Chapter Text
Nick settles down on the couch feeling very sorry for himself. He is all alone in the house in Norfolk Road, Leeds. His housemates have all gone off to the student union bar, Christian and Sai for what they described as a ‘session’ and Otis to cover Nick’s shift behind the bar, much to Nick’s annoyance. He could have done without losing an evening’s pay on top of everything, but in the match that afternoon he’d taken a nasty knock to his calf just above his ankle bone and while it wasn’t broken or even sprained, the team medic had said to rest it for a couple of days. Nick had dismissed it as nothing, but after he had limped home, swearing like a trooper, he had had to admit there was no way he was up to serving drinks to a load of thirsty and often impatient students for a six-hour stretch, and Otis had stepped up to the plate.
Nick tried to make himself comfortable. The boys had left him with his leg up on a pile of cushions balanced precariously on the coffee table, a tube of pringles, a couple of cans of Carling (although probably not wise with the painkillers he’s taken), his well-thumbed copy of Teaching and Learning in Primary Education Today, in case he loses the will to live… and the TV remote to ensure he does. As ever, Nick realises as he flicks through the channels, even on a Saturday night, there is nothing on until highlights of the Six Nations, Scotland v Wales game later, unless you fancy a double bill of Casualty, or a sitcom that wasn’t that funny the first time round. Except…
Here is another source of Nick’s misery, and the reason he has been giving himself a real good talking to, on average three times a day, ever since the middle of January. The talking to varies in content from it’s not important, to don’t be stupid, via, you knew what you were signing up for and don’t be sad. Nick knows that doing ‘long distance’ is never easy, he and Anna never really achieved it, and they had practically lived in each other’s pockets for the six months they were together in Leeds. He and Charlie are starting from a very low base line, but that doesn’t mean they don’t want to try. That Nick’s heart doesn’t do a flip every time he hears the Skype ring on his phone, or the Signal notification beep and Charlie’s smiling face appears, even when it is six in the evening in Vancouver which means it is two in the morning in Leeds.
There had been an embryonic hope in Nick’s chest, that a certain curly haired drummer might be back in the UK this weekend for the Brit Awards. Charlie had mentioned casually during one of their many long conversations before he had returned to the States, that his band Guilty by Design might use the break in the Canadian leg of their tour for a flying visit to the UK if they were nominated in a significant category. But as they had already won Album of the Year and Group of the Year twice before, it was unlikely. They’d only released one new single in 2022, not enough to feature in the nominations this year.
In the event Charlie, and Chris, had been nominated for Song of the Year, for Missing You but as the general consensus by those in the know, that it would be Harry Styles’ year and no one else was going to get a look in, the band’s management had decided there was no point in flying them over three thousand miles for a brief shot of the five of them enthusiastically applauding a rival while trying to keep the chagrin off their faces. Nick listens to Charlie explain Max’s decision while trying to keep his own face free of disappointment, he’s not sure he is successful.
Thus, instead of being curled up in some smart hotel in London waiting for his boyfriend to arrive back from the Awards ceremony and after party, Nick is slouched in front of the television in the lounge of his student house in Leeds, with a leg that fucking hurts, and a heart that’s aching too, with nothing better to do than wallow in misery and to watch the Brit Awards on ITV for a whole fucking two hour show for a ten second clip of Charlie singing before Harry ‘fucking’ Styles, picks up the award.
******
Nick had had a brief introduction to the world of luxury hotels at the New Year, they are not something he is altogether comfortable with, but for two days he willingly put that aside to be with Charlie.
After a night (for night, read also, morning and early afternoon) of pure enchantment with Charlie they had reluctantly separated. Charlie had phoned Trisha who had, yet again, miraculously summoned up a car to take her errant drummer back to the Savoy Hotel. Nick and Charlie parted with promises and kisses, leaving Nick to tidy away all traces of the fact he had had company. By the time Sarah gets home from her sister’s, the house is spotless, the bathroom cleaned, the bins emptied, and Nellie walked. Nick is lying on the couch looking like the cat that got the cream, such a change from the miserable young man that she had left behind the day before, that Sarah thinks she might have fallen into some kind of parallel universe. She pops the kettle on and then goes to dump her overnight bag upstairs. When she comes back down again, Nick is in the kitchen making tea. She sits at the kitchen table, as he brings the tea over to join her, she can’t hold back a comment.
“You look very smiley. Have you had a good time?”
“Yeah… yeah it was really good.”
The sense of dislocation hits Sarah again. This is not the reaction she usually gets from Nick when he has spent time with his old Truham cohort. Even though they have known each other since year seven and some even longer than that, Sarah knows that Nick has grown apart from his secondary school friends since he has been at Leeds, taken a different path, and become more fully the man he is meant to be. She expected tales of inappropriate behaviour and drunken shenanigans by Harry Greene and his cronies, with Nick ultimately dismissing them as idiots, and determining to avoid them all for at least another twelve months. What she hadn’t expected was this happy, glowing boy before her. She is intrigued but doesn’t have to wait long for an answer.
“Er… Mum.”
“Yes.”
“You know I said I’d help you clear out the loft tomorrow…”
“Yes.”
“Would you mind if it waited until the weekend… only I’d like to go to London for a couple of days… to see a friend.”
“You have a friend in London?”
Nick is hopeless at lying, to anyone really but especially to his mother. He can tell his face is red and the tips of his ears are burning.
“Um… yes.”
“A friend from Leeds?”
Nick feels the blush descending to his neck.
“Not exactly.”
“Someone you met at Harry’s party?”
Shit, he’s forgotten all about the party on New Year’s Eve. Nick makes a slight movement of his head; it could be interpreted either way.
“So, is this a friend, or a friend-friend?”
Nick thanks God for his mother, for the opening she’s given him and the total absence of pronouns. He wants to say a friend-friend, but it is possibly too soon.
“A friend, but they’re special. I mean he… he’s special.”
Sarah doesn’t bat an eyelid, she’s not bothered by the ‘he’, but she is a little bothered by the timing, so soon after Anna. Still, she sticks to her rule never to interfere in either of her sons’ love lives. She merely says, “and does he have a name?”
“Charlie… he’s name’s Charlie.”
******
When Nick arrives at the Savoy, he is afraid that he will be refused entry by the concierge, exposed as an imposter, even though he is wearing his nicest jeans and his newest pair of vans, he suspects his adidas bag isn’t quite what the porter is used to. What Nick doesn’t realise and the staff at the Savoy do, is that it is often their wealthiest clients who look the most casual. Nick blends in remarkably well.
Charlie has messaged Nick with the room number and told him that he is expected, and Nick glides past reception without being turned away. Nick find’s Charlie’s room without incident. It isn’t a suite; Charlie may be famous but he’s not famous-famous; even so Nick could fit his bedroom in River Crescent into the hotel room several times over. It is the height of luxury, with an enormous bed, and a huge television with hundreds of channels and a view of the London Eye from the window. Nick has to pinch himself quite often to know that he is really there.
They spend forty-eight hours holed up in Charlie’s room, having sex, ordering room service, trying to find something on the television worth watching, cuddling, talking, sleeping, making love, bathing together, and generally delighting in each other’s company. At night they creep downstairs, Charlie in a beanie and wearing his glasses again, wearing one of Nick’s hoodies thrown over a jumper (it’s a good thing he runs cold) making him look quite chubby and not at all like himself. They walk along The Embankment for a couple of hours, people watching, enthralled by the lights of the city reflected in the river, and they talk.
They know their time is limited. They both have obligations, Charlie is booked on a plane on the 4th, Nick’s next teaching practice starts on the 10th. They agree not to make promises they can’t keep, or make demands that they can’t meet but to take their relationship one day at a time. They both believe they have found something precious, and for that reason they want to keep it close for a while longer, what they have together doesn’t belong on the front pages of the tabloids.
They agree that Nick can tell Sarah and Charlie, Tori. Nick because he loves his mum, she worries about him, and he trusts her implicitly. Charlie because he loves his sister, she worries about him, and she has a way of deducing everything anyway. But those are the only people they will tell.
When Charlie’s driver drops Nick off at King’s Cross before taking him on to Heathrow they do not kiss, but merely sit for a while longer, pinkies entwined until the chauffeur clears his throat and looks pointedly at his watch, and then they say goodbye.
******
At first neither Charlie nor Nick have time to really miss each other, Charlie because he arrives back in America just in time to make his peace with the rest of the band, launch a new song he wrote on the plane all while trying to work out what day of the week it is before they play their two nights in Phoenix. After that they move on to Austin, Texas before doubling back to play dates in Denver, Portland and Seattle before heading to Vancouver and the first gig of the Canadian leg of the tour.
Nick is equally busy, although his activity is closer to home. He helps Sarah with clearing out the loft and his granddad with a leaking sink. He walks Nellie and wrestles with an assignment on teaching mathematics at Key Stage 2. He has long distance Skype calls at midnight and sleeps late. He tells his mum about Charlie, relieved to have someone to share it with. He goes back to Leeds and catches up with Sai, Christian and Otis. Darcy asks about his ‘friend’ Charlie, but Nick manages, by some miracle, to give nothing away.
Nick doesn’t realise how much he has been banking on Charlie coming back to the UK for the Brit Awards until it isn’t happening. He keeps his voice light, but he can tell Charlie is sad too. Charlie is exhausted from performing and being constantly on the road, Nick from attempting to control thirty hyperactive nine-year-olds during the day and writing assignments in the evening. They have a miserable conversation which they cut short before they say anything one or other of them would regret. Nick plays rugby half asleep and almost banjaxes his ankle. Life sucks, and there is still nothing on the telly.
******
Nick cracks open the can of Carling, to hell with the painkillers and is just about to take a sip when he hears the front door open. Wondering what happened to the session that Sai and Christian had planned, he is just about to shout out when a voice from the hallway calls.
“Nicholas! My guy… are you decent?”
Darcy.
Before Nick can answer, she pops her head round the sitting room door.
“There you are. I bumped into Sai and Christian just as I was leaving the SU, they said you were up on bricks, and could do with cheering up. Christian gave me his key, to save you having to get up.”
Darcy produces a key on a long piece of ribbon. “Here he said to leave it with…” Darcy doesn’t finish the sentence. Something has caught her eye on the television, she is suddenly transfixed, mouth open, mesmerised, it takes a full thirty seconds, a long time for Darcy, before she can exclaim.
“Oh, my life, what the fuck are they wearing?”
Nick turns his head back to the screen to see Sam Smith sashaying up the red carpet on four-inch black platforms and wearing… words fail him, but not Darcy.
“What the fuck? They do look rather fabulous, like a cross between a rubber fetishist, someone into inner tubes as bondage gear and a goth wearing a helium balloon… do you think they can even sit down in that?
“Well, they’ll certainly get noticed. Heaven help them if they need a slash.”
"Don't suppose it matters in all that latex."
Darcy plonks herself down on the couch next to Nick and helps herself to his can of Carling.
“Not sure this is a good idea, with what you’re taking… What are we watching anyway?”
“It's the Brit Awards.”
Darcy gives Nick a pointed look. “And since when have we taken an interest in popular music, Mr ‘Taylor Swift’s number one fan’ Nelson?”
“I don’t just listen to Taylor Swift… There’s fuck all else on.”
“Nothing, not even on Netflix?”
“Otis’s mum has cancelled her subscription; we’re back on Freeview. So basically, there’s a choice of Casualty or Casualty, Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps Please or this… anyway I’m not really watching it, it’s just on in the background while I read my book.”
Nick waves his education text book at Darcy, who doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t question him further. Nick changes the subject.
“No Tara tonight?”
“She’s working until nine. I’ve text her to come here after she finishes and to bring chips if that’s ok. Thought you might appreciate some company as you’re hurt. Someone to peel you a grape if necessary.”
“Thanks Darce. I haven’t got any grapes, but I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea if you’re serious about helping me out, and I’m probably due some more painkillers.”
Darcy slides off the couch and goes into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a cup of tea and Nick’s tablets. They settle down to watch a bit more of the Brits, including a ten second clip of Nick’s new favourite band, and boo as Harry Styles, as predicted, takes the award.
Around nine-thirty, Tara arrives with the chips and curry sauce. As a professional dancer she knows a bit about injuries and takes a quick, semi-professional look at Nick’s leg. He reacts against the fuss.
“It’s not that bad, not even a sprain, just badly bruised. The medic said to keep my weight off it for a couple of days. It’s a blow because I’ve had to let Otis take my shift at the union bar this evening, and I could have done with the money, but it hurts like fuck, so I don’t have a choice.”
Darcy looks thoughtful, “A couple of days the medic said…”
“Yeah.” Nick replies as Tara fires a warning, “Darcy…” across the bows.
Darcy glowers at her girlfriend and turns her attention back to Nick.
“Then you should be okay for Tuesday.”
Darcy has a glint in her eyes, the one that is recognised by all her friends as heralding danger. Perhaps because he is tanked up on painkillers, Nick doesn’t cotton on to it before replying.
“Yes, I guess so, although I won’t be match fit before the weekend…” Nick stops, he’s now caught the expression on Tara’s face, the antidote to Darcy’s, the one that says too late mate you’re screwed.
“Oh no,” he protests, “Whatever it is no, I’ve changed my mind. I need complete rest.”
“Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiick. Pleeeeeease, you haven’t heard what it is yet.”
“I know that look, you’re just about to volunteer me to do something for you, which will almost certainly be at great personal cost. The answers no!”
Nick looks at Tara, she grins,
“It might not be so bad. It’s the Valentine’s Night extravaganza, at the Student Union. We’re on the organising committee. Darcy’s in charge.”
Tuesday Night’s social isn’t officially anything to do with the LGBTQIA Soc. It is actually organised again by the chaplaincy centre but as everyone knows Duncan, the chaplain, is a gay man in a civil partnership and he will ensure it is an equal opportunities event.
“We’ve got karaoke, quizzes, disco, tacky drag and speed dating…”
“Speed dating, who does speed dating these days?”
“We thought it would be good to go for the retro vibe, a nice change to actually look at someone’s face, rather than a picture of their groin and swiping right.”
“No.”
“Darcy” Tara says through a mouthful of chips, “Leave the poor boy alone. He’s not well.”
“That’s right,” Nick latches on to this one quickly, “I’m injured.”
Darcy pouts.
“But Niiiiiiiiiiiiiick, I’m short of boys for the bi table.”
Tara attempts another intervention, “Darcy, you’re wheedling. But she’s got a point Nick, it is ages since you split with Anna. It’s time for you to get back on the horse, so to speak.”
“No, I’m honestly not interested, and speed dating… isn’t that a bit… well you know, hardly fits in with Me too.”
“Don’t pretend you even know what that means… and it’s not exactly Grindr is it?”
Nick stands firm, or at least he would if his foot didn’t bloody hurt so much.
“Look, Duncan’s already pressganged me into baking a hundred heart shaped cookies for the event. I’m going to be using the industrial oven at the chaplaincy centre on Tuesday afternoon, so I don’t have to sell a kidney to pay my share of the gas bill here. I’ve volunteered Christian and his friend Polly to act as cocktail waitstaff all evening, and Otis and I are doing the bar. I’ll be too busy to be chatting up anyone.”
Darcy makes a face, and Tara gives him what Nick’s grandma would call an old-fashioned look, but they let the matter drop and Nick hopes that, with the only light in the room from the television, they won’t see his blushes.
They watch a bit more television, but Tara’s head begins to nod, and the two women soon head off. Nick, feels bad that he can’t walk them home, but they promise to message him as soon as they are indoors. Ten minutes later he gets a text, and five minutes after that he is asleep himself.