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He knows his mum is right downstairs. He knows his boyfriend is just a text away. He knows Tara, or Elle, or Darcy would be willing to chat if he so much as sent a single word. But he can’t, not about this. He can’t push all of this onto his friends, his boyfriend, none of them. Charlie needed all the support he could get, Nick was not about to get in the way of that support system.
Nick knows, vaguely, what anxiety looks like. He’s seen Darcy terrified of concert stages, seen Elle panic about uni and her art portfolio, saw Charlie just last week, head between his knees and hands tearing his hair in Nick’s bedroom, but he’s never really thought that he could feel something like that. But, feeling his chest squeeze around itself, his head pounding in tune with his beating heart, his skin feeling like it’s suffocating him…he hopes Elle and Darcy and Charlie never feel like this.
In the bathroom, he can hear the soft sounds of Happy Valley from the sitting room. His mum found it while scrolling through the catalogue for a new show, now that her work hours allowed her to be home more often. It grounds him, a bit, being able to hear something besides his own shallow breath.
It doesn’t help much, however, because his thoughts quickly turn back to the subject at hand, which is the fact that he definitely probably has anxiety, and he can’t talk to anyone about this, because that would mean telling someone about everything Charlie has told him, and he cannot betray Charlie like that.
How does Charlie deal with all of this? How does he not just shatter immediately every morning when he wakes up?
Well…Nick supposes, he does know how. And that’s part of the problem, really.
Because currently, Nick Nelson is locked in his bathroom with a kitchen knife and his cellphone, and his mum is downstairs, and he is terrified of the fact that he cannot seem to put the knife down.
“Promise, you’ll tell me if it ever gets that bad again?”
He remembers holding Charlie in his arms, a mere week ago, tears in his eyes and a whispered breath against his boyfriend’s lips. He didn’t exactly expect for it to work the other way.
His knee bobs up and down from where he sits on the side of the tub. His phone pings, and the screen lights up. He doesn’t see the notification, only sees the bright 19:33 against his lockscreen. The photo is of him and Charlie in Paris, shoulder to shoulder on the Eiffel tower. Even though Charlie had a bit of a rough time (understatement) in France, it was still a lovely trip that Nick definitely wants to try again.
His trousers have been pulled down, resting on his shoes, and he stares at the clean skin of his thigh. Nick brings the tip of the knife to his leg, resting it there. He knows this isn’t how he should deal with this, all of this feeling he doesn’t know how to shake. He would be a hypocrite for doing it. He really, really should get up, clean himself up, and go sit with his mum instead of up here, alone. He really shouldn’t be alone right now.
He drags the blade over his leg, once, twice, three times, watching the blood pool up and spill over, dripping down to the floor by his shoes.
It hurts. It really, really hurts. He lets out a stifled gasp, and it sounds like he’s choking a bit. How did Charlie do this to himself so much? How did he manage to not hate it after the first time?
But. Slowly, the hurt subsides, and it’s replaced by a dull throbbing. It consumes him, and suddenly, he gets it. All of his anxieties are momentarily forgotten. All he can see is the blood running down his leg and he feels the ache, and he feels a little better.
A splatter of blood hits his shoelace. It stains the white into a pinkish-red, and suddenly he feels as though he needs to vomit.
He gasps, dropping the knife. He jumps, backing away, back hitting the door. He nearly trips over his trousers on the way up.
"No, no, no…what did I do?"
The puddle is larger than he thought it would be. It startles him.
There’s a knock at the door then, soft and hesitant.
“Nick? Are you in there?”
Oh. Oh, no. He’d asked Charlie over. That’s probably what the notification was about. He hadn’t heard the door, so his mum must have invited him in. And since Nick wasn’t in his room…
Damn.
The knocking becomes sharper, Charlie's voice ringing louder. "Nick, are you okay?"
He becomes aware of the way his breathing actually sounds more like he’s crying, sobbing out half-strewn words, mostly composed of “no” and “shit” and “sorry”. He’s actually being quite loud, now that he’s aware of it.
He pulls his trousers up, shaking almost too much to do it all the way. Nick gasps a breath, turning and unlocking the door slowly. He comes to face his boyfriend, and he watches as Charlie's eyes scan his face, concern and worry on his own. He watches as his eyes go lower, looking for any sign to make sure he's okay, and his eyes stop on Nick's thigh.
He'd pulled up his sweats, but hadn't realised it would bleed through.
"Nick," he gasps. "What happened?"
Nick shakes his head, not making eye contact. He shakes with his whole body, trembling in fear and nerve and shock, and reaches out at the same time Charlie grabs for him. He pulls the taller boy into a hug, and Nick's legs give. He slides down the wall beside the door, Charlie following him down. He's being pulled into his boyfriend's lap, and hands are coming to poke and prod around his thigh.
He gasps, flinching away. Charlie jumps back, as though burned, and Nick can't help the guilt he feels for it.
"Nick, baby. What happened?" His voice is no louder than a whisper, and it makes Nick tear up.
"I didn't- I wasn't thinking. I was, I was, I just- I don't know why I did it, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-"
Charlie shushes him, cradling him in his arms.
In hindsight, this should have been more obvious. He should have seen signs, seen any sort of message in the way he woke each morning feeling a little heavier than the day before, or how he found himself never talking about himself anymore, focusing on the people around him. He should have noticed it when he made tea and opened the cutlery drawer for a spoon, and emerged with a spoon and a knife, and didn’t quiver in the slightest as he slid the blade into his pocket.
He should have gone downstairs to his mum.
"Did you… hurt yourself?" Nick can only, barely, nod, tears escaping now. He hears Charlie sniffle above him, but he makes no move to get Nick’s attention. Instead, he squeezes his hand, burrowing closer.
“Oh, love…” He hates the way Charlie’s voice breaks, hates the pity and sympathy and sorrow in his words. He hates how Charlie found him. He hates that he forgot Charlie was coming over tonight. He hates himself for not telling his mum or Tara or Elle sooner. He… he hates himself, a little bit.
He coughs wetly, forehead pressing into Charlie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Charlie’s hand rests on his head, fingers carding through his hair softly, so gently. His boyfriend’s mouth presses a kiss to the crown of his head, and Nick’s eyes well up. He hasn’t cried through this whole ordeal; It feels odd to cry now. He wonders, did Charlie cry when he hurt himself? Did he hold a straight face? Did he get mad at himself when he was done?
“No ‘s’ word. Not for this. You have nothing to apologise for, Nick. Please don’t apologise. I’m sorry for not noticing how much you were struggling.” Charlie’s hand, his free hand, moves under Nick’s chin and lifts it gently. Nick’s tears have been muffled by Charlie’s sweater, but his eyes are red and his nose runs slightly. Charlie rolls his sleeve to his hand and wipes away his snot and tears carefully, eyes watching Nick’s own, which are wandering and not meeting the younger boys’.
“Nick? Can you look at me?”
He shakes his head slowly, chest constricting as his thigh burns suddenly. “That’s okay. That’s okay, Nick. But, please understand that I am not upset with you, okay? I’m not disappointed, or angry, or ashamed of you. I…really care about you, Nick, and I hate that you’re hurting this much, but I promise that I am not upset with you.”
Charlie shifted his leg under Nick, and the older boy sniffled. He scooted over slightly, apology on his lips, but Charlie hushed him. Swallowing harshly, he opened his mouth, licking his drying lips. “Um, I don’t- I don’t know what to do.”
Charlie tilted his head, question in his voice. “What do you mean?”
Nick shrugged, head lowering. “I don’t… I really don’t want to tell my mum. She’ll just worry. This was probably just a one time thing, it was stupid to do it in the first place.” Charlie hummed, hand stilling in Nick’s hair.
“Nick, I would never force you to tell your mum about this. You know I would never force you to do anything. But,” he sighed, “and this might sound a bit hypocritical, I really think you should. Have you ever…hurt yourself before?” Nick shook his head adamantly. “I didn’t think so. That’s more reason to tell her, honey. If we tell someone before it gets bad, you can get real help before something bad happens. I know…I know I would have loved for someone to tell me this when I first started. Nick, we have to make sure this doesn’t happen again. You know that, right?”
On one hand, he was right. This was absolutely sounding hypocritical. Charlie went over a year before he told Nick about it, and who knew how many months of that time he had spent actually hurting himself. He never told Tao, or Isaac, or Elle, or even Tori. He suffered in silence, and now here he was, telling Nick to do the exact opposite.
On the other hand…he was also right. Nick knew this was stupid. He knew he should stop before he was ahead. He’d read enough articles when trying desperately to figure out how to help Charlie with his depression and eating disorder. He knew that once you open a door to something like that, it’s hard to stop on your own. Deep down, Nick knows his mum wouldn’t be mad at him either. He knows his mum would be so proud that he came to her with this. He knows his mum loves him.
He doesn’t realise he’s crying again until he feels Charlie’s sweater wiping against his skin softly. He lets out a wet laugh, capturing his hand in his own, bringing it to his lips and kissing softly. He keeps Charlie’s hand pressed to his mouth, and his eyes fall shut. Charlie’s voice breaks into his thoughts.
“Can you breathe with me? In, and out. In…and out. That’s really good, Nick. In, and out.”
Slowly, he feels himself calm. It’s not an immediate fix, he’s still scared, but he doesn’t feel terrified anymore. He squeezes Charlie’s hand, and Charlie squeezes back.
“I think… I think we should tell mum.”
Charlie pulls him into an embrace, and it makes his eyes well up again. His voice tickles the back of Nick’s neck. “I’m proud of you, Nick. You don’t have to talk to me about this, but I’m so glad you’ll talk to your mum. I’ll always be here if you do want to talk to me about it, okay?”
Nick hugs him back with a ferocity he never knew he could, like a soldier returned from war. He shudders the thought of telling Charlie why he did it, he would hate to hurt him from this. But, realistically, Nick knows that this wasn’t Charlie’s fault. This had been building for a while, he realises, and only a small part of it even came from Charlie at all. He’d been feeling so much in general, and had yet to talk to anyone about any of it. He thinks, maybe, this could have happened even without Charlie’s admission on prom night. That scares him almost more than the idea of telling him mum anything at all.
He knows he’ll probably tell Charlie. He’ll probably tell him and his mum, and his mum will cry and hold him, and he’ll promise to do better, and she and Charlie will just be thankful that he’s still alive.
He’s still alive. He’s still here, and he can get through this. Nick has never been someone who cowers away from a fight, much less his own. He knows, deep down, he’ll be okay.