what seems like the obvious outcome.
Stepping out of the car, he’s met with summer’s evening air. He glances back to make sure Charlie hadn’t fallen asleep during the trip, and thankfully, he’s already moving. Sluggishly, like a giant ragdoll, he shuts the door and yawns. The sun has mostly set by now, leaving the sky ruddy blue and dark behind the dots of yellow street lamps. Charlie’s face is still splotchy and red, shining a bit with sweat.
Really, this day ended up a bit of a nightmare – not an obviously scary nightmare, just one that is inexplicably stressful. Pim unlocks his apartment door with a wobbling Charlie humming a tune loudly next to him.
Charlie waltzes through the doorway, in front of Pim and moving about his space like a discarded plastic bag. Pim turns the lights on, then shuts them off at the resulting whine and flinch. That in particular – lights on okay nevermind lights off – is a practiced routine, making a stunning return tonight.
The next unexpected comeback: Pim filling a glass with cold tap water, keeping his balance on the stepping stool he uses for his sink. His own concerns weighing heavy on his shoulders but somehow illegible, unsolvable.
Charlie gulps it down in a few seconds, spare droplets trickling down his chin, onto the floor. He lets out a guttural sigh, clearly satisfied. He slides over to the living room and drops himself onto the couch.
Idly, Pim dials Mr. Boss. He tells him he'll bring the company car back tomorrow. Mr. Boss says something vaguely illogical and/or ominous so Pim just politely says goodbye and goodnight and sets his phone down too hard. He should probably toss Charlie’s clothes in the wash before he inevitably passes out.
"Pim, let's watch a movie t’gether, you have HBO, right?" Charlie slurs.
"I think you need to get some rest. Desperately."
"What? Nah, night's just started, it’ll be fun."
"Well, even besides that, you–"
"God, I smell aaaawful."
Pim sighs. "Yeah, um, those need to be washed. I don't have anything that'll fit you, obviously, you'll have to just give me your hoodie and jeans."
Charlie snorts. "Ask a guy out to dinner first," he so cleverly quips. He pulls his hoodie off, gets it stuck halfway, leaving Pim to finish the job. "Or, uh, dinner and then a movie, right? Let's watch a movie," he insists, consonants mumbled in a smirk. He tosses Pim his pants.
"Not tonight." Pim replies. "Sorry," he tacks on, because he kind of is, a little. Even with an armful of stained clothes.
Charlie lists off recommendations even as Pim walks off, and Pim genuinely cannot make out Charlie’s words from the laundry room, with the distance and slurring. Something about sci-fi, and romcoms.
Charlie’s clothes do not smell great, so Pim douses them in detergent. It’s all a very surreal thing. Pim is used to putting a rotation of his limited wardrobe in the machine every day; it’s a familiar sight, so when the pattern is broken abruptly like this it leaves him silently staggering as he starts the wash cycle. It’s a brief glimpse into an alternate reality, one in which Charlie occupies the same living space as Pim, enough to be included in these mundane chores.
He goes back to the living room. His head hurts. Charlie is sitting back, one arm draped over the back of the sofa, with his other hand holding a remote. The TV is notably on.
Charlie looks at him from the couch with an inquisitive, lazy look. “Charlie, seriously.” Charlie laughs and relents, shutting the TV off before going limp and laying on his back, arms crossed above his head. He stares at Pim. Then the coffee table steals his attention.
"Are you okay? Do you want more water?"
"I'm fine," Charlie says, as Pim is already in the kitchen getting another glass.
As Pim puts it atop the smiley face coaster on that coffee table, Charlie laughs a little, again, for no real reason. Pim doesn't comment on it, because he understood years ago, early in life, there’s never a reason. During times like this, everything is funny, everything is sad, and that only stops being the case the morning after.
Pim remembers those nights, years ago. Still figuring out his land legs. When his father would come home and laugh at the strangest things, in a way that little-Pim didn’t find very funny. He’s become accustomed to this sort of bizarre dissonance.
He sits on the small amount of space left on the couch. Charlie sips his water lazily.
"Wait, wha’did Mr. Boss say about me?" Charlie asks. He sounds genuinely concerned, like it’s gnawing at him a little.
"Nothing," Pim answers with a shake of his head. "He understands. Probably. We've all been there." He says with a soft smile. He has not been there. But he doesn't want to explain the whole story behind his aversion to indulging right now.
"Did Allan...? Ohhh god, Allan..." Charlie wails quietly, humiliated. The memory is fresh.
"I haven’t gotten a message back after he left. He seemed really mad."
(Pim sees in his mind's eye Allan’s look of abject disdain upon seeing Charlie emerge from the bathroom with a mosaic of the worst kind across his body.
Pim had asked Glep during Charlie’s second bathroom intermission if Allan was okay, as he’d gone completely silent, lurking in a hallway. Glep had gibbered something about some kind of phobia slash disorder and Pim got the picture.)
Pim had never considered his couch small until Charlie was on it for comparison. He curls and squirms about every few moments. He stretches his arms above him, draped across and over the side, clearly aching to spread out comfortably like a sunbathing cat.
“You can’t sleep on the couch, Charlie.”
“Well where the hell else do I…?”
“Just sleep on my bed, I don’t mind.”
Charlie jolts up, looking at Pim with big eyes. “Dude are you– are you sure? I can sleep on the floor, or– or somethin’.”
“No, just, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
He’s in his bedroom before he can think about any of this too hard. Clear thoughts. He grabs the notepad and bookmarked romance novel laying atop his covers before a drunk Charlie is able to flip through either of them, and quickly hides them away in a bedside drawer.
“Man, Pim. You’re too– you’re too nice, I mean, like… thank you, dude.” He stands in the doorframe, leaning against it. In his t-shirt. And underwear.
Pim stares maybe, for one second too long, because the sight is just… foreign. Instead of making it worse he concerns himself with tidying up the already tidy room. “You’re welcome” He smiles tightly and tries to fit the fitted sheets harder, or something.
“Your room’s nice. Whole– whole place is. You got your shit together man.” Charlie says. “I’ve been here a few times but it's craaazy.”
Pim likes to have a nice space. There is also not much else to do, alone in here, besides make his bed all nice for no one besides himself.
He glances at the drawer. He feels a bit self conscious now. He’s been made aware of his habits, and even if that was unintentional, he turns it all around in his mind. His notebook is full of doodles that could be attributed to a schoolboy without question and the novel is, admittedly, not the height of literature – sugary and feel-good – and not long ago he was perched on his neater than neat bed indulging himself with these. He rarely feels embarrassed about these things, but he rarely has Charlie in his room.
Charlie is in his room. If he was sober, he would ponder upon the framed photos of Paris for a bit too long and perhaps start lecturing Pim about unhealthy idealism. Pim would try to explain (they just came with the place) but Charlie would be utterly unswayed (Pim insists on leaving them up even still). Some sort of unrealistic expectations – but they aren’t really expectations, persay. Moreso a casual optimism.
Maybe Charlie is of sound mind enough to start analyzing these things now. He certainly sticks to his beliefs. Well… sticks them to other people. He rarely holds himself to his own standards, considering the state of him at the moment, and the state of him quite a few other times.
Instead of scrutinizing Pim’s ideals, Charlie simply flops on the covers, eyes shut. Pillows jostle from their designated little places. Charlie takes up a little over half of this bed, compared to Pim’s light third. He curls up, then stretches. “This reminds me of this one night, man, like…”
Pim sits at the edge of the bed.
“There was this guy I used t’talk to and he was like,” Charlie twirls his hands around in the air, signifying something, “He was like, kind of a dickhead, but I didn’t see that. So one night he takes me drinking and I get, all fucked up– like, I was, chasing those, short term…”
“Short term dopamine rushes?”
“Yeah. So I get all fucked up and he’s like…” Charlie grimaces. “It’s a long story, he had to drive me home, he got so pissed at me.”
Pim wonders if he should get mad at Charlie. He sort of is, maybe. As of now, with Charlie making gestures and telling stories on his bed, gently on the cusp of exhaustion, it is impossible for it to boil into a serious anger. Moreso a weird, limp sadness and frustration.
“My point is you– you’re such a good friend.”
“Oh, Charlie–”
“You are. Man, you just, put up with so much…” He trails off. Pim gets up and turns off the lone lamp. “You’re my best friend, man.”
Pim’s chest gets a weird twisty feeling, despite everything. “You’re my best friend too, Charlie.”
“I love you, dude.”
Charlie says this while sprawled on Pim’s bed looking like an incomplete puzzle. The solution to it would be so easy. Pim could never express that, Charlie would reprimand it for being unrealistic – no one can complete anyone. Pim feels like he should agree with that statement, but he just can’t bring himself to.
Pim almost switches the lamp back on, to commit it all to photographic memory – Charlie framed by a bouquet of pillows, wrinkling those neatly made covers. Pim, predictably so, and to everyone’s dismay, loves Charlie too.
“I love you too.”
“I love you,” Charlie repeats emphatically. It’s friendly, and he's amused too, like he knows deep down he's just drunk and saying shit. But it’s nice.