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«If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.»
― Alfred Tennyson
***
"Do you still have a crush on me?"
The words barely audible escape Charles's lips before he realizes it, as if he's once again lost the connection between what he's saying and what he's thinking.
Edwin freezes at his seat, standing in front of a book open on the table, his hands stopping halfway to it. He lifts his head abruptly, and his gaze fixes Charles in place, as if mesmerized.
Rowland could swear his eyes now seem darker in the diffused light of the lamps. Funny, he could never accurately describe the color of Edwin's eyes, even if he were asked, of course. From blue-gray to green, from the color of a stormy ocean to precious emerald, as if his eyes contained all the shades at once.
"Sorry, that..."
There's a ringing in his ears, and an unpleasant knot forms in his stomach, as if he's about to throw up, calling into question the entire physiology of ghosts.
Rowland takes an unnecessary breath and repeats the question. "You... Do you still love me?"
The words echo in his mind, and for a moment it seems as if he is not saying them, but only hearing them from the outside.
In the deafening silence of the office, it seems too loud, as if he is shouting, and each word, letter by letter, bounces off the walls, threatening to crush him under its own weight.
The deep night stretches outside, and in the dim lamplight, Edwin's sharp features look strikingly beautiful: his sharp cheekbones and pale skin, his forearms exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, his piercing gaze, and that very wrinkle between his eyebrows, appearing every time Edwin, perplexed, searches for clues in a particularly complex case.
Charles finds himself thinking he could spend eternity simply admiring it all. The urge to reach out and smooth that wrinkle with his finger is almost physically unbearable.
God, he's such an idiot, completely unable to keep his mouth shut. Why did he even blurt that out? Almost a year had passed since Port Townsend, and it's clear Edwin moved on, because of course he doesn't have to wait forever.
The thought that it was now Charles—the one unrequitedly in love with his best friend—bites painfully somewhere between his ribs and settles there with a phantom heartache. Of course, Edwin accepted his answer on those damn stairs, left it at that, and just moved on. Charles had replayed their entire journey up the stairs countless times in his head, his only regret being that he hadn't kissed him then and there. It took Charles so long to uncover something that was so obvious all along, and he was to blame for taking so long to respond.
Edwin's voice broke the silence between them.
"… Still?" is all he says, just as quietly. "What do you mean?"
Charles looks Edwin in the eyes, trying to find the answer before Edwin gives it.
"I just want to know if you feel something for me or... not."
The words scrape at his throat, leaving behind a disgustingly sour taste, as if he could still taste it.
Edwin exhales heavily and closes his eyes, lowering his head.
"Why are you even asking this?"
"Edwin, please." He thinks he could beg for hours, but his long-not metaphorically dead heart feels like it can't handle any answer Edwin gives.
Edwin raises his head and gives him a long, intense look; the seconds flow like molasses, and it nearly drives Charles crazy.
"I tried to cope with these feelings for a while, but I couldn't stop loving you even if I wanted to..." he pauses "...and I don't want to." He exhales quietly, a shadow of a smile playing across his lips.
Rowland feels the scraping sensation between his ribs that has been nagging at him for months, tormenting him with thoughts of himself, Edwin, of both of them, leave him, replaced by something warm and light.
He swallows and nods, a smile playing on his lips.
"I have to tell you something."
***
By the time he plucks up the courage to kiss Edwin, dawn is already breaking outside the window.