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It started with a look.
Charlie wasn’t supposed to be watching. They were in Keating’s class, after all, discussing Romeo and Juliet in the context of tragic idealism, but Charlie had long stopped caring about Shakespeare’s intent and started caring much more about the way Knox tilted his head when he was thinking, about the way his fingers tapped on the desk when he got nervous about speaking up. Charlie saw that rhythm, two taps, pause, three taps, pause again, more than he saw his own reflection.
Knox caught him staring. Charlie didn’t look away.
Later that night, when the campus had quieted into its regular post-curfew hush, and the other boys in their dorms were already asleep or pretending to be, Charlie knocked lightly on Knox’s door. Once. Twice.
Knox opened it with sleep in his eyes and a notebook still in his hand.
“You awake?” Charlie asked.
Knox blinked at him, barely lit by the hallway lamp. “Not really.”
Charlie stepped inside anyway.
The late-night study sessions became a habit. Knox always brought the books, and Charlie brought the excuses. “I just can’t read Keats without company,” he’d joke, flopping onto the bed beside Knox. It was a transparent lie. He recited Keats from memory during morning assembly once just to annoy Latin Club
They never talked about what they were doing. They didn’t have to.
Knox’s hand would rest on the page a moment too long. Charlie’s knee would knock gently against his. They’d both pretend they didn’t notice, but neither pulled away. Somewhere between the way Knox smiled when Charlie handed him a highlighter or the way Charlie leaned in a little too close to explain a line of verse, it became something else.
It wasn’t until a rainy October night, when the dorms smelled of wet wool and fog clung to the windows, that Charlie reached out and took Knox’s hand in his. Just quietly. Without a word.
Knox didn’t say anything. Just squeezed back.
The first time they kissed, it was between the dustiest shelves of the library.
Charlie had tugged Knox into the back, under the pretense of needing help finding a copy of Leaves of Grass. He didn’t care about Whitman, not really; he had the whole thing memorized. But Knox had been biting his lip through dinner, distracted and quiet, and Charlie hated that it was happening somewhere he couldn’t touch him. Somewhere, he couldn’t ask what was wrong.
“Charlie, what are we doing?” Knox had whispered, glancing around like Nolan might materialize from between the rows of poetry. “What if someone sees?”
“No one’s going to,” Charlie replied, but his voice wasn’t flippant like it usually was. It was soft. Like he understood the weight behind the question. “Just…”
He stepped forward. One step. Then another. Until Knox was backed up against the shelf, and Charlie’s hands found the edges of his sweater like a tether. His voice dropped.
“Just for a second.”
Knox didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
So Charlie kissed him.
It wasn’t dramatic or poetic. It was careful, barely-there, just mouths brushing like a secret being passed back and forth. And when it was over, Knox let out a breath like he’d been holding it for weeks.
They didn’t say anything after. Just stood there, forehead to forehead, letting the silence tell them everything they weren’t ready to say aloud.
It was easier in the cave. Easier to lean close. Easier to laugh with their heads tipped toward one another, and no one to question why Charlie always read his poems facing Knox instead of the group.
It had rained the night before, and the ground was damp beneath them, but Charlie didn’t care. He sat close enough that their shoulders brushed, passing a single flashlight between them.
Todd was reciting something soft and slow, Emily Dickinson, maybe, but Charlie wasn’t listening. His hand was resting between them, just barely not touching Knox’s.
Knox shifted. Quietly. Deliberately. His pinky finger reached, searching.
It found Charlie’s. A single, secret touch in the dark.
Charlie didn’t look at him. Didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just hooked his own finger around Knox’s and held.
He felt like a match had been struck inside him, quiet and burning.
It wasn’t really a fight. Not one with shouting. That wasn’t how they worked.
But Charlie had gotten reckless. A joke he told too loudly in front of Meeks. A lingering glance in the dining hall. Nothing happened, no one said anything, but Knox had pulled him aside after class and said, “You need to be more careful.”
Charlie had laughed. “You’re the one who keeps staring at me like I hung the moon.”
Knox didn’t smile. “This isn’t a joke to me, Charlie.”
And that stung.
Because Charlie didn’t know how to be serious about anything that mattered. He didn’t know how to say, It’s not a joke to me either, I just don’t know how to show you. So instead, he shut down. Shut up.
He avoided Knox for two days.
Until Knox knocked on his door at 1 AM, eyes red, voice small.
“I don’t care if it’s hard,” he said. “I just don’t want to do this alone.”
Charlie let him in. Said nothing.
But when they fell asleep that night, Knox curled on top of Charlie’s blanket, Charlie lying just close enough to brush his arm, he reached out.
Found Knox’s hand. Held on tight.
Cameron pretended not to notice.
It was snowing.
The windows were fogged over, and the radiator was clanking loud enough to drown out the sound of the wind. Charlie had a record playing low, something he snuck in beneath his blazer, and Knox was lying on his bed, one leg curled under him, scribbling in his notebook.
“You write like you’re in love with the whole world,” Charlie murmured from across the room.
Knox looked up, startled. “What?”
Charlie shrugged. “Just something I noticed.” Knox sat up, suddenly very still. “Are you okay?”
Knox stared at him for a long moment. Then crossed the room. “I don’t love the whole world.”
Charlie’s voice caught in his throat. “Oh?”
Knox didn’t say it like a performance. Didn’t grin or raise his eyebrows or make a joke.
He just looked at Charlie and said, “I love you.”
Charlie closed his eyes. Like it hurts. Like it healed something, too.
“I love you, too,” he whispered.
They didn’t need any more words.
Charlie wasn’t supposed to be in the music room. He’d been caught in there twice already. Once he was playing the piano to himself, the other time he was just sprawled out across the risers listening to the echo of his own thoughts. But Knox had mentioned he had rehearsal, and Charlie had… wandered.
He hadn’t meant to interrupt.
But there Knox was, standing near the back of the room, arms folded behind his back, reading something out loud with a softness that made Charlie’s chest ache. His voice was barely above a whisper, eyes down.
Charlie leaned in the doorway. Quiet. Watching.
Knox didn’t see him at first.
He finished the line and looked up, startled. “Charlie!”
Charlie raised his hands like he was surrendering. “I didn’t mean to spy. You just looked… happy.”
Knox flushed pink, crossing the room quickly, pulling Charlie inside to close the door behind them with a soft click. “You can’t be here.”
“I know.”
“You’re going to get us caught.”
Charlie grinned, “I know.”
But he stayed. When Knox sat beside him at the old upright piano, their knees pressed together, Charlie just leaned his head on Knox’s shoulder and said, “You sounded beautiful.”
Knox didn’t answer right away, but he reached for Charlie’s hand beneath the bench.
They sat there for an hour. Maybe more. The only sound was Charlie softly playing the notes of a half-remembered tune, and the metronome of Knox’s breath next to him.
Charlie hated Latin. He hated declensions, hated conjugation, hated the fact that Knox was always twenty steps ahead and refused to let Charlie cheat off him even though they were dating.
“You’re not failing Latin because of me,” Knox had said. “That’s where I draw the line.”
So now Charlie was failing Latin because of love. That felt poetic, in a stupid Welton kind of way.
He was muttering obscenities under his breath, books clutched to his chest, when Knox came around the corner and bumped right into him.
Their eyes met. Too fast, too close.
Charlie opened his mouth, but there were boys behind them. Laughing and pushing, so he swallowed the impulse to say hi. Swallowed it like a stone.
But as they passed each other, Knox brushed his hand against Charlie’s wrist, so brief, so careful, it could have been nothing.
Charlie turned. So did Knox.
They smiled at each other like idiots.
It started with Charlie being too lazy to go back to his own room.
They’d spread their notes across the floor, backs to the bed, shoulders leaning on each other’s. Knox has been quizzing him with the kind of patience only someone in love could manage, and Charlie was half-listening, half-watching the way Knox’s mouth moved when he said historia .
“I think I’m going to fail,” Charlie said after twenty minutes of silence.
“You’re not.”
“I am."
“You won’t.”
Charlie tilted his head, resting it on Knox’s shoulder. “Can I sleep here?”
Knox looked startled but only for a second. “Okay.”
So they climbed into Knox’s bed, careful not to touch too much, careful not to leave room for suspicion.
But in the middle of the night, Charlie rolled over, still half-dreaming, and Knox felt him curl in. A forehead to his neck. A hand clutching his sleeve.
He didn’t pull away.
Stick didn't mention it.
It was snowing again. A rare Saturday with no planned activities, no expectations, and for once, no eyes.
They walked along the edge of the woods, footprints vanishing as fast as they made them. Charlie had stolen two cookies from the dining hall and tossed one to Knox like a peace offering.
“You ever think about leaving?” Charlie asked out of the blue.
Knox blinked. “Welton?”
“Yeah. Just… leaving. Not for good. Just long enough to remember what it’s like to breathe.”
Knox was quiet. Then, “Sometimes.”
Charlie nodded. “We could take the train. Just for the day.”
“And go where?”
Charlie shrugged, “Anywhere.”
Knox smiled. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love that about me.”
And before Knox could stop him, Charlie leaned in, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
It was quick. Dangerous. Gone in an instant.
Knox didn’t pull away. Just looked at him with something burning behind his eyes.
“I really do,” he said.
They shouldn’t be there.
The Welton library closed at 9 sharp. It was nearly midnight.
Charlie had used a paperclip to pop the back door open, because of course he had, and Knox had followed, reluctantly, grumbling about rule-breaking and “we’re going to get expelled”, but following, always following.
They were curled into a hidden corner between the poetry section and the broken radiator, a candlelight flickering in a chipped teacup Charlie found in the lost-and-found. The heat was faint and unreliable, but they were warm, pressed together beneath Charlie’s coat.
Knox was reading softly from a dog-eared book of Neruda. Charlie was only half-listening. He was watching Knox’s mouth.
“You’re not paying attention,” Knox whispered without looking up.
“I am. I just like the sound of your voice better than the poetry.”
Knox flushed, nudged him in the ribs. Charlie leaned in.
The kiss was quiet, barely a breath, until they heard it:
Footsteps.
The jingle of keys.
Knox froze. Charlie blew out the candle and dragged Knox beneath the study table, hearts pounding, holding their breath in the darkness. Mr. Skinner, the janitor, wandered in muttering about drafts and misfiled books.
Charlie’s fingers were gripping Knox’s. Knox wouldn’t let go.
They didn’t move until the keys faded and the lights shut off again. Still under the table, Knox leaned in close and whispered, “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Charlie grinned. “What a way to go.”
Mr. Danforth was known for his droning voice and complete lack of interest in his students. Which usually made for easy daydreaming, but not today.
Charlie was scribbling nonsense in the margins of his notes. Not because he wasn’t paying attention, but because Knox was sitting two seats over and Charlie could feel him.
Their eyes had met too long at the beginning of class. Charlie had smiled without thinking. Someone noticed.
Cameron.
Of course, it was Cameron.
Charlie saw the flicker in his expression. The glance between him and Knox. The twitch of his lips like he knew something.
After class, Cameron leaned close to Charlie as they packed up. His voice was low, smug.
“You two’ve been awfully chummy lately.”
Charlie’s blood ran cold.
Knox lingered near the door, waiting. Charlie couldn’t even look at him. Just shoved his books into his bag and muttered, “What’re you on about, Cameron?”
Cameron only smirked, “Nothing. Yet.”
Charlie didn’t hear a word in the next class after that.
It wasn’t safe to meet in Charlie’s room anymore. Not with Cameron watching.
So they met in the stairwell.
Third floor. After curfew. Past the clattering pipes and cracked window that let in the moonlight.
Knox was pacing when Charlie arrived, rubbing his hands together, hair messy from worry.
“What happened today?” Knox asked, voice low. “You wouldn’t even look at me.”
“Cameron happened,” Charlie said. “He’s suspicious.”
Knox stiffened. “Did he say something?”
“Not exactly. But he’s watching, Knox. We have to be careful.”
Knox turned away, jaw clenched. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate that we have to hide.”
“I know.”
They stood in silence, breathing through it. The aching closeness of knowing they couldn’t be seen. Couldn’t be heard.
Charlie reached out, taking Knox’s hand in the dark.
“Just a little longer,” he whispered. “Until the year’s over. Then we won’t have to hide anymore.”
Knox closed his eyes. “I don’t know if I can wait that long.”
Charlie kissed his knuckles. “You can. We will.”
The clock on the wall blinked 11:58 PM. Charlie moved like a ghost, barefoot, coast half-zipped, careful not to let the floorboards creak. He eased open the door as silently as possible, one hand already in his pocket, fingers brushing against the folded note he meant to leave behind just in case.
“Where are you going?”
The voice stopped him cold.
Charlie turned slowly. Cameron was sitting up in bed, arms crossed, wide awake.
Charlie blinked. “Uh… library?”
Cameron raised an eyebrow. “At midnight. With cologne on?”
Charlie opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “… It’s… scented deodorant?”
Cameron rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Charlie.”
“What?”
“For god’s sake,” Cameron muttered, throwing off his blanket. “Just invite him over before you two get expelled for sneaking around like idiots.”
Charlie stood frozen. “What?”
“I said,” Cameron yawned and ran a hand through his hair, "just invite Knox here. I’ll go sleep in Meeks' and Pitts’ room or something.”
“You…. how ?”
“I was there, Charlie,” Cameron said dryly. “The night Knox came over at 1 am and fell asleep on your bed. Then tried to sneak out in the morning and tripped over my Latin book.”
Charlie covered his face. “Oh my god.”
“I didn’t say anything because I figured it was your business,” Cameron continued, reaching for his slippers. “But if you’re gonna keep doing this secret lover routine, at least be smart about it.”
Charlie peeked through his fingers. “You really don’t care?”
Cameron shrugged. “No. I care about you two not getting caught and dragged into some Nolan drama. And Knox is tolerable.”
“Thanks?” Charlie blinked. “This is… weirdly generous of you.”
“I’m tired,” Cameron muttered, shuffling to his closet. “Tell him he’s got until morning. I want my bed back by breakfast.”
Charlie smiled, still half in disbelief. “You're actually doing this.”
Cameron yanked the door open and walked out without waiting for Charlie. Charlie trailed behind him, still grinning, his hair messy and coat unzipped, note long forgotten in his pocket.
Knox was waiting under the dim wall down the hall, hands stuffed in his pockets, nervously glancing up every few seconds. The moment he spotted Charlie, his whole face lit up, until his eyes darted and landed on Cameron walking straight toward him.
Knox’s shoulders jumped. “Oh! Uh. Cameron! Hi!”
Cameron didn’t stop. “Don’t break anything,” he muttered as he passed them, giving Knox a sharp look that was more exhaustion than anger, before letting himself into Meeks’ and Pitts’ room.
Knox blinked after him, “What was that?”
Charlie was already tugging on his sleeve, trying not to burst into laughter. “Come on," he whispered, pulling him gently down the hallway. “I’ll explain.”
They ducked into Charlie’s room, just barely closing the door before Charlie turned to face him, grinning like he was about to share the best inside joke in the world.
“Cameron knew,” Charlie said, giggling. “Apparently he’s known for weeks. Said he doesn’t care as long as we stop sneaking around.”
Knox stared at him. “He knew? How?”
“You tripped over his Latin book,” Charlie laughed, flopping back onto his bed. “He was awake.”
“No way,” Knox groaned, dragging a hand over his face.
Charlie reached for him, still grinning. “He said we can have the room tonight.”
Knox raised an eyebrow. “So what you’re saying is we have a sleepover?”
Charlie nodded.
Knox dropped his coat to the floor and leaned over him. “Best. Night. Ever.”
They kissed like they had all the time in the world, slow, smiling, with that familiar press of mouths and hearts finally at rest. Charlie’s hand curled into the hem of Knox’s sweater, pulling him closer as they both melted into the mattress, soft laughter mixing with the quiet creak of the old bed frame.
They pulled apart eventually, foreheads pressed together, Knox brushing his thumb across Charlie’s cheek.
“You look happy,” Knox whispered.
“I am happy,” Charlie whispered back. “You’re here.”
Outside, the wind rustled through bare branches. Inside, their little corner of the world stayed warm and secret.
They lay tangled together in the twin bed, limbs overlapping like ivy, sharing the single pillow. The room had quieted completely now, the low hum of pipes and ticking of Charlie’s desk clock the only sounds left in the dark.
Charlie had thrown a sweatshirt over the lamp to dim the light, casting everything in a soft glow. It made Knox’s skin look honeyed, his eyes even warmer.
Charlie couldn’t stop staring.
Knox noticed. He reached out, brushing Charlie’s hair back behind his ear. “What?”
Charlie smiled, a little shy, like the moment was too fragile to speak into too loudly. “I just like looking at you.”
Knox’s heart twisted in that way it always did when Charlie was tender without meaning to be.
“You’re such a sap,” Knox teased gently, pressing a kiss to his temple.
Charlie hummed. “Only with you.”
For a while, they just lay there, together. Knox’s fingers traced slow, absent-minded patterns on Charlie’s back. Charlie curled closer, one leg slung over Knox's, his face pressed to his chest.
“Tell me a story,” Charlie murmured, sleep softening his voice.
Knox smiled against his forehead. “About what?”
“About us,” Charlie mumbled.
Knox thought for a second, “Remember that morning in the library? When you kept kicking me under the table and pretending it wasn’t on purpose?”
Charlie smirked. “I was trying to get you to look at me.”
“I was looking at you the whole time.”
Charlie’s chest tightened, warm and full. “You never said anything.”
“You never needed me to.”
Charlie looked up at him, eyes bright. He kissed him once, slow and sweet, then tucked himself back under Knox’s chin.
“I could stay like this forever,” Knox whispered.
“You could,” Charlie said. “You’re always welcome here.”
They drifted like that, words slowing into breathing, fingers curling tighter. Just before Charlie fell asleep, he whispered one more thing, voice laced with drowsy truth.
“I think this is the safest I’ve ever felt.”
Knox kissed the crown of his head. “I know.”
The sun filtered lazily through the tall windows of the Welton dining hall, casting a hazy light across half-eaten toast and steaming mugs of tea. The air was full of the low clatter of trays and the slow, shuffling murmur of students who were very much not morning people.
Charlie and Knox walked in side by side, heads close together, hair tousled with sleep, matching grins threatening to break wider. It was all painfully obvious.
They grabbed their trays and made their way over to the group’s usual table, trying to act casual, but it was impossible. As soon as they reached it, Cameron, Meeks, and Pitts were staring. Not maliciously, just knowing.
Cameron was the first to speak, lifting his orange juice with a dramatic arch of his brow. “Sleep well, gentlemen?”
Charlie’s steps faltered. Knox shot him a sideways look. Charlie turned bright red.
Meeks snorted. “So Cameron told us the craziest thing last night.”
“Explaining why he had to sleep in our room,” Pitts added, far too pleased with himself.
Neil leaned in from the other end of the table, already halfway through his pancakes. “I heard the craziest thing last night,” he said. “Someone said they saw Charlie Dalton being affectionate.”
Todd smirked, “With Knox Overstreet.”
Knox covered his face with one hand. Charlie looked like he was about to melt into the floor.
“You guys suck,” he muttered, sliding into his seat as if that would shield him from the smirking.
Cameron gave him a pointed look. “You know, you could’ve just told us.”
Knox peeked through his fingers. “Told you what?”
“That you’re dating,” Meeks said, like it was obvious. “Or… whatever it is you’re doing.”
Charlie hesitated. Then glanced at Knox, who looked back at him with that same sleepy smile from the night before.
“We, uh…” Charlie scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. We’re dating.”
Todd beamed. Neil made a noise of triumph and gave Todd five bucks under the table. Meeks and Pitts high-fived.
“You guys are disgustingly cute,” Neil said, turning back to his food. “I mean it in the best way.”
Charlie stared at them, stunned. “You’re not… weirded out?”
“Why would we be?” Todd asked gently. “We love you. Both of you.”
Cameron sighed, “Who are any of these people to judge when Todd and Neil have their beds pushed together, and I slept in Pitts’ bed last night because he was cuddled up with Meeks in his bed.”
Meeks rolled his eyes at Cameron, “We’ve known for weeks. You two are not subtle.”
Knox leaned closer to Charlie and bumped their shoulders together.
Charlie blinked at the table. At his friends. His family.
The diner was the kind that looked like it hadn’t changed in forty years, vinyl booths with cracked red cushions, a jukebox in the corner humming something low and twangy, neon lights buzzing slightly in the window. The air smelled like syrup, fries, and burnt coffee. It was perfect.
They’d all crammed into the corner booth. Meeks and Pitts on one side, leaning into each other, whispering and laughing between sips of milkshake. Todd and Neil are opposite them, legs tangled under the table, Neil stealing fries off Todd’s plate, and Todd pretending to be annoyed. Cameron was mock-glaring at Stick, who had just snuck a bite of his pie without asking.
Across from them, Knox and Charlie sat curled into each other at the end, Knox’s head resting on Charlie’s shoulder, their hands clasped beneath the table.
Meeks raised the milkshake like a toast. “To this unreasonably attractive group of academic delinquents.”
Neil chimed in, “To not getting caught sneaking around! Mostly!”
Charlie smiled, looking around at all of them, the people who had grown from a little secret society of poets into something so much more. Something real.
He looked at Knox, who caught his gaze and winked.
Charlie squeezed his hand beneath the table. Knox squeezed back.
Todd, soft-voiced, said, “This feels like the kind of night you remember.”
There were no secrets left. Just laughter and milkshakes and the people he loved.
They were loud. They were in love, and they didn’t have to hide any of it.