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Fuck being a golden retriever—Nick Nelson was a shark in another life. Nothing feels as good as this does, this sense of constant motion. Single-minded focus, pumping arms and racing legs, thundering pulse. Nick is jubilant on the pitch. The sun beats down on him, and sweat pours down his face, but the breeze that comes off the sea keeps him cool enough to cope. Whether or not it’s the off-season for rugby, his team is in perfect synchronicity, buoyed by the joy of a low-stakes match in a new locale. Dorset offers a delightfully suitable opposition.
And there, in the mostly empty stands, are the people he loves. Isaac pays absolutely no attention, buried in a book—his idea of a break from writing—while Elle whoops and cheers. But Tao has her beat for volume; once he’s convinced to attend a rugby match and Nick’s team scores a try, he screams like his favourite gladiator’s struck the killing blow in a face-off with a lion. Then there’s Charlie, flushed and bronzing the slightest bit in the sun, with little red lines painted on his cheeks to support the team. He always laughs, a little self-conscious, when Elle gets him to cheer Nick on, but Nick always rewards him with a little bow or whistle to encourage him to keep cheering.
Yeah, all right, maybe Nick likes to be cheered on. Is that so very wrong?
It must be criminal to feel this good, he’s certain. And sure, a few elbows get thrown during each tackle, and his knees are grass-stained and his shoes are muddy—the ground’s a little sodden here, being so close to the shore—but this is it. This is best part of being alive. He wishes he could bottle this feeling, share it with everyone he loves. He has no clue why Charlie ever quit rugby in school.
Then again, he only just learned why Charlie joined in the first place. Why had Charlie revealed it so cavalierly in the café, like Nick should have guessed? Had he mentioned at some point that the only reason Charlie joined the team was to be with him? Surely it’s come up at some point, but he can’t remember.
He asked Charlie to join because he had a crush on him, so it stands to reason, he supposes. He played it off like it was due to Charlie’s speed, but he had known, on some level, exactly what he was doing with all that extra time he spent practicing with him. Especially the tackles. God, the first time Charlie ever managed to take him down, staring down at him in disbelief and victory, it had taken Nick’s breath away.
The ball comes his way, and he scoops it up, letting out a shout of triumph as he sprints for the try zone. He hears Elle and Tao shouting, urging him on, and he turns, expecting to see Charlie waving his arms like mad. But Charlie’s not looking at him. Nick spares a glance behind him, aware that the Dorset team is close on his heels, but he sees Benwick coming up behind. Is Charlie looking at them?
Nick feels one of his opponents grabbing for his waist, and his focus snaps ahead to the try zone, angling his hip away so he eludes his grasp. It doesn’t matter if Charlie isn’t looking at him now. Nick is going to make him watch.
His arms pump twice as fast, his legs burn as he races for the try zone. The same Dorset player is hot on his heels, and Nick feels his fingers catch the hem of his jersey, but he’s too fast for him. He dives with the ball tucked tight under his arm, landing with a squelch in the mud.
His team roars. He wipes the mud out of his eyes as he sits up, peering back at the stands, and his friends are all on their feet. Tao screams and stamps his feet, Elle bounces up and down, her curls blowing in the breeze off the sea. Even Isaac has put his book down to add some polite claps to the din. And then there’s Charlie.
I knew I could make him look at me.
Nick feels a sort of savage pride at how easy it is to pull Charlie’s attention away from Benwick. Sure, maybe Charlie was eyeing them up as they ran across the pitch. But Nick’s the one he stands up for, shouting until he’s hoarse, radiant with pride.
His teammate, Roberts, helps him to his feet. Nick feels sky-high, soaring, as he preps for the conversion kick. He can feel Charlie’s eyes on him, and somehow it feels like a conduit of energy, a hidden reserve that Nick never knew he could pull from. He kicks, and the ball sails over the cross bar. And just before his teammates converge on him—and just because he can—Nick looks over his shoulder to Charlie, a cheeky grin plastered on his face, and blows him a kiss.
What? Charlie told him he’d better win the match and make it worth their while to come to Lyme Regis. Nick’s just letting him know he means business.
Charlie buries his head in his hands, and Nick can’t tell from this far away, but he wagers any money that Charlie’s face is beet red. He’s probably mumbling something like, “Oh, Nick,” in that breathy, faux-embarrassed way of his. Well, challenge accepted. His goal for the rest of the match is to keep Charlie blushing.
So that’s exactly how he plays. Honestly, he’s on another level. Even his teammates notice.
“Jesus, Nelson, what are you on—and can I have some?!”
“Where’ve you been hiding this energy, mate? Could have used it last season!”
“Eyes on the prize, Nelson! There he goes!”
He plays swifter, stronger, his thoughts so fast that they transform into pure instinct. And every time he dares to peek over his shoulder at his friends in the stands, there Charlie is. He hasn’t sat down since Nick’s try. He clutches the fence like it’s the only thing keeping him from launching himself onto the pitch with Nick.
And when the match ends, not even the fence can keep them apart. Charlie’s the first to unhook the lock on the fence gate while Nick’s team hoists him onto their shoulders, slick with mud and sweat but giddy with victory. They win by such a wide margin that Dorset could hardly be blamed for walking off the pitch, surly and regretful of ever inviting the London team out to play. But they’re good sports, the lot of them, shaking hands and congratulating their opponents. Nick comes down from his teammates’ shoulders as Charlie runs across the pitch, getting mud spatters all over his legs and Converse.
It feels like the greatest day of his entire fucking life. He’s never felt more powerful, more alive. When Charlie’s in reach, Nick bends down and wraps his arms around his knees to scoop him up into the air and spin him around.
Colours whirl as they spin: sunlight and slate-grey sky, the crimson blur of the jerseys, the vivid emerald of the pitch. Nick looks up, and silhouetted by the sun, Charlie stares down at him, beaming. Nick slows their spin, planting his boots firmly on the grass, but keeps Charlie aloft. Carefully—he doesn’t want to drop Charlie, doesn’t think he could drop him but doesn’t want to chance it—Nick loosens his hold on the backs of his knees, and Charlie slides down the length of his body until they’re face to face. Charlie’s hands are still on his shoulders, as tight as if he was still high in the air. Nick’s hands are somewhere on his waist, rucked up in Charlie’s shirt. Their chests are flush.
Nick swallows hard. “Told you I’d make you proud.”
Charlie bites his lip. “You always do.”
Oh.
Nick’s hands tighten in the fabric of Charlie’s shirt, reluctant to let him pull away, but then Tao and Elle pummel him with hugs, and they’re swept apart.
Nick hears everything that follows as if underwater. Elle is saying something he can’t comprehend; he just watches as Charlie steps back and talks to Isaac, who was in no hurry to reach the pitch. A teammate claps him on the shoulder and asks him a question, and he shakes his head, not even knowing what he’s responding to. The tide of the team pulls him toward the locker rooms, and Charlie gets farther and farther away. Nick keeps an eye on him like a lighthouse in the midst of a storm.
His body leads him through the next steps, even if his mind is elsewhere. He shucks off his jersey and hits the showers in a complete daze. He hasn’t quite brought his mind around to thinking in coherent thoughts; it’s just pictures, disparate ideas coalescing, feelings unifying. How much he values Charlie’s friendship and good opinion of him joins with his awareness, previously thought objective, that Charlie is gorgeous. Former feelings for his best friend, long thought dormant, resurface and mingle with the knowledge that Charlie, at one point, wanted him back. But everything is tempered with doubt that their feelings have ever, or will ever, match up at the same time again.
“You were on fire out there, Nelson!” Benwick crows as they change into street clothes. “Jesus, where did that even come from?”
“It helps to have WAG support,” Roberts jokes from his bench, sliding on his shoes.
Nick raises an eyebrow. “WAG support?”
“Wives and girlfriends, mate!” Roberts laughs. “Charlie was looking particularly WAG-y today, wasn’t he? That was quite a twirl you did on the pitch, all that was missing was the movie star kiss.”
Benwick frowns. “I thought you and Charlie were just friends.”
“We are,” Nick protests weakly, even as all the blood in him sings with the conviction that we’ve never been just friends.
Roberts scoffs. “Right, right. Nelson, my girlfriend comes to every match during the season, but even she drew the line at an invitational in the off-season four hours away.”
“But a bunch of Nick’s friends came to this match,” Benwick argues. “They’re on a seaside holiday.”
Roberts closes his locker with a shrug. “Look, all I’m saying is, none of our WAGs come to every single match without fail.” He stuffs his dirty jersey into his bag, then grins when he sees Nick flush. “Come off it, mate, you’re down bad. Someone’s getting a leg over tonight, boys!”
A cheer erupts in the locker room, and Nick gets more than one shoulder pat or lurid eyebrow raise as his teammates file out. Benwick leaves without a word, and part of Nick worries that their friendship might have sustained a little damage from this conversation. But most of him keeps thinking of Roberts’ prediction that he’s going to get a leg over tonight. He sits frozen on the bench in the locker rooms, trying to tame his pulse so he isn’t so obviously excited at that prospect when he walks outside.
__________________
There’s a bit of foam just above his lip from the pint Charlie’s nursing. Nick feels half-crazed by the need to lick it off. There’s no stopping the desires that flow unbidden into his brain. Charlie hops up onto on of the barstool at the pub, and Nick can’t tear his eyes away from his legs in those shorts. Charle orders a round of drinks, and Nick wants to drink his beer from the little hollow Charlie’s collarbone makes as he leans over the bar. Charlie rubs away some of the dried mud on his shin, complaining that he should have taken better care of his shoes, and Nick wants to give him an incredibly naughty sponge bath.
Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with him? He’s become a sexual deviant in less than four hours. He scans the pub, astonished that no one in this room sees how Charlie is the single most irresistible person in the room, in Lyme Regis, definitely in England, probably on the Eastern hemisphere. Why isn’t there a line of men out the door begging to take his virginity? Is the entire world oblivious?
Well, there might not be a line, but he does have competition. Benwick has been frosty with Nick since the locker rooms, and in the pub, they’ve made sure to stake out their claim. And they’ve done the requisite Google research in the interim. “So Jane Austen lived here in Lyme Regis?” they ask, stretching a hand across the bar so that, if they moved it, it would be wrapped around Charlie’s waist.
Charlie shakes his head, sending his curls shaking, and Nick almost faints at how unfairly sexy it is. “No, she just came here on holiday a few times with her sister Cassandra. Legend has it that she fell in love here in Lyme, but the mystery man died before they could marry.”
“'They know not I knew thee/who knew thee too well/Long, long shall I rue thee/too deeply to tell,’” Benwick quotes sagely. “There’s nothing more beautiful than lost love, is there?”
“I dunno,” Nick says, unable to hold his peace a moment longer. If Benwick’s too chickenshit to touch Charlie, there’s nothing stopping Nick. He wraps an arm around Charlie’s waist and tugs him close in what could still be, at a glance, a perfectly platonic side hug. But the grip he has on Charlie’s hip is proprietary. “Jane’s all about love prevailing in the end, isn’t she? The right people end up together at the end of her books. Like they should, eh, Charlie?”
Charlie shoots him a bemused grin. “Er, yeah. So, people think one of the reasons Lyme plays such an important role in Persuasion is because of the romantic impact it had on Jane’s life. There’s this scene where Anne Elliot is walking on the Cobb—that’s the harbour wall we’re visiting tomorrow—”
“Oh, right!” Benwick enthuses. “I can’t wait to see it tomorrow with you guys. All that sea air blowing through our hair, it’ll be totally Byronic.” They toss their red curls for good measure, and Nick grits his teeth so hard he risks cracking them. Game on, apparently.
“Charlie was talking, Benwick,” he snaps. “What were you saying, Char?”
Isaac, who’s making decent progress with The Age of Innocence on the stool next to Nick, mutters, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I, erm…” Charlie’s eyes flicker between Benwick and Nick, utterly confused, but he holds onto Nick’s question like a lifeline. “Right, I was saying that in Persuasion, Anne and the man she loves visit Lyme with a group of their friends, and she thinks Wentworth is about to be engaged to a girl named Louisa. But Louisa’s a bit immature, and she keeps jumping off the Cobb hoping that Wentworth will catch her. But she jumps before he’s ready to catch her and gets this terrible head injury, and Anne is able to act quickly to get her help. And something about how Anne comes to life again impresses Wentworth and makes him realise he’s never stopped loving her.”
“See what I mean?” Nick says, squeezing his grip on Charlie’s hip. “The right people always end up together in Jane Austen novels. That’s what makes them so brilliant.”
Benwick stares at where Nick all but digs his fingers into Charlie’s pocket, nods, and says, “Well, it was nice catching up, Charlie. I’m gonna have a chat with Bagheri over there. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
“Good game today, Benwick!” Nick hates himself for how cheery he sounds as he waves Benwick away. He’ll have to apologise later. God, how on earth could he have been so stupid as to suggest Charlie and Benwick should date? How did he intend to survive seeing them together as a couple?
Charlie turns so Nick has no choice but to release him. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“You, with Benwick. You were…” He bites his lip, just like he did at the pitch, and Nick can’t help that his gaze is drawn to it. “Never mind.”
Nick almost wants him to call him out on it, to name whatever he’s thinking, because Nick gave up being subtle about four hours ago. (Let’s be honest, he gave up being subtle back in May.) But then his heart sinks, because Charlie doesn’t exactly look thrilled. It wasn’t kind of Nick to introduce him to Benwick, to swear up and down that he wouldn’t mind the two of them dating, and then scare them off before Charlie even had a chance to explore the connection.
“Sorry, I—” He gets off the barstool to give Charlie a bit more space. “You probably wanted a chance to chat with them, see if you two hit it off. I can go get them—”
“Nick, no!” Charlie reaches out and grabs his wrist, and his skin comes alive under Charlie’s touch. “If I’m being honest,” he says, speaking low so no one overhears, “I don’t think Benwick and I were ever going to work out. It’s pretty clear they’re not over their ex.”
Nick tries and fails to wipe the triumphant grin off his face. “That’s a shame.”
Charlie shrugs and takes a few gulps of his pint. The little bit of foam gets washed away, and Nick mourns the opportunity to kiss it off his lips. “What can you do? Love’s a stubborn little bitch.”
“How stubborn?” The question escapes him before he can put any real consideration into it, so a flash of fear shoots through him as soon as the words are said. Charlie takes the words in, weighing them, and Nick realises with a thrill that the question doesn’t puzzle him at all. When he blinks at the pint in his hands and then buys himself some time with more sips, it’s a confirmation. Charlie understands.
Nick licks his lips before he continues. “Stubborn enough to last since secondary school, maybe?”
Charlie looks up at him, and oh, there are cracks in the dam. It’s about to crumble.
__________________
When the tiny car pulls up to the pavement, Tao is almost too apologetic that his clumsy, drunken thumbs failed to order an Uber big enough for the five of them. Isaac takes the passenger seat without waiting for a debate—“These hips don’t do well squished in the backseat!”—and leaves the four of them to work out a configuration.
Nick and Charlie refuse to look at each other as they each make suggestions that are shot down as soon as they’re offered.
“Can’t Elle sit on Tao’s lap?”
“There’s no way I’d fit, I’m too tall!”
“Should we order another Uber?”
“Do we look like we’re made of money?”
“Maybe one of us should just walk to the AirBnB.”
“No, we should stick together as a group!”
And for two people who claim to be completely sloshed, Elle and Tao clamber into the backseat with remarkable haste, leaving only one available seat. “Oh, come on!” Tao shouts at them from inside the car. “It’s only ten minutes away, and Charlie’s light as a feather. Just sit on Nick’s lap!”
Oh, God.
Charlie has sat on Nick’s lap before. The couch in their flat holds three people on a good day, and for plenty of the film nights and parties they’ve hosted over the years, Nick’s allowed Charlie to squeeze halfway between the arm of the sofa and his lap to finish off a film, especially if they share a bowl of popcorn. Nick is an affectionate person. It’s not unheard of.
But this would be the first time Charlie sat on his lap since Nick had the revelation that he wanted his best friend carnally and repeatedly.
The ten minutes spent in the Uber are the most harrowing of Nick’s life. And it doesn’t help that once Charlie settles onto his lap, crouching under the low ceiling of the car but trying to maintain a polite distance from Nick’s chest, Tao takes one of Nick's arms and forces it around Charlie’s hips like a slap bracelet. “The poor bloke’s got no seatbelt, Nelson!” he says. “The least you could do is protect our Charlie boy and hold on tight!”
“Nick,” Charlie says, his voice a strained whisper, “you don’t have to.”
But what is Nick supposed to do? Risk Charlie flying through the windshield in the event of a car crash? Sure, these Lyme Regis roads look empty, but one never knows. “He’s right,” he concedes, and then he locks his arms around Charlie’s middle. “Got to keep you safe.”
He can’t see Charlie’s face, but he can hear the smirk in his reply. “My hero.”
The car lurches forward, and the force of it presses Charlie’s back against his chest, practically a vacuum seal. Nick takes long, deep breaths in through his nose, out through his mouth. Up close, he can smell the sun on Charlie’s skin, the faint trace of sweat that clings to the curls on the back of his neck. There’s a line of slightly sunburnt skin above his collar that Charlie would never admit is there—“I don’t burn, Nicholas, I tan”—and Nick is distracted by it. Or rather, he chooses to be distracted by this, and not by the fact that Charlie’s arse—the arse made infamous by a Primark changing room and red pleather trousers—is right on top of his dick.
In through your nose, out through your mouth… Do not pop a stiffy while Charlie is on your lap…
It isn’t working.
Nick tries not to draw attention to how he shifts in his seat, trying to put Charlie’s weight on his thigh rather than his groin, and Charlie winces. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Don’t mean to crush you.”
Like I’d fucking mind. “You’re not crushing me, Char, I’m just getting comfortable.”
“Yeah, don’t worry, Charlie!” Elle says brightly. “Nick’s very comfortable, aren’t you, Nick?”
Nick’s face is mostly obscured by Charlie’s hair, so Elle misses the glare he sends her way. And then he’s caught up in the smell of his shampoo and decides it would be much nicer to suffocate—death by eucalyptus—than to spend the next few minutes fuming at their oblivious friends.
“…might be able to afford a Sony FX3,” Tao prattles from the middle seat, “so I can stop filming my short films on my fucking iPhone.”
Elle laughs. “Sweetheart, those cameras are like, three grand. We’re getting five hundred quid max, and then we have to split the kitty.”
“Did you guys come into some money, or something?” Charlie asks—really more like squeaks—and it’s enough to pull Nick’s focus from the spot behind his ear that he wants to graze his with his teeth.
Both Elle and Tao sit silent, as though caught out. “Yeah, I—I received a modest inheritance,” Tao chokes out. “From my aunt.”
“I didn’t know you had an aunt,” Charlie says.
“Yes, well, neither did I,” says Tao, “so you can imagine what a surprise the inheritance was.”
Isaac snorts from the front seat. “Cheating. Absolutely cheating.”
“Oh, like you wouldn’t if things had broken your way!” Elle tells him off.
“Sorry, he’s cheating because his mysterious aunt died and left him an inheritance?” asks Charlie.
Elle reaches across the seat and pats Charlie on the knee, and Nick holds his breath, because even the slightest downward pressure just inches Charlie’s arse toward his groin and the obvious heat coming from it. “Don’t worry about it, babes, we’re all drunk. We have no idea what we’re talking about. Besides, we’re almost to the AirBnB!”
He thinks relief is on the way. The Uber slows as it pulls up to a cottage. When Charlie opens the door and all but collapses onto the pavement in front of it, Nick finally inhales Charlie-free air and feels a mite less intoxicated. He gets out of the car and tries to adjust his shorts behind the shield of his rugby bag while the other three get out of the car and struggle with the keypad to let them into the house.
The keypad should have tipped him off that his woes are far from over, but he’s too busy gathering his resolve. For the past few hours, Nick’s been operating strictly from his dick. (Well, that’s not true. He suspects that he’s operating, for perhaps the first time in his life, from his heart. But the dick is certainly the more demanding of the two today.) But he cares enough about Charlie to want to work from his head. He’s discovered that he has feelings for Charlie: very romantic, very sexual feelings. But he can’t just spring them on him. He has to get a sense of how well they would be received. Maybe they can talk a bit tonight before bed, or on the train home tomorrow—
Isaac gets the keypad combination right, and the cottage door opens with a blast of arctic air. “Jesus!” Charlie all but shrieks when they file inside and turn on the lights. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit in here!”
Nick looks around. From outside, the cottage looked homey and cosy. But it’s one of those refurbished AirBnBs for American tourists who can’t stand the swelter of summer. Even the furniture inside is a chilly white, and the appliances all gleam. “Damn, Isaac, how much is this place costing us?”
“You’re only paying for your share of one night,” Isaac says as he plops onto the white leather couch. “I wanted to splurge on a seaside holiday, all right?”
“But it wasn’t this cold when we left!” Charlie protests, peeking at the thermostat. “16 fucking degrees?!”
Nick glances down at his arm. He runs hot, especially on days when his blood’s done its fair share of pumping (in more ways than one today, as it turns out), but even he sees the gooseflesh starting to form. And if he’s cold, that means it’s absolutely too cold for Charlie. Any lingering desire is chased out by concern as he does a quick check—Charlie’s wearing a jumper, but he’s in shorts, clutching his upper arms for dear life, dangerously close to a shiver. Without even thinking about it, he reaches into his bag of clean clothes and hands over one of his jumpers.
Tao looks at the thermostat and clicks his tongue. “That’s so weird, I was sure I set it for 22 degrees before we left. Maybe it reset while we were out?” He shakes his head. “These posh AirBnBs, what can you do?”
Charlie takes the offered jumper gratefully and throws it on, pulling the drawstrings so tight that only a bit of curly fluff and his nose are visible in the hood. “Please turn it the fuck up, I’m dying.”
Tao sets the thermostat back to a reasonable temperature, and Nick wonders if it’s a friendly, considerate thing to do to put his arm around Charlie’s shoulder. But he doesn’t have a chance to test it out; Charlie flops onto the couch with Isaac.
Tao turns away from the thermostat and grins. “Right, well, I’m knackered. We’d better get to sleep so we’re up bright and early to explore the town tomorrow.”
“Good point, my dear.” Elle floats through the room, kissing the tip of Charlie’s nose, the top of Isaac’s head, Nick’s cheek. “See you all in the morning.”
“Wait,” says Nick, “which room is mine?”
He might still be a little tipsy, but he swears he sees Elle hide a smile behind her hand, faking a yawn. “Oh, you’re sharing with Charlie, babes.”
Lord have fucking mercy.
“Sorry,” Tao says, sounding not a bit sorry, “but Isaac gets the master bedroom because he’s paying for the lion’s share of the AirBnB, and Elle and I have the other bedroom to ourselves. It just makes sense.”
Nick can’t help the way his voice snaps. “Were there no AirBnBs in Lyme that had four bedrooms?”
Isaac shrugs. “It’s a small town.”
Well, Nick’s not always quick on the draw, but he’s not an idiot. He knows he’s being fucked with. The question is, does Charlie know it, too?
He can’t tell, with his face still buried in the depths of Nick’s hoodie. “Oh, my God, I didn’t even think about it last night,” Charlie says. “I’m so stupid—Nick, go ahead and take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
He drops his bag. “Absolutely fucking not. This is the biggest room in the house. It’ll take the longest to heat back up. I’m not letting you freeze.”
Charlie peeks out one eye from the jumper. “You’re probably exhausted from the match. It wouldn’t be right.”
“For fuck’s sake, just share the fucking bed!” Elle says, exasperated, as she trudges off to her room. “You two are such good friends, it shouldn’t be a fucking problem, now should it?”
Tao opens the door for her, wagging his fingers in a vaudevillian wave before he shuts it behind them. “Good night, everyone! See you in the morning!”
Yep, they’re being fucked with. Isaac doesn’t seem to want to get involved. He just rolls his eyes heavenward, picks up his book, and heads to the master bedroom without saying good night.
Nick eyes the couch. It’s a little small, so he’ll have to curl up to fit on it, and it cannot be denied that he is a sleep sprawler. And that white leather will feel freezing until the cottage heats back up. But he’s willing to brave it, if it means Charlie can snuggle up in a warm bed tonight.
“It’s not a big deal,” he says. “I’ll take the couch tonight. You should head to bed. You’ll feel better when you have the blankets on.”
Slowly, Charlie emerges from the hoodie. “I can’t let you take the couch,” he says. “After the match you played today, God, Nick…” Nick tries not to let the breath catch in his throat at the way Charlie says his name, like the game today was some sort of Olympic achievement and not some dumb invitational in a semi-pro league that matters not at all. “You’ll wake up sore tomorrow, and you won’t be able to enjoy the museum or the Cobb or anything.”
He tries not to let the pique show in his tone. “So I’ll lag behind. Bet Benwick will keep you company.”
“Benwick’s not coming tomorrow.”
“Oh?”
Charlie pulls up his Instagram and scrolls through some messages. “Change of plans, they said. They headed back with the team. It’s just us tomorrow.”
Just us just us just us just us…
“Fuck it,” says Nick, “it’s just one night. We can share the bed, yeah?”
Should he read into Charlie’s expression at all? Are his eyes shining, or is that just Nick’s overly hopeful imagination? “You sure?”
“Of course.” There’s an open door right next to Tao and Elle’s bedroom that he presumes is their destination. Pretending more confidence than he feels, he grabs his bag and hikes it over his shoulder and prepares for the ten most harrowing minutes of his life to become the eight most harrowing hours. “It’s not a big deal. Friends share beds all the time.”
__________________
He keeps the panic at bay when they waddle into the room, not looking each other directly in the eye, and it’s patently clear that it’s the smallest of the bedrooms. Nick doesn’t even have to see the other two to know they’ve been saddled with the postage stamp. And he doesn’t panic when he sees the size of the bed, which would hardly fit him comfortably, much less two people.
Charlie scurries past him, brushing him against the chest as he goes, and reaches for his pyjamas. “I’ll, erm, change in the loo. Gotta brush my teeth, anyway.”
No, none of this scares Nick. It’s only when Charlie leaves and he unzips his own bag that the panic settles in. Because Nick doesn’t wear pyjamas.
It’s mid-June. Nick runs hot. He and Benwick had separate beds at the hotel. There was no reason to think there would be a bed-sharing situation at the AirBnB. Nick was prepared to sleep shirtless (and, if he’s being honest, pants-less too).
His pulse pounds in his ears as he rifles through his clothes. All that he has that’s clean is tomorrow’s outfit, a t-shirt and jean shorts. It’s quite nippy in here, even by Nick’s standards, but he doesn’t fancy wearing denim to bed. Besides, Charlie will definitely clock it as weird, and it’s imperative that he act as normal as bloody possible tonight.
“Loo’s free,” Charlie says, and Nick whirls around with his laundry in hand. Charlie wipes a bit of toothpaste from the corner of his mouth, looking absolutely miserable in his pyjamas, which amount to nothing more than a thin t-shirt and shorts. More coverage than Nick wears to bed, but still leaving him vulnerable to the frigid air in the room. He tilts his head. “Everything okay?”
“Erm—” His mind whirls through a few responses, but there’s still the tail end of the drinks he had at the pub, clinging to his thoughts like fog. “I didn’t, erm, bring any pyjamas.”
Charlie at least looks unsurprised. “Oh, God. I forgot you don’t—”
“Yeah.”
“I think there are more blankets in the linen closet,” he offers. “I can grab some—”
“Oh, I’m not worried about the cold,” Nick says. “I warm up fast, you know that.” God, Nick, why don’t you just pull out the neon sign that says ‘interested and available’? “I just don’t want to make you feel weird, so I’ll just—” He tosses tomorrow’s outfit onto the bed. “Yeah. It’ll be fine.”
Bless him, Charlie snorts. “You’re going to wear jean shorts to bed?”
“Er…yeah?”
He shakes his head and goes to charge his phone. “That sounds bloody awful. You don’t have to do anything differently on my account, Nick. If the cold’s not going to bother you, you don’t have to wear anything to bed.”
Nick does his best not to choke. “Seriously?”
Charlie grins, tosses his phone onto the bedside table, and lifts the edge of the quilt so he can slide his legs under the covers. “I mean, keep your pants on and all that, but it’s fine. I don’t really care.” He hisses when his skin hits the sheets. “Fuck, they’re freezing.”
Nick is slow and methodical as he brushes his teeth, takes off his clothes, and folds them before he puts them back in the bag. If he takes his time, Charlie might be asleep before he gets back to the room. This is, he’s certain, the best case scenario. All he has to do is get under the covers, keep stiff as a board so he doesn’t fall off the bed, and remain as still as possible until dawn.
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror: bare chest, black boxer briefs. Might as well put on a nametag that says Mr. Casanova Slaggington of Sexville. He hurries out of the bathroom before he has to contend with his reflection a second longer. Once they’re both under the blankets, it won’t matter so much.
He’s twice unlucky, because Charlie isn’t asleep yet. The only light in the room comes from the bedside table lamp, and Charlie scrolls through his phone until Nick enters the room. There’s a dreadful second where Charlie looks him square in the chest, and Nick wonders if they can actually pull this off. Then he reaches over to the lamp and says, “Okay if I turn this off?”
“Sure.” Nick closes the door behind him and makes his way to the bed in the dark, feeling for the edge of the quilt. And maybe this will be painless. He lifts the quilt, shoves his body under the covers—Charlie was right, the sheets are fucking frigid—and once his weight settles into the mattress, they’re both still. There’s space between them on the bed. Nick will wait until he hears Charlie snore, and then he can relax. He just has to pray that his cuddling proclivities don’t take over in the night. The last thing he needs is to wake up wrapped around Charlie.
He hears something shifting beneath the sheets repetitively, and there’s no way, no fucking way—never mind. Charlie is just rubbing his upper arms to warm them up. “Still cold?” he asks.
The rubbing pauses. “Er, yeah. Don’t mean to bother you, I just—”
“It’s fine—”
“—can’t believe the house is taking so long to warm up.” He lets out a shaky laugh, but it comes out as more of an exhaled shiver. “I know it was probably an accident, but like… I can’t really regulate my body temperature, yeah? So it’s kind of—”
“I get it.”
A moment passes. Nick stares into the darkness, listening to Charlie resume rubbing his arms. His own gooseflesh has diminished since he got under the covers; Nick wasn’t kidding, he does run hot. Given a few minutes, he’ll be as toasty as a campfire. Charlie’s foot brushes against his, a veritable icicle, and when he hears Nick’s sharp intake of breath, he sighs. “This is ridiculous,” he says, getting out of bed. “I’m putting on a jumper, I can’t do this all night.”
Nick doesn’t know what possesses him. “Char?” His name comes out like more of a croak, and he hears Charlie pause. No choice but to forge ahead. “We could—I mean, I don’t want you to—maybe we could try—?” He clears his throat, offers up a prayer that this sounds as platonic as possible, and says, “We could, erm, huddle up. Under the covers. Just for a little bit.”
He’s grateful for the cover of darkness. He can only see the faint outline of Charlie, so any disgust at his suggestion remains hidden. “Sorry, you want to—have a cuddle?”
“You know I’m like a human furnace. You’d warm up in no time.” He cannot believe the words coming out of his mouth right now, much less how they come across at least halfway reasonable. He almost believes himself.
“While you’re naked?”
So much for reasonable. “You’re right, it was a stupid idea. Forget I said anything.” And even though he can’t see Charlie and Charlie can’t see him, he turns away in bed, facing the closet and screwing his eyes shut tight. “Good night.”
He wills his breathing to slow, his chest to rise and fall in a way that approaches sleep. The sooner he convinces Charlie that he’s unconscious, the better. Has he completely taken leave of his senses today? In what universe does Best Friend Nick slide into bed naked next to Charlie and offer to warm him up? This is just like Nick’s misplaced offer back in May, and just as insulting, as though Charlie can’t brave a little cold air by himself.
Maybe his friends are right. Maybe he’s the sluttiest, slaggiest man alive. He can’t help but turn a friendly overture into a sexual one. Someone ought to put him out of his misery.
Nick nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels Charlie’s cheek against his back, between his shoulderblades. “All right,” he mumbles, “just for a little bit.”
Is that a hallelujah chorus Nick hears? “You sure?” he asks.
“Unless you don’t want to—”
“No, I want to, I want to.” There’s officially no playing it cool at this point. Nick’s certain the desperation in his voice is so apparent that it can be heard from fucking Scotland. He turns over in bed, and the hallelujah chorus descends into hellish screeches as he realises he has to negotiate cuddling with his best friend with no clothes on.
The safest way to do this, he figures, is the old side hug. He lies flat and lifts his arm, and Charlie rests his head on Nick’s pectoral. Nick’s hand comes around and grips Charlie’s upper arm, just below the sleeve. His fingers can just feel the tips of Charlie’s scars, so he’s careful to shift them away the slightest bit so Charlie doesn’t feel self-conscious. He picks up where Charlie left off, rubbing his hand up and down his arm to warm him up.
Charlie lets out a shuddery breath against this chest.
“Better?” Nick asks.
“Much,” he says. “Thank you.”
Nick hums, and his nerves dissipate a bit. This isn’t so bad. If any of their friends walked in right now, they—well, to be honest, they might raise an eyebrow, but that would be it. It’s no worse than they’ve seen before. Charlie’s hands are clasped under his cheek, and though he’s curled toward Nick, their pelvises aren’t in contact. The only points of contact are Charlie’s head, a comfortable weight on Nick’s chest, and Nick’s arm around his shoulders.
Nick resists the urge to lean forward and kiss the crown of his head. God, that shampoo is divine. “I never said thank you,” he says into the darkness.
“What for?”
“For coming all this way to see me,” he says. “I know today’s match wasn’t a big deal, but it meant a lot to me that you came. I always play better when I know you’re watching.”
He feels, rather than hears, Charlie’s laughter rumble into him. “You don’t know how you play when I’m not watching. I’ve never missed a match. Maybe you do better when I’m not around.”
He laughs right back, squeezing Charlie’s shoulder, and something about the motion helps Charlie to relax. Tentatively, he pulls one of his hands out from under his cheek and loops it around Nick’s shoulder. Nick can feel how cold his fingers are, but he doesn’t flinch. One of Charlie’s knees bumps into his beneath the quilt. “I don’t think that’s possible,” he says. “I always feel better when you’re around.” It’s a little too true, too close to home, so he walks it back. “I mean, Jesus. Knowing you were in the stands today made me feel invincible. I don’t think I’ve ever played that well before.”
“You were amazing,” Charlie agrees, and his knee knocks into his again. “You’re always amazing.”
Nick can’t help but tease. “Better than Benwick?”
“Jealous much?”
He takes a deep breath. “What if I was?” he asks softly.
There’s no reply, no sound at all but the sound of their own measured breathing, the crinkle of the silk sheets as the fabric moves with them. He feels Charlie gulp and withdraw his hand. “Erm, Nick?”
“Yes?”
“I’m actually still pretty cold.” His voice is light, almost apologetic. “Do you think we could, erm…?”
Nick can’t fathom what he means or how it pertains to his question, for which he’s still desperate for an answer. Charlie pulls away from him and curls in the opposite direction, and emptiness sinks through Nick at the loss of contact, fear that Charlie’s lack of an answer is the answer.
Charlie says the next part over his shoulder. “Like this, maybe?”
Nick blinks in the dark. “What?”
“Could you…?”
Oh.
“Sure, of course,” he says, and this next bit, he does with surgical precision. First, he slips a careful arm under Charlie’s chest and drapes the other over it, pulling his chest snug against Charlie’s spine. But he keeps his groin angled away. It still feels breathtakingly intimate, his nose practically buried in Charlie’s curls, his lips ghosting over his neck. “This okay?”
Charlie shivers again, and instinctively Nick tightens his arms around him. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Feels nice.”
Nice doesn’t even begin to cover it. Nick can feel Charlie breathing in his embrace, his ribs expanding and contracting like bird’s wings in flight, and the sensation of Charlie so fully alive in his arms drives him insane. Blood rushes south in a swift departure from his brain and faculties, leaving him dizzyingly hard.
“Good,” he says, intoxicated by Charlie’s smell, his heat. “Want to make you feel good, Char.”
Charlie hums; Nick can feel it reverberate in his chest. His foot goes poking around beneath the blankets until it finds Nick’s, and then he slips his foot between Nick’s legs, hooking his angle around until Nick’s legs are pulled a little closer. Dangerously close.
“Char,” he says again.
“Hmm?”
“Why do you come to all my matches?”
He doesn’t expect an answer. Charlie didn’t admit anything in the pub, and he had no response for Nick’s admission a few minutes ago. This is Charlie’s way, tuning out anything he finds unpleasant. But Nick saw how he looked at him in the pub, and better yet, he saw how Charlie looked at him on the pitch. Something is going to break between them tonight whether Charlie wants it to or not.
“Because,” Charlie whispers back, “I can’t not see you, Nick.”
The ankle caught between Nick’s legs tugs again, hard, and Nick is curled around Charlie from head to toe. There’s the smallest space between them where Nick is hard as a fucking rock and aching for him, but unwilling to press the advantage, not yet.
He drags his nose against the back of Charlie’s neck, and this time, when Charlie shivers, Nick knows it’s not the cold. “Char,” he says a final time, “when you told me no, did you mean never?”
He’s not sure which ‘no’ he’s referring to—the ‘no’ back in May, when Charlie refused to sleep with him, or the ‘no’ eight years ago, when Charlie told him they were better off as friends. Maybe he means both. The question doesn’t matter so much as the answer.
Charlie arches his back the slightest bit, gasping a bit when his arse brushes against Nick’s hard-on in his briefs. Nick squeezes his arms tight around him, tight enough to knock all the air out of Charlie’s chest; it’s the only defense he has against pressing back into Charlie’s arse and rutting like an animal.
Charlie lifts his head up so that Nick can just make out his profile, the jut of his nose, his soft lips. “No,” he breathes out, and Nick surges forward, unable to wait any longer. His kiss is a full-fledged attack: his lips insistent on Charlie’s, his arms tight across his chest, his cock pressed tight to Charlie’s arse. The moan that escapes Charlie’s throat is utterly indecent, and it sends Nick into a frenzy.
His hands have eight years’ worth of catching up to do, and the need to map Charlie out is urgent. He lets go of his grip on Charlie's chest and lets his hands roam, tracing the line of Charlie’s neck, the dip of his sternum, the swoop of his waist and curve of his hip. Charlie folds into him, melting beneath his touch as Nick kisses him like he’s drowning. Only when he breaks away, gasping for air, does Nick freeze.
“Oh, God,” Nick says, his breath stuttering in his throat. “Should I—did you not want—I’m so sorry, Char—”
But the noise that escapes Charlie is more a frustrated huff than any sort of frightened noise. He lunges for the bedside lamp, nearly knocking it over in his attempt to reach it, and flicks it on so warm light spills into the frigid room. So Nick can see the positively starving expression on Charlie’s face as he turns back around and throws his arms around his shoulders, threading his fingers in Nick’s hair.
“Jesus, fuck—” His words are cut off when Charlie kisses him back, hard and unrelenting, and it’s such a sinful little paradox that someone with lips as plush as Charlie’s can kiss with such fierceness. He lifts his hands into Charlie’s hair, taking fistfuls of his curls, and Charlie whines into his mouth. He knows he needs to slow down, but the floodgates have burst fucking open. How is he supposed to slow down when Charlie’s making noises like this into his open mouth? When Charlie lets go of his hair and drags his hands down Nick’s chest, clutching at the muscles of his abdomen like they’re rungs on a fucking ladder?
Slowing down is overrated. Nick grabs him by the arse and pulls him closer, breaking off the kiss when he feels Charlie’s cock through the sleep shorts. “Oh, God,” he whispers brokenly. “Is that for me, baby?”
Baby? Where the fuck is this even coming from? It doesn’t matter, because Charlie’s rolling his hips into his, so the heat of him bleeds through the shorts and Nick’s briefs. “F-Fuck,” he cries out. “For you—God, Nick, please—”
He rolls on top of Charlie, one hand still clutching the curls at the back of his head while the other pins down his waist, keeping a rhythm going so their cocks continue to rub each other through the fabric. Charlie’s legs fall open, and Nick’s hand trails down to grab him by the knee and hoist it up to his waist, bringing their hips even closer together. Turning on the light was such a brilliant idea; he gets to watch up close as Charlie’s eyes close and he tosses his head on the pillows, his mouth wrenched open as he pants into Nick’s mouth.
“Do you want this, Char?” he asks, kissing the corner of his mouth. “We can—we can stop, if you don’t want to go further—”
Charlie’s eyes flash open, enraged. “Nick Nelson,” he grinds out, “if you stop touching me, our friendship is officially over!”
Nick just shakes his head and laughs, latching his lips on the underside of Charlie’s chin. A little lower, and he can feel Charlie’s pulse jump beneath his tongue. “Pretty sure the friendship is officially over, regardless.”
Charlie doesn’t quite still beneath him, but his grip on Nick’s hair loosens. “Is—is that okay?”
“God, yes.” Nick slows his kisses down a bit, less filthy, more comforting, as he presses his lips to Charlie’s jaw. The realisation hits him by degrees that he doesn’t know the context of Charlie’s desire. Is he just giving in, caught up in the heat of the moment with his best friend who’s a confirmed slag? Is he tired of being the lone virgin of the friendship and eager to get out of Nick’s lessons—God, the fucking lessons—and sees this as his way out?
Or is there a chance Charlie feels the way Nick feels? Which is hard to parse, considering that Nick isn’t even quite sure what he feels. He just knows that he feels it strongly.
This makes Nick stop. He doesn’t get off Charlie, but he props himself up on his elbows so he can cradle Charlie’s face in his hands. “I, erm—I feel like I should tell you—”
Charlie’s eyes flicker down to his lips, to where their bodies are joined below the waist, and then back up to Nick’s. “Yeah?”
“This isn’t, erm, a one-time thing,” he says thickly. “Not to me. Not when it’s us, Char. Do you understand?”
Charlie nods slowly. “Me too,” he says, and Nick feels his hands grip his shoulders tight. “It’s not—you’re not a one-time thing to me.”
That’ll do. Nick exults in the sigh he extracts from Charlie as he descends on his neck again, dead set on leaving a row of hickeys so obvious you can see them from the bloody moon. Charlie’s fingers dig into his back, pulling him tighter, and despite how cold the room is, Nick’s starting to sweat. He pulls on the hem of Charlie’s shirt. “Can I?”
Charlie nods furiously, and Nick hopes that the next time they do this, he can take time to appreciate the glory that is Charlie shirtless, but that will just have to wait. He needs Charlie close, touching him everywhere possible, so as soon as they toss the shirt aside, Nick wraps his arms under his back and just holds him, chest to chest, smattering kisses on his collarbone. “God, you’re so fucking gorgeous,” he babbles into his skin. “All day long, haven’t been able to think of anything else—”
Charlie keens above him, and his nails dig little crescent moons into Nick’s shoulderblades. “Nick, please, please…”
He doesn’t know what Charlie’s asking for, but he’s desperate to give it to him. He scoots up on the bed so their bodies are aligned again and goes back to rolling his hips down into Charlie’s, twining their hands together and pushing Charlie’s down into the pillows on either side of his head. He wants Charlie to feel surrounded by him, held from every angle. Every little twitch feels like heaven: the flex of Charlie’s palms under his, the stutter in his chest with each kiss, the weak little pumps of his hips as he tries to chase the motion Nick’s started between them.
He’s just discovered a new addiction, and he hopes Charlie’s amenable. He can’t imagine a day going forward that he doesn’t get to experience this. “Can I touch you?” he asks between kisses, and Charlie laughs into his lips.
“Aren’t you doing that already?”
Nick rolls his eyes and lets go of one of Charlie’s hands, dragging his index finger along the inside of Charlie’s forearm, over the mound of his bicep to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, then down his chest until he’s petting the hairs below his belly button. “Down here, baby,” he clarifies. “Is that something you want?”
Charlie bites his lip—God, does he have the faintest idea the effect that has on Nick??—and nods. “D-Do whatever you want,” he says. “Whatever you think will feel good. I—I trust you, Nick.”
It’s such a simple sentence, but it bowls Nick over. That Charlie trusts him enough to offer himself up to him, vulnerable but confident, is a gift he never imagined receiving. He doesn’t intend to waste it. His hand slips under the elastic of his shorts, past his briefs, and he strokes one finger against Charlie’s pulsing cock. Charlie rears up, surprised at his own reaction to the touch, and Nick claims his mouth with his own, drinking down Charlie’s muffled sounds of rapture as he pushes the shorts down his hips and wraps a hand around his cock.
“Do you like that, love?” Nick has no idea where ‘love’ came from—probably the same territory that ‘baby’ escaped from—but it feels right. “Does it feel good?”
Charlie’s nod is so frantic it almost breaks Nick’s nose. “Nnngh, yes, Nick! Please don’t stop, it feels so good, so, so good—”
Nick knows this isn’t going to last. He’s been throbbing in his briefs practically since he got into bed with Charlie, and if Charlie’s noises are anything to go by, this is about to be over quickly. This closeness, this in-tuneness with Charlie sends him reeling, and he doesn’t care that this won’t last long. The intensity of it is nearly too much to bear anyway. He lets go of Charlie’s cock, ignoring Charlie’s whimper of protest, and shoves his briefs down so he can pull his own cock out and line them both up in his palm.
When Charlie realises what he’s doing, he wails. “Oh, my fucking God!” One of his hands lets loose from Nick’s hair and smacks the wall behind him in his attempt to reach for the headboard. “Jesus fucking Christ, that’s—”
“Yeah?” Nick grunts. This would go a lot better with lube, but they’re so past that at this point. He spits into his hand and wraps it around their cocks, stroking them together, and the silky slide of Charlie’s cock against his is enough to bring him close to the edge. “You like that, gorgeous? Feels good?”
“Feels so good,” Charlie moans, and now he has a decent grip on the headboard, so Nick doesn’t hold back. “Holy shit, holy fucking shit, I didn’t know—I had no idea—”
“Gonna make you feel good, love,” Nick promises, trying to kiss Charlie through it, but his mouth is caught in a silent scream of pleasure, so he opts for his neck again. “Gonna make you feel this good every day, every fucking night, if you’ll let me—”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Charlie gasps loud enough that Nick is vaguely aware that someone might hear them, but he’s so beyond caring. Charlie’s legs scrabble against the sheets as he pushes his hips up into Nick’s grip, trying to fuck into his hand just a little faster and harder, and Nick obliges him. “God, Nick, every day, every night, whenever you want, whatever you want, it’s yours, it’s always been yours—”
“I’m close,” he grits out, his head falling to the pillow. “God, so fucking close, please tell me you’re close, love.” Charlie’s lost the ability to speak. Nick feels him nodding, feels his legs shake, and he knows he's right there with him. “Oh, God, I’m going to cum,” Nick whispers into the pillow, “I’m going to—God, I love you, I love you so fucking much, Charlie—”
He doesn’t know if it’s the way he spills into his hand, coating Charlie’s stomach with cum, or the words—words he had no idea he was going to say, much less that he felt—but Charlie’s only a second behind. He cums with a cry that he tries to muffle with his hand, but Nick pulls it away at the last second, because he wants to be able to hear what Charlie sounds like when he orgasms, and he doesn’t care if it wakes up the entire damn house. He wants to burn this sound into his memory.
And then he collapses onto Charlie. He knows it’s poor form to crush a partner after sex, and that it will leave a mess between them, but he physically cannot move another muscle. His orgasm knocked the air out of him and sapped the energy from every nerve in him. He breathes heavily into the pillow, only slightly aware of how Charlie continues to clutch at him and hold him close, like he’s afraid of what will happen when they let go.
Nick knows the feeling.
I love you so fucking much, Charlie.
Ideally, he might have liked a bit more time to think about it, at least to think about how he wanted to reveal this to Charlie. He doesn’t want him to think they’re just words that popped out in the heat of the moment, signifying nothing. But they’re not untrue. They’re actually the truest thing Nick knows. Today was the greatest day of his entire life, and it might not look that memorable from the outside: a seaside holiday with friends, a rugby invitational, drinks at the local pub, and a handjob that didn’t last that long, all things considered. But it was the greatest day of his life because of the way Charlie made him feel throughout the entire thing.
Nick is head over heels in love with his best friend, Charlie Spring. And part of him feels, without knowing how or why, that today could have gone very differently, that their relationship might have progressed very differently, might have taken more painful turns for them to come to this moment. Instead, his only challenge is convincing Charlie that he meant what he said.
When Nick reluctantly pulls their bodies apart, and they look down at the cum splattered between them, he sees a flash of fear in Charlie’s eyes. “Hey, hey,” he whispers soothingly, kissing his forehead, “it’s all right. I’m going to get a flannel to clean us up, okay? I’ll be right back.” He kisses him again for good measure, carefully pulls his briefs up, and hustles to the loo so he can wipe his chest off.
This time, when he looks at himself in the mirror—his mussed up hair, the nail marks on his back—he can’t help but grin at his reflection. He opens the drawers until he finds little towels, wets one with warm water, and cleans himself off as best he can. Then he wets another and brings it back to the bedroom.
Charlie’s sitting up in bed, fighting hard to keep a neutral, unafraid expression on his face. Nick closes the door behind him and hands the flannel over so Charlie can wipe himself off. Nick perches on the edge of the bed while he finishes up and slides his shorts back up his hips. “This isn’t exactly…what I expected today,” Charlie says, trying for a joke. He tosses the flannel onto the floor, where it lands on top of his discarded shirt.
Nick can’t help but note that Charlie is no longer shivering. “Told you I’d warm you up.”
Charlie smacks him on the arm, but he’s smiling. “I, erm…what you said, when you…”
He hesitates, and he sees Charlie’s face fall in defeat. “I meant it,” he rushes to say. “Charlie, I absolutely meant it. I would never joke about it. I only—God, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you doubt it, I just—”
“Just what?” Charlie asks in a tight voice.
He lies back on the end of the bed. “I went about it all wrong. It’s taken me so long to realise what was right in front of my fucking nose, and when I figured it out today—when I knew how I felt about you—I should have made a plan. Should’ve waited until we got home, found a way to tell you how I feel about you in a romantic way. Grand fucking gesture, and all that. And oh, God.” He covers his face with his hands. “That was your first time, Charlie, and I should have been gentle with you, should have been checking in to make sure you were okay—and I basically just humped you like a goddamn teenager. You deserved better than that.”
“Let me get this straight.” Charlie leans over and pries one of Nick’s fingers away from his eyes. “You meant what you said. You—you do love me.”
He nods solemnly. “I do.”
“And you’re just upset that—that you wanted me so badly that you had to have me? Couldn’t wait another day?”
“Correct.”
Charlie’s laughter has an actual, honest to God quality of light about it. Nick swears the room illuminates when it comes out of him. “Nick!” he says in that breathy, faux-embarrassed way that Nick wants to live and die hearing. “Why are we like this?”
He removes his hands and smiles. “By ‘this,’ I hope you mean ‘mutually in love with each other.’ Because if I just put all that out there and all you wanted was a quick and dirty shag in the AirBnB, I’m going to take a nap in traffic.”
Charlie squeals and flops down on the bed, burying his face in Nick’s shoulder. “You’re such a dork,” he says.
“Oi! Me the dork?”
“Translation,” Charlie says, “I love you, too. Never stopped. Like, I’ve been pining for an embarrassingly long time, waiting for you to notice me.”
Nick waggles his eyebrows. “Embarrassingly long time, you say?”
“Shut up, Mr. Nap in Traffic.” Charlie wraps his arms around Nick and presses a kiss to the tapered edge of his collarbone.
“Char?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want to go out sometime? On a date?”
He feels Charlie sigh into his neck. “Yeah, Nick. I’d like that.”
“Cool.” He shuffles over so he can put his hands on Charlie’s waist, brush their noses together, and hopefully—pending the next response—get another kiss. “Hey, Char?”
Charlie grins against his lips. “Yeah?”
“Can we be boyfriends?”
“Oh, my God, Nick.” Before he goes in for the kiss, Charlie pauses and perks his head up. “Do you hear that?”
Nick has done a remarkable job tuning out everything that isn’t Charlie-related, but now that Charlie mentions it, he hears the muffled strains of “We Are the Champions” by Queen through the walls. And there is screaming. Two distinct screams—Tao’s and Elle’s.
“We fucking did it! We won the fucking bet! Pay up, bitches! We’re going to Bali!”
“Tao, again—five hundred quid! We’re not going to Bali!”