Chapter 23
Nick dreads practice today.
Not just in the way that everyone dreads something unpleasant—like an early morning lecture or an impending exam—but in the way that makes his skin itch and his stomach twist painfully.
He wants to cry. Wants to die. Wants to just hide away.
Wrong. Too much. Not enough.
His body aches. No, aching is too soft of a word. His ribs burn, his jaw throbs, and the deep, ugly bruises forming across his body feel like they’re sinking straight into his bones.
A reminder. A punishment.
He deserves this. He deserves it all. He fucked up. He is to blame. He's done too much.
His face is a mess.
He knows that.
He knows he's a mess. A fuck up. An ugly. A disgrace. Rude. Wrong. Douchebag. Terrible.
The bruising on his cheek is darker than this morning, his lip is still split, and he barely got an hour of sleep after spending the early hours of the morning on the phone with his mum, breaking apart piece by piece until there was nothing left of him but ragged breaths and raw confessions.
His head pounds. His muscles scream. He wants to throw up.
Be different. Be worthy. Be something other than this mess. This person. This thing.
But he can’t.
Because he’s the captain.
Because he has responsibilities. Because skipping out isn’t an option.
Let me rest. My body hurts. I'm confused. Why is Derek so mad? What did I do? Did I deserve this?
Captain. Captain. Get up. Be good. Hold it together.
So, he gets up.
He forces himself out of bed, every movement making him wince, making the bruises on his ribs flare with pain. He clenches his teeth through it, breathes through his nose, tugs at his hair just to focus on something else.
Wrong. Ugly. Deserved it.
He gets dressed in slow, deliberate movements, each pull of his jersey reminding him of what happened last night—reminding him of Derek’s words, of Derek’s fists, of the way he just stood there and took it.
Pain.
Oh?
Oh.
Wrong? Probably.
Is this because of him being bisexual? Him being himself? Him?
He doesn’t bother with his reflection. Doesn’t need to see it to know what he looks like.
He looks bad. Ugly. Probably cut up and bruised and not enough and a disaster.
Let it go. It's fine. It happened. Move on! Move on, Nick!
He grabs his bag, his keys, and steps out of his dorm with his head down.
He just needs to make it through practice.
That’s all.
If he can just make it through, he can go back to his dorm, curl up under the covers, and pretend none of this is happening.
Nothing happened. He's fine. He's okay. He's perfect.
And maybe—just maybe—Derek won’t remember.
Please don't. I can't be outed. Not yet. Not ever.
Nick drags himself into the locker room, head down, moving on autopilot.
The place reeks of sweat, cheap body spray, and exhaustion. A few of his teammates send him half-hearted nods or sleepy waves, but most of them are either too hungover or too focused on getting dressed to care.
Fine by him.
Don't acknowledge me. I know I look bad. It doesn't matter.
He keeps his head down, sets his bag in his locker, and exhales slowly. Maybe, if he keeps quiet, if he just goes through the motions, if he keeps his mouth shut, then—
"Nelson."
Fuck.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Why me? Why now?! Why can't I just breathe?
Nick barely has time to glance up before Coach Jackson walks in, eyes scanning the room, landing on him instantly. The way the man looks him over—takes in the bruises, the exhaustion, the fact that he’s moving a little slower than normal—is enough to make Nick’s stomach twist.
Fuck!
Leave me alone.
Please.
Then, with a sharp jerk of his head, Coach points at him.
Then at his office.
Nick doesn’t need to be told twice.
He swallows hard, nods, and forces himself to move. His ribs protest every step, his jaw throbs when he grits his teeth, but he just tugs his hoodie a little closer around himself and pushes forward.
It’s fine. He’ll be fine.
His teammates barely react when he slips into the office. They’re too busy getting ready, probably assuming he’s getting his usual Captain pep talk.
Yeah. Right.
If only it was that easy. Ever.
Coach doesn’t say a word as Nick steps inside. Just closes the door behind them—firm, deliberate, suffocating—and gestures for him to sit.
Nick hesitates, holding his side instinctively, fingers brushing over his bruises before he forces himself to lower his arm. He sighs and sits down, already knowing this isn’t going to be good.
I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I'm in pain but I can continue.
He's fine. He's okay. He's great. He'll push through.
Push through. Breathe. Okay.
"Coach Jackson—"
"Nelson, don’t."
The words cut through the air like a blade. Nick snaps his mouth shut.
Oh.
Okay?
Great.
Coach takes a seat across from him, leveling him with a look so sharp Nick feels like it’s cutting into his skin.
"Let the adult speak."
The fuck?
Absolutely not.
Nick clenches his jaw, rolling his tongue over his teeth, breathing through his nose.
I’m an adult, he mumbles under his breath.
Jackson doesn’t miss it.
"Sorry, what was that?" His voice is low, even, but Nick knows better than to mistake it for anything but a warning.
Nick looks away. Doesn’t take the bait.
Fuck this. Fuck you.
"Nothing, sir."
A hum.
Then silence.
Then—
"It’s interesting, seeing the man I put this team’s responsibility on walk into my locker room bruised up—" Jackson gestures at him, like he’s a mess Jackson doesn’t even want to acknowledge— "twice in under a month. Want to explain that to me, son?"
Nick swallows the bitterness rising in his throat.
Yeah, Coach, I got jumped by my own teammate. What’s the protocol on that?
Yeah. No. That’s not an option.
So instead, he exhales, digs his nails into his palms, and braces himself.
This conversation is going to fucking suck.
Breathe. In. Out.
He's fine. Breathe.
Nick exhales sharply, shrugs like his ribs aren’t screaming, like the bruises on his face aren’t aching, like his body isn’t one wrong move away from completely shutting down.
"Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again."
Jackson scoffs. Loudly.
"Won’t happen again?" His voice is edged, sharp enough to cut. "Son, you’re covered in bruises, and don’t even try to act like I don’t see you holding your ribs."
Nick forces himself to keep still, to keep his arms loose at his sides.
It’s useless. He knows it. Jackson sees through everything.
Fuck you. Fuck this. I'm sorry.
"Either explain to me what happened or I’m not going to have any trust in my assigned captain."
The hell? As if he's done anything wrong.
Nick shrugs again.
It’s automatic. Reflex.
Breathe. Be okay. Don't show weakness.
"Sir, respectfully, I don’t have to disclose anything with you if I don’t deem it appropriate."
Hold strong. Be Nick Nelson. Fight fucking back, you pussy.
Jackson leans forward. Elbows on his desk, hands clasped together, patience fraying.
"Don’t deem appropriate?" His voice is tight, strained. "Nelson, Christ’s sake, this is the second time you’ve come in here bloodied, and the first was from a fight with your own damn teammate. I’m not giving you a choice. Explain what happened."
Nick pinches the bridge of his nose, willing the pressure in his skull to settle.
Fuck this. Fuck everything. Fuck this all.
Fuck his life too.
Jesus, he wants Charlie. He wants to feel at home again. He wants to be okay.
Charlie. Charlie. Charlie.
Where are you?
"I got in a bit of a tumble, alright? It was late at night. I was minding my business. That’s it."
Shrug. Act fine. Act like nothing matters.
Breathe. In. Out. Breathe.
Jackson’s jaw tightens. Nick can see it, the tension rippling through his shoulders, the skepticism in his eyes.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It's the truth!
"That’s it? You were just minding your business? Yeah, I doubt that. What actually happened?"
The hell man!?
This is the truth!
Why don't you trust me!?
Nick feels it then—boiling just beneath his skin, clawing at his ribs, at his throat.
The anger. The resentment.
The fucking fury.
It builds. It consumes. It erupts.
Don't blow up. Don't. Don't. Don't!
Fuck!
"Jesus Christ, Coach!" His voice cracks, loud, shaking, something desperate bleeding into it. "I was fucking beat up because I went to a Pride event! There—is that what you want?"
Jackson’s brows pull together. His lips part slightly. A reaction. A small, flickering thing.
Fuck you for making me come out! I wasn't ready Fuck you. Fuck this.
Forgive me.
Nick doesn’t stop.
He can’t. He won’t.
"Derek saw me on the way back to my dorm and guess he didn’t like the fact his captain also happens to like dick." His voice is shaking now. "He punched me. Over and over. I didn’t punch him back. I took it. I fucking took it. There. That what you want?"
Silence.
For a moment, just silence.
Jackson lets out a slow breath, pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling something exhausted.
"Jesus Christ… Nicholas."
And something in Nick snaps.
That isn't my name. Dad calls me that. Dad hates me. Dad uses that name in disappoinment. Don't be disappointed, please.
I'm sorry.
I haven't changed. I'm still me. I promise.
"Don’t call me that." His voice is low, razor-sharp, every syllable trembling. "Don’t fucking call me that."
"Fine. Nick." A pause. A breath. "You can’t just start a fight with your team."
Nick sees red.
Fight?! Fucking hell!
His what homophobia is like?
Did he not hear anything!?
"Start a fight?" His voice is loud now, louder than he intended. "Did you not just hear me?! I got beat up because I’m fucking queer! I didn’t even fight back!"
He gestures at himself, at his swollen jaw, his busted lip, the bruises blooming beneath his hoodie.
Believe me. Please.
Don't hate me.
Why don't you hate me?
I'm the captain. I'm strong.
He's done good. Done well. Brought the team to success.
"Look at Derek if you don’t believe me!"
His voice echoes, sharp and shaking and raw. His chest heaves. His pulse races.
Jackson says nothing.
And Nick hates that.
Fuck! Why!?
Why am I different?! Why am I wrong?
He doesn’t want pity. He doesn’t want sympathy. He wants this to matter. He wants someone to fucking listen.
His grip tightens. He clenches his jaw, fighting against the burning in his throat.
And then—
Coach Jackson exhales. Leans back in his chair. Stares at him.
And says, "Nick… I’m sorry."
Oh. Oh?
Comfort? Acceptance?
He's accepted? Yes? Please? Maybe?
Accepted. It's okay. He's okay. Couch, I'm sorry.
Nick exhales, long and tired, the weight of it dragging against his ribs. "It’s fine, Coach. Not like you did it or anything."
His fingers dig into his thighs, knuckles whitening. He just wants this conversation to be over.
Let me leave.
Let me practice.
He's strong. He's ready. He can go pro, please let him.
"It’s not gonna affect my performance or anything either, so—"
"No, Nick."
The tone is different. Final. Firm.
What? I'm sorry. Just forgive me.
Nick lifts his gaze, something uneasy creeping up his spine.
Jackson shifts in his chair. His face is drawn, unreadable.
"I mean, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to take you off captain."
Silence.
A beat, then two.
The words don’t register at first.
And then—
Oh. Oh, fuck.
No. No, no, no. Not that. Not this.
His body locks up, breath caught somewhere in his throat.
"What?"
He barely recognizes his own voice.
Why? Why? Why?
His pulse pounds at his temples, a dull, resounding thud.
Please don’t be because I’m queer.
He forces himself to sit straighter, to keep his breathing steady.
Please don’t be because I’m bi.
His nails press into his palms.
Please don’t be because of what I think it is.
He clenches his jaw, forces his voice to stay even, to stay controlled, to not fucking shake.
Fuck! What is happening!? Why?! How!?
Please! Don't.
This is all he has.
"Sir, I’m not trying to question your judgment for the team, but—" He swallows, hard. "I’ve done more for this team than anyone. I don’t... I don’t understand."
Jackson doesn’t waver. His face stays blank, passive, unaffected.
"I can’t have someone who’s willing to get into fights, Nick. That can’t be a captain."
Nick’s stomach turns.
What? But.... He told the truth. He told the truth!
"I told you." His voice is sharper now, edged with frustration. Desperation. "I didn’t even start the fight. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t—"
"Maybe so. Maybe not." Jackson’s voice is level. Too level. "Hard to tell with you."
Nick’s chest tightens.
Fuck you!
He's been trying. He's been better. Kind. Gentle. How!? Why? Is this his fault? Or just because of who he is.
"I’m sorry, Nelson. But we have scouts coming next game."
Nick stops breathing.
Scouts and you're kicking me!
Scouts and you're ruining my future!
Fuck this!
I'm sorry! Forgive me!
I'll change. I'll do better. I'll say goodbye to fights. I'll become straight. Just accept me!
"You’re too violent."
His heart is hammering, but his whole body feels numb.
Oh?
Oh.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
"Too unpredictable right now."
No, no, no.
Forgive me. Love me. Let me be better.
"I can’t have a captain like that leading this team."
Nick feels something in him shatter.
This is his future. His career. His fucking life.
If he’s not captain, the scouts won’t see him.
If the scouts don’t see him, he won’t go pro.
Everything. Everything he’s worked for.
Gone.
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
His hands tremble against his knees.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be fucking happening.
He forces himself to look at Jackson. Forces his voice not to break.
"Sir." His throat is dry. His ribs ache from breathing. "Please."
Please accept me.
Please.
Why?
How?
I'm sorry.
Jackson shakes his head.
"It’s done, Nelson."
Nick feels the last bit of control slip through his fingers.
And he realizes—
This isn’t about the fight.
It never was.
Nick shakes his head, tries to swallow the panic rising in his throat. "Sir, I’m sorry. I don’t… I don’t understand."
His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, as if the words themselves are foreign. He forces himself to breathe, but it barely helps.
Breathe. In. Out.
Breathe.
Breathe. In. Out.
In. In. In. In.
Our. Our. Out.
Just breathe. This is fake. This is a prank. This isn't anything serious, right?
No. This is real. Fuck!
"Why? You have scouts coming. Don’t you want the team in good shape?" His words come out in a rush, desperate. He’s grasping at anything now. "Not to be egotistical, but I help keep them in shape."
Jackson doesn’t even blink. "You used to."
Nick stills.
Used to.
Fuck this. Fuck it all!
"The last few games have been sloppy, Nelson." Jackson folds his hands on the desk, as if he’s delivering the most logical, obvious statement in the world. "We’ve barely won games we should have dominated. And others? We lost completely.
Nick lets out a breath through his nose, teeth gritted.
"That’s on you."
Nick scoffs, his jaw locking. "I can’t control every fucking play! Whether or not they listen to me is on them, not me!"
Jackson raises an eyebrow. "See? This lashing out is exactly why you need to be off the position."
Nick feels his pulse spike, blood roaring in his ears. He forces himself to breathe, but his lungs feel like they’re caving in.
I'm sorry!? I'm sorry!
Accept him. He'll change!
"Jesus Christ, Coach." His hands are shaking now. "This is completely unfair!"
Jackson leans back, unimpressed. "Maybe it’s good you realize not everything will be handed to you."
Nick laughs. Actually fucking laughs. It’s sharp, bitter. Hollow.
"Handed to me?" His voice wavers. He stares at Jackson, feeling something snap inside of him. "This is some fucking homophobic joke, isn’t it?"
Right? Right?
It has to be?
But why? What did he do? What is wrong with him? He'll fix it! He will!
"Ever since you saw me with Charlie, you’ve been on my ass!"
His voice shakes now, his chest rising and falling too fast. Jackson exhales, rubbing his temple like Nick is exhausting him.
Please. Don't take this.
Dad will be furious. Mom will be disappointed. David will laugh. His future will be gone.
Please. Stop.
Stop.
"Nick. Let me say this in simpler terms." Nick grits his teeth. "Work on yourself." The words feel like a slap. Jackson’s gaze is steady, unwavering. "Maybe then, you’ll get the position back."
Nick feels his stomach drop.
"Until then?" Jackson continues, his tone final, dismissive. "You’re just another player."
Silence.
Nick feels his entire body go numb. He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe.
"Now get out of here." Jackson nods towards the door. Like it’s just another day. "You have practice."
Nick doesn’t move. His hands are still shaking. His entire world feels like it’s crumbling beneath him.
He stands there for one second. Two. Three.
Then, he scoffs. Because if he doesn’t scoff, he’s going to break
. He turns around so fast he almost stumbles. He slams the door behind him, his chest seizing, his vision blurred.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Harry steps forward immediately, grinning. "Oi, what’s up with you?"
Nick shoves him away, hard.
"Don’t fucking talk to me."
His voice is barely there. Harry stumbles back, blinking in surprise, but Nick doesn’t stay long enough to see his reaction.
He grabs his bag, ignoring the stares, ignoring everything. He shoves past his teammates. His ribs ache. His head pounds. His hands are trembling.
He bursts through the locker room doors and starts running.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
His chest tightens. His vision tunnels. He knows this feeling. Knows what’s coming. He’s seconds away from a panic attack.
And he can’t stop it.
Nick doesn’t really remember getting back to his dorm. One moment, he was running—heart hammering, lungs burning, fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms.
The next, he was here.
His dorm door slamming shut behind him. His body folding in on itself. His fingers scratching at his thumbs, raw, red, stinging. His hands yanking at his hair, tugging hard enough to send spikes of pain down his scalp.
But he doesn’t stop.
He can’t stop.
Everything inside of him is unraveling, breaking, caving in. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay, but they just keep coming.
He lost it. He fucking lost it. His position. His title. His goddamn purpose.
Just like that, he’s nothing.
"Work on yourself."
"Until then, you're just another player."
His fingers press harder against his skin, chest heaving, breath catching, because what the fuck is he supposed to do now?
He was supposed to go pro. That was the plan. That was everything. But now?
Scouts won’t look at him. No one will. He is replaceable. Disposable. A disappointment.
And just as that thought consumes him whole— There’s a knock on the door.
He flinches.
His head snaps up, his eyes blurry, breath still shaking. Another knock.
Charlie.
Nick sucks in a breath, hands trembling.
Fuck. Fuck. Charlie can’t see him like this.
He can’t.
Nick scrubs at his face violently, trying to erase the tear tracks, the redness, the evidence. He inhales deeply, but it catches in his throat, his body betraying him. He reaches for the doorknob, hesitates—then forces himself to pull it open.
Charlie takes one look at him and Nick completely shatters. He doesn’t know what happens—only that one second, he’s standing, trying to hold himself together, and the next, his arms are around Charlie, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping him upright.
Charlie. Charlie. Charlie.
I'm a mess. I'm not accepted. I'm hurt. I'm ugly. I'm not normal. I'm a mess. I'm a mess. I'm a mess. I'm a mess.
Charlie doesn’t hesitate.
He holds him back, tight. Nick breathes him in.
Warmth. Comfort. Safety.
And suddenly, he's breaking.
His body shakes violently, sobs wracking through him, his fingers curling desperately into the back of Charlie’s shirt.
Nick doesn’t let go. He can’t. Not yet.
They stand there for what feels like an eternity, until eventually, his body stops trembling. Until his breathing steadies, just slightly. Until the exhaustion settles in so deeply that his legs feel like giving out and before he even thinks about it, he’s reaching for Elphie—his childhood elephant stuffed animal—holding it against his chest like it’s some kind of shield and getting on the bed.
Then he starts crying again. Silent. Shaky. Muffled into the fur of his childhood comfort.
Nick squeezes his eyes shut, burrowing deeper, trying to disappear, trying to press himself so far into the stuffed fabric that maybe—just maybe—he’ll wake up somewhere else. Somewhere where he’s still Captain.
Still okay. Still him.
But that place doesn’t exist. Not anymore.
And he knows that, because Charlie is here.
Because Charlie is watching him. Nick can feel it—the way Charlie takes him in. The bruises, the exhaustion weighing his body down, the way he’s curling in on himself like a wounded animal.
Charlie doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. And then, Nick feels him move. Slow, careful. Charlie sits on the bed beside him, his body dipping the mattress slightly.
Nick feels the shift, feels the warmth radiating off of him, and it’s too much, too fucking much.
He flinches. Charlie stills.
Nick’s chest tightens, guilt creeping in immediately, because he knows—he knows—that wasn’t fair.
It’s not like Charlie is the one who hurt him.
It’s not like Charlie shoved him around last night.
It’s not like Charlie stole his fucking future from him today.
Charlie is just here.
Here, trying. Here, worrying. Here, caring.
And Nick can’t even let himself lean into it.
He feels Charlie’s hand hovering, hesitating—before pulling back. Nick hates himself for that, too. For making Charlie feel like he’s unwelcome. Because fuck, he wants him here. He wants him so bad.
“Nick,” Charlie says, voice steady, but Nick can hear it. The struggle. The ache. The desperation to understand. “What happened? Talk to me. Please.”
Nick shakes his head. Burrows deeper.
He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.
Charlie breathes, slow and measured.
Patient.
Nick grips Elphie tighter.
He waits. Charlie waits. And then—finally—Nick exhales.
Finally—finally—he opens his mouth.
And as soon as the words slip out, he wishes he could take them back. Because saying them makes them real.
Because saying them makes him feel it all over again. The shame. The loss. The heartbreak.
His voice is barely there, wrecked and broken. A whisper. A broken, shattered, devastating whisper.
"I lost the captain position."
And just like that—his entire world comes crashing down.
---
Charlie doesn’t know what to do.
Doesn’t know how to hold this.
Doesn’t know how to hold Nick.
Because Nick is breaking.
More than Charlie has ever seen him. More than Nick himself seems to know how to handle.
And Charlie… Charlie has no idea how to stop it.
Nick? Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. Why did this happen? How? Why? Who hurt him? He was doing so well. So so well.
Nick is curled in on himself, crying harder than Charlie even thought possible, his hands fisting the fur of his childhood stuffed animal like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.
And the bruises—the fucking bruises—are still unanswered.
He wants to punch whoever hurt him. Whoever did this. Whoever broke him. They are Charlie to go through now.
Fuck them!
"Nick?" Charlie breathes, panic creeping into his voice. "What? I’m so— I’m so sorry, what?"
His chest is tight, his heart hammering.
This isn’t right. None of this is right.
Who hurt him? Why?! Why my Nick? He's been doing so much better! Why hurt him?! Why!?
And Nick looks so fucking lost.
Oh, my poor baby. My poor baby.
His body is shaking, breath uneven, raw, wrecked.
Charlie watches as he tugs Elphie even closer, his fingers curling so tight into the fabric Charlie swears he can hear the seams straining.
Why? Why? Why!?
Nick shakes his head, crying harder.
"I don’t… Why?" His voice cracks. Splinters. "What did I do wrong? I don’t… I don’t understand."
Charlie can barely fucking breathe.
Baby, nothing. I promise you, nothing. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!
"Nick…" he tries, soft, careful, desperate. "What happened? I don’t—what do you mean? What… what does that have to do with the bruises?"
Nick shakes his head violently.
Charlie feels helpless. Feels fucking useless.
And then—
"I don’t… There’s scouts this week and they won’t even notice me!"
Why? Who hurt him?! And why!? For what reason?!
Oh, he wants to fight. He wants to punch. He wants to wreck havoc!
The words spill out all at once, jagged and devastating.
Nick grits his teeth, chokes on a sob.
"I don’t—why? What did I do wrong? I’m sorry. I’m sorry."
Charlie’s stomach drops.
"What?" His voice is barely above a whisper, but it feels like a scream in his head. "Nick?"
Sorry? For what?
His heart is hammering.
"Sweetheart, I don’t—"
Nick flinches.
Charlie’s breath catches.
"Don’t call me that!" Nick’s voice is suddenly sharp, pained, raw.
What? Why? I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry!
And then—Charlie watches as Nick grabs at his hair, yanking, tugging, pulling so hard his knuckles turn white.
Please stop that. I hate seeing you hurt! I hate everything about it. I'm sorry! Why!? Who did this? Who keeps hurting my Nick!
Charlie freezes.
His entire body goes still.
"Hey," he says, gently, cautiously, trying not to panic, "stop that… Nick, you’re hurting yourself—"
"I DON’T CARE!"
Charlie jumps at the sheer force of Nick’s voice.
Nick’s chest heaves, his face red, eyes wild and broken.
"I don’t care!" His voice cracks. His breath is unsteady. "Maybe if I pull hard enough, it’ll fix this. Maybe I’ll get this stupid thing gone!"
Charlie’s heart rips apart.
"What thing?" He moves closer, hesitating, not wanting to spook him, but needing to—needing to understand.
Baby, please don't be what I think. You have nothing to fix. Nothing to get rid of. You're beautiful. I'm sorry this happened but it's not in you.
Nick, please me. Believe me. Please.
"Nick, you aren’t making any sense. I’m sorry, but I’m not keeping up. I—"
He swallows.
"I’m confused."
And then—Nick crumbles.
"Derek assumed I’m gay!" he shouts, his voice breaking so hard it sounds painful.
Charlie sucks in a breath.
Not that. Damnit!? Just let Nick breathe! Just let Nick fucking live! Curse you, world! Curse you!
Nick’s hands are still in his hair.
"Fuck—he saw the fucking glitter!" Nick is borderline hysterical now, shaking, spiraling, his voice tumbling over itself. "He doesn’t want me—a fucking faggot—to be his captain!"
Charlie physically flinches at the word.
Baby, that isn't you. Don't believe those words. Please, Nick. Please.
Fuck you world!
Fuck you, Derek!
Nick, stop.
Just stop. Accept yourself.
Please!
But Nick doesn’t stop.
"He hit me! He—he fucking hit me! And I didn’t even—Charlie, you gotta believe me—I didn’t even go at him! But Coach thinks I did! Or—or he’s grossed out or… I don’t fucking know!"
Charlie stares at him, his pulse roaring in his ears.
Nick is spiraling. He’s spiraling and Charlie doesn’t know how to reach him.
And then—
Nick lets out a wrecked, broken, devastating sob.
"This is bad," he chokes out."This—this sexuality—it’s ruining my life!"
Charlie’s chest caves in.
No, Nick. Nick, stop.
Nick, please.
Nick, love.
Nick, accept.
"It needs out!" Nick cries, gripping his hair again, his breath ragged, desperate, destroyed. "It needs out!"
Charlie can’t take it anymore.
I'm sorry. So sorry. Why is this happening!? Why! Why!? Why?
He reaches without thinking, without hesitating, without caring if Nick fights him on it.
He grabs Nick’s wrists—not forcefully, not rough, just enough—just enough to pull his hands away from his hair.
"Nick," he says, voice shaking, but firm.
Nick’s body tenses. His breath catches.
Charlie holds steady. Keeps his voice steady.
"Look at me."
Please. I'm here. I'm here. I accept you. I care. You're enough.
You're perfect the way you are.
Nick doesn’t.
He just keeps shaking.
Keeps crying.
Charlie swallows hard.
"Nick," he says again, softer this time, voice gentle, soothing, everything Nick desperately needs right now.
And then—finally—Nick’s gaze lifts.
Tear-streaked, shattered, exhausted.
And Charlie takes a breath.
"Listen to me," he whispers.
Please. Hear me. Accept my words. My praise.
Charlie has never felt rage like this before.
Not at Nick.
Never at Nick.
But at the world.
At this fucking world that is breaking him down piece by piece, telling him he’s less than, making him think e has to tear himself apart just to exist.
Fuck it!
Charlie’s fists clench.
His teeth grit.
He takes a slow, deep breath and tries—he really fucking tries—to keep his voice steady.
"Nick," he whispers. "Are you… Are you telling me Derek did this to you because of some fucking glitter?"
Fucking glitter caused this?! Fucking glitter. Derek is going to die. Yep, Charlie's killing him.
Nick sniffs, wiping at his nose, shoulders curled in tight.
His breath shudders.
"He found out I’m a fag."
Charlie’s stomach drops.
His entire body stills.
His jaw clenches so tight it aches.
"Nick." His voice is sharp, strained, teetering on the edge of control.
Nick laughs bitterly.
"Charlie, come on. That’s what I am, right?"
Charlie squeezes his eyes shut.
He wants to scream.
He wants to find Derek and punch him in the fucking face.
He wants to cherish Nick and never let him out of his sight again.
But instead, he inhales.
Forces himself to exhale.
Then—
"Please don’t use that word," he says, voice tight, controlled, pleading.
Nick scoffs. "I’m not using it on others. Just on me."
And that makes it worse.
oh, you sweet innocent, beautiful, confused soul.
Charlie physically flinches.
"Nick, that’s not—" He stops, breath hitching, hands shaking.
His chest tightens.
"Whether you use it on others or yourself, it’s still not okay." He swallows hard. Tries to keep his emotions in check. "You’re being rude to yourself right now."
Nick snaps his gaze up.
His eyes are wild. Wrecked. Desperate.
"Rude to myself?" he scoffs, voice cracking. "Charlie, I just lost my entire fucking future. My entire life. Do you think I care about being fucking rude to myself?"
Charlie’s stomach twists.
Baby? Why?! Baby!? Care for yourself, please!
"Nick—"
"It doesn’t matter!" Nick yells, voice breaking in a way that makes Charlie want to cry.
Charlie watches as he yanks at his hair again, his entire body shaking.
Stop that! Stop hurting! Please!
"I don’t care about Derek!" Nick shouts. "I don’t care that it was a hate crime or whatever the fuck it was! I care about my position! I care about my future!"
His voice cracks, his breath hitching violently.
Charlie’s chest aches.
"That’s my life, Charlie," Nick sobs. "That’s all I had. And now it’s gone!"
Charlie feels like he’s suffocating.
He moves without thinking.
"Come here," he whispers, voice breaking. Arms open.
And Nick—Nick collapses into them.
Charlie wraps his arms around him tight.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Nick clutches at his hoodie, fists curling in the fabric, pressing his face into Charlie’s chest as he sobs.
Charlie feels every shake, every shudder, every painful inhale.
Nick sniffles, voice muffled and wrecked.
"I shouldn’t fucking cry over a position," he says, but he does anyway.
And Charlie just holds him tighter.
"It’s just a fucking position," Nick chokes. "But that’s all I am. I’ve always just been seen as the captain. That’s all I know how to be."
Charlie’s heart shatters.
"Nick, that’s not true."
So far from the truth. So so so far from the truth.
Nick pulls back slightly, just enough to look at him, eyes red and wet and exhausted.
He laughs—a broken, hollow sound.
"Oh yeah?" His voice wobbles.
He sniffs, swipes a hand over his face.
"Tell that to my coach," he rasps. "Because apparently, I’m too fucking violent to lead a team."
Charlie stares at him.
Takes in the bruises. The exhaustion dragging down his face. The pain in his expression that he’s trying so hard to swallow.
"You haven’t done anything wrong," Charlie says, soft, steady.
You haven't. You haven't. You haven't.
Nick shakes his head aggressively.
"You don’t get it!" he yells. "I’m not good! I—I need this out, Charlie!"
Charlie flinches.
His breath catches.
"Nick," he whispers, pleading.
Nick’s hands clench into fists.
"I need this out of me!" he sobs. "It’s ruining my life!"
Charlie sucks in a sharp breath.
"Nick, you can’t just—you can’t just get rid of a sexuality." His voice is gentle but firm, his own chest aching, his heart pounding. "That’s not healthy," he whispers.
Nick lets out a wrecked, shaky laugh.
His shoulders shake violently.
"I’m so fucked," he sobs.
And Charlie—Charlie feels helpless.
"I’m so fucked."
Charlie feels his chest tighten as Nick shakes his head furiously, his whole body trembling against him.
"Why does everyone hate me?!" Nick sobs, voice raw, broken.
Baby, you're so much more. So much. No one hates you. I don't. I don't. I don't.
Charlie swallows hard, heart aching as he watches Nick fall apart.
"Why am I so bad?!" Nick chokes out.
And then— quieter, weaker, more wrecked than ever:
"I'm sorry," he whispers, shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Charlie closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against Nick’s temple, holding him tighter.
You aren't bad. You aren't. You aren't bad. Don't apologize. Don't apologize. Don't be sorry. Please. Please accept yourself. Forgive yourself.
"Shhh," he soothes, voice gentle but unwavering. "It’s okay. It’s okay, Nick. I promise. You’re alright."
Nick shakes his head again, harder this time.
"No," he croaks, body curling in tighter, burying himself in Charlie’s arms like he’s trying to disappear.
"Nothing is okay," he whispers.
Charlie feels his own throat tighten, his own eyes burn.
He breathes in deep, swallows the lump in his throat, and presses a kiss into Nick’s hair.
"Shhh," he murmurs again, soft, steady, constant.
His fingers card gently through Nick’s messy hair, slow and soothing, his other arm wrapped tightly around his waist, anchoring him, grounding him.
"I’m here," Charlie whispers, his voice barely more than a breath.
I'll always be here. I'll always care. You're okay now. You're safe. We will fix this.
And Nick—Nick lets himself sink into the warmth.
Into Charlie.
Into the one thing that still feels safe.
I've got you. I've got you.