#and since charles is wearing edwin's coat in the bottom-left one....

[tumblerislovetumblerislife]

PRETTY BOY HOURS (line ver)

[terresdebrume]

There is a dull knock of wood against the door when Edwin tries to make his way into his bedroom, and he sighs. The discovery is not strictly speaking unexpected. He and Charles have been sharing the Fridge since last November, after all. Edwin has had some time to get used to his friends' general habits.

"Charles," he calls out, keeping his eyes on the ground so he can sidestep Charles' cricket bat, some of his math equipment, his broken alarm clock, and what looks like the gutted content of his art box.

Charles is sitting at his desk, the one closest to the window. He is already in his pyjamas, his socked feet firmly perched on the seat of his chair. The long line of his back, vanishing into his long-sleeved shirt, curves forward so he can bend over his latest art piece, his legs framing him like a pair of red checkered wings. From the window outside, the pale light of late afternoon splashes against him, highlighting his curly hair, the shape of his jaw.

There is a purple stick of chalk in his hand, the tips of his fingers coated in it. There is a long line of turquoise along the curve of Charles' nose, as if he had scratched an itch with another piece of chalk. He is wearing an expression of profound focus that only ever seems to take him by surprise, and Edwin indulges in the sight for a moment, heart full to bursting.

After a while, Edwin knocks on the wall, calling Charles' name again. Charles takes the sort of deep breath Edwin gets after a long study session, then turns to him with a smile. Edwin, as usual, cannot resist answering with a quirk of the lips, even as he tries to scold:

"If Mr. Hampton sees this you'll be scolded again."

"I'll sort it out before dinner," Charles says without any sign of concern. That only leaves him about twenty minutes to get half his belongings off the floor of their room, but Edwin elects not to point that out.

Instead, he finds a path through Charles' explosive organization system to stand behind his chair. On an A3 sized sheet of paper, Charles has drawn dozens of flowers: pale blue lilac and darker hydrangeas, purple lavender and forget me nots, turquoise-looking mint, and even a few unnaturally blue daisies. In the middle, in blinding white, large letters, a single word: ਮਾਣ.

"Do you like it?" Charles asks.

Edwin looks back at the piece. He finds the color scheme soothing, if occasionally unrealistic, and familiar in a way he can't quite place. The motifs are uncharacteristically neat for Charles, who enjoys playing with the abstract, but pleasing nonetheless. And blue or not, daisies are Edwin's favourite flowers.

"I love it," he says sincerely.

Charles beams, and Edwin feels it like sunshine on his skin.

"Brills!" Charles exclaims, "I made it for you!"

Edwin turns around before he can help it, but no: the door to their room is firmly shut, and no one made their way in behind him. When he looks back to Charles, his grin has taken an amused, almost fond quality.

"For me?" Edwin asks, just to be sure. Charles laughs.

"Yes, you. It's your going away present."

He extends the paper to Edwin, who holds it gingerly with the tips of his fingers. He tries to take the whole piece in again at once, gaze flickering from one flower to the next, to the detailing of a leaf, to the bottom left corner, where Charles signed his name. He wishes he could say something—knows that he should, at least—but his throat is closed up, and his eyes strangely warm. He has to swallow several times before he can croak out:

"It's beautiful, Charles. Thank you."

"You're my best mate, you know," Charles replies, easy as breathing. "I just wanted to give you something special."

"It is," Edwin promises, clearing his throat to keep the tears threatening to spill contained to his throat. "Thank you." He sniffs as discretely as he can, and Charles generously pretends not to notice. "Is this Punjabi?"

Charles nods, a new layer of pride entering his expression. From what Edwin understands, Charles has received a lot of remarks on his penmanship from all his teacher except for Mr Madan. If his handwriting in Punjabi class is as neat as the painting, Edwin can understand why.

"What does it mean?"

"Pride," Charles says. "For everything you've accomplished this year. Also because you're a bloody brilliant friend, and I'm real proud you picked me."

"It's 'really proud'," Edwin points out, looking away from Charles as his cheeks and neck heat up.

It comes out snippier than Edwin intended, but Charles simply rolls his eyes.

"Well I'm really glad that you're my best friend," he says, giving Edwin's shoulder a gentle shove. "There's not a part of you I don't like. Consider this my encouragement to be as proud of yourself as I am of you, yeah?"

The warmth spreads over the rest of Edwin's face, and he diffuses by pointing out they won't leave the school until the end of the week, and Charles is being dramatic. Then, when that doesn't work, Edwin nags Charles into dealing with his things before the dinner bell. They spend the entire evening bickering around, and Edwin thinks he's the lucky one.

Much, much later, he realizes why the color scheme on the painting seemed familiar, and cries happy tears again.

This snippet is more of a laying down of concept than a proper fic and will eventually be edited (probably added to) and crospposted on AO3.