Chapter 12
Charlie Spring is in Hell. (A Very, Very Hot Hell.)
Charlie is so fucking giddy, watching as Nick takes in his room, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning everything like he's trying to absorb every single detail.
Charlie loves it. Loves how Nick's gaze lingers on his posters, his Polaroids, the soft glow of the Music neon sign hanging above his electric drum set. Loves how his eyes flick over the little stack of books on his desk—mismatched, dog-eared copies of The Picture of Dorian Gray, Call Me By Your Name, and A Streetcar Named Desire—alongside pride stickers from various parades, buttons that say Boys Can Wear Skirts Too and Protect Trans Kids.
Loves how Nick's eyes pause when they landon the pride flag draped across the ceiling, fairy lights twinkling around it.
Because Nick Nelson is seeing him.
And Charlie is seeing Nick see him.
And that? That does something to him.
But more importantly, he is getting a front-row seat to Nick Nelson in a black tank top and gray sweatpants that leave very little to the imagination.
(Yummy, yummy, yummy. Let me have a taste.)
Nick turns to look at him, arms flexing slightly (Charlie is NOT looking, definitely not, no way), and says,
"I like it. You and your roommate are very different, though."
Charlie chuckles, stretching out on his bed like a cat, trying to act nonchalant.
"Oh, Isaac? Yeah, we’re basically opposites. But I love him. Honestly, I’m just glad we got roomed together instead of someone random."
Nick hums, nodding. And then he turns—fully turns—to face the drum set, lifting his hand to run his fingers over the cymbal, and that’s when Charlie sees it.
The hat.
The baseball cap that’s been tormenting him since Nick walked through the door, but now—now he sees the embroidery on the side.
The world is not thy friend.
Charlie blinks.
Wait.
Wait.
Is that—?
“Is that Shakespeare?” he asks, his voice tinged with amusement, tilting his head as he sits up a little straighter.
Nick pauses, his fingers still on the drum set, before turning back to Charlie, brows furrowed.
"What?"
Charlie grins, pointing.
“Your hat. The world is not thy friend. Romeo and Juliet?”
Nick lets out a small chuckle, lifting a hand to adjust the cap, looking almost sheepish.
“Oh. Uh… yeah. Bit of a nerd when it comes to Shakespeare.”
And then—the kicker.
“Don’t tell the boys, though. They’d throw a fit.”
Charlie gasps, hand clutching his chest in mock offense.
“The rugby lad likes Shakespeare? I’m scandalized.”
Nick shoots him a flat look, mouth twitching slightly.
“Don’t tease me.”
“Oh, I absolutely will tease you.”
“Charlie.”
“Niiiiick,” Charlie mimics, fluttering his lashes dramatically.
Nick groans, rolling his eyes, but Charlie can see the smirk he’s trying to fight off.
But then Nick looks back at the drum set, dragging his fingers lightly over the edge of the snare drum, and says,
“What’s shocking is you knowing how to play the drums.”
Charlie raises a brow.
“What, just because I’m a skinny twink, I can’t have hobbies outside of looking hot?”
Nick lets out a low laugh, shaking his head.
“Do you wanna hear?”
The words slip out before Charlie even realizes he’s saying them, but the way Nick’s face lights up instantly makes it worth it.
“Yes!” Nick blurts, a little too eagerly, and Charlie smirks.
(Oh, that was adorable. He’s keeping that one in the vault.)
“Alright, big guy,” Charlie teases, “sit down.”
Nick drops into the chair beside him, his knees spread wide, his arms resting on his thighs. He looks up at Charlie expectantly, and Charlie swallows.
(Fuuuuuuck. The thighs. The arms. The sweatpants. Oh, I am in so much trouble.)
Charlie grabs the spare pair of over-ear headphones hanging off the drum set and leans in, slipping them over Nick’s head. Nick startles slightly at the closeness, blinking up at Charlie, but doesn’t move away. Charlie lingers just a second too long, fingers brushing against Nick’s temple as he adjusts the headphones, before stepping back with a smirk.
“Okay, now you’ll be able to hear it properly.”
Nick nods, eyes fixed on Charlie.
Charlie grabs his drumsticks, twirls them once between his fingers, then lifts them over the snare and cymbals.
And then—he goes to work.
It starts soft. Just a simple rhythm, a little tap of the hi-hat, a roll on the snare.
Then—he builds.
A steady, rolling beat that gains momentum, fills the room, vibrates through the floor. His sticks move effortlessly, muscle memory kicking in, shoulders rolling as he leans into the sound.
He sneaks a glance at Nick—and nearly fucking combusts.
Nick is watching him.
Not just watching.
Staring.
Mouth slightly parted, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, hands resting between his thighs, gripping his knees slightly.
And Charlie—
Charlie nearly loses the beat altogether.
Because Nick Nelson looks like he wants to eat him alive.
(Oh. Oh, this is dangerous.)
Charlie pushes through, finishes strong, and when he finally lets the last note echo through the air, Nick just... blinks.
Slowly.
Like he’s trying to remember how to function.
Charlie leans forward, bracing his hands on his knees, grinning.
“So?”
Nick says nothing for a moment. Just breathes.
And then—
He exhales, a little shaky, and mutters, “Holy fuck, that was hot.”
Charlie smirks.
Oh, he's going to love ruining this man. Shakespeare, muscles, thighs, timid blushes.
Fucking hell, his wet dream is coming to life.
Charlie lifts the headphones off Nick’s head, biting back a smirk when Nick blinks twice, slow and dazed, as if still lost somewhere in the rhythm of the drumbeat.
And then—a blush.
A real, proper blush.
Charlie swallows down a laugh, grinning as he says,
“I’d let you have a go, but you don’t look like you can function right now.”
Nick blinks again.
“Uh? Sorry, no? Yes—wait, what?”
Charlie snorts, shaking his head, and Nick just groans, rubbing a hand down his face like he’s trying to reboot himself.
“God,” Nick mumbles, “I’m so fucking embarrassing.”
“No, no,” Charlie teases, resting a hand on his chest dramatically. “I love this side of you. The less… y’know. Douchebag side.”
Nick lets out a startled laugh, looking almost sheepish, scratching at the back of his neck.
“Oh? Uh… thanks. Sorry.”
He adjusts his cap, straightening it out, and something about that simple movement—about the way he fidgets, the way his fingers twitch—does something dangerous to Charlie.
(Oh, he’s so fucking cute. I want to bite him.)
But then—Nick says something that makes Charlie pause.
“I’m not used to relaxing… it’s, uh… nice.”
Charlie tilts his head, studying him.
Nick is still fidgeting slightly, messing with the hem of his tank top now, eyes darting around the room like he’s not sure he’s allowed to feel comfortable.
Charlie softens, smiling.
“Yeah? Well, I aim to please.”
Nick snorts, shaking his head, and Charlie claps his hands together.
“Oh! Where are my manners? Do you want anything? Snacks? Drinks?”
Nick opens his mouth to decline, but Charlie is already moving toward his ottoman, flipping open the lid to reveal an alarming variety of snacks, then pointing to his mini fridge like a proud game show host.
Nick blinks.
“What the hell?”
“I like to be prepared,” Charlie says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Dorm food sucks. I take care of myself.”
Nick shrugs, stepping away from the chair, aimlessly brushing his fingers over the stickers on Charlie’s desk, taking everything in again.
And that’s when his fingers pause over a pin.
Charlie watches as Nick’s brows furrow slightly, the pad of his thumb running over the small badge that reads:
“Protect Trans Kids.”
Nick frowns.
His voice is quiet when he asks—hesitant, almost.
“Are… um.” He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Sorry, this is gonna sound—idiotic? Or ignorant? And I’m sorry, I’m not—educated? I just. Are… are trans kids really targeted?”
Charlie freezes.
He wasn’t expecting that.
Because Nick looks genuinely confused. Like he’s never really considered it before, like he’s just now realizing that there’s a whole other side to the world that he never even noticed.
Charlie tilts his head slightly.
“Yeah,” he says, keeping his voice even. “A lot. Especially in schools. Private schools can be the worst, honestly. I mean, think about it—an all-girls school, an all-boys school—it makes it really fucking hard for non-binary and trans kids to feel included.”
Nick’s frown deepens.
“Oh.”
It’s quiet for a moment.
Then, Nick exhales sharply, gripping the edge of Charlie’s desk.
“I… I wish I paid attention more.”
Charlie watches as Nick swallows, the muscles in his throat shifting, his grip tightening slightly.
“I’m just as bad as them, aren’t I?”
Charlie blinks. “What?”
Nick laughs, but it’s humorless.
“Pushing kids with pronoun pins, calling you a—a f—” Nick stops himself, shaking his head. “I’m bad, aren’t I?”
Charlie stares at him.
Because Nick is having a battle in real time.
It’s written all over him—in the way he tenses, in the way he can’t look Charlie in the eye, in the way his hands clench and unclench.
Charlie watches as Nick grips the edge of the desk so tightly that his knuckles turn white.
And suddenly—Charlie isn’t thinking about his arms anymore.
Suddenly—he isn’t thinking about gray sweatpants or broad shoulders or hands gripping his waist.
Because Nick is unraveling.
And Charlie—Charlie is witnessing it.
He inhales deeply, keeping his voice soft.
“Nick.”
Nick doesn’t look up.
Charlie steps forward, hesitating for a second before reaching out and brushing his fingers against Nick’s wrist.
Nick flinches slightly, but doesn’t pull away.
“Hey,” Charlie says, trying to get him to look up. “You’re not… bad.”
Nick laughs again, shaking his head.
“Charlie, I—” He stops, running a hand down his face. “I was an asshole to you. I—” He gestures vaguely, biting his lip. “I am bad.”
Charlie squeezes his wrist gently.
“You're an asshole,” he says bluntly. “But assholes can change.”
Nick lets out a breath.
Charlie tilts his head, offering a small smile.
“And… look, no offense, but you were kind of a dumbass, too.”
Nick snorts, finally glancing up at him.
“I mean it,” Charlie says. “You never really saw it, did you? How bad things were for people who weren’t like you?”
Nick shakes his head slowly.
“Not until recently.”
Charlie exhales, nodding.
“But you see it now.”
Nick stares at him.
Charlie squeezes his wrist again.
“That’s what matters.”
Charlie watches as Nick lets out a heavy sigh, pulling off his cap and tossing it onto the desk. Then—his fingers go straight to his hair.
Tugging.
Charlie notices it instantly—the way Nick grips at the roots, twisting and pulling until his eyes squeeze shut.
A tic.
A grounding technique.
But it looks painful.
Charlie frowns, shifting slightly, wanting to reach out—to stop him.
But then—Nick climbs into his bed.
Flops down.
Sprawled out on his back, staring up at the pride flag on Charlie’s ceiling.
Any other time—Charlie would be thrilled.
Because Nick Nelson is in his bed.
Nick Nelson is in his bed, wearing a fucking tank top and gray sweatpants—giving Charlie a full, unhindered view of his arms and his chest and the way his stomach dips in slightly under his shirt—
(Okay, focus. Focus. Now is not the time to be a whore, Charlie.)
Because Nick doesn’t look happy to be there.
He looks torn.
He looks lost.
Charlie exhales softly, shifting on his feet, watching as Nick stares at the flag above him, something distant in his expression.
And then, quietly—Nick speaks.
“I wish I never listened to my dad.”
Charlie blinks. “What?”
Nick’s voice is quiet. Strained.
“My brother. My dad. My mom is so fucking kind, but I never listened to her.”
His fingers curl into his tank top, gripping the fabric over his stomach.
“I—I wish I never listened to my dad and forced myself into all these—these fucking masculine things. Hunting. Fishing. Rugby. Girls. Bullying. I—” He swallows, voice cracking slightly. “I forced myself into them all, and now I—I don’t even know who the fuck I am.”
Charlie sucks in a slow breath.
Nick shakes his head, rubbing his hands down his face, voice breaking apart at the edges.
“I’m such an asshole, Charlie. Why the fuck do I shove around freshmen just for wearing pronoun pins? That doesn’t fucking concern me. Why the fuck did I—why did I use a fucking slur? So I could feel better about myself? So I could hurt people who didn’t deserve it? I thought—” He pauses, voice caught in his throat. “I thought the world—our community—was okay.”
Charlie stills.
(Our.)
Nick just said our.
Like he’s starting to accept it.
Like he’s starting to accept himself.
Charlie’s chest tightens.
Slowly, he moves forward. Crawls up into bed beside him. Lays down, shoulder to shoulder, both of them staring at the flag above them. He exhales, feeling the warmth of Nick’s body next to his.
Then—he speaks.
“Nick, if there’s one thing I believe in very, very strongly, it’s hatred.”
Nick turns his head slightly, brows furrowed. “That’s… incredibly dark, Charlie.”
Charlie snorts, nudging him.
“No, dumbass. I mean, I believe hatred isn’t something we’re born with. It’s not in our DNA.”
Nick doesn’t say anything.
So Charlie keeps going.
“You know the whole nature vs. nurture debate? I don’t think hate is engraved into our bones. Just like I don’t think racism, or homophobia, or any of that is something we’re born with. It’s taught.”
Nick swallows, staring up at the ceiling.
Charlie glances at him.
“If you grow up in a house where you’re forced into masculinity, where you’re taught that the only ‘proper’ relationship is between a man and a woman, then of course you’re going to grow up thinking that anything else is wrong. You’re going to be conditioned to think that way. You’re going to have those prejudices built into your head before you even realize it.”
Nick blinks slowly.
Charlie softens, reaching out—fingertips brushing lightly against Nick’s wrist.
Nick flinches slightly at the touch, but doesn’t pull away.
“And what it sounds like, Nick?” Charlie murmurs, keeping his voice soft. “It sounds like that’s what happened to you.”
Nick lets out a shaky breath.
Charlie gives his wrist a gentle squeeze. He watches as Nick turns to him, his brows pulled together in a way that makes Charlie’s stomach twist. His eyes flicker down to where Charlie’s fingers are still gently curled around his wrist.
There’s hesitation there.
A moment of internal debate, like Nick isn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on tighter.
But then—he just stares.
And when he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“Why are you kind to me?”
Charlie’s breath catches.
Nick exhales, shaking his head slightly.
“I’m an asshole to you. To your friends. To your entire community. I don’t—I don’t deserve it.”
Charlie frowns, tilting his head slightly.
“Hurt people hurt people, Nick.”
Nick’s eyes snap up to his.
Charlie shrugs.
“That doesn’t justify your actions. And it sure as hell doesn’t make them okay. But, I don’t know, when I first met you—I just saw you as this arrogant, privileged rugby lad, and I wanted to get under your skin a little. Just a bit of harmless fun, you know?”
He gives a small, lopsided smile, nudging Nick’s arm with his own.
“But then I saw you.”
Nick stiffens.
Charlie inhales deeply.
“I saw how you wear this mask. This fake persona. And I realized that you’re… hiding. That there’s something under there that you don’t want people to see.”
Nick flinches.
“I don’t wear a mask,” he says quickly.
Charlie arches a brow.
“Don’t lie.”
Nick’s jaw clenches.
His fingers dig into the fabric of his sweatpants.
He’s quiet for a moment.
Then—softly, reluctantly—he exhales.
“Okay… fine. You’re right. I do.”
Charlie watches as Nick’s hands curl into fists, knuckles turning white.
“But, Charlie—” Nick swallows. His voice is thick. “If I’m not this rugby lad—if I’m not this person—then… I don’t know what I am.”
Charlie’s chest tightens.
Slowly, he shifts closer.
“Well,” he murmurs. “Figuring out who you are means not letting other people define you.”
Nick’s breath catches.
Charlie holds his gaze, voice steady.
“And you’re already doing that.”
Nick blinks.
“By not listening to your coach.”
Nick’s lips part slightly.
“By standing up to Derek.”
Nick exhales. His fingers loosen.
Charlie gives him a small smile, a softness behind his eyes.
“You can keep doing it, Nick. You can keep choosing yourself. You can keep fighting against the things that make you miserable. You don’t have to let your dad control you. Or your coach. Or your teammates.”
Nick just stares at him.
Like he doesn’t know what to say.
Like no one’s ever told him that before.
Charlie tilts his head slightly.
“You get to figure this out for yourself, Nick.”
Nick swallows thickly.
Charlie gives his wrist a small squeeze.
“And I think you will.”
---
Nick doesn’t know what he feels.
But lying here beside Charlie, staring up at the pride flag and the soft glow of fairy lights, he feels... okay.
Good, even.
Like a breath of fresh air after a tornado has ripped through everything he thought he knew.
Like the kind of quiet that settles in the aftermath of chaos—where nothing is fixed, but for a moment, everything is still.
He doesn’t know why his heart flutters at the sight of the flag, or why his gaze keeps catching on the blues and purples.
He doesn’t know why Charlie’s hand on his wrist made him want to combust and hide and run—yet also smile and kick his feet and maybe, just maybe, kiss him again.
Why does he feel like this?
He shouldn’t. He can’t.
And yet, here he is.
Lying beside a boy, heart pounding, mind spiraling, stomach twisting—not in fear, but in something dangerously close to longing.
It’s different. It’s terrifying.
Because for the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel like the Nick Nelson he’s spent years pretending to be.
For the first time, he feels like someone else entirely.
Like someone who isn’t just the rugby captain.
Like someone who doesn’t have to be the perfect son, the ideal athlete, the guy who always gets the girl.
Like someone who doesn’t have to be anything other than this.
This moment. This quiet. This feeling.
And maybe, for the first time, he likes it.
But then—the panic claws at his throat.
Because if he likes it—what does that mean?
What does that make him?
Is he still Nick Nelson, the straight, confident, rugby-playing lad?
Or is he something else?
Something he’s been taught not to be.
Something he’s spent his whole life avoiding.
No. No. No. Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about how good it felt to kiss Charlie.
Don’t think about how safe it feels lying here beside him.
Don’t think about how, for the first time, rugby doesn’t feel like the most important thing in the world.
Don’t think about it.
Don’t think.
Nick turns his head toward Charlie, and he really looks at him.
Not just a passing glance, not just a teasing smirk exchanged across a crowded room—but looks.
Takes in the mess of Charlie’s dark curls, slightly disheveled from the pillow beneath him. The way his smudged eyeliner makes his brown eyes seem deeper, darker, like they could pull Nick in if he let them. The faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, the ones Nick only notices now because they’re so close, close enough that he could count them if he wanted to.
And maybe he does.
Maybe he wants to memorize them, to map them out like a constellation, a set of coordinates leading him somewhere new.
He doesn’t know what consumes him, what forces his body to move before his brain can stop it—
But suddenly, he’s moving.
His hands plant themselves on either side of Charlie’s head, his body shifting forward, his knee sliding between Charlie’s thighs.
And Charlie’s eyes widen, breath hitching—but he doesn’t stop him.
Nick leans in, lips brushing the curve of Charlie’s throat, soft at first, just a ghost of a touch.
He hears the way Charlie exhales sharply, the way his fingers twitch against the fabric of Nick’s tank top, gripping it like he needs something to hold onto.
Fuck.
Nick kisses him again, this time firmer, just below his jaw.
Charlie shudders. Tilts his head back ever so slightly, giving Nick more space, more access.
Nick smirks against his skin. Approval. Encouragement.
So he does it again. One kiss. Another.
Slow. Teasing. Searching.
Until—
Charlie gasps.
His grip on Nick’s tank top tightens, knuckles going white as a sharp sigh spills from his lips.
And Nick smirks. Found it.
That spot.
The one that makes Charlie react, makes him tremble just a little.
Nick drags his lips over the same place, parting them just enough to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss there.
And fuck, Charlie makes a sound.
Something breathless, desperate, like he’s trying to keep himself together and falling apart all at once.
Nick likes it.
Nick wants more of it.
He moves again, kissing, sucking, letting his teeth scrape just slightly, just enough to test, to push.
Charlie’s breathing is uneven now, coming out in sharp, quiet gasps, and Nick feels the way he squirms beneath him, like he’s trying to keep still, trying not to push back, not to pull him closer.
But Nick can feel it.
Feel the tension, the way Charlie’s body reacts to every single thing he does.
And it’s doing something to him—something dangerous, something intoxicating.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—
This isn’t just a kiss anymore.
This is something else.
Something he should stop, something he shouldn’t want—
Nick groans, dropping onto Charlie’s bed and flinging an arm over his face like he can physically block out the last five minutes. Like if he just shields his eyes long enough, maybe he’ll forget how it felt to have Charlie beneath him—panting, gripping his shirt, sighing into his lips.
He won’t.
“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, voice thick, frustrated. “You just—you drive me mad.”
Charlie huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah? Well, you drive me mad.”
Nick turns his head slightly, peering at him from beneath the crook of his arm. His stomach twists because Charlie looks wrecked. Hair mussed, eyeliner smudged even further, lips still slightly parted like he’s one wrong move away from dragging Nick back in.
Nick swallows hard.
“Then why can’t we just fuck?”
Charlie freezes, blinking at him. Nick can hear his own heartbeat in his ears.
“You think I’m attractive, I think you’re attractive,” Nick continues, shifting onto his side so he can properly look at him. “It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me.”
Charlie’s lips press into a firm line. He sits up, running a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.
“Nick,” he says, voice level, careful. “I told you—I’m not going to be a fuck buddy.”
“I know,” Nick exhales sharply. “I know, I know! Sorry! Sorry, just… stupid brain.”
And before he can stop himself, before he even thinks about it, his hand shoots up to his hair and pulls.
Tugs at the roots, fingers twisting into the strands, sharp little spikes of pain grounding him.
It’s a habit. He barely even notices when he does it.
But Charlie does.
“You need to stop doing that,” Charlie says, tone softer this time.
Nick blinks at him. “Doing what?”
Charlie gestures toward him. “That. The hair-pulling thing. It seems painful.”
Nick pauses.
And for the first time, he actually thinks about it.
Thinks about the way his scalp stings when he pulls too hard, the way he’s been doing it for years without questioning it. The way it started when he was younger—when yelling back at his father wasn’t an option, when expressing frustration would have only made things worse.
Nick lets out a hollow laugh. “Yeah, well. It is.”
Charlie frowns. His gaze lingers, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.
Nick sighs, dropping his hand from his hair and rolling onto his back, staring up at the pride flag and fairy lights on Charlie’s ceiling.
“At home,” he starts, then hesitates, exhaling slowly through his nose. “When I was living with my dad, I didn’t really have a voice. Couldn’t argue back, couldn’t say how I felt, so…” His fingers twitch. “I pulled my hair instead. Kept the anger down. Kept the arguments at bay.”
He swallows, staring straight ahead.
“Guess it just stayed with me.”
The silence stretches between them.
Nick doesn’t dare turn his head, doesn’t dare look at Charlie, because if he does—if he sees that look of understanding, of sympathy—he might just fucking lose it.
He is losing it because he feels like he’s drowning.
Not in the way that happens during a rugby game, when exhaustion burns through his muscles and he can’t seem to catch his breath.
Not even in the way he does when his father’s voice echoes in his head, drilling in the same expectations, obligations, demands.
No—this is worse.
Because this is him. This is his own mind turning against him, ripping apart the fragile stitches of denial he’s sewn together so carefully over the years.
And Charlie? Charlie fucking Spring?
He’s just sitting there—watching him, brow furrowed in concern, as if Nick deserves that concern.
"I'm sorry," Charlie says, and Nick exhales sharply, running a hand over his face.
"It's fine," he mutters, even though it isn't. It isn’t fucking fine.
He can still feel the ghost of Charlie’s hands on him. On his arms, his chest, his neck. The warmth of his lips still lingers against his skin, a phantom sensation that makes his stomach coil so tightly he feels sick.
And his brain—his own goddamn brain—is throwing every slur, every cruel word, every insult it can muster straight at him, screaming in a voice that sounds a hell of a lot like his father’s.
Freak. Faggot. Wrong.
No.
No. No. No.
"Is it hard right now?" Charlie’s voice is gentle, cutting through the static.
Nick clenches his jaw. "Very."
"Is that why it’s so hard to accept maybe not being straight? Because your brain is rude to you?”
Nick barks out a short, humorless laugh. It’s not funny. None of this is fucking funny.
"That’s… one of the reasons," he admits, his throat tight. "There’s a lot," he adds, because there is.
There’s his father. There’s his teammates. There’s the weight of expectations, the fear of losing everything, the idea that if he admits even a sliver of truth, he’ll have to admit the rest of it too.
He’ll have to admit that he’s spent the last week fantasizing about kissing Charlie again. That he liked the way Charlie grabbed his shirt and sighed into his mouth. That he’s been losing sleep over the way Charlie looked at him afterward—like he was something worth wanting.
And he can't fucking have that.
"Nick—"
"No," he cuts in, sharper than he intends.
Charlie flinches.
Nick hates himself for it.
"I don’t want to talk about it. End of discussion."
And that should be the end of it.
He should be strong enough to leave it at that, to shut it down completely.
But his body betrays him.
His hands move before his mind catches up, grabbing his hat off Charlie’s desk and shoving it onto his head, like that’s going to fix anything.
His legs move before he can stop them, before he can make himself stay.
Run.
Get out.
"Nick?? If I said something, I'm sorry—"
"No, it’s not—" Nick shakes his head, words coming out fast, uneven, like he’s losing control of them. "You didn’t say anything. My brain just really doesn’t like me wanting to kiss and hang out with you right now, and it’s really fucking loud, and I need it to shut up, so—so I’m gonna go. I’m sorry, I just—"
He’s spiraling.
He feels it coming before it even starts.
That sharp, suffocating pull in his chest, the way his heartbeat kicks into overdrive.
Too much. Too much. Too much.
His fingers twitch at his sides, itching for something to hold onto, something to ground him, something to make this stop.
Charlie.
No.
No, because Charlie is the problem. Charlie is what’s making his head spin.
So he does the only thing he can think of—
He runs.
Away from Charlie.
Away from the suffocating warmth of that dorm room.
Away from the terrifying truth clawing at the edges of his mind.
Run.
Before it’s too late.