Jun-03

Chapter 24

June 2003

* * *

"And that doesn't seem unusual to you? That you've never seen him with a girl or heard him talk about one?"

"Not at all!" she exclaimed defensively. After a short pause, she continued somewhat hesitantly. "George, you know that not everyone prefers a companion of the opposite sex, right?" – George & Annie: An Unofficial Biography, Chapter 54

* * *

"Nea Charlie spune, 'Atingeţi stomac.'"

Twin boys and their equally ginger toddler sister began rubbing their stomachs, giggling with pride in their cleverness for understanding such a special new game. Charlie had begun it to keep them occupied while Granny Molly finished the washing up in the kitchen nearby. Grandpa Arthur dozed in a chair in a far corner while their mother, Annie, bathed baby Harriet Jane in a little tub on the dining table.

"Nea Charlie spune, 'Atingeţi urechii.'"

The children stuck grubby little fingers into their ears, then looked at Charlie expectantly.

"Nea Charlie spune, 'Atingeţi barba.'"

After a surreptitious glance at Sasha, who'd begun stroking his closely-trimmed beard upon command, little Merrie began petting her own smooth, freckly cheeks, giggling.

"Not fair!" little Arthur cried.

"We haven't got beards!" his twin, Fred, protested.

"Does that mean I win?" Sasha cried, making a show of being delighted.

Merrie clapped her hands and babbled something that sounded congratulatory.

"You can't tell us to touch things we haven't got!" Art insisted, fists on hips.

"No more telling us to flap our wings or twitch our tails either, Uncle Charlie," Fred added, the epitome of seriousness.

Charlie sighed dramatically. "Very well, bossy fwoopers. How about this, then? Nea Charlie spune, 'Roti!'"

The three children eagerly spun themselves senseless. Two-year-old Merrie toppled first in a heap of giggles, only to be rescued by Nea Charlie and planted onto sofa cushions. Her almost five-year-old brothers collided with each other soon after, laughing raucously at Sasha's mincing performance of an ungraceful pirouette, very much resembling a dancing bear.

"Demolare Sasha!"

Charlie's diminutive minions obeyed, launching themselves at Sasha in a futile attempt to knock him down. As expected, his partner stood solid as a tree trunk as the children dangled from him, the tent ringing with their laughter.

"I win!" he announced in a booming voice. "He didn't say, 'Nea Charlie!"

Emerging from the children's bedroom, George signaled to catch Charlie's attention. He pointed at the children, then closed his eyes and laid his head on his hands, miming sleep.

With a nod of acknowledgement, he said, "Nea Charlie spune, 'Sa adoarma.'"

The three children whined disappointedly when Sasha closed his eyes and began to snore loudly whilst standing up.

"If you behave a little less like hyperactive jarveys and a little more like proper human children, perhaps Uncle Charlie will play again tomorrow," George mildly scolded them as he herded his reluctant offspring toward their bedroom.

Charlie nearly laughed out loud to hear George, of all people, attempt to correct anyone's behavior. "So says the king of all hyperactive, foul-mouthed jarveys," he chuckled low.

George shot him a smirk for being so helpful.

"I want to play 'Aceasta dragon este' next time," Fred announced, summoning his little Romanian Longhorn model from underneath Grandpa Arthur's chair, which uttered a high-pitched growl in protest.¹

"Look, mine's still red," Art exclaimed proudly as they ducked into the bedroom at last.

"You call that red? It's hardly pink," Fred contradicted him from behind the canvas wall.

"Beds. Now," George ordered patiently, repossessing the dragon toys and sending them back out of contention onto the dining table for the evening. Once the room divider flap fell, the common area grew significantly quieter.

Charlie and Sasha sank into the small sofa near the open front flap, sipping from bottles of butterbeer, the better to catch a few breezes. They'd joined the camping Weasley family for dinner that evening, as the Chinese researchers staying with them in the keeper's hut tended to take over the little kitchen there at mealtimes with their woks and such (not that dinner in the tent with four adults and four children under the age of five was anything less than chaotic). Plus, Molly had brought along a full pantry of foodstuffs (all very cleverly squirreled away in a ridiculously small knapsack – a charm of Hermione's doing, he'd been told), apparently unsatisfied with her previous experience with Charlie's culinary efforts. She'd outdone herself that evening, as expected, making a delectable shepherd's pie and rhubarb crumble with fresh cream for dessert.

Gazing at the incongruously ruddy Longhorn models, Charlie found it a little unnerving how easily George's twin sons had magically altered their dragon toys' appearances on command. He'd begun the game of using descriptive words about the toy creatures in order to teach them a bit more Romanian – another thing they picked up alarmingly quickly – only instead of correcting his error when he'd described the dark green dragons as being red, they'd simply changed them to match his description. He'd never expected the children to wandlessly turn the damn things different colors! He'd read the reports of their precociousness in letters from home before this, but had always chalked it up to typical proud grandparents overzealously bragging about their little dears... until that impromptu demonstration, that is.

George had been disturbingly insistent about bringing his family and their parents here to Romania, more than once dropping the guilt-laden line that since Charlie refused to come to England to see them anymore, they'd have to go to the mountain themselves, so to speak. But as anxious as Charlie had been about the invasion (and guilty for being caught bang to rights by his brother regarding his avoidance), the visit had been going splendidly: George's family had been eager to explore the reservation, and Charlie'd been pleased to show it off to them. He supposed it also helped immensely that their guests had brought their own accommodations with them this time, rather than attempting to cram into the keeper's hut.

Even so, Molly had done her utmost to badger, scold, and shame Charlie into a marriage of his own at every manufactured opportunity. It was only slightly funny how she'd included Sasha as a target this time, prodding him to drag Charlie out to the local pubs and scare up some female companionship together. Considering the relatively recent showdown between Sasha and Ileana, Charlie was impressed by Sasha's ability to shrug Molly's comments off, for the most part. But just like she'd done every time Charlie came back to Britain, just as she'd done in every letter she'd ever owled him, Molly had expressed her continuing deep disappointment.

"Don't let her get to you," Sasha had counseled him innumerable times over the past few days.

"I'll try," Charlie had sighed in reply, usually massaging aching temples as he did.

Charlie was jolted out of his unpleasant reverie when he noticed Annie making a determined beeline toward him. "Take her for a second, will you?" she pleaded, foisting the towel-wrapped six-month-old he almost shared a birthdate with into his arms.

"Erm... but..." Charlie glanced around, thinking surely someone else was more qualified for the job. But his mother was still in the kitchen tidying up, his father asleep, and his brother busy putting the other children to bed.

"Please, I'm desperate for a wee!" Annie whispered, fairly dancing on the balls of her feet. "I'll be less than a minute, I swear!"

Before he could verbalize an answer, his face must've telegraphed his reluctant acquiescence, for Annie darted off in the direction of the tent's loo. He looked down at the nearly weightless bundle of rosy-cheeked baby now filling his arms, and Harriet Jane turned her muddy-blue eyes up to him. Gnawing wetly on her own fist, she made a few quiet sounds of enjoyment, perfectly contented.

Instantly, Charlie was thrown back in time to his own boyhood, taken over by memories triggered by the sight of her. I was nine years old when Ginny was this age, he marveled, recalling the last time he'd held a baby. He and Bill had often shared the duty of hauling their baby sister around while their mother was occupied with household chores. She looks so much like Ginny did: those big eyes, soft little wisps of ginger hair on top...

He shifted her slightly while careful to keep her fragile head and neck supported, improving both their comfort levels, and she kicked out against the towel with enthusiasm, grinning toothlessly. His curiosity got the better of him, and he gently stroked Harriet's head, his roughened fingertips grazing the pulsing spot atop her skull, astonished by the silken softness of her. Such a pretty little thing!

He heard a quiet, mostly smothered snort. A quick glance at Sasha made Charlie smile: he was utterly gobsmacked at the sight of his partner cradling an infant so expertly. "Want a turn?" he chuckled.

Sasha lifted his wide-round eyes from the baby to him, his gaze half alarmed, half amused. "No, thank you," he replied politely.

"I'm done!" Annie called softly from the loo door over the sound of running water.

Charlie turned to see her dashing back toward them. "No hurry," he assured her, smiling easily. "I haven't dropped her yet."

"Come back to Mummy, Janie, love," Annie cooed, reaching out for her with a grateful smile.

Then Charlie accidentally caught sight of his mother looking at him from the kitchen, wearing a wickedly smug smile, and his heart froze. Oh, shit, he thought, This isn't good. Hastily handing the baby off to her mother and making a quick promise to meet up again the next day after breakfast, Charlie and Sasha both took their leave before Molly could say a word.

Walking back to the keeper hut beneath a stunning jewel of a twilight sky, Charlie thought back to that afternoon. He'd taken George and his young family over to keeper hut number three to meet Flaviu and Freya and their daughter, Ihrin, who was almost four. George's children immediately set to romping about with little Ihrin, forming an unfettered, joyous friendship despite the language barrier and age difference between them. Nearby the hut was one of the last remaining snowbanks of the summer, and the children's game of chase ultimately devolved into an epic snowball battle between the two families involving all four parents, everyone laughing uproariously by the cataclysmic end.

"Is there something wrong with us that we don't want this?" Charlie asked Sasha, honestly curious.

"Want what?" Sasha asked warily.

Charlie glanced over his shoulder back at the tent. "Growing up, you'd never meet a more immature, frivolous git as my brother George used to be," Charlie explained. "He and Fred were constantly goofing off, playing pranks, never taking anything seriously."

"He still seems very lighthearted and fun-loving to me," Sasha suggested, smiling.

"Oh, he is," Charlie conceded. "But it's different now. Tempered, somehow. Not quite so driven or reckless." He's more gentle. The teasing's not so hard-edged anymore. He's learned when to ease off...

"You think perhaps the loss of his twin caused such a change in him?" Sasha offered.

"It certainly affected him deeply," Charlie agreed, recalling that awful melancholy period George and, to a lesser extent, his wife had suffered after Fred's death. "But this change – the one from anything-for-a-laugh court jester to devoted husband and father – began well before Fred was killed. That can't be the only explanation."

Sasha shrugged. "What does it matter the why or how? He seems contented to me."

"But that's exactly what I'm talking about!" Charlie said. "He's so brazenly happy with his home a mere stone's throw away from the Burrow, tied down to a wife and four kids and joke shop, despite Fred's being gone. Is that what being married does for you?"

"You and I both know the world is full of miserable marriages," Sasha replied. "I suspect such happiness as your brother's has more to do with being partnered with the right person, in doing what he feels called to do. He and his little wife are very well suited, and you've said the joking business was his destiny from a young age. His children are therefore an extension of that happiness, an amplification of it rather than a burden."

"Do you ever wish for any of it, though?" Charlie pressed. "Marriage? Fatherhood?"

Sasha stared up at the brilliant midsummer sky. "I have never felt sexually attracted to a woman – is this the validation you're seeking, love?"

"That's an evasion, not an answer," Charlie grumbled.

Sasha huffed. "It's something of a moot point, isn't it? Considering my confession." After a brief pause, during which time they'd reached their hut, Sasha asked softly, "Are you unhappy without those things, Charlie?"

Charlie thought for a moment, standing just outside their door. Did he want children? A run-of-the-mill, "normal" job? The thought of either left him feeling cold, unmoved. He was pleased for George's happiness, but not jealous of it. "No."

Sasha laid a strong hand on his shoulder. "Did holding that baby make you wonder if you'd made a wrong choice to be with me?"

"That's not it at all," Charlie assured him. "I honestly don't want what George has – a wife, a family, a business. But I'm wondering... why don't I? They seem so happy, George and Annie. All my brothers and sister. Even my mum and dad. The world considers such a life the best one can aspire to – certainly the norm, anyway. If I told my mother that I was getting married tomorrow to some woman – any woman – she'd be over the moon with glee.

"And yet... I can't. I just can't. I cannot pretend that any of that is what I want." He paused. "Does that mean something's wrong with me?" Is Mum right after all?

Sasha's thumb lightly stroked his neck. "There are so many ways to find happiness in the world, Charlie," he said. "The things that make me happy – flying on a broom at breakneck speed, working with four-ton monsters..." He gave Charlie's shoulder a little squeeze. "Being with you..." he added in a whisper, and Charlie reached up to rest his hand on Sasha's. "These are things that would make many other men flee in terror. But that doesn't make my happiness wrong – only different."

"I like that I make you happy," Charlie murmured, feeling a nearly overpowering urge to kiss him. And you make me ecstatic, he thought to himself, grateful he'd learned not to blather such drivel, if not stop thinking it.

Sasha gave his shoulder another momentary squeeze, then pulled his hand away. But Charlie caught it before Sasha could completely turn away. "Come be with me tonight," he whispered.

After a moment's pause, Sasha answered, "When the others are asleep, I'll come to you."

The waning moon poured its light over the landscape as it rose shortly before midnight. Charlie relaxed on his bed, having kicked the sheet off, enabling the evaporation of sweat to cool him. Sasha stood instead by the little open window, his chin resting on his arms folded on the sill, attempting to catch any errant breezes.

Charlie drank in the sight of his moonlit lover, practically glowing like some spectral demigod biding his time here on earth before ascending to heaven where he belonged. Ridges of muscle rolled and flexed as Sasha stretched, arching his back, then extended each leg backward in turn. Charlie knew their time together that night was growing short – any minute now, Sasha would kiss him goodnight and return to his own room to sleep.

Suddenly, Sasha chuckled softly. "Don't look now, but your brother is fucking his wife up against Miller's old shed."

Charlie shifted his position on the bed to peek out the window. The tent was visible in the moonlit distance, but no light illuminated it from within: all its occupants were likely sleeping. In the foreground, an oddly shaped shadow-figure in constant motion (which might or might not have been rhythmic) pressed up against the stone wall of Merlin's temporary research shed that no one had bothered to dismantle yet.

"They're just kissing," Charlie offered, unwilling to look very closely.

"No, I'm pretty sure they're fucking," Sasha laughed quietly. As if to prove him right, a breeze wafted a few passionate moans and cries their way, soft but oddly arousing.

Charlie gave him a semi-gentle shove with his foot. "Stop watching it, perv!" he protested weakly.

Sasha took a step away from the window, then tugged Charlie up off the bed. They stood together in the middle of the room, kissing because it was impossible to resist, barely touching because it was too hot to do anything more.

"The little woman... your brother's wife... She is not a witch?" Sasha asked between kisses.

Charlie shook his head slightly. "Muggle."

"Say this word again?" Sasha asked with a chuckle.

Charlie laughed, supposing Sasha was right: the word did sound silly. Nor was there a Russian term that meant the same thing. "Muggle."

Sasha gave him one more long, lingering kiss, then shrugged. "She is... sharp-eyed."

"You think she has The Sight?" Charlie pressed, surprised.

"No, I mean she sees all that is here, and a little underneath besides. Very clever, I think."

Charlie paused, straightening up, Sasha's words sobering him like a bucket of water. "You mean...?"

"I mean that if you do not wish her to know about us, you and I must be very, very careful," Sasha cautioned. "No more mistakes like yesterday morning."

Charlie winced with the memory. Preparing to leave, both men ready to head off on their separate duties, Charlie'd caught himself tossing off, "Love you," in Russian to Sasha. It was nothing but mindless habit, but Charlie'd realized his error the moment the words left his mouth. They'd both frozen with awkwardness before remembering none of the Weasleys could understand it.

But the Russian phrase – Lyublyu tebya – sounded similar enough to the English one to have pricked everyone's interest. Charlie'd noted the look shared between Annie and George. Then his mother, seemingly oblivious, had innocently asked, "What's that, dear?"

Thinking quickly, Charlie'd explained, "It means, 'Be careful out there,'" which, in retrospect, was practically honest. Sasha had then said it deliberately, levelly, back to Charlie in order to sell the lie before walking out the door.

Thinking back on it, there was something so deliciously deceitful about that moment, so thrillingly daring to have accidentally exposed their secret for just that shining second. That tantalizing, titillating flash of truth had made his heart pound for minutes afterward.

Is that what it feels like to come out? he wondered. Having never actually made an announcement to that effect to anyone before, he didn't know. Everyone who knew the truth about their relationship had worked it out on their own rather than been told. For several seconds, Charlie toyed with the idea of coming clean to his family. Mum, Dad, there's something you should know about me...

And then, just as quickly, the urge faded. A flash of his mother's disappointed, tearful face, head bowed and back turned, was all it took to quash his fleeting inspiration. How else could she possibly respond when confronted by a decade of lies, the ruination of all her hopes and dreams for her wayward bachelor son?

"I'll be more careful from now on," Charlie promised, stealing one more kiss before Sasha quietly stole out of his room.

1- I suspect you can deduce the meaning of each of the Romanian phrases Charlie uses in his version of the "Simon Says" game. "Aceasta dragon este" means "This dragon is." All the Romanian is from this translation site. Hopefully it isn't too terribly wrong.

And thanks again to Savva for her help with the Russian phrase.