Toby knew that men would say ridiculous things to get laid but what Charles said to him surpassed every line he’d ever heard before.
“Toby, you are my Helen of Troy. I would launch a thousand ships for you, I would go to war for you.”
“But there aren’t any wars right now, Charles,” Toby would say “and you don’t have an army.”
“I’d kill for you.” said Charles.
“I’m a pacifist,” said Toby “I’d rather die than have you kill someone for me.”
On a bended knee:
“I will love you till the end of time,” Charles told him.
“I’d rather you love me tonight.” said Toby, and Charles did.
But what Charles wouldn’t do, was all those little things, get a glass of water from downstairs when Toby was thirsty or listen to the idle prattle of a lazy rain drenched day. He didn’t want to hear Toby’s opinions, didn’t care for Toby’s shows, didn’t like Toby’s friends.
When it came to fights to the death Charles was there, with his sweeping declarations of love, his endless feeling, his boundless oaths. Toby was the sky, Toby was starlight, Toby was his world.
Toby left in the morning, as Charles slept.
You have to do more than love each other for something to last. You actually have to like each other too.