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sweep the leg
There would be no William without Charles.
Charles could extract William from many a precarious situation, with tact or with violence, and come out with hands clean. There he would be, in pristine and obnoxious order, his ruby tiepin and ampersand cufflinks always straight and clean, and he would come for William. He would come for William in Thailand, in Mexico, in Russia. He would pay Euros or baht or rubles, but he would come for William.
William would lean against Charles in whatever luxury car he had chosen that time, and mumble, slurred with drink and drugs and sloppy with sex, "My darling Charles, whatever should I do without you."
And Charles would pull out a monogrammed silk handkerchief and wipe William's lips or the crusted blood under his nose, and tuck the handkerchief away. "Well, you would die," he would reply.
Charles stopped smiling a long time ago, and neither of them remembered what it looked like.
William had gone to the poshest schools and taken the poshest courses, and used his father's money, mostly to fuel whatever silly desire he had at the time. He went to America to study at the New York University, though studying was the furthest thing from his mind.
That was where he met Charles. Charles was a student there as well, and while he pretended to be well-bred, William just snorted. "Your suits are all off the rack, you silly poseur," William growled, and took him to New York, to Yves Saint Laurent and Dolce & Gabana, and his own personal tailor, where William dressed Charles like the mannequin he was. Charles was whippet thin with wrist bones like fine porcelain, high cheekbones and dark eyes. The first real suit he tried on, William was startled by the appearance of dimples before Charles settled back into his customary scowl.
William had fallen in love with him then and there, but Charles would have none of it.
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There would be no William without Charles.
Charles could extract William from many a precarious situation, with tact or with violence, and come out with hands clean. There he would be, in pristine and obnoxious order, his ruby tiepin and ampersand cufflinks always straight and clean, and he would come for William. He would come for William in Thailand, in Mexico, in Russia. He would pay Euros or baht or rubles, but he would come for William.
William would lean against Charles in whatever luxury car he had chosen that time, and mumble, slurred with drink and drugs and sloppy with sex, "My darling Charles, whatever should I do without you."
And Charles would pull out a monogrammed silk handkerchief and wipe William's lips or the crusted blood under his nose, and tuck the handkerchief away. "Well, you would die," he would reply.
Charles stopped smiling a long time ago, and neither of them remembered what it looked like.
William had gone to the poshest schools and taken the poshest courses, and used his father's money, mostly to fuel whatever silly desire he had at the time. He went to America to study at the New York University, though studying was the furthest thing from his mind.
That was where he met Charles. Charles was a student there as well, and while he pretended to be well-bred, William just snorted. "Your suits are all off the rack, you silly poseur," William growled, and took him to New York, to Yves Saint Laurent and Dolce & Gabana, and his own personal tailor, where William dressed Charles like the mannequin he was. Charles was whippet thin with wrist bones like fine porcelain, high cheekbones and dark eyes. The first real suit he tried on, William was startled by the appearance of dimples before Charles settled back into his customary scowl.
William had fallen in love with him then and there, but Charles would have none of it.
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