Chapter 20
What the fuck is happening right now?
Nick grips the red plastic cup in his hands, staring at the drink inside like it holds the answer to all his problems.
How the fuck did he get here?
In a room full of kind, accepting, genuine people—people who don't just exist in the world, but thrive in it. People who know who they are, who have found a place among others like them, who don’t have to pretend or perform or shove themselves into boxes that don’t fit.
People who should absolutely, unequivocally not be extending that same kindness to him.
Nick fucking Nelson.
What is he doing here?
Why is he here?
He doesn’t deserve this.
He shouldn’t be here, talking about Shakespeare like he belongs, like he isn’t the same person who used to sneer at people like him. He shouldn’t be standing in the kitchen talking to Sahar Zahid, nodding along as she jokes about Imogen and her chaotic texting habits, like he isn’t the same person who watched Harry make disgusting comments about her and said nothing.
He’s an asshole.
He’s a pain.
He’s cruel.
He is everything these people aren’t.
And yet...
They let him in.
They talk to him. They laugh with him. They see him, and somehow, impossibly, they don’t immediately reject him.
Is this what it feels like to find your people?
Could these be his people?
Is he worthy of that?
He listens to Issac talk about classic literature, about how reading stories written centuries ago can feel like reaching across time, how it can make you feel less alone, how queerness has existed in poetry and prose long before anyone ever gave it a name.
Nick wants to tell him about the neon sign above his bed. About how he first read Shakespeare because he thought he had to, because it was what smart people read, what impressive people read—but how he stayed reading Shakespeare because something about the words felt alive.
Because he liked the longing. Because he liked the ache.
But Nick doesn’t say any of that.
No.... Too wrong. Too much. Too girly. Too much feelings. Too much.
Too different.
He just listens.
He watches Sahar and Imogen bicker about what movie they should put on, sees the way they talk with their hands, the way they joke freely.
He thinks about how he spent years being friends with people who would make comments about girls like Sahar, about boys like Issac, about Charlie.
He thinks about how he let them.
He thinks about how he laughed with them.
And for what?
For what?
For Harry fucking Greene?
Fuck! Fuck!
Idiot! Asshole. Wrong.
And for what? For fame? Fuck, he's so mean. Cursing his mum out. Agreeing with David. Leaving town. Never visiting.
For what? What has any of this been for?
For a sense of belonging that was built on fear, cruelty, misogyny, homophobia, performative masculinity, all stitched together by the expectations of men who raised them?
What was he thinking?
What has he ever thought?
He’s been taught so much fucking bullshit his entire life.
Be strong. Be dominant. Be straight. Be a man. Be a leader. Be a winner. Be better. Be better. Be better.
But what the fuck is better?
Because this?
This feels better.
This feels good.
This feels real.
And Nick wants so badly to believe he’s allowed to have it.
If he lets himself have this—if he lets himself enjoy this, want this, feel this—then what does that make him?
What does that make the past fucking years of his life?
If this is real, if this is right—then everything he’s done before was wrong.
And that? That’s fucking unbearable.
Because he’s been an asshole.
He’s been a coward.
He’s let people like Harry talk about people like Charlie and Tao and Elle and Sahar and Issac like they were nothing.
And he let them do it because he was scared.
Scared of being called a slur.
Scared of being seen as weak.
Scared of being anything but straight.
Scared of being anything but what his father told him a man should be.
He’s been living in fear.
And now, sitting here, surrounded by people who have been living their truths, who have been embracing who they are, who have found love and community and freedom—
It’s suffocating.
Because this is what he could have had all along.
And instead?
Instead, he spent years pushing people like them away.
He spent years pushing himself away.
He spent years pretending, lying, posturing, forcing himself into a mold that was killing him from the inside out.
And what did it get him?
What did it get him besides anger and isolation and self-loathing?
What did it get him besides nights spent punching walls, drinking whiskey, pulling at his own hair just to feel something that made sense?
What did it get him besides Harry Greene and a team of boys who only cared about him when he was winning, when he was performing, when he was their golden boy, their captain, their leader, their perfect little image of masculinity?
What did it get him besides loneliness?
Because fuck, he’s lonely.
He’s been lonely for so long and he didn’t even realize it until Charlie fucking Spring barged into his life and made him see how much he was missing.
How much he had forced himself to miss.
And now he’s here.
Sitting among people who would probably welcome him, if he let them.
And that?
That terrifies him more than anything.
Because if he lets himself have this—if he lets himself want this, need this, crave this—
Then he has to admit that he’s been wrong.
Then he has to admit that he’s been lying to himself for years.
And how do you forgive yourself for that?
How do you forgive yourself for being your own worst enemy?
Nick grips his drink tighter, staring at the liquid like it might have the answer.
He doubts it does.
Nick jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder, his body snapping out of the spiraling pit of thoughts he had been drowning in. His gaze jerks up from the sparkling punch in his cup, landing on Darcy’s grinning face.
They give him an exaggerated look, head tilted, eyes mischievous, like they can read every single one of his self-doubting thoughts just from looking at him.
Shit.
Don't see me.
Please. I'm too broken and confused.
He scrambles for composure, offering a sheepish smile as he hurriedly wipes at the small drop of punch that splashed onto his hoodie.
Great. Just fucking great.
If he already looked out of place, now he just looks nervous and messy.
Darcy smirks. "Something tells me you’re feeling a little insecure right now," they say, rocking on their heels. "Which is a little shocking, considering you were all confidence when you threw a punch at Derek at Imogen’s party."
Nick winces. Fucking hell, does everyone need to talk about that?
"Uh," he stammers, gripping his cup a little tighter. "Yeah, sorry about that. I'm, uh... not really used to—" he gestures vaguely around the room "—social events?"
Darcy scoffs, shaking their head. "That doesn’t sound right. I mean, aren’t you, like, the captain? And, y'know, kind of the center of every rugby after-party?"
"Yeah, I mean... I guess? But that’s different. That’s... expected. This—" he gestures again, "—this is new."
Darcy eyes him for a moment, then grins. "You know, you're kind of like a golden retriever with a pit bull persona."
Nick blinks. "Uh—thank you? Sorry—golden retriever??"
Darcy snorts. "Yeah! I mean, you’ve got the whole ‘brooding, tough guy’ thing going on, but deep down? You just want someone to pat your head and tell you you’re a good boy."
Nick nearly chokes on air. "That is... not true."
Darcy grins wider. "Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, big guy."
Nick shakes his head, but a small, amused smile plays at his lips despite himself. He lets his gaze drift away, only for it to land right on Charlie.
Charlie, sitting on the couch, grinning as Tara and Elle dust his cheekbones with glitter while Tao dramatically sighs in the background, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed that Elle isn’t paying him any attention.
Charlie, who is fucking glowing.
Nick can’t help but stare.
Pretty. Mine? Cute. Kind. Fucking hell, he's mental. He's fucking mental to like a boy, but fuck, here he is.
Darcy follows his gaze and smirks knowingly. "You know, he’s really excited you’re here."
Nick’s breath catches.
"I honestly haven’t seen him this happy since... well, since before Ben."
Nick’s head jerks toward them, confused. "Ben?"
Darcy’s expression immediately shifts, like they said something they weren’t supposed to. Their eyes widen, and they stammer, "Oh—uh—shit, has he not... uhh, never mind! Forget I said anything! That’s—uh—that’s not really my place to—uh—yeah!"
Nick frowns. Who the fuck is Ben?
Something tight coils in his stomach. He doesn’t like that name. He doesn’t like the way Darcy suddenly looks guilty.
And he really doesn’t like the way Charlie’s expression briefly flickers with something unreadable when he notices Nick looking.
He files it away for later.
For now, he’s just trying to survive the night without combusting.
Nick doesn’t know how it happens.
One second, he’s spiraling about some mystery guy named Ben, and the next, Darcy is grabbing his hand and dragging him toward the couch.
“Oh, sparkles!” they exclaim, grinning ear to ear. “You definitely need sparkles.”
“What? No, I—" Nick tries to protest, but Darcy is freakishly strong for their size, and before he knows it, he’s plopping down right onto the couch, landing right next to—
Charlie.
And fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Charlie’s smile widens the second their shoulders brush, and oh no.
Nick wants to die. And combust. And kiss him. And maybe—just maybe—crawl into his lap and let Charlie do whatever the hell he wants to him.
Stop it, Nick.
"Hi," Charlie says, voice light and warm, eyes shining with something soft.
Nick swallows, his throat suddenly dry. "Hi."
Without thinking, he reaches out, thumb brushing against Charlie’s cheekbone, catching flecks of glitter between his fingers.
It’s so unfair how good he looks, golden under the warm glow of the fairy lights, smudged eyeliner making his brown eyes pop even more.
Nick is so gone.
"You both are so cute!" Elle coos, clapping her hands together as she crouches in front of them with the glitter. "Nick, what color?"
Nick blinks. What?
"Uh," he stammers, mind lagging. "I don’t really...?"
“Ooh, blue and pink!” Imogen chimes in, grabbing a tiny jar of shimmery powder.
Nick hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. "Pink? I don’t—"
"But you look so good in pink," Charlie murmurs, looking up at him with a smirk.
Nick swears he feels his soul leave his body.
Oh? Anything for you. Absolutely anything.
His ears burn. His cheeks are on fire.
He clears his throat, trying to recover, trying to pretend like that didn’t just ruin him. "Uh... I guess... Whatever, um..."
And then—
Say it.
Just say it.
It’s right there, pressing against his ribs, rattling in his chest, crawling up his throat.
There’s no judgement here.
There’s no Harry sneering at him, no Derek calling him slurs behind his back, no teammates waiting to pounce on his every move.
It’s just him.
And Charlie.
And a room full of people who are nothing like the people he’s known his whole life.
Say it, say it, say it.
Nick takes a breath.
"Just, um... whatever colors are... bisexual?"
The room stills for a beat.
Nick grips his jeans.
He stares at the floor, his own voice echoing in his head.
Fuck.
Did he just—
Oh, God, he did. He actually said it. He said it.
Wrong. Ugly. Wrong. Damaged. Cruel.
Dad will hate me. I hate myself. Not worthy. Fuck!
A hand slips into his.
He looks up.
Charlie is smiling at him—soft, wide, warm, proud.
And Nick breathes.
It’s okay. You’re fine. You’re accepted. You’re here.
They aren’t judging him.
Tara looks happy. Charlie looks proud. Tao looks skeptical, sure, but he’s not glaring. Imogen cheers, all bright-eyed and excited, clapping her hands together.
"Pink, purple, and blue!" she exclaims. "Pink, purple, and blue sparkles then!"
Nick nods, forcing a small smile. "Uh, sure. Yeah. That... works."
Elle grins, dipping her brush into the glitter, and before he knows it, he’s sitting still while she carefully paints his cheeks, blending the colors of the bisexual flag onto his skin.
And then Charlie squeals.
Nick barely has a second to register it before Charlie is launching himself at him, wrapping his arms around his neck, laughing.
"You look so fucking good right now," Charlie says, voice dripping with warmth and excitement, like he’s just been handed the world.
Nick blinks, his hands automatically catching Charlie’s waist, steadying them both. "Yeah?"
Tara smirks. "Who would’ve thought? Nick Nelson in sparkles?!"
And then Nick is blushing—full-body, stomach-flipping, can’t-hide-it blushing.
He ducks his head, hiding his face in Charlie’s shoulder.
Breathe.
It’s okay.
He’s okay.
Stop being scared.
But then—a thought.
Dad would be furious if he saw this.
David would never let him live this down.
His team—fuck, his team—what would they do?
The panic grips him like a fist around his throat, and suddenly, his chest feels too tight.
This is wrong.
He needs to wipe it off. He needs to leave. He needs to workout and drink and fuck, get away.
But he can’t.
Not here. Not now.
Not with Charlie looking at him like he hung the stars, not with Tara beaming, not with Elle carefully setting her brush down like this is a moment.
So he stands abruptly, clearing his throat. "Uh—excuse me, where’s the bathroom?"
Tara, seemingly unaware of the internal warzone happening in his head, gestures down the hall. "Second door on the left."
Nick nods, squeezing Charlie’s hand briefly—holding on, grounding himself, needing the warmth of it before forcing himself to let go.
And then he’s walking.
Walking down the hall, walking into the bathroom, closing the door, locking it behind him.
And then—
Fuck.
His hands grip the edges of the sink.
He stares at himself in the mirror, stares at the glitter on his cheeks, the pink and purple and blue blending together like it’s been there all along.
He just came out.
Fuck.
No, no, no.
This isn’t right.
He isn’t—he can’t be—fuck, he can’t.
Dad will be furious.
His team will—what? Laugh? Hate him? Treat him like he’s something lesser?
His stomach churns.
His vision swims.
His fingers dig into the sink, nails biting into porcelain.
He needs to wipe it off.
Needs to scrub it away, erase it, pretend it never happened.
But his hands won’t move.
He stands there, breath coming in short, shallow gasps, unable to do anything but stare.
Stare at the boy in the mirror.
The one who just admitted—to a room full of people—that he’s bi.
The one who looks so much like himself but also like a stranger.
The one who—for the first time in his entire fucking life—doesn’t feel like he’s lying.
And doesn’t know if he wants to throw up or punch something. He muffles a groan, pressing his palm over his mouth, his breathing too shallow, too quick, too wrong.
He slides down against the wall, curling into the corner of the bathroom, wedging himself between the toilet and the bathtub, knees pressed to his chest.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Change.
Don’t be this.
This is wrong.
This is scary.
But this is him.
Nick chokes on the thought, shaking his head, gripping his hoodie sleeves like they can ground him.
No, no, no. No, it can’t be. This can’t be real. It’s just a phase, right? Just a stupid, confusing, temporary thing. He’s had girlfriends before. He’s done everything right. He’s followed the script. He’s played the part.
But he sees it.
He sees his own face in the mirror, eyes wide, flushed, terrified, looking at himself like he’s seeing a stranger.
And it clicks.
Fuck.
It is.
It’s him.
A knock on the door startles him so bad he nearly hits his head on the bathtub. He gasps, heart hammering, expecting Charlie’s soft voice, but—
"Hey," Tao’s voice calls out instead, awkward, uncertain. "You almost done in there, man?"
Nick stiffens, his chest constricting.
Tao.
Not exactly his biggest fan.
He wipes at his face quickly, furiously, trying to erase the tear tracks, erase the panic, erase the pink and purple and blue that feel like too much, too real, too right.
He forces himself to stand.
Swallows down the wreckage inside him.
Opens the door.
Tao’s standing there, arms crossed, but there’s something cautious in his eyes, like he’s unsure of why he even knocked in the first place. He takes one look at Nick, and his expression falters, just for a second.
"I don’t know what your plan is with Charlie," Tao says slowly, his voice firm but not cruel. "And if you hurt him, I won’t hesitate to do the same to you. But…"
He hesitates.
Then, softer, barely there—
"Are you… okay?"
Nick’s throat goes dry.
He doesn’t know how to answer that.
Because no, he’s not okay. He’s unraveling at the seams, coming apart at every thread. His chest still feels too tight, his fingers still feel raw from gripping the sink, his whole body still feels like it’s stuck in between fight and flight and run, run, run.
But he nods.
"Uh… yeah. No. Yeah, I’m okay."
Tao doesn’t look convinced.
Nick hates that Tao doesn’t look convinced.
He hates how exposed he feels, like Tao can see through every crack, every lie.
"I, uh… sorry," Nick mutters, shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets, trying to keep himself together. "I don’t want to hurt Charlie. I don’t—I don’t want people here to think this is just a prank or something."
Tao’s expression doesn’t change. He looks at Nick for a long moment, like he’s weighing something in his head, like he’s trying to decide if Nick is worth believing.
"Well," Tao says finally. "That’s kinda hard to be sure about."
Nick winces.
"But," Tao continues, arms still crossed, but less guarded now, less sharp. "Charlie really likes you, from what I know. And I think you like him, or you wouldn’t be here. So just… be nice."
He sighs.
"He deserves better than you," Tao adds bluntly. "Just saying."
Nick lets out a weak, breathless laugh. "Yeah. I know."
Tao tilts his head, watching him. "But… you seem better than Ben. So."
And there it is.
That name.
Ben.
Ben.
Nick feels it like a kick to the chest, like a fucking gut punch.
He clenches his fists inside his hoodie pockets.
Because he doesn’t know this Ben.
But he hates him.
He hates that Charlie hasn’t told him anything about it.
He hates that whatever Ben did, it was bad enough that Tao—who clearly doesn’t trust Nick—is still willing to say that Nick is better than him.
What the fuck did this Ben do?
Was he one of those assholes? One of those people who teased Charlie for being gay? Who made him have to be confident? Who forced him to build himself into someone who wouldn’t take shit from anyone?
Was this Ben the reason Charlie doesn’t trust easily? The reason he’s always quick with a joke, quick with defiance, quick with walls?
Nick swallows hard, the air in his lungs turning sharp.
He doesn’t know what to say.
So he says nothing.
Tao doesn’t say anything else either.
He just shrugs, turning back toward the living room, tossing over his shoulder, "You coming or what?"
Nick nods.
He follows.
But the name Ben echoes in his head, over and over, looping like a curse.
Nick feels a pang of guilt as he glances down at his sleeves, the pink, purple, and blue now slightly smudged, faded from where he wiped at his face. It feels wrong to have tried to erase it.
But no one seems to mind.
No one looks at him like he’s done something awful, like he’s an intruder here.
Tara gives him a small, knowing smile. Elle and Imogen are still chatting, but Elle catches his eye for a moment and nods, like she’s proud of him. Darcy, sprawled out on the floor with a bowl of popcorn in her lap, gives him an exaggerated thumbs-up.
And then there’s Charlie.
Charlie, who pats the empty spot beside him on the couch, arms open in an invitation.
Nick doesn’t hesitate.
Mine? Home? Safe? Okay.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
He falls into it, into Charlie’s warmth, Charlie’s safety, Charlie’s presence, resting his head against Charlie’s shoulder.
Charlie lets out a small laugh, and then his fingers are in Nick’s hair, twirling strands between them, tracing soft patterns against his scalp.
Nick exhales, his whole body sinking further into the comfort of it. Jesus, this is amazing.
This is home.
This is safe.
Purple, pink, and blue might be smudged on his face, but they bleed into his skin, into his veins, into his existence.
That’s who he is.
Nick turns slightly, looking at everyone again. He sees it—the quiet, unexpected acceptance.
But then he swallows, because he doesn’t deserve this.
Charlie’s whisper is soft, barely there. “Are you okay?”
Nick hums, nuzzling further into Charlie’s shoulder. “Mmm. Better now.”
Charlie squeezes his hand.
Nick breathes.
Two, three, four deep breaths.
He needs to say it.
He needs to break the cycle.
He needs to stop the damage.
He needs to heal.
Nick swallows hard, then says, voice timid, unsure, "Um… I know it's a bit weird, me being here."
No one interrupts.
They let him talk.
"And um…" He clears his throat, fidgeting with Charlie’s fingers. “I’m sorry. If I ever—” He hates the way his voice cracks, but he keeps going. “I’m sorry I’ve been rude. That’s not… I know I can’t take back what I’ve done or what I’ve said, but…”
His throat tightens.
"But thank you for being kind to me."
It’s so quiet he’s not sure they even hear him.
But Charlie does.
Charlie’s fingers tighten around his.
“I’m… yeah, that’s all," Nick mumbles, curling further into Charlie’s warmth. “I just… really am sorry.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then—
"Well," Darcy says casually, crunching on popcorn. "That was surprisingly mature for you, Nelson."
Nick snorts, breathless, and someone—Imogen? Elle?—throws a pillow at Darcy.
"Shut up, Darce," Charlie laughs, and Nick can hear the smile in his voice.
And just like that, the tension melts.
The conversation shifts, the movie starts, and no one holds his past over his head.
They just let him be here.
Let him exist.
Let him be.
Nick exhales.
Yeah.
He thinks he really, really likes it here.