Chapter Text
The first time Charles Rowland sees Edwin Payne, he thinks he's a ghost. A really hot ghost with the looks of a 1940s movie star, classically and effortlessly handsome and put together, in a way Charles, with his alternative style rarely is: but a ghost nonetheless.
The assumption isn't as far-fetched as one might think, seeing as Charles has considered himself an expert on seeing ghosts ever since he nearly died after being attacked by school bullies in year 10. He's seen at least three different ones over the past seven days, since starting his temporary holiday job at Ashton Palace. It's fair to say that the glamorous hotel in Scotland's most luxurious ski resort is properly haunted.
The young man occupying the armchair in the hotel library sits with his long legs dangling over the arm rest, a book in his lap. His age is hard to guess, but Charles assumes he must be in his early to late twenties, even though with his green grandfather sweater, grey wool trousers, the dark Oxford boots and the way his hair is neatly side-parted he looks like a relic from a bygone area. A very attractive relic, mind.
Charles, who has stopped in the doorway with his sketch book in hand, loses the grip on his pencil case as the man looks up and lowers his book, leveling him with an unimpressed stare from startling blue-green-grey eyes. The pencil case drops to the floor and opens, spilling Charles's drawing things out on the carpet, one pencil rolling as far as the armchair in which the handsome ghost is lounging in.
“Yes?” the man inquires, arching an impressive, bushy eyebrow in an unimpressed way as his eyes travel the length of Charles’s body. His gaze feels heavy, assessing, maybe appraising, leaving heat in its wake.
“Oh, nothing. You startled me, is all,” Charles manages, finding his voice again. He moves to pick up his pencils, feeling the man’s eyes linger on him as he moves. When he straightens from his crouch by the armchair, picking up his last pencil, the man has lifted his book again, but the tension in his posture indicates he's not reading. A quickened pulse beats on his elegant neck.
Not a ghost then, but a hotel guest.
Charles had been told during his induction that he was only to interact with guests when his services were required and otherwise remain a silent shadow, fixing leaking pipes, changing light bulbs and repairing anything that might need repairing. He was firmly told to only use the hotel's facilities when guests weren't needing them. Which is why Charles is in the library at two in the afternoon, when all the guests are usually out on the slopes.
“Why aren't you out skiing or in the spa like everybody else?” Charles finds himself blurting out, vexed that his favourite chair is occupied and that he has to leave again without working on his sketches, like he usually does in his free time. The light in the library in the early afternoon is the best for drawing, the sun spilling in all gentle and winter-soft.
The young man lifts his gaze, and even though his words are aloof, there's a tiny smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Because I am not like everybody else,” he says somewhat willfully, and his behaviour immediately reminds Charles of his best friend. God, he misses Crystal.
The man sounds impossibly posh, his diction precise. It should be off-putting, but it isn't to Charles. “Fair, mate,” Charles laughs, and fidgets a little where he's standing on the plush carpet, indecisive. He would really like to stay and draw, because by this time of day his employee accommodation, a tiny attic room with an east-facing window, is already devoid of any natural light.
“You are an artist?” the man prompts, and nods his chin at the pencil case and sketch book clutched in Charles’s hands. There's a prominent mole on his chin, softening the stubborn, square angle of his jaw.
“Starving artist, more like. I'm still at uni. I work here at the hotel. Over the holidays.”
“Hmmm,” the young man hums thoughtfully, and looks Charles up and down again with undisguised interest. Charles wonders what he sees, whether he finds Charles rough or unrefined or maybe attractive. Or possibly all of those.
“I am not supposed to be here when guests are using the library,” Charles sighs, unnerved by the man’s penetrating gaze and his monosyllabic response. He is about to turn around and leave, when the young man’s hand shoots out and catches his sleeve.
“Do not leave because of me,” the handsome stranger says. Then, with an almost impish twinkle in his eye, “I won't tell anyone. The library is big enough for the both of us.” His eyes pointedly sweep the spacious room. Just like all the other rooms, the library is decorated for the season, but the Christmas decorations in here aren't as overboard as everywhere else, probably because the library is so sparsely used. A fir garland is strung over the fireplace and there's a small tree with old-fashioned baubles on a table in a corner, but otherwise the room has been left alone, which makes it even more attractive to Charles. He's not really in a festive mood yet.
“If you don't mind…” Charles agrees hesitantly, looking down at where elegant, neatly manicured fingers are wrapped around his wrist, quite possessively. He can feel their warmth seeping through his sleeve, the touch sending sparks of desire up his spine, making him shiver. Definitely not a ghost. It's ridiculous how instantly attracted he is to the man, even though he doesn't know him.
“I do not mind,” the man insists with teasing superiority, then adds with a pout of impatience, as if he knows he won't be disobeyed, “Sit down.”
When the man pulls back his hand, Charles mourns his touch immediately, and he finds himself reaching out instead, offering his hand.
“Charles Rowland,” Charles offers, holding the man’s gaze for maybe a second too long. Heat flares in his cheeks, because his interest must be plain to read on his face.
After a moment of hesitation, the man grasps his hand, his grip firm, his skin smooth. “Edwin Payne.”
Payne, Charles thinks, startled. There, lounging in an armchair, looking devastatingly beautiful, is the son of Sir Payne, a baronet who is staying with his family in one of the lavish suites in the eastern wing. The Paynes are their most high profile guests at the moment. While interacting with guests is not appreciated, talking to the baronet’s son is definitely off-limits, as are all the filthy thoughts already percolating in Charles’s head due to the prettiness of Edwin's lips.
“I should really- ” Charles starts, and wants to loosen their handshake, but Edwin holds firm.
“I have been rather lonely ever since we came here,” Edwin murmurs with unexpected and disarming openness, still not letting go of Charles’s hand. “I would like some company.” When Charles bites his lips, not knowing how to answer, Edwin suggests, “You may draw, while I read. I do not require entertainment, but I would appreciate not being alone.”
Faced with Edwin's almost pleading expression, none of his initial haughtiness on display, Charles feels his resolve evaporate. “Brills,” he says. “If you insist.”
“I insist,” Edwin confirms, sounding pleased, and to Charles’s regret lets go of Charles’s hand. He wouldn't have been opposed to more hand holding. Edwin is mysterious, clearly intelligent and unfairly gorgeous, or as Crystal would probably say, “total crush material”. Then again, he can imagine them rubbing each other the wrong way - they seem frighteningly alike.
Charles settles in an armchair to Edwin's right and opens his sketchbook, while Edwin curls up in his seat with his long legs folded under him, opening his book again. It's Death on the Nile, and he seems rather absorbed. Charles only saw the Branagh movie with his grandfather, shortly before the man passed away. For a while, Charles busies himself with sketching the grandfather clock in the corner, a Victorian monstrosity with intricate carvings of demonic creatures, ghouls and satyrs. Its soft ticking is the only sound in the room apart from Edwin's steady breathing and the occasional turn of the page.
Charles usually works with paint, but with the rather limited space available in his attic room, he's been honing his skill of observation, filling his sketchbook with still lifes. Sometimes, he brings items to draw with him to the library, arranging them on one of the small tables, observing how the light casts shadows on the objects.
Today, Charles is distracted, finding his gaze drawn towards Edwin again and again. The light illuminates his pale face, catching a few sun-bleached highlights in his otherwise ash-brown hair. Everything about him is neat, except for his extravagant eyebrows and the sensual curve of his mouth. His polished facade makes Charles want to crack him open. He's the most interesting person Charles has met in a long time. Beautiful, haughty, complicated.
Apparently, Edwin feels his intrusive gaze because he looks up, a tilt to his head. “Are you drawing me?” he inquires, curiosity in his voice.
“No!” Charles hastens to say, flushing deeply, and turns around his sketchbook, showing the sketched outlines of the standing clock.
“I would not mind,” Edwin says after a beat, and heat travels through Charles once again as their eyes meet. Edwin's presence is intense, somehow magnetic. Charles wonders if Edwin has that effect on everyone or only on sexually starved, pansexual artists. “You may draw me,” Edwin says, as if he's granting Charles a big favour, and lowers his gaze to his book again.
A tiny smile twitches around his mouth when Charles turns the page in his sketchbook and starts shaping the elegant lines of him on the paper.