Chapter Text
Charlie doesn’t hate many people. Actually, he doesn’t hate anyone. He’s not that kind of person.
But the second he steps into his new dorm room at Leeds, he thinks—okay. Maybe I’ll start.
Because he’s barely stepped through the door of his new dorm room—his new life, his university fresh start, his clean slate—and already the universe has decided to spit directly in his face.
There, pinned over the only bloody window like it’s afraid of sunlight, is a Leeds Rugby flag.
Massive. Loud. Patriotic in a way that makes Charlie’s left eye twitch. Draped between the two beds like a border wall—Charlie’s side sad and empty, and the other side a shrine to masculinity and premature back problems.
He stares at the flag, blinking slowly.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He glances at the other half of the room.
Trophies. Plural! A pair of cleats just casually tossed under the desk. A water bottle the size of his self-worth. And, to top it all off, a folded rugby kit hung neatly on a chair like it’s proud of itself. It’s all so... straight. Not even in a mean way. Just in a default setting way. Like the room came pre-installed with testosterone.
Charlie rubs his eyes. He should’ve known. Should’ve expected it.
Of course this happened.
Of course the openly gay guy gets assigned a room with a rugby lad. A walking protein shake. The kind of boy who exists in straight-to-Netflix teen rom-coms, except in those movies the gay guy is the quirky best friend who falls for the brooding artist, not... this.
Not the six-foot golden retriever who probably says lad and has never had to overthink a single thing in his life.
Charlie sighs. “This is how I die,” he whispers to the empty room.
And then the door opens.
Charlie freezes, shoulders tensing like he’s about to be called a slur just for breathing too loud.
Footsteps.
A duffel bag hits the floor.
Then a voice—bright, friendly, devastatingly casual. “Oh—hey. Sorry, didn’t think you’d be here yet.”
Charlie turns.
And there he is.
Oh boy, oh boy.
The boy is ridiculous.
Tall. Brown hair hair with a tint of red. Freckles for days. Wears a Leeds Rugby hoodie like it was designed specifically for his shoulders. He looks like the love interest in every coming-of-age film Charlie’s ever been emotionally devastated by.
Are you fucking kidding me.
“Hi,” Nick says, stepping inside, smile easy and warm. “I’m Nick. Nelson. Uh, Nick Nelson."
Charlie stares.
Then down at the hoodie.
Then back at the smile.
And oh God, the freckles. Weaponized freckles.
He does not need this right now.
“Charlie Spring,” he says, like it’s a threat.
Nick steps forward and holds out a hand.
Charlie looks at it.
He’s not trying to be rude. It’s just—he’s having a minor out-of-body experience, and this boy is standing there like a live-action Disney prince, and Charlie’s gay little brain is short-circuiting.
Please be dumb, he thinks. Please be so dumb it offsets the face. Please say something so catastrophically stupid that I can hate you properly.
Nick smiles and drops his hand, like this is the most normal interaction in the world, and crosses to his side of the room. He sets down his water bottle—of course it’s metal and dented like it’s survived a war—and shrugs off his hoodie.
Charlie isn’t looking. Obviously. He’s not looking.
Okay, he’s looking a little.
Don't blame him! Gaymind.exe is currently offline.
Just enough to catch the hem of Nick’s T-shirt rising with the motion, exposing—
Jesus Christ.
The softest, most unfairly attractive stomach Charlie has ever seen in his life.
There’s a faint line of abs, a little flex as Nick yanks the hoodie over his head, and for one glorious second, Charlie thinks he might be fine. It’s just a bit of definition. He can survive this.
But then the hoodie comes off, and Nick relaxes, and that faint tension melts into a warm, soft stomach. Still toned, still ridiculously fit, but real. Normal. Human. The kind of stomach that belongs to someone who both lifts heavy things and eats pasta.
Charlie has to physically stop himself from sighing.
Why. Why, why, why does he always end up with a crush on the most aggressively heterosexual man in the building? What is wrong with him?
Nick turns slightly, and Charlie panics—eyes darting to the floor, then the wall, then anywhere that isn’t Nick Nelson’s ribcage. He fumbles with his bag, pretending he’s doing something, anything, that requires intense concentration.
“Sorry,” Nick says, breath still a little heavy. “Just got back from the gym.”
Yeah, Charlie thinks bitterly, no kidding.
We could’ve guessed that from the protein powder shrine and the arms.
And then—
“Oh!” Nick brightens. “Do you need help unpacking at all? I’d be glad to help carry boxes if needed.”
Charlie glances up.
Nick is smiling.
Nick is genuinely smiling, like helping carry boxes is the most exciting thing to happen to him all day. Like he hasn’t just waltzed into Charlie’s life and body-checked his ability to function as a rational human being.
He swallows.
“Um... yeah. That’d be... that’d be great,” Charlie stammers, immediately regretting everything but also a little thrilled at the idea of watching Nick’s arms flex under the weight of his laundry hamper.
“They’re in my... uh... car.”
Which is technically true. His mum’s car. Currently parked somewhere on the third level of a nightmare-inducing multi-storey with terrible signage. But whatever. Details.
Nick lights up like he’s just been invited to save a kitten from a tree. “Cool! Want me to come now or—?”
Sue him, okay? Sue him.
He is nothing if not a twink with poor judgment and a long, tragic history of falling for straight boys with kind eyes and strong forearms. If this is a crime, lock him up. Throw away the key. Let him rot in some gay little jail where the walls are made of softcore crushes and emotional self-sabotage.
Because he just remembered something.
The flag.
He pulls it out—folded neat, slightly wrinkled, still smelling like fabric softener and nerve.
The Pride flag.
Just a little one. Like... half a pillowcase. Small enough to fit over his desk. Big enough to make a point.
He holds it in his hands for a second, the fabric catching on his fingers, then turns back toward Nick to see—
Oh no.
Nick’s looking at it.
Then at Charlie.
Then at the flag again.
His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.
He looks like a fish at a pet store trying to decide whether to beg for food or die on the spot.
Charlie raises an eyebrow.
Clears his throat.
Because yeah. This is it. He’s just caused his new roommate—a man whose entire identity seems to revolve around sports and bicep-related activities—to have an aneurysm.
Congratulations. Day one and the rugby lad is already planning how to text the RA about switching rooms.
Charlie sighs.
“I’m gay,” he says flatly. “Just so you know.”
He waits. Counts to three. Wonders if he should’ve said it more gently. Wonders if Nick is going to say something awful or make a face or do that thing some straight boys do where they immediately act like someone’s accused them of something.
Instead, Nick just blinks.
Still staring at the flag.
Then he says, voice slow, almost cautious, “Oh.”
Charlie crosses his arms.
“Is that... gonna be a problem?”
He keeps his tone light, casual. Like he doesn’t care. Like he hasn’t already spiraled into five different imagined outcomes, ranging from Nick being chill and cool to Nick screaming and calling security.
Nick’s eyes flick up from the flag to Charlie’s face.
“No!,” he says, a bit too quickly. Then again, more firmly. “No, not at all.”
And Charlie doesn’t breathe for a second.
Nick rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve just, um. Never had a roommate before.”
Charlie squints. “And...?”
“And never had a gay roommate,” Nick admits, voice trailing off like he’s realizing how that sounds. “Not in a bad way! Just—new. This is new.”
Charlie tilts his head.
Nick holds up both hands. “You can totally put it up. I mean. It’s your side. Or, like, wherever. It’s totally fine.”
Charlie watches him. Tries to decode the tone. But Nick’s face isn’t tight or uncomfortable. Just a little pink.
Charlie exhales. “Okay.”
Nick nods, a little too enthusiastically. “Okay.”
Charlie clears his throat again, voice cracking like a preteen in a choir.
“Um... those boxes?”
Nick blinks. “Right! Right. Yeah. Let’s do it.”
Charlie has made a decision.
A firm, emotionally immature, completely rational decision.
He hates Nick Nelson.
No, really.
He hates him.
Because what kind of rugby lad just... accepts you being gay without flinching? No weird expression, no nervous laughter, no sudden urge to change the subject to sports or weather or something aggressively heterosexual like lawnmowers?
Charlie glares at the ceiling of their dorm room like it personally offended him.
And why the hell does Nick walk up stairs like that?
Charlie’s arms are still sore from carrying two boxes and a backpack, and Nick just strolled up three flights like he’s in a Nike ad, all easy muscle and effortless charm and—oh right, the ass.
That stupidly perfect, unfairly sculpted ass that had absolutely no right to exist under a pair of grey sweatpants.
Charlie had to look away. Not out of respect. Out of survival.
And to make it worse—worse!—Nick didn’t even laugh at his stuffed animal.
Charlie had tucked Kitty into the corner of his pillow while unpacking, ready to discreetly sweep him away the second Nick came back in, but the lad had just looked over and smiled.
Charlie flops back dramatically onto his bed, book open in his hands but completely unread.
And then—
The door to the bathroom opens.
And Nick walks out.
In a towel.
Just a towel!
Nothing else.
Charlie’s brain short-circuits.
Because Jesus Christ.
The boy is wet. Hair sticking up a little, skin still dewy, towel slung dangerously low around his hips. And his back. His back muscles. Like someone carved them from marble.
Charlie immediately looks back down at his book, trying to act casual, like he’s so immersed in this very boring page he’s already read three times.
But he can feel the heat in his face. Like a warning light flashing in his brain.
Danger. Horny gay ahead.
He flips the page.
Realizes he didn’t read the last one.
Flips back.
Then peeks over the top of the book because come on.
He’s only human.
And Nick is there, rifling through his drawers like he’s not sending Charlie into cardiac arrest. The towel dips lower. Lower.
Oh, Jesus Christ on grits, he's so doing this on purpose.
Charlie exhales through his nose.
This is hell. This is his personal gay hell and it’s scented like body wash and injustice.
Nick turns. "Sorry. Did you want me to change in the bathroom?”
Charlie considers saying yes. Considers pretending to be scandalized.
But all that comes out is a weak, “…No. Just. It's fine.”
Gaymind.exe is back online and the erection is loading.
Nick shrugs and grins. “Rugby locker rooms desensitize you.”
Charlie mutters, “Yeah, that sounds traumatic.”
Nick just laughs and grabs some boxers from his drawer, heading back into the bathroom, towel still swaying, and Charlie resists the urge to scream into a pillow.
Hello, friend. Nice to see you again. Sorry buddy but don't get excited yet, no asshole shows today.
He reopens his book and stares blankly at the words.
He hates Nick Nelson.
He hates him.
Nick walks back out of the bathroom now in boxers—just boxers—and Charlie thinks, great.
This is how I die. Not from heartbreak. From a gay-induced aneurysm.
Because then—then—Nick casually strolls to his desk, grabs a jacket from the back of the chair, and shrugs it on. Doesn’t zip it. Just throws it over his bare chest like he’s starring in some indie coming-of-age movie about the rugby boy next door.
The jacket hangs open.
His abs are right there.
Charlie stares at his book like it’s holy scripture. Like if he reads it hard enough, it’ll build a wall between him and Nick’s torso.
Maybe build a wall in my asshole too. Start the digging with the fingers and we can go from there.
Surely—surely—this is on purpose. Nick knows he’s gay now. There’s no way this isn’t calculated. The towel. The jacket. The stretch he did earlier while yawning.
Charlie sighs. Deeply. Resentfully. Like he’s being personally haunted.
He flips a page, pretending to read, when Nick suddenly speaks.
“Oh, what are you studying, by the way?”
Charlie doesn’t look up. He knows better now.
“Literature,” he says, keeping his tone even. “Thinking of publishing in the future.”
Nick’s smile beams in his peripheral vision. “Oh, that’s cool. I’m doing Education. Probably early childhood.”
Charlie does glance up at that, surprise cutting through the gay panic fog.
“You like kids, then?”
Nick brightens. “Yeah! I volunteered this summer at a rugby camp, and it was really fun. It’s actually what made me switch majors from psychology.”
Charlie blinks. “Oh really? That’s cool.”
And it is. Dammit.
He's smart too!
Fucking hell, brains and butts. Dicks and Dignity. What next? Pecks and personality!?
Nick nods, running a hand through his hair—still damp. “Yeah! I, uh, found out about a year ago that I have pretty bad anxiety. And I guess I wanted to understand it more, you know? So I chose psych at first. But it was a bit too heavy with the workload and all the reading.”
He laughs awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sorry. I feel like I’m talking a lot.”
Charlie, who has been doing everything in his power not to inhale Nick’s entire presence like a Victorian orphan with consumption, just shrugs.
“No, it’s fine.”
Nick smiles at him again, open and soft.
“What about you? What got you into reading and publishing?”
Charlie pauses.
He hadn’t expected that question. Not from someone like Nick—not because he thought Nick was dumb (though he’d very much hoped), but because most people don’t ask.
He hesitates, then closes his book gently.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Books were just... easier than people. They don’t interrupt. They don’t look at you weird. You get to fix the words until they sound right. And they always mean exactly what they say.”
Nick nods, listening.
Charlie shrugs. “And I like stories. The ones that don’t end badly, anyway.”
Especially the one gay God is creating about you fucking me into the heaven. or hell. Hello, Hades.... give me some fire to work with.
Charlie blinks and looks up—and Nick is still watching him, expression unreadable, his stupid jacket still unzipped like it’s trying to ruin Charlie’s life.
And Charlie clears his throat. Again.
“You should put on a shirt.”
Nick glances down, startled. “Oh. Shit—sorry.”
He grabs one off the chair and pulls it on quickly, sheepish. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Charlie huffs a laugh, returning to his book.
“I wasn’t uncomfortable.”
He flips the page.
"Right"
Okay.
Maybe Charlie doesn’t hate Nick Nelson.
But he definitely hates Nick Nelson’s presence.
Because why—why—does he always have to look so good? It catches him off guard in the mornings when he’s yawning and stretching and his strands are sticking up in five different directions and he’s blinking sleep out of his stupid pretty eyes like a baby deer in a rugby hoodie.
Charlie’s woken up at least twice to find Nick fast asleep, one arm tucked under his pillow, soft snores echoing through the room, and every single time he’s thought: You look like a Disney prince and I hate you for it.
Also—why does he have to be so kind?
Muscles and manners? Pick a struggle, Nelson.
And then—then—he had to go and be vulnerable. Like that’s allowed.
It was a Tuesday night. Nick had been working on a reading assignment for his class, letting out sighs so dramatic that Charlie had genuinely thought he was practicing to join a local production of Les Mis. Then he’d said, casual and a little embarrassed, “ Sorry. I’m dyslexic. Timed readings suck. I can read, obviously, it’s just… slower. I fall behind sometimes.”
Charlie had blinked. Nodded. Offered help.
(And maybe—just maybe—sat a little closer than necessary. Maybe felt something twist in his gut when Nick looked up at him and said, “Thanks, mate. Seriously.” Maybe spent the rest of the night kicking himself for being so tragically predictable.)
Gaymind.exe has a file loading called: Get that Ass. Loading has failed. Try again later.
So yeah. Charlie doesn’t hate Nick. But he hates how easy it is to fall into a rhythm with him. How nice he is. How he doesn’t make it weird. How he’s turned out to be, against all logic, safe.
It’s irritating.
Deeply.
Which is why tonight is already bad enough, and then it gets worse.
Charlie’s just left a FaceTime with Tao and Elle and Isaac—laughing in that homesick, aching way—and he’s walking down the hall, headphones hanging loose around his neck, when he gets to their door.
Key in hand.
And stops.
Voices.
Inside.
One is Nick’s—easy, low. The other is unfamiliar. Vaguely male.
“…saying, he’s gay, Nick.”
Charlie freezes.
He goes still, fingers tightening around his key.
Nick answers, calm. “Yeah. I know.”
The other voice huffs. “And are you, like… okay with that? I mean, we know you, Nick. You’re not, like, panicking or anything, are you?”
Charlie feels something cold unfurl in his chest.
Of course.
Of course. He should’ve known. It was too good to be true. The quiet acceptance, the gentle questions, the fact Nick hadn’t once made him feel weird. All of that had to have an expiration date. Or at least an audience limit.
Charlie steps back from the door like it’s bitten him.
He doesn’t wait to hear more. He doesn’t need to.
He shoves his key back into his hoodie pocket and turns down the hall.
Fine. Whatever.
Getting fucked has failed, sorry Mr. Dick but the Ass will have to wait.
He’ll go for a walk. Let the air hit his face. Maybe stop by the library and stare at a wall for an hour.
Charlie exhales sharply through his nose.
Second thought? Yeah.
He does hate Nick Nelson.
He hates his stupid face and his stupid softness and the way Charlie let his guard down for one second, and now it turns out the rugby lad is a walking cliché. So much for safe. So much for kind. So much for not flinching.
Charlie walks faster, hoodie pulled up, heart pounding too loud in his ears.
Of course he’s the cliché.
Of fucking course.
The golden boy, the soft-eyed rugby lad who says “mate” and offers to carry boxes and smiles like he means it. It was all an act. A mask. A perfect, shiny performance of decency, just long enough to get Charlie to let his guard down.
Homophobic prick.
Charlie walks faster, teeth clenched, hoodie pulled over his curls like he can hide from the red-hot embarrassment burning in his chest.
God, he’s so stupid. So embarrassingly stupid.
He knew better. He knows better. He’s been here before—trusting the boy who laughs too easily and touches his arm too gently. Always ends the same. Straight boy guilt. Straight boy silence. Straight boy bullshit.
Charlie scoffs out loud, the sound bitter on his tongue.
Yeah. They know him. And now Charlie knows him too.
Uncomfortable around gays. Probably thinks it’s contagious. Probably already told the team and now they all know. Probably waiting for Charlie to slip up—say something too friendly, wear something too obvious, just to justify the quiet disgust under the surface.
Cooties-level, locker room, middle school bullshit.
Whatever. Screw him.
Charlie bites the inside of his cheek so hard it stings.
Screw his stupid laugh and his dumb little bedtime routine. Screw the way he uses his alarm but always wakes up before it. Screw how he folds his clean clothes on his bed before putting them away. Screw how he didn’t flinch when Charlie said “I’m gay,” but apparently it’s fine until his friends are around.
Fake kindness.
Performative, empty, easy-to-give fake kindness.
Fuck him. And his jacket. And his dimples. And his goddamn back muscles.
It’s been two weeks.
Two weeks of silence.
Charlie hasn’t said a single word to Nick Nelson.
Which—just for the record—is entirely Nick’s fault.
Charlie’s not the villain here. He’s not being dramatic. He’s just... enforcing boundaries. Healthy ones.
Because what the hell else is he supposed to do? Smile? Make tea? Pretend he didn’t hear anything? Like Charlie’s existence is some sort of test Nick has to pass without panicking.
No. Absolutely not.
My dick and dignity deserve more than disrespect.
Charlie may be many things—overemotional, passive-aggressive, prone to spirals—but he is not desperate enough to forgive that.
So yes, he’s been ignoring him.
It started with the earbuds.
Easy enough. Pop them in the second he hears the key in the lock. Doesn’t even have to play anything. Just leaves them in, nods along like he’s deep into some moody indie track about isolation and betrayal, which honestly isn’t far off.
Then came the book defense. Always reading. Constantly reading. Never not reading. At his desk. In bed. If Nick even thinks about opening his mouth, Charlie’s eyes are already glued to the nearest text.
And the bathroom. His safe haven.
Charlie’s perfected it now. The timing. The speed.
Nick walks in: Charlie walks out. Straight to the bathroom, door locked before Nick can even say “Hey.”
He stays in there. Stays until the room goes quiet. Until he hears the familiar, low, soft rhythm of Nick’s breathing when he’s fallen asleep.
Only then does Charlie come out.
Is it childish?
Maybe.
Is it necessary?
Absolutely.
Because what the hell else is he supposed to do?
Talk to him?
Risk that maybe he heard it wrong? That maybe—just maybe—Nick didn’t actually say anything awful? That maybe the rest of the conversation was... different?
Nope. Charlie’s not opening that door. Literally or metaphorically.
And sure—Nick has tried. A little. A few “Hey, can we talk?” moments that Charlie has expertly dodged with a well-timed yawn, a bathroom escape, or pretending he’s on a very serious call with Elle about trans rights.
And okay.
Sure.
There was that one time Nick sat on the edge of his bed, looking genuinely sad, just… waiting.
Charlie had walked in, backpack halfway down his arm, paused—and left.
Straight out the door. No words. Not even a glance.
And yeah, okay. Maybe he is being a bit of a jackass.
Maybe he is making it impossible for Nick to explain or apologize or whatever it is he’s trying to do.
But come on.
How many times does Charlie have to be let down before he’s allowed to just shut the world out? Before he’s allowed to say no thanks, I’m good and wall himself off?
Because that’s what it felt like. Another letdown.
He sighs. Doesn't matter. One letdown and another. They're always the same.
It’s 2:30 in the bloody morning.
Friday night. Or Saturday morning. Whatever. Time doesn’t matter. All Charlie wants is to be horizontal, bathed in the soft glow of his fairy lights, wrapped in his blanket burrito, reading his fanfic about two emotionally constipated boys who communicate via letters during the apocalypse and eventually kiss during a thunderstorm.
Let me have my gay little smut in peace please! I don't have the time or interest in my homophobic roommate learning about how men are fucked.
That’s it.
That’s all he wants.
But no.
Of course not.
Because the door handle rattles. And rattles again. And again. Like someone’s trying to break in, except Charlie knows exactly who it is.
Nick.
Fucking Nick.
And not in the way I want. Sorry, Mr.Dick, we've got to find a new interest....
He knows Nick was going out with some friends, Tara and Darcy, but Jesus Christ, it's after midnight. Have some respect and decency!
Charlie doesn’t even look. He just sighs, rolls over, and turns his face to the wall like maybe if he looks convincingly asleep, the disturbance will vanish.
The door keeps rattling until it finally swings open with a loud clunk and—
And then Nick—Nick, Nick—whines.
Jesus of Cheese.... Why can't he be a little gay so I can here a while while his mouth between my thighs. R.I.P Nick Nelson, you had the opportunity to change my world.
“Whyyy... I don’t wanna be quiet about it anymore!”
Charlie stiffens.
The hell does that mean?
“Shhh, Nicky boy,” says another voice—deeper, cheeky, definitely not helping. “Seriously. Be quiet.”
“Nooo, Darcy!” Nick says again, full whine mode. “I don’t wanna!”
Charlie snaps.
Because now there are voices.
And giggling.
And footsteps that are definitely stumbling and not at all stealthy.
“Shhh! Nick... be quiet,” someone stage-whispers.
A new voice. A girl. Energetic. Slightly exasperated.
He sits up, hair messy, blanket slumped around his shoulders. “Oh my god,” Charlie mutters into his pillow. “Nick, can you please shut the fuck up!”
And then—
His mouth snaps shut.
Because.
What.
The.
Fuck.
Mr.Dick, maybe there's a chance. Gayass file loading.
Nick Nelson is standing in the doorway.
Completely, unapologetically drunk off his ass.
Supported on one side by a grinning woman with a shirt that reads I KISS GIRLS ONLY in glitter print. And on the other side by a person with a bleach-blonde mullet, wearing a crop top that proudly declares I USE THEY/THEM PRONOUNS, BABES!
And Nick?
Oh, Nick.
Nick has blue and purple glitter smeared across his cheeks. A bisexual flag tied around his shoulders like a fucking cape. And a shirt—oh god, the shirt—that says: “BI-SEXUAL, BUT NOT BYE, SEXUAL”
Charlie’s brain completely detaches from his body.
He’s floating. Outside himself. In a fugue state of glitter and confusion.
Bow Chica Wow Wow... Hello there. State of mind, gone. Gay Ass File Has Opened. Mr. Dick wants to say hi.
Darcy—has to be Darcy—snorts. “Oh shit. Roomie’s awake.”
Nick gasps. “Charlieee! Look! Look at my cape!”
Charlie doesn’t move.
“I’m bi, Charlie!” he announces to the world. Or the room.
Charlie is frozen.
Yeah. Okkkkayyyy.
Cool. Cool. Cool. Totally cool. Okay Gay Brain. Work. Reboot.
“I’m biiiii, Charlie!” Nick says again, arms flung out dramatically like he’s expecting applause. “I’m—like—actually! Bi. Surprise"
Charlie blinks. Once. Twice.
He’s going to lose it. Full psychological break. Brain short-circuits. Gay system reboot.
Nick points at himself, nearly poking his own chest. “Like—look at me! I got th-the fuckin’ flag an’ everything!”
Darcy is behind him, visibly holding back laughter, while the other friend—Tara—just mutters, “Oh, he’s fully drunk, great."
Great indeed, because this new information is..... chef's kiss, exciting!
Nick spins around, flag flaring slightly, then stumbles and has to grip the desk to steady himself. “I—hic—didn’t wanna say it while you were mad at me. ‘Cause you were! Mad. Like... major mad. Silent treatment"
Charlie stares at him, stunned, half-asleep, completely short-circuited.
“But now you’re awake,” Nick continues, still clinging to the desk like a sailor on a sinking ship, “an’ I’m drunk, so I’m not gonna... worry what you’re thinkin’ anymore.”
And then, dramatically: “I’m bi, Charlie Spring!”
Charlie closes his eyes and exhales.
Yeah okay. Cool. Cool. Dreaming? Maybe. Dick up and excited? Definitely.
“Nick,” he says flatly, trying to breathe through the chaos. “It’s two thirty in the morning.”
Nick grins, wide and unbothered, glitter stuck to his teeth. “An’ you’re awake! It’s fate!”
Darcy coughs to the side, trying very hard not to laugh. “Nicky boy, maybe sit—”
“No!” Nick shouts, pointing. “He needs to hear this. ‘Cause he’s been... sad mad. An’ he’s got those eyes, like...” He wiggles his fingers near his face. “Like this.” Then frowns. “Wait. You can’t see my face. Shit.”
Charlie just stares at him. His fists are clenched in his duvet. His heart is racing.
What the actual fuck is happening!?
Nick looks at him again, suddenly softer, voice wobbling. “I dunno what I did. I swear I don’t. But I miss you bein’ nice t’me.”
Charlie says nothing.
Nick sniffles once, almost blinking back tears, which—no, no, Charlie is not handling drunk glitter tears at 2:30 in the morning. Not happening.
Okay. Time to open up, buddy, I don't mean you, asshole!
“I heard you that night,” Charlie blurts, too loud. “I heard your friend say I was gay, and I heard him ask if you were okay with that.”
Nick freezes.
Charlie’s voice sharpens. “And you said yeah. And I thought, fuck, he’s one of them. One of the ones who’s only nice until someone else is watching.”
Nick’s mouth falls open. “Wha—?”
Charlie’s chest rises and falls. “I thought you were homophobic, Nick.”
But clearly, that would be quite tragic if Mr. Bi Man happens to be against the gays.
Darcy immediately goes, “Oh shit.”
Nick blinks. “Homo—? Me?!” He throws a hand against his heart like he’s been personally stabbed. “Charlie! Babe! C’mon! I literally have glitter on my fuckin’—” he checks his cheek with one hand and smears it worse—“—face! This is, like..."
Charlie glares. “So you’re not scared of me?”
“Scared?” Nick echoes, baffled. “I was scared you hated me! I told my mate I liked you and he got all weird an’ I panicked ‘cause I didn’t know if you’d believe me if I said I was bi.”
Charlie sways slightly on his feet.
“You... what?”
Wait.
Hold Up.
Sorry. Slow Brain. Reboot faster please.
Okay.
Mr. Rugby Lad is Mr. Bi Lad who happens to like me and doesn't think I'd believe him. Which, stereotypical because he doesn't look gay, which then makes me a hypocrite. Okay. Okay. Nice.
Nick hiccups. “I like you, you moron!”
Darcy claps her hands once. “Finally.”
Charlie doesn’t move. His brain has completely left the building.
Sorry, Charlie can't come to the phone right now. Brain is elsewhere.
“I’m not—” Nick waves his arms—“I’m not pretendin’. I’ve liked you since, like... box number two. The one with the lil’ rainbow mug in it.”
Charlie blinks.
Nick sways. “You made me tea with it one time and I was like, oh no, feelings.”
Charlie blinks again.
Nick starts to tip sideways and Darcy catches him by the shoulders.
“Okay,” Charlie says, voice distant. “You need to sit down now.”
Nick—dramatically, devastatingly Nick—just flops straight to the ground.
He is listening like a good boy. Oh, Jesus Christ. Don't go there... Too Late.
Shit... Could Nick be my Good Boy? He listens so well. Okay, handle the problem right now and figure THAT out later.
Rugby Lad on the ground. Focus, Mr. Dick.
Right there in the middle of the dorm floor. Limbs sprawled like a starfish, flag cape tangling around his arms, cheeks glittering like a tipsy fairy.
Charlie stares at him.
“Nick.”
“Mm?” Nick blinks up at him with the soft, unfocused gaze of someone deeply drunk and deeply committed to making things more difficult.
Tara laughs, gentle and exasperated. “Nick, get up, big guy. I don’t want you passing out on the floor.”
“Noooo,” Nick whines, squirming like a child refusing bedtime. “Shush. Go away, Tara.”
Then he waves his hand vaguely in the air. “You too, Darcy. You both—you both are saints for gettin’ me back but go go goooo! I wanna talk to Charlie alone.”
Darcy raises her brows. “Well, then.”
Charlie glances between them—Tara, Darcy, Nick melting into the floor—and exhales.
“It’s fine,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll take care of him.”
It comes out more honest than he intends.
Not just I’ll deal with him—but I’ll be here. I’ll watch him. I’ll stay.
Tara studies him for a moment. So does Darcy.
There’s a flicker of something behind both of their expressions—recognition, maybe. Or gratitude. Or maybe just a quiet understanding of what this night is and what it means.
Tara nods. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
Charlie nods once.
Darcy steps toward Nick, crouching to gently squeeze his shoulder. “Text us in the morning, yeah?”
“Mmhhmmm,” Nick hums, face buried half in the carpet now. “Tell Tara I said she’s cool an’ Darcy is chaos an’ I love you both but leave now please and thank you.”
Darcy snorts. “Yeah, yeah. You’re a glittery wreck, Nelson.”
Nick throws her a thumbs up from the floor.
The door clicks closed behind them.
And then it’s just Charlie.
And Nick.
And the humming of the fairy lights.
And the faint smell of alcohol and sugary body glitter and sweat and something unspoken that’s been hanging in the air for weeks, now crackling like static.
Charlie sighs and kneels down next to the chaos on the floor.
Nick peeks up at him, smile crooked.
“Hi.”
Charlie exhales. Rubs a hand across his face. “Hi.”
Oh, you cute bisexual drunk disaster, how I want to lick those sparkles off you.
Jeeessus.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then:
“Nick… how much have you had to drink?”
Nick shrugs—or tries to. It’s more of a full-body wiggle. “I dunno... maybe like... ten shots?”
Charlie stares.
Nick grins sheepishly. “’M bad at trivia nights, I guess.”
Charlie blinks. “Ten—? Jesus.”
Nick waves a glittery hand in the air, like the number’s up for debate. “Could be eight. Could be twelve. Who’s to say, really.”
He blinks again, then his eyes light up. “Ooooh, Charlie!” He reaches for him like a child spotting their favorite toy after three whole minutes apart. “When’d you get here?! Are you still mad at me?”
Ten shots? More like twenty.
Charlie’s breath catches.
His voice softens. “Nick… can you sit up for me? So I can get you some water?”
Nick squints at him, suspicious. “Answer me first. Then maybe.”
Charlie sighs. “Nick.”
“Nope,” Nick sings, dragging the flag tighter around his shoulders. “Gimme a truth, Charlie Spring.”
Charlie closes his eyes for a second, then says, quiet but steady, “No, Nick. I’m not mad.”
Nick’s brows furrow. He puffs out a long sigh, like he’s been holding it in for weeks.
Charlie keeps going. “I’m… I’m sorry. For assuming you were homophobic.”
Nick pouts. “I’m not homophobic!”
“I know,” Charlie says, gently now. “I know you’re not. I just… I panicked.”
Nick looks at him for a long second, glitter shifting on his cheek with every blink.
“You hid from me,” he says, not accusatory, just sad. “In the bathroom, Charlie.”
“I know,” Charlie whispers. “I know.”
“I thought you hated me,” Nick mumbles, voice smaller now.
Charlie’s throat aches. “I didn’t. I don’t.”
He reaches out and gently helps Nick sit up, Nick groaning the whole time like he’s being dragged through a battlefield.
And once Nick’s sitting—slouched, legs stretched in front of him like a drunk prince—he leans against Charlie’s arm for a second, cheek to his shoulder.
“M’not homophobic,” he says again, quieter. Like it’s important.
“I know,” Charlie says, just as soft. “I really do.”
He’s now slouched himself halfway against the side of Charlie’s bed, flag draped around his shoulders like a forgotten blanket, hair mussed, glitter sticking to the curve of his cheekbone and collarbone and, weirdly, his neck.
His eyes flutter open and land on Charlie, and then—there it is.
That crooked, glittery smile.
“Heyyy,” he says, slurring already. “Since… since you know I’m not, like... homophobo-phic now…”
He squints like the word betrayed him, then blinks at Charlie, softer.
“Are you… gonna talk to me again?”
Charlie feels something pull behind his ribs. That familiar ache he’s tried to bury with earbuds and book pages and brushing his teeth for too long.
I'll talk to you and fuck you if that's what you want, Babycakes. Give me the word and I'll make sure you're my good boy.
He nods, slow. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to act that way. I just… I thought you were being rude. I thought you didn’t—”
Nick gasps. Actually gasps. Mouth open. Eyes wide.
“RUDE?!” he sputters, sitting bolt upright—too fast—and immediately wobbling like a baby deer in glitter.
“Noooo,” he groans, dramatic as ever. “I’d never be rude. I like you!”
Charlie blinks. “You... like me?”
Nick nods, hair flopping. “Yuh-huh. You have, like, the cutest lil’ dimples. And your hair is like—like all curly and soft and... ugh, Charlie.”
He slumps again, leaning slightly against the bedframe.
“I’m sorrrrrry,” he mumbles, words sticking together. “Sorry I didn’t tell you. When you hung up your flag. I shoulda. I wanted to.”
Charlie shakes his head. “You don’t need to say sorry—”
“I doooo,” Nick interrupts, eyes glassy, voice thick. “Comin’ out is... it’s s’posed to be all yayyy and glitter an’ music, right? But it’s... fuckin’ terrifyin’.”
He rubs at his cheek and smears glitter into his eyebrow.
Charlie just watches.
“My dad...” Nick mumbles. “He—he doesn’t like it. My brother either. Says bein’ bi is... selfish or confusin’ or whatever the fuck.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
Nick shrugs—messy, loose. “S’okay. Not your fault. No more sorries.” He flops his hand vaguely in the air. “Anywayyy…”
He turns, blinking up at Charlie with half-lidded, hopeful eyes.
“D’you... d’you like me too?”
Charlie doesn’t breathe.
Oh boy, wouldn't you like to know you sweet thing.
“I mean—it’s okay if you don’t!” Nick adds, hurriedly, panicking mid-sentence. “We can—we can be, like... friends! Or good friends, like the kind who hug and shit.”
Charlie smiles. And nods. “I like you, Nick.”
Nick pauses.
Then melts.
Actually melts.
“You doooo?” he breathes, flopping his face down against Charlie’s leg like a fainting goat. “Holy shiiit. Charlie Spring likes me.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie mutters, stroking Nick’s hair once. “Now drink some water.”
Nick hums. “Later. I’m too busy bein’ in love.”
Charlie laughs, quietly. “You’re too drunk to stand.”
“Mmmmaybe,” Nick says, nuzzling his knee. “But you still like me. So.”
Charlie looks down at him.
Glitter. Glitter. Glitter.
And something too honest to ignore anymore.
“I do,” he whispers. “I really do.”
And so—okay.
Actually.
No.
Charlie doesn’t hate Nick.
He doesn’t hate his stupid face or his stupid flag or the way he looks in the mornings with sleep in his eyes. He doesn’t hate the way he talks to his mum or the way he folds his laundry or the way he takes up too much space in the world and somehow never makes Charlie feel smaller.
He doesn’t hate the dimples.
Or the smile.
Or the fact that Nick Nelson, rugby lad, glitter disaster, bisexual cape-wearer, drunk idiot of the century—looked Charlie in the eye and said I like you with no shame in his voice and no fear left in his heart.
God—he doesn’t hate him at all.
He actually… really, really, really likes him.
Maybe from the moment he walked in and saw the stupid rugby flag hanging in the window and thought, great, wonderful, my life is over.
Maybe even before that.
Nick is asleep now.
Fully, deeply, dramatically asleep—curled at the foot of Charlie’s bed like a glitter-covered puppy, one arm flopped over his face, the bisexual flag still half-draped across his chest like a blanket that forgot what it was doing.
His breathing is slow. His mouth is open. He’s snoring, just barely.
Charlie sighs, shaking his head, and leans down slightly to pull a blanket over Nick’s legs, tucking it gently around him.
He flicks off the desk lamp, letting the fairy lights carry the room.
And as he crawls back into bed, heart full and aching and light, he whispers, so quietly it almost gets lost in the dark:
“Goodnight, Nick.”
And from the floor, half-asleep, Nick mumbles, “G’night, Charlie.”
Charlie smiles.
Yeah.
He really likes him. And maybe his dick does too.