Chapter Text
The bass thrums through the floor of the club, pulsing like a second heartbeat in Nick’s chest.
Sweat slicks his brow, the lights strobe gold and red, but he barely notices anything—because all he can see is Charlie.
Charlie, out on the dance floor, wrapped in shadow and flickering color, moving like sin incarnate.
His shirt clings to him, half unbuttoned, collarbones catching the light like they were dipped in gold. Sweat beads along the curve of his neck, slipping down to vanish beneath the fabric that hugs his chest. Charlie moves like a secret meant just for him—hips swaying slow and deliberate, a rhythm that makes Nick forget how to breathe. One hand drifts through his curls, messy and damp, and Nick’s fingers twitch with the want to do the same.
Every now and then, Charlie throws a glance over his shoulder—teasing, curious, maybe even searching—and every single time it lands like a punch to Nick’s chest. His heart stutters, because what if Charlie is looking for him? What if that look, that softness in his eyes, is meant for him and not just the room?
Nick can’t stop watching. He’s past the point of pretending. He’s always been weak for Charlie, but like this? Loose limbed, wild haired, glowing with something untouchable? He’s stunning. Like some beautiful, brazen dream—dancing just out of reach. And Nick’s whole body aches with it.
He wants to hold him. Not just the way you do in dark corners of crowded rooms. He wants to kiss him slow in the soft hours of the morning. To pull him close when the world is too much. To be the one Charlie calls when he’s tired or proud or just wants to talk about nothing for an hour. Nick wants everything—the silly texts, the sleepy cuddles, the arguments about takeout. He wants to be his boyfriend. God, he’d be a good one. He knows he would.
But all he can do is stand here and stare, pinned in place by his own fear. Because saying it—saying I want you, I love you —could ruin everything. Could shatter the beautiful thing they already have.
And still, his eyes never leave Charlie. How could they?
Nick is still frozen near the bar, clutching a drink he hasn’t touched, jaw tight, eyes locked onto the boy he’s loved since he was fifteen.
He’s never seen Charlie like this.
Unapologetic. Beautiful. Devastating.
And so far out of reach.
“You look like you’re in actual pain.”
Nick startles, turning to find Elle beside him, sipping a bright cocktail and raising an eyebrow.
“I’m fine,” he lies.
Elle snorts. “You’re tragically obvious, Nick.”
Nick’s heart stutters. “What?”
“You stare at him like he holds the stars in his hands. You think no one’s noticed, but we have. All of us.”
Nick opens his mouth. Closes it again. His lips part like the beginning of a confession, but nothing comes out. Because what could he say? That she’s wrong? That he doesn’t feel that way? The words wouldn’t land. They’d taste like lies.
Elle doesn’t wait. She never has. Her voice stays soft, but there’s steel in it—like she’s holding something fragile and doesn’t want to break it, but also won’t let it hide anymore.
“You know how he takes his tea,” she says. “You know he arranges his books by color when he’s anxious. You know he hates his middle name, the brand of toothpaste he loves and the one he absolutely hates, and how he never finishes a movie without crying—even if it’s Shrek.”
Nick blinks. Once. Twice. Like she’s cracked something wide open in him, and the light is blinding.
Because she’s right. God, she’s so right.
He knows Charlie better than he knows himself most days. He notices the tiniest shifts in his moods—the way his jaw tightens when he’s overwhelmed, the exact shade of pink his ears turn when he’s embarrassed or flustered or trying to hide that he’s happy. He knows Charlie’s laugh—the real one, the rare one that sounds like joy bubbling up too fast to be contained. He knows the softness of his voice when he talks about people he loves. He knows every version of Charlie, and he’s in love with all of them.
“You love him,” Elle says gently, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “And he’s putting on a show for you tonight.”
Nick turns his head. He can feel his pulse in his neck, his wrists, his teeth. It roars in his ears like waves crashing down.
He finds Charlie on the dance floor—and this time, he really sees him.
Charlie’s eyes flick to his. They linger.
The bass drops. The roll of Charlie’s hips matches the beat—fluid, confident, sinfully beautiful. And then—God—his hand drags slow and deliberate down his chest, and he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. It’s not a performance for the crowd. It’s a message. A challenge. A hope.
Nick swallows hard. It feels like there’s a match lit in his chest and someone’s holding it just close enough to hurt.
Elle leans in again, voice quieter this time. “If you wait any longer, someone else will take the chance you’re too scared to.”
Nick doesn’t answer. He can’t. Because all the words in the world are crushed beneath one overwhelming truth:
He doesn’t want anyone else to see Charlie like this.
He wants to be the one Charlie dances for.
He wants to be his.
Nick’s pulse roars in his ears.
It’s deafening—like the world’s gone quiet just so he can hear the truth pounding through his veins.
He stares at the half empty glass in his hand. Then—without another thought—he knocks the rest back in one swallow. The drink burns on the way down, but he barely feels it. He sets the glass aside, a sharp clink against the table, and turns toward the dance floor like a man walking into a storm.
Because he’s done. Done watching from the edge of things. Done pretending this isn’t tearing him apart, loving someone who’s so close and still feels just out of reach. He’s going to do something about it. He’s going to tell Charlie. Finally. And maybe it will ruin everything. Maybe it’ll shatter their friendship and break his heart in the process—but for once, Nick wants to believe that happiness is worth the risk.
He takes one step forward.
Then stops.
“What if you’re wrong?” he says quietly, not turning back toward Elle but feeling her at his side anyway. “What if… what if I’m just imagining it all? And he’s just being—Charlie. Flirty, affectionate, impossible to read. And I confess, and he’s like, ‘Oh. Um. Sorry, I don’t see you that way,’ and then I lose everything.”
Elle sighs, and he can hear the fond exasperation in it. “You really are dumb for someone so smart.”
Nick glances at her, half scowling. “Wow. Thanks.”
She steps in front of him, blocking his view of Charlie with a look that dares him to argue. “Do you honestly think I’d push you toward him if I didn’t know for sure he wants you to make a move?”
Nick hesitates. His voice drops, quiet with fear he doesn’t want to admit to. “But how sure are you? Like, sure sure? Not just reading vibes and hoping for the best?”
Elle’s face softens.
“Nick,” she says, eyes kind but fierce, “Charlie Spring has been in love with you since sixth form.”
Nick’s breath stutters.
“He told me,” she continues. “A while ago. Actually—years ago. But he never said anything because he thought he didn’t have a chance. That you were straight, or confused, or just… not into him like that. And then when you came out, he still didn’t say anything, because he thought, why would Nick Nelson ever fall for someone like me?”
Nick blinks. “He said that?”
Elle nods, smiling a little like she wants to throttle them both. “Direct quote. And I told him he was an idiot, because anyone with eyes can see the way you look at him. But you weren’t making a move, and he wasn’t either, so we’ve just all been sitting here—suffering—through this endless tension and mutual pining and heart eyes and tragically repressed desire.”
Nick groans, burying his face in his hands.
“Wait, wait,” Elle says, grabbing his wrist and tugging it down so she can see his face again. “I’m not done.”
He lifts his head.
“Charlie told me earlier tonight—tonight—that he was going to pull out all the stops. That he was going to try every trick he could think of to get your attention. The shirt. The hair. The dancing. He said—and again, direct quote—‘If he doesn’t get it tonight, I give up. Maybe he’s just not into me.’”
Nick’s heart drops to his stomach.
“He said that?” he repeats, faintly horrified.
Elle raises an eyebrow. “Yes, Nicholas. So while you were standing over here having an emotional crisis and clutching your drink like it held the answers to the universe, Charlie was on that dance floor doubting himself. Thinking that maybe you just weren’t interested.”
Nick feels sick. And furious with himself.
“So,” Elle says, stepping aside, “if you don’t get your ass out there and do something, he’s going to start convincing himself that he needs to move on. And then I will never know peace, because you two will be walking around all sad and mopey and ‘we missed our chance’ and I’ll have to hear about it forever.”
Nick gives her a look. “You’re so dramatic.”
She shrugs. “Pot, meet kettle. You love him, he loves you, and we’re all exhausted. So fix it.”
Nick stares at her, heart thudding, adrenaline coiled tight in his chest.
He turns toward the dance floor again. Charlie is still dancing, a little more subdued now, like maybe the weight of his hope is starting to drag. His eyes flicker up—and land on Nick. Just for a second. Just long enough for that flicker of doubt to shadow them.
Nick steps forward.
This time, he doesn’t stop.
Nick moves through the crowd like it isn’t even there.
All he can see is Charlie.
The lights shift and stutter, shadows flickering across Charlie’s skin like candlelight. His curls are damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, and his shirt—still half unbuttoned—glows soft white under the rotating lights. He’s beautiful. Not just in the aesthetic way. In the way that makes Nick’s heart feel like it’s being crushed gently, reverently, by something too big for his chest to hold.
Their eyes meet—and this time, really meet—and Nick watches Charlie’s lips part, barely, like he’s surprised. Hope flickers there. Fragile. Flickering. But alive.
Nick doesn’t break the stare. Doesn’t blink. Every step closer feels like shedding a layer of fear. Every step closer, Charlie straightens a little, like maybe—maybe—this is finally happening.
Nick is close enough to smell him now. That familiar mix of something clean and soft, and warm like skin under sun. It makes Nick dizzy with want.
He leans in just enough that his voice doesn’t have to rise above the beat.
“Would you like to dance with me?”
Charlie doesn’t answer right away. His lashes flutter. His breath catches. But then, slowly, he nods—and that smile, the shy one, the one that could end wars, unfurls across his face.
As if on cue, the music shifts. The beat softens, slows, deepens—like the night itself is leaning in to give them room.
Nick reaches for Charlie’s hand. Their fingers brush, and it’s electric—so much warmth in that tiny touch, so much history and longing. Charlie lets Nick guide him, his other hand hovering uncertainly until Nick takes it and places it—gently, deliberately—on his shoulder. Then Nick’s hands settle on Charlie’s waist, firm and careful, pulling them closer, until their bodies align in a way that makes Nick’s knees go weak.
Charlie exhales softly, his hands coming to rest on Nick’s back, tentative at first—then gliding up and down in slow, uncertain strokes, like he can’t help himself.
Nick leans in, nuzzles his nose to Charlie’s shoulder. He breathes in, slow and deep, overwhelmed. Then, impossibly tender, he lets his nose trail upward—over the curve of Charlie’s neck, through the soft curl at the base of his hairline—until it lands at his ear.
And when he speaks, it’s not a whisper.
It’s worship.
“You look…” Nick swallows, voice thick. “You look so beautiful tonight. But you always do. Every single day.”
Charlie shudders in his arms, trembling just slightly, breath hitching against Nick’s throat.
“I notice everything about you, Charlie. The way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love. The way you laugh when you think no one’s watching. The way you get quiet when you’re overwhelmed, but still try to be brave.”
Charlie’s grip tightens at Nick’s back. He presses a little closer, like he’s afraid to fall if he lets go.
Nick continues, voice lower, reverent. “I’m so fucking in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for so long I can’t even remember what it feels like not to be. And I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to tell you. I was scared. I didn’t want to mess up what we have. But I can’t keep pretending. I want everything with you.”
Charlie makes a soft sound—half sigh, half gasp—and his forehead drops to Nick’s shoulder. His breath ghosts over Nick’s skin, hot and shaky.
Nick presses his lips just below Charlie’s ear. “I want to kiss you. I want to hold you. I want to make love to you—not just tonight, but always. Every way you’ll let me.”
Charlie pulls back just enough to look him in the eye. His cheeks are flushed. His lips are slightly parted, and his eyes—God, his eyes are glowing.
“I love you too,” he whispers, and it’s like the whole world exhales. “I’ve loved you for so long, Nick. I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same.”
Nick smiles, soft and aching and full of something raw. “I do. I do, Charlie.”
They don’t kiss—not yet. They just hold each other there on the dance floor, swaying gently in the middle of a world that’s finally shifted into place.
Then Nick leans in again, voice low and thick with promise.
“Come home with me?”
Charlie nods, eyes never leaving his. “Yes.”
And then, finally, Nick kisses him.
It starts slow—so achingly slow. The kind of kiss that isn't just a kiss, but a confession. A culmination. A crack in the universe that opens wide and swallows him whole.
Charlie’s lips are soft and warm, and the second they meet his, Nick’s brain flatlines. He forgets where they are, forgets his name, forgets the beat of the music still thumping somewhere behind them. There is only this—Charlie’s mouth on his, the taste of him, the feeling of something falling into place in his chest like a lock finally turned.
Nick thinks he might die.
He thinks—Oh. It’s you. It’s always been you.
He presses in closer, one hand curling around Charlie’s waist, the other finding its way into his curls, tugging gently like he’s afraid Charlie might vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. And Charlie—Charlie—kisses him back with the kind of hunger that makes Nick’s knees buckle, his pulse roar like thunder in his ears.
It takes every ounce of control he has not to push Charlie up against the nearest wall, not to grip his thighs and pull him up, wrap him around his waist, and carry him straight into the bathroom and devour him.
Because he’s thought about this. God, he’s thought about this.
So many nights, lying in bed with a hand between his legs, whispering Charlie’s name into the dark . So many times he’s come with Charlie’s face in his mind, Charlie’s voice in his ears, Charlie’s lips burned into the backs of his eyelids.
No one else has ever compared.
Not even close.
He’s tried—God knows he’s tried. Hookups lined up in dating apps, smiles across pubs, the girl at that house party in first year who kissed him against the door and said she wanted him—and he wanted to want her, he did. But then her mouth pressed to his, and all he could see was Charlie. All he could feel was the emptiness of kissing someone who wasn’t him.
He’d left. Every time. Run away like a coward, heart aching with guilt and longing, because how could he let anyone else touch him, taste him, when his body has always belonged to Charlie?
And now, with Charlie pressed close to him—trembling slightly, hands sliding down his back like he’s trying to memorize the shape of him—Nick breaks the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against Charlie’s, breathing hard, lungs pulling at the air like he’s been underwater for years.
“Fuck, Charlie,” he murmurs, voice cracked and trembling. “You don’t know, how long I've dreamed this.”
Charlie blinks up at him, dazed, lips red and kiss bitten, pupils blown wide.
Nick swallows, chest heaving. “You don’t know how many times I’ve—” His voice catches, but he keeps going, because this is it. The moment. All cards on the table. “How many times I’ve touched myself thinking about you. About your mouth. Your voice. The way you look at me like I’m something good.”
Charlie’s breath stutters. His hands slide a little lower, fingertips grazing the dip of Nick’s spine.
“I couldn’t even imagine anyone else,” Nick whispers, desperate now. “I tried. I tried, Charlie. There were chances. So many. Girls. Guys. Beautiful people who wanted me, and I just—” His eyes flutter shut. “I’d see your face. And I couldn’t do it.”
Charlie exhales a soft, broken sound.
“There was this week,” Nick continues, the memory punching through him, “when Tao told me you’d gone on a date. Just casually, like it was nothing. And I smiled. I acted like it didn’t matter. Then I disappeared for days. Couldn’t get out of bed. Couldn’t eat. I thought I’d lost you. Thought you’d kissed someone else and realized you didn’t need me.”
Charlie is shaking his head now, hand cupping Nick’s jaw like he’s trying to ground them both.
“But you called me,” Nick breathes. “You called and said you didn’t like him. That you didn’t even kiss him. And I cried. I cried like an idiot for a solid hour after we hung up because—because I was so relieved.”
Charlie leans in, presses their foreheads together again. “I didn’t want him,” he whispers. “I’ve only ever wanted you.”
Nick’s heart is a live wire in his chest. He kisses Charlie again—deeper this time, more urgent, because he doesn’t want to waste another second of this life pretending.
When they finally break apart, Nick cups Charlie’s face in both hands. Their noses brush. His voice is low, reverent, then he says again.
“Come with me,” he says. “To my room.”
Charlie swallows, lips parting.
“I don’t just want to have you, Charlie. I want to love you. Completely. Every inch of you. Every sound you make. Every scar. Every breath. I want to take my time with you. Worship you.”
Charlie exhales shakily. “Yes,” he whispers. “God, yes.”
They step out into the cool night air, the music still thumping behind them, the pulse of it echoing like a second heartbeat in Nick’s chest. Charlie’s hand is warm in his, grounding him in the surreal, floating feeling that he’s still not quite ready to believe is real.
But as they cross the threshold and the bouncer gives them a lazy nod, Nick hesitates.
He glances back over his shoulder, just once.
Through the doors, the colored lights strobe across familiar faces. He sees Tao slinging an arm around Elle’s shoulder, beaming. Isaac’s got his hands raised in the air like he's conducting a silent symphony. And Elle—Elle’s clutching her chest with one hand and fanning her eyes with the other, laughing and crying at the same time.
When she spots him watching, she gives him a thumbs up. Then, dramatically, she mimes wiping sweat off her forehead and mouths: Finally.
Tao shouts something Nick can’t hear, but from the way he’s fake swooning into Elle’s side, he gets the gist.
Nick grins.
He lifts their intertwined hands and gives them a little wave—half thank you, half promise. Elle blows him a kiss and turns to clink glasses with Tara and Darcy, who are jumping up and down like kids on Christmas morning.
Charlie tugs gently at his hand. “What?”
Nick shakes his head, eyes shining.
“Nothing,” he says, turning back to him. “Just… I think the whole universe is a little bit relieved we finally got our shit together.”
Charlie smirks, leaning in to kiss his jaw. “Took you long enough.”
Nick snorts. “Oi. You were seducing me in slow motion for years.”
“And it worked, didn’t it?”
Nick kisses him quick and soft and breathless.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It really did.”
And they disappear into the night, hand in hand, finally on their way home—together.
They barely speak on the way back.
Not because there’s nothing to say, but because everything’s already been said with eyes, with hands, with the kiss that still lingers between their lips. Their fingers are entwined, and Nick squeezes Charlie’s hand every so often just to make sure he’s real. That this is happening. That he didn’t dream the way Charlie said yes, breathless and beautiful, like he’d been waiting for it too.
By the time they reach Nick’s flat, his heart is battering his ribs. He fumbles the key in the door, and Charlie’s laugh is soft behind him, warm against his neck as he steps close—too close—and Nick exhales shakily.
“Fuck, Charlie—if you keep looking at me like that, I’m not going to make it to the bedroom.”
Charlie’s reply is a half smile, half challenge. “Then don’t.”
But Nick’s already walking backward, tugging him along with a crooked finger. “No. I’ve waited too long. Want to take my time.”
They make it into his room, and for a second, they just stand there. Breathing. Watching each other.
Charlie’s eyes are wide, pupils blown dark, and Nick can feel the tension radiating off him—excitement and nerves and want. Nick steps forward and lifts a hand to Charlie’s face, brushing his thumb across his cheek like he’s fragile, sacred.
“You sure?” Nick asks quietly, even though every cell in his body is screaming for him to close the distance and take. His voice is soft, reverent—like the question is more of a reassurance than a hesitation.
Charlie nods once, but then his fingers twitch where they’re gripping Nick’s. His eyes flick downward—toward his own chest, then arms, as if something unspoken is holding him back.
Nick stills. “Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over Charlie’s knuckles. “Talk to me.”
Charlie’s throat bobs as he swallows, his voice barely above a whisper. “You… you know I have scars.”
Nick nods, already understanding where this is going.
Charlie keeps his gaze locked on the floor, his breathing shallow. “And I’m just—I’ve been nervous you’d see them and like…” His fingers twitch again, slipping from Nick’s. “Be repulsed by them. By me.”
There’s a silence that feels like it splits the air in half. Nick’s heart aches—physically aches—at the vulnerability in Charlie’s voice.
He lifts a hand to Charlie’s jaw, tilting it gently until their eyes meet again. “Charlie. Look at me.”
Charlie does. Barely.
“I have never been repulsed by you,” Nick says, voice thick with emotion. “Not even for a second. Not for a thoughtless breath or a fleeting blink. Not ever.”
He leans in, forehead touching Charlie’s, grounding them both. “You think I don’t know you? You think I don’t love every inch of you already? Scars and all?”
Charlie lets out a shaky breath, and Nick cups his face more fully, thumbs brushing his cheeks like he’s the most precious thing he’s ever held.
“Your scars aren’t something to be ashamed of,” Nick whispers. “They’re just… part of your story. Part of the things you’ve survived. And I don’t want to love only the pretty parts of you—I want all of it. The light, the dark. Every shade in between.”
Charlie blinks rapidly, his lashes catching tears that don’t quite fall.
Nick presses a kiss to one cheek. Then the other.
“I see you, Charlie,” he says, voice breaking just a little. “And I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. Nothing about you could ever push me away.”
Charlie’s chest shudders as he exhales, and he finally leans into the touch, hands coming up to rest on Nick’s chest—over his heart.
“You mean that?” he asks, voice small.
“With everything I am.”
Charlie nods again, but this time it’s sure—anchored. “Then… yes. I’m sure.”
Nick smiles, kisses the corner of his mouth, and whispers, “Thank you for trusting me.”
Then he begins to undress him—not with urgency, but with a kind of reverence. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred. And when the shirt comes off and Nick’s fingers brush over the marks on Charlie’s skin, all he does is kiss them. One by one. Like a benediction.
Charlie closes his eyes. And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like hiding.
That’s all it takes.
Nick kisses him again, and this time it’s messier—needier. Tongues tangling, teeth grazing. Nick groans low in his throat when Charlie tugs at his shirt, and they stumble backward until Nick’s calves hit the bed. Clothes come off in frantic tugs—shirts pulled overhead, fingers slipping at belts and buttons, too desperate to be graceful. Charlie gasps when Nick mouths at his neck, down the slope of his shoulder, sucking a bruise there like a claim.
“Mine,” Nick murmurs against his skin. “You’re finally mine.”
Charlie arches into him, breathing ragged. “Yours.”
They fall to the bed in a tangle of limbs, and for a moment, Nick just looks.
Charlie’s bare beneath him—flushed and trembling, chest heaving, hair wild on the pillow. He’s so beautiful it hurts. Olive skin stretched over lean muscle, the soft curve of his stomach rising and falling, his thighs spread just enough to show he wants this, wants him.
Nick runs a hand down his side slowly, reverently.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” he says, voice hoarse. “So many times. Thought about what it would be like to touch you like this. To see you like this. And every time, it wasn’t even close to how perfect you are.”
Charlie reaches up and cups his face, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. “Then show me. Show me what you dreamed.”
Nick kisses him again, softer this time, sinking into it. He trails kisses down Charlie’s chest, mouthing at his nipples until Charlie gasps, hips twitching. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. His hands are everywhere—stroking down arms, over ribs, gripping his hips. Charlie’s thighs tremble when Nick kisses his inner knee, then higher.
He works them both open slowly—emotionally and physically.
Nick’s hands tremble slightly as they skim over Charlie’s skin, reverent and aching, as if he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to touch him like this. Every kiss is slow, deliberate, meant to be felt in the marrow. He presses them to Charlie’s collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the soft space just beneath his ribs. Each one whispered with a vow.
“You’re so beautiful,” Nick murmurs against his skin, lips brushing the edge of a scar with infinite care. “I’ve thought about this a thousand times—dreamt of it. And nothing comes close to the way you feel under my hands.”
Charlie arches into him, breath catching. “Nick…”
“I need you to know,” Nick breathes, kissing down the center of his chest, “this isn’t just about sex for me. It never has been. It’s you. Always you.”
He reaches for the lube, slicks his fingers, and then pauses—eyes locked on Charlie’s, searching. “Tell me if anything’s too much. I’ll stop. I swear.”
Charlie nods, cheeks flushed, breath quick. “I want it. I want you.”
That’s all Nick needs. He lowers his mouth to Charlie’s again—slow, deep, a kiss that burns through years of wanting—and his fingers begin to trace a slow, careful path between Charlie’s legs. He takes his time, coaxing him open with patience and gentle persistence, never once rushing, never once looking away.
Charlie gasps at the first touch, his head falling back, fingers digging into Nick’s shoulders. “Fuck—Nick…”
“I’ve got you,” Nick whispers. “I’ve got you, baby.”
He presses in again, curling his fingers, watching the way Charlie trembles and bites his lip. The way his thighs quiver. His breathing turns ragged, desperate.
Nick is almost shaking with how badly he wants him—how hard it is not to lose control. His cock aches with the need to be inside, but he holds back, teeth gritted, focused only on Charlie’s pleasure.
“Every time I touched myself,” Nick whispers, mouth hovering by Charlie’s ear, “it was always you I was thinking about. Your lips. Your hands, those fucking legs and your ass, Char, your ass it's incredible”
Charlie lets out a shaky sound—half moan, half sob—and wraps his legs around Nick’s waist, pulling him closer.
Charlie’s hands slide down his back, clinging, anchoring, grounding.
“I’ve waited for this,” Nick groans, sliding his fingers out carefully, reaching for the condom. “I’ve waited for you for so long, my love”
When he finally lines himself up and begins to press in—slow, deep, every inch sending sparks up his spine—he lets out a guttural sound he hadn’t known he was holding back. It’s overwhelming, the way Charlie surrounds him. Warm. Tight. Alive.
Charlie moans his name like his voice was practicing just to say it his whole life. “Nick…”
Nick stills once he’s fully inside, forehead pressed to Charlie’s. His voice is wrecked when he speaks. “You feel like—God, Charlie, you feel like ... I don't even know, I'm going to lose it.” Nick chuckles.
Charlie kisses him—messy, open mouthed, full of heat and tears and everything they’ve both been holding in for years.
Nick rocks into him slowly, rhythm syncing with their breath, his hands cradling Charlie’s face like he’s afraid he’ll vanish.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I’ve loved you for so long it hurts.”
Charlie gasps, arching up to meet him, eyes glassy. “I love you too.”
And then they move together—not just bodies, but hearts, breath, soul. Every thrust is a gift. Every moan, a confession. Years of yearning unfolding in the space between them, until nothing exists but this—just Nick and Charlie, together at last, the storm quieting around them.
They shift together, bodies tangled and slick with sweat, moving as one. At some point, Nick rolls them gently onto their sides, never slipping out, never breaking the connection. His chest presses flush against Charlie’s back, one arm curled around his waist, hand splayed over his stomach, pulling him closer—like he needs to feel every inch of him, inside and out.
Charlie’s thigh lifts instinctively, giving Nick room to thrust deeper, and when he does—slow and then rougher—Charlie lets out a strangled cry.
“Nick—fuck—oh my god…”
The sound that escapes Nick’s throat is half growl, half moan. He buries his face in the back of Charlie’s neck, nose dragging across damp curls, lips parted against the curve of his shoulder.
“You feel so fucking good,” he pants, voice wrecked. “So tight around me, so perfect. Fuck, Charlie—I’m losing my mind.”
His thrusts grow deeper, more desperate. The wet sounds of slick skin, lube, and heat fill the air—filthy, obscene—and Nick can feel how wet they are, how his cock slides in and out so easily now, glistening with every movement.
Charlie is babbling—high, broken sounds that barely form words, caught somewhere between pleasure and disbelief.
“Oh god—Nick—I can’t—feels so good, please—don’t stop—don’t—”
“I’m not stopping,” Nick groans, kissing the back of his neck between every thrust. “Never fucking stopping. I’ve waited years for this. You think I’m gonna let you go now? No fucking way.”
Charlie trembles, one hand reaching behind to grab at Nick’s thigh, nails digging in.
“I love you,” Nick says, and he can’t stop saying it, can’t stop anything now. “I love you, I love you—I want to fuck you like this for the rest of my life, I want to wake up inside you every damn morning and fall asleep knowing you’re mine—Jesus, Charlie—you’re mine.”
Charlie lets out a desperate, almost sobbing noise at that, his entire body arching into Nick’s like he’s trying to crawl inside him.
“I dreamed, hoped, about this,” Nick continues, relentless, hips snapping forward. “Every night. My hand wrapped around my cock wishing it was you. Thinking about your mouth, your hands, your voice—fuck, the way you look when you read—”
His rhythm falters as Charlie clenches around him, tight and pulsing and so close.
“Gonna cum,” Charlie gasps, writhing in his arms. “Nick, I—please, please—”
“I’ve got you,” Nick growls. “I’m right here, baby. Let go for me. Cum for me.”
He reaches down between them, wraps his fingers around Charlie’s cock—already leaking, flushed red, twitching with every thrust—and strokes him in time with his hips. It takes barely two pumps before Charlie is coming with a broken cry, his whole body going taut, thighs shaking, back arched against Nick’s chest.
Nick curses, biting down gently on Charlie’s shoulder as the tight pulsing around his cock sends him over the edge. He buries himself deep, hips stuttering, coming with a groan that’s part worship, part devastation.
“Fuck—Charlie—”
They stay like that, bodies locked together, trembling, their breath loud in the quiet aftermath. Nick doesn’t pull out right away. He just holds him, lips moving in soft kisses across his neck, his shoulders, his spine—like gratitude, like reverence.
And when he finally whispers, “I’m yours,” Charlie reaches back and touches his hand, still panting, but smiling through the aftershocks.
“I’ve always been yours.”
They lie there in silence for a long moment, tangled up in each other, the heat of their bodies slowly ebbing into something gentler. Nick’s still inside him, softening gradually, but neither of them moves—not yet. It’s like their bodies are too entwined, too aligned to let go.
Charlie shifts first, just enough to glance back over his shoulder, his cheeks flushed and damp with sweat, hair sticking up in curls, and the barest flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.
Nick leans forward and kisses it away—soft, reverent. A kiss to the corner of Charlie’s mouth, his temple, his jaw. Little things. Quiet things.
Then he eases out of him, careful and slow, murmuring apologies even though Charlie just shakes his head and whispers, “It’s okay.”
They clean up together in the tiny ensuite—awkward and sleepy and a little wobbly on their legs. Charlie winces once as he sits on the toilet to pee, and Nick immediately crouches beside him, wide-eyed.
“Did I hurt you?”
Charlie lets out a breathless laugh. “No. Well—yes. But like… the good kind. I’ll live.”
Nick’s face breaks into the softest smile. “I’ll run you a bath tomorrow,” he promises, brushing sweat damp curls off Charlie’s forehead. “With that lavender stuff you like.”
Charlie hums. “You really do pay attention.”
“Of course I do.”
They return to bed after, freshly wiped down and in clean boxers, though Nick tugs Charlie back into his arms immediately, bare skin against bare skin, holding him like a lifeline. Their legs tangle again automatically.
Charlie curls into Nick’s chest, his voice quiet. “So… we just had sex.”
Nick laughs softly, kisses his hair. “Yeah. We did.”
“And… we’re—are we…?”
Nick pulls back just enough to see his face. “Yours,” he says without hesitation. “If you’ll have me. I’m your boyfriend, Charlie. Fully, officially, irrevocably. No one else. Ever.”
Charlie’s breath catches. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes,” Charlie grins, then buries his face in Nick’s neck. “Boyfriends.”
Nick beams so hard his cheeks hurt. “About time,” he mutters, kissing Charlie’s hair again.
Then, quieter: “I don’t want to wake up without you anymore. I don’t want any more ‘goodnights’ on the doorstep or wondering if you’re cold or lonely or sad. I want your books all over my shelves and your moisturizer in my bathroom and your cold feet stealing all my warmth under the covers. I want you here. Always.”
Charlie lifts his head, eyes shining. “Are you asking me to move in?”
Nick nods. “Yeah. I am. I know it’s soon, and we can go slow, and I’ll wait however long you need—but I want it. I want you. All in.”
Charlie smiles so wide it looks like it hurts. “You really think I’m gonna say no to that after what just happened? Nick—I’ve been waiting for this. For you. I’ll move in. Yes.”
Nick exhales like he’s just been forgiven by the universe. He pulls Charlie close again, chest tight with emotion.
“Then we start tomorrow,” he whispers. “No more waiting. We start our forever now.”
Charlie kisses him—slow and soft and sweet—and when they fall asleep a little while later, it’s curled up like they’re one person, one heart, finally where they belong
--------
Nick wakes up to the sound of birdsong and the weight of Charlie pressed firmly against his chest. There's a leg draped over his thighs, an arm tucked around his ribs, and a soft, sleepy sigh ghosting across his collarbone. Sunlight streams through the edges of the curtains, warm and golden, casting Charlie in a soft glow that makes Nick's heart physically ache.
He doesn’t move for a while. Just breathes. Just watches.
Charlie’s hair is a disaster—mussed and fluffed from sleep and sex, sticking up in all directions. His lips are slightly swollen, his skin glowing with a gentle flush. He looks wrecked and peaceful and stunning.
Nick brushes a hand through his curls, careful not to wake him yet.
My boyfriend, he thinks. Holy shit, mine.
Eventually, Charlie stirs, stretching with a little noise and then burrowing deeper into Nick’s chest. “Mmm. You’re here.”
“Not going anywhere,” Nick murmurs, kissing the top of his head.
Charlie blinks up at him, bleary and soft. “Good. Because I love waking up next to you.”
Nick grins. “Get used to it.”
Charlie smiles, eyes crinkling, then winces and shifts. “Okay, ow. I might be walking funny for a week.”
Nick laughs, utterly unrepentant. “Worth it though?”
“Unbelievably.”
They shower together, exchanging lazy kisses and terrible jokes as they take turns using the shampoo. Charlie steals Nick’s hoodie after, and Nick nearly combusts at the sight of him wearing it with no pants and damp curls.
They have toast and tea in bed, Nick feeding Charlie bites of jam covered slices between fond looks and foot rubs under the covers.
At one point, Charlie sighs, mouth full. “This is already the best relationship I’ve ever had.”
Nick raises a brow. “You’ve only had one night.”
Charlie grins. “Exactly. The bar is high.
later that afternoon they meet up at the usual café, the one with the good brownies and the bench that became theirs by silent agreement. Elle is practically vibrating when they arrive hand in hand, Charlie in Nick’s hoodie, and Nick looking absolutely ruined with fondness.
“FINALLY,” she yells, throwing her hands in the air as Tao high fives her. “It only took a literal decade!”
Darcy whistles. “Damn, Nicky. Did you fuck the love into him or what?”
Nick blushes crimson. Charlie just laughs.
“Something like that.”
Tao looks them over, squinting. “Okay, but like… are you guys officially together now or just gloriously sexed up friends?”
“Boyfriends,” Nick says proudly, tugging Charlie closer by the waist.
Charlie adds, “Very in love. Very official. Like, paperwork might be involved.”
Isaac, quiet as always, raises one eyebrow. “Do I still have a roommate?”
Charlie bites his lip, looking sheepish. “Um. About that…”
Nick pipes up, “I asked him to move in.”
Isaac stares. “Already?!”
“I’m sorry,” Charlie says, clearly trying not to laugh. “I know it’s fast, and I love you, Isaac—but I cannot not be with Nick now. Like… he feeds me toast in bed and calls me beautiful with a straight face. I’m doomed.”
Darcy clutches her chest. “Okay, that’s disgustingly cute.”
Tao groans. “I’m going to hurl.”
Elle just sighs dreamily. “They’re going to get married in like, a week.”
Nick grins. “Give us a month. Charlie wants time to alphabetize the spice rack.”
Charlie nods solemnly. “I have standards.”
Isaac sighs, deadpan. “Fine. But I’m stealing the nice kettle.”
Nick and Charlie laugh together, forehead to forehead for a moment before Nick murmurs, “We’re really doing this.”
Charlie smiles, hands laced with his. “Yeah. We are.”
Their friends keep bickering, teasing, and gushing—but for Nick and Charlie, the world has narrowed down to the glow of shared smiles and quiet touches.
And for once, everything is exactly as it should be.