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The air inside Room 304 of the Hôtel Mignon is heavy with the sticky, late-afternoon Paris heat. Sunlight filters through the sheer white curtains, casting a warm pattern of light across the unmade bed where Nick and Charlie sit close together. The familiar hum of the city floats up from the street below, but inside, the world feels shrunk down to just the two of them. Nick turns to Charlie, his expression shifting from lighthearted to deeply concerned. His hazel eyes search Charlie’s face, tracing the soft, pale features that seem a little extra tired today. He reaches out, his large, warm hand covering Charlie’s slender fingers where they rest on the duvet.
"Charlie," Nick says softly, his voice gentle and completely free of judgment. "I just... I notice things, you know? At breakfast, and at lunch today. You barely touched anything."
Charlie stills under Nick's touch. He stares down at their joined hands, his thumb running absently over Nick’s knuckles as if searching for grounding. The air in his chest feels thin. He takes a slow, quiet breath, weighing whether to brush it off or finally let the truth spill out.
"It's... hard to explain," Charlie begins, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. He doesn't look up, afraid of what he might see in Nick's eyes. "Ever since last year... after everyone found out and the bullying started... everything felt out of control. Totally chaotic. Like I was just getting pulled apart by everyone else's opinions."
Nick gently squeezes his hand, encouraging him without saying a word.
"And then," Charlie continues, a faint, sad smile touching his lips, "I realized... what I put into my body is the one thing no one else can touch. Controlling my eating, or not eating... it just feels like the only thing I can actually manage when everything else is falling apart."
Nick listens, his chest aching with a profound, tender ache. He doesn't offer quick fixes or unsolicited advice. Instead, he shifts closer, wrapping an arm around Charlie’s shoulders and pulling him into a firm, grounding side-hug. He rests his chin lightly against the top of Charlie’s curls.
"I get it, Char," Nick says softly, his voice steady and full of genuine warmth. "I mean, I don't fully understand what you went through, but I understand why you'd feel that way. You don't have to carry it all by yourself anymore, okay? I'm right here."
Charlie leans his head against Nick's shoulder, letting out a long, shuddering breath he didn't realize he was holding. For a brief second, the room is completely quiet, filled only with the soft cadence of their shared breathing. Then, the moment is broken by the sharp, metallic chime of Nick’s phone buzzing on the bedside table. Nick winces slightly at the interruption, reaching over to check the screen. The caller ID displays his father's name. Charlie offers a quick, reassuring smile, using the pause to give Nick some space.
"I'm gonna take a shower," he whispers, pushing himself up from the bed. "Clear off the Paris grime."
"Okay," Nick says softly, giving him a small, affectionate wave as Charlie gathers his fresh clothes and slips into the tiny, tiled bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Less than ten minutes later, the steam from the shower has filled the bathroom, and Charlie steps out wrapped in a oversized t-shirt and shorts, drying his damp dark curls with a towel. As he opens the bathroom door, the sound of low, fluent speech catches his ear. He freezes in the doorway. Nick is standing near the window, his back turned, phone pressed to his ear. But he isn't speaking English. The words tumbling from his lips are smooth, effortless French, rich with natural cadence and deep, resonant tones that Charlie has never heard him use quite like this before.
*"Oui, papa... non, je suis avec mes amis... oui, tout va bien."*
Charlie stays completely still, towel suspended halfway to his head, his heart doing a sudden, unprompted flutter. There is something intensely striking about the way Nick's voice softens on certain vowels, the effortless shift in posture, the easy, mature cadence of the language rolling off his tongue. Charlie feels a sudden rush of heat flush up his neck, color spreading rapidly across his cheeks.
Nick finishes the call with a quick *"Au revoir"* and presses the end button, letting his hand drop to his side with a sigh.
He turns around, catching Charlie standing frozen by the bathroom threshold. It takes less than three seconds for Nick to register the wide-eyed look on Charlie's face, the vivid red stain spreading across his cheeks, and the way his hands are clutching the towel just a little too tightly. A slow, mischievous smirk spreads across Nick's face. He takes a deliberate step forward, his eyes locked onto Charlie's with clear amusement. He reaches out, gently taking Charlie's right wrist and sliding his fingers down until their hands intertwine.
"Charlie..." Nick says, lowering his voice into that soft, low French register, his accent smooth and deliberate. "...mon amour."
Charlie pulls his hand back with a sudden jerk, though his grip doesn't entirely loosen. "Oh my god, you're so cringe!" Charlie squeaks out, trying desperately to sound annoyed, but his voice cracks slightly at the end.
"Hey!" Nick laughs softly, stepping closer and yanking him right back by the waist, catching Charlie around the middle before he can retreat. "No, you actually don't look like you're cringing, you look like you're blushing!"
"I am not!" Charlie insists, his face burning even hotter as he buries his face against Nick's shoulder to hide it, though his shoulders are already beginning to shake with suppressed laughter.
"You so are!" Nick grins, completely unbothered, and effortlessly pulls Charlie backward toward the bed. They tumble down onto the duvet together in a tangle of limbs.
Nick leans over him, resting on his elbows, his eyes bright with affection as he leans close to Charlie’s ear. "Tu es très mignon quand tu es embarrassé," Nick whispers softly in French, his breath warm against Charlie's skin.
Charlie lets out a high, helpless squeak, wrapping his arms around Nick's neck and hiding his glowing red face against Nick's chest. "Stop it! Stop speaking French, you absolute idiot!" he protests, but the words are completely undercut by the fond, helpless giggles spilling out of him.
Nick just laughs, wrapping his arms securely around Charlie, burying his face in Charlie's damp curls as the room fills with the sound of their soft, quiet laughter.