Chapter Text

It was a decent sort of day for late autumn—the kind that couldn’t quite make up its mind. Thick, heavy clouds hung above in varying shades of greyscale, yet none looked particularly inclined to burst. A gentle breeze threaded through the air like a cautious whisper, brushing past Nick’s coat sleeves and tousling his fringe. The grass was damp underfoot, soaked through from last night’s drizzle, and the trees had begun to shed their leaves in great rustling sighs. The amber and ochre litter crunched faintly beneath Nick’s trainers as he made his way up the gravel path, bouquet in hand.

The flowers were fresh—freesias and lilies, Charlie’s favourites—and Nick held them with the sort of reverence one might reserve for holy scripture. There was a slight skip in his step, albeit forced, like he was willing himself into cheerfulness. He smiled to himself, as if this was all routine. Just popping in. Bit of a surprise. But the moment he caught sight of Charlie, he knew.

Nick’s smile faltered, replaced by a half-laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re giving me the silent treatment, aren’t you?” he said lightly, trying to coax warmth into his voice.

Nothing.

He let the silence stretch a bit longer before sighing—not in irritation, but the sort of weary breath that comes after a poor night’s sleep. He hadn't rested properly, not in a while, but especially not last night. The weight beneath his eyes was more than physical. Slumping down beside Charlie, he held out the bouquet like a peace offering.

“I brought your favourites.” He gave a faint grin, that same boyish smile Charlie always said made him look twelve. When there was still no response, Nick gently placed the bouquet down between them. “You’re so cold,” he joked, bumping his shoulder into Charlie’s, yet no reaction.

He chuckled quietly to himself, but the sound felt thin, awkward. Hollow, even. He looked down at the flowers, the damp grass, his scuffed trainers. Anything but the silence.

He began to chew the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit from uni days that had never quite left him. He rubbed his scruffy chin, letting his fingers rasp over the stubble. When he glanced at his watch, time seemed to be moving painfully slow—as if the very seconds had grown heavy, reluctant.

“I can't do the silence, sorry,” he admitted at last, voice soft. “But if you refuse to talk then you’re getting a monologue. Hope that’s alright.”

A pause.

“Remember Cyprus?” he asked, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Course you do. One of my favourite memories, that. That holiday after your graduation. You looked so bloody stunned when I showed you the tickets—you kept asking if I was joking. Like five times. 'Are you being serious, Nick?', you’d say it with that face; eyebrows up, eyes all wide—and I had to keep saying yes, yes, I’m serious, it’s all sorted.”

It had been a gamble, really. Nick wasn't exactly loaded a year out of uni, but he wanted it to be special. So he’d gone for the budget airline; the kind that takes off at the crack of arse, and they barely slept the night before, too giddy and too stubborn to admit they needed rest.

“You said the early flight wasn’t a problem. Until we were up at 3AM and you were the grumpiest thing I’ve ever seen. Could barely form words, bless you. Just grumbled like an old radiator. But I loved it—still do. Grumpy Charlie is one of my favourite Charlie’s.”

The plane ride was turbulent and hot, especially for someone like Nick who ran warm even on a cool day, so the heat when he stepped of the plane was insufferable. Charlie, on the other hand, took one step outside the air-conditioned cabin, sniffed the humid, salty air tinged with jet fuel, and went, “Ah, paradise.”

“I remember putting my cap on you,” Nick said fondly. “Your curls got all flattened. Still the cutest bloody thing I’ve ever seen.”

He leaned forward a little, plucking at a stray blade of grass.

“Remember passport control?” Nick asked, laughing quietly now. “God, I still want to smack my past self. I thought I’d be cheeky—told the officer I’d forgotten my passport as a joke. The look on your face… You turned to me like I’d just confessed to murder. You were trying to explain to the officer that I was a complete muppet but not a threat to national security, and that I do have my passport on me. Gave me that glare like you were mentally drafting the divorce papers already. You saved my arse though. Still surprised I hadn’t got deported then and there.”

Nick exhaled a laugh through his nose. “And you still kissed me. Silenced my apologetic rambling afterwards with that kiss. That was you all over. I know you wanted to kill me, but I know you loved me too much.”

Their little rental car had barely made it up the steep hill to the Airbnb, the engine groaning all the way. Charlie’s grip on Nick’s forearm had been bruising, but they made it in the end.

“The house,” Nick said, his voice softening. “That Mediterranean-style place, with the bougainvillea climbing over the whitewashed walls. Pink and purple flowers everywhere. It was like something out of a bloody postcard. You said, ‘Nick, this is beautiful.’ And you meant it. You got teary. So did I. I picked you up—literally swept you off your feet—and said ‘Happy early anniversary,’ remember?”

There was still no answer, but Nick was far too deep in memory now to care.

They’d visited every ancient site Charlie could find. First the Archaeological Site with its mosaic floors and half-sunken columns, where Charlie explained the difference between Roman and Greek villas like a walking museum guide.

The Archaeological Site of Nea Paphos had been sprawling and sun-beaten, but Charlie was incandescent. All the houses of the Greek gods, the Roman villas with their mosaics—Charlie went on a proper tangent, eyes alight as he narrated the myths behind each panel like a museum guide with a crush. At the House of Dionysos, he’d lit up the most, spending twenty full minutes tracing the stories depicted across each tile, pointing excitedly, waving his arms about. Nick had just sat there, smitten, staring at him like a lovesick idiot.

They perched at the Agora after, the amphitheatre offering little shade, but Charlie’s sheer excitement and boundless energy made the heat tolerable. Besides, Nick got a little ego boost every time Charlie looked him over—he knew bringing tight tank tops was a good call.

Then came the Tombs of the Kings. More shade, mercifully, and that peculiar hush only ancient places seem to hold—cool air, thick stone, the kind of silence that made you whisper even when there was no one around.

Nick chuckled at the memory. “I leaned on that wall, remember? Thought it was just, you know, stone. Next thing I know, a bloody brick comes loose—crashing into the ground.”

Charlie had wheeled around, horrified, as the piece cracked clean in two on the tomb floor. No one else had been there, thankfully—it had just been the two of them.

“You said I was cursed,” Nick laughed. "Probably still am."

Charlie had scolded him, sure, but his face had crumpled into laughter before long. He’d told Nick off for damaging a tomb from the 3rd century BCE—and that of all places to commit accidental vandalism, a burial site was probably the worst. Nick had gone bright red. Charlie had insisted it was ancient karma. But they held hands as they left, which made Nick feel a little more spiritually balanced.

They spent hours at Venus Beach; splashing, swimming, kissing between waves. Nick applied sunscreen to Charlie’s back with utmost devotion, and they swam out to one of the artificial reef stones to lie together, limbs tangled, the horizon stretching endlessly before them.

Dinner was always simple. Fries for lunch, always found at some roadside kiosk. Evenings meant tucked-away tavernas, strung with fairy lights, where Charlie ordered Greek Salad or the Village Salad—it didn’t matter, the salads were always divine. Nick had tried the souvla a few times but quickly got bored of it.

“Didn’t need the food to be good. Just needed you there. You—smiling, tanned, lit up by the string lights. I swear you were glowing.”

They made love like they had all the time in the world. One night, Charlie had called Nick his Adonis, and Nick—ever the showman—wrapped a spare sheet around his very naked body, fashioning it into a makeshift chiton with a dramatic flourish. He’d struck a pose worthy of a marble statue, complete with an over-the-top accent and hand on hip. What started as a joke soon turned into cheesy roleplay, which, coincidentally, big Greek mythology nerd Charlie was a very big fan of. As fast as the draping occurred, the de-robing happened even faster. Charlie had practically tackled him onto the bed, all flushed cheeks and uncontrollable laughter, muttering something about "Aphrodite weeping with joy."

Nick started blushing just retelling it. “I still think about that,” he said, his smile soft and faraway. “You. Me. The Island of Love. It was ridiculous. And it was perfect.”

He glanced around, the faint rustle of trees the only reply.

“At least there’s no one around to hear,” he added, voice breaking into laughter. “But I wouldn’t be ashamed to shout it into the universe, right here, right now—how I made love to the love of my life, roleplaying as Adonis, on the Island of Love.”

He let silence pass for a long while, watching the clouds shift. Then:

“But none of it, none of it, compares to that one moment.”

It had been the last evening of their trip. They’d visited the local Greek Orthodox church, lazily sunbathed, wandered through a cat temple of all places, and ended the day at Petra tou Romiou—Aphrodite’s birthplace. Sunset bathed the sky in molten shades of gold and crimson. The clouds took on the most beautiful shades of red and orange, the entire scene entirely too picturesque. Charlie was in tears just from the sight of it.

“You were beside the water,” Nick whispered. “You looked like you belonged there. And I… I was scared shitless.”

Nick was petrified, absurdly nervous. Charlie stood close to the shore, eyes reflecting the horizon, and Nick—heart pounding—decided. He knelt on the rather uncomfortable pebbles, a small open box in hand, fingers trembling so hard he could barely keep hold of the ring, terrified he might drop the box—or the even more precious item inside. The nearby visitors noticed before Charlie did, a cheer rising gently in the background. Charlie turned slowly, confused by the noise, and when registered what Nick was doing—down on one knee—he froze, hand slapping over his mouth, stunned.

Nick started tearing up, and so did Charlie.

“I was trying not to sob,” Nick admitted. “God, I was so nervous. But I said it.”

He cleared his throat and recited it, almost reverently:
“Char, I don’t really know what to say. You have been the light of my life for so long, I can’t imagine a life without you. From the day I met you, you never failed to amaze me. I never knew love could run that deep, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Charlie, will you marry me?”

The words hung in the air again, just as they had then.

“You said yes,” Nick said, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. “You said ‘Yes, of course, I love you so much.’ And I put the ring on your finger and kissed you and… that was it. I’d never felt happier.”

He swallowed, lips pressed tight.

Another long pause.

He let the silence stretch once more before playing with the ring on his finger.

The sun, now sinking low, cast its last golden blaze across the hills. The sea in the distance turned bronze. Clouds blushed faintly, streaked in rose and fire. Nick closed his eyes.

"Do you remember what we said? At Aphrodite's Rock? When we sat down after?" He smiled to himself. "You leaned against me and said, 'If there's a place where gods are born, it's got to be here.' And I said, 'Then I must've found one.'"

He pictured it now: the two of them, legs stretched before them on the smooth stone, sea breeze threading through their hair, heads touching.

Chapter Text

Nick kept picking at the grass, tugging at the blades like they might offer answers. He huffed out a quiet laugh.

“You know, the grass reminds me of the day we accidentally spent an entire day in the park.”

It had been scorching—an ungodly heatwave that turned England into something apocalyptic. The UK was melting. The kind of weather where pavement felt like it might liquefy and the Tube was a war crime. Their little flat, as charming as it was with its Victorian bones and generous windows, had become a slow-cooking oven.

Well—Nick’s flat. Technically. They’d been living together for a bit now, but only Nick’s name was on the lease, and he was the one covering rent. It wasn’t that Charlie didn’t want to contribute—he’d offered, more than once—but things were tight. He just finished Uni, juggling a truly miserable internship at a disorganised publishing firm that treated him like a coffee-fetching ghost, plus pulling odd shifts at a public library that, for some reason, stayed open until midnight. Nick hadn’t minded picking up the rent. It wasn’t a fortune—not with their landlord, who was an absolute gem. A soft-spoken older woman who could’ve been his mum’s grandmother, always smelling faintly of lavender and carrying a tin of boiled sweets in her handbag. She understood what it was like to be young and skint, and clearly had no interest in draining her tenants dry. Honestly, Nick suspected she was undercharging them out of pure, deliberate kindness.

Still, the flat’s biggest charm—those tall sash windows that let in light like a sun-soaked portrait—were now a curse. They couldn’t ventilate properly, and the one sad fan did little more than shuffle hot air around like it was doing them a favour.

“Let’s go to the park,” Charlie had suggested that morning. They were both half-dressed in their underwear, sprawled on the damp bed like sweaty corpses. “While I do like this view,” Charlie grinned, eyes trailing up Nick’s torso, “I fear that if we don’t escape by noon, we’ll be turkey dinner by sundown.”

Nick had laughed, not just at the joke but at the ridiculousness of it all. They'd thrown on the loosest, lightest clothes they could find, packed a few bottles of water, some leftover grapes, and a bag of crisps, then trudged out into the sun like two men on a pilgrimage.

The park wasn’t crowded, surprisingly. Maybe everyone else had the sense not to trek out in such heat. Nick had been knackered just from the walk, sweat clinging to the back of his shirt, but the breeze in the park was merciful. They chose a spot beneath a grand old oak, its branches stretching wide like it had been waiting centuries just for this moment.

Charlie lay down first, head resting comfortably on Nick’s stomach, his soft curls brushing Nick’s shirt. He wore his cap low over his face to block the sun, lips slightly parted in sleep. Nick could barely breathe—not from the heat, but from the swell of affection. He loved watching Charlie like this. Peaceful. Safe. His nose always twitched a little when he was drifting off, and there was a dimple just barely visible on his left cheek when his mouth slackened in sleep.

It was absurd, really, how beautiful he was.

Nick fiddled with Charlie’s hair, gently twisting a curl around his finger, letting his other hand fall to Charlie’s back in slow, soothing patterns. It felt like worship. He whispered sweet nothings he knew Charlie wouldn’t hear but hoped he'd feel anyway. His heart buzzed with a kind of contentment so big it bordered on surreal. Maybe this is what people meant when they talked about being in love—that deep-in-the-marrow kind of warmth that made you want to spend eternity tracing the shape of someone’s shoulders with your fingertips.

He scrolled his phone idly, glancing at their engagement post again. It had gone up just a few days ago, a soft announcement with no fanfare, no dramatic captions. Just a photo of the two of them on the beach, the sunset dipping low behind them, Nick’s arm around Charlie’s shoulders, both of them glassy-eyed but smiling like idiots. The amount of support they’d received was overwhelming. Friends, old classmates, even distant relatives Nick barely remembered had commented with congratulations.

Still, he hadn’t posted the last photo from the set. That one was just for them. It was too precious—Charlie’s face lit with something sacred, Nick’s forehead pressed to his, their silhouettes framed by the sea and sky. It wasn’t for the internet. It wasn’t for likes.

He checked his emails, his hand still in Charlie’s hair. Boring marketing junk. The newsletter from Puppingdale he couldn’t bring himself to unsubscribe from—every time he opened it, he was assaulted by puppy photos that were far too effective at lowering his blood pressure.

Then: a ping. A new E-Mail from Gloria West Primary School.

Nick sighed.

He was already fretting about the meetings. There was always one or two parents who treated him like a child playing teacher—eyes narrowed, arms crossed, refusing to acknowledge their child’s learning difficulties or social struggles, as if denial were some kind of noble parenting strategy. Worse still were the ones who smiled politely, nodded along, and then did nothing. And the kids—bright, sensitive, eager to be understood—were the ones left to suffer.

It frustrated him more than he could explain. He’d worked hard to be here. He had a degree in primary education, a minor in developmental psychology, and enough continuing education workshops under his belt to paper a wall. He genuinely loved his job. Loved watching kids bloom in the right environment. But too often, he had to fight just to be taken seriously—especially as a young male teacher in his twenties who didn’t exactly scream “authority figure.”

Still, he’d show up. He always did. Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t about the parents—it was about the children. And they deserved someone in their corner, even if that someone had to weather a few storms to get there.

He made a mental note to update his student assessments when the flat cooled off. Just as he was considering closing his eyes for a bit, a dog barked somewhere nearby and Charlie stirred awake.

“Slept well, my love?” Nick smiled down at him, brushing Charlie’s cap back just enough to see his eyes—those ocean eyes, blue-grey with flecks of green, like sea glass in sunlight.

But there was worry there, swimming just beneath the surface.

“What’s up?” Nick asked, instantly alert.

Charlie hesitated. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Hey. Don’t do that. If it’s on your mind, it matters.”

Charlie studied him, lips pursed like he was debating whether to share. “It’s just…” he finally said, voice quieter now. “I know it’s silly, but I’m stressing about our wedding?”

Nick blinked. And then, despite himself, let out a short burst of laughter—half disbelief, half pure joy. He dropped his head back onto the blanket, covering his face with one arm.

Charlie pouted dramatically. “I knew you’d laugh.”

“I’m not laughing at you!” Nick said, wiping a tear of amusement from the corner of his eye. “I swear. It’s just… I keep forgetting we’re even engaged. Like, properly. Fiancés. That’s mad.”

Charlie rolled onto his side, arms crossed over his chest in mock irritation. “I was being vulnerable, Nicholas.”

“I know,” Nick said, his voice gentler now as he reached up to give Charlie’s cheek the lightest pinch, more of an affectionate touch than anything. “And I love that you care so much. But Char… we’ve got time. Loads of it. There’s no rush. Whenever we do start planning, we’ll make it yours. However big or small you want—seriously. You could have the wildest, most over-the-top wedding imaginable, and I’d still be there grinning like an idiot the whole time. I’d give you the world if I could. All I really care about is that it ends with me marrying you.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “So where will The Cure sit when they show up? Since I invited them, obviously.”

Nick burst out laughing again. “Okay, but if you get The Cure, I get to invite Keira Knightley and Orlando Bloom.”

Charlie gasped. “That’s so unfair! I can’t compete with either of them. Objection!”

“Fine, just Orlando then.”

“Niiick!”

They both dissolved into giggles—the kind that left their chests aching and their cheeks flushed. Eventually, Charlie shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, and Nick took the chance to roll over, resting his head in Charlie’s lap with a contented sigh.

Charlie blinked down at him, the laughter still warm on his face. He ran his thumb gently across Nick’s brow, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You do realise you’re completely ridiculous, right?”

“Absolutely,” Nick replied. “And you love it.”

“Okay, we’ve got a lot of people coming,” Nick said, still breathless from laughing. “I’m pretty sure two of the guests we mentioned are already dead, so we’ll probably need a dedicated corner for séances.” His grin refused to fade, cheeks blotchy with laughter, seeing Charlies dimples deepening with every word.

Charlie snorted, giggling into his hand. “Tori would absolutely lead that. She’d show up in a velvet cloak and summon spirits with nothing but vibes and moon water.”

Nick cackled. “Only the best for my soon-to-be husband.”

“Alright then,” he continued, voice faux-grand, “how about we book St. Paul’s Cathedral?”

Charlie gasped dramatically, eyes wide. “Nick! You can’t just book St. Paul’s. It’s not a bloody hotel conference room.”

Nick waved a lazy hand. “Please. I’m sure if we pull a few strings—or raise a bishop from the dead—we’ll be fine.”

“Right, of course. I’ll call the Pope. He owes me a favour.”

They both collapsed into giggles again, the kind that made your ribs ache in the best way. The imaginary wedding only got more unhinged from there—guest lists growing longer, themes growing more absurd, dress codes ranging from formal regency to ‘just vibes’.

“Okay, but what if we surprise the guests by having their chairs made out of cake?” Nick proposed, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Charlie gagged dramatically. “That’s vile. Imagine the squelch.”

Nick grinned wider. “I mean, we’d save on serving dessert. Or—hear me out—one massive forty-tier cake. Every flavour imaginable. That way, no one complains.”

Charlie let out a soft hum, his laughter fading into something quieter, more fond. “Thanks, Nick. I’m actually not that worried about the planning anymore. Not when it could be...this silly. This us.”

Nick shifted, sitting up so they were side by side, thigh pressed against thigh. He slipped an arm around Charlie’s waist, fingers resting just beneath the hem of his shirt like it was second nature. His gaze was steady, the kind of look that held entire lifetimes.

“Anything for you, my love,” he whispered, then leaned in for a soft kiss. Just one, gentle and sure.

Then, in classic Nick Nelson fashion, he ruined the moment beautifully—pressing kiss after kiss across Charlie’s cheeks, his forehead, the tip of his nose, making him squirm and giggle beneath the onslaught.

“Nick!” Charlie squealed, already breathless from laughing as Nick pushed him down onto the blanket, clambering over him and straddling his hips with the goofiest, most smitten smile on his face.

The breeze rustled through the canopy above, warm and lazy, carrying the scent of sun-drenched grass and half-melted crisps. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked—three times, very offended—but Nick didn’t care. Not about the dog. Not about the shirt sticking to his back. Not about the way the grass itched just slightly at his shins. Right now, this was everything. This blanket spread out on the baking ground. The sound of Charlie’s laugh echoing softly. The ache in Nick’s cheeks from smiling too much. The quiet fullness in his chest. He looked down at the boy he loved—truly, absurdly, ferociously loved—and thought, not for the first time, I get to do life with you. To dream up weddings with séance corners and cursed cake furniture. To build something real. Something honest. Something that would last.

They fell into a lazy rhythm of chatter again, the kind that meandered between half-finished thoughts and shared memories. Nick told Charlie about the upcoming parents’ evening—how he was dreading the handful of mums and dads who still looked at him like he was the sixth former filling in for the real teacher. “I know I don’t exactly scream grizzled veteran of the education system,” Nick joked, “but I swear some of them think I still live with my mum.”

Charlie laughed and nudged him with his knee. “You’ll be fine. Give it another year and you’ll be the teacher they all defer to because you know all their kids’ favourite dinosaurs. They’ll be terrified of disappointing you.”

Nick huffed out a breath of faux pride. “Can’t argue with that. I do know my way around a triceratops.”

Charlie smiled and moved on to tell him about a video call he’d had the night before with Elle. “She got the internship,” he said, eyes bright. “Her dream one. You should’ve seen her face—like someone had told her she’d just inherited a fashion house and a croissant factory.”

Nick grinned. “And Tao?”

“They finally moved. The new flat got these giant windows and slanted ceilings—Elle called it ‘agonisingly photogenic’. Their last place was so cramped they were basically sleeping in a cupboard. I think Tao cried the first time he walked into the new bathroom.”

Nick laughed until his stomach hurt. He loved these moments, these little windows into their friends’ lives. He loved that he and Charlie were part of that same fabric—woven together with inside jokes and quiet updates, group chats that never died, and plans that got postponed a thousand times but never cancelled outright.

They talked about small things after that—Charlie’s weird coworker who kept putting up ominous Post-it notes around the office, a new book that Nick had ordered for his class about a tap-dancing hedgehog, whether they should try growing herbs on the windowsill again even though they’d killed the basil three times now. The conversation wound on, growing sillier, gentler, looser around the edges.

Eventually, they lapsed into silence, the kind that felt earned. Nick was pretty sure there was a moment—maybe more than one—where he drifted off. Or Charlie did. Or both of them. Time had melted in the heat and settled into something syrupy and sweet.

Lunch, when it happened, was low-effort and vaguely questionable. The grapes were warm. The crisps slightly damp. Charlie made an unimpressed noise but ate them anyway. They stole a few kisses between bites, slow and familiar.

As the sun began to lower itself behind the trees, Nick stretched and glanced around. “What’s the time, darling?”

Charlie fished out his phone and squinted. “Uhh... almost ten?”

Nick sat bolt upright. “Bloody hell. We did not just spend twelve hours here.”

Charlie burst into laughter, burying his face in Nick’s shoulder. “We absolutely did.”

Nick groaned. “Charlieee, I still have to mark those exams from Thursday. I was supposed to be productive today. I had a list.”

Charlie stuck his tongue out, entirely unrepentant.

Nick retaliated by pulling him into a hug and vigorously mussing up his hair, earning a dramatic yelp. They packed up slowly, moving through the motions like people who didn’t really want to go home yet. But the heat had finally broken, the air softer now, and their flat wasn’t far.

They walked hand in hand through the quiet streets, the pavement still holding onto the warmth of the day. Nick couldn’t stop smiling. His heart felt heavy in the best possible way—full to the brim.

He couldn’t wait to marry Charlie.

To grow together. To grow old together.

And maybe, just maybe, to serve cake chairs at the reception.

Chapter Text

It was a typical Saturday evening in central London—loud, busy, everyone elbowing their way through the chaos with somewhere to be. Nick and Charlie, for once, were among the glamorous masses. They’d just hopped off at Russell Square, which felt mildly criminal in suits that screamed wedding, but make it runway. Charlie, of course, was causing small commotions in a glittering deep green suit that caught every light and held it hostage. Nick, in his butter-yellow number, didn’t even try to outshine him. He couldn’t. But standing beside Charlie—clashing like an over-designed cocktail menu—they somehow made perfect visual sense.

They paused at a mirrored office window to check their reflection. Charlie smoothed a lapel. Nick adjusted a flyaway. It was instinctual now, part of their ritual before entering any space where they knew they'd be looked at. Not that Nick minded. He liked being seen with Charlie. Especially when Charlie looked like a work of art.

Their matching smugness had come a long way.

Back when Nick had just started teaching at Gloria West Primary, there was this fellow teacher—bright-eyed, overenthusiastic, and definitely convinced Nick was single. She’d developed a full-on sitcom crush. Nick, oblivious as ever, thought she was just “super friendly” and “kind of huggy.” He remembered how she’d often touched his arm mid-conversation, which didn’t strike him as anything—Nick was a naturally tactile person too.

Then came the moment of clarity.

Charlie had turned up at school unannounced—he’d seen Nick’s text about staying late and decided to drop by, all spontaneous and the tiniest bit clingy. What he walked into was a perfect sitcom moment: Nick in the hallway, laughing at something Imogen said, her hand lingering just a bit too long on his sleeve. Charlie blinked. Tilted his head. Smiled.

That smile. The one that said I’ll allow this for now because it’s entertaining.

Imogen flitted off soon after, chirping about a birthday dinner, and Nick had barely caught his breath before Charlie turned to him, all mock-innocence and raised eyebrows.

“Nick, darling. You do realise she’s flirting with you?”

Nick had flushed like a Victorian heroine.

“Is she? Are you sure?”

Charlie nodded, far too amused. “She touched your arm about twelve times. I counted.”

Nick, mortified, had no defence. “I mean… I thought she was just nice.”

“Nick, she looked at you like she was about to propose.”

Charlie had pulled him close right there in the empty hallway of Gloria West, one hand on the back of Nick’s neck, the other slipping possessively around his waist. His voice, when it came, was low and deadpan—effortless in that way Charlie had, like he wasn’t trying to be sexy but accidentally was anyway.

“Remember who you belong to,” he murmured, just near enough that Nick could feel his breath ghost along the shell of his ear.

Then he turned and walked off with his usual strut, curls bouncing, button-up swishing like he had just mic-dropped in a TV drama. Nick had stood there for a solid ten seconds, rooted to the spot, blinking like someone had just deleted a few important brain files. He’d gone warm all over—cheeks, neck, palms. The kind of heat that made it impossible to stand still without thinking about it.

He had, of course, promptly forgotten how to use his limbs. His hands had flailed for his phone. His legs refused to cooperate. Somewhere in his head, a tiny version of himself was standing in front of a chalkboard drawing hearts and writing N + C = forever while another version screamed into a pillow.

Charlie’s possessiveness wasn’t new. Nick had known, somewhere between “twelve arm touches” and that hallway ambush, that Charlie had always had that streak. Not overbearing. Not creepy. Just quietly assured. A soft but immovable gravity that made you feel like the centre of something important. And Nick, for his part, found it stupidly hot. Always had.

It wasn’t about jealousy—it was about knowing each other’s worth like gospel. About claiming each other out loud when the world started to look a little too interested.

And tonight? Nick felt like returning the favour.

They’d paused outside the museum, a floor-to-ceiling mirror stretched across the facade of a nearby building, catching the golden-hour light like a promise. Charlie adjusted his collar, tilting his head to check the line of his jaw—he always looked a bit too good at angles. Nick stepped in beside him, arm slipping around Charlie’s waist, fingers grazing the curve of his hip.

They looked good together. Too good. Like they belonged on a billboard advertising queer joy and extremely impractical tailoring.

Just before Nick raised his phone for the selfie, he leaned in, lowering his voice to that same exact register Charlie had used in the school hallway all those months ago—soft, cheeky, charged.

“Remember who you belong to,” he whispered, lips brushing against Charlie’s temple.

Charlie squinted at him. “Wot?”

Nick barely had time to respond before Charlie burst out laughing—sharp and bright and genuinely amused, the kind of laugh that bubbled up straight from his chest and shook his shoulders. It echoed off the windows, bounced down the street, made Nick grin so wide it hurt.

He managed to snap a few photos while Charlie was still laughing, though most of them came out a blur of curls and half-shut eyes and motion—proof of life, of love, of movement. Charlie, even mid-laugh and off-balance, looked absurdly photogenic. Like joy suited him. Like happiness had been designed to sit on his face and make itself comfortable.

Nick scrolled through the photos after, lips twitching.

“You always look good in pictures,” he said, half under his breath.

“You’re such a wazzock,” Charlie said between giggles.

“A wazzock? You’re just making up words now.”

“Proper word, that. Now come on—we’re late, and if Tori’s already irritable I’m not saving you from her wrath.”

They walked on, the pavement uneven but manageable. Nick stayed just behind, hypnotised by the movement of Charlie’s curls. His fingers hovered dangerously near them, itching to muss them up, witchy hands poised over a crystal ball—but he restrained himself, biting into his fist. It was a sacred hair day. Touching Charlie’s hair before he was ready would be classified as a hostile act.

The Foundling Museum loomed ahead, grand and old and full of well-behaved bricks. The doors stood wide open, and through them, the foyer gleamed—light filtering through archways and onto a repurposed ticket counter now turned guest welcome table. A hand-painted sign rested on an easel:

Floral details wound through the lettering like ivy. Gold leaf caught the light. It was a very Michael sort of thing—romantic with a healthy dose of extra.

They signed the guestbook—Charlie, of course, scribbled something chaotic and probably inappropriate—and took in the view. The crowd was a sea of unconventional colour. Not a black suit in sight. Michael had banned white or black, and “boring neutrals,” much to Tori’s horror. Charlie had recounted the tale on the way: how she threatened to call the whole thing off if it ended up looking like a prom. And yet here they were—drenched in pastels, jewel tones, and wildly clashing hues.

Nick thought it looked spectacular. Like a rainbow had been shaken out over an art museum.

They wandered through a few of the exhibition rooms—one told the story of the Foundling Hospital, filled with personal artefacts from children who had once lived there. Tiny shoes. Ragged dolls. A collection of name tokens. Nick found himself staring longer than he expected, unsettled by the quiet tragedy of it. Teaching young children made those stories hit different.

Other rooms were grander, full of oil portraits and dramatic lighting. But they didn’t linger. There was a reception to attend, and a bride to greet.

Charlie led the way toward a side room off the main corridor. A velvet rope had been pulled aside, and Charlie knocked once, then twice.

From within: “Michael, I swear if you’re peeking before I walk down that aisle I will leave you at the altar.”

Charlie snorted. “Just us! Nick and me.”

A pause. Then: “If either of you cry when you see me, I’m kicking you in the knees.”

They stepped inside—and shut up instantly.

Tori Spring, barefoot and halfway through a final makeup touch-up, stood in a gown that looked like it had been stolen off a moody Victorian ghost in a fashion editorial. It was black, of course—structured, slit, floral embroidery climbing up the skirt like it belonged there all along. Her hair had been coaxed into soft waves. She looked like the drama. Like the climax of an opera. Like she was about to ruin someone’s life, lovingly.

Charlie blinked. “Tori... you look like an avant-garde fashion campaign.”

She gave him a look sharp enough to cut thread. “Don’t start.”

“You do,” he said, stepping closer. “And I hope you feel as good as you look, because it’s ridiculous in the best way.”

“Ugh. Sap. Come here.”

She pulled him into a hug, tight and careful, and Nick swore he saw her blink too much for someone who claimed to be dry-eyed.

Nick lingered near the door, unsure if he was intruding. But Tori turned to him and raised an eyebrow.

“You. Weird fiancé of my brother. Come here.”

Nick stepped forward, careful not to so much as brush against the delicate fabric.
“Michael is the luckiest man alive,” he murmured, sincere and a little breathless.

Tori rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well. He’d better realise it before I change my mind.”

Nick smiled, letting the moment settle. He’d seen Tori in a dress maybe once or twice before—at birthdays, a cousin’s wedding, something forgettable. But never like this. Never with this quiet power in the way she stood. Never this striking. Never this entirely, unmistakably her—sharp, composed, and just a little terrifying in the best way. She looked less like a bride and more like the main event.

And for once, she didn’t look like she was trying to escape the spotlight.

“Alright, out—both of you. I’ve got a husband to marry,” Tori announced, giving them both a dismissive little wave, like a queen shooing servants from her dressing room.
Neither Nick nor Charlie dared disobey a Spring woman on a mission, especially not on this day. They slipped back into the corridor with a shared, amused glance and followed the soft murmur of voices down to the Picture Gallery.

The space had been transformed. Rows of perfectly aligned chairs stretched toward the front, each one matching in a soft sage-green velvet, elegant without trying too hard. A rich white wedding aisle runner cut a clean path through the centre, almost glowing against the darker wood floors. At the front of the gallery, an old oil painting—something pastoral and vaguely romantic—hung above where the officiant would stand. Just off to the side, a sleek black piano waited, its lid propped open like it might sing at any moment.

Nick scanned the room, trying to spot familiar faces. His mum, Sarah, couldn’t make it—caught up in some last-minute work disaster—but he was looking forward to seeing Olly again. It had been a few months since the Post-Cyprus visit, and though they’d caught up online, the distance meant actual visits were rare. Still, Olly and Charlie were always texting or tagging each other in nonsense, sending memes back and forth like it was their love language.

They spotted him right up front, first row centre, clearly placed there with intent. Olly was impossible to miss in a smoking baggy red blazer—deep cherry, with slightly-too-long sleeves and the kind of drape that screamed teenage rebellion-turned-fashion. There was a bit of a grunge undertone to the whole ensemble, especially paired with his loosely slicked-back hair and single gold earring. He looked like he’d walked out of a 90s music video and accidentally wandered into a wedding.

And he was tall. Like suddenly tall. Taller than Charlie now, Nick could only blink.

“Olly, you look grand,” Nick said, pulling him into a firm hug, caught between pride and disbelief.

“Nick!” Olly beamed. “So good to see you, mate.”

Nick blinked again. Mate?

He and Charlie exchanged a look. Olly had literally never called either of them mate in his life, but Nick supposed it was a part of the ongoing theatre production that was puberty. They let it slide.

Charlie narrowed his eyes playfully, crossing his arms in faux offence. “Wow, okay, so I’m just invisible now?”

“Oh my god, Charlie,” Olly laughed, launching himself into Charlie’s arms with a dramatic spin. “Calm down, you needy man.”

Nick couldn’t help but smile at the sound—Olly’s laugh was still that same sweet, infectious giggle from when he was younger. It brought him right back to those lazy Saturdays at the Springs' old house, where he'd spend hours on the floor playing Mario Kart with Olly, both of them in oversized pyjamas and Charlie usually close by to take turns playing.

“Okay, hang on,” Charlie said, squinting at him as they pulled apart. “Since when are you taller than me? What the hell.”

Olly smirked like he’d been waiting for that. “Dunno, just woke up one day and boom. NBA-ready. Watch out.”

Nick laughed. “You still trip over your own shoes.”

“Growth is a journey, Nicholas,” Olly replied, with the serene confidence of someone quoting a self-help podcast he'd definitely only half-listened to. “Don’t stunt my potential.”

“Dear God,” Charlie muttered, barely audible.

They drifted into casual conversation with the Spring parents—Tori’s dad offering Charlie a firm hug and a fond pat on the shoulder, her mum doting over Nick’s tie choice like she’d personally approved the colour palette. The room around them began to settle as the quiet hum of chatter softened and ushers directed guests to their seats. The first soft chords from the piano spilled into the air, delicate and deliberate, like the beginning of something sacred.

Michael made his way down the aisle—not so much walking as bouncing, his energy high enough to power the overhead lights. He wore a beautifully tailored teal suit with deep brown accents and a matching pocket square that screamed organised chaos, much like the man himself. His usual thick-rimmed glasses had been traded for contacts, and while his hair was styled to look neat, a single rebellious curl flopped charmingly onto his forehead. There was no hiding his grin—cheeks stretched almost comically wide, dimples locked into place. Nick had no doubt he’d be sore from smiling by the end of the night.

Michael waved exuberantly at guests as he passed, until one of the groomsmen reached out, massaged his shoulder like he was a racehorse about to bolt, and gave him a small, anchoring pat. He nodded in thanks, then turned forward, trembling just slightly.

Then—music change.

It was subtle, but lusher, grander. The sort of string arrangement that made people straighten in their seats and hearts flutter in unison. The double doors at the back of the gallery opened with theatrical grace, and Tori appeared.

The room gasped—truly, gasped. A collective inhale, as though everyone had momentarily forgotten oxygen existed. Nick swore he heard Jane Spring sniffle, and not far behind her, Charlie's hand was already halfway to his eye, pretending it was just an itch.

Tori glided down the aisle in that gown—the structured silhouette, the black lace detailing, the bouquet that matched her lip colour in a way that could only have been intentional. Her walk was slow, unhurried, each step confident. Her face held a smile so faint it might’ve been a secret. She didn’t look nervous. She looked inevitable.

Nick blinked hard. What a thing to witness, and with the family of the man he loved most in the world.

The vows came. Michael’s were raw, achingly romantic, peppered with awkward sincerity and the occasional joke that landed with teary laughter. Tori’s were short. Blunt. Exactly as she’d warned. But in between the directness—You’re sometimes very annoying. You make mediocre playlists. You laugh loud.—was one word that stood out clear as cathedral glass: love.

The officiant, some oddball with a tie shaped like a trout, delivered one joke too many. A silence fell after it landed flat, broken only by Tori’s slow head-turn and death-glare so potent it might’ve been legally binding. He cleared his throat immediately and moved on.

Then the “I do’s.” A kiss. Applause. Cheers.

A new surname officially forged: Holden-Spring.

The reception was warm and chaotic in the way good weddings always are. Polite mingling, laughter echoing off the gallery walls, trays of miniature canapés being passed around by servers with soft-soled shoes. Nick made the rounds with Charlie, reintroduced himself to old uni friends of Michael’s who all looked like they lived in cafés and thrift stores now. The Spring side of the family was in full force, several distant cousins mistaking Nick for a wedding planner. Charlie endured an aggressive round of relatives interrogating him about potential wedding dates and whether he planned to wear real shoes for his ceremony. Nick rescued him with practiced ease.

Abuela Spring was the most persistent of the lot. She pinched Charlie’s cheek and then poked his side like she was checking for ripeness.

“Charlie, mijo, you need to fill out a bit more before your wedding,” she declared gravely, her accent rich and musical.

Charlie smiled tightly, his hand clenching Nick’s with increasing intensity.

“Abuela, you wanted to tell me about your dulce de leche recipe, remember?” Nick jumped in, as smooth as ever.

“Ah, sí! Charlie, what a catch you got!” she trilled, already steering Nick by the arm into the throng, cheeks pinched, leaving Charlie to exhale and adjust his spine.

Soon, cocktail hour began. A glossy line of drinks on silver trays made its way around the room—flutes of champagne, citrusy spritzes, and inexplicably, an endless supply of diet lemonade. Nick snatched two glasses of bubbly and returned to Charlie, who looked appropriately overwhelmed.

“To your sister—and soon to be my sister-in-law,” Nick said, clinking their glasses. “And, I won’t lie, to the best-looking date here. Also, I lied earlier to Tori… I am the luckiest man alive.”

Charlie blinked once, and then again, fast. His eyes glassed over immediately.

“God, Nick. My mascara is not waterproof. Don’t make me cry.”

Nick leaned in and kissed him—fiercely, lovingly, a touch tipsy. Somewhere behind them, Olly whooped like he’d just witnessed the end of a sports film. Nick grinned against Charlie’s mouth.

The Tube carriage was mercifully quiet. One of those late-night rides where everyone had the common courtesy to keep their existential spirals internal.

Charlie had slumped sideways, too drunk to sit up straight, and was now curled against Nick’s shoulder with all the floppy grace of a cat in sunlight. His tie hung loose around his neck, the top buttons undone. Nick's arm was wrapped around him, thumb brushing gently across the fabric of Charlie’s shirt.

Outside the window, tunnels blurred past in a rush of grey. Inside, it was warm and dimly lit, the air faintly tinged with the smell of cologne and leftover champagne.

Nick tilted his head slightly, just enough to rest his cheek against Charlie’s hair. He could feel the slow rhythm of his breathing. Could hear the tiny, involuntary hum Charlie made whenever he was just about to fall asleep.

And in that moment, Nick felt it again—that heavy, radiant love. Not the fluttery rush of teenage infatuation. Not the early thrill of firsts and fireworks. But the full-bodied, bone-deep kind. The kind that takes root in you. That makes you soft in places you didn’t know were hard.

He loved Charlie in ways he didn’t have tidy words for. In a hundred small moments like this. In the quiet. In the weight of a head on a shoulder. In the way Charlie always tried not to fall asleep on public transport and failed, every single time.

Nick’s fingers drifted slowly through Charlie’s curls, untamed from the long night, soft and slightly sweaty from dancing too hard. He watched him breathe, the faint crease between his brows relaxing, his lips parted just enough to let out the smallest sigh. His face—so familiar, so utterly his—looked almost boyish in this light. Trusting. Unburdened.

The kind of love Nick felt for Charlie wasn’t always the loud kind, though it had its bright, beating moments. No, this was quieter. Something deeper. Something that lived in the spaces between heartbeats, in the silence between Tube announcements. A kind of love that didn’t need proving anymore, only witnessing.

Charlie shifted slightly, pressing even closer without waking. Nick adjusted their positioning with muscle memory and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, letting it linger.

He could still taste the sweetness of champagne on his lips, could still hear the echo of Tori’s vows, the click of camera shutters, the fizz of laughter, the warm hum of love passed hand to hand like wine. It all lingered, soft-edged and golden.

He looked down at Charlie—his Charlie. Fiancé, flatmate, best friend, the one he’d build a thousand quiet lives with.

And even though the night was winding down, even though the world outside was grey and flickering by at a blur, Nick felt still. Certain. Full.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice barely audible over the rattle of the tracks.
“I really am the luckiest man alive.”

And Charlie—half-asleep, barely conscious—gave the tiniest, most contented smile.

The carriage rumbled on through the city, but neither of them noticed.

They had already arrived.

Chapter Text

A lone rosemary twig had caught against the edge of Nick’s trainer.

It must’ve fallen from somewhere—tucked into a bouquet or brushed loose by someone passing. Slightly wilted, its green dulled to a matte sage under the waning light, but its scent still hung in the air, stubborn and sure of itself. Earthy, resinous, with that oddly comforting sharpness that made him think of kitchens and late Sundays and something ancient beneath the modern gloss.

Even the wind seemed to carry it with a strange persistence, as though it knew where to go.

Nick stared for a second too long before nudging it away with the toe of his shoe, and just like that, the memory tugged itself loose.

They’d shown up ten minutes late, coats half-buttoned, hair windblown, Charlie visibly irritated and trying not to show it—which meant he was very obviously showing it. The cooking class, a couples thing no less, was already in full swing. Most people had already claimed stations, donned matching aprons, and were nestled into each other like it was just another date night they’d planned between pilates and prosecco.

Charlie had bristled at the sight.

His reluctance wasn’t just shyness or introversion; it was resistance laced with fear. Nick knew why, of course. Things had spiralled again after the holidays—those offhand, barbed comments from relatives who always claimed to be 'worried' but somehow managed to say the most damaging things. Then came the new job—structureless hours, imposter syndrome on speed, lunch breaks skipped more often than not. The deterioration hadn’t been immediate, but it was unmissable.

Nick had tried—was always trying—but this time, he’d felt the support become more like treading water, desperate and constant. The body image dysmorphia, the rituals, the guilt after meals. Geoff, Charlie’s therapist, had called it a "flare-up," a phrase Nick thought sounded too clinical, too tame, too... sanitary for what it actually was.

Eventually, Charlie had been the one to suggest seeing Geoff again, a decision Nick knew didn’t come lightly. And after a few sessions, Geoff had made the unorthodox suggestion of a couples cooking class.

Charlie had been furious.

He’d paced the living room for a full hour, ranting in circles—calling it patronising, infantilising, ridiculous. At one point, he’d compared it to "sending someone with a fear of drowning on a romantic paddleboat ride."

Nick had let him vent. Listened through the expletives, the spirals of logic, the tearful contradictions. Charlie didn’t like being told to confront things. He liked control, order, precision—the illusion of safety in exactness. Geoff’s point, though, had been just that: to introduce uncertainty in a space that wasn’t hostile. To let Charlie build something—literally—from raw ingredients, to reclaim the process on his own terms.

Nick remembered thinking how brilliantly Charlie could dissect his own discomfort, how brave he was even in his refusal. And somewhere between the ranting and the circular pacing, the mask had cracked. The frustration turned inward, the voice smaller.

“I just... can’t,” Charlie had whispered eventually. “I’m tired, Nick. This sucks. It all sucks.”

There was a moment—Nick remembered this vividly—where the room felt unsteady, as if the weight of Charlie’s exhaustion made the walls lean in. So he crossed the space, pulled him into a hug. Not the casual kind. The kind meant to anchor someone.

He rubbed slow, grounding circles into Charlie’s back and murmured the only truths he had: that Charlie was stronger than he knew, that yes, it was exhausting—relentlessly so—but he didn’t have to carry it all alone. That if they hated the class, they could leave. No questions, no pressure. If the air felt too sharp, they’d step outside together, no explanation needed. Always together.

Eventually, Charlie gave the smallest nod, the kind that came from a place of careful resignation rather than resolve. It wasn’t agreement—it was trying. Which was more than enough.

“I guess… we can try,” he murmured, sounding like he didn’t quite believe it yet. “I mean, I’ll probably hate every second, but—fine.”

Nick had smiled, relieved but cautious, and after a pause he offered—tentatively—a kind of truce with the looming awkwardness. “If it helps take your mind off things,” he said, nudging Charlie gently with his knee, “we could… I dunno. Make a game of it?”

Charlie gave him a sideways look, suspicious but intrigued. Nick pressed on.

“First one to make another couple cringe with how unbearable and gag-inducingly lovey-dovey we are gets a surprise.”

Charlie blinked at him, then let out a laugh—sudden and sharp, and maybe a bit incredulous. “A surprise?”

Nick feigned innocence. “Could be a kiss, could be a massage, could be… a laminated certificate of excellence. I don’t make the rules.”

“Except you literally just did,” Charlie muttered, still half-laughing, wiping the corner of his eye where a tear hadn’t quite dried. “You’re so annoying.”

“But the fun kind of annoying, right?”

Charlie sniffed, nodding despite himself. “Fine. But I will win.”

Nick grinned, the goofy kind he never quite managed to suppress when Charlie got competitive. The tension in the room softened just a little, the heaviness shifting into something slightly more breathable.

He wasn’t sure if the game would actually help. Maybe it was a bit idiotic. Maybe it was deflection disguised as tenderness, something silly and saccharine to mask the brittle nerves beneath. But when Charlie cracked a real smile—unpolished, tentative, but unmistakably genuine—Nick would’ve invented ten more asinine challenges just to keep that expression alive for a few seconds longer.

Now, standing in a softly lit room flanked with gleaming countertops and expensive cookware, Nick could feel the charge of apprehension again, tucked just beneath the surface. Not panic exactly, but unease with sharp edges. Charlie stood beside him, visibly steadying himself—hands braced against the counter, shoulders rising and falling in shallow breaths. Nick didn’t say anything just yet. He only reached out, his palm coming to rest lightly on the small of Charlie’s back in quiet reassurance. A silent I’m here.

The last available station was almost centre-stage—too exposed for comfort, maybe, but it had a certain warmth. The room itself had a dusky glow, mostly lit by overhead pendant lights casting soft spotlights over each couple. Everything else was a blend of deep mahogany wood, plush shadows, and the sterile gleam of brushed steel. If it weren’t for the low hum of chatter and clinking glassware, it could almost pass as a stage set.

Enter the instructor.

Jean-Baptiste. Tall, lean, his limbs like punctuation marks in motion. And a moustache that looked like it had survived multiple revolutions. He had the frantic, romantic intensity of a man who had once wept over a shallot. Every word dripped with near-theatrical fervour. The sensuality of the aubergine, he declared, eyes wide. The symphony of an obedient courgette.

Nick shot Charlie a look. Charlie’s eyes flicked to his with silent desperation. His anxiety was humming just below the surface, barely restrained. And Nick, for his part, was doing everything in his power not to burst out laughing at the phrase power of the juicy aubergine.

Still, Charlie was trying. Nick could see it in the way he shifted his weight and drew a steady breath, grounding himself through the marble countertop. Nick slid his hand from the small of his back to his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t forget the game,” Nick whispered under his breath, his tone low and coaxing.

Charlie straightened slightly, turned toward him with a grin that was half-challenge, half-shield. “Oh, baby boy,” he said, soft but cutting through the air like static, “it’s on.”

Jean-Baptiste began rattling off the menu for the evening in a whirlwind of accented passion. A French-Italian fusion main: pâtes à la ratatouille—from scratch, naturally. Paired with a fig, wild berry, and honey focaccia. With complementary wine throughout the lesson. Of course.

Right. So this wasn’t your average light-hearted couples class where you throw flour at each other and call it foreplay. This was serious culinary theatre.

Nick threw Charlie a sideways glance.

Both of them could cook—technically. But Charlie wasn’t exactly passionate about it. He preferred meals that didn’t involve three different pans or the risk of setting something flambé on fire. Efficient, unfussy, straight to the point—food as sustenance, not spectacle. Nick, meanwhile, had always leaned toward baking: warm, measured, sweet. Flour-dusted surfaces, structured steps, cinnamon that lingered on your hands like a quiet ritual. Cooking felt too chaotic in comparison, too prone to improvisation and burnt garlic.

Still—focaccia first. The dough had already been proofed, resting in round glossy mounds in mixing bowls. Their job now: coax it into shape and decorate it like culinary royalty.

Let the games begin.

Charlie began flattening the dough into the tray, fingers pressing it with slow deliberation. Nick hovered nearby, suddenly very aware of how little there was for him to do. But standing around wasn't in the spirit of the challenge. He had to contribute—flamboyantly.

“Sweet plums, let me hold that for you,” Nick said in his most saccharine voice, stepping close—very close—and cradling the bowl like it held precious jewels. Sweet plums? Where had that even come from? It sounded like a rejected Victorian endearment. But Charlie only paused, glancing over with a smirk half amusement, half second-hand embarrassment.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Charlie muttered under his breath before raising his voice theatrically. “Oh my god, you’re just the best, babe!”

Nick barely stifled a laugh, cheeks dimpling in delight. The game was very much on.

Next came the toppings. Figs were halved and sliced, deep purple bleeding into crimson. The berries gleamed like gemstones. As Charlie arranged them meticulously, Nick plucked a berry from the bowl, held it up with a mockingly solemn expression, and fed it to Charlie with excruciating slowness—fingers brushing lips, tongue darting briefly.

And then, of course, the lip-lick.

A mistake.

Because suddenly, Nick wasn’t thinking about berries. He was thinking about Charlie shirtless, sprawled on their kitchen counter, honey in sinful drizzles across his skin—

“Ah, très bien, Nick and Charlie!” came Jean-Baptiste’s voice, slicing through the tension like a wire through soft cheese.

Nick blinked. “Ah—merci beaucoup,” he mumbled, still dazed.

“Ah, tu parles français?”

“Oui. Mon père est français.”

A contemplative hum from the instructor, who nodded before making an announcement:

“Everyone, focaccia in the ovens. On to the main dish!”

Mixing dough for fresh pasta turned out to be surprisingly meditative—at least for Charlie. He rolled up his sleeves, focused, brow furrowed, the room briefly falling away as he blended flour and egg into a silky mass. Nick took one look at the opportunity and stepped behind him, sliding into place like a lock turning into a familiar key.

They moved as one: Nick’s arms folded around Charlie’s, his chest flush against Charlie’s back. He rested his chin on Charlie’s shoulder, their hands kneading the dough in tandem.

This wasn't cooking. This was seduction masquerading as domesticity.

Their bodies aligned too perfectly, like negative space carved to fit only each other. Nick let his lips brush against the crook of Charlie’s neck, barely a kiss—just enough to elicit a shiver. Charlie faltered. Their rhythm broke.

They weren’t even kneading anymore.

The sudden voice of Jean-Baptiste brought them crashing back to earth, separating them like teens caught misbehaving in a classroom.

Nick wasn’t even sure where the game ended and their normal intimacy began.

They’d kept up the cascade of pet names—babe, sweetie, sugarplum, honeybear—reaching for the most embarrassing, most nauseating, most gloriously absurd combinations they could invent.

There were glances. A few chuckles. No actual complaints. Nick didn’t care.

He wasn’t here to win. He was here for Charlie. For the way his tension had melted. For the flickers of joy returning to his expression, even in the middle of a crowd.

That was the prize.

They moved on to chopping vegetables. Tomatoes, aubergines, courgettes, peppers—the sauce came together in a blur of heat and colour. The focaccia was pulled from the ovens, golden and steaming, speckled with glistening berries and an unnecessary but endearing drizzle of honey.

Finally, it was time to taste their creation.

Charlie took a bite of the pasta, and then another—moaning, quite audibly, at the intensity of the flavour. “God,” he mumbled. “The zucchini and aubergine are having a moment.”

Nick grinned. Charlie had a bit of sauce smeared just at the corner of his mouth. Too perfect.

“You’ve got something there, Char,” Nick murmured. He leaned in slowly, and instead of wiping it away like a normal person, pressed his mouth to the spot. It started as a lick. Turned into a kiss.

Turned into a passionate kiss.

Torso to torso. Fingers curling in fabric. Nick’s hands on Charlie’s hips, guiding him closer until their bodies were flush, hips pressing together, Charlie’s lips parting in a low, involuntary moan—

“Jesus Christ,” someone muttered behind them.

Nick pulled back, breathless, grinning.

Charlie looked utterly mortified. His face flushed deeper than the sauce. The entire room had paused.

A moment of stunned silence.

Then—clapping. A few whistles. One person even shouted “Get it!”

Jean-Baptiste, as ever, brought the moment to a cinematic conclusion.

“Well. Cooking, as they say, is the language of love.”

Nick and Charlie dissolved into embarrassed laughter, faces matching the tomatoes on their plates, but glowing. Glowing, because in the middle of an absurd, pasta-scented room full of strangers, they had—against the odds—had fun.

"Guess we both won."

Chapter Text

Nick stood, the weight of gravity pulling at every fibre of him, and yet the heaviness came not from his muscles but from Charlie’s refusal to meet his gaze. The kind of refusal that wasn’t passive—no, it was the refusal of someone who had folded in on themselves. Someone who had tucked their grief behind the line of their jaw. Nick moved closer, a single step carrying with it the quiet plea of months' worth of unspoken words. When he reached him, Charlie finally lifted his eyes. And that was almost worse. Because Charlie was looking, but he wasn’t seeing. His expression didn’t flicker—not with recognition, not with resentment, not even with kindness. It was an unmovable surface, like trying to skim a stone across concrete. Nothing in return. Not even a ripple.

“Darling,” Nick began, voice cracking like brittle china. His knees hit the grass with a muted thud, damp moss bleeding through the fabric of his trousers. He didn’t care. Not about the grass stains, not about the ache, not about the onlookers or the silence that had begun to hum like a second heartbeat. “I wish you’d look at me now the same way you did when we were at the altar.”

And for a moment, as if the sentence itself had summoned it, the memory returned—vivid and whole. The cathedral had smelled of freesias and lilies, Charlie’s favourites. Their perfume bled through the pews like incense, clinging to the heavy air, transforming it into something almost sacred. The stained-glass windows had scattered fractured rainbows across the ancient stone floor, and Nick remembered thinking—absurdly—that even light itself was trying to bless them. Above the doors, a banner read “Love is the Answer” in pale gold script. Handmade, painstakingly. Charlie had wanted something small, intimate, but bursting with joy. Nick had wanted to give Charlie everything, so he gave him a cathedral.

“It was a glorious day,” Nick murmured, the echo of it still warm in his chest. “I was so… nervous. Terrified. Happy. Excited. Content.” He paused, then let out a soft breath that trembled in the air like a fraying thread. “None of the words really fit. The closest I can come to it is—I was in love. The sort of love that makes all language irrelevant.”

He offered Charlie a lopsided grin, the kind that scrunched his eyes at the corners and revealed the edges of something delicate, something breaking. The memory didn’t come like a flash—it unfolded, like a theatre curtain drawing open. And suddenly he was back in that cathedral, half-strangled by his collar, stomach flipping like it was rehearsing for the Olympics. He hadn’t been allowed to see Charlie until he came down the aisle, and that alone had nearly done Nick in. He was clutching his vows so tightly the paper had wrinkled under his palm, fingers trembling from more than just adrenaline.

God, he had been so sweaty. His suit had suddenly felt like a straightjacket. “Where are my vows?” he had whispered to himself, checking the inside pocket for the third time. His mother had smiled at him, touched his arm with that unshakeable warmth only mothers seemed to have. He had smiled back, his voice already beginning to waver from disuse. All he could do was breathe—breathe and not collapse—and resist the temptation to look too long at the guests. They were a blur of warm faces, all of them dressed in joy, but Nick had tunnel vision. He was waiting for the doors to open. For Charlie.

He wondered what Charlie would look like—what suit he’d chosen, whether he’d gone for the champagne linen or the dove grey. Whether he’d remembered to wear the cologne Nick loved. Whether his curls would be neat or wild. Whether he’d be crying already, or trying to suppress a smile.

The bells rang, and Nick’s body seized up like a malfunctioning marionette. Then—music. Pipe organs roaring to life, echoing through the bones of the church. The stained windows seemed to ignite with colour, reds and blues and greens dancing across stone like they were celebrating. And then, the doors opened.

Charlie stepped through like the answer to every question Nick had never asked out loud.

Nick’s heart had slammed against his ribcage like it was trying to escape. He didn’t just look beautiful—Charlie looked like something conjured. The white suit was crisp and soft at once, elegant and bold, and his hair had been freshly cut and styled so precisely it seemed impossible. He looked like a bride and a star and a monument. Nick hadn’t been prepared for the back of the suit—not until later, when he caught the intricate oval cut-out framed in white lace, adorned with delicate roses stitched into the fabric like something from a painting. It had nearly undone him.

The world had blurred, as if the universe had pulled focus just for them. Nick could’ve sworn the cathedral melted away. It felt like when they’d first visited this place, when they’d looked at each other in the empty nave and knew—without saying a word—that this was where they would begin forever. High ceilings. A pastor who smiled like an old friend. Rainbow light and echoing silence. Neither of them were particularly religious, but love, Nick thought, was a kind of faith.

Charlie walked toward him slowly, Tori by his side, friends trailing behind like white ghosts of joy. Everyone dressed in white. Purity, rebirth, celebration. Nick had barely held himself back from collapsing, tears pricking behind his eyes like a storm waiting to break. Charlie was walking down the aisle toward him, and Nick couldn’t fathom what he’d done to deserve it. To deserve this man, this moment, this kind of love. He wanted to fall to his knees then and there—not in fear, not in shame—but in awe.

What cosmic miscalculation had allowed this to happen—what rare celestial misfire, what divine misstep in the choreography of stars and fates had led the universe to place Charles Francis Spring in his orbit? As if some benevolent god had blinked at the wrong time, or some ancient force had hiccupped mid-prophecy and, by mistake or mercy, handed Nick the kind of love people wrote psalms about. It was unfathomable. Impossible. And yet, here he was, knees in the grass, heart in his throat, looking at the man who had always been too extraordinary for the laws of ordinary affection. Charlie wasn't a gift—he was a phenomenon. And Nick had been chosen. Or spared. Or accidentally blessed in a moment of divine distraction.

Nick and Charlie stood opposite one another, the hush between them swelling like an unopened letter.

“Hi,” Nick said, voice catching slightly, far too small for the moment.

“Hi,” Charlie returned, equally breathless, like their lungs had made a secret pact not to work properly today.

It felt familiar, stupidly familiar—two syllables exchanged like a shared heartbeat, the same soft greetings they’d always given each other in corridors, on doorsteps, in bedsheets, every time they met. Timeless in its simplicity, and somehow sacred now. It was absurd, the way the world shrunk down to that single moment, just them in their own small gravitational field, orbiting one another like they always had. Nick couldn’t help but think—maybe not to sound dramatic, but—surely, in any universe, they would’ve found their way to this point. Maybe not always as they were now, maybe not always in suits, rings, flower arrangements—but always together. Surely the laws of the multiverse wouldn’t be cruel enough to keep them apart.

They stared. Not because they didn’t know what to say—though that was true—but because the words might shatter something. And Nick, as he realised how soaked his cheeks had become, felt suddenly, acutely shy. He hadn’t noticed the tears, hadn’t been aware of his own body enough to feel them fall. Charlie, of course, had noticed. With the gentlest touch imaginable, he reached out, swiping the wetness from Nick’s skin. His hand didn’t retreat immediately. It lingered, fingers feather-light on Nick’s cheek like he was memorising the shape of it.

“Nick,” Charlie whispered, voice like a secret held under candlelight. “It’s okay. I feel the same. You look perfect. And this is the best day of my life.”

Nick didn’t know how to respond. His heart did. It stammered in his chest, squeezed tight like a hand in prayer. Charlie took his hands briefly, squeezed once, and then they had to step apart, but instead of feeling the absence of his warmth, Nick felt surrounded by it. Like the air itself had thickened with it. And maybe this was what love did—it didn’t vanish when it wasn’t being touched. It radiated. Stayed. Grew even.

The priest cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice rising to fill the echoing hush of the room. Something about love being patient and kind, something about sacred bonds and commitment and witnessing. Nick tried to listen. He really did. But his ears felt full of static, full of Charlie. Every sound blurred at the edges like he was underwater, or half-awake in a dream he’d waited his whole life to return to.

His hands itched to hold something—Charlie’s, preferably—but they had to be still. It was agonising. The priest could’ve recited the ingredients of supermarket cereal and Nick would’ve nodded solemnly, because the only thing he was truly listening to was the sound of his own pulse and the small breaths Charlie took beside him.

And then it was time.

A shift in tone. A pause that tasted heavier than air. All eyes quietly redirected toward him. Nick’s throat clenched.

His cue.

The silence before he began stretched. Not awkward. Just wide. Spacious, like a doorway to something that could never be undone. The paper with his vows was in his palm, slightly damp now, creased at the corners. The words he had rewritten a dozen times, each version too much or not enough. His mind tried to reach for them but instead, it gave him Charlie’s face. Charlie’s smile. Charlie as a child and as a boy and as the man Nick had been lucky enough to grow up beside.

Nick’s lip trembled, and for a moment, he didn’t speak.

Not because he didn’t know how.

But because he was trying to figure out how a single body could contain this much love without falling apart.

Nick clears his throat, voice trembling slightly as he unfolds the paper, then immediately folds it back up again, holding it nervously in his hands instead.

“I—I wrote these down. Actually, I wrote them three times. One version was way too short. One was... honestly, a bit unhinged. The third one I think I rewrote in the car park before coming in here. So I’m probably just gonna go with my heart now. Because—well, you're here. And you make words feel easier, even when they terrify me.”

He looks up at Charlie. His voice steadies, warmth rising beneath the nerves.

“I don’t know if I believe in fate. Or if I believe in soulmates in the ‘two halves of one whole’ kind of way. But I believe in you. And I believe in us. And sometimes I think the universe didn’t know what it was doing the day it put us in the same form class at Truham. It feels like some kind of divine misstep. Like the cosmos got sentimental and thought, ‘Alright, just this once, let’s give these two boys a story that gets to keep going.’ And God, am I grateful.”

Nick lets out a soft laugh through his nose, then wipes at the corner of one eye.

“I remember that first day so vividly. You walked into the form room and... you weren’t even doing anything special. You were just walking. But there was this quiet confidence about you, like the kind that doesn't shout but hums under the surface. And I remember thinking—actually, I didn’t think anything at all. You just existed in colour while everything else in the room looked grey. I didn’t know why. I didn’t understand it. I just knew I wanted to sit closer. And not in the way people say that to be poetic—I mean it literally. I tried to find a reason to sit closer to you every single day.”

The guests chuckle gently. Nick glances down for a second, then back up.

“Back then, I didn’t know what this would become. I was sixteen. I couldn’t imagine anything past Friday. And now here I am—standing in front of you in this absolutely terrifying suit, trying to tell you what you mean to me when even the best words I can find feel like they fall short. Because how do you explain the way someone makes your life feel like home? Like... not a house, not even a place, but that moment when you realise you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

His voice breaks slightly again. He smiles, embarrassed, but presses on.

“You’ve changed my life, Charlie. In a million tiny, invisible ways and in the loud, crashing, unforgettable ones too. You made space for me to be myself when I didn’t even know who that was. You made coming out feel like less of a leap and more of a walk with someone holding my hand. You were there for every scared breath, every awkward conversation, every weird, brilliant, beautiful moment.”

He pauses, lips parting as if to speak again, then lets the silence stretch briefly before continuing.

“I think of prom sometimes. I think about that night and how excited we were—and how brave we were. I think about the way you looked under those lights, in your suit, with that nervous smile you do when you’re happy but trying not to show it. And how we danced. Even when it felt like people were watching. Even when the music was awful. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered.”

Nick laughs softly.

“Nothing has really changed, has it? You’re still the person I want to dance with when the music is bad. You’re still the person I want to go home to, no matter how far I have to drive. And believe me, I drove far. God, those university weekends... remember those? Five hours in the car just to get twenty-seven hours with you. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Every traffic jam, every 3AM petrol station stop, every sleepy Sunday train. I just wanted to see you. You were my calm. My gravity.”

His voice quiets. It’s tender now, slower.

“I think one of the hardest things we ever did was long distance. It felt cruel in a way—being so in love and so far apart. But even then, even when everything was uncertain, I knew we’d find our way through. I’d wake up to your voice notes, fall asleep listening to you read your emails out loud like they were dramatic monologues. And those stupid late-night video calls where we both fell asleep mid-conversation—I’d wake up and the screen would still be on, just you and your light snoring. And somehow, that made me feel less alone.”

He chuckles softly again, then presses his lips together, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“And then there was Menorca. God, Menorca. That was the summer I think I really understood what forever could feel like. No stress, no deadlines, just you and me and the sun and that ridiculous inflatable flamingo that took up half the pool. You looked so happy there, Charlie. Like the world had finally taken a breath and decided to be kind for a while. I remember lying next to you on that scratchy towel and thinking, ‘If I can do this for the rest of my life, I’ll be the luckiest man alive.’ And here I am. Still trying to believe this is real.”

Nick closes his eyes for a second, exhales slowly, then opens them again with a teary smile.

“Do you remember that one party during your second year? The one where you wore that shirt you stole from me? The floral one with the tiny parrots? Yeah, that one. I remember you getting tipsy and dragging me outside just to tell me you loved me for the millionth time. And I was trying so hard not to laugh because you were slurring the word ‘beloved’ like we were in a Shakespeare play. But then you looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘I’ll marry you one day, you know.’ And I believed you. Even through the parrot shirt and the vodka cranberries, I believed you.”

He breathes in through a soft, wet laugh, trying to hold himself together.

“There were times when things weren’t perfect. When life was messy and hard and unforgiving. We fought. We got tired. We forgot to say the right things. But even then—even in the silences—I loved you. I’ve loved you through everything. And I’m going to keep loving you. When we’re old and wrinkly and grumpy. When we can’t remember where we put the keys or who left the stove on. When we’re arguing about what takeaway to get for the hundredth time. I’m going to love you through all of it.”

He reaches out then, taking Charlie’s hands, grounding himself in the feeling.

“Charlie, you are my best friend. My family. My home. My stupidly gorgeous, painfully sarcastic, ridiculously thoughtful soulmate. You are everything I never knew I needed. You make the world make sense. And I want to promise you everything I have to give. I want to promise to show up. To listen, even when I don’t understand. To support you, to laugh with you, to cry with you, to grow with you.”

Nick’s voice is shaking now, but he doesn’t stop. The words are a wave he has to let crash.

“I promise to hold your hand when you're anxious. To kiss your forehead when you're tired. To make you tea when you’ve had a long day and to always—always—fight the spiders for you. I promise to pick up the things you forget and remember the things you lose. I promise to be patient with your curls and the way you always leave your socks on the sofa and the fact that you can never decide what to watch on the telly. I promise to give you my best, even when I feel my worst. I promise to keep choosing you, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

His fingers tighten slightly around Charlie’s.

“I want to build a life with you. One filled with quiet mornings and loud evenings and spontaneous holidays and stupid inside jokes. I want to take care of you. I want to annoy you. I want to love you in all the ways you’ve taught me how to love. Because you’ve made me better. Not perfect. Just... better. And I want to spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you deserve.”

He pauses. His voice softens.

“I look at you, Charlie, and I see my whole life. My past, my present, my future. I see every memory I hold dear and every moment I can’t wait to live. And I know—beyond any shadow of doubt—that there is no one else I would rather stand beside. Not just today, not just tomorrow, but for all the days after.”

He smiles, blinking back fresh tears.

“So here’s my vow to you: I will love you every day. Loudly, quietly, fiercely, gently. I will love you when the skies are clear and when they storm. I will love you when you’re strong and when you need to be held. I will love you through everything. Through anything. Because you are my forever. And I’m so damn lucky I get to say that out loud.”

He lets out a trembling breath. Smiles again. Voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you, Charlie. And I always, always will.”

As Nick’s final words settled into the air, the room fell silent. Not the polite, expectant kind of silence—but the aching, sacred kind. A hush so complete it felt like the whole world had exhaled at once and then held its breath in reverence. There was a sharpness in the air, as though every guest had been caught off guard by the intimacy they’d just witnessed. Even the most composed among them were blinking away tears, tissues rustling quietly like dry leaves in church pews.

Charlie hadn’t moved. He was utterly still, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest—like someone who’d been hit by a wave and was only just learning how to breathe again. His eyes shimmered with a vulnerability so raw it felt indecent to look directly at him, as though love itself had reached up and touched his face. His bottom lip trembled slightly, caught between a smile and something deeper, something ancient. He hadn’t cried at the beginning of the ceremony. Not even when they’d first seen each other. But now, it was as if every unshed tear from the past decade had arrived at once. And when he reached out again for Nick’s hand—this time with both of his own—it was less about holding on and more about steadying the reality of this moment.

The officiant gave them a moment. A pause that wasn’t scripted but necessary, as if the ceremony itself needed time to recover. Laughter flickered softly among the guests—the kind born of sheer emotional overload, when joy and devastation meet in the throat and don’t know what to do with themselves.

Nick rose from his kneeling position, his knees numb and slick with dampness, but now he carried himself with the weight and presence of an actor commanding the stage. Towering—or at least seeming to—he stood squarely before Charlie, every breath steady, every movement deliberate, as if he were stepping into the spotlight of their shared history.

“Char,” he said, his voice weighted with the quiet authority of a promise, “I will never, ever forget your vows you made.”

The way it filled the room that day like a quiet storm gathering strength. He had his little cards in hand—neatly written, carefully prepared—but that was only the scaffold. The real weight, the beating heart of his vows, came from the way he looked at me: eyes flickering with nervous laughter, fierce love, and a vulnerability that threatened to shatter everything I thought I knew about strength.

He began by painting the scene of that first day—the very moment our story started—walking into form time. It was like he was opening a time capsule right there, letting us all peek inside.

“I remember walking into that classroom,” Charlie said, voice soft but clear, “heart hammering like a prisoner trying to escape. And there you were—already sitting, quiet but somehow impossible to ignore. The boy with the neat hair and those eyes... like you were both lost and found at once.”

I felt the breath catch in my throat, because I knew that feeling. The way my stomach had twisted in knots, the palms of my hands clammy and uncertain. I wasn’t out then—hell, I barely understood myself—but somehow, the sight of Charlie, calm and steady, had been a beacon in the storm. Like he was the first familiar face in a sea of strangers.

Charlie’s lips curved into a small, reminiscent smile, eyes brightening as he shared the memory.

“And you? You looked so quietly radiant, like the kind of light that slips in through a cracked window—gentle, unexpected, and impossible to ignore. I wanted to understand you, to be near you, even before I knew why.”

His voice cracked just slightly, the weight of that moment making his confession feel raw, unfiltered. I saw the quick intake of breath he tried to hide, the way his hand trembled as it clutched the edge of the card.

The crowd was silent, hanging on every word. I could feel my heart pounding—not just from the memory, but from the way Charlie made me feel seen, truly seen, for the first time in my life.

He shifted then, pulling me deeper into the past. The infamous fifteenth birthday party, held at a bowling alley, with the familiar chaos of the Paris Squad around us. “There was no grand speech. No poetic declarations,” Charlie said, a dry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just the usual noise—popcorn that tasted like cardboard, the stale scent of burnt rubber shoes, and the endless comments from Tao, who was convinced you were straight, and going on about you going on a date with some girl.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

I swallowed hard, the memory flooding back—how we’d stolen a secret kiss behind the noisy arcade machines, hearts pounding, scared someone might catch us, scared of what the world might say if they did. That kiss wasn’t just a stolen moment. It was rebellion, it was hope, it was the first time we dared to say without words what our hearts shouted in silence.

Charlie’s voice softened, touched by the tenderness of that memory. “That night, hidden behind the arcade machines, it felt like the most dangerous and beautiful thing in the world. Like we were rewriting the rules, just for ourselves.”

I caught the way his eyes lingered on me, the way his hand tightened around the card, fighting the tremble that threatened to betray his calm. The room was breathless, wrapped in the spell of his words.

He moved on, painting a vivid picture of us sitting together on that tiny drum stool in music class, knees brushing, your laugh spilling into the quiet. “I remember thinking how strange it was to feel so at home in a place that had felt so alien.”

He chuckled, that cracked, vulnerable laugh that always made my heart ache.

Then he spoke of rugby matches, the school trip to Paris, and late-night talks that stretched into dawn—each memory a stitch weaving us closer. “You were the light in my darkest days, the calm in my chaos.”

He spoke of the dates too—some clumsy, some perfect—like the time we got lost trying to find that little café in Paris during the school trip, wandering cobblestone streets as if the city had a secret only we were meant to find.

“Paris was a mess of rude locals and wrong turns, but somehow it felt like the most beautiful chaos. You kept pulling me back whenever I started to panic—steady as ever, like a lighthouse in a storm.”

His voice softened, heavy with gratitude.

“And through all of it—the uncertainty, the panic attacks, the bad days you never wanted me to see—you never let me sink. You were the constant I could always count on.”

There was a pause then, a deep breath as he shifted to one of the moments that had shaped us in ways neither of us expected: his A-Levels.

“You supported me when I was drowning in deadlines and self-doubt,” Charlie began, his voice steady but layered with the exhaustion I knew too well—those long, lonely nights when university felt like a mountain too steep to climb. “You reminded me that I was capable of more than I believed, even when I was convinced I was failing, even when everything felt like it was falling apart around me.”

I could see his hands tightening around the edges of the cards, a subtle tremor betraying how much he was holding back. “You stayed up with me through the hours that bled into dawn, running endless practice questions when my brain was too foggy to focus, sending ridiculous memes and dumb jokes to pull me out of the dark spirals. Somehow, you convinced me I could survive it all—even when I didn’t want to.”

His smile was wry, that familiar glint in his eyes that made me think of those small, stubborn sparks of hope he carried even in his darkest moments. “You even convinced me to run for school president, which I still maintain was a terrible idea,” he joked dryly, pausing to catch the warmth of the room. “Tao says it proves I’m easily manipulated. I say it proves you know me better than I know myself.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd—soft, genuine, a balm against the storm of raw emotion swirling in the room. I watched Charlie’s shoulders ease, a lightness slipping into his posture as if humour was sunlight breaking through a heavy grey sky.

He wiped a stray tear from his cheek, voice dropping to a fierce, tender whisper that cracked open the space between us. “You stood by me through every breakdown, every moment I felt small and lost. You were my rock, my refuge. When everything else felt uncertain, you were the one thing I could count on.”

His eyes found mine, shimmering with unshed tears that caught the light like fragile stars trembling on the edge of night. “We fought—God, did we fight,” he said, and I could hear the memory of every argument, every sharp word, every stubborn silence that had threatened to pull us apart. “Over the dumbest things. But no matter how hard, no matter how long it took, we always found our way back, because we chose each other. Every time.”

His grin flickered, cheeky and irresistible—the kind of smile that made me want to drop everything and pull him close, keep him safe in that moment forever. “And Tao, our meddling, token straight, deserves a special mention for being so utterly intrusive, and annoying, keeping us on our toes every time he was present.”

The room filled again with laughter—full, warm, the kind that feels like a crack in the sky where hope shines through.

Then his voice dropped, a fragile hush, like a secret shared only between us. “And then Cyprus.”

I saw the struggle flicker across his face—the way his fingers fidgeted with the edges of those little cards, as if anchoring himself to the moment while the memory pulled him under. “I didn’t think much of that trip at first. Just another holiday,” he said quietly, voice thick with meaning. “But you...” A wistful smile curved his lips. “You pulled out that ring, and suddenly everything made sense. Like the world was holding its breath, waiting for that moment to catch fire.”

The silence that followed stretched between us—thick, heavy, laden with everything we hadn’t said before, all the promises and fears tangled in the space between us.

“But I knew the answer before you even spoke it,” he whispered, eyes glistening as tears spilled free, catching the light like tiny prisms. “And now, I get to say it in front of everyone. I do. I will. Forever, Nicholas Luke Nelson”

When he said my name, so quietly it felt like a secret just for us, my chest tightened, and all I wanted was to pull him close, to cradle him in my arms and never let go—like if I could hold him long enough, the world would finally stop spinning, and nothing could ever hurt us again. That fragile, breathtaking truth hung between us, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, a silent vow that no force on earth could undo. It was a moment carved from time itself, suspended and sacred, where nothing else existed but Charlie and me.

Charlie’s vows weren’t just words spoken into the air that day. They were a map, traced in the softest yet fiercest ink—the record of every scar we’d earned, every burst of joy we’d shared in stolen seconds, every late-night conversation that stretched until dawn. Every pixelated video call where we fought distance with laughter and tears, clinging to each other across the impossible miles. They held the weight of every silly joke I’d thrown at him, every terrible pun, every sarcastic quip that somehow became the salve when the ache threatened to drown us. Every fight that shattered us, every fragile patch where we chose to repair the cracks and keep building this impossible love. Every moment of fear, vulnerability, and courage wrapped up in the same breath.

That day, Charlie’s words wrapped around me like the warmest armour, a shield forged from promise and truth—a home made not of bricks or walls, but of unshakable devotion. I hold that moment close, tucked deep inside like a secret flame that refuses to die out, even when the world turns cold and unforgiving. It is the ember that steadies me, that reminds me of the fierce light we carry inside us, no matter what storms may come.

And here I am, standing before him now, in this charged silence, the gravity of everything we’ve been and everything we’ll be pressing in around us. His eyes—bright and unwavering—meet mine, and the world falls away. This is our forever. This is love, raw and real, breathtaking and unbreakable. In this moment, nothing else matters so I reach out, taking his hands gently in mine, because this is where I belong—here, in the light of Charlie’s vow, beneath the weight of all we’ve survived, and within the unspoken promise that we will carry each other through every tomorrow. This is home. This is us. And nothing will ever change that.

"That day, we became Nelson-Spring—well, I did—while you became Spring-Nelson, our shared history forever woven and indelibly stained into the very fabric of our names".

Chapter Text

Looking up into the sky, Nick squinted as if his gaze might hold off the downpour threatening above them. The clouds hung low and thick—like bruises, swollen with rain and ready to split—and yet, miraculously, they hadn’t. Not yet. Not for now. He was grateful for that, at least.

“You know,” he murmured, voice soft with recollection, “it’s just like Paris. Don’t you think?”

He paused, waiting for a reply. Silence.

He smiled anyway.

Their trip to Paris to reunite with Elle and Tao had been, in true Nick-and-Charlie fashion, a comedy of mild disasters stitched together by deep fondness. A little rushed, a bit chaotic, inevitably off-script, but wholly theirs. Nick had suggested it on a whim one night while they were sorting through a sea of mismatched wedding gifts—the bread maker from Charlie’s great-aunt that neither of them had the counter space for, the second toaster (why was there always a second toaster?), the decorative pillow embroidered with “Just Married” in aggressive cursive font.

“Sorting through them was hell,” Nick said under his breath with a laugh, rubbing his thumb absently along the edge of his knee. “I still don’t know where that commemorative swan candle went. I think Tao took it to be ironic.”

Planning a honeymoon had seemed so grand and distant, something that belonged to people with spreadsheets and sunhats and functional espresso machines. Their own newlywed chapter had been more paperwork than passion—bureaucratic purgatory in the form of joint bank accounts and dual identity cards. Nick’s new ID photo, taken mid-blink and mid-confusion, was now immortalised in plastic. Charlie had cackled when he saw it for the first time.

“It’s like someone startled a Victorian ghost,” he’d said, grinning as he tucked it into Nick’s wallet.

“Rude,” Nick had grumbled, but secretly he loved how Charlie always found him adorable in his most unflattering moments. That was the thing—Charlie saw him even when he didn’t see himself.

Now, in the present, Nick looked over and paused—just for a beat—waiting for that same playful snort. But there was nothing.

So he kept talking.

Their train to Paris had been a midweek affair, blissfully quiet. They had been seated by the window, sipping lukewarm tea from paper cups and scrolling through half-thought-out itineraries. Charlie had been practically vibrating with excitement to see Elle’s new flat. Tao had insisted—violently—that they not waste money on hotel. “This is Paris, not the Hunger Games,” he’d texted. “You’re staying with us. Hospitality is non-negotiable.”

Charlie, ever the planner, had grumbled at the lack of privacy, but Nick had known better. The thought of sleeping on a too-short couch in a an large studio apartment and Tao’s half-done sketches on every available surface somehow felt…right.

Elle had made room in her schedule—barely. She was rising fast in the fashion world, her debut as a designer bumped up unexpectedly due to some ‘creative differences’ that sounded vaguely threatening and very couture. But when she heard Charlie and Nick are coming to visit, she had screamed and danced during their FaceTime call and forced Tao to wake up so she could share the news.

The weather had begun to shift as their train neared the city. Nick remembered how the horizon had dulled, bleeding from blue into a heavy, watery grey. Raindrops hit the carriage window like Morse code warnings, tapping out: You’ve packed poorly, you fools.

“Nick,” Charlie had said, his voice laced with indignation, stabbing a finger toward the window. “Nick, check the weather. Please tell me this is a freak occurrence and not, you know, the apocalypse.”

Nick had dutifully opened the weather app. “Uh…”

Charlie’s groan had been theatrical. He’d flopped his head back against the seat, muttering, “We packed for sun. I brought canvas trainers. You brought shorts, Nicholas.”

“Well,” Nick said, mustering up his most dazzling grin, “you forget I packed our greatest defence.” He wiggled his eyebrows and flexed his bicep in what could only be described as an offensively seductive gesture. “My trusty umbrella.”

Charlie stared at him. “That umbrella is broken. It opens diagonally. And it barely fits one of us.”

“Yes, but it’s broken with style.”

Charlie had kicked him lightly in the shin. “You’re lucky we’re married and I love you.”

“You say that like it’s a clause in a very specific prenup.”

They’d laughed then—shoulders brushing in that effortless rhythm they always found when the world tried too hard to unhinge them. Nick remembered it so vividly: the fine crinkle of. affection threading through Charlie’s eyes, the upward twitch of his mouth betraying a smile before it could fully land. The tension brought on by sodden forecasts and packing blunders seemed to melt away into the shared absurdity of it all.

The reprieve was brief. The moment they stepped out of the Gare du Nord, the heavens gave in with theatrical abandon. Rain lashed sideways in dense, frigid sheets, riding the wind with vindictive glee. The hoodie Charlie had changed into—thick, cotton, and wholly useless—soaked through in under thirty seconds. Nick, ever the martyr, accepted his fate with a resigned tilt of the head. The half-broken umbrella he’d smugly packed was no match for the gusts; the spindly frame bent backwards, betraying them both like some tragic comedic prop.

They stood there, blinking into the downpour, trying to make out any familiar silhouettes through the shimmering grey blur. Then—two figures waved them down, framed like a Renaissance tableau under the overhang of the parking lot, arms aloft in dramatic welcome. Elle and Tao. Salvation.

They sprinted.

Charlie’s Converse slapped wetly against the pavement, water already pooling in his shoes. Nick was half-laughing, half-swearing under his breath, his hand trying to shield his hair from the onslaught of rain even though it was far too late. They arrived breathless, utterly drenched, hair plastered to foreheads, clothes clinging like second skin.

“Oh my God, you guys are soaked!” Elle gasped, hands flying to her mouth as if trying to smother her amusement.

“Bonjour, monsieur et mademoiselle!” Tao declared, bowing with such exaggerated theatricality that he nearly slipped on the wet concrete. Nick dissolved into a half-cough, half-laugh. Charlie simply gave an eye-roll that barely masked his fondness.

“It’s so good to see you two,” Charlie beamed, leaning in for a tentative semi-embrace, careful not to drench them. “Though it would’ve been a bit better if this were, y’know… a dry ordeal.”

“I didn’t know you liked it dry—” Nick began, eyebrows raised in suggestive delight.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Charlie said immediately, slapping a hand over Nick’s mouth, his own grin betraying the effort.

“Don’t mind him,” Charlie sighed, waving it off. “I forgot to wash his mouth out with soap this morning.”

The laughter came easy, carried on the rhythm of falling rain that showed no intention of letting up.

“Alright, you two lovebirds,” Elle gestured with an authoritative flick of her wrist. “Let’s get you home, dry, and warm before you both dissolve into puddles of newlywed misery. Then dinner. I’ve already booked us into my favourite bistro—no negotiations.”

She spun on her heel and made for the car, a vintage beige Mercedes from the 1960s— sleek, curved elegance preserved in chrome and leather. It had the kind of timeless charm that made it feel as though it had driven straight out of a French New Wave film. Four seats, though the back was technically a single plush bench that stretched the width of the vehicle—a logistical oddity by today’s standards but one that fit Tao and Elle’s aesthetic perfectly.

Charlie had said the car looked like something an eccentric aristocrat would drive into the Riviera at sunset, scarf flapping dramatically behind them.

“I remember how you tried to uncover the cost of that car,” Nick murmured aloud now, his voice barely brushing the edges of memory. He glanced at Charlie—still silent beside him. “You were obsessed. Tao wouldn’t budge an inch.”

Back then, they’d all stood half-circled around the vehicle like disciples to an altar. Tao had puffed his chest out, planted his hands squarely on his hips, and struck a pose so earnest it bordered on parody.

“I am proud to call her mine,” he said solemnly. “She’s my lady.”

”The other woman.” Elle groaned audibly. “This pride still hasn’t died down. It’s been like two months.”

Charlie, inquisitive and mischievous, squinted at Tao. “Come on, how much was she? Not a scratch on her. Not even a dent.”

“This is a show-and-no-tell situation, my dear Charlie,” Tao replied, eyes alight. “My car and I are bound by sacred covenant. An oath of silence.”

He tilted his chin upwards, giving Charlie a look straight out of a gothic melodrama. Phantom of the Opera via Dalston.

“Tao, you’re ridiculous,” Elle deadpanned, loading their luggage into the pristine trunk.

“And that is the highest of compliments, ma chérie!” Tao crooned, slipping into an impressively poor French accent.

“I can just look up the price,” Charlie said coolly, already pulling out his phone with mock determination.

Not on Tao’s watch. He lunged—seizing Charlie’s wrist, the two of them spiralling into a full- fledged skirmish, Tao forming an exaggerated ‘X’ with his arms like he was warding off a demon. The scene looked like a silent film reel sped up—Charlie giggling, Tao declaring blasphemy against price-checking, both half-soaked and utterly unbothered. Elle had leaned into Nick then, her elbow tucked into his side, the two of them watching the chaos unfold with soft, bemused smiles.

“My God, Nick,” Elle whispered conspiratorially. “Can you believe I’m in love with that idiot?”

Nick chuckled. “That’s probably what Charlie thinks about me.”

They shared a look—one of those long, knowing glances where words weren’t needed. There was something unspeakably lovely about watching people you love be adored by others. Nick felt that warmth bloom in his chest again, slow and steady and radiant.

Elle jingled the keys pointedly. “Alright, unless you two want us to leave without you and have a romantic dinner for two—”

Her voice trailed as both Charlie and Tao paused, exchanged glances, and clambered into the
car with exaggerated reluctance.

“I remember how surprised we were when the car ride ended so quickly,” Nick murmured, glancing out the fogged window of memory as if he could still see the blurred Paris streets flying past. “And how ridiculously central Tao and Elle lived. Like, walking distance to literal museums.”

“Third arrondissement,” he added with theatrical suspicion, inhaling the crisp, rain-washed autumn air. “My God, who did you kill to get this apartment?” His voice carried that semi-joking edge, but the subtext wasn’t lost—he knew how impossible the Paris real estate market could be. That was one of the only things his distant father ever passed down to him: morbid facts about investment properties and unsolicited business advice.

“Networking is everything,” Elle called back breezily, turning the key in the weather-worn door of the apartment building, “and also… a lot of luck!”

The four of them made haste through the wrought iron gate, shoulders hunched and clothes sticking to their skin. The courtyard was cobbled and serene, filled with rain-slicked ivy and the scent of damp stone. Then came the stairs—those glorious, creaking wooden stairs that wound their way up in a slow spiral toward the top floor, framed by wide windows that caught every glimmer of city light and threw it onto the faded wallpaper like a cathedral in motion. Even the stairwell screamed quiet opulence.

Elle opened the final door with a grin, and they stepped into a space that could only be described as absurdly gorgeous.

“The gasp you let out when you saw this apartment, Char,” Nick said, already laughing, that deep, chest-warmed laugh that made his shoulders rise. “Your hands flew to your mouth like God had revealed some secret cosmic truth.”

Charlie looked like he might cry again just remembering it. “Elle, this is gorgeous,” he had said, voice trembling at the edges, as if beauty were a pressure that needed to be held gently.

Elle chuckled, fingers intertwined with Tao’s. “You’ve seen it on FaceTime like, ten times. I gave you a whole guided tour, remember?”

“Yes, but in person it’s completely different,” Charlie whispered, turning slowly in place like a child trying to comprehend the vastness of something impossibly good.

And it was. The apartment was all slanted ceilings and impossibly high windows that stretched upward like they were trying to touch a higher version of Paris. The entire far wall was essentially glass, framed by long, flowing curtains in peacock blue that moved faintly with every breath of wind. It was open concept, but nothing felt sparse. The kitchen—situated with a designer’s precision at one end—bled seamlessly into the lounge, which cradled a jewel-toned velvet couch that looked straight out of a Wes Anderson fever dream. Above was a floating loft, beams exposed, a tucked-away bathroom just beneath it. The whole space exhaled light.

“Wow,” was all Nick could say at first, his voice swallowed slightly by the acoustics.

Elle waved off the praise, though she was clearly glowing. “You guys—it’s really not that impressive.”

“Elle,” Nick said, gaping at a sculptural floor lamp shaped like a brass flamingo, “this is the nicest place I’ve ever seen. Ever.”

The interior design was a masterclass in restrained decadence. Art deco influence swirled everywhere—trapezoidal silhouettes, sunburst motifs, champagne-toned accents clashing perfectly with velvet emeralds and ochre yellows. It was both opulent and playful, curated with so much personality that it felt lived-in despite looking like it belonged in an interiors magazine. It wasn’t showy. It was intentional.

Charlie let out a soft breath as he wandered toward the windows, fingers ghosting along the rim of a bar cart that sparkled like it hosted Gatsby parties in the evenings. “This is insane,” he murmured, half to himself, his voice still full of awe.

Elle, now standing shoulder to shoulder with Tao, tilted her head affectionately toward him. Their foreheads nearly touched, a kind of unspoken electricity passing between them. “Our forever home,” she said softly.

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Okay, joke’s over. Are you two running a drug ring or something? No judgment. But like… seriously. Where did all this money come from?”

Charlie, arms folded now, narrowed his eyes playfully. “You can tell us. I won’t rat you out. Pinky swear.”

Elle’s laugh cracked a little with nervousness. “Oh my lord, Charlie—Tao was actually going to tell you something… later, at dinner. But…” She glanced sideways at Tao. “Maybe now’s the moment?”

Charlie’s smile flickered into something gentler, curious now. “Tao?”

Tao shifted his weight, hugging his arms close to his chest—a stance Nick recognised as his classic—I have something big to say—posture. The kind he used when confessing feelings or arguing about the ethics of Star Wars.

“Well,” Tao began, his voice slightly higher than usual, “I was going to make it a whole thing—but, uh—my film got picked up. Bought, actually. By United International Pictures.”

The silence that followed was so dense, it hummed.

“And…let’s just say… we’re covered. Financially. For a while.”

It landed like a dropped plate—shattering, ringing, then slowly resolving into stunned awe.

Charlie’s jaw fell open. “Oh my God, Tao—how could—you—a—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he lunged forward and wrapped Tao in a full-body hug, arms locked tight, laughter catching in his throat like a hiccup. The kind of laugh you make when your heart is sprinting faster than your words can.

They didn’t let go for quite a while. Neither of them wanted to.

Nick stood near the doorway, hands in the pockets of his rain-damp shorts, just watching them. Watching Charlie love someone that much—so earnestly, so freely—always made his heart tighten in that quiet, slow, unbearable way.

“Well,” Nick said after a moment, his voice soft but grinning, “seems like sleeping in that cupboard-sized apartment actually paid off.”

“Don’t even start,” Elle muttered, mock-scandalised.

“I’m pretty sure that shoebox nearly was the end of our relationship,” Tao added, only half-joking.

The four of them laughed. Loud and loose.

This moment felt so serene.

“Okay, time for you two to dry up, and then let’s go to dinner!” Elle said, laughing as she ushered them toward the bathroom. Nick and Charlie gave each other the look—the ‘so proud of our friends’ look, the ’this apartment is ridiculous’ look, the ‘ours is charming, but this is cinematic’ look. And somewhere in the midst of all that—‘should we start to settle down?’

They didn’t need to say a word. Charlie tilted his head, smirking like he already knew what Nick was thinking. Nick raised an eyebrow, just enough to admit it.

They stepped into the steamy haze of the bathroom, clothes still damp and clinging to their skin. The mirror was fogged, the lights yellow and soft. There, still wet and flushed from the cold, they kissed. Not delicate. Not posed. A kiss that grounded them. Familiar and stupid and real, water dripping from Charlie’s fringe onto Nick’s nose, Nick’s palm flat against the tile as if to steady them both. They laughed into it, breath catching, lips cold but warming fast.

The next morning, they visited Elle’s atelier. Her name was on the buzzer now—E. Argent. The place was sunlight and linen and spools of thread taller than Charlie. A space that felt like creation had exploded softly and rearranged itself into elegance. There were sketches pinned all over the walls, rolls of fabric stacked in messy colour-coded columns, her own shoes kicked off by the sewing machine.

Charlie had wandered like he didn’t dare touch anything, all reverence and wonder, fingertips ghosting along pinned collars and chalk-marked bodices.

Elle made them espresso in chipped porcelain cups and wrapped a silk scarf around Charlie’s neck just to ‘complete the look.

“I look like I belong in a bisexual period drama,” Charlie had said, striking a pose.

“You are my bisexual period drama,” Nick muttered, sipping his espresso, trying not to spill from laughter.

Later that same day, they stopped by Tao’s new studio, just to be nosy. He pretended to be annoyed, but he didn’t hide his grin. The walls were lined with old movie posters—French New Wave beside Korean indies, a framed Portrait of a Lady on Fire, a black-and-white still of Leslie Cheung. An incense stick burned slowly on the windowsill. There were sketchpads everywhere, open notebooks with character names and line edits, post-its curling with age.

Tao was editing something short and weird and brilliant. Charlie hovered behind him, arms around his shoulders, reading the scene notes aloud with dramatic flair while Tao swatted him like a fly. Nick, on the sofa, watched the whole thing with a quiet sort of affection, foot tapping in time with the score Tao had layered into the footage.

“Your film’s going to ruin people,” Charlie whispered later, eyes gleaming as they left. “I hope you’re ready for that.”

Tao had only shrugged, but he was glowing.

Nick reached down, brushing his hand across the bouquet of freesias and lilies. He tugged a single lily from the cluster—careful with the stem, like it might break if held too tightly. His fingers fussed with it absently, something to do while the weight in his throat thickened.

“Char,” he said softly. “I just love our friends. And I’m sad you’re not talking to them. I know—I know you’d have something perfect to say about Elle’s new coat designs or Tao’s cinematography choices. You’d say Elle’s latest sketch was giving Baroque meets Blade Runner or something just completely unhinged but somehow right.”

He chuckled. Then fell quiet again.

“I can’t make you say anything, though. I know that. I wish I could.” His voice cracked ever so slightly, the edge of something unsaid poking through.

“Sorry. That was too much. I’m an idiot.”

A pause.

“Your idiot.”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud or angry. It was soft, expectant. Cold in the way late autumn always was—when the leaves had just about surrendered and the sky couldn’t make up its mind.

That kind of silence.

“I don’t remember much else of the trip,” he continued, more to himself now than anything.

“Well—I do. Obviously. I remember every stupid detail. I just don’t know where to put them anymore.”

He shifted the lily between his fingers, then tucked it gently back beside the bouquet.

“You always said I could never bore you. That I could talk about anything, even my half-baked opinions on The Great British Bake Off, and you’d still want to listen. But I always thought—maybe you were just enduring me. Because you loved me. Which is worse. And better.”

His throat tightened again.

“Dinner was perfect,” he murmured, half-laughing. “Even Tao’s god-awful movie nights. All those strange foreign films with silent montages and existential goats. Elle kept groaning. I know by the fifth night we forced him to watch Barbie just to balance the mood, and he looked like we were trying to kill him. But then he took it way too seriously. Wrote a whole essay about ‘plastic identity constructs’ and Ken as an antihero.”

Nick huffed, smiling against the wind.

“Everything was perfect. Even when it rained so much we had to buy matching cheap umbrellas from Monoprix. Even when we got lost in Montmartre and you claimed you were part pigeon and could find the way by instinct. Even when you were wrong.”

Another pause. Then, quieter:

“I’d take every wrong turn again, you know. If it meant ending up beside you.”

Chapter Text

Their house was gorgeous—though not in any showroom, curated-for-a-magazine kind of way. No, it was beautiful because it was theirs. Because every corner, every squeaky floorboard, every chipped tile or ill-advised design decision had been made, or at least suffered through, together. The walls were a patchwork of trial and error: paint swatches they never fully painted over, a corkboard wall that had seemed like a good idea at the time, a single gold light fixture that matched absolutely nothing—but had been Charlie’s stubborn favourite.

It looked like them. It felt like them.

But that wasn’t to say it had been easy.

It had, in fact, been a journey. A very stressful journey. One with the energy of a reality show challenge: build a home, stay under budget, keep the love of your life from stabbing you with a screwdriver. There had been joyful evenings full of assembling flat-pack furniture with takeout containers on the floor, but also dreadful, soul-draining mornings waiting for tradespeople who swore they’d be there “between 8 and 12.” Some never came at all.

It had tested their resolve—not in some melodramatic way, but in the quiet, cumulative erosion of patience that home ownership brings. And yet, somehow, they always found themselves laughing about it later, bruises and all.

Their catalyst; the trip to Paris.

Elle and Tao’s place was ridiculous in the most enviable way. An Art Deco dream with a mezzanine loft, buttery wood floors, velvet armchairs in tasteful jewel tones, and a kitchen that looked like it had been styled by an interior design influencer with a fondness for 1930s film noir. The vintage beige Mercedes from the 1960s, parked just-so beneath the flickering streetlight, like they were living in the opening shot of a French arthouse film.

And what really got Nick and Charlie—more than the aesthetic, more than the soft clink of wine glasses and laughter echoing up toward the loft—was how settled Elle and Tao seemed. Like they’d rooted into the city. Not just existing in it, but belonging to it. Like the world had carved out a Tao-and-Elle-shaped space, and they’d stepped into it with ease. They’d built a life that seemed both intentional and effortless, surrounded by a new circle of artisan friends—woodworkers, ceramists, a niche embroiderer with a mullet and a surprising obsession with Elton John. All of them warm and lovely, deeply creative, a little eccentric. But even with all the charming newcomers, the Paris Squad—that chaotic, beloved cluster of meddling gays and Tao, honorary resident by sheer stubborn spirit—remained irreplaceable. No number of elegant wine nights or gallery openings could ever quite match the visceral joy of that found-family mess.

Nick and Charlie looked at each other that night, exchanging a glance just a few seconds too long.

They knew.

They wanted that.

Charlie had been rising fast in the publishing world—faster than either of them expected. From intern to assistant to full editor in what felt like the time it took for most people to decide on a houseplant. His talent spoke for itself, sure, but what really mattered was that he felt respected. Listened to. Seen. His colleagues weren’t just polite—they were warm. Real connections had formed, including some Nick liked too, which said a lot considering his fairly ruthless social filter.

And the pay? Actually good. Not just “could-be-worse” good. Good good. Especially for a young editor.

Plus, Charlie was allowed up to 80% home-office flexibility, which was a dream in theory—less so in a cramped flat where his ‘office’ was the corner of the dining table, always in direct line of the kettle. Getting to the publishing house on the days he had to go in was a hassle. No car, no licence, no real desire to get one—driving had felt like an impossible ask during university, and now just seemed like a stress-shaped financial mistake waiting to happen. So Nick drove. The passenger princess routine was cute, if slightly impractical. Charlie would get dropped off bleary-eyed and early, thermos in hand, so Nick could still make it to Gloria West Primary before the morning bell.

Nick’s career was no less thriving. His minor in developmental psychology had become a strange sort of golden ticket—combined with an instinctive warmth that children gravitated toward and a surprising knack for public speaking, he found himself not only teaching, but teaching others how to teach. He started attending conferences and workshops, giving talks, running CPD seminars that left senior staff blinking in impressed silence. And then—almost by accident—he became a micro-celebrity.

It started small. A professional Instagram page, just a side project to share classroom strategies and tips for neurodiverse learning. But then he filmed a short video during half term—a goofy, mildly chaotic clip of himself in a tight polo, awkwardly semi-dancing while pointing to developmental stages for kids aged six to ten, with digital text flickering into place beside his gestures.

It exploded.

Three million views. Tens of thousands of new followers. A deluge of comments. Some from earnest teachers and grateful parents, sure. But most… decidedly less professional. Teenagers and TikTok mums thirsting aggressively in the replies. One person called him “beekeeping age” and he had to Google it. The result was both flattering and mildly offensive. (Apparently, it meant “hot in a stable, settled, husband-material kind of way.” He wasn’t even thirty.)

The attention was overwhelming. Flustering, if he was honest. Nick had never seen himself as particularly internet-savvy, and suddenly he had a brand? A demographic? A growing list of interview requests?

Charlie was delighted. Not just at Nick’s success, but at the chaos it stirred. He teased him relentlessly about his newfound fanbase, about the barely-there polo shirts that stretched dangerously across his chest whenever he filmed. Nick had done a not-so-scientific experiment and, to his horror, found that his engagement did spike when he wore tighter clothes. He didn’t love that fact—but, well, sex sells, even in education. He reminded people that his wisdom came from knowledge, not his arms. But he kept the polos.

Charlie reminded him often—and thoroughly—that those arms, and the rest of him, were very much spoken for. Usually through strategic neck kisses. Occasionally through a hickey just low enough on the collarbone to be inconvenient. And sometimes, when someone at a dinner or a gallery opening looked at Nick a moment too long—whether at his smile or the way his sleeves hugged his biceps—Charlie would give him a look across the room: head slightly tilted, lips pursed around a barely-there smirk. That look always said later, and Nick always understood exactly what it meant.

Later meant Charlie tugging him through their front door by the collar, pressing him against the hallway wall before they even made it to the bedroom. It meant teeth grazing his jaw and fingers curled into his waistband, dragging him in close with deliberate slowness. “You’re mine,” Charlie would murmur into his throat, voice low and wrecked and utterly sure. Sometimes he said it with his hands shoved up under Nick’s shirt; sometimes with Nick’s wrists pinned to the mattress, both of them breathless and laughing between gasps. It wasn’t jealousy—not really. Charlie liked that people looked. But he loved being the one who got to undress the man they were staring at. The only one who ever got to ruin him.

And so the decision came, quietly but firmly, one night after that trip to Paris.

The kitchen felt too small. The bathroom was always crowded. Charlie had nowhere to work. Nick wanted more counter space, maybe a garden to grow herbs and be insufferable about it. They wanted more room, not just for things, but for living.

And yes—it was early. By most people’s standards, certainly. They were doing everything too soon, too fast, too together. But who got to decide what “too soon” meant? Their timeline was never going to fit neatly into anyone else’s expectations. They’d always done things differently. Quicker. Louder. More sincerely.

And really—why wait?

Why delay joy just to prove a point to people who weren’t living their life?

So society be damned.

This is what they were going to do.

The house hunt was certainly a bit of a nightmare—though, to be fair, even nightmares have an arc. A beginning, a middle, a gasp of resolution. This one meandered more like an ill-plotted indie film: too many beginnings, too many false hopes, too many whitewashed exteriors with rotten cores. And yet it was necessary—because their house, the house, was beautiful not because of curb appeal or real estate jargon or the fact that the porch was draped in wisteria like nature’s own velvet curtain—but because it was theirs. Made by their hands, argued over in their living room, cried into in the cold echo of a half-tiled kitchen. It was stitched together with the thread of their temperaments, the knots of their disagreements, the patchwork of trial, perseverance, and blind hope. A masterpiece—not by design, but by devotion.

Still, it had a beginning. And that beginning was hell.

Both were technically a bit too young to inspire any confidence from banks—youth is rarely trusted with property, let alone permanence. But Stéphane Fournier Nelson had leaned, for once, not into paternal sentiment but professional influence. An influential name in real estate circles, with an intimidating CV and a Rolodex thicker than Nick’s A-Level revision notes, he had quietly but deliberately pulled strings. Recommendations here. Persuasive calls there. Nick wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, but there was something oddly comforting in the knowledge that Stéphane had thrown himself so completely into his work that it came with tangible dividends—even if it was to the detriment of personal affection. Neglect had birthed credibility, and credibility finally did something useful.

With the floodgates opened, the loans came in waves. Banks were suddenly eager, almost disturbingly so. Offers spilled onto their inboxes like overeager suitors. Though most were absurdly out of budget—as if they were millionaires moonlighting as primary school teachers and editors—they toured house after house. There was the one with an unmistakable smell of rot. Another with neighbors so eccentric they made Tao’s teenage conspiracy phase seem pedestrian. One house had a tree in the kitchen. Another had wallpaper that hadn’t been updated since Thatcher resigned. Some were just… wrong. All vibes, no soul. And some were too polished, too magazine-ready, the kind of houses where you couldn’t imagine dropping crumbs without the walls judging you. Nick and Charlie wanted a house they could scuff with memory. They needed space to live in, to experience, to change.

And then—week eleven—they found it. It wasn’t a house, it was a sigh of relief.

A stunning two-story that looked like it had stepped out of a Brontë novel and somehow found its way into suburban England. Fairytale flora. Hydrangeas and rhododendrons staged like something out of a horticultural fever dream. Pale yellow brickwork kissed with time. Large, Victorian-style windows letting in light like an open invitation. Wisteria crept lovingly across the eaves like it had claimed the home long before they had. The front room jutted out slightly, giving the façade an asymmetrical elegance that felt deliberate. It had edges, shadows, history. A bay casement window nestled beneath another on the second floor, framed by angular roofs and layered gables. The place had presence.

Nick’s anxiety surged immediately. No way this was in budget. No way in hell.

And then they stepped inside—and the anxiety mutated. Not about the cost. About the work.

Because inside, the house was… a mess. A gorgeous, structurally-sound, gloriously-laid-out disaster. The real estate agent kept saying things like “great bones” and “a canvas for vision,” which is estate agent for “hope you enjoy the 1970s linoleum and decaying plumbing.” But the layout—god, the layout. Grand foyer. Wide archway spilling into a sun-drenched library-slash-living room. Dining hall with charming creaks. A generous kitchen that reeked of damp celery and the ghosts of expired spices. Upstairs? Three bedrooms, a master with an en-suite that was currently just a sad excuse for plumbing, and two others with potential—and peeling wallpaper.

The main bathroom was unusable. The en-suite too. The attic had what the agent ominously referred to as “a situation.” The kitchen counters could have starred in a public service announcement for asbestos.

But it was theirs.

“God, darling… if we’d only known what was actually going on under that roof,” Nick muttered, brows furrowed as he peered upward with a sort of reverent dread. “I don’t regret the work—but a little heads-up would’ve been bloody decent.”

He tilted his head, trying to catch Charlie’s reaction. But Charlie wasn’t looking. He hadn’t looked at Nick much, well not at all if he was honest.

The real disaster didn’t start until the home inspection.

It was a week after the ink had dried on the mortgage, just long enough for Nick to start picturing curtain rods and Charlie to build a Pinterest board entitled “Calm-But-Not-Boring Office Vibes.” They were hopeful, even borderline euphoric—sleep-deprived and broke, sure, but euphoric nonetheless.

Then the inspector walked through the place with the expression of a man preparing to deliver a terminal diagnosis to a house.

“There’s… extensive water damage,” he said at last, stood in the smallest upstairs room—the one Charlie had already mentally claimed for himself, complete with hardwood desk, pinboard, little chaise lounge by the window.

Charlie went very still. Not frozen, not stiff. Just… still, in that specific way Nick had learned to read like a warning sign. Like he’d slipped underwater mid-sentence.

“Structural?” Nick asked quickly, his voice cutting into the silence like a twig snapping in a too-quiet forest.

“Some of it,” the man replied, scratching something in unintelligible cursive onto a clipboard. “The roof’s been leaking for years, apparently. It’s affected part of the insulation, definitely the upper interior wall and lower joists. And that smell? Mould, most likely. It’s not healthy. You’ll have to tear the whole section open, dry it, replace panels, maybe lift part of the roofline to fix it properly.”

Nick nodded like he understood any of it. Charlie didn’t say a word.

The moment the inspector left, Charlie sat down hard on the edge of the landing, palms on his knees, staring at nothing.

“We can fix this,” Nick said, trying not to sound too much like a politician caught off-guard by scandal. “It’s one room, Charlie. The rest is manageable. It’s still our house.”

Charlie didn’t look at him. His voice, when it came, was unsteady. “You said this one could be my space.”

“It still can be—”

“No, it can’t!” Charlie snapped suddenly, voice cracking, sharp like ice splintering. “This was supposed to be mine. And now it’s got black mould and a fucking hole in the roof, and I can’t even stand in it without feeling like my lungs are going to rot from the inside—”

“Alright,” Nick said quietly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“That’s the problem,” Charlie bit back, eyes red-rimmed, that awful tremble in his bottom lip starting up. “We never know until it’s too late.”

There was a beat of silence. Long. Dense. The air between them like static. And then Charlie stood, brushing past him without touching.

Nick didn’t follow him immediately. Just stood there, breathing in some of the mold. Trying not to let it hurt that Charlie hadn’t even looked back.

Later that night, Charlie curled up on the old sofa in the apartment they hadn’t yet left. He was wrapped in their least soft blanket—the one they kept forgetting to get rid of. His knees were drawn up, face turned toward the wall. When Nick sat beside him, Charlie didn’t flinch or shift away, but he didn’t lean in either.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” Nick said softly, resting his forearm on the back of the sofa. “This is big. It’s huge, actually. But you’re not alone in this. We’re doing it together. If something breaks, we fix it. If we don’t know how, we ask. We figure it out. We’re not doing this the perfect way. We’re doing it our way.

Charlie’s voice was a whisper. “I just wanted a room. One room. That wasn’t temporary.”

Nick exhaled slowly. “I know.”

He moved a little closer. “We’re gonna fix it, Charlie. Even if we have to rebuild the damn thing brick by brick. If I have to learn how to lay floorboards or YouTube how to shingle a roof or sell a kidney—preferably mine, obviously—I will. Just say the word.”

Charlie let out something like a laugh, if a laugh had been cry-drowned and hollowed out halfway through. “You’re an idiot.”

Nick smiled faintly. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot. And I’m very good at peeling back soggy plasterboard while crying.”

A pause.

Then Charlie leaned his head on Nick’s shoulder. That was all. But it was enough.

Still, the stress didn’t just dissolve. Not after one fight. Not after one lean. It simmered like a kettle left just beneath boiling, all hiss and pressure and steam.

The house continued to be a beast. The contractors came and went. Some were reliable. Some weren’t. The estimate for repairs kept inflating like a balloon Charlie was certain would burst. The budget wasn’t just tight—it was running thin. There were long nights when Nick found Charlie in the makeshift living room at the new house—mattress on the floor, radiator only half-warm, wrapped in a hoodie with the sleeves tucked over his hands—just staring at the wall like it had personally offended him.

And then there were the peas.

God, the peas.

Microwave dinners had become a staple of their makeshift lifestyle. They’d moved in half-ready, lugging only what they needed: toiletries, clothes, Charlie’s laptop, Nick’s ancient but reliable kettle. The kitchen was half-tiled, half-gutted. A single extension cord ran between a portable plug-in hob and a microwave that wheezed like it had emphysema. They lived on supermarket curries, and those godawful ready meals that promised home-style comfort and delivered regret.

Every meal—peas. Soggy, neon-green peas that tasted faintly of freezer burn and disappointment. The kind of peas that squished when they shouldn’t and squeaked when they shouldn’t and somehow had the texture of a wet sponge wrapped in clingfilm.

“I think I’m dying,” Nick announced one night, prodding at a pile of peas with the tip of a plastic fork. “I have scurvy. I’m not joking. The Queen’s navy fed their men better than this.”

Charlie didn’t laugh. He just stared blankly at his tray, eyes sunken, hair unwashed.

Nick set his fork down.

“Babe,” he said gently, “we’ll make this better.”

Charlie finally looked at him, eyes glassy.

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“I know.” Nick’s voice cracked despite himself. “But I swear to you, it will.”

Silence.

Then Charlie murmured, almost inaudible, “I miss the flat. I miss everything working. Even the heater that made the hallway smell like toast.”

Nick wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “We’ll get there again. We’re just in the bit where everything’s on fire first.”

“You’re not supposed to say that,” Charlie grumbled.

“But it’s honest.”

They shared their mushy peas in silence that night, sitting on the floor, backs against an unpainted wall. There was still no proper furniture. No working oven. Their bed was a mattress. Their chairs not delivered on time. But when Charlie leaned into him, heavy and warm, Nick pressed a kiss to the side of his head and whispered, “Look at us. Homeowners.”

Charlie groaned. “This was a mistake.”

“Probably. But we look good doing it.”

Charlie chuckled, just barely. “I hate the peas.”

Nick grinned. “I hate them more.”

They fell asleep that night still in their clothes, nestled under a pile of mismatched blankets, laptop closed beside them, battery dead. The house was too quiet. Too drafty. The corners echoed. But in the dark, with Charlie’s breathing close and steady against his chest, Nick let himself imagine it—finished walls, warm lighting, Charlie’s office actually functional, dinner at a real table, not just trays in their laps.

And that imagination became reality sooner than expected. There’s a certain moment in the chaotic alchemy of home renovation when things begin to click into place—as if the universe, at long last, decides to conspire in your favour. Paint dries perfectly, parcels arrive early, and every screw aligns without protest. It was fleeting, yes, but undeniably euphoric.

One rainy afternoon, they found themselves slouched in mismatched hoodies on a choppy video call with one of Elle’s “award-winning interior designer friends”—a phrase Elle had delivered with playful smugness and a dramatic flourish. The friend, impossibly stylish and softly spoken, had mocked up a series of dazzlingly tasteful sketches. They weren’t all to Nick or Charlie’s taste—some were a bit too Scandi minimalist influencer for their liking—but the bones were brilliant. They cherry-picked what they loved, set aside what they didn’t, and pieced together something wholly theirs. Something honest. Something lived in.

Wallpaper was stripped with aggressive satisfaction. Some walls painted; others re-wallpapered in carefully chosen shades. Warm wood tones returned to their proper glow. Furniture was assembled—sometimes correctly, sometimes with curses. They held off over-decorating, afraid of throwing off the delicate balance of a room’s energy. Charlie insisted he could “feel” when the vibe was wrong. Nick humoured him, mostly because he suspected Charlie was always right.

Eventually, the final demon was conquered: the upstairs office. The stench of mildew was gone. The water damage repaired. A space once filled with rot and despair was now crisp, warm, and quietly magnificent. The bathrooms sparkled, modernised without losing their charm. The kitchen—dear God, the kitchen—was a thing of dreams. With gleaming finishes and clean lines, it was so outrageously beautiful that Nick had joked about submitting it to Architectural Digest under a pseudonym. And best of all, the old oak tree in the backyard was spared, its roots twisting like ancient guardians beneath their forever soil.

Their bedroom became a sanctuary—woven from shared history and future promise. Soft lighting. A worn jumper slung over a chair. A dried bouquet from their anniversary trip. Two mismatched mugs by the windowsill. It was theirs in the way love makes things belong.

And then there was Charlie’s office. Isaac had helped him plan it meticulously, visiting with fabric swatches and a tote bag full of catalogues. The space bloomed into something exquisite: sleek, efficient, but infused with life. Faux ivy snaked around the curtain rod. A beanbag nestled in the corner like a waiting hug. A small sofa by the bookshelf. Fairy lights strung overhead. It was quiet, personal, richly textured. A room you could think in. A room you could dream in.

Charlie stood in the doorway now, surveying it like a man trying to comprehend his own luck. His arms folded, lips curved in a barely-there smile of disbelief. Pride radiated off him in waves.

Nick moved in behind him, wrapping arms low around his waist, cheek brushing Charlie’s neck, lips soft against the ridge of his shoulder. He nuzzled him, mouth grazing the tender skin just beneath his ear. “This is gorgeous, Char,” he whispered. “Told you it’d work out.”

Charlie leaned back into him, warm and still, his voice low and certain. “I love it. I love us. I love you.”

Nick tightened his arms, breathing him in. That smell—of freshly painted walls and whatever citrus-sandalwood thing Charlie always wore.

They stood there, motionless in the centre of everything they’d built. Months of grit and compromise and microwave peas. Of stress and stolen kisses. Of arguing over tile samples and laughing on the floor with aching backs.

“Our forever home,” Charlie murmured again, more to himself than to Nick.

Nick closed his eyes. Repeated it like a prayer. “Our forever home.”

Chapter Text

A dog barked somewhere beyond the treeline, sharp and distant, its voice bouncing through the walls walls as crisp air. It startled a bird from the bramble, and Nick watched it flutter upwards like a leaf torn free.

He smiled, though his hands were twisted together in his lap, knuckles pale, a nervous habit that had crept back lately like ivy through a crack in the foundation. The bark had reminded him—unexpectedly—of that conversation. Of Henry tumbling across their living room rug like a wrinkled cannonball, of Sarah’s voice floating from the kitchen, of Charlie’s “What?!” so loud and theatrical Nick had nearly dropped his tea.

He glanced sideways. Charlie sat still beside him. Silent. Watching something in the middle distance with that same unreadable softness in his eyes. The quiet between them stretched, not uncomfortable, but consecrated.

Nick closed his eyes and let the memory settle over him like dust catching in golden light.

They had only just begun to feel settled in the house. The last few boxes were still sulking unopened in corners, a few furniture mysteries remained half-assembled, and there were entire rooms they hadn’t quite figured out how to love yet. But it was theirs. Every wall still hummed with the echoes of arguments about grout colours and mild existential dread, but the chaos had mellowed. The house had shape now. Rhythm. A certain creak in the hallway floor became familiar. The light in the kitchen turned syrupy and warm around four. A window left ajar in the back bedroom coaxed in a breeze that smelled like honeysuckle and wet soil.

Nick had slipped easily into domesticity. He was growing herbs on the sill with a gardener’s earnest pride and experimenting with bread-making as a method of coping with term-time stress. On any given evening, you’d find him dusted in flour or half-submerged in the overgrown flowerbeds, mumbling to the rosemary. Charlie, on the other hand, had taken to his new routines like a cat to a new sunspot—slowly, cautiously, but eventually with full-bodied appreciation.

Charlie would vanish into his home office for hours, tapping away at both work assignments and little personal essays he never showed anyone. Other times, he’d curl on the sofa in their reading room, long legs folded, book splayed across his chest, occasionally tilting his head just enough to ask Nick something impossibly poetic about tea or death or whether they should finally hang the cursed art piece Tao gave them.

They were content. Sickeningly so, perhaps. The sort of domestic bliss that made other couples suspicious. It should have felt fragile, but it didn’t. It felt earned. Hardened by storms and sleepless nights and that week with the water damage where they both nearly lost their minds.

Still, something was… missing. Not between them, exactly—they still kissed each other like it was the last time, still had those stupid inside jokes, still curled up on the same couch just to share the same breath—but there was an unnameable hollowness. A room in the house they hadn’t quite filled.

Sarah arrived one late afternoon, a few weeks before their planned housewarming, despite their protests that the house still looked like a “half-finished escape room designed by someone who gave up halfway through”. She came anyway, dragging Henry—their elderly pug—whose years had only slowed his legs, not his spirit. His whole body seemed to tremble with excitement, bum wiggling enthusiastically as he trotted in, tail wagging like a metronome set to joy.

Her visit was everything: tea and biscuits and relentless compliments, the occasional tear wiped without comment, and the word ‘son-in-law’ slipping into conversation with disarming ease. Nick felt it all like a balm—her pride, her warmth, her unshakeable certainty that they’d made something beautiful out of something broken.

Sarah was more than a mother—she was scaffolding. A lighthouse. She had been their quiet champion through the worst of the renovations, showing up at odd hours with groceries, wine, and tools Nick didn’t know existed. She talked down flaky contractors, comforted Charlie during panic spirals, and reminded them that paint dries, wood warps, but love—real love—settles deep into the foundation.

That afternoon, over mismatched mugs of tea, they caught up: Sarah told stories about a young woman named Lucile who had, apparently, become a kind of accidental housemate and surrogate daughter. A single mum with twins. Two years old and “angels in disguise,” Sarah claimed. Nick and Charlie shared a surprised look.

“Honestly,” Sarah said, suddenly laughing as she reached for her tea, “I think I’m already a grandmother. Or a god-grandmother? Whatever it is—Lucile beat you two to it. No need to worry about giving me grandkids.”

Charlie blinked. “What?!”

It came out with such volume and genuine horror that Nick snorted into his cup.

They looked at each other—the look—eyes slightly wide, mouths twitching at the edges. Neither of them had properly talked about kids. Not really. They’d danced around it. Joked. Avoided.

Kids before thirty had always seemed ridiculous. Impractical. But now? Now they had a house with a backyard. A mortgage. A working boiler.

And then Henry came skidding into the living room, sliding awkwardly and flopping over onto his back like a squashed loaf. His tongue flopped to one side in pure triumph.

Maybe a dog wasn’t so outlandish.

Later that evening, after Sarah had left, the sky already laced with indigo and orange, Nick found Charlie curled up at one end of the sofa. Legs tucked to his chest, arms hugging a throw pillow like it was armour.

“Grandma, huh,” Charlie muttered, eyes flicking up.

“I guess so,” Nick answered, collapsing into the opposite corner like a man whose spine had never existed. He let his legs sprawl, one bent beneath him, the other stretched out. One arm flung behind Charlie’s direction like a dare.

“You don’t want kids, right? I mean—” Charlie shifted.

“No—no. I mean, if you wanted one, then… yes. But not—uh—not now.” Nick scratched the back of his neck.

Charlie giggled and inched closer, pillow still clutched to his chest.

“I don’t want kids either. Not now. I mean, raising a tiny human? That’s… that’s chaos. A tax bracket of chaos.” He shook his head. “Terrifying.”

Nick fell quiet. His brows pulled together, the way they always did when he was solving a puzzle in his head.

Charlie nudged him. “What’s going on in that noggin?”

Nick looked over. “I think I want a dog.”

Charlie’s mouth fell open. “What.”

Nick laughed. “I mean it.”

Charlie groaned and flopped backward. “We just got the mould out of the upstairs office! We still need to paint some rooms! Nick, dogs have needs. And fur. And wet noses and existential vet bills—”

“You love dogs.”

“I do. I loved Nellie. I love Henry. But do you remember how much I cried when Nellie passed away? I made a Spotify playlist, Nick.”

Nick nodded solemnly. “It was very moving.”

Charlie kept spiralling. “And we’re not exactly flush with cash at the moment. And I don’t know how adoption works—what if we’re not good enough? Do we have to be interviewed? What if we’re denied by the RSPCA and the dog writes a memoir?”

Nick reached out and took his hand, pulling him gently to a stand. “Hey. Thank you.”

Charlie blinked. “For what?”

“For even considering it. For loving me enough to entertain my borderline irresponsible whims. For still showing up, even when it’s weird and scary and smells faintly of wet dog.”

Charlie looked at him—really looked at him—and exhaled.

“I’d do anything to make you happy, Nick,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “And maybe… yeah. Maybe the house is a bit bigger than it needs to be. Maybe it is missing something. So let’s do it. Let’s make another mildly catastrophic financial decision and get a dog. Together.”

Nick grinned.

And so, they started slow—just dipping their toes in the waters of possibility. Idle Google searches while they had tea, softly murmured conversations while folding laundry. Local shelters. Breed-specific quirks. Diets. Healthcare costs. What to expect with dogs that had been through trauma. Nick, ever the over-preparer, made spreadsheets; Charlie, ever the realist, kept reminding him that shelter dogs couldn’t be pre-ordered like furniture.

Still, there was a quiet thrill to it. Their home—stitched together with effort and affection—seemed to hum with a kind of expectation, as though it knew something was coming before they did.

Second Chance was the name that stuck out to both of them. A family-run place, small but clearly loved into existence. Its website was endearingly outdated—bright fonts, a few broken links—but it had heart. A little profile photo of the owner caught Charlie’s eye. “She looks like Sarah,” he insisted, squinting at the screen. Nick leaned in, unconvinced. “She does not,” he said, sipping his tea. “Maybe in the eyes. Or if Sarah had a pixie cut and ran a commune.”

Still, the shelter had good reviews, and an even better reputation. So on a sunny Saturday afternoon, they climbed into Nick’s car, snacks and low expectations in tow.

The drive was about half an hour, out past where the shops start giving way to pastures and the air changes. Charlie tilted his head out the window. “Wait,” he said slowly, brow furrowing. “Nick. I’ve walked past this place before—I think it used to be a service dog training centre.”

Nick frowned. “It said shelter online. You sure?”

“I mean, unless it’s had a glow-up since last spring.”

They shrugged it off. Worst case, they’d be told to leave. Best case… well, they didn’t let themselves hope too loudly yet.

The building itself looked like an annex to a large family home—whitewashed walls, flowerpots, and a hand-painted sign on a wooden post. Inside, the reception was sterile but warm, like a dentist’s office run by someone with a fondness for potted succulents. A woman with kind eyes told them to take a seat, and that a staff member named Nick would be out to greet them shortly.

Charlie blinked. “Did she just say Nick?”

Nick made a noncommittal sound, flipping through a brochure.

Charlie leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. “Watch him be your doppelgänger.”

And then the door opened.

Shelter Nick walked in with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a leash in the other, and for one disorienting moment, Charlie genuinely thought his Nick had somehow teleported across the room.

Same sandy ginger hair, slightly messy in that casually windswept way that made people think it took no effort at all. Same warm amber eyes—soft, steady, the kind of gaze that made you want to confess things. Same height, same build, even the same little forward tilt to their walk, like they’d both been taught how to move with too much politeness and not quite enough confidence.

Charlie’s brain fizzed.

“Afternoon,” said Shelter Nick, with a voice that made something in Charlie’s neck prickle. Because it was Nick’s voice—low and pleasant, that same gentle rumble that belonged on a sofa at night or against his skin in the early morning.

Nick—his Nick—stood beside him, blinking like nothing was wrong.

Charlie gawked. “I—um—what—”

Shelter Nick smiled, oblivious. “I’ll just go grab some files. Back in a sec.”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Charlie grabbed Nick’s sleeve and hissed, “Why didn’t you tell me about your identical twin brother? We could’ve had twice the fun.”

Nick recoiled. “Firstly: gross. Incest.”

“Secondly?” Charlie prompted, eyes gleaming.

Nick glared. “Secondly, we do not look alike.”

Charlie’s eyebrows shot up. “Nick. Babe. You have the same face. You have the same voice. The same hair color, the same stupidly loving smile, the same ‘please let me help you carry that’ golden retriever energy—”

“He’s not me.”

Charlie leaned in, smirking. “He’s you, but like… slightly crunchy. You, if you’d grown up in a cabin and learned how to whittle.”

Nick made a wounded noise. “I can whittle.”

“You made one lopsided spoon in Year 9 Design Tech.”

“It had character!”

Charlie grinned, delighted. “No, seriously. He’s you. Shifted about three degrees to the left. Alternate universe you, who maybe has a pet goat and composts for fun.”

Nick opened his mouth, closed it, then turned bright pink just as Shelter Nick re-entered the room holding a manila folder.

The receptionist—who had been very professionally silent until now—offered an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, but… yeah. You two really do look alike.”

Shelter Nick gave a cheerful little shrug. “Happens sometimes. I’ve got one of those faces, apparently.”

Nick made a soft, strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh or a plea for the earth to swallow him whole. Charlie beamed at them both like it was Christmas.

Once the introductions were done, Shelter Nick launched into the formalities: living situation, previous experience, openness to home checks. Then came the good bit.

“You ready to meet some of our residents?”

They were. God, were they ever.

They followed him through the winding halls of the facility. First came the birds, chirping like mechanical wind chimes—everything from canaries to an absolutely foul-mouthed parrot. Then a room of reptiles, lounging with the indifference of Greek gods. Rabbits, twitchy and wide-eyed. Cats, aloof and regal. And then the dogs.

It was the sound that hit first. A layered chorus of barks, yips, and the soft whine of paws against concrete. Some were tiny bundles of kinetic energy, bounding up to the front of their enclosures. Others stood still, observing. A few flinched at sudden noises.

Charlie knelt beside a sleepy corgi who seemed blissfully unaware of everything, including the laws of gravity. Nearby, a three-legged cocker spaniel leaned into his hand with such trust Charlie almost cried.

Nick, meanwhile, had vanished behind a partition.

“Charlie,” he called, voice muffled. “I think I found ours.”

Charlie rounded the corner and stopped cold.

The dog was enormous.

A Bernese Mountain Dog—nearly half Nick’s size—lay sprawled across the floor like a shag rug, one eye milky with blindness, the other watching Nick with solemn affection. A thick coat of black, white, and russet fur framed his face, and one ear flopped lazily as Nick scratched beneath it.

“Nick,” Charlie said slowly, “he’s… massive.”

Nick cradled the dog’s face. “He’s got big bones. Don’t listen to Charlie, buddy. You’re beautiful.”

Charlie stepped closer, almost hesitant. The dog was beautiful—his missing eye gave him a ghostly, almost mythical look, but his expression was so tender it almost undid Charlie.

Shelter Nick approached. “That’s Chester. He… hasn’t warmed up to anyone like this before. He’s hard of hearing, and he has an anxiety disorder—came from a really traumatic home. He was rescued along with a few others… the previous owner was abusive to both animals and people. He lost the eye in one of the incidents. But Chester’s strong. Resilient.”

Nick looked ready to throttle someone. “I hope the bastard’s rotting in prison.”

Charlie, on the other hand, looked like someone had drop-kicked his soul. His heart twisted into a small, panicked knot. He crouched beside Chester and whispered, “We both got anxiety buddy,” before softly rubbing behind one of the ears.

But still… God, he was so big.

Nick’s eyes sparkled. “Charlie. We have to adopt him.”

“Nick, I—” Charlie looked between the dog and his husband. “I love you, and honestly? I almost love him already, but—look at the size of him! That’s not a dog. That’s a bear in disguise.”

“Please?” Nick’s puppy eyes were lethal.

Charlie groaned. “You’re vile. You know I’m weak for that look. Fine. But I swear to God if he drools on me at night…”

And so, a few forms, interviews, and a home visit later, Chester Nelson-Spring became theirs.

They made room in their world for him. And in doing so, discovered there was more space in themselves than they ever realised.

Chester made space, too. Not just in the literal way—though he did take up a frankly absurd amount of sofa—but in the quiet, insistent manner of someone who’d decided, after everything, to trust again. He didn’t cling. Not exactly. But he placed himself with purpose. If Charlie was on the sofa, Chester’s chin was on his thigh. If Nick was cooking, Chester would lie in the doorway, one eye on the floor tiles, the other—his good one—always watching.

Charlie was still his safe zone. But Nick… Nick was becoming something else. A rhythm. A smell he liked. A voice he tilted his head for, even when he couldn’t fully hear it.

The hearing loss wasn’t obvious at first. It wasn’t total—just patchy. Certain frequencies seemed to miss him entirely, especially high-pitched ones. The doorbell? Ignored. Squeaky toy? Useless. But Nick’s voice—warm, low, deliberate—seemed to cut through.

Charlie noticed it first.

“He listens to you more,” he said one night, watching as Chester responded to a finger-snap and a quiet ‘come here, lad’ like it was gospel.

Nick frowned. “I think it’s the tone. He gets confused if I raise my voice. But if I pitch it low and slow, he knows it’s for him.”

Charlie looked thoughtful. “You’re like the human version of a weighted blanket.”

Nick smirked. “Sexy.”

Chester was missing one eye, too—scarred and cloudy. The vet told them he’d come from a violent home, the kind that hurt both animals and people. They couldn’t say for certain what had happened, but the injury wasn’t congenital. Old, yes. Healed, technically. But unmistakably deliberate.

It made Nick sick to imagine. A part of him wanted to ask for details; another part already knew too much.

It meant Chester moved a little clumsily sometimes, bumped into corners if he wasn’t careful. They rearranged the furniture to keep clear walkways, always approached from his good side, and never raised their hands too fast.

It was a small thing, really—learning to see the room the way Chester might. But it made all the difference.

“He’s not broken,” Charlie said one morning, watching Chester snore upside-down on the rug, all four legs twitching. “Just… a little sideways.”

They started teaching him touch cues. A gentle double tap to the shoulder to mean food’s ready. A single tap to guide him in one direction. Two fingers brushing his side meant we’re here. He caught on quickly, always desperate to understand.

Still, there were setbacks.

It was Nick who found the worst of it.

He’d left a pot boiling on the hob, lost track of time, and suddenly the room was full of steam. The smoke alarm blared, shrill and stuttering.

Chester’s reaction was instant and primal. He let out a low, keening whimper—barely audible, more felt than heard—and bolted into the hallway, where he wedged himself into the narrow gap between the wall and the shoe rack. His whole body trembled. He was panting so hard Nick thought he might vomit.

“Oh, shit, oh my God—”

Nick shut the stove off, flung the window open, and yanked a chair beneath the alarm to silence it. Then he dropped to the floor.

“Hey, buddy. It’s off now. You’re okay. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

It took nearly an hour to coax him out. Nick lay there the whole time, one arm extended, talking softly. Not moving. Just breathing with him.

Charlie came home to find them curled on the floor, Chester’s massive head draped over Nick’s chest, one paw pinning his shoulder down like a paperweight.

“He good?” Charlie asked quietly.

Nick nodded, not looking up. “Better. But we’re getting a new alarm.”

They didn’t blame him. They learned. Adjusted. Laughed when they could.

Chester, for his part, began to relax. He stopped flinching at raised voices—at least when laughter was involved. He’d snort at the garden hose now, then sprint away with his tail wagging. And sometimes, if Nick sang to himself while cleaning, Chester would sidle over and lean against his leg like a wall that didn’t quite want to fall.

He’d begun to choose Nick just as often as Charlie now—shuffling over when Charlie was at his desk, nosing open the bathroom door if Nick had been gone more than five minutes, curling up under the duvet in the exact space between them.

They still made jokes.

“He’s like if anxiety was a furniture item,” Charlie said once, watching Chester settle on their bed with the heavy sigh of a dog who knew he was absolutely allowed up there—and planned to take full, sprawling advantage.

“A chaise longue of dread,” Nick replied, nudging Charlie’s foot under the covers.

Charlie grinned. “He’s got your eyes, you know.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying Chester and I are practically twins?”

“No,” Charlie said, stretching a hand to rest on Chester’s flank. “You just have a very specific type: warm, loyal, mildly neurotic.”

Chester chose that moment to let out a long, unbothered fart and droop his head onto Charlie’s chest with the weighted finality of a dog who’d found his spot.

“Charming,” Charlie muttered, wrinkling his nose, but his fingers never stopped stroking the thick fur. “He’s disgusting. I love him so much.”

Sometimes, Nick would watch them like that—his husband and their unique, anxious, half-hearing dog—and feel something inside him slow down.

Not happiness, exactly.

Something quieter. Something sturdier.

One evening, the three of them were curled on the sofa, all legs and limbs and warmth. Chester had draped himself over both their laps like a glorified blanket. Charlie was dozing, his cheek against Nick’s shoulder, hand tangled in Chester’s fur. The room smelled like chamomile tea and rosemary from the garden. A sitcom murmured in the background. Outside, it was raining gently—the kind of rain that made you glad to be home.

Nick looked down at the two of them, heart thick in his chest.

He ran a hand over Chester’s back, slow and careful, and whispered more to himself than anyone else:

“I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

Charlie murmured sleepily, “What?”

Nick smiled. Pressed a kiss to his forehead. “This. All of this. You. Him. The peace. It’s like we made it through the storm and forgot to notice the sun came out.”

Chester snored. Charlie tightened his hand around Nick’s waist. And outside, the rain went on falling, soft and unbothered, as if the world had never known anything but gentle things.

A few minutes passed. Charlie’s breathing evened out, slow and steady against Nick’s shoulder. Chester gave a snuffling sigh and settled deeper into their laps.

Nick looked at them—his family, somehow—and whispered into the quiet:

“I think this is the safest I’ve ever felt.”

Chapter Text

Nick exhaled—one of those ragged, full-body exhales that feels more like an exorcism than a breath. His shoes were now perfectly parallel, his knees drawn loosely toward his chest. For a long moment, he just sat like that—half-slouched, still, as if memory had stiffened him in place. Eventually, he straightened, raking a hand through his hair with something between fatigue and reverence.

“God,” he muttered, barely audible. “I remember the fight we had a few days before the housewarming party.”

Back then, the house had been an orchestra of almosts. Almost finished, almost furnished, almost ready to welcome friends into its half-painted arms. The bones of it were solid—bricks and beams arranged like a secret they’d built together—but the details lagged behind: unmounted shelves, half-assembled chairs, electrical wires trailing like vines behind the unlit kitchen fixtures.

It should’ve felt magical, liminal, that in-between space where a house becomes a home. But all it really felt like was pressure. Under-furnished pressure. Nick was anxious about having people over. Charlie was overstimulated by the chaos of it all. And Chester, bless him, was impervious—delighted to flop anywhere there was sunlight and absolutely disinterested in the nuances of dining chairs or garden sheds.

The real monster, though, was the guest room. Or rather—the lack of it. A hollow, echoing room that had become a totem of their mounting disagreements. Bare plaster walls, the infamous desk, and that godforsaken abstract art Tao had gifted them (a cursed relic from Nick’s old apartment, equal parts hilarious and hideous).

They didn’t enter it much. It had begun to feel radioactive, even before the shouting started.

Nick had wanted a home gym. A touch extravagant, sure, but he’d argued that without a garage or basement, the spare room was their only shot. A couple of free weights, maybe a few machines one day. It was practical. Good for his mental health. Plus, Charlie had his own space for work—why shouldn’t Nick get something too?

Charlie, meanwhile, had envisioned a proper guest room. A soft bed. A desk with a plant. A reading lamp. A room that said stay a while to friends and family, not deadlift your trauma. Something welcoming. Something lived in. Something safe.

And so, the spark:

“Char, I just think the room shouldn’t sit idle waiting for hypothetical guests. I’d actually use it, you know? And besides, you’ve got your home office—I should have a space too.”

Present Nick winced at the memory. “Darling, the phrasing was truly piss-poor,” he muttered.

Charlie had flared up instantly, his voice rising before Nick could even take the next breath.

“A room to yourself?” he’d snapped. “Nick, are you kidding me? All these rooms are ours. The home office isn’t some man cave—it’s my job. Where I work. Where I earn actual money.”

“Oh, and because I’m not a personal trainer, I shouldn’t be allowed a gym?”

Charlie’s laugh was sharp—splintering. Like ice cracking beneath boots on a frozen pond.

Nick threw up his hands. “Where the hell is this coming from? I just want a space to breathe, Char. It’s not a crime.”

Charlie’s expression twisted. “You always say that—‘a space to breathe’—like the rest of the house is some suffocating trap I built around you. Like I’m the one making it hard to exist.”

“No,” Nick said, blinking hard. “That’s not what I meant.”

Charlie scoffed. “It’s always what you mean.”

“No,” he said again, firmer now. “You’re reading things into me that I didn’t even say.”

“Because I have to,” Charlie snapped. “Because you never say the thing straight out, Nick. I have to decode you, all the time. I’m constantly guessing whether you’re overwhelmed or bored or spiralling or just casually forgetting I exist.”

Nick recoiled like he’d been slapped.

Charlie pressed the heel of his palm to his eye, as if trying to keep something inside from spilling. Then his mouth curled into bitterness.

“No,” he said again, colder now. “You shouldn’t be allowed another bloody hyperfixation. You’ll obsess for six weeks and then abandon it like you did the sourdough starter in the airing cupboard. Or the knitting set. Or that vintage camera you had to track down from a bloke in Bath, which, by the way, is still in the box.”

Nick’s jaw locked. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair?” Charlie’s voice pitched up. “You hoard hobbies like you’re collecting lifeboats on a sinking ship. And guess who gets to tidy up the debris when you get bored? Me.”

Nick scoffed, the sound wounded. “Oh, I’m sorry—God forbid I try something that helps me feel a little less like my brain is trying to eat itself.”

Charlie’s eyes blazed. “So now you’re the victim?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Charlie snapped. “You’re always one missed heartbeat away from martyrdom. ‘Poor Nick, everything’s so hard, Nick’s overwhelmed, Nick’s overstimulated, Nick can’t concentrate for five minutes so let’s just rearrange the entire flat around it.’”

Nick reeled, mouth slightly open like the wind had been knocked out of him. “You know I probably have ADHD—”

“Oh, I know,” Charlie said, the words sharpened to a scalpel’s edge. “I know because you announce it every time you forget to do something or get distracted mid-sentence or leave another half-built shelf on the living room floor like a shrine to chaos. But that’s all it is—just noise. You won’t get diagnosed, Nick. You won’t talk to anyone. You just wear it like armour so you never have to take responsibility.”

Something in Nick’s face cracked—not visibly, not loudly, but deeply, like a frozen lake beginning to split under pressure.

Charlie’s voice broke too, but he kept going, reckless now, like he’d passed the point of no return. “You think you’re the only one who’s struggling? You think you’re the only one drowning?”

Nick snapped. “No, Charlie. I know you’re struggling. I see it. I see it every time you push food around your plate like it’s going to hurt you if you eat it. You haven’t had an actual meal in days—just nibbles and excuses.”

Charlie flinched. His mouth parted, but no words came.

Nick’s voice rose, not in volume but in intensity. “You moved your peas around like some abstract art project and then told me you were ‘just not in the mood.’ You haven’t been in the mood all week.”

Charlie’s face twisted in something like anguish. “Don’t.”

“I will,” Nick said, stepping forward, eyes burning. “Because I’m done pretending not to notice. I’m done walking on eggshells. You shut down and expect me to guess why, and when I try to talk to you, you look at me like I’m being cruel just for noticing.”

Charlie’s breath hitched. “You don’t get it.”

“I do,” Nick shot back. “I get it more than you think. But I also get that you’ve been cancelling sessions with Geoff for weeks now. That you keep saying you’ll reschedule, but you never do. And every time I bring it up, you act like I’m accusing you of being broken.”

“I’m tired, Nick!” Charlie shouted, voice breaking. “I’m just tired, okay? Of everything. Of keeping this place running, of keeping us running. Of having to track your mood shifts like a bloody weather app so I don’t say the wrong thing and set off a storm.”

Nick blinked hard, jaw trembling. “You think I want to be like this?”

“I think you won’t do anything about it,” Charlie yelled. “You spiral, and I’m left cleaning up the mess. And then you get defensive and make me feel like I’m the villain for needing a bit of consistency.”

Nick’s fists were clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. His voice dropped to a whisper, dangerously still. “So what—I’m just a burden to you now?”

Charlie faltered. His eyes flickered—not with denial, but with hurt. “Don’t twist it.”

“You just said I never take responsibility,” Nick continued, voice trembling. “That I hide behind maybe-having-ADHD like it’s some get-out-of-jail-free card. But what about you, Charlie? You haven’t looked me in the eye properly in days. You haven’t touched your lunch, you’ve skipped breakfast, you’ve barely slept—and when I ask if you’re okay, you either lie or ignore me. But yeah, I’m the mess.”

Charlie’s whole body tensed like a bowstring pulled too tight. “Because I am a mess, Nick. Because if I let myself fall apart even a little, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop. Because I’m scared that if I drop even one thing—just one—the rest of it will come crashing down and I won’t know how to put myself back together again.”

The air between them was suddenly full of white noise. The kind that makes your ears ring when the silence is too loud.

Nick’s voice cracked. “Then let me help.”

Charlie’s eyes filled, but he didn’t look away. “You say that, but you don’t mean it,” he said, voice taut as piano wire. “You only want to help when it’s tidy. When I cry in the way you understand—pretty and manageable and over in twenty minutes. But when I spiral properly—when I shut down and can’t stop counting the grout lines on the floor or rearranging the bookshelf for the fourth time in one day—you get… tired.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s not untrue,” Charlie said, voice cracking like glass underfoot. “You only hold me when I’m crying. Not when I’m cold. Not when I’m clenched up and hiding in the shower, shaking like a kicked dog because I couldn’t finish a spreadsheet and I feel like I’m losing control of everything. You only come close when I’m bleeding obviously.”

“I snap because I never feel okay!” Nick exploded, the words ripping out of him like torn fabric. “And instead of asking why, you just—accommodate. You move around me like I’m a coffee table someone forgot to return. You rearrange your whole bloody day to compensate and then act like I’ve inconvenienced you by needing help.”

Charlie flinched so hard it looked like he’d been slapped.

Nick didn’t stop. He couldn’t. “You don’t ask what I need. You just plan for it. Like I’m a broken appliance you’re trying to keep running until the warranty runs out.”

Charlie’s mouth parted, but no sound came.

“I try so fucking hard to be grounded,” Nick said, voice hoarse now, trembling with effort. “I try to remember things. To keep a schedule. To sit still long enough to not annoy you. But some days my brain is hell, Charlie. Like I’m stuck in a room full of static and everyone’s shouting directions at me in a language I don’t speak. And then you come in—perfect posture, planner in hand, asking why the bin hasn’t been taken out.”

Charlie looked wounded—like something was coming apart behind his eyes.

Nick let out a breath that sounded more like a sob. “I know I forget things. I know I leave my projects half-finished. But at least the gym would be for me. Something to anchor me. Something to remind me I exist outside the context of disappointing you.”

“I don’t—” Charlie started, but the sentence cracked in half as his throat closed around it.

Nick’s voice sharpened like a blade. “You don’t what? Judge me? You think I don’t see it in your face? The tightening jaw when I leave a pan in the sink. The polite little sigh when I open a drawer too hard. You look at me like I’m chaos incarnate.”

Charlie blinked furiously, tears welling. “You think I want to be like this?” His voice came out broken, ragged. “You think I enjoy waking up with dread in my throat because the throw blanket’s the wrong way round or because you moved the coffee mugs without telling me? You think I want to be the sort of person who cries in the loo because the bloody spices aren’t organized?”

“I don’t know!” Nick shouted, the sound raw and wild. “Because you won’t let me know. You won’t tell me what’s happening. You just get quiet. You get cold. You disappear into a list or a fucking spreadsheet and I’m left wondering whether I fucked up or if you’re just somewhere else in your head again.”

Charlie looked like he might shatter.

“I miss you,” Nick whispered suddenly. “Not your body. You. I miss your voice when it wasn’t measured. I miss the way you used to look at me like I was your favourite thing in the room. Now it’s like I’m just… nearby. Like I’m fucking furniture.”

Charlie’s chin wobbled. He opened his mouth—but no sound came. His throat worked uselessly as if trying to swallow something that wouldn’t go down.

And the silence that followed was so sharp it hurt. Even Chester, curled in the next room, gave a soft, anxious whine. The kind he made when thunder rolled overhead or when one of them raised their voice too fast.

Charlie’s voice came at last—brittle, breathless, but savage. “You know what I miss? I miss when you actually gave a shit. Before the house. Before the raised beds and the half-painted walls and the dog beds piled in the airing cupboard. I miss when you saw me.”

Nick stared, as if Charlie had physically struck him. “I don’t see you?”

“No,” Charlie said, his eyes gleaming but unsparing. “You see your version of me. The one who always fucking copes. Who handles it. Who never needs too much. The version who doesn’t mind being the house manager and the emotional translator and the person who always has the answers. But I’m not your parent, Nick. I can’t keep… running this household like it’s a crisis centre.”

“I never asked you to be,” Nick said hoarsely.

Charlie’s expression twisted. “You didn’t have to. You just slowly stopped showing up. So I started filling in the blanks. I booked the appointments. I paid the bills. I chased the contractors. I washed the duvets. I fucking picked up after your half-finished hobbies like I was curating a museum of your attention span. You disappeared into almosts and I had to become the glue.”

Nick’s voice cracked. “That’s not fair. You know I love you. I love you so much it fucking hurts.”

Charlie swallowed hard, his whole body tight with held-back grief. “Then why does it feel like we’re always on opposite teams lately? Like you’re trying to survive me instead of choosing me.”

Nick stepped forward. “Because sometimes it’s like you only love me when I’m easy. When I slot neatly into the version of our life you’ve laminated.”

Charlie’s jaw tightened. “And sometimes it’s like you only notice I exist when you’re fucking falling apart.”

Nick blinked hard. His voice turned to splinters. “That’s not true. You are my favourite thing in the universe.”

Charlie’s reply was immediate, quiet, and devastating. “Then why do I always feel like a task you forgot to finish?”

Nick’s whole chest felt like it collapsed in on itself.

“And when you do notice me,” Charlie continued, trembling now, “it’s when I’ve failed. When I’ve messed up. When I’m quiet too long or the meal plan falls apart or I forget to remind you of something. That’s when you look at me like I’m a person. Not when I’m keeping everything afloat. Not when I’m quietly holding the seams.”

Nick tried to speak but nothing came. The words choked in his throat like smoke.

Chester whined again from the doorway, one ear twitching, his one good eye fixed on them both like he was trying to understand the rupture in the air.

Charlie’s hands dropped to his sides, fingers curling into tight fists. “You want your gym?” His voice was hollow, stripped raw from all the fights before. “Go ahead. Build it in the stupid garden. Stack every fucking dumbbell on the ruins of all the promises you forgot to keep. Maybe if you pile it high enough, it’ll bury whatever’s fucking left of us.”

He brushed past Nick, too fast for either of them to find a breath. Just before the kitchen door, he paused, twisting his head just enough to deliver one final, venomous strike. His voice was barely a rasp, sharp and cold.

“I’m done being the echo to your endless self-reinvention. I’m not the noise you tune out—I’m the silence you fucking drown in.”

The door slammed with the force of a hammer blow, shaking the walls, rattling every picture frame, leaving a silence heavy and cracked, like glass shattered but never swept away.

Nick stood there, stunned. Surrounded by silence so thick it felt like drowning. The echo of Charlie’s footsteps, retreating, the only thing still moving in the house. And Chester—sweet, anxious Chester—crept forward, leaned gently against Nick’s leg, and let out a low, uneasy huff.

The hallway felt like a crime scene.

He didn’t take his coat. He didn’t take his keys. He just walked.

He walked past the end of their road, past the playground with the cracked basketball court, past the field where they used to walk Chester when they first got him. He walked until the moon rose in fragments behind trees and the sky lost its colour.

When he finally made his way back, the house looked… wounded. Still. Dark. A mausoleum of arguments.

“Charlie?” Nick’s voice was small, breaking, barely more than a whisper.

No answer.

He found him in the bathroom, the light switched off, the room swallowed by shadows. Charlie was curled on the cold tile floor, knees pulled tight to his chest, arms wrapped around himself like armor against a world that had turned cruel. Tissues scattered like fallen leaves, a half-empty box of plasters teetering on the sink’s edge—silent witnesses to battles Nick hadn’t seen.

Nick sank down beside him, voice trembling. “Charlie—please, talk to me. What’s happened?”

Charlie’s voice cracked, raw and fragile. “I didn’t mean to do it. But I couldn’t stop myself to.” His eyes were glassy, distant, as if haunted by a storm no one else could see.

Nick’s breath hitched, pain twisting deep in his chest. His hands hovered uncertainly, trembling like he was afraid to touch a fragile glass sculpture that might shatter. “Charlie… please, talk to me. You don’t have to carry this alone. We’ll get through it—together. Just—please—don’t shut me out.”

“I’m so tired,” Charlie whispered, gaze locked on a tile beneath him, “tired of this war inside my head… tired of fighting who I am… tired of the damage I keep doing to us.” His fingers trembled, tracing the scars on his arms.

Nick’s hands hovered, unsure—then reached, trembling with the fear of breaking what little was left. He gently pulled Charlie closer, feeling the heat of tears spill onto his shirt, the shudder of silent sobs against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Nick choked out, voice cracking like fragile glass. “I should never have said those things. I was selfish, blind to your pain. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Charlie’s breath hitched, tears soaking into Nick’s sleeve. “Neither did you,” he whispered, voice ragged. “I’ve hurt you too. I said things I didn’t mean… things I wish I could take back.”

Nick shook his head, tears spilling free now, hot and relentless. “We both did. We’re scared, broken, but we’re here. Together. And I’m so, so sorry for the silence, the distance. For every moment I made you feel less seen.”

Charlie’s fingers gripped at Nick’s shirt as if anchoring himself to something real. “I scared myself,” he breathed. “I don’t want to be this person anymore.”

Nick brushed damp hair back from Charlie’s forehead, voice thick with emotion. “Then don’t be. Not alone. Not ever.”

They clung to each other on the cold floor, breaths tangled, hearts pounding the same fragile rhythm—two broken souls fighting for the fragile thread between them.

After a long moment, Nick whispered, “We’ll make the room a guest room. No gym. No battles over space. Just us.”

Charlie looked up, hope flickering through the tears. “Really?”

“Really,” Nick said. “Nothing—nothing—is worth losing you.”

Charlie hesitated, then whispered, “Maybe… maybe someday I can build you a shed out back. Somewhere you can have your space. Your gym. Somewhere separate, where you can be yourself without it crushing us.”

Nick blinked, stunned by the grace in those words. “I’d like that.”

Charlie managed a small, weary smile, voice soft. “We don’t have to tear each other apart. We’re supposed to be building this—together.”

Nick hugged him tighter, tears mingling. “I love you, Charlie. So much it hurts.”

Charlie buried his face in Nick’s shoulder, trembling. “I love you too. Even when everything’s a mess.”

Nick kissed the top of his head, voice breaking but certain. “We’re a mess. But we’re ours. And I’m not letting go.”

And there, on the cold bathroom floor, beneath the weight of darkness and raw truth, they began to stitch together the fragments of their love, fragile but fiercely alive—one breath, one tear, one desperate promise at a time.

Chapter Text

Nick truly disliked being somber. Or bleak. Or even remotely introspective for too long. He’d always felt he was meant to be the sun—bright, warm, loyal in its rhythm—destined to be background rather than spectacle. The kind of person who softened the shadows of others, not bathed in spotlight himself. A constant. Steady. Expected.

And yet no one ever writes love poems about the sun.

Think about it. A monstrous, roiling sphere of nuclear fire, all combustion and chaos and death-beams hurtling through the void. Not exactly soft lyric material. Not exactly tender.

No, the moon got the poetry. The moon, with its quiet presence and patient pull. Mysterious. Muted. Mythic. Something about its serenity made people ache to describe it. And Nick had always, without question, associated it with Charlie.

Charlie was lunar in every sense. Not just beautiful, but orbiting with precision. A master of phases. Of light and shadow. Of pulling tides and calming storms. Even his silences had gravity. His love was not blinding or brash, but silver-edged, constant, tidal. He didn’t just exist—he shifted. Transformed. Gave shape to night.

Nick, by contrast, often felt like a glare. Something harsh. Something people shielded their eyes from. But Charlie… Charlie was a sky. A galaxy tucked inside the soft fall of evening. A landscape that never demanded, only invited.

Today, though, the sky had no patience for poetry. The sun, somewhere above, was veiled by clouds, diffused into a sullen smear of indifferent grey. It left no warmth behind, no golden fingerprints. The moon wouldn’t rise until later, until the sun agreed to retreat, making space for the quiet glow of stars and softer things.

Nick sat beneath all that ambiguity, next to Charlie, fingertips ghosting over his left forearm.

He tugged back his sleeve, revealing the black-and-grey ink etched into the pale plane of skin—a moon and stars, rendered in stark lines and gothic shadows. The crescent shape was jagged, uneven, framed by a crown of sharp, spidery stars—some clean-edged, others fragmented. Long, tapering lines dripped from the moon’s undercurve like suspended glass, some of them ending in small, abstract ornaments that hung like charms from invisible threads. A single cloud—nebulous, translucent—partially obscured the moon’s surface, suggesting that even the brightest things could be shadowed. Could be hidden. Could hurt.

It wasn’t Nick’s usual style—he’d always preferred softness in aesthetics, light blues and golden hues, sketches instead of lines—but this had caught him in a way that defied logic. He fell in love with the design instantly. Maybe because it didn’t pretend to be clean. Maybe because it was complicated. Maybe because it looked exactly like how Charlie made him feel.

He traced it slowly, thumb brushing over a tiny constellation near the elbow crease. “I don’t think I’d have ever gotten a tattoo if it weren’t for that wild morning,” he murmured, mostly to himself, tugging the sleeve back down and letting the memory unravel like a ribbon in the wind.

It had started terribly.

Nick had woken up with a dry, hacking cough that ripped through his chest like brittle parchment being torn in two. Each spasm came with an ache behind the ribs, a scratch in the throat like desert wind clawing its way out of him. His lungs felt raw. Inflamed. He could hardly breathe between fits, bent forward in bed with hands twisted in the duvet, sweat already cooling at the base of his spine. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.

Charlie—usually insufferable when awoken prematurely, grumpy in the way only someone raised by silence could be—had bolted upright the moment he registered the coughing. His body went from limp to alarmed in seconds, propped by his elbows, blinking like a dazed owl at first. But once Nick’s coughs persisted, wet and phlegmy, his concern was immediate. Chester stirred at the foot of the bed, letting out a small whine.

Nick couldn’t even manage a proper greeting. Just a few wheezed breaths, a sneeze that nearly launched him sideways, and a deeply unflattering nose-blow into a tissue.

“Babe? Are you alright?” Charlie had flicked on the bedside lamp, the soft golden glow slicing through the shadows, illuminating the pale slope of Nick’s back.

Another coughing fit. A groan. Nick couldn’t answer. His ears rang. His head pulsed.

Charlie sighed, half in worry, half in instinct. “Stupid question. You’re sick. My poor baby.” He swung out of bed, sliding on his slippers with unnecessary urgency. Nick could faintly hear him padding down the stairs, but everything sounded distant, muffled, like listening through fog. Even his thoughts had an echo. His skull felt like it was stuffed with cotton and glass.

The clock read 4:11 a.m.

Fantastic. Nothing like waking up your husband before sunrise with a plague.

Charlie returned a few minutes later, cradling two mismatched mugs—one billowing with steam, the other fizzing slightly and tinged the shade of radioactive tangerine.

The moment he saw Nick’s face in the light, his whole expression softened and crumpled all at once.

“Oh sweetheart,” he breathed, “I love you, but you look like absolute rubbish.”

He set the mugs down on the nightstand and perched on the mattress beside Nick without hesitation, rubbing slow circles on his back despite the sweat dampening his skin.

“I feel it too,” Nick croaked, voice like gravel in the rain. He attempted a smile—weak, watery, idiotic—and tried to shift away. “You really shouldn’t be so close to me. I don’t want you catching this. It’s brutal.”

Charlie’s face tightened. “None of that. I don’t get sick that easily, and besides—pretty sure this came from you spending all day with tiny disease vectors known as ‘children.’ Ever heard of those? Small, sticky, chaos gremlins with questionable hygiene?”

Nick wheezed a half-laugh. “Can’t say I’m familiar.”

“Liar,” Charlie smirked, reaching to press the back of his hand to Nick’s forehead. It was cold and crisp, a stark contrast to the flush of fever burning beneath the skin. “Fever too. Brilliant. Yeah, this is the flu. Certified.”

Nick groaned. “Thank you, Hot Doctor. How do I survive it?”

Charlie gave him a lopsided smile, more tender than teasing. “Rest. Tea. Meds. No school. You’re staying home.”

Nick made a noise of protest, but Charlie had already grabbed his phone.

“Ah ah. No martyr routine today, Nelson. You can’t even sit up straight without swaying. You’re dazed. It’s Friday, and Monday’s a bank holiday. Take the bloody weekend.”

Nick sighed dramatically. “Fine. My endlessly wise and absurdly handsome husband knows best.”

Charlie’s grin widened. “Exactly. Now drink the death juice and let me spoil you like the pitiful plague gremlin you are.”

Nick downed the fizzy orange concoction like a soldier taking a potion before battle—grimacing only slightly at the bitterness aspirin always seemed to tattoo onto the back of the tongue. He chased it with a few tentative sips of tea, which had already cooled to a lukewarm floral murmur, then eased himself back down against the pillows. The warmth of the liquid settled into him like a balm. Within minutes, he could already feel the edge of the fever beginning to soften, his breath no longer entirely barricaded by congestion. One exhale, long and heavy, sounded almost like relief.

Charlie smiled faintly and gave Nick’s chest two gentle pats, as though checking he was still solid, still there.

“Shall we try going back to sleep?” he asked, voice low and velvet in the dark.

Nick hummed, eyes glassy, whether from the swelling or the emotion, he wasn’t sure. “Darling… I love you so much.” His voice cracked slightly—somewhere between sincerity and feverish vulnerability.

Charlie let out a breath of a laugh, already pulling the covers up over them both. “I love you too, you sap. But don’t go getting all man-flu emotional on me.”

He flicked the lamp off, plunging the room into a soft grayscale, and nestled in beside Nick, curling an arm around him from behind. His palm rested flat on Nick’s chest, right over his heart, as though he could quiet it like a song still playing long after the party ended.

The night passed relatively smoothly. Nick stirred only once, roused by another dry coughing fit that tugged at his ribs. He padded to the bathroom in a daze, throat raw, limbs heavy with fever. On the way back, he finished the now-forgotten tea—ice cold and vaguely medicinal—and crawled beneath the covers again, dragging the warmth around his shoulders like a second skin.

Still half-dreaming, he reached for Charlie, his voice rough with sleep and illness. “D’you… have to leave soon?”

Charlie stirred faintly, a lump beneath the duvet. “Nick… home office… I—no—don’t have… much…”

The rest of the sentence dissolved into sleepy incoherence, consonants melting into the pillow like ice against cotton. But it was enough.

Nick exhaled, eyes fluttering shut again. He pressed close to his already unconscious husband, letting the steady rhythm of Charlie’s breathing guide him back down into sleep. Fever-warm and comfort-drunk, he slipped beneath the surface once more.

The morning unfolded gently, as if the world outside their windows had agreed to move a little slower for Nick’s sake. Rain tapped delicately on the glass panes—less a storm, more a lullaby—while soft instrumental music hummed from the Bluetooth speaker Charlie had set up downstairs. It was barely audible from the bedroom, a gentle current threading through the quiet of the house.

Charlie, true to form, had slipped out of bed without waking Nick. He moved through the house with slippered feet and the caution of someone tiptoeing through an art gallery made of eggshells. He had tied his dressing gown hastily, hair sticking up at the back, and wandered into the kitchen like a man on a mission. There was something sacred about caring for someone you love when they’re at their weakest—like tending to a temple during a storm—and Charlie wore that responsibility with a kind of quiet urgency.

He’d made breakfast with a seriousness he usually reserved for writing cover letters: toast, softly scrambled eggs, and a bowl of warm porridge sweetened with maple syrup and cinnamon, garnished with a few cautious blueberries. He squeezed fresh orange juice with a frown that said he didn’t trust store-bought vitamins. The tea was green, with honey. Medicinal, but not cruel.

Nick had stirred around midmorning, bleary and heat-flushed, the blankets coiled around him like vines. He blinked at the ceiling for a long moment before croaking Charlie’s name like a man stranded in the desert might call for water. Charlie had appeared instantly, as if summoned.

“I’ve got food,” Charlie had said, balancing the tray like a seasoned waiter. “Don’t argue. I’m being saintly.”

Nick looked at him like he was the Second Coming. He sat up, or tried to—his body moved like it had been stuffed with wet towels—and Charlie fussed with pillows until he was propped up comfortably. Nick’s hair stuck to his temples, sweat-damp and standing out in odd places, and his eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. Still, he smiled like a child seeing presents on Christmas morning.

“God, that smells amazing,” Nick rasped, his voice rough around the edges. “Did I die and go to heaven?”

Charlie snorted. “You look like you barely made it through purgatory. Eat slowly.”

But Nick, true to form, didn’t listen. He devoured the food like it was his first meal in days—grateful, greedy, gulping down bites like they might vanish if he paused. Charlie watched from the edge of the bed, both endeared and increasingly concerned. Nick’s hands trembled slightly. His cheeks were flushed with fever, and a cold sweat began to bead at his temples before he’d even cleared his plate.

It happened quickly. One moment Nick was finishing the last of the eggs, trying to make a joke about how toast always tasted better when someone else made it. The next, his expression froze—confused, then afraid—and he was scrambling out of bed with a groan, one hand clutching his stomach, the other outstretched for balance.

Charlie was behind him in an instant, already grabbing the bathroom door open.

Nick barely made it to the toilet in time before the contents of his breakfast came up in one violent, gut-wrenching wave. Charlie knelt beside him wordlessly, murmuring soft reassurances that didn’t try to fix anything, just offered presence. Nick heaved again, chest spasming, body folding inwards.

When it was over, he sank against the cool tiles, utterly drained, his face pale and eyes shining with embarrassed tears.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice thin and shaking.

“Shut up,” Charlie said, gently but with no room for argument. “Don’t apologise for being ill. That’s like saying sorry for the weather.”

He helped Nick rinse his mouth, fetched a damp flannel for his forehead, then steered him back to bed with the authority of a battle nurse. The sheets were changed. The tray removed. Nick was tucked in again, wrapped like a burrito in freshly laundered linens, the scent of lemon and lavender clinging faintly to the fabric.

Then came another “cocktail”—Charlie’s name for the mixture of medications he’d cobbled together with the precision of a chemist and the affection of someone mixing a love potion. There were paracetamol tablets, cold and flu sachets stirred into warm water, a throat lozenge Nick swore tasted like wet peppermint bark, and another mug of herbal tea, this one spiked with lemon and a slightly excessive amount of honey.

“You’re spoiling me,” Nick whispered, voice weak but grateful.

“I live to serve,” Charlie replied, perching on the edge of the bed to check Nick’s forehead again. “Try to sleep. I’ll be in the office, alright? I’ve got some editing to do.”

Nick drifted in and out of consciousness through most of the afternoon, caught in the gauzy veil between dreaming and waking. The fever ebbed and flowed like a tide, pulling him under one hour, letting him float the next. Occasionally, he’d stir enough to catch the muffled tapping of Charlie’s laptop keys from next door, or the muffled murmur of a Zoom call. The comforting, domestic sounds of Charlie’s ‘home office’ world bleeding gently into the sickroom.

It was strange, how safe he felt. How unworthy of that safety, even as he craved it.

By early evening, the scent of something rich and savoury began wafting up the stairs. Nick stirred, nose twitching, the scent pulling him from sleep like a rope being slowly reeled in. His stomach gave a cautious gurgle—not hunger exactly, but something close to it.

Charlie appeared at the doorway a few minutes later, wearing an apron and a sheepish smile. “Soup. Made it from scratch. You’re not allowed to die yet.”

He carried a steaming bowl of chicken soup, thick with soft vegetables, hunks of shredded chicken, and hand-rolled noodles that looked suspiciously too similar from the ones they made at the cooking class. There was also a small chunk of baguette—warmed and lightly buttered—and a tiny ramekin of saltine crackers, just in case. It was the kind of meal someone would make if they were trying to nurse you back from the brink of the plague. It smelled divine.

Nick took the tray with reverence, hands steadier now, colour returning slightly to his cheeks. “You are… disgustingly competent,” he murmured, already spooning up the broth.

Charlie gave a mock bow. “I try.”

They ate together in bed, the TV flickering softly in the background with some forgettable comfort show neither of them paid much attention to. Charlie scrolled absentmindedly through a few work emails on his phone, but mostly he just watched Nick eat, pleased every time he finished a spoonful without coughing.

By the time the soup was gone, Nick looked worlds better—less like a feverish corpse and more like a very tired man who’d wrestled with a minor demon and lived to tell the tale.

Charlie gathered the tray and leaned down to kiss Nick’s temple. “You’re getting there.”

Nick leaned into the touch. “I’m trying.”

That night, the fever clung on—stubborn and low-burning—like a weight Nick couldn’t quite shake. He drifted in and out of uneasy sleep, skin clammy, breath still raspy with congestion. Somewhere in the haze, he registered the sound of Charlie brushing his teeth, their dog snoring gently at the foot of the bed, and the steady hum of life moving on without permission—softly, steadily, as if the world had decided to carry them forward whether Nick was ready or not.

Saturday arrived with a cough and a groan.

Charlie was up before Nick, already padding about the house with the alertness of someone who hadn’t slept deeply but had powered through on sheer anxiety and tea. He’d peeked in on Nick before even brushing his own teeth—watching for movement, for colour in his cheeks, for the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

Nick was alive. But only barely.

By the time Charlie brought him breakfast, Nick was sitting up in bed like an exhausted Victorian child with consumption. He’d eaten all his dinner the night before and now tucked into his porridge with a kind of pathetic hunger, spooning it in like it was both medicine and penance.

“You look pale,” Charlie said softly, setting a mug of honey-laden tea on the bedside table. “Paler than usual. Like, ghost-in-a-period-drama pale.”

Nick sniffled dramatically and wiped his nose with a tissue. “Thanks, darling. Really helping my self-esteem flourish in this time of need.”

Charlie sat beside him, peering at him with worry etching his face. Nick’s forehead still held the shimmer of a low-grade fever, and his eyes were red at the corners. He was upright, and he was eating, but he still looked like one wrong move would send him toppling.

“I feel better than yesterday,” Nick offered weakly.

Charlie gave him a long, assessing look. “You still sound like your lungs are marinating in soup.”

Nick coughed once, just to be contrary. “It’s a wet cough. That means I’m winning.”

Charlie blinked. “That’s… not how that works.”

Nick leaned back against the pillows and let his eyes flutter shut. “Still counts.”

There was a brief pause. Then:

“You remember it’s Darcy’s birthday today?”

Nick groaned dramatically. “Do I remember? I’ve been mourning that I won’t be able to go. My favourite non-binary lesbian, celebrating their birthday in true chaotic fashion, and I’ll be stuck here sweating through the sheets like a haunted Edwardian child.”

Charlie smiled fondly. “Darcy will forgive you.”

“I won’t forgive myself,” Nick said, pouting. “I was going to wear that gold mesh shirt and let Darcy spin me around the dancefloor like a bisexual ragdoll.”

“They’re planning to go clubbing afterwards,” Charlie said, half-expecting Nick to protest.

He didn’t.

Instead, Nick gave a wistful little smile. “Of course they are. Darcy’s like a gay tornado with vodka in their veins. They get five tequila shots in and suddenly the entire pub’s on the floor doing the Macarena backwards.”

Charlie snorted. “They do have a…reputation.”

“An infamy,” Nick corrected. “And now I’ll miss it. And I won’t get to see Tara—who I’m pretty sure is the only person on Earth who can calm Darcy mid-shenanigan—and I won’t see Imogen, either. She texted me a few weeks ago. Said she finally came out as demiromantic pansexual. I wanted to hug her. Or at least, like, do a gay little celebratory dance.”

Charlie gently brushed a hand through Nick’s hair. “Good for her, but Nick, there’ll be other parties.”

“I know,” Nick whispered. “But not this one.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Nick opened his eyes again and turned toward Charlie. “You should go.”

Charlie blinked. “What?”

“You should go,” Nick repeated, firmer this time. “I’m a mucus machine. You’d be miserable here watching me sniffle and sigh dramatically. Go celebrate our favourite menace. Bring them their gift, dance like a gay icon, and flirt with the bartender.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know,” Nick said. “But I want you to go.”

Charlie frowned. “But what if you get worse?”

“I’ve got meds, I’ve got tea, I’ve got Chester patrolling the halls like a floofy security guard. I’ll be fine.”

Charlie chewed on the inside of his cheek. Then nodded, slowly. “Okay. But I’m not staying out late.”

“Go wherever the night takes you. I’ll be here in our tragically infested sheets, reading sad poetry on my phone and trying not to text you the word yearning.”

Charlie chuckled. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m romantic,” Nick said with a sniff.

The day passed in soft domestic rhythms. Charlie ran out to pick up a gift for Darcy—and Nick spent most of the afternoon in bed, dozing off between coughing fits. Charlie checked on him every hour, bringing water, toast, and warm compresses for his forehead. Nick was clearly still unwell, but there was a sparkle behind his sickly demeanour, especially when Charlie announced he was getting ready to go out.

“Don’t mind me,” Nick said dramatically from beneath the duvet. “Just dying in the background while my beautiful husband goes off to tempt fate and flirtation.”

Charlie smirked. “You know I’m not a flirt.”

“You don’t need to be,” Nick said, sitting up slightly and watching as Charlie dabbed black kajal around his eyes in the mirror. “You just exist and people fall in love. It’s rude, honestly.”

Charlie finished his liner, then pulled on the outfit he’d set out: a cropped black tank top studded with rhinestones that hugged his figure just right, and a pair of skinny black jeans ripped tastefully at the knees. His curls were still slightly damp from the shower, the kajal making his eyes look larger, darker, almost smouldering. Nick actually whimpered.

“I take it back,” he murmured. “You are a menace.”

Charlie glanced over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Too much?”

Nick’s eyes raked over him. “You look smoking. Like… clubbing twink meets morally conflicted vampire.”

Charlie laughed. “High praise.”

Nick groaned. “Can’t afford my husband being swept off his feet by some eager queer in a mesh shirt and a ‘non-monogamous’ in their bio.”

Charlie walked over to the bed, leaned down, and kissed him on the nose. “I’m not going anywhere but Darcy’s orbit, I promise.”

Nick caught his wrist before he could pull away. “Just… be safe, yeah?”

“I always am.”

Charlie gathered his things—wallet, keys, coat—and slung a small crossbody bag over his shoulder. He gave Nick one last look, half-smile, soft eyes. “Text if you need anything. I’ll leave the party early if you do.”

Nick nodded. “Go have fun, superstar.”

And with that, Charlie slipped out into the night, the door clicking shut behind him.

The house felt a little quieter after that. Nick sank deeper into the bed, letting the warmth of the sheets swallow him whole. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, and traffic murmured past the window.

He dozed off around ten, curled in Charlie’s pillow.

And when he stirred hours later—fevered, confused, reaching instinctively for the shape of love beside him—there he was.

Charlie.

Back home.

Curled into the covers, black liner smudged, one knee peeking out of ripped denim, one arm draped over Nick like nothing in the world had changed.

Nick breathed in the scent of sweat, liquor, and home.

Sleep wrapped around him again like a heavy quilt soaked in exhaustion, and for once, it didn’t taste like fever. It was a slow, sticky surrender.

The next morning, for the first time since falling ill, Nick woke up first. Charlie was still out cold beside him, dead to the world, the smudge of black kajal now haunting his cheekbones in dramatic, chaotic streaks. His jeans were still on—a textural war crime Nick wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy—but his face… soft, peaceful, and utterly unaware of the world outside his dreams. Nick watched, half in reverence, half in amusement. His chest rose and fell steadily, a rhythm Nick could fall asleep to forever.

Charlie had, at some point in the night, kicked off his half of the duvet entirely. Classic. Nick shifted slowly, wincing as his joints creaked like a haunted wardrobe. A sharp glint of plastic caught his eye—something clear poking out from under Charlie’s bent knee. Probably just a rogue snack wrapper or part of last night’s chaos. Nick squinted but didn’t investigate.

Instead, he braced himself with both palms against the mattress and staggered upright, gripping the bannister as though he were scaling Everest. His head throbbed. Every step down the stairs was an adventure in inner ear imbalance. But he managed to make tea for himself—weak, watery, but blessedly warm—and a coffee for his husband, exactly how Charlie liked it: strong enough to melt through sheet metal.

By the time he got back upstairs, Charlie hadn’t budged. Not even a twitch. He looked like a Renaissance painting of a drunk angel in emotional distress. Nick set the mugs down gently on the nightstand and knelt beside the bed, curling his arms around Charlie’s warm, limp form. Charlie stirred, exhaled hard through his nose, and formed the ghost of a smile.

And Nick—tragically, dramatically—realised they hadn’t kissed in two whole days. Two. Wasn’t that in violation of some sacred marriage clause? He was being tested. By fate. By illness. By the cruel gods of respiratory infections. Torture.

Eventually, Nick must’ve dozed again because when he opened his eyes, the light in the room had shifted. His cough had dulled to a distant growl, but the pounding in his skull still raged on, and he felt like a human mucus balloon.

Charlie groaned beside him—long, suffering, like he was being resurrected against his will.

Then came the flop, a tragic fall back into the pillow, followed by an anguished, “Ouch.”

Nick smirked without turning. “Had a good night, darling?”

“I see the light at the end of the tunnel, Nick,” Charlie rasped, voice dry as chalk. “My head feels like it’s been used as a drum in a medieval battle reenactment. My bones hurt. My soul hurts.”

Nick let out a low whistle. “Impressive. Classic Darcy birthday aftermath.”

Charlie threw an arm over his face. “Darcy is a vixen. You think you’re safe and then they’re suddenly behind you whispering ‘just one more shot’ like some kind of queer liquor demon. I don’t even remember drinking that much. What happened?”

Nick turned his head, teasing grin blooming. “No idea. But sounds like a legendary night. Did Imogen go? I wanted to ask about her coming out post. She looked radiant in that photo with the rainbow cake.”

Charlie groaned. “No idea. I remember Tara was there. I think. Maybe.”

“Ugh, jealous. I miss the chaotic gays.”

“Not after a night out,” Charlie muttered.

Nick laughed until it hurt. “Fair.”

Then Charlie shifted again, brow furrowing. “Ow. Okay. Why does my thigh feel like someone punched me with a boiling brick?”

He sat up slowly, groaning the entire way like an old man in a sitcom. “What is that?” he said to himself, spotting the piece of plastic poking from the tear at his jeans’ knee.

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Need help?”

Charlie tugged at it. “What is this, cling film? Was there a wrapping contest at the club? Did someone burrito me at the club?” He was clearly spiralling.

Nick chuckled. “Knowing Darcy? Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing.”

Charlie grunted and began undoing his jeans. “This is deeply undignified,” he mumbled, peeling the denim off with all the grace of a molting bird. “God, how was I sleeping in these?”

Finally, he yanked the jeans down far enough to reveal the truth.

A thick swathe of cling film. Wrapped tightly. Around his entire upper thigh.

“What the fu—” Charlie blinked. “Is that—? Oh my god. No.”

Nick slapped a hand over his mouth. “Charlie—”

Charlie was already screaming. “A TATTOO?!” His voice hit an octave that probably woke their neighbours.

Chester, now wide awake at the foot of the bed, let out a startled bark and jumped off the mattress in alarm.

Charlie looked down at his leg like it had personally betrayed him. “Who allowed this?! I was unsupervised for six hours!”

Nick was wheezing, absolutely losing it. “Oh my god. Charlie—oh—babe—your face—”

“This is not funny!” Charlie shrieked, inspecting the cling film like it might spontaneously combust. “What if it’s stupid? What if it’s a meme?! What if it’s a spider in a hat?!”

Nick rolled over, howling. “A spider in a hat? What part of your subconscious even wants that?!”

“I don’t know,” Charlie shouted. “I’m in crisis.”

He peeled back the cling film like it was radioactive. “Oh no. Oh no no no—what is this?!”

Nick sat up, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, still laughing, breathless. “Okay, okay. What’s the verdict, then? What do we have here?”

Charlie, who looked like he was on the verge of a spiritual breakdown, stared at the clingfilm on his thigh like it was a cursed relic. His voice dropped into a grim whisper. “Nick… it’s a fucking dragon.”

Nick leaned closer with morbid curiosity, like he was about to uncover a crime scene. “Wait, actually? Let me see.” Charlie pulled the film back with a hiss, revealing red, inflamed skin and a rather detailed, rather enormous tattoo: a stylised dragon, all twisting wings and coiled serpentine form, inked in black and grey right above his knee, curling halfway up his thigh like it had plans to migrate north.

“Oh,” Nick said, blinking. “Oh wow. That’s… quite good actually.”

Charlie turned slowly toward him, betrayal blooming on his face. “Nick.”

“No, I mean it’s—look at the shading!” Nick leaned closer, his brows rising. “Like, genuinely impressive linework. The tail does this little loop—wait, what’s that text underneath?”

Charlie tugged the clingfilm further back and squinted. “Oh my god. It says ‘Queer Dragon.’”

Nick choked. “Excuse me?!”

“Queer. Dragon.” Charlie repeated, like saying it again would somehow change it. “In, like, medieval font. It looks like it was designed by the same bloke who makes pub menus for Dungeons & Dragons night.”

Nick burst out laughing, collapsing back onto the pillows. “Oh my god. This is incredible.”

“It is not incredible, it is a disaster,” Charlie barked, flailing as he pointed at his own leg. “Do I even like dragons? Have I ever expressed a single emotion about dragons in my entire life?”

Nick wiped his eyes. “You did edit that YA fantasy series with the hot fire-breathing prince—”

“That was work, Nicholas.”

Nick snorted. “Well. You’re a queer dragon now. It’s canon.”

Charlie groaned so loudly Chester whimpered at the foot of the bed.

“I feel like I’m trapped in one of those American movies about straight men being forced to confront the consequences of their own bachelor parties,” Charlie said, burying his face in his hands. “Where’s the tiger? Where’s the missing tooth? I swear to god if I find a baby in the wardrobe—”

Nick grinned. “So… Darcy is your Alan?”

“I’m going to kill them. That’s what I’m going to do.” Charlie rolled over and snatched his phone off the bedside table. “I’m calling them right now.”

The line rang for a few seconds before a long groan emerged from the other side. Darcy.

“Darcy. Wake the fuck up.” Charlie snapped.

“Ugh, why so rude? Wazzzzzup,” Darcy replied in their best impression of Scary Movie, voice raspy with sleep and crime.

“Darcy. Hush,” a sleepy voice mumbled in the background. Tara, most likely.

“What happened last night?” Charlie asked, eyes narrowing as he watched Nick sip his tea, still half-chuckling into the rim of the mug.

“Uhhh… dinner? Club?” Darcy offered unhelpfully.

“No. No. That cannot be all. You need to try harder. I woke up with a tattoo and no memory of consenting to mystical body art. What happened after the club?”

Darcy went quiet. A little too quiet.

“Darcy,” Charlie said, voice dangerously low. “Are you still there?”

“Okay, okay. We may have gone to a tattoo parlour.” Darcy finally confessed, voice sheepish.

Nick nearly dropped his mug.

There was a rustle from the phone speaker. Tara, more alert now, cut in with alarm. “Wait, what? Tattoo parlour?!”

Charlie groaned. “Darcy, how out of our minds were we?”

“Promise you won’t be mad?”

“I think we’ve passed the off-ramp to ‘mad’ and are firmly in the suburbs of ’murderous rage.’”

Darcy sighed. “Okay, look, someone gave me something at the club. Said it was just a little buzz, like liquid ecstasy or whatever. I might’ve accidentally swapped our drinks.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Charlie’s voice cracked. “Darcy. Did you drug me?!”

“It was unintentional! I swear! And like… it was mostly safe!”

“Mostly?!”

“Darcy,” Tara’s voice cut in again, this time sharp. “That’s incredibly dangerous. What the hell?”

“Okay yes I know it was stupid, I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh my god,” Tara muttered, then there was more shuffling. “Darcy. Turn around. If Charlie has a tattoo… you definitely do too.”

There was a brief scuffle, a gasp, and a burst of chaotic laughter.

“Oh my god it’s a wizard!” Tara cackled. “On your lower back thigh! It says ‘Queer Wizard.’ Darcy you absolute menace.”

Darcy giggled. “Okay, okay, in my defence—it is cute.”

Nick glanced over at Charlie, who looked like he was mourning a part of himself.

“Not to ruin your couple moment,” Charlie snapped, “but I have a giant queer dragon on my thigh. We got matching tattoos. While drugged. That’s not cute, Darcy. That’s a war crime.”

“Wait, matching?” Tara shrieked.

“Dragon and wizard. Queer ones. We’re a bloody fantasy novella.”

Nick, still recovering from his flu, tried to contain his laughter again, failing spectacularly.

“I swear to god I’m going to hex you with your own queer wizard tattoo,” Charlie said.

“Ouch!” Darcy yelped. “Tara! Why did you pinch me?”

“Because you drugged our friend and now you’re laughing!”

“I said I was sorry!”

Charlie threw himself back onto the pillows. “I’m deleting all my socials. I’m going into hiding. I’ll tell people it was henna. Temporary. An art school experiment.”

Nick raised a finger. “Or… what if me and Tara got tattoos too? Like matching ones that sort of… complete the weird queer fantasy quartet? You know. Even it out.”

Charlie sat up slowly, eyes narrowed. “You want to double down on this disaster?”

Tara paused on the line. “Wait, you’d actually get a tattoo, Nick?”

“Sure. Could be something small. Symbolic.”

“I dance in Swan Lake, Nick. I can’t show up to rehearsal with ‘Property of Queer Wizard’ inked on my clavicle.”

“It doesn’t have to be visible!” Nick insisted. “Like a tiny one. Something cute.”

Tara groaned. “I hate pain.”

“But you love me,” Darcy cooed.

Tara sighed dramatically. “Fine. But you owe me Nando’s afterwards. With extras.”

Charlie looked like he had fallen into an alternate universe.

So that’s how, just hours later on a Sunday evening, all four of them ended up at a tattoo parlour—Nick still pale but upright, Tara in sunglasses and moral crisis, Darcy humming to themselves like they hadn’t committed several crimes, and Charlie resigned to his fate, glowering at Darcy from across the room.

“I swear, I’m never partying with you again,” Charlie muttered as Darcy blew him a kiss.

That’s how Nick ended up with the crescent moon on his forearm. Tara, after much whining and clutching Nick’s hand, got a tiny flame tucked just behind her ear. Something soft. A little nod to Charlie and Darcy’s wild night.

As they all stood outside the parlour afterwards, the sun settling gently overhead, Nick exhaled slowly and looked at them—his disaster friends, his aching husband, the light bruise blooming around his own new ink.

“Still not sure if Darcy was Mr. Chow or Alan in this,” Nick murmured under his breath, voice barely louder than the wind. Now back in the present—just him, and the lingering memory—the only reply was the soft rustle of the flower bouquet nestled against the base of their shoes, petals shifting like they might whisper back.

As he’d said before, Charlie’s silence held gravity. Not absence, but pull. Like the moon. Quiet, constant, impossible to ignore.

That chaotic scene—ink-stained and half-remembered—had become one of those odd, luminous memories that lived on in the marrow. A strange, tender fragment of joy. Branded into the skin. Carved deeper into the heart.

Chapter Text

Nick was doing some light housework — emphasis on the light, though he’d convinced himself he was on a divine domestic mission. He did genuinely love the rhythm of it all: their house, their rooms, their dog, their garden, even their perpetually disgruntled wheelie bins. There was something sacred in the order. Holy, almost. Reverent.

And if he was being honest, this quiet efficiency was no accident — it had been a long road, trial by chemical fire, but he’d finally found some semblance of balance with his ADHD medication.

The first trial had been methylphenidate — Ritalin, the NHS starter pack for attention deficit wanderers. It worked, technically, in the sense that Nick could now hear the electric hum of his own bloodstream. His heart rate had spiked so violently that Charlie, lying on his chest one evening during a film, had lifted his head and asked—eyes wide—“Is that normal? Should we call someone?” The anxiety was equally operatic: sharp-edged and intrusive, like someone had installed a burglar alarm inside his ribcage.

Next came lisdexamfetamine — Elvanse, in local parlance, or Adderall’s posh British cousin. This one helped, at first. Nick could focus. On everything. Hyperfocus became his personal religion. He could spend an hour alphabetising their spice rack and then forget entirely that dinner was long due. It felt like a small miracle, until the side effects crept in like damp. He couldn’t sleep. His appetite dipped to zero. And the mood swings? Cinematic. Charlie had delicately referred to them as “emotional typhoons.”

Then there was a brief and entirely ill-advised flirtation with dexamphetamine — essentially Elvanse but with the safety belt removed. Within a week, Nick had the gnawing sense that he wasn’t just using the pills — he was courting them. The line between reliance and addiction blurred like ink in the rain. That was when he and Charlie looked each other square in the eye and said enough.

So: the non-stimulant route. The lesser-travelled, often-overlooked plan B.

Strattera — or atomoxetine — was first in line. Six out of ten. Decent focus, no crash, no dependency. But also: short temper, longer silences. Charlie noticed before Nick did.

Then came Qelbree — the new kid on the neurodivergent block. Still not widely prescribed in the UK, but Nick’s psychiatrist was progressive and unfazed by red tape. A few weeks in, and something had shifted. He could concentrate without vibrating. Moods levelled. Tasks stayed in his memory long enough to be completed. The only drawbacks were the occasional headache, nosebleeds that arrived like passive-aggressive letters, and a kind of low-level evening fatigue that might’ve been the meds—or might’ve just been signs of being in your early thirties. The jury was still deliberating.

And now here he was—having cleaned the kitchen, reorganised the spice rack alphabetically and by cuisine type (Charlie’s preference), pruned the lavender back into obedient shape, graded a small avalanche of Year Six essays, and drafted notes for his upcoming panel talk at the International Conference on Teacher Education and Educators — all before the clock had struck 1pm.

He sat at the dining table, staring out the window, unsure what to do next. That familiar hum of post-productivity paralysis. Should he polish the car? Clean the gutters? Repaint the fence? All perfectly logical ideas, none of which sparked any desire.

Then it struck him: Chester. Walk time.

Except—where was Chester?

Nick started in the back garden. Nothing. Sometimes the dog would lie belly-up in the sun like a sun-dried tomato in imaginary sunglasses soaking in the light like it owed him money. But not today.

Living room? No tomato.

Kitchen? Still no sign.

Upstairs? Bedroom? Absent.

Then he spotted Charlie’s office door closed. Gently, he leaned against it, listening. No voices. No typing. Probably not in a meeting. He knocked lightly.

“Charlie?” he murmured through the wood.

“Yes, darling,” came the reply—bright, chipper, with a lilt that made Nick’s stomach flutter stupidly.

He pushed the door open and was met with one of his favourite sights in the known universe.

Charlie. Curled up in Nick’s impossibly oversized hoodie—so comically large that the sleeves had declared independence—legs pulled up into his chest, UB-glasses perched snugly on his nose to fend off the screen-induced eye-strain. Chester lay beside him on the beanbag, snoring with the commitment of an old man on a train. The entire scene looked like a living postcard from a domestic utopia.

Nick could’ve cried from the sheer serenity of it.

Charlie’s hair had grown longer recently — past his ears now, verging on poetic dishevelment. It caught the sunlight in loose strands, just enough to give him an accidental halo. Nick marvelled at how someone could look so devastatingly beautiful while editing a sentence and absentmindedly chewing on a pen.

“Wassup?” Charlie asked with a lazy, dimpled smile — the kind of smile that could reroute rivers and alter weather systems. Nick often joked that if Charlie ever walked past a Greek statue, it would blush in envy.

He couldn’t even form a reply. Instead, he crossed the room in three fast strides, cradled Charlie’s face between his palms, and kissed him. Hard. Fierce. Like he was tethering himself to something ancient and holy.

Charlie responded without hesitation, parting his lips with that same soft certainty he always had — until oxygen became a necessity and they broke apart, breathless and blinking.

“Well,” Charlie panted, grinning — lips kiss-damp, breath short, pupils wide like a sky just before rain. “Not that I’m complaining, but what brought that on?”

Nick didn’t answer. Not in words. He just stood there, still breathless, still slightly dazed, staring at Charlie like he’d never seen him before — or like he’d been trying to memorise him for years and still hadn’t quite managed it.

Charlie tilted his head, those familiar dimples unfolding at the corners of his mouth like small, deliberate miracles.

God, those dimples. They were unfair. The softest weapons ever forged — twin sinkholes of mischief and warmth that had ruined Nick at sixteen and kept doing it, again and again, without fail. He was certain Charlie didn’t have a license for them, and if he did, Nick would petition for them to be revoked on the grounds of cruel and unusual emotional damage. And still, he’d break every law, upend entire governments, rewrite the physics of time if it meant he could look at them forever.

And then there were his eyes — those ridiculous, ancient eyes.

Not just blue. Not just beautiful. But deep, saltwater blue — a colour that didn’t exist in any paint set, a shade born from half-sunken Greek islands and moonlit tidepools. Looking into them was like slipping into the sea: gentle at first, then all-consuming. Every time Nick met his gaze, he found himself back in Cyprus, watching the sun soften the sky behind Aphrodite’s Rock. Back in Menorca, floating on salt and silence. Back in every body of water he’d ever loved, but deeper—more sacred—because Charlie was always there, just under the surface, waiting.

Nick swallowed hard, overwhelmed by the gravity of the moment. How is this my life? How is he real?

Charlie blinked up at him, slightly confused, slightly endeared. “Are you—” he began, but Nick cut him off with a breathless laugh.

“You have no idea,” Nick murmured, eyes still fixed on him. “What you do to me.”

“God, Nick—what got you so feral?” Charlie burst into laughter, his voice breaking into those soft, heart-splitting giggles that had always been Nick’s undoing. They came in short, breathy staccatos, like tiny bells rung too close to the chest, until—inevitably—those dimples appeared again.

Nick had just declared those things a public hazard. Banned by divine ordinance. Illegal under several articles of his personal emotional stability.

So naturally, he retaliated.

Attack. With a million kisses.

He lunged, full tilt, without mercy — an ambush of affection, a full-blown romantic assault. The kind of kiss attack that should come with warning sirens and a Geneva Convention clause. He kissed each dimple like he was stamping a seal onto treasure, one after the other, impossibly gentle and ridiculously fast. Then his lips found Charlie’s mouth—greedy, reverent, dizzying—before launching a scattershot offensive along his jawline: warm, slightly sloppy pecks like summer rain falling without rhythm, without pause.

Charlie let out a gasp between laughs, half protest, half delight. He squirmed under Nick’s weight—which, to be fair, was pressing most of itself onto his lap now—and tried to twist away, but Nick had turned into something wild and immovable.

“Nick—” Charlie choked out, voice caught between giggle and moan, “—I can’t breathe—you’re crushing me!”

Nick didn’t relent. He kissed him again, this time just beside his mouth, smug and slow, one hand braced beside Charlie’s head on the desk, the other slipping around his waist like it belonged there.

Charlie had collapsed backwards slightly, body curved into Nick’s chest, knees still up, hoodie rumpled and slipping off one shoulder. He looked up — lashes low, mouth red and grinning, breath all over the place — and Nick swore his heart stuttered.

There was something dangerous in the way Charlie blinked at him from below, pupils wide like he’d just swallowed starlight. Dishevelled. Gorgeous. Lethal.

That look should be regulated. That look should come with a license and a four-week waiting period.

A single breath passed between them. Then Nick exhaled, voice low, teasing, “You’re a national threat, you know that?”

Charlie raised a brow. “Me? You just launched a full-body kiss assault.”

“Yeah,” Nick muttered, already kissing the corner of his mouth again. “And I regret nothing.”

Charlie’s answering laugh was like light skipping over water — something easy and endless. He leaned up slightly, nose brushing Nick’s cheek.

“I’m going to write to Parliament,” Nick added solemnly, lips trailing to Charlie’s temple. “Petition for emergency legislation. Ban dimples. Confiscate seduction eyes. Detain all suspiciously pretty husbands.”

“Oh no,” Charlie giggled, threading his fingers into Nick’s hair. “Sounds serious.”

“It is,” Nick whispered. “You’re a weapon of mass distraction, and I’m the helpless civilian population.”

Charlie snorted. “You’re such a dork.”

“And yet, you married me.”

“Worst decision I ever made,” Charlie said, pulling him down into another kiss, slow and certain. “Best mistake of my life.”

“So, you loaf,” Charlie said, straightening up in his chair as Nick slowly rose from his crouch. “What did you actually come in here for?”

Nick flopped down onto Chester, who gave a small grunt as the beanbag shifted violently under the new weight. The dog blinked, ears perking, tail thudding once in greeting — already thrilled by Nick’s arrival, vibrating with the low-grade joy only dogs and certain types of devoted husbands could achieve.

“Well, I was looking for Chester,” Nick replied, ruffling the dog’s ears. “Thought I’d take him to the park, maybe chase some ducks, reflect on the meaning of life. But then I remembered I live with a walking nuclear detonation of a man and got distracted. Not sure I can leave the premises, actually. Dangerous levels of hotness detected.”

Charlie snorted. “As much as I’d love to rip all your clothes off and hump you like a deranged hamster, I’m writing,” he said matter-of-factly, shooting Nick a mischievous grin. “And today’s actually going… really well.”

Nick’s eyebrows lifted. “Wait. Writing? Charlie—are you writing a book?”

His tone shifted into pure excitement, the kind that mirrored Chester’s entire existence. Man and dog locked eyes for a brief moment — kindred spirits, both vibrating with delight.

“Uhm… yeah?” Charlie replied, suddenly sheepish, fingers tugging at the cuffs of Nick’s hoodie, oversized sleeves swallowed by fidgeting hands. A pink flush crept up from the collar and painted his cheeks, as if the very idea of being perceived as creative was personally mortifying.

Nick practically squealed. “My husband is writing a book. My husband is going to be a published author. This is incredible news.”

Charlie waved a hand dismissively. “Pfft. I mean… I’m just at the beginning. It’s not like—it’s not even that great yet. But I think there’s something there. Maybe.”

“You are literally a senior editor,” Nick said, his voice bordering on scandalised. “With years of industry experience. You edited that Booker Prize-winning novel last year—remember that little detail? I think you might just have a tiny clue what good writing looks like.”

Charlie groaned and dropped his head onto the back of the chair, his blush deepening. “Yes, but judging someone else’s polished manuscript is miles easier than starting from scratch. It’s like—I don’t know—being asked to build a house when you’re used to renovating flats. Everything’s mud and splinters and existential dread.”

Nick chuckled. “Sounds like writing to me.”

Charlie sighed, still fiddling with the fabric around his wrists. “Anyway. I didn’t even mean to start writing today, it just sort of happened. Got stuck on this idea and suddenly four hours passed.”

Nick’s eyes lit up. “So what’s it about then?”

Charlie hesitated, visibly battling an internal cringe before forcing the words out. “It’s about Poseidon and Pelops.”

Nick blinked. “Okay… I know Poseidon. Water guy. Beard. Big fork. Kind of hot? But also, weren’t all the Greek gods like, deeply problematic?”

Charlie gave him a wide-eyed look, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. Nick tilted his head, waiting — curious, patient, his full attention trained on Charlie like he’d just asked him to describe cloud formation or the plot of a dream.

“Who’s Pelops?” Nick asked gently, and Charlie could already feel the dam breaking.

Nick would sit through a three-hour PowerPoint on ancient myth if Charlie were the one narrating. He could talk about the etymology of the word ‘muesli’ and Nick would act like it was the TED Talk of the century.

Charlie took a breath. “So, Pelops is a mortal. Well, sort of. It’s a bit complicated. But Poseidon falls in love with him. In some versions, really in love. And then… well, a lot of things happen. Chariot races, murder, curses, betrayal. And a dinner party where someone serves their son in a stew. Standard Greek myth chaos.”

Nick raised both brows. “Okay, dark. But also sounds dramatic and sexy. Greek Game of Thrones?”

Charlie laughed, looking suddenly shy again. “Maybe. But I’m… I’m not just writing it as myth. I’m writing it like it’s real. Like they were real people. Trying to love each other inside a story that was never designed to let them survive.”

Nick was quiet for a moment.

Then he sat up straighter, expression softening into something almost reverent.

“That’s beautiful,” he said. “Seriously, Charlie. That’s—God. I’d read the hell out of that.”

Charlie looked at him like he couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re just saying that because you love me.”

“I do love you,” Nick said, reaching for his hand. “But I’m also not a liar. You’re the smartest, weirdest, most brilliant man I know. And if you want to write about Poseidon and Pelops falling in love while the world tries to tear them apart? Then I want to sit front row while you build that world.”

Chester let out a single, excited woof, tail wagging in approval.

Nick turned to the dog. “See? Even Chester agrees. You’ve got a bestseller on your hands.”

“So… any chance I could get a sneak peek?” Nick leaned forward like a man about to be handed state secrets.

“Uhm. Uhh…” Charlie blinked rapidly, fingers twitching at the keyboard. In his defence, he’d been writing, not speaking — and suddenly speaking felt like trying to stand after sitting cross-legged for too long. “Maybe after you get back from your walk with Chester?”

Nick’s eyes narrowed in mock suspicion but softened just as quickly. “Alright. You don’t have to show me anything you’re not ready to. I know how personal writing can be — it’s like leaving your diary open on the kitchen counter. But I’d love to support you, see a few works-in-progress. Cheer you on.” He reached across the desk to take Charlie’s hand, giving it a firm, grounding squeeze.

“It’s not that it’s personal in that way,” Charlie replied, smiling faintly. “I love them as characters, but I’m telling their story, not ours. I do want you to read it — just… only the polished bits. No rough drafts.” He returned the hand-squeeze, twice for emphasis.

“Fair enough. Good luck with your flow. That playlist you made is basically witchcraft for productivity.”

Charlie gave a crooked grin. “Okay, you great lumbering oaf, before I actually try to climb you like a tree, Chester looks like he’s five seconds from staging a canine revolt. Off you go. I’ll see you later.” He blew a kiss and theatrically spun his office chair—aiming for the dramatic turn-away—only to face the window instead, desk now to his left. “Ignore this. Symbolism.”

Nick let out a deep, unfiltered laugh, bent to kiss the crown of Charlie’s head, and headed off to get Chester ready for the park.

The park was pleasant in that brisk, early-spring way — the air cool enough to nip at his cheeks, but bright with sunlight that made the lake glitter. A few people wandered the paths, while the water played host to several duck families. Chester, half-blind and hard of hearing, was nonetheless a staunch enthusiast of chasing them. Not in a menacing way — far from it. Once, Nick had even caught a duckling hitching a ride on Chester’s back like some cowboy in a scruffy old western. Chester also had a habit of licking the ducks, which they clearly did not appreciate. Other dogs seemed vaguely horrified by it. Nick, however, adored their strange little creature.

He let Chester have his fun at the water’s edge, paws sinking into the mud, tail swishing like a metronome. Nick was content just watching him when he heard his name called from the left.

It was Jonah — average height, stocky build, permanent skater aesthetic, and today sporting his usual black beanie over messy blond hair. His goatee was neatly trimmed, as always. Beside him trotted Lady BarkBark, a toy poodle whose name never failed to amuse Nick, given she was always immaculately coiffed in a continental cut straight out of a dog show.

Nick rose from the bench, meeting Jonah halfway in a loose, mate-ish hug. They weren’t close-close, but there was an easy familiarity there — mostly thanks to Aaliyah, Jonah’s girlfriend and one of Nick’s colleagues at Gloria West. Aaliyah was maybe a year younger than him, sharp as a whip, and a legend when it came to fundraising. Honestly, she could probably sell snow to the Arctic.

“How’s it going?” Jonah asked, unclipping Lady BarkBark’s lead so she could join Chester’s mud-spattered chaos. The two dogs immediately darted off together, tails high.

“Not bad. House is doing well. School year’s much calmer since the change in management — not sure if Aaliyah’s mentioned, but before, it was all over the shop. One week overly liberal, the next, practically a dictatorship.”

Jonah chuckled. “Mate, I once had it out with the old head at a school fair. Kids loved it. My proudest moment.”

They both laughed, the sound carrying across the water. A moment passed before Nick asked, “How about you? Everything good?”

Jonah hesitated, fiddling with his beanie. “Yeah. Actually… we’re sort of… expecting?”

Nick blinked, letting the words settle. “Mate, that’s brilliant! Congratulations.” He clapped Jonah’s back with exaggerated enthusiasm. “You’re going to be a dad! How’s that feel?”

Jonah gave a crooked smile. “Like I’m about to crap myself, honestly. What if the kid gets my weird traits? There’s a reason for the beanie, you know — hairline’s already packing its bags. And I’m terrified of being a rubbish parent. Mine were.”

Nick’s expression softened. “Hey. You’ll be fine. Be real, be present — that’s what matters. And with Aaliyah? She’s a powerhouse. She wouldn’t let you drift for a second, even if you wanted to.”

That drew a proper smile. “Yeah. She’s… everything.”

“What d’you think you’re having?” Nick asked before realising the question was a bit old-fashioned — but too late to take it back.

“Whatever it is, I just hope they’re as cool as I am.” Jonah grinned.

Nick laughed, shaking his head. “Still, shame for the school when she goes on parental leave. Place might go broke without her.”

“Oh, for sure. Guess you’ll have to start selling more of your sex appeal. ‘Social Media Nick’ knows how to work the mums—married or not—with just a polo and khakis.”

“Oi!” Nick laughed. It was easy and light, a rare break from the week’s heavier moments.

They let the dogs play a little longer before Nick said, “We should grab a pint sometime — before you’re drowning in nappies. My shout.”

Jonah’s face lit up. “Deal. I’ll hold you to that.”

They parted with another quick, mate-ish hug, the dogs reluctantly called back from their duck diplomacy. Nick clipped Chester’s lead and started the slow walk home, the afternoon sun warm on the back of his neck.

Chester trotted along, damp and muddied, tail wagging lazily. By the time they reached their street, the light had shifted — softer now, stretching shadows across the pavement. Nick could already smell the faint trace of laundry detergent and Charlie’s tea brewing as he pushed open the front door.

“Oh, gotta catch those paws before you start Jackson Pollocking the carpet in a most ‘emotional’ shade of brown,” Nick quipped, brandishing a damp towel with the solemnity of an art conservator. Chester, thoroughly indulging in his unexpected paw massage, let out a contented sigh, as if the world’s troubles were momentarily massaged away.

With a swift flick, Nick unclipped Chester’s leash. The dog promptly flopped into the hallway, rolling about with the careless abandon of a creature impervious to decorum. After kicking off his shoes and lavishing Chester with a quick belly rub, Nick drifted toward the kitchen. There, his husband was anchored to the counter, nose buried deep in a tome of Greek mythology—the forgotten teacup beside him a testament to his complete absorption.

“Hi.” Nick’s hand curved around Charlie’s waist, fingers tracing an intimate, familiar path before pressing a gentle kiss to the nape of his shoulder. His head settled softly against Charlie’s upper back, just below the nape, a quiet weight full of tenderness. Charlie responded with a warm, approving hum, eyes fixed on the pages before him as Nick peeked over his shoulder with a scholar’s curiosity.

“How was your outing?” Charlie’s voice was a low murmur, words delivered without breaking the sacred communion with the book, which fluttered open beneath his deft fingers like a secret.

“Good. Jonah was there too—we caught up for a bit.” Nick’s tone was easy, casual, but tinged with that quiet satisfaction of sharing small moments.

“Jonah, Jonah…” Charlie mused, as if dredging a distant memory, “Ah, Aaliyah’s boyfriend?”

“The very one,” Nick smiled into the curve of Charlie’s neck. “And guess what?”

“What?” Charlie’s head tilted back slightly, nudging his forehead against Nick’s in a soft gesture of camaraderie.

“Aaliyah’s pregnant.”

There was a beat. Then Charlie’s voice, slightly breathless, stumbling through the surprise: “My—wow. Nick, I mean, that’s… good for them. They’re such a… solid couple.” His arms folded on the counter, one finger carefully bookmarking his place.

Nick’s arms remained securely wrapped around Charlie’s waist, his head resting sideways against the small hollow of his husband’s shoulder. “They’re like opposites—chill skater boy meets formidable business powerhouse. But somehow, it fits.”

Though Nick couldn’t see it, he felt Charlie’s smile deepen, subtle and genuine. “Aaliyah can be so intimidating, but God, the sheer wisdom she carries—unmatched.”

“I think they’ll be brilliant parents.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Nick’s curiosity nudged through the quiet. “So, more research?”

Charlie glanced over his shoulder, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Sort of. More like a refresher, but I’m trying to weave in some of the more… esoteric customs of ancient Greece.” He slid one hand over Nick’s, the other curling gently around his waist—a delicate, almost primal tether.

“What’s the most obscure thing you’ve uncovered?”

“Well, back then, tossing an apple at someone wasn’t just playful—it was a bona fide declaration of love.” Charlie traced a passage in the book, the edges of the page whispering under his fingertips. “The apple was sacred to Aphrodite. To lob one at someone basically meant, ‘I fancy you.’” He pointed to an excerpt where the protagonist throws an apple, only for it to be heartbreakingly trampled underfoot.

Nick chuckled, a low rumble thick with affection. “Charlie, if you start throwing apples at me…”

“You oaf!” Charlie spun to face him, finger wagging at Nick’s chest. “If anyone’s throwing apples, it’d be the rugby player.”

Their hands found each other, clasping gently at the small of each other’s backs, bodies pressed close beneath the muted, amber glow of the kitchen lights. The world outside their little haven was quiet, the fading dusk a soft veil over the city’s restless hum. Nick let out a soft breath, feeling the familiar warmth of Charlie’s presence like a tether grounding him in a moment that felt too fragile to break.

Charlie’s fingers twined with Nick’s, a small smile ghosting across his lips as he tilted his head just enough to catch Nick’s gaze. “You know, I’m glad you asked earlier about the book,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “I’ve been a bit… hesitant to show you much yet.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hesitant? You? Come on, Charlie. I know you’re excited about it.”

Charlie chuckled softly, a sound that melted into the quiet around them. “I am. But it’s still in the early stages—barely a dozen chapters finished, and they’re rough. Unpolished. Like a half-formed thought struggling to become something real.”

Nick squeezed his hand gently. “But it’s your story, isn’t it? I mean, you told me it’s about Poseidon and Pelops, that whole myth with the… complicated romance.”

Charlie nodded, a flicker of nervousness crossing his face. “Yeah. It’s our story—not ours, per se. Not like us—but the story I want to tell about them. It’s personal in a way, but also not. It’s ancient myth, sure, but I’m trying to breathe new life into it, bring out something raw and unexpected.”

Nick’s smile softened. “Sounds like something.”

Charlie hesitated for a beat, then nodded. “I think I’m ready to show you a bit. Just a small excerpt, mind—you’re not getting the polished, finished thing yet. It’s… messy, and I’m still finding the right words, but you asked, and I want to share.”

The warmth between them deepened, the quiet confidence in Charlie’s voice easing Nick’s anticipation. “Shall we?” Charlie asked, his eyes sparkling with that familiar mix of excitement and vulnerability.

Nick gave a small nod. “Lead the way.”

They stepped away from the counter, hands still entwined, and made their way upstairs to Charlie’s home office. The room was bathed in the soft glow of a single desk lamp, casting warm shadows across its neat, inviting space. Unlike the chaotic piles Nick usually found himself marking under, the desk was orderly—a book splayed open beside a neat pad of paper with notes carefully jotted down, while Charlie’s manuscript glowed softly on the computer screen. A small, resilient plant thrived in the corner, its delicate leaves reaching toward the light like a quiet testament to patience and growth.

Charlie eased onto Nick’s lap, settling in with an effortless intimacy that made the room feel even smaller, more cocooned from the outside world. Nick adjusted slightly, arms wrapping gently around Charlie’s waist, the soft hum of their shared breath mingling in the quiet air. The closeness was comforting, grounding, as Nick’s eyes traced the words on the screen—raw and vulnerable.

Charlie’s fingers brushed lightly against Nick’s side, a silent encouragement, and Nick leaned in just enough to catch the faint smile playing on Charlie’s lips before he returned his focus to the manuscript, savoring the slow unveiling of this new piece of him.

Present-day Nick sighed deeply, voice low and reverent. “Charlie, my god, you were meant to write.”

His eyes traced the elegant curves of the words, lips moving silently at first as he absorbed the poetry and pain folded within the lines. The room felt impossibly still around them, the soft hum of the evening settling in, Chester’s gentle breathing somewhere distant. Nick’s hand found Charlie’s waist again, fingers curling lightly, as if anchoring himself in this fragile moment.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Nick cleared his voice and began to read aloud, slow and deliberate, each word tasting heavy on his tongue.

“To be loved by Poseidon is to taste the salt of the sea upon my lips, an intoxicating poison that lingers long after his hands have left my skin. His touch is both the tempest and the calm—the crashing waves that threaten to drown me, and the secret harbor where my trembling flesh finds refuge. When he looks at me, I am undone; his gaze devours with the hunger of the eternal, fierce and unrelenting, as if I were the only fragment of the world worth claiming. His eyes—deep, endless, storm-dark—sear into me like lightning splitting the night, illuminating the tremulous ache of my youth, my mortality, the burning knowing that I am both his and forever out of reach.”

Nick let the words hang in the air between them for a heartbeat longer than felt comfortable. His voice softened to a whisper as he pressed a small kiss to Charlie’s temple, feeling the steady beat of his husband’s heart beneath his palm. The glow from the screen cast shadows that danced across Charlie’s face, etching the lines of thought and quiet pride Nick had never seen so vividly before.

He swallowed hard, his voice catching just once before he continued, “Our love is whispered in the shadows of Olympus, forbidden and fierce, a sacred transgression written in salt and fire. I am the trembling boy beneath the god’s relentless desire, a flame licking at a vast and merciless ocean. He is both my torment and salvation—the immortal consuming the mortal, the god who carves his name into my flesh with every stolen breath. To love Poseidon is to be eternally caught between rapture and ruin, sacred and profane; a divine obsession that ravages as much as it redeems. I am lost in the tidal pull of his devotion, a fleeting star swallowed by the endless night, destined to be forgotten by the world—yet etched forever in the cold, relentless heart of a god.”

The room was silent save for the faint catch of Nick’s breath. He blinked rapidly, wiping a tear that had betrayed him from the curve of his cheek. This was absurdly beautiful—painfully raw and impossible to turn away from. It reframed everything Nick thought he knew about Charlie, revealing a fierce, wild, and different kind of vulnerability beneath his exterior.

God, if Charlie ever thought of him with even a fraction of that searing, desperate longing—if in the quiet corners of his mind, Nick was met with even a whisper of that fierce hunger, that trembling ache of belonging and torment—Nick knew he would die the happiest man alive.

To imagine being held in Charlie’s thoughts like that—fierce, reckless, and utterly consuming—was a kind of salvation Nick hadn’t dared to hope for. A beautiful, cruel tether binding them beyond time, beyond reason, beyond everything Nick could grasp.

And yet, even the faintest spark of that divine obsession, that all-consuming fire, would be enough. Enough to drown willingly in the tidal pull of love’s sweetest agony—to be broken and remade again, stitched together with trembling threads of devotion.

Because to be loved like that—by Charlie, of all people—would be to taste eternity on the edge of ruin. To live forever in the brightest ache of a love both impossible and infinite.

And in that surrender—shattered, undone, utterly bare—Nick would find a joy so profound it would echo through every fiber of his being. A joy that breaks you open only to stitch you whole again, and again.

For to be held in Charlie’s gaze, even just a fraction as fiercely as Poseidon was held in Pelops’, would be to touch a kind of forever no mortal could imagine—and Nick would be home.

Chapter Text

“The days where your mind wasn’t clouded became so rare.”

Nick rose slowly from the damp press of the grass, the chill clinging stubbornly to the seat of his jeans. Above him, the heavy clouds shifted like restless beasts, uncertain whether to break into rain or hold their burden a little longer. His face was caught between warring storms—fury etched into the hard set of his jaw, grief softening the edges until they threatened to collapse entirely.

It was the kind of anger that scalded from the inside out, born not from offence but from helplessness; the kind of sorrow that hollowed the ribs and left the heart raw. He dragged in a breath, then let out a jagged sound—half shout, half groan—that seemed to tear from somewhere deep and wounded. A sharp sniff followed, betraying the tremor in his composure.

“If I had known,” he rasped, pacing now, every step a restless, aching beat. “If I had known how cruel the world could be to you—how small and vicious people can make themselves—I would have thrown my body between you and every sharp edge. I would have blinded you to their malice, wrapped you so tightly in my arms that the evil would never find you.” His voice wavered, catching on a sob he didn’t want to name. “God, Char… what I wouldn’t have done to grant you peace. To make you as untouched, as untouchable, as the quiet drift of the universe beyond time.”

Charlie’s gaze—silent, steady—seemed to pity him. Nick felt it like salt in an open wound. “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, voice thick. “I don’t deserve it. You’re the one who deserved better. So much better.”

The book’s release had been seismic. Not just a ripple in a niche readership, but a force that carved its way through conversations and headlines. Charles Francis Spring-Nelson had laboured over it for nearly a year and a half, stitching every word with the precision of someone who knew this story was more than a myth—it was an unearthing.

It had found a home with his own publishing house, a stroke of fortune that Charlie had initially met with suspicion. He feared the whispers of nepotism more than the silence of indifference. But his boss—who had read it in one unbroken sitting—had assured him the truth: it was simply that good.

The editors, however, had flinched. Not at the craftsmanship, but at the unapologetic homoeroticism threaded through every page, and the way Pelops—written as a youth—was placed within the charged, dangerous intimacy of Poseidon’s grasp. It was a story many would find uncomfortable, even incendiary. There were mutterings of scholarly backlash, though Charlie suspected that most of the outrage would be rooted in the same old prejudice—the need to sanitise queer history until it was unrecognisable.

Charlie, stubborn to the bone, refused to yield. He defended the work with a quiet ferocity, reminding them that myth had never been tame, and that this—this raw, unflinching love—was as much history as it was fiction. In the end, the house conceded. The book would be released exactly as he intended.

And so it was published:

The book gained traction far faster than anyone could have anticipated—almost overnight it became a lightning rod within the Greek mythology community.

Initially, the response split sharply along ideological lines. On one side were the progressive, often academically inclined mythologists and queer theorists—those well-versed in the subtle homoerotic threads woven throughout ancient Greek narratives. Nick quietly dubbed them the “liberal vanguard.” They embraced Salt in the Veins not only for its lyrical storytelling but also for its unapologetic reclamation of a marginalized queer history, long overlooked or glossed over in mainstream myth retellings. To them, the novel’s themes of divine obsession, power, and forbidden love were not only culturally and historically resonant but profoundly necessary—an overdue illumination of myth’s shadowed queer undercurrents.

Opposing them was a more conservative, vociferous contingent. Among them were staunch traditionalists and outright homophobes who rejected the very premise of a same-sex relationship between a god and a mortal, dismissing it as both anachronistic and morally objectionable. They accused Charlie of reckless revisionism, fabricating and eroticizing relationships that, in their view, were either nonexistent or inappropriate to portray. The novel was branded scandalous, even dangerous, with critics decrying its “indecency” and its challenge to the sacred image of classical myth.

The controversy only escalated as the book burst beyond niche circles into the wider reading community—particularly on social media platforms like BookTok, where literary debates sparked fierce, polarized discussions. Here too, the response was divided. There was a sizable cohort of homoerotic literature enthusiasts who, though perhaps unfamiliar with Greek mythology, found themselves captivated by the electric intensity of the Poseidon-Pelops narrative. The novel’s raw exploration of desire, power imbalance, and forbidden longing—imbued with a “spicy,” scandalous allure—made it resonate far beyond its traditional audience.

But there were also more measured, yet critical voices. Some readers raised valid concerns about the novel’s portrayal of trauma and power dynamics, questioning whether it risked romanticizing exploitation under the guise of mythic storytelling. Though the narrative was careful to encode criticism of Poseidon’s domineering obsession in subtle subtext rather than overt condemnation, this ambiguity unsettled many. Was the novel illuminating toxic power imbalances, or inadvertently glorifying them? The debate was fierce and unresolved.

Finally, a curious wave of non-readers swelled around the book—drawn by the controversy itself rather than the content. These readers, spurred on by headlines and heated online discourse, picked up the novel simply to see what the fuss was about. Whether scandalized, intrigued, or horrified, they ensured Salt in the Veins remained at the cultural forefront—its provocative narrative sparking dialogue on queerness, mythology, and the ethics of storytelling alike.

The momentum gathered far faster than Charlie had anticipated during his press tour—an unusual feat in itself, given that few debut authors embarked on such exhaustive promotional runs. Yet the book’s rapid rise within the Greek mythology community sparked a flurry of invitations, beginning with venues across the UK, then stretching to Ireland, the US, Canada, Germany, and Spain. A somewhat impromptu three-week press circuit was arranged by the publishing house, much to Charlie’s chagrin—it was a solo affair, meaning Nick couldn’t accompany him except for the closest event at their local library.

The UK appearances were tentative, their tone measured and somewhat reserved. Charlie found himself doing a handful of readings, three podcast spots, a panel discussion, and a couple of video interviews. The questions followed a familiar script: “What inspired you to write this?” “How do you view queerness in historical literature?” “Can you describe your writing process?” and the like. Nothing too confrontational, just enough to gently probe the layers beneath the surface.

By the time he reached Ireland, the atmosphere shifted subtly. Though still cautious, the influx of BookTok reviews signaled a growing divide in reception. The nuanced themes of the novel were starting to blur in translation among a less specialized audience, many of whom gravitated more toward the romantic elements than the historical or mythological complexities.

Nick caught Charlie on a video call one evening while he was holed up in a Dublin hotel after a press conference.

“Nick, a journalist actually asked me how I managed to write the sex scenes so well,” Charlie groaned, muffling his face against a pillow.

“Well, did you tell them it’s drawn from personal experience?” Nick teased, a sly grin spreading across his face.

“Nick… you—shut up,” Charlie replied, the faintest blush rising beneath his button-up, coloring his ears and cheeks.

Nick laughed, the sound light and warm.

“It’s wild, honestly. I thought the discourse from the Greek mythology circles was intense, but now the regular readers are jumping in. My social media’s been absolutely blowing up—my Twitter followers hit 36,000 overnight, and my phone was buzzing non-stop before I had to mute notifications,” Charlie said nervously, tugging at his shirt sleeve and averting his eyes.

Nick recognized the anxiety beneath the bravado. The phenomenon was overwhelming, even from the sidelines. “Char, it’s a lot, but it’ll settle down. You’ll have a solid fanbase when the dust clears.”

Nick exhaled into the crisp autumn air, recalling that call with a bittersweet pang. I wish what I said was true, he thought.

“I guess you’re right, but the questions and some of the more ridiculous accusations are only getting louder,” Charlie admitted softly.

“Well, for whatever it’s worth, when it’s over, I’ll be here waiting for you—and Chester will, too,” Nick said, a gentle smile touching his lips.

Charlie returned the smile, comforted by the thought. “That means a lot. I honestly can’t remember the last time we spent more than a week apart. Are we ridiculously domestic and clingy, or what?” he joked.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way. But I’m proud to see your career taking off,” Nick replied warmly.

Charlie went on, chatting about his upcoming flight and his excitement for the US leg of the tour, his words flowing with a mixture of nerves and anticipation.

He spent about a week in America, hopping between cities mostly on the east and west coasts, with a final stop in Texas.

Somewhere in the middle of that journey, the tone of media attention shifted. The buzz from niche mythology circles spilled over into the mainstream, with news outlets requesting last-minute interviews and live broadcasts. Charlie tackled two such interviews, supported closely by the publisher’s PR team. The first was relaxed, albeit tinged with nerves, but Charlie looked undeniably radiant—nervous, sure, but also effortlessly magnetic on camera.

The second interview quickly spiraled into a nightmare—a calculated ambush disguised as a routine conversation. What began as a seemingly standard sit-down with a host took a sudden, chilling turn when they unexpectedly brought on two so-called scholars to debate Charlie live on air. The air shifted palpably; Charlie’s initial composure faltered as he realized the setup was designed to undermine him.

As the discussion grew increasingly hostile, one of the scholars delivered a stinging rebuke that cut deeper than any critique so far: “Your arguments betray a level of ignorance that is frankly astonishing—even for someone claiming academic insight.” The words hung heavy in the studio, laced with contempt and intellectual disdain. Charlie sat frozen for a heartbeat, shock and hurt flickering across his face before he abruptly stood and stormed off the set, tears welling unbidden in his eyes.

Moments later, outside the sterile glare of the news building, Charlie called his husband. It was nearly three in the morning for Nick.

“Charlie?” Nick murmured, voice thick with sleep and concern.

On the other end, only ragged sniffles and labored breathing answered.

“Char?” Nick repeated, softer now, coaxing.

“Nick… they were… so cruel,” Charlie’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Who was cruel? What happened?” Nick’s mind sharpened instantly, heart tightening.

“These scholars… I thought it would be a straightforward interview. I mean, nothing’s ever normal on TV, but this—it was a trap. They started debating me aggressively, picking apart everything, twisting my words.” Charlie’s voice trembled, the vividness of the memory raw and aching.

“Jesus Christ, Char—”

“And then one of them—he said I was… what was it? ‘Academically bankrupt and shockingly uninformed’—right there on live television,” Charlie confessed, embarrassment and anger mingling in his tone. “I just… I couldn’t stay. I walked off. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

“Darling, you did the right thing. It’s absolutely horrific they treated you like that—the scholars, the network—it’s unforgivable,” Nick reassured gently, his voice steady, trying to anchor Charlie through the storm.

“I think I’m done with TV appearances,” Charlie admitted quietly, vulnerability bleeding through the words.

“I understand completely,” Nick replied softly, wrapping the silence between them in unwavering support.

The remainder of the U.S. tour passed with relative calm—peppered with oddball questions here and there, but overall the readings were well-received, and the university visits offered moments of genuine connection, or so Nick was told over calls and messages. Yet, nothing could have prepared them for the storm that awaited Charlie’s final stop: Houston, Texas.

From the moment Charlie stepped onto the stage, an unsettling undercurrent rippled through the crowd. The air was taut, heavy with a simmering hostility that prickled at the edges of his composure. The first few questions were answered without incident, but the fragile equilibrium shattered when, abruptly, a voice from the audience cut through the polite discourse like a serrated blade.

“You’re a pedophile for sexualising minors!” the accusation rang out, sharp and unyielding.

The word “pedophile” hung in the room, charged with an accusatory thunderbolt. Charlie froze, his mind scrambling to articulate the cultural and historical context—that in ancient Greece, such relationships occupied a different, if complicated, social space. But the words tangled in his throat; before he could fully explain, chaos erupted.

Another audience member leapt to his feet, directing a furious tirade at the first disruptor. “You’re nothing but a homophobic, ignorant dumbass!” they spat, igniting a verbal melee.

Before long, a third voice rose, condemning Charlie outright as a sinner, their tone thick with moral outrage. The room dissolved into cacophony—shouts, jeers, and accusations volleyed like weapons. The tension became a living thing, ravenous and uncontrollable, consuming reason and civility alike.

Charlie stood at the epicenter, powerless and overwhelmed, watching the scene devolve into an unhinged trainwreck blazing out of control.

He left the auditorium soon after, hoping to find some respite—only to be greeted outside by a small but vehement protest. Roughly thirty people brandished signs scrawled with his name and slogans like “Protect Our Children—Stop the Indoctrination” and “No More Lies in History”. A large poster bore a defaced photo of Charlie, his eyes crudely crossed out with thick black ink.

The sight was chilling—a grotesque mirror of the fury inside. It was a reminder of how far the discourse had spiraled, how personal it had become.

Later, Charlie confided in Nick over a quiet phone call, his voice heavy with exhaustion and something deeper—an unmistakable edge of fear. “This has blown wildly out of proportion,” he admitted, the tightness in his tone betraying the weight on his chest. “I didn’t expect it to get this… hostile. The protest outside—it felt like being hunted. People shouting, signs with my face defaced… I honestly didn’t feel safe. For the first time, I truly regretted agreeing to this tour.”

There was a long pause before Nick’s calm, steady voice cut through the silence. “Char, I know it’s terrifying. But maybe you can see the rest of the tour as a fresh start. Germany’s a different scene—hopefully more thoughtful, less… this.”

Charlie sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “You’re right. I want to believe that. I really do. Maybe Germany will be miles better. I need it to be.”

Nick smiled softly, his warmth evident even across the distance. “You’ll have me there for support, and Chester too. We’ll get through this—one step at a time.”

Charlie’s voice softened, a flicker of hope threading through his weariness. “Thanks, Nick. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The discourse surrounding Salt in the Veins spiraled further into chaos. While countless voices still rallied in Charlie’s defense, offering unwavering support and praise, it was the cacophony of negativity that drowned out reason. The echo chamber of vitriol grew deafening—articles, reviews, and news headlines volleyed back and forth, many penned not out of genuine critique but for a fleeting moment of social media clout. Some pieces struck with cruel precision, delivering low blows that felt less about literary analysis and more about personal attack.

Increasingly, the focus shifted from the work of Charles Francis S.-N., the author, to Charlie himself—the man behind the words. Private details once safely hidden began leaking online as trolls and homophobic zealots scraped together whatever they could find. Nick, recognizing the toxicity, made his Instagram account private, but the damage had been done. Personal information was exposed, and the harassment quickly escalated.

A small group of online malcontents—gremlins, as Nick bitterly called them—dug relentlessly, unearthing painful truths and private struggles. They fixated on Charlie’s body, his history with anorexia, turning intimate battles into public fodder for cruel mockery and hateful commentary. Some of it was merely ignorant bigotry; other remarks were viciously targeted and deeply personal. Death threats eventually arrived, cold and anonymous, shattering any remaining sense of safety.

Nick felt powerless, caught between wanting to protect Charlie and the overwhelming onslaught of negativity. He supported Charlie as fiercely as he could, but it was clear his husband was overwhelmed. Despite strong advice from their publisher to avoid the media frenzy and ignore the headlines, Charlie found himself drawn back again and again—unable to resist the magnetic pull of the swirling chaos. It was maddening. All this turmoil, all this vitriol—over a book, a homoerotic retelling of Poseidon and Pelops, a story rooted in myth yet charged with modern significance.

In contrast, Germany offered a brief respite. Charlie found a more receptive and understanding audience there, one that appreciated the nuances of his work without immediately resorting to judgment or outrage. But that fragile peace shattered abruptly.

It happened in Berlin, a city renowned for its political vibrancy and diversity, yet also a hotbed for ideological conflict. After a reading, as Charlie stepped outside the venue, someone—faceless and hostile—threw a splash of red paint across him, shouting obscenities and branding him “demonic.” The attack was not just physical but symbolic—a vivid manifestation of the hatred that had shadowed Charlie throughout the tour.

The incident was the final straw. Charlie’s already poor mental defenses crumbled. Nick listened helplessly over the phone as his husband’s voice broke, a mixture of despair and fury that nearly drowned out everything else in Nick’s mind. It was a furious storm of emotion—helplessness, rage, heartbreak—that left Nick almost mute.

Within hours, Charlie had booked the next flight home, eager to escape the nightmare that had spiraled far beyond any reasonable expectation. The harrowing experience was a painful reminder of just how volatile the world could be—even in the face of a story about gods and boys, love and power, told through the lens of ancient myth and modern truth.

““After that, you weren’t the same,” Nick admitted quietly later. “I didn’t recognize the post-publication Charlie anymore. It was hard.

Charlie spent the first few days back home in a state Nick could barely reconcile with the man he knew. Officially, he was still a senior editor, but the publishing house had decided—after the incident in Berlin went viral—that it would be best for him to take a break. So he did. He drifted through the days like a ghost, sobbing in fits, breaking down without warning, and muttering regrets about ever releasing the book. Nick, determined to keep him from completely disappearing into that despair, took sick leave for the first two days after Charlie’s return, refusing to leave his side.

The worst moments came in silence—when Charlie’s body gave out against him, trembling, and Nick had nothing in his arsenal but the feel of his own heartbeat against Charlie’s cheek and the slow circles he traced along his spine. He could feel the tension wound tight in him, every sob rattling through his bones. It was like holding someone mid-fall, unable to catch them fully but unwilling to let go.

“I should’ve listened to my editors,” Charlie muttered into his chest, voice muffled and raw. “I should’ve known better—as a senior editor, I embarrassed myself. I embarrassed you.”

Nick tightened his hold, the words sparking a pang so deep it made his own throat ache. “Hey—no. None of that. The book is brilliant, Charlie. No one could’ve anticipated a reaction like this. You can’t control public opinion, and honestly? I think it’s ahead of its time. That’s not something to be ashamed of.”

Charlie gave a short, breathless laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “Ahead of its time? Tell that to the people calling for my head.”

“I would, if I thought they’d listen,” Nick said gently, brushing damp hair back from Charlie’s forehead. “But right now, all that matters is you. You’re home. You’re safe. Maybe it’s time to take a step back from the noise—at least for a while.”

Charlie tilted his head up, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, lashes wet and clumped together. “I just want this all to stop.”

Nick’s chest tightened painfully. “I wish I could make it stop for you,” he murmured, pressing his lips briefly to Charlie’s temple. “If I could take it on myself, I would. But maybe—maybe letting go of social media for a bit could help. Give the storm time to pass.”

“I think that’s best,” Charlie whispered, sinking back into him. “Maybe it will pass. Eventually.”

It was difficult in ways Nick hadn’t quite been prepared for. At Gloria West, the other teachers often inquired about Charlie—well-meaning, gentle questions slipped into conversations in the staffroom, over lukewarm coffee or the smell of dry-erase markers. How’s Charlie doing? Is he alright? Must be a lot for him right now. They meant it with kindness, but every time it landed in Nick’s chest like a small stone. It turned his mind into a split screen—half on the lesson plans and pupils in front of him, half on the fragile, pale figure waiting at home. He was supposed to be shaping the young minds of the next generation, yet it felt more like he was desperately trying to reshape his own thoughts, bending them away from worst-case scenarios.

Family and friends worried, too. The first messages after Salt in the Veins released had been full of excitement and high praise—congratulations, proud exclamations, even teary phone calls. But as the weeks went on, the tone shifted. The texts became gentler, tentative: Is Charlie doing okay? Have you been managing alright? Does he want company? They even had Tori come and stay for a few days, her presence both a help and a reminder of just how bad things had become.

The worst of it all was the media. It was everywhere—on newsstands outside the Tube station, on glossy magazines stacked by the till, in pop-up ads Nick couldn’t seem to avoid. Salt in the Veins plastered across headlines in bold type, whether with glowing praise or blistering condemnation, made no difference. Both felt like an invasion, both a reminder that Charlie’s words were no longer his own, that the book now lived in the mouths and opinions of strangers.

And then—like some dark shadow from the past—the most insidious thing of all came crawling back. Charlie’s anorexia. Nick had noticed the signs almost immediately after Charlie came home, though at first he said nothing, hoping it was a passing reaction to stress. But the pattern became impossible to ignore. Charlie might nibble at some breakfast, often just enough to appease Nick, but the day’s worry, criticism, and emotional exhaustion usually ended with him untouched at dinner, retreating further into himself.

Nick’s concern sharpened into something closer to fear. His husband’s skin had taken on a pallor that no amount of warm lighting could disguise. His movements grew slower, smaller—less of the animated, expressive Charlie, more of a shadow conserving what little energy he had left. Nick knew the signs. He knew it was about control—about reclaiming something, anything, when the rest of the world had spiralled beyond reach. But knowing didn’t make it any less devastating.

One evening, he couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“I think you should start seeing Geoff again,” Nick said gently, trying to keep his voice even, to sound like he was making a suggestion, not issuing an alarm.

Charlie didn’t even turn to look at him. “Mhm.” It was automatic, distracted—his gaze fixed somewhere out in the middle distance, as though he was watching a life that wasn’t his.

“Char,” Nick said, moving to sit beside him. He took Charlie’s hand, rubbing his thumb across the cold knuckles. “Listen to me. I think it’s best you book an appointment.”

“Nick, I’m fine.” Hollow. Almost rehearsed.

Nick squeezed his hand. “I think we both know that’s not true. And that’s okay. But I don’t want you to do this alone.”

There was a pause—long enough that Nick’s chest began to ache—before Charlie finally nodded. “You’re right. I will.”

And he did. Slowly, tentatively, Charlie began speaking to Geoff again. Nick could see the difference, even if it was subtle. Some days, Charlie came home looking a little lighter—not happy exactly, but a shade closer to himself, as though the clouds had thinned enough to let in a sliver of sun. Other days were harder. There were stretches where he simply curled on the sofa, Chester’s heavy head in his lap, staring at the wall as though trying to remember how to feel connected to the world.

Nick cherished the rare days when Charlie woke up in a good mood—days when he laughed over coffee, came home from work with the faintest spring in his step, and spent the evening tangled up with Nick on the sofa. They’d talk about nothing and everything, share quiet kisses, and for a few hours, it felt like the world outside couldn’t touch them.

One evening in particular stood out. The flat was bathed in that golden hour light that made even the scuffed skirting boards look romantic. Charlie was on the sofa in his oldest hoodie, legs curled beneath him, Chester snoring between them. The air smelled faintly of the tomato soup Nick had made for dinner. They watched something half-forgotten on TV, not because it was interesting but because the noise filled the spaces they didn’t feel the need to fill with words. Charlie leaned into Nick’s shoulder, the weight warm and real, and Nick felt the subtle rise and fall of his breathing.

In that moment, there was no press, no headlines, no questions to answer—just the two of them in their living room, suspended in a pocket of time that felt too fragile to breathe on. The radiator hummed faintly. Chester’s slow, heavy breaths were the only other sound. Charlie’s head rested against Nick’s shoulder, the strands of his hair brushing Nick’s jaw in a way that made him ache with the simplicity of it. His weight was warm and solid, but there was still something about it—something in the way Charlie leaned, as if the act itself took more energy than he’d admit—that made Nick want to wrap him in every blanket in the flat and never let him move again.

Nick watched the soft flicker of the television spill across Charlie’s face, catching on the curve of his cheekbone, making his eyelashes tremble with each blink. His profile was so familiar—so his—that it made Nick’s chest tighten, a kind of quiet panic lodged beneath the ribs. Because he knew these moments were rare. Not just rare, but temporary. They came like brief respites between storms, and they never announced how long they planned to stay.

He found himself memorising everything: the faint tang of tomato soup still in the air, the creak of the old sofa under their combined weight, the way Charlie’s hand had somehow found its way into the loose fabric of Nick’s shirt as if to anchor himself there. Nick tried not to think about the days when Charlie wouldn’t lean like this, when he would curl into himself instead, unreachable. Tried not to think about how easily a single headline or comment could undo weeks of slow, patient rebuilding.

But even as he told himself to stay in the moment, dread threaded through the warmth. It was a quiet kind of dread, the kind you can live alongside, like a shadow at the edge of vision. He wanted—needed—to believe they could stretch this stillness into something lasting. That if he held Charlie tightly enough, if he loved him fiercely enough, the rest of the world couldn’t break through. But the truth—unspoken and heavy—was that they couldn’t stay here forever. Tomorrow could take it all back.

Charlie shifted slightly, his hand curling tighter against Nick’s side, and Nick pressed a kiss into his hair. It was the smallest thing, but it felt like making a promise he didn’t know if he could keep. He didn’t whisper anything; words would have made the moment clumsy, too sharp. Instead, he let his fingers trace idle circles on Charlie’s arm, memorising the warmth beneath his skin, the steady heartbeat beneath the quiet.

The storms would come again—Nick knew that. But right now, in this golden-lit stillness, with Charlie here and breathing against him, it didn’t matter. This was worth protecting. This was worth everything.

Chapter Text

The freesias and lilies sat between Nick and Charlie like quiet chaperones, their petals spilling colour into the air as if determined to interrupt any lingering gloom. The freesias in particular carried themselves with a kind of smug fragrance, a perfume that drifted lazily across the small space between them until it lodged itself in Nick’s nose. Every inhale pulled him somewhere else entirely—another time, another garden. Another version of them.

Yellow freesias. Charlie’s favourite. Favourite colour, favourite flower. Nick had planted some for him last summer, in the midst of a brief but ferocious hyperfocus on “becoming a flower guy.” He’d mangled more than a few unfortunate specimens—dahlia stalks snapped like brittle pencils, roses scorched by misplaced zeal—but the freesias and lilies had made it through. He’d been oddly proud of that. Good, caring, attentive husband core.

Now, months later, the blooms had followed them into this small patch of late summer air. They sat together on a worn wooden bench, its surface smoothed by sun and strangers’ weight. Charlie was pressed back against Nick’s chest, fitting into the space beneath his chin like he’d been made for it. They breathed in sync, letting the gentle rustle of leaves wash through them, as though the trees were whispering old secrets to anyone who cared enough to listen.

Silence wasn’t rare between them, but it wasn’t always easy. There were words clinging in the air like damp clothes on a line, unsaid but heavy. Sometimes it felt as if the wind snatched them before they had a chance to be spoken, scattering them somewhere beyond reach. Nick had his arms wrapped around Charlie—he’d been craving that physical tether lately more than he’d admit. Not clingy, no, just a man who occasionally experienced “Velcro moments.” And honestly—who could blame him?

It had been a strange couple of weeks. The kind that kept Nick busy but never distracted. He painted the garden fence three times in pursuit of a shade that dried differently each time, tended to Chester’s quirks, and lost himself in lesson planning—but none of it touched the knot at the centre of his chest. None of it really aimed at the thing he was avoiding.

Now, with Charlie leaning into him, the knot tugged again. He wanted to say something—anything—but he didn’t want to rupture the stillness. Charlie’s face looked soft, unguarded, and Nick wasn’t sure if he’d be disturbing Charlie’s peace or his own by speaking.

“Charlie?” Nick asked it like a question to the air, or to the leaves above.

“Mh.” A warm, wordless sound drifted back, almost like the hum of a kettle before it boils.

Nick had half-expected a groan, something teasing and mildly put out—not because Charlie was irritable, but because Nick’s insecurities had been staging an all-out mutiny lately.

“How are you feeling?” His voice was gentle, casual on the surface, though the question carried a weight that could easily knock the wind out of someone if they let it.

“Honestly? It’s been tough… but it’s not terrible.” Then, adopting a cartoonish American southern drawl: “Not my first rodeo, after all.”

Nick snorted, a short, unguarded sound that felt like it rattled something loose inside his ribs. A breath followed, deep and unexpected, as though a weight had slipped off his lungs for a moment.

“Hey, I love you.” The words came out quiet, close to Charlie’s ear, softened by the space between heartbeats.

“Gay.” Charlie’s voice was dry as driftwood. Nick couldn’t see it, but he could feel the eye-roll.

Nick poked his side. “Uh, bi, actually.”

A small huff of laughter rose from Charlie as he shifted closer, and Nick found himself holding back the hundred other things he wanted to say. Maybe it wasn’t the time. Maybe it never would be, unless the moment decided for them.

“So, what’s been happening on the outside?” Charlie’s tone shifted—light, playful. “Any survivors left, Sergeant?”

“Bad news—we lost them all,” Nick answered with an equally terrible attempt at drama.

“Nooooo,” Charlie groaned, collapsing sideways until his head landed in Nick’s lap in a mock death scene. Nick, never one to waste an opportunity, leaned down to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“Well, in reality… Lucile and Sarah are still co-parenting our—” Nick frowned. “God-siblings? That sounds weird. What are they? Nephew and niece? Probably more likely since Lucile is my god-sister. Neef.”

Charlie cracked up. “Neef? Nick, what?”

“Yeah, like gender-neutral between nephew and niece. Neef.” Nick was completely earnest.

“I love you and the English language, but not this.”

“Rude. Anyway, she’s been thinking about getting into teaching, so we’ve had more contact.” Nick’s gaze drifted briefly to the freesias, fingers absent-mindedly tracing their stems in Charlie’s hair.

“Oh—Elle’s big Fall-Winter collection is coming up. She said she’s getting grey hairs from stress. We’re all ageing, apparently.” He groaned at the thought, though it was easier knowing Charlie would age alongside him—gracefully, unfairly, like a fine wine, the finest of wines.

“Tao got shortlisted for an Oscar, which is still ridiculous. Who knew goats screaming at swans could be cinema?” They both laughed.

“Tara and Darcy are still on their whirlwind backpacking trip—India, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam—all in three weeks, which is beyond insane.” He mimed his head exploding. “They’re heading to Australia next. Oi, we’re chuckin’ a barbie this arvo, mate!” His accent was atrocious, and Charlie’s head bumped against his thigh in response.

“I guess lad talk knows no borders,” Charlie murmured.

“Oi.”

“Point, case, and close.”

“Well, speaking of lads, your lad Isaac was on a podcast episode with some internet guy called Aled, I think? There’s a clip going around that’s everywhere right now.”

“Oh—Aaliyah’s kid almost walked the other day! She literally ran into my classroom first thing with a video. They’re also trying gender-neutral parenting, but in a non–sad-beige way, which is honestly impressive considering society’s war on colour. What happened to fun?” Nick threw his hands up in mock despair before gently cradling Charlie’s face again, absently toying with his curls.

The air was steeped in stillness, the kind that seemed to carry its own kind of hush—like the world had decided, for this hour at least, to tiptoe. The sunlight spilled across the grass in slow, lazy sheets, warm but not oppressive, and the breeze moved as though it had nowhere better to be. In the middle of it all sat Nick, cross-legged, with Charlie’s head resting in his lap as though it had always belonged there. His fingers moved without thought, combing through those familiar curls in slow, idle spirals. Each one seemed to catch the light differently, strands of deep brown and soft gold shifting with the rhythm of the day.

Nick kept his gaze on him, committing the curve of his cheekbone and the softened set of his jaw to memory, as if the image might slip away if he blinked too long. There was a rare unguardedness in Charlie’s expression—eyes half-lidded, lips parted ever so slightly, the kind of peace you could almost mistake for sleep. It made Nick’s chest ache in a quiet way, a mix of gratitude and longing. The world was still full of noise and deadlines and chaos, but here, now, all of that felt impossibly far away, like it had been put in another room with the door firmly shut.

Somewhere nearby, a bird called—a single note, bright and delicate—and the sound seemed to hang in the air, as if unsure whether to disturb them. Nick felt it in his bones, that rare gift of stillness, as though time itself had stalled just to give them this sliver of something untouched. The garden’s edges blurred into something dreamlike, the way things do in old photographs where the focus is soft, and the only thing sharp, the only thing real, was Charlie’s face tilted toward the sun.

He thought of how many nights he’d lain awake in bed, worrying about things he couldn’t fix in the moment—about Charlie, about work, about the relentless churn of everything—but right now, all of that was suspended. It was as if some unseen hand had pressed pause on the whole messy film of their lives, letting this one scene play on a loop. Nick’s fingers stayed in Charlie’s hair, not out of habit but from a kind of reverence. If he could have bottled this exact feeling, he would have—just to take a sip of it on the harder days.

Nick didn’t need to speak, and Charlie didn’t need to answer. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was full, layered with every unspoken thing they both already knew. It was the kind of silence you could fall into and find yourself carried, the way you might float down a slow-moving river. The breeze caught again, just enough to shift a curl across Charlie’s forehead, and Nick smoothed it back, his thumb brushing against warm skin. The gesture was small, almost nothing—but in this place, in this light, it felt like everything.

A soft melody drifted through the sterile air, barely audible over the quiet hum of the ward:

“Visiting hours are over, please proceed towards the exit.”

The calm, impersonal voice sliced through Nick’s fragile bubble like a jagged blade, wrenching him violently from the fragile serenity that had cradled him moments before.

For a heartbeat, Nick felt as if he’d been yanked from the comforting embrace of a warm ocean only to be cast onto jagged rocks. The garden’s quiet solace—the way Charlie’s head had rested softly against his lap, his curls slipping through Nick’s fingers like silk—faded into a distant dream. The harsh fluorescent lights stabbed at his eyes. The faint antiseptic scent hung in the air, cold and clinical, so far removed from the fresh, rustling leaves and sun-warmed earth he’d just been immersed in.

Nick blinked, forcing himself back to the present. The weight of Charlie’s fragile frame pressed gently into him as they rose together, a silent anchor in the midst of chaos. He pulled Charlie into a tight embrace, lips brushing against the warmth of his temple—a small, intimate act of defiance against the world outside these walls.

“I wish you could stay,” Charlie murmured, his voice a fragile whisper that barely filled the space between them.

“I wish I could too,” Nick replied, voice thick with unspoken things. “But this is for you, love. I’ll keep coming, no matter what, until you’re back where you belong.” He squeezed Charlie’s hands in his own, grounding them both. “I’m proud of you, Charlie. So proud.”

A shadow passed over Charlie’s face, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I hope I can be proud of myself soon, too.”

Nick swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “You will. Before you know it, you’ll be out of here, back in our bed—back home with our farting Chester causing mayhem.”

A soft laugh escaped Charlie’s lips, fragile but genuine. “Okay, I think you actually need to leave before they drag you out.”

Nick struck a mock heroic pose, flexing his arms. “They’ll have to try. I’m not going down without a fight for my husband!”

“You dork.”

“Your dork.”

Hand in hand, they made their slow way to the exit. Charlie’s fingers lingered reluctantly in Nick’s, the unspoken hesitation hanging between them as the reception desk came into view. When they finally parted, Nick cradled Charlie’s face, pressing a kiss to his lips—soft but full of meaning.

A kiss that said, See you soon.
A kiss that said, I miss you.
A kiss that said, I’m so proud of you.

As Nick stepped through the sliding doors, the letters above the entrance burned into his mind:

The memory clawed its way back unbidden—standing here years ago, a teenager, watching Charlie be swallowed by similar walls for the first time. The helplessness, the heartbreak. The endless ache of not knowing if the storm would ever pass.

Now, as an adult, the weight felt just as suffocating. He longed to curl up beside his mother’s comforting presence, to let the tears come freely. But the luxury of childhood comfort was gone. Instead, he had work to call in sick from, obligations that could wait but never truly leave him.

He thought back to the weeks when it had all become too much for Charlie—the escalating torment of anorexia clawing at his body, the relentless grip of OCD tightening like invisible chains, and the self-harm that Nick was too terrified to confront fully.

It had become marginally manageable when Charlie began seeing Geoff again. Slowly, painfully, the chaos found small footholds of control—the meal plan strictly followed, the obsessive rituals channeled into healthier coping mechanisms. The dark clouds didn’t disappear, but the storm lessened in intensity. The media frenzy, relentless as ever, had at least ceased to penetrate his husband’s fragile sanctuary thanks to their social media blackout.

Yet the world outside continued its watchful gaze, with some moments kind and others cruel. Charlie was beginning to be recognized again around their local park, thanks to his readings at the library. Friendly smiles, gentle nods, but also shadows lurking.

One afternoon had started with promise. Charlie was strolling the park path, leisurely tossing a ball for Chester under a sky washed vivid with summer light. Nick was out in the field, watching from a distance, the faint scent of earth and grass mingling with the comforting sound of Charlie’s quiet laughter.

Suddenly, a harsh collision shattered the stillness of the park, the ball tumbling from Charlie’s grasp as he stumbled back.

“Oh, sorry,” Charlie said quietly, trying to steady his breathing, the faintest tremor in his voice betraying his unease.

“No, I’m sorry,” came a low, sneering voice dripping with venom. The stranger loomed over him, every inch the embodiment of aggressive contempt—broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, and radiating a hostile bravado. “Sorry about that bloody book of yours.”

Charlie’s breath hitched. The words struck like shards of ice, seeping through his skin and freezing the warmth from his cheeks.

“What’s wrong with my book?” Charlie’s voice was barely above a whisper, fragile yet defiant.

The man’s lips curled into a cruel smirk. “Disgusting, that’s what. As a gay man, I can’t stand the way you romanticise that—that—pedophilia nonsense. Poseidon and Pelops? You’re glorifying abuse, making it seem like something to swoon over. You should be ashamed, not paraded around like some hero of twisted fantasies.”

Charlie’s hands clenched, knuckles white. “It’s mythology. It’s historically accurate. And it’s about complicated relationships, power, and trauma—not an endorsement.”

“Yeah, well it sounds like you’re just trying to excuse the inexcusable. People like you give us all a bad name,” the stranger spat, stepping dangerously close, the empty park amplifying the tension like a powder keg ready to blow.

Nick’s chest tightened with a mix of fury and fear as he closed the distance between them. “Back off. Now.” His voice was low but steel-hard, a warning laced with desperate protectiveness.

The man turned his glare on Nick, sizing him up with the predatory calculation of someone who relishes confrontation. “And who are you? His boyfriend? The mouthy little dork defending this trash?”

“I’m the one who’s going to kick your arse if you don’t back off.” Nick planted himself firmly between Charlie and the stranger, fists clenched but controlled. “If you’ve got a problem with the book, take it elsewhere. But you don’t get to disrespect him or his work.”

For a heart-stopping moment, the stranger’s jaw twitched, his breath coming faster as if he was deciding whether to escalate this into a fight. The silence hung thick and heavy, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves. Then, with a bitter curse, he spat on the ground and stalked away, the echo of his footsteps fading but the sting of his words lingering like poison.

Charlie sagged against the bench, pale and trembling. His breath hitched again, this time in a ragged sob he couldn’t quite hold back. The sharp edges of the insult had pierced deeper than Nick had ever seen before, chipping away at the fragile fortress Charlie had built around himself.

Nick sat beside him immediately, wrapping an arm around his trembling shoulders. “Hey, I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Charlie’s head lolled against Nick’s chest, his body wracked with silent sobs. The lightness of the afternoon had been shattered, replaced by a crushing weight that settled deep in his bones.

The words weren’t just hateful—they were a direct assault on his identity, his work, the very parts of himself he had poured into that book. The struggle to hold himself together felt monumental, and Nick could feel the tremors of Charlie’s pain beneath his fingers.

But they didn’t. Not really. Instead, everything began to unravel like a thread pulled too hard from a worn sweater. They clung to each other, desperate to hold on, but the world around them was fraying—unreal, unstable, slipping through their fingers. The fragile peace shattered again and again.

The final blow came from a source neither expected, yet perhaps should have: Jane Spring. Infamous in the Spring household for her talent in making things worse, but this time—this time—she had crossed a line that felt irrevocable.

Charlie had been avoiding her calls, dodging her texts, barricading himself in silence and busyness. But one evening, that barrier crumbled. Jane stood impatiently outside their door, knocking sharply, refusing to ring the bell. It was a deliberate act, a demand for confrontation.

Charlie, startled and unsettled by her sudden presence, rose from the couch to open the door. Nick, uncertain and wary, simply stood back, leaning against the edge of a table, bracing himself for what was to come.

The door creaked open, hurried footsteps echoed into the room. Voices — muffled, strained — carried over from the hallway.

“Why haven’t you been answering my calls, Charlie? That’s not acceptable,” Jane’s voice was sharp, edged with frustration and something colder beneath it.

“I told you I’m busy, Mom. And honestly, you treating me like a child in my thirties is beyond unacceptable,” Charlie shot back, his own anger simmering beneath the surface.

Jane’s voice tightened, “Someone has to. You look awful.”

“Thanks for that,” Charlie muttered bitterly, stepping fully into the room, Jane almost on his heels. She fixed her gaze on Nick next, as if interrogating him.

“Nick, how has he been? Really?” Her tone was falsely gentle but Nick felt the accusation laced between the words.

“What the fuck?” Charlie exploded, cutting through the thin veneer of civility. “I’m right here. You seriously think you can treat Nick like your secret fucking informant?”

“Charlie! Language!” Jane snapped, but the tension only grew thicker.

“Oh, for God’s sake—” Charlie groaned, burying his face in his hands, overwhelmed.

“At least Nick would tell me the truth. You act like everything’s fine, but the news, the headlines… your face plastered everywhere. Charlie, I told you this book was a mistake. A terrible mistake.”

If Nick were honest, and sometimes he was brutally so with himself, things were not fine. Not even close.

“Mom—” Charlie tried to cut in, but Jane wasn’t done.

“No. Charlie. That book ruined us. It defamed our family name.”

“The book is not the problem. The media is!” Charlie snapped, voice cracking with frustration and pain.

“Oh, so now it’s the media’s fault? You wrote this. You chose to publish it. The editors warned you, remember?”

“Jane, no one could have predicted this outcome,” Nick interjected, trying to defuse the growing storm.

“Writing about pedophilia, Jesus Christ, Charlie. What were you thinking?”

“For fuck’s sake, Mom, it’s not about pedophilia. Did you even read my book? Or did you just swallow the fear-mongering headlines like a fucking parrot?”

Jane fell silent for a moment, the room thick with tension.

“Makes me feel so loved, y’know?” Charlie spat the words like acid, voice breaking.

Jane’s tone softened, deceptively so. “Charlie, as a mother, I do love you. But I’m deeply concerned. We’ve always loved you. We tried to be patient, kind… but now look how fragile you are.”

“I’m not fragile!” Charlie’s voice cracked, his composure fracturing.

“Yes—fragile,” Jane pressed on mercilessly. “So much so that Oliver was recently diagnosed with PTSD, and we didn’t know how to tell you.”

The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Nick’s heart pounded in his ears like a drum, threatening to drown out everything else.

“Why didn’t you—Mom… how long has he been diagnosed?” Charlie’s voice was small, vulnerable, stripped of bravado.

“Two years,” Jane admitted coldly.

“That’s not ‘recently’…and you didn’t tell me?”

Jane’s face twisted with accusation. “Charlie, how could we tell you when you were practically the reason for his PTSD? How could we?”

Charlie blinked, stunned, disbelief thick in his throat. “How… no, that can’t be. What?”

“Oliver’s PTSD comes from that night,” Jane spat out, voice sharp and cold, slicing through the fragile air like a knife. “The night Tori and he found you—unresponsive on the floor, bleeding out.”

The words hit like a bomb detonating in a sealed room. Silence slammed down hard, thick and suffocating, crushing every breath. Nick’s ears throbbed, a relentless ringing that drowned out everything else. The ground beneath him seemed to shift, unsteady and treacherous.

Jane’s voice dropped lower, venom lacing each word. “Oliver couldn’t bear to see his own brother like that. As a child, he tried to ignore—emotionally, physically. He avoided the bathroom, the room where it happened. Not consciously, no, but it haunted him so deeply that even the smallest reminder would send him spiraling. He pretended not to notice, tried to shove it all away.”

Her words trembled with a cruel finality. “But it didn’t leave him. It followed him into adulthood now Charlie—nightmares that ripped him from sleep, anxiety gnawing at his bones, cold withdrawals into himself so deep no one could reach him.”

Nick felt the air thicken, pressing down on his chest like a weight, the raw pain of it settling into his bones. The truth was unbearable—a family shattered, scarred in ways they could barely admit.

“Jane,” Nick said, voice low but iron-strong, “I think you should leave.”

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

Jane hesitated only a moment before retreating, leaving an echo of cold bitterness in her wake.

Charlie sank onto the couch, utterly broken, the fight drained from him. The weight of her words, and the raw wounds they reopened, crushed him to the floor of despair.

Nick sat beside him, silent but steadfast. The fight had shattered something deep inside Charlie — a fracture from which recovery felt impossible in that moment.

In the days that followed, Charlie’s descent quickened. The fragile grip on sanity slipped, spiraling ever downward until they both knew what had to be done. Inpatient care was no longer an option to fear — it was a necessity, a lifeline.

Nick stood outside the sliding doors of the unit, the cold wind tugging at his jumper, but it barely registered against the storm still raging inside him. The memory clung to his skin like a second, harsher layer—Jane’s sharp words slicing through the fragile silence, the bitter accusations like venom dripping from her lips, the look of shattered defeat in Charlie’s eyes that haunted him still. Every detail was etched deep, raw and unforgiving.

The antiseptic smell wafting faintly from the open doors behind him felt surreal, sterile—a cruel contrast to the chaos in his chest. He could almost hear the echoes of that night: the slam of the front door, the strained voices rising and falling like waves crashing against a rocky shore, the cold finality in Jane’s parting steps.

His breath came out in slow, visible clouds, mingling with the quiet hum of the hospital night. No one else was around. The world felt suspended—like the moment was holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

Nick’s fingers clenched into fists at his sides, nails pressing into his palms. He swallowed the lump lodged deep in his throat, tasting the metallic bitterness of helplessness. Yet beneath it all was a stubborn ember of resolve, glowing faint but steady, refusing to be snuffed out.

He took a slow step forward, then another, pacing just beyond the automatic doors as if the ground beneath him might give way. He wanted to scream, to cry, to shake the world until it made sense again—but instead, he just stood there, heavy with grief and fierce love, with a weight that felt too much for one person to carry alone.

Charlie wasn’t broken. He was fighting. And Nick, no matter how exhausted or raw he felt, would fight right beside him. Every step, every breath, every moment.

He looked up at the dim glow of the unit’s sign, flickering softly in the night, and whispered to the quiet air, “We’ll get through this. Somehow. Together.”

Turning away slowly, Nick felt the cold bite of the evening settle around him like a shroud. But beneath the darkness, somewhere deep in the storm, there was still a flicker of something stronger: hope.

The fight was far from over. But so long as they faced it together, Nick knew they will survive.

Chapter Text

Nick felt his skin drawn tight, as though the air itself had shrunk around him. Above, a plane carved a white streak across the sky. He squinted up at it, listening to the faint hum that lingered even after it passed, drifting into the silence that hung steady over the garden. The quiet was not empty, though—it was filled with the bristling of warm autumn leaves, the restless sigh of wind, the occasional birdcall, the distant hum of traffic, and, most of all, Charlie’s silence.

Nick had to fight the ache to reach for him again, to press his hand into Charlie’s and tether himself to that familiar warmth. But he held back. The last time he’d tried, Charlie had pulled away—not cruelly, not even consciously perhaps, but enough that Nick felt the sting of discomfort and guilt in the gesture.

The plane overhead became something more in Nick’s mind: freedom, possibility, assumption. It tugged at him with all the promise of faraway places and lighter hearts. He smiled faintly at the thought, as he often did when a new memory of Charlie came to him. A private smile, meant for no one but himself.

“The day you were released,” Nick began softly, voice hitching with a half-laugh, half-sob, “well—I don’t even know if ‘released’ is the right word. Sent back home, I suppose. To our home. God—” he huffed in disbelief, almost sniffing, “the things I felt that day… I was like every emotion in existence rolled into one body. A human kaleidoscope, if that makes sense.”

It hadn’t been an easy morning. Not for him, not for Charlie. Nick knew Charlie carried his own tight coil of nerves beneath the happiness of leaving, but Nick had tried to bury his own avalanche of panic beneath smiles and routines, not wanting to pile it onto Charlie’s fragile relief.

He’d woken much earlier than his alarm, thrashing through shallow sleep, his body alternately burning beneath the blankets and shivering in the air above them. Even Chester had groaned in irritation at his endless tossing. Nick finally gave up, rising long before the first light cracked open the horizon.

He tried to work out in the shed, hoping sweat and strain would quiet his mind. But the shed wasn’t neutral ground anymore—it was sacred, a small temple of labour and love that Charlie had poured into him after their long-ago fight. Every plank, every nail, every corner of that space reminded Nick of reconciliation and devotion. He grew emotional just standing inside, his thoughts snagging like threads on all they had been through.

Through the window he’d caught Chester bounding about, chasing phantoms only dogs could see, before collapsing into zoomies across the lawn. Nick wondered if his anxious energy had rubbed off on their dog, a transference of restlessness. But then he softened, because their dog—their Chester—was the kind of thought that warmed him from the inside out. Charlie hadn’t seen him in weeks. Chester, too, had grown quietly sorrowful. Nick noticed the patient way he sat by the door around the time Charlie usually came home, waiting, ears pricked for footsteps that never arrived. He’d found him curled on the crumpled shirt Charlie had left behind the night before he’d gone away, and Nick, throat thick, had laid it gently on Chester’s bed. From that day on, the dog hardly touched his own blanket—only that shirt, as though guarding the scent of the missing piece of their family.

Nick couldn’t wait to watch them reunite.

God—he couldn’t wait to see Charlie.

He tried to stick to his usual pre-work routine: Breakfast. Walk Chester. Shower. Get dressed. Car.

What he actually managed was closer to: Breakfast. Think about Charlie’s smile. Walk Chester. Think about Charlie and Chester together. Shower. Think about Charlie and his sinful desires. Get dressed. Think about Charlie in Nick’s hoodies. Car.

He was fifteen minutes late for work.

But even in the classroom, he may as well have been replaced with a brick wall. His mind wandered endlessly to the moment that awaited him. A half-day felt like a cruel joke—why hadn’t time itself agreed to bend to his desperation? By the time noon came, he was halfway to bolting before the final bell had even stopped ringing.

His colleagues, the few who knew, had been gentle. Imogen had stopped by his room three separate times in that short span, worried by the strange mixture he carried: jittering anxiety and glowing anticipation, as though he were simultaneously unraveling and burning with joy. They weren’t wrong to be concerned.

By the time he sprinted out to his car, his heart was practically vibrating against his ribs. He picked up Tara on the way—she had insisted on coming, though not without reluctance. Tara had been a lifeline in the worst weeks, flying back from her travels just to sit with him, cooking dinner at his table, filling the empty space Charlie had left behind with her steady friendship. He hadn’t wanted her to feel like she was intruding on his reunion, but he also couldn’t imagine not having her there. She knew him, knew his terror as well as his love. And perhaps, he thought, the universe had meant it this way—her own errands had pulled her to the same city. Fate, or something close.

The drive was filled with light chatter, easy enough to keep the nerves from boiling over. Still, Nick could feel anxiety scratching at the back of his skull, a gnawing reminder that joy could be fragile. He reminded himself—Charlie had gone inpatient for healing, for recovery. This was good. This was progress.

As the clinic finally rose into view, Nick felt his breath catch. The building stood clean and sharp against the sky, solid yet inscrutable, as if it were a sphinx about to ask him a riddle. His stomach flipped.

Tara, beside him, let out a quiet cough meant to be teasing. “So… it wouldn’t be wrong to say you’re excited? You’re practically buzzing.”

Nick barked a nervous laugh. “Hope you didn’t notice, but the steering wheel’s drenched. Sweaty palms of doom.”

She looped her arm briefly around his waist, squeezing once as they both stared at the doors. The gesture steadied him, for just a moment.

“Go on,” she said gently. “Tell them you’re here. Otherwise, we’ll be standing outside forever.”

“Oh. Right.” His realisation was so earnest that both of them dissolved into laughter, the kind that loosened his chest and made breathing easier.

Nick was still laughing, still buzzing with nerves and barely contained joy, when he stepped up to the reception desk. His pulse beat in his throat like a second heartbeat, his palms still damp with anticipation. He barely had time to steady himself before the air shifted, as though the room itself had opened to make way—

And then Charlie came.

God, did he come.

Charlie’s smile could have split the world in two and stitched it together again. Dimples carved so deep they looked chiselled by divine hands; the kind of dimples that would have made the old Greek gods hold festivals in his honour, bonfires lit across Olympus for the sheer privilege of witnessing them. His face was no longer the fragile pallor Nick had memorised in sterile hospital light—colour had returned, a soft glow beneath his skin. And those eyes, deep and blue as a summer sea, no longer dulled but brimming with life, with soul, with the unmistakable glint of him. Nick swore he caught a spark there—tiny, stubborn, defiant—that nearly made him lose his breath. His curls, slightly unruly, only crowned him further, as if imperfection itself bent into perfection on Charlie.

It was almost unfair, the way he looked.

Nick didn’t hesitate. He crossed the distance in a rush, closing the last aching weeks into nothing. His arms wrapped around Charlie and didn’t let go—couldn’t let go. It was a hug that felt carved from eternity, as though time itself stilled to accommodate them. Nick buried his face in Charlie’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent beneath the clinical air, and his chest ached with the force of it. He held him tight enough to say everything words had failed to carry.

Charlie’s hands settled low around Nick’s waist, anchoring him, grounding him. For a heartbeat Nick wondered if he’d imagined the weight, if it was too fragile to be real, but then Charlie squeezed back—firm, certain, alive.

“I missed you,” Nick murmured, voice cracking against the fabric of Charlie’s shirt. It was raw, unpolished, stripped bare.

“I missed you too”

And Nick almost broke at the sound of it.

The suitcase was forgotten, abandoned by Charlie’s feet. Nick snatched it up without thinking, his other hand instinctively lacing through Charlie’s, leading him toward the doors, out into the light.

Tara was waiting, her expression softened into something warm and unguarded. She immediately folded Charlie into a hug of her own, one brimming with empathy and affection.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said, her voice low, earnest.

“You too,” Charlie returned, pulling back with the faintest of smiles. Then, ever himself, he added, “Though I’ll admit, I’m surprised the Queer Wizard didn’t make an appearance.”

Tara laughed, the sound easy and familiar. “Well, it was sort of impromptu. I wouldn’t have come at all if the stars hadn’t aligned. I had to be in the city today anyway, and when Nick asked, it felt like the universe nudged me straight here. So—” she spread her hands in a pair of mock-jazz hands—“ta-da.”

Charlie chuckled, the sound loosening something tight in Nick’s chest.

“But don’t worry,” Tara added, patting his shoulder gently. “Nick’s dropping me nearby. Then it’s all yours—long overdue one-on-one time.”

The ride was filled with Tara’s chatter about her travels with Darcy across Asia and Australia, keeping the air bright and buoyant, the heaviness at bay. Nick kept stealing glances at Charlie—at the soft curve of his mouth, the quiet way his hand rested against the window, as though reacquainting himself with the world beyond walls.

When they finally said goodbye and Tara slipped out of the car, the door clicking shut behind her, silence bloomed inside. It wasn’t empty—it was charged, electric, brimming with unsaid things that crowded the space between them.

Charlie turned first, lips curving into the smallest, most devastating smile. “Hi.”

Nick’s throat tightened, but he found his voice, soft and reverent. “Hi.”

And in that simple word, the universe seemed to fold down to just them again.

The ride home was pure bliss. They didn’t need to speak much, weren’t ready to force words into the silence. It wasn’t emptiness—it was a silence that held them both, warm and steady, the kind of silence that said we’re here, together, and that’s enough.

When they stepped through the front door, Chester was the first to break it. Their dog practically launched himself at Charlie, tail whipping like a storm. Charlie dropped to his knees at once, arms open, tears springing fast and unguarded as Chester pressed against him, whining with joy. Nick stood in the doorway, heart twisting with something almost unbearable. For a moment, he could’ve sworn even Chester’s dark eyes shimmered wetly, as though the dog too had carried weeks of heartache. Watching them together—Charlie’s laugh through tears, Chester pawing clumsily at his chest—Nick thought: This is what I missed. This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is home.

The day unfolded with a kind of quiet radiance. They collapsed together on the sofa, half-tangled under a blanket, conversations ebbing and flowing between laughter and gentle confessions. There was no fear of fragility now, no hesitation—they spoke with a newfound confidence, as though surviving the absence had soldered something stronger between them.

Dinner came with its own kind of intimacy. Charlie’s new meal plan lay neatly on the counter, but somehow it all became romantic in spite of its structure. They flirted across the table, eyes lingering, hands brushing, laughter breaking between bites. It felt like slipping back into an old rhythm, like replaying a first date with the weight of years and love behind it.

By the time they reached the bedroom, Nick assumed Charlie would be exhausted. Instead, he was startled when a gentle kiss turned hungry, turned desperate. Their mouths pressed harder, breaths uneven, as Charlie pushed him back onto the bed. The kiss deepened, heat curling between them, until Charlie swung a leg over to straddle him. The brush of his body against Nick’s lap made Nick’s breath hitch.

“Nick,” Charlie said, low and certain, “make love to me.”

It came like a command, but one laced with vulnerability.

Nick froze for a moment, heart thrumming. He didn’t want to hurt him—not because Charlie was fragile, because he wasn’t, but because the release was still so recent. Nick’s hands lingered at his waist, searching his eyes.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

Charlie’s gaze was unwavering. “I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. Nick—” a smile ghosted his lips, both fierce and tender—“fuck me.”

And that was all it took.

Nick kissed him again, harder this time, the world outside their room falling away. What followed was passion, was fire and gentleness entwined, a rediscovery of touch and trust. It wasn’t just sex—it was reunion, reclamation, a vow remade in skin and breath and love.

And when at last they lay tangled together in the dark, hearts still racing, Nick thought he could never again doubt the strength of what they were. Every inch of him hummed with it, as though their love had stitched itself into his very bloodstream, undeniable and permanent.

Charlie’s head rested against his chest, curls damp with sweat, breath steadying in time with Nick’s heartbeat. Nick stared at the ceiling, but he wasn’t really seeing it—he was seeing the arc of their years, the fights and reconciliations, the laughter spilling in kitchens, the quiet nights when silence had been enough, the days when it hadn’t been. He was seeing the boy he’d fallen for, the man beside him now, the home they had carved out of storms.

Charlie murmured something half-asleep, a sound too soft to catch, but Nick knew it didn’t matter what the words were. He tightened his arms around him, pressing a kiss into his hair. For the first time in weeks, his body felt light—like some unbearable weight had slid away in the dark.

If the gods themselves had been watching, Nick thought, they would’ve raised their goblets to this moment, called it holy. And maybe it was. Not in marble temples or thunderbolts, but here, in the simple glory of two men who had broken and healed and chosen each other again and again.

Nick closed his eyes. His last waking thought was not fear, or what-if, or even relief. It was gratitude, fierce and blinding, for the man breathing steady against him, for the love that had survived the fracture, for the fact that tomorrow they would wake up together and begin again.

And in that gratitude, he drifted into sleep—smiling.

Chapter Text

Nick was kneeling again in front of Charlie, long since ignoring the dirt stains creeping across his trousers and the dull ache in his knees. The earth could claim all the fabric it wanted; none of it mattered in the glow of this memory. The warmth of it had settled deep into his bones, erasing discomfort, dissolving time. He caught Charlie’s gaze and—miracle of miracles—held it. Those eyes, deep as tides, betrayed nothing obvious. Neutral, unreadable. But was Nick imagining it, or did the tiniest, most rebellious curl of a smirk tug at the corner of Charlie’s mouth?

And yet all of it was swallowed up by the silence, the vast, cavernous silence that Charlie offered him now. Not one word uttered, not even a single syllable to bridge the gulf. Nick tried to joke, his voice soft but deliberately light, like tossing a pebble into still water.

“You know,” he said, with a huff that teetered between teasing and tenderness, “you may be silent now, but I remember those weeks after that day. Even your silences then were loud. Charged. Now I think I’ve just gone and upset you.”

His lips quirked, but his chest tightened. Because those weeks—God, those weeks—had been spun from gold. Blissful, sacred, almost fragile in their beauty. He let himself slip back into them, into the small and dazzling details.

The first week was quiet, cautious, a return to rhythms so tender it almost hurt. Charlie had been off work, granted time to breathe, while Nick had powered through all his school marking just to clear the decks. He’d wanted no distractions. Nothing in the world to compete with Charlie. The evenings became theirs alone: gentle, candle-soft, often sprawled on the couch like teenagers rediscovering the universe of each other. Chester had made his own intrusions—awkward, clumsy, nosing between them like an anxious chaperone—though even he seemed careful not to disturb whatever new spell had wound itself around them.

It was different this time. Stronger, heavier, like a rope that had been reforged with fresh strands. Nick couldn’t decide whether that feeling was real or just the placebo effect of relief and return—but if it was placebo, he never wanted the cure. He’d take it for life. Those kisses—slow, deliberate, almost meditative—were addictive. The conversations wove themselves between laughter and gravity, gentle teasing punctuated by sudden honesty. Dinners stretched long past the food itself, toes nudging beneath the table, fingers brushing until they locked in place.

The second week, the domestic cocoon cracked just enough to let their friends back in. Nick knew it mattered—friendship wasn’t some optional ornament; it was the scaffolding that made love stand taller. So they’d started easy: a low-key get-together with Imogen, her new partner Sahar, plus Isaac and James. The atmosphere was deliberately quiet, manageable. No chaos. No Darcy.

“In fact,” Nick chuckled now in the present, glancing at Charlie’s still face, “I banned Darcy from the early rounds. Too much of a gremlin. Figured you didn’t need to be whacked over the head with their brand of chaos right away.”

Back then, they’d gone out to the new tea shop in town, grandly called Thyme for Tea. The name was almost unbearably smug, but the place was beautiful—Wabi-Sabi calm smashed together with a riot of Thai maximalism. The smell hit first: herbs, citrus, the faint curl of incense that clung to their clothes. Dark woods, golden light, mismatched cushions. And then the owner herself—a tiny Thai woman with the energy of a one-woman carnival. She had the uncanny knack of treating every customer as if they’d been best friends for twenty years, whether they liked it or not.

When James, predictably, began sulking about his ex, she burst out—loud enough for half the café to hear—“You pretty. He ugly. You swan. He frog.” The words were delivered with such earnest gusto that the entire table dissolved into laughter. Even Charlie, cautious as he was with his smiles then, gave one so unguarded Nick thought his chest might split open.

The catching-up was easy and warm. Imogen, flushed with happiness, told the story of meeting Sahar—a tale that zigzagged through near-misses and emotional pratfalls. James, meanwhile, oscillated between despair and exaggerated joy at his newfound singleness, grumbling about his ex with the air of a man auditioning for a tragic opera. Isaac toyed aloud with the idea of adopting a cat, though the conversation derailed once someone reminded him of his friend with the cat allergy. The whole table went quiet for a moment, Isaac staring at his tea as if it might provide solutions, before Charlie deadpanned, “So… get a fish?” and set them all laughing again.

By the third week, the circle widened further. They’d been invited to Aaliyah and Jonah’s for an impromptu barbecue—though Nick suspected ‘impromptu’ was just code for “Aaliyah decided this was happening and Jonah nodded along.” Their toddler, Zion, tore around the garden like a comet, while their newborn, Navy, slept with enviable serenity. Nick had pre-warned them about Charlie’s safe foods, though in truth everything had been made toddler-safe anyway. Charlie thrived there, soaking in Aaliyah’s razor-sharp wit and Jonah’s bumbling sweetness. It struck Nick then how Charlie had always kept a careful distance, categorising these people as Nick’s friends. But watching him slot in so effortlessly, cheeks warmed by sun and laughter, Nick realised they weren’t just his friends anymore. They were theirs.

The weeks after blurred, the way golden hours often do. Charlie returned to work, Nick to school, and yet the glow lingered. Weekdays were quiet, but never dull—late-night cuddles, half-watched films, and kisses stolen in kitchens when the kettle whistled or the pasta boiled over. Weekends sometimes folded them into the embrace of family or friends; sometimes kept them sealed inside their own small universe, orbiting each other like a steadfast little spaceship cruising through a glittering galaxy.

Oliver was the first to stay, the whirlwind brother who always seemed to arrive like a gust of perfume and laughter. Now in his twenties, he’d become something of a paradox: both an eccentric and an icon in certain corners of the fashion world. He slipped into modelling almost by accident, but no one was surprised—his height, cheekbones, and easy nonchalance carried him through Paris, Milan, and Tokyo like a living sketchbook. He wasn’t the most famous, but he had a steady, magnetic presence that fashion fanatics adored. He was, in a sense, a micro-celebrity: a name murmured in niche circles, a face recognised at afterparties.

Jane and Julio kept half an eye on him from afar—concerned about his lack of degree, yes, but also quietly impressed at how he seemed to be thriving. “We’ll talk again when you’re twenty-eight,” Jane would sigh over FaceTime, “but until then…” she waved her hand and let him whirl through his glamorous chaos. No one else worried much—Ollie was so ridiculously well-liked, so impossibly well-connected, that doubt didn’t seem to stick.

They had a lovely extended weekend together. Oliver gushed about his escapades, and Nick and Charlie soaked it all up, letting his anecdotes splash colour across their quieter lives. Did it make their routines sound a little ordinary? Perhaps. But neither minded. Oliver always had more stamina for glitter than they did. Together, they visited the pier, wandered through boutiques, lingered in leafy parks, even braved the local fair one evening where Oliver screamed loudest on the ferris wheel.

And then, inevitably, came talk of romance. He mentioned a love interest he’d met in New York at a fashion week afterparty. His eyes softened the way Charlie’s used to when speaking of Nick in the early days, that gentle glaze of someone hopelessly smitten. “They’re so androgynous and cool,” Oliver sighed, draping himself across their sofa like a Renaissance painting. “Such pretty curls. And that tooth gap—it’s unfair how charming it is.”

Nick and Charlie perked up at the pronouns, curiosity sparking, though neither wanted to pry too much. Oliver, ever unbothered, did the unravelling himself. “I don’t think I want to label myself,” he admitted, twirling one of Chester’s floppy ears between his fingers. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. I just… like them.”

Charlie’s eyes softened, pride flooding his expression in that subtle, almost tearful way. “That’s more than enough, Ollie. You don’t owe anyone a label.”

Nick grinned, heart swelling at the warmth of it. “Yeah, besides—labels are for soup tins.”

Oliver snorted, half-laugh, half-scoff, and rolled his eyes dramatically. But later that night, Nick caught him smiling into his phone, typing too quickly to be anything but a lovesick fool. It made Nick ache with affection—his brother-in-law, messy and radiant, fumbling into love like everyone deserved to.

The second stay came with Elle and Tao. They weren’t strangers to the house, but this time Elle was almost buzzing with excitement, eager to see what she called “the new glow” between Nick and Charlie. She claimed she could tell from the way they held hands now, or the ease in Charlie’s posture. Tao teased mercilessly, insisting she was reading too much into it, though even he softened when he saw how Charlie leaned against Nick, casual and unthinking.

They spent one evening piled on the sofa with too much takeaway and a ridiculous film that none of them really watched. Tao fell asleep halfway through with his head on Elle’s shoulder—much to everyone’s surprise, Chester sprawled across his legs like a living blanket. Charlie and Elle ended up whispering about books at the far end of the sofa while Nick quietly watched them, struck by the simplicity of the moment—the kind of serenity that sneaks up on you, the kind you don’t notice until your chest aches with it.

There were other days, too, strung like pearls across those golden weeks. A lazy Sunday when Nick and Charlie decided to make pancakes and burned the first three, laughing so hard Nick had to sit on the floor while Charlie fanned smoke out the window. An impromptu walk in the rain where Chester looked betrayed but Charlie grinned so wide Nick swore he saw sunlight in the storm. A night where they stayed up until two in the morning reorganising the bookshelves, arguing over whether The Great Gatsby belonged in classics or in “Nick’s pretentious picks.”

One day, Nick came home with a paper bag clutched in one hand, grinning like a conspirator. Charlie raised an eyebrow from the sofa, curls haloed by the lamplight, as Nick revealed the haul: cheap canvases, brushes that already shed bristles, and a rainbow of paints in plastic tubes.

“We’re going to make terrible art,” Nick declared, too pleased with himself to be teased.

And they did. Charlie perched cross-legged, biting his lip in concentration as he attempted a serious sunset scene, brush strokes surprisingly elegant. Nick, meanwhile, tried to paint Chester and ended up with what looked more like a misshapen cow with uneven eyes.

The more Charlie laughed, the worse Nick’s lines got, until he deliberately added a speech bubble reading ‘woof’ to his tragic masterpiece. When they were done, they hung both canvases in the living room, side by side.

Every time Nick caught sight of them after that, his chest filled with that same glowing certainty: this was their life now. Joyful. Messy. Artfully ridiculous. He wouldn’t have swapped it for all the galleries in London.

The other day, they’d gone out for groceries and only realised halfway through the shop that they were dressed identically: grey jumpers, dark jeans, white trainers.

Nick hadn’t noticed until a woman in the cereal aisle gave them a curious smile and asked, “Brothers?”

Charlie blinked, then—without hesitation—deadpanned, “Married, actually.”

The stranger’s face twisted in shock before she shuffled quickly away, and Nick just about doubled over laughing, nearly dropping the basket.

He looked at Charlie, cheeks pink from both mischief and the supermarket lights, and thought: God, I love him. He wanted to freeze that moment forever, Charlie smirking in triumph at his own boldness, his curls flopping forward as he wheeled the trolley with exaggerated nonchalance.

Nick thought it was unfair, really, that happiness could sneak up like this in the middle of a grocery run. Domesticity had never tasted so sweet.

Another evening, Charlie was hunched over his laptop, fingers flying, jaw tight with the kind of focus that looked dangerously like overwork.

Nick leaned in the doorway, watching, debating, then decided it was time for intervention. “Illegal,” he announced.

Charlie didn’t even look up. “What?”

“Working past ten,” Nick declared with the gravity of a lawmaker. He shut the laptop before Charlie could argue, scooped it away, and tugged him by the wrist into the kitchen.

Minutes later, they were sitting on the floor, sharing a box of cereal straight from the bag, crumbs dusting their jumpers. The cool tiles pressed into Nick’s legs, but he hardly noticed.

Charlie was laughing, loose and unguarded, head tipped back against the cupboard doors. In that instant Nick thought of how fragile joy used to feel, how fleeting.

Now it lived here with them, poured into their everyday, even in something as absurd as midnight cereal. He wanted to keep it forever—the taste of sweetness, the echo of laughter, the weight of Charlie leaning against his shoulder.

Nick sank into the quiet of their home, the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the floorboards, illuminating Charlie’s profile as he leaned against the couch, a soft hum escaping his lips. His curls caught the light like a halo, each strand a tiny filament of fire, and Nick felt his chest swell so violently he feared it might burst. He could hardly believe this—this was real. This was his. This man, this miracle of a human, was his. His Charlie.

Everything about these weeks felt sacred, as if the universe had conspired to grant him a taste of perfection. The way Charlie smiled when Nick whispered some absurd joke only he would understand, the way his hand always found Nick’s in quiet corners, the way he fell asleep curled into Nick’s chest, trusting, unguarded—it was a kind of worship, a tender surrender that left Nick trembling with gratitude and wonder. Every laugh was a hymn, every sigh a benediction. Every moment they shared was a verse in the long, exquisite poem of their lives together.

He remembered the small things—the warmth of their bodies tangled in sheets at dawn, the way Charlie’s breath hitched when Nick kissed the back of his neck, the ridiculous, intimate debates over which tea was superior or which film to watch while Chester claimed the sofa as his throne. He could feel it all in his bones, in the very marrow of him: he was utterly, irrevocably in love, and it consumed him, lifted him, left him dizzy with the enormity of it.

I love you. I love you. I love you, he thought, a mantra repeated in the quiet of his mind until it echoed like a cathedral around him. And it wasn’t just love—it was a devotion, a fiery, all-consuming adoration that he would carry into every tomorrow. He would protect Charlie, cherish Charlie, adore him with a ferocity that rivaled the sun. Every glance, every brush of fingers, every whispered “I’m here” was a vow, a sacred promise he would honor for as long as he drew breath.

He looked at Charlie now, leaning back with that gentle, amused expression that always made Nick feel like the luckiest person alive, and his heart overflowed.

You are my gravity, my home, my reason for everything. If he could, he would have spent eternity in this single moment, tracing the curve of Charlie’s lips, memorizing the sparkle in his eyes, pressing kisses into every fold of his skin until he knew it all by heart.

And in that radiant, trembling quiet, Nick finally let himself whisper the words he had been carrying in the depth of him for weeks, months, a lifetime: I love you more than the stars, more than the oceans, more than anything that ever was or ever will be. You are my everything, Charlie Spring-Nelson, and I will love you until the end of all days.

And somehow, impossibly, even amidst the ordinary—the warm tea, the soft hum of the city outside, the contented snuffle of Chester at their feet—it felt like a universe had shifted, like all the chaos and darkness had been pushed aside, leaving only this: them, together, infinite in their love.

Chapter Text

Nick sits, a quiet now also enveloping him. The birds have stopped their tentative afternoon songs, the wind seemingly slowing down to a sigh. The sun starts its slow descent, staining the horizon with burnt orange and violet. Nick thinks he has spent far too much time here already, the damp earth cooling his legs, his knees numb from kneeling, his body aching—but his heart stubbornly refusing to move.

His lover isn’t responding. It’s the quiet again. The heavy, impenetrable kind of silence that neither comforts nor condemns, though Nick is never sure if he deserves it. At least he doesn’t feel alone. He has Charlie’s presence at least, a stillness that feels solid beside him, even in this late autumn chill, even when not a single word has been muttered from the opposite end.

Nick smiles faintly, clasps his hands together, and tries to lighten the mood one last time.

“One last memory,” he murmurs, his voice a little too thin against the dusk. “You probably won’t talk to me, but it’s worth a try. I’m lovesick after all. It’s a serious disease.” He lets out an amused little laugh, but clears his throat too quickly after, embarrassed at himself. “Sorry.”

And so he sinks again into the only balm that seems to work: memory.

The weeks after the busy social whirl had quieted down. Fewer gatherings, fewer dinners with friends. Yet within that retreat, their domestic bliss still blossomed, soft and radiant as though it had been waiting for them all along. If anything, it was like tumbling headlong into a second honeymoon phase—less glittering perhaps, less novel, but steeped in something richer: the kind of deep-rooted love that tasted of permanence. The kind that anchored itself inside the bones.

They still had their nightly cuddle sessions on the couch, Chester’s enormous body sprawled across their laps as though the dog were trying to smother their affection with sheer weight. Walks through nearby parks and shaded forests became their sacred rituals, quiet explorations where Nick would sometimes lace his fingers through Charlie’s and feel, absurdly, as though he had been granted everything he had ever wanted from life. There were the occasional dinners outside—little restaurants tucked into corners of town, where they sat beneath fairy lights and brushed each other’s knees under the table. And of course, the scattered meetings with friends that kept their orbit lively but never overwhelming.

Yet the weeks were not perfect. Nothing ever is. That didn’t mean they were less beautiful—if anything, the imperfections only proved the reality of their bond. Nick began to notice small shifts in Charlie’s mood, the way his expression tightened in quiet moments, the way his shoulders curled as though to make himself smaller. He grew anxious, withdrawn at times, and though Nick tried to laugh it off at first, he quickly learned this wasn’t the sort of thing laughter alone could soothe.

Charlie’s publishing firm was going through a messy takeover—‘takeover’ being the polite word, when in truth it was closer to a controlled demolition. Rumours of redundancies drifted through the corridors, and every whisper seemed to scrape at Charlie’s nerves. He confessed to Nick, often during late-night talks in the kitchen, that he didn’t know if he would even keep his job.

“I was gone for months, Nick,” Charlie admitted one night, his hands gripping the rim of a mug like it might steady him. “They could have let me go then, but they didn’t. And now… I feel like they’re waiting for me to slip. Like I’m under a microscope all the time. If they bring in some senior editor with more experience—someone cleaner, sharper, healthier—what am I, except obsolete?”

Nick had leaned against the counter, watching him with that quiet ache of wanting so badly to fix everything but knowing he couldn’t. “Charlie,” he said, steady and certain, “you’re not obsolete. You’re brilliant. You’ve always been brilliant. You don’t just edit—” he paused, trying to find the right words, “—you breathe life into words, shape them until they sing. You’re the kind of editor writers dream about, and they’re lucky to have you.”

But Charlie only huffed, his gaze darting downward. “Lucky? You think they see me as lucky? I think they see me as fragile. Replaceable. A liability they have to tiptoe around.”

Nick reached across the counter, covering Charlie’s restless hands with his own. “Then they’re fools,” he said simply, pressing his thumb against Charlie’s knuckles. “And I don’t care if the whole firm merges with a publishing empire from Mars, they won’t find another Charlie Spring-Nelson. They can try—but they’ll always fall short. Because you’re… you.” He swallowed, suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer injustice of Charlie ever doubting himself. “That master’s degree should be glad it was tackled by you. Honestly, the entire industry should be on its knees thanking you.”

Charlie laughed weakly at that, a shaky, disbelieving sound, but Nick caught the faintest curl of a smile tugging at his mouth. And though the anxieties didn’t vanish overnight, though they came and went with every email, every staff meeting, every unpredictable shuffle at the firm, Nick felt he had planted something there—a small, stubborn reminder that he would always, always see Charlie for what he truly was: extraordinary.

And strangely, it seemed like uphill from there.

One day, almost without warning, Charlie’s mood shifted. He became incredibly affectionate, as though he had grown tired of being ruled by fear and wanted to drown himself in tenderness instead. The sharp edge of his anxieties dulled, at least outwardly, and for the first time in weeks, Nick could breathe beside him without feeling the electric hum of worry vibrating through the walls. Charlie seemed at peace, oddly at peace, and Nick—relieved, grateful—let himself sink into that calm as though it were a warm bath. He didn’t question the suddenness of it; he only welcomed it.

Charlie began throwing himself more deeply into work, long hours hunched at his desk, fingers tapping keys in a rhythm Nick pretended not to notice was sometimes frantic. Nick knew it wasn’t the healthiest habit, but he rationalised it—if Charlie felt he could wrestle control of his image at the publishing house, perhaps that in itself would soothe the chaos. Friends began to notice his absence. Two, three gatherings in a row were turned down with the same explanation—work, deadlines, revisions. Nick, ever patient, carried their apologies into the world alone. He told himself he was giving Charlie the space he needed, and maybe that was love too.

When Tori wanted to visit, though, Charlie’s excuse felt thinner. She sniffed it out at once, like she always did, and sent Nick a barrage of messages, her suspicion curled sharp in every word. Nick defended Charlie with quiet loyalty, explaining the situation with the company merge, repeating his theories with conviction: it’s just temporary, he needs to keep his head down until the storm passes. Tori relented eventually, though not without her signature brand of doubt. Nick held onto his explanation a little tighter after that, as if saying it often enough would make it true.

And still, their evenings together bloomed as if nothing were wrong. They curled on the sofa with Chester flopped at their feet, smiling over silly television, or tangled together in a haze of kisses that sometimes flared into something more. There were nights when Charlie’s touches turned urgent, desperate almost, pulling Nick to him with a fervour that rose like fire out of nowhere. It startled Nick at first—the way it could flip from silence to intensity in a single heartbeat—but he gave himself to it willingly. It felt like love, after all, and love was rarely predictable.

The sweetness of Charlie’s gestures only multiplied. Oreo milk bars appeared in the kitchen drawer, flowers on the table, the gym shed suddenly upgraded with new equipment Nick hadn’t even mentioned wanting. One morning, Charlie handed him a velvet box containing his grandmother’s necklace, the sapphire catching the light with a richness that made Nick’s throat close.

“Charlie, are you sure?”

“Yes. What’s the point in me keeping this? Sapphire doesn’t suit me. But you… you always told me my eyes were like them, so I want you to have it.”

Nick sniffed hard, tears springing unbidden. It was such a thoughtful, sentimental gift, the kind of gesture that etched itself into bone. Too sweet, almost too generous, but Nick—smitten, grateful—didn’t want to press the question. He told himself that maybe Charlie was finally learning to revel in joy, to shower the world with love now that the clouds had parted.

Besides, there wasn’t much to worry about. He saw Charlie take his medication almost every morning, watched him disappear into weekly therapy sessions, heard the gentle scratch of his pen as he journaled. The boxes were being ticked. The structures were in place. Nick let that reassure him.

There was even talk of a holiday.

“Mexico?” Nick suggested one evening, his laptop perched on his knees.

“Oh, yes, sounds great. I always wanted to go,” Charlie replied, a small smile tugging faintly at his lips.

“Where exactly?” Nick asked, already scrolling through endless travel blogs. “Cozumel? Heard it’s like paradise. Or—Puerto Vallarta, gay capital of Mexico,” he added with a grin. “Or maybe Mexico City—explore the culture?”

Charlie only shrugged. “I don’t really care where. You decide. Just… don’t book it yet.”

Nick laughed, triumphant anyway. Mexico it is, then.

He remembers too the smaller shifts—Charlie letting his stubble grow, his hair curling a little longer, his clothes drifting into soft, lazy-day comfort. He claimed there was no need to look sharp when home office was his kingdom. Nick loved it, secretly; he had always adored Charlie like that, barefoot and cosy, the sharp edges of the world blurred.

There was one evening that etched itself into Nick’s chest. He had forgotten to take his own medication that morning, the kind of mistake that left him buzzing with chaotic energy, concentration shot to ribbons. He was supposed to do the grocery shopping but hadn’t remembered until he stood, hollow-eyed, in front of an empty fridge. His heart sank—Charlie had been so excited about the safe meal they’d agreed on the night before.

But before Nick could spiral, his phone buzzed.

Stupid assumption of me, but I went to the shop because I know you forgot to take your medication. Worst case scenario we end up with twice the groceries. Need anything?

Nick smiled so wide it hurt. How could anyone know him so well, anticipate him so tenderly? He typed back, simply: Treats for Chester <3.

When Charlie came home, arms laden with bags, they unpacked together in a companionable hush. At one point, they caught each other’s gaze across the kitchen, and for a moment it felt like the whole house was humming with the current between them.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Char,” Nick murmured, “saving dinner like that.”

Charlie laughed, the sound brittle but sweet. “You’d be fine without me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nick countered, as always, brushing it away with a smile.

It was only later that night, over the very dinner Nick had forgotten to buy for, that he noticed Charlie pushing his food around the plate more than he ate it. Nick decided to wait him out, letting his own chatter fill the air until a quarter of an hour had passed. But Charlie’s fork never really touched his meal.

“You okay?” Nick asked softly, threading the question into his babble as though it were nothing.

There was a flicker in Charlie’s eyes then—something sharp, fleeting, almost like terror—but it was gone in an instant, smoothed over by his familiar, easy smile. “I’m fine, don’t worry. Just tired from work. Promise. I’ll have a snack later.” He stood, stacking their plates before Nick could protest.

Nick let it go. Because Charlie had smiled. Because the house still felt warm. Because love, he told himself, was enough.

And then there was that night—if Nick could even call it a night. It was something beyond ordinary language, beyond mortal hours. It began at one in the morning and stretched into eternity. Sex, yes, but not the kind one simply laughs about or recalls with a blush—it was communion. It was the kind of intimacy that unspooled every thread of them, stitched them together in places Nick hadn’t even known were fraying. Every touch was deliberate, urgent, as though they were chasing something impossible to name. By the time it ended, Charlie was crumbling in Nick’s arms, trembling, crying openly into his chest. Nick felt his own tears spill in response, not because of the intensity of release but because of the rawness of it all, because his lover was allowing him to see so much at once—the strength and the fragility, the storm and the calm.

“I love you so much, Nick. Always. I’m so, so sorry.” The words broke against Nick’s collarbone like a confession, desperate and uneven.

Nick kissed the damp curls, his voice steady though his heart stuttered. “No s-word, Char. Don’t apologise. There’s nothing to be sorry for. I love you too. So deeply it hurts.”

Charlie drew in a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling in time with Nick’s. Then, after a pause, he whispered, “Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. I think that’s one of my favourite quotes. Horace.”

Nick blinked down at him, brow creased, but the Latin rolled off Charlie’s tongue with such reverence it felt like a spell. “What does it mean?”

Charlie lifted his gaze, eyes glistening and unguarded, and for a moment Nick swore it wasn’t just eye contact—it was soul contact. “It’s beautiful,” Charlie murmured, as if answering his own thought instead of Nick’s question.

Nick let it be. It was late. They were tangled in warmth, in love, in the kind of safety most people spend lifetimes searching for. Chester snored softly at the foot of the bed, a steady percussion to the silence. And for once, Charlie’s face was stripped of every anxious crease, every worried flicker—just peace. Nick pressed his lips to Charlie’s temple and let himself believe that this was forever.

The morning only seemed to prove it. Charlie woke with a languid stretch and the softest of smiles, one that looked almost boyish. “Morning,” he mused, voice husky from sleep.

Nick grinned, kissing his curls. “Morning.”

They moved through their routine like a dance they’d rehearsed a thousand times before: toast browning, kettle singing, Nick lacing up his shoes for work while Charlie hummed idly in the kitchen. It wasn’t perfect—Charlie only pushed food around his plate, nibbling here and there—but Nick told himself it was fine. He’d ask about therapy later, when the timing felt right. For now, it was enough to feel Charlie’s hip bump against his, to press a kiss to his bare shoulder as suds rose in the sink. It was enough to breathe in the scent of citrus shampoo in his curls and call it home.

This love, Nick thought, is the axis of my world.

Dressed for work, bag slung across his shoulder, Nick found Charlie curled on the couch in his hoodie, notebook pressed protectively to his chest. He was quiet—too quiet—but when Nick bent down to press a kiss into his hair, inhaling the familiar scent of shampoo and the faint musk of sleep, it felt right. Normal. Domestic. He’d always loved Charlie like this—unpolished, unguarded, swaddled in fabric too big for his frame.

“Alright, I’m off to work. Love you,” Nick said, voice full of the same careless devotion he carried every day.

Charlie just blinked, gaze travelling over Nick’s face with such intensity that Nick almost laughed. It was as though Charlie were memorising him, cataloguing every freckle, every shift of expression. Nick shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“Charlie?” he teased, trying to snap him out of it.

Charlie’s lips curved into a soft, serene smile. “I’m sorry. I love you so much. I’ll miss you.” His tone was calm—too calm, Nick thought for the briefest of moments—but he brushed it aside because a smile was still a smile, and love was still love.

“Sap,” Nick laughed gently, dismissing the weight of the words, “I’ll see you before two. Okay, gotta go. Love you.”

He made for the door, Chester thudding after him. His hand lingered on the frame, just for a second. A faint, nameless unease pressed at his ribs, but he swallowed it down. There would be time tonight. There was always time tonight.

And with that, Nick closed the door.

Chapter Text

Nick shivered at the memory. A silence, long and undisturbed, stretched itself thin between him and the bouquet at his side. Freesias and lilies—fragile as breath. He let his gaze linger on them, tracing the way the colours bled into one another, the way the petals curled inward like secret thoughts. A few leaves were already crushed beneath the weight of lying on the damp earth. It had been hours since Nick sat here, close enough to feel as though proximity could still matter. The autumn air pressed cold fingers against his skin, and he let it.

Eventually, Nick rose, pushing himself up from the sodden ground. He cradled the bouquet against his chest, diagonal across his torso like a shield, like a wound. The air around him shifted—or perhaps it split. One half impossibly light, as if sharing memories lifted him, if only for a heartbeat; the other unbearably heavy, as though each story made the truth denser, harder, less survivable. These weren’t just anecdotes, not stories to be told like fireside tales. They were lived days. Hours. Years. They were his life with Charlie.

And standing here, they hurt.

Nick tried to speak, but words were slippery things now. He had enough memories to recite until his voice went hoarse, but what was the point? They all mattered—of course they did—and yet the telling of them was like digging his fingers into an open wound. Love remembered was pain renewed.

His body broke before his words did. The sobs came sudden and ungraceful, the kind of crying that doesn’t pause for dignity. He let himself fall into it this time, no restraint, no careful composure. His chest hitched, his throat scraped raw.

And then, as if the universe couldn’t bear to watch him alone in his collapse, the clouds split too. First a drop. Then another. Until rain stitched itself into the scene, each droplet a percussion to his grief. It felt deliberate—as though the sky wept with him, or for him.

“This is shit,” Nick whispered hoarsely into the storm. “It’s just…shit.”

Because what else could it be? His husband not speaking, not looking, not reaching out. No arm to pull him in, no shoulder to fall against, only a silence so deep it seemed to echo. Nick knew he wasn’t alone in the world, not really—he had friends, he had family, he had Chester—but here, in this place, he had never felt so singular, so bone-deep alone.

His mind ran through the catalogue of memory again, frantic, desperate for meaning. Was it a test? he thought bitterly. Some divine joke? To give me so much, only to rip it away?

But no—greed had no place here. He wasn’t owed forever, was he? He should have been grateful for the years they had. He knew that. Yet knowing and surviving were two different things.

The pain pressed closer, clawing at him until it felt like his own heart wanted to tear itself free—to leap from his chest and impale itself on the nearest branch just to be rid of the ache. It was absurd, grotesque, impossible. But so was living without Charlie.

He gave a broken laugh through his sobs, shaking his head at the absurdity. Nothing felt real. And yet everything was too real.

“I miss you.”

He started speaking, but the tone was nothing like before. Not the trembling vulnerability of their engagement story, or the tender warmth of recalling their wedding. Not the joy that had carried him through memories of that lazy afternoon in the park, or the day they brought Chester home and laughed until their stomachs hurt. Not the anger that had simmered when they fought over house renovations, or when Charlie’s name became a target for strangers’ cruelty. Not even the awe that had filled him when Charlie walked out from inpatient, fragile but glowing with a new kind of light.

This was different. This was hurt. Not the fleeting kind that passed with a good night’s sleep, but a cavernous hurt, the deepest possible. It hollowed him out while at the same time filling every corner with invisible static, like an unrelenting charge. It was too much and yet not enough, a paradox of emptiness and weight that made every breath feel like drowning in a tide he couldn’t resist. It was the kind of hurt that pressed on his ribs until he wondered if his body would split open, if his heart might lunge out and stab itself on the nearest twig just to find relief. It was the kind of hurt that made him believe, in some secret place, that if he didn’t keep speaking—keep explaining, keep pouring himself out, he would drown.

“I wonder if things would’ve been different if I knew how to read the signs,” he whispered, voice trembling. “But I was so afraid of disturbing the peace. So afraid to ruin what we had. I thought if I just let myself float in the contentment, I could stay there forever.”

He remembered telling Charlie once, half-teasing, half-awestruck, “people just fall in love with you, it’s unfair.” And it had been true. Wherever Charlie went, the world seemed to orbit him—strangers leaning a little closer, friends softening in his presence, even strangers on trains drawn like moths to the impossible flame he carried without ever seeming to notice. Nick had been captivated from the first day, helpless against it, the same as everyone else. “It was unfair,” he whispered now, his throat raw. “Not to you, but to everyone else. Because you belonged to us, and then you didn’t anymore.” He blinked hard, eyes burning as he stared through the rain. “I hope you know how loved you were, Charlie. God, I hope you knew. But maybe I also hope you didn’t. Because if you did… you’d have understood how much pain you were leaving behind. And I don’t know if I could bear the thought of you carrying that knowledge with you.”

His voice changed, tightened, as though pulled across barbed wire. “I could never be angry at you,” he said, and immediately flinched at the dishonesty of it. “But I was. For so long, I was.” He dragged in a breath that felt jagged on his ribs. “Angry at what you did. Angry that you left me—left us—to unravel this tangle without you. Angry that I’ll never get the chance to argue with you properly about it, to shout and then make up and hold you until we’re too tired to be angry anymore. Angry you didn’t try harder.” His chest shook with the force of it, his jaw aching from holding too much inside. Then, as though the weight of fury was too heavy to carry, his body sagged, breath spilling from him in a hollow sigh that seemed to collapse into the cold earth. “I’ve learned to live with it. Better than before. The edges aren’t quite as sharp. But Charlie… God, I wish you’d handled it differently. I wish you’d stayed.”

He faltered then, the storm inside him ebbing to something quieter, more tender, though no less painful. His voice dropped, almost reverent. “But I love you. I always will. That part never changed. Like I said a million times before, maybe a million and one.” A brittle smile broke across his face, trembling but real, like glass catching the faintest edge of light. For a heartbeat he could almost feel Charlie’s hand in his own, the warmth of it anchoring him in a world that otherwise felt unbearably cold. The smile lingered, fragile as a soap bubble, and then it was gone.

Sometimes he thought he saw Charlie on trains, in cafés, darting down streets—phantom glimpses that made him smile despite himself. “I want to believe it’s you,” he admitted, clutching the flowers tighter.

The aftermath came in fragments, sharp and scattering like glass across a floor, impossible to gather without cutting yourself. Victoria disappeared into silence, retreating so far inward that it felt like she had folded herself into another dimension; a year passed where she was little more than a ghost, unreachable, her presence extinguished. Oliver went the other way, throwing himself into the cacophony of nights out, each party a louder attempt to drown out the noise in his own head, his smile stretched thin and false, his eyes glazed. Jane and Julio stumbled through their days like survivors of a wreck, clutching at one another as if that alone might keep them upright, their routines hollowed out and fractured, a parody of the lives they had once imagined they would share with Charlie still in them. Sarah tried—God, she tried—to hold the pieces of everyone together, her grief a raw and gaping wound hidden under layers of determined caretaking, her hands shaking as she cooked dinners, sent texts, offered comfort no one believed she had the strength to give. And Chester… poor Chester. He still waited at the door, massive body planted with stubborn loyalty, ears pricked as though one day his other owner would simply walk back in. Nick had seen him tilt his head at every sound in the hallway, seen him sigh and lower himself again, patience curdling into heartbreak that only deepened Nick’s own.

And yet the ripples spread further, seeping into everything. Elle’s collections turned black from hem to collar, season after season, each garment a grief-stained elegy sewn in silk and thread. Tao poured himself into film, abstract reels of colour and shadow that captured despair so perfectly that awards were thrust into his reluctant hands, though he would have traded them all for one more late-night call from Charlie. Isaac, somehow steadier, built something in the ruins—an organisation devoted to book readings and storytelling circles, a place where struggling souls might feel less alone. He said it was inspired by Charlie, though Nick couldn’t bear to hear the word inspired linked to loss. Everywhere Nick looked, people bent and reshaped themselves around the absence, the hole Charlie had left. Whole lives derailed, futures rewritten. “Everyone hurt,” Nick said quietly, his voice shaking. “Not just me. Everyone. And you weren’t here to see it.”

The rain only fell harder, soaking through Nick’s clothes until every thread clung to him, cold against his skin, but he welcomed it. It was grounding, like the sky insisting he stay tethered to the earth when all he wanted was to float away. It felt deserved, too. A punishment. Or maybe a cruel mercy. Whether it was the universe playing a sick joke or trying to wash some fraction of the grief out of him, it didn’t matter. It was right.

“As for me…well, I’ve been sober almost a year now. Yay me.” The attempt at humour fractured as quickly as it formed. What tumbled out instead was a sob, ragged and raw. His chest tightened as though the sound itself could strangle him.

He closed his eyes. “Trying to move on is impossible. God, even the phrase sounds wrong—ugly, like betrayal. Moving on. No. That’s not what this is. I’m just…learning how to live without you. To breathe without you. And I don’t think I’ll ever do it gracefully. The memories don’t leave. They walk beside me everywhere I go, like shadows stitched into my skin. Sometimes they guide me, sometimes they pull me under. But they’re always there. You’re always there.”

His voice wavered, low and uneven. “Grief is supposed to have stages, right? Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. Neat little steps on a staircase. But in reality it was nothing like that. It was a labyrinth. A storm. I was in denial for weeks after. God, I truly believed it wasn’t real. That it was some elaborate, cosmic prank. I told myself you’d walked out, maybe even run away to start fresh somewhere else. Because that was easier to swallow than the truth. I wanted to believe you’d got bored of me, stopped loving me—that would’ve hurt, yes, but at least it would have meant you were still out there somewhere.”

His throat closed. He forced himself to keep going. “And then when the truth started to settle, anger came like fire. Not just at you, though God, I was angry with you. Angry that you smiled through it. Angry that you kissed me goodnight, kissed me goodbye, and let me believe it was all fine. Angry that you lied. That you had those resignation letters hidden away, that you ignored your therapist, that you threw your medication into the bin instead of swallowing it. Angry because I should’ve known. Because I didn’t want to know. Because love blinded me and I let it. I was fuming at you, but I hated myself more.”

His gaze dropped, shame pulling at his shoulders like lead. The flowers slipped slightly in his grasp. “I fell apart. I moved back to Mum’s because I couldn’t be in the house. I was a ruin, clinging to anyone who would listen. I told our story to strangers, begged people to remind me who I was. And then I drank. God, did I drink. Bottles lined up like an army against the grief, but they betrayed me too. I drowned myself in whiskey and wine, hoping I’d forget, but all it did was sharpen the loneliness. The depression that hit me with the drinking was…terrifying. I didn’t recognise my own reflection. Mum tried—God, she tried so hard—but she’s nearly seventy. She couldn’t hold me together when I didn’t want to be held. I told her I was a lost cause. I said it like it was fact, like gospel. I was hostile. Bitter. At one point even Chester started shrinking away from me, tail tucked, ears flattened. Our own dog didn’t recognise me. That was the moment something inside me cracked. That was the turning point.”

Nick shivered, rubbing his elbows as if the motion might keep him from collapsing entirely. He still clutched the freesias and lilies, their petals bruised from his grip.

“I moved back,” he said softly. “Back to the house. And there’s no word in any language that can describe what that felt like. Every object was tainted. Every chair, every mug, every shirt left on a hanger carried you in it. I walked in and it was like being gutted. I remember one afternoon I saw your mug—the one you always left on your desk, even when I nagged you about it—and I fell to my knees. Just a stupid ceramic mug, and I cried until I couldn’t breathe. The house was still ours, but it was empty. It was a mausoleum.”

The words came slower now, as if he were confessing to the earth itself. “But I kept going. I had to. Therapy. Friends. Colleagues. Forcing myself into conversations I wanted no part of, pretending I had the energy to exist among the living. It was difficult. It still is. Some days I almost convince myself I’ve healed, and then one small thing rips me wide open again —a smell, a song, the way sunlight slants through a window, a photograph I’d forgotten I had.

“But I’m sober now. And I’m still here. Somehow. Even…even seeing someone new. Which feels strange, like walking with borrowed shoes that never quite fit. At least they understand grief too—not the same shape as mine, but close enough that they don’t flinch when I talk about you. Dating in your forties is strange. Tender in a different way. They know—I’ve told them— that I’ll never love anyone the way I loved you. God, that sounds cruel, doesn’t it? But it’s the truth. You were the great love. The once-in-a-lifetime. Everything after you is just…different. Quieter. And though I try, some days it doesn’t feel like living at all. It feels like enduring.”

He swallowed. “But I endure. For you. Because even if you couldn’t stay, I’ll carry you with me. Always.”

And so the notorious silence settled once more, a familiar weight that pressed against Nick’s chest yet somehow felt intimate, like a whispered memory of Charlie still lingering in the air. The wind rustled the few remaining autumn leaves at his feet, and for a fleeting moment, Nick allowed himself to imagine Charlie’s laughter carried on that breeze, just out of reach.

He lowered the bouquet of freesias and lilies onto the cold stone before him, each flower bending slightly under its own weight. “Today would’ve marked our twenty-fifth anniversary, so… happy anniversary, Char,” he murmured, his voice fragile but tinged with a soft, bittersweet smile. His lips pressed lightly against the tomb’s cold crown, a reverent, tender kiss, as though it were Charlie’s forehead, a final touch of intimacy he could still give.

Nick lingered there, feeling the hollow ache of absence, but also the warmth of every memory, every touch, every laugh they had shared. He traced the carved letters of Charlie’s name with his fingers, letting each one anchor him to the love that had defined his life.