Chapter Text
Charlie remembered Herne Bay (more specifically, its seafront amenities) more fondly than this.
Well, sort of.
The arcade was still there, now dark and decrepit against the night as the car rolled past, half its windows cracked and caked in grime, and just like the noticeboards adorning the outer façade with old pamphlets for family days out, it clung desperately to the memories of an age long since passed – of first dates and first kisses, of the unfettered enthusiasm of youth, of young hearts burning with hopes and dreams and determination; a carousel aged beyond any of the surrounding attractions stood further ahead next to the pier – once pearl white horses now faded to an off-beige, the paint chipped and peeling to reveal the old, splintered wood beneath. Not quite as picturesque as it perhaps was many years ago – and it definitely wasn’t going to be front-and-centre on a postcard anytime soon (if they even bothered to make them anymore) – but its continued grace, even as the horses dutifully awaited orders, frozen in time, blessed Herne Bay with a palpable and beautiful mortality.
Charlie, head resting against the freezing passenger window, slid his arms further into his jumper sleeves until he could bunch the hems up in his hands. It just barely brought feeling back into his fingertips.
The car trundled past a row of shops, most of which were closed. It was the 22nd of December and the sun had set hours ago; no stars in the sky tonight – overcast, as the BBC website had predicted – and there was a bitter chill in the air even though the car’s heating system couldn’t go any higher. Too tired to care from the long car journey, Charlie was only vaguely aware of movement to his right, and some quiet shuffling. Rumours told of an incoming snowstorm, due any day now, and the heavy winter darkness threatened it too as Nick’s Mini Cooper rounded a corner and joined the steady flow of traffic away from the beach. Beyond the window pane, nothing, and visible through the windshield were only two beams of light – Nick’s headlights – perforating the night and converging on the tarmac ahead of them. Just further than that, the back of a Land Rover hovered silently. And that’s where the universe seemingly ended, a twenty-metres-wide apocalypse right in the middle of Kent.
Charlie shivered. He drew his arms and legs close and curled into a ball right there on the car seat.
A blanket appeared in his lap, draped gently over his knees.
“It’s cold tonight,” Nick said softly, putting his left hand back on the wheel, not taking his eyes off the road. Even from this angle, Charlie could sense the warmth in them.
If Nick were a blanket, he would be a patchwork of hugs and kisses tailored for the long winter nights, and Charlie would hold that blanket tightly to his chest and cherish it and lose himself in everything that made Nick, Nick.
“Thank you,” Charlie replied quietly. He lifted the blanket and unfurled it. It was made of thin, scratchy cotton and, frankly, was not very good, and definitely not an adequate Nick substitute either, but the intention was there and that was enough to warm Charlie up at least a little bit.
The car rolled obediently along as a comfortable silence descended once more, Charlie teetering on the precipice of sleep. He snuggled into the blanket, letting his mind drift up and away from him in a distinctly Nick-shaped haze, and that’s how he remained; a weightless, worriless cloud of love and peace.
“Char, wake up.”
Charlie roused. Nick’s hand was on his shoulder and shaking him so lightly that it was as if Nick was afraid that Charlie might shatter.
Charlie’s lips were parched, and his throat tickled, and his head pounded. The overhead light was illuminated, and compared to the gloom outside, far, far too bright. One hand flew up to his face, shielding his eyes. This was why he hated taking naps; all the drawbacks of a hangover with none of the benefits of alcohol.
“The light,” he murmured. “Ugh, my head.”
Nick clicked the light off. Darkness became Charlie’s world again, and he drank it in. He lowered his hand. He recognised the road they were on; his parents’ house waited patiently to the right of where Nick had parked. His parents had skimped on the decorations this year, he realised, with an unwelcome emptiness nestling in the crook of his heart; he missed the gaudy fairy lights that would adorn every window – the animated icicle lights that his dad had always hung from the guttering – even the oversized and, quite frankly, terrifying inflatable Santa Claus that had once towered halfway up the house and took up two thirds of the garden. Still, at least they had kept the projector – blue-white snowflakes swirled up and down and around the outside wall. Whether Charlie would still appreciate them if a snowstorm were to arrive, he didn’t know. For now, he was simply glad to be home.
“Are you okay?” Nick asked, brow knitted, concern glistening in his eyes. Charlie gazed up at Nick, whose face was framed on one side by darkness and reflected blue-white light on the other.
Charlie didn’t say anything. Instead, he draped his arms around Nick’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss.
“I love you.”
It was barely more than a whisper.
Even in this dim light, Charlie saw Nick blush and relished it.
This was their ninth year together. Charlie had graduated from university two years ago. Nick, three. And that was how long they had been living together, in a cosy, two-bedroom flat in Leeds.
They had wasted no time once Nick graduated and were living together within a month; Nick had found work as a baker shortly after. A stop-gap, he said, while he searched for a position as a clinical psychologist, his degree subject. But his gastronomical endeavours had proven more successful than he and Charlie could have expected. Within six months, the owner of the bakery retired and took Nick under his wing. And, now, the business was his, though he would always include Charlie in that ownership if anyone asked him.
As for Charlie, he had also found modest success. Unlike Nick, it made full use of his degree. Charlie Spring, or Mr. Spring as his students knew him, had only recently been handed a permanent, full-time position at Fairhead Grammar as their newest Mathematics teacher. Since his first day in September, he had settled into the role remarkably well – better than his best expectations – and his students adored him.
The feeling was mutual.
“I love you too,” Nick said, beaming, and he returned Charlie’s kiss. He opened the glovebox compartment in front of Charlie and rummaged around for a second, before pulling a bottle of water out. He offered it to Charlie. “Here, love,” he said. “You seem a bit peaky.”
“Are you trying to say I look like shit?”
Deadpan: “Absolutely hideous, yes.”
Charlie laughed lightly. He took the bottle from Nick, opened it, and drank. The water tasted stale and artificial, like liquid plastic, but it would have to do. A few minutes passed while Charlie recovered from his post-nap grogginess. And Nick, ever the doting boyfriend, gently and carefully trailed his fingers through Charlie’s raven curls.
“How are you doing?” Nick said eventually. He cupped Charlie's cheek then, giving it a light stroke with his thumb.
“Better. Much better, I think. But I’m still knackered.”
Nick checked his watch.
“Let’s head inside. It’s a little after half-ten and I’m already worried your mum will shank me for arriving so late.”
Charlie snorted. He found the release button for his seatbelt, popped it undone, and opened the passenger door. “I’ll grab the presents.”
“Oh, no, wait, don't! I-I mean… I’ll do it. There’s some heavy stuff in the boot. Go on, shoo! Off to bed with you. I’ll be up shortly.”
Charlie eyed Nick with curious suspicion.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he said. “The worst, actually.”
Nick scoffed. “I’m not a bad liar! A-And I’m not lying either!”
“Sure,” Charlie said slowly, letting the word trail behind him as he walked around the car and headed for the house.