Chapter 18
This is nice.
No—this is incredible. This is life-changing, world-shattering, paradigm-shifting.
This is Charlie’s lips on his, Charlie’s hands on his skin, Charlie’s words carving their way into Nick’s bones like scripture.
“I’m so proud of you.”
Fuck. Fuck.
Nick doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this. To deserve Charlie.
Because Charlie kissed him first, like it was easy. Like it was natural. Like it was always meant to happen.
And Nick kissed him back. Because how could he not?
Nick wants to devour him. Wants to pin him down and kiss him until neither of them can breathe, until Charlie is completely ruined for anyone else.
Wants to taste every sound that falls from Charlie’s lips, feel every shiver that runs down his spine, hear every broken breath that leaves his mouth.
Fuck, he wants to undo him.
Charlie is warm beneath his hands, beneath his fingertips, beneath his lips. Everything about him is intoxicating. His cropped shirt is riding up just slightly, exposing an inch of pale, soft skin, and Nick—fuck, Nick wants to bite it.
Maybe he could just—sneak his fingers beneath the waistband of Charlie’s jeans, feel the heat of him, tease his skin, make him squirm—
No.
No, no, no.
Stop, Nick, stop!
Focus on the kiss. Focus on Charlie.
Because this—this—is not about sex, it’s not about desire, it’s not about the way Nick wants to completely wreck him.
This is Charlie kissing him because he’s proud of him.
This is Charlie kissing him because he means it.
This is Charlie kissing him because maybe—just maybe—he feels something for Nick too.
And that thought alone is enough to completely destroy him.
Because Charlie is soft where Nick is rough, steady where Nick is reckless, open where Nick is guarded. Charlie is a warmth Nick has never felt before, a light Nick never thought he deserved.
And Charlie is kissing him.
And Nick is letting him.
Nick melts into it, lets Charlie hold his face like he’s something precious, like he’s something worth cherishing.
And then—Charlie whispers it again, against his lips, against his skin, against every single part of Nick that still doesn’t believe he deserves it.
“I’m so proud of you.”
And Nick feels like he might actually cry.
Because those words do something to him, something terrifying and grounding and beautiful all at once.
Nick has spent his whole life desperate to make other people proud. His dad. His coach. His team. His friends.
But Charlie is the first person who has ever said it just because of who Nick is.
Not because he won a game.
Not because he played well.
Not because he did something for someone else.
But because he was himself.
Because he admitted—out loud—that he’s bisexual.
Because he’s trying.
And Charlie is proud of him for that.
And Nick—Nick thinks that maybe, for the first time in his entire life, he’s proud of himself too.
But he doesn't know what to do with himself.
Truly. Utterly. Completely fucking lost.
Lips. Mouth. Taste.
Like?
Like.
Fuck.
He's gone.
Charlie tastes like sugar and heat, like something Nick will never, ever get enough of. Like something that brands him from the inside out, burns him in the best way.
Nick pulls away, just for a second, just long enough to think, just long enough to look at Charlie—
And fuck, that was a mistake.
Because Charlie is staring at him like he’s something rare, something precious, something worth keeping.
And Nick doesn’t know what to do with that.
So he doesn’t think.
He just looks away, eyes flickering to the neon glow above his bed.
"To be or not to be."
To be.
To fucking be.
To be here.
To be his.
To be someone who doesn’t run anymore.
And before he can talk himself out of it, he kisses Charlie again.
And this time—this time, Charlie is ready for him.
This time, Charlie sinks his fingers into Nick’s hair, tugs just enough to make Nick groan, just enough to make Nick completely lose his mind.
And Nick—Nick lets himself sink into it.
Lets himself want.
Lets himself feel.
Lets himself be.
Charlie shifts, moves, straddles him, and Nick feels like he might fucking combust.
Lips. Mouth. Teeth. Breath. Lungs. Hope. Good.
Nick isn’t thinking anymore. He can’t. Not with Charlie pressed against him, kissing him like he means it, like he actually fucking means it.
Like Nick is something worth wanting.
And maybe that’s what ruins him the most.
Because Charlie Spring is in his dorm, on his lap, making out with him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like Nick isn’t a disaster of a person, a walking contradiction of repression and confusion and longing.
And fuck, he’s a goner.
Truly. Utterly. Completely fucking lost to this boy.
Nick lets his hands drift—waist, hips, back. Holds him close, closer, because fuck, this isn’t enough. It will never be enough.
His room is bathed in blue and yellow light, casting a soft glow over Charlie’s skin, making him look even more unfairly beautiful.
Nick tilts his head back, gives in, lets Charlie kiss down his jaw, slow and teasing, lips and teeth and warmth.
He still tastes like coffee—just a little, just enough to make Nick’s head spin.
He wants to swallow him whole. Keep him here, wrapped up in this warmth, this safety, this feeling that maybe, just maybe, he’s allowed to want something for himself.
Nick exhales, a sharp, ragged thing, a desperate thing.
"Fucking Christ, Charlie."
Charlie hums against his throat, soft and knowing, and Nick can feel the smirk before he even sees it.
Bastard.
Their lips move together, hot, urgent, devastating.
Nick’s head spins.
Fucking hell.
Lips, mouth, Charlie.
His hands twitch, aching to grip, hold, take. To ravish, to ruin, to claim.
Fuck. Fuck.
Get out of your head, Nelson.
He’s not some schoolboy on the verge of combustion. He’s got control. He’s fine.
(He is not fine.)
He forces himself to pull back, just enough to catch his breath, just enough to still Charlie’s hips before they can start something that neither of them is ready for.
Charlie’s smirking, smug little thing, but his eyes are careful when he asks, “Okay?”
Nick huffs out a laugh, breathless, wrecked.
"Fuck, yes. Okay. Okay."
He presses their foreheads together, breathing in deep, trying to ground himself, but it’s hard when Charlie is everywhere, in his lungs, in his veins, in his fucking lap.
"We just need to stop before…"
He vaguely gestures downward, and Charlie gets the hint immediately.
He shifts, trying to move up, but Nick tightens his hold, shaking his head.
"No, stay."
Charlie laughs, soft and knowing, and fuck, Nick’s heart stumbles.
"I thought you wanted me off?"
Nick groans, tipping his head back against the wall.
"I don’t… Ugh, why are we like this?"
Charlie smiles, leans in, presses a quick kiss to the corner of Nick’s mouth, and whispers—
"Because you like me."
Nick chuckles, shaking his head, biting back a smirk as he shifts beneath Charlie.
Yeah, he does. Fuck.
"Like you? No, I tolerate you. That’s it."
Charlie raises a brow, tilting his head like he’s just caught Nick in a lie.
"That’s bullshit," he says smoothly, leaning in just a fraction, his fingers already reaching up toward Nick’s hair.
Before Nick can react, protest, or even prepare, Charlie’s hands are ruffling through his ginger locks, messing it up with absolutely zero remorse.
Nick gasps, scandalized, immediately grabbing at Charlie’s wrists to stop him.
Bastard.
"That’s so fucking rude! I just washed my hair, you know!"
Charlie shrugs, completely unbothered.
"Oh, boo hoo, Mr. Perfect has his hair messed up. However will you survive?"
Nick narrow his eyes, lips twitching in challenge.
Oh. It’s on.
Before Charlie can react, Nick reaches behind him, grabs the nearest pillow, and swings.
WHACK.
Charlie takes a pillow straight to the face, tumbling backward with a very undignified yelp.
Nick bursts out laughing.
"Oh my God—your face! That was so good!"
Charlie sits up, blinking, looking utterly betrayed.
"You—"
Another pillow smacks him across the shoulder before he can finish his sentence.
Gotcha.
Charlie gasps.
"You did not just—”
Nick grins, holding the pillow like a weapon. “Oh, but I did.”
Charlie lunges.
Nick barely manages to block the incoming pillow strike, laughing as Charlie throws his whole body into the attack.
"You’re so dead, Nelson!"
"Try me, Spring!"
Pillows fly.
Charlie is relentless, laughing as he swings, tackling Nick onto the bed.
Nick grabs another pillow and shoves it into Charlie’s face, grinning when Charlie flails dramatically.
Oh, so this is what it means to live? Fun. Really fun.
"Unfair! You’re too strong!"
"Should’ve thought about that before messing with my hair, Spring!"
Charlie wiggles out from under him, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, completely breathless.
Nick can’t stop staring.
Eyes, lips, nose, body. Beauty.
His own chest is heaving, adrenaline buzzing through his veins, but fuck—Charlie is so, so pretty like this.
Charlie notices, smirk softening.
"I won, by the way."
Nick snorts, dropping his pillow.
"You wish."
Charlie leans in slightly, fingers tracing along the edge of Nick’s hoodie. “Pretty sure I pinned you, big guy.”
Nick tilts his head, looking up at him, voice softer when he says—
"Yeah. You did."
Charlie smirks, voice teasing, but there’s something softer underneath it when he whispers—
"So what do I win?"
Nick swallows, eyes flicking between Charlie’s lips and his eyes.
Everything? Fucking everything.
My heart. Soul. Body. Lungs. Air. Lips.
Take it all. Honestly.
Nick has no use for it.
"I—uh. What do you want?"
Charlie grins.
"Well, I was going to say a rematch, but..." he leans in, just close enough that Nick can feel his breath against his lips, teasing, playful, dangerous. "...now I’m thinking I might ask for something else."
Nick doesn’t know if he wants to shove him away or pull him closer, but fuck it, he’s not thinking about that right now.
"You’re ridiculous."
"And yet, you’re still staring at my mouth."
Nick groans, dropping his head back against the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut as he exhales sharply.
"You’re going to be the fucking death of me, Charlie Spring."
Charlie laughs, soft and delighted, before nuzzling against Nick’s shoulder, pressing a featherlight kiss just below his jaw.
"I’ll take that as a compliment."
---
Charlie hates to admit it, but fuck, Nick Nelson is fine. Not just in a wow, he’s attractive way, but in a Jesus Christ, my knees are weak, and I might start giggling like an idiot way.
And the worst part? The absolute, most ridiculous part?
He actually has a chance.
A real, fucking chance.
Who would have thought?
Nerdy Charlie whose openly gay falling for Rugby Lad Nick whose afraid of anyone knowing.
Fucking great.
Nick pokes him in the arm, disrupting the hurricane of thoughts in Charlie’s head.
"You should," Nick says casually, like he’s reading Charlie’s thoughts, like he knows exactly what’s going on in Charlie’s brain. His lips quirk slightly, eyes flickering with something teasing, something dangerous. “I don’t just blush for anyone.”
Charlie raises a brow, immediately latching onto that statement.
"Oh yeah?" he asks, voice dipping into something smug as he twists the strings of Nick’s hoodie around his fingers, tugging lightly. “And what causes the mighty rugby lad to blush, hmm?”
Nick shrugs, looking away, but Charlie doesn’t miss the pink blooming across his cheeks, creeping down to his neck.
Oh, this is good.
This is so good.
"I don’t know," Nick mutters, fidgeting with his hoodie sleeves, not meeting Charlie’s gaze. “Someone that actually seems to give a shit?”
Charlie blinks.
Wait.
What?
His fingers still in Nick’s hoodie strings, grip tightening slightly.
"Give a shit?" he echoes, because—has no one given a shit about Nick before?
Asshole or not, does no one care?
Nick doesn’t answer immediately. He just sighs, rolling his shoulders like the weight of the world is pressing down on them.
"They haven’t," he finally says, glancing at Charlie, voice softer, almost defeated. “And I haven’t cared to either.”
Charlie’s stomach does something awful and clenching.
Oh? That's not.... Is that living? What Nick has wanted?
Oh, he doesn't like that.
"I mean," Nick continues, laughing, but it’s not real, not happy, not anything close to the warmth Charlie’s heard before. “Charlie, I hook up, I get drunk, I forget everything. People either see me as an asshole or a golden boy. No in-between. No one actually... gives a shit about anything else.”
Charlie feels his breath hitch.
That’s... fuck.
That’s awful.
That’s so fucking awful.
"And you were okay with that?" Charlie asks, because how the fuck could he have been okay with that?
Nick shrugs, a little too casual, a little too detached.
He wants to hug him, kiss him, cherish him.
Protect him. Care for him.
"With enough alcohol, you're okay with anything."
Charlie feels his heart crack right down the middle.
And he hates it.
Hates that Nick is so used to being disposable. Hates that he’s lived in a world where people don’t care about him beyond what he can provide. Hates that he’s acting like it’s normal, like it’s just a fact of life.
Because fuck that.
Charlie isn't going to let that be the case anymore.
Nick deserves better.
Nick deserves people who see him, all of him, and don’t just take what they want before throwing him away.
Charlie isn't letting him believe otherwise.
It's no longer just about lips and hands and what it would take to get in Nick's pants. No longer sex or just. Muscles and panting. Moans and head.
Maybe it was never just that. Maybe it was never about lust, never a fleeting fantasy, never a wet dream Charlie wanted to turn into reality.
Charlie watches as Nick shrugs, avoiding his gaze, something vulnerable, something fragile sitting heavy between his shoulders.
"Uhh," Nick starts, voice quieter than before. More hesitant. More raw. "How’d you know? That you were, you know... gay?"
Charlie blinks, a little thrown by the sudden change in conversation.
It’s not like he minds, not at all, but he knows how much effort it probably took for Nick to say that out loud. Knows that whatever this is, whatever war is raging inside Nick’s head, it’s clawing at him from the inside out.
Poor Nick. Why is he like this?
So Charlie doesn’t tease. Doesn’t prod, doesn’t try to pull anything else out of him that Nick isn’t ready to say.
He just answers.
"Well," he starts, shifting slightly on Nick’s bed to face him better, knees brushing, "I think I always kinda knew, even before I had a name for it."
Nick’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.
"I mean," Charlie continues, smiling a little at the memory, "when I was a kid, the neighbors' kids would always want to play house. But I never wanted to be the husband, because there was a wife. And I’d be sitting there, confused, because... why would I want to be with the wife when there were husbands? Like... why would I want to be with girls when there were boys?"
"So it was just always there?" he murmurs, voice laced with something unreadable.
"Yeah," Charlie nods, squeezing Nick’s hand once before letting go, giving him space. "And then I found a name for it, and... well. That was that."
Nick sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.
The doubt. He concern. It makes Charlie's skin crawl.
"I wish it was that easy for me," he mutters, voice tight. "Not that it was probably easy for you. Being openly gay in school and all. But... I wish there wasn’t so much of myself that’s just... repressing everything."
Charlie frowns, his stomach twisting at Nick’s tone.
"I mean," Charlie says, gentle, careful, watching the way Nick’s jaw tightens. "There’s still time, you know? You’re still here. You’re accepting it now."
And he's so proud of him. Truly. Utterly. Admitting your sexuality is the first step. And Nick just did that. So fuck, he's proud.
Nick scoffs, shaking his head.
"Am I?" he says, voice tinged with frustration—at himself, at the world, at everything. "Charlie, I had to fucking sneak you in here. That’s not acceptance. That’s... that’s fucking wrong."
Charlie feels his heart ache, reaching out before he even realizes it, resting a hand over Nick’s.
"It’s not wrong, Nick," he says softly. "It’s just... where you are right now."
Nick huffs out a bitter laugh, eyes darting to the stupid fucking sticky notes on his wall, all the reminders of what he has to be. The expectations. The weight.
"Where I am fucking sucks."
Oh? Oh.
Pain. Regret. Confusion. Sadness.
"Then let’s get you somewhere better." Charlie squeezes his hand. "And I’ll be right there when you do."
He will. He'll make damn sure of it.