The Charm Offensive

by Alison Cochrun

“What’s so special about Ryan?” Charlie isn’t sure why this is the first question that springs to his mind. “Well, I mean, you’ve seen him. He’s hot. Like way out of my league.” Charlie would politely disagree; Ryan looks like a pirate who is going to try to upsell you rental car insurance, some befuddling blend of scruffy and preppy that almost disguises the fact that he’s rather boring to look at.

Dev pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Why would you want to read it?” “Because you wrote it.”

Something churns in Charlie’s lower stomach—panic, probably, from the closeness. From the touching. He doesn’t like touching, and he definitely doesn’t like the feeling of Dev’s entire body pressing against his. Charlie’s skin is on fire.

“I’ve seen you do this on set when you’re anxious. When it gets like this, how can I help?” Charlie swallows. “No one has ever asked me that before.” He looks back at Dev, and his eyes linger this time.

“I’m sorry I’m such a… burden.” That word opens a fissure inside Dev’s chest. Burden

He had an episode in front of Dev, and now Dev’s going to act differently. People always do. Except… Dev tried to understand, which people almost never do. Let me take care of you.

“How are the pancakes?” Somehow both burned and raw in the middle. “Delicious.”

“I have OCD,” he says before he can’t. Dev props an elbow on the countertop and leans into his hand. “Okay.” “Real OCD. Not the thing where people think it’s cute that they’re anal about organizing their pen cup.”

Maureen’s note to editors: Cut this entire scene and replace it with the one of Megan and Delilah shit-talking the other women in the hot tub.

At today’s Group Quest, the women competed in a relay race to rescue him from a tower (Ever After’s answer to feminism, apparently),

He doesn’t know a damn thing about screenplays, and jargon like MCU and EXT means nothing to him, but somehow, he can imagine the world Dev is creating with his words all the same.

About halfway through the script, Charlie realizes he has never read a story about two men falling in love before. He pushes himself back against the headboard and draws his knees up to his chest. There is a foreign pressure in his stomach, but he ignores it, completely engrossed in Dev’s story.

“Are you eating white cheddar popcorn in your bed at three in the morning?” “Did you come in here at three in the morning to judge me?”

“Who’s read it?” “Well, there’s you.” Dev holds up one finger to count it off. “And then there’s you.”

He’s not sure why he’s thinking about Dev’s stomach, or how he knows Dev’s shirt has crept up in the corner. Except. Except he does know. He knew as soon as he read Dev’s script.

He tries thinking about Daphne’s pretty blue eyes instead, but he can only see Dev’s dark ones, peering intensely at him behind his glasses. He tries to conjure the image of Angie’s soft body, but it’s superimposed with Dev’s wide shoulders, the slenderness of his hips, the sharp points and the beautiful brown skin and the smell of him.

An hour later, after he’s showered, he enjoys the first night of good sleep he’s had in days.

He finds Angie, Daphne, and Sabrina huddled in the corner surrounded by a surplus of fabric and In-N-Out drive-thru bags smuggled in by Kennedy, the handler who replaced him. They’ve all got napkins shoved down the front of their dresses like bibs. It’s charmingly adorable.

What he finds is worse than anything he could’ve envisioned. Charlie is standing in the middle of the room wearing nothing but his plastic crown and the smallest pair of black boxer briefs. He is basically naked, the muscles of his abdomen all funneling down to a V pointing toward his crotch like a neon flashing arrow. The sight is, in a word, pornographic.

“We’re filming in thirty minutes. How the fuck do you propose I get a new suit that quickly?” Dev shrugs. “You’re the supervising producer on set. You’ll figure it out. It’s in Charlie’s file that he doesn’t wear wool. It’s also June

“Don’t you look like the perfect Prince Charming ready for his ball?” Quite predictably, it’s a shitshow.

It’s the way things are supposed to be. Charlie is their prince, and Daphne is the perfect princess, and this is all how it’s supposed to go. So why does Dev feel like everything is terribly wrong?

“Just talk to me. What’s wrong?” “I can’t.” Charlie snaps, and he’s off the bench, lunging forward, lunging toward Dev. Confused, one of the cameras swings around as Charlie catapults into Dev’s arms, and then Charlie’s weight is propelling them both backward, toward a single-stall bathroom.

Instead, he grabs onto the back of Dev’s T-shirt with both hands, presses his forehead into Dev’s throat, telling Dev what he needs in the only way he can communicate right now. He needs to be hugged. Held.

The terrifying thing is, he doesn’t know what any of it means. He’s pretty sure he’s never been attracted to a man before. He’s not bothered by this turn of events, though he wishes he could’ve chosen a different man for this particular sexual awakening, one who isn’t his producer. No, it’s more that he can’t quite wrap his brain around being attracted to anyone

Dev reaches over and grabs grabs one of Charlie’s AirPods right out of his ear and inserts it (disgustingly) into his own. “Huh… I would not have pegged you for a Dolly Parton fan.”

Except sometimes… Sometimes Charlie wonders if maybe, maybe these wild feelings aren’t completely one-sided. If maybe, beneath Dev’s burning desire to make Charlie fall in love with Daphne Reynolds, there isn’t something else.

“Excuse you. He’s not just a generic British pop star! How many pop stars are openly bisexual and second-generation Indian and have achieved Leland’s level of fame? And this song”—Dev shakes his phone—“this song’s title comes from an Emily Dickinson poem, and it’s a metaphor for depression. Leland is super outspoken about destigmatizing mental illness, and he manages to work that into his music while also writing, like, legitimately amazing pop songs. Songs that make you feel

He needs a night of heavy drinking with good friends. Also, he needs sex. Which is clearly his problem—the reason for all his restless energy and the disastrous oh, love and the even more disastrous semi-hard he shoved at the hetero star of their show.

searching for the right outfit that says, “Gay dude looking for mutually enjoyable, noncommittal sex.” Unfortunately, most of his clothes seem to say, “Straight dude actively trying to die alone.”

And yeah, okay. Charlie is twice his size. He could cover Dev like a duvet.

“Shit, Jules! You look hot. Like a Chinese, ‘Sometimes’-era Britney Spears.” She tosses him a mini bottle. “You look like an Indian, Growing Pains–era Leo.”

Dev strutting around, wearing Charlie’s clothes. The sight of Dev in his oversize jean jacket makes Charlie feel… something he can’t quite name.

“Shouldn’t orchestrating love stories for our crappy show spoil the magic for you a bit?” “No! Never!” Dev is ridiculously cute when he’s passionate. Charlie stares down at his coaster.

The bartender sets their Sazeracs on the napkins in front of them, because when in New Orleans, mix hard alcohol like you’re not twenty-eight and prone to heartburn, Dev thinks.

“Bad Romance” comes on, and Jules and Skylar teach Charlie a bastardized version of the choreography, and Dev is all champagne bubbles and a second Sazerac and the perfect feeling of a bass thumping through his bones.

He wonders how many nights like this Charlie Winshaw has had in his life. Permanent smile, completely out of his head, not worried about being weird and being totally, unapologetically weird as he thrusts his hips to Lady Gaga.

He points to where Charlie is still talking with the man. “He’s a human cockblock.” “I’m not sure what you expected. He’s gorgeous.” Dev feels that same tug in his chest from earlier. “Careful, Jules. Your crush is showing.”

“I am sure gay men and straight men can be friends. But I am also seventy percent sure you and Charlie aren’t

Charlie reaches up and catches a tear on his thumb. He blows on it. Make a wish. Or is that eyelashes? Charlie’s so drunk, he doesn’t know anymore.

“Dev.” Charlie reaches out for Dev’s jacket—his jacket—to hold him in place. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Let’s play a game,” he hears himself say. He’s drunk, so drunk. “Let’s see who pulls away first.”

First Charlie shoves him against a brick wall, and then he asks permission to kiss him, and the stark juxtaposition between that act of aggression and the thoughtful question of consent might be the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to Dev, overriding any logical thought.

For a second, Dev thinks about the camera angles and the music they would add in postproduction, and then he doesn’t think about anything, because Charlie’s hands are on his hips, sliding their bodies together as his tongue teases Dev’s mouth apart.

Dev clings to all his logical reasons for not doing this. The moral questionability of kissing your straight friend when he’s drunk. Not being a straight boy’s experiment at twenty-eight. Losing his job.

What Charlie lacks in skill and experience, he eclipses with raw enthusiasm.

Charlie touches Dev like he doesn’t know where to start, like he’s overwhelmed by his options; Dev touches Charlie like he knows this is his only chance. He touches Charlie like Charlie is going to disappear at any second.

“Did you just thank me for kissing you?” Charlie presses two fingers to the corner of Dev’s smile. “I did.” Dev shakes his head and laughs. “That is a little weird.” “I think you like that I’m a little weird,” Charlie says in a new, confident voice—a

He gets a brief glimpse of Charlie’s expression—an expression he should recognize from night one—before Charlie hunches over and vomits all over Dev’s legs. Just like he did on night one. Somehow, it’s still the best night Dev’s had in a long, long time.

“You got shit-faced drunk and danced to a lot of Lady Gaga in a drag club. Does that sound humiliating?” “The way I dance? Probably.”