Chapter 24
When Nick wakes up, it’s to warmth.
Soft, steady, comforting warmth wrapped around him, holding him together like the pieces of him aren’t barely hanging on by a thread.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep.
He barely remembers anything past curling into Charlie, breaking apart in his arms, feeling like his entire world was slipping through his fingers.
But now?
Now, he’s warm. Safe. Home.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Safety? Yes. Home? Yes. Don't leave. Never.
A sleepy hum rumbles in his chest as he instinctively nuzzles closer, his body molding into the warmth like it belongs there.
There’s a hand in his hair.
Fingertips scratching gently at his scalp, slow and soothing, weaving through the strands in a way that sends pleasant little tingles down his spine.
Oh, this is wonderful. Beautiful. Can his entire fucking life be this one moment? Please. He'll sell his kidney if he needs. Truly. This is heavenly.
His arm is draped over Charlie’s chest, his face pressed somewhere into his shoulder, and he realizes with a tiny squeeze of his fingers that he’s still holding Elphie.
Charlie.
Charlie is here.
Charlie stayed.
Baby. Love. Home. Darling. Sweetheart. Mine.
Kiss me. Love me. Hold me. Ooohh, while you're at it, wreck me. He may not know what a dick in ass feels like but surely there's a reason so many people like it. Besides, it's Charlie. He'll love it.
Honestly, Charlie. Wreck him.
Please?
Nick melts into it, lets himself have this. This moment, this haze, this safety.
For the first time in what feels like forever, he just… lets himself be.
mine? yes.
He lazily cracks open one eye, blinking against the soft light filtering through the blinds—his blinds? Huh. He doesn’t remember shutting them.
The clock on his desk reads 5:00 PM.
Fuck.
He’s been asleep for seven hours?
Makes sense, he guesses.
His body was wrecked from Derek’s punches.
His brain was fried from the panic attack.
His heart was exhausted from losing the only thing that ever truly felt like his.
Stupid fucking Derek! He's messed everything up.
Nick thinks he was doing quite well, mind you. He thinks he really was accepting the whole bisexual thing with as much ease as possible.
And Derek. Derek messed him up. Hurt him. Oh?
Oh.
Oh.
Thanks right. He's a fag.
Damnit.
He inhales deep, pressing his face into Charlie’s chest as if he can breathe him in.
Charlie shifts beneath him slightly, voice soft and raspy from disuse.
"Hi."
oh, he loves Charlie's little Hello's and Hi's. He wants to swallow them up. He wants to hear them over and over again.
Morning, night. Always.
Nick grumbles something unintelligible in response, too sleepy, too comfortable, too at peace to function properly.
Charlie’s hand stills in his hair, fingertips pausing mid-scratch.
The fuck?
Keep doing that?
That's incredibly rude to stop, Charlie.
Nick frowns immediately, grabbing Charlie’s wrist and placing it back where it was, pushing his head into his palm like a damn cat.
"No."
Charlie huffs out a quiet laugh, and Nick can feel the warmth of it against his temple.
"Needy," Charlie teases, his voice still soft, still warm, still so unbearably fond.
Mmhmm. Incredibly needy. So needy. For that dick. For that mouth. For him.
Does that make him a fag?
Probably.
Oh well.
Nick barely manages to mumble against his chest, "Mmmhmm… very needy. Keep going."
Please?
Im sorry I'm too much. Too needy. Too emotional. I'm sorry.
Charlie chuckles again, but he obliges, dragging his nails gently over Nick’s scalp, scratching slow and soothing.
Nick sighs in content, completely and utterly gone.
If this is what waking up with Charlie feels like, he never wants to wake up any other way.
And is this what makes him wrong?
This?
The feeling of Charlie’s warmth wrapped around him, steady and sure, like he was always meant to be here?
The way his heartbeat slows, syncs with Charlie’s, like his body already knows this is home?
The way his mind, usually a battlefield of self-doubt and chaos, quiets just enough for him to breathe?
Is this what makes him unworthy?
Is this why he lost his position?
Why he got punched until his ribs screamed and his skin bruised?
Because he feels safe here. Because he feels happy here. Because Charlie is a boy.
Is that all it takes?
For the world to decide he’s not enough anymore?
For everything to be ripped from his hands—his team, his future, his identity—like they were never really his to begin with?
Is this the world?
So fucked up, so cruel, so backward, that comfort only exists for a man and a woman? That love, real love, raw and beautiful, is only granted to those who fit into their perfect, outdated mold?
That his existence, his feelings, his heart, are considered unnatural—wrong—because they don’t align with someone else’s expectations?
How is that fair?
How can anyone see this—feel this—and call it a sin?
How could he ever have thought that?
How could he have spent so many years believing the lies, shoving himself into a version of masculinity that never fit, never felt like him?
How could he have looked at people like Charlie—people who are fearless enough to be themselves, unapologetically and wholly themselves—and thought they were anything but brave?
Nick exhales, sinking further into Charlie’s warmth, into the truth he’s finally allowing himself to see.
If this is wrong…
Then fuck being right.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Right. Right. Right.
Fag. Fag. Fag?
No. Yes? No.
Maybe? No. Mine. Okay. Breathe.
Fucking breathe. In and out. Yes. Perfect. Kind. Safe.
His voice comes out rough, thick with sleep. "Mmm… did you eat?"
Charlie hums, his fingers still in Nick’s hair, carding through it gently. "Not yet."
What? Why?
Baby, why?
Nick frowns, eyes still barely open. His grip tightens slightly around Charlie’s waist. "You stayed here?"
Charlie chuckles, a soft, fond sound. "Mmhmm… Every time I tried to move, you’d tighten your grip."
Nick’s brain stutters over that.
What?
He blinks up at Charlie, confusion furrowing his brows. "I—what?"
Charlie smirks. "You're quite the cuddler, you know."
Nick stares at him. Cuddler?
Soft. Not masculine. Wrong. Damaging. Bad. Ugly. Wrong. Soft. Not strong. Bad. Not masculine. Bad. Bad. Bad.
Cuddler? Him? No. No? Yes.
He doesn’t think of himself like that. He doesn’t think of himself as soft, as someone who needs warmth to fall asleep, as someone who wants to hold someone this much. But he must be, because Charlie is here, still here, wrapped up in him, because Nick wouldn’t let him go.
His face burns. "Oh… sorry."
SORRY. Sorry. I'm sorry I'm too much. I'm sorry I'm not brave. I'm sorry I see myself as ugly. I'm sorry I kept you here.
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
Charlie shakes his head, pressing a lazy, barely-there kiss to Nick’s forehead. "It’s okay. I didn’t mind."
oh?
Oh. Okay.
Safe.
Nick barely has time to process how much he liked that before Charlie smirks. "Not like I was craving your gross protein stuff anyway."
Nick snorts, the tension breaking just for a moment. "That ‘gross protein stuff’ helped me become captai—"
And just like that, it hits him.
Everything crashes back into him all at once.
He’s not captain anymore.
He lost everything.
Bad. Wrong. Fag. Ugly. Lost. Stupid. Bad.
His body tenses immediately, his stomach twisting, his throat closing up. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s curling inward, pressing his face against Charlie’s chest, trying to block it all out, trying to breathe.
Fuck.
Hold me. Please hold me. Please protect me. I'm upset and confused. Why did this happen? Was it because of his queerness? Was it because of him? Was it something more?
Charlie, what happened? Why?
Fucking asshole. Fucking faggot. Nick, that's all you are!
His ribs ache, his bruises throb, his hands shake where they clutch at Charlie’s hoodie.
Why does it feel like everything has been ripped away from him?
Charlie doesn’t say anything at first. He just tightens his hold, arms wrapping around Nick like he knows he needs it.
And then, so soft, so gentle— "I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart."
Sorry? Sorry? But you did nothing wrong. Sorry?
Why?
Nick's to blame.
Fag. Ugly. Bad.
Nick hums weakly, voice caught in his throat. It’s a broken sound, barely anything at all.
Sweetheart? Oh.
Oh.
Yes, please. Yes, now.
Then, almost absently, he whispers, "Sweetheart?"
Charlie swallows. "Yeah?"
Nick shifts just enough to peek up at him, his vision still blurred, body still heavy from exhaustion. "I like ‘sweetheart.’ Makes me sound kind."
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Soft. Not masculine. Soft. Bad? Wrong.
Is liking a pet name considered feminine? Is liking a boy considered bad? Fuck, no. Right? Right? No.
Charlie strokes his hair again, slow and careful, like Nick might shatter if he stops. "You are kind."
Nick’s chest twists. His breath wobbles. He squeezes his eyes shut.
"Coach thinks I’m violent," he whispers.
Bad. Ugly. Not captain. Bad. Terrible.
Fucking hell.
Fucking torture.
Fucking terrible.
Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.
Charlie’s grip tightens instantly. "You’re not."
Nick swallows hard, his fingers twisting into Charlie’s hoodie.
"I’m not," he murmurs again, voice barely audible.
I'm not? I'm not? I'm not? I'm not? I'm not? I'm not?
Charlie presses a lingering kiss to his forehead, like he’s trying to seal his words into him.
"You’re not," he repeats, steady, firm.
Nick exhales shakily, his body sinking further into Charlie’s warmth, his breathing finally, finally beginning to slow.
Forget. Move on. Too close to the heart. To personal.
Change the subject, Nick. Don't open up. Don't cry again. Fucking man up. Stop being a fucking pussy. Stop asking for help. Be a fucking man.
Nick sighs, running a hand through his hair. "You didn’t have to stay here, you know."
Charlie snorts. "Didn’t I? You literally wouldn’t let go of me."
Nick opens his mouth to argue, but then he remembers—remembers waking up tangled around Charlie, remembers how his body instinctively curled into him, remembers how safe it felt.
Fuck.
Lips. Mouth. Hands. Body. Comfort. Mine.
Before he can dwell on it, realization suddenly crashes into him—Charlie.
"Shit," he blurts, eyes widening as he shoots up abruptly. "Char, you're—fuck, are you feeling okay? I didn’t even consider you being hungover, I’m so sorry. Fuck, what can I get you?"
Bad partner? Bad friend. Bad boyfriend? Boyfriend? Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he wants him, he wants Charlie, he wants something.
But faggot? Fucking hell.
Grow up. Fix it. Stop.
His heart pounds as he moves toward the kitchenette, already mentally cycling through what he has—water, coffee, toast, maybe a protein shake if Charlie won’t gag at it— but before he can take a step, Charlie grabs his wrist.
"Nick," Charlie says softly.
Nick freezes.
"Calm down for a second," Charlie murmurs, his fingers warm and steady around Nick’s wrist. "Can you just… will you look at me?"
No.
No.
No.
Too personal. Too open. I'm sorry, I'm not brave Charlie. I'm not strong. I'm not enough. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
Nick frowns, his body still half-tensed, but he turns, eyes squinting slightly in confusion. "I—?"
Charlie’s gaze is so serious. So soft and yet so heartbreakingly serious.
"Nick," he says again, his voice careful, deliberate. "Are you okay?"
No.
No, he wants to drown. He wants to scream. He wants a weight to fall on him and snap his neck. He wants to punch Derek. He wants his coach to be fired. He wants to burn. He wants to destroy.
No. Not okay. Faggot.
Wrong. Bad. Ugly. Not okay.
Never okay.
Nick blinks. "I—?"
"You’ve got some nasty bruises on you, sweetheart," Charlie continues, and Nick swallows, his stomach twisting. "I don’t like bringing this up, but... what happened isn't okay. You shouldn’t just pretend it didn’t happen."
Oh?
Oh.
Sorry.
Nick shrugs immediately. Too fast, too casual, too much of a goddamn lie.
"Oh, no, I’m okay! I’m all good. Really!" He forces a grin, hands clapping together like that will make it more convincing.
Fake. Lost. Confused. Sad.
Charlie just looks at him.
That’s it.
He just looks at him.
Nick’s fake grin falters, his stomach knotting under Charlie’s unwavering gaze.
"Nick," Charlie says again, voice quieter now, steadier. "Don’t lie to me. Please."
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Nick huffs, dragging a hand through his hair before instinctively grabbing at his side, wincing slightly. "Char, I appreciate you worrying, but you don’t have to baby me. I’m fine."
Charlie’s lips press together, his brows furrowing. "I’m not babying you, Nick."
Nick scoffs.
"I’m not," Charlie insists, voice firm but still so damn gentle. "I’m worried. And I’m trying to take care of you. You do realize that people can want to take care of you, and it doesn’t make you weak, right?"
Nick falters.
Oh.
Oh.
His breath catches, something deep inside him cracking at the words.
That’s... new.
That’s something he’s never really thought about. Never let himself think about.
Weak? Care! Oh.
Oh!
He swallows hard, suddenly feeling exposed.
"I just don’t want you to pity me," he mutters, his fingers twitching at the hem of his hoodie. "Or think it’s gross."
Gross. Bad. Ugly. Wrong. Weak.
Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak.
"I’m not giving you pity, Nick. I care. Let me help. I won’t find it gross."
Nick licks his lips, hesitating for only a second before grabbing the back of his hoodie and pulling it over his head.
Okay. Not gross? Not gross.
You have muscles, Nick! You're hot. You're had one night stands. People find you attractive. It's fine. Just a shirt off. Nothing new. Nothing new. Nothing new. But... Fuck.
Fuck, it's Charlie though. Charlie who he likes.
Don't fuck up. Don't fuck up.
Don't look up.
The movement is immediate agony, his sore muscles screaming in protest, and he winces, barely biting back a hiss.
Breathe. In. Out.
He exhales sharply, scratching the back of his neck. "See?" His voice is a bit breathless, strained. "I’m fine."
Charlie’s lips part slightly, his eyes scanning over Nick’s torso—his ribs, his stomach, his arms—all covered in bruises, some yellowing, some fresh and deep and ugly.
Nick hasn’t actually looked at them yet.
Charlie has.
Charlie is.
Ugly. Wrong. Bad.
Don't look. Don't look. Don't look.
Nick keeps his gaze locked on the ground, chest tight, waiting.
Waiting for Charlie to flinch. To recoil. To see the bruises and finally realize that maybe—just maybe—Nick isn’t worth caring for after all.
But Charlie doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t recoil.
He just steps forward.
Slow. Careful. Deliberate.
Nick swallows hard, his pulse hammering as Charlie reaches out.
Fingertips—gentle, barely-there, ghosting along a particularly deep bruise on Nick’s ribs.
Nick tenses.
Charlie doesn’t.
"You’re not fine," Charlie whispers.
No, no. No, I'm not. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. So sorry.
Nick exhales shakily, eyes flickering up to Charlie’s.
Charlie isn’t looking at him like he’s broken. He isn’t looking at him like he’s weak, or disgusting, or anything Nick was afraid of. He’s just looking at him like he cares.
Like he sees him.
Nick’s breath shudders, his hands clenching at his sides.
Charlie’s fingers trail from his ribs, up his chest, over his collarbone, before resting—lightly, carefully—against his jaw.
Oh?
Oh.
This is nice.
Hold me, kiss me, wreck me. Tarnish me, make me yours. Yours. Yours. Yours. Yours.
"Nick," Charlie murmurs, eyes soft. "Can I kiss you?"
Nick should say no.
He should shrug it off, make a joke, brush past it.
But he doesn’t.
He exhales, his body slowly, finally, starting to unravel.
"...Yeah," he whispers.
Charlie smiles—soft, relieved.
Nick smiles softly when Charlie’s fingers hook into his waistband, tugging him forward just enough to press a quick, featherlight kiss against his lips.
But that’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
No, no, no—never.
Nick exhales sharply, a quiet, needy sound escaping him before he’s cupping Charlie’s face in his hands, tilting his head, and pulling him in.
Charlie lets out a surprised squeak against his lips, but Nick only hums, deepening the kiss—desperate, eager, needing.
His fingers thread into Charlie’s hair, tugging gently, reveling in the way Charlie melts under his touch.
God, this.
This is so much better than talking about stupid, painful things.
This is warm. This is safe. This is good.
Mine. Yes, mine.
Charlie pulls away slightly, breathless, his lips kiss-swollen, eyes bright, hazy. "That stuff isn’t stupid, Nick," he murmurs.
Nick shrugs, still catching his breath, still feeling too much, wanting too much, needing too much. His hands slip down to Charlie’s waist, fingers slipping under his shirt, tracing the soft skin beneath.
skin. Skin. skin.
"It’s not fun to talk about," he mutters, leaning forward to brush his lips against Charlie’s again. "This is more fun."
Push thoughts away. Don't worry about it. Forget everything. Just have charlie. Just have this. Forget. Forget. Forget .
Charlie exhales, shaking his head, but before he can say anything else, Nick kisses him again.
Harder this time.
Deeper.
More intentional.
Fuck, this is who I want. This is who I am. Mine. Charlie's. Bisexual. Happy. Confident.
Fuck everything. This moment is the only thing that matters. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Charlie gasps softly against his mouth, and Nick smirks against his lips, feeling so goddamn powerful at the way Charlie’s body presses into him, the way his fingers tighten against his waist.
Oh, what he would do to suck his dick. Oh, what he would do to make Charlie scream. Oh, the things he will do, do, do, do, do, do, do.
He's pretty sure he'll come from just the sight of Charlie's dick, because who is he kidding, he's addicted to everything 'Charlie' now.
Mouth. Kiss. Hands. Touch. Mine.
"You’re impossible," Charlie breathes, barely pulling back before Nick chases his lips again.
"And you’re pretty," Nick counters, brushing his nose against Charlie’s, pressing another lingering kiss to the corner of his lips.
Pretty. Pretty. Pretty.
My pretty boy. The prettiest boy. So gorgeous. So beautiful. Mine, and no body else's.
Charlie groans, tilting his head back slightly. "You’re so annoying."
Yep. Annoying and soon to be obsessed with dick. Mine..mine..mine.
Nick doesn’t think—doesn’t want to think. He just moves.
His hands grip Charlie’s waist, fingers pressing into the soft skin beneath his shirt as he slowly guides him backward until Charlie’s back hits the mattress, bouncing slightly against the sheets.
Nick grins down at him, eyes dark, head dizzy with the intoxicating mix of Charlie’s warmth, his scent, his presence.
Charlie stares up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted, hands already twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
God, that’s cute.
I'ma wreck him. Fuck, I'ma wreck him.
Nick doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t hesitate. He swings one leg over, straddling Charlie’s hips, pressing him deeper into the mattress. His muscles tense, flex, a sharp sting running up his ribs, but fuck it.
Pain means nothing when Charlie is beneath him like this.
Nick leans down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Charlie’s neck, humming in satisfaction when Charlie lets out a soft, breathy sigh, tilting his head to the side just slightly, just enough to give him access.
That’s right.
Give me access. Let me in. Let me forget.
forget about failing. Forget about everything. Forget about how shitty Nick is. About how his entire life is shifting about the bruises and ache. Forget. Forget. Forget and fuck.
Nick nips. Sucks. Teases.
His lips drag along the sensitive skin, testing, searching, until—
There.
Charlie gasps, thighs twitching beneath him, fingers finally flying up to Nick’s bare chest.
And Jesus Christ.
Nick inhales sharply through his nose, head spinning, body burning, world imploding. Charlie’s hands are warm, featherlight at first, trailing slowly, carefully, curiously, fingertips ghosting along his collarbones, then down, down, down—
Nick shivers when Charlie's thumbs graze over his pecs, teasing, testing, his touch just barely there but enough to ignite something hot and dangerous in Nick’s veins.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fucking fuckidy fuck!
Nick groans, hips twitching forward, barely resisting the urge to roll into Charlie, to pin him down completely.
Grind, kiss, heat, repeat.
His breath stutters against Charlie’s now very red neck, but he recovers quickly.
"Jesus, Charlie," he mutters, pressing a lingering kiss against the freshly marked skin. "You’re going to kill me."
Charlie lets out a breathless laugh, his hands suddenly not so timid anymore, pressing more firmly against Nick’s chest, fingertips tracing over his muscles like he’s trying to commit every inch of him to memory.
Nick groans again, eyes fluttering shut, head tipping forward, forehead resting against Charlie’s collarbone.
"You’re literally the worst," Nick mutters, breathless.
Charlie hums, all smug and teasing. "You don’t sound like you hate it."
Nick snaps his head up, narrowing his eyes at him. "Oh, you think you’re funny?"
Charlie grins. "I know I am."
Nick grins back.
Then he bites.
Charlie yelps, shoving at his shoulder. "Nick!"
Nick laughs, genuine and light, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, he feels okay.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Mine to hold. Mine to kiss. Mine to wreck
Nick shrugs, still hovering over Charlie, his weight pressing down just enough to make Charlie very aware of him. His voice drops slightly, teasing, smug.
"What? You’ve been way too sassy and teasing. Talking about wanting to have sex with me but I couldn't do anything about it because you were drunk— that should be criminal."
Charlie hums, a slow, lazy smirk curling on his lips as his hands slide up Nick’s sides, barely brushing the edge of his bruised ribs.
"It should be criminal how hot you are on top of me right now," he murmurs, his voice low, husky.
Nick’s breath catches.
Oh, fuck.
Oh fuck, fuck.
He grins, pushing past the heat crawling up his neck, trying to keep some control.
"Mmhmm. I am pretty hot, aren't I?"
Charlie rolls his eyes, but the fondness never leaves. His hands suddenly shift, and before Nick can react, he delivers a light slap to Nick’s side—
Right where a bruise is.
Pain. Sharp, sudden, hot.
Nick hisses, instantly jerking back.
"Fuck, Nick! Sorry! Sorry, are you okay?!"
Charlie’s voice is frantic, his hands already reaching to check on him, but Nick is already moving off of him, wincing, tugging at his hair.
"Meanie," Nick grumbles, panting through the pain. "Fuck, that hurt."
Charlie looks genuinely distressed, sitting up quickly, hands hovering like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch.
"Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—"
Nick waves a hand, exhaling sharply, still rubbing at his temple, trying to push through it.
It's fine. I forgive you. I deserve it. I got ahead of myself. I'm straight? I'm straight. Stop, Nick. No. No, you kissed Charlie. You want Charlie. You like Charlie. Not straight, hurt. Okay.
Charlie bit his lip, watching him with a worried expression, and fuck—Nick doesn’t want that.
He wants Charlie beneath him again. Wants to kiss him stupid, pin him down, make him whimper and sigh and arch into him.
But his body has other plans.
Nick groans in frustration, squeezing his eyes shut before dropping his head back against the pillow dramatically.
"Fucking hell," he mutters. "This is cruel."
Charlie hesitates. "Nick?"
Nick opens one eye, glaring.
"I want to fucking wreck you right now," he grits out. "But I think my body might be protesting that."
Charlie stares.
Then he laughs—full-bodied, bright, warm, and Nick swears he could live in that sound.
Charlie leans in, brushing his lips against Nick’s jaw. "Guess we’ll just have to save that for another time, yeah?"
No? Yes? Okay.
I'm sorry I failed. I'm sorry I'm not ready. I'm scared.
Does my body look okay? Does flexing make it better? Would you like me without the muscle? Working out feels like a chore some days. My skin feels loose on days when I don't practice. I feel quite ugly. I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
Nick groans again, muffling his face into Charlie’s shoulder. "You're evil."
Charlie grins, smug as ever. "I know."
"You're so fucking sassy too."
Charlie snickers, tilting his head slightly. "Are you just figuring this out?"
Nick lifts his head, resting his chin on Charlie’s chest, giving him a lopsided grin. "No, I’ve known for a while. I just—" He shrugs, brushing his fingers down Charlie’s side. "I like it. Confidence looks really fucking good on you."
Charlie stills beneath him for a fraction of a second. It’s subtle, but Nick feels it.
And then—a flinch.
What?
Baby, I'm sorry?
I'm sorry. Forgive me. Hold me. Love me.
Charlie shifts, avoiding his gaze, a small frown tugging at his lips. "Yeah… Sorry for being so vulnerable last night."
Baby?
It's okay. You were grace. You were kindness. You were cute. You were everything. Are everything.
Nick blinks, his brows furrowing. "What? No, Charlie, don’t apologize for that."
Charlie shrugs, his fingers picking at a loose thread on Nick’s hoodie. "Well, I am sorry. I just— You didn’t ask for all of that, and I—"
Nick doesn’t let him finish. "Charlie," he interrupts, voice firm but so, so soft. "I’m glad you were vulnerable with me. And besides—what I said last night? It was all true."
Charlie finally meets his gaze, hesitant but listening.
"I do like you, Charlie. I meant it. And… whatever nerves you have about—" He swallows. "About sex… I’ll have them too. Probably more so, if I’m honest."
Not pretty. Ugly. Loose skin. Workout more. Captain position gone. Muscles weaker. Not pretty. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.
"So you weren’t just saying you liked me… just cause?"
Nick shakes his head immediately, brows drawing together. "Charlie, I may be a liar to others, but I haven’t been to you. I wouldn’t do that to you."
Never you.
"Yes, I like you. And yes, I think you’re extremely fucking sexy."
Charlie lets out a small, breathless laugh, pink dusting his cheeks.
Nick continues, "And you deserve someone who cares for you. I hope—I really fucking hope that can be me."
Not enough. Not better. Not good. Worse. Ugly. Cruel. Gross. Not enough.
Charlie doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he just hides his face in Nick’s shoulder, shoulders shaking slightly with a quiet laugh.
"Why are we like this?"
Nick grins, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of Charlie’s head.
We? Us? Together.
Mine. Yours? We.
"Because you’re Charlie." He nudges his nose against Charlie’s temple. "And you like me." He tilts his head down, whispering against Charlie’s skin. "And I like you."
Charlie hums, arms wrapping tighter around Nick’s back, their bodies molding together effortlessly.
Nick sighs into the warmth of him.
Yeah.
This is good.
----
Mine, mine, mine.
Charlie holds him close, arms wrapped tightly around Nick’s bare waist, fingers gently tracing over his bruised skin. He just wants to keep him here, keep him safe, keep him protected.
Nick is warm, solid, real, right in his arms, right here where Charlie can touch him, feel him breathe, feel him relax.
It's okay, Nick. I'll bare it. I'll handle the weight. Let it go for me, sweet broken thing. I've got it.
But then, his stomach lets out a low, painful grumble, and he grimaces.
Right. He hasn’t eaten.
Not a single thing all day.
The only thing sitting in his stomach is last night’s alcohol and a growing emptiness he’s painfully familiar with.
Shit. He needs to fix that.
food has control Charlie. Don't let it. Drop it. Eat. Do better. Stress. Nick needs me more. Don't eat. Forget. Take care of Nick.
But how can he move? How can he even think about moving when Nick is here, shirtless, vulnerable, beautiful?
Because Nick is fucking gorgeous.
Bruised and tired, but still—fuck.
Charlie is trying really, really hard not to drool.
Those abs. His slightly soft stomach. His pecs. Those biceps.
Fuck, he wants to be crushed by those arms. Wrapped in them. Pinned beneath them.
Jesus Christ, focus, Charlie.
He forces himself to breathe, to focus on Nick’s hair instead, on the way his fingers card through it, the way Nick melts into it instantly.
Nick hums softly, eyes closed, voice nothing but a sleepy murmur.
"I wish I could stay like this. With you."
Charlie smiles, a slow, content curve of his lips.
"I mean, you can."
Nick lets out a quiet chuckle, but there’s something in it that doesn’t sound right.
Something hesitant.
Something that makes Charlie’s stomach twist for an entirely different reason.
"No… I can’t."
And just like that—Charlie’s heart drops.
Too forward, Charlie. Too much. Too vulnerable. Don't pressure Nick. Don't assume. Stop being a needy fucking gay boy.
Nick lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. "Fuck, I’m sorry, that sounds so fucking bad, I didn’t mean it like that."
Nick exhales sharply, frustration clear in the way his fingers dig into the sheets, his nails pressing half-moons into the fabric.
"I need to be captain, Charlie."
Oh, so this is it. Captain or Charlie? Charlie always gets chosen last.
You're too dependable, Charlie. Fucking change. Stop pressuring him. He's not yours, just stop. Breathe. Let it go.
Charlie’s stomach clenches at the way he says it, at the desperation in his voice.
"Nick—"
"No, you don’t get it," Nick cuts him off, shaking his head. "I need it. It’s—it’s my whole life. My whole fucking identity. And now it’s gone, and I don’t—I don’t know what to do."
Charlie feels his heart break all over again.
Nick is pulling at his hair now, shoulders hunched, fists tight, breathing uneven.
You're more than Captain.
More than Rugby.
More than bruises.
"I feel like I have to be captain." His voice shakes. "Like that’s my only purpose. And if I’m not—then what am I?"
Charlie swallows the lump in his throat.
Because he gets it.
The identity crisis. The crushing weight of expectation. The feeling of being nothing if you can’t be the thing you were always supposed to be.
The thing you spent your whole life trying to be.
And now that it’s gone?
What’s left?
What’s left when the one thing that made you feel worth something isn’t yours anymore?
Charlie breathes through the ache in his chest, reaches forward, and cups Nick’s face, tilting it up.
"Nick." His voice is so soft, so gentle. "You’re more than just a captain."
Nick doesn’t answer.
His throat bobs, his jaw tenses, his fingers twitch against the bed.
Baby? Believe me. Trust me. Please, just let me win.
Charlie rubs his thumb along Nick’s cheek, grounding him. Holding him. Reminding him that he’s here.
"You don’t have to be anything but yourself, Nick. I swear. That’s enough."
Nick lets out a shaky breath.
Charlie presses his forehead against Nick’s, letting their breaths mix, their warmth blend.
"It's either you or captain."
Charlie clenches his jaw, trying to suppress the awful, sinking feeling in his chest.
He knew it.
Of course, he knew it.
He knew from the start that Nick's entire life was wrapped around this sport, around his status as captain, around the validation it gave him. He knew it, but hearing it out loud—hearing Nick say it, feeling it settle in his bones—hurts like hell.
Fuck you. Fuck this.
I'm not a second choice. Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck!
Charlie moves to sit up, to untangle himself from Nick's arms, from this warmth that suddenly feels suffocating.
Nick grabs him.
"Charlie, don’t—fuck, please, don’t go."
Charlie’s chest tightens.
He knows he’s being irrational, knows he’s taking it too personally, knows Nick didn’t mean it like that—but how is he supposed to hear 'it's either you or captain' and not feel like he's already lost?
Like he’s already the wrong choice.
Wrong? Bad?
Don't forget your food, Charlie. Stop being dependent. Stop, Charlie. Be confident. Have the smile. Don't let Ben win.
Ben?
Fuck, no. Nick.
Nick.
"Charlie, just—just let me explain," Nick pleads, his voice breaking on the words, his grip firm, almost desperate.
He crosses his arms over his stomach. His mind starts racing.
He hasn't eaten. He hasn't eaten.
His routine is already thrown off.
This is bad. Bad. Bad.
"Fine," he says, voice tight, head ducked down. "Talk."
"Charlie, it’s not you or captain," Nick says, voice raw, thick with something that sounds suspiciously close to fear. "That’s not what I meant."
Charlie huffs, shaking his head.
"You literally just said that, Nick."
Nick runs a hand through his already-tousled hair, yanking at the strands.
"I know, I know—fuck, I said it wrong. That’s not what I meant. I just—" he sighs, looking up at Charlie with those big, brown, exhausted eyes. "Charlie, it’s all I’ve ever known."
Charlie stays quiet.
Nick licks his lips, eyes flickering down, staring at his hands.
"My whole life, I’ve been 'Nick Nelson: Rugby Captain.' That’s it. That’s all people have ever seen. And if I’m not that… then what am I?"
That fear. That overwhelming, drowning feeling of losing a part of yourself and not knowing who the hell you are without it.
But what hurts—what really hurts—is that it still feels like he's second place.
Like Nick wants him, wants this, but wants rugby more.
Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.
Nick must see something in his expression, because he moves closer, reaching out carefully.
"Charlie, look at me."
Charlie hesitates, but he does.
Nick cups his face so gently, like he's something delicate, something precious, something worth keeping.
"I want you."
Me. Me. Me. Me. Me?
Me?
Oh.
Okay.
Charlie blinks.
Nick takes a shaky breath.
"I want this. I want us. I care about you so fucking much. But rugby has been my entire life, and losing captain—it feels like I'm losing a part of myself. And it scares me, because I don't know who I am if I’m not that."
Charlie exhales sharply, feeling the walls he'd been building crumble just a little.
"You're Nick," he whispers. "You're just… Nick."
Charlie watches as Nick shakes his head, his fingers tangling in his hair, tugging sharply, frustration evident in every movement.
"Just Nick?" Nick scoffs, his voice raw, breaking slightly at the edges. "I don’t… I don’t know what just Nick is."
Charlie feels his chest tighten.
Oh? Sweet darling.
Sorry, I'm sorry.
Let me fix it.
No, eat Charlie. You first, Nick second. Take care of yourself. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat.
Buy. Food....
Food...
Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food
乇卂ㄒ 乇卂ㄒ 乇卂ㄒ 乇卂ㄒ 乇卂ㄒ 乇卂ㄒ 乇卂ㄒ 乇卂ㄒ乇卂ㄒ 乇卂ㄒ 乇卂ㄒ 乇卂ㄒ
No. Stop. Nick. Focus on Nick.
Nick lets out a breath, shifting where he sits, his hands now gripping the fabric of his sheets, twisting, pulling, anything to keep them busy.
"My whole life has been about going pro, Charlie. Since I was a kid, it’s been the only thing I knew for sure. And I know it doesn’t make any fucking sense, but… I’m just now learning that maybe I can be both. Maybe I can be a rugby player and queer. Maybe I don’t have to choose. But it’s—" Nick exhales, shoulders rising and falling as he struggles to find the words. "It’s scary as hell."
Ỵ̛̖͋͢o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇'r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ ẹ̿͋̒̕ṇ̤͛̒̍o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇ĝ̽̓̀͑ḣ̖̻͛̓. Ỵ̛̖͋͢o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇'r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ ẹ̿͋̒̕ṇ̤͛̒̍o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇ĝ̽̓̀͑ḣ̖̻͛̓. N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢. N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢. N̺̻̔̆ͅỉ͔͖̜͌c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ ỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅ. N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢t̲̂̓ͩ̑ y҉̃̀̋̑o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇. N̺̻̔̆ͅẹ̿͋̒̕v͒̄ͭ̏̇ẹ̿͋̒̕r̴̨̦͕̝ y҉̃̀̋̑o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇. N̺̻̔̆ͅẹ̿͋̒̕v͒̄ͭ̏̇ẹ̿͋̒̕r̴̨̦͕̝.
Fuck. Stop. Breathe. Focus.
"Queer and rugby don’t usually go together, Charlie. I mean, maybe someday, but right now? If I go pro, I’d probably have to keep our entire—" he gestures vaguely between them "this, secret."
Charlie freezes.
Nick swallows. Hard.
S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑
Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food FoodFood Food Food Food Food Food Food Food Food
Tired. Unsteady. Tired.
Charlie, focus! Focus? Vision blurry. Don't. Don't. Breathe.
But food. Hungry. Tired?? No energy. Focus on Nick. Just Nick. Just him.
"The press would be too much. The coaches—I’d hope they’d be understanding, but… well, you know how Jackson is. And who the fuck knows what pro would be like?"
Charlie does know.
Oh. Fuck. No. No. No. No. No.
No.
Fuck!
He’s seen how brutal sports culture can be. How it polices masculinity, how it pushes out anyone who doesn’t fit its mold, how it treats queer athletes like some kind of scandal rather than human beings.
Nick rubs at his temple, jaw clenched.
"Do you really want to be with me if it means being a secret?"
Charlie stares at him.
His heart plummets.
Because that’s the question, isn’t it?
The thing he has to think about, really fucking think about.
Does he want to be a secret?
Does he want to be hidden, erased, confined to stolen moments behind closed doors while the rest of the world only gets to see the parts of Nick that are palatable, acceptable, uncontroversial?
Does he want to be the thing Nick denies in interviews, the thing Nick has to tiptoe around for the sake of public image?
No.
No, he doesn’t.
Charlie takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully.
S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑ S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑ S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑. S̵̙͕̀̃ẹ̿͋̒̕c͕͗ͤ̕̕r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑
"Nick… you could be the person who breaks the cycle."
Nick snorts. Bitter. Disbelieving.
Charlie leans in, pressing on.
Believe me. Hold me. Listen to me.
Focus. Breathe. Food later. But tired.
So fucking tired. No food inside. Just alcohol. Fatigue. Not food. Food bad. Nick good. Food. Fuck, no food. Fatigue. Focus! Nick! Focus on Nick?!
"You could show kids in the future that they can have both. That they don’t have to hide. That they can chase their dreams and still be themselves. You could be the reason some little boy picks up a rugby ball and doesn’t feel like he has to change himself just to be accepted."
Nick shakes his head, laughing, but there’s no humor in it.
"Yeah, and in the process, I get all the backlash?" He looks at Charlie, something guarded and wounded in his expression. "Charlie, you can’t ask that of me."
Charlie flinches, guilt twisting in his gut.
Because Nick is right.
Nick is nineteen. A university athlete who just lost his captaincy for reasons that weren’t even in his control. A boy who’s still struggling to accept his own queerness, still fighting the ingrained fears and internalized shame that the world shoved onto him.
He’s not a superhero.
He’s not a martyr.
He’s just… Nick.
And Nick has already lost so much.
I̍̅̀̎̊'ḿ̬̏ͤͅ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢r̴̨̦͕̝r̴̨̦͕̝y҉̃̀̋̑, I̍̅̀̎̊'ḿ̬̏ͤͅ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢r̴̨̦͕̝r̴̨̦͕̝y҉̃̀̋̑, I̍̅̀̎̊'ḿ̬̏ͤͅ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢r̴̨̦͕̝r̴̨̦͕̝y҉̃̀̋̑. B̩͎͍̾ͅr̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕. S̵̙͕̀̃o̯̱̊͊͢r̴̨̦͕̝r̴̨̦͕̝y҉̃̀̋̑. B̩͎͍̾ͅr̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕ f̵͖̜̉ͅo̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒. B̩͎͍̾ͅr̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕. N̺̻̔̆ͅỉ͔͖̜͌c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ. F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢c͕͗ͤ̕̕ư̡͕̭̇s̠҉͍͊ͅ. F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
D̶͔̭̪̻
N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢
D̶͔̭̪̻o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍'t̲̂̓ͩ̑ ẹ̿͋̒̕ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑. N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢.... N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢ F
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
D̶͔̭̪̻
D̶͔̭̪̻o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍'t̲̂̓ͩ̑ f̵͖̜̉ͅā̤̓̍͘ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑. B̩͎͍̾ͅr̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕. F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢c͕͗ͤ̕̕ư̡͕̭̇s̠҉͍͊ͅ. Hͥ̽ͣ̃̔o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣḑ̴̞͛̒. C̵͉͋̔͞ā̤̓̍͘r̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕.
N̺̻̔̆ͅỉ͔͖̜͌c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ. J̶̳̀́̃ư̡͕̭̇s̠҉͍͊ͅt̲̂̓ͩ̑ N̺̻̔̆ͅỉ͔͖̜͌c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ.
Breathe. Okay. Hold it together.
Charlie softens.
"I’m not asking you to do anything you’re not ready for. But, Nick, I need you to be honest with me. Is this about rugby, or is this about you not wanting to be out?"
Nick inhales sharply.
Charlie sees the conflict flash across his face, the war happening behind those brown eyes.
"I don't know..." he murmurs, his fingers flexing at his sides.
Then, hesitantly, he lifts a hand and gestures to the bruises. The ones marring his ribs, the ones still darkening around his jaw.
"Is this what being out means?"
Out. Bullying. Slurs.
Eating. Food.
Food. Food. Food. Food.
Out
Not safe
Not happy.
No, Nick. No.
Charlie's stomach twists.
Nick laughs, but it's hollow, bitter, like he hates the sound of it leaving his mouth.
"Charlie, I'm not brave like you." His eyes are wet, but he blinks quickly, trying to clear them. "And I'm sorry about that. I wish I was, but I’m not."
Charlie inhales sharply, forcing himself to stay steady, even as Nick's words carve something deep into his chest.
Baby? Sorry? What?
Tired. Food?
No.
No.
Fuck.
"Nick..." he exhales, choosing his words carefully. "You obviously get to decide when you want to come out. No one should take that choice from you. But at the same time..." He swallows. "I don’t want to just be a secret forever."
Nick looks at him then, something uncertain in his gaze.
Charlie forces himself to keep going.
"I don’t want us to only hang out in my dorm or yours. I don’t want to act like we don’t know each other when we pass by in public. I don’t want to be hidden, Nick. That’s not... that’s not healthy."
Nick stiffens.
Charlie can see his jaw clench, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s holding something back.
Then, suddenly— Nick exhales sharply, throwing his hands up.
"Maybe I should just out myself, then?" His voice is sharp, cutting, frustration laced between every syllable. "I mean, that’s what you want, right?"
Charlie blinks, thrown off by the sudden turn in the conversation.
"Nick, that’s not—"
But Nick isn’t finished.
"That would make everything blow over, wouldn't it? I’d get bullied or whatever, but then we’d be out. And any scouts would probably know in advance, so no one has to deal with the big fucking shock of it later."
Charlie steps forward, placing his hands on Nick’s arms.
"Nick, you shouldn’t come out until you’re ready," he says firmly.
Nick lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head.
"Well then what do you want from me, Charlie?" His voice cracks, and Charlie can see the exhaustion in his eyes.
Charlie flinches at the sharpness of it, but keeps his grip steady.
"Nick, don’t get infuriated with me—"
"I’m not!" Nick’s voice raises, but there’s more frustration at himself than at Charlie.
Yells? Nick? Tired.
Confused. Stressed. Nick?
Nick. Nick okay? Nick?
Fuck.
Breathe. Blink. Focus.
Blurry.
I̍̅̀̎̊'ḿ̬̏ͤͅ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢r̴̨̦͕̝r̴̨̦͕̝y҉̃̀̋̑, I̍̅̀̎̊'ḿ̬̏ͤͅ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢r̴̨̦͕̝r̴̨̦͕̝y҉̃̀̋̑, I̍̅̀̎̊'ḿ̬̏ͤͅ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢r̴̨̦͕̝r̴̨̦͕̝y҉̃̀̋̑. B̩͎͍̾ͅr̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕. S̵̙͕̀̃o̯̱̊͊͢r̴̨̦͕̝r̴̨̦͕̝y҉̃̀̋̑. B̩͎͍̾ͅr̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕ f̵͖̜̉ͅo̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒. B̩͎͍̾ͅr̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕. N̺̻̔̆ͅỉ͔͖̜͌c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ. F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢c͕͗ͤ̕̕ư̡͕̭̇s̠҉͍͊ͅ. F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
D̶͔̭̪̻
F̘͍͖ͫ͘
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
D̶͔̭̪̻
D̶͔̭̪̻o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍'t̲̂̓ͩ̑ f̵͖̜̉ͅā̤̓̍͘ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑. B̩͎͍̾ͅr̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕. F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢c͕͗ͤ̕̕ư̡͕̭̇s̠҉͍͊ͅ. D̶͔̭̪̻o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍'t̲̂̓ͩ̑ f̵͖̜̉ͅā̤̓̍͘ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑. D̶͔̭̪̻o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍'t̲̂̓ͩ̑.
D̶͔̭̪̻o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍'t̲̂̓ͩ̑. D̶͔̭̪̻o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍'t̲̂̓ͩ̑.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘
A̷͙ͭͫ̕
I̍̅̀̎̊
N̺̻̔̆ͅ
T̨͈͗̌ͥ
D̶͔̭̪̻o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍'t̲̂̓ͩ̑
F̘͍͖ͫ͘
A̷͙ͭͫ̕
I̍̅̀̎̊
N̺̻̔̆ͅ
T̨͈͗̌ͥ
B̩͎͍̾ͅr̴̨̦͕̝ẹ̿͋̒̕ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ư̡͕̭̇c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
D̶͔̭̪̻
N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢
N̺̻̔̆ͅ
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
S̵̙͕̀̃t̲̂̓ͩ̑o̯̱̊͊͢p̞̈͑̚͞
V̘̪͆̂̅ỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅỉ͔͖̜͌o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍ b̬͖̏́͢l̙͖̑̾ͣư̡͕̭̇r̴̨̦͕̝r̴̨̦͕̝y҉̃̀̋̑
F̘͍͖ͫ͘
A̷͙ͭͫ̕
I̍̅̀̎̊
N̺̻̔̆ͅ
T̨͈͗̌ͥ
"Nick?"
˥ıƃɥʇs onʇ L̷i̷g̷h̷t̷s̷ ̷o̷u̷t̷ Ɩıɠɧɬʂ ơųɬ
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