Chapter 21
Charlie is tipsy. Okay, fine— he's fucking wasted.
Whatever was in that punch was goddamn fantastic (probably Darcy's doing, he’ll have to thank them later), and fuck—he has to keep drinking because Nick in glitter.
Nick in glitter.
Nick with his pink, purple, and blue-stained cheeks, with little sparkles dusting the bridge of his nose, the edges of his jaw, the fucking freckles on his arms. Nick in glitter should be illegal.
Charlie wants to lick it off.
Wants to pull Nick into his lap, tilt his chin up, and drag his tongue over his cheekbone, taste the remnants of edible sparkles, leave marks of his own.
He wants his hands under Nick’s hoodie, gripping at his waist, his thighs, his everything.
He wants his mouth on the metal of Nick’s zipper, wants to bite it between his teeth and slowly—
Fuck.
Fucking decency, Charlie.
It’s a shame. A real fucking shame that he can’t just drop to his knees right now and show Nick how proud he is of him.
Instead, he’s sitting on a couch, flushed, tipsy, and desperate, while Nick is right fucking there, glowing under the low lights, glittered and soft and warm.
Charlie has to physically restrain himself.
Everyone else is out cold.
Imogen is curled into Sahar’s side on an air mattress. Tao and Elle are tangled together in a sleeping bag like a little couple straight out of a rom-com, besides the fact Tao's hand is in Elle's face. Tara and Darcy are collapsed together in an armchair, legs hanging off the side, probably dead to the world after whatever the hell they put in that punch.
The entire room is filled with quiet snores, slow breathing, the occasional shuffle of someone rolling over—
And then there’s him and Nick.
Still awake.
Still touching.
Barely.
Their pinkies graze on the couch between them. Just barely.
Charlie wants his pinky under the fabric.
He wants his hands shoved in the front pocket of Nick’s hoodie, tugging him closer.
He wants to tilt his head back against the couch and whine and bat his eyelashes and say, "please, Nicky, please."
He wants Nick’s hands on him.
On his waist, on his thighs, gripping his neck, gripping his fucking hair.
He wants to sink into Nick’s lap, press against him, grind down and feel what it would be like to be wanted back.
He wants to destroy him.
He wants to be destroyed.
Fucking decency.
Charlie presses their pinkies together harder.
Nick glances down at it, then up at him.
His brown eyes flicker in the dim light, soft and shy and cautious.
Charlie smiles.
Nick smiles back.
Fuck.
Charlie is a goner.
Because he just feels soft, like everything inside him is melted at the edges, like he could spill over at any second.
And Nick.
Nick, with his stupidly soft green hoodie and that blue-pink-purple shimmer still dusted on his cheekbones. Nick, who sat beside him all night, pinky barely brushing his, shoulders pressed just enough to make Charlie feel grounded. Nick, who hasn’t bolted yet.
Charlie watches him, vision hazy but sharp at the same time. He reaches out, fingers dragging over Nick’s glitter-streaked skin, smearing it just slightly. He grins, something bubbling up in his chest.
"Bisexual and beautiful," he murmurs, voice dipped in awe. "What a combo."
Nick stiffens, breath catching just enough for Charlie to notice. His eyes dart away, and then suddenly, he’s moving.
"Uh—gonna get you some water," Nick mumbles, standing up a little too quickly.
Charlie frowns, the warmth slipping from his side.
No, no, no.
Said the wrong thing?
Why can't his brain comprehend everything that's happening?
Alcohol? Fuck!? Did he come on too strong? What did he do? What did he say again? Fuck.
He doesn’t think—he just follows, legs stumbling beneath him as he chases Nick into the kitchen. He barely registers that he’s moving until his body collides with Nick’s back, knocking into him with an uncoordinated thud.
Nick huffs out a laugh, his hands steadying Charlie easily.
"Jesus, Charlie," he chuckles, turning with that stupid, warm smile of his, eyes crinkling at the edges. "Maybe you’ve had enough now."
Smile.
Happy?
Is Nick happy to see him? That's nice! He missed him. He needs hands on him. Nick. Nick. Nick. Nick. Nick.
Charlie sways, blinking up at him, and suddenly his whole chest aches with something.
"No."
Nick raises an eyebrow. "No?"
Charlie shakes his head, trying to fight against the thick fog of drunken emotions rolling through him. His lips press into a pout. "No. Because if I’m sober then this will all be different."
Different? Different how?
Why can't be control his mind or mouth?
Ugh! Stupid punch!
Nick’s face softens, the amusement slipping just a bit. "What do you mean?"
Charlie takes a breath. His head is a mess of half-finished thoughts and too-big feelings, but this, this he knows.
Does he? What does he know?
Oh yeah, Nick! He knows Nick!
"You’re kinder right now," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "You seem less tense. But it’s because I’m drunk, isn’t it? You think I’ll forget?"
Nick’s brows furrow. "Charlie, that’s not—"
"No, listen," Charlie cuts him off, reaching up to poke at Nick’s cheek again, feeling the rough scratch of stubble beneath the glitter.
Poke. Poke. Poke.
Maybe if he pokes it enough he'll get a dimple. Cute. Nick with dimples.
Poke. Poke. Poke.
Okay, listen! Think!
Thoughts? What are those?
"I like you like this. Not all tense and scared and pushing me away. I like you when you’re here. When you’re not running."
Running? Hmmm.
Charlie likes running. Maybe he should be back into it.
Wait, what did he say again? Why did he comment on running?
Nick exhales, the weight of Charlie’s words settling between them. He doesn’t pull away, though. He doesn’t run. Instead, he lifts a hand, fingers ghosting over Charlie’s arm, steadying him where he sways.
"I’m less tense," Nick murmurs, eyes searching Charlie’s, "because I feel safe here. With you. Sober or not."
Charlie’s chest pulls tight.
Safe.
Nick feels safe with him.
Oh, happy.
That's good.
No running?
He doesn’t know why it makes his throat feel thick, why his whole body suddenly feels like it’s buzzing with static, but he doesn’t care.
He blinks up at Nick, voice trembling slightly as he whispers, "Promise?"
Please, promise.
Don't leave me.
Hold me tight.
Care for me.
Is this a joke? Do you prank me? What's all this for?
"Because I take promises seriously," Charlie continues, gripping at Nick’s hoodie with clumsy fingers. "And I... I really like you, Nick."
I do. I care. I love. I want.
Nick’s hands come up to hold his wrists, grounding him.
"Don’t…" Charlie whispers, barely holding himself together. "Don’t hurt me. If you’re straight—please. Don’t just be doing this to hurt me."
Don't be a prank.
Don't be like Ben.
Don't run away
Stay? Please.
"I like you too, Char."
Char?
Charlie’s breath catches at the nickname, warmth curling in his stomach.
Oh. Oh. Char?
He likes that. He loves that.
Char. Char. Char. Char. Char.
Nick swallows hard, never looking away as he says, "I promise you, Char. I’m not straight."
The world tilts, but not from the alcohol this time.
Charlie’s lips part, something between a breath and a laugh slipping out, and before he can stop himself, his fingers tighten in Nick’s hoodie, yanking him forward just slightly.
Nick lets him.
Lets him touch. Lets him look. Lets him see.
Charlie beams, wide and soft and just a little unsteady. "I like when you call me that."
Bisexual. Not straight. Mine?
Char and Nicky?
Char? Char. Char.
Nick’s mouth twitches at the edges. "Yeah?"
Charlie nods, cradling Nick’s face more fully, pressing their foreheads together. He wants to stay here forever, wants to soak in the warmth of Nick’s hands on his skin and the quiet certainty of his words.
Kiss. Hold. Love. Like?
Then he stumbles.
Nick catches him instantly, laughter spilling from his lips. "Jesus, okay—let’s get you some water before you fall over."
But you're close. Don't leave me. Please.
Hold. Care. Mine.
Nick. Nick. Nick. Nick. Nick.
Charlie giggles against Nick’s shoulder. "You’re so warm."
Nick sighs, exasperated but so fond, "You’re so drunk."
No...
Is he?
Drunk? Mmhmm. What were they talking about?
Charlie hums, tilting his head up, whispering, "I meant what I said, though."
Nick’s hand lingers on his waist, thumb brushing against his hoodie. "I know, Char."
Nick then lifts him onto the counter like it’s nothing, like Charlie weighs absolutely nothing, and that alone is enough to make his stomach flip.
Oh? Oh!
Strong arms. Rugby arms. Let me have a taste. A hold. A chance.
Sex? Love? Intimacy?
Yes. Please. Care for me. Hold me. Don't prank me. Don't leave.
The warmth of Nick’s hands lingers on his hips, steady and careful, and Charlie hates how much he wants to lean into it, to stay in that touch forever.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Nick places a glass of water in front of him, and Charlie glares at it like it’s personally offended him.
No, not this. You. Too far away. Nick is too far away.
"Come here," he mutters instead, eyes flicking up to Nick’s.
Nick hesitates. Of course he does. He always does. Because Nick is careful. Because Nick is good. Because Nick is trying.
But then he listens.
He steps between Charlie’s knees, close enough that Charlie can smell the aftershave and sweat and the cheap punch that still lingers on his breath. Close enough that if Charlie tilted forward even an inch, their lips would touch.
God, he wants that.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Heat. Love. Sex.
Please?
"I’ve been thinking," Charlie says, his voice a little too thick, a little too slow.
Drunk. He’s drunk, but he means it. He knows he means it.
Means what? Oh, sex. Yes, please. Hold. Kiss. Carry. Mine?
Nick tilts his head, curious but cautious. "Thinking about what?"
Charlie sways slightly, his fingers twitching before they lift, trailing up over Nick’s jaw, smearing a bit of the glitter on his cheek. Nick tenses, barely noticeable, but he doesn’t pull away.
Mine?
Charlie swallows hard. His voice is softer when he speaks.
"That we could… do stuff. Things."
Nick stills.
Charlie watches his throat bob as he swallows, watches the way his fingers flex slightly on Charlie’s knees, like he doesn’t know whether to pull away or pull him closer.
Too much? Not enough?
Too ugly Charlie. You've done it, now. Too ugly. Too boyish. Too much.
"What kind of stuff?" Nick repeats, voice unreadable.
Charlie nods. "You know. Stuff."
Hands on thighs. Lips on lips. Mouth on dick. Hands in his. Body on top. Lap on lap. Praise in ear. Beauty on ugly. Kiss on scars.
Mine?
No. Too ugly. Too much. Too boyish.
Nick exhales sharply, eyes flicking between Charlie’s lips and his own hands, like he doesn’t trust himself to look anywhere else. "Charlie…"
"You like me, right?" Charlie asks, quieter this time. "And I like you. I really like you, Nick."
Please. Hold me. Care for me.
Don't just see confidence. That's a mask. See me. Hold me. Touch me.
Please.
Nick squeezes his eyes shut, and for a moment, Charlie panics. He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have said any of this. He should’ve just kept drinking and pretending and waiting for Nick to say something first, because what if this ruins everything?
No, no, no.
Too much.
Fucking too much?
But then Nick sighs and leans forward, pressing his forehead against Charlie’s, breathing him in.
"Charlie," he murmurs, voice rough. "You’re drunk."
"I know," Charlie whispers, "but that doesn’t mean I don’t mean it."
Please. Please. Please.
Drunk I'm okay. Drunk is safe.
Drunk is beauty.
Sober is ugly.
He can't be ugly with you. No Nick, no ugliness with you. Please, please.
Nick’s hands shift slightly, gripping his thighs just a little harder, just enough for Charlie to feel it. Just enough to make him shiver.
Oh.
Oh?
"You’re gonna be the death of me," Nick mutters.
Charlie smiles, small and sleepy and warm.
"Then let me," he whispers.
Please. Ravish me.
Hold. Me.
Care. For. Me.
Dick. Mouth. Love. Scars. Hate. Ugly. Not enough.
Fuck!
And for a moment—just one moment—Nick almost lets him.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Hold me. Love me. Take—
Nick pulls away slightly, and Charlie instantly feels the loss of warmth, of weight, of him. His brows furrow, and then Nick’s voice breaks the space between them.
What did he say? Oh... Oh... Sex? No.
No... No...
Hold me? Don't leave.
Please.
"Do you mean sex?"
Charlie nods—too fast, too eager.
Yes, yes, yes.
Sex. Yes. Please. Drunk but okay. Drunk but pretty. Drunk but confident.
His fingers tighten around the strings of Nick’s hoodie, knuckles going white as he tugs him closer again. He’s warm, buzzing, body light with alcohol and something else, something deeper. His whole chest feels like static, like energy waiting to spill over.
"I think about it all the time," he breathes, the words slipping out like they belong in the air between them. "With you."
Mouth. Dick. Ass. Hands. Body. Muscles. Peace. Love. Kindness. Beauty?
Nick doesn’t answer right away. His fingers flex on Charlie’s thighs, just slightly, and Charlie watches the way his expression shifts, something hesitantly pleased but unsure lingering in his eyes.
Oh?
Oh.
Yes. Please. Take me.
Then—finally—Nick’s lips curl into the smallest, guarded smile.
"Yeah," he murmurs, quiet. "Me too."
Yes!
Yes!
Charlie blinks, the world spinning just slightly, not from the alcohol but from Nick fucking Nelson standing in front of him admitting that.
"Really?"
Nick’s face scrunches a little, like it’s embarrassing, like he doesn’t want to say it out loud but can’t lie either. "Yeah. I know I’m not straight, because I wouldn’t be having those thoughts otherwise."
Bisexual. Mine. Mine? Love. Passion? Lust.
"You drive me quite mad, Charlie," Nick mutters, eyes flicking between Charlie’s lips and their hands like he’s trying to ground himself. "But I… I like it. I like you."
Something in Charlie’s chest soars.
Me? Me?
Me.
But what's to like about me?
"You do?" he asks, voice rising slightly, too giddy, too excited, but fuck he can’t help it.
Nick nods, his fingers still resting lightly against Charlie’s hips, the weight of them barely there but everything.
"I know I’ve been—" Nick hesitates, jaw tightening slightly, before sighing, "I’m still a bit hard on myself. And I don’t think I’m ready to come out to everyone yet, but I really do like you, Charlie. More than I care to admit."
Charlie grins, head feeling too light, too full of everything that is Nick, Nick, Nick.
Mine. Me? Hold?
Thoughts? Love? Sex? Mine.
He tugs Nick in closer by his hoodie strings, interlocking his legs around the back of Nick’s thighs and pressing up against him.
"Then why can’t we do these things?" Charlie asks, voice soft, teasing but earnest. "Do stuff? We could... we could go to my dorm?"
Nick’s body goes tense.
Not tense in the bad way, but Charlie sees it. Feels it in the slight shift of weight, in the way Nick’s hands still.
Oh. Too much. Too forward. Too ugly. Too boyish.
"Charlie," Nick sighs, voice softer now. Careful. "You're incredibly drunk."
Oh.
That... stings.
Charlie knows that. Of course he knows that, but still, the way Nick says it—gentle, like he’s worried Charlie will break—makes something in Charlie’s chest ache.
Because the truth is... he doesn’t know how to say what’s actually in his head.
That when he’s drunk, things are easier. He’s easier. Bolder. More confident with intimacy. More like the Charlie people expect him to be. Okay with his body.
That when he’s sober, there’s too much time to think during sex. Too many reasons to hesitate. To second-guess every touch, every glance, every word.
And the most terrifying thought of all?
What if he wakes up tomorrow and Nick doesn’t look at him the same way?
What if the tension, the teasing, the wanting—all of it—was just some drunken illusion?
His throat tightens. His fingers loosen on Nick’s hoodie strings, his gaze lowering to his lap.
"But if I’m sober," he starts, voice small, vulnerable, "I’m scared that..."
He can’t say it.
He wants to, but the words tangle, stick to the back of his throat like something painful, something too raw to say out loud.
Ugly. Too much. Too many scars. Too broken. Too skinny. Too much. Too much. Too much.
Nick shifts slightly, gaze soft, watching him.
"Charlie," he says, like he knows.
Charlie swallows, blinking hard.
He doesn’t know how to say I’m scared you won’t want me the same way when I’m sober.
He doesn’t know how to say I’m scared I’m misreading everything.
He doesn’t know how to say I don’t know what happens next once you see the scars.
So he doesn’t.
Instead, he shakes his head, blinking rapidly, his vision swaying slightly. The alcohol makes everything feel warm, makes the words fall out before he can catch them. He tilts his head, eyes soft, fingers still loose around the strings of Nick’s hoodie.
“You’re really… pretty…” he murmurs, voice thick, breathy. “I wish—I wish I was pretty like that.”
Pretty. Hot. Muscular. Enough. Brave.
Nick frowns immediately, brows drawing together. His hands tighten on Charlie’s thighs, grounding him, but it does nothing to settle the deep ache in Charlie’s chest.
“Char,” Nick says softly, tilting his head to meet Charlie’s dazed gaze. “You are pretty.”
No.
No? Scars. Too many scars.
Charlie frowns, his fingers twitching, gripping at his bicep. His nails dig into the fabric of his sleeves, pressing against the skin beneath, right where the scars lie.
The places that aren’t pretty.
“Not enough for you to have sex with me…” he mutters, eyes lowering, voice wobbling just slightly. His throat feels thick. “I don’t—I don’t get it. What’s wrong with me?”
Ugly. Too much. Too boyish. Too drunk.
Nick’s frown deepens. He reaches for Charlie’s hand, thumb running along the side of his wrist, coaxing, gentle.
“Charlie—”
“No,” Charlie sniffs, pulling back slightly, shaking his head. “No, because you’re Nick fucking Nelson.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh, voice slurring slightly as he wobbles in place. “You—you’ve taken drunk girls back to your dorm before, so why can’t you take me?”
Nick’s whole body stiffens.
Not enough. Not pretty. Not a girl.
Charlie watches as his jaw clenches, his fingers curling into the counter beside Charlie’s thighs like he’s trying to ground himself.
Oh.
Oh?
I'm sorry.
"Char," Nick exhales, his voice quiet, hesitant. "That—that was fucked up of me. It was always fucked up. I…" He swallows thickly, shaking his head. "I was drunk most of the time. And the girls were usually the sober ones, but even still, there were times when I just—I was fucked up, Charlie. I didn’t understand back then that you can’t consent properly when alcohol is involved. I’m learning that now. That’s not right. It was never right."
Charlie frowns, his heart squeezing painfully, because Nick sounds guilty.
Nick sounds like he hates himself for it.
Charlie doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to make him feel bad, he just—he just doesn’t understand.
“But I’d…” Charlie breathes, his words trailing, his head spinning slightly. He sways against Nick, blinking up at him. “I wouldn’t say no…”
I'd let you do anything. Ravish me. Wreck me. Take me. Hurt me.
Nick shakes his head, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again, looking straight into Charlie’s. “I know,” he says, voice firm but soft, like he’s willing Charlie to hear him. “And that’s the problem, Charlie.”
Charlie blinks.
Why?
Why?
Nick exhales, lifting a hand to cup Charlie’s face, his fingers warm against his cheek.
“I wouldn’t know what I’m doing,” Nick continues, his thumb brushing lightly over Charlie’s cheekbone. “I could hurt you, and you wouldn’t say no.”
Charlie swallows hard, his body swaying again.
“I’m not going to do that to you,” Nick whispers. “I won’t.”
Charlie frowns, his hands shaking slightly as he grips his own arm again. He knows that Nick is trying to do the right thing, that he’s trying to protect him from something he doesn’t even fully understand—but fuck, it hurts.
His confidence with sex only lasts when he’s drunk.
When he’s sober, it fades. It withers. It disappears.
When he’s sober, he hesitates.
He’s afraid.
Nick is safe.
Nick likes him, at least for now.
But what happens when Charlie is just… Charlie? No makeup, no flirtation, no confidence, no crop tops, just… him?
Charlie sniffles, squeezing his arm tighter.
“But I’m confident right now,” he argues, voice small, fragile, as he looks up at Nick. “When I’m sober, I get… I get in my head, I overthink, I get scared, I—I put myself in vulnerable positions, and—” he swallows, his throat closing slightly, “—and maybe you won’t think I’m… I don’t know.”
Nick frowns, leaning closer, his hand warm where it cups Charlie’s face.
“Won’t think you’re what?” Nick asks gently.
Enough. Worthy. Good. Pleasurable. Sexy. Kind. Beautiful. Sweet. Knowing. Pretty.
Pretty?
No, probably not.
Charlie bites his lip, his shoulders curling inward slightly. “Pretty,” he whispers, voice breaking.
Nick laughs—soft, disbelieving, shaking his head like Charlie has just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.
Oh?
Oh.
I'm sorry.
“Charlie,” Nick breathes, nudging their foreheads together. “I literally thought you were the prettiest person I had ever seen the moment you spilled coffee on me.”
Charlie blinks, lips parting, his face flushing under the praise.
Huh?
What?
No. No. No. No.
Lies. Fake. Mean.
Nick smirks slightly, voice lower, teasing. “Why do you think I went to the gym after that? Hm?”
Charlie tilts his head, brows pinching. “What?”
Nick grins, leaning in just slightly, his nose brushing against Charlie’s. “Because I ran into the sexiest person alive and I was so pent up about it, it was scary.”
Charlie whines, eyes squeezing shut as he leans against Nick’s chest, face burning.
Nick chuckles, his hand running up and down Charlie’s back. “You’re insane if you think I wouldn’t want you when you’re sober, Charlie.”
Pretty?
Mine?
Enough?
What.
Charlie exhales, heart still racing, fingers curling into Nick’s hoodie.
His voice is quiet, hesitant. “But… what if this is the only chance I have at having sex with you?”
Mine? Mine? Mine. Please.
Nick stills for a moment.
Then, he leans back, just enough to meet Charlie’s eyes.
“It won’t be,” he says, firm, like there’s no room for doubt.
Charlie blinks up at him. “Promise?”
Nick hums, smiling softly, pressing his lips to Charlie’s forehead.
“Promise,” he murmurs.
Charlie sighs, letting his body relax against Nick’s.
Nick grabs the glass of water from the counter, pressing it to Charlie’s lips, tilting it back slightly.
“Now drink,” he instructs gently.
Charlie pouts, but obeys.
And maybe—just maybe—he believes him.
----
Sex with Charlie. Sex with Charlie. Sex with Charlie.
That’s all that’s chanting through Nick’s head, looping like a broken record, like some fucked-up, desperate prayer. But beneath that, running just as loud, is another thought—Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.
Because fuck, how is he real? How is he this pretty, this soft, this warm, this vulnerable?
Sitting on the counter, drinking from the glass of water Nick just gave him, his cheeks flushed, his hair slightly messy, looking up at him with those eyes. Big, deep brown, filled with something so raw, something Nick doesn’t think he’ll ever deserve, but fuck, he wants to.
How could anyone not find him beautiful? How could Nick have ever thought he was straight? How could he have ever tried to push Charlie away, when this is how he looks at him?
Hot. Sexy. Pretty. Mine.
Charlie swallows the last of the water and sets the glass aside before humming, sleepy and sweet. “Mmm… I wanna cuddle, now”
Nick smiles, something so wide and instinctual, his whole body aching with affection.
How could he have ever been afraid of male touch when Charlie fixes his heart with a few simple words?
Bisexual.
Mine. Charlie.
Beauty.
He hums, nudging his nose against Charlie’s cheek, teasing, “You wanna cuddle?”
Charlie nods, eyes blinking up at him, soft and full of warmth. “Please?”
Nick lets out a slow breath, turning slightly to glance back at the living room. Everyone is still fast asleep, curled up in sleeping bags and blankets, bodies sprawled across the air mattresses.
It’s okay. He’s okay.
No one is judging him. No one is going to wake up and call him a slur or look at him like he’s wrong.
No one is going to tell him that holding Charlie, wanting Charlie, is something to be ashamed of.
It’s okay.
He wants to be soft.
For Charlie? He wants to be softer than anything in the world.
Without another thought, he moves forward, easily sliding his hands under Charlie’s thighs, lifting him from the counter like he weighs nothing.
Charlie squeaks, instinctually wrapping his arms and legs around Nick, holding on tight, and fuck, it’s nice, it’s perfect.
Mine. Hold. Care. Love? Mine.
Nick presses his forehead to Charlie’s temple, smiling as he carries him toward the couch, maneuvering carefully between bodies on the floor. He finds an empty corner of the couch and sits down, Charlie still clinging to him, straddling his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Hold. Care. Breathe. It's okay.
Safe. Home? Mine.
Charlie sighs into his neck, warm breath fanning against his skin, sending chills down Nick’s spine.
“Don’t ever leave me,” Charlie whispers, voice small, voice wrecked.
Oh?
Oh.
Darling. Mine. Never. Love.
Nick squeezes him closer. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
And they just sit there.
Nick rubs slow, absentminded circles into Charlie’s back, holding him, keeping him here. Charlie presses closer, breath slowing, his fingers twitching slightly against Nick’s hoodie strings before they still, his whole body melting into him like it’s where he belongs.
An hour passes like that, nothing but slow touches, sleepy sighs, the sound of the TV still playing in the background.
And then, Charlie starts to doze.
Nick can feel it in the way his body gets heavier, the way his breathing evens out, the way he mumbles incoherently against Nick’s shoulder.
Cute. Kind. Mine. Bisexual. Okay. Happy. Home.
With a soft smile, Nick carefully shifts, easing Charlie down onto the couch, adjusting him so he’s lying comfortably. He pulls a blanket over him, tucking it around his shoulders.
Charlie blinks blearily, eyes half-lidded, voice groggy as he murmurs, “You’re not staying?”
Nick sighs, brushing his fingers over Charlie’s temple. “I would, Charlie. I would—I promise. But I have practice in the morning, and I didn’t bring my bag.”
Charlie pouts, like it’s the worst thing in the world, like Nick just personally broke his heart.
I'm sorry.
Let me kiss you.
Make it up to you. Hold and breathe and care and love you.
“After practice, you can come to mine? We’ll hang out, and I’ll help heal the hangover you’re definitely going to have.”
Charlie huffs, curling deeper into the blanket. “Okay… Be safe, though. Text me when you get back.”
Nick nods. “I promise.”
Charlie gives him one last sleepy glance before his eyes finally slip shut, breath evening out completely.
Nick watches him for a long moment, chest feeling weird, full.
Mine? Mine
Okay? Okay.
Safe? Safe.
Bisexual? Bisexual.
Sexy? Pretty.
Mine? Mine. Mine. Mine.
Then, he finally pulls away, standing carefully, grabbing his phone and keys before quietly navigating his way through the room, stepping over sleeping bodies.
When he reaches the door, he glances back one last time.
Charlie is already deep asleep, curled into the blanket, looking peaceful, soft.
Nick exhales.
Yeah.
This is mine. My home. My safe place. My people.