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This must be catharsis, Pim thinks, feeling the welcome weight of Charlie leaning against him. Nothing about this situation is ideal, but Pim isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
It's a pitch-black night in the beginning of January, and their work van is stranded northward on I-95. There's a raging blizzard outside–earlier, at Charlie's strong insistence, they foolishly began their journey home right after their job for the night was complete, rather than waiting or booking a hotel. Their attempt to beat the storm was in vain; the slick surfaces and the company van's lack of Stabilitrak caused it to shudder and skid to a halt, veering onto the shoulder of the icy highway–and now, as the two sit huddled in the backseat of the shitbox with a barely functioning heater, the storm continues to rage on.
It's a little past midnight, now–and even after frantic calls to their coworkers to come rescue them, they'll be stuck here for at least another two hours before they get there.
Even still, Pim relishes the opportunity. Charlie had crawled out of Hell and back to life last week. Tonight was his first day back on the job. It still felt surreal to Pim; to have someone he held dear ripped away from him, only to materialize a few days later with a deeper understanding of kindness (sans his clothes). Pim was the most miserable he'd ever been those days, but strangely, getting Charlie back was the most complicated blessing of his life. Just as he'd gravely accepted that he'd never be able to get closer to Charlie, seeing his casket lifted down into to earth–
“M'sorry.”
Charlie's voice breaches the tepid silence, halting any spiraling thoughts. Pim cranes his neck to face him, and he wonders if Charlie can read his mind before remembering the situation at hand. Charlie's breath escapes his lips in a little puff at the end of the word, and Pim suppresses a sigh of relief after seeing it ebb away into the dry, icy air. He's really breathing, Pim thinks, taking in the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest; he prays that if this was some kind of cruel dream, that he could wake up now, to avoid the taunt from the devil himself that Charlie could possibly still be gone.
Pim sucks in a timid breath, and the bite of the frigid air filling his lungs is enough to convince him that this is reality.
“You've got nothing–literally nothing–at all to be sorry for, Charlie,” he affirms meekly.
“I know–I know, man, it's just–” Charlie sighs sharply, shoulders tensing. “--If it wasn't for my stupid ass idea, we wouldn't be stuck in the middle of bumfuck Pennsylvania in the first place–during a fuckin’ blizzard, no less–and it's just–”
“Don't worry about it, I promise it's fine,” Pim says. He feigns a kind smile, eyes drifting out to the raging snowstorm ahead. Any visible ground is covered in a blanket of white, pillowy snow. “I'm just–I'm just glad you aren't, y'know… dealing with this alone.”
With the pretense of a physical boundary severed by the deathly cold air, he presses back into Charlie for a second, his head lingering just below his shoulder. His cheek smushes against the sleeve of his hoodie, and the familiar smell of Old Spice, dryer lint, and a faint lining of whatever indica strain he smokes flows into his nostrils. It grounds him; relief washes over him in droves, and he figures he might cry from the sheer force of it.
“...Me too.” Charlie mumbles the words, quiet yet laced with sincerity. Pim feels a large arm work his way around his back–warm and solid and alive–and he nearly startles from the contact.
“It's cold,” Charlie explains, softly and plainly, and Pim can hear the shivering of his teeth accompanying the words. The contact feels different this time. Whereas their previous daps, “bro hugs”, and friendly pecks to the face were all too chaste, this was something completely foreign for Charlie. His hand grips Pim's side, and his arm presses into him with everything he has.
While Pim is almost certain it was purely out of survival, the comfort of it is almost too much to bear.
And yet, Pim finds himself wanting more–to bore himself flush to Charlie, to open his brain and glimpse the things he thinks about. He wants to memorize the feeling of Charlie's body against his own; to press his chest to his and melt the jagged icicles around his heart.
Pim swallows around the lump in his throat, and selfishly takes the dive into frigid waters.
“Charlie, can we lay down?”
“Huh?” Charlie shifts in his seat to face Pim. “I mean, yeah, sure–but how are we gonna find the room to–”
In one gentle motion, Pim pushes Charlie to lean against the side door, turning his shoulders to better face him. He crawls in his lap, arms wrapping comfortably and perfectly around Charlie's broad waist.
“Oh–oh,” Charlie sputters. He hesitates. “Should I, uh–”
“Hug me, I'm getting cold…” Pim mumbles indignantly, and he can practically feel the warmth radiating off of Charlie's flushed face onto his doubly shaking form.
Charlie obliges. His arms wrap around Pim's small body and he sinks down to a laying position. His knees are bent slightly to fit across the seat, but Pim's smaller legs drape between them like they were meant to fit together.
Pim shivers as Charlie's large thumb twitches awkwardly, tracing some kind of pattern onto his side. Pim copies the pattern, brushing Charlie's back with gentle fingertips; the quiet tap, tap, tap of Charlie's pacemaker quickens at the touch.
Pim stifles a giggle, despite it all–his own best friend, getting worked up over cuddling him?
“Shut the fuck up,” Charlie mutters, but his voice is warm in the cold air and his hold tightens around Pim.
It's silent for a minute. Pim feels himself drift into the calming waves of rest as his nerves subside, resisting all urges to burrow under Charlie's hoodie and make himself a home there. He's lulled by the patter of snow on the roof and the gentle moonlight which, ironically, illuminates the edges of Charlie's silhouette like a halo.
He hears Charlie take a labored breath.
“I'm glad I didn't lose you, Pim,” he says, voice uncharacteristically timid. “I… fuck, I don't know what I'd do without you…”
“What–” Pim perks up to point his eyes at Charlie. “I'm the one who should be saying that! I watched you–dissappear…”
“God, I know–it's just,” he narrows his eyes, “Okay–y'know my uncle, right?”
Pim nods inquisitively, and Charlie continues. “He–he told me that if I was gonna die, that I shouldn't die with any regrets. And,” he swallows thickly, “when I did… die, that day, and when I was in Hell, the only thing I could think about was how I regretted treating you like shit before it happened. I know you said you forgive me, and I'm trying to forgive myself, but…” He sighs again. “That's no way to treat someone you care about. I screwed up, and I almost lost you for good.”
Pim smiles softly, squeezing Charlie's torso. “I know… I'm still coming to terms with it myself, but we're here now, right? That's all that matters to me.”
Charlie draws in another shaky breath, cheeks adorably flushed from the prolonged contact. “I'm not done, Pim. I'm…” He shuts his eyes tight, the incessant tap, tap, taps working overtime. “Promise you won't get weirded out by this?”
Pim's breath catches as he nods, a nervous knot tying in his stomach.
Charlie sighs, eyes fluttering open to meet Pim's own.
“I… think I'm in love with you, man. Like, the sappy, gay sorta way where I wanna hug and kiss you and be with you all the time n’ shit.” He furrows his brow. “I coulda said that better. I'm no good with this shit. But… there's no fuckin’ way I'm dying right now without telling you that. So, if we somehow both freeze to death out here…” His eyes shimmer with sincerity–they're half-lidded, but his pupils are wide as saucers. “...I'll die without any regrets, because now you know that I love you, man.”
Pim's world, once suspended perfectly in orbit, is now careening through space. This is the fantasy he's always dreamed of, above any forest or adventure he could possibly think of. Everything weighing on his heart comes to light all at once, and it's much too strong to communicate. The knot in his stomach unfurls at the revelation, a fuzzy, fluttery feeling spreading across his entire body.
Pim simply hums happily, too lost for words to respond. He resorts to craning his head up to kiss Charlie's cheek, which with the numbness from the cold is more of a brushing of lips against warm, searing skin. His eyesight wobbles as tears start to sting the corners of his eyes, and–
“Pim–hey, man, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he sniffles, “um, I’m just really, really happy…”
He feels Charlie's chest fall with a relieved sigh. Charlie's breath flows warm against Pim's face as he wordlessly brings his hand up to cradle his head.
Pim feels himself melt in his hold, wet tears leaking from his eyes. He figures he looks ugly right now but he doesn't give a damn, not as he feels himself dissolve into catharsis–he was right, earlier.
Eventually, when the gentle tears subside, Pim lifts his head to meet Charlie's eyes. He's absolutely in awe of the dazed, starstruck look on his face, his cheeks burning a brilliant vermilion.
“Are you still cold, Charlie?” Pim asks, voice unnaturally low. He moves his hand to cup his bristly cheek.
Charlie's breath catches, the tension between them thick with fervent breaths. “Yeah… yeah, I am.”
Without lingering for another moment, Pim rocks forward to press a clumsy kiss to Charlie's mouth. Charlie sighs into the kiss, tilting his head up to make a firmer seal.
It ends quicker than it started, lips separating with a satisfying smack; they're both still panting from the rush, their breath being traded back and forth in quick gasps.
“I, um…” Pim starts, a smile burning into his cheekbones, “I love you too, by the way, if that wasn't made clear.”
Charlie's lips tighten in a poorly contained snicker, the joyful noise fanning his hot breath across Pim’s face. “No shit, really?”
Charlie’s laughter, full of the simple joy that Pim knows he has the capacity for, is more than enough to warm him up from the cold.
Eventually, Allan pulls up in his old Corolla, eyes sagging with sleep deprivation and poorly disguised concern. The ride back is mostly quiet, only populated by the road noise, muffled prog rock, and the occasional chattering of voices and of teeth. Charlie stays right by Pim's side, his large hand discreetly enveloping Pim’s smaller one, and Pim feels himself drift off into sleep periodically to the lullaby of tires rumbling against pavement.
If Allan notices Pim resting his head on Charlie's shoulder for much longer than could possibly be warranted, he doesn't say anything at all.