Work Text:
Negative.
There it is, that one word that is inextricably linked to that now routine monthly gut punch, spelt out in pixels in front of Nick.
It’s lucky Nick’s on lunch break when he gets the text from Charlie. He’d been too nervous to take the test this morning, so Nick suggested he take it later in the day instead. He’s too anxious to suggest that Charlie wait until tomorrow morning.
Nick needs somewhere quiet to process this. He grabs his water bottle from his desk and then heads to the supply closet, pushing his weight on the handle, pulling back the door and walking through like he is moving through treakle, not air. He doesn't bother switching on the light as the door slams shut, and instead just slumps to the floor, bringing up his phone to stare into the blue light it emits. At those pixels.
He and Charlie have a channel set up for all the baby-making stuff, and the message has been sent there. His husband also uses the channel to send pictures of his ovulation tests. Hence, they both have access to that information, alongside the fertility app, which shares the exact same information, but it keeps his husband happy, which means Nick has a quieter life. They also use it to schedule sex, which for the most part has become perfunctory. Not clinically exactly, but also not the playful, joyful thing it once was.
At least Nick doesn't need to be faced with messages of the form "Does today's line on the test strip look darker than yesterday's line, or is it actually getting lighter again and we've missed the window?" or "Don't stay out with the lads too late tonight, we should have another go when you get in as it's been 48 hours" along side messages like "We should pick up more teabags when we go to Tesco's tonight as you used the last of them yesterday" and "I'm writing this here because you keep forgetting: Can you make a check up appointment for Daisy at the vets, or should I just go ahead and do it?"
Nick knows Charlie is viewing frontal sex as a necessary evil at this point. A means to an end. And he really wants, no, needs to believe Charlie when he says he doesn’t disassociate during sex, but he really can’t be sure. All he can do is accept what his husband says.
It’s been months since they’ve done anything that wasn't baby-making-related in terms of sex, but Nick knows he also doesn’t want to pressure Charlie. When Charlie allows himself to relax enough, they'll cuddle in front of old episodes of 'Bake Off'. Their intimacy hasn't changed.
Nick refuses to add "yet" to the end of that thought. Lisa would be proud of him.
It’s Charlie's birthday next month; maybe they can plan a last-minute weekend trip for the Bank Holiday weekend after that? Will they ever get that aspect of their relationship back? No, he can’t go down that way of thinking because there lies a spiral. It's best to wait and discuss it with Lisa on Tuesday, Nick thinks.
Nick is aware of all this by now, that this is a marathon, not a sprint, as Charlie’s endocrinologist has repeatedly said. It’s been a two and a half year journey, though. He’s tried to broach the topic of other options with Charlie, but he’s just been shut down whenever he’s tried. Yet another thing for him to bring up with Lisa at their next appointment together, how do you get your stubborn and in-denial husband to listen to some kind of sense or reason? He makes a note in his phone so he doesn’t forget. He’s discovered it’s best to go into the sessions with a list, so he doesn’t start flailing about how shit everything is.
Maybe he should skip rugby tonight and tell his husband they can spend the evening rotting in front of the TV with some Indian, but Charlie will tell him not to worry. He’ll be going for a run anyway to clear his head. Oh, and there is no need to order in; they’ve already got the makings for Thai chicken salad and grains in the house, and regardless, they both need to ensure anything they eat is nutritionally dense. Nick wonders if he could nudge Charlie into bumping up his appointments to twice a week.
They should probably also reply to Tara and Darcy’s baby shower invitation. The envelope containing the expected invitation is currently stuck to the front of the fridge, a gift from one of Nick’s pupils last year; it’s a magnet in the shape of a key lime pie with the words “My jokes are sub-lime!” written across the bottom. The envelope itself is cream-coloured in one of those thick, fancy ones you use for births, marriages, and deaths, with Tara’s neat handwriting on the front. They’ve not opened it yet, perhaps because neither one wants to do it, and maybe if they don’t, they can pretend it’s something else. It’s the same type of envelope Tara and Darcy used for their wedding last year.
Apparently, just because they are relatively young doesn’t mean this is going to be easy. Spoiler: It turns out getting pregnant is harder than sex education would have you believe. Or at least it is for Nick and Charlie. They were so fucking naive that first time, but it’s been over two years, and it doesn’t seem there is any end in sight.
His phone buzzes. Two minutes until playtime is over. Enough wallowing. Nick needs to be Mr Nelson.
Nick pulls himself, picks up his water bottle, opens the lock, and feels around for the lock. It begins with a click as he pushes down on the metal handle, then he uses his body weight to push the door open and head back to his classroom desk, hearing the sounds of the bell ricochet across the playground.