Chapter 6
Nick Nelson is dying.
Not literally, obviously.
(Unfortunately???)
But holy fucking shit, he might as well be.
His body feels wrecked—his head pounding so aggressively he’s genuinely considering decapitation as a viable solution, his stomach still twisted and aching from last night’s mistakes, and his limbs so heavy that even the act of existing feels like a full-body workout.
And now, to make things infinitely worse, someone is knocking on his door.
Nick groans, burying his face in his pillow.
Can people not tell that he wants to be alone?
Hello, leave Nick Nelson alone, please, he’s going through things!
But no. The knocking persists.
Louder. More aggressive. More insistent.
Jesus fuck, he’s going to murder them.
Dragging himself out of bed, Nick stumbles towards the door, rubbing at his face, his entire body protesting the movement.
The second he swings it open, his gritted-out anger dies instantly.
Because it’s Imogen.
Oh. Fucking. Great.
She’s standing there in a sea of pink, her dress frilly and short, her blonde hair curled to perfection, her entire presence blindingly bright—like a less Broadway-fied version of Glinda the Good Witch.
Nick forces a weak smile. “Yeah?”
Imogen does not look impressed.
Before he can say anything else, she barges in, hands on her hips, eyes already scanning the disaster that is his dorm room.
“Don’t act like such a dick, Nick. It doesn’t suit you.”
Nick sighs, shutting the door behind her as she immediately starts digging through his clothes, tossing shirts and hoodies aside like a woman on a mission.
What the fuck.
He stares, utterly exhausted as she rummages through his belongings, before finally grabbing her by the shoulders and spinning her to face him.
“Maybe because I feel half-dead and am minutes away from vomiting again?”
Imogen freezes, blinking up at him.
Then—her expression shifts into a deep frown.
“Oh? Did you… forget?”
Nick stares at her.
His brain malfunctions immediately.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
What did he forget?
Come on, brain. Remember. Remember. You already fucked up with Dad, don’t fuck up with Imogen too—
Nick squints at her. “Uh? What??”
Imogen throws her hands in the air. “Are you fucking kidding me, Nicholas?! This one night. Just this one fucking night—”
Nick winces. “Okay, I’m sorry! What?”
Imogen lets out a dramatic scoff, stepping back, crossing her arms furiously.
“MY BIRTHDAY PARTY, YOU FUCKING IDIOT.”
Oh.
Ohhhhh.
Fuck.
That.
Nick visibly cringes, his stomach dropping into his feet.
Yeah.
Yeah, that was bad.
Nick Nelson, shitty friend of the week who keeps wanking off to a curly headed boy but he's fucking straight, he promises.
Nick Nelson, shitty friend. Shitty person! Shit. Shit shit.
Or, at the very least, he feels like one right now.
Because Imogen is pissed—and rightfully so.
She scoffs loudly, rolling her eyes before dramatically throwing herself onto his bed, crossing her arms tight over her chest like she’s physically holding back the urge to strangle him.
"Jesus Christ, Nick." Her voice is sharp, but there’s a crack of something else beneath it. Disappointment. Hurt. A kind of frustration that has clearly been building for a while.
Nick doesn’t know why, but that makes his stomach twist even worse than it already was.
"I don't ask much of you. I really don’t." She shakes her head, staring at him with an intensity that makes Nick feel like absolute shit. "But really? This is my birthday. And you promised. You fucking promised me you'd be the bartender for it."
Nick runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.
"I know. I know. I'm sorry. I just…" He pauses, struggling for words. "I've been through a lot this week."
Imogen lets out a harsh, humorless laugh.
"Oh, really? A lot?" She looks him up and down, unimpressed. "What, like getting fucking plastered last night? Nick, you knew. You promised me."
Nick flinches, guilt gnawing at his ribs, making his headache ten times worse.
"I know, I know." He sighs, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket, shame pooling in his chest. "I messed up. I'm sorry. I'll be there, okay?"
Imogen narrows her eyes.
"I don't want you to be there if you're just gonna fucking throw up on my guests."
She shifts, sitting forward, bracing her elbows against her knees. Her voice softens—just slightly.
"Nick, I've really been trying to put up with you, okay? We’ve been friends since we were kids. But—fuck, Nicholas. This was the one night."
She looks at him then, really looks at him, and Nick suddenly feels uncomfortable. Like she’s seeing something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
"The one night I just wanted you to be the old Nick again."
The old Nick.
Nick swallows thickly, something in his throat tightening painfully.
But Imogen doesn’t stop.
"And now you’re fucking hungover and you didn’t even remember my birthday?"
Nick sighs, finally moving to sit beside her, his knees bouncing slightly.
"I’m sorry." His voice is quieter this time. "Really, I am. I promise I'll be there, okay?"
Imogen lets out another sigh, rubbing at her temple.
"Yeah, but you sound like you don’t even want to be there."
She leans back, tilting her head against the wall. "It’s fine. I’ll just do the bartending myself. It’ll be okay."
Nick shakes his head immediately.
"No, no, no. You’re the birthday girl. You shouldn’t be doing anything but having fun. I promised I’d serve the drinks, and I will."
Imogen hesitates, watching him carefully.
And then she flatly asks, "Do you even want to, though?"
Nick doesn’t answer right away.
And that—that hesitation—is enough.
She exhales sharply, standing up, crossing her arms over her chest again.
"Because, Nick, I’m—" She stops, takes a breath, closes her eyes for a second like she’s reining herself in. "I’m tired of having to babysit you."
Nick stiffens.
"I’m tired of dragging you along to these things. Of including you in things you don’t even seem to care about. Of trying to be your friend when it just feels like you fucking hate me."
Nick’s eyes snap up.
"I don’t hate you, Imogen. I just—"
But she cuts him off with a sharp laugh, shaking her head.
"No, you don’t hate me. But you sure as hell make it hard to believe you actually give a shit."
Nick feels like shit, but also—
Also, something in his chest tightens with irritation.
Because, yes, he’s been a shitty friend. He’s been distant. He’s been stuck in his own fucking head, spiraling about shit he doesn’t even want to think about.
But it’s not like Imogen’s some fucking saint, either.
"Look, I’ll be there, okay?" He says, a little too clipped, a little too sharp.
Imogen narrows her eyes at him, but doesn’t push.
Instead, she raises an eyebrow and asks, "Are you gonna wear pink like I told you?"
Nick groans. "I don’t even own anything pink."
Imogen immediately scoffs. "Yes, you do. I bought you a pink hoodie for your birthday last year."
Nick rolls his eyes, leaning back on his bed. "You want me to wear that fucking thing?"
Imogen crosses her arms again. "Oh, no! How dare a heterosexual man wear pink! That must mean he’s gay!"
Nick flinches at that.
Imogen notices.
And her entire demeanor shifts.
Her voice drops into something colder, something exhausted.
"Seriously, grow up, Nick."
Nick’s jaw locks.
"I’m not being—"
But she doesn’t let him finish.
"You’re being fucking annoying. And you know what? I’m done with it."
Nick stares at her.
"I’m not gonna keep hanging around someone who’s so far up his own ass that he can’t see how he treats people."
Nick clenches his fists, staring at the floor.
"So either get your shit together, show up tonight, be the friend I want you to be—or just don’t fucking come at all."
She turns to leave, grabbing her purse off his desk.
And then—just before walking out the door—she throws one last thing over her shoulder:
"And stop expecting me to fix you."
Then she’s gone.
And Nick is left sitting there, feeling like absolute garbage. His stomach is still twisted with nausea, his head is still pounding, and the lingering aftertaste of whiskey and regret clings to his tongue like a curse.
It doesn’t help that he’s currently pulling on a pink fucking hoodie—which, thanks, Imogen, now he looks like fucking Ken—but even worse than that, he’s immediately shoving his Carhartt jacket over it, because God forbid any of his teammates see him like this.
Pink is dangerous territory.
Pink is a statement.
Pink makes people look twice, makes them talk, makes them assume things Nick doesn’t want them assuming.
And fuck, he’s not about to deal with that on top of everything else.
Still, despite the deep, agonizing regret currently running through his veins, Nick forces himself to walk out the door, keys in hand, wallet in pocket, nausea lurking in his stomach like a ticking time bomb.
He’s not in the mood for this party.
He’s not in the mood for anything.
If he had it his way, he’d be at the gym, sweating out his bad decisions. He’d be covering another night shift, keeping himself busy so his brain doesn’t spiral.
Or, even better, he’d be thinking about curly-haired distractions in tight jeans and sparkly cheekbones—but, nope, not allowed, absolutely not.
Instead, he’s here.
Dressed like a fucking Pepto-Bismol advertisement.
And of fucking course, just as he turns the corner, he slams into Harry fucking Greene.
Because why the fuck wouldn’t he?
It’s just Nick’s luck.
But—miraculously—Harry doesn’t even seem to notice the pink hoodie from hell, too busy grinning like a fucking lunatic, slapping a heavy hand against Nick’s back, and grabbing the back of his neck in an aggressively bro-y way.
"Fucking hell, man, you fucking hooked me up last night!"
Nick blinks.
Uh.
Huh?
"Uh… yeah! Great!"
Except he has no fucking clue what Harry is talking about.
Not a single goddamn memory.
His brain is a wasteland of whiskey shots and blacked-out regret, and he’s praying to whatever higher power exists that he didn’t do anything too fucking stupid.
Harry, completely unbothered, just keeps going, voice dripping with satisfaction.
"Best sex I’ve had like… ever!"
Nick doesn’t know what to do with that information.
At all.
But before he can even process that sentence, Harry keeps talking.
"Oh, and Derek isn’t pissed off anymore, from what I can tell." He shrugs. "But maybe don’t go around protecting fags, yeah? I mean, might get a few people thinking."
Nick stops breathing.
His body locks up immediately, blood running cold and sharp and violent, because—wait. Wait, wait, wait, what?
"I did what?" His voice is tight, forced. "I… I hooked you up and did what?"
Harry laughs.
Nick does not.
"Oh, shit, right! You were smashed." Harry claps him on the shoulder again. "Yeah! You almost got into a fight with Derek because he was about to beat the shit out of some emo gay boy—anyways, not worth mentioning. Uh… where are you going?"
Nick’s brain short-circuits immediately.
Flashes of black eyeliner and ripped jeans and a voice dripping in sarcasm flicker in his head, but he shoves them away, hard, trying to focus.
"Oh, uh…" He swallows. "A party."
Harry perks up immediately, eyes bright.
"Oh, shit! A party? Dude! We’re so going!"
Nick freezes.
No. No, no, no, no, no.
Nick cannot—under any circumstances—let his rugby team crash Imogen’s Barbie Birthday Bash™.
That would make him the biggest fucking asshole on the planet.
Worse, they’d eat her alive.
She’s been planning this party for months.
She’s been hyping it up, making it her entire personality, and she deserves to have a good fucking time, not be surrounded by a bunch of sweaty, drunk rugby guys who would either try to hook up with her, mock her, or start a fight over the color scheme.
Nick shakes his head fast, backpedaling immediately.
"Oh, I don’t—uh, I mean—"
Harry isn’t listening.
"Nah, man! Let’s crash it! It’ll be fun, yeah?" He grins. "After last night and the loss, we deserve to get loose."
Nick opens his mouth—fully prepared to say no—but then…
Then he realizes something.
If he tells them the truth, if he tells them he’s going to Imogen’s party, bartending in a pink hoodie, celebrating with a bunch of people who are not rugby lads, they will never let him live it down.
So…
So maybe he doesn’t tell them.
Maybe he lets them crash it but frames it differently.
Make it seem less like Imogen’s meticulously planned dream event and more like some random house party.
Maybe then they won’t pay much attention to the pink.
Maybe they won’t pay much attention to him.
Yeah.
Yeah, that’s the move.
Nick forces a casual grin, hiding the sheer panic underneath it.
"Yeah. Yeah, fuck it. Let’s crash it."
---
Charlie Spring feels like a fucking star.
The second Imogen compliments his sparkly pink cheekbones, Charlie grins so wide his face almost hurts.
The second she pulls him into a hug, he laughs against her shoulder, squeezing her tight, feeling warm and loved and buzzing with excitement.
And then, before he can even react, she’s grabbing his hand and dragging him toward the photoshoot section, where Tao and Elle are already fully immersed in a chaotic mini-photoshoot, Tao dramatically dipping Elle like they’re in a 1950s romance movie, Elle barely holding in her laughter as she playfully pretends to swoon into his arms.
Soulmates. Truly.
Isaac, of course, is completely unbothered by the scene, sitting calmly on the couch in a pink polo, flipping through a book like he’s at a quiet Sunday brunch instead of a pregame birthday party.
Charlie rolls his eyes fondly, letting himself be swept into the energy of it all.
"Oh, I’ve missed you so much, Charlie!" Imogen exclaims, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm, still clinging onto his wrist. "It feels like ages! I just—ugh, I love you guys so much!"
Charlie barely has time to react before she’s hugging him again, then spinning to throw her arms around Tao and Elle, nearly knocking them both over in the process.
"Careful, careful, birthday girl!" Tao laughs, catching her and spinning her dramatically, before setting her back on her feet. "We can’t have you breaking a bone before we even get to the drinking portion of the night."
Elle giggles, adjusting Imogen’s hair. "I’m gonna assume you already had a drink, though?"
Imogen flops down beside Isaac, giggling in confirmation, waving a hand dismissively. "Pre-gaming. Sue me."
Charlie smirks, taking her in. He can already tell she’s at least a few drinks in, her eyes a little brighter than usual, her movements slightly looser—but it’s the good kind of tipsy, the kind that makes her extra affectionate and extra loud and extra Imogen.
And honestly?
Charlie loves it.
He loves all of this.
The energy of it. The vibrancy. The happiness radiating in the air.
This is his favorite kind of night—a night where he feels fully himself, where he’s surrounded by his people, where he doesn’t have to worry about hiding or fitting in or feeling like too much.
He smooths his hands down the fabric of his cropped pink top, adjusting it slightly, fully basking in how good he looks tonight.
Because he does look good.
He looks hot.
And he knows it.
The pink eyeshadow blended perfectly with the shimmer of his cheekbones, the slight gloss on his lips catching the light, his tight black jeans hugging in all the right places, the sparkly rings on his fingers glinting with every little movement.
He feels attractive and confident and fucking stunning, and he feels fucking accepted. Which, fuck yeah!
Because these are the people who know him best.
The people who saw him through everything—the good, the bad, the awkward, the confusing.
He met most of them at the LGBTQ+ Life Club stand during orientation, where Tara and Darcy ran the booth like two chaotic lesbians on a mission, Elle caught Tao’s eye weeks before they officially started hanging out, and Imogen wandered in one day, lost and unsure but trying so damn hard to figure herself out.
And now, here they all are.
Bubbly and bright and comfortable in their own skins, embracing each other, loving each other, celebrating a night that feels so fully them.
Charlie glances at Imogen, watching her sip from a pink martini glass, her laughter loud and unapologetic, and he feels a rush of warmth in his chest.
This club gave him so much more than a space to belong—it gave him his people.
And tonight?
Tonight is about celebrating that.
It’s perfect.
It’s fun.
And it’s very, very pink.
Everywhere he turns, it’s a sea of pink hues—pink dresses, pink skirts, pink jackets, pink mesh tops, pink glitter across cheekbones, pink jewelry catching the light.
Elle is a fucking vision in pink silk and silver chains, her makeup subtle but stunning, her earrings dangling like tiny works of art. Tao is wearing an oversized pastel pink t-shirt tucked into white jeans, paired with a backwards pink baseball cap that he only put on because Elle threatened to withhold kisses if he didn’t participate.
Isaac—good old reliable Isaac—is sitting comfortably on the couch in a soft pink polo, flipping through a book while occasionally stealing snacks from a nearby plate.
And Imogen?
She is radiance personified—her short pink dress sparkling under the party lights, her nails perfectly manicured, her laughter bubbling through the air like champagne as she flits from group to group, fully in her element.
The energy is infectious.
People are dancing in the living room, the floorboards vibrating with every bass drop, laughter spilling through the halls like confetti. The house is alive—and Charlie?
Charlie is thriving.
He’s hyped up on pregame shots and good company, spinning through conversations, his sparkly pink cheekbones catching in every camera flash. He’s already had a few drinks, just enough to make everything feel light and fun, enough that when he glances at Elle and Tao absolutely destroying the dance floor, he laughs so hard his ribs ache.
It’s perfect.
And then, somewhere between shots and laughter, Charlie turns to Imogen, raising an eyebrow.
“Hey, don’t you have a friend coming by to bartend?”
Imogen blinks, mid-sip of her drink. “Oh! Yes! He’s… usually late. But yeah, he should be here soon!”
Charlie grins. “Sick. When's everyone else arriving??”
Imogen throws an arm around his shoulders, already buzzy and giggling. "The cheer team and Art Club should be here soon, and Tara and Darcy said they’d show up late too!”
“Fuck yeah! Pregaming, let’s go!”
And pregame they do.
An hour passes, and the house fills up even more, the party transitioning into full-blown chaos in the best way possible. Tara and Darcy show up soon after, loud and vibrant, immediately gravitating toward Imogen—who, by this point, is deep into her drinks and very enamored by whatever conversation she’s having with them.
Elle and Tao are undeniably the cutest couple on the dance floor, Isaac has stationed himself at the snack table, doing what can only be described as an in-depth analysis of every finger food while discussing them with Tara like he’s a food critic.
It’s fucking lively.
It’s fucking perfect.
And Charlie?
Charlie is fully immersed in it, already tipsy from a shot or two, floating through the night with the warm, bubbly feeling of being surrounded by his favorite people, of being wanted, of being free.
So when the doorbell rings, cutting through the haze of music and chatter, he barely thinks anything of it.
He assumes—naturally—that it’s the late bartender finally showing up.
So he happily skips toward the door, swinging it open with zero hesitation—
—Only to immediately regret his entire life.
Because standing on the other side isn’t some charming bartender friend.
No.
It’s fucking Derek.
And before Charlie can even react, Derek shoves him aside, barging in like he owns the fucking place, with an entire stampede of rugby lads behind him.
Fucking fantastic.
The air shifts immediately—like a bubble bursting, like an intrusion on something sacred.
The loud, lively, glitter-covered pink paradise is suddenly clashed against a wave of uninvited testosterone, cheap cologne, and obnoxious energy.
It’s so viscerally wrong—a sea of pink and light and glitter, now stained by the heavy presence of uninvited guests in dark jeans and cocky grins, loud voices overpowering the laughter, disrupting the harmony.
Charlie feels the shift in his bones, his stomach tightening immediately, his buzz dampening in an instant.
And standing in the middle of the chaos, looking just as uncomfortable as Charlie feels, is Nick fucking Nelson.
Wearing a pink hoodie—half-covered by a Carhartt jacket, eyes scanning the room like he’d rather be anywhere else.
And fuck.
This night just got a lot more complicated.