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The Co-op (1)
Charlie had only intended for the visit to the Co-op around the corner to be a quick one. In and out, pick up a few bits and bobs Isaac said they might need for tea and around the flat. He hadn’t even bothered keeping a list on hand, as he is so confident that he’ll be able to remember all five items needed. Capsicums, Greek yogurt, bog rolls, fish sticks, loaf of bread, he repeated out loud as he put on his sneakers and then again mentally on the short walk to the local grocer.
“Besides! I can bring my mobile and text you if I forget something,” he had said to Isaac, who barely looked up at him past the laptop screen in front of him.
“You’re prone to being distracted by men whom you wind up ogling, Charlie. And then panic as you pretend like you weren’t obviously staring,” Isaac said. “But have it your way.”
“Okay, Burger King. Here’s the deal. If I can get everything right at the Co-op without texting you, the right brands and all, you’ll get pizza for movie night with Elle and Tao the next two weeks. If I even slip up a little, I’ll cover it. Deal?”
Isaac looked up and grinned cheekily. “Done deal. Hope you enjoy covering pizza costs for us all.”
Charlie had then walked on over to the foyer and started putting on his shoes. “I won’t let you assassinate my character like that, Henderson!” he shouted before leaving.
Capsicums, Greek yogurt, bog rolls, fish sticks, loaf of bread, Charlie repeats to himself in the same order as before when the doors slide open and let him inside. Given the short distance between their flat and the store, he hadn’t even opted to put on anything fancy. In fact, he was so confident that it would be a short trip that Charlie hadn’t even changed out of his pyjamas. It isn’t like the employees would give a shit about the state of dress he finds himself in—the steadily rotating cast of characters who are employed here had seen him in way worse states than looking a little unkempt. He’d come here slightly tipsy following a film night with his friends to pick up crisps, with bloodshot eyes following a long cry session to get tissues and ice cream after a particularly difficult breakup. He’d even had to drop by when he somehow contracted mono at an adult age, which felt right embarrassing at the time.
Point is, Charlie Spring isn’t overly concerned with impressing teenagers and women between the ages of 40 and 60 who most frequently manned the tills. He’s here for capsicums, Greek yogurt, bog rolls, fish sticks, and a loaf of bread, preferably a sourdough one if they carry it. It’s a simple mission that can be accomplished in plaid pyjama trousers and an oversized hoodie which he may or may not have stolen from an ex.
Capsicums, Greek yogurt, bog rolls, fish sticks, loaf of bread, he repeats internally as he walks to the vegetable section, picking up the first item on the list. But somewhere between the bread and the fish sticks, that’s when Charlie spots him. One of the few people within the shop when he entered. He’s tall, easily taller than Charlie, with dirty blond hair and a broad build. He doesn’t look overly muscular in a gym rat sort of way but rippling with practical muscle that makes Charlie’s stomach do jumps. It doesn’t seem like he has spotted him, as the man is busy hovering near the period products, examining different varieties. Probably picking up something for his girlfriend, Charlie thinks dimly. Or maybe he’s like me, but I don’t think he’d want to be caught dead lingering by that part of the store if so. He yanks his gaze loose from the man’s silhouette and repeats the list internally again.
Capsicums, yogurt, bog rolls, fish, bread. By the time he’s fetched a loaf from the bakery section, the man still stands firmly at the same spot, holding up two different types of pads and looking between them. In a basket on the floor lies a couple bananas, a protein bar, and some Yorkshire tea. Quick shop, then, like me.
That’s when the man looks up and turns towards Charlie. He has soft brown eyes, a distinguished nose, and plush, pretty lips (in Charlie’s humble opinion). Charlie’s positive that he’s staring, but so is the man. In fact, it almost looks like he’s checking him out from head to toe, which makes him feel extremely self-conscious where he stands. And he needs to get past this man and his stupid cute bum to get to the bog rolls. Then the man smiles and Charlie melts on the spot. It should be illegal to be that pretty. His ears steam as he tries to return some semblance of a smile, but probably winds up grimacing like a madman.
Capsicums, Greek bog. Greek rolls. Bogurt. Loaf. In his pants. Gah, pull yourself together, Spring! He proverbially slaps himself out of the attraction-induced stupor as he tries to sneak his way beyond the handsome man blocking the aisle. Which proves to be his undoing.
Because there is not enough space between himself and the stranger, and by doing his best to avoid brushing against him (as Charlie is positive that would’ve set him ablaze like dry kindling), he trips, and shoulder checks the shelves with the period products. Not only does he stumble to the floor with a mortifying high pitched whine, but a deluge of tampons and pads rains down on him where Charlie lands. This is it, Charlie thinks. This is where I die. Charlie Spring, first human to ever perish from shame. He usually steers clear of this section if he can help it, to quell the haunting memories of dysphoria. And now he pays the price, steep humiliation.
The fall is fortunately not a painful one. A numbness brews in the pads of his knees, which soon give way to pins and needles, but he finds himself otherwise fine. Physically, that is. As soon as he flips himself over, seated on his bum, the stranger is now there, facing him head on. Warm brown eyes, furrowed in unbecoming worry, bore into him. His fringe, tilted to one side, hangs like withered ivy down his forehead.
“Are you okay?” the man asks as he reaches out a hand. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to make you stumble.”
In a hopeless plea to control, Charlie does his very best to recall the shopping list in his head. Yogurt, bread, rolls, tampons everywhere, pads, capsicumcumcumcumcum. Even if his thoughts race manically, like a horse tripping on amphetamines, his jaw is frozen still while he sits there and gawks at the man with the lovely face and kind eyes. He looks from the hand to the man’s face when his brain finally catches up with what’s going on around him. Instead of taking it to help himself up, Charlie scrambles to his feet and starts collecting whatever groceries around that he might have dropped when he fell.
“I’m sorry, that was my fault! I was just being so clumsy,” he says, avoiding the man’s face and laughing awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to disturb you! So sorry!”
And then he’s on his feet again, marching to the self-checkout without looking behind himself. He deposits everything he picked up before absentmindedly scanning them one by one. Why couldn’t that man have been mean? Why did he have to be so nice? Charlie knows that he’s going to groan into his pillow while cringing tonight as his head replays this interaction over and over.
As he bags his purchases, Charlie gives the store one last daring glance. The man is in the line towards the till, his sparing groceries in hand, and he smiles at Charlie once their eyes meet. It’s not a full-on grin, but the sunny contours are enough to brighten a cloudy day and make his heart skip a beat. Charlie’s head snaps back in front of him as he mechanically marches out the store, ready to crawl into a hole and not emerge for another week or so.
Back at the flat, he deposits the groceries in the kitchen for Isaac to unpack and goes to rot in front of the telly, wrapped up in a blanket. He barely registers his flatmates voice calling out his name from their kitchenette. Charlie looks up from his little pile, meeting Isaac’s amused but confused facial expression. He holds up several packs of tampons and even some pads.
“I don’t believe this was on the shopping list,” he says dryly. “Did some sort of weird substitution happen, since I can’t find any toilet rolls in here?”
Charlie groans loudly and facepalms. Isaac is never going to let him live this down, especially if he explains the full extent of the fuck up. He doesn’t want to look at those products any longer, because they might just make him sick.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says before pulling the blanket over his eyes and becomes a Spring-sized lump on the sofa. “Please put them away.”
Tesco (2)
Nick had been positive he wouldn’t ever find the cute guy he saw at the Co-op again. He had been out to pick up some incontinence pads for his mum when they met, and the curly hair and striking eyes had him instantly hooked. He had rambled about him to Tara and Darcy, about his dimples, baby blue eyes, willowy frame, and divinely dark curls. He must’ve waxed for so long, because Tara had eventually teased him and said he must’ve been a queer poet in a past life. Not like it mattered, because the man had picked up an obscene amount of feminine products, so he was probably straight anyway, and doing a shop for his girlfriend. But Darcy had told him to chin up and that he might’ve just been volunteering at a women’s shelter.
“And you should know better than most that some people might be bi,” she added.
He begrudgingly agreed after joking that she weaponised his bisexuality.
But fate proved that though cruel, she could also be a giving mistress. Because one day, when he’s gone to the local Tesco for a bigger shop, serendipity strikes by the hygiene aisle. Nick has a nearly full basket in one hand, and a carton of 15 eggs in the other, alongside a list which has mostly been completed. He needs some soap refill, and then he would be just about done.
That’s when his footsteps come to a screeching halt as he takes in the only other person in the aisle, standing a few metres away from him.
The pretty man. There he is. The one Nick had managed to trip up at the Co-op, who he thought he’d never cross paths with again. The one who fell down and took with him half the aisle before sprinting out faster than Nick had ever seen any human move before. It doesn’t seem like he has noticed Nick, but is intently inspecting the toothpaste section, somewhat lost in his own little world. When he leans on over to get a better look, his top rides up, exposing a tantalising area between his skinny jeans and plaid shirt, taut back dimples peeking out. What finishes Nick off is the way he pushes the dark curls off his face with the back of his hand to get a better look, and tucks some of the locks behind his ear.
This gorgeous specimen of human makes the synapses in his brain stutter, and Nick unceremoniously drops the carton of eggs he holds to the ground, while the basket slung across his other arm plummets to the floor shortly thereafter. Loud crunching noises accompanied by a cascade of splashes fill the air, ruptures in the steady thrum of faint music playing from a speaker beneath the ceiling.
The wetness isn’t what Nick registers first, nor the sound of a runaway orange escaping towards the till. No, the first thing he notices is how startled the handsome man looks as he flips around, towards the source of the chaos.
“It’s you,” he exclaims, seemingly without thought.
He remembered Nick? That makes his heart clap faster, the excitement of being noticed drowning out the impending embarrassment of making a mess at the Big Tesco. Then the man’s brain seems to catch up and he looks down at Nick’s legs. Nick mirrors the movement.
There’s egg everywhere. Runny yolk, frothy whites spilling out the shells. The carton seems to have opened during the fall, which made the whole affair even messier. Eggshells litter the ground around them, and the bottoms of Nick’s joggers are splashed with yellow.
“Oh my god, are you okay?!” he then asks.
“My eggs exploded,” Nick responds lamely.
An employee seems to have heard the commotion and with a hefty sigh, goes to presumably fetch a mop to clean up the mess.
“Are you okay?” Nick asks in turn. “Did you avoid the splash zone?”
The man examines his sneakers and jeans, and Nick does his best not to ogle him as he does.
“I’m all clear. But you’re soaked in egg!”
“It’s just eggs,” Nick says with a handwave.
And that’s when he feels something cold seep into his shoes from his left. He whips around to look. The lid on the jug of milk has come loose and is now spilling white liquid liberally across the floor. It mixes with the yellow from the eggs and becomes gross run-off while the sour scent of dairy fills the air.
“Oh,” Nick says as he lifts his shoe. “That’s alright. Just means that I am now French toast.”
He smiles at the man, proud of his joke, before he remembers that the gorgeous stranger doesn’t know that he’s half-French. God, get a grip, Nelson, talk to him like a normal person.
But the man nonetheless grins widely at the joke, even if he doesn’t get the full context. It makes his dimples perforate even deeper into his face and Nick has to steel himself to not fall on his knees into the mess he’s made and get his clothes even dirtier.
The man looks like he’s about to say something, but the employee comes back before he can do that and instructs him to approach the till where they have set out some paper towels for him to dry his clothes off. He waddles past the stranger, smiling sheepishly, and goes to blot out the worst of the damage.
By the time he’s done, the man is no longer around, and Nick kicks himself for not even asking his name.
ASDA (3)
The third time they bump into each other, Charlie wonders if the world enjoys playing cruel jokes on him. He’s at ASDA this time, in a slight hurry, as it turns out that Tao and Elle didn’t have enough pizzas for movie night. And per his pact with Isaac, Charlie is on pizza-buying duty. He still has yet to live down the tale about the tampons and pads, even if Elle had wisely suggested they donate them to the local women’s shelter, which he found a thoughtful and kind idea.
So Charlie finds himself near the self-checkout like this, bouncing impatiently on his toes, two pizzas in hand. The line is moving dreadfully slowly, and he sorely misses his headphones right about now—they would help pass the time more than the crummy radio music and squabbling people ever could.
But while lamenting the loss of his own personal freedom to select music, Charlie feels something poke against his back in a manner that feels deliberate. When he looks over his shoulder to see what is going on behind, he’s greeted by the sunny visage of the stranger he’s grown to internally refer to as French Toast Man, in the most affectionate way possible. This time around, he has slight stubble, and Charlie curses himself for noticing right away and thinking that it is hot.
“Hi!” French Toast Man says.
“Hi,” Charlie says back.
“Fancy seeing you here!”
“Uh, I could say the same thing.”
Charlie feels himself grow nervous in the presence of such an obscenely attractive person, but there’s something about French Toast Man that immediately puts him at ease. Maybe it’s the disarming smile, maybe it’s the toasty, inviting way he looks over to Charlie. Maybe it’s just his overall vibes, which are decidedly welcoming.
“No eggs this time,” French Toast Man says and points to his basket. Assorted snacks and alcoholic beverages rest within.
“And no tampons here,” Charlie responds and holds up the pizzas.
French Toast Man’s expression falls a little bit, and he takes a step back, as if he realises that he might be encroaching on Charlie’s personal space. It would be uncomfortably close for most people, but with this sunshine of a person, Charlie just feels enveloped in a welcome balm in his vicinity.
“I imagine your girlfriend is stocked up for quite some time after the Co-op trip.”
He sounds sad. Why does he sound sad? And holy shit, he thinks I have a girlfriend. This hasn’t happened since my nan didn’t get the memo that I’m gay after she finally understood what being trans meant.
Charlie laughs heartily and shakes his head.
“No girlfriend, no. Despite all the products,” he says in a light-hearted manner. “Or boyfriend for that manner.”
French Toast Man’s expression changes dramatically, going wide-eyed at the last addition. It’s like that clarification makes the hydrogen fusion resume inside him and he illuminates again. Charlie finds it endearing. Then it changes again as it appears like his head has gone on a completely different trajectory that he hadn’t even considered.
“Shit, or those could’ve been for you,” he says, mostly to himself as he looks at the ground. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. Not all people who have periods are women.”
French Toast Man slaps himself in the face, and Charlie finds the cringing nothing if not relatable. So he chuckles to himself as the line keeps moving, French Toast Man solidly shuffling behind him.
“I haven’t needed those for a long time, to be honest,” Charlie says. He hopes that the man catches the implication, as it is better than outright saying ‘hello, I’m trans, nice to meet you’ to a stranger. A hot stranger. But a stranger, nonetheless. It’s never easy to gauge how people will react to visible forms of queerness, especially visible trans people, and it’s not something he readily does in public because there’s always the risk of bigotry. But something about the man’s body language makes Charlie think that he’s probably not straight (not to mention he said not all people who have periods are women, so that was a very big plus as well), and thus feels a bit more at ease with disclosing this, though in a veiled manner. If he’s daft, French Toast Man probably won’t even catch his drift.
“Oh!” French Toast Man exclaims immediately. “That’s cool! Cool.”
His facial expression doesn’t falter, and he has done nothing to move away from Charlie; as a matter of fact, he seems to have moved closer, with his basket almost touching Charlie’s bare knee, and his face hovering steadily nearer.
Score, Charlie thinks and does an internal fist pump in his head. Fit and trans friendly? Am I dreaming?
He points at French Toast Man’s basket. “What’s the occasion for the snacks?”
“Nothing special! Just having some friends over for a good time,” he says with a grin. “Speaking of, where’s Tara?” He starts looking around the various aisles, appearing to try and spot a person.
Tara? Charlie’s heart sinks. Of course. The pads. How could he forget? He was being so utterly idiotic. He met French Toast Man when he was picking up period products for his girlfriend. Maybe he’s polyamorous and bisexual? Charlie can’t dam the thoughts that want out his head by cracking it like an egg, not unlike how French Toast Man more or less slammed the carton to the ground last time they met.
French Toast Man waves over to someone, who quickly excuses her way down the line. The woman is stunning, with rich skin and dark, voluminous hair. And a smile that makes Charlie feel totally inadequate. He’s arranging a movie night with his girlfriend. God, I’m stupid. Stupid and gay and very smitten.
“Uhm, I gotta go now,” Charlie says as he spots an empty self-checkout down the line. “Bye.”
He barely has time to register how French Toast Man’s facial expression falls as he runs to pay for the pizzas. Charlie disappears out the ASDA and starts making his way to Tao and Elle’s flat even faster, doing his bloody best to repair the cracks littering his little heart with plasters.
Waitrose (4)
Third time had not proven to be the charm with the gorgeous stranger with the curls. How abruptly he had absconded the second he saw Tara coming over to his spot in the line at ASDA had left Nick not just confused, but also sad. He whinged to Tara and Darcy about how he probably made a complete fool of himself in front of the curly-haired wonder after he basically came out to Nick as trans. Him, a stranger whom he had only met twice before. They soothed him as best they could and coaxed him into baking some muffins to make him feel better.
He would normally have protested, as they had essentially asked him to make something for them, but Nick was too crestfallen to do anything but go along with the suggestion. They hadn’t exactly been wrong either—he did feel marginally better by the end of the process. And he had some baked goods to show for it, which was no bad deal!
Nick incessantly told himself that there wouldn’t be a fourth time; there were lots of people in the area, and the fact that he kept meeting the same man over and over in different grocery stores is mental on its own.
But despite his convictions, he secretly hoped that there would be a chance encounter every time he entered a new grocery store—Nick had noticed the pattern: they never met in the same stores, ever. He sometimes even goes looking whenever he goes to stores outside the Co-op, Tesco, or ASDA, which feels silly and childish, but he thinks there is a pattern to the intervening hand of fate.
He had no luck with Sainsbury’s or Morrisons so far, so Nick isn’t exactly holding a candle for Waitrose when he drags Tara and Darcy there, even though they repeatedly protest about how expensive it is. When he argues that a trip there is necessary to pick up a brand of treats that Nellie fancies more than anything, the duo eventually relents.
While they do window shopping (or rather, Tara talks Darcy out of buying items far out their budget), Nick goes to the pet aisle to look around for the goods for one spoiled pooch.
Opposite the dog aisle, prospecting feline products, is the person Nick wanted to see, but gradually started losing hope about ever meeting again. The brief excitement is snuffed out by the memories of their last encounter. Would he even want to talk to Nick again if he had come across as dismissive of the man’s identity? He isn’t sure, and approaching the gorgeous stranger now seems needlessly daunting.
Fortunately, the curly-haired man is the one to initiate as he looks over.
“Oh! French Toast Man,” he says.
What? Nick blinks rapidly and tilts his head as he thinks.
“What did you call me?”
The stranger’s face flashes scarlet as his eyes grow to the size of dinner plates and he looks abashedly down at the floor.
“Oh god, did I say that out loud? It’s when I’ve been calling you in my head. I’m so embarrassed.”
He presses his palms against his cheeks. Nick hadn’t been sure that the man could get any cuter, but here he is, proving him wrong again and again. And even more butterfly-inducing: the man has been actively thinking about Nick! He admits it! Not how much, but he just said that Nick’s been on his mind.
Nick laughs heartily. “Hey, it’s a fair nickname. I did call myself French toast, back at the Tesco. I do have a proper name, though.”
The stranger looks up past his fingers, meeting Nick’s gaze. “And what might that be?”
“I’m Nick. And what should I call you, aside from what I’ve been calling you inside my head?”
The man lowers his hands and holds one across the elbow of his other arm, then has the audacity to smile in the most wholesome manner Nick has ever seen. “I’m Charlie. But now I’m curious what you might be referring to me in the privacy of your mind.”
Charlie (Nick wishes he could taste his name upon his lips), who seemed so meek the first time they met, appears to be exuding more confidence this time around. Tentative confidence, but confidence no less.
“Uh,” Nick says. His eyes dart back and forth as he ponders how to not come across as a total creep. He sheepishly scratches his neck. “It’s embarrassing.”
Charlie sways his shoulders and eases closer but maintains a respectable distance. “Now I’m really curious.” He sounds cheeky, which is fitting considering the way his cheekbones fill out when he smiles. “There’s no way it’s as good as French Toast Man, Nick.”
Nick nearly starts shuddering on the spot when he hears his name upon Charlie’s lips, and that provides enough distraction for him to just blurt out what he thought. “I called you gorgeous stranger. Among other things.”
Nick’s cheeks grow warm, as does his neck, and he shifts uncomfortably on the spot while looking away from Charlie.
“A most flattering epithet,” Charlie says with a hum, sounding oddly serious. “But I don’t know how I feel about that when you have a girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” Nick parrots as he looks back up. Charlie is looking away, having gone back to browsing cat food.
Wait. Tara. He thought Tara was my girlfriend. And the absurdity of the realisation makes him laugh heartily, at least until he notices that Charlie looks a bit offended where he stands, as if he’s contemplating walking off after being mocked.
“God, Charlie, no,” Nick says, properly tasting Charlie’s name aloud for the first time. “Tara is just a friend and a total lesbian at that!”
“Oh!” Charlie exclaims loudly. “Well, shit! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“All good.”
The silence between them grows nearly as intense as the eye contact they share, and Nick isn’t quite sure where they’re headed now. The territory is flirtatious, that much he can tell, but Nick hasn’t dated nearly enough to know where to go from here.
“So, what brings you to Waitrose, then?” He leans against a shelf as he asks Charlie the question, but has to quickly right himself as the wares start slipping from where his elbow is pressed. Smooth as, Nelson, well done, he thinks sarcastically.
“My sweet boy Patroclus refuses to eat anything but the finest of wet food, apparently,” Charlie replies and picks out a pâté to show Nick. “He’s a spoiled brat.”
Nick snorts in amusement. “Fancy that. My girl Nellie is similar when it comes to treats.” He picks up the lamb flavour he knows she can’t resist and shakes it as to demonstrate. “What won’t we do for our furry babies, huh?”
“Right?” Charlie bites at his bottom after he says that and looks thoughtful before he speaks again. “I guess it’s true what they say about dogs and cats, though. Opposites attract.”
Nick isn’t quite sure how to respond to that. Holy shit, he’s way smoother than I could ever dream to be. He sputters some sort of incoherent reply before he gives up and hangs his head. “Gods, Charlie. You’re making me blush here.”
Charlie hums and gets back into Nick’s personal space. Inches away from his face, the icy blue of Charlie’s eyes looks even more irresistible, like pools atop a glacier, untouched for aeons. “Good. The look suits you.”
Before Nick can stumble further arse backwards into Charlie’s good graces, a trio appears from behind Charlie, calling out his name. One is a statuesque, bespectacled woman with a basket in one hand and holding the hand of an even taller man with a sour expression in the other. Behind them is a shorter man with cropped hair and book beneath his arm. The moment he lays eyes on Nick, he breaks into a massive grin.
“Are you done, Charlie? I don’t want to linger much longer. It feels like the prices are mocking us,” the tall man says.
The woman tries to peer past Charlie to look at Nick. “Who are you talking to?”
“Is that who I think it is?” the shorter man says.
These must be his friends, Nick thinks, and feels exposed by the presence of the group.
“Hold on, is that French Toast Man?!” the tall man shouts.
Oh. Apparently, Charlie has talked about him with them. Charlie has talked about him to his friends. Charlie hasn’t just thought about him; he’s actually used the term ‘French Toast Man’ aloud before. It makes Nick feel excessively giddy and yields the desire to giggle like a schoolgirl.
He can’t see Charlie’s face, but his shoulders look tense, and his voice sounds strained when he speaks. “Guys, this is Nick. Nick, these are my friends, Elle, Tao, and Isaac.” He points at them in turn as he introduces them. Elle and Isaac wave at him, but Tao only sizes him up and down.
“Nick? Are you done yet? I think Darcy is about to be kicked out for begging for free samples. I don’t really want to be banned from another Waitrose by proxy.”
Tara’s voice calls out to him from behind, opposite the aisle Charlie’s friends entered.
“Tara?” Elle says.
“Oh my god! Elle, is that you?!”
Tara dashes past Nick and Charlie, and runs into Elle’s arms, where both girls gush to each other about how long it has been and Tara even calls Darcy, beckoning her to come over. This is a turn of events that Nick had not seen coming. While the rest of the gang coalesces and chats idly between each other, he sidles up next to Charlie.
“Small world, huh?” he says.
“We’d know, since we keep bumping into each other.”
Charlie nudges Nick’s side with his elbow while smirking at him.
“I suppose so!”
Charlie looks up at Nick again with those blue, blue eyes of his, shining with mischief and a feeling implacable. He smiles coyly, teeth sunk into his bottom lip.
“Would you rather leave things to serendipity, or seize the moment from now on?”
It takes Nick a solid moment to process what Charlie just said. Or rather, what is implied with the question. But Charlie keeps going before Nick even gets a word in.
“I mean, you implied that you’re single and I have a hunch you’re not exactly straight, since you called me gorgeous stranger, but please do let me know if I’m overstepping here. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“Not at all,” Nick says when Charlie finishes. “I mean. Not at all straight. Not at all uncomfortable. Yes, both—god.”
He hides his face in his hand and groans.
“I think you melted my brain, Charlie.”
“I’d still be down for a date even if you didn’t have a brain.”
And Charlie has the audacity to wink at him after he says that. Nick can’t help but grin and laugh sheepishly as he tries to control the warmth concentrating just beneath the surface of his skin.
“That’s very Rocky Horror Picture Show of you.”
“Very good. Queer references, always a green flag.”
“I’d be a crap bisexual if I didn’t have some foundational knowledge.”
He sticks his tongue out at Charlie, who is in the process of retrieving his mobile. He hands it over to Nick, who just looks at as if he’s not quite sure what’s happening.
“I’d like your number,” Charlie says, which makes Nick register that an empty contact has been presented to him on the phone. “Easier to keep in touch than to pray to the grocery store gods for a fortuitous meeting.”
“Very true.”
Nick finishes typing in his number and registers himself as ‘Nick 🇫🇷🍞’ before handing it back to Charlie. He proceeds to snort loudly once he reads the name. He shoots Nick a text, a simple ‘hi x’ which still makes Nick grin like a total tool where he’s standing.
By the time the girls are done chatting, and they’ve agreed to meet up again, he and Charlie are exchanging stolen glances without saying much to one another.
“Bye,” Charlie says as his friends pull him away.
“Bye,” Nick says, breathless as he watches Charlie go. The curls swish around as he keeps looking back, like he hadn’t imagined this interaction with Nick.
Nick’s phone vibrates as soon as the group is out of sight, and he grins to himself as he tries (and fails) to contain his excitement about getting to know Charlie better.
Iceland (5)
“We got to stop meeting like this.”
“I mean, we don’t got to! But it’s really funny, innit?”
The fifth encounter is devoid of any awkward tension which underpinned the other times they had met. They actually know each other’s names now, even though Charlie has jestingly been calling Nick ‘French Toast Man’ over text since, but it is also nice to be able to put a name to a face. And a time and a place to a first date.
Which is to say they hadn’t exactly intended to meet up prior to going out for coffee, which is set two days from now, even if Charlie had been kicking his feet in excitement and annoying Isaac (and Patroclus) tirelessly about getting to see Nick again. They had exchanged selfies on the regular, but even more so, pictures of their pets being cute, nuisances, or both. Charlie has never had such an easy time talking to someone he’s been attracted to, and he readily confessed that to Nick, who said he felt the same.
He had skipped over to the Iceland down the street when Isaac said they needed some frozen veg, and maybe some crisps for when they rag on Love Island tonight. Charlie needed to get some energy out, lest he drive his cat crazy, so he happily complied. This time, he had a list on his phone, because the fiasco-turned-fortune had humbled him. And brought a new joyful presence into his life.
To say Charlie had not expected to bask in said presence of Nick Nelson at the local Iceland is an understatement. But there he is, in the flesh, frozen chicken in a basket, looking for a good deal, just as Charlie is looking for Brussels sprouts. His smile is as radiant in person as Charlie remembers it.
“So, what brings one Charlie Spring to Iceland today?”
“I was hoping I could emulate my dream trip to Reykjavik, but I have a feeling it’s coming up short.”
“So pithy,” Nick replies with a grin.
“It’s like you haven’t met me.”
“I have. Five times now.”
“Six in two short days.”
“Aren’t I lucky?”
“I’m the lucky one, really.”
They stare at each other, smiling from ear to ear, until an older woman hobbles past them with her trolley and gives them the stink eye.
“Guess not everyone’s a big fan of openly flirting over the ice lollies in Iceland,” Nick says.
Charlie shrugs. “If they wanna be frumpy and grumpy old bags who can’t handle a little bit of gay love blessing the treats that people are going to suck on later, that’s their loss.”
“Christ, Charlie,” Nick says as he stifles a laugh. “You’re a right menace.”
“I hope you like it, because you agreed to go on a date with me.”
“I’ve been looking forward to it all week, actually. Is that lame of me?”
“Maybe a bit, but so have I. We can be lame together.”
With that, they walk together as they each pick out what they need before they start approaching the till. It is at that point Nick brushes against Charlie’s hands and does a double take.
“Charlie! You’re freezing!” he says, and grabs hold of his fingers. In contrast, Nick’s fingers are nice and toasty, which makes Charlie revel in the sensation returning to the tips of his digits.
“It’s called Iceland for a reason.”
“Yes, but you might actually get hypothermia, and that means we don’t get to go on a date!”
“Oh, so that’s your biggest concern? Not that I might freeze to death?”
“Some of us have our priorities in order.”
Nick doesn’t let go of Charlie’s hand even as they pay for their groceries, and Charlie feels self-conscious as the clerk looks between them with a judgmental stare, but he refuses to be shamed into hiding expressions of affection. Nick only lets go to bag his (and Charlie’s) groceries, and slots his fingers back in with Charlie’s the second he’s done and gets the bags secure in his hands. Once outside, near the car park, he sets the bags down at his feet and seizes both of Charlie’s hands. He has to pull one of them out of a sweater paw which Charlie has made to maintain some semblance of warmth. With back-and-forth movements of his thumbs, Nick massages sensations back into fingertips while simultaneously transferring some of his own heat through his palms.
Charlie stares at his face in sheer awe. Nick looks so concentrated, like Charlie is a precious thing which must be treated with the utmost care to ensure his well-being. It is unlike any other man Charlie has ever dated—and they haven’t even been on a proper date.
Yet here they stand. In front of Iceland, with families milling about, trolleys left abandoned, in the middle of the day. Holding hands. Even if it is under the guise of something else.
“Nick?”
He looks up from Charlie’s hands and smiles. “Yes?”
“I know this is stupid, but…” Charlie bites his lip. “I really want to kiss you right now.”
“O-oh!” That delectable blush is back on his face. He inhales, eyes flitting up and down as he takes a step closer. “Okay.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
And that is how Charlie Spring defied expectations, and his own standards set for dating, really, and had his first kiss with someone who had only been known to him as ‘French Toast Man’ for weeks in the car park in front of Iceland.
M&S (+1)
“Charlie, please, please, can’t we pick this one?! It would look so cute on Nellie.”
“Nick, for the umpteenth time, we can’t get every piece of doggy clothing that you think would suit Nellie! Besides, I don’t even think it’s going to fit.”
“Can we put it on Pat, then? I bet he’d look so handsome in it!”
“I swear to god, I don’t know why I agreed to go to M&S with you… We haven’t even gotten to a single item on our shopping list!”
“But there’s so much to see, sweetheart! Oh, look over there!”
“Nick, we’re not buying you another hoodie. Our closet is already full!”
“Yeah, but you’ve claimed like half of them!”
“That’s what it means to be in a gay relationship! We share clothes! Mi casa, su casa.”
“It doesn’t work that way when none of your clothes fit me.”
“And we had to find that out the hard way, didn’t we?”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to rip your favourite pair of leggings. They just looked so comfortable.”
“You’re lucky I love you.”
“I love you too!”
…
“Hey, Char?”
“What?”
“If we didn’t meet at the Co-op that day, do you think we’d still wind up together?”
“With how we kept bumping into each other at various grocers, yes. And if Elle and Tara had convinced our friend groups to merge sooner, I think so too.”
“You know what I think?”
“Pray tell.”
“I like to think that we would find each other in any grocery store.”
…
“Charlie?! Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving!”
“Why?!”
“Because I’m cringing so hard that my legs started moving on their own.”
“Wait up! You have the trolley!”
“I’m going into a corner to die from how lame you are.”
“You’re so mean.”
“And you like it. After all, you were the one who put a ring on it.”
“Only after you counter-proposed when you could tell what was going on!”
“Well… Shut up!”