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Charlie's not sure he can handle their little routine today. Normally it’s cute, the way they're always cute together (“Like a fucking puppy of the month calendar,” as Tori’s so fond of telling them) but right now he’s dreading it.
Still, walking in without any acknowledgement would be even worse, so Charlie's standing on the doorstep of his own house and ringing the bell, because they're Nick and Charlie, and this is the done thing after haircuts, even when the barber was an emissary sent from hell to ruin Charlie’s entire life.
As soon as he opens the door, Nick is already hurrying to face the other direction so he can turn back around and do an even more dramatic reveal. Charlie loves it, he really does. His husband is the world's biggest, sweetest, most supportive golden retriever goofball, and Charlie wouldn't have it any other way. This whole song and dance exists because of the one time Nick failed to notice a very subtle new haircut of Charlie's, nearly two years ago, and he felt so bad that he developed this performance of noticing each one in the most overblown fashion possible so he’d never run the risk of hurting Charlie’s feelings again.
Except that today, Charlie doesn't want to be noticed, by him or by anyone.
But Nick spins around on his heels before Charlie can protest, with an almost annoyingly bright grin. He's wearing his coziest hoodie, the Animal Crossing one that Charlie got him off Etsy last Christmas, and he's softly disheveled in a way that makes it obvious he's done nothing at all with his Saturday morning.
At this point, Charlie wishes he hadn't either.
Nick's eyes dart across his husband’s face, taking it all in, ready to weave the visual input into a perfectly-created compliment, which is of course impossible in this instance. His smile slips when he registers the carnage of Charlie’s hair, just for a fraction of a second, brief enough that Charlie might not have noticed at all if he wasn't aware of the travesty sitting atop his head, but Nick quickly winches his mouth back into place.
“It's cute!” he manages.
It is not cute. It looks like a feral dog got a hold of Charlie's head and used it as a chew toy. The cut was meant to be shorter for summer, close-cropped on the back and sides, but that demon at the barber shop took it nearly down to the scalp at the nape of Charlie’s neck and behind his ears, and somehow made the top all choppy and raggedy.
“I like it! No, it looks great!” Nick insists, even though the need to convince Charlie is an admission in and of itself.
Charlie still hasn't said a word. He's fighting back the tide of tears swelling in his throat as Nick gently cards his fingers through the haphazard, much-too-short curls.
“And then you're gonna wash it, and it's gonna grow out a little bit and we can shape it more, okay?” Nick's saying, moving in a circle around Charlie to appraise the damage. He's strictly forbidden from using the clippers after an infamous incident with their puppy Daisy, but right now Charlie would take the stripe-up-the-forehead look she sported for a month over this mess.
“Look, he got all the dead ends, and it's a resetti spaghetti, right?” Nick tries, taking Charlie's face in his hands and looking him straight in the eye.
This man. He always knows exactly what to say.
Nick has cut Charlie's hair himself plenty of times, and might need to do again for a bit while Charlie works on rebuilding his trust in the barbering community, but he wasn't the least bit insulted when, after the Daisy debacle, Charlie decided he'd prefer to have a professional do it. He's always happy to trade off household chores, and doesn't even blink at taking on more than his fair share for stretches of time when Charlie's work is especially demanding. He makes them dinner every night, from Charlie's tattered old binder that needs replacing, and doesn't fuss when Charlie's too sleepy to do the dishes.
He always gets it right — effervescent excitement when the situation calls for it; calm, easy banter when the mood is more subdued; and grounded reassurances when, like right now, everything has gone to shit.
“But it looks nothing like the picture,” Charlie says, his voice coming out all wobbly.
Best of all, Nick knows when to be honest. He draws Charlie's face towards him, presses their foreheads together, and very calmly states, “No, it does not, he fucked up.”
The tears come then, but that's alright, too.
Nick folds Charlie into a hug, rubbing his back and stroking the awful, uneven patch of hair at the base of his skull as he sways them side to side. “I know you hate change, but we can fix it,” he murmurs. “It'll grow out.” And then, softer, when Charlie's breath catches in his throat. “It's okay to cry, I've got you.”
Charlie’s not particularly keen on crying at all, and certainly not out in front of their house with his lovely new weed-whacked hairdo on display (lest one of their neighbors gets the impression he was in a tragic boating accident) so Nick takes him inside, makes him a cuppa, and lets him drip onto his shoulder for a while with their favourite Nick Drake album on in the background.
After that they wash the barber shop’s aggressively- man -scented product out Charlie’s hair in the bathroom sink, which actually makes it worse, not better, but he can’t help smiling at the silly, sudsy shapes Nick makes out of his poor, savaged curls. Charlie frowns at himself in the mirror while he dries off, then they have more tea, at which point Nick sagely reminds him that Daisy’s fur grew back, and his hair will too. They wander into the kitchen, where Charlie makes them both sandwiches with the cress they got at the market, and Nick talks him out of shaving his head, or trying to sue the man who did this to him.
Finally they settle together on the sofa, legs overlapping, joking and teasing and feeding each other little bites of egg and cress while they wait for Charlie’s hair to grow.