Charles whose dad smashed his cassette tape with a hammer learns to navigate the backpack cause, like, he needs to be useful, yeah?
and this way Charles has everything Edwin needs, and if Edwin gets sick of him he’ll just.. he doesn’t know what he’ll do.
but then Edwin gets the record player.
he suggests, tentatively, that Charles might play some of his “queen” if he liked. after all, if they are to haunt potential realtors away from their new office, they may as well entertain themselves.
so they take turns, switching out; edwin likes opera. he shows Charles how to waltz, chiding Charles to stop looking at his feet til they’re gliding, whirling around like they’re in the movies. Edwin’s smile is small and pleased and lovely. (Charles attempt to get Edwin to headbang along to queen results in a sort of awkward rhythmic nodding. Charles loves him so much he could die again.)
And, like. Edwin doesn’t like clutter. he doesn’t bother with the random tidbits ghosts give them for solving cases.
now he comes back from trading at the goblin market with little useless things—a cursed rubix cube, records from bands Charles mentioned years ago.
Charles is so busy trying to subtly read his book on Edwardian courting rituals (disguised by Nikos discreet manga covers) that he doesn’t realize what Edwin’s set down in front of him. he stares at Edwin’s spiky handwriting, the tidy numbered list.
“I thought, perhaps, that we might—start a new tradition.”
Charles blinks, eyes stinging. “Mate, did you.. make me a mixtape?”
“Crystal assisted me, and while she was absolutely insuffer—“ Edwin staggers, catching him with a surprised little noise.
“I love you so much,” Charles says, muffled into his throat. “You’re my favorite person. I love you so much it hurts, sometimes.”
“Yes,” Edwin says softly, hands curling around his waist. He takes Charles weight like it’s nothing. “I believe I know the feeling.”
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