Chapter 8
Nick Nelson has no fucking idea who he is anymore.
Or what he’s doing. Or what he’s thinking. Or why he’s even still sitting here, outside, bleeding and aching and reeling from a night that went so catastrophically wrong.
All he knows is that his face fucking hurts. His ribs feel like they’ve been put through a goddamn blender. And his head is pounding with the kind of regret that doesn’t fade with sleep or time. The kind of regret that seeps into the marrow, digs in deep, refuses to be ignored.
And worse than all of that—worse than the pain, worse than the bruises, worse than the fucking embarrassment of it all—
Charlie is sitting next to him. Charlie, who has been in his head far more than he should be, far more than anyone should be. Charlie, who is still here, even after everything. Even after Nick ruined everything.
Nick lets his head fall back against the house, exhaling sharply, barely resisting the urge to punch himself in the face for being this much of a fuck-up.
His team probably hates him now.
Not just because of the fight, but because of who he fought.
Derek is a key player, an important piece in their game. Someone they rely on to win. Someone who, despite being a massive piece of shit, is still part of the team.
And Nick is the captain.
He’s supposed to hold things together. Keep things from spiraling. Keep things in control.
Instead, he’s spiraling too.
Nick closes his eyes, swallowing down the nausea creeping up his throat, trying to block out the absolute fucking disaster that he’s made of the last twenty-four hours.
But he can’t.
Because Charlie is still there, sitting beside him, his presence a weight in the air.
And for some fucking reason, Nick finds himself glancing over, finds himself looking at Charlie’s wrist, at the way he’s cradling it slightly, as if it hurts more than he wants to let on.
"I'm sorry about your wrist," Nick mutters, voice rough and low.
Charlie scoffs, rolling his eyes. "It's fine. Doesn't even hurt that much."
Nick huffs out a bitter laugh. "Well, you shouldn't have done that. It was pretty idiotic."
Charlie turns to look at him fully now, brows raised, face unreadable. "Is this your way of saying thank you for helping you not get punched in the face again?"
Nick shifts uncomfortably, staring ahead.
"I'm saying you're lucky Derek didn’t throw a punch at you."
Charlie lets out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "God, you are so fucking miserable."
Nick’s fingers tighten into a fist against his knee.
Charlie’s voice is hard, angry, sharp in a way that feels like it’s slicing through him.
"You are so fucking miserable," Charlie continues, voice rising, "and you’re such an asshole to everyone. There was no reason for you to do what you did tonight. Inviting your rugby guys—why? What was the fucking reason? Imogen just wanted to have a nice party. She invited you, despite the fact that you probably hate all of us just because we exist, because we are who we are and we love who we love, and yet she still wanted you here, because you—"
Charlie breaks off, scoffing, shaking his head.
"I don’t know, maybe you mean something to her. I guess. And this is how you repay her?"
Nick doesn’t say anything.
Because what the fuck is he supposed to say?
Charlie turns fully to him now, eyes burning.
"And me?" His voice cracks slightly, but he powers through. "I go and fucking try to protect you, and this is your way of thanking me? By shrugging it off as if it doesn’t mean anything? As if what I did was stupid?"
Nick clenches his jaw.
"I know it was fucking stupid," Charlie presses on, "but for one reason or another, I care. Okay? It was my way of thanking you. Because you protected me last night, and this was my way of doing the same."
Nick jerks his head up at that.
"But you wouldn’t know that, would you?" Charlie’s voice is cutting, laced with something bitter and painful. "Because you were so fucking plastered, you don’t even remember anything from last night."
And that—that hits.
Because Charlie is right.
Nick doesn’t remember.
And he should.
And that kills him.
Charlie watches his reaction carefully, then nods, biting his lip.
"Yeah," Charlie breathes, "you don’t, do you?"
Nick squeezes his eyes shut.
"No, I don’t, Charlie." His voice breaks, just a little. "I don’t."
He hates saying it. Hates admitting to it. Hates the way his chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.
Charlie’s breathing is sharp.
"Is that what you want to hear?" Nick continues, his voice rising now, "That I’m a fucking alcoholic? That I go out fucking every weekend and get wasted? That I put whiskey in my coffee during classes so I don’t have to hear the fucking lectures?"
Charlie’s mouth presses into a thin line.
Nick lets out a bitter laugh, voice hoarse and unsteady.
"Is that what you want to hear, Charlie? That I’m fucked up?"
Charlie doesn’t answer.
And Nick exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair, feeling like he’s unraveling.
"I know I fucked up, okay? I know I fucked up probably last night and years before that and tonight with Imogen. And I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry, but—"
His voice catches.
"You don’t fucking get it."
Charlie tilts his head, expression unreadable. "Then help me get it."
Nick laughs humorlessly, shaking his head.
"There’s nothing to get."
Charlie leans forward slightly. "Try me."
And Nick wants to.
Wants to tell him everything. Wants to scream and break and fucking collapse under the weight of it all.
But he can’t.
Because that would mean admitting it.
That would mean facing it.
So instead—he looks away.
And says nothing.
"You're a real fucking coward, Nick."
Nick’s chest tightens. He bites his tongue, keeps his mouth shut, forces himself to stay still. But Charlie isn’t done.
"The rugby team captain is a fucking coward."
Nick snaps.
"Okay! Yes! Yes, I am a fucking coward, okay?" His voice comes out raw, his own anger grating against his ribs like a knife. "Is that what you want to hear?"
But Charlie just arches a brow, unimpressed.
Nick glares at him, bitter and restless, hands twitching as he rakes his fingers through his hair. "You're not any better, you fucking asshole."
Charlie’s expression doesn’t change, except for a slight quirk of his lips, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. "I’m an asshole? How the fuck am I an asshole? I’ve been nothing but kind to you."
Nick lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Kind to me? Our first interaction was you spilling coffee on me. Burning me. Ruining my fucking hoodie."
Charlie crosses his arms. "That was an accident, and you know it. I tried to apologize."
Nick glares. "Oh, sure, then let’s talk about the second time."
Charlie tilts his head, expression mockingly curious. "Oh, you mean the second time, when you bumped into me? Yeah, that was your fault, Nick, not mine."
Nick scoffs. "You won’t even admit it."
Charlie rolls his eyes. "Admit what?"
Nick leans forward, eyes burning. "That it was your fault too. You weren’t looking, just like I wasn’t. You wanted that, too. Wanted to be a fucking asshole, just asking for it."
Charlie laughs, shaking his head. "Oh, and how exactly was I asking for that?"
Nick’s jaw tightens. "Because you were trying to get a rise out of me. Because you were teasing me. Because you love to act like you’re so much fucking smarter than me, like you’ve got the whole world figured out while I’m just—" He breaks off, exhaling sharply. "You push me, Charlie. And I don’t know why, but you do."
Charlie tilts his head, feigning innocence. "Maybe because your head is so far up your ass, you don’t even realize there are other people in this world besides yourself?"
Nick’s lips curl. "No. Because of what you fucking said. I hate what you said "
Charlie frowns. "What did I say?"
Nick clenches his jaw, throat tight. "You told me to get down on my knees."
Charlie blinks, then bursts out laughing. "Oh my God. That? Nick, that was a joke. It was sarcasm. Have you never heard of sarcasm?"
Nick drags his hands down his face. "Oh, okay, it was sarcasm then. Then why the fuck has it been in my head since then?"
Charlie's laughter fades instantly. His gaze sharpens. "I don’t know, Nick. But that’s your problem, not mine."
Nick grits his teeth, shaking his head. This conversation is going nowhere. "What happened last night?"
Charlie raises an eyebrow. "Oh, so you go from arguing to suddenly wanting to know what happened?"
Nick looks away, jaw tight. "I just—"
"You want to feel sorry for yourself?" Charlie cuts in. "Want to act like your apologies will mean something?"
Nick exhales, rubbing his hands over his face. "I just want to know, okay? So I can understand. So I can apologize correctly."
Charlie scoffs. "Right. Like it would make a difference."
Nick bristles. "Charlie—"
"Nothing major happened, okay?" Charlie cuts him off, voice clipped. "I went to the bar to get a drink. Derek saw me. He was a homophobic prick. He said a few words. You jumped in and tried to stop him. I pulled you away before you could make an even bigger fool of yourself. And then you went back to drinking. That’s it."
Nick’s stomach twists. "I didn’t say anything?"
Charlie hesitates. It’s slight, barely noticeable, but Nick catches it.
"Nothing important," Charlie finally says. "Just about the team. Your friends. That’s it."
Nick’s skin prickles. "I feel like you’re lying."
Charlie shrugs, unbothered. "Maybe I am."
Nick exhales, his frustration mounting. "Charlie—"
Charlie moves closer, voice lowering. "Well, maybe if you didn’t call me an asshole, I wouldn’t have to lie to you."
Nick glares at him.
Charlie smirks. "Maybe if you didn’t get blackout drunk, you wouldn’t have to rely on other people to tell you what you did."
Nick’s fingers twitch.
Fucking asshole.
Get out of my head. My mind. My heart.
Idiot.
"Maybe," Charlie continues, "if you didn’t invite your fucking rugby team to Imogen’s party, none of this would have happened. Maybe if you weren’t such a fucking coward, none of this would have happened. Maybe if you stopped pretending to be someone you’re not, you wouldn’t be so fucking miserable."
Nick’s stomach churns, his head pounding, his entire body coiling like a live wire.
Charlie steps back, arms crossed.
"Sucks, doesn’t it?" he says quietly. "Not getting your way?"
Nick exhales sharply, squeezing his eyes shut, his thoughts clashing, ricocheting off the inside of his skull like bullets. His hands twitch, restless, gripping the ice pack before he finally speaks.
"Look, if I had it my way, I probably wouldn’t even fucking be here right now."
Charlie raises an eyebrow. "This party?"
Nick lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "No. Here. This university. This... this life." He gestures vaguely, a helpless, frustrated motion. "It's not easy being in my head, Charlie. It’s not easy being me."
Charlie just watches him, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But Nick isn’t finished.
"It seems like it is, right? Everyone cheers when they see Nick Nelson. The golden boy, the captain, the one who's got his future set in stone. The guy who can’t fuck up because if he does, everything falls apart. But it’s not. I love my dad, okay? But he can be a real prick sometimes. He goes back and forth, it’s like fucking whiplash. One second, he’s praising me for wanting to go pro. The next? I lose a game, I fumble the ball a few times, and suddenly, my entire existence is a fucking joke to him. Like the dreams he put in my head—dreams that aren’t even mine—are just some fucking stupid fantasy."
Nick runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, exhausted. "And my mom? We don’t talk. Not really. She told me it was a bad idea to go to university when I didn’t even know what I wanted to do. I told her to fuck off. That was it. That was the last real conversation we had. Now it’s just occasional texts. She asks if I’m eating. I say yes. She asks if I’m sleeping. I say yes. She asks if rugby is going well. I say yes. It’s all just—" He makes a vague motion with his hand, a cycle, a routine, meaningless words between two people who should care more but don’t.
"And my brother—fuck, my brother’s not any better. He cares, I think, but he cares about all the wrong things. About whether my body count has passed his, about whether I have more followers than him. He doesn’t actually give a shit about me."
Nick laughs humorlessly, shaking his head.
"And then there’s my team." His voice drops, his fingers tensing around the ice pack. "My teammates. My friends. My guys. But that’s all I am to them—the captain. The guy who makes sure they don’t get into too many fights at the bar. The guy who makes sure they don’t drink themselves into a coma before practice. The guy who makes sure they show up for games, that they play well, that they don’t get fucking injured. But in reality?"
He lets out a breath, his shoulders dropping.
"I don’t want to fucking go to parties. I’d rather be in my dorm, by myself, watching some shit movie, not thinking about anything for once. But I can’t do that, can I? I’m the captain. I have to show up. I have to be there. That’s my fucking job."
He clenches his jaw, the ice pack cold against his fingers, but his chest still burning.
"So yeah, I’m a fucking privileged prick. I walk the halls, and people know my name. I get a scholarship, I get to play rugby, I get to bullshit my way through classes. I get to live this life that looks fucking perfect from the outside."
His grip tightens, knuckles going white.
"But being in my head? That’s not a fucking privilege, Charlie. It’s fucked up. It’s fucked up, and it’s especially fucked up since you’ve come into my life."
Charlie still doesn’t say anything.
Nick sighs, pressing the ice pack to his bruised jaw. His voice is quieter now, raw. "Sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. This entire week has been a mess."
Charlie is in his head all the fucking time.
And Nick doesn’t know how to handle it.
So when Charlie crosses his arms, tilts his head just slightly, and asks, "Why have I messed you up this week?"—Nick wants to do something drastic. Like punch a wall. Or walk into the ocean. Or kiss him just to see if that would shut him up.
But instead, he grits his teeth and shakes his head. "I don't fucking know, Charlie, okay? I don't—" He exhales sharply. His chest feels too tight, his skin too hot. "I don't want to get into it."
Charlie scoffs. "No! I deserve to know. I have a right to know."
Nick whips his head toward him, stunned, defensive. "You have a right?"
"Yes!" Charlie snaps. "After the shit you've pulled tonight, after me trying to protect you, I deserve to know why the fuck I have messed up your week. So what the fuck is it, Nick?"
Nick groans, dragging a hand through his hair. "I don’t know, Charlie. I don’t... know."
But that’s not true, is it?
He knows.
He fucking knows.
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his jaw tensing before he finally mutters, "You're in my head, okay? Ever since you bumped into me, you've... you've been in my head. And... and I can't have that. I can't... think that."
Charlie’s brows furrow, his voice quieter. "Think what?"
Nick looks at him then. Really looks at him. At the way the light catches the glitter dusted on his cheeks. At the way his lips are slightly parted, like he’s waiting—like he’s always waiting for something, but never really expects it to happen.
Nick clenches his fists.
And then he lets it out. "The thoughts that I'm thinking about you." His voice is raw, like it’s been scraped against something sharp. "I can't... I am the rugby captain, Charlie. I am the person girls swoon over and guys wish they could be. I can’t—I won’t—be... like you."
And that’s the moment it happens.
The shift.
Because Charlie moves closer. Not much, just a fraction of an inch, but Nick notices. His heart fucking lurches.
Charlie tilts his head, eyes sharp yet somehow gentle. "Like me?" He lets the words settle between them before he asks, "What, gay? Confident? Myself?"
Nick flinches, his throat tightening.
Charlie exhales, his voice softer, but firm. "Nick, I am not... a confident individual."
Nick blinks, caught off guard.
Charlie laughs, but it’s humorless. "Sure, that’s my persona. But in reality?" He shrugs. "I am very far from confident. But I’ve realized something—if I’m gonna get bullied, I’d rather get bullied and be confident than get bullied in silence. That’s why I have this persona. That’s why I walk around in sarcasm and wear whatever the fuck I want. Because if people are gonna tease me, call me names, mock me for who I am, then I might as well look good doing it."
Nick watches him, silent, still.
Charlie’s eyes narrow slightly. "But my sexuality does not define who I am. Is that what you think, Nick? That any person who’s part of the LGBTQ+ community—that their sexuality is all that they are? That it’s the only thing that makes them them?"
Nick feels his pulse in his throat.
Charlie shakes his head, gaze unwavering. "I may be gay, Nick, but I am not just gay.I have a heart and a passion. I have dreams and friends. I have a future and a life. I am not just gay. So you saying that you can’t, that you won’t be me— is it that you won’t allow yourself to be confident? Or is it that you won’t allow yourself to realize that there’s something you’ve been repressing? Because of society? Because of your family? Because they’ve told you that you can’t?"
Nick doesn’t breathe.
Charlie is too close now, too real.
And for the first time in a long, long time, Nick doesn’t know if he’s going to run from something—or run straight into it.
---
There’s a flicker.
A tiny, fleeting thing in Nick Nelson’s expression, but Charlie catches it. He sees it. And the way Nick’s fingers tighten around the ice pack, his whole body coiling up like he’s bracing for impact, tells Charlie all he needs to know.
Nick is cracking.
Not breaking, not yet—but there’s a fracture. A splinter in whatever mask he’s spent years building up, and Charlie is watching it happen in real time.
Nick moves the ice to his jaw for a second before letting it slide off his fingers onto the porch floor. His lips are pressed into a thin, miserable line, and his gaze is set somewhere just over Charlie’s shoulder, like if he doesn’t make direct eye contact, none of this is real.
Charlie tilts his head.
"I get it, Nick."
Nick flinches. A small movement, but Charlie sees it.
"I may not understand everything you’re going through. I don’t know what your life is like, or what it’s like inside your head. But I get it."
Nick breathes in, like he’s about to argue, but Charlie doesn’t let him.
"I get feeling like you have no choice but to act a certain way. Like there’s some unspoken rule about how you’re supposed to be, and if you don’t follow it, everything crumbles."
Nick’s jaw clenches.
Charlie leans in a little, voice quiet but firm. "But, Nick, you deserve to live a life you actually want. A life that isn’t just keeping up appearances, pretending to be someone you’re not so the rugby guys don’t get suspicious or so your dad doesn’t give you shit."
Nick exhales sharply through his nose, staring at the floor.
"You deserve more than that, Nick."
Nick laughs, but it’s hollow, bitter. "But I’m not cool."
Charlie raises a brow. "Then what is it you want to be?"
Nick doesn’t answer.
"Kind?" Charlie offers. "Good?" He watches Nick shift, fingers twitching against his thighs. "Yourself?"
Nick swallows.
"Because, whatever it is, Nick, this—this rugby captain, this mask of yours—it’s not real. It’s not you."
Nick still doesn’t look at him.
Charlie exhales, leaning back slightly. "And if you keep living like this, you’re going to hurt people. You’re going to hurt yourself. And you’re going to wake up one day and realize you’ve wasted your whole fucking life being miserable because you were too scared to figure out who you actually are."
That gets Nick’s attention.
He looks at Charlie then—really looks at him.
Charlie watches as Nick’s gaze flickers—eyes moving over his face, up and down, up and down, before landing somewhere just below Charlie’s nose.
Charlie knows that look.
His breath catches.
"Have I been in your head because I’m annoying?" Charlie asks, voice quieter now. "Because I’ve pissed you off?"
Nick says nothing.
Charlie tilts his head. "Or have I been in your head because I’ve made you uncomfortable?"
Nick’s brows pinch together slightly.
"Because I’ve made you think about something you don’t want to think about?"
Nick swallows. "I don’t know."
Charlie shifts slightly closer. "Have I been in your head because you might like me? Because you might like—" He pauses, watches Nick’s breath hitch. "Boys?"
Nick blinks at him.
"I don’t know."
Charlie leans in just a fraction more.
"Have I been in your head because of what I’ve said? Because it’s intrigued you? Maybe… aroused you?"
Nick’s fingers flex against his thighs. "I don’t know."
Charlie lets the silence stretch for a beat before he finally asks, voice barely above a whisper—"Have you thought about what it would be like to kiss a boy?"
Nick says nothing.
Charlie’s heart beats louder in his chest. "To kiss me?"
Nick breathes out.
And then—finally—"Yes."
Charlie’s stomach flips.
Still, he keeps his voice steady. "Do you want to kiss me?"
Nick’s eyes flick up, back down, back up.
His breathing is uneven. His hands are trembling just slightly where they rest against his knees.
And then—
"Yes."
It happens before he even fully understands it.
Nick moves first. Of course he does.
For someone who spent the last ten minutes looking like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, Nick moves forward with certainty. Like something in him has finally clicked into place, like he’s given up on fighting whatever war he’s been waging in his head.
And suddenly—Nick’s hands are on his face.
They’re big and warm and firm, cupping his cheeks, thumbs brushing over the sparkles dusted along his cheekbones. One of those thumbs catches on the shimmer, smearing it across Charlie’s skin, marking him.
And then—soft lips, slightly chapped, pressing against his own.
Charlie freezes.
His brain short circuits.
Because—holy fucking shit.
Nick Nelson is kissing him.
Rugby lad. School golden boy. Team captain.
Nick Nelson is kissing him.
The same Nick Nelson who pushes people aside in hallways, who shoves drinks down his throat on weekends, who spent an entire week trying to pretend like Charlie didn’t exist.
Nick Nelson, who maybe isn’t as straight as he thought.
It takes one, two, three seconds before Charlie’s brain finally catches up.
Oh my god, Nick Nelson is kissing me.
And then—he’s moving.
His fingers curl around the collar of Nick’s Carhartt jacket, tugging him closer, pulling him in, because Charlie is greedy.
Because if this is the only time he gets to kiss Nick Nelson, he’s going to fucking cherish it.
The kiss is hesitant at first. Like Nick isn’t sure how much space he’s allowed to take, how far he’s allowed to go. But Charlie knows.
He knows that if he lets himself think too hard, he’s going to ruin this.
So he doesn’t think.
He lets himself feel.
Nick is solid, his chest pressed against Charlie’s as Charlie tugs him closer, as Nick’s fingers twitch against his skin, holding him there like he’s afraid to let go.
It lasts one, two, three, four seconds.
And then—Nick pulls away.
Charlie opens his eyes, blinking dazedly at the boy in front of him.
And Nick—Nick looks wrecked.
His brows are furrowed, lips red and swollen, his breath coming out heavy as he stares at Charlie with wild, searching eyes.
Like he’s trying to make sense of what just happened.
Charlie watches as Nick slowly reaches down, grabs the forgotten ice pack, and hurls it into the yard.
Then—Nick grabs Charlie’s hand.
Charlie’s breath catches.
Nick’s fingers tighten around his, eyes flicking down to Charlie’s lips, before—before he leans in again.
This time, Charlie moves first.
His hand slides up to the back of Nick’s neck, fingers threading through the soft strands of hair at his nape, and pulls him in.
This kiss is different.
Softer.
A little hesitant, like Nick is still testing the waters, still trying to figure out what the fuck this means.
But then—Charlie tilts his head just right.
And Nick melts into him.
The kiss deepens, heat curling low in Charlie’s stomach as Nick exhales against his lips, his grip on Charlie’s hand tightening.
And Charlie lets himself sink.
Lets himself drown in the taste of Nick Nelson, warm and real and desperate.
Because this is happening.
And he never, ever wants it to stop.
When they pull away the second time, neither of them moves.
Charlie’s thumb traces small circles against the back of Nick’s neck, calming, grounding.
Nick’s breathing is uneven, his lips parted, his gaze darting between Charlie’s eyes and his mouth—like he’s still processing, like he doesn’t quite believe what just happened.
Charlie watches him carefully, his own breath still a little shaky. He should say something. He should ask something.
So he does.
"You okay?"
Nick blinks at him.
His brows furrow slightly, jaw clenching, and for a second, Charlie swears he sees something vulnerable flash across his face.
But then—Nick steps back.
"I, uh… I, uh… fuck, I need—"
He shakes his head, runs a shaky hand through his already messy hair.
"I need to go. I need— I need to— I just— I—"
Charlie watches the panic start to settle in Nick’s shoulders, in the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, like he’s struggling to get air.
"Nick—"
Charlie reaches for him, but Nick flinches.
"No, I— I need to go."
And before Charlie can process it, Nick is moving.
Standing up too fast. Stumbling. Nearly tripping over his own feet.
Charlie jumps up, following.
"What? Nick—no, wait, I—"
His heart is racing.
"Nick, are you—are you okay? I—I'm sorry, I—"
But Nick isn’t listening.
He’s already pushing past him, already running.
His footsteps heavy against the wooden deck as he bolts toward the back door, rushing inside like he can’t escape fast enough.
And then—
The front door slams.
Even from out here, Charlie hears it.
Feels the way it echoes through his chest.
And now—
Now, Charlie is left alone.
Standing out in the night, the air still warm and thick from the evening, his skin still buzzing from where Nick had touched him.
And at his feet—
The discarded ice pack.
The only proof that Nick Nelson had ever been here at all.