Chapter 28
Nick Nelson is a horrible person.
It’s a fact. A cold, undeniable truth. A sad fact for sad, miserable, undeserving Nick.
He was fucking cruel to Charlie.
So fucking cruel.
He treated Charlie like absolute shit in the bathroom, let his fear and his self-hatred turn him into someone Charlie didn’t recognize, someone Charlie didn’t deserve.
Then, instead of fixing it immediately, instead of being the better person Charlie deserves, what did Nick do?
He left.
He left Charlie and ran off to work out like some emotionally repressed coward.
Fucking idiot!
Then, after pushing through an entire workout, feeling his body strain and burn, feeling the anger eat him alive, he had—of course—punched a wall.
Violent. Violent. Violent.
His knuckles still ache from it, still sting with every flex of his fingers, still remind him of the very thing his coach accused him of being.
And only after that, after he had worked himself into exhaustion, after his hands were shaking and his head was screaming and he was a goddamn wreck, he had finally, finally apologized.
And Charlie had forgiven him.
Just like that.
Because of course he did.
Because Charlie is good and kind and way too soft-hearted for his own good.
And now, here Nick is.
At a game.
Expecting Charlie to show up.
To watch.
And after?
To go on a date with him.
A date with sweet, loving, beautiful Charlie.
He doesn’t deserve it.
He knows that.
He knows that.
And yet, Charlie still said yes.
Still kissed him like Nick didn’t break his heart.
Still looked at him like he’s something worth choosing.
Still gave him another fucking chance.
And Nick doesn’t know what to do with that.
Because all he can think about is how much he doesn’t deserve it.
How much he doesn’t deserve Charlie.
So after Charlie had left, after their soft, gentle, undeserved kisses, after Nick had gotten back to his dorm, he had curled up in his bed and cried.
He had pulled at his hair until his scalp burned, until his breathing was uneven, until he had to shove his face into Elphie’s fur just to keep himself together.
Because it hurt.
Because Charlie still wanted him, and he didn’t know how to handle that.
Because he couldn’t keep punishing himself if Charlie had already forgiven him—but fuck, he wanted to.
So he had cried.
And then, he had written more notes to put on his wall.
Do better.
Fix it.
Stop fucking crying.
Charlie deserves better.
You don’t deserve him.
You’ll just hurt him again.
Failure.
Faggot.
Ruined your career.
You’ll never be enough.
And now?
Now, he’s here.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Nope. Doesn’t help.
Fucking hell.
Nick. Breathe.
In. Out. In.
Out.
Just take a moment. Collect yourself. Breathe.
This is your one moment.
Doesn’t matter how many deep breaths he forces into his lungs, doesn’t matter how much he tells himself to calm the fuck down—his chest is still tight, his mind is still racing, and he’s pretty sure he’s about five seconds away from throwing up in the locker room trash bin.
Because the Harlequins scouts are here. Fucking Harlequins. Professional rugby scouts. They decide everything.
Decide if Nick Nelson is worth their time. If he’s got what it takes to go pro. If rugby is going to be his entire life—or if this is where it ends.
in. out.
Please breathe.
Please please please.
In. And out.
You've got this.
Captain or not, you've got this.
He’s supposed to be okay with that?
Supposed to step out there and play the best fucking game of his life, while his entire future balances on the tip of a knife?
Supposed to just—exist normally after this, whether they notice him or not?
And not only that.
Not only that.
Because as soon as this game is over—after the tackles, the scrums, the adrenaline and exhaustion—he has a date.
A real fucking date.
With Charlie Spring.
mine. Mine. mine.
Nick grips the edge of the bench, forcing himself to stay still, to not let the shaking in his hands spread to the rest of his body. His knee is already bouncing, leg practically vibrating with nervous energy.
He should be focused on rugby. On the game. On making sure every play is perfect, every movement calculated, every single thing he does good enough to get the attention of those scouts sitting in the stands.
But his brain keeps glitching.
Because after this—after all of this—Charlie is going to be waiting for him.
Charlie, with his cheeky little smirks and sharp tongue.
Charlie, who kissed him with a bruising hunger last night and then dared him to prove himself today.
Charlie, who looked him in the eyes and told him he wanted roses and chivalry and romance, and fuck, Nick is going to give him that.
If he doesn’t combust first.
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, exhaling hard.
He’s going to throw up. He’s going to get out there, hyperventilate mid-sprint, and vomit on the fucking pitch.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in—
The locker room door slams open.
“Oi, Nelson! You good, mate?”
Nick blinks, barely registering Otis as he steps inside. He’s already in full kit, stretching his shoulder out, and Nick realizes with mild horror that he hasn’t even gotten changed yet.
Fuck.
He forces a smirk, pushing down everything bubbling under his skin.
“Yeah, yeah. All good.”
Otis raises an eyebrow. “You look like you’re about to spew.”
Nick swallows. “Thanks, mate. Really helping.”
Otis shrugs. “I mean, makes sense. You’ve got the Harlequins watching you, Derek breathing down your neck, and your little twink friend—”
Nick snaps his head up so fast it almost gives him whiplash. “Don’t fucking call him that.”
Otis. I thought you were different.
Accept me or pay the fucking price.
Violent. Violent. Violent. Violent.
Otis lifts his hands. “Jesus, alright. Didn’t know you were so defensive.”
Nick clenches his jaw.
He’s not doing this. Not now. Not here.
Breathe. In. And out.
Think about your future. Think about what we still have to do.
Think about everything you have sacrificed for this.
In and out.
“Just—drop it, alright?” he mutters, shoving off the bench and grabbing his kit.
Otis watches him for a second before smirking. “What, worried the scouts are gonna notice you looking at the crowd too much?”
Nick glares. “I said drop it.”
Otis chuckles, shaking his head. “Relax, Nelson. Just don’t let your little distraction ruin your game.”
Nick exhales sharply, turning his back as he pulls off his hoodie.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Focus.
It’s just a game.
Just his entire fucking future.
And after?
Charlie Spring is going to be waiting for him.
Fuck.
He jumps at his phone ringing.
No. No. No.
Not now, papa. Please not now!
Nick stares at the screen, at the flashing name that makes his stomach drop, and he doesn’t want to pick it up.
He shouldn’t pick it up.
He needs to focus. He has to focus.
But the phone rings again, and he knows—without a doubt—it’s his father.
And there’s only a matter of time before his father finds out. Before he pieces it all together.
That Nick lost the captain position.
That Nick is no longer a leader.
That Nick, his son, has fallen so far from grace he’s barely recognizable.
The phone rings again, slicing through his thoughts like a knife.
Pick it up.
Jesus, pick it up!
Don't be a pussy!
Answer it!
"Papa?" His voice is hoarse, tight. He swallows hard.
"Nick, what the fuck am I hearing about you losing the captain position?"
Nick closes his eyes.
Of course.
Not today! Any day but today! I can't take your criticism!
Hate me any day, but not today! Please! Please!
Papa please.
His father’s voice is sharp, clipped, seething with barely restrained anger.
"What the fuck is that, Nick?"
Nick pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling through clenched teeth. "Papa, it really doesn’t fucking matter. I have a game. I need to—"
"I fucking know that, Nick. I’m here right now."
Nick’s stomach drops.
Here?
no. No. No. no.
Not here! Not with scouts. Not with Charlie! Fucking leave!
You don't even care about me, don't even love me, so just leave!
Leave? Leave!
Fucking leave!
"I just spoke to your coach," his father continues, voice ice-cold. "He tells me you lost the position because you got into some fucking fight. What the fuck, Nick?"
No Papa.
No. I was attacked.
Me! Me! Your son! Your youngest! Fucking love me! Hold me! It wasn't me!
I got hurt, I don't go out and hurt!
"Papa, it’s not like that—"
"Like the fuck it’s not." His father’s voice sharpens, cuts through him. "I get told by your coach—not my own fucking son, but your coach—that you’re too violent to be captain. That you're out of control. So tell me, Nick—what the fuck is that about? I give you money. I send you to this school, I set up your entire future for you, and this is how you fucking repay me? By getting wasted? Getting into fights? Fucking whatever girl you want?"
Nick’s blood runs cold.
Girl.
Girl.
Girl. Girl. Girl. Girl. Girl. Girl. Girl. Girl. Girl.
"Papa, it’s not like that," he tries again, his voice quieter now, edged with something dangerously close to pleading.
But his father doesn’t hear it. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.
"Don’t fucking lie to me, Nicholas." His father spits his name out like it’s poison. "I didn’t raise a failure. But that’s exactly what you’re turning into, isn’t it? Your coach doesn’t trust you, your team doesn’t trust you, and if the scouts see that? What do you think happens then, huh? You think you’re gonna get another shot? You think they’re gonna give a fuck about some washed-up, reckless kid with a reputation for being a hothead?"
I'm sorry!
I'll do better!!
I'll cancel the date, I'll workout more, I'll pay more attention, I'll do more at practices. I'll do and do and do and do until it's better. Until I'm better.
Just love me. Please just tell me you love me!
"This is your fucking life, Nick." His father’s voice is steel, final, the weight of expectation and disappointment crashing over him like a tidal wave. "And if you fuck this up—if you mess this up—it’s on you."
Nick exhales sharply, eyes burning, throat tight. "I know." His voice is barely above a whisper.
"Do you?" His father presses. "Because I don’t think you fucking do. This isn’t a game, Nicholas. This is your future. This is everything I’ve spent years pushing you towards, and you’re going to throw it all away because you can’t keep your fucking emotions in check?"
Nick’s chest is heaving.
There’s nothing he can say.
No defense, no argument—because his father doesn’t want reasons.
His father doesn’t want explanations. His father wants results.
And Nick is already a disappointment.
Don't fucking cry.
Don't do it. Don't do it.
Don't cry. Don't you dare fucking cry.
Hold it in.
Breathe.
Fix it.
He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his fingers against his forehead. "I have to go," he mutters, his voice breaking slightly. "The game is starting soon."
His father exhales harshly, like he’s debating whether or not to keep going, whether or not to keep drilling this into him.
Finally, after a beat of silence—
"Don’t fuck it up, Nick."
And the line goes dead.
Nick stands frozen in place, phone still pressed against his ear, the dial tone ringing through his head like a fucking death sentence.
He blinks.
And then he moves.
Shoves his phone into his bag. Grabs his water bottle. Breathes—in, out, in, out—but it’s not working, it’s not fucking working.
The world feels too loud, his body feels too tight, his hands are shaking.
He’s not ready.
He’s not fucking ready.
But he doesn’t have a choice.
He never had a choice.
So he puts on his jersey.
Puts on his cleats.
And steps onto the pitch.
And fuck... It's bad. This game is so very bad.
He feels it the moment he steps onto the pitch—like there’s a weight sitting on his chest, a silent, heavy pressure that coils around his ribs and makes it impossible to breathe.
His father’s words are still ringing in his ears.
The scouts are watching.
His team is not his team anymore.
And fuck, it’s already a mess.
breathe in.
out.
Make dad proud.
Cancel the date.
Workout.
Fix it.
Listen
Violent.
Wrong.
Breathe in. Out.
Out? Come out? Be outed?
In. And out.
In. And out.
Focus!
Derek is barking out orders like he actually knows what the fuck he’s doing, but half the calls he’s making are shit. The lineup is all over the place, the formations are sloppy, and there’s no cohesion, no unity, just a bunch of guys chasing a ball and tackling whoever the fuck they can.
In. Out.
You aren't captain.
Don't get cocky. Don't be arrogant.
In. Out.
Breathe.
Breathe in, breathe out.
He tries to stay focused.
The first few minutes are pure fucking chaos—players scrambling, passes being intercepted left and right, their opponents charging them fast, and Derek?
Derek is butchering every play.
Every. Fucking. Play.
There go his chances. His chances, gone. All because of Derek.
Done. Gone. Down the drain. Goodbye.
Nick watches in slow motion as the ball gets launched into the air, spiraling, perfect, the kind of pass that should be easy for any decent player to catch—except Derek misreads the play, goes too early, and misses it completely.
“Fucking hell, Derek!”
Nick’s already running, already moving, instincts taking over where strategy is failing. He weaves through defenders, spots his opening, and grabs the ball before it hits the ground.
Momentum snaps through him like a whip, but he keeps his balance, barely, and he’s moving, fast, sprinting across the pitch.
Someone is on him.
A big someone.
Nick barely has time to register just how big before 40 extra pounds of pure muscle slams into him, knocking the wind out of his lungs and sending him crashing to the ground.
Pain.
Sharp, immediate, exploding from his ankle like a fucking landmine.
His fingers dig into the grass, eyes squeezed shut, breathe, breathe, breathe—
Get the fuck up!
Nick grits his teeth, forces himself to stand—his ankle protests violently, but he locks his jaw, pretends it doesn’t—and jumps right back into position.
Because that’s what a player does.
That’s what a captain does.
Except.
He’s not the captain.
And fuck, this is one of the worst games he’s ever played.
His passes are fine. His footwork is fine. He even manages to score a few points.
But it’s just that—fine.
Nothing special. Nothing remarkable.
Nothing that stands out.
Because Nick Nelson is not the one making the calls anymore.
Because Nick Nelson is not the leader.
Because Nick Nelson is not the fucking captain.
And then, of course, Derek calls a fucking tackle.
Nick doesn’t even get the chance to protest before the next play starts, and he’s forced to go for it—forced to throw himself at another beast of a player, one who looks like he lives in the gym, who is at least twice the size of him and built like a fucking brick wall.
Impact.
Nick slams into him, their bodies colliding with a force that nearly shatters him on impact, and for a terrifying moment, his ankle gives.
He hits the ground hard, gasping, the pain white-hot and pulsing through his entire leg, his vision flickering black at the edges.
Stay down. Stay down. Bad injury.
Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.
Career ruined. Bad. Bad. Bad.
No. Get up.
Get the fuck up.
Nick forces himself up again, sucking in a sharp breath, ignoring the agony, ignoring the throbbing in his ankle, the dizziness, the blood rushing in his ears.
He stays in the game.
Because he has to.
Because there are scouts watching.
Because if he doesn’t prove himself now, he never will.
And then, somehow—somehow—he makes it to the final minutes.
Derek is fumbling again, making stupid fucking calls that no one is listening to anymore, and so Nick makes the decision himself—he takes the fucking shot.
He runs, adrenaline drowning out the pain, ignoring the sharp twinge every time his cleats hit the grass, weaving through defenders, focused, focused, focused—
Sees his opening.
Goes for it.
And scores the winning point.
WIN.
Good. Rest. Pain. Win. Win. Win. Win.
The stadium erupts.
Cheers, yells, bodies piling onto him, slapping his back, congratulating him—but it doesn’t feel like his win.
Because it’s not the captain scoring.
It’s just Nick Nelson.
And Nick Nelson isn’t special.
He’s not the leader.
He’s just another fucking player.
So he stands there, sweaty, aching, cuts and bruises burning, heart pounding—
And feels fucking awful.
Breathe, Nelson. Just Breathe.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Fuck, my ankle! Fuck.
Fuck! Fuck!
Bad injury.
Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.
No. Focus.
Pain later. Focus now!
Nick doesn’t even look.
Not at the crowd, not at his father, not at the scouts.
Not even at Charlie—if he’s even there.
Because he knows.
He knows if he turns to his dad, all he’ll see is a disappointed stare, maybe even a shake of the head.
He knows if he looks for the scouts, they’ll be stone-faced, unreadable, calculating whether or not he’s worth their fucking time.
And if he looks for Charlie?
If he looks for Charlie and doesn’t see him?
That’ll be worse.
So he doesn’t.
He keeps his head down, he limps toward the locker room, jaw clenched so tight his teeth might fucking crack, and he pretends it’s fine.
It’s not.
His ankle fucking hurts, bad enough that every step feels like someone is drilling into the bone. His head is swimming, his body aching, exhaustion weighing down on him like a lead blanket.
He feels like he could just collapse onto the floor, curl into himself, and not move for a full day.
But he can’t.
Because he has a promise to keep.
He has a date.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
By the time he makes it to the showers, he feels like his limbs aren’t even connected to his body anymore, like he’s just running on muscle memory, going through the motions.
He shrugs off his sweaty jersey, hisses when his ankle throbs at the movement. His body is an absolute fucking wreck—scratches and bruises all over, his ribs sore as hell, his hands still stained with faded blue ink from that fucking pen.
He shouldn’t be doing this.
He should be going to bed. Icing his ankle. Taking care of himself.
But no.
Because Charlie fucking Spring is waiting for him.
And Nick Nelson does not break promises with Charlie.
So he showers.
Washes away the dirt and blood and sweat. He lets the hot water pound against his shoulders, soothes his muscles as best as he can, lets himself pretend for a moment that everything is fine.
That the scouts weren’t watching him.
That his dad isn’t going to fucking call him any minute now.
That he played well.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
By the time he’s out, he’s still aching, still exhausted, but at least he looks a little less like he’s been hit by a truck.
White button-up. Jeans. Vans.
Casual. Nice enough for a date.
Nice enough for Charlie.
Breathe in. And out.
In. Out.
In.
Failure.
Out.
Pain.
In.
Wrong.
Out.
Faggot.
In.
Disappointed.
Out.
In and out. In. In. In. In. In
And out.
He moves toward his duffel bag, shoving his sweaty gear inside, bracing himself for the inevitable call from his dad. Maybe he can just ignore it—deal with it later, let the voicemail pile up.
He swings his bag over his shoulder, ready to get the fuck out of here—
"Nelson."
Fuck.
Nick stiffens.
Coach Jackson.
He should’ve expected this.
Slowly, hesitantly, he turns—
And his stomach fucking drops.
Because Jackson isn’t alone.
Two men stand beside him, both in fitted polo shirts with team logos embroidered on the chest, their expressions unreadable.
Nick recognizes those logos.
Scouts.
Harlequins Scouts
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
---
Charlie is there.
Of course, he’s there.
He watches from the stands, tucked between Issac and Sahar, his knee bouncing so fast it’s making the entire row shake.
Stop panicking! You're not out there! You're future isn't on the line!
Oh God, Sahar's chips. Yeah no thanks.
No food.
Focus.
Nick. Nick. Nick. Nick. Nick.
His heart pounds, his stomach is twisting, his mind is running through every possible outcome.
He sees Nick, sees how hard he’s playing, how he’s pushing himself, how he’s tackling like he has something to prove.
And Charlie knows that look.
That determined, reckless, desperate look.
That’s the look of someone trying to prove their worth.
That’s the look of Nick playing like his life depends on it.
Charlie watches the entire match with his fingers curled into his sleeves, biting his lip so hard he might just draw blood.
Every time Nick goes in for a tackle, he holds his breath.
Every time he sees him sprinting down the field, his pulse spikes.
And when Nick hits the ground hard, grabbing at his ankle?
Charlie stops breathing entirely.
Be okay. Please.
Baby, be okay.
You got this, you deserve happiness, you deserve this chance so please, please, please, be okay.
Issac grips his arm, whispering, “He’s fine. Look, he’s getting up.”
Charlie doesn’t look away.
Nick is getting up, sure—but he’s limping.
And yet—he keeps playing.
Like his body doesn’t matter.
Like his pain doesn’t matter.
Like he doesn’t matter.
And Charlie wants to scream at him.
Nick, fucking take care of yourself!
You deserve happiness! You deserve to be okay! You deserve this chance but take care of yourself!
Please. Please. Please.
He knows what it’s like to push yourself until you break.
He knows what it’s like to feel like you’re nothing without the thing you’ve built your life around.
He knows what it’s like to think that your worth is tied to performance, to perfection, to being enough for someone else.
And fuck, he sees it all on Nick’s face.
Charlie doesn’t cheer when Nick scores the final point.
He doesn’t even move.
Because Nick isn’t celebrating.
Nick isn’t looking at the crowd, or at the scoreboard, or even at his teammates.
Nick is walking off the pitch like he just lost everything.
Charlie swallows.
And he follows.
And then he waits.
And waits. And waits.
Breathe. In. Out.
Food? No, he's okay. He has a protien shake and some granola. He's okay.
Focus. Worry about Nick.
Wait. Wait. Wait.
He waits outside the locker room, anxious, chewing at his nail, watching as teammates shuffle past him, already celebrating, already moving on, ignoring him.
good.
Good!
But no Nick.
He checks his phone.
Nothing.
He paces, eyes flickering to the entrance every few seconds.
And then—
Nick walks out.
Dressed in a white button-up and jeans, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
And Charlie sees it immediately.
The dead look in his eyes.
The way his hands are shaking just slightly.
The way his jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful.
Fuck.
Nick sees him.
Their eyes meet.
And for a second—just one fleeting moment—Nick’s face softens.
But then, just as quickly, his expression shuts down.
Baby? What's wrong? What happened? How can I help? How can I fix?
“Hi.”
Charlie’s voice is quiet, careful, because Nick looks like he might shatter at the wrong word.
Nick exhales sharply, running a hand through his still-wet hair.
“Hey.”
Charlie’s heart is pounding.
He wants to ask.
Wants to say what happened.
Wants to say are you okay.
But he doesn’t have to.
Because he knows the answer.
Nick isn’t okay.
Charlie watches as Nick shifts on his feet, wincing just slightly.
His ankle.
Charlie notices everything.
“You’re limping,” Charlie murmurs, eyes flickering down to the way Nick is favoring his left foot.
Nick shrugs, looking away.
“It’s fine.”
It’s not fine.
But Nick won’t let him in.
Not here.
Not in front of the rest of the team, who are still celebrating, still moving around them like nothing is wrong.
So Charlie does the only thing he can do.
He takes a step closer, dropping his voice to something soft, something careful, something just for Nick.
“Take me on our date, then tell me everything.”
please?
I'll take care of you. I'll treat you right. I'll be good. Baby, please. I'll help you. I'll hold you.
What's wrong? Tell me. Open up. Don't hide.
Don't be cruel like yesterday. Be the kind Nick I know you can be. Please.
Nick’s eyes flicker up.
And there it is.
The flicker of relief, of something grounding him, keeping him here, pulling him out of his head.
“Let’s go.”
And Nick?
Nick nods.
And then they're walking. And Justin silent.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that buzzes. That stretches between them like something fragile and breakable.
Charlie keeps glancing at Nick out of the corner of his eye, watching the way his jaw stays tight, watching the way his fingers twitch against his jeans, watching the way he winces every few steps but keeps walking like nothing’s wrong.
He wants to say something.
But what the fuck is he supposed to say?
Are you okay? (No, obviously not.)
Did the scouts talk to you? (He doesn’t want to bring it up.)
Do you want to talk about it? (No, because Nick doesn’t fucking talk.)
So instead, he stays quiet.
And that feels worse somehow.
just let me in.
Why can't you open up!?
Stop acting like Be—
No. Stop. Forget.
When they finally reach Nick’s dorm, Nick drops his bag onto the bed, and Charlie watches it happen in real time—
The way Nick’s face twists in pain.
The way his body tenses.
The way he inhales sharp and fast, like he’s trying to hide it.
Charlie feels terrible immediately.
Nick dressed up. For him.
Nick wore a nice shirt, put on cologne, styled his hair. For him.
Nick pushed through an entire match, an entire day of hell, an ankle that looks like it’s fucking throbbing—
For him.
Charlie tugs at the sleeve of his flannel, eyes flicking down to his crop top, his black jeans, the way he actually put effort into looking good tonight because Nick deserves that much.
But now?
Now, looking at Nick, at the pain he’s obviously trying to ignore, he feels like a fucking asshole.
Do better . Help him! Fix it. Forget!
"Hey," Charlie says, reaching out, curling his fingers around Nick’s arm. "We don’t have to—"
But Nick cuts him off.
Hands on his cheeks.
Pulling him in.
Rough. Desperate. Needy.
Charlie stumbles backward, his hip knocking against the desk, his breath catching in his throat as Nick’s mouth crashes against his.
Fuck.
Lips. Kiss. Passion. Heat.
Nick is kissing him like he needs it, like he’s trying to chase away whatever storm is brewing inside him, like he’s trying to lose himself in something physical, something tangible, something that isn’t his own goddamn head.
And Charlie?
Charlie wants to let him.
He wants to pull him in, hold him tight, let Nick take what he needs, let him press and grind and rut until neither of them can fucking think anymore.
Because, fuck, Charlie wants that dick.
He wants that nice fucking cock. He wants Nick groaning into his mouth. He wants to feel Nick tremble under his hands.
But fuck.
He needs to focus.
Because this isn’t healthy.
Nick is not okay.
And Charlie knows it.
But then—
Oh, fuck.
Nick’s mouth moves to his neck.
And Charlie nearly fucking whimpers.
Shit.
His hands clench into Nick’s shirt, gripping hard, eyes fluttering shut as Nick licks, bites, sucks—
Fuck.
Fuck.
FUCK.
"Nick," Charlie gasps, trying to catch his breath, trying to pull his thoughts back from the absolute filth they’re spiraling into. "Nick, wait—"
Nick doesn’t stop.
Charlie feels teeth on his pulse point, lips dragging down, and his knees actually buckle a little.
Fuck.
Nick is going through something, and Charlie knows it.
He should stop this.
He should.
But Nick feels so good, so solid, so right.
And maybe, just for a second, Charlie wants to be the thing that makes him forget everything else.
Even if it’s not healthy.
Even if it’s not right.
Even if it won’t fix anything.
But fuck—
Nick is still kissing his neck. His mouth moves down his neck, lips soft, tongue hot, and Charlie feels him smirk the moment he finds it—
The spot.
The one that makes Charlie’s fingers tighten in Nick’s shirt. The one that makes his knees tremble just a little. The one that makes him whimper.
Oh, fuck.
Nick knows.
Because of course he does.
Because Nick fucking Nelson has always been a little shit.
Because Nick hears that tiny, shaky noise escape Charlie’s throat and he fucking goes for it—
He sucks, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough that Charlie is this close—
So fucking close—
To saying fuck it.
Fuck it, let's have sex.
Fuck it, it won't matter.
Fuck it, Nick is hot, Charlie is horny, and why the hell shouldn’t they just do this?
But no.
No, no, no.
Charlie forces himself to pull away, breathing shaky and uneven, and he winces a little when his hip digs into the desk a bit too roughly.
Nick tries to chase after him, but Charlie grabs at his shoulders, trying to ground himself, trying to think past the way his entire body is on fire.
But fuck.
This shirt.
Nick in a white button-up, slightly damp from sweat, not leaving much to the imagination at all.
Charlie can see everything—
The way his pecs flex when he breathes. The way his broad shoulders tense under his grip. The way his muscles shift and strain beneath the fabric.
Nick is so solid, so strong, so fuckable—
FOCUS, CHARLIE.
Nick groans, pressing back in slightly, and Charlie has to physically stop himself from moaning when their bodies press together.
"Fuck, Charlie," Nick exhales, voice low and rough, eyes dark with something heavy. "Can we please just get back to that? I was having... fun."
Fun.
Right.
That’s what this is.
Just fun.
Charlie swallows, hard, dragging his eyes away from Nick’s mouth because if he keeps staring, he's gonna let him win.
"Nick, fuck," he says, hands still gripping his shoulders, fingers twitching slightly because God, he wants this. "I was having fun too."
And fuck, was he ever having fun.
But Nick.
Nick is barely putting weight on his ankle.
And that?
That isn’t fun.
That’s a fucking problem.
Fix. Focus. Fix. Focus.
Charlie’s eyes flick down, barely resisting the urge to bite his lip because fuck, Nick’s thighs are thick as hell in those jeans, how is that even fair?
But then he sees it.
The way Nick’s weight keeps shifting onto his good leg.
The way he flinches slightly when he moves wrong.
The way his jaw clenches like he’s trying to hide it.
Charlie frowns.
"Nick, your—" He sighs, trying to catch his breath, trying to think through the fucking lust haze. "You're barely putting any weight on your ankle."
Nick immediately shakes his head.
"Nah, it’s fine," he says way too fast, like he’s already anticipating an argument. "It’s nothing."
"Nick."
Charlie crosses his arms, narrowing his eyes slightly, trying not to let his gaze dip to the way Nick’s chest rises and falls beneath that stupid, gorgeous shirt.
Nick stares at him, clearly reading something on his face, because suddenly, he huffs in frustration.
"Look," Charlie says, sighing. "Why don’t we just have the date here or something? Maybe talk about the game?"
But that does it.
That right there? The way Nick’s entire face twists at the word ‘game’?
That’s what makes Charlie’s stomach clench.
That’s what makes his concern outweigh his goddamn sex drive.
Because this isn’t about the game, is it?
Game? Bad? Wrong? Focus.
Nick doesn’t want to talk about it.
"Nick," Charlie says softly, uncrossing his arms, stepping in close again. "Something is clearly bugging you."
Nick immediately tenses.
"Charlie," he exhales, tilting his head back like he's praying for patience, his hands gripping Charlie's waist a little tighter.
And fuck, that shouldn’t make Charlie’s stomach do a thing, but it does.
"Charlie, please," Nick whispers. "Date?"
Oh.
Charlie’s heart stumbles over itself.
Because this isn’t just about the date, is it?
Nick wants the date.
Nick needs the date.
Not because of the game.
Not because of the scouts.
Not because of his father.
But because of him.
Because Nick needs this to be real.
Because Nick needs him.
And fuck.
Fuck.
Charlie nods quickly, heart beating way too fast, saying, “Okay. Okay, yeah. Date.”
He watches as Nick’s entire face transforms, the deep-set frown melting away, replaced by the kind of smile that makes crinkles near his eyes and turns his whole face to sunshine.
God, that smile.
It’s like watching the fucking sunrise, bright and warm and impossible to ignore.
"Good!" Nick says, grinning wide, shoulders loosening like the weight of the world just slid off of them. "Because we’re going to the arcade, and I’m gonna fucking smash you."
Oh, please do. Please please please.
Charlie’s eyes immediately flicker to his mouth.
"In bed?" he asks, innocently.
Nick snorts so hard he almost chokes, shoving at Charlie’s shoulder, eyes shining with something light and easy.
"No!" Nick wheezes, still laughing. "At Mario Kart, dumbass. But in bed later, if you want."
His laugh. God, his laugh.
I love his laugh. I love this. I love liking him.
Charlie smirks, poking Nick’s cheek just to watch him pretend to bite his finger in retaliation.
"Well," Charlie hums, tilting his head up, lips hovering close to Nick’s but not quite touching, "if we go on this date, you better know I’m a fucking pro at Mario Kart. You can be good at your sports, but I’m good at mine."
Nick grins, that cocky, dimpled grin that shouldn’t be allowed, and hums, "Mmhmm. I don’t know if I’d say I’m good at sports, though."
Charlie blinks at him.
What?
"Nick," he says, flatly, "you literally scored the ending point."
Nick just shrugs, and that crack of sadness comes back, something deep and worn and stitched too tightly behind his ribs.
"Yeah…But what good did that do?" he murmurs. "I…Nevermind. Let’s not—not tonight, okay?"
Charlie frowns, watching the way Nick closes in on himself just slightly, the way his shoulders hunch inward, like there’s a weight on his back only he can feel.
He doesn’t like that.
He doesn’t like that one bit.
Baby? Why?
Open up to me. Trust me. Be kind to me.
So he leans up, pressing a quick, soft kiss to Nick’s lips, then another to the corner of his mouth, another to his jaw, just to watch the tension loosen.
"Only if you’re okay," Charlie whispers against his skin.
Please be okay. Please, sweetheart. Please.
Nick nods, his hands tightening around Charlie’s waist.
"I’m perfect," Nick murmurs, kissing his temple, his cheek, his nose.
Charlie smiles, but he doesn’t quite believe him.
Still, he pulls back, pressing his hands against Nick’s broad chest, pushing slightly.
"Okay," Charlie says, determined to make this night as light as possible. "Then take me on my date, mister!"
He bats his eyelashes dramatically, just to make Nick laugh—because God, he loves that sound.
"Oh, and where’s my roses?" Charlie adds, smirking, crossing his arms. "I said roses, Nick!"
Nick snorts, rolling his eyes, but there’s something fond and exasperated and hopelessly endeared in his expression.
"You have no fucking patience, Char," he grumbles, shaking his head.
Then, before Charlie can sass him back, Nick's hands find his waist, and he effortlessly lifts him up onto the desk like he weighs nothing at all.
Fuck.
He clenches his thighs together because Jesus Christ.
"Nick—"
"Up you go," Nick teases, grinning down at him, and Charlie forces himself to focus on literally anything else before he combusts.
Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
Okay. No boner.
Nick bends down, and Charlie immediately frowns when he sees the way his ankle wobbles slightly, the way his face twists for half a second before smoothing over again.
Stop. Don't hurt yourself just because of me.
But before he can say anything, Nick is pulling something from under the bed and turning around with a smug little smirk.
"Here ya go."
Charlie blinks at him.
Then blinks at what’s in his hands.
Then gasps so loud that Nick physically startles.
"Nick!" Charlie squeals, grabbing the bouquet like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen in his entire fucking life. "Really?!"
Nick laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Really, really," he says, grinning wide.
Charlie stares at the flowers, at the soft pink and white petals, at the delicate arrangement, at the fucking way they smell so nice and fresh and expensive—
He looks back up at Nick, who looks entirely too pleased with himself.
Charlie clutches the bouquet to his chest, dramatically sighing.
"You said roses," Nick reminds him, raising an eyebrow.
Charlie beams at him.
"And you promised roses."
And fuck, Nick kept his promise.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Nothing like Ben.
Kind and gentle and mine!
Charlie doesn’t mean to say it out loud.
Really.
He’s usually so good at keeping his ridiculous, incredibly unhinged, deeply inappropriate thoughts inside his head.
But then there’s Nick Nelson, smiling at him like that, in that goddamn white button-up, with the top two buttons undone, and the sleeves rolled up over his forearms, and his muscles fucking flexing like they’re out to ruin Charlie’s entire existence.
And then there’s Nick Nelson, giving him fucking roses, and Nick Nelson lifting him like he weighs nothing, and Nick Nelson with his warm hands and soft lips and ridiculously pretty eyelashes, and—
Yeah.
So, naturally, Charlie whispers a little too loudly:
"Fuck, please fuck me."
Nick freezes.
Charlie blinks.
Nick blinks.
Charlie swallows.
Fuck.
He fucks up immediately.
"What?" Nick asks, eyebrows raising slightly, voice a little too amused, a little too knowing.
Charlie immediately panics.
"What?" he echoes, way too quickly, way too high-pitched, clutching the roses to his chest like they’re going to protect him from the sudden, devastating wave of embarrassment that threatens to swallow him whole.
Nick squints at him, tilting his head.
"You just…" he starts, eyes glinting with something smug and teasing and infuriatingly hot.
Then, thankfully, mercifully, Nick just shakes his head.
"Never mind," he mutters, smirking, grabbing Charlie’s hand and pulling him off the desk like nothing just happened.
And oh.
Oh.
The words leave Charlie’s head entirely, because Nick’s hand is warm and firm, and Nick’s fingers fit perfectly between his, and Nick is holding his hand like it’s nothing at all, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Mine. Forever? Mine. Mine. Mine. Forever? More.
Mine.
More more more.
"Come on, date time," Nick says, soft and fond and final.
Charlie’s brain fully short-circuits.
He doesn’t even remember how to function, because Nick doesn’t let go.
Not as they walk through the hallway.
Not as they step into the elevator.
Not once.
And fuck.
It’s nice.
It’s so fucking nice.
The campus is mostly empty—the rugby lads are definitely off celebrating their win, probably getting blackout drunk at some pub or partying in someone’s dorm, and most students are out enjoying their weekend—but Charlie doesn’t even care about that.
Because Nick is holding his hand.
Because Nick is choosing to hold his hand.
Because Nick doesn’t care if anyone sees.
Charlie swoons so hard he almost trips over himself.
(He fully blames Nick’s forearms for that. And his jawline. And his shoulders. And the way he smells. And the way his fingers fit between Charlie’s like a goddamn puzzle piece.)
By the time they reach Nick’s car—oh fuck, he has a car, Charlie is going feral over this—Charlie’s head is a fucking mess.
His brain is in shambles.
And then Nick—the absolute menace that he is—opens Charlie’s car door for him.
Like a goddamn gentleman.
And Charlie doesn’t stand a fucking chance.
Fucking hell. Nice. Kind. Soft.
But previously cruel, wrong, bad?
Like Ben but now not ?
This is so fucking confusing.
"You do realize," Charlie says, grinning way too wide, tilting his head slightly, "you’re my taxi driver from now on, right?"
Nick hums, pretending to think about it, lips quirking.
"Really?" he asks, leaning in slightly, eyes warm and playful.
Charlie barely registers himself nodding, barely registers anything besides Nick, Nick, Nick.
Then—oh fuck—Nick leans down and presses a quick kiss to his lips.
Charlie makes a noise.
It’s high-pitched and unhinged and definitely not human, but he can’t even bring himself to care because Nick kissed him in public.
Nick kissed him outside, next to his car, where anyone could have seen.
Charlie fully short-circuits.
Then, before he can fully process it, Nick smirks, steps back, and closes the car door behind him.
"Lucky me"
Charlie stares after him, dazed.
His brain is fully melted.
He is so, so fucked.
Fucking hell.
Kind. Sweet. Lovey. Nick. Nick. Nick. Nick. Nick.
The drive is perfect.
Or, well—as perfect as it can be when Charlie is quite literally buzzing.
Buzzing. Buzzing. Buzzing.
Because holy shit, he’s on a date with Nick Nelson.
A real date.
Not a secret rendezvous. Not some hidden, whispered moment. Not a fleeting kiss behind closed doors.
A real. Fucking. Date.
And he can’t stop smiling.
His cheeks hurt from how hard he’s smiling.
His fingers are wrapped around Nick’s, resting on the center console of the car, and every so often, Nick rubs his thumb over Charlie’s knuckles absentmindedly.
And Charlie feels warm.
Safe.
But also—a little restless.
Because when was the last time he was on a date?
Year 13? Yeah.
With Ben.
…Oh.
No. No Ben.
No Ben.
Don’t think of Ben.
But the thoughts come anyway.
Ben never let Charlie hold his hand.
Nick does. (But only when Nick decides.)
Ben never let Charlie come over.
Nick does. (But only when his friends aren’t there.)
Ben always kissed him first.
With Nick, it’s back and forth.
(But Nick still kisses Charlie when he doesn’t want to talk. Similar to Ben.)
Oh.
Oh.
Is Nick like Ben?
No.
No.
Ben would never buy him flowers.
Ben would never hold his hand in the car like this, wouldn’t even let him wear eyeliner.
Nick does.
Nick likes it.
Nick wants to hold his hand.
Nick smiles at him like he’s something to admire, something to show off.
Nick isn’t Ben.
Ben is Ben.
Ben is bad.
And Nick?
Nick can be good.
Can?
Is?
Stop, Charlie.
Don’t ruin the date before it’s even started.
So he shoves it away.
Shoves away the doubts, the comparisons, the thoughts gnawing at him.
Instead, he looks down at Nick’s hand in his.
Big, warm, slightly calloused from rugby.
Holding him, right here, right now, in public.
And fuck, that does something to him.
Because with Ben, he wasn’t allowed to touch.
Wasn’t allowed to lean in, wasn’t allowed to press up against him, wasn’t allowed to be needy or soft or wanted.
And now?
Now, Nick is here. Holding his hand. Driving him to a date. Kissing his knuckles when he stops at a red light.
Now, Charlie can reach over and trace his fingers up Nick’s forearm, over the slight vein there, over the muscles peeking from the rolled-up sleeve of his button-down.
Now, Charlie can press his lips together and hold back a whimper at the thought of Nick in bed, with these same hands holding him down, pinning his wrists, kissing his neck—
Jesus Christ, calm down.
Charlie blinks, pulled from his spiraling thoughts by the sound of the car parking, the gentle shift as the engine hums off. He barely has time to register it before Nick is leaning over and pecking his lips like it’s natural.
Like it’s something they do all the time.
Like yesterday never happened.
Like the bathroom never happened.
Like the mask was never there.
Charlie wants to lean in, to believe it.
But he can’t.
Not yet.
So instead, he frowns.
And Nick notices.
Of course, he notices.
Nick always notices.
“You okay?” he asks softly, tilting his head slightly, brows furrowing.
And Charlie wants to say yes.
He really, really does.
But he can’t.
Not yet.
So he shakes his head.
And then he looks away, eyes flickering to the dashboard, to his lap, to anywhere but Nick.
His fingers move automatically, gripping his own arm, nails pressing into the fabric of his flannel, then deeper, into the skin beneath.
“I don’t know,” he whispers.
His throat feels tight.
His chest feels heavier than it should.
And then, before he can stop himself, before he can let it fester into resentment, he speaks.
“You’re kind,” he starts, voice small, “and then you’re not. You were rude yesterday. You acted like an asshole, and now you’re all bubbly and open and kissing me. You won’t tell me about the scouts. You’re obviously hurt. You’re limping, for fuck’s sake. And—and I don’t know, Nick. I just—”
He breathes in.
Breathes out.
In. And out.
In. Out.
Be open.
Honest.
In. Out.
Then turns to look at him.
Really look at him.
Nick, who is still gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.
Nick, who is still avoiding his eyes.
Nick, who feels like a contradiction.
Like two different people, fighting to coexist.
Charlie swallows.
“Are you going to be fake with me the moment we see someone?” he whispers.
Nick flinches.
Charlie’s voice is quiet, but the words cut through the air like glass shattering.
“I don’t do fake, Nick,” Charlie continues, his nails pressing deeper into his skin, grounding himself. “I can’t do fake. Not again.”
Nick inhales sharply.
Then he exhales, slow, controlled, like he’s keeping something in.
And then—finally, finally—he looks at him.
And whispers, “I’m sorry.”
Charlie blinks.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh?
Nick looks down, looks away, like the words were harder to say than they should have been.
“I’m…” Nick sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “What I did yesterday was really shitty. You didn’t deserve that. I don’t even know why I said it. I guess… I guess Harry just scared me, and I was afraid of being outed in front of Sebastian because—fuck, because Sebastian would tell everyone and—”
“That doesn’t mean you can treat me like an asshole!” Charlie snaps, his voice sharper than intended.
Bad. Wrong.
Like Ben.
But this is Nick.
Nick?
Nick. Nick. Nick.
Nick nods immediately, quickly, like he expected that response.
“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling shakily. “I’m sorry. I—”
He pauses.
He looks out the window, like he’s searching for something he can’t find.
Then, quietly—brokenly—he speaks again.
“I’m not good with emotions. I’ve always kind of…” he trails off. “Look, Charlie, my dad was always strict about emotions. If I cried at a flower dying, he’d get mad and call me girly, so I learned not to cry over things that made me upset—even when they were important to me.”
Charlie’s chest tightens.
Oh.
My poor baby.
My baby. My baby. My poor baby.
I'm sorry.
Let me hold you.
Nick exhales, tilting his head against the seat.
“If I let people push me around, my dad called me weak, so I learned how to fight back with words.”
Nick laughs—a humorless, bitter laugh.
“I’m not good with emotions,” he repeats, softer this time.
His fingers flex slightly on the wheel.
“And with you, I feel all these good emotions, and—fuck, good emotions are scary. Because I usually had to hide them. I wasn’t supposed to show them. It doesn’t justify what I did,” he says. “Or what I still do. I know that. It’s me being shitty and dickish and toxic and wrong.”
Nick sighs again, finally turning to face him.
“I’m trying, Charlie,” he whispers.
His eyes are so open, so vulnerable.
Baby?
It's okay. I'm here.
You can feel.
Please feel.
Please.
“I’m trying to learn that I don’t have to fit into boxes when they don’t mold in the way I want.”
Charlie feels his chest ache.
Because fuck.
This is his Nick.
This is real.
Not a mask.
Not a facade.
Just Nick.
My baby.
Mine.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
And that’s all Charlie has ever wanted.
Mine. Mine. Mine
Charlie watches as Nick shifts, uneasy, fingers tightening around the steering wheel like he’s holding himself together with sheer force.
And maybe he is.
Because Nick does that. He clenches his fists, grits his teeth, swallows down emotions until they can’t be ignored anymore. Until they explode out of him in anger, or frustration, or self-destruction.
Charlie doesn’t want to watch that happen. Not again.
Not Ben. Never Ben. Never again.
So he takes a slow breath, forcing his own frustration down, even when his chest feels like it’s burning.
"Nick, then why can’t you open up to me?" he asks, voice careful, but insistent.
Nick’s jaw locks.
"Why can’t you tell me what you’re really feeling?" Charlie presses.
Nick exhales sharply through his nose, like the question physically pains him.
"Why can’t you call me when you panic?"
Nick flinches. Actually flinches. Like the thought of reaching out for help is more terrifying than drowning alone.
"Why can’t you trust me and be kind to me?"
Nick’s head snaps up then, eyes dark and desperate, something almost wounded flashing through them.
Charlie doesn’t stop.
"I don’t like you going from cold and distant to cuddling and sweet in a matter of seconds, It’s scary, Nick."
Nick sucks in a sharp breath.
Charlie’s voice drops to a whisper, almost trembling.
"But I know you’re kind. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. But you’re also—you’re rude, Nick. You push people away. You push me away. And if… if we’re going on this date, if we’re gonna—be something—then why can’t you just—Talk to me? Open up to me?"
please.
Don't hide away like Ben.
Don't be fake like Ben.
Don't be Ben.
Please.
Nick inhales sharply, shaking his head like he's physically trying to reject the words.
"I do talk to you, Charlie," he says, but his voice lacks conviction.
Charlie scoffs. Actually scoffs.
"No, Nick. You don’t. You bottle stuff up, you act all fake, and you’re acting fine now, but I know—I know you’d rather be in bed with ice on your ankle."
Nick looks away.
really?
Look at me!
Trust me!
Open up and talk!
"Just… talk to me," he says again, softer now. "Open up to me. Trust me. Damnit, Nick."
Nick is silent.
Too silent.
Charlie can see the way his chest rises and falls like he's struggling to get enough air.
Then, finally—finally—Nick exhales, long and slow, before he pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Charlie, I do trust you," he mutters, voice low, but firm.
"Then tell me what happened with the scouts, Tell me why you don’t want to talk about the game. Tell me how you're hurting."
Don't hide.
Not like Ben.
Open up.
Be.
Please Nick.
Please.
Nick's fingers clench in his lap.
Charlie sees it before he hears it—the tension, the frustration, the barely contained emotion.
Then—
Nick lets out a breath like he’s been punched in the gut.
"Because, Charlie," he says, voice rough, uneven.
He drags a hand down his face.
"The scouts offered me a spot."
What?
What?
What?
What?
What?
"Not even a tryout," Nick continues, voice hollow, like he doesn’t quite believe it himself. "Just a spot. Just like that."
Charlie’s heart leaps. "Nick, that’s—"
BABY!?
BE PROUD!
This is what you worked for!
You did it!
Baby you did it!
Why aren't you happy ?
What???
But then Nick shakes his head, a humorless, exhausted laugh leaving his lips.
"And, fuck, Charlie—They offered me a position, and I don’t think I want it."