Chapter 4
Shots, shots, shots, shots, shots—
Nick is the song right now.
Eight? No, ten? Wait—twelve? Did he pass his limit?
Who cares?
The pub doesn’t smell like sweat anymore, and the alcohol doesn’t even taste like alcohol anymore—it’s just water, smooth and easy, sliding down his throat with zero resistance.
The music is loud, pounding through his skull, and he’s banging his head to it like he’s actually a part of the band. He’s laughing way too hard at whatever Derek just said—something about Harry’s hairline, maybe? Doesn’t matter. It’s hilarious. He throws an arm around Otis, then sways a little, almost toppling into Sebastian, who’s too busy watching one of their teammates disappear into the bathroom with a girl to care.
Nick is gone. Absolutely, completely wasted.
And he feels fucking fantastic.
"Nick! Nick! Nick! Nick!"
The chant starts up again as Derek slides another shot his way, and Harry claps him on the back, grinning like a dumbass.
"Yeah! Shot twelve, mate! Get it in you!"
Nick shrugs—because, honestly, when alcohol is offered, does he really need to say no?
No. No, he does not.
He grabs the shot, clinks it dramatically against the table, then downs it in one go, leaning fully into Harry’s side, laughing when Harry pats his chest.
"You alright, big guy?" Harry smirks.
Nick rolls his eyes, letting his head loll against Harry’s shoulder.
"Fucking perfect, mate."
Harry chuckles, nudging him. "Yeah? Well, why don’t we find you a pretty lady, then? Maybe you just need to wring it out to make sure the next game goes well, huh?"
Nick snorts, rubbing a hand down his face.
Because, yeah. That’s the plan. Find a girl. Have a good time. Get this whole week out of his system.
He just needs to find someone.
Find a girl. Find a girl. Find a—
Oh. There.
He spots a brunette standing near the bar, all long legs and bright eyes, wearing a tight black dress and laughing at something her friend just said, her eyes tracing Harry's every few moments. Ouch, but whatever. He's right here! Hello! Hot rugby lad! Fine, he doesn't like her dress anyways.
Perfect for Harry then.
He slaps a heavy hand on Harry’s chest, nearly knocking the air out of him. "Oi, mate. You see that absolute smoke show over there?"
Harry, still recovering from the assault, follows his gaze, raising a brow. "What, the brunette?"
"The gorgeous brunette," Nick corrects, giving Harry a rough shake. "She’s got that whole—y’know—hot, mysterious thing going on. You should go talk to her."
Harry snorts. "Mate, I don’t know—"
"No, no, no, you have to," Nick insists, gripping Harry by the shoulders, shaking him like a bobblehead. "Listen, I know women. And that woman? She looks like the type who wants a confident bloke to walk up and buy her a drink."
Harry hesitates, shifting on his feet.
Nick gasps, dramatically offended. "Are you scared?"
"Fuck off," Harry mutters, but there’s just enough hesitation in his voice that Nick pounces.
"Mate," Nick says, voice suddenly serious, "you are Harry fucking Greene. You’ve got game, you’ve got charm, and you’ve got at least six shots in you, which means your confidence level is at an all-time high."
Harry laughs, shaking his head. "You’re such a prick."
"A helpful prick."
Harry narrows his eyes. "You never do anything nice for me."
Nick throws an arm over his shoulder, pressing their foreheads together dramatically. "Well, mate, I’m starting now—by helping you get a fucking grand orgasm."
Harry barks out a laugh, shoving Nick off. "Jesus Christ, man, say that again and I’ll need another drink first."
"That’s the spirit," Nick grins, then—before Harry can back out—places both hands firmly on his back and shoves him forward.
Harry stumbles, nearly face-planting into the brunette, but manages to catch himself at the last second. Nick watches with pride as she turns toward him, eyes flicking down, then up, slow and intrigued.
A slow smile curls onto her lips.
Success.
Nick leans back against the bar, watching them exchange a few words before Harry grins and buys her a drink.
"Wingman of the year," he mutters to himself, very pleased with his work.
And then—because he’s also got at least twelve shots in him—he starts scanning the bar again.
Looking for his own conquest.
Looking for someone to pull him out of his head, to remind him of who he is.
His gaze drifts, shifts, searches—
And then—
It lands on him.
And oh.
Oh, fuck.
---
Charlie loves Fridays.
Loves them way more than Mondays.
Because, holy fucking shit, a drunk Nick Nelson is something else entirely.
And by something else, Charlie means something he would very much like to climb.
Because fuck, fuck, fuck, look at him.
Black tank top, black jeans, messy hair, Vans—Charlie whimpers internally. He has full view of those thick, gorgeous biceps, and holy fucking yes.
Yes please.
Yes right fucking now.
Nick looks so good like this. Loose, flushed, swaying slightly, shirt clinging to his chest like a gift from God. And Charlie? Charlie is having a crisis. A full-body, throbbing, need-to-sit-down-before-he-embarrasses-himself crisis.
Because all he can think about—all he can fucking see—is himself, riding those thick, muscled thighs, digging his fingers into them as Nick grips his waist, holds him down, moves him how he wants—
Charlie sucks in a sharp breath, gripping his drink like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
No. No, no, no. Charlie, STOP.
But his brain does not stop.
His brain has already betrayed him.
Because now he’s picturing those arms holding him down, those biceps tensing under his hands, Nick’s fingers gripping his hips, his head tilting back, his mouth—
Charlie chokes on his drink.
"Nope. NOPE."
He cannot get hard in a pub. He cannot get hard in a pub.
Charlie forces himself to look away, tilting his head back, eyes darting to the ceiling like that’ll somehow erase the images in his head.
He needs to breathe.
Deep breaths. Focus on something else.
Like himself.
He looks down at his outfit.
Black skinny jeans, mesh black top, eyeliner, purple sparkles highlighting his cheekbones. Purple fucking Converse.
Yeah. Yeah, he looks good.
Actually—scratch that. He looks fucking hot.
And he feels hot, too. A little flushed, a little electric, a little overwhelmingly turned on by the rugby lad currently downing his thirteenth shot like it’s water, but he’s handling it.
Sort of.
Okay, not really.
Because Nick just leaned back against the bar, licking a drop of alcohol off his lip, and Charlie is one second away from walking over there and making an absolute mistake. HIS FUCKING ARMS THOUGH!?
HE'S staring (can you blame him?). Full-on, completely zoned-out, jaw slightly slack, borderline panting staring at Nick Nelson, who is currently leaning against the bar like some kind of rugged, sweaty, mess-of-a-wet-dream.
And fuck, fuck, fuck, how is it possible for one man to look like that?
Like every fantasy Charlie has ever had, wrapped up in a messy-haired, broad-shouldered, cocky bastard of a package.
This is a problem.
Before he can combust on the spot, Isaac pokes him—hard, right in the ribs—ripping him out of his trance.
"Charlie."
Charlie blinks, disoriented, turning to Isaac, who’s watching him with so much judgment it could probably kill a man.
"I just ordered my second drink," Isaac says flatly. "So either make a move, or drink with me and then leave."
Charlie hesitates, biting his lip.
"Do you think I should make a move?"
Isaac sighs, swirling his glass.
"Honestly?" He glances at Nick, then back at Charlie. "No. He looks wasted, they lost, he’s probably pretty hammered. But I also know you, and the way you’re looking at him tells me you do not care."
Charlie makes a small, distressed sound in the back of his throat.
"I do care what you say!" he insists. "It’s just—" He gestures wildly in Nick’s direction. "I mean, look at him! He’s like every fucking wet dream imaginable."
Isaac groans, rubbing his temples. "Yep. Too much information."
Charlie grips his drink tighter, exhaling sharply, eyes still darting back to Nick, who is now laughing at something a teammate just said, head thrown back, throat exposed, and—
FUCK. NOPE.
Isaac rolls his eyes. "Charlie, you’re dressed to the tens, you’re charming, you’re witty—if you want to talk to him, go up there." He shrugs. "Worst case scenario, he rejects you, I bump in, and we walk out. Yeah?"
Charlie gulps.
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
Charlie nods, inhaling deeply, psyching himself up.
"Yeah. I’m going in."
A beat.
Then—he grins, throwing a wink at Isaac.
"And hopefully later—going into his ass too."
Isaac immediately downs his drink.
Charlie takes a deep breath. Hypes himself up.
He’s got this. He so has this.
Nick Nelson is just a man. A very large, very muscular, very broad-shouldered, probably incredibly rough in bed man—but still. Just a man.
Charlie fixes his hair, smooths a hand down his mesh top, and saunters toward the bar, adding an extra pep in his step because, well—he looks good. He feels good. He is hot as fuck and Nick is about to find out firsthand.
But then—oh.
The Rugby Lads™.
And, honestly? So many cis men together is terrifying.
Charlie can feel the testosterone in the air, thick and suffocating. He watches, with mild horror, as one of them very blatantly tries to lift a woman’s skirt in public, and—
Ew. No. No, thank you. Straight culture is horrifying.
He forces himself to move on, weaving through the crowd, finally reaching the bar.
"Malibu pineapple, please," he says sweetly, flashing the bartender a flirtatious smile.
The drink comes quickly—bless the gods—and Charlie takes a slow, sultry sip before turning his head—
And immediately freezing.
Because Nick Nelson is already staring at him.
And fuck.
Oh, fuck.
Charlie flushes slightly—not because he’s embarrassed, but because—holy shit, Nick is looking at him like he wants to fucking eat him.
His gaze is heavy. Dragging over him slowly, eyes dark and unreadable, taking him in.
Yeah.
Take me in, big guy.
See my mesh top? Go on, take it off, get a better view of my nipples. Like my tight jeans? Well, take them off and I’ll show you something else that’s tight—
CHARLIE. COOL IT.
Charlie shudders, physically shaking the thought out of his head.
Instead, he lifts a hand, giving Nick a small, teasing wave, fingers curling slightly around his drink—
And then yelps.
Because suddenly—his wrist is grabbed, hard, jerked to the side, and part of his drink spills onto his hand, dripping onto his wrist, and oh fucking great.
Here comes the hetero nonsense.
Charlie slowly turns his head, gaze landing on one of Nick’s teammates—some broad, red-faced, pissed-off rugby bro, gripping his wrist way too hard, eyes seething.
Charlie blinks.
"Oh, great," he mutters dryly. "The straight tendencies have begun. Yay, me."
Charlie should have expected this.
Really, he should have.
The second his wrist was yanked, the second some fuming, red-faced, sweaty rugby lad pulled him closer, he should have sighed, taken a deep breath, and braced for the hetero nonsense about to explode in his face.
But even knowing it was coming, Charlie still finds himself momentarily caught off guard.
"What the hell are you doing in our bar?" the guy—Derek, he thinks—spits out, breath thick with beer and aggression.
Charlie blinks.
"Your bar?" he echoes, shifting uncomfortably in the grip. "Um, pretty sure this is a public place, buddy. Also—" he makes a face, wiping at his cheek with his free hand, "—please stop spitting on me."
Derek’s jaw tightens. His grip tightens.
"What the fuck are you doing trying to get the attention of our captain, huh?" he growls. "Fucking twink, coming to the bar us wasn't bad enough? Now you’re parading around, trying to get his attention?"
Charlie snorts, arching a brow.
"Right. You know, I’ve heard that word a lot. It’s really lost its edge."
Derek does not like that answer.
Because suddenly, Charlie is being yanked, pulled up from the barstool, and fuck, this guy is big. Charlie isn’t exactly tiny, but he feels small compared to Derek’s broad, pissed-off, drunk-as-fuck frame looming over him.
Charlie tries to square him up, but it’s hard when the other guy looks like he’s actually considering swinging on him.
"You wanna fight, huh?" Derek spits, grip bruising around Charlie’s wrist. "You wanna fucking fight?"
Charlie exhales sharply, keeping his voice as level as possible. "No, mate. I was just ordering a drink." He tilts his head. "Why are you so pissed off?"
Derek snarls, grip tightening further, shaking him slightly. "Because you’re over here ruining the fucking vibe with your little mesh top and sparkly—whatever the fuck makeup that is."
Charlie blinks. Then tilts his head, smirking slightly.
"Oh, yeah?" He gestures vaguely at himself. "It does look very nice, don’t you think?"
Derek’s face twists. His arm draws back slightly, his body tensing, and—oh.
Oh, shit.
Charlie’s heart stutters. He’s actually gonna swing.
He doesn’t even have time to react before Derek is shoved.
Hard.
Charlie stumbles back slightly, eyes widening as Derek staggers, bumping into the bar, and—
"Fuck off, Derek," Nick’s voice slurs slightly, but it’s sharp, firm, and—
Oh.
Charlie inhales.
Because Nick is protecting him.
Nick—who is shitfaced, swaying slightly, blinking blearily, looking wrecked from way too many shots—is still standing between Charlie and Derek, brows furrowed, mouth set in a hard line.
"No need for a bar fight, okay?" Nick mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. "I really don’t wanna get kicked out again."
Derek glares at him. "Yeah, but this little shit—"
"Derek, I swear to God," Nick groans, swaying slightly. "You’re so fucking loud."
Charlie should be worried. And he is.
But also?
He’s thrilled.
Because Nick Nelson just defended him.
And that means Nick Nelson care
Even if he’s too drunk to admit it.
"Shouldn’t be allowed to look like that here," Derek spits, eyes still locked onto Charlie.
Charlie gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.
"Oh no, my clothes! My existence! My sparkly little face—ruining the delicate hetero ambiance of this sticky, beer-soaked pub! Whatever shall I do?"
Derek’s face twitches.
Nick groans. "Jesus, Charlie, don’t poke the bear."
"It’s fun," Charlie mutters.
Nick grits his teeth. "Derek, just let it go, okay? I promise, he’s probably just getting a drink and then heading off with his—" he gestures vaguely, "—other fags. Just—chill."
Charlie freezes.
Because, oh.
Oh, ouch.
That stung a little.
Nick doesn’t even realize what he just said, doesn’t realize how it landed, because he’s too drunk, too out of it, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s just waiting for Derek to drop it already.
And Derek?
Derek doesn’t drop it.
He lunges.
Nick barely has time to react before Charlie is jerked forward again, Derek’s fingers curling into his top, pulling, and—
Charlie yelps, stumbling, and fuck, okay, okay, maybe this is bad.
But then—
Nick moves.
He grabs Derek’s shoulder, tugs him back, and shoves him hard enough that Derek actually stumbles, nearly falling flat on his ass.
"I said fuck off, Derek," Nick slurs, eyes dark. "Seriously. Just—drop it. We’re drinking, we’re chilling, I don’t wanna deal with this right now."
Derek glares.
"Whatever, man," he mutters, brushing himself off.
And then he storms off, shoving through the crowd, leaving Nick and Charlie standing there, tense, breathless, and—
Nick sways slightly.
Charlie catches him, steadying him instinctively.
And fuck.
Nick leans into him.
"Ugh, I’m so drunk," Nick mutters.
Charlie grins.
"Yeah, you are," he says, thrilled, because Nick Nelson just protected him.
Nick Nelson is touching him.
Nick Nelson is touching him.
Charlie has been through a lot in his nineteen years of life. He’s experienced pain, heartbreak, embarrassment, euphoria, hunger, horniness, all the emotions possible.
But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared him for this exact moment in time.
For the glorious and life-changing event of Nick Nelson drunkenly draping an arm around his shoulders, leaning his full, muscled, heavy, sexy weight against him while Charlie tries desperately to keep him upright.
Charlie is holding Nick Nelson.
Like, physically holding him. With his actual hands.
One hand firmly pressed against his chest, feeling nothing but solid muscle, hard and warm under his palm, his broad fucking torso right there, under his touch, under his fingers, and—oh fuck.
His other hand is wrapped around Nick’s bicep. His strong, thick bicep, tight with muscle, made for tackling people and throwing rugby balls and possibly—hopefully—holding Charlie down one day.
And Nick is leaning into him.
Nick Nelson’s body is pressed against his.
Nick Nelson’s very large, very solid, very drunk body is practically melting into Charlie’s own.
And Charlie?
Charlie is about three seconds away from absolutely combusting.
Like, what the fuck does he even do in this situation? What the fuck do you mean Nick Nelson is letting Charlie hold him up? What the fuck do you mean Nick trusts him enough to do that?
Charlie is not okay.
"Oh my fucking god," Charlie whispers under his breath. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my—"
"Please just go back to your other friends, okay?"
Charlie blinks.
Oh. Right. Nick is still talking. Nick is saying words. Nick is currently existing in reality, unlike Charlie, who has mentally checked out to orbit the planet in an overheated gay daze.
"Derek's gonna come back in like five minutes," Nick continues, voice so slurred, his breath brushing against Charlie’s temple, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. "And if you're not gone by then, he's gonna be really pissed off."
Charlie snaps out of it—sort of. He processes what Nick just said, his brow furrowing.
"But this is a public place," Charlie argues, tightening his grip around Nick. "I don’t have to leave just because I’m gay."
Nick groans, his fingers briefly flexing against Charlie’s shoulder, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, Nick Nelson is gripping me, before he sighs dramatically.
"Well, if you don’t leave," he mutters, voice deep and rough and hoarse, "then they’re just gonna be punching you because you are gay, and at that point, I’m not gonna be able to protect you again. I’m, like, way too drunk to protect anybody—even myself—right now."
Charlie falters.
Because—
Wait.
Wait.
Nick Nelson protected him.
Nick Nelson stepped in and shoved Derek off him, stood in front of him, told Derek to fuck off.
Nick Nelson, who probably shouldn’t care, who doesn’t owe Charlie a damn thing, protected him.
Even now, in his messy, drunken, swaying state, he’s still trying to get Charlie out of harm’s way.
Charlie stares at him.
His stupidly handsome, stupidly big, stupidly broad, stupidly protective self.
Nick blinks at him.
And Charlie?
Charlie is gone.
"Why do you even hang out with people like that?" he asks suddenly, voice softer.
Nick makes a vague noise, blinking at him. "Like what?"
"Like Derek," Charlie says, shifting his grip to keep Nick steady. "Homophobic dickheads who shove drinks down your throat?"
Nick frowns. "No one’s shoving drinks down my throat. I get to choose how much I drink." He pauses, then grins suddenly, his whole face lighting up. "Speaking of—I want another shot."
Charlie groans and immediately steers him away from the bar.
"Nope, nope, nope, absolutely not," he mutters, pulling Nick along with him.
Luckily, Nick’s teammates are far too preoccupied with their usual nonsense—trying to get the attention of some girl who looks so drunk she’s practically slipping off her barstool.
Gross.
So Charlie has no trouble dragging Nick away, practically lugging him back toward where Isaac is sitting, who—upon seeing them—just sighs deeply, sets down his empty glass, and shakes his head.
"Charlie," Isaac says flatly.
"Isaac," Charlie grins, trying his best to look innocent while holding up an entire rugby lad.
Isaac sighs again. "My drink is gone, so I’m heading out. Charlie, text me when you get home, alright?"
Charlie nods, still struggling to keep Nick upright. "Yeah, yeah, I’ll text you once I get back to my dorm."
Isaac looks at Nick for a long moment. Then looks back at Charlie.
Then squints.
"Okay," Isaac says slowly. "Good to see you, Charlie." His eyes flick back to Nick, and he lifts a single brow. "Also… nice to see you, Nick."
Nick blinks at him, head wobbling slightly. "Huh?"
Isaac just shakes his head, amused, and then—without another word—turns and leaves, disappearing into the crowd.
Charlie sighs and guides Nick into a chair, pushing him down into the seat Isaac just vacated.
Nick groans, dropping his head against the back of the chair. "Ugh. I’m gonna be so fucking sick tomorrow."
Charlie snorts, crossing his arms. "Yeah, that’s because, again—you’re letting your teammates pour shot after shot after shot down your throat. That’s not just unhealthy, that’s borderline alcohol poisoning, my guy."
Nick makes a whiny, irritated noise and suddenly reaches up—pressing his palm over Charlie’s mouth.
"Shhhhhh," Nick slurs, eyes squinting. "Too many words, Charlie. Too many words."
Charlie blinks.
Then licks Nick’s palm.
Nick yelps, jerking his hand away, and Charlie laughs, delighted.
"You're a fucking weirdo...." Nick sighs, looking down at his hand than at Charlie, "weirdo weirdo." Before signing and leaning towards Charlie.
And Charlie Spring is Having a Gay Crisis in Real Time.
Because Nick Nelson—the Nick Nelson, rugby lad, six-foot-something, biceps the size of Charlie’s entire torso, annoying as hell, probably the most frustrating person on Earth—
Is currently resting his head on Charlie’s shoulder.
And not in a “let me just use you for balance” way, or a “drunkenly collapsing onto the nearest available surface” way—
But in a way that feels dangerously, achingly, painfully intimate.
In a way that makes Charlie feel like he is currently orbiting the fucking sun.
Because Nick Nelson is touching him. Again.
And Nick Nelson smells good.
And Nick Nelson is warm.
And Nick Nelson is a fucking menace to Charlie’s entire existence.
Charlie is not okay.
He physically feels like his entire soul is leaving his body, like he's floating somewhere above himself, watching this all unfold from a higher plane of existence.
"Nick," he manages, voice slightly strangled.
Nick hums against his shoulder, barely lifting his head. "Mm?"
Charlie swallows. Tries to focus. Tries not to lose his entire mind over the fact that Nick Nelson's cheek is pressed against his collarbone.
"Do you actually like hanging out with these people?"
Nick sighs, rubbing his forehead against Charlie’s shoulder—against his shoulder—like he's getting comfortable.
"Mhm," he mutters. "They're my team. I’m the captain. We do the whole... rugby team thing. Bar, drinks, team bonding. It's what we do."
Charlie presses his lips together, frowning. "Yeah, but a lot of them are also, like, homophobic pricks."
Nick hums again, completely unbothered.
"Mhm."
"And they’re also just... so fucking irritating," Charlie continues, still trying to process the fact that Nick Nelson is basically draped over him right now. "Like, their heads are so far up their own asses that they don’t care about anyone besides themselves."
Nick makes a vague noise, shifting slightly. "Yep. That’s me."
Charlie blinks.
"Is that really who you want to be?"
Nick groans, lifting his head just enough to glare at him half-heartedly.
"Charlie," he slurs, "too many words. Seriously. Shut up."
Charlie stiffens, lips parting slightly.
"I was protecting you," Nick continues, swaying slightly, "because I didn’t wanna deal with another bar fight. And I didn’t want Derek to be out for the next match. Okay? We need him. He’s a good player."
Charlie tilts his head. "You didn’t do it because of me?"
Nick scoffs, finally pulling back—but not completely, his arm still loosely wrapped around Charlie’s shoulder.
"No," he mutters, eyes bleary. "Not because of you. So just—shut the fuck up and let me rest here for a second, okay?"
Charlie stares at him.
His stupid, messy-haired, drunk-as-fuck, broad-shouldered, extremely warm rugby lad who just told him to shut the fuck up while also letting Charlie hold him up.
And Charlie?
Charlie wants to scream.
Because Nick is lying.
Charlie can see it.
Nick knows he’s lying.
He’s too drunk to mask it properly.
Because Nick Nelson does not just shove his drunk teammates away for nothing.
Nick Nelson does not just stand between Charlie and Derek for nothing.
Nick Nelson does not just let Charlie touch him for nothing.
And Charlie knows—knows, knows, knows—that Nick Nelson is a terrible fucking liar when he’s wasted.
"Right," Charlie says slowly.
Nick grumbles something unintelligible, dropping his head again, soft and heavy against Charlie’s shoulder.
And Charlie?
Charlie takes a very deep breath and decides, fuck it.
"I also saw you earlier," he says casually, voice light, teasing, "letting one of your friends go after that brunette, even though she was clearly looking at you."
Nick’s brows furrow. "Huh?"
"The girl," Charlie repeats. "She was obviously looking at you, but you let Harry go after her instead. Why was that?"
Nick frowns dramatically, like he’s actually thinking about it.
"I dunno," he mutters finally, words slurred and sleepy. "Wanted to be nice?"
Charlie tilts his head. "But I thought you weren’t nice?"
Nick groans, shoving his face against Charlie’s neck, and Charlie’s entire body short-circuits.
"I said wanted, not am," Nick mumbles.
Charlie stops breathing entirely.
Because—oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
Nick is still pressed against him.
Nick is still leaning into him.
Nick is still holding onto him.
Nick is touching him everywhere.
Nick is letting him hold him.
And Nick Nelson—rugby captain, straight rugby captain, straight straight straight rugby captain—
Just admitted he wanted to be nice.
Which means Nick Nelson wanted to do something kind for someone else.
Which means Nick Nelson is thinking about things that are not rugby and alcohol.
Which means Nick Nelson is unraveling in real time, right in front of Charlie, and letting him see it.
Which means Charlie has exactly one goal for the rest of the night.
Do. Not. Let. Him. Go.
Why?
Because this—this version of Nick, the one currently half-draped over him, half-arguing with him, half-existing between his carefully curated, masculine, rugby-lad persona and whatever the fuck is beneath it—
This Nick?
Is more interesting than anything Charlie has ever encountered in his entire fucking life.
So, Charlie decides.
He's going to poke the bear a little more.
"Do you even know what you called me and my friends back there?" he asks, tilting his head. "Or are you too drunk to even remember?"
Nick doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t even hesitate.
"I don’t know. I don’t care," he mutters, voice thick and sluggish.
Charlie exhales sharply, jaw tightening.
"You called us fags, Nick."
Nick snorts, lifting his head just enough to look at him properly.
"Yeah? And?"
Charlie levels him with a look. "Is that not exactly what you think we are?"
Nick just shrugs, too drunk and too careless to hold back. "Dunno. Thought it was true."
And that.
That right there.
That casual, careless, unfazed dismissal of Charlie’s entire existence is what sets him off.
Charlie’s chest tightens—but not with embarrassment. Not with hurt.
With anger.
Because—fuck that.
"You are so far up your own ass," Charlie hisses, eyes sharp, voice steady, "that you were taught at such a young age how to deal with people who are different from you, and you never once questioned it. You just assumed that anyone slightly different from you was automatically lesser than you."
He leans in, staring him down.
"You’re a fucking asshole, Nick, for thinking that."
Nick scowls—brows furrowing, shoulders tensing, jaw clenching so hard it twitches.
"What the fuck am I supposed to do, then?" he growls, voice slurred and rough, "That’s how I was raised, Charlie. I was raised to be the rugby lad. The masculine one. Okay? The path was set for me and I just—" He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "I just fucking followed it."
Charlie tilts his head, watching him carefully.
"Yeah," he says, voice quieter now, but pointed. "And you followed it so well that you seem fucking miserable."
Nick glares.
"I’m not miserable," he mutters. Then hesitates. Shrugs. "Just... lost."
Charlie raises a brow.
"Well, if you’re still lost, then why are you still following the same fucking path?"
Nick groans, rolling his head back, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Charlie, shut up," he slurs, voice gravelly.
"No, seriously," Charlie continues, undeterred. "Why are you still trying so hard to be a homophobic prick? Why are you still hanging around guys like Derek, who are clearly a bunch of hyper-masculine, emotionally stunted idiots with nothing better to do than drink after a loss?"
Nick snorts, cracking a bleary eye open.
"And yet you’re here. At the same bar. On a Friday night."
Charlie rolls his eyes. "Yeah, because I actually enjoy going out with my friends. It’s fun. What’s your excuse?"
Nick shrugs, lazily tilting his head toward him.
"What I do with my body, what I put in my body—" he pauses, grinning lazily, "—none of your concern."
Charlie chokes on his own breath.
Nick notices. Smirks. Shithead.
"If I wanna put alcohol in my body and then work out the next day, that’s on me," Nick continues, voice low, muttering. "Not for you to fucking decide, Charlie."
Charlie narrows his eyes.
"All I’m saying is that, from an outside perspective?" he pauses. Holds his gaze steady. "You look fucking miserable."
Nick scowls again, fingers twitching on his lap.
"You look like you’re trying to kill yourself slowly," Charlie adds, "while wearing this perfectly crafted, bullshit, rugby-lad mask for people to laugh and cheer and pretend you’re someone you’re not."
Nick’s face twitches.
Charlie leans in closer, voice dropping.
"But I don’t think that’s you, Nick."
Nick’s throat bobs.
Then he scoffs, forcing out a short, humorless laugh.
"No, it is me," he mutters, shaking his head. More to himself than to Charlie. "It has to be me. Because if I’m not the captain, if I’m not the rugby lad, then what the fuck do I have?"
Charlie stares.
Nick laughs again, softer this time. Weaker.
"Fucking nothing, that’s what."
Charlie’s chest tightens.
"Rugby was just put in my life," Nick continues, voice thin, tired. "At a young age. And now it has to be in my life forever."
Charlie shakes his head.
"No, that’s an unreal reality," he says. "What happens if you get injured? If you have to retire? Rugby won’t be in your life forever, Nick. And once that happens? You’re gonna have a really difficult reality check."
Nick flinches.
Then swallows.
Then forces himself to smirk.
"Well, hopefully, by then, I’ll have my life figured out," he mutters.
"And until then?" Charlie presses.
Nick shrugs again, exhaling heavily.
"Until then," he says, "rugby makes my dad and my brother proud. And I’d rather them be proud than not."
Charlie stares at him.
Then, quietly—
"But are you proud?"
Nick goes silent.
Charlie watches him carefully, watches the way his fingers clench in his lap, watches the way his throat bobs, watches the way he stares at nothing, jaw tight, shoulders tense.
Nick says nothing.
Charlie presses.
"Well? Are you?"
Nick’s teeth grind together.
And then—sharp, angry, bitter—
"I’m done talking to you."
Charlie blinks.
Nick shoves himself upright, pulls away from Charlie, eyes dark, face flushed, lips pressed together so tightly they’re nearly white.
"Fuck off, Charlie," he mutters, voice low and cold. "I told you to shut up and let me rest. And you didn’t."
Charlie swallows, staring at him.
Nick shoves a hand through his hair, frustrated, tired, restless.
"Go hang out with your other friends."
Then, without another word—
Nick turns on his heel and walks away.
Straight toward the bar.
And straight toward another fucking drink.