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Chapter Text

The most unusual thing about Charles Spring was his involvement in the university jazz band.

(Well, there were two things, but no one was really supposed to talk about the second one. Out loud, anyway.) 

Not that playing an instrument was unusual for someone of his disposition– no, Victoria Spring dabbled in the flute all throughout Year Four and Five, and there were old photos in a Higgs yearbook of the Queen playing a clarinet. Charles was the outlier because he chose percussion, a terribly loud and traditionally unbecoming instrument, and because he decided he would quite like playing at a university level. He auditioned like everyone else in the band and thanks to an impeccable sense of rhythm and the Prince of Wales title forever lingering above his head, he earned himself a chair. His mother didn’t like it. Charlie, frankly, didn’t care. 

Charlie also went around pleading with people to call him Charlie. “Charles was my grandfather’s name,” he’d mutter under his breath. People would simply gawk in return, shocked to hear the former king be reduced down to a grandfather. Charlie was an awkward six-foot-three, with a lanky gait that made him seem much less imposing than he was meant to be, crowned with a curly mop of brown hair that he got from his father. From his mother he inherited a line of royal blood and the officially obnoxious title of Prince Charles, second in line for the throne upon which England rests. He prayed that Tori would have hundreds of healthy little babies and he would never, ever see the inside of a coronation room. 

Charlie, however, was living in a very modern England while the rest of his family locked themselves behind a centuries-old door, one with strong locks and impeccable craftsmanship. Cambridge had ancient quirks, but they were happy to host the young prince and his forward-thinking ways. A gay prince– it’s true, don’t you remember? When he was young and at that snotty boarding school for high-ranking boys across Europe, Prince Charles did his fair share of snogging behind closed doors. Just not with the Higgs girls, like most Truham boys. 

It surprisingly wasn’t all that much of a big deal, when Charlie thinks back on it. It was embarrassing, absolutely so; when you’re fourteen, the last thing you want is a tabloid asking you what brand of queer condoms you prefer, and when your mother is the Queen of England, the last response your sister (the future Queen of England) should have is punching the man straight in the nose. Beyond the shock that rippled through the country and the private freeze-out among extended family, Charlie felt the ostracization most at school. He was once Prince Charles, invited to every party, deeply mysterious and ultimately cool, and then he was Charlie, the gay boy, shunned in locker rooms and lunch halls alike. 

The boys of Truham Grammar never did find out who was kissing Charlie behind all those closed doors, however. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. 

He saw him around campus sometimes; he ate his lunch on the library steps with a gaggle of rugby boys. The ache of it all eased with time, but the first time Charlie saw Ben walking to class- chin characteristically thrust forward, hat pulled down to his ears- it felt like being stabbed with something red-hot. Painful. Cauterizing. Ben never found the decency to mention that they would be attending the same university and Charlie never mustered the courage to address it. 

So that’s why Charlie’s eyes were diverted that unexpectedly balmy September day, eyes locked on the etched “nunc scio quid sit Amor” graffiti along the wall of a deceptively old building. Cambridge students: always seeking pretention, even in their graffiti. 

He was too busy trying to remember if “nunc” translated to “maintenant” or “à présent” in French when he slammed directly into a solid mass of human. “Oh, I am so sorry-” 

“Totally my fault, I should look where I’m-” Both parties watched as about a thousand papers fluttered to the ground. 

“Goodness, I am so-”

“Don’t be sorry- ouch! Oh, bloody hell-” 

Charlie emerged clutching his forehead where it violently met the other boy’s open mouth when they both went to pick up the fallen material at the same time. He ran his fingers over an imprint of what could only be- “Oh Jesus,” Charlie laughed. “Do I have your two front teeth on my forehead?” 

The boy (brown eyes like sateen velvet, Charlie couldn’t help but note) wrinkled his nose. “Afraid it looks like I’ve bit you, mate. Really sorry.” 

“Well, I’ve never wished for a fringe as badly as I do in this moment,” Charlie concluded.

“A fringe,” the boy emphasized, mirth filling his voice. “I haven’t seen one of those since-” his voice constricted for a second, the recognition flashing past his eyes, but the moment was long enough for Charlie. He had seen it a million times before; Charlie was no longer a passing stranger. “Since, uh, 2012.” 

He handed back the mess of papers he managed to grab, desperately hoping to skip past any awkward interaction, and his eyes caught on a repeated red scribble. “Wait, are you a professor?” 

“Professor!” The boy laughed. “No, I’m Nick Nelson,” as if that made anything more clear. 

“Well, Nick Nelson, have you been pilfering from any classrooms recently?” 

Nick paused for another moment, slight confusion washing over his face, and Charlie didn’t quite understand it himself. “I’m a graduate student, actually. TA for Professor Watson down in the English Department. British Monsters in the Literary World.” 

Charlie recognized the class instantly– it was one of the most popular english classes a student could take and boasted a lecture size of almost four hundred students. He took it in his first year and never forgot a particularly enchanting lecture on Scottish myths and the Nuckelavee. “Watson terrified me half to death. Can’t walk past a thicket of trees without worrying now.” 

He would have taken Watson’s class a thousand times over to see the look on Nick’s face again. The ruddy-cheeked boy brightened instantly. “You’ve taken it? Isn’t the argument on Frankstein simply fascinating?” 

“Um, quite? I suppose. Not sure if I agree with the theory in full.” The argument on Frankenstien was fascinating, but dealt heavily in British murmurings about the throne of 1818 and Queen Elaine, who’s portrait hung above Charlie’s childhood bedroom. He had found it slightly disconcerting to prophicize that he was related to a necromancer, no matter how insane other aspects of his home life might be. 

“Well, you’ll have to give me a full rundown of your thoughts later, Ch-” Nick hesitated for the smallest moment. “Sorry, what’s your name?” 

“Charlie,” he didn’t skip a beat. He was more polite than the rest. Most people knew Charlie’s name (well, Charles) and just used it in casual conversation without a formal introduction. Like most of everything in his life, it always made Charlie a little more bothered than he should be. “Call me Charlie. And I will report back with my complete list of thoughts.” 

Nick smiled (and the sun shone a little brighter) before a phone ringtone completely cut him off. “Er, sorry. I’m an RA, I have the duty phone, and I, uh-” 

“You’ve got to go,” Charlie smiled in return. “Nice meeting you, Nick Nelson.” 

“And you, Charlie!” Nick tucked the phone underneath his chin, still trying to sort through papers. He walked away and Charlie took the smallest moment to admire the way his arms flexed against the casual shirt he was wearing before dropping his gaze back to the Latin. 

“Nunc scio quid sit Amor,” Charlie mused. “Et Im 'etiam conatur invenire.” 

Chapter Text

If you asked Nick to describe his life, he would probably start with content. 

And he was! He had a quaint little flat that had no annoying rent stipulations, he enjoyed the research work he did on campus, and rugby practice was Monday through Thursdays, from 5-9pm. Nick had a pleasant girlfriend who kissed like she was simultaneously thinking about some lines she had to memorize, which was fine– he was probably thinking about the next paper he had to write. When he went home, he had one very excellent mother, two darling dogs, and occasionally a total dick of a brother. 

Nick Nelson was content, but Nick Nelson had to keep busy. It was the whole reason he ended up at Cambridge, to be completely honest. There was no way his maths grade was high enough for the prestige that the university carried, but it was so easy to overlook his grades when you looked at the rest of his life: a star rugby player, ace at the inside center and if absolutely needed, a quick study as winger. There was an easily-believed rumor that he would go pro straight out of sixth form, but Nick Nelson instead sent shockwaves around the school as a proud Cambridge commit. 

Beyond the sports resume, there were endless photos of Nick helping at animal shelters, Nick competing with the Speech and Debate team, and even evidence that he staffed a local ice cream shop for the better part of two years. Nick Nelson was everyone’s favorite local hero. 

Cambridge felt different at first. He had the option to reinvent himself– suddenly sushi could be his favorite food, or maybe his favorite hobby was pretentiously discussing films in crowded coffee shops. But suddenly rugby was four nights a week and the team went out drinking the other three, and Nick found himself once again a rugby lad. 

Cambridge played in the National League championships at the end of his first year, where Nick helped assist to gain the winning point. He woke up the next morning with four thousand new Instagram followers and a shrinking sense that nothing would really ever be different here. 

So when Charlie Spring said “Well, Nick Nelson, have you been pilfering from any classrooms recently?” Nick couldn’t help but be taken aback. It wasn’t a pride thing, he swears, but usually people have a general idea of who he is. Charlie– yes, that Charlie, Prince Charles– doesn’t. 

And Charlie’s taken British Monsters in the Literary World. 

Nick cringes when he brings up the Frankenstein theory; it’s Charlie’s family after all, and he probably doesn’t enjoy the kind of rumors that include your great-great grandmother eating someone’s brains with her finest china. However, it’s wildly popular and one of Nick’s favorite discussion points, so he’s relieved when Charlie doesn’t take it on the chin. In fact, he promises to meet back with his complete thoughts and Nick’s heart almost bursts with excitement; someone from the real royal family engaging in decades-old discourse? He feels like Nellie when his mum actually says walk instead of spelling it out– too eager for his own good. 

Of course, at the possible beginning of the single greatest academic conversation he might ever have, the duty phone rings. Some tosser is probably locked out of his apartment, and now Nick will have to walk away from a world of potential. 

“Er, sorry. I’m an RA, I have the duty phone, and I, uh-” Nick stammers. He really doesn’t want to leave. 

Charlie smiles, and Nick notices his dimples first. They’re astonishingly perfect, like a cartoonist puzzled for days over the exact spot to place them. Charlie had the sort of face that felt rebellious to the crown, similar to his entire being; Victoria had a clear, steady gaze that kept the country entranced and Oliver was simply too pre-teened for any criticism, but Nick knew that Charlie had been hated for many years. People thought he was too wiry, too angular and sharp, but Nick had never been able to fathom why. Charlie looked purposeful– and when he smiled, he looked downright heavenly. 

Nick is almost dizzy as he walks away and chalks it up to the fact that he just held a conversation with the man who would some day take charge of Wales, or possibly even England. As he did his job and unlocked the apartment of a near-hysterical girl (distraught at being separated from her dog), errant thoughts of dimples kept invading his mind. 

---

“D’ja know that the Prince goes here?” Nick asked innocently while shoving his street clothes back on. Practice was slightly worse than normal, with an awkward humidity hanging in the air, so the movement in the locker room was motivated by silence. 

Raymond, a friend of Nick’s, answered. “Duh. It was a huge thing when he first started. How’d you miss that? There was a rumor goin’ round that the Queen was on campus and everything.” 

“It might’ve been when I was in Leeds for that year,” (doing God knows what, but mostly parading a publishing internship as figuring out his life) “before my graduate year.” 

“Still, you should’ve known. Nick’s gotten knocked in the head a few too many times!” Antonio called out, dodging an elbow from Nick. 

He finds himself looking through @charlesspringIII on the walk home. Charlie standing at the gates of Cambridge, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, captioned, “Time… thou ceaseless lackey to eternity.” Cheeky. A side profile of his sister, standing in stark contrast to a brilliant light, captioned, “Highly blessed and favored.” It takes a while of scrolling, but there’s an old photo of him laughing with a polite cadence, and the dimples have reappeared. 

Nick almost runs into a door frame staring at the photo, and he can’t quite fathom what it all means.

Chapter Text

Had Charlie been anyone else, he would have known who Nick Nelson was. 

He probably would have been one of his six thousand, four hundred and twenty-eight Instagram followers, or maybe one of the thirsty people in his comment section practically filling out a dating application. 

girlontherun03: I make the best rum and coke you should try it sometime xx

josiahf_rocks: dm me PLEASE i have an insane c–

–Oh. Charlie blushed unceremoniously. 

So, yeah. Had Charlie not been Prince Charles, Nick Nelson would’ve been on his radar. 

“Joe, what’re the chances you’ll let me pick up rugby?” Charlie asks innocuously. 

Joe (Charlie’s Royal Guardsman and longtime confidant ever since the veranda incident of ‘09) snorts. “Cold day in ‘ell, I’m afraid. Little laddie like you’d snap like a twig, an’ who’s meant to tell the Queen?” He ruffled his newspaper with a chuckle. “Not me. Not me.”

It was worth a shot. 

---

Tori raises a cold eyebrow when he enters her room unannounced. “Home so soon, Charles?” 

“Well, the palace called and said that Queen Victoria, ruler of all that the light touches and the most royal of royals wanted to speak to me, and I simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity,” Charlie snarks back, flinging himself onto her perfectly made bed. 

Tori rolls her eyes, undoing a crown braid that was woven so tight she winces pulling out the pins. “They’ve got my schedule wrong, then, because I become the most royal on Thursday. I’ll be gaining reign over the shadowlands in a fortnight too, write that down. I need the prince of sin to be at my ceremony to show his unwavering support to the throne.” 

“The support wavers, Tori. It’s a big, wobbly mess.” 

“Mm. Does sound like you,” she notes passively. He throws a sock at her. 

Victoria Jane Elizabeth Margaret Spring had an unfortunate amount of middle names and the even more unfortunate task of being her mother’s first born, guaranteeing her a life of smiling politely and doing as she was told. If you asked Charlie who his favorite sibling was, the answer would vary depending on the time of day, what mood he was in, and what he had eaten last, but the general consensus was Tori. Oli was hitting a rough puberty patch that Charlie sometimes couldn’t bear to deal with, while Tori and Charlie hit theirs around the same time and cemented a strong bond for life. 

Tori was a public favorite of sorts– she had once been a small, dreary-eyed teenager that many found unfit to rule, but with age and time away from the castle, she blossomed into a confident woman with opinions that sat well with the common class. Against her mother’s wishes, she even had a Twitter account that was evergreen with new ideas and calming words. Charlie wouldn’t dare have a Twitter so public, so vocal, so he instead sat behind a randomized username and retweeted her ideas with zest. 

Charlie wished he could be jealous of his sister, but instead he just found admiration. For the millionth time in his life, he was glad she was born a year before him.

“Tor,” he began. “Are you following rugby?” 

She ruffled her fringe in the mirror. “Not in the slightest.” 

“Well.” He supposed that was that. 

“Calvin does.” Calvin, her Royal Guard member. Things Charlie knew about Calvin: certainly more strict than Joe, lactose intolerant, doesn’t speak much, and (a new discovery) he follows rugby. “He’s deeply into the Cambridge team. Cried when they won that match the year or so before your first.” 

“Oh?” 

“It was such a strange day. Wait–” she turned to face him, still flopped over in her bed and trying to seem innocent. “Why?” 

“No particulars.” 

“Bullshit,” Tori remarked. 

“Pass away,” Charlie retorted. “Perhaps I bleed blue.” He struggled for only a second to remember if those were his school colors. 

“And perhaps I’ve spouted wings and flown away,” Tori rolled her eyes. “Rugby lads are fit, Charlie, but not fit enough to cause a commotion.” 

He flipped over to avoid any signs of blushing, choosing instead to act deeply offended. “I would never go for a rugby lad. Take it back, immediately.” 

“You are the world’s worst liar. If it was between my life and telling mum the truth about the broken china cabinets, I’d pray to go peacefully.” 

Apparently she was satisfied with her fringe, so she came to flop down next to Charlie. He reveled in the peace for a moment. “Bumped into a cute boy, that’s all. Nothing terribly exciting.” 

“And he plays rugby?”

“According to his Instagram.”

Tori’s head popped up for a moment. “You stalked him on Instagram?” 

“He gave me his full name! What was I supposed to do?” 

“Well, what’s his name?”

“Nick Nelson.” Charlie savored the way the words felt in his mouth; he loved a good alliteration. 

“Ugh,” she let her head hit the bed again. “Nick the rugby lad. You couldn’t be more predictable, Charles.” 

---

Had Nick Nelson been anyone else, he would have known that Prince Charles attended his school. 

But Nick’s quasi-year in Leeds really did prove to be a blindspot when Charlie began attending Cambridge; he had been too busy reading questionable book pitches and drinking his way through pub crawls to notice the email that welcomed a royal family member onto campus. 

But by God, Charlie was practically everywhere now. 

“Quit it,” Nick shoved Imogen’s hand away. 

Imogen pinched his side again in the least casual way she possibly could have, nodding in the general direction of left. “Look,” she hissed. “It’s the prince.” 

It was the Prince, but Nick had to blink a few times to remember that yes, that was the real human Prince, not just a man from an Instagram he found himself scrolling through a couple times a day. Charlie (Charlie– Nick had thought through that interaction one too many times. “Charlie. Call me Charlie.”) stood in line at the coffee stand next to the graduate building, looking impossibly impervious to the cupped hands whispering around him. 

“Wow.” He couldn’t think of something else to contribute, and Imogen probably didn’t want to hear the critical analysis forming in Nick’s head on the superiority of Charlie’s hair when it’s not frozen in a photograph. 

“He’s proper fit,” she mentioned offhandedly. 

Nick’s brain stalled for a moment. “Um? The Prince?” 

Imogen studied a fingernail, flecking off some of her hot pink nail polish. “Yeah. It’s a shame he’s gay or whatever because I’d totally try and be his queen.” 

“I don’t think he’s going to be king anytime soon, and there are those commoner rules–” 

“In like, a fictitious way! Obviously,” she huffed. 

They did this a lot, Nick and Imogen. She would say something that really makes him wonder why they were even together in the first place and he would desperately try to change the subject; this always gave way to irritation from the both of them and instead of talking it out like a healthy couple, they usually just went quiet. That’s what the internet said at least– never go to bed angry, you’ll never know what tomorrow may bring, etc . Nick went to bed plenty angry and he couldn’t seem to make all of the puzzle pieces fit. 

He twisted around to grab a last look at Charlie, like he still couldn’t believe it was really him, and caught the beginning of Charlie’s interaction with the cashier. Nick practically had to avert his gaze from the brightness in the other boy’s smile. 

Dimples, curls, smile, Charlie. Puzzle piece upon puzzle piece upon puzzle piece. 

Chapter Text

Nick doesn’t like to run, but he does it anyway. He does it out of spite sometimes, thinking about all of the coaches that told him that he was a solid defense but would never be fast enough to be anything truly great, but most of the time he does it because it gets him out of the house. 

He wishes he still lived with his mum– which was completely lame for a twenty-three year old to be saying, he understands, but the truth is sometimes deeply uncool. Sarah Nelson was kind, generous, and just as talkative as her youngest son. When they were together, it was like a small tornado of information touching down to earth, and it was a comfort to feel lost in the swirl of words. If you asked anyone at school or in his research groups, Nick was a man of few (but important) remarks and generally contributed when he carefully thought about what to say next. With his mum, words came easy. 

Today’s running path was selfish, because there was a strong mug of tea and the promise of cake at the end. His mum’s friend owned a small tea shop a few kilometers from the Cambridge apartments and he took the time to head out and visit when he had weekends to spare. 

A small bell dings above his head as he enters, grateful for the sudden warmth that sent feeling back into his clenched fists. Nick grins at Maggie, the older woman who read in a book club that his mum had been a part of since he was nine or ten years old, and she hurriedly waves him over. 

“Nicky!” Her tone is urgent. “I have information in twofold; one, there is a coconut lime cake in the back and it will be more delicious than it sounds. Two, my sink is leaking again. Do you mind taking a look? Peppermint or earl grey cuppa, love?” 

He’s already accepting a wrench she’s pressing into his hand when he responds, “The cake sounds delightful, I’d be happy to, and earl grey, please and thank you.” Nick is not a builder by any stretch of the imagination, but Maggie sometimes asks him to do light handiwork that he’s always able to quickly search up. He’s gotten better with a kit of tools, anyhow. 

“Maggie, you should really call a plumber. I’ve tightened this three times now and it just keeps getting loose– Charlie?” After clambering to his knees from underneath the sink, Nick finds himself staring up at the Prince of Wales. Charlie’s standing at the counter with a bemused expression and a stack of books under his arm. 

“Charlie!” Maggie exclaims cheerfully as she reenters from the kitchen. “Tell me, dear, do you know a good plumber?” 

The boy bashfully messes with his curls and shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m afraid not. Shame this one didn’t turn out.” 

“I’m plenty good, you know,” Nick defends himself as Maggie passes off a steaming mug of tea. “I own a hammer and everything.” 

“Beautiful, beautiful Nick,” Maggie pats him on the head like a dog, directing her words at Charlie. “Can’t even tell the difference between a hammer and a wrench, poor thing.” 

Nick laughs broadly as he ducks away from her reach and can’t help but notice Charlie’s dimples reappear. He sits down at one of the two booths in the little cafe, the other currently being occupied by a man reading a newspaper, and tucks into his slice of extremely appealing cake just as Charlie slides in on the other side. 

“So. I have my thoughts,” he states plainly, setting a mug of tea down. Nick smells the lavender drift his way. 

“Your thoughts?” Nick asks around a mouthful of coconut. 

“On Frankenstein and how Queen Elaine simply did not eat dead people’s brains.” 

He laughs for a second and chokes in consequence, their previous conversation rushing back to him. It had almost been two weeks since their literal run-in, and the only thing that had truly stuck with Nick was Charlie’s striking features. “I’d argue that it’s simply cooler if she had.” 

“I’d argue that the whole point of Frankenstein was that had he been loved, the monster never would have been considered a beast! And the Queen was not going to eat commoner brains. What, was she poor?” Charlie’s voice oozed with disgust. Upon seeing Nick’s facial expression, he quickly backtracked. “I’m kidding. Oh my God, I’m kidding. I’m so sorry.” 

“I guess royal jokes are just that subsection of humor I’ve been left out of my entire life,” Nick said, trying to look like the kind of intellectually sorrowful only his professors could pull off. “Life as a commoner is difficult, Charles the Third.” 

“Good God,” Charlie’s nose wrinkled. “Nevermind, you can tell the tabloids I called you a poor commoner. Just make sure I sound like a real asshole, right? If I’m going to be terrible, I might as well be interesting.” 

Nick was surprised that Charlie was so… humorous about this. He’d only ever see him stiffly stand behind his mother at the most prestigious of events, and he once gave a speech about LGBTQ+ rights at a formal event where he pulled at the collar of his suit the whole time. Nick remembers watching it with varying levels of interest, more concerned with finding the right channel for Love Island. “I’m already trying to figure out how I can leverage this to meet Maro Itoje. Do I go to BBC, or?” 

“You’d meet a rugby player? The eldest Prince himself calls you impoverished commonwealth trash–”

“I believe I was just poor about four seconds ago–” 

“And you’re going to meet a rugby player? 

“Well, I’m not exactly itching to meet your mother after this exchange, and I’ve got my theories on Mary Berry being dead, so here we are.” 

It was Charlie’s turn to choke on his tea. “I have it on good authority that she is still with us.” 

Nick playfully narrowed his eyes. “That’s what all of the British royalty say.” 

“We are a deceitful bunch,” Charlie sighs. “Okay, then why Itoje?” 

“He’s a legend. My only surviving dream is to play with him.” 

“You play rugby?” Charlie takes a quick, scalding drink of tea. “For Cambridge?”

“Uh, yeah.” Nick didn’t know he had such an ego about rugby– or a lack thereof being recognized. “Number 28. For the national team.” 

Ding!

Imogen: R u coming 2 dinner?

Imogen: They have that chicken u really like!

Imogen: I’m in the back with Whitney and Taylor

Charlie looked slightly crestfallen for a moment before returning to a more apathetic state. “If you’ve got to go–”

“Er, yeah,” Nick stared down at the screen. He forgot about the plans he made with Imogen– he’d call it a date if they both cared at all, but they were four years into a relationship where no one could remember an anniversary or how they both first met. Now it was mostly about having someone to release certain… tensions with, and it was always nice to have someone to go to the movies with. He would have rather stayed with Charlie, to be quite honest, but he wasn’t one to back out of a set time and date. “Sorry, it’s my girlfriend. I’m meant to meet her for dinner.” 

“No worries,” Charlie said, draining the last of his tea. “I’ll see you around.” 

“Yeah,” Nick absentmindedly responded, trying to figure out a way to draw out their time a little longer. “Listen mate, d’you have an Instagram or someway I can, ya know, text you?” What a stupid question. His instagram is one of the most followed in the country, knob.  

Charlie’s eyes darted side to side for a moment, then nodded quickly. “It’s, um. Well. I’d rather you not share it with other people? It’s at c-f-spring.” 

Nick tries to remain neutral, pretending like he hasn’t done some stalking on a very different account, and types in the username. Unlike @charlesspringIII, @cfspring has eighty-nine followers and is set to private, only showing a bio that reads “Tao wuz here XOXO gossip girl” and a profile picture of a stretching cat. 

“It’s for photos not taken exclusively by the family photographer, if you know what I mean,” Charlie fingers his curls nervously. “Not a lot of people know it exists.” 

“Well, if your family photographer ever wants to have a session with me, I’ll happily boast about it on my account,” Nick jokes. 

Charlie grabs his stack of books off the table. “Yes, well when my brother stops being completely endearing to the public long enough for her to come up for air, I’ll send her your way.” 

Laughing, Nick looks back down to the Instagram profile on his phone. “What does the F stand for? You know, in cfspring?” 

“Fucking,” Charlie deadpans. 

“Kidding– Francis. Charlie Francis Spring,” he drops a handful of pounds on the table. “It was nice seeing you, Nick.” 

Nick watches, bewildered by Charlie’s overall exit. “You too, Charlie!” 

Ding!

@cfspring has followed you!

@cfspring has accepted your follow request!

Mum: Attachment: 1 image 

Mum: Nicholas Luke Nelson why are you having tea with Prince Charles, call me immediately  

Imogen: Niiiiiick r u coming 

Imogen: Nicholas