Chapter Text
Charlie Kirk and Dean Withers first met on a talk show, primarily discussing their stance on abortion. Dean came prepared, with a structured argument, not with the goal of humiliating his opponent, but rather to raise awareness about a topic as sensitive as abortion and try to knock some sense into his opponent. However, as soon as it was his turn and he locked eyes with the man known as Charlie Kirk, he forgot everything he wanted to say. His supposedly unassailable argument vanished from his memory as soon as Charlie made eye contact with him. He sat down in the chair facing his opponent. His hands trembled slightly. He settled back in his seat and cleared his throat. He felt his face burning. They began the argument. He tried to piece together fragments of his idea, hoping not to be destroyed by Charlie's ideology. He felt pathetic. "I've been preparing for weeks. Searching for arguments, losing sleep. Why can't I remember everything I had to say? Why can't I stop looking at him?" he thought. He was annoyed. He didn't know if he was more annoyed with himself or Charlie. He knew his opponent's stance wasn't right. He knew that if only he weren't so mesmerized by the man sitting across from him, he could totally humiliate him. But he simply couldn't. His eyes were completely focused on scanning Charlie's features. His haircut, his gaze, his nose, his beard, his jaw, his ears, and his smile. That stupid smile. Just minutes ago, another of Charlie's opponents had insulted his smile, but for some reason, Dean didn't see the "creepy" aspect of it. Only the mesmerizing quality. When their time was up, Dean stood up, defeated. He wanted to get out of that place immediately. He didn't want to look hysterical, or like someone who doesn't know how to lose, so he tried to stay calm, but inside? He was going crazy. He kept questioning why he had forgotten everything so easily; it made no sense. He already had his gaze fixed on his seat in the audience, ready to hurry and sit down and pray he hadn't humiliated himself so much, when he realized the mesmerizing man had his hand extended to Dean. He was waiting to shake his hand. Dean's gaze immediately lit up. His hands began to shake more than they already were. He slowly raised his right hand until his fingers found Charlie's and they intertwined with such familiarity. It felt right. Like home. Like breathing again after holding your breath in for too long. They shook hands, parted, and Dean returned to his seat. For the first time all day, he no longer felt nervous. He felt calm, an inexplicable peace. A feeling he couldn't name. He smiled slightly and looked at his hands. "Charlie Kirk," he repeated to himself internally.