Chapter 27
Nick is drowning.
He knows he is. He can feel it in his bones, in the way his chest tightens, in the way every breath feels like it’s being dragged from his lungs. Even on solid ground, even here in a house filled with warmth and light, he can feel the weight of it, pressing down, suffocating. He swallows, and swallows, and swallows—but nothing helps. Nothing stops the tide from rising.
He thought he’d be okay.
It’s been years. Too many years since Otis. Since that night. Since the cold and the snow and the body in his arms. Since the moment everything changed, and Nick stopped being Nick. Stopped being anything, really, except the boy who wasn’t fast enough, who wasn’t strong enough, who didn’t know enough to stop it.
Surely, after all this time, he should be okay.
Right?
Wrong.
He’s drowning. He is, he is, he is.
He’s back on that rooftop, trying to hold in his tears as Otis leans away from him, crying, oblivious—or maybe not. Maybe Otis knew. Maybe Otis was saying goodbye and Nick, blind and selfish, didn’t see it. He’s back to the moments before, when everything was still fine. He’s back to days before, when Otis was still warm, still moving, still painting Nick’s face with streaks of glitter, grinning like the world wasn’t heavy on his shoulders. He’s back to months before, when Otis had a broken leg and three jobs and still managed to be the brightest thing in the room. He’s back to years before, when Otis took him under his wing, when Otis was the first person to make him feel understood. He’s back to his childhood, praying for a brother, because his real one wanted nothing to do with him. He’s back before he was even born, nothing more than an idea waiting to exist, already fated to meet Otis, already fated to lose him.
He is all of those moments, all at once, and they are suffocating him.
And he doesn’t know how to stop.
Nick grips the edges of the sink, his knuckles turning white as he stares at his reflection. The bathroom light is too bright, too harsh, illuminating every crack, every shadow under his eyes, every line of exhaustion etched into his skin. He doesn’t recognize himself.
No. That’s not true.
He does recognize himself.
He recognizes the ghost staring back at him.
Death. That’s what he is. Not the looming, hooded figure with a scythe, not the grim reaper of folklore. No. Death looks like him. Death has his face, his shaking hands, his hollow chest. Death has eyes that have seen too much, have watched too many people slip away, have watched his best friend—his brother—become nothing more than a memory frozen in time.
Otis is dead. Shadow is dead. The campaign to try and cope with it? Dead. The part of Nick that used to dream of something more, of something better? Gone.
He died all those years ago, in the snow, in the blood, in the panic and pain of that night. And now, standing here, gripping the sink like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the world, he feels it.
He’s still dead.
The world just hasn’t noticed yet.
His breath comes in shallow gasps, his vision blurring as he fights the tide of it, the drowning feeling that claws at his throat. He’s sinking, sinking, sinking. He lets go of the sink, takes a step back, stumbles, crashes onto the closed toilet seat. His hands go to his hair, gripping, pulling, trying to ground himself, trying to stop the way the walls are closing in.
But it’s too much.
He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing the ghosts away, willing the images in his mind to disappear, but they won’t. They never do.
Blood on snow.
Blood on his hands.
Blood under his nails.
Blood.
He chokes out a sob, something raw and ugly and desperate. His body shakes, his breath hitching in gasps that won’t come properly, that won’t let him breathe.
He doesn’t know how long he stays there, drowning in it. Doesn’t know how long he lets the weight of it press down on him, suffocating, relentless.
All he knows is that when the door creaks open, when a familiar voice—soft, hesitant, worried—says his name, he doesn’t have the strength to hide it anymore.
“Nick?”
Charlie.
Charlie is here.
Nick is unraveling.
He doesn’t question how Charlie got into his apartment. Doesn’t question why he’s here now, standing in his doorway, cradling a sleeping Remy in his arms. He doesn’t acknowledge any of it—because it’s Charlie. And Charlie is life, and Nick is death.
And death takes. Death steals. Death rots.
Nick cannot—will not—touch Charlie, because if he does, Charlie will decay in his arms. He can’t love Charlie, can’t even let himself consider the possibility, because love, when it comes from him, means loss. It means regret and pain and grieving over something that could have been but never was.
He’s done this before. Held something too close, let himself believe he was worthy of keeping it, and then lost it anyway.
Otis. Shadow.
And now Charlie.
Nick can barely see through the haze in his mind, everything blurred, everything wrong. His fingers twitch at his sides, ring and pinky flexing with muscle memory, an old itch crawling beneath his skin. A tell-tale sign of destruction looming just beneath the surface.
A blade. Alcohol. Pills. His dead dog curled at his feet. Something, anything, to burn stronger than the ache inside him.
He hears Charlie’s voice, distantly, like a murmur through static, whispering something to Remy. Something soft, something safe—a lullaby in the form of spoken words.
"Stay here, sweetheart. In the living room, okay?"
Remy nods sleepily, clutches his blanket closer, and curls up on Nick’s couch, already halfway back into dreams.
Nick swallows hard. His throat is dry. His lungs are empty. He feels like he’s suffocating on air, drowning on land, like his body is rejecting its own existence.
Charlie steps closer.
Nick flinches.
He can’t—he can’t—
Charlie’s hands are on his face. Warm. Steady. Pulling him back from the edge.
“Breathe,” Charlie whispers, his forehead pressing lightly against Nick’s. “Just breathe, love.”
Nick is trembling. He doesn’t know how to stop.
“I don’t—” His voice is hoarse, breaking before it can form anything solid. “I can’t—Charlie, I can’t do this—”
Charlie doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t allow him to run.
“You can,” Charlie says, so sure, so certain, that Nick almost believes him. “And you will. You always do, Nick.”
Nick shakes his head, sharp and desperate. “I ruin things, Char. I—I lost Otis, I—”
“You didn’t lose Otis.” Charlie’s voice is firm, unwavering. “Otis made a choice, and it was never your fault. Just like Remy getting hurt wasn’t your fault. Just like Ben isn’t your fault.”
Nick's breath stutters, chest tightening as the weight of everything crashes down at once. No, this isn’t right. It’s all wrong.
Otis is dead because he wasn’t enough.
Remy got hurt because he wasn’t paying attention.
Ben is here because he’s too weak to make him leave.
He’s drowning. He’s drowning, and there’s no surface, no air, no relief. He can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can’t fix it.
Nothing helps. Because this isn’t real. This moment of peace, of family, of something that could be happiness—it’s a lie. A mirage. A fleeting second before everything gets ripped away.
Because Nick always fails.
And Charlie—Charlie won’t let go.
That makes it worse. That makes it unbearable. Because Nick can see the pattern, the inevitable course of things. Charlie will get hurt. Charlie will die. Charlie will leave.
Because Nick can’t stop it. He never can.
Charlie doesn’t know what he’s holding onto. Doesn’t know that all he’s doing is clutching a sinking weight that will drag him under.
Nick tries to breathe, but his lungs won’t work. The pressure in his chest grows, crushing, suffocating, as panic claws at his ribs.
He’s going to get Charlie killed.
He’s going to lose everything.
And the worst part is—maybe he already has.
Nick gasps, shuddering, his grip tightening on the cold rim of the toilet seat, his knuckles white. He doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, just that it feels right. Feels like the only thing he can do when everything else is slipping away from him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so—so sorry,” he chokes out, his voice cracking under the weight of it, his chest heaving like he can’t get enough air, like the walls are closing in. He’s drowning. He’s slipping. He can’t—he can’t fucking breathe.
And then—
Lips.
Soft, firm, grounding, pressing against his own, stealing the air from his lungs in a way that doesn’t suffocate but soothes. It silences the apologies still trying to pour from his lips, replaces them with something warm, something real. Nick lets out a surprised yelp against the kiss, but his body betrays him, instinctively leaning in, his hands unclenching, reaching for something solid, something safe. His eyes flutter closed, and for the first time in what feels like forever, his mind stops racing.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
It’s his heartbeat, he realizes. Slowing. Evening out. His body recognizing safety where his mind had forgotten to look.
Then the warmth is gone, and he blinks, dazed, his vision sharpening just in time to see Charlie staring at him, concern written all over his face.
“Oh, thank God,” Charlie breathes, his hands still cupping Nick’s cheeks, thumbs brushing along the sharp edges of his jaw. “I think I lost you there for a second.” His voice is soft, careful, like speaking too loud might shatter him. “You back with me, love?”
Nick swallows thickly, his throat raw, but he nods.
He can hear again.
He can see again.
And more than anything, he understands.
Charlie brought him back.
Nick is unraveling.
He knows it, feels it in the way his breath comes too fast, too shallow. In the way his fingers twitch with the need to pull at his hair, to ground himself in pain, to claw his way out of this nightmare that isn’t a nightmare because he’s awake. Awake and drowning.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps out, shaking his head violently. “I’m... I can’t. I—every time I blink, he’s just there, and it’s red and it’s messy and it’s blood and it’s my best friend and I—” His voice breaks, and he chokes on his own breath, his hands moving to grip at his hair, to pull, to—
Charlie stops him.
His smaller hands slip between Nick’s fingers, gently prying them away from his hair, and instead of pulling, Nick finds his hands being cradled, held between Charlie’s own, warmth and softness replacing the sharp sting he was seeking.
Nick tenses. He shouldn’t be touched. He doesn’t deserve to be touched.
But then Charlie lifts his hands, kisses his knuckles softly, once, twice, and whispers, “Nick. Hey. Shh… it’s okay.” His voice is so soft, so steady, it doesn’t match the panic in Nick’s chest, but it settles something deep inside him anyway. “Let me help you now, yeah? You’ve helped me so much. Let me help you.”
Nick swallows hard, staring at him, at the warmth in his eyes, at the way Charlie holds him like he’s something to be cared for, not something broken beyond repair. And Nick—Nick wants it. Wants to let himself lean into that warmth. Wants to accept the help Charlie is offering.
But help means touching. Help means being vulnerable. And what if he loses control? What if he hurts Charlie the way he’s hurt himself?
He shakes his head. Nods. Shakes his head again. His brain is a mess of contradictions. Yes, he needs help. No, he doesn’t deserve it. Yes, he wants Charlie. No, Charlie shouldn’t have to deal with this. Yes. No. Yes. No.
Charlie just squeezes his hands, grounding him, his voice unwavering. “You won’t hurt me,” he whispers, as if reading his mind. “I promise. Just let me hold you, okay? Just let me be here.”
Nick exhales shakily, nodding slowly this time, and lets himself be pulled forward, lets himself collapse into Charlie’s arms, lets himself believe, even if just for this moment, that maybe—just maybe—he’s allowed to be held, too.
Nick doesn’t care about the bathroom floor, doesn’t care that the tile is cold against his knees, doesn’t care that his whole body is shaking with the weight of grief he’s never let go of. He just buries his face in Charlie’s chest, gripping his shirt like it’s the only thing tethering him to the present. He mouths words that don’t come out, chokes on sobs that feel like they’ll never stop, and lets himself remember.
Otis is in the driver’s seat, the wind whipping through the open windows of Nick’s old, beat-up car as they speed past the Harvard campus. Nick is laughing, carefree in a way he hasn’t been in years, the sound bright and unrestrained.
“Man,” Otis says, grinning as he leans against the window, looking out at the skyline, “I will admit, our campus is a pretty damn good view.”
Nick hums, smiling at the sight. “Yeah, it is…”
But it’s not just the campus. It’s the moment. The simplicity of it. It’s Otis beside him, laughing, breathing, alive.
---
The Colorado mountains in the thick of summer, the two of them hiking up a winding trail, sweat sticking their shirts to their backs. Otis is ahead of him, climbing over a rocky ledge, the sound of a waterfall roaring in the distance.
“When I get a girlfriend,” Otis says, stretching his arms out like he owns the whole damn view, “I’m bringing her here. No way she doesn’t fall in love with me.”
Nick, trailing behind, scoffs. “Yeah? Well, I’d—” He hesitates, looking away. “I’d bring Grant, but he’s, uh… I don’t know. We’re still figuring things out. I don’t wanna pressure him.”
Otis looks back, eyes sharp. “Yeah, well, if he doesn’t know how fucking lucky he is, he’s an idiot.”
---
Halloween night. Otis is dramatically adjusting his glasses, wearing a sweater and slacks that look suspiciously like something he’d wear any other day.
“No one gets my costume,” Otis grumbles, arms crossed. “Everyone just thinks I’m dressed normally.”
Nick, barely holding back a grin, shrugs. “I mean… you do just look like yourself.”
“I’m James Potter,” Otis groans, exasperated. “A dead wizard, idiots.”
Nick laughs, nudging him. “Sorry, man. If I’d known, I would’ve dressed as Remus or something.”
Otis squints at him, frowning. “Oh no. Grant is Remus. You’d be Lily or something.”
Nick snorts, rolling his eyes. “Wow, thanks. Very flattering.”
Otis just winks. “You’d rock a red wig.”
---
Graduation day. The stage is massive, the auditorium packed. Nick’s heart is heavy as he walks across to accept his diploma, hands shaking, the roar of applause nothing but white noise.
He looks up at the crowd.
Sees the empty seat in the front row.
It was meant for Otis. Reserved in his honor.
Nick swallows hard, his smile wavering, because it’s not just an empty chair. It’s a ghost sitting there instead of his best friend. It’s a presence he can feel but will never touch again.
---
Nick gasps against Charlie’s chest, clutching at him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world. He’s still stuck in those memories, still trapped in the past where Otis was alive and laughing and planning a future he never got to have.
Charlie doesn’t say anything—just holds him tighter, pressing a kiss to Nick’s hair, grounding him back to the present.
And Nick sobs. Because Otis is gone.
But somehow, against all odds, Nick is still here.
Nick can’t stop crying. He tries, he really does, but every time he blinks, more tears spill over, and he hates it. He hates feeling this raw, this open, this exposed. But Charlie is holding him, grounding him, murmuring soft reassurances against his hair, and Nick clings to him like a lifeline. He doesn’t know how long they sit there—maybe minutes, maybe hours—time doesn’t feel real when grief claws at his chest like this.
He only snaps back to reality when he feels something soft drape over him. He blinks, his vision still blurry, and looks up to see Remy standing beside the tub, his little face filled with worry, his baby blanket in his tiny hands.
“My blankie makes me feel better,” Remy says, determined, like he’s explaining something very serious. “Daddy says it has powers. These powers help you now, Papa.”
Nick lets out a choked sob because, fuck. Fuck. He doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve the way Remy looks at him with such pure trust, doesn’t deserve the warmth of Charlie’s arms still wrapped around him, doesn’t deserve the love that’s sitting right in front of him.
But Remy doesn’t hesitate. He just lays the blanket over Nick’s shoulders, as if that alone will chase away the darkness.
And maybe, just maybe, it does.
Nick pulls Remy into his arms without thinking, pressing his face into his soft curls, breathing him in. Remy giggles softly, squirming a little but allowing the hug, small arms wrapping around Nick’s neck. “Papa, you’re squeezing,” he mumbles into Nick’s skin, but there’s no protest in his voice, just sleepiness and love.
Nick loosens his hold but doesn’t let go. He can’t. Because this is more than just the anniversary of Otis’s death. This is more than just another year gone by without him. This is fear—of loss, of heartbreak, of the battle Charlie is still fighting to keep his son.
Because Nick isn’t stupid. He knows Ben isn’t done. He knows men like that don’t just fade into the background. He knows Ben wants control, wants to take Remy, wants to worm his way back into Charlie’s life with manipulations and false promises. And Nick—Nick can’t lose them. Not Remy, not Charlie. Not like he lost Otis.
The thought alone makes his grip tighten.
Charlie, still sitting beside him, reaches out and strokes his hair, his fingers light and careful, and Nick lets his eyes fall shut. “You’re okay,” Charlie whispers, his voice warm, gentle. “I promise, Nick. We’re okay.”
Nick swallows hard. “I’m scared,” he admits, barely above a whisper.
Charlie presses a kiss to the top of his head, and Nick melts into it. “Me too,” he says. “But we have each other, yeah?”
Nick nods, clinging to both of them, holding on as if that alone will be enough to keep them safe.