Chapter 17
Charlie is starting to get genuinely concerned for his own well-being.
Like, is it possible to die from thirst?
Because holy fucking shit—Nick Nelson in his rugby uniform? Yeah, he just saw stars.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Fuck, he’s fucking hot.
It’s like someone hand-crafted him in a lab to be the most painfully, ridiculously, outrageously attractive man alive and then cursed Charlie with the burden of having to witness it.
He doesn’t even know where to look.
That ass in those shorts? Unreal. Unfair. An injustice to society that it isn’t recognized as a national treasure.
His arms?
Yeah, no, fuck his arms.
Fuck the way his biceps flex when he grabs his water bottle. Fuck the way his veins pop just enough to make Charlie want to trace them with his tongue.
Oh, and now he’s stretching.
Jesus Christ.
A lunge.
A lunge.
Nick Nelson is doing a lunge.
Charlie is going to hell.
Because he just let out a very real, very guttural, completely sinful sound that Issac definitely heard because he’s looking over with the most unimpressed expression.
“Charlie.”
Charlie does not look away.
“Charlie, blink.”
Charlie does not blink.
“Jesus, Charlie pull yourself together.”
Charlie finally rips his gaze away for two whole seconds before—fuck—his eyes snap right back because oh my god Nick’s rolling his shoulders.
And now he’s doing high knees.
And now he’s sweating.
And Charlie is going to commit arson.
Like, actually, just go completely feral and start barking at the moon or something because what the fuck.
He doesn’t even care about rugby. He has no fucking idea what’s happening in this game.
All he knows is Nick.
Nick and his shorts.
Nick and his thighs.
Nick and his arms.
Nick and his freckles— oh my god, his freckles—he can see them even from here.
Charlie wants to count them.
He wants to kiss every single one.
He wants to trace them down, down, down— Jesus fucking Christ, Charlie, FOCUS.
“You’re drooling.”
Charlie snaps out of it just in time for Issac to throw a napkin at him.
“I am not.”
“I can see the heart eyes from here.”
Charlie huffs, adjusting his jacket dramatically. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You want him to fold you like a pretzel.”
Charlie gasps. “Issa, no. Stop! That is outrageous and disgusting and completely uncalled for.”
Issac stares. “You want him to snap you in half.”
“I—okay, that one might be true.”
And then Nick glances up, catches Charlie staring, and smirks.
And Charlie?
Charlie just fucking dies.
He’s looking at me.
He’s looking at me.
He’s looking at me.
Charlie whips around so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash, and slaps Issac on the shoulder with all the force of a man experiencing his own personal sexual awakeningin the middle of a rugby field.
“Ow,” Issac deadpans, not even bothering to look up from his book. “Charlie. What the fuck.”
Charlie grabs him again, shaking him. “He’s looking at me! Issac, he’s looking at me!”
Issac sighs, long-suffering and exhausted. “Yes, Charlie, I know. That tends to happen when you spend the last twenty minutes staring at someone like they personally cured your seasonal depression.”
Charlie smacks his arm again, vibrating with chaotic gay energy. “No, but like. He’s looking at me looking at him.”
Issac finally looks up, expression void of all enthusiasm. “Wow. Riveting. Truly. Would you like to commemorate this groundbreaking moment with a plaque? A parade? A dramatic reading of your horny inner monologue?”
Charlie ignores him.
Because Nick is still looking at him.
And then—then—he fucking winks.
Charlie makes a noise that definitely shouldn’t come out of a human being, let alone in a public setting.
Issac groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re being weird.”
Charlie grins, wide and shameless. “I am weird.”
Issac closes his book and stands up. “Right. That’s my cue to leave.”
Charlie grabs his wrist. “No, no, no, stay! You’re my emotional support introvert.”
Issac stares at him, unamused. “Your emotions right now are approximately 97% horniness and 3% panic, and quite frankly, I fear for my safety.”
Charlie gasps. “You’re abandoning me in my time of need?”
Issac snorts, already walking away. “You’ll live.”
Fucking Issac.
This is dangerous territory! And now, he's all alone!
Charlie turns back toward the field—only to see Nick still watching him.
With that same smirk.
And Charlie?
Charlie is absolutely not going to survive this game.
He doesn’t even know what rugby is. Or how it works. Or why everyone seems so violently okay with slamming their bodies into each other like it’s some kind of homoerotic battle to the death.
But what he does know is that Nick Nelson in rugby shorts is going to be the death of him.
It’s honestly unfair.
Cruel.
He should file a complaint with whoever invented sports because there is no reason Nick should look this hot while doing something that is probably giving him a lifetime supply of concussions.
The thighs.
The arms.
The sweat-slicked hair.
Please fuck me. Just one chance.
Please.
The way his jersey rides up just enough to show a hint of his abs every time he runs—
Charlie needs to stop.
Except he can’t.
Because he’s seen this body up close. He’s felt the muscles flex under his hands, felt Nick’s weight pressing against him, felt those broad shoulders and strong arms around his waist and fuck, fuck, fuck.
He is not well.
At all.
He forces himself to focus on the game, but it’s so, so hard when Nick keeps doing things like calling commands, flexing his arms, and getting tackled in a way that makes his ass jiggle just the slightest bit.
His ass just jiggled.
Oh, God. This isn't okay.
Fucking hell!
Charlie is so deep in it.
And when the final whistle blows and Nick’s team wins, Charlie is already bracing himself to witness another round of sweaty rugby boy celebrations.
And he does.
Except—except—Nick doesn’t even stick around for it.
Charlie watches, dumbfounded, as Nick shrugs off the congratulations, dodges the rough hugs and pats on the back, and instead—
Nick turns to him.
And then he waves.
Oh, he's fucking adorable when he waves, all giddy and proud of himself.
Come here, Nick. I'll give you you're own celebration.
Charlie blushes so hard he might combust on the spot.
Because Nick Nelson just won a game and the first thing he did was look for him.
Charlie swallows hard, fingers twitching at his sides, before he lifts a hand and waves back.
And Nick grins.
Charlie is so, so fucked.
And then, as if Charlie wasn’t already a little too distracted by the waves of Nick Nelson's hotness, he sees him running toward him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
The rest of the team casually strolls off, laughing and slapping each other on the back, completely oblivious to the one-man spectacle unfolding right before Charlie’s eyes.
Nick’s smile is already wide, his hair tousled, his muscles still slightly tensed from the game, and Oh my god, I’m going to die right here.
“Hi!” Nick says, a little breathless but so cute that it almost makes Charlie’s heart burst.
Charlie grins, a little too wide, “Hi!”
Nick glances around, then back at Charlie, and says, “You actually came... I—uh, thanks! I... did I do okay?”
Did he do okay?
Of FUCKING course you did.
Now let me kiss you, hold you, wreck you. Fuck, let me be yours.
“Nick, you did great,” he says, voice laced with sincerity. “To be fair, I don’t know much about rugby, but you looked really good out there.”
Nick goes slightly red—and it’s the best thing Charlie has ever seen.
Oh, you cute golden retriever locked up in a pit bull.
He scratches the back of his neck, clearly trying to look cool, but failing miserably.
Heheh, I did that. Me. I've made him flustered.
“Charlie... You’re—stop it.” He shakes his head, avoiding eye contact now, clearly embarrassed.
Charlie smirks, leaning in a little closer as he teases, “I just made you blush, didn’t I?”
Nick's face flushes deeper, and he nods awkwardly, a small, helpless chuckle escaping his lips. “Yeah, uh...”
And there it is. That shy, embarrassed side of Nick that Charlie could eat with a spoon.
Cutie, hottie, sexier. Jesus Christ, I need this man.
It’s adorable.
And Charlie’s still grinning like an idiot, because Nick Nelson just blushed, and that’s the best thing that’s happened to him all week.
He is here, looking all giddy and happy and soft, and that post-game glow is doing everything for him. His face is flushed, his hair messy, his jersey still clinging to his shoulders, and—dear lord above—Charlie is one single moment away from throwing himself at this man and devouring him whole.
Can you blame him?
He's so fucking perfect. Arms. Shoulders. Ass. Thighs.
Dead lord, help me.
Then Nick looks back at his team, who are beginning to shuffle into the locker room, before turning back to Charlie with that little nervous lip bite that Charlie definitely did not just fantasize about.
A lip bite? Jesus!!
“Uh, I have to shower,” Nick says, voice all awkward and breathless, “but then... we can meet up? Umm... The guys might try and drag me to the bars, but I’ll just say I have to grab something from my dorm first...Sorry, sorry, this isn’t fair to you. Me hiding you... Um—”
Hiding.
Ouch. But understand.
Still a little sad though.
Fuck.
“Nick,” Charlie interrupts, tilting his head, soft but firm. “It’s alright. Why don’t we meet at the café? Yeah? Then we can head out.”
Nick visibly exhales, like Charlie just took the weight of the world off his shoulders.
He's cute when relaxed.
“Yeah,” Nick nods quickly, too quickly, and Charlie definitely doesn’t find that endearing. “Okay. Uh... I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for not wanting to rush figuring yourself out,” Charlie says simply, because—because he gets it.
He gets how terrifying it must be, how new and strange and consuming it all feels.
Charlie was once a boy too, always curious about why boys were cuter than girls in his mind. He gets it.
Nick stares at him for a moment, eyes a little wide, a little fond, before mumbling, “Thanks.”
Charlie, being the menace that he is, smirks. “I’m gonna grab a coffee, yeah? Do you want anything?”
He smirked at me so I'm doing it to him. Fire with fire.
Hell yeah.
“Uh? No—no! It’s okay! Really! I’ll see you soon.” And then he’s waving—waving like a cute little dork—before spinning around and sprinting after the last of his teammates, vanishing into the locker rooms.
And that’s when it hits Charlie like a freight train.
Holy. Fuck.
He’s about to hang out with Nick. Alone. In Nick’s dorm.
Nick just bailed on a rugby night out to spend time with him.
Charlie feels lightheaded.
Giddy. Horny. Excited.
This is huge. This is heavenly.
Give me that ass, please.
And also—he needs to chug an iced coffee or dunk his head in a bucket of ice water because fuck, if Nick shows up in sweatpants again, Charlie is so not surviving the night.
It's barely fifteen minutes later when Nick shows up, rugby bag slung over his shoulder, gray sweatpants clinging to his thighs like a goddamn blessing from the universe (Charlie nearly chokes on his coffee), and a soft purple hoodie that looks so stupidly good on him that Charlie's brain short-circuits on impact.
Mine.
Let me be feral and and take you immediately.
Mine mine mine mine mine mine.
Nick swipes at his still damp hair, looking unfairly cute as he exhales, “Okay, uh? Ready to head out?”
Charlie is way too eager when he says yes. Like, embarrassing levels of eager.
Fucking idiot, stop stop stop, no thirsting, no fascinating over him, nope nope nope—
The walk to Nick’s dorm is easy, a little quiet, with Nick occasionally rambling about some plays he did, animated and passionate, his hands moving as he talks, and Charlie just nods along, pretending he understands a single fucking thing about rugby (he doesn’t.)
Not even remotely. But Nick looks so excited that Charlie honestly doesn't care.
He's cute when excited.
He's just plain fucking you. Ugh, the shame!
And then—they’re there.
Nick’s dorm building. Hubbard Hall.
Charlie tries not to fidget, tries not to combust, but Nick is visibly anxious, shifting his weight from foot to foot, checking their surroundings like someone’s about to pop out of nowhere and start hurling slurs.
It’s sad and frustrating and Charlie wants to shake him and tell him that no one cares who he brings back to his dorm, but he bites his tongue, shakes the thought away, and instead focuses on the door.
And oh my God.
It’s so Nick.
Rugby stickers, team emblems, fading, slightly torn photographs of himself from a few years back—brighter, younger, a little less burdened. Handwritten notes taped to the surface, some from friends, some that Charlie can't quite read, and—oh.
His name.
Nicholas ‘Nicky’ Nelson.
Cute.
Fuck, this is adorable.
Charlie wants to press his face into Nick’s hoodie and inhale and steal his warmth and his scent and his entire essence and —Jesus Christ, STOP.
He absolutely needs to get a grip.
Preferably a grip on that ass.
Charlie barely registers Nick murmuring, "Sorry if it's a bit messy, I tried to clean," because the second Nick pushes open the door, Charlie steps inside and nearly fucking dies.
It’s so cute.
No—scratch that. It’s so Nick.
The first thing Charlie notices is the soft blue glow of a neon sign hanging above Nick’s wardrobe, the words To be or not to be casting shadows on the walls. Shakespeare.
Nick liking Shakespeare will never not be weird, but it’s endearing as hell. Why is it so endearing?
He's just endearing in general. Besides the pit bull personality.
There’s a desk cluttered with Polaroids of the rugby lads, empty beer cans stacked like some kind of college boy shrine, and a string of fairy lights tangled haphazardly across the wall. Hanging just below them is a sign that reads:
‘I want to be great or nothing.’
Little Women? This fucking man.
A blue ottoman sits in the corner, next to a mini fridge and microwave that are absolutely stocked with protein powder and supplements. (Charlie resists the urge to make a joke about Nick and his gains).
His gains, though. He saw that ass jiggle.
Thank you protien powder.
But then his eyes catch on something else—something that makes his stomach clench.
A collection of rugby trophies and cleats line a wall of shelves, lined up like artifacts, evidence of years of dedication. And then—pinned to the wall right beside Nick’s bed—
Sticky notes.
Handwritten.
Charlie steps closer, eyes scanning them, and suddenly, his chest feels tight.
‘Don’t fail.’
‘Failure leads to disappointment.’
‘Make Dad proud.’
‘Stop fumbling.’
'Do better.'
'Stop stressing'
'You're the captain, act like it!'
'Keep Smiling. Keep Pushing.'
'Down 15lbs from goal. Workout more.'
They’re right by Nick’s pillow. A mantra he must read when he wakes up and before he falls asleep.
A reminder. A constant pressure.
Fuck.
This Rugby Lad. This Nick Nelson, is a lot sadder than he lets on.
Charlie swallows, turning his gaze, trying to shake off the weird, suffocating feeling building inside him.
There’s a basket full of blankets in the corner, a plush elephant stuffed animal (oh my god—cute, adorable, unfair) sitting on a chair, and a (handmade??) quilt with ‘Nick’ stitched in deep blue hung up on display.
Charlie turns back toward Nick, admiring everything, but then—
Nick is still by the door.
Still standing stiff and hesitant, watching Charlie like he’s waiting to be judged.
Like he’s bracing for impact.
Like he’s terrified.
Charlie’s heart clenches.
What the fuck did this boy go through to make him so scared of someone seeing who he is?
---
Nick knows he shouldn't feel so fucking timid right now.
It’s just Charlie.
Charlie, who teases him relentlessly.
Charlie, who makes him feel more himself than he ever has.
Charlie, who is currently admiring his dorm room like it’s something special instead of just a rugby captain’s messy attempt at a personality.
But fuck, it’s terrifying.
Most people who have stepped foot in here—if they even paid attention at all—were either girls who just wanted him for his body or his rugby teammates dragging him out for another night of alcohol and bad decisions.
No one has looked at his room like this before.
Like they’re seeing him.
Nick sets his bag down, trying to not freak the fuck out, when he spots it.
Elphie.
His beloved, embarrassing, should-not-be-seen-by-anyone stuffed elephant, sitting in plain fucking view on his chair.
Nick groans, moving quickly to grab it, but before he can, Charlie catches his wrist.
Fuck.
Please stop Charlie. Losing control.
I want to kiss you, hold you. Fuck!
Charlie’s touch is warm and gentle and dangerous, and Nick is not safe.
"Nick," Charlie says, his voice softer than usual, almost fond. "I like it… It’s so you."
Nick scoffs, yanking his wrist free, shaking his head as he snatches up Elphie.
"Yeah, well, you weren’t supposed to see Elphie."
Charlie’s brows furrow. "Elphie?"
Nick groans again, already moving to shove the stuffed animal into his wardrobe, mortified beyond belief. "Don’t—just—stop, ugh. Please stop. This is so embarrassing."
Please stop seeing me. Please stop liking me. Please stop. Please.
Please. Please. Please.
He turns back to Charlie, trying to shake off the embarrassment, but then—
Charlie is frowning.
Charlie is sitting on his bed, one hand idly brushing over the sticky notes on his wall.
Oh.
Right.
Shit.
Nick feels his stomach twist.
"Nick, you’re so hard on yourself… why?"
Nick stiffens.
Charlie’s eyes are scanning the notes, his expression shifting, softening. "I mean, you asked me today if you did okay... Nick, you literally won. You don’t need approval from me or anyone else."
Not true. Lies.
All lies. All he's ever needed, ever felt is approval. He craves it.
No, he needs it.
Nick scoffs, crossing his arms, trying to make himself smaller. "Charlie, that’s not—can we please not talk about this?"
Charlie shakes his head.
"No, Nick."
Nick’s breath catches.
No? No?
Please don't say no. I can't. I won't open up.
He can't.
You’re showing me your dorm, but you’re still hiding yourself from me. You just hid a childhood stuffed animal, you have all these notes about how you need to be great, like you have to be perfect all the time… Why?"
Nick doesn’t know how to answer that.
Because the real answer is too fucking complicated.
Because the real answer is something he hasn’t even admitted to himself yet.
Forget. Move on. Change the subject.
Nick lets out a slow breath, staring at the wall instead of at Charlie, because if he looks at him, if he sees the concern on his face, the softness in his eyes, he might break.
Instead, he moves, shifting closer, sinking onto the bed beside Charlie, their shoulders barely brushing.
"Can we please not… just not tonight?" he murmurs, voice tight, tired, like his bones are carrying too much weight.
Charlie doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, it’s gentle.
"Oh… okay. Yeah."
Nick nods, pressing his shoulder fully against Charlie’s now, leaning into him.He doesn’t know why it feels so grounding, but it does.
Warmth. Home. Acceptance.
Seen?
"I’m sorry I’m so… this," he mutters, frustrated with himself, gesturing vaguely to his whole existence. "I don’t mean to be. I don’t want to be."
He moves instinctively to pull at his hair, but Charlie catches his wrist before he can, intertwining their fingers instead.
Nick inhales sharply.
Oh.
Oh.
This feels good.
This feels right.
This is… everything.
Charlie’s voice is quiet, but firm. "Please stop doing that."
Nick sighs. "I can’t."
Because it’s true.
Because it’s engraved into him now, stitched into his skin like second nature.
Charlie’s thumb grazes over his knuckles, and Nick’s whole body relaxes.
Please don't be gentle. Gentle and me don't mix. I'm rude. I'm rough. He breaks.
"You know," Nick says after a moment, voice barely above a whisper, "my whole life has been rugby. Training, concussions, practice, tackles… it’s always been rugby."
Charlie doesn’t speak, just squeezes his hand, urging him to continue.
"What if I can’t go pro?" Nick asks, voice cracking slightly. "What if these are the last few years, and I’ve been wasting away on a dream that’s so fucking small?"
He feels Charlie shift beside him, the warmth of his body radiating like a silent reassurance.
"Nick," Charlie says softly, like he’s trying to pull him back from something deep, something dark. "That dream isn’t small. And even if it was, it doesn’t mean you’re wasting away."
Nick shakes his head, eyes flickering to the sticky notes above his bed.
"Feels like I am."
And fuck, he hates how much that admission hurts.
He feels like he’s unraveling.
Like every single thing he’s tried to shove down, repress, ignore, deny, drown out with rugby drills and weightlifting and alcohol—is finally clawing its way to the surface.
And Charlie is here, watching him fall apart.
"I’m… I’m not good, Charlie." The words fall out of him, raw and jagged, like they’ve been caged in for years. "I’m hiding you away. I’m the person that cheats on tests. I’ve been so fucking ignorant. So fucking cruel."
He squeezes his eyes shut, leans forward, resting his forehead against Charlie’s shoulder, letting himself breathe him in.
Protect me for just this moment. He can accept it than leave.
"I wish I could stop repressing this part of myself," he whispers, voice tight, choked, thick with everything he’s been too afraid to admit. "Because fuck, Charlie, I… I care for you, and you’re constantly in my head."
Nick feels Charlie tense beneath him, feels his breathing slow, and Nick knows he shouldn’t say this. But it’s the truth, and it’s clawing out of him anyway.
"But you deserve better," he forces out, his voice strained, breaking at the edges. "You deserve someone who can show you off, and that’s not me, but I…" He sucks in a breath, shaking his head against Charlie’s shoulder. "I wish it was. I wish I could."
He wishes he could be open. Happy. Kind.
He wishes he could be great. Living. Affectionate.
He wishes. But some wishes don't come true.
Charlie lets out a soft sigh, and Nick feels him shift.
Then, Charlie tilts his chin up, gently, deliberately, making Nick look at him.
"Nick," he says, voice softer than Nick deserves, warmer than Nick knows what to do with. "Do you ever want to show this part of yourself?"
Nick’s chest tightens.
Yes, of course.
With my heart and soul.
Please take him out of this hellhole.
"Fuck, yes." The words rip out of him, shaky and unsteady but completely, undeniably true. "I want to. I… fuck, I want to admit that I’m…"
He swallows hard, the words so close, so terrifying, so real.
Say it.
Mean it.
Love it.
Do something with your life, Nick.
Do something for you.
Say it.
Mean it.
Believe it.
"That I’m bi."
The second he says it, his breath catches.
It’s out there now. Floating between them. Real.
Real. Scary. Hard.
Terrifying. Real? Real. Real.
So fucking real.
And then Charlie smiles.
His eyes glow with something Nick doesn’t recognize at first—something soft and proud and so fucking beautiful it makes his heart ache.
Oh Charlie, you're so beautiful.
"Nick," Charlie murmurs, his fingers still curled around Nick’s chin, still tilting his face up like he’s something worth looking at. "You just said it out loud."
Nick’s lungs feel too full, too tight.
"That right there shows that you’re growing."
And then Charlie leans in, presses a kiss to his lips, slow and lingering, reverent, grounding, and Nick melts into it.
Fuck. Fuck fuck. Hold me. Kiss me. Like me?
"And only I get to choose what I deserve."
Charlie pulls back just slightly, rests his forehead against Nick’s, and grins.
"You just said you’re bi, Nick." His voice is so full of love it makes Nick’s stomach twist.
"I’m so proud of you. And I think I deserve you."