And Charlie, in turn, showed up for Nick. When Nick’s own father dismissed his bisexuality with a wave of a hand (“It’s just a phase, Nicholas”), Charlie was the one who drove two hours to Nick’s dad’s house, sat in the car, and held Nick’s hand while he cried. He didn’t try to fix it. He just stayed.
I’m an idiot. No, I’m worse. I’m a coward. The day I walked away, I didn’t go home. I walked to the beach. I sat on the cold sand and I thought about every second I’ve known you.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Nick’s temple.
“Are we okay?”
“I can’t do this anymore,” Nick blurted, not looking at him.
“Yeah, Nick,” he whispered. “We’re more than okay.”
Charlie set his book down. He looked around the cluttered flat—at the pile of Nick’s rugby kit, at his own drumsticks on the coffee table, at the framed photo of them on Brighton beach, Nick’s arm around Charlie, both of them grinning like idiots in the rain. Nick and Charlie
Charlie knew he was in trouble the night Nick fell asleep on his shoulder during a movie marathon at Charlie’s house. His mum had taken a photo. Charlie’s heart had become a trapped bird, thrashing against his ribs. He was falling, and there was no one to catch him.
When they broke apart, Nick rested his forehead against Charlie’s. The world rushed back in—whispers, a wolf whistle, the bell ringing.
It read: Charlie,
Nick saw Charlie. He didn’t hesitate. He walked forward, closed the distance, and cupped Charlie’s face in his hands.
“Why did you do that?” Charlie whispered, backing against a filing cabinet. “You’ll get in trouble. You’ll—you’re Nick Nelson. You don’t have to fight for me.”
Nick finally met his eyes, and they were brimming with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Charlie.” And Charlie, in turn, showed up for Nick