Chapter Text
If there is one thing he can say for certain about this killing game, it’s that he will never get used to seeing death.
Charles wakes up in a cold sweat. He runs a trembling hand through his hair, grabbing at it in an attempt to soothe. The rapid rise and fall of his chest, muddled with the frantic thumping of his heart remind him that he has survived yet another class trial – he is still alive, but two more of their classmates aren’t.
He had gone above and beyond in the last trial to make sure he didn’t have to see Arei’s body, and yet she’d still appeared in his nightmares…joined by Min, Xander and now Ace.
It’s all too fresh in his mind after last night’s execution. He refuses to recall it clearly, whilst simultaneously remembering exactly how he had felt at the same time. All four of their dead classmates had been there, desperately reaching out for him, covered in blood and begging him to live, to escape, to join them–
Charles clutches at his hair even tighter, balling his fists.
He feels sick.
After the events of the first trial, a twisted part of him had thought that maybe– maybe, he might end up desensitized to the events around him. Maintaining one’s humanity in the midst of a killing game is paramount, but Charles would do just about anything to be rid of these constant nightmares.
Of course, that hadn’t happened.
In fact, the opposite had become true instead: the more days passed here, getting used to being around his classmates, the worse his nightmares grew.
Classmates of his that were very much still alive would still appear in both his nightmares and intrusive thoughts, laying down underneath him with wounds far too deep to be taken care of. He’d seen them all. Every last one, begging Charles to save them or to end their lives right then and there. All of them, including–
“Ceci…please. I don’t– I don’t want to die alone–”
There’s a hand reaching out for him in that one too, grabbing his wrist. Whit’s eyes, blue and usually so full of life it’s annoying, are quickly losing color. Charles cradles the other boy in his arms, unable to do anything but tremble frantically as Whit murmurs, “don’t go…close your eyes please–”
Charles gags.
It takes him a few minutes to calm himself down. He’s never been more thankful for the lack of video cameras in their dorm rooms, for he can’t imagine how unsightly he must look trying to catch his breath. He keeps one hand in his hair, the other gripping tightly at his bedsheets, waiting for the moment to pass and for the stench of blood to leave his thoughts.
The moment does pass, eventually, but Charles knows it’ll come again tomorrow…if he’s still alive by then, at least.
His gaze flickers across his bedroom – the lights are still off. There’s a faint light reflecting from the TV and the alarm system on the wall, letting Charles know he’s been forcibly woken up before MonoTV’s morning announcement.
Charles forces himself out of bed, his steps heavy and head faint, as he ducks into the bathroom. It takes a few more minutes for him to try and make himself look somewhat presentable. He ties his hair back, throwing on his lab goggles and gloves in the process.
Getting dressed should take him less than five minutes, but before he knows it, MonoTV’s voice is resounding through his bedroom.
“Rise and shine, everyone! It is now 8 a.m–”
He pulls himself up to the door. In this killing game, there’s no option to hide away in his room under his covers. To leave himself vulnerable and alone is to accept death – anyone could sneak in and kill him at any time. If he stays in here, he’ll never be rid of the bloodied thoughts and nightmares plaguing his mind.
He has to get out of here. He has to.
So, with a rough sigh, Charles slips his lab coat on and finally makes his way out of his dorm room.
“You look like shit,” is the first thing Teruko says to him when he reaches the cafeteria. He considers glaring her down, but she doesn’t look like she’s faring any better than him. With every passing day, her eyebags look even more pronounced than before. At least she’s not closing herself off again, he supposes.
(Teruko had almost been executed yesterday. As she stands in front of him, he can clearly picture those 100 bullets flying out to pierce her body, before Levi had jumped in front of her to take the fatal shots instead and–)
Instead, Charles bows his head, before making a beeline for his usual table. There, Whit sits waiting for him, waving him over with a smile that looks far too bright for their current circumstances.
“Huh,” Whit starts, before Charles can even sit down beside him. “New look, Char? No offense, but you look like shit. You really gotta keep an ion yourself!”
“...good morning to you too, asshole.” Charles groans. Whit slides a cup of coffee in front of him, alongside a plate with two fresh pancakes on them.
He takes a sip of the coffee – it still doesn’t taste anywhere near as nice as anything he could make at home, but it’ll have to do. Whit must’ve made it for him before he arrived. The other boy still remembers how Charles takes his coffee…it’s a kind gesture, but it does nothing to alleviate his restlessness.
“Sorry, sorry,” Whit holds his hands up, his expression apologetic. “Rough night, I’m guessing?”
“One of our classmates was executed yesterday, Whit. Another one almost bled out in front of us.”
“Oh, trust me– I remember. I think everyone here does,” Whit loosely gestures to the rest of their classmates in the cafeteria. Not everyone has arrived yet, but Charles would be a fool not to notice how tired everyone else looks too.
As his gaze flickers back to Whit, now drinking his own cup of coffee beside him, he takes note that the other boy is one of the few that doesn’t seem disturbed after yesterday’s events. He’d woken up, made himself and Charles breakfast, before continuing to live, just as he always does.
Charles never knows whether he should be jealous of Whit’s ability to compartmentalize, or to be concerned.
He settles on somewhere in between the two.
“Did you make these?” he finds himself asking instead, stabbing at the pancakes.
“It was a collab, actually! Eden featuring me, in the kitchen this morning,” Whit chuckles. The thought of eating anything makes him feel rather ill, but a part of him feels even sicker at the thought of throwing out something Whit made with him in mind.
“You woke up before the announcement? I didn’t think someone like you had it in you to wake up early.”
“What can I say? The early bird always catches the worm,” Whit shrugs. He pauses to take another sip of his coffee, adding almost as an afterthought, “Eden was already in the kitchen when I got up. She looked– looks like she’s struggling a lot so…I offered to help with breakfast.”
Charles glances over at Eden. Just as he suspected, the Ultimate Clockmaker is sitting with their other classmates. She looks…the same as always, if he’s being honest. Veronika makes a comment from beside her, and Eden is quick to laugh at whatever has just been said.
“She looks fine to me,” Charles says, though follows it up with, “but then again…she was framed for a murder she didn’t commit. It doesn’t matter how positive you try to act – that feeling never goes away.”
“...speaking from personal experience, huh?” Whit asks. When Charles ducks his head, purposefully glancing away, he spots Whit’s apologetic expression in the corner of his eye. “Sorry. This has got to be the worst coffee talk in the history of coffee talks. Most people just say good morning and call it quits there.”
“You were the one who told me I look like shit, in lieu of a good morning, need I remind you.”
“What is friendship if we aren’t honest with each other?” Whit says, melodramatically. Charles glares at him, and Whit sticks his tongue out at him playfully. “You’d tell me if I looked bad too, I just /know/ it. That’s just what you’re like, Ceci!”
He would, except he can’t think of the last time Whit actually looked spooked by anything.
Charles faintly recalls the other boy’s panicked expression before the first trial, but everything that happened between him finding Teruko bleeding out and Min's execution is still fuzzy in his mind. It’s static, until he’s asleep or alone– then, it’s like he can remember the whole incident in explicit detail.
Now, Whit talks about the moment he first came across Charles having a breakdown as if it’s a casual conversation starter. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to recall the exact incident between himself and Whit back then, even if he tried.
The rest of the breakfast period passes uneventfully. The table he and Whit sit at ends up crowded, and he’s forced to interact with the rest of their classmates to…varying degrees of success. Time passes relatively quickly, all things considered.
At the end of it all, MonoTV announces that the third floor is open and free for them to explore to their heart's content – “we really went over budget with some of the facilities on the next floor…so I expect some appreciation out of all of you!”
Charles watches the rest of their classmates stalk out of the cafeteria towards the elevator, leaving until only a select few of them are left behind.
“A new floor? Sweet.”
“I suppose so…” Charles sighs. He can’t imagine what awaits them on the next floor. The new facilities mean nothing to him. A new floor can only mean one thing: a new set of motives and another murder waiting to happen.
In the back of his mind, he can still hear Min begging to be spared – “I don’t want to die!” – desperate for Teruko’s forgiveness with Xander’s blood still fresh on her hands. He can hear Ace’s first and only broken plea to them all – “I want to live” – only wanting to be respected and seen by his classmates for once before having his own fear be the very thing that killed him–
“Charles.”
Whit’s voice pulls Charles out of his thoughts, bringing him back to reality once more. The other boy is staring at him, resting his chin on his hand as he shoots Charles a concerned look.
“Are you sure you’re still good to be up?” Whit asks. He tilts his head, blue eyes practically boring into Charles' entire being. “You look really out of it. You know…the others won’t hold it against you if you wanna head back to bed–”
“Absolutely not.”
His answer comes out far more rushed and heavy than he intends it too. Even Whit looks temporarily taken aback at his harsh tone, staring at Charles like the chemist had just shouted at him.
Charles lets out a sigh, stating, “I can’t go back to sleep…not right now. Everything is far too fresh.”
“...right. I get it,” Whit nods, slowly. He makes no attempt to mask his concern, though doesn’t press the matter any further. Instead, Whit stands up, holding his hand out for Charles to grab. “Well, no point moping around in here then. Wanna explore the new floor together?”
“I suppose you’re the lesser evil out of everyone else here,” Charles groans, rolling his eyes. Whit laughs, and it feels as if they’re back to some sort of normal after that awkward moment. “If you say anything remotely stupid though, I won’t hesitate to leave you behind.”
“Name the last time I said anything remotely stupid.”
“The Krunning-Dooger effect.”
“That was an honest mistake,” Whit huffs, “why would a matchmaker need to know about the Krunning-Dooger effect anyway?”
“Dunning-Kruger. It’s the Dunning-Kruger effect, Whit.”
“We can agree to disagree,” he receives a shrug in response, as Charles stands up to join him. He’s a little uneasy on his feet at first, but as he instinctively reaches for Whit’s hand, Charles finds his footing. “Woah there– if you fall asleep on me, I’ll be the one leaving you behind!”
“I– shut it. I’ll be fine, just…let’s go already.”
Whit seems to think about it for a moment before offering him a smile. “Alright, but let’s grab some coffee to go first. A little CoFe2 never hurt anybody, right~?”
Charles lets go of his hand for that one, storming off into the kitchen and leaving Whit to run off after him.
The third floor is, much to Charles' surprise, far larger than the first and second.
There’s not much that actually intrigues him as far as facilities go. The floor feels like a glorified leisure center, with a set of workout rooms adorned with functional equipment and machines. MonoTV had the audacity to tell them to be more creative if they intend to kill using any of the new equipment – “We’ve already had one attempted murder in a workout room. The ratings will drop if you guys start getting stale with your murder plots, so at least try and be creative this time around!”
Charles can’t see himself using any of these. Whit only laughs, letting him know that it could be a fun change of pace for them. Not for him, but for them. Charles refuses to see it.
As they continue to explore together, they run into the rest of their classmates along the way. He leads them to the floor’s makeshift outdoor area, where they find Nico and Hu already scoping out the area to…varying degrees of helpfulness. They too seem closed off after the last trial.
It’s a quaint area, as far as Charles is concerned. There’s a mixture of foliage around, some fake but most not. There’s not much to gawk at, outside of a well placed inconspicuously in the middle of the area.
“Well, well, well,” Whit chuckles. “What do we have here?”
“Why do we even need a well…? Water’s incredibly easy to obtain here,” Hu comments. He watches as Whit and Nico theorize on where the well may lead to, though both of their theories are outlandishly stupid, to say the least. Charles does make a note to himself to test the well’s depth at some point.
He stands back to take a look at the rest of the outside room. Despite it supposedly being their gateway to the outdoors, a well-enforced barrier prevents them from actually managing to escape to the outside world.
“Then why pretend to dangle freedom right in front of us?!” Charles muses to himself, though he’s long since given up on escaping this killing game without any more bloodshed being spilt.
They have a brief encounter with Arturo as well on the floor’s infirmary. The Plastic Surgeon is far more subdued than normal, looking even worse for wear than himself and Teruko combined. He is short and curt with his responses, though they lack Arturo’s usual malice and judgment.
He knows they’re here to ask the question that’s been on everyone’s mind since yesterday. Arturo lets them know that they aren’t the first people to visit and/or pry. He tells them exactly what they want to know.
Levi Fontana is still alive.
It had taken the entire night, but Arturo had only just managed to save him despite everything. He lets them know the good news, though Whit promptly turns down his offer to visit Levi and see the Personal Stylist for themselves.
“You can’t, Charles,” Whit says, before Charles even has a chance to answer. He steps in front of Charles, obscuring his face completely from Charles' view. “Remember how long it took me to get you back after the trial? You shouldn’t see him until he’s fully healed.”
Whit’s voice is unusually cold, his words leaving no room for debate. Anything Charles could say dies in his throat, because Whit is right. He can’t remember anything that happened directly after the last trial. Ace had been executed, Levi had been bleeding out…and then, he’d woken up in his bedroom again.
He expects Arturo to argue with Whit, to kick up a fuss over how someone as ugly as Whit (in the Plastic Surgeon’s eyes, at least) has no right to act so high and mighty towards him.
Instead, Arturo only sighs. He glances between Whit and Charles, his expression tired as he says, “whatever – I have no time to entertain this. I’ll…I’ll let you know when he’s awake again.” With that, Whit is quick to pull Charles away from the infirmary, shouting for Arturo to take good care of Levi.
All Charles can muster up as they continue to the next room is a quiet “...thank you.” Whit only waves his hand dismissively, as if wordlessly telling Charles to pay it no mind. Not wanting to open up about having yet another panic attack in front of Whit, Charles follows suit, dropping the topic before it can rear its head again.
They continue to explore the third floor together. The rest of the floor is largely meaningless to him, with the only notable room that catches his eye being the pool. It’s a massive pool, resembling the sort of facilities one would see made exclusively for swimming athletes.
There’s a side cupboard to the pool as well, boasting lifebuoy rings and gear for swimming practice. Whit points out these items to him, being the only one out of the two of them with actual swimming experience. They even manage to find a box full of water guns amongst all the clutter. There are two locked rooms as well, but Whit is quick to drag him away after deeming their attempts to open them yield no results.
“Huh,” Whit says as they both inspect the pool together. “So this is where most of the budget went to. No wonder MonoTV’s so gung-ho for us to kill each other and get the rating’s up.”
“...this is what that cretin chose to invest in, instead of a decent coffee machine.”
“I guess so. You can’t really kill people with coffee,” Whit shrugs, kneeling by the poolside. He dips his hand in, casually adding, “then again, the first coffee you ever made for me could beg to differ…”
“I– I didn’t make it for you, idiot,” Charles rolls his eyes. He kneels down beside Whit, though keeps his gloved hands clasped in front of him.
“You shouldn’t be making coffee like that for anyone, Char,” Whit tuts at him, pulling a face. “That stuff was, like…heartbreakingly bitter, dude. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you put cyanide in my drink! A bitter murder carried out by a very bitter chemist.”
“You’re intentionally trying to piss me off with your stupidity, aren’t you?” Charles asks, deadpan. Whit glances over at him, the innocence in his smile blatantly fake.
“Cyanide’s bitter, isn’t it? Even I remember that one from science class.”
“It is, but you would know within the first few seconds of drinking if I’d laced your coffee with cyanide. Hydrogen cyanide would inhibit the oxidative process of your cells,” Charles explains, as Whit begins to twirl the finger he has dipped into the water around. “Despite what movies and shitty detective novels will tell you, a dose that small wouldn’t be nearly enough to kill you immediately.”
“No?” Whit hums.
“Not at all– a small dose could kill you, but if I had poisoned your coffee, you’d have felt nauseous or dizzy afterwards. The worst acute cyanide poisoning would do in a dose like that is force you to lose consciousness. There are deadlier chemicals out there, you know.”
“You talk like someone who's been fantasizing about poisoning his enemies for his entire life,” Whit laughs from beside him. His finger is still moving in the water, making small ripples that Charles can’t seem to divorce his gaze away from. “Were you one of those kids, Ceci?”
“I was a normal child with loving parents, thank you very much.” He rolls his eyes again, though finds himself refocusing on Whit’s hands.
“A normal child…with an obsession for poisonous chemicals?” Whit asks. He chuckles at the image of Charles he’s conjuring up in his mind.
“A passion– not an obsession. I was a perfectly well-adjusted child, so please stop making up extremities in your head. I know what you’re like, Whit,” Charles says, folding his arms.
Whit says something back to him – an attempt to defend himself, maybe, or a playful insult aimed directly at Charles – though the Ultimate Chemist finds himself slowly tuning the other boy out. It’s not on purpose. Ever since they formally became ‘friends’, he’s started to make a conscious effort to listen to whatever Whit says to him, regardless of how idiotic or inane the drivel he comes up with is.
Instead, he finds himself transfixed on the gentle glide of Whit’s hand in the water, the ripples small but abundant. They’ve held hands far more times than Charles would ever admit to anyone else, but in doing that, he notes that Whit’s hands are smaller than his. They’re far softer too. Whit’s attention to self-care is something that Charles can appreciate, at the very least.
The pink nail polish adorning his hands matches the pink hue in Whit’s hair. It suits him. Truth be told, he can’t imagine the Matchmaker without his token bleach blonde hair. Then again, he’s only ever known the Whit Young sitting beside him – the Ultimate Matchmaker and a fellow participant in this killing game.
As he watches Whit dip his hand in and out of the pool, water droplets coating his lithe fingers, Charles feels as if he’s being hypnotized by the other boy. He continues to stare, as if addicted to the endless motions Whit is making. Drip. Drip. Ripple. Drip.
It’s innocuous. It’s inoffensive. In a way, it’s so utterly Whit-like that it’s maddening, and Charles can’t begin to pull his gaze away, even if he wanted to–
“–earth to Charlie?”
Charles blinks.
Whit’s face is suddenly obscuring his view, staring at him with a look edged halfway between curiosity and concern. It takes Charles a moment to realize how close Whit’s face is to his own – were they always sitting in such close proximity with each other?
“What?” Charles says. He feels as if he’s been snapped back into reality, with Whit’s unnerving gaze as the catalyst.
“I really lost you there, didn’t I?” Whit laughs after a moment of silence, a smile spreading across his face. He leans in closer, craning his neck so that Charles is forced to look him in the eyes. “You know…if you wanted to hold my hand that badly, you could’ve just said something.”
Whit had noticed him staring, then. It’s not as if Charles was being particularly subtle about it.
Still, he clears his throat, before creating distance between himself and Whit. The moment is awkward enough as it is, he knows, but he’d rather not allow it to get any worse. Charles is already far too exhausted as it is. Any sort of uneasiness between himself and Whit would be a headache on top of everything.
(And, if something were to happen on this floor…if fate were to be cruel enough to bring his intrusive thoughts to life, then the last set of interactions he would ever have with Whit would be just that: cruel. He’d end up losing the first and only friend he’s ever had.)
“I’m not,” Charles says, and that’s all he manages to get out for a second. “That’s…that’s not what I was aiming for.”
Whit shifts. The Matchmaker stares at him, his brows furrowed and lips pursed together. He feels scrutinized under Whit’s gaze, as if he’s an organism being studied meticulously by the other boy. Another wave of unease crashes through him, enough for Charles to avert his gaze away.
“I know,” Whit hums, curiosity and concern blending into one. “The coffee I made you this morning…it hasn’t helped you wake up at all, has it?”
“It got me up here, didn’t it?” Charles watches as Whit pulls his hand out of the water, letting it rest on the poolside to dry. “I couldn’t have made it through any sort of interaction with the others without it.”
“But it’s not enough to keep you awake,” Whit intuits.
Charles shakes his head.
The silence that follows is thick. Unbreakable, even. It’s the sort of silence that weighs heavy on a person like Charles, who has spent his entire life in comfortable solitude, hidden away from a society full of people he’d grown to dislike. Up until this moment, the idea of leaving himself vulnerable was never a concept he had to confront. He never wanted to confront it.
And yet, Whit continues to stare at him.
For a moment, he feels as if the Matchmaker can see into his mind. Whit can see every ugly thought and intrusive thought Charles lost days of sleep fretting over in his head. If he peers any deeper, maybe he’ll spot himself.
It’s not unreasonable for him to be struggling to sleep given their circumstances. Charles knows that, but there’s a difference between the rationale of his problems, and confronting the reality of their situation out loud.
Admitting to Whit that he’s struggling with the deaths of their classmates so far is one thing, but having to confess he’s struggling with the inevitable deaths of their other classmates feels like a level of vulnerability Charles hasn’t unlocked yet.
Confessing to Whit that it’s his inevitable death that leaves an unmistakable chill wracking through Charles' body is something else entirely – he can’t bring himself to admit it to Whit. To admit that he’s afraid of Whit falling victim to the killing game is to admit that he’s grown far too attached in such a short amount of time. He’s grown attached to someone who could die tomorrow – maybe even tonight.
“I haven’t slept properly since Xander and Min died,” Charles finds himself admitting instead. It’s not a lie, just an omission of the complete truth. “Some nights, I– I struggle to even fall asleep to begin with. I just…”
“You can’t stop thinking,” Whit finishes the sentence for him. Charles nods, and Whit’s expression softens. “I get it. Going from never seeing a dead body before to seeing four in a row, it…it must be hard, Char.”
“You talk as if it doesn’t affect you.”
“Of course it affects me,” Whit frowns. “I don’t like seeing anyone upset…and seeing your friends die is the biggest bummer there is. It’s no wonder everyone’s so miserable.”
“Whit–”
“Sorry, force of habit. I mean what I said though,” Whit says, meeting Charles' gaze as he admits, “you especially. I don’t like seeing you sad, Ceci. I don’t want you to be sad. Out of everyone else here, your smiling face is my favorite!”
It’s silly. Whit’s just trying to be kind to him, acting in the way Charles imagines a friend is supposed to act, but his words leave the Chemist feeling…weird. His chest feels awfully tight all of a sudden.
He struggles to maintain eye contact with Whit as he replies with a fumbled out, “don’t say things like that. I won’t be able to sleep at all if I’m thinking about your…embarrassing statements.”
“I’m just being honest,” Whit chuckles, bringing his hand to cover up his mouth. Charles knows this to be true, for Whit is among the worst liars he has ever met in his life. At the same time, knowing there’s truth in the other boy’s playful comment is a lot for him to process. He chooses to put it to one side for now, wary that his lack of sleep must really be getting to him.
He opens his mouth to retort, to say something, anything to Whit, but once he catches sight of the Matchmaker’s tight expression, Charles remains silent.
There are a few tell-tale signs he knows to look out for when Whit needs time to think to himself. The other boy grows unusually quiet for once, a fact that Charles would’ve been overjoyed about once upon a time…though, now, he feels a little lonely. Whit is entitled to his privacy, though sometimes – just sometimes – he wonders what must actually be going on in the Ultimate Matchmaker’s mind.
Whit brings his hand, now dried, over to his chin, resting on it. His eyes seem to study Charles once more, scrutinizing every fiber of his being just with his gaze alone.
Eventually, Whit seems to settle on something concrete in his mind. He’s come to a conclusion by himself, his eyes flickering with something Charles can only assume is recognition.
“Maybe I can help you fall asleep?”
Charles blinks once, twice. Words only seem to fail him today, as he’s unable to say anything other than “I– excuse me?!”
“You’re excused!” Whit grins, and Charles' chest feels unbearably tight. “Or should I say…excu–selenium? Excu–selenium..deuterium? No, maybe I should’ve thought that through first.”
“That’s,” Charles takes a moment to try and collect himself, though he can feel himself failing massively. He chooses to ignore Whit’s ill thought out pun, unable to gloss over the rash implications of his friend’s suggestion. “You can’t just suggest something so extreme to me! I thought you were far more rational than this, Whit–”
“Extreme? I wouldn’t call it that bad though?”
“Of course it is– what are you even saying?!”
“I’m saying that I want to help put a permanent end to your nightmares! What’s so extreme about that?!”
“Are you not hearing yourself right now?!” Charles is left with no choice but to raise his voice, as he resists the urge to shake the Matchmaker in front of him. Whit can be idiotic, of course, but he’s never been this irrational. “Our circumstances are dire but that doesn’t mean I’d simply consent to you taking my life! You realize how insane that sounds, right? Don’t even get me started on what would happen if our classmates found you out and you…”
Charles awkwardly trails off, refusing to finish his own sentence. He has yet to come to terms with his own mortality, but even entertaining the idea of Whit being punished for his untimely death is too much for him to bear.
It doesn’t matter to him that he wouldn’t be alive to witness it. He can’t imagine Whit’s death. He doesn’t want to imagine Whit’s death. Just the thought alone is enough to leave his heartbeat racing, his palms quickly growing clammy underneath his gloves.
“Wait, wait– I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you and I definitely aren’t talking about the same thing here!” Whit throws his hands up, his cheeks dusted red. He looks alarmed.
Before he has the time to react, Whit is reaching out for his hand.
With his gloves still on, he can’t feel Whit’s warmth as closely as he’s used to, but Charles can imagine it all the same. Charles stares down at the space where Whit clasps his hands around his. He brings it to his chest, simply holding it there.
“Geez, Char…I hope you didn’t hurt your legs too much jumping to that wild assumption,” Whit starts with a chuckle, offering the Chemist a soft smile. “Do you really think I’d try and kill you?”
“Of course not,” Charles finds himself saying. He speaks with such certainty on the matter that it manages to shock himself. “I just…I don’t know what else you could’ve possibly been trying to imply. Stop beating around the bush and tell me clearly, lest I assume the worst again.”
“Consider these bushes thoroughly beaten,” Another chuckle, before Whit pauses to meet his gaze once more. “I did tell you clearly though – I want to help you sleep.”
“And how do you propose doing that?”
“Well,” Whit’s eyes practically light up at the question. “What if I stayed by your side until you fell asleep?”
…what?
For a moment, he’s left thinking that this is finally a sign he’s lost his mind to the killing game…but it’s because of Whit’s incessant jokes, Charles has come to realize exactly when the other boy is being serious. His heart-filled eyes are devoid of any humor, as Whit patiently waits for his response.
There are a million thoughts running through Charles Cuevas’s mind, his brain going at a mile a minute. Instead, the only word that he manages to get out is, “why?”
Unlike himself, Whit isn’t the least bit thrown off. The Matchmaker’s smile only grows wider. “You said it yourself, right? You’re struggling to sleep. The first hurdle would be actually getting you to fall asleep.”
“And you’re suggesting you can help me with that by…?”
“By staying by your side ‘till you sleep? You’re making me repeat myself so much– I’m starting to think you must really like the sound of my voice!”
“Again, it’s not like that! Surely…surely, you must understand how insane of an idea that is. There’s no proving that it would help me to begin with, and then…I imagine I wouldn’t be able to face you ever again.”
“Really? It’s a pretty sane idea to me,” Whit shrugs. “My mom always says that some problems can’t be overcome by yourself. This is just one of those moments, you know?”
There’s something oddly intimate about someone staying with you until you sleep, isn’t there? The only people in Charles' life willing to do such a thing for him were his parents. He can still fondly remember how insistent they both were to watch over him, promising a young Charles that they would still be there when he woke up. He would still be there when they woke up.
Whit must understand the embarrassingly intimate implications of his suggestion too. He’s the Ultimate Matchmaker: a true hopeless romantic at heart, by his own admission.
Whit lets go of his hand. Charles mourns the feeling – even with his gloves on, he can still imagine the other boy’s warmth, as clear as day – though Whit doesn’t leave him grieving for long.
Before he has any time to react, Whit moves his hand downwards, placing it gently on Charles' thigh.
“You’re overthinking it, Char,” Whit says. He shifts a little, until the side of his leg settles comfortably beside Charles'. “Let me help you? That’s all this is.”
“You still haven’t explained why you’d be willing to go this far just for me,” Charles replies, but he’s flat and quiet about it. He shouldn’t be entertaining the idea – he really shouldn’t – but Whit’s touch, gentle against his thigh, burns his skin. He can feel it through the fabric of his clothes. He can imagine it too well for comfort.
Charles brings his other hand up to his face, attempting to mask how unsightly his flushed cheeks must look. He expects Whit will refuse to let him live this down after the fact.
Whit doesn’t comment on Charles' embarrassment. Instead, he only makes it worse for the Chemist, moving his hand to rub Charles' thigh. The movement is minimal, as if petting a small animal of sorts, but it drives Charles crazy for reasons he isn’t ready to explore just yet.
“Because we’re friends. Do I need a reason other than that?”
“I imagine this goes beyond the boundaries of friendship, Whit.”
“Mhm…does it? I don’t think it does, personally,” Whit hums, entirely nonchalant. “I mean, if you’re struggling to sleep, then we’ve gotta attack it from the first obstacle…which means helping you actually fall asleep first. Of course I’d want to help you with that.”
“Whit, I…” Charles trails off, his gaze flickering back and forth between Whit’s heart-shaped eyes, and the hand gently running along his inner thigh.
Whit hums again, tilting his head as he says, “you’re my friend, Charles. I hate seeing you upset– I really do. So, if this’ll help you, even if it’s just a bit, then I’ll do it. No questions asked.”
There’s an unmistakable sincerity in Whit’s voice. Rubbing Charles' thigh, Whit continues to smile at him, his expression patient and unchanging. He’s never been touched like this before. Whit knows that, he’s sure. If he were to ask Whit to move his hand, he would…but, Charles doesn’t want him to.
He chooses not to admit that out loud. Somehow, he feels like Whit must already know that too.
All of the fight he had in him mere moments ago fades away, as Whit’s touch gently lulls the static in his mind into nothingness. As he stares back at the Matchmaker, Charles is left speechless.
No – that’s not quite right. There’s a lot he wants to say to Whit – or so, he thinks there might be – but he hasn’t figured out the words yet. His thoughts are like thermite, and Whit’s smile is like a flame waiting to start a reaction that Charles isn't ready or prepared to stop yet.
It’s dangerous.
Whit’s suggestion is dangerous, but even so–
“...how do you manage to say such embarrassing things with a straight face?” Charles asks, diverting his gaze to the side. He takes a breathe to try and collect himself, before mumbling, “I suppose I can’t…turn down your suggestion outright.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. As a chemist, it would be wrong of me to dismiss you without testing the evidence for myself,” Charles sighs. “That, and…as your friend, it would be wrong of me not to hear you out.”
As soon as the sentence leaves his mouth, he sees Whit immediately perking up in the corner of his eye. It’s not as if he’s done anything particularly outstanding, but Whit smiles wide enough for Charles to think that maybe he’s truly capable of doing something like that someday. Whit makes him want to do something worthy of a smile as bright as the one he’s wearing now.
“Then it’s settled! I’ll come stay with you tonight until you fall asleep.”
“If I can fall asleep. I’d like to be rid of these incessant thoughts as soon as possible though.”
“We’ll figure it out – I know we will. Think of us like two elements and have some faith in our bond!”
Not all elements can bond together in practice, you idiot. You’ll have to be more specific than just referring to us both as elements. Charles considers saying this, but as he takes note of Whit’s hand, still resting comfortably on his thigh, the words die in his throat.
“I hope this works,” Charles murmurs to himself.
“It’ll work itself out. After all, that’s what my intuition’s telling me,” Whit tells him. He gives Charles' thigh a squeeze, forcing the Chemist to look him in the eyes again. Heart-filled cerulean fills his gaze, as Whit offers him another bright smile. “For now…wanna grab lunch together? I’ll whip both of us up something that’ll really explode in your mouth!.”
He can’t say no to that.
Charles nods, as the two of them move to leave the pool together. If he seems visibly lost without Whit touching him once they stand up again, Whit doesn’t say anything about it.
Tonight is the night, then. It’s all Charles can think about as the two of them exit the room, making their way past their fellow classmates and down to the kitchen again.