Chapter 15
Charlie Spring has a problem.
A Nick Nelson-shaped problem.
And no, no, of course not, he definitely doesn’t have a crush on him.
That would be insane. Delusional.
He’s not sitting here, on his own fucking bed, in his own fucking dorm, replaying the way Nick grabbed him by the belt loops, pinned him to the wall, kissed down his neck like he was starving for it—
Nope. No, absolutely not.
Charlie is a rational, normal person, and this is fine.
Sure, his thoughts have been stuck in the same gutter for days.
And sure, every time he closes his eyes, he’s plagued with intrusive, scandalous, thoroughly deranged images of Nick grabbing him, kissing him, lifting him—
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
He’s fine. Really.
"Famous sigh number ten in five minutes," Isaac notes dryly from the chair at Charlie’s desk, not even bothering to look up from his book.
"Yeah," Tao squints at him suspiciously. "What’s up with that, Charlie? You’ve been weird all week. I know it’s not school. You don’t care about your classes this much."
Charlie groans, flopping backward on his bed like a tragedy-stricken Victorian woman. He throws an arm over his eyes for dramatic effect. "It’s nothing," he mutters.
Tao snorts. "Yeah, sure. That’s convincing."
Elle, curled up beside Tao, tilts her head and watches Charlie curiously. "Oh, let me guess," she teases, an amused smile creeping onto her face. "Boy troubles?"
Charlie tenses. Visibly.
Which is the wrong move, because Elle sees right through him.
"Oh my God," she gasps, sitting up a little. "It is a boy!"
Isaac doesn't look up from his book, unimpressed and not interested. Tao, however, gapes.
"Wait, wait, wait," Tao waves his hands in the air, as if trying to physically grasp onto reality. "Charlie, are you seriously crushing on some random guy and didn’t tell us?"
Charlie shifts. "I—"
"And—wait." Tao narrows his eyes so hard that Charlie immediately regrets existing. "It’s not Nick fucking Nelson, is it?"
Charlie freezes. Internally screams.
Elle gasps dramatically, gripping Tao’s arm. "Charlie, no."
Tao’s face morphs into pure betrayal. "Charlie, please."
Isaac sighs, closing his book and rubbing his temples like he’s about to get a migraine. "Christ. Charlie! I warned you!"
Charlie glares. "Oh my God, relax. It’s not that serious."
"Not that serious!?" Tao flails. "Charlie. Nick Nelson is, like, the most heterosexual guy to ever heterosexual."
"Yeah, he’s like—rugby bro supreme," Elle adds.
"And also an asshole," Tao reminds him. "Which—hello? You hate assholes."
Charlie groans, pressing his hands to his face. "I know, okay? But—"
"But what!?"
Charlie hesitates.
Because what is he supposed to say?
That Nick kissed him?
That Nick pinned him to a wall and grinded against him and kissed him like it was the last thing he’d ever do?
That Nick is so fucking confused and possibly having a sexuality crisis and Charlie is caught right in the middle of it?
He can’t. He can’t.
That would out Nick. And no matter what happens, Charlie isn’t doing that.
So instead, he shrugs. "I don’t think he’s straight."
Silence.
Then—Elle laughs.
"Liar," she sings.
Charlie glares. "I’m serious."
Elle shakes her head, grinning. "Charlie, come on. This is Nick Nelson. If there was ever a man to put the ‘straight’ in ‘straight boy,’ it’s him. He's the straightest boy, like, ever. You might as well give up now!"
Tao looks even more horrified. "No, Charlie. You cannot have a crush on him."
Charlie crosses his arms. "I don’t."
"You so do."
"I don’t!"
"Then stop sighing about him every five seconds!"
Charlie huffs. "I’m not sighing about him! I’m sighing because I’m—worried."
Which he is.
Valid. Reasonable.
Truth.
Tao snorts. "Right. That’s what we’re calling it."
Charlie scowls. "It’s true! He’s been acting weird. And distant. And—whatever, it’s not like I’m hoping for anything. I just—" He hesitates. Looks down at his hands. "I just want him to be okay."
The room falls quiet.
Charlie doesn’t like it.
Because now he’s thinking about the way Nick had run away.
How he had looked at Charlie like he was terrified after kissing him. How his hands had trembled, how his breath had shook, how he had bolted like he was being chased.
Charlie’s stomach twists.
He doesn’t even care about the stupid, hot, insanely mind-blowing kiss anymore. Nick is struggling. And Charlie wants to help, but he doesn’t know how.
Tao watches him carefully, then sighs.
"Charlie," he says, quieter this time. "Listen, man. I’m not saying he’s not figuring something out, but… just be careful. Okay? I don’t want you to get hurt."
Charlie blinks at him.
And yeah.
That’s the problem, isn’t it?
Because Nick Nelson is dangerous.
Not because he’s an asshole. Not because he’s straight or not-straight or maybe something in between.
No, Nick Nelson is dangerous because Charlie already cares.
And if he’s not careful, Nick Nelson is going to fucking break his heart.
He groans, throwing his head back against the pillows of his bed, arms crossed, brows furrowed, the absolute picture of suffering. "I’m just… so tired of being single," he whines, letting out a dramatic sigh.
Isaac, merely hums.
Tao, however, is less forgiving. "Oh my God," he groans. "Charlie, you are being so fucking dramatic."
Charlie shoots him a glare. "I am not. I’m just—" he gestures vaguely. "Touch-starved. Lonely. Depressed. Depraved. Dying. All of the above."
Tao snorts. "So, the usual, then."
Charlie glares harder. "I hate you."
Elle giggles, curled up beside Tao. "We love you too, Charlie."
Charlie whines louder, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Ugh, this is so unfair! You guys have each other! You get to be all cute and lovey-dovey and disgusting and happy—when is that gonna happen for me!?"
Tao rolls his eyes. "Jesus, Charlie, calm down."
Isaac sighs. "Charlie, you’ll find the right person," he says, ever the voice of reason. "But I doubt it’s Nick Nelson."
Charlie groans again, kicking his legs in frustration. "You don’t get it," he mutters.
Isaac raises a brow. "Then explain."
Charlie hesitates.
Because how is he supposed to explain this?
How is he supposed to tell them that Nick kissed him?
That Nick fucking wrecked him against a wall, sucked on his neck, put his big stupid leg between Charlie’s thighs—
No. Nope. Abort. Abort.
He physically shakes the thought away, swallowing. "He’s just… he’s not what you think, okay?"
Tao scoffs. "Oh, really? Because I think he’s an asshole. I think he’s bad news. I think he’s mess of homophobia and daddy issues, and I think he’s going to break your heart, Charlie."
Charlie flinches.
Elle sighs, soft but firm. "Charlie, I love you," she says gently, "but maybe don’t go after a straight bully."
Charlie scowls. "You don’t get it."
"You're right, we don't," Tao snaps, arms crossed. "Because you won’t tell us anything."
Silence.
And okay, that’s fair.
Charlie won’t tell them anything. He can’t.
But God, he wishes they understood.
He wishes they saw what he saw—the way Nick looks at him like he’s scared of himself. The way Nick kisses him like he doesn’t know if it’s real. The way he touches him like he’s something fragile and important.
Nick Nelson is a fucking mess.
A walking disaster.
A trainwreck of repression and denial.
But Charlie likes him.
And that’s the problem.
"Charlie" Issac mutters, pushing himself up from the desk. "Let’s just—watch a movie, yeah? Forget about him."
Tao sighs, relieved. "Yeah, okay."
But Charlie is already grabbing his keys.
"Actually," he says quickly, "I think I’m gonna get some fresh air."
Isaac immediately frowns. "Charlie—"
"I’ll be back," Charlie interrupts. "I just need a few minutes, okay?"
No one looks convinced, but they don’t stop him.
And Charlie leaves.
He needs to stop thinking about Nick Nelson.
He needs to stop thinking about Nick’s stupid arms in that tight athletic shirt, the way his thighs looked in those gray sweatpants, the way his hands felt on Charlie’s waist, gripping and needy—
Nope. No. Absolutely not.
He shakes it off.
He needs to stop thinking about Nick, period.
Charlie does not know where he's going.
He just walks.
It's cold, and he regrets not grabbing a jacket, but whatever.
It’s fine. It’s fucking fine.
Because Nick wants to ignore him?
Fine.
He’ll ignore Nick.
(He will not ignore Nick. He is an absolute liar.)
But fuck it, right?
It’s not like he’s been thinking about Nick constantly. Not like he’s been picturing his stupid big arms, or his fucking sweatpants, or the way he gripped Charlie’s waist like he wanted to ruin him.
Nope. Totally normal, totally fine.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down as he walks through campus, but even then, he feels exposed. Like someone is watching him.
(He should've just stayed with his friends. Tao was right. Isaac was right. Elle was right. They were all fucking right.)
He shivers, pulling his arms close to his chest.
And then—fuck—his arm is yanked.
Charlie yelps, jerking away, ready to swing at his attacker—
Only to freeze.
Nick.
Oh.
Oh.
ABORT. ABORT. ABORT.
Because Nick has been ignoring him all week, and yet Nick is here, standing in front of him like some kind of tragic love interest, and Jesus Christ, he looks good.
The baggy jeans. The belt, hanging low on his hips. The tight, tight muscle tee that shows off his ridiculous arms, his broad shoulders, the veins running down his forearms—
Fuck.
"Nick?" Charlie asks, breathless.
Nick lets go of his arm immediately, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hi."
Charlie blinks.
Nick says hi.
After ignoring him for a week.
Nick fucking Nelson.
Charlie squints. "Hi?"
Nick winces. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."
Charlie tilts his head, crossing his arms. "And yet you did."
Nick sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. "Yeah. Sorry."
Charlie watches him carefully.
He looks nervous. Good.
Charlie smirks. "To what do I owe the pleasure, rugby boy? Thought you were too busy avoiding me."
Nick winces again. "Yeah, um—about that—"
But Charlie is barely listening.
Because Nick is standing close.
So fucking close.
And Charlie can see the bruise peeking out from under Nick’s shirt, can see the messy curls of his hair, can see the way his biceps flex when he moves.
And fuck.
Charlie wants to ruin him.
Wants to climb him like a fucking tree, wants to feel those arms wrap around his waist, wants to dig his nails into Nick’s back and leave scratches there just to see if they last through the next game.
And fuck.
He is so down bad.
But Nick is still looking at him, waiting.
Still hovering.
Still staring at his lips.
And Charlie’s heart hammers.
Because Nick is nervous.
Nick is here.
Nick is standing in front of him after ignoring him for a week, after running away, after a million excuses.
And Charlie has no idea why.
Charlie raises a brow as Nick exhales sharply, shifting on his feet like he’s about to make a life-altering decision.
Then—“Hi.”
Charlie snorts. “Yeah, you said that already, big guy.”
Nick winces. Rubs the back of his neck. Avoids eye contact. Classic.
“Um…” He sighs, glancing around like he’s checking to make sure no one’s watching. “Come with me?”
Charlie’s brows shoot up.
Excuse me?
“What?” he asks, crossing his arms.
Nick clears his throat. “Would you, uh… follow me?”
Charlie blinks. Then laughs.
“Your Highness, you’ve been ignoring me for a full-ass week, and now you suddenly want me around? What, did you get bored of your hand?”
Nick groans. “What? No—God, no—”
Charlie smirks. “Right. Because that doesn’t seem on-brand for you at all.”
Nick tugs at his ginger locks. “Charlie.”
Charlie’s smirk drops immediately.
Because fuck, he hates when Nick does that.
Absolutely loathes it. The way he yanks at the strands, like he’s punishing himself, like there’s something to pull out, something to remove, something broken to fix.
Nick sighs again, this time softer. “I miss you.”
Charlie snorts. “Oh, now you miss me?”
“I do,” Nick says earnestly, brown eyes pleading.
And fuck, that is not fair.
Charlie crosses his arms tighter. “Nick, I’ve been worried sick about you. You haven’t responded to anything, and you—” he gestures vaguely, voice sharp—“ran.”
Nick flinches.
And good.
He should flinch.
Because Charlie has spent too many nights worrying, too many nights staring at a blank chat, too many nights hoping Nick would text back.
And now he suddenly wants to talk? Now?
Charlie wants to be mad.
(Charlie is mad.)
But Nick grabs at his hair again, pulling hard, and Charlie grits his teeth because fuck, that’s not fair either.
“You’re right,” Nick mutters, looking at the ground. “I—I’m sorry. I just…” His voice is small. “Please?”
Charlie huffs.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Fine! Whatever. Lead the way, Your Highness.”
And fuck, he doesn’t even realize Nick is holding his hand until they’re already walking.
Holy shit.
They’re holding hands.
In public.
Nick doesn’t seem to realize.
Charlie, on the other hand, is barely suppressing a full-blown aneurysm.
And to make matters worse, Nick’s hand is big.
Warm. Rough and calloused, but solid. Charlie hates how much he likes it.
He has to physically stop himself from lacing their fingers together.
(He is so fucking down bad.)
They walk in silence, and Charlie watches Nick’s face, the way he keeps glancing around like someone’s following them, like he’s being hunted, like he’s dragging Charlie into some classified government mission instead of—whatever the hell this is.
And then—oh, of fucking course.
The pitch.
Because where else would the school’s most emotionally repressed rugby captain take him?
Typical.
Charlie bites back a comment.
Instead, he watches as Nick pulls out a fucking key.
Charlie stares. “Seriously? Another key?”
Nick ignores him, unlocking some kind of storage closet before flicking on the lights and pulling Charlie inside.
The door closes.
The lock clicks.
And Charlie swallows.
Because okay.
Okay.
What the fuck is happening right now?
---
What the fuck is he doing?
Nick has no idea.
This is the second time he’s dragged Charlie into an empty room, and it’s not like he had a plan then either.
His brain is fried, his body is exhausted, his emotions are everywhere, and after spending the weekend with his mum and trying to put himself back together, he steps off the metro, walks campus and sees Charlie walking and—
Well.
Now they’re here.
Again.
Shoved into a tiny-ass storage closet, Nick gripping the edge of a metal shelf so he doesn’t do something monumentally stupid, and Charlie standing in front of him, arms crossed, one brow raised, that infuriatingly sexy little smirk already forming.
“Hi.”
Charlie snorts. “Hi? That’s the third time you’ve said that.”
Nick shifts awkwardly. “Yeah, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “This is… fuck, this is weird.”
Charlie grins. “You sure you didn’t just drag me in here to have your way with me?”
Nick chokes.
Charlie laughs. “Relax, big guy. What’s up? I don’t really like being confined unless it’s with handcuffs or something…”
He pauses. Smirks.
“Kidding.” He shrugs. “Kinda.”
Nick’s brain short circuits.
Handcuffs? Handcuffs?
Oh. Oh.
Now he’s thinking about Charlie on his knees, eyeliner smudged, hands bound behind his back, mouth wet, waiting, wanting, needing—
No. No. No.
Abort. Abort.
He yanks at his ginger locks, clearing his throat, ignoring the very obvious blush forming on his face.
Charlie laughs.
“Shut up,” Nick mutters. “I— I actually wanted to ask you something.”
Charlie tilts his head. “Oh? Do tell.”
Nick takes a deep breath. “Would you, um… would you want to come to my game on Friday?”
Charlie stares.
Like, full-on gapes.
And fuck, this was a mistake.
Nick immediately tugs at his hair again, shaking his head. “You don’t have to! I— I know it’s a dumb idea. You probably hate rugby. And my team. And me, honestly. I just—”
He exhales. “Never mind. It was stupid.”
Charlie’s brows shoot up.
“Wait,” he says, stepping closer. “You want me to watch one of your games?”
Nick shrugs stiffly. “Uh… yes?”
Charlie’s eyes narrow in amusement.
Nick sighs. “You can bring your friends, obviously. It’s just— I…”
He needs to say this right.
Rugby has been a fucking disaster lately. His team hates him. His coach doesn’t trust him. His dad thinks he’s a failure.
And yet, through it all, his brain keeps going back to Charlie.
All he can think about is Charlie.
So maybe—maybe—if Charlie is there…
“You’d do better?” Charlie finishes for him.
Nick frowns. “I wasn’t—”
Charlie crosses his arms. “Nick, I’m not going to be your little cheerleader. Not after you totally abandoned me.”
Nick winces. “No, I don’t— I don’t want you there as a cheerleader, I just…”
Fuck, why is this so hard?
Charlie raises a brow.
Nick exhales sharply, forcing himself to just say it.
“Regardless of whether we win or lose, the team usually goes to the pub after. And I was thinking…”
Charlie smirks. “Thinking I’d go with you?”
He snorts.
“Absolutely not. Nope. Nope. Nope—”
Nick groans. “Charlie—”
Charlie grins wider. “Nope. I don’t want another almost-bar-fight, thank you very much.”
Nick rolls his eyes.
“Do you ever let people finish their sentences?”
Charlie shrugs. “No, but I do help people finish.”
Nick short circuits.
Again.
Fuck.
He groans loudly, slapping a hand over his face. “Charlie.”
Charlie laughs, eyes full of mischief.
And Nick is suffering.
Because he’s not thinking about rugby anymore.
He’s thinking about Charlie with eyeliner, on his knees, below him, tugging at his waistband, smirking up at him, wicked and teasing, mouth parted, lips wet, tongue out—
No.
No. No. No. No. No.
Nick shakes his head violently, trying to force the thoughts away.
Abort. Abort.
Charlie exhales, looking around, then back at Nick. “Okay, so are you finally gonna explain why you abducted me? Besides some fucking game?”
Nick hesitates, suddenly second-guessing everything.
He’s been an asshole, hasn't he?
Avoiding Charlie. Ignoring his texts. Pushing him away only to yank him back in.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair to Charlie, and it’s not fair to himself, but fuck, he doesn’t know what else to do.
He exhales sharply. “The boys... they’ll all be out at the bar Friday night,” he starts, voice tight. “And I, uh... I thought maybe, while they’re gone, you could... stay at mine?”
Charlie blinks at him.
Once. Twice.
Then, slowly, he bites his lip, something teasing glinting in his eyes. “Nick, I told you—we’re not fucking.”
Nick groans, rubbing his hands down his face. “I know that,” he says quickly, voice slightly exasperated. “I just... I like hanging out with you. And talking with you. And... I don’t know what I am or anything, but you make me feel a little less lost.”
The words slip out before he can stop them. And for a second, the room is silent.
Then, Charlie softens. His smirk fades into something else, something more thoughtful. “You want to hang out with me?” he asks, quieter this time.
Nick nods. “Yeah. I mean... yes. I just—you’re really cool, Charlie. And I kinda, uh... I like you. I mean, I like hanging out with you.”
Charlie hums, tapping his fingers against his thigh like he’s considering something. “So, if I go to the game,” he muses, “you’ll sneak me into your dorm while the team gets drunk? That doesn’t sound very captain of you.”
Nick sighs, shaking his head. “I just... It’s not fair that I have to babysit them, you know? I don’t want to go out and get wasted, not when I could come home to...”
Charlie tilts his head, teasing. “Me?”
Nick swallows thickly. “Yeah,” he breathes. “You.”
But even as the words leave his mouth, his pulse is hammering against his ribs, and he swears his entire body is overheating.
And then Charlie is stepping closer, closing the small space between them with that knowing smirk playing at his lips, his eyeliner smudged just enough to make Nick’s brain short-circuit.
"Sure, big guy," Charlie purrs, reaching out to tug at the front of Nick’s shirt. "Sneak me into your dorm, yeah? But just know, when I'm at the game, I'll be staring you up and down the entire time. Might get a hard-on, so..."
Nick groans, eyes squeezing shut as he lets his forehead drop against Charlie’s shoulder. "Charlie," he whines, voice low and desperate. "You can't say shit like that."
Charlie laughs, the sound vibrating against Nick's skin, and before Nick can even process what’s happening, Charlie presses a slow, deliberate kiss to his cheek.
Nick nearly collapses on the spot.
His knees feel weak, his brain is static, and fuck, if Charlie asked him to drop to his knees right now, he would.
No hesitation. No second thoughts.
Just blind, reckless desire.
Charlie pulls back, but his lips hover just over Nick’s ear, his breath warm. "Why not?" he teases. "Sorry, Nick. You're hot. I'm gay. Do your best out there, yeah? Maybe you’ll get a treat if you do."
And then—fuck.
Fuck.
Charlie slaps his ass before sauntering toward the door, tossing him one last mischievous grin before slipping out and leaving Nick standing there, completely and utterly wrecked.
Nick grips the nearest shelf, knuckles white. FUCK.
He can’t handle this.
Charlie is coming over. Charlie is coming over.
He needs to win that game.
He needs to do his absolute fucking best.
He needs to—he needs to get his head on straight (not literally, obviously, because that ship has fucking sailed), but he needs to focus.
Do good.
Do good.
Win. Win. Win.
But all he can think about is Charlie watching him, smirking at him, licking his lips at him. Fuck, Charlie is going to be in his dorm.
Charlie is going to be in his bed.
Nick exhales sharply, adjusting himself in his jeans because, Jesus Christ, he cannot go back to practice like this.
He’s so fucking doomed.