Chapter 9
He can't breathe.
He can't breathe.
He can't fucking breathe.
The air feels thick, suffocating, like it's pressing down on his chest, crushing him, squeezing his ribs too tight. His vision blurs at the edges, panic clawing at his throat, closing it up, making it impossible to swallow.
He kissed a— No. No, no, no, not just a guy.
He kissed Charlie.
And it was—
It was everything.
Too much and not enough all at once. It was too good, too soft, too fucking right.
It’s still on his lips, lingering like a ghost, like a sin, like something he’s terrified to admit felt... amazing.
But he didn’t like it.
Right?
Right.
Fuck. Fuck.
His feet stumble over themselves, his hands trembling as he digs through his pockets, yanking out his dorm key. It takes three tries before he finally gets the fucking thing into the lock, and the second the door swings open, he stumbles inside and slams it shut so hard the walls shake.
And then—
He collapses.
Back against the door.
Legs sprawled out on the cold floor, his chest heaving, his fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie, gripping at his heart like he can physically stop it from hammering so fucking hard.
Why?
Why did he do it?
Why did it feel so fucking good?
No. No, no, no.
He didn't do it. It didn’t happen.
It didn’t fucking happen.
But it did. It did, and that’s the problem.
Nick squeezes his eyes shut, his breathing still too fast, too shallow, his hands clenching into fists. He tries to steady them, tries to stop the shaking, but then he looks down and—
His knuckles.
They’re raw. Busted open.
From the fight.
The fight was real.
Which means—
The kiss was real.
No.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
A choked sound rips from his throat, something between a sob and a curse, something desperate and panicked and fucking terrified. He grabs his phone, barely able to keep his grip steady, his fingers pressing against the screen too erratically to focus.
Then—
He throws it.
Hurls it across the room like it’s burning him, like it’s the problem, like it’s the thing making his hands shake and his chest cave in. It hits the wall with a loud crack, drops onto the floor with a dull thud.
And still—
He can’t fucking breathe.
Nick drags his fingers through his hair, tugs at the strands, his head thudding back against the door.
He needs to stop thinking.
He needs this feeling to go away.
Because if he thinks about it too long—if he lets himself admit it—
Then he’ll have to face the truth.
And the truth is—
He liked it.
He liked it, and he can’t.
He liked it, and he’s not supposed to.
He liked it, and now he doesn’t know who the fuck he is anymore.
Forget. Forget. Forget.
It’s fine. It’s fine.
Right?
Right.
Kissing boys is… a straight thing if you’re just experimenting.
Right?
But—
Is it?
Is it a straight thing at all?
Has he always been this way?
This thing?
No, no, no, not that. Not—
He’s not.
He can’t be.
His breathing shudders as he tries to slow it down, but it’s no use. It’s too much, too suffocating, his lungs feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves, like his ribcage is caving in, crushing him beneath the weight of a realization he can’t let himself have.
He slams his head back against the door.
Hard.
Not enough to actually hurt, but enough to try and snap himself out of it, enough to replace one pain with another.
He squeezes his eyes shut, grabs at his hair, tugs at it, yanking strands at the root.
Stop thinking about it.
Stop thinking about it.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
But he can still feel it.
The way Charlie’s lips moved against his, the way his hands fisted into the collar of Nick’s jacket, the way he melted into the kiss like it was the easiest fucking thing in the world.
Like he wanted it.
Like he wanted Nick.
Nick shudders violently, his breath catching in his throat.
No.
No, he has to make it stop.
Now.
He pushes off the door, crawls on shaking limbs toward the ottoman at the foot of his bed. His legs feel unsteady, like they might buckle beneath him at any second, but he makes it.
Barely.
His fingers are still shaking, but he manages to rip open the lid, shoving aside old textbooks, a spare set of rugby cleats, a hoodie he never wears.
There.
His hand closes around the neck of a whiskey bottle, his grip too tight, too desperate, like he’s clinging to a lifeline.
He unscrews the cap with fumbling fingers, and then—
He drinks.
A deep, burning pull straight from the bottle, whiskey sliding thick down his throat, hot and sharp and disgusting.
Not like—
Not like pineapples and cheap liquor.
Not like Charlie.
Nick drinks again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Until the burn spreads down to his chest, curling deep in his stomach, numbing everything else.
Until Charlie’s lips don’t feel so fresh on his.
Until he can’t remember the way his hands felt on his skin.
Until it’s just the whiskey—just the burn, just the suffocation, just the nothingness he needs.
Forget.
Forget.
Forget.
The whiskey does nothing.
Absolutely fucking nothing.
It doesn’t dull the panic, doesn’t blur out the thoughts spiraling like a hurricane inside his head, doesn’t erase the feeling of Charlie’s lips on his.
If anything, it makes it worse.
It sits in his stomach like fire, like regret, like he’s trying to drown himself in gasoline instead of water. It’s not enough. It’s too much. It’s—
Fuck.
He gasps, his chest clenching, seizing, collapsing in on itself.
He can’t breathe.
Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe.
His heart is hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free, his throat tightens, and there’s this horrible buzzing in his ears, like static, like white noise, like a scream stuck inside his head that he can’t let out.
He takes one breath.
Then another.
It’s shaky, not enough, but he forces himself to inhale again, again, again, each breath uneven, shallow, failing him.
His hands shake as he screws the lid back onto the whiskey bottle and shoves it onto his desk, as if putting it away will fix anything, as if it can erase the fact that he even reached for it in the first place.
It won’t.
He knows that.
But he needs something else—anything else—before he spirals any further.
He fumbles for his phone, picking it up from the floor, checking for cracks.
There aren’t any.
Good.
Good.
His fingers hover over the screen for a second, looking at the texts from his mom. How closed off he is. How shitty of a son he is.
Does she even still love him??
He shakes his head, texting her about his panic.
He... He needs her. Will she still love him? Does she?
[ Mom ]
518 - 555 -1819
December 21
Mom
Are you coming home for Christmas?
I miss you. I am making your favorite soup.
Let me know.
Love you, sweetheart
December 24
Nick
Can't. Busy practicing.
Sorry.
January 12
Mom
How's practice? Are you eating okay?
School okay?
I miss you.
I still have your presents, maybe you could visit?
If not, that's okay.
I love you, Nicky
January 28
Nick
I told you to not get me anything. Practice is fine.
School is fine.
I'm fine. Like I told you.
I have homework. Gtg
February 1
Mom
You have an upcoming game Friday?
Do you want me to visit?
I think your dad will too.
I miss you. The dogs miss you.
Love you
February 8
Nick
Had another panic attack.
First one in awhile.
We lost the game.
Dad's mad.
Drinking didn't help.
I'm sorry.
I love you too.
Sent.
His hands clench around the phone, his breathing still uneven, his body still trembling.
Not even ten seconds after sending the text, the vibration rattles through his trembling fingers, and he barely manages to process the caller ID before pressing the answer button.
Mom.
He swallows thickly, tries to steady his voice, but when he speaks, it still comes out raw, shaky.
"Hello?"
His breath stutters, the weight in his chest still pressing down, still suffocating.
"Nicky?" His mom’s voice is urgent, full of concern. "Are you okay? Are you safe? What’s going on? Nick, you haven’t had a panic attack in years. Tell me what’s happening."
Nick tries to explain, tries to form words that make sense, but his thoughts are still a mess, spiraling, looping, repeating the same panicked refrain.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t fucking breathe.
"I—" He gasps, shaking his head, tugging at his hair, his body trembling against the weight of the panic still clawing at his ribs. "I can’t— I can’t breathe, Mom."
There’s a sharp inhale on the other end of the line, a pause, and then—
"Nicky. Nicky, listen to me." Her voice softens but remains steady, grounding. "Is it about rugby? The game? Is it because you lost? Sweetheart, you can’t keep putting so much pressure on yourself."
Nick shakes his head, even though she can’t see it.
"No, it’s not— it’s not that," he forces out, fingers digging into the fabric of his sweatpants. His breathing stutters, uneven, labored. "I just— I don’t know, I don’t know, I just— I can’t, I can’t breathe, I can’t—"
"Okay, okay, Nicky, calm down." Her voice remains gentle but firm, a lifeline pulling him back. "You’re going to do this with me, okay? Just follow my voice. I’m putting you on speaker now— can you hear my breathing?"
Nick nods before realizing she can’t see him. "Y-Yeah."
He listens as she takes a slow, deep inhale, holds it for a few seconds, and then exhales softly.
"Okay, Nicky, I want you to follow that. Just focus on me. Can you do that for me?"
Nick presses his free hand to his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. "I—I’ll try."
So he does.
Inhale— deep, deep, deep.
Hold for four.
Exhale— slow, count to eight.
Again.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
One. Two. Three times.
The grip around his chest loosens— just a little. The shaking eases— just enough. His heart, still pounding, starts to slow, starts to even out.
And then—
He exhales sharply, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. "Fuck, fuck— thank you. Thank you, Mom. I— I’m sorry. I just— I didn’t know who else to call."
"Nick, it’s okay."
She says it so easily, like it’s a truth that’s never changed, like it’s the simplest fact in the world.
"You never have to apologize for calling me. I will always be here for you. Do you want to talk about what happened?"
Nick hesitates.
His throat tightens, his grip on the phone clenching, before he shakes his head again. "No. No, it’s just— it’s just stress. It kind of… hit all at once."
A pause.
Then—
"Are you sure?"
He can hear the worry in her voice, the doubt, the way she doesn’t believe him.
But he can’t tell her.
He can’t tell her that he kissed a boy. That he kissed Charlie. That he liked it.
That he wanted it.
That it’s still lingering on his lips like a phantom touch, burning through his skin, dismantling everything he thought he knew about himself.
So he lies.
"Yeah. I’m sure."
There’s another silence, but then she exhales softly.
"If it’s too much, maybe you could come home for a bit? Just for a few days?"
Nick squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing his face.
Home. Home.
Home?
No.
"No, I’m fine, Mom. I just— it’s been a lot. That’s all."
"Okay." Her voice is still gentle, still full of concern. "Just— promise me, if you ever need to talk, I’m here, okay?"
"I know."
"Nicky."
"I know, Mom."
There’s a pause. He can hear her wanting to say more, but he can’t— he can’t.
He doesn’t want to do this anymore.
He doesn’t want to think anymore.
So before she can stop him, before she can ask anything else, he murmurs a rushed excuse— "I have to go, I have some work to do"—and hangs up.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Nick takes a deep breath.
And he hates it.
Hates the fact that he had to call his mom, hates the fact that the panic attack came back. Hates that it wasn’t because of rugby, or because of his father’s disappointment, or even because of the fistfight with Derek.
No.
This time, it was because he kissed a boy.
Because he kissed Charlie.
And he liked it.
Fuck.
His breath hitches again, his hands dragging over his face, his fingers pressing into his temples, trying to force the thoughts out. He can’t do this, can’t think about this, can’t acknowledge the way his stomach still twists when he remembers the feeling of Charlie’s lips on his.
He hates this. Hates himself. Hates the way his chest is still tight, the way his body is still shaking, the way his mind won’t fucking shut up.
It’s been years since he last had a panic attack.
Not since two years before he graduated.
Back then, it had been different—rugby had been the only thing that mattered. His father made sure of that. His brother made sure of that. And he had put everything into proving himself. Proving that he was good enough, that he was worth something, that he could be the best.
And the pressure had killed him.
Every bad practice, every missed tackle, every fumbled ball—it was all on him.
If they lost a game, it was his fault.
If he didn’t train hard enough, if his grades started slipping, if he wasn’t Nick Fucking Nelson, the Golden Boy, the Captain, the Perfect Son, then he was nothing.
And that weight had crushed him, suffocated him, pressed down on his chest until he broke.
Panic attacks used to be normal.
They came often. Usually after a bad game, after a loss, after his father would call and remind him how much money he was wasting by not being good enough.
But then—then he got better.
Or, at least, he thought he did.
Once he became captain, once he got to university, once he solidified his place in the team, the panic had stopped.
Because he made it.
And if he made it, if he was finally enough, then he didn’t need to fall apart anymore. He didn’t need to let the fear consume him. He didn’t need to drown in the suffocating thoughts that told him he was never going to be good enough.
He had a purpose.
And captains don’t have panic attacks.
Captains don’t fucking break.
Except—except now he’s here.
Curled up against his dorm room door, his body trembling, his chest tight, his stomach twisted in knots, his head pounding—all because of a fucking kiss.
Because he kissed a boy.
And he liked it.
Fucking hell.
He feels like he’s falling, spiraling, like the world is tilting and shifting and crashing around him and there’s nothing to hold onto.
What does he do with this?
What does he do with any of this?
Because this isn’t who he is.
Right?
Right?
Nick lets out a shaky breath, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes, willing the burning behind them to go away.
He can’t do this.
He can’t be this.
His father would hate him. His brother would never let it go. His teammates—fuck.
He’s Nick Nelson.
Nick Nelson, the rugby captain.
Nick Nelson, the ladies’ man.
Nick Nelson, the straight guy.
Not—not this.
Not someone who kisses boys and likes it.
Not someone who thinks about it after.
Not someone who—who wants to do it again.
He swallows hard, staring at the ceiling, gripping his hair so tightly it hurts.
He just needs to forget.
Forget Charlie.
Forget the way it felt.
Forget that it ever fucking happened.
He won’t think about it.
He won’t acknowledge it.
He’ll go to practice, he’ll train harder, he’ll go to another bar this weekend and find a girl and fuck his way back to normal.
This was just—just a fluke.
A mistake.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It can’t.
Because if it does—
If it does, then Nick Nelson is not who he thought he was.
And that?
That’s fucking terrifying.
---
Maybe Charlie came on too strong.
Was it the makeup? The glitter? The crop top? Was he too much? Too confident? Too vulnerable? Too handsy? Did he kiss like a boy? (Is there even such a thing as kissing like a boy or kissing like a girl?) Did he say something wrong? Was it just the whole package—Charlie, loud and unfiltered and fearless, and that was what sent Nick into a tailspin?
Or maybe… maybe it was just Charlie being Charlie. A little bold, a little reckless, a little horny.
Because, fuck, it had felt good. Nick’s lips on his, Nick’s hands holding him close, the warmth of it, the hunger of it. He swears he can still feel the ghost of Nick’s fingers on his jaw, the press of his lips, the way he melted into Charlie before pulling away like he’d been burned. Like the reality of it hit him all at once and shattered whatever illusion he had built around himself.
Charlie rolls onto his back on his dorm bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind buzzing, heart still racing.
It wasn’t just a kiss. It wasn’t just anything.
And yet… Nick had run. Run. Not walked away, not made up some excuse, not even given Charlie a look of regret or disgust. He just—fled.
Did he regret it? Did he hate it? Hate himself for it?
Charlie groans, dragging his hands down his face. "Isaac, buddy, I need your help."
Across the room, Isaac doesn’t even look up from his book. "Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Last time I helped you, you almost got punched in the face at a bar."
Charlie whines, sitting up. "But, Isaac—"
Isaac finally looks up, expression unimpressed. "Charlie, it’s been… a day. Imogen’s upset, we’re all upset, and maybe—just maybe—you should let things settle before spiraling? Sleep on it. If you still feel like losing your mind tomorrow, we’ll talk."
Which, in Isaac’s language, means shut up or I’m leaving to go hang out with Tao.
Charlie sighs dramatically and flops back down. He knows Isaac is right. He should sleep. Should turn off his brain and give Nick space to figure out his own damn feelings.
But.
Well.
It takes all of four seconds before he grabs his phone, thumbs twitching with restless energy, and searches Nick Nelson on Instagram.
He knows this is a bad idea.
But fuck, what if he just—what if he just looks? Just for a second. Just to check.
Just to scroll through Nick Nelson’s profile, to see some stupid photo of him grinning with his dumb, sun-kissed freckles, his ridiculous rugby-lad charm, his too-good-to-be-true smile, and maybe—maybe—convince himself that he’s overthinking all of it.
That Nick hadn’t kissed him like it meant something. That he hadn’t held him like he was something fragile and important. That he hadn’t looked at him beforehand like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, trying to decide whether to jump or run.
So, really, just looking wouldn’t hurt, right?
…Right?
His thumb presses enter before he can think too hard about it.
And then, there he is.
Nick’s profile picture is frustratingly charming—grinning at the camera, windblown hair, some rugby jersey slung over his shoulder like he’s effortlessly cool without trying. Charlie hates how fitting it is.
He scrolls.
First, it’s a few generic pictures—Nick with his teammates, arms slung over their shoulders, beer bottles in their hands, faces flushed from post-game adrenaline and drinks.
Then—
Oh.
Charlie’s thumb nearly stalls on the screen.
A shirtless photo. Fucking hell.
Nick at the beach, standing knee-deep in the ocean, hair a sunlit mess, beads of water clinging to his skin. He’s laughing, looking off to the side at someone out of frame, and Jesus Christ, Charlie needs to stop staring at the way the muscles in Nick’s stomach flex slightly, or how his swim trunks sit just a little too low on his hips.
He keeps scrolling before he does something stupid.
More photos. Another shirtless one—Nick at the gym, sweaty, gripping the hem of his tank top and lifting it to wipe at his face, exposing more of that obscenely toned stomach.
Charlie’s brain is melting.
His stomach flips at the thought that he kissed that guy.
And Nick kissed him back.
He swallows and scrolls faster, because this is not helping.
Further down, the photos start to shift. Less rugby games, less sweaty gym shots, less drunken club photos.
A year back, Nick looks… different.
Softer.
There’s a candid shot of him laughing, arms wrapped around a pug, his nose scrunched, a genuine, carefree grin on his face.
Another one—Nick at some kind of family gathering, a older boy leaning on his shoulders, as they both beam at the camera.
And another—Nick sitting on grass, hands messing with the dirt, the sunset stretching pink and orange behind him. He’s smiling—really smiling—not like the overconfident, cocky smirks he wears now, but a real, true light-in-his-eyes smile.
Charlie stops scrolling.
What happened to him?
Because this Nick—the one in these photos, the one before all the clubs, the drinking, the fights—he looks happy.
And Charlie has never seen him like that.
His chest aches, a slow, dull pulse beneath his ribs. He doesn’t know what to do with it. So he just sighs, locking his phone and shoving it under his pillow like that’ll somehow erase the last five minutes.
But even when he closes his eyes, he still sees Nick.
Still sees that soft, golden smile.
Still feels the weight of Nick’s hands on his face, his lips against his.
And, fuck, he is so screwed.