Jump to content
Existing user? Sign In

Sign In



Sign Up

Recommended Posts

I promised male-male, and here it is! This is one of at least a half-dozen story ideas that I came up with over the past few weeks. I had another one that I was *sure* I was going to write next, but then literally yesterday, I saw the word "woodcarver," and here we are. (Note to self: it's probably not the best use of mental powers to turn any word into an omo-based story!) 

***

    “Here, darling.” Caroline Docell reached over to straighten her son’s bow tie. 


    Charlie smiled half-heartedly in response, and his mom titled her head sympathetically. 


    “I know, honey,” she assured him. “These thing get exhausting. But it’s good to get to know people, and it’s important for your dad. Besides,“ Caroline continued over Charlie’s resigned sigh, “The Fawcetts have two sons around your age, and I’m sure they’ll be there!”


    Nodding his assent – or at least his desire not to argue – Charlie leaned back against the car seat. Of course he understood the importance of attending these ridiculous galas, these bastions of ostentation. His father’s job as a professional fundraiser depended heavily on knowing “the right people” and “being seen in good circles.” And part of being seen meant showing off his shiny, photogenic family. 


    Marty Docell did make an effort to use his kids judiciously, and it’s not like children were invited to many fêtes or fancy dinners, anyway, but as an 18-year-old senior in high school, Charlie was at a stage where he was fairly discomfited by the preening and pretension. Black-tie dress code, high-ceilinged rooms, vapid conversation…Even the promise of peers (well, people his age, at least) wasn’t particularly enticing. Yes, Charlie had met some good friends and had some valuable commiseration sessions with fellow teens at these type of events throughout the years, but he was just as likely, if not more so, to meet kids who were clearly trying to prove that they belonged in the glitz and glamour – kids whose default posture seemed to require keeping their noses in the air and who followed up initial introductions with overtly esoteric questions about a certain United Nations activity or the economic fluctuations in Laos. 


    Charlie nearly shuddered at the thought. His dad had told him about the Fawcett’s two sons – Wendell and Harrington, names that didn’t exactly inspire confidence in their potential sociability. They were both a bit older than Charlie, a junior and sophomore, respectively, at Georgetown University. Normally, having the chance to talk to two students at Charlie’s dream college would be exciting, but as the sons of one of the wealthiest families in Washington, D.C., there was absolutely no guarantee that they’d gotten in on their own merit. 


    “Ready, team?” Marty gestured out the window as their driver pulled up a tree-lined driveway. 


    Charlie’s heart sank. The mega-mansion that rose up over the hill dashed any hopes he’d allowed himself that this party might not be that bad, that maybe the people would be relatively down-to-earth. Instead, the stone-and-pillar monstrosity said, in no uncertain terms, that this was going to be a gala gala, a proper, high-class function packed with people whose only goal in conversation was to make themselves look good. 


    Both Marty and Caroline looked apologetically at their son, but Charlie just straightened his spine and rolled his head back and forth like a boxer loosening up before a round. He’d done this before, and he could do it again tonight. It would only be a few hours, after all. 


    Smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his tuxedo, Charlie unfolded from the car. The evening wasn’t cold, thankfully, so they had no coats to hand to the event staff. 


    Mr. and Mrs. Fawcett were waiting to greet their line of guests in the entryway. Charlie had a brief vision of a royal court announcer, the kind that would bang a staff on the ground to get the room’s attention before loudly calling the names of all entrants. Charlie smothered a giggle as his parents stepped up to be introduced. 


    “Of course!” Mr. Fawcett bellowed, pumping Marty’s hand enthusiastically. “Wonderful to have you, Martin! I heard about the wonderful work you did for the new psych center out in Arlington.”


    Marty smiled back, just as earnest. “My wife, Caroline,” he gestured, knowing that introduction lines weren’t the place for long conversations, “and my son, Charles.” 


    “Good to have you, welcome, welcome!” Mr. Fawcett beamed as Charlie and Caroline shook the hands of their hosts. “My sons are around here somewhere…” Mr. Fawcett did a quick scan of the room, a task greatly aided by his towering height. “There’s Delly, over there talking to Ambassador Strom-“


    Charlie followed Mr. Fawcett’s eyeline to a young man who could only be described as “strapping,” laughing heartily next to a silver-haired gentleman. 


    “-and Harrington…” Mr. Fawcett trailed off, apparently not seeing his younger son, but recovered quickly. “Well, do enjoy, have some hors d’oeuvres, mingle! I think you’ll find, Marty, that there are some very good people here tonight who would appreciate someone honest to guide them to where their money would be best put to use!”


    Charlie couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows at this seemingly honest assessment, but Marty just smiled and nodded appreciatively, leading his family into the fray. 


    A member of waitstaff appeared out of nowhere, offering bite-sized morsels that probably had very fancy names, while another nameless server offered slim glasses of champagne to the family. Marty glanced at Charlie, silently assenting, should his son want a glass, but Charlie gave his head a little shake. He didn’t particularly like champagne (even, he imagined, obscenely expensive champagne), and he didn’t think alcohol was going to benefit him tonight. 


    It took a few more minutes for another staff member to appear with a tray of water glasses. 


    “Still or sparkling, sir?” 


    “Still, please.” Charlie sipped on his newly-obtained water and looked around the room. Wendell Fawcett (“Delly,” apparently) had moved on from the ambassador, but was putting on a similar performance with a small group of bejeweled women. Charlie had seen enough to decide that he really had no desire to meet Wendell, at least not tonight. Even if he was a decent guy, the elder Fawcett son was clearly in his element schmoozing with Washington society; he wouldn’t be of much social help to Charlie. 


    Seeing no other guests within a solid 20 years of his age (so much for that younger Fawcett), Charlie stuck with his usual game plan of sticking close to his parents, nibbling on the proffered food, and politely responding to the repetitive questions the other adults directed his way. 


    The gala was among the biggest that Charlie could ever remember attending. The house itself was gigantic, and it seemed like the entire first floor was filled with people. The ballroom was teeming with formally-dressed elite, but there were also hundreds of guests throughout the library, the study, the living room…Charlie lot track of the layout of the house as his father wound his way through the crowd, cheerfully talking with potential donors. 


    After about two hours, Charlie found himself shifting from foot to foot. The tedium of the evening was getting to him, but Marty was on a roll. Mr. Fawcett had been right – people were eager to speak to Charlie’s dad and hear about the various projects his company was fundraising for. 


    Absentmindedly, Charlie pulled at his collar. The house climate was well-controlled, but being around hundreds of people for so long was making the air feel thick to Charlie. 


    Like the waitstaff from earlier, Mr. Fawcett was suddenly at Charlie’s elbow, a fascinating feat for such an imposing man. 


    “You know-” Mr. Fawcett leaned down conspiratorially. “-the air is probably a bit cooler down the basement.”


    Charlie looked up the host, choking down a yawn. “Sir?”


    Mr. Fawcett beamed. “You’ve hung in there for quite a while, kid, but it looks like your parents will be busy for quite a bit longer. If you head to the back of the house, past the hallway bathroom, there’s a door that’ll take you downstairs. There’s a game room, a TV room…hell, you can hang out on one of the couches and take a nap!” 


    Charlie’s yawn morphed into an awed sigh. In the back of his mind, he knew that he should politely decline – even at the legal age of adulthood, going unsupervised into an otherwise off-limits area of a host’s home wasn’t exactly peak etiquette – but he desperately wanted a break. Maybe even that suggested nap. 


    Charlie glanced toward his mom, but Caroline was already nodding her approval. Charlie turned back to Mr. Fawcett, eyes wide with gratitude. 


    “Thank you so much, Mr. Fawcett. I really appreciate it.” 


    The genial man clapped Charlie on the back, then pointed him in the direction he had indicated earlier. Charlie didn’t hesitate; he was so ready to not be surrounded by rich adults. He wound his way through the rooms and out to the hallway, which itself was still full of people. He saw a line of people waiting for the bathroom, so he slipped past them and opened the next door to find a well-lit stairway. 


    Charlie shut the door behind him and took a deep breath. The air already felt less close, and the noise of the gala faded with every step. The sudden lack of overwhelming chatter made Charlie feel like he’d stepped into another world. 


    At the bottom of the stairs, he was deposited in a large game room. He walked past two pool tables, a foosball table, and a giant collection of video game consoles. Past the game room was a gym that could’ve easily fit in a swanky hotel, with more cardio machines and weight racks than the family could possibly use. 


    Down the hall from the gym, Charlie found the library and the TV room. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to figure out the massive home theater setup, but before he could figure out what to do (that nap was still a possibility), he heard a small noise coming from the other side of the room.


    There was another door, partially open, on the far wall of the TV room. At first, Charlie assumed it was some sort of pet or other animal. The noises sounded distressed, though quiet. 


    Slowly, Charlie made his way across the room. “Hello?”


    He pushed the door open to find a small workshop of sorts. There was a tall table in the middle of the room, covered in raw pieces of wood, as well as intricate carvings in various stages of completion. The floor was littered with shavings. And in the corner of the room, perched on a stool, was a young man.


    Charlie froze. “Oh, I’m-“


    But he cut himself off as the took in more details of the scene. The young man was tall, but hunched over. He was twitching and making soft, irregular whining noises, as if he couldn’t stop himself. His hands, however, were working diligently and skillfully, whittling away with a sharp knife at a small block of wood. He was still in formal dress, but he bow tie was completely undone, the strip of cloth just hanging around his neck, his shirt was untucked, and his jacket was long gone.


    For a moment, Charlie stood, transfixed by the sight of curls of wood falling from the young man’s hands. The movements were mesmerizing, and Charlie’s mouth hung open slightly. 


    In the next instant, however, Charlie was drawn back by the whimpering. The young man, who could only be Harrington Fawcett, was clearly in distress. 


    “Ah-“ Charlie snapped his mouth shut, unsure of what to say. He was intruding in Harrington’s house, after all. 


    “Are…are you OK, man?” 


    Harrington’s shoulder jerked forward, so Charlie could only assume that he’d heard him, but the young man – boy? – didn’t respond. 


    Charlie frowned. No one had said anything about the younger Fawcett having a disability of some sort, but Harrington wasn’t talking and wasn’t acting in any way that fell within the bounds of typical social interaction. 


    “I…” Charlie was increasingly unnerved. “Hey, I don’t want to bug you, but…”


    Harrington sniffed, and Charlie saw a tear slip down his cheek. His shaking was even more pronounced, to the point where Charlie was surprised he managed to stay on the stool, but his hands never stopped whittling away at the block of wood.


    Thoroughly unprepared for this situation, Charlie tried again. “Look, man, can I get someone for you?”


    Harrington sniffed again, but shook his head vigorously. Charlie let out a slow breath; at least the boy could hear him. 


    “Okaaaaay…” Charlie whispered to himself. He raised his voice to speak to Harrington “Then can I-“


     Charlie stopped himself again as he saw Harrington’s knife-holding hand slip off the block of wood, an uncharacteristic break in the previously-controlled movements. Charlie’s eyebrows drew together with concern. 


    Harrington curled his shoulders forward, and tears started to pour down his face. His body shook with silent sobs. Just as Charlie was about to open his mouth to insist on getting someone to help, he heard another odd sound. A liquid, trickling sort of sound. 


    Charlie didn’t even have time to mentally question the noise before he saw the source – a dark, growing stain down Harrington’s left leg, ultimately dripping off the cuff of his tuxedo pants, creating a puddle on the concrete floor. 


    Blinking in confusion, Charlie glanced up from where his gaze had followed the wet trail down to the floor, and he saw that Harrington had resumed his carving, his hands making quick, frenetic movements, tears still coursing down both of his cheeks. 


    It felt weird and intrusive to watch a college student – a presumably sober one, at that – have an accident, but Charlie figured that leaving or turning around would be even weirder. He settled for looking awkwardly down and to the side. Not that Harrington was looking in his direction, anyway. 


    After several long seconds, the trickling sound stopped, though Charlie could still hear Harrington’s suppressed cries and the sound of the knife working away at the wooden block. 


    Cautiously, Charlie raised his eyes. The scene in front of him was much like it was when he’d first walked through the door – a trembling young man, sitting on a stool, whittling a piece of wood. Only now, there were wet streaks down his face and his pants, and a puddle of urine beneath the stool. 


    Charlie drew in a deep breath. “Harrington?” he said hesitantly. “Do you…can I…” He held his hand out, then dropped it to his side. What do you say to a total stranger who just peed his pants in front of you? 


    Facts, Charlie thought. Stick to the facts. 


    “You can’t just stay like that, dude,” Charlie said gently. “You have to get cleaned up.” 


    Harrington twitched, which Charlie took as another sign of acknowledgement, but didn’t move to get off the stool. 


    Charlie forged on. “Can you go upstairs and change?”


    Tensing all over, Harrington shook his head emphatically, a tight, nervous refusal. 


    “Okay.” Charlie nodded reassuringly. He didn’t understand the man’s reasons, of course, but he was starting to get a picture of Harrington’s behavior. The young man desperately didn’t want to be upstairs in the crowd. Fine. Charlie could deal with that. 


    “Do you have any other clothes down here?” Charlie asked hopefully – maybe a laundry room or something?


    Harrington shook his head, more slowly this time, almost sadly. His tears had slowed but not stopped, and he looked miserable. 


    Charlie was formulating a plan. It wasn’t a very good one, and he wasn’t sure it would work, but the alternative at this point was leaving Harrington alone, which, in Charlie’s mind, wasn’t an option. 


    “Okay, so you can’t go upstairs, and you don’t have any extra clothes down here,” Charlie narrated. 


    Harrington kept carving. 


    “Then I’m going to go upstairs,” Charlie declared. He saw Harrington’s hands pause for just a second, but the young man still didn’t say anything. 


    “I’ll find your room and get you some clean clothes,” Charlie continued. “No one at the party really knows me, so I won’t draw much attention. You can stay here. No one has to know.”


    Harrington’s lower lip trembled, but he didn’t offer any overt dissent of Charlie’s plan. 


    Not quite used to Harrington’s silence – he’d only “known” the guy for about five minutes – Charlie nodded. “I’ll…be back soon.” 


    Making his way back across the extensive basement, Charlie ran his fingers through his hair, dazed at this turn of events. Somehow, he had to sneak up two floors in a giant, unfamiliar house, find the bedroom of a man who he still hadn’t technically confirmed was Harrington Fawcett, grab some clean clothes, and sneak back downstairs, without being seen, or at least without being stopped. He’d started the night thinking he’d spend the whole time making inane small talk with rich, old people, and now, he was on a self-imposed quest for a rich, young person who had wet himself in his own house. 


    Weird. 


    Charlie paused at the top of the stairs to make sure his tuxedo was still presentable, knowing that any signs of dishevelment would only draw attention. He slipped out the door into the still-crowded hallway, not making any eye contact. 


    He knew that there was a grand staircase in the entryway, but Charlie also figured there would be some sort of back set of stairs. Relying on nothing more than educated guesses, he made his way toward the back of the house. There were still plenty of people, but the crowd thinned a bit as Charlie approached the kitchen. He stuck his head through the doorway and nearly gasped with relief when he saw a set of stairs going up in the fair corner.


    Charlie didn’t hesitate as he strode across the room. There were a few catering staff, but Charlie correctly assumed that they were all hired from an external company and had no real interest in policing the boundaries of the party.


    Up the stairs, Charlie found himself in a long hallway. The doors were all shut, but it was quiet; Charlie could only hope the lack of noise meant a total lack of people. 


    Seeing no other option, Charlie tried one door at a time, pausing to listen before he opened each one. The first six doors seemed to be four guest bedrooms – well-decorated, but no personal touches – with guest bathrooms between each pair. The next rooms were an office of some sort and another TV room. 


    Charlie closed his eyes in frustration after shutting the door of the TV room. Who really needed all these rooms, anyway? Whatever happened to the upstairs just being bedrooms? 


    He turned the corner at the end of the hallway and continued trying doors. A bathroom, then a bedroom that Charlie gazed around a bit before deciding it must be Wendell’s. It was larger than any of the guest rooms, but the collection of politically-based books on the bookshelf looked like they belonged to the young man who was easily hobnobbing in the party, not to his younger brother who was hiding in the basement. 


    With a sigh, Charlie closed the bedroom door and tried the one across the hall. 


    Bingo. 


    Harrington’s room was covered in models and wood carvings. It was slightly messier than Wendell’s room, but not a disaster by any means. It just looked like more of a haven, a place that was Harrington’s own in the midst of the carefully-curated mansion. 


    Charlie leaned over the windowsill for a moment, admiring the carvings lined up there. Harrington really was talented. Still, Charlie wasn’t here to snoop; he had a job. 


    Charlie quickly rifled through the wardrobe, settling on a pair of plaid pajama pants. He grabbed a pair of underwear from the top drawer, marveling briefly at the continued oddity of the situation, then folded his stash under his tuxedo jacket and headed back downstairs. 


    Maintaining his practice of not looking anyone in the eye, Charlie strode across the kitchen and back to the hallway with the basement door. He didn’t see anyone he knew (which really, only consisted of his parents and the Fawcetts), and none of the other guests seemed to care about the shifty teenager winding through their midst. 


    Breathing a sigh of relief, Charlie shut the basement door behind him and bound down the stairs. His part of the mission was essentially done. He made his way across the basement, pausing at the kitchenette in the theater room. On a whim, he grabbed some paper towels and ran them under some water in the sink. He hadn’t thought to grab soap or a washcloth upstairs, but he figured Harrington should probably clean up a bit before putting on dry clothes. 


    Back in the wood shop, Harrington hadn’t moved, although, Charlie had to admit, he did look calmer. He’d stopped crying, and his breathing was more even. He was still working on his carving, but his hands looked less tense. 


    “Here.” Charlie pulled the pants and underwear out from under his jacket and set them on the edge of the table along with the damp paper towels. 


    “I’ll…” Charlie knew he really couldn’t do anything else – lead a horse to water and all that – but he didn’t want to just leave Harrington alone completely. “I’ll be in the theater room if you need anything else.”


    True to his word, Charlie settled in one of the corners of the huge sectional couch. He still didn’t want to mess with the TV, so he just pulled out his phone. 


    It didn’t take quite as long as Charlie implicitly expected – maybe 15 minutes or so – for Harrington to emerge. Really, Charlie hadn’t been sure that the boy would leave the workshop at all. 


    But leave he did, in just a white t-shirt and the pajama pants that Charlie had collected. His hair was mussed, and his eyes were puffy, but he didn’t look nearly as anguished as he had when Charlie first encountered him. 


    Charlie glanced up, but didn’t move from the couch. He had no precedent for this situation, and he didn’t want to do anything to make Harrington more uncomfortable. 


    The younger Fawcett son sat in the opposite corner of the couch, curling his long legs in front of him. For a couple more minutes, he stayed silent, and Charlie went back to scrolling through his phone. 


    “Thank you.” 


    Charlie nearly jumped. Harrington’s voice was quiet, but much deeper than Charlie had expected. He looked up. Harrington was worrying the hem of his shirt between his fingers, head down.


    “No worries, man,” Charlie replied, sincerely. “Like I said, I didn’t mean to barge in on you like that.” 


    Harrington was quiet for a few more moments. Charlie wanted to stare at him, to try to figure out exactly what was going on with this otherwise privileged young man. But he just went back to his phone, barely paying attention to the images on the screen. 


    “The parties are really hard for me.” 


    Charlie looked up again. Harrington still wasn’t looking at him, but he breathed in deliberately, as if he was going to keep talking. 


    “I…” Harrington wound the hem of his shirt around his thumb. “Even when I was little, I didn’t like them. The noise and the closeness…I used to put my hands over my ears and cry.” 


    Slowly, so as not to make any noise that might interrupt his companion’s story, Charlie slid his phone back in his pocket.

 
    “My parents were always really good about it,” Harrington continued. “They wanted me to be there, obviously, but they understood that it was hard. It wasn’t just parties, but the events were the worst. They took me to therapy. It never seemed to bother them that I needed a shrink.”


    “…wonderful work you did for the new psych center…” Charlie recalled Mr. Fawcett’s introductory praise for Marty, which suddenly made a lot more sense. 


    “I want to be good at it,” Harrington sighed. “But the whole gala experience makes me feel awful. My head hurts and my stomach feels weird and I want to claw my skin off. So my parents made me a deal, years ago: I would make an appearance, get dressed up, and then I could sneak off and hide.”


    By this time, Charlie had turned so that his whole body was facing Harrington. 


    “I don’t-“ Harrington’s voice caught, and he took a breath to compose himself. “Tonight was really bad. They’re not usually this hard, but there were so many people, and they all wanted to talk to me, and Senator Smallwood kept giving me champagne, and his wife kept touching my arm…”


    Harrington trailed off, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, and Charlie felt a deep hatred for this couple he’d never met. 


    “I left as soon as I could,” Harrington went on, his voice wet. “I came down here because the woodwork usually calms me down, doing something with my hands, but-“ 


    He choked up again, and Charlie wanted to tell him that it was OK, he really didn’t need an explanation, but his own voice betrayed him. 


    “There’s no bathroom down here,” Harrington explained, a quirk that Charlie had noticed. “It’s weird, but it’s usually not a problem, because there’s one right at the top of the stairs, but-“

 
    A single tear slid down Harrington’s cheek, a relic of the anxiety and humiliation of the evening. “I couldn’t make myself go back upstairs, and then it got worse, and then I really couldn’t go upstairs, because someone would see me having to pee, and I just…”


    “It’s okay, man,” Charlie insisted earnestly, finally finding his voice. “No one saw, no one has to know.”


    Harrington finally looked up, blinking tears out of his shining eyes. “I just…I just wanted to thank you. I wanted you to know that I don’t just…” Harrington hung his head again. “…tonight was really bad,” he finished softly. 


    Sensing that the story was over, Charlie wanted to give the young man a hug. Or deliver him to his mom for a hug. Something. But they were still strangers, and Charlie had heard enough to realize that human touch may not be super comforting to Harrington, so he settled for verbal reassurance. 


    “It’s really fine,” he assured the ashamed young man sitting across from him. “It’s no big deal, and I promise, I won’t tell anyone.” Charlie offered a hesitant smile. “I was coming down here to escape, too. I was super grateful your dad suggested it.” 


    Harrington looked up again, smiling weakly in return. “He’s a good guy,” he said, and Charlie could see how much the young man truly loved his father. “He probably wanted you to check on me.” 


    Charlie shrugged ruefully. In all honestly, he would have done a lot more than what the past half hour had encompassed in order to escape the gala. “I’m glad I could help.” 


    He sat up a bit straighter, realizing a gaping hole in the conversation. “I’m Charlie, by the way. Charlie Docell.”


    Harrington’s eyes widened at the social oversight. “Oh! I’m-“


    “Harrington Fawcett,” Charlie interrupted, grinning. “I figured that much.” 


    Harrington dipped his head slightly and reached for the remote to turn on the TV. “It’s nice to meet you Charlie. It’s nice to have someone to wait out the rest of the party with.” 


    He flipped something in Charlie's direction, and Charlie's hand closed reflexively around a small, wooden figure - the carving Harrington had been working on. It was an owl, covered in intricate feathers, so detailed that Charlie felt guilty just holding it. 

    "Wow," he breathed. "This is awesome, man." 


    Harrington shrugged off the compliment, but smiled nonetheless. He turned on the TV, signaling an end to his introductory confessional. “And you can call me Harry.” 
 

Link to comment
  • 2 years later...

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.
Note: Your post will require moderator approval before it will be visible.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    • No registered users viewing this page.
×
×
  • Create New...