Work Text:
December 1990
After giving Daisy and himself their morning exercise on the Heath, Nick now busies himself preparing his morning cup of tea while Charlie gets dressed. He turns on the radio. Charlie has left it on Radio 4 after listening to 'The Archers' last night, so Nick is now treated to the Today programme, and the dulcet tones of Sue MacGregor fill their cramped kitchen. He takes a drag from his second cigarette of the day, then stubs it out in the mint-green ashtray. The first he'd smoked during that early morning walk in the crisp, yet not entirely clear, morning air around north London. He's long since given up pretending to quit and needs those couple of nicotine hits first thing, along with a third as he walk-runs to the station before he is forced to go fag-less on the Tube.
While steam escapes from the spout of their white plastic kettle, and Daisy quietly munches at her bowl, Nick pads across the linoleum in his sock-covered feet, holds the doorframe, and leans into the bedroom. "Hey, love, I’m going to pick up my 'script on the way home, so I’ll be a bit later than my usual time. Is there anything we need to pick up from the corner shop while I'm at it?"
"Would you mind picking up mine as well? It's on the kitchen corkboard." The kettle clicks. “Oh, are we okay for bread, Nick?”
He opens up the bread bin on the kitchen counter to double-check, “Yeah, there should be enough for toast for the next couple of days for you, if that's what you’re asking." Next, he opens the refrigerator door to be met with barely cooled air. "There's even marg in the fridge, and I picked up some more sugar for tea last week.”
Charlie sometimes seems to live on sweet tea and buttery toast.
"Great, thanks, I'll be through in a moment. And before you even think about it, Nick, I'll make my own coffee."
"But I like making you your morning coffee!"
"Even after all these years, Nicholas Nelson, you still can't get it right."
"Give me enough time, I'll get there eventually…"
Nick said that last sentence without thinking; time is the one thing they both don't have.
Or maybe Charlie won't pick up on it as Nick has.
"You keep telling yourself that, Nick."
Or perhaps Charlie decides not to say anything because he truly is the world's greatest boyfriend.
Nick turns to the tan-coloured corkboard as the bubbles in the kettle settle. They use it to track daily admin: phone numbers next to the phone on the wall and its overstretched bendy wire between base and handset, Nick's rugby team's timetable and away schedule, takeaway menus that don't live in the drawer, a birthday list to remind them whose is when, several orders of service from funerals over the past couple of months (they clear them out every so often; otherwise, the board would become overrun). Also, they are now at the age where they are starting to receive wedding invitations. Poofy dresses, as is the fashion (bless Diana and all that she does for services both to fashion and charity), overly elaborate cakes and stuffy churches.
Perhaps they could do something themselves, Nick thinks, considering… well, everything. Yes, it won't be an "official" wedding, and when they inevitably end up in hospital, it won't be recognised, but isn't his boyfriend always saying "fuck everyone else"?
He spots the green piece of paper for Charlie's version of the meds they share, removes the pin from the paper, folds it, and pockets it, then replaces the pin in its previous place. Nick then bends down and gives Daisy a scritch behind the ears as she pads back to her basket for her post-breakfast nap. She's a good girl, affectionate, and always knows when either or both of them need cheering up.
Nick has noticed that Charlie is even more tired lately, definitely appearing more exhausted than him, although Nick has those pesky headaches, so it's not like he's escaped the side effects of the meds either. And it could be a heck of a lot worse. At least he doesn't have to resort to the black market now like he used to.
Charlie, Nick hopes, is at least now taking the meds. It had been a struggle to get him to, as he put it with a grimace, "delay the inevitable".
His boyfriend still manages to get to the office, but how much longer will he be able to keep doing so? They need the money for as long as possible, especially if they want to enjoy their time together.
Rent, bills, and indeed funerals don't pay for themselves, after all. Whoever goes first, they don't want to saddle the other with debt, or worse his Mum. Seperately, Nick also knows Charlie doesn't want Jane (or "that woman" as he refers to her; she hasn't even been his "Mother" in years) to swoop in and interfere with any of Charlie's arrangements. If he's still around, no one is going to be in his corner after everything that's happened.
Charlie emerges from his bedroom, looping his tie into a slightly crooked knot, cigarette perched between his lips, dropping ash on the carpet. Nick notices the marks on his neck which his shirt collar cannot hide. He reaches out to point out the blemish to Charlie, being careful not to touch it directly.
"You might want to use some concealer before you leave, love."
They're not the kind of marks Charlie had when they first started dating, those wonderful love bites; these new, different blemishes still look dark, but now they symbolise the tragedy of what they are faced with, rather than the ecstasy of Nick's lips on his skin.
It’s a toss-up between his appearance and his energy levels — which will force him out of the job first. But maybe Charlie could do some work from home? He knows it's unusual, but is there really much difference between working from their lumpy sofa, spending all day marking up manuscripts, and doing it from an uncomfortable chair at an uncomfortable desk in an office Nick knows Charlie finds torturous? They could then post the manuscripts back, or Nick could even take them in before he goes to his school in the morning.
His boyfriend is also looking thinner than ever, even for Charlie. He says it's a side effect of the meds, that they also upset his stomach along with the tiredness he is plagued by, but Nick knows Charlie has always been weird about food — or more specifically, about eating. He has kept trying to talk to Tori about it over the years, but she always insists that everything is fine, that's just how Charlie is.
Tori. Nick winces a little at the name of the woman he once almost considered the sister he never had.
Charlie touches his neck, clearly feeling the mark, and the unspoken reason passes between them. "Give me a moment, I'll be right back."
Nick wonders whether, if he gets similar bruises, they will be painful to the touch for him as well.
Turning back to attend to his tea, he drops a teabag into his mug and adds hot water to let it brew. Out of the corner of his eye, Nick notices the envelope with their plane tickets for the February half-term tacked to the board, top-left. Charlie’s found a cheap package deal to Mykonos from their friend Lee, who works at the local travel agent. Nick would prefer Minorca, but Charlie made the point that the Greek island would get more sun than the Spanish coast, which Nick knows is ridiculous. However, he also realises, as Charlie does, that the island's nightlife will be much safer for both of them. And maybe they can take one of those group boat trips to one of the islands and see some of those ruins that get his boyfriend so excited? At least there will be the stray cats Nick can pet to keep him amused. Maybe they can hire a scooter and find a cosy cove, just the two of them, and go down to those white sands with cerulean waters that match Charlie's eyes. That's one thing this virus can never take from him — the colour of those eyes.
He doesn’t know how many more holidays they’ll have between them.
As his Mum says, all Nick knows is that they have today, and that's all that matters. No point worrying about a future they have no control over.
Nick checks his watch. He's running later than he should be. He continues preparing his tea, adding milk and sugar to the well-used cup, and drinks it in record time, picking up his things in between sips. He also needs to ask Charlie about tonight.
"Are you still up for meeting Darcy and Tara? They suggested The Bell when I spoke to them on the phone yesterday, but I was thinking we could ask them to come here and get takeaway. Perhaps Chinese? I don't mind going to the shops to fetch it."
Nick can hear Charlie fussing around in their bedroom again. "Here sounds good, if you're sure that's okay? I'm not sure I can face a packed pub after a packed tube, but I'll do a quick tidy of the place before I go. I've a bit of time as I don't need to be in until 9:30 today, so don't worry about being late because I won't be back before you, but do you mind giving Daisy her evening walk? Oh, and don't worry about takeaway for me, I'm going out at lunchtime with the team at work, so that I won't want much this evening… I can make myself toast."
There it is again.
The deflection around food that Nick knows almost as well as he knows Charlie himself.
Before he can overanalyse it repeatedly for the umpteenth time in their relationship, while Nick is making a half-hearted attempt to tie his shoelaces he hears a voice from their bedroom. "But maybe… Maybe we could invite Michael… and… Tori, as well? Make it a proper night?"
He pauses, unsure how to say this. Everyone's wounds are still very fresh. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Char. You know how Tori is with me at the moment, after, well… she found out about… You know, I just don't think it's the right time… Not yet, anyway. Maybe in a few weeks she'll be willing to talk to me. I just… I don't want to make things awkward."
Charlie leans out of the bedroom, that mark now half-covered, watching Nick, who is crouched down with his half-untied shoelaces. He meets the gaze of a man who, in his eyes, is the most important person in the world. There's that look in his pupils, those irises — Nick recognises it as the moment he's internally berating himself for the hundredth time that day for something that is definitely not his fault in the slightest.
From her dog bed, Daisy pulls herself up and pads quietly over to his boyfriend, burying her face in Charlie's leg. Absentmindedly, Charlie bends and gives her scratches behind the ears.
His boyfriend looks perfect like this.
And Nick's brain reminds him that, as Tori says, this whole thing is all Nick’s fault. His eyes fall on that half-covered mark again.
That death sentence of a virus that courses through both their veins, shortening their days with their friends, their families, with each other.
And for that, he can never forgive himself.