Chapter 3
Charlie cannot believe that just happened.
Scratch that—he cannot believe he actually told a rugby lad to get down on his knees. And then he fucking walked away.
Why did he walk away?!
He should’ve stayed. He should’ve watched. He should’ve seen if he would have actually done it.
But nooo, he had to be dramatic. Had to throw out the filthiest line of his life and then strut off like a dumbass.
And now? Now Charlie is going to have to imagine it instead of living it.
Which means, unfortunately, he’s going to spend the next year at minimum suffering through random intrusive thoughts about big, muscular, freckled, rugby-playing boy on his knees for him.
Fantastic.
By the time he finally makes it to the library, he’s already spiraling. So naturally, the second he spots Isaac, he slams his book down on the table and mutters, "Isaac, I’m an idiot. Help me."
Isaac—who doesn’t even flinch, because he’s used to Charlie’s theatrics—barely looks up from his book. "Uh, hello to you too. Do you need food?"
Charlie groans, dropping into the seat across from him. "Isaac, focus, I’m an idiot."
Isaac sighs. "Okay, why are you an idiot, Charlie?"
Charlie leans forward, whispering dramatically, "Because I had this really beautiful, straight guy minutes away from getting down on his knees for me—and I walked away!"
Isaac finally blinks up at him, slow and unimpressed. "I’m sorry, you had a straight guy almost on his knees? Charlie, I don’t actually want to hear about your sex life—"
"No, no, it wasn’t even sex, we were outside—"
"Charlie." Isaac closes his book. "Outside. That is—stupid, illegal! What are you doing?"
"No, you don’t understand." Charlie waves a hand. "There were no clothes off. No actual sex. Listen—I ran into this red-headed, muscular, broad-shouldered, rough, scowling guy at the coffee shop this morning. And by ‘ran into,’ I mean I dumped my entire coffee on him."
Isaac exhales, already looking tired. "Oh my god."
"Right?! And I thought he was gonna, like, punch me or some other hetero nonsense, but instead, he just—glared. And let me walk away. But then—ten minutes ago, he bumped into me. And I didn’t want to say sorry again, because then it would seem like I was stalking him, which I wasn’t—so I told him to apologize."
"Mm-hmm."
"But then—when he did try to apologize, it sounded fake, so I said he should get down on his knees. And I think—and by think I mean I know—he took it as me asking if he could, um, suck me off?"
Isaac stares at him.
Charlie stares back, wide-eyed. "So, um. Yeah. Isaac. What do I do?"
Isaac blinks. "I’m sorry. Repeat that."
"No, you should be listening—"
"Oh, I am listening. I just—" Isaac gestures vaguely. "Who, exactly, did you run into?"
Charlie frowns, thinking. "I—actually, I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention. I was too busy making sure I looked cool and flirty. But, um—he’s very muscular. And obviously plays rugby. And he had freckles. And broad shoulders. And—" Charlie sighs wistfully. "—a really nice ass and thighs."
Isaac tilts his head. "Did he have reddish-blond hair?"
Charlie nods quickly. "Yes. Yes, he did."
Isaac exhales, turning back to his book. "Charlie, you ran into Nick Nelson."
Charlie blinks. "I—yes, that does sound about right, but, um—who the fuck is Nick Nelson?"
Isaac doesn’t even look up from his book as he deadpans, "Only like the biggest asshole in this entire university."
Charlie exhales dramatically, slumping into his chair. "No, I got that. He was quite rude. But also—" He gestures vaguely, staring at nothing. "—he’s so fucking impressive."
Isaac finally looks up, his expression a mix of exhaustion and concern. "Charlie. He’s also probably straight. Honestly, I’m shocked he didn’t throw a slur at you."
Charlie shrugs, tilting his head. "Well, I did get called a twink, but—"
"Charlie." Isaac’s tone is the same one he uses when Charlie tells him he’s going to start a new hobby and then immediately abandons it. "Please don’t tell me you’re going to fall for another straight boy."
"No, I just—" Charlie runs a hand through his curls, exhaling. "He let me talk."
Isaac blinks. "…He let you talk?"
"Yes!" Charlie leans forward. "Usually, I never get away with badmouthing people. But Nick Nelson—who could, by the way, absolutely slam me into a locker and lock me in it—didn’t."
Isaac sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. "Charlie."
"And maybe—just maybe—I was a little overdramatic," Charlie admits, holding up his hands. "And maybe I called him Your Highness—"
Isaac freezes. "You called him what?"
Charlie waves a hand. "It was for a good cause! He needed to be knocked down a peg. He was acting like he was the king of the entire campus, walking around with his broad shoulders and his muscles and his ‘I own the world’ attitude—"
Isaac groans. "Charlie, he’s the captain of the rugby team. Do you know how bad of an idea this is? Does he know you?"
Charlie pauses. "Um. He might only know my first name."
Isaac closes his eyes. "Charlie. If he wanted to, he could talk to his rugby lads, and you would get bullied senseless."
Charlie purses his lips, thinking about that for a moment. Then he shrugs. "Okay, but—don’t you think it’s a little weird that we’ve never run into each other before, and then suddenly, boom, twice in one day?"
Isaac raises an eyebrow. "No. I think that’s a coincidence and not fate, you absolute idiot."
Charlie hums thoughtfully, barely listening. Because, honestly? His brain is elsewhere.
Specifically, in the gutter.
Because, fuck, Nick Nelson is so big. And strong. And aggressively hot in that effortless, slightly-ragged, sweaty, annoyingly-masculine way. The way his hoodie stretched over his ridiculous shoulders, the way his joggers fit a little too well, the way his hands—
Okay, focus.
"I just—" Charlie bites his lip. "Isaac, I told him to get on his knees. And the thing is—I walked away."
Isaac gives him a flat look. "You are obsessed with this."
"I am," Charlie admits, sighing dramatically. "Because, like… what if? What if he actually would have? What if he wanted to? What if—"
Isaac holds up a hand. "Stop."
Charlie smirks, tilting his head. "You’re picturing it now, aren’t you?"
"I hate you."
Charlie grins, but inside, his thoughts are spiraling.
Because, seriously. What if Nick Nelson isn’t as straight as he acts? What if something in him wants to be challenged?
And—oh fuck.
What if Charlie is the one to challenge him? Yup.... Yay him! Okay, fantasize time!
Charlie sighs, and is so far in the gutter, he might as well be swimming in sewage.
And honestly? He feels a little bad about it.
Because he is sitting next to Isaac, and they’re supposed to be studying. There are books in front of them, open, full of words that Charlie should be absorbing. But all his brain is capable of absorbing right now is the image of Nick Nelson on his knees.
In his dorm room. Looking up at him.
Charlie shakes his head violently. Okay, stop. Stop. STOP.
But fuck, wouldn’t it be nice? Running his fingers through that messy, slightly too-long hair, tugging just enough to feel the tension in Nick’s shoulders, watching those broad hands curl against his thighs, hearing—NOPE. NO. NO.
Charlie physically shakes himself out of it, turning abruptly to Isaac.
"We don’t know for sure if he’s straight," he says, grasping onto any thread of justification. "Bisexual people exist. Pansexuals exist. I mean, so many sexualities exist."
Isaac gives him a look that is so deeply unimpressed, it nearly kills Charlie on the spot.
"Yes," Isaac says slowly. "But this is Nick Nelson. The guy who pushes people who wear pronoun pins."
Charlie flinches.
"Oh."
That… doesn’t sound great.
"So you think he’s… homophobic?" Charlie asks hesitantly.
Isaac shrugs, voice flat. "I don’t know. But I do know that you should not be fantasizing about him."
Charlie scowls, shifting in his seat. "It’s not like I’m choosing to fantasize, Isaac, it’s just—" he rubs his face, exhaling sharply. "Okay, fine, maybe I am choosing it a little."
Isaac sighs. "Charlie, he’s not kind. He could be cruel to you. And I don’t want that. Not again."
Charlie stiffens. His stomach twists.
"Don’t bring that up." His voice is sharp.
Isaac meets his gaze, steady and unwavering. "I’m bringing it up because I care. You’ve grown so much, Charlie. You have confidence now. But I don’t want to see that confidence get ripped away. And if you get close to this Nick guy? He might do that. He might hurt you. He might say something that affects you in ways I can’t fix."
Charlie swallows. Exhales. Thinks.
And then—well.
"Right," he says, nodding to himself. "So you do think he’s straight?"
Isaac groans. "Charlie."
"No, just—think about it," Charlie presses. "You said it yourself—he pushes people who wear pronoun pins. Why? People who are truly comfortable with themselves don’t do that. So he’s either homophobic—or he has some deep, intense, internalized homophobia that’s just waiting to explode once he realizes he’s not as heterosexual as he acts."
Isaac stares at him.
Charlie stares back, eyes wide, hopeful.
Isaac sighs. "You want to test the theory, don’t you?"
Charlie grins.
"I really do."
Isaac groans, dragging his hands down his face. "You’re not listening to a single word I’ve said."
"I know," Charlie says brightly.
Isaac presses his lips into a thin line. "This is a bad idea."
"Or—it’s a genius idea," Charlie argues. "Look—we have a game this Friday. If we win, the rugby lads are definitely going to the bar to celebrate. Why don’t we go to that bar?"
Isaac squints at him.
"Think about it!" Charlie insists, hands flailing. "I have a few drinks, we test the waters, and if there’s even a slight flicker of interest, then we have answers."
Isaac exhales, crossing his arms. "Or we lose the game, they get shitfaced anyway, and you end up surrounded by a bunch of angry, drunk straight men."
"Isaac, please," Charlie whines, clasping his hands together. "Please, please, please, I never ask anything of you."
Isaac raises a skeptical brow. "Charlie, last week, you asked if you could borrow my car."
"Okay, I never ask anything of you when it comes to my sex life—so, please, just this once."
Isaac closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath.
Then—sighs heavily.
"Fine."
Charlie gasps.
"If we win, fine," Isaac clarifies. "I’ll go to the bar. But I’m only staying for two drinks. That’s it. And after two drinks, I’m gone. You know I don’t like bars. You know I don’t like drinking."
Charlie nods rapidly. "That’s fine. Two drinks is plenty of time for me to test the waters."
Isaac levels him with a warning stare. "Charlie."
Charlie beams. "And if it goes well, then you can leave, and I can stay with him."
Isaac groans. "I regret this already."
Charlie just smirks.
Because, really—what’s the worst that could happen?
---
Game day.
Nick loves game day.
One, because it means school is over early for him and school is fucking useless anyway. Two, because it means he gets to hang out with the lads, play a solid game of rugby, win, get shitfaced, and—if he’s lucky—end the night not alone.
That’s the plan. That’s the goal. He needs to hook up.
Because the last four days have been… confusing.
And by confusing, he means deeply, deeply fucked up.
Because for some insane reason, every single time he’s gotten himself off since Monday, his brain has betrayed him. Every single time, it’s started normal—porn, whatever, some beautiful girl with curves and a pretty mouth, something simple and safe.
And then, somehow, it always ends with his jaw going slack, his breath catching, his body tensing, and his mouth—his fucking mouth—moaning something that sounds very similar to Charlie.
Which—no.
No, no, no.
That’s not—he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t moan about guys, he doesn’t think about guys, and he definitely does not imagine a pair of dark, smirking eyes looking up at him while he's—
Nope.
It’s stress. That’s all. Just stress about the game. Any captain would be stressed.
It has nothing to do with the fact that, four days ago, Charlie—the most annoying, aggravating, infuriating twink in existence—told him to get down on his knees.
Nothing to do with the fact that Nick has thought about it since then.
That sometimes, late at night, he’s gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, and fought against the intrusive, awful mental image of Charlie sprawled out on Nick’s bed, hair messy, shirt pushed up, lips parted, hands pulling at Nick’s hair while—
FUCK. FUCK. STOP.
It’s anger. That’s all it is.
Nick is angry at Charlie. Furious. It’s pure rage. Because Charlie has bumped into him twice now, and it’s disrespectful, and Nick hates when people think they can get away with shit like that.
It’s definitely not because Charlie is in his head. Definitely not.
Nick huffs, yanking his jersey over his head, trying to focus. Game day. Game day. That’s all that matters.
He barely registers the slap on his back before he hears Harry’s voice.
"Oi, you ready for the game? Should be an easy one."
Nick exhales, forcing a smirk. "Yeah. Honestly? I’m just ready to win and get trashed."
Harry laughs. "Yeah, no, I can’t wait. Are we gonna try and break your record tonight? What’s the most you’ve done—ten shots?"
Nick scoffs, rolling his shoulders. "What, you want me to die? I don’t know if I’ve got much more of a limit than that."
Harry shrugs, smirking. "Ah, well. If we win, we celebrate, right?"
"Yeah, sure. Sounds good, mate."
"See you out there."
Nick watches him jog off, then exhales sharply, shaking himself out.
He just needs to get through this game.
And then, once he’s drowning in alcohol and a pretty girl is grinding against him, he’ll prove to himself—once and for all—that he’s straight.
That this—whatever the fuck this is—is just a phase.
But Nick is fucked.
And not in the way he wants to be.
Because the entire game? His head isn’t in it. He’s pushing harder than he needs to. He’s shouting at his teammates when he shouldn’t be. His passes are sloppy, his strategy is off, and the worst part? He knows it. He knows he’s not playing well. He knows he’s getting reckless.
But does that stop him?
No.
Because Nick Nelson is angry.
And anger is a fuel. Anger is something he knows how to use. He takes it out in the tackles, in the way he shoves harder than necessary, in the way he wants to get hit, just so he can feel something real—something that isn’t this stupid, restless, confusing mess in his head.
But it doesn’t work.
Because in the end?
They fucking lose.
And it should’ve been an easy game. They should’ve won.
And who’s to blame for that?
Nick.
Except—no.
Nick is not taking the blame for this.
Someone else is to blame.
And that someone?
Charlie.
Because ever since that stupid coffee incident, Nick has been fucked up. Four days straight of being restless, confused, pent up, unable to sleep, unable to think properly—and it’s all Charlie’s fault.
Charlie, who burned him on the chest with coffee.
Charlie, who bumped into him again and demanded something so belittling it made Nick’s jaw clench.
Charlie, who smirked at him like he knew something Nick didn’t.
Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.
Nick clenches his jaw so tightly it aches as he walks into the locker room, sitting down hard on the bench, shaking his head, trying to will himself calm.
But Harry claps him on the back, sighing. "Hey. Just a rough game? What was all that about? Actually—no—what the fuck was all that about?"
Nick exhales, rubbing a hand over his face.
"I’m sorry, Harry. I’m sorry, team. I know. I was—I was giving out plays that were stupid, I was shouting when I shouldn’t have been. I fucked up. That’s my bad." He shakes his head. "It was just one game, right? We’ll train more. I’ll train more. We’ll win the next one."
Harry nods, watching him carefully. "Are we still going out for drinks?"
Nick forces a smirk. "Yes. I need to get plastered. Losing this game just—it just fucked me up in the head."
Harry chuckles. "Well, don’t take all the blame, mate. We knew the plays were bad. We followed them anyway. We should’ve said something."
Nick lets out a humorless laugh. "I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but please—don’t. Not helping." He stands, stretching. "Look—if you guys want to head out to the bar, I’m gonna shower real quick. I’ll meet you there in an hour. We’ll get plastered, we’ll talk about ways to improve, and we’ll just—have a good weekend, yeah?"
Harry nods. "Yep. See you later, mate."
And with that, Nick heads to the showers.
And unfortunately for him, the anger—the frustration—the restlessness—it’s back.
He stands under the water, jaw tight, trying to breathe through it, but his body is already betraying him.
Because here’s the thing—Nick tells himself he’s not jerking off to the thought of Charlie.
He tells himself he’s jerking off to the anger. The aggression. The way Charlie makes him feel so infuriatingly small and infuriatingly restless and—
And the way Charlie stood there, all smug and daring, and told Nick to get on his knees.
Nick clenches his teeth, eyes squeezing shut, hand tightening around himself, picturing other things. A girl, someone soft, someone easy.
But his brain doesn’t cooperate.
Because fuck, Charlie’s mouth. Charlie’s smirk. Charlie’s goddamn voice—
Nick swears, biting down on his lip, working himself faster, trying to chase the heat in his stomach, trying to get this out of his system.
And when he comes, sharp and twitching under the water, his body betrays him one last time.
Because his brain blurs the edges of the fantasy, mixing memory with fiction, and the name that nearly slips from his lips?
Charlie.
Nick gasps, eyes flying open, panting, heart hammering in his chest.
And then he groans, furious, leaning his head against the tile.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He needs to drink. He needs to obliterate this.
So when he shows up at the bar an hour later, fresh and clean and tense, he is ready to get so fucking wasted that he forgets the entire existence of a certain emo twink with eyeliner and an attitude problem.