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Oh, because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
—The Cure, Olivia Rodrigo
“Babe, you good? You seem really tired.”
This wasn’t an unusual occurrence for Nick, what with A Levels and uni applications and the constant cloud of coming-of-age anxiety that seemed to hover over him these days. But existential fatigue before eight in the morning might have been a personal record.
Nick lifted his hand from the gearstick to drag down his face. “Hmm, yeah. Crap night’s sleep.”
“Nightmares?”
“No, not this time. I just kept waking up for some reason.” He squeezed Charlie’s knee with a wan smile. “Maybe you should stop giving me free coffees.”
Nick had started studying at the Rainy Day to keep Charlie company and occasionally help out with the mopping so they could all clock out on time. When Charlie had protested the unpaid labour, Nick had claimed that Charlie looked hot pulling shots of espresso and that was payment enough. But Charlie still made sure to give him all of his mistake coffees as a thank you. And if he ‘accidentally’ read an order wrong, or his hand slipped a little when pouring in the pumpkin spice syrup, then no one was any the wiser.
Nick had barely touched his latte yesterday though—apparently he’d already satisfied his beverage needs with an afternoon cuppa at home—which meant the coffee wasn’t the problem here.
They rolled up outside the Sixth Form, Nick swerving interpretively into the nearest parking space like the lines were for decoration. Incredibly, he didn’t bother to correct himself. It was quite possibly the worst forward park—and the most committed straddle—Charlie had ever witnessed from him. But then Nick tipped his brow onto the steering wheel and screwed his eyes shut, and any thought of ribbing him for it quickly faded to concern.
“Nick?”
He exhaled and lifted his head, his face wan. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t. Charlie knew what too-low blood pressure in the morning looked like; he used to see it in the mirror every day. “Have you eaten any breakfast?”
Pretending he hadn’t heard the question, Nick switched off the engine and climbed out of the car.
“Nick,” Charlie pressed, following suit. “Let me get you something from the canteen.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” Nick said dismissively. When Charlie opened his mouth to protest, he added, “Stomach’s a bit dodgy. I’ll eat later.”
Charlie frowned.
“Sorry,” Nick said.
“Why?”
“You probably think I’m being a hypocrite.”
Because if the situations had been reversed, Charlie would have never got away with an I’ll eat later.
But Nick didn’t have an eating disorder. He wouldn’t skip a meal unless he genuinely wasn’t hungry.
“You’re not,” Charlie assured him. He slipped an arm around Nick’s back as they headed towards the school gates. “Maybe you’re coming down with something?”
“I don’t think so. It’s probably just stress.”
Charlie knew Nick had been anxious about a lot of things lately. As for what those things were, he didn’t have a fucking clue. Nick avoided the subject like Tao avoided Coach Singh on sports day.
“At least drink some water,” he insisted.
At Charlie’s mothering, Nick’s expression mellowed into something quietly bemused. He pulled out his water bottle from his satchel and took an obliging swig. “Happy now, darling?”
“I’ll be happy when you’re feeling better.” He pressed a kiss goodbye to Nick’s too-pale cheek. “Got a meeting with Lange this morning. Try and eat, okay? I’ll see you at Pride Club?”
“I’ll be there.”
Nick, in fact, was not there.
Charlie gave it five minutes before sending him a text.
Charlie
you still coming to pride club? x
They couldn’t afford to wait around for him any longer, so Isaac launched into his presentation about aroace book recommendations. Charlie did his best to look like he was paying attention, and not like he was slipping anxious glances at his phone screen every ten seconds.
“Charlie, chill,” Tao hissed, because he was clearly doing an excellent job at being covert. “He’s probably just running late. Or he forgot.”
“He wouldn’t,” Charlie whispered back. “I’m worried. He didn’t seem well this morning.”
Tao prised the phone from Charlie’s hand. “Isaac deserves your attention. I’ll tell you if Nick texts.”
Three book recs in, there was a faint buzz, and Tao gave back the phone.
Nick
Char I’m so sorry
I can’t make it today
Charlie
nooo :(
is everything ok? ❤
Nick
Not really?
Started feeling worse
I’m heading home early
Fuck. Charlie couldn’t remember Nick ever going home sick, except for that one time he’d got whacked in the head at rugby and needed to get checked out for a concussion. He’d caught a horrendous cold-flu thing in January right after mocks, and the silly sausage had still powered through school, insisting through about fifty layers of vocal fry and a definite fever that he was fine.
So either Nick had suddenly acquired some good sense (unlikely), or he was in an even worse state this time.
Deciding he could make it up to Isaac later, Charlie slipped out of the art room.
Nick picked up on the seventh ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, I got your texts. You okay, babe? What’s wrong?”
“Well, you were right. I’m definitely ill.” Then, because it was Nick, he tagged onto the end a meaningless, “But I’m okay.”
Charlie hadn’t ditched Isaac’s talk for such a cop-out answer, but trying to get Nick to open up was like trying to pet a stray dog. Sometimes he’d come forwards of his own accord, but more often than not it took a careful approach, no sudden movements, or he’d be retreating back into himself with his hackles raised.
“So not just stress, then?” Charlie probed gently.
“I, uh… I threw up in a bush. Halfway through PE. So yeah, go figure. Coach told me to go home.”
“Jesus, Nick.”
“It’s fine. David’s on his lunch break right now. He's coming to pick me up.”
That wasn’t the slightest bit reassuring. If Nick had been in any state to drive, Charlie was sure he would have done so rather than rely on that prick.
“I’ve got last period free. I’ll come over and look after you.”
“Charlie, no,” Nick cut in. “I… I’m pretty sure this is a stomach bug. If you come over you’ll catch it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I don’t want to risk it. Stay at home tonight, okay? I’ll be alright.”
As if. Sarah was away this week, and David had finally got himself a day job working at some petrol station, so Nick would be on his own until the evening. And even then, he'd only have his dickhead brother for company, who Charlie wouldn't trust to apply a plaster, let alone nurse someone through a stomach flu.
“Charlie? Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah. Stay at home. Leave my poorly boyfriend to suffer all alone.”
“I mean it.”
“Yeah, alright, alright.”
It wasn't alright, but that was a conversation that could happen face-to-face. Later today. When he rocked up at Nick’s doorstep, permission be damned.
As soon as he was out of school, Charlie took the bus straight there, stopping briefly by the corner shop down the road to get a couple of sick-day-suitable drinks and ingredients to make soup.
It took one ‘I’m outside’ text, and three rings of the doorbell for Nick to answer. The moment the front door opened, Charlie knew he’d made the right call.
The hi on the tip of his tongue dissolved into, “Hell, you look like shit.”
It wasn’t an exaggeration. If Nick had looked rough this morning, it was nothing compared to now: dark circles stark against porcelain white skin, knuckles paling as he gripped the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him standing. He’d changed into a baggy t-shirt and joggers—his usual springtime loungewear—but shuddered like he was in desperate need of another layer.
“I thought I told you not to come over.” He sounded exhausted. Actually, exhausted was an understatement. He sounded like every syllable cost him energy he couldn’t afford to pay.
“I wanted to look after you.”
Nick exhaled, closing his eyes.
“Hey.” Charlie stepped through the doorway and reached for him, but Nick backed into the wall.
“Don’t. Look, Charlie, this is a really bad bug. I don’t want you to catch it.”
“I don’t care—”
“Well, I care, okay?” he snapped. He dragged a hand down his face, and the expression left behind was pained. Then, weakly, “I need to lie down.”
He trudged upstairs, gripping the bannister. After a moment’s deliberation, Charlie followed him.
He wasn’t fast enough. The footsteps faded, followed by the hurried creak of a closing door, and the click of the bolt sliding shut. The sound was a knife to the heart. Countless times, Charlie had been the reason for Nick using that lock. But he’d never expected to be on the other side of it.
“Nick, let me in.”
“Go home, Charlie.”
“No.”
“For god’s sake. I said I don’t want you here. What about that don’t you understand?”
Charlie took a slow breath—five things: door, stairs, carpet, bathroom, family photo—trying not to lose his temper. “I bought you some Lucozade and ginger ale. I’m gonna leave them outside your door. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” Then, quietly, “I love you.”
“Charlie?” Nick's voice was softer, a little shaky. Charlie stalled, suddenly hopeful that he’d had a change of heart.
“Yeah?”
“Just please don’t use the upstairs bathroom.”
That hope fizzled out like a dying spark. Charlie rolled his eyes. “Sure. Whatever.”
With nothing better to do, he went downstairs to the kitchen and started prepping chicken and veggies for the soup. After two years of shared dinners, of late-morning weekend pancakes and after-school biscuits dunked in milky tea, he knew the Nelsons’ kitchen as well as his own. But today, he felt like a stranger.
There were no random puffs of flour in his face. No bad singalongs to the radio. No warm hand coming to rest on his back, or stealing slices of carrots from the chopping board. Nick was only upstairs, but the house had never felt emptier.
At least, until the Nelsons’ resident prick showed up.
“Come over to play nurse, have you?” David said, rummaging around in the fridge for his usual post-shift beer.
Charlie didn’t grace him with a reply. He turned on the heat and chucked some aromatics in a pan, waiting for David to leave. But the bastard just loitered there, taking swigs from his bottle.
At last, Charlie lifted his gaze from the stove. David’s eyes were on him, something unfamiliar and strangely honest in his expression. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Cleared his throat. “How is he?”
Concern, Charlie realised, or as close as he could manage without straining himself. It was an unprecedented level of sincerity from David. And Charlie was suddenly compelled to give a genuine answer, instead of his original plan of glaring in a way that meant, please fuck off.
“Not good,” he replied. “Beyond that, I don’t know. He’s shut me out of his room.”
“Yeah, well, he’s a moody bitch when he’s ill. I wouldn’t take it personally.”
And just like that, the universe returned to its equilibrium. Charlie finally had reason to use his fuck off stare, and David finally took it as his cue to leave.
At the doorway, though, he turned around. “If Nick needs anything, let me know. I can take the car.”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Charlie said, a touch defensive.
David scoffed. “You seriously think he’d talk to me? He didn’t even tell me why he needed picking up earlier. Didn’t figure it out until he yelled at me to pull over and chucked up on the side of the road.”
With that, he left, and Charlie found himself staring after him, something heavy and helpless settling in his chest.
He went back to the soup, tossing all the ingredients into a pot of boiling water. While that simmered, he got started on the pasta dough. Obviously he could have just bought pasta and saved time, but Nick was the kind of person who took delight in the little things. Like the sound felt tips made on paper, or heart-shaped pasta made with mini cookie cutters. And Charlie knew he could do with some cheering up right now.
In all this time, Nick stayed sequestered in his bedroom. A part of Charlie had hoped he might crumble and come traipsing down the stairs, in need of a cuddle and some TLC. But there hadn't been so much as a peep out of him. Chances were he was getting some sleep, or at least a little rest, able to manage fine enough on his own. Which was a good thing, Charlie reasoned. Even if it did little to ease the sting in his heart.
He wrapped the ball of pasta dough in cling film and put it in a bowl to rest. Now, all that was left to do was wait.
Charlie wandered into the living room in search of company that wasn’t a locked door or a bellend, pointedly ignoring where said bellend sat man-spreading on the sofa. Nellie and Henry weren't there, but before he could check anywhere else, the sound of a slamming door ricocheted down the stairs.
Seconds later, like thunder after lightning, the retching came. Charlie met David’s eyes, and saw his own alarm mirrored on the man’s face.
“Better you than me,” David said.
That was all the prompting Charlie needed. He raced upstairs, almost tripping over the dogs at the top, who must have been with Nick this whole time. They were scratching at the bathroom door, Henry making anxious puppy noises.
Charlie pushed past them to rap on the door himself. “Nick? Can I come in?”
Nick didn’t reply, though that was less because he was ignoring Charlie, and more because he was audibly otherwise occupied.
Charlie tried the doorknob. It opened. Nick must have been in too much of a hurry to lock it. The sight that greeted him was about as grim as he’d expected: Nick kneeling on the tiles, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps as he spat weakly into the toilet bowl.
“Hey,” Charlie said, loud enough to make his presence known. When Nick didn’t yell at him to leave, he took it as permission to stay, slipping beside Nick to lay a steadying hand on his back.
Nick threw up again. There wasn’t much left, though his stomach clearly hadn’t got the memo, convulsing hard enough to double him over with a groan of pain. “Sorry,” he choked out.
“Shh. It’s okay.” Charlie rubbed circles into Nick’s back.
That seemed to be the last of it, though Charlie waited another minute to be sure, stroking Nick’s back all the while. Nick remained motionless on the toilet seat, head slumped on his arm, eyes closed and utterly spent.
Charlie reached over to flush the toilet. Nick didn’t react. He’d often had moments of listlessness lately, when he thought Charlie wasn’t looking, but never on this level.
“Do you need anything?” Charlie asked, trying to nudge him out of it. “Maybe some water?”
At last, Nick lifted his head, eyes unfocused, his ruddy cheeks gleaming with sweat. Charlie almost flinched. He’d seen this Nick before, the night of the Queer Intentions Christmas gig. Memories tore into the forefront of his mind, fresh as an open wound: the anger, the drunken yelling, the I don’t need your help.
Charlie braced himself for a repeat.
It didn’t come. When Nick spoke, his voice was soft, unguarded, and almost unbearably young. “You stayed.”
A lump rose in Charlie’s throat. “Yeah, course I did.”
Nick blinked, slow and laboured. “Dad didn’t.”
“Dad?” Nick’s words were slurred enough that Charlie wasn’t sure if he’d misheard. “You mean David?” Presumably, David had gone back to work right after dropping his brother off at home, and Nick probably didn’t know that he’d returned.
“Yeah, him too.”
“Nick, you’re not making any sense.”
“Sorry.” He pressed the heel of his palm to his brow. “M’dizzy.”
Screw it. Charlie was done with walking on eggshells, and humouring Nick’s idiotic insistence to endure this alone. “Come here,” he pleaded. Nick seemed reluctant to move any closer, but the moment Charlie tugged him to his chest, he let his entire body fall slack, fitting himself against Charlie like a well-worn puzzle piece. His head was heavy as a stone, chest fluttering with shallow breaths. With their bodies so close, Charlie realised he was shaking. Maybe from exertion. Maybe fever.
“Are you cold?”
Nick made a vague noise of affirmation.
Charlie scooted them backwards against the radiator, both for the warmth and to have something to lean against. With a little struggle, he yanked off his cardigan and draped it over Nick like a blanket. Still, he shivered. “Babe, maybe we should get you back to bed?”
“In a minute. Just need to… recharge.”
Troubled, Charlie fumbled for Nick’s wrist and pressed two fingers against it. His pulse quivered, weak and rapid. Nick’s eyes slipped closed. His weight against Charlie grew heavier.
“Hey, you still awake?”
“Mhm.”
“Do you need to lie down?”
“No. This… this is… good.”
Christ, he was fading fast.
“Nick, love, stay with me.”
“S’okay Char,” Nick murmured. “Same thing happened earlier. It’ll pass.”
The thought of Nick having gone through this before—without anyone to help him—only made Charlie feel worse. But, true to Nick’s word, it did pass. The trembling eased and his breaths steadied. Nick's eyes opened and stayed open. He shifted so Charlie wasn't supporting so much of his weight.
“Sorry,” he said meekly.
Charlie half wished he could wring every needless apology right out of Nick until none remained. “Don’t be sorry,” he said.
With a groan, Nick pulled himself to his feet and returned the cardigan. Charlie would have kept hold of him for longer if he'd had his way, but Nick seemed steady enough, all things considered. He washed up at the sink and rinsed out his mouth. Then, as if he hadn't just been an inch away from fainting on Charlie, he cleared his throat and said, “Right. I'm gonna head back.”
“Are you planning to lock me out again?” Charlie asked, and immediately regretted it, because he couldn't finish the sentence without his voice breaking. It was a messy break, the kind that threw out splinters. Nick flinched like he'd been struck.
“I—” he faltered. Beneath the malaise, Charlie saw his expression shift. From guilt, to conflict, and finally to resignation. “No,” he said softly, and held open the bathroom door. “Wanna come?”
The ginger ale and Lucozade lay unopened on the hallway floor, knocked over in Nick’s rush to reach the bathroom. Charlie picked them up and carried them with him. The dogs raced ahead, hopping onto their usual spot at the foot of Nick’s bed. Nick gave them a tired pet before climbing in himself. Too exhausted for pride, he curled up small beneath the covers, bundling up his fleecy blue blanket to hug to his chest.
Charlie placed the drinks on the nightstand. Beside it, on the floor, were a large saucepan and towel, though it seemed Nick hadn’t had cause to use them yet. He drew the covers to Nick’s chin and pressed a hand to his forehead, confirming what he’d already known. “Let me get you something for this.”
“Don’t bother,” Nick murmured. “I throw up anything I try to take.”
That was far from ideal. But Charlie had another plan in mind. Fetching Nick’s flannel from the bathroom, he soaked it in cold water and returned to perch on the side of the bed. Gently, he wiped the cool cloth across Nick’s brow and cheeks, along his lips, which were far too dry.
At this, Nick’s eyelids drooped. As much as Charlie wanted to take it as a sign of relief, he wasn’t fooling himself. He knew that look, saw it every time he caught his boyfriend expressing the slightest bit of vulnerability. Nick was trying not to meet his gaze.
Even so, he tolerated Charlie’s ministrations without complaint. Charlie wondered if he’d actually changed his mind about not wanting help, or if he simply felt too poorly to be stubborn about it anymore.
“Thank you,” Nick murmured, in that soft way of his, as Charlie withdrew the cloth.
“Does that feel better?” Charlie ventured.
He nodded. Exhaled. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
“Nick, you don’t have to apologise for throwing up.”
At last, Nick looked at him. The cold water must have awakened him somewhat; there was a clarity in his gaze that hadn’t been there before. “I mean before that. When you arrived. I was a dick to you.”
“A little bit,” Charlie admitted. “But I get it. You weren’t feeling well.” God knew he’d been guilty of the exact same thing all through last year.
“I didn’t mean it when I said I don’t want you here. I just… get so scared. At the thought of you getting ill.”
“A stomach bug isn’t the same as a relapse, Nick.”
“I know, but it’s still shit. I haven’t been able to eat anything all day. And if it happened to you…”
He didn’t need to explain. They both knew well enough that even one missed meal could compromise Charlie’s progress. But the thing was, Charlie couldn’t live out the rest of his life in a sterile bubble. He had to trust that he could handle a common illness without anorexia sneaking in through the back door. And really, he hated how Nick was still worrying about him, even now.
At any rate, if it was a choice between abandoning Nick while he was this laid low, and facing a bump in his own recovery, Charlie knew which one he’d rather pick.
This was all a bit heavy for bedside conversation though, so he gave his best reassuring smile and said, “If it happens to me I’ll just take a few days off school and ride it out while you give me cuddles. I can think of worse things.”
“Charlie.”
“And I might not even catch it. So there’s no point worrying right now, okay?”
Nick swallowed. “You make it sound so easy.”
Charlie folded the flannel into a long strip and held it to Nick’s forehead again. “Tell you what,” he said, “I promise not to snog you while you’re ill. And to make sure I’m washing my hands for at least thirty seconds. And in return you have to let me look after you without telling me to piss off.”
Nick still didn’t look happy with this, but he was clearly crumbling under the comfort of finally being cared for. “Alright.”
“Good.” Charlie lifted a corner of the flannel and pressed a kiss to Nick’s temple.
“Oi. I thought you said no kissing,” Nick protested, a hint of his usual fondness slipping through.
“I meant locking lips. So that one didn’t count.” Charlie put the flannel back down with a little pat. “Do you still feel nauseous?”
“A little bit. Not too bad.”
“Alright. We should top you up on fluids, then.” He gestured at the drink selection he’d bought from the corner shop. “Preference?”
“I don’t mind.”
That was deeply unhelpful, but Charlie wasn’t deterred. He cracked open the bottle of Lucozade, which—being Nick’s drink of choice after rugby matches—seemed like the safest option. Nick took a swig and grimaced.
“No good?” Charlie said, dismayed.
Nick shook his head and returned the bottle. “Sorry.”
“I thought you liked the orange one?” It was the flavour Nick always opted for, presumably due to its proximity to Fanta.
“I do, but nothing’s really tasted right since I started throwing up.”
“Not even water?”
“Water’s worse, actually.”
Getting Nick rehydrated was going to be harder than he’d thought.
“Have you tried anything savoury?”
“Not yet.”
“How about some soup?”
“I dunno, Charlie. I’m worried it’ll just come back up.”
“Well, I’ve got some boiling downstairs. I was going to add those homemade heart-shaped pastas that you like, but how about you try the broth for now and see how you find it?”
Nick was silent for so long, Charlie worried he’d started to space out again. But then he said, in the tiniest voice, “You made me soup?”
And—god—Charlie wanted to hug him. He settled for lightly stroking Nick’s hair, a loving smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, what else do you think I’ve been doing downstairs this past hour?”
Nick didn’t return the smile. If anything, he looked sadder.
“Hey, what is it?”
He stared at the ceiling. “I don’t…” He shut his eyes, took a breath and tried again. “I don’t think I deserve you.”
“Nick, don’t be silly.” Charlie cupped his cheek. Despite the cool cloth, he was already warming up again. Maybe if they managed to work their way up to food, Charlie could finally get some medicine in him, and he’d stop saying such fever-induced bollocks. “Look at me. I’m not hearing it, okay? That is the most ridiculous thing you’ve said since claiming bubblegum is the best flavour.”
“At least let me pay you back for the stuff you bought, Char.”
“Absolutely not. You can pay me back by getting better. And that starts with not letting yourself get so dehydrated you end up in A&E. So, soup? Tiny bit?”
He sighed. “Yeah, go on then.”
Spurred on by love, Nick finished every last drop of the soup. Which would have been heartening, were it not for that fact that Charlie had given him a portion size of about three tablespoons. He’d intended to ease Nick in without overwhelming him, and to top him up with a more substantial second helping once he was satisfied Nick could stomach it. Except, after that thimble-sized meal, Nick laid back down and declared he was full.
But it was okay. He’d managed to eat something, and Charlie could try again later. Baby steps.
His optimism was soon quashed when Nick sat bolt upright, breathing heavily.
“You okay?”
He shook his head.
Charlie shoved the saucepan onto his lap, and Nick relinquished the meagre contents of his stomach. The ordeal didn’t take as much out of him as the last time, but that was little reassurance when Nick was giving up fluids he couldn’t afford to lose.
“I’m gonna go and chuck this,” he said, once it was over.
“No, Nick, let me do it—”
But he was already dragging himself out of bed. “It’s okay, I sort of need to use the toilet anyway.”
He returned after twenty odd minutes looking downright miserable. Charlie didn’t need to wonder why he’d taken so long.
“The full works?” he asked sympathetically.
“You don’t wanna know,” Nick mumbled. He crawled back into bed, closed his eyes and didn’t say another word.
While Nick napped, Charlie appropriated his beanbag and passed the time with some homework. He was far too worked up to focus though, and inevitably gave it up to doom scroll. He’d somehow ended up on the bad-plane-landings side of TikTok when Nick’s phone started buzzing.
Charlie yanked it from the phone charger to silence it before Nick woke up, but paused when he saw the caller ID. Lost Paws. It was probably important if it was from work. But was it worth waking Nick up?
Charlie took one glance at where Nick lay curled up beneath two layers of blankets, dead to the world as his body clung onto the rest it so desperately needed, and decided: no.
He slipped out of the bedroom and answered the call. “Hello?”
“Where the bloody hell are you? It’s almost half five.”
Ah. So this was the famous Kenneth.
“Sorry, this isn’t Nick. I’m his—” Charlie cut himself off. He wasn’t sure if Nick was out to his boss. “I’m answering for him. He’s not well at the moment. Stomach bug. He won’t be able to come into work today. I’m sorry, I assumed he’d told you.”
“Ah, well, I’m sorry to hear that.” A pause. “So, you’re the boyfriend then, are you?”
“Um, yeah.”
“He won’t stop going on about you, you know. Talks like the sun shines out of your arse.”
That was… weirdly touching.
“Anyway, tell Nick to get well soon. And to stay clear away from the shelter until he hasn’t puked or shat himself in the last forty-eight hours.”
“Okay, I uh, I’ll let him know.”
“Cheers, then. Ta-ra.”
Half an hour later, Nick woke up looking like he’d gained negative hours of sleep.
“Time is it?” he asked blearily.
“Like, six?”
“Shit.” He pushed himself up with shaky arms. “I’ve missed most of my shift. God, Kenneth’s gonna be so pissed.”
“Hey, it’s okay. He called while you were asleep. I told him you’re ill and can’t come in today.”
Nick collapsed back onto the pillow. “What did he say?”
“He said to get well soon.”
“Did he actually?”
“Yeah. Also, to not come back until you haven’t puked or shat yourself for forty-eight hours. His words.”
“He’s a real charmer, isn’t he?”
“I get what you mean about him now.”
“Thank you for telling him. I think I’d be embarrassed if I had to do it myself.”
Charlie took Nick’s hand and squeezed it. “Why would that be embarrassing? You’re entitled to a sick day.”
“I don’t…” Nick winced and wrapped an arm around his stomach. “Sorry. I gotta—”
He stumbled to the loo and Charlie never got his answer.
As the day stretched into evening, Nick’s body refused to catch a break. When he wasn’t throwing up, or having a rough time of it in the bathroom, he was laid up in bed, alternating between being doubled up with stomach cramps and shaking with chills.
It was all Charlie could do to give him a hot water bottle to hug and coax tiny sips of water into him so he didn’t get too dehydrated.
In a rare moment of reprieve, Nick rolled around to face him. “Can I ask a favour?”
Charlie perked up. Nick actually asking for help instead of begrudgingly accepting it? This was a welcome development.
“Yeah, of course. Anything.”
“Will you walk the dogs?”
Right, Charlie thought, deflating a little. Because of course, the one time Nick asked for something, he wasn’t even thinking of himself. “Can’t we ask David to do it? I don’t really want to leave you.”
“David’s shit with them. They’re so much more comfortable around you. Please, Char?”
Charlie found it hard saying no to a please, Char at the best of times, let alone on a day when Nick’s big brown puppy eyes were looking extra pitiful.
“Okay. But only for half an hour. I’ll bring my phone and stay around the block, so will you promise to—”
“Yes, I’ll call you if I start dying.” Nick shooed Nellie and Henry off his bed. “Go on, go with Charlie. He’s taking you for a walk. Yeah, a walk! You like that, don’t you?” Nick smiled at their wagging tails, then directed that smile at Charlie. “Thanks, darling.”
It struck Charlie like whiplash, that glimpse of Nick’s normal self. He pressed a kiss to his fingertips, touched them to Nick’s cheek—the closest they could get to a goodbye kiss—and sent up a silent prayer that the improvement would last.
It didn’t.
Twenty-five minutes in, on the final stretch of the walk, Charlie’s phone chimed. He stopped by the nearest lamppost—their I love you lamppost, his mind registered absently—and clicked on the notification. Just one voice note from Nick. Nothing else.
As a general rule, both of them tended towards texting. Nick only sent voice notes when he was feeling extra sappy, or when typing everything out was too difficult for him. Suddenly, Charlie’s mind flooded with images of trembling, uncooperative fingers, of eyes blurred with tears.
He steeled himself and pressed play.
“Hey Char. So, everything’s fine—”
Everything was not fine. Nick’s voice sounded all wrong.
“—But could you maybe stay out for, like, an extra fifteen minutes? I’ve—uh. I’ve made a mess. It’s not nice. Just need time to clean it up…”
That was all Charlie needed to hear. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, scooped Henry into his arms, tightened his grip on Nellie’s lead, and all but sprinted back.
He left the dogs in the kitchen and charged upstairs. Just as Nick had warned, the scene wasn’t pretty. He’d been sick all over the bedsheets, and on his t-shirt. Charlie found him sat on the edge of the bed, the colour drained from his face, trying in vain to unbutton his duvet cover with shaking hands.
“Oh, Nick.”
He looked up and frowned. “Didn’t you get my message?”
“I did, and I ignored it. Here, let me.”
“No, I’ve got it.”
“Nick, you categorically do not. God, look at you.” Charlie cupped his cheek, and maybe Nick was expecting a fight, because the tenderness of it took him so much by surprise that he released his grip on the duvet. Without missing a beat, Charlie tugged it away and tossed it onto the floor. Gently, he guided Nick’s head to rest against his stomach. It had soothed him in the past, during those anxious moments of his when Charlie couldn’t get through to him with words. At the familiarity of it, Nick’s shoulders sagged, his body finally giving in to exhaustion.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said, his voice breaking. “It just came on so quickly.”
“I know,” Charlie whispered, stroking the nape of his neck. “Look, you’re not gonna sort out anything in this state. How about I run you a bath so you can wash up and take a breather? And we’ll tackle this when you have more energy?”
Charlie felt the brush of Nick’s forehead against his stomach as he nodded.
The we had been a lie. Once Nick was soaking quietly in the suds, Charlie slipped out, donned the marigold gloves he found beneath the kitchen sink, and got to work cleaning. Once he’d cracked open the window and got a hold of his own nausea, it really wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. He didn’t think Nick had thrown up anything solid in hours. None of it had got on the mattress or carpet, so it was just a case of stripping the bed and chucking everything in the washing machine at the highest temperature. He picked out a new set of bedsheets—the ugliest, tackiest ones he could find, in case it happened again—and remade the bed.
When he returned, Nick had got as far as putting shampoo in his hair. Which wasn’t very much progress, but he was so lethargic Charlie was impressed he’d bothered at all. “Let me?” he offered. At Nick’s nod, he took over the job, gently massaging his fingers through his scalp, working out the sweat and the grease until everything was lathered up and smelt like fresh citrus. He knew Nick usually enjoyed this. It was far from their standard ritual, with both of them squeezed in the shower, giggling and scrubbing each other while trying not to trip over. But from the contentment on Nick’s face, it was clear he appreciated it all the same.
Charlie indulged him as long as he could, until the bath water turned tepid and the bubbles deflated. Then he got Nick dried and into fresh pyjamas, and helped him back to his room.
Nick stopped short in the doorway, staring at the pristine bed, now Captain America themed. “Charlie.”
“I hope these sheets are okay,” Charlie said quickly. “I found them at the back of your wardrobe, and I know they’re probably from when you were little, but I figured since you never use them anymore it’s less of a big deal if they get stained—”
“Charlie.” Nick sounded a little like he wanted to cry. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Charlie fell quiet. “It’s just sheets,” he said. “It’s no biggie.” It wasn’t like Charlie hadn’t washed bedsheets that they had both soiled before, on multiple occasions (albeit for more pleasurable reasons than this).
“It was disgusting. You shouldn’t have.” Nick seemed genuinely upset.
“Well, if makes you feel better, I used gloves.”
“You should have let me do it,” Nick murmured again, almost to himself.
Why? Charlie wanted to demand. Why does it bother you so much whenever I try to help you? But now wasn’t the time for that conversation. Not when Nick was so weak he could barely stay standing. “Baby, come on,” Charlie said gently. “Let’s just get you back in bed.”
Charlie hadn’t planned for an overnight stay, but seeing how dreadfully his thirty minute outing had ended, he wasn’t taking any more chances. After texting his mum not to expect him back tonight, he stripped off his uniform and stole one of Nick’s t-shirts to wear as pyjamas.
“What are you doing?” Nick asked, perturbed.
“Getting ready for bed.”
“You’re not sleeping over. It’s too risky. And you’ve got your shift tomorrow.”
“As if I’m going to leave you on your own again after what happened. Budge up.”
“No.”
“Nick, please. If you’re so worried, I’ll refrain from spooning you.”
“I said no.”
“Why are you being like this?”
“Being like—” Nick echoed, exasperated. “Charlie, if you’re on the bed, there’s a good chance I’ll throw up on you in the night.”
“Well, what if I sleep on the floor?”
Their argument was interrupted by a loud knock.
Nick threw his arm over his face with a groan. “God, can you tell him to piss off?”
Warily, Charlie answered the door.
“Trouble in paradise?” David said, and Charlie wasn’t entirely sure if that was a sneer he was seeing, or whether it was just the bloke’s resting face.
He folded his arms, his nerves too frayed for civility. “What do you want?”
David held out a small paper pharmacy bag. “Got this from Boots. You should make Nick take some. Then he might stop puking long enough that we can all sleep.”
“Looks like your brother got you a present,” Charlie said, returning to Nick’s bedside.
“What is it?” Nick said flatly. “Poison?”
“Pepto Bismol.”
Nick blinked. “I can’t tell if I’m hallucinating or he’s being nice.”
“I think he does care about you, you know. In his own dickhead way. Do you want to take some?”
He hesitated for a second, before his pride caved. “Alright.”
Using the measuring cup that came with the bottle, Charlie poured him a dose of the bright pink liquid. Nick swallowed it down without too much turmoil. “There’s an air bed,” he said, returning the cup.
“What?”
“If you really do want to sleep over. There’s an air bed in my cupboard, at the top. I’m sorry, I know it’s not ideal, but…”
“Nick.” Charlie smiled. “It’s fine. I’m just glad I can stay.”
Charlie was starting to regret the air bed.
It wasn’t even that it was uncomfortable. It was just so fucking squeaky. And Nick was finally asleep, thanks to the Pepto Bismol calming down his stomach, which meant Charlie couldn’t so much as wiggle his pinkie toe without the running the risk of ruining it all with the screech of rubber-on-rubber.
He lay on his back, not daring to move a muscle. There was a technique they used in the military to fall asleep anywhere—Geoff had told him about it once. Part of it was to imagine yourself somewhere peaceful, like a hammock or a canoe. So he imagined himself on Nick’s bed, their bodies pressed together, enveloped in each other’s warmth. And, at some point in the night, he drifted off.
He woke to the sound of hyperventilating. It took a second to realise it wasn’t coming from himself.
“Nick?” Forgetting where he was, he pushed himself up. The air bed screamed in response. Nick let out a small whimper.
Charlie scrambled towards him. “Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, what’s up? What’s going on?”
He couldn’t see much in the dim glow of the fairy lights, but enough to register Nick’s outline. Strange, how small he could look in the darkness curled up like that, arms tucked to his chest like a shield around his heart, shoulders rising and falling with each panicked breath.
Charlie touched his palm to Nick’s cheek. His fingers came away damp. “Nick, what’s wrong? Do you need to throw up again?”
He shook his head, unable to form words.
“Bad dream?” Charlie guessed.
A nod.
“The same one?” Charlie didn’t need to elaborate. They both knew which one he meant.
“Different.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No,” Nick said, soft as a child, and Charlie didn’t have the heart to push it.
With the cuff of his sleeve, he wiped the tears from Nick’s cheeks. The skin beneath seared with heat. He’d need to do something about that. “You are a mess,” he said gently.
Nick mumbled something in French.
“What was that?”
“Don’t tell Dad I’m sick.”
Charlie moved his hand up to caress Nick’s hair. God, he was so out of it. “Why?”
“He’ll be angry at me.”
“For being ill?” Charlie asked incredulously.
“Il faut que j’sois plus fort.”
Charlie didn’t know what that meant. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to know. “I won’t tell him,” he reassured Nick. “I promise.”
The nightmares were getting more frequent, he noted, troubled. He’d seen Nick through a few of them now. Nick usually calmed down once he knew that Charlie was there, but this time he couldn’t stop trembling.
Maybe the tension was showing on Charlie’s face, because Nick tugged weakly at his sleeve, his eyes wide and glassy. “Are you angry at me?” he whispered.
Charlie froze, his heart aching. “No,” he said quickly. “No, of course not. Here, let me get you some paracetamol.” Charlie wasn’t confident Nick would manage to keep it down, but a cool cloth wasn’t cutting it this time, and he was getting desperate.
Supporting the back of Nick’s head, he passed the pills between his lips, followed by a little water. Charlie hated seeing Nick this helpless. He was sure Nick would have hated it even more, if he wasn’t so sleep-addled.
He lowered Nick’s head to the pillow. “Want some company on the bed? We can have a cuddle?”
He’d overstepped. Nick retreated into himself like a wounded puppy. “Can’t,” he whispered. “Not tonight.” He rolled away from Charlie and drew the duvet over his head, trapping himself alone, beneath.
Even if every part of Charlie wanted to slip beneath the covers anyway and wrap Nick up in his arms, a no was a no. And, in the quiet loneliness of the room, he stepped away and let his heart shatter.
In the morning, Charlie woke to an empty room. He found Nick downstairs, lying on the sofa with that fleecy blue blanket of his. He was cuddling it more than using it for warmth, so maybe his fever was down. He’d been clinging onto it a lot, recently. It gave Charlie a weird sense of deja vu, though he couldn’t place why.
Then, with a jolt, it hit him. His gaze snapped to one of the childhood photos hanging on the living room wall. Nick must have been about three or four, chewing on the corner of a tattered green baby blanket.
That was his blankie, Sarah had told Charlie once, fondly. He slept with it for years. You should’ve seen how disintegrated it was. I tried to throw it away when he was five, but that was the year… well, you know what happened. I didn’t have the heart. He didn’t grow out of it until we finally got Nellie.
He still hadn’t grown out of it, Charlie thought, his heart quietly aching all over again. Not completely.
Nick still didn’t look well. Too pale, too tired. He’d brought the saucepan along with him. But he’d had the strength to get himself out of bed and down the stairs. That was something.
Charlie smoothed down Nick’s bedhead, brushing his fingertips along his brow. A little warm, but far from the blistering heat of last night. “How long have you been here?”
“Like, an hour? Woke up and couldn’t sleep again.”
“You could’ve woken me.”
“I already woke you up last night. I didn’t want to disturb you again.”
“Are you feeling any better?”
He nodded. “A bit.”
“I’m guessing you haven't had breakfast?”
“No, but I think I could try a cup of tea.”
That was a good sign. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
While the water heated up, Charlie took the milk from the fridge. There wasn’t much left in the bottle. He gave it a sniff and grimaced. A quick check of the expiry date confirmed his suspicions.
A thought suddenly occurred to him. He poked his head into the living room. “Babe, when was the last time you drank this milk?”
Nick’s brow furrowed. “The day before yesterday? I had it with my tea.”
“Did it taste weird?”
His eyes widened. “Actually, yeah. But I thought that was because we ran out of Yorkshire and I had to use Tetley.”
“Nick, you muppet. I think you gave yourself food poisoning.”
“Shit, seriously?”
“This milk expired five days ago.”
Charlie knew Sarah hadn’t been around recently to keep her boys alive, but it wasn’t like Nick to be this absent-minded.
Or maybe it was? He thought of their two-year anniversary, how strung-out Nick had been when he’d finally shown up at the park, the air gone cold and the sun already dipping below the horizon. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking…
These days, Charlie just didn’t know anymore.
Nick smushed his face into the armrest with a groan. “All this because of some fucking milk? I didn’t even drink that much of it.”
“Your immune system’s been shite lately, to be fair,” Charlie pointed out. Neither had really acknowledged it aloud, but little colds and things had hit Nick so much harder this year. Which, now that Charlie thought about it, was hardly a surprise when anxiety was constantly wearing him down.
Nick lifted his head, looking chastened, and Charlie wished he’d used a little more tact. “You’re not making me feel better about this, Char.”
Sighing, Charlie left the milk on the counter and crossed the room to drop a kiss to the crown of Nick’s head. “Well, the good thing is that it means you’re not contagious, so you don’t need to stress anymore. Is black tea okay?”
“Don’t you need to get ready for your shift?” Nick asked, as Charlie made for the kitchen again.
“It’s alright. I’ll just ask Darcy to cover for me today.”
“Charlie, no, you should go. I’m fine. I don’t need—”
Charlie whipped around. “What, Nick?” He was being harsh, he knew, but he was so tired of this. “First it’s because you don’t want me to get sick. And now what? What’s your excuse this time? And don’t say you’re all good now, because we both know that’s a lie.”
Nick shrank into himself, expression going blank. “I just don’t think you should skip work for me.”
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s a minimum wage hospitality job, Nick. If it’s between making shitty americanos and looking after my sick boyfriend, I think I know what my priorities are.”
“You looked after me all of yesterday. You literally cleaned sheets I threw up on. That's already more than I—” He cut himself off. “It's more than you should have to deal with,” he finished weakly.
“Nick,” Charlie said, softening. He moved to perch opposite him on the coffee table. Taking both of Nick’s hands in his, he said, “You're not something I have to deal with. I'm here because I want to be. I don't understand why you keep pushing me away.”
Nick refused to meet his eyes. “If you really want to stay here, you can,” he said flatly. “I think the kettle’s boiled. Do you want some tea too?”
He tried to rise from the sofa, but Charlie tightened his grip. “It can wait, Nick. Please. Sit down.”
Nick sat, his expression still shuttered.
“Can I ask you something?”
Nick eyed him warily, but said, “Go on.”
“Your dream last night. What was it about?”
His answer was immediate. “I don't remember.”
“Was your dad in it?”
Nick froze. Then, voice hoarse, “How did you know?”
“You were saying stuff in French afterwards. And you asked me not to tell him you were ill.”
He ran a hand through his hair, abashed. “I don't remember any of that.”
Charlie thought of what Nick had said yesterday, after throwing up. You stayed. Dad didn't.
He didn't think he'd misheard anymore.
“You said your dad would be angry at you, if he knew.”
“Charlie, you can ignore everything I said. I was confused, and half asleep—”
“Did he get angry when you were sick as a child?” Charlie blurted. He hated pushing Nick like this, but he had to know.
Something dark crossed Nick’s expression. “Honestly? Most times he wasn't even there.”
Most times. Not all. “And what about when he was?”
For a little while, Nick said nothing, and Charlie thought he'd blown it. Then, slowly, “There was one time. That I can remember.”
Charlie squeezed Nick’s hands. “Will you tell me about it?”
“It's a long story.”
“I'd like to hear it.”
“You've got work.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Please, Nick. You never talk about these things, and I just—I want to understand.”
Nick’s jaw worked. “Alright then.” He exhaled. And then he began.
“It was the Easter holidays. Mum was taking Nan out for the weekend, and David and I were too young to be left at home alone, so Dad came over to babysit.”
It's not babysitting when it's your own fucking children, Charlie thought, but didn’t interrupt.
“I had a rugby match that morning, but I wasn't feeling good. I told Dad I didn't want to do it. He ignored me and drove me there anyway. Told me that real athletes push through for the sake of the team.”
“What?” Charlie said, appalled.
“Char, you have to understand, the thing about Dad is he wanted to teach me to be tougher. To be,” Nick pulled a face, “more like David. He thought he was preparing me for the real world. So he pushed me to play, and I did. I didn't feel up to it, at all. But back then, I would've done anything to please him.
“We won, I think. I scored as well, god knows how. But by the time it was over, I felt so rubbish I started crying and couldn't stop. The coach tried to calm me down, but Dad said he'd take care of it and dragged me home. I think I embarrassed him. He was saying stuff to me in the car. It was all in French, and I was crying too much to really follow, but I knew he was telling me off. Which felt completely unfair, when I'd still played and scored like he'd asked. So I sulked the rest of the way home, then shut myself in my room and refused to talk to him.
“I think a part of me was hoping he'd feel sorry for me, and come and fuss over me the way Mum would. But he didn’t, really. I remember he brought a plate of food to my room, which I rejected, forced me to take some Doliprane, and told me to stop crying because I was making myself more sick. And that was it.”
“Doliprane?” Charlie echoed.
“Paracetamol. Like, the French brand. He probably just didn’t know where Mum kept the Calpol so he gave me the pills he had in his travel bag.”
“Were you even old enough for that?” Charlie asked. He was pretty sure there was an age limit for paracetamol in pill form, even if it was French.
Nick shrugged. “Probably not, but it was fine. I didn’t die.”
Charlie dragged a hand across his face. His respect for Stephane—not that there had been much to begin with—was lowering by the second. “Right. So, what happened next?”
“I don’t know. It’s kind of hazy. I mostly just slept a lot, I reckon. But the part I remember most is when Mum came home. As soon as I heard her voice, I went running to her. I think she could tell something was wrong, because she picked me up and asked what was the matter, and I sort of just burst into tears again. I told her I’d felt poorly all day, and Dad had still made me do the match, and that he’d been really mean to me, all that stuff. I totally milked it, Charlie. I know I shouldn’t have. But it was the first time all day I was getting some attention, you know, and, um…” For the first time, his voice wobbled. A glimpse behind that detached front he wore like a shield.
Charlie laid a hand on Nick’s shoulder. A silent show of support. At least this story couldn’t get any worse, he thought. Not when Sarah was finally there.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
“I never meant to upset her. But she fucking lost it at him, Charlie. She set me down, here, in the living room, and went into the kitchen to have a go at him. I’d never seen her so angry. And Dad got angry too. Mum closed the door, but you know how thin the walls are. I heard everything. He said I needed to grow up, that I was too emotional, too difficult, and that it was her fault for being so soft on me. She screamed at him that he was as useless a father as he was a husband, and how could he not have noticed how ill I was? And they kept going back and forth, yelling awful things at each other. I had this horrible pain in my ears from all the shouting. I think I might have blacked out for a little bit, because all of a sudden I woke up and Mum was carrying me to the car.
“She took me straight to urgent care. We were there for ages. Eventually, they gave me antibiotics. Double ear infection. And by the time we got home, Dad was gone, and David was on the porch crying.
“Dad didn’t visit us again for over a year. Not for our birthdays, not even for Christmas. I could tell David resented me for it. And I felt like it was my fault. Like, if I’d just sucked it up and hadn’t made so much of a fuss, Dad wouldn’t have got so angry, Mum wouldn’t have got so upset, and none of it would’ve happened.”
In the silence that followed, Charlie let out a shuddering breath. He felt sick. “How old were you?”
Nick considered it for a moment. “Nine, I think? No, it was the under 8s team, so I would have been eight.”
Before he could think better of it, Charlie’s eyes roamed to the photos of tiny Nick still pegged to the streamers from Sarah’s birthday party. That sweet, innocent little boy with the smiling face and big brown doe eyes. “Christ.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”
“No, it’s not okay, Nick. What the hell?” He looked back at Nick, saw the same child etched into those features he loved so dearly. I’d protect him with my life. His eyes prickled.
Nick looked taken aback. “Charlie, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that. See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. I don’t want you to get upset over this. Honestly, it’s not a big deal. Like, yeah, it sucked at the time, but I’m over it now.”
“I don’t think you are, Nick.”
That drew him up short.
“I think… you still have to pretend you’re fine. Or something bad will happen.”
Nick shook his head, an almost eye-roll. “You’ve been spending too much time with Geoff.”
It was a knee-jerk reaction, a deflection, nothing more. You don’t need to use your therapy speak on me, it’s fine. At this point, Charlie knew better than to take it personally. But it hurt all the same. “You don’t mean that,” he said, his voice frayed.
Realising what he’d said, shame flooded Nick’s face. “No. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“What happened that day wasn’t your fault.”
He laughed humourlessly. “Sure.”
“No, I’m serious. It wasn’t your fault how your parents reacted.”
“It kind of was, though.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Charlie, can we not argue about this? You weren’t even there—”
“Listen to me,” Charlie insisted. “You were eight. Olly’s eight. Imagine for a second that was him instead of you. Imagine he’s got an ear infection and needs antibiotics, and our mum and dad are fighting because, instead of taking him to a doctor, Mum forced him to do a stupid sports match, and told him off afterwards for crying. And you’re saying that Olly’s the one to blame?”
As the scene played out in his mind, Nick’s gaze grew distant. Then, suddenly, tears welled up in his eyes. “Fuck. Fuck, you’re right.” He tried blinking them back, fiercely fighting the wobble in his lip. But the sob broke through anyway. He clamped his hands over his mouth, stifling it. “God. I’m sorry.”
Once upon a time, Charlie was the one who said sorry too much.
“It’s okay,” he soothed, pulling Nick into his arms. “It’s okay, let it out.”
At last, after hours (years) of being strong, Nick gave himself permission to unravel. And, as Charlie held him tightly to his chest, rocking this way and that, he knew he was also cradling the eight-year-old boy who’d just wanted to be cared for by both of his parents.
Slowly, unhurried, the sobs calmed to quiet tears, then to drying tear tracks. Charlie thought Nick might pull away then, having convinced himself he’d exceeded his allowance of comfort, but all he did was shift so he could rest his head on Charlie’s lap. He nuzzled the soft cotton of Charlie’s stolen trackies, pawing at the bridge of his nose with a furrow in his brow.
Headache, Charlie thought. Of course.
This was easier to solve. With gentle pressure, he rubbed circles into Nick’s forehead, moving outwards to his temples. Nick could have stopped him—maybe he would have, a day ago—but instead he shimmied onto his back to give Charlie easier access, blinking softly up at him like he didn’t want to look anywhere else.
“I love you so much, you know,” Charlie said. Which went without saying. But Nick had done a brave thing. He deserved to hear it, especially now.
“Char, please,” Nick said, a little choked, “I’ve only just stopped crying.”
“I love you when you’re happy,” Charlie continued, as he methodically worked Nick’s pain away, “and when you’re sad, and when you’re anxious. I love you when you’re healthy. And I love you even when you’re stuck on the bog with explosive diarrhoea after puking your guts out.”
Nick laughed tearfully. “Fuck off. It was not explosive.”
Charlie raised his eyebrows.
“Not that explosive.” He sniffled. “I love you too. I know I haven’t been the best at showing it, lately.”
“You don’t ever have to pretend to be fine with me. You know that, right?”
“I know. It’s not you, Charlie. It’s… complicated.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to understand that.” The crease between Nick’s brows had evened out. Charlie took Nick’s hand and kissed his knuckles. “I’m glad you talked to me.”
He knew this was far from the only thing Nick had buried. He knew none of this was going to go away overnight. It was the first tentative steps down a long, bumpy road. But it was a start.
“So,” he said. “I’m going to make some calls to get someone to cover my shift. Then we’ll have some tea. Then we can cuddle on the sofa all day and watch as many Marvel films as you like. And I’m going to look after you, because I love you, and you’re going to let me, because you love me. And, more importantly, because it’s what you deserve. Sound good?”
In answer, Nick pushed himself up and closed the space between them. His lips were hot and dry, with a medicinal minty taste that was definitely the Pepto and not his toothpaste—because Charlie had kissed him enough times to know the latter. Nothing about it was romantic, and yet everything about it was. Because sealed within that kiss was an acceptance. A promise, not just to hold, but to be held. Nick pulled away with a watery smile. “Sounds good.”
Later that morning, Nick’s fever would break, halfway through Captain America. That afternoon, he would eat Charlie’s soup, with the heart-shaped pasta, and ask for seconds.
And, when dusk fell, Charlie would put the air bed away. There would be no need for it anymore.
