Archive of Our Own ^beta

Five weeks after.

Charlie buys his coffee, nodding at the girl behind the counter as she hands him his latte and flashes him a sympathetic smile. She recognises him; he supposes that this must mean he’s a regular now. Strange, how you can still build a routine even as the world is ending.

The ICU is on the third floor. Charlie takes the stairs, glad to avoid the huddling masses in the lift. On the right day, there is a gorgeous view across the Medway, all water and sky; Nick would love it.

After being buzzed through the secure entrance, Charlie feels the familiar twinge of fear in his gut. Logically, he knows he would be called overnight if something happened. He just can’t shake the feeling that one day he’s going to walk in to an empty bed and the detached, sympathetic eyes of the staff.

He doesn’t, of course: he’s told them all enough times that he wants to be called overnight for anything, any change - good or bad. It breaks his heart that there are families that wouldn’t say the same, but, again, he wonders if he will still feel that way if they are still in this position in a year, two?

He thinks he probably will.

There is a student nurse at the bedside, fiddling with one of the pumps. Charlie doesn’t recognise her, but she smiles at him in familiarity before leaving them alone.

He doesn’t have it in him to feel bad about not remembering her: they are well known in the department. He’s heard the mutters amongst staff: so young, so sad. They’ve got a little one at home. Setting his drink down on the side, Charlie’s eyes drift to the bed. To Nick.

“Good morning, darling,” he says, taking Nick’s hand, slotting their thumbs together and placing his fingers over the steady, insistent pulse at his wrist. “It’s me. I dropped Vivi off at your Mum’s, so I can stay the whole morning today. We’re going to swap over in the afternoon and then she’ll come by to see you, OK?”

He brushes the fingers of his other hand lightly over the top of Nick’s forearm, the skin smooth and pale; Nick is so tactile, so warm, and Charlie hates to think that the only touch he’s getting now is cold and functional. The nurses are kind, and brilliant, but the body needs love, too. “I think that girl in the café is starting to recognise me, by the way. Hopefully all this is done before she can memorise my order, hmm?”

Nick’s pulse continues, steady and unchanged beneath his fingertips. It’s the only movement amongst the utter stillness of his body, save the steady rise and fall of his chest. It’s a comfort to Charlie, incontrovertible proof that Nick’s body is marching on beneath the wires and tubes.

Charlie continues talking Nick through the rhythms of his day so far, about what their daughter got up to in school yesterday, and their friends increasingly frantic efforts to make sure he feels supported, and sane. He’s in the middle of describing the frankly disgusting lasagne Darcy had tried to foist on him – it being her turn on the never-ending ‘keep Charlie and Vivi fed’ rota – when one of the nurses – Zoya, he thinks - walks in to give him his daily update.

Charlie picks up Nick’s hand and brushes his lips to the back of it.

“I’ll be right back, love. Don’t go anywhere,” he says, before turning to give Zoya his full attention.

Funny.

Thanks, babe.

Through it all, Nick sleeps.

The day of.

After the third unanswered call, Charlie begins to worry. It’s a small kernel of a thing that tightens in his gut and begs to be listened to. Logically, he knows Nick must have taken Vivi by his Mum’s on the way back from school, or to the big Tesco to get the shopping, and been sidetracked by the clothes, or the toys, or the Christmas display that seems to pop up earlier and earlier every year.

Still, this feels… different. His calls haven’t been connecting and it’s so unlike Nick not to text him a blow by blow account of his journey home, or send him a video of Vivi chasing Sarah’s dog, Suzie, around her kitchen. Even Daisy, their elderly golden retriever, is confused, having heaved herself to the door in anticipation of Nick and Vivi’s arrival.

Sitting and worrying is unproductive, he decides. Nick – card-carrying mummy’s boy – must have taken their daughter for an impromptu trip to see her Granny on their way home and forgotten to text. He calls Sarah. She picks up on the second ring.

“Hello Charlie, darling!” Sarah greets him. Charlie can hear the smile in her voice.

“Hi Sarah,” Charlie replies, straining to hear the rumble of Nick’s voice, or Vivi’s high pitched giggle in the background. “I was wondering if Nick was round with Vivi? He isn’t home yet and I can’t get hold of him.”

“Oh,” Sarah sounds taken aback, “no, love. I’ve not heard from him since he called me this morning. Have you phoned him?”

“Yeah, I think his phone is off. I checked with the after-school club – he picked her up around five.” Charlie glances back up at the digital clockface on their oven: 18:25.

Sarah is silent for a moment.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Charlie rushes to continue, trying to keep his tone even. “He’s probably at the shop! Sorry, sorry, I just thought he might have come by. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Yes, he’ll be at the shop.” Sarah echoes. Charlie can hear the worry in her voice – Sarah knows as well as him that all Nick wants to do at the end of a work day is get home to Charlie.

“I’m going to try and call him again, OK? He’s probably just round the corner. I’ll text you when they’re home, I promise.”

“OK, darling, please let me know.”

“I will – sorry, Sarah.”

“No darling, you were right to call and check.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Charlie hangs up, his worry now tinged with guilt for dragging Sarah into his anxieties. He knew it was a manifestation of his OCD: the stress when he couldn’t contact a loved one, or when Nick was late home. That irrepressible feeling that something terrible had happened. He had managed to keep it under control in the past few years, especially since Vivi, not wanting her to witness or absorb any of it. Still, Nick was nearly two hours late. It was nearly Vivi’s dinner time.  

Pacing the kitchen, he tries to call Nick again. The dialling tone goes right through him. At 18:45, he picks up the phone again and goes to call – who? The police? Sarah, again? He’s not every sure what you do in these situations.

Before he can decide, there’s a knock at the door. He sags in relief: it must be Nick. Maybe he lost his bag and didn’t have his keys. He would have lost his car keys too, and had to bring Vivi back on the bus, probably with no way to charge his phone. It’s such a logical explanation that Charlie is shocked he hadn’t come up with it before. He throws the door open, expecting to be greeted with the welcome site of his husband and his daughter.

Two police officers stare back at him. Charlie’s body is immediately flooded with a numbing, icy terror: the kind that accompanies the realisation of your worst fears.  

They still have their hats on, is, inexplicably, all that springs to mind.

“Evening, Sir. Are you Charles Nelson-Spring?” One of the officers asks.

Charlie just nods, mouth moving soundlessly.

They take their hats off if someone has died, right?

The next few minutes feel like they’re happening to someone else. Charlie floats a foot above himself, watching in curious detachment as the officers confirm his relation to Nick and Vivi, and tell him there has been an accident on one of the A roads, and both of them have been taken to hospital for assessment. They apologise for not having more information. Charlie must be asking questions, over and over, because they just keep telling him they are sorry they don’t know more, that he’ll be updated when he gets to A&E.

They drive him to the hospital. Charlie is essentially catatonic in the back of the car. Nick would love this he thinks out of nowhere: the sight of Charlie in the backseat of a police cruiser. He’d take pictures and send them to all their friends without context, or post them to his Instagram with a caption about how he’d married a bad boy.

Vivi will be so jealous I’ve been in here, she’ll want to try on their hats.

Oh god, did I tell them I loved them this morning?

They arrive, and he’s lead through the doors of A&E, past the rowdy, heaving waiting room to a small side room with a sofa and a table. Charlie barely resists the urge to break away from them and tear through the department looking for his family. The policewoman tells him to wait there, and that someone would be round to speak to him shortly. They leave, and suddenly he is alone. Staring blankly at the generic landscape print hung on the wall, he distantly notes the box of tissues on the table.

This is a room where people get news.

For the first time in Charlie’s life, with shaking hands clasped, he prays.

*

After what feels like hours, but is only a matter of minutes, there is a soft knock on the door and a nurse in a patterned blue tunic steps through.

Charlie’s head whips up. Following behind the nurse, with a small dressing on her cheek and in hospital-issue pyjamas is-

“Vivi?” Charlie gasps, the rush of liquid relief pouring through him almost enough to knock him over.

“Papa?” She looks up at him, eyes wide, before promptly bursting into tears.

Charlie rushes forward and scoops her in his arms. She clings to him, sobbing her heart out, and Charlie does a mental stock take. She’s talking, crying, and apart from the plaster on her face seems – unharmed? He rocks her back and forth. Thank you thank you thank you. He is suddenly back in his body again, the solid weight of his daughter grounding him to reality. The relief is marrow-deep.

“I love you so much, darling. My gorgeous girl.” Charlie murmurs into her hair.

“I missed you, Papa, where were you?” Vivi sniffles, voice indignant.

“I’m so sorry Vivi, I’m so, so sorry. I came as quickly as I could, OK? I promise.”

“The car got hurt. My cheek was bleeding.” She pulls back and frowns, eyes shining.

Charlie brings a hand to her face, his heart breaking.

“I see that, love, was it very sore? How do you feel now?”

“I was brave, I got to go in the ambulance,” she explains, perking up at the memory.

“I’m sure you were, my brave girl. I love you so, so much.”

Vivi has calmed now, but her hands are still fisted in Charlie’s shirt, like she’s worried he will disappear.

No chance. Charlie is never letting her out of his sight again.

She lays her head on Charlie’s chest and yawns. “M’tired,” she whispers, eyelids drooping.

“OK, my darling, you go to sleep, Papa’s got you.” Charlie sways from side to side, shifting her to the side in his arms a little. At five, she’s a solid weight in his arms. “I’m going to talk to this nice lady now, OK?”

“Yeah,” she says on another yawn, nearly asleep. “When I wake up can we go find Daddy? I lost him.”

Charlie’s stomach twists.

“Of course, darling.”

Charlie gives it another few seconds as she drifts off, before turning to the nurse who had brought her in.

“Sorry,” the nurse says in a half-whisper, “I know that no one’s been in to speak with you yet, but she was asking for you. And- well- I’m a mum and I know no one would be able to convince me my boy was OK until I’d seen for myself.”

“Thank you,” Charlie says, running a soothing hand up and down Vivi’s back. “Is she- is she alright?” His voice cracks a little on the last syllable.

The nurse nods emphatically. “They’ve checked her over. She was sat in the back – all she had was a bit of a cut on her cheek from some glass, which they’ve dressed. No need for stitches or anything. She is absolutely perfect otherwise.”

Charlie screws his eyes up with relief and nods, a solitary tear escaping from the corner of his eye.

“Thank you,” he says. “Do you know if… Is there… My- my husband was in the car.”

He can’t bring himself to ask.

The nurse shakes her head. “Sorry I- I’m over in the children’s unit. I don’t know about the adult patients…” She trails off, looking uncomfortable. “I, um, I can go and see if there’s anyone who can update you though?”

Charlie just nods. “Ok, yes, please. Thank you.”

The nurse leaves, and Charlie sits back down on the sofa, holding his sleeping daughter. His stomach flips between buoyant joy at having Vivi safe and well in his arms, and a tearing, curdling fear about what has happened to Nick. He knows in his heart that it must be bad; there’s very little that could have kept Nick from Vivi’s side, even for a scratch. He blows out a breath, trying to keep it together.

You’ve got this.

I don’t know if I do.

I believe in you.

There’s another knock on the door and a woman in scrubs appears.

“Mr Nelson-Spring?”

Charlie stands. Vivi stirs in his arms.

“Yes, that’s me.”

The woman steps into the room and closes the door behind her.

“I have an update on your husband. Please take a seat.”

Three years before.

Charlie is fucked off about something. He has been quiet all evening, putting all his remaining energy into keeping a smiling face on for their daughter through bath and bed time.

“You seem fucked off about something,” Nick remarks from the bed, pulling his socks off and throwing them into the washing basket in the corner of the room. One of them hits the mark, and the other lands about a foot short. “Want to talk about it?”

“I want to talk about how you leave your filthy socks on the floor for me to collect like some sort of manservant.” Charlie grumbles, picking up the lone sock and throwing it into the basket with more force than is strictly necessary. Daisy eyes him warily from her position next to the radiator.

“I do all the washing anyway, and you know it. Now, what are you actually cross about?” Nick asks, tilting his head and trying to catch Charlie’s eye.

Charlie sits on the side of the bed, putting his head in his hands and scrubbing at his face in frustration. He feels Nick straighten up, obviously realising this is an actually upset and not an I’m mildly pissed off and you can tease me until I smile upset.

“Char, baby, what’s wrong?” Nick asks, torso fully turned towards him now and hand coming to rest on his mid back, offering light pressure. “Is it something you want to talk about now?”

Charlie sighs. He doesn’t want to talk about it, he never does, but the less he wants to, the more he knows he needs to. Lifting his head from his hands, he meets Nick’s eyes. “I really struggled with dinner tonight - and for the last day or two, to be honest. I think Vivi starting nursery has thrown me off a little.” Nick just nods, and takes Charlie’s hand. He rests the pads of his fingers on Charlie’s pulse, in a gesture that soothes them both. Charlie is grateful for the space to string his words together before continuing, grateful that he gets to have these conversations with someone that knows him so completely. “I think… seeing her struggle with the adjustment is making me feel like a bad parent. She’s so sad when I drop her off sometimes, and I don’t know how to help her.”

Nick is quiet for a moment, digesting, before replying. “Thank you for telling me that. We can do some meal plan prep tomorrow. Whatever you need. As for the nursery thing – remember, a lot of kids struggle with the change. If it helps, when I pick her up they usually say she’s been her usual happy, smiley self all day. I still think it’s a reasonable idea to get her used to a few days a week so that school next year isn’t such a shock for her. If you’ve changed your mind, though, we can definitely revisit it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I still agree with all that. I know all the adjustment stuff is normal, and she’ll be OK. I don’t feel like we need to change what we’re doing. I guess it’s not really that…” Charlie pauses and takes a deep breath. “I think I’m just surprised and how easily that this has thrown me off, you know? I’ve been doing so well, and, like, she struggles a little at nursery and suddenly I’m off my food? This isn’t going to be the only thing we have to support her through - we’re her Dad’s. I’m worried: worried that every time she has a wobble I’m going to spiral and suddenly you’re left looking after both of us, when we’re meant to be a team in this. Worried that she’s going to see me as weak, or like someone she can’t rely on. I would hate that.”

Nick squeezes his hand.

“We are a team.” Nick says fiercely, “We always will be. But that means supporting each other as well as her. I’m not worried; I know she’s going to see what I see when I look at you: she’s going to see that her Papa is strong, and not afraid to ask for help when he needs it. She’s going to see that needing help isn’t something to be ashamed of. She’s going to know that in this family, we support each other in the good times and the bad times. She’s going to know she can rely on both of us because she already sees us relying on each other, and our friends, and our families.”

Charlie feels a little of the weight lift off his chest, and leans his head on Nick’s shoulder, feeling better just for verbalising it; he feels that vague stab of irritation he gets whenever his therapist is proved right.

“You’re right,” he says, “as usual. I do know all that, it just gets drowned out sometimes.”

Nick slips his arm round Charlie’s waist. “Do you want to try and get an emergency therapy appointment tomorrow?”

“No, I- I actually called Anna this afternoon to chat about it.”

“Ok- great! What did she say?”

“Basically what you did, plus some thought-reframing exercises and telling me to fall back on my meal plans when I have a wobble. And she told me to talk it through with you.”

“Clever lady,” Nick remarks.

“She is. I would have spoken to you anyway, though, it was getting to that point.” Charlie shuffles a little closer to Nick and brings up his legs to rest across his lap. Nick tightens the arm around Charlie’s waist in response and rests a hand on his knee.

“I know you would have. I’m sorry I didn’t pick up on it earlier.” Nick frowns a little. “I don’t know why I didn’t, actually.”

“To be fair, we have a rather loud, ever-present, two-foot tall distraction now.” Charlie teases.

Nick laughs, and presses a kiss to Charlie’s cheek. “True. Best distraction ever.”

“Plus,” Charlie says, running a hand through Nick’s hair, “you know it’s not your job to read the microclimate of my mood all the time. Especially now we have Vivi to worry about.”

Nick smiles. “Stop shortening our daughter’s beautiful name.”

(It’s a bit of a bone of contention for them.)

“Ok, now we have Genevieve Victoria Nelson-Spring to worry about.” Charlie grins. “Anyway, don’t worry, you know I’ll always come to you if I need to.”

“I do,” Nick nods. “And I’ll come to you.”

“I know.”

Charlie rests his forehead on Nick’s then, basking in the mutual trust and understanding. Life is hard; loving Nick and being loved by him is easy.

“What would I do without you?” Charlie whispers, almost to himself.

Nick somehow pulls him even closer. “I’m not going anywhere, ever, so we’ll never have to find out. You’re not allowed to go anywhere either, by the way.”

Charlie honestly believes him. Believes they will never have to be without each other. He’s blurry on the details: maybe they’ll die old and happy, at exactly the same moment. Maybe they might just live forever, with Vivi, in their bubble of love.

Here, now, in Nick’s arms, anything feels possible.

Four days after.

Stasis. That’s what the last four days have felt like. Charlie has floated from the ICU, to the hospital canteen and home again. Everyone keeps making him cups of tea. When all this is over, he’s never drinking tea again.

When all this is over.

It had been a head on collision. Someone, some idiot, in the oncoming lane had tried to overtake going into a bend, and crashed straight into Charlie’s whole world. Nick had apparently hit the brakes and tried to veer off to the side, leaving the majority of the impact on the driver’s side. It explained why Vivi, who had been in her booster seat on the in the back, behind the passenger seat, had escaped mostly unharmed. Passersby had pulled her from the car immediately.

Nick had had to be cut out.

It was bad. His injuries had been explained to Charlie, in a strange hybrid of inaccessible jargon and extremely patronising metaphor. There were tubes and wires everywhere. Things were broken. There was a bleed on his brain.

This seemed to be the thing everyone was most worried about. He had needed emergency surgery, Charlie nodding in his helplessness in that tiny room in A&E, and telling them to do whatever they needed to do. They had shaved Nick’s lovely hair and cut. Charlie had met the neurosurgeon, after, and had been simultaneously ready to fall to his knees in thanks and slightly repulsed at the gleam in the surgeon’s eyes as he’d explained there had been some complications, but the procedure was ultimately successful.

The day of.

He has multiple missed calls from Sarah, and a string of increasingly frantic texts: he can’t bear to answer, scared that this will be the thing that pulls on the last thread of his resolve. He needs to keep it together whilst Vivi is here with him. In the end, he has to get one of the doctor’s to phone her as he sits waiting for Nick to come out of theatre.

A nurse gently suggests that Vivi might be more comfortable in a bed, and asks if there was anyone else that could help look after her. She’s right: Vivi is too young to understand what’s happening, to be curled into a hard chair in an A&E waiting room.

Charlie calls Darcy with shaking hands. It’s 11pm on a Thursday night; Tao and Elle are in London, whilst Isaac, and Charlie’s parents, will be long asleep by now. Sarah, obviously, is not an option. Tara and Darcy are still based in Kent, and Darcy has always kept strange hours.

They answer his second call, their exuberant greeting quickly cowed with Charlie’s frantic voice, stumbling over himself as he tries to explain.

“I’ll be right there, Charlie. Right there, OK?” They promise. It’s Darcy’s tone, so serious, so scared, that drives it home for Charlie. This is really happening.

Darcy arrives within half an hour, a pregnant Tara in tow, walking into the waiting room with wide eyes. Tara immediately drops down beside Charlie and holds him, whilst Darcy gently lifts their godchild from Charlie’s arms. Tara is murmuring platitudes into his hair, and he grips at her.

“I’m sorry, Tara, god, you should be home in bed. I just- there was no one else to look after Viv.”

“Charlie. We would do anything for you and Nick, for Vivi. God, I just- what the fuck happened.” Tara asks, Charlie’s own disbelief and horror at the circumstances reflected back at him.

“I- I don’t know. Nick was bringing Vivi home from school and there was a crash. Vivi’s OK, but Nick,” Charlie shakes his head, feeling sick with it, “he’s in surgery.”

“Jesus.”

They are interrupted by Sarah’s arrival. She bursts through the waiting room door, eyes scanning the room before landing on the four of them in the corner. She strides over to where Darcy is holding Vivi, running a hand over her granddaughter’s hair, before turning to Charlie.

Charlie looks up at her, the other person who loves Nick as much as he does, and finally bursts into tears. He vaguely notes Darcy taking Vivi outside, and Tara gently leading Sarah to a seat. Sarah takes his hand, and he feels it tighten as he chokes out the story so far.

“Where is Nick? Can I see him?” Sarah asks, eyes flitting between Charlie and Tara.

Charlie shakes his head, trying to get his breathing under control. “No, he’s already in surgery. They said they would take him to the ICU after, and that they would come and get me when there was an update.”

Sarah looks pale, a hand over her mouth. Charlie keeps a tight grip of her hand as Tara rubs a soothing hand up and down her back. Eventually, Darcy returns with Vivi, who has woken up to the noises of the hospital.

“We’ll take her to ours, OK?” Tara says, “I can call in to work tomorrow and stay home with her. Don’t worry. I can bring her back up here to see you as well, depending on what’s happening.”

Charlie finds her ability to think beyond the next five minutes admirable.

“Ok,” he nods, “Ok. Thank you. I’ll- I’ll phone you when we know more.”

He hugs Vivi fiercely.

“You’re going to go stay with Titi and Darce, OK? There’s no bed for you here, and Papa needs to wait whilst the doctors are looking after Daddy.” Charlie explains, grateful to have people he trusts so implicitly to look after his most precious cargo.

“Papa,” she asks, clearly exhausted, “will you and Daddy come get me tomorrow?”

“I’ll come, or Titi and Darce will bring you here to see me. Daddy- Daddy might have to stay with the doctors for a little bit.”

“When can I say hello?”

“I’m not sure darling, but when I see him I’ll tell him that you say hello, and that you love him lots, OK?”

“OK,” She nods, satisfied with that for now. She takes Darcy’s offered hand. Darcy squeezes him once on the shoulder, before leading her towards the door. Tara goes to follow, and Charlie catches her hand.

“Tara, can you text the others? I don’t think I can bear it.”

“Of course,” Tara says, and she drops a kiss to Charlie’s cheek, stopping to hug Sarah as well. When she leaves, it is just Charlie and Sarah. They cling to each other’s hands and wait.

Four days after, again.

Four days later, they are still waiting. Nick is asleep, artificially sedated and breathing with a ventilator. The doctors have explained that this is the safest way: keeping him under until the swelling in his brain goes down, and his injuries have begun to heal. They can’t say how long he need, can’t make any promises about what he’ll be like when he wakes up. Stable, but critical, is a phrase that they keep throwing around. Charlie spends almost all his time here now, before running to his parent’s house to see his daughter.

Vivi had been at Darcy and Tara’s for the first couple of days, but Jane and Julio lived closer to her school, and Charlie’s hurried conversations with Darcy, now a youth councillor and art therapist, had concluded that it was best to keep her schedule as close to normal as possible. In that spirit, Daisy had gone with her. In any other circumstances, watching his mother adapt to a dog in her house would have been hilarious.

Sarah is angry with him, he thinks. They are dancing around each other, sitting in parallel at Nick’s bedside, and letting the doctors and nurses talk at them. Charlie writes it all down, and spends half his time furiously googling. They don’t say much to each other apart from ask each other what they want from the canteen.

Sarah had always felt like a second mother to him; he’s desperate to offer her some comfort, to take some in return, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

Please talk to her, I hate to see you two like this.

I don’t know if I can handle any more heartbreak right now.

For me?

“Sarah,” he says, sometime in the late morning, “are you angry at me?”

Sarah jolts a little, Charlie’s voice an intrusion in the muted environment of the ICU. She turns to him, her normally soft brown eyes expressing something he can’t name. She folds her hands together on her lap and seems to consider herself for a moment before speaking.

“You didn’t phone me,” she says, voice almost inaudible over the rhythmic beeping of Nick’s monitors.

“Pardon?”

“When it happened – it took you hours to phone me. I- I didn’t get to see him before he went to surgery,” she glances over at Nick, eyes raking over the bandage on his head, his slack face.

Like Sleeping Beauty, Charlie thinks bitterly.

Charlie is a little taken aback at Sarah’s words. He had seen Nick briefly before the surgery, hustled into the resus room by a nurse. It had been, frankly, traumatic: the shock of the tube in his mouth, the clear injury to his skull, how small he had looked in amongst the medical detritus of the bay. Charlie had been given five minutes to grasp at his hand and try to express eighteen years of love and devotion in the company of a crowd of doctors, nurses and porters, who were averting their eyes to give him a facsimile of privacy.

Watching Nick get wheeled away been the hardest thing he had ever had to do. He can’t even begin to imagine how he would have felt if it had been Vivi; whilst he understands Sarah’s anger, he’s glad she wasn’t there to see it.

“I’m sorry, Sarah, I… I was a mess. I was just so focused on him, on Vivi. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I know, love, but he’s my son. I hate that I wasn’t there to hold his hand. I hate that all these decisions were being made and I knew nothing about it.” Sarah pauses, swallows. “I hate that any of this has happened.”

Charlie nods. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I understand why you’re upset. Please, just believe that it wasn’t intentional. Everything happened so fast and I don’t know if… If you had had to see him like that…”

Charlie takes a shaking breath and looks down at his hands, pressing his palms together to ground himself. He feels a hand on his arm, and looks up. Sarah’s expression has softened, and she takes in his stricken face before folding him into a hug. Charlie relaxes against her, greedy for the reassurance.

“I’m sorry, darling, I’m sorry,” Sarah murmurs. “It must have been so awful going through that alone. God knows what I would have done.” She pulls back and looks at him again. “This is all so unimaginable. I think I’ve been looking for somewhere to put all this frustration, and you’ve been in the firing line.”

Charlie just nods. “It’s OK,” he says, because it is. They’re family. “I’m glad, glad we’re talking properly.”

“Oh darling,” Sarah says, face crumpling as she hugs him again, rocking him slightly. “I’ve been so silly. We’re going to get each other through this, OK? And Vivi.”

Charlie can only nod against her. Sarah hugs fully and completely and it reminds him so much of Nick he could cry.

Eight years before.

“Come on!” Charlie shouts, pointing the umbrella into the driving wind as he pulls Nick along by the hand.

“There’s water in my shoes,” Nick shrieks as he lets himself be guided, trying desperately to avoid any more puddles. The hems of his trousers are soaked, and his dress shoes are making a suspicious squelching sound as he runs along next to Charlie.

“It’s good luck,” Sarah shouts from somewhere behind them, her arm tucked through a gangly teenage Olly’s as he holds an umbrella for them both.

“What, Mum?” Nick shouts back over the wind.

“Rain on your wedding day – it’s good luck!”

“Not sure a freak storm in June counts, Sarah,” Charlie calls back, “but I appreciate the sentiment.”

The plan had been a simple one: a gathering of their nearest and dearest for a quick ceremony at the registry office, then walk along to the pub that they had booked for the reception. Cheap and cheerful; they had just had an offer accepted on a flat of their own and they were (secretly) saving pretty intensely into a baby fund.

Marriage had always, always, been on the cards – they were both too hopelessly romantic to discount it – but they had been pretty easy-going about the when’s and where’s until they had gone to a LGBTQ+ parenting information evening in London, and been told that being legally wed made pretty much all their options – fostering, adoption, surrogacy – easier.

So, a budget wedding it was. Charlie didn’t mind: he would have married Nick in front of 400 of their most distant acquaintances, in front of a Vegas Elvis, in a chapel in Greta Green or in the myriad of other ways they had imagined over the years. Still, when he had woken up to the lashing rain on the window of Tori’s spare room, he did begin to wonder if they should have coughed up for taxis.

The group stops at a crossing. A particularly strong gust of wind inverts Nick and Charlie’s umbrella completely, leaving them exposed, and they stop to right it as the rain lashes down. It’s a mission against the wind of the summer storm, and by the time they manage it the rest of their party has crossed the road and the red man is showing. Charlie waves at them to go on.

“Save yourselves,” he shouts over the lanes of traffic, “we’ll catch up.”

Tori raises a hand in acknowledgement and Charlie sees her and Elle cajole the group into some kind of organised walking crocodile and set off.

He turns round to find Nick staring at him, a grin on his face.

“What?” He asks, adjusting the umbrella again to keep them both shielded.

“We just got married,” Nick states, smiling wider and taking a step closer under the umbrella as the rain continues to beat down.

“Did we?” Charlie asks, screwing his face up in confusion, “I think I’d remember something like that.”

“Yup,” Nick nods, wrapping an arm around Charlie’s waist, “I distinctly remember you vowing to love me forever.”

Charlie shakes his head, fighting the smile that’s erupting from his very core. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

 “Charlie,” Nick says in that fond-exasperated way of his that Charlie knows means I love you and your silliness but please give me some words of affirmation now.

Charlie is more than happy to oblige. Shifting their umbrella to his other hand, he splays his fingers across the line of Nick’s jaw.

“I love you,” he says, letting the smile unfurl over his face. “Forever. And ever and ever. I can’t believe I ever got so lucky as to find my best friend at fourteen and then marry the poor sod.”

Nick fits his fingers through Charlie’s where they still rest on his face, leaning into the touch.

“Me neither. No take-backs now,” Nick says with barely restrained glee. Then, “I fucking love you so much.”

Charlie feels the happy tears that had overtaken him during the ceremony prick at his eyes again. The feeling of loving and being loved in return like this is a heady one: he feels it all the way down to his toes on days like this. Pulling his husband forward, he pours the feeling out into a kiss.

They kiss and kiss and kiss on that stupid street corner. It’s not their best: they are both smiling too hard for that. A few cars beep their horns as they drive past and someone leans out a window to shout Congratulations, obviously putting two and two together from their suits and shameless public display of affection.

It all reminds Charlie of another kiss in the rain, a lifetime ago, when he’d taken a chance and followed his gut. Now, this was his reward.

They break apart only when a passing car sprays them with a wall of water, further soaking through the trousers of Nick’s suit. They look at each other for a second before doubling over laughing at the absurdity of it all. Nick holds out his hand and Charlie takes it.

“Do you think it’s true?” Charlie muses as they begin walking along again at a more leisurely pace, accepting the fact that they are going to arrive to their own wedding reception looking like drowned rats.

“Is what true?” Nick replies, tilting his head slightly.

“Rain on your wedding day. Is it good luck, do you think?”

Nick seriously considers it for a moment. It’s one of the things Charlie loves most about him: how carefully holds space for the people he loves.

“I don’t know,” Nick says, looking over at Charlie, pausing again before continuing, “I don’t think we need it though - you and me. I think we make our own luck.” He holds a hand out from under the safety of their umbrella. “Oh, it’s easing off. Come one, let’s make a run for it before Olly clears through half of the buffet without us.”

And with that, he’s pulling Charlie along as they run together through the streets of London and towards the rest of their lives.

Four weeks after.

Charlie hits a routine by four weeks in. Sarah has moved into the flat to help with Vivi, with Jane and Julio helping with school drop off and pick up depending on the day. Charlie wakes in the morning, gets his daughter ready for school, then heads to the hospital. At the weekends, him and Sarah split time with Vivi, making sure Vivi is entertained and Nick is rarely ever alone.

Charlie talks, and talks and talks. He tells Nick about his day, their daughter, their friends, and every story he can think of. Nick knows all his stories, of course – he plays a leading role in most of them - but Charlie can’t bear to sit there in silence. Talking to Nick had always been one of his favourite things, anyway.

He’s not sure how much it’s helping, really. All his frantic googling can’t tell him if Nick is actually aware of anything that’s happening. Still, Charlie would sit there talking to him until his voice ran silent for the slim chance it was providing comfort.

Charlie talks to the staff too, when they appear periodically to do whatever it is they need to do. He’s so bruisingly grateful for them, for all they are doing for Nick. There is literally no way to ever repay them, but he tries by arriving most days armed with some kind of treats from the hospital M&S.  

He gets updates from the doctors, who talk so vaguely it almost feels like deliberate obfuscation. In his magnanimous moments, Charlie knows they have an impulse to heal and help, and it kills them not to give him a straight answer, to have to say I don’t know. In his less magnanimous moments, it makes him want to fucking throw something.

Vivi seems to accept the explanations about her Daddy not being well at face value. She’s too young to really understand the implications. She talks about missing him, and often pesters Charlie to show her pictures, or to call Nick, or to ask why she can’t see him. Charlie’s answers always remain the same: of course we can look at pictures, and let me tell you a story about Daddy. We can’t go see him because he’s not very well and we can’t call him because he has to sleep until he feels better.

Their friends visit most days. He knows for a fact they will have some sort of rota worked out between them, most likely orchestrated by Tara, because there is always someone dropping by the hospital with lunch for him, and always someone dropping by the flat with a cooked meal, or to serve a much-needed distraction for Vivi.

They all respond quite differently when they visit. Tao and Elle come through from London when they can: Tao is, as usual, focused on Charlie, and likes to sit next to him and bristle silently when he feels the medical staff are being condescending. Elle brings flowers, and cream to rub on Nick’s hands, which dry out in the recycled hospital air. She talks to him like he’s awake, like it’s just another night on the floor of someone’s living room, which Charlie is grateful for.

Darcy strides in with purpose and sits up by Nick’s head, regaling him with stories and making all the nurses laugh. Tara doesn’t come at all: she’s nearly full term, and they are all a little worried about her picking something up in the hospital. She phones Charlie, though, and they talk about Nick, sharing old stories like he’s only in the next room.

Isaac comes and reads to Nick sometimes, his calm voice cutting through the incessant beeping and the rhythmic whoosh of the ventilator. He’s helped Charlie a lot with the practicalities too, like phoning Nick’s work and remembering to pay the bills.

Sahar lives in Scotland now, but offers her gentle support via text, checking in and never expecting Charlie to reply if he doesn’t feel up to it. Imogen is in New York, slaving at the altar of fashion. She calls at odd hours, sometimes, never really getting hang of the time difference. Charlie doesn’t mind – it’s not like he can sleep anyway.

Tori comes often, usually in the early mornings before work; she’s always been a bad sleeper, too.  Charlie’s never quite got a handle on who Nick and Tori are to each other, but he knows there was something unique forged between them in the worst days of Charlie’s illness.

Charlie remembers the first time Tori came, two days after. She was the first one to visit apart from Charlie and Sarah: the first few days were such a whirlwind, and there had been so much going on, that Charlie had just added their nearest and dearest to a untitled WhatsApp group and sent out daily updates, not able to cope with much else.

He had looked up to see her hanging back in the doorway, looking somehow paler that usual, and called her name. Then, without saying anything, she had moved to the opposite side of the bed from Charlie, and taken Nick’s other hand, looking over at Charlie with wild, disbelieving eyes.

I know, he had said. I know.

Olly is still off travelling the world, although he calls with dizzying frequency. Charlie had begged him not to come back, saying that Nick wouldn’t want him to waste the opportunity. Whilst that is true, Charlie has an ulterior motive: having Olly run home in a panic would feel like a defeat, would feel like deference to the worst case scenario.

Jane and Julio are focused on Vivi, of course. They have risen to the challenge, much to Charlie’s surprise. They do what Charlie asks them in regards to his daughter, and his mother refrains from making her usual pointed suggestions. He wonders, vaguely, if they are trying to make up for lost time.

They look like angels in comparison with Stephane, of course, who calls Sarah for updates when it suits him, but hasn’t seemed to find the motivation to get on a plane and take the hour long flight to see his youngest son.

I don’t need him. I have all of you.

I know, he doesn’t deserve you. But still.

Charlie is grateful for their village, and knows he is indescribably lucky to be surrounded by people who love him and his family so much. He doesn’t know what he would do without them; even with their support, he’s barely keeping his head above water.

Within it all, though, the thread of rot: none of them are Nick. He doesn’t know how to go through something like this without Nick. Sometimes, in his worst moments, he thinks how much better off Vivi would be if their positions were reversed, and it was Charlie lying in the hospital bed. Nick had always been the stronger one, anyway.

Darling. You know better than that by now.  

Just – don’t.

Five years before.

“I think I need to text Sahar,” Charlie calls from the kitchen table, where he’s staring blankly at his tax return. “This is confusing me.”

Sahar was now a part-time accountant, working freelance to support her other life as a part-time musician. They had reached out to her when trying to figure out their baby finances, and she had worked her magic and managed to make some of their mounting IVF costs tax-deductible.

Nick walks through from the living room, where he had been obsessively baby-proofing the tangle of wires and plugs behind the TV for most of the afternoon. He’s in a tank top and the old jeans he had worn when they’d first painted the house. Charlie takes in the definition of his shoulders, and the soft roll of his stomach where it presses out slightly over the waistband of the jeans. He raises his eyebrows at his husband.

“What?” Nick asks, looking down at himself. “Am I dirty?”

“Yes,” Charlie laughs, “my dirty, dirty Bob the builder.”

Nick catches on and winks at him. “You know you’re going to have to stop sexualising cartoon TV characters once we have a baby in the house?”

“Do they even make Bob the builder anymore?” Charlie muses. “Or are we, like, really old?”

Nick comes and rests a hand on the back of Charlie’s chair, taking in what looks like a random jumble of numbers and letters on the screen.

“All the kids at school talk about these days is Peppa Pig and Bluey,” Nick admits, leaning down. “Now, what’s this?”

“I’m just trying to get my head around it all – like, what our budget will be when you go part-time, and for the first few months, when we’re both on parental leave.”

Nick pulls round a chair and sits next to him. “Is it manageable, do you think?” He asks.

“Definitely,” Charlie gestures to a line on the spreadsheet in front of him, “as long as I go back after three months, and then you go back just before they’re one. Also – definitely no holidays this year.”

“Shame,” Nick says, running a hand up Charlie’s leg, “I was looking forward to seeing you in those little shorts again.”

Charlie playfully bats his hand away. “We don’t have to go all the way to Majorca for that. Now, hush, I’m trying to have a horrible, awkward money chat with you.”

Nick grins but sits up and leans forward slightly. “Hit me,” he says.

Charlie takes him through the budget, and how much they’ll have coming in each months. They’ll definitely need to tighten their belts slightly, especially towards the end of Nick’s parental leave. They’ve got quite good at this over the years: the admin of a life lived together, the communication needed when moving through the world as one.

“How do you feel about it?” Nick asks at one point, nudging Charlie with his elbow. “Being the breadwinner?”

The truth is that Charlie feels oddly happy about it. It’s been the one trait of toxic masculinity that he’s allowed himself to indulge in: the pride in providing for his family, of being able to take care of them. They had combined their finances when they got married, much to his mother’s chagrin. He really does see it all as their money, though – his and Nick’s, and now, his and Nick’s and their child’s. Every other part of their lives was willingly and completely merged, and he didn’t really see why this one thing should be any different.

Charlie found it all a little easier to rationalise, though. Nick had had wobbles about it in the past. When Charlie’s parents had offered them help with the deposit on their flat, they had been exceedingly grateful, but Nick had worried about not being able to contribute as much as he felt he should.

Most of the savings from his short-lived semi-pro rugby career had been used when he was retraining as a teacher. Sarah was a single parent, and Charlie hadn’t ever wanted him to have to ask Stephane for a penny if he didn’t want to. He knew Nick, and knew he would see it as a debt owed, as a reason to let his father and his opinions into his life, unchecked.  They had talked it through at the time, and ultimately decided to lean into the ‘for richer, for poorer’ part of their vows.

“I feel good about it,” Charlie says. “I think… I think I’m at an exciting time in my career and I’m looking forward to seeing where it goes, but equally I’m so happy that we’re able to make it so that they don’t have to go straight into nursery full time. I’m grateful that we can make up our own rules in this. Like, imagine being in a traditional heterosexual relationship and having all that expectation about what roles you would each fulfil. I dunno – what do you think? How do you feel about going part-time?”

Nick has been nodding throughout Charlie’s little speech. “I agree,” he says, running a hand up Charlie’s arm, “it’s like… we get to decide what our family is going to look like, and teach our kids-“

Charlie raises his eyebrows teasingly at the plural, but let’s Nick continue his thought.

“- that there’s no one right way to live your life. Also, teaching full-time is fucking burning me out, as you know. I’m excited to be home with the baby, and Daisy, and to see more of you.”

Teaching had been taking it out of Nick: it was a lot of early starts, and late finishes, and personal time and cost to try and make things engaging for the kids whilst sticking to the strict and ever changing priorities of Kent County Council. Plus, Nick’s school was in a underserved area of Kent, and he felt a lot of responsibility for the children with trickier home lives. Charlie knew it weighed on him heavily whenever he had to make a social work referral or join a difficult case meeting.

Charlie rests a head on Nick’s shoulder, and Nick responds in kind by looping his arm around his waist. Daisy snuffles under Charlie’s hand where it’s resting on his lap, jealous at being left out.

“I’m glad you’re so excited,” Charlie admits, scratching Daisy’s head, “I would hate for you to feel pressured to reduce your hours just because I’m so keen to stay on.”

“Hey, we talked about this,” Nick cajoles, giving Charlie a squeeze, “I promise I’d tell you if I had any doubts.”

“I know you would, I trust you,” Charlie says, because he does. “And… you don’t think I’m an awful person for knowing I’ll want to go back?”

“God, no,” Nick says, shaking his head, “you love your job. Plus, I love you, but you would not deal well with unemployment.”  

Charlie smiles to himself, remembering the months after uni where he had been casting around for his first grad job, and his escalating frustration at having nothing to channel his energy into. Nick had come home one day to find him alphabetising the spices in his boredom. While they could laugh at it now, it had veered dangerously close to the unhealthy behaviours of his adolescence, and given them both a bit of a fright. Charlie liked his job, liked having a purpose and a structure to his day. He knows now that needing that structure isn’t something to be ashamed of.

They are both silent for a moment, side by side and looking at the screen, minds elsewhere.

“Are you nervous?” Charlie asks. “It’s all getting so real.”

“A little,” Nick admits, “it’s going to be the biggest adjustment of our lives, and there’s so much to think about. Are you?”

“I’m really excited,” Charlie says, almost whispering. “I know I’ve been, like, burying myself in the practicalities for the last few weeks but I’m just really, really excited to meet them.”

Nick lays his head on Charlie’s shoulder. “I know you are. You’re a planner, nothing wrong with that. To be honest, thank god for that because if it had all been left to me all we’d have for them is that novelty rugby ball I bought.”

“And the Iron Man onesie.”

Nick laughs. “And the Iron Man onesie.” He pauses. “I’m excited too. And I’m so glad we get to do this together. There’s no one I’d rather lose sleep with.”

“Same,” Charlie says, “you’re going to be a great Dad, Nick.”

“If you say so,” Nick says, fiddling with the tie of his hoody.

“I know so.”

As always, Nick proves him right.

Seven weeks after

It’s a Saturday lunchtime, and Charlie is ruminating. It takes up a lot of his time now: swinging from devastation to anger to bargaining to blissful, numbing detachment, with the occasional bright spot of love and joy with Vivi. It’s exhausting; Charlie is exhausted. There is something about the day, though – a bright, cold Saturday morning – that is tipping him into abject despair.

When he’d woken to the first of the winter sun streaming through the window, he had turned over, confused about why Nick hadn’t already woken him to make the most of the beautiful day by bringing him a coffee and laying a gentle hand on his ankle. It had taken him a full thirty seconds to remember. The cold wash of recollection knocked the wind out of him.

So, Charlie was ruminating. He knew that life wasn’t actually split up into the deserving and undeserving, but sometimes - when he would pause and watch Nick cut up food for their daughter at the table, or when they used to lie in bed at night holding their breath to see if a gurgle would turn into a cry, teasing each other about who’s turn it was to get up – it had all felt like a kind of reward for the turmoil of Charlie’s teen years.

It was unbelievable, sometimes: their little family. Their daughter, who was the best of them both, and who looked at Charlie like he hung the moon. Nick, who still loved him as fiercely as when he was seventeen, and who was still the same kind, beautiful soul that had turned Charlie’s world around all those years ago. They were a team, the three of them. There would be times where all Charlie could do was bow his head in under the weight of gratitude, or screw up his eyes and scream thank you thank you thank you at whoever might be listening.

Now, he is sitting with Genevieve at the kitchen table, valiantly trying to make his way through a plate of pasta, as she talks him through the events of the Paw Patrol episodes he had stuck her in front of this morning. He is trying his best to respond and animate his face for his daughter; they had never, ever wanted to make her feel ignored, or like her thoughts and feelings weren’t important.

If love was enough, Nick would be laughing with them in the kitchen now, leaning forward and asking questions in that easy, generous way of his. He would be swinging Genevieve round the room and making those eyes at Charlie: the eyes that Charlie knew meant I love you and can you believe this is our life and I’m not going anywhere, ever.

If love was enough, Genevieve would walk through life with her feet a foot off the ground, cushioned from any of the hurt and the grit life might throw her way. She would have her Daddy by her side right now. She wouldn’t be left with just… him.

It’s too much. The thought of Genevieve losing that forever: the life she could have had if Nick were here, the life she would miss if she never knew him. The thought that the child he and Nick had wished for, and raised and loved might never know him, or would only recall him through faint flashes of memory, pictures and stories: Charlie’s desperate attempts to keep a ghost alive.

And, under that, the ever present thought that Charlie would miss all the things that he and Nick were meant to have, the growing old and the fights and the comfort and the love.

You promised me forever.

I know, I’m sorry.

How can he raise his daughter with half his heart missing? Without the love that was more than love: the love that was belonging, and family, and safety. They had grown from boys to men together, had formed and been formed by each other. The were bound together in ways Charlie couldn’t even begin to unpick; he never thought he’d have to try.

You’ve got this. You’re doing your best.

She deserves better.

Charlie pushes his plate away. He feels sick to his core; the food is ash in his mouth. For the first time in her life, Genevieve sees him skip a meal.

*

That evening, Charlie is resolved to do better, be better. He owes it to his daughter, to Nick.

You owe it to yourself, love.

Yeah, whatever.

He had, admittedly, scared himself a bit. Realistically, he knows it will take more than one skipped meal to undo more than ten years of good work. Still, he also knows from experience how easy it is to slip of a ledge, and there is a tiny niggling reminder in his mind that he’s never had to face a relapse without Nick by his side.

He has called in reinforcements, pushing down the bone-deep pull to indulge in his oldest coping mechanisms. Tori is now in his kitchen, dutifully cooking a dinner lifted directly from Charlie’s meal plan. Tomorrow, he has an emergency session booked in with his therapist, Anna. The logical part of his brain is telling him that these things happen, and that it was perhaps inevitable with the way that life has spun so far from his control recently. Tori had echoed the sentiment, telling him he had coped unimaginably well so far. Charlie can’t quite bring himself to believe her.

Genevieve is playing with her Lego on the living room floor. He sees her frown in consternation, then pick up one of the ends of the rocket she’s trying to build and bring it over to where he is slumped on the sofa.

“Papa, how does this fit? Can you make it together?” She asks, holding out the pieces.

Charlie looks at his daughter, and Nick’s eyes stare back.

Ironically, she had always looked more like Charlie. Or, Charlie supposes, the egg donor they had picked from the booklet because she had been half-Spanish, with dark curly hair, and a PhD in historical literature. Still, the eyes are unmistakably Nick’s – brown and deep and emotive. A gift, really. Charlie had been delighted as the colour had developed and deepened as she grew.

One of them had to do it, and Charlie had always been a little afraid that whatever thread of darkness that had wound its way from his grandmother, to Jane, to him would continue on to any biological children of his. Nick had frowned when he admitted that, and said a lot of lovely things about Charlie’s resilience, and humour and joy for life, and had said that any child would be lucky to inherit half his DNA. Ultimately, though, they agreed it didn’t really matter which of them was genetically tied to their child, or if either of them were.

He takes the Lego pieces from where Vivi has proffered them out, grateful that despite it all his daughter still sees him as someone who can put things together rather than let them fall apart.

Eight weeks after.

Suddenly, it’s Christmas: probably the first one that Genevieve will remember. They stay at his parents’ house – the thought of waking up without Nick, in their bed, on Christmas morning, is too much for Charlie to bear. So, he stays in his childhood bedroom: now a guest room with a exercise bike and a stack of his Dad’s textbooks shoved in the corner. His Music sign lies unilluminated in the corner, neon bulbs long burnt out. Vivi sleeps with him in the single bed, the slow tide of her breathing soothing Charlie’s racing mind.

She’s so still in sleep, so precious. For the first time in a while he lets himself sit in the moment with her, and feel the overwhelming relief that she’s here, unharmed and healthy. He can’t imagine what this current limbo-state of half-grief and rage and fear would be like if he didn’t have his daughter safe and whole in his arms.

Charlie would give her a good Christmas if it killed him.

Vivi wakes around six am. She doesn’t immediately drag him downstairs though. Instead, she cuddles into his side and asks for a story about Nick: in recent weeks, Charlie has been telling her about how they met, about all the adventures they have had, a little terrified that she had started to associate him with only sadness and worry in her malleable five-year-old brain.

She wasn’t allowed in the ICU, and Charlie didn’t think it would help much anyway: it was a sterile, scary environment, even for the adults. Vivi knows her Dad is in hospital, and that he’s not well. She knows he’s not able to see her, or talk to her on the phone, but that he loves her and the doctors and nurses are working very hard to help him get better.

Charlie tells her the exploding pen story again: it’s one of her favourites. It’s one of Charlie’s too.

After, they pad down to the living room to see the tree and open a few presents before everyone wakes up. She’s been spoilt this year, by Charlie and by his friends, as well as by her grandparents and her uncle and aunt.

Charlie plucks out a few gifts from Isaac, and Tao and Elle to keep her occupied before everyone else begins to wake up. He snaps a few pictures as she tears the wrapping off of a set beautifully bound children’s classics from Isaac, squealing in delight at the illustrations inside. Selecting a few, as well as some of her playing in the snow yesterday with Daisy, he adds them all to his ‘For Nick’ album.

Looking up, he sees Vivi stacking the books reverentially to the side to keep them safe from Daisy’s slobbering exploration, running her hands over the cloth covers. She’s murmuring something to herself, in the way that children do when they are focused on a task. It’s still dark outside, and the lights on the tree bathe the room with a warm yellow glow.  He watches her as she goes, appreciating the moment for what it is and trying to ignore the jagged hole in his chest.

She’s so beautiful. Can you believe she’s ours?

I know. She reminds me so much of you.

I miss you.

Happy Christmas, darling.

Ten weeks after

When Charlie arrives to the ICU on a dreary early-January morning, his Mum is there. He pauses at the door for a second, surprised. She came sometimes, of course, in the beginning, to hold Charlie’s hand or to bring Vivi to see him in the hospital canteen. At the months had worn on, though, she had focused on helping with Vivi and randomly dropping round with shopping. Charlie knew this was how she responded to adversity: practically, and task-focused. Jane was not an emotional woman by any means.

She had definitely never come to see Nick alone, as far as Charlie knew. Even when Nick was well, they had never spent much time one on one; Charlie, honestly, had never been sure that she liked Nick that much. She had softened when Vivi was born, certainly, but she still overstepped and pressured and prodded more than either Nick or Charlie were comfortable with. Nick, despite his people-pleasing tendencies, had always been quite firm with her when it came to their daughter.

Charlie lingers by the door for a second. Jane hasn’t noticed him. Her hand is resting lightly over Nick’s, and she is murmuring something to him.

“Mum?” Charlie says softly.

Jane’s head jerks up, and her hand comes up to her chest.

“Charlie! You gave me a fright.”

“Sorry. I… is everything OK? Is Vivi alright?” It occurs to Charlie that she could be here to find him, to tell him that something else unpredictably awful has happened.

“Yes, of course.” Jane replies, frowning a little.

“Ok. Then…” Charlie swallows, anxiety assuaged slightly but still confused, “well, why are you here?”

Jane’s face softens at that.

“I come by sometimes, when you have Vivi. Or when Sarah wants company.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Charlie tries not to seem too surprised, “I didn’t know that.”

Jane shrugs. “You never asked.”

Charlie’s face falls at that. She’s right – he’s maintained a singular, burning focus on Nick and Vivi for the past few awful months. His Mum could have grown an extra arm and he wouldn’t have noticed.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

Jane looks up again at that, and sees his expression.

“No! Charlie, I- I didn’t say that to make you feel bad. You have so much on your plate right now I- Sorry- I-“ Jane makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. It’s achingly familiar to Charlie. He makes that noise too, when he can’t find the words to describe how he’s feeling, when he can’t quite communicate the intention or the feeling behind his words. “I always seem to say the wrong thing.”

They are quiet for a moment, looking at each other.

Jane sighs, and pats the seat next to her. “Come sit.”

Charlie does as he’s told. He sits, and takes Nick’s hand, almost a reflex now, stroking a thumb over his knuckles.

“Hi, baby,” he says, as he always does. Jane sits with him, a hand resting lightly on his back, and he tells Nick about his day, and about what Vivi was doing, and saying, and the questions she had been asking him.

“She’s so curious about the world, Nick, and I need you to come back to me so we can show her it together.” Charlie continues, after telling Nick about the ensuing drama when Vivi had found a snail in the garden and decided to keep it as a pet, “she’s growing up so fast and it’s like I can’t wait to see who she’ll become, but I also want to stop time and keep her like this forever. I keep reminding myself to take pictures and videos. I really, really hate that you’re missing it.”

I hate that I’m missing it too.

I know, I know.

Charlie hears a sniff beside him and jumps, almost forgetting Jane was there. Glancing over, he sees his mum brushing some wetness from the side of her eye.

“Mum? You alright?”

She gives him a watery smile.

“I’m OK, Charlie, just thinking about Vivi, and about you and your brother and sister.”

Charlie nods, and gives him Mum a moment to compose herself; she’s always hated people seeing her cry. The strangeness of the moment hits him: he and his mother, sitting side by side in relative, if tearful, peace, both of them there for Nick.

“Mum, can I ask why-“ Charlie starts, pausing and choosing his wording carefully. “Well, why do you visit Nick? Obviously, I’m glad you do. I’m glad he has people here with him when I can’t be, but I know you don’t- you aren’t necessarily his biggest fan?”

“Do I need a reason to visit my son-in-law?”

“Mum.”

Jane sighs, and casts her eyes to the ceiling like she’s thinking hard, like she’s choosing her words carefully too. Charlie hates that they are so cautious, so hesitant around each other, but it is better than how it used to be: better than shouting and accusation and never actually hearing each other. After a moment, Jane answers.

“Well, at first, it was because Sarah asked me to. I think she struggled coming by herself, and she would get so upset. She didn’t want to burden you, darling, especially when you have Vivi to look after. So, I came with her sometimes. But then… well. You know Nick and I don’t see eye to eye with everything. And I suppose that mainly stems from how I’ve treated you in the past. So, I get it. And I’ve never held it against him, Charlie, despite how it might have seemed. I’ve honestly never forgotten what he did for our family, when he helped you come to us when you were ill. I know you would have got there yourself eventually- you’re so strong. But, he helped us to help you when you needed it most. And, he was there, every week, when we would drive to visit you. I kept expecting him to stop coming, or to distance himself – you were both so young, and it was all so scary – but he didn’t, and I realised at some point on those drives that he loved you more than I had ever imagined, and that he was your family too. And if he’s your family, then he’s mine, Charlie, even if he thinks I’m an overbearing harpy.”

There is a knot in Charlie’s throat. They had spoken about his time in hospital before, of course, and done the family therapy and mostly had the difficult conversations that needed to be had in his late adolescence. Nick had never really come into it, though, the tension between Charlie and his mother taking up a majority of their time and effort. The fact she is even saying any of this now feels like a bit of a miracle.

He reaches for his Mum’s hand: his emotionally stunted, overly practical, difficult mother, who he loves, despite it all.

“He doesn’t think that Mum, I promise. He sees you as family too, he’s just… protective. Of me, of Vivi,” he says, squeezing her had. Jane squeezes back.

“I know, darling, and I love him for that. I’ve not always been the best to you, and I know Nick’s seen it all. I like to think I’m doing better now, but I know I still have my moments.”

Charlie does something then that he hasn’t done for a very long time, not since he was twelve, and rests his head on his Mum’s shoulder.

“You are doing better, Mum, and I do notice it. You’re so good with Vivi; she loves her grandma. And Nick loves you too, really. Thank you, for sitting with him, and for being here.”

“Anytime, darling, anything I can do to make this easier for you. I wish I could lift this burden for you. I wish I could make it all better.”

Charlie nods, not trusting himself to speak. He recognises the sentiment: if he could flay himself out and absorb all the pain of this for Vivi, he would do it in a heartbeat.

Charlie cries then, for Vivi, for the person Jane was and is trying to be, for lost time, for Nick, for himself, right now and when he was fifteen. How many times can the world end in one lifetime? Jane lets him, and maintains her solid presence next to him. For once, she doesn’t try to fix it, or tell Charlie how to feel. In a lot of ways, it feels like a breakthrough.

And all it took was a coma.

You’re not funny.

Through it all, Nick sleeps.

Five years before.

Nick wakes Charlie at 3.17am. Charlie usually loves being woken up by Nick: the natural early riser in the relationship, Nick will usually pad down to the kitchen to make a coffee, before bringing it back up and softly calling Charlie’s name and putting the radio on at low volume to lift him out of sleep.

This time, Charlie wakes to Nick throwing himself across the bed – nearly upending Charlie onto the floor in the process – to grab Charlie’s phone from the nightstand.

“Nick!” Charlie exclaims, the abrupt awakening enough to send his heart racing.

Nick looks down at the phone and back at Charlie.

“Michael's calling you.” Nick explains.

Charlie looks at Nick, too dumbstruck to say anything for a moment.

“Michael's calling!” Nick states again, eyes wide.

Charlie snaps back to reality. “Shit, well, answer it!”

Nick looks suddenly pale. “You answer,” he says, tossing the phone to Charlie like a hot potato.

Charlie let’s out a surprised laugh as he catches it. “I think the call might be for both of us, babe.”

He presses accept and grabs Nick’s hand as he brings the phone to his ear.

“Hi, Michael.”

“Charlie! Red alert. Tango, Papa, whatever… Get it – Papa? Anyway, it’s happening, you need to come now,” Micheal’s voice booms down the line, far to cheery for the hour.

Oh for god sake, he hears in the background, followed by what sounds like a tussle over the phone.

“Hello,” comes one of the voices Charlie loves most in the world.

“Tori! Are you ok? Are you at the hospital? Are you in pain? Should we get in the car?” Charlie rushes out. Nick is staring at him wide eyed, waving their joined hands back and forth in his eagerness for an update.

“Rumours of my labour have been greatly exaggerated. Contractions are seven minutes apart. I’ve come in for some gas and air because this child is beating me up from the inside, but the midwifes say I’m still a long way off. Really, you guys should get some more sleep and come later in the morning.”

“But you’re in labour?”

“Yes, technically, I am in labour.”

Charlie claps his hand over his mouth to muffle the whoop, not wanting it to seem like he is celebrating in Tori’s pain. He can see Nick practically shaking with the effort to not grab the phone back and get the update for himself.

“Tori, don’t roll your eyes at me down the phone, because I’ll know if you do, but I love you. You’re amazing. You’re my fucking hero.”

He can hear Tori roll her eyes down the phone.

“I love you too. I will also love my nibling once they’ve stopped fighting their way out of me. Now, pass the phone to Nick because I can hear him vibrating from here”

Charlie does as he’s told, and Nick grabs the phone.

“Tori, love, is it time?” Nick asks.

Tori’s reply is muffled.

“Ok, ok,” Nick responds, “and they’re looking after you, are they? Did you get your own room?” He nods as he listens to Tori’s response. “OK, great... Hey, Tori,” he continues after a moment, “I love you.”

At that, Tori makes a low groaning sound down the phone that even Charlie can hear. They look at each other in alarm. Tori was always a bit less forthcoming with the displays of affection, but she had never actually growled at them before.

Then, Michael's tinny voice comes through and Nick finally engages his brain and puts the call on speaker. “Right lads, she’s having a contraction at the mo. Dealing with it like an absolute champ, of course. Going to go, will text your our room number. Team Nelson-Spring baby is go! Love you!”

“Love you!” Nick and Charlie chorus back, and Michael ends the call.

They look at each other for a second, before shouting with excitement. Charlie springs off the bed, all adrenaline, grabbing the bag that’s been sitting at the bottom their cupboard for the past four weeks, just in case. When he turns around, Nick is hopping across the room, trying to get his joggers up his other leg. They make eye contact, and stop.

“We’re going to be parents,” Nick grins.

Charlie crosses the room and hugs him, squeezing hard. “We are,” he says into Nick’s neck. “I love you.”

“I love you too. I can’t believe I get to do this with you. I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

“Second luckiest,” Charlie says, pulling back and touching Nick’s cheek. They both grin stupidly at each other for a moment before Charlie continues. “Tori told you we don’t need to come right now too, didn’t she?”

“Oh, totally.”

“Are we going anyway?”

“If we don’t leave the house in the next five minutes I might actually combust.”

Tori is right, of course. By the end, they are at the hospital for thirty hours, taking turns to go buy coffee, and snacks, and let Tori bruise their hands.

Then, there she is – Genevieve.

Twelve weeks after.

Personal tragedy is expensive, it turns out. Charlie is, of course, not working: between Nick, being some sort of parent to Vivi, and keeping himself vaguely tied to sanity, there was just no time. His two weeks of paid compassionate leave had been and gone. Charlie hadn’t even registered it, really: in the flurry of that first few weeks, Isaac had handled his job, calling and updating them and relaying to Charlie that they would hold his job for him, but he needed to take unpaid leave once his two weeks was up.

They were, hilariously, still getting Nick’s salary, since he was technically on sick leave. After five years of teaching, he qualified for six months full pay and six months half pay. Still, it was a part-time salary, and barely touched the sides of their mortgage and bills.

They had a little saved up, but buying the house and having Genevieve in rapid succession had been a financial hit, and so the best part of three months without Charlie’s salary were taking their toll. There’s a call he has to make. His own words to Nick echo back to him.

It’s just in case.

What if the worst happens?

This could definitely qualify as ‘the worst.’ He takes a deep breath and dials.

*

It’s a strange experience, spilling his personal tragedy down the phone to a complete stranger. She’s pleasant enough, the insurance agent, expressing her sympathies in all the right places. It can’t be a nice job, hearing about the worst moments of people’s lives all day. Still, she needs so much detail.

“I do just need to advise you of something, Mr Spring,” the agent says, as Charlie finally senses they are reaching the end.

“Nelson-Spring.”

“My apologies, Mr Nelson-Spring. I do need to advise you that if you make a critical illness claim now, then that does negate any future claims against the policy.”

“Sorry, what do you mean by that?”

“If you were to make a major illness claim now, you would be unable to claim any death-in-service benefits later down the line.”

Charlie feels sick. A flash of rage springs up from his gut, but he chokes it down. This woman is only doing her job, and her job right now is to warn him that he may want to wait and see if Nick dies or not before choosing to cash in.

He doesn’t know what to do; the only person he wants to talk it through with is Nick. For all their posturing about being two independent, self-reliant people, neither of them have ever had to make a decision like this alone. That’s just what happened when you found your other half before you were even allowed to vote, or drive for that matter.

That had been the deal: life could be as brutal and unforgiving as it liked, as long as they had each other.

“Sir? Are you there?” The agent’s voice cuts through the blood rushing in his ears.

“I- sorry, sorry. I need to think about it.”

Charlie hangs up the call and throws his phone across the room where it hits the wall and crashes to the ground, irritatingly unharmed. Grateful that Vivi is at school and not here to see him fall apart, he flinches when he sees he’s chipped the green paint on the kitchen wall: the paint he had picked out with Nick when moving in to their gorgeous flat, which they had worked so hard for, to provide for their family, their daughter, who they loved more than anything.

Charlie was letting it all slip away. Fuck. He was meant to be the practical one, the realist. He had made them take out the bloody policy in the first place - for literally this exact situation. He can feel himself spiralling-

No. No.

He’s already done the scary near-relapse part. Not again.

He takes a breath.

No one should have to make decisions like this, it’s normal to feel completely overwhelmed.

You’re right. You’re right.

I always am.

Charlie reminds himself that as much as he, Nick and Vivi are a team, there’s a whole lot more people around them too. Their families, their friends; the people that have been propping Charlie up for the last three months. Beyond that, he knows in his heart of hearts that Nick would have – does – trust him to do what’s right and what’s needed. Nick had always trusted him, always had faith in him. It’s that thought that strengthens his resolve.  

Sighing, he picks up the phone.

Five years before.

“I hate thinking about this!” Nick exclaims.

“I know, I know, me too.” Charlie runs a hand over Nick’s arm as he peers over his shoulder at the screen. “But, it’ll help me sleep at night knowing that if something happened to me, you and the baby would be looked after. Or vice versa.”

The baby. Impossible to imagine, but so nearly here. Tori was seven months pregnant, with the ankles to prove it. Nick was planning to step down to part-time teaching after their shared parental leave was up, whilst Charlie was staying on full time at his job.

It had been the logical choice – Charlie earned more, and was able to work from home, with the occasional jaunt into the London offices to show face and press the flesh. It had been someone at work, actually, who reminded Charlie to make sure he had his life insurance in order. It all felt so painfully grown up.

It wasn’t new feeling to them, though: to have something worth protecting.

“We are quite literally putting a price on our lives.” Nick states, jabbing a finger at the screen, where it was asking them to list their assets. Daisy raises her head at the movement out of interest, before promptly falling back asleep.

“I know a few assets we can’t declare,” Charlie jokes, giving Nick’s bicep a squeeze.

Nick stays tense under his touch. Ok, not joking about this then.

“Do you want to put a name to what you’re feeling right now?” Charlie asks.

Nick narrows his eyes at him. “I’m being therapised, aren’t I?”

“Maybe,” Charlie admits, rubbing his shoulders. “Is it working?”

Nick sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. Charlie’s heart squeezes at that little tell, unchanged for the past sixteen years of their relationship.

“I’m feeling… anxious, and maybe a little, I don’t know, defensive?”

“Ok,” Charlie says, giving him space to verbalise.

“I just… I know we need to do this, I do. We’re bringing a life into the world, and these are the terrible things you have to think about when you’re responsible for another person. It just feels like- we want this baby, so badly, it feels awful, wrong even, to think of either of us… leaving. Of not being in their life. It feels even worse knowing it might not necessarily be within our control.”

Charlie puts his arms around Nick from behind. His husband relaxes into his touch as he presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Is this a Stephane thing?” Charlie asks.

“Probably,” Nick admits, squeezing Charlie’s arm where it’s looped around his chest. “Also, the thought of either of us not being here to watch them grow up, of you not being here…”

Charlie squeezes him harder, and sways from side to side slightly. “Well, as you know, I do really well with feeling like things aren’t under my control.” Nick cracks a smile at that, and Charlie is heartened. “It’s horrible, I know. But this is just to prepare for literally the worst case scenario. This baby is going to grow up with both of us being obnoxiously present and is going to have to watch us annoy each other until we’re one-hundred. I promise.”

“Ah, so is that when you’re finally going to have had enough of me – when you’re one-hundred?” Nick muses.

“Hmm, exactly, what would I do with a hundred-and-one-year old? It’ll be time for the younger model.”

Nick chuckles at that, and gently pushes Charlie’s arms off of him so he can spin round in the swivel chair. He looks up at Charlie, running his hands up the outside of his arms.

“Thank you. I love you,” Nick says. “And I’ll get all these forms done. Just promise me you’ll never kill me for the insurance money.”

“I love you, too.” Charlie says, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his lips, “and, please, Mr Part-timer, I’m the one who needs to watch my back.”

Fifteen weeks after

It is late February when Nick wakes up. The swelling in his brain is down, and the doctors tell Charlie and Sarah it is safe to try. No promises. The MRI had been reassuring, but everyone told them these things were unpredictable.

They had managed to remove his breathing tube the previous day. Charlie hadn’t been allowed at the bedside for that; it was too unpredictable a process. Violent too, Charlie thought, but no one would ever admit that to him. Nick had been now unconscious but breathing on his own for a full 24 hours, so it was time to face the music. This time, Charlie had been allowed in. Sarah was with Vivi, waiting for an update by phone.

The nurse fiddles with a pump at the bedside after an affirmative nod from the doctor. Although everyone had warned him that often people were groggy for days after having their sedation lifted, and reminded him that they still couldn’t be sure of the long term impacts of the injury, Charlie feels the perilous ache of hope in his chest.

There are a few minutes of nothing, just the reassuring sound of Nick’s breathing, and the pervasive beeping of the many machines he was attached to. Charlie keeps a steady hold of Nick’s hand, trying his best to keep out of the way of the staff whilst also trying to press close to his husband.

Eventually, Nick’s eyelid flickers slightly. Charlie reflexively tightens his grip at the hint of movement, and Nick scrunches his eyes and makes a low groaning sound before his eyes finally, miraculously, open and peer forward at the light. Liquid brown. Nick’s eyes. Genevieve’s.

Nick groans again and moves his head from side to side, eyes rolling around the room.

Charlie leans forward.

“Nick, sweetheart?” His voice is barely more than a whisper. I love you I love you I love you.

Come back to me.

Nick’s eyes flick to him and Charlie sees the recognition flash. Something else too. Fear?

“Wh-“ Nick tries, voice cracking and dying in his throat. “Ghh-“ He tries again before trying to sit up.

A nurse holds him in place.

“Don’t strain yourself, Nick, you’re in the hospital, OK? Don’t be frightened. We’ve been helping you breathe with a tube, so your throat will be feeling really dry and sore at the moment. Try and take a sip of this water for me.”

She holds the cup up to Nick’s cracked lips, but to Charlie’s shock Nick reaches up and knocks it away, hinging forward towards Charlie again and throwing his arms out to the side in the process. The monitors measuring his vitals are alarming, and one of the doctors has to step in and grab Nick by the arm, easing him backwards.

“Nick,” the doctor says, his tone low and even. It reminds Charlie of the way you might talk to a frightened animal. “You’re in the hospital. We’re all here to help you. Try and stay nice and calm for me, mate.”

It’s no good. Nick is panicking, straining against the staff and trying to speak. The panicked dinging of the monitors is going straight through Charlie’s chest. He is jostled back as more staff step up to the bed, watching it all unfold with a hand over his mouth.

The doctor nods at someone on the other side of the bed. They pick up a syringe of clear liquid and injects it into Nick’s line. The effect is almost instantaneous – Nick stops thrashing and lolls backwards again, a nurse stepping forward to hold oxygen over his face as he surrenders to unconsciousness.

One of the healthcare assistants is next to Charlie, rubbing his back and offering up a tissue. It’s then that he realises there are silent tears running down his face. One of the nurses – Jen, he thinks – comes over and takes his hand.

“Right, Charlie, I know that was difficult to see. Sometimes, if we’re too quick with lifting the sedation, people can be a bit confused and aggressive when they come around. It’s quite a normal response. We’ve given him a bit of extra lorazepam to calm him down and we’re going to give it another wee go in a minute, OK?”

Charlie nods.

“And- and if that doesn’t work?” He asks.

“Well, then we might have to think about reintubating him,” Jen must see Charlie’s panic, because she presses on, “but, we’re going to do our best to avoid that.”

Someone leads Charlie to the now familiar relatives room and brings him a cup of tea. He accepts it silently, mind racing. He’s read the papers about reintubation, and the dwindling likelihood of successful extubating, the increased chances of infection, the increased trauma.

He knows every case is unique, but it would feel like such a colossal step back. He’s so sure, though, that Nick wasn’t confused when he came round; he had seen the flash of recognition in his eyes. Nick had been trying to talk, to say something, but couldn’t get his point across.

Charlie knew Nick better than anyone. What would be the one thing he would want to know, the one thing that would drive him to act like that? Even if he had no idea where he was or what had happened, what would be the first thing he would try and ask?

Come on, you know what it would be. The same thing you would need to know.

Of course.

Eventually, the same healthcare assistant comes to get him. Charlie makes his way back to Nick’s bedside.

“Right folks, let’s try this again,” the doctor says as a nurse adjusts the settings on one of the pumps. “A bit slower this time.”

Nick’s ascent into consciousness takes longer this time round. When his eyes eventually flutter, Charlie is ready. He squeezes Nick’s hand and leans forward so that when his eyes open, Charlie is already there.

“Hi baby,” Charlie starts gently, “you’re in the hospital, ok? There was an accident, but Genevieve is completely safe and well. She’s with your Mum right now. She is absolutely fine.” Nick slowly blinks awake, looking at him blankly. Charlie just keeps repeating some iteration of Genevieve’s safe and everyone’s fine and she can’t wait to see her Daddy until Nick gradually starts returning the pressure in his hand and Charlie sees that same recognition flutter in his eyes.

Nick tries to speak a few times with no success, and accepts a sip of water from a nurse before trying again.

“Vivi?” He manages, whisper quiet.

Charlie squeezes his hand and nods frantically.

“She’s safe Nick. Not a scratch on her. She’s perfect.”

Nick nods slowly and squeezes his hand back, eyes screwing shut. When he opens them again, they are full of tears.

“Char-“ Nick manages this time. “Sor- Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, my love, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m so, so happy to see you awake. I love you,” Charlie reaches out and brushes a tear away from Nick’s face. Even though Nick is upset, seeing his features animated into any sort of expression after months of smooth indifference is a delight. “I love you,” he says again, for good measure.

He’s not really sure if Nick’s hears any of it. Eye’s fluttering shut again, the pressure of Nick’s hand on Charlie’s slackens. Charlie looks up at the doctors, unsure.

“This is normal,” the doctor nods, “it can take people a few days to fully come round sometimes.” He pats Charlie briefly on the shoulder. “It’s really encouraging that he recognised you, OK? When he’s a bit more awake we can do some formal assessments of his cognition.”

Charlie looks at Nick’s face. He’s sleeping, but not like before. There’s a furrow between his brow and a tension to his features. The sight of it is a tonic to Charlie’s frayed nerves. Any sort of change from the placid, still look of the past three months feels like a win.

Sixteen years before

Charlie wakes up to a crash from the bathroom. He jolts up, glancing at the alarm clock on the bedside table: 3:02AM. The other side of the bed is obnoxiously empty. He waits another second and there is a another clatter, followed by a softly whispered litany of expletives.

Charlie sighs and swings his legs out to the side of the bed, sleepily pushing himself up. The first few times this had happened, he had leapt from the bed in a panic. Now, he does his best to temper his frustration as his feet meet the cold wood of the bedroom floor. Walking towards the bathroom, Nick’s voice becomes clearer.

“Buggering wankering shit piece of shit knee- Charlie,” Nick starts, noticing him lurking in the doorway and watching Nick where he’s sprawled on the bathroom floor, swearing softly at his knee. “Sorry, sorry, did I wake you up?”

Satisfied that his boyfriend is in one piece, Charlie leans his shoulder on the doorframe. You love this man more than life itself, he reminds himself, taking a deep breath. “You did,” he answers, “but you are actually meant to, you know. Now, shall we get you up?”

Nick sighs, and adjusts himself so he’s sitting up with his back against the bath, one leg bent up towards his chest and the other stretched out in front of him, a bulky brace strapped over the knee. He winces as the movement jostles his leg.

“Sorry,” Nick says again, and Charlie feels the last tendrils of annoyance recede at the cowed look on Nick’s face. “I needed a wee, and my crutches were across the room, and you looked so peaceful sleeping. I really thought I could manage it. I did manage it, but then, well, you can see what happened.”

“It’s OK,” Charlie says, “I know it’s frustrating, but I’m here – I want to help.”

“I know,” Nick says, “but you shouldn’t have to.” He shifts again and grimaces.

“Are you sore? Let me go get some of the painkillers-“

“No, no! It’s fine. They make me so… dopey. I’ll just go back to bed.”

Nick tries to push himself up to standing, but the movement jostles his leg too much and he slumps back, defeated. Charlie crouches by his side and runs a hand through his hair.

“You know you deserve to be helped when you need it, don’t you love?” Charlie asks.

Nick doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Nick,” Charlie says, heart breaking a little, “come on. What would you say to me if I… I dunno, broke my wrist drumming and needed extra help for a few weeks.”

Nick looks up then, eyebrows raised. “How exactly are you going to break a wrist drumming?”

“Not the point,” Charlie says, giving him a look.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Nick says, staring back at Charlie stubbornly. When Charlie just keeps meeting his gaze, Nick sighs. “Fine. I’d obviously say that it was fine, and that I love you and I want to help you, especially when you actually need it.”

“There you go,” Charlie teases, patting Nick on the head. “Got it in one.”

“I just… I feel a bit useless. And like- all I’ve been doing is bitching and moaning about this and this is meant to be your summer holidays, we’re meant to be having fun and I’m ruining it.”

Nick blowing his knee up at rugby had put somewhat of a dampener on their summer plans. Namely, driving round Kent’s beaches and finding new ways of skirting England’s public indecency laws. Instead, things had had to take a slower pace: Charlie had spent his summer after first year of uni propped up in Nick’s garden reading, driving him to physio, or just lying in his bed talking and letting the breeze from the window break the humidity.

It was, honestly, Charlie’s ideal summer.

Nick, on the other hand, was a terrible patient. Stubbornly independent, he resisted most of Charlie and Sarah’s attempt at making his life easier, much to their mutual frustration. Charlie knew there was something more to it that simple vexation at his injury and cancelled summer plans, but Nick had evaded most of his attempts to bring it up.

“You’re not useless, and you’re not ruining anything. I’ll admit, grumpy Nick is not my favourite,” Nick grimaces at that, and Charlie sits himself on the bathroom floor so he can put an arm around his boyfriend, “but, I love every version of you. I know this is shit for you and I want to help you make it better, if you’ll let me? We both know by now that it helps to talk, hmm?”

Nick is quiet for a moment, but shuffles in closer to Charlie and turns his torso towards him, so his head is resting in the crook of Charlie’s neck. Charlie runs his fingers lightly up and down Nick’s shoulder, waiting for his thoughts to coalesce.

“I…” Nick starts, “I don’t really know why I’m struggling with this so much. I think… I think I’ve always been able to trust my body. Like, it’s never really let me down before? My brain though, I dunno, like you know I can get anxious about things, and let’s face it, I’m basically scraping my way through uni…” Charlie would usually jump in here and argue that intelligence came in many different forms, but he’s holding himself still, not wanting to break Nick’s train of thought. Nick takes a deep breath, and continues, “but, yeah, physically I’ve always been able to deliver – like, at rugby, or well… to stand up for the people I love.” Nick’s hand twitches, the ghost of punches thrown so many years before. “Also… well, I know you like that I’m, like, strong and stuff. And now I’m not even that. So if I don’t have the physical stuff, what am I even good at? What do I even have to offer?”

Charlie has to interject at that point, the despondence in Nick’s tone gripping him to his core.

“Nick,” he says again, squeezing him before pulling back so they are facing each other. “How long have you been feeling like this, darling?” He asks, sensing this is not a problem that started with a ruptured ACL.

“A while,” Nick admits, wringing his hands, “but, like, I don’t think I really thought about it until all this happened. Then it was like I couldn’t think of anything else.”

Charlie holds one of Nick’s hands with two of his own to stop the nervous movement. “Nick. I need you to know that you have so much to offer, and none of it has anything to do with rugby, or how strong you are. You are one of the kindest, most generous people I know. You make me feel so safe, so listened to. I want to do the same for you.”

“You do do that for me, I promise. I just find it… hard. To talk about.”

“I get it,” Charlie says, because he does. He still remembers a time where talking about what he was actually feeling felt like stripping skin from bone, “it gets easier with practice, promise.”

Nick gives him a small smile at that. “If you say so.”

Charlie knows they need to explore this further, his head whirring with solutions and safety nets and a distant admonishments that he never realised just how bad Nick was feeling. Still, he knew as well as anyone that you didn’t solve anything at 3am on the bathroom floor. No matter what happens, you get up off the floor.

“We are going to talk about this properly, love, after we both get a good sleep, OK? Let’s go back to bed.”

Nick nods. “Please, my arse is falling asleep.”

Charlie laughs. “Now that would be a tragedy. C’mon.”

He stands and holds a hand out. Nick takes it, and together they manage to ease him off the floor. Nick throws his arm over Charlie’s shoulder, and hobbles back through to the bed. Charlie helps him lie down and then organises the pillows so his bad leg is propped up, with a pillow by Nick’s side to stop him from rolling over in his sleep.

“Thank you,” Nick whispers when Charlie is done, “for looking after me. And for being the most stunningly gorgeous nurse ever.”

Charlie looks down at Nick. His eyes are half closed, and the moonlight from the bedroom window is illuminating the planes of his face, his skin milky and blemish free. He looks perfect, like a Michelangelo, or Sleeping Beauty. A face people go to war for, Charlie thinks, unbidden.

He sometimes wonders if Nick really is as fantastically beautiful as Charlie thinks he is, or if this deep, intense love blurs his vision. He wonders the same about Nick whenever he looks up at him with that awed expression. Either way, he hopes the goggles never come off.

“That’s the deal,” Charlie says, “I look after you, you look after me. Occasionally, we have sex.”

Nick smirks at that. “Occasionally, is it?”

“Every two to three business days,” Charlie says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Mmm, talk corporate to me.”

Charlie flicks him on the ear, then climbs into bed, splaying a hand on Nicks stomach. Nick holds an arm out, and Charlie lays a head on his chest being careful not to jostle his leg.

“I love you,” Charlie says.

“I love you too,” Nick replies.

“You’re going to be OK, I promise,” Charlie tries to put all the gentle care and reassurance Nick has given him over the years behind those words.

“I believe you,” Nick says, “you’re easy to believe in.”

Sixteen weeks after

The last week had been hard. Charlie would never admit it, but in a lot of ways it was harder than that first week after the accident. Nick had spent the first few days flitting in and out of consciousness, panicking on waking and being reminded that he was in hospital and reassured about Vivi. Charlie had spent days hovering by his bedside, feeling somehow more useless than before.

The doctors had Nick on a punishing physiotherapy regime, assuring them both that hitting it hard and immediately was the only way to give him a chance of getting back to something close to normal function. There was a constant stream of nurses, physios and occupational therapists, and a constant barrage of tests and invisible yardsticks against which Nick was getting measured.

It all meant that Nick and Charlie hadn’t been truly alone, or at least not when Nick was lucid, since he had woken up. Charlie had also, admittedly, been skirting round things a little, terrified that if they actually had time to talk he would spill the anguish of the last few months and leave Nick comforting him when he should be focused on healing. He doesn’t know how to act now, other than to throw himself at aiding in Nick’s physical recovery.

This morning, a physiotherapist has been in drilling Nick through exercises meant to improve the grip in his left hand, his whole left side remining slightly weaker than the other after the surgery. Charlie is sitting on the armchair in the corner of the room, pretending to read and sneaking glances. She calls it a day when Nick manages to pick up a pencil and hold his grip without too much of a tremor, leaving with a warning to Nick to keep up the exercises in between sessions to maintain his progress.

When the door swings shut behind her, Charlie looks up to find Nick staring at him. Brown eyes meet blue. A lifetime of words exchanged in a glance.

Charlie sets his book down and crosses the room to the side of the hospital bed, slides his body into the space next to Nick’s, and holds him. It’s a little awkward with the remaining tubes and wires in the way, but they manage.

“Hi,” Charlie whispers.

Nick blinks. “Hi,” then, after a moment, “have you been avoiding me?”

“No, no,” Charlie says, drawing back to look Nick in the eyes. Those eyes, which are currently staring at him in disbelief. “OK, maybe a little.”

They both laugh at that, the weird tension in the room dissipating. They laugh a little hysterically, in fact, until Nick grimaces, clutching his side.

Charlie jerks back. “Shit, Nick, are you-“

“Fine, I’m OK, I’m OK, it’s just the bloody broken ribs,” Nick looks up, seeing Charlie now perched anxiously on the side of the bed. “Come back here right now and cuddle me.”

Charlie smiles at his petulant tone, settling back into Nick’s other side. “Always so clingy,” he remarks.

“If the nurses catch us like this they’ll chuck you out for corrupting my innocence.”

Charlie hums. “We were quite the hot topic amongst the staff whilst you were asleep, actually. I think we might be famous.”

“Really?”

“Hmm, it must be our roguish good looks.” They are quiet for a moment, the tension building up again. Charlie decides to be honest – they always were before. “I’m sorry. I’ve not been intentionally avoiding you, I promise. It’s just… hard. It’s been so, so hard.” Understatement of the century, but they could talk about it more when Nick wasn’t flat out in a hospital bed. “And there’s been so much else to focus on. I was scared if we talked properly about it all I’d just.. break down. I missed you.”

Charlie is quite pleased with himself for not crying.

Nick holds him closer. “I missed you too, God, I know it sounds impossible, but I did.”

“Do you… Do you remember anything?” Charlie asks. Nick tenses a little, and Charlie runs a soothing hand up his arm. “You don’t have to talk about it now.”

“No I- I want to. We always have, haven’t we?” Charlie nods into Nick’s chest. Nick sighs before continuing. “I remember… pain, and panic. I think I was out of it for most of the time they were trying to get me out the car, to be honest. But god, I remember the pain. Then… floating. And voices. Your voice, sometimes, which would always calm me down. I would dream, and sometimes it was nice, but sometimes I felt… restrained. Trapped. Like I was drowning, but for hours and hours and hours.”

Nick’s breathing is coming more raggedly. Charlie draws back and sees that Nick is crying now, eyebrows knitted together in silent tension. He puts his hands either side of Nick’s face.

“Oh darling, my love, take a few deep breaths for me, OK?”

Nick does what he’s told, and together they calm his breathing.

“Sorry, sorry,” Nick says, voice hitching.

“No S-word, especially not now. You’ve been through… an unimaginable trauma.” Charlie had read about this too, the unique trauma that ICU patients can come away with. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t ask you earlier. I’m sorry if you felt you couldn’t talk to me,” Nick shakes his head, makes a little noise of protest, but Charlie presses on, “there’s people, therapists, who specialise in this kind of thing. Maybe we can see if the team can recommend someone?”

Nick nods. “The occupational therapist mentioned it to me too. I think it’s a good idea. I think maybe… well, we should all probably speak to someone. Together – as a family. It’s been a trauma for all of us, I think?” There’s a nervous set to Nick’s jaw.

“You’re right,” Charlie says, a tight knot in his chest when he realises it’s probably his avoidance which has contributed to Nick’s worry about bringing this up, “you’re right. We will. Please don’t ever be afraid to ask that of me. We’re going to work through this, together.”

Charlie strokes a thumb across Nick’s cheek, and pushes a hand through his hair. He knows from experience that touch often brings Nick more comfort than words ever could. Nick leans into it. God, Charlie thinks, thank God he gets to have this again.

“I’m so proud of you, Nick,” Charlie says, after a few minutes of gentle touch and shared space, “I see how hard you’ve been working with them all – the physios, and the nurses, and everyone. I know this is all… a lot. You must be exhausted.”

“You and Vivi are very good motivators,” Nick says, visibly more relaxed after Charlie’s ministrations.

“How are you finding it, really?”

“Shit, to be honest. I feel like I’m making really slow progress. I feel so… useless.”

“You’re doing really well, Nick. It’s going to be-“

“Slow and steady, yeah, yeah, I know. I know not to expect any miracles, I just feel-“ Nick stops, mouth shaping around the next word but no sound coming out. Charlie looks up at him, and sees something tight play out across his face. He knew from their conversations with the doctors that word finding difficulties were one of the many ongoing effects of the accident, and the surgery.

“Frustrated?”

Nick lets out a breath.

“Yeah that’s the one. Thanks.”

“It’s OK.”

They are quiet for a moment.

“It feels like a miracle.” Charlie whispers, his guard down now that Nick seems calmer, now that they feel like them again.

“What?”

“It feels like a miracle,” Charlie says again, “to even have you awake, to hear your voice.” Charlie’s voice wavers slightly in the middle of the sentence.

Nick’s grip around him tightens. “Char,” he says. That word alone is enough to break down Charlie’s barricades. He turns his face into Nick’s chest and lets the horror of the last few months wash out of him. Nick holds him close and lets him, running a hand up and down his back, murmuring his name over and over.

“I was terrified, Nick. So, so scared. And Vivi, every time I looked at her- I just, if I lost you…” He cuts himself off, feeling a little wild.

“I know, I know.”

“I didn’t- I thought-”

“Never. I’d never leave you and Vivi, ever, I promise. I’d crawl out the fucking grave before that happened,” Charlie knows it’s impossible to promise these things, but Nick is easy to believe in.

“I know you would. God, god, I’m so happy to have you back.”

“I love you. I’m so sorry you had to go through this alone. I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know, I’m sorry anyway. You’ve been… So strong. You kept the lights on. If things had been reversed, I don’t know if I would’ve even been able to get myself off the floor.”

“You would have,” Charlie says through his tears, “because there’s nothing else you can do.”

“You’re amazing,” Nick says, “you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever known.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Charlie shakes his head, but doesn’t protest again. Nick holds him closer, and if Charlie shuts his eyes and ignores the rhythmic beeping of the monitors, he can almost imagine they are in their bed, or on their sofa, holding each other at the end of one of the thousands of normal, insignificant days they had shared. Charlie liked to think he had appreciated all of them at the time, but he can admit that even in the face of his expansive love for Nick, and the unique joy of Vivi, he was guilty of letting himself be lulled into routine on occasion.

There’s nothing routine about it though: loving and being loved like this, being known like this. Maybe that was the crux of his hesitancy in the past few days; Nick was the person who truly knew him, and in the same way, Charlie knew Nick. They belonged to each other; they balanced each other out. Although Charlie’s therapist would probably challenge that thinking, Charlie can’t help but really believe it.

Something as huge what had happened to Nick disrupts the balance, throws everything up in the air and where it lands cannot be controlled.

“What do we do now?” Charlie asks, when they have been lying there for a while.

Where did you go? Have you come back to me? Are you still mine? Am I still yours?

“No fucking clue,” Nick says, “but we’ll do it together.”

I’m yours. I’m yours.  

*

The next day, Charlie brings Vivi to the hospital. Charlie had been cautious about it, worried about Vivi seeing Nick in a panic, or him being too drowsy to engage with her. Still, Nick couldn’t wait any longer, and Darcy had admonished them both, telling them that kids absorbed a lot more than they let on. Vivi knew something was up, and had been acting out all week, simultaneously clingy and frustrated with Charlie in equal measure.

She looks tiny in the hospital atrium, sticking close to Charlie’s side as her wide eyes take in the high roof and flurry of people around them. When they reach the doors of the ward, Charlie crouches by Vivi and looks her in the eye.

“Now, my love, remember, Daddy hasn’t been well and he gets tired, OK? So don’t be worried if he seems a bit sleepy, or takes a little longer to answer you. He’s missed you so much, and he’s so excited to see you. We need to be gentle and soft with him. He won’t be able to lift you up and swing you about at the moment.”

Vivi nods. “I’ll be gentle,” she promises.

“I know you will, darling girl.” She was Nick’s child, after all.

Nick is sat out in the chair by his bed, head bowed as he reads his book. Determined to exercise his mind alongside the physio, he’s been insistent on struggling his way through a chapter every day, although he admitted to Charlie that he often has to read a paragraph two or three times before properly taking it in.

Charlie’s heart squeezes when he sees he has brushed his hair over so it mostly hides the now fading scar on his forehead.

“Nick,” he calls softly from the door, “I’ve brought someone to visit.”

Nick’s head whips up, a grin splitting his face.

“Hi Genevieve, hi baby,” Nick says from the chair, “I missed you.”

Vivi keeps her tight hold on Charlie’s hand, pitching her body slightly behind Charlie’s legs. She looks up at Charlie and across to Nick again, saying nothing.

Charlie’s heart sinks a little, and he knows Nick is schooling his expression.

Then, “Daddy?”

Charlie’s never heard her so quiet.

Nick leans forward in his seat slightly. “Yes, love?”

“Am I allowed to hug you?”

Nick nods, and Charlie sees his eyes water. “Of course, darling, only if you want to though, remember.”

With that, Genevieve darts across the room and throws herself at Nick, slowing slightly at the last minute and landing in his lap with perhaps 75% of the force she would usually use, clearly in deference to Charlie’s warning.

Charlie winces, images of burst stitches running through his mind. Nick takes it all in his stride though, as he holds their daughter close, rocking her from side to side.

“I missed you, Daddy. It was so, so long.”

“I know baby, I’m sorry, I’m not going anywhere, OK?”

“Papa says getting better isn’t for sorries.”

“You’re right darling. You’re right. OK, how’s this: I’m so happy you’re here. I love you so much.”

Vivi nods and pats Nick’s face. “OK. Better than sorries.” She glances over at Charlie and frowns. “Why are you sad, Papa?”

Charlie puts a hand up to his face, not even realising he’d been crying.

“I’m not sad, my love, I’m really, really happy.”

Vivi nods, accepting the explanation without protest.

“Daddy?” She says, looking up at Nick.

“Yes, baby?”

“I’m hungry.”

Charlie and Nick both throw their heads back and laugh. They’ll be OK, Charlie thinks, eventually, they’ll be OK.

Sixteen years before

Nick leaves for Leeds on a Saturday. It’s an unusually rainy day for June, and Charlie thinks bitterly that the weather is appropriate. The car is packed, and they are on the stoop of Nick’s house, saying goodbye.

He knows he’s being dramatic: it’s only uni, not war, and Nick will only be a train journey away. Still, they belong together. It’s just a fact. It’s for the best though: Nick deserves to go where he wants for uni, deserves to have that experience. Charlie also knows by know that they will be fine, that they are for life. It’s this quiet confidence that’s letting him get through this without falling apart.

Nick is, frankly, not handling it well.

“Why the fuck did I do this, I should’ve picked Kent,” Nick says for the hundredth time, rubbing at his eyes aggressively.

Charlie shakes his head. “No. You want to go to Leeds. You’re going to love it, I promise.”

“I’ll come home all the time,” Nick says, tearful.

“You’re going to have to start referring to Leeds as home.” Charlie teases, desperate to wipe the stricken look from Nick’s face.

Nick shakes his head. “Never. Not when you’re not there.”

“Nick,” Charlie says, tone soft. “I love you, like, a hilarious amount. So much that it’s almost silly. That’s never going to change, no matter where you are. I’ll be up in two weeks to visit. Until then, we’ll call all the time, yeah? We’ve handled much worse than this.”

Nick throws his arms around him and Charlie can feel hot tears on his neck.

“How are you handling this so well?” Nick whispers.

“I’m really not,” Charlie whispers back, “but, God, Nick, I know now – whatever happens, where ever either of us go, we’re always going to be alright. You’re always going to come home to me and I’m always going to come home to you, OK? In the scale of the rest of our lives, this is just a story we’ll tell one day.”

Nick pulls back, and pushes Charlie’s hair from out of his face. “You’re right. You’re always right. It’s just so fucking hard to say goodbye when I love you so much. I can’t believe I get to have this. I can’t believe I get to have you.”

“Believe it, baby,” Charlie replies wetly.

That, finally, wins him a smile from Nick.

They kiss, then, like the world is ending. Maybe it is, a little, just for the afternoon. But then, Nick will arrive in Leeds and unpack his room and hug his Mum goodbye. Then, Charlie will get an increasingly drunken chain of texts about how much Nick loves him, about his flatmates, about how much fun he’s having. Then, Charlie will see Tao and Isaac tomorrow and tell them yes, he’s sad, yes, he misses Nick like a lost limb, but all this means is that they are growing up into the people they are meant to be, and what could be better than that?

Right now, though, it’s the two of them kissing until even the ever patient Sarah has to lean on the horn to break them apart.

Twenty-eight weeks after

Nick is in hospital for six months, almost to the day. It is monotonous, and joyous and awful all in equal measure. He makes good strides in his physical recovery, outperforming the expectations of the doctors. On his good days, Charlie teases him about going from the rugby king to the rehab king, and Nick laughs brightly and sneaks kisses when the nurses are out of the room. On his bad days, Nick is despondent, and irritable, and Charlie flaps around trying to fix the unfixable.

The therapy has helped: Nick has less nightmares, and is more open and accepting of help, from wherever it comes from. Charlie is less inclined to fuss, and is coming to terms with the fact that Nick, ultimately, is the master of his own recovery, and that this is an area Charlie needs to relinquish control of.

On the day Nick is discharged, Charlie goes to pick him up alone. Vivi is at Sarah’s, who will drop her off that evening. They had both agreed that a few hours at home to ease Nick back into it was what was best.

Charlie sets the bags by the front door and goes back to help Nick up the few steps up from the driveway. Nick smiles great fully, still a little unsteady at times. They stop at the top. Nick looks at him.

“Well?” Nick asks.

Charlie frowns. “Well, what?”

“Are you not going to carry me over the threshold?” Nick says, a glimmer in his eye.

Charlie rolls his eyes, unable to suppress his smile. “Shut up.”

Nick chuckles, and slots his key in the door. They both look at it for a moment: they are the same keys he’s always had, recovered from his pockets on the day of the accident and kept with his personal affects. It’s a bog standard set of house keys, with a keychain containing a picture of Nick, Charlie and Vivi from her first birthday, and the clicker for Nick’s now destroyed car also attached. Nick shakes his head from side to side once, turns the key and opens the door.

“Well, home sweet home,” Charlie says with a flourish as they cross the threshold.

There are a few balloons tied to the banister, and a welcome home banner courtesy of Darcy, who had arrived yesterday to set them up, baby Finn in a sling on their front. Their friends were coming tomorrow for a welcome home lunch at Nick’s insistence – Charlie is a little suspicious that Nick is doing it to prove to them all he’s OK, that he’s better and they should stop worrying, but Nick loves their friends and their friends love Nick, and they could all do with some light-hearted fun.

He can hear Daisy whine and scratch the door in the kitchen at the sound of someone coming home. Nick clasps his hands together and visibly perks up.

Charlie smiles. “Do you want to see your dog then?”

“Our dog,” Nick reminds him.

“Hmm, someone should tell her that,” Charlie remarks. Daisy had always had a clear and stubborn preference for Nick. “Go and sit on the sofa, love, I’m a bit worried she’ll jump on you.”

Charlie can see Nick gear up to argue, but then he relents, clearly thinking better of it. Nick walks through the living room and Charlie goes to open the kitchen door. Daisy’s snout pushes through immediately, cold and wet on Charlie’s hand.

“Hi girl,” Charlie says, giving her a scratch, “guess who’s back?”

He can see the moment she catches the scent, freezing before sticking her nose to the ground and taking off down the hall. Charlie follows her into the living room just in time to see her launch herself at Nick, tail moving in a blur.

“Daisy girl,” Nick says, delighted and slightly muffled from under the pile of dog, “did you miss me? Good girl, what a good girl.”

“I told you,” Charlie laughs from the doorway, “I don’t think I’ve seen her move that fast in years.”

Nick’s face pops up. “She’s fat,” He remarks. Daisy paws at his chest. “Sorry, girl - stocky.”

“Yeah,” Charlie grimaces, “she’s definitely not been walked as much as she should the past few months.”

“That’s OK,” Nick says, seeing his expression, “joint physio, eh, Daisy?”

Daisy wags her tail in reply.

Once Daisy is calm, Charlie carries Nick’s bags up the stairs. Nick follows him slowly, stopping every few steps to run a hand over the photos lining the wall. Charlie has only added one new one since Nick has been in hospital: Vivi and his parents in the garden at Christmas, playing in the snow. Nick’s seen it before – they had a few nights in the hospital going through Charlie’s ‘for Nick’ folder.

“I’m glad that you and your parents are getting on better now,” Nick smiles as his hand ghosts over the photo, “like, in a way that works for you.”

“Me too,” Charlie says, meaning it. “Although it’s a shame it took a literal car crash to make it happen.”

Nick smiles at him. Charlie is sort of, almost, getting to the stage where he can joke about it. Nick is a little more comfortable with it all, but Charlie’s never sure if it makes him want to laugh or cry.

They get up the stairs and walk into the bedroom. Nick sits gingerly on the side of the bed and runs a hand over the duvet cover. It’s light blue linen, soft to the touch.

“This is new,” Nick whispers, “I’ve not seen this before.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says from where he is watching from the door way, “I… I didn’t sleep too well whilst you were in hospital. Did a lot of online shopping.”

Nick nods, and screws his eyes up, silent tears suddenly running down his face.

Charlie crosses the room immediately and lowers himself onto the bed next to him, putting a soothing hand on his back.

“Nick, love, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Nick says, shaking his head, “I’m so, so happy to be home with you. I don’t know why I’m crying about bedding. It’s just… god. I’ve missed so much.”

Charlie puts an arm around him, and pulls him in, rocking them both slightly from side to side.

“That’s OK, love, it was always going to be emotional. It’s normal to have mixed feelings about it.”

Nick shakes his head. “I mean it. I am so happy to be home with you. I know this has been the worst six months of our lives, and I’m excited to just get on with living now. I’m so thankful to you for sticking by my side, for knowing there was a way out of this when I couldn’t see it for myself.”

Charlie kisses Nick then, once, softly. “You never have to thank me for that, darling.” A life lived with Nick is reward enough.

“I’m going to anyway.”

Charlie smiles. “I know. Now come on,” he says, standing up and holding a hand out, “let’s go make the tea.”

The day of.

It’s a chaotic morning, and Charlie is irritated. He got home late last night, after a delayed train and a painfully slow bus journey from the station. Normally, Nick picks him up from the station when he returns from his occasional days in the London office, but Charlie had been worried about crossing over into Vivi’s bedtime and disturbing the very careful balance they had managed to achieve with it in the last few weeks. So, he had texted Nick not to bother. A bus ride and a rainy ten minute walk later, he had got through the door too late to see Vivi, who was already asleep. He had been exhausted, eating a quick dinner with Nick before collapsing into bed.

Now, its 8:45 and he’s only just woken up, the sound of pots banging and his daughter babbling in the kitchen. Shit, he’s working from home today but he had wanted to get an early start so that he could wrap up by four and spend a proper evening with Nick and Vivi once they were home. Nick, the early riser of the two of them, usually wakes him up, and Charlie feels a stab of irritation that he’s left him sleeping and thrown his day out of whack.

He grabs his dressing gown and stomps down the stairs. Nick is washing the dishes from breakfast, having dispatched Vivi to the living room to pack her schoolbag.

“Morning, sleepy,” Nick calls when Charlie walks in, stoking his irritation further.

“Morning,” Charlie says, shortly.

Nick turns around and raises his eyebrows. “You alright?”

Charlie sighs. “Not really. I was really hoping to get an early start today and you didn’t wake me up.”

“I’m sorry. I had Vivi to sort out. Also, you’re cute when you sleep,” Nick replies, winking.

Charlie tries to take a deep breath against the irritation. He loves Nick’s open, easy going demeanour, but his tendency to fall back on jokes and deflection when Charlie is trying to have a serious conversation is something they’ve talked about. 

“Can you take this seriously please?”

Nick frowns. “Well, I’m not the one getting pissy because I didn’t bother to set my own alarm.”

“Excuse me for wanting to be woken up by my husband when I don’t get to see him all day.”

Nick sets the drying cloth down and turns to face him properly now, hands on his hips.

“Charlie. I just thought you could do with the rest, yeah? You were exhausted last night, you barely even spoke to me all evening.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “We had dinner together.”

“Yeah, I know, but you were out of it. It’s OK, you’ve obviously allowed to have your off days. I know work has been a bit of a nightmare and you’re tired. I guess I just missed you, and wanted a proper conversation.”

“Me too, that’s all I want. Work has been intense. I wanted to be up early to get a head start so that the three of us could do something nice tonight.”

They look at each other across the kitchen and it occurs to Charlie that the crux of the issue is that they both want to spend time together, and now they are wasting a perfectly good morning arguing. Just as he’s about to say as much, Vivi walks in with her schoolbag.

“Daddy? The big hand is at the ten. I’m gonna be late and it’s storytime this morning.”

Nick sags, and turns and smiles at their daughter. “OK, darling, let’s go and get your shoes on then you can say bye bye to Papa.” He flicks his gaze over to Charlie and gives him a small smile that Charlie knows means We’re fine and don’t you dare spend the whole day spiralling about this.  

Charlie walks into the hall, where Nick is convincing Vivi into her raincoat.

“What are you doing at school today, Vivs?” Charlie asks, distracting her as Nick does the buttons of the jacket and fixes a hat on her head.

“I’ll have snack, then lunch, then another snack,” Vivi explains, tugging at the hat in irritation.

Nick smiles. “That’s my girl.”

Charlie crouches down to help her with her shoes.

“No,” she says, pushing Charlie’s hands away, “I do it.”

“OK, darling, but not too long – you and Daddy need to get going.”

Vivi bends over, examining the Velcro of her school shoes closely. Charlie straightens up and turns to face Nick.

“I love you,” he says, “I’m sorry for snapping. London commute days turn me into an absolute cretin.”

“I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, and I’m sorry I didn’t wake you up,” Nick says, “like, why are we arguing because we both actively want to spend more time together?”

How does he always know exactly what Charlie is thinking?

“Because we’re idiots.”

“Well, yes. I love you too, idiot.”

Charlie grins, and throws himself at Nick, letting himself be lifted up into a hug.

“And you,” Charlie says, stepping back to scoop Vivi up and pepper her face with kisses as she squeals in delight, “do you know how much I love you?”

“A million percent?” Vivi asks.

“Even more,” Charlie says, setting her down and giving Nick another quick kiss as he sees them both out the front door. Vivi’s shoes are only half done, and he knows Nick will have a job trying to convince her to let him help with them before she gets out of the car. He watches as Nick pulls the car out, the two of them waving at Charlie as they go.

Tonight, Charlie thinks, tonight he’ll cuddle his daughter, and drink wine with his husband, and everything will be right with the world.

Eight years after

It’s a Thursday evening, and their thirteen-year-old daughter is explaining to them why she has been sent home from school with a detention for calling a teacher a dickhead.

“Anyway, I told him he needed to use more inclusive language, because it was clearly making Saskia uncomfortable. I mean, what is this, 2003? Then, he told me to watch my tone and then, well, it spiralled from there. He’s such a complete transphobe,” Vivi rants.

“Who was this?” Nick asks, frowning and leaning forward.

“Mr Matthews. My math’s teacher.”

Nick looks over at Charlie. “I don’t remember him – did we meet him at parents evening?”

“I don’t think so?” Charlie says, “still, I’m going to call the school tomorrow and give them a piece of my mind.”

“You do know him. He’s the one that looks like that short guy from The Hangover, with the terrible beard,” Vivi interjects.

“How on earth have you seen The Hangover?” Charlie asks, looking up in surprise.

“When Dad was sick and I used to go to Darce and auntie Titi’s all the time we watched all three of them.”

Nick and Charlie are silent for a moment, eyebrows raised at each other in silent communication.

“Me and Darcy will be having words about that,” Nick remarks, spearing another forkful of pasta. “Anyway, we’re both very proud of you for standing up for what’s right.”

Vivi rolls her eyes in that delightful thirteen-year-old way of hers.

“Obviously,” she says. “Anyway, Dad, you’re one to talk. Did you not take Finn on a haunted house ride at that fair last summer?” She asks, referring Tara and Darcy’s now eight-year-old son.

“I think your Dad was more traumatised than Finny, to be honest,” Charlie laughs, leaning forward to share a knowing look with his daughter. Vivi snorts, and Charlie folds the sound away in his heart.

“It was an accident! I thought we were queuing for the teacups,” Nick defends himself. “I’ve never seen a seven-year-old try to fight a ghost before,” he mutters.

“I’m surprised that you remember that, darling,” Charlie says after a moment, looking at Vivi, “watching that film, I mean. You were so young.”

Vivi shrugs. “It was a weird time, I guess. It just stuck in my mind.”

The comment settles, and Charlie sees Nick’s eyes flick to their daughter.

They’d done all the family therapy, and art therapy, and all the talking and the processing in those years after the accident. Vivi had been so young, though, and Charlie had never really been sure how much she had taken in, or even really remembered, past what she had been told.

He knew it had affected how she had been brought up: Charlie and Nick were both much more proactive at making family memories, at taking time to be grateful for what they had, at not sweating the small stuff. Equally, it had made them more anxious too, more clingly, so much more acutely aware of how easy it was to lose everything.

Sometimes, Charlie still feels the panic descend when Nick runs late, or when Vivi wants to go out and play with a friend. It turns out it’s a lot harder to quell baseless anxiety when you’ve been proven right once before.

Sometimes, Nick still wakes up in a cold sweat, memories of being weighed down and helpless overtaking him in his sleep. His left arm is still weaker than the right, and stiffens up quickly if he doesn’t do his exercises for a few days. In the right light, you can see the scar dancing down from below his hairline.

Try as they might, all of that inevitably echoed into their approach to parenting.

It had definitely deprived her of a sibling. It was a few years, really, before Nick came out the other end of the physical effects of the accident. Charlie had been emotionally wrung out, with barely enough stamina left to help carry Nick through. They had agreed that they needed to focus on the gifts they did have, rather than stretch themselves out emotionally and financially by making the decision to add to their family. The lump sum from the life insurance had been eaten up in that first few years before Nick was confident enough to go back to work.

Charlie is content with that decision: Vivi is such a confident, kind and open girl, who approaches life with humour and verve. She still, in general, likes being around her Dads, although the first stabs of teenage independence were making themselves known.

Sometimes, it all feels like a painful memory, or a ghost story best kept at arm’s length: if he examines it too long, the deep pain of those first few week rises to the surface, the echoes of it still enough to put the hair on Charlie’s arms on end.

Vivi had mentioned it so casually, though, and Charlie wants to protect that, never wanting her to feel like certain topics were off limits.  He is also suddenly, shatteringly curious.

“What do you remember about it all?” Charlie asks.

Vivi looks up from where she had already turned her attention back to eating her dinner with gusto. “I dunno,” she says, putting her fork down and staring into the middle distance, thinking carefully. She’s so like Nick in that way, Charlie thinks. There are never any casual answers. “I remember being in A&E, I think, and seeing you, Papa, and being relieved. I remember going to Titi’s, and then Grandma’s. Not too much else really… I remember you being sad,” she explains, pointing at Charlie, “and Dad being gone. Mostly I remember our family. Granny, Grandma and Grandpa, Tori and Olly, Titti and Darce, I remember Tao and Elle taking me to the cinema a lot, and Isaac taking me to that bookshop in town that used to have that little play area… I just remember everyone being there, I suppose. And even though I was scared, and missed Dad, I felt – safe.”

She takes another big forkful of pasta, chewing and swallowing before continuing. “I don’t really think about it too much, to be honest. Like, no offence,” she says, glancing at Nick, “I know it was obviously not a good time but, you’re better now,” she shrugs as if it was really that simple.

From the mouths of babes, Charlie thinks.

*

Later that night, once Vivi is dispatched to bed, most likely still texting her friends under the covers, Charlie is still thinking about it. He knows Nick is too, uncharacteristically quiet as he stands by the wardrobe, folding and putting away the clean washing.

Surprisingly, it’s Nick who breaks the quiet first.

“Do you think about it much?” He asks, voice soft. Charlie knows what he’s talking about immediately.

“All the time.” Charlie admits, “Not in, like, a sad unspoken trauma way. It was just such a significant time in our lives, and I circle back to it a lot.”

“Me too,” Nick admits, “mostly when I’m being sappy and grateful for what we have. Or occasionally when my fucking leg gives out in the cold weather.”

“Obviously Vivi’s been thinking about it too,” Charlie notes.

Nick sighs, and nods. “Have we been stupid not to talk about it more?”

“I dunno. She seemed – OK? Didn’t she? She wasn’t scared to bring it up.”

“Yeah, I suppose so… How did we raise such an emotionally intelligent child?”

“No idea. It’s probably mostly luck.”

Nick smiles over at him. “Nah – I think it’s mostly to do with you. Superdad.”

“Shut up, you were literally born to be a girl dad.”

“Ugh, you know I hate that phrase.”

“Anyway, when she’s older I’m sure she’ll present us with the laundry list of ways we could have done better.”

“That’s just the natural order of things,” Nick remarks, moving on to the socks and pants now. “I can’t believe she’s thirteen,” he says, after a moment.

“I know – that’s only a year younger than when I met you.”

Nick pauses his folding, staring at Charlie.

“What?” Charlie asks, “It’s true!”

“No, I know,” Nick replies, voice slightly strangled, “I just… I think I suddenly understand why your Mum doesn’t like me.”

Charlie laughs. “She loves you really.”

“If you say so.”

Nick finishes putting away the washing, and disappears off into the bathroom to do his teeth, Charlie shouting a reminder at him to floss as he goes. Charlie gets himself situated under the covers and lets his mind wander.

Charlie really does circle back to it a lot. It’s not really something they talk about much now: they had already said it all over the years. They had genuinely moved on from the trauma and hurt in a lot of ways, both by processing it as a family and individually.

Their experiences of that time were so different, Charlie thinks. So much of what had been in traumatic technicolour for Charlie didn’t even exist in Nick’s conscious memory. He knew most of it now, of course, from what Charlie had told him. The bad – the fear, the spiralling, the frustration – and the good – their daughter, their friends and family closing ranks around them and carrying them through.

In the same way, Nick could talk and share about how it felt to wake up in that ICU, the somatic trauma of his hospitalisation, the lingering impacts of his injury, but Charlie would never be able to feel it for him, although they shared the load as much as they could.

They had done alright, though. They had made it through, together, sharing what they could and keeping space for what they couldn’t. For every painful memory, there were a multitude of good ones; things that would have shattered most couples had bound them closer together.

A memory triggers for Charlie as Nick comes back into the bedroom.

“There’s something I never told you about that time, actually.” Charlie remarks as Nick climbs into bed beside him.

Nick looks over, curious.

“Really? Why?”

“It felt a little bit silly.” Charlie admits. “And there was so much else going on after you woke up. Then I just… forgot. Wanted to focus on the future.”

“Well, what is it?” Nick asks, turning onto his side and propping his head up onto his hand. “I’m curious now.”

Charlie sighs, and thinks of the best way to word it without seeming like he’s completely lost his mind.

“You were kind of… in my head, whilst you were asleep. Like, I would hear your voice when I was sad, or worried, talking to me. It was helpful, sometimes, imagining what you would have said to me if you’d been there. I missed you so much, and it eased that a little,” Charlie reaches out and ghosts his fingers over the scar on Nick’s forehead. “It stopped the day you were awake enough for Vivi to visit.”

Nick moves closer, catching Charlie’s hand and linking their fingers together. He looks deep in thought.  

“It’s the weirdest thing.” Nick says, “I don’t remember much from that time - just snippets. It was the strangest, most restless sleep. I know I dreamt about you, and Vivi. I don’t really remember the dreams, not properly, but I remember feeling – desperate, like I had lost something precious. I knew I had something to get back for, I think.”

Charlie leans into Nick. “So we were keeping each other right, even then,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Nick sighs back, sounding sleepy.

Charlie reaches his other hand over and runs his thumb across Nick’s forehead, and down the side of his face.

“Go to sleep, darling,” he says, “and in the morning you’ll wake up, and we’ll see what else is in store for us.”

Nick nods, leaning into the touch. “I love you,” he says, “thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for?” Charlie asks, feeling his own eyes grow heavy in their little bubble of shared breath.

“For all of it. For being you. Genevieve. Our life.”

“You never need to thank me for that. We’ve done it all together, Nick. I love you”

Nick nods, eyes closing.

They both fall into a dreamless sleep.