#m;charly

[ladymidnightwrites-blog]

[jutta/charly] "I don't belong here."

“You do, I am here, and you belong where I am. We belong together Jutta, you are my sister. Please, it will be alright, I will help with anything there is, ich verspreche.”

[ladymidnightwrites-blog]

[bret/charly] [text] Have fun tonight!!!

[text] thank you!!!

[text] I wish you could be here, that would be nice. We miss you though!

[ladymidnightwrites-blog]

bret/charly + ☺

Charly had been having a really terrible day. First she’d burnt her hand at work, misjudging how hot the metal jug of steamed milk would be, and had spent the rest of her shift handling cups of tea and coffee with extreme care, not without dropping a few. Her boss had let her go home early, with a disappointed look on his face, and Jutta had wordlessly sent her a look which told her that it’d be okay, and she’d be home soon. She shot her back a grateful look, finding comfort in the way that they could tell each other things without really needing to say anything. But then when she’d got home, she’d picked up Friedhelm’s guitar, she’d never call it hers, it would always remind her of him. It was getting old, it had been old anyway, but miles of travel and the sea air in Wellington had worn into the wood and the strings were thinning in places, she knew she ought to take it somewhere to get it fixed up, but she couldn’t. She was scared that once she did that it wouldn’t be his anymore, it would be changed forever and when she played it, she wouldn’t feel like he was there anymore. She wished she hadn’t been so stubborn, because no sooner had she begun to pluck out a few chords, the fourth string snapped, flicking her in the eye, and hanging limp across her leg.

Covering her sore eye with one hand, she stared at the neck of the guitar with its missing string, feeling her eyes sting, both from pain and a bitter sadness she couldn’t keep in. Sniffing to keep herself from sobbing, she laid the guitar down on the sofa and made her way over to the sink, trying to splash cold water into her burning eye like it might help. A knock at the door made her jump, and she hurried to turn off the tap, not having time to pick up a towel to dry her face.

“Bret!” she said in surprise, her face still dripping and one hand still over her eye, the tall blonde man was standing in the hallway outside the apartment she and Jutta shared, “What are you doing here?”

“Jutta text me that you had a bad day at work, I thought you might want some company,” he said smiling, then he noticed her wet face and her hand over her eye, and opened his mouth, presumably to ask her what had happened. But before he could Charly had wrapped her arms around his torso, and buried her face into his chest, her lips trembling in an effort to stop herself from crying. “It has been a bad day Bret,” she told him, sighing heavily, and proceeded to tell him how she was worried they wouldn’t let her play at the coffee shop anymore, or worse she might be fired, and then pointed at the guitar that lay discarded on the sofa. 

“We can fix this, don’t worry, I know a place,” Bret said, stroking the back of her head, “Your eye looks sore though, is it ok?”

“Yes, yes it is fine,” she said nodding, moving away and wiping her eyes.

Bret picked up the guitar, and took Charly by the hand to a music shop he went to a few streets over. The man there had given the battered, aged guitar a disparaging look, but Charly had told him as firmly as she could manage that she like the way it looked and just wanted it to be playable, and the two Germans had stood and watched as the man replaced the strings, and straightened out the dents. Bret had even paid for it all, saying she could pay him the money back later.

“Thank you,” she told him, as he handed over the money and the man in the shop passed her the newly spruced up guitar and an extra set of strings. Awkwardly, thanks to the guitar she was holding, she did her best to pull him into a one armed hug, pressing a swift kiss to his mouth, “I’ll write you a song one day.”