Sometimes he permitted himself time for quiet reflection. It wasn't often, generally discouraged. Nothing could be gained from meditating on the life he had before he became Charlie Ewing. The lifetime ago where he was still Charleton Almond, face fresh and shiny, hands still soft, the world still big. No, there was nothing to gain from such meditations, but there was nothing to lose either. The sound of Loshis rain lulled him into a kind of peace, and Charlie allowed his mind to wander backwards in time.

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First loves are terrifying, exciting things. Hearts fluttering like caged birds, hot fingers and clumsy first kisses and everything so new and pure and good like fresh snow. Charlie's first was no exception, no less exhilarating for all that it took him a little longer than some to find. He was sixteen, small and delicate. Perce had been older, cleverer, an athlete and a scholar in Static and absolutely beautiful. That young Charlie had fallen head over heels for such a boy was no real mystery. The mystery, to him, was that Perce had seemed to like him back. Silly, clumsy-with-magic Charlie couldn't understand it, couldn't see that he too was beautiful, with his slight limbs and dark hair and eyes so bright and blue. So when his clumsy attempts at confession had been met not with rebuff but with acceptance, he had been over the moon. (Somewhere further along in time, Charlie Ewing would laugh that Charlie Almond had ever felt this way.)

He would have done anything to keep that feeling, that person. And at first, it was good. Percival was everything anyone could ever want, kind and attentive, always around. There were notes slipped under dormroom doors, dates in the Stacks and kisses on the lawn. Charlie was happy. If hands wandered a little too low, kisses a little too deep, well, he was old enough wasn't he? They were that age, after all, Perce even more than Charlie. Sometimes Charlie would lie in his bed after Perce left, wondering how many boys there had been before him, and how long this could last before he was ready.

Soon enough, he found out.

When Charlie grew older he would wonder at his own naivete, wonder that he hadn't seen all the signs that Percival was not as wonderful as he seemed. The way their dates were always secrets, the kisses always hidden. Notes were delivered only in the dead of night or the earliest of mornings. Tricks he'd use a thousand times himself until he stopped caring about his reputation. To the adult, what happened next was a matter of course. Percival had been drinking, out in the stacks, with a group of other students. He came back with a breath heavy with whiskey and a sort of longing Charlie would come to understand very well. Here memory got less crisp, events of the past and knowledge of the present bleeding into each other, until it was hard to separate the two. He was lost in it, drowning in memory and seeing it like present. Young Charlie, scared and unwilling and unready; older Charlie knowing he would have a hundred boys just like this. The smell of whiskey and sweat and fear and longing, the taste of salt and copper where he bit his lip to keep himself from making any noise.

Perce, getting up, dressing. No words as he leaves, just the rustling of fabric as it slides against skin, the click of the door. Charlie, alone in the dark, not understanding/knowing too well the hollow in the pit of his stomach, that sort of twisted queasiness. He gets up, stares out the window for a long time. Young flesh pressed against the cold glass, he can see Percival crossing the lawn, weaving back and forth. They would never speak again.

The next time someone would reach out their hand, he would be ready with an easy smile, spreading across his face in a slow bloom. And the next time, and the next. Forever after that, with clever fingers and coaxing voice anyone could take or be taken by him. Charleton Almond had died; Charlie Ewing rose to take his place. If something had been lost in the transfer, he could not remember what it was. So it must not have been important anyway.

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The rain slackened, pulling Charlie from memories of green. Soon he would get up, work. Go out and pull some bright and pretty young thing to the floor, or maybe he would be that tonight. Charlie was Charlie, after all. It was the only way he knew how to be.

((http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WSTasc3L4SE&feature=related))