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Charlie and Nick had moved into their Lambeth home after Stéphane passed, leaving Nick the properties while the businesses went to his brother, David.
The three-storied, brick-fronted terraced house on Newburn Street had a conservatory that caught the morning sun, spilling warmth across the living-room floor. Its proximity to Vauxhall Primary School, where Nick worked, had made the choice easy.
Two years later, Charlie sometimes wonders whether he truly knows every part of his husband. He loves Nick fiercely and completely, yet there are moments like this, small, quiet discoveries, that remind him intimacy is always unfolding.
Monday
Charlie is cleaning out a closet when he finds a dog-shaped hood.
The hood now lies on the bed like a small, folded secret. It looks like a border collie, almost like Nellie: auburn and white, the leather soft but sturdy, stitched together as if someone had tried to recreate the photograph of Nellie on Nick’s nightstand. The ears flop gently, heavy and pliable, the kind you instinctively scratch behind. The eye holes are empty, waiting for eyes he knows so well, warm, brown, full of familiar mischief and quiet attention.
Nick will not be home for another three hours. Curious, Charlie lifts the hood and snaps a photo, then opens image search on his phone.
‘Pup play hood,’ the search engine suggests.
Charlie hesitates only a second before clicking. He reads slowly, absorbing a definition that frames pup play not solely as sexual, but also as roleplay for relaxation and connection, sometimes involving gear like a hood. He scrolls down and pauses at a section titled How to Look After Your Pup.
Some of the phrases have him, sorry for the pun, howling with laughter. They are funny, but they are also insightful.
Run your fingers gently across the scalp, including your nails.
That makes him smile. He already does this, and Nick leans back, eyes half-closed, relaxing into it after a long day of teaching.
Call them pet names.
Charlie thinks of the first time Nick called him ‘Char’ at the cinema over a decade ago, the name sticking softly into their lives.
Scritches are welcome, especially the back, tummy, and behind the ears.
He pictures himself doing exactly that, his hands learning what Nick likes, already remembering how gentle he always is, how much trust Nick carries in every small gesture.
Charlie puts the hood down for a moment and leans against a bedpost, imagining Nick walking through the door later and seeing it sitting there, gently waiting. He decides to leave it.
With two hours to spare, Charlie gets into the car and heads to the pet shop. Once there, he makes a beeline for a giant bin labelled Squeaky Soft Toys. After about two minutes, he finds the perfect one: fittingly enough, a rugby ball.
Once home again, he makes some biscuits and cuts them out in dog-bone shapes. With half an hour left, he puts the kettle on for tea.
When Nick gets home, he kicks off his shoes at the door, neatly placing his Vans next to Charlie’s Converse, then runs up to the bedroom.
‘Hi, honey. How were the kids today? Were they all good boys and girls? I finally cleaned out the main closet,’ Charlie says, emphasising certain words to see if Nick notices.
As Charlie finishes speaking, Nick notices his pup hood lying on the bed. He hears Charlie say, ‘Pup, if you think this changes me loving you one bit, outside of loving you even more, you’re crazy. Now, c’mere, pup. I have treats for you.’
Nick puts on his hood and bounces down the stairs into the living room, sitting cross-legged beside Charlie’s chair, resting his head on the arm.
‘Borf?’
‘Good puppy. You want a biscuit?’
‘Borf.’
Charlie scratches Nick’s scalp with his nails, and Nick pushes his head against Charlie’s hand, as if asking him to continue.
‘Good pup,’ Charlie murmurs. ‘Asking for what you want.’
Nick preens under the praise from his husband, thinking, this man is so, so good to me. But he has papers that need marking and food to cook.
‘Borrrrfff,’ sounding more like a groan, Nick heads over to his work pack and paws at it.
‘Nick, can you keep the hood on and still work?’
Nick tilts his head, then shakes it no. Mumbling as he takes off the hood, he says, ‘I haven’t got used to pup headspace enough to do that yet.’ He carefully folds the hood and starts to take it to the main closet.
‘Pup, no more closets for you.’ Charlie takes the hood and places it on Nick’s nightstand.
Nick marks papers for his Year Threes, red pen tucked behind his ear, while Charlie gets out the recipe for the spicy pasta they both like. It is easy enough for them to talk at the same time, words drifting between the scrape of chairs and the hiss of garlic hitting oil.
While they eat dinner, they talk. It is the comfortable kind, unhurried, punctuated by small smiles and the clink of cutlery.
‘Do you have a pupsona?’ Charlie asks, twirling pasta around his fork. He had seen the word on one of the websites he had looked at, though he had not quite known how to bring it up.
‘Breed is border collie, and I just remember what Nellie used to do. But my pup name, which, please don’t laugh, is Nicky, like Mum calls me. A friend online says the best pup names are ones you already answer to.’
Charlie’s mouth curves into something fond before he can stop it. ‘So, Nicky, what about pup play do you like?’
‘To be honest, I miss playing. From the age of seven, the only play we really had was rugby and Nellie. I see the kids on the playground at work, and I feel jealous sometimes. They just run, shout, make up rules as they go along.
With rugby, play became sport and then work. Two years in and an injury takes you out for good. No more play.’
Charlie reaches across the table, brushing Nick’s wrist with his thumb, not interrupting.
‘So, I was at the Eagle in Kennington for a pint, since it’s the nearest gay bar. They were having a Pup Out and it looked like a lot of fun, and I met some really nice pups. One named Zip told me that the easiest way to find out if you are a pup is to play and see if it calls to you. And oh, how it did. He does massage therapy. His throuple partner, Scoob, is a dog walker.’
Charlie laughs heartily. ‘A dog walking a dog?’
‘I know! He also went to culinary school. He makes human-sized dog biscuits. I had one that was Parmesan cheese and cracked pepper. It was so good. They invited us to dinner one night.’
‘In dog bowls?’
‘No. Bone china, of course.’
They laugh a bit, until Nick starts to yawn.
‘Pup Nicky, is it time to go to bed? Cuddles? I got you a squeaky toy for you.’
Nick’s head pops up at the mention of a toy.
I so love this man, Nick thinks to himself.
Wednesday
Charlie revels in the fact that, as a copy editor, he is able to work remotely. It helps that his bosses, Aled Last and Isaac Henderson, are both introverts who, during the pandemic, came to understand that a formal office is not really needed. They use a rented workspace when required, but the rest of the time it is remote, with Zoom.
That also allows Charlie to research more about the pup community.
Handlers. Packs. Collars. These stick with him for a while, because he knows they will have to come from Nicky’s decisions.
Charlie reads sprawled across the sofa, the flat quieter than usual, Nick still at work. There is a mug gone cold on the coffee table. He keeps rereading the first section: that being a handler is not about control; it is about letting pups be pups. About safety. About care. He thinks the internet sometimes gets things right.
It keeps talking about talking things through first. Expectations. Aftercare. Charlie thinks about how he and Nick leave notes for each other, how Nick texts to say he will be late, how everything important somehow comes back to checking in. Making sure no one is guessing.
The section on headspace makes him pause. Everyone is different, it says. Pups, handlers — all of them. Even handlers can slip into headspace without realising. Charlie imagines Nick here instead of at work, focused in that calm, attentive way he gets, and the thought steadies him, like picturing someone’s coat on the back of a chair.
When a handler is in headspace, the article says, they are meant to stay logical. The anchor. Charlie likes that word. He thinks about how logic does not have to be cold. It can be gentle. It can sound like someone asking if you have had enough, or if you need a minute. He realises that he has already started to act like a handler to Nicky.
There is a paragraph about gear, about how putting it on can become a ritual. Knee pads, mitts, a hood. A way of telling your body it is safe to let go. Charlie looks around the flat — the half-folded laundry, Nick’s shoes by the door — and thinks that maybe rituals do not always have to look so grand
NickyPup: Should be home in an hour or so after school lets out. Have to meet with Headmistress Malone about the holiday show this winter. Zip asked if we wanted to come over for dinner on Saturday. And we have brunch on Sunday with the Paris Gang. I can’t wait to tell them about pup Nicky, if that’s okay with you.
CharlieSpringPeas: It’s your coming-out pup, but yes to both Saturday and Sunday. Tao always said you looked like a golden retriever with the haircut you had back then.
NickyPup: Hmm, maybe I should grow it out again, because the straps would probably disappear under it. Got to go, Harry Green’s son has just got a crayon stuck up his nose.
CharlieSpringPeas: Have fun, pup.
With that, he dived into the world of pup packs.
Packs, and their hierarchy, it seemed, were understandably as varied as the community. The one that seemed to fit Nicky as a pup was a service pup, because he had always been a very caring person who just wanted to please. Neither of the main three, Alpha, Beta, or Omega, seemed quite right. Anyone who had ever seen him play rugby before would have said that too.
Then he got to collars, and his heart started to race and flutter. Something told him that he really wanted to collar him, but again it was something that had to be a decision the pup agreed to willingly. He looked at some of them and laughed, thinking of the image of him walking around: former rugby star Nick Nelson, with his 132 cm chest or his 56 cm arms, on a collar and leash. Besides, he knew that Nicky was a good boy and would follow, unless he got distracted.
Nick was definitely not a fat chain-and-lock type, because that would just be silly on him, but maybe a long, thin chain with a metal dog name tag at the end that could be doubled up for pup moshes.
When Nicky got home, they ordered takeaway and watched Lady & the Tramp while Charlie gently rubbed Nick’s furry tummy.
Saturday night
As we pulled up to their house overlooking Herne Bay, it was an imposing brick-and-white-sided place on Harcourt Drive. Two dogs stood in the window.
After we knocked on the door, Alex, also known as Scoob, opened it.
‘Come in. Don’t worry about Flotsam and Jetsam. We adopted them from a senior dog rescue. They’re a bonded male pair. Hunter, or Pup Zip, was in New York on Broadway in The Little Mermaid at the time and had them sent here to me.’
Flotsam and Jetsam are not just any dogs. They are Great Danes.
Nick laughed at Charlie when Jetsam decided that now would be a good time to hug him, knocking him over and then proceeding to give him a slobbery kiss.
‘Now I get it. It is definitely a puppy thing,’ Charlie said, trying to stand up again.
‘Speaking of puppy things, upstairs and to the left is the ball pit if you want to get some play in. Just take them with you. Charlie, I hope a pasta bar is all right with you.’
Both Nick and Charlie spotted a shoe stand and took off their shoes.
‘Yes, definitely. Thank you.’
Nick pulled me up the stairs, tugging his hood out of his pocket as the dogs chased after us clumsily. When we reached the door on the left, Nick put his hood on and slid into a sitting-on-his-haunches position, pawing at the door.
‘Do you want to go inside, pups?’
In unison, all three went, ‘BORF!’
When Charlie opened the door, the entire room was a giant ball pit, with thousands of colourful balls held back by netting stretched across the bottom of the doorway. The dogs jumped straight in as Nick gingerly stepped over the netting.
A tall, dark-haired, bearded man stood beside Charlie in the doorway with a broad smile.
‘I’m Aaron Micheals Peck-Cole. You must be Charlie. I’m so sorry I’m late. I was at synagogue finishing prayers for Shabbat. I’m very glad to meet you. Have you figured out yet what you are to Pup Nicky?’
‘It’s all so new. I only found out about all of it this week. I know I’m Nick’s husband, but I don’t know exactly what I am to Pup Nicky. That’s up to him.’
‘What are you thinking about? You have a look.’
‘I was wondering, well, estimating how many balls there are, in case he wants one at our place,’ Charlie said with a light giggle.
‘There are just over twenty thousand in there. We have to make sure the dogs don’t take any out. Flotsam has an affinity for chewing things. Yes, he probably will want one, but then he won’t have an excuse to come and play with all my pups, including those two.’
‘Hi loves. Where is everyone?’ Hunter said as he opened the front door.
The two Great Dane heads popped up out of the balls, and Charlie had just enough time to move out of the way as they barrelled down the stairs.
Aaron looked at Charlie, rolled his eyes, and called towards the stairs, ‘Zip, ball pit, and bring your brothers. Alex is cooking.’
Charlie watched Nick for a moment, amazed, as he was being utterly goofy, attempting a backstroke in the sea of coloured balls. At the same time, a graceful man with blond, curly hair pranced in, took off his jacket, and hung it up. He pulled out a Great Dane mask, the kind that goes behind the ears so as not to disturb his wildly dancing curls. With a nod exchanged between him and Aaron, he cartwheeled straight into the ball pit.
‘Cheeky pup,’ Charlie laughed.
‘Yes, he is. Has been since boarding school. That’s where we all met. What did Alex say we were having for dinner, so I can pick out some wine?’
‘Pasta bar is what he asked me about.’
‘That explains why he’s been making pasta all week long. The boy loves to make pasta.’
When dinner was ready Alex rung a bell and the Great Danes once again barrelled through the house but to their own bowls of food.
Charlie was amazed by the pasta bar as Alex put it was seven pastas and five sauces everything was labeled.
‘Are you okay Char?’ Nick asked in a whisper.
‘I know you didn’t tell them because you wouldn’t. But it’s just kinda overwhelming.’
Alex came over, ‘is everything okay I hope I didn’t go overboard with the labeling. I know so many pups with eating disorders or health conditions, so I take them into consideration when we have new people or pups around and I like making pasta. Try the truffle buttered noodles with the no nuts pesto.
‘Hey guys me and Charlie are going to be going to my mums for Brunch tomorrow so let’s stick with the one wine glass.’
‘Nick Nelson you are making me and Alex jealous. Neither of us have had a mum in a long time besides Miriam.’
Alex sighed, ‘Mine died in a car accident with my dad two years before I met these two at the boarding school.’
Aaron smiled, ‘My Mum, Miriam loves these two almost more than she loves me. When she heard about the pup community, she got their pupsonas both eight days of Hanukkah gifts and Christmas gifts just so they could have puppy presents to unwrap thumbless.’
Charlie had a fit of giggles at the image.
‘Mum definitely likes him more now. Mister buys his mother-in-law flowers to celebrate whatever.’ Nick says sarcastically.
‘Like what Charlie?’ Aaron says bewildered.
‘The anniversary of her divorce to Nick’s dad being final, her birthday, Mothering Day, Nicks birthday as a thank you, International Doctors Day, even though she is retired now. And a poppy corsage for Remembrance Day in honour of her grandfather.’
‘Nick, remind me never to let him around my mother.’ Aaron replied.
The table laughed.
‘You were right the Truffle Buttered Noodles with pesto was delicious.’ Charlie said to Alex who preened with the compliment.
‘So, Nick have you figured out what you want in a Puppy Pack.’
‘This week has shown me that I have a pack already. With Charlie as a handler if he wants and 30 puppies to play around with five days a week with the kids in my Year Three class. I also have noted that I had never noticed how pup play coded Rugby was. Two packs face off and try to keep a hold of a ball for your pack. And please almost all pups have a need for praise, like hearing a Coach or captain who is an Alpha say what a good job we are doing.’
‘Good job pup’ Charlie said giving quick scritches behind his ears, and yes, I would love to be your handler pup.
And for the first time in two years Nick felt at peace with both sides of himself.
The end... BORF!