Chapter 25
One moment, Nick is raising his voice at Charlie, and the next—
Charlie is whispering his name, his face goes pale, his eyes roll back, and suddenly—
He’s falling.
What? What? What?
Nick barely catches him before he crumples, his arms shaking as he lowers Charlie to the ground, cradling his head, heart pounding so violently it might shatter his ribs.
"Char?!"
No response.
"Charlie!"
Baby? What's wrong? What did I do?
I'm sorry. This isn't funny. Wake up. Lovely? Are you mad at me? That's okay, be mad, but wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
In. Our. In. Out.
Fuck, he needs his mom. He can't breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
Charlie? Please, Charlie.
His fingers tremble as they push Charlie’s hair out of his face, his breath coming too fast, too ragged. His stomach twists violently.
What the fuck just happened? He was just—he was just standing there. He was fine. He was fine.
Fine? Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.
Baby, get up. I'm sorry I'm not ready to come out. I'm sorry I'm rude. I'm sorry. Just get up. Don't punish me like this. Please.
Please.
I know I'm bad.
I know I deserve this.
Hate me. If you need. But not this.
Please, not this.
Nick grips his own hair tightly, tugging so hard he swears he sees spots, before letting out a desperate, broken yell—
"FUCK! SOMEBODY HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!"
Fuck it. He doesn't care who hears him.
Fag, fag, fag.
Doesn't matter. Charlie matters. Charlie. Not you. Charlie.
He knows this might immediately put himself at risk—people seeing Charlie in his dorm, people asking questions, people making assumptions, whispering, rumors spreading.
He knows.
Fuck it.
He doesn’t care.
Not when Charlie isn’t waking up.
His voice echoes in his dorm, bouncing off the walls, his panic splitting him apart, making him lightheaded, nauseous.
The door bursts open a second later.
Nick barely processes the movement—his focus is entirely on Charlie, on his stillness, on the way his eyelids aren’t fluttering, on the way his breathing is so light it’s barely there.
Baby, I'm sorry. I'm cruel. I'm mean. I'm bad. I'm sorry.
Just get up. Stop pranking me. Stop punishing me. This isn't nice. This isn't nice. This isn't nice. This isn't nice.
But he deserves it, yes? No. No. No.
But then—a voice. Sharp. Accusing.
"Nick, what the fuck did you—"
Nick snaps his head up, hands still cradling Charlie’s face, his entire body coiled so tight he might break.
It’s Harry. He looks like he just sprinted across hall, chest heaving, wide-eyed, his gaze bouncing between Nick and Charlie—
And then he sees the bruises littering Nick’s torso, the panic in his expression, the way Charlie is sprawled unconscious on the floor.
His face twists into something unreadable. His lips curl. His voice is sharp, cold, cruel.
"Jesus Christ, Nick. Did you do this to him?"
Nick’s entire world stops.
What? What? What?
The words barely register at first. It’s like they come at him in slow motion, like he’s underwater, like his brain refuses to process them.
No. No. No. No
Not violent. Not violent. He isn't a violent man!
Why does everyone assume he is? First Jackson, now Harry?! Is he violent? Is he cruel? Is this for the sins he's done?
He's sorry, okay, he's sorry!
But no, never Charlie. Never hurt Charlie.
violent. cruel. fag. bad. evil. sin.
And then—
Something inside him snaps.
His hands tremble harder, his blood turns to fire, his lungs collapse.
"WHAT?!" His voice is wild, furious, betrayed. "Harry, are you fucking kidding me?! I—fuck, help me! Grab me that water—no, not that one! That one’s old! A new one!"
Harry doesn’t move.
He just stares. Stares at Nick, stares at Charlie, stares like he’s trying to piece together a crime scene.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
I'm not cruel. I'm not violent. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not. I'm. Not. Not. Not. Not. Not. Not. Not. Not
Not? Not cruel? But Derek. Not violent? But fights with David. Not a fag? But I want to wreck Charlie.
Charlie. Charlie? Charlie.
Fuck, he's bad. He's cruel. He deserves this.
"Nick," he says, slow, cautious, careful. "If he was trying to fight back or—"
"I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS, HARRY!"
Nick’s entire body shakes with the force of his own panic, his chest so tight he can’t breathe, his head spinning violently.
Breathe in. Out.
In out.
In. In. In. In. In. In.
Out.
Out.
In. Out?
Fuck, another panic attack? Please, not again.
He's had three now in under a month. Fuck it, he's fine. Just fucking breathe!
Stop being a pussy and breathe!
He snatches the bottle from Harry’s hands, barely aware of how aggressively he does it, his entire being focused on Charlie, on getting him to wake up.
Baby. Mine. Love.
"Why the fuck—why the fuck would you think that?!" His voice cracks, his hands shake harder.
Harry doesn’t answer. He just keeps staring.
I wouldn't hurt Charlie. Never him. Never never. Never.
Why is Charlie pranking him? Why was Nick yelling? Why does he believe Rugby is good? Better than Charlie? No? Yes? Maybe. No.
Breathe in. Out. Charlie, stop it. Stop being mean.
This is mean, Charlie. Just wake up.
Nick swallows down bile, his hands unsteady as he unscrews the cap. He tries to remember, fuck, how do you help someone who’s fainted? His PT class went over this, but his brain isn’t working, nothing is working, Charlie isn’t waking up—
"Fuck," Nick mutters, pouring a bit of water onto Charlie’s wrists, trying to cool his skin, trying anything.
His mind is racing, choking on the worst-case scenarios.
What if he doesn’t wake up?
What if Nick yelled too much and it was his fault?
What if Charlie had some kind of underlying health issue Nick didn’t know about and this is serious?
What if—
"Give me a wet washcloth!" Nick snaps, his voice cracking, raw with panic. "Harry, I swear to God, stop standing there like I’m some fucking murderer and help me!"
Harry finally moves.
Thank fuck.
Baby? Baby. Cruel. Mean. Violent. Cruel. Mean. Violent.
Nick deserves this. Deserves it all.
Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
Don't cry. Don't you fucking cry.
Pussy. Fag. Disgrace. Ugly. Wrong. Violent. Sinner.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
In. Out?
In? Out?
In.
Harry's hesitation lasts for only a second before he spins on his heel, bolts out the door, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he sprints toward the communal bathroom at the end of the dorm floor.
Nick barely registers it.
His entire body is trembling, his chest aching as he focuses on Charlie—his face still too pale, his breathing still too light, his body still limp.
Mine. Baby. Love?
Cruel. Mean. Wrong.
Don't do this Charlie. Wake up. He's sorry. He's so sorry.
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry
"Char," Nick whispers, tapping Charlie’s cheek, gently, carefully, desperately. His hands won’t stop shaking. "Come on, baby, wake up. Please."
Nothing.
Fuck.
Harry comes barreling back in, Derek behind him, Otis close at his heels, all three of them breathless, their footsteps pounding against the dorm floor.
Nick snatches the washcloth from Harry’s hands without hesitation, his fingers trembling as he presses the damp cloth to Charlie’s forehead, his other hand cupping Charlie’s cheek, his thumb stroking over his too-pale skin.
Please, wake up. Please, please, please.
The cold must shock his system enough, because Charlie’s eyelashes flutter, his body giving a small, weak twitch.
Nick exhales sharply, relief crashing over him so violently his body nearly collapses forward.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
But then he looks up, and—fucking hell, he’s still not safe.
Harry. Derek. Otis.
All three of them staring.
Derek’s gaze is locked onto Nick’s bruises. Scanning them. Memorizing them. His expression unreadable.
Fuck you! You did this. You caused this! Remember you piece of shit.
Remember! Remember!
Then—his mouth moves, barely above a whisper, but Nick hears it loud and fucking clear.
"Fucking fags."
Nick’s stomach turns.
His grip on Charlie tightens protectively.
Mine. Not yours.
Take that back. Apologize.
His blood runs ice cold.
Derek shoves his hands into his pockets, turns on his heel, and leaves. Just like that. Like Nick isn’t worth his time anymore.
Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!
Hurt me, punch me, swear at me! But not Charlie. Never him. Never. Never. Never. Never.
Harry lingers.
Nick snaps his gaze to him, venom curling into his throat.
"Thank you, Harry. Now get the fuck out." His voice is low. Dangerous.
Leave. Let me protect. Let me fix. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave.
Harry hesitates, but before he can say a single word, Nick cuts him off.
"You too, Otis. Just fucking go."
Otis shifts awkwardly, looking between Nick and Charlie with concern. "Are you sure you're—"
"I'm fine!" Nick hisses, voice barely above a whisper, because Charlie groans at the noise, shifting against him, shivering from the cold press of the cloth against his forehead.
Nick doesn’t care if he’s fine.
Doesn’t care about anything else.
Charlie is stirring. Charlie is waking up. That’s all that matters.
Harry lingers for a second longer, eyes narrowed. "Jesus, Nick... What—"
"I didn't hurt him, Harry," Nick grits out, voice raw, torn apart at the seams.
Harry doesn’t look convinced.
Fuck you! You saw me!
I was bruised before! I'm not dangerous!
I'm not like Derek! I'm not like Derek!
I'm not like him!
Right?
Right?
Fuck, is he like Derek? Cruel? Violent? Homophobic? Asshole. Fuck.
I'm like Derek, I'm sorry. But not this. Not with this.
Nick clenches his fists, jaw locked tight, breathing ragged.
"I'll explain later." He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "But right now, just fucking leave."
Harry hesitates.
Then—finally—he and Otis step back, walking toward the door.
The moment it shuts behind them, the second Nick hears the faint click of it latching—
Charlie’s eyes flutter open.
Baby! Mine! Baby! Darling! Love! Mine!
And Nick nearly collapses with relief.
Baby. Mine. Okay now. Breathe.
In. Out.
Protect. Fix. Protect.
He instinctively moves, adjusting his body so Charlie has something solid to lean on, his head resting against Nick’s stomach.
Nick keeps a firm but gentle grip on him, hand smoothing over Charlie’s back.
"Hey, hey... slow. Slow, love. Just breathe," he soothes, voice soft, careful. "You're okay."
Charlie blinks.
Once. Twice. Three times.
His lashes are heavy, confusion pulling at his features.
"Wh-what... What just happened?" His voice is small. Dazed.
Mine. Okay. Breathe. Protect. Hold. Fix.
Fix this. Protect him. Do better! Better! Better. Better.
Deserve this? Yes. Yes, Nick you do. Fix it.
Nick presses his lips together, biting down on the inside of his cheek, willing himself to stay calm for Charlie’s sake.
Breathe. Fucker just breathe!
With slow, deliberate movements, he removes the damp cloth from Charlie’s forehead, brushing away stray water droplets with his thumb before dipping down to press a kiss to the warm skin.
Mine. Fix. Protect. Mine.
"You fainted, Char." He keeps his voice light, like if he says it softly enough, it won’t be so scary.
Charlie scrunches his nose slightly, eyes narrowing in protest.
"What? No, surely not..." He swallows, shaking his head slightly. "I don’t... I mean, I feel a little dizzy, but I—"
Nick hushes him immediately.
"Hey, hey—slow. It's okay."
I've got you. Protect. Not hurt. Protect.
Fix.
Fix.
Fix.
Your fault.
Your fault.
Your fault.
Protect.
Protect.
Fix. Fucking fix.
Charlie starts to push himself up, but Nick places a steadying hand against his shoulder.
"Just stay here for a second, yeah?"
Charlie blinks up at him, his expression worn, tired, but trusting.
Nick reaches over, grabbing the water bottle Harry gave him.
"Here." He unscrews the cap, shifting so he can bring it to Charlie’s lips. "Take a few sips for me. Just a little."
Charlie does as he’s told, his fingers brushing over Nick’s as he takes the bottle into his own shaky hands.
He drinks slowly.
Mine. Good. Safe. Okay.
Nick watches closely, refusing to take his eyes off of him, barely breathing until Charlie swallows and hands the bottle back.
"Good." Nick smiles, rubbing his thumb against Charlie’s wrist in a small, soothing motion.
Charlie closes his eyes, exhaling softly.
Nick hums, reaching for the washcloth again.
"Okay, I’m gonna put this back on for just a bit, I know, I know—" he winces slightly when Charlie whines at the coldness, "—I’m sorry. But it’ll help, I promise."
Charlie pouts slightly but doesn’t argue.
Cute pout. My baby. Cold?
Cold. Fucking fix it Nick.
Fix it.
Don't be bad. Wrong. Awful. Fix. Rebuild. Fix. Protect
Don't be bad. Do better.
Cold. Cold!? Fucking fix it.
Nick reaches over, grabbing one of the blankets from his bed.
With careful hands, he wraps it around both of them, tucking it securely over Charlie’s shoulders.
Once it’s settled, Nick rests his chin on top of Charlie’s head, his arms tightening just slightly around him.
"Better?" he murmurs.
Charlie nods weakly against him.
Nick softens, fingers tracing light circles into Charlie’s back.
"Just want to calm your heartbeat, okay?"
Charlie hums in response, a little breathless but slowly—slowly—starting to feel safe again.
Nick holds him closer. Keeps him grounded.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Protect. Hold. Love. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Nick’s hands won’t stop shaking.
His body feels unsteady, like something inside him is cracking open, splintering, leaking through the gaps.
Charlie is awake now. That should be enough. That should be a relief.
But it isn’t.
Because Charlie had collapsed.
Because Nick had caught him mid-fall, just barely stopping him from hitting his head.
Because Charlie—his Charlie, his smart, beautiful, teasing, frustrating, warm, and kind Charlie—had fucking fainted.
Because Nick had screamed for help without thinking, had completely exposed himself to Harry and Derek and whoever the fuck else had come running—
And now Charlie is looking at him with wide, horrified eyes like Nick has just ruined his entire life.
"Nick…" His voice is weak, unsteady, but panicked. "Was that Harry and them?"
Nick swallows.
"Yeah." He keeps his voice gentle, steady, even though his own hands are shaking. "I… I didn’t wanna leave you, Char. You fainted. I had to call for help—"
"Nick, fuck."
Charlie suddenly moves, trying to sit up too fast, and Nick immediately reacts, gripping his arms, steadying him, hands pressing over his ribs.
"Hey, slow down. You’re still weak—"
"You’re still shirtless." Charlie cuts him off, blinking at him in horror.
Ugly? Ugly. Bad? Bad. Gross? Gross. Cruel? Cruel.
Cover up. Too much. Too soon. Too many bruises. Too tight of skin. Bad. Ugly. Gross. Fix it. Fix it. Fix it.
Then his eyes dart to the door. To the hickey on Nick’s neck. Back to the door.
"They saw me with you. They’re gonna think—"
Nick squeezes his eyes shut, already knowing where this is going.
"It doesn’t matter, Charlie."
Gay. Fag. Bad
Charlie snaps his gaze back to him. His voice rises with something close to panic.
"It doesn’t matter?! Nick, are you serious, I maybe just outed you?"
Out? No.
Please no.
Not that. Dad will be mad. David will laugh. Team will hate.
No. No. No
Nick runs a hand through his hair, suddenly exhausted. "Harry—he more so thinks I caused you to faint, honestly."
Charlie stills. His whole body tenses against Nick.
"What?!"
Violent. Mean. Cruel. Bad. Ugly. Violent.
He's not Derek. He's not like Derek. But, maybe he is.
Violent? Maybe. Maybe. Yes.
No?
Fuck!
Nick exhales. "Yeah. He… He saw the bruises and just assumed. I think he might’ve noticed them earlier when I bumped into him, but maybe he didn’t really register it."
Nick shrugs, like it’s nothing.
Like it doesn’t twist something deep inside him that Harry’s first thought was that Nick had done this to Charlie.
Like it doesn’t fucking gut him that people—his own teammates—look at him and assume he’s a violent piece of shit.
Like Derek? Like Derek.
He's not like him, is he? Is he cruel? Hateful. Egotistical. Arrogant.
Probably.
Maybe he is like Derek.
Fucking fix it then!
Charlie just stares. His face goes pale.
"Nick… fuck. I’m so sorry."
Sorry? Sorry?
Not your fault. Never your fault, Charlie.
All Nick's. He did this. He's done this. He deserves this.
Pain. Bullying. Punches. Hate. Slurs.
He deserves this. He is bad. He is a sinner. He is cruel.
He deserves this hell.
Nick shakes his head. "It’s fine. People assume I’m violent, Char. I’m used to it."
It's fine. It's fine. It's fine.It's fine. It's fine.
Charlie flinches. His whole body jerks like the words physically hit him.
Nick doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t want to say anything else.
Because if he says more, if he really talks about it, he might fucking break down right here in the middle of his dorm with Charlie still shaky in his arms.
So instead—he shifts closer, pressing their foreheads together, lowering his voice.
"You okay?"
Please be okay. Be mine. Love?
Be okay. Fix it. Be strong.
His voice cracks just slightly. Just enough.
Charlie’s breath catches.
And then Nick feels it—Charlie's hand at the back of his neck, gripping him tight.
"I’m okay, I promise."
Nick nods, but he doesn’t let go.
Promise. Promise. Promise. Promise.
P̧͕̒̊͘r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢ḿ̬̏ͤͅỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅẹ̿͋̒̕. P̧͕̒̊͘r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢ḿ̬̏ͤͅỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅẹ̿͋̒̕. P̧͕̒̊͘r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢ḿ̬̏ͤͅỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅẹ̿͋̒̕. P̧͕̒̊͘r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢ḿ̬̏ͤͅỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅẹ̿͋̒̕. P̧͕̒̊͘r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢ḿ̬̏ͤͅỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅẹ̿͋̒̕.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ỉ͔͖̜͌x̛̘̠̹͋ ỉ͔͖̜͌t̲̂̓ͩ̑.
B̩͎͍̾ͅẹ̿͋̒̕ ĝ̽̓̀͑o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒.
O̖̼ͩ͌͐ḳ̯͍̑ͦā̤̓̍͘y҉̃̀̋̑?
P̧͕̒̊͘r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢ḿ̬̏ͤͅỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅẹ̿͋̒̕
P̧͕̒̊͘
R͉̜̎͡͠
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
M͉̅ͮ͒ͤ
I̍̅̀̎̊
S̵̙͕̀̃
Ḛͭ̉̇͟
Fix it!
"Do you… do you know what happened?"
Charlie tenses almost immediately, his body going stiff against Nick’s.
And yeah, okay, that’s an answer in itself.
Charlie knows.
Nick watches as he recoils slightly, like he's trying to shrink into himself. He shrugs, too casual, too forced, too much of a fucking lie.
B̩͎͍̾ͅā̤̓̍͘b̬͖̏́͢y҉̃̀̋̑?
B̩͎͍̾ͅā̤̓̍͘b̬͖̏́͢y҉̃̀̋̑?
L̸̖̽̌͂o̯̱̊͊͢v͒̄ͭ̏̇ẹ̿͋̒̕, w̦̺̐̐͟ḣ̖̻͛̓ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑'s̠҉͍͊ͅ w̦̺̐̐͟r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍ĝ̽̓̀͑?
W̯ͤ̾ͣ͝r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍ĝ̽̓̀͑?
W̯ͤ̾ͣ͝
R͉̜̎͡͠
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
N̺̻̔̆ͅ
G̩̱ͩ̏͜
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ỉ͔͖̜͌x̛̘̠̹͋ ỉ͔͖̜͌t̲̂̓ͩ̑.
"Probably just tired," Charlie says quickly. "I guess I was dehydrated. Should’ve had more water."
Nick doesn’t buy it. Not for a second.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Wrong.
Lies.
He sighs, exhaling through his nose. "Charlie, you just passed out. You scared the hell out of me. Did I… did I cause this? I wasn’t trying to yell, I wasn’t trying to stress you out. I—"
He swallows.
"I have panic attacks a lot, and I know I can be overwhelming. If I did something, if I made you feel like—"
"Nick."
Charlie cuts him off. Firm. Reassuring. Immediate.
"It wasn’t a panic attack, I promise. I’m okay. Just a bit tired, and I guess I didn’t drink much water."
Nick frowns.
That feels like a half-truth.
His mind races back to the night before. He remembers Charlie drinking, remembers the way he had curled into him, had mumbled something about needing to be careful—
Oh.
Oh.
Nick's stomach sinks.
"That’s my fault, then." He grips Charlie's hand, squeezing lightly. "I kept you here. I should’ve made sure—"
"Nick."
Charlie cuts him off again, exhaling sharply. "I could’ve gotten up. I wasn’t listening to my body. That’s on me."
Nick doesn’t like that answer either.
But he lets it go. For now.
Instead, he shakes his head, pushing his fingers through his hair before standing up. "Okay… okay. Here, I have some chips. You should—"
"Nick, I’m fine."
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍ẹ̿͋̒̕?
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍ẹ̿͋̒̕.
N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢.
C̵͉͋̔͞ḣ̖̻͛̓ā̤̓̍͘r̴̨̦͕̝l̙͖̑̾ͣỉ͔͖̜͌ẹ̿͋̒̕?
I̍̅̀̎̊'l̙͖̑̾ͣl̙͖̑̾ͣ f̵͖̜̉ͅỉ͔͖̜͌x̛̘̠̹͋ ỉ͔͖̜͌t̲̂̓ͩ̑.
P̧͕̒̊͘r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢ḿ̬̏ͤͅỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅẹ̿͋̒̕.
P̧͕̒̊͘
R͉̜̎͡͠
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
M͉̅ͮ͒ͤ
I̍̅̀̎̊
S̵̙͕̀̃
Ḛͭ̉̇͟
"I don’t really want food right now. I just… I think I’m gonna go back to mine. Rest up a bit. Maybe steal whatever leftovers Isaac has."
Nick nods immediately, not even hesitating.
Okay.
Fix.
Help.
Do your fucking job, Nick!
"Yeah! Yeah, of course. Just… let me get dressed, and I’ll walk you home."
Charlie blinks at him. "You’d do that?"
His voice is small. Surprised. Like he doesn’t expect it.
And Nick’s heart aches.
"Of course, Char."
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
He pulls his hoodie over his head, tugs it down, then reaches out for Charlie’s hand, intertwining their fingers as he pulls him up.
"People will see," Charlie says hesitantly.
Out? Bad. No. No. No. No. No. No.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe.
Okay? Yes.
Nick shrugs, lacing their fingers tighter. "People have been judging me a lot today. What’s something else? Besides, I care about you, and I want to protect you. Can’t have you passing out again."
Never again. Please no.
No. No. No. No. No.
Charlie huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes.
And then—Nick smirks, tilting his head.
"Well, I mean… I do hope you fall for me again. Just not like that."
Flirt. Fix. Flirt.
Fix.
Do good.
Be better.
Protect.
Charlie groans. "That was awful."
Nick grins. "You love it."
Charlie doesn’t argue.
Just holds Nick’s hand a little tighter.
---
Charlie feels so embarrassed. Like, gut-wrenching, cheeks-burning, never-showing-his-face-in-public-again embarrassed.
He fainted.
On Nick.
Like, fully collapsed in front of him, on him, because of him—or at least, that’s what his brain keeps screaming at him.
What kind of idiot faints while trying to comfort someone else?
Charlie sighs, pressing his lips together as they walk, staring at the pavement. Nick is quiet beside him, too quiet, which only makes Charlie’s stomach twist more.
Fucking hell, can't even go one day without eating before food takes control.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒. F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒. F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒. F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒. F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ư̡͕̭̇c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ ỉ͔͖̜͌t̲̂̓ͩ̑'s̠҉͍͊ͅ c͕͗ͤ̕̕o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ư̡͕̭̇c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ ỉ͔͖̜͌t̲̂̓ͩ̑ ā̤̓̍͘l̙͖̑̾ͣl̙͖̑̾ͣ.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ư̡͕̭̇c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ N̺̻̔̆ͅỉ͔͖̜͌c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ w̦̺̐̐͟ḣ̖̻͛̓ỉ͔͖̜͌l̙͖̑̾ͣẹ̿͋̒̕ ḣ̖̻͛̓ẹ̿͋̒̕'s̠҉͍͊ͅ ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ ỉ͔͖̜͌t̲̂̓ͩ̑.
N̺̻̔̆ͅỉ͔͖̜͌c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ?
N̺̻̔̆ͅỉ͔͖̜͌c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ.
S̵̙͕̀̃t̲̂̓ͩ̑ỉ͔͖̜͌l̙͖̑̾ͣl̙͖̑̾ͣ ḑ̴̞͛̒ỉ͔͖̜͌z̼͙̓́ͭz̼͙̓́ͭy҉̃̀̋̑.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘
I̍̅̀̎̊
N̺̻̔̆ͅ
Ḛͭ̉̇͟
D̶͔̭̪̻
I̍̅̀̎̊
Z̟̈́̆̉͜
Z̟̈́̆̉͜
Ỵ̛̖͋͢
W̯ͤ̾ͣ͝ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ẹ̿͋̒̕r̴̨̦͕̝?
F̘͍͖ͫ͘
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
D̶͔̭̪̻
?
B̩͎͍̾ͅẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑t̲̂̓ͩ̑ẹ̿͋̒̕r̴̨̦͕̝?
W̯ͤ̾ͣ͝ā̤̓̍͘l̙͖̑̾ͣḳ̯͍̑ͦ. N̺̻̔̆ͅỉ͔͖̜͌c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ. C̵͉͋̔͞o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ
Stop it? Stop it!
Food isn't in control.
Stop worrying.
Nick. Help Nick.
He knows Nick is still worried, still watching him like he might drop again at any second. He can feel the way Nick keeps shifting beside him, how his hands twitch like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he should.
Charlie hates it.
- he's not a baby
- he's not in control
- his body is ugly
Stop it. Focus.
Okay.
The guilt sits heavy in his chest. Nick already has so much on his plate, and instead of being there for him, Charlie had just… collapsed.
Literally. Right in the middle of a conversation.
Fucking idiot.
He exhales sharply through his nose, trying to shake it off.
It’s fine.
He’ll fix it.
He’ll schedule a session with Geoff, get his head sorted, and figure out what the hell is wrong with him.
…Okay, so he has been avoiding therapy for the past month since meeting Nick, but it’s fine.
It’s not like Geoff would say anything he doesn’t already know.
Like how his complicated feelings about sex probably stem from his need to be wanted.
Or how he keeps seeking validation in the form of attraction.
Or how he’s still, still, trying to prove something—to himself, to others, to the universe.
Geoff would see right through him.
Charlie doesn’t want to be seen through.
Not right now.
So, yeah. He’s avoiding that conversation.
But anyway!
He's fine!
Charlie clears his throat, shifting his weight. "You’re being weird."
Nick startles slightly beside him, blinking out of whatever thoughts had consumed him. "Huh?"
Charlie sighs, throwing his hands in the air. "This! You! You’re hovering."
Nick frowns. "I’m not hovering."
Charlie scoffs. "Nick, I can feel your anxiety radiating off of you."
Nick presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose. "I mean… can you blame me?"
Charlie slows his pace, looking at Nick more closely. "Nick, I—"
"You passed out, Charlie," Nick interrupts, stopping completely, rubbing his hands over his face. "Like, literally, just—just dropped. I caught you, and you were out. Do you even know how fucking scary that was?"
Charlie winces. His stomach churns, guilt creeping up his spine. "I—I know, I—"
"And then you wake up and immediately try to brush it off like it’s nothing," Nick continues, voice tight, frustrated. "Like you didn’t just terrify the absolute shit out of me. Like—like I’m overreacting for caring."
Charlie swallows. Hard.
Caring?
Caring?
Care? Love? Like?
No, no, no, focus. Fix it.
Control it.
Nick runs a hand through his hair, breathing in sharply before exhaling. "I just… What happened, Char? And don’t just say you were ‘tired.’ Tell me the truth."
Charlie looks away. "Nick—"
"Please."
No.
No.
No.
Lie.
Lie?
But it's Nick, Charlie. It's Nick who is asking. It's him. Trust him. Yes? No? Maybe.
Trust? Lie?
Lie. Lie.
Charlie hates the way that word lands in his chest, the way it breaks something inside him.
He bites the inside of his cheek.
He could lie.
Should like.
Wants to lie.
But it's Nick.
It's Nick!
Say he just hadn’t drunk enough water. That he’d been overexerted. That it was a one-time thing.
One time? Lies. Lies. Lies.
So many fucking lies. Don't lie. It's Nick.
But Nick is struggling, Charlie! Nick doesn't need to worry about this. Fix it.
Control it!
Nick’s looking at him like he’ll know if Charlie lies.
And Charlie feels like he’s drowning under that gaze.
So he sighs. "I have trouble eating."
Nick stiffens immediately.
I'm sorry. Forgive me. I'm better now. I promise. I won't let it happen again. Not in front of you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Forgive me. Please?
Please?
Don't hate me.
I'm trying.
I'm sorry.
"But don't worry! It’s fine! It’s really not a big deal. Today was just… a lot." He throws in a smile for good measure.
It doesn’t work.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck it!
Nick’s frown deepens, his jaw clenching slightly.
"Charlie," he says, voice low, careful, "that is a big deal."
Charlie shifts uncomfortably, pulling at his sleeves. "It’s not."
It isn't. He's fine. Stop babying him.
He has it under control! This was one time! He's fine! He's safe. He's okay! He's got it under control!
Control?
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Nick gives him a look.
"Nick, I—I know my body, okay? I know when I can push and when I need to pull back. I just…" He sighs, rubbing at his temples. "I forgot today."
Nick crosses his arms. "But how often do you ‘forget’?"
Charlie flinches.
Nick sees it.
And Charlie hates it.
Fuck you.
Fuck this.
I'm fine! Don't you see that I'm fine!
He turns away, mumbling, "I don’t know."
Nick’s hand finds his wrist again, holding gently, but firm enough that Charlie has to look at him.
"Charlie," Nick says, softer this time, aching in the way he says it. "You passed out."
Charlie swallows. "I know."
"Because you didn’t eat."
"I know."
Nick inhales sharply, and when he speaks again, his voice is low, desperate. "That’s not okay."
Charlie knows that.
He knows that.
But he also knows that food is complicated. That it’s a routine. That it’s control.
And today, everything spiraled out of control.
He hates that Nick saw it.
It's control. He doesn't have it under control!
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Fix it! Control it!
So he shakes his head. "Nick, I promise I’ll eat something when I get back, okay? I know I need to. I will."
Nick studies him for a long, long moment.
Then, finally, he sighs. "Okay."
Thank fuck. Thank fuck.
Forget and move on.
Worry about Nick.
Help Nick.
Protect him.
Keep him safe.
Hold him.
Control it later.
It's fine. He's fine.
Charlie nods and keeps walking, his pace just slightly quicker than before—if he just keeps moving, if he just keeps talking, if he just makes Nick drop it, it’ll be fine.
But then Nick’s hand grabs his, firm but gentle, pulling him back.
Charlie exhales sharply through his nose, stopping in his tracks.
Nick looks at him, really looks at him, eyes scanning his face, searching for something Charlie doesn’t want to give him.
“Okay,” Nick says carefully, his voice low and soft, the kind of voice that makes Charlie want to lean in, “but… is this something I should be worried about?”
Charlie stiffens.
Nick notices.
No. No. No. No. No.
He's fine. He's got it under control.
It's fine. He's okay. Nothing to worry about.
Charlie forces a breath, preparing a casual, normal response, but then Nick keeps going—
“I mean—I can keep some food you like at my dorm?” Nick suggests, and Charlie’s stomach twists. “Or—Or in my bag, so when we meet at the café, you have breakfast?”
No.
No. No. No.
Nick can’t do that. That means Nick has control. That means Nick decides. That means Nick is in charge of Charlie’s eating, of what goes in his body, of—
No.
Charlie needs control.
Not food.
Not someone else.
Himself.
“No,” Charlie interrupts quickly, voice a little sharper than intended. “Nick, it’s fine.”
Fine. Fine. Fine.
Fine!
Nick tilts his head slightly, frowning.
Charlie swallows and forces a casual shrug, waving a hand. “It’s just a one-time thing,” he says easily, smoothly, as if he hasn’t rehearsed this excuse before.
Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie.
Lie!
Nick doesn’t look convinced.
Charlie keeps walking.
Keep going. Forget it.
Stop being so out of control!
Nick follows, catching up to him, eyes still burning into the side of Charlie’s face, like he can see through him, like he’s trying to figure him out.
“But…” Nick says slowly, hesitantly, “you said you have trouble with food. That hints that it’s… often?”
Charlie wants to roll his eyes, wants to groan dramatically, wants to make a joke to deflect this.
Fuck this. Fuck all of this. I hate this.
I hate all of this.
“Nick, really, it was a one-time thing.” Lie.
Nick doesn’t stop looking at him.
Charlie keeps talking. “Sure, I occasionally forget to eat, but that’s just because of an exam or something, and, I mean—who doesn’t at that point?” Lie. Lie. Lie.
Nick doesn’t respond right away.
His face is unreadable.
Charlie hates it.
Then, finally—
Nick whispers, “Promise?”
Charlie stops walking.
His chest tightens.
His heart stutters, because he can’t promise that.
Because that would be a lie.
So instead—
He forces a grin, nudging Nick’s side. “Okay,” he says, light, breezy, like they’re just talking about the weather. “Now come on, I wanna get back to my dorm. Maybe Isaac’s out, and I can steal his leftover takeout.”
Nick watches him for a second longer.
Then—finally, finally—he sighs, running a hand through his hair, before nodding and starting to walk again.
Charlie lets out a quiet breath of relief.
But his fingers twitch at his side.
He needs to talk to Geoff again.
It’s probably just stress, right?
That’s it.
Just stress.
The food isn’t in control again.
No.
No.
Nothing is in control.
Charlie sighs in relief when they finally reach his dorm. His head is pounding, his body feels like it’s been wrung out, and all he wants to do is crawl into bed and pretend today never happened.
But as he reaches for the doorknob, Nick grabs his hand, stopping him.
Charlie blinks, confused, before he’s suddenly being pulled into a kiss—fierce, desperate, stolen.
His breath catches, his fingers tightening around the strings of Nick’s hoodie, pulling him closer, closer, closer—God, he loves this. He loves Nick’s warmth, loves the way his lips feel against his own, loves the way Nick sighs into him like Charlie is safe—
Then—
A door slams down the hall.
Giggling echoes against the walls.
Nick jerks away.
Charlie stands there, dazed, lips tingling, heart still hammering in his chest.
But Nick won’t look at him.
His shoulders are tense, eyes darting down the hallway, scanning for any wandering eyes, any threats.
And Charlie—
Charlie swallows down the sting.
Whatever.
It doesn’t matter.
It’s fine.
He turns, pushing open the door, plastering a smile on his face when warm golden light floods the room.
Isaac is sitting on his bed, book in his lap, and he barely glances up before sending Charlie a small wave.
Charlie waves back, stepping inside, feeling Nick hover behind him like a ghost.
Then—
Isaac looks over Charlie’s shoulder.
At Nick.
And—oh.
Isaac sends Nick a wave, too.
Charlie stills.
That’s—
That’s progress.
A good thing.
A small warmth flickers in his chest, but he shoves it down, because right now, he needs to eat.
He turns, immediately dropping to his knees and pulling out his designated stash of safe foods from under his bed, rummaging through bags and boxes. He’s barely registering anything around him, hyper-focused on finding something that won’t make him feel like throwing up, when—
"You alright, Charlie?"
Isaac’s voice—oddly cautious.
"Yeah, yeah," Charlie says quickly, waving a hand dismissively, shoving a granola bar into his lap. "Just fine."
A pause.
Then—
"Actually," Nick starts, voice hesitant, "he, uh… he passed out."
Charlie freezes.
Fucking hell.
Stop. Rude. Why?
Why?
I'm okay!
I'm fine!
Shut up! It's under control!
"So I… yeah," Nick continues awkwardly.
Charlie grits his teeth, hitting his head on the bed frame as he tries to sit up. "Nick," he warns, voice sharp. "It’s not a big deal."
A pause.
Then—
"Wait," Isaac says, voice sharper now. "You fainted again?"
Charlie’s stomach drops.
Fuck no!
Stop!
Shut up! He's fine! He's fine!
Stop! Stop!
Stop!
"I thought you were doing better," Isaac continues.
Nick, still standing by the door, straightens abruptly. "Again?" he repeats, voice tight, words like a bullet.
Charlie pinches the bridge of his nose. His heart is pounding, frustration bubbling in his chest, a lump forming in his throat
No, no, no. This isn’t happening. Not now, not in front of Nick.
I'm fine! I'm in control!
Okay, okay! I'm sorry!
Forgive me!
"It’s not a big deal," Charlie insists, shoving his snacks back under the bed. "Nick, just trust me on this."
It isn't. He's fine.
It's fine!
But Nick won’t let it go.
"But Isaac just said—"
"Nick," Charlie interrupts, voice firm. "Don’t ask me to explain. Listen to me. I’m fine."
Isaac’s lips press into a thin line, clearly unconvinced.
Nick looks lost.
Charlie can’t deal with this right now.
The hovering, the worry, the way they’re both looking at him like he’s fragile.
He needs space, needs control, needs to breathe.
So he forces himself to smile—small, soft, convincing.
"Nick," he says, reaching up to cup his face, tilting his head slightly. "Please go."
Nick’s expression crumbles.
His brows furrow, his lips part, his body tenses—
"But I—"
"Leave, Nick," Charlie says, voice cracking. "Please. I’ll text you later. Just go."
Silence.
I'm sorry. Leave. Please. I'm bad. I'm not in control.
Don't see me!
Nick stares at him, chest rising and falling, eyes pleading, searching for something Charlie can’t give him right now.
Then—
Nick exhales.
Steps back.
Runs a hand through his hair, looking away.
"...Fine," he mumbles.
Isaac watches, silent, unreadable.
Nick gives Charlie one last look.
Then, without another word—
He turns.
And walks out.
Charlie watches the door shut behind him, swallows the lump in his throat, and forces himself to breathe.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ư̡͕̭̇c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ!
F̘͍͖ͫ͘
U̠҉̷̙ͦ
C̵͉͋̔͞
K͕͓͌̎̾
N̺̻̔̆ͅỉ͔͖̜͌c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ.
I̍̅̀̎̊'ḿ̬̏ͤͅ
S̵̙͕̀̃o̯̱̊͊͢
S̵̙͕̀̃o̯̱̊͊͢r̴̨̦͕̝r̴̨̦͕̝y҉̃̀̋̑
"What the fuck, man?!"
I'm mad! I'm mad! I'm not in control!
I'm sorry!
Fuck it!
I'm sorry!
Isaac blinks, startled by the sudden outburst.
Charlie rakes his hands through his hair, pacing. His skin is hot, his head still dizzy, and fuck, everything is spiraling too fast.
"What I disclosed to you," he continues, voice shaking, "about my—" He stops, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to steady himself. "About my eating habits, that's not something for you to just freely bring up!"
Ḛͭ̉̇͟ā̤̓̍͘t̲̂̓ͩ̑ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍ĝ̽̓̀͑ D̶͔̭̪̻ỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢r̴̨̦͕̝ḑ̴̞͛̒ẹ̿͋̒̕r̴̨̦͕̝?
N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ư̡͕̭̇c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ y҉̃̀̋̑o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇
I̍̅̀̎̊'ḿ̬̏ͤͅ f̵͖̜̉ͅỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍ẹ̿͋̒̕!
C̵͉͋̔͞ḣ̖̻͛̓ā̤̓̍͘r̴̨̦͕̝l̙͖̑̾ͣỉ͔͖̜͌ẹ̿͋̒̕, s̠҉͍͊ͅt̲̂̓ͩ̑o̯̱̊͊͢p̞̈͑̚͞! S̵̙͕̀̃t̲̂̓ͩ̑o̯̱̊͊͢p̞̈͑̚͞, s̠҉͍͊ͅt̲̂̓ͩ̑o̯̱̊͊͢p̞̈͑̚͞, s̠҉͍͊ͅt̲̂̓ͩ̑o̯̱̊͊͢p̞̈͑̚͞!
I̍̅̀̎̊ ā̤̓̍͘ḿ̬̏ͤͅ o̯̱̊͊͢ḳ̯͍̑ͦā̤̓̍͘y҉̃̀̋̑!
N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢t̲̂̓ͩ̑ ā̤̓̍͘ ḑ̴̞͛̒ỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅo̯̱̊͊͢r̴̨̦͕̝ḑ̴̞͛̒ẹ̿͋̒̕r̴̨̦͕̝!
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ư̡͕̭̇c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ y҉̃̀̋̑o̯̱̊͊͢ư̡͕̭̇!
Isaac frowns, setting his book aside. "Charlie, I—"
"I trusted you," Charlie interrupts. His throat is tight, his voice cracking. "You of all people, Isaac!"
"I'm sorry!" Isaac says quickly, standing now, his own frustration creeping in. "I just—I thought your boyfriend would want to know!"
Charlie flinches.
"He’s not my boyfriend," he snaps. His chest tightens. "And what I went through at Truman—" His voice dies in his throat. He swallows hard, shakes his head. "I trusted you."
Isaac exhales through his nose, rubbing his temples. "I know, Charlie, I know. But..." He hesitates. "Is it... getting bad again?"
Charlie recoils.
No.
No, it’s not.
It can’t be.
Because if it is, that means something is wrong.
And nothing is wrong.
It’s fine.
Just a bad day.
Just a one-time thing.
"No," Charlie says quickly, shaking his head. "No. It was just—one bad day, Isaac, that’s all." He exhales sharply, forcing himself to sit down on the bed. "With all the drinking last night, and then Nick losing his captain position—"
"Wait," Isaac interrupts, eyes narrowing. "Nick lost the captain position?"
Yeah, my poor baby. My poor baby. I'm sorry.
I want to protect you.
Charlie sighs, flopping onto his bed, finally peeling open his granola bar. He stares at it, suddenly unsure if he even wants to eat it anymore. His stomach is still a tangled mess of knots.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ư̡͕̭̇c͕͗ͤ̕̕ḳ̯͍̑ͦ.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒
N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢.
N̺̻̔̆ͅo̯̱̊͊͢t̲̂̓ͩ̑
F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒.
G̩̱ͩ̏͜r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢s̠҉͍͊ͅs̠҉͍͊ͅ
C̵͉͋̔͞o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ.
B̩͎͍̾ͅẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑t̲̂̓ͩ̑ẹ̿͋̒̕r̴̨̦͕̝
D̶͔̭̪̻o̯̱̊͊͢ b̬͖̏́͢ẹ̿͋̒̕t̲̂̓ͩ̑t̲̂̓ͩ̑ẹ̿͋̒̕r̴̨̦͕̝. C̵͉͋̔͞o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ ỉ͔͖̜͌t̲̂̓ͩ̑
"Yeah," he mutters. "I think his coach might be a bit homophobic. I don’t know. Apparently, they think Nick is ‘too violent.’"
Isaac scoffs. "Well, he is violent."
No, he isn't.... He's just lost.
Lost.
So fucking lost.
Charlie freezes.
Slowly, he turns his head. "Isaac," he says, voice low, controlled. "Love you, but your opinion is not one I want to hear right now."
Isaac just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.
Charlie groans, tossing the granola bar onto his bedside table, rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "Did you notice the bruises, Isaac?" he asks, voice quieter now. "Like, really notice them?"
Isaac hesitates.
Charlie watches him. Watches the way Isaac’s mind works, flipping through past memories, past details, putting things together.
"Wait," Isaac says slowly. "Those weren’t from practice today?"
Charlie exhales harshly, pressing his palms over his eyes. "I love when you let me finish my sentences."
Isaac crosses his arms. "Charlie," he warns.
Charlie drops his hands, looking at him now.
"They were from last night," he says. "Derek hurt him."
My poor baby.
Mine.
Hurt. Bad. Sad.
My poor baby?
Isaac’s expression hardens.
"I think Derek’s starting to figure out that Nick might not be straight. And he got heated last night. And he— He stops, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "And he hurt him, Isaac."
Silence.
Isaac just stares.
Processing.
Charlie watches as his friend’s face shifts—recognition, realization, anger.
Then, softly—
"Shit," Isaac murmurs.
Poor baby. Poor Nick.
My poor baby.
Sad. Upset. Sadness
Not deserve.
Charlie exhales, rubbing his face with one hand before running it through his hair. His head is still heavy, the aftereffects of everything catching up to him.
"Yeah," he mutters. "Shit."
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, pressing his fingers into his temples. "He's a wreck, Isaac," he continues, voice quieter now. "And I tried—I tried to help him, but... I don’t know. I don’t think he realizes there's a lot more to life than rugby."
Isaac watches him, arms crossed, brows furrowed.
"And are you willing to be with someone who thinks like that?" he asks. "Charlie, you fainted—that’s not something to just forget."
Fuck that.
Nick is mine. He's okay, he's better.
Let me be happy.
Please. Please. Please.
Charlie sighs, staring at his half-eaten granola bar before taking a large bite, chewing slowly, thinking.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘o̯̱̊͊͢o̯̱̊͊͢ḑ̴̞͛̒.
S̵̙͕̀̃w̦̺̐̐͟ā̤̓̍͘l̙͖̑̾ͣl̙͖̑̾ͣo̯̱̊͊͢w̦̺̐̐͟.
G̩̱ͩ̏͜r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢s̠҉͍͊ͅs̠҉͍͊ͅ.
C̵͉͋̔͞o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍t̲̂̓ͩ̑r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢l̙͖̑̾ͣ.
G̩̱ͩ̏͜ā̤̓̍͘ĝ̽̓̀͑.
D̶͔̭̪̻o̯̱̊͊͢ṇ̤͛̒̍'t̲̂̓ͩ̑ t̲̂̓ͩ̑ḣ̖̻͛̓r̴̨̦͕̝o̯̱̊͊͢w̦̺̐̐͟ ư̡͕̭̇p̞̈͑̚͞.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘ỉ͔͖̜͌ṇ̤͛̒̍ỉ͔͖̜͌s̠҉͍͊ͅḣ̖̻͛̓ ỉ͔͖̜͌t̲̂̓ͩ̑.
F̘͍͖ͫ͘
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
O̖̼ͩ͌͐
D̶͔̭̪̻
"I know, Isaac," he mumbles through the food. "I know." He swallows, licks the crumbs off his lips, and leans back against the bed frame. "I think..." He pauses, exhaling through his nose. "I think I’m gonna talk to Geoff, okay? I will. I can't keep ignoring him."
Isaac tilts his head slightly, nodding.
"Good."
"But," Charlie continues, "I think Nick needs to talk to somebody too." His fingers tighten around the granola bar. "But he seems so... so far away sometimes."
Poor Nick. Poor baby.
Fix it.
Control it.
Mine.
Poor Nick!
Isaac’s expression softens, but only slightly.
"Charlie," he says carefully, "I’m happy you’ve found someone who makes you happy. But you will always be my first concern. Maybe just..." He hesitates, choosing his words. "Maybe it’s best you avoid Nick for a bit? At least until you talk to Geoff?"
No.
No.
No.
Mine? Mine.
Charlie’s head snaps up. "What?"
Isaac sighs, sitting down on the bed beside him.
"Charlie, you need time to focus on yourself," he says gently. "Your health. Your well-being. You can't pour everything into fixing Nick when you’re still struggling, too."
I'm not struggling. I'm not struggling. I'm not struggling.
Charlie shakes his head, sitting up straighter. "But that means I’m abandoning him!" His voice is louder now, more desperate. "I can't do that to him, Isaac. He’s already lost so much!"
So lost. So lost.
Poor Nick. Fix Nick. Help him. Don't say goodbye.
Isaac stays steady, unwavering. "And maybe," he says, "that gives him the chance to choose—you or rugby."
Charlie flinches.
His grip tightens around the granola bar until it crumbles slightly in his palm.
"That’s an ultimatum," he whispers. "I don’t wanna give him an ultimatum."
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Please no. Stop. Stop. Stop!
Isaac sighs, shaking his head.
"Charlie," he says, "if he truly cares for you, he’ll contact you. He’ll want to see you." He pauses, voice lowering. "You can’t be the only one chasing."
Charlie’s stomach churns.
It feels like an ultimatum.
But maybe... maybe Isaac’s right.
Nick has to want this too.
Isaac leans back, nodding toward Charlie’s desk. "Now please," he says, voice gentler now. "Schedule that meeting with Geoff."
Charlie swallows hard.
Then, slowly—he reaches for his phone.