Best Man’s Burden 2

Get caught up on chapter 1 before reading on…

Chapter 2: A Name in the Dark

A pot of chamomile steeped quietly on the counter, casting a faint floral warmth through the apartment. Their shared desk—actually an old dining table they’d promised to replace twice—was littered with swatches, menu printouts, and two half-charged laptops facing each other like opponents in a civilized duel. Outside, the city exhaled softly through the windows, distant sirens and the hush of weekend traffic. Inside, things finally felt back in rhythm. 

“I’m veoting anywhere with scorpions,” Seamus said, scrolling past another too-good-to-be-true resort promo. “Or ‘open-air showers.’ That’s just code for mosquitoes without boundaries.” 

Charlie snorted. “God, you’re such a dad already.” He leaned over to swipe Seamus’ trackpad, tilting his screen toward an island villa. “This one’s gay owned, solar powered, and you can snorkel with turtles.” 

“Sounds perfect until we find out the turtles have scabies.” 

“Your fear of nature is both endearing and deeply sad.” 

“Some of us spent our twenties working in cubicles instead of backpacking from Prague to Patagonia with only two pairs of underwear and a toothbrush.” 

Charlie kissed his cheek. “I wouldn’t have you any other way, Daddy. If I were in charge of this wedding, we’d be honeymooning in a Chili’s by the airport.” 

Seamus smiled at that. The kiss helped. The moment helped. The flicker of domestic banter was almost enough to push everything else back into the shadows. He glanced at Charlie, barefoot, mug in hand, hair unbrushed, and wearing a shirt so tight it rode up when he stretched. 

Everything Seamus had worked for was here: warmth, stability, routine. His life felt both enjoyable and safe, ordered but just lively enough. 

They spent another hour sorting through florists. Charlie argued for wild arrangements, “like something out of Little Shop of Horrors,” while Seamus pushed for clean whites and greens. Neither won, but the back and forth had its own rhythm. It was as familiar as it was frictionless. 

Later, they rode the subway out to Charlie’s mother’s for dinner, arriving with wine and practiced smiles. They were, by all appearances, the couple everyone envied: mature and affectionate, capable of reading each other’s moods with a glance. Charlie told stories about the chaos of wedding prep, and Seamus made dry jokes that earned the polite laughter of his future mother-in-law. When they held hands over the table, it felt natural. They were good at being admired. 

On the ride home, Charlie nodded off on Seamus’ shoulder. Seamus didn’t move. Outside, the lights of the city blurred past in gold and shadow. Inside, he let himself believe, for now, that everything was where it should be. 

It started with the catering. 

Charlie had mentioned needing help coordinating a menu tasting, adding an offhand complaint about the vendor being on the opposite side of town and traffic being a nightmare. Seamus, tied up with quarter-end meetings and overdue deadlines, had just offered to reschedule when Charlie waved him off. 

“No worries,” he said, already texting. “Garth’s free. Said he’ll drive me.” 

Seamus raised an eyebrow. “Garth is going to take you to our menu tasting?” 

“Babe,” Charlie cooed, “you’ve handled every detail so far. Let your boy take care of just this one thing.” 

Seamus was about to say that it wasn’t about his reluctance to delegate wedding responsibilities, though it kind of was. It was about Garth, emerging out of nowhere like some catering hero, saving the day and getting a free meal on top of it. But Seamus’ phone was already blowing up with urgent calendar invites. His capacity for putting out fires already overextended, he had to let it go. 

By the time he got home that night, two hours late, their kitchen smelled of cumin and roasted fennel. Charlie was grinning, popping olives into his mouth straight from the jar. “You should’ve seen Garth sweet talk the caterer,” he said. “She was practically carving him a bonus plate with her bare hands.” 

“Glad to hear it.” Seamus smiled tightly, nodding and pretending the words didn’t leave a metallic taste in his mouth. 

Next, it was the linens. Then the string quartet. Then the floral samples. Garth has a van. Garth has the free time. Garth knows a guy. As the wedding grew nearer, Seamus found himself nodding along to more and more stories that began with “Garth said—” and ended with Charlie’s laughter.  

Then one night, Seamus came home to find the living room already occupied. Garth was there, barefoot and sprawled across the couch like it belonged to him. A bottle of whiskey rested on the coffee table, label turned out like a gift waiting to be acknowledged. 

“Housewarming,” Garth said, lifting the bottle when Seamus walked in. “Or… couple warming? Engagement warming?” 

He chuckled at his own joke and shifted, his thigh brushing against Charlie’s as he reached for the remote. 

Seamus set down his briefcase. “You have a key now, or…?” 

“Nah,” Charlie said, oblivious. “I buzzed him up. He brought that peaty stuff you like.” 

Garth topped off two glasses and poured a third. “Thought I’d help you loosen up a little. You’re always so… uptight.” 

Seamus took the drink without comment. 

That night, long after Garth had left and Charlie had gone to bed, Seamus’ phone buzzed once. A message from an unfamiliar number. 

Should drag you to the gym sometime. Show you how to bench. 

No name. Just a winking emoji as a signature. Seamus stared at the screen, thumb hovering. He didn’t reply. 

But the next time they saw each other, at yet another errand turned Garth-and-Charlie day trip, Seamus felt that look again, the glancing smirk over Charlie’s shoulder as Garth leaned close to say something, then glanced back as if checking for a reaction. 

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even flirtatious. It was just… aware. 

He knew. 

Seamus clenched his jaw and looked away, pretending to care about boutonnière colors while his stomach knotted itself. 

The lights were low, and the sheets were kicked halfway down the bed, cool cotton tangled around their legs. Charlie was already kissing down his chest, fingers playing lazily at Seamus’ waistband, his breath soft and teasing. 

Seamus tried to focus on the warmth of Charlie’s breath, the familiar curve of his mouth, and the scent of cedar shampoo in his hair. He let his eyes close, body arching gently to meet each touch. This was routine. Comfort. Intimacy on cue. 

But his mind slipped. 

Instead of Charlie’s mouth, Seamus imagined the bristle of Garth’s beard against his skin, rough and heavy, dragging over his nipples and leaving a wake of heat. He pictured Garth’s thick, calloused hand, splaying against his chest, holding him down without effort. His breath caught. 

Charlie lowered himself onto Seamus, their bodies sliding into rhythm. Seamus moaned softly, but his mind was already unmoored. He imagined Garth in a tux, shirt open, tie loose, collar darkened with sweat. He saw the same smirk from the engagement party —the one that said, ‘I see right through you.’ It was sharper now. Closer. It hovered behind his eyelids. 

Charlie kissed his throat. Seamus gasped. His fingers curled into the sheets. 

And then it came, quiet, fractured, escaping like breath through a crack in the wall. 

“…Garth…” 

The name was barely more than a whisper. But it stopped everything. 

Charlie froze. His hand went still on Seamus’ hip. His mouth paused mid kiss. 

The room contracted into silence. For a moment, Seamus didn’t even realize he’d said it. He blinked up at the ceiling, heart still thudding, body humming with arousal. Then the chill sank in, and he realized what had left his mouth. Not a groan, not a whimper. A name. 

A name that wasn’t his fiancé’s. 

Charlie pulled himself and Seamus apart, arms bracing against the mattress. He didn’t speak, just looked down at Seamus, eyes unreadable in the dim light, face close but distant. Seamus opened his mouth to say something, to backpedal, but no words came. His throat clenched around the silence. The only sound he could form was a dry, nervous chuckle. He hoped the sound might soften the edges of what had just happened. 

“Guess I’ve been around him too much,” he said when his voice finally returned. “He’s practically moved in, right?” 

Charlie didn’t respond at first. He just held Seamus’ gaze for a beat too long. Then he gave a small, forced laugh. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Totally.” 

He gave Seamus a brief, mechanical kiss and shifted back over him, resuming their rhythm without comment. But the air in the room had changed. The touch wasn’t the same. Charlie’s hands, usually playful and firm, moved by rote now. His mouth went through the motions. 

Seamus tried to respond, to match the cadence of their lovemaking with a thrust or a tug of hair, but it was like trying to resume a conversation after revealing a secret. His body moved, but his thoughts thrashed. The flush of arousal drained away, culminating in an unsatisfying climax. 

Their finish was without fanfare. No cuddling, no pillow talk, just the soft sigh of slowing inertia and Charlie rolling away to the far edge of the bed. He reached for his phone, thumb flicking absently over the screen, as if cooking videos could erase the memory. 

Seamus didn’t speak. He lay still, eyes on the ceiling, hands folded over his chest. The glow from Charlie’s phone lit the room in slow pulses, catching on the curve of his cheek, the slight furrow in his brow. He didn’t look angry. He looked elsewhere. 

Minutes passed. The silence grew roots. Seamus swallowed, throat dry, heart still ticking far too fast. He closed his eyes and tried to slow it, but a question repeated itself, quiet and insistent, like a drumbeat from somewhere underground. 

Why can’t I get him out of my head?