Abel Evans happened easier than expected or planned. In fact, for half of it, the conversation carried by itself, without anything past a couple of passing thoughts about how he was fairly hot. The first time they talked, Abel offered to be there for Carol, if Carol wanted to talk about the things haunting him. He never called him. He still didn’t want to talk about those things – not talk about them, at least.
Still, he remembered, sixteen months later, when bumping into Abel. About the hypothetical get-well-soon flowers, too. The hospital visit, completely unplanned. He remembered that night, as he was unbuttoning Abel’s shirt, hands shaking just slightly against skin that was so new to him. It all made some sort of bigger sense, a red thread Carol could only see when wearing the rose-colored glasses of infatuation.
The novelty was stunning when the realization momentarily slipped into his mind, in bits. Carol did not hesitate through the intrusive thoughts. Flashes of Rio, now of Holland, now of himself in this new light. His life did not feel like his own. His hands resting at the base of Abel’s neck had not looked like his own. Carol did not recognize the scent of his lips. He’d never been touched like that, either. Odd. Odd, odd, odd. But desire ate away the oddity. It silenced it for the moment. Abel’s face was louder than all the other ghosts he’d loved.
And now, bumping into each other again, this time in the Tower, did simulate a heart rush, some sort of shameless fluster as he grinned with all his teeth, in greeting. So Carol sat directly next to the mentor, his chin falling into his palm as he turned towards him. “You should have called me,” Carol cheekily called out.