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They were meant to be on the early train that afternoon.
Nick had already lined his scarf and gloves along the narrow console by the door, keys set neatly beside them. Outside, London looked grey and damp in that winter way that promised crowds and cold fingers later. The Paris Squad chat had been busy since breakfast—debating where to eat, whether to brave the South Bank early, someone complaining about fireworks tickets.
Charlie was supposed to be finishing his shower.
When the bathroom door finally opened, Nick looked up immediately. Charlie hovered in the doorway longer than necessary, hair damp and curling in uneven clumps, dressing gown tied but loose. His nose was already faintly pink, eyes glassy in a way Nick recognised far too well.
“I’m fine,” Charlie said before Nick could ask.
Nick raised an eyebrow. “Good morning to you too.”
Charlie sniffed, wiped his nose with the sleeve of his dressing gown, then immediately grimaced and reached for a tissue. The sound when he blew his nose was thick and unmistakable.
Nick didn’t say anything. He just watched, smirking.
“I always get a cold around New Year’s,” Charlie added, like he was presenting evidence. “It’s nothing.”
Nick followed him into the kitchen, where Charlie leaned against the counter while scrolling through his phone.
“Train’s on time,” Charlie said. “We should probably leave in an hour if we want lunch before everything gets mad.”
He paused, blinking at the screen a little too long.
Nick filled the kettle. “Charlie.”
“I’m fine,” Charlie repeated, more defensive now.
Then the sneeze tore out of him—sharp, wet, sudden enough that he bent forward with it. He barely got the tissue up before another followed, then another, shoulders shaking as he sucked in air between them.
When it finally passed, he stayed hunched for a moment, breathing through his mouth.
“…okay,” he conceded hoarsely. “That one was gross.”
Nick gently steered him out of the kitchen and onto the sofa, pulling the blanket from the backrest and tucking it around his shoulders. Daisy was there instantly, climbing up and curling against Charlie’s hip like this was a drill she’d rehearsed.
Charlie opened his mouth to protest.
Nick handed him a mug of tea. “Drink.”
Charlie drank. Sighed. “We’re still going.”
Nick sat beside him. “Char.”
“It’s our tradition,” Charlie said, staring into the mug. “Every year. And this one—” He hesitated. “This is our first one as husbands.”
Nick softened. “I know.”
“I don’t want to be the reason we cancel.”
Nick picked up his phone. “You’re not.”
Charlie frowned. “What are you doing?”
Nick typed anyway.
Nick: hey loves — we’re going to stay in tonight. Charlie’s got a rough cold and isn’t up for London crowds. rain check soon, yeah? ❤️
Charlie watched the typing bubble appear, disappear, reappear.
“You didn’t even ask me.”
Nick looked at him. “I’m asking now. Do you actually want to go like this?”
Charlie opened his mouth.
Sneezed again instead.
By early afternoon, Charlie made a second attempt.
“I just need to shower properly,” he insisted, standing up too quickly. “That always helps.”
Nick let him try.
Ten minutes later, Charlie was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, wrapped in a towel, head in his hands.
“This is stupid,” he muttered when Nick came to check on him. “I hate being ill.”
Nick crouched in front of him. “You’re allowed to hate it.”
Charlie’s eyes stung. “I just wanted today to be… normal.”
The replies started coming in while Nick helped him back into clean pyjamas.
Tara: absolutely stay home. london will be chaos anyway
Darcy: charlie rest or else 😤
Tao: we’ll send you fireworks pics. married new years still counts ❤️
Charlie read them slowly, swallowing.
“I feel bad,” he said quietly.
Nick kissed his temple. “They love you.”
The afternoon stretched on in small, domestic pieces. Charlie dozed on and off, waking to cough or sneeze or complain half-heartedly about his blocked nose. Nick made soup. Put on rubbish telly. Changed the tissues. Daisy didn’t move.
By nightfall, Charlie had stopped talking about London altogether.
When fireworks started popping faintly in the distance, he stirred and glanced toward the window.
“It’s nearly midnight,” he murmured.
Nick wrapped them both in coats and blankets and guided him onto the balcony. The cold air made Charlie sniffle immediately, but he leaned into Nick’s side, fingers lacing together.
Lights bloomed across the sky—uneven, distant, imperfect.
Charlie tilted his head up. “You shouldn’t kiss me,” he said seriously. “I’m contagious.”
Nick smiled and kissed him anyway, slow and warm and certain.
“Happy New Year, husband,” Nick said softly.
Charlie laughed, congested and tired and utterly content. “Happy New Year.”
It wasn’t the night they’d planned.
But standing there together, watching London light up, it still felt exactly right.