Chapter 5
Nick Nelson wakes up in Hell.
Or at least, he thinks it's Hell.
Because no actual human being should feel this fucking awful.
His brain? Mush.
His skull? Splitting open like a fucking watermelon.
His stomach? Actively trying to murder him from the inside out.
Nick groans, rolling over, immediately regretting it as nausea slams into him like a fucking freight train. His tongue feels like sandpaper, his throat dry and scratchy, his limbs too fucking heavy to function.
And worse?
He doesn’t remember shit.
Like, nothing.
After drink number seven, his entire brain just... ceased to exist.
Everything after that?
Blank.
Which is not good.
Because Nick knows himself. Knows that blacking out is dangerous. Knows that when he drinks too much, he loses control, gets reckless, starts talking too much, starts letting things slip.
Which means—
Fuck.
What the fuck did he say?
What the fuck did he do?
Did he... oh god.
Did he embarrass himself?
Did he get into a fight?
Did he—
A sudden, violent buzzing rips him from his spiral, and Nick groans, flinching at the sound, too fucking loud in his aching, shattered skull.
He forces his eyes open, blinking blearily, the entire room spinning as he reaches out, fumbling for his phone, praying to whatever higher power exists that it’s not—
Incoming Call: Dad
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Nick physically deflates, groaning again, letting his head fall back against the pillow as his phone continues to vibrate relentlessly, the screen blaring up at him like a cruel joke.
Because of course.
Of fucking course.
Nothing says perfect hangover cure like a morning-after lecture from his father.
Nick briefly considers just... ignoring it. Letting it ring, letting it go to voicemail, dealing with it later—
But he already knows.
There is no later.
Because his dad never stops calling.
If he doesn’t pick up now, he’ll just keep calling. Over and over and over, until Nick has no choice but to deal with it eventually.
And fuck that.
Better to just... get it over with.
With a deep breath, he braces himself, forces his hand to stop shaking, and finally—
Answers.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Then—his father’s voice.
“Nicholas.”
And immediately—
Nick wishes the Grim Reaper would come and take him out.
"Salut, Papa… Bonne matinée à toi aussi." Nick says, trying to keep his voice steady, but even he can hear the exhaustion bleeding through. (Hi, Dad… Morning to you too.)
"C'était quoi, ça?!" His dad says, causing Nick to frown, running a hand through his hair, trying to shake of the anger and nausea building. (What the hell was that?!)
"Quoi ? De quoi tu parles?" Nick says, trying to hurry this along because he's about two minutes away from puking his guts up, along with swearing his father out. (What? What are you talking about?)
"Ne joue pas à l'idiot avec moi, Nick. J’ai vu le match. Tu étais pitoyable." Pathetic. Ouch, that... stings. Nick rubs at his temples, sighing. (Don’t mess with me, Nick. I saw the game. You were pathetic.)P
"Papa, je— (Dad, I—)
"Combien de fois t’as laissé tomber ce putain de ballon, hein?!" Stèphane says, and Nick clenches his teeth, his fingers tightening around the phone. (How many times did you fumble that fucking ball, huh?!)
Yes. Father, I know I'm a fuck up. Get on with it.
"Trois. Trois fois, Nicholas." (Three. Three times, Nicholas.)
"Désolé, Papa… L’école a été stressante et—" Nick tries to apologize but gets interrupted, of fucking course. (Sorry, Dad… School’s been stressful and—)
"Ne me mens pas. Tu t’en fous de l’école, ça t’a jamais intéressé. Alors qu’est-ce que c’était, ce spectacle pathétique?!" Nick hates when his father is like this, Nick trying to prove himself, failing, and instantly become belittled like a child. (Don’t lie to me. You couldn’t care less about school. So what the fuck was that?)
"C’était juste un mauvais match..." (It was just a bad game…)
"Un mauvais match ?! Je ne te donne pas de l’argent pour que tu glandes et que tu sois une merde sur le terrain. Tu veux continuer comme ça ? Très bien, mais tu bosseras pendant ton temps libre au lieu de te saouler avec tes amis." (A bad game? I don’t give you money to sit around and be shit on the field. You want to keep playing like that? Fine, but you’ll be working in your free time instead of getting drunk with your friends.)
Fucking fantastic. Loser of the year, Nick Nelson.
"Papa, j’ai déjà un boulot..." (Dad, I already have a job...)
"Quoi?!" His dad nearly screams into the phone at this, and hangover, migraine. ALERT, ALERT. SHUT THE FUCK UP(what?)
"Je bosse à la salle de sport du campus. Tu le saurais si tu lisais mes messages. " (I work at the campus gym. You’d know that if you ever read my messages.)
A beat of silence. Then—laughter. Cold. Disapproving.
Fucking kill Nick now.
"Parfait. Encore une excellente raison de te couper ton allocation." Nick bites down on his lip, and he tries to hold his anger in. He really does, but.... Fuck it. (Perfect. Another excellent reason for me to cut off your allowance.)
"Putain, Papa ! C’était un match de merde, ça arrive!" (For fuck’s sake, Dad! It was one bad game!)
"Un seul mauvais match peut détruire une carrière, Nicholas. Mais toi, tu peux pas comprendre ça. Tu n’es pas pro." Nick swallows hard, chest tightening.(One bad game can ruin someone’s career if they’re pro. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? You’re not pro.)
Fucking hell.
Okay. Right. Fucking failure.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
"Peu importe, Papa... Je suis fatigué. Le match était merdique. Je suis désolé, d’accord?" Nick says, fingers tightening on his blanket for some sort of leverage. (Whatever, Dad… I’m tired. The game was shit. I’m sorry, okay?)
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
And then, softer, hesitant—like he already knows the answer but asks anyway, "Je savais même pas que t’étais venu... Tu es toujours en ville ? On pourrait peut-être… prendre un café et… " (I didn’t even know you were coming to visit… Are you still in town? Maybe we could grab a coffee and…)
"We could hang out? I miss you, Papa." Nick hates feeling vulnerable, and the nausea is there again, this time from rejection instead of his hangover.
Silence.
Too long. Too heavy.
Wishful thinking, anyways.
"Je suis déjà de retour à Paris." His dad says, no remorse in his town. Right, fucking failure. (I’m already back in Paris.)
Nick closes his eyes. He knew it. He knew it, but it still feels like a punch to the gut.
"Tu sais bien que je ne viens que pour célébrer. Et là, crois-moi, il n’y a rien à célébrer." (You know I only visit when there’s something to celebrate. And right now? There’s nothing to celebrate.)
Nick swallows down the bitterness rising in his throat. Failure. Hurt. Lost of trust.
Whatever, it doesn't matter.
"Travaille plus à la salle. Peut-être que ça t’apprendra à mériter ce qu’on te donne." His dad says, sharp and without care. (Work more at the gym. Maybe that’ll teach you how to earn what’s given to you.)
And then, just like that—before Nick can say anything, before he can try to fix something, anything—
The line goes dead.
Nick stares at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen.
And the silence that follows is deafening.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Nick grips his phone tightly, his knuckles turning white.
He still loves you.
That’s what Nick tells himself, over and over again, trying to hammer it into his brain like a mantra. Papa still loves you.
He must. Right?
Right?
Nick swallows hard, his throat tight, his chest heavier than it was a few seconds ago.
But if his father really loved him, then why did he sound so disappointed?
Why did he make it seem like Nick was a joke?
Like rugby—his entire fucking life—was just a pointless dream, a waste of time, a pathetic excuse for a career?
He doesn’t believe in you.
The words ring in his skull like a hammer. Loud. Relentless. Crushing.
He still thinks you’re wasting your time.
Nick squeezes his eyes shut.
He can still hear his father’s voice, crisp and sharp through the phone, tearing into him, dissecting him like he's nothing more than a disappointment dressed in a jersey.
Nick's chest tightens painfully, his stomach twisting violently, and—
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He’s going to be sick.
The nausea that had been simmering in his gut since he woke up pitches forward, full force, knocking the breath from his lungs. He stumbles, pushing himself up far too quickly, and the sudden movement makes the room tilt.
His stomach lurches.
Nick barely makes it out of bed before he knows.
This isn’t just a hangover.
This isn’t just the aftermath of ten too many shots.
This is his father’s words sinking in like poison, festering like an open wound, twisting and rotting inside of him.
The rejection. The disappointment. The complete and utter lack of pride.
His father—his own fucking father—doesn’t think he’s capable of anything worthwhile. Doesn’t think he’s worth anything at all.
And the weight of it—the sheer, suffocating heaviness of it—wraps around his throat, coils in his chest, crushes his ribs until he can’t fucking breathe.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It doesn’t work.
His stomach convulses violently, and before he can stop it, he’s sprinting toward the shared dorm bathroom, nearly crashing into the doorframe in his rush.
The second his knees hit the cold tile floor, he’s vomiting.
It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s fucking miserable.
His entire body shakes, his fingers digging into the porcelain bowl, his chest heaving violently as another wave rips through him.
And he still doesn’t know—he really, truly doesn’t know—if it’s because of the alcohol rotting in his gut or if it’s because of the words still burning inside his skull, his father’s disappointment leaving him feeling like nothing more than a fucking waste of space.
Nick gasps, spitting out the last remnants of bile, his body trembling all over. His forehead rests against his forearm, and for a moment—just one single, fleeting moment—he lets his eyes close.
Lets himself pretend that when he wakes up, this will all be a bad dream.
That he won’t still feel like a failure.
That his father’s words won’t still echo in his head like a curse.
That maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally be enough.
---
Charlie Spring is not on Cloud Nine.
Not even fucking close.
If anything, he's somewhere between frustrated and confused, floating in a weird limbo of emotions that make his stomach feel tight, his chest feel unsettled, his brain feel foggy with half-formed thoughts he doesn’t know how to sort through.
Because while Nick Nelson probably doesn’t remember a single fucking thing about last night—Charlie does.
Vividly.
And that’s the problem.
Because now, Charlie is stuck remembering everything—the slur, the shut the fuck up, Charlie, the way Nick looked at him with both irritation and something else, something Charlie can’t quite place.
He remembers the arrogance, the rudeness, the way Nick kept trying to push him away—but he also remembers the way Nick let something slip. Just for a moment.
A crack in the mask.
A brief, fleeting glimpse of something real before Nick pulled the armor back up and drowned it in alcohol.
And now, Charlie wants to know more.
But in order to do that, he has to talk to Nick again.
And Charlie has a sinking feeling that Nick Nelson is not the kind of person who wants to talk to Charlie Spring.
And if he does talk to Charlie Spring?
It’s only when he’s over a dozen shots deep.
Charlie exhales, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, staring down at his barely-touched coffee. He wants to be angry at Nick—he should be angry at Nick—but more than anything, he’s worried.
Did he get back to his dorm okay?
Did he pass out in some gutter?
Did he end up puking his guts out until his body had nothing left to give?
Did Derek find him after Charlie left? Did they get into a fight?
Did something worse happen?
Charlie hates that he cares.
He hates that, despite everything Nick said last night, despite the way Nick is, Charlie still finds himself worrying about him, still finds himself wondering about him, still finds himself thinking about him when he shouldn’t be.
He should be moving on.
He should be letting it go.
He should not be thinking about Nick Nelson’s biceps, or the way his tank top clung to his broad chest, or the way his hands looked wrapped around a shot glass, or—
Nope. Nope. Nope.
Charlie, fucking stop.
He groans, rubbing a hand over his face, forcing himself to focus on something else.
It doesn’t help.
Because Nick Nelson is in his brain now.
Like a virus. A very sexy, very aggravating virus that Charlie cannot seem to shake.
Because, yeah, sure, Nick was a rude, arrogant, cocky dickhead—but he was also something else, and Charlie wants to dig deeper.
Is Nick just a hard shell of hetero stereotypes with nothing underneath?
Or is there more to him?
Charlie has a feeling that there is.
That maybe, just maybe, Nick Nelson isn’t as simple as he seems.
And Charlie wants to figure him out.
But to do that, he has to see him again.
And considering the way Nick looked at him last night, that might not be the easiest thing to do.