Chapter 1
Nick has a routine. He likes routine.
Wake up. Shower. Throw on his Carhartt jeans and a Vans hoodie. Pack his rugby gear. Grab his backpack. Head to the campus café for his usual coffee—black, no sugar, just enough caffeine to keep his eyes open through Modern Day Literature and Statistics. Sit through lectures, nod along, maybe take a few notes if he’s feeling ambitious.
Then it’s back to his dorm, crash for a couple of hours, drag himself out of bed for practice.
It’s predictable. It works. It keeps things simple.
Nick has a routine. Nick sticks to it.
And so, when he gets to the café, he feels… okay.
Schedule. Routine. The simple things that make the mask feel a little less heavy. Order the usual. Stand off to the side. Wait for his name.
But that feeling doesn’t last long.
Because the second his name is called and he steps forward, someone collides with him—smaller, unsteady—and suddenly, his world is warm and wet and burning. Coffee spills down his hoodie, seeping into fabric, scalding against his skin.
His happiness—what little of it there was—shatters instantly.
“What the actual fuck?!”
Nick’s voice practically echoes through the café, sharp and incredulous, as he flinches back, flailing his hands like that’ll somehow undo the damage. Hot coffee seeps into his hoodie, burning against his chest, and he’s already gearing up to unleash hell on whoever just scalded him—until he turns and—
Oh.
Oh.
His brain short-circuits for half a second. Maybe two. His stomach does this weird little flip—or maybe lower, definitely lower—and suddenly, yelling doesn’t seem like a priority anymore.
The guy staring up at him is gorgeous in a way that should not be affecting him. Smaller, flushed with embarrassment, dimples deepening as he stammers out something completely useless. Ripped black jeans, a long-sleeve under a cropped band tee that probably cost way too much at a thrift store. Red Converse that look like they’ve been through war. Messy curls. Black eyeshadow smudged just right.
Nick’s throat goes dry.
This is fine. He’s fine. It’s just the heat of the moment. Literally. He’s just pissed off and wet—with coffee. And maybe he hasn’t been getting laid as much lately. Maybe he’s just… pent up. Yeah. That’s it. He just needs to take care of that later.
Because there’s no way his first thought after getting burned alive should be, Oh, fuck, he’s cute.
"I'm so, so, so sorry!"
The guy is already spiraling, words tumbling out of his mouth in a frantic rush. "I wasn’t looking—I have class, and I’m meeting my professor early, and I was in a hurry, and—oh my God, are you okay? Of course you’re not, it’s coffee—here, let me—”
He reaches out, napkins in hand, ready to dab uselessly at Nick’s soaked hoodie like that’s going to fix anything. But before he can make contact, Nick grabs his wrist, holding him still.
"What the actual fuck? Are you fucking blind?!"
His voice is sharp, rough with irritation, but also—why is the guy’s skin so soft? And why is Nick even noticing that right now?
The guy—flustered, fumbling—stammers, "No, I—I'm so sorry. I— I can buy you a new hoodie if you want."
Nick drags his gaze up and down the guy’s frame, taking in the cropped band tee, the ripped jeans, the beat-up Converse. He scoffs. "No, I’m not— I’m not some fucking charity case, idiot. I don’t need your money. Plus, you look like you buy everything from a thrift store." He exhales sharply, swiping a hand down his ruined hoodie, already exhausted by the conversation. "Just go. It’s fine. Just—go."
But the guy hesitates, chewing on his lip. "No, I— Are you sure? Are you hurt? Did I burn you?"
Nick clenches his jaw, patience thinning. "I’m not hurt," he grits out, "but if you don’t leave, you will be. Please, just—" He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just go, okay? It’s a Monday. I get it. Shit happens."
He watches as the guy swallows hard, shoulders curling inward as he grabs his backpack and scurries off, vanishing into the café crowd.
Nick exhales, tilting his head back toward the ceiling, and mutters, "Fucking Mondays."
___
Charlie loves Mondays.
He doesn't know why. Mondays are objectively awful—the cruel, sluggish start to another long week—but still, he likes them. Maybe because he gets to go to his favorite classes, or because the campus café is quieter in the mornings, making it the perfect spot to sit and chip away at homework for his first lecture.
Or maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with him.
The guy. The one who seems to own an endless collection of Vans and Carhartt jeans. Muscular in a way that makes Charlie feel a little bit weak. Freckles scattered across his tanned skin like some artist went overboard with a paintbrush. Reddish-blond hair, always messy, always frustratingly perfect.
Charlie has spent far too much time staring at that hair, wondering what it would feel like between his fingers, how soft it would be if he tugged, how the guy would sound if—NOPE. Nope. Nope. That is a dangerous road, and Charlie is not going down it.
Because that guy? That guy is 100% straight. He has decided. The universe has decided. Fate itself has declared that this man is as straight as a yardstick. And even if he weren’t—which, again, he is—there is absolutely no way someone like that would ever fall for someone like Charlie.
Not when Charlie is just... Charlie.
Not when his brain is constantly betraying him with hormonal daydreams that involve that stupidly attractive man pressing him up against a wall. Or maybe pushing him down onto a bed. Or—Jesus Christ, he needs to stop. This is exactly why he shouldn’t have gone to bed scrolling through AO3 last night. His brain is not helping him.
Nope. He’s going to sit here, and focus on his homework. Like a normal, rational human being.
And he’s definitely not going to look up again to check if the hot rugby guy is here.
Except, well—maybe just once.
God, he’s so fucking hot.
Charlie glances over one more time—just to confirm, for scientific reasons, of course—and immediately regrets it. His brain short-circuits, his throat goes dry, and oh, butterflies.
But not in his stomach.
No, he feels them lower. Way lower. His asshole is basically clenching with need at this point.
Wait. Wait. Is that why they’re called butterflies? Because something flutters inside you, but what if the fluttering is happening in, uh, a different place? Like—does this mean he has ass butterflies? Is that a thing? Should he Google it? (No, absolutely not.)
Anyway. Back to the problem at hand.
Charlie would pay actual money—like, tuition money, textbook money, food money—to sneak into the rugby locker room and just observe. Purely from an anthropological standpoint, obviously. He wants to know what they talk about in there, what stupid locker-room masculinity rituals they engage in, whether they have some sort of secret handshake. And, okay, fine, he also wants to see him. See him with his shirt off, see what’s under those Carhartt jeans, unfuck that belt that definitely doesn’t need to be that tight.
Nope. Nope. NOPE.
Charlie, you are in public. Get a grip.
He exhales sharply, dragging his gaze back to his open textbook, trying to focus on anything besides how unbearably hot that stupid rugby guy is. He’s clearly just pent up. That’s it. He just needs to get laid.
Which, honestly? Valid. He’s a hormonal adult. Eighteen was already bad enough, but nineteen? Is that even still considered a teenager? Or is he officially just a desperate, sex-starved adult at this point?
Either way, he needs to stop staring before someone notices.
Charlie tries to focus. He really does.
He stares down at his textbook, willing himself to absorb something, anything—but nope. His brain is officially out of service, replaced with one singular, all-consuming thought:
I want to fuck that rugby lad senseless.
Which, yeah, problematic. Especially because said rugby lad is currently standing right there, in all his raggedy, Carhartt-wearing, freckle-dusted, broad-shouldered glory, about to order coffee like he isn’t actively destroying Charlie’s sanity.
Charlie inhales. Okay. Okay. Play it cool. Be normal.
He could talk to him. Just... strike up a conversation. Feel it out. Test the waters. A little experiment, if you will. Because, look—if this guy is straight? Then fine. Charlie will definitely back off. He will absolutely not stick around, and he will definitely not walk away slowly while glancing over his shoulder in disappointment, and he will especially not bend over at any given opportunity just to see if there’s even a flicker of interest.
But. But.
What if?
What if there’s a chance? What if this big, freckly, intimidatingly hot man is not a rigid, hetero yardstick? What if he’s a little bendy? A little fluid? A little open to new experiences?
Because, listen. Sexuality is a vast and beautiful spectrum, and Charlie is nothing if not a curious scientist eager to test some hypotheses. He wants to know. Wants to figure out whether this man—this broad, veiny-handed, ridiculously grabbable man—is a ruler or... something else.
And honestly? Charlie wouldn’t mind measuring that theory out himself.
Charlie is a man of science. (Actually he hates science, but this is.... Needed.)
And science demands experimentation.
So maybe that’s why he moves before he can really think about it, before his common sense can scream at him to sit the hell down and stop acting like a desperate, sex-starved Victorian maiden. Instead, he stands, shoulders back, coffee in hand, backpack slung over one arm, and makes his way toward the coffee station with the kind of deliberate nonchalance that definitely doesn’t look casual at all.
It’s fine. It’s just a little test. A perfectly reasonable, purely observational study to see if the butterflies happening in his ass are maybe—just maybe—fluttering around in the rugby lad’s pants, too.
And yeah, okay, maybe he arches his back a little. Maybe he tugs his jeans just a bit tighter at the waist, just enough to emphasize the assets that God and puberty have so graciously bestowed upon him. Maybe—just maybe—he wants to see if Mr. Broad Shoulders and Perpetually Wrinkled Hoodie notices.
But it’s just data collection. Just a little harmless research.
Except—oh fuck.
Charlie miscalculates. Badly.
Because when he turns, about to flash his most charming Oh, wow, didn’t see you there, big guy smile, he severely underestimates two very crucial things:
1. The distance between them.
2. The sheer density of this man.
Because Rugby Man—oh boy—is solid. Like, rock-hard, built-like-a-fucking-marble-statue solid. Chest of steel. Shoulders crafted by gods. Charlie barely grazes him, and it’s like walking into a fucking brick wall.
And worse—way worse—his coffee? Yeah, goodbye.
It spills. Not just a little. Not just a cute, clumsy, oopsie-daisy amount. No, this is a full-scale beverage disaster.
Straight onto Van Hoodie.
Charlie freezes. Blinks. Stares.
And oh. Oh.
Well, on the bright side, at least he now has visual confirmation that the man beneath the hoodie is just as devastatingly hot as he feared. Because the second the fabric clings to that chest—those abs—Charlie’s brain completely derails.
Holy shit. Holy fuck. Those are the kind of abs that should come with a warning label. The kind of abs that make a man want to do deeply unholy things, like lick them for hydration instead of drinking water. The kind of abs Charlie would gladly fall asleep on, resting his head like a pillow, tracing every defined ridge with his tongue—
Nope. NOPE.
Charlie, focus. Apologize. Say words.
"What the actual fuck?!"
Ah, yes. Healthy Rugby Lad is speaking.
Charlie freezes. Words? Gone. Thoughts? Useless. He’s just standing there, staring at the absolute tragedy he has caused (read: blessing), as hot coffee drips down this man’s hoodie, soaking into the fabric, clinging to those abominations of abs like a second skin.
And look, yes, okay—he should be sorry. He is sorry. At first. But then he gets an eyeful of what’s beneath that hoodie and—honestly? Can you really blame him? Science may never understand how abs like that exist in nature, but Charlie is willing to devote his entire academic career to the research.
Shit. Words, words, words—say something!
"I’m so, so, so sorry! I wasn’t looking—I have class, and I’m meeting my professor early, and I was in a hurry, and—oh my God, are you okay? Of course you’re not, it’s coffee—here, let me"
Charlie scrambles for the napkins he has in his hand—along with, apparently, someone’s car keys (which, okay, how did those get in his backpack pocket??? Tao's?? Elle's?? Ugh, his friends!?)—and reaches out to dab at the mess. Which is a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.
Because 1) Rugby Lad is hot in both the literal and metaphorical sense, 2) this is the closest Charlie has ever been to those abs (curse that damn hoodie for keeping them hidden all this time), and 3) his wrist is suddenly caught in a very large, very strong grip.
"What the actual fuck? Are you fucking blind?!" Rugby Lad snaps, yanking Charlie out of whatever unholy fantasies his brain was brewing.
And Charlie? Charlie just stands there for a second, staring, blinking, processing. Oh. So he’s a rude Rugby Lad. How exciting for him.
Still, Charlie is nothing if not determined to get the last word (and, let’s be honest, to push his luck a little). He stammers, "No, I—I'm so sorry. I— I can buy you a new hoodie if you want."
Which, okay, risky move, because Rugby Lad is now looking him up and down, and Charlie is mentally screaming Oh my god, Geoff, this is my moment—Rugby Lad, take in my crop top, admire my belly, if you want me to turn around and bend over, I will, I have a great ass, sir, just say the word—
But instead, Rugby Lad scoffs and deadpans, "No, I’m not— I’m not some fucking charity case, idiot. I don’t need your money. Plus, you look like you buy everything from a thrift store. Just go. It’s fine. Just—go."
Charlie could just leave. He should just leave. But also—no. If Rugby Lad wants to be an asshole, then Charlie is going to make him own it. (Besides, Charlie likes assholes. He just doesn’t like when people are assholes.)
"No, I— Are you sure? Are you hurt? Did I burn you?"
Rugby Lad exhales, visibly done with him, and growls, "No, I’m not hurt, but if you don’t leave, you will be. Please, just—just go, okay? It’s a Monday. I get it. Shit happens."
And with that, he lets go of Charlie’s wrist, and Charlie realizes very quickly that, yep—straight as a yardstick. Also, a bit of an asshole.
And just like that, Charlie’s scientific curiosity is obliterated. Gone. Poof. No longer interested in what’s under those Carhartt jeans, no longer wondering if the man bends (or, well, not as interested as before).
He scurries away, mumbling about what an idiot he is, while his very annoying brain goes, Yeah, but what if he’s an asshole with repressed bisexuality?
Which—no. Nope. That is not his problem.
…But just for the record, if it ever became his problem? Well. He wouldn’t hate it.