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Charlie has been gone on Nick Nelson for what feels like a pathetically long time, but in actuality, is probably no more than a few weeks. Still, he’s whipped. When Nick says jump, Charlie’s brain screams: how high and how many times and whatever you want, you gorgeous, gorgeous man. And when Nick asks for a pencil, Charlie falls over himself to find one. And when Nick compliments him, on his trainers or shirt or notebook, Charlie is nothing but a puddle of gay mush on the disgusting, gum-sticky Truham floor.
So, when Nick asks him to join the rugby team, there’s only one possible answer.
Even though he hates rugby. And sports. And anything that involves voluntarily spending time with a certifiable militia of straight, primarily homophobic men in various states of undress. Oh, Charlie really didn’t think this through.
The locker room is not a fun place for Charlie. It never has been. And it’s not like it’s a very fun place for anyone, really, what with the smell and the naked bodies and the strange, self-conscious vibe in the air that never really goes away, even as its occupants attempt to cover it up through bad jokes and raucous laughter.
But the locker room is worse when you’re gay. It’s a well-known fact. Some people who don’t know any better might think it’s paradise, getting to look at shirtless torsos and bare skin and generally fit, attractive men. But those people are wrong, and stupid, and have obviously never stepped foot inside the Truham Boys’ locker room.
Besides, it’s ideas like that that lead to the worst part of the locker room, the one that only comes after you’re out, or after you’ve even just been targeted as a suspect. The judgement. The fucking judgement— the whispers, the teasing, the cruel laughter that echoes off the tile walls. He’s looking at us, the perv. Do you think he’s getting off on this? He shouldn’t be allowed in here, we could sue the school.
Good luck with that, dickheads. No, Charlie is not getting off on the homophobic, subpar pale chests of the Truham locker room. But it doesn’t matter whether he is or isn’t— it just matters that they think he is.
After the horrendous experience of gym last year, Charlie knows the drill. On his first day of rugby practice, he changes beforehand. In the bathrooms, with the stall firmly closed. No one around to look at him. Not even the mirror. He considers skipping the dreaded locker room entirely and waiting out on the field, but he knows that’ll only single him out more. Best face the music.
The knowledge that Nick will be there is both comforting and immensely terrifying. Because Nick will be there, and he’ll be practically naked, and Charlie will have to stare very determinedly at the wall and think of England, whatever that means.
(He’s never understood that phrase. Think of what about England? It’s a big place. Lots of things in it. Lots of people. Some of them are very sexy, so Charlie doesn’t see how that’ll help.)
The walk to the locker room feels like a funeral march. Like a walk to the gallows. Glumly, Charlie thinks that he would prefer the gallows. Then again, there would be no Nick Nelson there. No probably-toned abs that Charlie will not be looking at. Small mercies.
They’re talking about him before he even opens the door. Of course they are. They’ve probably been on the subject for a while. Since Nick announced Charlie’s sign-up, most likely.
“He’s so skinny—”
“Can he even play—”
“God, everyone knows he’s fucking gay—”
Charlie opens the door.
The room falls deathly, oppressively silent. Immediately, there are so many eyes on him, so many hateful glares, that Charlie thinks he might pass out.
Then he looks at Nick.
Thank God for Nick Nelson, and his big, earnest puppy-dog eyes, and the way that he’s currently the only person who looks glad to see Charlie. Excited, even.
Nick smiles, and Charlie’s shoulders relax a little. “Hi,” Nick says quietly, all sunshine and warmth.
“Hi,” Charlie replies shakily. Around the room, the disgusted stares intensify.
“I’m glad you came,” Nick continues happily, not at all aware that some of the judgemental looks are turning his way, now.
Charlie can’t honestly say that he’s glad he’s there, so he just says, “Thanks,” and takes a seat on the only unoccupied bench.
Eventually, the boys find better things to do than gawk at him, and conversation resumes. There’s still an incredibly tense set to the room, though. No one meets his eyes. Charlie feels like a five-foot-eleven, gay elephant.
To his horror, Nick is the type of person that likes to chat while he changes. Before Charlie fully realizes what’s happening, Nick’s large hands are tugging at the bottom hem of his shirt, before bringing his elbows up and performing one of those incredibly sexy overhead-shirt-removals that Charlie thought, until now, only happened in pornos. Not that he would know.
Nick’s voice comes, slightly muffled, through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Embarrassingly, Charlie doesn’t even hear what he says, because he’s too busy staring, and then he’s too busy having a mental breakdown about said staring. Numerous, increasingly panicked thoughts run through his brain, namely wow he’s so fit and I want to touch his abs and then oh God he would be so disgusted that I want to touch his abs and then I’m a horrible friend—
He’s staring. Oh, Jesus Christ, he’s staring, and people are going to realize he’s staring, and then they’ll report him to the headmaster and he’ll be kicked out of rugby, out of school—
Charlie shifts his gaze to the left. Stares at the wall, instead, very determinedly thinking of England. More specifically, the Queen in a garish, hot-pink bikini, which is— Charlie is a little disturbed that came from his brain, actually, and with such alarming speed. But it does the trick, more or less.
“Charlie?”
Charlie realizes, with great shame, that this is far from the first time Nick has called him. “Sorry, what?”
He’s still looking at the wall. There’s a mysterious gray stain by the door.
Nick chuckles, then comes to sit down right next to Charlie. If he moved a little closer, their thighs would be touching.
Charlie hardly breathes.
“I was just asking if you’re excited for your first practice,” Nick says warmly, jostling his shoulder a little. Through his shirt, Charlie’s skin burns.
“Excited isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” Charlie says after a moment, with a small laugh.
Nick rolls his eyes, face open and fond. “You’ll like it. I promise.”
Charlie raises an eyebrow. “I’ll remember you said that,” he threatens.
“Go right ahead.” Nick reaches down to change his shoes, and something inside of Charlie jolts sideways, all jerky and panicked. Good God. It’s just his shoes.
Charlie may be worse off than he thought.
Nick’s socks are bright yellow, with little smiley-faces on the ankles. They’re so him that Charlie could cry. Very bravely, he keeps his composure.
Nick glances over, then, giving Charlie a once-over that makes his stomach perform a high-flying acrobatic routine. “When did you change?” he asks curiously.
“Earlier,” Charlie says vaguely. He hesitates, then, looking around to see if anyone’s listening. They’re not. “I’m not a… big fan. Of locker rooms.”
Although Charlie wasn’t sure Nick would understand, he seems to get it almost right away. His whole face softens, and his gaze darts around at the rest of the team. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “No one here will give you trouble.”
They will. They already have. But Nick is so certain, so effortlessly sweet, that Charlie can’t argue. “Thanks, Nick.”
Nick furrows his brow. “Don’t thank me,” he says, sounding uncomfortable. “It’s just… basic decency.” He sighs, looking like he wants to say more— but still, he seems to realize the company they’re in. He claps Charlie on the shoulder, a straight, overly masculine gesture, and stands up. Charlie watches him go, chest aching at the distance.
“Alright, lads,” Nick says, with easy, effortless authority. “Let’s get going.”
❤️
Charlie can’t stop thinking about yesterday. It had started so poorly— in bed, crying, no plans save for listening to Taylor Swift on repeat, crying some more, eating ice cream, and then watching Love Actually— but then Nick had showed up. Like a miracle. Like a vision.
Like a scene out of a fucking movie, actually, dripping wet and breathless and kissing Charlie because, against all odds, Nick liked him. It was unfathomable. Charlie really couldn’t wrap his head around it. Still can’t, even after a full day’s rumination.
For the first time ever, Charlie’s excited to go to rugby. To go to the locker room.
He’s also nervous as hell, because it’s been so hard to stay calm around Nick, to be normal, and he’s already mucking up this whole secret thing. At the rate he’s going, he’ll end up accidentally outing Nick. And then he’ll never talk to Charlie again, probably.
There’s not much fanfare anymore when Charlie enters the locker room. The boys are still rude, of course, but it’s more behind his back, and it’s more just the really homophobic ones, like Harry, who have the stamina and determination to keep bullying him after months and months of them playing together. The rest have moved on. The novelty of having a gay teammate has, thankfully, worn off.
Nick has that same, private smile on his face when Charlie walks in. Charlie reacts the same as he did that morning— a whole bushel of butterflies gets set loose in his throat, and he smiles right back, unable to contain his joy. He sits down, just inches away, and Nick looks down at the space between them. Shifts, just imperceptibly, so that their legs are pressed together.
Nick Nelson is going to kill him. There’s no doubt about it.
Charlie sits on the bench, face on fire, legs on fire, everything burning and overwhelmed, while Nick looks happily over at him, like there’s nowhere he’d rather be on a Monday afternoon than in this sweaty locker room with Charlie. Charlie can’t handle this. He really can’t.
Of course, that’s when Nick starts changing. Because he is determined to murder Charlie via rock-hard abs, apparently. Charlie wouldn’t even mind.
As he usually does, Charlie stares at the wall, thinking of nothing and also the Queen, because it really works, for some reason. But he’s interrupted by the slight, but forceful press of Nick’s thigh against his. Automatically, he looks over.
Immediately, his senses are flooded with arms and skin and abs, and to top it off, the truly maddening puppy-dog eyes that Nick is sending his way. “Hey,” he murmurs, completely shirtless and completely, blissfully unaware of what this is doing to Charlie, “You okay?”
Charlie squeaks. His face turns tomato red. He looks everywhere, very quickly, then looks back away at the wall. He can’t— not while their teammates are there.
Next to him, Nick stills. “Oh,” he breathes out, very quietly. It doesn’t sound like a bad oh, though. More… awed. Happy.
A second later, Nick places his hand on Charlie’s thigh. It’s a casual movement, and slight enough to be unnoticeable to the other boys. Charlie feels it like a brand on his skin. He holds back another high-pitched, strangled noise.
Nick’s thumb starts running back and forth over Charlie’s leg. His brain vaporizes. He has no brain cells left, except for the one that’s entirely dedicated to Nick touching him. Nick is fucking touching him, holy crap.
Harry and his crew finish changing, then head over to the door. He pauses, brow furrowed. “You coming, boys?”
Nick waves him off. “In a minute.”
Harry pauses, eyes calculating, but ultimately lets it go. “Alright, mate. See you on the pitch.”
“See you.”
The second they’re gone, Nick’s hand travels up from Charlie’s thigh to cup his face. “Char. Is this okay?”
Charlie thinks yes, absolutely, and no, I’m dying, and mostly that nothing has ever been more okay, ever. “Yeah,” he whispers, barely audible. Nick’s still shirtless, and it’s doing stupid things to his… everything.
“Great,” Nick says, smiling, and leans in. His lips are soft. He tastes like peppermint, and Charlie wonders idly if he’s started bringing mints to school in case he gets the opportunity to kiss Charlie. The thought is insanely cute, so he privately imagines it to be true.
They kiss for a while, lips slick and gently pressuring, before Charlie breaks away. Nick pouts. “What?”
“Nick,” Charlie whines, flushed beyond reason, “You’re still shirtless.”
Nick looks down at himself, blinking, as if he’s forgotten. The bastard. “Am I?” he says, all wide-eyed innocence. “Must have slipped my mind.”
Charlie leans down, balls Nick’s discarded rugby shirt in his fist, and throws it at his bare chest. “Get dressed, you tosser,” he says, and then, for good measure, “I hate you, you’re the worst.”
“Nah,” Nick says, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t think you do.”
Still, he puts his shirt back on, which is both a relief and a tragedy, and Charlie thinks that’s the end of it. Apparently, though, Nick isn’t done kissing him. He’s insatiable, really, now that they’ve broken this barrier.
Again, Charlie is the one to break away. Nick kisses, very lightly, at his jawline, and he shivers. “Nick,” he says, with great difficulty, “We have to get to practice.”
“Do we?” Nick murmurs, pressing his lips behind Charlie’s ear.
“Believe me—” Charlie lets out an embarrassing, muffled noise. Nick grins, and kisses that spot again, more insistently. “Believe me, I would love to keep doing this. But the boys will get suspicious. We have to go.”
Nick breaks away, face falling. He searches Charlie’s face, and a disappointed resignation settles over his features. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Yeah, alright.”
A wave of relief washes over Charlie’s body. He did it. He’s getting better at this whole secret thing. It won’t be like last time, with Ben. This time, he’ll be better. He won’t fuck it up.
He can’t fuck it up, because this is Nick, and Charlie cares about him infinitely more than he ever cared about Ben.
They stand, hand-in-hand, and Nick leans over to give Charlie one more quick peck. Charlie smiles. “You ready for practice, then?”
Nick nods. “Lead the way.”
And as they go to rugby, blissed-out and love-drunk, Charlie thinks that maybe— just maybe— the locker room isn’t so bad anymore. Not now that Nick’s in it.