He liked books.
It's not something he ever advertised, but he really did. And not the books that you would expect, either. No mysteries, no thrillers, not even any cop drama books would be found on his shelf. No, he liked himself a good classic.
Moby Dick was a favourite.
Frankenstein was another.
It was the complexity that he liked. Nothing was ever just one thing. He liked that. It made his life seem simpler by comparison.
It all started when he was a boy, too young to even realize that the Hardy Boys mystery would make a good distraction. All the fighting, all the tears, it didn't matter when he could lose himself in a good book. And pretty soon, it became his safe haven. His problems were nothing compared to Pony Boy and Johnny having to run away, or the pain of Erik, the Phantom of the Opera (although to this day, he would never admit to having read it, let alone in the original French). It was easy for him to pretend, to become part of that world. Sarah always said that he had a wicked imagination, and it helped him to escape.
His tastes evolved.
He became obsessed with the classics. He had read many of them by the start of high school, and was constantly on the search for a new adventure to get lost in. He learned to conceal the books from his father, finding hiding places everywhere, from his locker at school to the tool shed.
The tool shed.
A refuge to both of them, him and the tomes.
He almost liked getting into trouble, just so that he could have time with his books.
He managed to keep his tough-guy exterior, even though he became a total sucker for those novels that everyone else hated in high school English classes. It helped that his grade 11 language arts teacher could see through any teenager's persona, and that she was good at keeping those a secret. She would slip him something to read, anything to read, when no one else was looking. Once or twice he even earned himself a detention on purpose, just to have an excuse to compare notes on symbolism and theme.
She was the one who gave him an excuse to read.
She was the one who taught him that complexity wasn't necessarily a bad thing.
Between Charlie and her, he managed to find a life worth living.
It became his refuge under cover. His way to pass the time. And also his way to stay grounded. He couldn't let himself get too caught up in his character; that could have tragic consequences. So he used his childhood refuge, yet in a whole new way.
But he would never admit it to anyone.
She had a way of changing things.
Even the very first time, at that cover apartment that they hadn't had a chance to clear out. That very first shift together, when he was still so furious with her for burning him, he couldn't help but be impressed that she noticed his battered copy of Moby Dick on the bedside table.
He lied to her that time.
And then again, in a different apartment. She had taken a sip of the juice and then passed the glass to him, reaching down to grab the paperback that had been hastily thrown to the floor. Battered and torn, but still the same copy. She smiled, and his heart melted like butter. The truth came out.
Later, he showed her his library. A hoard of books. Paperbacks, hard-covers, first editions, all stacked neatly on the shelves, arranged alphabetically by author. The only room in his house that was always tidy, free from chaos. He was a bachelor, and most of the time couldn't be bothered to clean up. Dishes piled up by the sink, dust bunnies collected in the corner, and it was to be considered a miracle if his bed was ever made. But the library was pristine. Just the bookshelves and a maroon stuffed armchair by the bay window.
It was his sanctuary.
It still amazed him, so many months later, that he had told her. None of his past lovers were ever privilege to his secret. It was something in those eyes, those pleading eyes, that had forced the truth out of him.
He never regretted it.
Not once.
And at the end of the day, it was the complexity he missed.
He could no longer find it in the language.
A symbol was no longer anything more than some words.
He couldn't be the person he needed to be.
For her.