Chapter 26
Fuck this! Fuck everything!
Nick exhales sharply the moment he steps into his dorm, already exhausted and bracing for whatever new bullshit life has decided to throw at him today.
But the moment he sees the figure lounging on his bed, sipping from his favorite whiskey—the one he only ever touches when there's something worth celebrating—his stomach twists with something acidic.
Harry.
Of course it’s fucking Harry.
Please let it stop! Please have everything stop! Stop stop stop! Leave leave leave! Let me have peace!
Please!
Please!
Stop!
Nick’s jaw tightens, his shoulders stiffening as he shuts the door behind him with more force than necessary. “Really, Harry? No sense of privacy now, or what?”
Harry shrugs, completely unbothered, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking another slow sip. "Hey, you’re the one that called for help," he says. "And had that little twink in your arms."
Nick stops.
His hands curl into fists at his sides.
Fuck you! I hate you!
You're supposed to be my friend!
Why are you saying these things? Why are you being rude? Why can't you just accept this?
I'm not toxic! I'm not violent! I'm okay! I'm okay! I'm okay!
“Harry.” His voice is already strained, patience thinner than it’s ever been. "I really don’t have time for arguing right now... Just—please. Don’t call him that."
Please stop. Please accept him. Please please please just let it go!
Let it all fucking go! Please!
He deserves happiness. I deserve it too! I'm happy with him!
I'm not violent. He doesn't deserve hate. Stop hating me!
You're supposed to be my friend!
Harry raises an eyebrow, mock amusement flickering across his face. "Sensitive," he hums, but Nick doesn’t take the bait.
He can’t take the bait, not when he’s already balancing on the edge of something fragile.
Fuck you! Let me be sensitive!
I'm allowed to have feelings! I'm allowed to feel! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!
Nick exhales slowly, shaking his head. "Look, I appreciate you helping, but can we move past it? I’m fucking tired, man."
Forget it. Nothing happened. I didn't hurt him. I never would.
Why do you assume I'm violent? We're supposed to be friends, friends, friends! Why are you acting like this?
Do you hate me?
Forget. Forget. Forget. Forget.
Harry doesn’t move.
Instead, he swirls the whiskey again, eyes dark and calculating as they flick over Nick like he’s seeing something Nick isn’t ready for him to see.
"I just found out you lost the captain position," Harry finally says, voice calm, too fucking calm. "And then I find you with some fucking boy, nearly half-naked. Want to explain what that’s about?"
Nick clenches his jaw.
Charlie.
My Charlie. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
My Charlie, who passed out in his arms. My Charlie, who scared the fucking life out of him. My Charlie, who, just moments ago, was promising to be patient with him and hold him through his worst moments.
And now here’s Harry, sitting in his room, drinking his whiskey, throwing him around like he’s just some fucking mistake Nick got caught with.
Fuck you! Be my friend! Fucking accept me! Fucking accept me, God damnit!
Don't be like Derek! Please.
"Charlie’s a friend," Nick forces out. "He passed out. That’s all there is to it."
Passed out. Fainted. What's wrong with Charlie? Charlie. Charlie. Charlie. Charlie. What's wrong with Charlie?
Fainted? Passed out? Eating troubles?
What's wrong? What's wrong! Poor Charlie.
Harry hums again, unimpressed, and takes another long drink.
"Right," he drawls. "So Coach just randomly decides to take you off as captain. Right after you start showing up with a hickey—which I can still see, by the way—" he gestures lazily toward Nick’s neck, "and this Charlie fellow just happens to start attending rugby games all of a sudden. And then, last Friday, you mysteriously miss out on the pubs, and the next morning, you show up looking like you had a real fun night."
He tilts his head.
"I’m not a genius, Nelson," he says. "But I’m also not fucking stupid."
Silence.
Thick. Heavy. Suffocating.
Fuck you! Fuck you!
I hate you! I am worthy! Stop being rude! Accept me! Please!
Charlie. Charlie. Charlie. Charlie.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe! Fucking breathe!
Stop, it's fine! Charlie!
Nick doesn’t breathe.
His hands shake.
"Look," Harry continues, and Nick already knows what’s coming before he even says it. "You could have told me you were a fag."
Something inside Nick snaps.
There’s no explosion, no sudden outburst—just silence.
He stares at Harry. His best friend. His teammate. Someone who, up until this moment, he might have even considered safe.
Harry, sitting there with his legs stretched out, in his bed, drinking his whiskey, like he didn’t just say what he did.
Like it was nothing.
Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!
I'm enough! I'm not a sin. Sin? Sin? No. Fuck this. Stop this. Fuck you, fuck this. Stop. Stop. Stop. Fuck all of this.
Accept me, God damnit! I'm your friend! I'm your fucking friend!
Nick doesn’t realize how hard his hands are shaking until his nails start digging into his palms.
Breathe. Breathe. Fucking breathe.
Don't fight. Don't fight. You aren't violent. You AREN'T violent.
"Get out."
His voice is low. Steady. Dangerous.
Harry scoffs, raising an eyebrow. "What?"
Nick takes a step forward. "I said, get the fuck out."
Please leave. Before I fucking breathe. Before I crash out. Before I cry.
Don't cry, Nick. Don't be a fucking pussy in front of them. Hold it together. Stay calm.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Harry blinks, clearly taken aback by the shift in his tone. "Jesus, Nick, relax—"
"Relax?" Nick lets out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair before gripping the back of his neck. "You just— You just fucking—" He stops himself, shaking his head. "I trusted you, Harry."
Harry’s expression shifts, just slightly—like he wasn’t expecting Nick to react like this.
"Nick, come on—"
"No. No. Fuck you, Harry." His voice wavers, the emotions rising in his throat burning like acid. "You don’t get to sit here and act like you give a shit about me. You don’t get to sit here and drink my fucking whiskey and pretend like what you just said was fine."
Wrong. Bad. Ugly. Cruel. Bad. Ugly. Cruel.
Not fine. Slur. Ugly. Bad. Wrong. Not fine.
Breathe Nick. Fucking breathe!
Harry exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. "Nick—"
"I said get the fuck out."
"You know, man," he mutters, setting the glass down on Nick’s desk. "I don’t fucking care what you do. Just don’t start acting all high and mighty now that you’re fucking around with a bloke instead of a cheerleader."
Nick clenches his fists.
He isn't just a bloke. Why do you even care?! It's my fucking life, let me control it! Why are you wrong?! And bad. You're supposed to be my friend. Be my friend!
Screw you! Charlie isn't just a bloke. He's Charlie.
My Charlie.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Harry watches him for a moment longer, like he’s waiting for a reaction, waiting for something, but Nick doesn’t give him the satisfaction.
Instead, he walks to the door, opens it, and stands there.
Leave. Accept me or leave. But don't out me.
Please don't fucking out me.
Please. Please. Please.
In. And out. In. Out. Breathe. In. Out. In
In. In.
Harry scoffs, grabbing his jacket and heading toward the door. He stops just before stepping out, glancing at Nick one last time.
"You’re not gonna last with him," he says. "You’re not wired for this kind of shit."
Nick swallows, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The words sting. Not because he believes them—but because there’s a part of him, the insecure, scared, self-loathing part of him, that still wonders if Harry might be right.
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you!
This is who I am. Accept it. Accept me. Please. Please. Please. Accept me, don't out me. Be my mate, my friend.
Please.
Nick, sighs and just grips the edge of the door, bracing himself, forcing his breathing to stay even.
In. Out. In. Out.
In. In. In.
Out. Out. Out.
In. And out.
And then, before Harry can step fully into the hallway, before Nick can let him walk away without a second thought—
"Don’t tell anyone, Harry."
His voice is quiet. Raw.
Harry stops.
Turns slightly, raising an eyebrow. "What?"
Please don't. I can't handle that. Dad will hate me, my brother will judge me, school will bullying me. Please don't out me.
Be my fucking friend.
Please.
Nick’s fingers tighten around the doorframe. His pride feels like it's cracking, but he doesn’t care.
He can’t care. He’s already lost too much.
"Please," he murmurs. "Don’t tell anyone."
Harry studies him for a moment. Maybe considering it. Maybe just savoring the power he has in this moment.
And then he shrugs.
"We'll see."
And with that, he walks off.
Nick stands there, door still open, staring at the empty hallway long after Harry is gone.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Breathe in. And out. Don't lose control.
Fix it. Fix it!
Nick doesn’t know what to do with that.
"We’ll see."
It echoes in his head, sits heavy on his chest like a weight pressing down, squeezing the breath from his lungs.
It’s not a confirmation, not a promise, not even a threat—it’s worse.
It’s uncertainty. A ticking time bomb that might never go off, or might detonate when he least expects it, shattering everything he’s barely holding together.
Please don't. Please don't. Please don't.
Harry, I'm sorry. Come back. I'll change. I'll do better. I'm sorry. Harry, please I'm sorry. Come back. Be my friend. Please. Please?
Breathe in. Out.
Don't cry. Don't fucking cry.
He frowns deeper and closes the door behind him gently, like if he’s careful enough, the world outside won’t collapse in on him.
But it already has.
The moment the door clicks shut, his exhaustion catches up with him like a freight train. His hoodie suddenly feels suffocating, too hot, too heavy, so he yanks it off and flops onto his bed, ignoring the way the bruises on his ribs scream at him in protest. He just lays there, staring at the ceiling, Elphie clutched against his chest, trying to breathe.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Don't panic. Don't cry.
Don't fucking cry, idiot. Stop being so sensitive. Harry was right. Listen to him. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.
In. Out. In. In. In. Out. Out. Out.
Charlie isn’t eating properly.
Nick lost his captain position.
Harry might out him.
And if not Harry, then Derek.
Or Coach.
Or someone else.
Someone, someday, somehow, will decide for him.
Nick lets out a slow breath, rubbing at his face, before forcing himself to sit up. He grabs a pen and the sticky notes from his nightstand, the ones he knows he shouldn’t be using for this but does anyway, and starts writing.
Fix it.
That’s the first one. The most important. He doesn’t know how, but he has to. He has to.
Do better.
Not just for himself—fuck, never for himself. For Charlie. For his team. For his mum. For anyone who still believes in him, if there’s anyone left.
Stop fucking crying.
Because crying is weak. Because it doesn’t change anything. Because he can’t afford to feel sorry for himself when everything is already slipping through his fingers.
Take care of others, not you.
Because what the hell does he matter? What the hell does his pain or his struggles or his fucking pathetic bruises mean compared to everyone else’s problems?
Stop being an asshole.
Because maybe Harry is right. Maybe he isn’t wired for this. Maybe he is too aggressive, too reckless, too much like the person he never wanted to be. Maybe that’s why he keeps ruining everything.
Failure.
Because that’s all he is now, isn’t he? He was supposed to lead his team, supposed to go pro, supposed to be someone and now he’s... this.
Faggot.
The pen hesitates, just for a second, but he writes it anyway.
Because that’s what Derek saw when he looked at him.
That’s what Harry called him.
That’s what his father would see if he knew.
That’s the reason he lost his captain position.
That’s the reason this all hurts so much.
He presses his lips together, blinking rapidly, and sticks the note onto the wall with the others.
It’s fine. It’s just a word. Just a fucking word.
Ruined your career.
Because he did. Because everything he’s worked for is slipping away, and maybe he deserves it.
Maybe this was always bound to happen.
Maybe he was never meant to be great.
He exhales shakily, rubbing his hand down his face before gripping at his hair, tugging hard, like if he pulls hard enough, he can erase everything. The weight in his chest, the ache in his ribs, the pounding in his skull. The fear.
But he can’t.
So he sinks back into the mattress, curling onto his side, pulling the covers up over his head like he can block out the world if he just hides deep enough.
Elphie is soft under his fingers, the same way it always has been. The same way it was when he was a kid and everything felt too big, too overwhelming, and he just needed something safe to hold onto.
He clutches it tighter against his chest, letting out a slow, shaky breath.
Tomorrow, he’ll fix it.
Tomorrow, he’ll do better.
Tomorrow, he’ll be better.
But for tonight, he just tries to disappear.
---
Charlie schedules an emergency meeting with Geoff.
He hates these meetings. Not because of Geoff—Geoff is great, really. Kind, patient, and frustratingly good at seeing through every single one of Charlie’s deflections.
But because these meetings meant something was wrong.
Issac had insisted. Begged, even. And Charlie, despite the twisting in his gut, had promised. Because Geoff always told him that acknowledging when things weren’t okay was progress, even when it didn’t feel like it.
Yeah right.
So much for healing. So much for doing better.
Fucking hell, Charlie. Drama queen.
Do better. Fucking idiot.
Issac had been kind enough to clear out of the dorm for the night, heading out with Imogen and Sahar, giving Charlie the privacy he needed.
What would he do without Issac? Probably kill himself honestly.
And now, he’s here, sitting at his desk, staring at his laptop screen as Geoff's familiar face pops up, smiling in that knowing, patient way that made Charlie both grateful and so unbearably seen.
FUCKING HELL. DON'T PANIC.
Breathe.
It's just Geoff!
It's fine. You're fine.
Control it!
“Charlie," Geoff greets warmly, eyes soft with fondness, but also something deeper. Concern. "It’s been a while.”
Charlie swallows.
Right.
He hadn’t exactly been keeping up with his appointments.
Oops.
“As much as I love hearing from you, emergency meetings are never my favorite. Are you doing okay?"
Yeah, he's great.
Not like there's a guy he is utterly captivated for. Not like he passed out. Not like food is controlling him.
He's totally okay. Living the dream actually!
Oh, and not to mention he wants to sleep with said boy Geoff doesn't know about.
He's fine!
Charlie forces a breath through his nose, picking at the fraying threads of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
“I’m fine.”
Too fast, too easy.
And Geoff—of course Geoff—doesn’t buy it.
One eyebrow raises, barely noticeable, but there.
Fuck you, stop seeing me so well! Stop knowing me.
Fuck this, man.
He's fine!
"I didn’t relapse, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He tugs the blanket tighter around himself, as if that could hide the guilt creeping up his spine. “Still eighteen months clean.”
YAY HIM!
Yay? Him?
Eighteen months. Is that a lot?
Is that enough?
Fucking hell, he hates food.
Fucking hell, he hates his scars.
Fuck this all.
He hears the way Geoff exhales softly, his expression not quite relieved—because Geoff never assumes Charlie is going to relapse, never expects the worst—but pleased, like he’s proud of him for still being here, still holding on.
OKAY?! PROGRESS!
YAY HIM!
BREATHE.
IN. OUT. OKAY? CALM. BREATHE.
“I wasn’t worried about that,” Geoff says, calm as ever. “I know you, Charlie. I know you’re strong enough to hold off that craving.” A pause. “And I know if you had relapsed, you wouldn’t be on this call. You’re usually not so open about emergency meetings unless someone else convinced you to be.”
Charlie’s jaw tightens, his fingers stilling on the thread.
Damn it.
Why does Geoff always do that? Why does he always see him?
“So," Geoff prompts gently, "what’s going on?”
Nothing. He's fine! Fuck you, not actually, but come on man!
I'm fine! Nothing is going on!
Fine! Fine! Fine! Fine!
“It’s nothing, really. I’m more doing this meeting for Issac than anything else.”
It is nothing!
Truly nothing!
I'm fine!
Geoff hums, amused but patient. “Mmm. And I’m sure Issac had some reason for concern?”
Charlie picks harder at the thread.
Shit.
No. It's fine.
He's fine.
Shut up, man.
“Maybe,” he mutters.
Geoff waits. He always waits.
He never pushes, never demands, never forces Charlie to talk before he’s ready—but the waiting is worse. Because Charlie knows Geoff will sit there, staring at him with his stupid kind eyes, until he does talk.
So Charlie sighs. Deflates. Hugs the blanket closer.
He hates feeling vulnerable, hates the way Geoff is looking at him like he already knows.
And he probably does.
Because Geoff has been in his life for three years now, seen him at his lowest, his ugliest, his most fragile.
Charlie knows there’s no point in pretending he’s fine, no point in acting like this is nothing.
Geoff notices immediately, of course.
“Would you rather I guess?” he asks, voice gentle, patient as always. “I like to think I know you pretty well, Charlie. Almost three years of sessions will do that.”
Boo!
Guessing. What are we?? In primary school? Fuck this.
Fuck you. Well, no, sorry. You're a bit too old for my taste. But still, screw you!
Charlie lets out a heavy breath, hiding his face in his knees. “Yeah… You can guess,” he mutters. “It’s too embarrassing to say.”
“Well,” Geoff starts, and Charlie braces himself, “you have this certain glow about you right now. Which you only have when you’re interested in someone.”
Charlie groans, dropping his head further into his arms.
“No. Fuck you, Geoff, seriously. I do not have a glow!”
A glow? A fucking glow?!
Absolutely the fuck not!
No. No. No. No. No.
Geoff laughs, and Charlie wants to die.
Laughing at me? Really?
Oh he wants to die!
“You get defensive when people prove themselves right before you,” Geoff points out easily, and Charlie grumbles, “Stupid glow,” under his breath.
Really stupid glow.
Geoff’s voice softens. “So?” he prompts. “Do you want to talk to me about this boy?”
Charlie frowns, lips pressing into a thin line.
Boy? Ugh. Fuck you, Geoff!
“No,” he mutters. “Because you’re just going to say the same thing. About how obsessing over straight boys is doing harm to myself, and it’s about seeking validation from people I never got it from. Blah blah blah, I’ve heard the speech.”
Geoff raises an eyebrow. “Well, you just admitted there’s a boy. And you seem quite sassy today too.”
Charlie groans.
“Fuck you, nan. Stupid glow. Fine! Yes, there’s a boy, but…” he sighs, hands fisting the fabric of his blanket. “That’s not—it’s not like the others, okay?”
Geoff tilts his head, waiting.
“The others,” he starts slowly, “were just obsession. Because they wore tight shorts and I could see their ass jiggle when they ran or something stupid like that. Or they had really good arms, or they wore a tank top that made their shoulders look unreal. And I’d get stuck on it. Get fixated. But this…”
He swallows.
“This is different.”
Nick is different. He is different.
Different good? Different bad?
Different.
Good. And bad.
But it's Nick.
Nick. Nick. Nick. Nick.
Charlie exhales. “I’ve actually kissed this boy.” He glances away, voice quieter now. “And not in the lustful way that usually leads to sex, I mean… I have thought about sex with him. Obviously.” He huffs a small, embarrassed laugh. “But it’s not just that. It’s… it’s more than that.”
Arms. Legs. Smile. Grin. Eyes. Humor. Laugh.
Nick.
Mine.
Mine. Mine
“I don’t think he really wants sex with me?” His voice lifts slightly, uncertain. “Maybe he does? I don’t know. I think we would’ve had sex last night, but I got drunk, and I think he’s also maybe a bit scared? Which—I get it, obviously. It’s not like he’s had a dick in his ass before or anything.”
Geoff hums, amused. “Most straight guys haven’t before, no.”
Right.
Right.
Right.
Straight?
No. No. No.
Bisexual? Maybe.
Uhh, Nick please figure it out!
“But that’s the thing,” he mutters, voice picking up again. “He isn’t just some straight boy! He’s Nick!” His chest tightens, hands gesturing wildly as he tries to explain. “And Nick is… God. He’s confusing. He seems like a bit of an asshole—like he has all this internalized homophobia, all this baggage from his upbringing and his place in society. And yeah, he lashes out. He pushes people away. He’s been so cruel in the past.”
Charlie swallows hard.
Breathe in.
Don't panic.
Control.
Control.
Control!
“But when we’re alone?” His voice drops to something softer, something fragile. “When he doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone? He’s so soft. He’s different, Geoff. And that scares me, but… but I think I really like him.”
Like? Most definitely.
Care? Of course.
Attracted to? Yes, please give me that dick.
“So, you like this boy,” Geoff starts, his tone neutral. “And you want sex with him.”
Yep. Pretty much.
Oh, but I'm also struggling to eat.
And I'm worried he'll see me as ugly.
But I really want to fuck him. And him fuck me.
Ugh!
Charlie groans, tipping his head back against the chair. “I really hate this conversation.”
Geoff simply smiles. “And yet, you scheduled this meeting.”
Charlie glares.
“This is your time, Charlie,” Geoff reminds him. “I’m just trying to understand what’s bothering you.”
Charlie exhales, running a hand down his face. “I don’t even know!” he huffs.
Nothing is wrong!
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing!
Geoff waits, silent. He’s letting him work through it, as always, letting him trip over his own thoughts until they finally start making sense.
Charlie sighs. “I guess… maybe life’s been a bit stressful since he came into my life. Because I feel like it’s my responsibility to help him.”
Geoff nods. “Right. And you feel responsible for what, exactly?”
Charlie shifts in his seat, his grip tightening around his own arms, nails pressing into his skin.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess maybe… making him not be so against himself?” His voice wavers slightly. “Helping him… see himself the way I do?”
Kind. Sexy. Sweet. Gentle. Beautiful. Mine.
Geoff watches him closely, eyes flicking briefly to Charlie’s hands, how he holds himself so tightly like he’s afraid of coming apart.
“And in doing that,” Geoff says carefully, “you’re… not paying attention to yourself?”
Charlie flinches.
“I—” He stops. Swallows. Shrugs. “Maybe?”
“Charlie,” he says gently, “you always put others before yourself. It’s one of your most admirable traits. You care deeply, and that’s not a bad thing.” He pauses. “But it is a problem when you stop taking care of yourself in the process.”
I'm sorry!
I'm sorry!
I won't relapse.
I am trying.
I am doing better!
I won't ralapse.
Just let me have this!
Charlie groans, shoulders curling inward. “I know! I know!” He shakes his head, frustration bubbling over. “I’m sorry!”
Geoff’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m not mad at you, Charlie. I just want to know,” Geoff continues, voice soft but unwavering, “if you’re mad at yourself.”
Charlie freezes.
His throat tightens. His fingers dig harder into his arms.
No.
No.
No.
I'm fine.
I need to take care of Nick.
So stop.
Please.
“I mean…” He exhales sharply. “No? Yes? I don’t know!” His voice cracks, and he hates it. “More… disappointed, maybe?”
Geoff tilts his head slightly, waiting.
“I fainted today,” he mutters. “And I think… I know it was a combination of things. The drinking, the stress, the fact that I didn’t eat.” He hesitates. “But it was only a day!” His voice lifts, defensive. “It’s not an eating problem again.”
Never again.
No.
No.
Have control over food. Please. Stop.
No.
I'm okay.
I'm fine.
Breathe.
“Charlie. I’m not here to diagnose you,” Geoff says calmly. “I’m not here to tell you what you already know. I am here to remind you that you deserve care too. That you don’t have to set yourself on fire to keep others warm.”
Charlie lets out a shaky breath. He hates how much that sentence hurts.
But Nick's warmth is everything. Nick's presence is all beauty.
“So, let’s put the labels aside. Let’s just focus on what is.” His voice remains steady. “You’ve been under stress. You’re struggling with control. You feel like Nick needs you.” He pauses. “But do you need you?”
Charlie blinks rapidly, eyes burning.
Fuck.
“I don’t need me, I just… I don’t want food to control me. Not again.”
Not again.
Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food.
Geoff hums softly, nodding as if he expected that answer. “Charlie, having that fear—stressing about it, fighting it—is only going to make it feel more in control.”
Charlie groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “I know, I know!” He exhales sharply, frustrated with himself. “But… I can control my help for Nick. I can do something about that. And that matters to me, a lot more than this. Because this—” he gestures vaguely at himself, at the unseen battle inside him, “—this is bad. But Nick is good.”
Geoff tilts his head slightly, thoughtful.
Charlie takes a breath. “And if Nick knew about this… if he realized it’s not just a bad day, that it’s an actual problem, then…” His throat feels tight. “What if he leaves?”
Geoff doesn’t react immediately.
He just listens.
Watches.
Waits for Charlie to untangle his thoughts.
“We’re not even boyfriends or anything. And I don’t want to put that much pressure on him.” His voice lowers. “I don’t want more pressure on me.”
Geoff leans forward slightly, his tone calm but firm. “Charlie, someone caring about you isn’t pressure. And if it is—if it truly feels that way—then Nick might not have the emotional bandwidth to be in a relationship right now.”
Charlie flinches at that. He knows Geoff is right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.
But. But. But..... I like him? I do. I do. I do.
Why can't he like me?
What's wrong with me?
“So what do I do?” Charlie asks, voice small. “Just… focus on my own health and hope Nick comes to me?”
“Nick seems to be in his own troubles right now. If you’re struggling too, you can’t be the one to pull him out. That’s not fair to either of you.”
Charlie looks down. He knows Geoff is right.
“I’m not saying you should cut him off, or stop helping him entirely,” Geoff continues, his voice gentle but unwavering. “Because I know you, Charlie. You’re going to help him, no matter what I say. But maybe it would be good for Nick to know. That way, if you do happen to struggle, he can help you too.”
Charlie swallows hard, heart pounding.
“But then… then Nick would be in control of food,” he whispers, barely able to get the words out. “Not me.”
No.
No.
Fuck No!
“No one is in control of food, Charlie. And food is not in control of you.”
Charlie’s fingers tighten around his sleeves.
“Asking for help,” Geoff says softly, “doesn’t mean losing control.”
Charlie blinks rapidly, staring at the screen. His vision blurs.
Fuck.
Geoff watches him, steady, patient, waiting.
And Charlie—Charlie wants to believe him. But right now, the fear is louder.