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Tuesday, November 7th, 2028 - Austin, Texas

A black town car pulls up in front of the imposing edifice of the Driskill Hotel.  Just a stone’s throw from the Texas state capitol building, the old hotel oozes elegance, grace.  Nicholas Nelson-Thibodeaux steps out of the car cautiously, his eyes trailing up the brick and white limestone exterior.  Laurel’s dad would choose this place, he thinks wearily.   

A cool breeze swishes around him as he moves toward the front doors, both opened for him by attendants.  An elegant glass dome draws his attention up as he enters the lobby, yellow and bits of blue and red shimmering.  Marble columns in both ivory and ebony line the hall, leading toward the grand staircase.  

Everything about this makes him feel out of place, the proverbial fish out of water, but he can’t let them see that.  Tonight, all eyes will be on him.  Funnily enough, he never pictured this when he decided to run for Congress. 

January, 2027 - Austin, Texas

“Hey babe,” Nick drawls from the living room.  

“Out on the deck, sweetheart!” a warm voice calls back.  Laurel must be doing her early morning yoga on the back deck.  Nick walks to the sliding door, confirming that she indeed can be currently found in the Dhanurasana, or bow pose.  Although Nick doesn’t think one’s legs should be spread that widely while doing it. 

“Hey. I’m due to go to the policy center for some calls,” he says softly, not wanting to disturb his wife’s delicate energy flow. 

She nods slowly, holding her pose.  “Okay…just don’t forget about dinner with my parents tonight.”

How could he forget?  That’s all she’s talked about for the last week.  “I won’t.  I’ve set a strict timer on calls today.  Can you meet me for lunch?”

“No, sweetheart, I’ve got lunch with the girls and then a working lunch with Allistair,” she replies quickly, her tone conveying annoyance.  Her working lunch with Allistair is neither work, nor a lunch - he’s her regular manicurist.  

Nick sighs, crossing his arms — he doesn’t want to be late in the office, but he also needs to have this conversation.  

He’s made some decisions — well, a major decision — one that will impact both of their lives pretty greatly.  As much as he loves being part of an educational policy think tank in Austin, he really would much rather craft legislation and put those policies into action.  Lobbying sucks, it’s often terribly unethical in its modern form, and he no longer wants a part of it.  He feels that Laurel might not like this decision very much, and he suspects that she’s been coaxing her father, John Pierce Forsythe III, to hire Nick somewhere within his business conglomerate.  Nick likes money, but Laurel loves money, and Nick doesn’t like it enough to sell his soul away for his wife’s comforts.  Especially when he knows that she easily mooches off of “daddy’s greenbacks” anyway.  Their Brentwood house easily demonstrates that; no one in his age group owns something half as large, and not outright like they do. 

“Well, darling, I have some news to share with you that I wanted to do then, but I suppose it’s worth crashing your yoga flow to say it now.”  

Laurel releases from the pose and enters Child’s Pose before arching her back sensuously.  Nick knows exactly what she’s playing at with this act.  Her grumpy eyes and scowl-ridden face turn to him. 

“What is it then?”

Nick breathes in and stares her down, trying to non-verbally communicate his seriousness.  “I’ve decided to file papers to run for Congress.  Ol’ Doggett’s retiring, and the field is wide open.”  

Laurel’s expression turns from grumpy to surprise, followed by furrowing brows.  “The field’s not wide open.  Alex Jayce is his heir-apparent, endorsements and all.”

“Didn’t realize democracy involved heir-apparents.  That’s what the primary’s for, Laur.”  He can feel his face sliding from a neutral expression to a frown.  She clearly disagrees with this move.  

Standing up, she crosses her arms defensively.  “Did you really think this through?  I mean… I’ve been working on buttering up Daddy to get you into one of his businesses.  It would be easy work, great benefits with plenty of movement. Coming in fourth in the Democratic Primary isn’t going to look good in the boardroom.”  

He’s bypassed the frown phases, straight to the scowl.  “Coming in fourth? Really?  Regardless, I don’t want any of that.  Mama raised a hard working man, Laur.  I don’t want shit handed to me on a silver platter.” 

“It’s not shit!” she yells, before stomping inside.  

“You know what I meant!” he yells back, following after her.  “I don’t want to work for your dad, I’ve no interest in the private sector like that.  You know that I don’t want to get a job off connections and not merit.  I’ve told you that countless times!  I want to actually do something, help change the world somehow.”

Without hesitation, she turns back to look at him, her face already changed to a very fake-looking smile.  This is a recent adaptation of Laurel Forsythe Nelson-Thibodeaux; this face indicates that she’s telling an outright lie, or something dripping with sarcasm.  Nick hates this face. The Laurel he met five years ago never used this face.  

“Well, if you think this is best for you, besides working at the policy center…  I suppose I’ll do my best to support you.”

Translation:  I hate this for you, I think this is a bad decision, and it doesn’t fit with my vision of immediate wealth from my dad’s company and maximal inheritance years down the road.  

Forcing himself to smile, Nick replies, “I do.  If I run and lose, I lose.  If I run and win, I can do what I’ve been dreaming about for the past few years.  I have to try, Laur.  I do!”  

She nods and huffs slightly, before gliding off to shower and do her makeup before her “girls’ lunch" and “working lunch”.  Nick returns to frowning, releasing a sigh when she’s out of sight.  This won’t be easy. 

Tuesday, November 7th, 2028 - Austin, Texas

Entering the main ballroom, Nick can see a small crowd already gathered: primarily Laurel’s family and his own campaign workers, including his campaign manager, Tara Jones.  Not only does she manage the campaign flawlessly, but she’s been one of Nick’s closest friends since undergrad.  The latter busily works with volunteers and paid workers to set out some signs and other celebratory props while hotel workers put the finishing touches on a stage.  

Nick’s eyes dart around, locating the former – the Forsythes.  Mrs. Donna Lynn Forsythe, hair high in the sky and as close to God as humanly possible, carries a cocktail in one hand and leads Laurel around the room with the other.  They speak in hushed tones, hiding themselves from any potential lip reading.  Nick suspects that Laurel is confiding her fears of Nick winning and what that will mean for her lifestyle, while Mrs. Forsythe half-heartedly comforts her and extols the possibilities of political work for further social climbing.  John Pierce Forsythe III, or Pierce as he prefers, is in the middle of talking to the event manager of the hotel.  Polls close in an hour,  the doors open in thirty, and all of this setup was set to be complete hours ago.  None of the manager’s excuses about the tight labor market seem to be settling Mr. Forsythe, who can be overheard snarling that he’s very well aware of the tight labor market, now get it fuckin’ done.   

It’s going to be a long night.  

“Tara!” Nick calls over to her, following her wave over to the table.  

She turns to him as he arrives and whispers angrily, “Thank the fucking Lord you are here, Nelson.  I swear to God I’m about to light your Monster-in-Law’s hair on fire, throw your wife off a balcony, and shoot your Father-in-Law.”  

“Christ, Tara.  This is Texas, you know — we aren’t averse to the death penalty here,” Nick replies, his tone a mixture of mirth and nerves.  “Let me guess…”

“Pierce’s been bonkers, shouting at employees.  Laurel’s been rude to practically everyone, including your queer campaign intern, poor sweetie.  And don’t get me started on Donna Lynn.  She won’t stop butting in on our work and pissing me off about things,” Tara hisses.  

Nick sighs.  “Well… I’m here now.  You keep hanging in there, polls close soon enough.  They’ll focus all of their malice on me like Sauron’s ring.”

Tara rolls her eyes, shoulders sinking. “Too early for Lord of the Rings comparisons.  Fuck off and get yourself a drink, please.” 

Nick laughs and turns to find his father-in-law.  He would really like his campaign not to be blacklisted from this hotel, or any hotel in the future.  On his way over, he hears Tara cry out for her Americano.   While Pierce Forsythe might not love his decision to run for Congress, he certainly respects it.  Not to mention, he likes Nick a lot, frequently calling him his favorite son-in-law.  Nick never mentions how Laurel’s younger sister is unmarried and technically he’s the only son-in-law, but he supposes that it’s one of those “I don’t have favorites” things.  He can do this. 

Over two hours later, the race remains too close to call.  All Nick can focus on is the newscast reviewing the history of the race; how Nick managed to finagle a close win in the primary from the hands of the retiring Congressman’s “anointed” successor.  

That night was quite the nail-biter, he recalls fondly.  Internal primary polling suggested that he was going to get his ass handed to him, but his campaign’s ground work only got stronger and stronger as the months rolled on.  Come Primary Day, Nick felt confident that he would be within five points of Alex Jayce.  Much to his surprise, late in the evening, only a few hundred ballots separated them with 5% of ballots remaining.  The next day, Nick overtook Jayce, winning by a solid 500 votes.  Needless to say, Nick never received a congratulatory concession phone call from his opponent. 

Jayce, feeling he deserved the seat, backed a relatively unknown Green Party candidate, somewhat vocally.  Establishment political action campaigns ran ads claiming Nick was “weak on environmental issues,” despite his website having a clear plan regarding expanding investments in renewable energy and incentivizing pollution limitations. The worst ad came from the Green Party candidate Billings, claiming he was a “real Austinite,” as if Nick was some hokey East Texas carpetbagger and not practically a decade-long resident of the city.  Nick held his head high and refused to throw muck, expanding his ground game instead to directly reach voters.  

The newscaster finishes explaining how this general election now resembles a more aggressive version of the primary, where a three-way race threatened to force a runoff.   With over 50% of the precincts reporting, Nick holds 48% of the vote, Billings 30%, and the Republican Jeffers 22%.  Nick looks away from the news, over to Laurel who appears oddly smug.  Before he can get into his own head about what that look could mean, Tara swoops in. 

“Okay, update. Update, update, update,” she chimes.  This must be her fourth Americano tonight.  “I know where the remaining precincts are.  Most of them are in areas we hit heavily both in the primary and in the general election.  Most of them delivered heavily for us in the primary.  A few lean more conservative.” 

“And you think that will mean I pull above 50%?”  Nick asks anxiously.  “I don’t want to entertain run-offs.”

Tara nods her head vehemently.  “I’m convinced.  If anything, this has shown how many voters have pulled away from Billings due to Jayce’s influence, seeing him as an entitled shit.”  

“Okay, from your lips to God’s ears,” Nick replies as Tara smiles and flits away.  Caffeine produces a fairy-like quality to her gait.  In her absence, he sees his wife slinking toward him.

Eyes sharp, and mouth slightly creased into a tired frown, she asks, “What did Tara have to say?  Are we in for a long night?” 

Nick nods.  “Probably, Laur.  Although, she ultimately thinks we’ll pull through.  A lot of the remaining vote heavily favors us.”   

He immediately notices her demeanor change at that, as if whatever hope she held that somehow Nick would lose and they could return to their “normal” life fades away.  She nods and walks back over to her father at another table.  From behind, he can see her carry a deal of tension in her shoulders.  She begins talking to her father animatedly; about what, Nick can’t even imagine.  His chances?  Her frustrations about the length of a campaign and not being fit to be a politician’s wife?  Nick turns his attention back to the television, which currently reports on other statewide and national elections.  Several Democrats in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Virginia have either picked up or held contentious seats, or are on trend to do so.  A House majority looks possible after a few years of poor governance from Republicans.  

Just as Nick gets up to go get himself a drink and mingle with supporters, Pierce Forsythe saunters over. By this time in the evening, four or five drinks have made Pierce a very merry man.  

“Nick, Nick, Nick,” he says glibly.  “Laurel tells me that it’s looking mildly bleak.”

“Uh, that’s not what Tara told me,” he replies, eyebrows scrunched.  

Piece shrugs his shoulders, his body swaying a bit.  “Well, if it all goes tits up, the offer still stands to work at Forsythe Holdings.  Just say the word.”  A similar fake smile plasters his face, before he turns and heads back off to his table.  

Nick scowls quickly before wiping it off his face; media coverage at the event cannot catch something like that.  He works his way through a crowd, shaking hands with a few people as he goes.  He sees his queer intern talking animatedly with another intern, two years above him at University of Texas.  If he’s not mistaken, the queer one is doing his best to keep composure and mask the heart-eyes that Nick can see even at a distance.  

A nearby waiter with a tray of white wine hands off a glass to him, allowing him to return to his seat instead of wading even deeper into the crowd that blocks the bar.  Some time later, Laurel joins him in silence, tapping on her phone with annoyance.  He knows she’s texting the brunch girls or some other friend for emotional support, but now most certainly is not the time to bring that up.  Official campaign events should not be host to major marital meltdowns. 

An hour later, the precincts reporting jumps to 75% inexplicably, as if ballot counts were like water being held back by a dam.  Nick holds a solid 53% of the votes now, a lead that gives the race a degree of certainty it lacked previously.  The crowd in attendance roars and jumps up and down at the announcement, acknowledging that the likelihood of victory has now catapulted tremendously toward their side.  Fifteen minutes later, national news breaks that the probability of a Democratic controlled house has now grown as a few more seats report being flipped in New York, Wisconsin, and Florida.  Wolf-whistles and applause follow, but not from the Forsythes.  Nick figures that they think he’s a sensible enough Democrat they can tolerate as Old Oil Money people, but a Democratic led government makes them uneasy.  

“I guess I should make some sort of romantic gesture about your almost-assured victory,” Laurel quips, speaking to him for the first time in an hour.  

Nick looks over at her, tired.  “A simple congratulations would suffice.  Go take a nap for thirty, Laur… we won’t get much news for another hour or so, I reckon.”  

As so she does.  Nick doesn’t see his wife for another hour, when she returns to the ballroom looking slightly refreshed, though no less miffed.  Just as she walks back in, the precincts reporting jumps to 95%, with Nick’s share of the ballots rising to 60%,  Billing’s to 22%, and Jeffers’ to 18%.  The Associated Press calls the election in his favor, given the small margin of votes remaining, causing wild uproar and pandemonium in the ballroom.  Balloons descend from the ceiling, noise makers rattle, horns blare, and cheering of “Nelson '' and “The Bod Squad,” ring from supporters.  He hates the latter — a reduction of his Cajun last name, and a supposed play on his desirable physical appearance — but it was catchy and stuck.  Tara finds him and leads him over to the platform to address everyone, a rueful Laurel holding back from the limelight.  Nick thinks she probably wishes she slept fifteen minutes longer. 

He saunters energetically up to the podium, flashing a wide grin as the crowd continues to cheer.  It’s been a long night, and he wants to keep this short and sweet.  He readies himself and his notes as the crowd continues to make copious amounts of noise.  Only when Tara brings him the live mic do they start to quiet down, with a degree of silence achieved just as Nick starts speaking. 

“Well… Austin… we did it.”   

Cheering erupts.  

“About 20 months ago I started knocking on your doors, talking to my neighbors and their neighbors… and then their neighbors.”  

Laughs and hoots ripple across the crowd.  

“Many of them were craving new ideas, new approaches, and a younger generation to take the reins and represent Austin.  And well… it looks like we’ve got that!”  

The crowd roars, noise-makers going wild. Nick waits a few seconds for them to quiet down. 

“I’d like to thank my supporters, everyone who volunteered on my campaign for over a year to deliver this to us not only in the primary, but also in the general election.  I’d also like to extend my hand to Tom Billings, Alex Jayce, and Hal Jeffers for putting up a good fight.”  A few boos ring from the crowd, but Nick shakes his head before continuing. “Democracy should never be an easy road.  We should always have choices, never predetermined. Thank you for helping give Austin a real choice.”    

The audience claps modestly at that. 

Nick smiles, looking out at the crowd.  “I won’t keep you much longer.  I know it’s been a long night, and many of you want to either continue celebrating or finally go off to bed.  Just know that I cannot wait to serve Austin in the upcoming Congress and make some progress for not only its citizens, but for people across America.   Thank you again, and good night!”  

As Nick gets off the podium and goes to walk off the stage, the crowd erupts again.  Deafening noise drowns out Tara’s shouts, but he sees her waving him over to the side.  

Laurel waits for him, the frowny face she’s worn regularly since January 2027 chiseled on tonight.  Everything about her body language communicates the opposite of excitement, of happiness, or even any sort of joy in her husband’s success.  It sickens Nick to see.

“Congratulations, Representative-Elect Nelson-Thibodeaux,” she says sardonically.  Nick tries to school himself not to correct her use of “Representative” when it should be “Congressman,” in an equally nasty tone, but before he can do anything she turns and walks off.  

He’s just won a seat to the House of Representatives, and at the age of twenty-eight, not to mention campaigning to pry it from the hands of the man who was endorsed by his predecessor.  Not an easy task.  He could follow after his wife and have a private conversation with her about all of this, but miss out on celebrations and shirk his duties to thank his campaign staff for the fine work they’ve done the past year.  

Fuck that.  Fuck that entirely.  After the way she acted and treated him the past few months, what’s one more night to put off that inevitable conversation about the status of their relationship?  He deserves a bit of joy for his accomplishments. 

Tuesday, November 7th, 2028 - Seattle, Washington

A silver Toyota Prius Uber turns off Phinney Avenue onto North 36th, its destination quickly approaching.  In the back of the car, Charlie Spring fiddles with his black button down shirt.  He’d much rather don a crisp, new t-shirt or at least something less restraining than this, but Darcy insisted that he try to dress up more for this official campaign event.  Given the historic trends of Seattle’s congressional district, he expects to be elected one of its youngest Congressmen ever, after all.  Unbuttoning the cuffs, he folds them back on both sleeves, at least giving his tattoo sleeve some breathing room.  He smiles at the Chinook salmon, barnacles, and sunflower sea stars on his inner arm as they happily play in the waters.  

Suddenly the car stops in front of The George & Dragon Pub, making Charlie take a very deep breath before thanking his Uber driver and stepping out into the chilly weather.  

The pub’s cladding resembles that of Tudor homes, with stucco and wood beams framing the exterior.  Everything else about it looks like a modern American beer garden: a contained roofed porch, rows of tables under string lights and some heating lamps, all leading back to what’s actually quite a small building.  It’s perfect for a smaller campaign celebration, within budget, and quite local to Charlie’s apartment and campaign headquarters in the Fremont neighborhood.  He sees Darcy waiting impatiently for him at the door, bouncing up and down on her toes.  She’s drawn her hair up into a messy bun for the evening and put a bit of highlighter on her cheeks and a touch of natural-toned eye shadow.  Charlie expects that Darcy plans on leaving the pub with a celebratory lady that night, otherwise she might show up in sweats and a band t-shirt.  

“You’re late.”

Charlie rolls his eyes.  “Last minute GOTV cannot be ignored, Darce.”

She huffs.  “You were scheduled to do that until 7 PM.  Don’t even begin to tell me that it took 50 minutes to get from south Queen Anne to Fremont, Charles.”  

Charlie tuts and shakes his head, not dignifying the sass with a reply, and walks into the pub with Darcy to greet his supporters.  She’s right, though; even with traffic it shouldn’t take that long to get to Fremont from Queen Anne.  Mostly, the extra minutes were spent doing breathing exercises in a side street near Kerry Park after receiving several missed calls from Thatcher.  Luckily there was enough foliage around to conceal him from view.  

Thatcher.  He hadn’t heard a peep from him since late August, and with campaigning, Charlie had never taken the time to fully process what it meant for their on-again-off-again tumultuous “relationship” to suddenly grind to a halt for that long.  He ignored both calls, centered himself, and continued his Get Out The Vote run.  His supporters don’t need to see the relationship pains on his face, and so he exhales carefully and smiles wryly as he shakes hands.  Polls close in ten minutes.

Darcy orders him a beer to sip as they wait.  Washington State votes primarily via mail-in ballots, which have been steadily collected for weeks now.  Now they must sit and wait for Election Day ballots to be processed and tabulations to begin. If anything, tonight will be quick and painless in comparison to his primary back in August.  

The former seat-holder, Pramila Jayapal, decided to run for Senate to replace a retiring incumbent.  Immediately several contenders rushed into the competition, all of whom represented Old Guard liberals of the late Boomers and early Gen X.  Upon turning twenty-five this year, Charlie filed and immediately started hitting the pavement and procuring a strong social media presence for the campaign.  Two of the other candidates backed out, one backing Charlie’s opponent Lance Lemmington, the other throwing his support behind Charlie.  As it turns out, many voters liked Charlie’s more aggressive policy measures regarding climate change, labor rights, and quality affordable housing optimized to increase density and counteract urban sprawl.  Despite the policy aspect, many saw him as brash and too young, setting up a contentious race.  He eked out a win over the more experienced candidate 52/48 in the primary, shocking the Democratic establishment.  

Thatcher.  Victory was surprising, yet bittersweet.  Charlie had a feeling that this “off” phase of their now year-long “relationship” was brought upon by his decision to run for Congress.  

Thatcher “Thatch” Ambrose Alden III was the son of old money Bostonians, and thus suffering the consequences of being part of the elite.  He’s closeted, way more centrist than Charlie ever imagined he could handle, with a fiscally conservative family.  Four years older than Charlie, he’s been gearing up to come out to his family for a while now, but he pulled back completely when Charlie decided to go into politics.  His parents would not be able to handle him coming out and being involved with a leftist. Charlie could basically hear Mr. Alden muttering ‘practically a socialist,’ in his dreams. Thatcher was adamant that Charlie’s politics were the only reason he wasn’t coming out, although Charlie was suspicious it wasn’t the only thing that held him back.  Primarily inheritance.  It was always fucking inheritance with rich people. 

Sipping his IPA, he smiles as a few more supporters enter the pub.  The median age is probably thirty-two, one thing about his campaign that elates him quite a bit.  He credits his victory in the primary with getting younger voters involved, an age group that typically sits out elections for their first decade or two of eligibility,  much to the country’s misfortune.  All that remains to be seen this evening is his margin of victory; Jayapal frequently pulled 80% of the vote or higher in this district, but a lot of his figures suggest Charlie might be a bit lower.  As Darcy frequently reminds him, he needs to work on his conversational manners.  At eight PM, the polls close, yet his race remains uncalled despite the historical data of the district.  

“Should I be worried, Darce?”  he asks, leaning over to her. 

She shakes her head, adamantly.  “Nah.  They’re doing national updates right now.  House is trending Democratic at the moment.  I think they’ll call it soon enough.”

“Makes me nervous…I know you’ve told me that some people don’t like my… what’s that again… zealousness and brashness, or something,” Charlie quips.

Darcy tuts.  “Polling does suggest that sometimes you come off as a bit of a dickhead, Charles.  But people still vote for dickheads, especially smart dickheads who want to deliver on things the voters want fulfilled.  You’re going to win.  It might be 75/25, or 70/30, but you’re still going to whip any Republican in this district.”

“Thanks for the confidence boost, Darcy.  I can win this district, as long as I win the primary and thus can maintain my prickly exterior, duly noted,” he replies back, taking a swig of IPA. 

“You know what I mean, Charlie Spring.  No more saying constituent viewpoints are ‘uninformed’ or grimacing at someone spouting an opinion you deem ‘uneducated.’ That’s giving people the impression that you’re a complete asshole, when you’re just a smart, passionate guy,” Darcy says exasperatedly.

Just then the doors open and in walks two of his best friends, Tao Xu and Elle Argent. They spot  Charlie toward the back of the bar and immediately run over to him. 

“Oh my god, I can’t believe my best, oldest friend is about to be elected to Congress,” Elle squeals energetically.  “We’re so proud of you!”  

“Elle… it’s not official yet,” Charlie whines. 

Tao nods seriously.  “Yes, Elle.  We must wait for the vote tabulations… I’m too shell-shocked from 2016 and 2020.”  

“Okay, okay.  Dramatic. They're not electing a Republican in Seattle though, let’s be real,” she laughs off their celebratory restraint.  “Let me buy you a second drink.  An IPA? Something lighter?”

“That raspberry sour they’ve got listed, that sounds deliciously fruity,” Charlie replies.

Tao nods effusively. “Count me in on that, too.”  

Darcy peeks her head over from the other table, ignoring her laptop.  “Deliciously fruity?  Sounds right up my alley. Can you put one on my tab, too?”  

“I swear you have a gay bat signal,” Charlie quips.  “A rainbow symbol.  Something.”  

Darcy just shrugs, returning to her computer.  Charlie hears an email notification to which she navigates excitedly and scans before popping her head back up.  “They’ll have the first ballot drop at nine PM, and then a larger one at eleven PM, and then a final one at one AM.” 

Tao adds in, “They usually don’t finish counting until the day after next, and that’s just everything that arrives by eight PM on Election Day, not overseas stuff…” 

Darcy looks at him darkly for stealing her thunder, which causes him to add, “Sorry, I just watched a lot of election returns growing up.”  

Elle brings back the beers, and they chat about random topics to pass the time.  At eight-thirty, Tori and Michael, her platonic-not-platonic life partner (her words) stop by the pub after Michael’s skate practice and dinner.  They both look tired and in need of caffeine more than alcohol.  Michael congratulates Charlie on his impending victory, claiming with his fierce positivity that it is inevitable.  Tori, a genuine source of pessimistic energy, chooses to deliver more family-oriented news.  

“Olly definitely would like to come, but since you’re at a bar and he’s not twenty-one…” she shrugs. 

Charlie sighs.  “And Mom and Dad?”  

“Dad never left California.  He claimed to have some big meeting he couldn’t avoid on a Tuesday night about an upcoming film,” Tori replies, her eyes narrowing.

“Bullshit, as per usual.”

Nodding, Tori continues, “And mom of course…well, you know that she’s busy tonight.  Her client in the eighth is really on edge about the race.”

“Per usual in the Seattle suburbs.  Although Democrats are projected to do well nationally, I would be surprised if Schrier lost re-election in the midst of that,” Charlie says airily.  He’s almost glad that his mother can’t make it.  

At  nine PM, the first ballot drop occurs and the Associated Press calls the election for Charlie almost immediately after.   The national news makes sure to note that initial counting is a departure from the district’s trend, but it could be due to his age.  He’s one of the youngest elected to Congress that year, and in the district’s history.  

Calls come immediately after that.  His Republican candidate delivers a concession phone call almost immediately, to which Charlie half-heartedly listens, then thanks him.  No one at the bar calls for a speech — Darcy already has a letter and email drafted for all campaign donors and volunteers alike, set to go out by the eleven PM drop.  Pramila Jayapal personally calls him to congratulate him, fresh off her own Senate victory, setting him off into an excited flutter and pace around the pub.  Upon his return, a flustered mess, two congratulatory pints await him.  Around 10:30, his father calls him to congratulate him.  It’s a short call, with a tired Julio Spring on the other line, his Castilian English even worse from fatigue.  Charlie thanks him and tells him to get some rest and call him later this week. 

At the eleven PM drop, his lead widens to 72/28 – definitely a victory, yet still a bit biting.  He’s not that much different, policy wise, compared to Pramila Jayapal, yet she’s swept the district 85/15 practically.  Before he can continue to fret over those numbers and what they mean about him as a person or a candidate, the Associated Press calls the eighth district for the incumbent, his mother’s client.  A Democratic hold, another seat adding to the increasingly clear Democratic House majority in the next congress.  More and more, the Senate looks narrowly in their favor as well.  Thirty minutes later, the unexpected happens: Jane Spring arrives at the George and Dragon.  Charlie was certain he wouldn’t see her for days. 

“Mom?  What a surprise,” he says, attempting to tamp down his sloshy lack of sobriety.  

Her lips parsed, she raises an eyebrow.  “Really?  You didn’t expect me to congratulate my son, who lives in the same metro area as me?” 

Charlie shrugs.  “I figured a phone call, since you’re so busy on the campaign.”  

“Just a quick stop by,” she replies.  “Before I head home.  Congratulations, son,” she says, a hint of withholding on her tongue. 

Charlie senses that immediately, and frowns.  “Congratulations, but…”

“You really need to clean up your campaign, Charles.  You’re not alone on the ballot… and if you alienate voters on your ticket, they might not just split tickets… they might vote for Republicans in the Senate, or for governor, or even President too,” she supplies readily.  “Don’t make all of our jobs difficult.”  

“Less than 5% of our surveys indicated that people went straight ticket Republican who didn’t vote for him,” Darcy shoots over at them, eyeing his mother angrily.  

“Oh really? Sometimes people win elections by 500 votes, Ms. Olsson.  Just keep that in mind,” Jane replies coolly, before nodding at her son and heading back out.  

Tori, who had been in the bathroom, walks out just in time to see their mother flying off into the night.  “Oh God, what did I miss?  Everyone looks like she smeared shit everywhere and left.” 

Tao, a casual observer to the verbal violence levied by Jane Spring for time immemorial, nods.  “She just told your brother that he’s shit and that his shit dumps on everyone else in the state.”  

Charlie sighs and nods.  “That’s basically it. Direct and earth-shatteringly prickly, per usual.”  

Tori shakes her head and gives her brother a small side hug.  “Don’t listen to her.  You’re just passionate.  And the government needs young, passionate people in it right now instead of the old fossils from the 1940s and 50s.” 

Charlie hugs his sister back, until he feels a vibrating in his pocket.  An incoming call.  She feels the vibration slightly, and nods for him to go take it by the bathrooms, where it’s quieter.  When he reaches the back of the pub, he takes out his phone only to see the face of Thatcher Ambrose Alden III on his screen, calling him once again.  

Hazel-green eyes, dark brown hair with auburn undertones like a rich chocolate, and a neatly trimmed beard all beg him to accept the call.   His hands shake as he takes his index finger and gently swipes to accept the incoming call.  Steadying his breath, he reluctantly listens in.  Half of him believes that it’s a butt-dial, an accident.

“Baby… finally, you picked up,” a husky deep voice on the other line says.

Charlie swallows nervously.  “Thatch?”

“Yes, Charlie.  I’ve been trying to talk to you all day… baby, I’m so proud of you.”  

“Oh?”

“You’re so surprised?” Thatcher asks, jokingly. 

“I mean… it’s been since August,” Charlie replies immediately, starting to lose his patience.  

“Yeah… I’m sorry about that.  Between work, family, your campaigning… it just wasn’t a good time for anything.” 

Charlie doesn’t say a word back, but releases a slight hmph sound, one that Thatcher probably can’t hear.  

Thatcher definitely didn’t hear that.  “When you come to DC to find a place to stay… we ought to meet up.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Let me get you dinner, catch up.”

“Catch up?” Charlie asks, uncertain of what Thatcher offers him.  “Is that a euphemism for fucking?”  

“If you want it to be,” Thatcher replies, his husky voice laden with lusty melody. 

Charlie quivers, letting those melodies saturate his cerebral cortex.  His mind flashes hot memories of strong Lacrosse arms picking him up like a doll.  Pressing him against the wall, gripping onto him tightly.  Stroking him gently.  It’s like a drug, one that he can’t quite give up.  Despite the pain of this tumultuous relationship, he would almost pay for his nerve endings to feel like they do whenever the two of them get together.  If someone could recreate the scents of Thatcher and distill them into a candle or room spray, that would be even better.   

Without further hesitation, he replies, “Okay.”  

After all, he’s got a month to think about that carefully and reconsider.  When they hang up after a few more words, Charlie laughs at that.  There’s one thing that Charlie Spring finds himself barely able to do, and that’s carefully reconsidering advances by Thatcher Ambrose Alden III.

Chapter Text

Early December - “Closer” by The Chainsmokers (ft. Halsey)

Charlie attempts to sprawl his legs out on a commercial flight from Seattle to Washington, District of Columbia, but the less-than-ample leg room keeps cramping his long, muscular legs.  Between this and his cross-country running in high school and undergrad, a solid stretching regiment at Reagan International Airport will be absolutely necessary to combat aches and pains.  Darcy offered to book him different seats, but those required layovers that increased mileage.  A solid no from Charlie.  His hamstrings, gluteals, and hip flexors could suffer for reduced emissions.   

Thirty minutes out from the District, the captain announced the local time of one PM and the current weather — a balmy forty-four Fahrenheit — not unlike Seattle at this time of the year. 

Charlie had packed lightly for this trip, taking only essentials for his sole mission of acquiring lodgings.   Such sagacious packing allows for a quick exit from the airport itself, avoiding luggage carousel waits and other travel hassles.  His housing budget is meager in comparison to many other lawmakers, some of whom have whole second homes in and around the District due to their already accrued wealth from businesses, ventures, or generational accumulation.  He seeks a humble apartment or townhouse rental, with or without roommates.  Whenever his salary kicks in, he will consider a future upgrade to his lodgings.  

He considers the possibilities as he thumbs through his pre-screened viewings list, unaware of his surroundings.  Just as he hops off the people-mover and scurries past a gate from Minneapolis, he runs into an equally fast roaming individual.  

“Ope!  ‘Scuse me there,” she says kindly, before catching Charlie’s eyes.  “Oh!  Congressman-elect Spring!”

Charlie blinks in a haze, trying to put a name to a face, before the Midwestern accent finally connects the dots for him.  “Congresswoman-elect Anderson.  Imagine running into you here.” 

“Quite literally,” she adds in a chipper tone.  Way too chipper for Charlie.  They begin walking at a decent clip together. 

Charlie glances over at her.  “I take it you’re here to get your bearings around Washington?”

She nods.  “Very much so.  Looking for a place to stay, mostly.  Got a whole list and everything.” 

Charlie hums.  “One and the same for me.  I suspect your list is a bit more organized than mine, unless you have a cousin of Darcy Olsson managing your campaign with a similar haphazard approach to logistics?”

Caity Anderson giggles.  “Lots of Olssons in Minnesota.  Lots of Scandinavian immigrants in the 19th and 20th century, don’t cha know?  Mmm, you better believe I’ve got an organized list.  Made it myself.”  

Immediately Charlie starts to realize that Caity Anderson is purposefully laying on the Minnesota accent thickly, hoping to get a rise out of him.  He lets it pass without comment, but groans.  “That was my mistake… allowing my semi-chaotic campaign manager to make my list.”

She shrugs, smiling wryly.  “Probably so… l’ve got to head to baggage claim. See you around, Congressman-elect Spring.”  

“It’s Charlie.  And yeah… good luck hunting, Congresswoman-elect Anderson,” Charlie replies. 

“Caity.  Caity Anderson.  And good luck to you, too,” she calls back to him as she strides off toward the direction of the luggage carousels.  

Thankfully, Darcy had the foresight not only to reserve a rental car for him, but a Prius on top of it.  Grinning, Charlie hops into the blue Toyota and fires up his Google Maps app for the first destination in Alexandria, Virginia.  God bless the drivers of Northern Virginia, he thinks, as he takes off.  He finds that drivers in Northern Virginia are equally aggressive as Seattle drivers, perhaps even more so.  

When he arrives at the Alexandria location, he immediately feels overwhelmed.  Everything about it appears expensive, leaving him half-wondering if Darcy followed his budget at all.  This thought sends him into a minor panic, which amplifies when he looks up the price per month — nearly twice his budget.  Not to mention, it feels awfully far away for a Metro commute.  Without even baiting himself with the promises of luxury, he immediately punches in the next address and takes off.  

He wishes he had spent a bit of time curating the list before he arrived, as this next apartment takes him through Arlington, toward Yorktown, across from Marymount University.  While he understands university living must be efficient with space, unfortunately the apartment listing fails to properly communicate how small 440 square feet really is.  

Next he finds himself in a spacious yet disgusting apartment in Arlington’s Virginia Square neighborhood.  Not enough remediation exists to save such a place, and thus he crosses it off his list entirely.  He looks at his next listing, and realizes that it’s just outside Crystal City… right near Reagan International Airport.  At this point, he nearly screams in frustration, speeding off toward where he basically began his journey.  

He arrives at the exact same time as Caity Anderson, who is in the process of jumping out of an Uber.   Parking, he races out of the car, hoping to reach the front door of the modest looking townhome before she’s even completely out of the car.  

“Spring!” she shouts at him.  “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, just looking at a rental listing,” he yells back at her as punches in the access key given to him by the listing company.  

“Oh, you sonofabitch,” she snarls back, barreling toward him.  

The door opens.  Charlie sets foot into the townhome first and does a triumphant jump.  Finders keepers, losers weepers.   She follows him anyway.

Charlie looks at her smugly.  “I think this will do quite nicely.  Not too far from the Metro stop, near the airport… it’s perfect.”  

“It’s also a two-Bedroom,” Caity adds.  

Charlie nods. “Right you are. An actual bedroom and an at-home office.” 

She twitches.  “Are you kidding me, Spring?  Really?  Come on!”

“I am claiming it.”

“You absolute prick.”

“Damn right.  Finders, keepers, and the like.”

“Wait.  The listing on the table here is different from the one online.  My online listing says $1500 a month, but this one says $2200,” Caity groans.  

Charlie picks up the listing, one from a small pile.  He scans it nervously, finding a print date of yesterday.  Going back to the online listing, he fumes.  “Those fuckers last updated the online one a month ago!  No wonder it hasn’t been rented!”  

“Fuck,” Caity huffs.  “This place is… perfect.”

Charlie looks around with her, finding it to be in good condition with decently sized rooms, bathrooms, a nice kitchen, and even a small, fenced-in backyard.  This bait-and-switch tactic must have caused more than a handful of people to turn away.  The property group that owns this must be shady, but if they find out Congresspeople are renting from them, it might not matter.   It is practically move-in ready, with only light cleaning and dusting required.  Now it’s just a matter of cost and budgets to negotiate.  Can Charlie swing it, or is he destined to join the ranks of the Congressional Office Sleeping Squad?  

Before he can overthink it, his stomach growls — it's nearing dinner time, and he’s barely eaten today.  Another growl resounds around the foyer, coming not from his stomach, but Caity’s.  They both laugh.  

“Let’s get food and talk about this,” she suggests hopefully. 

Charlie nods.  “Anywhere you had in mind?”  

“I’m really craving fried chicken, and I can’t explain why.  Maybe it’s the southern air of Virginia…”

“It’s barely the South,” Charlie laughs.  

“Richmond was the capital of the Confederacy,” she quips back.

“Touché.”

She pulls up her phone and starts searching through it.  “Ah, here.  Tupelo Honey Southern Kitchen and Bar.  In the Court House neighborhood of Arlington.” She lifts the phone up to Charlie’s face. 

“Hmm… that’s down the road from where I’m staying tonight.”

“Let’s do it.”

They hastily close up the house behind them, heading for Charlie’s rental.  He gives Caity his standard notice of his slightly aggressive driving skills, apologizing in advance for any near-death experiences.   For what it’s worth, he plans on taking the Metro as often as possible.  No one in the DC region deserves to be put that much at risk.  

Thankfully, they arrive at Tupelo Honey in one piece and somehow manage to scrounge up a parking spot without hitting anyone or anything.  Even better, no oppressive wait time prevents them from acquiring a table.  Digging into his Sriracha Honey Fried Chicken and Waffles, Charlie realizes they haven’t talked much since being seated, beyond minor observations about the food and drinks.  Thank God this isn’t a date. 

Heat creeping up on him, Charlie takes a sip of water before launching right into negotiations.  “Clearly, we both want the townhome.  What are your budget restrictions?”

“That’s classified, Congressman-elect Spring.”  

“Christ, Caity.  Can you afford the place on your own?”  

She pops a spicy cauliflower bite into her mouth.  “Nah.  It’s about 200 dollars above my monthly budget.  I somehow doubt you’re much better off, Charlie.”  

Charlie nods.  “$1500.  Someone needs to write How to be a Congressperson on a Budget for us.  This is madness.”  

“Explains why very few working and lower-middle class people feel inclined to run for public office,” she sighs.

“Tale as old as time,” Charlie adds, taking another forkful of chicken and waffle.  Damn, the sweetness and spice levels are delicious.  

Caity forks at her Tupelo Shrimp and Grits, carefully considering the mathematics of their budgets.  “We could…share it?”

Charlie shrugs.  “I’m not the easiest person to get along with.”

“I’m well aware,” she quips, smiling.  “But even I can see that under that sandpaper exterior lies a very sweet, caring man.”  

“I’m also incredibly gay.”

“No shit.”

Charlie rolls his eyes, somewhat thankful that she’s willing to put up with his bullshit.  “Fine.  Let’s split it.  We’re going to have to draw up some rules though.”

Caity’s eyes brim with energy.  “That I can do.  Let’s call both of our agents first though, put them in touch.  They’ll work some agreement out for the both of us.”

“What’s it… $2200 a month? So $1100 apiece.  Correct?” 

“Yes.”

Charlie high fives her.  “Yeah.  Let’s do this.” 

Their agents sound surprised that they’ve settled on a roommate situation, but nonetheless happy to draw up agreements, both Caity and Charlie receiving text confirmations of it later.  That gives Caity and Charlie leave to spend the remainder of dinner talking about cleaning responsibilities of the shared areas and general noise/visitor rules.  Both of them laugh the latter off, finding each other delusional at even thinking they’ll have the time to seriously entertain guests while Congress is in session, let alone when it’s in recess.  Charlie already knows recess means fundraising, constituent outreach, and campaigning.   Sessions mean long work hours, committee meetings, and associated party or caucus events.  

“Okay, this has been all good…but I need a drink,” Caity says as they settle their bill.  

Charlie nods.  “Same.  The night is still young, too.”

“Should we freshen up at our hotels before meeting up for a drink?”  she posits.  

“I know just the place.  Let me drop you at yours.  Nine-thirty PM at the Froggy Bottom Pub?” Charlie suggests.  Caity looks at him in confusion, which prompts him to add, “Take Blue, Orange, or Silver line to either Foggy Bottom or Farragut-West.  It’s on K Street Northwest in between those two, you can’t miss it.”  

“Okay.  I’m all in,” she replies, smiling.  

Charlie rides the Silver Line under the Potomac River into the city.  He leaves a bit early, but with good reason — he’s due for some reminiscing.  In graduate school, he did a year-long internship in DC for his Public Policy and Governance program.  A nearly-twenty-four-year–old staying around George Washington University just made sense.  

Getting off at the Foggy Bottom metro stop, he walks down past Whole Foods to 21st Street NW, before turning up and crossing Pennsylvania Avenue.  Now that the sun’s down, his emerald green wool jacket helps immensely to stave off the December shivers.  As he turns onto K Street, he can see it from afar — The Froggy Bottom Pub — a famous local haunt for GWU students and many others.  God, the memories  Drinking on weekends with other interns and students, flirting with one of the hot bartenders, Anders… and where he met Thatcher Ambrose Alden III.

He’s yet to confirm with Thatch whether or not they’re doing anything while he’s in town, demonstrating an exceptional level of resolve.  Or maybe it’s just the stress of being a Congressman-elect. 

He doesn’t have to  wait long for Caity to arrive, which he supposes has everything to do with her also being a bit type-A and equally anxious about everything.  

“An interesting choice, Charlie.  Froggy Bottom?  Really?”  she asks, cocking an eyebrow.

Charlie waggles a finger at her in faux-admonishment.  “Now, now, don’t disrespect a local legend.  The Froggy Bottom’s been around longer than I’ve been alive.”

Charlie orders a Bluegrass Martini, a lovely vanilla-citrus vodka concoction, paired with lavender-blueberry syrup; something that feels sufficiently homosexual to meet his needs.  Caity opts for the K Street Key Lime Martini — a tropical vibe — because, in her words, DC is practically tropical in comparison to Minnesota right now.  They swirl their cocktails and drink deeply, each sighing.  

“So…” Charlie begins. 

 Caity just nods. “We’re really in it, now?”

“Orientation was… a lot,” Charlie replies.  

Caity’s eyes widen and her head moves around knowingly.  “Understatement of the year.”  

“And I can’t escape the feelings of anxiety, excitement, and just… gah, I don’t even know how to put it,” Charlie continues.  

Caity nods, smiling.  “Right, like we’ve got a solid majority in the House, and we’ve got a good edge in the Senate.  It just feels so promising, yet…”

“It could be shit?” Charlie supplies.  

Caity takes another sip of her drink. “It could be, yes.  I’m hopeful, though.”

“I’m pessimistic.”  

“I can tell.”  

Charlie drains the rest of his, excuses himself to get another one, but comes back with two — one for now, one for later.  Caity laughs at that.  

“You’re really chasing away nerves, aren’t you?”

Shaking his head, Charlie smiles. “No, not really.  Just feeling all of the memories right now.”  

Caity looks like she’s about to ask, but Charlie cuts her off —he’s not ready to talk to her about personal stuff like that.  “What committees are you hoping for?”

“Oh!  I’m really looking for the Higher Education subcommittee, most of all.  All of Higher Ed is such a mess, and I really want to explore ways to change how the government interacts with it.  I’m kind of ambivalent about a second or a third. You?” 

Charlie pretends to think for a second; in reality, he’s been dreaming about these assignments since before Election Day.  “One of the Energy subcommittees, for sure.  I’ll take whichever I can get to influence energy policy in this country…we’ve barely moved inches this past decade.  It’s atrocious.”  

Caity finishes her drink, shaking her head.  “It really is.  Thankfully we’ve avoided the Big Coal comeback, but still… not good. Oh …”

“What is it?” Charlie asks, noting her immediate change in demeanor to a playfully inquisitive one.  

“Well… I thought I was seeing things, but… Charlie… there’s a man that’s definitely been eyefucking you across the way.  No, don’t turn around!”  she says quietly, and hurriedly.  “He’s with a bunch of bros.”

“Christ.  Can you at least describe him, please?”  Charlie whispers back, taking a sip.  

Caity nods.  “Well, it’s hard to see in this lighting.  Uh, he’s got darker hair… a very neatly trimmed beard, also dark.”

Immediately, Charlie begins to zone out.  Can it be?  “Go on,” he whispers.  

“He’s wearing a very neat, knit polo.  God, it looks quite tight on him, too.  His arms are massive,” she giggles, before gasping.  “Oh shit, he’s noticed me.  Fuck, he’s getting up and coming this way!”

Charlie drowns his second drink, smarting at the bitter citrus notes of the vodka.  Soon, though, the warm notes of vanilla, chestnut, clove, and orange swirl around him; the signature scent of Thatcher, that lures him in and intensifies when mixed with sweat and musk.  A single hand grips his right shoulder tenderly, as he swings his body onto the third, empty chair at their high-top table.

“Charlie Spring, fancy seeing you here,” he says delicately, his masculine voice just rising above the chatter of the pub. “You going to introduce me to your lovely friend here?”

Caity looks at him in surprise, her eyes screaming out “Oh, you know hot guy already?!”

Charlie looks up at those hazel-green eyes.  They glimmer playfully in the low light, almost teasing him. “Yeah.  Thatcher Alden, this is Congresswoman-elect Caity Anderson.”

They shake hands and exchange pleasantries, and the conversation immediately descends into small talk; inquiries about apartments, things to do in DC, restaurants for take-out, and so forth.  Charlie glazes over a bit, inwardly trying to cope with the meeting of his two worlds — one that he thought was pretty much dead up until a month ago, the other just beginning.  It was easy to pretend like their relationship was dead and buried when he was in Seattle most of this past year, but now that he’s in the same room as the man, he can feel a strong pulse.  He was a fool not to have better processed what had happened; and now, he’s trapped.  Trapped in that pull of scent, sound, and visual cues that keeps him entrapped like light circling a black hole.  

By the time he’s regained his focus, Caity is gathering up her coat and purse. 

“I’ll see you later, Charlie.  Between the travel exhaustion and alcohol… well, I think it’s best if I let you two catch up,” she says. 

Charlie nods quietly, getting up and giving her a brief hug.  One of the last few things tethering him to his new reality, preventing him from slipping back into old habits departs.  

As he sits back down, Thatcher turns to him, frowning slightly.  “You never followed up with me after Election Day.”

Snapping out of his daze, Charlie replies, “Sorry…things got quite busy with transition… and then orientation.”

Thatcher looks off in the distance, which draws Charlie’s attention as well.  His friends are waving as they get up, heading off to who knows where.  Thatcher waves at them and shrugs his shoulders.  

“Do you want to go back to mine? I can get us an Uber.  We can talk,” he whispers into Charlie’s ear, brushing some of his curls away.  

Charlie nods and replies softly, “Okay.” 

The Uber Black heads a familiar route, one that Charlie’s taken many times in the past to Thatcher’s apartment in Logan Circle.  He always called a car service or ride-share of sorts for Charlie, despite Charlie’s insistence that he would take the Blue Line and transfer to Yellow or Green and then walk.  One of the perks of receiving monthly payouts from a trust fund.  

The back of the Uber is private enough that a chiseled jaw rests on his shoulder, nibbling Charlie’s lower ear slightly, whispering sweet nothings and “I’ve missed you,” over and over.  Charlie’s insides feel like they’re liquifying, as he does his best to keep his composure in the back of the car.  His more sensible, intelligent brain cries loudly for him to badger Thatcher for follow up on the “I’ve missed you” piece, since that statement sorely lacks evidence based on their three month gap in communication.  His lonely, horny brain bellows at the sensible, intelligent part to simply shut the fuck up.  Without question, the latter wins out in the shouting match.

They keep their hands off each other only in the elevator and hallway leading to Thatcher’s apartment.  He has a roommate, but he was part of the group heading out — not home, can’t interrupt.  Upon entering, the door is quickly shut and locked before Thatcher’s mouth is on Charlie’s, their tongues entangled.  Charlie senses need emanating from Thatcher, acting as a positive feedback loop that only draws him into it further.  They stagger, lips locked, across the open layout kitchen-living room space, carefully avoiding the furniture.  

Their conjoined movement leads to one place: Thatcher’s bedroom and his king sized bed and luxury bedding.  Charlie once listened to Thatcher describe the origins and quality of the cotton, the ply of the thread, and how all of that combined with thread count ultimately dictates the luxury level of the bedding.  Charlie didn’t notice those things with his legs slung over Thatcher’s shoulders.  He wouldn’t notice them tonight. 

“Oh, baby…you know how I love it when you do that thing with your tongue.  Ohh, yes right there.”  

“Here’s the lube…get that pretty hole of yours ready for me, baby.  Yeah, hand me a cum catcher.”

“Fuck baby, you’re tight.  Oh God, yes.  So fucking good, so fucking tight.  Fuck!”

“Charlie, oh God…Charlie I’m going to blow.  Yes, already.  It’s been ten minutes…you’re just so tight, oh God.”  

Thatcher rolls off of him, pulling off the condom and tying it up before discarding it.  They’re both a bit sweaty from their exertions, despite it lasting fifteen to twenty minutes at most.  Charlie’s whole body feels like it’s on fire, his nerve endings sizzling.  

He hates himself for admitting it, but God, has he missed this.  Thatcher never fails to rail him fantastically, taking him to the edge, within an inch of his life.  Pools of cooling come slide down Charlie’s abdominal muscles, causing him to get up abruptly.  He knows that Thatcher’s sheets require specialized laundry care, enough that the man will have a minor freak out over the silicone lube stains the next day.  This is the part Charlie hates the most. 

He walks to the ensuite bathroom, finding a washcloth to drench with warm water to clean himself up.  He might be “baby,” but he’s got to take care of himself after a good romp.  Charlie thought that maybe their months apart would change this, perhaps leading Thatcher to be a bit more physically and emotionally attentive to Charlie.  Now, he’s less certain; in fact, he has a feeling that Thatcher will tell him that he’s ordered him an Uber Black to take him back to his hotel.  After all, Charlie rarely stayed the night in the past — only when roommates were away.  

He’s right.  Thatcher already has his Calvin Kleins back on and a sleeping shirt set out.  Nothing’s changed.  Nothing at all.  As Charlie’s post-sex haze lifts in the back of the Uber Black, Charlie’s sensible, intellectual brain asks him when he’ll learn to stop letting that man’s dick do the thinking for him.  

He laughs as he ponders the chances of dating successfully as a Congressman, his lonely, horny brain ridiculing the more sensible, intelligent part of his brain.  Good luck with that.  

Mid-December – “Who” by Lauv (ft. BTS)

Nick’s planned trip to D.C. leaves a solid week to find suitable accommodation for his first term before Christmas family obligations call him back home.  Between Election Day and now, various carefully negotiated moments have occurred between him, Laurel, and Tara regarding this situation.  

The first phase started with a blow-up when Nick refused to commute weekly back to Austin via one of Forsythe Holdings’ private jets.  Tara had to talk her down about how it would look and the general irresponsibility of it.  Something about how it would make Nick appear beholden to his father-in-law’s companies, which naturally led Laurel to huff about how supportive her father has been the entire time.  Not even Tara’s insistence that to do such a thing would be a major ethics violation subdued her.  Nick’s reaction about “representing the people of my district,” only added fuel to that fire, setting off a week of silent treatment and a spa retreat in Dallas. 

Their second round involved a tense conversation about budgets, and Laurel’s insistence that Nick expand his to take larger accommodations, all provided by her father of course.  Nick again brought up his desire to be financially independent. The fact alone that Laurel couldn’t accept that he wanted to make his own way as reason enough was really starting to grate.  Tara ended up making up some imaginary campaign finance violation that such a move would engender before she would let it drop.  

Flying first-class as a compromise on Laurel’s Amex (i.e. Daddy Forsythe’s Amex), he’s now wondering when the third round of this will spiral out, and over what.  The actual process of hunting through listings with her feels like navigating a minefield. 

Nick skillfully navigates their black, Mercedes E-Class sedan out of the rental garage; normally he’d be partial to driving a truck or some sort of SUV, but given the cityscape and his experiences navigating it during Orientation, he decided against it.  Despite having married into wealth, its trappings still feel incredibly foreign to him.  The Mercedes proves no exception as he zooms up the George Washington Memorial Parkway, heading toward the Key Bridge and Georgetown.  

Most of the places Tara bookmarked are in Georgetown, with a further handful scattered throughout the city.  Laurel examines her makeup carefully in a compact, powdering her nose for the third time that day.   Nick does his best to keep his mind from wandering over how much he resents her presence on this trip, given how difficult she’s been throughout the entire process. 

Their first inquiry in Georgetown yields absolutely nothing — the bedroom’s too small, the stairs too narrow, and it all feels like a small hellhole for the listed price.  Thankfully, the second is within walking distance, avoiding the need to find parking again.  Laurel, unbothered by the opportunity to strut in her wool LOEWE coat and Louboutins, graces the sidewalks of Georgetown alongside Nick in his black boots, denim, white t-shirt, and black blazer.  Any passers-by might mistake him for her bodyguard, with his strong arms and overall powerful stature.  

Unfortunately, the second location seems to be no longer in the running from the sheer fact that the lease was signed that day, without any updates to the listing.  Laurel appears miffed as they walk back to the car, as this one was “her favorite.”  The third listing in Georgetown is just within Nick’s budget, but the bathroom needs some work to make it suitable to his six-foot-three frame, dodging his move-in ready requirement by a hair.  

Nearly at the end of the list, they find themselves in Dupont Circle.  It takes several attempts to parallel park the car in the crowded area, frustrating Nick and wearing out the lucky feeling of finding a spot to begin with on Q Street NW.  The neighborhood looks quite lovely; many of the rowhouses are well-kept.  Their listing is located inside of a renovated duplex that’s been extended to three stories.  

The topmost floor contains a bedroom, an ensuite bathroom, a small kitchenette-living area, and just enough room in a corner of that space to contain a desk and other workspace.  In essence, it’s perfect — smaller, but not too small for Nick, and within budget.  Naturally, Laurel objects. 

“This place is fucking tiny,” she grumbles. 

Nick shrugs.  “It’s perfect, really.”  

Laurel opens the door to the bedroom, peering inside and huffing.  “How’re you going to fit a king bed in there?  Really, Nick?  Perfect?”

“Why would I need a king bed?” Nick asks, brows furrowed.  “Maybe a double or queen at best.”  

“I can’t sleep on a queen with you!” Laurel squawks.  “You run too hot at night, I’ll sweat too much.”

Nick crosses his arms.  “You’re barely going to be here, Laur.  It hardly makes sense to choose a place based on whether or not a king bed will fit in the bedroom.”  

Immediately she looks scandalized by that statement, but instead of reacting, changes tactics immediately.  “We can swing for the Georgetown one, baby.  I can get Daddy to cough up some cash for a fast renovation of the bathroom.  Or even for one of the larger places that Tara put in the ‘reach’ section of the list?”  

Nick shakes his head immediately.  “Laur, you know exactly how I feel about asking your father for money.” 

“But why?  He’s family.  Family helps out when necessary!”  

“It’s not necessary!  And it’s not only when necessary, it’s at every fucking whim, Laur!  Every single time you want something, you’ve got the Amex out or Daddy on speed dial.”  

“Well fuck you then, Nicholas.  I’ve been used to it my entire life. It’s literally a part of me,” she snaps back. 

“You never used to do it that much, Laur.  Not when we first met,” Nick murmurs.  

She scowls at him and pulls up her phone, tapping away at things angrily, muttering under her breath.  Nick swears he can hear things like “I don’t need this,” and “I’ll do what I want.”  He’s sure she will do what she wants, and at this point, he knows she doesn’t want or need any of this.   Nick resumes looking around the apartment, examining the details more closely as Laurel leans on a wall, tapping one of her feet impatiently.  He can picture himself living here, working here.  Baking on weekends, like he did with his mother many years ago.  Drinking a glass of wine on a comfy sofa late at night after work.  As he looks back in the bedroom, Laurel clears her throat to get his attention. 

“My Uber’s here.  I’m going to an art show, just to check it out,” she says, a look of cold indifference on her face.  

“Oh.” 

“Think about what I said, Nick, before you make any rash decisions.”  At that, she turns and heads down the stairs to catch her arriving ride. 

As the door closes, Nick whips out his phone, growling, “Rash don’t mean what you think it does, babydoll,” as he dials up the listing agent.  

He signs the lease on that Q Street apartment that day. 

At this rate, he ought to start looking for marriage counselors or therapists, too.  It’s becoming apparent that their relationship had drifted significantly over the years, even more severely over the past twelve months.  What he’s most uncertain about is how reparable the damage is.  Are the support beams in need of repair, or are there cracks in the foundation threatening to bring the whole structure down?  The next two years will certainly test them both, and right now he doubts their relationship will survive.  

Nick loves his wife, but her behavior and treatment of him and his desires is making him feel like he’s destined to be just a body and a sperm donor for yet another Forsythe heir and future Forsythe Holdings worker bee.  And he’s always wanted to have kids, but not under these conditions.  His eyes water up as he drives back to the hotel, reflecting on all of this and what it means for the future. 

These feelings only intensify leading into the holiday season.  As per tradition, Christmas Eve dinner takes place at the Forsythe Mansion in the rural outskirts of Austin.  Nick drives his old truck through the gates surrounding the property and through the landscaped gardens.  He comes separate from Laurel, who arrived earlier, having decided to stay with her parents a few days after their return from DC.  

The truck is aged beyond belief; one of Nick’s “To-Dos” after getting paid is to trade it in for a newer model.   Part of him believes that Laurel takes some twisted pleasure out of seeing him arrive in the old tin can, like it exists as a talking point for her to congratulate herself for “helping him” somehow when it eventually gets replaced.  Going to the mansion always makes him feel this way, inferior and conspired-against.  Stepping out of the truck in his nice chinos, green button-down, and navy blazer he takes a deep breath.  Time to walk on eggshells and pretend he doesn’t hear an aunt or second-cousin shittalking him. 

Pretending to be an attentive host, Donna Lynn greets him.  “Oh Nick, you’ve made it.  We’re just starting cocktail hour.”

He knows immediately, based on her demeanor, that they’re squarely in the middle of cocktail hour.  Donna Lynn can’t hide her alcohol consumption at all.  

“Apologies, Donna Lynn.  Had to finalize some last-minute work considerations,” he replies, entering the hall.  Donna Lynn peers outside, her eyes shimmering with mild disgust at the relic of a vehicle in front of it.

“Let me send for Ernie to take the truck out of the way,” she says primly.  

Nick just nods and thanks her, before heading into the morass of old money — thicker men smoking cigars next to their wives, hair volumized and secured in place by enough hairspray that any badly aimed flick of a cigarette might ignite them.  Most of their children, now in their thirties and forties, surround them.  Dressed in a variety of designers, they sip cocktails as their own children are nowhere to be found.  Nick always imagines that the youngest avoid the stodgy elders and their parents until after university.  They go off to university full of independent vigor, but shit pay on graduation and other economic realities make them fall into line.  One time, he left the main party and found the children running amok in the upper floors.  They kept him entertained, willingly, for an hour before Laurel dragged him back to the party.  Since then, she’s thwarted every attempt at disappearing.

Probably the worst aspect of the night — apart from the choking fumes of cigar smoke, Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamond perfume, and residual hair spray — happens to be the little verbal barbs Nick catches as he mills about the party.  True to Texas form, they’re never to his face, but rather within a respectable distance; he’s not supposed to hear, but does anyway.  The first year he accompanied Laurel to family holidays, he heard nothing, but from the second year on quiet murmurs and whispers have abounded.  He likes to keep a running list of them, mostly for his own humor at how terrible his in-laws are, and for his own sanity when thinking about how relatively normal his own family are in comparison.  

“His parents are divorced.  Can you believe that?”  

In this day in age, yes, Aunt Judy.  Better to be divorced than pretending your husband of twenty-five years hasn’t had five mistresses. 

“Drove that jalopy here again.”  

One of the usuals, from Donna Lynn.

“Why doesn’t he just buy a new car?” 

Because perfectly working things don’t need to be replaced for shiny, newer models, Cousin Tanya.  

“He won’t let Laurel pay for it.”  

“Tsk.  He’ll earn enough phone banking by age fifty to get one.”  

His favorite misconception of all time while he worked at the educational policy center was that he just called people all day.  He’d actually applied his knowledge and research to crafting new policies for governments to consider regarding curriculum and schools in general.

“Shh, he’s a Congressman-elect now.”  

Damn right.

He had heard similar refrains before, but with recent events, newer ones bubbled to the surface. 

“Can you believe that they’ve not moved out of that place in Austin?  It’s so dinky.” 

Nick actively scowls at this one; their home in Austin is quite spacious for two people.  

“You think that’s dinky?  You should see the photos Laurel sent me of his DC place.  Horrifying.”   

Well, that stings… but he supposes he deserves it.  He should have known his “spite-signing” of that lease would lead to catty behavior from his wife.  This seems to be the new norm of their relationship.  

What he heard toward the end of the night really hit him in the gut. 

“I still can’t believe that they’ve not had a child yet.”  

Excuse me, Aunt Lydia?

“What’s it been now, three years?”  

Yes, Uncle Jed… three years.  Three years of marriage, about two of dating.  All of which involved graduate school and heavily exploring career options.

“That’s just… not normal.  They could be living quite comfortably with at least one child.”  

Oh, va à la merde, Lydia, you judgmental connasse.

“You don’t think… you know…”  

What?

“What?”

“Given he’s a damn liberal… do you think he’s a flit? Can’t get it up with a woman, and that’s why?”  

“Jed, no one says flit anymore.  They say homosexual.”  

Oh .

Nick exits the large sitting room, finding some breathing room in the hallway leading to the kitchen and dining room.  There’s a smaller corridor adjacent to this that leading to a service entrance for caterers and the like, which he heads to immediately for a breath of fresh air.  Nothing like casual homophobia and overbearing family dynamics to really bring down the holidays.  

He breathes in deeply as the cooler night air hits him, allowing it to wash over his heated frame.  Some of the catering staff shuffle in and out, but they leave him be.  His face must distinctively betray how deeply bothered he is, something they certainly would understand.  They hear some of the same shit while they go about their work.  Nick knows he’s not gay, but that accusation has shaken him.  

It throws him back to a time when he heard similar things in high school, when he never dated, never had a girlfriend.  He finds women sexually attractive, he’s capable of loving women — things were just too busy, too rough at home, to really want to at the time.  

That didn’t stop people from whispering.  Worse off, it made him hate himself, for many reasons.  Not only did he think he had something wrong with himself for not being interested, but it really made him beat himself up on two occasions when he somehow found himself thinking a guy was attractive.  Coupling the  complications of divorce with oppressive sports-related homophobia, he never really examined what that meant.  He figures now it's a bygone relic of his teenage past, something not worth examining.  Something he definitely hasn’t the time to examine. 

He spends the rest of the evening in misery, sipping whiskey neat and doing his best to make it through the official Christmas-Eve dinner and traditional present opening.  One of his sole comforts that night involves the fact that of all the presents they receive, all of the children seem most infatuated by his most thoughtful ones.  They adults might not realize it, but the children know that Uncle Nick’s the best.  

The next morning he wakes up with a slight hangover, three feet apart from Laurel.  They’ve got somewhere between two and three hours on the road until they get back to Beaumont, and to one of Nick’s favorite people in the world — Sarah Nelson.  

Laurel’s met Sarah before.  They’ve just not spent a significant amount of time in Beaumont with her, mostly at Laurel’s insistence that they spend the holidays at her family’s mansion.  In fact, this is their first holiday as a married couple in Beaumont, in the home where Nick spent his adolescent years after his parent’s divorce.  Normally he would relish this comfort, but other feelings churn malevolently inside him.  Having Sarah come to Austin minimizes conversations about his father, who Laurel knows a fair share about, but especially avoids any talk about David.  Nick never talks about his brother, having cut him off years ago.  Laurel generally knows he has an older brother, but Nick has told her absolutely nothing about David, nor shown her a photo of him.  

When they pull up to the mid-century ranch house, suddenly the reality of all of that hits him like a ton of bricks. 

“Nicky, baby.” Sarah Nelson waits for them on the front porch, book in hand, a pitcher of iced tea nearby.  

“I forget how adorable your mom is,” Laurel murmurs gleefully as they get out of the old truck, a bottle of Dom Perignon for Sarah in her hands.  It sounds somewhat condescending.  

“Mama, iced tea before noon?” Nick teases.

Sarah smiles, rolling her eyes.  “Don’t start with me, mister.  It’s so hot the hens are laying hard-boiled eggs.”  

It is unseasonably hot, about ten degrees Fahrenheit above the average high, and humid to boot. 

Nick gives his mom a tight hug, before following her indoors with his and Laurel’s bags.  Laurel enters the house, eyes wandering all over the place — family photos line the walls, little keepsakes on the fireplace’s mantle in the living room — a shocking contrast to the sterile, ornate features of the family mansion.  

Sarah leads her to the kitchen, doing her best hostess and motherly duties to provide some beverage options and even a pre-lunch offering of her homemade beignets.  Nick’s mouth waters thinking about them as he takes the bags upstairs.  Beignets are his favorite, next to his mom’s pecan pie.  She perfected them over the years as an ode to his father’s Cajun background, and stuck with it even after the divorce.  He scrunches his face in annoyance when he hears Laurel refuse them with a “oh, I’ve already had breakfast.”  

Nick understands the Christmas Beignet tradition, gleefully munching on one of them a few minutes later as he and his mother start to catch up.  

“How’s work?” he asks as he wipes some powdered sugar off of the short beard that’s developed over the past two weeks.  

Sarah sighs.  “Every year brings me closer to retirement.”  

Nick chuckles and shakes his head.  “That bad this year?”  

“I’ve had to talk five different kids out of dropping out, Nicky.  Five.  That’s a new record in my career,” she bemoans.  

“Five? Goodness,” Laurel notes in a mildly uninterested voice.

“What’s the reasoning?” Nick asks.

Sarah furrows her brows and shakes her head.  “They all want to be social media influencers.  On that damn clock app.  Ugh… naturally I had to download it.”

“For opposition research purposes?” Nick chimes in.

“Yes, Nicky.  For opposition research purposes,” Sarah confirms.  “It’s addictive.  No wonder they’re obsessed.”  

Nick just shakes his head and chuckles before turning to help his mother set up for Christmas lunch. They’ll have lunch, open some presents, and then sit around and play cards or just relax for the day.  Another extreme juxtaposition between the chaotic, hellish night Nick had prior to this tranquility.  

During that after-lunch period of relaxation, Laurel wanders around looking at old photos of him and the rest of the family.   She coos about his mop of strawberry blonde hair, giggles at his father’s mullet, ogles pictures of Sarah winning her first beauty pageant, but stops transfixed at a newer addition to the photo wall that even Nick didn’t notice before. 

“Nick… who is this?” she asks quietly, her previously animated features now stilled.  

Sarah looks over at the photo wall and narrows her eyes.  “Nicky… you mean to tell me that Laurel doesn’t know about David?”  

“She knows that David exists,” Nick replies quickly.  “Nothing more.”

Sarah puts her hands on her waist and frowns.  “So, talking about his big brother’s as unwelcome as a wet shoe at your house?” 

Laurel hums, almost emotionless.

“Mama, I told you… I don’t want anything to do with him anymore.  We haven’t spoken in years.  Not since…” Nick trails off hesitantly.  This is exactly the topic he hoped to avoid.

“The fight,” Sarah finishes for him.

“The fight?” Laurel asks, turning to face them.  Nick notices that her expression seems troubled, and oddly pale for someone so committed to regular tanning. 

Nick leans back on the sofa and takes a deep breath.  “This was a year before I met you, Laur… my last year of undergrad.  But really, it had been boiling for years at that point.”  

“They were always at each other’s throats, about something or another,” Sarah interjects.  “Popularity. Sports teams…”

“Being pissed that I made collegiate basketball, but he wasn’t good enough to make collegiate football,” Nick adds, shaking his head.  “Mocking my future career choice, looking down on me like he was God’s gift to mankind.”  

“He always wanted to go running with the big dogs,” Sarah says ruefully.  “I argued with him about finances in school all the time.  SMU was a bad influence on him…”

“SMU?  Your brother went to SMU?” Laurel squeaks. 

Nick nods his head.  Laurel is an SMU alumna after all.  “He’s four years older than me, so you’d never cross paths with him.” 

Laurel blinks, her face making an odd contortion before turning back to look at the photo on the wall.  She twirls with her hair a bit, a nervous tell that Nick cannot quite fully understand.  Something about her demeanor has changed significantly since she laid eyes on that recent photo of David, sufficiently unsettling Nick.  What’s going on in that head of hers?  He can’t get out of his own head that she’s hiding something from him, something that somehow involves his brother David.  

Nick refuses to let himself spiral thinking about all the possibilities, but instead helps himself to a pre-dinner slice of pecan pie.  By the end of their visit, he’s been left with a terrible Christmas gift — another layer of doubt to add to his mind.  Doubts about Laurel herself, about their relationship, about what he wants in the future.  Accumulating, layer by layer, like a toxic trifle. 

Chapter Text

Early January 2029

Blurry and hazy best describe Nick’s post-holiday schedule.  Some final fittings for new suits and dress shirts, off the rack, made difficult by his bulkier arms, chest, and shoulders, take up the majority of his time.  Tara does her best to find him black, navy, and gray suits, enough variation to keep things a bit lively, along with appropriate shoes and belts to accompany them.  

He’s chosen black, blue, and green ties, along with a few fun patterned ones.  Laurel eyes those ones especially critically, but he figures that if Sinema can wear denim in the Senate, he can rock a dog-print tie on the House floor.  What brings him the most apprehension is the light blue seersucker suit that she also orders for him.

“There’s a seersucker day,” she sighs.

Nick just blinks in confusion at that.  He gets his hair cut for the first time in a month, shaping up the fade, but leaving a wavy sort of medium coif on top.  They offer to shave him, which he refuses.  He really likes his short, scruffy beard that’s grown in.  He feels it lends him an air of maturity.  Tara objects, and so they compromise on a shape up of the beard, along with a lecture about how to properly care for it and some products to keep it looking at tip-top shape.  

On January second, he finds himself outside of the Q Street apartment in the biting cold, a small moving pod filled with necessities waiting to be emptied as movers bring in his furniture.  Enough up-and-down on the stairs will count for at least two days’ worth of cardio.  

It will take him some time to properly straighten out all of his possessions, but today he aims to get at least the necessities unpacked.  It’s past noon, and he really must investigate some food options nearby.  On his way out, a man waves over to him, smiling happily.  He appears to be in his late forties or early fifties, salt-and-pepper brown hair with a full beard, donning a wool-overcoat and a heavy cardigan underneath.  Another man stands next to him, locking up; he’s blondish, a bit taller, and with a small goatee. 

“Hiya, neighbor!”

“Oh, howdy y’all,” Nick replies, waving to them. 

“Oh, he’s Southern,” the brunette says to the blonde next to him, who is now turned to look at Nick. 

“Ah bon? C’est tout américain,” the blonde says, grinning.

Nick huffs.  “Monsieur, excuse-moi, je viens du Texas!”

“Oh, you speak French?  Sounds just as much patois as mine,” the blonde says sarcastically, grinning back.

“Cajun.”

“Québécois.” 

The brunette looks between the two of them, smiling with a dazed expression.  “God bless all French speakers.”

The blonde waves.  “Claude.”

“Bill,” the brunette says, giving him a small salute.  

“I’m Nick.  Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux,” Nick says quickly.  “Uh, I’m… well, I’m getting sworn into Congress tomorrow.” 

Both Bill and Claude’s eyes shoot up in surprise and look at each other quickly, smiling curiously. 

“Well, good luck with that,” Claude says airily.  

Nick scoffs.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”  

“Ignore him,” Bill says.  “You settling in okay?” 

“Actually… yeah.  I’m just looking for some place to get lunch around here.  I don’t want to go far,” Nick replies, glancing at Claude with mild annoyance.  What an unfriendly tone.

Bill looks thoughtfully for a second while Claude taps his foot impatiently.  Finally, the friendlier man responds, “Kebabs.  There’s a place at 17th and R Street that makes kebabs and wraps.  A few restaurants, but some of them require a rez.”

“Go with the kebabs,” Claude adds.  “Now, William, we’ve got a shop to attend to.  Let’s bid our nubile Congressman good day.  I’m sure we’ll see him around.” 

Nick just smiles and waves, watching his two neighbors walk down the street.  They saunter playfully, until they slow down a bit and hold hands.  

Oh. Nick blinks, unexpectedly.  Naturally he’s met gay people before, but he’s never had gay neighbors.  That’s something new and exciting to look forward to.  

He sets off toward the kebab place, taking in his surroundings.  This time, it’s easier to soak it all in, in Laurel’s absence  One thing that he notices on his walk through the Dupont circle neighborhood is an unusually high number of pride flags, of all color combinations, some of which he’s never seen before.  Wait… is this… according to Google, many consider the neighborhood to be the historical gayborhood of the city.  He’s going to choose to shrug that off — a neighborhood’s a neighborhood, and this one is lovely so far. 

His kebab is quite enjoyable, and he makes a mental note to thank Bill and Claude later. Perhaps if he has time in the next few days, he’ll bake something simple for them.  His main priority besides getting his bedroom set up and his belongings unpacked involves making sure his suit for tomorrow looks immaculate.  There will be plenty of media before and after the ceremony.  And while he can let Tara fuss over his general appearance, he’s a grown enough man to iron his own clothing.  He’s had to do that since 13, an official request of Sarah Nelson when she started her job as a counselor at the local high school.  

Taking a break from stowing some belongings, he locates his newly-purchased ironing board and iron, and then gets to work.  Something about it feels calming, centering despite, or perhaps because of, the focus and precision it requires, especially on clothing that would be annoying to repair or replace.  When he’s satisfied, he hangs up the navy suit and white dress shirt, placing a similar navy tie with it and setting out his camel leather belt and dress shoes.  His phone buzzes with a text from Tara.

Tara: You ready for tomorrow?  We’re picking up Laurel at 6:45 from the airport.

Nick: Yeah, just ironed my clothing for tomorrow.

Tara: We’ll be around 7:30 tomorrow to make sure you’re set for hair, etc.  

Nick: Okay.  I’ll be ready.  

Nick: What about Laurel?

Tara: Getting ready with a stylist at the hotel.

Nick: Oh.  Probably for the best…

Tara: Not my Congressman-elect, not my problem. 

Nick chortles at that.  No, she’s Nick’s problem entirely.  

The next morning is lightning fast, with Tara arriving with their special events stylist right on schedule.  Nick barely has time to run to Java House for coffee and a bagel and back.  Unpacking and preparing for today consumed his afternoon and evening so much that he didn’t get the opportunity to do any grocery shopping for essentials.  He makes a mental note to ask around about how many Congresspeople keep well stocked pantries; he’s certain that more than a few of them have cooks on staff, or are kept well fed by lobbyists, but one certainly can’t be wined-and-dined that frequently.  Add that to the list for when he pens What to Expect When You’re Expecting to be Sworn In To Congress.  

As per the 20th Amendment (Section 2) of the Constitution of the United States of America, the new Congress must convene at noon on the third of January in each odd numbered year.  Before the official swearing in and convening of Congress, the new members take an unofficial Democratic Caucus “Freshmen” class photo on the steps of the Capitol Building.  They took one as a whole group with Republicans and an independent in November.  There are quite a few new members this year, almost forty, Tara tells him on the car over.  

He arrives a few minutes before the photo, seeing everyone nervously crowding around the steps, trying to get into an arrangement.  As he approaches, there’s a face in the crowd that draws his attention in a way he can’t quite explain.  Tan skin and dark features except for his eyes, which stand out, bright blue, even from afar.  He’s standing next to a tough-looking blonde woman in a purple pants suit who’s talking to him quietly.  Both of them snicker.  He doesn’t quite recognize either of them, although he feels like he should.  Especially the intriguing guy.  

Nick gets moved around so that his height doesn’t disturb the flow and ambiance of the photograph before they finally end up snapping several possible ones to choose from.  Later he knows they’ll get head-shots for official Congressional photos.  Per caucus emails, he also is well aware of the fact that they will vote on the Speaker of the House before anyone is sworn in that day.  Unlike the Republicans earlier in the decade, this Democratic House majority is large enough and relatively united that many have coalesced around Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez to take the helm.  With no anticipated hangups, the time schedule means that swearing in will take place in the early afternoon.  Tara will send for Laurel early, giving enough time to get through traffic and security.  Everything is going as planned. 

During the Speaker vote, Nick can’t help but crane his neck around the room, putting names to faces.  He has the time, based on last names he will be mid-way through the roll call.   He can see some people as they announce their choices, including the purple pants suit woman, who he learns is Congresswoman Caity Anderson from Minnesota.  She casts her vote for Ocasio-Cortez.  

While it takes some time, eventually Nick gets to cast his vote, opting for Ocasio-Cortez, as he had promised the House Majority Whip weeks ago.  Roll call voting feels nerve wracking, as he fully realizes how on display everything is in the Capitol.  He continues looking around the room, listening as more people cast their ballots.  

Toward the end of the alphabet, he hears the House Clerk call out “Spring'' and Nick sees the intriguing man from earlier call out Ocasio-Cortez’s name as well.  Fiddling with his phone, he quickly finds out that Charlie Spring is one of the youngest members of Congress… and openly gay.  Nick sits with that thought for a minute, before he’s struck with the fact that his swearing in takes place within the next hour.  

Everything’s becoming so official. Overwhelmingly official.  He takes a steadying breath.

Eventually the newly elected speaker swears in the entire Chamber.  Like many of the newly elected members, Nick has elected to take up the offer to have an individual, ceremonial swearing in with the Speaker of the House.  People mill around after the wave of official business, which affords Nick some time to casually meet some other members of the Democratic House Caucus.  

Eventually someone ushers the new members out of the main chamber toward the Speaker’s office.  He spots Congressman Spring approaching the Speaker for his personal swearing in, accompanied by four people, two of which look very much like him and the other two that appear to be friends.  Nick counts himself lucky that  he has at least his own mother to appear with him in support. 

Charlie Spring doesn’t give off the air of a typical Congressman — for starters, his suit appears to be a blackish-evergreen color, something Nick didn’t notice before in the natural lighting.  He’s got a crop of medium-length, curly, well manicured hair on top of his head.  His blue eyes radiate an unnerving, yet captivating energy.  Unable to draw his eyes away, Nick examines his confident stance.  He remembers scanning an article about how passionate the man is about certain topics (although he can’t remember which), and how that’s gotten him into some thorny situations.  

Eventually, Tara clears her throat next to him.  “You okay?” 

“Huh?  Oh… yeah.”  Nick nods, smiling faintly.  Mostly okay. 

Tara nods over to the top of the stairs.  “Your wife’s arrived.  And you’re up next.”  

Nick looks over to see what Laurel’s fashion team chose for the occasion.  An ivory slip dress in a satiny fabric, paired with a lilac cardigan to cover her shoulders and upper arms, and a simple black heel.  Her hair and makeup looks restrained in comparison to her usual full face of  Southern Belle face-paint; no false eyelashes and a simple manicure instead of usual ostentatious talons.  Next to her, Sarah Nelson sports a simple floral dress and pink cardigan.  She looks graceful and kind, a stark contrast to his wife, who, despite her beauty, looks like she was forced to swallow black licorice wrapped in horseradish.  

Pushing back the resentment that makes him feel, he approaches the Speaker and takes a number of photos, some of which Tara sends to him a few hours later, while they’re at dinner. 

Dinner is at Morton’s, a fancy steakhouse.  Laurel’s treat, mostly for Sarah, but also a diversionary tactic.  Nick knows that she knows how those photos turned out.  She’s never been very great about hiding the emotions on her face, and her appearance in the official photos speak volumes.  At best, an uninterested look, and at worst, a combination of regret, bitterness, and a vile petty energy.  If Sarah wasn’t here, he would probably have at it with her over all of it, over her negativity, her lack of support, her family’s overall conduct.  The works.  He never gets the chance; as soon as dinner ends and his mother’s taxi to the airport arrives, she kisses him on the cheek softly and departs for the airport herself.  

It dawns on Nick that Laurel’s arrived at a similar conclusion about them as he has — something’s not working, but with similar uncertainty about what can be done about it.  He’s on a new path, one that he refuses to leave, and neither of them know how she fits on that path with him.  

Nick’s reaching the point where he’s beginning to realize that there may be no reconciliation on this.  He’s just not sure that he’s okay with saying that out loud to anyone right now. 

Late December 2028 - Early January 2029

The holidays with the Springs thankfully remain an incredibly informal affair, allowing Charlie to spend some time with his siblings before sorting out his new living space in DC.  Olly promises that he’ll come to the swearing-in ceremony with Tori, along with Tao and Elle.  

His father, unable to make it due to filming on location in Patagonia, pays for Olly’s clothing and transportation; Charlie’s obtained guest passes for them all, even though Tori’s using her photojournalism work to pay for her travel there, and Elle and Tao have saved money for this since the August primary.  Julio is sorry that work prevents it, but it cannot be rescheduled.  Jane Spring, on the other hand… she’ll be in DC already, helping out her client.  Charlie hasn’t even asked her if she’ll attend his personal swearing in ceremony.  She hasn't mentioned it.

Thankfully, Charlie’s mastered minimalist packing, and with the help of Tori and Michael, it’s not difficult to get the belongings he wants in DC packed up to be shipped off from his apartment.  He’s going to miss being in Fremont frequently, with its familiar surroundings.  Given how often Tori and Michael travel for work, he’s really lucky that they’re even around to help out.  Charlie values this moment, seeing as how they both let him open up about his anxieties and his hopes for the upcoming term.

“Well, that’s about it,” Charlie says, sighing.   

Michael peeks out from his bedroom in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood.  “We’ve got the suits packed.  Grey, black, a navy, and then this black-emerald piece? Right?”

“Yeah, those are the ones,” Charlie calls back.  His sister is out in the living room, packing up some odds and ends with him.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it more,” she says quietly.  “I get it.” 

Charlie shakes his head.  “I think I’ve said all I can say about it really.  Just nerves. I’m the youngest now… and it’s just going to be like the spotlights are on me to slip up.” 

“You won’t,” Tori says firmly.  “And if you do, you and Darcy will figure out how to fix it.  Just… don’t be reactive.  Think carefully about what you say and do, especially with journos around.”  

Charlie rolls his eyes, but he knows she means well.  “A lesson I will learn, and repeat over and over again.”  

“Speaking of those lessons…” 

“What?”

Tori puts her hands on her waist and cocks an eyebrow.  “You know what I mean.  Him.”

“Him?  Who?” Charlie feigns ignorance of exactly who she's talking about — Thatcher.

Tori scowls at him.  “For the love of god, if I have to listen to you go on about how you feel after fucking that man again…”

“Who’s fucking a man again?” Michael shouts from the bathroom.

“My brother!” Tori shouts back.

“Oh my God, please stop!” Charlie entreats.  

Tori hisses slightly.  “I’ll stop once I don’t have to hear about how you feel about your dick-head ex after you let him dick you down for the eleventh time post break-up.”

Charlie hangs his head, mumbling, “It’s not the eleventh time…”

“Shouldn’t be any time. Especially not for him,” Tori shoots back.  

It really shouldn’t be, Charlie reminds himself as he recollects that whole conversation from nearly a week ago.  He’s been in DC for a few days now, experiencing New Year’s Eve and Day there.  It took very little time to get his portion of the town-home set up, allowing him to take stock of anything he might need for the coming weeks and then navigate around Northern Virginia and DC to obtain it.  

Thatcher was well aware of the fact that Charlie’s officially in the region, and he made it apparent on New Year’s Eve when he invited Charlie over for a party at his place.  Charlie immediately denied such a request, describing his endless to-do list before January third.  Unfortunately, Charlie could not refuse his counter-offer:  a daytime coffee “date,” of sorts, to talk.  In his mind, Charlie rationalized that it's just coffee, and he’ll not be inebriated, lessening the chances of making a mistake like he did back in December.  

He’s just getting coffee.  Just coffee, he reminds himself as he pulls on an oatmeal-colored cardigan over his emerald-green flannel shirt. 

After exiting the Foggy Bottom metro stop, Charlie walks down to I Street NW to Tatte Bakery and Cafe.  Albeit not well known for coffee, they do have a number of locations around DC that deliver decent breakfast food all day.  Charlie wants to try the croissant sandwich, and anything else satiating that will put him off of thinking remotely sexual thoughts.  It’s not easy to be filled by someone as big as Thatcher when you’re filled with food.  Confidently he strides into the busy establishment; he should have known it would be a bit loud in here, the day after New Year’s Day.  Many people still have vacation time and are in need of a recovery brunch to ease out the remaining hangover from New Year’s Eve.  

Across the room, he sees Thatcher’s luscious locks and stops for a second.  You can do this, Charlie, he repeats to himself internally.  

“Hi, Charlie.  I’ve ordered your coffee just the way you like it.  Waitress came around earlier,” Thatcher says kindly.  

Charlie lowers himself into the seat, gazing at those hazel-green eyes that practically beg him to be civil, or better… enthusiastic about this reunion.  “Uh… thank you, Thatch.”

He takes a sip of the coffee — not nearly as good as anything in Seattle, but not bad — and its preparation fits exactly within his guidelines.  Just a splash of oat milk.  “Well…”

“It’s just nice to see you in a… normal setting,” Thatcher says, releasing a nervous breath.  “What’ve you been up to?”

Charlie snorts.  “You mean besides getting elected to Congress, preparing for that, surviving Orientation, and moving several time zones?”

“Yeah.  Besides all that.”

Charlie takes another sip of his coffee, uncertain about what that even means.  Is he fishing for information about love interests? About how Charlie feels about him?  Whatever it is, he’s doing his best not to take the bait. 

“Dunno.  Suppose not much outside of that.  Finally got more regular running in after the election.  Honestly the only thing that kept me grounded,” Charlie says hesitantly.

“Oh.”

Charlie shrugs.  “Was that what you’re looking for, or was there something more specific that you wanted to know?”

Thatcher sighs, shaking his head.  “Straight to the point, as usual.”

“And why shouldn’t I be, Thatch?  I can’t be strung along by you for another year,” Charlie spits back at him. 

“Strung along? Now hold up…”

“Don’t even pretend it wasn’t stringing me along,” Charlie whispers back tersely.  

“I wasn’t ready to come out, Charlie… you know that.  I told you that.  My parents can’t handle that,” he practically whines.  “Why do you keep punishing me for that?”

“I’m not punishing you for that, you idiot.  I’m still angry about Martha’s Vineyard.  What you didn’t say.  What you didn’t do.   I wasn’t prepared, and it hurt.  And then what you did and said after that…”

Thatcher’s eyes sink down toward his coffee.  “It wasn’t right, I know.  I regret that now.  I would have done things differently, or at least explained to you beforehand…”

“The truth?” Charlie interjects.  “All of the truth?  Or just select bits and pieces?”   

“Damnit, Charlie…”

Charlie cuts him off.  “I told you. I’m not going to be in a long term relationship with anyone who’s in the closet, not to mention an outright liar.  I had too much of that in high school and university for me to go through it again as an adult.  If you make a concrete plan as to when and how you’re going to come out, fine.”

“I can do that,” Thatcher replies immediately.

“Great then.  Do it.  Mail it, email it, fax it… whatever.  I just need to see it.  Because after everything I found out last summer… I don’t trust you,” Charlie replies calmly. 

Thatcher snorts.  “You trust me enough to take my cock at a moment’s notice.” 

“That’s different.  Can fuck someone and leave it at that, without hardly any emotions… but you can’t date someone for months and then…”

“Okay, I get it,” Thatcher says over him, a bit loudly.  A few people glance at them. 

Charlie takes a few deep gulps of his coffee, draining close to half of it.  Naturally, it’s not in a to-go cup, but no matter.  He’ll stop elsewhere on the way back home, right after he storms out of this dumpster fire of a “coffee date.”  

He looks at Thatcher square in the face and shakes his head.  “No, I don’t think you do.  I really don’t.”

“Try me then,” Thatcher retorts. 

Charlie scowls.  “I’m in the public eye now.  Last summer you were worried about me being too high profile for you.  Now I’m worried about you being too low profile for me.  I need a partner who isn’t going to freak out at the possibility of being seen with me.  Of being linked romantically with me.” 

“So you just need arm candy,” Thatcher stubbornly asserts.  “Someone to be seen with, to show off.”

Charlie stands up, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.  Time to go.  It truly boggles Charlie’s mind to hear a man as intelligent as Thatcher make such blatantly idiotic statements.  Even worse, without a modicum of introspection to realize how idiotic they are.

“What’re you doing?” Thatcher groans.  “Come on now, sit back down.  We’ve not even ordered food yet.”

Charlie shakes his head again, turning away from the table.  “Go fuck yourself, Thatcher Ambrose Alden III.  You’ve not changed a bit… and I’m not wasting my time, or I’ll wake up five years from now as your secret ‘mistress’ to an unknowing beard.  I’d rather die.”  

Thatcher just gawks at him, eyes wide.  The table of DC housewives next to them stares equally dramatically at the two of them.  Thatcher’s lucky that despite his family’s richness, they’re not that well known to everyone.  None of this will end up in a tabloid or written down anywhere.  Not that it matters, as it would be vehemently denied even if it did.  He knows Thatcher won’t come out for him, or anyone.  Not even for himself.  In fact, Charlie feels pretty certain that everything about his inheritance involves him very much not being gay, but instead marrying a woman and producing heirs.  He has no proof, of course, but it feels like the sort of shit some Boston Brahmin would do.  And it’s the only thing Charlie can use to rationalize everything about Thatcher’s conduct.  

He’s really having a hankering for a croissant, a problem that can now only be solved by renting a city bike and taking off for another location of Tatte, in Dupont Circle.  He’ll just have to bike back down to catch the metro back to Crystal City at some point.  

Unfortunately for him, using a GPS and riding a bike at the same time in a busy city are not really compatible.  Somewhere around Q Street he realizes that he’s very much lost, and in desperate need of a stop to re-evaluate.  He’s overshot the Dupont Tatte by a block east and a few blocks north.  

Before he takes off in a huff toward that location, he hears a sort of drawling voice from afar.  Gazing up, he sees the side profile of a very tall, attractive man.   He’s quite fair, a bit freckly, and has a head of medium-short, wavy, strawberry-blonde hair, faded on the sides.  Soon he only sees the back of his head and his sturdy winter jacket, walking away from him down 17th Street.  

He doesn’t need Thatcher.  There’s plenty of men in and around DC, he tells himself as he cycles to where he needs to be.  Part of him believes that somehow he’ll have the time to meet someone new, someone special that can treat him as he deserves.  Someone who isn’t hiding in the shadows to appease a rich family.  In his newfound resolve stemming from putting Thatcher in his place, Charlie channels that belief.  He needs to, because he needs to keep the quiet voice at bay that whispers he’ll never find something as good as Thatcher, if at all. 

January 4th and Beyond

Nothing could have prepared Nick for how fast things move after they convene Congress.  In fact, it feels like he needs another solid two weeks of an orientation-like bootcamp to get himself together.  Everything and nothing seems to have stuck from that week in November.  Thankfully, Tara keeps him accountable, updating his schedule as needed.  Like many in his generation, remaining glued to his phone isn’t necessarily difficult, but he hates it nonetheless.  Currently he’s shuffling around his office in the Rayburn House Office Building (number 2307, to be precise), thinking about several unrelated things. 

One: those photos of him, Laurel, and his mother.  Plus the other photos of just Laurel.  

Two: why doesn’t he remember Congressman Spring from Orientation or from the Office Lottery.

Three: When will they vote on subcommittees?  

Each claws at him differently, and sometimes in ways he can’t quite explain. 

At the forefront of his brain are the photos of him and his mother smiling cheerily, with pride at his accomplishment, all the while Laurel scowls.  On top of that, her indifferent face has been sent around Twitter as a new meme of sorts.  Certainly not the kind of attention he wants associated with him.  His team already knows that some memes of him, including a thirst-trap collegiate-era basketball meme, circulate on social media.  While Tara thinks the attention remains mostly positive, he doesn’t want to be known for “being hot.”  

Regarding Laurel,  he asked Tara to see if they could crop her out of some of them and just leave Sarah in, but she didn’t want to entertain that.  Nick took that as her unspoken way of telling him that he needed to have a serious conversation with his wife about her public conduct and general demeanor.  There’s no time for that right now, and to top that off, Laurel has “commitments” in the evenings that require travel, sure to disrupt her ability to hold a serious conversation with her husband.  He’ll have to call on the weekend. 

Which brings him to point two.  He doesn’t quite understand why he can’t get the man’s face out of his head.  Something about the piercing nature of his blue eyes in contrast with his bronzy-tanned skin just seems to haunt his brain’s cognitive recognition function.  He’s usually quite good at placing faces to names, at remembering people, and so it bothers him immensely that he can’t remember the man at the office lottery.  The one who is now moving some stuff into his office down the hall in Rayburn.  Number 2346.  It’s got a large progressive pride flag on the door, along with the US flag, and the flag of Washington State.   Don’t ask why Nick’s got that memorized already, when he can barely remember meeting times, despite looking at his phone every five minutes.  He’s got some sort of hopeful spirit that they’ll work well together — well, he’s hoping that all of the new Democratic freshmen Congressmen will work well together.  

Before he finds more time to continue searching his memory banks for earlier interactions with Congressman Spring, or turning over exactly what he wants to say to Laurel, his phone dings.  There’s a message from Tara.  They’ve moved up the subcommittee voting meeting by an hour; it’s now taking place in less than ten minutes time.  He scrambles to get himself together for the meeting before taking off on a clip down to 2175 Rayburn, where Education committee meetings are regularly held.

Nick gets there quick enough to get a decent seat, and Congressman Spring joins him moments later, about five seats down.  Surreptitiously, he glances at the man.  Earlier that day, Congressman Spring scowled at him when they got a reminder email about their committee meetings.  It’s a convoluted process, mostly done by a party steering committee that neither of them are on, nor probably will be for some time.  Nick got assigned to both Energy and the Education committees, the latter which he’s most excited about.  All he knows is that Congressman Spring also got an Education committee assignment, and not one for Energy.  If he had to bet, he would place his life’s savings on Charlie at least strongly disliking him for that, based on the scowl alone.  Tara told him earlier that they’ve changed the subcommittee process due to some rigmarole a few years prior.  Now their committee chair pre-selects the subcommittees based on preferences submitted within the past few weeks…and they vote to approve them or debate changes.

He blinks as he sees the rosters pulled up.  Caity Anderson: Subcommittee on Higher Education.  Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux: Early Childhood, Elementary, and Secondary Education.  Charlie Spring:  Early Childhood, Elementary, and Secondary Education.  

Oh. Well… that’s… unexpected.  Nick was certain that they’d put Charlie on Workforce Protections, or Health, Employment, Labor, and Pensions, given his very vocal pro-Labor campaign rhetoric.  Yes, Nick spent some time examining his campaign rhetoric last night while in bed.  Charlie’s eyes flash with frustration as Caity looks at him sympathetically.  The committee chair calls them to order.  

“Does anyone here object to the assignments?” he asks warily.

Immediately, Charlie does, raising his voice.  “I object to them.”

A few people groan, and the Chair sighs. “And now we take a vote on whether or not to open debate on reconfiguring the committee lists.  This requires two-thirds of the members present to proceed.”

Nick listens as each person votes.  A number of them quickly reject it, some thinking carefully before rejecting it or approving the idea.  The newcomers on the committee appear divided, but the seasoned veterans move in lockstep to avoid it completely.  Eventually, the chair reaches Nick.  He really doesn’t want to step out of line on day one, nor does he really want to rock the boat before he’s even gotten the chance to establish himself.  He thinks about how unfair it is that they get little voice in the matter, but that’s not something they can all of a sudden be changed.  

Swallowing nervously, Nick says, “I vote nay.”

When they finally reach the end of the roster and tally up the votes, the two-thirds no vote succeeds by a margin of one.  Nick suddenly feels a bit queasy about his no vote, immediately imagining Charlie blaming him for it.  By the searing look the man’s giving him, he’s certain Charlie’s thinking the same thing.  The chair finalizes the lists and closes out that portion of the meeting.  

They spend the rest of the session huddled up setting possible regular meeting times, strategies, and legislative priorities to pursue.  Anytime his eyes meet Charlie’s, stone-cold agitation eyes him back.  At the end of the meeting, Charlie pulls his sleeve back a bit, revealing some tattoos.  Nick, seeing an opportunity to attempt reconciliatory small talk, motions at his arm. 

“How far up does that go?” he asks warmly. 

Charlie turns to him, eyes narrowed and replies, “How far up do you like it?”

Nick’s eyes shoot wide and his mouth opens in shock.  Unable to say anything, Charlie just smirks at him and walks off, clearly pissed off.  Caity Anderson comes up next to him on her way out, shaking her head.  

“Nelson…”

“It’s Nelson-Thibodeaux,” Nick corrects.

She rolls her eyes.  “I wasn’t sure how to pronounce your last name, but thank you.  Now I’m just going to call you Tibby.”

“What?”  Nick’s mouth continues to hang agape.  He thought people from Minnesota were nice by default. 

“Let me give you some advice.  I would steer clear of him as much as possible for a while.  Between the “nay” vote and nabbing a spot on his preferred committee right now, I don’t think he likes you very much,” she says patronizingly, patting his shoulder.  

Nick just blinks as she walks off, before heading back to his office to check in with Tara.  He doesn’t want to make enemies within his own caucus, and so he’ll talk it over with Tara and see what she thinks he should do.  Really, he wants to tell Charlie why he voted that way, and at least attempt to clear the air.  He’s not out to get him, but apparently he’s got some preconceived notion that somehow Nick’s pulling strings that even Nick can’t see.  

All of this will wait for a while, though.  Sarah Nelson always told him not to poke a hornet’s nest, and Charlie Spring seems fairly close to one of those right now. 

That weekend, Nick finally finds time to call Laurel and talk with her.  His first call goes to voicemail, but the second call eventually gets picked up.  She must have been doing some sort of evening ritual before doing whatever she’s up to.  Her social calendar remains hidden from him, unless she offers. 

“Laur.”

“Nick.”  

A tense start.  “Hon, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Oh?”  Curious, but already defensive.  

“Swearing-in photos,” Nick begins.

Immediately she cuts in.  “What about them?”

“Well, you look…” Nick pauses.  “You look fashionable, but also… grumpy?  Angry?  Tense?”

“Is that so?” she asks nonchalantly. 

“Yes.  Yes, it is.  Tara’s worried — well, not just Tara… I’m also worried that people will see that and not like me very much, by extension.  I mean, I don’t need you to come to campaign events if you don’t wanna, but… when you do go to things, it would be nice if you at least look like you wanna be there.” 

There’s a pause on the other line, followed by a pointed, calculated voice.  “And what if I don’t want to be there at all?”

Nick also pauses for a second, doing his best to restrain himself. “There’s going to be a few events where you’re expected to show up with me, Laur.  That’s just the name of the game.”  

“A game I didn’t want to play,” she retorts instantly, voice heated.  

Nick feels fuming.  “Then why did you pretend to support me?” 

“I thought you’d lose, and then we could just go back to doing things normally!”

Oh.  Now that… well, something about that feels like a lie.  “Thought I’d lose, or hoped I’d lose?”

“Nick, baby.”   

There it is. Omission.  He doesn’t really need the actual answer from her lips at this moment.  He knows it was a hope.

Nick takes a shallow breath, before continuing.  “It’s too late to take it all back, Laur.  You think losing looks bad for the boardroom… try resigning after a week.”  

“No one will think twice about it,” she says quickly, her voice soft.  

Nick pulls the phone away from his ear for a second, shaking his head.  If he has to listen to another push for Forsythe Holdings again, so help him.  This conversation has him stunned.  His own wife would rather have him resign in shame, so he can work for her dad and keep milking the cash cow, instead of pursuing his own dreams.  He would support her decision to do almost anything.  He cannot believe how foolish he’s been to expect the same from her.   He can hear her chattering away about something, catching occasional lines about “conglomerate” and “Vice President,” but he’s really not listening.  Eventually, he puts the phone back to his head. 

“You really don’t get it, do you?”  

Laurel appears miffed, having realized that he’s not listened to a word she’s been saying.  “What?” 

“Have a good weekend, Laur.” 

And with that, Nick hangs up on his wife.  

Mid-January

The first two weeks of January fly by, and yet there’s just a small list of things that Charlie Spring can focus on.  None of it includes the day that Congress convened for its new session, or his swearing-in.  Naturally, he’ll lie and go on about how memorable it was when Elle and Tao ask him about it at the next recess.  No, there’s more pressing things. 

First, the Democratic leadership clearly holds something against him.  Not only did he not get a single committee that he wanted, like Energy and Commerce or Natural Resources, but he got stuck on committees that he really had little-to-no desire to be on.  One of the small reliefs of his is that his roommate, Congresswoman Caity Anderson, did end up on the appropriations committee with him.  

Although he’s on the Interior, Environment, and Related Agencies, and the Financial Services and General Government subcommittees, and she’s on Transportation, Housing and Urban Development, and Related Agencies and Military Construction, Veterans Affairs, and Related Agencies subcommittees, he knows that when they’re back home they’ll be able to talk shit and commiserate about things easily.  It’s quite wild that both of them, Congressional Freshmen, got assigned to appropriations.  Charlie even wonders if someone made a clerical error putting him there, instead of on the Energy committee where he feels he belongs. 

Aside from his appropriations assignment, his most vexing committee assignment involves one of the subcommittees he’s least interested in:  Early Childhood, Elementary, and Secondary Education.  Nothing about Education policy fascinates him, beyond LGBTQIA+ inclusive education, not to mention that one of his least favorite freshmen Congressmen is on that subcommittee with him.  

Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux.  Caity’s taken to playfully calling him “Tibby,” but Charlie cannot help but just say “him” derisively, when they’re not in meetings.  

The second thing involves Charlie kicking himself internally regarding the realization that the attractive man who made him feel hopeful back in Dupont Circle was, in fact, Nick.  Between seeing him up close daily in Rayburn (Office number 2307 - he tends to pass it only when the door’s closed), at regular subcommittee meetings, and then hearing him talk about his apartment in Dupont casually with another colleague, the evidence feels undeniable.  Two weeks ago, he saw this man on the street and thought he was hot.  A small spark of promise erupted in his chest, that maybe he could be a Congressman and date in DC.  Now, as he sits in his own office down the hall from Nick’s office, he cannot help but feel anything but contempt for the man.  Not only did he cause a strong flare of jealousy by snaring an Energy and Commerce position (not his choice, per se), but then the prick helped shoot down Charlie's motion to reconsider subcommittees so Charlie could at least work on labor policy.  

Worse off, he’s so damn polite about it.  Between the Southern drawl, his cutesy-quaint Texanisms, and the exceptional manners, it frustrates Charlie to no end.  The man even had the nerve to kindly inquire about his tattoos, like he hadn’t just shat all over him completely in the subcommittee vote.  Every single meeting with Nick feels like torture because every single meeting involves warm honey-colored eyes, freckles, strawberry-blonde hair, and a dopey smile charming everyone around him.  

Charlie won’t let himself fall victim to these charms, even if he’s thought about the strong arms and upper body of Nick Nelson-Thibodeux much more than anyone should think about their married colleague’s upper body.  

No.  He’s going to make it his personal mission to get something done on that subcommittee, despite his lack of interest.  Especially if that something involves disturbing or upending Nick’s agenda in the process. 

Chapter Text

Early February 

January ends in a blur, bringing about further haze in February.  Charlie keeps his participation in the subcommittee straightforward as he digs into decades of history and research regarding educational policy in the United States.  How does he expect to one-up Nick if he’s uninformed about the subject matter at hand?  As pathetic as it sounds, he often utilizes his Friday evenings to catch up, this time gorging himself intellectually on Joe Feldman’s Grading for Equity.  He wants to consider all angles of education policy, reminding himself that some sacrifice to his social life is necessary to be prepared for the subcommittee.  

In the middle of reading about the pitfalls of the traditional grading scale, his phone rings.  Elle’s face appears on his phone.  He hasn’t seen her in a month now;  their overall communication has been limited due to conflicting schedules.  It’s a massive change from their usual weekend brunches and Thirsty Thursdays at Fremont Brewery or other haunts around Seattle.  She’s probably calling to chastise him about his failure to even semi-regularly keep up with them. 

“Charlie!”

“Elle!”

“It’s been entirely too long,” she says.

He sighs.  “I’m sorry. It's been… a lot.  So, so busy.  Very overwhelming.”

“Hardly surprising,” she replies. “It’s such a life change.  I figured I’d give you a call to check in and see how you’re doing.”

Charlie pauses for a minute, breathing and collecting his thoughts, before he hears Elle asking him, “Charlie… you okay?” 

“No, definitely not.  Quite salty, actually.  It’s been rather hard,” he replies in a huff.

Elle snorts.  “Salty already?  What did Darcy tell you about that?”

Charlie groans.  “I know, I know.  It’s just a colleague…”

“Oh?  Spill.”  He can practically hear the amusement in Elle’s voice at the prospect of receiving Congressional Grade Tea.

“Congressman Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux,” Charlie begins.

“Sounds French,” Elle replies immediately.  “I’m intrigued.”

“He’s from Texas, so I don’t know how that all works out,” Charlie adds.  

“A Democrat from Texas.  Let me guess, Austin?” Elle muses on the other line. 

Charlie hums.  “Indeed.  He’s just… ugh. So frustrating.  His politeness is so over-the-top, I can’t help but find it jarring.”

“Charlie, seriously?”

“What?”

Charlie finds her silence to be loaded, and in his mind he can see her piercing gaze demanding further elaboration.

“Okay, fine, he also nerfed my vote to reconsider subcommittee assignments,” Charlie replies grumpily.  

“Intentionally?” Elle asks in confusion. 

Charlie immediately sighs.  “I don’t know why he did it, but he kind of sided with more senior members who seemed to trust the Chair by default.”

Elle remains quiet for a moment.  “Well, he’s new, too, right?  Maybe he’s just reluctant to be super controversial right away?” 

Charlie rolls his eyes, and sighs.  “I guess.  Which I still hate, regardless, but I hated it even more because right after he tried to make cutesy small talk with me about my tattoos.  Like…”

“Oh… okay, I could see how that might be a bit grating.  Right after voting no?” Elle asks, seeking clarification. 

“Right after voting no,” Charlie says. 

“Ouch.”

“Yeah… he’s not my favorite person right now,” Charlie replies quickly.  “That would be Caity.”

“Your roommate?”

“Yeah.  She’s pretty great, kinda like you.  Not afraid to call me on my shit.”  

Elle giggles.  “Well, I’m glad you’re making some friends in DC.”

Silence descends over the conversation for a solid thirty seconds.  During that time, Charlie wonders if he should tell Elle about the “fight” with Thatcher.  The whole thing still weighs on his mind, but that would require backtracking and explaining December as well.  He knows Elle would somehow be non-judgmental, yet also chastise him for his bad decision making, since she knows more about what happened last summer than anyone else. 

She seems to possess a sixth sense regarding everything, since she fills the gap in the silence with a question.  “What else happened?  Because I refuse to believe that your reticence is just about Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux.”  

Charlie releases a short, pathetic sigh.  It’s time for the confession.  “I had somewhat of a spat with Thatcher.”

“Thatcher?! I thought you were done with him months ago?”

Charlie sighs again.  “I did, too… but then he called me on Election Day.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Elle hisses immediately.

“And then we ran into each other at a bar in December when I was looking for lodging…” Charlie continues.

“Wait, what?! Oh my god, please tell me you did not…”

Charlie groans. “I did.  I’m a fucking pathetic idiot, Elle.  I caved and got railed.”

“Charlie!”

“I know, but… you’d understand if you knew how good he was in bed.”

“Charlie, l –” she almost growled.

“Anyway it opened to him wanting to meet up in early January, which then led to the argument with me shutting him down again,” Charlie cries.  “All a major, major fuck up.”

“It’s like you forgot that summer,” she groans.  He can hear her literally smacking her forehead in frustration.

Charlie swallows roughly, sighing yet again.  “Oh… I remember it all too well…”

Summer 2027 - “All Too Well” (10 minute version)(Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift

Sweltering summer heat and humidity in DC overwhelm Charlie’s air conditioning in his shared apartment down the street from GWU.  Under usual circumstances, he would stick around and suffer with his roommates, but Thatcher’s roommate left town for a business trip two days ago and won’t be back for another five.  

Charlie absconds to Thatcher’s place in Logan Circle, leaving his roommate to figure out the aircon situation with their landlord.  He relishes the opportunity to luxuriate in Thatcher’s cotton sheets, have sex with his boyfriend, and just generally hang out with him unrestrained, a luxury they aren’t often afforded.  The air conditioner broke on Tuesday, and by Thursday, repairs still have not happened.  

Lugging his briefcase into Thatcher’s apartment after a particularly grueling day interning, he notices the man look up at him in surprise.  

“Oh?  Here I thought you’d end up at yours tonight.  Still no repairs?”  he asks.

Charlie shakes his head, sighing.  He slumps down next to Thatcher on the sofa.  “Apparently the landlord has called; he played phone-tag with the repair place.  They can only schedule repairs for Saturday.  I cannot suffer through that long.  It’s already miserable at headquarters, given how often I’m running errands for the campaign manager.”  

Thatcher looks at him for a second and Charlie immediately recognizes the wheels turning in his head.  Something is clearly on his mind, but it requires some sort of risk analysis.  Whenever he does this, Charlie sees the Math Lady Meme in his head, which makes him chuckle internally. 

“Uh… I wasn’t planning on being here Friday or the rest of the weekend,” he says tentatively.

“Oh?”

Thatcher hums.  “Yeah.  My parents are at Martha’s Vineyard this weekend, I was going to take off after morning rush hour and come back Sunday night.”

“Oh.” 

Given this very last minute mention, Charlie immediately realizes that he didn’t originally intend on telling him that.  Then again, it’s only been a few months since they’ve dated.  Maybe it’s too early to meet the parents?  Thatcher doesn’t talk much about them, so Charlie has not much of an idea what to expect.  Yeah, it must feel too early for him — they haven’t even officially said “I love you,” or anything like that yet.  In fact, it was quite casual until Charlie realized he was sticking around for the summer.  Now, by the end of July, Charlie’s in deep with his feelings. 

“I’ll just give them a quick call at some point and see if they’re okay with me bringing you,” he says, smiling.

Charlie grins back. “Ok.  Let me know then…I think I’ve got something from JCrew I can bring to fit in.”

Thatcher snorts. “You little shit.  I’ll show you something that can fit in!”

Charlie squeals as Thatcher lifts him up off the couch and hauls him off to the bedroom.  An unwinding romp with his hot boyfriend is exactly what he needs after this long day.

By Thursday night it’s decided that Charlie indeed will accompany Thatcher to Martha’s Vineyard.  He spends the better part of Thursday night packing furiously and constructing an email claiming illness to send off to the internship.  By Friday morning he’s piling his weekender bag into the backseat of Thatcher’s old, black Land Rover, heading up Interstate 95.  Charlie’s nervous to meet his wealthy parents, but excited to see more of the East Coast.  Thatcher must realize this, as he extends his right hand to Charlie’s leg, giving him a gentle squeeze and stroke.

Getting out of DC takes a bit, but before he knows it, they’re zooming around the northern end of the Chesapeake Bay through rural eastern Maryland.  Charlie finds rural America fascinating, the sumptuous beauty of deciduous forests intermixed with tiny towns off of the interstate contrast with the densely packed regions around DC and Seattle with which he’s more familiar.  Eventually they enter Delaware, the rural landscape giving way to sprawling urban-suburban corridors and I-95 soon becomes much more gummed up.  

Thatcher curses under his breath at the sudden patch of traffic at barely ten in the morning. Charlie finds himself amused, period.  Besides being the first state to sign the Constitution, not having a state sales tax, and being home to where a ton of banks choose to incorporate, he knows very little about “Penn’s Lower Colonies.”  

Soon enough they’re exiting I-95 to I-295 and crossing the Delaware Memorial Bridge into southern New Jersey.  As the intern Nicole at work has taught him, the people from Jersey get super defensive about what exit of the Jersey turnpike is “theirs” and whether they’re from North, South, or the mythical Central Jersey.  For most of the journey all he really sees are farmlands, before they hit the Jersey suburbs of Philadelphia and another slight slowing of traffic. 

“I’m both excited and a bit nervous to meet your parents,” Charlie says quietly as Thatcher changes lanes to get around a particularly pokey old lady in an ancient, rusted Oldsmobile.

Thatcher lets out a short humming noise, shrugging his shoulders. “I should warn you, they’re a bit eccentric.”

“In what way?” Charlie asks.  

He feels like his own parents have given him plenty of basis to handle parental quirks. 

“Well…” Thatcher begins, pausing for a second.  “They’re just old money types, Charlie.  Nothing really exciting.” 

He’s heard that explanation before, sometime between their third hook-up and first actual date. 

“You’ve said as much, but you’ve never quite explained what that means,” he queries.  

“Well, let me see…” he begins, counting off on one hand while the other’s on the wheel still.  “Weird manners — like, faux-aristocratic stuff.  A fuckton of money, mostly in investments, but still enough liquid cash to not even care.  Some oddly mismatched world views.”

“Oddly mismatched world views?” Charlie shoots back in confusion.    

“Old school, New England Republicans,” he replies.  “Low taxes, but minimal-to-no government intervention into people’s personal lives.  Strikingly pro-gun law reform and strict public health advocates.  Don’t like government grants for the Arts, but would willingly give more personally to different projects, even if it is significantly more than they’d ever pay in taxes that went toward a government grant.”

Charlie chuckles.  “I see what you mean now.”  

They take a brief detour around some more populated areas before taking a restroom break, coupled with Thatcher buying coffee and snacks for the rest of the trip.  Within an hour or two past the break, they reach the New York City metro area.  Thatcher’s notorious lead foot has them making record time, but they slow down immensely as they navigate over the George Washington Bridge, through Upper Manhattan and then the Bronx.  

Charlie cannot keep his eyes off of the city skyline, telling Thatcher that seeing it in person feels much different than just viewing a photograph of it.  Thatcher only shrugs at that — he’s been to New York enough to be mostly indifferent now, plus he prefers smaller Boston and DC.  

Before he knows it, they’re leaving the city behind and entering the suburbs and then Connecticut.  At one point he can see Long Island Sound, its placid waters lapping rocky shores, before they’re quite a bit more inland.  From the interstate he can see passing towns with old historic churches and houses, punctuated by more lush, green forests, and then modestly sized cities that make up the core of Connecticut’s population centers.  In the eastern half of the state he sees a really idyllic looking town from afar, and sighs.

“It’s quite pretty.”

Thatcher laughs.  “If you’re into older things, I guess.”

“I’m into you,” he bats back at him. 

Thatcher scoffs from the teasing, feigning indignance.  “Wow…”

Charlie seizes this moment of teasing to casually slip something important into the conversation.  “In fact… I think I love you.”

“Oh…”

Silence descends over the interior of the car, besides the hum of the external environment.  Charlie’s heart thumps in his chest, listening for any sort of response from Thatcher.  He’s convinced now that Thatcher’s about to tell him that he’s not there yet, that he’s not ready to say such a thing, and Charlie immediately begins to spiral into thinking he’s ruined a perfectly good weekend.  Until…

“I love you, too.” 

Charlie releases whatever breath he was holding, and accepts Thatcher’s hand that he’s extended over the center console in a show of affection.  They hold hands that way for quite a while, until they leave Connecticut and get into Rhode Island.  Navigating I-95 through Providence takes a bit more flexible maneuvering, with both hands on the wheel.  Thatcher doesn’t extend his hand again when they merge onto I-195, nor does he when they get onto Massachusetts Route 25.  Charlie falls asleep briefly, only coming to when the Land Rover comes to a complete stop.

“Where’re we?” he asks groggily.

Thatcher rustles him gently.  “Wood’s Hole, Massachusetts.  We’ve got to get the ferry.”

“Ferry?”

“It is an island, Charlie,” he replies, laughing a bit.  

The ferry ride takes about forty-five minutes, and craving a break from the car, they travel up to the decks.  The entire time, Charlie and Thatcher hold hands.  Fingers intertwined hand-holding.  At some point, the two of them find a little cranny on the ship to make out for a bit.  They stop after a dozen minutes, mostly because things are rapidly progressing and there’s certainly no place to fuck on a ferry, at least without completely exposing oneself.  Neither wants a ferry fuck on their record, and thus they head back to the car early.  It takes a bit of time to file out of the ferry, but around five o’clock they’re heading away from Vineyard Haven into the countryside of the island.  

Thirty minutes later he pulls into a property with a long, gravel driveway.  From afar, Charlie can see a sizable house — it’s not a mansion per se, but it’s not some small beach house.  In fact, Charlie guesses that there’s at least five bedrooms, possibly four bathrooms, and maybe upwards of 4000 square feet.  Thatcher notes that usually he would stay in the guest house, but that’s currently under renovation.  He’s beginning to sound nervous, and not a quiet type of nerves, but one that involves a bit of sweating. 

Parking outside the house, they grab their bags and head in.  

“Mother!” he calls out.  “We’re here.”   

At first, nothing, until a soft voice comes from across the vestibule.  “No need to yell, Thatcher.  Oh, honey…”

A woman wearing expensive leggings paired with a tunic top that’s belted at the waist saunters forward.  She looks casual, yet expensive, and has an unusual crop of chunky jewelry.  

“This must be…”

“Charlie,” Thatcher replies.  “My friend.”

Charlie does a double take, followed by an internal triple — no, quadruple — take.  Did he just say… friend?  

Friend?  Not boyfriend?  

She smiles warmly, extending her hand. “Oh, Charlie.  Pleasure to meet you, darling.” 

Doing his best to not react to the ‘boyfriend’ evasion, Charlie shakes her hand gently, smiling the most genuine smile he can muster in this situation.  “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Alden.”  

Her eyes get wide.  “Oh honey, no.  Call me Cornelia.  Mrs. Alden makes me feel eighty-five, like my mother.”

Charlie just nods awkwardly, while Cornelia turns to Thatcher.  “Honey, go make yourselves a drink or two.  I’ll go get Charlie settled upstairs.” 

He nods at Charlie, before heading off deeper into the house.  

“C’mon honey, I’ll give you a tour later.  Let’s get that bag settled.”  

Charlie follows her as she chats away about the house, how long it’s been in the family, how many times it’s been renovated, and how much they’ve been thinking about selling it for something bigger, but can’t quite let go.  Charlie just hums and utters ‘ohs’ and ‘interesting’ as she walks, until she starts asking more personal questions.

“So, where did you meet Thatcher?” she asks.

Scruff and Grindr, what a story that is.  “Oh, uh… at a bar in DC.  Mutual friends,” Charlie replies. 

“Oh, that’s interesting.  I’m surprised it’s not through his work. That National Archives job is great for networking.”

Wait, what? Thatcher told him that he worked for a lobbying group based in DC.

“Oh, he’s definitely networking frequently,” Charlie replies neutrally.  

She hums.  “Yeah, I’m sure between his Harvard friends and his lacrosse friends that live around the house in Kalorama, he’s quite busy.”  

Harvard?  Thatcher said he went to Yale… or was that graduate school?  House in Kalorama?  Thatcher lives in an apartment in Logan Circle.  Charlie certainly hasn’t heard of that before.  

“You okay, honey?”  Cornelia asks.  

Charlie nods warily.  “Yeah, sorry.  Just tired.  It’s a long trip up here from DC.” 

“Oh, definitely.  Well, here’s your room.  It’s two down from Thatcher’s, so you’ll be nearby.  Maybe take a short nap while he’s getting drinks ready?” she suggests.

“Yeah, definitely.  Thank you, Cornelia,”  he says quietly.  She nods, letting him be for the time. 

Closing the door behind him, Charlie heads over to the bed, plopping down on it.  His eyes begin watering immediately and his head feels like it's spinning quite a bit.  Some key details of Thatcher’s life that he’s told Charlie about are either downright lies, or his mother has early-onset dementia.  Either way, there’s been tons of omissions on Thatcher’s part, each more and more bruising as Charlie recounts them.  What’s the truth, and what’s a lie?  

Before he has the chance to spiral even further, he hears a gentle knock and Thatcher emerges, a sheepish look on his face.

“Hi.”

Charlie takes a deep breath in, trying to calm his bodily shakes as he gets up off the bed.  “I can’t believe…”

“Wait, Charlie…”

“No!  I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this,” Charlie nearly shouts.  

Thatcher moves closer to him, causing Charlie to step back.  “Keep it down, they’ll hear you!”

“You’re absolutely ridiculous.  What am I supposed to think now? How much else have you kept from me? The National Archives? Harvard? Kalorama?” Charlie huffs.

Thatcher shakes his head adamantly. “You don’t understand.”

“Then enlighten me,” Charlie snipes back.  

“I can’t tell them that I’m gay.  They’ll… disown me,” Thatcher says quietly, sitting down on the bed.  

Charlie sits back down next to him.  That’s… a lot to hear.  “Oh.”  

He pauses for a few more seconds, before realizing that even if Thatcher’s not out, he’s lied about at least three other things, and for what reason?

“And… am I supposed to just go along with the lies then, all of them? Hm?”  Charlie asks through a light sniffle.  

Thatcher closes his eyes, shaking his head.  “Just for this weekend.”  

Charlie folds his arms.  “And then the future?  What then?”

“I don’t know,”  Thatcher shoots back, suddenly agitated.  

It hurts to feel that agitation; it’s certainly undeserved.  If anyone deserves to be bothered by this situation, it’s Charlie.  

“I literally told you I love you earlier today, and you said that you love me, and now…” he says, his eyes beginning to water more profusely.  

“I do,”  Thatcher says calmly. 

“Do you?”  Charlie asks, voice quivering.  

Thatcher doesn’t say anything or make any movements.

“I hardly believe it now, Thatch,”  Charlie adds adamantly.

Thatcher just shakes his head and says nothing, getting up off the bed and heading to the door.  “Dinner’s in fifteen minutes, Charlie.  Don’t be late.”

Nothing about that weekend is pleasant, but rather a heaping pile of shit, painted over in gold.  Cornelia and the elder Thatcher must think their son’s friend is the most rigid, wooden human being to ever grace their family’s summer compound.  But really, he’s just been hollowed out by their son’s deception, willing himself not to feel anything at all until he’s safely back in his own apartment in DC.  

Early February 2029

“Charlie, you zoned out a bit there.  I’m… I’m sorry for bringing it up again,” Elle says softly. 

Charlie sighs.  “It’s okay, Elle, just… yeah… I definitely remember that. In painful detail.”

Elle sounds exasperated now.  “Then why, Charlie?  Why?”

“Because I’m a fucking lonely idiot,” he replies, his voice sinking.    

Elle pauses for a second or two to collect her thoughts.  “Charlie, listen to me.”

“Okay.”

She continues.  “You’re not an idiot.  Yes, you have a penchant to run back toward the familiar, even if it’s a pile of shit.”

“With a big dick,” Charlie interrupts.

“I swear to god, Charles Ulysses Spring.  Dick size is irrelevant.  He’s shit, period.  My point is, you will find someone who isn’t shit.  You’re only twenty-five.  It will happen!”

Charlie gazes wistfully out across his bedroom, briefing papers scattered across his bed.  “I guess so.”

Once feeling hopeful upon arriving in DC, the realities of being a Congressman have finally set in — prolonged bachelorhood appears inescapable. 

Early-Mid February 2029

Now that everyone’s settled into the new Congress, many more informal working groups pop up outside of official committee meetings.  Some of the more experienced members recognize that many of the Freshmen come replete with ideas and the added drive to craft legislation, and want to help harness and guide that energy to be most productive.  

In the second week of February, Nick finds himself in such a group with eight Democratic members of the K12 Education Subcommittee, including Congressman Spring.  He’s itching to bring his well-studied and thoughtfully crafted legislative ideas to the forefront, playing on his experiences working for the educational policy group in Austin.

One of his biggest hurdles to overcome at the moment isn’t the slightly more controlling perspective of elder members, but rather one Congressman Spring.  

A few times, Nick’s indirect glances note a mildly analytical, appraising gaze from Spring.  Whenever his attention lands more directly on the man, the searing looks from him feel quite intimidating.  Those steely, blue eyes feel like dry ice directly on his flesh.  It feels nerve-wracking just to speak in his presence. 

Eventually, Congresswoman Lee, a nearly ten-year veteran from Pennsylvania, speaks up for him.  “Mr. Nelson-Thibodeaux, you wanted to put some ideas on the table.”

Nick smiles warmly and nods.  “You can call me Nick, Ms. Lee, if I can call you Summer.” 

“Alright then, Nick, let’s hear it,” she says, chuckling.

Nick nods. “Well, to preface this… I worked with an educational policy group for two years, and one of the most emphasized things was the idea of leveraging the power of federal funding to incentivize the adoption of curricular standards.  Not exactly a novel idea,” he begins to say, until he gets cut off by a mirthful snicker. 

“Mr. Spring?” Summer asks in confusion.

“Yes,” Charlie says.  “For the record, call me Charlie in working groups.  I’m fine with that.”

Summer Lee nods and motions for him to continue. 

“I understand the funding carrot-bait,” he continues. “But I think we’ve seen time and time again that the more effective strategy is to withhold funding if states do not adopt the curriculum.  I mean, look at Interstate Highway funding and the push to increase the drinking age to twenty-one.”  

Immediately, Nick feels incensed.  “But that will harm children, withholding funding!  Many states already under fund their educational programs.” 

“And?  Children are already being harmed in Republican-led states by curricula that outright lie to them about our history.  They won’t adopt a curriculum that forces them to acknowledge the centuries-long impact of racism into the modern day or the violence perpetrated against all sorts of minority groups unless they’re forced to do so.”

“But —” Nick begins to splutter.

Charlie shakes his head, interrupting.  “But what?  Keep deepening the divide in education?  That’s another thing — New York, California, and other blue states have already put a lot of this curriculum in place.  Even if a few swing-states implement it, you won’t make any progress where it’s most needed.  In the states where they are lying to children.”

Nick feels like he could leap across the table and tackle the man to the ground.  He’s feeling flushed and a bit miffed.  No one has challenged him quite like this on a subject he possesses a degree of expertise in.  Especially from someone who’s never indicated any real interest in the subject, someone who didn’t want to be bothered by this subcommittee a month ago.  

Fuck.  He really did himself no favors towing the line with that vote.  

Attempting to calm himself, Nick replies back coolly, “And if they don’t do it, what then?”

Charlie shrugs, but cocks an eyebrow at him.  “Then back to square one.  Better to have gotten everyone on board, even if it’s technically forcing them, and made actual change than to half-ass it.”  

A couple of the people around them chuckle at that.  Charlie’s tenacity and bluntness appear to score some points with them, including Summer Lee, who appears deep in thought.  

After a few moments, Summer speaks up.  “I think we should carefully consider both proposals. One that works via positive incentivization, and one that works by withholding certain funding.  Charlie’s definitely right; some of the conservative state governments will never take that funding if the price is acknowledging historical suffering and how that’s led to current conditions.”  

Nick cannot deny how true that point is — he grew up in Texas, after all.  Many people there live in complete denial of the past and the conditions that shaped and continue to influence the present.  He wants to make sure that children learn about it, and that the future can work to resolve and repair those deep scars.  

What he hates more than anything, though, is that the suggestion came from Charlie Spring.  Charlie Spring, the man who now looks directly at him, with the most frustratingly smug look on his face that Nick has ever seen.  

More and more he thinks this work on the subcommittee will be as easy as pissing up a rope. 

That Evening + The Next Morning

“You really cannot help yourself,” Caity muses aloud as she eyes the state of the pot of water on the stove.

They’re cooking a big pasta dinner for themselves, unwilling to summon the energy for more laborious dinner prep and lacking the desire to order take-out once again.

Charlie knows exactly what she’s talking about, and thus feigns ignorance.  “What do you mean?” 

She turns to look at him, taking her eyes away from the barely simmering water.  “You and that interaction with Tibby.   I heard all about it, Spring.  You immediately jumped in with a counter-proposal.” 

Charlie shrugs.  “I needed to offer a different viewpoint.” 

“Sure you did.  Seems like you researched his life’s work ahead of time,” she retorts. 

Charlie snickers. “Shame his life’s work has been spent crafting a policy doomed to fail.”

“Oh my god, you did, didn’t you?”  Her mouth’s fully agape now.  She snickers and shakes her head, before adding, “Remind me never to cross you in the future.”  

“I’ll send a recurring weekly reminder on iCal,” Charlie replies sassily before pulling out dishes, cutlery, and napkins for them to use. 

“I will say though, I am quite divided on which one I’d prefer.  I see both angles, really,” she adds.  

Charlie just shrugs.  “That’s fine.  Even Summer Lee felt the same way.”  

He gets the jars of store-brand pasta sauce out.  Vodka Sauce, a favorite of both of theirs.  It might be salty and of mid-quality, but neither one of them wants to cut veggies and other necessary ingredients up for anything homemade.  

“On another, related note —” Caity begins.

Charlie groans, also knowing exactly where she’s going.  This might be the third time in a month it's been discussed.  “Oh god, not this again.”  

“Shut it, Spring.  Don’t for a second try to pretend that you aren’t eyefucking that man you claim to loathe so much.”

“First of all, how dare you.  Second of all, I don’t loathe him. He just annoys the hell out of me.  Grates me with his damn twang and incessant politeness,” Charlie begins, his tone half-joking, half-serious.

“And let me add a third of all for you,” Caity interrupts, snickering.  “You cannot stop looking at his arms.  Or, when he stands, his ass.”

Charlie gapes in shock.  He hadn’t realized how obvious he’d been about the looks he’s given Congressman Nelson-Thibodeaux, besides the icy glares.  As much as the man frustrates him, Charlie cannot deny that his upper body looks ready to burst through some of his white dress shirts, as do his thighs and ass in rather tight dress pants.  They look tailored, but apparently even the tailors couldn’t account for all of that cake properly. 

Charlie just ends up shaking his head. “No comment.” 

Caity, in response, releases a strong, “hmph,” and says nothing else.  

Eventually the pasta’s cooked, they eat their late dinner, and then go about their ways doing some work.  That’s the standard evening routine during the week.  Charlie deviates slightly from this usual plan by packing his clothes and some toiletries in a gym bag.  For the first time tomorrow morning, he’s going in a bit earlier.  There’s a gym in the Rayburn Office Building, one that he just learned about while overhearing someone talk about the “Rayburn Gym.”  Usually, he would run outside, but it’s just not incredibly convenient right now.  

In the morning, he takes the Blue Line to Capitol-South.  It’s cold, crisp, and a bit hazy.  He suspects that there might be a few of the usual morning-gym people there, but he doesn’t know who actually goes regularly.  

Shucking his coat to reveal his moisture-wicking tank top when he enters the gym, he does see a small scattering of people.  Most importantly, he sees one Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux doing pull-ups.  

Charlie immediately feels faint.  

Nick wears a similar tank-top, showing off his arms, all of which look thickly muscular and lightly freckled.  A sweaty sheen glistens on his skin, his face furrowed in concentration.  Occasionally his tank lifts up a bit, showing off a slight tummy, but one that seemingly also has abdominal muscles that poke through at points.  Charlie spots an auburn treasure-trail, licking his lips involuntarily. 

Immediately he shakes himself out of the lusty daze.  Christ, get a hold of yourself, Charlie.  He strides over to the treadmills, past the pull-up bar, pretending not to notice that Nick notices him and his tattoo sleeve.  A couple other Congresspeople do, too.  Clearly they’ve never seen Senator John Fetterman’s tattoos.  

Shaking off the glances, he places his bag next to the treadmill, hops on, and begins a moderate pace.  Eventually he’ll ramp things up to get a decent warm-up in before doing some high-rep, low-weight arm workout. 

About midway into his run, he starts to feel the heat rising in him and small beads of perspiration forming on his skin.  Charlie’s mostly lost in his thoughts about meetings and upcoming events, so much so that it takes him several minutes to realize that he’s being quietly observed.  Instead of just checking his form in the gym mirrors as he does hammer curls, Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux also glances in his direction.  

Oh?  What’s going on with that?   Reflexively, as he would do when any man ogles him while running, Charlie clenches his gluteal muscles. 

Nick’s next rep feels a bit off-kilter in comparison to the rest, making Charlie smirk.  He doesn’t get to test it again though, because soon after Nick heads to the showers, offering Charlie a view of his thick posterior.  

Charlie will remember that view for his own purposes, in the future.  Masturbating in the Rayburn Gym showers feels pretty gauche to him. 

Valentine’s Day - “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette

An after-votes flight home on a Wednesday seems awfully impetuous, but given how rocky his marriage is at the moment, flying back to surprise his wife for Valentine’s Day feels like a safe bet for Nick.  They used to do things every year on the Hallmark holiday; a deviation from this regularity feels like it would be yet another nail in the coffin for them.  

He left a bit earlier than he probably should, which means he should arrive in time for a late dinner.  He’s even got reservations at a lovely steakhouse downtown.  Plus, the surprise will really win over some points for him from Laurel.  Really, it’s all perfect.  

Nothing disrupts the flight, which arrives fifteen minutes earlier than planned.  Nick only has an under-seat carry on, since he’s just planning on staying overnight.  Making a swift departure from the flight, he orders an Uber to pick him up and take him to their Brentwood house.  It’s only a twenty minute drive from the airport, which really puts him right around when he wants to surprise Laurel.  It will give them both time to freshen up and change as necessary before heading out to the steakhouse.  Nick smiles, thinking about how perfectly he’s planned this all out before ducking into the black SUV that pulls up to collect him from arrivals. 

As the Uber drives down his block, something about the surrounding neighborhood feels off.  From afar, he notices a lifted, black F150 pickup truck parked in front of their house, extended cab and everything.   He’s never seen it before.  

Immediately, Nick’s stomach churns at the thought of Laurel trading in his old truck for this monstrosity while he’s been away in DC.  That thought soon turns from anger to suspicion and confusion when he sees his own truck parked in the driveway still.  Whatever asshole owns the black F150, they’re blocking Nick in.  

Cautiously, Nick navigates around it, seeing no identifying information about who the owner may be.  It is brand new, as evident by the temporary plates on it.  Nothing else seems out of place or unusual, so he proceeds inside hesitantly.  Is Laurel entertaining guests?  Did one of the brunch crew pull up in an F150, or with their husband?  He doesn’t know what to think at this point.  

Entering the house allows him to quickly discard all of those hopeful predictions – it’s dead silent, save for a distant, unintelligible sound from the upstairs.  One that he hesitantly gravitates toward to investigate.  

Carefully and quietly walking up the stairs, he steps over the one mid-way up that creaks.  The noise doesn’t get that much more discernible, except for a soft, feminine voice that he suspects to be Laurel’s.  It sounds almost like a giggle, but Nick’s really not sure.  Every few steps, the definition of her voice increases, to the point now that Nick can hear other things as well.  Soft moans, interspersed with those giggles, punctuated with over-the-top “oohs.”  He knows she has a serious vibrator collection, but there’s no need to put on a show with exaggerated sex noises, unless — 

There’s another voice in that room, and it’s a man.  Those masculine grunts and groans that Nick hears when he’s down the hall from the top of the landing confirm that.  Or is she silently watching porn while getting off?  She’s done that before, but that was quite the one-off event, according to her.  His head swims with possibilities; either his wife’s having the time of her life with another man, or she’s getting off to some very exuberant porno.  Either way, when his hand reaches the doorknob, he can’t stomach the idea of opening it and finding out for himself.  Clearly, she doesn’t know that Nick is home — why not wait and see?

He tiptoes back downstairs, avoiding the creaky steps again, and pours himself a glass of red wine.  Nick knows that he has to calm and center himself to the best of his ability.  In the event that his wife is having an affair, he doesn’t want to endanger himself by brawling with the man in question.  But he does want to catch them in the act.  He sips the wine for five minutes, before he hears the door open upstairs, and soft voices come from the upstairs landing.  Creaky steps help him track with how far Laurel’s descended the stairs.   At this rate, the additional footsteps make it clear — there’s someone else with her.  

His heart rate picks up as they continue their descent, causing him to take a quick sip of his wine and gingerly place the glass down.  After five years together, since he hasn’t bent to her whims completely, this is how she chooses to punish him.  Immediately Nick’s head swirls with what he’ll say, how he’ll react, what the long term consequences of this should be.  The word divorce flashes in the front of his mind.  As they enter the hallway, in Nick’s line of sight, Nick sees red. 

“David?” he gasps in disbelief.

“Nick?” 

“Nicky?” Laurel squeaks.  

“You sonofabitch,” Nick growls, charging toward his brother.  

“Nick!”  Laurel shrieks.  

David throws a punch, which Nick easily grabs;  he’s much stronger than his older brother.  In fact, he could probably twist and break his wrist right now, but instead he throws his brother against the wall.  Strangulation would probably be better, but it never gets there as David pushes back against him.  The entire time, Laurel shrieks and screams, trying to separate the two of them.  

Adrenaline pumps through Nick as he throws a punch at his brother, striking him right on the jaw.  It will certainly bruise for an extended period of time.  Throwing his brother toward the door, he heaves in anger.  Before it gets more violent, he needs to give him the opportunity to say something, to leave.  

“What do you have to say for yourself?  Fucking my wife, of all people?”  

David scowls at him.  “I’d do it again, you idiot.  She deserves better than you, after all.” 

Nick tries to charge at him again, but David backs away and throws open the front door.  Not wanting the entire neighborhood to witness a scene, Nick doesn’t follow him.

“The world’ll be better off if you take a long walk off a short pier, David!” Nick screams at him from the doorway.  

David says nothing, running to his jacked-up truck.  Nick can feel his blood pulsing through him, his heart beating rapidly in his chest as he watches his brother drive off.  Tires scream as they turn against the pavement violently.  Nick backs away, seeing his truck’s keys hanging off the hall tree, along with his overnight bag.  Grabbing them both, he storms out of the house.  

“Nick, wait!” Laurel yells after him from the doorway.  

He turns back to look at her.  She’s a sobbing mess, mascara sliding down her cheeks.  

He shakes his head, scowling.  “No.”

“Please,” she whimpers back.

He shakes his head again.  “I’m done.  I’m done, Laurel.”

“Wait please!” She steps out into the yard.  

Nick immediately turns and jogs to his truck, wiping away tears emerging from his eyes.  As his wife approaches, he starts the truck as quickly as possible.  Without even looking he backs up into the street, does a rapid three-point turn, and then speeds off as fast as the old thing will take him.  

If he needs to pay to long-term park at the airport until a friend can grab the truck for him, so be it.  He’ll pay anything to fly back to DC tonight, away from this place.  Away from the searing pain in his chest right now.  He just hopes that whoever’s selling airline tickets can handle a sobbing, six-foot-three man at their kiosk. 

Thursday, February 15th

Charlie doesn’t know what to expect for their next informal working group, but he certainly doesn’t expect to see Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux looking as disheveled as he does.  The man’s eyes are bloodshot and puffy, like he has spent several hours sobbing or has been plagued by premature allergies.  Eyeing him curiously, Charlie notices his shirt looks wrinkled, tie haphazardly tucked into the collar.  Nick’s hair lacks its normal coif, flopping down like an early 2000s emo fringe.  At least he still smells nice, something Charlie notices immediately — notes of vetiver, bergamot, tobacco, sandalwood, and vanilla swirl around Nick.  

Charlie sips on his to-go cup of Americano, continuing to eye Nick surreptitiously before the meeting begins.  Or so he thinks.

“What?” Nick asks gruffly.

“Nothing,” Charlie replies suddenly, caught off guard at being detected by Nick.  “You’re just… well, uh… are your allergies acting up or something?” 

Nick closes his eyes, sighing.  “Not that it’s any of your business, Spring, but I’m one wheel down and the axle’s dragging.” 

“Christ, you and your Texanisms.  Well, fine.  Fuck off and have a good meeting,” Charlie shoots back, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.  

Nick’s scowling at him, but there’s no chance for more back and forth, as more of their colleagues file into the room.  Summer Lee kicks off the meeting, excited to begin exploring both proposals, along with introducing a couple other proposals on other education related topics.  Some of them sound really intriguing to Charlie, like federally mandated leave of absence for educators, meant to address mental health, and proposals to help wipe out educational debt for teachers, regardless of where and what they’re teaching.  Of course, there’s a couple other ones about workplace readiness that he couldn’t give a fig about.  After all, the point of school is to teach students to be lifelong learners and to empower them to take learning into their own hands, not to produce cogs in the capitalist machine.  

Naturally, Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux likes them all.  Charlie’s beginning to wonder if there’s not a center to center-left leaning education policy that Nick doesn’t like.  

“Nick, if you had to pick one of these not to push, which one would you choose?” he asks innocently as they look over the proposals.

Nick eyes him suspiciously. “Why?  What’s even the point of that question?” 

“Why not?  I mean, what happens if we get stuck on another bill and we don’t get to one of them on the Legislative Calendar?” Charlie offers, shrugging his shoulders.  

Sighing, Nick replies, “Probably the debt-related one.  That requires appropriations, whereas some of these other ones seem to be changes to what the Department of Education can or cannot write into policy, or labor law.”  

Charlie huffs.  “So… you’d rather produce more cogs for the machine by doubling down on early-twentieth-century ‘Workplace readiness' policy rhetoric — when the workplace changes every five years at this rate — than give teachers a helping hand?”

“Now wait a minute, don’t you be putting words in my mouth now,” he stammers back, his face turning red. 

“Not putting words in your mouth, just what Alex Jayce might say when he primaries you again in 2030,” Charlie replies coolly.  

Nick guffaws, but seems to be left speechless.  A couple people from the working group are looking between the two of them with a degree of curiosity and fright.  One of the more veteran members half-nods in agreement to what Charlie’s saying about primary challenge rhetoric.  A few others just exchange anxious glances with one another, either disturbed by Charlie’s capitalism-critical rhetoric, or feeling wary of the tone of the exchange.

Summer Lee intervenes.  “Gentlemen, please make sure you are sticking to reviewing the proposals.  We’ll have time to discuss the merits of each, before we decide which to bring before the subcommittee.”

Charlie will take that gentle slap on the wrist for the chance to rankle Nick.  From the dirty looks he’s getting over the top of a manila folder, he knows it succeeded.  

Halfway into their reading session, Nick takes a quick stretch break.  Flexing his back and shoulders, followed by his lower body, he does this all right within view of Charlie.  As if he knows already how much this will tease Charlie.  Taking a deep breath, Charlie sinks down into his seat a bit, so that his face remains mostly hidden behind his own manila envelope.  

Nick might have the upper hand in the body department, as Charlie’s chosen to believe that the gym stare from the other day had nothing to do with attraction. Charlie knows he’ll continue to have the policy and political upper hand, and that’s all that matters. 

Later that night, Charlie describes the exchange to Caity as they sip on beers at home for Thirsty Thursday.  

“You really cannot help but push his buttons, can you?” she asks, completely bewildered.

Charlie shakes his head.  “No. I’m incorrigible at this point.  In fact, I feel almost instinctively compelled to push back against or criticize anything he puts forward.”  

Caity snorts, almost dribbling beer out of her mouth.  Such a waste of craft beer would be quite the party foul.  

“What?” Charlie asks, narrowing his eyes at Caity suspiciously.  

She continues to chuckle.  “More likely that you’re instinctively compelled to be into him.”

“Shut up, I’m not!”  Charlie moans.  

“Oh please.  I have sources in your working group, Spring.  I see it all!”

Charlie folds his arms across his chest and sticks his tongue out.  “Well, you haven’t seen shit.”

“Stretch breaks are not a spectator sport, Charles.  Perhaps next time you should offer him a chair massage, hm?” she teases.  

Charlie gasps, feigning offense.  “Sincerely, fuck off, Congresswoman Anderson.”

She shakes her head, grinning.  “Only when you stop eye-fucking your mortal enemy, Congressman Spring.”  

That night, Charlie chooses to lean into the imagery he’s acquired from eye-fucking Nick.  After all, who needs to search through porn or hop on Grindr when one has a mental spank bank of strong arms, beefy glutes, and enough imagination to concoct any number of fantasy scenarios on his own?   He’d rather swallow cyanide than admit to anyone that Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux provides more than enough raw-material to get himself to completion.  No matter how great the orgasm.

Friday, February 16th

Nick’s never quite felt this low in his life before.  Between regular skirmishing between him and Congressman Charlie Spring and his wife having an affair with his own brother, life’s quite shit.  He tells his office not to expect him on Friday, barely any better rested than Thursday, and heads to a local bar for happy hour libations.  Normally he’s a whiskey neat kind of guy, but they’ve got five dollar strawberry margaritas on their happy hour special, and that sounds vaguely magical right now.  Refreshing, comparatively inexpensive, and packed with tequila — all things he desperately needs. 

For the first hour, he appears to be the only Capitol Hill-associated patron of the establishment, downing two margaritas before ordering some chicken wings and fries to go with his third.  He barely feels drunk. 

Around five PM, a small group of staffers and some Congresspeople enter the bar for the final leg of happy hour.  From his line of vision, he sees only Republicans, probably due to the fact that the conservative Federalist Society is holding a string of events for President’s Day Weekend.  Most of Congress has taken off for a February recess.  A handful of them he knows to be on the K12 committee as well, based on the list that the Republican counterpart to the Democratic chair put together.  That includes Ashleighlynne Morrison. 

Something about Ashleighlynne Morrison vaguely reminds Nick of Laurel — she, too, dyes her hair bottle blonde, though she doesn’t keep her nails at a talon length.  If he had to describe her simply, it’s like Western Barbie and Televangelist Ken had a baby, gave her the forsaken name Ashleighlynne, and then told her that Americans would regularly like to hear her say ridiculous things on television.  Her job appears not to be representing the Western Slope of Colorado, but rather to screech about the state of the country.  Even though prior to 2028, her party helped drive it in that direction.  

Unfortunately for Nick, she notices him, and approaches immediately. 

“Well, I’ll be… Congressman Nelson-Thibodeaux.  You’re quite the sight for eyes used to wrinkly skin and receding hairlines,” she coos.  

Nick wonders what the heck the woman is on, but he’s already starting to feel tighter than bark on a log.  This third margarita starts to weigh on him a bit more than he thought it would. 

“Congresswoman Morrison,” he replies, nodding his head.  She takes a seat right next to him.

“I see you’re enjoying the strawberry margarita.  FYI, that strawberry mix is left over from Valentine’s Day – that’s why it’s on special tonight,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. 

Just what he needs: a timely reminder of his wife, getting plowed by his brother.  Why she’s laying it on heavy, Nick cannot ascertain.  One look at her left hand reveals a diamond studded engagement ring and white-gold wedding band.  Mr. Morrison stays out of the public eye, mostly due to his wife’s antics, but he does still exist.  Nick wants nothing to do with even a teasing flirt.

“Sorry, Mrs. Morrison.  I’m not really in the mood for light conversation tonight,” he says sourly.  

She huffs.  “Of course not.  What’s been pissing in your cheerios? Work? Spouse? Donors? Constituents? The media?”

Taking a swig to finish off his strawberry margarita, he motions for the bartender to come by.  He closes out his tab, just to hastily flee from her at a moment’s notice.  

“Not that it’s any of your business, but transitioning into things has been rough.  There’s a bit of culture shock actually being in DC,” Nick replies glumly.  

She nods along.  “Well, I’m a problem solver, don’t you know?  What about the way we do things in DC has got you rankled?”

“Well…” Nick pauses for a second.  He really needs to craft this wording properly, so as not to make this woman think it has anything to do with him.  “I heard people talking about marriage… and adultery… in informal meetings, at happy hour and the like.  Really struck a chord.  How do people handle complications in their marriage due to work, especially cheating?  Therapy and something restorative, or divorce proceedings?”  

Ashleighlynne looks at him in surprise. “Divorce?  Oh honey, no.  That’s not a thing to do.”

“Maybe not in your part of the country,” he replies, narrowing his eyes.  

The bartender hands her a clear vodka drink, and gives him his check.  He signs it, putting a solid twenty dollar tip for them.  They deserve it in advance for putting up with Ashleighlynne Morrison.  

She sips her vodka drink, chuckling.  “Oh, sugar.  You’ve got a lot to learn about DC.” 

“What?”

She shakes her head, snickering now.  “We all do it, honey.  Marital affairs and the like.  You’re just meant to shut up about it.”

Nick looks back at her in shock.  He’s always believed that a lot of socially conservative political rhetoric was hypocritical garbage, but it’s an entirely different thing to hear it so blatantly proven as such.   Without saying a word, he gets up to leave.

“Goodnight, Congressman.” 

He just nods at her, and walks out.  While he knows that not everyone does it, the fact that it’s seen as a viable option makes him ill.  What’s the point of marriage, beyond a fiscal arrangement then?  Perhaps if people enter an agreement to pursue an open marriage, that’s none of his business, but from what Ashleighlynne’s told him, that’s far from the case.  Without a doubt, he’s not the type of man to cut off the healthy, moral limb of his fundamental core beliefs, just to preserve a rotten union.  DC won’t ever change that. 

Chapter Text

Early March

Nick dodges twice-daily calls from Laurel, along with text messages, over the next two weeks.  In fact, he’s silenced her messages completely, receiving no notifications from her whatsoever.  It feels brutal, yet it’s necessary to preserve his emotional well-being.  He knows he lacks the time to properly process all of this, and he doesn't feel equipped to have any sort of productive conversation with his wife about it until he has.  He thinks about it regularly — about how much he doesn’t know about Laurel’s nights and weekends, her social calendar.  He bore witness to one incidence of an affair, but for all Nick knows, David could have railed Laurel for months now.  How many of those Dallas spa weekends were actually spa weekends, or was it just an excuse to visit David?  It sickens him. 

Worst of all, he’s left to think about these things all alone in his apartment.  On the first of March, he sobs endlessly into his pillow, revisiting and re-analyzing every interaction with his wife from the past five months.  His discovery on Valentine’s Day illuminates her behavior in Beaumont around the holidays, contextualizing it most heinously.  When he thinks about it even more, he realizes that by that point she had already fucked his brother.  Not even her realization that David is Nick’s brother stopped her from continuing the affair.  If he didn’t feel so weak from hours of sobbing, he might be sick.  

The next day feels endless.  Thankfully, he doesn’t have the informal K12 working group that day, but rather he needs to review countless pieces of legislation circulating among the Energy and Commerce subcommittee he’s on.  It’s a welcome distraction from thinking about Laurel and David, about his marriage, and what he’s to do about it all.  

By lunchtime he’s made it through one-third of the twenty-one bills that litter his desk.  Several of them contain repeating elements, things he notes in the margins.  It may behoove them to combine bills into a larger omnibus energy package.  Abysmally, he hasn’t seen much talk about sustainability and renewable energy thus far.  Hopefully the bills to come contain incentives and other investments in that department.  

Around two o’clock, Tara stops by his office to brief him on some upcoming things, but also just to check in.  He’s been relatively quiet in his communications with her the past week.

She closes the door and sits, giving him the lowdown on caucus meetings and the like, before casting him a deep, searching look. “Okay.  I’m going to need you to spill about what’s gotten you all mopey recently.” 

“How long do you have?” Nick sighs and rubs his eyes. “It’s a lot.”  

Tara cocks her head at him.  “In regards to what? Work?”

“Work and marital,” Nick replies, flipping over the page of a bill that’s on his desk.  It’s simple, and incomplete, but the bill wants to set targets for renewable energy production nationally and additional state-by-state guidance for historical polluters.

“Start with work.  That I can deal with,” she replies, pulling out her phone to take notes. 

“Congressman Spring.” 

“Christ, not this again.”  

“Tara, he’s a right little prick,” Nick whines.  “Everything I say or support, he does his best to poke holes in it, and all because I voted to tank his reconsideration of subcommittee assignments.” 

Tara sighs.  “Okay, listen.  Do not actively exchange barbs with this man as much as humanly possible.  I’m going to reach out to his Chief of Staff.  Darcy Olsson… she might be able to talk some sense into him, or at least get him to be less pointed in his criticisms.” 

“That would be lovely,” Nick replies.  “It’s not that I have thin skin, but it’s oddly personal… like he’s attacking me directly, not bills or ideas.” 

“Noted,” she replies, typing things out on her phone.  “Email will be sent requesting a meeting later today.”  

“Thanks, Tara.”  

She looks back up at him, eyebrow cocked.  “Now… the marital shit.  What’s Laurel gone and done now?”

Nick looks at her, before starting to laugh madly.  It begins as a chuckle at the whole “gone and done now,” thing, but slowly begins to descend into a sort of laughter someone makes when they’re on the verge of losing their shit completely. 

“Nick… you sound like my friend Tammy before she had a menty b,” Tara says, eyes widening.  

“Really?” he asks, his voice reaching up an octave.  

Tara backs away slightly.  “Nick… what happened?  What did she do?”

“What did she do?  More like who did she do,” he gasps, finally breaking through his laughing fit.  

“Oh god, Nick…”

Nick blurts out, “She fucked my brother, Tara.  She’s been fucking my fucking brother for God knows how long.  Pretty sure since Christmas at least, possibly even before the election?”

Tara’s mouth falls open in shock as his revelation renders her completely speechless.  It takes her a minute to process this, before she can even inquire.  “How… wait… is this what you discovered on Valentine’s Day?  I saw the airline charge on your statements. You’re going to have to pay for that, by the way.”

Nick slams his head down on the desk.  “I’ve already transferred money to pay it off, from my personal account.  Should be hitting the account shortly — yes, I have statements to prove it to send to you.” 

“Forget that for now,” Tara says.  “What’re you going to do about the fact that your wife is having an affair with your estranged brother?”

Nick rests his face in his hands, elbows propped up on the desk.  “I don’t know, Tara.  I don’t know what to do.”

Tara leans back, looking at him critically.  “Do you want your marriage to continue?” 

“Dunno,” he replies back instantly, groaning.

She sighs, patting his head kindly.  “Nick, hon… I can see two routes here.  You continue this marriage, requiring much more work, therapy, counseling… you name it.  Are you willing to forgive her for what she’s done?” 

Nick pulls back from his hands, looking at Tara for a second.  “I don’t know that I can.”

Tara shakes her head glumly.  “Then, as far as I’m concerned, that option’s already at a dead end.  How are you to continue in a marriage if forgiveness cannot be extended?  Trying to restore trust requires some degree of it to build on.”

Nick sinks back into his desk, continuing to stare at her kind, warm eyes.  “I hear what you’re saying…”

“Because I’m your Chief of Staff, it is my duty to protect you and your interests.  I’m going to advise you to take up an attorney specializing in divorce proceedings.  Hell, I’ll find a list of Austin-based attorneys for you.  If you can’t pursue repair and restoration, frankly, there’s one option,” Tara concludes.

Nick groans.  “Don’t say it, please.”

“Divorce, babes.”   

There it is, again.  The d-word.  That marital Sword of Damocles.  Part of him believes that route truly represents the best option for him, even though it’s probably one of the ugliest ones.  He wants to explore the possibility of restoration, but Nick really thinks about what Tara has said — he believes in forgiveness, but there’s something about infidelity that just feels unforgivable.  Even without David in the equation, it would be difficult, tenuous.  Add David in and it feels near impossible.  

“Put together the list, Tara.  Order it, cross-referenced by successes, expense, and recommendations,” Nick replies, hollowly.  “I want to find the best candidate for the job… if that’s what I choose.” 

She nods, getting up to give him a small hug before leaving the office.  He knows he needs to give himself another hour to work, but now that they’ve visited the topic of Laurel and adultery, getting back on task feels insurmountable.  He carefully sorts out the remaining bills to examine, filing them away and storing them in his briefcase.  Nick takes a short coffee break, pretends to re-examine some of the longer bills, and then goes home shortly after four PM.  The rest can be looked at over the weekend, when he’s had a moment to recover.  

He’s home by five PM, making a note to order some take-out Chinese food.  Changing into gray joggers and an Adidas sweatshirt, he settles down on his couch and begins sorting through his phone.  

There’s a knock on his door., and Claude and Bill are on the other side. They hold what appears to be a dessert and alcohol; Bill peers nervously through the peephole.  

“Uh, hi,” Nick says nervously as he opens the door to both of his neighbors, both of whom bear anxious, worried looks on their faces.  “What’s this?”

“Hi,” Bill says softly.  “Uh, we wanted to bring you some goodies.  It just appears you’re a bit stressed…”

Claude rolls his eyes.  “We heard you sobbing through the wall the other night.  They’re pretty thin, by the way.  Your bedroom shares a wall with our living room.” 

Nick casts his face downward, growing red. He hears Bill snipe at Claude for being so direct, possibly hurtful, all the while Claude sighs and tells him that arguing in front of the neighbor feels more gauche than admitting that they heard him sobbing.  Nick lets them into his apartment, closing the door behind them.  Bill deposits their offerings on the kitchen counter, while Claude appraises Nick. 

“Well… what happened?” he asks.  “There’s no crying in DC, especially not over politics, so… I almost hope it was something not work related.”

Nick motions for him to sit on the sofa, while Bill shuffles through Nick’s cabinets, pulling out plates, utensils, and cups.  He’s cutting up what appears to be a swiss roll, albeit a vanilla one with a distinctive frosting.  Earlier, Nick smelled a hint of lemon, but something else he couldn’t quite place.  Sitting down on the sofa, Bill quickly doles out the plates and forks, before filling up cups with what appears to be a Riesling.  Nick just stares in amazement – he hasn’t felt this cared for in ages by anyone, really, except for Tara, and that’s mostly related to her job.  

Bill takes a seat next to him.  They spend a minute eating the Swiss roll, and sipping the Riesling. 

“What’s in this frosting? It’s lemony, but…with some sort of spice,” Nick asks as he licks a bit off of his fork. 

“Cardamom,” Bill replies.  

“Huh,” Nick says.  He’s had Indian food once or twice before, but never really looked closely into the spices that the cuisine utilizes.  

Claude, ever impatient, looks over at them.  “After you’re done delving into the flavor profile of the icing, inquiring minds want to know…why were you sobbing for a solid hour last night?”

Nick sighs, putting his fork down.  “Marital issues.”  

“Oh, honey,” Bill says kindly.  “Tell us all about it.”

Even though he doesn’t know Bill or Claude that well, he desperately needs someone to talk to about this, besides his own family or Tara.  Not to mention, they’ve brought him dessert and libation as a sign of community and kindness.  He implicitly trusts them, and thus tells them all about it — everything from the past year, practically.  

While the men genuinely voice support for him, they do not hesitate to inquire about what sort of conversations that he and Laurel had early on.  When Nick cannot really elaborate completely, Claude quickly points out the root of the problem — their failure to communicate their wants and wishes early on.  Had Nick known that Laurel wanted him to be a lackey for her father’s companies, maybe he would never have married her, and if she had known that Nick was considering entering politics, maybe the same would be true for her never marrying Nick.  Truthfully, everything else spirals out from that. 

They lambaste her vehemently for her conduct between Election Day and the present.  Claude and Bill are both retired professors, the former a political scientist.  He notes several historical examples of spousal conduct ruining the political fortunes of people, or at least setting them back.  When Nick mentions the affair with his brother, that sets Claude off.

“Putain,” he moans solemnly.  “What a cold, wicked thing to do.”

Bill pats Nick’s back softly.  “Sorry, Nick… that’s… well, that’s utter shit.”

“Do you know what you’re going to do about it?” Claude asks.  

Nick just shakes his head.  “I’m exploring options.  Not really feeling ‘forgiveness and reconciliation’  as an avenue right now.”

Bill nods. “What then?  A quick, quiet divorce?”

“A rarity in this town,” Claude remarks.  “Although, given the circumstances… I think the chances of that are greater.  No way your wife would want it getting out that she boinked her husband’s brother.  That’s some Catherine of Aragon, biblical level merde right there.  Media frenzy level.” 

Nick lets himself ruminate on that thought while he eats the rest of his Swiss roll.  He wonders what Laurel thinks about all of this.  Would they be likely to divorce amicably, or would he be forced to take more aggressive measures as the aggrieved party?  Could they settle this without protracted battles, or will his first term in Congress be marked exclusively by divorce proceedings?  Part of him wonders if he should have answered any of those phone calls or texts over the past few weeks, but then he remembers how poorly he found himself.  The next time she calls him, he thinks he’ll pick up, just to see what she wants to do.  Maybe she’s thinking the same thing — the dissolution of their marriage may be the best possible option for both of them. 

Eventually, Claude and Bill head out for the evening, destined for a housewarming party in Logan Circle.  Nick thanks them profusely for everything they’ve done to help him process his thoughts and feelings, and most of all, helping him start the process of growing from the experience.  He’s got a funny feeling that he and his neighbors will be good friends now, despite Claude’s more abrasive exterior.  As he quietly munches on his cashew chicken fried rice, he really hopes that’s the case.  Nick could really use some friends in DC.

Early March

Charlie cannot properly characterize the past few weeks beyond the words frantic and tense.  

Most of the tension revolves around the informal working groups for his subcommittees, the education one in particular.  Ever since mid-February, being around Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux leaves Charlie feeling like a member of a bomb squad — constantly on edge about clipping the wrong wire or moving the wrong way and setting things off.  He’s backed off some of his more incessant prodding regarding proposed legislation.  

Lately they’ve spent time considering witnesses who will appear before the whole committee for questioning.  This process requires a great deal of tact, which keeps Charlie relatively subdued. His schedule involves a revolving door of subcommittee and committee meetings, especially appropriations, which never seems to end.  Add in constituent services, meetings, donor calls, and other fundraising ventures, and it almost feels like there’s barely time to breathe.  

One such constituent call involves several Seattle area teachers representing the Seattle Education Association, to whom Charlie summarizes the circulating bills on the K12 subcommittee. The majority of Charlie’s formal education in the United States involved private international schools in Los Angeles when he was younger, and preparatory schools for high school — choices made by Julio and Jane.  These teachers feel distinctly different, the problems and concerns they describe different than things he experienced and witnessed.   Barring some unforeseen economic revolution that eases their issues, Charlie’s happy to listen to them and their suggestions to see which align with policy, legal action, and funding measures under review, and which he can possibly bring to the table.  

As he ends the call, Darcy gives him a thumbs up.  She’s been listening in on a few of his calls here and there, offering him suggestions and extra perspective.  

“That went well,” she says calmly.  “I think you were quite the active listener.”  

Charlie sighs, sinking into his seat a bit.  “It’s easier when it's not in person.”  

“Understandable.  You can still say the wrong thing on a phone call, though, and you definitely didn’t do that,” Darcy replies. 

Before they can continue their debrief, a rap on the door steals their attention.  The new Congressional intern, Mallory, is doing her rounds.  Recently promoted from coffee acquisitions to mail delivery,  she starts on odd floors some days, even floors the other days.  Charlie really cannot make heads-or-tails as to why.  

“Come in,” he yells from his desk. 

“M-m-mail,” she splutters, face beet red.  

Charlie looks at her oddly, his face flashing with concern.  “Mallory, what is it?” 

“There’s… there’s… porn in your mail!” she squeaks.

Charlie laughs, shaking his head.  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mallory.”  He swipes the mail from her, continuing to shake his head.

Darcy also laughs, but rolls her eyes.  “Mallory, let me explain to you the history of the Congressional Hustler delivery.”

Her eyes bulge in shock.  “It’s… wait, everyone gets one?” 

Darcy nods.  “Years ago, the owner of Hustler Magazine decided that as a form of protest against corruption in government, he would send a copy of the magazine to every Representative and Senator.  A sort of play on the idea of ‘hustle’ meaning ‘fraud’ or ‘swindle’ in slang.”

“And people just… never put a stop to it?” she asks, now blinking in confusion. 

Charlie snorts.  “Some of them probably took them, gleefully.”  

“Charles, don’t defile the interns with crass humor,” Darcy teases, before turning to Mallory.  “They did try. Tried to force the Postal Service to cease deliveries.  Hustler took the government to court however, claiming their rights to seek redress from the government were being violated.  It’s an odd form of protest, sending people monthly reminders that they ‘hustle’ the American people… and yet, it’s protected speech.”

“Oh.”

Charlie grins.  “Welcome to Washington, young deerling.  Every day’s a new day to find out some weird quirk.”  

She just nods awkwardly before backing out of the room slowly, closing the door.  Charlie turns to look through the mail, tossing the Hustler Magazine into the trash can.  He certainly has no use for it.  Unfortunately, Mallory seems to have left behind a second copy of the magazine, and even worse, that one is destined for Congressman Nelson-Thibodeaux.  Even though he’s been on his best behavior in working groups and other meetings, Charlie can’t help but use this opportunity to tease Nick a bit.

“Where’re you going? We’ve got a debrief to finish!” Darcy yells at him as he walks to the door. 

He holds up the copy of the magazine. “Improperly delivered… going to make sure that Nick gets his titty mag of the month.”  

Darcy throws him a manila folder, shaking her head.  “At least cover that up.  We all know about them, but one photo of you holding a Hustler mag in the news or online and people will lose their minds.”

Charlie giggles at that.  “I knew I promoted you to Chief of Staff for a reason.” 

Charlie strides out into the corridor, titty mag hidden completely in a manila folder.  He barges into the main entrance of Nick’s office suite, to the surprise of several interns, staffers, and the receptionist.  

“Special delivery for Mr. Nelson-Thibodeaux,” he yells cheerfully.

One of the interns quickly springs into action, moving toward Nick’s office door. 

“Oh, he’s not seeing anyone from the public right now!”

“Don’t be daft, Becky,” a staffer says to the intern.  “That’s Congressman Spring from down the hall.”   She turns to Charlie.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Spring.  It’s her first day.  Uh… I guess you can go see him.”

Charlie looks at them both in confusion, but nods his head.  “Okay?”

When he approaches Nick’s office door, he realizes that his plan may have hit a small snag.  From outside, Charlie can hear small sniffling noises in the office, as if someone’s having a good cry.  Hesitantly, he knocks on the door.

“Just… just a second,” he hears.  Charlie takes a breath, waiting, before Nick’s voice calls again.  “You can come in.”  

Slowly, he opens the door.  Nick’s at his desk, eyes incredibly red and cheeks showing evidence of tears recently shed.  Immediately, Charlie freezes.

“I can come back,” he says in a panic.  

Nick shakes his head.  “No… just come in for a second.  Do me a favor and close the door behind you, though.”  

Charlie enters the office, closing the door behind him.  Nick’s office looks quite homey, with a few pictures on the wall, a Texas flag, a flag with a fleur-de-lys on it, and some string lights strung up.  While it’s not very professional, it would certainly make anyone feel cozy and at ease.  In fact, it would be a perfect evening work environment, a desk lamp and string lights on while sipping some decaf or half-caf.  

Before Charlie can get lost further examining the office, Nick clears his throat.  “What do you want, Spring?” 

That felt particularly gruff, and Charlie frowns.  “I’m just bringing you some mail that got dropped at mine.” 

Petulantly, he holds up the Hustler Magazine, waving it around showily.  

“Christ,” Nick grumbles, getting up to snatch it off of Charlie.  “Should have just tossed it.”

Charlie makes a teasing pouty face at Nick.  “Oh, really?  You mean you don’t keep yours for the articles?  Sometimes some top notch journalism in there.”  

Nick blushes red, but shakes his head.  “No, I don’t keep copies of Hustler around the office, or anywhere else for that matter.”

“Alright, alright.  I’m just teasing you,” Charlie says, holding up his hands to indicate a peace of sorts.

There’s an awkward bit of silence between the two of them, before Charlie says, “Nick, are you… okay?” 

Nick shakes his head.  “No.  Not at all.”  

“Do you want to talk about it?” Charlie asks, trying his best to look and sound earnest.  

Nick sighs, before going back and slumping into his chair.  “Not really, Charlie. Not really.” 

“But you’d rather cry about it behind closed doors?  That doesn’t sound very healthy,” Charlie replies, frowning.  

Nick looks at him, both annoyed and quizzical, probably due to the fact that Charlie’s spent the past two months mostly tormenting him at work.  “Things have spiraled out between my wife and I….” Nick trails off.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there any way I can help?” 

Nick chuckles softly.  “Can you go back in time?”

“No, sorry,” Charlie sighs out, shrugging his shoulders.

Nick just shakes his head.  “Not that you have to apologize for that fact, but… that’s about the only thing that could fix this.”

Charlie just hums awkwardly, rooted to the spot.  How does one gracefully bow out of a room after being told about marital problems?  Ones that seem to be marriage-ending problems, nonetheless.  He thinks about what Darcy would say regarding interpersonal constituent communication, and does his best to apply them. 

“Well… I know that it’s kind of a hollow-sounding offer coming from me, but if you do need to talk to someone… I am down the hall,” Charlie says softly.  

“Okay.”  Nick looks at him, equally confused by this interaction.  “Thanks?”

Charlie backs away to the door, smiling awkwardly.  “You’re welcome?” 

He heads back to his office quickly after shutting Nick’s door firmly behind him.  That felt painful, and hopefully not fake.  In a sense, he gets those trials and tribulations of a relationship, given his own problems with Thatcher.  Of course, some marital problems definitely rise far above, but he can empathize with the man.  

As he walks back into the office, Darcy shoots him a look.  “I just got an email from the Chief of Staff of Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux.”

“What a coincidence. Right after dropping off his titty mag,” Charlie replies nonchalantly.  Did he do something wrong?

Darcy eyes him, frowning.  “Requesting a meeting between me and her.  Apparently she wants to talk strategies and wants to know, and I quote, ‘why the fuck Spring makes it his life’s mission to fuck with Nick instead of working with him,’ end quote.”

“Christ, what a manchild,” Charlie groans.  “Sending his minions to do business with you, instead of talking to me directly.  And I was literally just there…”  

“Charles!”

“What?”

“There’s only so much assholishness someone can tolerate before they snap.  Also, if you’re really fucking with him this much, what do you think the veterans think of you?” Darcy shoots at him, incandescently annoyed.

“I don’t —” Charlie begins, before he’s cut off by Darcy.

“You have to care.  Do you think you’re going to get the committees you want and the leverage you need by pissing off everyone around you?  Fucking. Listen. To. Me. Charles. Ulysses. Spring.”

Charlie sits down and huffs, “Fine.  I’ll do my best to be a bit less… pointed with him.”  

“Good,” she replies tersely, swiping on her phone.  “I’m still going to meet with her though.  She’s a total hottie, and I get major lesbian vibes.”

“Christ, I need a drink,” Charlie groans.  

And so they do, after work.  There’s a bar south of the Capitol Building that Charlie’s been dying to try, one that he hopes most congressional aides and other assorted Congresscritters avoid.  It would be nice not to be surrounded by it all, a slightly more peaceful happy hour, just with his old friend Darcy and his new friend Caity.  Upon arrival, it appears seemingly clear of political types, except for one or two people that Charlie recognizes as lobbyists.  Mostly, there are a good handful of tech bros and mid-level non-profit workers.  

“This is relaxed,” Darcy comments, scanning her menu.  

Caity looks up from her menu, nodding. “Quite.  No one’s rowdy yet.  Decent drink prices.”

“They’ve got some sours on tap, too,” Charlie murmurs.  

Thankfully, the peace persists for them to order a first and second beverage.  They’ve taken up talking about whatever crosses their minds, mostly home related things and hobbies they would like to have more time to do.  Charlie rues the lack of time to read for pleasure, while Darcy bemoans the lack of winter sports in the immediate region.  Caity just wants to bake some more, claiming that it relaxes her and allows her to express artistic creativity.  

Just before they order their third round of beverages, Caity’s eyes light up. 

“What?”  Charlie asks.  He’s facing away from the door, and so he can’t see who she’s eyeing. 

“Hot guy from the Froggy Bottom just walked in,” she says, waggling her eyebrows.  

Charlie groans.  “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.”

Darcy cranes her head over to the doorway.  “Oh god, wait… is that him?”

“Thatcher Ambrose Alden III, you mean?”

Caity snorts.  “What a name.”

“Wait… you never told me that you ran into him at some point,” Darcy said suspiciously.  

“Oh, he definitely went home with him,” Caity adds, sticking out her tongue.

Darcy scoffs.  “Went home with him?  I thought you were done with him?”

Charlie sinks further in his seat while Caity eyes him critically.  “Does your history go back further and deeper with him than you’ve let on, Spring?”  

Charlie just nods his head, continuing to hope that Thatcher doesn’t notice him. 

Darcy, frowning slightly, turns to Caity.  “That asshole was shagging our man here, all the while lying to his parents about anything and everything… including keeping Charlie a secret.”  

“A secret?  What?” she asks, looking over at Charlie. 

“I met his parents and he called me a ‘friend,’” Charlie replies, shaking his head.  

“And you fucked him after that?” Caity practically belts out. 

Like a moth drawn to a flame, a narcissist naturally gravitates toward nearby epicenters of discussions involving him or her.  And thus, Charlie finds himself breathing in deeply as his former-beau posts up at their table, a beer in hand.  He’s smiling effusively, oozing his usual charm, and looking gorgeous.  

“Ladies… and good sir,” he motions elaborately.  

“Thatcher,” Charlie replies coldly. “What can I do for you?”  

Thatcher frowns, and quips, “How civil.  A shame… I was going to ask if you wanted to come over to mine tonight.  There’s a bit of a party at nine.  Would be fun.” 

Darcy looks at him critically.  “If you want to fuck him, you can say that too, you know?  No need to play around with ‘party’ invites.”  

Thatcher looks at Darcy sourly, before flashing his eyes at Charlie.  His look communicates a reproachful sort of “you told them?” message, as if Thatcher’s never publicly hit on him or took him home before in front of people.  Thatcher having sex with men is an open secret, really only kept stringently from his roommate and his parents.  

After a moment he recovers, shrugging. “I was honestly offering.” 

“And I’m not interested,” Charlie shoots back at him.  “I think you know exactly why.” 

Pretending to be unbothered despite his irritation, Thatcher replies, “Okay then.  Have a good night,” before walking off to the other side of the bar.  

Darcy takes Charlie’s hand in hers.  “Proud of you, Spring.  Dignity above dick.”  

“Amen,” Caity chimes in. 

It feels empowering to do that.  Now he just needs to make it a habit.

Mid-March / The Ides of March

Nick barely finds the time to internalize his exchange with Charlie Spring from the week prior.  He only wraps his head around the fact that they’re now on first-name basis, magically.  Or it appears to be as such, at least for in-office environments.  While he needs to bring this up with Charlie, he doesn’t know how to do such a thing without being overwhelmingly awkward about it.  Better yet, he doesn’t understand why it feels so awkward.  Is it normal to have such complicated feelings about someone you just met two months ago? Or is it just a consequence of Nick’s mess of emotions from work and marital trauma?  At the rate he needs to scan and process legislation for his Energy and Commerce subcommittee, he’s not so sure he’ll find the time to figure that out.

The working groups for that subcommittee are much more informal and old-timey than what he experiences on the K12 subcommittee.  For starters, he’s an age outlier — excluding him, the average age of the subcommittee must be sixty-five, the majority best described as crotchety old men.  The pushiest and loudest of these men being none other than Texas’s own Skipper T. Johnson, a relic of the Democratic Party in many ways.  The vast majority of Democrats have gotten on board with a number of issues, with plenty of variation to live up to the “Big Tent” feel of the party.  Except Skipper.  He’s a stodgy asshole, with rather archaic views on a number of issues, including LGBTQIA+ people.  

In short, he’s often insufferable.  And today, Nick has the misfortune of being caught in a room of leather armchairs with him and a few others.  Thankfully, the House reinstated the “no smoking indoors” rule recently, so no one’s lit up cigars.  Otherwise it would be comically stereotypical. 

“Young Nicholas,” Skipper says to him.  “How’ve you been finding work as a Congressman?” 

“Sometimes challenging,” Nick replies, trying to ignore being called Nicholas.  “Enjoyable for some reasons.  Painful for others.”

Skipper doesn’t inquire, which feels very him, like the question was just pleasantries anyway.  “Have you had time to review the legislation about our oil and natural gas investments at home and abroad?”

“Some of it.  There are several,” Nick replies very shortly, scanning an unrelated bill.  

“It’s very important, especially the expansion of pipelines in allied territories,” Skipper adds, trying to push further.  

Nick peers up from the bill he’s currently reading and nods.  “I’ll look at it and think about it.”  

Skipper’s eyes narrow slightly, before returning to his own work.  Nick’s constituents prefer more investments in renewable energy, not more giveaways to Texas’s omnipresent Oil and Natural Gas industry.  While he can see some of the national defense interests, there must be a better way to accomplish them.   Now all it comes down to is keeping Skipper T. Johnson at an arm’s length regarding such bills, and hopefully convincing more of his colleagues to consider a slurry of energy resources.

Eventually, the subcommittee group members head off for different meetings.  Nick has learned that mid-week, the Rayburn gym usually is quite deserted.  For his own health and well-being, he clears his afternoon schedule to get a solid workout in.  Besides finding a therapist, his only real way to focus and process all that’s happened in the past month seems to be working out.  He starts with tricep dips, but by the time he’s done three sets, his mind immediately wanders to Laurel and David.  Something about the motion of the dips just makes him remember what he heard and also imagine what he could have seen if he chose to open that door on Valentine’s Day.  

That rules out leg day.  

Thankfully, bicep curls, shoulder presses, and other upper body work helps him dodge those odd associations.  His mind does end up traveling back to something entirely different, though.  

Charlie Spring.  Nick still can’t wrap his head around the hot-and-cold nature of the man.  He’s literally spent the past two months cutting Nick off, poking holes in the policy work he’s passionate about, and anything else he can do to generally piss Nick off.  And for what?  Not allowing a debate and reconsideration of subcommittees?  Nick certainly doesn’t know what else.  Meanwhile, Nick still bristles thinking about Charlie’s prickly tone and generally rebuking behavior. 

While he’s in the shower, he can’t stop thinking about that.  It makes him burn up, quite a lot.  In fact, he feels intoxicated with thoughts of Charlie Spring, possibly a coping mechanism to avoid thinking about Laurel and David.  The thought of seeing the man on a treadmill, full sleeve of tattoos on one of his toned arms, lusciously curly hair,  flexing his ass as he ran…

And then, unexpectedly, Nick has a boner.  In the Rayburn gym showers.  

Immediately he tries to think about sad things, unpleasant things, simply unhorny things, but to no avail.  His mind seems fixated on thinking about asses, tanned skin, and tattoos, and how all of those things make him feel, regardless of gender.  At this point, Nick reaches the only conclusion he can — the quickest wank humanly possible is the only way to carry on. 

One of the benefits of being uncut, really.  He grips himself firmly, and gets to work, letting those thoughts chaotically swirl in his mind.  However, a handful of features dominate that haze: bright blue eyes, thick curls, and lithe muscles.  Coupled with being incredibly pent up, this makes for a rapid climax.  He blinks through the post-nut clarity, doing his best to make sure he clears the shower stall of spend.  And then it hits him.

He just used fantasies about another man to jerk off, and he doesn’t know how he feels about that fact or what it even means.  

Returning to his office freshly-showered, he checks his schedule.  Clear of meetings and with no more votes for the day, he scoops up as much work as possible without disturbing its organization, and funnels it into his bag.  He’ll work from home this afternoon.  

His private Uber home doesn’t seem the best environment to mull over fantasies, especially if they could lead to an unwanted public boner.  All of this confuses him deeply.  

He’d always assumed past thoughts about guys were mere instances of adoration, as they never ended with him getting aroused or rubbing one out in the shower.  Now, he’s not too sure.  Or is this just some weird combination of stress and rivalry that’s somehow manifested in a twisted Freudian way?  

When he gets home, he resolves to do the one thing that usually helps him when he’s undeniably troubled: call Sarah Nelson.

“Mama,” he says quietly.

“Nicky, what’s wrong, baby?  You sound… so sad.” 

He can detect how laden with worry her voice is already. 

Nick takes a steadying breath.  “Something’s happened.  Between Laurel and me…” 

“Oh, uh… usually pregnancy announcements aren’t so sad,” Sarah says. 

“No, mama.  She’s not pregnant.  And if she is…uh, it’s not mine,” Nick replies.

There’s a pause on the other line.  “Wait… what?”

Nick makes the split second decision not to tell her that it could be David’s.  It feels like this is already enough, and adding that could break his mother utterly.  And so he tells her the gist of what he discovered, when he went home on Valentine’s Day.  She listens in stunned silence.

“I just don’t know what to do, mama.  It’s so… hurtful.  Deeply betraying my trust like that.  I mean, I can’t even speak to her.  Haven’t since I discovered it,” he says mournfully.  

Sarah collects her own thoughts.  Nick knows that she’s been through divorce, and doesn’t take it lightly.  “Honey… if this is such a violation of your trust, do you think it will ever come back?” 

“I don’t know,” Nick replies.  “I mean, part of me only thinks it could if I was home in Austin all the time… but even then, that’s not right either.  I shouldn’t have to be within proximity of my wife, keeping eyes on her, to trust her.”

Sarah exhales shakily.  “You’re right, Nicky.  That’s not how it’s supposed to work, and I think… well, I think you’ve got some of your answer.” 

Nick swallows roughly, still unable to say it out loud.  His mom is definitely correct – he knows such a situation is untenable, unrealistic, and the antithesis of what trusting someone should mean.  More than anything, it is a clear indicator that he’ll never trust Laurel ever again.  

“Thanks, mama,” he replies quietly.  

“Anytime, honey. I just wish I could be in DC right now to give you a big hug,” she says sullenly. 

And oh, does Nick wish the same thing, too.

Late March 

Darcy has debriefed him on “Operation Minimize Assholishness” twice now.  Charlie’s done a relatively good job at holding to it, but he still finds it necessary to criticize proposals.  He’s just opened the field to ones beyond which Nick personally supports, making it seem a bit less targeted.  What Charlie struggles with now are the odd glances and surreptitious looks that the oafy Texan keeps sending him during meetings.  Sometimes they radiate pure annoyance, but Charlie swears that other times Nick’s eyes appear lost in a haze, deep in thought.  

Once or twice he catches a glint of an element there that Charlie cannot quite describe, one that makes him feel like he’s being mentally undressed by Nick.  Charlie both loves and hates that — for one, it feels powerful and confidence-boosting to potentially be considered desirable enough to drive a straight man wild, but then it all gets twinged with guilt thinking about the man’s wife.  He knows he would never act on his fantasies, so it’s okay for him to keep that mental spank bank.  The idea of it the other way around unsettles him, though.  

At the end of a regular meeting with Darcy, she mentions a new event that’s been added to his calendar, one which sounds particularly distasteful to him. 

“You’ve got to go to this, Charlie.  Not only is it a fundraiser for Democratic political committees, but there’s going to be a whole host of important people there, including some DC Power Gays.  You’ve gotta go rub shoulders with them,” she says earnestly. 

Charlie groans.  “Fine.  I’m going to hate every second of it, though.”

Pulling up to the house in the Kalorama Historic District, a fancier, richer part of Kalorama that he’s never stepped foot in before, Charlie already feels like this will be the case.  Some stuffy rich person owns this house, one that appears to be several thousand square feet and includes a roof-top balcony, accessed by the third story parlor room.  The way the rich design their homes makes no sense to him. 

He does his best to mill about the party and not rub anyone the wrong way.  A few people there recognize him from national news, but many don’t really know who he is or much about him.  A handful of DC gays swarm around him, gaydars finely tuned.  Charlie doesn’t really like many of them; some sound and act excessively snobbish, and many immediately try to ingratiate him, revealing their sycophantic selves.  It’s a bit noxious, but Charlie survives.  

Something more dire than a mob of DC gays catches his attention.  

Thatcher is present at this fundraiser.  On top of that, he’s about to make an announcement.  What?

“Good Day everyone.  As many of you know, I am Thatcher Ambrose Alden III, and I recently was put in charge of the fundraising division of the Young Democratic Voters action committee.  I want to thank you for responding to such a quickly planned engagement.  I know all of your social and work calendars are chock-full of events.”  He scans the crowd, appraising reactions, eyes eventually locking on Charlie’s.

People laugh at that, before Thatcher continues.  “Enjoy yourselves, enjoy the food and drinks, and make yourself welcome in my home.” 

Oh .  A rush of words from summer 2027 floods Charlie’s brain, hearing Cornelia Alden say Kalorama.  House in Kalorama.  Over and over again.  This fundraiser is taking place quite literally in Charlie’s own version of a lion’s den.   

He spends the next fifteen minutes dodging Thatcher’s glances and avoiding being in the general vicinity of him, until he successfully finds one of the four or five bathrooms in the house to take cover in.   After closing and locking the door behind him, he calls Darcy.

“Why are you calling me from the fundraiser?” she asks with annoyance.  

“Darcy… this is Thatcher’s house.  Thatcher’s fundraiser.  THATCHER!” he practically shouts at her. 

Silence comes from the other end for a minute.  “Fuck.  I swear I didn’t know…it wasn’t sent by him, and the email didn’t reference him at all!”  

“He just took it on, I know you couldn’t have known, but… I need to get out of here,” Charlie replies.

He can hear her chewing on her lip, and can practically hear her thinking.  “How much have you accomplished there?”

“I’ve talked to at least two dozen people.  Two mentioned donating to my campaign personally, one mentioned donating to the Congressional LGBTQIA+ Caucus, and several were deeply annoying DC gays that will probably follow me on socials now and possibly volunteer or raise funds for me in the future.” 

She lets out a pleasant hum of approval.  “Good enough.  Get the heck out of there.”  

“Done,” Charlie replies, ending the call before emerging from the bathroom and running right into…

Thatcher. 

There’s no one else in the hallway.  

“Hi, baby.  Are you enjoying exploring my house?” he asks softly.

Charlie sways in his place, taking a shallow breath.  “You… said that, earlier.  Your Logan Circle place…”

“Just what I was personally renting.  I had to cut some financial dead weight, and so I moved in here.  My parents own it,” he replies briskly, his eyes locked onto Charlie’s. 

Charlie simply nods, thinking back to that particular lie he discovered that summer.  He’s stuck between not knowing what to say and wanting to somehow get back on that topic.  In reality, he needs to excuse himself and get out of there; causing a scene at a fundraiser would not look good at all.  

“You’ve seen most of the place then?” Thatcher asks.  

Charlie shakes his head.  “No, not this floor really.  Just downstairs.”  

“Let me show you my office then,” Thatcher replies, taking his hand gently.  Charlie doesn’t pull away, and before he knows it, he’s being pulled into the room across from the bathroom.  

Lovely windows allow ample amounts of light to stream into the office, adorned by curtains for use when occasions demand it.  Gorgeous, Scandinavian-style furniture fills the room: a large, corner desk, bookcases, two floor lamps, a comfy chair for reading, and a desk chair.  Before he can take in the rest of the room, he hears the door shut behind him. 

He turns to see Thatcher standing there, chest rising and falling quickly.  “God, I need you so badly.”

Charlie steps back.  “What?” 

“Ever since I spotted you downstairs, all I could think about was getting off with you,” Thatcher replies smoothly.  

Charlie frowns.  “Did you not listen to a word I said back in January?”  

A mischievous grin spreads across Thatcher’s face.  “Yeah… something about being able to fuck someone and leaving it at that.” 

Charlie swallows roughly, his nerve endings sizzling upon just hearing Thatcher say the word fuck.  He’s angry that Thatcher chooses to emphasize the least important part of that statement he made, turned on by his boldness and their sexual chemistry, and caving into the demands of his libido.  

“Okay,” Charlie whispers. 

Thatcher pulls him in for a kiss, their bodies pressing against each other.  Both of them are already hard, but something about this scenario hits differently for Charlie.  For the first time in a while, he doesn’t feel consumed when Thatcher goes down on him.  Sure, it feels good, and it’s quite appreciated, but the embers are just… embers.  Not flames rising into a raging inferno.  Maybe it’s the environment, the crowded fundraiser downstairs putting Charlie on edge.  It’s not until he’s got his tongue and lips on Thatcher’s cock that he realizes that it’s something much, much deeper.  His pre-come doesn’t taste the same, nor do the clean and salty musk scents of Thatcher’s crotch smell the same.  And as he wipes his mouth after swallowing Thatcher’s come, pulls up his boxer-briefs and chinos, and waves goodbye, he wonders to himself if the spell Thatcher Ambrose Alden III holds over him is beginning to break.

Chapter Text

Early-to-Mid April Recess:  Seattle, Washington – “Home By Now” by MUNA

Mottled gray skies reign over the Puget Sound, signaling an incoming rainstorm.  Charlie looks out from the park near Pike Place Market at the waters below.  Normally, they look safe and restrained, but today the surface appears choppy, violent, and angry.  

He rolls his eyes at himself, slapping down his own mental comparison between the brewing tempest and his personal life.  He knows that he’s been an idiot recently, but there’s no need to be that dramatic.  

Turning back toward the market, a long line of people has appeared outside of the original Starbucks Coffee House, even though it’s only a quarter-past seven in the morning.  Charlie just shakes his head, continuing on his run; he wouldn’t get caught in the rain for that, especially not the Pike roast.  

In school, recess is always something that kids look forward to.  Members of Congress look forward to them as well, but for very different reasons.  For one, Charlie doesn’t always like Washington.  He finds the facade of politeness people wore in order to do things the accepted way — while acting completely different behind closed doors — to be incredibly off-putting.  There’s a culture, a set of rules and decorum, that he finds outdated.  Going back to the Seattle area means he gets to be in his favorite place, close to Douglas firs, the Cascade Range, and the waters of the Puget Sound. 

It also means meeting with constituents, sometimes whole groups of them at a time, and even donors.  Despite his continual efforts to actively listen and practice conversational restraint, he still finds it difficult to hold conversations with people who are uninformed.  Walking that line of correction, between gentle education and near condescension, seems to be his almost-daily struggle.  

Well, it’s one struggle of his.  He’s set to discuss the other with Tao and Elle later that day when they get dinner.  Elle’s even reserved them seats at Lionhead, a Sichuan place in Capitol Hill.  Charlie chuckles at the irony that even at home in Seattle, he can’t get away from places called Capitol Hill.  There are a few bars nearby for them to enjoy after, if they’re in the mood. 

Charlie spends most of his day on constituent and donor calls, taking only a lunch break and four fifteen-minute stretch breaks.  The exhaustion only ebbs with a french-press of Victrola Coffee.  He’s looking forward to seeing Elle and Tao, but he dreads delivering them the news of his latest personal fuck-up.  

Charlie’s internal monologue regarding Thatcher basically amounts to “Yes, it’s stupid.  Yes, it’s lost its luster.  And yes, I know I shouldn’t keep doing it.  But no, I probably won’t stop.”  He’s convinced himself that he can detach himself completely from Thatcher and just occasionally have sex with the man, and it will all be well and fine. 

Unless Thatcher comes out to his parents.  Then they can talk about something more. 

With potential bar-hopping in mind, he opts for a black short-sleeved v-neck shirt and a black puffer jacket to keep him warm as the sun goes down.  The last thing he needs is Tao sullying a nice shirt by inadvertently spitting out his beer when he hears about the Thatcher thing.  Usually he would rent a city bike to get around, but running close on his calls means that an Uber must be ordered — luckily, a Prius.  

He arrives right on time, greeting Elle and Tao warmly as they wait for him in the foyer of the restaurant.  They chat a bit on the way to their table and as they peruse the menu, waiting for  their waitress to appear.  Elle and Tao give him a brief rundown of the things they’ve done on weekends before they badger Charlie for similar details.  He begins telling them about subcommittee meetings and dinners with Caity, but their eyes glaze over a bit.  Totally fair — to most outsiders, DC appears both overwhelmingly complicated and quite dull, which causes Elle to gravitate to more familiar themes.

“So… have you been on any dates?” 

Charlie squirms a bit as Tao looks at him critically and Elle awaits an answer.  Charlie just shakes his head.  “No… no, I haven’t had time for that.”

“Not enough time?  Not even weekends?” Tao inquires. 

Elle stares at him critically, an eyebrow cocked — she immediately picks up on his transgression, based on his body language. “No… you didn’t.”

Charlie sighs, his eyes fluttering. “I know.  I’m pathetic.” 

“What? What’s happening? Elle?  What did Charlie do?” Tao looks between them, half-confused, half-frantic.  

“Thatcher,” Charlie mumbles.  “I’ve gone and fucked up again.  Just say it.” 

“You’ve gone and fucked him again, you mean,” Tao hisses.

Elle carefully thinks about her next words. Tao looks on the verge of throwing himself against a wall when the waitress appears to take their order.  By the time she leaves, they’re all staring at each other blankly, waiting to see who speaks first and what they say.  Elle takes charge.

“You’re not pathetic, Charlie,” Elle says quietly.  “You’re just falling back on what’s familiar, even though he’s a lying douchecanoe.”  

“How did it happen?” Tao asks, groaning and tugging on his beanie.

Charlie takes in a deep breath, thinking about all of the details, the fancy house in Kalorama, the fundraiser crowd, and DC gays.  “It was at a fundraiser.”

“A fundraiser?!” Both Elle and Tao squawk at the same time.

“At his house!” Charlie adds quickly.

Immediately, Tao huffs, “You just walked into his house for a fundraiser?”

“No,” Charlie replies.  “It was in the house I wasn’t told about when we were dating.”

“The one his mother mentioned when you were in Martha’s Vineyard?” Elle asks, aghast. 

Charlie nods.  “And then he ran into me alone, and I just… well, he used my own argument against me and I folded like a pretzel…”

“Christ, I don’t need that imagery,” Tao whines.

“It was just oral!” Charlie quickly clarifies. 

Elle snorts, but then sighs.  “Oh, Charlie…”

Tao’s eyes narrow.  “I’m going to kill this man.”

“Please don’t,” Charlie sighs. 

“But why?”

Charlie pauses for a second, taking a sip of his water, pursing his lips. “A part of me… well, it’s a small sliver, to be honest, but a part of me keeps holding out hope that he figures it all out with his parents, comes out, and then we can be together.”

Elle gives a sort of sad, pitying look that makes Charlie feel a bit foolish, all the while Tao cocks an eyebrow and stares down Charlie sternly.

“Charlie, I think there’s a better chance of Starbucks closing its Pike’s Place flagship than that happening.”  

“Tao!” Elle admonishes.  

Charlie sits there quietly for a moment, taking in Tao’s probabilistic analysis — he’s correct, and much of Charlie practically screams in agreement.  It’s just that small part of him that keeps holding onto Thatcher, digs its claws in despite the fact that the rest of him has committed to extracting it.  Until someone he trusts and respects comes along who can replace that glimmer of hope with a beacon of possibility, he’ll continue to irrationally protect that small glimmer. He knows it. Tao and Elle know it. They say nothing more on the subject as their food arrives, moving back to more topical bits of happenings.

Elle tells Charlie about their plan to go camping in the summer, and Charlie begs her to email him all the details about it.  He knows he can convince Darcy to allow him a mental health break for a weekend, he just needs to present the information to her properly.  Elle agrees.  

Tao, on the other hand, wants to get back to DC related things; he grills Charlie about different bills circulating the House, some of which he’s heard about on the news.  Charlie provides noncommittal responses — he knows of several of the bills from informal talk and proper meetings. They’re all unfinished.  He doesn’t feel up to explaining the appropriations process in detail tonight, mostly to spare Elle from falling asleep prematurely.  He does talk more about his work on the K12 subcommittee, leaving out his agitator role.

Elle is nonetheless impressed.  “I’m glad you’re fighting tooth and nail to advocate for those badly-needed standards.  People need to learn about history from more than one perspective.”

Tao nods along in agreement as Elle continues,  “Plus, lots of awful things happened in the past that don’t get acknowledged.  Some people need that spelled out for them to really understand it.”

Charlie hums.  “Yeah, well we’ll see.  I’m fighting for more than a simple ‘incentivization’ of these national standards.  Some hopeless members think that states will just jump at the money.”

They don’t end up hitting the bars that night after dinner, much to Elle’s disappointment.  She knows that she and Tao won’t be able to fly to DC for Charlie’s birthday later that month, so Charlie suggests a Zoom or FaceTime session alternative.  Charlie feigns exhaustion, but really he just can’t handle spilling his guts more that night.  

He appreciates his friends’ support, he really does, but tonight felt difficult, like trying to distill a detailed research project down into a thousand-word summary.  His personal life feels like an unhealed sore; one that Elle doesn’t intentionally pick at, yet nonetheless ends up re-opening.  

Marking his calendar for an early-evening FaceTime on the twenty-seventh, he gets ready for bed.  Tomorrow he’s volunteering at a local homeless shelter before joining a call with the SEIU and several other Congress members.  And those are just the events rounding out the first of his two weeks back in Seattle.  It’s recess, after all. 

Early-to-Mid April Recess: Austin, Texas “Neon Moon” by Brooks and Dunn (with Kacey Musgraves)

Nick feels lucky that a friend from UT works at the airport in Austin; when he left on Valentine’s Day, UT Ted helped get his car out of long-term parking before it cost him a fortune, and now that he’s set to arrive on an early flight in, the old hunk of metal will be waiting for him at short-term parking.  He makes a mental note to send Ted a gift of sorts, or at least a lump of cash. The truck’s presence in the parking lot is just about the only thing he can count on for his first return journey back to his and Laurel’s Brentwood home.  In fact, he quickly realizes that he cannot even count on it still being his home.  

Warily, he starts up the engine and begins the familiar journey. 

There are no cars outside the home, and its yard and landscaping are properly kept.  Dawn’s earliest rays are just peeking over the horizon, but Nick sees no lights on, not even the kitchen nightlight. Parking his truck in the driveway, he slowly approaches the door with his keys out, completely uncertain as to what he’ll find on the other side. 

 On the hall tree, he sees two of his light jackets and a favorite brown Stetson hat he swears he never left there.  No furniture appears moved, nor any of the dishes in the kitchen.  The entire house feels frozen in time.  

Quietly he treads up the stairs, wary of waking any possible occupants.  Upstairs, all doors to the rooms remain open, not an unusual situation.  Eerie quiet creeps out from the bedroom, causing Nicks’ heart to beat faster.  

The bed appears undisturbed, dressed with linens and a comforter he’s never seen before  Despite it being not yet seven AM, there’s no one in the main bedroom.  He ducks out and goes to the second bedroom, finding much the same: an undisturbed bed, with no one there.  He scans the remainder of the upstairs, finding no one.  Back in the main bedroom, he starts to piece together some things that escaped his notice — the bedside table, once replete with photos of him and Laurel, Laurel’s parents and family, and other Laurel mementos — appears suspiciously devoid of her entirely.  Running over to the closet, he yanks the door open.

Only his clothing hangs from their wooden, walnut-finish hangers.  Frantically, he begins opening drawers.  

Empty.  Empty.  Empty.  

His breathing quickens, and he searches his own drawers to find them untouched.  Running to their shared “office,” he finds all of his important life documents in a clear, plastic bag in the top drawer.  He breathes out in relief after he’s sifted through them and accounted for everything.  Again, nothing of Laurel’s remains there, besides shared tax and other marital documents, all of which appear meticulously sorted.  Without a doubt, they have been documented and copied by someone, at Laurel’s behest.  

The bathroom: similarly empty, only a few things of his left behind.  

Back downstairs, he sinks into a kitchen counter stool, brewing himself a single cup of coffee.  That’s when it truly sinks in.

Laurel is gone.  Completely.  Besides those dozen or so documents, nothing in the house at all indicates her existence.  

This sort of chilling realization threatens to sink Nick completely.  How could he have messed up this badly? Did he miss the signs as to how mismatched the two of them really were?  Were they ever there, or were they so well hidden that Nick never had a chance?  

He looks down at his coffee, taken black due to the fact that there’s nothing perishable in the house whatsoever.  Sipping the bitter liquid tentatively, he closes his eyes and sighs as his thoughts jump out of the past straight into the future.  What the hell happens next?

He’s got constituent meetings today, and will see Tara soon.  He’ll have to take her proffered list of attorneys a lot more seriously now.  Knocking back his coffee, he freshens himself up before heading into the main campaign office in the district.  Tara arrived last night to meet with the district director in preparation for today’s event.  They’re to do some organizational conference calls in preparation of the next election cycle, answer constituent messages (specific ones that need something above a form letter), and then head out as a team to a service event.  It’s not a jam-packed day, but given his discovery, it feels like a hurdle to overcome.

Tara appears chipper at the office, in contrast to his tired, frazzled appearance.  

“Come here.  Let me fix your hair,” she says motioning for him to sit down.  No one else has arrived for the morning.

Nick sits at a desk with her behind him, attempting to tame his hair.  “Perhaps I should just put on the Stetson I brought from home?”

Tara chuckles,  “If you insist.  I’m sure no one will think twice about it.”

“You mean no one will think I’m a country yokel?” he jokes. 

“Nah, not at all.”  Hastily she adds,  "You look like shit, by the way.”

“About that,” he begins, before Tara’s breath catches.

“God, what happened?  What’s she done?”

Nick just shakes his head, turning around to face Tara.  “She’s gone.  Moved out of the house completely.”

Tara just stares at him, nodding.  “Keep that under wraps, Nick.  Have you looked at the legal representation list?”

“Not yet.”

“Let’s talk about this tomorrow,” Tara says quietly as the first of the office staff members arrive. 

Nick just hums in reply, putting his Stetson on to go greet the staff members.  Between the Austin office manager’s efforts and Tara’s coordination from DC, they encounter no hiccups.  Nick orders lunch for everyone, much to everyone’s glee — salads, pulled pork, and a variety of sides.  He wants to spread cheer, despite being far from cheerful himself.  

Later, they help sort donations at a local food bank.  While Nick enjoys these events, he often can’t buck the feeling that people perceive them solely as photo ops.  Keeping busy with his hands prevents him from overthinking tomorrow’s conversation with Tara.  Choosing a divorce attorney — yet another morbid milestone in the slow death of their relationship — feels like an irreversible one.  One that he’s not emotionally ready to take but quickly realizes must be done.  

Much of the week continues the same way, with a few variations.  Fundraising, meetings with constituents, and various calls, including the one with Tara.  After hours of deliberations over qualifications and recommendations, they end up settling on the services of Lupin, Reyes, and Zahid, esquires.  Tara contacts them that same day and sets up a phone call for later that week before Nick heads off to Beaumont for the weekend.  

Sahar Zahid, a young and talented lawyer with a penchant for brokering deals and the tenacity to power through roadblocks, ends up as Nick’s representative.  The three of them have a lengthy conversation about documents Sahar will need, a full bodied narrative of the past two years in his and Laurel’s relationship, and a recounting of his relationship with David.  By the end he feels drained, and ready to see his mother.  

At this point, the drive to Beaumont feels like muscle memory.  His old radio blares out some country classics as he moves across east Texas, including Patsy Cline’s Crazy .  He remembers Sarah listening to this song, and a few other choice songs, after her divorce from his father.  Much like him and Laurel, his parents just didn’t seem to fit together.  Nick finds the parallels striking, except for the key details — he hasn’t any children.  David resulted from an unfortunate condom malfunction during a one-night stand in New Orleans, only kept after a summer reunion and a shot-gun wedding months later.  Nick’s existence had some forethought and planning — at least, he thought it did.  

None of that really matters when partners are like night and day.  

Sarah greets him with a trademark hug, some iced tea, and croissants.  She’s really been into baking lately, mostly to calm her nerves.  After Nick settles in and they solidify plans for dinner, she begins her earnest inquiry about him and Laurel. 

“Nicky, you never told me what you decided to do,” she asks, her eyes searching his.  They relay a degree of kindness, one that reassures him.

“She sort of made the decision for me, mama,” he replies quietly.  

Sarah cocks her head in confusion. 

“She’s moved out,” Nick clarifies. 

“Moved out?”

Nick nods.  “Completely gone.  Even the bedding’s new…which thank the Lord.  Makes my skin crawl thinking about D — him — being there.”

“You know who it is?” 

“I must have gotten confused —”

“Nicky, don’t lie to me.  I didn’t raise you like that,” Sarah Nelson scolds him. 

“No, mama, you didn’t.  I just… please don’t freak out.” He knows he must look stricken.  He hadn’t worked out how he planned to tell her that her eldest son pile-drove the biggest nail of all into their relationship.  

Sarah takes a deep breath in.  “Please, just tell me.  My mind’s spinning right now, Nicky.”

“It was David.”

Sarah looks at him blankly.  She’s clearly not even considering that her David could do such a thing.  “Not our David?”

“Yes, mama.  Your David,” Nick manages to get out before his throat feels scratchy.

“WHAT?!”

“Laurel was fooling around with David.  I all but caught them in the act,” Nick mutters bitterly. 

A solid minute passes in silence, with Sarah trying to focus on that new detail.  Eventually, the silence gives way to sniffles and streams of tears.  

“Oh, mama… don’t cry.  You’ve no reason to,” Nick whispers gently, giving her a hug.  

That only makes things a bit worse.  “Baby… I can’t help but feel like a failure.  Somehow, I failed him as a mother, I just know it.”

“Mama, no!”

She continues blearily, “People with normal families and good parents don’t do stuff like that —”

Nick cuts her off.  “Mama, don’t say that.  You and daddy have your differences, and no one is perfect.  That doesn’t mean you failed us.  David’s failed himself — pretending to be better than us, not even trying to understand how the divorce impacted him.  He ain’t got a lick of introspection in his body.”

Sarah snorts through her tears at that.  “No, not at all….

Another minute passes where they sit quietly, collecting themselves.  Sarah manages to stop the flow of tears, and Nick finds the strength to keep his own from even starting.  Eventually, Sarah finds the wherewithal to ask the latest question to haunt Nick’s mind.

“So, what’s next?”

Nick leans back, taking a sip of his iced tea.  “I’ve retained legal representation, and we’re exploring how to proceed.”  

Sarah just nods, taking a bite of her croissant.  They leave the rest of what that means unspoken.  

Ultimately, the weekend feels light — Nick takes the opportunity to help his mom with projects around the house that require a degree of strength, and ends up baking with her, paying attention earnestly as she shows him how to make scones.  He selects his favorite spring and summer flavor, strawberry-rhubarb, for their Saturday activity.  

Between the house work, Sarah’s motherly warmth, and this little baking venture, Nick feels much less depleted.  They spend most of the day reading and lazing around the house on Sunday.  Sarah packs the scones for him that night to take back to Austin, back to an empty and cold house.  A Monday luncheon means he needs to leave early in the morning to beat the traffic back.  

As he pulls into the driveway of his home in Austin, he notices a man in an official Law Enforcement uniform lingering by his doorway.  He gets out of the car cautiously, making sure that the man is aware of his presence. 

“Officer, can I help you?” he asks as calmly as possible.  Nick notices that the man carries a small folder.

“Are you Nicholas Nelson-Thibodeaux?” the man asks, his voice firm and resonant. 

Nick nods his head, swallowing roughly. “Yes sir, I am.” 

“Son, I’m here to serve you a petition for divorce, filed in the Travis County Courts,” the man says, again without a hint of reluctance or empathy in his voice.  

He hands over the folder of papers to Nick, who stands there in shock.  That shock won’t wear off for a full twenty-four hours, and by the time it does, it has transformed itself into a dull ache.  When he and Tara took up their legal representation, Nick assumed that nothing would come of it for weeks or even months.  Days later, it has already started.  

He and Tara spend his second week of recess squeezing calls with Sahar in between his pre-scheduled events. Nick does his best to carry on.

It all feels hollow, almost meaningless.  He shakes hands with a few older women at a constituent meeting while his insides crumble.  Meeting with the Austin Teachers Association should bring him joy, but instead it leaves him feeling worse as he notices aspects of some of the people there that remind him of Laurel.  

Even worse, on his way out of a meeting with the University of Texas College Democrats, he makes the mistake of choosing a shortcut through campus that leads him past the Littlefield Fountain.  

His chest constricts and his breath shortens upon seeing it.  Years ago, during his first term of graduate school, he met Laurel here.  She had been staying in Austin after graduating from SMU and was out with friends.  Nick had run across a guy harassing her — they had played together on the UT basketball team, and he leveraged that connection to intervene.  Weeks later, he ran into her at the fountain again, this time walking with another friend after brunch.  She recognized him and felt the need to thank him, and ask him out on a date.  

Nick barely makes it back to his truck before he falls apart, sobbing at the wheel.  

The fact that the ghosts of their past will tarnish many locations across Austin for some time never occurred to him.  He knows that, in theory, he’ll feel better with time, but a part of him panics that it might never get better.  

As soon as he recovers enough of his senses, he drives back to his house, packs up his things, and orders an Uber to the airport.  On the way there, he manages to move his flight up from tomorrow afternoon to this evening and calls Tara to tell her what happened.  Tara cancels his informal office breakfast appearance.

Being in Austin leaves him feeling smothered and anxious, and he desperately needs to breathe.

Late April: Washington, DC   “Guess We Lied” by FLETCHER

The first week back after recess brings a flurry of activity in meetings to address legislation and impending hearings.  Most members spent their recess talking with people in their district, collecting feedback on proposals or hearing about other problems that need to be addressed, and now everyone wants to make sure they can account for that feedback as best as possible.  Sometimes, that’s easier said than done. 

Thankfully the amount of work they’ve done already prevents any major squabbles, not to mention that they’re already exploring two different routes for legislation.  They have a list of witnesses for the major hearing at the end of April, where their main focus will be on Nick’s plan of incentivization.  That week back, Charlie spends an inordinate amount of time thinking up questions that can help him prove, via witness testimony, how ineffective that incentivization process will be.  He and Darcy brainstorm hypothetical Republican counter-questions, along with a laundry list of questions Charlie could ask to make it readily apparent that certain states would not take the money to adopt a more nationalized historical curriculum.  He even examines different funding avenues and Supreme Court decisions dictating “the power of the purse” that Congress holds.   

After all, what’s the point of these meetings if not to find out whether or not their legislative labors will bear fruit?  

He avoids Nick as much as humanly possible, mostly to prevent his own incorrigibility from winning out.  Summer Lee seems to be on his side regarding the incentivization aspect, given Republicans’ past attempts to outright erase or minimize historical treatment of African Americans and its lasting impact on American society.  He knows Nick overheard them discussing lines of questioning to reveal those facts, as he could see Nick’s eyes narrow at being so openly plotted against.  It took a lot for Charlie not to call him out for the look, and even more for Charlie not to badmouth his supported plan.  He keeps recalling Darcy’s mantra of not pissing off too many people, and the supposed advantages of such a policy.  

They’ve yet to have another moment like they did in March.  The vulnerability really got to Charlie… for all of fifteen minutes, before he decided to be annoyed by the man.  It’s stupid, honestly.  If anything, he should feel overjoyed to see such a masculine man expressing emotions.  It might be 2029, but toxic masculinity’s claws still remain lodged in American society.  There’s honestly nothing wrong with Nick as a person, despite the little regionalisms that niggle Charlie.  Charlie just can’t bring himself to admit that fact. 

Given the amount of activity that first week, Charlie elects to celebrate his birthday the weekend prior — he knows that next week will be even longer, possibly even filled with charged committee meetings and sizzling post-committee debriefs.  When he mentions his upcoming twenty-sixth birthday to Caity, it’s like a switch is flipped in her usually balanced political-Minnesota dual persona.  Despite not being a mother, her internal Midwestern Mom lights up at the prospect of planning a party. 

“Oooooh!  A birthday party!  I can make hotdish, strawberry pretzel salad, potato salad, macaroni salad, and —”

“No, absolutely not,” Charlie cuts her off with a groan.  “I don’t want to have anything here.”

“And why not?”  she asks, furrowing her brow. 

Charlie bites his lip a bit, tapping his foot on the floor under their dining table.  “I just don’t want people over here… like, I know no one would be judgy, but I can’t help but think that there would be some snobby people.”

“Well, we would avoid inviting the snobby people, Spring,” Caity counters.  

“And what if they find out? And show up? What then?” Charlie asks.

Caity sinks back into her seat, giving him a suspicious look.  “You just don’t want Tibby to show up, do you?” 

“I didn’t say that.”  

“Uh huh.  It’s the implication.  Home territory means he’s a guest, and you can’t be a prick to guests,” Caity shoots back. 

“Shut up.  I just don’t want to organize and put you out — I can see the wheels turning, and you’ve already listed off four Midwestern dishes.  I’m afraid to see what else you’d come up with,” Charlie insists.

Caity huffs. “Well, fine then.  But I am going to plan something at the Froggy Bottom and just tell whomever.”

“Fine!”

“I mean, it’s a public place. Anyone can show up!”

“Okay!  You’re right!  I don’t want him to be here,” Charlie snaps. 

Folding her arms sternly, exactly like a Midwestern Mom would do, she frowns.  “You really need to change your attitude, Spring.  Don’t try to hide from me — I’ve got a bullshit detector.”

“I hate you,” Charlie groans. 

“No you don’t,” she quips back, going to get them some beer.

Charlie sighs.  “Fine, I don’t.  Usually just my friend Elle and my sister call me on my shit.”

Snapping open a crowler of a heady local stout, Caity pours them both a pint.  The head froths liberally at first, the rich aromas of chocolate and arabica filling the air.  “Apparently it takes a village to call you on your shit.”

He couldn’t possibly disagree with that, and just laps off the head of foam before taking a sip of beer.

On Saturday, Charlie finds himself outside of the Froggy Bottom Pub.  He was glad that Caity readily chose it, despite its normally collegiate vibes.  While Charlie invited a few of the freshmen Democrats days before, apparently Caity felt more lenient and laissez-faire about her invitations.  Charlie could see a plethora of Democratic caucus members inside the pub.  Much to his dismay, that group includes none other than Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux. 

A rowdy cheer of “Happy Birthday” greets Charlie immediately upon entering.  He does his best to feign a combination of surprise and happiness at seeing his colleagues, many of whom he barely knows, drinking in his honor.  Caity steps forward with his first drink of the night — the same cocktail he got back in December — with a running list of a handful of members pledging the next several rounds, including Summer Lee.  

Receiving his drink from the bartender, he circulates the room, artfully avoiding Nick’s gaze.  On several occasions, Charlie could swear he sees the man staring him down from across the room.  He can’t quite figure it out; it’s a mixture of wary glances and ones that look oddly hypnotic in a sense that Charlie cannot even begin to wonder what’s going on behind those amber eyes.  Why come to someone’s party if you dislike them so much?  

Eventually, he pulls Caity aside.  “Why is he here?”

She shrugs.  “I told someone on the education committee, and they must have mentioned it.”

“But —”

“No, Charles.  You said you didn’t want him ‘here’ as in our place,” she cuts him off. 

Charlie frowns and pouts.  “Technicalities.”  

Caity simply rolls her eyes and takes a swig of her beer.  “Listen.  The fact alone that he even came here must mean that he doesn’t dislike you, despite the fact that you’ve been a rather combative little shit.”

“Hey!”

“I only speak the truth.”

Charlie sighs.  “I’ve been trying to be… nicer.”

“Well, try harder! It’s not coming across!” Caity shoots back.  “Now go be nice at your party and talk to people.”

After his first drink, he gets another of the same from Summer.  Outside of work, she’s quite gregarious, pulling Charlie into conversation about life and things beyond politics.  It truly is a nice reprieve from “shop talk” and the like, which is easy to fall back on when you don’t know someone well.  Between the alcohol and her welcoming demeanor, Charlie can’t help but talk about how he’s been finding his first term.  

“It’s been overwhelming, and somewhat lonely,” he admits sheepishly. 

She nods.  “It can be really isolating for people without significant others or families.  I remember someone telling me that a few years ago.”

“Well, I can verify that to be the case,” Charlie replies, sighing.  

Caity swirls into the conversation at that moment, rather tipsy.  “You don’t seem to have trouble picking up men though, Spring.”

“Caity!”

Summer cocks her eyebrow, smirking.  “Oh… do tell!”

“He’s got a gentleman friend,” Caity quips, slurring her words slightly.

Charlie groans, and not only because of this drunken secret-spilling antics, but also because Nick chose that time to wander by.  Based on his reaction to hearing the term “gentleman friend,” he’s now somehow pulled into the conversation.  Charlie would rather die than tell Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux about his romantic misadventures, but he seems to have little choice, as Nick carries another round of drinks for them all, courtesy of Speaker Ocasio-Cortez.  Summer and Caity both grab them exuberantly, and Charlie reaches for his own hesitantly.  Nick’s eyes appear lowered, avoiding Charlie’s gaze.  

“Caity, he’s not a gentleman friend,” Charlie cries, shaking his head. 

She tuts.  “You say that, yet you have a history with him, and you’ve gone home with him.  C’mon, Spring, fess up.”  

Summer’s eyebrows rise as she sips her cocktail.  “Sounds quite complicated.”

“An understatement,” Charlie admits.  “He’s not really… out?  Like, he is, but not to his parents and family.”

Nick’s back straightens up a bit, but he says nothing.  Charlie tracks him in his peripheral vision.  

“Is that why things are complicated?” Summer asks.

Charlie nods.  “He’s… difficult.  Lovely sometimes, ever-so-willing to coax me into things, yet noncommittal about the future and quite evasive.”

Caity nods along, remembering these details from the few times they’ve discussed Thatcher;  Summer joins her in recognition — she’s probably encountered someone like that before, too.  

“In other words, he’s so crooked you can’t tell from his tracks if he’s coming or going,” Nick offers.

“Huh?”

“He’s a liar,” Nick translates.

“Well, technically yes…” Charlie says.

Nick shakes his head.  “No ‘technically’, Charlie.  He’s either lied to you, or he hasn’t lied to you.  Which is it?”

“The former,” Charlie replies, trying to keep his cool.  “All in an attempt to keep cover from his parents and not come out to them.” 

“Then he’s a liar and a coward,” Nick counters, coolly.

Charlie takes a swig of his drink.  He’s about to enter queer education mode, and Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux is about to learn something and shut up.  “First of all, Nick… you can’t call someone a coward for not coming out.  It’s more complicated than that.”

“Oh?  Please explain this to me, then.”

Charlie cannot detect a hint of insincerity, so he tries to tone down his own annoyance.  “It might not be safe for them to do so, for any number of reasons,” Charlie says, before clarifying, “and not just physical safety.  Mental.  Emotional.  Livelihood.  Those all count.”

Nick stands there in thought for a second, before taking a sip of his own drink.  “Guess I never thought about it that much.  Thank you.”

“Welcome,” Charlie murmurs. 

“He’s still an asshole for lying to you, though,” Nick adds.  “You deserve better than that.” 

This insistence ratchets up Charlie’s annoyance by several levels.  “I don’t think you need to be too worried about that.”

Caity, who watched the prior exchange in a transfixed state, finally speaks up.  “Yeah, Tibby… I’d not poke much more, if I were you. It’s a bit of a sore subject.” 

“Really?  I didn’t realize,” Nick sarcastically quips.  “I mean, I understand sore, messy  relationships very well.  Go ahead — try me.”

“No,” Charlie hisses.  “No, thank you.”

Ignoring him completely, Nick leans forward more and describes his visualization of Thatcher.  “He’s not out to his parents, so… let me guess. He told you several things about them or his life and then you found out the complete opposite — and you can’t for the life of you figure out which is true and which isn’t.  Or perhaps he’s selfish in bed and you’re often left wondering why he’s even interested in you.  Is it just your body and looks, or does he have some longer-term manipulation in mind?”

Charlie simultaneously reels and fumes internally.  How has Nick figured out Thatcher so quickly and easily, without even meeting the man?  It’s an unsettling feeling, knowing that the situation’s so readable, especially by a man who hadn’t even thought closely about the complications of coming out until a few minutes ago.  He loses track as Nick drabbles on about assholes being assholes regardless of gender, and them sharing common characteristics.  At that point, Charlie starts to see that some of those traits seem to reference himself just a bit.  Either Nick’s really unsubtle, or Charlie’s now-drunk state promotes a lot more self-reflection than he normally finds time to engage in.

“Look, Nick,” Charlie begins, taking another sip of his cocktail.  “Thank you, but it’s really none of your fucking business.”  

Nick just gawps at him, and Summer, who hasn’t said a word for minutes now, makes a bit of a face that screams “oh, this just got awkward.”   

Caity on the other hand, is looking over by the door.  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

They all look at her in confusion and simultaneously say “What?”

“He’s here, Spring.  Literally just walked in… god, it’s like you’ve got a Thatcher GPS tracking device on you.”

“Oh, which one is he?” Summer asks.  “The blonde, or the brunette?”

“Brunette, with a beard,” Caity replies. “Looks like sex on a stick.”  

Summer nods her head and releases a quiet “ahhh.”  

“Shoosh, please.  I don’t want him to notice me,” Charlie squeaks.  

Caity shoots him a sideways glance.  “Too late for that, Charlie. He’s coming right this way.” 

Charlie feels a presence behind him, and a gentle tap on the shoulder.  He slowly turns around to face Thatcher, who’s smiling at him awkwardly.  Charlie can see the man’s eyes glimmer in the low lighting;  he can feel the air crackle around him from the gentle touch, the smell, and the look he’s getting from Thatcher, who softly whispers in his ear, “Happy birthday, Charlie.”

Charlie backs away slightly.  “Oh… thank you.  Funny seeing you here.  Shouldn’t you be somewhere in Kalorama?”

Thatcher huffs.  “It’s a public place, Charlie.  I can be anywhere I want, really.”  

Nearby, Charlie senses Nick shuffling uncomfortably.   There's tension in the air, a sickening amount.  

“Right,” Charlie replies, shaking his head.  “Well, enjoy the bar and have a good night.”  

Thatcher smirks at him before stalking off to order his own drink.  Charlie deflates slightly, blowing a gust of air out of his mouth.  “Christ…”

“Seriously.  We all need a drink after that,” Caity adds.  

“I think you’ve got another round coming your way.  Mr. Frost is bringing another tray from the bar,” Summer adds.  

Charlie wastes no time accepting the drink.  Soon after, their little group disassembles and Charlie goes to make small talk with other members and staffers celebrating.  Now, the entire birthday party feels a bit like a safari, except he’s an inebriated gazelle, and there are two different lions hunting him, for very different reasons.  One seems to want to make his life difficult, probably in payback for his own enmity, and the other keeps sending signals that suggest he would like to take Charlie home and ravage him.  It feels rather suffocating to be unable to escape glances from either party, no matter where he finds himself in the bar.   That feeling only diminishes slightly by the time he’s on his sixth drink of the night.

By the seventh drink, he doesn’t pull away when Thatcher corners him after Charlie narrowly escapes a lengthy talk with Jared Golden about rural Maine.  In fact, he puts his hands on Thatcher’s biceps and squeezes firmly, waggling his eyebrows. 

“You’ve been giving me a look all night… let me guess.” Charlie sways tipsily in place. 

Thatcher leans in and whispers in his ear, “Does your guess involve my cock in your ass?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, let’s get out of here then,” he replies, taking Charlie’s hand in his own.  

Before they get to the door, they’re stopped by Nick, who looks red-faced and angry.  

“Charlie!”

“Oh, I’m heading out for the night, Nick. I’ll see you next week,” Charlie says, smiling.  

“Don’t!”

Thatcher turns to him.  “Hey, fuck off, man.  Go find someone yourself.”

Nick’s fists ball up.  “You’ve got some nerve, you manipulative asshole.”  

Charlie gapes at that. His chest feels like the wind’s been knocked out of it. 

“Excuse me?” Thatcher splutters.

“You heard me.  I know your type.  Wilder than an acre of snakes, preying on peoples’ loneliness for some off-and-on fun.  Charlie deserves better than that,” Nick growls.  His eastern Texas accent seems to ooze out when he’s lost his composure.

“Nick, just drop it!” Charlie yells, unwilling to witness an escalation of this verbal exchange.

Immediately, Nick’s face grows sullen and his jaw tightens.  He says nothing else, but shakes his head and then turns and stomps off to the bar.   Charlie and Thatcher take off into the night, picked up by an Uber that takes them back to Kalorama.  Thatcher smolders and pouts the whole way, which Charlie finds amusing.  Apparently Nick’s accusations really whipped something up in him, because as soon as he and Charlie get inside the house, Thatcher picks up Charlie and carries him fireman style up the stairs.  He’s never done that before.

Something about that next-level man-handling gets Charlie really going, and they quickly shed their clothing.  Almost like he wants to prove that he’s thoughtful and attentive, Thatcher lavishes attention on Charlie’s body, from head to toe.  It’s a degree of worshipfulness he’s never seen before, yet it feels forced.  Thatcher moans as Charlie sucks him off, cording his fingers through Charlie’s hair.  Usually, Thatcher doesn’t do missionary, but he makes an exception tonight, kissing Charlie as he fucks him.  It feels good, great even, but the sizzle — he’s lost it completely now.  Charlie can sense that this is a show, meant to convince him that what he heard Nick say isn’t actually true.

Not even Thatcher picking him up and fucking him with his back against the wall does it for him.  In fact, by the time his face smashes into a pillow for doggy style, his mind starts wandering completely.  He analyzes what Nick said, endlessly wonders why the man got so defensive, and just feels… utterly perplexed.  Even as he hears Thatcher moaning about how he’s about to come, he picks apart Nick’s motivation for white-knighting at the bar, despite Charlie’s months-long campaign against him.  By the time Thatcher paints his back and glazes his hole with pools of come he still is yet to fully wrap his head around it. 

Only when Thatcher mutters, “You come?” does he snap out of it.

“Oh… yeah,” Charlie replies. 

He most certainly hasn’t, and honestly, he most certainly won’t.  

In fact, he’s certain that this is the last time he finds himself in such a situation with Thatcher.  The magic has finally worn off, replaced by the familiar, and the familiar is just a man who really doesn’t care for him, one he has little chance of a future with.  Despite several reminders from Elle, apparently all it takes is one insistent Texan to get him to realize that fact.  

He’ll brood about that fact another day.

End of April - “Forever” by CHVRCHES

Nick spends the entire weekend after Charlie’s birthday party fuming, and he can’t quite figure out why he cares so much.  Whenever Nick thinks of Charlie’s insistence that he fucks off out of his business, it hurts a little bit.  Back in March, Charlie offered him a chance for comfort, and though Nick refused it, he didn’t act like an asshole about it.  

Yet that’s only half the battle.  The other half… well, that’s a different story altogether.

The other half involves a confusing, complex morass of feelings about Charlie Spring.   Annoyance.  Frustration.  An odd desire to protect him.  A sense of magnetism. He wants to be friends with the man, but also wants to scream at him sometimes.  

Nick thinks back to the Rayburn Gym showers, still unable to make sense of what happened there.  Those feelings haven’t stopped there, either.  Sometimes he dreams about encountering Charlie working late in the night at the office.  From there, the fantasy spirals, involving a desk, roaming hands, and battles for lingual dominance — not the kind they regularly partake in during subcommittee meetings.

What?  He’s confused as a goat on AstroTurf.  

Nick still chalks most of this up to being pent-up, in the midst of a divorce, and the overwhelmingly stressful environment of politics.  

Even this cycles back into his thoughts about Charlie.  That man Charlie left with, Thatcher — a prick’s name, for sure — sounds like an awful person through and through.  Comparatively, on a similar level as David and Laurel.  Deceptive, duplicitous, deceitful — Nick really can’t settle on which to choose — they hurt those around them, heedless of the harm they leave in their wake as long as it advances their own wants and needs.  Laurel couldn’t bend Nick to her will, and thus chose another; David always longed for a sense of superiority over Nick and no doubt gleefully went along with it.  Thatcher… well, Thatcher shouldn’t be squandering a chance to be with someone as intelligent and passionate as Charlie, even if he’s a bit of an ass about it.  

He can’t quite figure out why a smart man like Charlie would act so impulsively and idiotically, and unfortunately that’s the thought Nick can’t buck as he walks into their informal working group the day before the big hearing.  Charlie barely makes eye contact with him, and that’s probably for the best.  Nick knows that he wears a stony, tense feeling on his face.  He does his best not to stare at Charlie, or to open his mouth and let something angry slip out.  

Except for one little thing.

One of the older subcommittee members practically shouts down the other end of the table for him as they’re reading over the bill that Nick and several others helped craft.  

“Have you checked the language on section 5c?  There’s a bit of repetition and redundancy here, like someone fell asleep while writing it.”

Nick, wearing that same stony look, looks up at Charlie instead of looking at the other subcommittee member.  “I wouldn’t be surprised, honestly.  People tend to repeat mistakes multiple times, and I’m sure those late nights might lead to some dumb choices.”

“Dumb word choices, maybe,” the other member replies.  

Charlie glares at him, clearly incandescent with rage.  Nick flashes him a charming smile, before going back to examining the bill once again.  He can’t remember who worked on that section, but that’s irrelevant right now — they’ll edit it as they go.  God, though, it felt good to get that little barb out of the way. 

They continue at a clip, until an intern walks into the room to deliver coffee.  Everyone puts away the bills for a quick coffee break, idly chatting about this or that.  Charlie and another member talk about some drama among the interns that has filtered up to them.  Nick overhears something about someone getting certain assignments more than the others, and then another thing about one intern sleeping with another, while taking a third on a date. 

Charlie just shrugs, but turns to look at Nick.  His steely eyes look cold, cutting, calculating.  “Most of this would be fine if people just minded their own damn business.”

The other member tuts.  “But where’s the fun in that?  Some of us old goats need to live vicariously through the youth.” 

Nick scoffs, but not at that.  He can feel his face reddening and his jaw tightening.  Just as he’s about to reply to Charlie, Summer Lee cuts in.  “I think we’ve got to get back to work.  Nick, you okay?” 

“Fine,” Nick replies through a clamped jaw, staring at Charlie intensely.  

He can feel himself burning, channeling that heat in Charlie’s direction while icy cold daggers shoot back at him.  Some of the other members occasionally glance warily at the two of them, but no one speaks at all. In fact, the remainder of the session ends in complete silence, each member marking up the bills and making notes separately.  They’ll hand them off to a smaller team of two members who will work together to compile the fixes and consult with legal scholars over unanswered questions regarding language and constitutionality.  

As soon as Summer proposes they break for the day, Charlie hops up and dashes for the door.  Nick does the same, hoping to catch him outside, but to no avail — he’s already run off somewhere.  

Nick slumps against the wall, chest rising and falling quickly.  He can’t handle this constant battle between the two of them, but he doesn’t know how to make amends with Charlie.  Hell, he barely knows if that’s even possible; things have spiraled so much since that “no” vote back in January.  Every time he thinks they might be better, Nick only manages to step in it and worsen them.  He hates that feeling. 

The next day marks an important committee meeting, a milestone in the progress of their legislative agenda.  This time, the committee has decided to put forward the K12 subcommittee’s working bill.   Expert witnesses of all kinds will testify on the issues the legislation aims to address and the possible efficacy of the legislation itself.  They either get decent feedback and push forward, or they’ll go back to the drawing board if enough witnesses poke holes in it.  Because that’s how the process should work, instead of it just being one sided praise.  Nick was prepared that some might not like the legislation, knowing that people within his own party weren’t the biggest fans of it.  

He wasn’t prepared enough.

Dr. Carl Stephenson works for the National Education and Curricular Policy Center, a Boston-based education think tank.  Most on the Hill call it the neck-peck.  He’s worked in education for forty years, as a classroom teacher, a principal, a superintendent, and for the past decade, developing curricula, analyzing educational trends, and shaping educational policy.  In other words, he knows a lot about education and his testimony should not be taken lightly. 

“Dr. Stephenson, based on your personal experience regarding how states tend to change curricula over the years, would they respond to incentives outlined in this bill?”  Nick asks.

“As you may know, we have a long history of contentious curricular battles in this country.  Some have used the levers of power to obfuscate historical facts for political reasons, whereas others have changed curricula to mirror new instructional techniques,” the witness replies slowly.

“And so, would they respond to incentives for an adoption of a national curriculum, like they did for certain markers with ESSA?” Nick prods him further. 

The doctor looks at him frankly. “That will depend on the curricula in question, sir.  Unless you can provide a certain example on the spot, I can’t accurately gauge it for a response.”

Nick yields his time, which is very little at this point; he knows that another member has questions pertaining to more specifics about historical curriculum, phrased much better than he ever could.  A few more members use their time, asking a multitude of questions, before it gets to Charlie’s time to question the witness.  Nick’s breath hitches — he doesn’t know what Charlie plans to ask. He’s kept his questions secret from most people. 

“Dr. Stephenson, on average, how much time do states put into developing their own standards and the scope and sequence of those standards?” Charlie inquires.

Dr. Stephenson thinks for a moment.  “Well, it depends.  Sometimes, those updates take several months at a time, other times they’re ongoing for years before final approval and roll-out.  Often without a dedicated scope and sequence.”  

“Duly noted, sir.  And would you say that states make very clear choices in excluding certain things during that process?  Say, for example, the state of Texas downplaying the devastating effects and impacts of slavery?”

Nick winces at that, wondering if it’s happenstance or yet another referential dig at him by Charlie Spring.  He could have referenced any other state doing the same thing, as there are numerous to choose from.  In a sense, though, it is particularly poignant given the size of the state — Republicans running it have utterly torn up its education standards.  Students get a rose-colored version of history at school, and then go home and see the opposite on the Internet.  When he thinks about what his mother told him at Christmas, it’s no wonder that many of them find school pointless.  How can you have faith in an institution when adults in power try to force it to outright lie to you?

“Yes, states often make incredibly controversial choices regarding curricula.  As is their right.  The Department of Education cannot supervise or direct curriculum, after all,” Dr. Stephenson replies. 

“But they can incentivize its adoption?” 

“Yes, as I’ve said.”

“What about the opposite?  Have you seen the diminishing or withholding of funding to states that choose to use such flagrantly inaccurate curricula and standards?”  Charlie continues. His time is dwindling.  A few people in the crowd watching the testimony whisper furtively at Charlie’s question.

“Well, no… I don’t think I’ve seen quite that approach?  I suppose there’s been penalties for underachieving schools and the like in the past, consequences… but as far as I know, diminished funding has never been punitively used against states for education-related policy,” the witness replies uncomfortably, before adding quickly, “if that’s even Constitutional.”

“I’m familiar with South Dakota v. Dole , sir.  Many would agree that it’s not coercion when funding supplements state-run systems that could replace it.  States simply choose not to replace that funding.  It certainly promotes the general welfare, to have a well-educated populace, another aspect of the case.”

Dr. Stephenson simply blinks at him, before Charlie continues.

“On that note, if we opted for what you deem to be a constitutionally safer option of just incentivization, particularly on history curricula with accurate portrayals of slavery and racism, how would you see that rolling out?”

Dr. Stephenson, who seems quite taken aback by Charlie’s forthright nature, replies shakily, “It would face resistance in many states.”

A lump appears in Nick’s throat as the witness basically proves Charlie’s point about Nick’s supported legislation.  Obstacles is the political way of saying “it won’t work.”  Charlie clearly has done a great degree of research to prepare for this meeting, and combined with his naturally cutting tone, his questions carry a degree of weight that go beyond his youth and lack of experience.

“Thank you for your time, sir,” Charlie replies.  “I see my time is up, I yield back.”

After Charlie, questioning swings back to Republicans — with Ashleighlynne Morrison up next.  He takes notes about her questioning, already picking up on her opposition.  States’ rights, and the like — states’ rights to try to keep their populations ignorant of US history, minorities, and whomever else they wish to pretend doesn’t exist.  Somewhere into a back-and-forth between her and Dr. Stephenson, his attention comes back full-swing. 

“Dr. Stephenson, if you were a state official that fundamentally believed the incentivized curriculum was factually incorrect, would you take the incentive money?”

“No, Mrs. Morrison, I would not,” he replies warily.  That could mean almost anything, really. 

“Thank you, sir. I yield back my time,” she says, a triumphant tone to her voice.

The meeting continues for another hour nearly, until all members have exhausted their time and questions.  Nick feels like he’s taken quite the beating; between Republicans several in his own conference, and witness testimony, the future of his bill looks quite dire.  He gathers his papers as the committee adjourns, heading up to the third floor, scowling dejectedly.  He does his best to avoid the press and anyone else he can.  

Naturally, Charlie Spring steps into the members-only elevator with him, just before the doors close, a smirk across his face.

“Good work, Nelson,” he says snarkily.  “Really hit that one home.”

Nick feels lost for words.  He wants to tell Charlie to go to hell, yet wants to pull him into a room and kiss the smirk right off his face.  He doesn’t get why he wants to do the second thing, and he finds himself paralyzed, unable to react at all.  Charlie doesn’t linger around after that comment, though, walking back toward his office with a confident spring in his step.  Nick sulks off to his own.  

At some point, he needs to figure out what the hell is happening in his head. He’s reached a pressure point on the verge of exploding.  Doing that will be like putting socks on a rooster.

Chapter Text

Early May - “Sometimes I See Stars” by Tegan and Sara

Only the Senate holds session the first week of May. Nick spends the first three days in Austin doing some constituent work, avoiding his house as much as possible, and doing his best to stay afloat.  

Much like his relationship, it appears that his old truck is slowly dying, too.  In fact, on the third day, Tara picks him up from the auto shop that he paid to tow the poor thing.  He takes one last longing look at the truck that’s served him well for a decade now. At some point he will need to replace it.  He shouldn't be getting emotional over a truck, but more than anything it's the metaphorical aspect of it all.  Everything in his life seems to be reaching an end point, a rut, and it feels terrible.  Consuming.

He returns to Washington feeling depleted and thankful that no additional events kept him in Austin for the rest of the recess.  On Thursday, he knocks on Claude and Bill’s door, mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of their place, but also just for a chat and to extend an invitation.

Claude answers in nothing but a robe.  “Oh, Nick.  What a surprise.  Figured you’d be in Austin for recess.”

“I was,” Nick replies, keeping his eyes glued to Claude’s face.  “Came back to DC early.”

Claude laughs.  “I would ask you to come in, but now’s not really the time…”

At this point, Nick’s cheeks must be a shade of vermilion, which makes Claude giggle; he’s never seen the usually-gruff man laugh like that. 

“That’s okay!  I just wanted to invite you both over tomorrow for dinner.  I’m making my mama’s chili and my daddy’s favorite cornbread recipe to go with it.”

He pauses to gauge Claude’s reaction, before adding, “I understand it’s such short notice.  You’re both probably super busy and the like —”

“No, we’ll be there.  We’ll bring a dessert.  Any suggestions?” Claude asks.  He’s smiling, also something Nick usually doesn't see him do much of. 

Nick shrugs.  “Whatever you like.  Based on the Swiss roll… I’m sure I’ll like it.” 

All Nick can say over the next twenty-four hours is, “God Bless Crock Pots,” because that is the only thing saving him right now.  He didn’t realize how much effort making cornbread from scratch would be, especially when he needs to review legislation and do a few other things before next week.  Doctoring up a box-mix sounds like a sensible alternative now, yet he presses on with his father’s recipe.  Somehow he manages to pull it together, and just in time for Claude and Bill to arrive.  They’re dressed in retro polos and jeans, the most casual he’s ever seen them.  

“I hope you like turkey chili,” Nick begins, before realizing that he didn’t even ask either of them about dietary restrictions.  “Oh my god, I didn’t think about whether or not you two could even —”

“Nick, it’s okay.  While we’re both considering vegetarianism in our older years, we’ve not quite made the jump yet,” Bill teases.

Nick lets out a sigh of relief.  “There’s nothing in traditional Texan cooking for vegetarians and vegans.”

“Hardly,” Claude jokes.  “Practically a sin there.”

“Practically,” Nick replies, snickering.  “Come in, y’all.  I’ll take this… oh my God, did you make pecan pie?”

Both men grin effusively.  “We did our research,” Bill replies. 

Indeed they did.  In fact, the chili turned out quite well, as did the cornbread.  And the pie… the pie was to die for.  Not like Sarah Nelson’s, of course, but nonetheless delicious beyond belief.  Over dinner, Nick fills the two in about the divorce, and how it has been handled – surprisingly smoothly, and so far he has avoided direct contact with Laurel.  They both sigh in relief at that, and Claude expresses relief that no media sources picked it up quite yet.  As far as Nick’s aware, no press even reported on it.  They all consider that a best-case scenario.

As they clean up, Claude heads next door to retrieve a bottle of wine — nothing serious, he claims, but a trial of a Watermelon fruit wine he picked up from Trader Joe’s.  It tastes well enough and reminds him of the sweet strawberry margarita he had months ago for happy hour.  Claude pesters him for information about happenings in Congress, and Nick launches into a full recap of the last few months including his disastrous committee meeting.  Bill listens tentatively as Claude and Nick go back and forth on the witnesses, and particularly Dr. Stephenson’s testimony.  Which naturally leads to talking about Charlie Spring. 

“Oh… I saw his questions.  Quite pointed,” Claude remarks.  “They put it on MSNBC, you know?”

Nick flinches.  “Pointed?  He’s… brash.  So brash.”  He can feel his cheeks getting warm and rosy, but certainly not from the wine.  Right now he’s thinking about Charlie’s gruffness, his confident attitude.

“Uh oh,” Bill says in a sing-song voice. 

“What?”

“Do we have… feelings? Strong feelings… about Mr. Spring?” Bill continues in his sing-song voice. 

Nick screws up his face, doing his best not to think about the physical features of Charlie.  “He’s as friendly as a bramble bush.”

“And?”

“Smart as a whip,” Nick continues, now counting dramatically on his hands. 

“Ah?”

“Stubborn as a bull,” Nick adds, thinking about the number of times Charlie’s held his ground and pushed back against him. 

“I see.”

“And…” Nick pauses for a second.  

Does he reveal to Claude and Bill the other side of his feelings, those he doesn’t quite understand?  They might be able to help him process that, or at least give them their take on things.  Still, it's incredibly vulnerable, so much so that it remains quite the leap of faith to admit such things to friendly acquaintances.  While they haven’t known each other for very long, he trusts them — between their support when he first discovered Laurel’s affair, their little check-ins when they see each other around the neighborhood, and their general demeanor. 

“Hm?”

“And hot as hell,” Nick finishes bluntly.  

Both Bill and Claude exchange glances, eyes and mouth wide in shock.  They’re speechless, and slightly confused.  They take a few moments to collect themselves.

Claude breaches the silence first.  “Are you sure that you’re straight?”

“What?”

“Well, usually straight men don’t call men ‘hot as hell,’ at least not in my experience,” Claude continues. 

Finally Bill comes to.  “Yeah, I mean they can admire their physicality I suppose, and admit that they have handsome qualities…”

“Uh…”

“Have you considered that you’re not straight?” Bill asks again, trying to pry it out of Nick. 

Nick shakes his head quickly. “That’s not… uh… no.  No, I haven’t.”

“Is this the first time you’ve felt so strongly about another man?” Claude queries.

“Strongly?”

Bill giggles.  “Yes, Nick.  Strongly.  Your face the entire time.  God, you look half-vacant, like you’re actively fantasizing about him!”  

“Oh my god,” Nick whispers.

“So is it the first time?” Claude repeats his question.

Nick swallows roughly. “Uh… I’m not really sure about that.”

Claude looks at him in confusion, all the while Bill nods and asks, “This is a Texas thing, isn’t it?”

“Huh?” Nick asks.

“Rampant societal homophobia leading to internalized denial of any homosexual attraction,”  Bill clarifies, which causes Claude to react with an understanding look.

Nick scratches the back of his neck nervously.  Was it?  Beaumont definitely felt like one of the least possible places a queer person might find themselves in Texas, besides somewhere super rural.  He lived in Austin for a number of years though — why didn’t he start picking up on things then, if that’s the case? 

“Yeah… I reckon.  I just don’t get why it's happening now?” 

Bill and Claude both shrug before entering a state of deep thought.  Bill seems to be working through a few ideas, while Claude scrunches his face in uncertainty.  

Finally Bill breaks the silence and begins postulating his own take on the situation.  “I mean, you’ve been with Laurel and married for five years now, and you’re such a respectable man, I doubt you even thought twice about being attracted to another man — or woman — like that.”

“True,” Nick replies.

Bill continues, “And before that, you were in school and on the basketball team.  Oftentimes, sports environments lead to further repression of those ideas.”

Nick murmurs, “Certainly heard my fair share of homophobic comments then…”

“Which leads us straight back to high school and Beaumont, Texas,” Bill concludes. 

Nick pauses for a second.  “So… what you’re saying is that maybe I subconsciously avoided processing anything like this before because of those more homophobic or dangerous environments, and then it really didn’t seem to matter much to me in my married state, and thus I just… let myself forget about it?”

“Pretty much,” Bill says. 

“Which means… I’m only thinking about it now due to the dissolution of my marriage,” Nick adds, blinking slowly as he processes this hypothesis.

“And due to the fact that you’ve clearly got the hots for Charlie Spring,” Claude adds, trying not to snicker. 

Nick sits back in his chair, feeling rather overwhelmed.  Both Bill and Claude can clearly sense this, looking at one another knowingly.  Claude motions for Bill to take over, knowing how much better Bill might be able to handle this sensitive situation.  

“Listen, Nick.  You don’t have to have this all figured out.  I mean, you don’t even have to agree with us on our own take on this.  Really, you need to think about it, reflect on what you’ve experienced in the past, what you’re feeling now, and ask yourself all sorts of questions.  We might have the completely wrong idea.  After all, we’re not you.  There’s all sorts of sexualities beyond just gay or straight, but we as gay men cannot really speak to them authentically.” 

Nick nods.  “Thanks… I guess I really needed this reality check, of sorts.”

“There’s no timeline,” Claude adds to his husband’s statement.  “But if you really want to know, and you’re not afraid to figure things out…”

Bill and Claude only stay for fifteen minutes after that, which Nick appreciates.  He needs some space and privacy to think about everything.  They assure him that all will be well, that he can always come talk to them about things if he needs it.  Their support feels like a line of oxygen, something fresh amidst the rotting parts of his life.  

On a whim, he looks through some of the personal effects he brought from Austin with him.  For some reason, all four of his high school yearbooks – thin and hardcover – are in DC with him.  Perhaps these hold some sort of key to helping him figure himself out?  Flipping through his freshman yearbook, the senior section separated by sports and activities, Nick sees him again.  

Nate Harrison.  

He was a year younger than David and the quarterback of the Varsity football team.  Nick’s throat runs dry, and he feels himself flush thinking about how he spent afternoons waiting for his friends on the team to finish practice.  Watching Nate Harrison on the field, how he moved, how he would lift his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face.  Seeing his short, curly brown hair whipping in the breeze as his face glistened with sweat.  Nick also remembers his Junior year of high school, seeing Nate start for Texas A&M’s football team.  The tug in his chest and the quickening of his pulse at that makes him snap the yearbook shut firmly.  

That’s enough introspection for the evening.

He doesn’t get a chance to turn it off completely, though.  As the House comes back in session, he needs to attend more subcommittee meeting business.  In between meetings and calls, his mind swirls endlessly with thoughts of Nate and other guys he felt similarly about.  Each time he perceived his fawning as some sort of masculine adoration from afar, but now he’s starting to realize there were layers to that.  Wishes to be closer to them, to know them better, laced with romantic and sexual undertones he never allowed himself to acknowledge. 

Unfortunately, his imagination becomes rather flaccid midweek, due to his Energy and Commerce subcommittee.  Another uncomfortable meeting in leather armchairs with stodgy older men ends with him being cornered in that same room  by Skipper T. Johnson.  

“Have you given a thought to what I said the last time, son?”  

Nick grimaces at being called “son” by this man.  He’s also really had it with feeling like he’s being pushed around.  

“Were you considering including incentives for funding solar arrays, wind turbines, tidal hydroelectric, or other renewables?”  Nick asks back. 

“A Texan and renewables? Surely you’re kidding,” Skipper chuckles. 

“No,” Nick says firmly.  “I’m not.  In fact, my constituents expect — no, demand, those investments.”

“But the oil lobby —”

“Fuck the oil lobby, Skip. Makes me think about my brother and my in-laws, and they’re rather terrible company — I don’t care for anyone like them.”

“You’re making a mistake, son —“

Nick scowls, pushing past him.  “Don’t call me son, Mr. Johnson.  Have a good day, sir.”

As he exits the room, his phone starts ringing — Sahar Zahid, Esquire’s contact information appears on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Nelson, hello.  I’ve got some promising news about your divorce!”    

Early May - “Get On Your Knees” by Nicki Minaj (ft. Ariana Grande)

Charlie never expects congratulatory texts from his mother, especially over things that appear to be routine or mundane.  When he receives a text from her in regards to his first Committee testimony, it veritably shocks him.  

Mommie Dearest :  Saw a replay of the Ed committee meeting.  Great work.  Sometimes cold, calculated tactics in committee can yield desirable results, just be careful.  Proud of your developing political acumen. 

Charlie stares at that text for what feels like eons before sending a quick “thank you” back to her.  As he analyzes her text, he quickly begins to shed the layers of surprise, replacing them with understanding.  This is exactly what Jane Spring would have done, thus her effusive praise.  Usually he expects very little from his mother; she’s too busy working with various members of Congress and he rarely does anything she sees as worthy of explicit praise.  Charlie certainly doesn’t view his actions as cold — calculated, sure; they were all done for the betterment of a bill that could vastly impact the educational landscape of the United States.  That’s not cold. 

He spends a Saturday afternoon unpacking that text, which requires many uncomfortable re-visitations of his family life.  Jane and Julio Spring practically maintain a marriage for fiscal purposes only.  Charlie has lived in the Seattle area with his mother since his fifteenth birthday, his father jet-setting between Seattle, Los Angeles, and a myriad of film locations.  The majority of their interactions are tepid at best, often icy, and very rarely tender.  Charlie knows that this played a major role in his Thatcher-entrapment, his parents’ distant and barren model providing him few examples of a healthy, loving relationship.  He’s discussed this with his therapist at length, as have his other siblings.  

Tori isn’t much of a people person; her siblings and Michael seem to be the sole exceptions to this rule.  Oliver sits at the other end of the spectrum completely — excitable and personable, to the point that he talks to strangers on public transit when they’re most definitely not interested in holding a conversation.  Charlie sometimes laughs to himself thinking about how radically different the three of them are in this regard.  

His mother’s commentary focuses his mind on replaying the committee meeting and what followed.  Charlie knows that the testimony undercut Nick’s legislation significantly and that they will now need to investigate and consider Charlie’s alternative.  He also knows he acted rather smugly after it, and reaped the consequences of his actions — dour looks and sour, pouty lips, the latter practically inviting — 

No.  

He needs to stop trailing down those horny neural pathways regarding his colleague who is currently suffering extreme marital distress.  It doesn’t help that he frequently complains about Nick to Caity.  For the most part, she keeps the ribbing to a minimum, but even she can’t hold back her smirks and knowing looks when Charlie goes off on a tangent.  She’s even gotten to the point where she can detect his quiet contemplation about Nick.  

Like now.   

Charlie looks up, seeing Caity holding out a bottle of Hefeweizen, its cap popped off and ready to drink.  

“You’re doing it again,” she teases. 

Charlie tuts.  “I am not.” 

“You most certainly are.  What is it this time? His arms or his ass?” 

Charlie takes the bottle from her hands and slings back a good gulp, staring at her defiantly.  She continues to look at him expectantly, a stern look on her face. 

Charlie swallows, and then sighs.  “…His lips.” 

Caity cackles, taking a seat.  “His lips?  Oh my god… that can mean so many different things.”

“Shut up!”

“Wait, wait!  Don’t tell me!”

“What?” 

She smirks devilishly.  “You’ve got a hate-fuck fantasy about him, haven’t you?”

“Oh my god, please shut up,” Charlie squeals, taking another drink.

Caity snorts.  “Oh, you do!  You keep taking a look at those lips and thinking, ‘mm, dick suckin’ lips,’ don’t you?” 

“I am going to shove this bottle up your ass, Caity Anderson,” Charlie threatens jokingly.

“Absolutely not,” she retorts. “I’m simply calling it as I see it.” 

Charlie huffs and then groans defensively. “I will not be hate fucking him, and I am not thinking about hate fucking him.”

Caity takes a large gulp of her beer before chanting, “Hate fuck, hate fuck, hate fuck!”

Charlie just continues to sip his beer, his other hand giving Caity the middle finger as she continues to make songs about hate fucking, the lyrics descending from simple chants to crass, explicit ballads.  At some point, they become ridiculously amusing to Charlie, particularly one about Nick’s “andouille sausage” being so thick that Charlie chokes on it.  At that, Charlie almost chokes on the sip of beer he had just taken, causing him to spit out the mouthful.  By ten PM, they’ve finished three bottles of beer and head to bed, exhaustion creeping in. 

Nick is married, having problems in his marriage, and straight.  Charlie already feels odd enough thinking such impure thoughts about his colleague on a regular basis; he can’t fathom something actually happening.  In another world Caity might be right about Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux and him, but not this one.  

Charlie reclines in bed that night, his eyes feeling heavy.  All he hears in his head is her teasing about hate fucking Nick.  Like a metronome, back and forth.  Nick might be pretty to look at, but he doesn’t want to fuck Nick.  Not at all.  He batters back Caity’s taunt by repeating that to himself, over and over.  Like counting sheep, except he doesn’t really think any of it is helping him at first, but eventually fatigue sets in. 

Just after he drifts off he hears a knock on his door.  

“Get up, you’re going to be late!” Caity shouts.  

He scrambles out of bed quickly, running around to get dressed.  Checking his phone, he sees that it’s already near eight AM.  Fuck .  How did he sleep in so late?  After doing the fastest morning routine humanly possible, he throws on his suit and heads to catch the train to Capitol South.  If he’s lucky he’ll just make his subcommittee meeting.  

Stepping out of the Metro, he notices that the Hill feels oddly desolate for that time of day.  He checks his phone and sees nothing about special events or votes being held in the morning.  The halls of Rayburn, eerily quiet, give him the chills.  

Upon reaching their usual meeting room, he finds the door locked with a note on it.  Written in loopy, neat penmanship, it reads “C. Spring — to the House Floor.”  

Is this some elaborate joke? 

To cut down travel time, he takes the underground train from Rayburn to the Capitol.  Again, not a single person can be seen, which deeply unsettles him.  Not even a driver occupies the train, yet it still moves back and forth between Rayburn and the Capitol.  Something about this is not quite right, almost like he’s on a hallucinogenic drug.  

Once he exits the train at the Capitol he runs up the stairs at breakneck speed.  Even the halls are quiet; he should be able to hear something going on in the House chamber, where he suspects most people to be.  

Except he finds no one there, either.  His life currently resembles an episode of the Twilight Zone.  Charlie approaches the Rostrum, where the clerks, the parliamentarian, the Speaker of the House, and several other officials preside over legislative business.  He hopes to find a clue there as to why everything’s so deserted, but to no avail.  Just as he turns to leave, the door he entered just a few minutes ago opens suddenly.  

Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux steps into the room, his black suit and green tie making his built body look intimidating and sexy.  He begins to walk down toward the Rostrum and Charlie, wearing an intense glare on his face.  A mixture of frustration, annoyance, seduction — Charlie cannot properly place what Nick’s look communicates.  

“Where is everyone?” Charlie calls up to him as Nick descends closer to him.

Nick just laughs softly.  “The House is in recess.”

“Then why are you here?” he asks Nick.  It makes no sense — there’s not another recess for the house until the end of the month.  

Nick rapidly approaches.  “Because you sent for me.” 

“I sent for you?”

Finally, Nick stands directly in front of Charlie, perhaps only a foot away — Charlie isn’t measuring. His heart beats rapidly now as he takes in all of Nick.  His hair appears neat, his beard well trimmed, and his pale and freckled skin glows under the lights of the chamber.  Charlie smells a familiar scent of floral, tobacco, sandalwood, vanilla, and musk — as if Nick doused himself in cologne after an intense workout.  It makes Charlie’s skin prickle.  Besides the scent, Charlie cannot stop darting his eyes between Nick’s upper body and face, trying to figure out what features he finds most attractive.  

“You left a note,” Nick says, Charlie’s brain finally catching back up to reality. 

“Oh?”

Nick pulls a crumpled up paper out of his suit jacket, and reads aloud, “Nick — meet me in the House chamber.  I think I know how to resolve our problems.” 

Charlie gulps.  “Oh… I…”

“I think I know a way, too,” Nick replies.  

“Do you?” Charlie squeaks. 

“Yeah.”

Before Charlie can even think about what that could mean, Nick’s lips press into his own and his large arms pull Charlie into him.  He can feel himself harden from this unexpected pleasure.  Nick's lips feel soft, like pillows, and his breath tastes like citrus and mint.  His flesh is jumpy as Nick’s hands move down the small of his back to grab his ass, gently squeezing and kneading it like dough.  Charlie can feel Nick’s own hardening package press into him, alleviating his past wonders about everything being bigger in Texas — based on feeling alone, Nick certainly is.  While Charlie gets lost in those sensations, one hand slowly begins to work up his back.  Nick reaches his hair and runs his hand through Charlie’s curls.  It all sends shivers down Charlie’s spine. 

Slowly Nick backs him up against the Rostrum and tugs at his suit jacket.  “Let’s get this off, shall we?” 

“Here? Don’t you want to go somewhere less public? Aren’t there cameras?”  Charlie whispers.

“Not during recess,” he replies.  

Charlie peels off his suit jacket and throws it off to the side, wrinkles be damned.  Nick does the same, and all the while he continues to kiss Charlie firmly, almost toeing the line between sweet and aggressively needy.  Charlie can feel Nick’s hands playing with his belt buckle.  Charlie smirks internally at this — someone moves fast .  

Charlie likes it. 

“I think we need to get these off,” Charlie says, tugging at Nick’s trousers.  He makes sure to aim his tug right at Nick’s crotch, so he gets a slight grip on his cock with it.  

Nick gasps and nods effusively.  “Yeah.”

He wastes no time in undoing his belt and pulling his trousers down.  Charlie does the same, all the while unable to tear his eyes away from Nick.  Thick quads and hamstrings stand out under tight, black boxer briefs — stretched to the limit by a fully engorged cock.  Charlie can barely contain himself, his little navy briefs failing to hold back his own erection.  He can feel cool air swirling around the tip of his cock as it peeks out of the waistband of his briefs, and a gentle spot of pre-come emerging there.  Without hesitation, he strips himself of his briefs and launches himself at Nick.

“Take me.”

“Gladly.  I’m going to fuck that prickly, cocky attitude right out of you,” Nick growls, his Texan accent making Charlie weak in the knees.  

Somehow, there’s a bottle of lube on the House rostrum, further deepening the wildness of this all.  Did Nick plan this?  Have the past four months been some savage act of seduction?  

Charlie gently strokes Nick’s cock after it springs out of his boxer briefs.  He can feel himself reflexively open just thinking about its thickness.  He drops to his knees in front of Nick, who smirks and looks down at him.  Nick playfully bats the tip of his cock on Charlie’s face, trailing it over to his lips where he slaps at them with the tip some more.  

“Open that pretty mouth for me,” he demands. 

It’s a request Charlie complies with immediately, taking the tip into his mouth.  Nick sighs and moans slightly, putting both of his hands on the back of Charlie’s head.  A slight pull at his hair and Charlie goes deeper, his mouth stretching to accommodate Nick.  Thankfully, Thatcher’s cock provided more than ample practice, but Nick’s definitely thicker, which proves more of a challenge.  Nick begins to push himself deeper into Charlie’s mouth, hitting the back of his throat.  

Fully stuffed, Charlie looks up at Nick with watery, begging eyes, nods, and moans, “Please.”  

Nick pulls back and then pushes forward, beginning a slow-paced fuck of Charlie’s mouth.

Nothing about it feels aggressive, but rather tender, almost loving.  Charlie strokes himself, mentally preparing himself to take all of that cock elsewhere.  Nick seems to understand this, because immediately after Charlie thinks it, he pulls out of Charlie’s mouth.  

Charlie, a slobbery mess, looks up at him and begs, “Fuck me, please.” 

Nick wastes no time, already lubing himself up;  Charlie does the same.  While he’s looking around the tables for condoms, he feels Nick approach him.  Soon, he’s picked up and at eye level with Nick. 

“God, you are so beautiful, Charlie,” he mutters.

“You seem to have forgotten condoms, Nick,” Charlie shoots back.

Nick shakes his head.  “No, I think you forgot them.  Your note didn’t say to bring any…”

“I’m… I got tested two weeks ago,” Charlie says breathlessly.  

Nick nods.  “I know I’m good…”

“So you…”

Charlie can already feel Nick lining his lubed up cock against his own slick hole, beginning to press into him.  He’s holding onto Nick almost like a koala, connected cock-to-ass, supported by massive arms.  Nick slowly works his way into Charlie, biting his lip.

“Fuck you’re so tight,” he whispers.

“You didn’t get me looser,” Charlie replies, straining through the feeling of being opened up. 

Nick shakes his head.  “I’ll know better for next time.”

Suddenly, Nick pushes forward more, which causes Charlie to moan loudly.  It echoes around the chambers.  It takes little time for that push to be followed by more, and within minutes Nick bottoms out in Charlie.  He presses Charlie’s back onto the rostrum, giving him more support to fuck him.  

A hate fuck.  

This is a hate fuck. 

Because the thrusts and grunts aren’t soft or tender.  Nick pounds into him with every ounce of passion and resentment he has held back over the months — and Charlie loves it.  Sparks of relief flow through Charlie.  This sex has some sort of meaning to it, not just some clinical thing to do.  Nick’s shifted Charlie enough that he can free one arm and hand to help pleasure Charlie, a welcome change from his past encounters with Thatcher that were often one-sided or “afterthought” moments.  

Nick grunts.  “God, you’re so tight… I won’t last.”  

Charlie can barely form a sentence in response, beyond some whines of, “Fill me.” 

“Oh yeah?” Nick responds back in a taunting voice.  “You want me to come in you, you little cumslut?”

Where has this filthy, manner-less Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux been hiding the entire time? 

“Please,” Charlie whimpers. “I want to feel it…”

Nick quickens his pace, thrusting in and out of Charlie expeditiously.  Charlie can see his face screwing up in concentration, each moment getting closer and closer to climax.  Charlie holds on for dear life, his arm grabbing the Rostrum to prevent himself from falling off.  All he can do at this point is scroan, whimper, and beg for Nick’s come.  

“Please, Nick, fill me,” he whines.

“Oh, I’m going to fill you,” Nick grunts back. “You’re going to be leaking for days.” 

“Please, please, please,” Charlie begs back in reply.  He can feel his own orgasm quickly approaching, the heat sizzling through his chest.  

Charlie can feel the sweat begin to soak his own shirt, his tie flopping to the side.  He reflexively pulls it up in anticipation of his own ejaculation.  Nick’s face now looks like someone on the verge of collapse, red and dripping sweat down onto his own white dress shirt.  Charlie can see sweat prints on the arms of the shirt.  And then, he feels it.  Nick lurches and releases a gasping moan, bottoming out in Charlie one last time.   Charlie can feel his hole clenching around Nick as Nick’s cock twitches.  Over, and over, and over…

Charlie furiously strokes himself, also close to orgasm.  The pressure builds in him, coming to a final crescendo until he hears… a car alarm?

Charlie juts up in terror, hearing an alarm outside blaring.  He’s in his bed, sweaty and painfully erect.  

He’d just dreamed the whole thing, and now it all makes sense.  What doesn’t make sense is how much he loved every second of it.  

Fuck.

He scrambles to get ready after a furious masturbation session in the shower.  Opting to take the Blue Line to work for a longer time to think, Charlie ends up spending the majority of that time double checking his calendar for meetings.  Occasionally he thinks about what the dream might mean, but ultimately cannot land on any sound reasoning.  He only had one coffee before the train; he’s not awake enough to adequately analyze if the dream was some kink revelation about throat fucking, nor does he know enough about psychology to figure out if there’s some sort of deeper hidden meaning.  

Charlie concludes that the best take on it involves fatigue, alcohol, and internalizing Caity’s incessant hate-fuck rhetoric.  

As Charlie arrives at the office, he sees one of the interns finishing the morning newspaper coverage run.  Darcy has already looked at some of the earliest morning editions, sorting through relevant ones for recent articles mentioning him.  She leaves a detailed list to summarize them, starring ones that she thinks Charlie ought to read over his second morning coffee.  Today she’s scribbled out scant notes:  positive birthday party coverage, random positive mentions of committee performance.  Charlie scans the pile of newspapers, taking heed of a notable omission — the Washington Post, a significant publication.  

Charlie turns to the intern, who is working on some files now.  “Where is the Post?”

“Oh… Ms. Olsson told me not to give you that one,” she replies timidly.

Charlie looks at her strangely.  “Why?” 

The intern shrugs.  “I didn’t ask.” 

“Please hand it over,” Charlie demands, starting to get annoyed at the mystery.  

“Ohhh ok-k-ay,” the intern splutters out nervously, running to fetch the morning edition of the Washington Post.

Charlie doesn’t know what to expect — even negative articles get put in front of him, since he needs to be aware of them in case he’s asked to provide commentary.  Could this be something about his mom?  His dad?  Did something happen that no one has told him yet?  

Just as he starts worrying, the intern returns and hands over the newspaper.   Frantically he scans the front cover. 

Nothing immediately catches his eye — the banner appears innocuous, mostly insignificant to him.  Not even the usual political columns on the main page appear to directly concern him, or the work of the education committee.  Something about one of President Whitmer’s cabinet secretaries, an OPEC meeting, and more about gas supplies in continental Europe.  Until he reaches the bottom corner, where a short reference to an internal article catches his attention. 

Boston Brahmin To Marry.  See pg A35 - Engagements. 

No names, or details on the main page, except directing to another page.  It could be anyone, really.  Even though Charlie knows someone from the Boston area, that doesn't mean that he’s the only person living in the DC region that the Washington Post might report on.  Right?  

Charlie frantically flips through the pages, until he reaches page thirty-five, and his breath catches.  

There’s a photo of Thatcher in chinos and a polo, with a pretty blonde woman wearing a floral sundress.  Charlie can feel his hands gripping the pages, bile building up in his throat as he reads “Thatcher Ambrose Alden III of the Boston area, engaged to London-born heiress Cressida Burroughs.”  

He can feel himself flush, his knees starting to buckle slightly.  The intern, who has gone back to sorting files, barely takes notice.  Weakly, he slumps down into his desk chair, turning away from her to keep his face hidden.  Despite the tears, Charlie cannot drag his eyes away from the engagement announcement.  The room spins slightly and Charlie closes his eyes, trying to steady his breathing.    

They fucked two weeks ago.  Two. 

Charlie wants to scream.  

He wants to scream, run to Kalorama, and commit arson, preferably with Thatcher inside.  Instead, he quietly cries at his desk, unable to prevent himself from releasing a few audible sobs.  The intern hastily leaves the room, probably to go fetch someone to check in on him.  Charlie doesn’t blame her — emotional interventions are not listed in her job responsibilities.  Moments later, the door opens and he hears hurried footsteps.  

“Charlie!” It’s Darcy.  

He turns to face her, and her own face falls.  “Oh crap.”

“I’m going to ignore the fact that you tried to hide this from me,” he sniffles.  “Because that won’t make the hurt feel better….”

Darcy says nothing, trying to think of her words carefully. 

Charlie pauses for a second, before blurting out, “Fuck!  I hate that it hurts… it shouldn’t! That fucking asshole.”

“This is why I didn’t want you to see it this morning,” Darcy says quietly.  “I was trying to protect you.” 

Charlie wipes his eyes with a tissue from his desk.  “I would have found out at some point, Darce.  Plus, I’m an adult. I don’t need to be protected from bad news.”

She looks at him, an odd mixture of sourness, pity, and compassion.  “Oh really then?  Well, Mr. Adult, get your shit together.  You’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes, and a presser later today.”

Charlie opens up his desk drawer, pulling out some cooling wipes that Tori jokingly bought for him that she said “helped reduce puffiness after a good cry.”  He spent several years pretending that his parents’ complicated relationship never bothered him, that their clinical coldness with one another never fazed him.  Putting on a neutral face through a meeting and a press conference?  He can do this. 

The week prior

“Do you have a few minutes to speak, Mr. Nelson-Thibodeaux?” Sahar asks, her tone neutral and unrevealing.  

“I’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes, but I can speak up until then,” Nick replies, immediately on edge more than he was earlier after having to shove off Skipper T. Johnson.  

He hears Sahar hum on the other line.  “That’s fine.  I have some general updates.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she continues.  “It appears that Laurel wants a quiet, amicable, equitable division of assets.”  

Nick snorts.  “Buying silence?  Very her.”

“If you want to think of it that way, “ Sahar chuckles.

Nick sighs.  “Not that I have any intention of making some big stink of this.”  

“Right,” Sahar says matter-of-factly.  “Well, here’s the rundown.  Most of your wife’s assets remain untouchable, but she did enter the marriage with several million dollars in assets, both liquid and others like your home and some bonds, ostensibly set aside for future children.” 

Nick flinches at that, swallowing roughly.  “I just want enough to pay you, buy myself my own place, and get me back on my feet.”

“We’re asking for half of those assets, due to the nature of the situation,” she replies bluntly. 

“Oh.”

“Accept it.  You’d be a fool to take less.  If anything, it would appear like you did something wrong if someone got wind of it,” Sahar says commandingly.  

Nick never thought about that possibility.  “Okay.”

Sahar continues, “Your house in Brentwood will be sold and the assets divided between you two, forty-sixty in her favor, but she will give away half of the liquid assets she alone brought into the relationship.”

“S’ppose that’s fair, given her dad paid the entirety of the 20% down payment, and then some,” Nick replies.   

Sahar pauses for a second.  “While the divorce will be official, public record, Laurel wants no official press release from you or your campaign.”  

Nick scrunches his face.  “What if someone asks?”

“You may confirm that it happened, but you cannot officially declare it or acknowledge it unless asked,” Sahar clarifies.  

“Oh,” Nick says breathily, before murmuring, “I don’t really want to, anyway.” 

“Good,” Sahar says.  “Also, if you happen to write a book in the future, this means nothing about it in there.”

Nick snorts. He’s never contemplated writing a memoir, or any sort of personal nonfiction.  “Noted.  I guess if I ever do, I’d have to keep it to a simple ‘married and then divorced,’ if anything?”

“Basically,” Sahar chuckles.  “No names, essentially.” 

Nick huffs.  “It’s like she’s erasing me from her life completely.”

Sahar goes quiet for a moment.  “As terrible as it seems… this is a relatively clean break.”

“Clean?!”

“No, not the circumstances leading up,” Sahar clarifies quickly.  “This process.” 

“Oh?”

“You could be in a much, much worse situation.  It could be downright brutal and drawn-out, even with Laurel committing adultery.  Be thankful we can resolve this so easily,” she adds.

And that’s something Nick chews on for a while, back in his office.  They canceled that morning meeting, rescheduling it for the next week.  Probably for the best. 

Mid May - “No Light, No Light” by Florence + the Machine

Even though a solid week has passed, Nick can still clearly recall that phone call with his lawyer, Sahar Zahid.  He fully expected her to be the bearer of bad news that day, but soon found those expectations to be dashed.  Even though he’s mulled things for a week now, Nick still feels messy about that call with Sahar.  A clean break still counts as a break.  

Nick hasn’t spent an ounce of time preparing for this subcommittee meeting, mentally speaking.  He’s reviewed testimony notes, talked with some colleagues, and come up with some proposed changes, but he’s not really prepared to navigate the tension between him and Charlie Spring.  Charlie Spring, who didn’t single-handedly sink his bill, but certainly did his best to undermine it.  Who has an alternative waiting in the wings.  They need to stop doing this, but Nick doesn’t know how.  He’s never felt like he’s had the moment to apologize for the committee vote, or at least tell Charlie why he felt like he needed to vote that way. 

Nick notices when Charlie enters the room, immediately zeroing in on the man.  Their mutual meetings from last week were rescheduled, so they haven’t seen each other much.  Despite having offices on the same floor of the same building, either Nick subconsciously made himself scarce over the past few weeks, or Charlie avoided him completely.  

Nick notes that the usual glint in his eye appears diminished.  Something about him feels off — Nick half expected him to flounce victoriously into the meeting, gloating about moving to examine his bill.  Instead, he looks defeated, darkened, dampened.  

Summer Lee calls the working group to order.  “Well… what now?”

A few older members grumble about going back to the drawing board, while others seem annoyed by how discordant parts of the testimony felt.  No one seems to be proposing solutions though, just complaining.  Eventually, they agree to move forward with examining Charlie’s bill, but discussions about testimony strategies linger. 

Nick speaks up.  “Perhaps it would be beneficial for members to prepare questions in tandem, to make sure the whole line of questioning is more effective?  I know people have done that in the past, but I really think we just need to work together a bit more.”

“Sure,” a senior member agrees.  “I guess we can sort that easily?” 

Summer nods.  “Yes.  I particularly think that you and Charlie should work together, Nick.  Given the degree of discordance between your lines of questioning.”

“What?” Charlie squawks.  

Nick’s eyes practically bulge out, but before he can add to the protest, Summer shoots them both an incredibly dirty, dangerous look that says, “Don’t fuck with me, fellas.”  

Nick blushes pink.

“We’ll break to have private meetings for thirty minutes, and then reconvene?” Summer suggests.  

Several members nod along, turning to their chosen partners to talk about where to go.  Nick’s head spins; this idea of being alone with someone who he knows he holds complicated feelings for, not to mention various other admirations and frustrations, doesn’t feel like a good idea.  Charlie turns to him, that fire back in his eyes, his well-cut jaw tense.  

“My office, now,” he growls softly at Nick.  

Nick can barely breathe in response to that.  Warmth spreads across his face and into his ears.  He releases a pathetic nod, wordlessly following Charlie to his office.  The entire time, Nick’s heart thunders in his chest.  

He can be civil.  They can be civil.  He can keep his cool, prevent himself from levying a shocking amount of self-embarrassment.  Charlie swings open the door to the office roughly, interns and staffers looking at him curiously, and motions for Nick to enter the office.  Nick breathes in roughly and files in, only to have Charlie close the door quickly behind him. 

Nick can’t hold back any longer.  “Why don’t you like me?  Is it because of the vote back in January?” 

Charlie scrunches his face, frowning severely. “Yeah, just that at first.” 

“For fuck’s sake.  At first?  What else, then?” Nick spits back at him.

Charlie takes a steadying breath, glaring back at Nick.  “You annoy me.  Everyone likes you, without you putting in an ounce of effort.  Your accent is grating and hokey.  This middling, mediocre legislation that you seem so attached to —” 

Nick cuts him off, trying to keep his voice from rising, yet not holding back the venom.  “I can’t help that I’m not an ass to everyone.  And my legislation isn’t mediocre.”

“It doesn’t do enough!” Charlie snaps at him.  Clearly, raising one’s voice is now on the table. 

“It’s about practicality, building up changes little-by-little,” Nick shoots back, forcefully. 

Charlie laughs, mockingly.  “Oh wow!  Incremental change of something that’s been stuck that way for more than three decades.  I’m sure we’ll finally see something by the time we’re geriatric Congressional leaders.”  

Nick feels personally affronted.  He can handle being mocked for his accent, doesn’t give a fig that Charlie hates how easy it is for him to interact with others, but tearing down his life’s work hurts.  

“So that’s it then?  I’m just not good enough for you?” 

Charlie huffs.  “Apparently so.” 

Nick doesn’t know why he does it, perhaps out of compulsion from his odd romantic feelings.  But what comes out of his mouth shocks even him.  “Not anything like that asshole, Thatcher.” 

That does the trick though, throwing Charlie off completely.  Nick can see it, the redness splotch across his tanned face.  His eyes narrow slightly.  “Please don’t bring him into this.” 

And so Nick continues to push this advantage.  “Why not?  Apparently that’s the only way to connect with you.  Treat you like a —”

Instantly, the remorse hits Nick as a throat sob comes out of Charlie’s mouth.  His eyes, once narrowed, now open more, streaks of tears leaving them.  Clearly something happened recently, something rather hurtful to Charlie.  

Nick’s empathy skyrockets, moving him to make amends quickly. “Oh god,” he gasps.  “I — what — I’m so sorry.”  

Nick stares at Charlie for a few moments. Charlie just shakes his head, goes to his desk for a tissue, and wipes his eyes. 

“What happened?” 

Charlie haggardly whispers, “He’s getting married.” 

Nick scrunches his face together.  “Didn’t you… go home with him like three weeks ago?”

“Yeah!” Charlie sobs out, frantically.  “Exactly that!  Almost three weeks ago, he fucked me senseless and covered me in spunk, now he’s engaged to some London heiress.”  

Nick plops himself down in one of Charlie’s office chairs.  He feels like someone hit him with a brick.  The situation feels unnervingly similar to Laurel and David, and it nauseates him.  Based on what he knows, Thatcher never gave Charlie reason to believe much would come from their relationship, but to go from this “fuck buddy” situation to a surprise engagement feels like a sort of betrayal.  

How long had Thatcher known?  Had he hidden it from Charlie the entire time they knew each other?  If this makes Nick feel gross, Charlie must be deeply shaken.  

“What a weasel,” Nick spits out. 

Charlie sits down in the chair behind his desk.  “It’s my lot in life, it appears.”

“No,” Nick states firmly.  “No, it’s not.  I refuse to believe that.” 

Charlie shakes his head, breathing shallowly.  “You wouldn’t understand.” 

Nick steadies himself.  “Back in March, when you asked me if I was okay, and I said that I wasn’t…”

“Yeah?”  

“That was because I had discovered my wife fucking my estranged brother.  On Valentine’s Day, no less,” Nick says flatly.  

Saying it out loud to anyone still knocks the wind out of him. 

He looks up and sees that Charlie’s crestfallen face now appears shocked, his mouth agape.  A twinge of sadness still remains, but even Nick can see it laced with empathy. 

“I’m sorry.”

Nick shakes his head.  “No sorries needed.”

“Still want to say it,” Charlie replies.

“Don’t,” Nick says, shaking his head.  He pauses for a second, before continuing.  “I guess we both need to give each other some more grace… make a better effort to come to an understanding.”

Charlie appears hollow, somewhat distracted in a way that Nick cannot adequately interpret.  After a few moments, he quietly utters, “Keep it professional?” 

Nick nods slowly.  “Keep it professional.” 

A weight forms in Nick’s stomach.  A growing part of him doesn’t want anything about this to be professional.  What started out as a bitter confrontation melted like butter on a biscuit into something softer.  

No.  Nick wants to be friends with Charlie, he wants to comfort and be comforted by him.  He wants to argue about policy until 2 AM, and then turn around and kiss the smirk Charlie wears off his face, the one he wears when he thinks he won.  Nick wants to run his hands through Charlie’s hair, admire every coil and curl, loose or tight.  

No, professionalism isn’t his anchor.  It’s the knowledge that Charlie doesn’t want him, not like that.  Not some damaged, sexually confused man.  Not after having his heart weakened and shattered by a man who wouldn’t ever come out and publicly be with him.  Nick resigns himself to process his impending divorce and smitten feelings, keeping them as hidden as he can — to the best of his ability. 

Because he’ll never be enough for Charlie.

Late May - “Like I Can” by Sam Smith

Charlie ought to be less anxious about press coverage, given he’s done a few interviews in the past month alone.  Ever since coverage on the committee meeting took off, he’s had a few requests and done each of them.  In a way, it’s given him an opportunity to sharpen his arguments for and against certain education policies. Though since his argument-cum-peacemaking moment with Nick, he’s felt increasingly guilty about his committee work and how the interviews come off as an extension of that.  Waiting on standby for the interview to go live, Charlie really hopes that the journalist doesn’t dive too deeply into the committee portion.

The interviewer, Atticus Corey, introduces his segment and Charlie before heading right into his questions and commentary.  

“You’ve garnered a lot of attention as the youngest Congressman,” Corey begins. 

Charlie’s heard this one before.  “Understandably so.”

“Yeah?”

“Most Americans are used to seeing older men on their ballots. I think they become captivated when they see younger people entering the fray,” Charlie replies. 

Corey smiles.  “That youthful energy and attitude resulted in you making some waves recently, including butting up against your own committee members.” 

“I’m just trying to make sure we shape legislation policy so that it affects people equitably,” Charlie explains.

“I see.  The C-SPAN footage feels much more combative,” Corey points out.

Charlie pauses for a second, finding the words to make sure he doesn’t sound angry.  “I’ve found that I’m quite passionate about this.  Really, I don’t want kids in one state learning US History one way, and then kids in another getting a sugar-coated, diluted version that leaves them fundamentally ignorant of our history’s past.  It’s a disservice to us all, our ancestors, and history.”  

“Any insight on how you plan to get reluctant states to adopt that?” Corey inquires. 

Charlie shakes his head and smiles coyly.  “Not beyond what you saw at the hearing.”

Corey laughs.  “Okay then.  We’d love to hear your commentary or take on other bills.”

“What subject or committee?” Charlie asks, grinning. 

Corey’s smile intensifies, like he desperately hoped that Charlie would be willing to play ball.  “Well, we’ve done our research here — you’re quite passionate about the environment and energy.  Anything catching your eye or on your radar that you want people to be aware of?” 

“Oh, definitely,” Charlie replies quickly.  “Energy and Commerce is crafting a bill right now — well, one of many, but the one that seems to be getting the most coverage actually is the worst possible option in my opinion.” 

“Ahh, the one that Congressman Johnson of Texas is spearheading?” Corey clarifies.  

“The very one.  No suitable investments in renewables, nothing about national infrastructure for EV charging, nor any protective provisions regarding the fossil fuels investment it’s pushing,” Charlie says, ticking off each fault with his fingers.

“Can you explain for viewers what you mean by protective provisions?” 

Charlie nods.  “Absolutely.  There are technologies that can help reduce the polluting impact of fossil fuels, yet this bill contains neither mandate, nor funding for those technologies.  There are provisions for expanding coal burning power plants in several states.  Coal is the filthiest of the fossil fuels, Mr. Corey — and there’s nothing about scrubbers and other technology that would reduce emissions that cause acid rain and smog in the bill.”

“Fascinating.  You explain that so simply, yet thoroughly.  Well… what are your hopes, then?” 

“They either amend the bill and utterly transform it,  or they trash it completely, because in its current state, that’s where it belongs,” Charlie says defiantly.  

The segment continues a bit longer, with Charlie telling Atticus Corey about his participation in the Congressional Equality Caucus.  He gets to plug legislation that would extend federal protections for transgender individuals across all age ranges, including minors.  After the problems caused by states years ago, those federal protections would be key to giving them some sort of redress and stability.  

Atticus Corey thanks Charlie for his time, the segment ends, and they go off air.  Charlie sighs relief and sees Darcy give him a thumbs up for his interview responses and conduct.  

Truth be told, this is the best Charlie’s felt since the news about Thatcher’s engagement hit him like a freight train.  He’s spent a great deal of time since then working hollowly, doing what needs to be done to get through the week.  Darcy and Caity have done as much as they could to get his morose, mopey self to perk up, going as far as calling Elle.  

That helped a bit. Now he won’t have to worry about Thatcher trying to seduce him, since Charlie draws a strong line at cheating, or getting involved with married people, period — even if it's consensual.  She reminds him that he’s young, that love will come when it’s the right person.  Charlie bemoans the state of his feelings, his hurt — Elle dutifully listens to him, never once telling him not to feel, or what he should feel.  Come Memorial Day weekend, Charlie still feels low.

Frustrated and at their wits’ end, both Caity and Darcy decide to take him to Freddy’s Beach Bar, an easy walk from the town home.  They all resolve to get piss-drunk for the holiday.  Darcy desperately wants to hook up with the hottest lesbian she can find, Caity wants to partake in the joyous, non-threatening atmosphere of a queer establishment, and Charlie just… well, Charlie’s just along for the ride.  No expectations, just some drinks and a change of scenery.  

Every night there’s karaoke, and given the holiday weekend, there are also half-priced beverages and food for anyone in the Department of Defense.  Essentially, every open-minded or queer military personnel within easy travel distance has descended upon the bar.  Many of them are unfairly attractive — even out of uniform, Charlie can identify them based on haircut and a couple of other tells.  

By late evening, Charlie’s lost track of Darcy completely, and Caity’s gone home after realizing that she had a better chance of getting lucky with a Pocket Rocket than most of the men there.  

A few men have talked to Charlie briefly that evening, most of them getting pulled elsewhere after a minute or two.  He’s not been unfriendly, but his body language tells them that he’s not exactly interested.  Especially the two who appeared to be freshly twenty-one, if not at the bar with a fake ID.  Around eleven-thirty Charlie finishes his fourth drink of the evening.  At best, the evening has been a distraction from his overall woes; nothing to write home about.  As he turns to leave, he runs into a man approaching the bar. 

A high and tight fade, with a thick distinguished mustache denotes a retired military-man, which explains the flecks of gray that Charlie sees scattered through his dark brown hair.  Charlie can’t decipher the exact color of his eyes in the bar’s low-lighting, but he sees wrinkles at the corners.  A square jaw leads to solid shoulders, and then down to large biceps and forearms.  His midsection looks sturdy, his legs quite nice.  Charlie takes in this drink of a man and starts to feel weak in the knees. 

“Excuse me,” Charlie says breathlessly, trying to bypass the man.

“Wait,” the man replies, grabbing Charlie’s upper arm softly.  “I just came over here to chat.”

Charlie looks up at him.  “Oh?”

“Yeah… I’ve been here for an hour or two, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you.  My buds kept dragging me for it, telling me I couldn’t bag a younger hottie like you,” he says with a hint of temerity. 

Charlie pauses for a moment, hesitant.  This man might be older, but… he’s insanely attractive, Charlie’s bed has been cold, DC feels lonely, and he’s been miserable.  Carly Rae Jepsen’s Tonight I’m Getting Over You begins playing at the bar, some divine act signaling for him to accept this man’s attention.

Charlie leans in and whispers into the man’s ear, “They were wrong.”  He feels his ears prickle with warmth at his own confidence. 

The older man places his own hand in Charlie’s, interlocking their fingers.  “My name’s Hector,” he whispers back into Charlie’s ear.  

“Charlie.”

“Let’s get out of here?” he asks, the temerity dimmed to something more timid, as if he’s giving Charlie another opportunity to back out, to change his mind. 

“Yeah.”

Charlie takes him back to his place.  The walk is quick, and they chat a little;  Charlie doesn’t tell him that he’s a Congressman, but rather a lawyer.  Hector tells him that he’s retired from the Navy, currently working for a veterans organization.  Hector’s hands feel rough, but Charlie finds it adorable how much he grips onto Charlie’s, almost like he expects Charlie to peel away.  Under street lights, Charlie can appreciate the features he couldn’t in the bar — a darker skin tone, suggesting some Latin heritage, coupled with warm, brown eyes.  They make small talk, until they reach Charlie’s place.

The silence is only broken by the sounds of kissing and gentle whispers from Charlie; Hector certainly knows how to use his hands.  Despite giving off nervous energy on the walk over, Hector excels at getting Charlie to literally and figuratively shed his clothes.  His lips mark Charlie’s lower neck and shoulder — a fact Charlie appreciates, given those areas are easier to hide.  

Eventually he’s moved onto the bed, and they explore each other more thoroughly.  Charlie loves Hector’s uncut cock, gently playing with the foreskin as he traces his tongue around the tip.  Based on the grunts and moans coming from Hector’s mouth, Hector enjoys it.  Charlie really hopes that Caity is deeply asleep. 

Most of the time, Charlie never expects a hookup to be so invested, but Hector takes his time sucking off Charlie, too.  Without hesitation, he moves lower and begins rimming Charlie.  It’s been ages since someone’s done this for him — Thatcher never tongued him there, being too ‘grossed out’ about it.  Charlie’s boyfriend before Thatcher did it halfheartedly, but enough for Charlie to know he liked it.  It feels magical, reverent even based on how enthusiastically Hector operates.  After a few minutes, Hector pulls away.  

“Condoms and lube?” he asks.

Charlie motions over to the bedside table.  Catching his breath, he whispers, “Top drawer.” 

Hector prepares himself, sheathing his cock with a condom quickly.  He warms up some lube in his hand, slathering it on himself before taking the excess and adding it to his spit from earlier.  He lines himself up, slapping the tip of his cock on Charlie’s hole, teasing it.  Each slap sends small zaps up Charlie’s spine.  

“Go slowly,” Charlie says.  “It’s been a month…”

“Don’t worry,” Hector says.  “I’m good at getting people to open up.” 

It’s not a lie.  All of his tonguing already loosened up Charlie a bit, relaxing him.  Hector pushes in slowly, just the tip; he moves it in and out, repeating that process for a minute before pushing about halfway in.  He does the same, pulling out and pushing in halfway.  Charlie can feel himself giving way.  It helps that Hector’s not quite as thick or long as Thatcher, but still enough that the pleasure is immense. After five minutes of teasing, Hector bottoms out and pushes Charlie’s legs back into the air. 

And then he goes to town. 

Luckily, the shared walls of the town home are quite thick and noise absorbent, for if they weren’t, all of his neighbors would have surely called in a disturbance.  Hector knows exactly what angle to thrust at, what speed, and what length of stroke it takes to completely unwind Charlie.  The man’s stamina appears significant, and at one point, Charlie needs to just let himself feel.  That’s when his more rational mind starts to interrupt. 

Between each thrust, his brain tells him that this isn’t really what he needs, or wants.

After each brush of the prostate, it tells him he might feel like he needs this, but what he really needs is commitment, someone to love and care for and who will return that love and care. 

Each moan feels more and more hollow as his brain tells him that Hector won’t be that person — he’s just proving a point to his friends.  They’ll talk about how hot it was for the weeks to come, and Hector won’t ever see or speak to Charlie again.  

The emptiness Charlie feels, mirrored by physical emptiness as Hector pulls out and takes off the condom. 

With each spurt from their cocks, simultaneously painting Charlie’s chest, Charlie tells himself that he needs more.  He needs to stop making excuses for himself when he doesn’t even try to get more than just this, a meaningless lay.  

And after Hector cleans them both off with a moist towel — a luxurious difference from most hook ups — dresses himself quickly, kisses Charlie goodnight, and then leaves, Charlie keeps telling himself that he not only needs more, but that he deserves more. 

When one feels like they deserve more, yet cannot visualize how to get it… well, that’s terrifying.  Downright frightening.  Worst of all, after berating him the entire time he’s getting fucked, Charlie’s mind has the audacity to tell him that he’ll probably never actually get more.  

Returning to his bed after locking the door behind Hector, Charlie curls up into the fetal position and sobs himself to sleep.  

Chapter Text

Early June

“They want me to do what?” Charlie squawks indignantly.  

He’s sitting in his office, cooling off from his walk between the Metro and Rayburn.  DC already feels oppressively hot and muggy.  

Darcy, who ambushed him first thing, repeats herself. “They want you to join the Congressional baseball game.  Later this month.”

Charlie looks dumbfounded.  “What?  Why?”  

“I don’t know,” Darcy replies, scowling at the sharpness of Charlie’s voice.  “I can only assume it has to do with the fact that you go to the gym regularly and ran cross-country at school.”  

Charlie groans, planting his face directly onto his desk.  “And that somehow translates to me being able to play baseball?”

“Apparently so,” Darcy sighs.  “I can always make something up about you spraining your wrist?”

Charlie lifts his head up and shakes it vehemently.  “No, don’t do that Darcy.  Then I’ll have to wear a wrist thing around and pretend like I’ve actually sprained it.”  

Darcy sits back and gives him a funny look.  “All of that whackin’ off.  Massive wrist sprain.”

“May you fall in love with a woman with impossibly long, un-trimmable nails, a sand-papery tongue, and concurrently develop an allergy to materials found in every single sex toy on the planet,” Charlie teases, getting up from his desk.  

“Demonic.  Positively demonic,” she calls after him.  “Where’re you going?”

He stops at the door.  "I'm going to find the organizer of the baseball team and gently let him know that I won’t be participating.”  

“Good luck with that,” she shouts after him.  “And don’t forget you’ve got a meeting at ten!”

Seeking out the organizer of the Democratic team means that Charlie needs to find Senator Jon Ossoff of Georgia.  Apparently, his youthful demeanor translates to baseball captaincy.  Senators have small offices called “hideaways” in the Capitol, and so Charlie hops onto the train between it and Rayburn.  

Unfortunately, Charlie discovers that Ossoff is booked for meetings most of the day, and instead seeks out Chris Murphy, a veteran of the Congressional game on his way out from a quick meeting in his hideaway.  

Charlie signals for his attention, motioning for him to come over.  “Senator Murphy, do you have a moment?” 

“Ahh, Congressman Spring.  I’ve got a few, what can I do for you?” he replies. 

“I was wondering if you could possibly put in a word to Jon Ossof.  I don’t really think I’m cut out for the baseball team,” Charlies says plainly.  

Chris chuckles.  “You’d have to do that yourself, to be honest.  I’m most curious as to why you don’t want to play?” 

Charlie huffs.  “I’ve never really officially played baseball before.  I mean, I understand how it works, American pastime and all, but….”

“Charlie, man… it’s just a bit of fun, and for charity.  You’re overthinking it,” Chris says jovially.  

Charlie furrows his brow.  “Aren’t we in it to win it, Chris?  Like… don’t you want to crush the Republican team?”

Chris snorts.  “Crush them? Nah, it’s just for fun, honestly.  In fact, it really helps lessen some of the partisanship.  Keeps everyone just a bit more humanized, I’ve found.”  

Charlie looks at him blankly — that feels like a distinctly cis-het rationale, especially given the fact that Mr. Murphy hasn’t been routinely dehumanized by Republican talking points over the past several decades.  Now’s not the time to bite Chris Murphy’s head off.  He just wants off the damn team.  

“Don’t know about that, Chris. It just sounds… miserable.”  

Chris shrugs.  “I think you should stick with it.  Never know what sort of political allegiance could be kindled playing a couple innings together, y’know?  On that note, I’ve got to run.”

“See you around,” Charlie murmurs. 

That was completely unhelpful, yet also incredibly guilt-inducing.  Senator Murphy definitely raises an important point about informal commingling having the potential to generate powerful working relationships.  Darcy would adamantly agree.  Not to mention, playing along could help repair some of his reputation with older members of his own party who view him as a rabble-rouser, and not necessarily a team player.  

On his way back to Rayburn, he thinks over it all carefully.  Realistically, there’s no reason not to do the game, beyond the risk of heat stroke and embarrassing himself.    

Darcy eyes him victoriously as he re-enters the office, a defeated look on his face.  “Aha!  I knew it.”  

“What?”

“You’re still playing the game,” she teases.  “Let me guess, you found out that Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux is playing, didn’t you?”

“He is?!”

Darcy snorts, her eyebrows waggling a bit.  “No — well, I have no idea, to be fair.  Just wanted to fuck with you a bit. Clearly it worked.”

Charlie groans.  “Shut up, please.”

“Never,” she teases.  “In fact, I’m going to the game.  If he is playing, the game itself won’t be the only entertainment.”

Charlie goes silent at that.  She doesn’t know it, but the past few days have been quite interesting.  He and Nick have shared some slightly awkward, yet more delicate interactions over the past few days.  Instead of an intern bringing him coffee, Nick brought it on Monday morning.  Charlie stopped by Nick’s office on Tuesday to ask him about how things were going regarding his wife, and he found out about the divorce and how quickly it was being finalized.  Yesterday, he spent the afternoon in the gym with Nick; they chatted about deadlifts and leg days in general, after which Charlie felt 99.9% certain that Nick stared at him for the remainder of the workout.  

He’s beyond perplexed by what that could mean. 

Darcy definitely notices this reflective pause.  “You doing okay, Charlie?  We haven’t really had time to talk about the announcement.” 

Ah yes, the announcement.  Over two weeks had passed since he found out about Thatcher’s engagement.  

Charlie just shrugs.  “Depends on your definition of okay.”  

Darcy folds her arms, inspecting him.  “You’ve not drafted plans to kill him or anything?”

“No,” Charlie replies, rolling his eyes.  “I do suppose that I’m currently in the anger phase of grief.”

Darcy sighs.  “Please don’t go off on anyone, except me.”  She gets up and puts her hands on Charlie’s face.  “Let me be your anger sponge.”

“Darcy, that’s not healthy!” Charlie cries. 

“I’m joking, obviously.  Don’t go off on anyone,” she replies. 

Charlie sits down, rubbing his temples.  “I’m not even angry at him, right now…I’m angry at myself. I’m angry that I keep letting myself fall back into bed with him, over and over again.”

Darcy pulls a chair over next to him, pausing for a moment and rubbing his arm gently.  “We all make mistakes, Charlie.”

“I know.  I just wish I hadn’t repeated the same stupid ones with him,” Charlie mutters.    

Darcy doesn’t respond to that, but continues to massage his arm softly.  Charlie does his best to breathe, to clear his mind.  He doesn’t need to spiral over Thatcher right now.  He’s been in contact with his therapist since the announcement, which was useful to help him process it.  They told Charlie to expect to experience different symptoms of grief in a variety of ways.  Charlie spent most of the session talking about how angry he was with Thatcher and how disappointed he was in the lie about making a plan to come out — both at Thatcher for making it and himself for believing it.  His therapist reminded him that whatever he’s feeling is valid, and Charlie makes a mental note to reach out again for a quick appointment in the wake of his rapidly changing emotions.  He needs to forgive himself for misplacing his trust in Thatcher.

Early June

“Let’s revisit the Energy and Commerce meeting” Tara says.  

“No, not again?” Nick whines.  

“Yes.  You need some more leverage and ammunition against Skipper’s bill.  Or at least some sort of strategy to amend it,” Tara insists, pulling out a manila folder clearly labeled “Energy.” 

Nick twiddles his hands restlessly.  “Why this renewed focus? The testimony isn’t for weeks.”

A wry smile appears on her face.  “I suppose you haven’t seen this clip then, have you?”

“Clip?”

Tara pulls out her phone and types into the web browser furiously.  She pulls up an interview with Atticus Corey and — of course — Charlie Spring.  Nick furrows his brows, immediately apprehensive as to what he’s about to see.  

He watches as Charlie looks adorably impish, navigating the  leading questions meant to throw Nick under the bus. It’s a testament to their pledge of professionalism.  And then Atticus Corey asks Charlie about the Energy and Commerce committee and the gloves really come off — not about Nick, per se, but the committee’s work in general — Charlie metaphorically douses the entire energy bill they’re working on with lighter fluid and tosses a match at it. 

...Trash it completely, because in its current state, that’s where it belongs…  

Nick groans.  Hearing that invokes a whole mess of feelings, because Nick knows that the bill isn’t perfect, he knows that Charlie hates its lack of renewable energy investments and other features, and he hates that Charlie doesn’t know how much behind the scenes work Nick has been doing to try to persuade other committee members to turn against Skipper and amend it.  At the same time, Charlie’s confidence in the assessment of the bill, his knowledge regarding energy sources, and his dashing looks in the interview just makes Nick lick his lips.  He had never regarded competency as sexy until the past few months, and Charlie Spring sounds incredibly competent. 

When he finally comes to, he notices Tara staring at him inquisitively.  “You okay there, Nick?”

“Huh? Oh.  Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” Nick declares adamantly.  “Quite fine.  I just… can’t with him sometimes.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, Tara.  He just gets me so… argh!” Nick grunts through clenched teeth.

Tara looks even more confused.  “So argh?   What?  Use your words, Nick.”

Nick sighs, closing his eyes for a minute.  “Big feelings, Tara.  Really intense, big feelings, many which I still can’t fully explain or comprehend.”

“Oh.”

“He’s just…”

“Argh?”

Nick nods.  “Yeah.”

Tara exits out of the clip and leans back.  “Remember, Nick… we were friends before I was your Chief of Staff.  You can still talk to me about what’s going on.  Not to mention, I wouldn’t mind meeting up with his Chief of Staff again to talk things over.” 

Nick cocks an eyebrow at Tara.  “Oh?”

Tara smirks.  “She’s definitely a lesbian, and the last time we had that meeting, I’m pretty sure she was indicating that she wanted to get a drink, just the two of us.”  

Nick chuckles softly.  Tara’s quietly a lesbian, in the sense that she very rarely goes on dates, doesn’t talk about it very much, and mostly respectfully ogles pretty women.  Asking a woman on a date would be a huge step for her, and Nick knows that.  He doesn’t seem to really care if it’s his frenemy’s Chief of Staff, only that Tara feels confident enough to even consider it. 

“Do it, Tara,” Nick says quietly.

She looks up at him, grinning.  “Really?”

Nick nods enthusiastically, before getting up to head off to his meeting.  “Someone around her has to get some romantic action, god knows you deserve it.”  

Tara just smirks back at him.  As he leaves his office, he barely hears her mutter under her breath, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you'll be getting your own sometime soon, as well.” 

What that could reference, Nick’s not entirely certain.   If his meeting didn’t start in five minutes he would double back and ask her himself.  He runs to catch the elevator down to a conference room in Rayburn, where they’ve scheduled this unusual combined meeting.  

This time, several subcommittees are meeting in tandem, to make sure that legislation coordinates or to determine if it can be put together into one larger bill.  On his way down, he brushes past Charlie, who seems to be loitering around the conference room.  He waves shyly at Nick, who waves back in a friendly manner.  He’ll let Charlie’s interview comment slide, mostly out of deference to the fact that his criticisms ring true.  

The committee meeting flows pretty productively.  Several other members voice similar concerns to what Charlie brought up in the interview, many feeling that the bill might not pass without several changes.  Much of this chatter seems to get Skipper worked up; unsurprisingly, he resists major changes to it, even though it may mean the bill falling through altogether.  He also takes this time to be publicly cranky about Charlie, even if only people sitting immediately around him hear about it.

“He shouldn’t be throwing senior members under the bus like that,” Skipper grumbles under his breath. 

The member to his left raises her eyebrows, but says nothing.  Nick just shakes his head and sighs. 

“What?” 

“I don’t think he really cares much for stuff like that, Skipper, sir,” Nick whispers. 

Skipper just scowls and mumbles something that Nick can’t catch.  Honestly, Nick doesn’t care to catch what he said in reply, anyway.  He knows that Skipper’s bill isn’t what his constituents really want; he knows that many of the Democratic voters want expanded renewables and investments in EV infrastructure, both of which Charlie brought up in the interview.  Sooner or later, Skipper will have to come to terms with that reality.  It is politics, after all; there’s a degree of give and take that must be accounted for.  He and Charlie see eye-to-eye on this — finally something they can truly collaborate on, even though Charlie doesn’t work on the committee.    

After the meeting, Nick notices that he missed a call from Sahar, and that she left a voicemail.  Nervously, he goes to listen to it. His stomach lurches at the thought of a sudden difficulty in the process.  Taking a deep breath, he presses play, and holds the phone up to his ear, to hear Sahar’s smooth voice.

“Hi Nick.  Fabulous news — all of the paperwork is squared away with Travis County.  The terms have been accepted by both parties, and it’s now being processed and finalized.  I’m going to contact Tara about this, as I’m sure she can find these services for you, but need to have your house vacated by the end of the month, so that it can be put on the market.  In the coming weeks, you should receive wire transfers of the liquid assets listed in the terms of the divorce. If we need you to sign anything else, we’ll send it over to Tara for you to look at, or I’ll call you directly.  Cheers!”

Checking his email, Nick sees an electronic copy of the details that Sahar skimmed over in her message.  His stomach lurches in shock when he sees the figures.  In liquid assets alone, he’s set to receive a whopping 3.5 million dollars.  And while he needs to spend a chunk of that on finding a new house in Austin and a new vehicle to replace his ancient truck, the fact that he will have probably well over two million dollars left after that doesn’t excite him in the slightest.  No amount of money will help him recover from what he went through the past four months. 

He can only remain hopeful that with a finalized divorce, he can finally move forward and find someone who wants to be with him.  Someone who appreciates him for who he is, not who they want him to be. 

Mid June

The last time Charlie saw a baseball game was when his father took him to a Mariners game at age fifteen, shortly after Charlie moved to Seattle.  Julio insisted that they spend quality time together that way, and Charlie didn’t complain — he could look at baseball butts all day and pretend to care about the game.  When he finally came out to his parents, Julio felt more devastation over the fact that he didn’t actually like baseball than he did about Charlie being gay.  He made a mental note to send his father any pictures from the game.  Julio would be absolutely tickled to see it. 

Charlie suits up in the provided baseball gear, evaluating himself in the mirror before he leaves.  The uniform trousers do all sorts of excellent things for his posterior, not that there will be anyone there to show off to.  He hops on the Yellow Line to L’Enfant Plaza, transfers to the Green, getting off at Navy Yard.  A few people stare at him quizzically in his baseball gear.  

On his walk from the Metro station, he hums “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” envisioning the lyrics in his head.  After the fifth go at it, he begins swapping out lyrics to make more interesting combinations.  Most of them are downright filthy.

At one point, “Buy me some penis and Nick’s tight ass” replaces “Buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks,” which makes Charlie immediately flinch at his own ridiculousness. 

That’s when he sees him — Nick.  Despite all of his digging to find the team roster, Charlie missed Nick’s name on it.  He’s woefully unprepared for this development.  As if it wasn’t enough to see Nick in well tailored suits and dress shirts, now he must be forced into proximity while Nick wears those tight baseball trousers.  It’s slated to be exceptionally hot and muggy that day, and between that fact and having to watch Nick’s ass in that uniform, Charlie’s certain he’ll die of heat stroke.  

Here Lies Charles Ulysses Spring.  Horny Homosexual.  

Curiously, when he makes eye-contact with Nick, he notices an equally vacant look in the man’s face.  Could it be…? 

No.  Charlie tries his best to dash thoughts of Nick being into him — the man is getting divorced from his wife, and unless he’s undergoing some sexuality crisis, he’s definitely straight.  Charlie forces himself to think about professionalism and fun, the former to quell ridiculous thoughts about Nick and the latter to remind himself no to take this too seriously. 

In theory, Charlie knows how to swing a baseball bat.  He’s done it before in P.E., many years ago.  He’s watched enough baseball to understand how to position oneself for batting, and quietly took himself down to some batting cages earlier this week.  Before the game begins, he picks out a bat and does a few practice swings, repositioning himself to a stance that feels natural.  From behind him, he hears a coughing noise.

Charlie turns around to find Nick staring at him with an amused look.  “What?”

Nick shakes his head, grinning.  “You sure you know how to do that?  I mean… I can show you how to bat. Here…”

Nick sidles up next to Charlie, tugging at Charlie’s bat.  Sighing, he relents and hands it to Nick, who immediately positions himself.  “Like this, see?”

Oh, Charlie certainly can see that thick mound facing him.  He almost wonders if Nick is doing this intentionally, before he squashes that thought.  Charlie cocks an eyebrow at Nick, who falls out of the position before handing the bat back to Charlie.  

“Trust me, I know how to handle a big bat,” Charlie teases, winking at Nick.  

Immediately, Nick turns bright red and starts to babble, “Oh I mean, I… I didn’t mean to assume, I mean…”

Charlie just sticks out his tongue and walks to the dugout.  Democrats lost the game last year, and so they have to bat first. He's ready for anything, and though he’s sworn himself to have fun, a little bit of his competitive edge bubbles up inside of him.  If he can’t use it to crush the Republicans, he can certainly do his best to show up Nick.  

Just for fun, though.  

Mid June - “Swing, Swing” by The All-American Rejects

Charlie Spring’s title should be “Menace Extraordinaire.”  He clearly knows what he’s doing to Nick, per the commentary on being able to “handle a big bat,” even though Nick doesn’t think he’s given him much reason to be overly flirty.  Nick knows that he stared at Charlie for an inordinate amount of time when he entered the stadium, but surely that wasn’t a dead giveaway?  He was being friendly when he offered to show Charlie how to bat, something he probably shouldn’t have assumed Charlie needed. 

Nick needs to stop denying to himself that he likes it, because he does.  He revels in the feelings he gets when Charlie’s around him, even when Charlie’s a bit prickly.  He knows he finds Charlie attractive, despite still being unable to fully wrap his head around what that means for his sexuality.  He wouldn’t mind if their relationship transcended the tense phase into something friendlier and more flirtatious.  

Before he can dive deeper into this examination of his infatuation, the game begins.   

Their first batter ends up hitting a pop fly into left field, easily caught by the left fielder for their first out.  Nick groans at the unfortunate start to the game.  He’s naturally competitive at sports and would really like to win, but given their roster he has some doubts.  Suddenly he realizes, Charlie’s been called up to bat. 

Fuck, does his ass look good in that uniform, Nick thinks.  He triple checks himself to make sure he’s not staring or biting his lip as he watches, something that becomes incredibly difficult.  Surreptitiously he checks the front of his trousers to make sure he hasn’t pitched a tent.  He spends an undue amount of time analyzing each facet of Charlie’s body, how the uniform complements it, how it hugs his legs.  

His whole lower body appears firm and taut, leaving little to the imagination.  The short sleeves of the uniform reveal many of the tattoos on Charlie’s left arm;  Nick’s only seen them once or twice before at the gym.  Something about the baseball uniform gives him a deeper appreciation for Charlie’s body overall.  It hits differently than simple gym gear. 

“C’mon, Charlie!” Nick cheers enthusiastically.  

On his first swing, he misses by a hair.  The swing itself looked quite powerful, impressive, and well controlled.  Nick holds his breath at the second pitch.

A crack resounds through the air, as Charlie hits a line drive single into center-field.  He runs furiously toward first base, mesmerizing Nick further.  Nick keeps his eyes glued to him, seeing the sweat pearl up on his face and hair.  Rendered uninhibited by the excitement of the game, his mind immediately generates the image of Nick licking the sweat off Charlie’s neck, before sucking the flushed skin there.  Only when he hears hollering does he snap out of his daze to find that Charlie has stolen second base, just as the pitcher threw his first pitch to their next batter.  The catcher is unable to get the ball to the second baseman fast enough to get Charlie out.  The team goes wild, Nick one of the loudest among them. 

The batter secures a solid hit to left field, evading the third baseman and shortstop, giving Charlie enough time to head to third base.  Nick remains utterly amazed by how well he’s doing out there and how fast he can run.  He can’t keep his eyes off of Charlie, his panting breaths as he recovers from the sprint to third.  And then he’s snapped out of it.

“Nick, you’re up!”  Jon Ossoff yells at him.  

Nick played baseball for fun as a teenager, except when basketball season took up too much of his time.  Due to his stature, the Republicans all assume that he’s going to be a power hitter, and as much as he’d like to fake them out, he thinks the best way to secure points would be to pull for a home-run.  The first pitch almost hits him — probably an attempted dirty tactic to get him to walk instead of hit.  He adjusts himself slightly and focuses on the pitcher.  

Crack.  

Nick hits the ball deep into the right field, way back, and then he takes off.  He knows he’s not out, as no calls have been made.  It’s only when he’s rounding second base that he realizes that he batted a home run, the umpire twirling their finger around makes it official.  Roars erupt from the stands and the dugout as Nick jogs himself back into home, tallying up three runs for the team.  Back in the dugout, the team claps him on the back for his hit, but he’s only really interested in congratulations from one person.  One who is currently spraying water from a bottle all over his face and hair.  

Nick’s heart races and his throat constricts slightly at the sight of droplets of water sliding down Charlie’s skin, dripping off of his curls.  You can do this, Nick.

“You did brilliantly, Charlie,” Nick gasps out, putting both of his hands on Charlie’s arms.  “Stealing the base like that and everything.” 

Charlie’s eyes swim with a playful energy.  He smirks impishly, and bats his eyelashes.  “Told you I know how to handle a big bat.”

They end up crushing the Republicans this year, thirteen to five.  Nick doesn’t particularly care in the end.  All he can remember are all of the little moments between him and Charlie, and how intentional each felt at the time.  His heart has barely come back together after the unraveling of his marriage, yet it seems to be yearning for company on its healing journey.  Is he losing it, or is there something more between them brewing beneath the surface?  He’s not sure how to find out, and he’s afraid to be dead wrong about this. 

Late June - “Sticks and Stones (ft. Charlotte Sands),” by JORDY

Charlie cannot escape analyzing the interactions between him and Nick at the Congressional baseball game.  

Flirty.  Immensely flirty.  He can’t read it any other way.  Back at work, he’s toned it down a bit, but their interactions feel kinder, gentler than before.  Even though they’re working on Charlie’s education bill now, Nick hasn’t returned fire.  If anything, it appears that Nick wants to see if the bill can withstand scrutiny on its own.  That makes Charlie feel even guiltier about the effort he put into tearing down Nick’s bill.  

Worst of all, Charlie doesn’t know how to apologize for it, or if he even should apologize for it. 

It’s politics, and Charlie did what he thought was right to make things better.

And yet it still makes him feel unwell.  

When Nick approaches him to talk about something after their latest subcommittee working session, he feels a bit tense.  Nick doesn’t have his typical jovial look from the past few weeks, but instead a gruffer one.  They go to Nick’s office to chat under the string-lights.  Charlie certainly hopes they will cultivate a calmer atmosphere.  

“So,” he begins.

Charlie fidgets a bit.  “So…”

Nick sighs.  “Stupid Skipper made me promise to talk to you about the interview, back in May, and I’ve been putting it off…”

Charlie rolls his eyes.  “Oh god, please spare me —”

“I’m not mad,” Nick interjects.  “I mean, I was kind of annoyed, but in the end it was more because Skipper has been annoying about it.  I understand where you’re coming from.”

“Oh, do you?” Charlie says, cocking an eyebrow at Nick.

Nick just nods quickly, trying not to fall into the trap of a semi-seductive glare.  “I know my constituents want the same things that you mentioned.  Skipper, though…”

“Skipper is mad,” Charlie says plainly.  

“Yes.  Skipper is mad about it,” Nick confirms.

For a brief moment, silence descends between the two of them before Charlie snorts.  Nick looks up at him with widened eyes.  “What?”

Charlie continues laughing.  “That man can eat a bag of dicks and go caucus with the Republicans.” 

Nick frowns.  “Isn’t that a bit harsh, Charlie?” 

“No, he’s tepid at best on a plethora of issues, including Queer issues.  Republican-lite.  He can fuck off,” Charlie huffs.

Nick sighs, and slumps back in his chair.  “Well, I tried.  I did basically tell him that you wouldn’t care…”

“Nope,” Charlie replies immediately.  “And listen.  I’m doing my best not to agitate.  I mean… I feel terrible about what I did…”

“Oh?”

Charlie nods.  “It was childish of me, just because you voted no back in January.  There were better ways to handle it, but….”

“We’re even, then,” Nick says firmly.

Charlie gets up to head out to another meeting, turning back to smile at Nick.  He can feel his cheeks burning, his dimples pronounced with how strong it feels.  “I guess so.”  

In the low light of the office, he can see Nick’s face warming up.  Before Charlie heads out, Nick calls him to wait.  He gets up from his desk, and gives Charlie a hug — one that lasts longer than you would expect from a colleague and a budding friendship.  One that’s charged with an energy beyond the platonic.  

Charlie can feel Nick’s face pressed against his head, Nick’s breath rattling unsteadily in his hair.  Is he smelling me?   

After ten seconds, he pulls back, but keeps his hands on Charlie’s shoulders.  Charlie can barely breathe, his lungs inundated with eau de Nick, his body seared by his hug and lingering touch, and his legs surreptitiously wobbling.  

“Don’t hold back, Charlie.  Against Skipper, or anyone really.  I mean… I would love to talk things over with you first, but… follow your instinct.  I know you mean well, that you want to push things to be better for more people,” he says quietly. 

Charlie swallows roughly, finally finding air.  “Thank you, Nick.”

The rest of the day, Charlie can barely focus.  All his mind can seem to think about is Nick’s sturdy body pressed up against him and the solid embrace he was held in.  It’s terrifying, yet exhilarating, and he hasn’t the faintest clue what’s happening between them, or if anything will happen between them.  Lines appear blurred between platonic and romantic, and it’s just so, so confusing.  He knows he’s dreamed about a non-platonic relationship with Nick, back when even a platonic relationship seemed completely off the table, but he’s never thought about what leads up to that.  It’s terrifying.

And if he’s wrong… the fallout from it could be disastrous.  

Late June - “I Did Something Bad,” by Taylor Swift

Nick should be used to the sweltering, humid heat of DC given that eastern Texas and Louisiana essentially have similar weather.  Yet his older air conditioning can barely keep up in the fight against both heat and humidity.  He’d like to say that that’s the only reason why he tosses and turns at night.  

Lately the biggest reason for his fitful sleep tends to be the upcoming change in his life — buying a new house in Austin in just a few days over the June-and-Fourth-of-July recess, finally accepting the fact that his divorce has been finalized, but most importantly… his feelings regarding Charlie Ulysses Spring. 

Yes, he looked up Charlie’s middle name.  Oddly, he finds the homage to the American president and Civil War General endearing.

Truth be told, he finds a lot about Charlie endearing.  Scratch that — he finds a lot about Charlie arousing. 

Last night, he spent a collective hour watching campaign speeches that Charlie made last year.  Dripping with energy, Charlie’s desire to make palpable change, Nick himself felt fired up.  They didn’t disagree on that many issues, and probably just saw different avenues in which to get to the same place.  He had to re-watch some of the clips because he found himself getting lost in his examination of Charlie’s features — the line of Charlie’s jaw, the way his eyes glimmer in different lightings, how sexy he looks when he rolls back the sleeves of his button-down shirts.

Compounding this, Nick recently began reading more about human sexuality.  Bill and Claude provided him with various sources, including books from the past two decades that have allowed him to consider where he falls.  He’s at least accepted the fact that he’s definitely not straight, but beyond that, he’s not certain.  Bisexual? Pansexual? Queer? Unlabeled?  

Nick mulls over conversations he has had with his neighbors.  Over the past few weeks they’ve discussed how internalized homophobia and compulsory heterosexuality can damage one’s ability to fully understand the nuances in their own feelings, desires, and attractions.  

Claude offhandedly suggested therapy.  Nick’s strongly considering it.  Unpacking nearly three decades worth of conditioning and internalization of homophobic remarks isn’t easily done. 

He decides to lean into the feelings for the night instead of tossing and turning for another hour.  Conjuring memories from the baseball game of Charlie in that uniform immediately gets him hard.  It doesn’t take much to imagine his hands all over Charlie, one on his ass and the other in his hair as they kiss.  In his mind, Charlie takes the initiative and reaches into his trousers to stroke Nick.  Yes — this is the fantasy.  He spits into his hand and grips himself, tugging his foreskin back and working the saliva into his strokes.  The entire time he imagines his own hand to be Charlie’s.  

While he works himself with one hand, he traces his other hand from his pelvis, up his stomach, and to his chest.  Curiously he swipes over one of his nipples, sending a little shock wave through his body.  Oh.  

Ever since reading about erogenous zones, he’s wondered if he had some of the more common ones.  Gingerly he tweaks, causing tingles to shoot down his spine.  In his highly aroused state, his brain adds that detail to his fantasies — a quick lick of his finger, another swipe, and now it’s Charlie licking his nipple, begging to nibble on it.  

That thought alone sends him from zero to sixty, and a clenching feeling emerges in his lower abdomen and pelvis.  It’s only been seven minutes  and he’s already on the verge of coming just thinking about Charlie Spring doing all sorts of things to him.  When fantasy Charlie nibbles his ear and whispers something about playing with Nick’s prostate (something Nick’s never explored before), Nick jolts from the resulting climax.  It’s been a solid week, and he seems to have shot all the way up to his chest.  He’s never quite come like that before. 

On his morning commute it hits him that he’s going to see Charlie that day,around the building and during votes.  He can't quite describe his mental state at that realization - somewhere between fluster and mild embarrassment, if there’s even an actual word for it.  He’ll need to keep as much composure as possible.  

Between meetings and the floor vote, they barely see one another… until Nick returns to Rayburn that evening.  He wants to minimize the amount of work he needs to take with him back to Austin, maximizing the time available for house hunting, and so he opts for an after-dinner work session.  

He notices a light on in Charlie’s office, but doesn’t knock, dipping into his own office quietly instead.  No distractions when burning the midnight oil.  He loses track of time as he highlights sections of bills, puts together a list of things he needs to ask his realtor, and reviews his itinerary for the recess.  Shortly after ten PM, he packs up his things and goes to head out.  

Charlie Spring stands in front of his door, apparently in the middle of an internal argument as to whether or not he should knock.  His eyes look pinkish-red, like he just stopped crying moments ago. 

“Charlie… what happened?” Nick asks, pulling him out of the hallway and into his deserted outer office.

Charlie just shakes his head.  “I’m sorry, it’s just so stupid…”

“Is it Thatcher?”

A quiet sob leaves Charlie’s mouth.  Nick motions for Charlie to follow him out of the open area, and into his private office.  

“What happened?” 

Charlie steadies his breath.  “He’s called me… five times today.  This morning, I thought it was some butt-dial or something.  And then tonight, an hour ago he called me four times, back-to-back…”

“Christ,” Nick mutters.

“Leaving voicemails — I deleted them all, and then texts… I just…” Charlie babbles out.

“Shh, it's okay.  You don’t have to explain,” Nick reassures him. 

Charlie shakes his head.  “No, it’s just a lot.  It comes in waves, bouts of anger, frustration, and loneliness… and I hate it.” 

Nick extends his hand to squeeze Charlie’s shoulder, in attempt to calm.  “Listen, I know we didn’t start on the best of terms, but you can talk to me about this.  I get it.  My divorce was just finalized, we’ve both had our hearts broken —”

“Are you sure about that?”  Charlie whispers.  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m quite a lot.  Some might even say that I’m too much.”

Nick pauses for a second, feeling his heart thunder in his chest.  Hearing Charlie say “I’m too much” hurts, even while Nick has been on the receiving end of Charlie’s passions, his zealousness for policy and equity.  A flare of indignation ignites inside Nick as he visualizes Thatcher telling Charlie he’s too much and then riding off into the sunset with his London heiress.  He’s lost for words, unable to cobble together a sentence to comfort Charlie.

His mind also appears lost elsewhere, as he’s now got both of his hands on each of Charlie’s shoulders.  Those bright blue eyes don’t look icy tonight as they peer into Nick’s, if anything they’re searching.  Searching for understanding, trying to reach a conclusion about Nick’s silence, what their sudden proximity means, why Nick has both of his hands on Charlie.  Why those hands have trailed up Charlie’s neck and onto his face, thumbs wiping away the remnants of tears.  Charlie’s hands find their way to Nick’s biceps, giving a gentle brush of thanks, before moving to Nick’s back.  He’s being pulled in even closer by Charlie. 

Nick doesn’t know what compels him to do it, besides the fact that he’s been dreaming about it for weeks now and doesn’t know what else to say.  Before he can override his own desires, he pulls himself closer to Charlie’s face and plants his lips onto Charlie’s.  

Despite the shock, Charlie seems to melt into this kiss, putting his arms around Nick’s waist.  Nick thinks Charlie’s lips feel like plump pillows and his mouth tastes like fruit, perhaps pear or strawberry?, and coffee from a late-night snack.  Sizzling, crackling feelings extend down the length of his limbs, shooting arousal throughout his body.  

Fuzziness distorts his sensations as they pull apart, both he and Charlie looking at each other nervously.  He can sense an edge to Charlie’s demeanor.  Did they really just do that?

“I’m… I’m going to go,” Charlie breathes out shallowly.  “Go…go get my stuff.”

Nick swallows and nods his head, whispering back quietly, “Okay.” 

He exits the office, and Nick follows after him, not sure of what to make about that reaction.  To be fair, Charlie probably feels quite stunned right now, but a darker part of Nick immediately rears its head — he’s ruined it, hasn’t he?  Didn’t even ask Charlie for the kiss, and now the man has scurried back to his office, probably to take cover until Nick leaves.  

Nick hastily makes sure that the office doors are locked, before turning to look down the hallway at Charlie’s office, his eyes lingering on the pride flag there.  He waits for five minutes, each passing moment reinforcing his worst thoughts.  

A tidal wave of emotions strikes him.  This is the first time he’s properly kissed a man, and under these circumstances it feels like he’s done something wrong.  Did he take advantage of Charlie in his moment of emotional vulnerability?  Is Nick defective, or is he just stupid?  He can feel himself shaking, in desperate need of a moment to collect his thoughts, to sort them and understand them.

In his panicking mind, the best and simplest solution is to disappear.

And so he does.  He bolts before he can make the situation worse. 

End of June, Recess: Seattle, Washington - “Cruel Summer” by Taylor Swift

“Again, Charlie.  You sound rather hollow,” Darcy groans. 

There's a good reason why he can’t focus at all on this pre-recorded message for the Sierra Club of Washington State, and that’s his continuous three day spiral.  He’s spent forty-eight hours processing his kiss with Nick already, but most of that’s been interrupted regularly by campaign business. 

Charlie groans. “This is the eighth time now, Darcy.  Can we take a short break?”

“Only if that short break involves you telling me what’s happened that’s got you completely out of it.” 

Charlie pauses, and then shakes his head.  “Never mind, roll it for the ninth time.” 

He really can’t tell her what happened at all, because truth be told, he doesn’t fully understand it himself.   That night, he had been working late on some bills to lighten his load for the recess and was disturbed by Thatcher’s incessant calls and messages.  Feeling overwhelmed, he got up to take a walk and noticed lights on in Nick’s office.  Their relationship had thawed enough in the past month that a good talk with his friendly colleague might have helped him calm down.  

Not a kiss, though.  

Not a kiss that melted Charlie’s legs like candle wax and made his insides turn to maple syrup.  One that felt wholly unexpected given the circumstances.  

And then Charlie made it worse.  He could barely get out a complete sentence, didn’t ask Nick to even wait for him, and then full on panicked when he went back to his office.  Charlie ended up taking much longer than he anticipated.  By the time he left, Nick had rushed off, probably in a combination of regret and embarrassment at Charlie’s seemingly horrified reaction to the whole thing.  

Worse yet, he hasn’t the slightest clue how best to reach him — have Darcy reach out to his Chief of Staff, Tara Jones?  Or should he reach out to her?  Either way, both provided plenty of pitfalls.  Darcy to Tara feels stiffly formal and indirect, him calling the Chief of Staff directly feels alarming, and both ways feel like they’d raise plenty of questions that Nick might not be ready to answer. 

On the tenth try, Charlie finally nails the recording.  They’ve got several more to do over the next few days, and he really needs to get his shit together.  He shoots Darcy a look that screams “I don’t want to talk about it,” and she relents, letting him go home for the evening.  Later that night he puts on some relaxing music and tries to clear his mind enough to think about everything.  He can conclude several conflicting things that he feels deeply:

• He would like to get to know Nick better as a person, as a friend.

• He finds Nick insanely attractive, and he enjoyed the kiss immensely.

• He would like more of that, and then some.

• He can’t handle being emotionally fucked over by another man.

Charlie deserves more than secret dating, and hence everything about Nick scares him.  There’s nothing online that indicates Nick has ever mentioned pansexuality, bisexuality, or being unlabeled, nor has he heard the man utter anything like that.  In fact, his own lack of knowledge about the difficulties of coming out suggests “ginormous heterosexual.”  

Charlie searches for clues for hours, and simply nothing turns up.  He just finalized a divorce with someone who sounds the epitome of awful, based on the few gossip rags that pop up.  Messy and dangerous, but enticing.  At this point he ought to recognize his weakness, being unable to resist situations like this. 

Thirty solid minutes spent deep in thought resolve absolutely nothing.  His only recourse is to talk to Nick in person when they’re back in session.  

That won’t save him from overthinking in the meantime. 

After another day of campaign videos and other events, he meets up with Elle and Tao at Fremont Brewery.  He sits quietly as they order their drinks, sipping a hazy IPA.  Part of him worries about revealing too much to them, especially since Elle can pick up so easily on the nuances in his mood.  They each carry back a flight of four beers and sit across from Charlie.  

“So… you set for our camping trip in August?” Elle begins.

Charlie nods.  “Yeah!  All set.  I’ll have to move something around, but Darcy really thinks it would be a great idea for me to decompress.”

“Agreed — I’m so looking forward to it,” Tao says cheerfully, before his face turns a bit sour.  “We barely hear from you, Charlie.”

Charlie sips his beer and frowns.  “I know.  I feel terrible.  I’m frequently exhausted and things get so busy, and…”

“You’ve had a rough go with things,” Elle says quietly.  Charlie just nods in response, understanding her unspoken acknowledgment of the Thatcher engagement.  

“But that’s not the only thing,” she adds, gazing at him knowingly.  

Charlie shakes his head.  “No.  No, it’s not.”

“Tell us, Charlie,” Tao begs.  “We want to help you.”

“I can’t,” he replies.  “It’s… I hold a secret of sorts in confidence, and I can’t elaborate.”

Tao and Elle exchange glances with one another, before Tao speaks again.  “Your life’s not in danger, is it?”

Charlie looks down at his beer and laughs.  “Oh my god, no!  No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Oh thank god,” Elle sighs.  “I think we’ve been watching too much House of Cards and Scandal.”  

Charlie snorts, almost choking on the fresh swig of beer he had just taken.  Tao just shrugs and Elle giggles.  At that, neither of them push Charlie for details, which he’s thankful for.  Not that he even knows what he could tell them.  His hot, recently divorced, outwardly heterosexual colleague kissed him while he was in the middle of a small emotional breakdown?  Nothing about that sounds like a conversation he’d like to have with his friends.  

They spend the rest of their evening planning out the itinerary for their trip in August.  It feels silly, doing this over a month in advance, but Charlie isn’t sure he can pencil it in otherwise with July recess events and then July’s session.  By the time they part ways after eleven PM, they’ve made equipment lists, booked a rental car, and set travel times to and from the Olympic Peninsula. 

Later that night, as he tosses and turns, his mind can’t help but wander back to Nick.  The feeling of his lips pressed up against Charlie’s, his gentle touch on Charlie’s shoulders, neck, and face.  Eyes searching Charlie’s, baring his soul.  

Charlie knows that there’s something more there, despite every ounce of doubt that attempts to cloud his mind.  He remembers when he first realized he was gay, and all of the accompanying fears and worries that came with that moment.   Somewhere in Austin, Nick might be having that same moment, or possibly the penultimate moment of a longer journey.  Charlie aches for him just thinking about that.  He hurts, thinking that Nick knows nothing about Charlie's feelings, and how Nick must feel about being cut off entirely from understanding what went through Charlie’s head that night. 

But, what does Nick want?  That unknown terrifies Charlie the most, makes him want to squash these thoughts he gins up in his head about a Texan accent he’s growing increasingly fond of, pouty pink lips, alabaster and freckled skin, solid muscles, and overwhelming warmth of person.  Every passing moment thinking about it eats away at Charlie; he’s counting down the days until he sees Nick again and hopefully gets an answer.  

In the meantime, Charlie needs to decide what he wants.  How much is he willing to risk, to put on the line, if Nick wants to pursue something romantic with him?  He no longer can throw caution to the wind, given his position, and yet indecision threatens to hamper him completely.  

The quiet voice in the back of his head whispers, “Maybe it’s better off if you end up alone.” 

The thought feels painful, but protective.  

End of June, Recess: Austin, Texas - “Bad Liar” by Selena Gomez

This is your captain speaking. 

We’ll be landing in Austin, Texas within the hour  Local time, 6:35 PM.  

It’s a balmy eight-five degrees Fahrenheit.

We’re running a bit behind on this flight, due to weather delays out of DC.

But that’s nothing like the way he runs, his taut legs and flexing glutes. 

You can expect scattered showers in Austin.

Just imagine his hair soaked with raindrops – you already saw it slick with sweat and a drizzle of water.  Think about your hands running through the curls, giving them a sturdy tug as you fuck him right into the mattress.  

Please refrain from disturbing the overhead compartments before we land.  

Instead, imagine him giving you head in the lavatory.  We know you want to join the mile high club. 

Our crew will be around to pick up your trash and recyclables, including your complimentary beverages.  

Remember the taste of coffee on his breath, the hint of strawberry and pear on his lips.  Oh, the warm feeling of those plump, pouty puckers pressed against yours.

Please don’t block the aisles while the crew’s operating.  If your body’s in the way, it delays the deboarding process for everyone.  

Instead, envision his body — those sexy tattoos running up the length of his left arm.  How you’d like to nibble on his collarbone and run your tongue down his chest and abdominals, until you can mark up his strong runner thighs.

Bump.

The wheels of the airplane hit the runway harshly, jostling Nick.  He could feel a small glob of drool hanging off the corner of his mouth.  Hastily, he wiped it away with his sleeve.  God, he is so out of it.  That daydream of his was hot, mesmerizing, and downright weird.  He gives thanks that he had the prescience to strew his suit coat across his lap earlier in the flight.  Last thing he needs is for someone to snap a picture of him with a stiffy on a crowded airplane.  Taxiing the runway and delays at the gate provide him ample time to soften up. 

It had been a long flight filled with consternation, regret, and longing, on the tails of an emotionally exhausting day after the kiss with Charlie.  Nick quickly realized he had no way of directly reaching him to explain anything going through his head.  Not that he could do that at that moment, as it was still a messy cloud of feelings and emotions.  A plane is not the best place to have even a small breakdown, so he did his best to distract himself from what had happened until he dozed off – not a safe option either.  A short trip later from the airport to his hotel, he plunks down on a firm, king sized bed and sighs.  

Why did he do that?  

Kiss Charlie, in the middle of his emotional bout, nonetheless? 

Charlie deserved a calm, safe space to talk about how that twatwaffle Thatcher was making him feel, and Nick had ruined it.  He still hasn’t fully processed his divorce, nor has he even fully processed his own self-labeled sexuality crisis, and yet he’s making moves on a vulnerable man.  Nick hates how that makes him feel, and fears that Charlie thinks even worse of him now. Worse off, he doesn’t have his direct contact info — they had never exchanged it, mostly due to their acrimonious start in Washington.  

Social media teams regulate Charlie’s official handles to the best of Nick’s knowledge.  He can’t send a one-off “hey” to one of those, nor would it be a safe bet to ask Tara to call him unless he concocts some sort of pretense about why.  He cringes at the intrusive thought that Charlie wouldn’t even want to talk to him, fearing he’s set back whatever relationship has been developing between them permanently. 

He needs to better figure himself out. 

The following day he spends time circulating around various areas of his congressional district, looking at homes.  He finds house hunting tremendously difficult — his real estate agent recommended about a dozen homes for him to look through, and each of them needs to pass several physical hoops along with one massive mental hoop — Laurel.  Could he picture Laurel living in or visiting that neighborhood?  No matter how nice the house, he would pass if the answer to that question was yes.  He doesn’t want to explain this to his agent, but also wants to avoid being the fussiest client humanly possible.  

Luckily, several of the options fail to pass muster, regardless — too big, overpriced, no-character McMansions or expensive, soulless, neo-modern town homes.  

On the last leg of his search, he finds himself driving his rental car through the Jollyville area of Austin, an ironic destination given his mostly dour mood at that point in the trip.  His next destination sits on the edge of a small park, which already feels auspicious to him.  

When he pulls up on the street, his heart flutters slightly.  According to the specs, the house has only one floor, but is expansively laid out, with a modest 1500 square feet — more than enough space for his minimalist approach to home decor, but not too much for just him.  Architecturally, it looks ranch-style, immediately reminding him of his mother’s house, which keeps those happy flutters going.  For the first time on the trip, a first impression feels good. 

He can’t lie that it needs a bit of attention, but that’s not a problem since he has the money to update things as he sees fit.  The house is well maintained overall, with an older kitchen and bathrooms, but newer flooring and some cabinetry updates.  The prior owner painstakingly re-stained the old oak cabinets, stripping the orangey stain and swapping it for a modern grayish-white.  It feels homey, not swanky — normal.  The anti-Laurel. 

He pauses in the kitchen for a moment, picturing himself making breakfast there.  When he closes his eyes to fully visualize the moment, he’s not alone.  A lanky, toned, tan man with curly hair pours a cup of coffee for him, and gives him a kiss on the cheek.  Charlie. 

Charlie tells him that he’s going to take the dog out for a bit, and then they should go back to cuddle in bed.  

Nick snaps to, and glances at the kitchen-adjacent patio and enclosed yard.  He can see a golden retriever, a black lab, an Australian shepherd, or really any dog enjoying itself out there.   The idea that he hears Charlie there, too, makes his chest simultaneously bubble and prickle.  

He needs to stop deceiving himself about that man.  It’s beyond just attraction or finding him sexy — Nick’s fully smitten.  The only thing tempering him is the lack of knowledge regarding what Charlie feels, and the fact that he knows the man just got his heart crushed by another who knew their sexuality, but wasn’t out.  Nick doesn’t even know who he is these days, and if anything, Charlie will be even less likely to give him a chance because of that. 

After finishing his tour, he turns to his agent.  “Put in a cash offer for the listed price, with options to go above list as needed.”

“How much above?”  she asks, looking at him in confusion.

“Let’s say twenty to twenty-five thousand above,” he replies.

She looks totally shocked.  “Really?”

“I love this place,” he says, his voice dreamily sedated.  “It reminds me of home, but I also can picture some of the things I really want out of life being here.” 

“A dog, a wife, and two-point-five kids?” she teases. 

Nick thinks about two dogs, a dark, curly-haired husband, and a kid or two and smiles.  “Something like that.” 

After all, it’s worth dreaming, no matter how ridiculous or how much of a long-shot those dreams seem.  Even if your dream person might currently resent you. 

Chapter Text

Early July - Independence Day Recess, Austin, Texas

Nick pulls up his light-wash Wranglers, staring at himself in the hotel mirror.  Despite having been so busy and eaten a decent amount of takeout food over the past several months, his gym routine continues to pay off.  His legs look sturdy and thick in the jeans, the Wranglers doing his ass absolute justice.  

He normally doesn’t examine himself this closely in the mirror, but given that he’s now officially single again and that he’s having some sort of sexual awakening, he finds himself pondering who actually finds him attractive.  His chest appears firm and quite profound, his arms dense and strong, his shoulders sculpted.  Basketball training used to keep him lean, but his strong core has built up a small layer of fat over the years, leaving him looking a bit softer.  It’s taken him a few years, but he’s finally accepted his love handles.  

Tara got him a special t-shirt to wear during the Austin Independence Day Parade, one that would communicate his opposition to certain prolonged movements in Texas State politics.  He unfurls it and sees a rainbow across the chest, with cowboy boots in the middle of the rainbow.  Below them, in black lettering is spelled out “Y’ALL MEANS ALL.”  He really does love it — even before this awakening, he considered himself somewhat of an ally, at least politically.  He might not have known everything, but he would advance legislation protecting the community any day.  He pulls the shirt over his head, the fabric taut against his chest.  If it rains, the parade goers will definitely get a different kind of show. 

He puts on the leather belt that matches his brown Stetson.  Normally, he wouldn’t get overindulgent with belt buckles, but given the nature of the holiday, he opts for a patriotic oval buckle that’s red, white, and blue.  The blue reminds him of Charlie’s eyes, and he sighs.  Getting lost in those thoughts today won’t be helpful.  

He pulls on his cognac, Frye zip-up boots.  In the name of the holiday, he’s willing to embrace his more rural Texan roots for a bit of a show. 

The parade goes well enough; thankfully the rain holds off.  Nick waves a little American flag as he marches with supporters and staffers.  Tara holds a Nelson-Thibodeaux 2030 banner with another staffer.  Nick talks to people along the sidelines of the parade, taking photos with a few of them.  There are several incredibly enthusiastic women that desperately want photos with him; he’s sure it’s due to the fact that his divorce now seems to be slightly more widespread public knowledge.  They all remind him of Laurel, and he hates that fact.  He takes the photos with a polite smile on his face.

What he looks forward to the most is leaving immediately after the parade to go home to see his mother.  It’s been far too long since he’s last seen her; despite doing his best to call her weekly, it’s not enough.  Not to mention, some conversations work better when they’re done in person.  Around three PM he takes off in his rental sedan toward Beaumont.  He sold his old truck to an enthusiast when it finally became defunct; the man was certain he could transform it and get it running again.  He can’t go searching for a replacement on this recess, given how much he has on his plate.  Naturally, he wants another truck, with a very specific color scheme in mind.  

He makes his way across Texas in relative quiet. It’s comforting, and his head starts to clear.  It allows him extra time to consider his options going forward regarding Charlie.  

Not bringing it up — the worst option — floats through his mind.  Such an action would be ruinous.  He ponders asking Charlie out for coffee or drinks, just to talk about things, but then that sounds almost date-like.  It might send the wrong message.  The best option in Nick’s opinion involves a chat at work, perhaps in private, to establish that he’s sorry for doing such a thing under those circumstances, to ask for forgiveness, and to make sure Charlie realizes that he actually wants to be friends at least.  

He resolves to carry out this plan as soon as he can when they’re back in session.  Otherwise, drawing it out even longer could make things even more fraught, and the upcoming month-long August recess would be brutal.  

His mother greets him after seven PM, her characteristically warm Sarah Nelson hug unchanged.  

“Nicky, perfect timing.  The ribs are practically falling off the bone, and the pie has been cooling long enough to be eaten after dinner,” she says as she pulls away from the hug.  

He can see her eyes examining his shirt.  “Thanks, mama.  I always look forward to your ribs.  Still using your own spice rub and making your own sauce?”  

“Always,” she replies with a serious tone.  “Speaking of sauce, you better change out of that t-shirt before you eat.” 

“Aww, mama,” Nick whines.

“Don’t you mama me,” she says, interrupting him.  “It’s a nice t-shirt, and I know you… once you get ribs near your mouth you’ll end up with sauce all over your face and hands.  Next thing you know, you get it on the shirt and you’ll be whining to me when it won’t come out.”

He couldn’t argue with that.  Running up to his old room, he throws on a black University of Texas shirt with the orange longhorn symbol in the middle.  As he walks back downstairs, he notices a small area of the wall that appears slightly discolored.  In the low-light of the stairwell, he traces his fingers in a rectangular shape, until it clicks in his mind.  This is where the photo of David was hanging back at Christmas, one that had been relatively new prior to that point in time.  Either out of respect for him, or at some point since she last talked to him about what happened, his mother had taken it down, leaving behind a frame-less space with slightly faded wallpaper.  

The ribs are mouthwatering as usual, the rub and sauce providing an unmatched gustatory experience.  Sarah had been correct, of course — ample amounts of barbecue sauce cover his lips and chin, threatening messy hands.  He makes it through dinner without getting the sauce all over his shirt and jeans though.  

As they wait for their stomachs to settle before dessert, he can tell that Sarah nervously holds back her desire to talk about certain topics.  Chiefly, divorce and David.  

It is inevitable, however. 

“Nicky… how are you holding up?” 

Nick’s throat constricts a bit.  “Not well, honestly.”  

Sarah sits back and nods.  “It will pass.” 

“Will it?” he asks weakly.  

“It will, possibly faster for you.  You don’t have children to worry about, and whether or not they think you’re a failure,” she says distantly.  

Nick scrunches his face, frowning.  “Mama, you’re not a failure.  Why would you say that?”

“Your brother has never made it easy not to think that,” she grumbles.  

“To hell with David,” Nick retorts quickly, his jaw clenching.

“Sorry, baby… I shouldn’t have even brought him up,” Sarah whispers.  

Silence descends between the two of them for several minutes, both of them quietly attempting to gather their thoughts.  

Nick breaks that silence.  “I noticed that you took his photo down.”

She nods and hums.  “I had to.  Made me think too much about what he did to you.  To our family.”  

“Family’s a loose term,” Nick replies, unintentionally blunt.  “Sorry —”

“No,” Sarah replies.  “I suppose that’s reality.  It’s really you and me at this point, Nicky.” 

Nick sits back and considers that.  His grandparents live on the opposite side of the state, and so visiting them is quite difficult.  David officially excommunicated himself from their family.  Cousins and others live scattered around the South, and even the North.  His father remains reclusive as always, tucked away in his Louisiana bayou.  In a way, it seems unmistakably true.  

“Could you…” Nick begins quietly. “Could you tell me about how things went, between you and papa? 

“Well, we never really worked out,” she begins to say, before going silent, thoughtful and contemplative, before continuing.  “We got thrown together at a young age, and it didn’t make a lick of sense… obviously I have no regrets having you, but…”

“How did it get that way?”  Nick asks. 

Sarah shakes her head.  “I don’t really know.  We just weren’t really meant for one another.  Different dreams, different cultural realities.  I just wish it didn’t do things to you and…”

Nick put a hand on Sarah’s, giving it a gentle squeeze.  “I understand, mama.  I do.  I…”  

He pauses to collect himself, since he can feel that he’s getting misty.  “I feel like I never got a chance to decide for myself about my relationship with him.  He did that for me.”  

“Nicky…”

“Mama, I’m serious.  I don’t want you to feel bad about this.  I just want to know if what I’m feeling is normal,” Nick huffs out in frustration.  

Sarah shakes her head, her own cheeks red.  “Of course it’s normal!  You’ve every right to feel upset with your papa, Laurel and David, angry at them all, maybe even feel things about yourself.”

“Is that what you did?  Feel things about yourself?” Nick murmurs.

“Yeah.  I felt terrible, like I had just done something impossibly awful… cutting apart our family,” she says throatily.  “It took me time to realize that it was just as much Stéphane’s decision to divorce as mine.” 

Nick slumps in his chair a bit.  “Why do I feel the same way?  Like I’m somehow to blame for it all?”  

Sarah shakes her head vehemently.  “Absolutely not, Nicky.  That woman never met you half-way.  She turned on you, put all sorts of expectations on you that you didn’t want, and never compromised about it.”

“I suppose… that’s really how it went, if I think about it,” he replies.  There’s a pause, before he asks, “Do you know what she told me?”

“What?” Sarah shudders in apprehension.

“She didn’t think my interest in politics would be a ‘problem’ because she never thought I would win.  Never hoped I would win.” 

A scathing look appears on Sarah’s face.  “Well… bless her heart.”

Nick shakes his head.  “That’s when I knew things were pretty bad…when she openly admitted that.”

Sarah nods sagaciously.  “Her and David can fuck off.  I’ve never been so angry with him before… it just overpowers every maternal sense.”  

“Me too, mama.  Me, too.  I hope I never see him in public, because I don’t know what I’ll do…” 

Sarah slices up the peach pie, tearing right through the artfully constructed lattices. Nick fishes out a can of whipped cream for them, along with a half-gallon tub of french vanilla ice cream to serve it à la mode.  They both eat dessert without mentioning more of the two Ds, but rather catch up on other topics.  

Sarah seems keenly interested in the education policies moving through Congress, given her employment as a High School Counselor.  Nick tells her about the circulating ideas, and how they want to compel states to accept certain curricular changes.  While that draw-down of money worries Sarah, she understands why they would attempt it — Texas state curriculum has become decidedly and ridiculously lopsided in how it misconstrues historical fact with ludicrous fiction.

They spend the rest of the evening sipping lemonade outside in the muggy night air, watching fireworks overhead, talking about plenty of other things — Sarah’s work and Nick’s house-hunting adventure.  He shows her pictures of the house he put an offer in for, one that’s pending review; she cheerfully reviews them all, wishing him luck in the competitive Austin real estate market.  Truth be told, he’ll be gutted if they pass on his offer. 

That night in bed he reviews his conversation with his mother, poring over her words.  He lets the notion that Laurel brought this entirely upon herself truly sink in;  she was not forthright in her goals, in what she thought their marriage would be like, and she never tried to compromise with Nick on what he wanted to do with his life and how that would affect them as a couple.  Where he saw himself, where he saw them — none of that mattered to her at all.  They quickly unraveled because of that, and it only got worse when he pursued what he wanted.  Maybe if she had met him halfway, he wouldn’t be a member of Congress, but he also wouldn’t be a pawn to Forsythe Holdings.  She never considered that an option.   

Just like his mother and father, he and Laurel are from different worlds.  Incompatible.  It only took him five years to figure that out and accept that.  

He’s angry with himself for not being able to see under the veneer, for not realizing the twisted ways the Forsythes operate, their gross expectations.  It’s a start on the road to recovery, but a small one — there’s more work required to undo the damage done.  And that’s what he needs, more than ever.  He wants to find his old self again, but a niggling feeling holds up that thought.  

Given what he knows about himself now, what pieces of his old life are worth rediscovering?  Clearly, some of it is strewn with damages, hidden beneath the surface.  

How does he stitch the old parts together with the new, when he doesn’t even fully understand them?  

In a perfect world, he would gladly ask his mother for help there too, but the fear of her reaction paralyzes him.  She’s his only family, and the thought of losing that makes him curl up into a ball and shut down completely.

Early July – Independence Day Recess, Seattle, Washington 

Charlie stops himself from spiraling, but only just — there are a plethora of meetings and events to attend leading up to the Fourth of July, and all of them require his utmost attention.  Fundraisers for re-election at local gay bars and some other queer-owned businesses, preparing for and walking the annual Independence Day Parade, and a town hall meeting with constituents, to name a few.  The latter of which he’s currently walking on stage for, to a half-full auditorium.  Many of the attendees appear to be around retirement age, an unsurprising fact considering a working person would have to take the day off or have flexible work hours to attend.  Just another way that the economic system in the United States punishes the lower classes.  

Some teachers on their summer holidays are there, something he discovers as they pelt him with questions about educational policies and funding.  Many of them ask about funding initiatives, and so Charlie reviews some of the legislation their subcommittee works on.  He keeps things as informative as possible; the teachers listen openly and calmly, and Charlie does well enough navigating their inquiries.  It all appears to be well, until a crotchety man asks a question.

“Why bother with the curricular stuff?  I’m just confused as to how this impacts us here.” 

Charlie pauses for a moment, trying to concoct a response that isn’t dripping with admonishment or annoyance.  “I think the best answer to that question, sir, is national unity.  A significant proportion of our citizenry is educated to believe that certain historical events ‘weren’t that bad’ or don’t impact the modern day, when we have plenty of data to demonstrate that such a thing is far from the truth.  The question I ask myself when thinking about this policy is why should states be rewarded for this, especially when it causes conflict among our citizens?  We can’t heal the wounds of the past because very few people are equipped to understand how deep they truly are.”

The man has no response to that, but sits back down, deep in thought.  A couple of the teachers clap at that statement, but mostly murmurs meet Charlie’s ears.  He thinks that went pretty well, truth be told.  

A few people ask about energy, gas prices, and other “bread and butter” issues.  Charlie discusses co-sponsoring a bill to provide more incentives for hybrid and electric vehicles, but tells the crowd that the EV infrastructure is currently in limbo.  He informs them about the work being done on the Energy and Commerce committee, and how he’s trying to lobby committee members to ensure they amend the main bill to include those provisions.  

Afterward, he debriefs with Darcy. 

“You did really well, especially given the demographic of the crowd,” she says as they stop to pick up salads and pasta from a local supermarket’s prepared foods section.  

Charlie nods.  “I thought so, too.  I didn’t want to wax too philosophical, but I remembered seeing some poll about people feeling a lack of unity, so I ran with that theme.” 

“Good thinking, honestly.  And, it didn’t feel condescending or anything!"  She cheers. 

Charlie laughs.  “Oh, thanks!  So glad I didn’t come off as a ‘liberal elite’ or a snarky academic.”

They head off to headquarters, Darcy at the wheel and Charlie sitting buckled up with his eyes closed.  Riding shotgun with Darcy is a true life-or-death experience, and Charlie would rather not see his impending death in this circumstance.  They continue to gab on about upcoming events and strategies, along with preparations for the parade tomorrow.  Most of the details Charlie knows by heart now, except any sort of directive as to what he should wear for the event.  Usually Darcy provides some sort of intel on this, but apparently she’d rather not tell him about it and instead wants to show him.  Before they eat their lunch, she pulls a big bag out of one of her filing drawers.  

Charlie’s breath hitches.  “Oh god… please tell me I don’t have to wear a suit or a stuffy collared shirt for this?  It’s supposed to be almost eighty degrees tomorrow, and even though I run cold, that’s still hot.”

“Oh, on the contrary.  I have something a bit more… baring? Yes, baring,” she says, waggling her eyebrows.

“Christ,” Charlie murmurs.

She pulls out a red, white, and blue tank top, one that has “We’re not free until there’s truly liberty and justice for all” written on it in bold, black lettering, along with a pair of sandy-colored skinny chinos, and a Seattle Mariners baseball cap.  Charlie just stares at it all, guffawing.  

“The cap, which represents your high-scoring baseball prowess,” Darcy says, beginning to count on her hands.

He scoffs.  “Prowess?”

“Twenty-five percent of the team’s runs?  Yeah, that’s prowess!  Don’t even pretend you’re too good for it,” she scolds. 

Charlie huffs as she squashes the cap on his head.

“The chinos because we have to highlight your ass, so people know you’re not just a nerd, but a hot nerd,” she continues.  Charlie just gapes and blinks.

“And the tank for the same reason – show off those toned arms and tattoos, let everyone know how fucking cool you are.  You’re young, hot, and not some boring politician,” she finishes.

Charlie snorts. “I’m not a regular politician, I’m a cool politician.”   

“Don’t you snarkily quote Mean Girls at me, mister,” Darcy scolds playfully.  “I’m going to make you the Gay JFK, if it’s the last thing I do.”  

“Darcy, he got shot… I think we need to retool that comparison.  He also stuck his dick in practically anything that walked” Charlie chides. 

Darcy snorts.  “Not a inaccurate comparison then, Charles.”

Charlie turns bright red and huffs.  “I swear to god…”

The morning of the parade, Charlie pulls up his new chinos — they are skinny cut and hug him like they’re painted on his body.  He throws the tank top on and appraises himself in the mirror.  He feels mildly ridiculous, but he can’t deny that his arms look nice and his tattoos will look delightful with a bit of tattoo cream on them.  He pulls on his vintage Converse, and plops on the Mariner’s hat.  He really cannot wrap his head around what sort of image Darcy’s trying to convey here, but in a sense, he looks more accessible than the average politician.  

On his way down to the parade, he pulls up his personal Instagram on his phone to mindlessly scroll through to kill time.  It’s mind numbing, until he comes across an unexpected photo on his feed — Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux – evidently showing up on his feed due to their mutuals.  

In the back of the Uber, Charlie gay-gasps as he looks at the photos of Nick from Austin’s Independence Day Parade.  His cute leather boots and western hat catch his attention, until Charlie sees Nick’s other assets — chiefly the snugness of the denim on his legs.  He can see the side profile of that notable ass.  Most importantly, Nick wears a t-shirt that has “Y’ALL MEANS ALL” written on it, with a rainbow in the background.  Without even thinking, Charlie double-taps the picture and exits out of Instagram. 

He really needs to talk to Nick about their kiss and what that means for them when the House is back in session.  

The parade lasts several hours, and Charlie feels thankful that Darcy insisted that he wear the tank top because it felt sweltering.  He takes many photos with people in the parade, and with those lined up to watch.  Apparently his more casual look is quite popular with two crowds: the Seattle Moms and the Gay Bros.  One granny does say he reminded her of her grandson, which felt oddly calming and lovely to hear.  Besides the heat, it really was okay.  

Later that afternoon he zooms off to his family home for a get-together with his siblings; his parents both absent.  Busy wooing political clients, Jane cannot celebrate with them, and Julio currently is producing and directing a film in Chile.  

“Charlie!” Olly shouts at him from the upstairs window.  “Finally!”

“Hi, Ol!  Sorry I was busy parading around Seattle for work,” Charlie yells back, waving at him. 

By the time he enters the house, Olly has flown downstairs to give him a big hug. “Seriously bro, I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“It’s only been since April,” Charlie replies, but immediately pivots — he doesn’t want to talk about work stuff.  “How are you feeling about senior year?  Getting your summer work done?” 

“Crushing it,” he replies.  “Waiting on AP exams scores— they should be out soon.”

Tori joins them from the adjoining room, sipping on a lemonade, probably spiked with limoncello.  “Ask him about his university tours and thoughts,” she says darkly.  

Olly groans.  “Or don’t, please.”  

“Still haven’t narrowed it down?” Charlie pokes his brother.  They all walk to the backyard, where a fire pit is set up and some Adirondack chairs.  Michael is grilling veggie burgers, hamburgers, and hot dogs.  

He salutes Charlie, grinning wildly.  “There’s our favorite member of Congress.”  

“Michael!  Grill Master General! How’s it going?”  Charlie shoots back at him, smiling.  

Michael just shrugs.  “Busy, you know?  Living the —”

“Please don’t finish that with ‘dream,’ Michael,” Olly interrupts.  “It’s the worst white peopleism ever.”

“Olly…” Tori warns.  “Be nice.”   She walks over to the cooler and hands Charlie a beer. 

“Yeah, you little shit,” Michael scolds gently.  “Or we’ll make you show Charlie the university spreadsheet that Tori and I made for you.”  

“Love a good spreadsheet,” Charlie says, his eyes twinkling.  “But seriously Olly, what are your thoughts so far?” 

“UCLA, University of Oregon, Penn, Georgetown, and University of Texas at Austin,” Olly ticks off, “but I don’t know what for.”

Charlie nearly chokes on his beer.  “University of Texas at Austin?” 

Tori catches his eye for a second, giving him a knowing look, but says nothing.  Olly just shrugs and nods.  Michael moos like a cow, because according to him, all bovines sound like that, including longhorns.  They grill Olly a bit more, before he relents and tells them about interests in Chemistry, Law, and Geology.  Tori groans at the last one, claiming her latest job in Moab must have done that.  Olly sees that as an opportunity to spin the conversation toward her.  

As they eat, she describes her week in Moab both to support an article on climate change with photography, and also for her own travel blog.  She tries to double-dip as much as possible, seeing as how photojournalism pays a pittance.  When Michael travels for speed skating, Tori accompanies him as much as work allows.  She’s got quite a following as a blogger, known for her sardonic takes on traditional tourist traps and more morbid curiosities in the cities she visits.  At this point, the blog brings her in decent ad revenue and sponsorships.  

Around eight, Olly receives a call from a girl in his year named Sophia, his blush visible from the fire’s light and the summer sun.  Tori and Charlie heckle him mercilessly as he retreats into the house to talk to her, after which Tori fills Charlie in.  Apparently, Olly’s been pining for months now, hoping that Sophia notices him.  Michael spills the tea though — Olly and Sophia had a “moment” at a party at the beginning of June.  Olly won’t tell them what that moment was, which immediately makes Tori worry and Charlie hope that the school’s sex ed was highly effective.

When Michael goes in to get more mosquito repellent, Tori immediately turns to Charlie.  

“What’s bothering you?” 

Charlie takes a sip of his beer.  “I can’t really tell you.”

“You know me, I keep secrets well,” Tori replies. 

“I —”

“Charles.”

Charlie takes a deep breath in, and then sighs dramatically.  “Fine.”  Tori looks at him expectantly, and then motions for him to continue, before taking a sip of her spiked lemonade.

“A coworker kissed me.”

She spits her lemonade out onto the fire, which crackles.  “WHAT?!”

“He’s not out,” Charlie murmurs in hushed tones, eliciting a more shocked reaction from Tori.  “I don’t know what he is.  It just happened.” 

“Happened?”  Tori asks, sounding incredibly confused. 

“We were in his office, talking about some heavy shit and then he kissed me, and… like ran off?” Charlie says. 

“You ended that with a question,” Tori immediately states.  “Why?”

“I suppose… I really took my time getting my stuff, and I didn’t really say wait for me, and I’m sure he was possibly also surprised at what he did, or that I accepted it,” Charlie rambles. “And when I came out of my office five minutes later, he was gone.” 

“What the fuck,” Tori mutters. 

Charlie just shrugs and shakes his head.  “I don’t understand it either.”

Tori sits back, sipping her lemonade, deep in thought for a moment.  “Have you talked to him?”

Charlie snorts, shaking his head.  “What? Of course not.”

“Christ, Charles!”  

“Not yet, Tori!  I haven’t yet. I’m waiting until we’re back in DC,” Charlie whines.  The both of them sit in silence, sipping their beers.

How he’s going to brooch that topic, he hasn’t the faintest clue.  What does one even say?  

Hey, I know you probably think I dislike you, and you’re probably confused as to why I kissed you back instead of pushing you away, but I did enjoy it, and also I’m not sure I want a relationship right now, but could you bend me over this desk right now and rail me?  

Yeah.  That ought to do it. 

Mid July 

Coming back to work after a recess never seems to get easier, especially after this latest recess.  

On a pleasant note, Nick heard back from the sellers of the Jollyville house — they accepted his offer.  During the August recess, he will close on the house and start moving things out of long-term storage.  He’s already made a list of things he wants to change or alter before fully moving in, and began doing research on contractors for each project.  As much as he’d like to do some of the smaller projects himself, he knows he just won’t have the time to do them.

At the other end of the spectrum, he hasn’t found time to speak with Charlie privately since returning earlier in the week.  Sure, they’ve seen each other fleetingly during votes or in the halls of Rayburn, and once Charlie was leaving the gym as Nick was walking in, but none of these encounters have been particularly conducive to conversations.  Only when Tara gives him a rundown on upcoming events and things to look forward to does Nick begin to think of alternative ways to make sure he has the conversation before August recess happens. 

Tara clears her throat.  “Earth to Nick!”

Nick blinks slowly.  “Huh? Oh.  Events.  Upcoming events.  Yes.” 

“I suspect that you haven’t heard a word I’ve said,” she grumbles.  

Nick sighs and shakes his head.  “Barely.  I’m sorry, Tara.  Utterly distracted.  I think you mentioned the term gala?”

Tara hums.  “Yes.  The DNC’s annual fundraiser — one that’s all but mandatory for you to attend, might I add — is in August, here in DC this year.  We’ll need to get a tux rental sorted before you go on recess.”  

“Noted.  Just tell me where to go, and I’ll be there,” Nick replies.  

Tara rolls her eyes.  “I’ve already made an appointment and added it to your calendar.”

“Oh.”

Tara looks at him for a few moments, studying his face and gazing into his eyes.  “Are you going to tell me what’s gotten you so distracted?  Because… you’re excessively diverted.”

Nick narrows his eyes.  “Did you just quote Pride & Prejudice at me?”

“Don’t deflect.  Who is she?”  Tara pokes at him. 

Nick shakes his head quickly. “No one.  Seriously!”

She eyes him suspiciously for a bit, a crooked smile on her face.  “Oh alright.  Keep your secrets then.  Just be careful… last thing you need is another woman near-blowing up your re-election campaign.”  

She leaves him to get work done and go off to meetings.  The entire time he keeps thinking about what she said.  What if it was a man that “blew up” his re-election campaign?  He really wonders how his constituents would view him if he did actually come out as something other than straight; if he were in a visibly queer relationship.  A scary thing to contemplate, for sure, and so he pivots to something more pleasant — Charlie.  

At that, Nick decides to carry out one of his oddly concocted plots to talk with Charlie.  He moves to a small, open committee room on the same floor as his office.  Charlie will be sure to notice him on the one or more occasions that he passes by that room daily. 

After an hour of work,  it succeeds — Charlie stops by his temporary workspace, lingering in the doorway so silently Nick almost doesn’t notice him at first.  

“Hey,” he whispers quietly. 

Nick looks up at Charlie, with a kind smile on his face.  “Hello.”

“Can I do some work here with you?” Charlie asks hesitantly.

“Absolutely, Charlie.”

Nick indicates a seat to his right.  His preference for Charlie to sit there is purely selfish in nature, as there are a dozen other seats.  He just wants to be closer to Charlie.  Thankfully, Charlie plops down right next to him, opening his briefcase to take out papers.  

Instead of Nick resuming his work, he takes this time to admire and examine Charlie.  His tanned skin appears even darker, probably from soaking up the sun’s rays in that sexy Independence Day outfit that Nick saw on Instagram.  

For the first time, Nick notices his scent, too.  Immediately it brings him home, in different senses — pink peppercorn and cardamom, both introduced to him by Bill and Claude, remind him of DC.  These notes are followed by a complex of spices that make Nick think of home in Beaumont — cinnamon, ginger, and cloves remind him of Sarah’s baking and its comforts, followed by a sweet, soft vanilla scent.  If there wasn’t an open door and chatter from the hallway, he would have pulled Charlie into another kiss right then. 

Nick does his best to return to his work, but at some point he feels perceived.  Looking up he notices Charlie glancing at him; the man quickly turns back to his work, his ears prickling pink.  Nick’s eyes trail down from those cute ears to his solid jawline, and then down to his left arm.  Today feels oppressively hot and muggy in DC, and Rayburn’s air conditioning works overtime to very little effect.  Charlie’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbow, baring the tattoos on his forearm.  

Nick flips a page on his bill, hearing voices in the hallway; a small crowd congregates to chat about something right near the door.  He reaches his right hand closer to Charlie’s left arm, his pinkie reaching out to trace the long arms of an octopus, positioned on his outer arm.  Charlie barely turns his head in acknowledgment, a sly smile on his face, goosebumps appearing on his arm.  Nick can hear his breathing change as he continues this, swirling his pinky gently at each of the detailed suckers on the arm of the octopod.  They both seem to like this, in lieu of a conversation.  

That group continues to persist, and Nick’s almost out of octopod to trace.  Charlie seems to recognize this immediately, and supinates his forearm, revealing what appears to be a large fish and several smaller sea creatures.  This time, Nick extends more of his fingers to brush the fish, his hands shaking as he gently massages the smooth, supple skin of Charlie’s forearm.  He can hear Charlie steady his breath, a gentle sigh leaving his mouth.  

Nick feels suddenly emboldened.  “Do you want to go somewhere quieter?”

Charlie looks over at him, a scandalized look on his face.  “Mr. Nelson-Thibodeaux…”

Nick immediately splutters, “Uh — I – no — just to talk.”

“I know,” Charlie replies immediately, grinning.  He packs up his stuff quickly.  “I’m going to go see if my office is free, or at least that there’s not a lot of people in there who will be all weird about us taking a private meeting.”

“Like your Chief of Staff?”

Charlie nods.  “Yeah — Darcy would have her ear pressed up to the door.”  He pauses before leaving the room.  “I’ll be back if it's clear.”  

Before Nick can even tell him to wait or exchange numbers with him, Charlie takes off.  Nick stands up to go after him, but the man has already disappeared, unfortunately replaced by one Ashleighlynne Morrison at the end of the hallway.  

Nick turns back into the room, avoiding her gaze, and packs up his papers.  He doesn’t want to speak with her.  As he goes to exit the room, he sees her standing in the door frame, eyeing him.  

“Oh, Nick — I’ve been looking for you.  I’ve been thinking about reaching across the aisle lately,” she says, her voice sickly-sweet.  Nick notices her batting her eyes, which confuses him entirely.

He crosses his arms defensively, immediately not trusting her.  “Well, what’s your proposal then?  Educational policies?”

She shakes her head in a silly fashion.  “Oh, I’m not talking educational policy.”  

Nick furrows his brow, utterly confused.  What the hell does this woman want?  Apparently Ashleighlynne detects that confusion, as he can see a flicker in her face.  

“I’m talking about something else entirely,” she adds, smirking.

Nick still doesn’t get it.  “Then what?” 

She looks back out into the hallway before stepping a bit closer to Nick and muttering, “I want you to fuck me.”

Nick steps back in shock.  “What?!  No!  You’re married!”

She takes another step forward.  “Oh, sugar, we’ve already talked about that.  You’re a perfect human — I want your babies.”

Nick puts out a hand in refusal, shaking his head.  He feels sick at this advance by Ashleighlynne. “Please stay away from me.  I want nothing of the sort with you.  In fact, I barely want anything to do with you on any level.”  

Immediately her face contorts with shock and anger, but Nick gives her no room to say anything in retort.  He gathers his bag and rushes past her, turning back toward his office.  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone walking quickly in the opposite direction, and as he snaps his head to see in greater detail, he realizes that there’s a head of dark, curly hair.  

Without hesitation he calls out, “Charlie!  Wait!”

Mid July

“Black tie?” Charlie gripes.  “Really?”

“Yes,” Darcy huffs at him.  “Black tie, and you need to be there.”

“Why?” Charlie pouts, petulantly.  

“Because it’s a fundraiser for the DNC, Charlie.  The DNC,” Darcy replies.  

Charlie crosses his arms.  “They’ve been so useless over the years, and now I have to go mingle with donors for them?  What a joke.”

Darcy shakes her head.  “Remember what I told you about not pissing people off?”

“I get that, but this shit pisses me off.  Middling, ineffectual leadership and old dinosaurs making decisions,” he seethes.  

“This is practically required, Charles,” Darcy retorts.

“But —”

“Do not fuck with me, Charles,” Darcy scolds.  “You need to go, and listen, you can pull for your own till at this.  Yeah, elicit DNC donations, but — wink wink, nudge nudge — get some for yourself, too.”  

Charlie sinks back in his office chair, sulky, yet enjoying Darcy’s line of thinking. “Chaotic.  Mischievous. Great.”  

“As if I’d ever let you down,” Darcy replies, standing up.  “Now go get some work done, you little shit.”  

“Go ask Tara Jones out, you wuss,” Charlie bats back. 

“Fuck off,” Darcy says as she walks out of his office, a middle finger affectionately raised.  

He packs up some bills and other paperwork and heads off in search of some free space to work quietly.  The hallways seem busy today, various groups of people filing around between meetings and working groups.  The door to the committee room remains wide open, and so he peeks his head in.  Just the person he desperately needs to speak to — Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux.

“Hey.”  

Charlie’s heart beats furiously in his chest as Nick gazes up at him and acknowledges him softly. “Hello.”

“Can I do some work here with you?” Please say yes.  Please.  

With nary a delay, Nick responds, “Absolutely, Charlie.”

Nick motions for Charlie to sit down next to him, which he does without hesitation.  He can feel his throat running dry a bit, the heat of the summer and of his feelings engulfing him.  Charlie feels Nick’s eyes burning into him, but he doesn’t give into the temptation to stare back. The door is open, after all, and if he’s not careful they’ll be tonguing each other again and oh god they still haven’t talked.  He can feel heat coming off of Nick’s body, and his own breath picks up slightly.  He can smell Nick’s body, his cologne.  Oh god, someone please shut that damn door. 

They work in companionable silence for some time, Charlie finally glancing over at Nick. He quickly turns away when he realizes his attentions have been detected.  Noise from the hallway discourages them from having any sort of serious conversation here.  He tries to dig back into his work, but he hears a shuffling noise — and then he feels it.  Nick’s pinkie brushes up against Charlie’s forearm, and his breath hitches.  Nick touches him tenderly, tracing the lengths of the octopod.  Charlie bites his lower lip, holding in a whimper. 

He acknowledges Nick’s advances by turning slightly and offering a sly smile.  Nick begins to run out of suckers and arms to trace, and Charlie instinctively turns his arm over, exposing his forearm.  Without hesitation, Nick begins to rub his Chinook salmon tattoo gently.  Gentle tingles run up the length of his arm, causing Charlie to release a sigh.  

Seriously.  At work?  This whole exercise, equal parts erotic and cruel, pushes him close to the edge.  Any longer and he’ll be throbbing.  Their only distraction and roadblock at this point involves the frankly rowdy people in the hall. 

Suddenly, he’s snapped out of that sensuous hypnosis.  

“Do you want to go somewhere quieter?”

Charlie knows Nick’s talking about talking somewhere privately, but he decides to tease him anyway.  “Mr. Nelson-Thibodeaux…”

“Uh — I — no — just to talk,” Nick splutters, clearly missing the teasing look on Charlie’s face. 

“I know,” Charlie replies.  Without hesitation, he begins packing up his stuff — he has a plan. 

 “I’m going to go see if my office is free, or at least that there’s not a lot of people in there who will be all weird about us taking a private meeting.”

Nick cocks his head.  “Like your Chief of Staff?”

Charlie nods.  “Yeah — Darcy would have her ear pressed up to the door.”  Given that he doesn’t know Nick’s number and time is of the essence, there’s really no time to exchange that information now.  He makes a mental note to do that after their conversation.  “I’ll be back if it's clear.”  

He takes off toward his office, passing a group of members on their way out of the meeting.  That snotty wench of a woman, Ashleighlynne Morrison, leads the way.  She’s tossing her hair coquettishly, cackling about some joke that Standard Issue Older White Republican Male™ made that most likely was not actually funny.  

He scowls at them before darting into his own office.  Luckily, Darcy’s schedule lists that she’s at a meeting for another thirty minutes and many of the staffers are either with her or at other meetings.  Only an intern or two lingers around the main reception area, but they are awfully busy.  He checks inside his office, just to make sure it isn’t unkempt.  

All is well enough, and he runs back out.  He freezes for a second when he sees Ashleighlynne going into the committee room.  What does she want with Nick?  He nearly reaches the door when he hears a nauseating cackle, followed by the most chilling thing he’s heard in Congress to date. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Ashleighlynne says to Nick.  He hears it clearly, which shocks him. 

Whatever Nick says back to her feels drowned out in a combination of the ringing in his ears, some odd acoustic feature of the committee room, and perhaps the sound wall that is Ashleighlynne’s volumized hair.  He can’t even hear the tone beyond faint murmurs.  Oh god, have they fucked already?  No, that makes no sense — Nick would never do such a thing, with a married woman. Especially not after what happened to him.  

Unless Ashleighlynne also is going through a divorce?  Although, given how stupidly controversial she is, Charlie probably would have heard of that.  

Just when he thought he had heard the worst, he hears something along the lines of Ashleighlynne “wanting Nick’s babies.”  At this point, Charlie would like to throw himself into the Potomac because no brain bleach exists that’s strong enough to remove hearing that phrase, said by her of all people, from his mind.  Charlie quietly begins to back away from the door.  He can hear angry words now, and rustling papers.  He doesn’t want anyone to realize he bore witness to this, and better yet, he wants to process it better before he makes any spiraling accusations linking Nick to Ashleighlynne.  He knows it is uncharacteristic and unlikely, and yet his brain screams at him things like “Nick’s likelier to have an amorous encounter with her than you.” 

He turns on his heel, taking off toward his office when he hears Nick’s emotive voice call out, “Charlie!  Wait!”

He doesn’t wait — he can’t do this right now, because if he does, he’ll likely end up saying or doing something stupid that hurts him and Nick, or worse, outs him.  He retreats back to his office, telling one of the interns that no one is to bother him until his next meeting.  He needs to collect his thoughts, and work through the most negative of them.  

That night, Caity immediately knows that something is off, but she doesn’t press him.  They make an almond-crusted salmon together, with a broccoli and cauliflower mix.  They eat quietly, exchanging a few words between bites and sips of their white wine. 

The next morning, Caity hauls him out of bed for brunch at Freddy’s.  Charlie hasn’t been back since his one-night stand with Hector, partly out of fear that he’ll run into that sexy hunk of a man again, but also worried that he’ll go right back to his default — fucking the pain away.  He’s gotten much better at processing the metaphorical slap to the face from Thatcher.  

Once they’ve had two rounds of mimosas, Caity really lays into him. “Okay now, spill.  What’s got you so stirred up?” 

Charlie pauses.  “I overheard a conversation that I don’t think I was meant to hear, and it’s got me all in my head, and ugh — it’s also foul.”

Charlie takes a minute to explain that he and Nick were working in the committee room — naturally omitting the parts about Nick stroking his tattoos — and how Charlie wanted to talk to him about some things but needed a quieter place to do so.  He leaves out the whole June kiss situation, obviously.  He then mentions the office check situation and how he came back to Ashleighlynne Morrison in the conference room.  

Caity almost spits out her mimosa when Charlie quotes “have your babies.”.

“That foul, trampy cunt,” Caity gasps. 

“She is married, isn’t she?” Charlie asks.  “Like, I’m not making that up?”

“No, you’re not,” Caity replies.

Charlie nods, swallowing roughly.  “I mean, I can’t say that she doesn’t have some sort of arrangement with her husband or whatever, since I know those exist…”

Caity snorts.  “Sure, okay.  But to flat out demand someone’s seed?  Jesus H. Christ, that’s disgusting.”  

Charlie takes a swig of his third mimosa.  “You don’t think —”

“Absolutely not,” Caity cuts in.  “Don’t even let yourself think that.  Nick cannot be into her.  I mean, I’m fairly perceptive and I have not seen him once look at her.”

Charlie taps his head three times, muttering to himself, “D’you hear that brain?  Are you listening?  He’s not trying to fuck that trashy wench.” 

“Exactly,” Caity adds.  “He’s trying to fuck you.”

Charlie stops what he’s doing, looking at her oddly.  Nick kissing him — that’s not Nick’s secret to tell.  “No, he’s not, Caity.”

“Take the blinders off, Charlie.  He’s clearly feeling some sort of way for you,” she shoots back.

“But Nick’s not gay, bisexual, or pansexual —” Charlie begins.

“Nope!  Not this.  He might not look any of those things to you, but he could be.  Divorce really makes people think about their lives and what they want.  He very well could be figuring out that his sexuality is a lot more complex than what he first thought,” Caity says assuredly.

“At twenty-eight?”  

She tuts.  “I don’t think there’s an age limit on self-discovery.”

“I know that,” Charlie retorts, annoyed. 

Caity sends a cutting look his way.  “And yet you want to pretend like twenty-eight is some ancient crypt-keeper age.  The man’s probably in his sexual prime.  No —”  Caity pauses to collect her thoughts.

“What?” Charlie asks, looking at her suspiciously.  She’s got a look on her face that appears to be puzzling through several things at once. 

“Here’s what I think, Charlie Spring,” she says, toying with her hair and taking another sip of her mimosa.  “I think you like Tibby — a lot.  I think Tibby checks so many of your boxes, and has made new boxes for you that you didn’t even know existed.  You’re so used to the whole fuck-and-go thing, the yo-yo of Thatcher’s distance and then his warmth, that the idea that someone might actually like you back, all of you, that someone might want to be with you scares the shit out of you.  You’re worried that he’s going to decide that you’re not worth it, that coming out isn’t worth it, before you’ve even had a proper conversation with the man and found out what’s going on in his head.  You won’t give him the time of day because you’re fucking scared.  Terrified.”

Charlie sits there quietly, processing everything she’s said to him.  He’s only seen war movies, not actually experienced artillery fire, but if he had to guess, that dressing down would be the equivalent of an emotional artillery barrage.  

Caity’s right — he’s absolutely terrified of having his heart trampled on again.  He’s been holding back on having a conversation with Nick about them, about the kiss.  In fact, now that he’s gone through his memory of the past week of session, there are probably four separate opportunities that he could have sought Nick out and likely could have successfully talked to him about it, or at least exchanged contact information and set a time to do so.  

He hasn’t, though, because he let his own past experiences terrorize him and bully him into submission.  Even though he knows that he’s attracted to Nick, that Nick clearly feels something for him, that there’s some sort of magnetic pull between the two of them, he drowns that all out with self-doubt and a cacophony of negative internal voices.  Even his own rational thoughts have worked against him, making excuse after excuse, from being too busy to Nick’s divorce and fragile emotional state.  

He takes a sip of his mimosa, a gentle tear forming in his eye.  “You’re right.  I absolutely am terrified.”

Chapter Text

August Recess:  Seattle, Washington & the Olympic Peninsula. 

Charlie continues to push the conversation he had with Caity in July toward the back of his mind.  There’s really no room to fully entertain it over the August recess — his calendar remains chock full of events, including his weekend camping trip with Elle and Tao.  Two intensive weeks in Seattle, punctuated by the camping trip and then travel back and forth between Seattle and Washington for a variety of events requires Charlie to be at his best.  Mulling over his own abject terror of being alone and the anxiety of talking to Nick about them — or whatever he can call it — really cannot take center stage.  He’s hoping that he can talk to Elle and Tao about it a bit on the camping trip and perhaps even call his therapist on a one-off weekend appointment.  

Right off the bat, Charlie needs to mentally prepare for his campaign kick-off.  The Washington primary occurs one year from the day, thus necessitating an event to mark that fact.  Those kick-off events set the tone for a campaign, signal to donors that funds are appreciated, and generally gin up excitement for campaign staffers, political interns, and supporters.  Charlie’s campaign sought permits to conduct an outdoor event at Gas Works Park, mostly to focus the budget on the foods and beverages served there, but also to make it appear less stuffy as well as open to anyone.  Thankfully, it’s a smashing success — at least five hundred people stop by, twenty of whom sign up to volunteer at some point;  the campaign collects a fair amount of donations;  and the community engagement is undeniably successful.  Darcy even compliments his campaign speech demeanor and overall growth in how he interacts with constituents.  

If only they knew how much he was struggling.

The rest of the week continues unabated:  more personalized meetings with certain constituent groups, a lot of listening and talking about solutions, briefings on campaign fundraising regulations, fundraising targets and budget discussions with Darcy, and then potential primary challenger strategizing.  Currently, no one is planning to run against Charlie, but things can change quickly in a year. 

Darcy notes this as they turn their conversations back toward Washington.  “So far, your accomplishments include bill sponsorship, some buzz from how you’re pushing for renewables and better EV related infrastructure and incentives, but we need something more concrete.” 

“I’ve got a voting record already, can’t we pull from that?” Charlie groans.  He understands what she’s saying, but as a freshman Congressman, having a big victory all to himself appears unlikely.  

She swivels on her chair absentmindedly for a few moments, before a ding interrupts her.  Looking down at her phone, Charlie can see a small smirk appear on her face, only for her to quickly wash it away. 

“Who was that?” Charlie inquires.  

“Don’t worry about it,” she replies.  “Anyway, this voting —”

“Oh my god, that was Tara Jones, wasn’t it?  Nick’s Chief of Staff?  Don’t even lie!” Charlie teases.

She shakes her head vehemently.  “Shut up, Charles, and stop deflecting from our conundrum.”  

“I’ll stop deflecting if you spill the fucking tea, Darce,” Charlie retorts. 

She sighs and rolls her eyes.  “Fine. Yes, it was Tara Jones.”  

Charlie lets out an accusatory, sing-songy “oooh” sound.  “Did you go on a date with her?  Did you shag?  Have you moved in already, sponsored by U-Haul?”

“I swear to god, you routinely beg for death, Charles.  It was just one date, but now she’s super flirty via text,” Darcy says excitedly.  

Charlie leans back.  “Good for you.  At least one of us is getting some romance.”

She purses her lips and simply hums.  “Now, that strategy…”

Charlie nods, sufficiently focused after that tea.  “I think I have an idea.  Kind of an emotional pull?  Like I said to that man back at the constituent town hall?” 

“I think that’s a solid plan to start.  But we need to also approach this logically, too — perhaps getting the Office of the Legislative Counsel and a ConLaw scholar to review your plan, to discuss the pros and cons of it,” she replies.  

“Sensible.  Honestly, I want it to be as iron clad as possible.  I mean, what’s the point of pushing so hard for it, only for it to have glaring unconstitutional clauses?  I’m no expert.” Charlie shrugs.

Darcy nods, scribbling down some notes.  “I’ll get that done, don’t you worry.  Now go get ready for your weekend camping.”

“Will do,” Charlie replies, practically jumping out of his chair.  As he heads to the door, he hears Darcy call for him.

“Spring?”

“Yeah?”

“For the love of God, don’t wipe your ass with poison ivy or get attacked by a wolf or bear,” she says cheerily. 

He salutes her and wordlessly exits the building. 

Back at his apartment in Fremont, he goes through his camping stuff and checks off a list that he, Tao, and Elle had put together.  Packing allows him time to think — following a list and checking boxes feels mindless to him.  His thoughts circle back to Caity, but most importantly, Nick.  How can he overcome that fear of opening up to him? What sort of conversation would lead to a productive, amenable situation between the two of them?  Does he even want Charlie in the way Charlie ultimately wants him?  Or is that something that will take Nick longer to get to? He scrunches his face at drawing comparisons between Nick and Thatcher; profound upper bodies are the only thing they have in common. 

A series of alarms and the smell and clicking sounds of auto-brewed coffee wake Charlie at four AM on Saturday morning.  He showers, knowing full well that he won’t be able to do so again until late Sunday night at the earliest.  He practically guzzles two cups of coffee before his shower, towel drying his hair then restraining the curly mess with a headband.  He fills a thermos of coffee for later in the day, eats a combination of oatmeal, dried fruit, and nuts, and mercifully does this all before the quarter-after-five arrival of Tao and Elle.  It takes just over four hours to get from Seattle to the Hoh Rain Forest Visitor Center on the west side of Olympic National Park.

Charlie loves the Olympic Peninsula, the forested and rugged landscapes in the shadow of Sunh-a-do, the mountains located there.  Some idiotic man of European stock referred to the tallest peak as “Mount Olympus,” in the “Olympic Range,” for some godforsaken reason, and the name stuck.  Nothing about the national park gives a vibe reminiscent of a Mediterranean climate or Greece.  Some of the flora of the peninsula and national park provided inspiration for him when he planned out his tattoo sleeve.  

Tao zooms along I-5 at a steady clip, passing through Tacoma and then reaching Olympia just as morning traffic begins to pick up.  A wild combination of  Washington State and US highways later, and they’re on US-101N, passing through the Quinault Reservation.  Most of the time, Charlie and Elle sleep or listen to music — Tao dislikes excessive car conversations, finding them distracting by default.  Around half-past nine, they arrive at the visitor center, taking a food and bathroom break prior to driving to their camp site.  

The campground overlooks the Hoh River and is a quick walk to the Hoh River Trailhead, which the three of them intend to hike for a few hours before picnicking at the Olympus Ranger Station and then hiking back to the campground.  The hike itself lasts approximately nine miles, but only contains several hundred feet of elevation gains.  Modestly difficult.  

Much of the hike up to the ranger station passes in silence, the late-morning songs of birds forming calm melodies with the breeze and rustle of trees.  Shortly after noon, they reach their destination and spread out a blanket to eat their meal.  

“So,” Elle begins.  “What does one do on a month-long recess?”

Charlie snorts — this is basically the first thing she’s said to him all day, minus a few pleasantries and directions.  “Well… it’s like every other recess, but excruciatingly longer.”

“You really never stop, do you?” Tao asks, surprised.

Charlie shakes his head.  “I mean, at some point you streamline the work and mix recreation and work, stuff like that… but early on, a lot of hard work needs to be done to lay the groundwork for future elections and other political goals.”

Elle eats some grapes, her face scrunched thoughtfully.  “Do you ever think about running for higher office?  Like the Senate or Governorship?”

Charlie sits back — he hadn’t actually gotten this far, mentally — taking a moment to carefully consider it.  Sure, he has political ambitions, but being gay, let alone a gay leftist in the United States, still remains difficult.  Buttigieg never quite made it beyond the Iowa and New Hampshire primaries on his Presidential run, even after he made progress as Transportation Secretary.  

“I might be able to pull something off within Washington, but it wouldn’t be for years… maybe even a decade, really,” he replies, taking a sip of some water.  

They finish up their lunch and start heading back to the campsite, where they’ll all freshen up and nap before dinner.  On the way down, they continue to discuss the recess.  Elle positively squeals when she hears about the black tie event in two weeks, while Tao snickers at Charlie’s discomfort.  For some reason, Tao always enjoys getting dressed up, and for some reason he thinks that Charlie should equally enjoy it.  Charlie spouts off as many details as possible about the event, before pivoting to end-of-August, where the recess slows slightly.  An actual holiday-like week of typical activities, but more so fun and relaxation.  Charlie doesn’t know what he’s doing right now, but his travel budget probably won’t allow for a second trip back to Seattle.  

Close to four, they reach the campsite, thoroughly exhausted by the hike.  Charlie utilizes the site showers, in the loosest sense of the term, allowing cold water to wash a thin layer of sweat off of him.  At dinner, he means to tell Tao and Elle about Nick, or at least enough generalities to solicit some advice from them. When he returns to the tent, dried off and in comfy clothes, they head off to do the same routine while he settles in for a nap.  

Three hours later he wakes to a setting sun, a small campfire, and the sounds of Tao and Elle giggling about something as they prepare a basic camper dinner.  Charlie groggily pokes his head out of the tent. 

“Hello, sleepy head,” Elle coos.  “You said a nap and we assumed an hour maybe, but three?”

Charlie shakes his head, yawning,  “I haven’t napped since November.”

Tao motions him out.  “Almost done with dinner.  We’ve got spiked lemonade and cold water though.”

“I’d kill for a s'more right about now,” Charlie mumbles, crawling out of the tent.  

“After dinner,” Elle replies.  “And after you tell us more about your life as an eligible Congressional bachelor.”  

Charlie, double-fisting the drinks Tao just handed him, takes a gulp of ice cold water, and then sips the spiked lemonade.  “I haven’t really dated, Elle.  I mean, I’m finally at that point of not feeling like shit after the engagement announcement.”  

“That prick,” Tao murmurs disgruntledly.  

Elle pats Charlie’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry we couldn’t be there for you more.”

Charlie sighs.  “Don’t be sorry.  I’m equally as unavailable.  I dealt with it on my own, with some therapy of course, and mostly with my roommate and Darcy.  I just felt… bad.  I didn’t want to only call you when I was struggling, and it felt like that’s what I was doing.” 

“Just call us, period.  We had a good streak there for a while,” Tao adds.  “Until… that prick fucked things up.”  

Elle stares him down, as if she can tell that something else bothers him, but before they can get into it, dinner is ready.  Tao dishes out the plain camping fare, which is only supplemented by snacks and their s'mores later.  They eat in relative quiet, solely talking about their favorite parts of the hike and the natural sights seen.  Elle talks about returning another weekend to sketch some of the flora and fauna, which Tao seconds.  Charlie appreciates the tranquility soothing his body after endless weeks of work.  They continue drinking as they laugh about some stupid things at Elle’s work and Tao’s own ornery coworker, until Charlie declares that it’s time for s’mores.  

As they sit around eating the first round of the camping delicacy, Elle revisits the subject of coworkers. 

“So, Charlie… you never did tell me about how things are going with that coworker of yours.”

Charlie pauses mid-bite, pulling the s’more out of his mouth.  “Uh… it’s fine.  We’re getting along better.” 

“Well, that’s good.  I won’t have to send a strongly worded DM anytime soon then?” Tao asks.

Charlie shakes his head.  “I would generally advise against that — a campaign staffer will see it.”

Charlie goes back to delving into his s’more.  The gooey combination of marshmallow and chocolate (Theo Chocolate, a local kind from Seattle, not Hershey’s), sweet on his tongue, and the crunchy Biscoff digestive biscuit they’ve used in lieu of graham crackers really makes for a heavenly dessert.  He releases a satisfied moan and then looks up to see Elle staring at him pointedly. 

“What?”

“You’re hiding something else,” she replies. 

Charlie leans back slightly.  “Well… it does involve a coworker, but before I can say a word, I need you to swear that you won’t bug me for more details than I can provide.” 

Elle looks at him, crossed between scandalized and confused.  “Okay.” 

Tao just shrugs and says, “Sure.”

“I was kissed by someone,” Charlie says, seeing both of their eyes widen, “and I’m not sure how I feel about it, or what to do about it, really.”

Elle turns to Tao for a second, the unspoken communication between them being noted by Charlie, before turning back and asking, “Have you talked to them?” 

“No, absolutely not!”

“And why not?” Tao interjects.

Charlie hesitates for a second, pondering his phrasing.  “Uh… I don’t think he’s in the right space?”

“Clarify please,” Elle states plainly.  “Like… he’s depressive?  Physically not available?”

“Divorce,” Charlie murmurs.  

“Oh.”

“Hmmm.”

The three of them sit in silence for a minute.  Tao goes to prepare another s’more and Elle picks at her nails nervously.  Charlie pours himself more spiked lemonade, sipping it thoughtfully.  

“You should talk to him,” Elle says softly.  “How else will you ever figure things out?”

Charlie nods.  “I know… I know.  For now though, can we change the subject?  What about you two?”

Tao turns to look at Charlie suspiciously.  “What about us?”

Charlie bites the last bit of his s’more, before smiling devilishly at the two of them.  “You two finally getting engaged?”

“Charlie!” Elle squeals.  Probably half of the campsite can hear her. 

Tao’s eyes narrow.  “What the fuck, man?”

Charlie shrugs.  “What?  I had to ask, since we were analyzing my ‘love life.’”

Tao hands off his s'more to Elle, apparently taking the lead on this leg of the conversation.  “We’ve talked about it, but we’re not ready.  We want to be a bit more financially secure before doing that.”  

Elle nods to that sentiment. “I want an engagement and wedding within a calendar year, max.  Something about drawing it out just seems odd.  And you know me, I’ve got very specific design concepts for it.”

Tao snickers.  “She’s not kidding.  It’s budgeted and everything.”

Charlie laughs about that, before going silent and deeper in thought for a moment, before mumbling, “Understandable.”  

Charlie fumbles with his own plate a bit, feeling a bit distant thinking about marriage in general.  Marriage feels like a decade away at best, and that’s if he could ever find a man that can keep up with him. 

Staring down at the crumbs on his plate, his distance transitions into an unsettling hollowness.  He winces at how pathetic he sounds when he utters, “I don’t think I’ll ever end up married at this point.”

Elle and Tao cannot find words to address that comment; no reassurance will assuage that fear in this moment.  They all know that.  Shortly after, Elle and Tao turn in for bed. Charlie tends to the dying embers of the campfire.  He feels foolish, idiotic, for saying that, but often it’s exactly how he feels.  He certainly doesn’t think that talking to Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux will change that.  He makes a pact with himself to do it nonetheless.  

August Recess:  Austin, Texas

Nick spends the first night in his new house when he gets back to Austin on a bare mattress, covered in a fitted sheet.  While the cash-offer closes quickly, he never really accounted for the furniture aspect of owning a new home — Laurel previously handled all of that.  Given how infrequently he knows he’ll be home, he doesn’t want to spend lavishly on furniture he’ll rarely use.  Like a proper young person, he makes a note to go with Tara to IKEA on one of the odd blocks of time that he’s got off from any sort of legislative responsibilities or campaign tasks.  Sarah Nelson already has plans to visit him this weekend and help him get his house sorted.  

The second day back he takes calls with donors from his new home, literally writing notes as he lays in bed.  Comfort helps, as several difficult conversations nearly end his relationship with a handful of donors who associate him with the Forsythe family name.  He doesn’t fight them, but instead reminds them of some of his objectives in Congress, and what he’s worked on thus far.  Nick turns on the charm on top of it, managing to hold onto enough of them.  If only they knew what Laurel did, perhaps they wouldn’t be so obsessed with familial prestige.  Taking a break from campaign work, he heads into a district office to check in with staff and boost morale.  

The entire time he’s ordered Ubers to get him around Austin, but given how long the August recess is, he quickly realizes that he needs to finally bite the bullet and buy himself a new car.  Three hours, several phone calls, and a long Uber ride to the outskirts of the Austin metro area later, Nick is now the owner of a shiny, new Ford F150.  Antimatter blue, one of the darkest and deepest blues, with an eight-foot box, perfect for hauling IKEA flat boxes or campaign related materials.  He caved, buying it outright — further spoils of his divorce — justifying it as a necessity, albeit a more indulgent version of what he would normally have bought.  

As the sun sets, Nick goes to see some bats.

Every year, between late spring and early autumn, Mexican free-tailed bats pour out from their man-made bat cave, the underside of Congress Avenue Bridge.  Austin relies on them to help curtail insect populations in the summer months, and they’re quite eager to oblige.  In another month or so, the furry, winged mammals will take off for Central America.  Nick hasn’t done this in nearly half a decade.  The last time was shortly after he met Laurel — she hated every minute of it, unduly fearful that a bat would either shit on her or swoop down on her — something that Nick should have taken as a sign that she wasn’t the right person for him.  And now, it’s healing nostalgia.  

Luckily, he manages to get a seat at the Statesman Bat Observation Center.  The first hour features a few trickles of bats, the pitter-patter of wings meshing with the sounds of commuters and cityscape.  As the sun drops below the horizon, the frequency of bats beginning their night run increases.  Within five minutes of that initial burst, tidal waves of them are visible in the twilight, their noises drowning out the artificial — chirping, squeaking, and flapping.  Nick finds it calming, grounding even, and immensely beautiful that nature molds itself in the face of humanity like this.   

He missed this, these little things that Laurel slowly extinguished in his life.  Enjoying it, despite disconnecting from it for some time, gives him hope that he will rekindle other parts of his former life.  Big and small.  Much of the night he spends reclined, looking up at the bats moving across the skyline.  

When he leaves after nine PM, he realizes that there’s a gay couple a few feet away from him watching the bats together.  In the urban light, Nick clearly sees the dark, curly hair and deep amber skin of one of them.  Immediately he wonders whether or not Charlie would enjoy the bats in Austin.  

Given the sea life tattooed on his forearm, Nick hypothesizes that Charlie would love to watch some bats fly about for their evening hunt.  The moment leaves a bittersweet feeling in him.  Charlie.  

Nick’s starting to believe that he can make sense of this newly uncovered side of himself, and that Charlie may play a significant part in doing that.  Nick can’t seem to make things right with him, although this last time was most definitely Ashleighlynne Morrison’s fault.  He doesn’t know what Charlie heard, or what Charlie thought he heard, but he clearly missed Nick’s outright rejection of her advances.  

As with most things in their “relationship,” they rarely seem to get the chance to talk about it until they’re both wound up and volatile.  Nick’s hoping to find him at some point around the DNC Fundraiser to set things straight.  He spends his evening thinking and dreaming about Charlie.  In the morning, as he stretches and wakes up, his morning wood also thinks about Charlie.  Charlie.

There’s a morning meeting scheduled between him and Tara to discuss polling and strategy, before they go off on an IKEA journey.  After a long shower which includes a preliminary discharge of his arousal, he heads off to buy coffee for them both.  The day will be long, between politicking and navigating the maze of Swedish furniture.  

An hour later, they’re both sipping on blonde roast with a splash of 2%, trying to wake up.  

“What do you want to start with at this hellish hour?”  Tara grunts out.

Nick checks his phone.  “IKEA doesn’t open for another three hours, so why don’t we ease into it?  I’m not even fully awake yet.”

Tara nods and they sip their coffee quietly for a few minutes, before Tara clears her throat.

“What?” 

She looks at him, carefully studying his eyes.  “How are you doing?  Granted, I know that’s a shit question, but…”

Nick shakes his head. “No, not shit.  Appreciated.  I’m slowly pulling myself together, letting myself enjoy things again.  I went to see the bats last night.”

“Aww, Nick.  That’s great.  I know you used to love that.  It was like your undergraduate guilty pleasure.”  Tara’s face lights up, her eyes sparkling with joy.  

Trickles of pink make their presence known with gentle pricks on his skin.  “I’m finding my way back.  A house.  A new truck.  Old parts of me… new parts of me…” 

She cocks her head in curiosity.  “New parts?”

Nick swallows roughly, his pulse and breathing picking up; he almost chokes on his own words and thoughts.  

Tara’s face begins to show a degree of concern.  “Nick, it’s okay.  You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I want to support you.  Clearly this is something difficult.”  

“Tara… I think I’m not straight,” he blurts out. 

Her eyes and mouth immediately open widely, in shock. “Oh!  Oh my god!”

“Uh,” Nick shakily sputters out.

“No, I wasn't expecting that!  Nick!”  She puts her coffee down and launches herself at Nick, pulling him into a hug.

He can feel her tightly gripping him, in a reassuring and loving way; admitting that out loud to anyone beyond Bill and Claude has felt like a massive obstacle.  He should have been able to trust Tara all along, as she would understand better than anyone.  He let his fear get the better of him, along with the emotional upheaval of divorce.  The talks with his neighbors quickly made him realize that he cannot do this alone.  While he planned on bringing it up when he had a better idea of what he considered his sexuality, something about the past few days, the newness of it all, compelled him to move up those plans. 

Tara whispers in his ear, “Thank you for telling me, Nick.  You know I support you unconditionally.” 

“Thanks Tara,” Nick mumbles back.  “But now I’m about to cry before eight AM.”

“I’ll get the tissues for the both of us then,” Tara replies.  

They talk about Nick’s road of self-discovery — he omits the fact that everything centers around Charlie Spring for now — and his uncertainty with labels.  Tara reminds him not to feel rushed to decide on one, or to come out.  They will have to make a plan for that. 

For the first time since May, breathing feels a bit lighter for Nick.  Like a cord that previously wrapped tightly around his chest has inexplicably loosened.  

Eventually they finish their coffee and transition to their to-do list:  discussing some polling on his handling of energy issues and fundraising goals.  Apparently a plurality of people in Austin feel like he’s not being aggressive enough with his push for renewable energy, something that doesn’t come as a terrible shock to him.  Wrangling Skipper T. Johnson and pushing other members of Congress has proven more of a challenge than he’s anticipated.  

“It’s complicated — he has seniority, but not a lot of love from other officials,” Tara comments.

Nick nods.  “The man drives me fucking nuts.  Calls me ‘son’ and the like, really demeaning.  I try to keep him at an arm’s length.”

“For the best, really,” Tara replies.  “I’ve heard some odd gossip about him.”

Nick leans back and folds his arms over his chest.  He’s usually uninterested in gossip, but given the nature of Skipper’s annoying hold over the Energy and Commerce committee, anything that might knock him down a peg or two could be helpful.  

He cocks his eyebrow.  “Oh?”

Tara nods.  “I was given information from a certain source —”

“Darcy Olsson, on your date,” Nick interjects.

“Shut up,” Tara cuts back in, her eyes narrowed.  “And that source told me that he’s been spotted dining with the French ambassador three times, recently.”

That immediately catches Nick’s attention.  “Well, he has been obsessed with potential use of taxpayer dollars for NATO to secure a pipeline in Europe.  Something routed from Norway through France.”

Tara leans back and hums;  apparently her gossip doesn’t seem to be too out of the ordinary, probably not even worth investigating.  

They get an early lunch and head off to IKEA.  Tara chides him for not wanting to buy something more significant, but relents when he talks about how he enjoys Scandinavian minimalism.  They work their way through the showroom space, compiling a list of bedroom, kitchen, and office furniture to choose from.  Nick doesn’t want to put together his living room quite yet, given how infrequently he’ll be in Austin.  Not to mention, he had a particularly bad experience on a Friheten sofa years ago that required a massage to work out.  By the end of the day, he walks away with a black-wood four poster bed frame that he finds quite fanciful, some accompanying clothing storage, bedside tables, a sizable kitchen-dining table and chairs, a standing desk, and filing cabinets.

Just enough to keep him and Sarah busy that weekend.

“Oh Nicky, this place really is lovely,”  Sarah fawns. “What a lucky find.”

Nick looks around, thinking about the changes he wants to make.  In his mind, the main bedroom needs to be a very specific hue of icy blue to accompany the dark furniture he’s chosen.   Sarah and him chatter away as they assemble his bed first.  She’s gearing up for the new school year already, preparing to advise a new wave of incoming freshmen along with seniors stricken with senioritis on the first day of school.  Nick wonders if he would survive even a week as a high school teacher.  By noon they finish assembling the entirety of his bedroom furniture and break for lunch.

“You seem different today,” Sarah says as they delve into pulled pork and cornbread.  

Nick takes his eyes off of his own plate.  “Really?”

“Yeah?”

He puts his fork down, quieting the part of him screaming to tell her everything that he’s going through.  “It’s just the newness of it all.”

“I see.  Understandable,” she replies.  Her eyes belie certainty in that statement, and a moment later, she adds, “You know you can always talk to me about anything.”

An itchy constriction roils his throat.  He takes a sip of the lemonade that came with their meal — the sweetness and tartness of it out of balance.  “I know, Mama.  It’s really just the divorce, coming to terms with those changes.  Trying to find myself again, it really takes its toll.”

Sarah nods and says nothing in return — she knows exactly what Nick is going through, having done it herself almost two decades ago.  At that moment, as Nick looks at her across the table, he comes to a decision.  The moment he feels absolutely certain about himself, he will tell his mother all about it.  Whenever that may be. 

Mid-August – DNC Fundraiser

The sole concession that Charlie wrangled out of Darcy back in July was permission to wear his emerald-black suit, instead of renting a standard tuxedo.  He looks like a million dollars, stepping out of his Uber at the front doors of the Omni Shoreham.  However, nothing about this night feels comfortable to him.  Between the lavishness the venue exudes and the focus on aesthetics within, impostor syndrome creeps in.  Not to mention the proximity to Kalorama, right across Rock Creek from the hotel, deeply unnerves him.  He banishes the prospect of Thatcher being here from his mind; if he keeps things professional and does what Darcy proposed, he shouldn’t have to worry about him at all.  

South-facing windows in the Palladian Ballroom bring in the sunset and gorgeous views of preserved woodlands leading down to Rock Creek.  Cocktail tables, scattered across the ballroom, allow for maximal capacity and mingling, while also providing ample surface area for potential donors to liquor and loosen up.  Early in the evening, Charlie stills himself by the windows, searching for inner calm and confidence before the crowd swells.  He nurses a vodka-lime and soda, periodically turning away from the windows to scan the doorway.  No Thatcher, but someone else catches his attention.

Nick.

Nick, wearing a typical black tuxedo, but instead of a bow tie or standard tie, a bolo tie hangs from his neck.  Ballsy, which Charlie appreciates given his own ditching of the tux altogether.  As Nick gets closer, Charlie can see that the ornamental clasp of the bolo contains a large turquoise stone.  They lock eyes, and for a moment Charlie worries that Nick plans on cornering him at this event; he knows they need to talk, but starting the night out with that conversation might not be the best idea.  Another member of Congress unwittingly runs interference for Charlie, pulling Nick away mid-stride across the ballroom.  Just as well — without warning, a crowd of people enters the ballroom — the gauntlet begins. 

As it turns out, a few people actually want to speak with him.  Within the first hour, close to a dozen people seek him out to share thoughts on his education proposals and energy ideas.  Many like his outspokenness, his desire to push forward stalled policies.  Charlie attempts to keep a mental dossier on the attendees, all shades of rich people; refreshingly, a mixture of younger and older folk approach him.  A more eccentric donor, singularly focused on solar and wind energy farms, pledges donations to both the DNC and Charlie.  

Nick appears swamped by a small crowd of women, the second or third wives of older, rich husbands.  Charlie catches his eye from afar, sending well wishes to escape the uncomfortable situation.   They all appear to be fawning over him, laughing and tossing their hair ridiculously, clucking.  Just when he manages to break away from them, Charlie sees him run into an opulently dressed (and in Charlie’s opinion, overdressed) woman.  Unlike the discomfort displayed by Nick early, Charlie sees him recoil, his face grimacing.  He witnesses Nick and this woman begin to exchange tense words, but not before another unfortunate person enters his peripheral view.

Thatcher. 

When Charlie finishes up speaking with this current donor — he’s forgotten her name completely — he politely excuses himself and circulates the ballroom, attempting his best to keep Thatcher at a distance.  Nowhere in this venue allows for a private conversation, let alone one of the caliber that would occur between the two of them.  He can feel a panic set in, heading for the entrance of the ballroom and hopeful for a quick and temporary retreat for fresh air on the promenade.  A small crowd of people mill outside of the entrance, and so Charlie turns away, heading toward the hotel lobby.  Before he can move far enough away, a hand yanks his shoulder.

“Charlie,” Thatcher hisses quietly. 

Charlie whips around, pressing back against a wall.  “Get off of me, Thatcher.”  

Thatcher must have run to catch up to him, as his breathing is elevated. “Why won’t you pick up the phone?”

“Are you joking?” Charlie scoffs.  “Why do you think that I owe you that?  You’re getting married.  Married, Thatcher.  I’m done with you.” 

“Please just listen to me,” he begs.  “I have to do it, baby.  For my inheritance — requires marriage and children.”

“Marriage?  Children?”  Ire, once dormant in the pit of Charlie, froths up to the surface.  Charlie’s voice shakes as he continues, “Two men can get married.  Surrogates exist.  Don’t fucking lie to me, Thatcher.”

“Baby, I’m not lying — the terms are quite clear, and unfortunately old fashioned.”

Charlie shakes his head, his body now quaking.  “I just — fuck — cannot get over how fucked up you are.”

“Wha —”

“No, shut up,” Charlie stammers.  “You could have told me, leveled with me instead of fucking me every chance you got. Instead of lying about everything.  You disgust me.”

Charlie pushes off of the wall abruptly, attempting to tear away from Thatcher, who immediately follows after him. 

“Baby, stop — no, we need to talk more about this.”

“I swear, if you don’t —”

A third, drawling voice interrupts Charlie’s flight back toward the ballroom.  “Is everything okay here?” 

Charlie stops and sees Thatcher peel ahead of him to confront Nick.  “Hey, fuck off, man.  This is none of your business.”  

Nick prods Thatcher forcefully in the chest.  “Why don’t you go find your fiancée, you piece of shit? Or would it be better if I let her know that you’re begging your ex to come back —”

“Don’t you —”

“Nick,” Charlie snarls. “I can handle this.” 

He cranes his neck away from Thatcher and looks at Charlie, unconvinced.  “Really?  You sure about that?  Enough liquor and emotions and you’ll be back in his bed in an instant.  I don’t think you’ll like yourself very much if you do.”

Charlie gasps audibly, his mouth open in shock and unable to say anything. 

“Excuse me?” Thatcher whines incredulously. 

Nick turns back to him.  “You heard me earlier.  Fuck off, you shit.”

Thatcher looks between the two of them for a second, and then eyes up the size of Nick, quickly calculating his chance of anything at all, before scampering off back into the ballroom.  Nick turns back to Charlie, a sympathetic look on his face, like he never intended for what he said to come off as harshly as it did.  Finally, the shock starts wearing off of Charlie. 

“Why?”

“Someone had to do it,” Nick replies.  “And historically you’ve struggled with such a thing.”

Charlie scoffs.  “As if you can talk.” 

“What?”

Charlie frowns.  “I heard what Ashleighlynne said to you. You clearly have something going on with her.”

Nick’s eyes widen in horror.  “What?  Oh god no.  Christ, I can’t — ugh!  I knew you heard her.  No, Charlie, I told her to fuck off!”  

“Oh.”

Silence descends upon the two of them for a few moments, uncomfortable and prickly.  Nick looks upset, but unable to find the words to properly express them.  Charlie feels like an idiot and a terrible person. 

A twinge of melancholy audibly laces Nick’s voice.  “I’m sorry I tried to help you, Charlie.  I’ll go.”

And just like Thatcher, Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux whisks himself back into the ballroom.  Charlie spends most of the night circulating the room, triangulating a measurable distance between himself, Thatcher, and Nick.  He manages to accumulate a fair amount of donation pledges, and decides to take a breather in a stairwell near the ballroom.  He should be elated that on a professional level, the night has been fairly successful.  Unfortunately, all of that gets masked up by his unfortunate encounter.  

Nick was trying to help him, to give him backup like any good person would do in a situation like that, and he ruined it.  Not only that, the way he brought up the Ashleighlynne situation was not just accusatory, but laced with hurtful bitterness.  Whatever goodwill he and Nick have cultivated over the past two months now lays in ruins, decimated by his own stupidity.  

He’s so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t even hear the stairwell door swing open, roughly fifteen minutes before midnight.  

Mid August – DNC Fundraiser

It takes schedule changes, meeting re-ordering, and significant persuasion to convince Nick to let Tara drive from Austin to Washington, D.C. alone, instead of driving the truck himself.  He thought about using that time for ample reflection, but Tara can’t reschedule his appearance with an immigration policy group like she can reschedule her conference calls.  The first night, he breathes a sigh in release when she makes it to the midway point, Nashville, unscathed.  A single, black female driving through parts of the South still remains fraught with challenge.  His flight back to DC gets in earlier than her arrival from Nashville; he transfers her over five hundred dollars for gas money and expenditures.  At this rate, he ought to buy her an expensive bottle of vodka or something stronger for the headache.  

Another advantage of her getting into town late is that she can’t fight him on wanting to wear a bolo tie instead of a stuffy bowtie with his tuxedo.  It feels too smarmy, full tux and the trappings, begging for money — where’s the flavor?  One of his tie clasps features a resplendent turquoise stone that really contrasts the rest of his outfit.  As his Uber pulls up to the Omni Shoreham, he fidgets with it nervously.  

The exterior of the hotel appears well designed to balance simplicity with select ornate fixtures.  It makes him think about Laurel and the attempt to hide wealth behind a veil of “modesty.”  He powers through the discomfort and heads into the lobby, the inner grandeur giving him flashbacks to his election night watch party.  

Only when he enters the Palladian Ballroom do his eyes provide his brain with some degree of relief.  Gorgeous remnants of a sunset scatter warm light into the ballroom.  Next to the windows, an angelic figure adorned with dark-emerald looks to him.  Nick’s eyes register the dark, curly hair from afar.  

Charlie.  

His breath escapes him momentarily, a phenomenon unregistered by his legs, which appear to think on their own and continue to propel him forward.  The light plays with the sheen of Charlie’s suit, changing the depth of the green as he nears, making it appear almost black.  Before he can make it half-way across the room, a subcommittee member intercepts him. 

Unfortunate.  He would rather talk with Charlie somewhere quieter before the night begins, and unfortunately he never gets such an opportunity.  The moment his colleague breaks off to talk with another member, a surge of new arrivals launches them all into the swing of things.  Time to haul in some cash. 

Nick grins through the entire thing, dialing up his natural charm and playing up his accent to levels normally only seen when he’s around his mom for a long time back in Beaumont.  Many donors eat it up, especially the trophy wives of several stupidly rich ones.  Nick didn’t think through the consequences of such a thing, because after their husbands sneak out for the second cigar break of the evening, the wives all encircle him.  Smiling.  Laughing.  Poorly veiled flirting.  All uncomfortable, when he can practically hear their thirsty internal monologues.  He makes eye contact with Charlie from across the room, who looks back with sympathy.  Now’s his chance.

“Excuse me ladies, but I need to go speak to a colleague for a moment,” he says cheerfully.  

“Awww!”

He scuttles away from them toward where Charlie stands, only to be cut off by someone he did not expect to see in the slightest.

Laurel.

“Oh, hi, Nicky.  Lovely to see you on this fine evening.”  Her face appears rigid, stuck in a fake, chipper appearance.  

Nick backs away from her.  Immediately, he knows his body language reflects how unwell he feels in this situation.  Furrowing his brow, he whispers through clenched teeth, “Why are you here?”

“It’s a social event, I can attend DC social events,” she replies nonchalantly.  “It’s a free country.”

Nick scowls.  “What do you want? I really don’t want to speak with you right now.”

“I’m just trying to be friendly, given the semi-public nature of this event,” she quietly shoots back.  “And… I thought you might want to talk.”

“No,” Nick retorts immediately.  “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

Her face falls, but Nick spends no time examining it further.  In the distance, he can see Charlie making a beeline for the door, and a figure with dark hair following behind him, quickly.  Thatcher.  

Without hesitation, he pushes past Laurel, hearing her gasp indignantly as a splash of red wine lands on her lemon-colored cocktail dress.  Honestly, she’s lucky he didn’t dump a whole bottle of red wine on her.  

The next ten minutes pass in an anger-fueled haze.  Something about inheritances requiring marriage and kids, talk of lies and the hurt sound of Charlie’s voice, the refusal of Thatcher to leave him be — it all makes Nick angry enough to intervene.  He’s lucky that no one threw fists at one another.  The interaction leaves him reeling when Charlie reveals that he thought Nick had something going with Ashleighlynne Morrison of all people.  It strikes a chord, the idea that Charlie could think that Nick would get involved with a married woman, let alone her.  The thought alone sickens him.  How lowly Charlie must think of him. 

Every moment of progress feels null and void, like they’re back at square one all over again.  Yet now instead of Charlie being the angry one over a vote, Nick prickles at both Charlie’s unwarranted low opinion of him, and of his rejection of Nick’s help.  Everything Nick has witnessed over the past few months suggests that Charlie regularly fails to say no to Thatcher’s advances.  While he appeared to be nearly successful earlier, all it could take was enough drinking and emotional self-sabotage to drive Charlie back to him, like at his birthday party in April.  Nick didn’t want to see him hurt even more, or hate himself for it.  He just wishes that Charlie could see things the way Nick did. 

After dodging Laurel and Thatcher for the majority of the night, Nick finally gives up on attempting to appear cheerful.  He needs some air, some time to himself.  He exits the ballroom, but sees a thick crowd in the lobby area.  Looking for an alternate route, he finds a stairwell and heads there for a moment of quiet.  It appears unoccupied, so he heads up, until he turns to find Charlie sitting on the first few steps after the mid-landing.  

Charlie appears surprised, quickly getting up to run off. 

“Wait!”  Nick yells as he dashes after him, catching up with him, afforded an advantage by being on his feet to begin with. 

“What do you want?” Charlie asks blearily. 

Nick lets go of Charlie’s suit jacket.  His breathing fails to slow down, and his pulse continues to quicken.  Drumming echoes in his ears as he stares into Charlie’s vivid blue eyes.  He can’t even hear himself ask it, but the words “kiss you,” seem to exit his mouth at some point.  Charlie himself cannot seem to find words, but his hands find Nick’s suit jacket instead, pulling them closer to one another as he nods.

Nick momentarily loses his balance on the step, leaning forward into Charlie, pushing him up against the wall.  It is there, his body pressed against Charlie’s, where their lips meet again.  Lips soon give entry to tongues, which intertwine like the snakes of the caduceus.  One of Nick’s hands finds its way into Charlie’s curls, the other gently squeezes his ass.  In his tuxedo trousers, his cock throbs with the excitement and passion of the kiss. Nick can feel Charlie’s cock respond as it twitches against Nick’s own, keeping cadence with moans and whimpers that escape Charlie’s mouth as they continue to kiss.  

Just as things feel like they could continue unabated, the door to the stairwell opens forcefully.  Nick snaps back against the banister, placing his hands in front of himself casually.  Charlie repositions his body and hands, too, just in time for four people to pass them by.  The coast isn’t clear, but that doesn’t stop Charlie from bolting from the scene.  Nick doesn’t blame him — they are meant to talk about this, about what keeps happening, about what they’re doing — but they aren’t.  For the second time, Nick has kissed Charlie Spring with no satisfactory debriefing. 

Annoyed with himself for not taking off immediately to catch up, Nick orders an Uber back to his apartment.   While he was at the fundraiser, Tara left the keys to his truck at his apartment, the behemoth of a vehicle tightly parked on the street in front of his place. 

He drinks a few whiskey neats in the privacy of his own home, mulling over all that happened that night. God, he hates Thatcher, Laurel, and everyone like them.  Every thought about them gets drowned out by the sensations he remembers of Charlie.  The scents, tastes, and feelings.  His brain can barely compute it all.  

Late at night, a freshman Democrat sends him an invitation to go to a Delaware beach for the day.  Whether that was a drunk, accidental invitation, or a last minute bout of forgetfulness, Nick accepts immediately.  A small day of actual vacation from the lack of sanity in Washington?  Just what he needs.  

Mid August:  Rehoboth, Delaware — “Roman Holiday” by Halsey

“I can’t believe you’re wearing a pale pink Speedo for this occasion,” Caity shouts over the pop-punk music blaring in her car at eight AM.  

It’s far too early for this, Charlie thinks as he sips his iced coffee.  Thankfully, he didn’t drink too much last night.  No hangover.  

“It’s not pale pink,” Charlie shouts back over some newer Fall Out Boy song he doesn’t entirely recognize. “It’s coral, and color-blocked with white and navy!”

“It’s still a Speedo brief,” she shouts back.  Charlie doesn’t know if it's a Caity thing, or a general Minnesotan thing, but the driving is unhinged.  He just sips his coffee again.

“And so?  I’m a fucking gay man.  No — any man should be able to wear a Speedo without reproach,” he replies, turning the volume down slightly.  “Also, how the fuck did we get tasked with early arrival?  This wasn’t even our idea!”

Caity hums.  “We were the sober-est bunch last night when Frost proposed it.”

Just because Maxwell Frost danced on stage with Paramore one time six years ago, he thinks he can be the Congressional Social Chair.  Charlie rattles his iced coffee in annoyance.  Ah yeah — last night — where Nick tongue fucked him in a stairwell and rubbed his ginormous Texan dong into Charlie’s own very erect penis.  Yeah.  That last night. After which they still had yet to talk about anything at all, going their separate ways, a decision made by Charlie.  He primarily wanted to protect Nick in that instance from prying eyes, but also felt incredibly messy given the events that happened earlier in the evening.

“Did he mention who was going to be there?” Charlie inquires, doing his best not to sound overly cautious or suspicious.

Caity thinks for a moment before replying, “No, not really.  I took it to be just that circle when we were discussing it.”  

Charlie hums in response, continuing to sip away at his iced coffee.  The Bay Bridge connecting the western shore of Maryland to Kent Island and the eastern shore of the Delmarva peninsula appears on the horizon.  Its sheer height above the water immediately concerns Charlie; neither of them have driven across it before.  The moment they get onto the bridge, Charlie grips the seat — the wind provides yet another notable challenge.  

“You okay there, Charlie?” Caity asks, her eyes laser focused on the wheel and the road ahead of her.  

Charlie nods, closing his eyes.  “I hate heights, and the wind isn’t making it better.  Like… are we going to die? End up in the Chesapeake Bay right now?”   

“We’re half-way across.  Just keep your eyes closed and breathe.  I’ve got this,” she replies.  

Mercifully, the rest of the bridge takes much less time than Charlie had feared.  Soon enough, they’re crossing into Delaware, making their way through farmlands.  He sees a sign for Dogfish Head Brewery in Milton, almost losing his shit.  Caity makes no promises about stopping on the way back, but given their task to secure an optimal site for beach volleyball, she refuses to stop now.  Not to mention, it’s only ten AM and they’re not even open until eleven.  

Homophobia. 

Rehoboth Beach possesses a small beach-side town vibe, mixed with queer-friendly openness that one wouldn't expect given how rural the rest of southern Delaware is.  While Charlie and Caity are not the earliest beach goers, they certainly beat out the ‘late teens and early twenties’ crowd, both still in bed from their Friday night parties.  Ample space allows for them to set up the flimsy beach volleyball net that Max Frost dropped off at their place before going out with a couple other people post-gala.  Now they just have to wait for the drunkards to arrive.

Charlie keeps his shorts and tank-top on, pulling down his sunglasses and laying out on his beach towel.  Caity wanders off to find snacks and nonalcoholic beverages for them to enjoy.  The sounds of waves crashing against sandy shores lulls Charlie into light sleep, relaxing him deeply, but opening his mind to far more intrusive things.  Like Nick.  That tuxedo and bolo tie combo reflected a dashing, yet rugged style.  His arms essentially manhandled Charlie in the stairwell; he can practically feel the way Nick tugged at his curls, like a phantom limb working at them as he rested.  

Most importantly, the kiss — one could barely call it a kiss, really; it was more like an all-out oral assault — shook Charlie to his core.  No one had ever kissed Charlie that intensely, that passionately.  He needed more, desperately, and yet feared it.  What was going on in Nick’s head?  

Several months of emotional distress and petty barbs had to have taken their toll if he felt that strongly about Charlie.  Obviously Charlie finds Nick attractive, but Nick returning that attraction never felt possible.  Now, two kisses later, clearly something’s there, but what that can mean and where it could go, Charlie hasn’t the faintest clue.

Eventually Caity returns with sodas, salt water taffy, bags of pretzels, and other snacks.  She and Charlie talk about beach memories, mostly Charlie’s California beach experiences, the one time Caity’s family thought a Lake Superior beach trip would be a fantastic idea, plus her various Minnesota lake holidays.  Rehoboth might be lovely, but Charlie feels adamant that West Coast beaches are far superior.  Before he deepens his analysis, and much to Caity’s relief, people begin to arrive from DC.  Two cars full of people, various younger members of Congress; how there’s still beach-side parking is a marvel. 

Fifteen minutes later, a large, deep blue truck pulls up into the last available parking spot.  Charlie’s eyes narrow and his jaw clenches — this isn’t a member of congress, is it?  Seconds later, Nick pops out of the truck, waving to a few people.  

“Of course he has a gas-guzzling truck,” Charlie mutters under his breath. 

Caity looks up from her Cosmo magazine.  “Come again?”

Charlie shakes his head.  “Never mind.”  

She cranes her neck around.  “Oh.  Of course.”

“Shut up,” Charlie quips.

Caity snorts. “Never.”

Nick strides down to the beach, putting a towel down and taking off his aviator sunglasses.  He catches Charlie’s eye, and Charlie’s throat seizes.  Nick knows, immediately.  Before Charlie can look away, Nick pulls off his top and kicks off his denim shorts.  In sequence, Charlie gasps, gapes, and then glazes his lower lip with saliva.  

Nick wears what appears to be tight, retro-inspired swim trunks.  Five-inch inseams of purplish-maroon fabric, accompanied by blue piping, bulge at his lush legs.  Charlie can barely stop ogling him, his soft dad-bod tummy meeting a profound and puffed up chest, well sculpted shoulders, and girthy biceps.  He wants to nibble at so much of that exposed skin, and plant kisses across the chest, even the hairy parts.  It took him a moment to register it in the sun, but light tufts of blondish-red hair decorate Nick’s pecs and form a treasure trail downward.  Nick pretends to stretch, drawing his arm back to expose his underarm.  

At this point, Charlie nearly passes out. 

He hears a scoff, and glances back over at Caity.  “Don’t for a second tell me that you’re not into him.  Your mouth literally has been oscillating between hanging open and lip-licking for the past minute.” 

“Shut. Up.” 

She turns away to appraise Nick’s truck for a moment, before turning back to face Charlie with a malicious grin on her face.  “That F150 of his has a big truck bed, you know… just in case.”  

Involuntarily, Charlie releases a modest, “Hnnnnnng,” before flopping back on his beach towel.

This day is going to be a special form of torture, isn’t it?  

Mid August: Rehoboth Beach, Delaware - “Cake by the Ocean” by DNCE 

Nick nurses a mild hangover in the morning. 

He’s not surprised, given how much whiskey he downed when he got home.  It was one of those moments where a glass or two just felt necessary to take the edge off.  And what an edge that was.  Christ.

Again, he found himself all over Charlie Spring. Lips, tongue, hands, body… at this point Nick felt insatiable.  He can’t be insatiable for Charlie Spring, though — Charlie is a confident, out man already fending off closeted assholes, and he doesn’t need a sexuality-uncertain, hot mess of a man like Nick in his life.  That’s why he ran away last night, or that’s the only reason that makes sense in Nick’s head.  But god, feeling himself pressed up against Charlie.  He would do almost anything that man asked him to do.

Unable to get back to sleep, he heads to the gym at eight AM. He’s meant to head off for the beach later, but he won’t be able to focus on driving or anything else until he works out this hangover and regains his faculties from the sorcery Spring cast upon him.  By nine-thirty, sufficient progress on his chest and upper body leaves him feeling prepared to take on the day.  He showers at Rayburn, before changing into a plain white t-shirt, pulling on some old swim-shorts his mom gave him (they looked a bit small, but that’s all he had!), and his denim shorts over them.  

Traffic picks up heading into the Delaware beaches, delaying his arrival by fifteen minutes, but besides that his trip itself remains unremarkable.  Not even the wind gusts on the Bay Bridge bother him.  Rehoboth feels like a quaint seaside town to him, welcoming and unexpectedly charming.  He notices a bar with a large Progress Pride flag hanging off of it, which causes his stomach to flutter.  On one of the main roads, nonetheless?  There’s a degree of safety here. 

Someone leaves a prime beach-side parking spot, which Nick immediately snags.  He can see a few members of Congress playing a round of beach volleyball.  Excellent.  

As he gets out of the truck, they call him down to set up his beach towel.  Nick carts his cooler of water and Dr. Pepper out, along with his handy first aid kit and a couple other things he packed for this adventure.  Nick didn’t have an official beach towel on hand, so he bought one of his blue bath towels from home.  Just before he can feel too silly about that, he notices Charlie there, staring him down; an odd combination of annoyance and hunger clouds his eyes.  Nick knows just what to do.  He quickly casts off his shirt and shorts, allowing Charlie to take in the short, tight bathing suit.  Highly effective. One-hit KO.  

Caity Anderson immediately understands what he’s doing, and turns to Charlie — if Nick could hear her, he would guess that she is in the middle of either admonishing Charlie for ogling or calling him out on his brazen eye-fucking.  Either way, Nick doesn’t care.  He’s caught Charlie’s attention, and that’s all that matters.  It appears to have worked, as Charlie groans and falls back onto his towel.  

Nick takes this moment to approach him.  “Hi.”

Charlie juts back up off of his towel, meekly responding with, “Hey.”

“Hope you’re doing okay after last night,” Nick says softly as he nervously scratches the back of his neck.

Charlie immediately turns pink, like anyone who has spent far too long in the sun.  Nick doesn’t really understand his reply, as it sounds like a lot of incoherent babbling.  On the other hand, Caity seems to be interpreting it all well enough, as she smirks devilishly at Charlie, her eyebrows raised knowingly.  Clearly she knows something, but is being a good enough friend not to put him on the spot.  Before Nick can ask for clarification, or sit down next to Charlie for a brief chat, he hears a call from the volleyball net.

“Hey Nelson, Spring, Anderson… we need some substitutes for the next game.  You in?”

Nick turns back to Max Frost and nods.  “Sure, all in.”

Caity holds up her Cosmo magazine. “Sorry Max, I’ve got to finish reading 10 Ways to Intensify Your Next Orgasm before I get a round in.  Charlie’s free though.”

“Caity,” Charlie hisses at her.  

Nick turns to Charlie; he knows exactly what to do to ensure Charlie gets out there.  “C’mon, Charlie.  Not afraid of a bit of competition, are you?”

Max Frost oohs and ahhs in the background.  “Right, Nick, you’re on our team.  Charlie, on the other side.  I’ve got to see this.” 

Charlie seems to have come prepared for this moment though.  Standing up off his towel, he pulls his tank top off gracefully.  Nick’s throat runs dry seeing his slim, muscular build in full glory for the first time.  His tanned skin, a trail of dark hair leading from his belly button down to his crotch.  A solid set of abs.  Nick can’t keep his eyes darting between the man’s tattoos, his abs, his nipples, and back to the treasure trail — and that’s before the trump card.  Stepping out of his shorts, Charlie reveals that he’s wearing Speedo briefs.  They leave little to the imagination, between his runner’s thighs and tight behind.  

Well fuck me, Nick thinks.  He needs to one up him, now. 

They take their places on either side of the net.  The first few serves, the game seems to go well enough.  Nick notices that Charlie’s eyes often dart to him, even when Nick isn’t in his line of sight.  Between the fifth and sixth serve, Nick weaponizes this information to wantonly flex his pectorals.  The results are obvious.  Charlie can barely pay attention to the game, which only goads Nick into positioning himself surreptitiously to “stretch” more for Charlie.  Somehow they both manage to play the game in between these little bouts of showing off and fawning.  

“Nick, spike it,” Max calls to him, setting the ball in his direction.  

Without hesitation, Nick jumps up and spikes the ball over the net.  It seems to float a bit at a high velocity, before curving slightly, lowering and slamming…

Right into Charlie’s face.  

In shock, Nick watches as Charlie recoils and drops into the sand, before running over to the other side.  Nick gets to Charlie before some of Charlie's own teammates do.  

“Oh fuck,” Charlie groans.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Charlie.  Oh god, oh god.  Are you okay?” Nick whines out in increasing panic. 

Charlie winces.  “It stings like hell.”  

“Can you get up?” Nick asks, to which Charlie shrugs. 

“I feel a bit dizzy, although it might be the heat.”  

Nick thinks quickly, and without asking, he hoists Charlie up, draping his arm around Nick’s shoulder and using his hand to support Charlie by gripping his obliques.  He’s surprisingly lightweight for how much muscle he has in his legs, and easy to guide.  Not to mention a rush of sweaty, musky scents swirling off of Charlie.  Naturally, Charlie squeals. 

“Oh my god, what are you doing?”

“Shoosh,” Nick says firmly.  “I’ve got a first aid kit, ice packs, and cold water over by my things.  Just let me help you get there.”

Charlie pouts as he holds the spot the ball struck him.  “Fine.”  

He strides off the makeshift sand court, all of his coworkers looking at him with varying degrees of surprise and confusion.  Gently,  he places Charlie down on his towel and begins fishing out water and an ice pack from his cooler.  He wraps the ice pack in a smaller hand towel he brought in his supply bag (for covering the snack bowl to prevent seagull swooping) and hands the water to Charlie.

“Drink this, and move your hand.  I’m going to press this ice pack there,” he commands.  

Charlie moves his hand away, revealing a small red mound, swollen from the impact.  He releases a pained hiss as Nick presses the ice pack to it.  

“Sorry,” Nick apologetically whispers.  “Really… it was purely accidental, and I feel horrible.”  

Charlie takes a swig of the cold water.  “I know… I mean, the rest of it wasn’t an accident, but the spike felt impulsive by comparison.”

“The rest of it?”

Charlie scoffs.  “Don’t pretend for a second that you weren’t teasing me with those little flexes and body movements.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nick says matter-of-factly, to which Charlie rolls his eyes and snorts.

“Sureeeeeee.”

A moment of quiet passes between them.  Nick stares into Charlie’s eyes as he holds the ice pack in place, and Charlie continues to take sips of cold water.  

“You feeling better?”

“Not dizzy really, but the lump on my head stings,” he replies.  

Nick pulls the ice pack off, assessing the lump — it definitely appears to be sizable and irritated, and so he puts the pack back on Charlie.  

“I’m sorry,” Nick repeats.  He really wants to kiss Charlie’s forehead right now.

Charlie shakes his head.  “No, no more of those,” before going quiet.  For the first time since Nick started administering first aid, Charlie makes sustained direct eye contact with Nick.  “If anything, I’m sorry.”

Nick cocks his head in confusion.  “What for?”

“For running away last night,” Charlie replies calmly and quietly.  “And for yelling at you and assuming the worst.”

Nick places a hand on Charlie’s arm, where all his tattoos are and squeezes it gently.  “Can we talk?  Like actually talk, talk? Sometime soon?”

“Yeah, I think it best if we do,” Charlie replies.  “When?”

Nick looks around, noticing Caity slyly pretending to read her Cosmo magazine, all the while eyeing them both.  The magazine’s clearly upside down.  “Well… not here, that’s for sure.”

“Right,” Charlie replies.

“And I’ve got to go back to Austin and I’m sure you’ve got to go back to Seattle for recess.  I don’t want this to be a phone call thing,” Nick continues, feeling frustrated.  

“Speaking of which —” Charlie interrupts.  He places a hand gently on Nick’s bicep, giving it a tender squeeze.  “I think we ought to exchange personal numbers, just in case we need to keep in touch.”

It feels like he momentarily gets the wind knocked out of him, but Nick eventually recovers.  “Uh, yeah.  That’s a good suggestion.”   

The exchange phones and put in contact details; Nick places a little 🤠 emoji next to his name in the contacts.  When he hands Charlie’s phone back, he sees a grin stretch across his face.  Charlie resists teasing him, though — he’s done similarly — Charlie Spring 🐙.  An octopus emoji.  His throat pleasantly constricts thinking about tracing that octopod tattoo again, among other things. 

Charlie leans back, some of the water from the bottle sloshing out across his chest and dripping down it, interrupting Nick’s foggy thoughts.  “Right before we go back in session, in early September? For our meeting?” 

Nick nods.  “September first.  I’m marking my personal calendar now.”

Nick’s heart swells as he sees Charlie do the same on his cell phone.  Yeah, it sucks that they have to put it off yet again, but he knows that this little beach outing has compressed their schedules enough as it is.  In fact, he’s theoretically supposed to be in Austin tomorrow night.  Luckily, Tara factored travel into the equation, under the guise that he would drive back to Texas.  Surprise, surprise though — he’s flying and renting a car instead — allowing for this all to be possible anyway.  Charlie, however, is leaving at seven tonight, going straight from beach day to the airport.  Fickle emotions begin to render that fondness into anxiety. 

What is he going to tell Charlie in September?  How will he not sound like an incoherent mess?  The line between “I like you” and “I’m not ready for this” feels razor thin, not to mention his other complications of not being out or self-assured of his identity.  He holds immense power in his hands that he didn’t have two months ago, the ability to text or call Charlie whenever he can, and that feels dangerous.  He remembers his chronic oversharing in the earliest stages of dating Laurel — that was cringe. 

No, he can do this.  He can be cool as a cucumber, and not scare Charlie away.  Totally cool.

Chapter Text

Washington, DC - “Heart to Break” by Kim Petras

Nick agreed with Charlie in one of their sole communications in the days following the Rehoboth Beach trip that an office meeting at the Capitol might not be the best choice.  Since then, eerie quiet characterizes their text message thread. 

Nick senses that a degree of reticence exists between the two of them given their plans to talk; he certainly fears doing the wrong thing and somehow setting things back between them again.  Instead he focuses earnestly on finding a perfect location for them to meet.  It’s silly, really.  He should just pick a Starbucks somewhere in between where they live in DC, but Nick can’t help but feel that this occasion marks something monumental.  Something that could shift the nature of their relationship entirely. 

After much consideration, he chooses a little place in Georgetown right on Wisconsin Avenue NW called Tai Chi Bubble Tea.  Photos show a comforting and stylish interior, plus Nick counts boba tea as one of his guilty pleasures.  He vacillates between fruit teas and milk teas being his favorite.  Given how the summer heat and humidity persists, he decides ahead of time to order the peach fruit tea — he knows he’ll be far too nervous to make that decision on the fly.  He shoots a text with the suggestion to Charlie, who responds almost immediately.

Charlie Spring 🐙: I’d love some boba tea

That cements things.  An eleven AM date.  Date?  Is this a date?  Nick quickly tries to eject that idea from his brain.  Charlie probably doesn’t think it’s a date.  Does he? 

Those thoughts cloud his brain as he walks into the establishment, doing his best to plaster something of a smile on his face. Being the first day of Labor Day weekend, most of the city's denizens are on vacation elsewhere, and tourists don’t typically stray this far from the Mall, so the shop has only a few other people in it — perfect for not being overheard. 

Charlie already waits for him at a table, fidgeting with his phone.  Oh good, he’s equally nervous.  That nervous energy stands in strong juxtaposition to how Charlie looks.  His hair is well-coiffed.  He wears denim shorts that look like they have a deconstructed hem, a black tank-top, and a light flannel on top of it in cool greens and blues.  

God he’s hot.  Nick feels boring in comparison, his hair flopping under the humidity, his plain white t-shirt, Wranglers, and boots out of place.  

Charlie notices Nick’s arrival, peeking up from his phone, and smiles.  That’s at least a good start.  

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Nick whispers.  “Should we… do you want to order something?”

Charlie smirks.  “I figured that was why you picked this place.”

Nick chuckles and nods.  They’re quiet when they place their orders — Nick pays, of course, which Charlie tries to argue about, but Nick firmly and gently silences that.  Immediately after he does it though, he internally reviews that it might be seen as a date move and cringes at himself.  They take a seat with their drinks some time later, having only commented awkwardly on the weather.  The pale purple color of Charlie’s taro boba meshes well with the cool tones of his flannel, another image that leaves Nick breathless. 

Charlie stares at him inquisitively.  “So…”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Nick blurts out. “Or what I am.”

Charlie sucks on his straw, pulling up some boba pearls, which he chews as he weighs his response to Nick.  Nick fidgets with his hands a bit, unable to drink any of his tea.  It feels like his throat could close up if he tries.  

Charlie puts his cup down.  “Well, you’re human to start.”

Nick huffs.  He wasn’t expecting such deadpan humor at this juncture. 

“Oh, you meant ‘what you are’ in regards to why you have this mysterious penchant to kiss me in highly emotionally charged situations,” Charlie responds to Nick’s huff. 

Nick nods slowly.  “Yes.  I’ve been doing some research into sexuality and stuff… It's all sorts of confusing. To try to figure out why I feel this way.” 

“Why you feel… wait, you like me?” Charlie asks meekly.  “Or at least you’re attracted to me?”

“For some time now,” Nick shakily replies.  Instinctively he scratches at his neck, before finally picking up his tea.  The flavor makes him think of home, peach pies and sweet tea in the summer, and comfort. 

Charlie groans and balls up his hand before placing it on his forehead.  “Oh god, I’ve been such an ass to you and you…”

“Yeah,” Nick replies.  “There’s been a lot of feelings.  I was pretty sure you hated me at some point.”

“Yeah, I did,” Charlie regretfully replies.  “But I slowly started seeing you differently.”

Nick laughs briefly and smiles.  “I’m just a man with an annoying accent who tends to be overly warm and polite by default.”

“Shut up,” Charlie groans at Nick’s teasing version of Charlie’s own words. 

Nick smirks.  “And you’re just a man, stubborn and prickly, yet quick-witted, kind, and thoughtful when you want to be.”

Charlie blushes and sinks a bit into his seat, muttering, “Shut up,” before rising back up slowly.  

Nick sucks up some fruit boba, chewing them as his eyes wander across Charlie’s figure, finally resting on his face.  Charlie returns to slurping his boba tea, deep in thought again.  Nick sees a steady stream of tapioca pearls zoom up the thick straw.  It’s odd to watch someone chew food, but it really shows off how angular Charlie’s jaw and cheekbones are.  He’s hypnotized by it. 

“You’re staring,” Charlie says.

Nick blinks, and before he can control himself he blurts out, “You’re so pretty, you’d make a man plow through a stump.” 

Charlie turns crimson at that and then giggles, which sounds unbearably adorable, before turning into a full bodied laugh.  “Oh my god, that’s so… I can’t…”

“What?” Nick asks indignantly.  “Too country for you?”

Charlie shakes his head.  “Stupidly endearing.  That’s all.”  

Nick pouts, but then takes another sip or his tea and furrows his brow.  Here comes the serious part.  “Charlie, I like kissing you.”

Charlie picks up on the serious nature of Nick, and adds, “But,” into the conversation. 

“I want to figure more of myself out, I — I don’t want to be like him,” Nick explains, the reference to Thatcher immediately catching Charlie’s attention.  “I mean obviously I’m attracted to you, but I don’t want to burden you with some sloppy sexual identity disaster.”

Charlie leans back in his chair, studying Nick for a second.  “I understand.  In a way it’s actually quite thoughtful of you to consider how my past experiences with men enter this equation.  But…”

“You’d want to be a supportive friend, regardless,” Nick finishes, his tone hopeful.

“Something like that,” Charlie confirms, a glint in his eye at first, which then morphs into a more serious look.  “Speaking of which…”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have people here to talk to about all of this?” he asks Nick, his voice quieting. 

Nick nods his head slowly.  “I do.  They’ve been helpful with resources, although I still can’t really figure out —”

He trails off suddenly.

“If you’re like… bisexual, pansexual, or something else?” Charlie finishes for him. 

“Exactly,” Nick replies.  He can feel himself shrink inward.  Charlie seems to notice this as well. 

He looks around the shop.  “Probably not the best place to have such a deep conversation.”

Nick remains silent, simply shaking his head in response. 

They spend the rest of their time talking about the legislative calendar coming up, continuing to drink their boba.  Nick tries to limit his strong desire to flirt with Charlie.  He talks instead about his new house in Austin and how daunting furnishing a place can be.  Charlie mentions his camping trip on the Olympic Peninsula, which snowballs into Nick talking about bayous and the varied landscapes of Texas.  By one PM they both need to leave for other appointments.  

Nick can’t help but feel that overall it was successful — he said what he needed to say, and they’ve established some sort of definition to their relationship outside of colleagues.  Despite wandering into more fraught territory in discussing his sexuality, he walks into his meeting with Tara feeling warm and smiley from their platonic boba date, an ounce more of confidence in his step.  She notices immediately.

“Grinning like a butcher’s dog, I see,” she quips.   “Any particular reason?”

Nick shakes his head.  “Nothing particularly.  I’ve just been having a good day.”

She eyes him suspiciously and hums.  “Well, let me make it a degree worse.”

“Oh god,” he replies.  She swings herself over to his side of the desk and pulls up her phone.

“Take a look at this.”

On her screen is a TikTok of him, the video clearly shot in Delaware, with stills emphasizing his digs, sets, and spikes.  Almost professional quality.  The entire TikTok is set to a song that repeats “Let me call you daddy.  Daddy.  Daddy.  Daddy.”   Nick grimaces and groans.

“Christ.” 

She shuts it off, going back to the account page.  There’s three videos there already that Nick can see, along with the username TheBodBeaux.  He groans again.

“Really?  TheBodBeaux?  Jesus.” 

“Mmmhmmm,” Tara replies.  “You’ve officially made it.  You’ve got a fan thirst account.” 

Nick sinks back into his chair.  “I hate it. It’s terrible.”

“Yeah, but…”

Nick looks at her curiously.  “No, you can’t be serious.”  

She smiles grimly and nods.  “We might be able to leverage this to boost your image with certain younger demographics, perhaps even encourage them to donate to you.  Small, grassroot donations can really boost your street cred.” 

Nick sighs, knowing that there’s a truth to what Tara says.  “Can you come up with a plan for that and pass it on to the campaign team and see what they can do?   Because I’ve got no idea, nor do I really want to try to cook something up.” 

Tara begins typing quickly.  “On it.  They’ll probably have to focus-group this and see if it’s worth it.”

“Probably won’t be.”

“I mean, could win you votes across age ranges, really.  Never know,” Tara replies.  “Honestly, now that I think about it… the better conversation might be about increased security when out and about.” 

Nick pauses for a second, taking in what Tara said and considering the implications.  “You mean —”

She shrugs.  “It could have just been a random admirer, or some political junkie that happened to be there.  But you never know.”

Per usual they talk strategy and other legislative agenda items, some of which he pretends not to be aware of given that Charlie updated him earlier.  On his way out, Tara reminds him of the plans she’s putting together for his twenty-eighth birthday in three days.  She’s already reached out to many people, but Nick knows who she won’t have included on that list: Charlie. 

Is it too soon, or too awkward to invite him there?  Would it be in line with their desire to be friends?  Probably, but that doesn’t stop Nick from overthinking it anyway.  Friends invite friends to birthday parties, even when they’ve kissed each other twice.  He only wants a handful of people at his party, something low-key and easy to navigate.  Bill and Claude had recommended the location — McClellan’s Retreat, at the intersection of Florida and Connecticut Avenue NW, a cozy haunt with character, sandwiched between the Moldovan embassy and a rental property group.  

Nick checked it out a few days prior.  Exposed brick walls, wooden block tables, carved wood ceilings, and antique light fixtures give it the air of an old-time pub.  The owners added a whimsical touch of color by stringing rainbow holiday lights around the bar that stretch to the back wall.  Outside, Nick notes a pride flag waving in the breeze, marking the establishment as one of safety for queer patrons.  In essence, well suited.   

The day after meeting with Tara, on a quiet, warm Sunday, he runs into Charlie in Rayburn gym; it’s Nick’s upper body day, but Charlie’s leg day.  Unfortunately for Nick, this means he must weather Charlie doing weighted back squats, and he’s not prepared to talk to the man right after seeing his ass like that.  Instead, he does a quick warm up to get a gentle sheen of sweat and his skin flushed before his workout.  He finishes just as Charlie re-racks his weights, intercepting him before he moves onto his next exercise.

“Hi!  Sorry to disrupt your workout flow — ” Nick begins.

“Nick, it’s not serious.  What is it?” Charlie asks, waving his apology off.  

Nick scratches his neck nervously, seeing Charlie gaze at his arm as he does this.  “I was wondering if — well, would you —”

“Nick, it’s okay, just spit it —”

“Do you want to come to my birthday party on the fourth?”  

Charlie stands there for a brief moment, unresponsive, before chuckling, his smile revealing rarely shown dimples.  “Where and what time?”  

Nick sighs in relief. “Seven PM at McClellan’s Retreat.  Florida and Connecticut NW.  Bring Caity, too?”

Charlie nods and punches in the details into his phone.  “No conflicts.  I’ll see you there.”

Before Charlie turns away to do another set of exercises, Nick lifts his hand and gently touches the small bump on his forehead from a few days prior.  He realizes how unusual a thing that is to do in the middle of the Rayburn gym, and thus pulls away quicker than intended. Almost like he’s touched a hot cast-iron skillet.  

“I’m glad the swelling’s gone down.”

Charlie seems shaken by his touch, pools of aquamarine piercing Nick, scrutinizing him.  “You took such care of it early on.  That’s why.”

Nick smiles faintly. “I’m still sorry about that.”

“Shhh, stop that,” Charlie replies, before turning to head off to a leg curl machine.  “Now go do your arm workouts, you doof.”

They don’t see each other too much over the next couple days — Nick flies to Austin and back for several re-election campaign events while Charlie’s in Seattle.  They text each other a bit, mostly about Charlie’s coffee habits and Nick’s proclivity to slip in Texanisms.  It’s friendly and freeing, but even Nick can tell that it feels restrained; he knows for certain that it is on his part, at least.  He doesn’t want to slip into uncomfortable flirting, or even worse, suggestive texting.  He chubs up thinking about that, thankfully after leaving a senior center campaign event.

The evening of the fourth he stews over his outfit options substantially, even calling in Claude and Bill for help.  Naturally, Nick invited them to the party — they’re basically his only non-work friends in the city.  Right now, Claude rifles through Nick’s wardrobe, showing Bill options.  Bill has said no five times, and maybe to a shirt twice.  Nick currently stands there sheepishly looking at them rustling through his clothes, tight white tank top tucked into his Wrangler jeans, Frye boots, and a belt which features an ornate Texas rose buckle.  

“Oh.  This is the one,” Bill says triumphantly.  He’s holding a brown short-sleeved button down with a yellow and orange floral motif.  

Claude appraises it and turns to Nick.  “Who got you this one?  It’s so strikingly different from the rest.”

“Oh… that was an eighteenth birthday gift from my dad.  Said it was inspired by his own father’s wardrobe,” Nick replies.

Claude and Bill look at each other.  “Does it even fit?  I mean, you’ll have bulked up since you turned 18, right?”

Nick nods sheepishly. 

It does fit, but barely.  His arms look like they could tear the seams if he flexes for any reason.  Because the chest feels tight, they have to unbutton the top two buttons of the shirt, revealing his tank-top undershirt and small tufts of auburn chest hair.  The rest of the shirt seems to fit well enough, not tightening around the stomach.  Bill and Claude both give him a thumbs up.  

Despite the heat, the three of them walk to McClellan’s Retreat, given that it’s about ten minutes away.  Claude peppers Nick with questions about attendees, particularly members of Congress.  Bill reigns his husband in, telling him that they’re real people who probably don’t want to talk about work twenty-four-seven.  Before they cross the street to the establishment, Bill asks the most important question.

“Is Mr. Charlie Spring going to be there?”

Nick freezes.  “Uh.  He… um… he told me he would be here tonight.”

Claude looks at Bill with a devilish smile.  “Oh, gooooooood.” 

Nick’s eyes pop.  “Do not, please!  We’ve come so far, please don’t antagonize him.”  

Claude crosses his fingers, and then does the sign of the cross, all while smirking.  Bill rolls his eyes.  “I’ll make sure that my husband behaves.”  

People trickle in and the drinks slowly begin to flow.  Nick didn’t ask for gifts, but several people show up with a variety of liquors — a nice scotch, some mezcal, and gin — Nick will probably give the latter to someone who will enjoy it more than him.   He knows that Erin, a Library of Congress staffer who helps Tara with legislative research, loves a good gin.  In fact, it’s a close second to her love of spreadsheets. 

Their group of thirty people effectively has the bar until ten PM.  Nick nervously checks the door every time someone arrives, waiting for Charlie to appear.  It’s forty-five minutes after seven, and he’s starting to worry that Charlie changed his mind about making an appearance.  Claude keeps clocking his worried looks, smirking at him and whispering to Bill.  He’s really not good at hiding his feelings.  Just when he’s about to resign himself to a no-show from Charlie, the door opens again.

And by God, Nick almost stops breathing.  

Charlie saunters in with ankle-length dark gray skinny jeans; small, artistic tears litter the legs from the lower thigh down to the shin.  Stone-colored suede Birkenstocks match the pale, natural linen color of his tunic top.  Nick feels himself bite his lip when he sees the plunging neckline of the tunic, revealing a light mat of dark, curly chest hair.  The equally curly hair on his head appears lush, like he freshly styled it for the occasion.  Charlie wears a wooden-bead necklace and is in the midst of removing some aviator glasses from his face.  

This feels like an intentional move on Charlie’s part.  Not that Nick’s complaining.  He’s so busy ogling Charlie, he doesn’t even notice Bill sauntering up beside him.

“His clothing won’t magically fall off if you keep staring so hard.  You do know that, right?” 

Nick just sputters and then takes a sip of his drink, unable to reply — by the time he’s already regained his senses, Bill has drifted back to Claude, most definitely giggling about the whole situation.  

Immediately, Nick approaches Charlie.  “Hi.”

“Hi,” Charlie replies, smiling widely.  “Sorry I’m late, took me ages to figure out what to wear and then the Metro was delayed and it was just…”

“You look great,” Nick blurts out.  

Charlie chuckles lightly, appearing to be a bit nervous. “Oh!  Uh, thanks.  You’re looking pretty jacked — I mean, jolly — yourself.” 

Nick beams.  He definitely said jacked.  “Well, go get yourself a drink and mingle.”

“Absolutely.  Anyone I should watch out for here?”  Charlie asks, glancing around the room.

Nick snickers, motioning his head in the direction of Bill and Claude.  “That older couple — they’re my neighbors — don’t let them bully you into spilling any secrets.  About anything.”

Charlie departs to get his drink, and makes small talk throughout the night.  Thankfully, Charlie seems to ease into the situation.  He holds his own in conversations with coworkers well enough, chats up Tara for a lengthy period of time, and seems to delight Bill and Claude.  Nick fights the urge to cordon himself off from others and talk to just Charlie, but instead limits himself to occasionally scanning the bar for him.  He’s too beautiful not to gaze at from time to time.  No one seems to notice the occasional glances, or if they do, they thankfully haven’t said anything.  

No one seems to notice, except Charlie, and he makes that well known toward the end of the night when everyone’s more than several drinks in. 

“Nicholas,” he says sternly, a grave look on his face.  “You’ve been staring at me all night, and I am concerned that I’ve had something on my face the entire time that you’ve said nothing about.” 

Nick quickly shakes his head.  “No, not at all.”

Charlie picks up a finger and traces it down one of Nick’s arms, clearly more than a bit tipsy.  “Then why are you staring?  See something you like?”

“I can’t take a peek?  You stared at me all throughout the day in Rehoboth,” Nick replies, flashing his tongue teasingly.  

Charlie rolls his eyes and tuts teasingly.  “Don’t flatter yourself, cowboy.  I was staring at your truck.”

“Oh, my truck?  You like a big truck like that?” Nick retorts, making the implications of what a big truck could be a euphemism for well known.  

Charlie scoffs.  “Yeah, I love a fucking gas guzzler, you shit.”

Nick folds his arms across his chest, hearing the seams groan under duress.  Charlie’s eyes pop as he sees Nick’s biceps flex.  “That’s my culture you’re insulting, sir.” 

“Oh please fuck off,” Charlie retorts sassily.  He’s clearly teasing Nick.  

Nick grins and leans in a bit closer to Charlie’s face.  “You’re right, of course.  My culture is definitely much more Cajun, cheri.”   

“Huh?”  Charlie’s eyes glaze over hearing Nick speak French, which gives him a rather deliciously malicious follow up idea. 

“Ah? Tu ne savais pas que je parle français?  C’est dommage.  J’aurais pû te montrer les merveilles de ma langue française.”

Charlie looks at Nick, his steely-blue eyes quivering slightly.  He looks like he’s barely taken a breath since Nick started speaking, like Nick’s completely addled his brain with French.  Nick notes that the one thing Charlie appears capable of doing is licking his bottom lip discreetly.  The rest of him seems to be in the midst of a mental reboot.  Nick knows that if he pushes further, they just might do something right at that bar.  He can’t have that, not now.  Even though at this point in the night he desperately wants to kiss Charlie senseless.

He pushes forward slightly, allowing his hot breath to trail down Charlie’s neck, and then whispers in Charlie’s ear, “Bonsoir, Charlie.  Tiens-toi bien.”  

Nick pulls back, grinning devilishly, before heading over to talk to Tara.  From afar, he can see Charlie leaning against the bar, completely undone and ignoring his cocktail altogether.

Early September and Beyond - “Gimme” by Sam Smith, Koffee, and Jesse Reyez

Charlie swirls his drink around the large, singular, habanero-infused ice cube.  Frosty glass jabs at his skin, sharp and cool.  Mechanically, he brings the glass to his lips and imbibes the heady liquor as he stares out across the bar aimlessly.  The sharpness of the coffee liqueur meshes with the sweetness of the cacao syrup.  Smoky mezcal and orange bitters circulate with the coffee and cocoa, uniting them with the spicy undertones from the ice.  Everything about this sensory experience should prick him and pull him out of his haze, yet it fails to do so.

Because what the fuck was that?

Charlie knows Nick is Cajun — he has the fleur-de-lys flag hanging in his office after all — but he didn’t think Nick actually knew any French.  He never took a second to imagine what effect layering French with Texas twang would sound like, let alone how it would alter his own brain chemistry.  Was it flirting, or was it simply a sort of friendly crack at him?  Charlie didn’t know French, in fact he barely knew Spanish beyond the sounds of his father’s Castilian.  He never anticipated such a response to spoken words he didn't even understand; perhaps it was because he was drunk?

They had said “keep it professional,” yet nothing about that felt professional.  Charlie feels increasingly certain that such an option doesn’t exist between the two of them.  He’s either going to have to stop seeing Nick outside of work, or tell him that they need to seriously talk about what the definition of “friend” means, because that behavior indicates that it comes with benefits.  Nick’s not ready for anything Charlie wants or needs, and Charlie certainly doesn’t want to push him into such a thing.  When Nick does things like that, whispering French into his ear… it doesn’t make things any easier.  Having felt what Nick’s packing — Charlie needs a fainting couch just thinking about it.

Naturally, he’s overthinking things, right?  He can play it cool and can keep himself in check.

Yet he can’t even drag himself out of this French-induced spell. 

It’s only when Caity literally pokes him in the head that he comes to. 

“You okay?”

Charlie shakes out of his mild stupor, his eyes blinking. “Uh…”

“Did he do something to you?”  she asks, concerned.

“What?” Charlie asks, stunned.  “No!  Wait, did you think he drugged me or something?”

Caity huffs.  “I mean, I don’t know.  You look like it, like you’re in quite the state, you know?”

“Oh.”  Charlie takes a sip from his drink, furrowing his brows.

“Well, did he say something then?  Something to upset you?” Caity continues in earnest. 

Swallowing his sip, the spice burning his lips, Charlie shakes his head.  “Quite the contrary — I think he was flirting with me?”

Caity goes quiet and stares at him in disbelief, and Charlie continues. “I mean, it definitely felt like flirting in English, and then he said ‘cheri’ which I’m pretty sure means dear in French, and then something in French that I have no clue about whatsoever, and oh god I’m rambling aren’t I?”

She snorts. “Oh no, carry on.  I’m feeling both entertained and vindicated.”

Charlie rolls his eyes, yet smirks a bit.  “Fuck, his Texan-Cajun-Southern-whatever-the-hell French is so hot.  Like oh my god.  Brain-addling hot. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck me.” 

“Oh, sorry.  I’ll let you go then.  Clearly you have some business to attend to,” Caity says, mirthful eyes gleaming at Charlie. 

Charlie nods his head emphatically.  “No, no.  This is good.  Very good, keep talking to me.”

“Oh?” 

“Yes.  This is keeping me from making bad decisions,” Charlie murmurs, taking another sip of his drink.

Raising an eyebrow, Caity giggles. “My god, you’re drunk, too.  This is hilarious.”  

“Caity, no!  This isn’t hilarious,” Charlie whines.

“Why not?”

“Because!”  Charlie groans.  “I don’t want to do something stupid and scare him off.” 

“Scare him off?” 

Charlie hums, the tune melancholic.  “Even if… even if he is queer, he’s not ready.  He’s got no idea what he’s doing, he’s recently divorced, he’s only just getting his life back together.  I can’t come in and blow it all up.” 

Caity takes a sip of her own drink, eyes thoughtful for a moment.  “I see what you mean.” 

“But?”

“But look at him,” she whispers to Charlie. “He can’t keep his eyes off of you.  Don’t turn around right — don’t!” 

“What then?”

She keeps whispering, “Casually glance into that back corner when I give you a signal, okay?”

“Okay.” 

They both sip their drinks coolly, pretending like they aren’t scheming.  Caity nonchalantly glances behind Charlie every few moments, until she motions dramatically.  Instantly, Charlie glances back to where she indicated earlier.  

He catches Nick staring at him, his eyes distant yet mellow-looking.  Like he’s daydreaming in the middle of a conversation with his Chief of Staff, Tara Jones, and whoever else is in that group right now.  Charlie lingers long enough that Nick eventually notices, which immediately leads to him blushing furiously and looking away rapidly.  Charlie turns back to Caity, a surprised and silly look on his face.  Caity just returns it with a knowing look.

“See what I mean?”

Charlie sighs.  “Yeah… but that doesn’t really change anything, Caity.”

She shrugs and takes a swig of her drink before replying, “Guess we’ll see.” 

He and Nick don’t speak again that night, which Charlie supposes is best for the both of them.  Between that spicy mezcal drink and whatever followed, he knows he’s drunk.  Caity keeps him in check, as do Bill and Claude, Nick’s wonderful neighbors.  Whenever Nick begins to wander too close to Charlie’s orbit, Claude intercepts him for a rambling chat, while Bill swoops in to chat with Charlie.  He learns a lot about the married couple, their former employment in academia, the bridal shop they run currently, and their cute little apartment that shares a wall with Nick’s.  

That alone provides a sense of relief for Charlie, knowing that Nick has queer people in his life that can provide him a degree of guidance should he need it.  Perhaps they already have?  Bill is legitimately sweet and caring, Claude too, though he hides that under a layer of acerbic wit.  They cajole Charlie to stop by their place at some point for coffee and homemade desserts, an offer he can’t refuse.  

By the end of the night, he orders an Uber for him and Caity to take them back to their town home.  The entire party is thoroughly sloshed.  Before his Uber arrives, he goes to say goodbye to Nick.  

They don’t actually exchange words, but rather give each other a prolonged hug.  One that lasts longer than a typical, platonic hug, that involves Nick definitely smelling Charlie’s hair, and Charlie definitely nuzzling his five o’clock shadow against Nick’s neckline.  It feels like they only pull apart when the Uber arrives, Nick waving goodbye forlornly as Charlie and Caity get in. 

Caity leans over and drunkenly whispers into Charlie’s ear, “I don’t think he’s straight.” 

Charlie leans back and bites his lip, willing himself to shut up.  Nick doesn’t think he’s straight either, and Charlie knows that.  He’s going to keep that confidence until Nick figures himself out and wants people to know.  

Their new cordiality in public when Congress officially resumes session is markedly different to their previous behaviors.  The restraint that they both show during the K12 working group causes more than a few eyebrows to raise, including Summer Lee’s.  She asks Charlie about his summer recess and if anything life-changing happened back in Seattle.  He talks about going camping and she just blinks at him, clearly expecting something significant.  He sees Nick grinning as he overhears their conversation.

Even worse, one of the senior members of the group points out the obvious absence of bickering and tension in the room.  He never names the two of them, but glances enough in their general direction to make it plain that his observation is a reference to them.  They both blush furiously and silently burrow themselves into work that day.  

Later in the week there’s another committee meeting regarding some other circulating education bills; the afternoon before, Charlie meets up with Nick to coordinate some questions in between their regularly scheduled meetings and votes.  Nick behaves pleasantly and agreeably, with a notable degree of tension lingering in the background.  They’re working alone in Nick’s office space, something that levies further restraint on Charlie.  But god, does he just want to reach out and run his hands through Nick’s beard and kiss those plump, pink lips.  

They work so efficiently that they end up finishing fifteen minutes before scheduled votes.  Nick gazes into Charlie’s eyes, which quickens his pulse.  

“Do I have a bit of dirt on my face or something?” Charlie asks nervously.

“Charlie…” Nick begins in a daze. 

“What, Nick?”

He raises a hand and brushes an errant curl away from Charlie’s forehead, one that had drifted earlier today and resisted every effort to be tucked back into place.  Charlie’s breath stills as Nick’s fingers graze his head.  He can see Nick’s eyes glimmering, staring at him dreamily.  Just like Nick did throughout his birthday party.  Additionally, Nick doesn’t just pull his hand away, but traces it down past Charlie’s temple and cheek, to his jawbone.  His lips, like an asteroid on a collision course with Earth, head straight for Charlie’s.  Much like meteors that burn up in the atmosphere, the kiss never lands — the House bell interrupts them, calling them to the floor.  

Charlie pulls back and  stands up quickly, before he makes a fool of himself.  “Oh, I just remembered that I need to get a few things together before voting.”

Nick seems startled, but nods shakily.  “Oh.  Yeah, uh… I’ll see you after voting then?”

Charlie nods and waves and takes off, muttering under his breath, “Fuck fuck fuck,” repeatedly.  

Their coordinated, well-researched efforts end up adding to other concerns that ultimately sink a bill that outwardly appears to be “bipartisan,” but really contains some of the worst Republican wishes for education and some of the weakest Democratic policy positions.  Summer Lee gives them both fist bumps after the meeting for their work, noting how fluid and congruous their questions were, and how they helped craft an effective argument against the bill in witness testimony alone.  A couple other senior members also shake hands with them, including the one who made the comment the other day.  He also adds in a “what other surprises do you two have up your sleeves?”

If he only knew. 

Charlie sequesters himself in his office for hours following the meeting, partially out of fear of being asked to go out for drinks, but also due to the crushing amount of work and meetings coming up in the next few weeks.  The more he can stay ahead of it, the better.  At ten PM, he makes himself some green tea, snacks on some rice cakes he has stored in a desk drawer, and puts on some Lo-Fi beats in the background for concentration.  This labor-law bill needs a thorough reading to fully understand its implications, especially because he wants to effectively explain them to his constituents during calls.  

He gets lost in the legalese, even armed with the notes from different legal centers and scholars.  At some point, the fuzziness in his brain gets flushed out by a loud knock on his door.

“Charlie? You in there?”

Of course it’s Nick, checking in on him late at night.  The very person he’s desperately trying to avoid right now.  Worse off, he can’t even pretend not to be there — office lamps on, music audibly playing — undeniably the office is occupied.  He gets up and reluctantly opens the door, motioning Nick to come in.  Nick closes the door behind him. 

In the low-light from his desk lamp, Nick appears both physically and emotionally exhausted.  Charlie knows what drives the physical exhaustion, but can only guess at what has sapped Nick dry emotionally today.  Is it more to do with divorce, or is it the fact that Charlie’s been avoiding him for hours now?  They almost kissed again, before voting.  It’s far too messy and complicated, not to mention dangerous to do during the day at work. 

“Are you heading out soon?  I can walk out with you,” he says sheepishly. 

Charlie sighs and shrugs.  “I was going to stay a bit longer to get some more work done.  Next week’s quite busy.”  

Nick furrows his brow.  “But Char, it’s nearly midnight —”

“Char?”

Nick flinches, his cheeks burning up immediately.  “That just… slipped out.”

Charlie huffs gently.  “So… now you’ve got a cute nickname for me?  What’s next, a pet name?”

Nick remains silent for a minute, a mixture of nerves and embarrassment.  He steps forward abruptly, entering into Charlie’s personal space.  He’s much closer than Charlie initially imagined, almost as close as earlier. 

“No, I haven’t yet,” he says glumly.  “Maybe someday, you’ll let me.”

“Yet?  Someday?” Charlie hoarsely whispers. “What do you mean by that?”

Nick’s eyes look a bit watery, and his throat constricts a bit.  “I can’t — I can’t keep playing this game, Charlie.  Where I pretend like we’re just colleagues.  That we can just be friends.  That we have to simply keep things professional.”

“Nick —”  There he goes, using that word again, the same they had used months ago when trying to thaw out their problems.

“No!” he says firmly.  He steps a bit closer to Charlie, nearly within reach, causing Charlie to visibly tremble.

“I know I’ve been so confused about things, a complete mess, Char.  I don’t know what I am anymore,” he continues.  “But I am absolutely certain about you.”

“Me?” Charlie squeaks.  

Nick scoffs.  “Don’t even act surprised, Charles Ulysses Spring.”

Charlie opens his mouth to reply, but can’t eke a word out. Not only is Nick full-naming him, in his own office, but he’s talking about being “certain” about him.  What does that translate to?  A relationship?  He can hardly believe such a thing. 

“You know that I like you, that I’m attracted to you,” Nick declares adamantly.  “And I’ve been feeling that way for months now, honestly. ” 

He pulls Charlie toward him, bringing their bodies together, something that catches Charlie completely off guard.

“What are you doing?” he yelps out.  

Nick doesn’t say anything, but holds him tightly.  Charlie can hear Nick’s heart thudding in his chest.  Nick’s face currently nestles in his hair, rubbing his beard up against his curls and breathing haggardly.  Charlie can feel the flesh of his left pectoral, the duality of sponginess and firmness deviating from his expectations.  He breathes in shakily, the lingering scents of sandalwood from Nick’s cologne swirling with his natural musk, easing away the shock and nulling the lingering doubts in Charlie’s mind.  

“Do you finally get it?” Nick asks quietly, his head still tucked up against Charlie’s curls. 

Charlie swallows roughly, but manages to let out some sass.  “No, I’m actually quite dumb when it comes to guys and relationships.” 

“Then let me spell it out for you,” Nick growls.  “Fucking kiss me,  Charlie.  I’ll make sure you understand how attracted to you I am.” 

Charlie pulls back and cranes his head to look into Nick’s eyes.  Previously sleepy, they now look lit by flames of passion, glowing in the low-light of the office.  Charlie obliges him, standing on his tiptoes to crash his lips into Nick’s.  Immediately he can feel Nick running his fingers through his hair gently, such erotic and arousing touches for him that generates a soft moan from his mouth.  Without even thinking, Charlie runs his hands from Nick’s shoulders, down his back to the firm mounds of his ass.  He plants them there and gives them a gentle squeeze. 

God, what thick mounds of ass he’s got.  

Nick orchestrates the smoothest move ever, simultaneously twirling his tongue around Charlie’s and picking Charlie up, effectively nullifying any startled noise he might make.  He slowly moves the two of them to Charlie’s desk, until he’s able to sit Charlie on it.  Instead of staying propped up though, he begins to lean into it, like he wants Charlie to be laying on his own desk.  At this point, Charlie’s lost in running his hands through Nick’s hair and pawing at Nick’s musculature through his work shirt, he can’t be bothered to give a solitary fuck where this is all happening.  

He doesn’t even care when Nick swipes half the paperwork off the desk hurriedly, all the while continuing to kiss Charlie passionately.  Thank god Charlie moved his favorite mug off the desk after he finished drinking his tea earlier.  At this angle, he can feel how hard Nick is against his body, just like he did at the gala.  Charlie’s mind immediately begins listing all of the things he’d like to do with it.  As if Nick knows what Charlie’s thinking, he pulls his lips off of Charlie’s and moves toward Charlie’s jaw and neckline,  muttering the most delicious things as he kisses.

“I want to make you feel so good.”

Gentle kisses trail the jaw, down to the neck.

“I can feel you pressed up against me, so hard.”

Nick’s lips apply a gentle pressure to Charlie’s neck.  Not suction, but forceful enough to feel good.

“Touch me, every inch of me.”

Slightly sloppy kissing, tonguing, and suction follow that one, causing Charlie to yelp through a moan. 

Nick pulls back.  “You okay?”

Charlie nods fervently.  “The door – lock it, please.”  

Nick pulls back, his suit trousers looking uncomfortably tented.  Charlie leans back up, the hardness of the desk uncomfortable for long periods of time.  He unbuckles his own belt and unbuttons his trousers as Nick secures the lock and then saunters back over to the desk.

“Now where were we?” 

Charlie pulls him in by the shirt, and gently begins to unbutton it.  “I think you were begging me to touch every inch of you.”

Nick leans in to kiss Charlie, his own hands fumbling to unbutton his own trousers.  He can feel his own cock begging for escape from his boxer briefs, and so he paws at it and whimpers slightly.  Nick pulls back a bit and notices what Charlie’s doing and flushes, as if he didn’t expect it, before going back to kissing Charlie's neck some more.  They’re soft, yet generous kisses, leaving him practically crying for more, but still pleasurable and satisfying.  His thoughts and sensations are dull to everything else, tuning out anything not to do with what Nick’s doing to him at that moment. 

Without thinking twice, he extends the hand previously pawing at his cock toward Nick.  His trousers are unbuttoned and unzipped, but Nick isn’t touching himself.  He’s too busy running his hands through Charlie’s curls and supporting Charlie’s back as he leans into him.  That won’t do.  Charlie’s hand shakes slightly as he moves closer and closer, until he makes contact with the thick shaft.  It twitches hungrily and Nick practically jumps, before tensing up.  Charlie can feel it in the way Nick holds his back.

“What do you want?” Charlie rasps, looking into Nick’s eyes.  They’re full of desire, yet laced with a degree of hesitation and a dash of terror.

Nick’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows roughly, before moaning out, “I want you.” 

Charlie quivers at the moan, Nick’s voice going straight to his throbbing cock.  “Do you trust me?”

“Yeah,” Nick stammers. 

Charlie shivers a bit.  “Then let me make you feel good, too.”

Nick nods, and Charlie reaches his hand for Nick’s cock again.  Except this time, he finds no use for touching it over the trousers.  He snakes his hand under the elastic band of Nick’s boxer briefs, feeling the heat sear his hand.  He lands at the base of Nick’s cock and struggles to grasp around the entire girth of it at first.  The layers of clothing definitely make it harder, so Charlie pulls out the hardened length from underneath.  

And god, is it beautiful.  

There’s a word he never thought he’d use to describe a cock, but it definitely fits the bill.  Thick and uncut, a small pearl of pre-come currently decorates the slit.  Most of the head currently lies under the foreskin, begging to be revealed.  Charlie swipes his thumb over the pre-come, swirling it on the foreskin before pulling it back gently.  Nick takes in a sharp intake of air, releasing even more pre-come at that.  

A promising sign, Charlie thinks. 

Charlie continues this process, allowing his hand to get sticky.  At one point, Nick lets a pool of spit drop from his own mouth down to his cock, giving Charlie a bit more lubrication to work with.  It’s also insanely hot, for some reason.  Nick continues to release little gasps and quiet moans,  each of which causes Charlie’s cock to throb ridiculously.  He doesn’t normally release pre-come, but it’s not unheard of — he’s beginning to feel a small pool on his boxer briefs.  Unable to ignore it, he uses his other hand to pull out his own cock and push down his clothes slightly.  

He can see Nick’s eyes light up slightly as he sees Charlie’s cock… and this gives Charlie an idea.

Charlie lifts his shirt off, throwing it to the side.  He spits on his hand again, going back to stroking Nick.  He licks his lips and looks into Nick’s eyes.

“Just tell me if this is too much,” he gasps out haggardly. 

Nick just nods and gasps as Charlie continues to stroke him.

“Come closer to me,” Charlie commands, to which Nick immediately obliges. 

Charlie spits into his other hand and begins stroking himself, mixing it with the pre-come from his own cock.  He tugs on Nick’s cock gently, pulling it closer to his, and then cups both of his hands around their cocks.  The friction between the undersides of their shafts rubbing together feels delicious, in addition to his slick hands squeezing around them.  Nick releases a sinful moan at this, his eyes flickering and rolling.  He lurches forward and reconnects his mouth with Charlie’s, their tongues lashing each other as Charlie continues his double-barreled handjob.  Nick grasps Charlie through each stroke, his one hand holding onto Charlie’s shoulder like separation of the two would kill either of them, and his other drifts from Charlie’s lower back to his butt, grabbing onto the gluteal muscles there.

He can feel himself getting closer and closer, weeks of pent-up frustration and lust ready to spill forward. Nick must be, too, as he’s shuddering and whimpering. 

“Char… I’m about to, fuck I think — I’m going to come,” he moans.

Charlie whines.  “Don’t pull back, let me keep going.  Fucking want to feel your cock throb as you come on me.”

Like Charlie spoke a secret passcode of sorts, those words unleash a torrent of come from Nick.  As he begins to feel Nick’s cock twitch against his, his balls tighten and he begins to come, too.  A thick spray of come lands against his upper abdominal region, followed by spurts that dash the rest of his abs, pooling in his belly button.  Nick pants and moans, every word in between being “fuck,” as Charlie moans in response.  They’re both catching their breaths, trying their hardest to look at each other through the strain.  

Nick kisses him again, but can barely keep at it as he tries to regain his breath.  

Charlie begins to realize that he’s quite literally covered in come, and reaches around the desk for something to mop it up.  Unfortunately, all he can find is the labor law legislative analysis that somehow didn’t get pushed off the desk.  It will have to do.  Paper is poorly absorbent, much to both of their frustrations.  Nick does the gentlemanly thing and uses his undershirt to sop up the remaining come.  

How sweet. 

They quietly get dressed and pick up some of the papers from the floor; the room stinks of sweat and sex.  They don’t really talk about what just happened, but oh… what a moment that was.  Is this the opening salvo to some sort of purely sexual relationship?  Or the beginning notes to something… more comprehensive?  Something that involves two people, equally invested in the outcome. Charlie doesn’t know, and while that panics him slightly, he also knows that Nick actually likes him.  There’s something more there.  

Don’t overthink it, Charlie, he berates himself.  Just enjoy yourself for now, reflect, and when the time is right, you and Nick can have an honest conversation about it. 

Nick looks equally in his own head.  Charlie gives him a gentle squeeze on the arm as they head out of his office.  Continuing to be the human embodiment of honey, he orders Charlie an Uber to get back to Northern Virginia.  Charlie tries to refuse, but Nick won’t hear anything of it.  They hug gently before they separate as Charlie’s car arrives. 

They need to talk about this.  Charlie can’t even begin to wrap his head around it though.  

Not tonight.  

Not after that.

Chapter Text

Early October - Seattle, Washington

As expected, the weeks bleed together furiously as they hurtle through the fall legislative calendar.  With the holidays on the horizon, legislators whip into a frenzy, attempting to close deals and move forward with debate and voting.  The fiscal year ends on September 30th — with or without a new budget approved.  Part of that last minute hustle included the House finalizing over a dozen spending bills, each of which Charlie and Caity had spent ages crafting over the year.  The Appropriations Committee is not for the faint of heart.  As per usual, the Senate remains stymied by ancient rules and codes.

They had to pass a continuing resolution (CR) to keep the government open through November in the hopes of reaching an omnibus deal to cover the rest of the fiscal year.  Despite this, he already heard rumblings from veteran members about likely needing to pass another CR to get through the holidays. The entire process infuriated Charlie.  It would be increasingly difficult to move forward with his education and climate priorities if Congress ends up spending the remainder of the year locked in spending fights.

Charlie barely holds on in the riptide of committee meetings, votes, backroom conversations, and informal happy hours.  His sole anchors appear to be Caity, Darcy, and Nick.

Nick.

They still haven’t talked about September.  

And now it’s the first week of October recess, leading up to Columbus Day.  Charlie makes a mental note to co-sponsor the recurring legislation renaming it to Indigenous People’s Day when they go back in session the second week.  For whatever ridiculous reason, leadership prevaricates around making that minor, yet symbolic change.  Immediately he recognizes that he’s using that to distract himself from thinking about Nick.  His therapist would be proud of that realization.

The end of September mostly kept them apart.  They exchanged friendly text messages, but rarely saw each other in Rayburn or at the Capitol, besides official votes and meetings.  There was no time to meet up privately, with the exception of a late night the last week of the month that ended much the same way as their first sexual foray.  With some minor variations.

And now that he’s alone in Seattle Charlie can’t help but think through those events again for his own personal pleasure.  He’s had a long day of constituent outreach, it's gray and rainy, and honestly he just wants to jerk himself to sleep.  He has no need for porn; all he needs to do is think about Nick coming into his office after eleven o’clock and reaching his arms around Charlie, chest pressed to Charlie’s back, kissing his neck.  Instant erection.  Unlike the hesitancy of the first time, Nick took the lead in reaching his hand down to Charlie’s erection that night.  He nibbled Charlie’s ear, kissed his neck, and whispered dirty talk into Charlie’s ear, all the while stroking him off. 

Within minutes, Charlie had erupted all over his desk, including a copy of the latest Skipper T. Johnson-led bill out of the Energy and Commerce committee.  He returned the favor to Nick, but this time they faced one another.  This is the part that’s getting Charlie the most worked up now.  Nick had somehow unbuttoned his shirt while getting Charlie off, giving Charlie access to pinch his nipples.  Which he asked for; something that turned Charlie on even more.  He’s so close to forcefully ejaculating just thinking about that alone.  Nick then proceeded to gently whine and moan as they kissed, Charlie continuing to tweak Nick’s nipple and stroke him.  

Charlie remembers the thickness, the texture of the skin, and the strain on his wrist, but he mostly remembers the noise Nick made when he came.  The guttural groan, filled with lusty words.  Back then, he thought they might get caught by someone else pulling a late night.  Now, it’s the last thing he remembers before he finds his own sweet release.

God, he’s so royally fucked.  

Fucked beyond belief, because Nick consumes his thoughts and feelings.  Charlie berates himself, but he’s literally become a walking “Everything Reminds Me of Him” meme.  A strand of strawberry blonde hair, found on his trousers days later, makes his breath catch, forcing him to think about abysmal things to replace the memory of why it’s there.  Michael uses a room spray that combines notes of sandalwood and tobacco — notes in Nick’s cologne that Charlie’s olfaction has committed to memory — requiring Charlie to excuse himself for a minute to calm his racing mind.  Tori clocks his strange behavior, but doesn’t bother him about it, thankfully.  He doesn’t even know what he’d tell her.

Later that night, he watches NatGeo out of boredom to help him fall asleep.  He just misses a special on the Great Barrier Reef, and up next — a survey of natural phenomena in the United States — the bat migration through Austin, Texas.  He changes the channel to 24 hour international news, only to find that there’s special coverage on drought conditions in the US, and they’re focusing on depletion of the Rio Grande in Texas.  He groans and then nearly screams in frustration, shutting the TV off and throwing the remote on the couch.  It’s so odd to feel petulant about the universe’s obvious signals, and yet Charlie does as he stomps off to bed.  

He puts his earbuds in and listens to an ASMR video, one in which an advertisement about Grade A Texas Beef rudely interrupts the quiet sounds of paper rustling.  Scoffing, he skips the ad and continues on, closing his eyes.  Somewhere in the middle of the video, the ASMR artist changes books to one about Lyndon Bynes Johnson, successor to JFK, a Texan.  Ironically, LBJ was historically documented to have an above average appendage swinging between his legs.  He gently flips his middle fingers off at the ceiling, intended for the fates or whatever entity takes amusement with this psychological torture.  They have a sick sense of humor. 

Because it is torture.  Nick likes him, finds him attractive, wants him, and yet the more Charlie thinks about everything, the more doubts begin to creep in.  Obviously, Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux is not Thatcher Ambrose Alden III, but there are similar elements.  Secrecy, what Charlie hated most about his relationship with Thatcher, would be key to whatever he and Nick have going on.  It pains him to even think about that fact, because everything else about it feels so different.

Sure, they didn’t start off on the best of terms, but the closer they have gotten to one another, the more Charlie has realized how genuinely good Nick is.  He has the best intentions, treats people as kindly as he can, and works to earnestly meet people where they are.  That’s already much different than Thatcher, who is always out for himself and his own interests, lying to Charlie with no remorse to keep his cover.  Letting Charlie get invested in them, when he already knew that there could never be a “them” in the future. 

There’s no way that Nick can be that cruel.  Surely?  

He wants to believe, but he cannot keep out those thoughts, the ones reminding him that he thought the same thing about Thatcher.  Hell, even a few months ago he still kept a glimmer of hope that they could figure something out.  Charlie desperately needs Nick to come to a better understanding of himself and what he wants, because he cannot go through the same thing. Not again.  

Nick’s own words suggest that he wants something more, but Charlie’s heard those words before.  Thatcher alluded to the future, he just never clarified what Charlie’s position would be.  Forming attachments to someone so strongly, with the danger of being let down, could be dangerous — it might be too late for Charlie, given how overwhelming the reminders of Nick have been.

Too late, indeed. 

Mid October, Washington, DC

Sometimes, Nick curses politics completely.  Much of the work in the House remains tied up, at a screeching halt while they draw up Continuing Resolutions and wait for the Senate to get its shit together.  The tediousness of it all, despite being negotiated for several months now, boggles his mind.  Not everything grinds to a stop though, something Skipper T. Johnson reminds him about when they return from their early month recess.  They’re focusing on some provisions in the bill that would require new investments in renewables to utilize American-made parts, something that will drive prices up and also won’t be feasible for several years.  

Demand would far outstrip supply, and transitioning manufacturing doesn’t happen overnight.  Despite the investments made under Biden, Nick knew there were still large gaps in US industry that couldn't be solved by some sort of small business program, despite Skipper's dismissive suggestion.  There would have to be more comprehensive grants and capital funding of infrastructure which seemed impossible at this stage in the appropriations cycle.  Unfortunately, infrastructure investment talks are so unsexy, they take years to properly develop.

Every expert explains that, in a multitude of different ways.  It’s actually rather irritating to see Skipper pretend like that won’t affect renewable energy investments, and Nick’s not the only one who seems to think so.

Charlie seems to think the same thing.  

Nick doesn’t just know that by knowing Charlie’s energy positions, but also because Charlie currently sits three rows back from the witnesses.  He’s listening to testimony and taking some notes here and there, possibly for use in a floor speech later on.  Every time Skipper speaks, his face twinges in irritation; sometimes, Charlie outright scowls at statements.  Nick begins to catch on when he realizes the scowls follow half-truths or inaccuracies spoken as if they’re upright and factual.  That makes him smirk inwardly, keeping a straight face for the camera’s broadcasting the hearing nationwide.

In all honesty, Nick feels entirely distracted by Charlie’s presence, period.  He notes the occasional drift of Charlie’s eyes from those currently speaking, toward him.  Whenever he’s caught in the act by Nick, he jerks his face away, concentrating again on the testimony.  Like a game of cat-and-mouse, they continue to exchange glances with one another throughout the hearing.  Nick does his best to pay attention and jot some notes down, asking his questions when it falls to him — thankfully no repetitions, due to planning.

Nick notes that Skipper also appears to take notice of Charlie’s presence at the hearing.  The older man, a subcommittee chair, usually keeps his cool, but periodically his narrowed eyes trail over to the general area in which Charlie sits.  Apparently, he’s got quite thin skin for someone so experienced in politics.  

Within the next hour, everything wraps up.  Charlie stops to talk to one of the deposed experts, almost like they know each other somehow.  Nick files away his papers and notes, hesitating for a second, but then makes his way over to Charlie; he looks like he’s wrapping up his conversation with that energy expert.  

Nick stands awkwardly as Charlie turns to him, a confused look on his face.  “What?”

“Well, how did I do?” Nick asks, not trying to sound too earnest. 

Charlie purses his lips a bit, which transforms into a gentle smirk.  “Well enough, I suppose.”

“Augh!  Well enough? Well, I —”

Nick hears someone clear their throat from behind him, and Charlie’s face darkens.  It can only be one person. 

Skipper.  

“Gentlemen.”

Charlie nods his head curtly at Skipper, saying nothing.  Nick glances back and nods.  “Skipper.”

He can see the man scowling at Charlie, quite venomously.  His eye twitches slightly.  “Very astute questioning, Nicholas.  Well rehearsed.”

Nick furrows his brows, his cheeks pinched tightly trying to control himself, before retorting back,  “I certainly didn’t want to sound like an oaf.”

Skipper says nothing, but continues walking past them.  Nick can hear him mutter under his breath about people being unwelcome miscreants.  If he could avoid being charged for assault, he might swat at Skipper for saying such a thing about Charlie.  Instead, he lets out an exasperated sigh.

“I’m sorry.”

Charlie lets out an amused huff and shrugs.  “You don’t need to apologize for how much of a prick he is.”

Nick shakes his head.  “I wish I had said something to him.”

“You don’t have to say anything to him, Nick.  I’m a grown man, I can fight my own battles,” Charlie replies, brushing past Nick.

His attitude feels bristly, irritated.  Nick wants to make sure he’s okay.  “Wait, where are you going?”

Charlie glances back at him. “I’ve got a meeting and then votes.”

“Can we talk?” Nick practically begs.

Charlie thinks for a second, and then nods.  “Find me after voting.”  

Voting takes entirely too long, and even worse, Charlie disappears.  Later he texts Nick about being called into an emergency appropriations meeting.  Nick ends up being wrangled into meeting with Tara, one that she insists on holding straight away.  Apparently the popularity of those beach videos have garnered him an uptick in donations from a large female demographic ranging twenty-four to sixty.  The entire thing makes him feel rather uncomfortable, which leads Tara to remind him that the targeted-use of them only ran for a few weeks.  When Nick cries about the Internet always remembering, it triggers her own recollection.

“There is something else,” she murmurs as she pulls out her phone and opens TikTok.

Nick groans.  “Please. Don’t tell me —”

“TheBodBeaux,” Tara confirms, nodding.  “They move fast.  They’ve got video up there already from today’s C-SPAN and other press coverage of the Energy and Commerce committee meeting.”

Thankfully, TheBodBeaux TikTok cannot tell who Nick is glancing at, but they seem to have cut together every single one of his glances at Charlie into one long edit.  He looks dreamy, smoldering, and smitten.  The sound of the video is listed as “Yo” and the opening lyrics resound with “Yo bro, who got you smiling like that?” which makes Nick cringe just a bit.  The caption reads, “I want to see that smile every day.” He doesn’t look at the tags, and not even the most morbid curiosity will convince him to peruse the comments.

“Care to comment on who you were actually looking at?” Tara slyly slips in as he stares at her phone.

Nick shakes his head.  “No.”

Tara sniggers.  “It’s not the only one either, but the one from last week is just ridiculous.  Not as popular as this recent one.”

She opens another video, this time from a joint-panel Nick was on in late September.  One with Jon Ossoff, who looked like an older version of Charlie Spring.  He had never noticed that before, and Nick remembered being struck by that fact at the panel because he and Charlie hadn’t seen each other properly in days.  Clearly, it showed.  Seventy-five percent of this TikTok edit involves him grinning, casting glances at Ossoff as he speaks, looking like a goofy idiot.  The other twenty-five percent involves Jon returning some smiles, not necessarily at Nick, and once glancing at him as Nick actually said something.  

“Christ, these people are cringey as fuck,” Nick mumbles. “Like what are they trying to imply here?  That I’m railing Jon Ossoff?”

Tara snorts, pulling her phone to look at it.  “No, the caption is about ‘dreamy men in politics,’ and the tags seem to be as such, too.  The comments —”

“Please no,” Nick whines.

“I want Nick Nelson-Thibodeaux to spank me and make me call him daddy.  I want Jon Ossoff to rail me, tell me his nerdy secrets, and then make me pancakes. I want —”

“No more, please,” Nick begs.  “People… god.  Argh.”

“Those are the worst, I promise.  Mostly tame.  Not a single comment about the two of you together,” Tara says as she closes the app.

Nick sighs and then jokes,  “What do I have to do, tank funding for C-SPAN?  Is that the only way I’ll be safe?”

Tara just shakes her head and smirks, before moving onto their next agenda items.

After Tara finishes her reports, he moves quickly to figure out what Charlie’s up to, shooting him a text.  No response.  He could be in another meeting, or eating even, since voting ran through normal dinner hours.  Nick snacks on a protein bar at his desk,  pretending to do some work.  Instead his mind turns over what to say to Charlie when they do meet up. 

Ever since they talked in early September, Nick continues to reflect on his sexuality deeper and more meaningfully than he had the prior months.  He knows exactly why, too — Charlie.  He goes through his high school yearbook and pictures from university earnestly, revisiting memories to find answers.  A pattern begins to emerge. Nate Harrison — football jock.  Bella O’Hare — cheerleader.  Christian Diaz — cute econ guy.  Anastasia Durova — captain of the women’s volleyball team at UT.  

Bisexuality or pansexuality?  One of them fits, but Nick isn’t entirely sure.  It becomes pretty clear that he doesn’t need to know someone very well to find them attractive —  he doesn’t even have to like them to do so.  The fact that he never connected his feelings to the idea of finding someone attractive bowls him over, routinely.  So many opportunities litter his past, it’s rather shocking that he never critically examined them.  He recently spoke with a therapist about this, but they’re only just getting to know one another and haven’t dug very deeply into things.  

Eventually Nick gives up waiting for a response from Charlie, getting some work done.  After nine PM, he heads to Charlie’s office.  Finding the front room deserted, he heads in and knocks on Charlie’s door, which currently rests slightly ajar. 

“Come in,” Charlie calls from his desk.  

Nick enters the room, shutting the door behind him.  Charlie wears a semi-startled face, as if he never expected Nick to follow through with his desire to talk.  

“Oh.  Back for more?” Charlie quips.  He looks tired in the low light of his desk lamp.

“No,” Nick quietly replies, approaching his desk calmly.

Charlie cocks his head.  “Oh.  Yeah.”

“Are we going to talk about this?” Nick asks, his voice coming off much more pleading than intended.

Charlie purses his lips a bit, keeping his breathing even.  “What is there to talk about?”

“What happened between us?”

Charlie frowns slightly.  He clearly feels just as mixed up about this all as Nick does.  Nick can see his throat bob as he struggles to find words.  Nick nervously waits for him to speak, and then Charlie sighs.  “Well… we had some mutual handjobs and very intense kissing.”

That’s… an interesting take on their chemistry, Nick thinks.  “Err — yes.  Exactly, and —”

“And what?”

Nick draws back a bit, mildly annoyed.  Not this, Charlie — don’t pull back.  “I mean, I don’t know how to be any more obvious about it, but I like you and I like doing those things with you.”

Charlie tries his hardest not to smile at that, but his neutral face cracks a bit.  “So you want to do that again.”  

“Obviously,” Nick sighs.  “I mean, I would like to.  Do that again, with you, but —”

“But you’re confused,” Charlie interrupts. “ You don’t completely understand what’s going on in your head —” 

“Could you stop finishing my sentences for me, please,” Nick interjects angrily.  Charlie’s eyes widen in surprise at the tone of Nick’s voice.

Nick steadies himself.  “Listen, I’m sorry for sounding angry.  I’m not angry.  I just need to tell you that yes, I’m figuring things out, but you need to stop denying the fact that I am very interested in you.   Like I might not know my sexuality exactly, or know about coming out or anything like that, but I know about you.  And I don’t want to stop knowing about you.” 

Charlie leans back and frowns.  “The parallels —”  his voice trails off, and he shakes his head, as if he fights an internal monologue.  Nick thinks about parallels, and it dawns on him that the comparisons between Thatcher’s situation and his own are being drawn in Charlie’s head.  Charlie clearly does battle with them, and Nick looks on hopeful that the obvious differences between him and that prick help Charlie decide.

“I don’t want to complicate your life,” Charlie says quietly. 

Oh.  Nick immediately feels hurt, but not by what Charlie has said.  Just the notion that them doing anything together would be some sort of complication that burdens Nick, that Charlie ultimately concludes that based on his past experiences with Thatcher… It hurts. 

“What if I want complications?” 

Charlie releases a small, exasperated sigh, his eyes fluttering a bit.  “You may want it, but what if it hurts me?”

Nick reaches his hand across the desk and places it on Charlie’s.  He softly strokes it, looking into Charlie’s bright, blue eyes.  They’re filled with fear, ache, and exhaustion.  Nick doesn’t want to force Charlie into anything, not knowing how damaged he feels.  

“I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Charlie’s throat bobs again as he swallows roughly, and then lets out a raspy, “I know.”  He collects himself for a few moments, seemingly holding back tears, before continuing.  “What people want and what people end up doing tends to be two different things around here.”  

Nick cannot argue with that statement, with barely a year in Washington.  The phrase “the road to hell is paved with good intentions” seems to be a suitable one for Congress, although the more Nick thinks about it, there are often selfish intentions more than anything.  Clearly, there’s a lot going on in Charlie’s head that he needs to sort out, not to mention everything that Nick needs to grapple with.  They both seem to be at an impasse over seeing one another, making anything permanent.  Nick resigns himself to that fact for now, remaining hopeful that as time passes and they both continue on their journeys, something may come of what clearly is there between the two of them. 

It would be more criminal than Nixon and Watergate for nothing to come of it. 

Halloween Night - “The Night Is Still Young” by Nicki Minaj

“Do you think this is too slutty for the bar?”

“Isn’t that half the point?” Caity muses.  “I mean, Mean Girls rules and everything.”

Charlie tuts.  “But we’re members of Congress.  Like… we can’t bare it all on main.”

“Ashleighlynne Morrison went as Pussy Galore last year,” Caity retorts. 

“Well, Ash-shell-ay-anne-lynn is practically the ranking Congressional Slut, so it’s expected,” Charlie scoffs.  “Scratch that — that’s an insult to sluts everywhere.  They don’t deserve that.”

Caity snorts.   “No one’s going to blink an eye if they see your tight ass in orange booty shorts under that Charmander costume.  That’s about the most revealing part.”

“I suppose so.  Most of the DC gays will probably be significantly more scantily clad.”

Caity sighs.  “I still can’t believe I let you talk me into going out as a Pokémon.”

Charlie looks at her, shaking his head.  “Don’t lie.  You like it.  Between the nostalgia and all of the sexual puns you made about Squirtle —”

She interrupts with “Squirt, squirt!” in the cartoonish voice of the Pokémon Squirtle.  

“See?  Don’t even lie.”

They don’t bother taking the metro that night, opting for an Uber to Froggy Bottom, a comfortable haunt.  It appears that the pub intends to strike a balance between wildly collegiate and messy on Halloween and more upscale, relaxed celebration.  Both drank a vodka soda and lime or three before they left, feeling ample buzz.  It’s relatively crowded there, but not so terribly that it takes more than a few minutes to belly up to the bar and order a drink.  They both made the conscious decision to stick with liquor that evening, Charlie ordering a vodka cranberry with soda, and Caity moving to a gin and tonic.  

They manage to magically secure a high-top table, and a negotiated agreement not to utter a fucking word about appropriations, voting, bills, or really anything about work at all. 

“So, are you looking to get some dick tonight?” 

Charlie gasps.  “Caity!”

“What? I had to ask.  Just so you know, I am definitely trying to do that,” she replies, her lips curling.

Charlie shakes his head.  “Nah.  Not tonight.  I just want to have fun.”

Caity’s lips curl so far, she almost resembles the Grinch and his malicious, scheming smile.  “That bad, huh?”

“What?”

“Tibby.  He’s got you down that bad?”

Charlie furrows his brow.  “Shut up… we’re not.  I’m not — shut up.”

“Uh huh,” she replies, not pushing more. 

Charlie taps his glass, eyeing her.  “What about you, Ms. Thing?  I mean, you’re talking about getting dicked down here, but…”

Caity frowns and then sticks her tongue out.  “I only date Minnesota men.”

“Got it.  Fuck anyone, only date Minnesota men,” Charlie quips back, taking a sip of his rather pungent drink.  

“Har har.  I don’t fuck anyone.  I have a type, like you oh-so-clearly do,” she bats back.  

Charlie sassily moves his head to the beat of the music in the background.  It’s definitely a Carly Rae Jepsen song.  “Oh, do I?  What is it then?”

She rolls her eyes, and begins ticking off her fingers as she counts.  “Tall.  Preferably taller than you, can’t imagine why,” she sasses.  “Handsome, a given.  Buff upper body, probably for smashing you into walls and the bed as you fuck nasty.”

“Hey!”

Caity scoffs.  “Definitely heard you on Memorial Day weekend.” 

“Jesus.”

She pauses for a second.  “Hmmm.  I would say darker features, but…”

Charlie frowns at her.  “Definitely not a requirement.  Clocked three out of four.  And not for the reasons you think, you skank.”

She smirks at him.  “I see.  Makes a lot of sense, seeing as how a particular Texan is literally the opposite of dark features.” 

Charlie pretends to find that entire sentence scandalous before taking in the last of his drink.  She’s not wrong; all of those physical features are exactly why he’s attracted to Nick — a strong upper body, the handsome features, his height — but there’s so much more.  His milky skin and cute freckles, the strawberry blonde hair, the way his eyes have speckles of color beyond the warm honey-amber in them, how his smile could light up a room and drive all the cold away, the crinkles in his eyes when he laughs, oh and so much more.  

All of it.  

Fuck. 

“I need another drink,” he says, awkwardly smiling as he slides off the chair. 

Caity nods, calling after him.  “Get me another G&T please!”

He absolutely needs a moment to collect himself.  It’s been a struggle for the past week or two to push off all of his feelings involving Nick.  There are limits to denial, and he’s pushed up against them frequently over the past few days.  Now that liquor’s involved, he’s breached the metaphorical levee.  The area surrounding the bar remains packed, but he eventually pushes through a crowd of bros who seem to hold court there.  They’re all dressed as Spartan warriors, something Charlie finds incredibly humorous — men can be sluts on Halloween, too.  A massive inaccuracy that Mean Girls never accounted for.  

One of them nudges another, and nods their head to Charlie, something he sees out of his periphery as he’s ordering his and Caity’s drinks.  

“Uh… hi.”

Charlie looks over and sees Spartan two-of-five talking to him.  “Hi.  Can I help you?”

“Yeah.  I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?” 

Charlie blinks in confusion.  Wait, is this… man? Is this man trying to flirt with him?  All he can manage to eke out as he notices the other Spartans looking on in anticipation is, “What?”

“Well I… I mean, your costume’s, like, really cool and you look — hot — in it, especially with your tattoo sleeve,” the Spartan man, who is clearly a nervous university student, sputters out. 

Charlie smiles awkwardly.  “I’m really sorry, but no —”

“Ah.”

“And listen, don’t take this the wrong way, because there’s definitely a guy or girl out there for you, but you’re far too young for me. People would lose their heads —”

“I told you that’s Congressman Spring,” one of the other Spartans chirped. 

The flirty Spartan flexes himself a bit.  “But I am hot, right?  Like, you’d totally say yes if I was three years older?”

Just then Charlie’s drinks arrive, and he grasps them firmly, before turning back to the man.  “Good luck out there.  Treat your fellow queers with kindness.”

He takes off back toward the table. The Spartan flirt looks a bit crestfallen, his fellow soldiers patting his shoulders in support.  Charlie groans internally.  He was nice enough, putting the young queerling in his place.  And yes, he is conventionally hot — he’ll have no trouble finding a hookup or whatever he wants tonight.  Charlie didn’t need to tell him that, and he hopes he takes Charlie’s parting words of treating people with kindness to heart.  Half of the reason why he said it was because the attitude and appearance of the guy reminded him strongly of Thatcher.  

“You okay there?  Those guys didn’t give you any trouble?” Caity asks, voice laden with concern.

Charlie nods, rolling his eyes.  “They were playing fucking wingman for their bro.”

“WHAT?!”

Charlie scoffs.  “Obviously I rejected him.  He was a fucking uni student, probably barely twenty-one or twenty-two.” 

Caity nods.  “That would be dangerous.  God, I can see the headlines now…”

“Congressman Cradle Robber:  Spring Gets Railed by Hot, Horny Spartan,” Charlie sarcastically quips.

Caity snorts, almost choking on her drink. “Hey, that man could be a bottom, Spring.  You very well could do the railing.” 

Charlie blushes and shrinks in his seat a bit. “Regardless, no cradle-robbing reputation for me.”

He wiggles his way up, not wanting to slide off the chair, and takes a sip of his drink.  He and Caity sit there quietly for a minute, both soaking in the environs and the liquor, until he sees Caity’s eyes dart to the front of the pub.  

“Fucking A, man…”

“What?”

Charlie turns around and sees a man entering the pub, wearing Ash Ketchum’s signature hat and vest, carrying a Pokéball in one hand.  Not just any man, though.  Thatcher.

“Oh, fuck my life,” Charlie groans. 

He and Caity stick out like a sore thumb at their high top table, their brighter costumes like beacons in the sea of darker vampires, zombies, and slutty nuns and cops.  He struts on over to them both, tossing his Pokéball around confidently, a cocky smirk on his face.  One that Charlie would like to slap or punch right off.

“Oh hi there, little CharChar.  Wanna get in my Pokéball tonight?” he slurs at them playfully.

Caity lets out the loudest, fake retching noise she can accomplish.  Charlie scowls at Thatcher, and shouts over the music, “Please fuck off!”

Thatcher looks affronted, but in jest.  “Not even a friendly hello from my fellow PokéNerds?”

Charlie’s hand twitches around his alcohol.  Do not toss alcohol at people, Charlie.   His mouth quivers angrily.  “Absolutely not, scum of the Earth.” 

“More like scum of the Universe,” Caity shouts over Charlie, at Thatcher. 

Thatcher folds his arms defensively, but just as he’s about to say something, the pub door opens again and another costumed man enters.  He’s got a white, long-sleeved crew neck shirt over a blue button-down, an ascot, and bell bottom trousers.  His hair looks sculpted in such a way that his costume becomes immediately recognizable.  It’s Nick, and he’s Fred from Scooby Doo.  He makes a bee-line for the bar.

“Oh, fuck my life,” Charlie grumbles again.  Thatcher turns to look at the door and instantly scowls.

“Oh, fuck that guy,” he moans. 

Charlie scoffs.  “Fuck him?  No, fuck you with a barbed dildo.  Nick’s a thousand times better than you in every way imaginable.”

“You would know some of those ways, wouldn’t you? Little Chari-slut,” Thatcher shoots back at him acerbically.  

Charlie scowls at him.  “You lost any hold over me the moment you got engaged to some rich girl from across the pond.  Now, why don’t you fuck right off back to your Kalorama estate?  If you’re lucky, no one will toilet-paper it or throw burning dog shit through the window tonight.” 

Caity laughs and flips off Thatcher with both of her hands.  “Fuck off, you piece of shit!”

Thatcher scurries away toward the bar, grimacing at them both.  Just in time, too, as Nick begins his approach, his face full of concern.  He must have realized that the Pokémon Trainer accosting them both is Thatcher, and his inner White Knight activated.  He really needs to stop that — it’s now dangerously sexy for Charlie.  Plus he’s drunk, and about to get even more drunk. 

“Caity — get us some fucking shots, please.  Tequila, vodka, whatever… I don’t care,” Charlie moans, kicking his head back in annoyance.

She salutes him, and nods.  “Pronto.  I’ll be back in a jiffy.  Gonna put these tits to work and get served first.”

Halloween Night - “Take Me Home (ft. Bebe Rexha)” by Cash Cash

“I really hate Halloween,” Nick moans as Bill pulls him into his and Claude’s bedroom.  

“You’re too young to hate Halloween,” Claude snaps at him from the wardrobe.  “And you will be going out.  I swear to god if I have to see you moping about or hear you sniffling through the wall again —”

Nick scrunches his face.  “I’ve got allergies!”

Bill sighs.  “Sweetie, we both know that’s bullshit.  Pining and crying is what you’ve been doing.” 

“Plus,” Claude adds triumphantly, “You cannot come over here and tell us that ‘bisexuality feels correct’ for you, and then not go out and celebrate that fact.”  

“Now strip to your skivvies,” Bill commands. “We have just the costume for you.” 

Nick blushes, to which Claude snorts.  “Come off it.  We’re not interested in you. Plus, you obviously have a man anyway.”

“I do not have a man,” Nick whines.

Bill’s eyes twinkle.  “You will after tonight.”  

Within an hour, he finds himself in the back of an Uber, en route to the Froggy Bottom Pub.  He feels somewhat ridiculous, wearing bell bottom trousers and Vans, two shirts, and an ascot to top it all off.  Nick rarely dresses up for Halloween, mostly due to discomfort, but also because he genuinely dislikes horror.  Horror movies?  The worst.  Haunted houses?  He’d rather die.  He’ll hand out candy to kids going trick-or-treating, and that’s because he gets to stay home.  He also never wanted to do any of the couples costumes that Laurel conjured up, because half the time they involved him being almost nude.  

He doesn’t feel any less ridiculous when he pulls up in front of the Froggy Bottom and a group of ripped guys come walking out in Spartan costumes.  Although he would never wear it, he cannot deny that they look cool, and if they were a bit closer to his age, he might even find many of them quite attractive.  The bass from the stereo vibrates the environment, an unusual phenomenon for Froggy Bottom, although the last time he was there was at Charlie's party when conversation was the primary sound.  

He sighs.  Charlie.  

The goal of the night was not to think about him.  Hesitantly, he opens the door and walks in, only to find out that such a thing will be not only difficult, but impossible.  Because Charlie’s here, and he’s dressed as Charmander.  Nick’s inner young nerd flutters with excitement.  His father gave him his own GameBoy color, Pokémon Red and Pokémon Gold, and a link cable when he turned nine. By that time, the games were nearly a decade old, but his father really didn’t have the time for gaming much any more, and neither of his parents had a lot of money to buy the newer releases and systems. 

Charmander, despite being the more difficult of the starter types to choose based on the first two gyms, was his default choice.  Always.  Cyndaquil, the Johto fire starter, his other favorite.  The nostalgia really hits him differently now, almost bittersweet.  He sees Caity dressed as Squirtle, but with a bit of a risque approach to it — Squirtle with cleavage.  But also, there’s a man with a Pokéball looming over Charlie, one who looks familiar.  His breath hitches as he realizes that the Pokémon Trainer, dressed as either Ash Ketchum or Red, is fucking Thatcher.  

Nick needs to cool off and calm his racing heart, so he orders a beer first.  Something light, just to enjoy. It takes a few minutes, due to how busy the bar is.  Nick sees red when Thatcher turns and scowls directly at him, and then slinks off, thwarting his best efforts to maintain his cool.   He notices as Caity worms her way down the other end of the bar and weaponizes her cleavage for faster service.  She walks away with a small tray of shots, which worries Nick greatly.  Charlie doesn’t have a great track record of making good decisions when he’s drunk, and given that Thatcher is in the vicinity, something really bad could happen.  

Instinctively, he starts to feel incredibly protective and carts himself and his beer over to Charlie’s high top table.  He can see Caity in the distance, and Charlie’s face as he approaches — neither Pokémon appear happy to see him— but it could just be the fallout from the presence of Thatcher that looms over them.

“Interesting group costume choice,” he says to Charlie, motioning at him and where Caity and  Thatcher are standing at the bar.

Caity looks at him in confusion from the bar area for a second, and Charlie swivels toward him.  “Oh, I mean —”

“You’re seeing him again?” Nick interrupts.  “Even though he’s engaged?”

Charlie scoffs, indignant.  “What?  No!  The costume is purely coincidental!  Which is what I was going to say, until you cut me off.”

Caity returns, tray of shots in her hands. “What’s going on here?”

“Tell him we didn’t plan this with Thatcher.” He takes a shot and then another in quick succession, just after Caity has downed one herself.

 She nods, loudly slurring her words.  “I can attest to that.  We were having a lovely evening, minus some youth flirting with Charlie, until he showed up.” 

Nick frowns, immediately feeling like an ass.  “Oh… I’m sorry for assuming that.  It just made sense.”

“As you should be, ass,” Charlie shoots back at him.  He gets up and staggers off to the bar.

Nick looks down and sees an empty shot tray in front of them.  There had to be at least four to six shots on that tray just a few minutes ago.  Caity stares at Nick critically, and then flicks her hands at him, as if telling him that it would be best to disappear from their general area for a bit.  He sighs, knowing that she’s correct.  Cranky, drunk Charlie currently resides in the body of the man he wants to hold, kiss, and do much more with.  He returns to the bar and gets a second beer after downing the remainder of his first.  

His second one, he nurses for quite a while as he keeps tabs on Charlie.  He might not be wanted in his immediate vicinity at this moment, but he’ll be damned if he stands idly by while drunk Charlie makes a stupid mistake, with or without Thatcher.  He feels terrible about making the assumption that Charlie would do anything with that prick again, but there’s a tiny bit of jealousy in Nick that makes him wonder how the two of them compare.  As if Thatcher can make Charlie feel better than he could.  That doesn’t sit well with him.  Thankfully Thatcher seems to have fucked off for the rest of the night, having left for another establishment completely.

Now it’s just about making sure…

Oh. 

There’s a drink spillage, right at the bar.  And now the bartender is motioning to Charlie threateningly, clearly cutting him off.  Charlie looks like he’s about to begin arguing with the man, to which Nick immediately intervenes.

“Hi there, really sorry about that, sir,” he tells the barman.  

“This your friend?  Are you taking him home?  He’s completely fucked up,” the barman replies in a surly, deep voice.  

Charlie hiccups.  “I donna know about this… bullshit.  Total shitbulls.”

Nick sighs.  “Yeah.  Here, let me pay his tab.  I think he’s drunk as a skunk.  Won’t be able to sign for anything, really.  Is his card on file?”

The bartender shakes his head.  “No, we don’t keep them anymore.  His tab’s at $150.”

“I’ve got cash,” Nick replies, pulling out his wallet.  He shoves the entirety of 200 dollars in the direction of the man, who counts it and waves them away.  “Keep the change,” Nick yells over the crowd as he pulls Charlie away toward the outside.  

Caity appears to be entirely preoccupied by some very tall, muscular blonde man reminiscent of Thor.  No one else was with them, and given that fact, he’s stuck with Charlie now.  He certainly doesn’t fancy disturbing Charlie’s Chief of Staff to do the dirty work, especially because he has a feeling that she and Tara are currently hooking up, possibly right this minute.  He makes a mental note to ask about that later.  He supports Charlie like he did at Rehoboth Beach, mostly because he can barely walk straight.  Nick needs to get him home somehow, so Charlie avoids a public indecency or drunkenness citation.  

“Whaz you doing, Thicolas Nibodeau? Why you here?”  Charlie slurs as they reach the outside.

Nick stabilizes Charlie for a moment. “Charlie, listen to me.  Focus.  Focus!  Do you have your keys and wallet?”

“Phone pay,” he mumbles.  “Keys? Clink clink? Caity…” he mumbles.

“Christ,” Nick groans.  Of course Caity has the keys.  Nick isn’t going to fuck around with Caity and interrupt the beginnings of what appears to be a dick appointment with tall blonde guy.  Not only would that require dragging Charlie back into the bar, but it also would probably earn him “public enemy” in her eyes for a while, and possibly even an issue with blondie.  That’s a miss.  

Charlie now angrily babbles nonsense at him, which Nick immediately replies with, “Can you please, and I mean this lovingly, shut up?”  

A mistake, as now Charlie seems to be upset.  Drunk and upset are a problem, especially when one person can be flighty and leggy.  Drunk people often are convinced of their own invincibility, too.  Apparently supremely drunk Charlie Spring is all of these things right now, as he’s currently taking off toward Dupont Circle, just as Nick’s attempting to order him an Uber.   Which is just fraught anyway, because Charlie probably can’t even tell Nick his own address right now, not to mention he doesn’t even have keys to get in.  

Nick runs off, just in time to stabilize a falling Charlie Spring, catching him before he hits the pavement.  

“Leggo me,” Charlie grumbles.

“No. You’re coming with me,” Nick replies sternly.  “Even if that means we have to walk a mile to my place.”

Nick haphazardly helps Charlie walk far enough to get to Farragut North metro station.  They hop on the red line.  It’s a quick ride to the Dupont Circle metro stop, but it feels like it takes ages, mostly due to Charlie’s drunkenness.  He’s a hot mess, beyond belief.  Thank God for escalators.  Soon enough they’re breathing fresh air as they ascend.  Nick’s holding onto Charlie for dear life at this point, making sure he doesn’t tumble back.  He’s still an incoherent mess, but thankfully hasn’t been sick.

When they reach the street level, they manage to cross to the intersection en route to Nick’s place.  They’re so close, but Charlie begins to falter, stumbling over himself and losing steam to carry on walking. 

“Fuck it,” Nick mutters under his breath.  

Not many people are on the streets right now, most of them being either home asleep or at a packed bar.  Charlie can’t stand up straight, and Nick doesn’t have it in him to walk him home.  That might take another hour, when it should only take five to ten minutes.  

And so he does the only thing he can think of in the moment.  He picks Charlie up, firefighter style, and books it as quickly as possible back to his place.  Charlie apparently thinks that he’s on some sort of carnival ride, as he’s now incomprehensibly singing verses of the Pokémon theme song, out of order.  If he wasn’t annoyingly drunk right now, it would be ridiculously endearing.  It’s also incredibly hot that he knows lyrics beyond the first verse.  

He’ll have to settle for Charlie in his bed, a waste bin at the edge, some ibuprofen and water on his bedside table waiting. He can think of better reasons for Charlie to be in his bed.

Nick wants to believe he’ll sleep well on the couch tonight, but he knows himself.  He’ll probably be up hourly, checking on Charlie, just to make sure that the man doesn’t have alcohol poisoning requiring  a hospital trip.  Charlie seems to fall asleep immediately upon hitting Nick’s pillows, and Nick sighs.  

Better set up coffee for the morning.  

It’s going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

November 1st, Dupont Circle

Bacon sizzles on the griddle, small flecks of grease cracking and popping gently.  Nick gently stirs the home fries in his cast iron skillet, occasionally alternating between them and the bacon.  He cracks some black peppercorns on the home fries and gently salts them, before turning to butter some toast.  He’s not even sure if Charlie will be hungry, but after getting only a few hours of sleep, he’s got that ravenous, bottomless pit feeling of hunger that only sleep deprivation confers. 

Nonetheless, he alternates humming some Johnny Cash, Reba McEntire, and Garth Brooks as he stands in his kitchen, tending the breakfast.  He ought to be wearing sleeper pants or something, given the splattering of hot fats and oils.  It was truly too warm on his couch last night, and he didn’t want to disturb Charlie’s sleep to obtain sleep shorts.  His black boxer briefs and white undershirt had to suffice.  

It’s nearing ten AM, and Charlie hasn’t quite stirred yet.  Nick stayed up until two AM checking on him and slept until seven AM.  He has already drunk half a pot of coffee himself, and considers finishing the rest of his eight-cup carafe.  At some point he needs to catch a flight back to Austin for a short recess, and he’s certain Charlie needs to do the same thing.  Just as he starts panicking about the possibility that Charlie might miss or has already missed his flight, he hears his bedroom door creak open. 

Poorly coordinated stumbling follows the creaking noise, accompanied by a whoosh of a closing door, and eventually finishing with the slam of a toilet seat against its tank.  Nick grimaces as he hears Charlie expel the remnants of last night’s binge drinking, truly one of his least favorite bodily functions.  It didn’t bother him much until he went to UT, where collegiate binge drinking altered his perception of it.  He steadies his breath, flips the bacon, gives the home fries another good toss to promote thorough frying, and warms the toast in the oven.  He can overcome squeamishness by pulling his focus elsewhere.   

He doesn’t hear much else coming from the bathroom, and so he calls down the hallway,  “Char?  You okay?” 

Silence, and then a flush of the toilet.  No other sounds emanate from the bathroom for a few minutes, save for the flow of water from the sink.  It appears that Charlie’s stomach is on the mend.  Nick plates a small portion of home fries, bacon, and a slice of toast for Charlie.  He figures that he won’t be able to eat that much after getting sick.  After a few more minutes pass, the bathroom door opens, and out stumbles Charlie.  Poorly coordinated, and haphazardly shoved back into his Charmander costume from the night before. 

He lugs his body down the hallway steadily, his eyes bleary and haggard with a severe hangover.  A complex feeling pulls at Nick’s chest.  He hasn’t seen Charlie in such a state like this, well, ever.  There’s a combination of pity and endearment — seeing his mussed hair and his cute cheeks first thing in the morning, but also seeing him in such a state of distress.  His eyes slowly seem to grasp that he’s at Nick’s place, growing larger and larger as he takes in his surroundings.  He really was that drunk.

“You okay?  I can get you some water.”

He nods his head faintly as Nick hands him a glass of cold water to drink.  Some silence passes before Charlie looks up at him.  “Did you… get me naked last night?”

“What?  No!  I would never!  You were so drunk.  Oh god.  That would be so wrong,” Nick replies, immediately worried as to why Charlie would ask such a question.

Charlie blinks.  “Oh… I must have done that to myself then.  Guess it makes sense, given how hot that costume was.”  He pauses for a second as they both realize that Charlie was in fact naked in Nick’s bed.  Not that it should matter, given what they’ve done with one another, but it definitely feels significant.

He moans, “Oh god.”

Nick shakes his head.  “We didn’t do anything, I swear.  I didn’t even realize you were naked… I only watched you for the first hour or two to make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit or something.”

Charlie groans and hides his face, but slowly reveals his eyes.  They appear a bit misty.  “You did that?  Stayed up to make sure I was okay?”

“Of course,” Nick replies.  “You were far too wasted. I couldn’t even get a straight answer out of you as to where you lived or if you had keys, your wallet, or anything.  So I brought you here.  It was closer.”

Charlie takes another sip of his water.  “That’s still pretty far away.  How did you manage?”

Nick pauses for a second.  Does he tell Charlie that at one point he actually carried him home?  Maybe.  For now though, the food he’s prepared grows cold.  Anathema, practically.  

“I made you some breakfast.  Wasn’t sure if you could eat or not, but if you can, it’s probably starting to get cold.”

Charlie sits down and carefully gnaws at some of his toast, and forks one or two home fries into his mouth, just to test the waters.  Nick pours him a small cup of coffee as well, and some more water.  

After a few minutes of silence and eating, the dam breaks.

“The Metro,” Nick says quietly.  “And I carried you down Q Street, as you sang the Pokémon Theme Song.  Just so you know.”

“Oh Christ,” Charlie moans.

Nick shakes his head.  “It’s okay.  We all have our nights.”

“You’re going to lord this over me forever now, aren’t you?” Charlie asks, sounding defeated and annoyed with himself.

Nick shakes his head.  “No.  It was amusing for sure, but I was mostly worried.  Truly.  I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

Charlie doesn’t say anything in reply right away, but eats a bit more and sips some coffee and water alternately.  He looks comforted, yet also confused.  Like he’s sorting through a lot of complex emotions that he’s not quite ready to face or talk about.  

“Thank you, Nick.”  

Nick will take that alone — he didn’t even need it.  He’s just glad that Charlie's not mad at him for some reason. Charlie continues to eat a bit, but ultimately doesn’t finish his entire plate.  Nick tosses his leftovers onto his own plate and heats it up before diving in.  His hunger struggles to subside given his fatigue, and it appears that no amount of coffee in the world will conquer it either.  Charlie eventually moves to Nick’s sofa, closes his eyes and focuses on breathing.  He must be feeling unwell.

“Char… you can stay here as long as you need, but I do have a flight to catch in the late afternoon.  Have to be at the airport in five hours,” Nick calls over to him as he cleans up the dishes and pans. 

Water simmers in the cast iron skillet to release the stuck-on food particles — Nick’s certainly learned from Sarah not to scrub it out with soap lest he ruins the skillet’s seasoning.  He gets no reply from Charlie, who appears to be doing his best to fight off some mildly unsettling stomach issues.  A couple minutes pass, before Charlie finally finds it in himself to respond.

“Yeah, I’ve got a flight in eight hours.  Would be nice to shower and get cleaned up, but I fear I won’t make it back without completely ralphing,” Charlie says. 

“Shower here.”

Silence.

“You can borrow some of my old clothes.”

Dead silence. 

Nick immediately realizes exactly what that implies and turns pink.  Oh god, he might have pushed Charlie right over the edge with that comment.  Charlie says nothing in return for the longest time, and so Nick just continues to clean up the dishes, dry them off, and get them all sorted.  Eventually, Charlie gets up and saunters toward the bathroom.

“You know what? I think I’ll take you up on that offer.  Seeing as how you extended it, I hope you don’t mind giving me unfettered access to your comfy clothing drawer.”

Nick pauses for a second, feeling the heat trail from his chest up his neck.  “No, no — not at all.  Third drawer down in the chest of drawers.”  

It’s not until they’re filing into Nick’s truck a couple hours later after they’ve both showered separately that it really hits him how unusual the entire thing is.  Charlie’s wearing a pair of old gray sweatpants with UT Austin down the right leg, ones that he’s had to cinch tight with the drawstrings, and a white t-shirt from a Warped Tour that Nick went to ages ago during undergrad.  It’s surreal, seeing it now.  Smelling his body wash and shampoo permeate the cabin of the truck, since Charlie used it, too.  Wouldn’t he kill to repeat moments like this, minus the whole hangover part. 

Hopefully Charlie feels the same way, or at least would want the same thing eventually.

November 1st 

Charlie spends the entirety of the truck ride home simultaneously stuck in two modes:  attempting to stave off any remnants of queasiness and not to panic over how deeply caring and intimate the entirety of the past few hours have been. Nick took care of him, watched him fall asleep to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit.  He made him breakfast.  Let him shower at his place and borrow clothing, and is now driving him back to NoVa instead of making him take the metro all grimy in his Charmander costume.  

He rationalizes that evading the “Metro ride of shame” is the only reason why he hasn’t made a snide comment about gas guzzling trucks.

It was embarrassing, awkward, kind, endearing, thoughtful, and a feeling that Charlie was not used to whatsoever.  The last time he had experienced anything remotely like this at college was when he had hooked up with an upperclassman who rented a house off campus.  They had become semi-regular friends-with-benefits, and Charlie had been treated to breakfast and coffee once or twice, but not the entire “boyfriend experience.”  It was so new and overwhelming; even Thatcher hadn’t pulled this off, more than once or twice on those occasional weekends and times when it was “safe” for Charlie to stay over.  Pulling out all of the stops only to evade Charlie for days, put off weekend activities, or retreat to Massachusetts alone. 

And he always ordered breakfast in or they went out.  Nick can fucking cook.  Fuck, that’s hot.  

Soon enough, they arrive at Charlie’s town home in NoVa.  Nick now has his address, which is… fine?  A few months ago he might have hated that entirely.  Nick parks the car and looks over at him, his face shy and sweet, like he wants to kiss Charlie goodbye. 

“Thank you,” Charlie mumbles.  “I’m so so sorry about last night.  How I behaved, that I called you an ass… you didn’t deserve it.”

“Char,” Nick begins.

“No, you don’t have to explain anything,” Charlie interrupts.

Nick shakes his head.  “I wasn’t going to.  I was just going to say that it’s okay.  I’m glad that nothing happened to you.  I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

Charlie leans forward and presses a quick kiss on Nick’s cheek, before reaching for the door.  “Have a good time in Austin, Nick.”

Nick waves to him as he hops out.  Charlie can see Caity peering out of the window, snooping on the entire interaction.  He’s going to have to tell her the truth, or as much as possible.  There’s no way she didn’t see the quick peck on the cheek.  Honestly, she’s probably already invented several different stories involving last night.  The truth might be the only way to squash them all.  Immediately, Charlie hears her shriek as he opens the door.

“OH MY GOD WHAT HAPPENED!”

Charlie throws up his hands defensively.  “We did not sleep together.  Honestly.  He just brought me to his place, made sure I was safe and didn’t die from alcohol poisoning.”

“And he slept in bed with you?”

“No, he took the couch.”  Clear disbelief flashes across her face, but she schools it immediately.  

“And you’re wearing his clothes, I see.”

“What?”

Caity points at his sweatpants, her face wild.  “You totally are!  UT Austin? Seriously?”

Charlie pauses, and then sighs.  “Ah… I did shower at his place after he made me breakfast.”

Caity looks at him, completely scandalized by the showering comment, which makes Charlie realize that she thinks it was a sexy sort of shower, not a practical one. 

“Alone!  I showered alone!” Charlie cries out.  He notices her travel bags nearby and suddenly remembers that her flight to Minneapolis leaves in a few hours.  She’s probably leaving for the airport soon. 

She purses her lips.  “That’s not a normal thing, Charlie.  He clearly likes you, much more than just a hookup.  Making you breakfast?  MAKING?  Not buying?  No.  Much deeper.”

Charlie simply stares at her blankly.  He’s too fucking hungover to process this right now, to make sense of her words and internalize them.  Not to mention, he’s not even ready to think about the possibility that Nick might want a relationship with him, or that he might want a relationship with Nick.  Too soon.  Too early.  Neither one of them is ready.  It’s not healthy.  Red flags.  She cocks an eyebrow at him and then shakes her head, gathering her bags.  

“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I got dicked down well and good last night.  Even got his number for repeats.  And now I’m off to Minnesota for recess.”

Charlie gapes at her in shock.

“Enjoy Seattle!  Bye, love.”

And she strolls right out the door, without another word.  Only when it slams shut does Charlie finally come to.   He has about two hours to pack his bags and get to the airport on time, and his body still feels like shit.  Thankfully he knows how to pack light; even better, he can avoid overthinking things by steaming his shirts and carefully arranging it all.  He makes it to the airport with time to spare, still in Nick’s Warped Tour t-shirt, but with his own jeans and fresh boxer briefs.  

Simply because the shirt is comfortable.

Not because it smells like Nick and makes him feel good. 

Unfortunately, he forgot to charge his phone before this flight.  A major oversight on his part, because now all he can do is shift to the noise cancelation on his headphones and chill in silence.  With the silence comes a brain completely unquenchable in its thirst to analyze and reflect on everything.  He plays back the parts of the night before that he can remember, wincing at his prickish behavior around Nick.  Mentally high-fiving himself at telling off Thatcher and keeping himself away from the man.  And then this morning.  Oh god, this morning.

It feels so foreign to him, to be cared for by someone else.  He’s going to have to talk to his therapist about the modicum of discomfort that prickles him regarding that.  Should people feel discomfort for being taken care of in a time of need?  Charlie’s certainly thankful that Nick didn’t leave him to rot in Froggy Bottom, but he can’t understand why he feels so uncertain about everything that Nick did for him.  Nick’s selfless caring for Charlie sharply contrasts the subtle narcissism of Thatcher’s small gestures like the paid town cars, the luxury sheets, and everything else.  The scarring runs deeper than he ever imagined, given how Nick’s respectful and kind actions are freaking him out.   

Around hour two of his flight, Charlie dozes off.  Overthinking requires copious amounts of energy; add that to the exhaustion of a hangover and it’s more than enough to knock someone out, even when airplane engine noise remains mildly audible over noise cancellation.  He has a strange dream, one that he can’t quite parse out.  He’s in a house somewhere, with a lovely kitchen that features a grayish-white stain on the wood.  A fancy looking coffee maker sits in front of him, and he’s pouring himself a cup.  

A set of hands wraps around his waist.  They’re familiar, but he can’t tell right away who they belong to.  Whoever it is, they kiss his neck tenderly, but when dream Charlie turns around to see who it is, everything fades to black.  It stays that way for a bit, and then he wakes up just as the flight announcement blares that they’re preparing to land at Seattle-Tacoma International.

At least it wasn’t another sex dream.    

Early November Recess - Beaumont, Texas

Between the flight from DC to Austin and the drive from Austin to Beaumont to see his mother, Nick is afforded many opportunities to think about a lot of things.  Quiet reflection and thinking through it all.  His life has changed significantly in the past eight months, from married (albeit unhappily) and unflinchingly “straight” to divorced and decidedly not-straight.  Bisexuality feels the most correct, but he still wants to get more perspective.  He starts wondering if there is anyone he knows in Beaumont with whom he could discuss this.  

That might require heavier research than what he can do while driving. 

Charlie, though.  Nick can’t stop trying to figure out what’s going on in his head.  He counts himself lucky that Charlie at least apologized for both his drunken behavior and what he said the night before.  Nick wasn’t hurt by it — he definitely deserved that for being the idiotic assumptive ass — but he had still hoped that Charlie had lost his edge toward him.  It makes him think about what Charlie said about Nick taking into account his history with men.  There’s clearly more to the Thatcher backstory that Nick doesn’t know.  

He desperately wants to find out.  He asks Siri to set a reminder to text Charlie about meeting up when they’re back in Washington.  Even if it’s uncomfortable, even if both of them bristle to talk about it, Nick needs answers.  He wants to treat Charlie well, to make sure that he doesn’t hurt him, but to do that, he needs to understand.  Nick also wants to offer Charlie some sort of definition, something more concrete, to what’s going on between the two of them.  He thought he had that with Thatcher, only to have the rug completely pulled out from underneath him, or so Nick thinks.  

When he landed, he sent Charlie a text; by the time he got to Beaumont, he received a reply of thanks and that Charlie landed safely, too.  It makes his stomach do somersaults and his heart rate increase a bit, in ways it’s never done so before.  He doesn’t think he felt like this even when he dated Laurel.  He makes a mental note to bring this up with his therapist — it’s probably not healthy that he continues to beat himself up for missing the obvious red flags that are clear in hindsight. 

His arrival in Beaumont goes uncelebrated this time, due to Sarah volunteering with the speech and debate tournament at her school.  Unfortunately, he finds out that the tournament runs until seven PM that night.  She left him a note telling him that he’s on his own for dinner.  Nick fears she won’t be up for much this weekend at all, in the thick of the school year and amping up for the coming holidays.  Based on their phone calls, it’s been a long school year already. 

Uncertain what to do, Nick thumbs through his phone for a bit; it’s been ages since he’s gotten dinner out in Beaumont.  Feeling indecisive, he punts the decision for fifteen minutes or so in the future, and mindlessly scrolls Instagram.  Lately, his private Instagram feed has been a bit wonky, filled with an eclectic combination of friends, hot fitness gurus, artistic people of all genders, political hacks, and random acquaintances from high school and university.  The clearly sentient algorithm knows about his sexual crisis.  Or as he feels a bit more confident saying, his bisexual crisis.

One person of note who he hasn’t seen in nearly a decade pops up.  Aled.

Aled Doucet (formerly Doucet-Last, prior to emancipation) nearly tricks Nick’s eyes.  Their face appears a bit older, yet still possesses the kind, innocent qualities it did when they and Nick sat next to each other in AP English Literature and AP United States Government.  Blonde hair now grown shoulder length, its tips dipped pink, Nick hovers over the picture, likes it, and then navigates to Aled’s profile.  Nick and Aled share a unique bond – they were one of the handful of Cajun people at his school — something that at least let them be on friendly terms, despite their differences.  

Back then, Aled definitely gave off incredibly queer vibes, only to fully express it after they emancipated themselves from their terrible mother, and more so later on at college.  Nick routinely stuck up for Aled whenever people would say shit about them, but always chalked up that desire to be due to Cajun solidarity.  Now, he wonders how much of past-Nick’s queerness recognized another queer person and simply wanted to protect them.  They mostly lost touch during undergrad, as Aled went to school in New Orleans instead of sticking around Texas, wanting to be closer to their father.

A geotag from an hour ago indicates they’re visiting Beaumont for some convention of sorts. Nick took it as a sign.

GingerBayouNick: Hey Aled.  I saw that you were in Beaumont.  I know it’s been a long time, but I was wondering… would you want to get dinner or something and catch up? 

RaginCajun:  Nick!  Holy shit, man.  It’s been ages.  I was actually trying to decide on dinner stuff for after this convention.  I’m near the downtown area.

GingerBayouNick: Does six work for you? There’s that Mexican place a few blocks from the convention center.

RaginCajun: Oui ça marche.  À plus tard!

GingerBayouNick:  D’accord

Nick arrives ten minutes early to procure a table for them; it’s busy at the restaurant between typical patrons and those from the convention.  He’s lucky to be seated at a high-top table for two given the dinner-time rush.  Aled arrives on time, looking mildly flustered as if they rushed to do so.  Nick isn’t entirely sure what Aled does and what the convention is about beyond something artistic, points of conversation to address over dinner.  They have their blond hair pulled up into a messy bun, tinges of pink sticking out at parts.  A flowy, short-sleeved tunic top of sorts reveals tattoos on both arms, and stylish dark denim jeans give way to Doc Martens that could stomp a homophobe dead.  

They look effortlessly cool, so much so that it shoots a pang of jealousy through Nick. 

When he envisions queerness, he often doesn’t see himself as a part of it, whereas people like Aled seem to exude it.  Bill and Claude told him this, repeatedly — there’s no one way to be queer — and yet it still feels like there’s a certain barometer or threshold to be crossed.  Nick discards those thoughts when he sees Aled’s smile, however.  It’s been a while, and he’s forgotten how warm and soft of a person they are.  

“Nick!  I can’t believe — seriously — a Congressman, in the flesh?” 

Nick chuckles as Aled takes the seat across from him.  “In the flesh.  I’m on recess and wanted to spend some time in Beaumont.”

“Sarah! How is she?” Aled asks excitedly.   They’re much louder and confident than Nick remembers, something that he notices straight away.  Is it due to their own self-acceptance?

“She’s fine.  Busy with school stuff.  She’s helping run the speech and debate tournament right now.”

Before they get a chance to carry on, their waitress stops by — they place both drink and food orders at once, since they’ve both been to the restaurant several times before.  After that, conversation seems to push into the catching-up territory.  Nick finds out that Aled works free-lance in digital marketing, creative designs, and a whole host of other artistic endeavors.  Most of the point of the convention was for them to display their works and pick up new clients.  Currently they live in Metairie, Louisiana, just outside of New Orleans.  Eventually they want to move to a more queer-friendly state.  Nick almost wants to use that as a jumping off point to ask Aled about queerness, but they direct the conversation into discussing politics.

“Speaking of queer friendly — what the fuck are you doing up on Capitol Hill?  Skipper T. Johnson?  He’s such an asshole.”

Nick sighs.  “No comment, besides that we all have colleagues we don’t particularly like and yet remain forced to work with them.”

Aled eyes him, frowning.  “I see.”

“I just try not to make it a habit of shitting on colleagues.  It always tends to come back and bite you when you least expect it,” Nick adds, hoping that it assuages Aled.

An awkward silence descends between the two of them.  Nick doesn’t want Aled to feel too put off by this aversion to sharing, because it sends the message that Nick doesn’t trust them.  Which is far from the truth — he does. 

“On the subject of queerness —” Nick begins.

That startles Aled slightly.  “Oh?”

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?  About queerness?  I mean, you don’t have to answer them, really.  I just saw some flags in your profile that I didn’t know about, and so I looked it up and read about them some more and a couple articles before I got ready…”

Aled giggles. “I forgot how adorable you are.”

“Adorable?” Nick playfully huffs.  He feels flustered by this oddly flirty confidence.

Aled nods their head.  “You’ve always been such an earnest learner, seeking understanding.  It’s one of the ways I quickly realized that you were not like those jock assholes that picked on me in high school, despite being a basketball jock.”

“A basketball jock?”  

“Yeah, a basketball jock.  At one point, I had a crush on you, y’know?”

“Aled!” Nick’s blushing furiously at this point, hiding his eyes a bit in theatrical embarrassment. 

They laugh.  “Obviously not anymore. I’ve had a boyfriend for seven years now. Met him in college — Daniel.”  They get out their phone and show some photos of Daniel, ones that aren’t on Aled’s Instagram.

“Very cute,” Nick replies, before realizing his little slip up.  Aled apparently detects it and cocks an eyebrow.

“Well?  Queerness.”

Nick regains some of his composure.  “I guess I’ve just really been wondering about how one knows? What sort of feeling do you have when the feeling sinks in — that sort of ‘this is who I am and this is what best describes me’ sort of feeling?”

Aled pauses for a second.  The waitress brings them back their drinks and updates them that their food will be out in the next ten minutes.  When she leaves, Aled continues thinking for another minute, occasionally sipping their Diet Coke.

“For starters, it is significantly different from person to person, I think.  Which naturally complicates any answer I can give you.  Who are we talking about, anyway?”

Nick’s face quiets, and he just shakes his head slightly. 

“Right,” Aled replies.  “Secret.  Damn, DC really does a number on people.”

Nick laughs gently, and Aled continues.  “Well, I would say that you have to do some soul searching and reading for sure.  But here’s the condensed take-away… if you find someone attractive, if you want to kiss them, or want to explore sexual things with them, and they happen to be the same gender… that’s queerness.  What label of queerness depends entirely on the context.  I mean, maybe it is just that you want to be with them as a life-partner, but aren’t necessarily sexually attracted to them.  That’s queer romanticism.  I take it you’re not going to give me details beyond this?”

Nick shakes his head. “Sorry, it’s just —”

“No explanation needed,” Aled replies.

Nick pauses for a second, his mouth gaping a bit.  The books and talks with Bill and Claude were supportive and thoroughly enriching in regards to the research aspects.  Something about this conversation with Aled hits differently.  Maybe it’s the bluntness of straight out saying “that’s queerness,” or maybe it’s the simplicity of it all, or a combination of the both.  Aled doesn’t know that Nick’s talking about himself, and therefore holds nothing back from their assessment.  No protective blanket to buffer tempestuous emotions, like Bill often does.  Even Claude approaches it much less to the point.  Aled still assumes that Nick is the same old Nick from high school.

“Nick.  Are you… is this about… you?”

Nick stammers through unintelligible garble, before Aled puts a hand on his arm.  “It’s okay, Nick.  You can trust me.  I’ve been through it.”  

He catches the lump in his throat and swallows before taking a drink.  “Yeah, Aled.  I’m sort of having a full on queer crisis of sorts.”

“Talk to me about it,” Aled replies.  “No one around here is listening — they’re all too busy watching college football and shoveling taquitos down their throats.”  

Nick laughs at that.  Aled was always hilarious.

And they do talk, through their dinner and another round of Cokes.  Nick alludes to a sexual experience with a man, which causes Aled’s eyebrows to shoot through the roof.  Obviously, he doesn’t spell out the details.  They talk about the conflagration that was Nick’s marriage to Laurel, his competing attractions, and his complicated feelings on bisexuality.  For now, Nick seems to feel that it’s the label that makes the most sense.  Aled agrees, but cautions Nick that labels don’t need to be set in stone.  Whatever he’s feeling may change, and that’s valid.  

Nick pays for dinner and they share a long hug in the parking lot, leaving Nick’s eyes tearful.  He tells Aled that invitations are always open around Sarah’s place, or his in Austin even.  Aled thanks him for dinner, and begs him to keep in touch.

“The journey through queerness and self-acceptance can be long and difficult — everyone who does that deserves as much support as they need,” they say while hugging it out with Nick for a second time.

Nick agrees.  As he drives back to Sarah’s house, a warm feeling starts to bubble up in his chest.  It feels so good to be validated like that, to be unconditionally supported.  In the quiet of his rental car, he says to himself.

“I’m bisexual.”

And for the first time, instead of pinches of pain and discomfort, he feels relief.  A comforting aura washes over him, soothes him like a balm.  It lingers, helping him work through the other bits that he once felt too scared to even consider — telling Sarah.  Never in his life has his mother given him any reason to believe that she wouldn't love or accept him unconditionally.  The rest of the ride home, he comes to the conclusion that he will come out to her, and soon.  The thought of it alone feels like too much to consider, given what else he is processing.  He will come out to her.  Just not this weekend.  

Early November Recess - Seattle, Washington

Rain splatters the pavement of the street outside of Tao and Elle’s Maple Leaf neighborhood apartment.  The moment Charlie finished his campaign and constituent obligations, he took off for close company with his friends.  Charlie volunteered to pick up some Indian food on his way from an event closer to downtown, as long as they supplied the beer.  Elle in particular wanted to try some new drinks from Cloudburst Brewery, and went herself to procure them.

Apparently she took great joy in bringing a crowler back of the beer “Nelson Is My Friend.”  Brewed with Nelson Sauvin Hops, a fact Charlie learns as he reads the label affixed by the brewery.  Unfortunately for Charlie, he really cannot hide his reaction to the beer itself, the coincidental nature of its naming evident on his face.

“You okay, Charlie?  Looks like you saw a ghost,” Tao quips.

Charlie hands Tao the Indian food, and groans.  “Let’s eat first.  I swear I’ll finally spill —”

“Oh? We’re spilling tea?” Elle slinks into the conversation, glasses in hand for their beer.  

“Again, I promise, but I’d really like samosas and vindaloo first please,” Charlie begs.  “I swear.  Once I’ve got food and a beer in me, I’ll tell you what I can.”

“Deal.”

They spend the next hour devouring samosas, chicken vindaloo, veggie korma and rice, until they’re sated.  Charlie sits on the IKEA wingback chair Elle bought in the Last Chance section two years ago and immediately reupholstered in a darker, richer fabric.  He rubs his belly and groans, actions which Tao and Elle mirror from their vantage point on their vintage sofa.  Every few moments Elle glances over at Charlie expectantly, eventually pairing that look with a sigh.  After five minutes of nursing their full stomachs in silence, Elle finally gives in.

“So are you going to tell us or not?”

Charlie takes a deep breath in.  “Okay, trust circle.  You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Anywhere. Not even people you think you can trust.”

“Duh.”

“Obviously, Charlie.”

“Well, back in August… something happened.  That coworker I told you about… the one who kissed me.”

“Yeah?”

“We kissed again.  At an event,” Charlie continues.  “And then we talked about it later.” He pauses, carefully considering his next words.

Elle gasps.  “Oh my god, and?  You’re really keeping us in suspense.”

“Well, we did a bit more than kissing — “

Tao groans. “Oh god, please don’t go into detail — “

“ — Shut up, Tao!”

“Not that far,” Charlie groans.  “Not yet, at least.”

“Not yet?” Elle asks, eyeing Charlie intensely. 

“We’ve… kind of decided to start off as friends, but that got tossed overboard pretty quickly.  Like, super fast. And we both have different shit to sort out, I mean he’s not even really sure about his sexuality, I’m still on the mend from post-Thatcher syndrome.  But we have this electric chemistry!”

Elle puts up her hands, motioning for him that he’s said enough.  “Charlie… that’s so momentous.  Are you okay with this all? Have you had a chance to speak with this guy more?”

Charlie sits back against the wingback.  “I don’t really know.  We have talked, but we clearly need to talk some more.  It’s just… something is different here.  With him. With us.”

A moment of silence passes, most of which Tao spends in pained concentration.  Charlie knows this face — it’s the one he makes when he really wants to say something, but he’s concerned about how it will come off.

Eventually, he’s able to break through.  “I’m worried, Charlie.”  There’s a full pause, with a glint of the pained face again, but it quickly goes away.  “You have this tendency to shack up with guys that use you, that treat you as temporary, or who take you for granted.”

“Tao —” Charlie begins.

“No, Charlie — he has a point,” Elle cuts him off.  “Although I would have said it differently.” 

Charlie looks at the two of them in confusion and twinge of hurt, which Tao immediately detects.  “Yeah, I’m sorry if that was harsh, but I truly worry about you.  I know that you know how much you’re worth.  I don’t want you to hook up with someone who makes you doubt that again, like he did.”

Charlie doesn’t even have to second guess who he refers to.  Elle nods her head, adding, “You’re an adult.  Obviously you can do whatever you please, and we want to support you.  Just… make good choices?  You deserve to be happy, and if you think this guy can do that for you somehow, then talk to him.  And most importantly, work through it.”

Charlie takes a sip from the beer he’s been nursing for the entire dinner.  He doesn’t reply to either of them, but he does understand what they’re saying.  While he doesn’t think he’s ready for a relationship, or for that matter that Nick is either, he does know that he and Nick have something special.  Charlie can’t just throw it away without even trying to hash it out with him.  Without overthinking it, he gets out his phone and sends Nick a text.

C: Friday after recess — can we talk?  Somewhere private?

Immediately he sees Nick typing a response.

N: My place? Eight PM?

C: Sure, probably for the best.  Text me your address again.

N: Okay, will do.  See you soon. 

Thursday, November 15th – Washington, DC – “Vigilante Shit” by Taylor Swift

Nick holds himself differently the week they return from the Veteran’s Day recess.  Barbs of anxiety and anticipation prickle him.  He doesn’t know what exactly Charlie wants to talk about, but he has high hopes that the two of them will reach some sort of agreement.  Because they can’t go on like this — these dances of not talking, of being friendly, or making out and getting each other off.  There needs to be some sort of definition of what they’re doing, some healthy boundaries and rules to make sure they’re both well off from it.

Nick is adamant it's not that Charlie wants to cut things off entirely, he can't help a small part of him fearing that's exactly the case.  He wouldn’t agree to come to Nick’s place just to let Nick down, would he?  Surely that would be easier via text, at work in passing, or even at a bar after work.  Somewhere they could both cut their losses and move on.  He’s hopeful that this points to a more promising development.

Their interactions at work remain softer, calmer, and non-combative.  He savors that feeling, carrying it with him all the way through the day.  His only obstacle remains a group meeting with his Energy and Commerce subcommittee.  It turns out to be quite brutal.  Several members, himself included, snipe over the renewable subsidies in the bill that still hasn’t moved out of committee.  Nick shouts down a few people, Skipper among them, telling them it’s sure to fail and if it doesn’t, it will look like a victory for Republicans more than anything.  

This quiets several of them.

“We’ve seen tremendously disturbing events over the past decade linked to changing climate and pollution connected to human populations.  Hell, we had to send aerial firefighters to Canada several times due to droughts.  Droughts in the temperate rainforest!”

Skipper scowls at him. “I think that’s quite enough.”

“No!  Just because you’ll kick the bucket in the next ten years doesn’t mean we have to go unprepared into the years after,” Nick sneers back at him.  A few members hoot at that.  He’s got them really fired up, and Skipper appears quite flushed.

Another senior member decides to call the meeting, bucking Skipper’s “authority.”  They clearly need time to cool off.  Nick packs up his things, talking to a few other members who quietly congratulate him for putting Skipper in his place.  One even tells him that his speech and resistance to the “trilobite” has given him the resolve to push back.  Some senior members shrug it off and head out, ready for an early happy hour.  The rest of them jovially depart.

Skipper has yet to leave, a grumpy expression on his face.  As Nick goes to leave, he laughs aloud in the otherwise empty room.

“I figured he’d get to you sooner or later.”

Standing in the doorway, Nick turns back to the old man.  “Come again?”

“Spring.  These cockamamie green bullshit ideas, I’m sure are straight from —”

“You’re incredibly mistaken,” Nick cuts him off.  “I represent my constituents.  In Austin.  Texas.  It’s not even coincidental that their desires align with many of Mr. Spring’s constituent’s desires, given how educated our respective districts are on these issues.”

“How diplomatic.  Did Spring feed that line to you, too?”

“Go on.  What’s your problem with Charlie?” Nick growls back at him.

Skipper sneers at him. “I don’t have a problem with him.  Just don’t encourage him to hang around our committee meetings.  Better yet, you should reconsider hanging around him.  People will start to think you’re a fairy, too.” 

Violent acts between members of Congress are rare, but not unheard of.  Historically speaking, members have dueled one another, pulled guns on each other, and Preston Brooks even bludgeoned Charles Sumner with a cane after Sumner berated pro-slavery politicians.  Surely throwing hands at this old, smarmy piece of shit won’t be the worst thing in the world.  Nick chooses a better option, though — hitting him where it hurts the most, his ego.

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay, Skipper.  Or gay sex, really.  Oral, rimming, anal — none of it is gross, wrong, or unnatural.”

Skipper’s eyes bug out, his mouth agape.  Nick continues, unabated.  “Or really any sex between consenting adults.  And when I made that comment about you being gone in ten years and leaving us in the lurch, we will see some benefits.  We’ll no longer have your short-sightedness holding us back.  There will be one less person maintaining these shitty beliefs that keep people from living their lives happily, to the fullest extent possible.  And you know what?  You'll be nothing more than a blip on a Wikipedia page that students will skim past when reading the names of those who held those make-believe barriers in place.  No one will remember you.  Meanwhile, I’d put my money on Charlie Spring being President or a Supreme Court Justice one day.”

Skipper is bright red, and sputters out words that Nick can’t even begin to decipher.  Nick gives him one last scathing look before turning on his heel and furiously carting himself away from the committee room.  It might not have been the most tactful thing to do, but he’s certainly not going to let Skipper T. Johnson walk all over him and other members of Congress.  If anything, this has lit a fire under Nick to rally more members of Congress to make sure Skipper’s bill either gets majorly amended or another one altogether gets pushed forward.  

By the time he reaches the elevator, he’s cooled down enough to partake in pleasant conversation with any of its occupants.  Even Caity Anderson, who walks in just after him and immediately pushes the door shut button so that no one else can board. 

As the elevator begins to ascend, she turns to him.  “So, you and Charlie hooked up?  Finally.”

Nick feels floored that Charlie would tell her such a thing and immediately stammers, “He — he told you about our office hookups?”  

An involuntary screech leaves her mouth.  “Your what now?”

“Oh.”  Nick mentally berates himself for giving away that detail, reminding himself that he dropped Charlie off weeks ago and that Caity lives with him — she probably saw Nick then and extrapolated from there.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god — whose office?  What desk?  Am I going to have to bring a black light in?”

Nick just groans and buries his hands in his face.  “Caity —”

“Shhh.  It’s okay, Nicholas Nelson-Thibodeaux,” she replies.  “You can trust me.  I won’t say a word to anyone.”

Between the fact that Caity and Charlie are super close and that she called him by his full name, including the correct pronunciation of his last name, Nick immediately feels slightly better about this accidental reveal.  He’ll have to text Charlie about it later, as Caity will certainly rib him about everything.  Mortification still hangs over him, and when the elevator reaches his floor (finally, for christsake), he practically runs off of it and into his office.  He’s fairly certain he can hear Caity chortling from afar as he does so. 

Friday, November 16th – Washington, DC – “Throat Goat” by Kim Petras

After Friday votes, Charlie hastily returns to NoVa to get ready.  He skips after-work happy hour, feigning fatigue and hinting at illness.  Darcy and Caity both separately call him on his bullshit, but he refuses to give away details.  Caity methodically talks about Nick immediately after, trying to get a rise out of him or some sort of admission.  

He showers meticulously and then frets over what he should wear.  Outfit decisions take thirty minutes, and he ends up opting for a looser-fitting, black t-shirt with a scoop neck, some slim-cut jeans, and his classic Converse.  The weather in DC only recently took a turn for the worse, with some snow expected that evening — highly unusual for November.  Charlie fully intends on taking the metro to Farragut West and then walking to Nick’s apartment in Dupont Circle. Google Maps claims that the walk takes fifteen minutes, but that’s not at gay-walking speeds; Charlie’s sure he can cut it to ten at most.  He slings on his green, insulated LL Bean jacket, a charcoal gray beanie, and then takes off.

By the time he arrives at Nick’s it’s nearing eight and the walkways feel slippery beyond belief. He witnessed two fender-benders on his walk alone.  He hits the buzzer and waits until a buzz-click indicates he can enter.  On the top floor, Nick greets him at the doorway eagerly, before he can even knock.  He looks cozy in warm socks, joggers, and a UT Austin sweatshirt.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Charlie breathlessly replies.

“Come in.”

Nick takes his coat and they get situated in the living room.  There are take-out containers on the kitchen counter and the room vaguely smells like Mongolian beef mixed with Nick’s characteristic scent.  

“Do you want some?  I finished up like fifteen minutes ago; there’s leftovers” he says, waving over to the kitchen.

Charlie shakes his head.  “No, I ate already.  Uh, you can put them away before we get started.”  

Nick nods and gets up to stow the containers in the fridge. He stops and looks at Charlie from the kitchen, his arms crossed nervously.  “What… what did you want to do?”

“I want to talk,” Charlie replies quietly.  “Just to make sure we’re on the same page.  I get a sense that you want the same thing?”

“I do.”

“Do you want to start?” Charlie asks, his voice faltering slightly.

Nick comes back to the couch and sits down on it, next to Charlie.  “Sure,” he says before pausing to collect himself.  “Okay, my first thing — whatever we’re going to call this, define this as — I’m not quite ready for people to know. I get Caity knowing, but if you absolutely need to tell people, like close friends or family, will you talk to me about it first?”

“I understand.  Thanks for giving me some wiggle room to talk about it though.  I appreciate it,” Charlie calmly states.  A major change from what he experienced with Thatcher, who pushed back against Charlie talking to people at every opportunity, even if Thatcher had practically outed himself to someone.

Nick scratches the back of his neck anxiously.  “I sort of revealed some things to Caity yesterday, well, things I thought you might have told her…”

“I’m aware,” Charlie snorts.  “Sorry about that.  She definitely saw you drop me off, and she’s been very privy to my feelings about you.  And us.”                                    

Nick hums.  “Understandable. You two do live together.”  He pauses for a second, clearly digesting that prior statement, before smiling.  “Feelings about… us?”

Charlie inhales sharply and then deeply exhales.  “Before we get into that too deeply, I just want to tell you a few things.”

“About Thatcher?” Nick asks, the tone of his voice remaining as evenly keeled as possible.

Charlie shakes his head.  “More than that.”

Nick remains attentive and focused for fifteen minutes while Charlie provides a rundown of every guy he’s dated since high school.  The senior that he “dated” when he was a junior who pretended he didn’t exist in the hallways and then actively decided to actually date a girl while he and Charlie were a “thing.”  His senior-year boyfriend who decided that he’d rather sneak into college parties and fuck around with older guys there after dating Charlie for two months.  The guy he dated freshman year of undergrad who was so disheveled and unwell that Charlie had to call it off, leading to some bad blood from the guy’s friends for a solid year.  His junior year he pined after a senior who was out, in a Fraternity, and majorly hot — and then led Charlie on for a solid month before Charlie walked in on him getting head at a party.  And yeah — Thatcher.  Charlie avoids much of those gory details for now.

“I’ve been burned so much, in a variety of different ways,” Charlie concludes morosely.  

At this point, Nick holds Charlie’s hands in his own, stroking them gently.  He’s doing his best to calm and comfort Charlie.

“Char,” Nick whispers.  “I don’t want to use you.  I’m… well, I’m pretty sure I’m bisexual.  Well, much more certain now.  I might not be ready to come out, but I know I like you.  I want to get to know you better.  I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“You’re bisexual?” Charlie rasps.  “Congratulations on figuring that out.”

Nick laughs.  “Not the point of that, but yeah.  Had a bit of a heart-to-heart with a high school friend a few weeks ago.  Really helped me collect my thoughts on that.” 

Charlie giggles a little bit.  “Well, I’m glad.  But, what do you want to do about us?”

“Well, I did say I want to get to know you better, but —”

“You also want to fuck me,” Charlie interrupts.  

Nick’s eyes glaze over as his face glows pink.  Charlie’s certainly broken him with that statement, and he knows that Nick will need a moment to regain his senses.  He has a general sense of what Nick might want to explore.

He toys with one of his curls playfully, wrapping it around his index finger.  Immediately this seems to hypnotize Nick.  “From what I can gather, basically you want to explore sexual activities with men… but only me, while also becoming better friends.”

Nick seems to come back from space at that, but barely.  He manages to stammer out, “Ah — uhmm — erh — yeah.”

Charlie smirks and giggles.  “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“That’s all I can do for now, Nick.  Us, getting to know each other better as people, as friends… and in more sensuous ways.” 

Nick traces his tongue across his lips, moistening them as he gazes longingly into Charlie’s eyes.  “Can I kiss you now?

“Please.”

Nick pulls Charlie onto his lap, wrapping one hand around Charlie’s waist and the other into Charlie’s curls as they press their lips together.  Unlike previous encounters, where hungry urgency ruled their interactions, a different feeling governs this kiss.  Still filled with need, yet more placid in how lips brush against lips and part to admit tongues.  There’s no one to interrupt them, no one to catch them in the act.  Time can slip away as they continue their sensual endeavors.  Charlie loses himself in touching every surface of Nick he can cling to — neck, shoulders, chest, arms.  

Kisses never make him feel like this.  Before he can analyze that and ruin the mood, another more swollen part of Nick’s anatomy grabs his attention away.  Charlie’s ass instinctively grinds against it, eliciting shivers and gentle moans from Nick.  Once he regains full control of himself, Charlie works against Nick’s cock more eagerly.  He sees Nick’s eyes twitch in response; he’s doing his best not to lose control completely and succumb to an early climax.  On the third wave of grinding, Nick grabs Charlie’s hips forcefully.

“I need you to reconsider doing that, Char,” he breathes haggardly into Charlie’s ear.  “I’m already too close.”

Charlie makes his way to Nick’s neck, pressing tender kisses on it, so as to leave no marks.  “Well… what do you want me to do instead?”

Nick pauses for a second, mostly to sigh as Charlie continues to kiss his neck.  Charlie looks down at Nick, seductive eyes flitting at the man whose skin appears as blush as a fine rosė wine.  He’s not sure what Nick wants, or he at least appears to be thinking through the options.  Charlie leans into him and nibbles at Nick’s ear before whispering into it, “Do you want to fuck me?”

Nick swallows roughly before stammering, “I’m not sure — I don’t know if I’m ready?”

Charlie returns to kissing NIck’s neck. “It’s okay, Nick.  We can take our time.  There’s a lot of your body that I’d like to explore, and there’s a lot of my body I’d like for you to explore before we do that.”

Nick shivers.  “It was a good suggestion.”

“Then let me amend it — why don’t you fuck my mouth?”

The pupils in Nick’s eyes dilate, almost like those words course through his body like a recreational drug.  Charlie tugs at Nick’s clothing, waiting for some sort of response.  “Take this off.  I’ll let you think about it for a bit.”

Nick immediately obeys, flinging away his sweatshirt and undershirt.  Charlie wastes no time moving from Nick’s neck, down to his collarbone, and then to his nipple.  Nick squirms as he applies a few tongue lashes, his back arching as Charlie gently sucks at it.  

“Don’t stop doing that,” Nick moans breathily.  “Please.”

Charlie can feel Nick’s cock throb each time he turns his mouth’s attention to a nipple, alternating between the two.  This whips Nick into a pleasured frenzy, eyes rolling and eyelids flickering.  At some point, his hands find their way into Charlie’s hair, carding their way through and seemingly gently guiding Charlie’s head further south.  Most of the time, Charlie can’t make out what Nick is even saying through his mindless babble, whimpers, and moans. 

Until he finally concedes to his needs.  “Suck me, please.”

Charlie doesn’t linger at his chest a moment longer, immediately diving down to the waist-band of his sweatpants, pulling it and Nick’s underwear down to reveal his cock.  Charlie appraises the sizable beast before him — by all accounts larger and thicker than Thatcher, who already had an above average piece of his own.  Nick shimmies out of his clothes a bit more, which gives Charlie more clearance to tease.  Before he tastes Nick, he kisses and nibbles at his inner thigh a bit, moving up until he reaches his balls.  A pleasant, yet powerful musky aroma nearly causes him to lose control of his senses.

Instinctively, he brings his tongue to Nick’s balls, causing a jolt.

“Ermph — oh,” Nick lets out, his voice strangled.

Charlie pops up his head.  “Is that okay?”

“I — no one’s ever done that before.  Feeling’s just… different?”

Charlie draws himself back down.  “Can I do it again?”

A nearly breathless “Yeah,” comes from above.  

Given Nick’s more sensitive reaction, he only teases them with his tongue for a minute or two.  As he continues, Nick wriggles and moans more and more.  Eventually, Charlie moves his way up to the shaft, tracing the tip of his tongue up it until he reaches the head of Nick’s cock.  He glances up at Nick and makes eye contact as he swirls his tongue around the head; Nick’s eyes bulge with frenetic, lusty energy.  His hands are already finding their way back toward Charlie’s shoulders, and Charlie’s certain that the moment he goes down on Nick, they’ll be on his head, hanging on for dear life. 

He’s not wrong.  It takes several tries, but Charlie does manage to bottom out at the base of Nick’s cock.  Unholy sounds of air suction and slobbery throat noises echo through the apartment, accompanied by gasps and gravely moans leaving Nick’s mouth.  Every so often he whimpers out an “Oh, Char,” before going back to moans.  Whatever work Charlie did to his hair must now be completely undone.  Just as Charlie begins to feel strain in his jaw, Nick’s panting picks up exponentially.  Charlie pulls back to sucking less deeply, but continues with intensity.

“I’m going to come,” he grunts out, eyes losing focus.

Charlie willingly swallows Nick’s load, making sure to clean beads of it from the tip after the main shots of it are done. Nick appears completely wrecked, his eyes glazed over completely, his aftershocks of orgasm rippling through his body occasionally. After he recovers, he spends five minutes making out with Charlie and stroking him to completion and then cleaning Charlie up with a wet cloth.  They both feel ravished, utterly spent by their exertions, and yet they end up giggling like teenagers, Charlie’s head against Nick’s chest and one of Nick’s arms wrapped around him.

“How was that?” Charlie asks sassily.

Nick chuckles gently.  “Five out of five stars.  Best blowjob ever.”

Charlie swats at his chest.  “Shut up — there's no way.”

“Well… past partners never really knew how to work the equipment properly, and the last one wasn’t amenable to advice or suggestion.  Nor did she ever really want to do that,” Nick mutters sheepishly.

Charlie scoffs.  “That’s practically a crime.  If I could do that every day, I would.”

“Would you now?” Nick playfully grabs at Charlie’s shoulders, as if he’s joking.  He seriously would.

Charlie grins mischievously.  “That’s a cock begging to be sucked, if you ask me.”  

Nick turns bright red.  “My gosh.  I, I —”

“Nick.  It’s okay.  You can say no.  I’m not some insatiable sex monster,” Charlie replies, huffing a bit.  

Suddenly, an audible thud distracts them from the outside.  Nick flicks his head over to the window. “Char — it’s really snowing.  Like, hard?”

Charlie gets up, pulling his underwear up and treading over to the window.  For mid-November, an uncharacteristic amount of snow is falling on DC right now.  In fact, once Charlie checks his phone, it appears that above-ground Metro services have ground to a halt, cutting off access back to Crystal City.  Nick joins him, standing behind him and pulling him into a hug, wrapping his arms around Charlie’s lower torso tightly.  He plants a kiss in Charlie’s hair, at the crown, before working to his ear and neck.  Tension releases from him as he sinks into Nick’s touch.

“You wanna stay the night?” Nick whispers into Charlie’s ear. 

Charlie hesitates for a second.  “I guess that’s the safest to do, but I can’t take your bed like Halloween, I —”

“No, absolutely not.  You’re taking my bed, Char.  And I’m getting in there with you.  Platonic cuddling is definitely a part of this arrangement.  Especially on a cold night,” Nick counters.

Charlie snorts and turns around toward Nick, a teasing look on his own face.  “I don’t remember that being a part of negotiations, Mr. Nelson-Thibodeaux.  I only remember sexual cuddling being on the table.”

Nick lifts him up by the waist, causing Charlie to flail but to no effect.  Nick’s now carrying him bridal style toward his bedroom.  “To the contrary, Mr. Spring.  You clearly failed to examine section 7, subsections a through c, all clearly address cuddling.”

Charlie places a playful smooch and a small nibble on Nick’s shoulder before replying,  “Fine, but clearly subsection c stipulates that I am the primary decider of cuddle positions.”

“Is that so?” Nick replies as he plops Charlie onto the bed.  “And what does my liege demand?” 

Charlie laughs, thinking about how completely silly, yet totally natural this entire interaction is.  Everything about it feels safe and secure.  Warm.  Lovely.  And while the back of his brain appears ready to fight it at every moment, a large part of him recognizes that this… this is something more than Friends with Benefits.  A lot more.  Based on how Nick’s acting, he’s sure that Nick feels exactly the same way.  How long they’ll last maintaining this charade is yet to be seen.  

Confidently, Charlie reaches up to pull Nick toward the bed.  “I'm the little spoon tonight.  Definitely little spoon.”

Nick smiles and jumps in after him, slotting in behind Charlie and wrapping an arm around him as Charlie pulls up the blankets.  Yeah.  Platonically engaging in old-fashioned sexual exploration?  

Delusion should be a Schedule I Drug.