Work Text:
Nick POV
In a few days, I’ll leave Kent for my first year in Leeds. Then it will be exactly 1 month, 3 weeks, 4 days, 3 hours, 18 minutes and 29 seconds until I see Charlie.
I know that because we’ve already found the best train for him to take when he visits me during midterm. If he boards the train at 7:03, he will arrive at the train station near City square at exactly 9:16. October 24th, 9:16:00. We just need to make it to that moment.
Last week we put apps on our phones to countdown to that moment. Charlie says the countdown is already helping him feel in control in the anxious moments, because watching the seconds and minutes flip away makes him realize that he doesn’t have to do anything other than keep breathing. Each moment is one closer to the moment he’ll be in my arms again.
I’m ready to do whatever works for him, but to be honest, the countdown isn’t working for me. The one time I opened the app and watched the seconds scroll away, I felt like life was speeding up and I was about to careen out of control. But I didn’t delete it. Part of me feels wants to believe that keeping our countdowns ticking in synch in the background will keep us in synch while we’re apart.
Rationally, I know that two months apart can’t erase the two years we’ve been together. It won’t overcome our plans for our future together unless we let it. And yet I know how one small event can change your whole life in an instant. I know because when that pen exploded during form, it was like the universe tilted ever so slightly bringing Charlie and I together. And once we were connected, it was like hitting hyperdrive. One moment I was stuck with my old “friends” playing at being Nick the Rugby lad. The next moment, every perspective had changed. Everything I wanted was different. But what I wanted most was Charlie. Still, as we kept getting closer, the universe hasn’t stopped rushing us towards this moment. Towards this separation.
I’m ready for university life. I want this. I’ve chosen it. But leaving Charlie will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Maybe the hardest thing I’ll ever do. But I think we have a solid plan.
We talked about it over and over this last school year. On good days, we’d eat our lunch in the school yard and talk about how we’ll still start and end every day with our goofy texts. We’ll squeeze in voice calls as much as possible and video chat every Sunday. And when Charlie visits me, we’ll explore the city, we’ll go out the best pubs with my new friends, and then head to my dorm room early to make up for lost time together. Those were the good days in April and May.
By June, the constant chatter about uni is bringing tears to Charlie’s eyes. So, we retreat to the art room and whisper our plans while Mr. Ajayi removes art from the walls and pretends to be somewhere else.
But the best talks happen in the final weeks of summer before I leave--usually in my bed. We’ve been spending even more time there than usual.
As the final week approaches, Charlie’s parents sense his increasing sadness and fear a relapse. Not wanting him alone, they relent on their “no hanky panky” rules and agree to let him stay over at my place that whole week—so I can keep an eye on him.
We are ecstatic. I mean, not totally ecstatic. Yes, Charlie IS sad and I am too. But I know Charlie isn’t in danger. It’s not that I’m naïve. I’ve already learned that relapse is part of his recovery. And I felt awful when he told me last year that he had cut himself after our stupid argument.
But he’d told me. And even as I ached, I was so, so proud of him. Charlie likes to tease me about my “strong rugby arms,” but he has a different kind of strength. Most people don’t understand just how freaking brave and resilient he is. Or how all we’ve been through has helped us be more authentic. We don’t lie to each other.
So yeah, he’d absolutely tell me if things were getting out of hand. I don’t have those worries. I feel a tiny bit bad about benefitting from his parent’s concerns, but we wanted to soak up every last minute together.
Despite our excitement about the sleeping arrangements for my last week at home, there’s a faint drone of underlying tension through those days.
Our preparations for my impending departure start to feel like preparing for a scheduled earthquake. We know an earth-shattering, seismic shift is coming and when. But where exactly would the cracks appear? How bad would the damage be? Could we hold on long enough to survive?
Most of the time we pretend that we aren’t thinking about it. We spend those last days doing our favorite things with friends, day trips to our beach, walking Nellie to get milkshakes at the snack truck by the park, bowling with the Paris squad. I can always find ways to make him laugh. I suggest cringy romantic things, like recreating our kiss in front of the claw machine.
Each evening we return to my house a little more exhausted, a little more sun drenched, and more aware of the countdown.
My mum cooks us one amazing dinner after another—she’s been knocking herself out to make these last home-cooked meals special.
Suddenly, it’s my last night home. After dinner we hug mum, kiss Nellie and head up to my room. As I open the door, I realize just how much this space has been our anchor point for the last two years—no matter what was happening. But the shifts have reach here too. Boxes are packed and stacked in the corner, along with some new dorm-life essentials. The posters I’m taking with me are packed up too. But the fairy lights are still up. And the pictures of Charlie. Those will be the last thing down before I go, and the first thing up when I land at Leeds.
I shut the door behind us and I’m relieved to feel that the memories that have seeped in these four walls, mostly bare as they are, are still working their magic. it feels like the rest of the world is disappearing. It’s just us.
We toe off our shoes and Charlie stops to arrange them neatly under the hook on the wall. My black Vans right next to his white Chucks. I cross the room to close the curtains and turn on the fairy lights. Then we undress.
I’ve seen Charlie change in the locker room a hundred times, and I think he’s flat out gorgeous. But no matter how many times I tell him that, I know he still feels a bit self-conscious. Sometimes it makes me sad, since we’ve shared so many intimate firsts, laughing through nerves and excitement as we fumbled our way towards understanding what feels right for us. I want him to feel safe here. To see himself the way I see him.
But I know how much he’s gone through—being outed, the bullying, and Ben.
I understand those kinds of scars may take years to heal. And although we don’t talk about it--we’re still literal teenagers! -- I plan to be there for all of it. Forever. There will be will time, I tell myself. We’ll make it to that point, past his worries, past the challenge of being long distance. We’ll make it.
That’s why I say nothing when Charlie cracks a joke and turns around to undress. His puts his back to me, but I left my wardrobe open after packing and he’s now facing the mirror on the inside of the door. Our eyes meet in its surface. He smirks while shaking his head, because he knows I really don’t want to take my eyes off him tonight.
Then in one swift motion, he reaches up and removes his hoodie and t-shirt together. In the mirror, I can see his hair is tousled and just falling in his eyes. From behind, I can see that sweat has dampened the tiny soft curls at the back of his neck. And then I notice a little pink spot on the small of his back. We missed a spot with the sunscreen today. It’s so easy to miss something.
I lift my eyes and catch his in the mirror. He’s been watching me, watch him. He holds my eyes now and I catch my breath as he unbuttons his trousers and they come off. He’s standing with his patterned boxers sitting on his hips. He has the lean look of a fast runner, and his arms are strong from drumming.
I continue watching as he turns his attention to his own reflection. He tilts his head slightly towards his right shoulder, and seems to consider what he sees. He runs his right hand across his stomach and then reflexively shifts his boxers down an inch, making the hem just cover the raised white lines on his left inner thigh. I make a mental note to kiss that spot as soon as possible. Then he pats down his curls. How many times have I seen him do that? A million? But right now, all I can think is, how can I continue to breathe if I don’t see him do that for two months? That thought makes my stomach take a single flip, so I push it away. But there’s no denying, tonight is different. We both feel it.
When he turns to face me, my heart starts to race. I don’t think he's ever looked more gorgeous. I’m overwhelmed by the need to make this night special for him, for us. But I realize I’ve forgotten to undress. Rushing to catch up, I toss my shirt and joggers on the floor.
And then I freeze. Some part of my brain is broadcasting unwanted messages. What if tonight is off somehow? If we allow the smallest gap to appear tonight, how big would it get over the coming weeks? What if Charlie relapses while I’m gone? What if the distance is too much? What if we aren’t the exception, the lucky ones who make it to forever? What if?
I feel an urgency and restlessness I’ve ever felt before. But somehow, I can’t move. It’s like the room is shifting beneath our feet and I’m stuck. I feel a fire creeping up my spine, my ears are starting to ring, and my fingertips are tingling. If I don’t move towards him right this second, something terrible will happen. He’s going to fall away out of my reach before I can get to him. I’m in proper, full-on crisis mode.
So I don’t notice at first that Charlie has closed the distance between us. He’s holding my face, pulling me in. I remember the first time he held my hands. Even then it was clear that he when things were shifting beneath me, he could hold us together.
“Hi” he says. But what I hear is, I’m here now.
“Hi,” I reply. But what I mean is make time stop.
And then we do.