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To the eternal irritation (and not-inconsiderable jealousy) of his boyfriend, Nick Nelson is an extremely talented sleeper. He’s capable of falling asleep almost instantly, no matter the environment - and once he has, he can’t be awoken by anything short of a foghorn (or a kiss from Charlie, which only adds to the Disney-ness of it all).
He also tends to have really pleasant dreams, which irks Charlie (whose dreams usually oscillate between enigmatic and embarrassing) to no end - and this one is a classic of the genre.
“Mr. Nelson, you are the very model of an English gentleman!”
“He really is the talk of the town, is he not? A most eligible bachelor.”
In his latest dream, Nick’s in a crowded ballroom (not unlike the one where he and Charlie had shared their first kiss, in fact) and everybody else is Charlie. It probably ought to feel weird - but Nick’s having such a good time that it hasn’t even occurred to him that there’s anything strange about the situation.
“Mr. Spring,” Nick chuckles, taking a sip from a glass of champagne he hadn’t noticed he was holding. “I may be a bachelor - but in truth, my heart belongs to you.”
The music stops, and every Charlie in the room turns to him, wearing identical blushes.
“To me?” they all say, simultaneously. “But Mr. Nelson - which me do you mean?”
“Well.” Nick says, allowing a sultry grin to form. “I suppose I’ll have to work out how to choose - you’re all so very alluring. Perhaps I ought to pledge my heart to the most talented dancer - or, perhaps, to the best kisser?”
It's at this point that the dream takes a very peculiar turn.
“Perhaps,” a Charlie (this one on the waiting staff) opines, as he refills Nick’s glass, “or perhaps you could tell us where you keep your receipts?”
Nick furrows his brow in confusion, because this is definitely off script.
“My receipts? Uh - but I thought we could dance. Wouldn’t you like to dance?”
Another Charlie chips in: “I need to see your receipts, Nick.”
And another: “Me too - I have to see your receipts before the clock strikes midnight!”
And a third: “That’s right - so do I! Where are you keeping them?”
Nick can only watch, dumbfounded, as the furore grows and grows, the Charlies getting louder and louder in their indignation.
“I don’t understand.” he stutters. “I don’t have any receipts -”
And that’s when the roof’s ripped off by a gargantuan Charlie, who bellows down at him, voice so loud that Nick’s knocked to the floor:
“NICHOLAS NELSON, WHERE ARE YOUR -”
“I don’t know!” Nick shouts, jerking awake so violently that he falls off the edge of the bed.
“- receipts - oh my god, are you alright?” Charlie finishes, jumping up from the end of the bed and helping his boyfriend to his feet. “Jesus, sorry - I didn’t expect that to happen!”
“Ugh.” Nick mutters, rubbing ruefully at what he has to imagine will be a corker of a bruise on his shin. “I’m fine, Char - might have a bit of a bump tomorrow, though. I just had the strangest dream - there were hundreds of you, all saying you had to see my receipts -”
Nick catches sight of the date on the alarm clock, and freezes in horror.
“Oh, hell. It’s the thirty-first. And it’s almost midday. You actually do need to see them.”
He looks up at his boyfriend, feeling rather like a puppy who’s wet the carpet. Charlie’s got his arms folded and his brow’s furrowed, though Nick can sense that the edges of a smile are tugging at his expression.
“Yes, Nicholas.” Charlie says. “It’s Saturday, the thirty-first of January, to be more precise - and do you know what today is?”
“Yes.” Nick mumbles, extremely embarrassed. “It’s the self-assessment tax return deadline.”
“It is indeed!” Charlie beams. “And do you know how much we get fined if you file a late return?”
Nick would love to be irritated by Charlie’s tone, but he’s absolutely a hundred percent responsible for this fiasco: Charlie’s been encouraging him to get a head start on filing for months, and Nick’s just not managed to get around to it.
“Hundreds of pounds.” he mutters, eyes cast down in shame. “And they might not accept my expenses, either, which’d end up costing us way more. Christ - I’m totally screwed.”
Nick’s definitely had better starts to the day. He hates it when he makes Charlie annoyed, especially when it’s because of something that’s totally his fault. Nick knows that he’s going to have to beg for Charlie’s help if he’s going to have any hope of filing on time, and that’s so completely unfair on his boyfriend, and asking is going to be so embarrassing -
A pair of hands lift Nick’s head up, pulling him out of his spiral and bringing him face to face with Charlie, who’s smiling at him with enormous affection.
“I’m not so sure about that.” Charlie murmurs. “After all, you’ve got a long-suffering maths graduate on hand to help you out, don’t you?”
Charlie treats him to a long, lingering kiss (Nick can taste the coffee on his breath - his boyfriend’s clearly been up for a while) before he carries on talking.
“Alright, Nelson!” Charlie says, faux-imperious. “No more moping. You’re going to go and shower while I make us some coffee; then you’re going to unpack your ludicrous receipts box for me, so we can actually get your deductions figured out; then I’m going to actually file your taxes, and then, once we’re all done, we’re getting pizza, putting on a movie, and you’re going to give me a top-tier foot rub. Capisce?”
It’s not as if Nick had ever thought differently - but it’s always a bit humbling to remember just how lucky he is to have Charlie as his boyfriend.
“Loud and clear - compris, comprendido, understood.” Nick says, grinning like a madman. “I love you so much, Charlie Spring.”
They’ve been together for the best part of a decade, now - but Charlie still can’t help but flush a little at Nick’s declaration.
“Well, I love you too, Nick Nelson.” he says. “Now: less chinwagging, more showering!”
By the time Nick’s out of the shower, dressed, and sufficiently caffeinated to actually be of any use, it’s already almost eleven. Charlie’s at the kitchen table, elbow-deep in the box of paperwork that Nick’s spent most of a year pretending to have a plan for: even though the dirty secret of Nick’s filing system is well and truly out there, he still feels a bit embarrassed at the sight.
“Okay, let me try and explain.” Nick says, pulling up a chair. “My system’s inspired by geology: the receipts form chronological layers which, once subjected to the pressure of later paperwork, then solidify into a sturdy financial crust.”
“Which can, presumably, then be used as a fossil fuel.” Charlie says, wryly. “I know it’s because I’m a bit of a nerd, but there’s a reason I log all the money I make and spend whem I’m teaching the drums on Excel, Nick - it saves me this kind of nightmare.”
(Charlie’s a primary school maths teacher in his day job, but he’s also worked part-time as a drum teacher since starting university to help ends meet. Working in the public sector under a regressive government is such fun.)
“I’m sorry.” Nick offers, smiling weakly. “It’s just, I was working so hard this time last year -I never actually found the time to work out how to record all this, and then the Six Nations started and I had that gig reporting on the games in Paris - I’m sorry, Char.”
Charlie rubs his arm, reassuringly.
“It’s fine, babe - we’ll get through this. Luckily for you -” he pauses, pulling out another spreadsheet - “I’ve written down which trips were expensed and which ones weren’t - we just need to sort what bills go into what bucket, and we’ll be most of the way done.”
“You are a literal, heaven-sent angel.” Nick murmurs. “What on earth did I do to deserve you?”
“Well, you’ve got the personality of a golden retriever, the best smile since the Mona Lisa, and the body of a sports star.” Charlie says, matter-of-factly. “I think you’d manage to deserve me if you just sat there and managed not to dribble on the table.”
“That’s me, alright.” Nick agrees, grinning. “Body of a Greek god, brains of a Greek yoghurt.”
There’s a beat, and then they’re both laughing helplessly.
“Alright.” Charlie says, once he’s calmed himself. “I’ve got the first three months - you were freelance throughout, weren’t you? Okay, good - we can just count all those expenses straight-up, ‘cept for the petrol costs, which we’ll have to pro-rate for the portions that were for work only, and it’ll be better to claim the flat rate work-from-home allowance, so that’ll make things easier too. All you need to do is to look through these, and tell me which hotel stays were expensed, and which ones were your money, and we’ll power through this.”
“You’re not an angel, actually.” Nick says, more than slightly awed. “You’re a wizard. A mathemagician.”
“Less praising, more appraising.” Charlie says, though he still blushes a little. “There’s plenty of tea in the pot, and I’m budgeting you one biscuit per month we get through.”
“How about one per -”
“There are fifty-two weeks in a year, Nick - I’m not going out on a grocery run before we get to July. Tell you what - two biscuits a month until the packet runs out, and that’s my final offer.”
“Deal.”
For all that he’s ridiculously grateful for Charlie’s help, Nick still cringes at some of the more embarrassing discoveries they uncover in the strata of his expenses - like the number of times he’d ordered Pizza Hut when he’d been on assignment, because trying to find proper nutrition had been far too much effort for his liking.
(It’s twenty-four - five of them in one week alone. Charlie tells Nick he’s going to staple all the receipts together and make Nick wear them round his neck to show his shame, like some paper albatross: the mental image sends them both into peals of laughter again.)
Luckily, the start of the year’s a lot slower than the end of it - mainly because Nick had been juggling about six part-time jobs back when he’d finished university, and now he’s just got the one.
Nick had bounced around jobs when he’d graduated from Leeds with a degree in Psychology: originally, he’d hoped to qualify as a Psychologist proper, but the only doctoral program he’d managed to get an offer for had been in Dundee - and, even if he’d accepted it, he would’ve racked up a ridiculous amount of debt over the three-year course, with no guarantee of a good job at the end of it.
More than that, a doctorate in Dundee would’ve meant a nine hour car drive to see Charlie or his mum back home - and that had really been the straw that had broken the camel’s back.
Instead, Nick had moved back home for a bit, coached a couple of local schools’ rugby teams, washed cars, painted houses, worked as an Uber driver for one extremely stressful month, and found out that he was really bad at being a plongeur after one traumatic night in a Wetherspoons, while he wondered what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
Just as Nick had started started wondering if he might have sabotaged his future by not pursuing the doctorate, he’d been given the opportunity (thanks to a friend off the Leeds Uni Rugby team, who’d recommended him) to report on a Harlequins-Wasps match for the Guardian - and he’d absolutely loved it.
More than that, Nick had realised that he was actually really good at translating the excitement of sport into the written word. After his first report had been well received (not least because he actually understood rugby a lot better than a lot of the people who reported on it), he’d been taken on as a contractor for the remainder of the season, and had progressed from that to running some of the Guardian’s match liveblogs and part of their Six Nation reporting.
Nick’s even been commissioned to write up some Premiership League matches, of late - and that’s felt like a proper step up in the world, what with how many more people follow football than rugby. The whole thing still feels almost like a dream - but, somehow, Nick has actually built something approaching a proper career, doing something he actually enjoys.
And to think that he gets all that on top of getting to be with the world’s best boyfriend - well, there are days when Nick’s life doesn’t seem quite real, because nobody should be allowed to be as lucky as he is.
The winter sun’s low in the sky by the time they round the corner of December. Even though it makes reading a bit of a pain, Nick can’t bring himself to turn the lights on for quite some time, even as the kitchen darkens: he’s too entranced by the way that the fading sunlight catches Charlie’s face, transforming his boyfriend’s features into a dappled canvas of light and shadow.
Charlie’s so much better than he’d been at his unhappiest, nowadays. He’s not ashamed to take his shirt off, any more, even if he’s somewhere public, like the beach; and he’s pretty much fine with even the more stressful food scenarios, like an unplanned trip to a restaurant or a piece of cake he hadn’t expected to be offered.
But, for all that Charlie knows that Nick thinks he’s beautiful, Nick’s still not sure that Charlie quite believes it himself. Nick wishes he could bring Charlie out of himself in moments like these, somehow - show him what a work of art he actually is -
“Babe.” An amused voice cuts his reverie short. “For all that I enjoy you devouring me with your eyes, I’d enjoy being able to actually read what you were doing last February even more - can you grab the lights?”
Nick’s a little embarrassed at being caught in the act, but not enough to stop quite yet.
“In a minute, Char,” he says, eyes glinting mischievously, “just gotta do one thing first.”
“And what, exactly, is th-mmh!”
Before he can finish his sentence, Nick leans over and pulls him in for another kiss.
In the end, it’s almost seven by the time they finish (well, by the time Charlie finishes) submitting Nick’s tax return: late in the day, sure, but still a total miracle, given it probably would’ve taken Nick weeks to file it himself.
Filling in an endless web-form is definitely a one-man job (and that man is Charlie, obviously), so Nick busies himself with more Nick-appropriate tasks as Charlie works his way through.
By the time Charlie’s ready to press submit, Nick’s turned the oven on, defrosted the pizza, and given their little one-bedroom flat (for all that they’d have liked to live somewhere more spacious, London’s an expensive city, and its not like Nick and Charlie have ever minded being cheek-to-jowl with each other, anyway) a quick clean. He saves the best job for his boyfriend, though: it’s only fair, after all, that Charlie should get to decide what they should do with the nightmarish box of his old records, which are now, presumably, completely pointless.
Of course, it’s not quite that simple.
“We still need to hold on to them until we’re sure you won’t get audited.” Charlie explains, matter-of-factly; then his eyes narrow, and he shoots Nick a ferocious smile. “After that, though? They’re going to burn.”
“You know,” Nick says, “you’re never sexier than when you’re passionate about something.”
“And you’re never sexier than when you’re well-organised.” Charlie shoots back. “Mark my words, Nicholas Nelson - if this happens again, you’re on your own.”
“It won’t!” Nick promises. “Even though I know you’d still help me if it did, because you’re legitimately the best boyfriend in the world.”
Even though Charlie tries to hide it, he can’t help but blush at the praise.
“Let’s keep that hypothetical hypothetical,” he retorts, making a sterling attempt at pretending he’s not pleased by the compliment, “and focus on me getting my just desserts: namely, you, me, sofa, movie, pizza, now.”
And that’s an order Nick’s only too happy to obey.
A few minutes later, they’re curled up on the sofa, Nick pinned in place by Charlie, who’s apparently most comfortable when he’s sprawled on top of his boyfriend, like some enormous housecat.
“You know,” Nick comments idly, some time later, making absolutely no attempt to move, “the oven’s probably hot enough by now - we’re the only thing keeping us from our pizza, babe.”
Charlie sends him a lazy grin, and adjusts his legs a little, freeing up Nick’s arms but pinning him even more firmly to the sofa.
“The pizza can wait.” He says. “You’ve got more important duties to attend to, anyway.”
Charlie wiggles his sock-clad feet at Nick, grinning mischievously.
“Seriously?” Nick says, trying his best to pretend to be disgruntled. “I know I’m afflicted with years of rugby-induced concussions and all, but I distinctly remember the order of events being pizza, movie, and then foot rub.”
“I am altering the deal.” Charlie growls, attempting a Vader impression which doesn’t quite sound entirely unlike James Earl Jones. “Pray I don’t alter it any further.”
“Alright, Darth Vader.” Nick chuckles. “Or should that be Darth Vestment? Given how good you are with numbers, and all.”
“If you don’t start now, babe, it’s gonna be Darth Dignant.”
“You’re lucky that you’re ridiculously cute - I hope you know that.” Nick says, carefully shifting around his boyfriend until they’re leaning against opposite arms of the sofa, Charlie’s feet resting on his belly. “Like, you’ve actually weaponised cuteness.”
“As if you don’t love every second of it.” Charlie murmurs, eyelids fluttering shut in pleasure as Nick starts to knead his feet.
It’s hardly a statement Nick even has to respond to: they both know just how true (and how mutual) the sentiment is, after all.
It’s funny, Nick thinks, hands working away by themselves as he enjoys the sight of his blissed-out boyfriend, that he and Charlie have ended up with exactly the kind of life they’d so often been teased about by Tao and other others, back at Truham. It’s a life which is completely devoid of the sort of things that a lot of people probably hope for: it’s not exciting, and it lacks grandiose gestures of affection, or ostentatious displays of wealth, or anything like that.
Nick knows that their life together’s probably boring by any of those metrics - but he and Charlie don’t need, have never needed, anything more to be happy than just being with each other, and Nick’s not sure that they ever will.
Instead, their relationship is built on a much firmer foundation: one of care and affection and little acts of kindness, like the endless cups of tea Charlie makes without asking whenever Nick’s up late working on an article, or the packed lunches Nick wakes up early to make every morning for Charlie when it’s exam season, and a million other tiny things which all add up to a life together.
Most of all, though, their relationship's built on all-encompassing trust - the unquestioning understanding that, whatever their future holds, they’ll always be there for each other.
And even though Nick loves his friends and his family (even David, at times, now that his brother’s finally worked out how not to be a prick and properly apologised for all his crappiness over the years), he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’d be fine if the world was just him and Charlie: that’s all they really need, in the end.
A gentle snore interrupts Nick from his musings, and he just about manages not to laugh: apparently, he’s a little too good at giving massages, because Charlie’s fast asleep, his body utterly relaxed - one arm flopping off the edge of the sofa, his face completely at peace.
Once he’s taken a few surreptitious photos (for important blackmail purposes), Nick gently eases himself out from under his boyfriend, fetches a blanket, and settles it over Charlie. He pads into the kitchen, slides the pizza into the oven, and spends a couple of minutes on a few more little tasks - checking whether anything in the fridge is close to expiring, taking out the bins, doing a bit of washing up - before he heads back into the living room, where he finds Charlie, still a bit dozy, sat up, trying to blink sleep out of his eyes.
“How long have I…”
“Just a few minutes, babe.” Nick says, a little dizzy with fondness.
“Oh.” Charlie says, a little more awake. “Should we put the pizza in?”
“Already done - it’s just about ready, love.” Nick says, leaning down and stealing a lengthy kiss from Charlie between sentences. “I’ll plate it up now - you can have the much tougher job of picking something to watch.”
“You know that I’m not going to pick a Marvel film just because you’re ridiculously sweet, right?” Charlie says. “I do still have taste, after all.”
“Sure - I know you won’t pick one just because I’m sweet.” Nick agrees. “But I bet you’ll pick one anyway, because you’re even sweeter.”
“Ugh.” Charlie groans. “We are actually sickening. Why are we like this?”
“Fate.” Nick intones dramatically. “‘It must have been divine ordinance, leading our lives to intersect - oof!”
Nick’s cut off, mid-sentence, by a well-aimed cushion to the face.
“You’re honestly such a nerd.” Charlie laughs. “Go on - go and get the pizza out before I have to kiss you again.”
“Yeah - that’d be awful.” says Nick. “We wouldn’t want it to burn, would we?”
Of course, Nick still steals another kiss from his boyfriend before he goes, because some things are worth burning a pizza for - and kissing Charlie Spring is definitely one of them.