Archive of Our Own

Nick

My phone still has about sixty percent battery, which is good. Eventually I’m going to have to use it as a torch. The WhatsApp group that Otis added us all to as a way of avoiding talking to Harry and his crew – or, worse, letting the rest of the team know what a wuss I am – is pinging constantly with notifications as I stare at the screen. I appreciate their support, but right now I wish I had the headspace to think. 

I’m not sure what possessed me to agree to this, other than changing-room banter that spiralled out of control. I’ve been feeling disconnected enough from the team recently that I was overcompensating – at least that’s what Tara told me she thinks – and so it was fairly easy, in the end, for Harry to convince me that the Truham Fair’s famous haunted house was the perfect place for a dare.

The winner: whoever stays in here the longest gets to be team captain for the rest of the year.

Stupid? Yeah, I know.

I’m fairly reassured that Coach Singh might have something to say about the whole thing. She might even lose her shit completely and call us all idiots. At least, I hope that she’ll step in. Not least because I have just remembered that I am the biggest wimp known to mankind. And I’m sure that Harry’s insistence that we all gather round his for a horror film marathon last weekend was a deliberate ploy to drive my heart rate through the roof tonight.

Unfortunately, it worked.

The tracker on my wrist has my heart rate at a bolstered one hundred and eighteen. And I’ve only been here for an hour. According to the app on my phone, it’s risen to embarrassing levels exactly four times already. Which makes sense, given how many of the hired actors have jumped out at me from around corners.

The haunted house itself has been set up in an old hospital that they keep meaning to knock down and turn into flats. I’m not sure where their budget came from, but the production values are far more impressive than I thought they would be. The past three years, the local council have set up the fair on the grounds, and some office worker with too much time on their hands has managed to turn the old building into what even David described as ‘a house of horrors’. They’ve got dry ice fog machines, actors with hired costumes from old film sets, creepy music and a building that has the look of an abandoned hospital, because that’s exactly what it is. It’s got that liminal space quality that makes it extra creepy.

I have never been here before. Now, I wish I had. Just so I had some idea of what to expect. The number of bare, metal-framed beds that are lined up against walls, and visible through dusty windows in the tiny rooms that lead off from the corridors, is disconcerting to say the least. I’m hoping, beyond all hope, that the blood that is staining some of the mattresses is fake.

According to the offshoot group chat that Sai set up for him, Otis, Christian and me, Harry is feeling pretty confident. He’s stalking these corridors somewhere – although there’s enough space for us to not come across one another at all – and I keep thinking that he’s going to dart around a corner and make me literally piss myself.

I hate him.

But the guys are relying on me to stay put for as long as possible. Our entire team’s chat is a bit of a free-for-all. Harry has a lot of people egging him on – hoping for an invite to his next party, presumably – and it feels a little bit like a lot of them would rather he win, with the way they’re carrying on. Otis keeps reassuring me privately that it’s all for show, that none of them really want Harry calling the shots, but it’s not exactly doing much for my ego.

The place closes at eleven, but there’s a caveat in the rules the team laid out saying that that doesn’t mean the bet ends there. There aren’t any cameras in the hallways, and all of the workers are bored university students looking for a bit of extra money, so it’s not like security is tight. There might be a single guard wandering around, but we have it on good authority that they lock up after they’ve had a cursory look around to check the place is clear. Harry intends to stay here until dawn if he has to, and I guess I’m in for the long haul too. We each have a tracker in our pockets that the team are loosely keeping an eye on – although it ties us down to the general vicinity of the building and grounds, instead of pinpointing us exactly – and Otis made me set up Find My Friends before he said goodbye earlier, as an extra reassurance.

The corridor that I’m in is lined with cracked mirrors, and I’m about halfway down when suddenly the wall shifts, and arms reach out to grab me, through what, on closer inspection, seems to be stretchy grey fabric that has been pinned over a doorway.

I am fairly ashamed of the squeal that I let rip as I launch myself against the opposite wall. Behind the fabric, one of the actors giggles. 

Fuck this.

I start swiveling doorknobs as I walk past. One of these fucking rooms has to be open.

Charlie

Tao’s still fiddling with his camcorder when I risk peeking out into the corridor. I’m not sure what possessed him to bring it – it’s got to be at least ten years old, and it took us ages to find an SD card that would be compatible – but it’s something to do with ambiance. Or, aesthetics. Something beginning with A, anyways.

Artistry?

Appearance?

Nevermind. 

Main issue is, we’re currently hiding in a room in an old-hospital-turned-haunted-house, waiting for the inevitable time that the staff have cleared the building, and we can sneak back out without being yelled at. I’m not sure our fairground wristbands cover us for an overnight stay.

We had to get here early enough for it to not be suspicious that we were paying the entrance fee too late in the day, but not so early that we got bored and gave up on the plan. Isaac has set himself up on an old hospital bed, with a blanket over his head and a torch shining underneath. He’s reading an old haunted house novel, to get himself in the mood. Elle stayed at home, under the guise of being our alibi in case of parental curiosity. 

I’m starting to wish that I had followed suit. It would be slightly ridiculous of me to get arrested for trespassing within a month of being elected head boy. And I’m not sure my parents would ever let me live it down.

Speaking of – I pull my phone from my pocket and check that they’ve replied to the message I sent earlier. It’s currently just past nine pm, and if there’s any sign that they want me home, then I need to start trying to get myself out of this labyrinth sooner rather than later.

There’s a small part of me that’s disappointed that she's mellowed enough to not demand I get home this instant. This entire night is really not my thing, and if I didn’t love Tao so much, I would have laughed in his face at the suggestion that camping out in a fake haunted house for the night constitutes fun. As it stands, when he first tabled the idea, I nodded and grinned and exchanged a slightly conspiratorial look with Isaac – our general consensus was that Tao might have simply gone a bit mad. 

So, I perch on the end of what I’m now internally calling ‘Isaac’s bed’ and scroll through Instagram. A bunch of our classmates have posted over-saturated photos of themselves at the carnival – massive clouds of candy floss obscuring faces, and lights flaring across camera lenses in vaguely artistic ways. Imogen Heaney has uploaded her usual selfie implying her undying love for our school’s rugby captain; he has his arm around her and is grinning into the camera in a slightly dopey way that makes my stomach flip, his sixth form tie askew. According to the caption, it was taken on their bench earlier today. I shut off Instagram and flop back on the bed, startling a half asleep Isaac on the way. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and when I fish it out, I huff out a laugh, which causes Tao to glare at me from across the room.

Harry

Fuck Nick Nelson. That prick has had too much power for too long, and there’s no way I’m suffering another ten months of him running the show. I’ll quit rugby before I have to take directions from that ginger git again.

The lads know I’d be a better captain than him. I’ve got better banter, better parties. Good for morale. What has Nelson got? Floppy hair and a mum that makes banana bread before weekend matches.

Mrs N’s banana bread is pretty good, to be fair, but still – Nelson can get fucked.

Maybe that would help. He’s too pent up all the time. Clearly has a crush, and no game to make a move. I’d be doing him a favour, being captain. He can dedicate more time to writing in his journal about how he’s going to win over whatever lass he’s been pining over for weeks now. 

Honestly, such rubbish banter that he can’t even score Imogen Heaney, and she’s been practically throwing herself at him for weeks now.

Seriously, fuck Nick Nelson.

Nick

I’m in luck. One of the old rooms at the end of the corridor is unlocked, and I can slip inside and slide down the wall to catch my breath. The group chat is still pinging on my phone, which has reduced to fifty percent battery, thanks to me frantically googling whether it is possible to have a heart attack at eighteen. It is, but apparently I am not a high risk candidate. 

Maybe I can find a USB socket somewhere around here…

Who am I kidding? I’m pretty sure this place was the oldest hospital in England before it closed, and it doesn’t look like the decor had been updated any time in the twenty years before that. It’s a wonder the lights work, to be honest.

Before we came, Otis turned up at my house with a smart watch and some contraption that he had to help me strap to my chest. It’s closer than I’d like to have been with him tonight, to be honest. But apparently, this thing is more accurate than the wrist heart rate monitors. Otis borrowed two from his personal trainer dad; Harry has the matching set. They’ll record our heart rates over the course of the night, to try and weasel out any cheating. If I sneak out and go and chill at the big Tescos next door before sneaking back in before sunrise, between the tracker and the monitor, they’d know, in theory. 

Not that I think sneaking back onto the grounds of a local fairground, with its potential to be caught directly in the act, is any less scary than just trying to chill here for as long as possible. I may be an absolute wuss when it comes to anything horror-related, but that pales in comparison to my desire to get out of Truham without any sort of criminal record.

I can’t stay here for too long. Eventually, I’ll calm down enough for it to be suspicious. If tomorrow morning I stroll out with my heart rate app making it look like I’ve been relaxing at a spa all night, then Harry will kick up some fuss about me cheating, and then the whole nightmare will begin again.

No – I need to pull myself together and head back out into the hallways.

My heart rate has returned to something vaguely normal, so I guess it’s time for me to head out and roam the corridors again. It’s gone eleven, and the hallways outside are dark and silent. I have seen a torch go by only once – a rogue guard stalking the corridors – and I’m hopeful that that’s it for the patrols tonight. I can, at least, duck out of the way and hide if I catch sight of a light. 

Oh, I hate this, though. The halls are lined with old-fashioned strip lighting that evidently has a low-level setting – it’s enough to be able to put one foot in front of the other without walking into a wall, but not bright enough to really make heads or tails of anything I come across in the corridor. Like a really ineffective night-light. At least the room I’ve managed to hole up in has some street lighting outside and isn’t completely pitch black. 

Well… here goes.

Soon. I’ll get up soon.

Otis

Okay… judge me for the conspiracy all you want. You haven’t met Nicholas Nelson. If you had, you’d know the guy is a world-class piner. Not that he'd be able to tell you that – he’s also pretty clueless.

It all started a couple of years ago, when he saw Charlie Spring, our illustrious new head boy, running during PE. Say what you like, but our boy was hooked. He didn’t even know him back then – or at least didn’t know his name – but by the end of our next rugby session he had managed to wangle the details surreptitiously out of Coach Singh, and from there, an obsession was born.

It’s been all we should ask Charlie to join the rugby team and I wonder if anyone is faster than Charlie and I hear he’s really smart, he’d probably be great at tactics ever since.

Poor guy doesn’t realise he’s got a crush. I’m telling you – clueless.

Sai thinks it’s even worse – that it dates back even further; apparently, the two of them were in the corridor together, back when we were in year nine, and Nick was obsessed with some younger kid’s hair. Charlie, of course.

Christian… doesn’t seem to have realised any of this. But it was easier to include him than make yet another group chat to discuss.

So I may have used my connections to get some more info. We knew Charlie was gay, we knew Nick had a crush (who knows what he’ll end up identifying as – I’ve done some research, but the guy is so cluelessly smitten, they’ll probably have to invent a new sexuality for him. Charsexual, maybe.) What we didn’t know was how to bridge the gap. Charlie avoids the rugby lads like the plague (who can blame him?) and there was no way Nick was going to make the first move. I’m not sure they’ve ever even spoken before.

Enter: Tao Xu. One of the oddest friendships I have made to date. We worked together on the school play a couple of years ago, and I still had his number from way back then, so between Sai and I, we managed to formulate an opening message that didn’t make us sound too insane or creepy.

Turns out… Charlie had been harbouring a fairly intense crush in return. If Tao’s vitriol in his original reponse was anything to go by, it’s been going on for a while. But once we managed to convince him that Nick is a decent guy, he was well up for helping grease the wheels of romance, so to speak.

Then this whole dare situation happened… and a plan was born.

Tao has been dropping hints to Charlie for a couple of weeks now about sneaking into the haunted house to film. I think it’s killed him a little to start claiming that found-footage cinema is an art form worth exploring. But it must have worked, because he managed to convince Charlie and their bookish friend to join him tonight – just when Nick, our resident sensitive wimp, will be roaming the corridors alone. Nick’s already in play, so all that remains is for Tao to somehow convince Charlie to break away from the group and hope that, if we believe in fate, the two of them will cross paths.

Charlie

It’s now gone eleven, and we are officially trespassing. Isaac seems to have fallen asleep on one of the spare mattresses in the corner of the room we’re hiding in, his face covered with his book, and Tao is pacing anxiously. Without the scary music that they plumbed into the walls, the place seems even creepier. The pipes click and moan, the windows creak against the wind. It’s all a rich diorama of awful. 

Earlier, Tao mentioned sending Isaac and me out to investigate some good places to film. But now Isaac seems to have passed out for the night, and Tao is furiously arguing with his own tripod, so I guess I’m on my own in that particular endeavour. 

I must ask Elle if she and Tao are okay. There are very few things that I think would make Tao suddenly interested in making found-footage cinema, but I reckon an imminent breakup might do the job. Tomorrow. I’ll ask her tomorrow.

“I guess I’ll go and have a look then,” I say slowly, hoping beyond all hope that Tao tells me not to be ridiculous. He simply grunts in response, and I thread my keys through my fingers like some sort of makeshift knuckle duster before I push open the door and peer out into the hallway. 

“Wait, Charlie!” Tao says suddenly, and my heart soars.

“You need me to stay here?”

“Oh, no, just wanted to check if you'd turned on Find My Friends?”

“Right…”

At least if I get murdered by a ghost, he’ll be able to track down my lifeless body. Priorities, Tao. Thanks.

I’m alone in the hallway as soon as Tao has seen evidence that I am, indeed, trackable. This place is incredible, I’ll give the council that. They’ve somehow managed to use very limited resources, combined with the natural creepiness of an abandoned building, to put together the scariest haunted house I’ve ever been to. Not that I’ve been to loads. But I’ve seen a lot on TV.

It was obviously more impressive during opening hours, but even at night, it retains enough of the creep-factor to have me hurrying down the hallways a little quicker than I might usually move. 

I pull my phone out to text Tao, but then I notice an Instagram notification has lit up my home screen: nick_zzzz has posted.

Okay… so, I may have turned on notifications for our school rugby hero’s Instagram page. Sue me. Most of his posts contain photos of him and some of the other – nicer – rugby players in short-shorts, or a snapshot of two of the cutest dogs I’ve ever seen. He’s not a prolific poster, so I didn’t want to miss anything. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.

Okay, yes, so I’ve been harbouring a not-so-subtle crush on the boy for the best part of a year now – ever since Elle dragged us to one of the Truham rugby matches, and we watched them win by an apparently impressive amount. Nick forwent celebrating with the mess of boys to jog across the pitch and hug his two best friends – Tara and Darcy, the only out lesbians in the entire Higgs-Truham complex, completely accepted by the guy who Elle describes as ‘the straightest person ever’. I watched as Nick slung an arm around the backs of both of them and hoisted them off of the ground in celebration – swinging them round in one big circle before depositing them back on the wet grass – and the latent lust began. Worse, still, was when I was appointed head boy, and we were both invited to join a committee on improving school life for Truham students – a committee that met precisely three times before someone in authority remembered that we’re not American, and that the average group of unsupervised Kent teens cannot be trusted not to sit and plot the downfall of law and order. The committee may have been dissolved fairly quickly, but we spoke enough for me to realise that Nick Nelson is not only fit and popular, but he’s also kind, and sincere, and has the sort of dopey good nature that is hard to believe is real. All in all, my poor gay heart was done for. 

So I indulge myself in a little light internet stalking. It’s not like he’s the only person who I have notifications turned on for; there are a few minor celebrities who I find particularly… aesthetically pleasing… and, of course, Tao, Isaac and Elle. If you think about it, it’s just me treating him like a good friend. Except, when I open his profile and see that he has posted a photo of himself grinning like a child while holding a big cloud of candy floss and a loaded-up hot dog, I save it instantly. I don’t think I’ve ever saved any of Tao’s photos.

He was here tonight, and I never did catch sight of him, more's the pity. Although, maybe he was here with one of the many, many girls who vie for his attention every day. I see them at the school gates, crowding around while he throws his rugby ball up in the air and catches it in one smooth, twirling movement. He has his pick of the litter, and the Truham Fair is arguably the most interesting place to bring a date, this side of the Christmas market. There’ll be another photo tomorrow, a soft launch of a new girlfriend, and I’ll feel my overly optimistic heart break.

Not that Nick has ever seemed remotely interested in any of the girls who throw themselves at him – and believe me, I have watched – but it’s only a matter of time, really, isn’t it? It’s not like he could ever be interested in me.

Never mind. It’s nice to have something else to look at, other than the cool avocado-green decor of the hallway. I think I’m a little turned around, in any case – I can’t remember which of these doors my best friends are hiding behind – and I aimlessly wander back down the corridor to open what I think might be the winning door.

I’m staring down at that photo, pinching the screen to zoom in on those freckles that I am obsessed with, when I swing open door number one, and walk straight into something warm and solid.

Nick

The candy floss may have been a mistake. I can feel my heart pounding more than it should, even though it might do me the favour of raising my heart rate just a little bit on the monitor while I pluck up the courage to leave my safe little room. I, however, regret it instantly when I approach the door and it swings open – seemingly on its own.

I thought that the idea of Harry becoming team captain was the worst possible outcome of this night, but it turns out I was wrong. Squealing like a frightened pig because someone walked around the corner is far worse.

Especially when that person is Charlie Spring.

Charlie Spring, who I have been working up the courage to talk to for the best part of two years now. Charlie Spring, who I nearly melted over when I saw him playing the drums at the last Truham fair. Charlie Spring, who has the most perfect hair I have ever seen.

That Charlie Spring.

I think I’ve hidden my crush on him fairly well. Even Tara and Darcy, who are the only humans currently privy to my two-year-long spiral over my sexuality other than my mum, aren’t aware that it’s our new head boy that started the descent. I’ve managed to dodge most of their questions, to the point that they think I have a fairly obscene obsession with Orlando Bloom – which, to be fair, isn’t inaccurate – but it has meant that Mum had to find a home in the big cupboard for a life sized cardboard cutout of his Pirates of the Caribbean character. I’d like to think that the same thing wouldn’t be true if Darcy knew who I was actually obsessing over… but I never underestimate her penchant for ingenuity and mischief. If I ever do pluck up the courage to ask him out, I doubt Charlie would be particularly encouraged to find a life-sized representation of himself next to the towels in my house. It would really ruin the smooth image I’d want to maintain.

But here he is, staring at me like I might be insane, and I’m managing to ruin it even without Darcy’s help.

“Er… hi?” he says slowly, his hand still on the doorknob. That would be, I think, maybe the twentieth word he has ever said to me. There was talk, right after his election to the Head Boy role, that the right students at Truham might club together to try and form an alliance of sorts against bullying. It hasn’t happened yet, despite my attempts to try and talk to him in the corridor and reassure him that I’m not some mindless rugby idiot. There’s always been someone in the way – some class to go to, some reason that our paths don't quite cross. 

Someone filmed his Head Boy speech, though. I think it was Harry, or at least one of his lackeys. Presumably the intention was to watch him cough and fail and splutter and embarrass himself up there on that stage. And then he opened his mouth, and my vague crush turned into a full-blown infatuation.

Charlie Spring is smart, and beautiful, and talented. But he’s also insightful in a way that I hadn’t expected; stronger than, I think, anyone I know. He wants the world to be a better place for people who don’t fit society’s (read: an all-boys school’s) very narrow parameters of normal, and he doesn’t even realise that that includes me.

“Are you… okay?”

Fuck.

I’ve been staring at him like an idiot. How long have I been staring? Too long to recover, and we’re treading into the dangerous territory of my mouth deciding to fill the silence—

“I’m here on a dare!”

Damn.

“Right… okay,” Charlie raises an eyebrow at me. He has such good eyebrows. “That doesn’t really answer my question, though.”

I huff out a laugh, shove my hands into my pockets and shrug at him.

“Sorry… wasn’t expecting anyone to wander in. I’ve been hiding out here trying to pluck up the courage to walk around.”

Charlie gives me a half-smile, lips quirked up on one side, while he raises an eyebrow again. He’s waiting for me to say something more articulate, I can tell. We’re officially in a conversation, like I’ve wanted for months, but my brain is giving me nothing.

“Wait, what are you doing here?”

It’s a fair enough question, I think. Unless our bet has really opened up, and Charlie is more into rugby than I thought. I doubt it, given I’ve only ever seen him at one match (and yes, I noticed) and I’m fairly certain that our predecessors made his life a living hell, back when he got outed. I think he’s done his very best to avoid any and all rugby players ever since. I remember the match he did come to see – we nearly lost our advantage at the beginning of the first half, when I fumbled a pass right as I spotted him in the crowd. At the end, I ran to see Tara and Darcy and missed seeing him leave. Not that I would have known what to say, if I’d had the guts to approach him at the time.

Now, he clears his throat and shifts from foot to foot. If he’s nervous about being here after hours, he’s hiding it well, but there are little tells that betray the fact that he’s mildly uncomfortable. I hope he doesn’t feel uncomfortable because it’s me.

“My friend Tao… he’s got this thing at the moment about making a short film, and I guess he thought this would be the best place for it. He sent me out on reconnaissance, and I got a bit turned around. I thought this was the room they were hiding in. Oh!”

He’s startled, suddenly, by me launching myself forward and clasping a hand over his mouth. For a moment he looks furious, until I put a finger to my lips and guide him to sink down with his back to the door and a bright light sweeps through the filthy window. Turns out security does do a second sweep. Charlie and I crouch silently, our backs pressed to the door and our feet tucked up as close to our bodies as possible, as the torch paints a trail across the entire room and then disappears. In the quiet, I can hear the steel-toe boots worn by the security guard as he thumps his way back down the corridor and through the big double doors that separate us from the rest of the building.

“Thanks,” Charlie says quietly when I remember to pull my hand away. “I’m not sure how my parents would react if I got arrested for trespassing.”

“Not very head-boy-like of you…” I joke. 

Charlie gives me a serious look.

“Oh? And I suppose being rugby captain makes you quite the rebel?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” I demur, while Charlie laughs. “I have no idea why I even agreed to be here, to be honest.”

“Okay… so why are you here?”

When I have finished telling him the entire sorry story – from Harry’s and my argument in the changing rooms, right through to me being freaked out by the actor in the wall – I am not sure what I was expecting his reaction to be.

Laughing certainly wasn’t it.

Charlie tips his head back and lets out a cackle that is both adorable and really embarrassing. He’s clearly laughing at me, and I flush red, but there’s also something really nice about being on the receiving end of his attention.

“I’m really not sure what’s so funny,” I groan in mock-protest. I absolutely know what’s so funny. The whole thing is ridiculous.

Charlie

It turns out that Nick Nelson is really cute when he blushes. I’d feel bad for laughing at him, but he looks so adorably flustered when I do that, I can’t help but melt and laugh some more. The lighting in here may be crap, but there’s enough light coming through the curtainless window to highlight the freckles on his cheeks. He really is very pretty.

He does look genuinely hurt, though, so I swipe at my face and try to compose myself.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “It’s just… that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Does Harry really think Coach Singh would go along with this? My friend Tao swears he once saw her snap a hockey stick when a guy in his class faked a sick note.”

“Well… no,” he says slowly. “But that doesn’t mean that the rest of the team won’t completely ignore anything I say to them for the rest of the year, if I don’t win.”

“Fair point. Some of them do seem to be mindless goons.”

“Hey! Some of us aren’t that bad!”

“Okay, sorry, present company excluded. And, actually, some of them do seem nice. One of them once gave me two quid to get something from the vending machine when I knocked over my drink. Tall? White? Used to have braces?”

“Ah, Christian. He is a bit of a mindless goof at times, to be fair, but he means well, like, all the time. I don’t think he’s got a bad bone in his body.”

“That’s at least two, then.” I bump his shoulder with mine, and I swear, for a second, that he goes red. It’s hard to tell in this light, and maybe my aching little heart is making me see things, but I think I made him blush.

“Yeah… maybe…” he whispers, and it feels for a moment like he’s not really talking to me. I want to claw back the conversation, but I’m not exactly sure what to say next. What do you say to your long-term crush when you’re hiding out in a creepy hospital room together? I’m not sure even the crappy magazines Elle sometimes reads as a guilty pleasure have a quiz for this. Maybe I should text Isaac; no doubt there’s a book trope he’s come across at some point that could help me. 

When nothing seems forthcoming from Nick, I go back to the matter at hand.

“How exactly are they keeping tabs on this, though? Like what’s to stop Harry cheating?” I say ‘Harry cheating’, because it’s beyond my comprehension to imagine Nick doing anything dishonest; everyone knows he’s like sunshine personified.

“Oh, we both have these—” he lifts his shirt, nearly giving me a heart attack in the process, and shows me the little monitor strapped to his chest. It looks like something that came from a slightly more modern hospital than this, or from some Instagram fitness account, but I am almost too distracted by the sight of the wide expanse of his bare chest to really take much else in.

“What’s that?”

“Some fancy heart rate monitor. Otis’ dad is a personal trainer, and apparently they’re the newest bit of kit he’s using. They’re keeping track of our vitals throughout the night. Harry says that if we’re sticking to the building we should be freaked out enough for it to elevate our heart rate every so often.”

“Right… but you could just hole up in the old canteen and do the occasional push-up, right?”

Nick freezes, as if this hadn’t, in fact, occurred to him. His lips move adorably as he tries to think of a response, then he drops his shirt again and shrugs.

“I never said it was a perfect system. I think, in all honesty, he just wants to torment me. I’m not exactly known for being a fan of horror. I’m actually a massive wuss about these things. This whole night was my idea of hell. Well… until now, that is. Now it’s looking pretty good.”

He looks across at me and I think my heart stops. Maybe I need to borrow that monitor to check I’m still alive. There’s something about his tone that feels so absolutely like flirting that I can barely breathe.

It’s ridiculous, though. There’s no way that Nick Nelson – rugby king, girl magnet, six-foot-something hunk – could possibly be flirting with me.

Nick

Fuck. Charlie has gone all pale. Serves me right for attempting to slot in a little bit of flirtiness. I’m rubbish at it at the best of times. It’s one of Otis’ main bones of contention in our friendship that I make a frankly awful wingman, because whenever he’s trying to get with a girl, I get all tongue-tied trying to make conversation with her friends, and then I go and ruin it for him. No girl wants to leave their friend with a bumbling mess, to go and hook up at a party. And that’s with people that I don’t particularly fancy. Why did I go and risk it with Charlie, of all people?

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m not very good at this.”

“Huh?” Charlie screws up his face, like he’s genuinely confused. I bump my foot against his.

“This… flirting. Otis and Sai tell me how rubbish I am at it.”

“Wait… you were flirting with me?”

“Yeah… wasn’t it obvious?”

“God, no!”

“See? Rubbish.”

“Well… it would probably help if you were flirting with someone you’re, like, actually interested in.” He says it like he’s testing out the words, and I look at him incredulously.

“Who’s to say I’m not?”

Okay… that landed. Charlie goes so red that even in the dim light I can see the shade spread out across his face. I’ve seen him do a bunch of public speaking since he was appointed Head Boy, and this is the first time I’ve seen him actually tongue-tied.

It’s adorable.

“Why would you want to flirt with me?” he says slowly. His face doesn’t look very sure, and two thoughts hit me at once:

First, he has absolutely no idea that I’m not straight. Why would he? I’ve literally come out to three people in my entire life, my mum included, and I know that I don’t exactly read as queer. I put up a pride flag in my locker, and I wore a pin last June, but one of the lads patted me on the shoulder and told me I make a really good ally. I don’t even know if Charlie noticed – it’s not like I’d expect him to be on the lookout for any signs of solidarity amongst the rugby team, our circles are so far apart it’s laughable – but I guess I had hoped that maybe someone might say something to someone else, and it would get back to him, somehow. A soft coming out, of sorts. Like me wearing a rainbow pin might encourage him to find me in the corridors and declare his undying love.

Wishful thinking.

The second thought is slightly harder to swallow. Charlie was outed, back when I was doing my GCSEs. I didn’t really know him back then, but I heard it was bad. Boys older than me tormenting him, teachers having to step in eventually. I managed to gather a bit from Otis, who knows his best friend from doing the school play together, but even then I’m sure I don’t know the half of it. I’ve never faced anything like that – at school, anyways – and I can’t imagine it makes you particularly patient or trusting of people who run in the same circles as your tormentors. People like me, I guess, even if I was never part of it. 

Charlie has never struck me as someone who realises what a catch he is, either. He’s humble, and kind, and keeps himself to himself most of the time. I want to tell him how amazing I think he is, but I don’t want to freak him out.

“I… I’ve wanted to for a while. Flirt… I mean… with you.”

Fuck, I wish I were better at this.

Charlie

Did I actually hear him right? Or did I have some sort of heart attack, and this is heaven? It’s certainly a bit grim, if that’s the case. But there’s something about Nick that makes even a dingy room like this a little brighter.

He’s gone red again. It really is quite adorable. But still…

“Are you messing with me?” It’s the only thing I can think to ask, the only thing that makes sense. Nick looks at me in horror.

“No! Honestly. I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to talk to you for ages now. But things always seem to get in the way.”

Wow. I feel a little bit like the Earth has tilted on its axis. An hour ago I would have laughed in your face at the idea of being able to form words around Nick Nelson… and now he’s here telling me he’s just as tongue tied around me.

I should probably stop referring to him by his full name in my head, lest I start messing up and accidentally doodling what I assume our married name would be in my notebooks.

Which do I prefer? Charlie Nelson or Charlie Nelson-Spring? 

Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

Nick is sat there with his entire heart on his sleeve, and I’m staring at him like some sort of gormless idiot. Experimentally, I shift so that my converse brushes up against his trainer. He gasps at the contact.

Okay… that was a good sign.

We’ve ended up sitting so close to one another that our shoulders are knocking together with every breath. He has his hands braced on the floor either side of his hips, while mine are tucked up on my lap. But if I were to move them… there’s very little space on the floor between us.

I risk it. He watches my every move as I slowly reach down to place my hand on the floor next to his. Our pinkies are barely touching. If I had a heart rate monitor too, I’m sure mine would be going through the roof.

Which gives me an idea. It’s not a good idea, and I’m fairly sure that Tao and Isaac will mock me forever for suggesting it, but I lean slightly closer to him and make my voice as low and sultry as I think I can manage.

“So… I have a suggestion…”

Nick

He has an idea. And if I weren’t so ridiculously focussed on the way he is using his pinky finger to stroke up and down the back of my hand, I might be able to register what he’s saying. As it is, my heart is pounding – more than it has done all night – and I can barely take anything in.

“What— what’s that then?” I stammer. Smooth, Nelson. Charlie leans in closer.

“Kiss me,” he says, like it’s the most normal suggestion in the world. Like it isn’t going to send me into a tailspin and have me passing out on this floor if I try to move.

“Wait… what?”

He shrugs.

“I mean… if you want to. Kissing is always a little bit exciting, so hopefully it’ll register something on your monitor.”

This cannot be happening, right? It’s too much of a wonderful coincidence that the boy I’ve been crushing on just happens to be sneaking around in an abandoned building the same night I am, and he wants to make out. No one would believe that, if I told them.

Then again, I’m fairly sure that none of my friends would believe I’m not straight, if I told them that , either. They’d all think it was some ploy to try and get Imogen to lose interest in me, or something equally offensive.

Charlie said it with such confidence, but I’ve waited too long to reply and I see the mask slip a little as his lips twitch. He’s so close, shoulder still pressed to mine, and I can see the darker flecks of blue in his eyes, even in the low light. I’m very grateful that we’re in a room with a street lamp outside, because it lets me see every shadow that flickers across his face, and tells me he’s as nervous as I am, before I lean forward and press my lips to his.

His chest hitches, his hand comes up to touch my cheek… and I can barely breathe.

I’ve kissed a few people, don’t get me wrong. A few girls at parties who wanted me to take them home after, and were sorely disappointed when they realised that I’m not one for quick hookups. Each time had a backdrop of the rugby lads whooping and jeering in the vicinity, before quizzing me on exactly what she was like in the changing rooms the next day. I always refused to answer.

Then there was Tara, and my embarrassing crush on her when we were thirteen.

None of them compare to Charlie, who captures my lip between his teeth and sucks gently while I am trying to catch my breath. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears, taste the sugar of whatever carnival treat he had earlier on his lips. Lips that are plumper than I imagined they would be.

I’m not sure what I was expecting from kissing a boy, despite the sexuality crisis that has kept me up at night for months now, frantically Googling and searching for answers. I guess I thought kissing Charlie might feel rougher, somehow. The addition of strong hands and stubble that has developed over the day. Instead, I think I might melt under his touch.

After a beat, he pulls back, and I chase his lips instinctively. I think I must look a bit dopey, because when I finally open my eyes, he’s looking at me fondly and stroking my cheek with his knuckles.

“You okay?” he whispers, and once again I forget how to breathe.

“I’m… I’m…” Nick stammers. He’s so adorable. 

I cannot believe that ploy worked. Before he leant in, I was about ready to laugh and pretend that the entire suggestion had been a joke… try and play it off by demanding he drop and give me twenty.

Then he was brave, and he pressed his lips to mine and my entire world view has been shattered, in the very best way. Nick Nelson, evidently not the straightest person in existence, kissing me like he meant it. The history of my entire slightly humiliating crush stretches and twists and reshapes into something that, an hour ago, I wouldn’t have thought plausible: nice, kind, fit Nick Nelson might actually fancy me back.

I nudge him gently while he’s trying to formulate words again. He stammers and swallows and then focuses on my lips and I have never felt more powerful than seeing this big rugby lad reduced to a stuttering mess at a single kiss from me.

“I’m… I’m good,” he says finally, tearing his gaze away from my lips to look me in the eye. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

“Kiss a boy?” I joke, but even I can hear that my voice is quivering. He shakes his head.

“Kiss you,” he whispers, and I fall back into him.

Nick

I’m never going to get enough of this, I’m telling you now. If we get murdered by ghosts or an over zealous security guard before sunrise, I will die happy. I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been kissing when he pulls away and shifts awkwardly on the floor. For a moment, I panic that he has changed his mind, or gotten bored of kissing already, until I realise that the chill of the old laminate has permeated my bones, and there isn’t a chance that he’s not feeling it too. There aren’t exactly many comfy options in this place, but we both catch sight of the bed at the same time and he raises an eyebrow at me.

“Better than being down here?” he murmurs, and I stand and tug him up off of the floor.

He tips us both back onto the mattress – the frame creaking ominously under the weight of us – and my brain goes into overdrive when our lips meet again. Why did I wear jogging bottoms tonight? Some kind of misguided idea about being able to run from the hypothetical monsters faster than in jeans? Except that now, as he plants a knee either side of my thighs and presses himself close, I’m pretty sure he can tell exactly what reaction he’s spurring on in me. I’m incredibly grateful that he has squeezed himself into the tightest skinny jeans I have ever seen on a boy – for more than one reason – and can therefore count on a little bit of a barrier before I embarrass myself completely. Still, I cup my hands just underneath his arse and tug, so that he scoots forward and settles against my abdomen instead. The movement catches him off balance, and when he topples forward, our foreheads are pressed together. I can tell, just for a moment, that he might be somewhere on the same page as me.

“Hey… we’re just kissing, right?” I murmur as he leans back in. “I— I haven’t ever done anything more than kissing before, and I’m not sure that I’m… there.”

Charlie laughs, dryly.

“Nick, trust me, there is no way I want any aspect of my sex life immortalised in a rugby team’s data graph,” he quips as he taps the heart rate monitor, still strapped to my chest, with two quick fingers. “Besides, I feel like this is enough to give the right impression.”

Instinctively, I flick my wrist to look at the little screen on the smart watch. He’s right, my heart rate has spiked again. 

“Good enough to fool Harry, in any case.”

“Please, never mention Harry when you’re about to shove your tongue down my throat ever again.”

Charlie

“What’s the time?” 

“Three in the morning.”

“Jesus. I wonder if Harry is still here.”

Nick nestles in against my chest and shrugs.

“Fuck him, I don’t care,” he huffs, but he fishes his phone from his pocket regardless. “We won’t find out until morning, I guess. My phone finally died.”

We decided, without much preamble, that rolling the bed towards the wall by the door was the best option. It leaves us out of sight should the security guard come back, but keeps us off of the cold floor. It’s a very narrow bed, so we’ve ended up far closer than I think I have ever been with another person, but neither one of us seem in any mood to complain. We’re a tangle of limbs and blankets on the mattress; Nick does a wonderful job of warming me up, despite how much the temperature has dropped over the course of the night. I was a little worried about the chill until he wrapped himself around me; he’s like a human radiator. I run my hand up his shoulder and stroke his cheek gently with a fingertip.

“So…” I murmur. “What now? More kissing?”

Nick laughs weakly, his grip tightening.

“I would love to, but I think I might pass out in a moment.”

It’s hard not to feel disappointed, but he’s right. I already feel heavy and a little dizzy with tiredness; give me another five minutes of forcing myself to stay awake, and I’m likely to start talking gibberish. Not that I think Nick will mind, actually. I get the feeling he’s a little bit besotted with me.

So I shift enough to be able to pull the blanket over the both of us and rest my cheek on his head.

“Nick?”

“Hmm?”

“What happens tomorrow?”

“What do you mean?”

“I— I don’t want to forget about this.”

“Me either, Char,” he mumbles, and my heart skips a beat. “Wanna kiss you in the morning.”

That’s enough, for now, although there’s a small part of me that is slightly worried about how exactly we will get out of here unnoticed in the morning. Tao and Isaac have hopefully holed up in the room I left them in, and between us, we’ll figure it out when the sun comes up.

For now, I kiss the top of Nick’s head and delight in the little moan he lets out.

“G’night, Charlie,” he whispers.

“Night, Nick.”